ACT I.

HA! ha! ha! Well, Miſs Walſingham, this fury is going; what a noble peal ſhe has rung in Belville's ears!

Did ſhe ſee you, Captain Savage?

No, I took care of that; for tho' ſhe is'n't married to my father, ſhe has ten times the influence of a wife, and might injure me not a little with him, if I didn't ſupport her ſide of the queſtion.

It was a pleaſant conceit of Mr. Bel⯑ville, to inſinuate the poor woman was diſordered in her ſenſes!—

And did you obſerve how the termagant's violence of temper, ſupported the probability of the charge?

Yes, ſhe became almoſt frantic in re⯑ality, when ſhe found herſelf treated like a mad⯑woman.

Belville's affected ſurpriſe too, was admi⯑rable!

Yes, the hypocritical compoſure of his countenance, and his counterfeit pity for the poor woman, were intolerable!

While that amiable creature, his wife, im⯑plicitly believed every ſyllable he ſaid—

And felt nothing but pity for the ac⯑cuſer, inſtead of paying the leaſt regard to the accu⯑ſation. But pray, is it really under a pretence of getting the girl upon the ſtage, that Belville has taken away Mrs. Tempeſt's neice from the people ſhe boarded with?

It is: Belville, ever on the look out for freſh objects, met her in thoſe primitive regions of purity, the Green-Boxes; where, diſcovering that ſhe was paſſion⯑ately deſirous of becoming an actreſs, he improved his acquaintance with her, in the fictitious character of an Iriſh manager, and ſhe eloped laſt night, to be, as ſhe imagines, the heroine of a Dublin theatre.

So, then, as he has kept his real name artfully conceal'd, Mrs. Tempeſt can at moſt but ſuſpect him of Miſs Leeſon's ſeduction.

Of no more; and this, only, from the deſcription of the people who ſaw him in company with her at the play; but, I wiſh the affair may not have a ſerious concluſion; for ſhe has a brother, a very ſpirited young fellow, who is a council in the Temple, and who will certainly call Belville to an account, the moment he hears of it.

And what will become of the poor creature after he has deſerted her?

You know that Belville is generous to pro⯑fuſion, and has a thouſand good qualities to counter-balance this ſingle fault of gallantry, which con⯑taminates his character.

You men! you men!—You are ſuch wretches that there's no having a moment's ſatisfac⯑tion with you! and what's ſtill more provoking, there's no having a moment's ſatisfaction without you!

Nay, don't think us all alike.

I'll endeavour to deceive myſelf; for it is but a poor argument of your ſincerity, to be the confidant of another's falſehood.

Nay, no more of this, my love; no peo⯑ple live happier than Belville and his wife; nor is there a man in England, notwithſtanding all his levity, who conſiders his wife with a warmer degree of affection: if you have a friendſhip therefore, for her, let her continue in an error, ſo neceſſary to her repoſe, and give no hint, whatever, of his gallantries to any body.

If I had no pleaſure in obliging you, I have too much regard for Mrs. Belville, not to follow your advice; but you need not enjoin me ſo ſtrongly on the ſubject, when you know I can keep a ſecret.

You are all goodneſs; and the prudence with which you have conceal'd our private engage⯑ments, has eternally oblig'd me; had you truſted the ſecret even to Mrs. Belville, it wou'dn't have been ſafe; ſhe wou'd have told her huſband, and he is ſuch a rattleſkul, that, notwithſtanding all his regard for me, he wou'd have mention'd it in ſome moment of levity, and ſent it in a courſe of circulation to my father.

The peculiarity of your father's tem⯑per, join'd to my want of fortune, made it neceſſary for me to keep our engagements inviolably ſecret; there is no merit, therefore, either in my prudence, or in my labouring aſſiduouſly to cultivate the good opinion of the General; ſince both were ſo [...]eceſ⯑ſary [4] to my own happineſs; don't deſpiſe me for this acknowledgement now.

Bewitching ſoftneſs!—But your goodneſs, I flatter myſelf, will be ſpeedily rewarded; you are now ſuch a favourite with him, that he is eternally talking of you; and I really fancy he means to pro⯑poſe you to me himſelf: for, laſt night, in a few mi⯑nutes after he had declared you would make the beſt wife in the world, he ſeriouſly aſk'd me if I had any averſion to matrimony?

Why, that was a very great conceſſion indeed, as he ſeldom ſtoops to conſult any body's inclinations.

So it was, I aſſure you; for, in the army, being uſed to nothing but command and obedience, he removes the diſcipline of the parade into his family, and no more expects his orders ſhou'd be diſ⯑puted, in matters of a domeſtic nature, than if they were deliver'd at the head of his regiment.

And yet, Mrs. Tempeſt, who you ſay is as much a ſtorm in her nature as her name, is diſ⯑puting them eternally.

Well, Miſs Walſingham, hav'n't we had a pretty morning's viſitor?

Really, I think ſo; and I have been aſking Capt. Savage, how long the lady has been diſ⯑ordered in her ſenſes?

Why will they let the poor woman abroad, without ſome body to take care of her?

O, ſhe has her lucid intervals.

I declare I ſhall be as angry with you as I am with Belville.

You can't think how ſenſibly ſhe ſpoke at firſt.

I ſhould have had no conception of her mad⯑neſs, [5] if ſhe hadn't brought ſo prepoſterous a charge againſt me.

Lady Rachel Mildew, Madam, ſends her compliments, and if you are not particularly en⯑gaged, will do herſelf the pleaſure of waiting upon you.

Our compliments, and we ſhall be glad to ſee her Ladyſhip.

I wonder if Lady Rachel knows that Tor⯑rington came to town laſt night from Bath!

I hope he has found benefit by the waters, for he is one of the beſt creatures exiſting; he's a downright parſon Adams, in good nature and ſimplicity.

Lady Rachel will be quite happy at his return, and it would be a laughable affair, if a match could be brought about between the old maid and the old bachelor.

Mr. Torrington is too much taken up at Weſtminſter-Hall, to think of paying his devoirs to the ladies; and too plain a ſpeaker, I fancy, to be agreeable to Lady Rachel.

You miſtake the matter widely; ſhe is deep⯑ly ſmitten with him; but honeſt Torrington is ut⯑terly unconſcious of his conqueſt, and modeſtly thinks that he has not a ſingle attraction for any woman in the univerſe.

Yet my poor aunt ſpeaks ſufficiently plain, in all conſcience, to give him a different opinion of himſelf.

Yes, and puts her charms into ſuch repair, whenever ſhe expects to meet him, that her cheeks look for all the world like a raſberry ice upon a ground of cuſtard.

I thought Apollo was the only god of Lady [6] Rachel's idolatary, and that in her paſſion for poetry ſhe had taken leave of all the leſs elevated affec⯑tions.

O, you miſtake again; the poets are etern⯑ally in love, and can by no means be calculated to deſcribe the imaginary paſſions, without being very ſuſceptible of the real ones.

The man, Madam, from Taviſtock-ſtreet, has brought home the dreſſes for the maſquerade, and deſires to know if there are any commands for him.

O, bid him ſtay till we ſee the dreſſes.

They are only Dominos.

I am glad of that; for characters are as dif⯑ficult to be ſupported at the maſquerade, as they are in real life. The laſt time I was at the Pantheon, a veſtal virgin invited me to ſup with her, and ſwore that her pocket had been pick'd by a Juſtice of peace.

Nay, that was not ſo bad, as the Hamlet's Ghoſt that box'd with Henry the Eighth, and afterwards danc'd a hornpipe to the tune of Nancy Dawſon. Ha! ha! ha!—We follow you, Mrs. Belville.

Where is this clerk of mine? Connolly!

Here, Sir!

Have you copied the marriage ſettlement, as I corrected it?

Ay, honey, an hour ago.

What, you have been trying thoſe piſtols?

By my ſoul, I have been firing them this half hour, without once being able to make them go off.

They are plaguy dirty.

In troth, ſo they are: I ſtrove to brighten them up a little, but ſome misfortune attends every thing I do, for the more I clane them, the dirtier they are, honey.

You have had ſome of our uſual daily viſi⯑tors for money, I ſuppoſe?

You may ſay that; and three or four of them are now hanging about the door, that I wiſh handſomely hang'd any where elſe, for bodering us.

No joking, Connolly! my preſent ſituation is a very diſagreeable one.

Faith, and ſo it is; but who makes it diſa⯑reeable? your Aunt Tempeſt would let you have as much money as you pleaſe, but you won't condeſcend to be acquainted with her, though people in this country can be very intimate friends, without ſeeing one anothers faces for ſeven years.

Do you think me baſe enough to receive a favour from a woman, who has diſgraced her family, and ſtoops to be a kept miſtreſs? you ſee, my ſiſter is already ruin'd by a connection with her.

Ah, Sir, a good guinea isn't the worſe for coming through a bad hand; if it was, what would become of us lawyers? and by my ſoul, many a high head in London would, at this minute, be very low, if they hadn't recieved favours even from much worſe people than kept miſtreſſes.

Others, Connolly, may proſtitute their honour, as they pleaſe; mine is my chief poſſeſſion, and I muſt take particular care of it.

Honour, to be ſure, is a very fine thing, Sir; but I don't ſee how it is to be taken care of, without a little money; your honour, to my know⯑ledge, has'n't been in your own poſſeſſion theſe two [8] years, and the devil a crum can you honeſtly ſwear by, till you get it out of the hands of your creditors.

I have given you a licence to talk, Con⯑nolly, becauſe I know you faithful; but I hav'n't given you a liberty to ſport with my misfortunes.

You know I'd die to ſerve you, Sir; but of what uſe is your giving me leave to ſpake, if you oblige me to hould my tongue? 'tis out of pure love and affection that I put you in mind of your misfortunes.

Well, Connolly, a few days will, in all pro⯑bability, enable me to redeem my honour, and to re⯑ward your fidelity; the lovely Emily, you know, has half conſented to embrace the firſt opportunity of flying with me to Scotland, and the paltry trifles I owe, will not be miſs'd in her Fortune.

But, dear Sir, conſider you are going to fight a duel this very evening, and if you ſhou'd be kilt, I fancy you will find it a little difficult, to run away afterwards with the lovely Emily.

If I fall, there will be an end to my miſ⯑fortunes.

But ſurely it will not be quite genteel, to go out of the world without paying your debts.

But how ſhall I ſtay in the world, Connolly, without puniſhing Belville for ruining my ſiſter?

O, the devil fly away with this honour; an ounce of common ſenſe, is worth a whole ſhip load of it, if we muſt prefer a bullet or a halter, to a fine young lady and a great fortune.

We'll talk no more on the ſubject at pre⯑ſent. Take this letter to Mr. Belville; deliver it into his own hand, be ſure; and bring me an anſwer: make haſte; for I ſhall not ſtir out till you come back.

By my ſoul, I wiſh you may be able to ſtir out then, honey.—O, but that's true!

What's the matter?

Why, Sir, the gentleman I laſt liv'd clerk [9] with, died lately and left me a legacy of twenty guineas—

What! is Mr. Stanley dead?

Faith, his friends have behav'd very unkindly if he is not, for they have buried him theſe ſix weeks.

And what then?

Why, Sir, I received my little legacy this morning, and if you'd be ſo good as to keep it for me, I'd be much oblig'd to you.

Connolly, I underſtand you, but I am already ſhamefully in your debt: you've had no money from me this age.—

O Sir, that does not ſignify; if you are not kilt in this damn'd duel, you'll be able enough to pay me: if you are, I ſhan't want it.

Why ſo, my poor fellow?

Becauſe, tho' I am but your clerk, and tho' I think fighting the moſt fooliſh thing upon earth, I'm as much a gintleman as yourſelf, and have as much right to commit a murder in the way of duelling.

And what then? You have no quarrel with Mr. Belville?

I ſhall have a damn'd quarrel with him tho' if you are kilt: your death ſhall be reveng'd, de⯑pend upon it, ſo let that content you.

My dear Connolly, I hope I ſhan't want ſuch a proof of your affection.—How he diſtreſſes me!

You will want a ſecond, I ſuppoſe, in this affair: I ſtood ſecond to my own brother, in the Fif⯑teen Acres, and tho' that has made me deteſt the very thought of duelling ever ſince; yet if you want a friend, I'll attend you to the field of death with a great deal of ſatisfaction.

I thank you, Connolly, but I think it ex⯑tremely wrong in any man who has a quarrel, to ex⯑poſe [10] his friend to difficulties; we ſhou'dn't ſeek for redreſs, if we are not equal to the taſk of fighting our own battles; and I chooſe you particularly, to carry my letter becauſe, you may be ſuppoſed ignorant of the contents, and thought to be acting only in the ordinary courſe of your buſineſs.

Say no more about it, honey; I will be back with you preſently.

I put the twenty guineas in your pocket, before you were up, Sir; and I don't believe you'd look for ſuch a thing there, if I wasn't to tell you of it.

This faithful, noble-hearted creature!— but let me fly from thought; the buſineſs I have to execute, will not bear the teſt of reflection.

As this is a challenge, I ſhou'dn't go with⯑out a ſword; come down, little tickle-pitcher.

Some people may think me very conceited now; but as the dirtieſt black legs in town can wear one without being ſtared at, I don't think it can ſuffer any diſgrace by the ſide of an honeſt man.

How ſtrangely this affair of Mrs. Tem⯑peſt hangs upon my ſpirits, tho' I have every reaſon, from the tenderneſs, the politeneſs, and the genero⯑ſity of Mr. Belville, as well as from the woman's behaviour, to believe the whole charge the reſult of a diſturb'd imagination.—Yet ſuppoſe it ſhould be ac⯑tually true:—heigho!—well, ſuppoſe it ſhou'd;—I wou'd endeavour—I think I wou'd endeavour to keep my temper:—a frowning face never recovered a heart that was not to be fix'd with a ſmiling one:—but wo⯑men, in general, forget this grand article of the ma⯑trimonial [11] creed entirely; the dignity of inſulted virtue obliges them to play the fool, whenever their Corydons play the libertine;—and poh! they muſt pull down the houſe about the traitor's ears, tho' they are themſelves to be cruſh'd in pieces by the ruins.

Lady Rachel Mildew, madam.

My dear, how have you done ſince the little eternity of my laſt ſeeing you. Mr. Tor⯑rington is come to town, I hear.

He is, and muſt be greatly flattered to find that your Ladyſhip has made him the hero of your new comedy.

Yes, I have drawn him as he is, an honeſt practitioner of the law; which is I fancy no very common character—

And it muſt be a vaſt acquiſition to the Theatre.

Yet the managers of both houſes have refuſed my play; have refuſed it peremptorily! tho' I offer'd to make them a preſent of it.

That's very ſurprizing, when you offer'd to make them a preſent of it.

They alledge that the audiences are tired of crying at comedies; and inſiſt that my De⯑ſpairing Shepherdeſs is abſolutely too diſmal for re⯑preſentation.

What, tho' you have introduced a law⯑yer in a new light?

Yes, and have a boarding-ſchool romp, that ſl [...]ps her mother's face, and throws a baſon of ſcalding water at her governeſs.

Why, ſurely, theſe are capital jokes!

But the managers can't find them out.—However, I am determined to bring it out ſomewhere; and I have diſcover'd ſuch a treaſure for my boarding-ſchool romp, as exceeds the moſt ſan⯑guine expectation of criticiſm.

How fortunate!

Goings to Mrs. Le Blond, my mille⯑ner's, this morning, to ſee ſome contraband ſilks, (for you know there's a foreign miniſter juſt arriv'd) I heard a loud voice rehearſing Juliet, from the dining-room; and upon enquiry found that it was a country girl, juſt elop'd from her friends in town, to go upon the ſtage with an Iriſh manager.

Ten to one, the ſtrange woman's neice, who has been here this morning.

Mrs. Le Blond has ſome doubts about the manager it ſeems, though ſhe hasn't ſeen him yet, becauſe the apartments are very expenſive, and were taken by a fine gentleman out of livery.

What am I to think of this?—Pray, Lady Rachel, as you have convers'd with this young actreſs, I ſuppoſe you could procure me a ſight of her.

This moment if you will, I am very intimate with her already; but pray keep the matter a ſecret from your huſband, for he is ſo witty, you know, upon my paſſion for the drama, that I ſhall be teized to death by him.

O, you may be very ſure that your ſe⯑cret is ſafe, for I have a moſt particular reaſon to keep it from Mr. Belville; but he is coming this way with Captain Savage, let us at preſent avoid him.

You are a very ſtrange man, Belville; you are for ever tremblingly ſolicitous about the hap⯑pineſs [13] of your wife, yet for ever endangering it by your paſſion for variety.

Why, there is certainly a contradiction be⯑tween my principles and my practice; but, if ever you marry, you'll be able to reconcile it perfectly. Poſ⯑ſeſſion, Savage! O, poſſeſſion, is a miſerable whetter of the appetite in love! and I own myſelf ſo ſad a fellow, that though I wou'dn't exchange Mrs. Bel⯑ville's mind for any woman's upon earth, there is ſcarcely a woman's perſon upon earth, which is not to me a ſtronger object of attraction.

Then perhaps in a little time you'll be weary of Miſs Leeſon?

To be ſure I ſhall; though to own the truth, I have not yet carried my point concluſively with the little monkey.

Why how the plague has ſhe eſcap'd a moment in your hands?

By a mere accident.—She came to the lodg⯑ings, which my man Spruce prepar'd for her, rather un⯑expectedly laſt night, ſo that I happened to be en⯑gaged particularly in another quarter—you under⯑ſtand me—and the damn'd aunt found me ſo much employment all the morning, that I could only ſend a meſſage by Spruce, promiſing to call upon her the firſt moment I had to ſpare in the courſe of the day.

And ſo your are previouſly ſatisfied that you ſhall be tired of her.

Tir'd of her?—Why I am at this moment in purſuit of freſh game, againſt the hour of ſatiety:—Game that you know to be exquiſite! and I fancy I ſhall bring it down, though it is cloſely guarded by a deal of that pride, which paſſes for virtue with the generallity of your mighty good people.

Indeed! and may a body know this wonder?

You are to be truſted with any thing, for you are the cloſeſt fellow I ever knew, and the rack itſelf would hardly make you diſcover one of your own ſecrets to any body—what do you think of Miſs Walſingham?

Miſs Walſingham?—Death and the devil!

Miſs Walſingham:

Why ſurely ſhe has not received your ad⯑dreſſes with any degree of approbation?

With every degree of approbation I cou'd expect.

She has?

Ay: Why this news ſurpriſes you?

It does indeed!

Ha, ha, ha! I can't help laughing to think what a happy dog Miſs Walſingham's huſband is likely to be!

A very happy dog, truly!

She's a delicious girl, is'n't ſhe, Savage?— but ſhe'll require a little more trouble;—for a fine woman, like a fortified town, to ſpeak in your fa⯑ther's language, demands a regular ſiege; and we muſt even allow her the honours of war, to magnify the greatneſs of our own victory.

Well, it amazes me how you gay fellows ever have the preſumption to attack a woman of principle; Miſs Walſingham has no apparent levity of any kind about her.

No; but ſhe continued in my houſe, after I had whiſpered my paſſion in her ear, and gave me a ſecond opportunity of addreſſing her improperly; what greater encouragement cou'd I deſire?

Well, Spruce, what are your commands?

My Lady is juſt gone out with Lady Rachel, Sir.

I underſtand you.

I believe you do.

What is the Engliſh of theſe ſignificant looks between Spruce and you?

Only that Miſs Walſingham is left alone, and that I have now an opportunity of entertaining her; you muſt excuſe me, Savage; you muſt upon my ſoul; but not a word of this affair to any body; becauſe when I ſhake her off my hands, there may be fools enough to think of her, upon terms of ho⯑nourable matrimony.

So, here's a diſcovery! a precious diſco⯑very! and while I have been racking my imagina⯑tion, and ſacrificing my intereſt, to promote the happineſs of this woman, ſhe has been liſtening to the addreſſes of another; to the addreſſes of a mar⯑ried man! the huſband of her friend, and the imme⯑diate friend of her intended huſband!—By Belville's own account, however, ſhe has not yet proceeded to any criminal lengths—But why did ſhe keep the affair a ſecret from me? or why did ſhe continue in his houſe after a repeated declaration of his unwarrantable attachment?—What's to be done?—If I open my engagement with her to Belville, I am ſure he will in⯑ſtantly deſiſt;—but then her honour is left in a ſtate extremely queſtionable—It ſhall be ſtill concealed— While it remains unknown, Belville will himſelf tell me every thing;—and doubt, upon an occaſion of this nature, is infinitely more inſupportable than the downright falſehood of the woman whom we love.

ACT II.

ZOUNDS! Torrington, give me quarter, when I ſurrender up my ſword: I own that for theſe twenty years, I have been ſuffering all the incon⯑veniences of marriage, without taſting any one of its comforts, and rejoicing in an imaginary freedom, while I was really grovelling in chains.

In the dirtieſt chains upon earth;—yet you wou'dn't be convinc'd, but laugh'd at all your mar⯑ried acquaintance as ſlaves, when not one of them put up with half ſo much from the worſt wife, as you were oblig'd to crouch under, from a kept miſ⯑treſs.

'Tis too true. But, you know, ſhe ſacrificed much for me;—you know that ſhe was the widow of a colonel, and refus'd two very advantageous matches on my account.—

If ſhe was the widow of a judge, and had re⯑fuſed a high chancellor, ſhe was ſtill a devil incar⯑nate, and you were of courſe a madman to live with her.

You don't remember her care of me when I have been ſick.—

I recollect, however, her uſage of you in health, and you may eaſily find a tenderer nurſe, when you are bound over by the gout or the rheumatiſm.

Well, well, I agree with you that ſhe is a devil incarnate; but I am this day determin'd to part with her for ever.

Not you indeed.

What, don't I know my own mind?

Not you indeed, when ſhe is in the queſtion; with every body elſe, your reſolution is as unalterable as a determination in the houſe of peers; but Mrs. Tempeſt is your fate, and ſhe reverſes your decrees with as little difficulty as a fraudulent debtor now-a-days procures his certificate under a commiſſion of bankruptcy.

Well if, like the Roman Fabius, I conquer by delay, in the end, there will be no great reaſon to find fault with my generalſhip. The propoſal of parting now comes from herſelf.

O, you darn't make it for the life of you.

You muſt know that this morning we had a ſmart cannonnading on Belville's account, and ſhe threatens, as I told you before, to quit my houſe if I don't challenge him for taking away her neice.

That fellow is the very devil among the women, and yet there isn't a man in England fonder of his wife.

Poh, if the young minx hadn't ſurrender'd to him, ſhe would have capitulated to ſomebody elſe, and I ſhall at this time be doubly obliged to him, if he is any ways inſtrumentall in getting the aunt off my hands.

Why at this time?

Becauſe to ſhew you how fix'd my reſolution is to be a keeper no longer, I mean to marry im⯑mediately.

And can't you avoid being preſs'd to death, like a felon who refuſes to plead, without incurring a ſentence of perpetual impriſonment?

I fancy you would yourſelf have no ob⯑jection [18] to a perpetual impriſonment in the arms of Miſs Walſingham.

But have you any reaſon to think that upon examination in a caſe of love, ſhe would give a fa⯑vourable reply to your interrogatories?

The greateſt—do you think I'd hazard ſuch an engagement without being perfectly ſure of my ground? Notwithſtanding my preſent connection won't ſuffer me to ſee a modeſt woman at my own houſe—She always treats me with particular attention whenever I viſit at Belville's, or meet her any where elſe—If fifty young fellows are preſent, ſhe directs all her aſſiduities to the old ſoldier, and my ſon has a thouſand times told me that ſhe profeſſes the higheſt opinion of my underſtanding.

And truly you give a notable proof of your underſtanding, in thinking of a woman almoſt young enough to be your grand-daughter.

Nothing like an experienc'd chief to com⯑mand in any garriſon.

Recollect the ſtate of your preſent citadel.

Well, if I am blown up by my own mine, I ſhall be the only ſufferer—There's another thing I want to talk of, I am going to marry my ſon to Miſs Moreland.

Miſs Moreland!—

Belville's ſiſter.

O, ay, I remember that Moreland had got a good eſtate to aſſume the name of Belville.

I have'nt yet mention'd the matter to my ſon, but I ſettled the affair with the girl's mother yeſterday, and ſhe only waits to communicate it to Belville, who is her oracle, you know.

And are you ſure the captain will like her?

I am not ſo unreaſonable as to inſiſt upon his liking her, I ſhall only inſiſt upon his marrying her.

What, whether he likes her or not?

When I iſſue my orders, I expect them to be obey'd; and don't look for an examination into their propriety.

What a delightful thing it muſt be to live under a military government, where a man is not to be troubled with the exerciſe of his underſtanding.

Miſs Moreland has thirty thouſand pounds— That's a large ſum of ammunition money.

Ay, but a marriage merely on the ſcore of fortune, is only gilding the death-warrant ſent down for the execution of a priſoner. However as I know your obſtinate attachment to what you once reſolve, I ſhan't pretend to argue with you; where are the papers which you want me to conſider?

They are in my library—File off with me to the next room and they ſhall be laid before you— But firſt I'll order the chariot, for the moment I have your opinion, I purpoſe to ſit down regularly before Miſs Walſingham—who waits there?

Is Mrs. Tempeſt at home?

Yes, Sir, juſt come in, and juſt going out again.

Very well; order the chariot to be got ready.

Sir, one of the pannels was broke laſt night at the Opera-houſe.

Sir, I didn't call to have the pleaſure of your converſation, but to have obedience paid to my orders.

Go order the chariot, you blockhead.

With the broken pannel, Sir.

Yes, you raſcal, if both pannels were broke, and the back ſhattered to pieces.

The coachman thinks that one of the wheels is damag'd, Sir.

Don't attempt to reaſon, you dog, but exe⯑cute [20] your orders.—Bring the chariot without the wheels—if you can't bring it with them.

Ay bring it, if you reduce it to a ſledge, and let your maſter look like a malefactor for high trea⯑ſon, on his journey to Tyburn.

General Savage, is the houſe to be for ever a ſcene of noiſe with your domineering?— The chariot ſhan't be brought—it won't be fit for uſe 'till it is repaired—and John, ſhall drive it this very minute to the coach-makers.

Nay, my dear, if it isn't fit for uſe that's another thing.

Here's the experienced chief that's fit to com⯑mand in any garr [...]n.

Go order me the coach then.

You can't have the coach.

And why ſo, my love.

Becauſe I want it for myſelf.—Robert, get a hack for your maſter—tho' indeed I don't ſee what buſineſs he has [...]ut of the houſe.

When you iſſu [...] your orders, you expect them to be [...]b [...]y'd, and don't look for an examin⯑ation into their propriety.

The fury!—this has ſteel'd me againſt her for ever, and nothing on earth can now prevent me from drumming her out immediately.

An unreaſonable old fool— But I'll make him know who governs this houſe!

Zounds! here ſhe comes again; ſhe has been lying in ambuſcade, I ſuppoſe, and has over heard us.

What if ſhe has? you are ſteel'd againſt her for ever.

No, ſhe's not coming—ſhe's going down [21] ſtairs;—and now, dear Torrington, you muſt be as ſilent as a ſentinel on an out-poſt about this affair. If that virago was to hear a ſyllable of it, ſhe might perhaps attack Miſs Walſingham in her very camp, and defeat my whole plan of operations.

I thought you were determin'd to drum her out immediately.

I beg, Sir, that you will inſult me no lon⯑ger with ſolicitations of this nature—Give me proofs of your ſincerity indeed! What proofs of ſincerity can your ſituation admit of, if I could be even weak enough to think of you with partiality at all?

If our affections, Madam, were under the government of our reaſon, circumſtanced as I am, this unhappy boſom wouldn't be torn by paſſion for Miſs Walſingham.—Had I been bleſs'd with your acquaintance, before I ſaw Mrs. Belville, my hand as well as my heart, wou'd have been humbly of⯑fer'd to your acceptance—fate, however, has or⯑dered it otherwiſe, and it is cruel to reproach me with that ſituation as a crime, which ought to be pitied as my greateſt misfortune.

He's actually forcing tears into his eyes.—However, I'll mortify him ſeverely.

But ſuch proofs of ſincerity as my ſituation can admit of, you ſhall yourſelf command, as my only buſineſs in exiſtence is to adore you.

His only buſineſs in exiſtence to adore me.

Proſtrate at your feet, my deareſt Miſs Wal⯑ſingham

behold a heart eternally devoted to your ſervice.—You have too much good ſenſe, Madam, to be the ſlave of cuſtom, and too much humanity not to pity the wretchedneſs you have [22] cauſed.—Only, therefore, ſay that you commiſerate my ſufferings—I'll aſk no more—and ſurely that may be ſaid, without any injury to your purity, to ſnatch even an enemy from diſtraction—where's my handkerchief?

Now to anſwer in his own way, and to make him ridiculous to himſelf—

If I thought, if I could think

that theſe proteſtations were real.

How can you, Madam, be ſo unjuſt to your own merit? how can you be ſo cruelly doubt⯑ful of my ſolemn aſſeverations?—Here I again kneel, and ſwear eternal love!

I don't know what to ſay—but there is one proof—

Name it, my angel, this moment, and make me the happieſt of mankind!

Swear to be mine for ever.

I have ſworn it a thouſand times, my charmer; and I will ſwear it to the laſt moment of my life.

Why then—but don't look at me I beſeech you—I don't know how to ſpeak it—

The delicious emotion—do not check the generous tide of tenderneſs that fills me with ſuch extaſy.

You'll deſpiſe me for this weakneſs.

This weakneſs—this generoſity which will demand my everlaſting gratitude.

I am a fool—but there is a kind of fatality in this affair—and I do conſent to go off with you.

Eternal bleſſings on your condeſcenſion.

You are irreſiſtible, and I am ready to fly with you to any part of the world.

Fly to any part of the world indeed—you ſhall fly by yourſelf then;

You are the [23] moſt lovely, the moſt tender creature in the world, and thus again let me thank you: O, Miſs Wal⯑ſingham, I cannot expreſs how happy you've made me!—But where's the neceſſity of our leaving Eng⯑land?—

I thought he wouldn't like to go abroad—

That I may poſſeſs the pleaſure of your company unrival'd.

I muſt cure her of this taſte for travelling—

You don't anſwer, Mr. Belville?

Why I was turning the conſequence of your propoſal in my thoughts, as going off—going off— you know.—

Why going off, you know, is going off— And what objections can you have to going off?

Why going off, will ſubject you at a cer⯑tainty, to the ſlander of the world; whereas by ſtaying at home, we may not only have numberleſs oppor⯑tunities of meeting, but at the ſame time prevent ſuſpi⯑cion it ſelf, from ever breathing on your reputation.

I didn't dream of your ſtarting any difficulties, Sir.—Juſt now I was dearer to you than all the world.

And ſo you are, by heav'n!

Why won't you ſacrifice the world then at once to obtain me?

Surely, my deareſt life, you muſt know the neceſſity, which every man of honour is under of keeping up his character?

So, here's this fellow ſwearing to ten thouſand lies, and yet talking very gravely about his honour and his character.

Why, to be ſure in theſe days, Mr. Belville, the inſtances of conjugal infidelity are ſo very ſcarce, and men of faſhion are ſo remarkable for a tender attachment to their wives, that I don't wonder at your circumſpection—But do [24] you think I can ſtoop to accept you by halves, or admit of any partnerſhip in your heart?

O you muſt do more than that, if you have any thing to ſay to me.

Surely, Madam, when you know my whole ſoul unalterably your own, you will permit me to preſerve thoſe appearances with the world, which are indiſpenſibly requiſite—Mrs. Bel⯑ville is a moſt excellent woman, however it may be my fortune to be devoted to another—Her happineſs, beſides, conſtitutes a principal part of my felicity, and if I was publicly to forſake her, I ſhould be hunted as a monſter from ſociety.

Then, I ſuppoſe, it is by way of pro⯑moting Mrs. Belville's repoſe, Sir, that you make love to other women; and by way of ſhewing the nicety of your honour, that you attempt the pu⯑rity of ſuch as your own roof, peculiarly, intitles to protection. For the honour intended to me—thus low to the ground, I thank you, Mr. Belville.

Laugh'd at, by all the ſtings of mortification▪

Good bye.—Don't let this accident mortify your vanity too much;—but take care, the next time you vow everlaſting love, that the object is neither tender enough to ſob—ſob—at your diſ⯑treſs; nor provoking enough to make a propoſal of leaving England.—How greatly a little common ſenſe can lower theſe fellows of extraordinary impudence?

So then, I am fairly taken in, and ſhe has been only diverting herſelf with me all this time:— however, lady fair, I may chance to have the laugh in a little time on my ſide; for if you can ſport in this manner about the flame, I think it muſt in the run lay hold of your wings:—what ſhall I do in this affair?—ſhe ſees the matter in its true light, and there's no good to be expected from thumping of boſoms, or ſqueezing white handkerchiefs;—no theſe [25] won't do with women of ſenſe, and in a ſhort time, they'll be ridiculous to the very babies of a board⯑ing-ſchool.

Well, Belville, what news? You have had a freſh opportunity with Miſs Walſingham.

Why, faith, Savage, I've had a moſt extra⯑ordinary ſcene with her, and yet have but little rea⯑ſon to brag of my good fortune, tho' ſhe offer'd in expreſs terms to run away with me.

Prith'ee explain yourſelf, man; ſhe cou'dn't ſurely be ſo ſhameleſs!

O, her offering to run away with me, was by no means the worſt part of the affair.

No, then it muſt be damn'd bad indeed! but prith'ee, hurry to an explanation.

Why then, the worſt part of the affair is, that ſhe was laughing at me the whole time; and made this propoſal of an elopement, with no other view, than to ſhew me in ſtrong colours to myſelf, as a very dirty fellow to the beſt wife in England.

I am eaſy.

Sir, there is an Iriſh gentleman below with a letter for you, who will deliver it to nobody but yourſelf.

Shew him up then.

Yes, Sir.

It may be on buſineſs Belville, I'll take my leave of you.

O, by no means; I can have no buſineſs which I deſire to keep from you, tho' you are the arrant'ſt miſer of your confidence upon earth, and wou'd ra⯑ther truſt your life in any body's hands, than even a paltry amour with the apprentice of a millener.

Gintlemin, your moſt obedient; pray which of you is Mr. Belville?

My name is Belville, at your ſervice, Sir.

I have a little bit of a letter for you, Sir.

Eight o'clock in the evening! 'tis a ſtrange time!

Why ſo, honey? A fine evening is as good a time for a bad action as a fine morning; and if a man of ſenſe can be ſuch a fool as to fight a duel, he ſhou'd never ſleep upon the matter, for the more he thinks of it, the more he muſt feel himſelf aſham'd of his reſolution.

A pretty letter!

O yes, an invitation to a brace of bullets is a very pretty thing.

For a challenge, however, 'tis very civilly written!

Faith, if it was written to me, I ſhou'dn't be very fond of ſuch civility; I wonder he doesn't ſign himſelf, your moſt obedient ſervant.

I told you Leeſon's character, and what wou'd become of this damn'd buſineſs; but your af⯑fairs—are they ſettled, Belville?

O they are always ſettled—for as this is a country where people occaſionally die, I take conſtant care to be prepared for contingencies.

Occaſionally die!—I'll be very much oblig'd to you; Sir, if you tell me the country where people do not die? for I'll immediately go and end my days there.

Ha! ha! ha!

Faith, you may laugh gintlemin, but tho' I am a fooliſh Iriſhman, and come about a fooliſh piece of buſineſs, I'd prefer a ſnug birth in this world, bad as it is, to the fineſt coffin in all Chriſtendom.

I am ſurpris'd, Sir, that thinking in this man⯑ner, you would be the bearer of a challenge.

And well you may, Sir.—But we muſt often take a pleaſure in ſerving our friends, by doing things that are very diſagreeable to us.

Then you think Mr. Leeſon much to blame, perhaps, for hazarding his life where he can by no means repair the honour of his ſiſter.

Indeed and I do—But I ſhall think this gintleman, begging his pardon, much more to blame for meeting him:

And why ſo, Sir—You woudn't have me diſ⯑appoint your friend?

Faith, and that I wou'd—He, poor lad, may have ſome reaſon at preſent to be tir'd of the world, but you have a fine eſtate, a fine wife, a fine parcel of children.—In ſhort, honey, you have every thing to make you fond of living, and the devil burn me, was I in your caſe, if I'd ſtake my own happineſs againſt the miſery of any man.

I am very much oblig'd to your advice, Sir, tho' on the preſent occaſion I cannot adopt it; be ſo [28] good as to preſent my compliments to your friend, and tell him I ſhall certainly do myſelf the honour of attending his appointment.

Why then upon my ſoul I am very ſorry for it.

'Tis not very cuſtomary, Sir, with gentle⯑men of Ireland to oppoſe an affair of honour.

They are like the gintlemin of England, Sir, they are brave to a fault; yet I hope to ſee the day that it will be infamous to draw the ſwords of either, againſt any body but the enemies of their country.

I am quite charmed with this honeſt Hiber⯑nian, and would almoſt fight a duel for the pleaſure of his acquaintance.

Come, ſtep with me a little, and let us conſider, whether there may not be ſome method of accommodating this curſed buſineſs.

Poh! don't be uneaſy upon my account; my character, with regard to affairs of this nature, is unhappily too well eſtabliſhed, and you may be ſure that I ſhan't fight with Leeſon.

No—you have injured him greatly?

The very reaſon of all others why I ſhould not cut his throat.

What, the devil, this maſter of mine has got a a duel upon his hands! Zounds! I am ſorry for that; he is a prince of a fellow! and a good ſub⯑ject muſt always love his prince, though he may now and then be a little out of humour with his actions.

Your hall-door ſtanding open, Spruce, and none of your ſentinels being on guard, I have ſur⯑priſed your camp thus far without reſiſtance: Where is your maſter?

Juſt gone out with Captain Savage, Sir.

Is your lady at home?

No, Sir, but Miſs Walſingham is at home; ſhall I inform her of your viſit?

There is no occaſion to inform her of it, for here ſhe is, Spruce.

General Savage, your moſt humble ſervant.

My dear Miſs Walſingham, it is rather cruel that you ſhould be left at home by yourſelf, and yet I am greatly rejoic'd to find you at preſent with⯑out company.

I can't but think myſelf in the beſt company, when I have the honour of your conver⯑ſation, General.

You flatter me too much, Madam; yet I am come to talk to you on a ſerious affair, Miſs Wal⯑ſingham; an affair of importance to me and to your⯑ſelf: Have you leiſure to favour me with a ſhort au⯑dience, if I beat a parley?

Any thing of importance to you, Sir, is always ſufficient to command my leiſure.—'Tis as the Captain ſuſpected.

You tremble, my lovely girl, but don't be alarmed; for though my buſineſs is of an important nature, I hope it won't be of a diſagreeable one.

And yet I am greatly agitated.

Soldiers, Miſs Walſingham, are ſaid to be generally favour'd by the kind partiality of the ladies.

The ladies are not without gratitude, Sir, to thoſe who devote their lives peculiarly to the ſervice of their country.

Generouſly ſaid, Madam: Then give me leave, without any maſked battery, to aſk, if the heart [30] of an honeſt ſoldier is a prize at all worth your ac⯑ceptance.

Upon my word, Sir, there's no maſk⯑ed battery in this queſtion.

I am as fond of a coup de main, Madam, in love, as in war, and hate the tedious method of ſap⯑ping a town, when there is a poſſibility of entering ſword in hand.

Why really, Sir, a woman may as well know her own mind, when ſhe is firſt ſummoned by the trumpet of a lover, as when ſhe undergoes all the tire⯑ſome formality of a ſiege. You ſee I have caught your own mode of converſing, General.

And a very great compliment I conſider it, Madam: But now that you have candidly confeſs'd an acquaintance with your own mind, anſwer me with that frankneſs for which every body admires you ſo much. Have you any objection to change the name of Walſingham?

Why then frankly, General Savage I ſay, no.

Ten thouſand thanks to you for this kind declaration.

I hope you won't think it a forward one.

I'd ſooner ſee my ſon run away in the day of battle;—I'd ſooner think Lord Ruſſell was bribed by Lewis the XIVth, and ſooner villify the memory of Algernoon Sidney.

How unjuſt it was ever to ſuppoſe the General a tyrannical father!

You have told me condeſcendingly, Miſs Walſingham, that you have no objection to change your name, I have but one queſtion more to aſk.

Pray propoſe it.

Would the name of Savage be diſagreeable to you?—Speak frankly again, my dear girl!

Why then again I frankly ſay, no.

You make me too happy; and though I ſhall readily own, that a propoſal of this nature would come with more propriety from my ſon—

I am much better pleas'd that you make the propoſal yourſelf, Sir.

You are too good to me.—Torrington thought that I ſhould meet with a repulſe.

Have you communicated this buſineſs to the Captain, Sir?

No, my dear Madam, I did not think that at all neceſſary. I have always been attentive to the Captain's happineſs, and I propoſe that he ſhall be married in a few days.

What, whether I will or no?

O you can have no objection.

I muſt be conſulted, however, about the day, General: but nothing in my power ſhall be wanting to make him happy.

Obliging lovelineſs!

You may imagine, that if I was not previouſly impreſt in favour of your propoſal, it wou'd not have met my concurrence ſo readily.

Then you own that I had a previous friend in the garriſon.

I don't bluſh to acknowledge it, when I conſider the accompliſhments of the object, Sir.

O this is too much, Madam; the principle merit of the object is his paſſion for Miſs Walſing⯑ham.

Don't ſay that, General, I beg of you, for I don't think there are many women in the king⯑dom, who could behold him with indifference.

Ah, you flattering, flattering angel!—and yet, by the memory of Marlborough, my lovely girl, it was the idea of a prepoſſeſſion on your part, which encouraged me to hope for a favourable re⯑ception.

Then I muſt have been very indiſcreet, for I labour'd to conceal that prepoſſeſſion as much as poſſible.

You cou'dn't conceal it from me! you cou'dn't conceal it from me!—The female heart is a field which I am thoroughly acquainted with, and which has more than once been a witneſs to my vic⯑tories, Madam.

I don't at all doubt your ſucceſs with the ladies, General; but as we now underſtand one another ſo perfectly, you will give me leave to retire.

One word, my dear creature, and no more; I ſhall wait upon you ſometime to day, with Mr. Torrington, about the neceſſary ſettlements.

You muſt do as you pleaſe, General, you are invincible in every thing.

And if you pleaſe, we'll keep every thing a profound ſecret, 'till the articles are all ſettled, and the definitive treaty ready for execution.

You may be ſure, that delicacy will not ſuffer me to be communicate on the ſubject, Sir.

Then you leave every thing to my manage⯑ment.

I can't truſt a more noble negociator.

The day's my own.

Britons, ſtrike home! ſtrike home! Revenge, &c.

ACT III.

WELL, Mrs. Belville, I am ex⯑tremely glad you agree with me, in opinion of this young lady's qualifications for the ſtage. Don't you think ſhe'd play Miſs Headſtrong admirably in my comedy?

Yes, indeed, I think ſhe poſſeſſes a natural fund of ſpirit, very much adapted to the character.—'Tis impoſſible, ſurely, that this hoy⯑den can have a moment's attraction for Mr. Belville?

You are very obliging, ladies; but I have no turn for comedy; my fort is tragedy en⯑tirely.

But, my dear, is there none of our comedies to your taſte?

O, yes; ſome of the ſentimental ones are very pretty, there's ſuch little difference between them and tragedies.

And pray, my dear, how long have you been engaged to Mr. Frankly?

I only came away laſt night, and hav'n't ſeen Mr. Frankly ſince, tho' I expect him every moment.

Laſt night! juſt as Mrs. Tempeſt men⯑tioned.

You had the concurrence of your friends?

Not I, Madam. Mr. Frankly ſaid, I had too much genius to mind my friends, and as I ſhould want nothing from them, there was no occa⯑ſion to conſult them in the affair.

Then Oſbaldiſton is not your real name, perhaps?

O no, nor do I tell my real name: I choſe Oſbaldiſton, becauſe it was a long one, and wou'd make a ſtriking appearance in the bills.

I wiſh we cou'd ſee Mr. Frankly.

Perhaps you may, Madam, for he deſigns to give me a leſſon every day, 'till we are ready to ſet off for Ireland.

Suppoſe then, my dear, you wou'd oblige us with a ſcene in Juliet, by way of ſhewing your proficiency to Mrs. Belville.

Will you ſtand up for Romeo?

With all my heart, and I'll give you ſome inſtructions.

I beg pardon, Ma'am; I'll learn to act under nobody but Mr. Frankly. This room is with⯑out a carpet; if you will ſtep into the next, ladies, I'll endeavour to oblige you.

This way, Ladies.

Pray, Madam, ſhew us the way.

I'll prolong this mummery as much as poſſible, in hopes the manager may come. Lye ſtill, poor fluttering heart! it cannot be the lord of all your wiſhes! it cannot ſurely be your ador'd Bel⯑ville!

Hav'n't I left my Romeo and Juliet here? O yes, there it is.

Ah, my dear Mr. Frankly! I am ſo glad you are come! I was dying to ſee you.

Kiſs me, my dear;—why didn't you ſend me word of your intention to come away laſt night?

I hadn't time: but as I knew where the lodgings were, I thought I ſhou'd be able to find you by a note to the coffee-houſe I always directed to.

Kiſs me again, my little ſparkler!

Nay, I won't be kiſs'd in this manner; for tho' I am going on the ſtage, I intend to have ſome regard for my character. But, ha, ha, ha, I am glad you are come now: I have company above ſtairs.

Company! that's unlucky at this time, for I wanted to make you intirely eaſy about your charac⯑ter.

And pray, my dear, who is your com⯑pany? You know we muſt be very cautious for fear of your relations.

O, they are only ladies.—But one of them is the moſt beautiful creature in the world!

The devil ſhe is!

An earth-treading ſtar, that makes dim heav'ns light.

Zounds! I'll take a peep at the ſtar, who knows but I may have an opporturiity of making another actreſs.

Come, charmer! charmer!

[36]Now let's ſee what fortune has ſent us above ſtairs.

This is a moſt ignorant young creature, Lady Rachel.

Why I think ſhe is—did you obſerve how ſhe ſlighted my offer of inſtructing her?

Ladies!—ladies!—here he is! here is Mr. Frankly!

Ladies, your moſt obedient.

Let me, if poſſible, recollect myſelf— Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſervent.

Zounds! let me out of the houſe.

What do I ſee!

You ſeem, ladies, to know this gentle⯑man?

You ſhan't go rene⯑gade—You laugh'd at my credulity this morning, and I muſt now laugh at your embaraſſment.

What a kind thing it would be in any body to blow out my ſtupid brains?

I'll mark this down for an incident in my comedy.

What do you hang your head for Mr. Frankley?

Be ſo good as to aſk that lady, my dear.— The Devil has been long in my debt, and now he pays me home with a witneſs.

What a cruel thing it is to let Mrs. Tempeſt out, my love, without ſomebody to take care of her!

What, do you know Mrs. Tempeſt, madam?

Yes, my dear;—and I am pretty well acquainted with this gentleman.

What isn't this gentleman the manager of a play-houſe in Ireland?

The curtain is almoſt dropt my dear; the farce is nearly over, and you'll be ſpeedily acquainted with the cataſtrophe.

Yes, Sir, the curtain is almoſt dropt: I have had ſpies to watch your haunts, and the cata⯑ſtrophe ends in your detection.—Come, you aban⯑don'd ſlut,—

And have I elop'd after all, without being brought upon the ſtage?

I don't know that you would be brought upon the ſtage; but I am ſure you were near being brought upon the town. I hope, madam, for the future, you'll ſet me down a mad-woman.

Mr. Belvill, you'll make my apologies to this lady, and acknowledge that I think her per⯑fectly in her ſenſes.

I wiſh that I had intirely loſt mine.

I wiſh that I had entirely loſt mine. A very natural wiſh, in ſuch a ſituation.

Come, you audacious minx, come away. You ſhall be ſent into Yorkſhire this very evening; and ſee what your poor mother will ſay to you, huſſey.

I will go on the ſtage, if I die for't; and 'tis ſome comfort there's a play-houſe at York.

Nancy, I am ſo aſham'd, ſo humbled, and ſo penitent, that if you knew what paſſes here, I am ſure you wou'd forgive me.

My love, tho' I cannot ſay I rejoice in your infidelity, yet, believe me, I pity your diſtreſs: let us therefore think no more of this.

And think no more of this. —This conduct is new in a wife, and very dra⯑matic.

Where, my angel, have you acquired ſo many requiſites to charm with?

In your ſociety, my dear; and believe me —that a wife may be as true a friend as any bottle companion upon earth, tho' ſhe can neither get merry with you over night, nor blow out your brains about ſome fooliſh quarrel in the morning.

If wives knew the omnipotence of virtue, where ſhe wears a ſmile upon her face, they'd all follow your bewitching example, and make a faith⯑leſs huſband quite an incredible character.

Quite an incredible character!— Let me ſet down that.

Yes, Horace, I have been juſt viſiting at Belvill's.

You found nobody at home, but Miſs Walſingham?

No, but I'd a long converſation with her, and upon a very intereſting ſubject.

'Tis as I gueſs'd.

She is a moſt amiable creature, Horace.

So ſhe is, Sir, and will make any man happy that marries her.

I am glad you think ſo.

He's glad I think ſo!—'tis plain,—but I muſt leave every thing to himſelf, and ſeem wholly paſſive in the affair.

A married life after all, Horace, I am now convinced is the moſt happy, as well as the moſt re⯑putable.

It is indeed, Sir.

Then perhaps you wou'd have no objection to be married, if I offered you as agreeable a young woman as Miſs Walſingham.

'Twou'd be my firſt pride on every occa⯑ſion, Sir, to pay an implicit obedience to your com⯑mands.

That's ſenſibly ſaid, Horace, and obligingly ſaid; prepare yourſelf therefore for an introduction to the lady in the morning.

Is the lady prepar'd to receive me, Sir?

O yes; and you can't think how highly de⯑lighted Miſs Walſingham appeared, when I acquaint⯑ed her with my reſolution on the ſubject.

She's all goodneſs!

The more I know her, the more I am charm'd with her; I muſt not be explicit with him yet, for fear my ſecret ſhould get wind, and reach the ears of the enemy.

I propoſe, Horace, that you ſhould be mar⯑ried immediately.

The ſooner the better, Sir, I have no will but your's.

By the memory of Malbro', you are a moſt excellent boy!—But what do you think? Miſs Walſingham inſiſts upon nam⯑ing the day.

And welcome, Sir; I am ſure ſhe won't make it a diſtant one.

O ſhe ſaid, that nothing in her power ſhou'd be wanting to make you happy.

I am ſure of that, Sir.

Zounds, Horace! here's the diſgrace and puniſhment of my life: Let's avoid her as we would a fever in the camp.

Come to the library, and I'll tell you how whimſically ſhe was treated this morning at Belville's.

Death and the devil! make haſte. O I muſt laugh at marriage, and be curſt to me! But I am providing, Horace, againſt your falling into my error.

I am eternally indebted to you, Sir.

Nay; Mrs. Belville, I have no pati⯑ence, you act quite unnaturally.

What! becauſe I am unwilling to be miſerable?

This new inſtance of Mr. Belville's in⯑fidelity—This attempt to ſeduce Miſs Walſing⯑ham, which your woman overheard, is unpardon⯑able!

I don't ſay but that I am ſtrongly wounded by his irregularities. Yet if Mr. Belville is unhappily a rover, I wou'd much rather that he ſhould have twenty miſtreſſes than one.

You aſtoniſh me!

Why, don't you know, my dear ma⯑dam, that while he is divided amidſt a variety of ob⯑jects, 'tis impoſſible for him to have a ſerious attach⯑ment?

Lord, Mrs. Belville! how can you ſpeak with ſo much compoſure! a virtuous woman ſhould be always outrageous upon ſuch an occaſion as this.

What, and weary the innocent ſun and moon from the firmament, like a deſpairing princeſs in a tragedy—No—no—Lady Rachel, 'tis bad enough to be indifferent to the man I love, without ſtudying to excite his averſion.

How glad I am that Miſs Walſing⯑ham made him ſo heartily aſham'd of himſelf: Lord, theſe young men are ſo full of levity: Give me a huſband of Mr. Torrington's age, ſay I.

And give me a huſband of Mr. Bel⯑ville's, ſay I, with all his follies: However, Lady Rachel, I am pretty well ſatisfied that my conduct at Miſs Leeſon's will have a proper effect upon Mr. Bel⯑ville's generoſity, and put an entire end to his ga⯑lantries for the future.

Don't deceive yourſelf, my dear.— The gods in the ſhilling gallery would ſooner give up Roaſt Beef, or go without an epilogue on the firſt night of a new piece.

Why ſhould you, think ſo of ſuch a man as Mr. Belville?

Becauſe Mr. Belville is a man: How⯑ever, if you dare run the riſque—we will try the ſin⯑cerity of his reformation.

If I dare run the riſque! I would ſtake my ſoul upon his honour.

Then your poor ſoul would be in a very terrible ſituation.

By what teſt can we prove his ſincerity?

By a very ſimple one. You know I write ſo like Miſs Walſingham, that our hands are ſcarcely known aſunder.

Well—

Why then let me write to him as from her—

If I did not think it would look like a doubt of his honour—

Poh! dare you proceed upon my plan?—

Moſt confidently: Come to my dreſſing-room, where you'll find every thing ready for writ⯑ing, and then you may explain your ſcheme more particularly.

I'll attend you, but I am really ſorry, my dear, for the love of propriety, to ſee you ſo calm under the perfidy of your huſband; you ſhould be quite wretched—indeed you ſhould.

The hell-hounds are after me.

Fly, open the chambers this moment, the bailiffs are in ſight.

Faith and that I will; but it will be of no uſe to fly a ſtep, if I hav'n't the key.

Zounds! did not you lock the door?

Yes; but I believe I left the key on the inſide: However, I ſee no more than three people, and think we could beat them to their hearts con⯑tent in three minutes.

What! and fly in the face of the law?

To be ſure you have a great regard for the law, when you are going to fight a duel!

S'death! is this a time to talk? Stay here, and throw every poſſible impediment in the way of theſe execrable raſcals.

Holloa! honey, come back: Theſe exe⯑crable raſcals are very worthy people, I fancy, for they are quietly turning down the next court.

Their appearance alarm'd me beyond meaſure.

O you ſhou'dn't judge by outſide ſhew, my dear; for there is no being a complete rogue, without the appearance of an honeſt man

Circumſtanced as I am at preſent, every thing terrifies me; for ſhould I be arreſted, the conſe⯑quence would poſſibly be fatal, both to my honour and my love.—Belville would proclaim me publicly a coward; and Emily ſet me down as a baſe, a mer⯑cenary adventurer, who was ſolely attracted by her fortune.

Why faith, honey, like yourſelf, they might be apt to judge by appearances.

O, Connolly, a man of ſpirit ſhould learn prudence from his very pride, and conſider every unneceſſary debt he contracts as a wanton diminution of his character! the moment he makes another his creditor—he makes himſelf a ſlave! He runs the ha⯑zard of inſults, which he never can reſent, and of diſgraces which are ſeldom to be mitigated! He in⯑curs the danger of being dragg'd, like the vileſt fe⯑lon to the felon's priſon! and, ſuch is the depravity of the world, that guilt is even more likely to meet with advocates, than misfortune!

Muſha, long life to you, ould Shillala!—I wiſh I had any thing beſides my carcaſe to venture for you, for that's nothing; yet you are as welcome to it as the flowers in May. Poor lad! I don't wonder that he is ſo much afraid of a priſon, for to be ſure it is a bleſſed place to live in; and a bleſſed law it muſt be, which coops a man up from every chance of getting money, by way of making him pay his debts—But now let my thick ſkull conſider, if there is any method of preventing this infernal duel. Suppoſe I have him [44] bound over to the pace! No, that will never do—it would be a ſhameful thing for a gintleman to keep the pace! Beſides, I muſt appear in the buſineſs, and people may think, from my connexion with him, that he has not honour enough to throw away his life: Suppoſe I go another way to work, and ſend an anonymous letter about the affair to Mrs. Belville: They ſay, though ſhe is a woman of faſhion, that no creter upon earth can be fonder of her huſband. Surely the good genius of Ireland put this ſcheme into my head—I'll about it this minute; and if there's only one of them kept from the field, I don't think that the other can be much hurt, when there will be no body to fight with him.

Why, faith, Belville, your detection, and ſo ſpeedily too, after all the pretended ſanctity of the morning, muſt have thrown you into a moſt humili⯑ating ſituation.

Into the moſt diſtreſſing you can imagine: had my wife rav'd at my falſehood, in the cuſtomary manner, I cou'd have brazen'd it but pretty tollera⯑bly; but the angel-like ſweetneſs, with which ſhe bore the mortifying diſcovery, planted daggers in my boſom, and made me at that time wiſh her the verieſt vixen in the whole creation.

Yet, the ſuffering forbearance of a wife, is a quality for which ſhe is ſeldom allow'd her me⯑rit; we think it her duty to put up with our falſe⯑hood, and imagine ourſelves exceedingly generous in the main, if we practiſe no other method of breaking her heart.

Monſtrous! monſtrous! from this moment [45] I bid an everlaſting adieu to my vices: the generoſity of my dear girl—

Here's a letter, Sir, which Mr. Spruce has brought you.

Give me leave, Savage.—Zounds! what an induſtrious devil the father of darkneſs is, when the moment a man determines upon a good action, he ſends ſuch a thing as this, to ſtagger his reſolution.

What have you got there?

You ſhall know preſently. Will you let Spruce come in.

Where have you acquir'd all this ceremony?

Bid Spruce come in.

Yes, Sir.

Is that another challenge?

'Tis upon my ſoul, but it came from a beau⯑tiful enemy, and dares me to give a meeting to Miſs Walſingham.

How!

Pray, Spruce, who gave you this letter?

Miſs Walſingham's woman, Sir: ſhe ſaid it was about very particular buſineſs, and there⯑fore I wou'dn't truſt it by any of the footmen.

O, damn your diligence.

You may go home, Spruce.

Is there no anſwer neceſſary, Sir.

I ſhall call at home myſelf, and give the ne⯑ceſſary anſwer.

What can be the matter with him all of a ſudden, that he is ſo cold upon the ſcent of wickedneſs?

And what anſwer do you propoſe making to it, Belville?

Read the letter, and then tell me what I ſhou'd do.—You know Miſs Walſingham's hand.

O, perfectly!—This is not—yes, it is her hand!—I have too many curſt occaſions to know it.

What are you a muttering about?—Read the letter.

If you are not entirely diſcouraged, by our laſt converſation, from renewing the ſubject which then gave offence—

Which then gave offence.—You ſee, Savage, that it is not offenſive any longer.

Sdeath! you put me out.—you may at the maſquerade, this evening—

You remember how earneſt ſhe was for the maſquerade party.

Yes, yes, I remember it well:—and I re⯑member, alſo, how hurt ſhe was this morning, about the affair of Miſs Leeſon.

—have an oppor⯑tunity of entertaining me—O the ſtrumpet!

But mind the cunning with which ſhe ſigns the note, for fear it ſhou'd by any accident fall into improper hands.

Ay, and you put it into very proper hands.

I ſhall be in the blue domino.—The ſignature is— YOU KNOW WHO.

Yes, you know who.

May be, however, ſhe has only written this to try you.

To try me, for what purpoſe? But if you read a certain poſtcript there, I fancy you'll be of a different opinion.

If Mr. Belville has any houſe of character to retire to, it wou'd be moſt agreeable, as there cou'd be no fear of interruption.

What do you ſay now?—Can you recom⯑mend [47] me to any houſe of character, where we ſhall be free from interruption.

O, curſe her houſe of character!

But ſurely, Belville, after your late determin'd reſo⯑lution to reform—

Zounds! I forgot that.

After the unexampled ſweetneſs of your wife's behaviour—

Don't go on, Savage: There is ſomething here

which feels al⯑ready not a little aukwardly.

And can you ſtill perſiſt?

I am afraid to anſwer your queſtion.

Where the plague are you flying?

From the juſtice of your cenſure, Horace; my own is ſufficiently ſevere; yet I ſee that I ſhall be a raſcal again, in ſpite of my teeth; and good advice is only thrown away upon ſo incorrigible a libertine.

So then this diamond of mine proves a counterfeit after all, and I am really the verieſt wretch exiſting at the moment in which I conceiv'd myſelf the peculiar favourite of fortune. O the curſed, curſed ſex! I'll ſee her once more to upbraid her with her falſehood, then acquaint my fa⯑ther with her perfidy, to juſtify my breaking off the marriage, and tear her from my thoughts for ever.

Sir! Sir! Sir!—

Sir, Sir, Sir,—What the devil's the matter with the booby?

Miſs Walſingham, Sir!

Ah! what of her?

Was this moment overturn'd at Mr. Bel⯑ville's door, and John tells me carried in a fit into the houſe.

Ha! let me fly to her aſſiſtance.

Ha let me fly to her aſſiſtance—O, are you thereabouts.

But are you indeed recover'd my dear?

Perfectly my dear,—I wasn't in the leaſt hurt, tho' greatly terrified, when the two fools of coachmen contended for the honour of being firſt, and drove the carriages together with a violence in⯑credible.

I ſincerely rejoice at your eſcape; and now Mrs. Belville, as you promiſed to chooſe a dreſs for me if I went in your party to the maſquerade this evening, can you ſpare a quarter of an hour to Ta⯑viſtock-Street?

I am loth to leave Miſs Walſingham alone, Lady Rachel, ſo ſoon after her fright.

Nay, I inſiſt that you don't ſtay at home upon my account; and Lady Rachel's com⯑pany to the maſquerade is a pleaſure I have ſuch an intereſt in, that I beg you won't delay a moment to oblige her.

Well, then I attend your ladyſhip.

You are very good; and ſo is Miſs Walſingham.

I wonder Captain Savage ſtays away ſo long! where can he be all this time?—I die with impatience to tell him of my happy interview with the General.

Captain Savage, madam.

Shew him in.

How he muſt rejoice to find his conjectures ſo fortunately re⯑aliz'd.

So, madam, you have juſt eſcap'd a ſad ac⯑cident

And by that agreeable tone and coun⯑tenance, one would almoſt imagine you were very ſorry for my eſcape.

People, madam, who doubt the kindneſs of others, are generally conſcious of ſome defect in themſelves.

Don't madam me, with this accent of indifference. What has put you out of humour?

Nothing.

Are you indiſpos'd?

The Crocodile! the Crocodile!

Do you go to the maſquerade to night?

No, but you do.

Why not? come, don't be ill-natur'd, I'm not your wife yet.

Nor ever will be, I promiſe you.

What is the meaning of this very whimſical behaviour?

The ſettled compoſure of her impudence is intolerable.

Madam, Madam, how have I de⯑ſerv'd this uſage?

Nay, Sir, Sir, how have I deſerved it, if you go to that?

The letter, madam!—the letter!

What letter?

Your letter, inviting a gallant from the maſ⯑querade to a houſe of character, madam!—What, you appear ſurpriz'd?

Well I may, at ſo ſhameleſs an aſperſion.

Madam, madam, I have ſeen your letter! [50] Your new lover cou'dn't keep your ſecret a moment. But I have nothing to do with you,—and only come to declare my reaſons for renouncing you everlaſtingly!

General Savage, madam.

Shew him up.

I am glad he is come, Sir; inform him of your reſolution to break off the match, and let there be an end of every thing between us.

The news of your accident reach'd me but this moment, madam,—or I ſhou'd have poſted much ſooner to reconnoitre your ſituation. My aid de camp, however, has not been inattentive I ſee, and I dare ſay his diligence will not be the leaſt leſſen'd, when he knows his obligations to you.

O, Sir, I am perfectly ſenſible of my obli⯑gations; and the conſciouſneſs of them, was one mo⯑tive of my coming here.

Then you have made your acknowledge⯑ments to miſs Wa [...]ſingham I hope.

He has indeed, General, ſaid a great deal more than was neceſſary.

That opinion proceeds from the liberality of your temper; for 'tis impoſſible he can ever ſay enough of your goodneſs.

So it is; if you knew but all, Sir.

Why who can know more of the matter than myſelf?

This gentleman, it ſeems, has ſome⯑thing, General Savage, very neceſſary for your infor⯑mation.

How's this?

Nay, Sir, I only ſay, that for ſome particu⯑lar reaſons, which I ſhall communicate to you at a [51] more proper time; I muſt beg leave to decline the lady whoſe hand you kindly intended for me this morning.

O you muſt!—Why then I hope you decline at the ſame time, all pretenſions to every ſhilling of my fortune. It is not in my power to make you fight, you paltroon, but I can puniſh you for cowardice.

Nay, but General, let me interpoſe here. If he can maintain any charge againſt the lady's repuation, 'twould be very hard that he ſhould be diſinherited, for a neceſſary attention to his honour.

And if I don't make the charge good, I ſubmit to be diſinherited without murmurring.

'Tis falſe as hell! the lady is infinitely too good for you, in every reſpect; and I undervalued her worth, when I thought of her for your wife.

I am ſure the lady is much oblig'd to your favourable opinion, Sir.

Not in the leaſt, Madam; I only do her common juſtice.

I cannot bear that you ſhou'd be diſpleas'd a moment, Sir; ſuffer me therefore to render the con⯑verſation leſs equivocable, and a few words will ex⯑plain every thing.

Sirrah, I'll hear no explanation; ar'n't my orders that you ſhou'd marry?

For my ſake hear him, General Savage.

Madam, I diſdain every favour that is to be procur'd by your interpoſition.

This matter muſt not be ſuffer'd to proceed farther tho', provokingly, cruelly as the Captain has behav'd.

What's that you ſay, my bewitching girl?

I ſay that you muſt make it up with the Captain, and the beſt way will be to hear his charge patiently.

I am ſhock'd at the brutality of the dog; he has no more principle than a ſuttler, and no more ſteadineſs than a young recruit upon drill. But, you ſhall have ample ſatisfaction:—this very day I'll cut him off from a poſſibility of ſucceeding to a ſhilling of my fortune. He ſhall be as miſerable as—

Dear General, do you think that this wou'd give me any ſatisfaction?

How he became acquainted with my deſign I know not, but I ſee plainly, that his mutiny pro⯑ceeds from his averſion to my marrying again.

To your marrying again, Sir! why ſhou'd he object to that?

Why, for fear I ſhould have other children, to be ſure.

Indeed, Sir, it was not from that mo⯑tive; and, if I can overlook his folly, you may be prevail'd upon to forgive it.

After what you have ſeen, juſtice ſhou'd make you a little more attentive to your own intereſt, my lovely girl.

What at the expence of his?

In the approaching change of your ſituation, there may be a family of your own.

Suppoſe there ſhou'd, Sir; won't there be a family of his too?

I care not what becomes of his family.

But, pray let me think a little about it, General.

'Tis hard, indeed, when I was ſo deſirous of promoting his happineſs, that he ſhould throw any thing in the way of mine.

Recollect, Sir, his offence was wholly confin'd to me.

Well, my love, and isn't it throwing an obſtacle in the way of my happineſs, when he abuſes you ſo groſly for your readineſs to marry me?

Sir!—

I ſee, with all your good nature, that this is a queſtion you cannot rally againſt.

It is indeed, Sir.—What will become of me?

You ſeem ſuddenly diſordered, my love?

Why really, Sir, this affair affects me ſtrongly.

Well, it is poſſible, that for your ſake, I may not puniſh him with as much ſeverity as I intended: In about an hour I ſhall beg leave to beat up your quarters again, with Mr. Torrington; for 'tis neceſ⯑ſary I ſhould ſhew you ſome proof of my gratitude, ſince you have been ſo kindly pleas'd to honour me with a proof of your affection.

So, now indeed, we're in a hopeful ſituation.

ACT IV.

DON'T argue with me, Captain Sa⯑vage; but conſider that I am a wife, and pity my diſtraction.

Dear Madam, there is no occaſion to be ſo much alarm'd; Mr. Belville has very properly deter⯑min'd not to fight; he told me ſo himſelf, and ſhould have been effectually prevented, if I hadn't known his reſolution.

There is no knowing to what extremities he may be provok'd, if he meets Mr. Leeſon; I have ſent for you, therefore, to beg that you will ſave him from the poſſibility, either of expoſing himſelf to any danger, or of doing an injury to his adverſary.

What would you have me do, Madam?

Fly to Hyde park, and prevent, if yet poſſible, his meeting with Mr. Leeſon: Do it, I conjure you, if you'd ſave me from deſperation.

Though you have no reaſon whatever to be apprehenſive for his ſafety, Madam, yet, ſince you are ſo very much affected, I'll immediately execute your commands.

Merciful heaven! where is the generoſi⯑ty, where is the ſenſe, where is the ſhame of men, to find a pleaſure in purſuits, which they cannot re⯑member without the deepeſt horror; which they can⯑not follow without the meaneſt fraud; and which they cannot effect, without conſequences the moſt dreadful? The ſingle word, Pleaſure, in a maſculine ſenſe, com⯑prehends every thing that is cruel; every thing that is baſe; and every thing that is deſperate: Yet men, in other reſpects, the nobleſt of their ſpecies, make it the principal buſineſs of their lives, and do not heſi⯑tate to break in upon the peace of the happieſt fami⯑lies, though their own muſt be neceſſarily expos'd to deſtruction.—O Belville! Belville!—my life! my love!—The greateſt triumph which a libertine can ever experience, is too deſpicable to be envied; 'tis at beſt nothing but a victory over his own humanity; and if he is a huſband, he muſt be dead indeed, if he is not doubly tortured upon the wheel of recollection.

My dear Mrs. Belville, I am ex⯑tremely unhappy to ſee you ſo diſtreſs'd.

Now, I am extremely glad to ſee her ſo, for if ſhe wasn't greatly diſtreſs'd it wou'd be monſtrouſly unnatural.

O, Matilda!—my huſband! my huſ⯑band! my children! my children!

Don't weep, my dear! don't weep! pray be comforted, all may end happily. Lady Rachel, beg of her not to cry ſo.

Why, you are crying yourſelf, Miſs Walſingham; and tho' I think it out of character to encourage her tears, I can't help keeping you company.

O, why is not ſome effectual method contriv'd, to prevent this horrible practice of duelling?

I'll expoſe it on the ſtage, ſince the law now a-days, kindly leaves the whole cognizance of it to the theatre.

And yet if the laws againſt it, were as well enforced as the laws againſt deſtroying the game, perhaps it would be equally for the benefit of the kingdom.

No law will ever be effectual till the cuſtom is render'd infamous.—Wives muſt ſhriek! —mothers muſt agonize!—orphans muſt multiply! unleſs ſome bleſſed hand ſtrips the faſcinating glare from honourable murder, and bravely expoſes the idol who is worſhip'd thus in blood. While it is diſreputable to obey the laws, we cannot look for reformation:—But if the duelliſt is once baniſhed from the preſence of his ſovereign;—if he is for life excluded the confidence of his country;—if a mark of indelible diſgrace is ſtamp'd upon him, the ſword of publick juſtice will be the ſole chaſtiſer of wrongs; trifles will not be puniſh'd with death, and offences really meriting ſuch a puniſhment, will be reſerv'd for the only proper avenger, the common executioner.

I cou'dn't have expreſs'd myſelf bet⯑ter on the ſubject, my dear: but till ſuch a hand as you talk of is found, the beſt will fall into the error of the times.

Yes, and butcher each other like mad⯑men, for fear their courage ſhould be ſuſpected by fools.

No news yet from Captain Savage?

He can't have reach'd Hyde-park yet, my dear.

Let us lead you to you chamber, my dear; you'll be better there.

Matilda, I muſt be wretched any where; but I'll attend you.

Thank heav'n, I have no huſband to plunge me into ſuch a ſituation!

And, if I thought I cou'd keep my re⯑ſolution, I'd determine this moment on living ſingle all the days of my life. Pray don't ſpare my arm, my dear.

I fancy I am rather before the time of ap⯑pointment; engagements of this kind are the only ones, in which, now-a-days, people pretend, to any punctuality:—a man is allow'd half an hours law to dinner, but a thruſt through the body muſt be given within a ſecond of the clock.

Your ſervant, Sir.—Your name I ſuppoſe is Belville?

Your ſuppoſition is very right, Sir; and I fancy I am not much in the wrong, when I ſuppoſe your name to be Leeſon.

It is, Sir; I am ſorry I ſhou'd keep you here a moment.

I am very ſorry, Sir, you ſhou'd bring me here at all.

I regret the occaſion, be aſſured, Sir; but 'tis not now a time for talking, we muſt proceed to action.

And yet talking is all the action I ſhall pro⯑ceed to, depend upon it.

What do you mean, Sir? Where are your piſtols?

Where I intend they ſhall remain till my next journey into the country, very quietly over the chim⯑ney in my dreſſing room.

You treat this matter with too much levity, Mr. Belville; take your choice of mine, Sir.

I'd rather take them both, if you pleaſe, for then no miſchief ſhall be done with either of them.

Sir, this trifling is adding inſult to injury; and ſhall be reſented accordingly. Didn't you come here to give me ſatisfaction?

Yes, every ſatisfaction in my power.

Take one of theſe piſtols then.

Come, Mr. Leeſon, your bravery will not at all be leſſen'd by the exerciſe of a little underſtand⯑ing: If nothing leſs than my life can atone for the injury I have unconſciouſly done you, fire at me in⯑ſtantly, but don't be offended becauſe I decline to do you an additional wrong.

S'death, Sir, do you think I come here with an intention to murder?

You come to arm the guilty againſt the inno⯑cent, Sir; and that, in my opinion, is the moſt atrocious intention of murder.

How's this?—

Look'e, Mr. Leeſon, there's your piſtol

I have already acted very wrongly with reſpect to your ſiſter, but, Sir, I have ſome character (though perhaps little enough) to maintain, and I will not do a ſtill worſe action, in raiſing my hand againſt your life.

This hypocrital cant of cowardice, Sir, is too palpable to diſarm my reſentment; though I held you to be a man of profligate principles, I neverthe⯑leſs conſider'd you as a man of courage; but, if you heſitate a moment longer, by heaven, I'll chaſtiſe you on the ſpot.

I muſt defend my life; though if it did not look like timidity, I would inform you—

—Mr. Leeſon, there is your ſword again.

Strike it through my boſom, Sir;—I don't deſire to out-live this inſtant,

I hope, my dear Sir, that you will long live [58] happy—as your ſiſter, tho' to my ſhame I can claim no merit on that account, is recovered unpolluted, by her family; but let me beg that you will now ſee the folly of deciſions by the ſword, when ſucceſs is not fortunately chain'd to the ſide of juſtice: Before I leave you, receive my ſincereſt apologies for the in⯑juries I have done you; and, be aſſured, no occur⯑rence will ever give me greater pleaſure, than an op⯑portunity of ſerving you, if, after what is paſt, you ſhall at any time condeſcend to uſe me as a friend.

Very well—very well—very well.

What, you have been within hearing, I ſup⯑poſe?

You may ſay that.

And isn't this very fine?

Why I can't ſay much as to the finery of it, Sir, but it is certainly very fooliſh.

And ſo this is my ſatisfaction after all!

Yes, and pretty ſatisfaction it is. When Mr. Belville did you but one injury, he was the greateſt vil⯑lain in the world; but now that he has done you two, in drawing his ſword upon you, I ſuppoſe he is a very worthy gentleman

To be foil'd, baffled, diſappointed in my revenge!—What tho' my ſiſter is by accident unſtain'd, his intentions are as criminal, as if her ruin was actu⯑ally perpetrated; there is no poſſibility of enduring the reflection!—I wiſh not for the blood of my enemy, but I would at leaſt have the credit of giving him life.

Arrah, my dear, if you had any regard for the life of your enemy, you ſhou'dn't put him in the way of death.

No more of theſe reflections, my dear Con⯑nolly; my own feelings are painful enough. Will you be ſo good as to take theſe damn'd piſtols, and come with me to the coach?

Troth and that I will; but don't make your⯑ſelf [59] uneaſy; conſider that you have done every thing which honour required at yous hands.

I hope ſo.

Why you know ſo: You have broke the laws of heaven and earth, as nobly as the firſt lord in the land, and you have convinc'd the world, that where any body has done your family one injury, you have courage enough to do it another yourſelf, by hazarding your life.

Thoſe, Connolly, who would live reputably in any country, muſt regulate their conduct in many caſes by its very prejudices.—Cuſtom, with reſpect to duelling, is a tyrant, whoſe deſpotiſm no body ven⯑tures to attack, tho' every body deteſts its cruelty.

I didn't imagine that a tyrant of any kind would be tolerated in England. But where do you think of going now? For chambers, you know, are at preſent moſt delightfully dangerous.

I ſhall go to Mrs. Crayon's.

What the gentlewoman that paints all man⯑ner of colours in red chalk?

Yes, where I firſt became acquainted with Emily.

And where the ſweet creature has met you two or three times under pretence of ſitting for her picture.

Mrs. Crayons will, I dare ſay, oblige me in this exigency with an apartment for a few days; but come, Connolly, we have no time to loſe, tho' if you had any prudence, you would abandon me in my pre⯑ſent ſituation.

Ah, Sir, is this your opinion of my friend⯑ſhip? Do you think that any thing can ever give me half ſo much pleaſure in ſerving you, as ſeeing you ſurrounded by misfortunes.

Miſs Walſingham will wait on you im-immediately, gentlemen.

Very well.

What can old Holifernes want ſo continually with Miſs Walſingham?

When I bring this ſweet mild creature home, I ſhall be able to break her ſpirit to my own wiſhes— I'll inure her to proper diſcipline from the firſt mo⯑ment, and make her tremble at the very thought of mutiny.

Ah, General, you are wonderfully brave, when you know the meekneſs of your adverſary.

Envy, Torrington—ſtark, ſtaring envy: few fellows, on the borders of fifty, have ſo much reaſon as myſelf, to boaſt of a blooming young woman's partiality.

On the borders of fifty, man!—beyond the confines of threeſcore.

The more reaſon I have to boaſt of my vic⯑tory then; but don't grumble at my triumph, you ſhall have a kiſs of the bride, let that content you, Torrington.

Gentlemen, your moſt obedient: Ge⯑neral, I intended writing to you about a trifling miſ⯑take; but poor Mrs. Belville has been ſo very ill, that I cou'dn't find an opportunity.

I am very ſorry for Mrs. Belville's illneſs, but I am happy, Madam, to be perſonally in the way of receiving your commands, and I wait upon you with Mr. Torrington, to talk about a marriage ſet⯑tlement

Heavens! how ſhall I undeceive him?

'Tis rather an aukward buſineſs, Miſs Wal⯑ſingham, to trouble you upon; but as the General wiſhes that the affair may be as private as poſſible, he thought it better to ſpeak to yourſelf, than to treat with any other perſon.

Yes, my lovely girl; and to convince you, [61] that I intend to carry on an honourable war, not to pillage like a free-booter, Mr. Torrington will be a truſtee.

I am infinitely oblig'd to your inten⯑tion, but there's no neceſſity to talk about any ſettle⯑ment—for—

Pardon me, Madam,—pardon me, there is— beſides, I have determin'd that there ſhall be one, and what I once determine is abſolute.—A tolerable hint for her own behaviour, when I have married her, Torrington.

I muſt not ſhock him before Mr. Tor⯑rington

General Savage, will you give me leave to ſpeak a few words in private to you.

There is no occaſion for ſounding a retreat, Madam; Mr. Torrington is acquainted with the whole buſineſs, and I am determin'd, for your ſake, that nothing ſhall be done without him.

I can have no objection to your hearing the lady ex parte, General.

What I have to ſay, Sir, is of a very particular nature.

I'll leave the room then.

You ſhan't leave the room, Torrington. Miſs Walſingham ſhall have a ſpeci⯑men of my command, even before marriage, and you ſhall ſee, that every woman is not to bully me out of my determination.

Well, General, you muſt have your own way.

Don't you ſee that it's only fighting the battle ſtoutly at firſt, with one of theſe gentle crea⯑tures?

Ah, General!

I own, Madam, your ſituation is a diſtreſſ⯑ing one; let us ſit down—let us ſit down—

It is unſpeakably diſtreſſing indeed, Sir.

Diſtreſſing however as it may be, we muſt pro⯑ceed [62] to iſſue, Madam; the General propoſes your jointure to be 1000 l. a year.

General Savage!

You think this too little, perhaps?

I can't think of any jointure, Sir.

Why to be ſure, a jointure it at beſt but a melancholly poſſeſſion, for it muſt be purchaſed by the loſs of the huſband you love.

Pray don't name it, Mr. Torrington.

A thouſand thanks to you, my lovely girl.

For heaven's ſake, let go my hand.

I ſhall be mad 'till it gives me legal poſſeſ⯑ſion of the town.

Gentlemen—General—Mr. Torring⯑ton—I beg you'll hear me.

By all means, my adorable creature; I can never have too many proofs of your diſintereſted affection.

There is a capital miſtake in this whole affair—I am ſinking under a load of diſtreſs.

Your confuſion makes you look charming⯑ly though.

There is no occaſion to talk of join⯑tures or marriages to me; I am not going to be married.

What's this?

Nor have I an idea in nature, however enviable I think the honour, of being your wife, Sir.

Madam!

Why here's a demur!

I am afraid, Sir, that in our converſation this morning, my confuſion ariſing from the particu⯑larity of the ſubject, has led you into a material miſ⯑conception.

I am thunderſtruck, madam! I cou'dn't miſtake my ground.

As clear a n [...]l [...] proſ [...] as ever was iſſued by an attorney general.

Surely you can't forget, that at the firſt word you hung out a flag of truce, told me even [63] that I had a previous friend in the fort, and didn't ſo much as hint at a ſingle article of capitulation?

Now for the rejoinder to this replication.

All this is unqueſtionably true, General, and perhaps a good deal more; but in reality my confuſion before you on this ſubject to day, was ſuch, that I ſcarcely knew what I ſaid; I was dying with diſtreſs, and at this moment am very little better;— permit me to retire, General Savage, and only ſuffer me to add, that tho' I think myſelf highly flatter'd by your addreſſes, it is impoſſible for me ever to receive them. Lord! Lord! I am glad its over in any manner.

Why, we are a little out in this matter, General; the judge has decided againſt us, when we imagin'd ourſelves ſure of the cauſe.

The gates ſhut in my teeth, juſt as I expec⯑ted the keys from the governor.

I am diſappointed myſelf, man; I ſhan't have a kiſs of the bride.

At my time of life too!

I ſaid from the firſt you were too old for her.

Zounds to fancy myſelf ſure of her, and to triumph upon a certainty of victory.

Ay, and to kiſs her hand in a rapturous re⯑turn for her tenderneſs to you:—let me adviſe you never to kiſs before folks, as long as you live again.

Don't diſtract me, Torrington! a joke, where a friend has the misfortune to loſe the battle, is a downright inhumanity.

You told me that your ſon had accus'd her of ſomething that you would not hear; ſuppoſe we call at his lodgings, he perhaps, as an amicus-curiae, may be able to give us a little information.

Thank you for the thought;—But keep your finger more than ever upon you lips, dear Torrington. You know how I dread the danger of ridicule, and it wou'd be too much, not only to be thraſh'd out of the field, but to be laugh'd at into the bargain.

I thought when you made a preſentment of your ſweet perſon to Miſs Walſingham, that the bill wou'd be return'd ignoramus.

You heard what Captain Savage ſaid?

I would flatter myſelf, but my heart will not ſuffer it; the Park might be too full for the horrid purpoſe, and perhaps they are gone to decide the quarrel in ſome other place.

The Captain enquir'd of numbers in the Park without hearing a ſyllable of them, and is therefore poſitive that they are parted without doing any miſchief.

I am, nevertheleſs, torn by a thouſand apprehenſions, and my fancy, with a gloomy kind of fondneſs, faſtens on the moſt deadly, This very morning, I exultingly numbered myſelf in the cata⯑logue of the happieſt wives.—Perhaps I am a wife no longer;—perhaps, my little innocents, your un⯑happy father is at this moment breathing his laſt ſigh, and wiſhing, O, how vainly! that he had not pre⯑fer'd a guilty pleaſure to his own life, to my eternal peace of mind, and your felicity!

Madam! madam! my maſter! my maſter!

Is he ſafe?

My love!

O Mr. Belville!

Aſſiſtance, quick!

There ſhe revives.

The angel-ſoftneſs! how this rends my heart?

O, Mr. Belville, if you cou'd conceive [65] the agonies I have endur'd, you would avoid the poſ⯑ſibility of another quarrel as long as you liv'd, out of common humanity.

My deareſt creature, ſpare theſe tender re⯑proaches; you know not how ſufficiently I am puniſh'd to ſee you thus miſerable.

That's pleaſant indeed, when you have yourſelf deliberately loaded her with affliction.

Pray, pray Lady Rachel, have a little mercy: Your poor humble ſervant has been a very naughty boy,—but if you only forgive him this ſingle time, he will never more deſerve the rod of correction.

Since you are return'd ſafe, I am happy. Excuſe theſe fooliſh tears, they guſh in ſpite of me.

How contemptible do they render me, my love!

Come, my dear, you muſt turn your mind from this gloomy ſubject.—Suppoſe we ſtep up ſtairs and communicate our pleaſure to Miſs Walſingham?

With all my heart. Adieu, recreant!

I don't deſerve ſuch a woman, I don't deſerve her.—Yet, I believe I am the firſt huſband, that ever found fault with a wife, for having too much goodneſs.

What's the matter?

Your ſiſter—

What of my ſiſter?

Sir, is elop'd.

My ſiſter!

There is a letter left, Sir, in which ſhe ſays, that her motive was a diſlike to a match with Captain Savage, as ſhe has plac'd her affections un⯑alterably on another gentleman.

Death and damnation!

Mrs. Moreland, your mother, is in the greateſt diſtreſs, Sir, and begs you will immediately [66] go with the ſervant that brought the meſſage; for he obſerving the young lady's maid carrying ſome bundles out, a little ſuſpiciouſly, thought there muſt be ſome ſcheme going on, and dogg'd a hackney coach, in which Miſs Morland went off, to the very houſe where it ſet her down.

Bring me to the ſervant, inſtantly;—but don't let a ſyllable of this matter reach my wife's ears, her ſpirits are already too much agitated.

Zounds! we ſhall be paid home, for the tricks we have play'd in other families.

The vehemence of my reſentment againſt this abandon'd woman has certainly led me too far. I ſhou'dn't have acquainted her with my diſcovery of her b [...]ſeneſs;—no, if I had acted properly, I ſhould have conceal'd all knowledge of the tranſaction 'till the very moment of her guilt, and then burſt upon her when ſhe was ſolacing with her paramour, in all the fulneſs of ſecurity. Now, if ſhe ſhould either alter her mind, with reſpect to going to the maſquerade, or go in a different habit to elude my obſervation, I not only [...] the opportunity of expoſing her, but give her time to plan ſome plauſible excuſe for her infamous letter to Belville.

General Savage, and Mr. Torrington, Sir.

You blockhead, why did you let them wait a moment? What can be the meaning of this viſit?

I come, Horace, to talk to you about Miſs Walſingham.

She's the moſt worthleſs woman exiſting, Sir: I can convince you of it.

I have already chang'd my own opinion of her.

What you have found her out yourſelf, Sir?

Yes, he has made a trifling diſcovery.

S'death, don't make me contemptible to my ſon.

But, Sir, what inſtance of her precious behaviour has come to your knowledge? For an hour has ſcarcely elapſed, ſince you thought her a miracle of goodneſs

Ay, he has thought her a miracle of good⯑neſs, within this quarter of an hour.

Why ſhe has a manner that wou'd impoſe upon all the world.

Yes, but ſhe has a manner alſo to undeceive the world thoroughly.

That we have found pretty recently; how⯑ever, in this land of liberty, none are to be pronounc⯑ed guilty, 'till they are poſitively convicted; I can't therefore find againſt Miſs Walſingham, upon the bare ſtrength of preſumptive evidence.

Preſumptive evidence! hav'n't I promis'd you ocular demonſtration?

Ay, but 'till we receive this demonſtration, my good friend, we cannot give judgement.

Then I'll tell you at once, who is the ob⯑ject of her honourable affections.

Who— who—

What would you think if they were plac'd on Belville?

Upon Belville! has ſhe deſerted to him from the corps of virtue?

Yes, ſhe wrote to him, deſiring to be taken from the maſquerade to ſome convenient ſcene of privacy, and tho' I have ſeen the letter, ſhe has the impudence to deny her own hand.

What a fiend is there then diſguis'd under the [...] of an angel!

The delicate creature that was dying with confuſion!

Only come with me to the maſquerade, and you ſhall ſee Belville carry her off: 'Twas about the ſcandalous appointment with him, I was ſpeaking, when you conceiv'd I treated her ſo rudely.

And you were only anxious to ſhew her in her real character to me, when I was ſo exceedingly offended with you.

Nothing elſe in the world, Sir; I knew you would deſpiſe and deteſt her, the moment you were acquainted with her baſeneſs.

How ſhe brazen'd it out before my face, and what a regard ſhe affected for your intereſt! I was a madman not to liſten then to your explanation.

Tho' you both talk this point well, I ſtill ſee nothing but ſtrong preſumption againſt Miſs Walſing⯑ham: Miſtakes have already happened, miſtakes may happen again; and I will not give up a lady's honour, upon an evidence that wou'd not caſt a common pick⯑pocket at the Old Baily.

Come to the maſquerade then and be convinc'd.

Let us detach a party for dreſſes immediately. Yet remember, Torrington, that the punctuality of evi⯑dence which is neceſſary in a court of law, is by no means requiſite in a court of honour.

Perhaps it would be more to the honour of your honourable courts if it was.

My dear, you muſt excuſe me.

Indeed, Sir, you muſt not go up ſtairs.

Indeed but I will; the man is poſitive to the houſe, and I [...]ll ſearch every room in it, from the cellar to the garret, if I don't find the lady. James, don't ſtir from the ſtreet door.

Sir, you are the ſtrangeſt gentleman I ever [69] met with in all my born days:—I wiſh my miſtreſs was at home.

I am a ſtrange fellow, my dear—But if your miſtreſs was at home, I ſhou'd take the liberty of peeping into the apartments.

Sir, there's company in that room, you can't go in there.

Now that's the very reaſon I will go in.

This muſt be ſome great man, or he wou'dn't behave ſo obſtropolous.

Good manners by your leave a little.

Whoever my gentleman is, I'll call him to a ſevere reckoning:—I have been juſt call'd to one myſelf, for making free with another man's ſiſter.

Who is it that dares commit an outrage upon this apartment?

An Engliſhman's very lodging; ay, and an Iriſhman's too, I hope, is his caſtle;—an Iriſhman is an Engliſhman all the world over.

Mr. Leeſon!

O we ſhall have murder.

Run into that room, my dear, and ſtay with the young lady,

And Connolly let nobody elſe into that room.

Let me alone for that, honey, if this gentleman has fifty people.

Whence is it, Mr. Belville, that you per⯑ſecute me thus with injuries?

I am fill'd with aſtoniſhment!

Faith, to ſpeak the truth, you do look a little ſurpriz'd.

Anſwer me, Sir; what is the foundation of this new violence?

I am come, Mr. Leeſon, upon an affair, Sir—

The devil burn me if he was half ſo much confounded a while ago, when there was a naked ſword at his breaſt.

I am come, Mr. Leeſon, upon an affair, Sir, that—How the devil ſhall I open it to him, ſince the tables are ſo fairly turn'd upon me.

Diſpatch, Sir, for I have company in the next room.

A lady, I ſuppoſe?

Suppoſe it is, Sir?

And the lady's name is Moreland, isn't it, Sir?

I can't ſee what buſineſs you have with her name, Sir, You took away my ſiſter, and I hope you have no deſigns upon the lady in the next room.

Indeed but I have.

The devil you have!

Well, this is the moſt unaccountable man I ever heard of, he'll have all the women in the town, I believe.

And pray, Sir, what pretenſions, have you to the lady in the next room, even ſuppoſing her to be Miſs Moreland?

No other pretenſions than what a brother ſhould have to the defence of his ſiſter's honour: You thought yourſelf authoriſed to cut my throat a-while ago in a ſimilar buſineſs.

And is Miſs Moreland your ſiſter?

Sir, there is inſolence in that queſtion; you know ſhe is.

By heaven, I did not know it till this mo⯑ment; but I rejoice at the diſcovery: This is blow for blow!

Devil burn me but they have fairly made a ſwop of it.

And you really didn't know that Miſs More⯑land was my ſiſter?

I don't conceive myſelf under much ne⯑ceſſity of apologizing to you, Sir; but I am incapa⯑ble of a diſhonourable deſign upon any woman; and tho' Miſs Moreland in our ſhort acquaintance, re⯑peatedly [71] mentioned her brother, ſhe never once told me that his name was Belville.

And he has had ſuch few opportunities of being in her company, unleſs by letters, honey, that he knew nothing more of her connections, than her being a ſweet pretty creter, and having 30,000 l.

The fortune, I dare ſay, no way leſſened the force of her attractions.

I am above diſſimulation—It really did not.

Well, Mr. Leeſon, our families have ſhewn ſuch a very ſtrong inclination to come together, that it would really be a pity to diſappoint them.

Upon my ſoul and ſo it would; though the dread of being forc'd to have a huſband, the young lady tells us, quicken'd her reſolution to marry this gentleman.

O ſhe had no violence of that kind to appre⯑hend from her family; therefore, Mr. Leeſon, ſince you ſeem as neceſſary for the girl's happineſs, as ſhe ſeems for your's, you ſhall marry her here in town, with the conſent of all her friends, and ſave yourſelf the trouble of an expedition to Scotland.

Can I believe you ſerious?

Zounds, Leeſon, that air of ſurpriſe is a ſad reproach! I didn't ſurpriſe you when I did a bad action, but I raiſe your aſtoniſhment, when I do a good one.

And by my ſoul, Mr. Belville, if you knew how a good action becomes a man, you'd never do a bad one as long as you liv'd.

You have given me life and happineſs in one day, Mr. Belville! however, it is now time you ſhould ſee your ſiſter; I know you'll be gentle with her, tho' you have ſo much reaſon to condemn her choice, and generouſly remember that her elopement proceeded from the great improbability there was of a beggar's ever meeting with the approbation of her family.

Don't apologize for your circumſtances, Lee⯑ſon; a princeſs could do no more than make you happy, and if you make her ſo, you meet her upon terms of the moſt perfect equality.

This is a new way of thinking, Mr. Belville.

'Tis only an honeſt way of thinking, and I conſider my ſiſter a gainer upon the occaſion; for a man of your merit is more difficult to be found, than a woman of her fortune.

What's the reaſon now that I can't ſkip, and laugh, and rejoice, at this affair? Upon my ſoul my heart's as full as if I had met with ſome great misfor⯑tune. Well, pleaſure in the extreme is certainly a very painful thing: I am really aſham'd of theſe wo⯑mans drops, and yet I don't know but that I ought to bluſh for being aſham'd of them, for I am ſure no⯑body's eye ever looks half ſo well, as when it is diſ⯑figured by a tear of humanity.

ACT V.

WELL, happineſs is once more mine, and the women are all going in tip-top ſpirits to the maſquerade. Now, Mr. Belville, let me have a few words with you; Miſs Walſingham, the ripe, the luxurious Miſs Walſingham, expects to find you there burning with impatience:—But, my dear friend, after the occurrences of the day, can you be weak enough to plunge into freſh crimes? Can you be baſe [73] enough to abuſe the goodneſs of that angel your wife; and wicked enough, not only to deſtroy the innocence which is ſhelter'd beneath your own roof, but to ex⯑poſe your family perhaps again, to the danger of loſing a ſon, a brother, a father, and a huſband? The poſſeſſion of the three Graces is ſurely too poor a recompence for the folly you muſt commit, for the ſhame you muſt feel, and the conſequences you muſt hazard. Upon my ſoul if I ſtruggle a little longer, I ſhall riſe in my own opinion, and be leſs a raſcal than I think myſelf:—Ay, but the object is bewitch⯑ing;—the matter will be an eternal ſecret—and if it is known that I ſneak in this pitiful manner from a fine woman, when the whole elyſium of her perſon ſolicits me:—well, and am I afraid the world ſhould know that I have ſhrunk from an infamous action?—A thouſand bleſſings on you dear conſcience for that one ar⯑gument;—I ſhall be an honeſt man after all—Suppoſe, however, that I give her the meeting; that's danger⯑ous;—that's dangerous:—and I am ſo little accuſtomed to do what is right, that I ſhall certainly do what is wrong, the moment I am in the way of temptation. Come, Belville, your reſolution is not ſo very ſlender a dependance, and you owe Miſs Walſingham re⯑paration for the injury which you have done her prin⯑ciples. I'll give her the meeting—I'll take her to the houſe I intended—I'll—Zounds! what a fool I have been all this time, to look for precarious ſatisfaction in vice, when there is ſuch exquiſite pleaſure to be found at a certainty in virtue!

For mirth ſake don't let him ſee us: There has been a warm debate between his paſſion and his conſcience.

And the latter is the conqueror, my life for it.

Dear Mrs. Belville you are the beſt of women, and ought to have the beſt of huſbands.

I have the beſt of huſbands.

I have not time to diſpute the matter with you now; but I ſhall put you into my comedy to teach wives, that the beſt receipt for matrimonial hap⯑pineſs, is to be deaf, dumb, and blind.

Poh! poh! you are a ſatireſt, Lady Rachel—But we are loſing time; ſhou'dn't we put on our dreſſes, and prepare for the grand ſcene?

Don't you tremble at the trial?

Not in the leaſt, I am ſure my heart has no occaſion.

Have you let Miſs Walſingham into our little plot?

You know ſhe cou'd not be inſenſible of Mr. Belville's deſign upon herſelf, and it is no far⯑ther than that deſign, we have any thing to carry into execution.

Well, ſhe may ſerve to facilitate the matter, and therefore I am not ſorry that you have truſted her.

We ſhall be too late, and then what ſignifies all your fine plotting.

Is it not a little pang of jealouſy that wou'd fain now quicken our motions?

No, Lady Rachel, it is a certainty of my huſband's love and generoſity, that makes me wiſh to come to the trial. I wou'd not exchange my confidence in his affections for all the mines of Peru; ſo nothing you can ſay will make me miſerable.

You are a moſt unaccountable wo⯑man; ſo away with you.

Why, Ghaſtly, the old general your maſ⯑ter is a greater fool than I ever thought he was: He want to marry Miſs Walſingham?

Mrs. Tempeſt ſuſpected that there was [75] ſomething going forward, by all his hugger-mugger conſulting with Mr. Torrington; and ſo ſet me on to liſten.

She's a good friend of your's, and that thing ſhe made the General give you the other day in the hoſpital, is I ſuppoſe a ſnug hundred a year.

Better than two; I waſh for near four thouſand people: there was a major of horſe who put in for it, and pleaded a large family—

With long ſervices, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, but Mrs. Tempeſt inſiſted upon my long ſervices; ſo the major was ſet aſide—However to keep the thing from the damn'd News-papers, I fancy he will ſucceed the barber, who died laſt night, poor wo⯑man, of a lying-in fever, after being brought to bed of three children,—Places in public inſtitutions.—

Are often ſweetly diſpos'd I think of aſking Belville for ſomething, one of theſe days.

He has great intereſt.

I might be a juſtice of peace; if I pleaſed, and in a ſhabby neighbourhood, where the mere ſwearing would bring in ſomething tolerable; but there are ſo many ſtrange people let into the com⯑miſſion now-a-days, that I ſhou'dn't like to have my name in the liſt.

You are right.

No, no, I leave that to paltry tradeſmen, and ſhall think of ſome little ſinecure, or a ſmall penſion on the Iriſh eſtabliſhment.

Well, ſucceſs attend you. I muſt hobble home as faſt as I can, to know if Mrs. Tempeſt has any orders. O, there's a rare ſtorm brewing for our old goat of a General.

When ſhall we crack a bottle together?

O, I ſhan't touch a glaſs of Claret theſe three weeks; for laſt night I gave nature a little fillip with a drunken bout, according to the doctor's direc⯑tions; I have entirely left off bread, and I am in great hopes that I ſhall get rid of my gout by theſe means, [76] ſpecially if I can learn to eat my meat quite raw like a cannibal.

Ha, ha, ha!

Look at me, Spruce, I was once as likely a young fellow as any under ground in the whole pariſh of St. James's:—but waiting on the General ſo many years.

Ay, and following his example, Ghaſtly.

'Tis too true: has reduc'd me to what you ſee. Theſe miſerable ſpindles wou'd do very well for a lord or a duke, Spruce; but they are a ſad diſgrace to a poor valet de chambre.

Well, I don't believe there's a gentleman's gentleman within the weekly bills, who joins a pru⯑dent ſolicitude for the main-chance, to a ſtrict care of his conſtitution, better than myſelf. I have a little girl who ſtands me in about three guineas a week; I never bet more than a pound upon a rubber of whiſt; I always ſleep with my head very warm; and ſwallow a new laid egg every morning with my chocolate.

This way, my dear creature!

There! there they go in:—You ſee the place is quite convenient, not twenty yards from the maſquerade.

How cloſely the fellow ſticks to her.

Like the great ſeal to the peerage patent of a chancellor. But, gentlemen, we have ſtill no more than proof preſumptive:—where is the ocular de⯑monſtration which we were to have?

I'll ſwear to the blue domino; 'tis a very remarkable one, and ſo is Belville's.

You wou'd have rare cuſtom among the New-gate [77] ſollicitors, if you'd venture an oath upon the identity of the party under it.

'Tis the very ſize and ſhape of Miſs Wal⯑ſingham.

And yet I have a ſtrange notion that there is a trifling alibi in this caſe.

It wou'd be a damn'd affair if we ſhou'd be countermin'd.

O, follow me, here's the door left luckily open, and I'll ſoon clear up the matter beyond a queſtion.

Why your ſon is mad, General. This muſt produce a deadly breach with Belville. For heav'n's ſake, let's go in and prevent any exceſſes of his raſhneſs.

By all means, or the poor fellow's generous anxiety on my account may be productive of very fatal conſequences.

My dear Miſs Walſingham, we are now per⯑fectly ſafe, yet I will by no means intreat you to un⯑maſk, becauſe I am convinc'd, from the propriety with which you repuls'd my addreſſes this morning, that you intend the preſent interview ſhould make me ſtill more deeply ſenſible of my preſumption.—I never lied ſo aukwardly in all my life; if it was to make her comply, I ſhould be at no loſs for language.

The ſituation in which I muſt appear before you, Ma⯑dam, is certainly a very humiliating one; but I am perſuaded that your generoſity will be gratified to hear, that I have bid an everlaſting adieu to my pro⯑fligacy, and am now only alive to the virtues of Mrs. Belville.—She won't ſpeak—I don't wonder at it, for brazen as I am myſelf, if I met ſo mortifying a re⯑jection, I ſhould be curſedly out of countenance.

I will go in.

I command you to deſiſt.

This will be an affair for the Old-Bailey.

Why, what the devil is all this?—Don't be alarm'd, Miſs Walſingham, be aſſur'd I'll protect you at the hazard of my life;—ſtep into this cloſet,— you ſhan't be diſcover'd depend upon it;

And now to find out the cauſe of this con⯑fuſion.

Savage! what is the meaning of this ſtrange behaviour?

Where is Miſs Walſingham?

So then, Sir, this is a premeditated ſcheme, for which I am oblig'd to your friendſhip.

Where's Miſs Walſingham, Sir?

Dear Belville, he is out of his ſenſes; this ſtorm was entirely againſt my orders.

If he proceeds much longer in theſe vaga⯑ries, we muſt amuſe him with a commiſſion of lunacy.

This is neither a time nor a place for argu⯑ment, Mr. Torrington; but as you and the General ſeem to be in the poſſeſſion of your ſenſes, I ſhall be glad if you'll take this very friendly gentleman away; and depend upon it, I ſhan't die in his debt for the preſent obligation.

And depend upon it, Sir, pay the obliga⯑tion when you will, I ſhan't ſtir 'till I ſee Miſs Wal⯑ſingham.—Look'ee, Belville, there are ſecret reaſons for my behaving in this manner; reaſons, which you yourſelf will approve, when you know them;—my father here—

Diſavows your conduct in every particular, and would rejoice to ſee you at the halberds.

And, for my part, I told him previouſly 'twas a downright burglary.

Well, gentlemen, let your different motives for breaking in upon me in this agreeable manner, be what they may, I don't ſee that I am leſs annoy'd by my friends than my enemy. I muſt therefore again, requeſt that you will all walk down ſtairs.

I'll firſt walk into this room.

Really, I think you will not.

What phrenzy poſſeſſes the fellow to urge this matter farther?

While there's a ſingle doubt ſhe triumphs over juſtice;

I will go into that room.

Then you muſt make your way thro' me.

Ah!

There, I knew ſhe was in the room:— there's the blue domino.

Put up your ſword, if you don't deſire to be caſhier'd from my favour for ever.

Why, wou'd you come out, madam? But, you have nothing to apprehend.

Pray, madam, will you have the goodneſs to unmaſk?

She ſhan't unmaſk.

I ſay ſhe ſhall.

I ſay ſhe ſhall not.

Pray, let me oblige the gentleman?

Death and deſtruction, here's a diſcovery!

Mrs. Belville!

Yes, Mrs. Belville, gentlemen: Is con⯑ſugal fidelity ſo very terrible a thing now a-days, that a man is to ſuffer death for being found in company with his own wife?

My love, this is a ſurprize, indeed—But it is a moſt agreeable one; ſince you find me really aſham'd of my former follies, and cannot now doubt the ſincerity of my reformation.

I am too happy! this ſingle moment wou'd over pay a whole life of anxiety.

Where ſhall I attend you? Will you return to the maſquerade?

O no! Lady Rachel and Miſs Walſing⯑ham are by this time at our houſe, with Mr. Leeſon and the Iriſh gentleman whom you preſs'd into our party, impatiently expecting the reſult of this adventure.

Give me leave to conduct you home then from this ſcene of confuſion. To-morrow, Captain Savage, I ſhall beg the favour of your explanation;

Kind gentlemen, your moſt humble ſervant.

And when you next diſturb a téte a téte, for pity to a poor wife, don't let it be ſo very uncuſtomary a party, as the matrimonial one.

So, Sir, you have led us upon a bleſſed expedition here.

Now, don't you think that if your courts of honour, like our courts of law, ſearch'd a little minutely into evidence, it wou'd be equally to the credit of their underſtandings?

Tho' I am cover'd with confuſion at my miſtake (for you ſee, Belville was miſtaken as well as myſelf,) I am overjoy'd at this diſcovery of Miſs Walſingham's innocence.

I ſhou'd exult in it too, with a feu de joy, if it didn't now ſhew the impoſſibility of her ever being Mrs. Savage.

Dear Sir, why ſhould you think that an impoſſibility? Tho' ſome miſtake [...]s have occurr'd conſequence I ſuppoſe, of Mrs. Belville's little plot upon her huſband, I dare ſay Miſs Walſingham may yet be prevail'd upon to come into our family.

Take care of a new error in your proceed⯑ings, young gentleman.

Ay, another defeat would make us com⯑pleatly deſpicable.

Sir, I'll forſeit my life, if ſhe does not conſent to the marriage this very night.

Only bring this matter to bear, and I'll for⯑give you every thing.

The Captain ſhou'd be inform'd, I think General, that ſhe declin'd it peremptorily this evening.

Ay, do you hear that, Horace?

I am not at all ſurpriz'd at it, conſidering the general miſconception we labour'd under. But I'll immediately to Belville's, explain the whole myſtery, and conclude every thing to your ſatisfaction.

So, Torrington, we ſhall be able to take the field again, you ſee.

But how in the name of wonder has your ſon found out your intention of marrying Miſs Wal⯑ſingham? I look'd upon myſelf as the only perſon acquainted with the ſecret.

That thought has march'd itſelf two or three times to my own recollection. For tho' I gave him ſome diſtant hints of the affair, I took parti⯑cular care to keep behind the works of a proper cir⯑cumſpection.

O, if you gave him any hints at all, I am not ſurpriz'd at his diſcovering every thing.

I ſhall be all impatience 'till I hear of his interview with Miſs Walſingham: Suppoſe my dear friend we went to Belville's, 'tis but in the next ſtreet, and we ſhall be there in the lighting of a match.

Really this is a pretty buſineſs for a man of my age and profeſſion, trot here, trot there. But, as I have been weak enough to make myſelf a kind of party in the cauſe, I own that I have curioſity enough to be anxious about the determination.

Come along my old boy; and remember the ſong, "Servile ſpirits, &c."

Nay, but my deareſt Miſs Walſingham, the extenuation of my own conduct to Belville made it abſolutely neceſſary for me to diſcover my engagements with you; and as happineſs is now ſo fortunately in our reach, I flatter myſelf you will be prevail'd upon to forgive an error, which pro⯑ceeded only from an extravagance of love.

To think me capable of ſuch an ac⯑tion, Captain Savage! I am terrified at the idea of a union with you, and it is better for a woman at any time, to ſacrifice an inſolent lover, than to accept of a ſuſpicious huſband.

In the happieſt unions, my deareſt creature, there muſt be always ſomething to overlook on both ſides.

Very civil, truly.

Pardon me, my life, for this frankneſs; and recollect, that if the lover has thro' miſconcep⯑tion been unhappily guilty, he brings a huſband al⯑together reform'd to your hands.

Well, I ſee I muſt forgive you at laſt, ſo I may as well make a merit of neceſſity, you pro⯑voking creature.

And may I hope, indeed, for the bleſſing of this hand?

Why, you wretch, would you have me force it upon you? I think, after what I have ſaid, a ſoldier might have ventur'd to take it without farther ceremony.

Angelic creature! thus I ſeize it as my lawful prize.

Well, but now you have obtained this ineſtimable prize, Captain, give me again leave to aſk if you have had a certain explanation with the General?

How can you doubt it?

And he is really impatient for our marriage?

'Tis incredible how earneſt he is.

What, did he tell you of his Interview with me this evening, when he brought Mr. Tor⯑rington?

He did.

O, then, I can have do doubt.

If a ſhadow of doubt remains, here he comes to remove it. Joy, my dear Sir! joy a thou⯑ſand times!

What, my dear boy, have you carried the day?

I have been weak enough to indulge him with a victory, indeed, General.

None but the brave, none but the brave, &c.

I congratulate you heartily on this decree, General.

This had nearly proved a day of diſappoint⯑ment, but the ſtars have fortunately turn'd it in my favour, and now I reap the rich reward of my vic⯑tory.

And here I take her from you, as the greateſt good which heav'n can ſend me.

O, Captain!

You take her as the greateſt good which heav'n can ſend you, ſirrah; I take her as the greateſt good which heav'n can ſend me: And now what have you to ſay to her?

General Savage!

Here will be a freſh injunction to ſtop pro⯑ceedings.

Are we never to have done with miſtakes?

What miſtakes can have happen'd now my ſweeteſt? you deliver'd up your dear hand to me this moment?

True, Sir; but I thought you were going to beſtow my dear hand upon this dear gen⯑tleman.

How! that dear gentleman!

I am thunder-ſtruck!

General—None but the brave, &c.

So the covert way is clear'd at laſt; and you have imagin'd that I was all along negociating for this fellow, when I was gravely ſoliciting for myſelf?

No other idea, Sir, ever once enter'd my imagination.

General.—Noble minds ſhould ne'er deſpair, &c.

Zounds! here's all the company pouring upon us in full gallop, and I ſhall be the laughing ſtock of the whole town.

Well, General, we have left you a long time together. Shall I give you joy?

No; wiſh me demoliſh'd in the fortifications of Dunkirk.

What's the matter?

The General appears diſconcerted.

The gentleman looks as if he had fought a hard battle.

Ay, and gain'd nothing but a defeat, my dear.

I'll ſhew cauſe for his behaviour.

Death and damnation! not for the world. I am taken by ſurpriſe here; let me conſider a mo⯑ment how to cut my way thro' the enemy.

How cou'd you be deceiv'd in this manner.

O, Mr. Torrington, we are much oblig'd to you; you have been in town ever ſince laſt night, and only ſee us now by accident.

I have been very buſy, Madam; but you look ſadly, very ſadly indeed! your old diſorder the jaundice, I ſuppoſe, has been very troubleſome to you?

Sir, you have a very extraordinary mode of complimenting your acquaintance.

I don't believe for all that, that there's a word of a lie in the truth he ſpeaks.

Miſs Walſingham, Capt. Savage has been telling Mr. Belville and me of a very extraor⯑dinary miſtake.

'Tis very ſtrange indeed, miſtake on miſtake.

'Tis no way ſtrange to find every body pro⯑perly ſtruck with the merit of Miſs Walſingham.

A compliment from you now, Mr. Belville, is really worth accepting.

If I thought the affair cou'd be kept a ſe⯑cret, by making the town over to my ſon, ſince I am utterly ſhut out myſelf—

He ſeems exceedingly embarraſſed.

If I thought that;—why mortified as I muſt be in giving it up, I think I cou'd reſolve upon the manoeuvre, to ſave myſelf from univerſal ridicule: but it can't be;—it can't be; and I only double my own diſappointment in rewarding the diſobedience of the raſcal who has ſupplanted me. There!—there! they are all talking of it, all laughing at me, and I ſhall run mad!

I ſay, you feather-headed puppy, he is in this houſe; my own ſervant ſaw him come in, and I will not ſtir 'till I find him.

She here!—then deliberation is over, and I am entirely blown up.

I'll take notes of this affair.

Mighty well, Sir. So you are in love it ſeems;—and you want to be married it ſeems?

My bleſſed aunt!—O how proud I am of the relation.

Dear Bab, give me quarter before all this company.

You are in love, you old fool, are you? and you want to marry Miſs Walſingham, indeed!

I never heard a pleaſanter ſpoken gentlewoman —O hone, if I had the taming of her, ſhe ſhou'd never be abuſive, without keeping a civil tongue in her head.

Well, Sir, and when is the happy day to be fix'd?

What the devil, is this true, General?

True.—Can you believe ſuch an abſurdity?

Why, will you deny, you miſerable old mummy, that you made propoſal of marriage to her?—

Yes I do—no I don't—propoſals of marriage!

In favour of your ſon.—I'll help him out a little.

Yes, in favour of my ſon—what the devil ſhall I do?

Shall I take a leſſon from this lady, Mr. Belville? Perhaps if the women of virtue were to pluck up a little ſpirit, they might be ſoon as well treated as kept miſtreſſes.

Harkee, General Savage, I believe you aſſert a falſehood; but if you ſpeak the truth, give your ſon this moment to Miſs Walſingham, and let me be fairly rid of my rival.

My ſon! Miſs Walſingham!—Miſs Wal⯑ſingham, my ſon!

It will do, Horace; it will do.

No prevarications, General Savage; do what I bid you inſtantly, or by all the wrongs of an enraged woman, I'll ſo expoſe you.—

What a fine fellow this is, to have the com⯑mand of an army!

If Miſs Walſingham can be prevailed upon.

O, ſhe'll oblige you readily—But you muſt ſettle a good fortune upon your ſon.

That he ſhall do.

Miſs Walſingham, my Dear—

I can refuſe nothing either to your re⯑queſt, or to the requeſt of the General.

Oblige me with your hand then, Madam: come here you—come here Captain. There, there is Miſs Walſingham's hand for you.

And as pretty a little fiſt it is, as any in the three kingdoms.

Torrington ſhall ſettle the fortune.

I give you joy moſt heartily, Madam.

We all give her joy.

Mine is beyond the power of expreſſion.

And ſo is the General's, I believe.

O faith, that may be eaſily ſeen by the ſweet⯑neſs of his countenance.

Well, the cauſe being now at laſt determin'd, I think we may all retire from the court.

And without any great credit, I fear, to the General.

By my ſoul, you may ſay that.—

Do you murmur, Sir?—Come this moment home with me.

I'll go any where to hide this miſerable head of mine: what a damn'd campaign have I made of it!

Upon my ſoul, if I was in the General's place, I'd divide the houſe with this devil; I'd keep within doors myſelf, and make her take the outſide.

The day has been a buſy one, thanks to the communicative diſpoſition of the Captain.

And the evening ſhould be chearful.

I ſhan't therefore part with one of you, 'till we have had a hearty laugh at our general adventures.

They have been very whimſical in⯑deed; yet if repreſented on the ſtage, I hope they wou'd be found not only entertaining, but inſtructive.

Inſtructive! why the modern Critics ſay that the only buſineſs of Comedy is to make peo⯑ple laugh.

That is degrading the dignity of letters ex⯑ceedingly, as well as leſſening the utility of the ſtage —A good comedy is a capital effort of genius, and ſhould therefore be directed to the nobleſt purpoſes.

Very true; and unleſs we learn ſome⯑thing while we chuckle, the carpenter who nails a Pantomime together, will be entitled to more applauſe, than the beſt comic poet in the kingdom.