SCENE, A Hall in an old Manſion-Houſe.

Gentlemen, tho' none of you will ſtay dinner, I muſt inſiſt on your puſhing it about. We've had a hard ride, and a refreſhing draught will not be amiſs—come, brother ſportſman, to our next merry meeting in the field.

Thank you, my old ſoul—

And here's wiſhing the next fox may give us as much ſport, as that ginger-colour'd gentleman.

Illo ho! illo ho! hark to him! to him!

Excellent ſtuff i'faith! This will make a man live for ever—I can't part with the tankard without t'other draught—

If I were a king, I would make the fellow, that brew'd this ſtingo, my prime miniſter.

Rot thee, Ned, thou'rt a jolly dog, and a true ſportſman!

Come, here's confuſion to all poachers.

With three chears, gentlemen; with three chears.

Huzza! huzza! huzza!

Good b'ye, gentlemen.

Gentlemen all, your moſt obedient.

So my ſiſter and Sophy have din'd?

Yes, ſir; madam did not expect you ſo ſoon, and as it was Gazette-day, they din'd at one.

Then let us have dinner immediately.

I'll juſt take a peep into the ſtable, to ſee how Chevalier does after his hard chace—didn't he behaved gallantly to⯑day, Tom?

Amazingly, ſir!

'Tis one of the beſt pieces of horſe-fleſh that ever was croſs'd.

SCENE, a genteel Apartment.

I'm ſorry, ma'am, to ſee you look ſo grave this afternoon. I'm afraid Mr. Jones runs in your head.

Mr. Jones runs in my head! What is Mr. Jones to me?

Nothing, ma'am. He's not a proper match for you to be ſure: with your fortune you may command one of the greateſt lords of the land; therefore you won't cer⯑tainly ſtoop to marry a beggar and a foundling.

I don't know what you mean by taking theſe li⯑berties with Mr. Jones! The misfortune of his birth is not his crime.

Ma'am, if it was a diſgrace, Mr. Jones has a great many people, that carry their heads very high, to keep him in countenance—well, he's one of the ſweeteſt gentlemen that ever trod on ſhoe-leather! Every body likes him: all the neighbourhood, for five miles round, would run through fire and water for him—if I were in your cloaths, and he loved me, as much as I believe he loves you—

Loves me, Honour! I don't underſtand you.

Ma'am, I may be miſtaken, it's true; becauſe, as the man ſays, we can be ſure of nothing in this world but death and taxes: however I could tell you ſomething, that looks very like it.

Ay! pray what's that, Honour?

He came into the room, as I was ſitting at work, and what ſhould be upon the table but the muff you gave me, and my gentleman whips his hands into it. "La, Mr. Jones, you'll ſpoil it," ſays I; but he ſtill kept his hands in it, and kiſs'd it, and mumbled it, and kiſs'd it—for my part I never ſaw ſuch kiſſes in my life as he gave it.

When was this?

Let me ſee—it was the day after I dreamt that I was married to Sir Timothy Tipple—laſt Thurſday—ay it was on Thurſday.—But that is not all neither—yeſterday, as you were playing on the harpſichord, he was in the next room, and look'd melancholly—ſays I, "What's the matter, Mr. [4]Jones? A penny for your thoughts"—"Huſſy," ſays he, ſtarting up as from a dream, "what can I be thinking of, when that angel your miſtreſs is playing?"—But I'm afraid you're offended, ma'am?

No, no—proceed.

Then ſqueezing my hand—he ſqueez'd ſo hard, that I thought he would have forc'd the blood out of my finger-ends—"Oh! Mrs. Honour, ſays he, how happy will that man be"—and then he ſigh'd—Upon my faith his breath is as ſweet as a noſegay—but for heaven's ſake, ma'am, don't ſpeak of this; for he gave me a guinea never to mention it. However, as I did not ſwear it, it's only a promiſe, and what ſignifies a promiſe?

Honour, if you will never mention this affair again, I'll not be angry with you: It may come to my father's ears, and he would be diſpleas'd at Mr. Jones; tho' I really believe he meant no harm.

Harm, ma'am? I'm poſitive ſure he meant no harm—"Yes, Honour, ſays he, I'm neither ſuch a coxcomb, nor ſuch a villian, as to look upon her in any other light, but as my goddeſs; and as ſuch I will always worſhip and adore her while I have breath"—this was all, ma'am; ſo you plainly ſee he meant no harm.

Well, well, let me hear no more of this—I'll take a walk in the garden—

Lord! what an odious muff is this! I can't bear it—pray fetch me my old one, Honour.

What, that your ladyſhip gave me?

Ay, that; fetch it this minute.

I will, ma'am—the old muff again! Oh ho!

Love will not be conceal'd. We try to deceive our⯑ſelves, we try to deceive others; but alas! 'tis all in vain. The more we attempt to conceal our affections, the more we expoſe ourſelves; and our very ſervants are witneſſes of our weakneſs.

Here it is, ma'am.

Thank you, dear Honour—I'll wear it again. In⯑ſtead of it, you may take the luteſtring night town.

Ma'am, I'm very much obliged to you—

A luteſtring night⯑gown for an old muff!—to be ſure ſhe does not love Mr. Jones! No, not ſhe, dear creature!—Well if I had twice her fortune, I ſhouldn't think myſelf a crumb too good for him—here he comes! Heavens bleſs him! He's a ſweet man, that's the truth on't!

Mrs. Honour, your ſervant. How does your young lady to-day?

Very well, Mr. Jones—we've juſt been talking of you.

Of me, Mrs. Honour?

Yes, Sir—I've been telling her that—that—

What?

Why what you ſaid, when ſhe was playing on the harpſichord.

Bleſs me, Mrs. Honour! How could you, when I ſo earneſtly deſir'd your ſecrecy?

Sir, I had really no deſign to mention it, but Old Scratch puſh'd me on, a purpoſe to make me break my word.

I ſhall never be able to look her in the face again.

Nay for that matter, you need not be in ſuch a fluſter neither. I don't believe ſhe's angry at you, be⯑cauſe ſhe begg'd the muff again, tho' I told her of your kiſſing it.

Again! Why had ſhe given it you?

Yes, ſir; and ſhe has juſt now bid me take a ſilk gown for it. Now you know if ſhe was angry, ſhe would ſcarce take to wearing it again.

Why that's true—yet ſhe muſt be diſpleas'd at my preſumption, in entertaining even the moſt diſtant thoughts of her—I pray thee, dear Honour, unſay it all to Sophia: Tell her it was only an invention of thy own.

Ah! you liquoriſh rogue! what are you about? Honour, go and tell Sophy to come hither.

Yes, ſir.

Kiſs me, Sophy; I have not had a buſs of thee theſe two days.—I want a little of the motion of thy [7]fingers.

"Old ſir Simon the king."

Papa, you have it ſo often, that I wonder you don't tire of it. I have this morning been practiſing an air, which I yeſterday over⯑heard Mr. Jones ſing to ſir Timothy, when you retir'd to take your afternoon's nap—let me give it you: Mr. Jones will perhaps favour you with the words.

Come, Tom, let's have it.

With all my heart, ſir.

Thank you, Tom.—

I wonder what buſi⯑neſs your damn'd muff has there to ſpoil your playing?—

I wiſh one of my beagles would come, and tear it in pieces!

I would not have it torn in pieces for a thouſand pounds.

O the enchanting angel!

A thouſand pounds! It was hardly ever worth a thouſand farthings—but I know you ſay this by way of contradiction; you're like your mother for that.

Would I could be like her in every thing! for ſhe was one of the worthieſt women upon earth.

Why there wasn't a worſe wife in all chriſtendom than ſhe made. She would ſit you ſulk, ſulk, ſulking from day's end to day's end, and all only becauſe her fa⯑ther forc'd her to marry me. She had no more affection for me to the hour of her death, than if I had been an Egyptian mummy, or a Ruſſian bear—

Ay, this is always madam's way, when [8]I talk about her mother—but we muſt crack a bottle toge⯑ther: I didn't drink much above a pint at dinner, and I generally make it up a bottle, by way of concoction, as they call it.

You know, 'ſquire, I ſeldom object to a propoſal of this kind.

No, nor to any other propoſal, I'll ſay that for thee.—But what ſay you, Tom?

No more wine for me I thank you, ſir: I muſt go and change my dreſs.

Dreſs? What ſignifies dreſs, you monkey, when you're among friends?

I'll be hang'd, Jones, if you have not ſome wench or other in your eye, or you'ld hardly take ſo much pains in adorning your perſon.

So I think, cuz; for what ſignifies dreſs, if one does not want to make the women fond of one?

Very true, ſir; and where is the man that does not wiſh to make the women fond of him?—and ſo your ſervant, gentlemen.

I muſt keep a ſharp look-out, or this young rogue will be getting hold of ſome of the huſſies in my family as ſure as a gun.

I think this poſt will never come!—Betty, take that pamphlet, and lay it on my toilette: I muſt finiſh it before I ſleep.

This author eluci⯑dates the affair of continental connexions in a moſt maſter⯑ly manner, and his reaſoning upon the national debt, and [9]internal and external taxation is unanſwerable—brother, your ſervant. I want to have a little talk with you—nay you need not go, Mr. Supple; it is nothing but what may be mention'd in your preſence.

Well, what is't about, ſiſter?

Pray have not you obſerv'd ſomething very extraordinary in your daughter of late?

Not I.

Nor you, Mr. Supple?

Not I, madam.

Gentlemen, I am abſolutely aſtoniſh'd at your blindneſs.

Why, is there any thing the matter with the girl?

Yes, I think there is; and of much conſe⯑quence too.

If any thing be the matter, acquaint me with it at once, for you know I love her more than my own ſoul.

Nay, nay, the diſorder is not ſo very danger⯑ous—I believe, gentlemen, you are both pretty well con⯑vinced—you more eſpecially, Mr. Supple—that I know the world.

Not one perſon on the whole globe knows it ſo well as yourſelf.

That's a damn'd—I know what.

Nay now, couſin, that is going rather too far. The globe you know is of very extraordinary circum⯑ference, and there are undoubtedly perſons on it, ſome few perſons, who perhaps may exceed—at leaſt equal me in that particular—well, I promiſe you I was never more deceiv'd in my life, if my niece be not—

What? what?

Moſt deſperately in love.

How? in love? Fall in love without aſking me leave? I'll diſinherit her; I'll turn her out of doors.

This is ſo like you! Always in a paſſion be⯑fore you know why.

Zounds! Don't I know—

You know nothing; nothing in the world: there is ſcarce a leſs intellectual being in the creation—ſuppoſe now ſhe ſhould have fixed upon the very perſon, whom you yourſelf would wiſh? I hope you would not be angry then?

No, no, no; that makes a wide difference! if ſhe only marries the man I would have her, ſhe may love any body ſhe pleaſes.

Brother, I muſt compliment you on the in⯑creaſe of your underſtanding; for this is poſitively the moſt ſenſible expreſſion that ever eſcaped you—I will diſ⯑claim all knowledge of the world, if the perſon, my niece, hath choſen, be not the very perſon you would chuſe for her.

But who is he?

Nay, e'en find that out your ſelf. You who are ſo profound a politician—in your own opinion—can be at no great loſs. That judgment, which can penetrate into the cabinets of princes, and diſcern the ſecret ſprings, which move the ſtate-wheels in all the political machines in Europe, can ſurely very eaſily find out what paſſes in the rude, uninform'd mind of a girl.

Siſter, don't talk your court-gibberiſh to me: I don't underſtand the lingo; and moreover, and beſides, you know, I hate every thing that belongs to the court. It's well for thee that thou'rt a woman, or I'd have lent thee many a flick, for talking to me ſo much court-nonſenſe. I'd have thraſh'd thy jacket for thee, I promiſe thee.

Ay, ay, in that flicking and thraſhing lies all your fancied ſuperiority: Your bodies, not your brains, are ſtronger than ours. 'Tis with you as with the brute creation in general; the greater your bulk and ſtrength, the ſmaller your intellects.

But prithee tell me what you mean about my daughter?

Hold a moment, while I digeſt that ſove⯑reign contempt I have for your ſex—there—now, good politic ſir, with all your prodigious ſhare of ſuppos'd ſaga⯑city, what think you of—Mr. Bliſil?

Blifil!

Blifil!

Ay, Blifil—don't you remember, gentlemen, ſhe fainted away in the field about a month ago, on ſeeing him lie breathleſs on the ground, in conſequence of ſome hoſtilities offer'd him by Jones, on account of a ſarcaſtic ſneer on his illegitimate birth? When we came up to the ſcene of action, did not you obſerve her look pale?

Yes, as pale as a playhouſe-ghoſt, I perfectly re⯑member.

'Fore George, now you mind me on't, I remember it all. I knew Sophy was a good girl, and wouldn't fall in love to make me angry—I was never more rejoic'd in my life, for nothing can lie ſo handy as the two eſtates: they are, as one may ſay, join'd in matrimony already, and it would be a thouſand pities to part them.

So it would, couſin.

And yet I can't tell what to think on't; for All⯑worthy is ſuch a queer chap, that money has no effect on him.

No effect on him? Then he muſt be made of dif⯑ferent materials from the reſt of mankind.

But what would you have me do, ſiſter?

Since you condeſcend to aſk my advice, you may propoſe the match to Allworthy yourſelf. There is no indecorum in the propoſal's coming from a parent. King Alcinous offers, in Pope's Odyſſey, his daughter to Ulyſſes.

King Alcinous offers Pope Odyſſey his daughter Ulyſſes!

Brother, your ignorance provokes me to ſmile.

Allworthy is gone to viſit a ſick tenant, and will call in his return—ſuppoſe I mention the matter.

Do ſo, do ſo; and deſire him to bring Blifil to dine with us to-morrow.

Odd rabbit it! If Allworthy ſhould refuſe the match, I ſhall be for lending him a flick, as ſure as the [10] [...] [11] [...] [12]devil's in London; for I can't bear to have my girl ſlighted.

Don't be afraid of that; the match is too advantage⯑ous to be refus'd.

Brother, do you ſuppoſe Mr. Allworthy has more contempt for money, becauſe he profeſſes more? You would make a fine plenipo at a general congreſs! You would negotiate with theſe Machiavels, the French, with great dexterity!

I'm ſure I could make as good a negotiator as you, or any political old woman in the nation; tho' we've a great many of them.

You negotiate? Yes, for a few acres of land, or a ſtack of hay.

Here's a quarrel a-brewing! I had beſt march.

Before you women ſet up for managing ſtate af⯑fairs, you ſhould learn the needful art of keeping a ſecret.

I inſiſt on't that we keep ſecrets better than you he-creatures.

In your intrigues, I grant you; there you've the advantage of us—No, no, ſiſter; tho' the folks at the head of affairs are no great conjurers, yet they are rather wiſer than to truſt an old woman with their ſecrets, ha! ha! ha!

Sir, you're both a brute and a blockhead, and if you had the leaſt ſpice of intellects or good-man⯑ners, you would ſcorn to uſe a gentlewoman of my ac⯑knowledg'd abilities in this prepoſterous manner.—Not⯑withſtanding your horſe-laugh, it is my happineſs to be univerſally regarded as a phenomenon in the political hemiſphere, and as a nonpareil in the knowledge of the world—Wiſer than truſt a woman with their ſecrets!—Sir, I beg leave to tell you, there are perſons of the firſt diſtinction—yes, of the very firſt diſtinction in the poli⯑tical world, who have not thought it beneath their dignity to truſt me, ay, me, ſir, with the moſt important ſecrets.—And let me tell you further, ſir, I have had the honour of being cloſetted with a prime-miniſter, and conſulted on an expedition, before it has been communicated to either king or council.

Cloſetted with a prime-miniſter! I'm afraid, ſiſter, there has been ſomething more than politics in the caſe.

How dare you have the effrontery to make ſo ſcurrilous and indelicate an innuendo, to a woman of my irreproachable character? A woman, who, inſtead of ſtudying perſonal embelliſhments, hath taken ſo much pains in adorning her head?

Yes, yes, you do take pains enough to adorn your head! you build it up to a monſtrous height indeed! Ecod, I can't help laughing, whenever I look at it.

Was there ever ſo affronting a ſavage!—Wiſer than truſt a woman with their ſecrets!—He has no more breeding—Were it not for his daughter, I would depart, like an offended ambaſſador, without taking leave.

Come hither, Sophy—what book is that? Let me ſee it, child—Heloiſa to Abelard!—I thought it was ſomething on love—you bluſh, child!—ah! Sophy, Sophy, I know what paſſes in that little heart of yours, more than you ima⯑gine—do you think I don't know the reaſon of your over⯑acting all that friendſhip for Mr. Blifil the other day?

Heavens! Am I diſcovered?

Nay, you need not bluſh; it is a paſſion, which both I and your father approve—come, conſtitute and appoint me of your privy-council, and I will guaranty to you the peaceable poſſeſſion of your Adonis—don't ſigh, my dear, but out with it all—no reſerve, I conjure you—the [14]affair is already on the carpet, and your father is going to have a private audience with Mr. Allworthy, in order to propoſe the match, and will invite the heir-preſumptive of your affections to dine with us to-morrow.

To-morrow, my dear aunt?—

You frighten me out of my ſenſes!

Oh! my dear, you'll ſoon come to yourſelf, for he's a moſt charming young fellow.

I muſt own I don't know another man, that ſeems to have ſo many good qualities.

Yes, yes, he has a great many indeed! I don't wonder at your loving him.

So brave.

And yet ſo gentle.

So witty.

Yet ſo inoffenſive.

So humane, ſo ſprightly—

So civil, ſo—

My dear, there is no getting in a word with you.

What ſignifies the circumſtance of his birth, when compared with ſuch qualifications!

His birth? Pray what circumſtance is there in the leaſt derogatory to the birth of Mr. Blifil?

Mr. Blifil!

Mr. Blifil? Ay, of whom elſe have we had this conference?

Good heaven! Of Mr. Jones I thought.

Jones? And is it poſſible you can think of allying yourſelf to illegitimacy? The blood of the Weſterns could never ſubmit to ſuch contamination—you are the firſt; yes, Miſs Weſtern, you are the very firſt of your name, ſince the landing of Julius Caeſar, that ever enter⯑tain'd ſo groveling a thought. The female Weſterns have been proverbially call'd the Dianas of the age, ſince the Conqueſt—and you to defile a ſtream of blood, which hath flow'd with ſuch purity for ſo many hundred—cen⯑turies!

My dear aunt, don't put yourſelf in ſo violent a rage.

Fall in love with one of ſpurious origin! I thought, miſs, the pride of your family would have re⯑ſtrain'd [15]ſuch monſtrous inclinations.—Love indeed is well enough in trades-people's daughters, chambermaids, and ſuch low-bred reptiles; but in a woman of family it is the moſt ridiculous thing upon earth. To the praiſe of the preſent nobility be it ſpoken, there is hardly any ſuch thing as love to be met with in our right honourable matches.

But, madam—

And you to think of diſgracing yourſelf and family by ſo vulgar, ſo prepoſterous a paſſion!—I'll to your father this inſtant, and inform him of the groſſneſs, the depravity, of your affection.

Alas! my dear madam—

It is in vain to importune me; the match is reſolv'd upon, and nothing can, nor ſhall prevent it.

'Tis all to no purpoſe—your ſolicitation is totally inadmiſſible.

But, madam, you will ſurely give me time to get the better of my diſinclination to Mr. Blifil?

It would be fine politics indeed to protract a ſiege, when the enemy's army is at hand, and in danger of relieving the town. As your heart is in ſo critical a ſituation, I will do all I can to haſten the match, and put your honour out of the care of your family—I ſhan't ac⯑quaint your father with your hopeful paſſion; but if you ever ſpeak to this ſpurious ſwain any more, he ſhall know the whole. I would therefore adviſe you to evacuate your heart of its attachment to ſo inadequate a pretender as Jones, and turn your thoughts wholly on the intended al⯑liance between you and Mr. Allworthy's heir-apparent.

Bleſs me, ma'am! what makes you look ſo ſad?

Alas! Honour, my father and aunt have reſolv'd on a match between me and Mr. Blifil.

Lord forbid! Even poor as I am, I would ſcarce have him myſelf, for I can't abide him—however, one comfort is, that they can't force you whether you will or no to marry him.—Dear ma'am, do not ſigh ſo.

Yes, I muſt be ſacrific'd to family-views—torment⯑ing thought!

I would not tell her that Mr. Jones was in the garden, for fear of offending her—poor ſoul! he's walk⯑ing by the canal ſtep by ſtep with his arms acroſs, and ſo thoughtful!

I'm in a peck of fears and troubles, leſt he ſhould be throwing himſelf in—and yet I think I need not be afraid on't; for hanging and drown⯑ing for love is almoſt out of faſhion.—This match with Blifil will be a terrible affair to my poor miſtreſs; for if love has not already got hold of her little heart, I am hugely miſtaken—for my part I can't blame her for liking ſo charming a man as Mr. Jones.

SCENE, A Garden.

There can be no hopes of her father's conſent; and Mr. Allworthy would never pardon an attempt to marry her without it—nay I could ſcarce pardon myſelf. Conſcience teaches me, that to repay the friendſhips of hoſpitality by this worſt kind of robbery, is to be the meaneſt, the baſeſt of all robbers.—Yet is there not a great difference between clandeſtinely marrying a friend's daughter from a motive of love, and doing it from a ſordid motive of intereſt?—Cer⯑tainly—but then her father would diſclaim her; and ſhall I, whoſe ſole ſupport flows from Mr. Allworthy's unmerited bounty, involve her in my diſtreſs? Her, who has been brought up with ſuch tenderneſs, elegance, and delicacy?—That, that hath determined me—No, no, no; let me not make her unhappy, however miſerable I may be myſelf—I muſt think no more of her.

Miſs Weſtern, your moſt obedient—this is an unexpected pleaſure indeed!

The fineneſs of the weather has tempted me out—here's a heavenly afternoon, and the reflexion of the ſun upon the water makes the canal appear remarkably beauti⯑ful—I fancy, Mr. Jones, you have ſome little ſhuddering when you ſee that water?

Shuddering, my dear madam! why?

You cannot have forgot, tho' 'tis ſo long ago, your plunge into the canal, when the bough broke, as you were climbing the tree to recover your little nameſake.

I aſſure you, madam, the concern, which you felt for the loſs of your bird, will always appear to me the higheſt circumſtance of that boyiſh adventure.

Upon my word, Mr. Jones, your gallantry had very nearly coſt you your life!

Madam, if I have any reaſon to reflect with ſorrow, it is that the water was not a little deeper.

Sure you cannot be in earneſt! This affected con⯑tempt of life is only an exceſs of your complaiſance. You would endeavour to leſſen the obligation of having ventur'd it twice on my account—you know it was laſt year in danger, when you broke your arm by leaping off your horſe, to prevent mine from throwing me—you have eſcap'd twice, but beware the third time.

Oh! Miſs Weſtern, can you deſire me to live? Can you wiſh me ſo ill?

Indeed, Mr. Jones I—I—I don't wiſh you ill: I don't indeed.

Madam, you wiſh me ill, if you wiſh me to live, for life begins to be inſupportable—your caution comes too late; the miſchief is already done.

Nay now I don't underſtand you.

My dear Miſs Weſtern, I would not be under⯑ſtood—I know not what I ſay—meeting you here ſo un⯑expectedly, I have been unguarded. I have utter'd that, which I had reſolv'd everlaſtingly to bury in this boſom—pardon me, moſt angelic creature, if I have ſaid any thing to offend you.

Mr. Jones, I will not affect to miſunderſtand you; but if you have any regard for me, let me make the beſt of my way into the houſe—I wiſh I may be able to ſupport myſelf thither.

I muſt firſt entreat your forgiveneſs of that, which love hath forc'd from me intirely againſt my will.

You have my forgiveneſs, Mr. Jones. Fortune, not Sophia, is your enemy.

SCENE, A Garden.

DEAR Nightingale, you ſhould have conſider'd her want of fortune ſooner. On promiſe of marriage, you have won her to elope from a tender mo⯑ther. You have made uſe of every effort to ſeduce her, and becauſe you cannot ſucceed, you want to ſhuffle her off. The girl is abſolutely ruined; for ſhould ſhe even return home immediately, it would be impoſſible to con⯑vince the world of her innocence.

That's true! But 'tis the very devil to marry a woman without any fortune!

Well, ìf you don't marry her, Mrs. Miller will aſſuredly die of a broken heart; and I wiſh poor Nancy may not make her exit by more haſty means; ſo you will not only have the reputation of ruining the daughter, but the glory of killing the mother.

Upon my word, Tom, thou wouldſt have made a moſt admirable parſon!

Nay, my dear Jack, I know you have not a bad heart, ſo prithee don't trifle on ſo ſerious a buſineſs.

Well, if thou'lt accompany me to Upton, I'll marry her to-morrow.

With the greateſt pleaſure.

I'll to the poor girl, and comfort her: ſhe has ſcarce had a dry eye ſince morning—but pray in what ſitu⯑ation are your affairs?

My affairs are deſperate indeed! I had foſter'd ſome diſtant hopes of the lovely Sophia; but I muſt re⯑nounce her: the peace of a worthy family requires it—ſhe never can be mine, and my only relief muſt be to forget her—to ſhake off the ſlavery of an enfeebling paſſion, I will embrace the nobleſt of all paſſions, the love of my country, and enter a volunteer in its ſervice.

SCENE, A Chamber.

So, becauſe ſhe's expounding the Gazette, as Jones calls it, to my cuz Supple, I muſt be obliged to wait the lord knows how long? Tell her—Oh! here ſhe comes!—Get thee gone.

Mr. Supple, I'll be with you again, as ſoon as poſſible.

Things look ſo well in the North, that I was never in a better humour—Brother, I am now at your ſervice for a few minutes—your pleaſure?

I have open'd the matter to Allworthy, who is now in the dining-room, acquainting his nephew with it.

Exceſſively well! You have acted like a wiſe and prudent father.—Brother, the Gazette brings good news. Things look very well in the North, and here's a pretty good article from Vienna.

The grand duke of Tuſcany was elected king of the Romans on the thir⯑teenth, and—

But, dear ſiſter, let's mind our own affairs, and leave thoſe of the grand duke to ſome other time.

Then prithee make haſte, for we have yet above a column and a half to go thro'—what doſt ſay, brother? I'm as impatient to be gone, as a vigilant gene⯑ral is to ſteal a march of the enemy—come, diſpatch, diſpatch.

As Blifil is in the houſe, ſuppoſe he and Sophy ſhould have a meeting immediately?

That requires ſome conſideration—

why—a—yes—no—certainly—by no means.

Yes—no—certainly—by no means!—The devil's in the woman to be ſure! It's con⯑founded hard that you won't give a body a direct anſwer—nay, what ſignifies my talking?—You can't hear a ſyllable, while you've have that damn'd Gazette in your hand, un⯑leſs I ſpeak as loud as a thunder-clap.

Brother!

I aſk if they may'nt as well have a meeting imme⯑diately?

Who have a meeting?

Zounds! Sophy and Blifil.

Bleſs me! How you ſwear!

Swear! You'ld make a parſon ſwear.

Well, let them have a meeting to open their amorous conferences.

But ſhould'nt I acquaint Sophy with it before hand?—Nay, now you're at it again!—I muſt have re⯑courſe to other means I find.

Brother, you are abſolutely a perfect Croat—but things look ſo well in the North, that I cannot be angry with you.

I ſay ſhould'nt I—

I'll not hear a word; not one word I aſſure you. I will by no means vouch⯑ſafe you a parley, till you make reſtitution of that literary acquiſition, which you have ſo piratically ſnatched from me.

There it is for you—ſhouldn't Sophy be acquainted before hand?

Acquainted with what?

With what? Why that ſhe and Blifil are to have a meeting.

I proteſt, brother, you are enough to frigh⯑ten one—but pray what were you aſking me?

If Sophy ſhould not be acquainted with the in⯑tended meeting between her and Blifil?

Oh! by all means, brother! Pray go and inform her of it. You are the fitteſt perſon in the univerſe to be employ'd in ſuch an embaſſy—but poor Mr. Supple will be as anxious for my return, as a harraſs'd army, after a long campaign, is to go into winter-quarters—

Letters from the Ottoman Porte bring advice that the in⯑fidels are forming an army of obſervation—

The duce Ottoman Porte thee! I'm as tir'd as a dog of her damn'd nonſenſical politics—but here comes Sophy!

Well, Sophy, I've reſolv'd to marry thee to Blifil—what a plague doſt thou ſigh for?—Come, come, none of theſe maideniſh airs—your mother, I remember, whimper'd and whin'd at our marriage, but it was all over in eight and forty hours—cheer up, cheer up, child—I'll go and bring thy lover.

How terrible is my ſituation! I can never marry this man—ſhall I then turn rebel againſt a father's authority, and violate one of the ſtrongeſt obligations that nature has impoſed on us? I ſhudder at the thought!

And yet methinks duty cannot demand the ſacrifice of my own happineſs! Surely neither heaven nor nature require me, in obedience to a parent, to marry a man, with whom I muſt be for ever miſerable.

There ſhe is! To her, to her, coo her—that's it, you jolly dog—follow her, boy—run in, run in—that's it, Honeys—dead, dead, dead—don't ſtand ſhill I, ſhall I, but puſh matters home.

Miſs Weſtern, your moſt obedient humble ſer⯑vant—Mr. Weſtern, madam, has been telling me of the honour intended me, and it is hardly in the power of words to expreſs my joy on ſuch a happy occaſion.

Fathers, Mr. Blifil, are frequently too haſty in the diſpoſal of their children; and often involve them in real miſery, by endeavouring to promote their imaginary hap⯑pineſs.

I hope Mr. Weſtern is not in that claſs of parents: I am ſo much a friend to his daughter, that I ſhould be extremely ſorry he ſhould do any thing to occaſion her diſ⯑quiet.

Then, Mr. Blifil, the only way to ſhew your friend⯑ſhip, will be to decline your pretenſions; for ſuch is my preſent ſituation, that I cannot give you the leaſt encourage⯑ment.

But, madam, may I be allow'd to aſk your reaſons?

It is needleſs: I think I have already explain'd my ſelf ſufficiently.

Leave me ſo abruptly? Then it is pretty evident ſhe does not like me—no matter: As ſhe will be the key to the two eſtates, ſhe is ſtill an object worthy my purſuit—by marrying her, I ſhall not only ſucceed to the fortunes of both families, but compaſs a moſt deſirable point, the expulſion of Jones—the marriage muſt be hurried on as [25]faſt as poſſible: I begin to have ſome ugly fears about Dowling! It is very lucky that he is now in London—I muſt conceal Sophia's coldneſs, and tell her father ſhe has given me a moſt favourable reception, as that will be the only means to haſten the match—here he comes!

My daughter, gone!—Well, how did ſhe receive you?

Beyond my hopes! Oh! ſhe's the moſt charming creature!

Tol lol de rol.

So affable, ſo obliging!

Tol lol de rol.

So eaſy! So winning in her deportment!

Tol lol de rol.

So engaging in her manner! and ſo very favourable to my hopes!

My dear boy, I ſhall be happier than either of you—run to your uncle, and bleſs him with the news—

HONOUR croſſes the Stage.

Honour, tell Sophy I want her.

Yes ſir.

My dear Sophy, I'm the happieſt dog in the world! Chuſe what cloaths thou wilt, what jewels thou wilt; eat what thou wilt, drink what thou wilt, do what thou wilt; for [26]I have no other uſe for money, but to make thee happy— my dear, dear Sophy! thou'rt my only joy upon earth.

And can my dear papa be ſo good, as to place all his joy in my happineſs?

Yes, burn me if I don't!

Then pray do not make me the moſt miſerable crea⯑ture upon earth.

How? What?

Alas! ſir, I cannot poſſibly marry Mr. Blifil.

Not marry Blifil?

No indeed, ſir, I cannot—and will the beſt of fa⯑thers break my heart?

Pho! pho! pho! all ſtuff and nonſenſe!—break your heart indeed! As if marriage could break any wo⯑man's heart?—No, no; women's hearts are not ſo eaſily broken: I know that by experience; I could never break your mother's.

A marriage with Mr. Blifil is even worſe than death.

You ſhall have him; you ſhall by my ſoul! This is my fix'd reſolution, and ſo conſider on't.

Dear ſir, what's the matter?

I have not breath to tell thee, Tom—that unduti⯑ful huſſy hath put me in ſuch a paſſion, that I could fight with my own ſhadow—prithee take her in thy arms, and ſet her in a chair.—I have been telling her my reſolution of marrying her to Blifil, and—

Blifil!

Ay Blifil: what a pox didſt thou ſtart at?

N—nothing, ſir; nothing at all—Mr. Blifil, ſir—to be ſure, ſir, is—a very un—equal—I mean unexception⯑able match—confuſion!

Tom, you anſwer very queerly! What's the mat⯑ter? Ar'n't you well?

Never worſe in my life, ſir. I've ſo violent a pain in my head, that I would thank any body for blowing out my brains this inſtant.

Blowing out one's brains is a ready way to be ſure to get quit of the head-ach—but, as I was telling thee, Tom, tho' I have reſolv'd to marry her to Blifil, the diſ⯑obedient young huſſy won't agree to the match.—You un⯑dutiful jade, I've a good mind to—but I won't put my ſelf in a paſſion; for paſſion is like—is like—is like dram-drinking; it ſets a man all in a blaze, all in a blaze, all in a blaze—

No, I'm reſolv'd I won't be in the leaſt paſſion imaginable—talk to her, Jones; I know ſhe has an opinion of thee—talk her into her duty—d'ye hear, Tom?

If it is your pleaſure, ſir, I'll do it with all my heart.

Wilt thou?—Give me thy hand—I'll leave thee with her, and I heartily wiſh thou mayſt prevail on her to do, as thou wouldſt have her.

And ſo do I moſt ſincerely

Give me thy hand again—thou'rt the beſt friend I have in the world—my dear Tom, leave nothing undone to gain thy point.

Nothing in my power, I aſſure you, ſir.

Thank thee kindly: thou'rt a prince of a man—but may I be hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd, if I don't turn her out of doors, unleſs ſhe have him! May I be gib⯑betted if I don't!

Mr. Jones, for heaven's ſake how came you here? Leave me inſtantly I entreat you.

Do not impoſe on me ſo harſh a command—Turn not thus inhumanly from me—O ſpeak to me, Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart.

Alas! Mr. Jones, what comfort have I to beſtow? You know my father's intentions.

But, at the ſame time, I know your compliance with them cannot be compelled.

Where's this raſcal, this Jones? I'll have his heart's blood!

O heavens! My father!

Ha! my daughter fainting! Here, ſiſter! Ho⯑nour! [29]Jenny! Help! Water! Water! Richard! Thomas! William! Water! Water! Water!

Stand off! leave her to me: I have ſome Aſſa foetida in my ſmelling-bottle—this will bring her to herſelf—

Brother, you will never leave off theſe boiſterous ways: you're enough to frighten half the ſex into fits—you won't ſtrive to get the better of that natural rage and brutality, notwithſtanding all the pains I take to lecture, and poliſh you into a civiliz'd being—Oh! ſhe revives!—Honour, help me to lead her off.

Now I'll be reveng'd on the raſcal—

cuz, let me go, for I will have ſatisfaction—off with thy cloaths, if thou'rt a man—off with thy cloaths I ſay, and I'll lick thee, as thou was't never lick'd in thy days— A damn'd beggarly baſtard! To come here a-poaching after my daughter!—Let me come at the dog; let me come at him I ſay: I can bear it no longer!

Sir, this uſage is hardly to be born; but no abuſe, however virulent, can provoke me to retaliate on the father of Sophia.

You raſcal, I'll fight you for fifty guineas, if you dare: nay I'll do't for pure love.

Here comes Mr. Allworthy!

Dear ſir, what is the matter with you?

You've brought up your by-blow, if he be yours, to a fine purpoſe. My daughter has fallen in love with him over head and ears, that's all—It's well for him that cuz would not let me get at him, or I'd have trimm'd him, I'd have ſpoil'd his catterwawling.

But pray, ſir.—

Yes, if ſhe will have him, the cloaths on her back ſhall be all her portion: I'd ſooner give my eſtate to the devil than to her.

I am extremely ſorry that I conſented to his ſtaying with you, during the ſporting ſeaſon.

Pfha! Pox o'your ſorrow! It will do me abun⯑dance of good truly, when I have loſt my only child, that was all the joy, hope, and comfort of my age—

but ſhe ſhall beg, and ſtarve, and rot in the ſtreets for me. Not a farthing, no not a braſs farthing, ſhall ſhe have of mine—the raſcal was always a dab at finding a hare, but I little thought what puſs he was looking after—if I ſhould loſe my poor girl, it will break my heart; for I love her more than all the dogs, and horſes in the world.

This affair hath really amaz'd me!

And me too, I aſſure you.

Pray, neighbour, when did you find it out?

Siſter told me juſt now.

But did you never diſcover any ſymptoms of love between them?

What the plague d'ye think I'm a conjurer?—No, no, no; you may be ſure they took care to keep the matter from me—I have indeed, now and then, ſeen him caſt a ſheep's eye at her, but that you know young fel⯑lows will do, without being in love: but, as I hope to be ſav'd, I never ſaw him kiſs her but once; and that was at my bidding, to puniſh her for bluſhing, when I told her, by way of banter, Jones was ſo handſome a fellow, that I was afraid ſhe would be falling in love with him.

A wiſe puniſhment indeed!

But I muſt away and look after the wench, for fear ſhe give me the flip.

Well, what would you have me do?

Do? Warn the raſcal to keep away from this [31]houſe; for if I catch him here, curſe me if I am not the death of him!

I had beſt follow, to prevent miſchief.

This youngſter's ingratitude touches me nearly—I cannot eaſily pardon his deſign on Miſs Weſtern—Blifil!

Dear ſir, you ſeem diſturb'd.

Diſturb'd? Yes, I am diſturb'd, and diſtreſs'd to the laſt degree upon your account—I am ſorry to inform you that Miſs Weſtern is in love with Jones.

In love with Jones?—Confuſion!—However, I'm but rightly ſerv'd—it is no wonder the man ſhould rival me, who has attempted to make me a beggar.

To make you a beggar? Explain yourſelf—What has he done?

No matter, ſir—let it reſt.

Your reſerve will diſpleaſe me. I deſire to know the affair.

I beg to be excus'd—to tell it at this time would have the appearance of malice.

Nephew, I inſiſt upon knowing it.

An uncle's command muſt be obey'd—during your late ſickneſs—but pray excuſe me.

I will admit of no excuſe—proceed.

When you were given over by the phyſicians, he made a bold attempt to inherit your whole eſtate.

To inherit my whole eſtate? By what means?

By ſuch as will hardly ſeem credible—he tampered with farmer Flail and his wife, to witneſs a will under your ſignature; offering them five thouſand pounds, and promiſing to marry their daughter.

Is it poſſible?

Dear ſir, if you've the leaſt doubt, let the farmer be inſtantly ſent for.

Nephew, I know you're incapable of telling me a lie, therefore I want no farther proof.—A villain! I'll make him an example.

The farmer is prepar'd: 'twas lucky that I plann'd the buſineſs with him this afternoon—The promiſe of a thouſand pounds, and the renewal of his leaſe, have ſe⯑cur'd [32]him—if I can but accompliſh the removal of Jones from my uncle, I ſhall be very eaſy about Sophia; ſhe may diſpoſe of her hand to whom ſhe pleaſes.

SCENE, A Chamber; a Table, on which are a Globe, ſeveral Maps, Pamphlets, and News-papers.

Here is the map, couſin; now I'll ſhow you Franckfort—Ay, here is Franckfort! It muſt be a very large city, for the geographer has laid it down, in this ſmall map, full as big as a horſe-bean—well, I ſhould have lik'd to ſee the new emperor make his public entry into Franck⯑fort. The proceſſion muſt be prodigiouſly ſuperb and mag⯑nificent!

No doubt on't—the election of the grand duke muſt be a very favourable circumſtance to the queen of Hungary.

Oh! the moſt auſpicious event in the world! He will certainly put all the belligerent powers, now in hoſtility with his royal conſort, under the ban of the em⯑pire, if not actually declare war with them—yes, yes, as you obſerve, the queen's affairs will receive great benefit from the ſtrength of the emperor.

I hope you will now indulge me with an audience on our own affairs?

Then make it your audience of leave, for it is really too late to think of engaging in an offenſive and defenſive alliance for life.

Madam, it is never too late to be happy.

But, couſin, will your hereditary dominions be able to furniſh adequate ſupplies for a combin'd army? The junction of our forces, tho' we ſhould have no infan⯑try, muſt inevitably cauſe a great effuſion of money; and your revenues are not of the largeſt.

If they fall ſhort, I preſume my dear ally will have no objection to furniſh her quota, as her finances are in ſo flouriſhing a ſtate.

You might perhaps be intitled to a ſubſidy from me as an ally. I don't mean as a Britiſh ally; for the allies of this iſland, inſtead of contributing to the expences [33]of a war, are often well paid for doing nothing—except defending their own territories—but do you really think we could live happily together?

Certainly: with the moſt cordial affection; not with the faſhionable indifference, I might call it averſion, of modern couples.

Madam, I have ſuch a plan for ſpending the winter!

A plan! Pray let me hear it.

Laſt week you were wiſhing for a new tranſlation of your favourite Puffendorf. I will undertake it, and my amiable auxiliary ſhall enrich the work with her learned notes and annotations.

This gives me as much joy, as the news of a complete victory over the French!—But—but—I ſay ſup⯑poſe you ſhould let me have the credit of the tranſlation?—Only oblige me in that, and I may ſurrender at diſcretion—come, you muſt, couſin: you poſitively muſt.

I will if you'll give me one kiſs by way of earneſt.

I think it quite ſufficient, if I ſuffer you to take one— there's my cheek; I never give more than the cheek; lips ſhould only be given to a huſband.

In which ſenſe you ought now to regard me.

No, no, couſin; not till you've ratified the definitive treaty, and ſworn to it at the altar.

Pſha! I don't like ſuch cold kiſſes.

Good heaven! yonder is my niece! I'm in the utmoſt conſternation—pray, Mr. Supple, retreat with all poſſible precipitation—

I hope ſhe has not reconnoitred us! If ſhe has been lying in ambuſh to watch our motions, I am in a fine dilemma.

Well, niece, are you yet reconcil'd to the intended match?

Madam, it is impoſſible to be reconcil'd to the match, while I diſlike the man.

Diſlike the man? If I were not fifty times a greater philoſopher than Plato, and five hundred times more placid than Socrates himſelf, you would poſitively put me in a rage—did ever any body hear ſo ridiculous an objection?—The liking of huſbands is now-a-days as much out of faſhion, as real patriotiſm.

But, madam, where one's inclinations—

Inclinations! Inclinations quotha! I am ab⯑ſolutely aſtoniſh'd at your aſſurance! One of your years talk of inclinations!—a girl! a child! a baby! an infant! a ſuckling!—Inclinations! Inclinations!

Dear madam, I alone am concern'd, and my hap⯑pineſs is at ſtake, wherefore—

You alone concern'd? So far from it, madam, that you are not concern'd at all—do you conceive, miſ⯑treſs, when a daughter of France is married into Spain, the princeſs alone is conſider'd in the match? No: the family alliance is the ſole object of conſideration; the princeſs is only thrown into the ſcale as a mere make-weight—'Tis the very ſame with great houſes, ſuch as ours.

Madam, I ſhould be ſorry to do any thing to diſ⯑oblige my family; but as for Mr. Blifil, no force on earth ſhall compel me to marry him.

Thou ſhalt have him, as ſure as ever thou waſt born.

Why, ſir, will you dare to interfere, when I have undertaken to manage her?

I'll manage her myſelf for the future.

You manage her? Ha! ha! ha! She will be moſt gloriouſly manag'd indeed!—Such a boor as you talk of managing a young lady?

Boor? I'm no more a boor than yourſelf, madam.

Sir, I ſhall endure your inſolence and bruta⯑lity no longer—this is the laſt night I will ſleep in your houſe, I aſſure you

A good riddance!—Blood! it's enough to make my daughter undervalue my ſenſe, when ſhe hears you every hour calling me a fool.

It is impoſſible that any one ſhould under⯑value ſuch a blockhead.

Blockhead, madam? I've more ſenſe than you and your whole generation put together, tho' you're always preaching up your ſkill in politics, and great knowledge of the world—would any body but you have put me upon a wrong ſcent, about my daughter's being in love with Blifil? There was politics! there was knowledge of the world!—Ah! you old fool you!

Tell James to get my coach—

An ill-bred provoking blockhead! I'll not ſtay ano⯑ther minute in his houſe.

Pray, my dear aunt—

Not another minute, I aſſure you, child.

Loo! loo! loo! loo! loo!—Ay, let her go and be hang'd—I'm certainly the moſt unfortunate dog in the world! It is always my fate to be whipt in by the humours of ſome damn'd jade or other. —But curſe my jacket, if I will be run down in this manner by any of them!

Dear ſir, entreat my aunt to ſtay.

Stay? What to indict me for a plot, and have me hang'd, that the government may get my eſtate?

My aunt, ſir, is ſo far from injuring you, that ſhe hath left you her whole fortune.

Ay, but ſhe's ſuch an odd-temper'd devil, I ſhall never be ſure of what ſhe has, till ſhe's at her laſt gaſp.

Then pray, ſir, entreat her to ſtay: a little ſubmiſ⯑ſion will ſatisfy her.

So, I muſt aſk pardon for your fault? You've loſt the hare, and I muſt draw every way to find her?—Well, for this once I'll take your advice, for fear of the worſt.—A damn'd old hag!—But I muſt humour her.

O lud, ma'am! poor Mr. Jones! poor Mr. Jones!

What of him?

Is turn'd adrift by Mr. Allworthy, for making love to you. Poor creature! how he begg'd and pray'd to take his laſt farewel of you; but Mr. Allworthy would not al⯑low it—the door ſtood a little a-jar, and I heard all that paſs'd.

You aſtoniſh me, Honour!

When I found they were parting, I ran down the back-ſtairs, and met Mr. Jones in the hall. He look'd me full in the face, but was not able to ſpeak a word; preſs'd my hand, kiſs'd it, ſigh'd, beat his breaſt, burſt into tears, and then march'd off for the ale-houſe, where Black George, the game-keeper, is going to carry his cloaths to—I'm ſure my poor heart was ready to bre—bre—break, to ſee him in ſuch a pi—pi—piteous taking.

And have I been the cauſe of his ruin?

Nay, ma'am, there's ſomething beſides you in the caſe. Mr. Allworthy charg'd him with a deſign of forg⯑ing a will; which he ſolemnly denied, and even offer'd to [37]face his accuſers: But Mr. Allworthy would not give up his author.

Forge a will? Impoſſible!

Ay, ma'am, full as impoſſible, as for me to fly over the moon.

Here; take my purſe—theſe rings—this watch—

Ma'am, my maſter may miſs the watch and rings, and you may want the money.

Then thou ſhalt ſupply me—away! find Black George, and carry this to Mr. Jones—go, go, go.

Yes, I muſt loſe him for ever! What a pity it is, that the caſual difference of our ſituation ſhould make us both unhappy!

SCENE, A Dinning-Room.

As Mr. Allworthy is guarantee for your fu⯑ture behaviour, I will grant you a peace; but take care how you renew hoſtilities with me.

Dear ſiſter, I'll never offend you again, while breath's in my body.

Away then, and bring your daughter to her ſwain.

Mr. Allworthy, our plan of operations muſt be concerted for a ſurprize, not a ſtorm.

Madam, I am utterly againſt all violent meaſures.

But I hope, ſir, you will indulge me with an⯑other interview?

I have no objection to that: uſe every fair method to gain her, but no compulſion.

Here ſhe is, Blifil—come, let's leave 'em together—She's more complying than I expected.

Ay, ay, ſhe will capitulate at laſt. The ſtrongeſt citadel muſt yield to a vigorous ſiege.

Miſs Weſtern, I am once more ſo happy, as to be with you alone; and now let me hope for a more favour⯑able hearing.

Mr. Blifil, ſhall I be ingenuous with you?

Undoubtedly, madam.

Then let me once more declare to you, it is impoſ⯑ſible that I can be yours.

Why impoſſible, Miſs Sophy? Time perhaps—

Don't flatter yourſelf; I ſhall never conſent, and it will be in vain to give yourſelf any further trouble about me.

And is this your ſerious reſolution?

It is: I therefore hope you will immediately deſiſt.

If this be the caſe, I muſt apply to Mr. Weſtern, and your aunt.

Apply to whom you pleaſe, I never can ſuffer it.

Excuſe me, madam, if I don't take this anſwer from you—I ſhall acquaint Mr. Weſtern with what has paſs'd, and leave you to declare your ſentiments and re⯑ſolutions to him.

Inſufferable aſſurance!—Tho' I tremble at the thoughts of diſobeying a father, yet all his authority can⯑not compel me to marry this deteſted inſolent.

O dear Ma'am! I'm frighten'd out of my wits!—My maſter has been ordering the ſteward to take horſe for a licence. He ſwore with a great oath, that you ſhould be married to Mr. Blifil to-morrow.

To-morrow!

Support me—pray, dear Honour, give me thy advice—What wouldſt thou do in my caſe?

Do? Why any thing to be ſure before I would marry a man I could not abide.

But what wouldſt thou do in my ſituation?

Go off directly to London, ma'am.

Fly from my father? No, no, no; I can never think of this deſperate remedy—good heaven! What will become of me?—I ſhall run diſtracted—let us to my chamber; perhaps we may hit on ſome expedient.

Only be rul'd by me, ma'am, and all will be well, I warant you.

SCENE, An Alehouſe.

And you thought I intended to leave you?

I confeſs I was not without my fears; but you have effectually remov'd them, by the aſſurance you have given me of our marriage to-morrow—I am now really happy!

And ſhall we ſet off for Upton to-night?

As ſoon as ever poor Jones hath finiſh'd his letter to Mr. Allworthy.

I pity the unfortunate gentleman, and ſhall al⯑ways love him for thoſe noble principles, which you tell me he diſplayed in your late interview.

Yes, my dear Nancy, his generous advice hath greatly contributed to our happineſs. I muſt own that the fear of a father's reſentment operated on me very ſtrongly.

How ſorry my mamma will be for this breach between Mr. Jones, and his benefactor!

I've diſpatched my letter, and now am ready to at⯑tend you.

And pray, ſir, how do you find yourſelf?

Abundantly eaſier—I have taken my everlaſting leave of the moſt adorable Sophia.

Leave of Sophia! You have not ſeen her? Have you?

No: I've eternally renounced her in my letter. I have given up love to glory and patriotiſm. My country is now my miſtreſs, whom I will ſerve with the moſt in⯑violable fidelity.

SCENE, An Inn at Upton.

WITH a woman ſayſt thou? Can it be?

As ſure as my name's Honour, ma'am. I got a full view of him, as the maid carried in the tea-kettle.

Then there is no truth in man—order the horſes: inſtead of flying to my couſin at London, I will return home.

But, ma'am—

Falſe, falſe man!—I'm aſham'd of this weakneſs—away!

Well, were it my caſe, I would mortify my gen⯑tleman; I would bounce into the room, and ſurprize them.

Thou haſt inſpired me with a thought—yes, he ſhall know I have been here—

there's my name; pin it to the muff, and bribe the maid to convey it into the room. Bid her lay it where he cannot miſs ſeeing it.

I ſhall, ma'am.

Baſe, inconſtant, and ingrateful man! How had inclination tempted me to deviate from duty!—but from this moment, I will abandon the thoughts of him, and his perfidious ſex for ever.

Betty has carried it in—ſhe ſays there's a crack in the wainſcot, through which one may ſee them—Oh! here it is!—I'll have a peep—they ſit very lovingly toge⯑ther—Ah! the duce take you, for a falſe-hearted creature!—She ſits with her back this way: I wiſh ſhe would turn about, that one might ſee her face!—Take a peep, ma'am; do.

No, no, no; I won't trouble myſelf about him.

With what pleaſure he looks on her!—Now he reſts his elbow on the table, and ſeems grave—now he's all life and gaiety—Ah! you're a pretty gentleman!

A baſe man! I bluſh at the recollection of my paſt folly.

Ha! he ſtarts! his eyes are fixed on the muff—He takes it up, and ſeems quite aſtoniſhed—Ay, ay, his conſcience begins to fly in his face!—he leaves the room!

He is coming here then—lock the door—Good heaven! what ſhall I do?

Do? E'en ſee him, ma'am.

See him! No, no, no: I'll never ſee him more.

I vow he's talking to Betty—He comes this way—that's he!

How ſhall I avoid him?

Get into this cloſet.

Miſs Weſtern!—Madam!—Sophia!

Who's there?

'Tis I, dear Honour—pray open the door,

Bleſs me, ſir! who thought of ſeeing you here?

Dear Honour, where's your lady?

At home, I ſuppoſe: I've left her ſervice.

No, no; the maid tells me ſhe is in the houſe.

Well, if ſhe is in the houſe, ſhe won't ſee you, ſir.

Not ſee me? how have I offended her?—I muſt ſpeak to her—I muſt indeed, Honour.

She's in that cloſet—

I tell you, ſir, you may as well be gone, for ſhe'll have no⯑thing to ſay to you.

She's in this cloſet; I hear her ſtir—'tis ſhe!—ſhe comes!

I beg, ſir, you will leave me inſtantly.

But why, my dear angel, ſo cruel a requeſt?

No matter: I know too much, ever to think of you more.

If to love and adore you more than ever man did woman; if to prefer your happineſs to my own; if to dread your diſpleaſure more than death itſelf be criminal, I plead guilty: but—

Be at no trouble to juſtify yourſelf, ſir—What! not paſs one day after you had left me, without devoting your⯑ſelf to another!

To another?—To whom?—May heaven—

Hold, Sir! do not add perjury to inconſtancy.

I ſaw you with her, Mr. Jones, I'll take my Bible-oath on't.

With whom?

With a madam, if I muſt ſpeak plain Engliſh.

Me? when? where?

Yes, you; juſt this minute; in next room, ſir.

That young lady—

Lady! A very fine lady! Of the right ſort I warrant her.

Miſs Weſtern, if there be any faith in man —

No excuſes; they are quite needleſs.—I am almoſt diſtracted.

Sophia!—my moſt adorable So⯑phia!—Nay, this is ſo perverſe—Miſs Weſtern!—my dear angel!—Honour!—Mrs. Honour!—Then there's but one way to convince them.

What does he mean? He ſeems to face us down; but ſeeing's believing all the world over.

How does my dear ſchool-fellow?

Miſs Miller!

What brings you here?

A run-away ſcheme—I ſuppoſe ſomewhat like your own, my dear. Mr. Nightingale has prevailed on me to take a matrimonial trip.—We were in your neigh⯑bourhood yeſterday, and came hither laſt night, accompa⯑nied by Mr. Jones—The rector, it ſeems, is on a viſit at a friend's, about five miles hence; and Mr. Night⯑ingale went to him, near three hours ago, to procure a licence; leaving me in the care of this gentleman till his return.

I hope the matter is now explain'd, madam?

And ſo I find it has been jealous of me? Has it?

My dear Nancy, how could you be ſo raſh?

Ah! my dear, what is it that a woman won't do for the man ſhe loves?

As I live there's Mr. Nightingale, and a gentleman!—Excuſe me, Miſs Sophy; I muſt attend my lord and maſter.

And thro' the world with him.

So! Now miſs is gone, the beſt thing I can do is to leave them together: leaſtwiſe I ſhould like to be ſerv'd ſo myſelf.

O Sophia! did you but know the torments I have ſuffer'd, ſince we parted, you would not thus have added to my affliction, by ſuppoſing me capable of inconſtancy.

I confeſs I was too haſty; but appearances partly juſtified my ſuſpicions—And yet, alas! why ſhould I in⯑tereſt myſelf in your conduct?

Why not, my angel? Give me but the leaſt hope, and I will wait till time, and ſome favourable event ſhall reconcile your father.

Alas! Mr. Jones, you know I am not miſtreſs of myſelf.—Yet I will confeſs, that did not duty forbid, even ruin with you would be preferable to the moſt affluent fortune with another.

Ruin! Oh! Sophia, can I be the vil⯑lain to ruin thee? No; by heavens! no: I will give you up; yes, I will give you up for ever; tho' it muſt render me completely miſerable.

Stay, Honour—My father! heaven and earth! is he come?

He, Mr. Allworthy, Supple, and that odious pragmatical Blifil are juſt lighted.

Ruin'd paſt redemption!

Away to miſs Miller, and leave me to ſtand the brunt.

Shew me her chamber—I'll unkennel her—I'll have her, if ſhe be above ground.

Illo ho! illo ho! we've got the dog-fox; I'll warrant madam is not far off—

Where's Sophy, you raſcal?—

Sirrah, you've ſtole my daughter, and I'll have you hang'd.—I have not been in the commiſſion of the peace ſo long, not to know it is a hanging matter to ſteal an heireſs.—You ſhall ſwing for't, you dog; you ſhall be tuck'd up; you ſhall dangle. I expect to be prickt for high-ſheriff, and I'll ſee you exe⯑cuted.

Sir, I can aſſure you I was not in the leaſt privy to miſs Weſtern's flight.

Don't ſay ſo, Mr. Jones: this proves you guilty.

It is miſs Sophy's; I've ſeen her wear it.

My daughter's? So it is I'll be ſworn!—Bear witneſs, gentlemen; the goods are found in his cuſtody; in ſuo cuſtodium—this will do his buſineſs—tol lol de rol—he ſhall be hang'd for it, an it coſt me ten thouſand pound.

It is in vain, Mr. Jones, to perſiſt in this falſhood. If you did not decoy the young lady away, how comes ſhe to be here with you?

Ay, pray how comes ſhe to be here with you?

Right! how comes ſhe to be here with you?

By mere accident I aſſure you, gentlemen. Miſs Miller, who is in the next room, will convince you of it.

Pho! pho! pho! All a pack of damn'd lies!

However, neighbour, if he did not decoy her away, he will, in my eye, appear a good deal leſs criminal.

But where's Sophy, you villain?

In the next room with Miſs Miller. [Exeunt Allworthy, Weſtern, Supple, and Bliſil. My dear Sophy! I fear the violence of her father's temper will be too much for her.

My dear Tom, I've got the licence.—Pray do you know my couſin Dowling, the attorney?

Very well: what of him?

I overtook him about a mile from hence; and happening to ſpeak of Mr. Allworthy's diſpleaſure, he ſaid he muſt communicate to him an affair, which would re⯑inſtate you in his favour.

Where is Miss Weſtern, madam?

In the next room with her papa and the gen⯑tlemen—Poor creature! ſhe will have a ſad time on't.

Excuſe me: I muſt know the iſſue of this buſineſs.

Nancy, let me have a diſh of coffee, and then we'll to church.—I am now truly happy! So ſincere is my love, that I would not exchange thee for a diadem.

SCENE, A large Room. A tankard on the table.

Your obſtinacy is not to be endur'd—What does the girl ſnivel and cry for?

Alas! my dear father, I can't help it.

Ah! it's an old croſs-grain'd patch!

What can I do more to make you happy? You know I love you ſo well, that I would ſee all the world hang'd, before I would even have your little finger hurt.

The world is very much oblig'd to you truly!

And yet all this won't do.—But I muſt ſecure you, till I have breakfaſted.—In—in to that room.—In with [49]you both—

There!—

I have her as ſecure now, as a fox in a bag.—Whew!

Here, houſe!—Whew!—

Landlady, I want ſomething for breakfaſt.

Coffee or tea, your honour's worſhip?

Pox on ſuch rot-gut ſtuff! Some ham, cold but⯑tock of beef, veniſon paſty, or any thing on the ſubſtan⯑tial order.

We've nothing cold; the ſoldier fellows have eat up all.

Ah! the devil take them! A ſwarm of red-coat locuſts! They'll eat up the whole nation by and by.

Would your honour's worſhip chuſe ſome new-laid eggs and bacon?

Nothing better: 'tis a breakfaſt for an emperor! Get them ready as faſt as poſſible—And hark you—ſend me a pipe; I've tobacco of my own.

Yes, an't pleaſe your honour's worſhip.

This is excellent beer i'faith! I'm one of your true Engliſhmen; I hate all ſlipſlops.

Sure no one ever had ſo intolerable a journey!—I'm fatigued to death I—I ſhan't be able to riſe out of my chair theſe three hours—I'm jolted to pieces—Well, where's my niece?

Lock'd up.

Lock'd up! I thought you would be taking ſuch head-ſtrong meaſures!—Why will you pretend to meddle with matters, ſo infinitely beyond your knowledge?

Zounds ànd blood! did ever any body hear the like! To be fallen upon in this manner, when I expected you would commend me for what I've done!

Commend you? Your operations are diame⯑trically oppoſite to my free principles, and totally incon⯑ſiſtent with Magna Charta—Let my niece be ſet at liberty this inſtant, and given up to my management—Will you agree to this ſtipulation?—I expect a categorical anſwer—Either cede her intirely to me, or take her wholly to your own ſurpriſing diſcretion; and then I here, before Mr. Supple, evacuate the garriſon, and renounce all family-compact with you for ever.

Mr. Weſtern, let me be a mediator.

There's the key: ſhe may take it up if ſhe will.

No, ſir; I inſiſt on the formality of its be⯑ing deliver'd.

There then—I wiſh old ſcratch had her!

If your daughter had always liv'd with me, you would have had no occaſion for locks, bolts, nor bars.

Zounds and the devil! What would you have me do?—You're enough to make me raving mad.

There now! Look you there! Juſt accord⯑ing to his old cuſtom! Flying out upon every occaſion, right or wrong—Abſolutely, brother, there is no ſpeak⯑ing to you! If I were not a woman of the meekeſt diſpo⯑ſition upon earth, I could not poſſibly live under the ſame roof with you—I will appeal to Mr. Supple, whom every body allows to be a man of great ſenſe, if I have ſaid even one individual thing, to put any human being, except ſuch an iraſcible animal as yourſelf, into the leaſt paſſion imaginable.

Let me beg you, dear madam, not to irritate him any further.

Irritate him! You are ten times a greater blockhead than himſelf. It is my misfortune to be [51]hemm'd round by ſuch fools and dunces!—Mercy on all affairs under the guidance and direction of you men!—you are ſuch a parcel of purblind creatures!—The head of one woman is worth fifty thouſand of yours.

A fractious, croſs-grain'd, contradictious, ſelf-opiniated, Preſbyterian, Oliverian hag! when ſhe takes to a thing, one can no more turn her from it, than a young beagle can turn an old hare:—I was a damn'd fool ever for thinking of her eſtate; but as I've been a ſlave ſo long, it would be a pity to loſe it at laſt, for want of holding out.

Couſin, I highly commend your prudence.

The world is come to a fine paſs indeed, if we muſt be lock'd up when every whimſical huſband, or father takes in into his ſelf-ſufficient noddle to confine us!

Very true, ma'am! locking, and bolting, and bar⯑ring won't do for an Engliſhwoman.

Well, you remember the ſtipulation?

Yes, yes; I'll neither meddle nor make. The girl can never be in better hands. My cuz here will do me the juſtice to own, that I've been praiſing you up to the ſkies, and ſaying you was the beſt-temper'deſt woman in the world, and fit to have the care of a princeſs-royal—have not I, cuz?

Yes indeed, and a great deal more, ſir. I never heard you ſpeak more handſomely of Mrs. Weſtern in my life.

Brother, I'm ſatisfied—you are naturally too [52]raſh and precipitate; but when you give yourſelf time to reflect, I don't know a man more reaſonable.

Nor I neither.

I am indeed a little paſſionate, but, like all true Engliſhmen, I ſcorn to bear malice—But come, cuz, let's go to breakfaſt; I've ordered ſome eggs and bacon—B'ye, my dear ſiſter—

we'll never have another quarrel, as long as we live—I wiſh ſhe were once dead with all my heart!

Eggs and bacon for breakfaſt! What a Hot⯑tentot!—who would ſay he is any thing a-kin to me!

Bleſs me! what a fright am I! This journey has made me look ten years older.

In my opinion you never look'd better, madam.

O fie, child! no, no, Sophy: faces will grow worſe for wear—but for all that, I've had my con⯑queſts, and a coronet among them; but he was remark⯑ably ugly, and very poor—Sophy, I was never ſo hand⯑ſome as you, and yet I had a great deal of you formerly.

Ma'am, Mr. Blifil deſires to ſpeak with you.

Well, child, what would you have me do?

Pray, my dear aunt, don't ſuffer him to come in.

Well, well, he ſhan't—I'll go to him—yes, yes, I have had my conqueſts.

Ma'am, you ſeem to have got the old lady into a very good humour; but a little flattery always does it, for ſhe loves it as well as a girl of nineteen.

Miſs Weſtern, if you're at leiſure, I could wiſh to have a little converſation with you.

That's as much as to ſay, "March, Honour."

I'm extremely ſorry, madam, for the uneaſineſs I have occaſioned; but it was not my fault:

I hope, ſir, you are not offended at my behaviour to your nephew?

No apology, dear madam. Such a diſcovery hath [53]been made, that I muſt always bluſh at the reflexion of his being my nephew—yet I could ſtill wiſh to have ſo accom⯑pliſhed a young lady in my family; wherefore I beg leave to make you a tender of—

I hope Mr. Allworthy's good ſenſe will prevent him from making any offers of that kind?

Madam, I am juſtly reprehenſible for not explain⯑ing myſelf ſooner: the tender I mean is not on my own, but my nephew's account.

Your nephew's? I thought you had ſaid—

I don't mean that wretch Blifil, but one whom I am pretty ſure you will like—the very man, whom I am confident you would wiſh.

Heaven and earth! Mr. Jones!

It is, it is—

I have uſed him very hardly, in ſo haſtily and cruelly diſmiſſing him. I feel more on the occaſion thàn I am able to expreſs.

I aſk pardon, ſir: I thought you were alone.

Stay—hark you, ſir—ſee that you find me the let⯑ter, which your mother ſent me on her death-bed.

Letter, ſir?

Ay, letter— your mother ſent me one by Mr. Dowling. Did not he deliver it to you?

No, ſir.

Villain, how can you have the effrontery to deny it?

Sir, I can deny it very ſafely—This muſt be ſome colluſion between Jones and Dowling. It is of a piece with my rival's behaviour, relative to the forged will.

That too I look upon as an infamous falſhood—You have offered Dowling a large ſum, to conceal the cir⯑cumſtance of your brother's birth: he will ſwear it.

Sir, if Mr. Dowling has a mind to ſwear away my life, I can't help it.

Provoking villain! See here, to your utter confu⯑ſion, a duplicate of the letter, ſign'd by your mother, and atteſted by the clergyman, that attended her in her laſt illneſs.

Then I'm undone! Dowling never mentioned the duplicate—

Alas! my dear uncle, I confeſs my crime, and—

I want no reply—ſee my face no more—go, and the reproaches of a guilty mind, the bittereſt of all puniſh⯑ments, attend you—Yet ſtay—I am ſorry that I ſhould thus upbraid you—To inſult a perſon in affliction is a ſpe⯑cies of revenge, which baſe and illiberal minds can only entertain—I ſhall order my ſteward to pay you a thouſand pounds, which is the laſt favour you muſt ever expect from an injured uncle—retire—

I aſk pardon for this behaviour; but his villainous ſuppreſſion of the letter ſo affected me, that I could not command my temper.

Rage is ſo ungovernable a paſſion, and you had ſo juſt an occaſion for it, that an apology was unneceſſary—but pray, dear ſir, forgive him.

Forgive him! impoſſible!

Neighbour, this raſcal Jones has not left the inn yet. I wiſh you'ld grant me a warrant, and I'll have him committed for a vagrant.

I think the young man has ſuffered enough already.

Suffered enough! why he deſerves hanging.

I'm of a contrary opinion; and know he has been greatly injured: I am therefore reſolved to make him amends, by making him my heir.

Your heir! What! make Tom your heir?

It is my firm reſolution.

Curſe me! if I'm not glad on't, for he's a jolly dog. I always thought he wanted nothing but a fortune, to be the [55]clevereſt fellow in all England—but pray how comes this about?

He is a very near relation of mine.

Oh, ho! I ſmoke you! So then you've had a colt's tooth in your head when you were young, as well as other folks, old ſly-boots?—But it's only what I thought; for I always ſuppos'd him to be your ſon, by your bringing him up like a gentleman.

He is not my ſon, but the ſon of my ſiſter, who, two years before her marriage with Capt. Blifil, was pri⯑vately married to Mr. Sumner.

Sumner! What! the handſome clergyman, that you brought up? Parſon Gillyflower, as I us'd to call him?

The ſame.

Gad, I have often thought that Tom had a great look of him—Well, if you're in the mind, we'll clap up a match between Jones and Sophy?

Nothing can be more agreeable to me.

And to thee too, my little gipſy, I'll anſwer for't—you ſee ſhe's all ſcarlet at the very mention of it.

She's a moſt beautiful creature indeed!

So much the better for Tom, for egad he ſhall have the towſling of her.

Dear ma'am, for goodneſs' ſake come away: poor miſs Miller is in a fit.

Give her a hearty tweak by the noſe: the beſt thing in the world—I ſaw a recruiting ſerjeant recover the ſqueaking landlady at Gloſter by it.

What can be the matter? Oh! here's an explana⯑tion of the affair.

Come along, you dog: I won't let you ſtay another minute—you're a fine gentleman indeed, to run away with a huſſy that has not a penny!—You raſcal, I've a good mind to horſewhip you, as long as I can ſtand over you.

I beg, ſir, you will be pacified.

Lord! I wonder how any man can put himſelf in ſuch a paſſion!

If I had not come juſt in the nick—for I have not been here ſince I went to live in Berkſhire—If I had'nt ſeen cuz Dowling, by the mereſt chance in the world, it had been all over as clean as a whiſtle—The provoking 'ſcape-grace has the impudence to tell me he'll marry her, though I ſhould diſinherit him—Yes, ſirrah, I will diſinherit you; cuz Dowling ſhall make my will immediately; and as ſoon as I have executed it, I'll hang myſelf for fear I ſhould change my mind—I'll be re⯑veng'd on you.

Miſs Miller, ſir, is more to me than all the wealth in the world.

Come, don't be ſo angry, Mr. Nightingale. I'll engage to make miſs Miller a fortune of ten thouſand pounds, if you will conſent to the match.

Excuſe me, ſir; I can't accept a fortune from you.

Why not, Jack? If he has a mind to give it, what buſineſs haſt thou to oppoſe it?

Sir, my conſcience won't ſuffer me to take it.

I will ſatisfy your ſcruples, young gentleman. A chancery-ſuit, which I have carried on for Mrs. Miller againſt the ſon of her guardian, was the other day deter⯑mined in her favour; and ſhe is now worth upwards of fif⯑teen thouſand pounds.

And pray what childer has ſhe?

None but my dear Nancy.

Jack, give me thy fiſt—thou art not altoge⯑ther ſo great a puppy as I thought thee—get ready for church, and I'll ſtand father.

I'll go and bleſs my Nancy with the news.

The poor creature is better.—Mr. Night⯑ingale, how could you be ſo boiſterous?—I am come to negotiate a general pacification. You ſurely cannot deny it to your old flame? Thirty years ago you would have acceded to any demand from me.

Madam, all is made up, and I'll go and ſee my daughter.

Will Mr. Allworthy be ſo kind as to lend me his mediation?

In what can I ſerve you, Mr. Supple?

In bringing Mr. Weſtern to conſent to my mar⯑riage with this lady.

How! What a plague is this! Màrry at fifty-three! Why, ſiſter, did not you promiſe me, when my wife died, if I would live ſingle, that you would never marry?

You a politician and depend on the promiſes of a woman in love-affairs? You might as well depend on the promiſes of the French.

Your family, Mr. Weſtern, will be no loſer by the match. Sophy is my neareſt relation, and ſhall inherit all I have.

As this is the caſe, if ſiſter's inclinable—

Brother, I muſt own I eſteem Mr. Supple, as he is a man of ſenſe, and a great admirer of female underſtandings. He has already made ſome amorous ad⯑vances; and ſhould he beſiege me in form, after I have held out a few months, I may poſſibly be inclined to liſten to terms of capitulation.

A few months? dear madam, that will be too long a blockade. If you're reſolv'd to defend the garriſon to the laſt extremity, I find I muſt begin the attack by ſtorm.

Ay, ay, cuz; begin with ſtorming, and I warrant you'll carry her.—Come, ſiſter, you may as well con⯑ſent, and we'll have both marriages together.

Well, brother, if this beſieger will agree to certain articles—

Dear madam, I will grant you a carte blanche.

I thought my daughter before a mere painted doll; but, now I've ſeen her again, ſhe looks like an angel.

That's becauſe ſhe'll be a fifteen thouſand pounder. Lord! how fond of money are ſome people!

But what has become of my friend Jones all this while?

He is gone to wait upon his brother with compliments of condolance.—This is an unexpected revo⯑lution indeed!

My old friend Tom, I am glad to ſee thee with all my heart.—I muſt have a buſs of thee, dear dog.—All paſt muſt be forgotten.—Chriſtians muſt forget and forgive one another.

I hope, ſir, I ſhall never forget the many obliga⯑tions I am under to Mr. Weſtern.—My brother, Sir, is ex⯑tremely ſorry for his offence, and humbly begs leave to ſpeak with you.

Tell him I don't know him.

Pray, ſir, let me intercede in his behalf.

You are both too good: for your ſakes I will keep him above want.

Ay, ay, let him retire with a penſion.

And now, dear ſir, if I could hope you would countenance my addreſſes to this young lady—

It's all done: the match is agreed on.

Then I'm the happieſt man in the world.

You'll except me, Mr. Jones?

And me too? this lady and I will convince you, that matrimonial happineſs is not ſolely confin'd to your⯑ſelves.

Well ſaid, cuz.

My happineſs, I am perſuaded, will hardly be in⯑ferior to any of yours. He, who rewards merit, and pro⯑motes the bliſs of others, muſt always feel the greateſt happineſs himſelf.