[] THE FASHIONABLE LOVER.

ACT I. SCENE I.

HOOT! fellows, haud your honds: pack up your damn'd clarinets, and gang your gait, for a pair of lubberly minſtrels, as you are. An you cou'd hondle the bagpipe inſtead, I wou'd na' ſay you nay: ah! 'tis an auncient inſtrument of great melody, and has whaſtled many a braw lad to his grave; but your holidays horns there are fit only to play to a drunken city-barge on a ſwan-hopping party up the Thames.

Fedon, Monſieur Colin, for why you have ſend away the horns? It is very much the ton in this country for the fine gentlemens to have the horns: upon my vord, my Lord this day give grand entertainment to very grand company; tous les maccaroni below ſtairs, et toute la coterie above. Hark, who vait dere? My Lord ring his bell.—Voi la, Monſieur Colin, dere is all the company going to the tea-room.

Now the de'el burſt the weams of you all together, ſay I, for a pack of locuſts; a cow in a clover field has more moderation than the beſt among you: [2] had my lord Abberville the wealth of Glaſgow, you'd ſwallow it all down before you gee'd over.—Crom, crom.

Vat is dat crom, crom? We do not know in France vat is dat crom, crom. But vat you ſay to the dinner? Upon my vord Monſieur the cook, make as fine diſpoſitions for the table, as the Grand Condé did for the battle: ma foi, he merit to have his ſtatue raiſed en crocan, in the center of his own performance.

Rais'd on a gibbet in the center of Hounſlow Heath; that's what he merits.

Ah, barbare! Here come my Lord.

Colin, ſee that covers are laid for four-and-twenty, and ſupper ſerved at twelve in the great eating-parlour.

Ecod, my Lord, had you ken'd the meſs of cakes and ſweeties that was honded up amongſt 'em juſt now, you wou'd na' think there cou'd be muckle need of ſupper this night.

What, fellow, wou'd you have me ſtarve my gueſts?

Troth, an you don't, they'll go nigh to ſtarve you.

Let me hear no more of this, Colin Macleod; I took you for my ſervant, not for my adviſer.

Right, my Lord, you did; but if by adviſing I can ſerve you, where's the breach of duty in that?

What a Highland ſavage it is.—My father indeed made uſe of him to pay the ſervants wages, and poſt the tradeſmen's accounts; as I never do either, I wiſh ſomebody elſe had him that does.

What quoting, Mortimer? and ſatire too?—I thought you need not go abroad for that.

True; therefore, I'm returning home.—Good night to you.

What, on the wing ſo ſoon! With ſo much company can my philoſopher want food to feaſt his ſpleen upon?

Food! I revolt againſt the name; no Bramin cou'd abominate your fleſhly meal more than I do, why Hirtius and Apicius would have bluſh'd for it: Marc Antony, who roaſted eight whole boars for ſupper, never maſſacred more at a meal than you have done.

A truce, good cynick: pr'ythee now get thee up ſtairs, and take my place; the ladies will be glad of you at cards.

Me at cards! me at a quadrille-table; pent in with fuzzing dowagers, goſſiping old maids and yellow admirals; 'ſdeath, my Lord Abberville, you muſt excuſe me

Out on thee, unconformable being, thou art a traitor to ſociety.

Do you call that ſociety?

Yes, but not my ſociety; none ſuch as you deſcribe will be found here; my circle, Mr. Mortimer, is form'd by people of the firſt faſhion and ſpirit in this country.

Faſhion and ſpirit! Yes, their country's like to ſuffer by their faſhion more than 'twill ever profit by their ſpirit.

Come, come, your temper is too ſour.

And your's too ſweet: a mawkiſh lump of manna; ſugar in the mouth, but phyſic to the bowels.

Mr. Mortimer, you was my father's executor; I did not know your office extended any further.

No; when I gave a clear eſtate into your hands, I clear'd myſelf of an unwelcome office: I was, indeed, your father's executor; the gentlemen of faſhion and ſpirit will be your lordſhip's.

Pooh! you've been black-ball'd at ſome paltry port-drinking club; and ſet up for a man of wit and ridicule.

Not I, believe me: your companions are too dull to laugh at, and too vicious to expoſe.—There ſtands a ſample of your choice.

Who, Doctor Druid? Where's the harm in him?

Where is the merit?—What one quality does that old piece of pedantry poſſeſs to fit him for the liberal office of travelling preceptor to a man of rank? You know, my Lord, I recommended you a friend as fit to form your [4] manners as your morals; but he was a reſtraint; and, in his ſtead, you took that Welchman, that buffoon, that antiquarian forſooth, who looks as if you had rak'd him out of the cinders of Mount Veſuvius.

And ſo I did: but pr'ythee, Mortimer, don't run away; I long to have you meet.

You muſt excuſe me.

Nay, I muſt have you better friends.—Come hither, Doctor, hark'e—

Another time, at preſent, I am in no humour to ſtay the diſcuſſion of a cockle-ſhell, or the diſſection of a butterfly [...]s wing.

Putterflies! putterflies in your teeth, Mr. Mortimer. What is the ſurly-poots prabbling about? Cot give her coot luck; will the man never leave off his flings, and his fleers, and his fegaries; packpiting his petters?—Coot, my Lord, let me call him back, and have a little tiſputes and tiſputations with him, d'ye ſee.

Hang him, tedious rogue, let him go.

Tedious! ay, in coot truth is he, as tedious as a Lapland winter, and as melancholy too; his crochets, and his humours damp all mirth and merriment, as a wet blanket does a fire: he is the very night-mare of ſociety.

Nay, he talks well ſometimes.

Ay, 'tis pig ſound, and little wit; like a loud pell, to a pad dinner.

Patience, good Doctor, patience! another time you ſhall have your revenge, at preſent you muſt lay down your wrath, and take up your attention.

Iv'e done, my Lord, Iv'e done: laugh at my putterflies indeed! if he was as pig and as pold as King Gryffyn, Doctor Druid wou'd make free to whiſper an oord or two in his ear.

Peace, cholerick King of the mountains, peace.

Iv'e done, my Lord, I ſay Iv'e done.

If you have done, let me begin. You muſt know then, I expect my city madam from Fiſh-ſtreet Hill.

Ay, ay, the rich pig-pellied fellow's daugh⯑ter, young Madam Pridgemore, my Lady Apperville, that is to be, pleſs her, and ſave her, and make her a coot wife, ſay I.

Pr'ythee, good Doctor, don't put a man in mind of his misfortunes: I tell you, ſhe is coming here by appointment, with old Bridgemore and her mother; 'tis an execrable groupe, and as I mean to make all things as eaſy to me as I can, I'm going out to avoid being troubled with their impertinence.

Going out, my Lord, with your houſe full of company?

Oh! that's no objection, none in the leaſt, fa⯑ſhion reconciles all thoſe ſcruples: to conſult your own eaſe in all things is the very firſt article in the recipe for good breeding; when every man looks after himſelf, no one can complain of neglect; but as theſe maxims may not be orthodox on the eaſtern ſide of Temple-bar, you muſt ſtand Gentleman Uſher in this ſpot; put your beſt face upon the matter, and marſhal my citizens into the aſſem⯑bly room, with as much ceremony, as if they came up with an addreſs from the whole company of Cordwainers.

Out on it, youv'e ſome teviliſh oomans in the wind, for when the tice are rattling above, there's nothing but teath, or the tevil, cou'd keep you below.

Youv'e gueſt it; ſuch a divine, delicious little devil, lurks in my heart; Glendower himſelf cou'd not exorciſe her: I am poſſeſt, and from the hour I ſaw her by ſurprize, I have been plotting methods how to meet her; a lucky opening offers, the mine is laid, and Bridge⯑more's viſit is the ſignal for ſpringing it.

Pridgemore's! how ſo?

Why, 'tis with him ſhe lives; what elſe cou'd make it difficult, and what but difficulty, cou'd make me purſue it? They prudently enough wou'd have conceal'd her from me, for who can think of any other, when Miſs Aubrey is in ſight?—But hark! they're come; I muſt eſcape—Now, love and fortune, ſtand my friends!

Pleſs us, what haſtes and hurries he is in, and all for ſome young huſſey—Ah! he'll never have a proper reliſh for the venerable antique: I never ſhall bring down his mercury, to touch the proper freezing point, which that of a true virtuoſo ought to ſtand at: ſometimes indeed he will contemplate a beautiful ſtatue, as if it was a ooman; I never cou'd perſuade him to look upon a beautiful ooman, as if ſhe was a ſtatue.

Doctor, I kiſs your hands; I kiſs your hands, good Doctor.—How theſe nobles live! Zooks, what a ſwinging chamber!

Why, Mr. Bridgemore, ſure you think yourſelf in Leatherſeller's hall.

Pray recollect yourſelf, Pappa; indeed this is not Fiſh ſtreet Hill.

I wiſh it was: I'd ſoon unhouſe this trumpery: I'd ſoon furniſh it with better goods: why this profuſion, child, will turn your brain.

Law, how you ſtand and ſtare at things; ſtopping in the hall to count the ſervants, gaping at the luſtre there, as if you'd ſwallow it.—I ſuppoſe our daugh⯑ter, when ſhe's a woman of quality, will behave as other women of quality do.—Lucinda, this is Doctor Druid, Lord Abberville's travelling tutor, a gentleman of a very antient family in North Wales.

So it ſhould ſeem, if he's the repreſentative of it.

Without flattery, Mrs. Bridgemore, Miſs has very much the behaviours of an ooman of quality already.

Come Sir, we'll join the company, Lord Abberville will think us late.

Yes truly, he's impatient for your coming, but you ſhall find him not at home.

How; not at home?

A mighty proof of his impatience, truly.

Why, 'twas ſome plaguy buſineſs took him out, but we'll diſpatch it out of hand, and wait upon you quickly.

Well, buſineſs, buſineſs muſt be done.

I thought my Lord had been a man of faſhion, not of buſineſs.

And ſo he is; a man of the firſt faſhion; you can⯑not have a freſher ſample: the worſt gallant in nature is your maccaroni; with the airs of a coquette you meet the manners of a clown: fear keeps him in ſome awe be⯑fore the men, but not one ſpark of paſſion has he at heart, to remind him of the ladies.

Well, we muſt make our curtſies above ſtairs—our card was from Lady Caroline; I ſuppoſe ſhe is not from home, as well as her brother.

Who waits there? ſhow the ladies up.

Ay, ay, go up, and ſhow your cloaths, I'll chat with Dr. Druid here below.

I love to talk with men that know the world; they tell me, Sir, you've travelled it all over.

Into a pretty many parts of it.

Well, and what ſay you, Sir? you're glad to be at home; nothing I warrant like old England. Ah I what's France, and Spain, and Burgundy, and Flanders? no, old England for my money; 'tis worth all the world beſides.

Your pelly ſays as much; 'twill fill the pot, but ſtarve the prain; 'tis full of corn, and ſheep, and villages, and people: England, to the reſt of the oorld, is like a flower-garden to a foreſt.

Well, but the people, Sir, what ſay you to the people?

Nothing: I never meddle with the human ſpecies; man, living man, is no object of my curioſity, nor ooman neither; at leaſt, Mr. Pridgemore, till ſhe ſhall be made a mummies of.

I underſtand you; you ſpeak in the way of trade: money's your object.

Money and trade! I ſcorn 'em both; the beaten track of commerce I diſdain to follow: I've traced the Oxus, and the Ton; traverſed the Riphaean Moun⯑tains, and pierced into the inmoſt Teſarts of Kalmuc Tartary—follow trade indeed! no; Iv'e followed the ra⯑vages of Kouli Chan with rapturous delight: there is the land of wonders; finely depopulated; gloriouſly laid waſte; fields without a hoof to tread 'em, fruits without a hand to gather 'em; with ſuch a catalogue of pats, peetles, ſerpents, ſcorpions, caterpillars, toads—oh! tis a recreating contemplation, to a philoſophic mind!

Out on 'em, filthy vermin, I hope you left 'em where you found 'em.

No, to my honour be it ſpoken, I have imported above fifty different ſorts of mortal poiſons into my native country.

Lackaday, there's people enough at home can poiſon their native country.

So, Ladies, have you finiſhed your viſit already?

We've have made our curtſies and come away.

Marry, the fates and the fortunes forbid that you ſhould go, till my Lord comes back.

Why not? if my Lord treats me already with the freedom of a huſband, ſhoudn't I begin to practiſe the in⯑difference of a Wife?

Well, but the ſupper, Mr. Pridgemore; you a citizen, and leave the ſupper?

Your fifty mortal poiſons have given me my ſupper: ſcorpions, and bats, and toads—come let's be gone.

Wou'd, they were in your pelly!

How I am watch'd in this houſe you well know, Mr. Tyrrel; therefore you muſt not ſtay: what you have done and ſuffer'd for my ſake I never can forget; and 'tis with joy I ſee you now, at laſt, ſurmount your difficulties by the recovery of Lord Courtland: may your life never be again expoſed on my account!

I glory in protecting you; when he, or any other rake, repeats the like offence, I ſhall repeat the like cor⯑rection. I am now going to my uncle Mortimer, who does not know that I am in town. Life is not life without thee; never will I quit his feet, till I've obtain'd his voice for our alliance.

Alas! What hope of that from Mr. Mortimer, whoſe rugged nature knows no happineſs itſelf, nor feels complacency in that of others?

When you know Mr. Mortimer you'll find how totally the world miſtakes him. Farewel, my dear Au⯑guſta; back'd with thy virtuous wiſhes, how can I fail to proſper?

All's ſafe; follow me, my Lord; ſhe is in her bed-chamber.

Where; where?

There; where you ſee the light through the [9] glaſs-door. If I thought you had any wicked deſigns in your head, I wou'dn't have brought you here for the world; I ſhou'd be murder'd if the family were to know it: for pity's ſake, my Lord, never betray me.

Go, get you gone; never talk of treaſon, my thoughts are full of love.

Firſt I'll ſecure the door: 'twill not be amiſs to bar this retreat.

Ay, there ſhe is!—How penſive is that poſture!—Muſing on her condition; which, in truth, is melancholy enough; an humble couſin to a vulgar tyrant.—'Sdeath, ſhe cannot chuſe but jump at my propoſals.—See, ſhe weeps.—I'm glad on't—Grief diſpoſes to compliance—'Tis the very moment to aſſail her.

Who's there; who's at the door? Ah!—

Huſh, huſh; your ſcreams will rouſe the houſe.—'Tis I, Miſs Aubrey—'tis Lord Abberville.—Give me your hand.—Nay, be compoſed.—Let me ſet down the candle: you are ſafe.

Safe, my Lord! Yes, I'm ſafe; but you are miſtaken; Miſs Bridgemore's not at home; or, if ſhe was, this is no place to meet her in.

I'm glad of that; bleſs'd in Miſs Aubrey's company, I wiſh no interruption from Miſs Bridgemore.

I ſhould be loath to think ſo; an avowal of baſe⯑neſs to one woman, ſhould never be taken as flattery by another: in ſhort, my Lord, I muſt intreat you to let the ſervants ſhow you to ſome fitter apartment. I am here in a very particular ſituation, and have the ſtrongeſt reaſons for what I requeſt.

I gueſs your reaſons, but cannot admit them. I love you, Madam; let that declaration be my excuſe.

Nay, now your frolick has the air of inſult, and I inſiſt upon your leaving me.

Who's within there?

Hark, hark, Miſs Bridgemore, as I live.—Come in.

Come in! why you have lock'd the door.

Lock'd! is it lock'd?—for ſhame, for ſhame! thus am I ſacrific'd to your ungenerous deſigns:—ſhe muſt come in.

Stay, ſtay; ſhe muſt not find me here; there's one retreat; your chamber; lock me in there: I may ſtill eſcape.

What are you about, Miſs Au⯑brey? Let me in.

Where ſhall I turn myſelf? You've ruined all: if you're diſcovered, I ſhall never gain belief.

Be adviſed then: we have only this chance left

Miſs Aubrey, if you don't let me in immediately, I ſhall call up my mamma; ſo pray unlock the door.

I ſcarce know what I do

There, Madam, you're obeyed.

Why, ſurely, you affect extraordinary privacy. It ſeems you've had your Tyrrel in our abſence.

Yes, Mr. Tyrrel has been here.

Humph! you're in mighty ſpirits.

No, Madam; my poor ſpirits ſuit my poor con⯑dition: you, I hope, are rich in every ſenſe.

She's happy I can ſee, though ſhe attempts to hide it: I can't bear her.—Pray, Miſs Aubrey, what are your deſigns—to ruin this young man?

Madam!—

Can you now in your heart ſuppoſe that Mor⯑timer will let his nephew marry you? Depend upon't (I tell you as your friend) as ſoon as that old cynic hears of it (which I have taken care he ſhall) your hopes are cruſhed at once.

When were they otherwiſe?

I don't know what to make of her—ſhe ſeems confus'd—her eyes wander ſtrangely: watching the bed⯑room door—what is it ſhe looks at?

Where are you going?

Going! Nay, no where—ſhe's alarmed—Miſs Aubrey, I have a fooliſh notion in my head, that Mr. Tyrrel's in this houſe.

No, on my word—ſhall I light you to your room?

So ready!—No; your own will ſerve: I can ad⯑juſt my head-dreſs at your glaſs—Hey-dey; all's faſt—you've locked the door—

Have I, indeed?

Yes, have you, Madam; and, if my ſuſpicion's true, your lover's in it—open it.

I beg to be excuſed.

Oh! are you caught at laſt? Admit me.

You cannot ſure be ſerious—think I've the ſanc⯑tion of a gueſt.

Ridiculous! I'll raiſe the houſe—let me come to the bell.

Hold! hold! you don't know what you do: for your own ſake deſiſt: to ſave your own confuſion, more than mine, deſiſt, and ſeek no farther.

No, Madam; if I ſpare you, may the ſhame that waits for you fall on my head.

At your own peril be it then! Look there

Aſtoniſhing! Lord Abberville! This is indeed extraordinary; this, of all frolicks modern wit and gal⯑lantry have given birth to, is in the neweſt and the boldeſt ſtile.

Upon my life, Miſs Bridgemore, my viſit has been entirely innocent.

Oh, yes! I give you perfect credit for your inno⯑cence; the hour, the place, your Lordſhip's character, the Lady's compoſure, all are innocence itſelf. Can't you affect a little ſurprize, Ma'am, at finding a Gentleman in your bed-room, though you placed him there yourſelf? So excellent an actreſs might pretend a fit on the occaſion: Oh, you have not half your part.

Indeed, Miſs Bridgemore, you look upon this in too ſerious a light.

No, be aſſured: I'm charmed with your ad⯑dreſs; you are a perfect faſhionable lover: ſo agree⯑able to invite us to your houſe, ſo well bred to be from home, and ſo conſiderate to viſit poor Miſs Aubrey in our abſence: altogether, I am puzzled which to prefer, your wit, politeneſs, or your honour.

Miſs Bridgemore, 'tis in vain to urge my inno⯑cence to you; Heaven and my own heart acquit me; I muſt endure the cenſure of the world.

O Madam, with Lord Abberville's protection you may ſet that at nought: to him I recommend you: your company in this houſe will not be very welcome.

Then, Madam, ſhe ſhall come to mine; my houſe, my arms are open to receive [12] her. Fear nothing, ſet her at defiance; reſign yourſelf to my protection; you ſhall face your tyrant, out-face her, ſhine above her, put her down in ſplendor as in beauty; be no more the ſervile thing her cruelty has made you; but be the life, the leader of each public pleaſure, the envy of all womankind, the miſtreſs of my happineſs—

And murderer of my own. No, no, my Lord, I'll periſh firſt: the laſt ſurviving orphan of a noble houſe, I'll not diſgrace it: from theſe mean, unfeeling people, who to the bounty of my anceſtors owe all they have, I ſhall expect no mercy; but you, whom even pride might teach ſome virtue, you to tempt me, you with unmanly cunning to ſeduce diſtreſs yourſelf created, ſinks you deeper in contempt than Heaven ſinks me in poverty and ſhame.

A very unpromiſing campaign truly: one lady loſt, and the other in no way of being gained. Well, I'll return to my company; there is this merit however in gaming, that it makes all loſſes appear trivial but its own.

SO! ſo! another day; another twelve hours round of folly and extravagance: 'pſhaw! I'm ſick on't. What is it our men of genius are about? Jarring and jangling with each other, while a vaſt army of vices over-runs the whole country at diſcretion

Now, Jarvis, what's your news?

My morning budget, Sir; a breakfaſt of good deeds; the offerings of a full heart and the return of an empty purſe. There, Sir, I've done your errand; and wiſh hereafter you could find another agent for your cha⯑rities.

Why ſo, Charles?

Becauſe the taſk grows heavy; beſides, I'm old and fooliſh, and the ſight is too affecting.

Why doesn't do like me then? Sheath a ſoft heart in a rough caſe, 'twill wear the longer; fineer thy⯑ſelf, good Jarvis, as thy maſter does, and keep a marble outſide to the world. Who dreams that I am the lewd fool of pity, and thou my pandar, Jarvis, my provider? You ſound out the poor fellow then, the half-pay officer I met laſt Sunday—

With difficulty; for he obtruded not his ſorrows on the world, but in deſpair had crept into a corner, and, with his wretched family about him, was patiently ex⯑piring.

Pr'ythee no more on't: you ſav'd him; you re⯑liev'd him; no matter how; you made a fellow creature happy, that's enough.

I did, Sir; but his ſtory's ſo affecting—

Keep it to thyſelf, old man, then; why muſt my heart be wrung? I too am one of Nature's ſpoilt children, and havn't yet left off the tricks of the nurſery.

Sir, Mr. Tyrrel's come to town, and begs to ſee you.

Let him come in

So, nephew, what bring's you to town? I thought you was a priſoner in the country.

I was; but now Lord Courtland has obtained his liberty, no reaſon holds why I ſhould not recover mine.

Well, Sir, how have you fill'd up your time? In practiſing freſh thruſts, or repenting of that which is paſt? You've drawn your ſword to ſatisfy one man, now think of ſatisfying the reſt of mankind.

You know my ſtory, Sir; I drew my ſword in the defence of innocence: to puniſh and repel the libertine attempts of an ennobled ruffian; every man of honour would have done the ſame.

Yes, honour: you young men are ſubtle ar⯑guers; the cloak of honour covers all your faults, as that of paſſion all your follies.

Honour is what mankind have made it: and as we hold our lives upon theſe terms, with our lives it behoves us to defend them.

You have made it reaſon then it ſeems, make it religion too, and put it out of faſhion with the world at once: of this be ſure, I had ſooner caſt my guineas in the ſea, than give 'em to a duelliſt. But come, Frank, you are one from prejudice, not principle; therefore we'll talk no more on't. Where are you lodged?

At the hotel hard by.

Then move your baggage hither, and keep houſe with me; you and I, nephew, have ſuch oppoſite pur⯑ſuits that we can never juſtle; beſides, they tell me you're in love; 'twill make a good companion of you; you ſhall rail at one ſex, while I'm employed with t other, and thus we may both gratify our ſpleen at once.

O, Sir, unleſs you can conſent to hear the praiſes of my lovely girl, from hour to hour, in endleſs repetition, never ſuffer me within your doors.

Thy girl, Frank, is every thing but rich, and that's a main blank in the catalogue of a Lady's per⯑fections.

Fill it up then, dear Uncle; a word of your's will do it.

True, boy, a word will do it; but 'tis a long word, 'tis a laſting one; it ſhould be, therefore, a delibe⯑rate one: but let me ſee your girl; I'm a ſour fellow; ſo the world thinks of me; but it is againſt the proud, the rich I war: poverty may be a misfortune to Miſs Aubrey; it would be hard to make it an objection.

How generous is that ſentiment!—Let me have your conſent for my endeavours at obtaining her's, and I ſhall be moſt happy.

About it then; my part is ſoon made ready; your's is the taſk: you are to find out happineſs in mar⯑riage; I'm only to provide you with a fortune.

Well, Frank, I ſuſpected thou hadſt more courage than wit, when I heard of thy engaging in a duel; now thou art for encount'ring a wife, I am convinc'd of it. A wife! 'ſdeath, ſure ſome planetary madneſs reigns amongſt our wives; the dogs-ſtar never ſets, and the moon's horns are fallen on our heads.

The gude time o'day to you, gude Maiſter Mortimer.

Well, Colin, what's the news at your houſe?

Nay, no great ſpell of news, gude faith; aw things with us gang on after the auld ſort. I'm weary of my life amongſt 'em; the murrain take 'em all, ſike a family of free-booters, Maiſter Mortimer; an I ſpeak a word to 'em, or preach up a little needful oeconomy, hoot! the whole clan is up in arms. I may ſpeak it in your ear, an' the de'el himſell was to turn houſe-keeper, he cou'd na' pitch upon a fitter ſet; fellows of all trades, countries and occupations; a ragamuffin crew; the very refuſe of the mob, that canna' count paſt twa generations without a gibbet in their ſcutcheon.

Ay, Colin, things are miſerably chang'd ſince your old maſter died.

Ah, Maiſter Mortimer, it makes my heart drop blude to think how much gude counſel I ha' caſt away up⯑on my Laird; ifaith I hanna' ſtinted him o'that; I gee'd him rules and maxims of gude huſbandry in plenty; but aw in vain; the dice ha' deafen'd him.

Yes, and deſtroy'd; his head, heart, happineſs, [16] are gone to ruin; the leaſt a gameſter loſes, is his money.

Ecod and that's no trifle in his caſe: laſt night's performances made no ſmall hole in that.

Whence learn you that?

From little Napthali of St. Mary Axe: when a man borrows money of a Jew, 'tis a preſumption no Chriſ⯑tian can be found to lend him any.

Is your Lord driven to ſuch wretched ſhifts?

Hoot! know you not that every loſing gameſter has his Jew? He is your only doctor in a deſperate caſe; when the regulars have brought you to Death's door, the quack is invited to uſher you in.

Your Jew, Colin, in the preſent caſe, ſavours more of the lawyer than the doctor; for I take if he makes you ſign and ſeal as long as you have effects.

You've hit the nail o' the hede; my Laird will ſign to any thing; there's bonds, and blanks, and bar⯑gains, and promiſary notes, and a damn'd ſight of rogue⯑ries, depend on't. Ecod he had a bundle for his break⯑faſt, as big as little Napthali cou'd carry; I wou'd it had braken his bock; and yet he is na' half the knave of yon fat fellow upon Fiſh-ſtreet Hill.

Bridgemore, you mean.

Ay, ay, he's at the bottom of the plot; this little Hebrew's only his jackall.

I comprehend you; Bridgemore, under cover of this Jew, has been playing the uſurer with Lord Abber⯑ville, and means to pay his daughter's portion in parch⯑ment; this muſt be prevented.

You may ſpare your pains for that; the match is off.

Hey-day, friend Colin, what has put off that?

Troth, Maiſter Mortimer I canna' ſatisfy you on that hede; but yeſternight the job was done; methought the buſineſs never had a kindly aſpect from the firſt.

Well, as my Lord has got rid of Miſs, I think he may very well ſpare her fortune.

Odzooks, but that's no reaſon he ſhou'd loſe his own.

That, Colin, may be paſt my power to hinder; yet even that ſhall be attempted: find out the Jew that Bridgemore has employ'd, and bring him hither, if you can.

Let me alone for that; there never was a Jew ſince Samſon's time that Colin cou'd na' deal with; an' he hangs bock, and will na' follow kindly, troth, I'll lug him to you by the ears; ay, will I, and his Maiſter the fat fellow into the bargain.

No, no, leave me to deal with Bridgemore; I'll ſcare away that cormorant; if the ſon of my noble friend will be undone, it never ſhall be ſaid he fell without an effort on my part to ſave him.

By Heaven you ſpeak that like a noble Gentleman. Ah, Maiſter Mortimer, in England, he that wants mo⯑ney, wants every thing; in Scotland now, few have it, but every one can do without it.

But what is all this to me, Doctor? while I have a good houſe over my head, what care I if the Pyra⯑mids of Egypt were ſunk into the earth? London, thank Heaven, will ſerve my turn.

Ay, ay, look ye, I never ſaid it was'nt coot enough for them that live in it.

Good enough! why what is like it? where can you live ſo well?

No where, coot truth, 'tis all cooks ſhops and putchers ſhambles; your very ſtreets have ſavoury names; your Poultry, your Pye-corner, and Pudding-lane, your Bacon-alley, and Fiſh-ſtreet Hill here; o' my oord, the Map of London, would furniſh out an admi⯑rable pill of fare for a Lord-Mayor's dinner.

Well, Doctor, I'm contented with Fiſh-ſtreet Hill; you may go ſeek for lodgings yonder in the ruins Of Palmyra.

Ruins indeed! what are all your new buildings, up and down yonder, but ruins? Improve your town a little further, and you'll drive every man of ſenſe out of it; pleſs us, and ſave us, bye and bye not a monument of antiquity will be left ſtanding from Lon⯑don-ſtone to Weſtminſter-hall.

And if the Commiſſioners of paving would mend the ſtreets with one, and preſent t'other as a nu⯑ſance, bone ſetters and lawyers would be the only peo⯑ple to complain.

Down with 'em then at once, down with every thing noble and venerable and antient amongſt you; turn the Tower of London into a Pantheon, make a new Adelphi of the Savoy, and bid adieu to all ages but your own; you will then be no more in the way of de⯑riving dignity from your progenitors, than you are of tranſmitting it to your poſterity.

Well, Doctor, well, leave me my opinion and keep your own; you've a veneration for ruſt and cobwebs, I am for bruſhing them off wherever I meet them; we are for furniſhing our ſhops and warehouſes with good profit⯑able commodities; you are for ſtoring 'em with all the monſters of the creation: I much doubt if we cou'd ſerve you with a dried rattleſnake, or a ſtuft alligator, in all the purlieus of Fiſh-ſtreet Hill.

A ſtuft alligator! a ſtuft alderman wou'd be ſooner had.

May be ſo, and let me tell you an antiquarian is as much to ſeek in the city of London, as an alderman wou'd be in the ruins of Herculaneum: every man after his own way, that's my maxim: you are for the paltry ore; I am for the pure gold; I dare be ſworn now, you are as much at home amongſt the ſnakes and ſerpents at Don Saltero's as I am with the Jews and jobbers at Jonathan's.

Coot truth, Mr. Pridgemore, 'tis hard to ſay which collection is the moſt harmleſs of the two.

I'm out of patience with you, Mr. Bridgemore, to ſee you ſtir no briſker in this buſineſs; with ſuch a ſtorm about your ears, you ſtand as idle as a Dutch ſailor in a trade wind.

Truly, love, till you come in, I heard nothing of the ſtorm.

Recollect the miſadventure of laſt night, the wickedneſs of that ſtrumpet you have harboured in your houſe; that viper, which wou'd never have had ſtrength to ſting, hadn't you warm'd it in your boſom.

Faith and truth now, I hav'nt heard better reaſoning from an ooman this many a day; you ſhall know Mr. Pridgemore, the viperous ſpecies love warmth; their ſting, look ye, is then more venomous; but draw [19] their teeth, and they are harmleſs reptiles; the conjurors in Perſia play a thouſand fancies and fagaries with 'em.

But I'm no Perſian, Doctor.

No, nor conjuror neither; you wou'd not elſe have been the dupe thus of a paltry girl.

A girl, indeed! why all the European world are made the dupes of girls; the Aſiatics are more wiſe; ſaving your preſence now, I've ſeen a Turkiſh Pacha or a Tartar Chan rule threeſcore, ay, three hundred wives, with infinite more eaſe and quiet, than you can manage one.

Manage your butterflies, your bats and beetles, and leave the government of wives to thoſe who have 'em: we ſtand on Britiſh ground as well as our huſ⯑bands; Magna Charta is big enough for us both; our bill of divorce is a full match for their bill of rights at any time: we have our Commons, Doctor, as well as the men, and I believe our privileges are as well manag'd here at St. Paul's, as their's are yonder at St. Stephen's.

Your privileges, Mrs. Pridgemore, are not to be diſputed by any in this company; and if Miſs is as well inſtructed in her's, I wiſh my Lord Abberville joy of his releaſe; that's all.

What did the fellow ſay? who ſent that old mummy hither?

He came upon a qualifying meſſage from Lord Abberville, as I believe; but 'tis ſuch an extravagant old blade, he got amongſt the pyramids of Egypt, before he could well bring it out.

I wou'd he was there, and his pupil with him: don't you ſee what a condition our poor girl is thrown into?

I into a condition! No; they ſhall never have to ſay they threw me into a condition: I may be angry, but I ſcorn to own I'm diſappointed.

That's right, child, ſure there are more men in the world, beſides Lord Abberville.

Law, papa! your ideas are ſo groſs, as if I car'd for any of the ſex, if he hadn't ſingled her out from all women kind; but it was ever thus; ſhe's born to be my [20] evil genius; ſure the men are mad—Tyrrel, Lord Abber⯑ville—one touch'd my heart, the other wounds my pride.

Why, ay, there is a fine eſtate, a noble title, great connections, powerful intereſt.

Revenge is worth them all; drive her but out of doors, and marry me to a convent.

But let us keep ſome ſhew of juſtice; this may be all a frolic of Lord Abberville's; the girl, perhaps, is innocent.

How can that be, when I am miſerable?

Come, ſhe's been ſuffer'd in your houſe too long; had I been miſtreſs, ſhe ſhou'd have quitted it laſt night upon the inſtant: wou'd ſhe had never entred it.

There you make a bad wiſh, Mrs. Bridgemore; ſhe has proved the beſt feather in my wing; but call her down; go, daughter, call her down.

I'll ſend her to you; nothing ſhall prevail with me to ſpeak to her, or look upon the odious creature more.

What is it you are always hinting at about this girl? ſhe's the beſt feather in your wing. Explain yourſelf.

I can't; you muſt excuſe me; 'tis better you ſhou'd never know it.

Why, where's the fear; what can you have to dread from a deſtitute girl, without father, and without friend?

But is ſhe really without father? was I once well aſſured of that—But huſh! my daughter's here—Well, where's Miſs Aubrey?

The bird is flown.

Hey-day, gone off!

That's flat conviction.

What have you there? a letter?

She found it on her table.

Read it, Lucy.

I beg to be excuſed, Sir; I don't chuſe to touch her naſty ſcrawl.

Well then, let's ſee; I'll read it myſelf.

So! ſhe's elop'd.—

Ay, this is lucky; there's an end of her: this makes it her own act and deed; give me the letter, go, you need not wait.

Madam!

Don't you hear? leave the room.

Pray don't be angry; I beg to ſpeak a word to you.

Go, go, another time; I'm buſy.

I've done a wicked thing, and if I don't diſcharge my heart, 'twill break, it is ſo full.

What have you done? ſpeak out.

Why I have been the means of ruining an innocent perſon, for ſuch Miſs Aubrey is.

How ſo? go on.

'Twas I that brought Lord Abberville laſt night into her chamber, unknown to her; I thought it was a little frolic to ſurpriſe her; but when I heard her ſcream, I was alarmed and ran and liſtened at the door.

Well, and what then?

Why then I heard her chide him, and deſire him to be gone; yes, and but juſt before you came up ſtairs, I heard the poor young Lady reproach him bitterly for his baſeneſs in making love to her, when he was engaged to you, Madam: indeed, ſhe is as innocent as the babe unborn.

Go your way for a ſimpleton, and ſay no more about the matter.

To be ſure I was a ſimpleton to do as I did; but I ſhou'd never ſurvive it, if any miſchief was to follow.

What's to be done now?

What's to be done? why let her take her courſe; guilty or not, what matters it, if every man who offers for your daughter, is to turn aſide and follow after her?

True, where's the woman who can pardon that? indeed, had ſhe been really criminal, I cou'd have endur'd her better, for then I had had one qualification, which ſhe had wanted; now ſhe piques me every way.

Lord Abberville, Madam, deſires to be admitted to ſay a word to you.

Who? Lord Abberville?

Oh, by all means admit him; now, Lucy, ſhow yourſelf a woman of ſpirit; receive him, meet his in⯑ſulting viſit with becoming contempt: Come, Mr. Bridge⯑more, let us leave them to themſelves.

Ahem, now, pride, ſupport me!

Miſs Bridgemore, your moſt obedient; I come, Madam, on a penitential errand, to apologize to you and Miſs Aubrey for the ridiculous ſitutation in which I was ſurpriſed laſt night.

Cool, eaſy villain!

I dare ſay you laugh'd moſt heartily after I was gone.

Moſt incontinently-incomparable aſſurance!

Well, I forgive you; 'twas ridiculous enough; a fooliſh frolick, but abſolutely harmleſs be aſſur'd: I'm glad to find you no longer ſerious about it—But where's Miſs Aubrey, pray?

You'll find her probably at your own door, ſhe's gone from hence.

Mr. Tyrrel, Madam.

Show him in, pray—My Lord, you've no objec⯑tion.

None in life; I know him intimately; but if you pleaſe, I'll take my leave; you may have buſineſs—Curſe on't, he is the Lady's lover.

Nay, I inſiſt upon your ſtaying—Now malice ſtand my friend!—Good morning to you, Sir, you're wel⯑come to town.

I thank you—I am wrong I believe; your ſervant ſhould not have ſhewn me in here: 'tis with Miſs Aubrey I requeſt to ſpeak.

Lord Abberville, you can direct Mr. Tyrrel to Miſs Aubrey: ſhe has left this family, Sir.

Madam—My Lord—I beg to know—I don't underſtand—

Nor I, upon my ſoul: was ever any thing ſo malicious?

My Lord, why don't you ſpeak? Mr. Tyrrel may have particular buſineſs with Miſs Aubrey.

Why do you refer to me? How ſhou'd I know any thing of Miſs Aubrey?

Nay, I aſk pardon; perhaps Mr. Tyrrel's was a mere viſit of compliment.

Excuſe me, Madam; I confeſs it was an errand of the moſt ſerious ſort.

Then it's cruel not to tell him where you've plac'd her.

Plac'd her!

Ay, plac'd her indeed? For Heaven's ſake, what are you about?

Nay, I have done, my Lord; but after laſt night's fatal diſcovery, I conceived you wou'd no longer affect any privacy as to your ſituation with Miſs Aubrey.

What did you diſcover laſt night, Madam, tell me; I have an intereſt in the queſtion.

I'm ſorry for't, for then you'll not be pleas'd to hear that ſhe admits Lord Abberville, by night, into her bed⯑room; locks him up in it, and on detection the next morn⯑ing, openly avows her guilt, by eloping to her galant.

What do I hear? My Lord, my Lord, if this is true—

What then? what if it is? muſt I account to you? who makes you my inquiſitor?

Juſtice, humanity, and that controul which virtue gives me over it's oppoſers: if more you wou'd, with an⯑guiſh I confeſs my heart unhappily was plac'd on her whom you have ruin'd; now you'll not diſpute my right.

This is no place to urge your right; I ſhall be found at home.

I'll wait upon you there.

Do ſo—your ſervant—Miſs Bridgemore, I am infinitely your debtor for this agreeable viſit; I leave you to the enjoyment of your many amiable virtues, and the pleaſing contemplation of what may probably enſue from the interview you have provided for me with Mr. Tyrrel.

Ha, ha, ha! I muſt be leſs or more than woman, if I did not reliſh this retaliation.

AH, Colin, thou'rt a prodigal; a thriftleſs loon thou'ſt been, that cou'd na' keep a little pelf to thyſall when thou had'ſt got it; now thou may'ſt gang in this poor geer to thy live's end, and worſe too for aught I can tell; 'faith, mon, 'twas a ſmeart little byſack of money thou hadſt ſcrap'd together, an the beſt part of it had na' been laft amongſt thy kinsfolk, in the Iſles of Skey and Mull; muckle gude may it do the weams of them that ha' it! There was Jamie Mac Gregor and Sawney Mac Nab, and the twa braw lads of Kinruddin, with old Charley Mac Dou⯑gall, my mother's firſt huſband's ſecond couſin: by my ſol I cou'd na' ſee ſuch near relations, and gentlemen of fich auncient families gang upon bare feet, while I rode a horſeback: I had been na true Scot, an I cou'd na' ge'en a countryman a gude laft upon occaſion

That houſe is Mr. Mortimer's; and yet I can't reſolve to go to it: to appeal to Tyrrel is a dangerous ſtep; it plunges him again in my unproſperous concerns, and puts his life a ſecond time in danger; ſtill, ſtill I know not how to let him think me guilty: wretched, un⯑friended creature that I am, what ſhall I do?

Haud a bit, laſſie, you that are bewailing; what's your malady?

Sir! Did you ſpeak to me?

Troth, did I; I were loth to let affliction paſs beſide me and not aſk it what it ail'd.

Do you know me then?

What need have I to know you? An you can put me in the way to help you, isn't that enough?

I thank you: if I have your pity, that is all my caſe admits of.

Wha' can tell that? I may be better than I ſeem: as ſorry a figure as I cut, I have as gude blude in my veins, and as free of it too, as any Breton in the londe; troth, an you be of my country, Madam, you may have heard as much.

I do not queſtion it; but I am not of Scotland.

Well, well, an' if you had the de'il a bit the worſe ſhou'd I ha lik'd you for it; but it was not your lot; we did na' make ourſalls; Paradiſe itſal wou'd na' hald all mankind, nor Scotland neither; and let me tell you there's na braver or more auncient people underneath Heaven's canopy; no, nor a nation of the terreſtrial globe wha have more love and charity for one another.

Well, Sir, you ſeem to wiſh to do me ſervice: I've a letter here; I cannot well deliver it myſelf; if you are of this neighbourhood, perhaps you know the houſe of Mr. Mortimer.

Hoot! hoot! I ken him well; I came fra' thence but now.

Will you take charge of this, and give it as di⯑rected? The Gentleman will be found at Mr. Mortimer's.

To Francis Tyrrel, Eſquire—Ah! an 'tis thereabouts you point, gadzooks, your labour's loſt; you may ev'n wear the willow as they ſay, for by my troth he'll play the loon wi' you.

Is that his character?

No; but he canna' well be true to twa at the ſame time.

His heart's engag'd it ſeems: what is the Lady's name?

Woe worth her name! I canna' recollect it now; an it had been a Scottiſh name, I ſhou'd na let it ſlip ſo; but I've no mighty memory for your Engliſh callings; they do na dwell upon my tongue: out on't! 'tis with a grete fat lubber yonder in the city that ſhe dwells; a fel⯑low with a paunch below his gullet, like the poke of a pelican; and now I call to mind, 'tis Aubrey is her name; ay, ay, 'tis Aubrey; ſhe's the happy woman.

Is ſhe the happy woman? Well, Sir, if you'll deliver that letter into Mr. Tyrrel's hands; there is no [27] treaſon in it againſt Miſs Aubrey; ſhe herſelf is privy to the contents.

You need na' doubt but I ſhall honde it to him; I were a ſorry child an I cou'd grudge you that: where ſhall I bring his anſwer?

It requires none.

But an he craves to know your houſe, where mun I ſay you dwell?

I have no houſe, no home, no father, friend, or refuge, in this world; nor do I at this moment, fainting as I am with affliction and fatigue, know where to find a hoſpitable door.

Come with me then, and I will ſhow you one; ah! woe is me, we hanna' all cold hearts, that occupy cold climates: I were a graceleſs loon indeed, when Pro⯑vidence ha' done ſo much for me, an' I cou'd not pay bock a little to a fellow creature.

Who you may be I know not, but that ſenti⯑ment perſwades me I may truſt you; know, in this wretched perſon you behold her whom you think the en⯑vied, the belov'd Miſs Aubrey.

Miſs Aubrey! you Miſs Aubrey! His preſence be about us! And has that grete fat fellow in the city turn'd his bock upon you? Out on him, ugly hound, his ſtomach be his grave! I cou'd find in my heart to ſtick my dirk into his weam.

Have patience; 'tis not he, Lord Abberville's the ſource of my misfortunes.

Ah, woe the while the more's his ſhame, I'd rather hear that he were dead.

Do not miſtake affliction for diſgrace; I'm inno⯑cent.

I ſee it in your face: wou'd I cou'd ſay as much of him.

You know him then.

Ay, and his father afore him: Colin Macleod's my name.

Colin Macleod!

What do you ſtart at? Troth, there's no ſhame upon't; 'tis nought a bit the worſe for my wear; honeſty was aw my patrimony, and by my ſol I hanna ſpent it: I ſerve Lord Abberville, but not his vices.

I readily believe you; and to convince you of it, put me, I beſeech you, into ſome preſent ſhelter, till the [28] labour of my hands can keep me, and hold me up but for a breathing ſp [...]ce, till I can rally my exhauſted ſpirits and learn to ſtruggle with the world.

Ay, will I by my ſol, ſo Heaven gives life, and woe betide the child that does you wrong! I be na ſmuthly ſpoken, but you ſhall find me true.—And look, the firſt door that I caſt my ey'n upon, I ken the name of Macintoſh; troth, 'tis a gudely omen and prognoſtic: the Macintoſhes and Macleods are aw of the ſame blood fra' long antiquity: had we ſearch'd aw the town we cou'd na' find a better.

Odzooks, fear nothing, damſel, an ſhe be a true Macintoſh, you need na' doubt a welcome.

Gude day to you, Madam, is your name Macintoſh pray you?

It is; what are your commands?

Nay, hau'd a bit, gude child, we command nought; but being, d'ye ſee, a Scottiſh kinſman of your's, Colin Macleod by name, I crave a lodgment in your houſe for this poor laſſie.—Gude troth you need na ſquant at her ſo cloſely; there's nought to be ſuſpected; and tho' ſhe may na' boaſt ſo long a pedigree as you and I do, yet for an Engliſh family, ſhe's of no deſpicable houſe; and as for reputation, gude faith the lamb is not more innocent: reſpecting mine own fall I will na' vaunt, but an' you've any doubts, you need na' gang a mighty length to ſatisfy 'em; I'm no impoſtor.

I ſee enough to ſatisfy me; ſhe is a perfect beauty:—pray, young Lady, walk in; pray walk up ſtairs, you are heartily welcome; lackaday, you ſeem piteouſly fatigu'd.

Indeed I want repoſe.

Reſt you awhile; I'll deliver your letter and call on you anon.

I thank you.

Heavens, what a lovely girl!

Haud you a bit, you've done this kindly, couſin Macintoſh, but were na' come a bagging, d'ye ſee; here, take this money in your honde and let her want for nought.

You may depend upon my care.

Ay, ay, I ken'd you for a Macintoſh at once; I am na' apt to be miſtaken in any of your clan; and 'tis a comely preſence that you have; troth 'tis the caſe with aw of you; the Macintoſhes are a very perſonable people.

Another of my Scottiſh couſins—Oh, this new name of mine is a moſt thriving invention; a rare device to hook in cuſtomers; when I was plain Nan Rawlins of St. Martin's pariſh, ſcarce a yard of ferret cou'd I fell to club a prentice's hair on a Sunday morning; now there's not a Knight of the Thiſtle that does not wear my green paduaſoy acroſs his ſhoulder, nor a Mac paſſes my ſhop who does not buy ſnuff and black ribband of his kinſ⯑woman; of ſuch conſequence is it to have a good name in this world.

You are a moſt unreaſonable ſet of gentry truly; I have but one Scotchman in my family, and you are every one of you, cook, valet, butler, up in arms to drive him out of it.

And with reaſon, my Lord; Monſieur Colin is a grand financier; but he has a little of what we call la maladie du päys; he is too oeconomique; it is not for the credit of mi Lord Anglois to be too oeconomique.

I think, La Jeuneſſe, I have been at ſome pains to put that out of diſpute; but get you gone all together, and ſend the fellow to me; I begin to be as tir'd of him as you are.—

—His honeſty is my re⯑proach; theſe raſcals flatter while they rob me: it angers me that one, who has no ſtake, no intereſt in my fortune, ſhould huſband it more frugally than I who am the owner and the ſufferer: in ſhort, he is the glaſs in which I ſee myſelf, and the reflection tortures me; my vices have de⯑form'd me; gaming has made a monſter of me.

Well, is the ſavage coming?

He is only turning his cravat, my Lord, and will be here immediately.

Leave me.

Come hither, Colin; what is this I hear of you?

Saving your preſence I ſhou'd gueſs a pratty many [30] lies; 'twill moſtly be the caſe when companions in office give characters one of another.

But what is he, whom nobody ſpeaks well of? You are given up on all hands.

And ſo muſt truth itſall, when the de'el turns hiſtorian.

You've been applauded for your bluntneſs; 'tis no recommendation to me, Macleod; nor ſhall I part from all my family to accommodate your ſpleen: from the ſtable-boy to my own valet, there's not a domeſtic in this houſe gives you a good word.

Nor ever will, till I prefer their intereſt to your's; hungry curs will bark; but an' your Lordſhip wou'd have us regale our friends below ſtairs, while you are feaſting your's above, gadzooks, I have a pratty many countrymen in town, with batter appetites than purſes, will applaud the regulation.

'Tis for ſuch purſes and ſuch appetites you would be a fit provider; 'tis for the latitude of the High⯑lands, not for the meridian of London, your narrow ſcale of oeconomy is laid down.

Oeconomy is no diſgrace; 'tis batter living on a little, than outliving a grate deal.

Well, Sir, you may be honeſt, but you are troubleſome; my family are one and all in arms againſt you; and you muſt know, Colin Macleod, I've great ob⯑jection to a rebellion either in a family or ſtate, whatever you and your countrymen may think of the matter.

My Lord, my Lord; whan you have ſhad the blude of the offenders, it is na' generous to revive the offence: as for mine awn particular, Heaven be my judge, the realm of England does na' haud a heart more loyal than the one I ſtrike my honde upon.

So, Doctor, what's the news with you?—Well, Colin, let me hear no more of theſe complaints; don't be ſo conſiderate of me—and hark'e, if you was not quite ſo parſimonious to yourſelf, your appearance would be all the better.

Troth, I'd be better habited, but I canna' afford it.

Afford it, ſirrah? don't I know you have money enough, if you had but ſpirit to make uſe of it?

True; but I fain wou'd keep a little together, d'ye ſee, leſt you ſhou'd not.

Pleſſing upon us, how the man prates and prattles! 'Twas but this morning he was differing and diſputing truly about pedigrees and antiquities, tho' I can count forty and four generations from the grandmother of Saint Winifred, as regularly as a Monk can tell his beads.

Leave your generations to the worms, Doctor, and tell me if you carried my meſſage to Bridgemore—But why do I aſk that? when I myſelf am come from put⯑ting the finiſhing hand to that treaty: and really if young women will keep companions, who are handſomer than themſelves, they muſtn't wonder if their lovers go aſtray.

Ah my Lord Apperville, my Lord Apper⯑ville, you've ſomething there to anſwer for.

Preach not, good ſixty-five, thy cold conti⯑nence to twenty-three; the ſtars are in my debt one lucky throw at leaſt; let them beſtow Miſs Aubrey, and I'll cancel all that's paſt.

what have we here?—from Tyrrel I ſuppoſe—no, 'tis from a more peaceable quarter; my commodious Mrs. Macin⯑toſh.

‘"Chance has thrown in my way a girl, that quite eclipſes your Miſs Somers: come to me with⯑out loſs of time, leſt the bird ſhould be on the wing."—’What ſhall I do? I have but little ſtomach to the buſineſs. Aubrey is my goddeſs, and 'tis downright hereſy to fol⯑low any other.

My Lord, a perſon without ſays he comes with a recommendation from Sir Harry Gamble.

What ſort of a perſon?

A little ugly fellow; I believe he's a Jew.

That's right, I had forgot: my Jew is fairly jaded; Sir Harry's probably is better trained; ſo let me ſee him: who is in the antichamber?

There are ſeveral perſons waiting to ſpeak with your Lordſhip; they have called a great many times.

Ay, ay, they come for money, he alone comes with it; therefore conduct that little ugly fellow as you call him to my cloſet, and bid thoſe other people call again.

Doctor, if any of my particulars [32] are importunate to ſee me, don't let 'em interrupt me here; tell 'em I'm gone to Mrs. Mackintoſh's; they'll know the place, and my buſineſs in it.

They may gueſs that without the gift of divination truly: Ah! this paſſion is the prejudice of education! he may thank France and Italy for this: I would have carried him through Ingria, Eſthonia, and Livonia; through Moldavia, Beſſarabia, Bulgaria, Thrace; from the Gulph of Finland to the Streights of the Dardanelles. 'Tis a chance if he had ſeen a human creature in the whole courſe of his travels.

Doctor, forgive me this intruſion; where is Lord Abberville? his ſervants deny him to me, and I've buſineſs with him of a preſſing ſort.

Buſineſs indeed!

Yes, buſineſs, Sir: I beg you to inform me where to find him.

I take it, Mr. Tyrrel, you are one of his particulars, therefore I tell you he is gone to Mrs. Mac⯑intoſh's; a commodious ſort of a pody, who follows one trade in her ſhop, and another in her parlour.

Yes, yes, I know her well, and know his buſi⯑neſs there.

Pleaſure is all his buſineſs; I take for granted he finds ſome gratification in his viſits there.

Yes, the gratification of a devil, the pleaſure of defacing beauty and deſpoiling innocence, of planting everlaſting miſery in the human heart for one licentious tranſitory joy: 'tis there he holds his riots, thither he is gone to repeat his triumphs over my unhappy Aubrey, and confirm her in her ſhame.

Ay, I ſuppoſe Miſs Aubrey is the reigning paſſion now.

Curs'd be his paſſions, wither'd be his powers! Oh, Sir, ſhe was an angel once: ſuch was the graceful modeſty of her deportment, it ſeemed as if the chaſtity, which now ſo many of her ſex throw from them, cen⯑tered all with her.

I've told too much; this lad's as mad as he—well, Mr. Tyrrel, I can ſay but little in the caſe; [33] women and politics I never deal in; in other words I abhor cuckoldom, and have no paſſion for the pillory.

Gang your gait for an old ſmoak-dried piece of goat's-fleſh

Now we're alone, young Gen⯑tleman, there's ſomething for your private reading.

What do I ſee? Miſs Aubrey's hand! Why does ſhe write to me? Diſtraction, how this racks my heart!

Ay, and mine too—ecod, it gave it ſike a pull, I canna for the ſol of me, get it bock into it's place again: gude truth, you'll find it but a melancholy tale.

‘"I am the martyr of an accident, which never will find credit; under this ſtroke I can't conceal a wiſh that Mr. Tyrrel would not give me up; but as his ſingle oppoſition to the world's reproach might be as dangerous to him, as it muſt be Ineffectual to me, I earneſtly adviſe him to forget the unfortunate Au⯑guſta."—’What am I to conclude? The paper looks like innocence, the words as ſoft as modeſty cou'd utter.—The martyr of an accident! She calls it accident; why that's no crime. Alas! it might be accident, which threw temptation in her way, but voluntary guilt, which yielded to the tempter: of him ſhe makes no mention. Pray, Sir, inform me; you have ſeen this Lady—

I have.

Diſcours'd with her—

I have.

In that diſcourſe do you recollect if ſhe named Lord Abberville?

I recollect ſhe ſaid he was the ſource of her miſ⯑fortunes.

Ay, did ſhe ſay ſo much? That's guilty beyond doubt.

You're right; it carries a damn'd guilty look: I wou'd na take his fortune to father his faults.

Why you then give him up. Oh! 'tis too pal⯑pable! But, pray, did ſhe herſelf give you this letter for me?

With her own hondes; gude faith, the heart [34] within you wou'd ha malted to have ſeen the manner of it.

That aggravates my torture! Where was it you left her? In what wretched habitation?

Hoot! no diſparagement upon her habitation; there's nought of wretchedneſs about it: odzooks! ſhe's with a Lady of as gude a family!—But you mun be as cloſe as wax, d'ye ſee, you munna mang the ſecret to my Laird.

Well, well, the place—

Nay, 'tis hard by; a couſin's of mine own; a comely courteous woman as you'd wiſh to commune with; one Mrs. Macintoſh.

'Sdeath! that confirms it! There, Sir, bring me no more letters: whether you're dupe or pandar in this buſineſs, I deſire never to be troubled more.

Hoot! what the fiend poſſeſſes you? What time o' the moon is this? The lad's an errant bedlamite. There's miſchief in the wind; and this ſame Laird of mine is at the bottom of it: gadzooks, there goes Maiſter Mor⯑timer; I'll tell him aw the caſe, and take his counſel on the whole.

Well, Mr. Tyrrel, if you muſt and will be heard, you muſt; but pray be ſhort, my time is pre⯑cious.

So is my peace of mind: you've got a Lady in your houſe has taken that from me I never ſhall recover.

What is't you mean? What Lady have I in my houſe?

Miſs Aubrey.

Miſs Aubrey! You miſtake; I never heard the name.

Come, you and I have long been friends: anſwer me truly, does not Lord Abberville viſit a Lady here?

Well, if he does, what then?

Why then that Lady has undone me; ſhe has broke my heart.

Yes; but her name's not Aubrey; my Lord calls her Somers.

Let my Lord call her what he will, coin what new name he pleaſes to elude my ſearch, ſtill I muſt ſee her.

Why you're mad ſure to think of ſuch a thing; I thought you knew me better: violate a truſt? No, no, young man, that's not my principle; you ſee no Lady here. Why, ſure, I've not maintained an honour⯑able character in the world till now, to make away with it at laſt.

If you ſuſpect me, ſtay and be preſent at our con⯑ference.

Yes, and ſo have my Lord come in and catch us, and a tilting bout enſue betwixt you; no, Mr. Tyrrel, mine's a ſober well conducted family: I'll have no coroner's inqueſt come within my doors—Huſh, as I live, here comes my Lord: dear Tyrrel, be adviſed, come along with me, and betake yourſelf out of his way.

No; I'll not ſeek a quarrel with Lord Abberville, but I cannot fly from him: go, go, and leave us to each other.

Tyrrel!—What brings you here? This is no place of meeting; if you've any explanation to require upon Miſs Aubrey's account, come to my houſe: I an⯑ſwer nothing here.

My Lord, when I'm aſſured Miſs Aubrey is in this houſe, and ſee you her viſitor, I can interpret for myſelf.

Miſs Aubrey in this houſe! You rave.

Come, 'tis in vain; your Scotchman told me ſo; your Mrs. Macintoſh herſelf confeſſed it.

Humph! after all, 'twou'd be a lucky hit, ſhould this be true: it may be ſo

If you require more witneſſes to what I ſay, here comes an indiſputable one, Miſs Aubrey herſelf.

Oh, Mr. Tyrrel, this is generous indeed! Lord Abberville here too;—'tis what I dreaded. You have [36] miſchief in your minds; but, I beſeech you, leave me to my misfortunes, nor caſt away one thought upon a wretch like me.

Give me your anſwer firſt to theſe demands. Have you been wrong'd? Have you an accuſation to prefer againſt this Lord, or do you acquit him, and ſubmit with patience to your ſituation?

I accuſe no one; I ſubmit with patience; I am content to be the only ſufferer in this buſineſs, and ear⯑neſtly intreat you to deſiſt from any altercation with Lord Abberville on my account.

I'm ſatisfied; and ſhall religiouſly obey you: Lord Abberville, I aſk your pardon for this interruption; I never ſhall repeat it more.

But are you going?

For ever. Dangerous to behold you are; there⯑fore, before my fond my fooliſh heart relapſes into love, I'll ſeize the resolution of the moment, and bid farewell to you for ever.

Aſtoniſhing!

There, Madam, you perceive the love, the honour of that Gentleman.

Cou'd I have thought this of him? Now I'm truly wretched.

No, Madam, if my purſe, my perſon, my aſſiduous ardent love can fill the vacancy his falſehood makes, you've had no loſs: dry up your tears, you've yet a friend; ſmile only on my wiſhes.

No, my Lord, no; you've made me wretched, guilty you ſhall never make me.

Inexorable girl, will nothing move? Then I've no longer any terms to keep: call to mind where you are; in a houſe where I am maſter; ſurrounded by crea⯑tures whom I command; your champion gives you up; reſiſtance is in vain; if you refuſe my favours, Madam, you ſhall feel my force.

What is't you mean, my Lord?—Stand off!

Ay, what is it you mean, my Lord?

Mortimer! 'ſdeath, what evil genius con⯑ducted you hither?

Nay, my good friend, come in.

This honeſt man was my conductor: while you, Lord Abberville, in a diſtinguiſh'd rank are openly aſſaulting innocence, he, in his humble poſt is ſecretly ſupporting it.—If you come under that de⯑ſcription, Madam, I am your defender; if not, I have no further buſineſs here.

Why ſhou'd I urge my innocence? I am unfor⯑tunate, I'm poor: your nephew, Sir, will tell you that is cauſe ſufficient for abandoning me.

This grows too ſerious; I ſcorn to ſteal that from you half my fortune could not purchaſe. I believe you are as innocent as Heaven firſt form'd you; and to con⯑vince the world in what eſteem I hold your virtues, here, before Mortimer, I offer you my hand, and lay my title, rank and fortune, at your feet.

No, there may be a legal proſtitute as well as a licentious one; had you a world to give, after your baſe experiment, you cannot offer any thing that I ſhall take. You may find others leſs exceptious; but in a noble fa⯑mily, though ſtripp'd of fortune, there will ſtill be pride.

I ſee my fate; I ſee a prepoſſeſſion in your heart too ſtrong for me to ſhake: I plainly perceive that Mr. Tyrrel can offend with more impunity than I can; however, Mortimer, you are a man of honour; I reſign Miſs Aubrey into your hands for the preſent, and ſhall expect you will avail yourſelf of no unfair advantages over me.—Macleod, I find Miſs Aubrey is to thank you for this ſeaſonable viſit of Mr. Mortimer's.

Come, Madam, you are now my ward; Bridge⯑more muſt ſtruggle hard to get you back again.

Sir!—Mr. Mortimer! You'll pardon me, but muſt I think you ſerious? If what you now propoſe is meant in kindneſs to me, I muſt ſay the world has not done juſtice to your character: I have been taught to look upon you as no friend to our ſex in particular.

Nor am I; your ſex have broke treaty with us, paſs'd the bounds betwixt us, forc'd into our very taverns, and from being once the glory of my country are become it's ſhame.

But all have not done this—

Nor am I then at enmity with all; a virtuous individual is of no ſex, no country.

No country? Hoot! A true North Briton will give up his virtue afore his country at any time.

Yes and I think it was a partiality to your country rather than to virtue, which determin'd you to put me into this houſe.

De'il take me now and all may kindred with me, if I knew ought about the houſe, more than the name of Macintoſh upon the door.

Time will clear all things up: a general miſ⯑conception is gone forth; my nephew I perceive has fallen under it. As for poor Colin, his deſign in bringing you hither was more than innocent, depend upon it, it was noble; I have heard his ſtory and at my requeſt he brings me here: commit yourſelf therefore to my protection and rely upon my juſtice.

How ſhall I anſwer you? Your generoſity o'er⯑whelms me.

I generous! No, I am a meer voluptuary; I ſtudy luxury by principle, and am as ſenſual on the ſide of virtue, as Abberville, or any other faſhionable rake, on that of vice.—Colin, you'll ſettle matters with your countrywoman and come to us at my houſe.

My countrywoman! The fiend a bit! I never will believe ſhe has a drop of Scottiſh blude in aw her compoſition; as I ſhall anſwer I never bluſh'd before for any of the name: there muſt be ſomething ſpurious in her genealogy: I'll have a little ſerious talk with her on that; I've got the pedigree of the Macintoſhes at my fingers ends, and if there's e'er a flaw in her deſcent 'twixt this and Noah, gadzooks, I'll wager a hundred pounds I prove her an impoſtor.

IF Bridgemore has'nt ſhifted his abode, that is the houſe; 'twas there that eighteen years ago I loſt a wife, and left an infant daughter. All-diſpoſing Providence, who haſt ordain'd me to this hour, and thro' innumerable toils and dangers led me back to this affecting ſpot, can it be wonder'd at, if I approach it with an anxious aching heart, uncertain as I am if I have ſtill a child or not? What ſhall I do? If my Auguſta's loſt, 'twere better I ſhould never enter thoſe ill-omen'd doors; if ſhe ſurvives, how ſhall I diſcloſe my⯑ſelf, and tell her ſhe has ſtill a father? Oh, that unknown and unperceiv'd, I cou'd but catch a ſight of her, gaze till I'd gratified my longing, and till this throbbing might abate! I'll watch the door till ſomebody comes out, that I may ſpeak to.

The murrain light upon this Fiſh-ſtreet Hill, wherever it may be: I wou'd it had na got it's name for nought, that I might fairly ſmall it out, for I am clear bewalder'd. Johnny Grout's houſe wou'd as ſoon be found, as this ſame Bradgemore's. One cries turn o' this honde, one o' that, and t'other ſtares and grins for⯑ſooth becauſe I hanna got the modern gabble on my tongue, but ſpeak the language in it's auncient purity. Hoot! this mon ſeems of a batter ſort, and peradventure wou'd concede an anſwer. Speed you, Gentleman, I pray you whuch way leads to Fiſh-ſtreet Hill?

You are there already; this is Fiſh-ſtreet Hill.

Gadzooks! and that's the reaſon I cou'd find it na' where alſe. Ken you one Bradgemore's may I aſk?

He had us'd to live in yonder houſe with the great gates; but it is many years ſince I have been in England.

I'faith, you need na' tell me that; I apprehend as much from your civility.

Give me leave now in my turn to aſk you a few queſtions.

With aw my heart; you have gude right; you may interrogate me freely.

You are acquainted with this Bridgemore.—

I am.

And with his family—

I am.

And what does it conſiſt of?

Troth, of a ſpouſe and daughter.

Are they all?

Ay, and enow in aw gude reaſon; the de'il, Sir, in his vengeance need na' add a third.

But to be ſerious, tell me I beſeech you, do you know of no one elſe in Mr. Bridgemore's family?

Of none.

What do I hear? Pray recollect yourſelf: you don't ſeem to know his houſe; perhaps you are not well acquainted with his family.

Aw that he owns I know; what baſe begotten brats he may haue ſculking up and down in holes and cor⯑ners, troth, I can't pretend to ſay.—Theſe city cattle ſometimes will break paſture.

You miſconceive me, honeſt friend; has no young Lady of the name of Aubrey come within your knowledge?

Ay, ay, poor laſſie, ſhe once liv'd with Bradge⯑more; the worſe luck her's, but that is over; ſhe has got her liberty; ſhe's now releas'd.

I underſtand you—She is dead.—

Dead! Heaven forefend! An you would give me time I wou'd ha told you ſhe's releaſed from yon fat fellow's tyranny; na more: out on him, filthy porpoiſe, aw the bowels in his belly, tho' he has got gude ſtore, dunna contain one grain of pity; troth, with his gude will ſhe might ha' ſtarv'd and periſh'd in the ſtreets.

What is't you tell me? In the ſame breath you [41] bring my hopes to life and murder them again.—Starv'd in the ſtreets? I thought ſhe had an affluent fortune.

In virtue, Sir, nought elſe, and that will not paſs current for a dinner. Zooks, an I myſall, by Heaven's gude providence, had na' ſtapt in upon the very nick of time, my life upon't ſhe had been loſt.

Come to my arms then, whoſoe'er thou art, and wonder not, for thou haſt ſav'd my daughter.

Daughter! Gadzooks, you make my heart jump to my laps for joy. Are you Miſs Aubrey's father?

I am her father.

An if I'd found mine awn I cou'd na' been more happy. Wall, wall, I hope you'll merit your gude for⯑tune; by my ſol you've got an angel of a child—But where have you been buried aw the while? for we be⯑liev'd you dead.

You ſhall hear all my ſtory, but this is no fit place to tell it in: ſatisfy me firſt if my poor child is ſafe.

Fear nought, ſhe's ſafe with Maiſter Mortimer; I laſt her but this moment.

Who is Mr. Mortimer?

Why, Maiſter Mortimer is one who does a thou⯑ſand noble acts without the credit of one; his tongue wounds and his heart makes whole; he muſt be known and not deſcrib'd: an' you will bait a-while in yonder tavern till I come from Bradgemore's, I'll accompany you to where your daughter is.

Agreed! I fear I've been miſtaken in this Bridge⯑more; three years ago I conſign'd to him a cargo of great value from Scanderoon; if he has robb'd me—but till I've ſeen my daughter, I'll ſuſpend enquiry. Step with me into yonder tavern, there we'll concert the means of bringing Bridgemore to an interview at Mr. Mortimer's. Come, my good benefactor, how fortunate was this meet⯑ing! I long to know to whom I owe this happineſs.

And ſo, friend Napthali, Lord Abberville has had another tumble.

A damn one.

I'm glad on't; this will wring his fine high hamper'd carcaſe to the quick.

I'fait, he flings and winces ſo, I tremble to come near; he look as dark as India-ſtock upon a ſettling day.

Ay, ay, the dice are little weapons, but they make deep wounds: what between thoſe that win and us that lend, he bleeds at both arms. Theſe are the bonds.

Take 'em: this is a memorandum of the pre⯑mium on five touſand, and this the private contract for extraordinary intereſt.

Good, good, friend Napthali! The bonds give legal intereſt, and this doubles it. There, there, lye by and breed

but hark'e-me! Haſt brought the abſtract of the ſale of the Neptune's cargo?

Aubrey's conſignment you mean.

The ſame; but mum! That's between you and me: cloſe, cloſe, my little Napthali.

A broker and betray his principal! That's not my vay; there is no ſenſes in that. Here I have make out your account; 'tis var coot bargain I have make con⯑ſidering diamond is a drug.

Why this tells well; it mounts; the raw ſilk was old gold; the carpetting and cottons not amiſs; and whuh! the rhubarb!

Ah, Sir, but vat is that?—Look at the coffee!

Politics account for that; while news-papers bear price, coffee will hold its own. This rupture with the Ruſſians was in our favour here.

Ay, ay, a charming ſtroke: war is a var coot thing; and then the plague; a bleſſed circumſtance, tank Heaven; a bleſſed circumſtance, coot 7 per cent.

Let me ſee; altogether 'tis a thumping ſum: It netted forty thouſand: where's the conſcience, Nap⯑thali, that woudn't ſtrain a point for forty thouſand pounds?

Oh, 'tis all fair in the vay of trade; you cou'd not ſtrike a jury out of Jonathan's that woudn't acquit you. Well, Mr. Bridgemore, any thing more in my vay?

Nothing at preſent. Did you call at Lloyd's?

Odſo! well recollected! The Sea-horſe is ar⯑rived [43] from Scanderoon, ſhe that had ſuch high inſurances upon her.

What d'ye hear? What paſſengers come in her? Is ſhe at Stangate Creek?

No, in the pool; ſhe brought clean bills of health from Leghorn.

Go, go; you have given me an ague-fit; the name of Scanderoon ſets all my teeth a chattering.

Well, would it had been poſſible to have kept my ſecret from that fellow—The Sea-horſe come at laſt!—Why be it ſo.—What ails me; what poſſeſſes me? If ſhe brings news of Aubrey's death, I'm a whole man; ay, and a warm one too.—How now; who's there?

Cawdie Macleod, a ragged Highlander, ſo pleaſe you, a wratched gaelly under ſavour of your raverence, na better.

I recollect you now for one of my Lord Abber⯑ville's retinue—Well, you have ſome enquiries to make about Miſs Aubrey.

Ecod, you are cloſe upon the mark.

I gueſt as much; but ſhe is gone from hence, and you may follow.

Out on thee, ragamuffin; an I were not bound to ſecrecy, I'd gee thee ſic a pill ſhou'd lead that weam of thine the de'il a dance

No, Maſter Colin, your Scotch policy will ſtand you in no ſtead this turn.

Then I'll forſwear my country—Well, you wull na' have my meſſage then, I mun gang bock to Maiſter Mortimer, and tell the Turkiſh trader you'll na' ſee him.

Hold, hold, what trader do you ſpeak of?

Of one that's com'd a paſſanger from Scande⯑roon, aboard the what d'ye call the veſſel—the Sea-horſe I take it.

What, who? It is not Aubrey.

Gude faith, I wou'd it was—the mon is dead.

Which man is dead; the paſſenger or Aubrey?

Hoot! can't you think 'tis Aubrey?—By your [44] leave, truth, awhile; you will na' take it much to heart, an I make uſe of falſhood, to detect itſall

I'll go to Mr. Mortimer's; I'll go with all my heart. Give me your hand; I aſk your pardon heartily, my honeſt friend—and ſo he is dead you ſay—you're ſure he is dead—pray, what diſtemper did he die of?

When a mon's in his grave, what matters whuch diſtemper laid him there?

That's true, that's true enough. Pray you ſit down; I'll juſt run up and tell my wife and daughter—Zooks! ſuppoſe I brought them with me; will they meet a welcome think you?

Ay, ſic a one as you don't look for, take my word.

I'm a new man; I walk upon the air.

Ecod, the project takes; I drew for the cock bird, and have taken the whole covey.

Odds my life, Mr. Bridgemore, I forgot—Who's there?—that devil Scotchman.

Hold, hold, friend Napthali; you and I munna part. you muſt keep pace wi' me to Maiſter Mortimer's.

To Mr. Mortimer's? Impoſſible: why I muſt be at Bank, Sir, I muſt be at Jonathan's: I've forty bargains to ſettle. I ſhall have half the Coffee-Houſe on my back. Wou'd you make me a lame duck?

Duck, or no duck, ecod, Sir, you muſt travel.

Heyday! I never ſaw the like before; I can't think what oſſeſſes my father; he's intoxicated; quite beſide himſelf with this confirmation of Mr. Aubrey's death; for my part, I derive no particular gratification from it; ſo that Auguſta had but one lover leſs, I care not if ſhe had forty fathers living: Tyrrel's the man of her heart, and in truth he is an object worthy any woman's prefer⯑ence; if I cou'd draw him from her 'twou'd be full retalia⯑tion for Lord Abberville—I'll go to Mortimer's; 'tis an untoward viſit; but I'll go there.

Come, buſtle, daughter, buſtle; get your cloak on, the coach will be here immediately: but where's my Scotchman? I forgot to aſk the ſtranger's name.

Where have you hid yourſelf, my dear? Come, are you ready? Your father's frantic with im⯑patience.

I follow you—Now, Aubrey, 'tis my turn.

Never tell me, you've acted like a giddy hot young man; put a few hear-ſay circumſtances together, ſhook 'em in an empty noddle, and ſo produced a com⯑pound of nonſenſe and ſuſpicion.

I plainly ſee I've judg'd too haſtily.

Judg'd! pooh, I wou'd not give a ruſh for ſuch a judge: a magpye in a cage, that chatters out whore to every woman that goes by, will be as often right as you, and judge as wiſely: never talk to me of judging others, till you've condemn'd yourſelf.

I do condemn myſelf; and if Miſs Aubrey does not ſign my pardon, I am diſpoſed not only to condemn, but execute.

Away then, and throw yourſelf upon the mercy of the court; it is the fate of bunglers to be aſking pardon.

Bleſs you, gude Maiſter Mortimer, I hanna ſlept in your commiſſion: yon fat fellow upon Fiſh-Street Hill is on his march with bag and baggage.

What mean you? Does he bring his wife with him?

Troth does he, and his daughter too; the plot is thick'ning you mun know apace, and yon ſame buzzard canna ſpy it out.

What plot is thick'ning?

Zooks, mon, you ſhall behold as pretty a diſco⯑very, come the time, as ever your eyes look'd upon; but aw things in their courſe; I mun gang home the whilſt, but I'll be quickly bock again, d'ye ſee.

Do ſo, my friend; and hark'e, tell your Lord I beg half an hour's converſation with him, when and where he pleaſes.

I ſhall do that; but you mun know, while I was on my way, I croſs'd upon a Gentleman of no vulgar pre⯑ſence, and conſidering he has ſojourned for a pretty many years with none but ſuch as we denominate barbarians, as courteous in his manners as your heart cou'd wiſh.

Why that accounts for it. Well, what of him?

With your leave, Maiſter Mortimer, he'll tell you his own errand: troth, he wull'd me introduce him to you: he's without.

Admit him.

Gude faith, he has done that for himſall; he's not habituated to our ceremonies. Maiſter Mortimer, I pray Heaven take you to its holy keeping till I ſee you again.

Sir, your moſt humble ſervant. Can you forgive the intruſion of a ſtranger?

A ſtranger, Sir, is welcome: I cannot always ſay as much to an acquaintance.

I plainly ſee your experience of mankind by the value you put upon them.

True, Sir; I've viſited the world from arctic to ecliptic, as a ſurgeon does a hoſpital, and find all men ſick of ſome diſtemper: the impertinent part of mankind are ſo buſy, the buſy ſo impertinent, and both ſo incurably ad⯑dicted to lying, cheating and betraying, that their caſe is deſperate: no corroſive can eat deep enough to bottom the corruption.

Well, Sir, with ſuch good ſtore of mental pro⯑viſion about you, you may ſtand out a ſiege againſt ſociety; your books are companions you never can be tir'd of.

Why truly their company is more tolerable, than that of their authors wou'd be; I can bear them on my ſhelves, tho' I ſhou'd be ſorry to ſee the impertinent puppies, who wrote them: however, Sir, I can quarrel with my books too, when they offend my virtue or my reaſon.—But I'm taking up your time; the honeſt Scotch⯑man, who announc'd you, told me you had ſomething of importance to communicate to me.

I have: I'm told I am your debtor, and I came with a deſign to pay you down ſuch thanks as your bene⯑volence well merits; but I perceive already you are one, whom great profeſſions wou'd annoy, whoſe principle is virtue, and whoſe retribution riſes from within.

Pray, Sir, no more of this; if you have any thing to requeſt, propoſe it: I'd rather much be told what I may do for you, than reminded of what I may have done.

I readily believe you, and according to your hu⯑mour will addreſs you: I own you may confer a benefit upon me; 'tis in your power, Mr. Mortimer, to make me happieſt of all mankind.

Give me your hand; why now you ſpeak good ſenſe; I like this well: let us do good, Sir, and not talk about it: ſhow me but how I may give happineſs to you, with innocence to myſelf, and I ſhall be the perſon under obligation.

This then it is; you have a young perſon under your protection, a Lady of the name of Aubrey—

I have.

Reſign her to my care.

Sir!

Put her into my hands: I am rich, Sir, I can ſupport her.

You're inſolent, or groſsly ignorant, to think I wou'd betray a truſt, a ſacred truſt: ſhe is a ward of vir⯑tue; 'tis from want, 'tis from oppreſſion I protect Miſs Aubrey—who are you, that think to make a traitor of me?

Your zeal does honour to you; yet if you perſiſt in it, and ſpite of my proteſt hold out, your conſtancy will be no virtue; it muſt take another name.

What other name, and why? Throw off your myſtery, and tell me why.

Becauſe—

Ay, let us hear your cauſe.

Becauſe I am her father.

Do I live?

Yes, in my heart, while I have life or memory; that dear injur'd girl, whom you ſo honourably protect, is my daughter. The overflowings of a father's heart bleſs and reward you! You whom I know not, and that poor Highlander, out of his ſmall pittance, have under Provi⯑dence prerſerv'd my child; whilſt Bridgemore, whom I rais'd from penury, and truſted with the earnings of my travel, has abandoned and defrauded her.

O mother Nature, thou'lt compel me to for⯑ſwear thee.

Ah, Sir, you feel the villainy of man in every vein; I am more practiſed, and behold it only with a ſigh: Colin and I have laid a little plot to draw this Bridgemore hither; he believes me dead, and thinks he is to meet a perſon at your houſe, who can relate particulars of my death, in which caſe it is clear he means to ſink a capital conſign⯑ment I ſent him about three years ſince, and turn my daughter on the world.

Well, let him come; next to the ſatisfaction I receive in the proſperity of an honeſt man, I am beſt pleaſed with the confuſion of a raſcal.

Dear uncle, on my knees—what am I doing?

You thought I was alone.

I did.

And what had you to tell me in ſuch haſte?

I had a petition to prefer, on which my happineſs in life depends.

I beg I may retire: I interrupt you.

By no means: I deſire you will not ſtir; let him make his requeſt; if it is not fit for you to hear, it is not fit for me to grant. Speak out: nay, never heſitate.

What can I aſk of you but to confirm my hopes, and make Miſs Aubrey mine?

Was ever the like heard? Pray whence do you [49] derive pretenſions to Miſs Aubrey? Tell me in preſence of this Gentleman.

Not from my own deſervings I confeſs; yet if an ardent, firm, diſintereſted paſſion, ſanctified withal by her conſent, can recommend me, I am not without ſome title.

Look you there now: this fellow you ſhall know, Sir, is my nephew; my ſiſter's ſon; a child of fortune.—Hark'e, with what face do you talk of love, who are not worth a groat?

You have allow'd me, Sir, to talk of love; openly, beneath your eye I have ſolicited Miſs Aubrey's conſent and gain'd it; as for my poverty, in that I glory, for therein I reſemble her whom I adore; and I ſhou'd hope, tho' for⯑tune has not favour'd us, we have not loſt our title to the rights of nature.

Pooh! the rights of nature! While you enjoy it's rights, how will you both provide againſt its wants?

Your bounty hitherto has let me feel no wants; and ſhou'd it be your pleaſure to withdraw it, thanks to Pro⯑vidence, the world is not ſo ſcantily provided but it can give to honeſt induſtry a daily dinner.

Fine words! But I'll appeal to this good Gen⯑tleman; let him decide betwixt us.

In truth, young gentleman, your uncle has good reaſon on his ſide; and was I he, I never wou'd conſent to your alliance [...]ith Miſs Aubrey, till ſhe brought a fortune large enough to keep you both.

Theſe are your maxims I've no doubt; they only prove to me that you love money more than beauty, gene⯑roſity or honour.

But is your Lady in poſſeſſion of all theſe? Let me be made acquainted with her, and perhaps I may come over to your ſentiments.

Ay, Frank, go, fetch your girl, and let my friend here ſee her; I'm in earneſt. Upon my honour, nephew, till you've gain'd this Gentleman's conſent, you never can have mine; ſo go your ways and let us ſee if you have intereſt enough to bring her hither.

Oh! if my fate depends upon her looks, they muſt be iron hearts that can withſtand 'em.

The manly and diſintereſted paſſion of this youth, while it poſſeſſes me ſtrongly in his favour, gives an aſſurance [50] of a virtuous conduct in my child; indeed, Sir, I am greatly taken with your nephew.

Thank Heaven, the boy as yet has never made me bluſh; and if he holds his courſe, he may take one half of my fortune now, and t'other at my death—But, ſee, Sir, here your daughter comes.

You are obeyed: you ſee the Lady, and you've nothing now to wonder at, but my preſumption.

To wonder at! I do behold a wonder! 'Tis her mother's image! Gracious Providence, this is too much!

You will alarm her; your diſorder is too viſible.

I cannot ſpeak to her; I pray you let me hear her voice.

Why am I ſent for? is your uncle angry? how have I offended?—

Huſh, huſh, ſhe ſpeaks; 'tis ſhe herſelf, it is my long-loſt wife reſtor'd and rais'd again.

Pooh! what had I to do to meddle with theſe mat⯑ters?

Why does that Gentleman regard me ſo atten⯑tively? His eyes oppreſs me; aſk him if he knows me?

Sir, if you know this Lady, if you've any tidings to communicate that touch her happineſs, oh! that I cou'd inſpire you with my feelings!

I knew your father, and am a witneſs to the hard neceſſity, which tore him from an infant child, and held him eighteen tedious years in exile from his native land.

What do I hear? You was my father's friend?—The prayer and interceſſion of an orphan draw Heaven's righteous benediction down upon you!

Prepare yourſelf, be conſtant. I have news to tell you of your father.

I can't ſtand this; I wiſh I was any where elſe.

Courage, my dear Auguſta; my life upon it, there is happineſs in ſtore for thee.

Go on, go on.

You are in an error, you are not an orphan; you have a father, whom, thro' toil and peril, thro' ſickneſs and thro' ſorrow, Heaven has graciouſly preſerv'd and bleſt at length his unremitting labours with abundance.

Did I not tell you this? Bear up.

Yes, virtuous Auguſta, all your ſufferings termi⯑nate this moment; you may now give way to love and hap⯑pineſs; you have a father living who approves your paſſion, who will crown it with a liberal fortune, who now looks upon you, ſpeaks to you, embraces you.

There, there; I'm glad 'tis over. Joy befall you both!

See how her colour flies—She'll faint.

What have I done? Dear innocent, look up.

Oh, yes, to Heaven with gratitude for theſe divine vouchſafements—I have a father then at laſt—Pardon my tears; I'm little us'd to happineſs, and have not learn'd to bear it.

May all your days to come be nothing elſe! But look, ſhe changes again—Help me to lead her into the air.

I believe a little air will not be much amiſs for any of us. Look at that girl; 'tis thus mortality encounters happineſs; 'tis thus the inhabitant of earth meets that of heaven, with tears, with faintings, with ſurprize: let others call this the weakneſs of our nature; to me it proves the unworthineſs; for had we merits to entitle us to hap⯑pineſs, the means wou'd not be wanting to enjoy it.

'SDEATH, Sir, am I or you the maſter of this houſe? who made you judge what company is fit for me to keep? the gentlemen you excluded came by my ſpecial in⯑vitation and appointment.

Gentlemen!

Ay, gentlemen. Were they not ſuch?

Under favour, I took 'em to be ſharpers; I know your Lordſhip always loſes, and I've notic'd that they always win.

Impertinence! I had debts of honour to adjuſt with every one of them.

Hang 'em, baſe vermin, pay them debts; pay your poor tradeſmen; thoſe are debts of honour.

What is't you mutter? It was you too, I ſup⯑poſe, that drove away my Jew, that came with money to diſcharge thoſe debts.

That's true enow, gude faith, I promiſed him a beating, and I kept my word.

Raſcal, thou'rt born to be my plague.

Raſcal! Your father never uſed that word.

On your life, name not him: my heart is torn with vultures, and you feed them: ſhall I keep a ſervant in my houſe to drive away my gueſts, to curb my pleaſures, my purſuits, and be a ſpy upon my very thoughts; to ſet that cynic Mortimer upon me, and expoſe me in the moments of my weakneſs to that ſnarling humouriſt? I want no monitors to reproach me, my own thoughts can do that.

Well, well! 'tis vary well! A raſcal! Let it paſs—Zooks, I'm the firſt Macleod that ever heard that word and [53] kept my dirk within my girdle—Let it paſs—I've ſeen the world, ſerv'd a ſpendthrift, heard myſelf called raſcal, and I'll now jog bock again acroſs the Tweed, and lay my bones amongſt my kindred in the Iſle of Skey; they're all that will be left of me by then I reach the place.

Ah! dere he ſtand, le pauvre Colin in diſgrace! Ha! ha! ha! quelle ſpectacle! Ma foi, I muſt have one little vord wid him at parting—Monſieur le Fi⯑nancier, courage; I am inform my Lord have ſign your lettre de cachet: vat of dat? The air of Scotland will be for your healt; England is not a country for les beaux eſprits; de pure air of de Highlands will give you de grande appetit for de bonny-clabber.

Take your jeſt, Maſter Frenchman, at my coun⯑trymen an' welcome; the de'il a jeſt they made of you laſt war.

Yes, you are all adroit enough at war, but none of you know how to be at peace.

And theſe are all the money dealings you have had with Lord Abberville?

That is the amount of his debt; the bonds and contracts are in Bridgemore's hands.

You ſee your money has not ſlept in Bridgemore's keeping; your conſignment, Mr. Aubrey, is put to pretty good intereſt

Aubrey! Is your name Aubrey may I aſk?

It is.

Have you had any dealings with Mr. Bridge⯑more?

To my coſt.

Did you conſign him merchandize from Scan⯑deroon?

I am the perſon who was guilty of that folly.

Bridgemore I believe thought you was dead.

I take for granted he would gladly have me ſo—But do you know any thing of that conſignment?

Heh! Do I know of it? I had better make a friend of him; 'tis up with Bridgemore fait; there is no ſenſes in ſerving him any longer

Why you ſhall know, Sir, I was Bridgemore's broker for your merchan⯑dize: here is the abſtract of the net proceeds

That's lucky as I live; I ſee an honeſt man ne⯑ver can want weapons to defeat a knave—And pray, Sir, what might be your profit on this ſale; double commiſſion for a breach of truſt, that is the rule of the trade I think.

I work as others; I do nothing below market-price.

You're right, Sir; 'twou'd be ſtarving many an honeſt family, if you made roguery too cheap—But get you gone together to my library; I obſerve a perſon coming who will interrupt you.—Hark'e, Mr. Aubrey, have an eye to our Jew.

Truſt him to me: I'm pretty well accuſtom'd to their dealings.

Save you Sir, ſave you; is it true I pray you that a learned Gentleman, a traveller but juſt arrived, is now with you?

There is a perſon under that deſcription in my houſe.

May he be ſeen, good now? may he be talk'd with? what has he brought home? is he well ſtor'd with oriental curioſities?

Faith, Sir, indifferent well; he has brought a con⯑ſiderable parcel of ſun-dried bricks from the ruins of an⯑tient Babylon; a heavy collection of ores from the mines of Siberia, and a pretty large cargo of common ſalt from the banks of the Caſpian.

Ineſtimable!

Oh, Sir, mere ballaſt.

Ballaſt indeed, and what diſcoveries does he draw from all theſe?

Why he has diſcover'd that the bricks are not [55] fit for building; the mines not worth the working, and the ſalt not good for preſerving: in ſhort, Doctor, he has no taſte for theſe trifles; he has made the human heart his ſtudy; he loves his own ſpecies, and does not care if the whole race of butterflies was extinct.

Yes, putterflies—'tis in my mind, d'ye ſee, what you have ſaid about my putterflies: 'tis upon my memory; but no matter—your ſtudies Mr. Mortimer, and mine, are wide aſunder.—But go on—reform the world, you'll find it a tough taſk; I am content to take it as I find it.

While the ſun ſhines, you'll carry a candle; how will that light them, who travel in the night? Away with ſuch philoſophers, here comes an honeſt man, and that's a character worth ten on't.—

So, Colin, what's the news with you? If I'm to augur from your countenance, ſomething goes wrong at your houſe.

Troth, Sir, no mighty matter; only Laird Ab⯑berville has turn'd away a troubleſome fellow, who bore your honour grete gude will.

What is't you tell me? is my Lord determined upon ruin, that he puts away the only honeſt man be⯑longing to him?

By this coot light, and that is well remem⯑ber'd; look'e, I've got your wages: come, hold out your hand.

Axcuſe me, I'll ha' none on't.

No wages? why 'tis all coot money; 'tis in full. What, man, think better on't; you'll want it when you get to Scotland, ten to one elſe.

Like enow, but by my ſol I'll touch na filler; he has geen a title to me, which I hanna merited, Heav'n knows, nor ever ſhall.

What title has he given you?

Saving your preſence it ha' pleas'd my Laird to ſay, I am a raſcall; but I'll na wear a raſcall's wages in a ſcottiſh pouch: de'il o' my ſoul, I'd ſooner eat my ſtroud for famine.

I think thou woud'ſt, but wait a while with pa⯑tience; this raſh young man's affairs preſs to a criſis; I have yet one effort more to make, which if it fails I ſha [...] take leave of him as well as you.

Lord Abberville, Sir, deſires to ſpeak with you.

That's well. Colin, go you with honeſt Jarvis. Doctor, for once let us unite our ſtudies in this cauſe, come you with me; if my advice can reſcue your unhappy pupil from a courſe of guilty occupations, your philoſophy may furniſh harmleſs ones to fill their place: make haſte; make haſte, here come the Bridgemores.

Pleaſe to walk in here; my maſter will wait upon you immediately.

Nobody here!—Hark'e, friend, I expected to meet a ſtranger; a gentleman juſt landed from Scanderoon. Know you of ſuch a one?

He is now in the houſe.

And Mr. Tyrrel, Sir, is he at home?

He is; they both will wait upon you preſently.

That's well, that's well; as for old furly-boots we cou'd well ſpare his company; 'tis a ſtrange dogged fellow, and execrated by all mankind.

Thank Heaven, he is a man one ſeldom meets; I little thought of ever ſetting foot in his houſe: I hope the ſavage won't grow ceremonious and return the viſit.

Unleſs he brings his nephew in his hand.

Ladies, you do me honour. Mr. Bridgemore, you come here upon a mechancholy errand—

True, Sir, but death you know is common to all men; I look'd to meet a gentleman here—this is all loſt time.

True: therefore before he comes, let us fill it up with ſomething more material: I have a buſineſs to propoſe to you, which I conſider as my own. You muſt know, Sir, I've a nephew.—

Mr. Tyrrel I ſuppoſe?

The ſame.

Mind that, Lucy, he is opening his com⯑miſſion.

Law, Ma'am, you put me into ſuch a flutter.

There is a certain Lady, Mr. Bridgemore, whom, on this occaſion, you muſt father.

How tedious he is! Coudn't he as well have nam'd my daughter?—Well, Sir, what are your expecta⯑tions from that Lady?

Nay, nothing but what you can readily ſupply: I know no good thing ſhe ſtands in want of, but a for⯑tune.

Well, and who doubts but on a proper occa⯑ſion I ſhall give her one? Ay, and a tolerable fortune too, Mr. Mortimer, as times go.

The fortune you was to have given my ward, Lord Abberville, will juſt ſuffice: I think the ſum was forty thouſand pounds.

Why you ſpeak out at once.

'That ever been my cuſtom; I abominate long ſleepy proceſſes; life don't allow of 'em.

But I hear nothing on your part; Mr. Tyrrel, as I take it, is wholly dependant on your bounty—beſides, affairs, as I conceive, are yet ſcarce ripe.

Indeed, pappa, you're very much miſtaken.

Why really, Mr. Mortimer, the parties ſhou'd at leaſt be ſuffer'd to conſult each other's inclina⯑tions.

By all means; let 'em ſpeak for themſelves: 'tis their own cauſe, and they will plead it beſt: hark'e, come in, Sir, theſe are the parties.

Ah!

What ails you; have you trod upon a thorn?

Aſtoniſhing aſſurance! Auguſta here?

Yes: Francis Tyrrel and Auguſta Aubrey. Do the names offend you? Look at the parties, are they not well match'd? Examine them, they'll tell you they're agreed. Who ſhall forbid their union?

Who cares about it? If Mr. Tyrrel and the Lady [68] are agreed, that's enough: I ſuppoſe it is not neceſſary for us to be preſent at the ceremony.

Ay, Sir, I pray you, where's the occaſion for us to be call'd in, becauſe your nephew chuſes to take up with an unworthy girl, that I once harbour'd upon charity?

Hold your audacious tongue: let conſcience keep you ſilent.

Huſh, huſh! you frighten me; pray be compos'd; and let me own that no injuſtice, no ſeverity can wholly cancel what I owe to Mr. Bridgemore for his paſt pro⯑tection, and that ſhare of education he allow'd me; but when he puts this to the account of charity, he takes a virtue foreign to his heart, and only aggravates the ſhame that's falling on him.

Is the man thunder-ſtruck; why don't you anſwer?

Charity keeps him ſilent.

Come, let's begone: her words have daggers in 'em, and her looks are poiſon.

Before you go, Miſs Bridgemore, ſuffer me to aſk, when you related Lord Abberville's adventure to Mr. Tyr⯑rel, why you ſuppreſs'd the evidence of your own maid, who conducted him into my chamber?

Miſs Aubrey, if it ever is your fate to have a rival, you will find an anſwer to that queſtion.

Hold, you and I, Sir, muſt not part.

Well, Sir, your pleaſure?

I ſuffer for him; this is a ſcene I wiſh not to be preſent at.

Well, Mr. Bridgemore, you that harbour'd my Auguſta upon charity, I ſhall leave my uncle to diſcharge my obligations to you on that ſcore, together with his own.

Well, Sir, we're now alone; and if it needs muſt be that one of us ſhall come to ſhame, 'tis well we are ſo. It is thought I am a hard unfeeling man; let it be ſo: you ſhall have juſtice notwithſtanding: innocence requires no more. You are accus'd; defend yourſelf.

Accus'd of what; and who is my accuſer?

A man; and you ſhall face him like a man. Who waits?

Deſire the ſtranger to [59] come hither

Fear nothing; we're enough to try this queſtion; where the human heart is preſent, and the appeal is made to Heaven, no jury need be ſum⯑moned. Here is a ſtranger has the confidence to ſay that your pretenſions to charity are falſe; nay, he arraigns your honeſty; a charge injurious to any man, but mortal to a trader, and levell'd at the vital root of his profeſſion.

Ay, 'tis the Turky merchant I ſuppoſe; let him come in; I know upon what ground I ſtand, and am afraid of no man living.

We ſhall try that. Do you know this Gentleman?

Aubrey!

Thou wretch!

He lives!

To thy confuſion—Rais'd by the bounty of my family, is this your gratitude? When in the bitterneſs of my diſtreſs I put an infant daughter in your hands, the laſt weak ſcyon of a noble ſtock, was it to rob me you received her? To plunder and defraud an helpleſs orphan, as you thought her, and riſe upon the ruins of your benefactor's fortune?

Oh! I am trepann'd! How ſhall I look my wife and daughter in the face

Where have you lodg'd the money I depoſited with you at parting? I find my daughter deſtitute: what have you done with the remittances I ſent from time to time? But above all, where is the produce of the Nep⯑tune's cargo? Villain, look here, I have the proofs; this is the abſtract of the ſale; if you diſpute it, I am here provided with a witneſs, your Jew broker, ready at hand to atteſt it to your face.

Expoſe me not; I will refund to the laſt far⯑thing: I diſpute nothing; call him not in.

There's no occaſion for witneſſes when a man pleads guilty.

Dear Sir, upon my knees I do beſeech you miti⯑gate your ſeverity; it is my firſt petition; he's detected, let his conſcience add the reſt.

Riſe, my beloved child, it ſhall be ſo. There, Sir, your pardon be your puniſhment; it was my money only you attempted, my choiceſt treaſure you have left untouch'd: now go and profit by this meeting: I will not expoſe you: learn of your fraternity a more honour⯑able practice; and let integrity for ever remain the inſe⯑parable characteriſtic of an Engliſh merchant.

Stay; I've another point to ſettle with you; you're a creditor of Lord Abberville's: I find you've put Miſs Aubrey's money to extraordinary intereſt: Jarvis, ſhew this Gentleman into my library, you'll find a lawyer there will ſettle your accounts.

I think you've pretty well done that already—A fine viſit truly I have made on't; and a fine reception I ſhall meet at home.

So! This uneaſy buſineſs paſt, let us now turn to happineſs: where is your Nephew?

Conferring with Lord Abberville.

Lord Abberville? You frighten me.

Fear nothing; you will find him a new man; a deep inciſion has let out the diſorder; and I hope a healthy regimen in time will heal the wound; in ſhort I can't be idle; and now Frank is off my hands, I've once more un⯑dertaken to ſet this ricketty babe of quality upon his legs—Oh, here he comes; why this is as it ſhould be; now you look like friends.

May we be ever ſo! O, Mortimer, I bluſh to look upon that Lady; your reproofs I bore with ſome com⯑poſure; but methinks was ſhe to chide me, I ſhould ſink with ſhame.

You've nothing, my Lord Abberville, to appre⯑hend from me: I ſhould be loth to give an interruption to your happineſs in the height of my own.

Give me thy hand, Auguſta—In the hope that I was labouring for thy ſake, and in thy perſon that I ſhou'd reſtore the proſtrate fortunes of an ancient houſe, I have toiled on through eighteen years of weariſome ad⯑venture: crown'd with ſucceſs, I now at length return, and find my daughter all my fondeſt hope could repreſent; but paſt experience makes me provident; I would ſecure my treaſure; I would beſtow it now in faithful hands—What ſay you, Sir, will you accept the charge?

Yes, and will bear it ever in my ſight, watch over it with unremitting love, and guard it with my life.

What ſays my child, my dear Auguſta? But I read her looks—Bleſt be you both!

Amen, ſay I. Live an example to the age; and when I read the liſt of marriages, as I do that of burials, with a ſigh, let me have this to ſay, that there was one example of felicity.

O, Frank, 'tis hard to ſpeak the word, but you deſerve her; yours is the road to happineſs; I have been loſt in error, but I ſhall trace your ſteps and preſs to overtake you.

Why that's well ſaid; there ſpoke your father from within you: now begone; fly to the altars of your country lares; viſit that nurſe of contemplation, ſolitude; and while you range your groves, that ſhook at every rattle of the dice, aſk of your reaſon, why you was a gameſter.

I've been a madman; I have loſt an humble faithful friend, whoſe ſervices wou'd be invaluable.

Why ay, your Highlander, your poor Macleod; our plan muſt ſtop without his help; I'm but a projector, he muſt execute—but there likewiſe I can ſerve you.

O Mortimer, how much have I miſtaken thee!

Come, come, I have my faults; I'm an un⯑toward fellow, and ſtand as much in need of a reform as any of you all.

Tutor me truly—talk to me! Pray, Gen⯑tlemens, bear witneſs: is Maſter Colins here a proper teacher of the dialects, d'ye ſee, and pronunciations of the Engliſh tongue?

Why not? Is there not Duncan Roſs of Aberdeen that lactures twice a week in oratory at the Seven Dials? and does not Sawney Ferguſon, a couſin of mine awn, adminiſter the Engliſh language in it's utmoſt elegance at Amſterdam?

Bear witneſs, that is all I ſay, bear wit⯑neſs.

We do; there is not one amongſt us, Doctor, but can witneſs to ſome noble act of Colin's; and we wou'd not wound his harmleſs vanity, for any bribe that you can offer.

Colin, I've done you wrong; but I was not myſelf; be you no worſe a ſervant than you have been, and you ſhall find henceforward I will be a better maſter.

I'm ſatisfied; an you'll neglect yourſall na more than I ſhall do, things will gang well enow.

I muſt apologize to Colin too; like my Lord Ab⯑berville, I was not myſelf when I rebuff'd you on the buſineſs of Miſs Aubrey's letter.

Say no more, Maiſter Tyrrel; 'tis not for a mon to reſent the pertneſs of a child, or the petulance of a lover.

But what ſhall I ſay to him? where ſhall I find words to thank him as I ought?

I father all your obligations; 'twas not you but me his bounty ſav'd.

Hold, Sir, in point of obligation I ſtand firſt. By how much there is more diſgrace in doing than in ſuffering a violence, by ſo much I am more his debtor than you all.

Ecod and that is true enow; Heaven ſends miſ⯑fortune, but the De'il ſends miſchief.

Well, Maſter Colins, all is paſt and over; you have got your place again, and all is well. Coot now, let me admoniſh you for the future to be quiet and hear reaſon; moderate your choler and your paſſions and your partialities: it is not for a clown like you to prattle and diſpute with me; in fait you ſhou'd know better.

Come, come, 'tis you that ſhou'd know better; in this poor Higlander the force of prejudice has ſome plea, becauſe he is a clown; but you, a citizen that ſhou'd be of the world, whoſe heart philoſophy and travel might [63] have open'd, ſhou'd know better than to join the cry with thoſe, whoſe charity, like the limitation of a brief, ſtops ſhort at Berwick, and never circulates beyond the Tweed. By Heaven, I'd rather weed out one ſuch unmanly pre⯑judice from the hearts of my countrymen, than add another Indies to their empire.