SCENE I.—In the fore-ground a Farm Houſe— A view of a Caſtle at a diſtance.

WELL, Dame, welcome whoam. What news does thee bring vrom market?

What news, huſband? What I always told you; that Farmer Grundy's wheat brought five ſhillings a quarter more than ours did.

All the better vor he.

Ah! the ſun ſeems to ſhine on purpoſe for him.

Come, come, Miſſus, as thee has not the grace to thank God for proſperous times, dan't thee grumble when they be unkindly a bit.

And I aſſure you Dame Grundy's butter was quite the crack of the market.

Be quiet, woolye? aleways ding, dinging Dame Grundy into my ears—what will Mrs. Grundy zay? What will Mrs. Grundy think?— Casn't thee be quiet, let ur alone, and behave thy⯑zel pratty?

Certainly I can—I'll tell thee, Tummas, what ſhe ſaid at church laſt Sunday.

Canſt thee tell what parſon zaid? Noa— Then I'll tell thee—A' zaid that envy were as foul a weed as grows, and cankers all wholeſome plants that be near it—that's what a'zaid.

And do you think I envy Mrs. Grundy indeed?

What dant thee letten her aloane then—I do verily think when thee goeſt to t'other world, the vurſt queſtion thee't ax 'il be, if Mrs. Grundy's there—Zoa be quiet, and behave pratty, do'ye— Has thee brought whoam the Saliſbury news?

No, Tummas; but I have brought a rare wadget of news with me. Firſt and foremoſt I ſaw ſuch a mort of coaches, ſervants, and wag⯑gons, all belonging to Sir Abel Handy, and all coming to the Caſtle—and a handſome young man, dreſſed all in lace, pull'd off his hat to me, and ſaid— ‘Mrs. Aſhfield, do me the honour of preſenting that letter to your huſband.’—So, there he ſtood without his hat—Oh, Tummas, had you ſeen how Mrs. Grundy looked!

Dom Mrs. Grundy—be quiet, and let I read, woolye?

"My dear Farmer"

, Thankye, Zur—zame to you we all my heart and ſoul—" My dear Farmer"—

Farmer—Why, you are blind, Tummas; it is—" My dear Father"—'Tis from our own dear Suſan.

Odds! dickens and daizeys! zoo it be, zure enow!—"My dear Feyther, you will be ſur⯑prized"—Zoo I be, he, he! What pretty writing, beant it? all as ſtrait as thof it were ploughed— ‘Surpriſed to hear that in a few hours I ſhall em⯑brace you—Nelly, who formerly was our ſervant, has fortunately married Sir Abel Handy Bart.’—

Handy Bart—Pugh! Bart. ſtands for Baronight, mun.

Likely, likely—Drabbit it, only to think of the zwaps and changes of this world!

Our Nelly married to a great Baronet! I wonder, Tummas, what Mrs. Grundy will ſay?

Now, woolye be quiet, and let I read— ‘And ſhe has propoſed bringing me to ſee you; an offer, I hope, as acceptable to my dear feyther’—

"And mother"—

Bleſs her, how prettily ſhe do write feyther, dant ſhe?

And mother.

Ees, but feyther firſt, though— ‘As acceptable to my dear feyther and mother, as to their affectionate daughter—Suſan Aſhfield’— Now beant that a pratty letter?

And, Tummas, is not ſhe a pretty girl?

Ees; and as good as ſhe be pratty— Drabbit it, I do feel zoo happy, and zoo warm,— for all the world like the zun in harveſt.

Oh, Tummas, I ſhall be ſo pleaſed to ſee her, I ſhan't know whether I ſtand on my head or my heels.

Stand on thy head! vor ſheame o'thyzel— behave pratty, do.

Nay, I meant no harm—Eh, here comes friend Evergreen the gardner, from the Caſtle. Bleſs me, what a hurry the old man is in.

Good day, honeſt Thomas.

Zame to you, meaſter Evergreen.

Have you heard the news?

Anything about Mrs. Grundy?

Dame, be quiet, woolye now?

No, no—The news is, that my maſter, Sir Philip Blandford, after having been abroad for twenty years, returns this day to the Caſtle; and that the reaſon of his coming, is to marry his only daughter to the ſon of Sir Abel Handy, I think they call him.

As ſure as twopence, that is Nelly's huſband.

Indeed!—Well, Sir Abel and his ſon will be here immediately; and, Farmer, you muſt attend them.

Likely, likely.

And, miſtreſs, come and lend us a hand at the Caſtle, will you?—Ah, twenty long years ſince I have ſeen Sir Philip—Poor Gentleman! bad, bad health—worn almoſt to the grave, I am told.—What a lad do I remember him—till that dreadful—

But where is Henry? I muſt ſee him—muſt caution him

That's his gun, I ſuppoſe— he is not far then—Poor Henry!

Poor Henry! I like that indeed! What, though he be nobody knows who, there is not a girl in the pariſh that is not ready to pull caps for [9]him—The Miſs Grundys, genteel as they think themſelves, would be glad to ſnap at him—If he were our own, we could not love him better.

And he deſerves to be loved—Why, he's as handſome as a peach tree in bloſſom; and his mind is as free from weeds as my favourite car⯑nation bed. But, Thomas, run to the Caſtle, and receive Sir Abel and his ſon.

I wool, I wool—Zo, good day,

Let every man make his bow, and behave pratty— that's what I ſay—Miſſus, do'ye ſhew un Sue's letter, woolye? Doye letten ſee how pratty ſhe do write feyther.

Now Tummas is gone, I'll tell you ſuch a ſtory about Mrs. Grundy—But come, ſtep in, you muſt needs be weary; and I am ſure a mug of harveſt beer, ſweetened with a hearty welcome, will refreſh you.

SCENE II.—Outſide and Gate of the Caſtle.— Servants croſs the Stage, laden with different Packages.

Drabbit it, the wold caſtle 'ull be hardly big enow to hold all thic lumber—Who do come here? A do zeem a comical zoart ov a man—Oh, Abel Handy, I ſuppoze.

Gently there! mind how you go, Robin.

Zounds and fury! you have killed the whole county, you dog! for you have broke the patent [10]medicine cheſt, that was to keep them all alive!— Richard, gently!—take care of the grand Archime⯑dian corkſcrews!—Bleſs my ſoul! ſo much to think of! Such wonderful inventions in concep⯑tion, in concoction, and in completion!

Well, Peter, is the carriage much broke?

Smaſhed all to pieces. I thought as how, Sir, that your infallible axletree would give way.

Confound it, it has compelled me to walk ſo far in the wet, that I declare my water⯑proof ſhoes are completely ſoaked through.

Zarvent, Zur! Zarvent!

What's that? Oh, good day.—Devil take the fellow!

Thankye, Zur; zame to you wi' all my heart and zoul.

Pray, friend, cou'd you contrive gently to inform me, where I can find one Farmer Aſh⯑field.

Ha, ha, ha!

Excuſe my tittering a bit—but your axing myzel vor I be ſo domm'd zilly

—Ah! you ſtare at I beceas I be baſhful and daunted.

You are very baſhful to be ſure. I declare I'm quite weary.

If you'll walk into the Caſtle, you may zit down, I dare zay.

May I, indeed! you are a fellow of extraordinary civility.

There's no denying it, Zur.

No, I'll ſit here.

What! on the ground? Why, you'll wring your ould withers—

On the ground—no, I always carry my fear with me

Here I'll ſit and examine the ſurveyor's account of the Caſtle.

Dickens and daizeys! what a gentleman you wou'd be to ſhew at a vair!

Silence, fellow, and attend— ‘An ac⯑count of the caſtle and domain of Sir Philip Blandford, intended to be ſettled as a marriage portion on his daughter, and the ſon of Sir Abel Handy, by Frank Flouriſh, ſurveyor.— Imprimis—The premiſes command an exqui⯑ſite view of he iſle of Wight.’—Charming! delightful! I don't ſee it though

—I'll try with my [...]ew glaſs—my own invention—

Yes, there I caught it—Ah! now I ſee it plainly—Eh! no—I don't ſee it, do you?

Noa, Zur, I doant—but little zweepy do tell I he can zee a bit out from the top of the chimbley—zoa, an you've a mind to crawl up you may zee un too, he, he!

Thank you—but damn your titter!

—"Fiſh ponds well ſtocked"—That's a good thing, Farmer.

Likely, likely—but I doant think the viſhes do thrive much in theas ponds.

No! Why?

Why, the ponds be always dry i' the zum⯑mer; and I be tuold that beant wholeſome vor the little viſhes.

Not very, I believe—Well ſaid ſur⯑veyor! "A cool ſummer-houſe."

Ees, Zur, quite cool—by reaſon the roof be tumbled in.

Better and better— ‘The whole ca⯑pable pable of the greateſt improvement.’—Come, that ſeems true however—I ſhall have plenty to do, that's one comfort—I'll have ſuch contrivances! I'll have a canal run through my kitchen.—I muſt give this ruſtic ſome idea of my conſequence

You muſt know, Farmer, you have the honour of converſing with a man who has obtained patents for tweezers, tooth-picks, and tinder-boxes—to a philoſopher who has been conſulted on the Wapping docks and the Graveſend tunnel; and who has now in hand two inventions which will render him immortal—the one is, converting ſaw-duſt into deal boards, and the other is, a plan of cleaning rooms by a ſteam engine—and, Farmer, I mean to give prizes for induſtry—I'll have a ploughing match.

Will you, Zur?

Yes; for I conſider a healthy young man between the handles of a plough, as one of the nobleſt illuſtrations of the proſperity of Britain.

Faith and troth! there be ſome tightiſh hands in theas parts, I promize ye.

And, farmer, it ſhall precede the hy⯑meneal feſtivities—

Nan!

Blockhead! the ploughing match ſhall take place as ſoon as Sir Philip Blandford and his daughter arrive.

Oh, likely, likely!

Sir Abel, I beg to ſay, my maſter will be here immediately.

And, Sir, I beg to aſk who poſſeſſes the happineſs of being your maſter?

Your ſon, Sir, Mr. Robert Handy.

Indeed! and where is Bob?

I left him, Sir, in the belfrey of the church.

Where?

In the belfrey of the church.

In the belfrey of the church! What was he doing there?

Why, Sir, the natives were ringing a peal in honour of our arrival—when my maſter finding they knew nothing of the matter, went up to the ſteeple to inſtruct them, and ordered me to proceed to the Caſtle—I have the honour—

Wonderful! My Bob, you muſt know, is an aſtoniſhing fellow!—you have heard of the admirable Crichton, may be? Bob's of the ſame kidney! I contrive, he executes—Sir Abel invenit, Bob fecit. He can do everything—every⯑thing!

All the better vor he. Izay, Zur, as he can turn his hand to everything, pray, in what way med he earn his livelihood?

Earn his livelihood!

Ees, Zur—How do he gain his bread?

Bread! Oh, he can't earn his bread. Bleſs you! he's a genius.

Genius! Drabbit it, I have got a horze o' thic name, but dom' un he'll never work—never.

Egad! here comes my boy Bob!— Eh! no—it is not! no.

Why who the devil are you?

I am the poſtboy, your Honour; but the Gem'man ſaid I did not know how to drive, ſo he mounted my horſe, and made me get inſide—Here he is.

Ah, my old Dad, is that you?

Certainly; the only doubt is, if that be you?

Oh, I was teaching this fellow to drive—Nothing is ſo horrible as people pretending to do what they are unequal to—Give me my hat— That's the way to uſe a whip.

Sir, you know you have broke the horſes knees all to pieces.

Huſh, there's a guinea

You ſee Bob can do every thing. But, Sir, when you knew I had arrived from Germany, why did you not pay your duty to me in London?

Sir, I heard you were but four days married, and I would not interrupt your honey⯑moon.

Four days! oh, you might have come

I hear you have taken to your arms a ſimple ruſtic, unſophiſticated by faſhionable follies,—a full blown bloſſom of nature.

Yes!

How does it anſwer?

So, ſo!

Any thorns?

A few!

I muſt be introduced—where is ihe?

Not within thirty miles; for I don't hear her.

Ha, ha, ha!

Who is that?

Oh, a pretty behaved tittering friend of mine.

Zarvent, Zur—no offence I do hope— Could not help tittering a bit at Nelly—when ſhe were zarvent maid wi' I, ſhe had a tightiſh prattle wi' her, that's vor zartain.

Oh! ſo then my honored Mamma was the ſervant of this tittering gentleman—I ſay, father, perhaps ſhe has not loſt the tightiſh prattle he ſpeaks of.

My dear boy, come here—Prattle! I ſay, did you ever live next door to a pewterer's?— that's all—you underſtand me—did you ever hear a dozen fire-engines full gallop?—were you ever at Billingſgate in the ſprat ſeaſon?—or—

Ha, ha!

Nay, don't laugh, Bob.

Indeed, Sir, you think of it too ſeriouſly. The ſtorm, I dare ſay, ſoon blows over.

Soon! You know what a trade wind is, don't you, Bob? why, ſhe thinks no more of the latter end of her ſpeech, than ſhe does of the latter end of her life—

Ha, ha!

But I won't be laughed at—I'll knock any man down that laughs!

I beg your pardon—but how in the name of Babel did ſhe wheedle you into matri⯑mony?

Why, ſhe dealt with me as the devil deals with a witch—humoured me for a time, that I might be her ſlave for ever! I thought I was marrying a notable woman, who would have eaſed my head of part of its burthen: — inſtead of which—

She has added to its burthen.

You know, my dear boy, my aim is to make my head uſeful—

And her aim, I ſuppoſe, is to make it ornamental.

Bob, if you can ſay anything pleaſant, I'll trouble you; if not, do what my wife can't— hold your tongue.

I'll ſhew you what I can do—I'll amuſe you with this native

Do—do—quiz him—at him, Bob.

I ſay, Farmer, you are a ſet of jolly fellows here, an't you?

Ees, Zur, deadly jolly—excepting when we be otherwiſe, and then we beant.

Play at cricket, don't you?

Ees, Zur; we Hampſhire lads conceat we can bowl a bit or thereabouts.

And cudgel too, I ſuppoſe?

At him, Bob.

Ees, Zur, we ſometimes break oon an⯑others heads by way of being agreeable, and the like o'that.

Underſtand all the guards?

Can't zay I do, Zur.

What, hit in this way, eh?

Noa, Zur, we do hit thic way.

Zounds and fury!

Why, Bob, he has broke your head.

Yes; he rather hit me—he ſome⯑how—

He did indeed, Bob.

Damn him—The fact is, I am out of practice.

You need not be, Zur; I'll gi'ye a belly full any day wi' all my heart and ſoul.

No, no, thank you—Farmer, what's your name?

My name be Tummas Aſhfield—anything to ſay againſt my name?

No, no—Aſhfield! ſhou'd he be the father of my pretty Suſan—Pray, have you a daughter?

Ees, I have—anything to zay againſt ſhe?

No, no; I think her a charming creature.

Do ye faith and troth—Come, that be deadly kind o'ye however—Do you zee, I were frightful ſhe were not agreeable.

Oh, ſhe's extremely agreeable to me, I aſſure you.

I vow, it be quite pratty in you to take notice of Sue. I do hope, Zur, breaking your head will break noa ſquares—She be a coming down to theas parts wi' lady our maid Nelly, as wur—your ſpouſe, Zur.

The devil ſhe is! that's awkward!

I do hope you'll be kind to Sue when ſhe do come, woolye, Zur?

You may depend on it.

I dareſay you may. Come, Farmey, attend us.

Ees, Zur; wi' all reſpect—Gentlemen, pray walk thic way, and I'll walk before you.

Now, that's what he calls behaving pretty.

Suſan Aſhfield coming here!

What, Bob, ſome intrigue, eh?

Oh fie!

Conſider, Sir, you come here to marry the beautiful and accompliſhed Miſs Blandford— and conſider on the other hand, you have already got a ſlight memorandum of the Farmer's agreeable way.

SCENE III.—A Grove.

Here, Gerald! Well, my truſty fellow, is Sir Philip arrived?

No, Sir; but hourly expected.

Tell me, how does the Caſtle look?

Sadly decayed, Sir.

I hope, Gerald, you were not obſerved.

I fear otherwiſe, Sir: on the ſkirts of the domain I encountered a ſtripling with his gun; [19]but I darted into that thicket, and ſo avoided him.

Have you gained any intelligence?

None: the report that reached us was falſe—The infant certainly died with its mother— Huſh! conceal yourſelf—we are obſerved—this way.

Hold! as a friend, one word!

Again they have eſcaped me— ‘The infant died with its mother’—This agony of doubt is in⯑ſupportable.

Henry, well met.

Have you ſeen ſtrangers?

No!

Two but now have left this place—They ſpoke of a loſt child—My buſy fancy led me to think I was the object of their ſearch—I preſſed forward, but they avoided me.

No, no; it could not be you; for no one on earth knows but myſelf, and—

Who, Sir Philip Blandford?

I am ſworn, you know, my dear boy; I am ſolemnly ſworn to ſilence.

True, my good old friend; and if the knowledge of who I am can only be obtained at [20]the price of thy perjury, let me for ever remain jgnorant—let the corroding thought ſtill haunt my pillow, croſs me at every turn, and render me inſenſible to the bleſſings of health and liberty— yet, in vain do I ſuppreſs the thought—who am I? why thus abandoned? perhaps the deſpiſed off⯑ſpring of guilt—Ah! is it ſo!

Henry, do I deſerve this?

Pardon me, good old man! I'll act more reaſonably—I'll deem thy ſilence mercy.

That's wiſely ſaid.

Yet it is hard to think that the moſt de⯑teſted reptile that Nature forms, or man purſues, has, when be gains his den, a parent's pitying breaſt to ſhelter in; but I—

Come, come, no more of this.

Well!—I viſited to-day that young man who was ſo grievouſly bruifed by the breaking of his team.

That was kindly done, Henry.

I found him ſuffering under extreme torture, yet a ray of joy ſhot from his languid eye—for his medicine was adminiſtered by a father's hand—it was a mother's precious tear that dropt upon his wound—Oh, how I envied him!

Still on the ſame ſubject—I tell thee, if thou art not acknowledged by thy race, why, then become the noble founder of a new one The moſt valuable carnations were once ſeedlings— and the pride of my flower-bed is now a Henry, which, when known, will be envied by every floriſt in Britain—Come with me to the Caſtle for the laſt time.

The laſt time!

Aye, boy; for when Sir Philip arrives, hou muſt avoid him.

Not ſee him! where exiſts the power that ſhall prevent me?

Henry, if you value your own peace of mind—if you value an old man's comfort, avoid the Caſtle.

I muſt diſſemble with this honeſt creature—Well, I am content.

That's right—that's right, Henry—Be but thou reſigned and virtuous, and he who cloaths the lily of the field, will be a parent to thee.

SCENE I.—A Lodge belonging to the Caſtle.

A SINGULAR ſituation this my old Dad has placed me in; brought me here to marry a woman of faſhion and beauty, while I have been profeſſing and I've a notion feeling the moſt ardent love for the pretty Suſan Aſhfield—Propriety ſays, take Miſs Blandford—Love ſays, take Suſan—Faſhion ſays, take both—but would Suſan conſent to ſuch an arrangement?—and if ſhe refuſed, would I con⯑ſent to part with her? Oh time enough to put that queſtion when the previous one is diſpoſed of—

How do you do? How do you do?—Making lace I perceive—Is it a com⯑mon employment here?

Oh! no, Sir, nobody can make it in theſe parts but myſelf!—Mrs. Grundy indeed pre⯑tends—but, poor woman! ſhe knows no more of it than you do.

Than I do! that's vaſtly well— My dear Madam, I paſſed two months at Mechlin for the expreſs purpoſe.

Indeed!

You don't do it right—now I can do it much better than that. Give me leave, and I'll ſhew you the true Mechlin method

Firſt you ſee, ſo—then, ſo—

I vow Miſs Blandford, fair as I ever thought you, the air of your native land has given additional luſtre to your charms!—

If my wife looked ſo—Ah! But where can Bob be— you muſt know, Miſs, my ſon is a very clever fellow! you won't find him waſting his time in boyiſh frivolity!—no; you will find him—

Is that your ſon, Sir?

Yes, that's Bob!

Pray, Sir, is he making lace, or is he making love?

Curſe me if I can tell

Get up you dog! don't you ſee Miſs Blandford?

Zounds! how un⯑lucky! Ma'am, your moſt obedient ſervant

Curſe the cuſhion!

Oh! he has ſpoiled my lace!

Huſh! I'll make you a thouſand yards another time—You ſee, Ma'am, I was ex⯑plaining to this good woman—what—what need [24]not be explained again—Admirably handſome by Heaven!

Is not ſhe, Bob?

In your journey from the coaſt, I conclude you took London in your way? Huſh!

Oh no, Sir, I could not ſo ſoon venture into the beau monde, a ſtranger juſt arrived from Germany—

The very reaſon—the moſt faſhion⯑able introduction poſſible! but I perceive, Sir, you have here imitated other German importations, and only reſtored to us our native excellence.

I aſſure you, Sir, I am eager to ſeize my birth-right, the pure and envied immunities of an Engliſh woman!

Then I truſt, Madam, you will be patriot enough to agree with me, that a [...] a nation is poor, whoſe only wealth is importation—that therefore the humble native artiſt may ever hope to obtain from his countrymen thoſe foſtering ſmiles, without which genius muſt ſicken and in⯑duſtry decay. But it requires no valet de place to conduct you through the purlieus of faſhion, for now the way of the world is, for every one to purſue their own way, and following the faſhion is differing as much as poſſible from the reſt of your acquaintance.

But ſurely, Sir, there is ſome diſtin⯑guiſhing feature by which the votaries of faſhion are known?

Yes; but that varies extremely— ſometimes faſhionable celebrity depends on a high waiſt—ſometimes on a low carriage—ſometimes on high play, and ſometimes on low breeding—laſt winter it reſted ſolely on green peas!

Green peas!

Green peas!—that Lady was the moſt enchanting who could bring the greateſt quantity of green peas to her table at Chriſtmas! the ſtruggle was tremendous! Mrs. Rowley Powley had the beſt of it by five pecks and a half, but it having been unfortunately proved, that at her ball there was room to dance and eat conve⯑niently—that n [...] lady received a black eye, and no coachman was killed, the thing was voted decent and comfortable, and ſcouted accordingly.

Is comfort then incompatible with faſhion?

Certainly!—Comfort in high life would be as prepoſterous as a lawyer's bag cram⯑med with truth, or his wig decorated with coque⯑licot ribbons! No—it is not comfort and ſelection that is ſought, but numbers and confuſion! So that a faſhionable party reſembles Smithfield market, only a good one when plentifully ſtocked—and ladies are reckoned by the ſcore like ſheep, and their huſbands by droves like horned cattle!

Ha, ha! and the converſation—

Oh! like the aſſembly—confuſed, vapid, and abundant; as ‘How do, Ma'am!—no accident at the door?—he, he!’—‘Only my carriage broke to pieces!’—‘I hope you had not your pocket picked!’—‘Won't you ſit down to faro?’—"Have you many to-night?" —"A few, about ſix hundred!"—‘Were you at Lady Overall's?’—‘Oh yes; a delicious crowd and plenty of peas, he, he!’—and thus runs the faſhionable race.

Yes; and a precious run it is—full gallop all the way: firſt they run on—then their fortune is run through—then bills are run up— [26]then they are run hard—then they've a run of luck —then they run out, and then they run away!— But I'll forgive faſhion all it's follies in conſidera⯑tion of one of its bleſſed laws.

What may that be?

That huſband and wife muſt never be ſeen together.

Miſs Blandford, your father expects you.

I hope I ſhall find him more compoſed.

Is Sir Philip ill?

His ſpirits are extremely depreſſed, and ſince we arrived here this morning his dejection has dreadfully increaſed.

But I hope we ſhall be able to laugh away deſpondency.

Sir, if you are pleaſed to conſider my eſteem as an object worthy your poſſeſſion, I know of no way of obtaining it ſo certain as by your ſhew⯑ing every attention to my dear father.

Dame! Dame! ſhe be come!

Who? Suſan! our dear Suſan

Ees—zo come along—Oh, Sir Abel! Lady Nelly! your ſpouſe—do order you to go to her directly!

Order! you miſtake—

No, he don't—ſhe generally preſers that word.

Adieu! Sir Abel.

Oh! if my wife had ſuch a pretty way with her mouth!

And how does Suſan look?

That's what I do want to know, zoa come along—Woo ye though—Miſſus, let's behave pratty—Zur, if you pleaze, Dame and I will let you walk along wi' us.

How condeſcending! Oh, you are a pretty behaved fellow!

SCENE II. Farmer ASHFIELD'S Kitchen.

My dear home, thrice welcome! what gratitude I feel to your Ladyſhip for this indul⯑gence.

That's right, child!

And I am ſure you partake my pleaſure in again viſiting a place where you received every protection and kindneſs my parents could ſhew you, for I remember while you lived with my father—

Child! don't put your memory to any fatigue on my account—you may transfer the re⯑membrance of who I was, to aid your more per⯑fect recollection of who I am.

Lady Handy!

That's right, child! I am not angry.

How luxuriantly the honey⯑ſuckle has grown that I planted—Ah! I ſee my dear father and mother coming through the garden.

Oh! now I ſhall be careſſed to death but I muſt endure the ſhock of their attentions.

My dear Suſan!

My ſweet child! give me a kiſs.

Hald thee! Feyther firſt though—Well, I be as mortal glad to zee thee as never war—and how be'st thee? and how do thee like Lunnun town?—it be a deadly lively place I be tuold.

Is not ſhe a ſweet girl?

That ſhe is.

Does it occur to any one preſent that Lady Handy is in the room?

Oh, Lud! I'm ſure, my dear wife, I never forget that you are in the room.

Drabbit it! I overlooked Lady Nelly, ſure enow; but conſider, there be zome difference be⯑tween thee and our own Suſan! I be deadly glad to zee thee however.

So am I, Lady Handy!

Don't ye take it unkind I ha'nt a buſs'd thee yet—meant no ſlight indeed

Oh! ſhocking!

No harm I do hope, Zur.

None at all.

But daſh it, Lady Nelly, what do make thee paint thy vace all over we rud ochre zoo? Be it vor thy ſpouſe to knaw thee?—that be the way I do knaw my ſheep.

The flocks of faſhion are all marked ſo, Farmer.

Likely! Drabbit it! thee do make a tightiſh kind of a Ladyſhip zure enow.

That you do, my Lady! you remember the old houſe?

Aye; and all about it, doant ye? Nelly! my Lady!

Oh! I'm quite ſhock'd—Suſan, child! prepare a room where I may dreſs before I proceed to the Caſtle.

I don't ſee Suſan—I ſay, Dad! is that my Mamma?

Yes—ſpeak to her.

A fine girl upon my ſoul!

Fine girl indeed! Is this beha⯑viour?

Oh! beg pardon, moſt honoured parent

—that's a damned bad curtſey. I can teach you to make a much better curtſey than that!

You teach me, that am old enough to—hem!

Oh! that toſs of the head was very bad indeed—Look at me!—That's the thing!

Am I to be inſulted? Sir Abel, you know I ſeldom condeſcend to talk.

Don't ſay ſo, my Lady; you wrong yourſelf.

But when I do begin, you know not where it will end.

Indeed I do not

I inſiſt on receiving all poſſible reſpect from your ſon.

And you ſhall have it, my dear girl!—Madam, I mean.

I vow I am agitated to that degree— Sir Abel, my fan!

Yes, my dear—Bob, look here, a little contrivance of my own. While others carry ſwords, and ſuch like dreadful weapons in their canes, I more gallantly carry a fan

a pretty thought, isn't it?

Some difference between thic ſtick and mine, beant there, Zur?

Yes, there is—

Do you call that fanning yourſelf

My dear Ma'am, this is the way to manoeuvre a fan.

Sir, you ſhall find

I have power enough to make you repent this be⯑haviour —ſeverely repent it—Suſan!

Bravo! paſſion becomes her—She does that vaſtly well.

Yes; practice makes perfect.

Did your Ladyſhip call?—Heavens! Mr. Handy!

Huſh! my angel! be compoſed! that letter will explain

Lady Handy wiſhes to ſee you.

Oh, Robert!

At preſent my love, no more.

What were you ſaying, Sir, to that young woman?

Nothing particular, Sir. Where is Lady Handy going.

To dreſs.

I ſuppoſe ſhe has found out the uſe of money.

Yes; I'll do her the juſtice to ſay ſhe encourages trade.—Why, do you know, Bob, my beſt coal-pit won't find her in white muſlins—round her neck hangs a hundred acres at leaſt; my nobleſt oaks have made wigs for her; my fat oxen have dwindled into Dutch pugs, and white mice; my India bonds are tranſmuted into ſhawls and otto of roſes; and a magnificent manſion has ſhrunk into a diamond ſnuff-box.

Gentlemen, the folks be all got together, and the ploughs be ready—and—

We are coming.

Ploughs!

Yes, Bob, we are going to have a grand agricultural meeting.

Indeed!

If I could but find a man able to ma⯑nage my new invented curricle plough, none of them would have a chance.

My dear Sir, if there be anything on earth I can do, it is that.

What?

I rather fancy I can plough better than any man in England.

You don't ſay ſo! What a clever fel⯑low he is—I ſay, Bob, if you would—

No; I can't condeſcend.

Condeſcend! why not?—much more creditable, let me tell you, than galloping a mag⯑got for a thouſand, or eating a live cat, or any other faſhionable achievement.

So it is—Egad! I will—I'll carry off the prize of induſtry.

But ſhould you loſe, Bod.

I loſe! that's vaſtly well!

True, with my curricle plough you could hardly fail.

With my ſuperior ſkill, Dad— Then, I ſay, how the newſpapers will teem with the account.

Yes.

That univerſal genius, Handy, junior, with a plough—

Stop—invented by that ingenious ma⯑chiniſt, Handy, ſenior.—

Gained the prize againſt the firſt huſbandmen in Hampſhire—Let our Bond-ſtreet butterflies emulate the example of Handy, junior.—

And let old City grubs cultivate the field of ſcience, like Handy, ſenior—Ecod, I am ſo happy.

Sir Abel.

Ah! there comes a damper.

Courage, you have many reſources of happineſs.

Have I? I ſhould be very glad to know them.

In the firſt place you poſſeſs an ex⯑cellent temper.

So much the worſe; for if I had a bad one, I ſhould be the better able to conquer hers.

You enjoy good health—

So much the worſe; for if I were ill ſhe wouldn't come near me.

Then you are rich—

So much the worſe; for had I been poor ſhe would not have married me. But I ſay, Bob, if you gain the prize, I'll have a patent for my plough.

Sir Abel, I ſay.—

Father, could not you get a patent for ſtopping that ſort of noiſe?

If I could, what a ſale it would have!—No, Bob, a patent has been obtained for the only thing that will ſilence her—

Aye—What's that?

A coffin! huſh!—I'm coming my dear.

Ha, ha, ha!

SCENE III.—A Parlour in ASHFIELD's Houſe.

I tell ye, I zee'd un gi' Suſan 2 letter, an' I dan't like it a bit.

Nor I: if ſhame ſhould come to the poor child—I ſay, Tummas, what would Mrs. Grundy ſay then?

Dom Mrs. Grundy; what wou'd my poor wold heart zay? but I be bound it be all inno⯑cence.

Ah! Henry, we have not ſeen thee at home ail day.

And I do zomehow fanzie things dan't go zo clever when thee'rt away from farm.

My mind has been greatly agitated.

Well, won't thee go and zee the ploughing match?

Tell me, will not thoſe who obtain prizes be introduced to the Caſtle?

Ees, and feaſted in the great hall.

My good friend, I wiſh to become a candidate.

You, Henry!

It is time I exerted the faculties heaven has beſtowed on me; and though my heavy fate cruſhes the proud hopes this heart conceives, ſtill let me prove myſelf worthy of the place Providence has aſſigned me.—

Should I ſucceed, it will bring me to the preſence of that man, who (I know not why) ſeems the dictator of my fate.—

Will you furniſh me with the means?

Will I!—Thou ſhalt ha' the beſt plough in the pariſh—I wiſh it were all gould for thy zake— and better cattle there can't be noowhere.

Thanks, my good friend—my benefactor —I have little time for preparation—So receive my gratitude, and farewell.

A bleſſing go with thee!

I zay, Henry, take Jolly, and Smiler, and Captain, but dan't ye take thic lazy beaſt Genius —I'll be ſhot if having vive load an acre on my wheat land cou'd pleaſe me more.

Tummas, here comes Suſan reading the letter.

How pale ſhe do look, dan't ſhe?

Ah! poor thing!—If—

Hauld thy tongue, woolye?

Is it poſſible? Can the man to whom I've given my heart write thus:— ‘I am com⯑pelled to marry Miſs Blandford; but my love for my Suſan is unalterable—I hope ſhe will not, for an act of neceſſity, ceaſe to think with tenderneſs on her faithful Robert.’—Oh man! ungrateful man! it is from our boſoms alone you derive your power; how cruel then to uſe it, in fixing in thoſe boſoms endleſs ſorrow and deſpair. —"Still think with tenderneſs"—Baſe, diſ⯑honorable inſinuation—He might have allowed me to eſteem him.

Poor thing!—What can be the matter— She lock'd up the letter in thic box, and then burſted into tears

Yes, Tummas, ſhe locked it in that box ſure enough

What be doing, Dame? what be doing?

Nothing; I was only touching theſe keys.

A good tightiſh bunch!

Yes; they are of all ſizes

Indeed!—Well—Eh!—Dame, why dan't ye ſpeak; thou can'ſt chatter vaſt enow zometimes.

Nay, Tummas—I dare ſay—if—you know beſt—but I think I could find—

Well, Eh!—you can juſt try you knaw

You can try, juſt vor the vun on't; but mind, dan't ye make a noiſe

Why, thee hasn't open'd it?

Nay, Tummas, you told me!

Did I?

There's the letter!

Well, why do ye gi't to I?—I dan't want it, I'm zure

—She's coming! ſhe's coming!

No, ſhe's gone into t'other room

What mun that feyther and mother be doing that do bluſh and tremble at their own dater's coming

Dang it, has ſhe deſarv'd it of us—Did ſhe ever deceive us?—Were ſhe not always the moſt open-hearted, dutiſulleſt, kindeſt—and thee to goa like a dom'd ſpy and open her box, poor thing?—

Nay, Tummas—

You did—I zaw you do it myzel—you look like a thief, now—you doe—Huſh!—no— Dame—here be the letter—I won't reead a word on't, put it where thee wound it, and as there vound it.

With all my heart

Now I can wi' pleaſure hug my wold wife, and look my child in the vace again—I'll call her and ax her about it; and if ſhe dan't ſpeak without diſguiſement, I'll be bound to [37]be ſhot—Dame, be the colour of ſheame off my face yet?—I never zeed thee look ugly before— Suſan, my dear Sue, come here abit, woolye?

Yes, my dear father.

Sue, we do wiſh to gi' thee a bit of admo⯑niſhing and parent-like conzultation.

I hope I have ever attended to your ad⯑monitions.

Ees, bleſs thee, I do believe thee haſt, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd abit, or why elſe do parſon preach us all to ſleep every Zunday—Zo thic be the topic—Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee—burſted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box—and then Dame and I—we—that's all.

My dear father, if I concealed the con⯑tents of that letter from your knowledge, it was be⯑cauſe I did not wiſh your heart to ſhare in the pain mine feels.

Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo?

Nay, Tummas, did I ſay otherwiſe?

Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter.

There, the very words I zaid!

If you wiſh to ſee the letter I will ſhew it to you

Here's a key will open it.

Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool!

No, Suſan, I'll not zee it—I'll believe my child.

You ſhall not find your confidence ill⯑placed —it is true the gentleman has declared he [38]loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleaſing to me—Alas! it is alſo true, that his letter contains ſentiments diſgraceful to himſelf, and inſulting to me!

Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling abit, I wou'd ha' lapt my ſtick about his ribs pratty tightiſh, I wou'd.

Pray, father, don't you reſent his con⯑duct to me.

What, mayn't I leather un abit?

Oh, no! I have the ſtrongeſt reaſons to the contrary!

Well, Sue, I won't—I'll behave as pratty as I always do—but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights—How I do hate the noiſe of thic dom'd bunch of keys—But bleſs thee, my child—dan't forget that vartue to ayoung woman be vor all the world like—like—Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow—I can't talk it— but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do ye zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be call'd the ſtaff of life; but take that treaſure away, and what do remain? why naught but this worthleſs ſtraw, that man and beaſt do tread upon.

SCENE IV.—An extenſive View of a cultivated Country—A ploughed Field in the centre, in which are ſeen ſix different Ploughs and Horſes—At one ſide a bandſome Tent—a number of country People aſſembled.

Make way! make way for the gentry; and do ye hear, behave pratty, as I do—Dang thee ſtond back, or I'll knack thee down, I wool.

It is very kind of you to honour our ruſtic feſtivities with your preſence.

Pray, Sir Abel, where is your ſon?

What, Bob? Oh, you'll ſee him pre⯑ſently.

. Here are the prize medals; and if you will condeſcent to preſent them. I'm ſure they'll be worn with additional pleaſure. —I ſay, you'll ſee Bob preſently—Well, Farmer, is it all over?

Ecs, Zur; the acres be plough'd and the ground judg'd; and the young lads be coming down to receive their reward—Heartily welcome, Miſs, to your native land; hope you be as pleas'd to zee we as we be to zee you, and the like o'that.—Mortal beautizome to be zure—I declare, Miſs, it do make I quite warm zomehow to look at ye.

Now you'll ſee Bob—now my dear boy, Bob—here he comes

'Tis he, he has don't—Dang you all, why dan't ye ſhout? Huzza!

Why, zounds, where's Bob?—I don't ſee Bob—Bleſs me, what has become of Bob and my plough?

Well, Henry, there be the prize, and there be the fine Lady that will gi'it thee.

Tell me who is that lovely creature?

The dater of Sir Philip Blandford.

What exquiſite ſweetneſs! Ah! ſhould the father but reſemble her, I ſhall have but little to ſear from his ſeverity!

Miſs, thic be the young man that ha got'n the guolden prize.

This; I always thought ploughmen were coarſe, vulgar creatures, but he ſeems hand⯑ſome and diffident.

Ees, quite pratty behaved—it were I that teach'd un.

What's your name?

Henry!

And your family?

Madam, I beg pardon, but nobody knows about his parentage; and when it is mentioned, poor boy! he takes on ſadly—He has lived at our houſe ever ſince we had the farm, and we have had an allowance for him—ſmall enough to be ſure—but, good lad! he was always welcome to ſhare what we had.

I am ſhocked at my imprudence.—

Pray pardon me; I would not inſult an enemy, much leſs one I am inclined to admire —

—to eſteem —you ſhall go to the Caſtle—my father ſhall pro⯑tect you.

Generous creature! to merit his eſteem is the fondeſt wiſh of my heart—to be your ſlave, the proudeſt aim of my ambition!

Receive your merited reward

I can't ſee Bob; pray, Sir, do you happen to know what is become of my Bob?

Sir!

Did not you ſee a remarkable clever plough, and a young man—

At the beginning of the conteſt, I ob⯑ſerved a gentleman; his horſes, I believe, were unruly, but my attention was too much occupied to allow me to notice more.

How dare you laugh?

That's Bob's voice!

Dare to laugh again, and I'll knock you down with this—Ugh! how infernally hot

Why, Bob, where have you been?

I don't know where I've been.

And what have you got in your hand?

What? All I could keep of your nonſenſical ricketty plough

Come, none of that, Sir.—Don't abuſe my plough to cover your ignorance, Sir; where is it, Sir? and where are my famous Leiceſterſhire horſes, Sir?

Where! ha, ha, ha! I'll tell you as nearly as I can, ha, ha! What's the name of the next county?

It be called Wiltſhire, Zur.

Then, Dad, upon the niceſt calcu⯑lation I am able to make, they are at this moment engaged in the very patriotic act of ploughing Saliſbury plain, ha, ha! I ſaw them fairly over that hill, full gallop, with the curricle plough at their heels.

Ha, ha! a good one, ha, ha!

But never mind father, you muſt again ſet your invention to work, and I my toilet —rather a deranged figure to appear before a lady [42]in

. Hey dey! What, are you going to dance?

Ecs, Zur; I ſuppoſe you can ſheake a leg abit?

I ſancy I can dance every poſſible ſtep, from the pas ruſe to the war dance of the Catabaws.

Likely—I do hope, Miſs, you'll join your honeſt neighbours; they'll be deadly hurt an you won't gig it a bit wi'un.

With all my heart.

Bob's an excellent dancer.

I dare ſay he is, Sir; but on this occa ſion, I think I ought to dance with the young man who gained the prize—I think it would be moſt pleaſant—moſt proper, I mean; and I am glad you agree with me—So, Sir, if you'll accept my hand

Very pleaſantly ſettled upon my ſoul —Bob, won't you dance?

I dance!—No, I'll look at them— I'll quietly look on.

Egad, now as my wife's away, I'll try to find a pretty girl and make one among them.

That's hearty—Come, Dame, hang the rheumatics—Now, lads and laſſes, behave pratty, and ſtrike up.

SCENE I.—An Apartment in the Caſtle.

Is not my daughter yet returned?

No, Sir Philip.

Diſpatch a ſervant to her.

Sir, the old gardener is below, and aſks to ſee you.

Ad⯑mit him inſtantly, and leave me.—

Does this deſolation affect the old man? Come near me—Time has laid a lenient hand on thee—

Oh, my dear maſter! can twenty years have wrought the change I ſee?

No

; 'tis the canker here that hath withered up my trunk;—but are we ſecure from obſervation?

Yes.

Then tell me, does the boy live?

He does; and is as fine a youth—

No comments.

We named him—

Be dumb! let me not hear his name, Has care been taken he may not blaſt me with his preſence?

It has; and he cheerfully complied.

Enough! Never ſpeak of him more. Have you removed every dreadful veſtige from the fatal chamber?

O ſpeak!

My dear maſter! I confeſs my want of duty. Alas! I had not courage to go there.

Ah!

Nay, ſorgive me! wiſer than I have ſelt ſuch terrors!—The apartments have been care⯑ſully locked up—the keys not a moment from my poſſeſſion—here they are.

Then the taſk remains with me. Dreadful thought! I can well pardon thy fears, old man—O! could I wipe from my memory that hour, when—

Huſh! your daughter.

Leave me—we'll ſpeak anon.

Dear father! I came the moment I heard you wiſhed to ſee me.

My good child, thou art the ſole ſupport that props my feeble life. I fear my wiſh for thy company deprives thee of much pleaſure.

Oh no! What pleaſure can be equal to that of giving you happineſs? Am I not re⯑warded in ſeeing your eyes beam with pleaſure on me?

'Tis the pale reflection of the luſtre I ſee ſparkling there. My love! did you enjoy the ſcenes you beheld?

Greatly. How ſtrongly they contraſt with thoſe we witneſſed abroad!

True. Happy country! which, in the midſt of direful war can draw out its ruſtic train to join the feſtive dance, as ſecurely as if peace again had bleſſed the world!—But tell me, did your lover gain the prize?

Yes, papa.

Few men of his rank—

Oh! you mean Mr. Handy?

Yes.

No; he did not.

Then, who did you mean?

Did you ſay lover? I—I miſtook—No —a young man called Henry obtained the prize!

And how did Mr. Handy ſucceed?

Oh, it was ſo ridiculous! I will tell you, papa, what happened to him.

To Mr. Handy?

Yes; as ſoon as the conteſt was over Henry preſented himſelf; I was ſurprized at ſeeing a young man ſo handſome and elegant as Henry is—then I placed the medal round Henry's neck, and I was told that poor Henry—

Henry!—So, my love! this is your account of Mr. Robert Handy?

Yes, papa—no, papa—he came after⯑wards, dreſſed ſo ridiculouſly that even Henry could not help ſmiling.

Henry again!

Then we had a dance.

Of courſe you danced with your lover?

Yes, papa.

How does Mr. Handy dance?

Oh! he did not dance till—

You danced with your lover?

Yes—No, papa!—Somebody ſaid (I don't know who) that I ought to dance with Henry, becauſe—

Still Henry! Oh! ſome ruſtic boy. My dear child, you talk as if you loved this Henry.

Oh! no, papa—and I am certain he don't love me.

Indeed!

Yes, papa; for when he touched my hand, he trembled as if I terrified him; and in⯑ſtead of looking at me as you do, who I am ſure love me, when our eyes met, he withdrew his and caſt them on the ground.

And theſe are the reaſons which make you conclude he does not love you?

Yes, papa.

And probably you could adduce proof equally convincing that you don't love him?

Oh yes—quite; for in the dance he ſometimes paid attention to other young women, and I was ſo angry with him! Now, you know, papa, I love you—and I am ſure I ſhould not have been angry with you, had you done ſo.

But one queſtion more—Do you think Mr. Handy loves you?

I have never thought about it, papa.

I am ſatisfied.

Yes; I knew I ſhould convince you.

Oh, Love! malign and ſubtle tyrant, how falſely art thou painted blind! 'Tis thy votaries are ſo; for what but blindneſs can prevent their ſeeing thy poiſoned ſhaft, which is for ever doomed to rankle in the victim's heart.

Oh! now I am certain I am not in love; for I feel no rankling at my heart. I feel the ſofteſt, ſweeteſt ſenſation I ever experienced. But, papa, you muſt come to the lawn. I don't-know why, but to-day Nature ſeems enchanting; the birds ſing more ſweetly, and the flowers give more perfume.

Such was the day my youth⯑ful ſancy pictured! How did it cloſe?

I promifed Henry your protection.

Indeed! that was much. Well, I will ſee your ruſtic here. This infant paſſion muſt be cruſhed. Poor wench! ſome artleſs boy has caught thy infant fancy!—Thy arm, my child!

SCENE II.—A Lawn before the C ſile.

Well! here thee'rt going to make thy bow to Sir Philip. I zay, if he ſhould take a fancy to thee, thou'lt come to farm and zee us zometimes, wo'tn't Henry?

Tell me, is that Sir Philip Blandford who leans on that lady's arm?

I don't know, by reaſon d'ye zee I never zeed'un. Well, good bye! I declare thee doz look quite grand wi' thic golden prize about thy neck, vor all the world like the lords in their ſtars, that do come to theas pearts to pickle their ſkins in the zale zea ocean! Good b'ye, Henry.

He approaches! Why this agitation? I wiſh, yet dread, to meet him.

The joy your tenantry diſplay at ſeeing you again muſt be truly grateful to you.

No, my child; for I feel I do not merit it. Alas! I can ſee no orphans cloathed with my beneficence, no anguiſh aſſuaged by my care.

Then I am ſure my dear father wiſhes to ſhew his kind intentions. So I will begin by placing one under his protection

Ah! do my eyes deceive me? No, it muſt be him! Such was the face his father wore!

Spake you of my father?

His preſence brings back recol⯑lections which drive me to madneſs! How came he here? Who have I to curſe for this?

Your daughter.

Oh, Sir, tell me! on my knees I aſk it! do my parents live? Bleſs me with my father's name, and my days ſhall paſs in active gratitude— [49]my nights in prayers for you.

Do not mock my mi⯑ſery! Have you a heart?

Yes; of marble. Cold and obdu⯑rate to the world—ponderous and painſul to myſelf —Quit my ſight for ever!

Go, Henry, and ſave me from my fa⯑ther's curſe.

I obey: cruel as the command is, I obey it—I ſhall often look at this

and think on the bliſsful moment when your hand placed it there.

Ah! tear it from his breaſt.

Sooner take my life! It is the firſt honour I have earned, and it is no mean one; for it aſſigns me the firſt rank among the ſons or induſtry! This is my claim to the ſweet rewards of honeſt labour! This will give me competence, nay more, enable me to deſpiſe your tyranny!

Raſh boy, mark! Avoid me, and be ſecure—Repeat this intruſion, and my vengeance ſhall purſue thee—

I defy its power!—You are in England, Sir, where the man, who bears about him an upright heart, bears a charm too potent for tyranny to humble. Can your frown wither up my youthful vigour? No!—Can your malediction diſturb the ſlumbers of a quiet conſcience? No! Can your breath ſtifle in my heart the adoration it feels for that pitying angel? Oh, no!

Wretch! you ſhall be taught the difference between us!

I feel it now! proudly feel it!—You hate the man that never wronged you—I could [50]love the man that injures me—You meanly triumph o'er a worm—I make a giant tremble.

Take him from my ſight! Why am I not obeyed?

Henry, if you wiſh my hate ſhould not accompany my father's, inſtantly begone.

Oh, pity me!

Supported by my ſervants! I thought I had a daughter!

O, you have, my fa⯑ther! one that loves you better than her life!

Leave us.

Emma, if you feel, as I fear you do, love for that youth—mark my words! When the dove woos for its mate the ravenous kite; when Nature's fixed antipathies mingle in ſweet concord, then and not till then, hope to be united.

O heaven!

Have you not promiſed me the diſ⯑poſal of your hand?

Alas! my father! I didn't then know the difficulty of obedience!

Hear, then, the reaſons why I de⯑mand compliance. You think I hold theſe rich eſtates—Alas, the ſhadow only, not the ſubſtance.

Explain, my father!

When I left my native country, I leſt it with a heart lacerated by every wound that the falſehood of others or my own conſcience could inflict. Hateful to myſelf, I became the victim of diſſipation—I ruſhed to the gaming table, and ſoon became the dupe of villains.—My ample fortune [51]was loſt; I detected one in the act of ſraud, and having brought him to my feet, he confeſſed a plan had been laid for my ruin; that he was but an humble inſtrument; for that the man who, by his ſuperior genius, ſtood poſſeffed of all the mortgages and ſecurities I had given, was one Mortington.

I have heard your name him before. Did you not know this Morrington?

No; he, like his deeds, avoided the light—Ever dark, ſubtle, and myſterious. Col⯑lecting the ſcattered remnant of my fortune, I wan⯑dered wretched and deſolare, till, in a peaceful village, I firſt beheld thy mother, humble in birth, but exalted in virtue. The morning after our marriage ſhe received a packet, containing theſe words: ‘The reward of virtuous love, preſented by a repentant villain;’ and which alſo contained bills and notes to the high amount of ten thouſand pounds.

And no name?

None; nor could I ever gueſs at the generous donor. I need not tell thee what my heart ſuffered when death deprived me of her. Thus circumſtanced, this good man, Sir Abel Handy, propoſed to unite our families by mar⯑riage; and in conſideration of what he termed the honor of our alliance, agreed to pay off every in⯑cumbrance on my eſtates, and ſettle them as a portion on you and his ſon. Yet ſtill another wonder remains.—When I arrive, I find no claim whatever has been made, either by Morrington or his agents. What am I to think? Can Mor⯑rington have periſhed, and with him his large claims to my property? Or, does he withhold the blow, to make it fall more heavily?

'Tis very ſtrange! very myſterious! But my father has not told me what misfortune led him to leave his native country.

Ha!

May I not know it?

Oh! never, never, never!

I will not aſk it—Be compoſed—Let me wipe away thoſe drops of anguiſh from your brow.—How cold your check is! My father, the evening damps will harm you—Come in—I will be all you wiſh—indeed I will.

SCENE III.—An Apartment in the Caſtle.

Was ever anything ſo unlucky! Henry to come to the Caſtle and meet Sir Philip. He ſhould have conſulted me; I ſhall be blamed—but, thank heaven, I am innocent.

I will be treated with reſpect.

You ſhall, my dear.

But how! but how! Sir Abel, I re⯑peat it.—

For the fiftieth time.

Your ſon conducts himſelf with an in⯑ſolence I won't endure; but you are ruled by him, you have no will of your own.

I have not indeed.

How contemptible!

Why, my dear, this is the caſe—I am like the aſs in the fable; and if I am doomed to [53]carry a pack-ſaddle, it is not much matter who drives me.

To yield your power to thoſe the law allows you to govern!—

Is very weak indeed.

Lady Handy, your very humble ſervant; I heartily congratulate you, Madam, on your marriage this worthy gentleman—Sir, I give you joy.

Not before 'tis wanted.

Aye, my Lady; this match makes up for the imprudence of your firſt.

Hem!

Eh! What!—what's that—Eh! what do you mean?

I mean, Sir—that Lady Handy's former huſband—

Former huſband!—Why, my dear, I never knew—Eh!

A mumbling old blockhead!—Didn't you Sir Abel? Yes; I was rather married many years ago; but my huſband went abroad and died.

Died, did he?

Yes, Sir; he was a ſervant in the Caſtle.

Indeed! So he died—poor fellow!

Yes.

What, you are ſure he died, are you?

Don't you hear?

Poor fellow! neglected perhaps—had I known it, he ſhould have had the beſt advice money could have got.

You ſeem ſorry.

Why you would not have me pleaſed at the death of your huſband, would you?—a good kind of man!

Yes; a faithful fellow—rather ruled his wife too ſeverely.

Did he?

Pray do you happen to recollect his manner?— Could you juſt give a hint of the way he had?

Do you want to tyrannize over my poor tender heart?—'Tis too much!

Bleſs me! Lady Handy is ill—Salts! ſalts!

Here are ſalts, or aromatic vinegar, or eſſence of—

Any—any.

Bleſs me, I can't find the key!

Pick the lock

It can't b [...] picked, it is a patent lock.

The br [...]k i [...] o [...]en, Sir.

It can't be broke open—it is a con⯑trivance of my own—you ſee, here comes a hori⯑zontal bolt, which acts upon a ſpring, therefore—

I may die while you are deſcribing a horizontal bolt. Do you think you ſhall cloſe your eyes for a week for this?

What has occaſioned this diſtur⯑bance?

Aſk that gentleman.

Sir, I am accuſed—

Convicted! convicted!

Well, I will not argue with you about words—becauſe I muſt bow to your ſuperior prac⯑tice —But, Sir—

Pſhaw!

Lady Handy, ſome of your people were inquiring for you.

Thank you, Sir. Come, Sir Abel.

Yes, my Lady—I ſay

cou'dn't you give me a hint of the way he had—

Sir Abel!

Coming, my ſoul!

So! you have well obeyed my orders in keeping this Henry from my preſence.

I was not to blame, Maſter.

Has Farmer Aſhfield left the Caſtle?

No, Sir.

Send him hither.

That boy muſt be driven far, far from my ſight— but where?—no matter! the world is large enough.

—Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine?

Ees, Zur, I do, at your zarvice.

I hope a profitable one?

Zometimes it be, Zur. But thic year it be all t'other way as 'twur—but I do hope as our landlords have a tightiſh big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind hearted as to take a little bit of the bad.

It is but reaſonable—I conclude then you are in my debt.

Ees, Zur, I be—at your zarvice.

How much!

Sir, I do owe ye a hundred and fifty pounds—at your zarvice.

Which you can't pay?

Not a varthing, Zur—at your zarvice.

Well, I am willing to give you every indulgence.

Be you, Zur? that be deadly kind. Dear heart! it will make my auld Dame quite young again, and I don't think helping a poor man will do your Honour's health any harm—I don't indeed, Zur—I had a thought of ſpeaking to your worſhip about it—but then thinks I, the gentleman may⯑hap be one of thoſe that do like to do a good turn; and not have a word zaid about it—zo, Zur, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure ! never ſhould—ſhould not indeed, Zur.

Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition—

Ees, Zur.

On condition, I ſay, you inſtantly turn out that boy—that Henry.

Turn out Henry!—Ha, ha, ha! Excuſe my tittering, Zur; but you bees making your vun of I, zure.

I am not apt to trifle—ſend him in⯑ſtantly from you or take the conſequences.

Turn out Henry! I do vow I ſhou'dn't knaw how to zet about it—I ſhould not indeed, Zur.

You hear my determination. If you diſobey, you know what will follow—I'll leave you to reflect on it.

Well, Zur, I'll arguſy the topic, and then you may wait upon me, and I'll tell ye.

—I ſhou'd be deadly awk⯑ward at it vor zartain—however, I'll put the caſe—Well! I goes whiztling whoam—noa, drab⯑bit it! I ſhou'dn't be able to whiztle a bit, I'm zure. Well! I goes whoam, and I zees Henry zitting by my wife mixing up ſomeit to comfort the wold zoul, and take away the pain of here rheu⯑matics—Very well! Then Henry places a chair [57]vor I by the vire zide, and zays— ‘Varmer, the horſes be fed, the ſheep be folded, and you have nothing to do but to zit down, ſmoke your pipe, and be happy!’ Very well!

Then I zays— ‘Henry, you be poor and [...]end⯑leſs, zo you muſt turn out of my houze directly.’ Very well! then my wife ſtares at O—reaches her hand towards the vire place, and throws the poker at my head. Very well! then Henry gives a kind of aguiſh ſhake, and getting up, ſighs from the bottom of his heart—then holding up his head like a king, zays— ‘Varmer, I have too long been a burthen to you—Heaven protect you, as you have me—Farewel! I go.’ Then I ſays, ‘If thee docz I'll be domn'd!’

Hollo! you Miſter Sir Philip! you may come in.—

Zur, I have argufied the topic, and it wou'dn't be pratty—zo I can't.

Can't! abſurd!

Well, Zur, there is but another word— I won't.

Indeed!

No, Zur, I won't—I'd zee myzelf hang'd firſt, and you too, Zur—I wou'd indeed

You refuſe then to obey.

I do, Zur—at your zarvice

Then the law muſt take its courſe.

I be zorry for that too—I be indeed, Zur; but if corn wou'dn't grow I cou'dn't help it; it wer'n't poiſon'd by the hand that zow'd it. Thic hand, Zur, be as free from guilt as your own.

Oh!

It were never held out to clinch a hard bar⯑gain, nor will it turn a good lad out into the wide wicked world becauſe he be pooriſh a bit. I be zorry you be offended, Zur, quite—but come what wool, I'll never hit thic hand againſt here, but when I be zure that zomeit at inzide will jump againſt it with pleazure

I do hope you'll repent of all your zins—I do indeed, Zur; and if you ſhou'd, I'll come and zee you again as friendly as ever—I wool indeed, Zur.

Your repentance will come too late!

Thank ye, Zur—Good morning to you— I do hope I have made myzel agreeable—and ſo I'll go whoam.

SCENE I.—A room in ASHFIELD's houſe.

COME, come, Henry, you'll fret yourſelf ill, child. If Sir Philip will not be kind to you, you are but where you were.

My peace of mind is gone for ever. Sir Philip may have cauſe for hate;—ſpite of his unkindneſs to me, my heart ſeeks to find excuſes for him—for, oh! that heart doats on his lovely daughter.

Here comes Tummas home at laſt. Heyday! what's the matter with the man? He does'nt ſeem to know the way into his own houſe.

Tummas, my dear Tummas, what's the matter?

It be lucky vor he I h [...] zoo pratty behaved, or dom if I—

Who—what?

Nothing at all, where's Henry?

Here, farmer.

Thee woult'nt leave us, Henry, wou't?

Leave you! What, leave you now, when by my exertion I can pay off part of the debt of gratitude I owe you? oh, no!

Nay, it were not vor that I axed, I promiſe thee; come, gi' us thy hand on't then

Now I'll tell ye. Zur Philip did ſend vor I, about the money I do owe 'un; and ſaid as how he'd make all ſtrait between us—

That was kind.

Yes, deadly kind. Make all ſtrait on con⯑dition I did turn Henry out o' my doors.

What!

Where will his hatred ceaſe?

And what did you ſay, Tummas?

Why, I zivelly tould un, if it were agree⯑able to he to behave like a brute, it were agreeable to I to behave like a man.

That was right. I wou'd have told him a great deal more.

Ah! likely. Then a zaid I ſhou'd ha a bit of laa vor my pains.

And do you imagine I will ſee you ſuffer on my account? No—I will remove this hated form—

No, but thee ſhat'un—thee ſhat'un—I tell thee. Thee have givun me thy hand on't, and dom'me, if thee ſhat budge one ſtep out of this houſe. Drabbit it! what can he do? he can't ſend [61]us to jail. Why, I have corn will zell for half the money I do owe 'un—and ha'nt I cattle and ſheep? deadly lean to be zure—and ha'nt I a thumping zilver watch, almoſt as big as thy head? and Dame here a got—How many ſilk gowns have thee got, Dame?

Three, Tummas—and ſell them all— and I'll go to church in a ſtuff one—and let Mrs. Grundy turn up her noſe as much as ſhe pleaſes.

Oh, my friends, my heart is full. Yet a day will come, when this heart will prove its gra⯑titude.

That day, Henry, is every day.

Dang it! never be down hearted. I do know as well as can be, zome good luck will turn up. All the way I comed whoam I look'd to vind a purſe in the path, but I did'nt though.

Ah! here they are coming to fell I ſup⯑poſe—

Lettun—lettun, zeize and zell; we ha gotten here

what we won't zell, and they can't zell.

Come in —dang it, don't ye be ſhy.

Ah! the ſtrangers I ſaw this morning. Theſe are not officers of law.

Noa! walk in, Gemmen. Glad to zee ye wi 'all my heart and zoul. Come, Dame, ſpread a cloth, bring out cold meat, and a mug of beer.

That is the boy.

Take a chair, Zur.

I thank, and admire your hoſpitality, Don't trouble yourſelf, good woman.—I am not inclined to eat.

That be the caſe here. To-day none o'we be auver hungry: misfortin be apt to ſtay the ſtomach confoundely.—

Has misfortune reached this humble dwelling?

Ees, Zur. I do think vor my part it do work its way in every where.

Well, never deſpair.

I never do, Zur. It is not my way. When the ſun do ſhine I never think of voul weather, not I; and when it do begin to rain I always think that's a zure zign it will give auver.

Is that young man your ſon?

No, Zur—I do wiſh he were we all my heart and zoul.

Sir, remember.

Doubt not my prudence. Young man, your appearance intereſts me;—how can I ſerve you?

By informing me who are my parents.

That I cannot do.

Then, by removing from me the hatred of Sir Philip Blandford.

Does Sir Philip hate you?

With ſuch ſeverity, that even now he is about to ruin theſe worthy creatures, becauſe they have protected med.

Indeed! misfortune has made him cruel. That ſhould not be.

Noa, it ſhould not indeed, Zur.

It ſhall not be.

Shan't it, Zur? But how ſhan't it?

I will prevent it.

Wool ye faith and troth? Now, Dame, did not I zay zome good luck would turn up?

Oh, Sir, did I hear you rightly? Will you preſerve my friends;—will you avert the cruel arm of power, and make the virtuous happy? my tears muſt thank you

Young man, you oppreſs me—forbear! I do not merit thanks—pay your gratitude where you are ſure 'tis due—to Heaven. Obſerve me—here is a bond of Sir Philip Blandford's for £. 1000—do you preſent it to him, and obtain a diſcharge for the debt of this worthy man. The reſt is at your own diſpoſal— no thanks.

But, Sir, to whom am I thus highly in⯑debted?

My name is Morrington. At preſent that information muſt ſuffice.

Morrington.

Zur, if I may be zo bold—

Nay, friend—

Don't be angry I had'nt thanked you, Zur, nor I wont.—Only, Zur, I were going to ax when you wou'd call again. You ſhall have my ſtampt note vor the money, you ſhall indeed, Zur. And in the mean time, I do hope you'll take zomeit in way of remembrance as'twere.

Will your Honor put a couple of tur⯑kies in your pocket?

Or pop a ham under your arm? don't ye zay no, if it's agreeable.

Farewel, good friends, I ſhall repeat my viſit ſoon.

The ſooner the better.

Good bye to ye, Zur—Dame and I wool go to work as merry as crickets. Good bye, Henry.

Heaven bleſs your Honour—and I hope you will carry as much joy away with you, as you leave behind you—I do indeed.

Young man, proceed to the caſtle and demand an audience of Sir Philip Blandford. In your way thither I'll inſtruct you further.—Give me your hand.

SCENE. II.—An apartment in the caſtle.

Shall I proceed to the next eſſay?

What does it treat of?

Love and friendſhip.

A ſatire?

No, father;—an eulogy.

Thus do we find in the imaginations of men, what we in vain look for in their hearts.— Lay it by

Come in.

My dear maſter, I am a petitioner to you.

None poſſeſſes a better claim to my favour—aſk, and receive.

I thank you, Sir. The unhappy Henry.

What of him—

Emma—go to your apartment.

Poor Henry—

Imprudent man—

Nay, be not angry, he is without, and en⯑treats to be admitted.

I cannot, will not again behold him.

I am ſorry you refuſe me, as it compels me to repeat his words: "If," ſaid he, "Sir Philip denies my humble requeſt, tell him I demand to ſee him."

Demand to ſee me! well, his high command ſhall be obeyed then

; bid him approach.

By what title, Sir, do you thus intrude on me?

By one of an imperious nature, the title of a creditor.

I your debtor!

Yes; for you owe me juſtice. You, perhaps, withhold from me the ineſtimable trea⯑ſure of a parent's bleſſing.

To the buſineſs that brought you hither.

Thus then—I believe this is your ſigna⯑ture

Ah!

it is—

Affixed to a bond of £. 1000, which by aſſignment is mine. By virtue of this I diſcharge the debt of your worthy tenant Aſhfield; who, it ſeems, was guilty of the crime of vindicating the injured and protecting the unfortunate. Now, Sir Philip, the retribution my hate demands is, that what remains of this obligation may not be now paid to me, but wait your entire convenience and leiſure.

No; that muſt not be.

Oh, Sir, why thus oppreſs an innocent man?—why ſpurn from you a heart that pants to ſerve you? No anſwer, farewell

Hold—one word before we part— tell me—I dread to aſk it

How came you poſſeſſed of this bond?

A ſtranger, whoſe kind benevolence ſtept in, and ſaved—

His name?

Morrington.

Fiend! tormentor! has he caught me!—You have ſeen this Morrington?

Yes.

Did he ſpeak of me?

He did—and of your daughter. "Con⯑jure him," ſaid he, "not to ſacrifice the lovely Emma by a marriage her heart revolts at." Teil him the life and fortune of a parent are not his own. He holds them but in truſt for his offspring. [67]Bid him reflect, that while his daughter merits the brighteſt rewards a father can beſtow, ſhe is by that father doomed to the harſheſt fate tyranny can inflict.

Torture

Did he ſay who cauſed this ſacrifice?

He told me you had been duped of your fortune by ſharpers.

Aye. He knows that well. Young man, mark me—This Morrington, whoſe precepts wear the face of virtue, and whoſe practice ſeems benevolence, was the chief of the helliſh banditti that ruined me.

Is it poſſible?

That bond you hold in your hand was obtained by robbery.

Confuſion!

Not by the thief who, encountering you as a man, ſtakes life againſt life, but by that moſt cowardly villain, who, in the moment when reaſon ſleeps and paſſion is rouſed, draws his ſnares around you, and hugs you to your ruin; then fat⯑tening on the ſpoil, inſults the victim he has made.

On your ſoul is Morrington that man?

On my ſoul he is.

Thus, then, I annihilate the deteſted act—and thus I tread upon a villain's friendſhip

Raſh boy! What have you done?

An act of juſtice to Sir Philip Blandford.

For which you claim my thanks?

Sir, I am thanked already—here

Curſe on ſuch wealth; com⯑pared with its poſſeſſion, poverty is ſplendour. Fear not for me—I ſhall not feel the piercing cold; for in that man whoſe heart beats warmly for his fel⯑low [68]low creatures, the blood circulates with freedom— My food ſhall be what few of the pampered ſons of greatneſs can boaſt of, the luſcious bread of inde⯑pendence; and the opiate that brings me ſleep, will be the recollection of the day paſſed in inno⯑cence.

Noble boy! Oh! Blandford!

Ah!

What have I faid?

You called me Blandford.

'T was error—'T was madneſs.

Blandford! a thouſand hopes and fears ruſh on my heart. Diſcloſe to me my birth—be it what it may, I am your ſlave for ever. Refuſe me, you create a foe, firm and implacable as—

Ah! am I threatened? Do not ex⯑tinguiſh the ſpark of pity my breaſt is warmed with.

I will not. Oh, forgive me.

Yes, on one condition—leave me: Ah! ſome one approaches. Begone, I inſiſt—I entreat.

That word has charmed me. I obey, Sir. Philip—you may hate, but you ſhall reſpect me.

At laſt, thank heaven, I have found ſomebody. But, Sir Philip, were you in⯑dulging in ſoliloquy—You ſeem agitated.

No, Sir, rather indiſpoſed.

Upon my ſoul, I am deviliſh glad to find you. Compared with this Caſtle, the Cretan labyrinth was intelligible; and unleſs ſome kind Ariadne gives me a clue, I ſhant have the pleaſure of ſeeing you above once a week.

I beg your pardon, I have been an inattentive hoſt.

Oh, no; but when a houſe is ſo deviliſh large, and the party ſo very ſmall, they ought to keep together; for to ſay the truth, tho' no one on earth feels a warmer regard for Robert Handy than I do—I ſoon get heartily ſick of his company—whatever he may be to others, he's a curſed bore to me.

Where is your worthy father?

As uſual, full of contrivances that are impracticable, and improvements that are re⯑trograde; forming, altogether, a whimſical inſtance of the confuſion of arrangement, the delay of ex⯑pedition, the incommodiouſneſs of accommodation, and the infernal trouble of endeavouring to ſave it —he has now a ſcore or two of workmen about him, and intends pulling down ſome apartments in the eaſt wing of the Caſtle.

Ah! ruin!—Within there!

Fly to Sir Abel Handy—Tell him to deſiſt; order his people, on the peril of their lives, to leave the Caſtle inſtantly. Away.

Sir Philip Blandford, your conduct compels me to be ſerious.

Oh! forbear! forbear!

Excuſe me, Sir,—an alliance, it ſeems, is intended between our families, founded on ambition and intereſt. I wiſh it, Sir, to be formed on a nobler baſis, ingenuous friendſhip and mutual confidence. That confidence being withheld, I muſt here pauſe, for I ſhould heſitate in calling that man father, who refuſes me the name of friend.

Ah! how ſhall I act?

Is my demand unreaſonable?

Strictly juſt—But, oh!—you know not what you aſk—Do you not pity me?

I do.

Why then ſeek to change it into hate?

Confidence ſeldom generates hate— Miſtruſt always.

Moſt true.

I am not impelled by curioſity to aſk your friendſhip. I ſcorn ſo mean a motive. Be⯑lieve me, Sir, the folly and levity of my character proceed merely from the efferveſcence of my heart —you will find its ſubſtance, warm, ſteady, and ſincere.

I believe it from my ſoul.—Allow me a moment's thought.—

—Suſpicion is awakened, does not prudence as well as juſtice prompt me to confide in him. Does not my poverty command me. Perhaps, I may find a ſympathizing friend—the taſk is dreadful—but it muſt be ſo—perhaps, he will perform the awful taſk of viſiting the chamber, and removing every veſtige of guilt.

Yes, you ſhall hear my ſtory, I will lay before your view the agony with which this wretched boſom is loaded.

I am proud of your confidence, and am prepared to receive it.

Not here—let me lead you to the eaſtern part of the Caſtle, my young friend—mark me: This is no common truſt I repoſe in you; for I place my life in your hands.

And the pledge I give for its ſecu⯑rity is what alone gives value to life, my honour.

SCENE III.—A gloomy Gallery in the Caſtle—in the Centre a ſtrongly barred Door.—The Gallery hung with Portraits.

Whenever curioſity has led me to this gallery, that portrait has attracted my attention— the features are peculiarly intereſting. One of the Houſe of Blandford—Blandford!—my name— perhaps my father. To remain longer ignorant of my birth, I feel impoſſible. There is a point when patience ceaſes to be virtue—Huſh. I hear foot⯑ſteps —Ah! Sir Philip, and another, in cloſe con⯑verſation. Shall I avoid them?—No—Shall I conceal myſelf and obſerve them—Curſe on the baſe ſuggeſtion!—No—

That chamber contains the myſtery.

Ah!

Obſerve that por⯑trait

Who's there?

Sir, we wiſh to be private.

My being here, Sir, was merely the effect of accident. I ſcorn intruſion

But the important words are ſpoken—that chamber contains the myſtery

Who is that youth?

You there behold his father—my brother—

—I've not beheld that face theſe [72]twenty years.—Let me again peruſe its lineaments.

Oh, God! how I loved that man!—

Be compoſed.

I will endeavour. Now liſten to my ſtory.

You rivet my attention.

While we were boys, my father died inteſtate, So I, as elder born, became the ſole poſſeſſor of his fortune; but the moment the law gave me power, I divided, in equal portions, his large poſſeſſions, one of which I with joy pre⯑ſented to my brother.

It was noble.

At leaſt it was juſt—we lived toge⯑ther, Sir, as one man; as my life I loved him, and ſelt no joys but what he ſhared—Sorrow I knew not.

Such love demanded a life of grati⯑tude.

You ſhall now hear, Sir, how I was rewarded. Chance placed in my view a young woman of ſuperior perſonal charms; my heart was captivated—For⯑tune ſhe poſſeſſed not—but mine was ample. She bleſſed me by conſenting to our union, and my brother approved my choice.

How enviable your ſituation.

Oh!

On the even⯑ing previous to my intended marriage, with a mind ſerene as the departing ſun, whoſe morning beam was to light me to happineſs, I ſauntered to a fa⯑vourite tree, where, lover like, I had marked the name of my deſtined bride, and with every nerve braced to the tone of ecſtacy, I was wounding the [73]bark with a deeper impreſſion of the name—when, oh, God!—

Pray proceed!

When the loved offspring of my mother, and the woman my ſoul adored—the only two beings on earth who had wound themſelves round my heart, by every tie dear to the ſoul of man, placed themſelves before me; I heard him— even now the ſound is in my ears, and drives me to madneſs—I heard him breathe vows of love, which ſhe anſwered with burning kiſſes—He pitied his poor brother, and told her he had prepared a veſſel to bear her for ever from me.—They were about to depart, when the burning fever in my heart ruſhed upon my brain—Picture the young tiger, when firſt his ſavage nature rouſes him to vengeance—the knife was in my gripe—I ſprung upon them—with one hand I tore the faithleſs woman from his damned embrace, and with the other—ſtabbed my brother to the heart.

What followed?—

At that dreadful moment my brother's ſervant appeared, and the veſſel that was to waſt him to happineſs bore away his bleeding body; a few days brought the news that he had died ſud⯑denly in France, and all inquiry ceaſed

You are faint—But let me lead you from this place—Yet hold!—the wretched woman—

Was ſecretly conveyed here—even to that chamber.—She proved pregnant, and in giving birth to a ſon, paid the forfeit of her per⯑jury by death.

Which ſon, is the youth that left us.

Even ſo—Tell me, could wretch be born poſſeſſed of a more ſolid title to my hate?

Yet, he is innocent.

My taſk being ended, yours begins.

Mine!

Yes, that chamber contains evidence of my ſhame; the fatal inſtrument, with other guilty proofs, lie there concealed—can you won⯑der I dread to viſit the ſcene of horror—can you wonder I implore you, in mercy, to ſave me from the taſk. Oh! my friend, enter the chamber, bury in endleſs night thoſe inſtruments of blood, and I will kneel and worſhip you.

I will.

Will you

I am unuſed to kindneſs from man, and it affects me. Oh! can you preſs to your guiltleſs heart that blood-ſtained hand.

Sir Philip, let men without faults condemn; I muſt pity you.

SCENE I.—A wooded view of the country.

I FEAR my conduct is very imprudent.—Has not Mr. Handy told me he is engaged to another? But 'tis hard for the heart to forego, without one ſtruggle, its only hope of happineſs; and conſcious of my own honor, what have I to fear? Perhaps he may repent his unkindneſs to me—at leaſt I'll put his paſſion to the proof; if he be worthy of my love, happineſs is for ever mine; if not, I'll tear him from my breaſt, tho' from the wound my life's blood ſhould follow. Ah, he comes—I feel I am a coward, and my poor alarmed heart trem⯑bles at its approaching trial—pardon me, female delicacy, if for a moment, I ſeem to paſs thy ſacred limits.

By Heavens, the misfortunes of Sir Philip Blandford weigh ſo heavily on my ſpirits, that —but confuſion to melancholy! I am come here to meet an angel, who will, in a moment, drive away the blue devils like miſt before the ſun. Let me again read the dear words;

‘I confeſs I love you ſtill,’

but I dare not believe their truth till her ſweet lips con⯑firm it. Ah, ſhe's there—Suſan, my angel! a thouſand thanks. A life of love can alone repay the joy your letter gave me.

Do you not deſpiſe me?

No; love you more than ever.

Oh, Robert, this is the very criſis of my fate.—From this moment we meet with honor, or we meet no more. If we muſt part, perhaps when you lead your happy bribe to church, you may ſtumble over your Suſan's grave. Well, be it ſo.

Away with ſuch ſombre thoughts!

Tell me my doom—yet hold—you are wild, impetuous—you do not give your heart fair play—therefore promiſe me (perhaps 'tis the laſt favor I ſhall aſk), that before you determine whe⯑ther our love ſhall die or live with honour, you will remain here alone a few moments, and that you will give thoſe moments to reflection.

I do—I will.

With a throbbing heart I will wait at a little diſtance. May virtuous love and ſacred honour direct his thoughts!

Yes, I will reflect—that I am the moſt fortunate fellow in England. She loves me ſtill— [77]what is the conſequence? that love will triumph—that ſhe will be mine—mine without the degrada⯑tion of marriage—love, pride, all gratified—how I ſhall be envied, when I triumphantly paſs the circles of ſaſhion! one will cry, ‘Who is that angel?’ another, "Happy fellow!" then Suſan will ſmile around—will ſhe ſmile? oh yes—ſhe will be all gaiety—mingle with the votaries of pleaſure, and—what! Suſan Aſhfield, the companion of licentious women! Damnation! no; I wrong her —ſhe would not—ſhe would rather ſhun ſociety— ſhe would be melancholy—melancholy,

would the time were over. Pſhaw! I think of it too ſeriouſly—'tis falſe—I do not—ſhould her virtue yield to love, would not remorſe affect her health? ſhould I not behold that lovely form ſicken and decay—perhaps die—die! then what am I? a villain—loaded with her parent's curſes and my own. Let me fly from the dreadful thought—But how fly from it—

by placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments—I make her my wife. Ah! then ſhe would ſmile on me—there's rapture in the thought —inſtead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazening beauty—inſtead of Suſan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms—down her father's honeſt face runs & tear, but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury— paradiſe!—Come, Suſan—come, my love, my ſoul, my wife!

Is it poſſible?

Yes; thoſe charms have conquered.

Oh! no; do not ſo diſgrace the victory you have gained—'tis your own virtue that has triumphed.

My Suſan! how true it is, that fools alone are vicious. But let us fly to my father, and obtain his conſent. On recollection, that may not be quite ſo eaſy. His arrangements with Sir Philip Blandford are—are—not mine, ſo there's an end of that. And Sir Philip, by misſortune, knows how to appreciate happineſs. Then poor Miſs Bland⯑ford —upon my ſoul, I feel for her.

Come—don't make yourſelf miſerable. If my ſuſpicions be true, ſhe'll not break her heart for your loſs.

Nay, don't ſay ſo—ſhe will be unhappy.

There he is. Dame, ſhall I ſhoot at un?

No.

What does he mean?

My father's voice.

Then I'll leather un wi' my ſtick.

Zounds—no—come here.

What do thee do here wi' my Sue, eh?

With your Sue—ſhe's mine—mine by a huſband's right.

Huſband! what, thee Sue's huſband?

I ſoon ſhall be.

But how tho'—? what, faith and troth, what, like as I married Dame?

Yes.

What, axed three times?

Yes; and from this moment I'll maintain that the real Temple of love is a pariſh church —cupid is a chubby curate, his torch is the ſexton's lantern, and the according paean of the ſpheres is the profound naſal thorough baſs of the clerk's Amen.

Huzza! only to think now—my bleſſing go with you, my children!

And mine.

And Heaven's bleſſing too. Ecod, I believe now, as thy feyther zays, thee canſt do every thing.

No; for there is one think I cannot do—injure the innocence of woman.

Drabbit it, I ſhall walk in the road all day to zee Sue ride by in her own coach.

You muſt ride with me, father.

I ſay, Tummas, what will Mrs. Grundy ſay then?

I do hope thee will not be aſham'd of thy feyther in laa, woolye?

No; for then I muſt alſo be aſhamed of myſelf, which I am reſolved not to be again.

Heyday, Bob! why an't you gallant⯑ing your intended bride? but you are never where you ought to be.

Nay, Sir, by your own confeſſion I am where I ought to be.

No; you ought to be at the Caſtle— Sir Philip is there, and Miſs Blandford is there, and Lady Handy is there—and therefore—

You are not there—in one word, I ſhall not marry Miſs Blandford.

Indeed! who told you ſo?

One who never lies—and therefore, one I am determined to make a friend of—my conſcience.

But, zounds, Sir, what excuſe have you?

A very fair one, Sir—is not ſhe?

Why, yes, I can't deny it—but, 'sdeath Sir, this overturns my beſt plan.

No, Sir: for a parent's beſt plan is his ſon's happineſs, and that it will eſtabliſh. Come, give us your conſent. Conſider how we admire all your wonderful inventions.

No; not my plough, Bob—but 'tis a deviliſh clever plough.

I dare ſay it is. Come, Sir, con⯑ſent and perhaps, in our turn, we may invent ſome⯑thing that may pleaſe you.

He! he! he! well—but hold—what's the uſe of my conſent without my wife's—bleſs you! I dare no more ſay I approve, without—

Health to this worthy company.

The ſame to you, Sir.

Who have we here, I wonder?

I wiſh to ſpeak with Sir Abel Handy.

I am the perſon.

You are married?

Damn it! he ſees it in my face.—Yes, I have that happineſs.

Is it a happineſs?

To ſay the truth—why do you aſk?

I want anſwers, not queſtions—and de⯑pend on't, 'tis your intereſt to anſwer me.

An extraordinary fellow this!

Would it break your heart to part with her?

Who are you, Sir, that—

Anſwers—I want anſwers—would it break your heart, I aſk?

Why, not abſolutely I hope. Time, and philoſophy, and—

I underſtand—what ſum of money wou'd you give to the man who would diſſolve your mar⯑riage contract?

He means ſomething, Sir.

Do you think ſo, Bob?

Would you give a thouſand pounds?

No.

No!

No; I would not give one; but I would give five thouſand pounds.

Generouſly offered—a bargain—I'll do it.

But, an't you deceiving me?

What ſhould I gain by that?

Tell me your name?

Time will tell that.

Sir Abel—where are you▪

That's your wife's voice—I know it.

So do I.

I'll wait without—Cry, "Hem!" when you want me.

Then you need not go far—

I dare not believe it—I ſhould go out of my wits —and then if he fail, what a pickle I ſhall be in! Here ſhe is.

So, Sir, I have found you at laſt?

My honoured mama, you have juſt come in time to give your conſent to my marriage with my ſweet Suſan.

And do you imagine I will agree to ſuch degradation?

Do'e, Lady Nelly, do'e be kind hearted to the young loviers—Remember how I uſed to let thee zit up all night a ſweethearting.

Silence! and have you dared to con⯑ſent?

Oh, no, my Lady.

Sir, you had better cry—"Hem!"

I think it's time, Bob—Hem!

Hem!

What do you mean by—Hem?

Only, my dear, ſomething trouble⯑ſome, I want to get rid of—Hem!

There he is—never was ſo frightened in all my life.

Gerald!

Yes.

An't you dead, Gerald? Twenty years away and not dead?

No, wife.

Wife! Did you ſay, wife?

Yes.

Say it again.

She is my wife.

Once more.

My lawful, wedded wife.

Oh, my dear fellow!—Oh, my dear boy! Oh, my dear girl!—

Oh, my dear!

No—yes, now ſhe an't my wife, I will— well—how will you have the five thouſand? Will you have it in caſh, or in bank notes—or ſtock, or India bonds, or lands, or patents, or—

No—land will do—I wiſh to kill my own mutton.

Sir, you ſhall kill all the ſheep in Hampſhire.

Sir Abel, you have loſt five thouſand pounds, and with it, properly managed, an excel⯑lent wife, who, though I cannot condeſcend to take again as mine—you may depend on't ſhall never trouble you. Come! this way

—important events now call on me, and prevent my ſtaying longer with this good com⯑pany. Sir Abel, we ſhall meet ſoon. Nay, come, you know I'm not uſed to trifle; come, come—

Come, come—That's a damn'd clever fellow! Joy, joy, my boy! Here, here, your hands—The firſt uſe I make of liberty, is to give happineſs—I wiſh I had more imitators —Well, what will you do?

Where will you go? I'll go anywhere you like—Will you go to Bath, or Brighton, or Peterſburgh, or Jeruſalem, or Seringapatam? all the ſame to me—we ſingle fellows—we rove about —nobody cares about us—we care for nobody.

I muſt to the Caſtle, father.

Have with you, Bob

. "I'll ſip every flower—I'll change every hour." —

—Come, come—

Bleſs her! how nicely ſhe do trip it away with the gentry!

And then, Tummas, think of the wed⯑ding.

I declare I ſhall be juſt the zame as ever—may be I may buy a ſmartiſh bridle, or a zilver backy ſtopper, or the like o'that.

And, then, when we come out of church, Mrs. Grundy will be ſtanding about there—

I ſhall ſhake hands agreeably wi' all my friends

Then I juſt look at her in this manner.

How doſt do, Peter—Ah, Dick —glad to zee thee wi' all my zoul

Then, with a kind of half curteſy, I ſhall—

What an wold fool thee bees't, Dame— Come along, and behave pratty, do'e.

SCENE II.—The ſame as Act fourth, Scene third,

Now to fulfil my promiſe with Sir Philip Blandford—by—entering that chamber, and removing—'Tis rather awful—I don't half like it, ſomehow, everything is ſo curſedly ſtill. What's that? I thought I heard ſomething—no—why, 'sdeath, I am not afraid—no—I'm quite ſu—ſu— ſure of that—only every thing is ſo curſedly huſh, and—

What the devil's that?

I ſwear I hear ſome one—lamenting—who's there?

Father!

Bob!

Have you ſeen anything?

Oh, my dear boy!

Damn it, don't frighten one—

Such an accident! Mercy on us!

Speak!

I was mixing the ingredients of my grand ſubſtitute for gunpowder, when, ſomehow, it blew up, and ſet the curtains on fire, and—

Curtains! zounds, the room's in a blaze.

Don't ſay ſo, Bob.

What's to be done? Where's your famous preparation for extinguiſhing flames?

It is not mixed.

Where's your fire eſcape?

It is not fixed.

Where's your patent fire-engine?

'Tis on the road.

Well, you are never at a loſs.

Never.

What's to be done?

I don't know. I ſay, Bob, I have it —perhaps it will go out of itſelf!

Go out! it increaſes every minute —Let us run for aſſiſtance—Let us alarm the family.

Yes—dear me! dear me!

Here, John! Thomas! ſome villain has ſet fire to the Caſtle. If you catch the raſcal, throw him into the flames.

SCENE III.—The Garden of the Caſtle.—The effects of the Fire ſhewn on the Foliage and Scenery.

The Caſtle in flames!—What occa⯑ſioned it?

Alas, I know not!

Are the family in ſafety?

Sir Philip is.

And his daughter?

Poor lady! I juſt now beheld her look⯑ing with agony from that window!

Ah! Emma in danger!—Farewell!

Are you mad? the great ſtaircaſe is in flames.

I care not! Should we meet no more, tell Sir Philip I died for his daughter!

Yet reflect.

Old man, do not cling to me thus— 'Sdeath! men will encounter peril to ruin a woman, and ſhall I heſitate when it is to ſave one?

Brave, generous boy! Heaven preſerve thee!

Emma, my child, where art thou?

I fear, Sir, the Caſtle will be deſtroyed.

My child! my child! where is ſhe! ſpeak!

Alas! ſhe remains in the Caſtle!

Ah! then will I die with her!

Hold, dear maſter! if human power can preſerve her, ſhe is ſafe—The braveſt, nobleſt of men has flown to her aſſiſtance.

Heaven reward him with its choiceſt bleſſings!

'Tis Henry.

Henry! Heaven will reward him— I will reward him!

Then be happy! Look, Sir!

Ah! dare I truſt my eyes!

He bears her ſafe in his arms.

Bountiful Creator, accept my thanks!

There is your daughter.

My child! my Emma, revive!

Aye—now to unfold the myſtery —The avenue to the eaſtern wing is ſtill paſſable —the chamber not yet in flames—the preſent mo⯑ment loſt, and all is cloſed for ever. I will be ſatisfied, or periſh.

Am I reſtored to my dear father's arms?

Yes, only bleſſing of my life! In future thy wiſhes ſhall be mine—thy happineſs my joy.

My dear friend ſafe! and the lovely Emma in his arms! Then let the bonfire blaze.

My young friend, do you mark? the flames will ſave the trial I impoſed on you. Be⯑hold —they already burſt from the eaſtern turret! Ere this they muſt have reached the chamber— that conſumed, the ſecret is with us ſecure.

Oh, father, this unkind man has re⯑fuſed me, and given his hand to that ſweet girl.

I confeſs 'tis true—Your eyes can only fail to conquer thoſe who are before ſubdued.

But, Emma, where is your Henry? I wiſh to be juſt to him—I wiſh to thank him.

He has withdrawn to avoid our gra⯑titude.—

No—he again ruſhed into the Caſtle, exclaiming, ‘I will penetrate that chamber, or periſh in the attempt.’

Then all is diſcovered.

Huſh! for heaven's ſake collect yourſelf!

Ah!

Thank heaven he's ſafe. What urged you, Henry, again to venture in the Caſtle?

Fate! the deſperate attempt of a deſperate man!

Ah!

Yes; the myſtery is developed. In vain the maſſy bars, cemented with their cankerous ruſt, op⯑poſed my entrance—in vain the heated ſuffocating damps enveloped me—in vain the hungry flames flaſhed their vengeance round me! What could oppoſe a man ſtruggling to know his fate? I ſorced the doors, a firebrand was my guide, and among many evidences of blood and guilt, I found —theſe!

It is accompliſhed! Juſt heaven, I bend to thy decree!—Blood muſt be paid by blood! Henry, that knife, aimed by this fatal hand, murdered thy father!

Ah!

Henry!

Oh, believe him not! 'Twas madneſs! I've heard him talk thus wildly in his dreams! We are all friends! None will repeat his words—I am ſure none will! My heart will break!—Oh, Henry! will you de⯑ſtroy my father?

Would I were in my grave!

Ah, Gerald here! How vain con⯑cealment! Well, come you to give evidence of my ſhame?

I come to announce one, who for many years has watched each action of your life.

Who?

Morrington.

I ſhall then behold the man who has ſo long avoided me—

But ever has been near you—he is here.

Well, behold your victim in his laſt ſtage of human wretchedneſs! Come you to in⯑ſult me?

Ah! can even you pity me? Speak—ſtill ſilent— ſtill myſterious—Well, let me employ what re⯑mains of life in thinking of hereafter—

Oh, my brother! we ſoon ſhall meet again—And let me hope, that ſtript of thoſe paſ⯑ſions which make men devils, I may receive the heavenly balm of thy forgiveneſs, as I, from my inmoſt ſoul, do pardon thee.

Ah, what means that agony? He faints! give him air!—

Angels of mercy! my brother! 'tis he! he lives! Henry, ſupport your father!

Ah, my fa⯑ther! he revives!

Huſh!

Crawling in the duſt, behold a repentant wretch!—

My brother, Morrington!

Turn not away—in mercy hear me!

Speak!

After the dreadful hour that parted us, agonized with remorſe, I was about to puniſh home what your arm had left unaccompliſhed; when ſome angel whiſpered— ‘Puniſhment is life, not death—Live and atone!’

On! go on!

I flew to you—I found you ſurrounded by ſharpers—What was to be done? I became Mor⯑rington! littered with villains! practiſed the arts of devils! braved the aſſaſſin's ſteel! poſſeſſed my⯑ſelf of your large eſtates—lived hateful to myſelf, deteſted by mankind—to do what? to ſave an in⯑jured brother from deſtruction, and lay his fortunes at his feet!

Ah! is it poſſible?

Oh, is that atonement? No—By me you firſt beheld her mother! 'Twas I that gave her fortune! Is that atonement? No—But my Henry has ſaved that angel's life—Kneel with me, my boy— lift up thy innocent hands with thoſe of thy guilty father, and beg for mercy from that injured raint.

O, God! how infinite are thy mer⯑cies! Henry, forgive me—Emma, plead for me— There—there

But my father—

Charles!

Philip!

Brother, I forgive thee.

Then let me die—bleſt, moſt bleſt!

No, no

Here —I want thee here—Raiſe him to my heart.

Again!

If forgiveneſs be an attribute which ennobles our nature, may we not hope to find pardon for our errors—here?