[] FALSE IMPRESSIONS: A COMEDY.

AHA! very good, very good. Here I am again—no bad night's work—pretty fairiſh job—patient none the better, myſelf none the worſe—tipt two guineas for ſitting up with old Lady Cypreſs—ſlept comfortably in an eaſy chair— nibbled a cold chicken with my Lady's woman— tiff'd a can of flip with the old butler—crib'd a kiſs or two from the ſweet lips of Mrs. Rachel, and gave her a box of cardamums and a bottle of elder-flower water in return for the favour—So far, ſo good—Well done, Jerry Scud!—Holloa! Jack, boy, puppy! where are you?

Here am I, maſter.

Fetch my ſlippers, ſirrah! Take off my boots.

My dear Jenny can't abide boots; very right, very reaſonable; ſoil the carpet, dawb her petti⯑coats, annoy her olfactories—No wonder—delicate [2] darling my Jenny—ſweet pretty creature—perfect poſey of a woman—

So, ſo, ſo! take hold, ſirrah; pull away! That will do, that will do—ſet my flippers—red moroccos— ſtockings not ſoil'd—pretty well off there—Now, puppy Jack, where's your miſtreſs?

Don't know.

How does ſhe do?

Can't tell.

Is ſhe at home?

An't ſure.

Was ſhe at home laſt night, or was ſhe out?

Both: ſometimes in, ſometimes out.

You're a fool. Had ſhe company?

No, no; no company.

Poor dear Jenny! What, quite alone?

No, no; not quite alone.

Jackanapes, didn't you tell me ſhe had no company?

Yes I did; becauſe why? ſhe bade me let no company in; yet ſhe wasn't quite alone by her⯑ſelf, becauſe young Squire Algernon was alone with her.

The devil and his dam! I'm done for. Get out of my fight! begone! away with you!

Ah Jenny, Jenny, Jenny! You are bent upon ſending your poor huſband to heaven ſome day or other, when it rains while the ſun ſhines—How now, Peter!

Is there any alteration to be made in Lady Cypreſs's medicines?

None at all, none; draughts ſicut ante.

They do no good.

They do no harm.

They are a mere chip in porridge—Con⯑ſerve of roſes will never cure an aſthma.

I know it; what then? A patient cur'd is a cuſtomer loſt. In one word therefore, repeta⯑tur hauſtus.

Be it ſo! let nature do the work herſelf; our practice wont puzzle her.

Miſerable man that I am; my Jenny tête-a-tête with Harry Algernon!—a rake, a rogue, a rantipole. Hah! here ſhe comes—

Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, fair as a lily, come to my arms! Out all night—ſigh'd for my darling—counted the minutes—terrible long ab⯑ſence—how did you bear it?—Doubt you've been loneſome—

Not at all; far from it. Harry Algernon has been here.

What does he want? Nothing to ſay to him.

But you'll hear what he has to ſay to you.

Let him ſay it to me only. Not fit com⯑pany for jewel Jenny.

Ridiculous! He only wants a little of your intereſt with Lady Cypreſs.—Apropos! he has brought you half a buck.

Let him take his half buck home again. Wou'dn't name his name to Lady Cypreſs for all the veniſon in his father's park.

Hav'n't you nam'd his name to Lady [4] Cypreſs? I doubt you have, Jerry, oftener than you ought, and in a way you ſhou'd be aſham'd of.

Only ſaid what lawyer Earling ſaid—al⯑ways had the law o' my ſide.

On which ſide was truth? on which ſide was gratitude? Recollect yourſelf.

What ſhou'd I recollect?

I'll tell you.—Your adventure at Barn⯑ſtable races, when in the pride of your heart you muſt ſhew off in your new gig forſooth; and where wou'd you have been now if the very man you have defam'd hadn't ſav'd your life at the peril of his own?

He did, he did—I don't deny it. Tit run reſtive—tipt me over a wheelbarrow—tumbled un⯑der his heels—might have been kick'd to atoms— ſurgeon's work as it was—ſnapt my arm—well it was not my neck—much obliged to Harry Alger⯑non—never ſpoke againſt him ſince.

Speak for him, man; 'tisn't enough you do not ſpeak againſt him: liberate your conſcience.

Jenny, Jenny, liberate my conſcience, as you call it, and I ſhall liberate my cuſtomers; if Harry Algernon will be a rantipole; if his women and his wine, his racing and his revelling, have croſs'd him out of the old lady's books, how am I to blame?

Well, well, 'tisn't your buſineſs to ſet the worſt ſide of his character to view; you have be⯑nefited by his courage and humanity—why don't you talk of them, and hold your tongue about his frailties?

My tongue can do nobody any harm. [5] I tell you it is all up with him: lawyer Earling has done his buſineſs. If ever he enters my lady's doors, or touches a ſhilling of her fortune while he breathes, ſet me down for a fool and a falſe prophet.

Suppoſe he does not aim at touching a ſhilling of her fortune; ſuppoſe he only wants— but here he comes, and will tell you what he wants.

Ah, Jerry, my worthy fellow, give me your hand, give me your help.—No, no, that's not the point at preſent—take your fingers off my pulſe.

Very high, let me tell you—very full— gallops at a furious rate.

Expectation raiſes it, hope quickens it; love is my diſeaſe; and if you don't ſtand my friend, diſappointment will be my death.

Love! Can't cure love—troubled enough to cure the conſequences of it.

Hark ye, Jerry, you are an intimate of Lady Cypreſs; I, though her neareſt of kin, am an exile. Within her caſtle lives the idol of my ſoul, Emily Fitzallan; obtain for me an interview with her, and though you can't cure love, you may reſcue me from death, and then you may fairly boaſt of having ſav'd one man's life by your practice.

Can't do't—not poſſible—fair Emily never goes out of the caſtle.

Therefore it is I want to go into it.

Hopeleſs caſe—not upon the chances— Old Lady won't bear to look upon you.

I'll excuſe her if I may but look upon the young one: manage that for me, my good fellow.— [6] Nobody knows me; nobody can find me out; I'm a ſtranger to the whole family.

And ſo you are likely to remain.

Come, come, Jerry, caſt about; be good natur'd, and contrive ſome errand or pretence to introduce him. If there is a little danger, ſurely you may riſque it for the preſerver of your life.

Fooliſh ſcheme, jewel Jenny, fooliſh ſcheme.—Won't do.

Have you no medicines to ſend in? Can't I perſonate your peſtle and mortar-man?

Not you; I keep no ſuch peſtle and mor⯑tar-man in my ſhop.

But you keep a heart in your body, and a memory in your brains, therefore you muſt ſtand for me as I have ſtood for you.

Huſh! here comes Simon Single, the keeper of the caſtle. Leave me with him, and I warrant I have a key to his caſtle.

Angel of my hope, into your hands I com⯑mit my cauſe.

Aye, aye, leave your cauſe, and quit your company.

Welcome, welcome, my good friend!

Glad to ſee you, pretty Mrs. Jane.

So you are taking your rounds this fair morning, Mr. Simon.

Better take them than Jerry's doſes.

I agree with you.

So wou'd not they perhaps.

And how are all cronies at the caſtle? How does the venerable virgin Mrs. Buckram, [7] pretty Rachel Williams, and the reſt of the fair nuns?

Name 'em not; you have not left your fellow. What is Rachel Williams? a baby.

Well, but Mrs. Buckram—ſhe is no baby.

No, o' my word; ſhe is of the race of the Anakims.

No matter for that, friend Simon; you'll marry Buckram.

No, no, that buckram ſhall never ſtick in my ſkirts. Harapha of Gath wou'dn't marry her. I am no knight-errant to encounter giants.

I ſhou'd think ſo; for if you were a true knight, you wou'd not ſleep before you had ſet free your lovely priſoner, Emily Fitzallan.

There's one a-coming will do that. Fair Emily will be a wife before you'll be a widow. Young Montrath is the man for her; he's expected every day with his uncle Sir Oliver. It is all agreed upon, and my lady's whole fortune will be ſettled on Miſs Emily. There's a ſtart for you—there's a ſally from dependance to proſperity; from wanting every thing to poſſeſſing all.

And nothing left to Harry Algernon?

Yes, patience if he poſſeſſes it, and an ill-name whether he merits it or not.

Well, I can't ſee the juſtice of all this.

Who can, where lawyer Earling is con⯑cerned? That puppy of an attorney lords it over the whole caſtle; and now we are in the buſtle of ſetting out Miſs Emily in a ſtile before Sir Oliver arrives. There are fine dreſſes to be made, fine [8] apartments to be furniſhed, and freſh ſervants to be hir'd for the heireſs.

Say you ſo? freſh ſervants? Are you full? If not, I can recommend you ſuch a lacquey—the very man of men—Jerry ſhall bring him to you.

Bring him yourſelf; lead him over in a white bridle, and let me judge of his points and his paces.

You ſhall—my life for your's, Miſs Emily will be charm'd with him.

Adieu! time flies when I am with you. Once more, adieu! I ſhall expect you. I hope you are happy with your little doctor; but I muſt think you were much too fine a flower to be pluckt by an apothecary, and ſtuck into a gallipot.

He's off; you may come out of your hiding hole; the coaſt is clear.

Now, my fair advocate, what have you done for me? Is there any hope?

Of the old lady's fortune, none; your aunt has not left you a ſhilling.

I'm glad of it.

I wonder why.

Miſs Emily is to have the whole.

I'm ſorry for it.

I wonder wherefore.

I'll tell you then. Had my aunt bequeath'd to me her fortune, ſhe wou'd have probably re⯑ſtricted me from marrying Emily; having given it to Emily, ſhe has doubtleſs tied her up from marrying me. Had ſhe done neither one nor the other, I have enough to maintain her, and the prize had been my own.

And ſo ſhe ſhall; I've a project for your meeting.

I doubt if I ought to ſeek it.

Very true; lay it aſide altogether; it will bring a plaguy deal of miſchief upon me, and do no good to you.

Tell it me however.

You'll comprehend it at once. There is a proper valet to be hir'd for the heireſs, fit to wait upon her perſon, and grace the back of her chair at table.

I can't do it; I am not equal to the taſk; I can't approach ſo near, and yet refrain. When ſhe ſpoke to me, I ſhou'd be loſt; when ſhe look'd on me, I ſhou'd betray myſelf; and when I hand⯑ed her the plate, I ſhould preſent it on my knee.

Aye, then you wou'd be vollied out of the window, and I kick'd out of the doors. Now, ſilly Jenny, what's become of your project?

Hold there! tho' dangerous in the extreme it is not altogether deſperate. If I cannot under⯑take the offices you deſcribe, I may yet preſent myſelf as a candidate for her ſervice; and in that character perhaps obtain an interview with my charmer. That hope is worth an effort.

It isn't worth a farthing, and will be pounds and pounds out of my way. Curſed ſcrape, fooliſh Jenny, curſed ſcrape!

But where ſhall I get a proper dreſs to ap⯑pear in?

No where; you can't appear at all.

Fear nothing; I'll provide you with a dreſs.

Egad, ſhe has a proviſion for every thing.

Who but muſt conquer that is armed by the fair? There is a raſcal in the family, Earling by name, who has ſlanderouſly defam'd me; I'll wring his ears from his head.

Take care; Earling is an attorney, and if he has any ears you will pay for wringing them; if he has none, you'll be puzzled to lay hold of them.

Come, Jerry, I ſee what ſtaggers you; you are afraid of loſing the old lady's cuſtom.

You are right; I am. She takes phyſic, and you take pleaſure.

Mark me! I'll not promiſe you to ſwallow as many medicines as ſhe does; but, come what will, I'll guarantee you againſt all loſſes incurr'd on my account; ſo fear nothing, but come on. Diſcretion I can't boaſt of, but in honour I will never be found wanting.

That's enough, that's enough! Deal upon honour and I am with you. I love to do a good natur'd action when there's nothing to be loſt by it.

Enter, enter, Mr. Earling: you come upon a wiſh.

Ever prompt to approve myſelf your lady⯑ſhip's moſt devoted and moſt abſolute humble ſervant, upon a wiſh I come, upon a word I vaniſh.

I am ſatisfied with your diligence; you may ſpare yourſelf the trouble of deſcribing it.

I am dumb.

Have you the memorandums about you, that I dictated?

If my tears have not defac'd them. Be⯑lieve me, gracious lady, when I ſaw my own name ſet down to a bequeſt ſo munificent, I was cover'd with bluſhes, I was choak'd with gratitude.

Out with it then, out with your name, if ſuch is the effect, and write in Algernon's; I warrant gratitude will not choak him.

Good, very good! Your ladyſhip has the gift of rallying me in the moſt pleaſant way out of my metaphors. Choak is a figure ſomewhat of the ſtrongeſt.

Why yes, and I ſhou'd think you may venture upon the legacy, and riſque the effects of it; ſo copy out your paper when you pleaſe.

I'll ſet my clerks upon it out of hand.

You'll ſet the world upon it when I'm out of it, for you have totally caſhier'd Harry Algernon, and he is the ſon of my ſiſter.

And your ſiſter was the wife of his father, and his father was your unremitting perſecutor, who vex'd you with a ſuit in chancery for ten long years, and ten might have been added to ten, had it not been that I—I ſpeak modeſtly of myſelf; I am no egotiſt—I ſpeak ſimply of number one, and nobody elſe, for your barriſter was a cypher—

But a cypher put to number one adds no trifle to its value; ſo the upſhot is, you gain'd the ſuit, and I paid the coſts—a victory little to be envied—and, after all, is it juſt and equitable the ſon ſhould ſuffer for the father's faults?

O jus et aequum! as if he had not faults enough of his own to warrant your excluſion of him.

I have heard enough of his faults I confeſs, if you are correct in deſcribing them. If you have deceiv'd me—

I! I deceive you! I defame your nephew! I who have never ſpoke of his offences but with regret and ſorrow; never brought a ſtory to your ears, but with the view of intercepting malice and ſoftening down impreſſions; I deceive you! then where is truth and virtue?

Both in ſight, as I ſhou'd hope—for Emily appears.

I humbly take my leave. Miſs Emily, I'm your's—Humph! not a word! Your faithful friend to ſerve you. Not a look? Upſtart! I'll marry the old lady, and cut her out of every ſhil⯑ling—I will.

Approach, my dear! Come near me. I muſt talk with you. Well! You have been to ſee the apartment I have newly furniſhed—and do you like it, Emily?

'Tis elegant in the extreme—'tis ſump⯑tuous.

'Tis your's, my dear; it is to grace my Emily that I have deck'd it out.

For me ſuch finery?

Child of my heart, for you. All I poſſeſs is your's.

I hope you will not tempt me to forget that I was poor and humble.

I hope not: nature has endow'd you with admirable qualities; proſperity, I truſt, will not pervert them. It does not quite come on you by ſurprize: you cou'd not well ſuppoſe I ſhou'd adopt the ſon of my moſt unrelenting perſecutor.

I did not dare to reaſon in that caſe.

But you muſt know how worthleſs in himſelf, how undeſerving of my favour is he, who, in reſpect of conſanguinity, is the only perſon that cou'd ſuperſede you.

You ſpeak of Mr. Algernon.

I do; I ſpeak of him, whom no one ſpeaks of but with reproach and ſcorn.

I do confeſs I've heard much evil ſpeak⯑ing, but 'twas from one who ſhou'd have more reſpect for truth and decency than to traduce the nephew to the aunt.

What do you mean? Wou'd you defend a libertine?

No, madam, I defend no libertine; but you will not be angry if I avow that I deteſt a li⯑beller. If he, who thus has poiſon'd your opinion, knows not the character, the manners, habits, ſen⯑timents, connections, perhaps not even the out⯑ward form and feature of the man, whoſe fame he mangles, can I be to blame if I implore you, for the love of juſtice, to hear before you ſtrike?

What is this, Emily? What is this warmth?

Honeſt, not prudent; out of time and place, but ſtill ſincere, tho' raſh.

You call on me to hear before I ſtrike; I now demand if you that ſtrike have heard? [14] Do you know Algernon? Have you convers'd with him?

Madam, I have.

You have! when, where? he comes not hither; never was admitted, never will be, within theſe doors. Aſtoniſhing that you ſhou'd dare to tell me you have made acquaintance with this profligate.

Hear my defence.—You gave me leave to paſs a little time, for change of air after my late confinement, at your Hill-farm. One evening I had rambled about a mile from home, when upon entering a little copſe, thro' which my footpath led, judge of my horror, when a villain, ſuch I muſt call him, ſurpriz'd me, ſeiz'd me, and in ſpite of cries, prayers and entreaties—

Merciful providence! what do you tell me?

A dreadful tale I ſhou'd have had to tell, or died ere I cou'd tell it, had not heaven ſent me a reſcue, a brave brave preſerver, who with a ſoul all fire, and motion quick as lightning, ſprung on the aſſailant, graſp'd him in his arms, and after a contention, furious tho' ſhort, hurl'd him to the ground, breathleſs, and maim'd with bruiſes.— Which of theſe merits the name of profligate? Not be that ſav'd me—It was Algernon.

Algernon do you ſay? My worthleſs nephew Algernon! Take care!

Renounce me if I tell you an untruth.

I'm all aſtoniſhment. Who was the aſſailant?

Madam, I know not. Your heroic [15] nephew bore me half dead and fainting to my houſe; 'twas not till then I knew him to be Alger⯑non. He ſtaid with me no longer than till the care of the good people had recovered me: the next morning I return'd to the caſtle, fearing to remain any longer in ſo ſolitary a place. Of Algernon, I ſaw no more. Now ſuffer me to aſk, is this the conduct of a profligate?

'Tis a ſtrange ſtory.

'Tis a true one, madam.

Why have you kept it to yourſelf thus long? You've been return'd two days.

Becauſe until this hour I have not ſeen your ſpirits in a ſtate to bear the ſlighteſt agitation.

And do you think the agitation ſlight that I now ſuffer? No, I ſee your danger, Emily; I ſee your weak credulity, and much I fear you'll find yourſelf the dupe of Algernon. What buſineſs cou'd he have at my Hill-farm?

Madam, your tenant's wife nurs'd Mr. Algernon.

She never ſhou'd have nurs'd you, Emily, or harbour'd you one moment, had I known it.

That's hard; but I muſt ſuffer and be ſilent.

Be ſilent then, and go to your cham⯑ber; there you may meditate on what you have been, and call to mind, with timely recollection, what you may be again.

HARK! 'tis the porter's bell—run to the hall, and tell me if Sir Oliver's arriv'd.

Madam, he's here: Sir Oliver is preſent.

Welcome, moſt welcome! May I truſt my ſenſes? This is above hope that you and I ſhould live to meet again.

My ever dear, my ever honour'd lady!

Time has gone lightly over you, my friend! You, that have travers'd ſea and land, are whole; I, that have tempted neither, am be⯑come a ſhatter'd wreck on ſhore.

Not ſo, not altogether ſo, thank heaven! Time is a ſurly gueſt, whoſe courteſy does not improve by long acquaintance with us; but we'll not rail at him ſince he permits us once more to meet.—And here's the ſame old caſtle ſtill unſpoilt by modern foppery; aye, and the ſame old grand ſires firm in their frames with not one wrinkle more than when I parted from them years ago.

Aye, years indeed—but you have fill'd them up with glory; your's has been a life of themes for future hiſtory, a field of laurels to adorn your tomb—mine has been tame and ſimple vege⯑tation.

I have liv'd a ſoldier's life; but, heaven [31] be thank'd, I've plunder'd no nabob, ſtript no rajah of his pearls and pagodas, nor have I any blood upon my ſword, but what a ſoldier's honour may avow—but you have here a relict of my gal⯑lant comrade major Antony Fitzallan. He was wounded by my ſide, carried off the field, and died in my arms. With his laſt breath he bequeath'd ('twas all he had to beſtow) a bleſſing to his daugh⯑ter, and charg'd me, if I liv'd to come to England, to thank you for your charity, and be a friend to her.

I truſt you'll find her worthy of your friendſhip.

Is ſhe good, is ſhe amiable? Has ſhe her father's principles, her mother's purity?

See her and judge; ſhe's naturally ſincere—but where's your nephew? where is Mr. Lionel? — I reckon'd with much pleaſure upon ſeeing him.

Ah, my good lady, there I am unfortu⯑nate. I had built upon the hopes of preſenting him to you; but it cannot be at preſent. Poor Lionel is indiſpos'd, and muſt bear his diſappoint⯑ment with what philoſophy he can.

The diſappointment is reciprocal—a little time I hope will bring him to us.

I wiſh it may—but look! who comes—

This is my orphan charge—This is our Emily.

The very image of her lovely mother.

My dear, this is Sir Oliver Montrath, mine and your father's friend; as ſuch you'll honour him.

As ſuch I claim the privilege to embrace and preſs her to my heart. My child, my charge, devolv'd upon me by a father's legacy, when breath⯑ing out his gallant ſoul in prayers and bleſſings for his Emily.

Oh ſir, was you, was you beſide him at that dreadful moment?

I was, my child! theſe arms ſupported him, cover'd with wounds, and crown'd with vic⯑tory—alas! how dearly purchas'd.

Then let his laſt commands be ever ſa⯑cred; if you have any ſuch in charge to give me, impart them, I conjure you.

I have none but bleſſings to impart. In fortune's gifts the hero had no ſhare, in virtue's he abounded. In the care of this your generous benefactreſs he had left you; to that and heaven's protection he bequeath'd you.

I am content; and what before I ow'd in gratitude to this beneficent and noble lady, I now will pay with filial obedience and duty ſuper⯑added. Suffer me, deareſt madam, from this mo⯑ment to call myſelf your daughter.

As ſuch I have adopted you; re⯑member now, my child, the duty you have taken on yourſelf, the authority you have conſign'd to me. All rights parental center now in me; your happineſs, your credit, your eſtabliſhment, are truſts for which I am reſponſible.—You have no other taſk but to obey.

Obedience, madam, has its limitations; but ſuch as I would render to my father I'll pay to you. Have I your leave to withdraw?

You may, my dear; your ſpirits ſeem to need it.—Go and compoſe yourſelf.

Exquiſite creature! I'm enchanted with her. By heaven! 'twould be the heighth of my ambition, the object I have moſt at heart in life, to ſee my Lionel—Oh that I cou'd!—here kneeling at her feet.—Born of ſuch parents, train'd by ſuch inſtructions, and grac'd with charms ſo lovely, Emily, without a fortune, is a match for princes.

If ſuch is your diſintereſted wiſh (and greater happineſs I could not pray for) I truſt my fortune thrown into her ſcale will not make her ap⯑pear leſs worthy of your nephew, or cauſe you to retract your good opinion.

No, ſurely; but I doubt if I ſhould wiſh your fortune to go out of the right channel even to Emily. We that have never married ſhould regard our nephews as our ſons.

But does affinity impoſe on me an obligation to beſtow my property on one that me⯑rits nothing, to the wrong of her that merits all?

Is that the character of Algernon? Is he ſo undeſerving?

Ah there, my friend, there is my ter⯑ror; the deſtiny I dread; the man of all men living the moſt dangerous to my peace is Algernon.

Indeed!

Preſerve my Emily from him—ſave her from Algernon!

Is Algernon then born to be a curſe to both of us?

Explain yourſelf.

He is your nephew, therefore I was ſilent, but if he's dangerous to your peace of mind, to mine he's fatal—in one word, the wound of which my hapleſs Lionel now languiſhes was given by the hand of Algernon.

Horrible wretch!—his murderer.—

I ſay not that; for modern courteſy gives not that name to duelliſts, and honour ſanc⯑tifies their bloody deeds.

Away with all ſuch honour! Truth diſavows it, nature revolts from it, religion de⯑nounces it—Oh! he is born to be my ſhame and torment.

Be patient for a while; ſuſpend your judgment.

No, I regard a duelliſt with horror; I hold him as an agent of the enemy of mankind, ſent to diſturb ſociety, and rend the parent's and the widow's hearts aſunder: one action, one only action, and that a doubtful one, had met my ear in favour of that wretch whom I call nephew, and henceforth even that one I totally diſcredit, and renounce him.

Hold, I conjure you. In the midſt of wrath let us remember juſtice. I, like you, abhor a duelliſt profeſt; yet I am taught by long expe⯑rience how to make allowances for younger ſpirits, and warmer paſſions, that will not ſubmit to meet the world's contempt, and ſcorn its prejudices.

Away! you talk this language by profeſſion; reaſon declares againſt it.

Reaſon demands that we ſhould pauſe [35] in judgment. When two men draw their ſwords upon each other, reaſon will tell us one muſt be to blame; but ere we ſix the blame upon that one, juſtice decrees that we ſhould hear them both.

What ſays your nephew? He will ſpeak the truth.

I ſhould expect he would; yet I'll not wholly truſt to any man's report againſt another in his own cauſe; and in this ſentiment my nephew honourably coincides, for he declines all anſwer to my queſtions, and will ſtate nothing to affect or criminate his antagoniſt—Hah! who is this?

Go, go! I did not ſend for you.

I know it; but I wiſh to ſpeak in private with Sir Oliver Montrath.

With me? Who is this man? I do not know him. Is he one of your ladyſhip's do⯑meſtics?

No; he made offer of his ſervices, but upon talking with him I perceiv'd he had a liſt of grievances to ſtate, and not being then at leiſure, I believe I told him he might wait your coming, and make his ſuit to you.

And ſo he may—his looks plead in his cauſe. Is it your wiſh to ſpeak with me, young man?

It is.

Alone?

Alone, if you'll permit it.

Freely; and when I can command my time, it ſhall be your's. I'll call for you.

I ſhall attend your ſummons.

I'm curious what this man can have to tell me. Do you conjecture?

There is a myſtery about him. He ſays he is a gentleman by birth, and ſo far I believe him. Of what he had to tell beſides I wav'd the hearing, but offer'd him relief: that did not ſeem his object, nor was it mine to take a gentleman into my ſervice. But you will know the whole—ſhall we adjourn and ſee what is become of Emily?

With all my heart; and hope the mournful ſubject of our laſt interview may be no more reviv'd.

So! whence come you? who are you? what's your buſineſs?

Sir, I don't know you.

Not know me? that's much. You muſt be new indeed.

Are you that worthy gentleman Mr. Ear⯑ling?

I am the very perſon.

Heaven reward you! Your fame is ſounded forth thro' all the county.

Are you not hir'd to wait on Miſs Fitz⯑allan?

No, Sir, my character don't ſeem to re⯑commend me to the Lady Cypreſs. If you wou'd ſpeak for me 'twou'd make my fortune.

How can I ſpeak for you, whom I don't know?

'Twou'd be as eaſy as to ſpeak againſt me.

But I do neither; I have no concern with you or with your character.

Indeed! they told me you was famous for it.

For what is it I'm famous?

For ſpeaking about characters you've no concern with; therefore I pray you, ſir, take mine in hand, and do me juſtice. I ſuſpect ſome villain has cruelly defam'd me.—Doesn't an action lie for that at law?

Go! you're a fool; begone!

I am a fool to aſk a knave for juſtice.

Knave! do you call me knave? I'll trounce you, ſirrah! I'll blow you to the moon, audacious beggar! Ah, maſter Doctor, do you know that raſcal?

I know ſeveral raſcals, but which of them do you mean?

That impudent new comer, that mad fel⯑low, that dares to inſult me in my lady's houſe.— Call me a knave indeed, and to my face—did you ever hear ſuch inſolence?

Never, never: If he had only ſaid it behind your back, why 'twere but quid for quo; it would have paſs'd; but to your face—Oh monſtrous!

I'll ſet him in the ſtocks; I'll have his ears nailed to the whipping poſt.

No, don't do that; if whipping-poſts had ears, they'd hear the cries of thoſe that are tied to them, and pity them.

Pooh! you're as great a fool as he me⯑thinks: [38] I've done with you.—Look to yourſelf, Sir Ga [...]ipot, your reign will not be long on this ground, take my word for it.

There, there, there! I'm blown up, ouſted, all is over with me. Thought to have had my lady's cuſtom till her death—perceive now ſhe will be one of the few patients that out live my preſcriptions.— Oh fine work, fine work!

How now, friend Scud; what ails you?

Friend! call me fool. I'm ruin'd by my friendſhip. You've play'd the devil's dance with that damn'd lawyer, and ſet him whip and ſpur upon my back.

Why that's his proper place: back-biting is his trade.

And what's my trade, do you think? where ſhall I drive it? my gallipots may grow into the ſhelves for everlaſting, if I'm to be made the cat's-paw of your ſchemes and fooliſh Jenny's—but I'll go tell my lady all about you.

No, no, you'll not do that, my little Scud.

I'll tell you what I won't do—loſe my cuſ⯑tomer.

Aye, but conſider what an ornament your ears are to your head, and you'll loſe them incon⯑tinently if you betray me.

My ears indeed! look to your own; the lawyer has ſworn to nail them to the whipping poſt. I've got a wig, ſo have not you, my maſter. Be⯑ſides, I'm not quite certain but my lady's cuſtom will be the greater loſs.—She takes a world of phyſic.

Who talks of phyſic? I've the beſt of medicines—a caſe of old canary, which my lady has order'd us to tap, and drink a welcome to our noble gueſt, Sir Oliver Montrath.—I've put my lips to it: 'tis ſupernacu [...]m.

I ſee you have; I ſee 'tis ſupernaculum, for ſome of it has got under your wig already.

My wig, no, no, Dame Dorothy ſet that awry with a kind cuff o'the ear.

You put your lips to her too, it ſhould ſeem.

Perhaps I did, but that's all buckram, Doctor. Ah Henry, give me your hand. Stand faſt, my gallant hearts; lo, where ſhe comes again, a portly ſail right on upon our convoy. My life upon't, ſhe's bound to the Canaries.

Oh thou raſh youth, thou haſt undone thy⯑ſelf. Earling has vow'd thy ruin.

He has vow'd my ruin too, and that is one of the few vows that he will keep religiouſly.

Ah, he's a carnal man; he'll ſwallow up this caſtle and it's fortunes.

I hope the turrets of it will ſtick by the way, and choak him. He ſha'n't ſwallow the canary in it however; we'll be beforehand with him at that ſport.

I would I had the cooking of one doſe for him. I wiſh he'd ſwallow that. It ſhou'd be a ſettler.

What has he done by Harry Algernon? There's malice for you; there's a batch of miſchief, [40] blaſted his character, garbled his fortune, and turn'd my lady's heart to ſtone againſt him.

Flint, iron, adamant—I told her ſo— Madam, ſaid I, the gentleman is wrong'd; the neigh⯑bours, where he lives, all give him a good word, the gentry love him, his father doats on him, the poor adore him: there is but one bad character 'twixt him and your attorney—Judge you, ſaid I, which party it belongs to.

Did you ſay this?

I did.

Then you're an honeſt fellow.

I know that well enough. Yes, I did ſay it.

How did ſhe take it?

As ſhe takes your phyſic—gulp'd and made wry faces; but it went down.

I hope 'twill ſtay by her.

I hope it will, and when we've drank con⯑fuſion to attornies, I'll deal her out another doſe a little ſtronger. Damn it!—no, hold, I will not ſwear—I'll do it coolly—come, we'll call a council in the Canaries.

Agreed; I'll drink myſelf into a little cou⯑rage, and have a word with the old laſs myſelf.

Come on, my hearts! Henry, conduct the lady. You may ſolicit her fair hand in ſafety. Jerry and I have wigs.

Now, Emily, you ſee what miſery that wicked man has brought upon us all.

I'm ſorry for Sir Oliver's misfortune.

I hope you have alſo pity for the ſufferer.

I truſt I have for all that merit it.

I'm ſure Miſ's Emily will not attempt to extenuate the guilt of ſuch an action.

You may be ſure I never will defend a guilty perſon, knowing him for ſuch; be you as careful how you criminate an abſent man, till you have proofs againſt him.

Sir, you are ſilent; I ſhould wiſh to know if you have any thing to urge againſt him.

Nothing, my dear, I'm liſtening with attention, and therefore ſilent. I ſhould be ſorry were you leſs unwilling to give up your opinion of a man who render'd you ſuch ſervice.

What ſervice? Earling, you have heard the ſtory; let us hear what you have to ſay upon it.

If Miſs Fitzallan will ſuffer me to put a ſimple queſtion to her.

By all means; put your queſtion.

When Mr. Algernon, by happy chance, came in ſo opportunely to her reſcue, can Miſs Fitzallan ſay what brought him thither ſo far from his own home?

I never aſk'd what caus'd him to be there, nor did he tell me.

We'll call it then a very happy chance without a cauſe, or a moſt fortunate preſentiment that ſomewhere in that grove there would be found a damſel in the power of ſome vile ruffian, whom he was doom'd to reſcue. Some people might ſuppoſe [42] this a colluſion, but Miſs Fitzallan can remove all doubts by telling us who was the villain that offer'd her that violence.

Can you do this, my Emily?

I cannot.

Did Mr. Algernon know who he was?

I do not think he did.

Did he ſecure his perſon?

No; his care was wholly turn'd to me▪ the man he left upon the ground, and, as it ſeem'd, diſabled.

I have done: I leave it to the court to judge.

A barefac'd trick. It is too pal⯑pable.

Who can ſay that?—Let Mr. Algernon ſpeak for himſelf.

Speak!

Aye, you have ſpoke, and ſhould not he? That's juſtice, is it not?

Did you always find it ſo where you have been, Sir Oliver?

Whether I found it ſo or not, I felt it.

Now, Mr. Earling, you may put thoſe queſtions, you've preſs'd on me, to Mr. Algernon. Perhaps he'll anſwer them.

Emily, Emily, you forget yourſelf.

Madam, I ſhould, if I forbore to ſpeak, when charges ſuch as theſe are urg'd againſt an abſent, therefore a defenceleſs, man. You have not allow'd him to approach you, madam; this gen⯑tleman, equally unknown to him, prejudges him at once; he is ingenious to find out bad motives for good actions; there's not a virtue in the human [43] heart but may be metamorphos'd by ſuch cunning into a vice. Sir Oliver has ſaid, and ſaid it in the language of a hero—Let Mr. Algernon ſpeak for himſelf.

And I repeat thoſe words.—Let him be heard!—However circumſtances bear againſt him, and wretched tho' he has made me, ſtill I hold it matter of conſcience never to prejudge, however ſtrong the grounds of my ſuſpicion.

Sir Oliver, we do not think alike, and therefore with your leave we'll cut this ſubject ſhort. Emily will retire—a little recollection will be uſeful to ſhew the error of ſome raſh opinions and amend them. Go, child, remember I have now a right to look for the obedience of a daughter.

And I to expect the mildneſs of a mother.

And now, Sir Oliver, with your per⯑miſſion I will diſpatch a little buſineſs with my agent, and leave you to fulfil your promiſe to that young man, who I perceive is waiting to approach you. Follow me, Mr Earling.

See here a ſample of the bleſſings of dependance!—Poor orphan Emily, 'tis now my turn to prove that I am worthy to be call'd friend of thy gallant father.

Oh! come in, come in, young man! I promis'd you a hearing, and I'll make good my word; but as my mind is preſs'd with many matters, be ſhort and to the point.—

I will. Your nephew has had an affair with Mr. Algernon, and is wounded. You have viſited him no doubt. Has he related to you the particu⯑lars of that unpleaſant buſineſs?

Before I anſwer, let me know who it is that queſtions me.

My father lives upon the lands of Sir George Algernon, and I have ſome acquaintance with his ſon, the perſon whoſe unlucky chance it was to wound your nephew.

And what's your motive for the queſ⯑tion that you now put to me?

I am no ſtranger to your character, and if you know the circumſtances of that duel, I truſt you will not ſuffer Mr. Earling to miſrepreſent them to the Lady Cypreſs.

Certainly I ſhou'd not, if I knew the truth, ſuffer it to be diſguis'd; but I have no par⯑ticulars from my nephew. The affair remains a myſtery. Can you develope it?

If Lady Cypreſs will permit me to ſtay this night, as ſhe has promis'd, and you can bring me to an explanation with her in your preſence, I can ſo far elucidate this myſtery, that if you ſtill perſiſt to trace it home you ſhall have full poſſeſſion of the means.

I hardly ſhould expect it at your hands; nor where my nephew's honour is concern'd ſhall I be eaſily induc'd to liſten to other evidence than that of facts, incontrovertibly atteſted, and (I am free to ſay) admitted on his part.

'Tis to ſuch facts and ſuch authorities I ſhall appeal.

And do you mean to criminate my nephew?

Pardon me, ſir, I have no other meaning but to declare the truth.

Have you the means to know it? Was you preſent at the rencontre?

If it appears that I have not the means to know the truth, or knowingly diſguiſe it, treat me as I deſerve; I'm in your hands.

Well, ſir, I'll urge no further queſtions on you, but uſe my intereſt with the Lady Cypreſs to procure you the interview you wiſh. Now fail not on your part: you know me, ſir; I truſt to you unknown.

Poor as I ſeem, I have a ſoul within that never yet was tainted by diſhonour.

WELL, child, I have here the inſtrument, that makes you rich above the dreams of avarice. I have not executed it, for that depends on you; I have not cancell'd it, becauſe this gen⯑tleman, your ſteady friend, has interceded with me to recal you once more to recollection and atone⯑ment.

For what muſt I atone?

For your intemperate defence of Al⯑gernon. Guilty or innocent, no more of him! Where I beſtow my fortune I expect to find no oppoſition to my will in the diſpoſal of it.

What is your will in that reſpect?

This is my will—If Lionel Montrath ſurvives his wound, he is the man I deſtine for my heireſs. To this if you declare inſtant aſſent I ſhall as inſtantly confirm this paper; if not, I cancel it, and caſt you off.

Not all the world cou'd bribe me to do that, before I know which is the offending party. What baſeneſs, what ingratitude were mine, to give give my hand to him that wrong'd the brave pre⯑ſerver of my life and honour!

Obſtinate girl, you have no ſuch preſerver. Have not I told you it was mere col⯑luſion?

Madam, you have; but I am not con⯑vinc'd, becauſe you told me ſo by your attorney, not from your own knowledge and conviction.

What will convince you?

Proof well eſtabliſhed, and all parties heard.

You to make terms that call'd your⯑ſelf my daughter! Where is your duty?

Inviolate, unbroken.—I ſhall ever bear you reſpect and true devotion for your goodneſs; but no parent, no patroneſs, not even my father, to whoſe awful ſpirit I now appeal, cou'd have the power, or cou'd poſſeſs the right to tear away affections from my heart, which honour, gratitude, [47] have planted there, or force me to conſpire with that bad man in ſtripping Algernon of fame and fortune, and fixing artifice, deceit, and murder upon a man ſo near to you in blood, in nature ſo abhorrent of thoſe crimes.

You are mad; I have done with you; I caſt you off. Now, Mr. Earling, take away your papers; they, or the thankleſs object they allude to, muſt be entirely chang'd before I ſign them.

Miſs Emily, it grieves me to the heart to have heard what now has paſs'd. Indeed you wrong me if you ſuppoſe I am the author of this fatal breach. I am no otherwiſe the enemy of Mr. Algernon than as I am your friend; in very truth I'm not his enemy,

Sir, for your enmity to Mr. Algernon, and ſo much of your friendſhip as flows from it, I pray you let them go together; I have no uſe for either.

Do you ſcorn me becauſe I pity you?

You pity me! There cannot be that ſtate of human wretchedneſs which cou'd reduce me to accept your pity. I wonder you can waſte your time with one, who neither courts your favour, fears your power, nor credits your profeſſions.

Well, haughty madam, I have been a friend, and I can be a foe.

My Emily, my angel, what is this I've heard? Diſcarded, diſinherited—and for your ge⯑neroſity to me.

Yes, Algernon, I'm poor, but free. I was [48] a priſoner in a gaudy cage, where they wou'd fain have taught me to call names, and whiſtle to a tune of Earling's making; but being a bad bird, and obſtinate, my keeper let me fly; and now I've got the wide world for my portion, and nothing but my own ſmall wits to truſt to for picking up a living.

Fly to me, perch on my breaſt, for in my heart you'll find both ſhelter and affection.

Ah, that is generous, gallant, like your⯑ſelf; but 'tis not yet a time for me to hear you. The aſylum that you offer is attack'd, the very citadel of your life and honour is beſieg'd by aſ⯑ſailants, and you muſt beat them off, my hero, or I have ſacrific'd myſelf to ruin without the enjoy⯑ment of that honeſt pride which glories in the cauſe for which it ſuffers.

Doubt me not, Emily, the ſhield of truth covers my breaſt, and I'm invulnerable.

Earling accuſes you of a colluſion with my unknown aſſailant in the wood—

I'm arm'd againſt that charge.

And for your wounding of Montrath, he calls it aſſaſſination—There I ſhou'd fear you are not ſo well arm'd, having no ſeconds to appeal to, and therefore more expos'd to his attack.

Let him come on; at all points I defy him. Now, my ſweet advocate, repoſe in peace, and wait the event.

Farewell! If I am ruin'd in the cauſe of truth I'll not regret the ſacrifice.

Heroic Emily, how I adore you—Hah! Jerry, whence come you?

From the Canaries, where the illuſtrious major-domo governs, and drinking is a duty by the laws of the ſage Solon of the cellars, the pro⯑found Diogenes of the tubs, of whoſe academy I am a member.

You've not betray'd me in your cups, I hope.

Betray'd you! no, if you had fir'd the houſe, burnt the old lady in it, and violated the virgin purity of dame Buckram, I'd not betray you—D—n it! I ſcorn a ſneaker; I loath him worſe than phyſic—Go on, my boy, and fear not— I am ſteady.

Pretty well for that. You've had a ſip or two with honeſt Simon.

Simon's a fiſh; Dame Buckram is a leech; fills where ſhe faſtens, and delights in ſuction: I honour her for her abſorbent qualities, and I pro⯑nounce that they are ſilly apes and ignoramuſſes that ſay wine gets into the head—'tis falſe—I ſay it gets into the heart; it drives ill humour, melan⯑choly, treaſon, and a whole gang of cowardly com⯑panions out of a man, as a carminative does cru⯑dities and indigeſtion: it wou'd have ſet my con⯑ſtitution clear, only there's one thing ſticks—

What's that, my honeſt fellow? Out with it.

Why then 'tis jealouſy—and that you know is a confounded ſpaſm—

Away with it at once! Why, man, you don't know half your happineſs; you have the beſt wife in the country—Oh! if you cou'd have heard her pine for you laſt night; ſhe wou'dn't hear of comfort—

Indeed, indeed! May I believe you, ſquire? May I be ſure I'm not the horned beaſt?

None of my making, Jerry, on my honour.

O jubilate! then I kick the clouds. Good bye, good bye to you. Let me embrace you. All luck attend you. I'm going to my lady; if I can throw in a provocative to ſtir her in your fa⯑vour I will do it; I will upon my ſoul! Good bye to you!

Stop, Jerry; hold your hand, my gallant fellow! I am too much your friend to let you go to Lady Cypreſs in your preſent ſtate. Why, man, you are tipſey.

Say drunk, and you'll not ſay more than is true; but then it is I cure my patients; when I am only ſober I let them cure themſelves.

Well, get you gone; I am not bound to find reaſon for him that will not keep his own.

Come hither, Rachel, I wou'd ſpeak with you. When I promoted you to be about the perſon of Miſs Emily Fitzallan, it was becauſe I ſaw you was attached to her, and I was willing to do her a grace by thus preferring you. If you muſt now fall back into your ſtation, it is not that I have withdrawn my favour from you, but from your miſtreſs.

I know it, madam; all your people know it, for Mr. Earling has announc'd it to us; but I muſt beg your ladyſhip to excuſe me if I decline all ſervice but Miſs Emily's.

What ſhou'd enable her to keep a ſervant?

Then ſhe will ſtand in the more need of me; I'll work my fingers to the bone to ſerve her. Your ladyſhip may turn me from your doors, but I will ſay that Mr. Earling's a baſe cruel man, and when he has driven all your rela⯑tions from you, your ladyſhip will find your houſe a deſert, and nothing but a villain left within it.

Out of my ſight! begone! Such in⯑ſolence is not to be endur'd—yet Earling is to blame to publiſh this to all my family. So! what comes next?

Madam, I've ſerv'd your ladyſhip too long to bear the arrogance of Mr. Earling. I beg to be diſcharg'd; I'll not live in the houſe with one who drives Miſs Emily out of your doors, tells ſuch monſtrous lies of Mr. Algernon, and ſets your lady⯑ſhip againſt all your friends and relations.

Who made you a judge in matters that concern me only? When you are cool I'll hear you. I know you have been junketing and caballing with Rachel Williams, and the reſt of them—prythee retire!

That's what I mean to do, and others be⯑ſide me, or I'm miſtaken. We reſpect your lady⯑ſhip, but we can't put up with your attorney.

There, Mr. Earling, you hear what is ſaid againſt you — Murmurs, complaints, invec⯑tives from all quarters—

No wonder, when that Henry Scudamore, [52] whom I ſuſpect to be a ſecret agent of your un⯑worthy nephew's, ſets them on to blacken and arraign me. Madam, he has had the inſolence to give me the worſt of names.

Then give him his diſmiſſion—ſend him away at once.

It ſhall be done.

Oh, that Sir Oliver had poſtpon'd his viſit to his nephew but one hour!

Ah, prythee, prythee, do not plague me now. What brings you hither?

Duty, my lady, duty—want to hear how the draughts have agreed.

'Tis plain how your draughts have agreed—the operation's viſible; no matter about mine.

Oh pardon me, there is great matter— ſpar'd for no pains—employ'd the beſt of drugs— hope I have given content—but rumours ſly—no parrying defamation—a man may be accus'd behind his back, and who can ſtand it?

What rumours do you allude to? Who has accus'd you?

I don't know who may have accus'd me, my lady; I wiſh to heaven I cou'd ſay I have ac⯑cus'd nobody.

What do you mean?

Oh dear, madam, I am troubled with the heart-ache; I have a lacerated conſcience.

You have a loaded head, I perceive; more wine in it than wit.

True, my lady; it is ſo full I can no longer hide the truth within it. Out it muſt come, and true it is, I have ſlander'd Mr. Alger⯑non. He ſav'd my life, and I have ſtabb'd his character.

You don't know what you ſay— you're tipſey.

I wiſh I had been tipſey when I ſpoke of him; then I ſhou'd have told the truth.

Go your ways; get you gone! a man that is in two ſtories ſhou'd be credited for neither. You made him out to me a compound of all vices.

That was the very vileſt compound that ever came out of my hands; but lawyer Earling put a lie into my mouth, and like a gilded pill of loathſome quality I ſwallow'd it, and now it makes me ſick.

Begone! I will no longer be inſulted with your apothecary's jargon. Never enter my doors again.

I hope your ladyſhip will give me leave to enter my own. Oh honeſty, honeſty! it's very pleaſant to ſpeak the truth, but a man is ſure to loſe his cuſtomers by it.

Heyday, Simon! and you too! I'll have my cellar doors wall'd up, if I am to be troubled with all the tipſey companions that reſort to them.

Venerable lady, I am not inebriated. What I may be, if you wall up your cellar doors, and me within them, I can't pretend to ſay. I [54] may in that caſe drink to ſupport life, as I have now been taſting a glaſs, by your permiſſion, to celebrate this mournful feſtival.

How can it be a feſtival and mourn⯑ful? You know not what you ſay.

Pardon me, pardon me, moſt incompara⯑ble lady. A feſtival it muſt be, becauſe you are pleas'd to order us to be merry—Mournful it ſurely is, becauſe your attorney makes us ſad.

You ſee he is in my intereſt, and you are all in league againſt him.

No, no, no, my lady; 'tis not becauſe he is in your intereſt we are leagued againſt him— your intereſt has been ever dearer to me than my own. If you turn me out of your doors this night, I can lay my hand upon my heart, and ap⯑peal to the Giver of it, that I never wrong'd you of a farthing; and, tho' a poor ſervant, ſcorn to cringe and lie and vilify an abſent man, as he has done. Madam, you are abus'd; the county wou'd riſe up againſt him, if they knew what he has ſaid of Mr. Algernon—ſo much is your nephew belov'd.

Come, come, I know who tells you ſo —'tis Henry Scudamore, and no one elſe.

Pray, madam, be no more deceiv'd, but hear and judge for yourſelf. If it was the laſt word I had to utter, I wou'd ſay, and ſay it to his face, that lawyer Earling is a falſifier and a defamer.

Go, ſtop him from diſcharging Henry Scudamore; don't let him leave the houſe till I have ſeen him.

Where is this Henry Scudamore? I've hunted the whole houſe over for the fellow. If he is not driven out before this night, my poſt will not be tenable to-morrow; we ſhall have Algernon brought in in triumph upon the ſhoulders of his partiſans, and all my labours blaſted in a moment. Hah! here's the man of all men for my purpoſe; this ſurly fellow has the maſtiff's property; ſhew him his prey, and he will faſten on it—

Come hither, Frank; a word with you.

What is your pleaſure, maſter?

Do you know a looſe fellow, an interloper that came to ſeek a place, but brought no cha⯑racter; a vagabond it ſhou'd ſeem, that calls him⯑ſelf Henry Scudamore?

Yes, I know Henry Scudamore.

Well, honeſt Frank, you ſee that he came here for no good purpoſe; and it is not fit he ſhou'd be let to ſtay and take the bread out of the mouths of better than himſelf.

There's bread enough for all of us me⯑thinks.

What then? what then? you're not a man, we'll hope, to be afraid of ſuch a wafer cake as he is, Frank.

I'm afraid of no man.

Why then, my hearty Frank, I give you orders to turn him bodily out of this houſe, for which I have my lady's authority.

What has he done that I ſhou'd turn him out?

He has inſulted me, traduc'd my charac⯑ter, and ſet me at defiance.

Has he done this?

He has.

Then let him ſtay for me—I will not touch him; I honour him for his ſpirit. They call me ſurly Frank, and ſo I am if any man affronts me; but I'll be no attorney's catch-pole, lookye! And as for turning out, if that's your game, there's but one man I'll do that office for, and that's yourſelf, my maſter—There you have it.

Impudent varlet! the contagion's general if he has caught it. The whole ſwarm's upon me, and I muſt ſtand their buzzing; as for their ſtings I'm not in fear of them ſo long as I can keep the queen of the hive in my poſ⯑ſeſſion.

Oho! I have lit upon you at laſt. Harkye, ſir, you Henry Scudamore, whom nobody knows, de⯑camp, pack up your wallet, and betake yourſelf nobody cares whither. Off! the Lady Cypreſs warns you off—begone!

Go back and ſay to Lady Cypreſs, when ſhe ſends her warning by a proper meſſenger, I will obey her.

Why, who am I? What do you take me for?

A wretch beneath my notice—a defamer.

Well met, friend Henry, 'tis my lady's [57] orders that you don't leave the houſe 'till ſhe has ſeen you.

Sot, you are drunk. You never had ſuch orders.

I had no orders—very well! And I'm a ſot, I'm drunk—why, very well!—So much for me, now for yourſelf—you are no ſot; you're ſober Mr. Earling the attorney; you're never drunk, for no man will drink with you; you never make miſtakes about your orders, for you are under or⯑ders from the old one never to ſpeak the truth, and faithfully adhere to your inſtructions.

This to my face?

Oh yes, I never ſaw a face better intitled to the compliment. I only wiſh to ſee it face to face with Harry Algernon, and then perhaps your face may be promoted, where I may treat it with an egg or two.

Go, go, unhappy man; it can't be pleaſant to hear yourſelf deſcrib'd ſo faithfully.

I'll not go—I ſummon you before the Lady Cypreſs—ſhe'll do me juſtice—ſhe'll avenge my wrongs. Here comes Sir Oliver—I appeal to him.

What is the matter?

Theſe fellows have inſulted me moſt groſsly.

You are a lawyer. You have your redreſs.

Sir, 'tis above redreſs by any law.

Then put it up and ſeek redreſs from patience. That is a remedy for all complaints.

I hope I've better remedies than patience —I warrant I'll exterminate theſe inſolents. I'll [58] pluck 'em root and branch out of this houſe, and hurl 'em to the dunghill that they ſprung from.

Go then and ſet about it. Leave me, ſir, I've buſineſs with this gentleman.

This gentleman, forſooth! this gentle⯑man—

Well, he may be a gentleman for me, only he lets the bottle ſtand too long, and takes no pity on his company, that wiſh to give it motion— that's not quite like a gentleman methinks—elſe he may be a ſober ſort of a gentleman—but not a lord—no, no, at leaſt he'll never be as drunk as a lord.

Now, ſir, I've ſeen my nephew ſince we laſt convers'd. You aſk'd me then if I had been inform'd of the particulars of that rencontre, and by the motives you aſſign'd for the enquiry, I ſhou'd ſuppoſe you know ſome circumſtances of that dark affair.

The whole correctly.

Indeed! I hardly ſhou'd have thought that Mr. Algernon wou'd have reveal'd the whole to any but his neareſt and moſt confidential friend.

Nor has he; it remains ſtill in his boſom an inviolable ſecret, though known to me.

You mean to ſay that ſecrets in your keeping are ſecure. I have my nephew's ſtory as you have Algernon's, and ſhou'd be glad, with your conſent, to compare them with each other.

They cannot differ, for my account is drawn up by your nephew, and being ſign'd by him, he neither can, nor will depart from it.

You much amaze me, ſir, that Mr. Algernon ſhou'd give a paper of ſuch conſequence out of his hand. I greatly wiſh to ſee it.

Wou'd it relieve your mind at the ſame time to ſee and talk with Algernon himſelf?

Oh infinitely, if I cou'd obtain it.

Then with a man of honour 'twou'd be mean to trifle any longer—I am Algernon.

How!—Algernon!—may I believe you?—

You ſhall not doubt me—There's your nephew's paper—No eye but your's has ſeen it from my hand.

Sir!—Mr. Algernon—I aſk your par⯑don—I am ſatisfied—but can you be unknown, and in this houſe?

I never enter'd it before this day, nor to my knowledge ever ſaw my aunt 'till I appear'd before her in this habit, which I ſhall now put off—but hark! we ſhall be interrupted here— Can't we retire to a more private place?

To my apartment—if you'll be pleas'd to follow me.—Ah! ſir, ah! Mr. Algernon, how hard to find, now at the cloſe of a long life of ſer⯑vices, all it's enjoyments, all it's labours loſt.

WELL, well, well! jewel Jenny, here we are for the laſt time: farewell viſits, to be ſure, are melancholy matters; but we have many good friends in the caſtle ſtill, and tho' I am thrown out of the cabinet, I have kept up my intereſt in the kitchen.

Aye, and in the county too, when it ſhall be known that you have forfeited my lady's favour by ſpeaking up for Mr. Algernon; he is ſo much pitied and belov'd by all men, that your neighbours will ſham ſick on purpoſe to employ you.

To ſay the truth, I have ſometimes thought that was my lady's only complaint; but I took care my phyſic ſhould not cure her of it; and my com⯑fort is that nobody of the faculty will profit by my loſs; for when ſhe leaves off my medicines ſhe'll find herſelf too well to employ a doctor.

Come, come, Jerry, ſhe'll not leave off you nor your medicines. If you can get to the ſpeech of her, a little coaxing, and a ſubmiſſive apology, will ſet all things right.

No, no, jewel Jenny, ſhe'll hear no apology, and therefore I have expreſs'd myſelf more at large [61] in my bill—Here it is, here it is—It's a bouncer; isn't it?

Yes, marry, if ſhe has patience to go through this ſhe'll find you have enough to ſay for yourſelf; but I ſuſpect, Jerry, this argument is a little too much on one ſide.

Turn over the leaf and you'll find a great deal more on the other ſide.

Ah my good friends, my good friends! this is the moſt doleful viſit I ever made to the caſtle. Jenny can witneſs I have paſs'd a ſleepleſs night: that incubus of an attorney rode upon me like [...]he night-mare.

Rode indeed! Set a beggar on horſeback, and where will he not ride?

I attempted to put a cracker under his tail, but it burſt in my hand, and I only burnt my own fingers without ſinging him.

Let him go; the road he travels is all down-hill, and when he comes to his journey's end, he'll find thoſe that will put crackers enough under his tail, I warrant me.

As for me, a jackdaw in a cage has a better life of it than I have, for he may cry rogue, and not be chidden for it—We ſhall all be turn'd away: I lay my account to be ſent going for one.

Thirty years I have paſs'd within theſe walls, and I would ſooner paſs the reſt of my days within the walls of a priſon than live in a houſe where ſcurrility is careſs'd and plain ſpeaking turn'd out of doors—Hah! who comes here?

Bleſs the good mark! our Henry—No— Yes, ſure 'tis Henry; how comes this to paſs?

I'm order'd to attend upon my lady, ſo I put on my beſt.

Hark ye, my friend, if it is not your own, bad is your beſt. Let us have no falſe fea⯑thers. Where did you get this ſuit?

'Tis Harry Algernon's. He and I wear the ſame cloaths: one tailor ſerves us both—Isn't it true, Jerry?

It is, it is, and the ſame meaſure fits you.

I don't know what you mean.

Then I'll inform you. Here are but two of you in company that do not know me; you are both my friends, my generous, zealous friends, for which I thank you, and come in perſon hither to convince you that Algernon is not that worthleſs man, which calumny has painted him to be.

Heaven's grace light on you, if indeed you are that injur'd gentleman.

Oh by my ſoul, he is the very man: you may take that upon my word for truth.

I ſaw it; I ſaid it; I knew he was a gen⯑tleman. Now we have got that attorney in a trap.

Yes, yes, he'll make that Earling ſhrink into his hole.

Hang him, polecat, I'll ſmoke him out of it. Oh! the inconceivable lies that miſcreant has told of a gentleman he does not know even by ſight. I pray you, ſir, don't diſcover yourſelf to him, till we have had him up before my lady— [63] Methinks I hear her ſay, Simon, I am convinc'd that lawyer is a raſcal—Turn him out!

Aye, we'll all lend a helping hand to that.

Yes, or a helping foot, if that is wanted. I have one at his ſervice.

Bleſs you, my worthy maſter, bleſs you heartily! I hope I have ſaid nothing to affront you; I was a little by the head juſt now, but that's over.

So is not my remembrance. I ſhall ever prize you as my beſt of friends.

Lord love you, we are all your friends; we are all Algernons and Anti Earlings.

And when the election comes, well wear your colours.

Only put me in office on that day: let me be ſurgeon-general to the enemy, and I'll engage they ſhall have more freeholders in the hoſpital than at the huſtings. I'll ſcour their conſciences, I warrant me.

Now, my good friends, keep ſecret what has paſs'd, and wait the event in ſilence—Here comes one, a gentle advocate, whom I would fain ſpeak to apart.

We are gone; we are gone! All happi⯑neſs befal you!

Bleſs me! you've chang'd your habit.

Yes, my charmer—In chace 'tis lawful to hang out falſe colours, but when we are clear'd and going into action we muſt ſhew what we are.

Right, and where truth unfolds her ſtand⯑ard, victory muſt follow.

And what ſhould follow victory? What but the glorious prize for which I ſtruggle? that prize which fortune, aiming to impoveriſh, has only made more rich in my eſteem—that generous heart, that ſacrific'd for me intereſt, for which ſo many ſacrifice themſelves. Now call to mind thoſe words ſo hea⯑venly ſweet, which you left with me, whilſt the in⯑genuous bluſh glow'd on your cheek—‘"Henry, I live for you!"’

Ah! that was then the only way I had to reinſtate you in your property; and, tho' it coſt a bluſh to ſay thoſe words, ſtill I could ſay them, for I ſcorn'd to rob you—but to repeat them now wou'd be—Oh heaven!—it would be every thing but falſe, my Henry.

Then let me take that truth into a heart, of which no human power can diſpoſſeſs you.

I hope not, Henry, for take that away and I am poor indeed.

'Tis your's for ever—and believe me, dear one, if my too credulous aunt has not outliv'd her reaſon, ſhe will ſee the injuſtice of her own deciſions and revoke them. For my excluſion ſhe may have ſome plea; our families have been at ſuit for years, and law will cut aſunder cloſer ties than thoſe exiſt⯑ing between her and me; but of her motives for diſcarding you, take my word, Emily, ſhe'll ſoon repent.

It is not that I fear her worthleſs favour⯑ite; the wretch has brought a ſtorm upon his head, and has already had ſome heavy ſhocks—but my worſt fears point to another quarter.

I underſtand you. 'Tis Montrath you dread.

I could not temporize; I ſpoke too plainly. Indignant of the claim ſhe made upon me, I ſet her power too boldly at defiance, and challeng'd her to cancel her bequeſt.

You muſt conſult Sir Oliver upon this: I cannot ſpeak upon Montrath's affair even to you.

I ſee you either cannot or you will not, therefore I aſk no queſtions, well perſuaded you never would take arms againſt the life of any man and know yourſelf in fault.

I hope I ſhan't be found to have ſo done— but look! here comes Sir Oliver.—I'll leave you; he may perhaps be leſs reſerv'd than I am.

Was not that Algernon?

You know him, ſir, it ſeems—

I think I do; I have cauſe to know him.

Ah, ſir, you ſpeak ſo mournfully, I fear you have found no comfort in your viſit to your nephew.

Small comfort—Yet the danger of his wound is much abated.

Then I'm afraid you have, or think you have, ſome cauſe of anger againſt Algernon.

No, Emily, no anger againſt him. You cannot think too well of Algernon, tho' I could wiſh you had not put your thoughts in language quite ſo warm.

'Twas indiſcreet, but that defamer urg'd me, and put me off my guard.

Cou'dn't you find another and a ſtronger cauſe that put you off your guard? Is there not a certain paſſion, which our hearts are ſubject to, that neither keeps a guard upon itſelf, nor ſuffers any to be kept againſt it?

If I ſhould anſwer that as truth would prompt me, ſhou'dn't I expoſe myſelf to another reproof for want of caution?

No; for ſo far from thinking with my lady, that you have choſen ill, I think with you that you could no where make a better choice—And more than this—was your brave father living, and knew what I know of your Algernon, he would ap⯑prove your judgment.

As I am ſure you would not give that name but to a ſacred truth, what you have ſaid ſanctions the character of Algernon—but does it warrant me in ſuffering him to make a ſacrifice of intereſt by marrying a beggar?

You point the queſtion wrong, and ſhould have aſk'd if it exculpates me, your father's friend, for ſuffering you to call yourſelf a beggar.— No, my dear child, it does not, nor will I permit it to be ſaid, the daughter of the generous Fitzallan, who in the battle found me faint with wounds, and whilſt he cover'd me receiv'd his death, wanted that droſs which I abounded in.—This, Emily, this never ſhould be ſaid; ſo come with me, and don't oppoſe one word to my reſolves; for in an act of honour I will pauſe at no man's bidding, no, my pretty one, nor yet at any woman's, tho' grac'd with all the charms that heaven can give her.

Now, fortune, one kind lift, and I am landed. So far ſucceſs goes with me: I have nothing more to fear from Emily; that pert proud miſs is ſilenc'd and thrown by. It now remains to ſweep thoſe menial vermin out my way, thoſe inſects that annoy me: old Sir Oliver, that bluſters about juſ⯑tice, is a hypocrite; he cannot be a friend to Al⯑gernon; and yet he troubles me, takes up my ſeat at table, occupies the ear of the old lady, and ob⯑ſtructs my ſuit, which ſtood ſo fair, that if I could but ſeize one lucky moment, one fair opportunity. —Hah! I have found it.—Here ſhe comes alone —Now, impudence befriend me!

So, Mr. Earling! much as I love peace, I will not purchaſe it by mean conceſſions; I will not ſuffer the gentleman I eſteem and truſt to be affronted by my ſawcy ſervants; they ſhall atone, or troop.

Moſt amiable, moſt excellent of ladies, whom with my heart I ſerve, honour, obey and worſhip; I want words to ſpeak my gratitude.—Thus at your feet in humble adoration let me ſeal on this dear hand the pledge, the ſacred pledge, of my unutterable, my unbounded love.

Look, Dorothy, the devil's at his prayers.

I hope they're his laſt prayers.

Curſe on their coming! what a moment loſt! Madam, do you permit your menial ſervants thus to break in upon your private moments?

Why not? If you have any thing to add to your laſt ſpeech I ſhall not interrupt it. You may reſume your poſture, and go on.

Madam, I cannot.

I can help your memory if you have loſt the word. 'Twas love, unbounded love. When you had gone ſo far out of all bounds, all meaſure of reſpect, can the appearance of theſe ſilly people deter you from proceeding?

Madam, if you're offended, I have done. I'll humbly take my leave.

No, ſir, I muſt inſiſt upon your ſtay⯑ing. Tho' you are foil'd to add a ſingle word to inſolence ſo perfect and complete, yet you ſhall not be robb'd of your juſt right, that nature gives you, to be heard in vindication of your own aſſertions. If you have ſpoke the truth, and nothing but the truth, of Algernon, his character cannot be reſcued, let the fate of your's be what it may.

Any thing the matter, Mr. Attorney? Afraid you are not quite well juſt now. You look a little pale.

Hold your tongue, fooliſh fellow! you, Simon, in the firſt place, and you next, miſtreſs, who dare to tell me I am made the dupe of falſe impreſſions, are you not both aſham'd to look this injur'd gentleman in the face?

It is a face to make a man aſham'd, and we did bluſh to ſee him on his knees before your ladyſhip.

That's my affair, fall down on your's and aſk forgiveneſs of him.

Pray, madam, don't command me to do [69] that, for fear I never ſhould forgive myſelf.—I aſk your pardon for approaching you when I was tipſey, but you bade me drink, and I was over eager to obey you.

That's eaſily forgiven; but your abuſe of this gentleman, whom I muſt ſtill call the friend of truth, is monſtrous.

Madam, if that gentleman is the friend of truth, he makes very free with his friend truly. I only ſaid he told lies to your ladyſhip, that's no abuſe, for here come thoſe an prove it.

My evil genius! what does he do her [...]?

Forgive me, my good lady, if I come to atone to you and this fair advocate for my unjuſt ſuſpicions of your nephew. I have one here waiting, who'll confront that gentleman, his accuſer, and, I truſt, remove ſome falſe impreſſions that your lady⯑ſhip may have imbibed from his unfounded charges. Come in, ſir, if you pleaſe.

How now! who's this? Henry!

I claim your promiſe to give him hearing.

I proteſt againſt him; that fellow's an im⯑poſtor: we ſhall not liſten to his evidence.

He firſt came here humbly to aſk for ſervice, pleaded decay, and ſaid he was a gentle⯑man by birth; I pitied him, and offer'd him relief. He now has chang'd his dreſs, ſhifted his character, and claims to be an advocate for Algernon. Theſe are ſuſpicious circumſtances, and I ſhou'd have ſome better reaſons for believing him than I am yet poſ⯑ſeſs'd of. Do you know any ſuch, Sir Oliver?

Aye, ſir, do you know who this cham⯑pion is?

Sir, give me leave to aſk—Do you?

Not I; I know him not.

Yet you know Algernon, are intimate with all his habits, frailties, faults, offences—have look'd into his heart, and kindly told the ſecrets you diſcover'd.—Oh thou ſlanderer! Now look him in the face, and prove your charge.—Well may you ſtart—Mark his confuſion, madam!—This is your nephew, this is Algernon.

Yes, on my honour, and my brave preſer⯑ver.

I am confounded.—Where is that de⯑famer?

Madam, he has ſtept aſide to mend a flaw in his indictment.—How do you do, Mr. At⯑torney? Come forward, if you pleaſe, and get ac⯑quainted with this gentleman's face. You knew him well enough behind his back.

Peace! let me hear what Algernon will ſay in his own cauſe.

Speak for yourſelf, brave Algernon.

I am that exil'd man, whom, on the word of this defamer, tho' unknown to him even by ſight, it ſeems, you have proſcrib'd. Deſpairing of ad⯑miſſion to your preſence, and driven in ſelf-defence on this reſource, I took a counterfeited character, and ſaw what I had never been allow'd to approach— your perſon. Much I wiſh'd to ſpeak in mitiga⯑tion of your prejudice, and give a plain recital of my wrongs; but you had then no ear for ſuch diſ⯑courſe, and I was told to wait your better leiſure.

All this is true—proceed.

A friend here preſent told me I was accus'd to you of various crimes and groſs enormities. I plead to failings, to the common errors and indiſ⯑cretions youth is ſubject to, but, I truſt, I have never degraded my character or debas'd my prin⯑ciple; I am no gameſter, as he makes me to be; no diſſipater of my paternal fortune, as he inſinu⯑ates; no libertine, as he aſſerts; and, let me add, in the hearing of Sir Oliver Montrath, I am no aſſaſſin.

It is now my duty, and a painful one I feel it, to bring to light, in vindication of an in⯑jur'd character, the guilty perſon, for whoſe ſhame⯑ful act no better palliation can be found than tem⯑porary madneſs and intoxication. The monſter, from whoſe brutal violence the pureſt of heaven's creatures was preſerv'd by Algernon, how ſhall I ſpeak it without ſhame and horror! was Lionel Montrath.

I am confounded and amaz'd! Mon⯑trath!—This, if not told by you, Sir Oliver, wou'd mock belief.

Your nephew was too noble to diſcloſe it, tho' he has in his hands a written paper ſign'd by the offender for his vindication. This, I be⯑lieve, he never has diſcover'd, even to that lady, tho' a party in it.

Never, but conſtantly evaded my en⯑quiries.

To this when I ſhall add, that my raſh nephew forc'd the duel on him in conſequence of blows exchang'd between them, I truſt I may with [72] ſafety reſt his cauſe upon the facts adduc'd—un⯑leſs indeed this gentleman has any other charge, which in his modeſty he will prefer.

You'll not draw any thing from me, Sir Oliver; you may talk on; I prefer ſilence.

You are right; 'tis time your tongue had ſome repoſe.

Pray do not keep him longer in my ſight. My nephew does not ſeem to hold him worthy of a retort.

No, madam, I have nothing to return him for his malicious ſlander, but my contempt.

If he can feel, 'tis puniſhment enough.

Be gone! your infamy go with you; and may no part of it adhere to your profeſſion.

Let my profeſſion look to itſelf—There are ſome underſtandings in this world made, it ſhould ſeem, by nature to be duped. Had you not been ſo eaſy of belief, I had not been ſo forward to deceive you. Now put what name you will upon my conduct, there are ſuch glaring inſtances in point, of dealers in ſeduction, infamy, and falſe impreſ⯑ſions on credulity, as make my ſhame no wonder.

Now, Henry, you've appeal'd to me for juſtice—hear my decree. There is your deſtiny; that is the prize which you have nobly earn'd. My heart, ſo long eſtrang'd, is now your own. You are my ſon, and Emily my daughter; all I poſſeſs is your's—Have I aton'd?

Oh! you have given me that, which might atone for all the pains mortality cou'd feel—beauty to charm me, talents to enchant, and truth to fix my happineſs ſecure.

Oh! Henry, bear me to my benefactreſs, and let me kneel—

Yes, I will let you kneel, my child, for now thou haſt a treaſure worth thy thanks— Be virtuous, loving, faithful to each other; ape not the faſhions of this guilty world; ſeek pleaſures where alone they can be found, in nuptial harmony, domeſtic duties, and that ſweet reflection, which fortune well employ'd is ſure to give.—Riſe, my adopted, riſe!

Oh, let me add a bleſſing—May you be—Well, well, it will not forth; my heart's too full; but I will ſend it up in thought towards heaven— Here, Emily, my love, I'll put the firſt chain on your bridal arm; they are pure pearls, my child; not ſpoils of war, but gifts of gratitude for life preſerv'd —wear them for my ſake, and when I am dead caſt a kind look upon them, and drop one pearly tear, richer than them all, to the memory of old Oliver.

Oh ſir, ſir, ſir—my father and my friend—!

So, ſo! no more. Henry, my gallant boy, give me your hand—a ſoldier's greeting after victory—time was I could have graſp'd it harder.

I accept it, and preſs it to my heart.

Where are you all? This is a day of joy. Simon, I look to you to oil the hinges of my caſtle gates, that they may open freely to the neighbours, the tenants, and the poor.

I'll make 'em ſwing, ſo pleaſe you, and for one bad man now gone out of them, a hundred good ones ſhall come in, I warrant me.

You, Dorothy, muſt ſet the girls a dancing; and you, Rachel, muſt lead the ball in honour of your miſtreſs.

And when the bumpkins caper and kick ſhins, may they not want a plaiſter, good my Lady? I'll cure them gratis on this happy night. I have brought a bill, ſo pleaſe you, that will bear ſome riders on it, and not break it's back.

We'll have no bills nor bickerings any more; and to cut ſhort all reckonings, I'll eſtabliſh you apothecary general to the caſtle upon a ſalary fixt.

Then, Jerry, the leſs phyſic you ſend in the better for yourſelf.

And for all parties, my moſt honoured lady. I hope moſt heartily for all your ſakes my place will be as near a ſinecure as poſſible.

I hope ſo too. You and your fair wife are welcome. She is a child of the caſtle, and will grace our dance.

Yes, under favour, Jenny, tho' I ſay it, has all the ſteps that now are thought ſo graceful: ſhe'll balance on one leg and ſend the other upon a cruize into her neighbour's pocket; no magnetiz⯑ing doctor or dotterell-monger can ſurpaſs my Jenny for the fine attitudes.

You're a ſtrange mortal; but let mirth go round, and if the humble annals of our caſtle can cheer one honeſt, eaſe one heavy heart, our harmleſs efforts have not been in vain.