SCENE I. A Farm Yard. Houſe on one Side, a neat Flower-Garden on the other. The Bells of a Team jingling.

WOYH! Whoh! Smiler!

So Feyther be not come home from the Nabob's houſe yet. Eh! bean't that ſiſter Jeſſy, in her garden, buſy among the poſeys?—Siſter Jeſſy!

Ah, Frank! ſo ſoon returned from Glou⯑ceſter? have you ſold the corn?

Ees.

And how did you like the town? you were never there before?

Loike it! I don't know how I loiked it, not I; L zomehow cou'dn't zee the town for the houſen: deſperate zight of 'em, to be ſure.—But Jeſſy, you who went to Lunnun Town to take in your larning, can tell me, be there as many houſes in Lunnun?

A hundred times the number.

And do your 'ſquires there, like Sir Hu⯑bert Stanley, and the Nabob here, keep fine coaches?

Yes, Frank; there are ſome thouſands round St. James's Gate.

St. James's Geat! Dong it; it wou'd be worth a poor man's while to ſtand and open that geat.—Pray you, where do that geat lead to?

The road to preferment, Frank.

Ecod, if your road to preferment be ſo cramm'd wi' your coaches and great folk, no won⯑der a poor man be run down when he tries to get a bit.

Ha, ha!

You ſeem to be in terrible good ſpirits, Jeſſy.

I have reaſon, Frank. I have juſt received a letter from my dear Edward, who has left London on buſineſs with his father, Mr. Rapid, and will be here to day.

I ſuppoſe it to be a deſperate long letter, and cruel ſweet. Full of kiſſes and voluntines.— Nine ſheets, I warrant.

Hardly nine words. The truth is, that Edward, tho' handſome, generous, and I hope ſin⯑ce [...] is impatient and haſty to a degree that—

Haſty! What then? when a man be on the road to do good, he can't go too faſt, I ſay.— Bean't that Feyther coming thro' Wheat Aſh? he have been drinking and gameſtring all good Sunday night wi' Nabob's ſervants,—how whitiſh and deadly bad he do look. He us'd to be as comely and handſome as either of us, wasn't he now? Do you know, Jeſſy, at church yeſterday, Sir Hubert, looking round, as he always do to ſee if his tenants be there, miſſed Feyther, and gave me ſuch a deſperate look, that I dropt prayer book out of my hand; and truly when Fey⯑ther do go to church I be always ſham'd he never knows where to fin the collect—never—I'm ſure it be not my fault, he be ſo full of prodigality— [7]never ſon ſet Feyther better example than I do's mine; what can I do more for 'un? it would not be becoming in me to leather Feather, would it, Jeſſy.

Here he comes, I'll return to my garden— to converſe with him is to me dreadful; for, while my breaſt riſes with indignation at his conduct as a man, it ſinks again in pity for the misfortunes of a parent.

Now that's juſt like I—I feels as if I ſhould like to lick 'un, and cry all the time—But what will be the end on't, Jeſſy?

Ruin, inevitable ruin!

Well don't thee be caſt down—thee knows I be cruel kind to thee; at meals I always gis thee the deſperate nice bits, and if thy lover prove falſe hearted, or Feyther ſhould come to de⯑cay, I be a terrible ſtrong lad, I'll work for thee fra ſunriſe to down, and if any one offer to harm thee, I'll fight for thee till I die.

Thanks, my good lad! thanks, dear brother.

As nice a bit of a ſiſter that, as in all country round.

Ba viamo tutti tra.—Dom it, this be what I call loife! Have you ſold the wheat?

Ees.

How much?

Two load—Six and twenty pound.

Exactly the trifle I loſt laſt night.

What?

Take it to the Nabob's gentleman.

I were going Feyther, to the caſtle, to ge it to Sir Hubart's ſteward for rent.

Rent, you bore! That for Sir Hubert.

Ah, Nabob's ſervants be the tippy.—Every thing be done by them ſo genteelly.

Ecod you be done by them genteelly enough; I be ſure that houſe have brought the country round to ruination. Before this Nabob came here wi' all his money and be domn'd to 'un, every thing were as peaceable and deceant as never was;— not a lawyer within ten miles; now there be three practiſing in village; and what's ameaſt as bad, there be three doctors; and the farmers ſo conſated, drive about in their chay carts, eat lump ſugar ev'ry day, and gi'balls.

To be ſure.

And what's the upſhot? why that they jig it away to country jail.

Tezez vous! Let me ſee—Great caſſino be ten o diamonds. Well then, I play—

Play! ecod, if you go on ſo, you mun work tho'.

Next, I muſt take care of the ſpeads.

No, Feyther, a ſpade mun take care o' you; By gol, here be Mr. Heartly, Sir Hubert's ſteward, now don't you be ſaucy to un, Feyther;— now do behave thyzelf—now that's a man, Fey⯑ther, do.

Good day, Farmer Oatland; how doſt do, honeſt Frank?

Deſperate pure, thank ye, ſur.

Well, farmer, once more I have called reſpecting your arrear of rent—Three hundred pound is a long ſum.

Three hundred pound.

And unleſs it be immediately diſcharged, Sir Hubert is reſolved to—

That for Sir Hubert—He ſhall have his rent—Frank, ſend your ſiſter Jeſſy to the Nabob's, he'll let me have the money.

No! I won't—What buſineſs have ſiſter at ſuch a deſperate prodigal place. Na, na, I'll go myzelf.

You are in the right, honeſt Frank.

Yes, ſur, I always am.

Ugh! you vulgar mongrel—Well, deſire the Nabob's gentleman to deſire the Nabob to let me have three hundred pounds.

He won't gi' thee a braſs farthing.

Sir Hubert ſhall have his money— Ha! ha! ha! my notion is, he wants it ſad enough, ha! ha!

Sirrah!

Don't you mind 'un, ſur, don't ye, he be's intoſticated. Dong thee behave thyſelf.

Silence, you hound! and obey!—Bon jour, Mr. Steward,—I'll to bed—'Pon ho⯑nor, I muſt cut champagne, it makes me ſo narvous —Sir Hubert ſhall have his money, let that ſatisfy,—Follow me, cur.

Sad doings, Frank.

SCENE II—A Room in the Nabob's houſe

Good Mr. Bronze, have you been at Sir Hubert Stanley's?

Yes, ma'am.

Is Charles Stanley arrived?

No, ma'am; but he is hourly ex⯑pected.

Do they ſay he is well—quite recovered?

I don't know, ma'am—upon my ſoul—I beg pardon, but really the Baronet's houſe is horrid vulgar, compared to your uncle's, the Na⯑bob's here; I peeped thro' my glaſs into an old hall, and beheld fifty paupers at dinner, ſuch wretches! and the Baronet himſelf walking round the table to ſee them properly fed.—How damn'd low!—Ugh! I would bett a rump and dozen our ſecond table is more genteelerer than Sir Hubert's own—but I muſt away, for we expect the rich Miſs Vortex—I beg pardon; but your name and the Na⯑bob's [10]daughter being the ſame, we call her the rich, to diſtinguiſh—

And you do wiſely—no term of diſtinc⯑tion cou'd poſſibly be more ſignificant or better underſtood by the world, than that you have adopted.

Hope no offence, ma'am.

None, Bronze, go in.—

The laſt man on earth to offend a fine woman.

The rich Miſs Vortex—moſt true.—But now my dear Charles Stanley is return'd, I claim the ſuperior title of the Happy. Oh! Charles, when we parted laſt at Spa; how great the contraſt; thy animated form was priſon'd in the icy fetters of diſeaſe; thy pale and quiv'ring lip refuſed a laſt adieu;—But ah! a ſmile that ſeemed borrowed from a ſeraph who waited to bear thee up to Heaven, ſwore for thee everlaſting love. That ſmile ſupported me in ſolitude,—but to ſolitude I have now bade adieu, and to be near the lord of my heart, have again enter'd this houſe, the palace of ruinous luxury and licentious madneſs; but here comes its whimſical proprietor.

Sublime!—oh, the fame of this ſpeech will ſpread to Indoſtan. Eh!—don't I ſmell the pure air in this room? Oh! you villains! would you deſtroy me, throw about the perfumes for legiſla⯑tive profundity; for fancy and decoration,—'tis a ſpeech.—

What ſpeech is it, Sir?

Ah! Ellen—why my maiden ſpeech in Parliament—it will alarm all Europe—I'll ſpeak it to you.—

No, my dear uncle, not juſt now—I hear you've been ill.

Oh! very—a ſtrange agitation at my heart, and ſuch a whizzing and ſpinning in my head—

I hope you've had advice?—

Oh, yes, I've had them all.—One phy⯑ſician told me it was cauſed by too brilliant and effer⯑veſcent a genius;—the next ſaid, it was the ſcurvy; —a third, it proceeded from not eating pepper to a melon;—another had the impudence to hint it was only little qualms that agitated ſome gentlemen who had made fortunes in India;—one recommended a ſea voyage,—another a flannel night-cap;—one preſcrib'd water,—the other brandy; but, how⯑ever they all agreed in this eſſential point, that I'm not to be contradicted, but have my way in every thing.

An extremely pleaſant preſcription, cer⯑tainly. But under theſe circumſtances do you hold it prudent, uncle, to become a parliamentary Ora⯑tor? I believe a little gentle contradiction is uſual in that Houſe.

I know it—but if you will hear my ſpeech, you will ſee how I manage—I begin —Sir—

Your daughter, ſir, is arrived from Town.

Thank you couſin for this relief.—

Zounds! I'm not to be interrupted.

She is here, ſir.

My dear Nabob, uncommon glad to ſee you. Ah! Ellen; what, tired of ſecluſion and a cottage?

I hope, couſin, I am welcome to you.

Certainly; you know we are un⯑common glad to ſee any body in the country—but, my dear Nabob, you don't inquire about the opening of our town-houſe.

I was thinking of my ſpeech.

The moſt brilliant houſe-warming— uncommon full, above a thouſand people—every body there.

Pray, couſin, do you then viſit every body?

Certainly, they muſt aſk me.

Muſt! I ſhou'd imagine that wou'd depend on inclination.

Inclination! pſha! I beg your pardon; but you are really uncommon ignorant my dear. They muſt aſk me, I tell you.—Now ſuppoſe a Dutcheſs raſh enough to ſhut me from her parties; —very well.—She names a night.—I name the ſame, and give an entertainment greatly ſurpaſſing her's in ſplendour and profuſion.—What is the con⯑ſequence? —why, that her rooms are as deſerted as an Ex-miniſter's levee, and mine cramm'd to ſuf⯑focation with her Grace's moſt puiſſant and noble friends.—Ha! ha! my dear Ellen, the court of St. James's run after a good ſupper as eagerly as the court of Aldermen.—Ha! ha! your being in this country, Nabob, was thought quite charming.—A hoſt not being at home to receive his gueſts is un⯑common new and elegant, isn't.—Here we improve, my dear, on ancient hoſpitality—thoſe little memo⯑randums, Nabob, will give you an idea of the ſort of thing.

"March."—Oh! that's a de⯑lightful month, when Nature produces nothing, and every thing is forc'd.—Let me ſee—" 50 quarts of green peas at five guineas a quart,"—that was pretty well:—"500 peaches"—at what?—" a gui⯑nea each."—Oh! too cheap.

'Tis very true; but I aſſure you I tried every where to get them dearer, but cou'd not.

And I ſuppoſe the new white ſattin furni⯑ture was all ſpoil'd.

Oh! entirely—and the pier glaſſes ſhivered to pieces ſo delightfully.

Well, I hope you had the whole account put in the papers?

Certainly, elſe what would have been the uſe of giving the fete. Then the company; ſuch charming eccentricity, ſuch characters out of character.—We had a noble Peer bowing for cuſ⯑tom to his ſhop, and an Alderman turning over the muſic leaves for the celebrated Soprano; an Orator's lady detailing her hnſband's three hours ſpeech in Parliament, and the Orator himſelf de⯑ſcribing how puppets are managed at the Fantoc⯑cini; we had grandmothers making aſſignations with boys, and the children of Iſrael joining the hoſt of Pharaoh.—Oh! my dear Miſs Vortex, why don't you partake in theſe charming ſcenes?

My dear Miſs Vortex, ſix ſuppers would annihilate my fortune.

Oh true, I forgot your uncommon ſmall fortune. But I don't think it much ſignifies. I ſwear, people of faſhion in town ſeem to do as well without money, as with it. You might be ſucceſs⯑ful at play. There are points to be learnt, which certainly do not give you the worſt of the game. Come, will you be my protegée?

Excuſe me, couſſn, I dare ſay I ought to be covered with bluſhes, when I own a vulgar deteſta⯑tion of the character of a female gameſter, and I muſt decline the honor of your introduction to the haut ton till at leaſt they have juſtice on their ſide.

An uncommon odd girl, Nabob.

Heavens! to what ſtate of abject degra⯑dation muſt faſhionable ſociety be reduced, when officers of police are as much dreaded by ladies in the purlieus of St. James's, as they are by cut pur⯑ſes in the wretched haunts of St. Giles.

For ſhame, Ellen, to cenſure your own ſex.

No, madam, I am its advocate, and in that ſex's name proteſt an abhorrence of thoſe wo⯑men, who do not conſider any thing ſhameful but to be aſhamed of any thing; whoſe reſemblance to nature and innocence exiſts but in their nakedneſs, and to whom honour is only known as a pledge at a gaming table.

Did you ever hear, Nabob?

I did not hear a word ſhe ſaid; I was thinking of my ſpeech.

A pert, Gothic, low-bred creature! But her contemptible fortune ſuits uncommon well with her grovelling ideas.

Don't talk of her fortune, it always makes my poor head worſe. You know at the time I gave her five thouſand pounds in lieu of what I called her expectations, I had in my hands an enormous ſum of her's. O dear! I'm afraid the doctor was right—ah! mine are certainly Eaſt India qualms—I wonder if giving her fifty thouſand back again wou'd do my heart any good.

What! my dear Nabob? I declare you quite ſhock me.

Oh conſcience!

Conſcience! he! he! a thing ſo un⯑common vulgar, a thing ſo completely chauſſeed; beſides, yon know very well it is abſolutely impoſ⯑ſible to exiſt under 20,000l. a-year.

That's very true.

Some people certainly do contrive to grub on with ten thouſand, but how they do it is to me miraculous; then think of your intention of marrying me to the ſon of your great rival the ba⯑ronet; think of his borough.

Ah! very true.—Conſcience avaunt; I have made a motion on matrimony to Sir Hubert.

And young Stanley's arrival; Oh! what a ſweet youth!

Oh! what a ſweet borough intereſt! But I am glad your heart is intereſted.

Heart intereſted! Lud, how can you ſuſpect me of ſo uncommon vulgar a ſenſation. I truſt my joy is occaſioned by ideas more becoming a woman of faſhion.—I am charm'd becauſe his fortune is large, his family ancient; and becauſe my marriage will render all my female friends ſo uncommon miſerable; and becauſe I ſuſpect that Ellen met young Stanley at Spa, and that ſhe dares aſpire to—

I wiſh ſhe were out of the houſe.

No—ſhe ſhall ſtay to witneſs my triumph.

Shall ſtay.—I'm not to be contradicted, you know—my phyſicians—

Certainly not, my dear Nabob; but I may recommend; I'm ſure no phyſician would object to your taking advice. Ah! does Ellen love you as I do?—will ſhe liſten to your ſpeech as I intend to do?—would ſhe throw away thouſands for you in a night, as I do?

Very true! very true!

SCENE III.—A Pleaſure Ground, and View of an ancient Caſtle.

Good Heartly, is all prepar'd for my boy's reception, his favourite ſtudy on the ſouthern battlement?—Are his dogs train'd—his hunters well condition'd?

To ſay truth, Sir Hubert, the caſtle has been all day in quarrel, each ſervant claiming the right of excluſive attendance on his dear young maſter.

I thank their honeſt loves. He writes me he is well, good Heartly; quite well.—Ha! the village bells proclaim my boy's arrival.—Doſt thou hear the people's ſhouts?

Aye, and it revives my old heart.

Theſe welcomes are the genuine effu⯑ſions of love and gratitude.—Spite of this Nabob's arts, you ſee how my loving neighbours reſpect me.

Where is my boy?

Not yet arriv'd, ſir.

No!

Theſe rejoicings are for the Nabob's daughter, who is juſt come from London.

Indeed!

Well, well.

My young maſter will alight privately at Oatland farm, and walk through the park.

The Nabob's daughter?—Well, let it paſs.—Heartley, what ſaid farmer Oatland?

Nothing but what profligacy and inſo⯑lence dictated—he deſied your power, and ſent to the Nabob.

Ungrateful man! let a diſtreſ be iſſued. —Hold; no, no.

Indeed, Sir Hubert, he is undeſerving your lenity.—Beſides, ſir, your mortgagee, Mr. Rapid, the wealthy taylor, will be here to-day— the intereſt on the mortgage muſt be paid—ſome of your election bills remain unliquidated, and I fear without a ſurther mortgage—

Don't torture. Pardon me, good old man.

Truly, Sir Hubert, what might have been effected with 5000l, ſome years ago, will now require ten—you muſt retrench your hoſpitable be⯑nevolence.

My worthy ſteward, my head has long acknowledg'd the truth of your arithmetic—but my head could never teach it to my heart.

And, ſir, you may raiſe your rents.

Never, Heartley.—never.—What! ſhall the many ſuffer that I may be at eaſe!—But away with care—this is a moment devoted to ex⯑taſy —this is the hour a doating father is to claſp an only child, who, after combating with diſeaſe and death, returns triumphant to his arms in luſty health and manhood.—Ah! he approaches; 'tis my boy—Doſt thou not ſee him in the beechen avenue. —Dull old man, advance thine hand thus,—

—See how his eyes wander with delight, and renovate the pictures of his youth.—Ah! now he ſees his father, and ſties like lightning.

My honour'd—my lov'd father!

Riſe to my heart.—Stand off, and let my eyes gloat upon thee—thou art well—Thy arm, [17]good Heartley.—Nay, do not weep, old Honeſty, 'twill infect me.

Ah! my excellent old friend—in health I hope?

Aye, good maſter, and this day will make me young again.

Dear father, already muſt I become a ſuitor to you.—Paſſing Oatland farm, I found his lovely daughter Jeſſy in tears, occaſion'd by her father's inability to pay his rent. I dried them with a promiſe—

—Ha! your brow is clouded with unhappineſs;—pray, ſir—

Good Heartley, leave us—

—Charles, ſo mix'd is the cup of life, that this day, the happieſt thy old father can e'er hope to ſee, is daſh'd with bitter⯑neſs and ſorrow, boy. I've been a very unthrift to thee.

Oh, ſir.

Liſten to me.—You have heard how my father kept alive the benevolent hoſpitality that once diſtinguiſh'd old England, and I not finding in modern ethics aught likely to improve either the morals or happineſs of mankind, determin'd to perſevere in the ways of my fathers. Soon after you went abroad the adjoining eſtate was purchaſed by an Eaſt Indian, groaning under wealth produc'd by groans. Like the viper, after collecting in the warm ſunſhine his bag of venom, he came to the abode of peace and innocence, and diſſeminated his poiſon. But mark me—think me not ſo unjuſt, boy, as with random ſlander to cenſure any body of men. No, thank heaven; there are numbers whom Providence, in addition to the power, has added the will, to render wealth a bleſſing to all around them.

You are ever juſt and liberal.

But for this vile exception, this Mr. Vortex, I tell thee, riot, contention, indolence, and vice ſucceeded. I ſtruggled againſt this miſchieſ, which ſpurr'd him on to oppoſe me in my election. This conteſt (I truſt, Charlea, you think [18]the dignity of your family demanded it)—this con⯑teſt, I ſay, obliged me to mortgage my eſtate to a conſiderable amount; and I fear, boy, even that will not ſuffice.—Doſt thou not blame thy father?

Blame, ſir? my fortune, nay, my life is held but to promote your happineſs.

Glorious boy! then all will be well again—thy eſtate reſtor'd, thy wealth enlarg'd

How?

By marriage, Charles.—

Marriage, ſir!—To conceal the paſſion that triumphs here were but to deceive a father, and injure the bright excellence I love. When I was ill at Spa, the votaries of pleaſure avoided me as the harbinger of melancholy, and I was deſpis'd as a thing paſſing into oblivion by all but one fair creature. I obtain'd an opportunity to thank her for the charitable pity her eye had beam'd on me. Love ſoon kindled his torch at Pity's altar, for I found in Miſs Vortex ſuch excellence—

Who?

Miſs Vortex, ſir.

From India?

The ſame.

She that is now propos'd for your alliance.

Is it poſſible?

And waits your arrival in the neigh⯑bourhood.

Oh! let me haſte to her.—Yet hold! Frank Oatland attends to hear your determination.

At preſent, Charles, I cannot grant your ſuit.—

—Young man, tell your father the law muſt take its courſe. When I ſee in him ſymptoms of contrition and amendmert, I may reſtore him.

Thank ye,—thank ye, ſur.

How came this diſtreſs to fall on him?

Why, ſur, he went on farmering pretty tightiſh, didn't he, ſur? till he keep't company wi' Nabob's ſarvants; then all of a ſudden, he took to the gentlemen line. I conceats, ſur, he did'nt [19]much underſtand the trim on't, for the gentleman line didn't anſwer at all. I hope your honour bean't angry wi' I for ſpeaking to young 'Squire; your worſhip do know I were a bit of a playfellow wi' un, and we followed our ſtudies together.

Indeed!

Ect, ſur, we went through our letters— and a-b, ab—c-b, eb—there ſomehow I ſtuck, and 'Squire went clean away into abreviation and abcmination; and then I never cou'd take much to your pens, they be ſo cruel ſmall; now a pitch⯑fork do fit my hand ſo deſperate kindly as never was.

Ha! ha! Come my boy, you'll want refreſhment.

What honeſt Frank, will you not walk with me to the caſtle?

If your honour be ſo gracious.

Nay, wear your hat.

O dear! O dear! what a pity nobody do ſee I.

Come, brother ſtudent, your hand.

My hand! Lord dong it, only think o'I.

SCENE I. A Room in an Inn.

Coming Sir.

Zounds why don't you come? why don't all of you come, eh!

Waiter, who are theſe people?

I don't know, Mr. Bronze.—The young one ſeems a queer one—he jump'd out of the mail, ran into the kitchen, whipp'd the turnſpit into a gallop, and bade him keep moving; and tho' not a minute in the houſe, he had been in every room, from the garret to the cellar.

Father and ſon I underſtand.—The name on the luggage, I ſee, is Rapid.

Rapid!

Perhaps it is my old maſter, the great taylor, and his harum-ſcarum ſon —I'll obſerve.

Here he comes, full daſh, and the old man trotting after him like a terrier.

Come along dad—puſh on my dear dad. —Well, here we are—keep moving.

Moving! zounds, haven't I been moving all night in the mail coach, to pleaſe you?

Mail! famous thing, isn't it? Je up! whip over counties in a hop, ſtep and jump—daſh along.

Od rot ſuch hurry ſcurry doings, I ſay. Here have I ground my old bones all night in the mail, to be eight hours before my appointment with Sir Hubert Stanley, and now I muſt ſit biting my fingers—

Biting your ſingers! no, no—I'll ſind you ſomething to do.—Come, we'll-keep moving.

Gentlemen, I beg leave—

No proſing—To the point—

For ſhame—don't interrupt the gen⯑tleman.

Gently, dad—daſh away, ſir.

A ſervant of Sir Hubert Stanley has been enquiring for. Mr. Rapid.

Puſh on!

And expects him at the caſtle.

That will do—puſh off—bruſh—run!

That's the thing—keep moving—I ſay, dad!

What do you ſay, Neddy?

Neddy! dam it, don't call me Neddy. I hate to be call'd Neddy.

Well, I won't.

That's ſettled—I ſay—what's your buſi⯑neſs with Sir Hubert?—Some ſecret, eh?

I won't tell you. Oh no— a bill he owes me for making his clothes and liveries.

Pugh! he's a ready-money man. I never made a bill out for him in my life—It won't do.

Well then, ſit down, and I'll tell you

Can you ſit ſtill a moment?

To be ſure I can—now tell me briefly—briefly.

Indeed I will not—You muſt know—

Aye—

You muſt know—

Zounds! you've ſaid that twice—now don't ſay it again.

Well, I won't.—You muſt know—'tis a very long ſtory.

Then I'll not trouble you.

I thought ſo. And pray what might induce you to come with me?

Won't tell him of Jeſſy.—Oh, as we had given up trade, left off ſtitching—you know my way—I like to puſh on—change the ſcene, that's all—keep moving.

Moving!

Oh, my poor old bones! Waiter, bring me a night-gown.

What are yon at, dad?

Going to take a nap on that ſofa.

A nap—pugh!

Zounds! I've no comfort of my life with you.

Say no more.

But I will, tho'—hurry, hurry—od rab⯑bit it, I never get a dinner that's half dreſſed; and as for a comfortable ſleep, I'm ſure—

You ſleep ſo ſlow.

Sleep ſlow! I'll ſleep as ſlow as I pleaſe; ſo at your peril diſturb me. Sleep ſlow indeed!

Now to viſit Jeſſy. Waiter!

Sar!

That's right—ſir—ſhort—you're a fine fellow.

Yes, ſar.

Does Farmer Oatland live hereabouts?

Yes, ſar.

How far?

Three miles.

Which way?

Weſt.

That will do—get me a buggy.

Yes, ſar.

Oh, if my old dad had left off buſineſs as ſome of your flaſhy taylors to, I might have kept a curricle, and liv'd like a man. Is the buggy ready?

No, ſar.

But to cut the ſhop with paltry five thouſand.—Is the buggy ready?

No, ſar.

Or to have daſhed to Jeſſy in a curricle. —Is the buggy ready?

To have flank'd along a pair of blood things at ſixteen miles an hour.

What the devil's that? Zounds! ſomething has run into my back. I'll bet a hundred 'tis a needle in Fa⯑ther's pocket. Confound it! what does he carry needles now ſor?

Sure enough, here it is—one end ſtuck into a letter, and the other into my back, I believe. Curſe it! Eh! what's this?

"To Mr. Rapid—Free— [23]Hubert Stanley." Ha, ha, ha, here's dad's ſecret— Now for it!

. "Sir Hubert Stanley will expect to ſee Mr. Rapid at the Caſtle, and wou'd be glad to extend the mortgage, which is now 50,000l." What's this?

—"Extend the mortgage, "which is now 50,000l to ſeventy." Fifty thouſand! huzza! 'tis ſo—my old dad worth fifty thouſand—perhaps ſe⯑venty —perhaps—I'll—no—I'll—

The buggy's ready, ſir.

Dare to talk to me of a buggy, and I'll—

Perhaps you wou'd prefer a chaiſe and pair?

No, I'll have a chaiſe and twelve. Abſcond!

I muſt—I muſt keep moving.—I muſt travel for improvement. Firſt I'll ſee the whole of my native country, its agricul⯑ture and manufactories. That, I think, will take me full four days and a half. Next I'll make the tour of Europe; which, to do properly, will I dare ſay, employ three weeks or a month. Then, re⯑turning as completely vers'd in foreign manners and languages as the beſt of them, I'll make a puſh at high life. In the firſt circles I'll keep moving. Fifty thouſand! perhaps more—perhaps—ho!

You can't come in.

I tell you I will come in.

Will come in!—that's right—puſh on, whoever you are.

I thought ſo. How do you do, Mr. Rapid? Don't you remember Bronze, your father's foreman, when you were a boy?

Ah, Bronze! how do you do, Bronze? Any thing to ſay, Bronze? Keep moving. Do you know, Bronze, by this letter I have diſcover'd that my father is worth—how much, think you?

Perhaps ten thouſand.

Puſh on.

Twenty.

Puſh on.

Thirty.

Keep moving.

Forty.

Fifty—perhaps—ſixty—ſeventy—oh! I;ll tell you. He has lent 50,000l. on mortgage to an old Baronet.

Sir Hubert St.—

I know his name as well as you do.

Here's news for my maſter! Well, Sir, what do you mean to do?

Do! Puſh on—become a man of faſhion, to be ſure.

What wou'd you ſay, if I were to get you introduced to a Nabob?

A Nabob! Oh! ſome flaſh-in-the-pan chap.

Oh, no!

What, one of your real, genuine, neat as imported, Nabobs?

Yes; Mr. Vortex.—Did you never hear of him.

To be ſure I have. But will you?

Yes.

Ah! but will you do it directly?

I will.

Then puſh off—Stop—ſtop—I beg your pardon—it cuts me to the heart to ſtop any man, becauſe I wiſh every body to keep mov⯑ing. But won't dad's being a taylor, make an objection?

No; as you never went out with the pattern-books.

Oh yes, I did.

That's aukward.—But you never ope⯑rated?

What do you ſay?

I ſay you never—

Oh! yes, I did.

That's unlucky.

Very melancholy indeed!

I have it. Suppoſe I ſay you are mer⯑chants.

My dear fellow, ſink the taylor, and I'll give you a hundred.

Will you? Thank you.

Now puſh off.

But don't be out of the way.

Me! Bleſs you, I'm always in the way.

Don't move.

Yes, I muſt move a little—away you go—

. Huzza! now to awake old dad.

Come along, dad.

Yes, ſir—yes, ſir— I'll meaſure you directly—I'll meaſure you di⯑rectly.

He's aſleep.—Awake!

What's the matter, eh? What's the matter?

What's the matter! I've found fifty thouſand in that letter?

Indeed!

Ah! Neddy, have you found out—

I have—that you are worth—how much?

Why, ſince what's paſt—

Never mind what's paſt.

I've been a fortunate man. My old partner us'd to ſay, ‘Ah! you are lucky, Rapid. Your needle always ſticks in the right place.’

No, not always

. But how much?

Why as it muſt out, there are fifty thouſand lent on mortgage.—Item, fifteen thouſand in the Conſols—Item—

Never mind the Items.—The total, my dear dad—the total.

What do you think of a plum?

A plum! Oh, ſweet, agreeable, little, ſhort word!

Beſides ſeven hundred and ninety—

Never mind the odd money—that will do. But how came you ſo rich, dad? Dam'me, you muſt have kept moving.

Why, my father, forty years ago, left me five thouſand pounds; which, at compound in⯑tereſt, if you multiply—

No; you have multiplied it famouſly. It's my buſineſs to reduce it

. Now, my dear dad, in the firſt place never call me Neddy.

Why, what muſt I call you?

Ned—ſhort—Ned.

Ned—ſhort—Ned.

Ned! O Ned!

That will do. And, in the next place, ſink the taylor. Whatever you do, ſink the taylor.

Sink the taylor! What do you mean?

I've news for you. We are going to be introduced to Mr. Vortex, the rich Nabob.

You don't ſay ſo! Huzza; it will be the making of us.

To be ſure. Such faſhion! ſuch ſtile!

Aye, and ſuch a quantity of liveries, and—Oh dear me!

What's the matter?

I forgot I had left off buſineſs.

Buſineſs! Confound it! Now, pray keep the taylor under, will you? I'll—I'll ſend an ex⯑preſs to London

.

An expreſs for what?

I don't know.—

The bill of fare, gentlemen.

Bring it here

. ‘Turbots— Salmon—Soles—Haddock—Beef—Mutton— Veal—Lamb—Pork—Chickens—Ducks— Turkeys—Puddings—Pyes.’—Dreſs it all— that's the ſhort way.

All!

Every bit.

No, no, nonſenſe.—The ſhort way [27]indeed! Come here, ſir.—Let me ſee—

"Um—Um—Ribs of beef."—That's a good thing; —I'll have that.

What?

Ribs of beef, ſir.

Are they the ſhort ribs?

Yes, ſir.

That's right.

What liquor would your honour like?

Spruce beer.

Very well, ſir.

I muſt have ſome clothes.

I'm ſure that's a very good coat▪

Waiter!—I muſt have a daſhing coat for the Nabob. Is there a raſcally taylor any where near you?

Yes, ſir;—there are two cloſe by

Umph! Then tell one of them to ſend me ſome clothes.

Sir, he muſt take your meaſure.

To be ſure he muſt.

Oh true! I remember the fellows do meaſure you ſomehow with long bits of—Well— ſend for the ſcoundrel.

Oh, for ſhame of yourſelf! I've no patience.

Like you the better.—Hate patience as much as you do, ha! ha!—Muſt ſwagger a little.

Ah! I am too fond of you, I am, Ned. Take my fortune; but only remember this—By the faith of a man I came by it honeſtly—and all I aſk is, that it may go as it came.

Certainly. But we muſt keep moving, you know.

Well, I don't care if I do take a bit of a walk with you.

Bit of a walk! Dam'me, we'll have a gallop together. Come along dad.—Puſh on dad.

SCENE II.—A Room in Mr.VORTEX'S Houſe.

Married to Charles Stanley! You, Ma⯑dam?

Yes, I.

I'll not believe it.

Well, I vow that's uncommon comic. And why not, my forſaken couſin?

Firſt, madam, I know Charles Stanley would only form ſo ſacred an alliance where his affections pointed out the object. Secondly, I feel thoſe affections to be mine.

Thirdly, an inconſtant ſwain was a thing never heard of; and, to conclude, pray peruſe that letter—

‘Sir Hubert Stanley informs Mr. Vortex that his ſon embraces with eager joy the propoſals for his marriage with Mr. Vortex's daughter.’

Then every thing is poſſible. Oh love!

Nay, Don't you abuſe poor Cupid—his conduct has been perfectly parliamentary. Self intereſt has made the little gentleman move over to the other ſide, that's all

Heavens! ſhould this be—

Young Mr. Stanley, ſir.

Young Mr. Stanley, ſir.

My ſoul ſinks within me.

Upon my honour, my dear, you had better retire.—Your agi⯑tation.—

I thank you, madam

Hold.— No;—with your permiſſion I'll remain

Juſt as you pleaſe. What a triumph! Oh, how uncommon delicious!

Now heart be firm!

How he's ſtruck!

Exceedingly.

What can this mean?

Ma— mad—madam—the confuſion that—that—that—

I muſt cheer him with a ſmile.

Ah! what heaven of brightneſs breaks in upon me! Lovely Miſs Vor⯑tex, can I believe my happineſs? Will thoſe arms receive me?

My Ellen!

Oh, Charles, the ſufferings my heart un⯑derwent this moment, and the joy it now feels is ſuch, I cannot ſpeak.

Nabob! Nabob!

What's the matter?

The matter! won't you reſent this?

Oh dear! not I.

Will you bear an inſult?

My phyſicians order me not to mind being inſulted at all: nothing is to provoke me.

Provoke you!—If I were a man, I would—Oh!

I don't like his looks,—he ſeems a deſ⯑perate—

What do you mean to do?

Why, as this is a very extraordinary caſe—

Certainly.

I think it beſt to—adjourn

I perceive the miſtake; but my heart confeſs'd but one Miſs Vortex—I thought the name, like the ſuperior virtues you adorn it with, attach'd alone to Ellen. The embarraſſments of my pa⯑ternal eſtate demanded a marriage with a woman of fortune.

What do I hear?

Why this alarm?

Alarm! Muſt not thoſe words terrify which ſeparate me from you for ever?

What means my Ellen?

Oh, Stanley, hear me. On my return to England, Mr. Vortex, to whom the care of my property was entruſted, was ever preſſing on my mind the difficulty of recovering my father's India poſſeſſions. Each meſſenger that arrived from you, confirmed the melancholy tale, that my Stan⯑ley was ſinking into an early grave. Oh! what then was fortune or the world to me? I ſought out ſolitude, and willingly aſſigned to Mr. Vortex what he called my expectations, for five thouſand pounds.

Yet you ſhall be mine.

No, Charles, I will not bring you po⯑verty. I'll return to ſolitude, and endeavour to teach this leſſon to my heart, "That it will be joy enough to know that Stanley is well and happy."

Stay, Ellen—think deeply before you conſign the man that loves you to certain miſery.

True—in a few hours let me ſee you again. The oppoſing agitations my mind has ſuf⯑fered unfit me for further converſation.

In a few hours, then, you'll allow me to ſee you?

Allow you to ſee me!—Oh! Stanley, farewell!

Now ſpeak.

We had better pair off.

No—ſpeak with ſpirit.

I will.—Sir, I cannot help ſaying, that every man, that is, every man of honor—

That's right!—ſay that again.

That every man of honor—

Well, ſir?

It—is—the—the—beſt judge of his own actions.

I perfectly agree with you—and wiſh you a good morning.

So, then, I'm to be inſulted, deſpis'd and laugh'd at, and no duel is to take place— no⯑body is to be kill'd— my tender heart is to feel no ſatisfaction—

I fight!—Do you conſider the preciouſ⯑neſs of a legiſlator's life?

"A county ſuffers when a Member bleeds."

Oh, ſir, ſuch news!

What, is Parliament convened?

No, ſir; but I have found out that the Baronet is—

What of him?

Ruin'd!

Well! that's ſome ſatisfaction.

I met at the inn the Mr. Rapid's, mer⯑chants I formerly lived with, who have a large mortgage on his eſtate, and he wants to borrow more—So, ſir, I told them I was ſure my maſter would be proud to fee them at Bangalore-Hall, be⯑cauſe I thought, ſir.—

I know—I have it. I'll ſhew them every attention; and if I can but get hold of the mort⯑gage, I'll—

Oh! uncommon charming!

Now do you go and write a note, and ſay we will wait on them.—Ah! uſe policy inſtead of piſtols, and I would fight any man—for, as I ſay in my ſpeech, "Policy, Mr. Speaker, is—"

Exactly, Nabob—but I muſt write the letter, you know. Is the young merchant handſome?

Yes, madam.

So much the better.

You ſee, Bronze, the turn I give it is this—"Policy, Mr. Speaker, ſays I—"

Very true, ſir; but I believe my miſ⯑treſs calls—I attend you, madam.

Confound it! Will nobody hear my ſpeech? then I'll ſpeak it to myſelf.—"Policy, Mr. Speaker—"

How do you do, ſur?

What! interrupted again!—Approach, don't be afraid.

Lord, ſur, I bean't afeard; Why ſhould I;—I defies the devil and all his works.

If this be what is called rough honeſty, give me a little ſmooth-tongu'd roguery. I don't know you, fellow!

Ees, ſur, you do—I be's Frank Oatland.

Begone! I know notning of you.

Ees, ſur, you do—I've a bit of a ſiſter crll'd Jeſſy.

Eh! ah!

Dom um, he knaws me well enough now.

Oh! very true—Frank Oatland, aye! Well, good Frank, how is Jeſſy?

Charming, ſur! charming!

Aye, that ſhe is, lovely and charming, indeed!

—And how are you, Frank?

I be's charming too, ſur!

But why don't Jeſſy viſit my people here? I ſhould be always happy to ſee her.

Should you, ſur? Why, if I may be ſo bold as to ax, why, ſur?

Becauſe—becauſe—ſhe is—a—farmer Oatland's child.

So be I, ſur. How comes it, then, that you never axes I to your balls and oſtentations? I can dance twice as long as ſiſter can.

Cunning fellow this!—I muſt buy him. Well, Frank, what are your commands?

Why, ſur, Feyther do command you to lend him three hundred pounds—no, ſur, I mean he ſupplicates.

Three hundred pounds?

I'll tell you, ſur, all about it.—You knaw, ſur, Feyther have been knuckled out of a [33]moſt cruel ſight of money by you at weagering and cards.

By me, fellow! Do you think I aſſociate with ſuch reptiles?

Ecod, it was either you or t'other gen⯑tleman.

T'other gentleman!

I dan't knaw which be which, not I.— There be two of you.

Two of us!

Ees; there be you—that be one;—and there be your gentleman—he do make the pair.

The pair!—And have I been buying a hundred thouſand pounds worth of reſpect for this? Have I become a Member to pair off with my valet?

Ecod, and a comical pair you be!— T'other gentleman be a tightiſh, conceated ſort of a chap enough; but you be a little—he! he!

Upon my ſoul, this is very pleaſant— You are quite free and eaſy.

Quite, ſur; quite. Feyther do tell I it be all the faſhion.

He does!—Then you may tell Feyther, that if he has loſt his money at play, the winners won't give him ſixpence to ſave him from ſtarving, that be all the faſhion.—By their diſtreſs the pretty Jeſſy will be more in my power, and then I can reinſtate them in a farm upon terms

Go, fellow! I ſhall not ſend your Father ſixpence.

The words I told um—the very words I told um.—Says I—"Feyther, he bean't the man will gi' thee a braſs farthing. Dong it, he hasn't it here, ſays I"

You ſaid ſo, did you?

Ees—ſo you ſee, ſur, what a deſperate cute laid I be.

I'll ſet a trap for you, you dog— I'll have you in my power, however; I'll drop my purſe—he'll take it—and then—

A pair of us! I'll lay you by the heels, deſperate cute as you are.

Poor Feyther, poor Siſter, and poor I! Feyther will go broken-hearted, for ſartain;—and then ſiſter Jeſſy's coming to labour.—I can't bear the thought on't. Od dom thee! if I could but get hold of ſome of thy money, I'd teak care thee ſhould not get it again.—Eh!

Well, now, I declare that do look for all the world like a purſe. How happy it would make poor Feyther and Siſter! I conceats there wou'd be no harm juſt to touch it;—

—it be cruel tempting. Nobody do ſee I.—I wonder how it wou'd feel in my pocket

Wouns! how hot I be! Cruel warm to be ſure. Who's that? Nobody.—Oh! I—I—l-u-d, lud! and I ha' got⯑ten ſuch a deſperate ague all of a ſudden,—and my heart do keep j—jump—jumping.—I believe I be going to die

Eh!—Eh!— Mayhap it be this terrible purſe. Dom thee, come out

Ees, now I is better.—Dear me, quite an alteration.—My head doant ſpin about ſoa, and my heart do feel as light, and do ſo keep tittuping, tittuping, I can't help crying.

Now I have him.—

What, he has not ſtole it, tho' his own Father's in want!—Here's a precious raſcal for you!

Mr. Nabob, you have left your purſe behind you

; and you ought to be aſheamed of yourſelf, ſo you ought, to leave a purſe in a poor lad's way, who has a Feyther and a Siſter coming to ſtarving.

My purſe! True; reach it me.

Noa, thank you for nothing.—I've had it in my hand once.—Ecod, if having other people's money do make a man ſo hot, how deſperate warm ſome folks mun be!

Warm,—fooliſh fellow!

Fugh! quite a Bengal day, I declare.

Od dang it! how their wicked heads mun ſpin round!

Spin round! I never heard ſuch a ſim⯑pleton.—Spin, indeed! ha! ha! God bleſs my ſoul, I'm quite giddy! Oh Lord! Oh dear me! Help! help!

What's the matter, ſir.

Only a little touch of my old complaint. —Send that fellow away.

Oh, this be t'other gentleman. Sur, I ha' gotten twenty-ſix pound that Feyther loſt to you at gameſtering.

Where is it?

In my pocket.

That's lucky! give it me.

Gi' it thee! Ees, dom thee, come out, and I'll gi' it thee

Begone!

Gentlemen, I wiſh you both a good mor⯑ning.

What a dunderhead that is! To ſuppoſe that a little tenderneſs of conſcience wou'd make a man's head turn round.—Pugh! 'tis impoſſible;—or how the devil wou'd the Lawyers ſind their way from Weſtminſter-hall? Giddy, indeed! Ha! ha!—Bronze, take care I don't fall.

SCENE I.—A Room in an Inn.

What! a real letter from the real Nabob! —Dear me! where is Neddy?—Make my humble [36]duty to your maſter; proud to ſerve him—no—very proud to ſee him;—grateful for the honor of his cuſtom—no—no—for his company.—I wiſh you a pleaſant walk home, ſir.—The Nabob coming here directly! Oh, dear me! where's Neddy—waiter!—

Do you know where my boy is?

Not a minute ago I ſaw him fighting in a field behind the houſe.

Fighting!—Oh, dear! where is he?

Here am I, dad.—

What has been the matter?

Only a ſmall rumpus;—went to peep at the caſtle,—puſhing home,—the road had a bit of a circumbendibus,—hate corners,—ſo I jumped the hedge,—cut right acroſs,—you know my way,— kept moving,—up came a farmer,—wanted to turn me back,—would not do,—tuſsled a bit,—carried my point,—came ſtrait as an arrow.

Fie, fie!—But read that letter.

What, the Nabob coming here directly, and I in this pickle.—Waiter, are my clothes come home?

No, ſir.

Why, the fellow gave his word—

Yes, ſir;—but what can you expect from a taylor?

That's very true.

Impudent raſcal!

What the devil ſhall I do?—the moſt im⯑portant moment of my life.—

'Tis unlucky.

Unlucky!—'tis perdition—annihilation —a misfortune that—

I can mend.

How?

By mending the coat.

An excellent thought.—Come, help me off;—quick.—quick!

I always have a needle in my pocket.

I know you have.

Now give it me.

What ſuffer my father to mend my coat?—No,—no;—not ſo bad as that neither.—As the coat muſt be mended,—damn it, I'll mend it.

Will you tho'?—Ecod, I ſhould like to ſee you;—here's a needle ready threaded—and a thimble;—you can't think how I ſhall like to ſee you;—now don't hurry, that's a dear boy.

Now mind, dad, when—Damn the needle!

That's becauſe you are in ſuch a hurry.

When the Nabob comes,—ſink the tay⯑lor. —

I will; but that's a long ſtitch.

Be ſure you ſiak the taylor;—a great deal depends on the firſt impreſſion;—you ſhall be reading a grave book with a melancholy air.

Then I wiſh I had brought down my book of bad debts;—that would have made me me⯑lancholy enough.

I,—ha! ha! I ſay, dad, if the Nabob was to ſee us now,—ha! ha!

Ha! ha! True;—but mind what you're about.

I'll be diſcovered in a ſituation that will ſurprize—a ſtriking ſituation, and in ſome damn'd elegant attitude

Why don't you ſiniſh the job?—why don't you?

Gentlemen,—I and my daughter, Miſs Vortex, have done ourſelves the honour of waiting upon you, to—

But I beg we may not interrupt your amuſement;—'tis uncommon whimſical!

Yes, ma'm, very whimſical,—I muſt keep moving

Ha! ha! You ſee, dad, I've won,—I've won,—ha! ha!

He ſays he has won—

Oh! he has won, has he?

Yes, you know I've won; he! he! why don't you laugh?

Ha! he!

You ſee, ma'm, the fact is,—I had torn my coat; ſo ſays I to my father, I'll bet my bays againſt your opera box that I mend it; and ſo —ha! ha!

Laugh again.

I can't,—indeed I can't.

And ſo I—I won—upon my ſoul I was doing it very well.

No, you were not,—you were doing it a ſhame to be ſeen.

Huſh!—Ah, father, you don't like to loſe.

Well, gentlemen, now this very extraor⯑dinary frolic is over—

Yes, ſir,—it is quite over,—

thank Heaven!

Suppoſe we adjourn to Bangalore-Hall?

Sir, I'll go with you directly with all the pleaſure in life

I believe my curriele is the firſt car⯑riage.

Dear me!

My daughter ſeems to pleaſe you, ſir.

What a ſhape!

Oh, ſir, you're uncommon polite!

He's remarkably gallant, ma'am.

What elegance!—what faſhion!—upon the whole, it's the beſt made little ſpencer I've ſeen for ſome time.

Oh, the devil!—The fact is, ma'am, my father is the moſt particular man on earth about dreſs —the beau of his time—Beau Rapid—You know, father, they always call'd you Bean Rapid.—I dare ſay he's had more ſuits of clothes in his houſe than any man in England.

An uncommon expenſive whim!

I don't think his fortune has ſuffer'd by it.

Shall I have the ho⯑nour of driving you?

Oh, madam, I can't think of giving you ſo much trouble as to drive me.

My dear ſir,—I ſhall be uncommon happy!

Oh, madam!

We'll follow.

If you pleaſe;—not that I particularly like to follow.

I ſuppoſe, ſir, now ſummer approaches, London begins to fill for the winter.

Yes, ſir.

Any thing new in high life?—what is the preſent rage with ladies of faſhion?

Why, ſir, as to the ladies;—

What ſhall I ſay?—Oh, the ladies, ſir—why, heaven bleſs them, ſir! they—they keep moving;—but, to confeſs the truth ſir,—my faſhionable education has been very much neglected.

That's a pity.

Very great pity, ſir.

Suppoſe I become your preceptor.

If you wou'd be ſo kind—I wou'd treaſure any little ſhort rule.

Why there is a ſhort rule neceſſary for every man of faſhion to attend to.

What is it?

Never to reflect.

Never reflect!—what puſh on—keep moving?—My dear ſir—that's my way—ſuits me exactly.

Then you muſt be known.

To be ſure;—I'll give away thouſands in charities.

Charities!—you would be forgot in a week.—To be known, you muſt be miſchievous; —malice has a much better memory than gratitude; —and then you muſt be gallant.—Are there no pretty gills you ſhould like to be well with, eh?

A very extenſive aſſortment, ſir.

And perhaps there may be a married wo⯑man you would like to intrigue with.

A very large quantity.—Oh, how I long to begin!—Are you married, ſir?

Why, no!

The carriage is ready.

So am I; come, ſir,—four horſes, I hope.

No, ſir.

That's a great pity. Pray, ſir, will you have the goodneſs to tell your coachman to drive like the devil?

Sir, to oblige you.

Sir, I'll be very much oblig'd to you.

Your clothes are come, ſir.

That's lucky.

Then I'll wait for you.

Wait for me! nobody needs wait for me—I'll be with you in a crack—Do you puſh on —I'll keep moving—I'll take care nobody waits for me.

SCENE II.—A Room in the Nabob's Houſe.

Be comforted, Father,

To ſee thee brought to ſervice!

— I've done this:—I that ſhould have—

Never mind—we be young and healthy, and don't heed it—do us, Jeſſy?

To be aſham'd to look my own children in the face!—I, who ought to have been the fore-horſe of the team, to be pull'd along through life by this young tender thing!

Don't deſpond, Father—Sir Hubert will ſee your contrition, and reſtore you to his favour.

When the hen ſees the hawk ready to pounce, ſhe gathers her young ones under her wing—when misfortune hovers over my ſweet chicken here, I leave her to ſhift for herſelf.

Come, no more of this.

Even the ſavage hawk takes care of its neſt⯑lings —what then am I?—Children, do you hate me?

Hate thee! pugh, Feyther, dan't thee talk ſo—good bye to thee—cheer up—Thee has long been a Feyther to me, now its my turn, and I'll be a Feyther to thee.

I cannot ſpeak—take care of my girl, Frank.

Care of her! though ſhe be a ſarvant, let me catch any body ſtriking her, that's all.— Well, Jeſſy, we mun not be ſheam'd—I know po⯑verty be no ſin, becauſe parſon ſaid ſo laſt Sunday. —Talk of that—I do hear that your ſweetheart, Mr. Rapid, be worth ſuch a deſperate ſight of money as never was!

If his fortunes are ſo proſperous, brother, he is exalted above my hopes—if his heart be mercenary, he is ſunk below my wiſhes— Heigh ho! yet he might have ſent to know if I were well, he might—no matter!

He be coming to Neabob's here, on a viſitation.

Ah! coming here!

Ees—and Mr. Bronze do ſay while he be here I am to be his ſarving man.

You his ſervant!

Don't thee cry, Jeſſy!

I won't; it was weak, it was wrong.—Frank, be ſure you conceal [42]from Mr. Rapid who you are—I have reaſons for it.—Edward here!—when we meet it will be a hard trial. Yet why ſhould I dread it?—let perfidy and pride ſhrink abaſh'd, virtuous integrity will ſupport me.

That's right, Jeſſy, ſhew a proper ſpirit —Ecod, if he were to pull out his purſe and to offer to make thee a preſent of five guineas, dan't thee take it.—

—Here be thy new miſtreſs.

Leave me.

Doſt thou hear? Dom it, dan't thee take it!

Oh! my new attendant, I ſuppoſe!— What's your name, child?

Jeſſy Oatland, Madam.

Well, Oatland,

look at me.—Umph—not at all contemptible.— That's a charming noſegay—

all exotics, I declare.

No, madam, neglected wild flowers—I took them from their bed of weeds, beſtowed care on their culture, and, by tranſplanting them to a more genial ſoil, they have flouriſhed with luxuriant ſtrength and beauty.

A pretty amuſement.

And it ſeems, madam, to convey this leſ⯑ſon —Not to deſpiſe the lowly mind, but rather with foſtering hand, to draw it from its chill obſcurity, that, like theſe humble flowers, it might grow rich in worth and native energy.

Oh!

—mind—energy!— What's the matter with the poor girl, I wonder! uncommon odd!—I hear, Oatland, you are reduced in your circumſtances.

Yes, madam.

That's very lucky, becauſe it will make you humble, child!—Well, and what are your qua⯑lifications?

Cheerful induſtry, madam. I can read to you, write for you, or converſe—

Converſe with me! I dare ſay you can.—No, thank you, child—inſtead of my liſten⯑ing to your voice, you will be polite enough to be as ſilent as convenient, and do me the honour of liſtening to mine.—Oh! here comes Mr. Rapid.

Ah!

May I retire madam?

Yes; I ſhall follow to dreſs.—No, ſtay —Yes, you may go.

Oh, thank you! thank you, dear madam!

That poor girl appears to me rather crazy.

Welcome to Bangalore Hall, gen⯑tlemen.

Charming houſe! plenty of room.—

A very ſpacious apartment, indeed.

Yes, ſir; but I declare I forgot the di⯑menſions of this room.

Sir, if you pleaſe, I'll meaſure it—my cane is exactly a yard, good honeſt meaſure—'tis handy—and that mark is the half yard, and—

Confound it! The pictures, father—look at the pictures

; did you ever ſee ſuch charming—

Do you like pictures?

Exceedingly, ma'am; but I ſhould like them a great deal better if they juſt moved a little.

Ha! ha! I muſt retire to dreſs—till dinner, gentlemen, adieu.

Zounds! you'll ruin every thing!—Can't you keep the taylor under.

Your ſon ſeems rather impatient.

Very, ſir—always was.—I remember a certain Duke—

That's right, lay the ſeene high,—puſh the Duke—puſh him as far as he'll go.

I will, I will. I remember a certain Duke uſed to ſay, Mr. Rapid, your ſon is as ſharp as a needle.

At it again!

As a needle—

Is true to the pole, As a needle is true to the pole, ſays the Duke; ſo will your ſon, ſays the Duke, be to every thing ſpi⯑rited and faſhionable, ſays the Duke.—Am I always to be tortur'd with your infernal needles?

Now to ſound them.—I hear, gentle⯑men, your buſineſs in this part of the country is with Sir Hubert Stanley, reſpecting ſome money tranſactions.

'Tis a ſecret, ſir.

Oh! no—the Baronet avows his wiſh to ſell-his eſtate.

Oh! that alters the caſe.

I think it would be a deſirable purchaſe for you—I ſhould be happy in ſuch neighbours— and if you ſhould want forty or fifty thouſand, rea⯑dy money, I'll ſupply it with pleaſure.

Oh, Sir, how kind!—If my ſon wiſh⯑es to purchaſe, I would rather leave it entirely to him.

And I would rather leave it entirely to you.

Very well, I'll propoſe for it.—

This will cut Sir Hubert to the ſoul.—There is a very deſirable borough intereſt—then you could ſit in Parliament.

I in Parliament? ha! ha!

No; that would be a botch.

No, no, I was once in the gallery— cramm'd in—no moving—expected to hear the great guns—up got a little fellow, nobody knew who, gave us a three hours' ſpeech—I got dev'liſh fidgetty—the Houſe called for the queſtion, I join'd the cry—"The queſtion, the queſtion," ſays I.—A Member ſpied me—clear'd the gallery —got huſtl'd by my brother ſpectators—obliged to ſcud—Oh! it would never do for me.

But you muſt learn patience.

Then make me a Speaker—if that wou'dn't teach me patience, nothing would.

Do you diſlike, ſir, Parliamentary elo⯑quence?

Sir, I never heard one of your real downright parliament ſpeeches in my life—never

By your yawning I ſhou'd think you had heard a great many.

Oh, how lucky!—at laſt I ſhall get my dear ſpeech ſpoken.—Sir, I am a Member, and I mean to—

Keep moving.

Why, I mean to ſpeak, I aſſure you; and—

Puſ [...] on, then.

What, ſpeak my ſpeech?—That I will—I'll ſpeak it.

Oh, the devil!—Don't yawn ſo—

I never get a comfortable nap, never!

You have a deviliſh good chance now— Confound all ſpeeches.—Oh!—

Pray be ſeated—

—Now we'll ſuppole that the chair—

Suppoſe it a chair! why it is a chair, an't it?

Pſhaw! I mean—

He knows what you mean—'tis his hu⯑mour.

Oh, he's witty!

Oh, remarkably brilliant indeed!—

What, you are a wit, ſir!

A what? Yes, I am—I am a wit.

Well, now I'll begin.—Oh, what a de⯑licious moment!—The Houſe when they approve cry, "Hear him! hear him!"—I only give you a hint in caſe any thing ſhould ſtrike—

Puſh on.—I can never ſtand it—

Now I ſhall charm them—

—"Sir, Had I met your eye at an earlier hour, I ſhould not have blink'd the preſent queſ⯑tion —but having caught what has fallen from the other ſide, I ſhall ſcout the idea of going over the uſual ground."—What! no applauſe yet?

—"But I ſhall proceed, and, I truſt without interruption"—

Upon my ſoul, this is—What do you mean, ſir?—

What's the matter?—Hear him! hear him!

Pray, ſir, don't bluſh—

—What the devil!—

Hear him! hear him!

By the ſoul of Cicero, 'tis too much.

Oh, Neddy, tor ſhame of yourſelf to fall aſleep!—I mean to look out of the window —I am very ſorry, ſir, any thing ſhould go acroſs the grain.—I ſay, Ned, ſmooth him down!

I will—What the devil ſhall I ſay? —The fact is, ſir, I heard a cry of fire—upon —the—the—water, and—

Well, well—But do you wiſh to hear the end of my ſpeech?

Upon my honour, I do.

Then we'll only ſuppoſe this little inter⯑ruption a meſſage from the Lords, or ſomething of that ſort.—

Where did I leave off?

Oh! I recollect; at—"I therefore briefly conclude with moving an adjournment"—

Nonſenſe! no ſuch thing—

—Oh! I remember! "I ſhall therefore proceed, and, I truſt, without inter⯑ruption.—"

Dinner's on the table, ſir.

Get out of the room, you villain!— "Without interruption—"

I ſay, ſir—

Hear him! hear him!

Dinner is waiting.

Dinner waiting!— Come along, ſir.

Never mind the dinner.

But I like it ſmoking.

So do I—Be it ever ſo little, let me have it hot.

Won't you hear my ſpeech?

To be ſure we will—but now to din⯑ner. —Come, we'll move together—Capital ſpeech! —Puſh on, ſir—Come along, dad—Puſh him on, dad.

SCENE III.—An ancient Hall.

Take comfort, ſir.

Where ſhall I find it, boy?—To live on my eſtate, is ruin—to part with it, death.—My heart is twin'd round it.—I've been the patriarch of my tribe—the ſcourge of the aggreſſor—the pro⯑tector of the injur'd!—Can I forego theſe dignities? —my old grey-headed ſervants, too, whoſe only re⯑maining hope is to lay their bones near their lov'd maſter, how ſhall I part with them?—I prate, boy, but 'tis the privilege of theſe white hairs.

Oh! ſay on, ſir.

All! all is dear to me!—theſe warlike trophies of my anceſtors!—Charles, thou ſee'ſt that goodly oak, 'twas planted at my birth— Would'ſt thou think it? In the late hurricane, when the tempeſt humbled with the duſt the proudeſt of the foreſt, it bravely met the driving blaſt—my people with ſhouts of joy, hail'd the auſpicious omen, and augur'd from it proſperity to me and [48]mine—Fondly I believ'd it—fondly I thought it. Fie! fie! I doat—

My father, I doubt not but they au⯑gur'd truly. I muſt to the active world. Why ſhould I fear that the virtue and independence you have inſpir'd—

Ah, boy! but while licentiouſneſs and party zeal command the choiceſt gifts of fortune, virtue and genius muſt be content with their leav⯑ings.

Ah! what is it ſhakes you, ſir?—That letter!

Nothing, my dear boy!—'tis infirmity! —I ſhall ſoon be better.

Excuſe me, dear Sir

‘Mr. Vortex, at the requeſt of Mr. Rapid, informs Sir Hubert Stanley, it is incon⯑vement for him to advance more money on mortgage. Mr. Vortex laments Sir Hubert's pecuniary embarraſſments’—damnation!— ‘to relieve which, he will purchaſe the caſtle and eſtate.’—Sooner ſhall its maſſy ruins crumble me to duſt.—Don't deſpond, my father:—bear up!

Oh Sir!—At Neabob's table they've een ſo abuſing your father!

Ah?

And I've been ſighting—

Huſh!

What's his buſineſs?

Oh, ſir!

—My friend Frank conſults me on a love aſſair; and I muſt not betray his conſidence.—In his hurry he ſell.—Wasn't it ſo

Ees, fur, ees.

You are not hurt, young man?

No, fur.—Thank heaven! my head be a pure hard one.

Within!—

Attend my Father.

My boy, don't ſtay from me long.

Now, good Frank, eaſe my tortur'd mind.—What of my father?

Why, your honour, Mr. Bronze came laughing out of dining-room, and ſays, "Daame, how the old Baronet has been roaſted." So, fur, I not knowing what they could mean by roaſting a Chriſtian, axed. "Why," ſays he, grinning. "they voted, that it was a pity the dignity of the bloody hand interfer'd, or the old beggar might ſet up a ſhop."

What!

The old beggar might ſet up a ſhop.

Unmanner'd, cowardly babblers.

And that you, fur, would make a dapper 'prentice.

I heed not that.—But, when I forgive a father's wrongs—

So ſays I, Domme, if young 'ſquire had been among them, he would have knocked all their heads together. Now wouldn't you, fur, have knock'd their heads together? Then they all laugh'd at me: which ſomehow made all the blood in my body come into my knuckles. So ſays I, "Mr. Bronze, ſuppoſe a caſe—ſuppoſe me young 'ſquire Stanley—now, ſay that again about his ho⯑nour'd father."—So he did; and I lent him ſuch a drive o'the feace—and I was knocking all their heads together pretty tightiſh—till the cook laid me flat wi' the poker: then they all fell upon me; and when I could ſight no longer, I fell a crying, and run to tell your honour.

Thanks, my affectionate lad!—Return to the Nabob's to-day.

I be ſartain I ſhall never do any good there.

To morrow you ſhall live with me. I ſhall diſmiſs all my ſervants—my circumſtances re⯑quire it.

What! all but me!—What! I do all the work?—Lord, Lord, how glad I be, fur, you can't afford to keep any body but I.

Good Frank, farewell—Hold—here

Nay, prayee, fur, dan't you beheave unkind to me—I be a poor lad, that do worſhip and love you—not a ſpy for the lucre of gain—pray uſe me kindly, and don't gi' me a farding.

Frank, I beg your pardon—Farewell!

Lord, how glad I be he can only afford to keep I.

Inſult my father!—unmanly villain!— who'er thou art, thy life ſhall anſwer it!

SCENE I.—Enter VORTEX, in great terror, read⯑ing a letter.

Dear me!—here's a terrible affair!

‘Give me up the author of the ſlander on my father’ that was myſelf—I never can find in my heart to give myſelf up— ‘or perſonally anſwer the conſequences—CHARLES STANLEY.’—Oh dear! ſince I ſind my words are taken down, I muſt be more parliamentary in my language—What ſhall I do?—I can't ſight—my poor head won't bear it —it might be the death of me.

Huzza, my fine fellows! Bravo!

Eh! egad, a fine thought—Young Rapid is loaded muzzel high with Champaigne— I'll tell him he ſaid the words, and make him own them. I've perſuaded him into a marriage with [51]my daughter; after that, the devil's in't if I can't perſuade him into a duel.

Here I am, tip-top ſpirits—ripe for any thing.

How did you like my Champaigne?

Oh! ſuits me exactly; a man is ſuch a damn'd long while getting tipſy with other wine —Champaigne fettles the buſineſs directly—it has made me—

Lively, I ſee.

Lively—it has made me like a ſky⯑rocket. Well, how did I behave?—Quite eaſy, wasn't I?—Puſh'd on—at every thing—barr'd proſing.—Jolly dogs within—the fat parſon's a fine fellow—kept the bottle moving—ſaid a nice ſhort grace.

Well, and did you loſe at play the five hundred pounds I let you?

As eaſy as could be.

That was lucky.

Very—particularly for thoſe who won it.—

Well, now you'll do.

Huzza! I'm a finiſh'd man

You only want a quarrel to make you—

A what?—A quarrel—Damme, I'll ſettle that in two minutes

Stop.—You need not go out of the room for that.

What! will you quarrel with me, eh? —With all my heart.

Me! Oh no!—I ſay I could get you ſuch ſame—

How, my dear fellow?—Daſh on.

Why, at dinner you reflected on the Baronet.

No, it was you.

No, not I.

Yes, it was you.

Well, it might be I; but I don't ſay it was—

I. do.—Puſh on.

Young Stanley has demanded the au⯑thor.— Now, if you were to own the words—how the news-papers would teem with—"The elegant Charles Stanley was called out by the daſhing: Young Rapid about ſome trifle"—

Bravo!

Any thing does for a duel now a-days— the length of a dancer's great toe—an election leg of mutton and trimmings.

Say no more—I'll do it. By heavens, no man of faſhion will be more infamous—I mean more famous.—I'll go write to him directly.

Firſt take another bottle of Champaigne. You can't think what a free daſhing ſtile it will give you.

I will

No, I can't take up this quarrel.

Oh dear!—Why not?

Becauſe I'm ſure I'm depriving you of a pleaſure.

Oh, don't mind me! I give it you, to ſhew my regard for you.—Indeed, I've had ſo much fighting in my time, that with me it really ceaſes to be a pleaſure—the ſweeteſt things will cloy—ſo the quarrel's your's—I waſh my hands of it.

You're a damn'd good hearted, generous fellow!

Then you'll return triumphant, and marry my daughter.

To be ſure—keep moving

I hope he'll fight directly.—Like a ſailor, I hate a calm, particularly when an enemy's in fight.— Hold—what muſt we ſight with? I can fence.

You have no objection to piſtols and bullets?

I like bullets—they come ſo quick. But I muſt puſh on—the other bottle, and then— I'm a firſt-rats fellow.—Champaigne for ever!

You ſhall have my piſtols—hey've never been uſed.

Here's policy. "Crown me, ſhadow me, wich laurels."—Oh my dear, I've atchiev'd two ſuch difficult points!

How, my dear Nabob?

In the firſt place, I've perſuaded Young Rapid to marry you.

Was that ſo difficult?

No, no, certainly. But the next will delight you.—Rapid is going to have an affair of honour with Young Stanley.

A duel! and about me!

Yes.—

I may as well tell her ſo.

Charming!

Now an't I a kind father, to ſet two young men fighting about you?

Ah! that is, indeed, acting like a parent!

Egad, I muſt look after Rapid, though.

But how did you manage it?

By policy, to be ſure: for, as I obſerve in my ſpeech—"Policy is—"

And a very good obſervation it is.

How do you know, till you hear it?— "Policy—"

But pray go to Mr. Rapid

"Policy—"

Nay, I muſt inſiſt—

Oh delightful!—Oatland!

I'm in ſuch uncommon ſpirits, Oatland!

May I inquire the cauſe, madam?

Certainly. A duel is going to be fought about me.

A duel! Horrible thought!

Senſibility, I now! Too comic, a vaſt deal! Ha! ha! cottage pathos muſt proceed from a ſource unknown to me, I'm ſure!

It proceeds, madam, from the heart.

Umph!—Let me have no more of it

I beg your pardon—I forgot the extent of a ſervant's duty.—I forgot that ſervants have no right to feel pleaſure or pain, but as their employers pleaſe; and that ſuppreſſing the ſenſibilities of Na⯑ture is conſider'd in their wages

No doubt of it.—That's ſo very ſen⯑ſibly obſerv'd, that I'll forgive you, Oatland.— The pride of young Stanley will be ſo humbled—

Is the ſafety of that noble youth implicat⯑ed?

What!—A lover, I ſuppoſe—came to the farm, I warrant—attended Miſs Jeſſy in the dairy—ruffled the cream with his ſighs—talked of Arcadia, and ſipped butter-milk.—Ha! ha! I ſhould not wonder, after what I have ſeen of his taſte—Yes, he is implicated—I dare ſay Mr. Rapid will—

Heavens! Is Edward—

Edward!

I mean, madam,

is Mr. Rapid's life involv'd?

Upon my honour, you ſeem to have an uncommon ſenſibility for all mankind!—Do you mean to ſit down in my preſence?

No, madam!

Oh, Edward, unkind as thou art, how gladly would I reſign my life, to ſave thee!

In tears, Jeſſy?—Sweet girl, tell me—

Oh, madam! the moſt dreadful event is about to take place. Mr. Stanley is engaged in a duel with—

Forbid it, Heaven.—Let us fly to his Father:—he may prevent it.

Alas, madam! I fear he regards not his Father's injunctions.

Not regard his Father:—who, child?

Mr. Rapid, madam!

Mr. Rapid?

Oh!

Is it ſo, ſweet Jeſſy?—But has he deſerv'd thy love?—Is he not unkind?

Oh! true, madam!—But is not his life in danger?

We will not loſe a moment.—Let us ſeek Sir Hubert.

I'm very faint.

I'll ſupport thee; for in addition to the oppreſſion of our common grief, thou, ſweet girl, muſt bear the agonizing weight of diſappointed love. —Come, reſt on my arm.

Oh, ſuch kindneſs!—I cannot ſpeak— but indeed my heart feels it.

SCENE II.—Another Apartment in VORTEX's Houſe.

Got the piſtols, eh?

Here they be

.—Your Feather were axing for you, fur.

My father!—Should any thing happen —when I reflect—Reflect—Zounds, that won't do. Some Champaigne

"If a man can then die much bolder with brandy"

. I'll write to him, however;—a few words on a ſcrap of paper may cheer him

. What!

"Dear Edward, your faithful Jeſſy Oatland"

—Jeſſy Oatland!—What a ſcoun⯑drel I am!

.—Oh, Jeſſy, what an infernal pain at my heart!—More Champaigne!

A letter, ſir, from Young Stanley.

Then the die is caſt.—

"You are a ſcoundrel—meet me immediately, or,"—Um, um, a deciſive ſhort letter enough. Damn this pain.—Quick! my piſtols! Take them to Stanley Park: there wait for me.—Oh! Jeſſy!

Ecod, he'll kill thee.—I'll lay half a⯑crown 'Squire Stanley hits thee the firſt ſhot.

Piſtols—kill— Stanley!—Ned, tell me—

My father here.—Oh, fir, nothing.—Come, drink.

Look at me.—Ah, that agitation!— Tell me the cauſe!—A parent commands you.— Your old doating father intreats it!

I muſt deceive him.—Sir, l've receiv'd an inſult that no gentleman of faſhion can ſubmit to.

Gentleman of faſhion!—Need a man reſent it?

Read that letter, and judge.

Lack a day! conſider you're only a taylor's ſon.—

"You're a ſcoundrel."— That's a hard word.—

Wou'd you have me ſubmit to be call'd ſcoundrel?

No, I wou'dn't—

—Yes, I wou'd.

Sir, you don't feel like a man.

I'm ſure I feel like a father!

Read on, ſir.

"And unleſs"

"unleſs"—I can't—

"And unleſs you immediately give me the ſatisfaction of a gentleman, expect the chaſtiſement due to a coward."

Chaſtiſement!—chaſtiſement!— Coward!

We are fleſh and blood, Ned.

Wou'd you ſee me ſpurn'd?—

No!

Pray leave me, ſir.

Where ſhall I go?—What ſhall I do? —What will become of me? Oh, boy, try to [57]avoid it.—Remember your old father,—remember his life hangs on your's. But, Ned—don't forget you're a man!

Pray leave me, ſir.

I will.—Farewell, my dear boy, 'twill break my old heart.—But remember you're a man, Ned.

So, I'm proceeding full tilt to murder;—have planted a dagger in a kind father's heart—But here goes—

—Its power is gone. Oh— this infernal pain! Could I with honour avoid? —but

—Chaſtiſement! Cow⯑ard! —Damnation! I muſt puſh on. Fool! Dolt! Villain that I am!

SCENE III.—A retired place in Stanley Park.

What can it mean?—Charles parted from me in an agony the ingenuouſneſs of his nature had not art to conceal;—he graſp'd my hand,— bade me farewell, as if it were for ever,—then broke away—leaving me a prey to wild conjecture and deſpait;—ſoon ſhall I be at peace.—infir⯑mity, when goaded on by ſorrow, preſſes to the goal of life with double ſpeed—Surely thro' that laurel grove, I ſee two female figures glide along; my eyes are not of the beſt, and the ſorrow I have felt for my dear boy has not ſtrengthened them; —they approach—

Pardon, Sir Hubert, this intruſion!— My name, Sir, is Ellen Vortex.

Madam, I welcome you as my daughter.

Oh, ſir!—the urgency of the moment will not allow me to thank ſuch goodneſs as I ought! —your ſon, ſir—

Ah! What of him?

I ſaw him paſs along, he ſled from my [58]outſtretch'd arms,—he was deaf to my cries;—e'en now he's engaged in a duel.

Ha! (draws his ſword and is running out, ſtaggers, drops his ſword.—ELLEN and JESSY ſupport him) My functions are ſuſpended!—Oh nature! doſt thou deſert me at this moment?—Who is the villain that has cauſed it?

Ah, my poor Edward!

Oh that I could ruſh before my child, and receive the fatal ball in this old broken heart!— Perhaps—dreadful thought!—e'en now the deadly tube is levelled at his manly breaſt.

Bear up, I cannot ſupport thee.

—Horrible ſuſpenſe!—what a death-like ſilence!

Death!—Oh, my ador'd Charles!

Ah, my poor Edward!

Huzza! huzza!

Huzza!—He's ſafe—he's ſafe.—

Who?—

'Squire Charles,—'Squire Charles,— Huzza!

Ah, my poor Edward!

Your ſon is ſafe;—heard you the words?

They have ſhot life thro' me.

Jeſſy! rejoice with me—

Wretch that I am, to forget thy ſorrows! —Take comfort, ſweet girl!—perhaps—

Tol de rol lol—Safe and ſound—ſafe and found—tol de rol lol.—

Who?

My boy Neddy,—my darling Neddy, ſafe and ſound,—tol de rol lol.

So, Mr. Rapid!—How happened this, ſir?

Really, Sir Hubert, I don't under⯑ſtand the cut of it; all I can ſay is, your ſon's be⯑haviour [59]was—oh—ſuperſine;—when they had fired their piſtols they drew out their ſwords, and your ſon diſarm'd Neddy, and then he generouſly gave him his ſword again, which was extremely genteel,— for it was a brand new ſilver-hilted ſword, and, I ſuppoſe by the laws of honour he might have kept it.—

Mr. Rapid, why did you break your appointment?

Mr. Vortex, ſir—

Mr. Vortex.—I fear your ſon has ſe⯑lected an imprudent preceptor.

Choſe a bad pattern you think, ſir?— I am afraid he has—

Will you, ſir, favour me with a few minutes converſation?

You know, Sir Hubert, I'm your faith⯑ful ſervant to command.—

Come, let us to our hero. Will you, fair creature, condeſcend to be a crutch to an old man?

I ſhall ex⯑pect you, ſir.

Jeſſy!

I follow, madam.

Do I addreſs the father of Mr. Rapid?

You do, pretty one!

I beg your pardon; but are you ſure your ſon's life is ſafe —quite ſafe?—

Yes.—A very charming girl, I de⯑clare! —I'm very much obliged to you for taking notice of my Neddy!—Poor fellow!—nobody ſeem'd to care what became of him.—I'm very much oblig'd.—A ſweet pretty-ſpoken creature as ever I ſaw! But I muſt away to the Nabob's, or I ſhall be too late for the wedding.

Wedding! whoſe, ſir?

Whoſe! why, my boy Neddy's with Miſs Vortex, to be ſure!

Married! Edward married! 'Tis too much—

Eh! what! ſpeak—tell me!

Oh, Edward! is this the return for my love? have I merited this cruel deſertion?

Deſertion!—What!—has the raſ⯑cal—I ſhall choak myſelf—Has he behaved ill to ſo ſweet a creature? Your tears tell me ſo—I'll kill him.—He's my own ſon, and I have a right to do it—Your name, your name! pretty ſoul!

Jeſſy Oatland.—The indiſcretion of my father has made me a ſervant.

And the diſcretion of his father has made him a gentleman—But I'll make the raſcal know you are not humbled by your Father's con⯑duct, nor is he exalted by his, a villain!—Can he hope to be call'd a man of honour for oppoſing his head to a piſtol, while himſelf levels the ſhaft of anguiſh at an innocent woman's heart?—But I'll kill him, that's one comfort.—Come with me, ſweet one!

Sir, I muſt attend my miſtreſs—I am ſer⯑vant to his bride—

I ſhall go mad!—Don't cry—If he, by marriage, won't make you my daughter— I, by adoption, will.—Good bye, ſweet Jeſſy! —Oh, the raſcal!—Cheer up?—the ſcoun⯑drel! —Pretty creature!—The dog!—What a ſhape!—I'll kill him!

SCENE I.—RAPID diſcovered, and Hair-Dreſſer.

Diſpatch! why don't you diſpatch?

Done in a moment, ſir, pray keep your head ſtill.

Oh, Jeſſy Oatland!— S'death—have not you done?

Sit down, ſir, done in a moment.

Well, well; I'm as patient as—

—Well!—Speak—quick!

Sur—I—that is—ſhe—no, I went—

You tedious blockhead—Is ſhe gone? Is Jeſſy gone?

Ees, ſur.

What! left her Father's!—Where is ſhe?

I don't know—that is, I won't tell—

What muſt ſhe think me? What I am— a raſcal.

Sit down, ſir;—done in a moment.

Yes, yes; I am as calm as—

What do you want?

Sir, my maſter and Miſs Vortex wait for you.

Aye, to fulfil that infernal marriage pro⯑miſe.—Oh, Jeſſy!

What are you at?

Sur, I were only twiddleing about my thumbs.

You are always twiddling about your thumbs. What ſhall I do? Go to them.—No, I'll write.—I want to write.

Oh, you do?

I tell you I want to write.

I'm ſure I don't hinder you.

'Sdeath! then don't ſtand there.

It be all the ſame to me where I ſtand—

Thickhead, bring pen and ink.

Why did you not tell I ſo?

Oh, this infernal pain!—A candle to ſeal a letter

—Zounds! it is not lighted!

You didn't tell I to light it.

Was ever man plague'd with ſuch a hol⯑low-headed ninny-hammer.

May be that be better than a hollow-hearted one!

Well!

My maſter has ſent you thoſe parchments to peruſe.

I wouldn't read them for his eſtate.

He will wait on you ſir, directly.

Begone all of you!—Stop

Give me my coat!

—Bring the glaſs!—

—Leave me, dunderhead!

Bravo, my ſine fellow! you fought no⯑bly!—I ſay, who ſir'd firſt?

Never mind, that's paſt!

Well, now I muſt entruſt you with a little ſecret—

I have no objection to a little ſecret.

In the firſt place, then, I'll read this paper.

No; I'll read it—I ſhall read it much quicker. Reads.—"Receiv'd of Mr. Vortex the ſum of five thouſand pounds, in conſideration of which I aſſign over all my right and title to— hum, um, um—Signed, ELLEN VORTEX."— I underſtand—

Now you muſt know the father of my niece—

Jeſſy Oatland!

No, her name is Ellen.

I know it, I know it—I know it—

Her father died in India.

With all my heart.

With all your heart!

Zounds! keep moving, will you?

Yes, if you'll keep ſtill.

Then be quick,

Why I am quick, an't I?—Died in India, and left her to my care. All was in—

Confuſion.

You are right, all was in confuſion. So I prevail'd on—

Jeſſy Oatland!

No, no, Ellen—to ſign that paper; ſince which, indeed her affairs have turn'd out pretty lucky. I purchas'd this eſtate with her for⯑tune, which will be your's, my boy!—It was a very ſnug bargain.

What a horrible thing is the gift of ſpeech!

Speech!—Did you ſay any thing a⯑bout a ſpeech? Ah! had you heard mine out.—Do you remember how it began?—"Had I met your eye at an earlier hour, I ſhould"—

'Sdeath and ſire! is this a time for ſpeeches! Is not your daughter waiting? —Is not?—Oh Jeſſy!

True, another opportunity! But, oh! 'tis a pretty ſpeech.—Well, now give me back the paper.

The paper!

Yes, now you have thoroughly digeſted the contents of the paper, give it me again.

Oh! the—the—the paper

Yes; that precious ſcrap that ſecures us a hundred thouſand pounds, you dog!—Come, give it me.

My dear fellow! you gave me no paper.

But I did, though.

Yes, you certainly did; but then—you —you—did not—

But I'll take my oath I did!—Come, give it me directly!—You—

Eh! what!—No;—yes.—I'm undone, I'm ruin'd.—Oh, my head! I'm going, I'm going!

Upon my ſoul I'm very ſorry, but—

But what?

That infernal ſpeech!

Oh!

Eh, but hold! when he marries my daughter he'll keep the ſecret for his own ſake. Oh dear! I muſt loſe no time.

I'm very ſorry; I'm ſure if hearing your ſpeech will be any compenſation—

No, no, not now—come with me, all the lawyers are waiting.—Oh, pray come!

I'm coming, but you're always in ſuch a hurry.

I'll ſend my daughter to him—I muſt puſh him. Pray come directly.

Upon my ſoul you'll break your neck, if you hurry ſo. Am I always to have this infernal pain?

Behold a high-finiſh⯑ed raſcal at full length.—Curſe me, if I can look myſelf in the face.

There he ſtands!—Now, heart, be firm.—Virtuous indignation ſupport me! Sir, my miſtreſs waits for you.

Don't plague me about your miſtreſs. I'll come by and by.—

Heaven and hell! Jeſſy Oatland!

My miſtreſs, ſir, waits for you.

Your miſtreſs!—A ſervant! Jeſſy Oat⯑land a ſervant!—A ſervant to—and I—Jeſſy! my life!—my ſoul!—will you forgive—?

Wretch!

I am.—I deſpiſe myſelf.—On my knees— only liſten to me.

Mr. Rapid!

What's the matter?

How can you debaſe yourſelf—to—

How can you debaſe yourſelf—to—

How dare he debaſe me, madam, by offering to an honeſt heart the affections of a vil⯑lain?

Sir!

Madam!

Leave the room!

Now, poor heart! having paſs'd thy pride's probation, retire to a corner, and break with weeping.

Sir! what am I to underſtand?

That I'm crazy.

Have I deſerv'd inſult?

Upon my ſoul, I don't mean to inſult you —I aſk your pardon—upon my knees

You, fur!

What's the matter?

Well, I'll forgive you if you'll come directly.

What do you want?

You be's a deſperate villain!

Come, dan't you do that—it won't do.—Poor ſiſter! if you had drawn a harrow acroſs her heart, you could not have hurt her ſo.

Damn't—I know nothing of your ſiſter! Who the devil is your ſiſter? you—

Why! Jeſſy Oatland!

What! your ſiſter—the brother of Jeſſy my ſervant?—Damnation! why did not you tell me ſo? to raiſe my hand againſt the brother of Jeſſy?—I ſhall go mad!—Frank, will you forgive me? I love Jeſſy—by my ſoul I do!—And may heaven deſert me, if—

Heyday!

What's the matter?

Leave the room!

inſult upon inſult!—What ſatisfaction—

I know what you want. Come along; I'll ſight you directly.

Fight! Nonſenſe.

Then I'll aſk your pardon.

But what the devil's the meaning of all this?

Why, don't you ſee I'm mad?—Stark flaring mad!

Mr. Rapid!

What do you want?

Oh! Lord, how fierce Stanley looks at me. Pray come, Mr. Rapid.—

Sir, your moſt obedient!

That little fellow will break his neck to a certainty.

I have juſt ſeen a lovely girl that you have wrong'd.

I know I have; and I'll fight you again, if you like it.

Could the reſult beneſit Jeſſy Oatland, I would accept your invitation.

The fact is, I am the moſt unhappy—the —What do you charge for ſhooting a man? I'll give you a thouſand to blow my brains out. I'm the moſt miſerable dog—Pray, ſir, will you tell me one thing?—Are you a man of faſhion?

I truſt I'm a gentleman.

That's pretty much the ſame thing—an't it, ſir?

It ought to be.

Pray, ſir, how did you become a gentle⯑man?

Simply, by never committing an action that would not bear reflection.

Can I be a gentleman and an honeſt man?

Can you be a gentleman, and not an honeſt man?

Pray, ſir, have you always an infernal pain at your heart?

No, ſir.

No! Huzza! Thank you!—By heaven I'll—Now don't hurry yourſelf.—If I don't, may I—

Ah! Mr. Rapid, how different are our ſituations! You, poſſeſſing the love of a moſt charming and faſcinating girl, daſh the cup of hap⯑pineſs away.

May be not, my dear fellow!—Puſh on.

I, poſſeſſing the heart of my dear Ellen, am miſerable: becauſe on account of the narrow⯑neſs of her fortune, ſhe compels me to abandon her.

What! The narrowneſs of her fortune compels—

Yes! I ſay—

No! Don't ſay it again. Don't deſpair, that's all

She has given a fatal paper.

A paper!—Yes, I know, I know.

And I'm come to take leave of her.

No, you are not!—I'll ſhow you ſuch a ſcene.—Nay, don't aſk me any queſtions—follow me, that's all.—Wait at the door; and when I cry, Hem! come in. But don't be in ſuch a hurry. By heavens, the pain in my ſide is better already! Huzza!—Come along!

How do you do? How do you do? What! you raſcal! you can grin again, can you? Come along; but don't hurry; becauſe, my dear fellow! 'tis impoſſible to do any thing well in a hurry. Come along! but, zounds! never hurry.

SCENE II.—Another Apartment in VORTEX's Houſe.

How bee'ſt thee now, Jeſſy?

Better. Quite recover'd. What paſs'd be⯑tween you and Edward?

Why, at firſt, he were in a deſperate paſ⯑ſion; but when I told him I were thy brother, he were ſo humble, and did ax I; ſo to forgive un, that I could ſay no more to un. Dom it, I could not hit him, when he were down; and I've a notion his conſcience was pegging him about pretty tight⯑iſh. He ſwear'd he did love thee!

Did he, Frank? Did he ſay he lov'd me?

What! torn the paper!—A hot headed—only wait till he's my huſband—

Egad, I wiſh he would come, tho'—

Oh! here he is.

How my poor frame trembles!

I vow I feel uncommon diſcompos'd —Oatland! your arm, child!

Heavens, how intereſting! the languor of thoſe lovely eyes—

Flattering creature!

My ſenſes are reſtor'd. Oh, will you pardon—will you again receive a heart full of love and adoration?—

What ſhall I do?—I muſt pardon him.

Edward! what ſhall I ſay?—your love has been too long my joy,—my pride, to be torn from my heart without many a bitter wound;—

but your late conduct has been—

Deteſtable?—But I'm pardon'd, your eyes tell me ſo. Thanks, my angel!

I'm ſo oppreſs'd with joy.— Ma'am, will you have the goodneſs to help me up?—

Help you up!—

He! he! he! Gi' me a buſs, Jeſſy! he! he! thee be's a domn'd honeſt fellow!

I'll run and tell poor Feyther —Now I ſhall have a farm of my own!

—Dong it, how I will work. He! he! he!

To be us'd ſo twice in one day!—it is not to be borne.—Nabob! won't you ſight him?

No, not I.

Coward!

You'd better be quiet, or I'll convince you I'm none, however.

He! he! I declare it is ſo uncommon ridiculous!—ſo comic!—He! he!—I'm quite faint with laughing.

Shall I aſſiſt you?

No!

I muſt retire, or I ſhall expire with laughing!—he! he!—Oh!—

Heaven! what's the matter?

Allow me to introduce Mrs. Rapid, madam.—

Sweet Jeſſy!—Sir, I thank you, for giving my heart a pleaſurable ſenſation which I thought it had for ever taken leave of.

Bleſs your heart! perhaps I may tickle it up a little more.—

Now, ſtand out of the way, will you?

You're quite free and eaſy.

My way.

You forget 'tis my houſe.

No, I don't;—you bought it with her money, you know—

Umh!

Mum, now for young Stanley's cue.

'Ppon my honour, ma'am, any man might be proud to—Hem—He doesn't hear me— Such beauty!—ſuch a ſhape! ſuch a—Hem—

Zounds! he's here again

What does he want?

Shall I aſk him?

Do.—I'll be very much oblig'd to you.

I will.—I'll manage

Oh, thank you!

Once more, my Ellen! ſupported by in⯑dulgent parent's bleſſing on our union, I entreat—

Oh Charles! ſhall I then return your fa⯑ther's goodneſs by deſtroying his hopes for ever? Shall I repay my Stanley's love by inſlicting on him penury and ſorrow? In pity, no more!

What may may be your buſineſs here, ſir?

I came to take leave.—

Huſh!

—To inquire reſpecting that lady's fortune. We'll ſoon anſwer all that, won't we?

I ſay, ſir—

We grant it,—we grant Mr. Vortex has recover'd property to a con⯑ſiderable amount, but what ſigniſies that? She aſ⯑ſigned it for five thouſand pounds!—You ſee how I'm going on

Oh, thank you, my dear friend!

I've ſeen the paper; haven't I?—

And I ſhou'd be ſatisfied—

You wou'd be ſatisfied if you faw. it— Certainly—very proper—nothing in nature can be more reaſonable; ſo, Nabob, ſhew him the paper, and ſettle the buſineſs at once

Shew him the paper!—don't keep the gentleman waiting all day.—Shew him the paper. My dear fellow! what's the uſe of walk⯑ing after me? Shew him the paper.

I ſay, my dear friend, huſh! Be quiet! I want to ſpeak to you; you forget you deſtroyed it.

I deſtroyed it!

Huſh!

He ſays I deſtroyed it!

I did not.—I'll take my oath I did not.

And it is true.

What?

True, upon my honour! He has no more hold on your eſtates, madam, than I have.

Will you now al⯑low the humble Stanley to deſtroy the hopes of wealthy Ellen? Will you permit me to repay your love with penury and ſorrow?

Oh, chide on!

Dear Stanley, my happineſs is now complete.

This is your houſe, ma'am. I give [71]you joy!—Sir, I give you joy!—Nabob, I give you joy!

Oh, my head! You villain!

Don't talk about villainy,—it will make you worſe. Sit down, my dear fellow!

He's juſtly puniſhed for the falſehood of the ſtory he told.

I ſay, he's juſtly puniſhed for the length of the ſtory he told.

Mr. Rapid, in expreſſing my obligations, allow me to be—

Not more than a minute, I entreat.

Where is he?

Be patient.

I won't.—Let me come at him.

Your bleſſing, ſir!

What? Oh!

Mr. Rapid, by aſſerting your character as a man of ho⯑nour, in rewarding the affections of this amiable woman, you command my praiſe; for beſtowing happineſs on my dear Charles, receive an old man's bleſſing.

Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley is praiſe indeed.

Dam'me, there's the ſon of a taylor for you!

What, a taylor?

Yes; and let me tell you, that one gui⯑nea honeſtly gotten by blood drawn from the ſinger, is ſweeter than a million obtained by blood drawn from the heart!—So, take that.

Well, Nabob, how do you feel?

Egad, 'tis very odd;—but I declare I feel light and comfortable ſince Ellen has got her [72]eſtate, and I ſomehow breathe more free. I've a notion the laſt line of my ſpeech is true.

Come, I'll hear the laſt line.

Why, ‘that the firſt ſtep towards ſecur⯑ing the eſteem of others, is to ſecure your own.’

Stick to the laſt line.

And, dear uncle, take Sir Hubert Stan⯑ley for your phyſician. Follow his preſcription of juſtice and benevolence, and my life on it, you will ſoon thank me for my recommendation.

Well, to ſhew the ſincerity of my inten⯑tions, allow, me, Ellen, to preſent you theſe parch⯑ments, the title deeds of this eſtate.

I ſay, Ned, what nice meaſures they would make!

And, ſir, allow me to ſhew you the true value of riches—

— Convert them into happineſs.

Well, I've only one obſervation to make.

I hope it is a ſnort one.

What, impatient again?

I am; and if I err