ACT I.
Scene a Parlour in LADY ARAMANTH'S.

I Don't know whoſe houſe we've got into here, John, but I think when he knows me, we may hope for ſome refreſhment. Zounds, I'm as dry as touchwood, and to ſail at the rate of ten knots an hour, ever ſtubble and farrow, from my own houſe, but half a league on this ſide of Goſ⯑port, and not to catch theſe deſerters that received the King's bounty and run from their ſhips.

You've ill luck.

Mine, you ſwab.

Ah, you've money and gold, but grace and good fortune have ſhook hands with you theſe nineteen years, for that rogue's trick you play'd [6] Miſs Amelia, by deceiving her with a ſham mar⯑riage, when you paſſd yourſelf for Capt. Sevmor, then putting to ſea, leaving her to break her heart, then marrying another lady.

But was I not forc'd to that by my father?

Ay, becauſe ſhe had a great fortune—her death was a judgment upon you.

Why, you impudent dog-fiſh—up⯑braid me for running into falſe bay, when you was my pilot, was'n't you—even got me the mock clergyman that performed the ſham marriage with Amelia?

You think ſo▪ but I took care to bring a real clergyman.

But is this a time or place for your lectures?—at home, abroad, at ſea and land, will you ſtill badger me? Mention my Wild Oats again, and—you ſcoundrel, ſince the night my bed-curtains took fire when you were my boatſwain aboard the Eagle, you've got me quite into leading-ſtrings—you ſnatch'd me up on deck, toſs'd me into the ſea to ſave me from being burnt, and I was almoſt drown'd.

You would, but for me.

Yes. you dragg'd me out by the ear, like a water dog. Laſt week, becauſe you ſaw the tenth bottle uncork'd, you ruſhed in among my friends, and ran away with me. and the next morning Capt. O'Shanaghan ſends me a challenge, for quitting my chair when he was toaſt-maſter—ſo to ſave me from the head-ach, you'd like to have got my brains blown out.

Oh. very well—be burnt in your bed, and tumble into the water, like a tight fellow as you are, and promiſe yourſelf with ſloe juice, ſee if John cares a piece of mouldy biſcuit about it. [7] But I thought you had laid yourſelf up in ordi⯑nary, retired to live quiet upon your eſtate, and had done with ſea affairs.

John, a man ſhould forget his own convenience For his country's good,

But I wiſh you had'n't made me your valet de chambre—no ſooner was I got on ſhore, after five years daſhing upon rocks, ſhowls, and breakers, then you ſet me upon a hard trotting cart-horſe, that toſs'd me up and down like an old bum-boat in the Bay of Biſcay—and here's nothing to drink after all. Becauſe at home you keep open houſe, you think every body elſe does the ſame.—Holloa, holloa—I'll never ceaſe pip⯑ing till it calls a drop to wet my whiſſle.

Yes, as John Dory remarks, I fear my trip through life will be attended with heavy ſqualls and foul weathers—When my conduct to poor Amelia comes athwart my mind, it's a hurri⯑cane for all that day, and when I turn in at night the ballad of William and Margaret's Ghoſt

—Oh, zounds, the diſmals are coming upon me, and I can't get a cheering glaſs to—Holloa!

Friend, what would'ſt thou have?

Have—why, I would have grog.

Neither man nor woman of that name abideth here.

Ha, ha, ha! Man nor woman—then if you'll bring me Mr. Brandy and Mrs. Water, we'll couple them, and the firſt child pro⯑bably will be Maſter Grog.

Thou doſt ſpeak in parables, which I underſtand not.

Sheer off with your ſanctified poop, and ſend the gentleman of the houſe.

The owner of this manſion is a maiden, and ſhe approacheth.

Do I behold—it is—how doſt thou do, uncle?

Is it poſſible you can be my neice, Lady Amaranth Thunder?

I'm the daughter of thy deceaſ'd brother, Loftus, called Earl Thunder, but no La⯑dy—my name is Mary.

But, zounds how is all this—unex⯑pectedly find you in a ſtrange houſe, of which old Sly tells me you're miſtreſs, turn'd quaker, and diſown your title.

Thou knoweſt the relation to whoſe care my father left me.

Well, I know our couſin, old Dovehouſe, was, a quaker, but did'n't ſuſpect he would have made you one.

Being now gathered to his fathers, he did bequeath unto me his worldly goods, amongſt them this manſion, and the lands around it.

So thou becomeſt and continue one of the faithful. I'm executor of his will, and by it cannot give thee poſſeſſion of theſe goods but upon theſe conditions.

Tell me of your thee's and thou's, quaker's wills, and manſion, —I ſay, girl, tho' on the death on your father, my eldeſt brother, Loftus Earl-Thunder, from your being a female, his title devolves to his next brother, Robert; tho' as a [9] woman you can't be an Earl, nor as a woman you can't make laws for your ſex nor for our ſex, yet, as the Daughter of a peer, you are, and by heavens ſhall be, called Lady Amaranth Thunder.

Thou makeſt too much noiſe, friend.

Dam'me, call me friend, and I'll bump your blockhead against the capſturn.

Yea, this is a man of danger—I will leave Mary to abide it.

S'fire, my Lady.

Title is vanity.

Shall thy cook this day dreſs certain birds of the air called woodcocks, and ribs of the oxen likewiſe?

All—my uncle ſojourneth with me peradventure, and my meal ſhall be a fealt, friend Zachariah.

My tongue ſhall ſay ſo, friend Mary.

Sir George Thunder bids thee re⯑member to call thy miſtreſs Lady Amaranth.

Verily, George.

George, ſirrah.—Tho' a younger brother, the honour of Knighthood was my re⯑ward for placing the glorious Britiſh flag over that of a daring enemy—therefore addreſs me—

Yea, good George.

George and 'Mary—here's level⯑ling!—here's abolition of title with a vengeance! S'blood, in this houſe they think no more of an Engliſh Knight, than if he was a French Duke.

Kinſman, be patient; thou and thy ſon Henry, whom I have not beheld theſe twelve [10] years, ſhall be welcome to my dwelling. Where now abideth you?

At the Naval Academy, at Portſ⯑mouth.

May I ſee the young man?

What, to make a quaker of him? No, no—but hold—as ſhe is a wealthy heireſs, her marrying my ſon Harry will keep up and pre⯑ſerve the title in our family

Would thou be really glad to ſee him. Thou ſhalt Mary—John Dory—Ah, here's my valet de chambre.

Sir.

Avaſt, old man of war; you muſt inſtantly convoy my ſon from Portſmouth.

Then I muſt firſt convoy him to Portſ⯑mouth, for he happens to bo out of dock already.

What wind now?

You muſt know, on our quitting har⯑bour—

Damn your ſea jaw, you marvel⯑lous dolphin, give me the contents of your log-book in plain Engliſh.

Why then, the young 'Squire has cut and run.

What?

Got leave to come to you, and the maſter did not find out before yeſterday, that In⯑ſtead of making for home he had ſheer'd off to⯑wards London, directly ſent notice to you, and Sam has trac'd us all the way here to bring you the news.

What, a boy of mine quit his guns—I'll grapple him—come John.

Order the carriage for mine uncle.

No, thank'ye, my Lady, let your equipage keep up your own dignity—I've horſes here, but won't knock them up—next village is the channel for the ſtage. My Lady, I'll bring the dog to you by the bowſprit, weigh anchor, croud fail, and after him.

The man of noiſe doth not tarry—then my ſpirit is glad.

Let Sarah prepare chambers for my kinſman; and hire the maiden for me that thou didſt mention.

I will, for this damſel is paſſing fair, and hath found grace in mine eyes, Mary, as thou art yet a ſtranger in this land, and juſt taken poffeſſion of this eſtate, the law of ſociety doth command thee to be on terms of amity with thy wealthy neighbours.

Yea; but while I entertain the rich, the hearts of the poor ſhall alſo rejoice. I myſelf will now go forth into the adjacent hamlet, and invite all that cometh to good cheer.

Yea; and I will diſtribute among the poor good books.

And meat and drink too, friend Ephraim, in the fulneſs of plenty—they ſhall join in thankſgiving for thoſe gifts of which I'm un⯑worthy.

I ſay, Dick Buſkin, harkee, my lad,

What keeps Rover?

I'm ſure I don't know: as you de⯑ſired, I paid for our breakfaſt—but the devil's in that fellow, every inn we ſtop at he will always hang behind chattering with the bar-maid or the chamber-maid.

Or any, or no maid—but he's a wor⯑thy lad, and I love him better, I think, than my own brother, had I one.

Oh, but Dick, mind my boy.

Stop, Midg. tho' 'twas my orders, when I ſet out on this ſcamp with the players, the better to conceal my quality, for you before peo⯑ple to treat me as your companion, yet for you at the ſame time ſhould have had diſcretion enough to remember when we are alone that I am your maſter, and ſon to Sir George Thunder.

Sir, I aſk your pardon; but by mak⯑ing yourſelf my equal, I've got ſo uſed to fami⯑liarity, that I find it curs'd hard to ſhake it off.

Well, Sir. pray mind that famili⯑arity is all over, my frolic is out, I now throw off the player, and ſhall return directly. My father muſt by this time have heard of my departure from the academy at Portſmouth, and tho' I was deluded away by my rage for acting, 'twas bad of me to give the gay old fellow any cauſe of unea⯑ſineſs.

And, Sir, ſhall I and you never act another ſcene together—ſhall I never again play Sir Harry Wildair for my own benefit, nor ever again have the pleaſure of caneing your honour in the character of Alderman Smuggler?

In future, act the part of a ſmart coat and hat-bruſher, or I ſhall have the pleaſure of caneing you in the character of one that gives mighty blows. You were a good ſervant, but ſirrah, I find by letting you crack your jokes and ſit in my company, you're grown quite a raſcal.

Yes, Sir, I was a modeſt well be⯑haved lad, but evil communications corrupt good manners.

Run back and tell Rover to make haſte. To bring you down, I'll clap a livery on you—wear that, or find another maſter.

Well, Sir, I don't mind wearing a livery; but when one has ſo long had a halbert, it's damn'd hard to be again put into the rank.

Well, if my father but forgives me, this three months excurſion with the players has ſhew'd me ſome life, and a deviliſh deal of fun—for one circumſtance, I ſhall ever remember it with pleaſure—it's bringing me acquainted with Jack Rover—how long he ſtays—Jack

In this forlorn ſtroller I have diſcovered qualities that honour human nature, and accompliſhments that might grace a prince. My poor friend has often lent me his money; though he ſuppoſed me a poor needy devil, that could never be able to pay him. He ſhan't know who I am till it's in my power to ſerve him; only the rogue always marr'd the grand deſign of my frolic—I had no chance among the pretty women where he was; he had the knack of winning their hearts by his gaiety. Tho' ſo deviliſh pleaſant in his quotations, which on the moment he daſhes in a parody whimſically oppoſite to every occaſion as it happens, I hope he won't find the purſe I've hid in his pocket be⯑fore we part. I dread the moment—but it's come.

The briſk lightning I.

Aye, there's the rattle—hurried on by the impetuous flow of his own volatile ſpirits, his life is a rapid ſtream of extravagant whim, and while the ſerious voice of humanity prompts his heart to the beſt actions, his features ſhine in laugh and levity.—

Studying Bays Jack.

I'm the bold Thunder.

I'm—if he knew but all—

Keep one ſtanding in the road.

Beg your pardon, my dear Dick, all the fault of—plague on on't, that a man can't ſleep and breakfaſt at an inn, then return to his bed-chamber for his gloves, but there he muſt find chamber-maids thumping feathers and knocking pillows about, and keep one, when one has affairs and buſineſs—upon my ſoul theſe girls' conduct to us is intolerable, the very thought brings blood into my face, and when ever they attempt to ſerve and provoke me ſo—Dam'me but I will—An't I right Dick?

All in the wrong.

No matter, that's the univerſal play all round the wreken. But you're ſo conceited becauſe, by this company we're going to join at Wincheſter, you're engaged for high tragedy.

And you for Ranger's plumes, and Poppington.

Our firſt play is Lear—I was deviliſh imperfect in Edgar to'ther night at Lymington; I muſt look it over

"Away! the foul friend follows me"—Holloa! ſtop a moment, we ſhall have the whole country after us.

What now?

That roſy-fac'd chamber-maid put me in ſuch a paſſion, that by heaven's I walk'd out of the houſe and forgot to pay the bill.

Never mind, Rover, it's paid.

Paid! why neither you nor Midg had money enough.

I tell you 'tis paid.

You paid—oh! very well, every honeſt fellow ſhould be a flock purſe. Lets puſh on—ten miles to Wincheſter—we ſhall be there by eleven.

Our trunks at the inn are book'd for the Wincheſter coach.

Our hero, Tom Stately, ſlept into the chaiſe with his tragedy-phiz-ha, ha, ha,—rides Bottikin between our Thalia and Melpomene—but I prefer walking to the car of Theſpis. What do you wait for now?

Which is the way?

Here.

Then I go there.

Eh.

My dear boy, on this ſpot, and at this moment, we muſt part.

Part!

Rover, you wiſh me well.

Well, and ſuppoſe ſo—part.

Yes, part.

What myſtery and grand—what are you at; do you forget, you, Midg, and I are engag'd to Truncheon the manager, and that the bills are already up with our names to play to night at Wincheſter.

Jack, you and I hope often to meet on the ſtage, in aſſum'd characters, if it's your wiſh we ſhould ever meet again in our real ones of ſincere friends, without aſking whither I go, or my motives for leaving you, when I walk up this road, do you turn down that.

Joke.

I'm ſerious—good bye,

If you repent your engagement with Truncheon, I'll break off too, and go with you wherever—

Attempt to follow me, and even our acquaintance ends.

Eh.

Don't think of my reaſons, only that it must be,

Have I done any thing to Dick Buſkin? leave me.

I'm as much concern'd as you.—Good bye.

I can't even bid adieu, I wont either, if any cauſe could have been given—farewell.

Bleſs my poor fellow—adieu.

Well-good—oh damnation.

ACT II.

WELL, Maſter Ephraim, I may depend on thee, as you quakers never break your word.

I have ſpoken to Mary, and ſhe, at my requeſt, conſenteth to take thy daughter Jane for her handmaid.

That's hearty—I intended to make a preſent to the perſon that does me ſuch a piece of ſervice, but I ſhant afront you with it.

I am meek and humble, and muſt take affronts.

Then, here's a guinea, Maſter Ephraim.

I expected not this; but there's no harm in a guinea.

So, I ſhall get my children off my hands. My ſon Sim is robbing me day and night, giving away my corn and what not among the poor; my daughter Jane—when girls have nought to do, this miſchief love creeps into their minds, and then, hey, they're for kicking up their heels.—Sim, ſon Sim.

Yes, feyther.

Call your ſiſter.

Jane, feyther wants you.

Did you call me?

I often told you both, but its now ſettled—you muſt go into the world and work for your bread.

Feyther, whatever you think right muſt be ſo; and I am content.

And I'm ſure, feyther, I'm willing to do any thing you would have me.

There's ingratitude for you!—when my wife, your mother, died, I brought you up from the ſhell, and now that you're fledg'd, you want to fly off and forſake me.

Why, no, I'm willing to live with you all my days.

And I'm ſure, feyther, if its your de⯑ſire. I'll never part from you.

Here's an unnatural pair—what, you want to hang upon me like a couple of leeches, aye, to ſtrip my branches, and leave me a wither'd hawthorn. See who's yonder

Jane, Ephraim Smooth has hired you for Lady Ama⯑ranth.

La, then I ſhall live in the great houſe.

Her Ladyſhip has ſent us all preſents of good books, here, to read a chapter in; it gives a man patience when he is in a paſſion.

Thank her good Ladyſhip.

My being incumbered with you both is the cauſe why old Banks here won't give me his ſiſter.

That's a pity; if we muſt have a ſtep⯑mother, madam Amelia would make us a very good one—but I wonder how ſhe ſhould refuſe you, feyther, for I'm ſure ſhe thinks you a very portly man, in your ſcarlet coat and new ſcratch.

However, if Banks ſtill refuſes, I have him in my power, I'll turn them out of their cot⯑tage yonder, and the bailiff ſhall procure them a lodging. Here he comes.—

Well, neighbour Banks, once for all, am I to marry your ſiſter?

That ſhe beſt knows.

She ſays ſhe won't.

Then I dare ſay ſhe won't; for tho' a woman, I never knew her to prevaricate.

Then ſhe won't have me. Fine thing that you and ſhe, who's little better than paupers, dare to be ſo damn'd ſaucy.

Why, I confeſs we are poor, but while that's the worſt our enemies can ſay of us, we are content.

Damn it, I wiſh I had a fair occaſion to quarrel with him, I'd make him content with a devil to him—I'd knock him down, ſend him to goal, and—but—I'll be up with him.

Oh, feyther, here's one Mr. Lamp, a [20] ringleader of the ſhew-folks, come from Andover, to act in our villages—he wants a barn to play in, if you'll hire him yours.

Surely, boy, I'll never refuſe money; but leaſt he ſhould engage the great room at the inn, run and tell him—ſtop, I'll go myſelf, a ſhort cut through the garden—

Why, you, or any neighbour is wel⯑come to walk in it, or partake of any thing it pro⯑duces, but making it a common thoroughfare is—

Here, ſon, kick down that gate.

What!

Does the lad hear?

Why, yes, yes.

Does the fool underſtand?

Dang't I'm but yet young, but if un⯑derstanding teaches me how to wrong my neigh⯑bours. I hope I may never live to years of diſ⯑cretion.

What, you cur, do you diſobey your feyther—burſt open the garden gate, as I com⯑mand you.

Feyther, he that made both you and the garden gate, commands me not to injure the un⯑fortunate.

Here's an ungracious rogue—then I muſt do it myſelf.

Hold, neighbour—ſmall as the ſpot is, its now my only poſeſſion, and the man ſhall firſt take my life, who ſets his foot in it againſt my will.

I'm in ſuch a paſſion.

Feyther, if you're in a paſſion, read the book you gave me.

Plague, O the wench, but you huſſy I'll,—and you unlucky bud.

Zounds, here's a pelting ſhower, and no ſhelter—poor Tom's a-cold. I'm wet through; heres a good promiſing houſe.

Hold, my lad, can't let folks in till I know who they are; there's a publick-houſe not above half a mile on.

Step in here, young man, my fire is ſmall, but it ſhall cheer you with a hearty wel⯑come.

The poor cottager and the ſubſtan⯑tial farmer.

Hear nature, dear goddeſs, hear, if ever you deſign to make his corn-field fertile, change your purpoſe; that from the blighted ears no grains may fall, to fat his ſtubble gooſe. And when to town he drives his hogs (ſo like himſelf) oh let him feel the ſoaking rain; then he may curſe his crimes, to taſte and know how ſharper than the ſerpent's tooth is his.—Dam'me, but I'm ſpouting in the rain all this time.

Ah, neighbour, you'll ſoon ſcracth a beggar's head, if you harbour every mad vagrant, this may be one of the footpads that it ſeems have got about the country, but I'll have an execution and ſeize on thy goods this day, my honeſt neighbour.—Eh—the ſun ſtrikes out—quite clear'd up.

La! Feyther if there is'nt coming down the village.

Oh! thou huſſy.

Bleſs me, Feyther, no time for anger now, here's Lady Amaranth's chariot,—la it ſtops.

Her Ladyſhip is coming out and walks this way, ſhe may wiſh to reſt herſelf in my houſe—Jane we muſt always make rich folks welcome.

I'll run in and get all the things to rights, but Feyther your cravat and wig is all—

Well, maſter Gammon, as you deſired me, I am come to ſerve this copy of a writ, and arreſt maſter Banks, where is he?

Yes! now I'm determin'd on't—waunts, ſtand aſide, I'll ſpeak to you a-non.

Friend Jane, whom I have taken to be my hand-maid, is thy Daughter,

So her mother ſaid, arn't pleaſe your Ladyſhip.

Ephraim Smooth acquainted me, thou'rt a wealthy yeoman, thy hamlet to-behold with mine eyes, the diſtreſſes of my poor tenants, I wiſh to relieve their wants.

Right, your Ladyſhip, for charity hides a deal of ſin, how good of you to think of the poor, that's so like me, I'm always contriving

[23]how to relieve my neighbours—you muſt lay Banks in priſon to night.

And if it pleaſe you, will your Ladyſhip enter our humble dwelling and reſt your Lady⯑ſhip.

Do my Lady, to receive ſo great a Lady from her chariot is an honour, I dreamt not of, tho'—for the hungry and weary-foot travellers my doors are always open, and my morſel ready. Knock, and when he comes out touch him.

Thou art benevolent, and I will enter thy doors with ſatisfaction.

Eh, where's the writ

Maſter Twich, what's your buſineſs with me?

Only a little buſneſs here againſt you.

Me!

Farmer Gammon has brought a thirty pound bank note of hand of yours

I did not think his malice could have ſtretched ſo far; I thought the love he poſſeſs'd for my Siſter might. Why it's true, maſter Twich—to lend our indigent cottagers ſmall ſums, when they where unable to pay their rent, I got a lawyer Quick to procure me the money, and hoped their induſtry would have put it in my power to take up the note before now; however I'll go round and try what they can do, and call on you and ſettle it.

Rov. No, no, that won't do; you muſt go with me.

Old gentleman come quick, or I'll draw another bottle of your currant wine.

You'd better not make no noiſe, and go with me.

Oh, you're here—rain over—quite fair,—I'll take a ſniff of the open air too—Eh! what's the matter?

What's that to you?

What's that to me?—why you're very unmannerly.

Here's a reſcue.

Nay, my dear Sir, I'd wiſh you not to bring yourſelf into trouble about me.

Now, ſince you don't know what's civil—if the debt an't paid, to jail you go.

My kind hoſpitable, good old woman, to jail—what's the ſum you ſcoundrel?

Better words, or I'll—

Stop—after me, good or bad, except to tell me what's your demand upon this Gentle⯑man, and I'll give you the greateſt beating, you ever had ſince you commenced raſcal.

Why, maſter, I dont want to quarrel with you becauſe—

You'll get nothing by it, do you know, you villian, that I am this moment the greateſt man living.

Who, pray?

I am the bold Thunder, Sirrah—know that I carry my prize of gold in my coat pocket, tho' Dam'me if I know how it came there

There's twenty pictures of his Majeſty; therefore, in the Kings Name, I free his legal ſubject, and now who am I?

Ten pieces ſhort, my maſter; but if you're a houſekeeper, I'll take this and your bail.

Then for bail you muſt have a houſekeeper—what's to be done?—

Oh, here's old hoſpitality—I know you're a houſe⯑keeper, though your fire-ſide was too warm for me. Look here, ſome rapacious griping raſcal has had this worthy gentleman arreſted—now, a certain good-for-nothing rattling fellow has paid twenty guineas of the ſum, you paſs your word for the other nine, we'll run back into the old gentleman's houſe, and over his currant wine, our firſt toaſt ſhall be, liberty to the honeſt debtor, and confuſion to the hard-hearted cre⯑ditor.

I ſhant.

No—what's your name?

Gammon.

Then, dam'me, you're the Hampſhire hog. 'S [...]eath, what ſhall we do to extricate?—Damn the money.

What tumult's this?

A lady—Ma'am, your moſt obedient hum⯑ble ſervant—a quaker too—they're generally kind and humane, and that face is a prologue to a play of a thouſand good acts—may-be, ſhe'd help us here

Ma'am, you muſt know that I know this gentleman—I mean, he got a little behind hand, from bad crops, as every honeſt well-principled man may, and from rain lodging in his corn, and his cattle from murrain and rot—rot the murrain, you underſtand—and then in ſteps I with my—in ſhort, Madam, I'm the moſt out of the way ſtory-teller in the world, when myſelf is the hero of the tale.

Mr. Banks has been arreſted for thirty pounds, and this gentleman has paid twenty guineas of the ſum.

My litigious neighbour to expoſe me thus!

The young man and maiden within have pictur'd thee as a man of irreproachable morals, tho' unfortunate.

Madam, he's an honeſt fellow, I've known him above forty years—he's the beſt hand at ſtirring a fire—if you was to taſte his currant wine.

Madam, I never aſpired to an invincible rank in life, yet hirthe [...]o to pride and prudence kept me above the reach of pity—but obligation from a ſtranger—

He really a ſtanger, and attempt to free thee. Friend, thou haſt uſurped a right, which here alone belongeth to me; as I enjoy the bleſſing which theſe lands produce, I own alſo the heart-de⯑lighting privilege of diſpenſing thoſe bleſſings to the wretched. Thou madeſt thyſelf my worldly banker, and no caſh of mine in thy hands, but there I ballance my account.

Madam, my maſter pays me, our dare I take money from any other hand, without injuring his honour, or diſobeying his command.

Run, run, Orlando, carve on ev'ry tree, The fair, the chaſte, the inexpreſſive ſhe.

But, Sir, I inſiſt you'll return him his money—Stop.

Aye, ſtop.

Where dwelleth he?

I fancy, Ma'am, where he can; I under⯑ſtand, from his diſcourſe, that he is on his way to join a company of actors in the next town.

A profane ſtage player with ſuch a gen⯑tle generous heart, yet ſo whimſically wild, like the unconſcious roſe, modeſtly ſtriking from the recollec⯑tion of its own grace and ſweetneſs.

Now, my Ladyſhip, I'm fit to attend your Ladyſhip.

This maiden may find out for me whi⯑ther he goeth

Call on my ſteward, and thy legal demands ſhall be ſatisſied.

Here, coachman, drive up my Lady's chariot nearer our door

Friend, be cheerful, thine and thy ſiſ⯑ter's ſorrows ſhall be but as an April ſhower.

Hilloa, friend, when does the coach ſet out for London?

In about an hour, Sir.

Has the Wincheſter coach ſet out for London?

No. Sir.

That's lucky, my trunk is here ſtill—then I will not, ſince I've loſt the fellowſhip of my friend Dick Buſkin, I'll travel no more—I'll try a London audience—who knows but I may get an engagement—this celeſtial lady quaker muſt be rich, and how ridi⯑culous for ſuch a poor dog as I am even to think of her—how Dick would laugh at me, if he knew.I dare ſay by this ſhe has releaſed my kind hoſt from the gripe—I ſhould like to be certain, though.

You'll dine here, Sir—I'm honeſt Bob Johnſon—kept the ſun theſe twenty year;—excellent dinner on table at two.

Yet my love indeed is appetite; I'm as hungry as the ſea, I can digeſt as much.

Hungry as the ſea—then you won't do for my ſhilling ordinary. Sir, there's a very good ordi⯑nary at the ſ [...]racen's head at the end of the town.—ſhou'd'n't have thought, indeed, of hungry foot travellers to eat like—Coming, Sir.

I'll not join this company at Wincheſter—no, I'll not ſtay in the country, hopeleſs ever to ex⯑pect a look, except of ſcorn, from this lady. I won⯑der if ſhe's found out that I'm a player—I'll take a touch at the London theatre, the public there are can⯑did and generous, and before my merit can have time to create enemies, I'll ſave money, and a fig for the ſultan and ſophy.

Aye, that's he.

But if I fail, by heavens I'll overwhelm the manager, his empire, and himſelf, in one prodigious ruin.

Ruin! O, Lord!

What can you expect elſe, when you follow the young men—I've dogg'd you all the way.

Well, was'n't I ſent.

O, yes, you were ſent—very likely—who ſent you?

I won't tell it's my Lady, becauſe ſhe bid me not

I'll keep you from ſhame—A fine life I ſhould have in the pariſh, rare fleering, if a ſiſter of mine ſhould ſtand ſome Sunday at church in a white ſneet—and to all their flouts what could I ſay?

Thus, I ſay—My ſiſter's wrong'd, my ſiſter blows a bell [...] born as high and noble as the attorney; do her juſtice, or, by the gods, I'll lay a ſcene of Mood ſhall make this hay-mow horrible to beadles.—Say that▪ young Chamont.

Eg [...]d, I believe its full moon. You go [29] home to your place, and mind your buſineſs.

My Lady will be ſo glad I found him—I don't wonder at it, he's a fine ſpoken man.

Dang it, will you ſtand grinning here at the wild bucks.

Will you be quiet, the gentleman might wiſh to ſend her Ladyſhip a compliment: Arnt pleaſe you, Sir, if it is even a kiſs between you and me, it ſhall go ſafe; for tho' you ſhould give it to me, brother Sim can take it my Lady.

La, will you go?

To a nunnery, go—to a nunnery, go, go—I'm curſedly out of ſpirits—but hang ſorrow, I may as well divert myſelf—'tis meat and drink for me to ſee a clown—Shepherd, was't ever at court?

Not I.

Then thou art damned.

Eh!

Yes, like an ill-roaſted egg, all on one ſide. Ah, little hoſpitality!

Eh, where's the ſhewman that wants my barn?—Ah, ſon Sim.

Is he your ſon, young Clodpole—take him to your wheat-ſtacks, and there teach him manners.

Oh, thou art the fellow that would bolt out of the dirty roads into people's houſes—Sim's ſchooling is mightily thrown away, if he has not more manners than thou.

Why, feyther, it is one of the players, he acted Tom Fool in King Larry, t'other night at Ly⯑mington—I thought I know'd him, by the face, thof he had a ſtraw hat and a blanket about'n.—Ha, how comical that was you ſaid.

Pellicock ſat upon Jellicock-hill—pillo—loc—loc.

Why, feyther, that's it, he's at it again—feyther, laugh.

Hold your tongue, boy, I believe he's no better than he ſhou'd be; the moment I ſaw him, ſays I to myſelf, he's a rogue.

There thou ſpoke truth to thyſelf for once in thy life.

I'm glad you confeſs it; but her Ladyſhip ſall have all the vagrants wipt out of the country.

Vagrants, wretch—deſpite overwhelm thee—only ſquint, and by heaven I'll beat thy blown-up body till it rebound like a tennis ball.

Beat my feyther—no, no—thou muſt firſt beat me.

Though love cool, friendſhip fall off, bro⯑thers divide, ſubjects rebel, oh, never let the ſacred bond be crack'd betwixt ſon and father. Thou art an boneſt reptile—

I never a father's protec⯑tion knew—never had a father to proteſt.

Ecod, he's not acting now.

Landlord, is this Mr. Lamp here?

I've juſt opened a bottle for him in the other parlour.

G'is thy hand—I like thee, I don't know how it is, I think I could loſe my life for him—but muſ'n't let feyther be lickt neither.

I'll make my entrance on the London ſtage boards in Bays; yes, I ſhall have no competitor againſt me. Egad, its very hard, that a gentleman and an author can't come to teach them, but he muſt break his noiſe, and all that. So the players are gone to dinner.

Any paſſengers for the fly?

No ſuch people frequent the ſun, I aſſure you, Sir.

Sun, moon, and ſtars—now mind the eclipſe, Mr. Johnſon.

I heard nothing of it, Sir.

Sir, twno gentlemen in the parlour wiſhes to ſpeak with you.

I attend them with all reſpect and duty.

Sir, you go in the ſtage; as we book the paſſengers, what name?

I'm the bold Thunder.

Mr.Thunder.

I want two places in the ſtage coach, be⯑cauſe I and another gentleman are going a journey.

Juſt two vacant—what name?

Avaſt, I go upon deck, but let me ſee who is my maſter's meſſmates in the cabbin.

Capt. M'Clallough, Councellor Flaherghan, Miſs Goſling, Mr. Thunder—what's this—ſpeak, man, is there any perſon of that name going?

Book'd him this moment.

If our voyage ſhould be at an end before we begin; if this Mr. Thunder ſhould be my maſter's ſon—what ſort of a gentleman is he?

An odd ſort of a gentleman—I ſuſpect he's one of the players.

True, Sam ſaid 'twas ſome of the players people forced him from Portſmouth ſchool—it muſt be the 'Squire—ſhew me where he's moor'd, my old purſer.

This ſame old Gammon ſeems a ſurly ſpark.

No matter; his barn will hold full thirty pounds, and if we can but engage this young fellow, this Rover, he'll cram it every night he plays—he's certainly a very good actor. Now, Trap, you muſt enquire out a good carpenter, and be briſk about the building. I thihk we ſhall have ſmart buſineſs, as we ſtand ſo well for women too—Oh, here he comes.

Knap him on any terms.

Gentlemen, your moſt obedient—the waiter told me—

Pra [...], ſit down, good Sir. Sir, to our bet⯑ter acquaintance.

Hav'n't a doubt, Sir.

Only ſuffer me to put up your name to play with us ſix nights, and twelve gu neas are yours.

I thank you; I muſt confeſs your offer is liberal, but my friends have flattered me into a ſort of opinion, that encourages me to take a touch at the capital.

Oh, my dear Sir, a London theatre is very dangerous ground.

Why, I may fail, and gods may groan, and lad [...]es cry, the aukward creature; but ſhould I t [...]p my part thus, ſhall not gods applaud, and ladies ſigh, the charming fellow, and the managers take me by the hand, and treaſurers ſmile upon me, as they count the ſhining guineas.

But ſuppoſe—

Aye, ſuppoſe the contrary, I have a certain friend here in my coat pocket—(feels for it)—Zounds, where is it—Oh, the devil, I gave it to diſcharge my kind hoſt. Going to London, and not maſter of five ſhillings

Well, Sir, if you'll make it twenty pounds.

Well, be it ſo.

Sir, I engage with you; call a rchearſal when and where you pleaſe, and I'll attend you.

Sir, I'll ſtep for the caſt book, and you ſhall chooſe your characters.

And I'll write the play-bill directly.

Since I muſt remain here ſome time, and hav'n't the moſt diſtant hope of ever ſpeaking to this goddeſs again, I wiſh I had enquired her name, that I might know how to keep out of her way.

There's the gentleman.

Very well.

What cheer, maſter 'Squire.

What cheer, eh, my hearty.

The very face of his father—And ar'n't you aſham'd of yourſelf?

Why, yes, I am ſometimes.

Do you know, if I had you at the gangway, I'd give you a neater dozen than ever you got from your ſchool-maſter's cat-o-nine-tails.

You wou'dn't, ſure.

I would, ſure.

Indeed, pleaſant enough. Who is this ge⯑nius?

I've diſpatch'd a ſhallop to tell Lady Ama⯑ranth you're here.

You hav'n't.

I have.

Now who the devil's this Lady Amaranth?

I expect her chariot every moment, and when it comes, you'll get into it, and I'll ſet you down genteelly at her houſe, then I'll have obeyed my or⯑ders, and hope your father will be ſatisfied.

My father—who is he, pray?

Pſha, leave off your fun, and prepare to aſk his pardon.

Ha, ha, ha,—my worthy friend, you're quite wrong in this affair;—upon my word, I'm not the perſon you take me for.

You don't go, tho' you've got your name down in the ſtage-coach book, Mr. Thunder.

Mr. Thunder—ſtage-coach book—this muſt be ſome curious miſtake—ha, ha, ha.

Oh, my lad, your father, Sir George, will ſoon change your note.

Will he—he muſt firſt give me one. Sir George—then my father's a Knight, it ſeems—very good, faith—ha, ha, ha. I'm not the gentleman you think, upon my honour.

I ought not to think you any gentleman, for giving your honour in a falſe word.

Her Ladyſhip's carriage is at the door, and I fancy, Sir, it's you the coachman wants.

Yes, it's me

I attend your honour.

The choice is made, and I've my Ranger's dreſs in my trank, Couſin of Buckingham, thou ſage grave man.

What.

Since you will buckle fortune on my back, to bear the burthen whether I will or no, I muſt have patience to endure the load; but if black ſcandal, or foul-fac'd—

Black, foul-fac'd—dam'me, my face was as fair as yours before I went to ſea.

Your mere enforcement ſhall acquaintance me.

Man, dont ſtand preaching parſon Palmer, come to the chariot.

Aye, to the chariot bear me—Bucephalus among the billows.

ACT III.

THO' thou haſt ſettled that diſtreſſed gentleman's debts, let his ſiſter come unto me, and remit a quarter's rent to all my tenants.

As thou biddeſt it, I have diſcharged from the pound, the widow's cattle; but ſhall I let the law⯑ſuit drop againſt the farmer's ſon, who did ſhoot the pheaſant?

Yea; but inſtantly turn from my ſer⯑vice the gamekeeper's man that did kill the fawn while it was eating from his hand—we ſhould hate guile, tho' we love veniſon.

Since the death of old Dovehonſe (who, though one of the faithful, was an active man) this part of the country is infeſted with covetous men, called rabbers; and I have, in thy name, ſaid unto the people, whoever apprehendeth one of theſe, I will reward, yea, with thirty pieces of gold.

That beating of one braſs againſt another at thy door, proclaimeth the approach of vanity, whoſe heart ſwelleth at an empty ſound.

But my heart is poſſeſsed with the idea of that wandering youth, whoſe benevolence induced him to part with, perhaps his all, to free the unhappy debtor. His perſon is amiable, his addreſſes (accord⯑ing [36] to the worldly modes) formed to pleaſure and to delight—but he's poor—is that a crime?—perhaps meanly born—but one good action is an illuſtrious pe⯑digree.—I feel I love him, and in that word are birth, fame, and riches.

Oh, Madam, my Lady, an't please you.

Did'ſt thou find the young man, that I may return him the money he paid for my tenant?

I found him, Ma'am, and I found him, and he talked of what he ſaid.

What did he ſay?

He ſaid, Ma'am, and ſays he—I'll be hang'd, Ma'am, if he did'n't talk about ruin, now I think of that—but if he had'n't gone to London in the ſtage coach—

Is he gone?

Oh, my Lady, mayhap John Dory is not the man to be ſent after young gentlemen that ſcamper from ſchool, and run about the country a play acting. Pray walk up ſtairs, Maſter Thunder.

Haſt thou brought my kinſman hither?

Well then, I ha'n't—will you only walk up, if you pleaſe, Maſter Harry?

Will you walk up, if you pleaſe, Maſter Harry?

Frienaſhip requireth, yet I'm not diſ⯑poſed to communicate with company.

Oh, bleſs me, Ma'am, if it is'n't—

'Tis I, Hamlet, the Dane—thus far into the bowels of the land have we march'd on—John, the bloody devouring beat.

He call'd me bull in the coach.

This Lady Amaranth—by heavens, the very angel quaker.

The generous youth, my couſin Harry.

He's for you, make the moſt of him.

Oh, how happy my Lady is—he looks ſo charming now he's fine.

Harkee—ſhe's as rich as an India-man, and I tell you, your father wiſhes you would grapple her by the heart. There's an engagement between theſe two veſſels but little Cupid's the only man that's to take'em in tow, ſo come.

Ma'am, a'n't I to wait on you?

No, my laſs, you're to wait on me.

Wait on you!—lack-a-day, am I?

By this, Sir George is come to the inn. Without letting the younker know, I'll bring him here, and ſurpriſe both father and ſon with a joyful meeting

Now court her, you mad devil

Come, now uſher me down like a lady.

Yes, there's love between them, I ſee it in their eyes—bleſs the dear couple—this way, Mr. Sailor gentleman.

By heavens, a moſt delectable wo⯑man.

Couſin, when I ſaw thee in the village free the ſheep from the wolf, why did'ſt not tell me thou wer't ſon to my uncle, Sir George?

Becauſe, my Lady, I did not know it my⯑ſelf.

Why would'ſt thou vex thy father, and quit thy ſchool?

A truent diſpoſition—good my Lady brought me from Whittemberg.

Thy father deſigns thee for his dange⯑rous profeſſion—but is thy inclination turned to the voice of trumpets and ſounds of mighty ſlaughter?

Why, Ma am, as for old Boreas, my dad▪ when the blaſt of war blows in his ears, he's a tyger in his fierce reſentment; but, for me, I think it a pity [38] —ſo it is—that villainous ſaltpetre ſhould be digg'd out of the bowels of the harmleſs earth, which many a good tall fellow hath deſtroy'd, with wound, and guns, and drums—Heaven ſave the mark!

Indeed thou art tall, my couſin and grown of comely ſtature—our families have long been ſeparated.

They have, ſince Adam, I believe

—then, lady, let that ſweet bud of love now ripen to a beauteous f [...]ower.

Love!

Excellent wench—perdition catch my ſoul—but I do leve thee; and when I love thee not—Chaos is come again.

Thou art of a happy diſpoſition.

If I were now to die, it were to be happy!—Let our ſenſes dance in concert to the joyful minutes, and this, and this, the only diſcord make

Ma'am, an't pleaſe you, Mr. Zachariah bid me—

Why you fancy yourſelf Cardinal Woolſey in this family.

No, Sir, I'm not Cardinal Woolſey, I'm only my Lady's maid here.

A bowl of cream for your Catholic Ma⯑jeſty's.

Cream! no, Sir;—that wine and water.

You get no water—take the wine, great Po⯑tentate.

Madam, my father begs leave—

Go, go, thou ſhallow Pomona.

Eh! Zouns, my Manager!

I hope her Ladyſhip hav'n't found out 'twas I had Banks arreſted

Wou [...]d your Ladyſhip give leave for this honeſt man and comrades to act a [39] few plays in the town, cauſe I have let 'em my barn—'twill be ſome little help to me, my Lady.

My Lady, I underſtand theſe affairs, leave me to ſettle them.

True, theſe are deluſions, as a woman, I underſtand not—but by my couſin's advice I will abide—aſk his conſent.

So, I muſt pay my reſpects to the young 'Squire

An't pleaſe your honour, if a poor man, like me

dare offer his humble duty.

Can'ſt thou bow to a vagrant, Eh, little Hoſpitality,

Pleaſe your honour, if I may preſume to hope, you'll be graciouſly pleaſed to take our little ſquadron under your honour's protection.

What ſay'ſt thou, Henry.

Aye, where's Henry?—true—that's me—ſtrange I ſhould always forget my name, and not half an hour ago I was chriſten'd

Hark ye, do you play yourſelf, fellow?

Yes, Sir, and I've juſt now engaged a new actor, one Mr. Rover—ſuch an actor.

If ſuch it your beſt actor, you ſha'nt have my permiſſion—my dear Madam, the damndeſt fel⯑low in the world—get alone out of the town, or▪ dam'me, I ll have you all, man, woman, and child, rag and fiddle- [...]ick, clap'd into the whirligig.

Good man, abide not here.

What, you ſcoundrel!—now if this new actor you brag of, that crack of your company, was any thing like a gentleman—

Why ſince it is'n't—

It is, my dear friend, if I was really the poor ſtrolling dog you thought me, I ſhould tread your four boards, and crow the cock of your barn⯑door fowl; but, as Fate has ordain'd, I'm a gentle⯑man, and ſon to Sir—what the devil's my father's name

—You muſt be content to murder Shake⯑ſpeare, without making me an accomplice.

But, my moſt gentle Sir, I and my trea⯑ſurer, Trap, have trumpeted your fame ten miles [40] round the country—the bills are poſted, the candles bought, the ſtage built, the fiddlers engag'd—all on the tip-toe of expectation—we ſhould have to-morrow night an overflow—ay, thirty pounds, dear worthy Sir; you would not go to ruin a whole community and their families, that now depends on the exertion of your brilliant talents.

I never was uniform but in one maxim, that is, though I do little good, to hurt nobody but myſelf.

Since thou haſt promiſed, much as I prize the adherance to the cuſtoms in which I was brought up, thou ſhalt not fully thy honour, by a breach of thy word; for truth is more ſhining than beaten gold—play, if it can bring good to theſe people.

Shall I?

This falleth out well, for I have bid⯑den all the gentry round unto my houſe warning, and theſe pleaſentries may afford them innocent and chear⯑ful entertainment.

True, my Lady, your gueſts an't Quakers, though you are; and when we aſk people to our houſe we ſtudy to pleaſe them, not ourſelves; but if you do furbiſh up a play or two, the Muſes ſhan't ho⯑nour that churliſh fellow's barn.

Barn! no, that gallery ſhall be thy theatre; and, in ſpite of the grave doctrine of Ephra⯑im Smooth, my friends and I will behold and rejoice in thy pranks, my pleaſant couſin.

My kind, my charming Lady!—Hey!—brighten up bully Lamp, Carpenters, Taylors, Ma⯑nagers, diſtribute your box tickets for my Lady's gal⯑lery—come, gentle couſin, the actors are at hand, and by their ſhew you ſhall know all that you are like to know.

Though I went back to Portſmouth [41] Academy with a contrite heart to continue my ſtudies, yet, from my father's angry letter, I dread the woe⯑ful ſtorm at our firſt meeting. I fancy the people at the inn don't recollect me; it reminds me of my plea⯑ſant friend, poor Jack Rover; I wonder where he is now.

And brings to my mind a certain ſtrolling acquaintance of mine, poor Dick Buſkin.

Then I deſire, Sir, you'll turn Dick Buſkin out of your head.

Can't, Sir, the dear, good-natur'd, wicked ſon of—I beg your honour's pardon.

Midg, you muſt, ſoon as I'm dreſt, ſtep out and enquire whoſe houſe my father is at—I didn't think he had any acquaintance in this part of the coun⯑try; found what humour he's in, and how the land lies, before I venture into his preſence.

Sir, the room is ready for you to dreſs.

I ſhall only throw off my boots, and you'll ſhake a little powder in my hair.

Then, hey puff, I ſhoulder my curling-irons.

I can hear nothing of theſe deſerters—by my firſt intelligence, they'll not venture up to London; they muſt ſtill be lurking about the country—Landlords have any ſuſpicious looking perſon put in at your houſe?

Yes, Sir, now and then.

What do you do with them?

Why, Sir, when a man calls for liquor, that I think has got no money, I make him pay before⯑hand.

Damn your liquor, you ſelf-intereſted porpoiſe, chattering about your own private affairs, when public good, or fear of general calamity, ſhould be the only compaſs; theſe fellows I am in purſuit of, run from their ſhips; and if our navy is unmanned, [42] what becomes of you and your houſe, you dunghill cormorant?

This is a very abuſive ſort of a Gentleman, but he has a full pocket, or he wou'd not be ſo ſaucy

This raſcal, I believe, does not know I'm Sir George Thunder—wind, ſtill variable, blows my affairs athwart each other, to not know what's become of my runagate ſon Harry—and when my Lady niece, ſqueezing up the plumage of our illuſtrious family in her little mean Quaker's bon⯑net—I muſt to town after—Shood! when I catch my ſon Harry—Oh, here's John Dory.

Have you taken the places in the London coach for me?

Ha!—Hey, your honour, is that yourſelf?

No, I'm beſides myſelfmdash;where's my ſon?

What's o'clock?

Why do you talk of clocks or time-pieces?—all Glaſs's reckoning and log-line are run wild with me.

If it's two, your ſon is this moment walk⯑ing with Lady Amaranth in her garden.

With Lady Amaranth?

If half after, the're caſt anchor to reſt themſelves among the poſies; if three, they're got up again; if four, they're picking a bit of cram'd fowl; and if half after, they're picking their teeth, and crack⯑ing walnuts over a bottle of calcavella.

My ſon!—my dear friend, where did you find him?

I found him where he was, and I found him where he is.

What! and he come to Lady Ama⯑ranth's?

No, I brought him there from this houſe, in her carriage—I won't tell him Maſter Harry went [43] among the players, or he'd never forgive him

—Oh, ſuch a merry, civil, crazy, crack-brain'd—the very picture of your honour.

What, he's in high ſpirits—ha, ha, ha—the dog—I hope he had diſcretion enough tho' to throw a little gravity over his mad humour, before his prudent couſin.

He threw himſelf upon his knees before her, and that did quite as well.

Made love to her already!—ha, ha, ha,—oh the impudent, cunning villain!—what, and may be he—

Indeed he did give her a ſmack.

Indeed—ha, ha, ha.

Oh, he threw his arms about her as eager, as I wou'd to catch a falling decanter of Madeira.

Huzza, victoria!—here will be a junc⯑ture of two bouncing eſtates—but confound the money!—John, you ſhall have a bowl for a jolly boat of ſwim in. Roll in a puncheon of rum, a hogſhead of ſugar, ſhake an orchard of oranges, and let the land⯑lord drain his fiſh-pond yonder—a bumper, a bumper, &c.

Then, my good Maſter, Sir George, I'll order a bowl, ſince you're in the humour for it.

And ſo the wild rogue is this inſtant rattling up her prim Ladyſhip? Eh, is'n't this he? Left her already!

I muſt have left my cane in this room.—Eh, my father!

Juſt half after four: why, Harry, you've made great haſte in cracking your walnuts.

Yes; he has heard of my frolics with the players.

Dear father, if you'll but for⯑give me—

Why, indeed, you have acted very bad.

Sir, it ſhould be conſidered I was but a no vice.

However, I ſhall think of nothing now but your Benefit.

Very odd his approving of—

I thank you, Sir; but if it's agreeable to you, I have done with Benefits.

If I was not the beſt of fathers, you might indeed hope none from me; but no matter if you can but get the Fair Quaker—

Or the Humours of the Navy. Sir.

What! How dare you reflect on the Humours of the Navy? The navy has very good hu⯑mours, or I'd never ſee your dog's face again, you villain! But I'm cool—Eh, boy, a ſnug eaſy chariot.

I'll order it; deſire my father's carriage to draw up.

Mine, you rogue, I've none; I mean Lady Amaranth's.

Yes, Sir, Lady Amaranth's chariot.

What are you at? I mean that you left this life in.

Sir, I left this houſe on foot.

What, with John Dory?

No, Sir; with Jack Rover.

Why John has been a Rover to be ſure; but now he is ſettled: I've made him my Valet de Chambre.

Made him your Valet! Why, Sir, where did you meet with him?

Zounds! I meet him abroad and meet him on ſhore—in the cabin and ſteerage—gallery and forecaſtle.—He ſail'd round the world with me.

Strange this: I underſtood he had been in the Eaſt Indies, but he never told me he knew you; but, indeed, he only knew me by the name of Dick Buſkin.

Then how came he to bring you to Lady Amaranth's?

Bring me where?

Anſwer me; a'n't you now come from her Ladyſhip's?

Not I.

Ha, this is a lie of John's to enhance his own ſervices. Then you have not been there?

I don't know where you mean, Sir.

Yes, it's all a brag of John's; but I'll—

The rum and ſugar is ready; but as for the fiſh-pond—

I'll kick you into it, you thirſty old grampus.

Will you? Then I'll make a comical roaſted orange.

How dare you ſay you brought my ſon to Lady Amaranth's?

And who ſays I did'n't?

He that beſt knows only, Dick Buſkin here.

Then, Mr. Buckſkin mus'n't ſhoot off great guns for his amuſement.

There, what do you ſay to that?

I ſay 'tis falſe.

Falſe!—ſhiver my hulk, Mr. Buckſkin, if you were a lyon's ſkin I'd curry your hide for this.

No, no—John's honeſt—I ſee through it now—the puppy has ſeen her; perhaps he has the impudence not to like her—and ſo blow up this con⯑fuſion and perplexity only to break off a marriage.

What does he mean—I'll aſſure you—

Damn your aſſurance, you ungrateful, diſobedient—but I'll not part with you till I confront you with Lady Amaranth herſelf, face to face; and if I prove you have been deceiving me, I'll launch you into the wide ocean of life, without a rudder, compaſs, grog, or tobacco.

ACT IV.

THE fanciful flights of my pleaſant couſin enchants my ſenſes; this book he gave me to read con⯑taineth good morals, the man Shakeſpear, that did write it, they call immortal: he muſt indeed have been filled with divine ſpirit. I underſtand, from my cou⯑ſin, the origin of plays were religious myſteries; that, freed from the ſuperſtition of early, and groſsneſs of latter times, the ſtage is now become the vehicle of delight and morality; if ſo, to hear a good play is taking the wholeſome draught of precept from a gol⯑den cup, emboſſ'd with gems, yet giving my coun⯑tenance to have one in my houſe, and even to act in it myſelf, prove the aſcendency my dear Harry has over my heart. Ephraim Smooth is much ſcandalized at theſe doings.

This manſion is now become the taberna⯑cle of Baal.

Then abide not in it.

'Tis full of the wicked ones.

Stay not among the wicked ones.

I muſt ſhut my ears.

And thy mouth alſo, good Ephraim; I have bidden my couſin Harry to my houſe, and will not ſet bounds to his mirth, to gratify thy ſpleen, and ſhew my own inhoſpitality.

Why doſt thou ſuffer him to put into the hands of thy ſervants books of tragedies, and books [47] of comedies, preludes, and interludes—yea, all ludes; my ſpirit doth wax wrath. I ſay unto thee, a play⯑houſe is a ſchool for the old dragon, and a play-book the primmer of Belzebub.

This is one; mark.

"Not the King's crown, nor the deputed ſword, the mar⯑ſhal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becometh them with one half ſo good a grace as mercy doth. Oh! think on that, and mercy then will breathe within your lives like men new made." Doth Belzebub ſpeak ſuch words?

Thy kinſman hath made all thy ſervants actors.

To act well is good ſervice.

Here cometh the damſel, for whom my heart yearneth.

Oh, Ma'am! his young honour, the 'Squire, ſays the play's to be As You Like It.

I like it not.

He's given me my character; I am to be Miſs Audrey, and be ther Sim's to be William of the Foreſt, as it were; but how am I to get my part by heart?

By often reading it.

Well, I don't know but that's as good as any other.—I muſt ſtudy my part—the Gods give us joy.

Thy maidens ſkip like young kids.

Then, do thou go ſkip along with them.

Mary, thou ſhould' [...]t be obey'd in thine own houſe, and I will do thy bidden.

Ah, thou hypocrite, to obey is eaſy, when the heart commands.

Oh, my charming couſin, how agre you and Roſalind? Are you almoſt perfect? What old Clytus, why you're like any angry friend brok [48] in amongſt the laughing Gods; come, come, I'll have nothing here but quips, and cranks, and wreathed ſmiles

He ſays we muſt not have this amuſe⯑ment.

But I have a voice potential, double as the Duke's, and I ſay we muſt.

Nay.

Yea, by Jupiter I ſwear—Aye.

The man of ſin rubbeth the hair of the horſe to the bowels of the cat.

Now, if agreeable to your Ladyſhip, we'll go over your ſong.

I'm content.

What, Sir, do you mean?

Now do, my good friend, be quiet.—Come, begin.

Friend, this is a land of liberty, and I've as much right to move my elbows, as thou haſt thine.

Why doſt thou do ſo, friend.

Friend, this is a land of liberty, and I have as much right to move my elbows as thou haſt to move thine.

) A fanatical puppy.

But, Harry, do you people of faſhion act theſe folies themſelves?

Aye, and ſcramble for the top parts as eager as for ſtars, ribbands, place, or penſion. Lamp, de⯑corate the ſeats out ſmart and theatrical, and drill the servants that I have given the ſmall parts.

I wiſh'd for ſome entertainment, in which people now take delight, to pleaſe thoſe I have invited, but will convert thoſe folies into a charitable purpoſe: Tickets of this play ſhall be delivered to my friends gratis, but money to their amount I will, from [49] my own purſe (after rewarding the aſſiſtants) diſtri⯑bute among the indigent of the village; thus, while we amuſe our friends, and perhaps pleaſe ourſelves, we ſhall make the poor happy.

An angel!—If Sir George does'n't ſoon arrive to blow me, I may, I think, marry her angelic Ladyship—but will that be honeſt?—ſhe's nobly born—tho' I ſuſpect I had anceſtors too, if I knew who they were.—I entered this houſe the pooreſt wight in England, and what muſt ſhe imagine when I'm diſ⯑covered?—that I'm a ſcoundrel; and conſequently, though I ſhould poſſeſs her hand and fortune, inſtead of loving, ſhe'll deſpiſe me.

I want a friend now to conſult—deceive her I will not—poor Dick Buſkin wants money more than myſelf, yet this is a meaſure I'm ſure he'd ſcorn—no, no, I must not.

Now, I hope my paſſionate father will be convinced that this is the firſt time I was ever un⯑der this roof. What beau is here?—aſtoniſhing! my old ſtrolling friend.

I don't know what to do.

Nor what to ſay.

Dick Buſkin, ha, ha, ha,—my dear fellow—think of the devil, and—I was juſt thinking of you—'pon my ſoul, Dick, I am happy to ſee you.

But, Jack, how the devil have you found me out?

Found you, I'm ſure I wonder how the deuce you found me out—oh, the news of my intend⯑ed play has brought you.

He does not as yet know who I am, ſo I'll carry it on.

Then you have broke your engagement with Truncheon, at Wincheſter?—figuring away in your ſtage cloaths too, really.—Tell me what you are at here, Jack?

Will you be quiet with your Jacking, I'm now 'Squire Harry.

What!

I've been preſs'd into this ſervice by an old man of war, who found me at the inn, and inſiſted I'm ſon to Sir George Thunder. In that character, I flatter myſelf, I have won the heart of the charming lady of this houſe.

Now the myſtery is out—

—then it's my friend Jack has been brought here for me.—Do you know the young gentleman they take you for?

Not I; but I flatter myſelf he is honoured in his repreſentative.

Upon my ſoul, Jack, you're a tight fellow.

Now I can put ſome pounds in your pocket—you ſhall be employed—we're getting up As You Like It—let's ſee in the caſt, have I a part for you—egad, I'll take Touchſtone from Lamp, you ſhall have it, my boy—I'd reſign Orlando to you with any other Roſalind, but the lady of the manſion plays it herſelf.

The very lady my father intended for me.

Do you love her, Jack?

To diſtraction—but I'll not have her.

No—why?

She thinks me a gentleman, and I'll not convince her I'm a raſcal; I'll go on with our play, as the produce is appropriated to a good purpoſe, then lay down my 'Squireſhip, bid adieu to my heavenly Roſalind, and exit for ever from her houſe, poor Jack Rover.

The generous fellow I ever thought him, and he ſhan't looſe by it—if I could make him believe

—Well, this is the moſt whimſical affair—you've anticipated me—you'll ſcarce believe that I'm come here purpoſely to paſs myſelf for this young Harry.

No.

I am.

Harry, where are you?

Who's that?

I'll try it—my father will be curſedly vext—no matter.

Somebody called Harry—zounds, if the real Simon Pure, that is, ſhould be arrived, I'm in a pure way.

Be quiet, that's my confederate, he's to perſonate the father, Sir George, he ſtarted the ſcheme—having heard that an union was intended, and Sir George immediately expected, our plan is, if I can, before his arrival, flouriſh myſelf into the lady's good graces, and whip her up, as ſhe's an heireſs.

So, you have turn'd fortune hunter. Then 't'was for this plan you parted from me on the road, ſtanding like a figure-poſt, you walk up this way, and I'll walk down this—why, Dick, I did not know you was ſo great a rogue.

I did not know my fort lay that way, till convinc'd by this experienced ſtranger.

He muſt be a damn'd impudent old ſcoun⯑drel—who is he, do I know him?

Why, no, I hope not.

I'll ſtep down ſtairs, and have the honour of kicking him.

Stop, I wou'd'n't have him hurt, nei⯑ther.

What's his name?

His name is Abrawang.

Abrawang, Abrawang—I never heard of him—but, Dick, why did you let him perſuade you into this affair?

Why, faith, I would have been off it, but when once he takes a project into his head, the devil can't drive it out of him.

Yes, but the conſtables may drive him into Wincheſter goal.

Your opinion of our intended exploit has made me aſhamed of myſelf—Harkee, Jack, do you puniſh and frighten my adviſer, do you ſtill keep up your character of young 'Squire Thunder—you can eaſily do that, as he, no more than myſelf, has ever ſeen the 'Squire.

But, by heavens, I'll not be ſuch a damn'd rogue.

Yes, but Jack, if you can marry her, her fortune is a ſnug thing; beſides, if you love each other, I tell you—

Hang her fortune—my love's more noble than the world, prizes not quantity of ditty lands—oh, Dick, ſhe's the moſt lovely—think of her conde⯑ſcenſion—why ſhe conſented to play in our play, and you ſhall ſee her, you rogue, you ſhall. Her worth being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Roſalind.

Ha, ha, ha, this is the drolleſt adven⯑ture—Rover little ſuſpects that I am the identical 'Squire Thunder that he perſonates—I'll lend him my character a little longer—yes this offer is a moſt ex⯑cellent opportunity of making my poor friend's for⯑tune, without injuring any body. If poſſible, he ſhall have her, I can't regret the loſs of charms I never knew, and for an eſtate, my father is competent to all my wiſhes. Lady Amaranth, by marrying Jack Ro⯑ver, will gain a man of honour, which, ſhe might looſe in an Earl—it may teaze my father a little at firſt, but he's a good old fellow in the main, and when, I think, he comes to know my motive!—Eh, this muſt be ſhe—an elegant woman, faith—now for a ſpanking lie, to continue her in the belief that Jack is the man ſhe thinks him.

Who art thou, friend?

Madam, I've ſcarce time to warn you againſt the danger you're in, of being impoſed upon by your uncle, Sir George.

How!

He has heard of your Ladyſhip's parti⯑ality for his ſon, but is ſo incenſed at the irregularity of his conduct, he intends, if poſſible, to diſinherit him, and to preſent me hither, to paſs me on you for him, deſigning to treat the poor young gentleman [53] himſelf as an impoſter, in hopes you'll baniſh him from your heart and houſe.

I thank thee, friend, for thy caution—is Sir George ſuch a parent—what's thy name?

Richard Buſkin, Ma'am, the ſtage is my profeſſion—in the 'Squire's late excurſion we con⯑tracted an intimacy, and I ſaw ſo many good qualities in him, that I could not think of being the inſtrument of his ruin, nor deprive your Ladyſhip of ſo good a huſband as I am certain he will make you.

Then Sir George intends to diſown him.

Yes Ma'am, I've this moment told the young gentleman of it; he's determined, for a jeſt, to return the compliment, by ſeeming to treat Sir George himſelf as an impoſter.

Ha, ha, ha, 't'will be a juſt retaliation, and indeed what my uncle deſerveth, for his cruel in⯑tentions both to his ſon and me.

What, has he run away again?

That's mine uncle.

Yes, here's my father, and my ſtanding out that I'm not his ſon, will raiſe him into the heat of a battle, ha, ha. ha.

Here he is, Madam, now mind how he'll dub me a 'Squire.

Well, my Lady, was'n't it as my wild rogue ſet you, all tho' calcavell as capers, you've been cutting in the garden. You ſee here I have brought him into line of battle again—you villain, why do you drop a ſtern there, throw a ſalute ſhot, buſs her bob-ſtays, bring to, and come down ſtraight as a maſt, you dog.

Uncle, who is this?

Who is he—egad, that's an odd queſ⯑tion, to the fellow that has been cracking your wal⯑nuts.

He's bad at his leſſon.

Certainly, when he ran from ſchool—why don't you ſpeak, you lubber, you are curſed mo⯑dest—before I came, 'twas all down among the po⯑ſies; here, my Lady, take from a father's hand, Harry Thunder.

That is what I may not.

There, I thought you would diſguſt her, you flat fiſh.

Here, take from my hand Harry Thunder.

Eh!

Oh, this is your ſham Sir George,—

Yes, I've been telling the Lady, and ſtill ſeem to humour him.

I ſhan't; though how do you Abrawang?

Abrawang!

You look like a good actor; aye, that's very well indeed. Never, never looſe ſight of your character; you know Sir George is a noiſy, rurbulent, wicked old knave; bravo! Pout your under lip, purſe your brows:—Very well; but damn it, Abrawang, you ſhould have put a little red on your noſe—mind a rule, never play an old man with⯑out a red noſe.

I'm in ſuch a fury.

Well we know that.

Who is this?

Some puppy unknown.

And you don't know this gentleman?

Excellent well! he's a fiſhmonger.

Ah, What▪

Yes; father and ſon are determin'd not to know each other.

Come, Dick, give the Lady a ſpecimen of your talent Molteys, your only wear, ha, ha, ha, a fool I met, a fool in the foreſt. Here comes Au⯑dry.

La! warrent, what features!

'Sblood! what's this?

A homely thing, Sir, but ſhe's my own.

Your's, you moſt audacious!—What, this ſlut?

I thank the Gods for my ſlutiſhneſs.

You know this youth.

My friend, Horatio; I wear him in my heart, yea, in my heart of hearts, as I do this—

Such freedom with my niece, before my face. Do you know that Lady? Do you know my ſon, Sir?

Be quiet; Jaſſier has diſcovered the plot, and you can't decieve the ſenate.

Yes, my conſcience would not let me carry it through.

Aye, his conſcience hanging about the neck of his heart, ſays good Launcelot and good Gobbo, or as aforeſaid good Launcelot Gobbo, take to thy heels and run away.

Why, my Lady, explain—ſcoundrel and puppy unknown.

Ma'am, I forgot to tell you our old neigh⯑bour Banks and his ſiſter wants you.

I come—Uncle, I've heard thy fa⯑ther was kind to thee; return that kindneſs to thy child—if the lamb in wanton play doth fall amongſt the waters, the ſhepherd taketh him out, inſtead of plunging him in deeper till he dieth—though thy hairs now be grey, I'm told once was flaxen; in ſhort, he's too old in folly, who cannot excuſe youth.

I'm an old fool! well, that's damn'd civil of you, Madam Niece; and I'm a grey ſhepherd, with his lambs in the ditch—but as for you, Mr. Goat, I'll—

My dear Abrawang, give up the game; her Ladyſhip in ſeeming to take you for her uncle, has been only humming y u—What, the devil, don't you think the divine creature knows her own true-born uncle?

Certainly, to be ſure ſhe knows me.

Will you have done?—Zounds, man, my honoured father was here himſelf this day—her ladyſhip knows his perſon.

Your honoured father, and who the devil's your honour'd ſelf?

Now, by my father's ſon, that's myſelf, it ſhall be ſun, or moon, or Cheſhire-cheeſe—I budge ſtill crop and cropp'd.

What do you bawl out to me about Cheſhire-cheeſe.

And I ſay, as the ſaying is, your friend has told me all; but to convince you of my forgiveneſs, in our play, as your'e rough and tough, I caſt your character the Wreſtler—I'll do Orlando, kick up your heels before the whole court.

I'll—why, dam'me, I'll—and you, you undutiful chick of an old pellican

What are you at here, cudgeling people about?—But, Mr. Buckſkin, I've a word to ſay to you in private.

Buckſkin, take that

Why, dam'me, Mr. Abrawang, you're a moſt obſtinate drum, and very—

All the world's a ſtage, and all men and women—

The men are rogues, and the women huſſies.

A blow, Eſſex, a blow, an old raſcally impoſter; ſtigmatize me with a blow—I muſt not put up with it.—Z [...]unds! I ſhall be tweak'd by the noſe all round the country. If I can get the country lad to ſteal me a pair of piſtols, ſtrike me, ſo may this arm daſh him to the earth like a dead dog, de⯑ſpiſe, pride, ſhame, and the name of villain light on me, if I don't bring you Mr. Abrawang,

Madam, I would have paid the rent of my little cottage; but dare ſay it was without your Ladyſhip's conſent that your Steward has turned me [...]ut and pu [...] my neighbour in poſſeſion.

My Steward oppreſs the poor! I did not know it indeed.

The pangs of adverſity I could bear; but the innocent partner of my misfortunes, my unhappy ſiſter—

I did deſire Ephraim to ſend for thy ſiſter; did ſhe dwell with thee, and both now with⯑out a home? let her come to mine.

The hand of miſery hath ſtruck me be⯑neath your notice.

Thou doſt miſtake; to need my aſſiſt⯑ance is the higheſt claim to my attention—let me ſee her.

I could chide myſelf that theſe paſttimes have turned mine eyes from the houſe of woe. Ah, think ye proud and happy a [...]luent, how many in your dancing moments pine in want, drink the ſalt tears—their morſel the bread of miſery, and ſhrinking from the cold blaſt into their cheerleſs hovels!

Thou art welcome: I feel myſelf intereſted in thy concern.

Madam—

I judge thou wert not always unhappy, tell me thy condition, then I ſhall better know how to ſerve thee; is thy brother thy ſole kindred?

I had a huſband and a ſon.

Widow, if it is real, not images, thou wouldeſt forget—impart to me thy ſtory, 'tis rumour'd in the village thy brother was a clergyman, tell me.

Madam, he was; but he has loſt his early patron, and he's now poor and unbeneſiced.

But thy huſband.

By this brother's advice (now twenty years ſince) I was prevailed on to liſten to the addreſſes of a young ſea officer, for my brother had been chaplain in the navy; but, to our ſurprize and mortification, we diſcovered, by the honeſty of a ſailor, in whom we put confidence, that the Captain's deſign was only to decoy me into a ſeeming marriage; our humble friend intreated of us to put the deceit on his maſter, by concealing from him that my brother was not in orders; he, flattered with the hopes of procuring me an eſtabliſhment, gave into ſuppoſed impoſition, and performed the ceremony.

Duplicity, even with a good intent, is ill.

Madam, the event has juſtified your con⯑fuse, for my huſband, not knowing himſelf really bound by any legal tie, abandoned me—I followed him to the Indies; diſtracted, till ſeeing him. I left my infant at one of our ſettlements; but, after a fruit⯑leſs ſearch, on my return, I found the friend, to whoſe care I committed my child, was compelled to retire from the ravages of war, but where I could not hear—rent with agonizing pangs, without a child or huſband, I again ſaw England, and my brother, who wounded himſelf with remorſe for being the cauſe of my mis⯑fortunes, ſecluded himſelf from all joys of ſocial life, and invited me to partake the comfort of ſolitude in that aſylum, from whence we have both juſt now been driven.

My pity can do thee no good, yet muſt I pity thee; but reſignation to what muſt be, may re⯑ſtore peace; if my means can procure thee comfort, they are at thy pleaſure—come let thy griefs ſubſide—inſtead of thy cottage, accept thou and thy brother every convenience that my manſion can afford.

Madam, I can only thank you with

My thanks are here—come thou ſhalt be chearful—I will introduce thee to my ſprightly couſin! Harry, and his father, my humourous uncle—we have delights going forward that may amuſe thee.

Kind Lady.

Come, uncle, though a quaker, thou ſee'ſt I'm merry—the ſweeteſt joy of wealth and power is to cheer one another's drooping heart, and wipe from the pallid cheek the tear of ſorrow.

ACT V.

WELL, lads, what's to be done?

We've long been upon our ſhifts, and after all our tricks, twiſts, and turns, as London was too hot for us, a trip to Portſmouth was a hit.

Aye, but ſince the caſh we touched upon pretending to be able bodied ſeamen is now come to the laſt ſhilling, and as we deſerted, means of freſh ſupply muſt be thought on to take us to London.

Aye, now to recruit the pocket, with⯑out hazarding the neck.

By an advertiſement poſted on the ſtocks yonder, there are collectors on this road, thir⯑ty guineas offered by the quaker lady, owner of the eſtates round here—I wiſh we could knap any ſtraggler to bring before her, a quaker will only require yea for an oath, we might pick up this thirty guineas.

Yes, but we muſt take care, if we fall into the hands of this gentleman that's in purſuit of us—'Sdeath, is not that his man, the old boatſwain?

Don't run, I think we three are a match for him.

Let's keep up our characters of ſailors, we may get ſomething out of him; a pityful ſtory makes ſuch an impreſſion on the ſoft heart of a true tar, that he'll open his hard hand and drop you his laſt guinea—if we can but make him believe we were preſſed, we have him, only mind me.

To rattle my lanthorn, Sir George's tem⯑per now always blows a hurricane.

What cheer?

Ha, boy.

Bob up with your ſpeaking trumpet.

D'ye ſee, brother, this is the thing—

We three hands, juſt come home after a long voyage, were preſſed in the river, and without letting us ſee our friends brought round to Portſmouth, and then we entered freely—'cauſe why, we had no choice—then we run—we hear ſome gentleman's in chace of us, and as the ſhots are all out, we'll ſurrender.

Surrender—then you have no ſhots left, indeed—let's ſee

I hav'n't the loading of a gun about me now, and this ſame Mon⯑ſieur Poverty is a bitter enemy.

'Tis the deſerters I'm after.

Meet me in an hour's time in the little wood yonder, I'll raiſe the wind to blow you into a ſafe latitude—Keep out to ſea, my maſter's the rock you'll certainly ſplit upon.

This is the firſt time we ever ſaw you, but we'll ſteer by your chart, for I never knew one ſeaman betray another.

Then they have been preſſed—I can't blame them ſo much for running away.

Yes, Sir George would certainly hang them.

You lie; they ſhall eat beef and drink the King's health—run and tell them ſo—ſtop, I'll tell them myſelf.

Now you are yourſelf, and a kind gen⯑tleman, as you uſed to be.

Since theſe idle rogues are inclined to return to their duty, they ſhan't want ſea ſtores; take this money—but I'll meet them myſelf, and adviſe them as I would my own children.

Which way did this Mr. Abrawang take? —Dick Buſkin, I think, has no ſuſpicion of my inten⯑tion, and ſince Sim has, without making an alarm, procured theſe piſtols, ſuch a cholerick ſpark will [62] fight, I dare ſay. If I fall, or even ſurvive this af⯑fair, I'll leave the field of love and the fair prize to the young gentleman I've perſonated, for I'm deter⯑mined to ſee Lady Amaranth no more—Oh, here comes Abrawang.

Now to relieve theſe ſea gulls—they muſt be hovering about this place—Ha, puppy unknown.

You're the very man I was ſeeking for—you're not ignorant. Mr. Abrawang?

Mr. What?

You'd not reſign your title—oh, very well, I'll indulge you—Sir George Thunder, you honour⯑ed me with a blow.

Did'n't hurt you.

'Sdeath, Sir, but let me proceed like a gen⯑tleman; as it's my pride to reject even favours, no man ſhall offer me an injury.

Eh!

In rank we're equal.

Are we, faith—the Engliſh of all this is, we're to fight.

Sir, you have mark'd in me an indelible ſtain, only to be waſh'd out by my blood.

Why, I've only one objection to fight⯑ing you.

What's that, Sir?

That you're too brave a lad to be kill'd.

Brave, no, Sir, at preſent I wear the ſtig⯑ma of a coward.

Zounds, I like a bit of fighting—hav'nt had a morſel a long time—don't know when I ſmelt gunpowder, but to bringdown a woodcock.

Take your ground.

I'm ready—but are we to thruſt with bull-ruſhes, like two frogs, or like two ſquirrels, pelt one another with nut-ſhells, for I don't ſee any other weapons here.

Oh, yes, Sir, here are the weapons.

Well, this is bold work for a privateer to give battle to a King's ſhip.

Try your charge, Sir, and take your ground.

I wou'd'n't wiſh to ſink, burn, or de⯑ſtroy what I thought was built for good ſervice, but dam'me if I don't bring wing to you, to teach you better manners, ſo take care, or I'll put ſome red on your noſe.

1ſt SAIL. Ah, here's the honeſt fellow has brought us ſome caſh.

We're betray'd, it's the very gentle⯑man that's in purſuit of us, and this promiſe was only a decoy to throw us into his power—the piſtol!

Good charge (trying the charge, the men ruſh forward, and one of them ſmacks the piſtol from him.)

Ha, boys.

You'd have our lives, and we'll have yours.

Raſcals!

My brave lad, I'll—

No, you ſhan't.

The rogues will.

Never mind the rogues.

S'blood, muſt I ſee my preſerver pe⯑riſh?

I'm your preſerver, and I will periſh, but I'll bring you out of harm's way.

Tho' he'd fight me himſelf—

We all know you'd fight the very devil.

He ſav'd my life.

I'll ſave your life—

—hawl up, my noble little jolly-boat.

Boy, go on with the inventory.

How unlucky, feyther, to lay hold on me, when I wanted to practice my part.

This proceeding is too ſevere—to lay an execution on my wretched trifling goods, when I thought—

Aye, you've gone up to the big houſe with your complaint—her Ladyſhip's ſteward, to be ſure, has made me give back your cottage and farm, but your goods I ſeized for my rent.

Leave me but a few neceſſaries, by my own labour, and the goodneſs of my neighbours, I may ſoon redeem what the law has put in your hands.

The affair is now in my lawyer's hands, and plaintiff and defendant chattering about it is all ſmoke.

Feyther, don't be ſo cruel to Mr. Banks.

I'll mark what I may want for myſelf—ſtay you and ſee that not a pin's point be removed.

Dam'me, if I'll be a watch dog to bite the poor, that I won't, Mr. Banks, as my feyther intends to put up your goods to auction, if you could but get a friend to buy the choice of them for you again; ſiſter Jane has got ſteward to advance her a quarter's wages, and when I've gone to fell corn for feyther, I've made a market penny now and then—it is'n't much, but every little helps.

I thank you, my good natured boy, but keep your money.

I remember, about eight years ago you ſav'd me from being drown'd at Black Poole—if you'll not take this I'll fling it into Black Poole directly.

My kind lad, I'll not hurt your feelings, by oppoſing your liberality.

He, he, he!—He's given my heart ſuch pleaſure, as I never felt, nor I'm ſure my feyther be⯑fore me.

But, Sim, whatever may be his opinion of worldly prudence, ſtill remember he's your pa⯑rent.

I will—One elbow chair, one claw table.

The confuſion into which Lady Ama⯑ranth's family is thrown, by the ſudden departure and apprehended danger of her young couſin, muſt have prevented her Ladyſhip from giving that attention to our affairs that I'm ſure was her inclination—If I can but prevail on my brother to accept of her protec⯑tion—Heavens, what's this?

What a race—I've got clear of thoſe blood-hounds at laſt; if Abra⯑wang had but followed and back'd me, we'd have tickled their cataſ [...]rop, but three to one is odds, ſo ſafe's the word. Who's houſe is this I've run into—the friendly cottage of my hoſpitable old gentleman—are you at home?

I had a hard ſtruggle for it, murder was certainly their intent—it was well for me I was born without brains—I'm quite weak and faint.

Sir, a'n't you well?

Madam, I aſk your pardonſyes, Madam, very well, I thank you, now exceedingly well—got into a kind of rumpus with ſome worthy gentlemen—not gentlemen, but ſimple farmers, who miſtook me, I fancy, for a ſheath of barley, for they had me down, and their flails flew merrily about my ears, but I got up, and when I could no longer fight like a maſtiff, I run like a greyhound—but, dear Madam, pray excuſe me—this is very rude, faith.

You ſeem diſturb'd, will you take any re⯑freſhment?

Madam, you're very good—only a glaſs of ſome currant wine, if you pleaſe; I think it ſtands ſomewhere thereabouts.

Madam, I've the honour of drinking your health.

I hope you're not hurt, Sir.

A little better, but very faint ſtill, I had a ſample of this before, and lik'd it ſo much that Ma'am won't you take another?

Ma'am if you'd been fighting as I have, you'd be glad of a drop

Now I'm as well as any man in Illyria—got a few hard knocks tho'.

You'd better repoſe a little, you ſeem'd much diſordered coming in.

Why Madam you muſt know that it was.—

Come Ma'am, Mr. Gammon wants this chair to make up the half dozen above.

What's all this?

Why, the furniture's ſeiz'd on execution, and a man muſt do his duty.

Then ſcoundrel know, that a man's firſt duty is civility and tenderneſs to a woman.

Heaven's where's my brother, this gentle⯑man will bring himſelf into trouble.

Maſter d'ye ſee I'm repreſentative for his honour the High Sheriff.

Every High Sheriff ſhould be a gentleman, and when he's repreſented by a raſcal he's diſhonour⯑ed; damn it, I might as well live about Covert Gar⯑den and every night get beating the watch, for here among groves and meadows, I'm always ſquabling with conſtables.

Come, come, I muſt. (ſits down.)

As you ſay Sir, laſt Wedneſday, ſo it was, Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſervant, pray Sir have you ever been aſtoniſhed?

What?

Becauſe Sir, I intend to aſtoniſh you,

Now Sir, are you aſtoniſhed?

Yes, but ſee if I dont ſuit you with an ac⯑tion.

Right—ſuit the action to the word and the word to the action. See if the gentleman be not af⯑frighted, [67] damme, but I'll make thee an example.

A fine example when goods are ſeized by the law.

Thou worm and maggot of the law, hop me over every kennel houſe, or you ſhall hop without my cuſtom.

I dont value your cuſtom.

I have aſtoniſh'd, now I'll amaze you.

No Sir, I won't be amazed, but ſee if I dont.

Hop. Madam, theſe ſort of gentry are but bad company for a lady, ſo I'll juſt ſee him to the door—Ma'am I'm your moſt humble ſervant.

I feel a ſtrange kind of curioſity to know who this young gentleman is. I find my heart inter⯑eſted, I can't account for it; he must know the houſe by the freedom he took: but then his gaity, (without familiar rudeneſs) elegance of manners and good breeding, ſeem to make him at home every where—my brother I think muſt know him.

Amelia did you ſee the young gentleman that was here, ſome ruſſians have bound and dragg'd him from the door on the allegation of three men who means to ſwear he has robbed them, and have taken him to Lady Amaranth's.

How! he did enter in confuſion as if pur⯑ſued, but I'll ſtake my life on his innocence. I'll ſpeak to her Ladyſhip, and in ſpite of calumny he ſhall have juſtice; he wou'd'n't let me be inſulted, becauſe he ſaw me an unprotected woman, without a huſband or a ſon, and ſhall he want an advocate brother? come—

I believe there is no ſoul in the houſe but myſelf, my Lady has all the folks round the country, so ſeareh after the young 'Squire; ſhe'll certainly break her heart if any thing happens to him. I don't [68] wonder, for ſure he's a dear [...]cet gentleman. His go⯑ing has ſpoiled our play, and I had almoſt got my part by h [...]rt, but muſt, muſt go and do up the room for Mr. Banks's ſiſter, whom my Lady has invited here—

The man John Dory hath carried the man George here in his arms and he locked him up; co⯑ming in they did look like a blue lobſter with a ſhrimp in its claw. Here is the damſal I love alone.

They ſay when folks look in the glaſs, they ſee the black gentleman,

La, there he is!

Thou art employed in vanity.

Well, who are you?

It's natural for woman to love man.

Yea, but not ſuch ugly men as you are, why did you come in to frigh'en me? when you know there's nobody here but ourſelves?

I'm glad of that; I'm the elm, and thou'rt the honey-ſuckle, let thine arms entwine me.

What a rougue is here, but yonder comes my Lady. I ſhew him off in his true colours.

Claſp me round.

I will if you will pull off your hat and make me a low bow.

I cannot bend my knee, nor take off my bea⯑ver.

Then you're very impudent, go along.

To win thy ſavour,

Well now read me aſpeech out of that fine play book.

Read a play book! abo-mi-na-tion! but wilt thou kiſs me?

I kiſs a man, abomination, but you may take my ha d.

Ch, 'its a comfort to the lip of the faithful.

How! (taps him on the ſhoulder.) Ah, thou ſly and deceitful hypocrite!

Verily Mary I was buffotted by Satan in the ſhape of a damſal

Be gone.

My ſpirit is ſad tho' I move ſo nimbly.

But oh, heaven's no tiding of my deareſt Harry. Jane let them renew their ſearch.

Here's Madam Amelia—but I'll make brother Sim look for the young 'Squire.

Oh, Madam might I implore your influence with—

Thou art I'll accommodated here, but I hope thou wilt excuſe it, my mind is a ſea of trouble, my peace is ſhipwrecked. Oh, had'ſt thou ſeen my Couſin Harry! all who know him muſt be anxious for his ſafety! how unlucky, this ſervant to prevent Sir George from giving him that aſſiſtance, which pa⯑ternal cares and indeed gratitude demanded, for 'twas filial affection had him to purſue thoſe wicked men, callous to every feeling of humanity—they may—yes, my Henry in the opening bud of manlineſs is nipp'd!

Heave a-head.

Raſcal, whip me up like a pound of tea, dance about like a young bear! make me quit the preſerver of my life, yes, puppy unknown will think me a paltroon, and that I was afraid to follow and ſe⯑cond him.

You may as well turn into your hamock, for out to night you ſhall not go.

Mercy of heaven is'n't it—only look.

'Tis my Amelia.

Reef your foreſail firſt, you crack'd her heart by ſheering off, and now you'll overſet her by bringing too.

Are you at length return'd to me, my Sey⯑mour?

Seymour!—her mind's diſturbed—this is mine uncle, Sir George Thunder.

No, no, my Lady, ſhe knows what ſhe's ſaying, well enough.

Niece, I have been a villain to this lady, I confeſs but, my dear Amelia, providence has done you juſtice in part, for from the firſt month I quitted you, I have never entered one happy hour on my journals—hearing that you foundered, and con⯑ſidering myſelf the cauſe, the worm of remorſe has knaw'd my timbers.

You're not ſtill offended with me.

Me—can you forgive me my offence, and condeſcend to take my hand as an atonement?

Your hand—do you forget we're already [...]arried?

Aye, there was my raſcality.

You may ſay that.

That marriage, my dear, I'm aſhamed to own it—but it was—

As good as if done by the Chaplain of the Eagle.

Hold your tongue, you impudent crimp, you pander, you bad adviſer—I'll ſtrike my falſe colours, I'll acknowledge the chaplain you pro⯑vided was—

A good man, and a greater honour to his black, than your honour has been to your blue cloth; by the word of a ſeaman, here he is himſelf.

Your brother!

Capt. Seymour! have I found you, Sir.

My dear Banks, I'll make every repa⯑ration—Amelia ſhall really be my wife.

That Sir, my ſiſter is already, for when I performed the marriage ceremony, which you took only as a cloak of your deception, I was actually in orders.

Now who's the crimp and the pander?—I never told you this, becauſe I thought a man's own reflections were the beſt puniſhment for betraying an innocent woman.

You ſhall be a Poſt Cap⯑tain for this, ſink me, if you ſhan't.

Madam, my inmoſt ſoul partaketh of thy gladneſs and joy for thy reformation;

but thy prior marriage to this lady annuls the ſubſequent, and my couſin Harry is not now thy heir.

So much the better, he's an unnatural cub—but, Amelia, I flatter myſelf I have an heir—my infant boy.

Ha, huſband, you had, but—

Gone—well, well, I ſee I have been a miſerable ſcoundrel—I'll adopt that brave kind lad, that wou'd'n't let any body [...]ll me but himſelf, he ſhall have my eſtate, that's my own acquiſition—my lady marrying him— [...] Unknown's a fine fel⯑low! Amelia, only for him you'd never have found your huſband.—Captain Seymour is Sir George Thunder.

What!

Are you Sir George Thunder?

Pleaſe you, Madam, they have got a foot-pad in cuſtody.

I'm come to ſit in judgment, for there is a bad man in thy houſe, Mary—bring him before me.

Before you, old Squintabus; perhaps you don't know I'm a magiſtrate.

I ll examine him.

You be damn'd, I'll examine him my⯑ſelf—tow him in here, I'll give him a paſſport to Wincheſter bilbow.

Oh, Sir, as you hope for mercy, extend it to this youth, and even ſhould he be guilty, which from our knowledge of his be⯑nevolent and noble nature, I think next to an impoſ⯑ſibility, let the ſervices he has rendered us plead for [72] him—he protected your forſaken wife, and her unhap⯑py brother, in the hour of want and ſorrow.

What, Amelia plead for a robber!—conſider, my love, Juſtice is above bias or partiality; if my ſon violated the laws of his country, l'd deli⯑ver him up as a public victim to diſgrace and puniſh⯑ment.

Oh, my impartial uncle! Had thy country any laws to puniſh him, who inſtead of pal⯑try gold, would rob the artleſs virgin of her deareſt treaſure, in the rigid judge I ſhould now behold the trembling criminal.

Speak thou.

Hold thy clapper, thou—you wretch⯑ed perſon, who are the proſecutors.

Call in.

Will nobody ſtop his mouth

Where are the proſecutors?

There, tell his worſhip the juſtice.

A juſtice—oh, the devil!—I thought we ſhould have nothing but quakers to deal with

Come, how did this fellow rob you?

Why, your honour, I ſwear—

Oh, ho!

Zounds, we're in the wrong, this is the very—

Clap down the hatches, ſecure theſe ſharks.

I'm glad to find you here, Abrawang, as I believe you have ſome knowledge of theſe gentlemen.

Heaven's, my Couſin Harry!

The Devil! is'n't that my ſpear and ſhield?

My young maſter, what have you been at here,

this r [...]pe may be wanted yet.

My dear fellow are you ſafe?

Yes, Dick, I was brought here very ſafe, I aſſure you.

A confederate in cuſtody has made a con⯑ſeſſion of their villainy, that they concerted this plan to accuſe him of a robbery, firſt for revenge, then in hopes to ſhare the reward for apprehending him; he alſo owns they are not ſailors but depredators on the public.

What, could you find no jacket to diſ⯑grace by your wearing than that of an Engliſh ſeaman, a character, whoſe bravery is even the admiration of his enemies, and genuine honeſty of heart, the glory of human nature? Keep them ſafe.

Aye, I knew the rope would be wanted,

Not knowing that the Juſtice of Peace whom they brought the lad before, is the very man they attacked, ha, ha, ha! the rogues have fallen into their own ſnare.

What now you're a Juſtice of Peace—well ſaid, Abrawang.

Then, Sir George, you know him too?

Know him, to be ſure I do.

Still, Sir George—what then you will not reſign your Knighthood! Madam, I'm happy to ſee you again. Ah, how do you do, my kind hoſt?

I rejoice at thy ſafety, be reconcil'd to him.

Reconcil'd, if I don't love, reſpect and honour him, I ſhould be unworthy of the life he re⯑ſcued—but who is he?

Sir, he is—

Dick, I thank you for your good wiſhes, but I'm ſtill determin'd not to impoſe on this Lady. Madam, as I firſt told that well-meaning tar, when he forc'd me to your houſe, I'm not the ſon of Sir George Thunder.

Then I wiſh you was the ſon of an Admi⯑ral, and I your father.

You refuſe the lady—to puniſh you, I have a mind to take her myſelf my dear Couſin.

Stop Dick, if I who adore her won't, you [74] ſhall not no, no. Madam, never mind what the fellow ſays, he's as poor as myſelf, is'n't he, Abra⯑wang?

Then, my dear Rover, ſince you are ſo obſtinately intereſted, I'll no longer [...]eize my father, whom you here ſee, and in your ſtrolling friend, his very truant Harry that ran from Portſmouth Acade⯑my, and joined you and fellow Comedians.

Indeed!

Dear Couſin forgive me, if thro' my zeal for the happineſs of my friend, I endeavoured to pro⯑mote your's, by giving you a huſband, more worthy than myſelf.

Am I to believe, Madam, is your uncle Sir George Thunder in the room?

He is.

'Tis you in reality, what I've had the im⯑pudence to aſſume, and have perplex'd your father with ray ridiculous effrontery. I told you,

I was not the perſon you took me for, but you muſt bring your damn'd Chariot—I am aſham'd and morti⯑ſed—Madam, I take my leave.

Thou art welcome to go.

Sir George, as the father of my friend, I cannot lift my hand againſt you, but I hope, Sir, you'll apologize to me apart.

Aye, with pleaſure, my noble ſplinter. Now tell me from what dock you were launched, my heart of oak?

I heard in England, Sir, but from my ear⯑lieſt knowledge, till within a few years I've been in the Eaſt Indies.

Beyond ſeas—well, and how?

It ſeems I was committed an infant to the care of a lady, who was herſelf obliged by the gentle Hyder Ally to ſtrike her toilet, and decamp without beat of drumb, leaving me a chubby little fellow, ſquatted on a carpet; a ſerjeant's wife alone returned, and ſnatched me off triumphant, thro' fire, ſmoke, cannon, cries, and carnage.

Doſt thou mark?

Sir, can you recollect the name of the town where—

Yes, Madam, the town, was Negapatnam.

I thank you, Sir.

An officer, who had much rather act Hot-ſpur on the ſtage than in the field, brought me up be⯑lind the ſcenes at the Calcutta theatre, I was enroll'd on the boards, acted myſelf into favour of a colonel, promiſed a pair of colours, but impatient to find my parents, hid myſelf in the ſteerage of a homeward⯑bound ſhip, aſſumed the name of Rover, from the un⯑certainty of my fate, and having murdered more Poets than Rajars, ſtepped on Engliſh ground unincumbered with rupees or pagodas.—Ha, ha, ha, would'ſt thou have come home ſo, little Ephraim?

I would bring myſelf home with ſome money.

Excuſe my curioſity, Sir—what was the lady's name in whoſe care you were left?

Oh, Madam, ſhe was the lady of a Major Linſtock, but I heard my mother's name was Seymour.

Why, Amelia!

My ſon!

Madam!

It is my Charles.

Tol de lol!—

—Tho' I never heard it before, my heart told me he was a chip of the old block. Your father,

Can it—

Yes, my ſon, Sir George Thunder here is Captain Seymour, in ſearch of whom you may have heard I quitted England.

Heavens, then have I attempted to raiſe my hands againſt a parent's life.

My brave boy—then have I a ſon with ſpirit to fight me as a ſailor, yet defend me as a father.

Uncle, you'll recollect 'twas I friſt in⯑troduced this ſon to thee.

And I hope you'll next introduce a grandſon to me, young Slyboots.—Harry, you have loſt your fortune.

Yes, Sir—but I've gained a brother, whoſe friendſhip, before I knew him to be ſuch, I prized before the firſt fortune in England.

My deareſt Roſalind.

Then, will you take our Charles?

Yea; but only on conditions, thou be⯑ſtoweſt thy fortune on his friend and brother—mine is ſufficient for us both, is it not?

Angelic creature! to think of my generous friend. But now for As You Like It; where's Lamp and Trap. I ſhall ever love a play, a ſpark from Shakeſpeare's muſe of fire was the ſtar that guided me through my deſolate and bewildered maze of life, and brought me to theſe unexpected bleſſings.