SCENE I.

BUT, my dear Uncle, why in ſuch a paſſion?—

I can't help it—I am out of all patience!—Did not I leave you one of the happieſt men in the world?—

Well, and ſo you find me, Sir.

'Tis falſe—you are not happy—you can't be happy— 'tis falſe—and you ſhan't be happy.

If you are reſolved to make me otherwiſe, Sir—

No, I am not reſolved—'tis yourſelf that is reſolved—Did not I leave you one of the happieſt of men?—married to one of the moſt beautiful women in the world?—Did not I give you my bleſſing and a large fortune, and did I not ſtay and ſee you father of a fine boy?—Then only juſt ſtept over to viſit my eſtate in St. Kitts, and, now I'm come back, here I find you married to another woman—and your firſt wife ſtill living—and, egad, ſhe is married to another man.

Dear Uncle, I ſhould certainly have aſked your opinion and my Uncle An⯑thony's on the ſubject, but your abſence put it out of my power, and it was univerſally believed the ſhip in which you ſailed was loſt.

Well, you'll hear what my brother will ſay to it.

I truſt, Sir, when I have ex⯑plained every thing, you will not only think me worthy of your pardon but even of being plead⯑ed for to my Uncle.

Not I, indeed—Nay, were it in my power to do you any good, I wou'd not—I ſhan't forgive you myſelf—much leſs aſk him—But you are right in fixing on me for a mediator; my brother pays much regard to me truly—I have been of infinite ſervice, to be ſure, in reconciling him to his own poor boy. Nay, did he not even (for my brother Anthony would always be maſ⯑ter, although he was the youngeſt) when I went to him to perſuade him to forgive poor Charles, [3]his ſon, did he not even (inſtead of my gaining him over and getting ſomething for the poor boy) did he not even draw me into a promiſe never to do any thing for him myſelf?—My bro⯑ther does what he pleaſes with me—but nobody elſe ſhall—No, what I want in reſolution, to him, I'll make up in obſtinacy, to other peo⯑ple.

Sir, if you will but hear the juſt pleas I have to offer—

I will hear no pleas—What do you think my brother will ſay? Why you inconſi⯑derate boy! He had deſigned you for his heir!

I ſhould be as ſorry, Sir, to excite his diſpleaſure as I am at incurring yours; yet, give me leave to add, I ſhould derive very little enjoyment from the poſſeſſion of a fortune which his ſon, my poor couſin, (but for a ſingle act of imprudence) had a right to expect. And be aſſured, Sir, that if this ſeeming indiſcretion of mine, when compared with that of his ſon's, ſhou'd be regarded ſo unfavorably as to make his offence appear lighter to my Uncle, and move him to forgiveneſs—I will contentedly ſupport the burthen of his reſentment.

Why now that's well ſpoken—You ſilly young rogue, I am not angry with you for getting rid of your wife—(for that I dare ſay is what every ſenſible man in the world wou'd do, if he cou'd) I am only angry with you for getting another—Cou'd not you know when you were well off, you blockhead?

Dear Uncle, as you are a bachelor, and can only ſpeak of wives from the⯑ory, ſuppoſe we drop the ſubject?—Is my Uncle Anthony come to his houſe? He knows no⯑thing of the alteration that has taken place in my family, you tell me.—Shou'd I wait on him, or do you think he will favor me with a viſit firſt?

Now what a deal of cere⯑mony!—'Tis a fine thing to look like a man of conſequence. My brother Anthony has had more privilege [...] from his looks than I ever had from being eldeſt ſon—even you, whom I love ſo well, and have given half my fortune to (and 'tis not long you know that you have expected a ſix pence from Anthony) yet you never meet him without a low bow. "How do you do Sir?—I hope you are well, Uncle!—I am glad to ſee you!"—And you ſtumble over me, with "So Uncle, how is it? how is it Uncle"—And when you in⯑vite us both, "Uncle Anthony, I hope I ſhall have the honor of your company"—While you give me a nod, "Uncle, I ſhall ſee you."

Dear Sir—

Nay, with every other perſon 'tis the ſame thing—If we are ſtuffed into a coach, with a little chattering pert Miſs, "Oh dear, Mr. Anthony Euſton, you muſt not ride back⯑wards, here is room for you on this ſeat—and Mr. Euſton, I know, will like one ſeat as well as ano⯑ther"—ad then am I put with my back to the horſes, though my head is whirling all the time [5]like one of the coach wheels. Then if any thing be loſt, or wanted, when no ſervant is by, "Mr. Anthony Euſton muſt not ſtir for the world—but Mr. Euſton, they know, will be ſo kind as to go for it."—And this is all becauſe I am good na⯑tured. Egad! if this is my reward, no wonder there are ſo few in the world of my temper.

But, dear Sir, no jeſting—Does my Uncle intend to call on me or not?

Yes, I dare ſay he did intend it; and, if he does not hear of what you have been doing, before he gets to your houſe, he will.

Why then, my dear Uncle, will you ſtep home, and give orders that none of the ſervants mention any thing to him this morning?

There now!—" I ſtep home and give orders!" There 'tis, again!—Wou'd you aſk my brother to "ſtep home, and give orders?" No, I fancy not!—But I—poor I—will be ſo good as to do it you think—But for once I won't—Beſides, Anthony never aſks queſtions of ſervants. We enquired of our houſe-keeper, indeed, how you did, laſt night; ſhe told us both you and your Lady were well, and ſo we thought all ſafe. Anthony will aſk no more queſtions, therefore you may have the pleaſure of explaining matters to him yourſelf, as you have to me.

I ſhou'd be ſorry if any imper⯑fect account ſhou'd reach him; for, ſo ſincere is my reſpect for him, I wou'd not even ſuffer for [6]a moment in his eſteem. I will be with him in half an hour, but I am afraid—

No, no, he'll not be out, nor have had any company in that time—for my brother is no ſailor, and he'll be too fond of the exchange of a bed for a hammock to be ſtirring ſo ſoon. However, I think I will ſtep home and give a caution to the ſervants that they don't mention your divorce to him.—As for my⯑ſelf, I'll keep out of his way—I'll not go near him—for I will ſay this for my brother, although it was never in my power to perſuade him to for⯑give an injury or an indiſcretion in my life, yet I never ſaid to him, "Brother Anthony don't forgive a thing," that he did not take my ad⯑vice.

Come, Uncle, walk into the parlor before you go—Let me introduce you to Lady Euſton—Do ſtep in and take your choco⯑late with her.

And, by the time I have ta⯑ken a turn in the Park, and eaten a mouthful of dinner, you'll, perhaps, have a new Lady Euſton to introduce me to, and I may drink tea with her.

Well, Uncle, whether you ſtay or go, I muſt bid you a good morning, for I am obliged to attend a friend, who has a lawſuit depending, and I fear I ſhall be waited for—my preſence won't be required long, and I'll be with my Uncle Anthony within half an hour.

Very well,

but you had better take an hour—Let me adviſe you to take an hour. Anthony is deviliſh ſharp—he is not to be impoſed upon. Take an hour, or an hour and half, before you ſee him—Anthony is a deep man, he is not to be deceived—for, I dare ſay, in his time, he has been as idle as yourſelf—and I will go on your errand.

SCENE II.

Married!

Yes, my Lady, as ſure as death.

Amazing! It cannot be.

O yes, my Lady, I have known of it theſe three months; but, as they kept out of town till within this fortnight, and your Lady⯑ſhip has been abroad moſt of that time, I thought I would not tell your Ladyſhip till we returned to London, when your Ladyſhip was ſure to hear of it. Why they live but juſt by, madam; and my maſter, I know, has been ſeveral times in company where they have been viſiting.

Ay, ſhe was your maſter's intended.

O yes, my Lady, I know that.

Inſignificant girl—I tri⯑umphed, when I ſnatched him from her, and now I ſuppoſe ſhe thinks to triumph equally.

No doubt, madam—But, if I was you, I wou'd let her ſee I cared nothing about him.

And do you imagine I do care? No, indeed, Bloom; my exchange is for the better, I am certain; and

entirely to my ſatisfaction.

Indeed I think ſo, madam: you cer⯑tainly have changed for the better—and, bleſs me, I think, of all the huſbands I ever ſaw, my preſent maſter is ſure the fondeſt.

As for that—no one cou'd be fonder than Sir George, at firſt.

Ay, my Lady, but Major Cyprus is not ſo flighty as Sir George.

Not ſo ſlighty—

I have been envy'd Sir George's gaiety a thou⯑ſand times.

Yes, my Lady, when your Lady⯑ſhip married firſt, I ſuppoſe; but you know, in a few months, Sir George altered ſo much, and ſeemed ſo miſerable, I proteſt every ſingle rap that came at the door made my blood run cold, for I took it for the report of a piſtol.

You need not have feared him, Bloom—he is too fond of the pleaſures of [9]this life. Dear pleaſures which he wanted to retrench me in.

More ſhame for him, madam.—Now my preſent maſter is a ſoldier; and, what is more, I dare ſay will ſoon be call'd on to go abroad.

Hah!

Nay, I beg your Ladyſhip's pardon—I thought perhaps your Ladyſhip wiſhed to ſee the Major ſhow himſelf a courageous gen⯑tleman in the field; and that that was the rea⯑ſon of your preſering him to Sir George.

I prefer! Did not my brother, from Sir George's humiliating ſuſpi⯑cions and cruel treatment of me, compel us to a divorce; and then, as a defence for my weak⯑neſs, forced me into the arms of the Major; being, I ſuppoſe, convinced that nothing leſs than a ſoldier, ſhould undertake the guard of a Lady's honor!

Very true, madam—and I heard the Major ſay, this morning, as your Ladyſhip left the room, that "your Ladyſhip's honor would reqnire the guard of a file of muſ⯑keteers."

Ungenerous man—even worſe to me than Sir George—for poor Sir George, from my indiſcreet partiality to this ingrate, had ſome pretence for his unkind ap⯑prehenſions; but Mr. Cyprus, who knows what [10]proofs of affection I have given him, even in preference to the man I had ſworn to love—

Nay, I fancy, that is what frightens my maſter; for I believe he is a little fearful leſt your Ladyſhip ſhou'd chance to be forſworn again.

Inſolent ſuppoſition—He knows the delicacy of my ſentiments—my honor to Sir George—knows that, although his un⯑wearied artifices conquered my too ſuſceptible heart, and hurried me to indiſcretions, I merit⯑ed not that ſevere contumely I have en⯑dured.

Bleſs my ſoul!—Well now I aſſure you, you ſurprize me!—And ſo, my Lady, there was nothing at all in it, when Sir George found my maſter in the cloſet?

What did you ſuppoſe?

Oh, my Lady, nothing—I hope I did not diſtreſs your Ladyſhip by the mention of Sir George's ſecond marriage.

Ridiculous!

Nay, indeed, I always thought, as your Ladyſhip wou'd not live with him yourſelf, your Ladyſhip did not wiſh to prevent them that wou'd.

Don't mention that in⯑ſignificant woman!

If I was your Ladyſhip, I am ſure [11]I wou'd not care—eſpecially as I got married before him.

Leave me.

She'll have another huſband within half a year—and ſo have three all alive at once—Well, I will ſay, 'tis very hard that, becauſe I am poor, I never can have above one at a time.

And ſo Sir George has been married theſe three months to another, and intirely forgot me—To be ſo ſoon forgotten!—I ſhall never now forget him, I am certain. He has behaved like a man of reſolution and ſpirit in caſting me from his heart, and I feel the irreparable loſs. Why were we divorced? I ſhou'd have diſliked him ſtill had be been my huſband; and yet how tender, how patient to my failings to what Mr. Cyprus is—His cruel and unjuſt ſuſpicions of me are not to be borne.—How provokingly did he treat me laſt night—I was too tame—but the next time he inſults me, with his jealouſy, I will endeavor to augment rather than pacify it—I'll try a reverſe of conduct—Though, indeed, I am tolerably provoking in all our wrangles:—yes, thank heaven, I can ſay as cool ſpiteful things as any woman in the world.

SCENE III.

I aſſure you, Major, this is the firſt viſit I have made ſince I ſet my foot in London.—Nay, and faith, no great compliment to you, neither; for, as I parted with my fellow paſſengers at Portſmouth, I don't know that I have a friend or acquaintance in the whole town but yourſelf.

I am happy in your want of friends, Colonel, if it gives you occaſion to con⯑ſider me as one.

As for that, I don't want friends neither, I believe; only they are not here, at preſent. I have plenty of friends on the other ſide the Atlantic.—Zounds, I think it wou'd be hard for a man, who has been ſo long in the army, and borne a poſt like mine in it, not to have a regiment of friends, at leaſt.

Which is a great conſolation to you, no doubt, Colonel.

The greateſt in the world, Major. But what!—you have changed your houſe ſince I was laſt in England—this is not the ſame, I think, tho' near the ſame ſpot.

Yes—I have changed my houſe—and, what is more, changed my ſtate too, Colonel.

Why, you are not married?

What ſurpriſes you?—

Nay, I am not ſur⯑priſed at your marrying, only at your appearing ſo eaſy about it.

And why not, Colonel? A valuable woman—

Very true—very true—and ſo I wiſh you joy with all my heart.

But, who is the Lady, pray? Do I know her, or any of her family?

Did you know Sir George Euſton?—

I have heard of him.

She was his Lady.

A widow!

No—ſhe was no widow.

Did not you ſay ſhe was Sir George Euſton's wife?

Very true—but Sir George is ſtill living.

What, the devil, is the man living, and you married to his wife?

It was a divorce, Colonel.

A divorce!—Whu!—Now I underſtand you.—Why that's mariage en militaire.—You might well appear ſo eaſy.

Fy, Colonel—I aſſure you Lady Harriet Cyprus and I are a moſt happy cou⯑ple—and my having ſnatched her from "a dull doating huſband" gives ſuperior pleaſure and triumph to our bliſs.

The huſband is much obliged to you both.

Why, poor fellow, that is the worſt—In ſpite of the congratulations I receive from my friends, and my natural deſire of fame, and propenſity to conqueſt, I do feel, and can⯑not help it, a moſt deep ſorrow and compaſſion for the thorns I have planted in his boſom.

But, I ſuppoſe, he uſed his Lady very ill, before he provoked her to the divorce, and certainly prefer'd ſome other?

Oh no, by no means!—He doated on her, even to the day of their ſeparation, notwithſtanding it was he who ſued for the di⯑vorce.

He who ſued for the di⯑vorce—Oh! that was it! I underſtood you, that you had planted thorns—but you ſaid horns I ſup⯑poſe.

Ha! ha!

Oh! I wiſh you much joy—

Why ironically, Colonel? De⯑pend upon it, I am the envy of all the men in town—Lady Harriet Cyprus is a perfect beauty.

I am glad ſhe is perfect in ſome reſpect.

Oh!

ridiculous, Colonel—Divorces happen now every day—and the favoured lover is the moſt admired and envy'd of mortals, while the poor huſband becomes an object of general pity.

Ay, the huſband?

Yes, the huſband.

Ay, and you are the huſband now.

Pſhaw! the forſaken huſband.

You pity him?

Certainly.

And, if he is a tender hearted man, I ſuppoſe, he pities you.

Ha, ha, ha—Let me deſcribe a ſcene to you, where poor Sir George's ſituation muſt affect the moſt obdurate heart. Lady Har⯑riet Euſton (now Lady Harriet Cyprus) was, when I firſt became acquainted with her, a very loving wife: (we are friends, Colonel, and I will venture to recount a few anecdotes to you) a very loving wife indeed; and but for my inſinu⯑ations—artful inſinuations I may call them—had continued her conjugal regard—ſhe had been [16]to this hour an example to wives, if I had not tempted her to ſtray.

Ay, you!—or ſome⯑body elſe.

Hear me out, Co⯑lonel—ſhe was long an example to wives—ſhe was I aſſure you.—But to deſcribe to you Sir George's pitiable ſituation, and what was chiefly the cauſe of the divorce—One even⯑ing we had prolonged the tête-à-tête rather beyond the uſual time; when, unexpected⯑ly, Sir George and a party of beaux and belles were ruſhing up ſtairs,—"Dear Ma⯑jor," cried my wife—

Your wife?—Sir George's you mean.

Yes, Sir George's then—but my wife now.

Ay, ay, and I moſt ſincerely give you joy!

Pſhaw, you put me out—"Dear Major," cried my wife: or Sir George's! if you will have it ſo—"What will become of us," (for Sir George had given us ſome little proofs of his jealouſy) "what will become of us!" exclaimed the then Lady Harriet Euſton—"Put me into your thimble; into the eye of your needle, madam," ſaid I—Inſtead of which, cramm'd I was into that cloſet.

That cloſet!

That very identical cloſet, which you ſee there—for Sir George never loved the [17]houſe after, and ſo ſettled it on her Ladyſhip—Screwed up in that cloſet, I believe I remained ten minuets; when old Lady Downfall, who was of the party, called for drops, the door was opened,— and out dropt your humble ſervant.

Zounds, it was enough to make you wiſh yourſelf—

Nay, it was Sir George's place to wiſh. Every beau in the room was round me in a moment; and, in a whiſper, "Give you joy Major"—"The happieſt man in the world"—"An Alexander"—"A conqueror every where."—Even old Sir Samſon Shrivel, ſhook his head and wiſhed to be in my place.

Zounds I would have thruſt him into the cloſet, and kept him there for a month. But what did the huſband ſay all this time?

That is what I was going to tell you—What did he ſay? Why, he ſaid nothing. You may depend upon it, he heard and ſaw all the half ſtifled laughs, and was wiſe enough to know to whom they were directed—ſo poor fel⯑low he turned pale—bit his lips—looked at her Ladyſhip—looked at me—looked at his ſword—and then cried, "Heigh ho!"

Heigh ho!—And what the deuce did you ſay?

What do you think I ſaid? Egad I was a little confuſed.

Confuſed!

And do you know I ſaid—Faith it was an odd ſpeech, and has been laughed at ſince in a thouſand ſaſhionable circles—the con⯑cluſion of it has been particularly marked. Dear Sir George, ſaid I—He was ſtanding where you may be (here, a little more this way) and I juſt where I am at preſent—"Dear Sir George," ſaid I (half ſtifling a laugh, for by my ſoul I could not help it, though I pitied the poor devil too) Dear Sir George, ſaid I, "I'll tell you what"—you will find nobody to blame in this affair—I proteſt my being in that cloſet was entirely ow⯑ing to "I'll tell you what"—In ſhort to an—an undeſcribable ſomething—There I made a full ſtop.

"An undeſcribable ſomething."

'Tis true upon my ſoul; thoſe were the very words.

Owing to an, "Unde⯑ſcribable ſomething," and "I'll tell you what," that I got into this cloſet: and ſo I ſuppoſe the next day Sir George left both his wife and the cloſet, and you have ever ſince held poſſeſſion.

After ſome other explana⯑tions, and regular proceedings, I became the happy huſband he was never formed to be.

But I hope you keep the key of the cloſet.

You will have your joke, Colo⯑nel—Sir George, out of deſpair, is juſt married [19]again—and Lady Harriet's affection for me is ſuch—yet faith I muſt confeſs, to you, too Colonel, that noth with ſtanding I am ſo very happy in my marriage—my wife ſo very beautiful and ſo af⯑fectionate—yet I am a ſad wicked fellow; I have not forgot my old ways—no, I am going to⯑morrow evening to meet a Lady of untarniſhed reputation—a married lady—Faith 'tis wrong—I know it is—but I cannot withſtand the temp⯑tation—no, I cannot forget my old ways.

And do you ſuppoſe her Ladyſhip can forget her old ways either?

For ſhame, Colonel—but you are ſo fond of a joke—egad I have a great mind to make you laugh moſt heartily at the buſineſs I have now on my hands—you wou'd ſay it was the moſt impudent thing of me—I'll tell you another time, on puporſe to make you laugh; no other deſign whatever.

That is her Ladyſhip's bell—come I will introduce you to her directly; and, I flatter myſelf, you will ad⯑mire my choice.

It does ideed excite my admiration, moſt prodigiouſly.

SCENE I.

I'LL let my maſter know imme⯑diately, Sir.

Sir George has changed all his ſervants, I think, as well as his houſe, for I have not ſeen one that I know; and not one of them ſeems to know their old friend Anthony Euſton.

I beg your pardon, Sir, I thought my maſter had been at home; but he is not.

Is not he?

No, Sir; he has been gone out this half hour.

He is gone to my houſe, then, I dare ſay—Is your Lady at home?

Yes, Sir.

Be ſo kind as to let her know I ſhould be glad to ſee her.

What name, pray Sir?

Only ſay a relation, ſhe will be glad to ſee.

Sir George may not be gone to my houſe, neither; for, perhaps, my brother has not yet called on him, and he may be ignorant of our arrival.—This houſe is a handſome one—yet, I wonder Sir George ſhou'd leave his other—for I remem⯑ber my neice was remarkably fond of its ſituation—Poor girl—if ſhe knew it was Anthony, Anthony Euſton, I believe ſhe wou'd not be ſo long in coming.

Come, come, my dear! 'tis an old friend that wants to ſee you—

Come, come—ſure you have kept me long enough!

I beg your pardon, ma⯑dam! I thought I had been ſpeaking to my niece.

Your niece, Sir?

The Lady of the houſe, ma⯑dam.

I have the honour to be miſtreſs of this houſe, Sir.

Madam?

My name is Euſton, Sir.

Good Heaven! Is then my niece, that beautiful young woman dead?

The Lady that was Lady Harriet Ogle, Sir?—

Yes.—

No, Sir, ſhe is ſtill living, and very well—I ſaw her the other morning.

Madam, you rejoice me.

You are only miſtaken in the houſe, Sir; that's all.

Madam, you make me hap⯑pier than I can expreſs.—But how cou'd the miſtake happen?—They told me my nephew lived here—Indeed, I named no names at the door, but only aſk'd the man if his maſter was within; and your name being Euſton, madam, I ſuppoſe, firſt caſed the miſtake.

Very likely, Sir.

I beg pardon for the trouble I have given you.

No apologies, Sir—Permit me to let one of my ſervants ſhew you to Lady Harriet's.

No, I am much obliged to you.—If it is the ſame houſe that Sir George Euſton lived in, about two years ago, I know it very well.

It is, Sir.

Madam, I thank you—and once more beg pardon for the trouble I have given you, through a miſtake.

Dear Sir, no apology—pet⯑mit the ſervant to ſhew you to Lady Harriet's.

No, madam, I thank you; I have been often there, and know the houſe very well.—Madam good morning to you—I beg your pardon—good morning, madam.

Good morning to you, Sir—This is certainly an Uncle of Lady Harriet's, who is unacquainted with her divorce—and I cou'd not inform him of it, 'twould have led to ſuch diſagreeable explanations, and ſuch a long round-about ſtory it muſt have cauſed—"Sir, I am ſecond wiſe to your preſent niece's firſt huſ⯑band."—Lud! Lud! how aſhamed I ſhou'd have been—Lady Harriet had better explain it by far.

SCENE II.

Now the Major is gone, Colonel—notwithſtanding all he has been talking, of [24]love, and his vaſt happineſs—you will hardly be⯑lieve it, perhaps—but he is not ſo very happy.

No!

No, poor man—you will hard⯑ly think it—but he is jealous.

What already? And, for Heaven ſake, of whom?

Nay, I aſſure you he has no cauſe—Nor is he jealous of one, alone—he is ſo of every body—and will be ſo of you—therefore, I tell you, that you may be on your guard.—I am conſtantly with his Lady and him, and, be⯑cauſe the poor woman once ſhut him up in her cloſet, he now ſuſpects a lover concealed in every part of the houſe—and I have known him, when the mad fit has been upon him, ſearch for a ſuppoſed rival even in her drawers and band⯑boxes.

Pray Sir, do you live in the houſe?

I have been on a viſit here theſe ſix weeks.

And during that time—

I have ſeen ſuch things! Enough to terrify me from marrying—for wives are ſome⯑times ſo provoking, I am ſure I cou'd not keep my temper—Now, here is Lady Harriet Cy⯑prus—you cannot think how provoking ſhe is [25]—ſhe ſometimes ſays ſuch terrible things to her huſband that, I am ſure, if ſhe was my wife—

Why you wou'd not beat her, would you? or lock her up?

No—but perhaps I might kick her lap dog, or do ſome outrage to her dreſs.

You wou'd make an admirable ſoldier, Sir Harry.

I muſt own, Colonel, I ſhou'd have no objection to a commiſſion, where the re⯑gimentals were becoming.

Really!—

And indeed, Colonel, I am po⯑ſitive you wou'd be obliged to preſs commiſſion⯑ed officers, if it were not for the becomingneſs of ſome of their dreſſes.

Give me your hand, Sir Harry.—I like you much—and could I ſee you maſter of a firelock, or a wife—

No.—While my neighbours marry, I never ſhall.

Why ſo, Sir Harry?

Their wives will do for me.

I am amazed, Sir Harry, that the Major, jealous as you deſcribe him, ſhould ſuffer you to remain in his houſe!

I have often been ſurpriſed at it myſelf.

You have!

But he never was jealous of me. Zounds it piques me ſometimes.—The ladies are fond of me, and yet the gentlemen are not jea⯑lous of me—But, indeed, my amours have all been managed ſo ſecretly that none of them have ever yet come to light.

But who has been to blame there, Sir Harry?

I have paid regard to the repu⯑tation of the ladies, and none to my own. I ex⯑pect an aſſignation to-morrow evening—and I queſtion whether I ſhall men ion it to above three or four of my acquaintance, notwith⯑ſtanding the lady is reputed a woman of honor, and is beſides a married lady.

And would you di⯑vulge the appointment ſooner on that account?

Certainly! Had I a wiſh to build a reputation.

Who have we here?

The Major and her Ladyſhip! He has been following her into the Park, and is now conducting her home. I aſſure you their company at preſent will not be very deſirable, ſo ſtep this way, dear Colonel, and I will indulge [27]you with a few more particulars.—Egad, I can ſurpriſe you.

So, madam, I have followed you home, and now ſhou'd be glad to know, what unuſual whim brought you into the Park ſo early?

How can you be ſo teazing as to aſk queſtions? Eſpecially when you ſee I am too fatigued to anſwer.

Fatigued, madam?—How is it poſſible—

Don't ſpeak ſo loud.—I'm thinking of ſomething elſe.

Zounds, madam, I ſay—

How can you, Major?—Sir George Euſton, with all his faults, never aſked me ſuch impertinent queſtions!

Sir George, madam!—How dare you mention his name to me, ma⯑dam?—How dare you mention to me that con⯑temptible—?

Dear Major, do not be ſe⯑vere—conſider you are—a married man yourſelf now.

Heavens! Madam, do not imagine—

And you know every gen⯑tleman is liable to—

What, madam?

Be married.—There is no⯑thing certain in this world.

Very well, madam!—Very well—I believe I underſtand your infinua⯑tion; and I deſerve it.—I juſtly deſerve it for venturing my happineſs with a woman whoſe principles I knew.

How dare you, Major Cy⯑prus, upbraid me, or think, becauſe my unhap⯑py partiality for you once betrayed me into in⯑diſcretions, I am not now an altered woman?—I am ſure I have moſt heartily repented of all my faults, and wiſhed a thouſand times I had never s;een you.

Exceedingly well, indeed, madam!—Exceedingly well.—Repent you ever ſaw me! What am I to expect after ſuch a de⯑claration?—And why repent you ever ſaw me?—What, you won't ſpeak!—I believe you are the only woman who cou'd call me her huſband, and be inſenſible of her happineſs.—When you con⯑ſider, too, your releaſe from Sir George.—What makes you ſmile, madam?—Surely, after all your ſeeming contempt for Sir George, you wou'd not, even in idea, put him in competition with me?—Though, by heaven, your continual [29]mention of him is enough—did I not know how much you deſpiſe him.—I am amazed how you cou'd ever conſent to marry ſuch a being, and ſo I have told you a hundred times—Not one accompliſhment.

Now you provoke me—he had a thouſand!—

That I am deſtitute of?

Oh!

Zounds, madam, what do you mean by that ſigh?—And in what quality pray did your firſt huſband, your firſt huſband, madam—in what quality did he eclipſe your hum⯑ble ſervant?

He danced better than any man I ever ſaw.

Danced better!

And his bow was exqui⯑ſite.—

O—your moſt obedient!

Then, ſometimes, he was the moſt entertaining—

You would have a huſband entertain his wife then?

Certainly—and entertain himſelf, at the ſame time.

I wiſh to heaven you had kept him, with all his accompliſhments!

Oh!—

Damnation!—

Come hither.—Come, tell me, —wou'd you?—and ſo you wou'd really prefer your old huſband to me?—

Old!—He was the youngeſt.

Madam, madam, I'll hear no more—I'll ſuffer no more.—Since you can compare that contemptible animal to me, I have done with you—you are below even my reſent⯑ment.

Dear Major, ſay what you will, Sir George had his virtues—He ſeldom aſked me where I was going; or who viſited me in his abſence?—Where I had been walking?—What made me ſo remarkably cheerful, or why I looked ſo very ill-natured?—In ſhort, he was truly and literally, in every reſpect, a faſhionable huſband.

You are—

Sir, a gentleman below deſires to ſee you; I did not know whether you choſe to be at home or not, ſo I told him I believed you were gone out, but that I wou'd come and ſee.

I am gone out—go and tell him ſo.

I am in too ill a hu⯑mour to ſee any body—my temper is ſpoiled.—I am neither fit for company, peaſure, buſineſs, nor any thing.

Nor I—I am ſpoil'd too.

The gentleman, madam, begs to ſee you.—Do you choſe I ſhou'd ſhew him up?

Yes, ſhew him up—he may be of ſervice to my ſpirits.—Who is he?—What is his name?

I aſk'd him, madam, but he would not ſay.—He firſt aſked me if my maſter was within; and when I return'd, and told him no, he ſaid, tell your Lady, Lady Harriet, I deſire to ſee her—He ſpoke as if he was acquaint⯑ed with your Ladyſhip.

Shew him up.—

You will pleaſe to take him into another room.

It is not my intention to leave this room till dinner.

Nor mine.

Then you'll have an op⯑portunity of aſſuring the gentleman, yourſelf, you are not at home.

Shou'd I ſhew the gentleman into another room, madam?

No.

Shew the gentleman up.—

Who in the name of wonder can it be, that wants both the Major and me? I thought our acquaintance had been all ſeparate viſitors.

Mr. Anthony Euſton!—

—Is it poſſible I ſhou'd have the honor of a viſit from you?

My dear Lady, and why not? What you heard, I ſuppoſe, I was loſt; But have not you heard again that I was found?

No, upon my word, Sir, and the ſight of you amazes me.

Was not my brother here this morning?

No, Sir.

Nor did not your huſband expect me?

No, indeed, Sir!

My brother not here to tell your huſband of our ſatety, after all the perils of ſhipwreck, impriſonment, and a ſtory fit for a romance!

Is Mr. Euſton too return'd ſafe?

Certainly.—'Tis ſtrange he has not been here before me! Where is your huſband?

Did you aſk for him when you came in?

Yes, I aſked the Servant if his maſter was at home, but he returned and ſaid, no;—ſo I then aſked him for his miſtreſs—and here I find you, my dear Lady, as beautiful as ever!—But where is my nephew? I am all impatience till I ſee him.

He does not know what has happened I find.

What is the matter, my dear?

You are juſt arrived from abroad, Sir?

Only left the ſhip yeſterday morning, came to London late in the evening, and, not having had a night's reſt on ſhore for many months, went to bed as ſoon as I arrived; and, as ſoon as I roſe this morning, came with my reſpects to you.

Then you have ſeen no accquaintance ſince you came to town?

You are the firſt.—Can you ſuppoſe I ſhou'd viſit any one before I had ſeen you; or do you think any of my friends wou'd find me out the very night of my arrival?

And have you met with none of your Engliſh acquaintance while you have been abroad—nor read any of our Engliſh news-papers?

I have ſeen neither ſince I left England.—Indeed, when I am at a diſtance from my friends, as I hate to be impoſed on, I ſeldom aſk a queſtion concerning them, and never read a paragraph where their names are mention'd:

I beg your Lady⯑ſhip's pardon—I thought the Major had been here;—he promiſed he wou'd go with me into the city on ſome buſineſs—He is not gone out, I hope?

Mr. Euſton, you will ex⯑cuſe me a moment—I will ſend

the Major to you immediately, Sir.

Let him explain to Mr. Euſton—the taſk wou'd be too much for me.

My fellow traveller! Have you forgot me?

My good friend! Is it you?—I am heartily glad to ſee you—I thought it was you! and then again—Where is my friend your brother? Why you got to town before me—I am glad to meet you, faith!—So unexpectedly too!

Colonel I beg your pardon, I am afraid I have tired your patience?

Not at all—Sir Harry Harmleſs has been an excellent companion, but he has juſt left me.

I ſhou'd have call'd on you in the afternoon—Who wou'd have thought of meeting you here?

Why faith, Colonel, I do not know a more likely place to find a man at, than a relation's houſe.

What, are the Major and you related?

Sir!

Have I the honor of being related to you, Sir?

Not that I know of, Sir.—

If Lady Harriet has that honor, Sir, I preſume to claim the ſame.

You are related to Lady Harriet then, Sir?

By very cloſe ties.—

Sir I ſhall be happy to be better acquainted.

Tell him the ſtory of the cloſet—Egad 'twill make him laugh.

Fy, fy!—He is a relation of my wife's.

He wou'd not like a good ſtory the worſe for that—Wou'd you, Mr. Anthony, have any diſlike to a good ſtory?

A ſtory, Sir?—

Ay, a good ſtory of a—a—zounds "I'll tell you what:" and "an undeſcribable ſomething"—

For ſhame, for ſhame, Colonel!

Why, my fellow traveller, you are at your jokes, the ſame as ever I find.—What is all this?

Nothing, Sir; nothing, I aſſure you.

As good a ſtory as ever was told. Tell it, Major; I wou'd, but I cannot look it as you do.—Egad you look it to the life.

Well, gentlemen, I ſhould be very happy to hear this ſtory, but I am obliged to defer it till ſome other time.—I have waited for Sir George as long as poſſible, and, as I find he does not come, I'm reſolved to go in ſearch of him—So, gentlemen, your humble ſervant—If I meet with Sir George, I ſhall re⯑turn, I dare ſay, immediately; and, if not, I [37]ſhall certainly call in the afternoon—My com⯑pliments to her Ladyſhip—Your ſervant, gen⯑tlemen.

Pray, Sir, who did you ex⯑pect to meet here?

Only Sir George, Sir.

What Sir George, pray Sir?

Sir George Euſton, Sir.

Sir George Euſton, Sir!—Did you expect to meet Sir George Euſton here.

Certainly I did, Sir.

That's all for want of hearing the ſtory.—Do, my good friend, come back and hear the ſtory of the "undeſcribable ſomething,"—and of the cloſet—that little clo⯑ſet—and, "I'll tell you what!"

Colonel, permit me to ſpeak ſeriouſly to the gentleman.—Sir,

you will never ſee Sir George Euſton in this houſe, I am certain.

How ſo, pray Sir?

I am now maſter of this houſe, and—

You are maſter of this houſe!

Yes, Sir.

He took poſſeſſion of the cloſet, ſome time ago.

But pray, Sir, does not La⯑dy Harriet Euſton then live here?

That lady is no longer Lady Harriet Euſton, Sir, but Cyprus—ſhe is my wife.

You have ſpoiled the whole ſtory, by beginning at the wrong end.

You aſtoniſh me!—I beg your pardon—I came but laſt night from the Weſt-Indies, where I have been for ſome time, and where not the ſmaileſt intelligence from England has ever reached me; therefore you will excuſe my ignorance.—But I think her La⯑dyſhip, knowing how great a ſtranger I was, ought to have dealt a little more openly with me.—

I dare ſay, Sir, her Lady⯑ſhip—

Yes, I ſuppoſe her Ladyſhip was unwilling to be the firſt to acquaint me with the death of Sir George.

The death of Sir George Sir!

Yes, Sir—for, while I give you joy on your marriage, give me leave to ſay that, mine is all damped by the loſs of him—and my grief is doubly poignant; becauſe, till this moment, I was not only unacquainted with Lady Harriet's ſecond marriage, but, till this moment, I did not even know Sir George was dead!

Sir George is not dead, Sir.

What do you mean?—Did you not tell me you were married to his wife?

Very true, Sir—but you know that is no reaſon, now-a-days, why the La⯑dy's firſt huſband ſhou'd be dead.

Why, my brother meſſmate, you are juſt like me—I had forgot that a man in England might marry his neigh⯑bour's wife, and his neighbour living in the next ſtreet.—And 'tis not the wives of their neighbours, only, theſe generous gentlement aſſail, but more eſpecially the wives of their friends.

Shame on ſuch friendſhip! Shame on ſuch neighbourhood!—Let every ten⯑der huſband and virtuous wife deſert it!—

Sir, I wiſh you joy; and, though I know not who are the parties to be cenſured in this buſineſs, I wiſh her Ladyſhip joy—But more, in particular, I wiſh myſelf joy, with the ſincereſt congratulation, that, amidſt the depravity of the times, I have followed a beloved wife to her peaceful grave, (mournful as the day was) without ſeeing her wreſted from my arms by the inſinuations of a villain: or being myſelf that vil⯑lain to force her to ſeek a refuge from my per⯑juries, in the protection of another!—

Dear Sir, let me aſſure you that, however Lady Harriet's conduct may meet cenſure from the unfeeling prude, the woman of ſenſibility and taſte muſt applaud her ſpirit, [40]which could no longer ſubmit to the tyranny of Sir George.

Did her Ladyſhip then ſue for the divorce?

No—Sir George, on ſome frivolous ſuſpicion, was pleaſed to ſue for it.

Is Sir George married again?

Yes, Sir, he is married—He has won the lady—and he has won her for⯑tune—but for her affection—there, I believe, we muſt excuſe Sir George—that is a ſtake now playing for by many noblemen of faſhion.

I ſuſpect Sir George is the dupe of a faſhionable gallantry.—I know his virtues—and am ſorry to find a man of merit ſo betrayed.

Dear Sir, think on Lady Harriet, your relation.

Thank heaven, all ties be⯑tween Lady Harriet and me were diſſolved when ſhe was divorced from Sir George—and ſo they ſhould, Sir, had ſhe been my own daughter, and Sir George, with the principles I know he poſ⯑ſeſſes, an utter ſtranger to me.

Why then, I believe, my friend, you are not at a relation's houſe.

Colonel, you will call on me ſhortly.—Sir, (Mr. Cyprus, I think you call yourſelf) I aſſure you, Sir, as a particular friend [41]of my nephew's, and of the family in general—I am, Sir, your moſt obedient ſervant—your humble ſervant, Sir.

For heaven's ſake, who is this man? I took him to be Lady Harriet's un⯑cle! Explain to me who the brute is.

He came paſſenger from the Weſt-Indies in the ſame ſhip with me, and that was the firſt of our acquaintance.—As he was no more reſerved than I, we ſoon became intimate; and I learnt from him that his fortune (a pretty good one) was deſigned for a nephew, whom I now recollect (tho' the deuce take me if I thought of it before) to be this very Sir George Euſton—and a ſon, an only child, by that wife he ſpeaks ſo tenderly of, he diſin⯑herits.

This is the very ſavage I heard Lady Harriet ſay the other day was drown'd.—What, has his ſon been guilty of the criminality of a divorce?

No—his guilt is in being married—married to ſome poor girl—without friends or fortune.—Thank heaven I have neither child nor wife to offend me; but, if I had, I don't know which I wou'd make the moſt obe⯑dient.

And were you never a lover, Colonel? Never in the ſervice of the ladies?

O yes—I have been in a cloſet before now—and under a bed too—but then I was never pull'd out by a huſband; and, on a diſcovery, I cou'd always deſcribe the ſomething that brought me there.

By heaven, you are ſo taken with that joke, I cannot reſerve that which I be⯑fore hinted at from you any longer—Rat me if I have not an appointment for to-morrow even⯑ing with Euſton's other wife!—Is it not the moſt impudent thing of me—

I'll be ſhot if I don't think ſo!—

The poor fellow thinks her as chaſte as Diana; and ſo ſhe is at preſent, as far as I know.—I was happy in her favor a few years ago—but, marriage not being then convenient, my paſſion was poſtponed—On her becoming Euſton's wife, I renewed my addreſſes, and ſhe has kindly allotted to-morrow evening for our firſt tête-à-tête.

Zounds, have a care, or you will be obliged to marry her too.

No, no—we ſhall be very circumſpect in our conduct.—But laugh!—Why the devil don't you laugh?

No, I was thinking—

On what?—

Come, I muſt be gone, or I ſhall be too late for my buſineſs.

I'll attend you immediately—But what were you thinking on?

I was thinking on the happineſs—of a married man.

SCENE I.

BLESS my ſoul!—Bleſs my ſoul! Why, what did my brother Anthony ſay?—Was not he in a dreadful paſſion?—Only think of his being made ſuch a fool of!—It would not have ſignified had it been me. It had been a good joke if the miſtake had happened to me; then you wou'd have had ſomething to have laughed at.

Dear Sir, let us think no more about it—my Uncle has liſtened to reaſon, and approves my conduct in every circumſtance.

Ay, 'tis very well, George—'tis all very well—but I know, had you been his ſon, he wou'd not have forgiven you—he loved that boy ſo well he wou'd never forgive him the ſmalleſt fault.

A very cruel proof of his af⯑fection.

'Tis true, notwithſtanding—you know it is—Poor Charles!—George you muſt do ſomething for him—You know your Uncle won't—and I am tied from it by a ſolemn [45]promiſe. Many a letter and petition came from his wife to my brother and me, before we went abroad, but all in vain; for I had but juſt then given Anthony my word, and wou'd not equivocate, by cauſing the poor boy or his fa⯑mily to be relieved, in any ſhape, through my means; and therefore I forebore to mention their diſtreſs to you—However, now, though I have not forgot my promiſe, I will not be ſo particular about it—and, when the deviation from my word diſturbs my conſcience, I'll huſh it to reſt with having relieved a deſtitute family.

Say no more, Sir—I under⯑ſtand you—and to find out my couſin and his family ſhall immediately be my care.

That's right, George—Poor Charles is a Lieu⯑tenant in the Eaſt Indies.—His wife muſt be the firſt object of your bounty—Juſt before I left England ſhe wrote me a letter from a village near York—where he left her, with two chil⯑dren, and ſhe ſtyles them, in her letter, "the offspring of want and wretchedneſs." I was a hard hearted fellow not to liſten to her com⯑plaint—but, I think, ſince I have been at ſea, I have been more compaſſionate—I never knew, before, what it was to be cold or hungry.

Can you tell me the name of the village, Sir, where I am to ſeek her?

Write to her at the poſt-office, Selby—If ſhe ſhould have left the place, they may ſtill know where to ſend her letters. I [46]wiſh ſome friend, that had not made a promiſe, would ſpeak to my brother Anthony about them at preſent; perhaps, going to ſea has changed his heart too.

No, Sir, I touched on that ſubject when I was with him this morning.

Did you?—Did you?—And what did he ſay?—

Aſked if I meant to make him forbid me his ſight—and, on my apologiſing, commanded me never to mention my poor cou⯑ſin in his hearing again.

Ay, that is what I muſt ne⯑ver do—Well, ſo much the better—for now, George, neither you nor I can tell tales one of another.

You are right, Sir—Had my Uncle Anthony an eſtate to beſtow on each of his family, he could not exact more obedience to his will than he does at preſent.

'Tis very true, George. But what keeps him ſo long away?—I expected he wou'd have been with your Lady before this time, acknowledging her for his niece: tho' they have had one meeting it ſeems.

My Uncle cannot be intro⯑duced to Lady Euſton till to-morrow, Sir. Lord Layton, for whom he ſettled ſome buſineſs when he was abroad, called on him juſt as I came away, and, as his Lordſhip is going to Italy in a [47]day or two, he entreated my Uncle to accom⯑pany him immediately to his country houſe (about ten miles from town) in order to look over ſome papers he has there.

Here comes your Lady, ſo I'll leave you.

Dear Mr. Euſton, I hope I do not frighten you away—Sir George will be offended with me if I do.

No, madam—I am ſure no man cou'd be offended at being left in ſuch charming company.

My Uncle is grown a man of gallantry!

Yes, I inſpire all the men.

Yes, I inſire all the men.

I believe you do.

Cou'd I only inſpire you with reaſon to liſten to my arguments—

'Tis in vain.—The Major ſhall now feel my reſentment—Did he imagine, becauſe I was indifferent to the conduct of an undeſserving woman, that I am not to be rouſed at ſuch an in⯑jury as this?—An attempt on the principles of a woman of virtue!—'Tis done on purpoſe to try me, and by Heaven he ſhall find—That wretch too Sir Harry!—

Oh, pray have pity on poor Sir Harry.

No, madam.—I only defer my reſentment till I have had ſome converſation with my Uncle Anthony.

Do, my dear Sir George, ſuffer me to revenge my own cauſe this once—and ever after—

I poſitively muſt!

Nay, Sir George, in a year or two, I may, perhaps, have no objection to your ſighting a duel—but only three months mar⯑ried—I do wiſh to keep you a little longer.

Depend upon it, Lady Euſton, death had never half the terrors I have beheld it with ſince I called you mine—but that life you have endeared to me—

You wou'd throw away im⯑mediately in my ſervice—No, no, Sir George, a fond wife will never ſuffer her huſband to re⯑venge her wrongs at ſo great a riſk. Beſides, the exertion of a little thought and fancy will more powerfully vindicate innocence, than that brilliant piece of ſteel, I aſſure you.

Perhaps you are right.

Certainly I am—Now, ſup⯑poſe a gentleman makes love to me—I divulge the affront to you, you call my inſulter to an ac⯑count—Your ball miſſes; he fires into the air; and, to the ſame of having dared to wound your [49]honor, he gains that of preſenting you with your life.—

But, why muſt theſe circum⯑ſtances take place?

Well, then, we will ſuppoſe he kills you; how do you like that?

Hem!

Or, we will ſuppoſe, you kill him—Even how do you like that?

Well, I confeſs that, if a ſe⯑vere puniſhment could be thought of, for ſuch inſolence—

There is as ſevere a pun⯑niſhment to men of gallantry (as they call them⯑ſelves) as ſword or piſtol; laugh at them—that is a ball which cannot miſs; and yet kills only their vanity.

You are right.

Let me ſee—we have been now only three months married; and, in that ſhort time, I have had no leſs than five or ſix men of faſhion to turn into ridicule.—The firſt who ventured to declare his paſſion was Lord William Bloomly—his rank, joined to his un⯑common beauty, had inſured him ſucceſs; and, wherever I went, I was certain to hear his diſ⯑treſs whiſpered in my ear—at every opportunity he fell even upon his knees; and, as a tender earneſt of my pity for him, begged, with all the eloquence of love, for "a ſingle lock of my [50]hair, which he wou'd value more than any other woman's perſon; the wealth of worlds; or (he is a great patriot you know) even the welfare of his country."

I am out of patience!

You will be more ſo—For I promiſed him this ſingle lock.

You did not!

But I did—and added, with a bluſh, that I muſt inſiſt on a few hairs from one of his eye-brows in return—which he abſolutely refuſed;—and, on my urging it, was obliged to confeſs, "he valued that little brown arch more than the lock he had been begging for; con⯑ſequently, more than any woman's perſon; the wealth of worlds; or even the welfare of his country."—I immediately circulated this anec⯑dote, and exhibited the gentleman, both as a gallant and a patriot; and now his Lordſhip's eye-brow, which was once the admiration, is be⯑come the ridicule of every drawing-room.

Your Ladyſhip then wou'd not menace your lover?—

Certainly not—"You are the moſt beautiful woman I ever ſaw," ſaid Lord Bandy; "and your Lordſhip is poſitively the moſt lovely of mankind"—"What eyes," cried he; "what hair," cried I; "what lips," con⯑tinued he; "what teeth," added I; "what a hand and arm," ſaid he; "and what a leg and foot," ſaid I—"Your Ladyſhip is jeſting," was [51]his Lordſhip's laſt reply; and he has never ſince even paid me one compliment. Prudes cenſure my conduct—I am too free—while their favo⯑rite, Lady Strenuous, in another corner of the ball-room, cries to her admirer—"Deſiſt, my Lord, or my dear Sir Charles ſhall know that you dare thus to wound my ears with your li⯑centious paſſion—if you ever preſume to breath in again, I will acquaint him with it—depend upon it I will.

Oh! you have deſtroyed my peace of mind for ever."

There are too many ſuch ladies, but no ſuch wou'd I hazard my life for—that I have proved.

And, upon my word, Sir George, even the virtuous wife, who wou'd not have ſome regard to her huſband's life, as well as his honour, if I were a gentleman, I ſhould not feel myſelf under many obligations to.

You wou'd protect both?—

And the guilty not eſcape—Now (with your conſent) what muſt be the con⯑fuſion, ſhame, and diſappointment, of my two maſked lovers to-morrow evening—the brutal audacity of one, and iſignificance of the other; both beneath your reſentment, yet deſerving ob⯑jects of mine. And, indeed, Sir George, it is my fixed opinion that, the man who wou'd en⯑deavour to wrong a virtuous wife ſhou'd be held too deſpicable for the reſentment of the huſband, and only worthy the debaſement inflicted by our ſex. I have already ſent a letter to Sir Harry [52]with the appointment at the maſquerade, and the Major has my promiſe of a meeting at the ſame time—Come, come, Sir George, it is the firſt petition I ever preſented; do not refuſe me!—

Give me till the morning to conſider of it?

With all my heart—and in the mean time reflect on this—that, in regard to your terrible ſex, whether as licentious lovers or valiant champions—women, of real honour, are not in danger from the one; and, therefore, like me, ought to forego the aſſiſtance of the other.

SCENE II.

My good friend, I was juſt going to bed—but I am glad of your company, though I did not expect it.

Colonel, my errand at this time was merely to aſk a favour of you.

Command it, and you will make me proud.

Why then, Colonel, with Lord Layton to-day (at whoſe houſe I dined) [53]a circumſtance happened on which account I expect his Lordſhip will call on me to-morrow for a faſhionable ſatisfaction; and though, de⯑pend upon it, I wiſh for no ſuch raſh means of ending a diſpute, yet, if his Lordſhip ſhou'd call upon me, 'tis fit I be prepared with a ſecond; and I thank you for the friendly aſſurance you have now given me of your ſervice.

You are as welcome to it—I was going to ſay, as my king—but, zounds, if I ſhou'd be killed in a pitiful quarrel at home, I ſhou'd bluſh even in my grave—for, when I die, I hope to have my knell rung by the groans of a ſcore or two of our country's treacherous foes.

The ſervice I ſhall put you to, Colonel, will not prevent that hope.

But what, for Hea⯑ven's ſake, has brought you into a quarrel?

The cauſe of our quarrel was—you will call it a very trivial one, I dare ſay—a woman!

Why, my old friend, you have not been quarrelling about a woman—Oh, if I ſhou'd be kill'd for a woman, I ſhou'd cut a noble figure, indeed!—

Hear me, Colonel, hear me—and, as you may queſtion my prudence, let me tell you the whole adventure.—

Nay, nay, I did not mean to queſtion your prudence, nor to ſpeak [54]againſt the women either. I like them as well as you do—

I own I have a reſpect for their ſex, which unites me to them as their father, their friend, and admirer.—And I beg you will give me your ſentiments upon the cha⯑racter of one whoſe behaviour, this day, has ſurpriſed me beyond meaſure—I will deſcribe it to you, and you will then tell me whether you believe me impoſed upon, or whether you think ſhe really clims that extraordinary atten⯑tion I have, ſome how, been compelled to give her.—

Well, let me hear.

Lord Layton and I had no ſooner plac'd ourſelves in his Lordſhip's coach than he exclaim'd, he had juſt ſeen the moſt beautiful girl his eyes ever beheld, to whom he had given a look of ſolicitation, and that ſhe was returning her anſwer by making up to the coach—He begged a thouſand pardons, but, with my permiſſion, (as he ex⯑pected no other company at his country houſe) he wou'd take her down to dine with us.—I, knowing his Lordſhip well, (and the girl being now arrived at the coach door) reluctantly aſ⯑ſented, and ſhe was immediately handed in.

Zounds, he ſhou'd have taken a companion for you too!

Don't interrupt me.— [55]When ſhe had been ſeated about a minute, I caſt my eyes upon her.—

'Sdeath, I ſhou'd not have ſtaid half ſo long.

I was ſtruck with her beau⯑ty—

And wiſhed his Lordſhip out of the way, I ſuppoſe.—

No—no.—There was a ſenfibility in her countenance that amazed me—bluſhes on her cheeks—tears in her eyes—When his Lordſhip ſpoke to her, ſhe anſwer'd him with a forced ſmile, and a tremor on her voice.—She avoided all converſation; and, when we alighted, I handed her out of the coach.

Ay, ay, I thought how it was.

You miſunderſtand me.—I perceived her hand tremble—

And ſo, I ſuppoſe, did yours.

If you interrupt me, Sir, you ſhall hear no more.

And, I believe, it will be for your credit if I don't.—

Let me tell you all that paſſed.

With all my heart—if you don't bluſh at it, I ſhan't.

I believe her to be a woman of virtue.—

Then what the devil were my Lord and you—

I have reſcued her from him.

Why then, the deuce take me if you are not more in love than I thought you were.

Oh, had you ſeen her coun⯑tenance, ſo expreſſive of anguiſh! —The hope with which ſhe lifted up her eyes to me, for deliverance!—The horror painted in her face, when I left the room! Heard her piercing cries, that called me back to her protection? The deſpair and earneſt ſupplication that hung upon her tongue, while ſhe entreated him to view her, not as an object of love, but charity!—The grief! the pathetic tenoerneſs with which ſhe declared herſelf, "a virtuous though forſaken wife!—A poor, indigent, forlorn mother; pe⯑riſhing, with her children,— for whoſe ſake ſhe had been tempted by the firſt lure that offered (prompted by more than common grief) to add the ſenſe of guilt to all her other miſeries!"—

'Sdeath—

Cou'd I? Ought I to have gone and left her?‐

Left her! No. But what did you do?

Returned to the chamber, and inſiſted on his Lordſhip's reſigning her to me.—

And did he?—

She hung upon me; and, in ſpite of his menaces, I led her to my coach, (which was then come for me) and brought her ſafe away.—

I hope ſhe got ſafe home too.—

Perfectly ſo—As her tears interrupted her, whenever ſhe attempted to tell me where ſhe lived, or explain any cir⯑cumſtance of her life to me, I aſked no queſ⯑tions, but took her to my own houſe—deſired my houſe-keeper to ſhow her an apartment, and treat her with attention—and, promiſing to ſee and ſpeak with her in the morning, left her to the repoſe which ſhe muſt greatly want.—

And now you think his Lordſhip will ſend you to repoſe, for all this.

He may attempt it, for which I wiſh to be prepared.—

Well then, here is my hand—and, though I muſt acknowledge that you have had too little of the man of the world about you in the buſineſs, yet, as I ſaid before, command me.—

Come then, Colonel, my coach is waiting for me at the door; will you go with me to the next coffee-houſe?—I have to [58]meet a gentleman there on a little buſineſs; and afterwards we will enjoy half an hour's conver⯑ſation together.—

With all my heart.

SCENE I.

WONDERS will never ceaſe! Who wou'd have thought it!—Why ſurely it cannot be!—My brother Anthony to bring home a girl!—What wou'd he have ſaid to me if I had done ſuch a thing?—For my part, I never durſt think of ſuch a thing.—Perhaps it is ſome neighbour's child!—But if ſhe is—the ſervant tells me ſhe is very handſome, and Anthony wou'd not bring her home without ſome meaning.—What wou'd my nephew George ſay to this?—Why he would not believe it!—He would a great deal ſooner believe it of me—And yet I—I!—Lord bleſs me—how people may be miſtaken!—Here he comes.

Brother, good morning to you.—Have you ſeen George this morning?

No, brother.

Are you going there?

I believe I ſhall be preſently, brother.

Perhaps he may, brother.

It was a fine moon-ſhining night, laſt night.

Yes, a fine night.

And 'tis a very fine day, to-day.

Yes—it is.

We have very fine weather, in⯑deed.

We have.—You have breakfaſted, I ſuppoſe?

Yes—and ſo, I ſuppoſe, have you?

Yes, ſome time.—

I interrupt you, brother—but I am going.—

No, you do not.—But tell Sir George, if you ſhou'd ſee him, that I can⯑not call on him this morning, becauſe I ſhall be buſy.

You ſhall be buſy!

Yes, I have got a little bu⯑ſineſs to ſettle.

To be ſure, buſineſs muſt be minded.

But be particular in deli⯑vering my apology, for I wou'd not have his Lady affronted.

One wou'd not affront a Lady to be ſure.—No—no—no!

I wou'd not have her think I ſlight her.

No!—I am ſure you wou'd not ſlight a Lady!—

—Good morning, brother!

Good morning.

We ſhall ſee you, perhaps, when your buſineſs is done!—Good morning, bro⯑ther.—

Yes—here is the challenge; and, truly, ſomething noble in it.—He applauds my taking away the Lady, but ſays my manner was too rough.—I muſt retract ſome words.—My Lord, that cannot be.—

And now for a few bequeſts to my relations, in caſe his Lordſhip ſhould prove victorious.—It is well my will is already made—for he has ſcarcely given me time to—

—What paternal weak⯑neſs!

How ſtrange it is that, altho' I [62] have reſiſted, and can, with manly firmneſs, reſiſt every innare pleading for that ungrateful boy I once called my ſon; that careleſs prodigal of a father's peace, and his own welfare—yet—when I conſider myſelf as ſhortly to be an inhabitant of another world, and without the power to aſſiſt him—I wiſh—I wiſh—What?—Why, that heaven may then raiſe him up a friend to deal more gently with him than I have done.—A friend, whoſe temper, whoſe place in better may become to forgive his faults than an offended father.—

In vain are the ſtrugglings of Nature.—Juſtice—example—and my word, irrevocably paſt, ſilence its pretences.—

The time is almoſt expired, and I muſt pay a ſhort viſit to my new lodger, and be gone.—John!

Is not this the time that the Lady gave me permiſſion to wait n her?

The Lady ſent word ſhe wou'd wait on you, Sir.—This is the time; and, Sir, ſhe is coming.

Shew her in.

I hope, Madam, my meſ⯑ſage did not diſturb you?

Not at all, Sir.—I had aſked per⯑miſſion [63]to ſee you before I received it.

Well, Madam—Unleſs you have enquired of the ſervants, you are yet a ſtranger to my name and connections.

I am a ſtranger to them, Sir.—But your humanity muſt ever be engraved on my heart.

Then, Madam, for the ſer⯑vice you are pleaſed to acknowledge I have ren⯑dered you, all I requeſt, in return, is your con⯑ſidence—Explain clearly to me the circumſtances, the temptations that brought you into the ſitua⯑tion from whence I releaſed you!—Declare them with frankneſs, and tax my humanity yet further; it ſhall not forſake you.—To en⯑courage you to this confeſſion, my name is—

Hold, Sir!—That is an information I cannot return—therefore let us wave it—and, as I can remain grateful for your goodneſs without knowing to whom I am indebted, ſo pity ſtill my weakneſs and my miſeries, without a further knowledge of the wretched ſufferer.

Madam, you have impoſed on me a taſk too hard.—'Tis true you have won my pity; but 'tis fit you ſhou'd ſecure it too.—And while explanations are reſerved, Doubt, that hardener of the human heart, muſt be your ene⯑my.

Alas!—

Come—I wiſh not to enact too much—but I am a man, Madam, and with every frailty incident to the ſpecies: ſuſpicion has its place.

I know I am an object of ſuſpicion—but you are deceived in me—indeed you are.—Guilt never harboured in my heart.—Maternal tenderneſs, for two helpleſs infants, hurried me in a moment to do I know not what, rather than loſe them.—A deed! the horror of which (al⯑tho' by the mercy of eternal Providence I have eſcaped its direſt conſequences) muſt ever cover me with bluſhes; and, ſhou'd indulgent heaven reſerve me for a meeting with my huſband, must, with remorſe, damp every joy the fond, fond, interview would give!

Be comforted.—

I mean not to encreaſe, but ſooth your grief—Tell me but who you are, and why [...] abandoned by all your relations, friends, and huſband?—I can excuſe the feelings of a mother—the ſudden ſtarts, or rather madneſs of reſolotion, formed by the exceſſive anguiſh of she ſoul.—Truſt me, I can deal tenderly with human fallings.—No frivolous curiofity, but a deſare to ſerve you thus orges me to entreat you will unfold yourſelf.

Oh, Sir, I have a huſband, I think, who loves me.—Once I am ſure the did.—My heart has never ſtray'd from him, ſince our fatal union.—What muſt that poor heart ſuffer, torn with remorſe for the raſh ſtep my mad deſpair ſggeſted to preſerve my children?—Oh! in my [65]boſom let his name lie hid, that none may know his wretched fortune in a hapleſs wife.

Your reaſons have ſatisfied me—I do not aſk your name.—Tell me but the circumſtances that dróve you to the ſtate from whence I releaſed you—Be ſo far explicit, and I will aſk no more.

Moſt willingly.—When firſt my huſband ſaw me, I was friendleſs.—Com⯑paſſion cauſed his love for me—Gratitude mine for him.—Forlorn and deſtitute, no kind relation, no tender benefactor taught my heart affection.—Unuſed to all the little offices of kindneſs, could they but endear the object who beſtowed them?—Senſe of obligation, never before excited, preſſed on my thoughts, and ſoon was changed to love.—He ſcorned to violate the heart that was his own, and we were married.

I find no room for accuſa⯑tion here.—Go on—go on, Madam.—What has alienated your huſband from you, and left you thus deſtitute at preſent?—If you can re⯑ſolve me that—if you ſtill have acted with equal propriety, I am your friend—I have no cenſure for you.

But you will condemn my huſband—even I muſt own he was to blame. Born of wealthy parents, the heir to large poſſeſſions, and I to none, when he married, all were given up, and he changed his ſtate for mine.—We had no friend but in each other—yet happy was that ſtate to [66] me, till poverty ſurpriſed us; and the fond hope (which once he cheriſhed) of paternal forgive⯑neſs, vaniſhed from my huſband.—Then all our days were bitter as they had before been happy—tears were my only food, and ſighs were his—even reproach I have endured from him, for making him the friendleſs wretch he call'd him⯑ſlef.—Yet—yet, at our parting, oh! then he cancell'd all—for when the regiment, in which he ſerved, was ordered from the kingdom, he hung upon me, claſped his poor children, begg'd our forgiveneſs for the thouſand outrages diſtreſs at our misfortunes had cauſed him to commit—ſwore that affection for us was the ſource of his impatience—prayed heaven to bleſs us, what⯑ever might be his fate—nay, prayed that death might ſpeedily be his doom, ſo that it turned his father's heart to us.

And have you never ap⯑ply'd to his father?

Yes; but all in vain; and two months ſince, hearing my huſband was made priſoner, (and deſtitute of every relief and eve⯑ry hope while he remained ſo) I left my children and came to London, reſolved, in perſon, to ſupplicate his father's bounty; when I learnt (dire news) his father, viſiting an eſtate abroad, was loſt, and we left to deſpair.

What do you ſay?

Nay, do not blame him—I pardon him from my ſoul.—And as my huſband, ſpite of his diſobedience, loved him tenderly, I will ever give a tear in tribute to his memory.

Without heſitation!—with⯑out the ſmalleſt reſerve, tell me your huſband's name! Is it Euſton?

It is!

His father is not dead!—He lives, and pardons him this moment!

You are his father!—I know it!—I ſee it in your loos!

And you ſhall henceforth ſee it in my actions!—Riſe, riſe, and behold

where I this moment again diſown'd him for my ſon, while the poor of every kind (except himſelf) I ever ſtyled my children—Oh! charity, partially dealt, never more receive that heavenly virtue's ritle.—Here

I provide for you, as a poor ſtranger, who never aſked, and might not have deſerved my bounty; while, as a daughter, begging for an alms, I ſhut my heart, and ſent your ſupplications back.—Where was the merit of my thouſands given, while one poor wretch, from proud reſentment, peti⯑tioned me in vain?

I dare not call myſelf your daughter!

You are my daughter—and, when I have ſupplicated heaven to pardon my neglect of you, I'll aſk your pardon, too.—You are my daughter—and let the infamy you have eſcaped ſerve only to make you more [68]amiable—make you compaſſionate—compaſ⯑ſionate to your own weak ſex, in whatſoever ſuf⯑fering ſtate you ſee them—They all were vir⯑tuous once, as well as you—and, had they met a father, might have been ſaved, like you.—For me—

Bleſs me, how has the time flown!—My dear, I have an engage⯑ment I cannot poſtpone above half an hour—and that time I muſt dedicate to—Now, me⯑thinks, I would wiſh to live.

Retire to your chamber.—I will, if poſſible, be with you ſpeedily.—Where your huſband is, and in what poor place your children, I am impatient till I know—but now I cannot wait.—Retire my child.—May we meet again in ſafety—

Now where's the Colonel?—I have juſt time to draw up a writing for him to ſign when he arrives—and I'll about it inſtantly.—Oh! with what tranſport does the human heart diſlodge the unnatural gueſts, Malice and Reſentment, to take to its warm receſſes the mild inhabitant, peaceful Charity.—Yet even more welcome is the returning virtue when thus'tis ſtrengthen'd by parental fondneſs.

SCENE I.

WHAT ſucceſs?—Will Sir George come?—What a tedious time have you been gone!

Dear madam, if you cou'd ſuppoſe how obſtinate Sir George was—and how I had to beg, and to pray—

But will he come?

Yes, madam—at laſt he ſaid he wou'd.

Thank Heaven—Then I ſhall have the unſpeakable joy of giving him this!—

What; Sir George, madam?—Well, I declare, I was at my wit's ends to know what you cou'd want with Sir George.

To give him this letter, Bloom, from Lady Euſton to the Major, which you ſo luckily found, and to have the extreme pleaſure of informing him that I am not the only object deſerving his reſentment—but that even his wife of a few months—ſhe whom the world ſays he doats upon, and who has driven me from his remembrance, is indiſcreet as I have [70]been—to ſee with my own eyes his confuſion—hear him reproach her conduct, and make him own—He promiſed he'd come?

Yes, ma'am—but not till I knelt down and ſwore your Ladyſhip was dying; ſud⯑denly taken ill; and con'd not leave the world in peace till you had communicated ſomething from your own lips to him.

You did right—juſt as I ordered you—And what did he ſay to that?

Why, he ſaid,—"I will come to the poor unhappy wretch!"

Wretch!—Are you ſure he ſaid ſo?

I am ſure he ſaid, "Poor" and "unhappy," and then, you know, "wretch" follows of courſe.

Who will be moſt wretched, in a few moments, he or I?

Very true, madam—I believe he'll find he has not changed for the better.

Con⯑fuſion! What have you made me do?—You told me this letter was for the Major—it is di⯑rected to Sir Harry Harmleſs.

Oh that I ſhou'd not look at the direction!

No matter—this is even a greater diſhonor to Sir George than were it to [71]the Major, and will wound him deeper—But where is the Major then? He will not be en⯑gaged as I ſuppoſed—and may return.

Oh, no, my Lady, that I dare ſay he won't—you need not fear—go into your chamber, madam, and make yourſelf eaſy till Sir George comes, and make yourſelf eaſy when he does come too—for, though the Major may not be with Lady Euſton, I dare ſay he has his appointments in ſome corner or another, as well as your Ladyſhip.

SCENE II.

I have been waiting for you all day—What meant the few words in your letter?—Why is my meeting with his Lordſhip deferred?

I am juſt come from Lord Layton—a friend of his Lordſhip's, know⯑ing I was acquainted with you, call'd and took me there—and, to tell you the truth, I think this buſineſs between you and his Lordſhip might be amicably and honorably ſettled—However, if you don't fight with him, you muſt fight with a mad headed fellow I have left below—ſo which do you chooſe?

What do you mean?

Nay, you will have a worſe chance than you wou'd have had with his Lordſhip; for this man is a ſoldier, one who has been fighting for theſe four or five years paſt—beſides, he's deſperate—half mad; and has ſworn, he'll either kill or be kill'd by you, in⯑ſtantly.

Let him come—Who, and what is he?—What has he to demand of me?

Nay, don't be too violent neither—He's a poor unfortunate lad, I fancy—and, notwithſtanding all his bluſtering—henow and then looks ſo heart-wounded I can't help pitying him.

But what's his buſineſs? What is his quarrel with me?

Lord Layton is the innocent cauſe of it—he told the young man, who came to his Lordſhip's (ſomewhat ſooner than I did) in ſearch of the Lady whom you took away, that the Lady had confeſſed herſelf poor—and even periſhing for ſubſiſtence—and that, conſequently, ſhe was willing to reſign herſelf to the moſt liberal—which you proving, in ſpite of his Lordſhip's generoſity, you carried off the prize—and, egad, I owned it was what I had ſuſpected, notwithſtanding your grave coun⯑tenance laſt night.

You told him you thought ſo?

Yes—for I wiſhed to turn the whole matter into a joke with his Lordſhip—I did not think, at the time, that the young fellow wou'd have been ſo violent—for till this was explained he was as patient as a lamb; and only inquired, with trembling and ſighs, for the Lady—but, when he heard what I ſaid, egad, he laid hold of me, and ſwore, till I brought him to my friend, the "unpitying, vile purchaſer of innocence," (meaning you) he wou'd not quit me—So here he has followed me through the ſtreets—and, on condition that he wou'd be patient while I came and announced him to you, I have promiſed him you ſhall give him ſatis⯑faction.

What is this gentleman's name?

He did not tell us.

Does he know mine?

No; I thought it moſt prudent not to tell him; for, he's ſuch a madman, he might have bawled it as we came in the ſtreets.

What is he to the Lady?—Her brother?—her couſin?

Why, faith, I've a notion (though he did not ſay ſo) I have a notion he is her huſband.

Indeed!

Why you don't like the buſineſs the worſe for that? 'Tis crim. con. now, and you'll be quite in the faſhion.

Let the young man come up—I'll withdraw for a moment—but do not give him to ſuppoſe I have not injured him.

That you may de⯑pend upon—I never tell a falſehood for myſelf, much leſs for another.

Neither let him know my name. I'll firſt ſend the Lady to him, and then return myſelf.

He's coming.

Where is this gentle⯑man?

Walk in here, Sir.

The man you wiſh to ſee—and whom you ſay has injured you—will be here and give you ſatisfaction immediately.

I thank him—Then I ſhall die and never ſee her more.

—Oh, Sir! cooled with the reſtraint you have thus long im⯑poſed on me! I wiſh to aſk a favour—I thought I was reſolved never again to behold the wretch I have been deprived of; but, my rage for a mo⯑ment gone, I cannot think of dying, and ſhe ſo near me, without once looking on her—I have [75]come far to ſee her—ſuffered much—croſſed half the Eaſtern clime in poverty—have endur⯑ed more pain, more toil, to gain my freedom, but to ſtarve with her—and, dying, comfort her, than, had a throne been my waiting reward, my ſpirits cou'd have ſtruggled with.—And, after all, I feel, I feel I could be repaid with a mere look—Then, why refuſe me?—If I eſcape my an⯑tagoniſt, I have reſolved on death! Let me then ſee her! I will not exchange a word with her—will they refuſe her coming?

No—for here ſhe is—

Oh!—But I am commanded not to fly to your arms—I muſt not run to you, and tell you all I feel!

I ſaid—I thought—I wou'd not ſpeak to you—but pity for your crimes and miſeries compel me—And, I tell you, to alleviate your remorſe, I pardon you—nay, perhaps, love you better, even in this agony of affliction, than if we had been bleſt with proſperous, virtuous days!—I know what you have ſuffered!—Your guilt convinces me!—I want no other plea from a heart like yours.—But where's your vile purchaſer?—My rage returns!—I muſt die ſoon—but firſt in his breaſt!

He's here!—

Then to his heart—

May father!—

Yes—I am the man whoſe life you ſeek.—And, as your father, you might purſue your purpoſe—But, as your wife's friend and preſerver, ſtill kneel to me; and receive her, virtuous, from my hands.—

Virtuous!—Virtuous!—O my father—Even groaning under your diſpleaſure, ever dear, and revered!—What are you now, while heavenly conſolation pours from your lips?—

Father and ſon!—Why then there's to be no battle at laſt?—

No—Hoſtilities are paſt—and may their future days known only peace!—My ſon—

That tender name diſtracts me!—Let me be more compoſed—prepared—before I experience ſuch unexpected happineſs.—Maria, lead me from my father—Hereaſter I will thank him; but now, I cannot.—

Oh! Yes, my huſband, kneel to him again!—Kneel for me! For your poor children! Saved from want and wretchedneſs!—From being orphans!—Kneel to him for us all!—preſerved from infamy!—

O ſpare the recollection—I feel too much!—A poor, forſaken, deſperate, dying man, reſtored to love, to life, to him too—whoſe anger, (even while bleſt with thee) plung'd me in conſtant ſorrow.—It is too much!

I thought my heart had been—but—

What? Do you weep?—Now that affects me more than any thing that has been ſaid or done yet.—I don't like to ſee a woman cry, but I can't bear to ſee a man—a man's tears flow from ſo deep a ſource—they always appear to have come a long journey, and therefore I notice them as ſtrangers, that have gone through fatigue, and trouble, on their way—While a woman's tears I conſider as mere neighbours, that can call upon you when they like, and generally drop in on all occaſions.

SCENE III.

That is Sir George—Heavens!—

Yes, my Lady, that it is—

Heavens! What a ſenſation—How am I agitated at his approach!—Cou'd I have thought, a few hours ago, I ſhou'd [78]ever ſee him again?—Speak to him again!—Oh this ſhame—

Shame! Bleſs me!—One does feel a little aſhamed ſometimes on ſeeing a ſtranger; but, my Lady, Sir George is (as one may ſay) an old acquiantance.

I muſt retire for a moment—Do you receive him—and, before I return, give him to underſtand that I am not dying; but will come to him immediately.

Well, now I declare I begin to be aſhamed myſelf—Own all I ſwore to him on my knees was a falſehood?—Why, what will he ſay? Dear me, I'm quite alarmed! I muſt re⯑tire for a moment too!—

How ſtrange does it ſeem to me to find myſelf once more in this houſe, eſ⯑pecially when I conſider who reſides here—Who? Perhaps, by this time, poor Lady Harriet is no more—How amiably did my dear Lady Eu⯑ton enforce her dying requeſt—I doubted the rectitude of complying with it—but ſhe ſur⯑mounted all my ſcruples, and her tenderneſs and generoſity have endeared her to me more than ever.

How does Lady Harriet?

As well as can be expected, Sir.

How!

I hope you won't be angry, Sir—but ſhe's a little better.

Angry!—No; I am very glad to hear it!

Are you indeed, Sir? Why then I believe ſhe is a great deal better.

Indeed!—I am very glad; but then, if my attendance can be diſpenſed with—I may as well—

Let the chariot wait—perhaps, I may go out again.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!—that's the Major—that's my maſter!—my other maſter!—Oh, what will become of us all?

How unlucky!

Sir!—Dear Sir, hide yourſelf!

Hide!

On my knees I beg—Conſider my poor dying Lady!

Go with that note immediately.

Here!—in here, Sir, for Heavens ſake.

'Sdeath!—What ſhall I do? See him? Damnation!—And ſee him here too? No, I can't bear it—I muſt avoid him.

Here, Sir—here, quick!

There, there he is! thank Heaven! For, if my poor Lady had loſt the Major, ſhe might never have got a third huſband. Lord bleſs me, I'm juſt as terrified as if I had never been uſed to theſe ſort of things!

Ridiculed, baffled—laughed at—diſappointed! How Sir George will enjoy this! A fine figure I cut on my knees to Sir Harry, when the Colonel and his friends were ſhown in! And then my ridiculous vanity in wiſhing him to be unmaſked, confidently expecting it was Euſton's wife!—Oh, damn it! I'll think no more of it; but as I am deprived the ſatisfaction of revenge on the Lady abroad, I'll e'en torment my Lady at home!

Lady Harriet—Lady Harriet.

What's the matter? You tremble—you look pale!

Tremble!—Bleſs me—I've been faſt aſleep—and ſuch a dream! I thought I was falling—

Ay, my Lady, I always dream of falling too!

How long have you been come home?—What's o'clock? How long do you think I have ſlept, Bloom?

I dare ſay, pretty near an hour and half, my Lady.

A miſerable dull book—fell out of my hand! and I dropp'd inſenſibly—

And with the candles ſo near your Ladyſhip! I'm ſure your Ladyſhip was very lucky, you did not ſet yourſelf on fire!

Aye; does your Ladyſhip conſider the danger with the lights ſo near you? You might have caught fire, and I ſhou'd have had all my valuable pictures, and library con⯑ſumed in an inſtant!

And I conſumed too.

Aye—and your Ladyſhip.

Very true—but I am fond of reading melancholy books, that ſet me to fleep.

Then I deſire, for the future, you wou'd not read.

And don't you deſire I wou'd not ſleep too! I'm very ſorry you diſ⯑turbed me.—Bloom, come and diſpoſe the ſofa, and the lights—I'm reſolved I'll finiſh my nap.

But, Mrs. Bloom, firſt order the French horns up—I'm out of ſpirits.

And do you imagine your horns will diſturb my repoſe?—I ſhall like them of all things—they'll lull me to ſleep.

Like them or not—I will have them.

You ſhall—you ſhall have them.

Colonel Downright, Sir, with two gentlemen, ſtrangers, deſire to be ad⯑mitted.

What can bring them here? They dare not come to laugh at me! No matter—I'll ſee them.

Shew them up

Major, theſe gentle⯑men, the Mr. Euſton's, have begged me to introduce them to you, late as it is, on buſineſs in which they are materially—

Sir—Major Cyprus, I beg your pardon—but I have received intelligence that my nephew, Sir George Euſton, is in this houſe, and I am come to conduct him ſafe out of it.

Sir!—

In ſhort, Sir—Sir George Euſton has been, by ſome unwarrantable means, led to pay a viſit here, and I cannot leave the houſe until I ſee him.—If I ſhould, my niece, Lady Euſton, will be highly alarmed (know⯑ing you are at home) for her huſband's ſafety.—

Sir George in this houſe! Ridiculous ſuppoſition!

Call her Ladyſhip's woman—She deliver'd the meſſage of invitation—I ſhall know her again, for I ſaw her—and I ſaw Sir George ſoon after follow her.—

Bloom!—Bloom!—Wheres Bloom?

Pray were you at Sir George Euſton's to-day, or this evening?—

I! At Sir George Euſton's, Sir!—

Yes: I ſaw you there.—

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Oh dear!—I was not there indeed, Sir!

You ſee ſhe denies it, and confirms the truth with her tears.

I diſtruſt them both—Both her truth and her tears.—

Come, come, Mr. Anthony Euſton, confeſs you were not brought hither to [84]ſeek Sir George—Clear yourſelf, in your turn, from the ſuſpicions I entertain of you.—But, if you dare to avow yourſelf the contriver, or even abettor of the affront offered me at the maſque⯑rade—

Major Cyprus!—My brother Anthony knew no more of the appointment at the maſquerade than the child unborn.—But, bleſs you, my niece and we meant you no ill by it; we only meant to have a joke at your and Sir Harry's expence—that was all.

Then give me leave to tell you, Mr. Euſton, and you alſo Mr. Anthony, that your preſent viſit—

We underſtand you, Sir—only aſſure us that Sir George Euſton is ſafe and we'll leave your houſe immediately—

I! aſſure you that Sir George Euſton is ſafe!

You ſeem ſurpriſed—Let me then ſpeak a word with Lady Harriet, whom the ſervants tell me is at home. Is ſhe or not?—

De⯑fire your Lady to come hither.—But have a care, gentlemen, how far you provoke me by your ſuſpicons!—For, by Heaven—

I have no fears but for Sir George—nor will now your utmoſt rage induce me to quit the houſe till I am aſſured of his ſafety.—

And pray, Sir, who in this houſe is to aſſure you of it?—

Himſelf!—

Confuſion!—

You ſee, Sir, my intelligence was good.—

Strange as my concealment may appear, the cauſe was ſuch as I can with honour reveal.

Then, pray Sir, with "ho⯑nour reveal it."

Why then I aſſure you, Major—and I aſſure you all—upon my honour—and on the word of a gentleman—that my being here—was—entirely—owing—to—to—

To what?—To what, Sir?

"I'll tell you what"—to "an undeſcribable ſomething"—to be ſure!

Damnation!

Did not I tell you to keep the key of the cloſet?—

Colonel, I beg—this is not a time—

The horns are ready, Sir—wou'd you chooſe to have them?

No.—

Where is Sir George?

Here, my dear—juſt ſtept out of the cloſet.

What cloſet?

That—that very iden⯑tical cloſet.

Heigh ho!—

Indeed, Lady Euſton, you have cauſe to reproach him.

I fear he will rather reproach me for this abrupt intruſion—but my appre⯑henſions for his ſafety (hearing no tidings from his uncle's) have alone impell'd me to it.

Had your Ladyſhip not written this letter to the amiable Sir Harry Harmleſs, (which I unfortunately ſuppoſed in⯑tended for Major Cyprus) your Ladyſhip's alarm⯑ing "apprehenſions" might have been ſpared, as I ſent for Sir George but to ſhew him this letter.

And that letter was only a joke—a ſcheme to mortify the Major and Sir Harry.

It was ſo—I own it.—And the confuſion the ſcheme has occaſioned, Sir George, needs all your forgiveneſs.

I ſincerely pardon it—and hope the whole company will do me the juſtice to believe that my ſole motive, for entering this houſe, was a compliance with, what I then thought, the dying requeſt of that Lady.—And I now believe that her Ladyſhip's ſole motive for wiſhing to ſee me was merely to ſhew me the etter of which ſhe ſpeaks—a copy of which, not without my knowledge, but againſt my opinion, was written by Lady euſton to Major Cy⯑prus, appointing a fictitious interview, in return for his having dared to offend her with the pro⯑feſſion of a licentious paſſion!

Sir George, I am perfectly ſatisfied with this explantation.—But, after what has happened, the world may deſpiſe me for be⯑ing ſo, and therefore, Lady Harriet, from this moment we ſeparate—And we had been wifer, as well as happier, if we had never met.

Moſt willingly ſeparate—Your unkind treatment—and my own conſtant in⯑quietude—have long ſince taught a woman of the world too feelingly to acknowledge, "No laſting friendſhip is form'd on vice."

Preach this, my dear Lady, to all your fair countrywomen—enforce your words by your future conduct, and they ſhall draw a veil over the frailty of your paſt life.

Oh! Mr.Anthony, cou'd I but retrieve my innocence, my honour, for ever loſt!

Yet, do not deſpair.—You can ſtill poſſeſs one ineſtimable good—that in⯑born [88]virtue which never periſhes—which never leaves us but to return.—For, when you think it extinguiſhed, feel but due remorſe and it riſes again in the ſoul.

That's right, brother Antho⯑ny—comfort her—it is your duty.—And we are all relations, you know—the whole company are related to one another.—Though it is in an odd kind of a jumbled way—I wiſh ſome learned gentleman, of the law, would tell us what rela⯑tions we all are—and what relation the child of a firſt huſband is to his mother's ſecond huſband, while his own father is living.

Brother, you think too deeply.

Not at all, brother Anthony!—And, for fear the gentlemen of the long robe ſhou'd not be able to find out the preſent company's affinity, let us apply to the kindred ties of each others paſſions, weakneſſes, and imperfec⯑tions; and, thereupon, agree to part, this evening, not only near relations but good friends.