SCENE I. An Antichamber at Sir GEORGE SPLENDORVILLE's, adjoining a Ball room.

COME, come, is not every thing ready? Is not the ball-room prepared yet? It is paſt ten o'Clock.

We have only to fix up the new chande⯑delier.

I'll have no new chandelier.

My maſter ſaid the laſt ball he gave, the company were in the dark.

And if you blind them with too much light, they will be in the dark ſtill.

The muſicians, ſir, wiſh for ſome wine.

What, before the ball begins? No, tell them if they are tipſy at the end of if, it will be quite ſoon enough.

You are always ſo croſs, Mr. Blunty, when my maſter is going to have company.

Have not I a right to be croſs? For while the whole houſe is in good humour, if there was not one perſon croſs enough to take a little care, every thing would be waſted and ruined through extreme good temper.

Here, you —Miſter—Pray are you the perſon who was ſent with the chandelier?

Yes, ſir.

Then pleaſe to take it back again—We don't want it.

What is your objection to it, ſir?

It will coſt too much.

Mr. Bluntly, all the trades people are more frightened at you than at your maſter.—Sir George, Heaven bleſs him! never cares how much a thing coſts.

That is, becauſe he never cares whether he pays for it or not—but if he did, depend upon it he would be very particular. Tradeſmen all wiſh to be paid for their ware, don't they?

Certainly, ſir.

Then why will they force ſo many unne⯑ceſſary things, and make ſo many extravagant charges as to put all power of payment out of the queſtion?

How do you do, Mrs. Evans?

What makes you ſigh, Mr. Bluntly?

What makes you ſmile?

To ſee all the grand preparations for the ball this evening. I anticipate the joy my lady will take here, and I ſmile for her.

And I ſigh for my maſter.—I foreſee all the bills that will be brought in, for this evening's expence, and I anticipate the ſorrow it will one day be to him.

But conſider, Mr. Bluntly, your maſter has my lady's fortune to take.

Yes, but I conſider he has your lady to take along with it; and I prophecy one will ſick by him ſome time after the other is gone.

For ſhame.—My lady, I have no doubt, will ſoon cure Sir George of his extravagance.

It will then be by taking away the means. —Why, Lady Caroline is as extravagant as himſelf.

You are miſtaken.—She never gives routs, maſquerades, balls, or entertainments of any kind.

But ſhe conſtantly goes to them whenever ſhe is invited.

That, I call but a ſlight imprudence—She has no waſteful indiſcretions like Sir George. For inſtance, ſhe never makes a laviſh preſent.

No, but ſhe takes a laviſh preſent, as rea⯑dily as if ſhe did?

And ſurely you cannot call that impru⯑dence

No, I call it ſomething worſe.

Then, although ſhe loves gaming to diſ⯑traction, and plays deep, yet ſhe never loſes.

No, but ſhe always wins—and that I call ſomething worſe.

Here's the company. Will you permit me, Mr. Bluntly, to ſtand in one corner, and have a peep at them?

If you pleaſe.

What ſpirit there is in that, Rat, tat, tat, tat.—And what life, frolic, and joy, the whole houſe is going to ex⯑perience except myſelf. As for me, I am ready to cry at the thoughts of it all.

Here, the firſt of the company. I am ſorry for it.

Evans, what has brought you hither?

I came, my lady, to ſee the preparations making on your account—for it is upon your account alone, that Sir George gives this grand fê [...]e.

Why, I do flatter myſelf it is.—But where is he? What is it o'clock?—It was impoſſible to ſtay at the ſtupid opera.—How do I look? I once did intend to wear thoſe ſet of diamonds Sir George preſented me with the other morning—but then, I reflected again, that if—

Ah, my lady, what a charming thing to have ſuch a lover—Sir George prevents every wiſh— he muſt make the beſt of huſbands.

And yet my father wiſhes to break off the marriage—he talks of his prodigality—and, cer⯑tainly, Sir George lives above his income.

But then, Madam, ſo does every body elſe.

But Sir George ought undoubtedly to change his conduct, and not be thus continually giving balls and entertainments—and inviting to his table ac⯑quaintance, that not only come to devour his dinners and ſuppers, but him.

And there are people malicious enough to call your ladyſhip one of his devourers too.

As a treaty of marriage is ſo nearly concluded between us, I think, Mrs Evans, I am at liberty to viſit Sir George, or to receive his preſents, without having my character, or my delicacy called in queſtion.

The company are coming: is it not ſtrange he is not here to receive them.

Ladies, I entreat your pardon; dear Lady Caroline excuſe me. I have been in the coun⯑try all the morning, and have had ſcarce time to re⯑turn to town and dreſs for your reception.

Dear Lucre, I am glad to ſee you.

My dear Sir George, I had above ten engagements this evening, but they all gave place to your invitation.

Thank you.—My dear Lady Brid⯑get—

It is impoſſible to reſiſt an invitation from the moſt poliſhed man alive.

What a ſuperb dreſs!

and what an elegant deportment.

No, I am not in a ſtate to take any part at Pharo—I am ruin'd.—Would you believe it Sir George, I am not worth a farthing in the world.

Yes, I believed it long ago.

Now we are on that ſubject—could you lend me a hundred pounds?

I have about me, only this bill for two hundred.

That will do as well—I am not cir⯑cumſtantial.

And my dear Sir George command my purſe at any time—all it contains, will ever be at your ſervice.

I thank you.

Nay, though I have no money of my own, yet you know I can always raiſe friends—and by heaven! my dear Sir George, I often wiſh to ſee you reduced to my circumſtances, merely to prove how much I could, and would, do to ſerve you.

I ſincerely thank you.

And one can better aſk a favour for one's friend than for one's-ſelf, you know: for when one wants to borrow money on one's own account, there are ſo many little delicacies to get the better of—ſuch as I felt juſt now.—I was as pale as death, I dare ſay, when I aſked you for this money—did not you perceive I was?

I can't ſay I did.

But you muſt have obſerved I heſitated, and looked very fooliſh.

I thought for my part, that I looked as fooliſh.—But I hope I did not heſitate.

Nor ever will, when a friend applys to you, I'll anſwer for it—Nor ever ſhall a friend he⯑ſitate when you apply.

The obligations I am under to you for extricating me from that dangerous buſineſs—

Never name it.

Not only name it, Sir George, but ſhortly I hope to return the kindneſs; and, if I do but live—

Permit me to con⯑duct you to the next apartment.

Moſt willingly, Sir George. I was the firſt who arrived; which proves my eager⯑neſs to dance.

But let me hope, paſſion for dancing was not the only one, that cauſed your impatience.

Oh! there never was ſuch a man in the world as the maſter of this houſe; there never was ſuch a friendly, generous, noble heart; he has the beſt heart in the world, and the beſt taſte in dreſs.

SCENE II. An Apartment, which denotes the Po⯑verty of the Inhabitants. HENRY and ELEANOR diſcovered.

It is very late and very cold too, brother; and yet we have neither of us heart to bid each other good night.

No—beds were made for reſt.

And that noiſe of carriages and link-boys at Sir George Splendorville's, next door, would keep us awake, if our ſorrows did not.

The poor have ſtill more to complain of, when chance throws them thus near the rich,—it forces upon their minds a compariſon might drive them to deſpair, if—

—If they ſhould not have good ſenſe enough to reflect, that all this buſtle and ſhow of pleaſure, may fall very ſhort of happineſs; as all the diſtreſs we feel, has not yet, thank Heaven, reached to miſery.

What do you call it then?

A trial; ſent to make us patient.

It may make you ſo, but cannot me. Good morning to you.

Nay, it is night yet. Where are you go⯑ing?

I don't know.—To take a walk.—The ſtreets are not more uncomfortable than this place, and ſcarcely colder.

Oh, my dear brother! I cannot ex⯑preſs half the uneaſineſs I feel when you part from me, though but for the ſhorteſt ſpace.

Why?

Becauſe I know your temper; you are impatient under adverſity; you raſhly think provi⯑dence is unkind; and you would ſnatch thoſe favours, which are only valuable when beſtowed.

What do you mean?

Nay, do not be angry; but every time you go out into this tempting town, where ſuperflu⯑ous riches continually meet the eye of the poor, I tremble leſt you ſhould forfeit your honeſty for that, which Heaven decreed ſhould not belong to you.

And if I did, you would deſpiſe and deſert me?

No: not deſert you; for I am convinced you would only take, to bring to me; but this is to aſſure you, I do not want for any thing.

Not want?—Nor does my father?

Scarcely, while we viſit him. Every time he ſees us we make him happy; but he would never behold us again if we behaved unworthy of him.

What! baniſh us from a priſon?

And although it is a priſon, you could not be happy under ſuch a reſtriction.

Happy!—When was I happy laſt?

Yeſterday, when your father thanked you for your kindneſs to him. Did we not all three weep with affection for each other? and was not that hap⯑pineſs?

It was—nor will I give up ſuch ſatiſfaction for any enticement that can offer.—Be contented Eleanor,—for your ſake and my father's, I will be ho⯑neſt—Nay, more.—I will be ſcrupulouſly proud— and that line of conduct which my own honour could not force me to follow, my love so you and him, ſhall compel me to.—When, through neceſſity, I am tempted to plunder, your bluſhes and my father's an⯑guiſh ſhall hold my hand.—And when I am urged through impatience, to take away my own life, your lingering death and his, ſhall check the horrid ſug⯑geſtion, and I will live for you.

Then do not ever truſt yourſelf away, at leaſt from one of us.

Dear ſiſter! do you imagine that your power is leſs when ſeparated from me? Do you ſup⯑poſe I think leſs frequently on my father and his diſ⯑mal priſon, becauſe we are not always together? Oh! no! he comes even more forcibly to my thoughts in his abſence—and then, more bitterly do I feel his mi⯑ſery, than while the patient old man, before my eyes, talks to me of his conſolations; hi [...] in e [...]al comforts from a conſcience pure, a mind without malice, and a [12] heart, where every virtue occupy a place.—Therefore, do not fear that I ſhould forget either him or you, though I might poſſibly forget myſelf.

If before him I am cheerful, yet to myſelf I muſt complain.

And that ſound of feſ⯑tivity at the houſe adjoining is inſupportable! eſpeci⯑ally when I reflect that a very ſmall portion of what will be waſted there only this one night, would be ſuf⯑ficient to give my dear father liberty.

Who's there?

Open the door.

The voice of our landlord.

Is it you, Mr. Blackman?

Yes, open the door.

What a time have you made me wait I —And in the name of wonder, why do you lock your door? Have you any thing to loſe? Have not you already ſold all the furniture you brought hither? And are you afraid of being ſtolen yourſelf?

Is this the chamber?

Yes, Sir, yes, Mr. Bluntly, this is it.

This!

Why yes, ſir,—this is the only place I have left in my own houſe, ſince your maſter has been pleaſed to occupy that next door, while his own mag⯑nificent one has been repairing.—Lock yourſelf up, indeed!

—You have been continually aſking me for more rooms, Mr. Bluntly, and have not I made near half a dozen doors already from one houſe to the other, on purpoſe to accommo⯑date your good family.—Upon my hanour, I have not now a ſingle chamber but what I have let to theſe lodgers, and what I have abſolute occaſion for my⯑ſelf.

And if you do put yourſelf to a little inconvenience, Mr. Blackman, ſurely my maſter—

Your maſter, Mr. Bluntly, is a very good man—a very generous man—and I hope at leaſt he has found me a very lucky one; for good luck is all the recommendation which I, in my humble ſtation, aſpire to—and ſince I have been Sir George's attorney, I have gained him no leſs than two law-ſuits.

I know it. I know alſo that you have loſt him four.

We'll drop the ſubject.—And in regard to this room, ſir, it does not ſuit, you ſay?

No, for I feel the cold wind blow through every crevice.

But ſuppoſe I was to have it put a little into repair? That window, for inſtance, ſhall have a pane or two of glaſs put in; the cracks of the door ſhall be ſtopt up; and then every thing will have a very different appearance.

And why has not this been done before?

Would you have me be laying out my money, while I only let the place at a paltry price, to people who I am obliged to threaten to turn into the ſtreets every quarter, before I can get my rent from them?

Is that the ſituation of your lodgers at preſent?

Yes.—But they made a better appear⯑ance when they firſt came, or I bad not taken ſuch perſons to live thus near to your maſter.

That girl

ſeems very pretty—and I dare ſay my maſter would not care if he was nearer to her.

Pſhaw, pſhaw—ſhe is a poor creature— ſhe is in great diſtreſs. She is miſery itſelf.

I feel quite charmed with miſery.—Who belongs to her?

A young man who ſays he is her bro⯑ther—very likely he is not—but that I ſhould not en⯑quire about, if they could pay my rent. If people [15] will pay me, I don't care what they are.

I deſire you will tell your brother when he comes in, that I have occaſion for the money which will be due to me tomorrow—and if I don't receive it before to-morrow night, he muſt ſeek ſome other habitation.

Huſh, Mr. Blackman—if you ſpeak ſo loud, you will have our company in the next houſe hear you.

And if they did, do you think it would ſpoil their dancing? No, Mr. Bluntly.—And in that reſpect, I am a perſon of faſhion.—I never ſuffer any diſtreſs to interfere with my enjoyments.

Dear ſir, have but patience a little while longer.—Indeed, I hope you will loſe nothing.

I won't loſe any thing.

Sir, I would ſpeak a ſingle word to you, if you will be ſo good as to hear me?

Ay, ſtay and hear her.

But I wiſh to ſpeak to him by ourſelves.

Then I'll withdraw.

What have you to ſay?

Hear her, Mr. Blackman—or may none of her ſex ever liſten to you.

If it is only to entreat me to let you continue here, I am gone in an inſtant.—Come, ſpeak quickly, for I have no time to loſe—Come, ſpeak, ſpeak.

But are you reſolved to have no pity? You know in what a helpleſs ſituation we are—and the deplorable ſtate of my poor father.

Ay, I thought what you had to ſay— farew [...]l, farewel.

Oh! do not plunge us into more diſtreſs than we can bear; but open your heart to compaſſion.

I can't—'tis a thing I never did in my life.

Well, have you granted her requeſt?

I would do a great deal to oblige you, Mr. Bluntly—and if you will only give your word for the trifle of rent owing, why, I am not ſo hard-heart⯑ed but I will ſuffer her to ſtay.

Well, well,—I will give my word.

But remember, it is not to be put down [17] to your maſter's account, but to your own.—I am not to give credit.

Not am I to lay my brother under an obli⯑gation of this nature.

I thank you for your offer, ſir, but I cannot accept it.

What do you mean by that?

Perhaps ſhe is right.

My brother would reſent my acceptance of a favour from a ſtranger.

Your brother reſent! A poor man re⯑ſent! Did you ever hear of any body's regarding a poor man's reſentment?

No—nor a poor woman's prayers.

Yes, I will regard your prayers, if you will ſuffer this gentleman to be your friend.

Any acquaintance of your's, Mr. Black⯑man, I muſt diſtruſt.

Do you hear with what contempt ſhe treats us both?

But perhaps ſhe is right—at leaſt, in treating one of us ſo, I am ſure ſhe is—and I will for⯑give her wronging the one, for the ſake of her doing juſtice to the other.

Who are theſe?

"Who are theſe?" Did you ever hear ſuch impertinence?

Pray who are you, ſir?

I am a man.

Yes—but I am a lawyer.

Whatever you are, this apartment is mine, not your's—and I deſire you to leave it.

But to-morrow it will be mine, and then I ſhall deſire you to leave it, and force you to leave it.

Eleanor, retire to the other chamber; am I ſorry I left you.

And I am ſorry that I and my friend ſhould come here to be affronted.

Mr. Blackman, I won't be called names.

Names, ſir! What names did I call you?

Did not you call me your friend? I aſſure you, ſir, I am not uſed to be called names. I am but a ſervant whoſe character is every thing— and I'll let you know that I am not your friend.

Why, you blockhead, does not your maſter call himſelf my friend?

Yes, my maſter is a great man, and he can get a place without a character,—but if I loſe mine, I am ruined; therefore take care how you miſcal me for the future, for I aſſure you I won't bear it. I am not your friend, and you ſhall find I am not.

SCENE I. An Apartment at SIR GEORGE SPLEN⯑DORVILLE'S.

WHAT's o'clock?

Juſt noon, ſir.

Why was I waked ſo early?

You were not waked, ſir,—You rung.

Then it was in my ſleep—and could not you ſuppoſe ſo?—After going to bed at five, to make me riſe at noon!

What am I to do with myſelf, ſir, till it is time to go out for the evening?

You have company to dinner you know, ſir.

No, it is to ſupper—and what am I to do with myſelf till that time?

Company again to ſupper, Sir?

Yes, and the ſelf-ſame company I had laſt night—I invited them upon Lady Caroline's ac⯑count—to give her an opportunity of revenge, for the money ſhe loſt here yeſterday evening—and I am all wearineſs—I am all laſſitude and fretfulneſs till the time arrives.—But now I call to mind, I have an af⯑fair that may engage my attention a few hours, You were giving me an account, Bluntly, of that beau⯑tiful girl I ſaw enter at Blackman's?

Yes, ſir, I ſaw her late laſt night in Mr. Blackman's houſe—ſhe lodges there.

Indeed? In Blackman's houſe? I am glad to hear it.

And he has aſſured me, ſir, that ſhe and her family are in the greateſt poverty imaginable.

I am glad to hear it.

They have been it ſeems above a twelve-month in London, in ſearch of ſome rich relations: but inſtead of meeting with them, the father was ſeen and remembered by an old creditor who has thrown him into priſon.

I am very glad to hear it.

But the young woman, Sir, has been ſo ſhort a time in town, ſhe has, ſeemingly a great deal of modeſty and virtue.

And I am very glad to hear of that too—I like her the better—you know I do—for I am [22] weary of that ready compliance I meet with from the ſex

But if I might preſume to adviſe, ſir,—as you are ſo ſoon to be married to her ladyſhip, whom you love with ſincere affection, you ſhould give up this purſuit.

And I ſhall give it up, Bluntly, before my marriage takes place—for, ſhort as that time may be, I expect this paſſion will be over and forgotten, long before the interval has paſſed away.—But that brother you were mentioning—

I have ſome reaſon to think, that with all his poverty, he has a notion of honour.

Oh! I have often tried the effect of a purſe of gold with people of honour.— Have you deſired them to be ſent for as I ordered.

I have, Sir.

See if they are come.

Ah! my dear Lady Caroline, it is you, and only you, whom I love with a ſincere paſſion! but in waiting this long expected event of our marriage, permit me to indulge ſome leſs exalted wiſhes.

Are they come?

The young man is in the anti-chamber, ſir, but his ſiſter is not with him.

Pleaſe to walk this way—my maſter deſires to ſee you,

No, no, no—I do not deſire to ſee him, if his ſiſter is not there.—Zounds you ſcoundrel what did you call him in for?

Young man, I am told you are very poor—you may have heard that I am very rich—and I ſuppoſe you are acquainted with the extenſive mean⯑ing of the word—generoſity.

Perhaps not, ſir.

The meaning of it, as I comprehend, is, for the rich to give to the poor.—Have you any thing to aſk of me in which I can ſerve you?

Your propoſal is ſo general, I am at a loſs what to anſwer—but you are no doubt acquainted with the extenſive meaning of the word, pride,—and that will apologize for the ſeeming indifference with which I receive your offer.

Your pride ſeems extenſive indeed—I heard your father was in priſon, and I pitied him.

Did you, Sir?—Did you pity my father:— I beg your pardon—if I have ſaid any thing to offend you pray forgive it—nor let my rudeneſs turn your compaſſion away from him, to any other object.

Would a ſmall ſum releaſe him from confinement? Would about a hundred pounds—

I have no doubt but it would.

Then take that note.—Be not ſur⯑priſed—I mean to diſpoſe of a thouſand guineas this way, inſtead of fitting up a theatre in my own houſe.— That

is a mere trifle; my box at the opera, or my dinner; I mean to dine alone to⯑morrow, inſtead of inviting company.

Sir George, I ſpoke ſo rudely to you at firſt, that I know no other way to ſhew my humility, than to accept your preſent without reluctance—I do therefore, as the gift of benevolence, not as the inſult of better for une.

You have a brother, have not you?

No, Sir—and only one ſiſter.

A ſiſter is it? well, let me ſee your fa⯑ther and your brother—your ſiſter I mean—did not you ſay?—you ſaid a ſiſter, did not you?

Yes, Sir.

We'l, let me ſee your father and her; they will rejoice at their good fortune I imagine, and I wiſh to be a witneſs of their joy.

I will this moment go to our lawyer, extri⯑cate my father, and we will all return and make you the ſpectator of the happineſs you have beſtowed.

Forgive my eagerneſs to diſcloſe your bounty, ſir, if, before I have ſaid half I feel, I fly to reveal it to my [25] father; to whom I can more powerfully expreſs my ſenſations—than in your preſence.

That bait has taken—and now, if the ſiſter will only be as grateful.

Dear ſir, what can you have ſaid to the young man? I never ſaw a perſon ſo much affected!

In what manner?

The tears ran down his cheeks as he paſſed along, and he held ſomething in his Land which he preſſed to his lips, and then to his heart, as if it was a treaſure.

It is a treaſure, Bluntly—a hundred Guineas.

But for which, I believe, you expect a greater treaſure in return.

Doſt think ſo Bluntly?—doſt think the girl is worth a hundred pounds?

If ſhe refuſes, ſhe is worth a thouſand— but if the complies, you have thrown away your money.

Juſt the reverſe.

But I hope, ſir, you do not mean to throw away any more thus—for although this ſum, by way of charity, may be well applied, yet indeed, [26] ſir▪ I know ſome of your creditors as much in want as this poor family.

How!—You are in pay by ſome of my creditors I ſuppoſe?

No, Sir, you muſt pay them, before they can pay any body.

You are impertinent—leave the room inſtantly, and go in ſearch of this ſiſter; now, while the ſon is gone to releaſe his father.—Tell her, her brother is here, and bring her hither immediately.

But, ſir, if you will only give me leave to ſpeak one word—

Do, ſpeak;

only ſpeak a ſingle ſyllable, and I'll ſend a ball inſtantly through your head.

Bluntly I am dumb, Sir,—I don't ſpeak indeed, Sir—upon my life I don't. I wiſh I may die if I ſpeak a word.

Go on the errand I told you; and if you dare to return without the girl this is your fate.

Yes, Sir.

Im⯑pertinent puppy; to ruffle the temper of a man of faſhion with hints of prudence and morality, and pay⯑ing his debts—all this from a ſervant too. The inſo⯑lent, chattering—

May I ſpeak now, ſir?

What have you to ſay?

Mr. Blackman, ſir.

Bid him come in.

Good morning, Mr. Blackman; come, ſit down.

I am glad Sir George, I have found you alone, for I come to ſpeak to you on important buſineſs.

Buſineſs!—no—not now if you pleaſe.

But I muſt, ſir—I have been here ten times before, and have been put off; but now you muſt hear what I have to ſay.

Don't be long then—don't be tedious, Mr. Blackman—for I expect a, a—in ſhort, I expect a pretty woman.

When ſhe comes, I will go.

Very well, ſpeak quickly then. What have you to ſay?

I come to ſpeak upon the ſubject of your father's will; by which you know, you run the hazard of loſing great part of what he left behind.

But what am I to do?

There is no time to be loſt. Conſider, that Mr. Manly, the lawyer, whom your father em⯑ployed, is a man who pretends to a great deal of mo⯑rality; and it was he who, when your father found himſelf dying, alarmed his conſcience, and perſuaded him to make this Will in favour of a ſecond perſon. Now, I think that you and I both together, ought to have a meeting with this conſcientious lawyer.

But I ſhould imagine, Mr. Blackman, that if he is really a conſcientious man, you and he will not be upon good terms.

Oh! people of our avocation differ in reſpect to conſcience. Puzzle, confound, and abuſe each other, and yet are upon good terms.

But I fear—

Fear nothing —There are a vaſt num⯑ber o [...] reſources in our art.—It is ſo ſpacious, and yet ſo confined—ſo ſublime, and yet ſo profound—ſo d [...]ſtinct, and yet ſo complicated—that if ever this per⯑ſon with whom your fortune is divided ſhould be found, I know how to envelope her in a labyrinth, where ſhe ſhall be loſt again in a hurry,—But your father's lawyer being a very honeſt—I mean a very p [...]rticular man in his profeſſion,—I have reaſon to fear we cannot gain him over to our purpoſe.—If, there⯑fore,—

My viſitor is come, as I told you.

And I am gone, as I told you.

My lodger! ah! ah!

You may ſtay another quarter.

I am glad to ſee you.—Bluntly—Makes a ſig [...] to him to leave the room.

Sir?

S [...]r?—

I [...]id you go.

You bid me go, ſir?—Oh yes, ſir.—Very well, ſir.—But indeed, ſir, I did not hear you before, ſir.—Indeed I did not.

Pardon me, ſir.—I underſtood my bro⯑ther was here, but I find he is not.

He is but this inſtant gone, and will [30] return immediately.—Stay then with me till he comes.

Surely you cannot refuſe to remain with me a few moments; eſpecially as I hive a great deal to ſay to you that may tend to your advantage.

Why do you c [...]ſt your eyes with ſuch impatience on that doo?

There, now you may look at it in vain.

For heaven ſake, why am I locked in?

Becauſe you ſhould not eſcape.

That makes me reſolve I will—Open the door, ſir.

Nay, liſten to me Your ſentiments, I make no doubt, are formed from books.

No, from misfortunes—yet more inſtruc⯑tive.

You ſhall never know misfortune more you, nor your relations.—But this moment I preſent⯑ed your brother with a ſum of money, and he left me with profeſſions of the deepeſt gratitude.

My brother!—Has he received money from you? Ah! he promiſed me he'd not diſgrace his family.

How! Family, indeed!

I cannot remain here a moment longer. Open the door, ſir—open it immediately.

Sir, ſir, ſir,—open the door, if you pleaſe—you are wanted, ſir.

S'death! who can want me in ſuch haſte?

Well, ſir!

—Did you call, ſir?

It was you who called, ſir.

Who, I, ſir?

Yes, ſir, you—Who wants me?

Perhaps it was you that called, Ma'am.

It was I that called: and pray be ſo kind as to conduct me to my own lodgings.

Dare not touch her—or to ſtay another moment in the room.—Begone.

And now my fair Lucretia—

No, it's not myſelf I'll kill—'Tis you.

Nay, nay, nay, lay it [32] down.—Lay that fooliſh thing down; I beg you will. Trembling. It is charged—it may go off.

I mean it to go off.

But no jeſting—I never liked jeſting in my life.

Nor I—but am always ſerious.—Dare not, therefore, inſult me again, but let me go to my wretched apartments,

Go to the—

What would you do?—Here Bluntly! Bluntly!

Did you call or no, ſir?

Yes, ſir, I did call now.

Don't you think you have behaved very well this morning?

Yes, ſir, I think I have.

I am not joking.

Nor am I, ſir.

And do not you think I ſhould behave very well, if I was to diſcharge you my ſervice?

As well as can be expected, ſir,

Why did you break in upon me juſt now? Did you think I was going to murder the girl?

No, ſir, I ſuſpected neither love nor mur⯑der.

What then did you ſuſpect?

Why, ſir, if I may make bold to ſpeak— I was afraid the poor girl might be robbed: and of all ſhe is worth in the world.

Blockhead! I ſuppoſe you mean her virtue?

Why, to ſay the truth, ſir, virtue is a currency that grows ſcarce in the world now-a-days —and ſome men are ſo much in need of it, that they think nothing of ſtopping a harmleſs female paſſenger in her road through life, and plundering her or it without remorſe, though its loſs, embitters every hour ſhe muſt afterwards paſs in her journey.

Sir George, my father, liberated from priſon by your bounty, is come gratefully to offer—

Oh, my father! whither are you going? Turn back —turn back.

This is your benefactor the man whoſe benevolence has put an end to your ſufferings.

How, ſir, can I ever repay what I owe to you?—or how deſcribe thoſe emotions, which your goodneſs at this moment makes me feel?

Very well—very well—his all very well

I wiſh it was.—

I am glad I have been of ſervice to you.

You have been like mercy to us all. My daughter's gratitude overflows in tears.—But why, my child, do you keep apart from us? Can you be too timid to confeſs your obligation?

Let her alone—let her indulge her humour.

Speak, Eleanor.

No, I had rather ſhe would be ſilent.

You offend me by this obſtinacy.

Oh, my father!—Oh! I cannot—I cannot ſpeak.

Wherefore?—Explain this moment, what agitates you thus.

You muſt return to confinement again.

How?

The money that has ſet you free, was given for the baſeſt purpoſes—and by a man as far beneath you in principle, as you are beneath him in fortune. Diſdain the obligation—and come my fa⯑ther, return to priſon.

Yes.—And with more joy than I left it.

Joy, in my daughter's virtuous contempt of thee.

Leave the houſe inſtantly.

Your preſent is but depoſited in a lawyer's hands, whoſe word gained my liberty—he ſhall immediately return it to you, while I return to impriſonment,

If the money is in a lawyer's hands, my good friend, it may be ſome time before you get it returned.

Stay, Sir George—

And look me in the face while you inſult me.

You cannot.—I therefore triumph, while you ſtand before me abaſhed like a culprit.— Yet be aſſured, unthinking, diſſipated man, that with all your inſolence and cruelty towards me and mine, I have ſtill the charity to rejoice, even for your ſake, at ſeeing you thus confounded. This ſhame is at leaſt one trait in your favour; and while it revenges my wrongs, gives me joy to find, you are not a hardened libertine.

SCENE I.

NEVER was the whole train of misfortunes ſo united to undo a man, as this night to ruin me. The moſt o [...]ate round of ill [...]uck—

What is all that? You have loſt a great deal of money, I ſup⯑poſe?

Every guinea I had about me, and fifteen thouſand beſides, for which I have given my word.

Fifteen thouſand guineas! and I have not won one of them.—Oh, confuſion upon every thing that has prevented me.

Lady Caroline, you are the ſole perſon who has pro⯑fited [37] by my loſs.—Prove to me that your deſign was not to ruin me; to ſink me into the abyſs of mis⯑fortune,—prove to me, you love me in return for all my tender love to you. And

give me my revenge in one ſingle cut.

If this is the proof you require, I conſent.

Thank you.—And it is for double or quit.—Thank you.

Ay, it will be mine—thank you.—I ſhall be the winner—thank you.

De⯑ſtraction!—Furies of the blackeſt kind conſpire a⯑gainſt me, and all their ſerpents are in my heart.— Cruel, yet beloved woman! Could you thus abuſe and take advantage of the madneſs of my ſituation?

Your misfortunes, my dear Sir George—make you blind.

No, they have rather opened my eyes, and have ſhown me what you are.—Still an object I adore; but I now perceive you are one to my ruin devoted.—If any other intention had directed you, would you have thus decoyed me to my folly?—You know my prone⯑neſs to play, your own likelihood of ſucceſs, and have palpably allured me to my deſtruction. Un⯑grateful woman, you never loved me, but taught me to believe ſo, in order to partake of my prodigality. [38] —Do not be ſuſpicious, madam; the debt ſhall be diſcharged within a week.

That will do, ſir—I depend upon your word; and that will do.

Ungrateful—cruel—ſhe is gone with⯑out giving me one hope.—She even inſults—deſpiſes me.

Indeed, my dear friend, I compaſſionate your ill luck moſt feelingly; and yet I am nearly as great an object of compaſſion on this occaſion as yourſelf; for I have not won a ſingle guinea of all your loſſes: if I had, why I could have borne your misfortune with ſome ſort of patience.

My dear Sir George, your ſitua⯑tion affects me ſo extremely, I cannot ſtay a moment longer in your preſence.

But you may depend upon my prayers.

Sir George, if I had any conſolation to offer, it ſhould be at your ſervice—but you know— you are convinced—I have merely a ſufficiency of conſolation—that is, of friends and of money to ſup⯑port myſelf in the rank of life I hold in the world. For without that—without that rank—I ſincerely wiſh you a good morning.

Good morning.

Where are all my gueſts?—the greateſt part gone without a word in condolence, and the reſt torturing me with inſulting wiſhes. Here! behold! here is the ſole reliance which I have prepared for the hour of misfortune; and what is it?—words—compliments—deſertion —and from thoſe, whoſe ingratitude makes their ne⯑glect ſtill more poignant.

Lucre, my dear Lucre, are not you amaz⯑ed at what you ſee?

No, not at all—'tis the way of the world—we careſs our acquaintances whilſt they are happy and in power, but if they fall into misfortune, we think we do enough if we have the good nature to pity them.

And are you one of theſe friends?

I am like the reſt of the world.—I was in the number of your flatterers; but at preſent you have none—for you may already perceive, we are grown ſincere.

But have not you a thouſand times de⯑ſired me, in any diſtreſs, to prove you?

And you do prove me now, do you not? —Heaven bleſ [...] you.

I ſhall always have a regard for you—but for any [40] thing farther—I ſcorn profeſſions which I do not mean to keep.

Nay, but Lucre! conſider the an⯑guiſh in which you leave me!—conſider, that to be forſaken by my friends is more affecting than the loſs of all my fortune. Though you have nothing elſe to give me, yet give me your company.

My dear friend I cannot. Reflect that I am under obligations to you—ſo many indeed that I am aſhamed to ſee you—I am naturally baſhful; and do not be ſurpriſed if I ſhould never have the confi⯑dence to look you in the face again.

This is the world, ſuch as I have heard it deſcribed, but not ſuch as I could ever believe it to be.—But I forgive—I forget all the world except Lady Caroline—here ingratitude faſtens to my heart and drives me to deſpair. She, on whom I have ſquan⯑dered ſo much—ſhe, whom I loved—and whom I ſtill love, ſpite of her perfidy!

Well, Bluntly—behold the friendſhip of the friends I loved! This morning I was in proſperity and had many—this night I am ruined, and I have not one.

Ruined, ſir?

Totally: and ſhall be forced to part with every thing I poſſeſs to pay the ſum I owe.— [41] Of courſe, I ſhall part with all my ſervants—and do you endeavour to find ſome other place.

But firſt, ſir,—permit me to aſk a favour of you?

A favour of me? I have no favours now to grant.

I beg your pardon, ſir—you have one— and I entreat it on my knees.

What would you aſk of me?

To remain along with you ſtill.—I will never quit you; but ſerve you for nothing, to the laſt moment of my life.

I have then one friend left.

And never will I forget to acknowledge the obligation.

Pardon me—ſir—I beg ten thouſand pardons—pray excuſe me▪

for entering before I ſent to know if you were at leiſure—but your attendants are all [...]ſt aſleep on the chairs of your antichamber.—I could not wake a ſoul—and I imagined you yourſelf were not yet up.

On the contrary, I have not yet been in bed. And when I do go there, I wi [...]h never to riſe from it again.

Has any thing unexpected happened▪

Yes.—That I am ruined—inevitably ruined—Behold

the only wreck of my fortune.

Loſt all your fortune?

All I am worth—and as much more as I am worth.

Loſt all you are worth? He, he, he, he!

Pretty news, truly! Why then I ſuppoſe I have loſt great part of what I am worth? all which you are indebted to me?—How⯑ever there is a way yet to retrieve you. But—pleaſe to deſire your ſervant to leave the room.

Bluntly, leave us a moment.

Well, Mr. Blackman, what is this grand ſecret?

Why, in the ſtate to which you have reduced yourſelf, there is certainly no one hope for you, but in that portion, that half of your fortune, which the will of your father keeps you out of.

But how am I to obtain it? The lawyer in whoſe hands it is placed, will not give it up, without being inſured from any future demand by ſome certain proofs.

And ſuppoſe I ſhould ſearch, and [43] find proofs? Suppoſe I have them already by me? —But upon this occaſion, you muſt not only rely implicitly on what I ſay, but it is neceſſary you ſhould ſay the ſame yourſelf.

If you advance no falſehood, I cannot have any objection.

Falſehood!—falſehood—I appre⯑hend, Sir George, you do not conſider, that there is a particular conſtruction put upon words and phraſes in the practice of the law, which the reſt of the world, out of that ſtudy, are not clearly acquainted with. For inſtance, falſehood with us, is not exactly what it is with other people.

How! Is truth, immutable truth, to be corrupted and confounded by men of the law?

I was not ſpeaking of truth—that, we have nothing to do with.

I, muſt not ſay ſo, however, ſir.— And in this criſis of my ſufferings, it is the only com⯑fort, the only conſolatory reflection left me, that truth and I, will never ſeparate.

Stick to your truth—but confide in me as uſual.—You will go with me, then, to Mr. Manly, your father's lawyer, and corroborate all that I ſhall ſay?

Tell me, but what you intend to ſay?

I can't do that. In the practice of the law, we never know what we intend to ſay—and [44] therefore our blunders, when we make them, are in ſome meaſure excuſable—and if I ſhould chance to make a blunder or two, I mean any trivial miſtake, when we come before this lawyer, you muſt promiſe not to interfere, or in any ſhape contradict me.

A mere lapſe of memory, I have no⯑thing to do with.

And my memory grows very bad; therefore you muſt not diſconcert me.

Come, let us begone—I am ready to go with you this moment.

I muſt firſt go home, and prepare a few writings.

But call to mind that I rely upon your honour.

Do you think Bluntly, your ſervant, is an honeſt man?

I am ſure he is.

Then, to quiet your fears, I will take him along with us; and you will depend on what he ſhall ſay, I make no doubt?

I would ſtake my being upon his ve⯑racity.

Call him in, then, and bid him do as I command him.

Here, Bluntly.

[45] Mr. Blackman has ſome buſineſs with you—liſten to him with attention, and follow his directions.

You know, I ſuppoſe, the perilous ſitu⯑ation of your maſter?

Good fellow! good fellow!—and you would, I dare ſay, do any thing to reſcue him from the miſery with which he is ſurrounded?

I would lay down my life.

You can do it for leſs. Only put on a black coat, and the buſineſs is done.

What's that all? Oh! if I can ſave him by putting on a black coat, I'll go buy mourning, and wear it all my life.

There's a good fellow. I ſincerely thank you for this attachment to your maſter.

My dear Blackman, I beg your pardon for what I am going to ſay; but as you behave thus friendly on this unfortunate occaſion, I muſt confeſs to you—that till now I always hated you—I could not bear the ſight of you.—For I thought you (I wiſh I may die if I did not) one of the greateſt rogues in the world. I fancied you only waited on, and ad⯑viſed my maſter to make your market of him.— But now your attention to him in his diſtreſs, when [46] all his friends have forſaken him, is ſo kind—Heaven bleſs you—Heaven bleſs you—I'll go buy a black coat.

I have ſomething more to ſay to you.— When you have put on this coat, you muſt meet your maſter and meat Mr Manley's, the lawyer; and when we are all there, you muſt mind and ſay, exactly what I ſay.

And what will that be?

Oh! ſomething.

I have no objection to ſay ſomething— but I hope you won't make me ſay any thing.

You ſeem to doubt me once more, ſir?

No, I am doubling you now for the firſt time; for I always thought I was certain before.

And will you not venture to ſay yes, and no, to what I ſhall advance?

Why—I think I may venture to ſay yes to your no, and no to your yes, with a ſafe conſcience.

If you do not inſtantly follow me and do all that I ſhall propoſe, your maſter is ruined.— Would you ſee him dragged to priſon?

No, I would ſooner go myſelf.

Then why do you ſtand talking about a ſafe conſcience. Half my clients would have been ruined if I had ſhewn my zeal as you do. Conſcience indeed! Why, this is a matter of law, to ſerve your maſter in his neceſſity.

I have heard neceſſity has no law—but if it has no conſcience, it is a much worſe thing than I took it for.—No matter for that—come along.—Oh my poor maſter!—I would even tell a lie to ſave him.

SCENE II. A lawyer's ſtudy.

Who do you ſay wants to ſpeak with me?

Mr. Lucre, ſir.

And who elſe?

A perſon who ſays his name is Wilford, he looks as if he came from the country, and ſeems in mean circumſtances.

Shew him to me directly. And take Mr. Lucre, or any other perſon of faſhion that may call, to my clerks.

But for the poor, let them be under my protection.

Come in—walk in, and let me know what I can do to ſerve you.

I depoſited, ſir, in your clerk's hands, a ſum of money to ſet me free from confinement for debt.—On his word, I was diſcharged—he owns he has not yet paid away this money, ſtill he refuſes to reſtore it to me, though in return I again render up my perſon.

And why would you do this?

Becauſe my honour—I mean my conſcience—for that's the poor man's honour—is concerned.

Explain yourſelf.

A ſon of mine, received this ſum I ſpeak of, and thought it given him; while it was only meant as a purchaſe—a purchaſe of what we had no right to ſell—and therefore it muſt be reſtored to the owner.

And who is he?

Sir George Splendorville—I ſuppoſe you have heard of him?

He, you mean, who by the deſire of his father's will, lately changed his name from Bland⯑ford?

Sir!

The name, which ſome part of the family, while reduced, had taken.

Good Heaven! Is there ſuch a circum⯑ſtance in his ſtory?

Why do you aſk with ſuch emotion?

Becauſe he is the man, in ſearch of whom I left my habitation in the country, to preſent before him a deſtitute young woman, a near relation.

What relation?—Be particular in your anſwer.

A ſiſter.

I thank you for your intelligence. You have named a perſon who for thoſe three years paſt, I have in vain endeavoured to find.—But did you ſay ſhe was in poverty?

I did.

I give you joy then—for I have in my poſ⯑ſeſſion a deed which conveys to a loſt daughter of Sir George's father, the other half of the fortune he bequeathed his ſon—but as yet, all my endeavours have been in vain to find where ſhe, and an uncle, to whoſe care ſhe was entruſted in her infancy, are retired.

Now, Elea⯑nor, arm yourſelf with fortitude—with fortitude to bear not the frowns, but the ſmiles of fortune. Be humble, collected, and the ſame you have ever been, while I for the firſt time inform you—you are not my daughter.—And from this gentleman's intelligence add, you are rich—you are the deceaſed Blandford's child, and Splendorville's ſiſter.

Oh! Heavens! Do I loſe a father ſuch as you, to gain a brother ſuch as he is?

There can be no miſ⯑take on this occaſion—And you, if I am not deceiv⯑ed, are the brother of the late Mr. Blandford. Your looks, your perſon, your very voice confirms it.

I have writings in my care, ſhall prove [50] it beyond a doubt; with the whole narrative of our ſeparation when he with his ſon, then a youth, em⯑barked for India; where I ſuppoſe, riches, ſoon ſuc⯑ceeded poverty.

Lady Caroline Seymour, ſir, is at the door in her carriage, and will not be denied admit⯑tance. She ſays ſhe muſt ſee you upon ſome very ur⯑gent buſineſs.

Will you do me the favour to ſtep for a moment into this room? Lady Caroline will not ſtay long. I'll not detain you.

Dear Mr. Manly, I haven a thouſand apologies to make—And yet I am ſure you will ex⯑cuſe the ſubject of my viſit, when you conſider—

Your ladyſhip will pleaſe to ſit down.

You cannot be ignorant, Mr. Manly—you muſt know, the terms of acquaintance on which Sir George Splendorville and I have been, for ſome time paſt?—you were his father's agent; his chief ſolicitor; and although you are not em⯑ployed by Sir George, yet the ſtate of his affairs can⯑not [51] not be concealed from you—Has he, or has he not, any inheritance yet to come?

Pardon me, madam—though not en⯑truſted by Sir George, I will, nevertheleſs, keep his ſecrets.

That is plainly telling me he is worth nothing.

By no means—Sir George, in ſpite of his profuſion, muſt ſtill be rich. He has preſerved his large eſtate in Wales; and as to money, I do not doubt but he has a conſiderable ſum.

Not a guinea. I won it all from him laſt night.

You? You, who are to become his wife?

I might, had I not—been thus for⯑tunate. But why ſhould I marry him, when his riches are mine, without that ceremony.

Inconſiderate man!—what will be the end of his imprudence! Yet, Heaven be praiſed! he has ſtill that fine eſtate, I juſt now mentioned.

Indeed he has not—that has be⯑longed to me theſe three months.

To you!

Yes—Bought for me under another name by agents; and for half its value.

Madman!—Yet your ladyſhip muſt ex⯑cuſe me. I know your income ſtinted, and all the [52] death of the Earl, your father, where could you raiſe ſufficient to make even half the purchaſe?

From Splendorville's own prodiga⯑lity—from laviſh preſents made to me by him.

Sir George Splendorville, ſir, deſires to ſpeak with you—he is at the door with Mr. Black⯑man.

Oh Heavens! do not let him ſee me here.

I have company there—walk in here, if you pleaſe.

Deſire Sir George to walk in.

Sir George, do me the favour to ſit down.

Mr. Manly, my attorney will let you know the buſineſs on which I am come.

Why yes, Mr. Manly, it is extremely hard that Sir George has for ſo long a time been kept out of a very large part of his fortune; particularly, as he has had occaſion for it.

I have had occaſion for it I aſſure you Mr. Manly; and I have occaſion for it at this very time.

But ſo may the perſon, ſir, from whom you would take it. In a word, Sir George, neither your lawyer nor you, ſhall prevail on me to give up the truſt repoſed in me by your father, without cer⯑tain evidence, that your ſiſter will never come to make her claim.

You are not afraid of ghoſts, are you?

No, nor of robbers either:—you can⯑not frighten me, Mr. Blackman.

Then depend upon it, the ſiſter of Sir George can never appear in any other manner than as a ſpirit. For, here, ſir,

here are authentic letters to prove her death.

Her death!

Yes, her death. Here is a certificate from the curate of the pariſh in which ſhe was bu⯑ried.

Buried too!

Yes, ſir, buried. Here is alſo an affi⯑davit from the ſexton of the ſaid village, ſigned bys the overſeer and churchwardens, teſtifying the fame. —You ſee,

"Died Anno Domini, one thouſand [54] ſeven hundred and eighty-nine, the ſeventeenth of June —

How near to the brink of infamy has my imprudence led me! And s'death, my confuſion takes from me the power to explain, and expoſe the ſcoundrel.

Mr. Manly, I will leave you for the preſent; but you ſhall hear from me ſhortly,—when this matter ſhall be accounted for clearly—perfectly to your ſatisfaction, you may depend upon it.—

Stay, Sir George, and—

Aye, Sir George, ſtay and ſee Mr. Manly's [...]jections wholly removed. He ſeems to doubt the evidence of paper; I muſt, therefore, beg leave to produce a living witneſs—the gentleman whom I appointed to meet me here.

And who is he?

The apothecary, who attended Sir George's ſiſter in her dying illneſs.

Deſire him to walk in by all means. What is the matter, Sir George, you look diſcompoſed?

Sir George is ſomething nervous, Mr. Manly; and you know the very name of a medical gentleman, will affect the nerves of ſome people.

Bluntly!—But I will ſee the end of this.

You are an apothe⯑cary, I think, ſir?

Yes, ſir.

Yes, ſir.

Pray ſir, what diſorder took the young lady, on whoſe account you have been brought hi⯑ther, out of the world?

Oh! the old diſorder, I ſuppoſe.

The old diſorder.

And pray wh [...]t may that be, ſir?

Mr. Blackman, pleaſe to let this gentleman ſpeak for himſelf.—What is it you mean, pray ſir, by the old diſorder?

I—I—mean—Love, ſir,

You will not pretend to ſay, that love, was the cauſe of her death?

That—and a few [...]its of the gout

I fear, ſir, you are not in perfect health yourſelf—you tremble and look very pale.

That is becauſe the ſubject affects him.

Do you then never mention the young lady without being affected?

Never, ſir—for had you ſeen her as I did—um—Had you ſeen her—She was in very great danger from the firſt; but after I attended her, ſhe was in greater danger ſtill.—I adviſed a phyſician to be called in; on which ſhe grew worſe.—We had next a conſultation of phyſicians; and then it was all over with her.

Blackman, this is too much—all my calamities are inferior to this —Deſiſt, therefore, or—

Deſiſt—He cannot bear to hear the pathetic deſcription. Conſider the lady was his ſiſter—and though he had not the pleaſure of knowing her—yet, poor thing—

—poor young woman! he cannot help lamenting her loſe.

No more can I—for though ſhe was not my relation—yet ſhe was my Patient.

I can bear no more.—Mr. Manly, you are impoſed upon. But think not, however appear⯑ances may be againſt me, that I came here as the tool of ſo infamous a deceit.—Thoughtleſſneſs, Mr. Manly, has embarraſſed my circumſtances; and thoughtleſſneſs alone, has made me employ a villain to retrieve them.

Mighty fine!

I have no authority, ſir, to affirm, that my ſiſter is not alive; and I am confident the account you have juſt now heard, of her death, is but an arti⯑fice. My indiſcretions have reduced me nearly to beggary; but I will periſh in confinement—cheerfully periſh—rather than owe my affluence to one diſho⯑nourable action.

Grief has turned his brain.

Sir George, I honour your feelings; and as for the feelings of theſe gentlemen, I am extremely happy, that it is in my power to dry up their tears, and calm all their ſorrows.

Sir!

How? In what way?

Come forth, young lady, to the arms of a brother, and relieve the anguiſh of theſe mourn⯑ers, who are lamenting your decaſe.

—Yes, Sir George, here is that ſiſter, whom thoſe gentlemen aſſure us, is dead;— and this is the brother of your father.—Theſe are proofs, as convincing, I hope, as any Mr. Blackman can produce.

She, my ſiſter! Her pretended father my uncle too!

Blackman, you would have plunged me into an anguiſh I never knew before; you would have plunged me into ſhame.

And ſo you have me.

Pſhaw.—Mr. Manly, notwithſtanding you are theſe people's voucher, this appears but a ſcheme.—Theſe perſons are but adventurers, and may poſſibly have about them forgeries, ſuch as an honeſt man, like myſelf, would ſhudder at.

Who's there?

Shew that—that Mr. Blackman, out of my houſe inſtantly; and take care you never admit him again.

Sir George, will you ſuffer this?

Aye, and a great deal more.

Look'ee Blackman.—If you don't fall down upon your knees, and beg my pardon at the ſtreet door, for the trick you have put upon me, in aſſuring me my maſter's ſiſter was really dead, and that I could do her no injury, by doing him a ſervice —if you don't beg my pardon for this, I'll give you ſuch an aſſault and battery as you never had to do with in your life.

Beat me—do, beat me—I'll thank you for beating me—I'd be beat every hour of the day, to recover damages.

My ſiſter—with the ſincereſt joy I call you by that name—and while I thus embrace you, offer you a heart, that beats with all the pure and tender affection, which our kindred to each other claims—In you

I behold my [59] father; and experience an awful fear, mingled with my regard.

Continue ſtill that regard, and even that fear—theſe filial ſentiments may prove important; and they ſhall ever be repaid with my paternal watch⯑ings, friendſhip, and love.

My brother—

I have been unworthy of you—I will be ſo no more, but imitate your excellence. Yet when I reflect—

My brother, do not imagine—

Leave me, leave me to all the agonies of my miſconduct — Where is my fortune? Now all irrecoverably gone—My laſt, my only reſource is now to be paid to another—I have loſt every thing.

No, Sir George, nothing—ſince I poſſeſs all that was yours.

How!

Behold a friend in your neceſſities —a miſtreſs whom your misfortunes cannot drive away —but who, experiencing much of your unkindneſs, ſtill loves you; and knowing your every folly, will ſtill ſubmit to honour, and obey you.

I received your laviſh preſents, but to hoard them for you—made myſelf miſtreſs of your fortune, but to return it to you—and with it, all my own.

Can this be real? Can I be raiſed in one moment, from the depths of miſery to unbounded happineſs?

A young man, who ſays he is Mr. Will⯑ford's ſon, is called to enquire for him.

Shew him in.

Come, Henry, and take leave of your ſiſter for ever.

How ſo, ſir?—What do you mean? To be parted from her, would be the utmoſt rigour of fortune.

The affection with which you ſpeak, young gentleman, ſeems to convey ſomething beyond mere brotherly love.

I ſome years ſince revealed to him ſhe was not his ſiſter.

And he, ſome years ſince, implied it to me. Yet, in ſuch doubtful terms, I knew not which of us had the ſorrow not to be your child.—I now find it is myſelf—and I aver it to be a ſorrow, for which, all the fortune I am going to poſſeſs will not repay me.

Then, my deareſt ſiſter, indulge the hope you may yet be his daughter. This young [61] man's merit deſerves a reward, and in time he may learn to love you by a ſtill nearer tie than that, you have ſo long known to exiſt between you; nay, even by a nearer tie than that of brother.

I am in doubt or what I hear—Eleanor, ſince our ſhort ſeparation, there cannot ſurely have been any important diſcovery—

Be not ſurpriſed—great diſcoveries, which we labour in vain for years to make, are frequently brought about in one lucky moment, without any la⯑bour at all.

True—for till this day aroſe, I had paſſed every hour ſince my birth, without making one diſcovery to my advantage—while this ſhort, but pro⯑pitious morning, has diſcovered to me—how to be in future happy.