[] THE GOOD NATUR'D MAN.

ACT THE FIRST.

GOOD Jarvis, make no apologies for this honeſt bluntneſs. Fidelity, like yours, is the beſt excuſe for every freedom.

I can't help being blunt, and being very an⯑gry too, when I hear you talk of diſinheriting ſo good, ſo worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, my maſter. All the world loves him.

Say rather, that he loves all the world; that is his fault.

I'm ſure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, tho' he has not ſeen you ſince he was a child.

What ſignifies his affection to me, or how can I be proud of a place in a heart where every ſharper and coxcomb find an eaſy entrance?

I grant you that he's rather too good natur'd; that he's too much every man's man; that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with an⯑other; but whoſe inſtructions may he thank for all this?

Not mine, ſure? My letters to him during my employment in Italy, taught him only that phi⯑loſophy which might prevent, not defend his errors.

Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm ſorry they taught him any philoſophy at all; it has only ſerv'd to ſpoil him. This ſame philoſophy is a good horſe in the ſtable, but an errant jade on a jour⯑ney. For my own part, whenever I hear him men⯑tion the name on't, I'm always ſure he's going to play the fool.

Don't let us aſcribe his faults to his philo⯑ſophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good nature ariſes rather from his fears of offending the importu⯑nate, than his deſire of making the deſerving happy.

What it riſes from, I don't know. But, to be ſure, every body has it, that aſks it.

Ay, or that does not aſk it. I have been now for ſome time a concealed ſpectator of his follies, and find them as boundleſs as his diſſipation.

And yet, faith, he has ſome fine name or other for them all. He calls his extravagance, gene⯑roſity; and his truſting every body, univerſal bene⯑volence. It was but laſt week he went ſecurity for a fellow whoſe face he ſcarce knew, and that he call'd an act of exalted mu—mu—munificence; ay, that was the name he gave it.

And upon that I proceed, as my laſt effort, tho' with very little hopes to reclaim him. That very fellow has juſt abſconded, and I have taken up the ſecurity. Now, my intention is to involve him in fictitious diſtreſs, before he has plunged himſelf into real calamity. To arreſt him for that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him ſee which of his friends will come to his relief.

Well, if I could but any way ſee him tho⯑roughly vexed, every groan of his would be muſic to me; yet faith, I believe it impoſſible. I have tried to fret him myſelf every morning theſe three years; but, inſtead of being angry, he ſits as calmly to hear me ſcold, as he does to his hair-dreſſer.

We muſt try him once more, however, and I'll go this inſtant to put my ſcheme into execu⯑tion; and I don't deſpair of ſucceeding, as, by your [3] means, I can have frequent opportunities of being about him, without being known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good will to others ſhould produce ſo much neglect of himſelf, as to require correction. Yet, we muſt touch his weakneſſes with a delicate hand. There are ſome faults ſo nearly al⯑lied to excellence, that we can ſcarce weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue.

Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without reaſon that the world allows thee to be the beſt of men. But here comes his hopeful nephew; the ſtrange good natur'd, fooliſh, open hearted—And yet, all his faults are ſuch that one loves him ſtill the better for them.

Well, Jarvis, what meſſages from my friends this morning?

You have no friends.

Well; from my acquaintance then?

A few of our uſual cards of compliment, that's all. This bill from your taylor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in Crooked-lane. He ſays he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed.

That I don't know; but I'm ſure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it.

He has loſt all patience.

Then he has loſt a very good thing.

There's that ten guineas you were ſending to the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would ſtop his mouth for a while, at leaſt.

Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean time? Muſt I be cruel becauſe he hap⯑pens to be importunate; and, to relieve his avarice, leave them to inſupportable diſtreſs?

'Sdeath! Sir, the queſtion now is how to relieve yourſelf. Yourſelf—Hav'nt I reaſon to be out of my ſenſes, when I ſee things going at ſixes and ſevens?

Whatever reaſon you may have for being out of your ſenſes, I hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreaſonable for continuing in mine.

You're the only man alive in your preſent ſituation that could do ſo—Every thing upon the waſte. There's Miſs Richland and her fine fortune gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival.

I'm no man's rival.

Your uncle in Italy preparing to diſinherit you; your own fortune almoſt ſpent; and nothing but preſſing creditors, falſe friends, and a pack of drunken ſervants that your kindneſs has made unfit for any other family.

Then they have the more occaſion for being in mine.

Soh! What will you have done with him that I caught ſtealing your plate in the pantry? In the fact; I caught him in the fact.

In the fact! If ſo, I really think that we ſhould pay him his wages, and turn him off.

He ſhall be turn'd off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the reſt of the family.

No, Jarvis: it's enough that we have loſt what he has ſtolen, let us not add to it the loſs of a fellow creature!

Very fine; well, here was the footman juſt now, to complain of the butler; he ſays he does moſt work, and ought to have moſt wages.

That's but juſt; tho' perhaps here comes the butler to complain of the footman.

Ay, its the way with them all, from the ſcullion to the privy-counſellor. If they have a bad maſter, they keep quarrelling with him; if they have a good maſter, they keep quarrelling with one another.

Sir, I'll not ſtay in the family with Jonathan; you muſt part with him, or part with me, that's the ex-ex-expoſition of the matter, Sir.

Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Philip?

Sir, he's given to drinking, Sir, and I ſhall have my morals corrupted, by keeping ſuch company.

Ha! Ha! He has ſuch a diverting way—

O quite amuſing.

I find my wines a going, Sir, and liquors don't go without mouths, Sir; I hate a drunkard, Sir.

Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time, ſo go to bed now.

To bed! Let him go to the devil.

Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your pardon maſter Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. I came on purpoſe to tell you.

Why didn't you ſhew him up, blockhead?

Shew him up, Sir? With all my heart, Sir. Up or down, all's one to me.

Ay, we have one or other of that family in this houſe from morning till night. He comes on the old affair I ſuppoſe. The match between his ſon, that's juſt returned from Paris, and Miſs Richland, the young lady he's guardian to.

Perhaps ſo. Mr. Croaker, knowing my friendſhip for the young lady, has got it into his head that I can perſuade her to what I pleaſe.

Ah! If you lov'd yourſelf but half as well as ſhe loves you, we ſhould ſoon ſee a marriage that would ſet all things to rights again.

Love me! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, no; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than friendſhip—mere friendſhip. That ſhe is the moſt lovely woman that ever warm'd the human heart with deſire, I own. But never let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a connection with one ſo unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it ſhall be my ſtudy to ſerve her, even in ſpite of my wiſhes; and to ſecure her happineſs, tho' it deſtroys my own.

Was ever the like! I want patience.

Beſides, Jarvis, tho' I could obtain Miſs Richland's conſent, do you think I could ſucceed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker his wife; who, tho' both very fine in their way, are yet a little oppoſite in their diſpoſitions you know.

Oppoſite enough, Heaven knows; the very reverſe of each other; ſhe all laugh and no joke; he always complaining, and never ſorrowful; a fretful poor ſoul that has a new diſtreſs for every hour in the four and twenty—

Huſh, huſh, he's coming up, he'll hear you.

One whoſe voice is a paſſing bell—

Well, well, go, do.

A raven that bodes nothing but miſchief; a coffin and croſs bones; a bundle of rue; a ſprig of deadly night ſhade; a—

I muſt own my old monitor is not en⯑tirely wrong. There is ſomething in my friend Croaker's converſation that quite depreſſes me. His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his ap⯑pearance has a ſtronger effect on my ſpirits than an undertaker's ſhop.—Mr. Croaker, this is ſuch a ſatisfaction—

A pleaſant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is this! You look moſt ſhockingly to day my dear friend. I hope this weather does not affect your ſpirits. To be ſure, if this weather continues—I ſay nothing—But God ſend we be all better this day three months.

I heartily concur in the wiſh, tho' I own not in your apprehenſions.

May be not! Indeed what ſignifies what weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours? Taxes riſing and trade falling. Money flying out of the kingdom and Jeſuits ſwarming into it. I know at this time no leſs than an hundred and [7] twenty-ſeven Jeſuits between Charing-croſs and Temple-bar.

The Jeſuits will ſcarce pervert you or me I ſhould hope.

May be not. Indeed what ſignifies whom they pervert in a country that has ſcarce any re⯑ligion to loſe? I'm only afraid for our wives and daughters.

I have no apprehenſions for the ladies I aſſure you.

May be not. Indeed what ſignifies whe⯑ther they be perverted or no? The women in my time were good for ſomething. I have ſeen a lady dreſt from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But now a-days the devil a thing of their own manufactures about them, except their faces.

But, however theſe faults may be practiſed abroad, you don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia or Miſs Richland.

The beſt of them will never be canoniz'd for a ſaint when ſhe's dead. By the bye, my dear friend, I don't find this match between Miſs Rich⯑land and my ſon much reliſh'd, either by one ſide or t'other.

I thought otherwiſe.

Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine ſerious advice to the young lady might go far: I know ſhe has a very exalted opinion of your un⯑derſtanding.

But would not that be uſurping an au⯑thority that more properly belongs to yourſelf?

My dear friend you know but little of my authority at home. People think, indeed, becauſe they ſee me come out in a morning thus, with a pleaſant face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well within. But I have cares that would break an heart of ſtone. My wife has ſo encroach'd upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own houſe.

But a little ſpirit exerted on your ſide might perhaps reſtore your authority.

No, tho' I had the ſpirit of a lion! I do rouze ſometimes. But what then! Always hagling and hagling. A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of loſing the victory.

It's a melancholy conſideration indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our greateſt anxie⯑ties, and that an encreaſe of our poſſeſſions is but an inlet to new diſquietudes.

Ah, my dear friend, theſe were the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week be⯑fore he made away with himſelf. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never ſee you but you put me in mind of poor—Dick. Ah there was merit neglected for you! and ſo true a friend; we lov'd each other for thirty years, and yet he never aſked me to lend him a ſingle farthing.

Pray what could induce him to commit ſo raſh an action at laſt?

I don't know, ſome people were malicious enough to ſay it was keeping company with me; becauſe we us'd to meet now and then and open our hearts to each other. To be ſure I lov'd to hear him talk, and he lov'd to hear me talk; poor dear Dick. He us'd to ſay that Croaker rhim'd to joker; and ſo we us'd to laugh—Poor Dick.

His fate affects me.

Ay, he grew ſick of this miſerable life, where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dreſs and undreſs, get up and lie down; while reaſon, that ſhould watch like a nurſe by our ſide, falls as faſt aſleep as we do.

To ſay truth, if we compare that part of life which is to come, by that which we have paſt, the proſpect is hideous.

Life at the greateſt and beſt is but a froward child, that muſt be humour'd and coax'd a little till it falls aſleep, and then all the care is over.

Very true, Sir, nothing can exceed the vanity of our exiſtence, but the folly of our purſuits. We wept when we came into the world, and every day tells us why.

Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect ſatisfaction to be miſerable with you. My ſon Leontine ſhan't loſe the benefit of ſuch fine converſation. I'll juſt ſtep home for him. I am willing to ſhew him ſo much ſeriouſneſs in one ſcarce older than himſelf—And what if I bring my laſt letter to the Gazetteer on the encreaſe and progreſs of earthquakes? It will amuſe us I promiſe you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to pay us another viſit from London to Liſbon, from Liſbon to the Canary Iſlands, from the Canary Iſlands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Conſtantinople, and ſo from Con⯑ſtantinople back to London again.

Poor Croaker! His ſituation deſerves the utmoſt pity. I ſhall ſcarce recover my ſpirits theſe three days. Sure to live upon ſuch terms is worſe than death itſelf. And yet, when I conſider my own ſituation; a broken fortune, an hopeleſs paſſion, friends in diſtreſs; the wiſh but not the power to ſerve them—

More company below, Sir; Mrs. Croaker and Miſs Richland; ſhall I ſhew them up? But they're ſhewing up themſelves.

Your'e always in ſuch ſpirits.

We have juſt come, my dear Honey⯑wood, from the auction. There was the old deaf dowager, as uſual, bidding like a fury againſt her⯑ſelf. And then ſo curious in antique [...] Herſelf the moſt genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection.

Excuſe me, ladies, if ſome uneaſineſs from friendſhip makes me unfit to ſhare in this good hu⯑mour: I know you'll pardon me.

I vow he ſeems as melancholy as if he had taken a doſe of my huſband this morning. Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I muſt.

You would ſeem to inſinuate, madam, that I have particular reaſons for being diſpos'd to refuſe it.

Whatever I inſinuate, my dear, don't be ſo ready to wiſh an explanation.

I own I ſhould be ſorry, Mr. Honey⯑wood's long friendſhip and mine ſhould be miſ⯑underſtood.

There's no anſwering for others madam. But I hope you'll never find me preſuming to offer more than the moſt delicate friendſhip may readily allow.

And I ſhall be prouder of ſuch a tri⯑bute from you than the moſt paſſionate profeſſions from others.

My own ſentimenrs, Madam: friendſhip is a diſintereſted commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourſe between tyrants and ſlaves.

And, without a compliment, I know none more diſintereſted or more capable of friend⯑ſhip than Mr. Honeywood.

And indeed I know nobody that has more friends, at leaſt among the ladies. Miſs Fruzz, Miſs Odbody and Miſs Winterbottom, praiſe him in all companies. As for Miſs Biddy Bundle, ſhe's his profeſſed admirer.

Indeed! an admirer! I did not know, Sir, you were ſuch a favourite there. But is ſhe ſeriouſly ſo handſome? Is ſhe the mighty thing talk'd of.

The town, Madam, ſeldom begins to praiſe a lady's beauty, till ſhe's beginning to loſe it.

But ſhe's reſolved never to loſe it, it ſeems. For as her natural face decays, her ſkill improves in making the artificial one. Well, no⯑thing diverts me more than one of thoſe fine old dreſſy things, who thinks to conceal her age, by every where expoſing her perſon; ſticking herſelf up in the front of a ſide-box; trailing thro' a minuet at Almack's; and then, in the public gar⯑dens; looking for all the world like one of the painted ruins of the place.

Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer climates of youth; there ought to be ſome to carry on an uſeful commerce in the frozen latitudes be⯑yond fifty.

But then the mortifications they muſt ſuffer before they can be fitted out for traffic. I have ſeen one of them fret an whole morning at her hair-dreſſer, when all the fault was her face.

And yet I'll engage has carried that face at laſt to a very good market. This good na⯑tur'd town, Madam, has huſbands, like ſpectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourſcore.

Well, you're a dear good-natur'd creature. But you know you're engaged with us this morning upon a ſtroling party. I want to ſhew Olivia the town, and the things; I believe I ſhall have buſineſs for you for the whole day.

I am ſorry, Madam, I have an appoint⯑ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impoſſible to put off.

What! with my huſband! Then I'm reſolved to take no refuſal. Nay, I proteſt you muſt. You know I never laugh ſo much as with you.

Why, if I muſt, I muſt. I'll ſwear you have put me into ſuch ſpirits. Well, do you find jeſt, and I'll find laugh, I promiſe you. We'll wait for the chariot in the next room.

There they go, thoughtleſs and happy: My deareſt Olivia, what would I give to ſee you capable of ſharing in their amuſements, and as chear⯑ful as they are.

How, my Leontine, how can I be chearful, when I have ſo many terrors to oppreſs me? The fear of being detected by this family, and the ap⯑prehenſions of a cenſuring world, when I muſt be detected—

The world, my love, what can it ſay? At worſt it can only ſay that being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you diſliked, you formed a reſolution of flying with the man of your choice; that you confided in his honour, and took refuge in this houſe; the only one where your's could remain without cenſure.

But conſider, Leontine, your diſobedience and my indiſcretion: your being ſent to France to bring home a ſiſter; and, inſtead of a ſiſter, bringing home—

One dearer than a thouſand ſiſters. One that I am convinc'd will be equally dear, to the reſt of the family, when ſhew comes to be known.

And that, I fear, will ſhortly be.

Impoſſible, 'till we ourſelves think proper to make the diſcovery. My ſiſter, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, ſince ſhe was a child, and you find every creature in the family takes you for her.

But may'nt ſhe write, may'nt her aunt write?

Her aunt ſcarce ever writes, and all my ſiſter's letters are directed to me.

But won't your refuſing Miſs Richland, for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create a ſuſpicion.

There, there's my maſter-ſtroke. I have reſolved not to refuſe her; nay, an hour hence I [13] have conſented to go with my father, to make her an offer of my heart and fortune.

Your heart and fortune!

Don't be alarm'd, my deareſt. Can Olivia think ſo meanly of my honour, or my love, as to ſuppoſe I could ever hope for happineſs from any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my paſſion, leave any room to ſuſpect me. I only offer Miſs Richland an heart, I am convinc'd ſhe will refuſe; as I am confident, that without knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood.

Mr. Honeywood! You'll excuſe my appre⯑henſions; but when your merits come to be put in the ballance—

You view them with too much partiality. However, by making this offer, I ſhew a ſeeming compliance with my father's commands, and perhaps upon her refuſal I may have his conſent to chuſe for myſelf.

Well, I ſubmit. And yet, my Leontine, I own, I ſhall envy her, even your pretended ad⯑dreſſes. I conſider every look, every expreſſion of your eſteem, as due only to me. This is folly per⯑haps: I allow it; but it is natural to ſuppoſe, that merit which has made an impreſſion on ones own heart, may be powerful over that of another.

Don't, my life's treaſure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have ſo many real ones to encounter. At worſt, you know, if Miſs Richland ſhould conſent, or my father refuſe his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland; and—

Where have you been, boy? I have been ſeeking you. My friend Honeywood here, has been ſaying ſuch comfortable things. Ah! he's an ex⯑ample indeed; where is he? I left him here.

Sir, I believe you may ſee him, and hear him too in the next room, he's preparing to go out with the ladies.

Good gracious, can I believe my eyes or my ears! I'm ſtruck dumb with his vivacity, and ſtunn'd with the loudneſs of his laugh. Was there ever ſuch a transformation!

Ha! ha! ha! there it goes, a plague take their balderdaſh; yet I could expect no⯑thing leſs, when my precious wife was of the party. On my conſcience, I believe, ſhe could ſpread an horſe-laugh thro' the pews of a tabernacle.

Since you find ſo many objections to a wife, Sir, how can you be ſo earneſt in recommending one to me?

I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miſs Richland's fortune muſt not go out of the family; one may find comfort in the money, what⯑ever one does in the wife.

But, Sir, tho', in obedience to your deſire, I am ready to marry her; it may be poſſible, ſhe has no inclination to me.

I'll tell you once for all how it ſtands. A good part of Miſs Richland's large fortune conſiſts in a claim upon government, which my good friend Mr. Le Bronze, aſſures me the treaſury will allow. One half of this ſhe is to forfeit, by her father's will, in caſe ſhe refuſes to marry you. So, if ſhe re⯑jects you, we ſeize half her fortune; if ſhe accepts you, we ſeize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain.

But, Sir, if you will but liſten to reaſon—

Come, then, produce your reaſons. I tell you I'm fix'd, determined, ſo now produce your reaſons. When I'm determined, I always liſten to reaſon, becauſe it can then do no harm.

You have alledged that a mutual choice was the firſt requiſite in matrimonial happineſs.

Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She has her choice—to marry you, or loſe [15] half her fortune; and you have your choice—to marry her, or pack out of doors without any for⯑tune at all.

An only Son, Sir, might expect more indulgence.

An only father, Sir, might expect more obedience; beſides, has not your ſiſter here, that never diſobliged me in her life, as good a right as you? He's a ſad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. But he ſhan't, I tell you he ſhan't, for you ſhall have your ſhare.

Dear Sir, I wiſh you'd be convinced that I can never b [...] happy in any addition to my fortune, which is taken from his.

Well, well, its a good child, ſo ſay no more, but come with me, and we ſhall ſee ſome⯑thing that will give us a great deal of pleaſure, I promiſe you; old Ruggins, the curry-comb-maker, lying in ſtate; I'm told he makes a very hand⯑ſome corpſe, and becomes his coffin prodigiouſly. He was an intimate friend of mine, and theſe are friendly things we ought to do for each other.

ACT THE SECOND.

Olivia not his ſiſter? Olivia not Leon⯑tine's ſiſter? You amaze me!

No more his ſiſter than I am, I had it all from his own ſervant; I can get any thing from that quarter.

But how? Tell me again, Garnet.

Why, Madam, as I told you before, inſtead of going to Lyons to bring home his ſiſter, who has been there with her aunt theſe ten years he never went further than Paris; there he ſaw and fell in love with this young lady; by the bye, of a prodigious family.

And brought her home to my guar⯑dian, as his daughter?

Yes, and daughter ſhe will be; if he don't conſent to their marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parſon can do.

Well, I own they have deceived me—And ſo demurely as Olivia carried it too!—Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my ſecrets; and yet the ſly cheat concealed all this from me?

And, upon my word, Madam, I don't much blame her; ſhe was loath to truſt one with her ſecrets, that was ſo very bad at keeping her own.

But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it ſeems, pretends to make me ſerious propoſals. My guardian and he are to be here pre⯑ſently, to open the affair in form. You know I am to loſe half my fortune if I refuſe him.

Yet, what can you do? For being, as you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, Madam—

How! ideot; what do you mean? In love with Mr. Honeywood! Is this to provoke me?

That is, Madam, in friendſhip with him; I meant nothing more than friendſhip, as I hope to be married; nothing more.

Well, no more of this! As to my guardian, and his ſon, they ſhall find me prepared to receive them; I'm reſolved to accept their pro⯑poſal with ſeeming pleaſure, to mortify them by com⯑pliance, and ſo throw the refuſal at laſt upon them.

Delicious! and that will ſecure your whole fortune to yourſelf. Well, who could have thought ſo innocent a face could cover ſo much cuteneſs.

Why, girl, I only oppoſe my prudence to their cunning, and practiſe a leſſon they have taught me againſt themſelves.

Then you're likely not long to want employ⯑ment, for here they come, and in cloſe conference.

Excuſe me, Sir, if I ſeem to heſitate upon the point of putting the lady ſo important a queſtion.

Lord! good Sir, moderate your fears; you're ſo plaguy ſhy, that one would think you had changed ſexes. I tell you we muſt have the half or the whole. Come, let me ſee with what ſpirit you begin? Well, why don't you? Eh! What? Well then—I muſt, it ſeems—Miſs Richland, my dear, I believe you gueſs at our buſineſs; an affair which my ſon here comes to open, that nearly concerns your happineſs.

Sir, I ſhould be ungrateful not to be pleaſed with any thing that comes recommended by you.

How, boy, could you deſire a finer open⯑ing? Why don't you begin, I ſay?

'Tis true, Madam, my father, Madam, has ſome intentions—hem—of explaining an affair—which—himſelf—can beſt explain, Madam.

Yes, my dear; it comes intirely from my ſon; it's all a requeſt of his own, Madam. And I will permit him to make the beſt of it.

The whole affair is only this, Madam; my father has a propoſal to make, which he inſiſts none but himſelf ſhall deliver.

My mind miſgives me, the fellow will never be brought on.

In ſhort, Madam, you ſee before you one that loves you; one whoſe whole hap⯑pineſs is all in you.

I never had any doubts of your regard, Sir; and I hope you can have none of my duty.

That's not the thing, my little ſweeting; my love! No, no, another gueſs lover than I; there he ſtands, Madam; his very looks declare the force of his paſſion—Call up a look, you dog. But then, had you ſeen him, as I have, weeping, ſpeaking ſo⯑liloquies and blank verſe, ſometimes melancholy, and ſometimes abſent—

I fear, Sir, he's abſent now; or ſuch a declaration would have come moſt properly from him⯑ſelf.

Himſelf, Madam; he would die before he could make ſuch a confeſſion; and if he had not a channel for his paſſion thro' me, it would ere now have drowned his underſtanding.

I muſt grant, Sir, there are attractions in modeſt diffidence, above the force of words. A ſilent addreſs is the genuine eloquence of ſincerity.

Madam, he has forgot to ſpeak any other language; ſilence is become his mother tongue.

And it muſt be confeſſed, Sir, it ſpeaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet, I ſhall be thought too forward in making ſuch a confeſſion; ſhan't I Mr. Leontine?

Confuſion! my reſerve will undo me. But, if modeſty attracts her, impudence may diſguſt her. I'll try.

Don't imagine from my ſilence, Madam, that I want a due ſenſe of the honour and happineſs intended me. My father, Madam, tells [19] me, your humble ſervant is not totally indifferent to you. He admires you; I adore you; and when we come together, upon my ſoul I believe we ſhall be the happieſt couple in all St. James's.

If I could flatter myſelf, you thought as you ſpeak, Sir—

Doubt my ſincerity, Madam? By your dear ſelf I ſwear. Aſk the brave if they deſire glory; aſk cowards if they covet ſafety—

Well, well, no more queſtions about it.

Aſk the ſick if they long for health, aſk miſers if they love money, aſk—

Aſk a fool if he can talk nonſenſe! What's come over the boy. What ſignifies aſking, when there's not a ſoul to give you an anſwer? If you would aſk to the purpoſe, aſk this lady's conſent to make you happy.

Why indeed, Sir, his uncommon ar⯑dour almoſt compels me, forces me, to comply. And yet I'm afraid he'll deſpiſe a conqueſt gain'd with too much eaſe; wont you Mr. Leontine?

Confuſion!

O by no means, Madam, by no means. And yet, Madam, you talk'd of force. There is nothing I would avoid ſo much as compulſion in a thing of this kind. No, Madam, I will ſtill be generous, and leave you at liberty to refuſe.

But I tell you, Sir, the lady is not at liberty. Its a match. You ſee ſhe ſays nothing. Silence gives conſent.

But, Sir, ſhe talk'd of force. Conſider, Sir, the cruelty of conſtraining her inclinations.

But I ſay there's no cruelty. Don't you know, blockhead, that girls have always a roundabout way of ſaying yes before company? So get you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the tender explanation. Get you gone, I ſay; I'll not hear a word.

But Sir, I muſt beg leave to inſiſt—

Get off you puppy, or I'll beg leave to inſiſt upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp. But I don't wonder, the boy takes entirely after his mother.

Mr. Croaker, I bring you ſomething, my dear, that I believe will make you ſmile.

I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear.

A letter; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it.

And how can you expect your breaking open my letters ſhould give me pleaſure?

Poo, its from your ſiſter at Lyons, and contains good news: read it.

What a Frenchified cover is here! That ſiſter of mine has ſome good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter.

Fold a fiddleſtick. Read what it contains.

DEAR NICK, An Engliſh gentleman, of large fortune, has for ſome time made private, tho' honourable propoſals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find ſhe has conſented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addreſſes. As ſuch good offers don't come every day, your own good ſenſe, his large fortune, and family conſiderations, will induce you to forgive her—Yours ever—RACHEL CROAKER.

My daughter, Olivia, privately contracted to a man of large fortune! This is good news indeed. Oh! My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how ſlily the little baggage has carried it ſince ſhe came home. Not a word on't to the old ones for the world. Yet, I thought, I ſaw ſomething ſhe wanted to conceal.

Well, if they have concealed their amour, they ſhan't conceal their wedding; that ſhall be public, I'm reſolved.

I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the moſt fooliſh part of the ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the more ſerious part of the nuptial engagement.

What, would you have me think of their funeral? But come, tell me, my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confeſs? Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has un⯑dertaken Miſs Richland's claim at the treaſury, but for me? Who was it firſt made him an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's route? who got him to pro⯑miſe us his intereſt? Is not he a back-ſtairs favourite, one that can do what he pleaſes with thoſe that do what they pleaſe? Isn't he an acquaintance that all your groaning and lamentations could never have got us?

He is a man of importance, I grant you. And yet, what amazes me is, that while he is giving away places to all the world, he can't get one for himſelf.

That perhaps may be owing to his nicety. Great men are not eaſily ſatisfied.

An expreſſe from Monſieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your honour's inſtammant. He be on⯑ly giving four five inſtruction, read two tree memo⯑rial, call upon von ambaſſadeur. He vill be vid you in one tree minutes.

You ſee now, my dear. What an extenſive department. Well, friend, let your maſter know, that we are extremely honoured by this ho⯑nour. Was there any thing ever in a higher ſtyle of breeding! All meſſages among the great are now done by expreſs.

To be ſure, no man does little things with more ſolemnity, or claims more reſpect than he. But [22] he's in the right on't. In our bad world, reſpect is given, where reſpect is claim'd.

Never mind the world, my dear; your were never in a pleaſanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proper reſpect

and there he is by the thundering rap.

Ay, verily, there he is, as cloſe upon the heels of his own expreſs, as an indorſement upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, whilſt I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to ſteal a marriage without mine or her aunt's conſent. I muſt ſeem to be angry, or ſhe too may begin to deſpiſe my authority.

And if the Venetian ambaſſador, or that teazing creature the Marquis, ſhould call, I'm not at home. Dam'me, I'll be pack horſe to none of them. My dear Madam, I have juſt ſnatched a moment—And if the expreſſes to his grace be ready, let them be ſent off; they're of importance. Madam, I aſk a thouſand pardons.

Sir, this honour—

And Dubardieu! If the perſon calls about the commiſſion, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's ſtale requeſt, it can keep cold: you underſtand me. Madam, I aſk ten thouſand pardons.

Sir, this honour—

And, Dubardieu! If the man comes from the Corniſh borough, you muſt do him; you muſt do him, I ſay. Madam, I aſk ten thouſand pardons. And if the Ruſſian ambaſſador calls: but he will ſcarce call to-day, I believe. And now, Madam, I have juſt got time to expreſs my happineſs in having the honour of being permitted to profeſs myſelf your moſt obedient humble ſervant.

Sir, the happineſs and honour are all mine; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while I detain you.

Sink the public, Madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be ſo charm⯑ingly devouted! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is; eternally ſolicited for places here, teized for penſions there, and court⯑ed every where. I know you pity me. Yes, I ſee yo do.

Excuſe me, Sir. Toils of empires pleaſures are, as Waller Congrave ſays.

Waller, Waller; is he of the Houſe?

The modern poet of that name, Sir.

Oh, a modern! We men of buſineſs deſpiſe the moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. Why now, here I ſtand that know nothing of books. I ſay, Madam, I know nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a land carriage fiſhery, a ſtamp act, or a jag⯑hire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them.

The world is no ſtranger to Mr. Lofty's eminence in every capacity.

I vow to Gad, Madam, you make me bluſh. I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obſcure gentleman. To be ſure, indeed, one or two of the preſent miniſters are pleaſed to repreſent me as a formal man. I know they are pleaſed to be-ſpatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my ſoul, I wonder what they ſee in me to treat me ſo! Meaſures, not men, have always been my mark; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my reſentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm—That is as mere men.

What importance, and yet what modeſty!

Oh, if you talk of modeſty, Madam! There I own, I'm acceſſible to praiſe. Modeſty is my foible: It was ſo, the Duke of Brentford uſed to ſay of me. I love Jack Lofty, he uſed to ſay: no man has a finer knowledge of things; quite a man of information; and when he ſpeaks upon his legs, by the lord he's [24] prodigious, he ſcouts them; and yet all men have their faults; too much modeſty is his, ſays his Grace.

And yet, I dare ſay, you don't want aſſurance when you come to ſolicit for your friends.

O, there indeed I'm a bronze. Apropos, I have juſt been mentioning miſs Richland's caſe to a certain perſonage; we muſt name no names. When I aſk, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine girl, ſir; great juſtice in her caſe. A friend of mine. Borough intereſt. Buſineſs muſt be done, Mr. Secretary. I ſay, Mr. Secretary, her buſineſs muſt be done, ſir. That's my way, madam.

Bleſs me! you ſaid all this to the Secretary of State, did you?

I did not ſay the Secretary, did I? Well, curſe it, ſince you have found me out I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary.

This was going to the fountain head at once, not applying to the underſtrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.

Honeywood! he! he! He was, indeed, a fine ſolicitor. I ſuppoſe you have heard what has juſt happened to him?

Poor dear man; no accident, I hope.

Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken him into cuſtody. A priſoner in his own houſe.

A priſoner in his own houſe! How! At this very time! I'm quite unhappy for him.

Why ſo am I. The man, to be ſure, was immenſely good natur'd. But then I could never find that he had any thing in him.

His manner, to be ſure, was exceſſive harmleſs; ſome, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion.

It can't be conceal'd, madam; the man was dull, dull as the laſt new comedy! A poor impracti⯑cable creature! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for buſineſs; but he had ſcarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange barrow.

How differently does miſs Richland think of him! For, I believe, with all his faults, ſhe loves him.

Loves him! Does ſhe? You ſhould cure her of that by all means. Let me ſee, what if ſhe were ſent to him this inſtant, in his preſent doleful ſitua⯑tion? My life for it that works her cure. Diſtreſs is a perfect antidote to love. Suppoſe we join her in the next room? Miſs Richland is a fine girl, and has a fine fortune—two very fine things—and muſt not be thrown away. Upon my honour, Madam, I have a regard for Miſs Richland; and, rather than ſhe ſhould be thrown away, I ſhould think it no indig⯑nity to marry her myſelf.

And yet, truſt me, Olivia, I had every rea⯑ſon to expect Miſs Richland's refuſal, as I did every thing in my power to deſerve it. Her indelicacy ſur⯑prizes me.

Sure, Leontine, there's nothing ſo indeli⯑cate in being ſenſible of your merit. If ſo, I fear, I ſhall be the moſt guilty thing alive.

But you miſtake, my dear. The ſame at⯑tention I uſed to advance my merit with you, I prac⯑tiſed to leſſen it with her. What more could I do?

Let us now rather conſider what's to be done. We have both diſſembled too long—I have always been aſham'd—I am now quite weary of it. Sure I could never have undergone ſo much for any other but you.

And you ſhall find my gratitude equal to your kindeſt compliance. Tho' our friends ſhould totally forſake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content for the deſiciencies of fortune.

Then why ſhould we defer our ſcheme of humble happineſs, when it is now in our power? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true; but can it ever be thought, that his preſent kindneſs [26] to a ſuppos'd child, will continue to a known de⯑ceiver?

I have many reaſons to believe it will; as his attachments are but few, they are laſting. His own marriage was a private one, as our's may be. Beſides, I have ſounded him already at a diſtance, and find all his anſwers exactly to our wiſh. Nay, by an expreſſion or two that drop'd from him, I am in⯑duced to think he knows of this affair.

Indeed! But that would be an happineſs too great to be expected.

However it be, I'm certain you have power over him; and am perſuaded, if you inform'd him of our ſituation, that he would be diſpoſed to pardon it.

You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your laſt ſcheme with Miſs Richland, which you find has ſucceeded moſt wretchedly.

And that's the beſt reaſon for trying another.

If it muſt be ſo, I ſubmit.

As we could wiſh, he comes this way. Now, my deareſt Olivia, be reſolute. I'll juſt retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to ſhare your danger, or confirm your victory.

Yes, I muſt forgive her; and yet not too eaſily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the de⯑corums of reſentment a little, if it be only to impreſs her with an idea of my authority.

How I tremble to approach him!—Might I preſume, Sir—If I interrupt you—

No, child, where I have an affection, it is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over little things.

Sir, you're too kind. I'm ſenſible how ill I deſerve this partiality. Yet Heaven knows there is nothing I would not do to gain it.

And you have but too well ſucceeded, you little huſſey, you: With thoſe endearing ways of yours, on my conſcience, I could be brought to for⯑give any thing, unleſs it were a very great offence indeed.

But mine is ſuch an offence—When you know my guilt.—Yes, you ſhall know it, tho' I feel the greateſt pain in the confeſſion.

Why then, if it be ſo very great a pain, you may ſpare yourſelf the trouble, for I know every ſyllable of the matter before you begin.

Indeed! Then I'm undone.

Ay, Miſs, you wanted to ſteal a match, without letting me know it, did you! But I'm not worth being conſulted, I ſuppoſe, when there's to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to have no hand in the diſpoſal of my own children. No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber; a piece of crack'd china to be ſtuck up in a corner.

Dear Sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us to conceal it from you.

No, no, my conſequence is no more; I'm as little minded as a dead Ruſſian in winter, juſt ſtuck up with a pipe in his mouth till there comes a thaw.—It goes to my heart to vex her.

I was prepar'd, Sir, for your anger, and deſpair'd of pardon, even while I preſum'd to aſk it. But your ſeverity ſhall never abate my affection, as my puniſhment is but juſtice.

And yet you ſhould not deſpair neither, Livy. We ought to hope all for the beſt.

And do you permit me to hope, Sir! Can I ever expect to be forgiven! But hope has too long deceiv'd me.

Why then, child, it ſhan't deceive you now, for I forgive you this very moment. I forgive you all; and now you are indeed my daughter.

O tranſport! This kindeſs overpowers me.

I was always againſt ſeverity to our chil⯑dren. We have been young and giddy ourſelves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old before their time.

What generoſity! But can you forget the many falſhoods, the diſſimulation—

You did indeed diſſemble, you urchin you; but where's the girl that won't diſſemble for an huſband! My wife and I had never been married, if we had not diſſembled a little before hand.

It ſhall be my future care never to put ſuch generoſity to a ſecond trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, and the juſt ſenſe he has of his duty, I can anſwer for him that—

Permit him thus to anſwer for himſelf.

Thus, Sir, let me ſpeak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveneſs. Yes, Sir, this even ex⯑ceeds all your former tenderneſs: I now can boaſt the moſt indulgent of fathers. The life, he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling bleſſing.

And, good Sir, who ſent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and flouriſhing manner? I don't know what we have to do with your gratitude upon this occaſion.

How, Sir! is it poſſible to be ſilent when ſo much oblig'd! Would you refuſe me the pleaſure of being grateful! Of adding my thanks to my Olivia's! Of ſharing in the tranſports that you have thus occa⯑ſion'd!

Lord, Sir, we can be happy enough, without your coming in to make up the party. I don't know what's the matter with the boy all this day; he has got into ſuch a rhodomontade manner all the morning!

But, Sir, I that have ſo large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty to ſhew my joy? Is the being admitted to your favour ſo ſlight an obligation? Is the happineſs of marrying my Olivia ſo ſmall a bleſſing?

Marrying Olivia! marrying Olivia! marrying his own ſiſter! Sure the boy is out of his ſenſes. His own ſiſter!

My ſiſter!

Siſter! How have I been miſtaken!

Some curs'd miſtake in all this I find.

What does the booby mean, or has he any meaning. Eh, what do you mean, you block⯑head you?

Mean, Sir—why, Sir—only when my ſiſter is to be married, that I have the pleaſure of marrying her, Sir; that is, of giving her away, Sir—I have made a point of it.

O, is that all. Give her away. You have made a point of it. Then you had as good make a point of firſt giving away yourſelf, as I'm go⯑ing to prepare the writings between you and miſs Richland this very minute. What a fuſs is here about nothing! Why, what's the matter now? I thought I had made you at leaſt as happy as you could wiſh.

O! yes, Sir, very happy.

Do you foreſee any thing, child? You look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreſeen, I have as ſharp a look out as another: and yet I foreſee nothing.

What can it mean?

He knows ſomething, and yet for my life I can't tell what.

It can't be the connexion between us, I'm pretty certain.

Whatever it be, my deareſt, I'm reſolv'd to put it out of Fortune's power to repeat our mortifi⯑cation. I'll haſte, and prepare for our journey to Scotland this very evening. My friend Honeywood has promis'd me his advice and aſſiſtance. I'll go to him, and repoſe our diſtreſſes on his friendly boſom: and I know ſo much of his honeſt heart, that if he can't relieve our uneaſineſſes, he will at leaſt ſhare them.

ACT THE THIRD.

Looky, Sir, I have arreſted as good men as you in my time: no diſparagement of you neither. Men that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. I challenge the town to ſhew a man in more genteeler practice than myſelf.

Without all queſtion, Mr.—.I for⯑get your name, Sir?

How can you forget what you never knew? he, he, he.

May I beg leave to aſk your name?

Yes, you may.

Then, pray, Sir, what is your name, Sir?

That I didn't promiſe to tell you. He, he, he. A joke breaks no bones, as we ſay among us that practice the law.

You may have reaſon for keeping it a ſecret perhaps?

The law does nothing without reaſon. I'm aſham'd to tell my name to no man, Sir. If you can ſhew cauſe, as why, upon a ſpecial capus, that I ſhould prove my name. But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. And now, you know my name, what have you to ſay to that?

Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I have a favour to aſk, that's all.

Ay, favours are more eaſily aſked than granted, as we ſay among us that practice the law. I have taken an oath againſt granting favours. Would you have me perjure myſelf?

But my requeſt will come recommended in ſo ſtrong a manner, as, I believe you'll have no [32] ſcruple

The thing is only this: I believe I ſhall be able to diſcharge this trifle in two or three days at fartheſt; but, as I would not have the affair known for the world, I have thought of keeping you, and your good friend here, about me till the debt is diſcharged; for which, I ſhall be pro⯑perly grateful.

Oh! that's another maxum, and altogether within my oath. For certain, if an honeſt man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no reaſon why all things ſhould not be done in civility.

Doubtleſs, all trades muſt live, Mr. Twitch; and your's is a neceſſary one.

Oh! your honour; I hope your honour takes nothing amiſs as I does, as I does nothing but my duty in ſo doing. I'm ſure no man can ſay I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill uſage. If I ſaw that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to ſee him for ten weeks together.

Tenderneſs is a virtue, Mr. Twitch.

Ay, Sir, its a perfect treaſure. I love to ſee a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heart myſelf. If all that I have loſt by my heart was put together, it would make a—but no matter for that.

Don't account it loſt, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the conſcious happineſs of having acted with humanity ourſelves.

Humanity, Sir, is a jewel. Its better than gold. I love humanity. People, may ſay, that we, in our way, have no humanity; but I'll ſhew you my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children, a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't ſhew him any humanity myſelf, I muſt beg leave you'll do it for me.

I aſſure you, Mr. Twitch, your's is a moſt powerful recommendation

Sir, you're a gentleman. I ſee you know what to do with your money. But, to buſineſs: we are to be with you here as your friends, I ſuppoſe. But ſet in caſe company comes.—Little Flanigan here, to be ſure, has a good face; a very good face: but then, he is a little ſeedy, as we ſay among us that practice the law. Not well in cloaths. Smoke the pocket holes.

Well, that ſhall be remedied without delay.

Sir, Miſs Richland is below.

How unlucky. Detain her a moment. We muſt improve, my good friend, Little Mr. Flanigan's appearance firſt. Here, let little Mr. Flanigan have a ſuit of my cloaths—quick—the brown and ſilver—Do you hear?

That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verſes, becauſe it was as good as new.

The white and gold then.

That your honour, I made bold to ſell, becauſe it was good for nothing.

Well, the firſt that comes to hand then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look beſt in blue.

Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of fleſh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettyer ſcout in the four counties after a ſhy-cock than he. Scents like a hound; ſticks like a weazle. He was maſter of the ceremonies to the black queen of Moroco when I took him to follow me. Heh, ecod, I think he looks ſo well, that I don't care if I have a ſuit from the ſame place for myſelf.

Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions [34] not to ſpeak. As for yourſelf, I know you will ſay no⯑thing without being directed.

Never you fear me, I'll ſhew the Lady that I have ſomething to ſay for myſelf as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another, that's all the difference between them.

You'll be ſurpriſed, Sir, with this viſit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for chuſing my little library.

Thanks, Madam, are unneceſſary, as it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, ſit without ceremony.

Who can theſe odd looking men be! I fear it is as I was informed. It muſt be ſo.

Pretty weather, very pretty weather for the time of the year, Madam.

Very good circuit weather in the country.

You officers are generally favourites a⯑mong the ladies. My friends, Madam, have been upon very diſagreeable duty, I aſſure you. The fair ſhould, in ſome meaſure, recompence the toils of the brave.

Our officers do indeed deſerve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine ſervice, I preſume, Sir.

Why, Madam, they do—occaſionally ſerve in the Fleet, Madam. A dangerous ſervice.

I'm told ſo. And I own, it has often ſur⯑priſed me, that, while we have had ſo many inſtances of bravery there, we have had ſo few of wit at home to praiſe it.

I grant, Madam, that our poets have not written as our ſoldiers have fought; but, they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherſt could do no more.

I'm quite diſpleaſed when I ſee a fine ſubject ſpoiled by a dull writer.

We ſhould not be ſo ſevere againſt dull writers, Madam. It is ten to one, but the dulleſt writer exceeds the moſt rigid French critic who pre⯑ſumes to deſpiſe him.

Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them.

Sir!

Ha, ha, ha, honeſt Mr. Flanigan. A true Engliſh officer, Madam; he's not contented with beating the French, but he will ſcold them too.

Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me but that ſeverity in criticiſm is neceſſary. It was our firſt adopting the ſeverity of French taſte, that has brought them in turn to taſte us.

Taſte us! By the Lord, Madam, they de⯑vour us. Give Monſeers but a taſte, and I'll be damn'd, but they come in for a bellyful.

Very extraordinary this.

But very true. What makes the bread riſing, the parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound, the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three pence halfpenny a pot—

Ah; the vulgar rogues, all will be out. Right, gentlemen, very right upon my word, and quite to the purpoſe. They draw a parallel, Madam, between the mental taſte, and that of our ſenſes. We are injur'd as much by French ſeverity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. That's their meaning.

Tho' I don't ſee the force of the pa⯑rallel, yet, I'll own, that we ſhould ſometimes par⯑don books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable abſurdities to recommend them.

That's all my eye. The King only can pardon, as the law ſays: for ſet in [...]aſe—

I'm quite of your opinion, Sir. I ſee the the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly [36] our preſuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer can be free?

By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can ſet him free at any time. For ſet in caſe—

I'm obliged to you, Sir, for the hint. If, Madam, as my friend obſerves, our laws are ſo care⯑ful of a gentleman's perſon, ſure we ought to be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame.

Ay, but if ſo be a man's nabb'd, you know—

Mr. Flanigan, if you ſpeak for ever, you could not improve the laſt obſervation. For my own part, I think it concluſive.

As for the matter of that, mayhap—

Nay, Sir, give me leave in this inſtance to be poſitive. For where is the neceſſity of cenſur⯑ing works without genius, which muſt ſhortly ſink of themſelves: what is it, but aiming our unneceſ⯑ſary blow againſt a victim already under the hands of juſtice?

Juſtice, O, by the eleven, if you talk about juſtice, I think I am at home there; for, in a courſe of law—

My dear, Mr. Twitch, I diſcern what you'd be at perfectly, and I believe the lady muſt be ſenſible of the art with which it is introduced. I ſuppoſe you perceive the meaning, Madam, of his courſe of law.

I proteſt, Sir, I do not. I perceive only that you anſwer one gentleman before he has finiſhed, and the other before he has well begun.

Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the matter out. This here queſtion, is about ſeverity and juſtice, and pardon, and the like of they. Now to explain the thing—

O! curſe your explanations.

Mr. Leontine, Sir, below, deſires to ſpeak with you upon earneſt buſineſs.

That's lucky

Dear Madam, you'll excuſe me, and my good friends here, ſor a few minutes. There are books, Madam, to amuſe you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with ſuch friends. After you, Sir. Excuſe me. Well, if I muſt. But, I know your natural polite⯑neſs.

Before and behind, you know.

Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be⯑hind.

What can all this mean, Garnet?

Mean, Madam, why, what ſhould it mean, but what Mr. Lofty ſent you here to ſee. Theſe people he calls officers, are officers ſure enough: ſheriff's officers; bailiffs, Madam.

Ay, it is certainly ſo. Well, tho' his perplexities are far from giving me pleaſure; yet, I own there's ſomething very ridiculous in them, and a juſt puniſhment for his diſſimulation.

And ſo they are. But I wonder, Madam, that the lawyer you juſt employed to pay his debts, and ſet him free, has not done it by this time. He ought at leaſt to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more ready to get a man into troubles, than out of them.

For Miſs Richland to undertake ſetting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my ſchemes to reclaim him. Yet, it gives me pleaſure to find, that among a number of worthleſs friendſhips, he has made one acquiſition of real value; for there muſt be ſome ſofter paſ⯑ſion on her ſide that prompts this generoſity. Ha! here before me. I'll endeavour to ſound her affections. [38] Madam, as I am the perſon that have had ſome de⯑mands upon the gentleman of this houſe; I hope you'll excuſe me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to ſee yourſelf.

The precaution was very unneceſſary, Sir. I ſuppoſe your wants were only ſuch as my agent had power to ſatisfy.

Partly, Madam. But, I was alſo willing you ſhould be fully apprized of the character of the gentleman you intended to ſerve.

It muſt come, Sir, with a very ill grace from you. To cenſure it, after what you have done, would look like malice; and to ſpeak favourably of a character you have oppreſſed, would be impeaching your own. And ſure, his tenderneſs, his humanity, his univerſal friendſhip, may atone for many faults.

That friendſhip, Madam, which is exert⯑ed in too wide a ſphere, become totally uſeleſs. Our bounty, like a drop of water, diſappears when dif⯑fuſed too widely. They, who pretend moſt to this univerſal benevolence, are either deceivers, or dupes. Men who deſire to cover their private ill-nature, by a pretended regard for all; or, men who, reaſoning themſelves into falſe feelings are more earneſt in purſuit of ſplendid, than of uſeful virtues.

I am ſurpriſed, Sir, to hear one who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, ſo fevere in his cenſure of it.

Whatever I may have gained by folly, Madam, you ſee I am willing to prevent your loſing by it.

Your cares for me, Sir, are unneceſſary. I always ſuſpect thoſe ſervices which are denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes of a refuſal. No, Sir, my directions have been given, and I inſiſt upon their being complied with.

Thou amiable woman. I can no longer contain the expreſſions of my gratitude: my plea⯑ſure. You ſee before you, one who has been equally careful of his intereſt: one, who has for ſome time [39] been a concealed ſpectator of his follies, and only puniſhed, in hopes to reclaim them—His uncle.

Sir William Honeywood! You amaze me. How ſhall I conceal my confuſion? I fear, Sir, you'll think I have been too forward in my ſervices. I confeſs I—

Don't make any apologies, Madam. I only find myſelf unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my intereſt of late to ſerve you. Having learnt, Madam, that you had ſome demands upon government, I have, tho' unaſked, been your ſolicitor there.

Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your in⯑tentions. But my guardian has employed another gentleman who aſſures him of ſucceſs.

Who, the important little man that viſits here! Truſt me, Madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to ſerve you. Mr. Lofty's promiſes are much better known to people of faſhion, than his perſon, I aſſure you.

How have we been deceived! As ſure as can be, here he comes.

Does he. Remember I'm to continue unknown. My return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters!

Let the chariot—let my chariot drive off, I'll viſit to his grace's in a chair. Miſs Richland here before me. Punctual, as uſual, to the calls of humanity. I'm very ſorry, Madam, things of this kind ſhould happen, eſpecially to a man I have ſhewn every where, and carried amongſt us as a particular acquaintance.

I find, Sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others your own.

My dear Madam, what can a private man like me do? One man can't do every thing; and then, I do ſo much in this way every day: Let me ſee, ſomething conſiderable might be done for him [40] by ſubſcription; it could not fail if I carried the liſt. I'll undertake to ſet down a brace of Dukes, two dozen Lords, and half the lower houſe, at my own peril.

And after all, its more than probable, Sir, he might reject the offer of ſuch powerful pa⯑tronage.

Then, Madam, what can we do? You know I never make promiſes. In truth, I once or twice tried to do ſomething with him in the way of buſineſs; but as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable.

His uncle; then that gentleman, I ſup⯑poſe, is a particular friend of yours.

Meaning me, Sir—Yes, Madam, as I often ſaid, my dear Sir William, you are ſenſible I would do any thing as far as my poor intereſt goes, to ſerve your family; but what can be done; there's no procuring firſt rate places, for ninth rate abilities.

I have heard of Sir William Honey⯑wood; he's abroad in employment; he confided in your judgement, I ſuppoſe.

Why, yes, Madam; I believe Sir William had ſome reaſon to confide in my judgement; one little reaſon, perhaps.

Pray, Sir, what was it.

Why, Madam, but let it go no further; it was I procured him his place.

Did you, Sir?

Either you or I, Sir.

This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed.

I did love him, to be ſure; he had ſome amuſing qualities; no man was fitter to be toaſt⯑maſter to a club, or had a better head.

A better head.

Ay, at a bottle; to be ſure, he was as dull as a choice ſpirit; but hang it, he was grateful, very grateful; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults.

He might have reaſon, perhaps. His place is pretty conſiderable, I'm told.

A trifle, a mere trifle, among us of buſi⯑neſs; the truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.

Dignity of perſon, do you mean, Sir? I'm told he's much about my ſize and figure, Sir.

Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment; but then he wanted a ſomething—a conſequence of form—a kind of a—I believe the Lady perceives my meaning.

O perfectly; you courtiers can do any thing, I ſee.

My dear Madam, all this is but a mere exchange; we do greater things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now: let me ſuppoſe you the firſt lord of the treaſury, you have an em⯑ployment in you that I want; I have a place in me that you want; do me here, do you there: intereſt of both ſides, few words, flat, done and done, and its over.

A thought ſtrikes me.

Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, Madam; and as he ſeems, Sir, an acquaintance of yours; you'll be glad to hear he's arrived from Italy; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information.

The devil he is! If I had known that, we ſhould not have been quite ſo well acquainted.

He is certainly return'd; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of ſignal ſervice to us, by introducing me to him; there are ſome papers relative to your affairs, that require diſ⯑patch and his inſpection.

This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per⯑ſon employed in my affairs: I know you'll ſerve us.

My dear Madam, I live but to ſerve you. Sir William ſhall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it.

That would be quite unneceſſary.

Well, we muſt introduce you then. Call upon me—let me ſee—ay, in two days.

Now, or the opportunity will be loſt for ever.

Well, if it muſt be now, now let it be. But damn it, that's unfortunate; my lord Grig's curs'd Penſacola buſineſs comes on this very hour, and I'm engaged to attend—another time—

A ſhort letter to Sir William will do.

You ſhall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work; face to face, that's my way.

The letter, Sir, will do quite as well.

Zounds, Sir, do you pretend to direct me; direct me in the buſineſs of office; do you know me, Sir? who am I?

Dear Mr. Lofty, this requeſt is not ſo much his as mine; if my commands—but you de⯑ſpiſe my power.

Delicate creature! your commands could even controle a debate at midnight; to a power ſo conſtitutional, I am all obedience and tranquility. He ſhall have a letter; where is my ſecretary? Du⯑bardieu! And yet, I proteſt I don't like this way of doing buſineſs. I think if I ſpoke firſt to Sir William—But you will have it ſo.

Ha, ha, ha! This too is one of my ne⯑phew's hopeful aſſociates. O vanity, thou conſtant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt, ſerve but to ſink us. Thy falſe colourings, like thoſe em⯑ployed to heighten beauty, only ſeem to mend that bloom which they contribute to deſtroy. I'm not diſpleaſed at this interview; expoſing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deſerves, may be of uſe to my deſign; at leaſt, if he can reflect, it will be of uſe to himſelf.

How now, Jarvis, where's your maſter, my nephew?

At his wits end, I believe; he's ſcarce gotten out of one ſcrape, but he's running his head into another.

How ſo?

The houſe has but juſt been cleared of the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and nail in aſſiſting old Croaker's ſon to patch up a clandeſ⯑tine match with the young lady that paſſes in the houſe for his ſiſter.

Ever buſy to ſerve others.

Ay, any body but himſelf. The young couple, it ſeems, are juſt ſetting out for Scotland, and he ſupplies them with money for the journey.

Money! how is he able to ſupply others, who has ſcarce any for himſelf?

Why, there it is; he has no money, that's true; but then, as he never ſaid no to any requeſt in his life, he has given them a bill drawn by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city, which I am to get chang'd; for you muſt know that I am to go with them to Scotland myſelf.

How!

It ſeems the young gentleman is obliged to take a different road from his miſtreſs, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order to prepare a place for their reception, when they return; ſo they have borrowed me from my maſter, as the propereſt perſon to attend the young lady down.

To the land of matrimony! A pleaſant journey, Jarvis.

Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't.

Well, it may be ſhorter, leſs fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much of the young lady's family and connexions, whom I have [44] ſeen abroad. I have alſo diſcover'd that Miſs Rich⯑land is not indifferent to my thoughtleſs nephew; and he endeavours, tho' I fear, in vain, to eſtabliſh that connexion. But, come, the letter I wait for muſt be almoſt finiſh'd; I'll let you further into my intentions, in the next room.

ACT THE FOURTH.

Well, ſure the devil's in me of late, for running my head into ſuch defiles, as nothing but a genius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly contented to huſband out my places and penſions with ſome degree of frugality; but, curſe it, of late I have given away the whole Court Regiſter in leſs time than they could print the title page; yet, hang it, why ſcruple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thouſand for nothing. Ha! Honeywood here before. Could Miſs Richland have ſet him at liberty?

Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to ſee you abroad again. I find my concurrence was not neceſſary in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in a train to do your buſineſs; but it is not for me to ſay what I intended doing.

It was unfortunate indeed, Sir. But what adds to my uneaſineſs is, that while you ſeem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I, myſelf, continue ſtill a ſtranger to my benefactor.

How! not know the friend that ſerved you?

Can't gueſs at the perſon.

Enquire.

I have, but all I can learn is, that he chuſes to remain concealed, and that all enquiry muſt be fruitleſs.

Muſt be fruitleſs?

Abſolutely fruitleſs.

Sure of that?

Very ſure.

Then I'll be damn'd if you ſhall ever know it from me.

How, Sir!

I ſuppoſe now, Mr. Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very conſiderable, and that I have vaſt ſums of money to throw away; I know you do. The world to be ſure ſays ſuch things of me.

The world, by what I learn, is no ſtran⯑ger to your generoſity But where does this tend?

To nothing; nothing in the world. The town, to be ſure, when it makes ſuch a thing as me the ſubject of converſation, has aſſerted, that I never yet patronized a man of merit.

I have heard inſtances to the contrary, even from yourſelf.

Yes, Honeywood, and there are inſtances to the contrary, that you ſhall never hear from myſelf.

Ha, dear Sir, permit me to aſk you but one queſtion.

Sir, aſk me no queſtions: I ſay, Sir, aſk me no queſtions; I'll be damn'd, if I anſwer them.

I will aſk no further. My friend, my be⯑nefactor, it is, it muſt be here, that I am indebted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou worthieſt of men, from the beginning I ſuſpected it, but was afraid to return thanks; which, if undeſerved, might ſeem reproaches.

I proteſt I don't underſtand all this, Mr. Honeywood. You treat me very cavalierly. I do aſſure you, Sir.—Blood, Sir, can't a man be permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings without all this parade?

Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confeſs it.

Confeſs it! Sir. Torture itſelf, Sir, ſhall never bring me to confeſs it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendſhip. Don't let us fall out; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I hate oſtentation; [47] you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always lov'd to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind of diſtance between us. Come, come, you and I muſt be more familiar—Indeed we muſt.

Heavens! Can I ever repay ſuch friend⯑ſhip! Is there any way! Thou beſt of men, can I ever return the obligation?

A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle. But I ſee your heart is labouring to be grateful. You ſhall be grateful. It would be cruel to diſappoint you.

How! Teach me the manner. Is there any way?

From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you ſhall know it—I'm in love.

And can I aſſiſt you?

Nobody ſo well.

In what manner? I'm all impatience.

You ſhall make love for me.

And to whom ſhall I ſpeak in your favour?

To a lady with whom you have great in⯑tereſt, I aſſure you. Miſs Richland.

Miſs Richland!

Yes, Miſs Richland. She has ſtruckthe blow up to the hilt, in my boſom, by Jupiter.

Heavens! was ever any thing more un⯑fortunate! It is too much to be endur'd.

Unfortunate indeed! And yet I can endure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Between ourſelves, I think ſhe likes me. I'm not apt to boaſt, but I think ſhe does.

Indeed! But do you know the perſon you apply to?

Yes, I know you are her friend and mine: that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the ſucceſs of my paſſion. I'll ſay no more, let friend⯑ſhip do the reſt. I have only to add, that if at any time my little intereſt can be of ſervice—but, hang it, I'll make no promiſes—you know my intereſt is your's at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be anſwered, it ſhall be ſo.

Open, generous, unſuſpecting man! He little thinks that I love her too; and with ſuch an ar⯑dent paſſion!—But then it was ever but a vain and hopeleſs one. My torment, my perſecution, what ſhall I do! Love, friendſhip, a hopeleſs paſſion, a deſerving friend! Love, that has been my tor⯑mentor; a friend, that has, perhaps, diſtreſs'd him⯑ſelf, to ſerve me. It ſhall be ſo. Yes, I will diſ⯑card the fondling hope from my boſom, and exert all my influence in his favour. And yet to ſee her in the poſſeſſion of another!—Inſupportable. But then to betray a generous, truſty friend!—Worſe, worſe, Yes, I'm reſolv'd. Let me but be the inſtrument of their happineſs, and then quit a country, where I muſt for ever deſpair of finding my own.

Dear me, I wiſh this journey were over. No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peeviſh creature delays purely to vex me.

Why, to be ſure, Madam, I did hear him ſay, a little ſnubbing before marriage, would teach you to bear it the better afterwards.

To be gone a full hour, tho' he had only to get a bill changed in the city! How provoking!

I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is ſetting off by this time from his inn; and here you are left behind.

Well, let us be prepar'd for his coming, however. Are you ſure you have omitted nothing, Garnet?

Not a ſtick, madam—all's here. Yet I wiſh you could take the white and ſilver to be mar⯑ried in. It's the worſt luck in the world, in any thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, was married in red; and, as ſure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and ſhe had a miff before morning.

No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the houſe.

Bleſs me, madam, I had almoſt forgot the wedding ring!—The ſweet little thing—I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in a gentleman's night cap, in caſe of neceſſity, madam? But here's Jarvis.

O, Jarvis, are you come at laſt? We have been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let us fly!

Aye, to Jericho; for we ſhall have no go⯑ing to Scotland this bout, I fancy.

How! What's the matter?

Money, money, is the matter, Madam. We have got no money. What the plague do you ſend me of your fool's errand for? My maſter's bill upon the city is not worth a ruſh. Here it is, Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it.

Undone! How could Honeywood ſerve us ſo! What ſhall we do? Can't we go without it?

Go to Scotland without money! To Scotland without money! Lord how ſome people underſtand geography! We might as well ſet ſail for Patagonia upon a cork jacket.

Such a diſappointment! What a baſe in⯑ſincere man was your maſter, to ſerve us in this manner. Is this his good nature?

Nay, don't talk ill of my maſter, Madam. I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but myſelf.

Bleſs us! now I think on't, Madam, you need not be under any uneaſineſs, I ſaw Mr. Leon⯑tine receive forty guineas from his father juſt before he ſet out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A ſhort letter will reach him there.

Well remember'd, Garnet; I'll write im⯑mediately. How's this! Bleſs me, my hand trem⯑bles ſo I can't write a word. Do you write, Garnet; and, upon ſecond thought it will be better from you.

Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly. I never was kute at my larning. But I'll do [50] what I can to pleaſe you. Let me ſee. All out of my own head, I ſuppoſe?

Whatever you pleaſe.

Muſter Croaker. Twenty guineas, Madam?

Ay, twenty will do.

At the bar of the Talbot till call'd for. Expedition—will be blown up.—All of a flame. Quick, diſpatch—Cupid, the little God of Love—I conclude it, madam, with Cupid, I love to ſee a love letter end like poetry.

Well, well, what you pleaſe, any thing. But how ſhall we ſend it? I can truſt none of the fervants of this family.

Odſo, Madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is in the next room; he's a dear, ſweet man; he'll do any thing for me.

He! the dog, he'll certainly commit ſome blunder. He's drunk and ſober ten times a day.

No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we can truſt will do.

Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. You may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis?

Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, think things can never be done too faſt: but we that are old, and know what we are about, muſt elope methodically, Madam.

Well, ſure, if my indiſcretions were to be done over again—

My life for it you would do them ten times over.

Why will you talk ſo? If you knew how unhappy they make me—

Very unhappy, no doubt: I was once juſt as unhappy when I was going to be married myſelf. I'll tell you a ſtory about that—

A ſtory! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was there ever ſuch a dilatory creature!—

Well, Madam, if we muſt march, why we will march; that's all. Tho', odds bobs we have ſtill [51] forgot one thing we ſhould never travel without—a caſe of good razors, and a box of ſhaving-powder. But no matter, I believe we ſhall be pretty well ſhaved in Scotland.

Undone, undone, Madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you ſaid right enough. As ſure as death Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler, drop'd the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has juſt pick'd it up, and is this moment reading it to himſelf in the hall.

Unfortunate! We ſhall be diſcover'd.

No, Madam: don't be uneaſy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be ſure he looks as if he was broke looſe from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O Lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors!

Then let us leave the houſe this inſtant, for fear he ſhould aſk farther queſtions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you write and ſend off juſt ſuch another.

Death and deſtruction! Are all the hor⯑rors of air, fire and water to be levelled only at me! Am I only to be ſingled out for gunpowder-plots, combuſtibles and conflagration! Here it is—An in⯑cendiary letter drop'd at my door. To Muſter Croaker, theſe, with ſpeed. Ay, ay, plain enough the di⯑rection: all in the genuine incendiary ſpelling, and as cramp as the devil. With ſpeed. O, confound your ſpeed. But let me read it once more.

Muſtar Croakar as ſone as yoew ſee this leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for or yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up: Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up! murderous dog! All blown up! Hea⯑vens! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up!

Our pockets are low, and mo⯑ney we muſt have. Ay, there's the reaſon; they'll [52] blow us up, becauſe they have got low pockets.

It is but a ſhort time you have to conſider; for if this takes wind, the houſe will quickly be all of a flame. Inhuman monſters! blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at Liſbon was but a bon⯑fire to it.

Make quick diſpatch, and ſo no more at preſent. But may Cupid, the little God of Love, go with you wherever you go. The little God of Love! Cupid, the little God of Love go with me! Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together; I'm ſo frightned, I ſcarce know whether I ſit, ſtand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimſtone and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder! We ſhall be all burnt in our beds; we ſhall be all burnt in our beds.

Lord, Sir, what's the matter?

Murder's the matter. We ſhall be a blown up in our beds before morning.

I hope not, Sir.

What ſignifies what you hope, Madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand. Will nothing alarm my family! Sleeping and eating, ſleeping and eating is the only work from morning till night in my houſe. My inſenſible crew could ſleep, tho' rock'd by an earthquake; and fry beef ſteaks at a volcano.

But, Sir, you have alarmed them ſo often already, we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues and mad dogs from year's end to year's end. You remember, Sir, it is not above a month ago, you aſſur'd us of a conſpiracy among the bakers, to poiſon us in our bread; and ſo kept the whole family a week upon potatoes.

And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I ſtand talking here with a girl, when I ſhould be facing the enemy without? Here, John, Nicodemus, ſearch the houſe. Look into the cellars, to ſee if there be any combuſtibles below; and above, [53] in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the houſe in caſe of neceſſity.

What can he mean by all this? Yet, why ſhould I enquire, when he alarms us in this manner almoſt every day! But Honeywood has de⯑ſired an interview with me in private. What can he mean; or, rather, what means this palpitation at his approach! It is the firſt time he ever ſhewed any thing in his conduct that ſeem'd particular. Sure he cannot mean to—but he's here.

I preſum'd to ſolicit this interview, Ma⯑dam, before I left town, to be permitted—

Indeed! Leaving town, Sir—

Yes, Madam; perhaps the kingdom. I have preſumed, I ſay, to deſire the favour of this interview—in order to diſcloſe ſomething which our long friendſhip prompts. And yet my fears—

His fears! What are his fears to mine!

We have indeed been long acquainted, Sir; very long. If I remember, our firſt meeting was at the French ambaſſador's.—Do you recollect how you were pleas'd to rally me upon my complexion there?

Perfectly, madam; I preſum'd to reprove you for painting: but your warmer bluſhes ſoon convinc'd the company, that the colouring was all from nature.

And yet you only meant it, in your good natur'd way, to make me pay a compliment to myſelf. In the ſame manner you danc'd that night with the moſt aukward woman in company, becauſe you ſaw nobody elſe would take her out.

Yes; and was rewarded the next night, by dancing with the fineſt woman in company, that every body wiſh'd to take out.

Well, Sir, if you thought ſo then, I fear your judgment has ſince corrected the errors of a firſt impreſſion. We generally ſhew to moſt advan⯑tage at firſt. Our ſex are like poor tradeſmen, that put all their beſt goods to be ſeen at the windows.

The firſt impreſſion, Madam, did indeed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all the faults of conſcious flattered beauty. I expected to find her vain and inſolent. But every day has ſince taught me that it is poſſible to poſſeſs ſenſe without pride, and beauty without affectation.

This, Sir, is a ſtyle very unuſual with Mr. Honeywood; and I ſhould be glad to know why he thus attempts to encreaſe that vanity, which his own leſſons taught me to deſpiſe.

I aſk pardon, Madam. Yet, from our long friendſhip, I preſumed I might have ſome right to offer, without offence, what you may refuſe with⯑out offending.

Sir! I beg you'd reflect; tho', I fear, I ſhall ſcarce have any power to refuſe a requeſt of yours; yet, you may be precipitate: conſider, Sir.

I own my raſhneſs; but, as I plead the cauſe of friendſhip, of one who loves.—Don't be alarmed, Madam.—Who loves you with the moſt ardent paſſion; whoſe whole happineſs is placed in you—

I fear, Sir, I ſhall never find whom you mean, by this deſcription of him.

Ah, Madam, it but too plainly points him out. Tho' he ſhould be too humble himſelf to urge his pretenſions, or you too modeſt to underſtand them.

Well; it would be affectation any lon⯑ger to pretend ignorance; and, I will own, Sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but na⯑tural to wiſh to make his heart mine, as he ſeem'd himſelf ignorant of its value.

I ſee ſhe always lov'd him

I find, Madam, you're already ſenſible of his worth, his [55] paſſion. How happy is my friend, to be the favou⯑rite of one with ſuch ſenſe to diſtinguiſh merit, and ſuch beauty to reward it.

Your friend! Sir. What friend?

My beſt friend—My friend Mr. Lofty, Madam.

He, Sir!

Yes, he Madam. He is, indeed, what your warmeſt wiſhes might have form'd him. And to his other qualities, he adds that of the moſt paſ⯑ſionate regard for you.

Amazement!—No more of this, I beg you, Sir.

I ſee your confuſion, Madam, and know how to interpret it. And ſince I ſo plainly read the language of your heart, ſhall I make my friend happy, by communicating your ſentiments.

By no means.

Excuſe me; I muſt; I know you deſire it.

Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, that you wrong my ſentiments and yourſelf. When I firſt applied to your friendſhip, I expected advice and aſſiſtance; but now, Sir, I ſee that it is vain to ex⯑pect happineſs from him, who has been ſo bad an oeconomiſt of his own; and that I muſt diſclaim his friendſhip, who ceaſes to be a friend to himſelf.

How is this! ſhe has confeſſed ſhe lov'd him, and yet ſhe ſeemed to part in diſpleaſure. Can I have done any thing to reproach myſelf with? No; I believe not; yet, after all, theſe things ſhould not be done by a third perſon; I ſhould have ſpared her confuſion. My friendſhip carried me a little too far.

Ha, ha, ha! And ſo, my dear, it's your ſupreme wiſh that I ſhould be quite wretched upon this occaſion? Ha, ha.

Ha, ha, ha! and ſo my dear it's your ſupreme pleaſure to give me no better con⯑ſolation?

Poſitively, my dear, what is this in⯑cendiary ſtuff and trumpery to me. Our houſe may travel thro' the air like the houſe of Loretto, for ought I care, If I'm to be miſerable in it.

Would to Heaven it were converted into an houſe of correction for your benefit. Have we not every thing to alarm us? Perhaps, this very mo⯑ment the tragedy is beginning.

Then let us reſerve our diſtreſs till the riſing of the curtain, or give them the money they want, and have done with them.

Give them my money!—And pray, what right have they to my money?

And pray, what right then have you to my good humour?

And ſo your good humour adviſes me to part with my money? Why then, to tell your good humour a piece of my mind, I'd ſooner part with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, ſee what he'll ſay to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incen⯑diary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror; and yet lovey here can read it—Can read it, and laugh.

Yes, and ſo will Mr. Honeywood.

If he does, I'll ſuffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's place, that's all.

Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there any thing more fooliſh than my huſband's fright upon this occaſion?

It would not become me to decide, Madam; but doubtleſs, the greatneſs of his terrors now, will but invite them to renew their villainy another time.

I told you, he'd be of my opinion.

How, Sir! do you maintain that I ſhould lie down under ſuch an injury, and ſhew, neither by [57] my tears, or complaints, that I have ſomething of the ſpirit of a man in me?

Pardon me, Sir. You ought to make the loudeſt complaints, if you deſire redreſs. The ſureſt way to have redreſs, is to be earneſt in the purſuit of it.

Ay, whoſe opinion is he of now?

But don't you think that laughing off our fears is the beſt way?

What is the beſt, Madam, few can ſay; but I'll maintain it to be a very wiſe way.

But we're talking of the beſt. Surely the beſt way is to face the enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very very bed-cham⯑ber.

Why, Sir, as to the beſt, that—that's a very wiſe way too.

But can any thing be more abſurd, than to double our diſtreſſes by our apprehenſions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can ſcrawl ten words of wretched ſpelling, to torment us?

Without doubt, nothing more abſurd.

How! would it not be more abſurd to deſpiſe the rattle till we are bit by the ſnake?

Without doubt, perfectly abſurd.

Then you are of my opinion?

Entirely.

And you reject mine?

Heaven's forbid, Madam. No, ſure no rea⯑ſoning can be more juſt than yours. We ought cer⯑tainly to dſepiſe malice if we cannot oppoſe it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repoſe as the highwayman's piſtol.

O! then you think I'm quite right?

Perfectly right.

A plague of plagues, we can't be both right. I ought to be ſorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat muſt be on my head, or my hat muſt be off.

Certainly, in two oppoſite opinions, if one be perfectly reaſonable, the other can't be per⯑fectly right.

And why may not both be right, Madam: Mr. Croaker in earneſtly ſeeking redreſs, and you in waiting the event with good humour? Pray let me ſee the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, Sir, go there; and, when the writer comes to be paid his expected booty, ſeize him?

My dear friend its the very thing; the very thing. While I walk by the door, you ſhall plant yourſelf in ambuſh near the bar; burſt out upon the miſcreant like a maſqued battery; extort a confeſſion at once, and ſo hang him up by ſurpriſe.

Yes; but I would not chuſe to exerciſe too much ſeverity. It is my maxim, Sir, that crimes ge⯑nerally puniſh themſelves.

Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I ſuppoſe?

Ay, but not puniſh him too rigidly.

Well, well, leave that to my own bene⯑volence.

Well, I do: but remember that univerſal benevolence is the firſt law of nature.

Yes; and my univerſal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra.

ACT THE FIFTH.

Well, we have got ſafe to the inn, how⯑ever. Now, if the poſt-chaiſe were ready—

The horſes are juſt finiſhing their oats; and, as they are not going to be married, they chuſe to take their own time.

You are for ever giving wrong motives to my impatience.

Be as impatient as you will, the horſes muſt take their own time; beſides, you don't con⯑ſider, we have got no anſwer from our fellow tra⯑veller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us.

What way?

The way home again.

Not ſo. I have made a reſolution to go, and nothing ſhall induce me to break it.

Ay; reſolutions are well kept when they jump with inclination. However, I'll go haſten things without. And I'll call too at the bar to ſee if any thing ſhould be left for us there. Don't be in ſuch a plaguy hurry, Madam, and we ſhall go the faſter, I promiſe you.

What! Solomon; why don't you move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there.—Will no body anſwer? To the Dolphin; quick. The Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your lady⯑ſhip call, Madam?

No, Madam.

I find, as you're for Scotland, Madam—But, that's no buſineſs of mine; married, or not mar⯑ried, I aſk no queſtions. To be ſure, we had a ſweet little couple ſet off from this two days ago for the ſame place. The Gentleman, for a Taylor, was, to be ſure, as fine a ſpoken taylor, as ever blew froth from a full pot. And the young lady ſo baſhful, it was near half an hour before we could get her to finiſh a pint of raſberry between us.

But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I aſſure you.

May be not. That's no buſineſs of mine; for certain, Scotch marriages ſeldom turn out. There was of my own knowledge, Miſs Macfag, that married her father's footman.—Alack-a-day, ſhe and her huſband ſoon parted, and now keep ſeparate cel⯑lars in Hedge-Lane.

A very pretty picture of what lies before me.

My dear Olivia, my anxiety till you were out of danger, was too great to be reſiſted. I could not help coming to ſee you ſet out, tho' it expoſes us to a diſcovery.

May every thing you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been moſt cruelly diſ⯑appointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city, has, it ſeems been proteſted, and we have been utterly at a loſs how to proceed.

How! An offer of his own too. Sure, he could not mean to deceive us.

Depend upon his ſincerity; he only miſtook the deſire for the power of ſerving us. But let us think no more of it. I believe the poſt-chaiſe is ready by this.

Not quite yet! and, begging your ladyſhip's pardon, I don't think your ladyſhip quite ready for the poſt-chaiſe. The north road is a cold place, Madam. I have a drop in the houſe of as pretty [61] raſberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Juſt a thimble full to keep the wind off your ſtomach. To be ſure, the laſt couple we had here, they ſaid it was a perfect noſegay. Ecod, I ſent them both away as good na⯑tur'd—Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, and drive away poſt-boy, was the word.

Well, while my friend Honeywood is upon the poſt of danger at the bar, it muſt be my buſineſs to have an eye about me here. I think I know an incendiary's look; for, wherever the devil makes a purchaſe, he never fails to ſet his mark. Ha! who have we here? My ſon and daughter! What can they be doing here!

I tell you, Madam, it will do you good; I think I know by this time what's good for the north road. It's a raw night, Madam.—Sir—

Not a drop more, good Madam. I ſhould now take it as a greater favour, if you haſten the horſes, for I am afraid to be ſeen myſelf.

That ſhall be done. Wha, Solomon! are you all dead there? Wha, Solomon, I ſay.

Well; I dread, leſt an expedition begun in fear, ſhould end in repentance.—Every moment we ſtay increaſes our danger, and adds to my appre⯑henſions.

There's no danger, truſt me, my dear; there can be none: if Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promiſed, in employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey.

I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's ſin⯑cerity, and even his deſires to ſerve us. My fears are from your father's ſuſpicions. A mind ſo diſpoſ⯑ed to be alarmed without a cauſe, will be but too ready when there's a reaſon.

Why, let him, when we are out of his power. But, believe me, Olivia, you have no great [62] reaſon to dread his reſentment. His repining tem⯑per, as it does no manner of injury to himſelf, ſo will it never do harm to others. He only frets to keep himſelf employed, and ſcolds for his private amuſe⯑ment.

I don't know that; but, I'm ſure, on ſome occaſions, it makes him look moſt ſhockingly.

How does he look now?—How does he look now?

Ah!

Undone.

How do I look now? Sir, I am your very humble ſervant. Madam, I am your's. What, you are going off, are you? Then, firſt, if you pleaſe, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me firſt where you are going? and when you have told me that, perhaps, I ſhall know as little as I did before.

If that be ſo, our anſwer might but increaſe your diſpleaſure, without adding to your information.

I want no information from you, puppy: and you too, good Madam, what anſwer have you got. Eh

I think I heard a noiſe. My friend, Honeywood, without—has he ſeized the incendiary? Ah, no, for now I heard no more on't.

Honeywood, without! Then, Sir, it was Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither?

No, Sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conduct⯑ed me hither.

Is it poſſible?

Poſſible! Why, he's in the houſe now, Sir. More anxious about me, than my own ſon, Sir.

Then, Sir, he's a villian.

How, ſirrah! a villian, becauſe he takes moſt care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell you I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, and I'll have him treated as ſuch.

I ſhall ſtudy to repay his friendſhip as it deſerves.

Ah, rogue, If you knew how earneſtly he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do.

Fire and fury! they have ſeized the incendiary: they have the villian, the incendiary in view. Stop him, ſtop an incendiary, a murderer; ſtop him.

Oh, my terrors! What can this new tu⯑mult mean?

Some new mark, I ſuppoſe, of Mr Honey⯑wood's ſincerity. But we ſhall have ſatisfaction: he ſhall give me inſtant ſatisſaction.

It muſt not be, my Leontine, if you value my eſteem, or my happineſs. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes—Conſider that our innocence will ſhortly be all we have left us. You muſt forgive him.

Forgive him! Has he not in every inſtance betrayed us? Forced me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us: pro⯑miſed to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought him to the very ſcene of our eſcape?

Don't be precipitate. We may yet be miſtaken.

Ay, maſter, we have him faſt enough. Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the re⯑ward; I'll take my oath I ſaw him aſk for the money at the bar, and then run for it.

Come, bring him along. Let us ſee him. Let him learn to bluſh for his crimes.

Death! what's here! Jarvis, Leontine, Olivia! What can all this mean?

Why, I'll tell you what it means: that I was an old fool, and that you are my maſter—that's all.

Confuſion.

Yes, Sir, I find you have kept your word with me. After ſuch baſeneſs, I wonder how you can venture to ſee the man you have injured.

My dear Leontine, by my life, my ho⯑nour—

Peace, peace, for ſhame; and do not con⯑tinue to aggravate baſeneſs by hypocriſy. I know you Sir, I know you.

Why, wont you hear me! By all that's juſt, I knew not—

Hear you, Sir! to what purpoſe? I now ſee through all your low arts; your ever complying with every opinion; your never refuſing any requeſt; your friendſhip as common as a proſtitute's favours, and as fallacious; all theſe, Sir, have long been con⯑temptible to the world, and are now perfectly ſo to me.

Ha! contemptible to the world! That reaches me.

All the ſeeming ſincerity of your profeſſions I now find were only allurements to betray; and all your ſeeming regret for their conſequences, only cal⯑culated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain!

Where is the villain? Where is the in⯑cendiary?

Hold him faſt, the dog; he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, confeſs; confeſs all, and hang yourſelf.

Zounds! Maſter, what do you throttle me for?

Dog, do you reſiſt; do you reſiſt?

Zounds! Maſter, I'm not he; there's the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company.

How!

Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a ſtrange miſtake here; I find there is nobody guilty; it was all an error; entirely an error of our own.

And I ſay, Sir, that you're in an error; for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damn'd jeſuitical peſtilential plot, and I muſt have proof of it.

Do but hear me.

What, you intend to bring'em off, I ſup⯑poſe; I'll hear nothing.

Madam, you ſeem at leaſt calm enough to hear reaſon.

Excuſe me.

Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you.

What ſignifies explanations, when the thing is done?

Will nobody hear me? Was there ever ſuch a ſet, ſo blinded by paſſion and prejudice!

My good friend, I believe you'll be ſurprized when I aſſure you—

Sure me nothing—I'm ſure of nothing but a good beating.

Come then, you, Madam, if you ever hope for any favour or forgiveneſs, tell me ſincerely all you know of this affair.

Unhappily, Sir, I'm but too much the cauſe of your ſuſpicions: you ſee before you, Sir, one that with falſe pretences has ſtept into your fa⯑mily to betray it: not your daughter—

Not my daughter!

Not your daughter—but a mean deceiver—who—ſupport me, I cannot—

Help, ſhe's going, give her air.

Ay, ay; take the young woman to the air, I would not hurt a hair of her head, whoſe ever daughter ſhe may be—not ſo bad as that neither.

Yes, yes, all's out; I now ſee the whole affair: my ſon is either married, or going to be ſo, [66] to this lady, whom he impoſed upon me as his ſiſter. Ay, certainly ſo; and yet I don't find it afflicts me ſo much as one might think. There's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we never feel them when they come.

But how do you know, Madam, that my nephew intends ſetting off from this place?

My maid aſſured me he was come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom, ſuggeſted the reſt. But what do I ſee, my guardian here before us! Who, my dear Sir, could have expected meeting you here; to what accident do we owe this pleaſure?

To a fool, I believe.

But to what purpoſe did you come?

To play the fool.

But with whom?

With greater fools than myſelf.

Explain.

Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing now I am here; and my ſon is going to be married to I don't know who that is here; ſo now you are as wiſe as I am.

Married! to whom, Sir?

To Olivia; my daughter, as I took her to be; but who the devil ſhe is, or whoſe daughter ſhe is, I know no more than the man in the moon.

Then, Sir, I can inform you; and, tho' a ſtranger, yet you ſhall find me a friend to your fa⯑mily: it will be enough at preſent, to aſſure you, that, both in point of birth and fortune, the young lady is at leaſt your ſon's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville—

Sir James Woodville! What, of the Weſt?

Being left by him, I ſay, to the care of a mercenary wretch, whoſe only aim was to ſecure her fortune to himſelf, ſhe was ſent into France, under pretence of education; and there every art [67] was tried to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my power to fruſtrate her guardi⯑an's baſe intentions. I had even meditated to reſcue her from his authority, when your ſon ſtept in with more pleaſing violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter.

But I intend to have a daughter of my own chuſing, Sir. A young lady, Sir, whoſe for⯑tune, by my intereſt with thoſe that have intereſt, will be double what my ſon has a right to expect. Do you know Mr. Lofty, Sir?

Yes, Sir; and know that you are de⯑ceived in him. But ſtep this way, and I'll convince you.

Obſtinate man, ſtill to perſiſt in his out⯑rage! Inſulted by him, deſpis'd by all, I now be⯑gin to grow contemptible, even to myſelf. How have I ſunk by too great an aſſiduity to pleaſe! How have I overtax'd all my abilities, leſt the approbation of a ſingle fool ſhould eſcape me! But all is now over; I have ſurvived my reputation, my fortune, my friendſhips, and nothing remains henceforward for me but ſolitude and repentance.

Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are ſetting off, without taking leave of your friends? The report is, that you are quitting England. Can it be?

Yes, Madam; and tho' I am ſo unhappy as to have fallen under your diſpleaſure, yet, thank Heaven, I leave you to happineſs; to one who loves you, and deſerves your love; to one who has power to procure you affluence, and generoſity to improve your enjoyment of it.

And are you ſure, Sir, that the gentle⯑man you mean is what you deſcribe him?

I have the beſt aſſurances of it, his ſerving me. He does indeed deſerve the higheſt happineſs, and that is in your power to confer. As for me! weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of ſerving any, what happineſs can I find but in ſolitude? What hope but in being for⯑gotten?

A thouſand! to live among friends that eſteem you, whoſe happineſs it will be to be permitted to oblige you.

No, Madam; my reſolution is fix'd. In⯑feriority among ſtrangers is eaſy; but among thoſe that once were equals, inſupportable. Nay, to ſhew you how far my reſolution can go, I can now ſpeak with calmneſs of my former follies, my vanity, my diſſipation, my weakneſs. I will even confeſs, that, among the number of my other preſumptions, I had the inſolence to think of loving you. Yes, Madam, while I was pleading the paſſion of another, my heart was tortur'd with its own. But it is over, it was unworthy our friendſhip, and let it be forgotten.

You amaze me!

But you'll forgive it, I know you will; ſince the confeſſion ſhould not have come from me even now, but to convince you of the ſincerity of my intention of—never mentioning it more.

Stay, Sir, one moment—Ha! he here—

Is the coaſt clear? None but friends? I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence: but it goes no farther, things are not yet ripe for a diſcovery. I have ſpirits working at a certain board; Your affair at the treaſury will be done in leſs than—a thouſand years, Mum!

Sooner, Sir, I ſhould hope.

Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to puſh and where to parry; that know how the land lies—eh, Honeywood.

It is ſallen into yours.

Well, to keep you no longer in ſuſpenſe, your thing is done. It is done, I ſay—that's all. I have juſt had aſſurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim has been examined, and found admiſſible. Quietus is the word, Madam.

But how! his Lordſhip has been at New⯑market theſe ten days.

Indeed! Then Sir Gilbert Gooſe muſt have been moſt damnably miſtaken. I had it of him.

He! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month.

This month! It muſt certainly be ſo—Sir Gilbert's Letter did come to me from Newmarket, ſo that he muſt have met his Lordſhip there; and ſo it came about. I have his letter about me, I 'll read it to you.

That's from Paoli of Corſica, that from the Marquis of Squi⯑lachi.—Have you a mind to ſee a letter from Count Poniatowſki, now King of Poland—Honeſt Pon—

O, Sir, what are you here too? I'll tell you what, honeſt friend, if you have not abſolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may re⯑turn it. The thing will do without him.

Sir, I have delivered it, and muſt inform you, it was received with the moſt mortifying con⯑tempt.

Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?

Let him go on, let him go on, I ſay. You'll find it come to ſomething preſently.

Yes, Sir, I believe you'll be amazed, if, after waiting ſome time in the anti-chamber, after being ſurveyed with inſolent curioſity by the paſſing ſervants, I was at laſt aſſured, that Sir William Honeywood knew no ſuch perſon, and I muſt cer⯑tainly have been impoſed upon.

Good; let me die, very good. Ha! ha! ha!

Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodneſs of it.

You can't. Ha! ha!

No, for the ſoul of me; I think it was as confounded a bad anſwer, as ever was ſent from one private gentleman to another.

And ſo you can't find out the force of the meſſage? Why I was in the houſe at that very time. Ha! ha! It was I that ſent that very anſwer to my own letter. Ha! ha!

Indeed! How! why!

In one word, things between Sir William and me muſt be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He ſides with Lord Buzzard, I ſide with Sir Gilbert Gooſe. So that unriddles the myſtery.

And ſo it does indeed, and all my ſuſpi⯑cions are over.

Your ſuſpicions! What then you have been ſuſpecting, you have been ſuſpecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; I ſay, it's over.

As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It eſcaped me. Don't be diſcompoſed.

Zounds, Sir, but I am diſcompoſed, and will be diſcompoſed. To be treated thus! Who am I! Was it for this I have been dreaded both by inns and outs! Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praiſed in the St. James's; have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a ſpeaker at Merchant Taylor's Hall; have I had my hand to addreſſes, and my head in the print-ſhops, and talk to me of ſuſpects!

My dear Sir, be pacified. What can you have but aſking pardon?

Sir, I will not be pacified—Suſpects! Who am I! To be uſed thus, have I paid court to men in favour to ſerve my friends, the Lords of the Treaſury, Sir William Honeywood, and the reſt of the gang, and talk to me of ſuſpects! Who am I, I ſay, who am I!

Since, Sir, you're ſo preſſing for an an⯑ſwer, I'll tell you who you are. A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics, as with men in power; [71] as well acquainted with perſons of faſhion, as with modeſty; with Lords of the Treaſury, as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.

Sir William Honeywood!

Aſtoniſhment! my uncle!

So then my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window.

What, Mr. Importance, and are theſe your works? Suſpect you! You who have been dreaded by the inns and outs: you who have had your hand to addreſſes, and your head ſtuck up in print-ſhops. If your were ſerved right, you ſhould have your head ſtuck up in the pillory.

Ay, ſtick it where you will, for, by the Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it ſticks at preſent.

Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now ſee how incapable this gentleman is of ſerving you, and how little Miſs Richland has to expect from his in⯑fluence.

Ay, Sir, too well I ſee it, and I can't but ſay I have had ſome boding of it theſe ten days. So I'm reſolved, ſince my ſon has placed his affecti⯑ons on a lady of moderate fortune, to be ſatisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty, in helping him to a better.

I approve your reſolution, and here they come, to receive a confirmation of your pardon and conſent.

Where's my huſband! Come, come, lovely, you muſt forgive them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair; and, I ſay, you muſt forgive them. Our own was a ſtolen match, you know, my dear; and we never had any reaſon to repent of it.

I wiſh we could both ſay ſo: however, this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been beforehand with you, in obtaining their pardon. So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think, we can tack them together without croſſing the Tweed for it.

How bleſt, and unexpected! What, what can we ſay to ſuch goodneſs! But our future obedi⯑ence ſhall be the beſt reply. And, as for this gentle⯑man, to whom we owe—

Excuſe me, Sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an intereſt that calls me.

Yes, Sir, you are ſurpriſed to ſee me; and I own that a deſire of correcting your follies led me hither. I ſaw, with indignation, the errors of a mind that only ſought applauſe from others; that eaſineſs of diſpoſition, which, tho' inclin'd to the right, had not courage to condemn the wrong. I ſaw with regret thoſe ſplendid errors, that ſtill took name from ſome neighbouring duty. Your charity, that was but injuſtice; your benevolence, that was but weakneſs; and your friendſhip but credulity. I ſaw, with regret, great talents and extenſive learning, only employed to add ſprightlineſs to error, and encreaſe your perplexities. I ſaw your mind with a thouſand natural charms: but the greatneſs of its beauty ſerved only to heighten my pity for its proſtitution.

Ceaſe to upbraid me, Sir; I have for ſome time but too ſtrongly felt the juſtice of your repoaches. But there is one way ſtill left me. Yes, Sir, I have determined, this very hour, to quit for ever a place where I have made myſelf the voluntary ſlave of all; and to ſeek among ſtrangers that fortitude which may give ſtrength to the mind, and marſhal all its diffipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to ſolicit fa⯑vour for this gentleman; who, notwithſtanding what has happened, has laid me under the moſt ſignal obli⯑gations. Mr. Lofty—

Mr. Honeywood, I'm reſolv'd upon a re⯑formation, as well as you. I now begin to find, that [73] the man who firſt invented the art of ſpeaking truth was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I deſign to ſpeak truth for the fu⯑ture, I muſt now aſſure you, that you owe your late enlargement to another; as, upon my ſoul, I had no hand in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may take my place. I'm determined to reſign.

How have I been deceived!

No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that favour. To Miſs Rich⯑land. Would ſhe complete our joy, and make the man ſhe has honoured by her friendſhip happy in her love, I ſhould then forget all, and be as bleſt as the welfare of my deareſt kinſman can make me.

After what is paſt, it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which, I find, was more than friendſhip. And if my intreaties cannot alter his reſolution to quit the country; I will even try, if my hand has not power to detain him.

Heavens! how can I have deſerved all this? How expreſs my happineſs, my gratitude! A moment, like this, over-pays an age of apprehen⯑ſion.

Well, now I ſee content in every face; but Heaven ſend we be all better this day three months.

Henceforth, nephew, learn to reſpect yourſelf. He who ſeeks only for applauſe from without, has all his happineſs in another's keep⯑ing.

Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors. My vanity, in attempting to pleaſe all, by fearing to offend any. My meanneſs in approving [74] folly, leſt fools ſhould diſapprove. Henceforth, there⯑fore, it ſhall be my ſtudy to reſerve my pity for real diſtreſs; my friendſhip for true merit, and my love for her, who firſt taught me what it is to be happy.