SCENE I. An Apartment at Mr. NORBERRY's

WHY blame me?—Why blame me?—My ſiſter had the ſole management of your daughter by your own authority; from the age of ſix years, till within eight months of the preſent time, when, in conſequence of my ſiſter's death, ſhe was trans⯑ferred to my protection.

Your ſiſter, Mr. Norberry, was a pru⯑dent, good woman—ſhe never could inſtruct her in all this vice.

Depend upon it, my dear friend, that Miſs Dorrillon, your daughter, came to my houſe juſt the ſame heedleſs woman of faſhion you now ſee her.

Very well—'Tis very well.—But, when I think on my diſappointment—

There is nothing which may not be repaired. Maria, with you for a guide—

Me! She turns me into ridicule—laughs at me! This morning, as ſhe was enumerating ſome of her frivolous expences, ſhe obſerved me lift up my hands and ſigh; on which ſhe named fifty other extravagances ſhe had no occaſion to men⯑tion, merely to enjoy the pang which every ſolly of her ſends to my heart.

But do not charge this conduct of your daughter to the want of filial love:—did ſhe know you were ſir William Dorrillon, did ſhe know you were her father, every word you uttered, every look you glanced, would be received with gentle⯑neſs and ſubmiſſion:—but your preſent rebukes from Mr. Mandred (as you are called), from a perfect ſtranger, as ſhe ſuppoſes, ſhe conſiders as an imper⯑tinence which ſhe has a right to reſent.

I wiſh I had continued abroad. And yet, the hope of beholding her, and of beſtowing upon her the riches I acquired, was my ſole ſupport through all the toils by which I gained them.

And, conſidering her preſent courſe of life, your riches could not come more opportunely.

She ſhall never have a farthing of them. Do you think I have encountered the perils of almoſt every climate, to ſquander my hard-earned fortune upon the paltry vicious pleaſures in which ſhe de⯑lights? No.—I have been now in your houſe ex⯑actly a month—I will ſtay but one day longer—and then, without telling her who I am, I will leave the kingdom and her for ever—Nor ſhall ſhe know that this inſignificant merchant whom ſhe deſpiſes, was her father, till he is gone, never to be recalled.

You are offended with ſome juſtice, but, as I have often told you, your exceſſive delica⯑cy and reſpect for the conduct of the other ſex, de⯑generate into rigour.

True—for what I ſee ſo near perfection as woman, I want to ſee perfect. We, Mr. Norber⯑ry, can never be perfect; but ſurely women, wo⯑men, might eaſily be made angels!

And if they were, we ſhould ſoon be glad to make them into women again.

—She ſets the example. She gives the faſhion!—and now your Whole houſe, and all your viſitors, in imitation of her, treat me with levity, or with contempt.—But I'll go away to-morrow.

Can you deſert your child in the mo⯑ment ſhe wants your protection? That exquiſite beauty juſt now become mature—

There's my difficulty!—There's my ſtruggle!—If ſhe were not ſo like her mother, I could leave her without a pang—caſt hey off, and think no more of her.—But that ſhape! that face! thoſe ſpeaking looks! Yet, how reverſed!—Where is the diffidence, the humility—where is the ſimpli⯑city of my beloved wife? Buried in her grave.

And, in all this great town, you may never ſee even its apparition.

I rejoice, however, at the ſtratagem by which I have gained a knowledge of her heart: de⯑prived by the means of ſearching it in her early years, had I at preſent come as her father, ſhe might have deceived me with counterfeit manners, till time diſ⯑cloſed the impoſition.—Now at leaſt, I am not impoſed upon.

Lord Priory.

Lord Priory!

An old acquaintance of mine, though we ſeldom meet. He has ſome ſingularities; and yet, perhaps—

My dear Lord, I am glad to ſee you. Mr. Mandred

My Lord, I hope I ſee you in perfect health.

Yes: but in very ill humour. I came to London early this morning with my family for the winter, and found my houſe, after going through only a ſlight repair, ſo damp, that I dare not ſleep in it: and ſo I am now ſending and going all over the town to ſeek for lodgings.

Then ſeek no farther, but take up your lodgings here.

To be plain with you, I called in hopes you would aſk me; for I am ſo delicately ſcrupulous in reſpect to lady Priory, that I could not bear the thought of taking her to an hotel.

Then pray return home, and bring her hither immediately, with all your luggage.

I am moſt extremely obliged to you

; for into no one houſe belonging to any of my acquaintance would I take my wife, ſo ſoon as into yours. I have now been married eleven years, and during all that time I have made it a rule never to go on a viſit, ſo as to domeſticate, in the houſe of a married man.

May I enquire the reaſon of that?

It is becauſe I am married myſelf; and having always treated my wife according to the anci⯑ent mode of treating wives, I would rather ſhe ſhould never be an eye-witneſs to the modern houſe⯑hold management.

The ancients, I believe, were very affec⯑tionate to their wives.

And they had reaſon to be ſo; for their wives obeyed them. The ancients ſeldom gave them the liberty to do wrong: but modern wives do as they like.

And don't you ſuffer Lady Priory to do as ſhe likes?

Yes, when it is what I like too. But never, never elſe.

Does not this draw upon you the cha⯑racter of an unkind huſband?

That I am proud of. Did you never obſerve, that ſeldom a breach of fidelity in a wiſe is expoſed where the unfortunate huſband is not ſaid to be "the beſt creature in the world! Poor man, ſo good-natured!—Doatingly fond of his wife!—Indulged her in every thing!—How cruel in her to ſerve him ſo!" Now, if I am ſerved ſo, it ſhall not be for my good-nature.

But I hope you equally diſapprove of every ſeverity.

What do you mean by ſeve⯑rity?

You know you uſed to be rather vio⯑lent in your temper.

So I am ſtill—apt to be haſty and paſſi⯑onate [5] —but that is rather of advantage to me as a huſband—it cauſes me to be obeyed without heſi⯑tation—no liberty for contention, tears, or repin⯑ing. I inſure conjugal ſunſhine, by now and then introducing a ſtorm; while ſome huſbands never ſee any thing but a cloudy ſky, and all for the want of a little domeſtic thunder to clear away the vapours.

I have long conceived indulgenee to be the bane of female happineſs.

And ſo it is.—I know ſeveral wo⯑men of faſhion who will viſit ſix place of different amuſement on the ſame night, have company at home beſides, and yet, for want of ſomething more, they'll be out of ſpirits: my wife never goes to a public place, has ſcarce ever company at home, and yet is always in ſpirits.

Never viſits operas, or balls, or routs?

How ſhould ſhe? She goes to bed every night exactly at ten.

In the name of wonder, how have you been able to bring her to that?

By making her riſe every morning at five.

And ſo ſhe becomes tired before night.

Tired to death. Or, if I ſee her eyes completely open at bed-time, and ſhe aſks me to play one game more at piquet, the next morning I jog her elbow at half after four.

But ſuppoſe ſhe does not reply to the ſignal?

Then I turn the key of the door when I leave the chamber; and there I find her when I come home in the evening.

And without her having ſeen a creature all day?

This is in my favour; for not having ſeen a ſingle ſoul, ſhe is rejoiced even to ſee me.

And will ſhe ſpeak to you after ſuch uſage?

If you only conſidered how much a woman longs to ſpeak after being kept a whole day ſilent, you would not aſk that queſtion.

Well! this is the moſt ſurpriſing me⯑thod!

Not at all. In ancient days, when man⯑ners were ſimple and pure, did not wives wait at the table of their huſbands? and did not angels witneſs the ſubordination? I have taught Lady Priory to practiſe the ſame humble docile obedience—to pay reſpect to her huſband in every ſhape and every form, no careleſs inattention to me—no ſmiling politeneſs to others in preference to me——no putting me up in a corner—in all aſſemblies, ſhe conſiders her huſband as the firſt perſon.

I am impatient to ſee her.

But don't expect a fine lady with high feathers; and the et caetera of an Eaſtern concubine; you will ſee a modeſt plain English woman, with a cap on her head, a handkerchief on her neck, and a gown of our own manufacture.

My friend Norberry, what a contraſt muſt there be between Lady Priory and the ladies in this houſe!

Have you ladies in this houſe?

Don't be alarmed; they are both ſin⯑gle, and can give Lady Priory no ideas concerning the marriage ſtate.

Are you ſure of that? Some ſingle women are more informed than their friends believe.

For theſe ladies, notwithſtanding a few (what you would call) exceſſes, I will anſwer.

Well, then, I and my wife will be with you about nine in the evening; you know we go to-bed at ten.

But remember you bring your own ſer⯑vants to wait on you at five in the morning.

I ſhall bring but one—my old ſervant Oliver, who knows all my cuſtoms ſo well, that I never go any where without him.

And is that old ſervant your valet ſtill?

No, he is now a kind of gentleman in waiting. I have had no employment for a valet [7] ſince I married:—my wife, for want of diſſipati⯑on, has not only time to attend upon herſelf, but upon me. Do you think I could ſuffer a clumſy man to tie on my neckcloth, or comb out my hair, when the ſoft, delicate, and tender hands of my wife are at my command?

After this amiable deſcription of a woman, how can I endure to ſee her, whom reaſons bids me deteſt; but whom nature ſtill—

Here ſhe comes; and her companion in folly along with her.

There's another woman! that Lady Mary Raffle? How can you ſuffer ſuch people in your houſe?

She is only on a viſit for a few months—ſhe comes every winter, as her family and mine have long been intimately connected.

Let us go. Let us go. I can't bear the ſight of them.

Stay, and for once behave with polite⯑neſs and good humour to your daughter—do—and I dare venture my life, ſhe will neither inſult nor treat you with diſreſpect. You know you al⯑ways begin firſt.

Have not I a right to begin firſt?

But that is a right of which ſhe is ig⯑norant.

And deſerves to be ſo, and ever ſhall be ſo. ‘I ſtay and treat her with politeneſs and good hu⯑mour?’ No—rather let her kneel and implore my pardon.

Suffer me to reveal who you are, and ſo ſhe will.

If you expoſe me only by the inſinuati⯑on to her knowledge, our friendſhip is that moment at an end.

I have already given you my promiſe on that ſubject; and you may rely upon it.

I thank you—I believe you—and I thank you.

They are gone. Thank heaven they are gone out of this room, for I expect a dozen viſiters; and Mr. Norberry looks ſo gloomy upon me, he puts me out of ſpirits: while that Mandred's peeviſhneſs is not to be borne.

Be ſatisfied; for you were tolerably ſe⯑vere upon him this morning in your turn.

Why, I am vext—and I, don't like to be found fault with in my beſt humour, much leſs when I have ſo many things to teaſe me.

What are they?

I have now loſt all my money, and all my jewels, at play; it is almoſt two years ſince I have received a ſingle remittance from my father; and Mr. Norberry refuſes to advance me a ſhilling more.—What I ſhall do to diſcharge a debt which muſt be paid either to-day or to-morrow, heaven knows!—Dear Lady Mary, you could lend me a ſmall ſum, could you?

Who? I!

—My dear creature, it was the very thing I was going to aſk of you: for when you have money, I know no one ſo willing to diſperſe it among her friends.

Am not I?—I proteſt I love to part with my money; for I know with what pleaſure I receive it myſelf, and I like to ſee that joy ſparkle in another's eye, which has ſo often brightened my own. But laſt night ruined me—I muſt have mo⯑ney ſomewhere—As you can't aſſiſt me, I muſt aſk Mr. Norberry for his carriage, and immediately go in ſearch of ſome friend that can lend me four, or five, or ſix, or ſeven hundred pounds. But the worſt is, I have loſt my credit—Is not that dread⯑ful?

Yes, yes, I know what it is.

What will become of me?

Why don't you marry, and throw all misfortunes upon your huſband?

Why don't you marry? For you have as many to throw.

But not ſo many lovers who would be willing to receive the load. I have no Sir George Evelyn with ten thouſand pounds a year—no Mr. Bronzely.

If you have not now, you once had; for I am ſure Bronzely once paid his addreſſes to you.

And you have the vanity to ſuppoſe you took him from me?

Silence.—Reſerve your anger to de⯑fend, and not to attack me. We ſhould be allies by the common ties of poverty: and 'tis time to arm; for here's the enemy.

They are here full.

No, no.

I have been waiting here, Mr. Norber⯑ry, to aſk a favour of you.

Will you be ſo kind as to lend me your carriage for a couple of hours?

Mr. Mandred

aſked me for it to take him into the city.

Oh, Mr. Mandred will give it up to Miſs Dorrillon, I am ſure: he can defer his buſineſs till to-morrow.

No, Madam, ſhe may as well put off hers. I have money to receive, and I can't do it.

I have money to pay, and I can't do it.

If one is going to receive, and the other to pay money, I think the beſt way is for you to go together; and then, what deficiency there is on one ſide, the other may ſupply.

Will you conſent, Mr. Mandred?—Come, do; and I'll be friends with you.

"She'll be friends with me!"

Will you?

No.

Well, I certainly can aſk a favour of Mr. Mandred better than I can of any perſon in the world.

Why ſo, Maria?

Becauſe, inſtead of pain, I can ſee it gives him pleaſure to refuſe me.

I never confer a favour, of the moſt tri⯑vial kind, where I have no eſteem.

Nor would I receive a fa⯑vour, of the moſt trivial kind, from one who has not liberality to eſteem me.

Come, Miſs Dorrillon, do not grow ſe⯑rious; laugh as much as you pleaſe, but ſay nothing that—

From whom then can you ever receive favours, except from the vain, the idle, and the depraved?—from thoſe whoſe lives are paſſed in begging them of others?

They are the perſons who know beſt how to be on them: for my part, had I not ſome⯑times felt what it was to want a friend, I might never have had humanity to be the friend of another.

Sir George Evelyn.

And pray, my dear, whoſe friend have you ever been?—

—Not Sir George Evelyn's, I am ſure; and yet he of all others deſerves your friendſhip moſt.

But friendſhip will not content him: as ſoon as he thought he had gained that.—

He aſpired to the ſupreme happineſs of your love.

Now you talk of "ſupreme happineſs," have you provided tickets for the fête on Thurſday?

I have: provided you have obtained Mr. Norberry's leave to go.

That I cannot grant.

Nay, my dear Sir, do not force me to go without it.

Would you dare?

"Would I dare," Mr. Mandred!—and what have you to ſay if I do?

I was only going to ſay, that if you did, and I were Mr. Norberry—

And if you were Mr. Norberry, and treated me in the manner you now do, depend upon it I ſhould not think your approbation or diſappro⯑bation, your pleaſure or diſpleaſure, of the ſlighteſt conſequence.

I dare ſay not—I dare ſay not. Good morning, Sir George—I dare ſay not.—Good morning, Mr. Norberry.

Stop a moment.—Maria, you have offended Mr. Mandred.

He has offended me.

I ſhan't offend you long.

Stay, Mr. Mandred; Miſs Dorrillon, make an apology: Mr. Mandred is my friend, and you muſt not treat him with this levity.

No, no apology.

No, no apology. But I'll tell you what I'll do.

——If Mr. Mandred likes, I'll ſhake hands with him—and we'll be good friends for the future. But then don't find fault with me—I can't bear it. You don't like to be found fault with yourſelf—You look as croſs as any thing every time I ſay the leaſt word a⯑gainſt you. Come, ſhake hands; and don't let us ſee one another's failings for the future.

There is no future for the trial.

How do you mean?

Mr. Mandred ſets off again for India to-morrow.

Indeed! I thought he was come to live in England! I am ſorry you are going.

Why ſorry?

Becauſe we have ſo frequently quarrel⯑led. I am always unhappy when I am going to be parted from a perſon with whom I have diſagreed; [12] I often think I could part with leſs regret from a friend.

Not, I ſuppoſe, if the quarrel is for⯑given?

Ah! but Mr. Mandred does not for⯑give! no! in his looks I can always ſee reſent⯑ment.—Sometimes indeed I have traced a ſpark of kindneſs, and have gently tried to blow it to a little flame of friendſhip, when, with one haſty puff I have put it out.

You are right. It is—I believe—extin⯑guiſhed.

A very ſingular man.

Oh! If he was not rich, there would be no bearing him—Indeed he ſeems to have loſt all his friends; for during the month he has been here, I never found he had any one acquaintance out of this houſe.

And what is very ſtrange, he has taken an averſion to me.—But it is ſtill more ſtrange, that although I know he has, yet in my heart I like him. He is moroſe to an inſufferable degree; but then, when by chance he ſpeaks kind, you cannot imagine how it ſoothes me.—He wants compaſſion and all the tender virtues; and yet, I frequently think, that if any ſerious misfortune were to befall me, he would be the firſt perſon to whom I ſhould fly to com⯑plain.

Then why don't you fly and tell him of your misfortune laſt night.

What misfortune?

Huſh!

A loſs at play—

—I beg your pardon, but it was out before you ſaid huſh.

Ah! Maria, will you ſtill riſk your own and my happineſs?

Your happineſs and mine, Sir!—I beg you will not place them ſo near to each other.

Mine is ſo firmly fixed on you, it can only exiſt in yours.

Then, when ſhe is married to Mr. Bronzely, you will be happy becauſe ſhe will be ſo?

Bronzely! has he dared?

Have not you dared, Sir?

But I believe Mr. Bronzely is the moſt daring of the two—

—take care of him.

Miſs Dorrillon, I will not affront you by ſuppoſing that you mean ſeriouſly to receive the ad⯑dreſſes of Mr. Bronzely; but I warn you againſt giving others, who know you leſs than I do, occaſion to think ſo.

I never wiſh to deceive any one—I do admit of Mr. Bronzely's addreſſes.

Why, he is the profeſſed lover of your friend Lady Mary! or granting he denies it, and that I even paſs over the frivolity of the coxcomb, ſtill he is unworthy of you.

He ſays the ſame of you; and half a dozen more ſay exactly the ſame of each other. If you like, I'll diſcard every one of you as unworthy; but if I retain you, I will retain the reſt. Which do you chooſe?

I ſubmit to any thing rather than the to⯑tal loſs of you—But remember, that your feli⯑city—

"Felicity! felicity!"—ah! that is a word not to be found in the vocabulary of my ſen⯑ſations!—

I believe you, and have always regarded you with a compaſſion that has augmented my love. In your infancy deprived of the watchful eye and anxious tenderneſs of a mother; the manly caution and authority of a father: miſled by the brilliant vapour of faſhion; ſurrounded by enemies in the garb of friends—Ah! do you weep? bleſſed, bleſſed be the ſign!—Suffer me to dry thoſe tears I have cauſed, and to give you a knowledge of true felicity.

I am very angry with myſelf.—Don't, I beg, tell Mr. Norberry or Mr. Mandred you ſaw me cry—they'll ſuppoſe I have [14] been move indiſcreet

than I really have. For in reality I have nothing—

Do not endeavour to conceal from me, what my tender concern for you has given me the means to become acquainted with. I know you are plunged in difficulties by your father neither ſending nor coming, as you once expected: I know you are ſtill deeper plunged by your fondneſs for play.

Very well, Sir! proceed.

Thus, then—Suffer me to ſend my ſte⯑ward to you this morning; he ſhall regulate your accounts, and place them in a ſtate that ſhall pro⯑tect you from further embarraſſment till your fa⯑ther ſends to you; or protect you from his re⯑proaches, ſhould he arrive.

Sir George, I have liſtened to your de⯑tail of vices, which I acknowledge, with patience, with humility—but your ſuſpicion of thoſe which I have not, I treat with pride, with indignation.

How! ſuſpicion!

What part of my conduct, Sir, has made you dare to ſuppoſe I would extricate myſelf from the difficulties that ſurround me, by the influ⯑ence I hold over the weakneſs of a lover?

SCENE I. Another Apartment at Mr. Norberry's.

HERE, Stephens, why are you out of the way? Shew the men with theſe boxes into the dreſſ⯑ing-room appointed for my Lord Priory.

My Lord, I hope I ſee you well this evening.

Yes Sir—and you find I have literal⯑ly accepted Mr. Norberry's invitation, and am come to him with all my luggage.

Follow thoſe men with the trunks, Oli⯑ver.

Ah, Mr. Oliver, how do you do?

Pretty well—tolerably well, I thank you, Sir.

Lady Priory.

Mr. Norberry, our worthy hoſt; and Mr. Mandred.

I hope your ladyſhip will find my houſe ſo little inconvenient to you, as to induce you to make no very ſhort viſit.

I have no doubt, Sir, but I ſhall find, from your friendſhip, every comfort in this houſe which it is poſſible for me to enjoy out of my own.

Lady Priory—La⯑dy Mary Raffle—Miſs Dorrillon—Lord Pri⯑ory.

Permit me, Lady Priory, to take you to the next room: we are going to have tea immediate⯑ly.

I have drank tea, Madam.

Already! It is only nine o'clock.

Then it is near my hour of going to bed.

Go to bed already! In the name of won⯑der, what time did you riſe this morning?

Why, I do think it was almoſt ſix o'clock.

And were you up at ſix this morning?

Yes.

At ſix in the month of January!

It is not light till eight; and what good, now, could you poſſibly be doing for two hours by candle-light?

Pray, Lady Mary, at what time did you go to bed?

About three this morning.

And what good could you poſſibly be doing for eleven hours by candle-light?

Good! It's as much as can be expected from a woman of faſhion, if ſhe does no [...]

But I ſhould fear you woul [...] [...] deal of harm to your health, your ſpirits, and the tranquillity of your mind.

Oh, my Lord Priory, I really find all the accounts I have heard of your education for a wife to be actually true!—and I can't help laugh⯑ing to think, if you and I had chanced to have mar⯑ried together, what a different creature you moſt likely would have made of me, to what I am at pre⯑ſent.

Yes! and what a different creature you moſt likely would have made of me, to what I am at preſent.

Lady Priory, I am not accuſtomed to pay compliments or to ſpeak my approbation, even when praiſe is a juſt tribute; but your virtues compel me to an eulogium. That wiſe ſubmiſſion to a huſband who loves you, that chearful ſmile ſo expreſſive of content, and that plain dreſs which indicates the ele⯑gance as well as the ſimplicity, of your mind, are all ſymbols of a heart ſo unlike to thoſe which the preſent faſhion of the day has miſled———

Why look ſo ſtedfaſtly on me, Mr. Mandred? Do you pretend to ſee my heart?

Have you any?

Yes; one large enough to hold—even my enemy.

Mr. Bronzely.

Shew him into the other room.

Come, Lady Priory, we muſt introduce you to Mr. Bronzely: he is one of the moſt faſhionable, agreeable, pleaſant, whimſical, unthink⯑ing, and ſpirited creatures in all the world: you'll be charmed—

I dare ſay it's near ten o'clock. I am afraid I ſhan't be able to keep awake.

You muſt—We are going to have a little concert—'Twill be impoſſible to ſleep.

Upon my word, my Lord, your plan of management has made your wife unfit for com⯑pany.

So much more ſit to be a wife.

She is abſolutely fatigued with hard la⯑bour—for ſhame!—How does houſehold drud⯑gery become her hand?

Much better than cards and dice do yours.

She "has a heart large enough to receive her enemy."—And by that enemy ſhe means her father.

I beg your pardon Mr. Mandred—I hope I don't interrupt you—I only wiſhed to ſpeak to Miſs Dorrillon.

She is juſt gone into the next room.

To the concert?

Are not you invited?

Yes; but before I go in, I wiſh to know who are the company—Can you tell whe⯑ther—a Mr. Bronzeley is there?

I know he is.

Are you acquainted with him?

I have met him here frequently.

And are you certain he is here at preſent?

I have reaſon to be certain.

Any particular reaſon?

Your miſtreſs, when his name was an⯑nounced, went out to him, exclaiming, "he was the moſt charming and accompliſhed man in the world."

She loves him, Sir—I have reaſon to believe—to know ſhe loves him. Thus ſhe gives up my happineſs and her own, to gratify the vanity of a man who has no real re⯑gard for her; but whoſe predominant paſſion is to enjoy the villainous name of a general ſeducer.

Why do you ſuffer it?

Huſh! Don't repeat what I have ſaid, or I loſe her for ever. I am at preſent under her reſentment; and have juſt ſent into the next room, to aſk, if ſhe were there, to ſpeak with her.

And is it poſſible I was ſent for by you?

Don't be offended, that I ſhould be un⯑eaſy, and come to atone—

I can't forgive you, Sir; 'tis impoſſi⯑ble.

You pardon thoſe, Maria, who offend you more.

But an ungrateful mind always prefers the unworthy.

Ah! Mr. Mandred, are you there?

And have you undertaken to be ſir George's counſel? If you have I believe he muſt loſe his cauſe. To ſit you for the tender taſk of ad⯑vocate in love,—have you ever been admitted an honourable member of that court! Have you, with all that ſolemn wiſdom of which you are maſter, [19] ſtudied Ovid, as our great lawyers ſtudy Blackſtone? If you have—ſhew cauſe—why plaintiff has a right to defendant's heart.

A man of fortune, of family, and of character, ought at leaſt be treated with reſpect, and with honour.

You mean to ſay, ‘That if A is belov⯑ed by B, why ſhould not A be conſtrained to re⯑turn B's love?’ Counſellor for defendant—‘Becauſe, moreover, and beſides B who has a claim on defendant's heart, there are alſo C, D, E, F, and G; all of whom put in their ſeparate claims—and what in this caſe can poor A do? She is willing to part and divide her love, ſhare and ſhare alike; but B will have all or none: ſo poor A muſt remain A by herſelf A.’

Do you think I would accept a ſhare of your heart?

Do you think I could afford to give it you all? "Beſides," ſays defendant's counſellor, ‘I will prove that plaintiff B has no heart to give defendant in return—he has, indeed a pulſation on the left ſide; but as it never beat with any thing but ſuſpicion and jealouſy; in the laws of love, it is not termed, admitted, or conſidered a heart.’

Where are you going?

To the muſic-room, to be ſure: and if you follow me, it ſhall be to ſee me treat every perſon there better than yourſelf—and Mr. Bronzely, whom you hate, to ſee me treat him beſt of all.

I muſt follow you though to death.

Fool! And yet am I nearly as weak as he is? Elſe why do I linger in this houſe? Why feed my hopes with ſome propitious moment to wak⯑en her to repentance? Why ſtill anxiouſly wiſh to ward off ſome dreaded fate?—If we would marry Sir George, now—if ſhe would give me only one proof of diſcretion, I think I would endeavour to take her to my heart.

My dear Sir, will you do me the greateſt fa⯑vour in the world?—you muſt do it in an inſtant too. Do, my dear Sir, aſk no queſtion; but lend me your coat for a ſingle moment, and take mine—only for a moment—I cannot explain my reaſons, now, my impatience is ſo great;—but, the inſtant you have complied, I will inform you of the whole ſecret; and you will for ever rejoice that you granted my requeſt.

And this very contemptible fellow is the favoured lover of my daughter!—I'll—

—yes—I'll make myſelf maſter of his ſecret—it may poſſibly concern her—my child—my child's ſafety may depend upon it.

Dear Mr. Mandred, no time is to be loſt!

This is rather a ſtrange requeſt, Mr. Bronzely. However, your fervency convinces me you muſt have ſome very forcible reaſon.—There's my coat, Sir,

Thank you, dear Sir,—a thouſand times.—This goodneſs I ſhall ever remember—this binds me to you for ever!—

Thank you, Sir, a thouſand times!

And now. Sir, explain the cauſe of this metamorphoſis—let me have the ſatisfaction to know what advan⯑tage will accrue from it; and in what I have to re⯑joice.

Will you promiſe me not to reveal the ſe⯑cret, if I truſt you with it?

Would you add conditions after the bargain is made? I muſt know your ſecret inſtantly.

Then I will diſcloſe it to you voluntarily; and rely on your honour to keep it.

Well, Sir.

Hark! I thought I heard ſomebody coming!

I inſiſt upon the information.

Well, then Sir—well—you ſhall—you ſhall.—Then, Sir—in the ſmall gallery, which ſeparates the muſic-room from the reſt of theſe apartments—in that little gallery, the lamp is juſt unfortunately, gone out.—I was (as unfor⯑tunately) coming along, when the whiſking of a wo⯑man's gown made me give a ſudden ſtart!—I found a perſon was in the gallery with me, and in the dark.

Well, Sir!

And ſo, confidently aſſuring myſelf, that it was Miſs Dorrillon's waiting-maid, or Lady Mary's waiting-maid, I moſt unluckily claſped my arms around her, and took one kiſs.

Only one?

Th [...]re might be half a dozen! I w [...]n't [...] [...]end to ſwear [...] dozen, be⯑fore I knew who ſhe was. My rapidity would not let her breathe at firſt, and ſhe was fairly ſpeechleſs.—But the moment ſhe recovered her breath, ſhe cry'd, "Villian! whoever you are, you ſhall repent this:"—I found it was the voice of a lady to whom I had juſt been introduced in the concert-room▪ one Lady Priory! It ſeems ſhe [...] to bed at the tune we unhappily met.

But what has this to do with your coat?

A great deal, Sir—you will find a great deal.—As I perceived ſhe did not know me, I carefully held my tongue—but ſhe with her pru⯑diſh notions, called "Help, and murder!" On which I flew to the door, to get away before the lights could be brought—ſhe ſlew after me: and, as I went out, exclaimed, ‘Don't hope to conceal your⯑ſelf; I ſhall know you among the whole concert-room; for I carry ſciſſors hanging at my ſide, and I have cut a piece off your coat.’

—And, ſure enough, ſo ſhe had!

And what, Sir, am I to have the diſgrace——

Either you or I muſt.

And do you dare—

Conſider, my dear Sir, how much leſs the fault is, if perpetrated by you, than by me! This is the firſt offence of the kind which, I dare ſay, you have committed this many a year; and it will be overlooked in you. But I have been ſuſpected of two or three things of the ſame ſort within a very ſhort time; and I ſhould never be forgiven.

Nor ought you to be forgiven—It would be ſcandalous in me to connive—

But would it not be more ſcandalous to re⯑veal the ſecret of a perſon who confided in you?—who flew to you in diſtreſs, as his friend, the part⯑ner of his cares?

Your impertinence to me, but more your offence to a woman of virtue, deſerves puniſhment. Yet I think the puniſhment of death, in the way that a man of my Lord Priory's temper might inflict it, much too honourable for you deſerts; ſo I ſave your life for ſome leſs creditable end. I lend you my coat, to diſgrace you by exiſtence; and will go to my chamber, and put on another myſelf.

Ah, my Lord! is the concert over? charming muſic! that ſolo was divine.

It is time the concert ſhould be over—it had been better it had never begun; for there have been very improper perſons admitted.

Indeed!

I am at a loſs how to act.

But if I could find the man to whom this piece of cloth belongs—

What! this ſmall piece of woollen cloth?

Yes, then I ſhould know how to act. In the mean time, Mr. Mandred, as I know you are a great admirer of my wife

, and a grave prudent man of honour, I come to aſk your advice, how I am the moſt likely to find out the villain who has dared to inſult her; for a groſs inſult ſhe has received from one of Mr. Norberry's viſitor's wearing a coat of which this is a part.

The villain, no doubt, ſtole out of the houſe immediately.

I ordered the ſtreet door to be guarded that inſtant—and you Mr. Bronzely, are now the laſt man whoſe habit I have examined.

And you ſee I am perfectly whole.

I do ſee—I do ſee.

I'll find him out if he is on earth—I'll find him out if—My paſſion carries me away—I have not coolneſs to detect him myſelf—I'll employ another—I'll ſend Oliver in ſearch. Oliver!

Oliver! here Oliver! Why don't you anſwer when you are called, you ſtupid, dull, idle, forgetful, blundering, obſtinate, careleſs, ſelf-ſufficient.—

And now, Mr. Bronzely, how do you think you are to repay me, for having felt one tranſitory moment of ſhame? Underſtand, Sir, that ſhame is one of the misfor⯑tunes to which I have never—

Sit down, ſit down, ſit down—hold your tongue, and ſit down.

Well, I do moſt cordially rejoice, when peeviſh, ſuſpicious, and cenſorious people, meet with humiliation! I could die with laughing at the [24] incident which has put both my Lord and my Lady Priory in the greateſt terror, grief, and rage.

I am out of all patience. The malicious depravity of perſons in a certain ſphere of life is not to be borne.

Lady Mary—Mr. Bronzely—

Go away—don't expoſe yourſelf—ſteal out the room—take my advice, and go to-bed—hide yourſelf. So great is my reſpect for you, I would not have you detected for the world.

I am going to retire, Sir. I would not throw my friend's houſe into confuſion and broils; therefore I am as well pleaſed not to be detected as you can be.

But before I quit the room, I am irreſiſtibly impelled to ſay—Mr. Bronzely! Lady Mary! while you continue to ridicule all that is virtuous, eſtimable, dignified, your vices moſt aſſuredly will plunge you into that very diſgrace—

'Tis as exact a match as ever was—it fits to a thread. Ha, ha, ha!—Ha, ha, ha!

Raſcal!

Did not I entreat you to go to bed?

Oh! this is the higheſt gratification I ever knew. My Lord! my Lord.

Huſh, huſh?—hold, for heavens ſake.

But mercy and goodneſs defend us! who would have thought of this grave gentleman? Ha, ha, ha!—I can tell you what, Sir; my Lord will be in a terrible paſſion with you. This houſe won't hold you both; and I am ſure I hate to make miſchief.—Mum—I'll ſay nothing about it.

And ſo make yourſelf eaſy.

Yes, make yourſelf eaſy.

A good ſervant ſhould ſometimes be a peace⯑maker—for my part, I have faults of my own, [25] and ſo, I dare ſay, has that gentlewoman. But of ail the birds in the wood, how came you to make up to my Lady? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

No jeſts—no jeſts. Mr. Mandred is my friend—my very good friend—and he is not ſo much to blame as you think, for—Good night, my dear Sir. Heaven bleſs you. I thank you a thouſand times. Good night.

Good night.—Good night, Lady Mary.

Why, he never ſo much as once ſaid he was obliged to me.

I am ſure, if you do not diſcover this to your maſter, I will.

Oh! as that old gentleman had not manner to ſay "thank you for your kindneſs," I'll go tell my Lord directly.

No, no, no—ſtop Oliver. He is gone!

What makes you thus anxious and con⯑cerned, Bronzely? Now, I wiſh I may ſuffer death, if, till I came into this room, I did not think you were the offender.

I! I indeed!—No, if I could have been tempted to offend any woman in this houſe in a ſimi⯑lar manner, it could have been none but you.

No, Bronzely, no; I have been too par⯑tial to you, to have any remaining claims.—Hark! don't I hear Lord Priory's voice in a dread⯑ful rage?

Then Oliver has accuſed him. What ſhall I do to prevent miſchief? Dear Lady Mary, as it is not proper for me to ſtay here any longer uninvited, do you run and try to pacify my Lord Priory. Tell him Mandred does not ſleep here to-night; and in the morning you are ſure he will make an apology.

I will do as you deſire—but I know Mr. Mandred ſo well, that I am ſure he will not.

Then I will for him. Early in the morn⯑ing, I'll wait on Lady Priory, and beg pardon in his name without his knowing it. Yes, I have got poor Mandred into a difficulty, and it is my duty to get him out of it. And then I ſhall not only ſerve him, but have one interview more with that heavenly wo⯑man.

SCENE I. An Apartment at Mr. NORBERRY's.

I AM early, I know: but Lady Priory is the only perſon I wiſh to ſee. Is my Lord with her?

No, Sir, Lord Priory ſat up very late, and is in bed yet.

Acquaint Lady Priory, a perſon comes on urgent buſineſs, begs to ſpeak with her. If ſhe aſks my name you know it.

Pray hea⯑ven ſhe may bleſs me with her ſight! Never was ſo enchanted by a woman in my life! and never was played ſuch a trick in my life. I am half inflamed by love, and half by ſpite, once more to attempt her.

Lady Priory, I am come—I am come up⯑on rather an aukward, yet a very ſerious buſineſs; it was my misfortune to be among that company yeſ⯑terday evening, where an unworthy member of it had the inſolence to offer an affront to your reſplend⯑ent virtue—

——I have ſome houſehold accounts to arrange, and breakfaſt to make for my Lord as ſoon as he leaves his chamber: therefore, if you pleaſe, Sir, proceed to the buſineſs on which you came, without thinking it neceſſary to interrupt it by any compliment to me.

I will be conciſe, Madam.—In a word, I wait upon you from Mr. Mandred, with the moſt humble apology for his late conduct, which he acknow⯑ledges to have been indecorous and unwarrantable; but he truſts, that in conſequence of the conceſſion which I now make for him, the whole matter will, from this hour, be buried in oblivion.

If my Lord is at leiſure, tell him there is a gentleman would be glad to ſpeak with him.—

I am ſorry, Sir, you ſhould know ſo lit⯑tle of the rules of our family, as to ſuppoſe that I could give an anſwer upon any ſubject in which my huſband condeſcends to be concerned.

Lady Priory, ſtop. You can at leaſt uſe your power to ſoften Lord Priory's reſentment; and unleſs this apology is accepted, a challenge muſt fol⯑low, and poſſibly he may fall.

Poſſibly.

You are intereſted for your huſband's life?

Certainly. But I ſet equal value on his reputation.

Hear me one ſentence more.—I cannot part from her.

Oh! I have ſomething of ſuch importance to communicate to you—and yet—I know not how!

Then tell it to my huſband.

Hem, hem.

Oh! Lady Priory, if the inſult of laſt night has given you offence, ſhould you not wiſh to be informed of a plan laid for yet greater violence?

Good heaven!

This is neither time nor place to diſcloſe what I wiſh to ſay—nor do I know how to find an opportunity to ſpeak with you alone, free from the poſſibility of intruſion; where I could reveal a [28] ſecret to you, which is connected with your happi⯑neſs, with your future peace.

You alarm me beyond expreſſion. I am going to my own houſe about twelve o'clock, for a couple of hours—follow me there.

And I ſhall be admitted?

Certainly—for you have excited my curioſity, and I am all impatience to hear what you have to communicate that ſo much concerns me.

Promiſe then, no perſon but yourſelf ſhall ever know of it.

Unleſs you pro⯑miſe this, I dare not truſt you.

I do promiſe, I promiſe faithfully.

Your word is ſacred, I rely.

Moſt ſacred.

And you promiſe that no one but yourſelf ſhall know of the appointment we have made now at your houſe, nor of the ſecret which I will then diſcloſe to you.

I promiſe faithfully that no one but myſelf ſhall ever know of either.

Remember then to be there alone, exactly—

At one o'clock.

And that your ſervants have orders to ſhew me to you.

I am too much intereſted to forget one circumſtance.

Go now then to Lord Priory with Mr. Mandred's apology—and urge his acceptance of it, with all that perſuaſion by which you are formed to govern, while you appear to obey.

I will preſent the apology as I received it from you; but do not imagine I dare give my opi⯑nion upon it, unleſs I am deſired.

But if you are deſired, you will then ſay—

Exactly what I think.

I'll do a meritorious act this very day. This poor woman lives in ſlavery with her huſband. I'll give her an opportunity to run away from him. When we meet, I'll have a poſt-chaiſe waiting a few doors from her houſe; boldly tell her that I [29] love her; and—

—My dear Miſs Dorrillon, I could not ſleep all night, but am come thus early on purpoſe to complain of your treatment of me during the whole of yeſterday even⯑ing. Not one look did you glance towards me—and there I ſat in miſerable ſolitude up in one cor⯑ner, the whole time of the concert.

I proteſt I did not ſee you!—and, ſtran⯑ger ſtill! never thought of you.

You then like another better than you do me?

I do.

Do you tell him ſo?

No.

You tell him you like me the beſt.

Yes.

Then I will believe what you ſay to him, not what you ſay to me—And though you charge me with inconſtancy, yet I ſwear to you, my belov⯑ed Maria,

that no woman, no wo⯑man but yourſelf—

How familiar!—my eyes could not be ſhocked with a ſight half ſo wounding to my heart as this!

Huſh! you have heard the ſtory; but don't laugh at him now. He is in a deviliſh ill humour, and it will all fall on me. Go away.—It's a very good ſtory, but laugh at him another time.

I don't believe a word of the ſtory; yet, as a received opinion, it is a charming weapon for an enemy, and I long to uſe it.

Not now, not now—becauſe I have ſome buſineſs with him, and 'twill put him out of tem⯑per.

Poor girl! poor girl! I am not yet ſufficiently enraged againſt her, not to compaſſionate her for her choice!—Is [30] this the man who is to be, for life, her companion, her protector?

Well, Mr. Mandred, I believe I have ſet⯑tled it.

Settled what

At leaſt I have done all in my power to ſerve you: perhaps you don't know that Mr. Oliver divulged the whole affair. But I have waited on my Lady Priory, and I do believe I have ſettled it with her, to manage it ſo with my Lord, that every thing ſhall be huſhed up. You may expect a few jeſts among your female acquaintance, and a few epigrams in the news-papers; but I verily believe every thing material is ſafe.—Is there any farther ſatisfaction which you demand from me?

Not at preſent—a man is eaſily ſatisfied who poſſeſſes both courage and ſtrength to do him⯑ſelf right, whenever he feels his wrongs oppreſſive. I have as yet found but little inconvenience from the liberties you have taken with me; and what, juſt at this time far more engages my attention than revenge, is, an application to you for intelligence. Without farther preface, do you pay your addreſſes to the young lady who lives in this houſe?

Yes I do, Sir—I do.

You know, I ſuppoſe, which of the two ladies I mean?

Which ever you mean, Sir, 'tis all the ſame, for I pay my addreſſes to them both.

To them both!

I always do.

And pray, which of them do you love?

Both, Sir——upon my word, both—I aſ⯑ſure you, both.

But you don't intend to marry both?

I don't intend to marry either: and indeed, the woman whom I love beſt in the world, has a huſband already. Do you ſuppoſe I could confine my affections to Lady Mary or Miſs Dorrillon, af⯑ter Lady Priory appeared? do you ſuppoſe I did not know who it was I met laſt night in the dark? wherever I viſit, Mr. Mandred, I always make love [31] to every woman in the houſe: and I aſſure you they all expect it—I aſſure you, Sir, they all expect it.

Have you any further commands for me?

Yes, one word more.—And you really have no regard for this girl who parted from you as I came in?

Oh yes, pardon me—I admire, I adore, I love her to diſtraction: and if I had not been ſo long acquainted with my Lady Mary, nor had ſeen my Lady Priory laſt night, I ſhould certainly call Sir George Evelyn to an account for being ſo per⯑petually with her.

Do you think he loves her?

Yes, I dare ſay, as well as I do.

Do you think ſhe likes him?

I think ſhe likes me.

But, with your method of affection, ſhe may like him too.

She may, ſhe may.—In ſhort, there is no anſwering for what ſhe likes—all whim and fligh⯑tineſs—acquainted with every body—coquetting with every body—and in debt with every body. Her mind diſtracted between the claims of lovers, and the claims of creditors,—the anger of Mr. Norberry, and the want of intelligence from he father!

She is in a hopeful way.

Oh, it would be impoſſible to think of marrying her in her preſent ſtate—for my part, I can't—and I queſtion whether Sir George would.—But if her father comes home, and gives her the fortune that was once expected, why then I may poſſibly marry her myſelf.

She will never have any for⯑tune—I come from India lately, you know; and you may take my word her father is not coming over, nor will he ever come.

Are you ſure of that?

Very ſure.

Then keep it a ſecret—don't tell her ſo [32] —poor thing! it would break her heart. She is doatingly fond of her father.

Hah! how!—oh no, ſhe can have no remembrance of him.

Not of his perſon, perhaps: but he has conſtantly correſponded with her; ſent her preſents, and affectionate letters—and you know a wo⯑man's heart is eaſily impreſſed.

I never heard her mention her father.

Not to you—but to us who are kind to her, ſhe talks of him continually. She cried bit⯑terly the other day when the laſt ſhip came in, and there was no account of him.

Did ſhe? did ſhe?

Aye, I ſuppoſe ſhe is alarmed leſt he ſhould be dead, and all his fortune loſt.

No, I believe her affection for him is to⯑tally unconnected with any intereſted views. I have watched her upon that head, and I believe ſhe loves her father ſincerely.

I believe it does not matter whom ſhe loves!

By the bye, ſhe hates you.

I thought ſo.

Yes, you may be ſatisfied of that. Yes, ſhe even quarrelled with me the other day for ſpeak⯑ing in your favour: you had put her in a paſſion, and ſhe ſaid ‘no one that loved her, ought to have any reſpect for you.’

I am much obliged to her—very much obliged to her. Did ſhe ſay nothing more?

Only ‘that you were ill-natured, dogma⯑tic, cruel and inſolent.’ Nothing more.—And ſay what ſhe will againſt you, you know you can be even with her.

Yes, I can be even with her, and I will be even with her.

I have accepted this man's apology:—I will not call him to a ſerious account; but he ſhall not eſcape every kind of reſentment.—I am re⯑ſolved [33] to laugh at him; to turn the whole affair into mirth and good humour; at the ſame time to gall him to the heart. Good morning, Mr. Man⯑dred?—Let me go,

I muſt joke with him.

But neither your voice nor your looks agree with your words.

Mr. Mandred, I did intend to be angry—but it would give too reſpectable an air to a baſe act on—and ſo I am come to laugh at you.

And I am ſure Lady Mary, will join even me, in laughing at this man of gal⯑lantry.

Oh! I am abſolutely afraid to come near the Tarquin!

You need not, Lady Mary; for there can be no Tarquin without a Lucretia.

However, Mr. Mandred, it is proper I ſhould tell you, I accept the apology you have made: but at the ſame time—

What do you mean, my Lord? I have made no apology.

Yes, yes, you have—I called and made one for you.

Made an apology for me! You have juſt gone one ſtep too far then I inſiſt—

I will—I will—I will ſet every thing to rights. It would be baſe in me if I did not; and I will.

Yes, Mr. Mandred, I will retrieve your character at the ex⯑pence of my own. I am more able to contend with the frenzy of a jealous huſband than you are.—

—I am happy to ſee you—you are juſt come in time to hear me clear the grave, the reſpectable charac⯑ter of my friend Mr. Mandred, and to ſtigmatiſe my own.—My Lord, vent all your anger and your ſa⯑tire upon me. It was I (pray believe me, I beg you will; don't doubt my word), it was I who com⯑mitted the offence of which my friend, the man I [34] reſpect and reverence, ſtands accuſed—It was I who offended my Lady Priory, and then—

It can't be——I won't believe you.

But how generous and noble in him to take it upon himſelf!

There! what can I do more? You ſee they won't believe me;—Tell me what I can do more? Can I do any thing more?—My feelings are wounded on your account, more than on my own, and compel me, though reluctant⯑ly, to quit the room.

I am at a loſs which to admire moſt, the warmth of Mr. Bronzely's friendſhip, or the coldneſs of Mr. Mandred's gratitude!

Oh! if it were not for that happy ſtea⯑dineſs of feature, he could not preach rectitude of conduct as he does.

Eloquent admoniſher of youth!

Indeed, my rigid mo⯑nitor, I cannot but expreſs admiration, that, under thoſe auſtere looks, and that ſullen brow, there ſtill ſhould lurk—

Have a care—don't proceed—ſtop where you are—dare not you complete a ſentence that is meant to mock me.—I have borne the im⯑pertinence of this whole company with patience, with contempt; but dare you to breathe an accent ſuſpicious of my conduct, and I will inſtantly teach you how to reſpect me, and to ſhrink with horror from yourſelf.

What a paſſion he is in! Compoſe yourſelf, Mr. Mandred.

I proteſt, Mr. Mandred—

Dare not to addreſs yourſelf to me.

Did you ever hear the like?—And I vow ſhe looks awed by him!

How ſtrange, that a man can't com⯑mand his temper!

Mr. Mandred, permit me to ſay, I have ever wiſhed to treat you with reſpect—nor would [35] I be raſh in laying that wiſh aſide.—Yet, I muſt now take upon me to aſſure you, that if you think to offend every lady in this houſe with impunity, you are miſtaken.

Sir George, if you mean to frighten me by your threats, I laugh at you—but if your warmth is really kindled, and by an attachment to that unworthy object,

I only pity you.

Inſufferable!—

—Inſtantly make an atonement for what you have ſaid, or expect the conſequence!

And pray, Sir George, what atonement does your juſtice demand?

Retract your words—Acknowledge you were groſsly deceived, when you ſaid Miſs Dor⯑rillon was unworthy.

Retract my words!

Were they not unjuſt?—Is it a reproach, that, enveloped in the maze of faſhionable life, ſhe has yet preſerved her virtue unſuſpected? That, en⯑cumbered with the expences conſequent to her con⯑nections, ſhe has proudly diſdained even from me the honourable offer of pecuniary aid? that her fond hope ſtill fixes on the return of an abſent pa⯑rent, whoſe bleſſing ſhe impatiently expects? and that I ſhould have watched her whole conduct with an eye of ſcrutinizing jealouſy, and yet have only beheld that which makes me aſpire, as the ſummit of earthly happineſs to become her huſband?

Young man, I admire your warmth

There is much compaſſion, and benevolence, and charity, in ſome⯑times miſtaking the vicious for the virtuous; and if in the heat of contention I have ſaid a word reflect⯑ing on your character, I am ready to avow my error, and before this company to beg your pardon.

That is not enough, Sir—

—you muſt aſk this lady's pardon.

Aſk her pardon! Though I forgive ſome inſults, I will not this.—Aſk her pardon?—

Nay, nay, Sir George, you have no buſineſs with Mr. Mandred's quarrels and mine—Reſerve your heroic courage for ſome nobler purpoſe than a poor woman's reputation.

Point out a nobler, and I'll give up this.

There is none ſo noble! And I wiſh, Sir George, you would undertake to vindicate mine.

Come, Lady Mary, let us retire, and leave theſe two irritable men to themſelves.

Come Maria, let us leave them alone. He'll teach Mr. Mandred to be civil for the future.

Dear madam, I would not leave them alone for the world!

Then, my Lord, you and I will; they have no offenſive weapons; ſo we may venture to leave them.

This comes of being too warm in con⯑verſation! This comes of being in a paſſion!

While there is a female preſent, I have only to ſay—good morning, Mr. Mandred.

For once I give up my pride to ſoften yours, Come do not look thus determined!—I am ſure Mr. Mandred did not mean to offend me; the words he made uſe of fell from his lips by accident.

They did not—I meant them—I mean them ſtill—and I repeat them.

Now, how can you be ſo provoking?—Nay, hold, Sir George,

you ſhall not go away with that frown⯑ing brow.

Nor you, with yours.—Come, ſhake hands for my ſake.—Now, as I live Sir George, Mr. Mandred's hand feels warmer and kinder than yours—he tries to draw it back, but he has not the heart.

—Thou art a ſtrange perſonage!—thou wilt not ſuffer me ei⯑ther to praiſe or diſpraiſe thee.—Come, Sir George, [37] make up this difference—for if you were to fight and Mr. Mandred was to fall—

What then?

Why, "I could better ſpare a better man."

How!

I ſee you are both ſullen, both obſti⯑nate, and I have but one reſource.—Sir George, if you aſpire to my hand, dare not to lift your's againſt Mr. Mandred. He and I profeſs to be ene⯑mies; but if I may judge of his feelings by my own, we have but paſſing enmities.—I bear him no malice, nor he me, I dare be ſworn. Therefore, Sir, lift but your arm againſt him, or inſult him with another word, and our intercourſe is for ever at an end.

Why is it in the power of one woman to make two men look ridiculouſly?

I am at a loſs to know, Sir, whether you and I part friends or enemies.—However, call on me in the way you beſt like, and you will find me ready to meet you either as an enemy, or as a friend.

SCENE I. A Hall in Lord Priory's.

DO you hear, Mr. Porter, you are to admit no perſon but Mr. Bronzely.

Mr. Bronzely—very well—

—and there I ſuppoſe he is.

Yes; that I believe is his carriage.—

—Let my Lady know.

You are ſure Lady Priory is at home?

Yes. Sir, and gave orders to admit nobody but you.

Has ſhe been ſome time at home?

Yes, Sir; I dare ſay my Lady came from Mr. Norberry's half an hour ago.

Waiting for me half an hour—

—Shew me to her inſtantly.

SCENE II. An Apartment at Lord Priory's.

My dear Lady Priory, how kind you are not to have forgotten your promiſe.

How was it poſſible I ſhould? I have been ſo anxious for the intelligence you have to communicate, that it was pain to wait till the time arrived.

Thus invited, encouraged to ſpeak, I will ſpeak boldly—and I call heaven to witneſs, that what I am going to ſay——

No, ſtay a moment longer—don't tell me juſt yet—

—for I wiſh him to hear the very beginning?

Who, hear the very beginning?

I have not kept you waiting, I hope. My Lawyer ſtopt me on buſineſs, or I ſhould have been here ſooner.—My dear Mr. Bronzely—

—I thank you a thouſand times for the intereſt you take in my concerns; and I come prepared with proper coolneſs and compoſure to hear the ſecret with which you are going to entruſt us.

The ſecret!—yes, Sir—The ſecret which I was going to diſcloſe to my Lady Priory— [39] Ha, Ha, ha!—But, my Lord, I am afraid it is of too frivolous a nature for your attention.

I account nothing frivolous which con⯑cerns my wife.

Certainly, my Lord, certainly not.

Beſides; ſhe told me it was of the ut⯑moſt importance. Did not you?

He ſaid ſo.

And ſo it was—it was of importance then—juſt at the very time I was ſpeaking to Lady Priory on the ſubject.

You ſaid ſo but this very moment.

Come, come, tell it immediately, what⯑ever it is. Come, let us hear it.—

Why, Sir, you look as if you were aſhamed of it! What can be the meaning of this?

To be plain, my Lord, my ſecret will diſ⯑cloſe the folly of a perſon for whom I have a ſincere regard.

No matter—let every fool look like a fool, and every villain be known for what he is—Tell your ſtory.

How can you deprive me of the plea⯑ſure you promiſed? You ſaid it would prevent every future care.

Explain, Sir. I begin to feel myſelf not quite ſo compoſed as I expected. You never, perhaps, ſaw me in a paſſion—ſhe has—and if you were once to ſee me really angry—

Then, my Lord, I am apt to be paſſionate too—and I boldly tell you, that what I had to reveal, though perfectly proper, was meant for La⯑dy Priory alone to hear. I entreated your Ladyſhip not to mention to my Lord that I had any thing to communicate, and you gave me a ſolemn promiſe you would not.

Upon my honour, during our whole converſation upon that ſubject, you never named my Lord Priory's name.

I charged you to keep what I had to tell you a profound ſecret.

Yes; but I thought you underſtood could have no ſecrets from my huſband.

You promiſed no one ſhould know it but yourſelf.

He is myſelf.

How, Mr. Bronzely, did you ſuppoſe ſhe and I were two? Perhaps you did, and that we wanted a third. Well, I quite forgive you for your ſilly miſtake, and laugh at you, ha, ha, ha! as I did at Mandred.—

—Did you ſuppoſe, Sir, we lived like perſons of faſhion of the modern time? Did you imagine that a woman of her cha⯑racter could have a wiſh, a deſire, even a thought, a ſecret from her huſband?

It is amazing to find ſo much fidelity the reward of tyranny!

Sir—I ſpeak with humility—I would not wiſh to give offence—

—But to the beſt of my obſervation and underſtanding, your ſex, in reſpect to us, are all tyrants. I was born to be the ſlave of ſome of you—I make the choice to obey my huſband.

Yes, Mr. Bronzely; and I believe it is more for her happineſs to be my ſlave, than your friend—to live in fear of me, than in love with you—Lady Priory, leave the room.

Do you ſee—Did you obſerve the glow of truth and candour which teſtifies that wo⯑man's faith? and do you not bluſh at having at⯑tempted it? Call me a tyrant! Where are the ſigns? Oh, if every married man would follow my ſyſtem in the management of his wife, every impertinent lover would look juſt as fooliſh as you!

This is all boaſting, my Lord—you live in continual fear—for (without meaning any of⯑fence to Lady Priory's honour) you know you dare not truſt her for one hour alone with any man under ſixty.

I dare truſt her at any time with a coxcomb

That is declaring I am not one—for I am certain you dare not truſt her alone with me.

Yes, with fifty ſuch.

But not with one—you are right—it might be dangerous.

No, it would not.

Yes, it would.

Have not you had a trial?

But you were preſent. You conſtantly fol⯑low all her ſteps, watch all ſhe ſays and does. But I believe you are right—wives are not to be truſted.

Mine is.

No, my dear Lord Priory, you muſt firſt become gentle, before you can poſitively confide in her affection—before you can truſt her in a houſe, or in any place, alone.

To prove you are miſtaken, I'll inſtantly go back to my friend Norberry's, and leave you here to tell her the ſecret you boaſted. Pay your addreſſes to her, if that is the ſecret—You have my free conſent.

My dear friend, I'll accept it.

Ay, I ſee you have hopes of ſupplant⯑ing me, by calling me your friend.—But can you conceive now that ſhe'll Men to you?

You have given me leave to try, and can't recall it.

But depend upon it, you will meet with ſome terrible humiliation.

Either you or I ſhall.

I ſhall laugh to hear you tumbled down ſtairs.

You are not to remain on the watch here; you are to return to Mr. Norberry's.

Was that the bargain?

Don't you remember? you ſaid ſo.

Well, if that will give you any ſatis⯑faction—

—It will give me great ſatisfaction.

Heaven forgive me, but your confidence makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

And yours makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

Hah! What brings you here, Oliver? Lady Priory and I are only come home for a few hours.

I know it, my Lord. I thought nevertheleſs I might be wanted.

And ſo you are, good Mr. Oliver. Your Lord deſires you to conduct me to your Lady in the next room, and acquaint her it is with his permiſſion I am come to conclude the converſation which was juſt now interrupted.—Is not that right, my Lord? Are not thoſe words exactly correſponding with your kind promiſe?

I believe they are.

I am "to take Mr. Bronzely to my la⯑dy, and tell her you ſent him."

Now this is a perfect faſhion: and while I ſtep to Lady Priory, do you go and comfort my in⯑tended wife, Lady Mary.

I hate the faſhion—and were I not ſure you would now be received in a very unfaſhion⯑able manner—

No rough dealings, I hope?

Oh, you begin to be afraid do you?

No——but I have met with an accident or two lately—and I am not ſo well acquainted with ancient uſages as to know in what manner a man of my purſuits would have been treated in former times.

A man of your purſuits, Mr. Bronzely, is of a very late date; and to be ſhamed out of them by a wife like mine.

Then we ſhall all be three old-faſhioned.

I am paſſionate—I am precipitate—I have no command over my temper.—However, if a man cannot govern himſelf, yet he will never make any very deſpicable figure, as long as he knows how to govern his wife.

SCENE III. Sir William's Apartment at Mr. Norberry's.—Several trunks and travelling box⯑es.—Sir William diſcovered, packing writings into a port-folio.

And here is the end of my voyage to England!—a voyage, which, for years, my mind has dwelt on with delight!—I pictured to myſelf my daughter grown to womanhood, beautiful! and ſo ſhe is.—Accompliſhed! and ſo ſhe is.—Virtu⯑ous! and ſo ſhe is.—Am I of a diſcontented na⯑ture then, that I am not ſatisfied?—Am I too nice?—Perhaps I am.—Soothing thought!—I will for a moment cheriſh it, and dwell with ſome little gratitude upon her late anxiety for my ſafety.

Oh Mr. Mandred, I beg your pardon—I did not know this was your apartment. But ſuffer me to lock the door:

and conceal me for a moment, for heaven's ſake.

What's the matter? Why have you locked my door?

I dare not tell you.

I inſiſt upon knowing.

Why then—I am purſued by a——I cannot name the horrid name—

She went into this room.

Go to the door, and ſay I did not.

How!

Pleaſe to open the door.

Threaten to beat him if he won't go away.

Give me the key, and let me ſee from whom you want to hide.—

—Give me the key.

I will not.

"Will not"—"Will not," when I deſire you!

No—ſince you refuſe me protection, I'll protect myſelf.

But you had better not have made uſe of that expreſſion to me—you had better not. Re⯑call it by giving me the key.

If I do, will you let me conceal myſelf behind that book-caſe, and ſay I am not here?

Utter a falſehood?

I would for you.

They are breaking open the door.—Give me the key, I command you.

"Command me!" "command me!" However, there it is.

And now, if you are a gentleman, give me up if you dare!

"If I am a gentleman!" Hem, hem—"if I am a gentleman!" "Dares" me too!

Yes. I have now thrown myſelf upon your protection; and if you deliver me to my ene⯑mies—

What enemies? What buſineſs have you with enemies?

'Tis they have buſineſs with me.

I am coming. The door ſhall be opened.

Oh, for heaven's ſake, have pity on me—they are mercileſs creditors—I ſhall be dragged to a priſon. Do not deliver me up—I am unfortunate—I am overwhelmed with misfortune—have compaſſion on me!

Don't kneel to me!—I don't mean you to kneel to me!—What makes you think of kneeling to me? I muſt do my duty.

What did you want, Sir?

A lady, that I have juſt this minute made my priſoner; but ſhe ran from me, and locked her⯑ſelf in here.

Arreſted a lady!

Yes, Sir; and if you mean to deny her be⯑ing here, I muſt make bold to ſearch the room.

Let me look at your credentials.—

—"Elizabeth Dorrillon for ſix hundred pounds." Pray, Sir, is it cuſtomary to have female names on pieces of paper of this denomination?

Oh yes, Sir, very cuſtomary. There are as many ladies who will run into tradeſmen's books, as there are gentlemen; and when one goes to take the ladies, they are a thouſand times more ſlippery to catch than the men.

Abominable?—Well Sir, your preſent priſoner ſhall not ſlip through your hands, if I can prevent it. I ſcorn to defend a worthleſs woman, as much as I ſhould glory in preſerving a good one: and I give myſelf joy in being the inſtrument of your executing juſtice.—

—What! do you droop? Do you trem⯑ble? You, who at the ball to-night would have danced lightly, though your poor creditor had been periſhing with want! You, who never aſked your⯑ſelf if your extravagance might not ſend an induſ⯑trious father of a family to priſon, can you feel on the proſpect of going thither yourſelf?

For what cauſe am I the object of your perpetual perſecution?

Lor! Madam, the gentleman means to bail you after all: I can ſee it by his looks.

How, raſcal, dare you ſuppoſe, of ima⯑gine, or hint, ſuch a thing?

That's right, beat him out of the houſe.

No, Madam, he ſhall not go out of the houſe without taking you along with him. Puniſh⯑ment may effect in your diſpoſition what indulgence has no hope of producing.—There is your priſon⯑er

—and you may take my word, that ſhe will not be releaſed by me, or by any [46] one: and it will be only adding to a debt ſhe can never pay, to take her to any place previous to a priſon.

Is that true, my Lady?

Very true, I have but one friend—but one relation in the world—and he is far away.

More's the pity.

No, Sir, no—no pity at all—for if fewer fine ladies had friends, we ſhould have fewer examples of profligacy.

I forgive you.

And perhaps I could forgive you. But I muſt not. No, this is juſtice—this is doing my duty——this is ſtrength of mind—this is fortitude—fortitude.

Mr. Mandred, Mr. Mandred.

Sir—Mr. Mandred—Sir,—

I preſume—I preſume, Sir—

What, Madam? what?

I came, to requeſt a favour of you.

So it ſhould ſeem by that novel deport⯑ment.

If you would for once conſider with le⯑nity, the frailty incidental to a woman who lives in the gay world—

Well, Madam!

—How much ſhe is led away by the temptation of fine cloaths, fine coaches, and fine things.

Come, to the buſineſs.

You are rich we all know, though you endeavour to diſguiſe the truth.

I can't ſtay to hear you, if you don't proceed.

My requeſt is—ſave from the dreadful horrors of a jail, a woman who has no friend near her [47] —a woman who may have inadvertently offended you, but who never—

'Tis in vain for you to plead on her ac⯑count—ſhe knows my ſentiments upon her conduct—ſhe knows the opinion I have formed of her; and you cannot prevail on me to change it.

Do you ſuppoſe I come to plead for Miſs Dorrillon?

Certainly.

No, I am pleading for myſelf. I am unfortunately involved in ſimilar circumſtances—I have a ſimilar debt to the ſelf-ſame tradeſman, and we are both at preſent in the ſelf-ſame predicament.

And upon what pretence did you ſuppoſe I would be indulgent to you, move than to her?

Becauſe you have always treated me with leſs ſeverity; and becauſe I overheard you juſt now ſay, you ‘ſhould glory in delivering from difficul⯑ty a good woman.’

And ſo I ſhould.

How unlike the world!

No whatever the diſcontented may pleaſe to ſay, the world is affectionate, is generous, to the good; more eſpecially to the good of the female ſex; for it is only an exception to a general rule, when a good woman is in pecuniary diſtreſs.

By the good humour you appear in, my Lord, I venture to mention to you my diſtreſſes. I know the virtues of Lady Priory make my failings conſpicuous; but then conſider the different modes to which we have been habituated—ſhe excluded from temptation—

No—ſhe ſhuns temptation. Has ſhe not in this very houſe been compelled to make exer⯑tions? Has ſhe not detected and expoſed both Mr. Mandred and Mr. Bronzely?

Bronzely! Bronzely! How!

Another rival?

She has not done with him yet, I be⯑lieve; for, to tell the truth, he is now with her at my houſe in Park-ſtreet. He taxed me with being jealous of my wife—to prove in what contempt I held the accuſation, I left them together, and bid him make love to her.

Is that poſſible?

I can't ſay I would have done ſo raſh an action, had I been married to ſome women—to you, for inſtance—but I have not a doubt of Lady Pri⯑ory's ſafety: her mind, I know, is ſecure; and I have ſervants in the houſe to protect her from per⯑ſonal outrage. The only fear is, leſt he ſhould have received one; for it is now near two hours

ſince I came away, and I have neither ſeen nor heard any thing of either of them!—But to your Ladyſhip's concerns.

I am this inſtant, my Lord, in the pow⯑er of an implacable creditor; and without a friend who will give bond for a certain ſum, I muſt—I bluſh to name it—be taken to a priſon.

I am not at all ſurpriſed at the circum⯑ſtance, Madam; but it amazes me that you ſhould apply to me for deliverance. You have a brother in town; why not ſend to him?

He was my friend the very laſt time a diſtreſs of this kind beſell me.

Aſk Mr. Norberry.

He was my friend the time before.

Mr. Bronzely, then.

And Bronzely the time before that.

Ah, Oliver! I am glad to ſee you, my good fellow. Hah! what have you done with Mr. Bronzely.

Nay, my Lord, that I can't tell. I can't tell what he has done with himſelf.

How long has he been gone from my houſe?

He is not gone yet as I know of; for none of the ſervants let him out.

Not gone! and you can't tell where he is!

No, that we can't: we have looked in every room for him, and can't find him any where.

Not find him!

Ho! ho! I thought how it would be—I thought he'd have ſome trick played him. Where's your Lady?

That I can't tell neither. We have looked in every room, and can't find her.

How!

'Tis as ſure as I am alive. I and the butler, two footmen, and all the maids, have been looking in parlours, chambers and garrets, every crick and corner, and no where can we find either Mr. Bronze⯑ly or my Lady; but, wherever they are, there's no doubt but they are together. Ha, ha, ha, ha ha!

Ha, ha, ha! No doubt at all. Mr. Oliver.

Together! together! and not in my houſe! You tell a falſehood. I'll go myſelf and find them.

You muſt look ſharp, then.

How came you to miſs them?

I chanced to go into the next room, to ſee if there was a proper fire to get it well aired; I know I had taken Mr. Bronzely to my Lady in the inner room, and I had heard them both laughing not a quarter of an hour before; but now, all on a ſud⯑den, there was neither laughing nor talking, nor any noiſe at all—every thing was ſo quiet, you might have heard a pin drop.

Well!

And ſo I thought to myſelf, thought I, I'll ſit down here; for my Lady will be ringing ſoon: however, there was no ringing for a whole half-hour, [50] and ſo then I thought I would e'en rap at the door; but nobody called "Come in." So then I went in of my own accord; and there I found—

What?

Nobody! not a ſoul to be ſeen!

Oh! ſhe has been playing Bronzely ſome trick! She has been hiding him; and in ſome miſerable place!

But why need ſhe hide herſelf along with him?

My dear friend, my dear Lord Priory, let me ſpeak with you alone.—I come upon buſi⯑neſs that—

You look pale! What is your buſi⯑neſs? Tell it me at once.

It is of ſo delicate a nature—

I know my wife is with Mr. Bronzely, I left them together. I know he is a licentious man; but I know ſhe is an innocent woman.—Now, what have you to tell me?

What I have juſt learned from one of your ſervants. About a quarter of an hour after you left them, they ſtole ſoftly out at the back of your houſe, ran to a poſt-chaiſe and four that was in wait⯑ing, and drove off together full ſpeed.

Gone! eloped! run away from me! left me! left the tendereſt, kindeſt, and moſt indulgent huſband, that ever woman had!

That we can all witneſs.

I was too fond of her—my affection ruined her—women are ungrateful—I did not exert a huſband's authority—I was not ſtrict enough—I humoured and ſpoiled her!—Bleſs me! what a thick miſt is coming over my eyes!

No, my Lord, it is clearing away.

Lead me to my room.

Ha, ha, ha! Oh, how I enjoy this diſ⯑treſs! Ha, ha, ha!

SCENE I. An Apartment at Mr. Bronzely's.

DINNER enough for twelve, and only two to ſit down to it! Come home without one preparation—not a bed aired or the furniture uncovered.

This is not the firſt time he has done ſo.

No: but 'tis always thus when a woman's in the caſe. Well, I do ſay that my own ſex are—

Huſh! here they are. Run away.

Only twelve miles from London?

No more, be aſſured.

And you avow that I did not come hi⯑ther by the commands of my huſband, but was deceived into that belief by you.

Still it was by his commands your ſervant introduced me to you; and, upon an errand, which I feared to deliver till I arrived at a houſe of my own.

What is the errand?

To tell you that—I love you.

Do you aſſert, Lord Priory ſent you to me for this?

I aſſert, that, in triumph at your betraying to him our private appointment, he gave me leave to have a ſecond trial. If, then, you have ever har⯑boured one wiſh to revenge, and forſake a churliſh ungrateful partner, never return to him more—but remain with me.

And what ſhall I have gained by the exchange, when you become churliſh, when you be⯑come ungrateful? My children's ſhame! the world's contempt! and yours!

Come, come; you are but jeſting, Mr. Bronzely! You would not affront my little ſhare of common ſenſe by making the ſerious offer of ſo bad a bargain▪ Come, own the jeſt, and take me home immediately.

Is it impoſſible for me to excite your ten⯑derneſs?

Utterly impoſſible.

I will then rouſe your terror.

Even that I defy.

Lady Priory, you are in a lonely houſe of mine, where I am ſole maſter, and all the ſervants ſlaves to my will.

This compoſure is worſe than re⯑proach—a woman who meant to yield would be outrageous.—

—By heaven ſhe looks ſo reſpectable in that em⯑ployment, I am afraid to inſult her.

Ah! don't you fear me?

No—for your fears will protect me—I have no occaſion for my own.

What have I to fear?

You fear to lounge no more at routs, at balls, at operas, in Bond-ſtreet; no more to dance in circles, chat in ſide boxes, or roar at taverns: for you have obſerved enough upon the events of life to know—that an atrocious offence like violence to a woman, never eſcapes condign puniſhment.

Oh! for once, let your mind be feminine as your perſon—hear the vows——

Ah! did not I tell you, you were afraid? 'Tis you who are afraid of me.

Come, you are aſhamed, too—I ſee you are, and I pardon you.—In requital, ſuffer me to return home immediately.

—How! are not you aſhamed of yourſelf?

I was not this moment—But now you mention it, I think I am.

Repent your folly then, and take me home.

Can you wiſh to go back to the man who has made this trial of your fidelity, and not reſent his conduct?

Moſt aſſuredly I wiſh to return. But if you deliver me ſafe, perfectly ſafe from farther inſult, it will be impoſſible for me not to ſhew re⯑ſentment to Lord Priory.

Why only in that caſe?

Becauſe only in that caſe, you will make an impreſſion on my heart—and I will reſent his having expoſed me to ſuch a temptation.

Oh! Ill take you home directly——this moment.—I make an impreſſion on your heart. William!—

—I'll take you home di⯑rectly. Here, John, Thomas, William—

But, upon my life, it will be a hard taſk—I cannot do it—I am afraid—I cannot—Be⯑ſides what are we to ſay when we go back?—No matter what, ſo you will but think kindly of me.

—Order the horſes to be put to the chaiſe; I am going back to London immediately. Quick! quick! Bid the man not be a moment, for fear I ſhould change my mind.

The chaiſe is ready now, Sir; for the poſt-boy was going back without unharneſſing his horſes.

Then tell him he muſt perform his journey in half an hour—If he is a moment longer, my reſolution will ſtop on the road.

I feel my good deſigns ſtealing away already—now they are flying rapidly.

—Pleaſe to look another way—I ſhall certainly recant if I ſee you.

—And now ſhould I have the reſolution to take you ſtraight to your huſband, you will have made a more contempt⯑rible figure of me by this laſt trick, than by any one you have played me.

Tell the poſt-boy he need not wait—I have changed my mind—I ſha'n't go to London to-night.

SCENE II. A Room in a Priſon.

You ought to have known it was in vain to ſend for me. Have not I repeatedly declared, that, till I heard from your father, you ſhould re⯑ceive nothing more from me than a bare ſubſiſtence? I promiſe to allow you thus much, even in this mi⯑ſerable place: but do not indulge a hope that I can releaſe you from it.

I forgot to mention, that Mr. Man⯑dred goes on board to-morrow for India; and, little as you may think of his ſenſibility, he ſeems con⯑cerned at the thought of quitting England without juſt bidding you farewell. He came with me hither,—ſhall I ſend him up?

Oh! no: for heaven's ſake! Deliver me from his aſperity, as you would ſave me from diſtraction.

Nay, 'tis for the laſt time—you had better ſee him. You may be ſorry, perhaps, you did not, when he is gone.

No, no: I ſhan't be ſorry.—Go, and excuſe me—Go, and prevent his coming. I cannot ſee him.

This would be aggravation of puniſhment, to ſhut me in a priſon, and yet not ſhelter me from the inſults of the world!

—I know you have deſired not to be troubled with my viſit; and I come with all humi⯑lity—I do not come, be aſſured, to reproach you.

Unexpected mercy!

No; though I have watched your courſe with anger, yet I do not behold its end with triumph.

It is not to your honour, that you think it neceſſary to give this ſtatement of your mind.

May be—but I never boaſted of per⯑fection, though I can boaſt of grief that I am ſo far beneath it. I can boaſt too, that though I fre⯑quently give offence to others, I could never part [55] with any one for ever (as I now ſhall with you,) without endeavouring to make ſome atonement.

You acknowledge, then, your cruelty to me?

I acknowledge I have taken upon me to adviſe, beyond the liberty allowed by cuſtom to one who has no apparent intereſt or authority.—But, not to repeat what has paſſed, I come, with the ap⯑probation of your friend Mr. Norberry, to make a propoſal to you for the future.

What propoſal?—What is it?

Mr. Norberry will not give either his money or his word to releaſe you—But as I am rich—have loſt my only child—and wiſh to do ſome good with my fortune, I will inſtantly lay down the money of which you are in want, upon certain con⯑ditions.

Do I hear right? Is it poſſible I can find a friend in you?—a friend to relieve me from the depth of miſery! Oh Mr. Mandred!

Before you return thanks, hear the con⯑ditions on which I make the offer.

Any conditions—What you pleaſe!

You muſt promiſe, never, never to re⯑turn to your former follies and extravagancies.

Do you heſitate? Do you refuſe?—Won't you promiſe?

I would, willingly—but for one rea⯑ſon.

And what is that?

The fear, I ſhould not keep my word.

You will, if your fear be real.

It is real—It is even ſo great, that I have no hope.

You refuſe my offer then, and diſmiſs me?

With much reluctance.—But I cannot, indeed I cannot make a promiſe, unleſs I were to feel my heart wholly ſubdued; and my mind entirely convinced that I ſhould never break it.—Sir, I am moſt ſincerely obliged to you for the [56] good which I am ſure you deſigned me; but do not tempt me with the propoſal again—do not place me in a ſituation, that might add to all my other af⯑flictions, the remorſe of having deceived you.

Well, I will diſpenſe with this condition—but there is another I muſt ſub⯑ſtitute in its ſtead.—Reſolve to paſs the remainder of your life, ſome few enſuing years at leaſt, in the country.

Do you ſtart at that?

I do not love the country. I am always miſerable while I am from London. Beſides, there are no follies or extravagancies in the country.—Dear Sir, this is giving me up the firſt condition, and then forcing me to keep it.

There, Madam,

I ſcorn to hold out hopes, and then deſtroy them. There is a thouſand pounds free of all con⯑ditions

—extricate yourſelf from this ſituation, and be your own miſtreſs to return to it when you pleaſe.

Oh, my benefactor, bid me farewell at parting—do not leave me in anger.

How! will you dictate terms to me, while you reject all mine?

Then only ſuffer me to expreſs my gra⯑titude—

I will not heat you.

Then hear me on another ſubject: a ſubject of much importance—indeed it is.

Well!

You are going to India immediately—It is poſſible that there, or at ſome place you will ſtop at on your way, you may meet with my fa⯑ther.

Well!

You have heard that I have expected him home for ſome time paſt, and that I ſtill live in hopes—

Well!—

If you ſhould ſee him, and ſhould be in his company—don't mention me.

Not mention you?

At leaſt, not my indiſcretions—Oh! I ſhould die, if I thought he would ever know of them.

Do you think he would not diſcover them himſelf, ſhould he ever ſee you?

But he would not diſcover them all at once—I ſhould be on my guard when he firſt came—My ill habits would ſteal on him progreſſively, and not be half ſo ſhocking, as if you were to voci⯑ferate them all in a breath.

To put you out of apprehenſion at once—your father is not coming home—nor will he ever return to his own country.

You ſeem to ſpeak from certain knowledge—Oh! heavens! is he not living?

Yes, living—but under ſevere afflicti⯑on—fortune has changed, and all his hopes are blaſted.

"Fortune changed!"—In poverty?—my father in poverty?—

—Oh, Sir, excuſe, what may perhaps appear an ill com⯑pliment to your bounty; but to me, the greateſt re⯑verence I can pay to it.—You are going to that part of the world where he is; take this precious gift back, ſearch out my father, and let him be the object of your beneficence.—

—I ſhall be happy in this priſon, indeed I ſhall, ſo I can but give a momentary relief to my dear, dear father.—

—You weep!—This preſent, per⯑haps, would be but poor alleviation of his ſufferings—perhaps he is in ſickneſs; or a priſoner! Oh! if he is, releaſe me inſtantly, and take me with you to the place of his confinement.

What! quit the joys of London?

On ſuch an errand, I would quit them all without a ſigh—And here I make a ſolemn promiſe to you—

Hold, you may wiſh to break it.

Never—exact what vow you will on this occaſion, I will make, and keep it.—

—Oh! Mr. Nor⯑berry, [58] he has been telling me ſuch things of my fa⯑ther—

Has he? Then kneel again—call him by that name—and implore him not to diſown you for his child.

Good heaven!—I dare not—I dare not do as you require.

My daughter! my child!

At thoſe names ſhe revives.—

—Come, let us quit this wretched place—ſhe will be better then. My carriage is at the door. You will follow us.

Follow you!—Yes, and I perceive that, in ſpite of philoſophy, juſtice or reſolution, I could follow you all the world over.

SCENE III. Another Room in the Priſon.

Provoking! not an anſwer to one of my pathetic letters!—nor a creature to come and con⯑dole with me!—Oh that I could but regain my li⯑berty before my diſgrace is announced in the public prints—I could then boldly contradict every para⯑graph that aſſerted it—by ‘We have authority to ſay, no ſuch event took place.’

One Sir George Evelyn is here, Madam; he will not name your name, becauſe it ſha'n't be made public; but he deſires you will permit him to come and ſpeak a few words to you, provided you are the young lady from Groſvenor-ſtreet, with whom he has the pleaſure of being acquainted.

Yes, yes, I am the young lady from Groſ⯑venor-ſtreet—my compliments to Sir George, I am that lady; intimately acquainted with him; and entreat he will walk up.

This is a moſt fortunate incident in my tragedy! Sir George no doubt takes me for Miſs Dorrillon; yet I am ſure [59] he is too much the man of gallantry and good breed⯑ing to leave me in this place, although he viſits me by miſtake.

Madam, you are free—the doors of the priſon are open—my word is paſſed for the—

Sir George, I am under the moſt infinite obligation! Words are too poor to convey the ſenſe I have of this act of friendſhip—but I truſt my gratitude will for ever—

Madam—really—I ought to apologiſe for the liberty I have taken.

No liberty at all, Sir George—at leaſt no apology is neceſſary—I inſiſt on hearing no ex⯑cuſes. A virtuous action requires no preface, no prologue, no ceremony—and ſurely, if one action be more noble and generous than another, it muſt be that one, where an act of benevolence is conferred, and the object, an object of total indifference to the liberal benefactor.—Generous man, good evening. Call me a coach.

Stay, Madam—I beg leave to ſay—

—Not a word—I won't hear a word—my thanks ſhall drown whatever you have to ſay.

Pray, Sir, did not you tell me, you had a very young lady under your care?

Yes, Sir, ſo I had—but ſhe, it ſeems, has juſt been releaſed,, and is gone away with the gen⯑tleman who paid the debt.

Do you mean Miſs Dorrillon?

I mean the other lady from Groſvenor ſtreet.

Who can have releaſed her?

Some friend of mine, I dare ſay, by miſtake—Well, if it is ſo, ſhe is extremely welcome to the good fortune which was deſigned for me. For my part, I could not ſubmit to an obligation from every one—ſcarcely from any one—and from no one with ſo little regret as I ſubmit to it from Sir George Evelyn.

Diſtraction! the firſt diſappointment is nothing to this ſecond! to the reflection that Miſs Dorrillon has been ſet at liberty by any man on earth except myſelf.

SCENE IV. An Apartment at Mr. Norberry's.

What a ſituation is mine! I cannot bear ſolitude, and am aſhamed to ſee company! I cannot bear to think on the ungrateful woman, and yet I can think of nothing elſe! It was her conduct which I imagined had alone charmed me; but I per⯑ceive her power over my heart, though that conduct is changed!

My dear Lord Priory, exert your ſpi⯑rits to receive and congratulate a friend of mine. Sir William Dorrillon

father to this young woman, whoſe failings he has endeavoured to correct under the borrowed name of Mandred.

And with that fictitious name, I hope to diſemburthen myſelf of the imputation of having ever offered an affront to my Lord Priory.

Is it poſſible what I have heard is true? was it Mr. Mandred who has reſtored Miſs Dorril⯑lon to the protection of Mr. Norberry?

No, Sir George, I have now taken her under my own protection.

By what title, Sir?

A very tender one—don't be alarmed—I am her father.

Sir William Dorrillon?

Has there been any intelligence of my Lady Priory yet?

My dear [61] Dorrillon, a lover of yours has done the civileſt thing by me!—As I live, here he is. How do you do, Sir George? I ſuppoſe you have all heard the news of Bronzely running away with—

Huſh!—Lord Priory is here.

Oh, he knows it—and it is not im⯑proper to remind him of it—it will teach him hu⯑mility.

I am humble, Lady Mary, and own I have had a better opinion of your ſex than I ought to have had.

You mean, of your management of us; of your inſtructions, reſtrictions, and corrections.

Lady Priory and Mr. Bronzely.

What of them?

They are here.

I ſaid ſhe'd preſerve her fidelity! Did not I always ſay ſo? Have I wavered once? Did I not always tell you all that ſhe was only making game of Bronzely? Did I not tell you all ſo?

Then, indeed, my Lord, you ſaid truly; for I return the arranteſt blockhead—

I always ſaid you would! But how is it? Where have you been? What occaſion for a poſt-chaiſe? Inſtantly explain, or I ſhall forfeit that dignity of a huſband to which, in thoſe degenerate times, I have almoſt an excluſive right.

To reinſtate you, my Lord, in thoſe ho⯑nours, I accompany Lady Priory; and beg public pardon for the opinion I once publicly profeſſed, of your want of influence over her affections.

Do you hear? Do you all hear? Lady Mary, do you hear?

Taking advantage of your permiſſion to call on her, by ſtratagem I induced her to quit your houſe, leſt reſtraint might there act as my enemy.—But your authority, your prerogative, your honour [62] attached to her under my roof. She has held thoſe rights ſacred, and compelled even me to revere them.

Do you all hear? I was ſure it would turn out ſo!

This is the firſt time I ever knew the gallant's word taken for a woman's honour.

I will take her own word—the tongue which for eleven years has never in the ſlighteſt in⯑ſtance deceived me, I will believe upon all occaſions. My dear wife, boldly pronounce before this company that you return to me with the ſame affection and reſpect, and the ſelf-ſame contempt for this man—

—you ever had.

She makes no anſwer.

Huſh! Huſh! She is going to ſpeak.—

—Why, why don't you ſpeak?

Becauſe I am at a loſs what to ſay.

Hear, hear, hear—do you all hear?

Can you be at a loſs to declare you hate Mr. Bronzely?

I do not hate him.

I was ſure it would turn out ſo.

Can you be at a loſs to ſay you love me?

She is at at a loſs.

How! Don't you fear me?

Yes.

She ſpeaks plainly to that queſtion.

You know I love truth—ſpeak plainly to all their curioſity requires.

Since you command it then, my Lord—I confeſs that Mr, Bronzely's conduct towards me has cauſed a kind of ſentiment in my heart——

Hah! What!

You muſt believe her—"ſhe has told you truth for eleven years."

A ſenſation which—

Stop—any truth but this I could have borne.—Reflect on what you are ſaying—Conſider what you are doing—Are theſe your primitive manners?

I ſhould have continued thoſe manners, had I known none but primitive men. But to pre⯑ſerve ancient auſterity, while by my huſband's conſent, I am aſſailed by modern gallantry, would be the taſk of a Stoic, and not of his female ſlave.

Do you hear? Do you all hear? My Lord, do you hear?

I do—I do—and though the ſound diſtracts me, I cannot doubt her word.

It gives me exceſſive joy to hear you ſay ſo, becauſe you will not then doubt me when I add that gratitude, for his reſtoring me ſo ſoon to you, is the only ſentiment he has inſpired.

Then my management of a wiſe is right after all!

Mr. Bronzely, as your preſent behavi⯑our has in great meaſure atoned for your former ac⯑tions, I will introduce to your acquaintance my friend Sir William Dorrillon.

Mandred, Sir William Dorrillon!

And conſidering, Sir, that upon one or two occaſions I have been honoured with your confi⯑dence—you will not be ſurpriſed, if the firſt com⯑mand I lay upon my daughter, is—to take refuge from your purſuits, in the protection of Sir George Evelyn.

And may I hope, Maria?

No—I will inſtantly put an end to all your hopes.

How!

By raiſing you to the ſummit of your wiſhes, Alarmed at my ſeverity, ſhe has owned her readineſs to become the ſubject of a milder govern⯑ment.

She ſhall never repine at the election ſhe has made.

But, Sir George, if you are a prudent man, you will fix your eyes on my little domeſtic ſtate, and guard againſt a rebellion.

Not the rigour of its laws has ever in⯑duced me to wiſh them aboliſhed.

Dear Lady, you have made me think with reverence on the matrimonial compact—and I demand of you, Lady Mary—if, in con⯑ſequence of former overtures, I ſhould eſtabliſh a le⯑gal authority over you, and become your chief ma⯑giſtrate—would you ſubmit to the ſame controul to which Lady Priory ſubmits.

Any controul, rather than have no chief magiſtrate at all.

And what do you ſay to this?

Simply one ſentence—A maid of the preſent day ſhall become a wife like thoſe—of for⯑mer times.