SCENE I. The Houſe of Sir GREGORY OLDWORT.

I WILL not hear you, Louiſa. In love yourſelf with a man deſtitute of rank and fortune, ought you to ſchool me?

A man of family, brother, though not of rank.

Pennyleſs: a lieutenant in a marching regiment.

But poſſeſſed of honour, worth, and virtue.

And who has more honour worth and vir⯑tue than my Paulina?

A painter's daughter, Charles.

A divinity! Her beauty angelic, her mind godlike!

Thus we lovers rave. The world con⯑tains but one!

Where is there another Paulina? Encum⯑bered by the abſurdities of folly, diſguiſed by the [2] ridiculous trappings of faſhion, where ſhall the ſin⯑cere, the ſimple, the affectionate heart be found? I enter the tumultuous aſſemblies of the idle and all is vanity, all affectation, all incoherency. This hubbub of incongruous and deſpicable paſſions but maddens my mind: and, by the contraſt, irra⯑diates the abode of peace and Paulina.

Ah, Charles, you forget our depen⯑dent ſituation; our family.

Our fools and tyrants. An elder brother, whoſe rank wealth and power, inſtead of afford⯑ing us protection, have been made the paſſports of folly and vice; and an uncle, whoſe benevolence is ſelf love; who has given us ſhelter only to make us ſlaves; at once a cynic and a ſenſualiſt; ſevere to others, indulgent to himſelf; arbitrary in prin⯑ciple, libidinous in practice.

Alas, too true! Sir Gregory pardons nobody's faults but his own.

Did he not ſuffer his ſiſter to languiſh and die in penury in a foreign land? And what was her crime? Marriage, with a man of a noble mind; but who had the misfortune to be poor and un⯑protected.

'Tis that makes me ſhudder! ‘The very ſame fate is impending over our heads.’

‘Let it fall; at leaſt on me. Injuſ⯑tice to myſelf ſhall not make me unjuſt to others.’

‘Ay, but there's the queſtion. Your poor painter's daughter may, conſidering the indigence in which ſhe has been bred, be the phoenix you think her; but can you Charles honeſtly aver ſhe is the equal of Lady Fan⯑court?’

‘Her ſuperiour.’

‘Not to dwell on rank fortune [3] fame and power, which ſhe ſo eminently poſ⯑ſeſſes and which ſurely are ſomething—’

‘Bawbles! The gewgaws of fools!’

Is the mind of Paulina equally cul⯑tivated; equally penetrating ſtrong and tower⯑ing?

More! More!

Ah, Charles!

By heavens, more!

Lady Fancourt is a woman of ten thouſand!

I grant it.

She has conceived a partiality for you; Sir Gregory has diſcovered it, and is determined on the match.

And I am determined it ſhall never take place.

For my ſake, think again.

At your requeſt, I have already been tor⯑turing Paulina and myſelf: I have not ſeen her for a week; an excruciating eternal week. ‘But I will be guilty of this cruel injuſtice no longer.’

‘Remember your own principles, Charles, remember truth. We muſt not with the avarice of egotiſm live for ſelf, but for ſo⯑ciety. You have duties to mankind, for the fulfilling of which you ought not to be diſabled by the indulgence of paſſion.’

‘I own it; and the doubts of what theſe duties are, haunt and perturb my mind inceſſant⯑ly, render me undecided, cauſe me every hour to form a thouſand contradictory plans, and, inſtead of making me active and firm, murder reſolution and torment me into reſtleſs ſuſ⯑pence.’

‘Opinion is the ſlave of error, the [4] world is the ſlave of opinion, and we are the ſlaves of the world.’

'Tis your ſituation, Louiſa, that rivets my ſhackles, which elſe I would break, and brave the world's injuſtice and an uncle's tyranny. But I know your affection for Mr. Compton, I am ſen⯑ſible of his worth, and I cannot dare not abandon you to the wretchedneſs I foreſee, ſhould I diſ⯑obey Sir Gregory.

Charles!—Your kindneſs is killing: I can endure any thing but that.

And why?

I do not deſerve it.

What do you mean?

I have deceived you.

Which way?

For this fortnight my heart has been burſting with a ſecret, which my tongue has not dared to utter.

Heavens!—I gueſs—I forebode—You are married?

I am.

Why then 'tis paſt—You have got the ſtart of me—I have heſitated, you have reſolved; and Pau⯑lina, the affectionate pure hearted noble minded Paulina muſt be ſacrificed, or poverty perſecution contempt and miſery muſt be the fate of all.

I am a ſelfiſh wretch, and deſerve the worſt that can befall me.

No no—Where is your huſband?

For heaven's ſake, be⯑ware.

Well well, where is Mr. Compton?

On duty with his regiment in York⯑ſhire, to which he was ſuddenly ordered, and as I ſuſpect by the management of Sir Gregory—

Who not only threatens but acts.

He has written to me concerning Mr. Compton, and with ſuch ſeverity! He has quite killed the little hope I had.

I expect his arrival from the country every minute. Diſperſe your gloom: be chearful.

A ſmiling face with an aching heart is a painful taſk—

But now more than ever neceſſary. His preaching and his practice are ſo oppoſite that he dreads detection and hates ridicule. You have the art to keep him in ſome awe.

I had, but want the courage now to practice it.

Nay nay, but you muſt—Oh, Paulina!

Why, William! James!

Here he comes!

Where are you all?

SCENE II. Enter Sir GREGORY OLDWORT.

You are wel⯑come home, Sir Gregory.

So you ſay.

I hope you have had a pleaſant journey▪ ſir.

Take this coat. Duſt enough! The roads are as crowded as the ſtreets; and have no leſs hurry, noiſe and inſolence.

A mob is always unmannerly.

And the whole world is become a mob. Ah, what different beings were our brave anceſtors, the bold barons!

Ay, uncle! How delightful it is to contemplate their venerable figures, in old Gothic cathedrals!

Kneeling in marble, with their huge helmets, long ſwords, alabaſter ruffs, grim beards, and gruff faces; that ſeem to bid you keep your diſtance, or damme! they will riſe and knock you down, as ſoon as they have done praying.

And yet, ſomehow, a little modiſh politeneſs, and delicacy—

I hate the words! They are out⯑landiſh, contraband, and were imported in ſome damned cargo of fans, muffs, fringed nightcaps, and chicken gloves.

I own it would be diverting to ſee a modern petit-maitre in a coat of mail!

Zounds! He would melt under it like a man of ſnow before the ſun! A coat of mail? A coat of pink tiffany! A degenerate—Ah!—I have not patience! A robuſt hearty fellow, that ſpeaks what he thinks, eats when he is hungry, and fights when he is angry, is called barbarian! horrid brute! And the ſight of ſuch a phenomenon would infallibly throw a whole aſſembly, men, wo⯑men, and fiddlers, into hyſterics.

Charles!—Where are your thoughts?

Where they ought never to be; yet there they always are!

No, no; the diſeaſe has attacked the vitals! The blood of our nobles is contaminated. All rank, all order, all diſtinction is loſt! Dukes and jockeys, earls and hop-dealers, peers and pick⯑pockets, all mingle, indiſcriminately, and hold their nightly orgies at a hazard table!

Calculation, uncle, is the wiſdom of the age.

Yes, he is moſt learned who beſt knows the odds; and he moſt renowned, who [7] fleeces his fellows with the greateſt adroitneſs!—Have you ſeen Lady Fancourt today?

'Tis too early, ſir.

Yeſterday?

No, ſir.

No, ſir! Had not you my commands, ſir?

I had.

And how came they to be diſobeyed?

Becauſe commanding is leſs difficult than obedience.

Sir, if ever you expect any favour or countenance from me, go, this very day, and tomorrow, and every day, and aſſiduouſ⯑ly pay your court to that lady. I'll hear no anſwer.

SCENE III. Sir GREGORY, Lady LOUISA.

I declare, uncle, you are ſo ſevere, you frighten one!

Have you received my letter?

Ay, that too was ſevere enough!

Madam—!

Mr. Compton is a gentleman.

Without rank, connexions, or eſtate.

His heart and underſtanding—

If I hear another word concerning him, you ſhall quit this houſe and my protection for ever!

Well; we all have our failings!

I would have you both beware!

My brother and I are young; we have ſome excuſe.

Becauſe, being young and fooliſh, you neglect the advice, and diſobey the commands, of the experienced and wiſe.

Why, if the experienced and wiſe are as—

As what?—What do you mean?

Nay, don't be alarmed, uncle!

I!—Alarmed?

I have heard—

What have you heard?

SCENE IV. Enter Footman and Mr. MUSCADEL.

Mr. Muſcadel.

That the experienced and the wiſe have their frolicks!

Huſh!

Nothing more certain, Lady Louiſa. Sir Gregory himſelf is a proof in point.

I, ſir?

Or you are horribly belied.

Sir!

I have heard the moſt whimſical ſto⯑ries—!

I inſiſt—! Such calumny, ſir—

That you ſteal out by twilight, and, if you ſee a cap and apron in the ſquare, you hobble after with a—Hem! Hiſt! Pretty maid! Where are you going? Where do you live? Don't be in ſuch a hurry!

I! I!

That you buy ſilk purſes by the dozen, and put five new half guineas into each, and that, for want of better converſation, you aſk every girl you can come up with if ſhe is a good ſempſtreſs, for you have always plenty of needle-work.

I! I needle-work!

You.

I talk to young girls!

Nay that you have been ſeen to attempt to kiſs them under your own lamps.

Was ever ſuch malignity? I—!

And that you preſs them by the hand, pat their cheeks, tweak their chins, and fondle them, as Lady Mary Muzzy does her fat lapdog.

Mercy on me!

That you carry ſilk handkerchiefs, too, and ribbands, and oranges.

Here's ſomebody coming!

SCENE V. Re-enter SEYMOUR.

I forgot to aſk, have you any further commands for me, ſir?

No, ſir. Begone!

No, no; ſtay, Charles!—And that you—

Begone, ſir!

That you—

Begone, I ſay!

SCENE VI. Sir GREGORY, Lady LOUISA, and Mr. MUSCADEL.

I'll never forgive him while I have breath!

Ha, ha, ha! What vexed, baronet?

Such malice, ſir, is inſufferable.

Well, be good humoured and I'll ſpare you.

As a butcher does a ſheep.

Afraid Charles ſhould hear? You muſt commit him to me, Sir Gregory. He has ſpirit and fire, though rather ruſticated; but my inſtruc⯑tions, and a little polite varniſh, will ſoon diſplay [10] thoſe bold tints and original touches, which a bad light and a college education have obſcured.

He has already profited by your leſ⯑ſons, ſir.

Yes, Lady Fancourt, herſelf, made the ſame remark but yeſterday.

Charles is become a favourite with her ladyſhip.

Is he?

Nay, don't be jealous.

Jealous? Ha, ha, ha! That is excellent! I jealous! Am I not an adept in all the delightful follies of faſhion? Do I not lead the mode, and make thoſe dear whims which are ridiculous in others graceful and captivating in me? Am I not in debt to all the town, in love with all the women, envied by all the men, ſtared at by the world, laughed at by the little, imitated by the great, hated by the awkward, and hooted by the mob? Have I not ruined fifty tradeſmen and five Jews? Nay, have I not been ruined myſelf theſe three years, and do I not live in as high a ſtyle as ever? Ha, ha, ha! I jealous! If I cannot pretend to a lady's favours, who can?

Well, well; if you are certain you are not jealous—

Oh very certain—But, now, tell me, ſe⯑riouſly, Lady Louiſa—Do you think Charles is—a favourite?

With Lady Fancourt?

Yes.

Nay, Mr. Muſcadel, I appeal to your own penetration. You are a man of wit and diſ⯑cernment.

Why—I own—Ha, ha, ha! What fooliſh thing, now, am I going to own?

A thouſand—

Sir?

You may own; and have a thouſand to ſpare.

No—No—I, of all others, I am the—the man of her heart.

I doubt it.

Seriouſly?

Seriouſly.

No—No—'Tis impoſſible—Let us for⯑get it.

Do; if you can.

Can? Ha, ha, ha! That is very good! Hay, Sir Gregory?

Ay, ay; vapour away. Your cha⯑racter is pretty well underſtood.

So much the better. People of merit loſe nothing by being known. Day-light or dark, a diamond will ſparkle.

And you, Mr. Muſcadel, always ſhine. Like a lamp-reflector, you abſolutely blaze us blind.

Sitting or ſtanding, riding or walking, I do every thing with a grace. See me take out my handkerchief, put on my gloves, pick up a fan, preſent a bouquet, dangle in my chair, loll in my chariot; the moſt trifling actions are made in⯑tereſting by my manner. Nay, I even ſleep like a gentleman.

‘I think, Mr. Muſcadel, it is now ſix years ſince you came to your eſtate?’

‘You are right. It was a great epocha! My father died in the morning, I was in full poſ⯑ſeſſion before noon, in the evening I had an aſſignation with a beautiful woman, was caught by the huſband in her bedchamber, appointed to exchange a ſhot with him at five the next morning, loſt half my fortune at White's in [12] the interim, met my man, lodged a bullet in his body, ſent an atteſted account of the affair to the papers, took poſt for Dover, and enjoyed a hearty ſupper, my bottle of Burgundy, a French chanſon d'amour, and a ſound ſleep, the next night at Calais.’

‘While your father and the man you had wronged lay ſtretched on their bier!’

‘Um—No: as it happened, the gentle⯑man mended, in ſpite of me and the doctors: the news was ſent me, we became the beſt of friends, and in ſix weeks I had the pleaſure to wiſh him joy of his recovery.’

‘After ſeducing his wife, and—’

‘Was it my fault that ſhe was handſome, and I irreſiſtible?’

Ha! You may well be a favourite with the ladies!

Oh, yes: I can't help it. No more can they. I have a ſmile for one, a nod for another, a wink for a third, a hem and a how do you do for a fourth, and ſhe who gets a ſqueeze of the hand from me thinks herſelf in heaven!

And you really have no fear of a rival, with Lady Fancourt?

A rival? Ha, ha, ha! Rival?—Charles is gallant—Her ladyſhip is polite—but—Oh, no▪ ſhe is too fond of me.

Indeed!

Paſt doubt.

How do you know?

She told me ſo.

What, herſelf?

Herſelf.

With her own lips?

Lips? Ha, ha, ha! No; the lips often deceive; the eyes never.

Be not too confident; there are co⯑quettes in the world.

I know it; I am one. How do you like me, Sir Gregory?

Not at all.

Ha, ha, ha! No?

You are a modern man of faſhion; a beau, whoſe characteriſtic it is to babble; though you know little of what you ſay, and leſs of what you mean.

And you are a bully, of the old ſchool: a kind of walking machine, to grind down beef.

Baboon!

You are an old bachelor, too; and have been all your life preaching continence, and prac⯑ticing—

Sir, I muſt beg you will not, any more, make free with my moral character.

Fie, Mr. Muſcadel! There is nothing of which Sir Gregory is ſo chary as his moral cha⯑racter.

Niece—!

Egad, it is very true: a fair character, like a fair ſkin, if cloſely inſpected, has a thouſand irregularities.

Ay, like the purple bloom on a freſh gathered plum, it muſt be admired, not touched: if you handle it, you deſtroy its beauty—Don't you, uncle?

Your character and mine, baronet, are certainly very oppoſite.

Or I would hang myſelf! You pretend to wit; but, like bookſellers, you deal in what you don't underſtand.

Ha, ha, ha! You are an eight day clock, wound up once a week; a fixed ſtar, that every fool knows where to find; an evergreen, always of [14] one colour: a pariſh clerk, whoſe whole vocabu⯑lary begins and ends in amen. I am a camelion; an Engliſh April-day; a comet, that always ap⯑pears in a blaze, is the talk of the town, the terror of married men, and the admiration of the whole world! While everybody is enquiring whence it comes, how long it ſtays, where it goes, and when it returns?

You affect ſingularity, Mr. Muſcadel.

No: it is natural to me. We men of faſhion are always leading the canaille into abſur⯑dities, purpoſely to laugh at them. We are a kind of Will with a wiſp; we glitter and entice the gazer into a bog, and there leave him.

Come, come; I muſt begone, to dreſs.

Ah! you are rare animals!

Meteors, Sir Gregory; which you ter⯑reſtrials may gaze at, but cannot reach: a kind of rainbow, the ſplendor of which everybody admires, but nobody can equal.

SCENE I. The Painting Room of Mr. CRAIG.

Thanks, thanks, my Paulina! My palette in my hand, and thee ſinging beſide me, imagination glows, my ſoul expands, and my colours melt and mingle into life. My canvas talks to me.

My heart beats whenever I ſee you happy.

Ah could I but forget—Painting is a noble art! To practice it as an amateur would be my delight: but for ſale?—For hire?—I muſt not think of it!

Oh no; do not.

Every reſource exhauſted, doomed for years to work like a mechanic, receive pay—!

But where, ſir, is the diſgrace?

What? A man of family!

A man of virtue, ſir. What is family?

Thou muſt never marry, Paulina! No fellow of vulgar ſoul, with ſentiments as groſs as his occupation, and feelings as rude as his features, ſhall ever have thee.

But, if—?

There is no if. I am degraded. Thy beauty and underſtanding might tempt a monarch: but I'm a painter! A hireling! A gentleman would contemn me, would expect me to fawn. I'll periſh firſt! Ay, and, dearly as I love thee, thou ſhalt periſh too!

SCENE II. Enter NANNETTE

Hah! Vat, I hear you ſing? Vat I hear you be merry, mitout morſel for bread to eat?

Nay, Nannette—

Ay, ay; we'll ſing—like ſwans dying.

Pray do not afflict yourſelf.

Oh, no: I am merry. Ha, ha, ha!

Dere! Dere be littel loaf for you, and littel loaf for you.

And for yourſelf?

N'importe meeſelf; I don't a vant; I don't a care.

Woman! When did you ſee me eat and you faſt?

Eh bien! You don't a be ſo croſs, und I eat mit you den.

Ay, ay; we'll ſhare. Hay, Paulina?

To the laſt morſel.

Why that's my own girl.

Shall we repine?

Not at—? Well, well; we won't.

There is not a ſhower that falls but it feeds thouſands, yet there is not a ſhower that falls at which thouſands do not murmur. Shall we be ſo unjuſt?

Paulina! I think thou art—ſomething divine!—Give me my palette, Nannette—Though fate girn at us, we can be merry; ay, and ſing, and—

Courage! Courage! We have hearts that can endure.

And hands that can labour.

I had forgotten. We are plebeians.

Dee vomans vill not no more truſt.

There's no ſupporting it!—Dunned by a ſmall ware pedlar in penny loaves! Refuſed credit for a few ſhillings! The ſon of Craig Campbell!

A few ſhillings to this poor woman may be ruin.

Very true—

Tell [18] her, I will paint her a picture ſhall make the for⯑tune of her whole family! Tell her, I have the art to transform two yards ſquare of canvas to the worth of a province.

Mon dieu! I'll not a tell ſuch lie.

Courage, Paulina.

Fear nothing, ſir.

Vhen I am yong, in Straſbourg, me huſband vas paint; but he vas no fool, he vas no paint canevas, he vas paint houſe, door, und ſign poſt.

Sign poſts?—I?—Inſolent idea! Wo⯑man! My name is Craig Campbell.

You ſay you not tell your name, more as Craig; und you bawl ſo loud mit all dee vorld to hear.

When I am angry I care not who hears—Well, be it Craig: I would not have the name of Campbell diſhonoured.

There's a tint! Look, Paulina. There's an effect! Ha, ha, ha! Sign poſts!

Dee landlady ſhwear, und tear, und play dee diable for dee rent.

She ſhall have it.

Comment?

She ſhall have it.

You leave Italy, you come back mit your own country, you ave dee grand relationſhip, und—

Nannette!—Don't make me mad. Talk of any thing but my grand relations. I am a man, an independent, honeſt, honourable man; and have forſworn grandeur. It once ſpurned at me—And why? Becauſe I was poor—I now ſpurn at it!

Fie, Nannette. Forget it, dear ſir.

At a word. 'Tis gone. But we'll be free, Paulina, ſhall we not?

Oh, yes.

Why then, ſmile world or frown, we can live, can forgive thy injuſtice, and rejoice at thy proſperity.

Oh, my noble father!

Ay, girl, as the nobleſt. They may clothe me in rags, feed me on offals, load me with fet⯑ters; but there is that here, which contemns their in⯑juſtice, and defies their perſecution.

Allons! Va! It is paſt a mit twelve o'clock.

True. The lord to whom I ſent a pair of pictures has appointed to ſee me. I muſt go. Yet why? I ſhall gain no admittance. Not at home, is the everlaſting anſwer. The inſolent por⯑ter will ſcarcely open the gate wide enough for my hand to enter. But I am poor, and muſt wait, and come again, and again, and take affronts patiently. So it is. The lord within, ſits in ſtate, reveling, banqueting, and tantalizing the palled appetite; while the wretch without, repulſed, inſulted, and refuſed his due, is perhaps periſhing with hunger!

SCENE III. PAULINA, NANNETTE.

Eh bien; he has a not been here yet.

Who? My Seymour; my Charles?

Mais, oui.

Alas, no—For ſeven long inexplicable days he has been abſent!

Quoi donc? You ſo impatience!—He pro⯑miſe und ſay he vas vait for his riche oncle; und he vas tell his amour, und he vas get his conſent, & donc tout de ſuite, he vas marry you.

Yes, he promiſed—And he will keep his promiſe. Seymour will keep his promiſe.

Eh bien, donc! He come ſo ſoon as ven his oncle is mit return.

Very true—Then why am I reſtleſs? Why do I pine? Do I not know my Seymour? His heart and ſoul are faith and truth! Perjured? Sey⯑mour? Oh! no, no, no, no, no! No power can make him violate vows ſo ſacred, oaths ſo ſolemn! No; that is impoſſible!—Then why theſe fore⯑bodings? It is becauſe I have been deceitful! Silent to a father, who is himſelf all ſincerity, and whoſe abundant heart aches with affection for me!

Oui! He vas die mit grand coeur to make his ſhile happy!

Why then, Nannette, have you indulged me in this guilty deluſion?

Dere now! Voyez vous! I am old fool! You make a lofe, I make a pity you, und dat is all my tank! Dee yong gentleman ſee you in dee ſtreet, he fall in lofe mit you, he make pretend to take leſſon mit your fader, und vat I do? I vatch for you, I keep your ſecret, I carry your letter, und, now, me voila bien payé!

Nay, Nannette.

Your fader ſhould be more ſuſpect.

And becauſe he has not ſuſpected, be⯑cauſe he has generouſly confided in me, I have been mean and treacherous! Well may I forebode ſome dreadful puniſhment!

I am hear news, ſince I am go mitout.

News! What news?

Tres mauvais.

Bad! Does it relate to Seymour?

Mais, oui.

What is it? Tell me inſtantly!

You know I ave country voman, dat live mit dee great Lady Fancourt.

Well?

Dee herr Seymour, come und make viſit mit her very ſouvent.

Viſit!—Who? Lady Fancourt?

She tell a me ſo. Und ſhe ſay, Lady Fancourt make a dee lofe mit him.

With my Seymour?

Und ſhe ſay too dat dey vill make a de marriage bien tot.

Marry?—Seymour and Lady Fancourt?

Ah, oui!

Impoſſible! Impoſſible! Per⯑jury and Seymour? Perjury ſo deep, ſo ſeductive, ſo deteſtable! No, it cannot be!

Je l'eſpere bien.

I'll write to him this inſtant! I'll write in tears; or if they are too weak to move him, in blood! Let him read, and if he have the power, if he have the heart, let him ſuffer me longer to remain in this excruciating torment!

SCENE IV. The Dreſſing-room of Lady FANCOURT—

This pompoon is frightful—Take it away—Mr. Seymour has not been here?

No, my lady.

How pale and ſpotted I am!

Shall I give you the carmine, my lady?

No—Yes—I hate carmine! I look like a witch!—Are you ſure Mr. Seymour has not called?

Quite ſure, my lady.

You are very alert, and confident.

My lady?

Take that robe, Julette, I wore yeſterday: it is your own.

You are the kindeſt of ladies!

May be the blundering porter has de⯑nied me to him?

To whom?

Pſhaw!—Whom?—Mr. Seymour.

I cautioned him myſelf, my lady.

Cautioned?—Cautioned?—Did you mention my name?

I told him it was your ladyſhip's own order.

And who authorized you to be ſo for⯑ward?

You yourſelf, my lady.

Did I?—Julette

I fear I treat you unkindly.

I begin to deſpiſe myſelf—Three days and not one call; not one enquiry!—I am at home to nobody but Mr. Seymour.

Not to Mr. Muſcadel?

I tell you, no.

Mercy! Here's change!

Stay—

What am I doing?—Lightly encourage, and lightly diſcard; is that my character? Is he altered, or am I? I thought I loved him—Oh no; 'twas a vain fancy. I have ſince been taught that love, wiſhing, reſtleſs, burn⯑ing love, is only to be kindled by neglect—Perhaps, by ſcorn—Scorned?—

Admit Mr. Muſcadel, and deny me to Mr. Seymour.

My lady!—Yes, my lady.

Come back—You are in great haſte.

Mr. Muſcadel is a pleaſant good na⯑tured gentleman.

Who gave you leave to ſpeaks?

My lady?

Julette—

Am I [23] lunatic?—Leave me, my good girl—I'll raiſe your wages.

Dear—

Go. I can't talk—

Julette!

My lady!

Deny me to Mr. Muſcadel.

Yes, my lady.

Yet why? What has he done? What will the world ſay?

I tell you I know to the con⯑trary.

Nay but indeed, ſir! Pray, ſir!

You miſtook your orders.

No indeed, ſir!

SCENE V. Enter Mr. MUSCADEL.

I knew you were at home—Good mor⯑row to your ladyſhip.

Theſe liberties, ſir—I did not chooſe to be at home.

To any body but me: that was kind.

This is ſtrange!—There was more in that tale of Seymour than I imagined.

I know not how, ſir, I have ſubjected myſelf to ſuch freedoms.

By your amiable and poliſhed manners: by being too well bred to take offence—

She wants to quarrel, but I'm determined to keep my temper. Ay, ay! This is Seymour!

Mr. Muſcadel, if, by any thought⯑leſs conduct, I have given you cauſe to imagine more than was meant, I am ſorry for it.

Oh no—The Graces have been attiring you!—I never imagine. My imagination is as dull [24] as candlemas-day, in a country-hall, and a viſit from the vicar.

I am not diſpoſed to trifle. You may accuſe me of caprice; and I own I am not certain the accuſation would be falſe.

Impoſſible! I cannot accuſe; I can only adore.

It is as I ſuſpected.

Will you underſtand me?

I cannot.

Sir!

You have an infinitude of charms, and infinitude is above my comprehenſion.

I am determined—

To liſten to my wild flights: you have had the ſame complaiſance a thouſand times. An⯑gelic ſweetneſs!

Once more—

Aurora on a May-morning never looked ſo lovely!

'Tis in vain to attempt—

To reſiſt ſuch divinity! Vain indeed!—But I have ſomething to tell you—I have juſt made a call in the ſquare.

The ſquare?

Oh, ho!

Which ſquare?

Cavendiſh—

I have touched the maſter key at laſt.

Well, but—? To tell me?

Hem!—Yes—I ſaw Sir Gre⯑gory, and Lady Louiſa—

Tedious!—Was that all? No⯑body elſe?

Hem!—Oh! I re⯑collect—True—Mr. Seymour—He is juſt returned.

Has he been out of town?

Yes.

Who? Mr. Seymour?

Hem!—Oh dear, no: Sir Gregory.

Tormenting!—Did he—aſk after me?

With the greateſt reſpect. You are his chief favourite.

Indeed!

I mean Sir Gregory's.

Is this inſult?

Mr. Seymour, too, mentioned your name: a civil enquiry.

Am I betraying myſelf? Is he making me his amuſement?—Mr. Muſcadel—

Nay, you have not heard my ſtory. It will ſurpriſe you.

What ſtory?

A love one. Mr. Seymour—

Well!—Why don't you go on?—Is Mr. Seymour in love?

Deeply! Deſpondingly!

Can that be the reaſon?

Perhaps you have heard with whom?

I—Not with any certainty.

Never was poor youth ſo ſmitten!

And deſpairs of ſucceſs?

No ray of hope.

But why? Is ſhe a queen?

The very queen herſelf of beauty—as I have been told.

Can it be? In love with me?—Then you have not heard who?

Oh yes—The moſt ridiculous choice!

How!

Poverty, obſcurity, and impending ruin.

Sir!

A painter's daughter! Sir Gregory will certainly diſinherit him.

This then is the ſecret cauſe!—Yet—

Are you not indulging your invention?

Matter of fact, upon my honour.

From whom do you get your intelli⯑gence?

A Mrs. Wilkins; at whoſe houſe the girl and her father live.

And how ſhould ſuch a woman know?

Oh! Mrs. Wilkins is a very well in⯑formed lady. But you may eaſily ſatisfy yourſelf.

Which way?

'Tis only in Duke-ſtreet: call in and view the pictures:

or ſit for your portrait. There needs no ceremony.

Order my carriage.

Shall I attend you?

No.

You ſeem—moved.

I generally am what I ſeem.

A common caſe this: the feelings ſtrong, the failings great.

Sir! Was that to me?

Upon my—

I wiſh no apologies—When you came in I would have explained; you would not hear—I wiſh to avoid—that is—Excuſe me, but—In ſhort—Pray leave me.

Lady Fancourt, you have examined me too ſuper⯑ficially: you have noticed only the ſhell; the ha⯑bits and manners which wild cuſtom and tame con⯑venience may have taught. Be juſt, and look a little deeper. You think I have no heart: you are miſtaken.

'Tis you that miſtake: I knew more of your heart than of my own.

Here is company, and we muſt not now have either hearts or feelings. We muſt put on the maſk, keep our temper, and be as placid as Mandarins on a mantle-piece, to ſhew our breed⯑ing.

You may: I cannot—Nobody will be admitted.

Nobody?

But—Mr. Seymour.

Lady Fancourt!

I tell you the plain truth. If he come—

I muſt go?

I ſhall take it as a favour.

No, even this ſhall not throw me off my guard. In love, as in war, the cool com⯑batant has the beſt chance of victory.

SCENE VI. Enter Footman and SEYMOUR.

Mr. Seymour! Is it you? I thought you had been gone to the Indies, or the Antipodes, or ſome ſtrange place.

Hem!

Your ladyſhip is late at your toilette to⯑day.

Am I? It is ſo difficult to pleaſe one's ſelf.

In order to pleaſe us.

Your ladyſhip needs no factitious orna⯑ment, no aid from the toilette to pleaſe.

Take care, Mr. Seymour: you are a man of principle, with you ſincerity is a virtue.

It is ſurely, madam, no offence to ſince⯑rity to ſay that beauty, like truth, is the moſt ſplendid when leaſt encumbered.

Tolerably well that, but a little too ſen⯑timental.

Will he not go?

You do well, Seymour, to come here for leſſons. See with what faſhionable originality Lady Fancourt and I expreſs, I mean conceal, our mu⯑tual affection.

Sir!

'Tis true I have ſacrificed, as I ought, fifty of the fineſt women in England to her lady⯑ſhip's ſuperior charms.

I thought, Mr. Muſcadel, what had juſt paſſed would have relieved me from ſuch inſult⯑ing freedoms.

Nay, all the world knows I am your adorer; and what harm in telling that which all the world knows? Charles here I dare ſay is your adorer too.

Do you, Mr. Muſcadel, or do you not, remember what has been ſaid?

Perfectly, my lady. Courage, Charles! I am ſorry I am obliged to leave you. You will be very dull when I am gone. Talk, man, talk! Don't ſtand ſtudying half an hour for a civil thing; looking as ſtupid as a poet in ſearch of a ſimile, and as inanimate as a wooden lion at the head of a Dutch ſhip.

Intolerable.

But Ha, ha, ha! Love is your religion, you are a quaker by ſect, and your ſilence is a ſign of your devotion. You will find him very enter⯑taining, Lady Fancourt.

The entertainment, ſir, which conſiſts in gratifying ſpleen at the expence of feeling, is not very enviable.

Spleen? Oh, no; you miſtake. Ha, ha, ha! I never knew what ſpleen, envy, or jea⯑louſy [29] were in my life. Never—But I am ſorry to puniſh you both, by leaving you together. You will ſoon miſs me! Charles, don't begin to yawn too ſoon. And let me tell you a ſecret, before I go. Woman, you know, is a riddle: the ſo⯑lution to which is, you muſt either uſe her very ill, or be treated worſe by her than a ſtraggling hound by a whipper-in. La, la, la, la. Good-mor⯑row to your ladyſhip. Don't think I am ſplenetic. Ha, ha, ha! I am not jealous, Charles.

SCENE VII. SEYMOUR, Lady FANCOURT.

Mr. Muſcadel beneath the maſk of levity conceals an excellent underſtanding.

Do you think ſo? I have ſometimes been of that opinion, ſometimes not.

As a proof, he has a real reſpect and ad⯑miration for your ladyſhip.

For me, or for my rank, wealth, and powerful connexions?

If I can judge, his paſſion is ſincere and ardent.

I am ſorry for it—The caprices of love, Mr. Seymour, are often cruel.

And often fatal. Yet I begin to ſuſpect they are the mere creatures of our own diſordered imaginations.

There is hope in that thought—Why true. How then can we anſwer it to our relations, or the world, if, ſeduced by ſome fan⯑cied beauties of perſon, perhaps by the mere acci⯑dent of complexion, which a froſty air gives and a gloomy day deſtroys, looking no deeper, we turn from proſperity and wilfully embrace ruin; in which we not only involve ourſelves but all who are neareſt and deareſt to the heart?

'Tis cowardice! Guilt!

Preceded by perturbation, followed by remorſe; beginning in folly, ending in deſpair.

The picture is falſe! Not thy complexion, Paulina! No; 'tis thy ema⯑nating divine mind!

Mr. Seymour.

Madam—I have a weakneſs—It hourly hurries me into abſurdity.

And what have I?

I am unfit company—

Nay, one moment—Your uncle has told me you have thoughts of marriage. 'Tis a ſe⯑rious act. What is its end? Your birth is noble, your talents are great, your expectations cannot be too high. The happineſs of your family is at ſtake: the eye of the world is fixed upon you. Love, you own, is but the creature of fancy—You would not marry—a painter's daughter?

Madam!

Look forward to the honours that are poſſible.

I deſpiſe them.

Well then, to the good you may ef⯑fect; the happineſs you may diffuſe.

Ay, that is a weighty thought!

A claim, which mankind has upon you. Diſgrace your family, deſtroy your peace, and deſert your duty? It muſt not be!

The motives indeed are powerful.

Think me intereſted, and perhaps [...] am; I ſcorn hypocriſy; but, if I ſpeak truth, con⯑ſider and reſolve.

Why ſo!—The warfare thickens and the battle rages!—She has a noble mind!—Her argu⯑ments are potent!—Yet ſhe knows not all. Oh! Paulina! Muſt a ſiſter, or muſt thou, be ſacrificed? Something muſt be done. Yet every hour in⯑creaſes [31] ſtupefaction! My mind confuſed, my powers confounded, I deſpiſe my own imbecility yet cannot ſhake it off! Like hag-ridden ſleep, gaſping for breath, and heaving for motion, I am chained down in agonizing impotence!

SCENE I. The Houſe of Sir GREGORY OLDWORT.

Mrs. Vilkins is below, Sir Gregory.

Who?

Mrs. Vilkins.

What do you mean? What does ſhe want? Who is Mrs. Wilkins?

Oh! Boh! Your honour knows Mrs. Vilkins wery vell. The old lodging houſe lady; vhere the pretty—

What is that you ſay, fellow? I know! I—!

Vhere your honour uſed to wiſit ſo often, laſt vinter.

Why, man, do you mean to inſinu⯑ate—?

Lord, no, your honour! I means to ſin⯑niate nothing, not I.

How often muſt I warn you, ſirrah, that theſe freedoms of yours are intolerable?

Nay your honour wery vell knows I am cloſe.

How dare you, fellow, reptile, ſlave, comment on my actions? "Mine? Your liege lord, vaſſal?"

I commit your actions? Lord, your ho⯑nour, I am not a tenth part ſo vicked a ſinner! But I likes you ſhould call me names, for then you doesn't forget huſh money.

I'll diſmiſs you inſtantly—

So you have ſaid a thouſand times.

For your infernal impudence.

No; 'tis for that you keeps me. I ſhouldn't ſuit your honour if I hadn't a bit o'braſs.

Begone! Quit my preſence.

Your honour forgets! Mrs. Vilkins is below!

"Was ever a man of my family, my dignity, thus inſulted by his knave, his ſlave, his ſerf, his villain!" What is it that your Mrs. Wil⯑kins wants with me?

Vhy, ſhe ſays, hearing as how your ho⯑nour is juſt returned to town,

ſhe has a lodger.

What, a a a young—? Hem!

What is that to me, fellow?

A fine bit o' bloom!

Why, ſirrah—!

Nay! I doesn't mean to ſinniate no⯑thing!

Begone, ſcoundrel!

Oh! Vell!

Come back, do you hear?

Your honour?

How dare you, fellow—!

Your honour?

Let that woman in?

Oh!

Where are you going?

To turn her out.

Turn—!

I'll ſhew her the ſhort vay.

Come back, hound! How dare you—?

Muſt I ſend her out?

Why, ſlave—!

Or ſend her up?

Reptile!

Lord, Sir Gregory, there's no pleaſing you. But I knows wery vell vhat your honour vould be at, ſo I'll ſend her up.

The manners of this malicious age are inſufferable! If one of our ancient Barons thought proper to have his concubine, what vaſſal refuſed his daughter? Who durſt breathe diſapprobation? He had a certain cure for calumny; a gallows, on his own domains; himſelf the judge. But now his very Menials ſit in judgment on his character; and ſip it up in tea, coffee, limmonade, and the reſt of their contemptible ſmall tipple.

SCENE II. Enter Mrs. WILKINS and JAMES.

How comes it, Mrs. Wilkins, that—?

Not a ſoul ſaw me come up, Sir Gre⯑gory.

A man of my dignity!

My curtain over my face—

The family of Oldwort!

I am not known in this neighbour⯑hood.

Who ſhall dare—?

There was no creature in the ſtreet.

My character, madam, muſt be re⯑ſpected!

Not a ſervant in the houſe has ſet eyes on me, except James.

Expoſed to the ſcandal of of—! Are you ſure my niece, Lady Louiſa, did not ſee you?

Certain, Sir Gregory!

She's gone out, your honour.

Why how now, caitiff! How dare you ſtand liſtening—? Begone!

I'll keep vatch, your honour!

The wicked tongues of this wicked world—

The ſweeteſt creature!

Hey! What?

I knew, Sir Gregory—

What did you know? Mrs. Wilkins, you give yourſelf very ſtrange liberties!

An angel!

Hey! Who? What, what?

Eyes never beheld her equal!

Indeed!

Enchanting!

So very beautiful?

In the full bloom of youth!

Auburn hair?

Blue eyes!

Slender waiſt?

Ivory teeth!

Pouting lips?

Snow white neck!"

Is ſhe at home?

And alone, at this very moment.

Now?

At this moment.

She has a father, and an old gouvernante.

SCENE III. Enter JAMES with a large hat and roquelaure.

Here is your honour's ſlouched hat and cloak.

Why, hind! This fellow's familiar in⯑ſolence would drive a man mad!

You may ſlip out, Sir Gregory, in a twinkling.

Fungus!

All is ſtill.

Woman!

There is a hackney coach vaiting round the corner.

Zounds! Here's ſomebody coming!

Quick! Quick!

Never fear, your honour.

Up with your cloak; down with your curtain!

SCENE IV. Enter SEYMOUR.

I humbly thank your honour. Your honour is a good gentleman, a kind gentleman, and a father to the friendleſs!

Go, go; good woman.

Heaven bleſs your honour!

So, ſir! Did not I lay my commands on you to viſit Lady Fancourt?

I have obeyed your commands, ſir.

Oh, you have? It is your wiſeſt courſe.

So ſay prudence and pride; but princi⯑ple and inclination pull the contrary way.

What do you mean by inclination, ſir? How dare you ſuppoſe you have inclinations?

Who has not?

Ah! So that, like a ſhip at anchor, you are always in motion, without ever making any way!

Exactly ſo, ſir.

Inclination, indeed! Get an eſtate; get rank; get honour. Your ſiſter, too, has her inclinations: but let her beware!

The coach is vaiting. Muſt I ſend it avay?

Begone, mungrel!

Hah! That means, no—I'll take care, your honour. The hat and cloak is ready in the hall.

Look to it, ſir! I am re⯑ſolved. Lady Fancourt is of one of our firſt fa⯑milies, has a fine eſtate, is in high favour at court. To refuſe ſuch a match were idiotiſm, or lunacy. Inclination? My age, ſtation, and character, de⯑mand reſpect: I am your natural guardian, coun⯑ſellor, and guide; make me your mirror; curb your paſſions; follow good example, good advice, good morals. Keep your character clear, your conduct chaſte, your conſcience pure, and obey your betters. Mark me, ſir; I am reſolved! Inclinations indeed?

All is ready!

Scoundrel! Hem!

Inclinations indeed!

Why, ay. Riches, rank, and power, bought at the expence of perturbation, perjury, and—murder!—I know her heart: ſhe could not, would not, ſurvive my treachery!

SCENE V. Enter Lady LOUISA.

Well, Charles; what ſtill in the mournfuls?

I am the moſt irreſolute, moſt childiſh, moſt miſerable of men.

Ah; you have been to Paulina?

Would I had! I ſhould then at leaſt be relieved from ſuſpence: ſhould be hers everlaſt⯑ingly, or everlaſtingly ſeparated from her. No ſtate of mind can be more degrading, than that in which I remain.

But you have been ſomewhere?

Yes: to viſit Lady Fancourt.

Well?

She has heard of Paulina.

How?

Do not think me vain—ſhe is jealous.

Then Sir Gregory will be told! What will become of us?

Your huſband is my friend; I love his amiable qualities; but they are delicate, not daring: they would ſhrink and wither, at the touch of miſ⯑fortune.

'Tis true.

I, and I only, ſeem to have the power to preſerve a ſiſter, a friend, and a brother. But the means? Oh, did you know Paulina! Her mind, vaſt and luminous! Extinguiſhed? Trodden out, by me? Horrible thought!

If it be ſo ſtrong, there is no fear.

It has its weakneſs: I have mine. Read that letter.

From whom?

Paulina: the deceived, afflicted, injured, yet ever faithful Paulina! Read.

"This is the eighth day that my Seymour, my beloved, has been abſent! Where is he? Where is my bridegroom, my huſband; for ſo, in the preſence of heaven and all the heavenly hoſt, he is? Am I forgotten? They tell me of a lady! Where art thou, Seymour? Where is the beloved of my ſoul? Has he forſaken me? Oh, no! Deteſted be the unjuſt the ungenerous thought! Come, in pity come, leſt phrenzy ſuddenly ſeize on thy Paulina!"—Poor dear girl!—What can be done?

Something dreadful! Something that ſhall teach youth the horrid torments attendant on deceit; that ſhall make me a fearful example of blind, raſh, unequal love!

Charles! Collect your thoughts. Terror and diſtraction may increaſe, but cannot cure, evil.

And muſt I then live and die a perjured wretch?—A monſter?—Oh the villany of raſh⯑neſs! Did you know how I laboured, intreated, threatened, wept, ſwore! Solemn oaths, wild phrenzies, deſperate threats, no horror had been left unacted had ſhe perſevered in rejecting me! What then had ſhe been faithleſs, perjured as I am? Oh! Madneſs!

Brother! Charles!

SCENE VI. The Painter's.

Fine airs, indeed! But I'll ſend you to a ſafe place.

Carogne!

Run in every body's debt, pay no rent, and ſtand upon your punctilios, truly!

Mais, madame—

An old gentleman, a modeſt gentle⯑man, a kind gentleman, ay and a baronet!

Mais—

No leſs a perſon than Sir Gregory Old⯑wort!

Qui? Vat you ſay? Dee Chevalier Oldvort?

Shivalyay indeed? I ſay, to Sir Gre⯑gory Oldwort!

Ah, dieu! Vhy you not tell ſo much ſoon before?

Oh, ho!

Und dee Chevalier Oldvort know my maitreſſe?

How ſhould he know her? She would not ſo much as ſhew her face!

Mais, ſhe not know it vas dee Chevalier, autrement—

In plain Engliſh, will ſhe admit his viſits, or will ſhe not?

Mais mon dieu! Dee Chevalier not make a lofe mit my maitreſſe?

What can I tell? Why not? May be no; may be yes. That's their affair. I have nothing to do with people's private concerns.

Ah, j'entens! I ſpeak mit Paulina, und, [40] vhen dee Chevalier Oldvort is return, you tell a me; et nous verrons.

Well, well. But this matter muſt be managed cautiouſly. The old gentleman muſt not be ſeen. Nobody muſt come in, while he is here. You underſtand me?

Oui, oui. Let a me do.

You muſt not ſeem to know who he is.

Mais, pour quoi? Vat is dat?

Anan? I tell you, he would not be known for the world. So mind what I ſay, be cautious and compliant; or, remember—!

Bon dieu! Dee Chevalier Oldvort! Vat ſhall I vill do?

SCENE VII. Enter CRAIG.

Ah! Nannette!

Eh bien?

I am in high ſpirits! I have had an inter⯑view with his lordſhip.

Bon.

He is well bred; underſtands character; talked to me on terms of equality; never once re⯑minded me that he was a peer, and I—? A painter!—He is a man of ſenſe:

Ah, ha! Vat he vas pay you?

He pleaſed me highly!

He vas pay you mit money?

Curſe money! Mention money to me? No; he treated me like a gentleman:

Comment!

Diſcourſed with eaſe; praiſed my pictures;

Und vas not give you pay mit money?

Pointed out their beauties, frankly told me their defects—

Patience! He not pay you mit money?

Peace! Woman. Damn money! Do you forget who I am? You are determined to put me in an ill humour.

J'enrage! Here is dee vilaine landlady ſhe turn us all out, our head mit dee door.

Ha! More dunning? More? Well, well!

She put us mit dee priſon, und ſhe make us all ſtarve und die mit hunger.

Me; not you. I defy her malice.

Vat you ſay?—Not me?—You go to pri⯑ſon, you ſtrave mit hunger, und I not go to priſon, I not ſtarve mit hunger, too?

Woman, I have already too many obli⯑gations to you.

Mais c'eſt trop! I am live mit you twenty year; I am nurſe your ſhile; I am die mit your vife, ma pauvre maitreſſe; I am eat mit you, drink mit you, laugh mit you, cry mit you, and I am not go to priſon mit you? I am not die mit hun⯑ger mit you? Barbare!

Oh this ſtubborn heart!—Good affec⯑tionate creature

Yes, Nannette, if ſo it muſt be we'll rot, ſtarve, and die together!

Mon bon maitre! Mon cher ami! You alvays ave dee heart—Tenez—So big! Comme ça—

Und I ave dee heart ſo big, too.

So thou haſt, Nannette. I have tried it, and hope yet to ſee it rewarded—But this money! This vile contaminating traffic—I muſt ſubmit. [42] I'm to be paid this afternoon. The ſteward was out and I, tradeſman like, muſt call again.

Ha! Dat is mit vhat dee Milors pay dere debt: call again! Call again? Ha! I don't a lofe call again.

SCENE VIII. Changes to the Houſe of Sir GRE⯑GORY OLDWORT.

Oh, brother!

What is the matter?

All is over! I'm betrayed!

How?

Sir Gregory—Mr. Compton directs my letters under cover to his ſiſter.

Well?

Sir Gregory's ſuſpicions have induced him to continue his viſits to her: ſhe had juſt re⯑ceived a letter for me, had ſtript off the cover and laid it for a moment on her dreſſing table: Sir Gregory abruptly came in, ſaw the direction, "to Lady Louiſa Compton," ſnatched it up, and deaf to the intreaties of poor Miſs Compton refuſed to return it, determined he ſaid to deliver it himſelf.

How do you know all this?

Miſs Compton's woman came running terrified and out of breath to tell me.

What can be done?

I am ruined! Mr. Compton is ruined!

SCENE IX. Enter Sir GREGORY (With Letter)

So, madam!

Sir—

Compton is your name?

My dear uncle—

Silence, ſir!—Will you pleaſe to read me this letter; or muſt I be under the ne⯑ceſſity of breaking the ſeal?

If I might hope for your forgiveneſs, ſir—

Will you read me the letter?

Your anger, ſir, overpowers my ſiſter.

Silence, once more!—Your name is Compton?

It is, ſir.

Prepare to leave this houſe.

For the love of pity—!

Prepare to leave this houſe.

I am fatherleſs, I am fortuneleſs, I am in your power: you are my uncle; do with me what you pleaſe.

Left in indigence by a diſſipated father, abandoned by the ſpendthrift peer your brother, I foſtered, I protected you; I watched to preſerve the family dignity from taint; my charity would have reſcued the name of Oldwort from degrada⯑tion.

Admirable charity!

But the object for which I laboured is loſt, and I renounce you! I ſhake you off! You are an alien to my blood, and your puniſhment will be my daily prayer.

Conſider, ſir—

Ay and you, ſir, if you utter another word; you too, with your inclinations! Nay, if an hour hence I find you here, madam, the next hour ſhall rid me of you both!

SCENE X. SEYMOUR, Lady LOUISA.

Be comforted, Louiſa. There is yet one deſperate courſe to take. I am [44] now your only protector: it is fit I ſhould devote myſelf. Were it only myſelf—? 'Tis madneſs, and miſery! But it muſt be done.

Not for me! You ſhall not be miſer⯑able for me!

Every duty calls upon me; and, in addi⯑tion to them all, the ſalvation of a ſiſter! It ſhall be done.

What will become of me? Where muſt I go?

With me to Lady Fancourt. I will put you under her protection.

And ſacrifice yourſelf?

Duty, reaſon, fraternal affection, all de⯑mand it. Come; there is no time to be loſt.

This muſt not be!

We muſt not argue, muſt not think; that were diſtraction: my hour at length is come, and now act I muſt. Oh, Paulina! I'll ſee her once more, take one laſt eternal adieu, then, if my heart ſtrings hold but this, crack them who can!

SCENE I. The Painter's.

NOT at home, ſay you?

She will ſoon be back, my lady. I think I hear her voice below, now.

Why am I here? Rivaled by an obſcure unprotected indigent creature? I? Flattered and purſued as I have been, for my beauty rank and riches, and rivaled? Thus rivaled too? Dreading, envying, nay half hating a low born girl, whom I have never ſeen? Is it real? Can I thus ſtoop and forget my better reaſon and my proud fortunes? What miracle is ſhe; and what poor pitiable thing am I?

SCENE II. Enter PAULINA. Salute.

Why yes! She is beautiful! Her countenance beams intelligence and ſoul!—Pray leave us.

Your name is Paulina?

It is, madam.

What ſweetneſs of voice!—I am come to talk to you. Take courage: ſpeak your ſentiments freely.

I ſhould be ſorry, madam, to need the caution. Being conſcious of no ill, I know not why or what I ought to fear.

Indeed! So firm?—Superior wealth rank and power uſually inſpire ſuch fears.

Uſually, but unworthily. 'Tis the de⯑gradation of mind to fear any thing, but guilt.

Wonderful!—I had heard of your beauty, and am ſurpriſed at your underſtand⯑ing.

They are both of them accidents. If I poſſeſs them, I can but ill explain how, or why.

There is witchery about her!—Do you know me?

No.

Do you know—Mr. Seymour?

Madam!

Does your firmneſs leave you?

No: but the queſtion is abrupt.

Does it offend?

There is ſomething in you, madam, which aſſures me it is not your cuſtom to intend offence; and I will not think you intend it now.

This is ſtrange! Sentiments ſo juſt, ſo uncommon, and in a painter's daughter? 'Tis amazing!—I came to reaſon with you, to warn you.

Againſt what?

Miſtake, miſery, crime: the deſertion of duty, the contempt of the world, and the ha⯑tred of him whom your allurements have in⯑veigled.

Madam, I will again ſuppoſe you do not intend to wound; I will there⯑fore reſolve not to feel—But you do me injuſtice—I am young, have neither the wealth, rank, nor power you ſeem to revere; yet I am no inveigler.

Your ſpirit is high!

I mean it to be no more than juſt; if I ex⯑ceed, I am ſorry.

She is an extraordinary creature!—Think on the conſequences—

Of what?

A union ſo unequal!

I have thought, and can diſcover no true in⯑equality, but between virtue and vice.

Thus we palliate our errors. Selfiſh⯑neſs is the lurking motive. So that our own petty concerns do but proſper, we care not though the world go to wrcck!

Convince me of any wrong I ſhall do to Seymour or to juſtice, and I will ſuffer martyrdom rather than commit it. For the mere forms and [47] rules of an arrogant and intereſted world I have but little reſpect.

She aims to tower above me! Am I unjuſt? Is it not pride in her? Is it not pre⯑ſumption? In ſome gifts perhaps my equal, in others ſurely ſhe is my inferior. And ſhall I cede the high claims of love; the dear affections of the heart? But their paſſion is mutual. Be it ſo: what is it but mutual folly? My views are rational, my motives dignified, and merit ſucceſs. Her's are romantic, fatal to order and the peace of fami⯑lies, and muſt be ſhall be fruſtrated.

SCENE III. Re-enter Mrs. WILKINS.

Your ladyſhip's carriage is come back, as you ordered.

Very well—I have given you good ad⯑vice, reflect on what I have ſaid. You have re⯑ceived great gifts: act as becomes you, and increaſe the admiration you have raiſed. But, beware! In⯑dulge no fond folly. Attempt not to graſp the ſtars! Seymour and his alliances are above you. Shun raſhneſs, follow good counſel, and dread in⯑volving yourſelf and him you pretend to love in wretchedneſs. Dare not to ſet vice ſo dangerous an example!

Madam—

Pray take care, your ladyſhip!

What can this mean?

'Tis the great Lady Fan⯑court! Huſh!

Lady Fancourt? Heavens! What do theſe warnings, theſe threats portend? I cannot be deceived? Theſe haughty claims theſe arrogant diſtinc⯑tions of wealth and birth are not, cannot be juſt! But ſhe declares her views on Seymour! Where is [48] he? Why is he ſtill abſent? My letter unanſwered! What are his thoughts? What are his feelings? What are his deſigns? Oh!—

SCENE IV. Enter NANNETTE.

Nannette! Haſt thou ſeen him? Has he read my letter? Will he come?

Par hazard, I ave ſee him.

Haſt thou?—And the letter?

He has not anſwer mit your letter.

No anſwer?—No anſwer?

Mais quelle impatience! He is not write mit anſwer; but he is vill be here, now by and by.

Will he? Will he?—Oh, yes! Do I not know my Seymour? How ſhall I expiate the fre⯑quent ſuſpicions of his faith, of which I have lately been guilty?

Chut! Taiſez vous! Your fader is come.

SCENE V. Enter CRAIG.

Haſt thou not thought me long, Pau⯑lina?

No, ſir.

Here, Nannette; take this tradeſman's dirt: it fouls my fingers.

And why?

Pay it away; rid me of it! I feel my ſoul groveling at the touch.

Ciel! Dee money make pay mit dee Milor! Eh! I am very great big mit joy!

Wages, counted out by a menial, for work done and delivered for his maſter. Ah!—

SCENE VI. Enter SEYMOUR, dejectedly.

Good-morrow, my worthy friends.

My pupil? I am glad to ſee you!

Have you been walking?

Buſineſs. Following my trade. Doing as I was bid, and ſigning a receipt in full, with a bow a cringe and a humbly thank you, ſir! I hope for your future cuſtom! No ſhopkeeper in England will ſerve you better!—I have learned the whole trick of it.

If you think labour an indignity, you are wrong.

What, ſo much per day?—Well!—No matter. But how has it happened that you, the friend of my art, have abſented yourſelf for a whole week?

The expectation—My uncle was out of town.

Is he returned?

Yes.

Well, ſir, I applaud your dutiful atten⯑tion—Your marriage then will ſoon take place?

What marriage? Who tells you—?

Oh! The woman below; a thouſand idle goſſips buſy themſelves in ſpreading reports that relate to perſons of high life

The union is ſpoken of with applauſe.

What union, ſir?

With Lady Fancourt.

But, ſir—I aſſure you—It is not—That is, I have never propoſed ſuch a marriage to her ladyſhip.

Nay, if you could not be happy, far be it from me to wiſh for ſuch an event.

Then happy I nevér could be

But what ſubjects are you em⯑ployed on at preſent?

Various. I have a picture I wiſh to ſhew you. It ſtill wants a few touches. I have left it in the parlour. Will you have the goodneſs to wait a moment?

SCENE VII. PAULINA runs to SEYMOUR.

My Seymour!

My Sey⯑mour!

My precious Paulina!

How doſt thou?

Ill: very ill!

Ill?

Wretched!

What doſt thou mean, Seymour?

Why doſt thou look thus deſpondingly on me?—What is there in thy thoughts?—Some dreadful ſecret, ſure!—Speak! Thy ſilence diſtracts me!

Man is born for miſery, guilt, perjury!

Seymour?

I have a ſiſter, young, affectionate, and noble minded as thyſelf—

Well?

But deſolate, ruined, devoted to wretch⯑edneſs, unleſs—!

How can—?

Lady Fancourt—!

Stop!—For⯑bear!

Thou art mine!—

[51] Thou art mine!—Caſt thy eyes up to heaven; re⯑member what thou haſt ſworn; remember who hath heard thee!

—By that divine, that juſt, that avenging eſſence, whoſe immaculate name thou haſt made thy pledge, I will not ſurvive thy falſhood!

Thou art mine! Thou art mine!

Why talk of ſurviving? The maddening brain is murdered by the bare ſuſ⯑picion!

SCENE VIII. Re-enter CRAIG with the picture; whoſe mind is ſo occupied through the ſcene by his picture, that he does not attend to the agitation of Paulina and Seymour.

Works addreſſed to the imagination are unworthy of praiſe, unleſs they have ſome moral purpoſe. The ſubject I have choſen will meet ap⯑plauſe from you, ſir, and all whoſe hearts and prin⯑ciples are equally generous and noble—It is the progreſs of ſeduction; beginning in perjury, end⯑ing in ſuicide.

Sir!

I knew it muſt incite terror!—This is but one of a ſeries of pictures—Here I have imagined—

Perjury? Here is a portrait of Paulina!

Yes—Perhaps the partiality of a father led me to ſuppoſe the form and countenance of my Paulina miraculouſly adapted to my ſubject—But obſerve—The ſcene is a cave

an over⯑hanging rock, a gloomy foreſt in the back ground, ſome broken lights and diſtances on the left, and a deep gulph in front: the heroine here, here the confidante, and here the only guardian they dared to truſt, a faithful maſtiff. Obſerve theſe traits. Behold her, with all her native candor and confi⯑dence, [52] waiting for her expected lover, and ima⯑gining all his ſuperior qualities of ſoul; while the godlike picture her fancy forms, of him and his high deſerts, beams in her eyes, and illuminates her countenance!—How ſhall I pourtray the agony of a heart ſo pure and unſuſpecting, when the fearful moment comes? Is it not an intereſting ſub⯑ject?

A ſubject of terror! Horror! Madneſs!

Yes, madneſs is one of its principal features—After depicting the dreadful conflict, when ſhe hears the perjured ſe⯑ducer is on the eve of marriage with another, after ſhewing her in all the agonies of deſpair, imploring at his feet—perhaps at the feet of his miſtreſs—

Oh! Inſupportable!

Ay!—Inſupportable indeed, to a mind like yours; even though but in imagination—What then will you feel, when you ſhall behold a form ſo lovely, ſo angelic, and innocence ſo unſuſ⯑pecting, deprived of reaſon; confined in a mad⯑houſe; ſurrounded by miſerable objects; ſtraw, bread, water, and mercileſs keepers; who vainly attempt, with chains and ſcourges, to expel frenzy?

Peace!

Mr. Seymour?

Silence! I ſay—Proceed no farther; if you would not have me act the ſcenes you mean to paint!

I meant—

Forbear!

It is ſtrange!—Is it imagination, or—?

Come in!

SCENE IX. Enter Lady LOUISA COMPTON.

Is your name Craig, ſir?

It is, madam.

Is your daughter within?

She was here this minute! Nannette!

SCENE X. Enter NANNETTE: haſtily with hat and cloak over her arm.

Eh! Vat you vant?

Where is Paulina?

Je ne ſçais pas. She vas run out, und I am run after.

SCENE XI. CRAIG, Lady LOUISA.

Nannette!—What is the matter with the woman?

I fear all is not right! How ſhall I begin?—My buſineſs here, ſir, excuſe my frankneſs, is, if poſſible, to gain the friendſhip of you and your daughter.

Your appearance ſpeaks rank, and the haughtieſt of the hackneyed anſwers of politeneſs would be, "Madam, you do us honour." But I—I once was—No matter. I am a painter: a worker in oils—but no fawner. Misfortune I [54] fear has made me a little peeviſh; perhaps a little proud, and—Friends?—I doubt we are not fitted to be friends.

Why not?—Mr. Seymour is my bro⯑ther.

Indeed!—Then you are a happy ſiſter.

Ah!—We all have our ſorrows: I have mine! You are above ceremony—I have a carriage waiting and a commiſſion from Lady Fan⯑court; an invitation to dine with us.

Me?—Pardon me. I muſt not be ex⯑hibited. I know my diſtance, and I will keep it. No footman ſhall ſneer over my ſhoulder. No lady ſhall act civility to keep me from ſinking in her preſence. No lord ſhall put his half-dozen inſipid interrogatories, to convince me he has not quite forgotten I am of the ſpeaking ſpecies—A little ſore, here—I have been ſcourged—I once ſaw ſun⯑ſhine, afar off—Clouds! Clouds!

You love your art?

With a burning zeal!

Then why deſpiſe to practice it?

What! Genius labouring for ſcraps, and even they denied him? Miſery his attendant; pri⯑ſons in proſpect; penury goading, famine gazing at him!—Beſide—my name is—Pſhaw! I'm a fool.

I muſt ſpeak—Your daugh⯑ter—

Ay! There is the laſh—Yet, why? In⯑eſtimable girl! My heart is full of her image!

What pity it is parental joys ſhould be ſo frequently embittered!

Never, here. No tyranny, no ſuſpicion, here. We know from whom we derive—Affec⯑tion, expanſion of heart are our inmates: not trick, jealouſy, and concealment.

How will he ſupport it?—There is one fatal, yet univerſal, intruder. Love—

Diſturbs the peace of moſt fathers, but not mine. Were the daughter of Cam—Were my daughter in love, I ſhould be her firſt confidant.

And are you then ſo little read in the human heart, and its terrors; eſpecially the fe⯑male heart?

Do theſe queſtions point at me?

Be calm. Tell me; how would you act ſhould a young man of rank demand your daughter's hand?

Refuſe him. Not but Paulina might unbluſhingly have placed her ſtool beſide the ca⯑nopies of princes, had not I, her father, been un⯑juſtly forced to handle bruſhes!

And is that a ſtain?

Indelible! So 'tis thought.

By prejudice and folly.

Your brother is a youth of ten thouſand: I reſpect and love his virtues: yet, were even he to aſk my Paulina, he would meet a denial.

Sir!

Shall I ſtand at humble diſtance in the preſence of him by whom I ought to be treated with paternal reſpect; and crouch, and bend, when it might become me to exert the influence of reaſon, that I might prevent or redreſs error; and thus meanly deſert both duty and ſelf-eſteem?—There are nobility of birth and nobility of heart: the former but few enjoy; the latter many a poor and many a neglected man, in common with my⯑ſelf, poſſeſs.

Well, ſir, poſſeſſing that nobility, the other is a trifling want.

'Tis a want unknown to me: I am—

Sir?—

One effort more—You are acquainted with Sir Gregory Oldwort?

Forbear to mention him!—Your pardon!—His name is poiſon to me.

Why?

Hateful! Tyrannical!

But why?

My name is Craig Campbell.

Heavens! Campbell!

By marriage, I am his brother.

Amazement!

'Tis eighteen years ſince laſt I ſaw him.

He is my uncle.

And Seymour your brother?

Yes. Nay more the lover of—

Whom?

Be firm.

Speak!

Paulina.

Thunder ſtrike!

SCENE XII. Enter NANNETTE: in great diſtreſs.

Ah! Vhere is mit my maitreſſe; my Pau⯑lina? Vas ſhe not be come back?

Is ſhe not within?

Mon dieu, no! I am fear—! Mr. Sey⯑mour—

How?

I am ſee her run out; und I am run out too; und den ſhe is gone; und den I am be here, und be dere, und be every vhere, mitout I find her.

A thouſand horrors ruſh upon me!—If Seymour have ſeduced my Paulina; have—Oh!

Heavens! Mr. Campbell!

Ah ma pauvre maitreſſe! Mine friend! Mine ſhile! Vat ſhall I vill do?

SCENE XIII. Changes to the Drawing-room of Lady FANCOURT:

I cannot forget her! A form ſo inter⯑eſting, a mind ſo capacious, courage ſo chaſtened, yet ſo unconquerable—! And muſt they marry? Has ſhe no equal? Are riches, rank, and Lady Fancourt ſo poor a counterpoiſe? Marry? It muſt not, ſhall not—ought not to be.

You muſt not, madam!

I will! I will!

Bleſs me!

Let me paſs! I will ſee her! I will!

SCENE XIV. Enter PAULINA: runs diſtractedly and throws herſelf at the feet of Lady FANCOURT.

Hear me, madam! I'll never quit this place till you have heard have granted my prayer.

What does this mean?

Reſtore him to me! Reſtore him to me!

Whom?

My all! My heaven on earth! He is mine!—I am a wretched diſtracted creature; once the happieſt of women!

Forbear!

You ſhall not go! He is mine! Saints and angels bear witneſs, he is mine! You have ſtolen him from me; deprived me of his heart; robbed me of the wealth of worlds!

Are you frantic?

Would I were! But ſoon I ſhall be. Give me my Seymour!

I give?

To take my life were little. Oh, madam, you are noble; your anceſtors no doubt were mag⯑nanimous; but is it noble, is it magnanimous, to rob a poor lunatic creature of the only treaſure ſhe has on earth?

Be calm.

Calm! And loſe my Seymour? Never! Never! Madneſs is all I have to hope!

Riſe, I ſay! Leave me!

I will not riſe; I will not quit this ſpot! What are your rights? Do they equal oaths, re⯑giſtered in heaven? Are they as ſacred?

SCENE XV. Enter Lady LOUISA.

She is here! This muſt be her.

Inſufferable!—Relieve me, Lady Louiſa, from this frantic woman!

Have you ſeen my Seymour?

You ſeem alarmed?

Never in my life was ſo aſſaulted; ſo overpowered! Pray look to her—Or call for aid—I cannot ſupport it.

SCENE XVI. Lady LOUISA, PAULINA.

Do you know him? Hither I came to redemand my own! Here! Here they have rob⯑bed me of all that was moſt precious!

My dear girl, pray ſit down!

If you know him, I charge you, in the name of all that is holy, reſtore him to me!

Be pacified; I promiſe you ſhall ſee him again.

Do you promiſe?

I do.

I ſhall ſee him?

Yes.

Promiſe? Promiſe?—Promiſes are hourly broken! You are not man? You are not a promiſe-breaker?

Quiet this agitation: you ſhall ſee him.

Then you are an angel▪ ſent from heaven!

Mr. Seymour promiſed you marriage?

Earth and heaven heard his oaths! I am ſure he loves me! No; he cannot be perjured! Cruel parents only can oppoſe our bliſs!

What if the marriage ſhould make him wretched?

Impoſſible! Impoſſible! Do I not know how I ſhould cheriſh how I ſhould adore him; how I ſhould ſtudy day and night for his happineſs?—He tells me he has a generous ſiſter—Oh! Could I but ſee her; could I but ſpeak to her!

I am that ſiſter.

Mercy!—Mercy!—Oh, have mercy on a poor diſtracted wretch.

SCENE XVII. Enter CRAIG.

Where is my child? Where is my Pau⯑lina?

My father's voice!

Have I found thee? Come! Come to thy wretched father!

Be not too haſty, ſir!

Deteſted be the arts that have ſeduced my child!

Paſſion may increaſe cannot correct er⯑ror. Mr. Seymour—

A father's malediction purſue him!

Hear not, oh mercy omnipotent, hear not a father's curſe!

If you love your daughter, be patient. Her paſſions are not in a ſtate to be ſported with. 'Tis growing late; I will convey her home; ſleep will ſooth and reſtore her.

SCENE I. The Drawing-room of Lady FAN⯑COURT.

IS Lady Fancourt riſen?

Yes; and has enquired for you: ap⯑pears much diſturbed, and reſolves again to viſit Paulina.

For what purpoſe?

I wiſh I knew. Her ſurprize was great, and I fear painful, when ſhe heard of your relationſhip to Paulina. Dear girl! My heart yearns to her! You have ſeen her?

Yes, laſt night.

And again pledged your fidelity?

Oh, with ten thouſand new endearments! Do you blame me?

Blame? Noble-minded, much in⯑jured girl! Still I dread the unfeeling Sir Gregory.

And I. But there is the ſtrangeſt acci⯑dent—He yeſterday ſat for his picture to my uncle Campbell!

What without knowing each other?

Yes: and is to ſit again this morning—But his motive!

What?

I tremble to diſcover, yet am on the rack till I know. Be the conſequences what they will, I am determined rather to relinquiſh life than Pau⯑lina. I wiſh therefore to avoid Lady Fancourt, till her mind is more calm.

Away then. I will be ready, if any thing ſhould happen.

I dread her, I dread my uncle, nay I dread Mr. Campbell. The proſpect before us is terrific; but we muſt on—Be it as it will, you ſhall ſhare my fortunes.

Generous Charles!

SCENE II. The Painting-room.

Then you think the men of former ages were guilty of as great vices as thoſe of the preſent?

Keep your mouth▪ ſhut—Greater: but they did not make a ſyſtem of vice; they were hurried into it by their paſſions. Theirs were the crimes of men. There is a diſgraceful a contempti⯑ble meanneſs in the vices, as well as the perſons of [62] the preſent puny race; and neither their paſſions nor their bodies have ſufficient proweſs to make them commit acts, that can entitle them to re⯑ſpect.

If they fight a duel, it is not in the heat of anger, and deſire of revenge; but it is done with as much ceremony and civility as if they were going to walk a minuet, or ſip a diſh of tea: ay and as little danger, too; for, as they manage the matter, there is ten times more terror in a crabtree cudgel than in lead and ſteel.

Why as to the merit, or virtue, of fight⯑ing duels, either in the old mode or the new, I believe we had better not talk of that.

The veſtiges of ancient independence are wearing away. It makes my very heart ache to ſee the poor remains of towers, that once defied the fury of tyrants, and the war of elements, lye mouldering in ruins.

If we erect a building, now, it is in ſuch a light, frippery, unſubſtantial ſtyle, that a piſtol bullet would demoliſh it. A caſtle of cobwebs, ſpun in July, and bruſhed away in November.

Sir, you are a man of ſenſe.

And, as to our commerce, we have poi⯑ſoned the people with our teas, ſpices, and ſpirits. We ſend to China for pipkins, to Hudſon's Bay for cat's ſkins, to Venice for window alias vice blinds, and to Leghorn for toothpicks and fiddleſtrings: and, that the lower part of the community may not have the power to reproach and deſpiſe their leaders, vice, diſeaſe, and deſtruction are imported in ſhip loads, and parceled out in pennyworths.

Sir, your converſation pleaſes me. Hem! When will your daughter be within?

Preſently, preſently.

I ſhould be glad to ſee if ſhe be as handſome as you have painted her.

Painted! Where are the colours that can equal Paulina?

Hay! Is her name Paulina?

Certainly. Why not?

Huſh! Did not I hear a noiſe?—Have you many viſitors?

Very few. I have not been long in Eng⯑land.

Where does that door go to?

My daughter's bedroom.

I don't chooſe to be ſeen. If any body ſhould come, I'll ſtep in there.

Will you? You muſt aſk my leave, firſt.

I wiſh ſhe would come! I am quite im⯑patient to ſee her.

Indeed! He's a whimſical old fellow.

Hay?—No—Nothing—If ever you ſhould meet me in the ſtreet, take no notice of me.

Notice you! Sir, I notice no man who is unwilling to notice me.

Oh, the devil!—Who's there?—Quick! Quick! My hat, and cloak!

Does he think I am his footman?

I would not be ſeen for a thouſand pounds! Can't you let me in there?

I tell you, no.

Have you no back way?

Back!—What do you take us for; coiners, or courtiers? We dare daylight; and, though poor, look the world in the face.

SCENE III. Enter MUSCADEL.

'Sdeath, miſter, what dark ſtairs you have!

If you had ſent me notice of your com⯑ing, ſir, I would have had them lighted.

Anon! What were you pleaſed to re⯑mark, miſter?

What ſtrange animal have we here?—I think I have ſomewhere ſeen ſuch an apparition before!

I beg your pardon, miſter!

Are you ill, ſir?

Ay, are you ill, ſir?

I'll wait below, in Mrs. Wilkins' parlour, till he is gone.

As you pleaſe, ſir.

SCENE IV. CRAIG and MUSCADEL.

So, ſo! My old friend, Sir Gregory!—Tolerably hit off, egad.

Why, you ſeem to have a knack, miſ⯑ter—

Sir! I am not uſed to ſuch freedoms!

Impertinent and tetchy! I'll play him off.

I ſay, miſter—What is your name?

My name, ſir, is Craig.

A very common name, in Wales.

Scotland, you mean.

I like your manner: you ſhall take me, miſter—Jones.

My name is Craig.

You are right. But I will be taken in profile, miſter—Jones.

Sir, I ſaid Craig.

Yes, there was Jones of Flintſhire, colo⯑nel of the Welch Fuzileers: very much of a gen⯑tleman, and ruined more farmer's daughters than any ten men in the regiment. I ſuppoſe you are his natural ſon, miſter—Jones.

Sir!—I know nothing of Jones, Flintſhire colonels, or Welch Fuzileers: my name is—

True. And ſo the colonel put you to a painter? A ſlight premium, and a quick riddance. He managed his pleaſures with economy.

Is he mad, or deaf?—I am afraid, ſir, I did not ſpeak loud enough! My name is Craig! I never—

I know it, miſter—Jones. The colonel told me the whole ſtory. Your mother was the daughter of a Denbighſhire drover, who dealt largely in potatoes, pigs, and poultry. A deviliſh handſome huſſey! The colonel was fond of her, brought her to town, and for a whole winter cut a high figure with her.

With my mother, ſir?

She was the belle of the day, miſter—Jones. She had my approbation, and I had a penchant for her myſelf.

For my mother, ſir?

The colonel was never married, but I have known ſeveral of his natural children, and they were all geniuſes. So you ſhall take my pro⯑file, miſter—Jones.

I have a great mind to knock him down!

Apropos. Have not you a ſmart kind of a daughter, miſter—

Jones. Yes.

Ha!—Tolerably handſome

and well grown, miſter—

Jones. Yes.

You have been bred to a pretty profeſſion, miſter—!

Jones. No.

An't pleaſe you—?

I WAS BRED TO THE MOST USELESS, AND OFTEN THE MOST WORTHLESS, OF ALL PROFES⯑SIONS; THAT OF A GENTLEMAN. ^*

Gadſo, miſter—!

I ſuſpect you have been bred to the ſame. So you will get your profile taken by whom you pleaſe, except by me, miſter—

La, la, la, la, la. The drapory is tolerable.

SCENE V. Enter PAULINA and NANNETTE.

There's the door, ſir.

La, la, la, la, la. The colouring not amiſs.

You ſeem ruffled, ſir?

Do you ſee that biped, Paulina?

Sir!

That thing pretends to have had an amour with my mother!

Ha, ha!

Upon my honour!

The moſt impenetrable coxcomb—!

Infinitely beyond my expectations!

Firſt baptizing and then baſtardizing me!

She is really ſtriking!

A fop!—I would toſs him out of the window—! There's another odd fellow below, who is waiting to ſee you.

Me, ſir?

C'eſt lui.

What's this? Some ſecret? Sey⯑mour, I ſuppoſe.

Who is he, ſir?

I don't know.

Mon dieu! 'Tis dee Chevalier Oldvort! C'eſt l'oncle!

Hay! Oldwort! Uncle!

He won't tell his name. I am afraid his conſcience is none of the beſt, he is ſo fearful of being ſeen, or known.

Yes, yes; 'tis Sir Gregory! The old fox!

I'll ſend him up to you.

Come, ſir.

La, la, la, la, la.

I will go to him, ſir.

No, no—

Miſter—Jones!

La, la, la, la, la.

This way if you pleaſe, miſter—Jones.

The fellow is determined; but I'll give him the ſlip. I'll know what's going on. La, la, la, la, la. Your very humble—miſter—

Jones.

SCENE VI. PAULINA, NANNETTE.

Why am I thus agitated? Too much al ready I have been the creature of paſſion; ſhaken by terror, actuated by ſelf. Oh! 'Tis unworthy! Yet ſtill and ſtill my fears ſubdue my better reaſon!

I am vill be ſo happy! L'oncle come and make a lofe mit you, und you make a lofe mit die oncle, c'eſt tout naturel, und den! Ah! je ſuis extaſié!

My mother's perſecutor and my father's bitter foe: ſhould I ſo remember him? That were unjuſt. What he is, not what he has been, is the true queſtion. But there's the doubt! Why does he ſeek me? With what intent? He knows not who I am! Appearances are all ſuſpicious! Yet why this culpable propenſity to condemn unheard? 'Tis pernicious! 'Tis hateful! Why not hope the beſt?

He come! Retirez vous un moment: vite, vite!

SCENE VII. Enter MUSCADEL: peeping.

So, ſo! There they go! I may chance to make ſome notable diſcoveries here. If they would but ſerve me with Lady Fancourt!—She has uſed me vilely! But no matter—Time has produced ſtrange things, and may again—This Sir Gregory! The old poacher! His portrait the pretence! The rival of his nephew! Yet as cynical ſupercilious and ſurly as if he were a ſaint.

He is coming

Why, ay; theſe pictures are moſt convenient hiding places.

SCENE VIII. Enter Sir GREGORY: with his cloak and hat on, firſt looking in, then advancing cautiouſly.

Hey dey! Here is nobody here!

Yes but there is.

Locked faſt.

Miſs!—Young lady!—I am afraid [69] this painting room is too public. I am glad I eſ⯑caped that fop Muſcadel.

Very well!

He is a moſt vain, impertinent, prating coxcomb.

Mighty well!

With leſs underſtanding than an owl by daylight.

Go on!

More impudence than a croſs-exa⯑mining lawyer.

That's a lie, however.

And as many antics as a dancing dog.

You ſhall pay for this!

Mrs. Wilkins!—I would not have been diſcovered by him for a kingdom!

I'll tickle you!

I hope I run no riſk here. Malicious tongues are always buſy; and a good character is like a gameſter's money, very difficult to keep, and when loſt ſtill more difficult to regain—Miſs!

—Here's ſomebody!

SCENE IX. Enter PAULINA.

Yet, not yet firm! Still in trepi⯑dation.

'Tis ſhe!

My father told me—

She's an angel! An angel!

Bad, bad!

Hem! Young lady—What carnation in her cheeks!—I have done myſelf the honour to [70] —That is, Mrs. Wilkins—

My fears are too true!

The fineſt eyes I ever beheld!

The old ſinner!

I have an ambition to be better ac⯑quainted with you.

Fie! What looks! Alas, thus the little hope I had is flown.

What paſſion in her features! What modeſty! I love modeſty.

As a hawk does a dove, to be the death of it.

You are a moſt ſweet enchanting girl, and I hope you have a compaſſionate boſom.

How tenfold ugly is vice coupled with age!

I'm ſure you have—Won't you ſpeak to me?

The carnal old coaxer!

My recollection fails me! How ſhould I anſwer him? Ought hoary ſeduction like this to paſs unreproved?

Don't be abaſhed. You can't think how kind I will be to you!

What's that?

Oh what an eternal tormentor is a guilty conſcience!

I ſee nothing!—Perhaps it was that picture?

Ay! I will be ſo kind! I will dandle you, and fondle you, and fold you to my arms; ay, and wrap you in my very heart!

Like a diamond in wool, egad.

Do you think you could feel any par⯑tiality in favour of a middle aged gentleman, like me?

He is my uncle. What then? Can relationſhip change the eternal eſſence of vir⯑tue? What are perſons? Guilt is ever guilt, and ever odious.

What elegance of form!—If I could but have the happineſs to win and wind myſelf into your affections

Forbear!

Madam!

So, ſo!

What? You! At theſe years! You! The inflexible perſecutor of venial errors; indulging de⯑ſtructive and hateful paſſions of your own, ſelf⯑willed inexorable and cruel to the very virtues of others; ſternly robing yourſelf in the tyrannous authority of cuſtom, forgetting the beneficence of juſtice—

Why?

Heydey!

Were theſe, meanwhile, your ſecret prac⯑tices? I came eagerly wiſhing to have called you by the endearing name of uncle!

Madam!

Uncle?

My heart beat high with the hope that age had increaſed your wiſdom, that your affec⯑tions were ſoftened, and that you were become the friend of the unfortunate, the guide of the feeble, and the conſolation of the fallen.

Uncle?

No—Here all ſuch claims end. Hence⯑forth they are forgotten. Farewell. There is no relationſhip between us.

SCENE X. Sir GREGORY, and MUSCADEL.

Very odd.

I'm in amaze—'Tis unaccountable— [72] Relationſhip!—Uncle!—Siſter!

Mercy on me!—Let me begone.

Her diſ⯑courſe was very ſtrange—It has petrified me!

I wiſh I was ſafe at home!

Sir Gregory!

Bleſs my ſoul!—What's that?

Sir Gregory!

Am I bewitched?

Stop, ſtop, baronet! Coughing won't do: you can't eſcape this time.

I muſt beg, ſir—!

Come, come, unmaſk!

I inſiſt, ſir—!

Oh! What you won't know me?

SCENE XI. Enter Mrs. WILKINS: in a fright.

Oh lord, Sir Gregory! What ſhall we do?

What's the matter, woman? Is there an earthquake? I was half terrified to death be⯑fore; would you kill me quite?

Dear me! Here's Lady Fancourt again!

What?

How?

As true as I am a woman!

Let me begone!

Oh lord! You can't, Sir Gregory: ſhe is ſpeaking at the ſtairfoot with Miſs Paulina, and they are coming up in a moment.

What will become of me? Don't be⯑tray me, Mr. Muſcadel!

For heaven's ſake, don't betray me!

Follow my example; hide behind theſe pictures. There's your own placed ready for the purpoſe.

She is bringing Miſs Paulina up here, to talk with her.

Ah, ha! I ſhall be glad to ſee how her ladyſhip's jealouſy works

Are you ſafe?

Be true to me; don't diſco⯑ver me and I'll be your everlaſting friend. I'll bring you into parliament: you ſhall ſit for my vacant borough.

Cloſe, cloſe!

I know you, Mammon! You will tell a different tale to⯑morrow. I'm a coxcomb, am I? I'll puniſh you!

This way, your ladyſhip!

SCENE XII. Enter Lady FANCOURT followed by PAULINA.

Can you gainſay it?

I have done you, madam, no intentional wrong.

No wrong? Have you not convinced me, in my own deſpite, that riches, rank, and power are feeble arms, oppoſed to the energies of mind and virtue?

How?

I, who thought not meanly of myſelf, have you not proved you are my ſuperiour: and is that no wrong?

Madam!

Perſecuted by fate, nurtured in diſ⯑treſs, educated in obſcurity, deprived of reſources that had been laviſhed upon me, have you not diſ⯑played qualities, which, how can I hope to equal?

Dear lady!

Ineſtimable girl! You can make me only one amends—Think kindly of me and accept me for your admiring your dear your eternal friend!

Upon my honour it is incredible, but here they are!

From the firſt moment, my heart did you juſtice: it acknowledged your noble virtues—I will affect no inferiority of rank, for I feel none; but to call myſelf your equal in what alone is valu⯑able—? I dare not!

Have you no hartſhorn, Lady Fancourt?

Mr. Muſcadel!

Here I am. Like ſilence, I come when I am not called—I thought I had had enough of the dolefuls; but here do you come, as it were on pur⯑poſe, to give me a double doſe.

Have you been very ſorrowful?

As wretched, for theſe four and twenty hours, as a poet who has left off rhyming—As me⯑lancholy as a blind monkey.

Very pathetic, truly!

Lady Fancourt, ſhall I tell you a ſecret? The only reſource I have had, againſt feelings the moſt acute and thoughts the moſt racking, has been levity that was but affected, and indifference that was all forced.

Mr. Muſcadel—I have not uſed you well

Raptures!

SCENE XIII. Enter Lady LOUISA.

Dear madam, where is my fa⯑ther; where is my—couſin? Are they friends?

You will rejoice to ſee how truly!

But where is Sir Gregory?

Hay?

Charles has been home, but he is not there.

I'm a lucky dog!

By converſing with my brother, Mr. Campbell has diſcovered that he has been here.

Yes; and is here ſtill.

'Tis well Mr. Campbell does not ſuſ⯑pect on what errand!

Hem!

The licentiouſneſs of his practice makes his ſeverity doubly odious.

Take care what you ſay; he will hear you.

I wiſh he could!

Nay, he is in the room!

Where?

There!

Pſhaw! Come my ſweet Paulina

Nay but you muſt not go till you have ſeen the pictures. I aſſure you, here are ſome very ex⯑cellent originals, in the room!

Ay?

You have never ſeen a finer exhibition.

Indeed!

Or a more pleaſant one.

I ſee nothing extraordinary.

Oh but follow me and you ſhall ſee! You know theſe, Lady Louiſa?

It ſeems like my uncle's cloak!

That's a trifle! You ſhall ſee more pre⯑ſently.

How do you like that?

It ſeems very good.

And that?

Indeed I am no judge.

And that?

Better than the laſt.

Ay but here! Here's the beſt of all!

Ah!

Ah!

Heaven preſerve me!

Sir Gregory?

There's an exhibition for you! There's nature! There's life! There's expreſſion!—Shall I have the borough, Sir Gregory?

I hope you'll have a halter!

Why, Sir Gregory, is this the way you ſit for your portrait?

Ay! Is not the attitude ſtriking? Grace⯑ful as a baboon on the back of a bear!

This is very extraordinary! Pray tell us—

Sir Gregory has been at his needle work.

I wiſh you had been at the devil!

I'm a fop, an owl, a dancing dog, hay, Sir Gregory?

You are as great a cut-throat—!

As cold water in winter.

And I hope as wholeſome a one, too.

This is the mo⯑ment for reconciliation! I will go down for my brother and uncle.

A lucky thought! Do.

SCENE XIV. Sir GREGORY, MUSCADEL, Lady FANCOURT, PAULINA.

Stay, niece; I'll go with you.

No, no, Sir Gregory; we can't ſpare you. Mr. Muſcadel!

Ay, ay; I'll guard the door.

I find then, my dear Paulina, you have ſeen your uncle before?

Yes; the knight introduced himſelf: ‘and faith ſhe read him a very pretty lecture: though egad her ſtyle was a little myſterious, for ſhe ſeemed able to give the whole ſcandalous chronicle of your private life—hay, Baronet?’

‘Would ſhe had given yours!’

‘Oh I defy her and the whole world. I am the carver of my own character, and cut it up neatly and accurately myſelf, that Malice may be out of countenance when ſhe attempts to hack it.’—Come; ſhall I help you on with your cloak?

Curſe my cloak—

And you too!

Sir Gregory has no more need of a cloak,

Egad that's true. Come, come, cheer up, knight: this is the luckieſt day of your life; for, now you have loſt your character, you may ſtare the world in the face, and ſin hereafter with⯑out caution.

Pardon me, ſir, but I muſt intreat you to forbear. Who among us but errs? To oppreſs the oppreſſed would be malice, not juſtice.

Do you hear?

Yes, I do hear!

And do you not bluſh a little?

Perhaps I do that too.

Let me, ſir, intreat your forgiveneſs; I am the cauſe of this: I behaved ill; I left you in⯑dignantly inſtead of remonſtrating with candour, and indulged reſentment when I ought to have ex⯑erted [78] benevolence. But I am young and ſhall know better in time.

You are a miracle! And I am aſhamed of myſelf.

Belial I find has a ſpark of grace left.

Incomparable Paulina!

Will you not forgive me, Sir?

I cannot forgive myſelf, child.

For having been found out.

Be as happy, not as you deſerve, but as I can make you.

Oh, ſir—!

Riſe, Paulina, riſe.

SCENE XV. Enter SEYMOUR, CRAIG CAMP⯑BELL, and Lady LOUISA.

My life!

My Seymour!

My ſoul!

Art thou mine? Art thou mine?

Everlaſtingly!

Sir!

Huſh! No frowning.

Recrimination is no cure. I muſt ab⯑jure my prejudices; do you ſuffer your reſentments to ſleep. Henceforth let us be friends.

Nay, if generoſity, mutual friendſhip, and free equal intercourſe be your purpoſe, Craig Campbell, though a painter and a hireling, will do you no ſhame.

I then at laſt am the only outcaſt—Will you not pardon me, ſir?

Yes, yes; all is forgotten.

How kind your moody rulers are, when once their own rogueries are de [...]ected—

Muſt we not ſympathize with the reſt [79] and be as happy as we can?

Muſt we not?

Why would you, now you have been my confidant, would you dangle after me again?

Moſt willingly. Like the beaſts after Orpheus—You have a muſeum of them, and I am the moſt admired monſter in the collection.

You are a pleaſant animal.

Why this is true delight—Love, friend⯑ſhip, and benevolence, catching and ſpreading from mind to mind, from heart to heart; modeling the young, melting the old, and harmonizing all. May the principle and the practice become univerſal!