SCENE I. Sir HARRY PORTLAND's Houſe.

WELL, my dear Meliſſa, you will be a happy woman!

I have no doubt of it. The attention which Mr. Oſborne has ſhewn me, was not that of a man eager to gain the affection of his miſ⯑treſs by humouring her caprices, praiſing her beauty, and flattering her follies. He is obliging and well-bred, but ſincere; yet his diſapprobation is delivered with a delicacy that makes it more agreeable than ſome people's compliments.

If time, inſtead of mellowing the ſtrokes, ſhould wear away this ſmooth varniſh and diſ⯑cover a harſh outline, ſhould you not be offended at the ſeverity of his manner, think you?

Believe me, dear Clara, there is no danger; for if there be one man on earth more capable of making a woman happy than another it is Mr. Oſborne.

It would be hereſy in you, my dear, to hold any other opinion; and I have no doubt but you will continue orthodox after marriage.

Yes—I ſhall certainly die in that faith.

Your brother, Sir Harry, I believe, is of your religion too.

Entirely—The friendſhip of Mr. Oſ⯑borne and my brother is as ſincere as the com⯑mencement of it was remarkable—Have you ever heard their ſtory?

Never. You know my acquaintance with your family is but juſt begun; but, I hope, you will not think them words of courſe when I aſſure you that, ſhort as it is, I feel myſelf in⯑tereſted in its happineſs.

Oh! I am ſure you are ſincere—I know it by ſympathy—Well then, I'll tell you—Harry and Oſborne happened to be both abroad at the ſame time. As my brother was going to Italy, and paſſing through the mountainous part of Sa⯑voy, he came to a hollow way, among the rocks, ſurrounded by trees and caverns. All on a ſud⯑den, at a turning in the road, he beheld Oſborne, and his ſervants, attacked by ſix banditti, and ready to ſink under their wounds.

Was Sir Harry alone?

He had his governor, two ſervants, and the poſtillion—My brother inſtantly leaped from his carriage, ſnatched up his ſword and piſtols, andflew to the place of action.

I declare you terrify me!

He was not ſeen by the combatants, and took care to advance ſo near, before he [3]fired, that he could not fail to do execution—He laid two of the banditti dead; and their com⯑panions, who had diſcharged their fire-arms, and beheld Sir Harry's people running to the attack and levelling their pieces, fled.

Thank you for that, my dear—you have given me breath.

The intrepidity with which Sir Harry ſaw Oſborne defend himſelf, and the fortitude he diſcovered when he was informed, as it was at firſt believed, that his wounds were mortal, at⯑tached my brother ſo powerfully to him, that he reſolved not to leave him in the hands of ſtrangers, but anxiouſly waited while he was under cure.

This was a noble generoſity!

It was; and Oſborne was ſo ſenſible of it that, though he was going the other way, he would return with Sir Harry into Italy; and their friendſhip has continued ever ſince.

But is it not ſtrange, my dear, that he cannot detach his friend, Sir Harry, from the GAMING-TABLE?

My brother is inſatuated—It is his greateſt, almoſt his only weakneſs.

But the report is, that Mr. Oſborne takes advantage of this weakneſs; that, while he publicly ſatirizes the practice, he privately bene⯑fits by his ſuperior addreſs; and, in fact, has half ruined Sir Harry HIMSELF.

The report of malice, my dear.

Ladies, your obedient—Pray when did you arrive in town, Madam?

Yeſterday—But how came you to quit Bath ſo ſuddenly, Gentlemen? I underſtood you intended to ſtay another week, and you were gone before me.

Mr. Oſborne, Madam, was horri⯑blement ennuyé—dull as an alderman at church, or a fat lap-dog after dinner—thinking on mar⯑riage, Meliſſa, and other momentous matters; and ſo—

Come, come, Sir Harry, this is mighty ingenious; but you were, at leaſt, as willing to be gone as myſelf—The truth, Madam, is, my MODEST friend, here, heard YOU were to ſet off in a day or two; and, from that moment, was con⯑tinually giving hints, and aſking me how I, as a lover, could exiſt ſo long without a ſight of my miſtreſs; and, in ſhort, began, all at once, to talk ſo ſympathetically about abſence and ages, that I, who had made the excurſion purely to ob⯑lige him, was, I acknowledge, exceedingly happy to find I could oblige him by returning.

What ſay you to this, Sir Harry?—But, I know your politeneſs—you will confeſs it all to be true, and begin to ſay civil things upon the ſubject, that will only put me to the trouble of bluſhing and curtſying; ſo we'll ſup⯑poſe them all if you pleaſe—But come, tell me—what's the news of the day?

News! Oh, that's true—Look here, my dear!—I thought I had ſomething to tell you—

—‘We hear, from very good authority, that a hymeneal treaty is concluded between a certain beauti⯑ful ward, not a mile from St. James's Square, and her old guardian; and that the lady is expected in town from Bath, every hour, to ſign and ſeal.’

What ſay you to this, Madam?

Say! I proteſt I don't know what to ſay!—except that theſe NEWSMAKERS are a very pleaſant, ingenious kind of people.

But a'n't you angry?

Angry! no indeed. I am ſure I am very much obliged to them, for thinking of me—I ſhall be ſo ſtared at—I'll go into public con⯑tinually, and my guardian ſhall go with me.

But is there any foundation for this report, my dear?

Nay, I am ſure I can't tell: there may be, for aught I know—I have ſuſpected the mat⯑ter a great while, you muſt know, by my guardian's ſimpering and ſqueézing my hand ſo often—then, he is continually talking about METHUSE⯑LAH, and the ANTEDILUVIANS, and making ſyſ⯑tems to convince me how much ſtronger, and longer lived, ſome men are than others—He read, the other day, in the ANNUAL REGISTER, of a man, at INVERNESS, who lived to the age of one hundred and ſeventeen; and he has been talk⯑ing, ever ſince, of purchaſing a country ſeat in the HIGHLANDS.

That would be pleaſant.

Very—Then we ſhould have a flock of GOATS, I ſuppoſe!

DORASTUS and FAUNIA.

Oh yes—quite in the DAMON and PHI⯑LIDA way.

You are very happy in a lover, Ma⯑dam.

Exceedingly—quite proud of my con⯑queſt—There is no ſuch great miracle in bring⯑ing a young fellow, whoſe paſſions are all afloat, to die at ones feet—The thing's ſo natural that one does it every day—But to thaw the icy blood [6]of a grave old gentleman, to ſee him ſimper, ſigh, dance minuets, and look ridiculous for one—Oh! there is, poſitively, no flattery equal to it.

He will make your winter evenings in the HIGHLANDS quite entertaining, with re⯑lating the wild pranks he committed, and the deeds of proweſs he was guilty of in his youth—then you will be ſo delighted with liſtening to his raptures, and taſting his panada, and—

Oh yes—yes, yes—ha, ha—I—I think I ſee him now, with his venerable bald head, his ſhrivelled face, and his little pug noſe, that looks as red and as bright as the beſt Dutch ſealing-wax, riſing from his chair, by the help of his crutch-headed ſtick, to breathe forth vows of love and everlaſting fidelity—Ha, ha, ha.

It's whimſical enough.

Yes—Oh, now you talk of whimſical, I was accoſted by an old gentleman, the night before I left Bath, in the rooms, who was the drolleſt being, and had the moſt agreeable kind of whimſicallity about him, I ever met with—I thought he would have made love to me—ſwore I was an angel, and ſaid a thouſand civil things—quite galant.

Oh, Madam, the old men are the only polite men of this age.

Upon my word, I begin to think ſo.

The young ones, taught in the modern ſchool, hold a rude familiarity to be the firſt prin⯑ciple of good breeding.

Manners, like point ruffles, are now moſt faſhionable when they are ſoiled.

No, no—they only hang the eaſier for being deprived of ſtarch—But who was this old gentleman, pray, Madam?

A relation of yours, Sir.

Of mine, Madam?

I ſhould ſuppoſe ſo, for he mentioned his nephew, Sir Harry Portland.

Our uncle, Sir Hornet Armſtrong.

It is—I found a letter from him, when I came to town, in which he informed me, he ſhould arrive in Bath the very day we left it.

Who brought this?

It came by the poſt, Sir.

I die to be better acquainted with him—I muſt have him in my train of ſighing ſwains.

You ſeem aſtoniſhed, Sir Harry.

Some unkind billet from his miſtreſs, I ſuppoſe.

No, indeed; it is the moſt unac⯑countable epiſtle I ever received, and from my un⯑accountable uncle too—There, read, read.

TURNBULL! why, what, in the devil's name, is Sir Hornet mad!

In one of his right antient whims, I ſuppoſe—Sir Hornet has had many ſuch in his time.

But pray, who is this miraculous lady, Mr. Oſborne? for you ſeem to know ſomething of her.

Do you remember, Sir Harry, a gawky girl, that ſtalked round the rooms, and ſtared pro⯑digiouſly—ſhe that was ſtuck to the ſide of a bob⯑wig'd country 'ſquire?

Oh!—what the—the wench with her arms dangling, her chin projecting, and her mouth open—dreſſed in the—red ribband, taw⯑dry ſtile; and that looked as if ſhe were afraid of being loſt.

Yes—or as if ſhe durſt not truſt her⯑ſelf alone, out of her own pariſh, leſt ſomebody ſhould catch her, put her in a ſack, and ſend her for a preſent to the king of the Cannibals.

The ſame—that is the accompliſhed Miſs Turnbull.

How!

That is the eaſy, well-bred, drawing⯑room lady.

Is it poſſible?

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,—well—

—and I don't doubt but ſhe would make a ſort of a—a—a very good wife—Underſtands the arts of brewing, baking, pick⯑ling of pork, curing of hung beef, darning of ſtockings, and other branches of houſewifery, in perfection.

Oh, no doubt—Is perfectly ſkilled too in the ſcience of feeding the pigs.

Yes—and will make her own and her huſband's linen, and do all the needle-work and quilting at home—believes in ghoſts, and has got the wandering Prince of Troy, the Babes in the Wood, and the entertaining dialogue of Death and the Lady, by heart.

Such, and ſo numerous, are the wife⯑like properties of MISS BARBARA TURNBULL.

TURNBULL, too!—Well, that is ſuch a delightful name, for a country lady—ſo paſtoral!

The father was one of the greateſt graziers in the weſt of England; and was ſo in⯑tent on getting money, that he bred his children in the moſt ſtupid ignorance—He is lately dead, and the ſon has commenced gentleman and 'ſquire, by virtue of the father's induſtry, and a pack of fox-hounds; and though he has ſcarce knowledge enough of articulate ſounds to hold a dialogue with his own geeſe, yet does he eſteem himſelf a deviliſh ſhrewd fellow, and a wit—His converſation is vociferous, and patched up of pro⯑verbs, and out-of-the-way ſayings, which he ſtrings together without order or connection; and utters, upon all occaſions, and in all companies, without reſpect to time, place, or perſon.

Well, well, Sir Harry, I ſhall have to wiſh you joy ſoon, I ſuppoſe—but I muſt be gone—fifty viſits to make this morning—time flies [10]—butagreeable company, and all that, you know—Oh, Sir Harry, you mean to attend the ſpring meetings this year, at Newmarket—I am told you underſtand the turf—I think of ſending a venture of five hundred by ſomebody—But I ſhall ſee you often enough before then—Adieu.

Well, what do you think of this lady, Oſborne?

I think her a very amiable, accom⯑pliſhed lady; and one that, under an aſſumed levity, obſerves and underſtands every thing about her.

I am entirely of your opinion—If I may judge from an acquaintance of ſuch ſhort date, ſhe is the firſt woman in the world.

Except one, Sir Harry.

You, Oſborne, may make excep⯑tions, if you pleaſe—I am not ſo captious—She has beauty without vanity, virtue without pru⯑dery, faſhion without affectation, wit without malice, gaiety without coquetry, humour—

Hold, hold—ſtop to breathe—How was it? Vinegar without acid, fire without heat, light without ſhade, motion without matter, and a likeneſs without a feature.

"Spite—by the Gods!—proud ſpite and burning envy."

But did you obſerve her Newmarket hint, Sir Harry; and the concealed ſignificance with which it was delivered?

I did.

Which being faithfully done into Engliſh, bears this interpretation:—"I Clara Forreſter, a beautiful, elegant, ſenſible girl, [11]with a fine fortune, ſhould like to take you, Harry Portland, with youth, ſpirit, and certain et ceteras, but"—

"But that I am afraid of indulging a partiality for any man, who is ſo intolerably ad⯑dicted to gaming"—Is not that the concluſion of your ſpeech?

Oh fie! No, no, gaming!—That man has a body without a ſoul, that never felt an inclination to gaming.

Perhaps ſo; but that man has the greateſt ſoul, who can beſt reſiſt that inclination.

Pſhaw!—;Gaming is the eſſence of faſhion, and one of your ſtrongeſt recommenda⯑tions—Clara is a girl of ſpirit, and what girl that comes under that deſcription, would ever place her affections on a ſneaking, ſober, pru⯑dent fellow—a mechanical ſcoundrel, that knows the day of the month, ſips tea, keeps a pew in the pariſh church, writes memorandums, and goes to bed at eleven o'clock—Poh! abſurd!

Curſe me, Oſborne, if I know what to make of you—You are a riddle that I cannot expound. You have ſuch an aukward way of praiſing gaming, that it always has the appear⯑ance of ſatire.

Satire! how ſo? Do you think I'd ſatirize myſelf? Who ſports more freely than I do?

Why there's the myſtery!—You are as eager, to the full, as I am—If I ſet an hun⯑dred on a back hand, you offer a thouſand; nay, had I the fortune of a Nabob, and were to ſtake it all, you would be the firſt man to cry cover'd, and be damned mad if any one wanted to go a guinea—Not becauſe you have not generoſity, but in the true and inveterate ſpirit of gaming.

Certainly—Gaming!—why gaming is the beſt ſal volatile for the ſpleen—It rouzes the ſpirits, agitates the blood, quickens the pulſe, and puts the whole nervous ſyſtem in a continual vibration—No man ever yet died of an apoplexy, that loved a box and dice.

But they have died as ſuddenly.

Oh! ay, ay, but that's a faſhionable diſeaſe, an influenza; that's to make your exit with eclat; that's to go out of the world with a good report.

True—true—and indeed, as to a few years, more or leſs, that is, in reality, a mighty inſignificant circumſtance.

A bagatelle!—Let us live while we do live, and die when we can't live any longer.

That's my comfort—that's my com⯑fort—Yes—yes—a piſtol!—a piſtol is a very cer⯑tain remedy for the cholic—Nobody but a pi⯑tiful ſcoundrel would go ſighing, and whining, and teizing other people with his griefs and com⯑plaints.—When a man is weary, what ſhould he do but go to ſleep?

To be ſure—Life itſelf is but a dream—'Tis only ſleeping a little ſounder.

What! live to be pitied!—Ha, ha—A decayed gentleman! No, no, no—A wi⯑thered branch—a firelock without a flint—And yet—heigho!—this Clara—damn it—its provok⯑ing—Youth—beauty—affability—ſhe's a bewitch⯑ing girl!

She is indeed.

A lovely girl!

Ay—enough ſo to make any man, that might hope to be in her favour, in love with life.

Any man, any man—but me—no, no—Undone—undone—undone—

Well but, ſeriouſly, ſince you have ſuch bad ſucceſs, why don't you renounce play?

Tis too late—I have ſunk eighty thouſand—My reſources almoſt all exhauſted, my eſtates all mortgaged to Jews and ſcoundrels.

All!

All; except the eſtate in Kent.

Well then, if you cannot content your⯑ſelf with your preſent loſs, your beſt way will be to make another vigorous puſh.

That's exactly what I am determined to do; and, unleſs the devil poſſeſſes the dice, I think I may expect, without a miracle, that for⯑tune ſhould change hands.

One would think ſo, indeed—Will you dine then at my houſe? There will be the Chevalier, the Baron, and the uſual ſet—They have engaged to dine with me—They are ſpirited fellows, and will play for any ſum.

I don't know—Suſpicion is a curſt meanneſs; and yet, I cannot help having my doubts of ſome among that company—Nay, had you not ſo often aſſured me you were perfectly acquainted with them all—

Why, I tell you again and again, ſo I am—I will be anſwerable for their conduct, and that's more than I would ſay for any other ſet of gamblers upon earth.

Well, well—I'll meet you there.

We dine early—at five.

Agreed.

And then—hey for a light heart, and a heavy purſe.

No, no,—No light heart for me—I am ſunk—degraded in my own opinion—Gaming alters our very nature—Oſborne uſed to hate it—he was then an open-hearted, generous [14]fellow—he now appears to have contracted an in⯑ſatiable love for money, and a violent deſire to win—he cares not of whom—of me as ſoon as another—Were I in his ſituation, and he in mine, I think I ſhould find an averſion to increaſe his diſtreſs—he knows mine, yet has no ſuch averſion—Perhaps he thinks my ruin certain, and that he may as well profit by it as another—I know him to have the moſt refined and ſtricteſt ſenſe of honour—I have loſt moſt of my money to him, and in his company, and therefore have not been duped out of it.—That is ſome comfort, however.

SCENE II.

Well, Mr. Timid, has Sir Harry ſent to you for a further ſupply?

Lackaday, Sir, yes!—And a very large ſupply too—He wants 5000l. immediately—Lackaday! I aſked him how he thought it poſſible for me to raiſe ſuch ſums, as he called upon me for every day—reminded him what a bad way his affairs were in, and what an uſurious rate I was obliged to borrow all this money at.

What ſaid he?

Lackaday—not much—ſeemed cha⯑grined—ſaid it muſt have an end, one way or ano⯑ther, ſoon; and demanded, whether I could, or could not, raiſe the money—Lackaday—I told him, I was no longer maſter of ways and means; and he ſaid, then he muſt poſitively employ another prime miniſter, for ſupplies he muſt have.

Why did you tell him that? Go to him, inform him you have met with a tender-hearted [15]Jew, who knows nothing of the ſituation of his affairs, that will lend him 10,000 directly, if he wants it.

Ten thouſand!—on what terms?

Oh, the mortgage of the Kentiſh eſtate.

The Kentiſh eſtate!—Lackaday—But ſuppoſe he ſhould go to gaming, and loſe it to ſomebody elſe inſtead of you.

Oh, I'll take care of that.

Lackaday—It muſt not be Benjamin Solomons who lends this?

True—no—humph—Iſaac Levi, agent to a private company at Amſterdam.

"Iſaac Levi, agent to a private company at Amſterdam"—Lackaday!

Well—go you to him, and inform him that the money ſhall be ready in about half an hour.

Lackaday—Good young gentleman—Heaven pardon me, I had like to have ſaid, damn the dice—You'll be a true friend?

Be under no apprehenſions—This old fool is become ſuſpicious, I muſt be ſudden

Had not we better inform him of all, before he goes any further?

By no means—leave that to me.

Lackaday—Well—The remembrance of a good deed is grateful on a death-bed.

Do you be expeditious—I'll inſtruct the Jew, and he ſhall meet you here.

Heaven pardon me! I had like to have ſaid, damn the Jews.—

SCENE continues.

HEAVENS what romance! I can ſcarce believe my eyes—Did you ever hear of ſo ſtrange an affair?

Strange! it's miraculous—Quixot⯑iſm!—And our good uncle is the prince of madmen.

To ſend a fooliſh, illiterate, coun⯑try dowdy, and her block-headed brother, a viſit⯑ing on ſuch an errand—What can I ſay to them? I declare, I don't know how to behave—Never was ſo embarraſſed in my life—Where are they?

He has made an acquaintance with the groom, and is gone to the mews, which ſeems to be his proper element, to examine the horſes; and I left her with my woman, ſtaring, like a Dutch doll, at every thing ſhe fixed her eyes on—Here ſhe comes.

My gracious!—Here be a power of vine—

. I wonder if that be he that be to be my huſband.

I hope, Madam, the fatigue of your journey has not injured your health.

Zir!

I hope you are pretty well after your journey.

Pretty well thank you, Zir—iveck he's a handſome man.

I don't know what to ſay to her—I am afraid, Miſs Turnbull, you won't find the town ſo agreeable as the Elyſian fields of Somerſet⯑ſhire

Liſian vields!—There be no zuch vields in our parts—There be only corn vields and hay vields.

My brother, madam, means to ſay, You are not ſo well pleaſed with the town as with the country, perhaps.

Oh!—Yes but I be tho', and ten times better—

Pray, Miſs, when did you zee Zekel Turnbull, my uncle.

I have not the honour to know him.

My gracious!—What don't you know Zekel?

No, indeed!

Why, he do come to London zity vour times every year.

Is he in parliament?

Parliament?

Yes.

What a parliament-man?

Yes.

No; he be a grazier—

Pray, Miſs, have you been to zee the lions and the wax-work to-day.

To-day!

Ees.

I never ſaw them in my life.

My gracious!—What never zaw the kings, and the queens, and the tomb⯑ſtones?

No.

Merciful vather!—Well, let's go and zee 'em now then.

People of faſhion never go to thoſe kind of places.

Never!

Never.

My gracious!—But I am zure I will go every day, while I be in London zity, if I can vind the way—pray be this vair-time here—Where be all thoſe volk gwain—and where do they all come fro'.

Barbara—Barbara—Where biſt Barbara?

I be here.

Well, Zir Harry, here we be—Ma⯑dam, your zervant—I zupped wi Zir Hornet three nights ago, an a zaid you be a vine laſs—What tho'—I had never zeen you, but I gave yo' Miſs in a bumper; an Zir Hornet ſwore, that except Barbara, a didn't knaw one to match you.

He did me great honour.

Why to be zure a did—What tho'—a was wrong—I zee a was wrong—Barbara is well enough—But what tho'—the greateſt calf isn't always the ſweeteſt veal—Vor all the length of her ſpurs, ſhe won't do, pitted againſt this vine ginger pullet.

Your compliments quite over-power me, Sir.

Compliments—No, no—What tho'—Vather be dead, an' I ha' three thouſand a year, and the beſt pack of vox dogs in Zomerzetzhire—I a no need make compliments—I would as zoon over⯑ride the hounds, or vell oak zaplings vor vire wood—Barbara, mayhap, underſtands zic things, her reads kademy o' compliments—vor my part, I a' no time vor zic traſh—

I'm zure it be a very pretty book.

Hold thy tongue, Barbara, an' then nobody will knaw thee biſt a vool—Lookye me, Miſs—I do want a wife—an' I ſhould like hugely vor you an I to zet our horſes together, as the zaying is.

Sir—I don't underſtand—

Vor my part, I am none of your hawf⯑bred ones—What tho'—ſhilly ſhally and no thank you are always hungry—A lame tongue gets no⯑thing, and the laſt wooer wins the maid—A bad hound may ſtart a hare, but a good one will catch her.

I believe, Sir, you never ſaw my ſiſter before.

Why, no, to be zure—What tho—Love and a red noſe can't be hid—If you cut up the gooſe, I'll eat it—The hare ſtarts when the hound leaſt expects it.

Very true, Sir—But here is a diſ⯑agreeable miſunderſtanding—

Why to be zure—I do knaw it—We miſunderſtand the thing parfitly well—it be very diſagreeable, an' I be glad of it—I a brought Barbara to London to zee the lions, buy ribbands, an' be married—But what tho'—liking's liking, [20]an' love's love—myzelf bevore my ziſter—If the mountain won't go to the man, the man mun go to the mountain—an vaint heart never won vair lady.

Don't you think, Sir, that were my ſiſter's affections totally diſengaged, this abrupt⯑neſs were very unlikely to gain them? Is it not too violent, think you, for female delicacy?

Why to be zure—vemale delicacy!—I hate it—and as vor your abruptneſs, why gi' me the man that ſpeaks bolt outright—I am vor none o' your abruptneſs—what tho'—he muſt a' leave to ſpeak that can't hold his tongue.

Your proverb is quite a-propos, Sir.

Why to be zure—Dogs bark as they are bred.

Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

I am a ſtaunch hound, Miſs, and ſel⯑dom at vault; an' zo, wi your leave, Ill—

I beg, Sir—

Nay, don't be baſhful—I like fruit too well to play long at bobcherry—a's a vool indeed that can't carve a plumb-pudding—

I am ſorry to be obliged to inform you, that you are entirely miſtaken, both with re⯑ſpect to the affections of my ſiſter and myſelf. As a friend of my uncle's, Sir, I ſhall be happy to ſhew you every reſpect, but nothing farther can poſſibly take place between the families.

Mr. Timid deſired me to tell you, Sir, that Mr. Levi is quite tired of waiting; and [21]ſays, if you can't come now, he will call again to-morrow.

Oh, tell him he muſt not go—I beg Mr, Levi's pardon; I'll be with him in a minute.

—Sir Hornet has been exceedingly precipitate in this buſineſs, Sir—He is coming to town, and muſt apologize for his error—As to my ſiſter, I have no doubt but ſhe has every re⯑ſpect for your merits they deſerve; but her affec⯑tions are pre-engaged, the nuptials fixed, and are ſoon to be celebrated—While you remain in town, however, I beg you will command my houſe and ſervices.

Well, Barbara, what doſt think on un?

Why, a be well enough—but I daunt rightly knaw what a means.

What a means—thee biſt a vool—thee duſt na knaw the London tongue, thee means—a zaid, in a kind of round-about way, that its all right.

Did a?

Did a—why to be zure a did—didſt na zee how zivil a were, a what a low bow a made—But thee has no contagion in thee—thee will never learn what's what.

Why, where be I to learn zic things—I a never been no where.

Never been no where—well—what o' that?—Where have I been? I a never been no where—What tho'—I do knaw how to ſtir my broth without ſcalding my vinger—I can zee an owl in an oven as ſoon as another.

But when be us to go and zee the zights?

Oh, we'll go all together on the wed⯑ding-day.

My gracious!—I wiſh it were here.

Ay, ay—I daunt doubt thee—women, pigs and poultry be never zatisfied.

An be you to be married as well?

Be I to be married as well? why to be zure I be—thee biſt a vool, isn't vather dead? an hannot I three thouſand a year, an the beſt pack o vox dogs in Zomerzetzhire? An didſt na hear me tell Miſs 'at I would marry her?—What tho'—I do knaw how to catch two pigeons wi one pea—Shew a dog a bone, and he'll wag his tail—He that is born a beauty is half married, an like will to like.

Well then, take me to parlia⯑ment-houſe, an ſhew me the king, an the queen, and the lord mayor, an th' elephant, an' the reſt o' th' royal vamily.

I tell thee, thee ſhatn't.

My gracious!—What zignifi⯑cations my coming to London zity, an' I muſt be moped up a this'n; I will go, zo I will.

I tell thee, thee ſhatn't.

Why then, an I munnut zee the king—I'll go into next room and zee his picter, that I will—

A hoic!—Barbara—Barbara—The helve after the hatchet—He that holds a woman, mun ha' a long rope an' a ſtrong arm—Women an mules will go their own road, in zpite of ri⯑ders or ſtinging-nettles.

SCENE II. The Houſe of Mr. VANDERVELT.

Clara is very beautiful—but mankind is very cenſorious—They will tell me, that ſixty⯑ſeven is too late in life to undertake the begetting, bringing up, and providing for a family—What of that—Muſt I go out of the world, as I came into it—no body to remember me?—Muſt I leave no pretty picture of myſelf?—Sixty-ſeven is but ſixty-ſeven—Have not we a thouſand examples of longevity upon record?—And then—as to cuckolds—I cannot be perſuaded that they are as common now, as they were when I was a youngſter—Times, men, and manners alter—Children are born wittier, and the world gets more ſedate—I myſelf am a living proof of it—I never go to bagnios now—I never break lamps, beat watch⯑men, and kick conſtables now—Once, indeed, I ſhould have made very little ceremony about dig⯑nifying an elderly gentleman, that had a hand⯑ſome wife; whereas now, I can lay my hand upon my heart, and with a ſafe conſcience declare, I have no ſuch wicked inclinations—

Ah! mon cher papa! What ruminating!

Ah! Turtle! But why do you always call me papa? you know I don't like that word, Turtle.

And why papa, do you always call me turtle?—Have not I told you, fifty times, it puts me in mind of calipaſh—and aldermen—and other ugly animals.

Calipaſh! Thou art ſweeter, ten⯑derer, more delicate, delightful and delicious, than all the calipaſh and callipee in the univerſe—A gem—a jewel—that all the Sophy's, Sultans, Grand Signiors and Great Moguls, of the whole earth, have not riches enough to purchaſe.

Ah! Mon cher Papa!—You are ſo gal⯑lant—You do ſay the moſt obliging things!

SAY the moſt obliging things!—Ay and will—No matter—Deeds—Title deeds—Rent rolls—India bonds—Well—Death, and the day of judgment, will make ſtrange diſcoveries.

Oh, yes!—I know you wiſe men often meditate on theſe ſerious ſubjects.

Ay—Life is treacherous ground—One foot firm, and the next in a pit.

But why ſo melancholy, papa?

I have no friends—that is, no rela⯑tions—no children—have made a great fortune, by care, and labour, and anxiety, and debarring my⯑ſelf the pleaſures, and comforts of life, in my youth—And why ſhould not I ſit down and enjoy it?

Very true, and why don't you?

Becauſe men are fools, and laugh they don't know why—I hate ridicule—Nobody loves to be thought ridiculous—The world has got falſe notions—A man of fifty is called old, and muſt not be in love, for fear of being pointed at—Whereas ſome men are older at thirty, than others at threeſcore.

Certainly.

What is threeſcore?

A handful of minutes!

That vaniſh like a ſummer ſhower.

Melt, like a lump of ſugar, in a diſh of tea.

That come you don't know how.

And go you don't know where.

Surely a man of ſixty may walk thro' a church-yard, without fear of tumbling into a grave?

If he can jump over it.

True—And I was once an excel⯑lent jumper—Sixty!—Why Henry Jenkins, the Yorkſhire fiſherman, lived to a hundred and ſixty⯑nine—So that a man of ſixty, even in theſe dege⯑nerate days, has a chance to live at leaſt an hun⯑dred years.

Well, I declare papa, you are quite a blooming youth!—forty years younger, in my opinion, than you were a quarter of an hour ago!—

Forty?

At leaſt!

Why then, by dad, as thou ſayeſt, I am a blooming youth—Ah turtle!—I could tell you ſomething—that would ſurprize you—I could tell you—Think what I could tell you—

"If'tis joy to wound a lover"—hem—"how much more to give him eaſe."

"When his paſſion we diſcover."

"Oh how pleaſing 'tis to pleaſe"—Oh I could tell—But no—no—no, no, no—You are ſniggering—laughing in your ſleeve—Ay, ay—I perceive it—You're a wit, and I am an old fool—Sneering—ridiculing me—I hate wit and ridicule.

Me a wit!—Lord, papa—I would not be ſuch an animal for the world—A wit!—Why a wit is a kind of urchin, that every man [26]will ſet his dog at, but won't touch himſelf, for fear of pricking his fingers.—A wit is a monſter, with a hideous long tongue, and no brains—A dealer in paradoxes—One that is blind, thro' a profuſion of light—A wit is a ſpectre, that makes a pair of ſtilts of his criſs-croſs-row, walks upon metaphor, is always ſeen in a ſimile, vaniſhes if you come too near him, and is only to be laid by a cudgel.

Frightful indeed!—Thank heaven, nobody can ſay, I am a wit.

Mr. Codicil, the attorney, deſires to ſpeak with you, Sir.

Very well—I am coming.

Mrs. Trip, Madam, is in the houſe⯑keeper's room, and ſays ſhe hopes your ladyſhip is well.

Deſire her to walk up.

Who is Mrs. Trip, Turtle?

A perſon that lived ſeveral years in our family. She is, at preſent, lady's maid to Me⯑liſſa, Sir Harry Portland's ſiſter—She will divert me with her fine language, beſides that, I wiſh to aſk her how ſhe likes Sir Harry's family.

I know Sir Harry's uncle, Sir Hor⯑net Armſtrong, very well—an old friend.

Indeed!—I never ſaw him here.

Why no—I don't know how it has happened, but I have not ſeen him above twice, theſe two years, myſelf—he's an odd mortal—a whimſical old gentleman—well—by, by!

Adieu!

By, by!

This Sir Harry runs continually in my head—ay, and I am afraid has ſound a place in my heart—yes, yes—there's no denying that—but that FRIEND—that Mr. OSBORNE—Whether it be my particular concern for Sir Harry, or my ſuperior penetration, I cannot diſcover, but that man wears, to me, a moſt ſuſpicious, hypocritical face.

So, Mrs. Trip, how have you done this long time?

Pretty well, thank you, Madam, except that I am ſubject to the hiſtoricals, and troubled with the vapours; being, as I am, of a dilikut nirvus ſyſtem, whereof I am ſo giddy, that my poor head is ſometimes quite in a whirlpool; and if I did not bathe with my lady, the doctor tells me, I ſhould decline into a liturgy, and ſo fall down and die, perhaps, in a fit of apoſtacy.

And how long have you lived in Sir Harray's family, Mrs. Trip?

I came ſoon after my poor dear lady, your mamma, died, and was interrogated; whereof I was at her funereal—My lady is a very good lady, that is, I mean, Ma'am, my future lady that I live with at preſent—ſhe is to be mar⯑ried ſoon, to Mr. Oſborne, and may Hydra, the god of marriage, tie the Gorgon knot—whereof I heard your ladyſhip is to be one of the cere⯑monials.

I am invited, and ſhall be there—But pray, Mrs. Trip, what is your opinion of Mr. Oſborne?

Oh Lord! Ma'am, conſarning Mr. Oſborne—I heard a ſmall bird ſing.

A ſmall bird ſing!

Yes, Ma'am.

Of what feather was this fowl?

Foul!—No, I aſſure you, your la⯑dyſhip, as fair a ſpeechified perſon as any in Eng⯑land—whereof he has a great valiation for me.

Well.

And ſo the ſecret is, that Mr. Oſ⯑borne has won almoſt all Sir Harry's eſtate.

Indeed!

And, moreover, has pretended to be a ſynagogue, and a Jew, and has lent money in other people's names, on morgagees, and nui⯑tants, whereof my friend has been a party con⯑ſarned.

Good heaven! what villainy!

And pray who is your friend, Mrs. Trip?

Oh, Ma'am, I hope your ladyſhip won't intoxicate me on that head, for I know Mr. Timid too well to—

Oh! it was Mr. Timid.

Why—that is—Ma'am—I didn't mean—Mercy!—What have I ſaid?

You may aſſure yourſelf, Mrs. Trip, I ſhall be careful not to do you any prejudice.

I am ſure I am ſupinely obligationed to your ladyſhip.

Poor Sir Harry! He has a heart that does ho⯑nour to mankind, that does not merit diſtreſs, yet, if I augur right, that muſt ſhortly feel the ſevereſt pangs a falſe friend can inflict!—Un⯑grateful Oſborne!—I muſt warn Meliſſa to beware of him, and, if poſſible, to detach Sir Harry from the gaming-table.

SCENE Sir HARRY'S Houſe.

HA! ha! ha! Sir Harry, you are a happy man!

Ay, Sir Harry, you are a happy man!

Such an accompliſhed ſpouſe!

And ſo kind an uncle!

Upon my ſoul, I can't help laugh⯑ing; and yet the more I reflect on the affair, the more I am amazed—Sir Hornet is whimſical, 'tis true, but no fool.

Fool! Sir Harry!—no, no, he is always the readieſt to ſpy the fooleries of other people—many a time have I laughed at his whims and jokes—an odd mortal he is.

Nay, if he be ſo fond of a joke, who knows but he may have ſent them on this errand, for the joke's ſake,

By dad, turtle! thou haſt hit it.—As ſure as can be that's it—it is for the joke's ſake.

Impoſſible—The affair is too ſerious to be intentional caprice.

But I thought, when I left you, you were coming to an eclairciſſement.

Coming to an eclairciſſement!—Why I told them, as plain as I could ſpeak, that no alliance whatever could take place between the families.

'Tis certain they have not underſtood you then.

Well, there the matter muſt reſt, till I can find an interpreter, for I can't make myſelf more intelligible.

And you have not had one tender love ſcene yet?

Not one—I am amazed at the girl's ſimplicity—it equals her ignorance—ſhe ſpeaks and looks ſo totally unconſcious of impropriety, ſo void of intentional error, that I don't know how to reply.

Suppoſe then you were to practiſe a little—Come, I'll ſtand up for the young lady.

I ſhall ſtill find a difficulty to ſpeak.

Surely!

In very truth, Ma'am.—But it will be from a quite different motive.

Oh, for the love of curioſity, Sir Harry, explain your motive.

Ay, Sir Harry, explain your mo⯑tive.

I cannot, Sir.

Cannot! Sir Harry, why ſo?

For reaſons, Sir, which are far more eaſily imagined than deſcribed.

Nay, don't be afraid, Sir Harry.—My turtle knows how to anſwer interrogatories—you won't find her a ſimpleton, I'll warrant.

No Sir—the danger is that ſhe might find me one.

I fancy, Sir Harry, you are a little like me—cautious with the ladies, leſt you ſhould be made ridiculous—I am very circumſpect in thoſe matters.

You are very right, Sir—It is not every one who has the gift of wearing a fool's cap with a grace.

Ay, but notwithſtanding all this, Sir Harry, I ſhould like to have a love ſcene with you.

How, turtle!

In the character of Miſs Turnbull.

Oh!—Ay, do, Sir Harry, have a love ſcene with my turtle—

Any thing to oblige you, Sir.

Come then—begin

Ah! ha, ha, ha—look! look at my turtle lovidovey!

My uncle, Sir Hor⯑net Armſtrong, madam, is deſirous that I ſhould gain the ineſtimable bleſſing of your hand.

Anan!

Ah! ha! ha! ha!

And give me leave to ſay, madam, however unworthy I may be of the happineſs and honour intended me, no perſon can be more ſen⯑ſible of them.

What!—That be as much as to zay, you wunt ha' me, I zuppoſe.

Ah! ha! ha! ha!—Nay, but don't cry in earneſt, lovidovey.

Oh! dry thoſe heavenly eyes, ma⯑dam, and believe me, when I call every ſacred power to witneſs my affection—I love, I adore, I die for you—Suffer me to wipe away thoſe pearly tears, that hide the beauties of your cheek

Hold, hold, Sir Harry!

Ay, hold, hold, Sir Harry!—

Why ſo, Sir?—'Tis quite in cha⯑racter.

Deuce take you, Sir Harry—You—you are too paſſionate in your feigned addreſſes—So warm and preſſing—

Ay—ſo warm and preſſing.

One was not aware.

I was taken by ſurprize, myſelf, Madam—The bounteous god of love kindly con⯑trived an opportunity, which my profound adora⯑tion, and a conſcious want of merit, had totally deprived me of—Pardon me, if, for a moment, I forgot that reſpect which every one, who be⯑holds you, cannot help feeling.

Why what's this, Sir Harry? You are not in downright earneſt, are you?

Sincere, as dying ſinners imploring mercy.

What in love with my turtle!

Pooh—Why no, to be ſure—We were only acting a ſuppoſed ſcene.

Suppoſed!—Bedad, I think it was deviliſh like a real ſcene—You both did your parts very naturally.

Oh, Sir! no actor who feels as forcibly as I do, can ever miſtake his character.

Feels forcibly!—Your feelings are forcible indeed.

Come, come, let us adjourn to the drawing-room; I want to have your opinions on a painting of Coreggio's, that my brother has made me a preſent of.

Favour me with your hand, young lady—And, Sir Harry, do you take my turtle—but don't you let your feelings be too forcible.

SCENE II. The Hall in Sir HARRY'S Houſe.

Are the trunks ſafe, ſirrah, George?

Yes, Sir.

And did you order that dog of a poſtilion to take care of the poor devils the horſes?

I did, Sir.

And of himſelf?

I did, Sir.

You did, Sir?—Why then do you go, and take care of yourſelf, you raſcal.

I will, Sir.

And do you hear, George!

Sir!

If I find you diſobey my orders, I'll break your bones.

I'll be very careful, Sir, I aſſure you.

Brokerage comes rather heavy, Mr. Scrip, when the ſum is large.

Heavy! no, no—a damned paltry pit⯑tance—five and twenty pounds only, you ſee, for ſelling out twenty thouſand—Get more by one lucky hit, than fifty of theſe would produce.

Ay!

Oh, yes!—Jobbing—Stock-jobbing, between you and me, is the high road to wealth.

Lackaday, may be ſo—Well, good day.

What, old Lackaday!

Ah, Sir Hornet!—

What's the beſt news with you?

Ah, lackaday, the beſt news I know, is ſcarce worth relating.

Beg pardon, Sir,

—beg pardon—bad news in town, did you ſay?

Bad, Sir! not that I have heard.

Exceedingly ſorry for it!

Sir!

Never was more diſtreſſed for bad news.

Diſtreſs'd for bad news!

Exceſſively! The reduction of Gibraltar, the taking of Jamaica, or the deſtruction of the grand fleet, either of the three would make me a happy man for life—

The deſtruction of the grand fleet make you happy for life!

Compleatly.

Here's a precious ſcoundrel!

No great reaſon to complain, to be ſure—do more buſineſs than any three doctors of the college—Generally of the ſure ſide—Made a large fortune, if this does not give me a twinge—rather overdone it; but any ſevere ſtroke—any great national misfortune, would exactly cloſe my account.

Hark you, Sir!

Sir!

It is to be hoped—

Yes, Sir, it is to be hoped.

That a halter will exactly cloſe your account.

Sir!

You raven-faced raſcal!—Rejoice at national misfortunes! Zounds! I thought ſuch language was no where to be heard from the mouth of an Engliſhman—unleſs he were a Mem⯑ber of Parliament.

Lord, Sir!—You don't conſider that I am a bear for almoſt half a million.

You are an impudent villain!—rejoice at the diſtreſs of your country!

Why, Lord, Sir, to be ſure—when I am a bear—There's not a bear in the Alley but would do the ſame—Were I bull, indeed, the caſe would be altered.

A bull!

For inſtance, at the taking of Charles-Town, no man was merrier, no man more elate, no man in better ſpirits.

How ſo, gentle Sir?

Oh, dear Sir, at that time I was a bull to a vaſt amount, when, very fortunately for me, the news arrived; the guns fired; the bells clat⯑tered; the ſtocks mounted; and I made ten thou⯑ſand pounds!—Enough to make a man merry—Never ſpent a happier night in my life!

Aha!—then according to that arith⯑metic, you would be as merry, and as happy to night, could you accompliſh the deſtruction of this ſaid Britiſh fleet.

Happier, happier by half!—for I ſhould realize at leaſt twice the ſum!—twice the ſum!

Twice the ſum?

Ay, twice the ſum!—Oh! that would be a glorious event indeed! Never prayed ſo ear⯑neſtly for any thing ſince I was born—and who knows—who knows what a little time may do for us?

Zounds! how my elbow aches.

I ſhall call on ſome leading people—men of intelligence—of the right ſtamp.

You ſhall

Yes, Sir.

Why then—perhaps you will be able to deſtroy the Britiſh fleet between you.

I hope ſo—I hope ſo—do every thing in my power—Oh! it would be a glorious event.

Hark you, Sir—Do you ſee that door?

Sir!

And this cane?

Why, but, Sir!

Make your exit, you imp.

But, Sir!

Get out of the houſe, you vile raſ⯑cal, you diabolical—

A ſon's ſon of a ſcoundrel—Who is he? What buſineſs had he here?

Lackaday, Sir, he is a ſtock-broker, that Sir Harry employ'd, at his ſiſter's requeſt, to ſell out for her; becauſe ſhe chuſes to have here for⯑tune in here own poſſeſſion againſt to-morrow.—I have been paying him the brokerage, and receiving the money, which I ſhall deliver to Madam Meliſſa directly.

An incomprehenſible dog! pray for the reduction of Gibraltar, the taking of Ja⯑maica, or the deſtruction of the Britiſh fleet.

Lackaday, Sir! it is his trade.

Trade! a nation will never flou⯑riſh, that encourages traders to thrive by her miſ⯑fortunes—but come—tell me ſomething of my own affairs—Where is Harry—How does he go on?

Ah, lackaday!

What—is he a wild young dog—Does he get into thy books?

Ah, lackaday!—Zounds, don't ſigh, man—He won't die in thy debt.

Ah, lackaday, Sir Hornet! he ſhould be welcome to the laſt farthing I have in the world.

Should he, old Trupenny!—Then give me thy hand—thou ſhalt be remembered in my codicil—but what—he ſhalt be remembered in my codicil—but what—he ſhakes his elbow I ſup⯑poſe, hey?—Seven's the main?

Ah, lackaday, Sir Hornet! what between main and chance he has been ſadly nicked.

Has he!—I'll ſcore his loſings upon his pate, a dog—that is, if he will let me—But where is Miſs Turnbull?—She'll ſoon reform him, her angelic ſmiles will teach him—

Sir!

Sir!—Zounds, you ſtare like the wooden heads of the twelve Caeſars—Miſs Turn⯑bull's charms, I ſay, will find employment for all his virtues, and wean him from all his vices.

Will they, Sir?

Will they, Sir! Yes they will, Sir.

Lackaday!

Lackaday!—What ails you?

Nothing, Sir, nothing—only that I am afraid my eyes begin to grow very dim.

Your head, I believe, begins to grow very thick.

Ah, lackaday, Sir, like enough—like enough!

Be kind enough to anſwer me a few queſtions?—Is not Miſs Turnbull a beautiful girl?

May I ſpak truth?

MAY you ſpeak truth! to be ſure you MAY.

Then I anſwer, No, Sir.

No!

Is ſhe not an elegant girl?

No.

Nor a witty girl?

No.

No!

No.

No!!

No.

Tolderol lol!—Tititum!—Pray what is ſhe in your opinion?

A ſilly, ignorant, ill-bred, country girl, and very unfit for Sir Harry's wife.

Tolderolol—laditum—Let me look in your face—Yes, yes—he has it—the moon's al⯑moſt at full—Poor Lackaday!—which is your right hand?—

Indeed! wonder⯑ful!—And are you really in your ſober ſenſes?

Why, indeed, Sir, I begin to be rather in doubt—I believe ſo—but leſt I ſhould loſe them, I will wiſh your honour a good morning.

Lackaday—ha! ha!—Not beautiful—nor witty—nor—tolderol lol—The old fool has a mind to ſet up for a wit, and has began by bantering ME—Zounds, I was neither drunk nor mad—and, to the beſt of my knowledge, I am not now in a dream—The brother, indeed, is a booby; and does not appear to be of the ſame family—hardly of the ſame ſpecies—tho' he had ſenſe enough to ſnap at the offer immediately—I remarked he did [39]not ſtand on ceremony—Surely I have made no miſtake in the buſineſs—s'blood if it prove ſo!—Parſon Adams the ſecond—I ſhall—hey?—Who's this?—No—no, no—it is—'tis ſhe, herſelf, in propria perſ.—

—Miſs Turnbull, I moſt heartily rejoice to ſee you.

Miſs Turnbull!

Your preſence has relieved me from one of the oddeſt qualms—But the ſight of you has given me a cordial.

What do you mean, Sir Hornet?

Mean, my angel! why here has been a bantering, lying, aenigmatical ſon of a ſcoundrel, with a bundle of ironical, diabolical tales, railing at your beauty and accompliſhments, till egad, I began to fancy my fine-flavoured pine⯑apple a crab.

This is delightful!—I half ſuſpected this, from the firſt—But the miſtake is ſo pleaſant, that I cannot find in my heart to undeceive him

.—There is no anſwering for the difference of taſte, Sir.

True—Aſſes prefer thiſtles to nec⯑tarines—But yet he muſt be an aſs indeed, who could not diſtinguiſh St. Paul's from the pillory.

Taſte, Sir Hornet, is a ſort of ſhot ſilk, and has a variety of ſhades—a camelion—one ſays 'tis blue, another black, and a third is poſi⯑tive 'tis yellow—every body has it, yet nobody can tell what it is—Like ſpace, it is undeſcrib⯑able, tho' all allow there is ſuch a thing—It would be a vain attempt, therefore, for Miſs Turn⯑bull to endeavour to pleaſe the whole world.

An old booby—I would not give a hair of the pope's beard to pleaſe him—But how is it with Sir Harry—Is HE in raptures? Is HE dying for you?

No, Sir—he eats and drinks as uſual, and is, for aught I can diſcover, in tolerable good health.

Is he!—an audacious dog!—in good health!—If I find him in good health, I'll piſtol him—But you miſtake the matter, perhaps—The raſcal's proud, and not willing you ſhould ſee his ſufferings—He is a ſtricken deer, and ſheds his tears in ſolitude and ſilence, mayhap—Do you diſcover no ſymptoms of the ſighing ſwain?—Does he never cut his fingers—or ſcald him⯑ſelf—or run againſt a poſt, and beg its pardon?

No, Sir.

I doubt he is a ſad dog—But no—no, no—I am certain he adores you—'Tis im⯑poſſible he ſhould do otherwiſe—But there is another material point, about which I am not quite ſo certain.

What is that, Sir?

Has he found any place in your af⯑fections?—'Tis true, he's a fine fellow—I don't mean, by that, one that is pickled in coſmetics—preſerved in muſk and marechal powder, and that will melt away, like Lot's wife, in the firſt hard ſhower—None of your fellows that are too va⯑liant to give a woman the wall, and too witty to let her have the laſt word—But one that is—In ſhort, his own manner will beſt deſcribe what he is.

True, Sir Hornet, but the time has been ſo ſhort.

Short!—Ah, Madam, if he did not do the buſineſs with a coup d'oeil—at once—I would not give a feather of a gooſe-wing for all the ar⯑rows his Cupid has in his quiver—But come, Miſs Turnbull—I know you are above the ſilly prejudices that ordinary minds are ſwayed by— [41]tell me ſincerely—Has he made any impreſſion on your heart?—Is he the man?

To ſpeak ingenuouſly, Sir Hornet, that is a point entirely undetermined, at preſent.

Undetermined!—why!—what!

Sir Harry's perſon is engaging, his man⯑ners delightful, and his underſtanding unexcep⯑tionable.

Bravo! my dear girl!—you charm me to hear you ſay ſo!

I will ſay more, Sir Hornet—I find my heart intereſted in his behalf, and, ſincerely be⯑lieve, I ſhall never ſee another man with whom I could be half ſo happy.

My dear Miſs Turnbull!

But yet, I have too many reaſons to fear, it will be impoſſible we ſhould ever be united.

Impoſſible!

I do moſt firmly believe, Sir Harry poſ⯑ſeſſes a thouſand virtues, but they are all tinged, diſcoloured by a failing, which if not in its own nature as erroneous as ſome other vices, is more deſtructive than any.

I underſtand you.

This will for ever deter a woman, who values her own peace and welfare, from cheriſhing a paſſion that muſt, in its conſequences, be ſo fatal.

But you, my angel, will ſoon cure him of this—It is not a rooted vice—

Permanently—or my intelligence ſays falſe—When he loſes, there is no poſſibility of perſuading him to deſiſt—the recollection of his loſs preys upon his mind, and had he the Indies, he would ſet it upon the chance of a card, the turn of a guinea, or the caſt of a die.

Well, but we have hopes that Mr. Oſborne will find means to reclaim him—he is [42]continually with him, continually warning him, and—

Subtlety, and refined artifice!—Mr. Oſborne, Sir Hornet, is an intereſted phyſician, and would rather encourage than cure the diſeaſe.

Heaven forbid!—But who informs you of this!

Thoſe who are in the ſecret, I aſſure you, Sir—I am afraid Mr. Oſborne is a wicked man—He is—what I dare not ſpeak.

I confeſs you alarm me, tho' I hope without cauſe—Oſborne aſſumes every ap⯑pearance of rigid virtue; and, if this were true, he would be the worſt of villains—However, ſuſpend your opinion awhile—I'll ſoon ſift the affair—And, in the mean time, let me beg of you to think as well of Sir Harry as your doubts will permit you.

I ſhall do that, Sir Hornet, without an effort.

Why, turtle!—why,—Ah! Sir Hornet—I am glad to ſee you.

Ah, ha—friend Van!—Why you look tolerably well.

Tolerably well!—Ay, to be ſure—Why ſhould I not?

Why ſhould you not?—Let me ſee—There are, as near as I can gueſs, about ſeventy reaſons why you ſhould not.

Humph—Oh—what my age!—No, no—Let me tell you, Sir Hornet, I—I am not an old man.

No!

No;—nor you neither.

Indeed!—I am exceedingly glad of that—and pray when did you make this diſ⯑covery?

Make it—why I have been making it theſe twenty years and upwards.

Oh, ho!—And how do you prove it?

By compariſon and reflection—I'll tell you—hold—first I'll ſhew you—what I call MY liſt of worthies—there—look at that—

What the devil have we here!—

"PATRICK O'NEAL—married, for the ſeventh time, at the age of one hundred and thir⯑teen—walks without a cane, never idle—children and great great grand-children, to the number of—one hundred and twenty-three!"

There's a fellow!—I warrant that man is alive and hearty at this moment.

Humph!—And pray, do you think to imitate this worthy, as you call him?—Will you be married ſeven times, and have a hundred and twenty-three children?

That's more than I can tell.

Ha!—

‘THOMAS PAR, being aged one hundred and twenty, fell in love with Catherine Milton.’

Ay, and did penance in a white ſheet at the church door.

Humph—"HENRY JENKINS."

Ay!—there's another!—corrected his great grandſon, a youth of ſeventy, with his own hand, for being idle.

"JOHANNES DE TEMPORIBUS, or JOHN OF TIMES, armour-bearer to the emperor [44]Charlemagne, died, aged three hundred threeſcore and one year.

Very well now tell me—When you compare me to Johannes de Temporibus, that is, when you compare ſixty-ſeven to three hundred threeſcore and one, can you ſay I am an old man?

An old man!—By the beard of Methuſelah thou art ſcarce an infant—it will be perhaps theſe five years yet before thou art per⯑fectly a child.

Nay, Sir Hornet, let me beg of you to be ſerious—you are an old friend, and know the world—I ſhall be glad of your advice—I ruminate on theſe things by myſelf, till I am quite melancholy—Now, if I had but ſomebody to bear half my griefs, I ſhould ſuppoſe—they would be leſſened.

Why true, as you ſay, one would imagine ſo.

Don't you think then, if I were to take a handſome—young—wife—I ſhould, per⯑haps, find a cure for all my ills?

An infallible one.

And this is, ſeriouſly, your opi⯑nion.

Seriouſly.

Then tell me—You were talking with the young lady that went out as I entered.

Well! what of her.

Is ſhe not very beautiful?

A divinity.

Finely accompliſhed?

Beyond deſcription.

That's right!—You are a ſenſible, diſcerning man, Sir Hornet, and I am delighted to find you approve my choice.

YOUR choice!

MY choice—That is the young lady, you muſt know, to whom I intend to pay my addreſſes.

Your—your—your—your what?—

The Lady, I mean to marry.

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Nay, Sir Hornet!

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! all mad—every ſoul.

I don't underſtand!

Moſt reverend youth, I beg your pardon, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

You ſee things in a mighty ſtrange light, Sir Hornet.—Is it any miracle that a man ſhould love a beautiful woman?

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—love! Why thou'rt another AEtna—Cupid's burning mountain.—Your noſe has took fire at your fancy, and is become a beacon, to warn all young Gentlemen, of threefcore and ten, of the rocks and quickſands hid in the ſea of amorous deſires.

Upon my word, Sir Hornet, this is exceedingly ſtrange.

Ha! ha! ha!—You muſt excuſe me—What a roſy youth—Ha! ha! ha!—Hark ye, friend Vandervelt,

it's my opinion you have been bantering me rather.

Odd—that's a good thought,

—Bantering you, why, ay to be ſure, I have—ha! ha! ha!

Oh! you have?

Certainly, ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Didn't you perceive that before? Ha! ha! ha!

No, faith—ha! ha! ha!

That's a good joke, ha! ha! ha!

Excellent! ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha!—

Now, let us be ſerious.

With all my heart.

And I'll tell you a ſtory.

Do.

There was a certain antient perſonage, of my acquaintance, called Andrew Vandervelt—

What's your ſtory about me?

Give me leave, young gentleman, and you ſhall hear—Every body imagined him to be a prudent, ſedate, grave perſon, with a mode⯑rate ſhare of common ſenſe;

Well.

And, as it was evident his beard was grey, his limbs palſied, his ſkin ſhriveled, and his ſinews ſhrunk;

How, Sir Hornet!

They naturally concluded, he had made his will, wrote his epitaph, and beſpoke his coffin;

Mercy upon me!

But inſtead of meditating, like a pious Chriſtian, on the four laſt things, a crotchet takes him in the head, he buys a three-penny fiddle, ſcrapes a matrimonial jigg, claps a pair of horns upon his head, and curvets thro' the town, [47]the ſport of the mob, derided by the young, pitied by the old, and laughed at by all the world.

Heaven deliver me, what a picture! But you forget, Sir Hornet—Didn't I explain to you, that it was only a joke?

Oh! true—Ah, witty rogue!—well—adieu—I'll remember the joke—ha! ha! ha!

Ay, do—ha! ha! ha!

Oh! for a ſong to the tune of "Room for Cuckolds!"

SCENE I. A Chamber at Sir HARRY'S.

MAY the everlaſting curſe of heaven conſume thoſe imple⯑ments of hell—thoſe deceitful, infernal fiends—I'll never touch, never look on cards or dice again—If I ever make another bett, may all the hor⯑rors of a ruined fortune haunt me, ſleeping and waking—May I be pointed at by children, and pitied by ſharpers—Diſtraction! MAY I be—I AM already, ruined, paſt redemption.

—Um—Um—Stay, Sir

)—Damnation! Is it poſſible! In league with ſharpers—Who brought this letter, Sir?

A porter, Sir.

Where is he?

Gone, Sir—he ran off round the corner in a hurry.

You may go, Sir.

You ſeem moved, Sir Harry; may I enquire the cauſe?

You are the cauſe, Sir.

I!

Yes, you—There, read, Sir.

—‘Beware of a falſe friend—the perſon who gives you this caution, would ſacrifice a life to preſerve you from the deſtruc⯑tion that threatens you—Mr. Oſborne is in league with Jews and ſharpers, and you are a victim to his avarice and duplicity.’—So, ſo—

—Well, Sir Harry, do you give any credit to this epiſtle?

Nay, Sir, you are to tell me how much, or how little, credit it deſerves.

Why look you, Sir Harry, I cannot, nor I will not, enter into explanations—

Sir!—Cannot, nor will not, enter into explanations!

No, Sir.

But I ſay, Sir, you ſhall.

Shall!

Yes, Sir, ſhall.

Ay, Sir—Who is he that SHALL make me?

I am he, Sir.

Indeed!

Friendſhip, honour, honeſty, ought to make you—but preſent appearances declare you void of theſe.

Preſent appearances declare you void of reaſon, Sir, otherwiſe you would remember me for one of thoſe who are not to be terrified by a loud tongue, or an angry brow—I repeat it—I will not now enter into explanations—I have [50]played with you, I have ſtaked MY money, and won YOURS—Would it have been diſhonourable had you won mine? I have diſpoſed of that mo⯑ney as I thought proper.—No matter whether with Jews or Chriſtians; and, I ſhould have ſuppoſed, your paſſion and ſuſpicion would have required better proof, than the malevolent aſperſon of an anonymous letter, ere they ought to have incited you to a quarrel with your friend.

I beg your pardon, dear Oſborne—I am to blame—nothing but the ſeverity of my late loſſes can plead for me—I know you to be a noble-hearted, worthy fellow, and explanations, on ſuch an accuſation, are as much beneath you to give, as me to demand—forget my ſilly warmth, it is my weakneſs.

Do you forget the cauſe on't, Harry, and it is forgot.

It was madneſs—I am above ſuſ⯑picion—'tis ungenerous—'tis damnable—pray excuſe—pray forgive me.

Well, well, think no more on't—only guard againſt ſuſpicion for the future.

No, no—it cannot be—there is an open fortitude in his manner—a boldneſs that can only reſult from innocence.

Oh, brother, I am glad I have found you—Why did you ſend theſe troubleſome things to me? Why did not you take care of them for me? Truſt a giddy girl indeed with a parcel of bank bills—here, here, here they are—take 'em—take 'em—they will be ſafe with you—I have been in a panic, ever ſince they were in my poſ⯑ſeſſion, [51]leſt they ſhould take wing, and fly thro' the key-hole, or ſome other unaccountable way—I am unuſed to ſuch large ſums, and don't feel happy while they are about me.

But what am I to do with them?

Keep them till to-morrow, and then, you know, when them too, to make it the more acceptable—there are juſt twenty, of one thouſand each.—So, now I am eaſy—good bye—I am go⯑ing to purchaſe a few knickknacks.

Well, but, ſiſter, Meliſſa. She's gone—flown on the light wings of innocence and happineſs—while I, depreſſed by .folly, feel a weight upon my heart, that hope itſelf cannot remove.—What is a ruined gameſter?—An ideot—who begins for his amuſement, who continues hoping to retrieve, and who is ruined before he can recollect himſelf—a wretch—deſerted, ſoli⯑tary, forlorn—aſhamed of ſociety, yet miſerable when alone—ſhunned by the proſperous—deſpiſ⯑ed by the prudent—deſervedly expoſed to the poiſoned ſhafts of inſolence and envy—a bye⯑word to the vulgar, and a jeſt to the fortunate—haunted by duns, preyed upon by uſurers, perſe⯑cuted and curſt by creditors.—Inexplicable infa⯑tuation!

SCENE another Apartment.

Mr. Turnbull, I muſt beg, Sir, you'll deſiſt—

Deziſt—why to be zure—I'll go and buy licenſe out o' hand—make hay while the zun [52]do zhine—and don't loſe the zheep for a ha'perth o'tar—what tho'—the pepper-box muſt ha' a lid—a buſhel o'words wunt vill a baſket—when the owl goes a hunting, 'tis time to light the candle.

Ha! ha! ha!—If you'll permit me, my dear, I think I can relieve you from this embar⯑raſſment.

Permit you!—I am ſure if you can, you ſhall be cannonized, and have churches erected to your memory.

I'll talk to him in his own language—he can comprehend no other.

Well, vair Lady.

Well, Zir.

You do zee how the nail do drive—Be you to be one at bridal?

No.

No!—Why zo?—you'ſt be bride⯑maid.

No but I wunt.

Wunt you?

No—nor you'ſt not be bridegroom nother.

No!

No.

How zo!

Becauſe you've zold the ſkin avore you've catch'd the vox—You've reckon'd your chickens bevore they be hatch'd

Nay, nay—ſtop at the dike—zure, I do knaw my own mind—an' Miſs be agreed.

But Miſs ben't agreed.

No!—That's a good joke—but ſhe be tho'.

But ſhe ben't tho'.

But I'm zure ſhe be.

But I'm zure ſhe ben't.

No!—Why Miſs—ben't you agreed?

No, Sir.

No!

You may gape, but the cherry won't drop—Too much mettle is dangerous in a blind horſe—Miſreckoning is no payment—John would a' wed, but Mary war na willing.

You ſeem ſurprized, Sir—I can only ſay, it is without reaſon—You have deceived yourſelf, in ſuppoſing ſuch an alliance poſſible, and I hope your own good ſenſe will inform you that, after this declaration, any renewal of your addreſſes to me, muſt be conſidered an inſult.

An' zo then—the meaning of all this vine ſpeech, I zuppoſe, is that you wunt ha' me?

It is.

"Make hay while the zun do zhine—Don't loſe the ſheep for a ha'p'erth of tar—A buſhel of words won't vill a baſket—When the owl goes a hunting, 'tis time to light the can⯑dle"—Your moſt obedient, gentle 'Squire—ha! ha! ha!

Zo then—It zeems I a been reckoning without my hoſt here—Well—What tho'—zoon hot zoon cold—zoon got zoon gone—Care's no cure—Zorrow won't pay a man's debts—He wanted a zinging bird, that gave a groat for a cuckoo—an' he that loſes a wife and zixpence, has loſt a teſter—

Why, Barbara! what be's the matter wi'thee? Where has thee been?

Been!—Why I a bin wildered.

What loſt!

Ees—an' if I had na' by good hap met wi' John, who has got direction in writ⯑ten hand, it were vive golden guineas to a braſs varchin I'ad been kidnapp'd, an' zent to Ame⯑rica, among the Turks.

Zerve thee right—thee muſt be gad⯑ding—But I a' news vor thee—the cow'as kick't down th' milk—It's all off 'tween Miſs and I—

Zure!—rabbit me an I didn't gueſs as much.

Ees—the nail's clench'd—Zhe and I a' zhook hands an' parted.

My gracious!—What won't yo' ha' zhe?

No—I wunt—Her may whiſtle, but I zhan't hear—her may beckon, but I zhan't come—Catch me an' ha' me, I'm no vool—Zo, do you zee, an' you be minded to wed, zay grace an' vall too, vor I don't like your London tricks, an' zo I'ſt leave it as vaſt as I can.

An' when be I to be wed?

Why, I do vind Zir Hornet be come, zo, when yo zee Zir Harry, yo' may zettle't—An', d'ye hear, Barbara—Don't let me vind yo' at any o'theſe ſkittiſh off an' on freaks—I a' zeen too much on 'um lately—Oh, here be Sir Harry coming—An' zo I'ſt leave you to make love your own way—I'ſt not play my ace o'trumps out yet.—

So—here's my good whimſical un⯑cle's Nonpareil, as he calls her—his phoenix—All alone, Miſs Turnbull?

Ees—Brother be juſt gone—A's vallen out wi Miſs, an a's plaguily frump'd.

Sure!

Ees—A zaid, too, at yo' an I be to make love—

He did!

Ees—and I do knaw his tricks—a'll be in a woundy rage, an I don't do as he bids me.

What, will he be ſurly?

Zurly!—a'll ſnarl worſer than our great dog Jowler at a beggar—

He is ill tempered then?

Oh, a'll zulk vor a vortnight round—an' when a comes about again, a'll make a believe to romp—an' then a' lumps—an' gripes—an' pinches—till I am quite a weary on't.

Well you may, I think—Poor thing

—and which way are we to make love?

My gracious! don't you knaw?

I believe I can give a gueſs—You, I ſuppoſe, are to hang down your head and titter.

Ees—

I—hem—and look ſheepiſh.

Ees.

You gnaw your apron—I twirl my thumbs.

He! he!—Ees.

You ſay—it's a very fine day, Sir, and I anſwer, Yes, Ma'am, only it rains.

He! he! he!—Ees—iveck, that be vor all the world the very moral of our country vaſhion—Oh! but here be zomebody coming—

Why, Harry, you dog, what have you hid yourſelf, becauſe you would not ſee me?

Dear Sir, I am exceedingly glad to ſee you, but it is not a quarter of an hour ſince I heard of your being in town; and I ſuppoſe, Sir, you will ſcarcely be angry at finding me in this company—

Finding you in!—Zounds, what auk⯑ward cargo of ruſticity has he got there?

A young lady from Somerſetſhire, with a tolerable good fortune, that Sir Harry, it is thought by ſome, intends to marry.

Marry!—He ſhould as ſoon marry the mummy of queen Semiramis.

She has been ſtrongly recommended to the family, Sir.

Recommended!—By whom!

By one you are very intimate with, and who has very great influence with Sir Harry, as well as with yourſelf.

Ay!—Who is that?—

Pardon me there, Sir Hornet.

Certainly the fellow cannot be fooliſh enough to admire her—but I ſhall ſoon diſcover that, by what, he thinks of you—harkee, Harry!

Sir!

I cannot, upon the whole, tell very well what to make of you—Are you thoroughly convinced that you are, at this inſtant, legally ca⯑pable of making your will?

My will, Sir!

Ay—Are you of ſound mind?

I believe ſo, Sir!

Then pray tell me, now we have you face to face, what is your opinion of Miſs Turnbull?

Sir!—That is by no means a queſ⯑tion proper to be anſwered in this company.

Pſhaw!—Damn your delicacy—Make your panegyric, and I'll bluſh for her and you too.

Sir, I have no panegyric to make.

Sir!

Even ſo.

Why you impudent confounded—Have you the barefaced effrontery, with ſuch a picture before your eyes, to—

You have applied the torture, and my own eaſe requires confeſſion.

Humph—And ſo you—Now pray all be attentive, for Bacon's brazen head is going to utter—So you do not think Miſs Turnbull a moſt engaging—

Why you intolerable—

I am concerned to ſee you ſo ſerious on the ſubject—I muſt acknowledge, that in this caſe, Sir, I have either a moſt perverſe or ſtupid imagination; and cannot, for the ſoul of me, diſ⯑cover the latent wonders in the young lady, which your better ſight has ſo diſtinct a view of.

Ha!

I am, however, exceedingly willing to try the utmoſt ſtrength of my faith, to believe as much as I can, and take the reſt for granted; provided you will not inflict the puniſhment of a wife upon my ſuperſtition.

Obliging youth!

—inflict the puniſhment of a wife upon your ſuperſtition—And ſo you think, no doubt, a wife a burthen, much too heavy for the back of ſo fine and pretty a town-made gentleman as yourfelf.

With the addition of Miſs Turnbull's accompliſhments, I moſt undoubtedly do, Sir.

You do—humph—Pray, moſt civil Sir—permit me to aſk—perhaps there may be ſome other lady, in this good company, to whom your profound penetration would give the preference.

If ſuch preference could, in the leaſt make me deſerving of her, I have no ſcruple to ſay there is.

Miracle of modeſty!—there is.

Moſt aſſuredly—But, tho' to poſſeſs the lady you hint at, would make me bleſt beyond deſcription, I have never dared to declare ſo much before, becauſe I am conſcious of being unworthy of ſuch a proſuſion of charms and accompliſh⯑ments.

Generous diffidence!

Charms and—What the devil is all this!—Where am I—at ſea, or on ſhore—Have I a calenture in my brain, or is this my noſe!—They—they call you Sir Harry Portland, don't they Sir?

And your nephew, Sir.

No—that's rather dubious—Well then, Mr. Harry, or Sir Harry, or what you pleaſe—You are pretty well convinced, I ſuppoſe, that I HAVE had ſome ſlight regard for you.

Perfectly, Sir, and remember it with gratitude.

That remains to be proved, friend—Ever ſince your father's death, if I don't miſ⯑take, I have been tolerably buſy, a little active, [59]or ſo, in forming your mind and manners, and moulding you into a ſort of being, a man might behold without bluſhing.

It is impoſſible, Sir, I ſhould ever forget your goodneſs, tho' I am happy to be re⯑minded of it.

That's a lie, I believe—However, Sir—among the reſt of my cares, I was anxious to find a woman worthy of you—Nay, ſo ſolicitous was I about adjuſting preliminaries, that tho' the gout had laid an embargo upon a parcel of my fingers and toes, I reſolved to forego my own eaſe, and ſet ſail immediately, that I might convoy you ſaſe into the harbour of happineſs.

I am very ſenſible of the benevolence of your intentions, Sir, and only wiſh you had done me the honour to—

Well, I have only a word or two more to ſay on the ſubject—I have been an enthu⯑ſiaſtic old blockhead, 'tis true, and was fool enough to think all men had eyes; however, if you have not either the complaiſance, the wit, or the love, to hit upon ſome expedient to make your peace with Miſs Turnbull, I will never ſee, never know, never ſpeak to you again. And now, Sir, you will act as your great wiſdom ſhall direct.

Indeed, Sir, I am diſtreſſed to ſee you ſo intent upon this buſineſ; I am exceeding⯑ly unhappy, to do the leaſt thing to incur your diſpleaſure—at this moment eſpecially—I have a thouſand reaſons to be diſatisfied with myſelf, and am grieved to add your anger to the lift—I would do any thing, in my power, to preſerve your friendſhip and affection; but this is too ſevere a taſk—I cannot totally forget common ſenſe—I cannot entirely command ſo delicate a paſſion, as that of love—A little time will diſ⯑cover, [60]whether I am ever to think of love or happineſs again!—Of this, however, I am cer⯑tain—I never can poſſeſs either with Miſs Turn⯑bull—

Indeed youngſter! ſo reſolute!

What a noble fortitude!

We ſhall ſee who will firſt read their recantation—An inſenſible blind puppy—I'll be a greater torment to him, than a beadle to a beg⯑gar—a cat to a rat—or a candle to a moth—I'll ſinge his wings—I'll plague him worſe than Moſes did the Egyptians.

Oh, Sir Hornet! you'll ſoon be of another opinion.

Never—never—never.—

However, let him act as he will, Miſs Turnbull ſhall have no cauſe to repent her coming to London.

What! will yo' take me to zee the zights?

Who the devil bade that gooſe cackle?

A curſt idiot—or I have no ſkill in phyſiognomy.

What, Barbara!—Ees—that her be—tho' no vool, neather—her do knaw better than to thatch her houſe wi' pancakes.

Pſhaw—Miſs Turnbull!

Ees—I be here.

Again!—

Give me leave, I ſay, dear Miſs Turnbull, to—

Hey! Sir Hornet!

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Why!—what!—

You don't take my turtle for Miſs Turnbull, ſure?

Your turtle!—I don't know what you mean by your turtle; but I take this young lady for Miſs Turnbull, ſure.

You do!

Yes—I do.

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Why—what the devil—hey—why ſure—

Ah! ha! ha! ha! ha!—This is a good joke.

A good joke!—Why, Madam—'Squire—Zounds—

Ah! ha! ha! ha! ha!—I would not have miſſed this for a thouſand pounds in new coined guineas.

Mr. Turnbull—Sir—Is not this your ſiſter, Sir?—

Ziſter!

Yes.

What thic!

Yes.

Thic Barbara!

Zounds, yes, I tell you.

Why no, to be zure—thic be Barbara.

Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!—the biter bit—the fleerer fleer'd—ha! ha! ha! ha!

Thic be Barbara—

Ees—Thic be Barbara—

Ees—I be Barbara.

Why, what a numſkull your ne⯑phew is, Sir Hornet!

Do you think ſo?

A blind, inſenſible puppy!

Is he?

But you'll torment him—you'll ſinge his wings—you'll plague him worſe than Moſes did the Egyptians—What a diſcovery!

Oh, yes—I have made more diſ⯑coveries!

Ay, what are they?

Why the firſt is—You're an old fool—the next is—I am another—and the third is, that we are not the only two fools in com⯑pany.

Barbara.

Ees.

How does thee like London?

I knaw not—It do zeem a ſtrange place.

A ſtrange place?

Ees—I do think it be.

Thee doſt.

Ees.

An' zo do I—whereby, doſt zee, I'll get out on't as vaſt as I can—a pretty chace, as the man zaid that rode vifty miles a'ter a wild gooſe.—London!—an' this be London, the devil take London—come, pack up thy ribbands an' vlappets, an' make thy zel ready.

Neea, zure—you wunt go zo zoon.

Wunt I?—an' I ſtay in thic town to⯑night, I'll eat it vor breakvaſt to-morrow.

My gracious!

Come, come—don't ſtand mauxing and dawdling, but make thyzel ready.

Lord!—Why I a' zeen nothing yet.

No—nor nothing thee zhalt zee—that I promiſe thee—zo ſtir thy ſtumps, I tell thee.

My gracious!—Mun I go down into 't country again like a vool, an' ha' nothing to zay vor myzel?

Why look thee, Barbara—come along—vor thee have come up like a vool, zo there can be no harm in thy going down like a vool.

SCENE I. A Library in Sir HARRY'S Houſe.

INDEED, Sir, you have always been the beſt of maſters to me.

No, Timid, no—I have been a very weak, idle, fellow; and have put it out of my power to be a good maſter to any one.

Lackaday, Sir—don't ſay ſo—I am afraid I have been a bad ſervant—a very bad ſervant—

Never—

Lackaday Sir, you don't know—you don't know—Lackaday, I thought all for the beſt—

You have only done what I com⯑manded.

To be ſure, Sir—but, lackaday—I wiſh I durſt open my mind to him—I am terrified—he will never believe me innocent.

My ruin is all my own work—Here, Mr. Timid, take this ring and remember me—It may be the laſt preſent I ſhall ever make you.

Pray don't ſay ſo, Sir—I am terrified.

I am going to Mr. Oſborne's.

To Mr. Oſborne's!

Yes—If you ſhould not ſee me to⯑morrow morning—if any accident ſhould hap⯑pen—

Lackaday!

Give the ſtate of my affairs, which I ordered you to draw up, to my uncle, and this picture to Clara, the young lady that is with him.

Sir! What do you mean?

Oh, nothing, nothing—I'm not very well—I—a ſlight ſwimming in my head—that's all—but there is no knowing what may happen.

Lackaday, Sir, you terrify me—You talk like a dying man making his will.

No, no,—not ſo—I have nothing to leave—And as to dying—men muſt die—live as long as they can, they muſt all die at laſt—

Shall I go for Sir Hornet, or your ſiſter, or the young lady?

No—no young ladies for—Oh!

Lackaday! my heart aches!

I am going to Mr. Oſborne's, pre⯑ſently.

Lackaday—I wiſh he knew—I'll take the mortgage of the Kentiſh eſtate—Mr. Oſborne ordered me to bring it—I'll lay it open on Mr. Oſborne's table—I hope my dear maſter will ſee it—I hope he will diſcover all.

Heigho—

Dear Sir, don't ſigh ſo—don't look ſo—tell me what I can do to ſerve you—to oblige you—to make you happier?

Nothing—nothing—paſt hope—paſt cure—quite, quite—

Lackaday!

A thoughtleſs—profligate—idle—diſſipated fellow—Oh my head—my head—

I cannot bear to ſee him ſo—I'll hurry to Mr. Oſborne's—I'll try if I can yet perſuade him to be a true friend—I'll beg, I'll pray, I'll go down on my knees—I'll do any thing.

Clara! an angel! a cherub! And what am I? Well, well, it will ſoon be all over—there will be a ſudden ſtop—a ſpeedy end—

So happy—Heaven—Heaven increaſe your joys!—mine are for ever fled—light laughter, innocent ſmiles, and ſocial mirth are fled for ever, for ever—Oh folly!—Oh madneſs!

Ay, ay, pray laugh, laugh heartily, I beſeech you—I deſerve, and I deſire no mercy.

It is one of the oddeſt adventures.

How the deuce could you miſtake that blowzabel, Miſs Turnbull, for my turtle?

Why true, as you ſay, friend Van: but that happens to be a blunder which I never did, nor ever could make. I ſhould as ſoon take myſelf for a king, or you for a conjuror. I only miſtook this lady to be Miſs Turnbull, not Miſs Turnbull to be this lady.

Miſtook Miſs Turnbull and this lady, and—I don't underſtand it.

Be kind enough, Sir Hornet, to explain the matter.

You remember, Madam, I had ſome converſation with you in the rooms at Bath.

Perſectly—

And you could not but perceive how forcibly I was ſtruck with your wit, beauty, and accompliſhments.

I recollect you were very polite, Sir, and were pleaſed to ſay abundance of obliging things.

Not half ſo many as I thought, I aſſure you, Madam.

Well ſaid, Sir Hornet——My old friend is quite enamoured with you, turtle.

Yes, Sir, ſo I am—though I do not intend to marry the lady.

Hem!

My grand object, the thing that, of all others, I have moſt at heart, is to ſee my ne⯑phew, Sir Harry, happy—As for myſelf, I feel I am growing old apace, and am almoſt tired of the farce of life.

Why ſo, Sir Hornet? I am ſure you play your part excellently.

No, no—I am rolling down hill apace, and as the firſt ſteep declivity may preci⯑pitate me to the bottom, there are certain affairs I wiſh to ſee finiſhed, one of which is the mar⯑riage of Sir Harry.

So the perſon you aſked concerning me, when I went out of the rooms, miſtook the queſ⯑tion, and thought you meant Miſs Turnbull?

So it appears, madam—And I was too much enraptured to ſtay to rectify miſtakes—when I negotiated the affair with 'Squire Turnbull, I ſtudiouſly avoided an interview with his ſuppoſed ſiſter, for fear the buſineſs ſhould wear a face of precipitate indelicacy.—And I thought if I could once bring you and Sir Harry together, I would leave the contingent poſſibilities to love, and the ſuperior good qualities and penetration of the par⯑ties, [68]which I, rationally enough, concluded could not fail to produce the deſired effect.

But, Sir Hornet, how did it happen that you did not enquire of me myſelf who I was?

Why faith, madam, I had been ſo particular with you, and had ſpoken ſo freely on the ſubjects of love and matrimony, that I was afraid, if I made thoſe kind of enquiries, you would miſtake the matter, perhaps, and think I wanted to make love to you in my own proper perſon. Hey, young Van—

Heigho!

Oh! no, Sir Hornet—I aſſure you, I had a better opinion of your underſtanding.

Hem!

Certainly, had I been capable of ſuch a whim, I ſhould have made myſelf curs'd ridiculous, Hey, young Van—

Beyound diſpute!

Heigho!

Heyday! What's the matter with you, old Lackaday?

I'm terrified—I'm terrified—I'm ter⯑rified!—

Terrified!—what's the matter?—Zounds! why don't you ſpeak?

Lackaday—I can't—I can't ſpeak.

Make ſigns then.

I'm a miſerable old man—I ran all the way to tell you—

What?

Mr. Oſborne!

Mr. Oſborne! What of him?

Lackaday—Sir Harry!

Heavens!—A duel.

I have put my truſt in man, and am deceived—I have lean'd upon a reed, and am fal⯑len—I have ſeen the ſhadow of friendſhip, and—

Curſelight on your metaphors; come to facts—What of Oſborne? What of Sir Harry? Where are they? What have they done? What are they doing?

Gambling!

How!

I was at Mr. Oſborne's when Sir Harry came—I was there with the mortgage of the Kentiſh eſtate.

Of what?

It was executed this very day—I am a miſerable old man—all loſt!

Loſt!

Lackaday! that's not all—I went into the next room, and heard Sir Harry go to gaming, with a gang of ſharpers that were there on purpoſe—Sir Harry had loſt every thing he had in the world—Mr. Oſborne has got all—All the mort⯑gages of all his eſtates—I ſaw 'em—left 'em all in a box on his table.

Mortgages of all his eſtates! Per⯑dition!—How did he get them?—How came you to know?

Lackaday! I am terrified—I dare not tell—I am an accomplice!—A wicked, innocent, miſerable old man.

Damnation! Order the coach there—I'll tear him to atoms—I'll rend him piecemeal—my poor boy—an intolerable villain!—Dear Madam, you don't know what I feel.

Pardon me, Sir Hornet, if you knew my heart, you would not ſay ſo—I deteſt the treachery of Mr. Oſborne as much as you do; and, woman as I [70]am, would riſk my life to ſee it properly pu⯑niſhed.

A ſmooth tongued, hypocritical villain, that owes his life to my boy.

Dear Sir Hornet, excuſe my weakneſs—I am in the utmoſt terror—in dread of conſe⯑quences ſtill more fatal.

Lackaday, Sir, ſo am I—I am terrified—Sir Harry gave me this ring for a remembrance, and bade me deliver this picture to you, Madam—

—It is his own—

He look'd ſo melancholy, and ſo furi⯑ous—He had his piſtols.

His piſtols!—Oh for pity's ſake, Sir Hornet, let us fly.

Inſtantly.

I'm a miſerable old man.

SCENE II. MR. OSBORNE'S Houſe.

How now, Sir Harry—What is the cauſe of this ſudden phrenzy? Why expoſe your want of temper and fortitude thus to the com⯑pany?—You have driven them away—they are all going—

Oh! horror!

If you muſt wreak vengeance on your⯑ſelf, let it be a becoming one at leaſt.

Inſupportable horror!

Fie, fie, recover your temper—be, or ſeem to be a man—What—You knew you were ruined before this event.

Oh, Oſborne! Oh, Meliſſa! I can⯑not ſpeak—I cannot utter it—I'm a wretch—a villain—the meaneſt—the worſt of villains—and infamy—eternal infamy is mine.

Why, what have you done?

Ruined you—ruin'd my ſiſter—

How!

And branded myſelf, everlaſtingly, a villain.

Ruin'd me! ruin'd your ſiſter! which way?

The money I have loſt within—

Well.

Is her's—Is your's.

Mine!

Meliſſa's—her fortune—She put it into my hand this very day—

Damnation!

Have compaſſion on me—give me the piſtols, let me at once put an end to my mi⯑ſery and ſhame.

Thoughtleſs, weak man! Do you think the momentary pang of death a ſufficient puniſhment for the ruin and diſtruction you have entailed upon all thoſe who have had the misfor⯑tune to love, or to be related to you? Do you think that to DIE, and to forget at once your in⯑famy and crimes, is a compenſation for the havoc you have made with the peace and property of thoſe who were deareſt to you, who muſt LIVE to feel the effect of your vices, and bear, unjuſtly, the reproach of your abandoned conduct—

Oh torture!

Was it not enough that you had re⯑duced yourſelf, from affluence and honour, to con⯑tempt and beggary, but you muſt wantonly, wickedly, ſport with what was not your own; [72]and involve the innocent and unborn in your wretchedneſs?—Shall not your ſiſter's offspring, whom your intemperance ſhall have reduced to poverty and miſery, deteſt your memory, and imprecate curſes on your name?

Oh hell!

Where are they? which is the room? So, Mr. Lucifer—Could you decoy your friend to no other place to rob him, but your own houſe?

Did you addreſs yourſelf to me, Sir Hornet.

Yes, I did, Sir Satan, and if—

Dear Sir, forbear—I alone am the proper object of anger—of vengeance—a wretch—a deſpiſed and miſerable outcaſt; and bitterneſs and deſpair are deſervedly my portion.

You are a dupe—a poor ſaſcinated fool—you have beheld the ſerpent's mouth open, have felt the inſluence of his poiſonous breath, yet ſtupidly dropt into his ravenous jaws, and ſung a requiem to your own deſtruction.

You are liberal, Sir, of your epithets and accuſations. What do you mean by them?

Horrible impudence! Have you not taken a vile, a raſcally advantage of the want of temper in the man, for whom you profeſt the moſt perfect friendſhip? Have you not ſtripped him of his eſtate, by the moſt villainous arts, by plotting with Jews and ſcoundrels?

Your talk loud, Sir.

Oſborne! plotting! the letter then was true!

Yes, plotting!—He is the princi⯑pal, the leader of the helliſh gang that has been plundering you.

Well, Sir!—ſuppoſe it—What then?

What then! Halters!—

Why ſo, Sir!—He has perſiſted in bringing deſtruction upon himſelf, and muſt ſuffer the effects of his obſtinacy—What crime was there in my receiving what he was reſolved to throw away. He had not been a month returned from his travels, before his paſſion for play made him the jeſt of every polite ſharper in town—They ſaw there was an eſtate to be ſcrambled for, and every one was induſtrious to obtain a ſhare—After ſquandering a part of his fortune among theſe ad⯑venturers, he engaged at play with me; and after loſing one ſum, was never eaſy till he had loſt ano⯑ther—Am I then to be accountable for his folly?

Infernal treachery! Dares he avow it!

Dare! Yes Sir—I dare.

Righteous heaven! Is there no peculiar, no quick vengeance for ingratitude?

The deeds, the annuities you have granted, the mortgages you have made, are in his poſſeſſion—he owns—he has them all—

He!

Yes, Sir—I.

Madneſs! remember and beware—remember and tremble, tho' I have no longer the fortune of Sir Harry Portland, I have ſtill Harry's ſpirit, and dare chaſtiſe inſolence and perfidy yet—

No doubt—The man who is raſh enough to riſk his eſtate upon the chance of a die, has generally valour enough to wiſh to cut the winners throat—Friendſhip is no protection.

Friendſhip! Monſtrous proſtitution! Friendſhip! Deeds Mr. Oſborne are the beſt proofs [74]of friendſhip, and that, preacher will gain but little credit, who is a detected villain, while he is deſcribing the fitneſs and beauty of moral virtue.

Friendſhip! Where are the deeds, the mortgages?

There they are, Sir—

They are mine—the annuities he has granted, and the mortgages he has made are mine—his effects are mine—his houſes are mine, his eſtates are mine, his notes are mine, his ALL is mine; except his poverty and ſpirit, which, as he ſays are his own.

Heavens! muſt I bear this?

Oh! for ratſbane or hemp—

Nay more, Sir

I was not only aware, but certain of my own ſuperior addreſs, or I had not been weak enough to have riſqued any part of my fortune—I have not yet acquired your heroic contempt for riches; as it was, I uſed, every art to ſtimulate and incite you to play—took every advantage, ſtudied every trick, improved every lucky chance, and rejoiced at every and all of your loſſes, 'till I had you totally in my power—I beheld diſtreſs accumulating on your head, and was happy at it; re⯑marked the agitation of your mind, and increaſed it; ſaw the inſirmity of your temper, and aggra⯑vated it.

Damnation!—Are you a man?

Try me.

Dare you give me the ſatisfaction—the revenge of a man?

I'll give it you inſtantly, Sir—

[75]There, there lies your revenge—there is your ſatisfaction—take them—remember your ſormer folly, and be happy—

Sir!

What!

Aſtoniſhment!

Why do you ſeem ſurprized?—my heart is your's, my life is your's—I owe you every thing—A debt which never can be repaid, and never will be forgotten.—When ſinking beneath the murderous hand of villainy, it was the bene⯑volent ardor of your ſoul, it was the intrepid valour of your arm that reſcued me.

Generous friend!

In that box is contained all that I have ever won of you, and almoſt all you have ever loſt—I have become and aſſociate with ſharpers to pro⯑tect you from them, and by ſacrificing a little, have preſerved the reſt. I have worn the maſk till it is become too painful, and now gladly caſt it off.—

If my conduct has yet a dubious appearance—I have a witneſs that will inſtantly be credited.

My brother!

Siſter! Oſborne!

Oh my heart!

Tol der rol.

Lackaday!—I'm a happy old man!—He's a true friend!—he's a true friend!—I'm a happy old man!

Can you too, ſiſter, forgive my fol⯑ly? You that I have injured ſo unpardonably?

Dear brother, you are not ſo guilty as you ſuppoſe—it was a plot upon you; you were [76]led into it, to ſhew you what a loſing gameſter is capable of?

Hark you, Sir?

All the mortgages and deeds are there, you ſay?

All, Sir—together with whatever mo⯑ney elſe has, at any time, been won of him, ſince I have been concerned in this tranſaction.

All in that box?

All.

I'm a happy old man.

My dear uncle!

Let me alone—Tol der rol—

Will you forgive me, Oſborne? Will you? Will you forgive my boy?

Oſborne!—I cannot ſpeak—

Indeed, Mr. Oſborne, I don't know how to tell you what I think—Eſteem—admiration—veneration—are poor expreſſions to convey my feelings—I have been miſtaken and to blame—I trembled for Sir Harry, I raſhly condemned you, and wrote a letter—

Dear Madam, was that letter your's?

It was.

How much obliged am I to you, and to you all.

I am ſorry, I was to blame.

Nay, Madam—Nobody was to blame—Angels are actuated by motives like your's, and if they never err, it is becauſe they have com⯑merce with angels only.—And now, dear Harry, ſuffer me to ſay one word—Let this tranſaction be a powerful, an everlaſting memento to you.—Remember the blood that has been ſpilt in the moment of paſſion and diſtreſs, in conſequence of indulging in this ſhocking vice—Remember [77]the diſtracted wife, and widow's curſe, the orphans tears, the ſting of deſperation, and the red and impious hand of ſuicide; deſpiſe the folly that made the practice faſhionable; oppoſe its deſtruc⯑tive courſe, and for ever ſhun, for ever abominate, the deteſtable vice of gaming.

Profeſſions of reſolution, from me, Oſborne, come with an ill grace—I am aſhamed of my folly—I deſpis'd, even while I practiſed it; but the puniſhment you have inſlicted, has been ſo judicious, ſo ſeverely generous, I think I can ſafely ſay, there is no probability of a re⯑lapſe.

Well, but Harry, turn about—look at this lady—ſurely you have not forgot Miſs Turnbull—have you?

Your Miſs Turnbull, Sir, I ſhall never forget.

Oh! what you have heard the re⯑nowned hiſtory of my Bath adventure?

I have, Sir.

Well, and what ſay you to—hey my cherub—you told me, you know, you had no averſion to the fellow.

Nay, Sir Hornet, is that the part of a confidante?

Why, yes, it is—for, as I take it, a confidante is but a kind of a go-between to bring the parties together—And here comes the blooming youth—

here comes Johannes de Temporibus to ſecond the motion.

To ſecond what motion, Sir Hor⯑net?

A hymeneal motion.

Can't tell—who are the candi⯑dates?

Harry Portland and Clara Foreſter.

Hold, hold, Sir Hornet, not ſo faſt!—That lady is my ward.

Yes, and may, if ſhe pleaſes, be your wife.

Nay—I—I did not ſay ſo, Sir Hornet.

No, but I did, young Van—but hark you—

Reſign all your ſilly pretenſions peaceably, throw your worthies into the fire, and give up the lady to her lover; or you ſhall be held up, in terrorem, an object of ridicule, to frighten all the dangling, whining, old fools in chriſtendom, who are turned of three⯑ſcore.

Well, well, ſpeak in a lower key.

May I be certain of your conſent then?

Why, yes—yes—heigho:—

Dear Madam—this worthy old Gentleman, your guardian, moſt humbly im⯑plores you would have pity upon Sir Harry.

Did you ſay ſo, papa?

Me! no—

How?

N—not in thoſe exact words, but ſomething very like it, Turtle—heigho!—

Come, my dear Clara—Let me have the happineſs to call you ſiſter—

Let me intercede, Madam.

Pſhaw—here is every body interceding, but him that can intercede moſt to the purpoſe.

Forgive me, deareſt Clara—My fate is ſuſpended on your lips, and I am ſo con⯑ſcious of unworthineſs, and ſo much affected by the fear of a ſevere ſentence, that I have not power to plead for mercy.

Yes—but you have a partial, tender-hearted judge.

Ay—"and a wiſe young judge" too—

Well, well!—I cannot diſſemble. A generous heart, a noble mind, are ſeldom met and ſeldom merited. When happineſs like this preſents itſelf, to reject is not to deſerve it.