ACT I.

I don't know how other people may find themſelves, but the coming on of winter always makes a vaſt change in my ſpirits; I have often wiſhed that I had wings, that I might fly round the world after the ſummer.

I never heard you find fault with the ſea⯑ſon of the year in London, Rachel.

Lord, Ma'am! one has ſo much plea⯑ſure in London, it is impoſſible to know the difference betwixt ſummer and winter. But how mortifying it is to live ſo trifling a diſtance from Bath, and to be ſo ſeldom indulged with the pleaſures of it!—I long to ſee my old maſter laid up with a fit of the gout, as much as he does to get eaſe from it; for then you know, Ma'am, the family would remove to lodgings on the South Parade: with what pleaſure I put on his flannels, and ſee him pump'd of a morning!

But I thought your regard for me had re⯑conciled you to your preſent ſituation.

And ſo it has, Ma'am; if my regard for you was not very great indeed, do you think I'd conſent to be buried alive in this old crazy manſion-houſe, that looks as if it were left ſtanding only for the rooks to build their neſts in? Ah, Ma'am! if I had your beauty, and your fortune, I'd ſee the world, and the world ſhould ſee me too.

But what could you do with a man of my father's temper?

More than he could do with a girl of my ſpirit.—Whenever our ſex is uſed ill by a croſs-grain'd old father, or a ſurly huſband, eſpecially, Ma'am, when we are a little handſomiſh, it is either becauſe we don't know our own power, or are afraid to uſe it.— Why, there's Mr. Summers now, who has been ſo long courting you; what is the reaſon Mr. Bale won't con⯑ſent to your marriage? Isn't he a gentleman of as good family, and as good fortune, as any in the country? —Od's my life, Ma'am! pluck up a ſpirit; and, ſince he is determined to ſhut us up, like two ſtar⯑lings in a dark cage, I think it is fit he ſhould know we have learned to talk in our confinement.

It is turned of five o'clock; I expected my couſin Angelica before this hour from London.

Ah, the ſweet good natured young lady!— Well, if I was a man, I ſhould be in love with her up to inſpiration: I do believe I ſhall cry my eyes out whenever ſhe returns to America.

Her father has a fine fortune in that coun⯑try, and is too fond of his amiable daughter to let her continue much longer in Europe. Though ſhe has been only ſix months in England, two of which you know ſhe paſſed with us, her near relations; my eſteem and regard for her are as fixed as if we had been friends from our infancy.

No, no; I'll go into the gar⯑den to her.

As I hope to be married, Madam, here comes Miſs Angelica herſelf.

With all the eagerneſs of true friendſhip I fly to meet her.

My dear Angelica, how happy have you made me by this viſit!

And to enhance the value of it, I am come down to you when every body elſe begins to think of quitting the country—in the month of September; [12]when the groves have ceaſed to be tuneful, and old Autumn is ſhaking hands with Winter; as if I came on the opening of the ſeaſon to enjoy the pleaſures of partridge-ſhooting.

I hope your Ladyſhip has been well ſince I had the pleaſure of ſeeing you laſt? But I need not aſk that; few ladies bring ſuch com⯑plections from London.

I am very well, Rachel; thanks to a good conſtitution, in ſpite of the gay ſcenes, late hours, and cloudy atmoſphere of the capital.

Go, Rachel, and prepare tea.

Do you chuſe it, Ma'am, here in the garden?

No, in the front parlour; and let me know when it is ready.

There is a cloud hangs upon your brow, Charlotte; come, open your heart, and let friendſhip diſperſe it.

You remember Mr. Summers?

Yes; and from the grave tone in which you pronounce his name, I conclude you two have quar⯑relled.—Pho, pho! if that's all, I'll make up the breach; when lovers fall out, the high-prieſt of Cupid is piling up the blind God's altars with a little freſh fuel, which of courſe gives a temporary damp to the blaze; but a few ſighs breathed from the bottom of two repenting hearts, and their flames burn brighter than before.

Would I had nothing more ſerious to make me unhappy! but every tender hope and fonder vi⯑ſion which roſe in flattering proſpect, are no more.— Summers's viſits have been long forbidden; my in⯑human father inſiſts upon my baniſhing every thought of him, as he had himſelf fixed upon another match for me; I have never ſeen the huſband of his choice, nor did I know his name till this morning; but I underſtand that he is next heir to a title, and is ex⯑pected here every hour to fulfil the ambitious views [13]of my father, and give my fate for life the ſeal of wretchedneſs.

Poor Charlotte!—Fortune is determined to perſecute us both; for know, my friend, I am not what I ſeem—the gaiety of my words and looks are all a counterfeit: my heart is, like yours, the martyr of a fatal paſſion—a paſſion ſo hopeleſs, that every ſmile which peers upon my brow, ſhews like a garland ſome poor victim wears that's doom'd to bleed in ſacrifice.

Can that be poſſible?

You ſay that you are debarred all intercourſe with the man of your heart; he neither hears your ſighs, nor is witneſs to the tears you ſhed for him.— My deſtiny is to the full as forlorn, with this differ⯑ence, that I have not the fainteſt hope of my paſſion ever meeting a return, and that I am divided from the object of it as far as ſeas, and the weſtern world can part us.

Is there a heart ſo inſenſible, that lovelineſs, like Angelica's, could make no impreſſion on?

You ſhall hear.—As my father lived in the interior part of the province of South-Carolina, he ſent my brother, attended by two ſervants, to eſcort me in ſafety to Charles Town, where I was to embark [14]for England. Through the ignorance of guides we loſt our way, and fell in with a party of the French; but were ſcarce made priſoners, when an alarm was given of an enemy being in ſight. Oh, Heavens! how my heart beat!—It was a detachment of horſe from the King's troops. Motionleſs and dumb, I heard the ſhout of war—ſaw both battles charge— when a trance relieved me from the agony of my fears. The firſt object my eyes afterwards encoun⯑tered was an officer in the Britiſh uniform, who looked tenderly in my face, as if he had been anxiouſly waiting my recovery. Oh, Charlotte! how ſhall I deſcribe him to you?—Imagine a perſon, the moſt captivating, manners the moſt winningly poliſhed, and a countenance in which ſweetneſs had ſo tempered the manly daring of the ſoldier, that, like Mars, when diſarming by the Graces, he appear'd reſigning the Laurel for the Myrtle of Love. I hear the muſic of his voice this moment.—"Madam," ſaid he, taking me reſpectfully by the hand, ‘you are no longer a priſoner.—It gives me inexpreſſible concern, that the nature of my orders will not allow me to ſee you ſafe to the end of your journey; but if we ever meet again!’—At theſe ſad words, the drums beat, and the trumpet blew its ſilver ſum⯑mons; —my brother in the ſame inſtant urged the dangers of delay, and preſſed me to renew our jour⯑ney; —with reluctance and regret I yielded to his remonſtrances; when turning round to take a parting look of my gallant ſoldier, I found he was gone—the whole party had rode off at full ſpeed; in a few mi⯑nutes I could ſee nothing but a cloud of duſt, and for ever loſt ſight of my deliverer.

Had you no means or opportunity of learn⯑ing his name?

Yes; I underſtood from one of the wounded left behind after the action, that his name is Mount⯑ford, a Colonel in the Engliſh army.

Mountford, did you ſay? Colonel Mountford?

I am very proud, Charlotte, to find the Co⯑lonel employs ſo much of your thoughts.—I have juſt received a packet from his father, Lord Mount⯑ford, acquainting me that his ſon arrived four days ſince from America, and that I may expect him this afternoon at my houſe, in order to fulfil the articles of the bargain concluded in his abſence; therefore prepare to receive the man who is to be your huſ⯑band.

Good Heavens!—What do I hear?

Ah! my blooming Ame⯑rican Roſe!—I am tranſported to ſee thee once more in the country.—Come, throw your arms around your old uncle's neck, and let him welcome you.

Dear Sir, I am glad to ſee you.

I vow to George, this is very fortunate!—to come down juſt in the nick of time to be preſent at your couſin's wedding!—I certainly ſhould have ſent for you, if I thought I could depend upon your keep⯑ing a ſecret; but it is the part of prudence to con⯑ceal all plans of conſequence, till they are too ripe to be fruſtrated by accident or ſtratagem. This was my method forty years ago in matters of buſineſs; a ſecret in my poſſeſſion was treaſure under-ground; no fund⯑ing it out in whiſpers and half-hints, to ſet the Bulls and the Bears of curioſity at work: I was as cloſe as an iron cheſt; and had a knack of holding my tongue without ever looking the wiſer for it.—But this was all method; and whoever expects to thrive in the world, muſt conſider method as the foundation-ſtone, upon which Trade builds the houſe of Wealth and Proſperity.

Then, Sir, you are determined upon my un⯑doing?

'Zounds! would you have me break my word with my Lord Mountford, and forego the ad⯑vantages of ſo noble an alliance?—But ſay no more, [16]my plan is laid; and if I had no regard to my pro⯑miſe, or to my intereſt, I hope I have ſome little re⯑gard to conſiſtency and method in my proceedings.

But, when the whole happineſs of my life is at ſtake—

Dear uncle, will you ſuffer me to reaſon with you?

I'll not hear a ſyllable from either party—I am fixed in my reſolution, and my daughter knows it.—Do you think I have got a weather-cock upon my ſhoulders? I never retract my word: nay, ſo ri⯑gidly am I attached to regularity and ſyſtem, that I never change my habits of action in any one parti⯑cular. —In conformity to that rule, look here at this coat;

it was the faſhion thirty years ago, when ſome regard was paid to the button manu⯑factory. —Look here too at the cock of this hat, and the form of theſe buckles; they were likewiſe all the mode in the Duke of Marlborough's time; and I wiſh, for the ſake of my country, that ſome more of the good old cuſtoms of that time were ſtill in faſhion.

Tho' my father is your brother, Sir, you dif⯑fer very widely in temper from him.

There is an inſtance in which nature herſelf did not obſerve method; your father from his child⯑hood had a leaning to extravagance, and when the young ſpendthrift had ſquander'd away all his pocket money at ſchool, I uſed to advance him a freſh ſup⯑ply, at two-pence in the half-crown premium; why to this moment I have a particular hour in the day for doing every thing, and as the clock ſtrikes, my performance chimes echo to the ſound of it: but here is a curious calculation which I have made, that tells me, at a glance of the eye, how every hour of my life is diſpoſed of for twenty years to come

: now mark, here's the third of Auguſt, ten in the morning, 1796, reading the General Even⯑ing Poſt, with my remarks upon the ſiege of Gib⯑raltar.

A ccording to that calculation the ſiege muſt laſt for fifteen years?

Why Troy held out a ſiege of ten years, and I think we have abler engineers in our ſervice than ever king Priam had; but pray take notice, here I come to the year ninety-nine, February ſixteenth, ele⯑ven forenoon, taking the air, if the weather permit, if not, exerciſing at the dumb bell, to open my cheſt and give me a freedom of breathing.

Why yes, in the year ninety-nine you may want ſomething to give you a freedom of breathing.

Colonel Mountford's ſervant is arrived, Sir, with part of his baggage.

You know the apartments allotted for his maſter—ſhew him there, and tell the butler to make [18]much of him.

Come Angelica, pluck up your ſpirits, my girl—if I could get you a huſ⯑band, and keep you on this ſide of the Atlantic, how it would aſtoniſh your father—let me ſee, who have we got in the neighbourhood? ods ſo! there's my old friend Dreadnought, that ſerved laſt war under Hawke, ecod! I believe he ſail'd round the world with Anſon too.

And if you had ſailed round the world in ſearch of a huſband, you cou'dn't have fixt upon ſuch another—but, Sir, tho' you may ſport with my hap⯑pineſs, and make it ſubſervient to your caprice, or your ambition, you ſhould conſider that you have no ſuch power over my couſin.

I only mean to adviſe—but I think he's a very good looking man for his age—to be ſure you may know by his walk that he has been more uſed to the quarter-deck than the drawing-room—then perhaps you'll ſay he's tann'd, and has got a few ſcars in his countenance; but theſe are Valour's credentials, and the old Admiral looks the nobler for them.

You may ſpare yourſelf the trouble of pro⯑viding me with a huſband, for my heart is unalter⯑ably engaged to another.

Ods ſo! I'm engaged too; there goes the quarter, and I'm ſo much beyond my hour of writ⯑ing letters.

Nothing upon earth ſure could have been more unfortunate.

My heart will not admit a thought of any man but Summers.

As we are acquainted with the ſtate of each other's ſentiments, why not conſult the means of de⯑feating your father's tyranny?

I'll immediately acquaint Summers of the danger we are in; lend me your cloak,

I'll ſlip down thro' the garden; in caſe of any enquiry you can eaſily make an excuſe for me. [19]Some ſtep muſt be taken immediately, for this night determines my fate.

Here comes your father again; let us get out of his way.

My good friend, I never break in upon my hours; if you have any meſſage to deliver to my daughter, yonder ſhe goes with her couſin.

Which of the two young ladies is Miſs Bale, Sir?

That's ſhe without a cloak—I muſt beg your pardon—dear me! this is deſtructive of all method.

Trumpets and kettle-drums! but ſhe's a fine girl; and when ſhe ſhifts her ground, her gait has the majeſty of a charger. What a park of artillery plays from her eyes! what an ambuſh for Love is that rogueiſh dimple in her left cheek—the braveſt ſoldier that ever faced the thunders of battle need not be aſhamed to tremble at approaching ſuch a breaſt-work; my maſter to be ſure is very much averſe to the match at preſent, but I fancy he'll alter his tone when he has ſeen his miſtreſs; her couſin has left her, and ſhe moves this way: as my orders are to bring a particu⯑lar account of her perſon, I'll take poſſeſſion of this poſt for the advantage of reconnoitering: I have not ſeen ſo much beauty in all my different quarters, tho' I have been in the army ſince I was the height of a ramrod.

This is his ſervant, I'll ſpeak to him—As I take it, Sir, you are Col. Mountford's ſervant?

I have that honor, Ma'am: my anceſtors have been in the Colonel's family for more than a century.

Your anceſtors, friend!—

Yes, Ma'am; I am fourth in the line, from the great Oliver Carbine, who loſt his head in hold⯑ing [20]Lord Mountford's ſtirrup at the battle of Ramil⯑lies.

A moſt reſpectable deſcent, I muſt confeſs; I make no doubt then you are a confidential ſervant?

My maſter, Ma'am, never undertakes any thing of conſequence without conſulting me—'tis, Carbine, what's your opinion, or what do you think, upon every expedition?

Then tell me; I beſeech you to be ſincere; but firſt, as an earneſt of my friendſhip, take this:

don't think I mean to bribe you.

I ſcorn a bribe, Ma'am, as much as I value this mark of your Ladyſhip's generoſity.

How is the Colonel diſpoſed to his approach⯑ing marriage?

Madam, he thinks time commands a halt every hour, till he lays his heart, and his laurels at the feet of his miſtreſs.

There can be no harm in that volley, of mere powder without ball, for he muſt have no cyes if he does n't like her.

Then I'm undone:

did you never hear him talk of another Lady with any ſeeming partiality?

No, as I hope to be faved, Madam.

What, did he never ſpeak of one he met by the moſt extraordinary accident in America?

Oh! ſhe was an American Lady—now, Ma'am I underſtand you, yes, yes! I know all about that affair; there was an American Lady he often talk'd of, and talk'd to, and there was a good deal of talk about their converſation; but that's all over, I give you my word, Madam.

What do you mean, Sir?

Dear Ma'am! young fellows will be young fellows, and youth is a ſoil that yields the better crop for having a little wild oat-ſeed ſown in it: but the Colonel, Ma'am, is a man of the ſtricteſt honor; he has reſigned his former commiſſion, and now wiſhes to ſight under the banners of an Engliſh commander.

I find he has got a moſt ſtrenuous advocate for his vices.

His vices! Lord, Ma'am, how can you call a ſtray thought, eſpecially before marriage, by ſo hard a name? for my part, I conſider theſe little trips of the fancy in the light of deſerters; the par⯑tial defection of a few from an army, is no reproach to the loyalty of the main body; oh, Ma'am, his heart lies in this houſe.

Every word he utters, ſerves but to plunge me deeper in deſpair; ah! wretched, wretched An⯑gelica! all hope is now vaniſh'd, and you may dedi⯑cate what remains to be endured of your joyleſs life, to tears and ſolitude!

By all that's unaccountable ſhe's jealous of him already! I have often heard of love at firſt ſight, but did not think it poſſible before, that jealouſy could ſubſiſt between two lovers, whoſe eyes had never exchanged a ſingle glance together.

You have anſwer'd all my queſtions, friend.

And, I hope, to your Ladyſhip's ſatisfaction.

Oh, entirely.

That gives me great pleaſure; ſo I humbly take my leave, Madam: his honor, your father, told me your wedding was fixed for Thurſday; I ſhall wiſh you joy with all my heart: but before I ſtrike [22]my tent, give me leave to aſſure you, Ma'am, that you and my maſter will be the happieſt pair in Eng⯑land.

He has taken me for my couſin all this time; Oh heavens! what an emotion his parting words have given my heart! his maſter and I, " the happieſt pair in England!" the treacherous illuſion ſhoots with deceitful joy acroſs my heart, as ſome faint taper ſhews a cavern's gloom, or as the lightning's momen⯑tary ray reveals the frowning aſpect of the night, to warn the world of thunder.

You are very ſoon returned.

The Daemon of Miſchance perſecutes me this morning.—I was obliged to turn back for fear of a diſcovery; my father, contrary to uſage immemo⯑rial, has left his letters half written; and is now re⯑primanding the gardener for depriving the family of the benefit of the ſun-dial, by hiding the plate with oabbage-leaves and dried flower-tops.

The Colonel's ſervant has been here ſince, and miſtook me for you.

I wiſh his maſter would make the ſame miſtake.

I have no right to encourage a glimmering of hope; for oh, Charlotte! he loves you from report: [23]his ſervant aſſured me, that he burns with impatience to ſee you.

If there was the ſmalleſt foundation for that piece of intelligence, the maſter, not the ſervant, would have been the bearer of it. I have a month's mind to elope, and leave a clear ſtage to you.

That would be ſuch a mark of friendſhip—

And ſuch a proof of love!—At all events, I'll write to him; I don't think it ſafe to venture out till evening; but he muſt know my ſituation imme⯑diately, preſſed as I am betwixt a man I adore, and one who is my utter averſion.

And the Colonel—

For Heaven's ſake, don't mention the odious creature's name!—I hate the very ſound.

Nay, Charlotte, that's too much!

Oh, Madam! if you pleaſe, I'll be in love with him.

Nor that either.

In the name of Perplexity, then, what am I to do?

There is a middle courſe; a certain barrier betwixt Indifference and Love, upon which Friendſhip erects her temple.

I underſtand you—If I find he wiſhes to make me his wife, I ſhall hate him! but if he prove true to love and my Angelica, I'll wear him like a jewel next my heart.

I am ſurpriſed Carbine is not yet re⯑turned.

Sil vous plaint, Monſieur, if you pleaſe, me go for him.

Do you know where to go?

No, upon my vord.

Why, that's ſpoke like a Swiſs; too pliant not to make a proffer of his ſervices, though he can render none.

But if you let me know, Monſieur, where you ſend Carbine?

I have ſent him to the houſe of my father⯑in-law, that is to be; and the raſcal ſtays as long as if he meant to paſs the evening there.

Oh, ho! votre father-in-laws? that be matter of great conſequence, en bien!—As you tink of mar⯑riage, is it not fit your head ſhould undergo ſome reformation?

There's time enough for that; I'm in no great hurry about the matter, I aſſure you.—I com⯑miſſioned Carbine to bring me ſome account of my miſtreſs and her family, but charged him not to drop a ſyllable of my arrival; my thoughts are wandering towards another object.

A gentleman of the name of Summers en⯑quires for Colonel Mountford.

Summers!—Shew him in.

It muſt be my old friend George, whatever has brought him to this part of the world; I know no other Summers but himſelf. This is moſt fortunate, to meet a particular friend in a place where I did not expect to find a ſingle acquaintance!

Dear Mountford, welcome to England!— I am heartily rejoiced to ſee you; but to meet thus [25]unexpectedly, after an abſence of four years, gives me as much pleaſure as ſurpriſe.

Believe me, George, neither your pleaſure nor your ſurpriſe exceed mine upon this occaſion.— But in the name of Wonder, what brought you to this quarter?—How did you find me but?

In anſwer to your firſt queſtion, I muſt tell you, that it is now about a twelvemonth ſince I have ſucceeded to an uncle's eſtate down here in Somer⯑ſetſhire, and have reſided ever ſince at Bath, and in reply to your ſecond, I met my old acquaintance Car⯑bine, who directed me here to you. But you'll not ſtay any longer at an inn, when your friend has a houſe to accommodate you?

I am ſorry, George, I can't accept of your invitation; but I muſt go to my father-in-law's.

'Zounds!—You are not married too?

Not yet; but I am to be very ſhortly.—I am quite an altered man from what you knew me formerly in London.

Altered indeed!—What, the gay, ſprightly Mountford, whom Cupid with all his art could never chain, to be at laſt enſnared by that old dotard Hymen!

The match I am come upon, I muſt own is entirely prudential.—But what would you ſay to me, if I had been downright in love ſince I left Eng⯑land; had doted to exceſs, felt all the pains of the moſt lively paſſion, and for a woman I never beheld but once?

I am not at all ſurpriſed at that; the power of beauty is divine; and when the ſtroke comes from Heaven, it is no wonder death ſhould enſue inſtantly. But now came this ſpark to kindle all of a ſudden to ſuch a blaze?

Commanded laſt year on a ſecret expedi⯑tion through the interior part of South-Carolina, I met a woman, who at firſt ſight made an impreſſion on me I feel to this hour. She was taken priſoner by the French, when I had the good fortune to be the in⯑ſtrument of her deliverance; but as my orders were to proceed by the moſt rapid marches, I was obliged to quit her nearly in the inſtant I had reſcued her; and, what is worſe, before I had an opportunity of knowing who ſhe was.

Did ſhe refuſe to tell you her name?

No, but I feared to aſk it; for you muſt know, there was a gentleman with her, who, from his attention, I took to be her huſband; then, whatever ſervants ſhe had were diſperſed by the engagement, or I might have learned her name, and place of abode; but Fortune was my foe, and determined we never ſhould meet: So now, at my father's earneſt requeſt, I have quitted the army, in order to take a wife he has choſen for me, and forget this fair enchantreſs I have been ſo long dreaming of.

I commend your prudence much, and am happy to find the ſcene of your matrimonial project is to be in my neighbourhood.

Joy! joy!—Sir, I have ſeen her, and ſuch a charming creature I never beheld in all my marches.

Then it ſeems ſhe's handſome?

Handſome!—Sir, ſhe's the moſt liberal lady in England.

I underſtand you; it is to her liberality ſhe is indebted for this praiſe of her beauty.—She has given this fellow money to make a good report of her

; and were ſhe Deformity itſelf, he'd paint her in the colours of an angel.

Your Honor wrongs me—by the pride of a ſoldier you do!—I confeſs ſhe did force a ſmall preſent upon me; but it was done after ſuch a genteel manner, that, out of politeneſs to the lady, and reſpect for your Honor, (of whom I conſidered myſelf the humble repreſentative) I could not poſſibly refuſe it.

Come, Carbine, give ſome deſcription of her.

Imprimis, her perſon is of the true height, neither above or below the mark; but right battalion ſtandard.

The rogue ſpeaks of her as he would of a recruit he had inliſted!

I have inliſted many a recruit, your Honor; and never ſurveyed one half ſo nicely.

Proceed, Sir, with your deſcription.

In the ſecond place, as to her eyes —whether they were black or blue, I cannot ſpeak poſitively; but you know either is a good colour, Sir, and equally bewitching.

Can't you tell which?

No, no; cannot charge my memory.

This is no great proof, Carbine, of your having conſidered the young lady's perſon ſo nicely.

I beg your Honor's pardon; but I could no more look full into a pair of fine eyes at firſt, than I could gaze at the ſun in full ſplendor; beſides, there is a ſomewhat combuſtible, with your Honor's leave, about my own heart; and I have known a ſingle ſpark cauſe the exploſion of a magazine.

A letter for Mr. Summers.

Who brought this letter?

A ſervant; he ſaid it was left at your houſe juſt now, with particular orders to be delivered into your hands immediately.

You'll excuſe me?

‘Our fate is at a criſis.—I can now let you know the cauſe of my father's having rejected your pro⯑poſals. —Meet me without fail immediately at the garden gate; for, unleſs ſome effectual mea⯑ſures are taken to defeat my father's intentions, you muſt for ever reſign all thoughts of your un⯑fortunate CHARLOTTE.’—What can ſhe poſ⯑ſibly mean?—My mind will be on the rack till I am ſatisfied.

That letter, George, ſeems to have made you uneaſy.

It has made me moſt unhappy!—It comes from a woman I adore, appointing an interview im⯑mediately, in order, I ſuppoſe, to let me know that ſhe new can be mine.

'Sdeath, man! as ſhe continues to corre⯑ſpond with you, and grant you private meetings, ſhe'll clope, if you put her to the trial.

I don't know that.

You ſhall make the attempt, I am deter⯑min'd; nay, I'll not quit you till I have ſeen you both whiſk off in a poſt-chaiſe together.

Sir, have you forgot that you are to viſit your intended bride?

Pho, pho! you blockhead; I ſhall have enough of her company.

But conſider, Sir, my honour is at ſtake; I paſt my word for you to the lady.

No more words, Sir, but prepare yourſelf to accompany me; don't you ſee me engag'd in the ſervice of a friend? and till I diſcharge the duty I owe friendſhip, my mind ſhall not yield to any other conſideration.

It will be a thunderſtroke to her father.

To the whole family, and coming ſo un⯑expected; I ſhall applaud myſelf for the deed as long as I can feel a juſt indignation againſt cruel parents, who ſacrifice their children to ſordid intereſt, or more contemptible vanity.

ACT II.

NOT in her own apartment! nor with her couſin! impoſſible!

I aſſure you, Sir, it's truth—but here comes her woman, ſhe perhaps can give ſome account of her.

Well, Mrs. Pert, where is your miſtreſs?

Why, Lord Sir! is n't ſhe here?

Don't you ſee ſhe is not, you impudent bag⯑gage.

All I can tell you, Sir, is, that about an hour ago ſhe went to take a walk in the garden, and I haven't ſet eyes on her ſince.

A moſt delicious time to take a walk I muſt confeſs, when it's as dark as pitch, and blows a per⯑fect hurricane.

'Tis that which frightens me ſo—what cou'd take her out, ſaid I, ſuch a night? Oh, that curs'd fiſh pond at the bottom of the garden!

What do the wench mean?

I wiſh ſuch a thing as a fiſh pond was never invented.

I begin to be alarm'd; why, Rachel, ſure you don't think any accident has happen'd to her?

I ſee he's frighted, and ſo I'll puniſh him;

you know you have been a moſt cruel father, Sir, and a diſappointment in love will make a woman do any thing.

I ſhall go diſtracted if ſhe's not found!

Then conſider what the world will ſay to you for being the cauſe of ſo fine a young lady's death —ſo ſweet a young lady, ſo good a young lady, I wou'd not have your conſcience for the Indies.

Oh, Sir, my young lady, my young lady—

Is ſhe then gone?

She is indeed, Sir, gone off in a poſt-chaiſe with a gentleman; ſhe's now fifty miles from this at leaſt.

I am ſatisfied if ſhe were a hundred, ſo ſhe's bot in the fiſh pond; but damme you dog, why did n't you alarm the family ſooner? if I had received an [31]account of her death, it would not have given me half ſo much uneaſineſs.

Sir, I have only juſt had my legs at liberty— I was tied neck and heels, and roll'd like a nine-pin under the garden wall, where I have been freezing theſe two hours.

This will be joyful tidings to Miſs Angelica; I'll go tell her of it this moment.

So then my whole plan is come to the ground; henceforward I may pay as little regard to method as my daughter has done in her proceedings—my calcu⯑lations too—my cares for a riſing generation are all become uſeleſs: no later than yeſterday, I made a pro⯑viſion in the army for a youth, who, tho' he's not yet born, I ſat down as a general. I had likewiſe married two of my grand-daughters to great advantage in the next century; but the rebellion of this undutiful girl, has clouded all my proſpects, ſo that it's probable I ſhall leave the world, without having fixt in life a ſingle branch of my poſterity.

What the devil's this! ſilence, ſilence that confounded organ; did I bid you play, Fullſtop?

Sir, it's your muſical hour to a moment.

It's a damn'd lie, I never was ſo much out of tune any hour of my life before.

It's very well, it's very well, Sir; if you had no regard for me as a man of ſcience, you might have had ſome for the great Handel.

Zounds! do you think I'm in a key to hear a fellow thrum upon the organ to me?

You are in a key I think for nothing but diſ⯑cords.

Colonel Mountford is come, Sir.

Why there, there's the final blow! what ſhall I ſay to him? How can I face a man who is come to claim the completion of my engagement?

I may ſhew the Colonel in, I ſuppoſe, Sir?

You dog, I did n't bid you ſhew him in;— What ſhall I do? In my preſent diſtraction and con⯑fuſion, how ſhall I be able to receive him?

The Colonel is coming yonder, Sir.

Zounds! let me get out of his way, till I recover myſelf a little. If he ſhould be impatient to ſee me, tell him I'll be with him preſently.

You certainly have miſtaken the houſe, Carbine.

That's impoſſible Sir; I never forget a houſe when I have contracted my firſt acquaintance with the family, as I did with this; by being taken into pay, and regaled with a fine cold chicken, and a glaſs of choice old Madeira.

All appears confuſion.

Every thing wore a different aſpect when I was here: the houſe was all chearfulneſs; the doors flew open, as if the hinges had life in 'em; then, I thought the ſervants all ſo well bred—the butler in particular is the moſt of a gentleman, perhaps, ever preſided in a pantry.

And while I have been aſſiſting my friend Summers to remove his miſtreſs from her father's, all this change has happen'd; neither my father-in-law or my intended bride are viſible: there is a ſtrange air of myſtery about this buſineſs.—Upon my word, friend Carbine, I begin to entertain ſome doubts both of your veracity, and of my miſtreſs's beauty; come, own the truth, is n't ſhe confounded ugly?

'Tis very ſtrange a man can get no credit for telling the truth!—I tell you, Sir—but ſoftly, ſoftly— [33]here comes a lovely evidence in ſupport of my repu⯑tation.

What, that lady?—Is that Miſs Bale?

She herſelf, Sir; her father introduced me— I beg pardon—I meant to ſay, Mr. Bale pointed her out to me this morning, in company with her couſin.

Is it poſſible?—Can I believe my eyes?

Will your Honor take my opinion again of a fine woman?

Leave me.

Certainly, Sir, my work is over; now the mine is ſprung, let the pioneers fall in the rear, and the General advance to the breach, though ſure to die in it.

Good Heavens, Madam! were you not taken priſoner in America?

I was, Sir; and with grateful remembrance I declare, that I owe my freedom to the gallant Mount⯑ford.

There are certain moments, in which the mind doubts whether it actually wakes, or is only de⯑luded by the phantoms of a viſion; I am now, Ma⯑dam, in that ſtate: I remember full well every circum⯑ſtance of our accidental meeting in America, ſince when, your image has never been abſent from me; but it is with difficulty I credit my ſenfes, when they tell me I behold you in England, and, oh! tranſport⯑ing thought! approach you with a claim that makes you mine for ever!

This is exceedingly ſtrange! but the Colonel, I find, as well as his ſervant, takes me for Charlotte: ſhall I undeceive him? will it not be cruel, now I find he loves me?—He will diſcover his error too ſoon, I fear.

How, Madam, am I to interpret theſe cold looks? With ſilent eloquence methinks they ſay, though you give me your hand, you have not a heart to beſtow with it.

That would be ingratitude in the extreme, after the ſervice you had render'd me; the obligation I owe you, Colonel, believe me, has ſunk deep in my heart.

Still, Madam, you dwell on the nature of your obligation to me; you owe me none: when I reſcued you from captivity, I did no more than my duty as a ſoldier.—I cannot, will not, preſume upon a ſervice rendered by accident; no, Madam, nor will I ungenerouſly take advantage of your father's coun⯑tenancing my addreſſes, if you do not approve of them.—This reſerve, theſe embarraſs'd looks, too plainly declare, you can never love me; though, thro' a falſe notion of juſtice, you would become the willing ſacrifice of an ideal gratitude.

There are certain circumſtances, Colonel, which I cannot conceal—

I underſtand you, Madam—your affections are fixed on another; if ſo, don't conſider me as an obſtacle to your wiſhes: I'll quit this houſe to⯑morrow morning, nor ever more trouble you with my addreſſes.

Generous, noble-minded fellow!

It would be cruel, Colonel, not to ſet you right in one particular; but you may reſt aſſur'd, you have no rival.

May I then hope that you are not diſ⯑pleas'd at this unexpected meeting?

What ſhall I ſay to you? I have often wiſh'd in ſecret I could ſee, and thank my deliverer.

Oh! Madam, we are undone! Miſs Char⯑lotte is come back; ſhe is now at Miſs. Melcomb's at Bath, and no intreaties can prevail on her to go off with Mr. Summers.

Are you ſure this is true?

Quite ſartin, Madam; Mr. Summers has ſent word of it privately to you, and begs you'd write to her immediately.

How ill-natur'd this is of Charlotte!— I muſt leave you, Colonel, rather abruptly; but do not deſpair: I would not adviſe you to quit this to-morrow morning.

My life! my angel! it ſhall be my eternal reſidence if you continue in it.

What a ſtroke of fortune! to meet thus unexpectedly the only woman upon earth I panted for a ſight of—and that woman to be deſigned for my wife alſo!

Though I have tolerably recover'd my ſpi⯑rits, I am afraid to look in his face—to be ſure he has heard the whole ſtory from ſome officious part of the family.

Dear Sir, I am rejoic'd to ſee you.

Ah, Colonel! give me your hand, my dear boy!—'Tis now ten years ſince I ſaw you; you were then a beardleſs ſtrippling in a black gown and a ſquare cap at Weſtminſter.—Well, and how have you left his Londſhip? Is he as fond of old Hock, and toaſting handſome wenches, as formerly?

He is an ever-green, Sir; time has made very little alteration in him.—But, dear Sir, nothing could equal my ſurpriſe—

I aſſure you, Colo⯑nel, your ſurpriſe could not be greater than mine; but you can't ſuppoſe I ever dreamt of ſuch a thing when I propoſed the match?

How is it poſſible you could have ex⯑pected it?

I muſt confeſs it gives me much concern you have had the trouble of this long journey for nothing.

For nothing do you call it, Sir?—I am come after a woman I'd purſue to the extremities of the earth.

Then you mean to purſue her?

Certainly, Sir, elſe why did I come to your hourſe?

The night is very dark, Colonel.

The night's very dark! and what's that to us?

'Tis no object, to be ſure, as you are bent upon the matter—it's very unluckly—but we ſhan't have full moon theſe ten days.

I ſhould ſuppoſe we had full moon to⯑night, by your converſation.

Ah, Colonel! my daughter has acted a moſt artful part by me.—I never diſcovered how her incli⯑nations were really diſpoſed, till juſt before your ar⯑rival.

And was not that time enough, Sir?

Too late by ſix hours; had I the leaſt ſuſpi⯑cion of it this morning—

I am very glad you had not, as it might have been the cauſe of your making unneceſſary preparations.—Miſs Bale's reſerve, on this occa⯑ſion, is ſtrictly conformable to the natural delicacy of her ſex.

The devil take ſuch delicacy!

Now I like her the better for it.

You do?

I do, upon my ſoul; I never could be happy with a woman that had not that turn of temper.

Then I am ſure, Colonel, you can't be at a loſs for a wife to your mind in theſe times.

I told her—

Yes, I have.

Where?

In this room.

What, my daughter Charlotte?

Your daughter, Sir; and as a proof that I have ſeen her, her beauty is of that matchleſs nature, that to ſee her once, is to adore her eternally. 'Tis impoſſible I could have been miſtaken; for you know we are old acquaintance.

How the devil ſhould I know any ſuch thing?

I thought ſhe had told you of it.

Never open'd her lips to me on the ſubject.

This is truly extraordinary!—Why, Sir, 'tis now above eight months ſince I firſt ſaw her; I never had her out of my thoughts ſince.—Nay, Sir, as a farther proof of what beauty like hers can do, Lieutenant Middleton, belonging to my own troop, was as much enamour'd at his firſt and only interview. —Poor fellow! he was trepann'd, ſome time ago, for a deſperate wound he received a little above the temple, and has never ſince been rightly in his under⯑ſtanding.

It appears to me, that ſome more of the regiment has undergone the ſame operation.

But, Sir, I am perfectly ſatisfied with your daughter's reception of me—and now, as there is no bar in the way of my happineſs, I'll act with the ſame freedom, as if I was already one of the fa⯑mily —I have an old and moſt particular friend at Bath, whom my advice has brought into a very diſ⯑agreeable, [38]and rather delicate, ſituation; will you ex⯑cuſe me, Sir, for half an hour, whilſt I go ſee him?

By all means.—And glad to get rid of you!

I ſhall certainly be back to ſupper.

That's as you pleaſe, Colonel; mind I don't preſs you: I hope we have ſome little regard to good-breeding in the country.

You'll apologize for me to my dear Char⯑lotte?

The moment I ſee her, depend upon it.—

—Yes, he has been trepann'd, as well as the Lieutenant Middleton. I knew he was a devil of a fellow for ſighting, but never heard a word of this ſtroke in his head.

I have got news of my young lady, Sir.

Is any body bringing her back?

Sir, my brother, who is poſtilion in Mr. Summers's family, came juſt now, and told me, that he drove her and his maſter to a houſe at Bath, which he is ready to ſhew your Honor.

Call up every ſervant in the houſe, and tell them to hold themſelves in readineſs to attend me at a moment's warning.—

—I'll have her home to-night, and married to-morrow morning.— Where the devil can this mad-headed Colonel have gone? 'Tis very unlucky that he's not here to ac⯑company me—he'd be an excellent match for Sum⯑mers, who is as hot-brain'd as himſelf.—But hold, is it ſafe to venture, without ſome one I can depend upon? I'm not like Old England, able to fight the whole world without an ally.—Admiral Dreadnought is to ſup with me; ſo I'll wait till my friend comes, and then ſally forth as bold as a lion.

Your tea, my dear, is excellent. But ſup⯑poſe you reinforce my diſh with a little brandy?

It will ſpoil the flavour of your tea entirely —This is real gunpowder—do but ſmell it, Mr. Car⯑bine.

Fire and ſmoke! it has the perfume of a field of a battle—but you muſt know, that unleſs I fortify my ſtomach with brandy, gunpowder always makes me qualmiſh—Come, come, produce the bottle —never load a piece without priming it.

There, help yourſelf.—Now to read my cup.

Here

is your maſter again, Mr. Carbine.

The devil he is!

What in the world is the matter with you?

Did'nt you ſay you ſaw my maſter?

Yes, I did.—And here he is

a ſine, tall, proper-looking man, with a pla⯑toon in his hand.

Zounds! in your tea-cup?

Lord! to be ſure—For this month paſt, re⯑gularly, morning and evening, I have ſeen you both in my cups.

Ay, women ſee, and ſay ſtrange things in their cups!

Here is ſomething puzzles me ſtrangely; I don't know what to make of it, and yet 'tis very natural—It is certainly either a wind-mill, or a man a-horſeback.

I muſt confeſs, that there is a great ſimi⯑litude between the two.

Here is a parting, and two crack'd rings.—Broken friendſhip, Mr. Car⯑bine! as ſure as I breathe, your maſter will never be married to my young Lady—I ſee it plainly.

You do?

I'd ſwear to it from this cup.—Here is a ſhip in full ſail too—that's Admiral Dreadnought coming here to ſupper—ay. for look'ee, there are behind his two lame footmen a-horſeback.

Upon my word, you have a vaſt deal of good company in your cup this evening!—But who is this Admiral Dreadnought, and his two lame foot⯑men, as you deſcribe them, on horſeback?

Did you never hear of the famous Admiral Dreadnought, who beat all the French laſt war?

I can't ſay I did; but wiſh he was in the ſervice now.—

Ah! poor gentleman, he's too old—beſides, he's going to be married.—He has made voyages enough in his time—they ſay, he'd make nothing of ſailing to the world's end, and back again.

But this is a kind of converſation in detach⯑ments. —When, cruel creature, may I expect that the cartel of Love will bring about an exchange of hearts between us?

Really, Sir, I think it rather too ſoon to propoſe that queſtion.—Beſides, I'd have you to know, that I like to be courted, as well as my betters; and expect to hear a man talk to me of his ſtames, and his darts, and write love-ſongs on me.

'Sdeath! what's that upon your lips?

Upon my lips!—Lord! let me go to the glaſs.

Stay, ſtay—if you'll give me leave, I'll ſhew you what it is, in Cupid's own mirror.

Mr. Carbine, your maſter wants you imme⯑diately.

I am coming—Let him know I'm coming, friend.

Very well—I'll tell him ſo, friend.

I think, Sir, you might have knock'd at the door, before you took the liberty of coming into my apartment—

Why, ſo I did, Ma'am; but you were too buſy to mind me.

Saucy jackanapes!

This is the firſt inſtance of bad breeding I have met in the family.

Upon my word, there is ſomething very prudiſh in that notion; what, never marry a ſecond time?

You miſapprehend me; I do not cen⯑ſure the practice in others; I only ſay, that under the circumſtances I found myſelf left a widow, it is im⯑poſſible I can ever think of a ſecond huſband.

Then you have no family incumbrance, like other women; for my brother, the Admiral, out of regard to Captain Wilmot, has taken your ſon under his protection, and means to provide for him.

That is one reaſon out of many, why it appears to me I ſhould not change my condition: Is it not to the merit of my deceaſed huſband I owe the favour ſhewn to my ſon? Is it not to that huſband's merit alſo, I am indebted for the aſylum I enjoy under your brother's hoſpitable roof? if I could for⯑get all the love I ever bore the dear partner of my heart, gratitude ſays I ſhou'd not inſult the memory of a man, whoſe ſpirit ſeems ſtill to attend me like a guardian angel, with a fondneſs that ſurvives the grave.

Well, as my time is to come yet, I will not pretend to anſwer for my conduct when I become a widow; inexperienc'd young women often form raſh refolutions, but marriage makes great changes in us.

It has often ſurpris'd me, Miſs Kitty, how it happens that you have remain'd ſo long ſingle?

So long, Ma'am! I don't know what you mean by long, unleſs you think one ſhou'd marry in a bib and tucker.

I beg pardon, Ma'am; I only meant to obſerve, that your many amiable qualities, united to your fortune and family, entitle you to every notice.

Lord! what can one do with ſuch an out of the way being as my brother? who never viſits or ſees [43]company above once or twice a year; indeed what company is he fit for, except ſuch ſea bears as him⯑ſelf? has he not converted the houſe into a kind of land man of war? doesn't the family go to bed by an evening gun, and a'n't all the ſervants at night ſlung up in hammocks?

Tell the groom to bring me word what trim the ſaddle-horſes are in; and bid the coachman make ſhip ready for a cruiſe.

By theſe orders my brother's going abroad.

I have juſt receiv'd a card of compliments, inviting you, Kitt, and the Widow, and myſelf to friend Bale's; I underſtand that his danghter lays her proper courſe at laſt, and is now bearing down Matrimony roads under flying top-ſails.

Then Mr. Summers's hopes are all over, for I am poſitive old Bale wou'd never give his daughter to him.

No, no: poor Summers's hopes are all gone to the bottom; the veſſel's deſigned for a com⯑mander of quality; and I was ſorry to hear it, for Summers is as honeſt a fellow as ever broke biſket: I wiſh he'd take you in tow, Kitt; he ſhou'd have five thouſand down upon the binnacle, and as much more when death ſets my anchor a peak.

Lord brother, how you confound me!

You are not freſh launch'd to be ſure from boarding-ſchool dock, but what of that? now its the faſhion to paint the prow every morning, and hang out the colours of all nations in the rigging; an old hulk with a ſheathing of gold, makes ſuch a ginger⯑bread appearance, that ſhe'll paſs for a new frigate.

I have juſt heard from my ſon William, Sir: he deſires his moſt reſpectful duty to his benefac⯑tor, his ſecond father.

Widow, I regard you, and I regard your ſon, for the ſake of one, who is gone upon the voyage, [44]we muſt all ſail without compaſs or pilot. I was lieutenant of the Ruby, when he was rated midſhip⯑man on the ſame ſhip's books: from the day he board⯑ed the French firſt-rate we took off Brazil, and killed the Captain and Lleutenant with his own cutlaſs, I ſaid that he'd turn out one of thoſe days a very brave fellow; and ſo he did; for when he knew it was his duty to fight, he never counted his guns, and their ſmoak prevented him from counting thoſe of an enemy: he was always the firſt to form the line, the laſt out of action, and no man cou'd ſay, he ever diſobeyed a ſignal; but his heart was oak, Engliſh oak to the centre, and, as if my brave friend cou'd never die, 'till that part was wounded, he was ſhot thro' it.

I can't put poor Mr. Summers out of my head—I am exceedingly concern'd for him; but I do n't ſuppoſe he ever thought ſo much about her, as ſhe wou'd fain make the world believe. Lord! what is ſhe? a mere aukward piece of ſtill life!—pray widow, what's your opinion of Miſs Bale?

She's agreeable, but no beauty.

Now I ſay ſhe is; and what's more, it will be a long time before ſhe wants the repairs of ſome folks who find fault with her: I have often compared a fine young woman to Old England; jealouſy raiſes a combination of powers againſt both, but in ſpite of all compacts, whether female or Bourbon, the world will pay due honors to the broad pendant of Beauty and the Engliſh Flag.

Lord brother, with what countenance can you pretend to talk of beauty?

Why for that matter, Kitty, I don't think either of us hang out a good countenance for the ſubject.

Speak for yourſelf.

Your face ſpeak for you.

Let us go, Mrs. Wilmot, and prepare for the viſit; he's as rough as his own element.

This woman is in a continual ſtate of mutiny; ſhe's harder to govern than a three-decker; ſhe kept me in a ſtorm for a long time about my ſervants; but old Cable Dreadnought was moor'd too faſt to his opinion; I'll have none of your lazy lolloping land-lubbers about me, when I can get real ſeamen to do their buſineſs; honeſt fellows too that bear the marks of having ſerved their country. She didn't like Locker, the butler, becauſe he's dark of the larboard eye; we fought four glaſſes yard arm and vard arm, the day his upper works were damaged: he was then my boatſwain, and I gave him charge of the cellar, that ſo brave a fellow may be always able to wet his whiſtle. My ſteward is a diſabled purſer, whoſe left hand was ſhot off in battle; and after that, I think the honor of his right may be relied on. I keep a groom, and two footmen, who are all reduc'd to their odd joints; then what better coachman could I fix upon than an old pilot? He has ſteer'd me ſafely thro' [46]many a rough ſea, and hard gale; and whilſt he has an eye in his head to ſee the compaſs, damn me! if I take the helm out of his hands.

I'm come to know when your Honor means to weigh anchor?

Have the cattle laid in their complement of oats?

They are now at meſs; which does your Honor ride? the Flying Fiſh, or the Dolphin?

Neither; as the evening looks a little glum, I'll keep with the women between decks.

Oh! here comes the coachman.

I'm ſurpris'd ſo fine a ſeaman as your Honor would venture out to-night.

Why not, old Boreas?

The wind ſets right in our teeth.

Can't you make the voyage by long tacks?

The worſt on't is, the gale blows ſo freſh, that I fear my box will go by the board.

Then you had better unſhip it entirely, and ſteer in the boot.

Shall I let this here dog-vane ſtill fly from my weather-quarter?

What, you lubber! this ſtormy night? take it down. But harkee, Boreas, your topſails are wet, you'll overſet us.

Did I ever ſerve your Honor ſo by ſea or land? No; ſteady's the word, in all weathers, and in all lati⯑tudes, with old Bob Boreas.

There's not an officer in the Navy has a finer crew of ſervants—I couldn't be better ſerv'd, or more at my eaſe, if I were at ſea again. Beſides, what a pleaſure it is to provide comfortable births for ſo many brave fellows, who are all diſabled to a man, in the honorable ſervice of their country!

ACT III.

We are not ſafe a moment longer in this houſe; therefore do, dear Charlotte, let me prevail on you to quit it—Miſs Melcomb will accompany you.

Certainly I will.

But now that my father knows I am here, it will be impoſſible for us to remain concealed any where in Bath.

Then you mean to give yourſelf up to him?

I know not what to do; the confuſion and anxiety of my thoughts is more than I can bear.

Has then my dear Charlotte no confidence in her Summers?

Shall I ring, Charlotte, for the car⯑riage?

Stay, my dear Ma'am; an excellent expedi⯑ent has come into my head—I'll get a chair for her; you and I'll take poſſeſſion of the carriage; as we have reaſon to expect her father is this moment in purſuit of her, we may poſſibly meet him; and tho' his ſuſpicions might induce him to ſearch a poſt-chaiſe for his daughter, he never will dream of examining a chair.

It's very true, and I commend your prudence for undertaking the buſineſs yourſelf.

There is no confiding in ſervants on ſuch an occaſion.

Who cou'd have expected that a girl of your ſpirit, Charlotte, would have made ſo much dif⯑ficulty about eloping with the man of her heart? laſt [49]ſummer, if profeſſions may be relied on, you would have fled with your Oroondates any where.

I own, Harriet the juſtice, of your reproach, and bluſh at my inconſiſtency; I am a downright re⯑nagade to the cauſe of Love, and am almoſt tempted to believe what poets feign of that capricious paſſion.

Oh! heavens! who can this be?

Don't be alarmed, I'll go and ſee myſelf.

I muſt ſee her this moment.

Oh! dear Ma'am, every thing is diſcover'd! my old maſter knows where you are, and vows vengeance againſt Mr. Summers—but it's all your own fault.

My own fault, Rachel?

Yes, Ma'am, your own fault; why didn't you go off to Scotland at once?

Would you adviſe me, Rachel, to take ſo raſh a ſtep?

By my troth, Ma'am, I think it is the only prudent ſtep you could have taken.—I'm ſure I give you as good advice as I'd give myſelf upon ſuch an occaſion.

I am going to retire immediately from this houſe to a place of more ſecurity.

Security!—Fiddleſtick!—I tell you again and again, to go off to Scotland.—Lord, your Lady⯑ſhip! what is the journey?—I'd go twice as far for a good huſband.

There now, Ma'am!—Will you believe me? they are come, as I'm a living ſinner! and, being found here, I ſhall be thought one of the accompliſh'd, as well as your Ladyſhip.

No, Rachel, you ſhan't ſuffer upon my ac⯑count; that door younder,

leads through to the ſervants' hall, from whence you may eaſily make your eſcape.

I can't find in my heart to leave you.

You can be of no ſervice to me; fly inſtantly to my dear Angelica, and let her know my ſituation.

Dear heart, dear heart! You are the only young lady in England who would have miſs'd ſuch an opportunity!

The gentleman who came with you and Mr. Summers here, begs to ſee you; ſhall I ſhew him in?

By all means.

Pleaſe to walk this way, Sir.

Madam, with all the expedition the nature of my ſituation would admit of, I have returned to enquire how Fortune had diſpos'd of you and my friend in my abſence.

All our hopes are fruſtrated, Sir; my father has diſcovered us,

Where is Mr. Summers in a moment of ſo much danger?

He has bethought himſelf of a chair to re⯑move me from this houſe: the diſcovery was made by one of his own ſervants; therefore he wiſhes to con⯑vey me off without the knowledge of any of the fa⯑mily. When you knocked at the door, I thought it was my father; I am not ſafe a minute here.

I would fain, dear Madam, make you a tender of my ſervices; but what aſſiſtance can I lend you, ſtranger as I am in this part of the world?— Let me ſee—let me ſee—

—Is there no way by which I can ſhew at leaſt my good intention? —An excellent thought has come into my head; I'll take her to my father-in-law's, and introduce her to my dear Charlotte: that excellent girl will compaſ⯑ſionate her diſtreſs, and give her a ſecure aſylum.—

—If you'll venture yourſelf, Ma'am, under my protection, I'll conduct you to the houſe of a young lady who is very ſhortly to be my wife, whoſe goodneſs of heart will make her happy in ſerving you.

What ſhall I do, Harriet?

Upon my word, I think you had better accept of the gentleman's invitation.

But how will Mr. Summers know where to find me?

My ſervant ſhall wait his return.—Do you, Carbine, ſtay for Mr. Summers; let him follow in the chair, and conduct him with the greateſt ſecrecy [52]into my apartment: don't, if poſſible, let one of the family ſee him, till you have informed me that he is come.

Your Honor may depend upon my conducting the gentleman under ſafe eſcort.

Chear up, dear Ma'am; you ſhall ſoon be in a place of ſafety.

My maſter is deviliſh gallant to-night!—When I found him ſo wonderfully taken with his miſtreſs, nothing ran in my head but a warm kitchen fire-ſide, and the ſmoking hot proſpect of a good ſupper—Then to be obliged to ſtrike my tent, and march at a mo⯑ment ſo critical!—I had juſt opened my firſt battery againſt the heart of the chamber-maid, a fine ſprightly wench of eighteen, with a ſoft rolling blue eye, that ſends every glance like a ſhot from a rifle-barrel.—It was curs'd unlucky, to be obliged to raiſe the ſiege, when I ſaw the Governor preparing to ſend out a flag of truce to ſurrender the garriſon!

Come, get into the chair immediately.— Why, ſhe's gone!—

Yes, Sir, ſhe's gone with my maſter to a place where you may be ſure her father will never dream of ſeeking her; and I was left behind to conduct you there.

Oh! I am ſatisfied, ſince ſhe's with my friend; but has there been any alarm in my abſence, to occa⯑ſion this ſudden departure?

A devil of an alarm, it ſeems! the poor lady was frighten'd out of her wits.—But come, Sir, get you into the chair; and for fear of accidents, draw the curtains cloſe about you.

I'll march on before, and be the van-guard to protect your Honor in the trenches.

What upon earth can have become of this Colonel? He left the houſe abruptly, and nobody can tell where he is gone to, or when he will return. —Does this behaviour correſpond with the paſ⯑ſionate declaration he made to me of love? His words and actions are downright contradictions.

My dear Ma'am, I am under the greateſt anxiety for you; have you heard from Miſs Bale yet?

I expect Rachel with news every moment.

I wiſh, Ma'am, it were in my power to aſſiſt you with more than my good wiſhes.

My dear Mrs. Wilmot, it is aſſiſting me ma⯑terially, to have a perſon in whom I can repoſe a confi⯑dence.

Suppoſe I break the matter to the Ad⯑miral, and ſtrive to gain him over to your intereſt?

That's a forlorn hope indeed!—My uncle propoſed him to me for a huſband; and, but for Charlotte's elopement, I ſhould have had the old Ad⯑miral, [54]before this time, breathing out his paſſion in full gales at my feet.

You don't know, Ma'am, my good friend's character; was he even in love with you, and afterwards told of the mutual attachment between you and the Colonel, he would take a pride in reſigning his pretenſions.

I ſhould not like to truſt him.

He is the true Engliſh ſeaman; rough as the element on which he once fought the battles of his country; but there is a tenderneſs of heart, and a greatneſs of ſoul about him, not always found under a more poliſhed out-ſide.—He is a ſtranger to diſſi⯑mulation himſelf, and abhors it in others.—But in⯑deed I have often obſerved, that the manners of Britiſh ſeamen are peculiar to themſelves; as if there was ſomething that mended the heart, and purified the mind, in the very air of the ocean.

A propos! here he comes.—I thought he had been gone out with my uncle.

Suppoſe then I ſpeak to him?

I'll ſpeak for myſelf; there is a better thought than yours come into my head.

Then I'll leave you together; but re⯑member the character I have given you of him.

Now, Cupid! take the ſharpeſt arrow from your quiver, and convert it into a harpoon, to ſtrike this Leviathan in love for me!

I have ſhorten'd ſail, and left friend Bale's ſquadron, now in chace of his daughter, to come along-ſide of you, my little American packet.

Upon my word, Admiral, you pay me a very great compliment.

Not I, ſweetheart; I hope I'm too much of a ſeaman to pay compliments.—But, in few words, I like you; and, what's more, though 'tis full fifty [55]years ſince I was rated a Midſhipman, you are the firſt I ever ſtruck my colovrs to.

I proteſt, Admiral, its dangerous to liſten to you: you naval gentlemen are ſo uſed to conqueſt, nothing can reſiſt you.

I wiſh, fair Lady, I could make a conqueſt of your heart.

Make a prize of it, you ſhould ſay, Admiral.

If ſuch a prize had fallen into my hands, all the jewels in the ſalt ſeas, ſhould not ranſom it from me.

Hold, hold, Admiral: there are many cap⯑tures made, which do not turn out upon trial to be good prizes.

That's very true, Ma'am; but when there is any foul play in the caſe, the veſſel is diſcharg'd at Doctors Commons.

If I ſhould liſten to your profeſſions, how can I be certain that you are ſincere?

How do I know what degree of Latitude I am in, by taking an obſervation of the ſun when it is in the meridian?

Man is well expreſs'd by the ſun, before mar⯑riage; but I'm of opinion, the moon has more to do with him afterward: did you never take an obſerva⯑tion of that planet?

I don' know how it is, Ma'am, but this converſation appears to me a kind of traverſe ſailing; and then a woman trims ſo ſharp, ſhe always gets the weather gage of me?

You promiſe then to be conſtant?

As the needle to the north.

But marriage may prove an approach too cloſe, and when that happens, marriners report that there is always a great variation.

Madam, your wit enables you to fire two broadſides to my one; then let me aim a ſhot ever ſo well, it does no manner of execution, for want of ſtrength in my powder: having obliged me therefore [56]to drop a-ſtern, I wiſh to know, before I ſheer off, whe⯑ther I ſhall ever hoiſt my flag on board of the America.

Why, Admiral, my marriage depends entire⯑ly upon that of my couſin.

Prithee, how?

I made a ſolemn promiſe never to give my hand to any man, till ſhe was diſpoſed of to Mr. Summers; and here I make another promiſe, never to marry at all, if ſhe's weded to the Colonel.

That bears very hard upon me.

It does not ſingly, Sir—my reſolution is fix'd. Oh, that odious Colonel! it is he who has caus'd all our confuſion: I am told that he has declared, he will not leave the houſe without a wife.

Say you ſo? I'll try him—I'll ſend him a challenge, and make him eat his words; or he ſhall blow old Cable out of the water.

Not for the world! ſo precious do I hold your life, that to preſerve it, I'd even break my promiſe and marry him myſelf?

And leave me to founder! I tell you what, Ma'am, I'll make him an offer of my ſiſter—He can't want a wife, more than ſhe wants a huſband? to my knowledge ſhe has been theſe twenty years heaving out the lead, but never cou'd get into proper ſoundings.

Do you think he'll have her?

If he wants a wife ſo much, he will.

Well, do any thing but challenge him; try once more your influence with my uncle; 'twill break my heart if Charlotte's marriage with the Colonel ſhou'd oblige me to deny you.

Old and ſeaſon'd as my own heart is, ſuch an ac⯑cident wou'd go near ſtarting a plank in it. Well, Cable, you are come to your moorings at laſt—A wife has brought you too, and you'll have ſafe riding for the reſt of your life in the Downs—But hold, cries maſter Prudence, is it calm weather always in that quarter? Wives are a kind of ſmall craft, and when [57]they happen to carry but little ballaſt, a cap-full of wind overſets them.—Beſides, you are an old veſſel, Cable; fitter for a guard-ſhip than a convoy.—An old man of war may lie ſafe enough at the Nore, under doble anchors; and ſo may I at Bachelor's-Point with a ſingle hauſer; but ſhould either of us part from our ſtations, and the land ſqualls freſhen, why we may drive up in diſtreſs to Graveſend, and ground there.—Marriage is avoyage round the world; a man muſt expect to meet with all weathers before he completes it.—'Tis ſafe and pleaſant enough till we paſs the Cape of Good Hope; but it requires a ſhip without fault, and an able ſeaman, to double Cape Horn.

What, the refin'd, the reſerv'd, the ſentimental Miſs Bale, to elope after all!

You'd ſhape juſt the ſame courſe yourſelf, Kitty, if a young fellow to your mind propos'd the cruize.

I am always ſure of your good word, brother; but 'tis well known that Kitty Dreadnought is not one of the flirts of the preſent day.

No; your day is paſt: but chear up, my girl, after all I think I have hit upon a meſs-mate for you.

Upon my word, you have a moſt deli⯑cate mode of communicating your ſentiments!—Fix'd upon a meſs-mate for me!

I mean a huſband; that is, if we can per⯑ſuade him to have you—now, in that caſe you muſt know, that having caſt my eyes on a fair damſel, I mean myſelf to grapple; ſo we ſhall both be in the Bilboes.

Why, brother, have you any notion of marriage?

Yes, I have; I hope you don't think me too old for the ſervice?

Oh! not at all; old batchelors take young wives every day, and charming lives they lead of it.

None of your ſkits, Ma'am, or you ſhall lead ſomething elſe inſtead of a huſband.

But who is this charming ſwain you have choſen for your ſiſter?

What do you think of the Colonel who came down to marry Bale's daughter?

Lord, brother! what do you mean by propoſing a man to me for a huſband I never ſpoke to?

Spoke to!—Don't mind that; you'll make up your lee-way after marriage.—So, do you hear, Kitty; keep within my wake, and have a ſharp look-out—as ſoon as I make the ſignal, you may expect him to bear down immediately for the engagement.

This unexpected propoſal has put me all in a flutter—I ſhan't be able to look one of the family in the face, and they will ſo ſtare at me when the match comes to be talk'd of publicly!—I proteſt unmar⯑ried young women go through a great deal—the world takes a malicious pleaſure in putting them out of countenance.—But the trial ſcene will be, when he propoſes the thing to me himſelf!—My ſpirits will never ſupport me!

So you have never been married, Mr. Boreas?

Why, do you ſee, my pretty wench, I never met one to my mind before, tho' I have made as many voyages, and touched at as many ports, where ſalt water flows, as moſt navigators.

But, Mr. Boreas, won't the world ſay that you are rather too old for me?

Not at all—In chooſing a huſband, you ſhould act like an experienced carpenter, who always prefers ſeaſon'd oak to green timber.

Why, that's very true; and now I look at you again, I think your appearance wonderfully mended—better begin late than never.—I have often heard our gardener ſay, that if you nip a roſe⯑bud in the ſpring, it will bloſſom at Chriſtmas.—So now, as we are to be ſweethearts—and all that—I expect you'll do me a favour—

Ay, that I will—

Oh, Lord! that is n't the favour I wanted.

But I know it is—ſo come, don't be ſhame-faced.

No, no, Mr. Boreas!—The favour I wanted was, to try if you cou'dn't contrive to keep the Admiral here all night.

I'm under ſailing orders already.

But cou'dn't you appear as if you were a little overtaken in liquor?

Why, look'ee, ſweetheart!—I hate falſe ap⯑pearances of every kind—but if you'll contrive to get me the ſtuff, in leſs than an hour I'll contrive to be upon my beam-ends.

Then come along, and you ſhall have a bottle of Madeira to begin with.

This, Madam, is the houſe—you'll excuſe me leaving you in the dark; you ſhall have lights immediately.

This gentleman, though a ſtranger to me, is Summers's friend, and as ſuch I have relied on him. —Perhaps it was imprudent to accept of his protec⯑tion without knowing him better; but my fears de⯑prived me of all reflection.—I have one comfort, however, to think it is better being taken any where than home again.

For fear of diſcoveries, you ſee, Ma'am, I have brought the lights myſelf—and now I'll go for my dear Charlotte.

His dear Charlotte!—I find this lady and I are name-ſakes.—

—Can I credit my ſenſes?—Why, he has brought me to my own houſe!—What madneſs, to put myſelf in the power of an utter ſtranger! This man has been ſuborn'd by my father, and, under pretence of friendſhip for Summers, has betrayed me.—What ſhall I do?—Which way ſhall I turn me, to ſhun the [61]ruin hanging o'er my head!—There is no way of avoiding it; I reſign myſelf to my fate.

Who in the world can he have got with him?

She is belov'd by that friend I eſteem moſt upon earth; and as ſuch I beg you wou'd conſider her.

Your recommendation, Colonel, would go a great way towards winning my eſteem for any body; but one of my own ſex, and unhappy, has a claim upon my heart for every ſervice it can render her.

Generous girl! I expected you would ſay as much.—But come, let me make you and this lady acquainted.—Madam, give me leave

to introduce you.

Oh, Heavens! is it you?

What then, you know each other?

It ſeems, Sir, as if that ſurprized you!

It does, upon my ſoul! but I am very glad of it—for now, I ſuppoſe, I may leave you together without ceremony.

Whenever you pleaſe.

I am going to ſpeak to Mr. Bale.

Does he know nothing of my being here yet?

Not a ſyllable; but ſuppoſe I let him into the ſecret?

The ſooner the better; when that's over, my mind will be ſomewhat eaſier.

You are perfectly right, Ma'am; and therefore I'll go find him immediately.

Before you go, I inſiſt upon ſpeaking to you.

Yonder I ſee him walking along the gal⯑lery—don't let me loſe this opportunity—I muſt hit him to a ſecond, or there is no ſpeaking to him.

Stay, Colonel—Mountford, come back!

Can that poſſibly be Colonel Mountford?

He himſelf—by whatever wonderful turn of chance you came into his power.

I ſcarcely know myſelf—all I can tell you is, that I ſaw him in Summers' company; ſuppoſed him his friend, and put myſelf under his protection.

Then your being brought here, was a plot concerted between this man and your father?

Don't you perceive it?

Too plainly for my happineſs—and yet when I conſider the matter more maturely, I am half in⯑clined to think he did not know you—you remember his ſervant already took me for you; and he himſelf, to the laſt moment, addreſſed me by the name of Charlotte.

Grant that he might for ſome time have been under a miſtake of that nature; don't you ima⯑gine that my father has long ſince undeceiv'd him? no, it was a deep laid ſcheme, to impoſe on the cre⯑dulity of poor Summers.

If your ſuſpicions be well founded, he is the moſt accompliſhed of Hypocrites—when he recom⯑mended you juſt now to my protection, his words, his every look breathed nothing but ſincerity and com⯑paſſion.

The villain who wears his purpoſe in his face will be ſhunned; he muſt ſheath his dagger in a ſmile before he can wound with it.

Oh, that every heart was like mine, a ſtranger to diſſimulation! Why is the countenance made a maſk for the ſoul, when it ſhould be a mirror, in which every eye might behold the true features of the mind, in the deformity of vice, or the lovelineſs of virtue!

Now all's over, here he comes with my fa⯑ther!

I tell you Colonel, you are de⯑ceiv'd —it is not poſſible!

Eh! my eyes are none of the beſt; but if there be any dependance on them, that is my daugh⯑ter Charlotte.

Now, Angelica, what do you think of the honour of your Colonel?

Let us leave the room; the ſhock of being diſappointed in my opinion of him, is more than my ſpirits can bear.

Did you take notice of the other young lady in company with Miſs Bale?

Certainly I did.

Have you any objection to her continuing in the family a few days?

Objection! Zounds! what objection can I poſſibly have?

Why to-be ſure, Sir, you can have no rea⯑ſonable objection; and yet it's not one man in a thou⯑ſand who wou'd be ſo indulgent.

Indulgent do you call it? Damme! if I'd bid her quit my houſe, if ſhe choſe to remain in it theſe twenty years.

Truly, Sir, this is very kind, very kind of you indeed; and be aſ⯑ſured I ſhall ever gratefully remember the obligation?

Upon my word this is very pleaſant. But ſeriouſly, Colonel, do you think it ſuch a favour, that I permit my niece to continue in the houſe with her couſin?

What then, ſhe's your niece?

Only my brother's daughter.

Oh, the devil! I have made a charming blunder, to bring a woman who had eloped, to the houſe of her uncle—I might as well have brought her to her father's.

A word in your ear, Sir.

I am ſo perplex'd with falſe appearances on every ſide, that I cannot diſtinguiſh between the ſha⯑dow and the ſubſtance. Well, if Charlotte did elope, it is evident the Colonel knows nothing of the matter; and it's not my buſineſs to undeceive him— there is ſomething very extraordinary in all this! and yet there may be method in it, if I cou'd find it out.

Go warn him inſtantly of his danger.

Sir, Mr. Summers is in the houſe.

Summers! what a piece of aſſurance!

Don't be angry with him, Sir; for he never wou'd have come here, if I had n't ſuggeſted the ſcheme.

O, then this was a ſcheme of your ſug⯑geſting?

Entirely—and as he has taken up his quar⯑ters with you, I hope you won't drive him out of the garriſon.

There are certain quarters in Moorfields that I think will become your garriſon.

Come, come, Mr. Bale, you muſt be poor Summers's friend—nay, I inſiſt upon it.—If you knew how many good qualities he poſſeſſed, by Heaven! you wou'd regard him as a ſon.

Zounds! wou'd you wiſh that he was my ſon?

I wiſh he was your nephew.

I inſiſt upon admittance.

Mr. Bale, you may think it extraordinary to ſee me in your houſe—but do not attribute my preſence to either diſreſpect, or any intention of in⯑jury; before I came here I was trepann'd by a falſe friend.

Damme! if I don't think you both were trepan'd.

Was it at me, Summers, you levell'd that inſinuation?

At you, Mountford—once the friend of my bo⯑ſom, who has ſtung my heart, becauſe he was neareſt to it.

Was ever any thing ſo unreaſonable as this man? I was juſt making your peace with Mr. Bale.

Perfidious Hypocrite! do not attempt any longer to impoſe on my credulity—why did n't you avow the truth like a man, when you knew my paſ⯑ſion for Charlotte?

For whom?

For my daughter—whom this good friend of your's was endeavouring to ſteal away from you.

He pretended love to your niece.

That was all a pretence to impoſe upon you.

Dare you maintain to my face, Summers, that it is to the daughter of this gentleman your pretenſions aſpire?

Dare I?—I never will reſign my claim to her, but with my life!

Then you ſhall win her at the hazard of that life.—Draw, thou diſhonour to the name of friend!

Ay, this is acting the villain with con⯑ſiſtency!

What, friends and allies exchanging broad⯑ſides! —Break up the line, I ſay, immediately!

'Tis no matter, Colonel—though we are in⯑terrupted now, depend upon it, you ſhall not carry off the prize ſo eaſily.

'Tis very well, Sir; but I wiſh you would carry yourſelf out of my houſe.

No, Mr. Bale—let him ſtay till I convince him that his paſſion for my dear Charlotte is ridicu⯑louſly ill-founded; as a proof of it, Summers, here I ſolemnly engage to reſign all claim to her, if ſhe gives you the preference.

No, no, Colonel—there is no ſuch generoſity about you!

By Heaven! I am ſerious—and here comes the lady to ratify my ſincerity.

My dear Charlotte!—

No, Sir, here is your dear Charlotte—and if ſhe declares—

Before I hear any more declarations from you, Colonel, tell me who do you think that lady is?

Your daughter, Sir, to be ſure!—my ever adorable Charlotte!

She may be your ever adorable—but ſhe hap⯑pens to be my niece Angelica!

Is this true, Ma'am?

It is even ſo, Sir—but I hope it was not to a name that you have been making ſo many paſſionate profeſſions?

Madam, your beauty, your accompliſh⯑ments, have rivetted fetters upon my heart, no earthly power can break aſunder!

Though matters are not taking the turn I could wiſh, there is ſomething like the appearance of method at laſt.—Well, Colonel, as there can be no more miſtakes, let me introduce you to the real Char⯑lotte, who is to be your wife.

I beg leave to withdraw my claim, Sir, in favor of my friend Summers, who, I hope, is now convinc'd I never entertain'd a thought of taking his miſtreſs from him. Your beauteous niece—

What the devil, Sir! are you going to annul the bargain between your father and me?—Beſides, Sir, my beauteous niece is diſpos'd of.

What! without my own conſent?

Diſpos'd of! to whom?

To my friend here, the Admiral—this [...]ine old ſeaman; that, if all our Commanders were like him, not a power in Europe dare fire a gun upon the ſeas without the conſent of England.

Avaſt, avaſt! friend Bale!—Flattery is a quickſand, and let us ſteer clear of it.—The lady is about to be put in commiſſion with a better officer. —When you propos'd the match to me, I knew no⯑thing of there being younger claims in queſtion; if I had, be aſſured I ſhould not be ſo much out of my latitude.

So, I am left in the lurch by all parties!

What, when a fine young fellow, with a good fortune, is looking out for the fair wind of your conſent to marry your daughter?—Friend Bale, for a long time I have had a great regard for you; but I am ſorry to remark, that, in this caſe, you have put to ſea more with a view to making a prize, than doing the duty which honor requires of you.—Some fathers treat their children as if they were trafficking in gold duſt and elephants teeth, and had forgot that the ſlave trade was aboliſhed in England.

Between ourſelves, Admiral, as my daughter went off with him, and this Colonel won't have her, I ſhould have no objection to giving my conſent, only I am afraid I ſhall loſe my character for ever by it, as a man of method.

But you'll gain a point in the other courſe, and eſtabliſh your character as a man of underſtanding.

Well, Summers, as Charlotte appears deter⯑min'd to have nobody but you, I'll let the Colonel ſee he ſhan't overturn all my calculations.—You ſhall have my daughter; but you muſt get into Par⯑liament as faſt as you can.—I expected to ſee a branch [68]of my family in the Houſe of Peers; but I am deter⯑min'd not to be ſhut out of both Houſes.

You are come too late, Kitt; there's not a ſweetheart left for you, unleſs my friend Bale will have you.

You take a pleaſure, brother, in put⯑ting me out of countenance.—Truly, if every body thought as little of the ſubject as I do!—

Come, come, Miſs Kitty, don't be offended with the Admiral; now Charlotte's off my hands, I conſider myſelf a ſpruce batchelor again, and if the fair Miſs Dreadnought—

Mr. Bale, let me beg of you!—I aſſure you, Sir, this is converſation I have not been uſed to.

Not theſe fifteen years, to my knowledge.

Colonel, give me your hand—we are friends once more. Take notice, Summers, that I have ſet down in the future arrangements of my family, a Biſhop, and a General Officer. Good folks, I have a band of muſic, and an excellent ſupper provided—if it is not ſpoil'd by being over-done. [Looks at his watch.] Od'ſo [...] it is fifteen minutes paſt ten!—In conſequence of the viciſſitudes of this day, I ſhall ſup later by an hour and a quarter than I have theſe twenty years. Angelica, my girl, I'll be your father when you go to church—and as you are reſolved to ſettle on this ſide of the Weſtern Ocean, the firſt toaſt after ſupper ſhall be, The union of England and America!