[]THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

SCENE Lady SNEERWELL'S Houſe.

THE paragraphs, you ſay, Mr. Snake, were all inſerted.

They were, Madam; and as I copied them myſelf in a ſeigned hand, there can be no ſuſpicion from whence they came.

Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's intrigue with Captain Boaſtall?

That's in as fine a train as your Ladyſhip could wiſh; in the common courſe of things, I think it muſt reach Mrs. Clacket's ears within twenty-four hours, and then the buſineſs, you know, is as good as done.

Why yes, Mrs. Clacket has talents, and a great deal of induſtry.

True Madam, and has been tolerably ſuc⯑ceſsful in her day; to my knowledge ſhe has been the cauſe of ſix matches being broken off, and three ſons diſinherited; of four forced elopments, as many cloſe confinements, nine ſeparate maintenances, and two di⯑vorces; —nay, I have more than once traced her cau⯑ſing a tete a tete in the Town and Country Magazine, [4] when the parties never ſaw one another before in the whole courſe of their lives.

Why yes, ſhe has genius, but her manner is too groſs.

True, Madam; ſhe has a fine tongue, and a bold invention; but then her colouring is too dark, and the outlines rather too extravagant; ſhe wants that delicacy of hint, and mellowneſs of ſneer, which diſ⯑tinguiſhes your Ladyſhip's ſcandal.

You are partial, Snake.

Not in the leaſt; every body will allow that Lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or look than many others with the moſt laboured detail, even though they accidentally happen to have a little truth on their ſide to ſupport it.

Yes, my dear Snake, and I'll not deny the pleaſure I feel at the ſucceſs of my ſchemes;

wounded myſelf, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of ſlander, I confeſs nothing can give me greater ſatisfaction, than reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation.

True, Madam; but there is one affair, in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confeſs, I am at a loſs to gueſs at your motives.

I preſume you mean with regard to my friend Sir Peter Teazle, and his family.

I do; here are two young men, to whom Sir Peter has acted as guardian ſince their father's death; the eldeſt poſſeſſing the moſt amiable character, and univerſally well ſpoken of; the youngeſt the moſt diſ⯑ſipated, wild, extravagant young fellow in the world; the former an avowed admirer of your Ladyſhip, and apparently your favourite; the latter attached to Maria, Sir Peter's ward, and confeſſedly admired by her: Now, [5] on the face of theſe circumſtances, it is utterly un⯑accountable to me, why you, the widow of a city Knight, with a large fortune, ſhould not immediately cloſe with the paſſion of a man of ſuch character and expectation as Mr. Surface; and more ſo, why you are ſo uncommonly earneſt to deſtroy the mutual attach⯑ment ſubſiſting between his brother Charles and Maria.

Then at once, to unravel this myſtery, I muſt inform you, that love has no ſhare whatever in the intercourſe between Mr. Surface and me.

No!—

No! his real views are to Maria, or her fortune, while in his brother he finds a favoured rival; he is, therefore, obliged to maſk his real inten⯑tions, and profit by my aſſiſtance.

Yet ſtill I am more puzzled why you ſhould intereſt yourſelf for his ſucceſs.

Heavens! how dull you are! can't you ſurmiſe a weakneſs I have hitherto through ſhame con⯑cealed even from you? Muſt I confeſs it that Charles, that profligate, that libertine, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation, that he it is for whom I am thus anxi⯑ous and malicious; and to gain whom I would ſacrifice every thing.

Now, indeed, your conduct appears conſiſt⯑ent; but pray how came you and Mr. Surface ſo con⯑fidential?

For our mutual intereſt; he pretends to, and recommends ſentiment and liberality, but I know him to be artful, cloſe and malicious. In ſhort, a ſentimental knave, while with Sir Peter, and indeed with moſt of his acquaintances he paſſes for a youth⯑ful miracle of virtue, good ſenſe, and benevolence.

Yes, I know Sir Peter vows he has not his fellow in England, and has praiſed him as a man of character and ſentiment.

Yes; and with the appearance of be⯑ing ſentimental, he has brought Sir Peter to favour his addreſſes to Maria, while poor Charles has no friend in the houſe, though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria's heart, againſt whom we muſt direct our ſchemes.

Mr. Surface, Madam.

Shew him up

he ge⯑nerally calls about this hour—I don't wonder at peo⯑ple's giving him to me for a lover.

Lady Sneerwell, good morning to you— Mr. Snake your moſt obedient.

Snake has juſt been rallying me up⯑on our attachment, but I have told him our real views; I need not tell you how uſeful he has been to us, and believe me, our confidence has not been ill placed.

Oh, Madam, 'tis impoſſible for me to ſuſ⯑pect a man of Mr. Snake's merit and accompliſh⯑ments.

Oh, no compliments; but tell me when you ſaw Maria, or what's more material to us, your brother.

I have not ſeen either ſince I left you, but I can tell you they never met; ſome of your ſtories have had a good effect in that quarter.

The merit of this, my dear Snake, be⯑longs to you; but do your brother's diſtreſſes increaſe?

Every hour! I am told he had another exe⯑cution [7] in his houſe yeſterday—in ſhort, his diſſipation and extravagance exceeds any thing I ever heard.

Poor Charles!

Aye, Poor Charles indeed! notwithſtand⯑ing his extravagance one cannot help pitying him; I wiſh it was in my power to be of any eſſential ſervice to him; for the man who does not feel for the diſtreſſes of a brother, even though merited by his own miſ⯑conduct, deſerves to be—

Now you are going to be moral, and forget you are among friends.

Gad, ſo I was, ha! ha!—I'll keep that ſentiment till I ſee Sir Peter, ha! ha! however it would certainly be a generous act in you to reſcue Maria from ſuch a libertine, who, if he is to be re⯑claimed at all, can only be ſo by a perſon of your ſu⯑perior accompliſhments and underſtanding.

I believe Lady Sneerwell, here's company coming; I'll go and copy the letter I mentioned to your Ladyſhip. Mr. Surface, your moſt obedient.

Mr. Snake, your moſt obedient. I wonder Lady Sneerwell, you would put any confidence in that fellow.

Why ſo?

I have diſcovered he has of late had ſeveral conferences with old Rowley, who was formerly my father's ſteward; he has never, you know, been a friend of mine.

And do you think he would betray us?

Not unlikely; and take my word for it, Lady Sneerwell, that fellow has not virtue enough to be faithful to his own villanies.

Ah, Maria, my dear, how do you do? What's the matter?

Nothing, Madam, only this odious lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, and his uncle Crabtree, juſt called in at my guardian's; but I took the firſt op⯑portunity to ſlip out, and run away to your Ladyſhip.

Is that all?

Had my brother Charles been of the party you would not have been ſo much alarmed.

Nay, now you are too ſevere; for I dare ſay the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you was here, and therefore came; but pray Maria, what particular objection have you to Sir Benjamin, that you avoid him ſo?

Oh, Madam, he has done nothing; but his whole converſation is a perpetual libel upon all his acquaintance.

Yes, and the worſt of it is, there is no ad⯑vantage in not knowing him, for he would abuſe a ſtranger as ſoon as his beſt friend, and his uncle is as bad.

For my part, I own wit looſes its reſpect with me, when I ſee it in company with malice;— what think you Mr. Surface?

To be ſure, Madam,—to ſmile at a jeſt that plants a thorn in the breaſt of another, is to become a principal in the miſchief.

Paſh—there is no poſſibility of being witty without a little ill nature; the malice in a good thing is the barb that makes it ſtick.—What is your real opinion, Mr. Surface?

Why my opinion is, that where the ſpirit [9] of railery is ſuppreſſed, the converſation muſt be natu⯑rally inſipid.

Well I will not anſwer how far ſlander may be allowed, but in a man, I am ſure it is deſpicable.— We have pride, envy, rivalſhip, and a thouſand mo⯑tives to depreciate each other; but the male ſlanderer, muſt have the cowardice of a woman, before he can traduce one.

Mrs. Candour, Madam, if you are at leiſure, will leave her carriage.

Deſire her to walk up.

Now, Maria, here's a character to your taſte; though Mrs. Candour is a little talkative, yet every body al⯑lows ſhe is the beſt natured ſort of woman in the world.

Yes—with the very groſs affectation of good nature, ſhe does more miſchief than the direct malice of old Crabtree.

Faith it's very true; and whenever I hear the current of abuſe running hard againſt the characters of my beſt friends I never think them in ſuch danger, as when Candour undertakes their defence.

Huſh! Huſh! here ſhe is.

Oh! my dear Lady Sneerwell; well, how do you do? Mr. Surface your moſt obedient.—Is there any news abroad? No! nothing good I ſuppoſe —No! nothing but ſcandal!—nothing but ſcandal!

Juſt ſo indeed, Madam.

Nothing but ſcandal!—Ah, Maria how do you do child; what is every thing at an end between you and Charles? What, he is too extrava⯑gant. —Aye! the town talks of nothing elſe.

I am ſorry, Madam, the town is ſo ill em⯑ployed.

Aye, ſo am I child—but what can one do? we can't ſtop people's tongues:—They hint too, that your guardian and his Lady don't live ſo agreeably together as they did.

I am ſure ſuch reports are without foun⯑dation.

Aye, ſo theſe things generally are: —It's like Mr. Faſhion's affair with Colonel Goterie; though, indeed, that affair was never rightly cleared up; and it was but yeſterday Miſs Prim aſſured me, that Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were now become mere man and wife, like the reſt of their acquaintance. She likewiſe hinted, that a certain widow in the next ſtreet, had got rid of her dropſy, and recovered her ſhape in a moſt ſurprizing manner.

The licence of invention, ſome people give themſelves, is aſtoniſhing.

'Tis ſo—but how will you ſtop people's tongues? 'Twas but yeſterday Mrs. Clacket informed me, that our old friend, Miſs Prudely, was going to elope, and that her guardian caught her juſt ſtepping into the York Diligence, with her dancing⯑maſter. I was informed too, that Lord Flimſey caught his wife at a houſe of no extraordinary fame, and that Tom Saunter and Sir Harry Idle, were to meaſure ſwords on a ſimilar occaſion.—But I dare ſay there is no truth in the ſtory, and I would not circulate ſuch a report for the world.

You report!—No, no, no.

No, no,—tale-bearers are juſt as bad as the tale-makers.

Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Mr. Crabtree.

Lady Sneerwell, your moſt obedient humble ſervant. Mrs. Candour, I believe you don't know my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite; he has a very pretty taſte for poetry, and ſhall make a rebus or a cherard with any one.

Oh fie! uncle.

In faith he will: did you ever hear the lines he made at Lady Ponto's route, on Miſs Frizzle's feathers catching fire; and the rebuſes—his firſt is the name of a fiſh; the next, a great naval comman⯑der, and—

Uncle, now prythee.

I wonder, Sir Benjamin you never publiſh any thing.

Why, to ſay the truth, 'tis very vulgar to print—and as my little productions are chiefly ſatyrs, and lampoons on particular perſons, I find they circulate better by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties;—however, I have ſome love elegies, which, when favoured by this Lady's ſmiles

I mean to give to the public.

'Foregad, Madam, they'll immortalize you

you will be handed down to poſterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sachariſſa.

Yes, Madam, I think you'll like them

when you ſhall ſee them on a beau⯑tiful quarto type, where a neat rivulet of text ſhall murmur through a meadow of margin;—'foregad they'll be the moſt elegant things of their kind.

But, odſo, Ladies, did you hear the news?

What—do you mean the report of—

No, Madam, that's not it—Miſs Nicely going to be married to her footman.

Impoſſible!

'Tis very true, indeed Madam, every thing is fixed, and the wedding liveries beſpoke.

Yes, and they do ſay there were very preſſing reaſons for it.

I heard ſomething of this before.

Oh! it cannot be; and I wonder they'd report ſuch a thing of ſo prudent a Lady.

Oh! but Madam, that is the very reaſon that it was believed at once, for ſhe has always been ſo very cautious and reſerved, that every body was ſure there was ſome reaſon for it at bottom.

It is true, there is a ſort of puny, ſickly reputation, that would outlive the robuſter cha⯑racter of an hundred prudes.

True, Madam, there are Valetudi⯑narians in reputation, as well as conſtitution, who being conſcious of their weak part, avoid the leaſt breath of air, and ſupply their want of ſtamina by care and circumſpection.

I believe this may be ſome miſ⯑take; you know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circum⯑ſtances have often given riſe to the moſt ingenious tales.

Very true;—but odſo, Ladies did you hear of Miſs Letitia Piper's loſing her lover and her character at Scarborough.—Sir Benjamin you remem⯑ber it.

Oh, to be ſure, the moſt whimſical circumſtance.

Pray let us hear it.

Why, one evening, at Lady Spadille's aſſembly, the converſation happened to turn upon the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia ſheep in this coun⯑try; no, ſays a lady preſent, I have ſeen an inſtance of it, for a couſin of mine, Miſs Letitia Piper had one that produced twins. What, what, ſays old Lady Dundizzy (whom we all know is as deaf as a poſt) has Miſs Letitia Piper had twins.—This, you may eaſily imagine, ſet the company in a loud laugh; and the next morning it was every where reported, and be⯑lieved that Miſs Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and girl.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

'Tis true upon my honour.—Oh, Mr. Surface, how do you do; I hear your uncle, Sir Oliver is expected in town; ſad news upon his arrival, to hear how your brother has gone on.

I hope no buſy people have already preju⯑diced his uncle againſt him—he may reform.

True, he may; for my part, I never thought him ſo utterly void of principle as people ſay—and though he has loſt all his friends, I am told nobody is better ſpoken of amongſt the Jews.

'Foregad, if the Old Jewry was a ward, Charles would be an Alderman, for he pays as many annuities as the [...]iſh Tontine; and when he is ſick, they have prayers for his recovery in all their Syna⯑gogues.

Yet no man lives in greater ſplendor. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he can ſit down to dinner with a dozen of his own ſecurities, have a ſcore of tradeſmen waiting in the antichamber, and an officer behind every gueſt's chair.

This may be entertaining to you, gentle⯑men; [14] —but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Their malice is intolerable.

Lady Sneerwell, I muſt wiſh you a good morning; I'm not very well.

She changes colour.

Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her.

To be ſure I will;—poor dear girl, who knows what her ſituation may he?

'Twas nothing, but that ſhe could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithſtanding their difference.

The young lady's penchant is obvious.

Come, don't let this diſhearten you— follow her, and repeat ſome of your odes to her, and I'll aſſiſt you.

Mr. Surface, I did not come to hurt you, but depend on't your brother is utterly undone.

Oh! undone as ever man was—can't raiſe a guinea.

Every thing is ſold, I am told, that was moveable.

Not a moveable left except ſome old bottles, and ſome pictures, and they ſeem to be framed in the wainſcot, egad.

I am ſorry to hear alſo ſome bad ſto⯑ries of him.

Oh! He has done many mean things, that's certain.

But, however, he's your brother.

Aye! as he's your brother—we'll tell you more another opportunity.

Yes! as he's your brother—well tell you more another opportunity.

'Tis very hard for them, indeed, to leave a ſubject they have not quite run down.

And I fancy their abuſe was no more ac⯑ceptable to your ladyſhip, than to Maria.

I doubt her affections are further en⯑gaged than we imagine;—but the family are to be here this afternoon, ſo you may as well dine where you are, we ſhall have an opportunity of obſerving her further;—in the mean time I'll go and and plot miſ⯑chief, and you ſhall ſtudy.

SCENE Sir PETER TEAZLE'S Houſe.

WHEN an old batchelor marries a young wiſe, what is he to expect?—'Tis now about ſix months ſince my Lady Teazle made me the happieſt of men—and I have been the moſt miſerable dog ever ſince.—We tifted a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells were done ringing. I was more than once nearly choaked with gall during the honey moon, and had loſt every ſatisfaction in life, be⯑fore my friends had done wiſhing me joy.—And yet, I choſe with caution a girl bred wholly in the country, who had never known luxury, beyond one ſilk gown, or diſſipation beyond the annual gala of a race ball.— Yet, now ſhe plays her part in all the extravagant fop⯑peries of the town, with as good a grace is if ſhe had never ſeen a buſh, or a graſs plot out of Groſvenor-Square. —I am ſneered at by all my acquaintance— [16] paragraphed in the news-papers—ſhe diſſipates my for⯑tune, and contradicts all my humours.—And yet, the worſt of it is, I doubt I love her, or I ſhould never bear all this—but I am determined never to be weak enough to let her know it—No! no! no!

Sir Peter, your ſervant, how do you find yourſelf to-day?

Very bad, Maſter Rowley, very bad in⯑deed.

I'm ſorry to hear that—what has hap⯑pened to make you uneaſy ſince yeſterday?

A pretty queſtion truly to a married man.

Sure my Lady is not the cauſe!

Why has any one told you ſhe was dead?

Come, come, Sir Peter, notwithſtanding you ſometimes diſpute and diſagree, I am ſure you love her.

Aye, Maſter Rowley; but the worſt of it is, that in all our diſputes and quarrels, ſhe is ever in the wrong, and continues to thwart and vex me;— I am myſelf the ſweeteſt tempered man in the world, and ſo I tell her an hundred times a day.

Indeed, Sir Peter!

Yes—and then there's Lady Sneerwell, and the ſet ſhe meets at her houſe, encourage her to diſobedience; and Maria, my ward, ſhe too preſumes to have a will of her own, and refuſes the man I pro⯑poſe for her; deſigning, I ſuppoſe to beſtow herſelf and fortune upon that profligate his brother.

You know, Sir Peter, I have often taken the liberty to differ in opinion with you, in regard to theſe two young men, for Charles, my life on't will [17] retrieve all one day or other.—Their worthy father, my once honoured maſter, at his years, was full as wild and extravagant as Charles now is; but at his death he did not leave a more benevolent heart to lament his loſs.

You are wrong, Mr. Rowley, you are very wrong;—by their father's will, you know, I be⯑came guardian to theſe young men, which gave me an opportunity of knowing their different diſpoſitions; but their uncle's Eaſtern liberality ſoon took them out of my power, by giving them an early independence. —But for Charles, whatever good qualities he might have inherited, they are long ſince ſquandered away with the reſt of his fortune;—Joſeph, indeed, is a pattern for the young men of the age—a youth of the nobleſt ſentiments, and acts up to the ſentiments he profeſſes.

Well, well; Sir Peter, I ſhan't oppoſe your opinion at preſent, though I am ſorry you are prejudiced againſt Charles, as this may probably be the moſt critical period of his life, for his uncle, Sir Oliver, is arrived, and now in town.

What! my old friend, Sir Oliver, is he arrived? I thought you had not expected him this month.

No more we did, Sir, but his paſſage has been remarkably quick.

I ſhall be heartily glad to ſee him—'tis ſixteen years ſince old Noll and I met—But does he ſtill enjoin us to keep his arrival a ſecret from his nephews?

He does, Sir, and is determined, under a feigned character, to make trial of their different diſpoſitions.

Ah! there is no need of it, for Joſeph, I am ſure is the man.—But hark'ye, Rowley, does Sir Oliver know that I am married?

He does, Sir, and intends ſhortly to wiſh you joy.

What, as we wiſh health to a friend in a conſumption.—But I muſt have him at my houſe— do you conduct him, Rowley, I'll go and give orders for his reception

We uſed to rail at matrimony together—he has ſtood firm to his text.—But Rowley, don't give him the leaſt hint that my wife and I diſ⯑agree, for I would have him think (Heaven forgive me) that we are a happy couple.

Then you muſt be careful not to quarrel whilſt he is here.

And ſo we muſt—but that will be im⯑poſſible! —Zounds, Rowley, when an old batchelor marries a young wife, he deſerves—aye, he deſerves —no—the crime carries the puniſhment along with it.

SCENE Sir PETER TEAZLE'S Houſe

LADY Teazle, Lady Teazle, I won't bear it.

Very well, ſir Peter, you may bear it or not, juſt as you pleaſe; but I know I ought to have my own way in every thing, and what's more, I will.

What, madam! is there no reſpect due to the authority of a huſband?

Why, don't I know that no woman of faſhion does as ſhe is bid after her marriage.—Though [19] I was bred in the country, I'm no ſtranger to that: if you wanted me to be obedient, you ſhould have adopted me, and not married me—I'm ſure you were old enough.

Aye, there it is—Oons, madam, what right have you to run me into all this extravagance?

I'm ſure I am not more extravagant than a woman of quality ought to be.

'Slife, madam, I'll have no more ſums ſquandered away upon ſuch unmeaning luxuries; you have as many flowers in your dreſſing room, as would turn the Pantheon into a green-houſe; or make a Féte Champetre at a maſ—

Lord, ſir Peter, am I to blame that flowers don't blow in cold weather; you muſt blame the climate, and not me—I'm ſure, for my part, I wiſh it was ſpring all the year round, and that roſes grew under our feet.

Zounds, madam, I ſhould not wonder at your extravagance, if you had been bred to it—Had you any of theſe things before you married me?

Lord, ſir Peter, how can you be angry at thoſe little elegant expences?

Had you any of thoſe little elegant ex⯑pences when you married me?

For my part, I think you ought to be pleaſed your wife ſhould be thought a woman of taſte.

Zounds. madam, you had no taſte when you married me.

Very true, indeed; and after having married you, I never ſhould pretend to taſte again.

Very well, very well, madam; you have entirely forgot what your ſituation was when I firſt ſaw you.

No, no, I have not; a very diſagreeable ſituation it was, or I'm ſure I never ſhould have mar⯑ried you.

You forget the humble ſtate I took you from—the daughter of a poor country 'ſquire—when I came to your father's, I found you ſitting at your tambour, in a linen gown, a bunch of keys to your ſide, and your hair combed ſmoothly over a roll.

Yes, I remember very well;—my daily occupations were to overlook the dairy, ſuperintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt book, and combany aunt Deborah's lap dog.

Oh! I am glad to find you have ſo good a recollection.

My evening employments were to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; play at Pope Joan with the curate; read a ſermon to my aunt Deborah, or perhaps be ſtuck up at an old ſpinnet to trum my father to ſleep after a fox-chace.

Then you was glad to take a ride out behind the buttler, upon the old dock'd coach-horſe.

No, no, I deny the butler and the coach-horſe.

I ſay you did. This was your ſituation— Now, madam, you muſt have your coach, viz-a-viz, and three powdered coachmen to walk before your chair; and in ſummer, two white cats to draw you to Kenſington-Gardens; and inſtead of your living in that hole in the country, I have brought you home here, made a woman of fortune of you, a woman of quality —in ſhort madam, I have made you my wife.

Well, and there is but one thing more you can now do to add to the obligation, and that is—

To make you my widow, I ſuppoſe.

Hem!—

Very well, madam, very well; I am much obliged to you for the hint.

Why then will you force me to ſay ſhocking things to you. But now we have finiſhed our morning converſation, I preſume I may go to my engagements at Lady Sneerwell's.

Lady Sneerwell!—a precious acquaint⯑ance you have made with her too, and the ſet that fre⯑quent her houſe.—Such a ſet, mercy on us!—Many a wretch who has been drawn upon a hurdle, has done leſs miſchief than thoſe barterers of forged lies, coiners of ſcandal, and clippers of reputation.

How can you be ſo ſevere; I'm ſure they are all people of faſhion, and very tenacious of reputation.

Yes, ſo tenacious of it, they'll not allow it to any but themſelves.

I vow, ſir Peter, when I ſay an ill-na⯑tured thing I mean no harm by it, for I take it for granted they'd do the ſame by me.

They've made you as bad as any of them.

Yes—I think I bear my part with a tolerable grace—

Grace! indeed—

Well, but ſir Peter, you know you pro⯑miſed to come.

Well, I ſhall juſt call in to look after my own character.

Then, upon my word, you muſt make haſte after me, or you'll be too late.

I have got much by my intended expoſ⯑tulation [22] —What a charming air ſhe has!—what a neck and how pleaſingly ſhe ſhews her contempt of my au⯑thority!— Well, though I can't make her love me, 'tis ſome pleaſure to teaze her a little, and I think ſhe never appears to ſuch advantage, as when ſhe is doing every thing to vex and plague me.

SCENE Lady SNEERWELL'S Houſe.

NAY, poſitively we'll have it.

Aye, aye, the epigram, by all means.

Oh! Plague on it, it's mere nonſenſe.

Faith, Ladies, 'twas excellent for an extempore.

But Ladies, you ſhould be acquainted with the circumſtances—You muſt know that one day laſt week, as Lady Bab Curricle was taking the duſt in Hyde Park, in a ſort of duodecimo phaeton, ſhe deſires me to write ſome verſes on her ponies; upon which I took out my pocket book, and in a moment produced the following:—

There, Ladies,—done in the crack of a whip—and on horſeback too!

Oh! a very Phoebus mounted—

I muſt have a copy.

Lady Teazle, how do you do [...]—I hope we ſhall ſee ſir Peter.

I believe he will wait on your Ladyſhip preſently.

Maria, my love, you look grave; come, you ſhall ſit down to picquet with Mr. Surface.

I take very little pleaſure in cards—but I'll do as your ladyſhip pleaſes.

I wonder he ſhould ſit down to cards with Maria—I thought he would have taken an oppor⯑tunity of ſpeaking to me before ſir Peter came.

Well, now I'll forſwear his ſociety.

What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

Why, they are ſo cenſorious they won't allow our friend, Miſs Vermilion, to be hand⯑ſome.

Oh, ſurely ſhe's a pretty woman.

I'm glad you think ſo.

She has a charming freſh colour.

Yes, when it is freſh put on.

Well, I'll ſwear it's natural, for I've ſeen it come and go.

Yes, it comes at night, and goes again in the morning.

True, madam, it not only goes and comes, but what's more, egad her maid can fetch and carry it.

Well,—and what do you think of her ſiſter.

What, Mrs. Evergreen—'foregad, ſhe's ſix and fifty if ſhe's a day.

Nay, I'll ſwear two or three and ſixty is the outſide—I don't think ſhe looks more.

Oh, there's no judging by her looks, unleſs we could ſee her face.

Well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take ſome pains to repair the ravages of time, ſhe certainly effects it with great ingenuity, and ſurely that's better than the careleſs manner in which the widow Oaker chalks her wrinkles.

Nay, now my Lady Sneerwell, you are too ſevere upon the widow—Come, it is not that ſhe paints ſo ill, but when ſhe has finiſhed her face, ſhe joins it ſo badly to her neck, that ſhe looks like a mended ſtatue, in which the conniſſeur may ſee at once that the head is modern, though the trunk's antique.

What do you think of Miſs Simper?

Why ſhe has pretty teeth.

Yes, and upon that account never ſhuts her mouth, but keeps it always a-jar, as it were thus

Ha, ha, ha.

And yet, I vow that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her loſſes in front;— ſhe draws her mouth till it reſembles the apperture of a poor box, and all her words appear to ſlide out edge⯑ways as it were, thus—

"How do you do madam?—Yes, madam."

Ha, ha, ha, very well, Lady Teazle; I vow you appear to be a little ſevere.

In defence of a friend, you know, it is but juſt.—But here comes Sir Peter to ſpoil our pleaſantry.

Ladies your ſervant—mercy upon [25] me!—the whole ſet—a character dead at every ſentence.

They won't allow good qualities to any one—not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Purſey.

What! the old fat dowager that was at Mrs. Quadrille's laſt night.

Her bulk is her misfortune; and when ſhe takes ſuch pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.

That's very true, indeed.

Yes.—I'm told ſhe abſolutely lives upon acids and ſmall whey, laces herſelf with pullies;— often in the hotteſt day in ſummer, you ſhall ſee her on a little ſquat poney, with her hair platted and turned up like a drummer, and away ſhe goes puffing round the ring in a full trot.

Mercy on me! this is her own relation; a perſon they dine with twice a week.

I vow you ſhan't be ſo ſevere upon the dowager; for let me tell you, great allowances are to be made for a woman who ſtrives to paſs for a flirt at ſix and thirty.

Though ſurely ſhe's handſome ſtill; and for the weakneſs in her eyes, conſidering how much ſhe reads by candle-light, 'tis not to be wondered at.

Very true; and for her manner, I think it very graceful, conſidering ſhe never had any education; for her mother you know, was a Welch milliner, and her father a ſugar-baker at Briſtol.

Aye, ye are both of ye too good natured.

Well, I never will join in the ridi⯑cule of a friend; ſo I tell my couſin Ogle, and ye all know what pretenſions ſhe has [...] beauty.

She has the oddeſt countenance—a col⯑lection of features from all corners of the globe.

She has, indeed, an Iriſh front.

Caledonian locks.

Dutch noſe.

Auſtrian lips.

The complexion of a Spaniard.

And teeth a la Chinoiſe.

In ſhort, her face reſembles a table drote at Spa, where no two gueſts are of a nation.

Or a Congreſs at the cloſe of a general war, where every member ſeems to have a different intereſt, and the noſe and chin are the only parties likely to join iſſue.

Ha, ha, ha.

Ha, ha,—Well, I vow you are a couple of provoking toads.

Well, I vow you ſhan't carry the laugh ſo—let me tell you that, Mrs. Ogle.

Madam, madam, 'tis impoſſible to ſtop thoſe good gentlemens tongues; but when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are ſpeaking of is a particular friend of mine, I hope you will be ſo good as not to undertake her defence.

Well ſaid, Sir Peter, but you are a cruel creature, too phlegmatic yourſelf for a with and too peeviſh to allow it to others.

True wit, madam, is more nearly allied to good nature than you are aware of.

True, Sir Peter; I believe they are ſo near a-kin that they can never be united.

or rather, madam, ſuppoſe them to be man and wife, one ſo ſeldom ſees them together.

But Sir Peter is ſuch an enemy to ſcandal I believe he would have it put down by Parliament.

'Foregad, Madam, if they conſidered the ſporting with reputations of as much conſequence as poaching on manors, and paſſed an act for the preſer⯑vation of fame, they would find many would thank them for the bill.

Oh lud!—Sir Peter would deprive us of our privileges.

Yes, madam; and none ſhould then have the liberty to kill characters, and run down reputations, but privileged old maids, and diſappointed widows.

Go, you monſter!

But ſurely you would not be ſo ſe⯑vere on thoſe who only report what they hear?

Yes, madam, I would have law for them too; and wherever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured party ſhould have a right to come on any of the endorſers.

Well, I verily believe there never was a ſcandalous ſtory without ſome foundation.

Nine out of ten are formed on ſome ma⯑licious invention, or idle repreſentation.

Come, Ladies, ſhall we ſit down to cards in the next room?

I'll come directly—I'll ſteal away unper⯑ceived.

Sir Peter, you're not leaving us.

I beg pardon, Ladies, 'tis particular bu⯑ſineſs, and I muſt—but I leave my character behind me.

Well, certainly Lady Teazle, that [28] Lord of your's is a ſtrange being; I could tell you ſome ſtories of him would make you laugh heartily, if he was not your huſband.

Oh, never mind that—This way.

You take no pleaſure in this ſociety.

How can I? If to raiſe a malicious ſmile at the misfortunes and infirmities of thoſe who are un⯑happy, be a proof of wit and humour, Heaven grant me a double portion of dulneſs.

And yet, they have no malice in their hearts.

Then it is the more inexcuſable, ſince no⯑thing but an ungovernable depravity of heart, could tempt them to ſuch a practice.

And is it poſſible, Maria, that you can thus feel for others, and yet be cruel to me alone?— Is hope to be denied the tendereſt paſſion?

Why will you perſiſt to perſecute me on a ſubject on which you have long ſince known my ſenti⯑ments.

Oh, Maria, you would not be thus deaf to me, but that Charles, that libertine, is ſtill a favoured rival.

Ungenerouſly urged, but whatever my ſen⯑timents are, with regard to that unfortunate young man, be aſſured I ſhall not conſider myſelf more bound to give him up, becauſe his misfortunes have loſt him the regards—even of a brother—[Going out.

Nay, Maria, you ſhall not leave me with a ſrown; by all that's honeſt I ſwear—

Ah! Lady Teazle, ah! you ſhall not ſtir—

I have the greateſt re⯑gard in the world for Lady Teazle, but if Sir Peter was once to ſuſpect—

Lady Teazle!—

What is all this, child? You are want⯑ing in the next room

—What is the meaning of all this?—What! did you take her for me?

Why, you muſt know—Maria—by ſome means ſuſpecting—the—great regard I entertain for your Ladyſhip—was—was—threatening—if I did not deſiſt, to acquaint Sir Peter—and I—I—was juſt reaſoning with her—

You ſeem to have adopted a very tender method of reaſoning—pray do you uſually argue on your knees?

Why, you know ſhe's but a child, and I thought a little bombaſt might be uſeful to keep her ſilent.—But, my dear Lady Teazle, when will you come and give me your opinion of my library?

Why, really I begin to think it not ſo proper, and you know I admit you as a lover no far⯑ther than faſhion dictates.

Oh, no more;—a mere Platonic Ciciſbeo, that every Lady is entitled to.

No further—and though Sir Peter's treatment may make me uneaſy, it ſhall never provoke me—

To the only revenge in your power.

Go, you inſinuating wretch—but we ſhall be miſſed, let us join the company.

I'll follow your Ladyſhip.

Don't ſtay long, for I promiſe you Maria ſhan't come to hear any more of your reaſoning

A pretty ſituation I am in—by gaining the wife I ſhall loſe the heireſs.—I at firſt intended to [30] make her Ladyſhip only the inſtrument in my deſigns on Maria, but—I don't know how it is—I am be⯑come her ſerious admirer. I begin now to wiſh I had not made a point of gaining ſo very good a character, for it has brought me into ſo many confounded ro⯑gueries, that I fear I ſhall be expoſed at laſt.

SCENE Sir PETER TEAZLE'S Houſe.

Ha, ha, and ſo my old friend is marri⯑ed at laſt, eh Rowley,—and to a young wife out of the country, ha, ha, ha! That he ſhould buff to old batchelors ſo long, and ſink into a huſband at laſt.

But let me beg of you, ſir, not to rally him upon the ſubject, for he cannot bear it, though he has been married theſe ſeven months.

Then he has been juſt half a year on the ſtool of repentance. Poor Sir Peter!—But you ſay he has entirely given up Charles—never ſees him, eh.

His prejudice againſt him is aſtoniſhing, and I believe is greatly aggravated by a ſuſpicion of a connexion between Charles and Lady Teazle, and ſuch a report I know has been circulated and kept up, by means of Lady Sneerwell, and a ſcandalous party who aſſociate at her houſe; where, as I am convinced, if there is any partiality in the caſe, that Joſeph is the favourite.

Ay, ay, I know there are a ſet of miſ⯑chievous prating goſſips, both male and female, who murder characters to kill him, and rob a young fellow of his good name, before he has ſenſe enough to know [31] the value of it.—but I am not to be prejudic [...] againſt my nephew by any ſuch, I promiſe you. —No, no, if Charles has done nothing falſe or mean, I ſhall compound for his extravagance.

I rejoice, ſir, to hear you ſay ſo, and am happy to find the ſon of my old maſter has one friend left however.

What! ſhall I forget, Mr. Rowley, when I was at his years myſelf;—egad, neither my brother or I were very prudent youths, and yet, I be⯑lieve you have not ſeen many better men than your old maſter was.

'Tis that reflection I build my hopes on— and my life on't! Charles will prove deſerving of your kindneſs—But here comes Sir Peter.

Where is he? where is Sir Oliver?—Ah, my dear friend I rejoice to ſee you!—You are welcome, indeed you are welcome,—you are welcome to Eng⯑land a thouſand,—and a thouſand times!—

Thank you, thank, Sir Peter—and am glad to find you ſo well, believe me.

Ah, Sir Oliver!—It's ſixteen years ſince laſt we ſaw each other—many a bout we have had together in our time!

Aye! I have had my ſhare—But what, I find you are married—hey old boy!—Well, well, it can't be helped, and ſo I wiſh you joy with all my heart.

Thank you, thank you—yes Sir Oliver, I have entered into that happy ſtate—but we won't talk of that now.

That's true, Sir Peter, old friends [32] ſhould not begin upon grievances at their firſt meet⯑ing, no, no, no.

Have a care, Sir, —don't touch upon that ſubject.

Well,—ſo one of my nephews, I find, is a wild young rogue.

Oh, my dear friend, I grieve at your diſappointment there—Charles is, indeed, a ſad liber⯑tine,— but no matter, Joſeph will make you ample a⯑mends— every body ſpeaks well of him.

I am very ſorry to hear it; he has too good a character to be an honeſt fellow—every bo⯑dy ſpeaks well of him!—'pſhaw—then he has bowed as low to knaves and fools, as to the honeſt dignity of genius and virtue.

What the plague! are you angry with Joſeph for not making enemies?

Why not, if he has merit enough to deſerve them.

Well, well, ſee him, and you'll be con⯑vinced how worthy he is—He's a pattern for all the young men of the age—He's a man of the nobleſt ſentiments.

Oh! plague of his ſentiments—If he ſalutes me with a ſcrap of morality in his mouth I ſhall be ſick directly—but don't however miſtake me, Sir Peter, I don't mean to defend Charles's errors; but before I form my judgment of either of them, I in⯑tend to make a trial of their hearts, and my friend Rowley and I have planned ſomething for that pur⯑poſe.

My life on Joſeph's honour.

Well, well, give us a bottle of good [33] wine, and we'll drink your Lady's health, and tell you all our ſchemes.

Alons—done.

And don't, Sir Peter, be too ſevere againſt your old friend's ſon;—Odds my life, I am not ſorry he has run a little out of the courſe—for my part, I hate to ſee prudence clinging to the green ſuckers of youth; 'tis like ivy round the ſaplin, and ſpoils the growth of the tree.

SCENE Sir PETER'S Houſe.

WELL, well, we'll ſee this man firſt, and then have our wine afterwards.—But Rowley, I don't ſee the jeſt of your ſcheme.

Why, Sir, this Mr. Stanley was a near re⯑lation of their mother's, and formerly an eminent mer⯑chant in Dublin—he failed in trade, and is greatly reduced; he has applied by letter to Mr. Surface and Charles for aſſiſtance—from the former of whom he has received nothing but fair promiſes; while Charles in the midſt of his own diſtreſſes, is at preſent endea⯑vouring to raiſe a ſum of money, part of which I know he intends for the uſe of Mr. Stanley.

Aye—he's my brother's ſon.

Now, Sir, we propoſe, that Sir Oliver ſhall viſit them both, in the character of Mr. Stanley, as I [34] have informed them he has obtained leave of his credi⯑tors to wait on his friends in perſon—and in the younger, believe me, you'll find one, who, in the midſt of diſſipation and extravagance, has ſtill, as our im⯑mortal Bard expreſſes it. A tear for pity, and a hand open as day for melting charity.

What ſignifies his open hand and purſe, if he has nothing to give? But where is this perſon you were ſpeaking of?

Below, Sir, waiting your commands—you muſt know, Sir Oliver, this is a friendly Jew; one who, to do him juſtice, has done every thing in his power to aſſiſt Charles—who waits—

de⯑ſire Mr. Moſes to walk up.

But how are you ſure he'll ſpeak truth?

Why Sir, I have perſuaded him, there's no proſpect of his being paid ſeveral ſums of money he has advanced for Charles, but through the bounty of Sir Oliver, who he knows is in town; therefore you may depend on his being faithful to his intereſt—Oh! here comes the honeſt Iſraelite—

Sir Oliver, this is Mr. Moſes.—Mr. Moſes, this is Sir Oliver.

I underſtand you have lately had great dealings with my nephew Charles.

Yes, Sir Oliver, I have done all I could for him—but he was ruined before he came to me for aſ⯑ſiſtance.

That was unlucky truly, for you had no opportunity of ſhewing your talent.

None at all; I had not the pleaſure of know⯑ing his diſtreſſes, 'till he was ſome thouſands worſe than nothing.

Unfortunate indeed! But I ſuppoſe you have done all in your power for him.

Yes, he knows that—This very evening I was to have brought him a gentleman from the city, who does not know him, and will advance him ſome monies.

What! a perſon that Charles has never borrowed money of before, lend him any in his preſent circumſtances.

Yes—

What is the gentleman's name?

Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars, formerly a broker.

Does he know Mr. Premium?

Not at all.

A thought ſtrikes me,—ſuppoſe, Sir Oliver you was to viſit him in that character; 'twill be much better than the romantic one of an old relation; you will then have an opportunity of ſ [...]ing Charles in all his glory.

Egad, I like that idea better than the other, and then I may viſit Joſeph afterwards as old Stanley.

Gentlemen, this is taking Charles rather unawares; but Moſes, you underſtand Sir Oliver, and I dare ſay will be faithful.

You may depend upon me.—This is very near the time I was to have gone.

I'll accompany you as ſoon as you pleaſe, Moſes, but hold—I had forgot one thing—how the plague ſhall I be able to paſs for a Jew?

There is no need—the principal is a Chriſtian.

Is he? I am very ſorry for it—but [36] then again, am I not too ſmartly dreſſed to look like a money-lender?

Not at all—it would not be out of cha⯑racter if you went in your own chariot, would it Moſes?

Not in the leaſt.

Well, but how muſt I talk? There's certainly ſome cant of uſury, or mode of treating; that I ought to know.

As I take it Sir Oliver, the great point is to be exorbitant in your demands.—Eh! Moſes?

Yes, dat is very great point.

I'll anſwer for't I'll not be wanting in that, eight or ten per cent. on the loan at leaſt.

Oh! if you aſk him no more as dat, you'll be ciſcovered immediately.

Hey, what the plague—how much then?

that depends upon the circumſtances—if he appears not very anxious for the ſupply, you ſhould require only forty or fifty per cent. but if you find him in great diſtreſs, and he wants money very bad—you muſt aſk double.

Upon my word, Sir Oliver,—Mr. Pre⯑mium I mean—it's a very pretty trade you're learning.

Truly I think ſo, and not unprofitable.

Then you know you have not the money yourſelf, but are forced to borrow it of a friend.

Oh! I borrow it for him of a friend—do I?

Yes, and your friend's an unconſcionable dog—but you can't help dat.

Oh! my friend's an unconſcionable dog—is he?

And then he himſelf has not the monies by him, but is forced to ſell ſtock at a great loſs.

He's forced to ſell ſtock at a great loſs, —well, really, that's very kind of him.

But hark'ye, Moſes, if Sir Oliver was to rail a little at the annuity bill, don't you think it would have a good effect?

Very much.

And lament that a young man muſt now come to years of diſcretion, before he has it in his power to ruin himſelf.

Aye! a great pity.

Yes, and abuſe the public for allowing merit to a bill, whoſe only object was to reſcue youth and inexperience from the rapacious gripe of uſury, and to give the young heir an opportunity of enjoying his fortune, without being ruined by coming into poſſeſſion.

So—ſo,—Moſes ſhall give me further inſtructions as we go together.

You'll ſcarce have time to learn your trade, for Charles lives but hard by.

Oh! never fear—my tutor appears ſo able, that tho Charles lived in the next ſtreet, it muſt be my own fault if I am not a compleat rogue before I have turned the corner.

So Rowley, you would have been par⯑tial, and given Charles notice of our plot.

No indeed, Sir Peter.

Well, I ſee Maria coming, I want to have ſome talk with her.

So Maria, what is Mr. Surface come home with you?

No, Sir, he was engaged.

Maria, I wiſh you were more ſenſible to his excellent qualities.—does not every time you are in his company convince you of the merit of that amiable young man?

You know, Sir Peter, I have often told you, that of all the men who have paid me a particu⯑lar attention, there is not one I would not ſooner pre⯑fer than Mr. Surface.

Aye, aye, this blindneſs to his merit, pro⯑ceeds from your attachment to that profligate brother of his.

This is unkind, you know, at your requeſt, I have forborn to ſee or correſpond with him, as I have long been convinced he is unworthy my regard; but while my reaſon condemns his vices, my heart ſuggeſts ſome pity for his misfortunes.

Ah! you had beſt reſolve to think of him no more, but give your heart and hand to a worthier object.

Never to his brother.

Have a care, Maria, I have not yet made you know what the authority of a guardian is, don't force me to exert it.

I know, that for a ſhort time, I am to obey you as my father,—but muſt ceaſe to think you ſo, when you would compell me to be miſerable.

Sure never man was plagued as I am; I had not been married above three weeks, before her father, a hale, hearty man, died,—on purpoſe I believe to plague me with the care of his daughter: but here comes my help-mate, ſhe ſeems in mighty good hu⯑mour; I wiſh I could teaze her into loving me a little.

What's the matter, Sir Peter? What have you done to Maria? It is not fair to quarrel and I not by.

Ah, Lady Teazle, it is in your power to put me into good humour at any time.

Is it? I am glad of it—for I want you to be in a monſtrous good humour now; come do be good humoured, and let me have two hundred pounds.

What the plague! can't I be in a good humour without paying for it,—but look always thus, and you ſhall want for nothing.

There, there's two hundred pounds for you,

now ſeal me a bond for the payment.

No, my note of hand will do as well.

Well, well, I muſt be ſatisfied with that—you ſhan't much longer reproach me for not having made you a proper ſettlement—I intend ſhort⯑ly to ſurprize you.

Do you? You can't think, Sir Peter, how good humour becomes you; now you look juſt as you did before I married you.

Do I indeed?

Don't you remember when you uſed to walk with me under the elms, and tell me ſtories of what a gallant you were in your youth, and aſked me if I could like an old fellow, who could deny me no⯑thing.

Aye, and you were ſo attentive and obliging to me then.

Aye, to be ſure I was, and uſed to take your part againſt all my acquaintance, and when my [40] couſin Sophy uſed to laugh at me, for thinking of marrying a man old enough to be my father, and call you an ugly, ſtiff, formal old batchelor, I contradicted her, and ſaid I did not think you ſo ugly by any means, and that I dar'd ſay, you would make a good ſort of a huſband.

That was very kind of you—Well, and you were not miſtaken, you have found it ſo, have not you?—But ſhall we always live thus happy?

With all my heart;—I'm—I don't care how ſoon we leave off quarrelling—provided you will own you are tired firſt.

With all my heart.

Then we ſhall be as happy as the day is long, and never, never,—never quarrel more.

Never—never—never—and let our fu⯑ture conteſt be, who ſhall be moſt obliging.

Aye!—

But, my dear Lady Teazle—my love —indeed you muſt keep a ſtrict watch over your tem⯑per —for you know, my dear, that in all our diſputes and quarrels you always begin firſt.

No, no, Sir Peter, my dear, 'tis always you that begins.

No, no,—no ſuch thing.

Have a care, this it not the way to live happy if your fly out thus.

No, no,—'tis you.

No—'tis you.

Zounds!—I ſay 'tis you.

Lord! I never ſaw ſuch a man in my life—juſt what my couſin Sophy told me.

Your couſin Sophy is a forward, ſaucy, impertinent minx.

You are a very great bear, I am ſure, to abuſe my relations.

But I am well enough ſerved for marry⯑ing you—a pert, forward, rural coquette, who had re⯑fuſed half the honeſt 'ſquires in the country.

I am ſure I was a great fool for marry⯑ing you—a ſtiff, crop, dangling old batchelor, who was unmarried at fifty, becauſe nobody would have him.

You was very glad to have me—you never had ſuch an offer before.

Oh, yes I had—there was Sir Tivey Terrier, who every body ſaid would be a better match; for his eſtate was full as good as yours, and—he has broke his neck ſince we were married.

Very—very well, madam,—you're an ungrateful woman; and may plagues light on me, if I ever try to be friends with you again—You ſhall have a ſeparate maintenance.

By all means a ſeparate maintenance.

Very well, madam,—Oh, very well. Aye, madam, and I believe the ſtories of you and Charles—of you and Charles, madam,—were not without foundation.

Take care, Sir Peter; take care what you ſay, for I won't be ſuſpected without a cauſe, I promiſe you.

A divorce!—

Aye, a divorce.

Aye, zounds! I'll make an example of myſelf for the benefit of all old batchelors.

Well, Sir Peter, I ſee you are going to be in a paſſion, ſo I'll leave you, and when you come properly to your temper, we ſhall be the happieſt [42] couple in the world; and never—never—quarrel more. Ha, ha, ha.

What the devil! can't I make her angry neither.—I'll after her—zounds—ſhe muſt not preſume to keep her temper.—No, no,—ſhe may break my heart—but damn it—I'm determined ſhe ſhan't keep her temper.

SCENE CHARLES'S Houſe.

This way, gentlemen, this way.—Moſes, what's the gentleman's name?

Mr. Moſes, what's my name?

Mr. Premium—

Oh, Mr. Premium,—very well.

To judge by the ſervant, one would not imagine the maſter was ruined.—Sure this was my brother's houſe.

Yes, Sir,—Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joſeph, with furniture, pictures, &c. juſt as the old gentleman left it—Sir Peter thought it a great piece of extravagance in him.

In my mind, the others oeconomy in ſelling it to him, was more reprehenſible by half.

Gentlemen, my maſter is very ſorry he has company at preſent, and cannot ſee you.

If he knew who it is that wanted to ſee him, perhaps he would not have ſent ſuch a meſſage.

Oh! yes, I told him who it was—I did not forget my little Premium, no, no.

Very well, Sir; and pray what may your name be?

Trip, Sir, Trip, at your ſervice.

Very well, Mr. Trip,—you have a plea⯑ſant ſort of a place here, I gueſs.

Pretty well—There are four of us, who paſs our time agreeably enough—Our wages indeed, are but ſmall, and ſometimes a little in arrear—We have but fifty guineas a year, and find our own bags and bouquets.

Bags and bouquets!—halters and baſ⯑tinadoes!

Oh, Moſes, hark'ye—did you get that little bill diſcounted for me?

Wants to raiſe money too!—Mercy on me!—He has diſtreſſes, I warrant, like a Lord, and affects creditors and duns.

'Twas not to be done, indeed, Mr. Trip.

No! why I thought when my friend Bruſh had ſet his mark on it, it was as good as caſh.

No, indeed, it would not do.

Perhaps you could get it done by way of annuity.

An annuity!—A footman raiſe money by annuity!—Well ſaid luxury, egad.

Well, but you muſt inſure your place.

Oh! I'll inſure my life if you pleaſe.

That's more than I would your neck.

Well, but I ſhould like to have it done be⯑fore this damned regiſtry takes place, one would not wiſh to have one's name made public.

No, certainly—but there is nothing you could depoſit?

Why, there's none of my maſter's cloaths will [44] fall very ſoon, I believe; but I can give a mortgage on ſome of his winter ſuits, with equity of redemption before Chriſtmas—or a poſt obit on his blue and ſilver. Now theſe, with a few pair of point ruffles, by way of ſecurity

coming, coming, Gentlemen, if you'll walk this way, perhaps I may introduce you now.—Moſes, don't forget the annuity—I'll inſure my place, my little fellow.

If the man is the ſhadow of the maſter, this is the temple of diſſipation indeed.

Ha, ha, ha,—'Fore Heaven you are in the right—the degeneracy of the age is aſtoniſhing, there are many of our acquaintance who are men of wit, genius, and ſpirit, but then they won't drink.

True, Charles; they ſink into the more ſubſtantial luxuries of the table, and quite neglect the bottle.

Right—beſides ſociety ſuffers by it; for, inſtead of the mirth and humour that uſed to mantle over a bottle of Burgundy, their converſation is become as inſipid as the Spa water they drink, which has all the pertneſs of Champaigne, without its ſpirit or flavour.

But what will you ſay to thoſe who pre⯑fer play to the bottle?—There's Harry, Dick and Careleſs himſelf, who are under a hazard regimen.

'Pſha! no ſuch thing—What would you train a horſe for the courſe by keeping him from corn? —Let me throw upon a bottle of Burgundy and I never loſe, at leaſt I never feel my loſs, and that's the ſame thing.

True; beſides, 'tis wine that determines if a man be really in love.

So it is—Fill up a dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, and ſhe that floats at the top, is the girl that has bewitched you.

But come, Charles, you have not given us your real favourite,

Faith I have withheld her only in compaſ⯑ſion to you, for if I give her, you muſt toaſt a round of her peers, which is impoſſible

on earth.

We'll toaſt ſome heathen deity, or celeſtial goddeſs to match her.

Why then bumpers—bumpers all round —here's Maria—Maria—Sighs.

Maria—'Pſhaw—give us her ſir-name.

'Pſhaw—hang her ſir-name, that's too formal to be regiſtered on love's kalender.

Maria, then—here's Maria.

Maria—come, here's Maria.

Come, Sir Toby, have a care; you muſt give a beauty ſuperlative.

Then I'll give you—Here's—

Nay, never heſitate—But Sir Toby has got a ſong, that will excuſe him.

The ſong—The ſong.

Gentlemen, I muſt beg your pardon,

I muſt leave you upon buſineſs—Careleſs take the chair.

What! this is ſome wench—but we won't loſe you for her.

No, upon my honour—It is only a Jew and a broker that are come by appointment.

A Jew and a broker! we'll have 'em in.

Then deſire Mr. Moſes to walk in.

And little Premium too, Sir,

Aye, Moſes and Premium.

Charles we'll give the raſcals ſome generous Burgundy.

No, hang it—wine but draws forth the natural qualities of a man's heart, and to make them drink, would only be to whet their knavery.

Walk in, Gentlemen, walk in; Trip give chairs; ſit down Mr. Premium, ſit down Moſes. Glaſſes Trip; come, Moſes, I'll give you a ſentiment. "Here's ſucceſs to uſury." Moſes, fill the gentleman a bumper.

"Here's ſucceſs to uſury."

True, Charles; uſury is induſtry, and deſerves to ſucceed.

Then here's "All the ſucceſs it deſerves."

Oh, dam'me, ſir, that won't do; you de⯑mur to the toaſt, and ſhall drink it in a pint bumber at leaſt.

Oh, ſir, conſider Mr. Premium is a gentleman.

And therefore loves good wine, and I'll ſee juſtice done to the bottle.—Fill Moſes, a quart.

Pray, conſider gentlemen, Mr. Premium is a ſtranger.

I wiſh I was out of their company.

Come along, my boys, if they won't drink with us we'll not ſtay with them; the dice are in the next room—You'll ſettle your buſineſs, Charles, and come to us.

Aye, aye,—but Careleſs, you muſt be ready, perhaps I may have occaſion for you.

Aye, aye, bill, bond, or annuity, 'tis all the ſame to me.

Mr. Premium is a gentleman of the ſtrictect honour and ſecrecy, and always performs what he un⯑dertakes.— Mr. Premium, this is—

'Pſhaw! hold your tongue—my friend Moſes, ſir, is a very honeſt fellow, but a little ſlow at expreſſion—I ſhall cut the matter very ſhort;— I'm an extravagant young fellow that wants to borrow [48] money; and you, as I take it are a prudent old fellow who has got money to lend—I am ſuch a fool as to give fifty per cent. rather than go without it; and you I ſuppoſe are rogue enough to take an hundred if you can get it. And now we underſtand one another, and may proceed to buſineſs without further ceremony.

Exceeding frank, upon my word; I ſee you are not a man of compliments.

No, Sir.

Sir, I like you the better for it—How⯑ever you are miſtaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe I could procure you ſome from a friend; but then he's a damn'd unconſcionable dog; is he not Moſes?

Yes, but you can't help that.

And then he has not the money by him▪ but muſt ſell ſtock at a great loſs, muſt not he Moſes?

Yes, indeed—you know I always ſpeak the truth, and ſcorn to tell a lye.

Aye, thoſe who ſpeak truth uſually do— And Sir, I muſt pay the difference, I ſuppoſe—Why look'ye Mr. Premium, I know that money is not to be had without paying for it.

Well—but what ſecurity could you give—you have not any land I ſuppoſe.

Not a mole-hill, nor a twig but what grows in bow-pots out at the windows.

Nor any ſtock I preſume.

None but live ſtock, and they are only a few pointers and ponies.—But pray, Sir, are you ac⯑quainted with any of my connections?

To ſay the truth I am.

Then you muſt have heard that I had a [49] rich old uncle in India, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the greateſt expectations.

That you have a wealthy uncle I have heard; but how your expectations will turn out, is more I believe, than you can tell.

Oh yes, I'm told I am a monſtrous fa⯑vourite, and that he intends leaving me every thing.

Indeed! this is the firſt I have heard of it.

Yes, yes, he intends making me his heir —Does he not, Moſes?

Oh yes, I'll take my oath of that.

Egad, they'll perſuade me preſently that I am in Bengal.

Now, what I propoſe, Mr. Premium, is to give you a poſt obiit on my uncle's life. Though in⯑deed my uncle Noll has been very kind to me, and upon my ſoul I ſhall be ſincerely ſorry to hear any thing has happened to him.

Not more than I ſhould I aſſure you. But the bond you mention happens to be the worſt ſe⯑curity you could offer me, for I might live to be an hundred, and never recover the principal.

Oh, yes you would, for the moment he dies, you come upon me for the money.

Then I believe I would be the moſt un⯑welcome dun you ever had in your life.

What, you are afraid, my little Premium, that my uncle is too good a life.

No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he's as hale, and as hearty, as any man of his years in Chriſtendom.

Oh, there you are miſinformed. No,—no, poor uncle Oliver? he breaks a pace. The climate, ſir, [50] has hurt his conſtitution, and I'm told he's ſo much al⯑tered of late, that his neareſt relations don't know him.

No? ha, ha, ha; ſo much altered of late, that his relations would not know him. Ha, ha, ha, that's droll, egad.

What you are pleaſed to hear he's on the decline, my little Premium.

No, I am not;—no, no, no.

Yes, you are, for it mends your chance.

But I am told Sir Oliver is coming over,—nay, ſome ſay he is actually arrived.

Oh, there you are miſinformed again— No—no ſuch thing—he is this moment in Bengal, What! I muſt certainly know better than you.

Very true, as you ſay, you muſt know better than I; though I have it from very good autho⯑rity— Have I not, Moſes?

Moſt undoubtedly.

But, Sir, as I underſtand you want a few hundreds immediately, is there nothing that you would diſpoſe of?

How do you mean?

For inſtance, now; I have heard your fa⯑ther left behind him a great quantity of maſſy old plate.

Yes, but that is gone long ago—Moſes can inform you how, better than I can.

Good lack! all the family race cups, and corporation bowls gone!

It was alſo ſup⯑poſed, that his library was one of the moſt valuable and compleat.

Much too large and valuable for a private gentleman; for my part, I was always of a communi⯑cative diſpoſition, and thought it a pity to keep ſo much knowledge to myſelf.

Mercy on me! knowledge that has run in the family. like a heir-loom.

And pray how may they have been diſpoſed of?

Oh you muſt aſk the auctioneer that— I don't believe even Moſes can direct you there.

No—I never meddle with books.

The profligate!

And is there nothing you can diſpoſe of?

Nothing—unleſs you have a taſte for old family pictures. I have a whole room full of an⯑ceſtors above ſtairs.

Why ſure you would not ſell your re⯑lations!

Every ſoul of them to the beſt bidder.

Not your great uncles and aunts.

Aye, and my grandfathers and grand⯑mothers.

I'll never forgive him this.

Why,—what—Do you take me for Shylock in the play, to raiſe money from me on your own fleſh and blood.

Nay, don't be in a paſſion, my little Pre⯑mium; what is it to you, if you have your money's worth.

That's very true as you ſay—Well, well, I believe I can diſpoſe of the family canvaſs. I'll never forgive him this.

Come, Charles, what the Devil are you doing ſo long with the broker—we are waiting for you.

Oh! Careleſs, you are juſt come in time, we are to have a ſale above ſtairs.—I am going to ſell all my anceſtors to little Premium.

Burn your anceſtors.

No, no, he may do that afterwards if he will. But Careleſs, you ſhall be auctioneer.

With all my heart, I handle a hammer as well as a dice box—a-going—a-going.

Bravo!—And Moſes you ſhall be ap⯑praiſer, if we want one.

Yes, I'll be the appraiſer.

Oh the profligate!

But what's the matter, my little Premium? You don't ſeem to reliſh this buſineſs.

Oh, yes I do, vaſtly; ha, ha, ha, I—Oh the prodigal!

Very true, for when a man wants money, who the devil can he make free with if he can't with his own relations.

I'll never forgive him.

WALK in gentlemen, walk in; here they are— the family of the Surfaces up to the Conqueſt.

And in my opinion, a good collection.

Aye, there they are, done in the true ſpirit and ſtyle of portrait painting, and not like your modern Raphael's, who will make your picture inde⯑pendent of yourſelf;—no, the great merit of theſe are, the inveterate likeneſs they bear to the originals. All ſtiff and awkward as they were, and like nothing in human nature beſides.

Oh, we ſhall never ſee ſuch figures of men again.

I hope not—You ſee, Mr. Premium, what a domeſtic man I am; here I ſit of an evening ſur⯑rounded by my anceſtors—But come let us proceed to buſineſs—To your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer.—Oh, here's a great chair of my father's that ſeems fit for no⯑thing elſe.

The very thing—but what ſhall I do for a hammer, Charles? an Auctioneer is nothing with⯑out a hammer.

A hammer!

let's ſee, what have we here—Sir Richard, heir to Robert—a genealogy in full, egad—Here, Careleſs, you ſhall have no common bit of monogany, here's the family tree, and now you may knock down my anceſters with their own pedigree.

What an unnatural rogue he is!— An expert facto paracide.

Gad, Charles, this is lucky, for it will not only ſerve for a hammer, but a catalogue too if we ſhould want it.

True—Come, here's my great uncle Sir Richard Ravelin, a marvelous good General in his day—he ſerved in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet—He is not dreſſed out in feathers like our modern captains, but enveloped in wig and regi⯑mentals, as a General ſhould be.—What ſay you, Mr. Premium?

Mr. Premium would have you ſpeak.

Why you ſhall have him for ten pounds, and I'm ſure that's cheap enough for a ſtaff officer.

Heaven deliver me! his great uncle Sir Richard going for ten pounds—

—Well, ſir, I take him at that price.

Careleſs, knock down my uncle Richard.

Going, going—a going—gone.

This is a maiden ſiſter of his, my great aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, thought to be one of his beſt pictures, and eſteemed a very formidable likeneſs. There ſhe ſits, as a ſhepherdeſs feeding her flock.—You ſhall have her for five pounds ten. I'm ſure the ſheep are worth the money.

Ah, poor aunt Deborah! a woman that ſet ſuch a value on herſelf, going for five pounds ten—

—Well, ſir, ſhe's mine.

Knock down my aunt Deborah, Careleſs.

Gone.

Here are two couſins of their's—Moſes, theſe pictures were done when beaux wore perewigs, and ladies their own hair.

Yes, truly—head-dreſſes ſeem to have been ſomewhat lower in thoſe days.

Here's a grandfather of my mother's, a judge well known on the weſtern circuit. What will you give for him?

Four guineas.

Four guineas? why you don't bid the price of his wig. Premium, you have more reſpect for the Wool Sack, do let me knock him down at fifteen.

By all means.

Gone.

Here are two brothers, William and Walter Blunt, Eſquires, both members of Parliament, [55] and great ſpeakers; and what's very extraordinary, I believe this is the firſt time they were ever bought or ſold.

That's very extraordinary indeed!— I'll take them at your own price, for the honour of Parliament.

Well ſaid Premium.

I'll knock 'em down at forty pounds— Going—going—gone.

Here's a jolly, portly fellow, I don't know what relation he is to the family, but he was formerly Mayor of Norwich, let's knock him down at eight pounds.

No. I think ſix is enough for a Mayor.

Come, come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two Aldermen into the bargain.

They are mine.

Careleſs, knock down the Mayor and Aldermen.

Gone.

But hang it, we ſhall be all day at this rate; come, come, give me three hundred pounds, and take all on this ſide the room in a lump.— And that will be the beſt way.

Well, well, any thing to accommodate you; they are mine.—But there is one portrait you have always paſſed over.

What, that little ill-looking fellow over the ſettee.

Yes, Sir, 'tis that I mean—but I don't think him ſo ill-looking a fellow by any means.

That's the picture of my uncle Oliver— before he went abroad it was done, and is eſteemed a very great likeneſs.

That your uncle Oliver! Then in my opi⯑nion you will never be friends, for he is one of the moſt ſtern looking rogues I ever beheld; he has an unfor⯑giving eye, and a damn'd diſinheriting countenance. Don't you think ſo, little Premium?

Upon my ſoul, I do not, Sir; I think it as honeſt a looking face as any in the room, dead or alive.—But I ſuppoſe your uncle Oliver goes with the reſt of the lumber.

No hang it, the old gentleman has been very good to me, and I'll keep his picture as long as I have a room to put it in.

The rogue's my nephew, after all—I forgive him every thing.

but Sir, I have ſome how taken a fancy to that picture.

I am ſorry for it, Maſter Broker, for you certainly won't have it—What the devil, have you not got enough of the family?

I forgive him every thing.

Look, Sir, I am a ſtrange ſort of a fellow, and when I take a whim in my head I don't value money: I'll give you as much for that as for all the reſt.

Praythee don't be troubleſome—I tell you I won't part with it, and there's an end on't.

How like his father the dog is—I did not perceive it before, but I think I never ſaw ſo ſtrong a reſemblance.

Well, Sir, here's a draft for your ſum.

Why this bill is for eight hundred pounds.

You'll not let Sir Oliver go, then.

[...] all.

[...] me your hand [57]

you are a damn'd honeſt fellow, Charles— O Lord! I beg pardon, Sir, for being ſo free—come along Moſes.

But hark'ye, Premium, you'll provide good lodgings for theſe gentlemen,

I'll ſend for 'em in a day or two.

And pray let it be a genteel conveyance, for I aſſure you moſt of 'em have been uſed to ride in their own carriages.

I will for all but Oliver.

For all but the honeſt little Nabob.

You are fixed on that.

Peremtorily.

Ah the dear extravagant dog!

Good day, Sir. Come Moſes.—Now let me ſee who dares call him profligate.

Why, Charles, this is the very prince of Brokers.

I wonder where Moſes got acquainted with ſo honeſt a fellow.—But Careleſs, ſtep into the company; I'll wait on you preſently, I ſee old Rowley coming.

But hark'ye, Charles, don't let that fellow make you part with any of that money to diſcharge muſty old debts. Tradeſmen, you know, are the moſt impertinent people in the world.

True, and paying them would only be encouraging them.

Well, ſettle your buſineſs, and make what haſte you can.

Eight hundred pounds! Two-thirds of this are mine by right—five hundred and thirty odd pounds!—Gad, I never knew till now that my an⯑ceſtor were ſuch valuable acquaintance—Kind ladies [58] and gentlemen, I am your very much obliged, and moſt grateful humble ſervant.

Ah, old Rowley, you are juſt come in time to take leave of your old acquaintance.

Yes, ſir, I heard they were going.—But how can you expreſs ſuch ſpirits under all your misfortunes?

That's the cauſe, Maſter Rowley; my misfortunes are ſo many, that I can't afford to part with my ſpirits.

And can you really take leave of your an⯑ceſtors with ſo much unconcern?

Unconcern! what, I ſuppoſe you are ſur⯑prized that I am not mere ſorrowful at loſing the com⯑pany of ſo many worthy friends. It is very diſtreſſing to be ſure; but you ſee they never move a muſcle, then why the devil ſhould I?

Ah, dear Charles!—

But come, I have no time for trifling;— here take this bill and get it changed, and carry an hundred pounds to poor Stanley, or we ſhall have ſomebody call that has a better right to it.

Ah, Sir I wiſh you would remember the proverb—

"be juſt before you are generous."— Why fool would if I could, but juſtice is an old, lame, hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to keep pace with generoſity for the ſoul of me.

Do, dear Sir, reflect.

That's very true, as you ſay—but Rowley, while I have, by Heavens I'll give—ſo damn your mo⯑rality, and away to old Stanley with the money.

Well, Sir, I think, as Sir Peter ſaid, you have ſeen Mr. Charles in all his glory—'tis great pity he's ſo extravagant.

True, but he would not ſell my picture.—

And loves wine and women ſo much.

But he would not ſell my picture.—

And games ſo deep.

But he would not ſell my picture.— Oh, here comes Rowley.

Well, Sir, I find you have made a purchaſe.

Yes, our young rake has parted with his anceſtors like tapeſtry.

And he has commiſſioned me to return you an hundred pounds of the purchaſe money, but under your fictitious character of old Stanley. I ſaw a taylor and two noſiers dancing attendance, who, I know will go unpaid, and the two hundred pounds would juſt ſatisfy them.

Well, well, I'll pay his debts and his benevolence too.—But now I'm no more a broker, and you ſhall introduce me to the elder brother as old Stanley.

Gentlemen, I'm ſorry I was not in the way to ſhew you out. Hark'ye Moſes.

There's a fellow, now—Will you be⯑lieve it, that puppy intercepted the Jew on our coming, and wanted to raiſe money before he got to his maſter.

Indeed!

And they are now planning an annuity buſineſs.—Oh, Mr. Rowley, in my time ſervants were [60] content with the follies of their maſters, when they were wore a little threadbare; but now they have their vices, like their birth-day cloaths, with their gloſs on.

SCENE the Apartments of JOSEPH SURFACE.

NO letter from Lady Teazle.

No, Sir.

I wonder ſhe did not write if ſhe could not come—I hope Sir Peter does not ſuſpect me—but Charles's diſſipation and extravagance are great points in my favour

—ſee if it is her.

'Tis Lady Teazle, ſir; but ſhe always orders her chair to the milliner's in the next ſtreet.

Then draw that ſcreen—my oppoſite neigh⯑bour is a maiden Lady of ſo curious a temper—you need not wait.

—My Lady Teazle, I'm afraid begins to ſuſpect my attachment to Maria; but ſhe muſt not be acquainted with that ſecret till I have her more in my power.

What, ſentiment in ſoliloquy!—Have you been very impatient now? Nay, you look ſo grave,—I aſſure you I came as ſoon as I could.

Oh! madam, punctuallity is a ſpecies of conſtancy—a very unfaſhionable cuſtom among ladies.

Nay, now you wrong me; I'm ſure you'd pity me if you knew my ſituation—

— Sir Peter grows ſo peeviſh, and ſo ill natured, there's no enduring him; and then, to ſuſpect me with Charles.—

I'm glad my ſcandalous friends keep up that report.

For my part, I wiſh Sir Peter to let Maria marry him—Wou'dn't you Mr. Surface?

Indeed I would not.—Oh, to be ſure; and then my dear Lady Teazle would be con⯑vinced how groundleſs her ſuſpicions were, of my having any thoughts of the ſilly girl.

Then there's my friend Lady Sneerwell, has propagated malicious ſtories about me—and what's very provoking, all too without the leaſt foundation.

Ah! there's the miſchief; for when a ſcan⯑dalous ſtory is believed againſt me, there's no com⯑fort like the conſciouſneſs of having deſerved it.

And to be continually cenſured and ſuſpected, when I know the integrity of my own heart—it would almoſt prompt me to give him ſome grounds for it.

Certainly, for when a huſband grows ſuſ⯑picious, and withdraws his confidence from his wife, it then becomes a part of her duty to endeavour to out wit him.—You owe it to the natural privilege of your ſex.

Indeed!

Oh, yes; for your huſband ſhould never be deceived in you, and you ought to be frail in com⯑pliment to his diſcernment.

This is the neweſt doctrine.

Very wholeſome, believe me.

So, the only way to prevent his ſuſ⯑picions, is to give him cauſe for them.

Certainly.

But then the conſciouſneſs of my inno⯑cence.—

Ah, my dear lady Teazle, 'tis that con⯑ſciouſneſs of your innocence that ruins you.—What is it that makes you imprudent in your conduct, and careleſs of the cenſures of the world? The conſciouſ⯑neſs of your innocence—What is it makes you regard⯑leſs of forms, and inattentive to your huſband's peace? Why, the conſciouſneſs of your innocence.—Now my dear Lady Teazel, if you could only be prevailed up⯑on to make a trifling faux pas, you cant imagine how circumſpect you would grow.

Do you think ſo?

Depend upon it.—Your caſe at preſent, my dear Lady Teazle, reſembles that of a perſon in a plethora—you are abſolutely dying of too much health.

Why, indeed if my underſtanding could be convinced.

Your underſtanding!—Oh, yes your un⯑derſtanding ſhould be convinced. Heaven forbid that I ſhould perſuade you to any thing that is wrong. No, no, I have too much honour for that.

Don't you think you may as well leave honour out of the queſtion?

Ah, I ſee, Lady Teazle, the effects of country education ſtill remain.

They do, indeed, and I begin to find myſelf imprudent; and if I ſhould be brought to act wrong, it would be ſooner from Sir Peter's ill treat⯑ment of me, than from your honourable logic, I aſſure you.

Then by this hand which is unworthy—

—What do you want you ſcoundrell?

I beg pardon, ſir—I thought you would not chuſe Sir Peter ſhould come up.

Sir Peter!

Sir Peter! Oh, I'm undone!—What ſhall I do? Hide me ſomewhere, good Mr. Logic.

Here, here, behind this ſcreen

and now reach me a book.

Aye, there he is, ever improving him⯑ſelf —Mr. Surface, Mr. Surface.

Oh, Sir Peter!—I re⯑joice to ſee you—I was got over a ſleepy book here— I am vaſtly glad to ſee you—I thank you for this call— I believe you have not been here ſince I finiſhed my library.—Books, books, you know, are the only thing I am a coxcomb in.

Very pretty, indeed,—why even your ſcreen is a ſource of knowledge—hung round with maps I ſee.

Yes, I find great uſe in that ſcreen.

Yes, yes, ſo you muſt when you want to find any thing in a hurry.

Yes, or to hide any thing in a hurry

But my dear friend, I want to have ſome private talk with you.

You need not wait.

Pray ſit down—

—My dear friend I want to impart to you ſome of my diſtreſſes.— In ſhort, Lady Teazle's behaviour of late has given me very great uneaſineſs. She not only diſſipates and deſtroys my fortune, but I have ſtrong reaſons to be⯑lieve ſhe has formed an attachment elſewhere.

I am unhappy to hear it.

Yes, and between you and me, I believe I have diſcovered the perſon.

You alarm me exceedingly.

I know you would ſympathize with me.

Believe me, Sir Peter, ſuch a diſcovery would affect me—juſt as much as it does you.

What a happineſs to have a friend we can truſt, even with our family ſecrets.—Can't you gueſs who it is?

I hav'n't the moſt diſtant idea.—It can't be Sir Benjamin Backbite.

No, no,—What do you think of Charles?

My brother! impoſſible!—I can't think he would be guilty of ſuch baſeneſs and ingratitude.

Ah, the goodneſs of your own mind makes you ſlow to believe ſuch villainy.

Very true, Sir Peter.—The man who is conſcious of his own integrity of heart, is very ſlow to credit another's baſeneſs.

And yet, that the ſon of my old friend ſhould practiſe againſt the honour of my family.

Aye, there's the caſe, Sir Peter,—when ingratitude barbs the dart of injury, the wound feels double ſmart.

What noble ſentiments!—He never uſed a ſentiment, ungrateful boy! that I acted as guar⯑dian to, and who was brought up under my eye; and I never in my life refuſed him—my advice.

I don't know, Sir Peter,—he may be ſuch a man—if it be ſo, he is no longer a brother of mine; I renounce him, I diſclaim him.—For the man who can break through the laws of hoſpitality, and ſeduce the wife or daughter of his friend, deſerves to be branded as a peſt to ſociety.

And yet, Joſeph, if I was to make it public, I ſhould only be ſneered and laughed at.

Why, that's very true—No, no, you muſt not make it public, people would talk.—

Talk.—They'd ſay it was all my own fault; an old doating batchelor to marry a young giddy girl. They'd paragraph me in the news-papers, and make ballads on me.

And yet, Sir Peter, I can't think that my Lady Teazle's honour.—

Ah, my good friend, what's her ho⯑nour, oppoſed againſt the flattery of a handſome young fellow.—But Joſeph, ſhe has been upbraid⯑ing me of late, that I have not made her a ſettlement; and I think, in our laſt quarrel, ſhe told me ſhe ſhould not be very ſorry if I was dead. Now I have drafts of two deeds for your peruſal, and ſhe ſhall find, if I was to die, that I have not been inattentive to her welfare while living. By the one, ſhe will en⯑joy eight hundred pounds a year during my life; and by the other, the bulk of my fortune after my death.

This conduct is truly generous.—I wiſh it mayn't corrupt my pupil.

But, I would not have her as yet ac⯑quainted with the leaſt mark of my affection.

Nor I—if you could help it.

And now I have unburthened myſelf to you, let us talk over your affair with Maria.

Not a ſyllable upon the ſubject now,

—Some other time; I am too much affected by your affairs to think of my own. For the man who can think of his own happineſs, while his friend is in diſtreſs, deſerves to be hunted as a monſter to ſo⯑ciety.

I am ſure of your affection for her.

Let me intreat you Sir Peter.—

And though you are ſo averſe to Lady Teazle's knowing it. I aſſure you ſhe is not your ene⯑my, and I am ſenſibly chagrined you have made no furthur progreſs.

Sir Peter, I muſt not hear you—The man who—

What do you want ſirrah?

Your brother, ſir, is at the door talking to a Gentleman; he ſays he knows you are at home, that Sir Peter is with you, and he muſt ſee you.

I'm not at home.

Yes, yes, you ſhall be at home.

Very well, let him come up.

Now, Joſeph, I'll hide myſelf, and do you tax him about the affair with my Lady Teazle, and ſo draw the ſecret from him.

O fie! Sir Peter,—what join in a plot to trepan my brother!

Oh aye, to ſerve your friend;—beſides, if he is innocent, as you ſay he is, it will give him an opportunity to clear himſelf, and make me very hap⯑py. Hark, I hear him coming—Where ſhall I go? Behind this ſcreen—What the devil! here has been one liſtner already, for I'll ſwear I ſaw a petticoat.

It's very ridiculous, ha! ha! ha!—a ridiculous affair, indeed—ha! ha! ha! Hark ye Sir Peter

though I hold a man of intrigue to be a moſt deſpicable character, yet you know it does not follow, that one is to be an abſolute Joſeph either. Hark ye, 'tis a little French [67] milliner, who calls upon me ſometimes, and hearing you were coming, and having ſome character to looſe, ſhe ſliped behind the ſcreen.

A French milliner!

cunning rogue! Joſeph—fly rogue—But zounds, ſhe has over heard every thing that has paſſed about my wife.

Oh, never fear—Take my word it will never go farther for her.

Won't it?

No, depend upon it.

Well, well, if it will go no farther— but—where ſhall I hide myſelf.

Here, here, ſlip into this cloſet, and you may over hear every word.

Can I ſteal away.

Huſh! huſh! don't ſtir.

Joſeph, tax him home.

In, my dear Sir Peter.

Can't you lock the cloſet door?

Not a word—You'll be diſcovered.

Joſeph, don't ſpare him.

For Heaven's ſake lie cloſe—A pretty ſitu⯑ation I am in, to part man and wife in this manner.

You're ſure the little French Milliner won't blab.

Why, how now, brother, your fellow de⯑nied you, they ſaid you were not at home.—What, have you had a Jew wench with you?

Neither, brother, neither.

But where's Sir Peter? I thought he was with you.

He was, brother; but hearing you was coming, he left the houſe.

What, was the old fellow afraid I wanted to borrow money of him?

Borrow! no brother; but I'm ſorry to hear you have given that worthy man cauſe for great un⯑eaſineſs.

Yes, I am told I do that to a great many worthy men—But how do you mean brother?

Why he thinks you have endavoured to alienate the affections of Lady Teazle.

Who, I alienate the affections of Lady Teazle!—Upon my word he accuſes me very unjuſtly. What has the old gentleman found out that he has got a young wife, or what is worſe, has the Lady found out that ſhe has got an old huſband.

For ſhame, brother.

'Tis true, I did once ſuſpect her Ladyſhip had a partiality for me, but upon my ſoul, I never gave her the leaſt encouragement, for you know my attachment was to Maria.

This will make Sir Peter extremely happy. —But if ſhe had a partiality for you, ſure you would not have been baſe enough—

Why, look ye, Joſeph, I hope I ſhall ne⯑ver deliberately do a diſhonourable action; but if a pretty woman ſhould purpoſely throw herſelf in my way, and as that pretty woman ſhould happen to be married to a man old enough to be her father.—

What then?

Why then, I believe I ſhould—have occaſion to borrow a little of your morality brother.

Oh fie, brother—The man who can jeſt—

Oh, that's very true, as you were going to obſerve.—But Joſeph, do you know that I am ſur⯑prized at your ſuſpecting me with Lady Teazle, I thought you was always the favourite there.

Me!—

Why yes, I have ſeen you exchange ſuch ſignificant glances.

'Pſhaw!

Yes, I have; and don't you remember when I came in here, and caught her and you at—

I muſt ſtop him

Sir Peter has over-heard every word that you have ſaid.

Sir Peter! where is he?—What, in the cloſet—'Foregad I'll have him out.

No, no.

I will—Sir Peter Teazle come into court.

What, my old guardian turn in⯑quiſitor, and take evidence incog.

Give me your hand.—I own, my dear boy, I have ſuſpected you wrongfully, but you muſt not be angry at Joſeph, it was all my plot, and I ſhall think of you as long I live for what I overheard.

Then 'tis well you did not hear more. Is it not Joſeph?

What you would have retorted on Jo⯑ſeph, would you?

And yet you might as well have ſuſpected him as me. Might not he Joſeph?

—Lady Sneerwell, ſir, is juſt coming up, and ſays ſhe muſt ſee you.

Gentlemen, I muſt beg your pardon, I have company waiting for me, give me leave to conduct you down ſtairs.

No, no, ſpeak to 'em in another room; I have not ſeen Sir Peter a great while, and I want to talk with him.

Well, I'll ſend away the perſon and return immediately. Sir Peter, not a word of the little French Milliner.

Ah, Charles, what a pity it is you don't aſſociate more with your brother, we might then have ſome hopes of your reformation, he's a young man of ſuch ſentiments.—Ah, there's nothing in the world ſo noble as a man of ſentiment.

Oh, he's too moral by half, and ſo appre⯑henſive of his good name, that I dare ſay, he would as ſoon let a prieſt into his houſe as a wench.

No, no, you accuſe him wrongfully— Though Joſeph is not a rake, he is no ſaint.

Oh! a perfect anchorite—a young hermit.

Huſh, huſh, don't abuſe him, or he may chance to hear of it again.

Why, you won't tell him will you?

No, no, but—I have a great mind to tell him

—

—Hark'ye, Charles, have you a mind for a laugh at Joſeph?

I ſhould like it of all things—let's have it.

Gad I'll tell him—I'll be even with Jo⯑ſeph for diſcovering me in the cloſet.—

— Hark'ye Charles, he had a girl with him when I called.

Who, Joſeph! impoſſible!

Yes, a little French Milliner

and the beſt of the joke is, ſhe is now in the room.

The devil ſhe is—Where?

Huſh, huſh—behind the ſcreen.

I'll have her out.

No, no, no, no.

Yes.

No.

By the Lord I will.—So now for't. Both run up to the ſcreen—ſcreen falls, at the ſame time

Lady Teazle, by all that's wonderful!

Lady Teazle, by all that's horrible!

Sir Peter, this is the ſmarteſt French mil⯑liner I ever ſaw. But pray what's the meaning of all this? You ſeem to have been playing at hide and ſeek here, and for my part, I don't know who's in or who's out of the ſecret.—Madam, will you pleaſe to explain? —Not a word!—Brother, is it your pleaſure to illuſ⯑trate? —Morality dum too!—Well, though I can make nothing of it, I ſuppoſe you can perfectly un⯑derſtand one another, good folks, and ſo I'll leave you. Brother I am ſorry you have given that worthy man ſo much cauſe for uneaſineſs—Sir Peter, there's nothing in the world ſo noble as a man of ſentiment.— Ha, ha, ha.

Sir Peter, notwithſtanding appearances are againſt me—if—if you'll give me leave—I'll explain every thing to your ſatisfaction.

If you pleaſe, ſir.

Lady Teazle knowing any—Lady Teazle— I ſay—knowing my pretenſions—to your ward—Ma⯑ria —and—Lady Teazle—I ſay—knowing the jea⯑louſy of my—of your temper—ſhe called in here— in order that ſhe—that I—might explain—what theſe pretenſions were—And—hearing you were coming— and—as I ſaid before—knowing the jealouſy of your temper—ſhe—my Lady Teazle—I ſay—went behind [72] the ſcreen—and—This is a full and clear account of the whole affair.

A very clear account truly! and I dare ſay the lady will vouch for the truth of every word of it.

For not one ſyllable, Sir Peter.

What the devil! don't you think it worth your while to agree in the lie.

There's not one word of truth in what that Gentleman has been ſaying.

Zounds, madam, you won't ruin me.

Stand out of the way, Mr. Hypocrite, I'll ſpeak for myſelf.

Aye, aye,—let her alone—ſhe'll make a better ſtory of it than you did.

I came here with no intention of liſten⯑ing to his addreſſes to Maria, and even ignorant of his pretenſions; but ſeduced by his inſidious arts, at leaſt to liſten to his addreſſes, if not to ſacrifice his honour, as well as my own, to his unwarrantable de⯑ſires.

Now I believe the truth is coming in⯑deed.

What! is the woman mad?

No, ſir, ſhe has recovered her ſenſes. Sir Peter, I cannot expect you will credit me; but the tenderneſs you expreſſed for me, when I am cer⯑tain you did not know I was within hearing, has pe⯑netrated ſo deep into my ſoul, that could I have eſcaped the mortification of this diſcovery, my future life ſhould have convinced you of my ſincere repen⯑tance. As for that ſmooth tongued hypocrite, who [73] would have ſeduced the wife of his too credulous friend, while he pretended an honourable paſſion for his ward, I now view him in ſo deſpicable a light, that I ſhall never again reſpect myſelf for having liſt⯑ened to his addreſſes.

Sir Peter—Notwithſtanding all this— Heaven is my witneſs—

That you are a villain—and ſo I'll leave you to your meditations—

Nay, Sir Peter, you muſt not leave me— The man who ſhuts his ears againſt conviction—

Oh, damn your ſentiments—damn your ſentiments.

SCENE JOSEPH SURFACE'S Apartments.

MR. Stanley!—why ſhould you think I would ſee Mr. Stanley; you know well enough he comes intreating for ſomething.

They let him in before I knew of it; and old Rowley is with him.

'Pſhaw, you blockhead; I am ſo diſtracted with my own misfortunes, I am not in a humour to ſpeak to any one—but ſhew the fellow up. [Exit ſervant.] Sure fortune never played a man of my po⯑licy ſuch a trick before—my character ruined with Sir Peter—my hopes of Maria loſt—I'm in a pretty hu⯑mour to liſten to poor relations truly.—I ſhan't be be able to beſtow even a benevolent ſentiment on old [74] Stanley. Oh, here he comes; I'll retire, and endea⯑vour to put a little charity in my face however.

What, does he avoid us? That was him, was it not?

Yes, ſir; but his nerves are too weak to bear the ſight of a poor relation, I ſhould have come firſt to break the matter to him.

A plague of his nerves—yet this is he whom Sir Peter extols as a man of a moſt benevolent way of thinking.

Yes, he has as much ſpeculative benevo⯑lence as any man in the kingdom, though he is not ſo ſenſual as to indulge himſelf in the exerciſe of it.

Yet he has a ſtring of ſentiments, I ſuppoſe, at his finger's ends.

And his favourite one is, that charity be⯑gins at home.

And his, I preſume, is of that dome⯑ſtic ſort, which never ſtirs abroad at all.

Well, ſir, I'll leave you to introduce yourſelf, as old Stanley; I muſt be here again to an⯑nounce you in your real character.

True, and you'll afterwards meet me at Sir Peter's.

Without loſing a moment.

Here he comes—I don't like the com⯑plaiſance of his features.

Sir, your moſt obedient; I beg pardon for keeping you a moment—Mr. Stanley, I preſume.

At your ſervice, ſir.

Pray be ſeated Mr. Stanley, I intreat you, ſir.

Dear ſir, there's no occaſion. Too cere⯑monious by half.

Though I have not the pleaſure of your acquaintance, I am very glad to ſee you look ſo well. —I think, Mr. Stanley you was nearly related to my mother.

I was, ſir, ſo nearly, that my preſent poverty I fear may do diſcredit to her wealthy children, elſe I would not preſume to trouble you now.

Ah, ſir, don't mention that—For the man who is in diſtreſs has ever a right to claim kindred with the wealthy; I am ſure I wiſh I was of that num⯑ber, or that it was in my power to afford you even a ſmall relief.

If your uncle Sir Oliver was here, I ſhould have a friend.

I wiſh he was, you ſhould not want an ad⯑vocate with him, believe me.

I ſhould not need one, my diſtreſſes would recommend me. But I imagined his bounty had enabled you to be the agent of his charities.

Ah, ſir, you are miſtaken; avarice, ava⯑rice,) Mr. Stanley is the vice of age; to be ſure it has been ſpread abroad that he has been very bountiful to me, but without the leaſt foundation, though I never choſe to contradict the report.

And has he never remitted you bullion, rupees, or pagodas?

Oh, dear ſir, no ſuch thing. I have in⯑deed received ſome trifling preſents from him, ſuch as ſhawls, avadavats, and Indian crackers; nothing more, ſir.

There's gratitude for twelve thouſand [76] pounds!

Shawls, avadavats, and Indian crackers!

Then, there's my brother, Mr. Stanley; one would ſcarce believe what I have done for that unfortunate young man.

Not I for one.

Oh, the ſums I have lent him!—Well, 'twas an amiable weakneſs—I muſt own I can't de⯑fend it, though it appears more blameable at preſent, as it prevents me from ſerving you, Mr. Stanley, as my heart directs.

Diſſembler—

—then you cannot aſſiſt me.

I am very unhappy to ſay it's not in my power at preſent; but you may depend upon hearing from me when I can be of any ſervice to you.

Sweet ſir you are too good.

Not at all, ſir; to pity without the power to relieve, is ſtill more painful than to aſk and be de⯑nied. Indeed, Mr. Stanley, you have me deeply af⯑fected. Sir, your moſt devoted; I wiſh you health and ſpirits.

Your ever grateful and perpetual

humble ſervant.

I am extremely ſorry, ſir, for your misfor⯑tunes— Here, open the door.—Mr. Stanley your moſt devoted.

Your moſt obliged ſervant. Charles you are my heir.

This is another of the evils that attend a man's having ſo good a character—It ſubjects him to the importunity of the neceſſitous—the pure and ſterling are of charity, is a very expenſive article in the [77] catalogue of a man's virtues; whereas the ſentimental French plate I uſe, anſwers the purpoſe full as well, and pays no tax.

Mr. Surface, your moſt obedient; I wait on you from your uncle who is juſt arrived.

How! Sir Oliver arrived!—Here, Mr. —call back Mr. Stanley.

It's too late, ſir, I met him going out of the houſe.

Was ever any thing ſo unfortunate!

—I hope my uncle has enjoyed good health and ſpirits.

Oh, very good, ſir; he bid me inform you he'll wait on you within this half hour.

Preſent him my kind love and duty, and aſſure him I'm quite impatient to ſee him,

I ſhall, ſir.

Pray do, ſir

—This was the moſt curſed piece of ill-luck.

SCENE Sir PETER TEAZLE'S Houſe.

Indeed, madam, my Lady will ſee no one at preſent.

Did you tell her it was her friend Mrs. Candour?

I did, madam, and ſhe begs to be excuſed.

Go again, for I am ſure ſhe muſt be greatly diſtreſſed.

How provoking to be kept waiting I am not miſtreſs of half the circum⯑ſtances; [78] —I ſhall have the whole affair in the news⯑papers, with the parties names at full length, before I have dropped the ſtory at a dozen houſes.

Oh, Sir Benjamin, I am glad you are come; have you heard of Lady Teazle's affair? Well, I never was ſo ſurprized—and I am ſo diſtreſſed for the parties.

Nay, I can't ſay I pity Sir Peter, he was always ſo partial to Mr. Surface.

Mr. Surface! Why it was Charles.

Oh, no, madam, Mr. Surface was the gallant.

No, Charles was the lover; and Mr. Surface, to do him juſtice, was the cauſe of the diſcovery; he brought Sir Peter, and—

Oh, my dear madam, no ſuch thing; for I had it from one—

Yes, and I had it from one, that had it from one that knew—

And I had it from one—

No ſuch thing—But here comes my Lady Sneerwell, and perhaps ſhe may have heard the particulars.

Oh, dear Mrs. Candour, here is a ſad affair about our friend Lady Teazle.

Why, to be ſure poor thing, I am much concerned for her.

I proteſt ſo am I—though I muſt confeſs ſhe was always too lively for me.

But ſhe had a great deal of good nature.

And had a very ready wit.

But do you know all the particu⯑lars.

Yet who could have ſuſpected Mr. Surface?

Charles you mean.

No, Mr. Surface.

Oh, 'twas Charles.

Charles!

Yes, Charles.

I'll not pretend to diſpute with you Mrs. Candour; but be it as it may, I hope Sir Peter's wounds won't prove mortal.

Sir Peter's wounds! what! did they fight! I never heard a word of that.

No!—

No!—

Nor I, a ſyllable; Do, dear Sir Ben⯑jamin, tell us.

Oh, My dear madam, then you don't know half the affair—Why—why—I'll tell you— Sir Peter, you muſt know, had a long time ſuſpected Lady Teazle's viſits to Mr. Surface.

To Charles you mean.

No, Mr. Surface—and upon going to his houſe, and finding Lady Teazle there, ſir, ſays Sir Peter, you are a very ungrateful fellow.

Aye, that was Charles.

Mr. Surface.—And old as I am, ſays he, I demand immediate ſatisfaction: upon this, they both drew their ſwords, and to it they ſell.

That muſt be Charles, for it is very unlikely that Mr. Surface ſhould fight him in his own houſe.

'Sdeath madam, not at all. Lady Teazle, upon ſeeing Sir Peter in ſuch danger ran out of the room in ſtrong hyſteries, and was followed by Charles, calling out for hartſhorn and water. They fought, and Sir Peter received a wound in his right ſide by the thruſt of a ſmall ſword.

Piſtols! Piſtols! Nephew.

Oh, Mr. Crabtree, I am glad you are come; now we ſhall have the whole affair.

No, no, it was a ſmall ſword, uncle.

Zounds, nephew, I ſay it was a piſtol.

A thruſt in ſecond through the ſmall guts.

A bullet lodged in the thorax.

But give me leave, dear uncle, it was a ſmall ſword.

I tell you it was a piſtol—Won't you ſuffer any body to know any thing but yourſelf.— It was a piſtol, and Charles—

Aye! I knew it was Charles.

Mr. Surface, uncle.

Why zounds, I ſay it was Charles, muſt no body ſpeak but yourſelf. I'll tell you how the whole affair was.

Ah do, do pray tell us.

I ſee my uncle knows nothing at all about the matter.

Mr. Surface you muſt know, Ladies, came late from Salt-hill, where he had been the even⯑ing before with a particular friend of his, who has a ſon at Eton; his piſtols were left on the bureau, [81] and unfortunately loaded, and on Sir Peter's taxing Charles—

Mr. Surface you mean.

Do, pray, nephew, hold your tongue, and let me ſpeak ſometimes.—I ſay, Ladies, upon his taking Charles to account, and taxing him with the baſeſt ingratitude.—

Aye, Ladies, I told you Sir Peter taxed him with ingratitude.

They agreed each to take a piſtol— They fired at the ſame inſtant—Charles's ball took place, and lodged in the thorax. Sir Peter's miſſed, and what is very extraordinary, the ball grazed againſt a little bronze Shakeſpeare that ſtood over the chim⯑ney, flew off through the window, at right angles, and wounded the poſt man, who was juſt come to the door with a double letter from Northamptonſhire.

I heard nothing of all this! I muſt own, Ladies, my uncle's account is more circumſtan⯑tial, though mine is the true one.

I am more intereſted in this affair than they imagine, and muſt have better information.

Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very eaſily accounted for.

Why, yes; they do ſay—but that's neither here nor there.

But pray, where is Sir Peter now? I hope his wound won't prove mortal.

He was carried home immediately, and has given poſitive orders to be denied to every body.

And I believe Lady Teazle is attend⯑ing him.

I do believe ſo too.

Certainly—I met one of the faculty as I came in.

Gad ſo! and here he comes.

Yes, yes, that's the Doctor.

That certainly muſt be the phyſician —Now we ſhall get information.

Dear Doctor how is your patient?

I hope his wounds are not mortal.

Is he in a fair way of recovery.

Pray, Doctor, was he not wounded by a thruſt of a ſword through the ſmall guts?

Was it not by a bullet that lodged in the thorax.

Nay, pray anſwer me?

Dear, dear Doctor ſpeak.

Hey, hey, good people, are you all mad?—Why what the devil is the matter?—a ſword through the ſmall guts, and a bullet lodged in the thorax! What would you all be at?

Then perhaps, ſir, you are not a Doctor.

If I am, ſir, I am to thank you for my degree.

Only a particular friend, I ſuppoſe.

Nothing more, ſir.

Then I ſuppoſe, as you are a friend, you can be better able to give us ſome account of his wounds.

Wounds!

What! havn't you heard he was wounded—The ſaddeſt accident.

A thruſt with a ſword through the ſmall guts.

A bullet in the thorax.

Good people, ſpeak one at a time, I beſeech you—You both agree, that Sir Peter is dangerouſly wounded.

Ay, ay, we both agree in that.

Then I will be bold to ſay, Sir Peter is one of the moſt imprudent men in the world, for here he comes walking as if nothing had happened.

My good friend, you are certainly mad to walk about in this condition; you ſhould go to bed, you that have had a ſword through your ſmall guts, and a bullet lodged in your thorax.

A ſword through my ſmall guts and a bullet lodged in my thorax!

Yes theſe worthy people would have killed you without law or phyſic, and wanted to dub me a Doctor, in order to make me an accomplice.

What is all this!

Sir Peter, we are all very glad to find the ſtory of the duel is not true.

And exceedingly ſorry for your other misfortunes.

So, ſo all over the town already.

Though, as Sir Peter was ſo good a huſband, I pity him ſincerely.

Plague of your pity.

As you continued ſo long a batchelor, you was certainly to blame to marry at all.

Sir, I deſire you'll conſider this is my own houſe.

However, you muſt not be offended at the jeſts you'll meet on this occaſion.

It is no uncommon caſe, that's one thing.

I inſiſt upon being maſter here; in plain terms I deſire you'll leave my houſe immediately.

Well, well, ſir, we are going, and you may depend upon it, we ſhall make the beſt of the ſtory.

And tell how badly you have been treated.

Leave my houſe directly.

And how patiently you bare it.

Leave my houſe, I ſay,—Fiends, fu⯑ries, there is no bearing it.

Well, Sir Peter, I have ſeen my Ne⯑phews.

And Sir Oliver is convinced, your judg⯑ment is right after all.

Aye, Joſeph is the man.

Such ſentiments.

And acts up to the ſentiments he profeſſes.

Oh, 'tis edification to hear him talk.

He is a pattern for the young men of the age.—But how comes it Sir Peter, that you don't join in his praiſes?

Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world, and the fewer we praiſe the better.

Right, right, my old friend—But was you always ſo moderate in your judgement?

Do you ſay ſo, Sir Peter? You never was miſtaken in your life.

Oh, plague of your jokes—I ſuppoſe you are acquainted with the whole affair.

I am indeed, ſir.—I met Lady Teazle re⯑turning from Mr. Surface's ſo humbled, that ſhe deigned to beg even me to become here advocate.

What! does Sir Oliver know it too?

Aye, aye, every circumſtance.

What! about the cloſet and the ſcreen.

Yes, and the little French milliner too. I never laughed more in my life.

And a very pleaſant jeſt it was.

This is your man of ſentiment, Sir Peter.

Oh, damn his ſentiments.

You muſt have made a pretty appearance when Charles dragged you out of the cloſet.

Yes, yes, that was very diverting.

And, egad Sir Peter, I ſhould like to have ſeen your face when the ſcreen was thrown down.

My face when the ſcreen was thrown down! oh yes!—There's no bearing this.

come, come, my old friend, don't be vexed, for I can't help laughing for the ſoul of me. Ha! ha! ha!

Oh, laugh on—I am not vexed—no, no, it is the pleaſanteſt thing in the world. To be the ſtanding jeſt of all one's acquaintance, 'tis the happieſt ſituation imaginable.

See, ſir, yonder's my Lady Teazle com⯑ing this way, and in tears, let me beg of you to be re⯑conciled.

Well, well, I'll leave Rowley to medi⯑ate between you, and take my leave; but you muſt make haſte after me to Mr. Surface's, where I go, if not to reclaim a libertine, at leaſt to expoſe hypocriſy.

I'll be with you at the diſcovery; I ſhould like to ſee it, though it is a vile unlucky place for diſ⯑coveries. Rowley

ſhe is not coming this way.

No, ſir, but ſhe has left the room door open, and writs your coming.

Well, certainly mortification is very be⯑coming in a wife.—Don't you think I had better let her pine a little longer.

Oh, ſir, that's being too ſevere.

I don't think ſo; the letter I found from Charles was evidently intended for her.

Indeed, Sir Peter, you are much miſtaken,

If I was convinced of that—ſee, Maſter Rowley, ſhe looks this way—What a remarkable ele⯑gant turn of the head ſhe has—I have a good mind to go to her.

Do, dear ſir.

But when it is known that we are recon⯑ciled▪ I ſhall be laughed at more than ever.

Let them laugh on, and retort their ma⯑lice upon themſelves, by ſhewing them you can be happy in ſpite of their ſlander.

Faith, and ſo I will, Maſter Rowley, and my Lady Teazle and I may ſtill be the happieſt couple in the country.

Oh fie, Sir Peter he that lays aſide ſuſ⯑picion—

My dear Rowley, if you have any re⯑gard for me, never let me hear you utter any thing like a ſentiment again; I have had enough of that to laſt me the remainder of my life.

SCENE JOSEPH'S Library.

Impoſſible! Will not Sir Peter be immediately reconciled to Charles, and no longer op⯑poſe his union with Maria.

Can paſſion mend it.

No, nor cunning neither. I was a fool to league with ſuch a blunderer.

Sure, my Lady Sneerwell, I am the greateſt ſufferer in this affair, and yet, you ſee, I bear it with calmneſs.

Becauſe the diſappointment does not reach your heart; your intereſt only was concerned. Had you felt for Maria, what I do for that unfortu⯑nate libertine your brother, you would not be diſſuaded from taking every revenge in your power.

Why will you rail at me for the diſap⯑pointment.

Are you not the cauſe? Had you not a ſufficient field for your roguery in impoſing upon Sir Peter, and ſupplanting your brother, but you muſt en⯑deavour to ſeduce his wife. I hate ſuch an avarice of crimes; 'tis an unfair monopoly, and never proſpers.

Well, I own I am to blame—I have devi⯑ated from the direct rule of wrong, Yet, I cannot think circumſtances are ſo bad as your Ladyſhip apprehends.

No!

You tell me you have made another trial [88] of Snake, that he ſtill proves ſteady to our intereſt, and that he is ready, if occaſion requires, to ſwear to a contract having paſſed between Charles and your Lady⯑ſhip.

And what then?

Why, the letters which have been ſo care⯑fully circulated, will corroborate his evidence, and prove the truth of the aſſertion. But I expect my uncle every moment, and muſt beg your Ladyſhip to retire into the next room.

But if he ſhould find you out.

I have no fear of that—Sir Peter won't tell for his own ſake, and I ſhall ſoon find out Sir Oliver's weak ſide.

Nay, I have no doubt of your abi⯑lities▪ only be conſtant to one villainy at a time.

Well, I will, I will.—

—It is confounded hard though, to be baited by one's confederate in wickedneſs—

—Who have we got here? My uncle Oliver, I ſuppoſe—Oh, old Stanley again! How came he here? He muſt not ſtay—

I told you already, Mr. Stanley, that it was not in my power to relieve you.

But I hear, ſir, that Sir Oliver is arrived, and perhaps he might.

Well, ſir; you cannot ſtay now, ſir; but any other time, ſir, you ſhall certainly be relieved.

[...]h, Sir Oliver and I muſt be acquainted.

I [...] upon your going. Indeed, Mr. [...], you can't ſtay.

Poſitively I muſt ſee Sir Oliver.

Then poſitively you ſhan't ſtay.

Hey day! what's the matter? Why, who the devil have we got here? What, my little Premium. Oh, brother, you muſt not hurt my little broker. But hark'ye Joſeph, what have you been borrowing mo⯑ney too.

Borrowing money! no brother—We ex⯑pect my uncle Oliver here every minute, and Mr. Stan⯑ley inſiſts upon ſeeing him.

Stanley! Why his name is Premium.

No, no! I tell you his name is Stanley.

But I tell you again his name is Premium.

It don't ſignify what his name is.

No more it don't, as you ſay brother, for I ſuppoſe he goes by half a hundred names, beſides A. B. at the Coffee-houſes. But old Noll muſt not come and catch my little broker here neither.

Mr. Stanley, I beg—

And I beg Mr. Premium—

You muſt go indeed, Mr. Stanley.

Aye, you muſt go, Mr. Premium.

What, my old friend Sir Oliver! what's the matter?—In the name of wonder were there ever two ſuch ungracious nephews, to aſſault their uncle at his firſt viſit.

On my word, ſir, it was well we came to your reſcue.

Charles!

Joſeph!

Now our ruin is complete.

Very.

You find, Sir Oliver, your neceſſitous character of old Stanley could not protect you.

No! nor Premium neither. The ne⯑ceſſities of the former could not extract a ſhilling from that benevolent Gentleman there, and with the other I ſtood a worſe chance than my anceſtors, and had like to have been knocked down without being bid for. Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley, look upon that elder Nephew of mine▪ you both know what I have done for him, and how gladly I would have looked upon half my fortune as held only in truſt for him. Judge then, of my ſurpriſe and diſappointment, at finding him deſtitute of truth, charity, and gratitude.

Sir Oliver, I ſhould be as much ſurpri⯑ſed as you, if I did not already know him to be artful, ſelfiſh and hypocritical.

And if he pleads not guilty to all this, let him call upon me to finiſh his character.

Then I believe we need not add more, for if he knows himſelf, it will be a ſufficient puniſh⯑ment for him that he is known by the world.

If they talk this way to honeſty, what will they ſay to me by and by.

As for that profligate there—

Ay, now comes my turn; the damn'd family pictures will ruin me.

Sir Oliver, will you honour me with a hearing?

Now if Joſeph would make one of his [91] long ſpeeches, I ſhould have time to recollect myſelf.

I ſuppoſe you would undertake to juſtify yourſelf entirely.

I truſt I could, Sir.

'Pſhaw

and I ſuppoſe you could juſtify yourſelf too.

Not that I know of, ſir.

What, my little Premium was let too much into the ſecret.

Why yes, ſir; but they were family ſe⯑crets, and ſhould go no further.

Come, come, ſir Oliver, I am ſure you cannot look upon Charles's follies with anger.

No, nor with gravity neither.—Do you know, ſir Peter, the young rogue has been ſelling me his anceſtors: I have bought judges and ſtaff officers by the foot, and maiden aunts as cheap as old china.

Why, that I have made free with the fa⯑mily canvas is true, my anceſtors may riſe in judgment againſt me, there's no denying it, but believe me when I tell you (and upon my ſoul I would not ſay it, if it was not ſo) if I don't appear mortified at the ex⯑poſure of my follies, it is, becauſe I feel at this mo⯑ment the warmeſt ſatisfaction, at ſeeing you my liberal benefactor.

Charles, I forgive you; give me your hand again, the little ill-looking fellow over the ſettee has made your peace for you.

Then, ſir, my gratitude to the original is ſtill increaſed.

Sir Oliver, here is another, with whom I dare ſay Charles is no leſs anxious to be reconciled.

I have heard of that attachment before, and with the Lady's leave—if I conſtrue right, that bluſh—

Well, child, ſpeak for yourſelf.

I have little more to ſay, than that I wiſh him happy, and for any influence I might once have had over his affections, I moſt willingly reſign them to one who has a better claim to them.

Hey! what's the matter now? While he was a rake and a profligate, you would hear of nobody elſe; and now that he is likely to reform, you won't have him. What's the meaning of all this.

His own heart, and Lady Sneerwell can beſt inform you.

Lady Sneerwell!

I am very ſorry, brother, I am obliged to ſpeak to this point, but juſtice demands it from me; and Lady Sneerwell's wrongs can no longer be con⯑cealed.

Another French milliner!—I believe he has one in every room in the houſe.

Ungrateful Charles! Well you may ſeem confounded and ſurprized, at the indelicate ſitu⯑ation to which your perfidy has reduced me.

Pray uncle is this another of your plots? for, as I live, this is the firſt I ever heard of it.

There is but one witneſs, I believe, neceſ⯑ſary to the buſineſs.

And that witneſs is Mr. Snake—you were perfectly in the right in bringing him with you. [...].

Deſire Mr. Snake to walk in.—It is rather unlucky, madam, that he ſhould be brought to con⯑front, and not ſupport your Ladyſhip

I am ſurprized! what, ſpeak villain! have you too conſpired againſt me?

I beg your Ladyſhip ten thouſand pardons; I muſt own you paid me very liberally for the lying queſtions, but I have unfortunately been offered dou⯑ble for ſpeaking the truth.

Plot and counter-plot—I give your Ladyſhip much joy of your negociation.

May the torments of deſpair and diſ⯑appointment light upon you all.

Hold, Lady Sneerwell; before you go, give me leave to return you thanks, [...]or the trouble you and this gentleman took, in writing letters in my name to Charles, and anſwering them yourſelf;— and, at the ſame time, I muſt beg you will preſent my compliments to the ſcandalous college, of which you are preſident, and inform them, that Lady Teazle, licentiate, returns the diploma they granted her, as ſhe leaves off practice, and kills characters no longer.

You too, madam! Provoking inſo⯑lent! may your huſband live theſe fifty years.

Oh, Lord—what a malicious creature it is!

Not for her laſt wiſh I hope.

Oh, no, no, no.

Well, ſir—what have you to ſay for yourſelf?

Sir, I am ſo confounded that Lady Sneer⯑well ſhould impoſe upon us all, by ſuborning Mr. [94] Snake, that I know not what to ſay—but—leſt her malice ſhould prompt her to injure my brother— I had better follow her.

Moral to the laſt.

Marry her, Joſeph, marry her if you can—Oil and Vinegar—you'll do very well together.

Mr. Snake, I believe, we have no further occaſion for you.

Well,—averſe to ſentiments, as I am yet I cannot help obſerving, that when a knave ſuc⯑ceeds in his deſigns upon credulity, he can boaſt of nothing more than having been a while miſtaken for an honeſt man; but it would be better, for the con⯑tinuance and completion of his happineſs, were he to become, for life, and in reality, what he has only ſeemed to be.