[]MORE WAYS THAN ONE.

SCENE I.

HAS your maſter breakfaſted?

Preakfaſted?—Yes, Sir! Though we live at the court end of the town, we have prought up all our Welch cuſtoms. Our maſter hates Lonton manners, and Lonton laties. What is your puſineſs, goot Sir!

A buſineſs he will probably like, though it may concern a London lady. Acquaint him that the writings are engroſs'd, and that I have brought them, to fill up the blanks, and ſign.

Yes, Sir;—pleaſe to ſit, Sir

The writings impoſs'd, and the planks to—What was it, Sir? I muſt have it wort for wort, for my maſter is as exact as Shrewſpury clock.

Acquaint him, friend, that the writings—the marriage articles, are ready. I have brought them from Counſellor Bouquet's, to inſert the names, and ſign and ſeal.

Now, in the faſhionable courſe of things, how long may it be before I ſhall draw up the arti⯑cles of ſeparation for this young couple? It ſometimes falls out for the good of the profeſſion, that the happy pair ſee but one Chriſtmas together. Nay, I have more than once in my time, engroſs'd the articles of marriage and ſeparation with the ſame gooſe quill.

So, here comes the father of the bridegroom, to pore over the writings, I ſuppoſe. Come, good, wary Sir; if you don't quicken your motions, the young gentleman will excuſe your cares;—every movement of that cane ſpeaks a week's delay.

Tell Miſs Archer to come to me by-and-by. So, Mr. Gooſe-quill—what—a—are they quite ready?

Quite ready, Sir;—the names only are wanting.

Well, you may add the names in the next room; but I ſhan't ſign 'till I have look'd your parch⯑ments cantiouſly over. No loop-holes for cavils—no expreſſions that will bear ingenious explanations. Defend me from the ingenuity of lawyers!

You will find all clear, Sir. What are the names?

That of the lady is Arabella Melville;—mine you know.

Yes, Sir; it is Evergreen; but the gen⯑tleman's—

The gentleman's!

Yes, Sir—your ſon's—

My ſon's!!—my ſon's!!

Yes, Sir, I know it is Evergreen, junior; but the Chriſtian name. I am ſorry to be troubleſome; John, Charles—Sir? Henry? George?

Why, thou pen-cutter! art thou come to inſult me? My ſon! Evergreen, junior! Why, Sir, I am Evergreen, junior, minor, and major; there is but one Evergreen in the world, and I am he.

Sir, I humbly crave pardon. Are you then the bridegroom?

Yes, Sir. Timothy Evergreen, Eſquire, of Rook Hall, in the County of Salop. The bride⯑groom—aye, to be ſure I am. Go, Mr. Feathertip, and leave the blanks as they are—I can fill them up.—

Didſt ever ſee ſuch a puppy, David?

Never, Sir;—not to know that your Ho⯑nour was the pride! I am ſure one ſhan't ſee a livelier, puxomer pride in all—

Pride! Bridegroom—Taffy!

Got a mercy, Sir! Well, then, the pride⯑groom; and as for the pridegroomeſs, ſhe is the ſweet⯑eſt, moſt innocent, modeſteſt—

Aye, aye, I know how to chooſe.—Did you tell my young plague, Miſs Archer, to come to me?

I tit inteet, Sir; and ſhe bit me carry my Welch face town ſtairs again in a minute; for that it always made her preakfaſt ſit uneaſy.

Aye, thoſe women who have fine fortunes, and fine lovers, think they have a right to inſult all the world.—She can't ſpare even me—me, who am her natural guardian, and fifteenth couſin.

Laws, Sir, ſhe makes no more of you than if you were an olt woman, inſteat of an antient ſhen⯑tleman.

An antient gent—Oh! in point of fa⯑mily, you mean. Yes, yes,—but this is the laſt day of her triumph here; I would'nt have her another week in my houſe, if—

Huſh, Sir! here ſhe comes;—and her eyes full of miſchief.

Where is my guardian—Oh, my ſweet guardian!

Sweet me, no ſweets! I have ſent five meſ⯑ſages to your Ladyſhip this morning, ere I could have the honor of an interview.

My wiſe Guardian, then: it was to prepare you a preſent, my wiſe guardian, that I ſtaid—a marriage preſent!

A preſent, hey! What is it? what is it?

You are to be married in a day or two, I find, to a young and beautiful girl—it is a preſent ſuited to ſuch a bridegroom.

Let me ſee it!

Shut your eyes then.

What the devil is it? a wedding night⯑cap?

Yes, a night and day cap—'tis yours for ever.

I'll teach thee to laugh, Taffy, in a mo⯑ment. Let go my hands. Take it off, Taf! or I'll make thy ſides ſhake to another tune.

Now, are you not a moſt ungrateful guardian, to ſlight my gifts?

Miſs Archer!

Mr. Evergreen!

Young woman, you muſt attend to me.

Young man, I will.

I am, as you ſay, to be married in a day or two.

David! bring back the cap.

I have told you theſe ſix months to provide yourſelf with another home;—you now have but ſix hours to do it in.

Why?

Becauſe I would not have my young in⯑nocent wife infected by your manners.

My manners, Sir—What better fate could happen to her? Is ſhe pretty?

As a young cherub.

Then I'll teach her to captivate the whole town. Why, I, Sir—I am not ſo handſome—that is, not ſo extremely handſome; yet, with my man⯑ners, I am every where the object.

But ſhe ſhall be an object no where.

But ſhe ſhall; I'll carry her with me all over the world; I'll teach her the equeſtrian bow [6] in Hyde Park, and how to dart through the croud in the coffee-room at the Opera. She ſhall learn—

She ſhall learn, that, of all her miſchievous hoity-toity ſex, you are the laſt ſhe is to know; and I'll diſmiſs every ſervant, that ſhe may never hear your name.

I'll be her bridemaid, and, before ſhe has been your wife ſix hours, give her more longings for laces, diamonds, feathers, and fops, than can be grati⯑fied in ſix years.

Huh!—h! Why the devil do you not marry yourſelf, and plague ſome other man. You have fools enough to chooſe from—Marry! you have my conſent.

But I want that of a much more im⯑portant perſonage.

Whoſe?

My own. I ſhall not give up the right of making conqueſts yet;—when my time comes to re⯑tire from the ſcene of action, I'll pick out the moſt con⯑ſtant of my adorers, go gravely with him to church, drive ſoberly to the ſeat of his anceſtors, grow a dutiful wiſe, ſtudy family receipts and made wines; and when I have the honor of ſeeing your young widow with her new huſband, we'll drink to your memory in a cup of cowſlip of my own brewing

Seek new lodgings, Madam.

I ſhall not, indeed, Sir!

My houſe is my own, Madam!

And my guardian is my own, Sir!

Are you not my own dear, ſweet guardian, [7] and are you not going to have a ſweet wife, and to be a ſweet ſimpleton, at the ſweet age of ſixty? Oh, my ſweet, poor—poor, dear guardian! ha, ha, ha!

Drink to my memory in wine of her own brewing!—I'll bribe ſome diſbanded Enſign to carry her off, and make her glad to drink ſmall beer of her own brewing.

Let me ſee—one, two, three, four. Well, four new ones every morning, conſidering the ſeaſon has unhappily proved ſo healthy, would do pretty well. I muſt call the doctor—'tis time he was out of his ſtudy,—oh, here he comes,—ſeemingly in a paſſion.

What are the nation about? What are the parliament about? Is this to be borne?—Here's a col⯑lection!—Every morning an inundation of new quacks. Here's a fellow cures the gout by injecting volatiles thro' your ear;—here's another freezes a fever by arti⯑ficial ſnow, which he produces from the congealed perſ⯑piration of the patient;—and this, purifies the blood from all diſorders, by the ſmell of muſhroom juice, philoſophically prepared. Why, what is to become of the regular practitioner, if theſe fellows are ſuffered to go on? What, I ſay, are the parliament about?

Conſidering, Sir.

Conſidering! tax 'em! tax 'em!—The quacks ſhall be taxed. Have I been ſent for to any new patients to-day?

Yes, Sir; lady Juniper's dropſy has become troubleſome again—ſhe expects you at eleven. Mr. Calipaſh has a ſurfeit fever, and Mrs. Langriſh hopes you'll call in the courſe of the morning.

Mr. Calipaſh a ſurfeit fever—hum! with the help of bark and aromatics, it may be pro⯑longed three weeks, without injury to the patient.—As to old lady Juniper, frequent viſits will be uſeful,—for in one tapping more ſhe'll come to the dregs; and for my friend, Mrs. Langriſh, if I can't prevail on her to prate leſs, ſhe won't laſt me another ſpring.—That woman will talk two hours without breathing, to deſcribe the effects of an emetic; and, if I did not lower her now and then by a gentle cathartic, ſhe'd evaporate through the lingual organs, like air through a cracked bladder.

I had like to have forgot—Mr. Bellair is coming, Sir!

Coming! No, poor young fellow, he's going—he's going! there! there's the end of the life of a man of pleaſure—it muſt be very unpleaſant to be a man of pleaſure. Nothing could ever prevail on me to be a man of pleaſure.—Oh the temptations that I have withſtood, from black eyes and grey, from tall and ſhort!

I have often thought, Sir,—with ſubmiſſion—that the gentlemen of the wig go through more temptations than people are aware of.

Aye, aye,—there are Joſephs in the fa⯑culty, I can promiſe ye. Oh! the white hands that I have ſeen put out between the ſarcenet curtains, with pulſe diſordered only by too much health! Oh the bright eyes that I have ſeen on ſnowy pillows! Oh the—but come, the faculty's great faculty is that of keeping ſecrets—I ſay no more. Did Mr. Bellair crawl up ſtairs laſt night?

No, Sir; I could not perſuade him, when he found Miſs Arabella was alone.

Aye, he abhors women now—the ſight of a young woman throws him into a catalepſy. I have ſeen him faint only at the touch of Arabella's hand, when ſhe has been chaffing his temples with ſpirits of hartſhorn.

Yes, Sir. I have ſometimes thought he had been bit by ſome mad woman, and ſo had a ſort of hy⯑drophobia towards the ſex. Here's ſomebody coming.

Ah! I ſee who it is—you may go.

Good morning t'ye Doctor! Doctor Fee⯑love, good morning! How are your pulſe to day?

Pho! a phyſician never thinks about his pulſe, any more than a lawyer about his conſcience; the pocket of the one, and the conſtitution of the other, both improve by the neglect.

Then why d'ye feel your patient's pulſe?

One can't do leſs for a guinea.

Well, here are the parchments,

here they are! Nothing but names wanting, and ſums.

Names, and ſums, why are they wanting?

Why, that one may be clear. Your niece has thirty thouſand pounds; and you agree that ſhe ſhall be mine on paying you one-third for your conſent.

One half.

No,—one-third. I am ſure ten thouſand pounds for a ſimple aye is very well; we know a place, where they'd ſay aye for half the money.

Come, don't libel your betters, till you are poor, and want a penſion. As to our affair, conſi⯑der every thing. You know I boarded Arabella, with two ſiſters, at a village in Cornwall, who could teach her nothing but her ſampler; the ſole employment of her life, for ſixteen years, has been her needle, with the occaſional reliefs of making ſeed-cake, and ſtewing codlings.

I know all that—I know all that.

Yes, you know, but you don't draw the inference. Let me tell you that a girl who can't write, who never heard of Point or Bruſſels; whoſe only game at cards is beggar my neighbour; and who thinks the Play-houſe, Ranelagh, and Vauxhall, the three great turnpikes to the devil, is a better fortune with fifteen, than a town bred miſs with thirty thouſand pounds.

Well, well, 'tis in vain to argue. Here take the parchments,—fill up the blanks, and write your name. Shall I ſee my little Bell?

To be ſure. Call down my Niece. Tell her my Lord Penmanmeaur is here.

How ſhall we manage when ſhe finds that I am not a lord, and that ſhe will not be a ladyſhip.

Pho! that's eaſily managed with ſuch [11] a novice. Tell her that a peerage, like the parliament, laſts but ſeven years, and that your time is up. Here ſhe comes! ſo, Arabella, here's his lordſhip.

My pretty Bell, my pretty Bell! why ſo ſad?—on the verge of riding under your own coronet,—why ſo ſad?

I am always ſad, I think. They told me, when I left Cornwall, I was coming to London to be very happy, but indeed I was happier there. In the mornings I rambled in the woods, and uſed to liſten to the ſweet birds till they made me weep;—in the even⯑ings I walk'd by moonlight.—Oh! how I love moon⯑light walks! with the diſtant village ſounds dying on the ear, till, like the ſoft ſhades of the flowers, they could hardly be diſtinguiſh'd.

Why, you may have moon-light in Lon⯑don, when it is not foggy; and ſounds of all ſorts.

But my uncle never ſuffers me to ſtir.

No, to be ſure—not till you are mar⯑ried.

No, nor then neither, without your huſ⯑band.

Nor then neither! why they tell me, but I don't care about it, that when I am married I muſt pay viſits, and receive company, and ride in Hyde Park, and be always in public, without once thinking of my huſband.

Doctor! five thouſand muſt be added for that.

Why, how now, huſſey!—who has been putting theſe wicked notions into your head?

Why, ſure they can't be wicked, for the Rector's wife and daughters over the way do ſo; and go out in fine carriages, and have cards on Sundays.

Huſſey! huſſey! that's a Biſhop's fa⯑mily—a pariſh prieſt dared not be ſo wicked for his ears.

Come, doctor, don't be ſo harſh—my little pet will be a good girl. I have convinced her that ſhe was made on purpoſe to be my wife; and that it will be the duty of my wife to hate gadding, and particu⯑larly to hate all young fellows.

No—you ſaid particularly thoſe with cock⯑ades and gorgets.

Did I?—then I was too ſlack. They are all the ſame—the gorgeted, the ſcarf'd, the broad bands, and the narrow bands; if they are young, you muſt hate them all—and if they preſume to talk non⯑ſenſe to you, make me your ſecret keeper, and then I ſhall be able to hold you up, as the exact model of a perfect wife.

Yes, and, like other models, it will be very badly copied. But pray, miſtreſs, in this pretty leſſon of your's, where do you find any thing about your viſitings, and gadding about, in the libertine ſtile you were juſt now ſpeaking of?

No, no;—no modeſt woman receives viſits from any but relations; nor, amongſt thoſe, from none of a remoter degree than uncles and aunts.

What, not a Couſin?

Not if it's a male couſin.—Oh horrid! a male couſin in the family of a young married woman is a worſe monſter than a man-tiger.

But Mr. Bellair is not my Couſin,—ſo I may let him come without any harm:—Oh! how I ſhall like to ſupport his poor aching head on my boſom; and, when he is fainting, to give him cordials, and weep over him till he recovers.

What are you ſaying, Arabella?

I was only conning my leſſon, Sir; that part of it is ſo pretty, that, whenever I think on it, I ſigh, and feel ſo melancholy!—and yet 'tis a melancholy ſweeter than all the pleaſure I have ever taſted.

Aye, go, go! that's my pretty Bell; get it all into your head, and never fear but it will influ⯑ence your actions.

I muſt leave ye, or my patients will be impatient.

Well, I ſhall ſee you again in the even⯑ing; meantime look over the parchments.

I will. Why, now I have been a fool; I have made the bargain more favourable on his ſide than I needed. I really believe he would have taken her with the ten thouſand only. I'll try to ſtart ſome difficulty in the buſineſs.—I hate to be over-reach'd.

More Ways than One indeed! and your way is moſt ſingular! imported with you, I ſuppoſe, from Leyden.—Aſſume ſickneſs to captivate a blooming [14] girl! ſuch a way of love-making could never have oc⯑cur'd but in a college.

My ſickneſs was aſſumed not to captivate, but to get introduced to her. You have often heard that pity is ſiſter to love, and I have proved it ſo, in the heart of the gentle Arabella.

Your ſervant has been here, Sir, to ſay that Doctor Feelove requeſts you not to call till one, as he is obliged to make a wide circuit this morning.

Very well. Bid him let my wrapping gown be ready, with my pale complexion, and all other ne⯑ceſſaries.

I muſt have a wider gown; in that I am not ſufficiently ſcreen'd; who, but a Doc⯑tor, could believe that theſe limbs belong to a fellow in the laſt ſtage of an atrophy.

Oh, they are ſo uſed to wonders, you may make them believe any thing; but have you never yet found a moment to convince the Lady, that you have as much health and aſſurance as any man in town?

Never,—nor do I know that I yet wiſh it, for I ſhould then loſe the luxury of her tender aſſiſtances, the ſoft preſſure of her hand, and the tear dropping from her blue eye on my cheek, whilſt ſhe believes me in a ſtate of inſenſibility—How can I bear to give up all that?

Faith, I don't know.

Then to hear her ſigh, and aſk her uncle, in the teadereſt accents, "if nothing can be done for me?" I ſwear, a direct avowal of her paſſion would not give me ſuch tranſport. How charming! to witneſs na⯑ture's [15] genuine feelings in a beautiful girl, inſtead of thoſe factitious ones impos'd by education.

Her mode of education has been ſtrange, ſure! do you find nothing repulſive in it?

Repulſive! quite the reverſe—it has a thou⯑ſand charms for me. Her mind is naturally ſo elegant and ingenuous, that the taſk of poliſhing it can be but ſlight, and that charming taſk will be mine! I ſhall be her enamour'd Abelard!

Is it ſo very charming to be a ſchool-maſter?

What a phraſe!

To unite the characters of lover and inſtructor, ſeems to me the moſt intereſting of human ſituations.

So ſung, you know, one of our firſt poets.

One of our firſt poets is very welcome to have ſung, or ſaid it. But give me a woman whoſe ſoul is all inform'd, and alive to every enjoyment of taſte and feeling! I would rather my wife ſhould join in converſation with grace, than ſhrink from it, over⯑powered by her bluſhes; and that ſhe ſhould make the men afraid of her wit, rather than allure them by her ſimplicity.

You ſpeak as though you knew ſuch a wo⯑man?

Perhaps I may—but of that hereafter.

Hereafter be it then, for now I am impa⯑tient to be gone. I muſt practiſe an hour, before I [16] ſhall reduce my pipe to the ſhrill tone ſuited to my appearance;—you would not inſure my life three days, if you ſhould ſee me when metamorphoſed.

Nor your underſtanding for three hours, now that I know the cauſe of it—but adieu! in a week you'll be recover'd.

No, that won't do

—Yes it will—no! it is not half ſo ſoft and pretty.

There now! that little touch at the corner of the mouth has made it clear another thing. Oh, how happy thoſe ladies are that can draw!—if I could draw, I'd make his ſweet face ſo white; and his eye ſhould be juſt lifted up to me, as it is ſometimes; and between his lips I would ſee a little bit of his white teeth, and—

Heyday! what is ſhe about!

What now, Arabella! writing?

Oh, no; you know I can't write—I wiſh I could.

Wiſh you could! why? to enlarge your ſphere of miſchief? pity there's a gooſe-quill in the kingdom, except thoſe in the hands of the faculty, the clergy, and the law;—though, as to the law, I be⯑lieve, there would be no great harm, if their's were [18] taken away too. But what uſe, pray, would you make of a pen?

Oh, I'd write—I'd write down a ſong that I have been making out of my own head, but I can't finiſh it, becauſe I can't write. It begins—

"Lily pale his face."—Aye, that moſt young men can boaſt of—roſy cheeks are as ſcarce now in England, as roſe buſhes in Scotland. Let me ſee that paper—what's this? a flower pot?

No, it's Jockey.

Jockey! why thou haſt a good pretty notion, girl, enough!—ſome fancy there—it might take a man a good while to explain it. But come,

I want to talk to you a little. Here will be the poor young man preſently—Mr. Bellair.

Oh dear, will be?

Now you know he's dying.

Is he.

Therefore we muſt make hay while the ſun ſhines.

The ſun won't ſhine, when he dies.

He has a good fortune, and neither chick nor child. He muſt leave it to ſomebody you know, and moſt likely it will be to thoſe who are moſt kind to him; now I would have you ſhew every kind of decent civility to him, that a modeſt young woman may ſhew.

I am ſure I always do. I would lay down my life to bate his pains; ſometimes they are very bad, [19] and then he graſps my hand ſo hard!—but I am not angry with him.

No, to be ſure; he is ſick, poor man—if he was well 'twould be quite another thing—never let a man in health preſs your hand. But, as I was ſay⯑ing, I have no doubt but his gratitude will ſecure us ſome acknowledgement at his death.

Oh, dear uncle! you had better ſecure an acknowledgement for ſaving his life.

Yes, but when people's lives are ſaved, they ſeldom think of an acknowledgement;—if you can get into a ſick man's will, 'tis ſafer to let him go.

Mr. Bellair is coming up, Sir.

Oh, let me aſſiſt him.

Stay, good Sir!

Dear, dear, how weak he is!

But I declare he is not ſo pale—no not half ſo pale as he was. Oh! how I ſhould love my uncle if he would recover him—I'd give all I have in the world!

Lean on me, good Mr. Bellair, lean harder! come, think me your nurſe, as well as your Doctor—you know we rank with old women.

You, are kind—hooh! very kind. Your ſtairs—hooh! have exhauſted too much of my waſting breath.

Ay, ay, all our breaths are waſting; but come, take courage—you may have more years before ye, than I have yet, perhaps.

Yes, I gueſs I may; or Nature will play me a ſlippery trick.

Pray ſupport me to that ſo⯑pha.

That young woman there again! Oh, Doctor! do you not know how baneful to me, is the ſight of a young woman?

Dear, how can he hate me ſo? it will break my heart.

Sir, my niece is uſeful in the room; you are ſometimes apt to be faintiſh, and maid-ſervants are ſo unhandy—But if ſhe offends you, ſhe ſhall go.—Go, Arabella.

Well, I can ſtay at the door, and ſee him through the crevice—Sure that can't offend him!—

No, let her ſtay—let her ſtay! Going out of the world, as I am, it is my duty to conquer averſions. I will even let her ſit by me—Sit down, young lady!

Where are your drops, Arry?

Here they be.

Don't take too much of 'em, Sir—don't keep them too long at your noſe.

Oh, they revive me beyond expreſſion!

Yes, Sir, they are very good drops. Dear, how tight he holds my hand!

My ſpirits are very low; and I have odd fan⯑cies, Doctor—very odd fancies!

Aye, Sir, but you ſhould always oppoſe odd fancies. I knew an old lady, who fancied herſelf purſued by Death—She ſwore he ſhould not have her, and actually contended with the phantaſm ſo long, that ſhe vanquiſhed him. That very obſtinacy which ſent three huſbands out of the world, kept her in it, con⯑trary to the predictions of the wiſeſt heads in Warwick⯑lane.

But I have a ſtranger fancy than that, Doctor.—I have a fancy that I ſhall live, and be ſome day or other a hale, ſtout young fellow.

That's a ſtrange fancy, indeed!

And that many beings may yet owe life to me.

I have no doubt of it, Sir . . . . . Beings of the reptile kind.

Sir, here is a gentlewoman, very earneſt to conſult you.

I'll be with her in a moment. Will you give me leave?

Go, go, good Doctor, I will try to recover myſelf, to tell you my new ſymptoms, when you return.—But pray don't hurry the gentlewoman.

Oh, angel!

Is he going to pray? how fiery his eyes look!

. . . . . . Pray, Sir, quiet yourſelf; reſt your head a little on me—I fancy it is in pain.

Oh, Epicures and voluptuaries!

He talks Latin! they ſay people do ſo, when they are poſſeſs'd.

No, this is too much!

I will declare myſelf at once.

Dear Sir, if you have any ſins upon your mind, the ſooner you declare them the better—it may make your conſcience eaſy.

Yes, I will declare—Oh, moſt enchanting—

Oh!

Bleſs me, he is fainting!—aye, he is far gone indeed, poor man!—Very odd!

His pulſe is good, though he is ſo bad.

When he fell he was going to declare ſome crime to me—

Some crime!

Yes, and it ſeemed to overpower his con⯑ſcience ſo, the moment he began to ſpeak, that he could not bear it.

Aye, he has been but bad, I doubt, but now he pays for all. Come, Sir, cheer ye, cheer ye!

I won't leave ye again; I'll ſit by ye, if its an hour;—the very ſight of a Doctor is better, ſometimes, than phyſic.

Oh, Sir, you are very kind! but I believe I ſhall not be the better for you now. In the afternoon, if you'll permit me, I ſhall call again.

I'll go to you.

Not for the world!—I give you too much [23] trouble. The air of this part of the town, ſo near the Park, revives me—Permit me to come as often as I can; I hope I ſhall not be long in this ſad way. Pray, Doctor!

Sir, it is needleſs.

The young lady's drops are very good. About ſix I'll be here again—you'll let her be in the way.

That ſhe ſhall. Come, Sir, lean on me.

Dear, how he looks at me! it thrills my boſom through and through! Sure he can have no very great crime on his mind—I am ſure he never can have been wicked—I'll endeavour to comfort him when he comes again. Meantime, I'll go into my own room, and try to finiſh this.

I think I can make it look a little as he did juſt now,—and then—then, if he dies—

I can look at this, and think of him!

Stop—ſtop! Carlton!—

There! carry it home, and call for me at ſix.

Oh, oh! what return'd from the Doctor's?

This moment left the houſe;—this moment left—Oh, Carlton!—I ſhall be there again at ſix—My time will hang on my hands till then—how ſhall I kill the heavy hours?

If you really want to murder them, go [24] home, and ſend for a dozen of the reforming reports: if you want only to forget them, go with me.

Where?

To call on Sir Marvel Muſhroom. I pay him a viſit once in ſix months, ſtay ſix minutes; and laugh, after I have left him, ſix hours.

Who the devil is this Sir Marvel, who is ſuch a ſpecific for ennui?

Been in London a month, and not know Sir Marvel! Why, Sir Marvel was the other day a grocer, or an ironmonger, or a cheeſemonger, I don't remem⯑ber which—near one of the city gates, I don't remember where.

What is he now?

Now! a man of figure, Sir—a man of ex⯑pence. To be ſeen every morning in Hyde Park, on a little Galloway, followed by two ſervants on a brace of hunters. Every noon in a phaeton, making the circuit of St. James's-ſtreet, Pall Mall, and the Hay Market; and every night, in every place where a ticket or effron⯑tery can admit him.

Well, but where's the peculiarity of all this?

Oh, all that's nothing—the captivating part of the Knight is to come. At the youthful age of forty ſome relation left him a large eſtate:—He threw off his apron, drove to his domains in a poſt chaiſe and ſix, roaſted bullocks, broach'd hogſheads, &c. &c. was next year ſheriff for the county, and car⯑ried up an addreſs—This accounts for his title.

Ha, ha, ha! Well!

His Honour now found it neceſſary to read, on the penalty of being ſilent wherever he went—to [25] which his loquacity could not ſubmit. He accordingly buys every author on every ſubject; peruſes poetry, tactics, philoſophy, botany, cookery, agriculture; and, to ſhew that he can read, is for ever quoting.

Tireſome enough!

Not at all—as he manages, 'tis moſt plea⯑ſant; for beginning to read ſo late in life, with the ad⯑vantage of a very bad memory, he makes the happieſt miſtakes imaginable. His head contains an olio of arts and ſciences, ſo mingled and confuſed that he conſtantly ſpeaks of one thing for another; and if Boyle or Cla⯑rendon are mention'd, ten to one but he'll give ye an old catch as a ſpecimen of their talents.

Ha, ha, ha!

His French valet aſſiſts in furniſhing the inſide of his head, as well as to frize the out, and always gives his maſter the theme for the day.

Precious! this fellow muſt be excellent to kill time with—let us go directly.

With all my heart—he receives a new ac⯑quaintance as eagerly as a new book; and whether you are in calf-ſkin or morocco, it will make no difference to Sir Marvel.

Depechez, monſieur—depechez! I am im⯑patient.

Ah, monſieur! de Inglis be tous jours ſo, and for dat reaſon dey will never do credit to dere valets. A French general ſpend as much time in tak⯑ing [26] de powder in his hair, as in direction de powder to his enemy; and would rader live, dan be found dead in the field of battle ill dreſs.

Aye, but now, you know, monſieur, the French are going to follow us—we are all the go in Paris. Next war I dare ſay your generals will head their armies in buckſkin, and bobwigs; and if they are found dead on the field of battle, it will be with Britiſh balls in their bodies.

Have done! you have been as long raiſing the ſiege of that curl, as the Goths were in taking Cuba.

Nay den, monſieur, I vill ave done; but pardon me, monſieur! it does uſe me very ill; I vill live vid no maſter who ſo diſgrace me.

Diſgrace you!

Oui, ſans doute, de diſgrace be mine. De quality will not ſay of you—"Oh, what Burgeois be dat! ah, mon Dieu, quelle bete!" dey will ſay who dreſt dat man? he be as mal adroit as a Flemiſh boor—ſend him a new valet, he be dreſs by a Dutch barber." My reputation be concern'd, monſieur.

Why now you know, Le Gout, I take great care of your reputation, and form myſelf entirely on your documents. You have liv'd ſo long with dukes and lords, and noble cricketers, and gentlemen cheſs⯑players, that you know the daſh of high life exactly; and if I had a ſon, I would prefer you to any French governor in London.

Oh, as to dat, monſieur, I would not be French governor to any ting. Running about after little maſter—ſitting behind him at de play, and vid my [27] back to de horſes in de vis-a-vis, and be at de bottom of de table when de chaplain ave leave of abſence;—no, no, ſome French governors dat I know ave taken up de powder puff again, and prefer dere original occu⯑pation of valet, to de pleaſure of whipping maſter for von hundred a year, and being tied to his jacket, like de keys to de houſekeeper's girdle.

Well but, monſieur, have you thought of a ſubject for me to day—You can't conceive how bril⯑liant I was at Mrs. Flanconade's yeſterday. She thought to poſe me once, and interrupted me with

"Pray, Sir Marvel Muſh⯑room, at what time was the Roman republic in it's glory?" Very good, ma'am, ſays I—very good! as tho' all the world did not know the republic was in it's greateſt luſtre when Alexander the Great was king at Rome—ha, ha, ha! No conceiving how it was en⯑joy'd—ha, ha, ha!

Dere monſieur! dere! I be diſgrace again. Why Alexander was never king at Rome, he was king of de Turcs.

You are right, you are right, Monſieur. The dog is clearly wrong, but I dare not contradict him.

A gentleman, whoſe name is Pearlaſh, is be⯑low, Sir.

Pearlaſh—Pearlaſh! oh, I remember; I knew him laſt year at Brighton. The ſon of a ſoap boiler, Le Gout. What the devil does he want?

He only ſent up his name, Sir.

His name! why ſurely he does not put him⯑ſelf on a viſiting foot. Tell him, I am engag'd at pre⯑ſent—ſome other time—

Oh, wrong, Monſieur!—pardon me, quite wrong!

Why! ſhould I receive him?

Sans doute—receive every body. De great people make all dere power dat way. In Groſ⯑venor-ſquare, a citizen fend his name to a lord;—de lord ſhrug his ſhoulders—"damn de greaſy ſoap boiler—ſend him up!" He fly to receive him, catches his hand—"My dear Mr. Pearlaſh, how I am oblige for dis honeur!—where have you been dis age? can I do any ting for you?—make uſe of me—give me de happineſs to ſerve you!"

Do they condeſcend ſo much?

Condeſcend!—pſhaw! dat idea is ba⯑niſh de world—dere is no condeſcenſion. De canaille is de fountain of riches, derefore de lords treat dem vid reſpect, and tell dem of dere majeſty: in return, de Canaille, burſting vid vanity and gratitude, let de Lords drain dere purſes, and ſo bote ſides reſt ſatisfie.

Enough! Lead the way.

Le Gout, follow. I'll ſnatch his hand, and outdo a duke in the warmth of my embraces.

Sir Marvel is juſt gone down to ſome com⯑pany, Sir.—I'll inform him that you are here.

Was not that the lovely Bab Archer, you bowed to, as we came in?

It was Miſs Archer; but you don't think her handſome?

Critically ſo—perhaps not; but ſhe is more—ſhe is captivating! Her voice is melody; and there is elegant mind in every motion.

Elegant mind, do you call it? I am ſure her's is a moſt inſolent one.—I knew her abroad; and this woman, who in your opinion is made up of melody, ſweetneſs, and witchery, is the moſt perverſe, the moſt capricious, the moſt proud, the—

Tut! tut! that is to ſay, you have been her ſlave, and a neglected one.

Faith, there is hardly a man of your acquaint⯑ance who will not ſubſcribe to my opinion of her.

The ſtrongeſt proof of her charms, and of her power. I adore her for being hated by all the men who have had the preſumption to ſigh for her. There is a degree of impurity in a woman who ſmiles on, and liſtens to, all who chooſe to make love to her. When I marry, my wife muſt bring me an ear as uneſſayed as her heart; and the firſt whiſpers of love that reach her, muſt be from my lips.

Well, carry your whiſpers to Miſs Archer, kneel, ſigh, weep, and—be deſpiſed!

Ha, ha, ha!

What do you laugh at?

At your conceiving that, with a woman of her character, I ſhould purſue ſo beaten a track. No, no; I have reſolv'd to woo her, but it ſhall be by an appearance of indifference. I'll ſet her heart in a blaze by my coldneſs, and conquer her with ſlights.

Why your way of love making is more ſingu⯑lar than mine; but as to its ſucceſs, I ſhould as ſoon [30] believe the floating batteries had more effectually been attack'd by ſnow balls, than Elliot's red hot bullets.

A flaming alluſion!—But here comes our Knight.

My dear Sir Marvel, Mr. Bellair begs to be known to you.

My dear Sir, I do not deſerve ſo great an honour.

Can I do any thing for you?—make uſe of me—give me the happineſs to ſerve you.

Monſieur—Monſieur! dis is not de way to treat gentlemen. You muſt embrace, and make offers of ſervice, only to de canaille.

Enough! did you come from the country, Mr. Bellair?

From Leyden.

Leyden! you came from Leyden—ah! I remember, that's the place where they are ſo famous for lead mines.

There is no ſtanding this.

You have good paintings, Sir Marvel.

Yes, I flatter myſelf I have taſte that way. We have moderns who pretend to paint—ha, ha!—ſave us from modern painters!—the antique is the thing! Now, for a portrait painter, there's nobody like that little droll fellow, Eraſmus; he gave us fleſh and blood to the life!—But for a cabinet piece, give me a Dutch Fair by Scipio Africanus. What is he laugh⯑ing at? he behaves very oddly!

You muſt excuſe him—unhappily igno⯑rant—has read nothing.

Indeed! I'll offer him my library. My [31] dear Sir, you'll pardon me; but one can make no figure without reading. In ſuch a place as Leyden, you can have had no opportunities—My library is at your ſervice.

You do me a moſt particular favour, Sir Marvel. Well choſen, I am ſure it muſt be.

Oh, as to that—yes, yes, Sir—aye, Mr. Carlton, you have ſeen my library. All the poets from Mecaenas to Shaftſbury. All the dramatic writers of name—including Shakeſpear, Lycurgus, and Pliny.—Read well, Sir; and after you have read, begin to write.

Write!

Oh, yes; one is not finiſh'd without it—every body writes. One cannot put one's head into company without meeting half a dozen ode-writing miſſes, and matrons who compoſe eſſays—but ſatire is my forte.

What then you write, Sir Marvel.

Trifles! trifles! There is a thing of mine in the papers to-day. You know, for every body knows, Miſs Archer?

Doubtleſs.

You know ſhe is the moſt haughty, affected creature living; and to-day I gave her in doggerel—mark that—in doggerel; heroic verſe would have been too dignified for the ſubject. There ſhe is, in the poet's corner, at full length.

Satirize Miſs Archer!—ſurely you have not dared.

Yes I have. Why not ſatirize Miſs Ar⯑cher? I ſatirize myſelf ſometimes, and anſwer it again the next day.

By Heaven! on reflection, it pleaſes me.

Beſides, to tell you the truth, there is ano⯑ther reaſon—Now I ſhall ſurpriſe ye, I know;—I hardly expect ye to believe me—but—in ſhort, ſhe has actually refuſed me!

Refuſed you! Nay then, Carlton, you may as well give it up—You'll hardly expect to ſucceed where Sir Marvel has failed.

Oh, I don't know that—I don't know that; thoſe capricious women generally chooſe the worſt—You know the proverb—dainty dogs.

Delicate! So 'tis revenge, then—

Yes, revenge—But I ſtill continue to vi⯑ſit her in a friendly way; for ſhe's faſhionable, and one finds the firſt daſh there: Beſides, I have ſuch good-nature and generoſity about me, that I never can be out of humour with people to their faces.

In courſe, you don't mean to acknowledge your ſatire. But is it very ſevere?

Oh, tears her like a bramble buſh.

Then do me the favour to give me for the author.

Are you ſerious?

Moſt particularly ſo:—In ſhort, I want to be introduced to her, and I know no better way.

Tell her he is dying for her—that's a better way.

Yes, to be made a fool. Will you oblige me?

To be ſure—Gad, I ſhall like ſuch a ſcreen! for I have had the terror of her fingers before my eyes.

Go, then, this inſtant, my dear Sir Marvel; not a moment is to be loſt! Come, Bellair. Let nothing tempt you betray that you are the poet.

Never fear! I am not a gooſe, to betray the Capitol.

TELL Miſs Archer I can't ſtay a minute, I have only brought a newſpaper to ſhew her.

Lud! lud! how this will gall her! I never read ſuch a piece of abuſe in my life.—I wonder how the author got it in! I have wrote twenty pretty things of this ſort myſelf; but ſome wiſe, grave editor or other, always cropt my laurels. The next morning the anſwers to correſpon⯑dents never failed to inform them that, "The lines of L. S. were inadmiſſible;" or, "The Epigram ſign⯑ed Laura wont do for our Paper;" or "we muſt deſire our fair correſpondent Clariſſa to learn to ſpell, before ſhe pretends to write heroic verſe." I wonder really at their impertinence;—that a young lady of faſhion can't amuſe herſelf in rhyming a little about her friends, but they muſt pretend to judge of the matter!

Oh, my dear Miſs Archer! do you know that ſome cruel wretch here—

Oh, yes, my dear, I know it all; you are the fifteenth lady who has been here this morning, to inform me of it. Upon my word a newſpaper paſquinade is a mighty good thing—it makes one's friends remember one.

Deuce take 'em! I thought to have been the firſt,—now I don't know how it touch'd her.

Why do you muſe, my dear?

Oh, muſe—why I am muſing upon the wickedneſs of people—to dare—to be able—

Oh, never think about it. I tell you ſuch things are rather a diſtinction—to be abuſed in a newſpaper is to be rank'd with half the amiable and great characters in exiſtence. Hah! here's an⯑other viſitant, with another newſpaper! Why my friends are ſo numerous, they'll be oblig'd to put forth another impreſſion before noon. Good morning, Sir Marvel Muſhroom!

Dear ma'am, your moſt devoted! Have you heard of this ſcurrilous abuſe?—Oh, yes, you have heard, I ſee;—Miſs Juvenile is here.

You might have met half your acquaintance here twenty minutes ago, they are kindly gone to diſperſe the papers.

Pray, Sir Marvel, can you gueſs at the writer?

Oh, that's not a fair queſtion. What do you think of the lines?

Pointed to the laſt degree! witty and ſevere!

A'n't they?—this couplet

"The affected—

Nay, pray, good people! have a little compaſſion!

—"Clear ſtarcher!"

—"Miſs Archer!

What d'ye think of it, ma'am?

What is your motive for reading it to me?

Motive—motive—why 'tis fit every body ſhould know what's ſaid of them. That great philoſo⯑pher, Heliogabalus, ſaid the abuſes of his enemies were more ſerviceable to him than the praiſes of his friends.

I am quite of that opinion, and wiſh therefore, to know whom I have to thank for this ſervice.

Do you? would you really wiſh to know him?

Yes, really.

Shall I bring him to you?

Then you know him?

Perfectly well. I will not give his name, but if you have any curioſity, he ſhall receive your thanks in perſon this evening.

I ſhould like it above all things. I have ſpent a life in hearing flatteries and falſehoods—let me for once ſee a man who has the courage to ſpeak what he thinks. Pardon me for leaving you—I ſhall expect you and my panegyriſt at ſeven.

You ſee ſhe can't ſtand it—ſhe is finely nettled.

Yes, yes, ſhe feels it.—I am not ſurpriſed at it.

I wonder what blockhead wrote it! for, between ourſelves, I never read more wretched ſtuff.

Wretched ſtuff!

Oh, vile! tho' I made her believe I thought it all wit and poignancy.

Why really, Miſs Juvenile, I am ſurpriſed that people will give opinions ſo raſhly. Miſs, the perſon who wrote this little morceau is remarkable for his ſkill in belles lettres.

Belles lettres!—ſkill in bell metal might do for ſuch lines as theſe—they might be hammer'd out of any thing.

Very well, ma'am! very well! I muſt beg leave to ſay, that it is not ſo agreeable to hear the talents of one's friends ſlighted.

Indeed! you are mighty liberal;—in general 'tis the moſt agreeable treat a friend can [38] have. I wiſh you wou'd let me know who this friend is, for whoſe reputation you are in ſuch pain.

What d'ye think of Mr. Carlton?

What do I think? ha, ha, ha!—My dear Sir Marvel!

Nay, if you wont believe me, come this evening and ſee him here.

Well, really now, it is ſurpriſing!—I did not think he had poſſeſs'd ſo much ill-nature.

Ill-nature! Let me tell you, Miſs Juvenile, private ill-nature may be a public good. To make people's time paſs happily is very benevolent, and if it was not for a little pleaſant thing of this ſort, now and then in a morning, people's chocolate would be as dull and infipid as the Ve—Venetian black broth.

Spartan, I fancy you mean.

Spart—gad! that's very true; what a ridiculous miſtake!—ha, ha, ha! Thank ye, Miſs—thank ye. Yes, I remember now, the Venetians were thoſe who joined the Macedonians in the war againſt Philip;—how could I make ſuch a miſtake!—ha, ha, ha!

One may as well be quiet—in trying to help the poor man out, he gets but the deeper in.

Pray, Sir Marvel, order my chair.

Yes, ma'am, yes. Venetian!—how could I make ſuch a miſtake?

And ſo you really mean to perſuade the [39] innocent thing, that running away with Harry Bellair is the moſt honourable ſtep ſhe can take?

At leaſt the happieſt; for does ſhe not love me? What is her fate if ſhe ſtays? She will be huddled, in leſs than three days, into a marriage, with a paſſion in her heart, adding bitterneſs to diſguſt and mortifica⯑tion.

Where would you place her to be in ſafety?

I have a friend in town, the gravity of whoſe character will be a ſhield to her's. I have ne⯑glected him ſince I came from Leyden, but I'll go and make it up with him this very day. Let that paſs—now to my queſtion; will you aſſiſt in the enleve⯑ment?

If I am not ſummon'd to the adorable Archer. If my ſcheme there takes place—

That's really too abſurd! If ſhe believes you to be the author of that vile abuſe, and invites you, it muſt be to poiſon you.

I don't care with what view it is, if I am but invited;—I ſhall be ſure, at leaſt, not to rank with the brilliant captains, the Sir Tommys, and Sir Neddys, who are receiv'd, court'ſey'd to, and forgot.

No, you'll certainly be remember'd.

I am convinced that a woman who has been admired all over Europe, and returns with an untouch'd heart, is not to be won by flattery, or by ſtooping to her power. 'Tis pride ſecures her, and her pride muſt be taken down, before Love can find a vulnerable place for his darts.

That will do for a figure—

Aye, and for a reaſon too;—I ſhall govern myſelf by it, however.

The perſon you ſent for, Sir, is in the parlour.

I'll attend him—excuſe me half a moment.

Sir Marvel Muſhroom enquires for you, Sir, he has been at your lodgings, and was directed hither.

Admit him! admit him!

My dear Sir Marvel, what news from the lady?

Oh, I found her as inflammable as one of Montgolfier's balloons. The whole town had been with her—the whole town is mad about my ſatire!

Then 'tis in vain for me to hope for the credit of being it's author—it is not in mortal wight to lend ſo much reputation, for half an hour.

Oh, but you are miſtaken—I diſclaim'd it—diſclaim'd all the glory—and ſhe deſires this even⯑ing to ſee the incomparable author.—So you will, Pyramus like, drive, for one day, the chariot of the Sun.

Shall I?—will ſhe ſee me?

She pants for an interview: the beauteous Helen was not more deſirous of receiving Leander, when he ſwam every night-acroſs the Mediterranean. I have promiſed to carry you this evening. But be ſure you don't give me as the poet, 'till I give the word.

Nothing can be farther from my deſign—You ſhall gather your laurels when you pleaſe. I prize this mode of introduction ſo highly, that I know not how to return the favour.

Oh, Lord, nothing can be ſo eaſy. I hear you have a pretty poetical quill, and that you ſome⯑times write Latin verſes;—publiſh a volume, and call it mine.

I'll conſider it.

You may throw in a touch of Greek, too. I ſhould learn Greek, for the pleaſure of reading Ovid, but their d—d crooked characters are ſo alike, that one may as well attempt to learn Spaniſh, of Dutch mack⯑erel.

My dear friend, I am too impatient to give the time I ought to your erudition;—I had rather hold a convention with my taylor and valet than with Ovid and Horace; and had rather this night be as well dreſt as Count Grammont, than as well read as Doctor Johnſon.

Hah, my dear Mr. Bellair! Will you ex⯑cuſe me; I can't ſtay—I came to call on Mr. Carlton. I have done his buſineſs for him—He's going to viſit the lady, and he ſwears he'll be as well dreſt as Doctor Johnſon.

Then, Sir, you know your buſineſs. You are to go to Mr. Feelove's, and tell him—But ſtay, can you weep on occaſion?

Oh, yes, Sir, I don't doubt but I can ſqueeze a tear, upon a pinch.

Well, ſqueeze as many as you can; and tell him that your wife is in extremity at Hampſtead, and deſires his immediate aſſiſtance.

My wife!—then I'd better not cry, Sir; it won't ſeem ſo natural.

Ha, ha! Well, manage that as you will.—Here is ſomething for your ingenuity—Be ſure, at all events you ſee the Doctor into his chariot, and give him a direction to ſome houſe in Hampſtead.

Never fear me—I humbly thank ye, Sir.

So! having made a clear road for the Doctor, I can fearleſly purſue my own. My ſweet Arabella! in ten minutes I'll be at thy feet.

Oh, how different it ſeems when Mr. Bellair is on that ſopha! I could ſit and look at him for ever. If he was aſleep, I'd take ſuch care that nothing ſhould diſturb him;—but I don't look at him with any plea⯑ſure—I don't care whether he wakes or no.

Never fear, Doctor, ſhe'll be—

—ſhe'll be a very good girl.

To be ſure, I muſt try to be good; but I ſhall never be happy, though!

Mind what I ſay, my pretty Bell—The [43] young fellows—the young fellows are all rogues, vil⯑lains, and—heydey! where's the Doctor?

He's gone to Hampſtead.

Hampſtead! Why, how long have I been aſleep? Bleſs me!

'Tis ſix o'clock.—I muſt go—A'n't you ſorry, my pretty Bell?

No.

Not ſorry!

Why muſt I be ſorry?

Becauſe I am going to leave you. When you are my wife you muſt be ſorry always in my abſence, and glad in my preſence.

Why muſt I be glad?

Why!—why becauſe I am with you, to talk to you, and to warn you againſt the enſnaring de⯑vices of young men, who, like ſpiders, ſpread their cobwebs every where, to catch ſuch ſilly flies as you.

Dear me, how can you think ſo? Spiders are frightful creatures, but young men are not frightful. When my uncle took me out in his chariot, they looked at me ſo kindly! If I had been their ſiſter, they could not have ſeemed to like me better.

No, they would not then have liked you ſo well. But you are very ignorant, Bell; very ignorant, indeed! However, you have time enough to improve.—When you are Lady Penmanmaure, you'll be quite a different thing. Good by'e, pretty Bell! you ſhall ſee me again to-night.

I don't care whether I ever ſee you again or not. It's very odd now—every time I ſee him, I like him worſe and worſe; and every time I ſee Mr. Bellair [44] I like him better and better.

Thomas, if Mr. Bellair ſhould come, don't ſay my uncle is out, then perhaps he'll go away, and won't come up.

He is here now, Miſs. He ſeem'd very ſorry that my maſter was abſent; but ſaid he'd wait to have ſome of your ſal volatile, when his Lordſhip was gone—and he ſent me now to aſk if you'd admit him.

Oh, yes, yes!—How glad I am my Lord is gone. Dear me, now, I am all in a flutter! What can make me tremble ſo?

Gently! gently! Support me to the ſopha.—There! now you may go.

Your drops, ſweet young lady!

Here they are, Sir;—I hope they'll do you good.

Do you hope ſo!

—Do you wiſh me to recover?

There is nothing in the world I wiſh for ſo much.

Who knows but it may be in your power?

Oh, dear Sir! you can't recover. My uncle ſays—and you know he is a great Doctor—that you muſt dye.

And can you bear to ſee me dye?

No, I ſhan't ſee you die; and I hope I never ſhall hear of it. But I ſhall know it; for I ſhall then ſee you no more.

Oh!

I am ſorry you are in ſuch pain—you ſee how bad you are; you'll hardly be able to come any more—But I have ſomething to comfort me.

What!—what!

I have your picture—I drew it myſelf—Nobody would know it to be you but me;—but I can make out all your face.

Oh, God of Love! thou canſt have no hap⯑pineſs in ſtore for me after this!

Oh, don't fear, Sir!—you will be very happy.

Yes!—yes, moſt adorable! I ſhall indeed be happy, for thou haſt pronounced it. See at your feet the moſt faithful and paſſionate of lovers. You have been deceived in me; I am not dying—except I dye now, through exceſs of bliſs.

Gracious!

It will take too long to explain now, how firſt I ſaw, how firſt I loved you.

What do you love me?

More than my life! and I come to ſave you from miſery. You are on the brink of marriage with a man you muſt hate.

How can you ſave me from that?

By marrying you myſelf.

What may you marry me?

Yes, ſweet innocence!

I thought I could marry nobody but that old Lord?

No, you ſhall never marry him, unleſs you chooſe it.

Chooſe it!

There is but one way to prevent it;—you muſt leave your uncle's houſe, put yourſelf under my protection, and then become the miſtreſs of my fate.

And when muſt I do this?

To-night.

Goodneſs! and is it really in my power not to marry him, and to marry you? and will it be my duty to love you, and to ſit by you, and to watch your ſlumbers?

Oh, my angel! whilſt it continues to be your choice, never think about the duty. Will you be ready to go with me to-night?

Go with you! Yes, indeed—But where?

I am now going to prevail on a friend of mine to honour his houſe, by making it your aſylum 'till you remove to your own. I will be in the ſtreet at ten; a dark lanthorn ſhall be my ſignal—The moment you perceive it, leave the roof under which your ruin has been plann'd.

I will, indeed.

Let nothing ſtop you.

No—not if my uncle was to beg ever ſo much.

One kiſs from each dear hand—'tis all I will aſk 'till you are my own. Adieu! Remember ten.

Can it be all true? Mr. Bellair not dying, and loves me, and I to be his wife! It is—it is! theſe [47] dear marks on my hands are real—

Oh, happy, happy Arabella!

Sir, a ſhentleman is without, and has creat occaſions to ſpeak to you.

Did I not ſay—

Cot a mercy! I tolt him you ſait ſo; and he ſait you would ſee him—He is your cotſon from Leyton.

Godſon! What, Harry Bellair? Hah!

it is him, ſure enough.—Harry! come in, Harry!

Why, you rogue you, how long have you been return'd from Leyden? and how can you have the impudence to be grown thus tall and big? Hark ye! take care you forget that I was a greybeard at your chriſtening, you young dog you!

At leaſt I ſhall not be ſo malicious as to re⯑member it on your wedding-day, which I am told is very near.

Hah! have you heard that? The devil's in this town for goſſiping. Formerly a man could do a ſnug thing in London, and the buſineſs as little known as though it were tranſacted on Penmanmaure—But now one's moſt private concerns are as public as the ſecrets of a prime miniſter.

Why ſhould ſo ſplendid an event as your marriage—

None of your jeers! What, I ſuppoſe, you expect to be introduced to my bride—I ſhan't do it. I ſhan't do it, godſon—There's your anſwer.

Then I ſhall be kinder than you; for I'll in⯑troduce you to mine—Nay, before ſhe is my bride; I'll intruſt her to your care in all her virgin charms.

No great compliment in that, perhaps. But are you going to be married then?

I hope ſo; but, to confeſs—it is a kind of a run-away buſineſs. I am this very night to carry off the lady, and I come now to ſolicit your permiſſion to bring her here.

With all my heart—with all my heart, Harry. But who is ſhe?—what is ſhe?—whence is ſhe?

She is a blooming girl, on the point of being decoy'd into marriage with a man old enough to be her grandfather, and dotard enough to believe that the en⯑chanted circle of a wedding ring will conjure in her a blindneſs to his defects, and a paſſion for his wrinkles.

Hay!

Why there are ſome pru⯑dent girls, Mr. Bellair, who have no objection to a huſ⯑band a little on the down-hill of life.

Oh, I beg your pardon! I am ſure I did not mean to infinuate that—that—What is he going to marry a prudent girl?

Well but—gad, 'tis laughable too. Ha, ha! How old is the little tit?

Of that delightful age which women term childiſh, and which girls think womaniſh;—ſhe is the niece of an eminent phyſician; and the man, to whom he is going to marry her, is a ſuperannuated peer.

Hell and devils! But ſtay—there [49] are more old fools than I.—The name, Sir;—the Doctor's name?

Feelove;—and his lovely niece is Arabella Melville.

I have a red hot iron in my liver.

Why do you whiſtle, Sir?

Oh, nothing, nothing. 'Tis a droll ſtory you tell me—that's all. And pray how did you get acquainted with the young woman?

I ſaw her with her uncle in Hyde Park—was ſtruck with the air of innocence, and enquiry that diſtin⯑guiſhed her—followed the carriage—learnt that ſhe was juſt brought from Cornwall, to be married to a gouty Lord—introduced myſelf as a patient—robb'd the niece of her heart, and let the uncle rob me of my guineas.

Well done, uncle Toby!—wiſe uncle Toby! Gad, there's ſomething very odd in all this! And you are going to carry her off to-night?

Certainly.

And you wiſh to bring her here?

Ardently.

Well, I ſhall take it d—d ill, if you carry her any where elſe.

There is not another houſe in London I would truſt her in.

Bring her! bring her away! I'll take as much care of the little rogue, as though it was my own affair.

How ſhall I thank—

Oh, you'll know what thanks to pay me in a day or two.—Go, my dear Harry!

Your cagerneſs charms me.

Go—go—go!

—Ha, ha, ha!—Oh! oh! oh! I could cry heartily on one ſide, but the other won't let me for laughing. Now, which ſhall I do? Oh, a ſly gypſey! Oh, a d—d old fool of a Doctor! That he ſhould bring her a gallant!—that ſhe ſhould conſent to run off with him!—and that he ſhould humbly ſolicit to put her under my wing!!!—Well, it ſhall all work together for good. Inſtead of the Lord, may I be Goat of Penmanmoure, if this ſhan't be a means of ſqueezing me another five thouſand out of Feelove. I have it working here—'tis working here. David! David!

MY ſweet harp, I muſt abandon thee! That rap announces my ſatyriſt. Ha, ha! Now, I really wonder, though I wiſh to ſee him, how he can look me in the face:—he muſt be moſt ridiculouſly confuſed—trying at fifty awkward apologies. Oh, it is Miſs Juvenile—impatient, I ſuppoſe, to ſee the bard.

Bleſs me, is he gone! I run away the moment we roſe from table. I would not have miſs'd him for the world.—Who would have expected him to be gone ſo ſoon? Not eight yet.

Who, indeed? But people's fears, when they dread great misfortunes, are generally unruly. Why, my dear Ma'am, you'll be happy yet—The charming man who laſh'd me has not been here.

Oh, that's lucky! I do want much to ſee what ſort of a man he is.—She ſhan't know that I could tell her.

Oh, I can draw his picture, I am ſure, exactly. A great fat man, in a black coat, with twinkling eyes, and a prodigious length of profile—he makes amazing low bows—ſits down, with his hat reſting on his knees; and after wiping his face, ſtuffs his red and white pocket handkerchief in the crown of it.

Sir Marvel Muſhroom, and another Gen⯑tleman.

Ha, ha, ha! my dear Sir Marvel, that was in the very firſt ſtyle. Do you know—Ladies, your moſt obedient!

—Do you know the very thing happened to me at Padua! Miſs Archer, I am happy to wait on you.—We were all in the Marchezza's box that night, when her huſ⯑band came from Paris—ſhe is extremely handſome; he toute au contrarie! but, notwithſtanding—

Bleſs me, can't you tell your ſtory after⯑wards? Let me introduce you to Miſs Archer. This, Madam, is the gentleman who had honour to day to entertain the town with—with that little—

Oh, a mere trifle! not worth mentioning, Sir Marvel. Miſs Archer, I hear you have been a traveller; and that, when in Italy, they perſuaded you to viſit ſome of the Levant Iſlands. I wonder, when ſo far, your taſte did not carry you to Greece! You can conceive nothing ſo charming as the Grecian women!—nothing ſo intereſting as their ſtyle of living!—you would have found all Arcadia realiz'd.

Greece and Arcadia!—are theſe his apologies!—his aukward embarraſsments!

I endeavoured to perſuade a fair Greek, that the fate of my countrywomen was happier than their's.—"Oh, it is impoſſible," ſaid ſhe; "their liberty makes them capricious, and their power over the men aſſuming; they grow old in planning new con⯑queſts, and, alive only to the pleaſure of admiration, ſeldom taſte the exquiſite bliſs of true paſſion." I felt the force of her obſervation, and could not help con⯑feſſing that it was poſſible for a handſome Engliſh woman to border on the ridiculous.

So! that's tolerably home.

I am petrified! he talks with as much ſelf-poſſeſſion as he would to a maiden aunt—no bearing this!

So you will not know me, Mr. Carlton?

Miſs Juvenile!—'tis no wonder I did not immediately recollect you in that dreſs, when I left you in a white frock. I ſaw your brother well at Vienna. You play, Miſs Archer. I am charm'd that you prefer the harp—'tis ſo graceful for the lady—ſo advantageous for the voice.

Why 'tis downright jingle!—a wooden cimbal is a better thing! I thought to have heard nothing but what concern'd my ver—I mean your verſes; and here you have whiſk'd us to Padua, then to Greece, then we had a ſwing to Vienna in Turkey, and now we muſt have a Canterbury tale about the merits of the Welch harp. Why, I tell you, Miſs Archer, this is the gentleman.

Yes, Miſs Archer, this is the gentle⯑man, [54] who travell'd all over Europe, to qualify himſelf to write an epigram on you;—I think he might have managed the matter without going ſo far for his wit.

If he got his wit far off, you muſt allow it touches home.

Yes;—I allow it is homely wit.

Heavens! how could this man!

Miſs Juvenile means to be ſevere upon you, Sir, but don't be diſheartened. When you have done with me, you'll find a number of innocent, unprotected characters, who, at no other expence than a private heart-ache, may be ſecurely offered up victims to your muſe.

Oh, Madam, I diſclaim all connection with the muſes—nothing inſpires me but the ſubject.

You were happy in the choice of a ſub⯑ject to day; was he not, my dear? Have you the paper about you, Sir Marvel?

Yes, to be ſure—here it is.

Pardon me! I am not yet ſo harden'd a writer, as to ſtand the reading of my own works.

Now, would I give the world to know, if that is in compaſſion to his own feel⯑ings, or to mine.

Bleſs me, Sir! not hear your own works! Why, it is what every body does, and read 'em too.

Aye, to be ſure—the ladies carry their's about in their netting caſes, and the men in their tooth⯑pick caſes.

Yes, indeed;—we learn thoſe kind of [55] works now, like every other, at boarding ſchool. I, myſelf, have written five odes, ſeven epigrams, and an elegy on an old turkey cock. Come, read, Mr. Carl⯑ton—you'll give your ſatire new points.

Theſe wretches will force me to ſpoil my plan, by their cruelty to the lovely ſufferer.

May I be permitted to aſk, how I came to have the honour of your poetical notice?—Did I ever offend you?

Never, Madam! with reſpect to me, you have been perfectly harmleſs.

Would I had not! for the firſt time in my life I wiſh to do miſchief.

I never had the honour of your acquaint⯑ance; and have ſeen you but ſeldom in public; but laſt ſpring I particularly remember, at the Pantheon.

That's well! particularly remem⯑ber!

It was impoſſible to forget it;—you had in your party ſo lovely a girl! Bright blue eyes, flaxen treſſes, elegant ſhape, modeſt—

What has all this to do with your ſatire on me, Sir? Why have you taken pains to repreſent me to the world in ſo odious a light?

Faith, Madam, one does many things without reflection. I happened to be in the humour to write—Your name occurred—The thing was done—My friends liked it—They would have it appear. I'll give you leave to abuſe me with fifty times the wit.

Fifty times as much wit! gad! I don't know where ſhe'd find it.

Then you do not think me, Sir, ſo very—I underſtand, you do not think me ſo ex⯑tremely odious and frightful!

Oh, that ſubmiſſive look! ſuch another will bring me at her feet, and then I am undone.

Do you hear, Mr. Carlton? is the lady ſo very odious, and frightful?

Frightful! Oh, no, Madam. The lady is very well—I wiſh I had abated a point or two in my epigram. She is tolerably fair, not a very bad ſhape, and, upon the whole, a—a moſt bewitching creature.

Bleſs me, Sir, do you think I can ſtand here to be analyzed in this manner? Pardon me, if I ſay you ſcarcely keep within the line of good man⯑ners. I did not expect—not that I care.—I would not have you think that—that—I can bear it no longer.

Oh, thoſe tears! that I could catch them, and bury them in my heart!

Ha, ha, ha!—well, ſhe's finely morti⯑fied. My dear Mr. Carlton, I have the moſt extreme favour to beg of you.

Madam.

You have intereſt with the news-papers—I have ſome very elegant, ſpirited things, and ſhall be prodigouſly obliged, if you'll get 'em in for me.

My dear Ma'am, I really—

Nay, I will not be denied.

No, no,—don't deny the lady.

A word!

I have one thing that would cut Sir Marvel to ſhivers.—If you will but get that one thing publiſhed.

Yes, yes, get that one thing publiſhed, by all means.

To oblige you, Sir Marvel.

Oh, charming!—I'll bring it to you myſelf to-morrow. Now I'll go to Miſs Archer, and tell her you are going home to compoſe another ſatire on her.

Go, thou thing! and proſecute my heart's deareſt intereſts, whilſt you believe yourſelf only grati⯑fying your girliſh ſpite!

In the midſt of all Miſs Archer's anger, ſhe does not pretend to deſpiſe the verſes.

Deſpiſe them! I deſign to make her ac⯑knowledge that they are the happieſt verſes that ever were written;—you have really very extraordinary talents.

Talents!—aye, but every body thinks he has talents now-a-days! as Homer ſays in the Rape of the Lock,

Amen, Sir Marvel!

Mighty pretty! mighty pretty! I can never come in to my houſe, but I am joſtled by two or three young fellows going out of it. Hark ye, Sir! In future when any body, male or female, aſks for Miſs Archer, ſay ſhe's not at home. If I can't get her out of the houſe, ſhe ſhall ſee nobody in it—that will ſurely do in the long run. She may live without a huſband, but to live without goſſiping, without flatterers, without all the he and ſhe family of nonſenſe, that I take to be impoſ⯑ſible. D'ye mind me?

Yes ſure I to, Sir.

Well then, mind me again. Mr. Bellair will bring a lady here preſently—tell him I am out—ſent for by the Welch Committee, about the new linen manufactory;—but ſay I left ſtrict orders with the houſekeeper to take care of the lady.

Yes, I ſhall, Sir.

Aye, aye—they are together by this time, driving to me, their only friend and guardian! ha, ha, ha! I ſaw the dog watching the door, and I ſaw him hold up a lantern—that was the ſignal, I ſuppoſe, ha, ha, ha!—Pretty creatures! Oh, I have them faſt—they have made a nooſe for their own necks. Of an un⯑fortunate man, I am ſurely the moſt fortunate that ever.

At the committee, do you ſay?

My deareſt angel 'tis unfortunate; but you are now in the houſe of Mr. Evergreen, and his protection will be of the moſt concluſive ſort, with reſpect to your reputation; and your reputation is now mine. Why do you ſigh?

I don't know—but I am afraid they'll take me from you again.

Never; I ſwear by every thing ſacred, that I'll hold you to me as I would my life. I'll go directly down to the houſe to bring home my friend; I cannot bear that you ſhould be in this unguarded ſlate, and for many reaſons I ought not to remain with you.

Not remain with me! why are we not to be married?

Doubtleſs! and then we ſhall be inſeper⯑able; [59] but cuſtom ſays we muſt not be ſo 'till we are married.

Why, how will cuſtom know any thing about us?

Oh, there are a thouſand eyes upon us. Of what a nature is innocence! it invites its ruin; and the more pure it is, the nearer to deſtruction.

Well, if you muſt leave me, make haſte to return. How ſhall I amuſe myſelf in your abſence? Oh, here are ſome paintings. I love paintings dearly—I can look at them and make out whole converſations, between unhappy girls, and their croſs uncles, and fathers.

But look now, my angel, for another ſubject—ſearch for the portrait of a lover; fancy him telling the beauty he adores, that his whole life is devoted to her felicity;—fancy that I am that lover, and yourſelf the charming girl.

Heaven guard thee!

The happy girl, he ſhould have ſaid. Oh, I ſhall find no portrait here ſo charming as he is.

How now, young woman! why ſo frigh⯑tened?

Oh dear! oh dear!

How came you here, child—hey?

How—Oh goodneſs! how came you here?

Oh, I am intimate here—I make as free as though I were at home.

Indeed!—Oh, he'll go and tell my uncle where to find me. What ſhall I do?

Oh, Bell! Bell! have I not always told you to beware of young men? have I not told you that they are all made up of deceit and lies?

Yes, you have told me ſo, but I don't be⯑lieve you. And you told me that I was made on pur⯑poſe to be your wife, and that I don't believe neither.

Indeed! why, who then are you made for?

Somebody.

Yes, but not for the body you think of, my pretty Bell. Oh, you little gooſe you! why this was a ſcheme plan'd between Bellair and me. This is my houſe; and he has brought you here, to deliver you ſolely into my power.

Oh, what a ſtory! how can you ſay ſuch falſe things? he'd die before he'd put me in your power.

Would he ſo? why I have been in his ſe⯑cret the whole time. I know of his ſham ſickneſs to impoſe on your wiſe uncle, and of his perſuading you that he had a godfather, under whoſe care he would place you. I know of the ſignal of the dark lantern, and every particular about ye—Now what do you think of young men?

Think! oh merciful! I could not have be⯑liev'd that in all the world there had been ſuch—

Aye, now, are they not deceitful monſters? and Bellair in particular, is he not—tell me?

is he not the worſt of men?—a moſt cruel villain?

What for putting me in your power?

No, no, no,—I mean for—'Gad ſhe had me!

Yes, it is very cruel indeed. I think now I could hate him. Oh, I wiſh he would come, that I might tell him how I hate him!

Aye, but he won't come—or, if he does, it will be to no purpoſe; he ſhall never ſee you more, my pretty Bell, 'till you are my wife.

If I was ſure it would make him miſerable, I could almoſt determine to be your wife—and yet I would rather die.

Oh, you ungrateful baggage! ſo much love, ſo much tenderneſs as I have thrown away upon you!

Its very ſtrange! I would help it if I could, but indeed I cannot. He who has been ſo cruel, I can⯑not hate; and you, who have been ſo kind, I cannot love.

I am much obliged t'ye, Ma'am, for your confidence.

Why ſhould I deceive you?—you think Mr. Bellair very wicked in deceiving me, and pretend⯑ing to love me, when he did not. I will not pretend to love you; if I did, you ought to think me a very wicked girl.

So, ſo, ſo. Well, Ma'am, with regard to the matter of love, we'll ſettle that hereafter;—perhaps we are more even there than you think for—but, at pre⯑ſent, I have other buſineſs in hand. Here, Mrs. Jones,

take care of this young lady;—tempt her to eat if you can, and if you cannot, put her to bed ſupperleſs.

Muſt I go to bed without ſeeing Mr. Bellair, to reproach him.

I'll reproach, when the time comes, never fear; but he ſhan't enter theſe doors to night. Go, Mrs. Jones—go!

Now will I to my Doctor; by this time he is apprized of his loſs; and I'll ſee him poiſon'd before I'll tell him where ſhe is. Oh, Doctor! Doctor!

Go down, Mrs. Jones, I'll com⯑fort the young lady. My ſweet girl, who are ye? what is the occaſion of this extreme diſtreſs.

Oh, Ma'am, you ſeem good-natured, and I'll tell ye. Mr. Bellair has betrayed me, and Lord Penmanmawr is determined to marry me.

Who are theſe people?—I never heard their names.

Dear!—why this muſt be a very large houſe then, for Lord Penmanmawr lives in it; and Mr. Bellair I run away with, to marry—but I don't know where he lives.

Heavens! run away with a man to marry him, and not know where he lives! why, my dear, he may be a deceiver.

Yes, ſo he is, a very great deceiver; for he brought me here to Lord Panmanmawr, and call'd him Mr. Evergreen;—and now he won't marry me himſelf, and wants to force me to marry the old lord.

Lord Penmanmawr, and call'd him Evergreen! I don't know what to underſtand. But come, my love, you ſhall go with me to my dreſſing [63] room, and we'll talk it over;—if you want an ad⯑viſer, you ſhall find a ſincere one in me. Her heart has an attachment, and it ſeems an unfortunate one—I know too well, now, how to pity her.

Gone! gone! gone off! I can't believe it—'tis im⯑poſſible. She knows nobody—ſpeaks to nobody. In all this vaſt town there cannot be a houſe open to her. And here have I been ſent on a fool's errand to Hamp⯑ſtead, where every body is in health—not a ſoul ſick from the top of the Heath, to Mother Red Caps. But ſhe can't be gone off!

Aye, here's a fine pill for ye, Doctor!—here's a bitter potion! Whilſt you have been running after an old woman's ſciatica at Hampſtead, your niece has been running away with a young man.

What are we to do? Why do we ſtand here? Why don't we go in ſearch of her?

Search of her!—where? where are we to go? And if we find her, what then? who d'ye think is to take your tarniſh'd plate off your hands? We, indeed! 'tis all your affair, now Doctor; I waſh my hands on't entirely.

What do you mean? Why, is ſhe not contracted to you?

Contracted to me—yes, in a ſtate of un⯑blemiſhed reputation.

Her reputation is yet unblemiſhed, Sir.

Yes, but it won't be ſo to-morrow morn⯑ing—the firſt ſun beams will ſee the flies upon it, and by noon it will be ſtale—ſtale, Doctor!

Come, come, Sir! this is going too far;—you are too violent in your conjectures;—after all it may be but a girl's frolic—ſtray'd to ſome toyſhop, or confectioner's, perhaps.

Toyſhop! or confectioner's!

What, then, you have not found out, all this time, that ſhe is really run off with a young fellow, and who her gallant is! whu! have I that news to tell you? come, Doctor, prepare for a ſurprize—looſen your neckcloth, take off your wig, ſlacken all your ligatures, and ſit down for a fit.

Slacken your wit, Sir! you are too jocoſe on the ſubject of a young lady's reputa⯑tion.

Young lady's repution! there are more re⯑putations than her's at ſtake, I promiſe ye;—the reputa⯑tion of a wiſe man—a Doctor's reputation, will become the tennis ball of all the wits in town in a few hours. Oh, Doctor, Doctor! where did you take up your di⯑ploma for diſcretion?

Sir! there is no bearing—

Yes, but there is—Hark ye! I ſhall make ye, in one minute, as mute as the buſt of old Galen in your ſtudy. This great, impudent, roaring, de⯑bauch'd fellow, who has carried off your niece without let or hindrance, is the poor puling patient, who was brought to your houſe every day for the benefit of the park air; and whom you have pronounced to be beyond [65] the ſkill of all the phyſicians in Europe, to keep out of a winding ſheet.—Now, Doctor, you find there are more reputations than your niece's at ſtake.

A malicious invention of your own—ſheer malice!—That poor young gentleman is in a ſtate, and I will prove it, to make it impoſſible for him to recover. The morbid matter

hourly increaſes; the viſcera do not perform their functions—ſecretion is deſtroyed—the thorax inflamed, the—

I tell you he is run away with your niece.

I tell you, Sir, that ſuch an attack on my character

(I tell you he is run away with your niece)

—a man of my experience, Mr. Evergreen

—(I tell you he is run away with your niece)

—I who am acknowledged by every apo⯑thecary within the bills of mortality

—(I tell you is run away with your niece)

—I who am call'd to every capital conſultation

—(I tell you he is run away with your niece)

—I whoſe practice has been ſo ſingularly ſucceſsful—

My dear Carlton, congratulate me!

Congratulate me!

I have carried off my prize.

I have been with Miſs Archer.

I have ſafely lodged her in the houſe of a friend.

I have ſeen the moſt tender melancholy in her air.

I have ſeen love light up all her features; and have preſſed my Arabella to my heart.

I have preſs'd Miſs Archer to mine too, in idea; and my hopes tell me, that it will not be only in idea. I am now convinced of her ſenſibility, and adore her. But where is your Arabella?

At the friends I mentioned. Not being able to find him at Weſtminſter, I called at his houſe in my return, and have been aſſured that the dear girl herſelf, Mr. Evergreen, and all the family are retired to reſt.

Evergreen! he's Miſs Archer's guardian—ſhe lives in his houſe.

Then our Miſtreſſes are under the ſame roof—that's moſt fortunate!

It is indeed; for two girls talking to each other of the men they love, will do more for us in a day, than we could for ourſelves in a week.

Doctor Feelove.

Doctor Feelove! Oh, all the demons of miſchance!

Can he have made the diſcovery ſo ſoon?

A villain! to attempt thus to undermine my reputation. Gentlemen,—I have been inſulted ſo groſsly, that I can hardly compoſe myſelf, to tell you the cauſe of my unſeaſon⯑able [67] viſit—but—if—in one word, how is my poor pa⯑tient—how is Mr. Bellair?

Sir! Mr. Bellair—Sir!—

He does not know ye—fear nothing.

Are you ſure of that?

My patient, Sir—good gentlemen ſpeak! how is my patient?

Your patient, Sir, is as well as a patient can be, who is out of the reach of his d—d Doctor. No further occaſion for aſſes milk, ſtimulatives, balſamics, or coolers.

Alas, poor Doctor!—no more fees—he has given you the go-by fairly. Is it not a ſhame that a man of your proweſs in the fields of Galen, ſhould not be able to conquer ſuch a pitiful hectic as drove him him out of the world? why, a phyſician ought to have the diſeaſes at his call, and whiſtle them on and off, as a huntſman does his hounds.

Aye, 'twas a crying ſin, to let ſuch a ſpirited fine young fellow be kick'd out of life by a raſcally little feveret! An old woman would have cured him; but ſuch an obſtinate confidence in the ſkill of the renown'd Doctor Feelove! He died full of reſentment, and his laſt words were—"Toſs the Doctor in a blanket."

I can forgive that—I can forgive that—but I can't forgive your illiberality, Sir. An old wo⯑man cure him! It was not in the power of all the phy⯑ſicians between London and the Alps to cure him;—not an herb, gum, wood, or fungus in the whole me⯑dicopeia, that could have given him breath two days longer.

'Tis falſe, Sir—Bring the blanket!

I could not bear this treatment, Sir, but that the extreme ſatisfaction I have in Mr. Bellair's death.

Satisfaction!

Yes, Sir. My reputation, my charac⯑ter, demanded that he ſhould die.—I would not have had him alive to-morrow morning for a thouſand pound fee.

This is amazing!

Why, Sir, there is a vile ſtory in cir⯑culation, which, if true, would ſink me beneath the loweſt med'cine grinder—beneath a mixer of eggs and turpentine—beneath the cork in a julep bottle; nothing leſs than that Bellair is in perfect health, and ſo alive to youth and beauty, as to have run away with my niece—they ſay that!

What is there this world will not ſay! By all the honour of phyſic, he has a doſe in his pocket to have ſecured his reputation, had he found thee alive!

We'll ſearch him, and make him ſwallow it. But have you then loſt the young lady?—is ſhe gone?

Gone, Sir—abſolutely gone; but as my poor patient is gone too, I am in ſome meaſure recon⯑ciled to that event. But, bleſs me, Sir, you are vaſtly like him—a man more liable to be impoſed on, might take ye both for the ſame perſon;—the ſame voice, and the ſame features, only freſher and plumper.

Oh, oh—What you have found me out, Doc⯑tor? Why, I am his brother—your poor patient's younger brother,—and I ſhould break my heart for his death, only the dog has left me a clear eſtate of two [69] thouſand a year, to buy weepers. In ſhort, Doctor, I greatly fear'd your ſkill would preſerve him, and if it had!—

Preſerve him! you might as well have expected my ſkill in phyſic to have preſerv'd the French bank from breaking.

Well, notwithſtanding my affected petulance at your entrance, I am highly gratified that Bellair is where he is—and I'll recommend you to all my friends and acquaintance. But I wonder the loſs of your niece ſits ſo lightly, my little Hippocrates.

Oh, Sir, I have a great heart—a pro⯑digious great heart! its feelings are for the faculty. A girl may run away from an uncle without reproach to him; but when a patient runs away from the ſentence of his phyſician, the reputation of the doctor muſt ſoon run after him.

Happily our patient knew his duty better;—and ſo, as we are now three very happy fellows, let us e'en adjourn to the Star and Garter, and live the even⯑ing like bon vivants.

With all my heart;—and egad, gentle⯑men, I am ſo offended with the inſolence of a certain perſon, whom I will not name, that if you'll diſcover my niece, I'll give her to ye, with a fortune of twenty thouſand pounds. The odd ten I'll ſtick to.

Hah! ſay ye ſo? If I diſcover her, ſhall ſhe be my reward?

That ſhe ſhall.

May I rely on your promiſe.

With as much confidence, as on the [70] ſymptoma of a fever. I would give her to a rincer of gallipots, rather than the perſon I had engaged her to;—to a pill vender—to a mountebank.

Bravo, Doctor! keep to that, and we'll diſ⯑cover her enchanted caſtle, never fear!

That we will. Allons! let us ſacrifice to Bacchus to-night, and to-morrow to Eſculapius, and Fortune!

NOTHING of my niece this morning! Oh, may that raſcal, who cheated me yeſterday to Hampſtead, never get rid of his wife till he is ſeventy-ſix; and then, for his farther puniſhment, may he grow rich, and fall in love!

May I be ſo bold, Sir—is that a curſe?

A curſe! why, can there be greater, than for a man to fall into riches, when he has neither time nor faculties to enjoy them; and to fall in love, whilſt he is falling into his grave? If they are bleſſings, may they be the lot of knaves, and cowards, and quacks! Bring me the ſlate, that I may ſee where I am to go.

Go! why go to find your niece, to be ſure. Have you heard nothing from her yet?

No.

Come, how much will you add now to the fifteen thouſand, if I ſhould diſcover, and bring her t'ye?

Nothing.

What! conſider what you ſay!

I do conſider what I ſay!

How! if I diſcover your niece, drag her from her ſeducer, and in that ſtate of her reputation take her off your hands, and make her Miſtreſs Ever⯑green—what will you not throw in five thouſand for that?

No, Miſter Evergreen—not five guineas—not five ſhillings—not a ſingle half-crown. Oh, how I could mortify him now, by telling him Bellair is dead!

Here! here's an unreaſonable man! So then, if I diſcover, and marry her, I am to have only fifteen thouſand pounds!—Oh Lord! oh Lord!

Fifteen thouſand pounds! why you ſhan't have her at all. Fifteen thouſand pounds! If I thought my niece would ever look upon thee, or ever think of thee as a huſband, I'd put fifteen thouſand pounds in each pocket, drive to Graveſend, and leap into the ſea, to diſappoint thee.

Why, we'd have you up again, if you did—we'd empty your pockets, I warrant you. Riches are no more ſafe now in the bottom of the ſea, than a rainbow is in the clouds. Neither earth, ſea, or air, in this happy age, can keep their ſecrets from us; and I have no doubt but ſome bold adventurer in the next, will find out a way to live in fire; or dart from con⯑tinent to continent, like Milton's angels, on a con⯑dens'd ſun-beam.

That may be poſſible; but for you to marry my niece, with my conſent, is impoſſible.

What, are you in earneſt?

In earneſt—aye, as earneſt as you was in your abuſe of me laſt night. Smoke the Doctor, I ſup⯑poſe, was the word. You love a joke, old friend; ſo do I; and mine ſhall coſt leſs than your's—ſo good morning t'ye! I ſhall preſcribe another huſband for my niece, depend on't.

Say you ſo, my old boy? Why then I muſt play a game I did not think of—I muſt ſecure the young woman 'till you can be brought to alter your preſcription. I have made a pretty meſs here! 'Gad, though I love a joke, I did not think I was buying mine at the dear rate of fifteen thouſand pounds—Dan⯑gerous joking with doctors I find. Well, well, a wiſe man may fall into miſtakes as well as a fool; but a wiſe man will find a way to remedy them.

I am charm'd to ſee you ſo well this morning. Has Lord Penmanmawr viſited you?

Oh, yes; and he left me to go to my uncle's; but I made him promiſe not to tell that I am here.

You did not hint that you knew him to be Mr. Evergreen?

Oh, no—I will do nothing but what you bid me. I ſhould be eaſy now, could I but ſee Mr. Bel⯑lair, to vent my anger, and to tell him how I hate him.

Have a care, my dear girl! you [74] wiſh to ſee him, I have no doubt; but ſhould he ap⯑pear, you'd forget your motives for that wiſh.

Oh, never! was there ever ſo baſe—ſo—

Never, I acknowledge it; yet, ſhould he invent any plauſible excuſe, your greedy ear would ſwallow it all. May I not judge her from myſelf? Should Mr. Carlton form excuſes, where would my reſentments be?

So! there's Satan at the ear of Eve

Did I not deſire, Miſs Archer, that you would hold no correſpondence with this young Lady?

Yes, my dear Guardian, and there⯑fore I made a point of ſeeing her, and giving her a little ſiſterly advice. She knows by this time how to deceive your vigilance on common occaſions, and on uncommon ones I have promiſed to aſſiſt her.

Aſſiſt her!

Well, Miſs Melville, are you prepar'd to meet your uncle?

Oh dear! is he coming!

How he gain'd knowledge of your being here, I know not, unleſs it is from your falſe Bellair; but he ſwears vengeance—a garret and water-gruel are the leaſt of his threats.

Oh, Miſs Archer! what will become of me?

What ſignifies appealing to her? Miſs Archer, indeed! I have contrived what is to become of you; for I would not deliver my little Bell up to her uncle in his preſent fury for a dukedom, and to con⯑ceal you from him here will be impoſſible; I have there⯑fore [75] a chaiſe ready at the door, to carry you a few miles out of town.

Out of town!

Yes, Madam—or in town, or where I pleaſe—you won't preſume to interfere, I hope.

I hope Miſs Melville will refuſe to go.

Let her at her peril! ſhe is my affianc'd wife; my wife betroth'd—I have perfect right over her. Go you, Madam, to your apartment, and leave her to my care.

My dear Girl, never go with him; who knows where he may carry you!

What can I do? I fear to go with him, and I am terrified to death at the thoughts of ſeeing my uncle.

Here, here's a Welch riding-cloak, that belonged to a tall, meagre aunt of mine; 'tis a little too long, I believe; but it will conceal you the better. Put it on, and pull the hood over, that your face mayn't be ſeen. Nay, don't be reſtive, Miſs (throw⯑ing it looſely over her): put it on, whilſt I repleniſh my purſe.

Oh, my dear Lady, what ſhall I do?

My ſweet Girl, how can I aſſiſt you? What an arbitrary wretch! I am full of grief for you—What has not this Bellair to anſwer for?

I muſt give up Hyde Park this morning—I'd be ſworn Carlton will be here, and I am determined [76] to make one in their tête-à-tête. Hey, hey! why, Ladies!

Oh, Sir Marvel!

And weeping too! Dionyſius-like—no, Niobe-like, all tears.

A thought ſtrikes me—you can aſſiſt us. My guardian is going to hurry this young lady out of town, we know not where.

Aye, I ſaw the chaiſe at the door—ſhall I go and break the axle, or ſhoot the horſes?

No, no—put on this cloak

—ride with him a few miles, then turn upon him, and terrify him to death. I ſuppoſe your vis-a-vis is waiting; I'll uſe it, to convey her out of his reach—inſtantly—inſtantly!

Stop!

Hold! I will not be envelop'd in this new-faſhion'd chemiſe—how could I be ſuch a good-natur'd fool? Have you not repuls'd me, Madam—diſdain'd me?

Oh, my dear Sir Marvel! con⯑ſider, 'tis for this young lady—ſhe has not repuls'd you.

I'm at one word—off it goes, unleſs you'll promiſe to receive me on terms.

Oh heavens! I—I—I'll do bet⯑ter; I'll introduce you on terms to the pretty widow, Lady Beauville—ſhe's juſt becoming the rage—'twill be infinite eclat—ſhe had all the men in the pit about her t'other night at the opera.

On with it! we are upon honour—you ſhall carry me there to-morrow.

To-night—any time. Come, Miſs Melville!

So, here am I going, Jupiter knows where, caſed up like the Trojans in a wooden horſe, or like—but here comes my raviſher.

Oh, what Madam has left you! Aye, ſhe's a bad girl, Bell—a bad girl! never heed her! Come, don't cry, that's a good girl!—Devil take the ſtring! Hide your face though as much as you will—that's right, pull the hood cloſer, for who knows but the Doctor may come athwart us, to ſome Hampſtead patient or other? Come, now I am ready. Come, I ſay!

Why d'ye ſtop, child—go you muſt and ſhall, ſo loitering will have no effect, but to make me angry. Come, I ſay—nay, if you will be pull'd, you ſhall be pull'd

Zounds! you are ſtrong, Bell; I have heard that the Corniſh girls can wreſtle, and I fancy you have practis'd the ſport. Nay, if you are for that, Miſs—here, David, come and help pull this young lady into the chaiſe.

Cot a mercy, Sir! I can't make hur ſtir a petty-toe.

Give her a pinch on the arm.

Zounds! let me alone—I will not go, by Jupiter!

What is it, Sir—it muſt be the tevil in a planket.

What is it? why, a great country hoyden—they'll ſwear and romp at home, like [78] fifty grenadiers, and when they come to town, they mince their words, and mince their ſteps, as though they could utter nothing but monoſyllables, or ſtep above two inches. Come, we'll have t'other tug, Miſs—

Will you?

Now, Mr. Evergreen, we'll have a tug, or a wreſtle, or what you pleaſe.

Oh, that devil Miſs Archer! this muſt be her contrivance—Where are they, where are they?

Where? why, they are in the mode, that's all—emigrating. No, you don't paſs this ſtreight—you don't indeed; I'll defend it as the Africans did Thermopylae.

You, Sir! how dare you take this liberty in my houſe?

Come, Sir, don't be obſtreperous: if you are, I'll clothe you in the riding-hood, and cram you into the poſt-chaiſe, as you would have done me; you won't play the Corniſh romp as manfully as I did.

Sir, this inſolence—

Nay, if you will have a tug, you ſhall have a tug—

Here, then, I remain conqueror; but whe⯑ther the game is Olympic, Iſthmian, or Iriſh, I know not. But Lady Beauville!—to be enroll'd in her ſuit, and in the Mennil hunt, is all that remains to eſtabliſh me—fate can do no more! Miſs Archer will now be a friend indeed! Oh, Pylades, as Juvenal ſays, what's life without a friend?—its a dumpling without egg.

Tell Mrs. Tomſon, pray, that I am here. Come, cheer up my love; now we are ſafe;—that dear Sir Marvel has obliged me for ever.

My dear young lady!—

My good Mrs. Tomſon, this lady wiſhes to have an apartment here for a few days—Can you accommodate her?

Oh, yes, Ma'am.

I congratulate you, Miſs Melville; you will be here perfectly at eaſe.

Not unleſs you give ſome charge about Mr. Evergreen. The dread of ſeeing him will keep me in perpetual diſquiet.

You know my Guardian—On no pretence admit him, whilſt Miſs Melville is in your houſe.

I ſhall take care, Madam.

Then adieu! I muſt hurry back inſtantly, leſt he ſhould ſend to watch the carriage;—but you ſhall ſee me again in half an hour.

Oh dear! I am ſo ſorry that you muſt leave me! I love you already better than any body, except—I mean, I love you better than every body.

I comprehend ye, my Love—adieu!

Angels! and miniſters of grace! Miſs Archer!

Mr. Carlton!

Come to ſeek me in my lodgings! By Heaven, this is too much! Oh, oh, now then one knows how to catch a coquette. How charm'd I am to ſee you.

How could you think of following me here, Sir?

That's well put. Follow you here! I'd follow ye all over the globe. Now don't put on that cold look—It neither becomes the face nor the oc⯑caſion.

His familiarity mortifies me even more than his ſatire. How can you have the preſumption, Sir—

My dear Madam, on ſome occaſions not to have preſumption would be ungrateful.—I ſhould really be aſhamed if at this moment I did not give you reaſon to believe that I have as much preſumption as any un⯑married gentleman in town.

Intolerable! Why do you take ſuch liberties with me, Sir?

Why do you take ſuch liberties with me? You have taken the liberty to intrude yourſelf into my thoughts without my deſiring it; you have taken the liberty to obtrude yourſelf on my dreams—ſleeping or waking, I am never free from you. If I mean to be civil to another woman, your image pops itſelf before me, and ſteals the compliment for which ſhe was pre⯑paring her ſmiles—Talk of liberties, indeed!

How dares he treat me thus? The [81] object of his ſatire in public, and of his jeſts in private!—I cannot bear it.

Bend your eyes on me, ſweet creature, that I may interpret them.

If by bending them on you, I could convey to you the ſentiments with which you have in⯑ſpired me, you ſhould have their moſt pointed glances.

"The ſentiments I have inſpir⯑ed!" Now, that, ſpoken in this apartment, muſt be taken as the beginning of a declaration—and it would be ſcandalous to be behind-hand. I aſſure you, Ma⯑dam, I am extremely grateful to thoſe ſentiments, and beg to aſſure you, that mine for you are exactly what the moſt charming woman in the world ought to ſuppoſe them.

I don't know what I ought to ſup⯑poſe, Sir.

You ought to ſuppoſe that you are lovely, and that I have eyes:—you ought to ſuppoſe that you have a charming ſpirit, and that I have a heart:—you ought to ſuppoſe that you are captivating, and that I am your ſlave. Now how the devil have I been drawn in to make this ruinous confeſſion?

There is an air of ſincerity about you at this moment, that almoſt convinces me you do not deceive me; and I rejoice in it. I would have you love me, I would have you adore me—that your puniſhment may be ſevere; for if I could think on you with any ſentiments but thoſe of contempt, I ſhould deſpiſe myſelf.

I congratulate ye, Mr. Carlton—I congra⯑tulate ye! Fallen into the very ſnare that, with all thy [82] boaſted knowledge of the ſex, thou haſt laboured to avoid—truſted a coquette with thy paſſion, without firſt being aſſured that thou hadſt touch'd her heart. But who could have doubted, after a viſit at my lodgings?—Pſhaw!

'twas clearly to draw me in;—ſhe penetrated my deſign, and determined to ſhew me a poor, ridiculous, miſerable plotter. Well, I love her the better for that! Now will it be impoſſible for that Hyaena to do any one thing, for me or againſt me, but I ſhall love her the better for it. And how ſhall I be uſed?—worſe than a dog! But I'll have thee—Yes, by Heaven! thou dear, proud, bewitching ſlut, I'll have thee, ſpite of every artifice that coquetry and fe⯑male ſweetneſs can deviſe▪—'Faith, I'll go and tell her ſo now, in the very teeth of her malice.

Don't make me mad—don't make me mad! I tell you I know no more where the girl is than you do.

Not know where ſhe is? Heaven! what can this mean? Did not I leave her under your protecting roof? Did not you aſſure me—

Aſſure ye! what the devil ſignifies aſſurances, when the will of a woman is con⯑cerned? How could I gueſs that ſhe'd run away from my protecting roof?

This cannot ſatisfy me, Sir; you have an air of being angry at my enquiries, rather than ſorry for the occaſion of them.

Angry! ſo I am; d—d angry. Why, ſhe has run from me not from you. Who cares about your concern?—What buſineſs have you with her?

Mr. Evergreen!

Aye; now here he is ſtaring—now we muſt have explanations. Why, then, in three words, your Bell is my Bell;—you carried her off to prevent her marriage with Lord Penmanmawr, and brought her to the houſe of Mr. Evergreen, who is Lord Penman⯑mawr.

Sir!

Aye—what you can't comprehend yet?—all ſtare and wonder!

You that old Lord to whom my Arabella was to have been ſacrificed!

Aye—and you, to expedite the ſacrifice, brought her to the altar.

Is it poſſible? What, throw my dove into the talons of the hawk!—bring the lovely creature to the very houſe ſhe meant to fly from!—Oh, fool, fool!

Now then, old gentle⯑man, I am to conſider you as my rival—every other tie is diſſolved; and as my rival, I inſiſt on your reveal⯑ing where you have hid the lady?

Don't challenge me—don't think of chal⯑lenging me, you blood-thirſty wretch—I will not be challenged. 'Tis time ſome ſcheme were hit upon to ſave men of fortune from you duelling blades—We ought to be allowed to fight by proxy, as the militia do—I'd ſubſcribe an hundred guineas towards the corps, with all my heart.

I don't wiſh to challenge you, Sir; I am no [84] dueliſt, but I muſt know where my Arabella is—I will kneel at your feet if——

Tell you where ſhe is? I ſwear by the honour of an ancient Briton I do not know; and if I did know, I would not inform you—Tell you where my Arabella is!

I am frozen—Why did ſhe fly? Did ſhe not know that—But why do I ſtay queſtioning, when I ought to ſeek her?

Nay, if you are for that, I'll ſeek her too—perhaps luck may for once favour ſixty, inſtead of ſix and twenty; and if I catch her, youngſter, I ſhall mind your ohs and ahs no more than the winds upon Snowdon—He won't challenge me, I believe.

I cannot believe but that ſhe is yet in this houſe—She could not ſurely fly from it; for, with her extreme inexperience, this town muſt appear a great gulph to her, in which her innocence would every mo⯑ment be in danger of being loſt.

Carlton's Miſs Archer lives here—if I could find her ſhe might give me ſome inſight. None of the ſervants about?

—No one of whom I can enquire?—Shall I venture to look into the apart⯑ments?

Juſt gone out! Well, when he returns give him theſe parchments—they may do for his tay⯑lor—it is the only way to make them uſeful now.

Doctor Feelove!

Hah! Mr. Bellair—where have you been all the morning? Have you found my niece? The vile ſtory I told you of, has got air—Have you heard of my niece, I ſay?

Heard of her! why, Sir, ſhe was in this houſe—ſhe ſlept here laſt night.

In this houſe!—ſlept in the houſe of Mr. Evergreen!

Aſſuredly; and has been ſpirited away this morning.

You ſhould as ſoon make me believe ſhe ſlept in the palace of the Grand Turk.—She in this houſe!—You may as well ſay ſhe is gone to breakfaſt in the moon, and turn'd lunatic.

What obſtinacy! Why, Sir, I tell you that I myſelf—I ſay, Sir, that I—I have enquir'd, and I have been aſſured—

Aye, poor young gentleman! ſay no more—ſay no more. Perverſeneſs and folly came in with the froſt, I believe, and pinches both old and young.

What ſteps can we take?—My anxiety for the ſweet young creature you have deſcribed to me—Pho! what does this trifling fellow do here?

Hah, Mr. Bellair! they told me you were above, ſo I would come up. Very unlucky Miſs Ar⯑cher is not at home! ſhe promis'd to introduce me to Lady Beauville—I hear ſhe has a grand route to-mor⯑row, and I want to know her before, that I may be [86] invited—But I gueſs where Miſs Archer is, ſo I'll fly after her.

Stay, Sir Marvel,—do you know where Miſs Archer is?

I gueſs—I gueſs. She uſed my carriage this morning, to run away with one Miſs Melville, whom Mr. Evergreen was going to carry into the country.

Heavens! my dear Sir Marvel, you give us life—Now, Doctor, what think ye of her breakfaſt in the moon?

Faith, I begin to ſuſpect that I may have breakfaſted there—I'm ſure my brain ſeems very cloudy. But where are they, Sir—where are they?

I can't tell, 'till I aſk my ſervants; but they can certainly tell where they carried them,—and that puts me in mind of a fine anecdote. About four centuries ago—

Zounds! Sir Marvel, don't keep us here whole centuries—we muſt know inſtantly where thoſe ladies are.

Well, well, you ſhall;—I was only go⯑ing to tell you, for you know you are not well read, Mr. Bellair, that Queen Dido of Carthagena—

Pray, Doctor, preſcribe for him; he is moon⯑ſtruck too, depend on't. Sir, you muſt take us directly to the houſe where your carriage left the ladies.

Pray do, good Sir, and then if you want bliſtering, or bleeding—

I want bliſtering! no, I am never ill, un⯑leſs I'm near a phyſician. Well, come, I will take you, if you'll promiſe to have Queen Dido afterwards.

Oh, every Queen in the Aeneid, with all my ſoul. Come along!

Pray take me too, and then I'll take the Princeſſes, and their maids of honour into the bar⯑gain.

Yes, yes; I'll take ye both—I'll take ye both.

What a happy thing it is to be of conſequence!

I am much concerned that Miſs Melville has been indiſpoſed. Do you think ſhe is now aſleep?

I fancy ſo, Ma'am, for I left her on the ſopha—but I'll tell her—

Oh, on no account! let the ſweet girl repoſe a little;—her ſpirits, I am ſure, are much fatigued. If you'll give me that pamphlet I'll amuſe myſelf with it 'till ſhe wakes.

Well, now, what ſignifies my at⯑tempting to read? my thoughts are ſo deranged, that Greek would be as pleaſant to me as Don Quixote. What a peculiar fate is mine! to receive a declaration of love from the only man whoſe lips I ever wiſh'd to hear it from, and yet, to be convey'd in ſuch a way, as to give me more pain than pleaſure. The air of ſin⯑cerity with which he made it, would have tranſported [88] me, had it not been poiſon'd by an unaccountable boldneſs and freedom.

Zounds! Miſs Archer here again! Nay, then ſhe's my own—it would be ridiculous to affect diſ⯑pleaſure now.

No, faith—ſhe ſhall ſpeak firſt;—I'll be courted this time.

"I've kiſs'd and I've prattled

"With fifty fair maids"—

This is beyond all bear⯑ing!

It would, indeed, if I ſuffered you to go;—No, no, dear creature! we ſhan't part now as we did in the morning:—I have juſt been at your guardian's, to tell you that I forgive all your ill be⯑haviour to-day.

Forgive!—

Aye, you may well wonder—'tis more than one in ten would do. Come, come—lower the ſcorn of that brow, and hear reaſon.

I'll hear nothing, Sir, and I inſiſt on your leaving this houſe inſtantly.

Ha, ha, ha!—that's unreaſonable, conſider⯑ing where you are. But, come! I'll allow you half a dozen ill-humoured things, and then you ſhall attend to me.

I will have my my own way in ſomething—I [89] won't ſay one ill-humour'd thing, though I feel a thouſand.

A thouſand! Well, we have time before us, charmer; you ſhall have opportunities enough—every morning at breafaſt—every day at dinner—every—

What can the monſter mean?

Mean! why to marry you, Petulance! to give you a right to plague me for ever. What an acquiſition, for a woman of ſpirit! Oh, I feel al⯑ready the horrors of my future fate, but I am reſolv'd to go through it—I will go through it!

You imagine that the whimſicalneſs of this muſt excuſe its freedom, Mr. Carlton, but be aſſured—

Pho, pho, don't let us waſte time;—the plain Engliſh of our ſituation is this;—you are a coquette, and I am a man of the world; you would like to make me act like a fool, and I am determined to make you act like a woman of ſenſe—a proof that I am the beſt Chriſtian.

Very well, Sir—very well!

I admired you, the firſt moment I beheld you, but reſolv'd not to be made a dangler—which, if I had approach'd you in the common modes of court⯑ſhip, would have inevitably followed.—I, therefore, took the road you have ſeen, and in conſequence you'll condeſcend to be happy, and make happy, a year or two ſooner than your coquetry would have allow'd.

To be happy, and make happy!

Yes; and that in ſpite of all thoſe pretty affected airs—they are but affected, charmer, you know, [90] for, at this moment, you feel that I have a kind of re⯑ſiſtleſs impudence about me, which you love for its novelty.

If I thought it poſſible, Sir—The wretch reads my very heart.

Nay, nothing but a wiſh to convince me of it, could bring you to my lodgings; you ſee the ef⯑fects of carrying airs too far. You uſed me in the morning with ſuch barbarity, that your heart, hard as it is, was ſmote with the reflection, and then you run after me again to make it up. Oh, you dear commi⯑ſerating—

How dare you, Sir, inſinuate ſuch horrid things? Run after you!—ſeek you in your lodgings!

Oh dear! how a coquette may carry things!

Oh, oh, here they are! I am come to claim your promiſe—you muſt introduce me to Lady Beauville before to-morrow. Not to be at her route, would be to be and not to be—as Kemble ſays. Pray Ma'am have you ſeen Kemble?

Where, Madam—where is Miſs Melville?

Where is my niece?—where is Arabella Melville?

Heyday! What is all this?

Oh, Carlton! how little did I ſuſpect that your lodgings—but there ſhe is!—

Are theſe Mr. Carlton's lodgings, then? 'Tis well his boldneſs has ſuch an excuſe.

Is it poſſible that you did not know it?

Know it! Heaven and earth! how can you dare think that I did? I came to viſit Miſs Mel⯑ville, whom I attended here this morning, without the moſt diſtant idea, that—Bleſs me! what an imputa⯑tion has the intereſt I took in her welfare, ſubjected me to? I ſhall never ceaſe to regret the occaſion.

Nor I to bleſs it. How many tedious long months of hopes and fears, caprices and coquetry, have I been ſaved by it?

Oh, oh, you are agreed! ſee the effect of a few good ſtanzas—'twas my poetry, Madam, not his, upon my honour.

What poetry?

Why, that little jeu d' eſprit, you know, which was publiſh'd yeſterday, about you.

What! was not that Mr. Carlton's.

No; he beg'd to paſs for the author, but it was my own compoſition entirely; without the aſ⯑ſiſtance of any mortal man, whatever—deny it, Mr. Carlton, if you can.

So thoſe wretched lines were yours? It was you who choſe to repreſent me to the public in ſo odious and hateful a light!—

You had better have been quiet, Sir Marvel.

Why, this is dev'liſh odd! when they paſſed for yours, ſhe never ſaid one word againſt them; and now they are mine, they are wretched, and odious, and hateful!

Heyday! Miſs Archer in Mr. Carlton's lodgings! [92] what, my dear creature, you are afraid of another fatire, and ſo are come to deprecate his wrath?

No, indeed, my dear creature,—but pray what brought you to Mr. Carlton's lodgings?

Buſineſs, Ma'am, I aſſure you. Pray, Sir, ſtep this way,

Here are the verſes which you promis'd to get into the news-paper for me.—I have ſpent this whole day in poliſhing them.

My dear Madam, Sir Marvel has much more intereſt that way than I have.

Oh, I'll get 'em in—I'll get 'em in, never fear. Let me ſee.

"Deſcription of Sir Marvel Muſhroom, or the Crip⯑plegate Knight." What, Madam, me!—me!—am I a ſubject for a news-paper?

Yes;—or for a comedy, if I could write one. You are rich in folly, Sir Marvel, and would be a treaſure to the public.

Why, Madam, you will not dare—you will not dare. Oh, the licenſe given to theſe d—d newſpapers! I'll get a ſeat in parliament, in order to vote againſt the freedom of the preſs.

So would all thoſe wretches feel, who tear the minds of the inoffenſive or the worthy—were they to be ſtretched on the rack, to which they ſo unfeelingly devote others.

My charming creature, you muſt forgive Sir Marvel—I promiſed him that you ſhould.

. Secure firſt your own for⯑giveneſs.

That ſweet ſmile ſecures it to me.

No; you muſt earn it by long and [93] faithful ſervices. I will be a tyrant for two whole years, and you ſhall be the moſt humble and devoted of my ſlaves:—My caprice you ſhall allow to be reaſon, and my whims ſhall be your law.

For two months agreed! but not one hour longer.

—My dear Bellair, is this angel yours?

Mine; and by a whimſical concurrence con⯑cealed in your lodgings. How much, Miſs Archer, am I indebted to you!

Indebted to her! No, 'tis to me. I wore the cloak, and I was pinch'd and pull'd whilſt ſhe eſcap⯑ed. One can neither have credit from one's verſes or one's good nature.

So you really have forgiven him—Did I not foretell?

Oh, goodneſs! there was nothing to for⯑give—You can't think how innocent he is.

The devil! What, Bellair found her firſt! Come, Sir, give up my Bell!

Your Bell! No, no, you muſt go for your bell to another ſteeple, my old friend—This little ſilver-toned thing would never be heard on the Welch mountains; and ſo I have given it to him.

To him! You muſt joke, Doctor. You cannot mean to beſtow your niece on a poor wretch, the victim, as you have often called him, of atrophy and diſeaſe.

There, d'ye ſee!—again!—again! Sir, you libel me, and, Sir—

Libel ye! Why you libel yourſelf.—That's your poor invalid—the dying man. You'll never be able to ſtand the laugh, if you give your niece to him. Come, come, Doctor, give me the—

Sir I have received Miſs Melville from this gentleman, who will be ſo generous as to pardon the in⯑nocent ſtratagems of love.

Stratagems! What then—what then, are you the—the—

You know I told you, Doctor, that I had an irreſiſtable fancy, that I ſhould live and become a ſtout, hale young fellow. I determined not to oppoſe my odd fancy, as the old lady did her's.

Ho—h! So, Sir, you had the—the impudence—

Yes, Sir, I had the impudence to live—But pray pardon it! I will do any thing but die—I'll ſwal⯑low all the gums, woods, herbs, and funguſes, in your medicopeia, to make it up.

You had better, Sir—I ſay, you had better—Oh!

Stay, good Sir! you muſt be reconciled.

Dear Doctor, be but reconciled, I'll advertiſe my death, change my name, and fight every man who dares tell me I am alive.

He muſt not be reconciled.

He can't reſiſt us.—I'll make love to him. Dear Doctor!

And I'll let him preſcribe for me—Dear Doctor!

And I'll write the epithalamium—Dear Doctor!

He ſhall reſiſt you—He ſhall not be reconciled.

Say you ſo? Here, Mr. Bellair

I will be reconciled, though—excuſe me!—I ſhould rather you were dead.—However, I will be reconciled.

Oh, oh, you will, will ye? You ſhall re⯑pent it. Bellair, though I ſhall never ſpeak to you more, I'll tell you at parting that her fortune is thirty thouſand pounds—Remember, thirty. There, Doctor, that has cut you ſhort of ten or fifteen thouſand, I know; ſo your joke has coſt as much as mine.

Sir, you are—Sir, my reſentment for this uſage—

Oh, gentlemen, you muſt not—you muſt not quarrel.

Oh, yes, let 'em quarrel, pray, if they have a fancy for it. Doctor, I'll carry your challenge—What are your weapons?

His preſcriptions—He can kill with no⯑thing elſe; he's harmleſs in all other reſpects.

And you are harmleſs in nothing but your wit;—the point of that is never felt.

Come, come, ſince your anger ex⯑pends itſelf in words, there are hopes of its ſubſiding; and that the happineſs we are preparing to enjoy, will neither be clouded by your diſpleaſure; nor by that of our beſt friends.