SCENE I. A Street.

THERE'S no ſuch thing as ſtirring out of doors for the fellows now-a-days.—I beg, Sir, you wou'd not follow me any farther.

I cannot leave you, my ſweet, divine, charming girl!

To how many, now, have you re⯑peated the ſame leſſon before you met me this morning?

To how many! Were a dozen ſuch fine women as yourſelf to appear every day in public, there would be no ſuch thing as walking the ſtreets for you; a man ſhould have a piece of flint in his breaſt.

He's a good handſome fellow, and doesn't talk badly.—Then you will perſiſt in fol⯑lowing me?

How can I help it? I follow a fine wo⯑man by inſtinct.—Do, my dear, kind, cruel angel, tell me where you live.

But to what purpoſe? I can never ſee you?

Why not, my love?

Lord, I am an old married woman!

You wicked devil, leave me. The neighbours will take notice, and I ſhall get a bad name by you.— Do go—I'm juſt at home.

But which is the houſe you live at?

I can't tell you—beſides, I think I ſee my huſband talking to the orange woman at the door; in the ſtraw hat and ſcarlet cloak, with a little curly-pole boy in her hand, eating ginger-bread.

Why, that's the George inn. 'Sdeath! do you live there?

Oh, you devil! I ſhall be ruin'd if ever you come after me.

Zounds! it's the very houſe I was going to.—Isn't it kept by one Jacob Wilkins?

Yes, it is.

We're quite at home now.—I ſuppoſe you're old Jacob's daughter.

I happen to be old Jacob's wife, tho'.

Pray, my dear, how long are you mar⯑ried?

A long time, Sir.

Not a long time, I am ſure, from your looks.

Looks are very deceitful, eſpecially thoſe of married folks. I was married Candle⯑mas day, five—long—months.

Poor creature! you have had a tedious time of it.

But what's your buſineſs with Jacob Wilkins? Can't I do it?

Then you do Jacob's buſineſs ſome⯑times?

To be ſure I do, when he's out of the way. Poor man! it's a great relief to him.

But this is a matter on which I muſt ſee himſelf.—Col. Talbot, a gentleman of whom I think you muſt have heard, if you be Wilkins' wife, has wrote to him, and deſired I would ſee him in conſequence of that letter: were you at home when he received it?

No, I was not, Sir: but I have often heard of Col. Talbot; he's an Oxfordſhire gen⯑tleman; his family, I hear, was the makings of Wilkins. Lord! he has been a long time in the Indies, and, I'm told, has made a power of mo⯑ney. But is he come home, Sir?

He is; and ſince, his return has been down in Oxfordſhire, in ſearch of Wilkins, where he thought he ſtill lived; and would have come here himſelf now, only he's very much indiſ⯑poſed.

Bleſs your heart! Jacob Wilkins has been in town, and kept the George inn theſe ten years.

He has made a very ungrateful return to his benefactor, Col. Talbot. My maſter thought him dead, not having heard from him ſo many years: a conduct that was unpardonable, conſi⯑dering his obligations to the Colonel, and the great truſt repoſed in him.

Great truſt! Lord, Sir! what was it?

Why, Colonel Talbot left a ſon in his care—but come along, and I'll tell you the whole ſtory by the way.

We muſt not be ſeen together for the world; my huſband is as jealous as the vengeance. [4] Take a turn down this next ſtreet, and let me go home alone. Follow me in about ten minutes; but take care you don't ſpeak to me as if you had ſeen me before.

My dear Mrs. Wilkins, what do you take me for? Do you ſuppoſe I never paid a viſit to a married woman in my life?

SCENE II. The Bar of the George Inn.

What do you knock me about for at this rate? Don't I ſlave like a horſe from morning till night? I wiſh I had gone for a ſoldier as my bro⯑ther did!

Your brother, you dog! I wiſh I had ne⯑ver ſeen either of your faces.—What ſhall I do? I have no ſon to reſtore him!

Coming! coming! There's a bill wanted in the General Elliot.

Let them wait.

But ſuppoſe they won't wait, who'll pay off the ſcore?

Out of my ſight, ſirrah, or I'll pay off your ſcore—Don't you ſee my temper is ruffled?

Yes, and I feel it too.

Com⯑ing! coming up, Sir!

My dear Mr. Wilkins, what's the matter? The whole houſe ſeems turned topſy-turvy.

I am ruin'd.

Ruin'd! Oh, heaven forbid!

I ſay, woman, I'm undone; and the ſooner I'm out of England, the better.

Lord, lord! you terrify me out of my wits, Jacob!

Suppoſe the beſt friend you had in the world had entruſted an only child to your care, and that thro' neglect you had loſt him, what wou'd you have to ſay for yourſelf?

And is that your caſe, my dear?

It is.

But tell me how it happen'd.

You have frequently heard me make men⯑tion of Colonel Talbot, in whoſe family I was brought up?

To be ſure I have.

It is a ſon of his I have loſt.

You aſtoniſh me! But how came ſo great a man's ſon to be left in your care?

Why, you muſt know that Colonel Tal⯑bot, previous to his going abroad, was privately married to a beautiful girl who waited on his mo⯑ther: he had a ſon by this girl; and as the child came into the world juſt as he was obliged to em⯑bark with the army for Portugal, the war before laſt, he left him in my care, deſiring me to let him paſs for my own till his return; and in caſe he was kill'd, to continue the deception till the death of his father.

And has the Colonel never been in England ſince?

Never till within theſe few days; there⯑fore his ſon continued with me till he was twelve years old, when I loſt him.

In what manner did you loſe him.

I cannot be certain: but, as he was a boy of great ſpirit, and ever prattling of being a ſol⯑dier, I ſuſpect he was inveigled off by a recruiting [6] party, which at that time was beating up for men in the village.

Didn't you acquaint his mother im⯑mediately with what had happen'd?

She was dead.

You wrote to the Colonel, to be ſure.

There I was to blame. I cou'dn't ſum⯑mon up reſolution ſufficient. I thought he wou'd have attributed the child's leaving me, to neglect, or cruel treatment.

The beſt advice I can give you is, to tell Colonel Talbot his ſon is dead.

But how ſhall I produce a certificate of that? Should he examine the pariſh regiſter, and no record of ſuch a child's death be found, I ſhou'd be taken up, and tried on a ſuſpicion of murder.

Then tell him the truth at once.

Worſe and worſe!—He'll ſuppoſe this a mere invention of my own, to ſcreen my villany; elſe, why was I ſilent ſo long? and that I had been brib'd by his relations to remove an obſtacle to their inheriting both his acquir'd and paternal fortune.

There's a gentleman from Colonel Talbot deſires to ſee you.

What's to be done?—I dare not face him!

What ſhall I ſay to him, father?

Was there ever any thing ſo provoking—as this fellow?

I have it.—Shew him into the par⯑lour, my good boy; and tell him, Mr. Wilkin's will be with him preſently, my good boy!

"My good boy!"—Ecod, ſhe good boys [7] me to ſome tune this morning; I hope there's no miſchief in the wind; for I'm ſure thoſe are the firſt good words I have had from her ſince ſhe was my ſtepmother.

How old is your ſon Caleb?

There's only a week difference between his age and young Talbot's.

Paſs him on the Colonel for his ſon.

How!

Put a good face on the matter, and you'll not only ſlip your neck out of a halter, but make your fortune. I can turn Caleb round my finger. Go and ſpeak to this gentleman, and let him know you'ill introduce young Mr. Talbot to him immediately. Do as I bid you, and leave the management of the reſt of the buſineſs to me.

But what reaſon ſhall I give for not wri⯑ting to him ſo long?

You muſt ſay you never received one of his letters; and your quitting the country will make it probable enough they might have miſcarried.

Then to give his ſon no better education!

You muſt ſay he wou'd not take any better; and you may find inſtances enow of as dull heirs to large eſtates, to give colour to your ſtory.

And make a drawer of him too!

Well, he'll not be the firſt great man that has cried, "Coming up, Sir!"—What do you ſtand confounded for? Away, away, man; and let me break the matter to Caleb.

It goes againſt my conſcience—but ſelf⯑preſervation will have it ſo.

Now have I my gentleman under my thumb—whenever his tongue wags with the found of jealouſy, I'll threaten to diſco⯑ver upon him—and I'll ſee my dear, ſweet fellow, [8] who follow'd me home to day, as often as I pleaſe.—But to prepare this great booby—Oh, here he comes.

Here, mother, I have brought you the bill.

Well, never mind the bill—I have ſomething very particular to ſay to you.—Do you know, Caleb, that your father is a man of the firſt character in this town?

To be ſure he is, for ſelling the beſt old port and ſherry in the kingdom.

But come, ſit down, and liſten to me.

What ſignifies hearing ſo much about fa⯑ther's character—who gets him that character?— Why, Caleb.—Is there one in the houſe fit to talk to a gentleman but myſelf?

My dear Caleb, let me intreat you to hear me.

Dear Caleb!—Yes, I'd liſten to you all day for ſuch words as theſe; good words are ſugar plumbs to me: beſides, mother, you can't think how pretty, folks look when they are pleas'd.

Do you know, Caleb, whoſe ſon you are?

Whoſe ſon I am!—My father's, to be ſure.

Certainly: but that father is not Jacob Wilkins.

No!

Colonel Talbot, the great nabob juſt arrived from the Indies, is your father.

My godfather, I ſuppoſe you mean.

I tell you he's your own father. You were given when an infant to my huſband, and he [9] was ordered to bring you up as his ſon; it being neceſſary for family reaſons, which you'll know another time, to conceal your birth.

I always thought I was a better man's ſon than I appeared to be.—But, mother, isn't this all a joke?

Can my huſband convince you that I am in earneſt?

He has often convinc'd me that he himſelf was in earneſt, as my ſhoulders can witneſs.

But, dear Sir, I beg ten thouſand pardons for keeping my ſeat ſo long.

I thought I'd come to ſomething at laſt.

Your father's gentleman, Sir, is now waiting to ſee you.

My father's gentleman!—I ſuppoſe I ſhall have a gentleman too.

Oh, no doubt.

Then there will be a pair of us.—But you're ſure now you are in earneſt?

Will you go and be convinc'd I am?

Come along, Mrs. Wilkins; I think that's your name.

At your Honor's ſervice.

Great men are apt to forget ſuch trifles—but I'll call and ſee you now and then, tho' I am a Colonel's ſon.

We'll always think there's nothing too good at the George for your Honor.

But, hark'e, give old Jacob a hint not to forget himſelf, and make too free.

I hope, Sir, we ſhall never forget ourſelves in your preſence.

Well, well, I hope not, good woman.— A colonel's ſon!—What a fool I muſt be, not to [10] have found out this of my own accord!—But it's a wiſe child knows it own father.

SCENE, a drawing Room at the Houſe of Sir Oliver Oldſtock.

How you teize me about this all-accom⯑pliſhed Sir Charles!—I can't abide him!

Can't abide him!—I don't think it poſ⯑ſible for any woman actually to diſlike him.

Yet, he's the laſt perſon breathing I ſhou'd elect for my caro ſpoſo; the man's well enough as an acquaintance; he's lively; does not want for underſtanding: but the beſt of him is, the talent he poſſeſſes for diſcovering the ridiculous, wherever it is to be found—then he paints it in colours ſo high, and ſo pleaſantly ill natur'd, that a woman takes him in her ſuite, as the natural appendage of ſuperior underſtanding; to ſhew that her wit has rais'd her above the power of ri⯑dicule, and that ſhe has the chief laughers in town upon her own ſide.

What you praiſe him for, is, in my mind, the only exceptionable part of his character.

Lord! what harm is there in a little good-humour'd ill-nature?—Beſides, what would you have people talk of when they meet? As politics are to the men, ſcandal is to our ſex—theſe two ſubjects are the vaſt magazines of the major part of our ideas; between them the heads of half the nation are furniſh'd.

Have you ſeen Mandeville to-day?

Poor Harriet! now do I perceive the cauſe of all this extraordinary zeal for the intereſts of the handſome Baronet; you ſtill are apprehenſive, if [11] you don't provide me with a huſband, I ſhall take your beloved Mandeville from you.

As he is ſole heir to Colonel Talbot's im⯑menſe fortune, I know your father will proceed to the laſt extremities.

Dear Harriet, reſt perfectly ſatisfied in my friendſhip for you; I never will have him; I don't know what I would not do to avoid it; My heart is at preſent a virgin tablet, on which Love has not written a ſingle character; however, ſhou'd things come to the worſt, you yourſelf muſt be my deliverer.

As how?

Ev'n by taking wing with your beloved ſwain, for that bleſſed ſpot, where law forges no ſetters for the heart; and Hymen, with a ſmile upon his cheek, and his torch burning clear, lights conſenting votaries to the temple of real, and laſting felicity.—Heaven, and a generous un⯑cle be prais'd, who bequeath'd me ten thouſand pounds independent of my father, I am not oblig'd to ſacrfice my own, and my friend's hap⯑pineſs!—O, glorious independence!—thou pa⯑rent of every virtue!—no wonder ſo many noble hearts emptied their crimſon fountains to preſerve thee!

I'm aſham'd, Charlotte, to have harbour'd a ſuſpicion, but for a moment, that a mind like yours cou'd act unworthy of itſelf.

Now to put my theory into practice.— Here comes Mandeville; do you ſtep into the next room, where you may overhear our conver⯑ſation, and you ſhall be entertain'd with a pro⯑logue truly anti-matrimonial.

Dear Charlotte, I am already perfectly ſatisfied.

But I inſiſt on your going; it will enter⯑ain you.

My dear Mandeville! I was juſt wiſhing for you; if you had ſtaid much longer, I ſhou'd have been inſupportably vapour'd; nothing runs in my head but our marriage; but I was think⯑ing, as the fondeſt couples have certain dull hours that hang heavy upon their hands, how we two ſhall kill time during thoſe ſpiritleſs ſeaſons.

I ſuppoſe we ſhall follow the example of other people; do all we can to make one another uneaſy.

That's one way, to be ſure, of killing time: but we ſhall grow tired of that at laſt; don't you think ſo, Mandeville?

When I entertain a good opinion of a lady's wit, it rids me of all apprehenſion on that ſcore.

Sir, your moſt obedient.

I thought your couſin Harriet was here.

My couſin Harriet!—Lord! what's my couſin Harriet to the purpoſe?—I ſhall grow jea⯑lous of you, at this rate.—I wonder, Mandeville, what ſtar ſhed its influence when our marriage was firſt talk'd of; no two people breathing agreed better.

I always thought you the pleaſanteſt com⯑panion imaginable.

We were continually laughing at one body's expence or another.

And as ſoon as we are married, I fancy every body will be even with us.

Heigho!

What's that for, Madam?

Not for a huſband, I aſſure you; it was only a requiem to friendſhip, going to be laid in the grave of matrimony. Methinks we two are preparing ourſelves for the penance of our future [13] union, as knights-errant of old prepar'd them⯑ſelves for the toils of chivalry; I've read ſome⯑where, that thoſe champions of diſtreſs'd damſels, at firſt wore heavy weights to their armour, which they, fancied, on removal, would give a compara⯑tive lightneſs to the galling load with which they were about to tax their ſhoulders.

Juſt now, Mr. Mandeville, as I parted from my couſin, a ſervant came and told me that your uncle, Colonel Talbot, was arriv'd.—Your father, Charlotte, has receiv'd a letter from him.— But what do you think? It ſeems he has a ſon no⯑body ever heard of before.

A ſon!—Now, Mandeville, if you can be content with your miſtreſs, and a moderate in⯑come, I'm ſatisfied you may have her; as the bulk of Colonel Talbot's fortune will certainly devolve to his ſon, depend upon it, my father will no more preſs my ladyſhip on your worſhip.

Madam, my uncle may diſpoſe of his property as he pleaſes—I ſincerely rejoice at his ſafe arrival in England; and as he has an heir, I ſhall be the firſt to congratulate him on the event; and I hope that heir may prove an heir to his vir⯑tues.

You are a generous fellow, Mandeville; and, if it did not coſt you ſo dear, I ſhou'd con⯑gratulate you on the certain proſpect you may indulge, that we two ſhall never be one.

My dear Harriet—

Now, why don't you ſay, my dear Man⯑deville? One as naturally follows the other, as the echo does the found.

The occaſion, ladies, I truſt, will apolo gize for my leaving you thus abruptly.

Oh, go, go; you have my ample con⯑ſent.—But, Harriet, will you let him go off eaſily?

How can you be ſo ill natur'd?

She ſays, ſhe gives you leave to go: but it's on condition, that you do not dedicate a ſe⯑cond of your time to any human being but her ſelf, longer than common decency requires it.— But, Mandeville, do you and I part as we ought a betrothed pair!

Yes, Charlotte, for we part wedded friends again.

Manent Harriet and Charlotte.

Now, Harriet, are all your apprehen⯑ſions removed?

They are, my friend; Hope ſits ſmiling at my heart, and once more chears it with a proſpect of happineſs.

SCENE, an Apartment at Sir Oliver Old⯑ſtock's.

THIS is a deviliſh lucky hit, the Colonel's hav⯑ing a ſon; it enables me to provide for both my niece and daughter—I expect from the latter a good deal of contradiction in this buſineſs, but I like that; I ſhou'dn't love her half ſo much as I do, if ſhe hadn't ſpirit enough to contradict me—it ſhews ſhe has an opinion of her own, and gives me an opportunity to prove that I have one alſo; but of a much ſuperior kind, and upon occaſions of a very coercive quality; it's one time in a hundred I can get any body to contradict me; but men of large independent fortunes never hear the truth—no⯑body has ſpirit enough to oppoſe them in diſcourſe—Henceforward, I am determined to take no man by the hand, who does not ſpeak and look, when we come to debate, as if he wou'd knock me down in an argument. Well, I think I ſhall be as happy as a married man can be, when my girls are diſpoſed of; my wife, to be ſure, has a moſt un⯑accountable humour; to ſuppoſe I'm jealous of her, now ſhe's in her fifty-fifth year—to do Lady Lucretia Oldſtock juſtice, ſhe was once a charm⯑ing woman; but at preſent, I think her as plain a piece of goods, as a man could meet between Temple-Bar and Whitechapel,—here ſhe comes, brimfull of news.

Was ever any thing ſo wonderful!

Nothing upon earth! what's the matter, my love?

Why, haven't you heard that Colonel Talbot has a ſon?

A ſon!—a dozen, I dare be ſworn, if he wou'd but own them; an old ſoldier has gene⯑rally children in all the quarters of the globe.

Sir Oliver, you're a cenſorious man, and judge of every body by yourſelf.

Upon my ſoul, my dear, you allow me too much credit; I never was a man of all that gallantry; no, no; I had a domeſtic magnet that attracted, and fix'd all my affections; united to ſuch a woman as Lady Oldſtock, who could be a rover?

Why, to do you Juſtice, Sir Oliver, you have, upon the whole, made a very good huſband; and if it was not for the weakneſs of your temper in one particular, we might live very happily.

Now ſhe's off.

If, indeed, I was one of the giddy flirts of the day, it would be another thing—but a woman, of whoſe truth you have had ſo many years experience, to be jealous!

I tell you again, and again, I am not jealous.

Ah, Sir Oliver! I wiſh you wou'd make your words good; if any man of the leaſt tolerable appearance pays me a common mark of reſpect, don't you immediately ſneer, and ſay that fellow has a deſign upon you?

So I do: I always think that perſon has a deſign upon another, to whom he gives their [17] own way in every thing; no, no; if I am to chuſe a friend, and an agreeable companion, give me the honeſt fellow who contradicts me.

Then you are not jealous?

No.

No?

No; damme if ever I was jealous of you!

You are now more provoking, if poſ⯑ſible, than ever; when you find I hold your ridi⯑culous ſuſpicions in contempt, you wou'd wound me another way, and mortify my pride, by inſinu⯑ating, that I never had attractions ſufficient to have a civil thing ſaid to me, like other women.

Then it ſeems, my Lady, you have had your civil things, ſaid to you like other women in your time?

There there it broke forth! What it is to be married to a jealous huſband!

Well, all this I can bear, becauſe I like contradiction—I conſider the mind like a ſpring; the more you preſs it, the more vigour you lend to its elaſticity; ſince I can remember, I always de⯑lighted to be of a different opinion from other people; there's ſomething wonderfully flattering to human pride in being ſingular—but in marriage it is abſolutely necceſſary—man and wife are like the contending qualities of bitter and ſweet; they na⯑turally quarrel, and exiſt by downright oppo⯑ſition.

I'll ſubmit my cauſe to the judgement of Charlotte.

Submit your cauſe to my judgement! my dear ma'am, by no means; in all caſes of matrimo⯑nial [18] litigation, the parties ſhould be tried by their peers.

Right, my girl! now in order to qualify you to be impanelled on ſuits of the kind, I was that moment thinking about moving the court of Hymen, to ſhew cauſe why a rule ſhould not be granted, to provide you with a huſband.

Whenever you marry, Charlotte, if you wiſh to be happy, above all things avoid a temper like your father's.

And like your mother's alſo, if you wiſh your huſband to be happy.

I clearly perceive my company is not agreeable.

Your ſtrange turn of mind, I confeſs, Lady Oldſtock, is not altogether ſo agreeable; but you ſee it does not make me angry.

It's that that tortures me—if I cou'd vex him, it wou'd be a proof I had ſome power left; but he treats me like a child.

It's a ſpoilt one, if I do.

Dear Sir, let me follow her.

You ſhan't budge a ſtep after her—Soothing her in theſe humours is only adding fuel to fire. Your mother, Charlotte, was born a co⯑quette, and will die one. She was a reigning toaſt in her youth, and to this hour expects the adulation of thoſe days. She had a whole army of lovers; and, what you'll ſay ought to make me ſet a very high value upon her indeed, either from neceſſity, or choice, ſhe hung like an overblown roſe on the virgin thorn, full four and thirty years wait⯑ing for me. But come, ſit down, and let me talk to you.

I have for ſome time back obſerved, Charlotte, that the match I pro⯑poſed to you with Mandeville, does not meet your wiſhes.

I confeſs, Sir, it never did—beſides I know that gentleman's affections to be engaged elſewhere.

I underſtand you, he's fond of my niece, Harriet; well, in the name of happineſs let them go together; I'll never mention his name to you again, nor indeed ſhall I propoſe any match to you, upon which I may expect rational contradiction.

Now, Sir, you ſpeak like my father—Oh, how my heart ſprings with gratitude and joy, to hear thoſe generous words from your own lips!

No, my girl, you ſhall never be ſacrificed at the altar of Plutus—I ſay ſacrificed—for, what is it, in fact, but a ſacrifice, to throw away a fine young woman upon a man it is impoſſible ſhe ſhould like; as many fathers do every day, who love money more than their children.

The liberality of theſe ſentiments delight me, they are ſo exactly in conformity with my own! Dear Sir, you have given me ſuch ſpirits—Do you know, when you aſk'd me to ſit down, I ex⯑pected to have a quite different kind of converſation with you?

I ſuppoſe you thought I had ſome golden calf to propoſe to you for a huſband?

I own I was ſo ungenerous.

A fellow with nothing but gold in his pocket, and lead in his pate; ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

How liable we are to be miſtaken in our ſurmiſes of other people's thoughts! No, no, my girl, I have no ſuch match to propoſe to you—I have a huſband for you, it is true, in my eye; and a rich one too—but it is not to riches you object—it is to the man; and provided he be agreeable, I imagine, no woman in her ſenſes can ſuppoſe a huſband may be too rich?

Provided riches be obtained without leaving a ſtain upon the principles, it is happineſs to poſſeſs them, as they give us ſo much more ample power of diſtributing felicity. I never was that ro⯑mantic fool to imagine there can be happineſs where there is not independency; grant me that, and all the wealth beſide, which the earth contains, or the ſea-devours, ſhou'd not bribe me to ſell the free elec⯑tion of my heart, or barter for gold, what gold could never reſtore me.

Give me a kiſs, you jade! You are your father's own daughter; but every body tells me you're the picture of me; and, if the Colonel's ſon be but as like his father as you are yours, you'll be the handſomeſt couple in Great Britain.

The Colonel's ſon, Sir!

Yes, my old friend, Colonel Talbot's ſon; one of the fineſt young fellows I am told—but no ſop—he has none of the vices and follies of your young butterflies of faſhion.

No, Sir; nor any of their accompliſh⯑ments, or I'm miſinformed.

It was an excellent thought of his fa⯑ther's, to have him brought up in a ſnug private way.

And yet, I'm told he has lived ſome time in a ſnug public way.

What, Charlotte, have you been liſten⯑ing to any ſcandalous reports of the youth?

A pretty youth I underſtand he is for the huſband of your daughter—I am told he was ac⯑tually a waiter at ſome horrid place near Smithfield.

Oh, infamous ſcandal!—He a waiter at ſome horrid place near Smithfield!—The next re⯑port, I ſuppoſe, will be, that you were bar maid at the ſame places and that I'm an old tobacconiſt, who ſupplied the houſe with cut and dry, from the ſign of the Black Boy in a neighbouring alley.

I am petrified as the very thoughts of the brute!

Look you there now: ſhe knows I love contradiction in my heart, and therefore ſeems averſe to the match, becauſe ſhe thinks it will pleaſe me. But, come: you and your mother and my niece ſhall go pay the Colonel and his ſon a morn⯑ing viſit.

Sir, as you inſiſt upon it, I will go as I wou'd to ſee any other great natural curioſity.

Was ever any thing like this! ſhe has heard a ſcandalous report of a man, and ſhe won't wait to be undeceived by her own eyes and her own ears; this is downright inconvincible ob⯑ſtinacy, not rational, well-founded contradiction: and I hate the one, as much as I love the other; beſides, I ever thought you a girl of too much ſenſe, to lay any kind of ſtreſs on a tale of mere rumour.

But, if rumour ſhou'd ſpeak truth?

He's ſo great a lyar, I wou'd not believe him.

SCENE, an Apartment at Mandeville's.

He's a rough diamond, Sir; he requires a little poliſhing, I muſt confeſs.

Good maſters may remove his ignorance, and good company poliſh his manners: but there is a meanneſs in the turn of his perſon, and the caſt of his features, which is inſuperable; but take man in every point of view, and he will be found the creature of habit; his body, like his mind, is ſubdued by education.

I wonder, Sir, you never wrote to any particular friend in England, to have inquir'd about him, when you receiv'd no letter from this man, to whoſe care you committed him.

Who cou'd I truſt? None of my own fa⯑mily!— Then, what ſolid friendſhips do you ſup⯑poſe are contracted at the age I left England? I was then but twenty; all my intimates were young fellows, ſunk in pleaſure and diſſipation; if any thing like friendſhip had ſubſiſted between us, the many years we were aſunder had diſſolve'd the tie; his mother, I knew, was dead, and from Wilkins's ſilence, I concluded that he alſo had paid the debt of nature; therefore I defiſted from writing, thinking it was in vain to hope for any certainty till I had myſelf reached England.

I ſhou'd not have believ'd it poſſible your Honor cou'd have had ſuch a ſon, let his educa⯑tion be what it may.

I own, Johnſon, the weakneſs of a father induc'd me to believe I ſhou'd have found him very different; I fancied I ſhou'd have ſeen him emerging from the low contracted ſphere to which his fate had conſign'd him, by the native energy of his own powers; and flatter'd myſelf with the pleaſing dream of ſurpriſing a young man with affluence and diſtinction, who in obſcurity had acquir'd virtue to deſerve them.

I beg your Honor's pardon:—but as I cannot ſee the leaſt likeneſs of you in this young gentleman's face, I ſuppoſe he reſembled his mo⯑ther.

His mother!—She had the countenance of an angel!

Then he differs from you both moſt de⯑viliſhly!— But, Sir, the ſooner you provide him with a fencing and a dancing maſter the better; the latter of theſe gentlemen ſeems indiſpenſably [23] neceſſary, if it's only to teach him to walk; for no raw recruit on the firſt day of drilling was ever more pigeon-toed.

Where is he now?

I left him, Sir, very buſy over his lun⯑cheon.

His luncheon!

Yes, Sir: a ſmall morſel he takes before dinner, juſt to ſtay his ſtomach, conſiſting of about a pound of beaf ſteaks and a tankard of porter.

Send him to me.

—I fear he's incorrigibly gone, beyond the power of re⯑formation.

Dear Mandeville, what courſe do you ad⯑viſe me to purſue with this untoward boy? With all his faults, I muſt conſider he is my ſon, and pity, whilſt he compels me to bluſh for him.

Sir, we muſt endeavour to form him as well as we can: but I am rather inclined to think we ſhall never be able to give him the graces.

He's not three and twenty—that's young; we have many begin later in life to acquire the rudiments of thoſe ſciences, in which they after⯑wards arriv'd to the higheſt pitch of eminence.— Have you been able to diſcover how the natural bent of his temper inclines, or if he has any ſtrong propenſities?

Why, Sir, from what I can collect in my ſhort acquaintance with him, the natural bent of his temper ſeems inclin'd to gallantry; and if he has any ſtrong propenſity, it is to the game of ſkittles.

No matter how low and vulgar the game be, it ſhews a ſpirit of play in him, and it muſt be cruſh'd: but if he has a turn for gallantry, [24] it gives me the greateſt hopes of his reformation. The ſociety of an accompliſh'd and beautiful wo⯑man ſoftens and refines the rougheſt nature; ſhe imparts, by a ſecret magic, her elegances and her graces; and to converſe with her, is a kind of ſtudy that inſenſibly poliſhes her admirer.—But what reaſon have you to ſuppoſe he is inclin'd to gallantry?

He has imparted all his amours to me; but one in particular, which very much diverted me, indeed:—After having been ſucceſsful with bar maids, young milleners, and taylors' daugh⯑ters, out of number, Cupid ſhot him from a cheeſe-cake battery, and he fell in love with a paſtrycook's daughter; which, oh, terrible! was the cauſe of his having an affair of honor with an attorney's clerk, in which both parties were bound over: but in painting this Helen, who bred the contention, how ſhall I do him juſtice at ſecond hand? Teniers lent him his pencil for her waiſt, and Titian for her head; for ſhe was ſhap'd like a Dutch cheeſe, and her locks were as red as a carrot.

I have ſent for him; and as I ſhall examine him cloſely, in order to ſearch if there be any la⯑tent ſeeds of ability, which culture may bring forth, I wiſh you, Mandeville, to be preſent, and that you will alſo aſſiſt me in the inquiry.

Certainly; as my couſin, I think it a duty I owe him.—Oh, here he comes with John⯑ſon.

You don't know what's taſte; my hair's the nattieſt thing in town as it's dreſs'd now.

Don't you know, Sir, I ſent for you?

Ah, father!—Couſin! are you there too?

You don't attend.

Attend! no: I hope I ſhan't attend any⯑more.—Well, father, you ſent for me: now, what do you want, my old cock?

It is in vain to think of cultivating a ſoil like this!

His manner is terrible, to be ſure: but we muſt correct him.

Correct him! Why, what have I done to be corrected? I thought I was corrected enough by my laſt father.

Wou'd that correction had taught you to ſpeak!

That it did; and often to ſqueak too, till you cou'd hear me two ſtreets off.

Speak to him, Mandeville.—There is ſomething ſo barbarous in every thing he ſays or does, that I can't bear to look at him.

You'll excuſe me, dear couſin, for giving you a little advice; but as I mean it well, I'm ſure you'll not be offended.

Bleſs your heart, you can't offend me! I'm one of the beſt-temper'd boys breathing:— but what's the matter with old Firelock? He ſeems in the ſulks.

He's not pleas'd with your manner and addreſs; it is too rude and abrupt: you ſhou'd never approach him without evident marks of re⯑ſpect.

Oh! I underſtand you; I ſhou'd always make a bow when I come into a place where he is—Ecod, with all my heart: but what ſet me wrong, was hearing it ſaid, that to have no man⯑ners at all was the beſt of breeding.

Ceremony is altogether as ridiculous, as [...]udeneſs is offenſive; you muſt avoid both.

Have you ever read any thing in your life?

Why, do you think I can't read? Then I tell you I can; and write and cypher too.

He doesn't doubt that; he only wiſhes to know what kind of reading or books you are fond of.

Then you may tell him, I am fond of hiſtories.

That's a good hearing, faith! If he's fond of hiſtory, he muſt poſſeſs from nature a ſtrong inquiſitive mind under all this unpromiſing d'a⯑bord. Men, educated in a low ſphere of life, however uncouthly they expreſs themſelves, often manifeſt a ſtrong intellect; and on being put to the teſt, diſcover a fund of knowledge the better-educated man wou'd not expect from a ſlight ac⯑quaintance with them: I conſider ſuch minds like rich metals, as yet unpurify'd from alloy; but let it once be known that the ore is gold, and the refiner's hand will ſoon bring forth the bul⯑lion.—As you are fond of hiſtory, you have no doubt dipt into the hiſtories of Greece and Rome.

The beſt of their hiſtories.

Whoſe were they?

Why, in the firſt place, I have read Don Bellianis's Hiſtory of Greece, and the Seven wiſe Maſters' Hiſtory of Rome.

Aſk him no more queſtions.

Then I've read the Hiſtory of Colonel Jack, and the Hiſtory of the Engliſh Rogue, and the Hiſtory of Moll Flanders.

He appears as well read in modern as ancient hiſtory.

I don't know any thing more mortifying to human pride, than to paſs the better part of a man's life in toil, anxiety, and danger, accumu⯑lating wealth, to leave it to a fool at laſt.

You can't think, father, how ſenſible money [27] makes a fool look, and how fooliſh a wiſe man looks without it.

Mr. Serge, your Honor's taylor.

He's come to take meaſure of my couſin for his regimentals.

Regimentals! Why, am I to be a colonel as well as my father?

Sir, you're to be a ſoldier.

A ſoldier! Why, what's all this? Am I to go for a ſoldier, after all?—Has Doll Blouze been with the pariſh officers?

I have procur'd you a commiſſion; no ſon of mine ſhall waſte his youth in eaſe and indo⯑lence, diſſipating that wealth I ſo hardly earn'd: the greater part, it is true, he ſhall enjoy; but he ſhall firſt prove by his courage, and his ſervices to his country, that he deſerves it.

There's not a boy within the ſound of Bow bell of a better ſpirit; I'll fight any man in England of my weight and inches, with fair ſiſ⯑teſſes, for a guinea—aye, damme! if I don't, and ſay down firſt.

Hadn't you better ſtep to the taylor?

Preſently, preſently, couſin—But now I think of it, I'll not ſtep to him; let the taylor ſtep to me.—A captain ſtep to a taylor! Impoſ⯑ſible! that's bidding a field piece dance the hayes after a thimble.

I inſiſt upon your going this moment.

Why, the old boy's in his tantrums.—Couſin, a word in your ear: there's one thing be⯑fore I go, I muſt beg of you.

What's that?

Why, as you and I will be hand and glove, as a body may ſay; you'll call me Caleb, [28] and I'll call you Tom, Frank, Harry, or—what is your name?

My name is Frederick.

Frederick! what a pretty name! I wiſh my name was Frederick. Can't I be new-chriſ⯑ten'd for one name as well as another?

Till you're new born, I fancy nothing can be done with you.

But I was going to tell you—if you call me Caleb, never do it loud, eſpecially in com⯑pany.

For heav'n's ſake, why?

Why, if you was to cry out, as thus now, Caleb!

I ſhould cry, "Com⯑ing up, Sir!" tho' you made a duke of me.

Well, Mandeville, what do you think?

Hope is left us in the worſt of times; however, I do not deſpair of making ſomething of him yet: what I dread moſt, is introducing him to Charlotte.

Why cannot man make over his mind, like his property to his children? Any diſtinguiſhing quality in all other animals ſurvives in the ſame ſpecies by hereditary deſcent for ever; man con⯑tinues upon the earth only in his name and his revenues.—Oh, that he ſhould leave behind him his leaſt valuable part, and all that made him good or great ſhould ſink into the duſt with him!

Good news! good news, Sir! the Car⯑natic is arriv'd ſafe.—Captain Crevelt's ſervant is juſt come to acquaint you, that his maſter and Count Pierpoint will be here immediately.

Good news, indeed, Johnſon; and heavy and afflicted as my heart is, your tidings cheer it. [29] The Count, Mandeville, is an officer of infinite merit; he was my priſoner during the war, and is warmly attached to Engliſh manners and our glo⯑rious conſtitution.—But, Creveit!—to know the merit of ſuch a man, you muſt be acquainted with him.

Is he an Engliſhman?

Yes, and you may judge of his merit as a ſoldier, when I tell you, he has riſen from the ranks, at the age of three and twenty, to the com⯑miſſion he now holds of captain. He's the reverſe of this ill-fated boy we have been ſpeaking to. He is ſelf-educated; for with ſcarce any advantages but thoſe he deriv'd from a moſt noble and ex⯑cellent nature, he is the man of ſenſe, the ſcholar, and the poliſh'd gentleman. His father, old Cre⯑velt, was no more than a ſerjeant, and ſerv'd in Germany under Lord Granby; he brought this young man with him to India, whilſt yet a boy; the firſt day he ever was in action, he ſaw his father fall; and he was found after the battle amongſt the ſlain, cloſe to his body, apparently lifeleſs with loſs of blood, as if he had died in the pious office of defending a parent.

Captain Crevelt, Sir.

Let us go and receive him; my heart burns with impatience to call ſuch a man my friend.

SCENE, Mandeville's Houſe.

I QUITTED England, Mr. Mandeville, when a boy, and never was in London in my life before. I am charmed with the appearance of this noble city, in which the eaſe, convenience, and ſafety of its pooreſt inhabitant ſeem conſulted.

There is no token ſeen in the ſtreets, of an exhauſted people, drained by a tedious and expen⯑ſive war, during which, Great Britain fought at more unequal odds than any nation on the earth ever did before.

So much the reverſe, that I am aſtoniſhed at the appearance of opulence and proſperity to be met with every where; and the pleaſing ſenſation. I feel, to find my country in that ſtate, is inde⯑ſcribable.

Let gloomy politicians continue to predict, and foreſee calamities that exiſt only in imagina⯑tion; whilſt the genius of induſtry continues to ſmile upon the labours of the huſbandman, the mechanic, and the manufacturer, and whilſt ſtrict probity is the character of England in her deal⯑ings with all other nations, the reſources of this country will be found inexhauſtible; and though its glory may be veiled by a momentary cloud, it ſoon recovers its former ſplendour.

Here I am, father, in full feather.

What, Sir, is your dancing maſter gone already?

Bleſs your heart!—no maſter of any kind for me to day; I never put on a new ſuit of clothes in my life, that I did not make holiday.

We had better, I think, in ſome degree, give way to him: you cannot expect immediately to reform manners ſo long confirmed by habit.

I believe you're right, ſo I'll try what effect indulgence may have on him. Well, it ſhall be as you wou'd have it; this day ſhall be devoted to pleaſure and amuſement: Crevelt, give me leave to introduce you to my ſon.

I don't know any circumſtance of my life affects me more than the high honor I now en⯑joy.

Why, look ye, young man, as my fa⯑ther deſires it, I'll ſhake hands with you, with all my heart: but I wou'd not make ſo free with every old ſoldier's ſon.

How dare you, Sir, inſult a man of his merit with language ſo groſs?

Why, isn't he an old ſoldier's ſon?— pretty company truly to introduce me to!

Sir, the humility of my birth I acknow⯑ledge, but muſt tell you, this is the firſt time it ever brought a bluſh into my cheek—I am choaked with rage—Unuſed to inſult, I cannot receive it without indignation even from the ſon of Colonel Talbot!

I inſiſt upon your aſking that gentleman's pardon.

Why, is he a gentleman?

A man of his worth, his honor, and abili⯑ties, is a gentleman, though ſprung in the loweſt vale of ſociety.

Nay, if you ſay he's a gentleman, I aſk his pardon with all my heart; nothing ſo common now-a-days as one gentleman's aſking pardon of another; it makes up a quarrel in a trice.

Sir, I accept your apology.

But, Sir, I will go farther with you—You muſt ever conſider that man with reſpect; learn to eſteem him, and it will do you more honour than your birth has done.

The gentleman from the India Houſe, Sir, thar was here before to-day, has called again.

Let him know I'll wait on him imme⯑diately.

(To Caleb.) Young man, I wiſh to undeceive you in one particular; ſeize all thoſe opportunities of in⯑ſtruction I mean to give you, and redeem the time you have loſt, which, if you neglect, your pro⯑viſion from me ſhall be merely independence: my name you may diſgrace, but I think it a crime to beſtow riches on one who would abuſe them; even that youth, whoſe birth is ſo inferior in your eye, I ſhould conſider as united to me by his merit in nearer ties of kindred.

So then, I am to be diſ⯑inherited after all, and for an old ſoldier's ſon too!

What's that you ſay, Sir?

Say, Sir!—Damme! he looks ſo fierce. I don't know what to ſay to him—theſe old ſol⯑dier's ſons are ſo uſed to cutting of throats, it's the devil to quarrel with them.

I am aſhamed of you, couſin—If you proceed in this manner, you muſt be look'd up from all ſociety.

I'll beg his pardon again: I know that's all he wants.

I'll ſpare you, Sir, the mortification of deſcending to ſo humiliating an act; in reſpect to your father, I overlook every thing you have hi⯑therto ſaid—I now coolly behold all that had paſt through a different medium; and rather feel for a youth, who, from his proſpect of immenſe wealth, has been perhaps from his childhood ſurrounded with ſycophants, who never let him know what it was to be acquainted with himſelf, and perſuaded him into an opinion that wealth ſupplies the ab⯑ſence of every accompliſhment and virtue.

I don't rightly underſtand you, Captain; but I fancy, (only you mince the matter,) that you meant to ſay I was much better fed than taught—Well, no matter—Are we good friends again?

Very good!

Then give me your hand.

He, he, he! I can't help laughing, after all, to think of ſuch a fellow's being a gentleman—But I ſay, Captain; they tell me you are a devil of a fellow [...]or fighting: now, do you ſee me, as I am an [...]fficer as well as yourſelf, I'd be glad to know [...]ow you generally found yourſelf before you went [...]nto the field of battle.

Much as I do at preſent.

What, no more frighten'd?

No, Sir.

Come, come; no tricks upon travellers, [...]aptain; do you think I'm ſuch a fool as to be⯑ [...]ve you?

Sir!

Sir!—He looks at me like a tiger—I'll aſk him no more queſtions—he has half fright'ned me out of my commiſſion already—eh!

Ecod, yonder I ſee my father talk⯑ing to two fine girls; I'll go have a peep at them; Couſin Mandeville, good bye—Captain, your ſervant;

a gentleman truly! What a fine thing it is to be born one—it ſaves a world of trouble in learning.

The ſtory of this unhappy young man, and how his education came to be ſo much neg⯑lected, is too long to acquaint you of particu⯑larly, at preſent; but you ſee what he is, and I hope eſtimate an inſult from him accordingly.

I think, no more of it—but my heart bleeds for his father.

You talk of leaving town to-day—why, dear Sir, will you ſo ſuddenly quit friends, who, of all things, covet your ſociety? Is the buſineſs which calls you from us, of that urgent nature you cannot poſtpone it for a few days at leaſt?

It is what I ought not to do—for my re⯑lations in England, (if I have any living) have never heard from me ſince I quitted the country; but perhaps it's better to prepare them for the meeting; ſo I ſhall write to them by this night's poſt, and continue your gueſt a little longer.

Now this is truly friendly—I wou'd n't for the world have you leave town till after my Couſin Talbot's wedding.

Then he's going to be married?

So his father intends, as the only means of reforming him; the lady is one of thoſe two who came here within this half hour; and whom we left with Count Pierpoint, admiring his magni⯑ficent preſent from the different princes of the Eaſt at whoſe courts he has been occaſionally envoy.

But which of the ladies is intended for Mr. Talbot?

Charlotte—ſhe whom you ſo much ad⯑mired: and, ſhort as the Count's acquaintance with them is, he appears already ſmitten with her Couſin Harriet—Unluckily for him, ſhe happens to be engaged.

But, Charlotte! It is ſhe, then, who is intended for Mr. Talbot;—I think I never ſaw a finer girl.

She's a divine creature! and though her Adonis is ſo near a relation, I confeſs, I wiſh her a better huſband;—but I don't know how matters may terminate—She's a girl of great ſpirit—has a a very fine independency; and ſuch is her diſpoſi⯑tion, that I'm confident there is no temptation in wealth could induce her to marry any man whom ſhe did not like.

Ha, ha, ha! I beg your pardon, Mr. Mandeville, for laughing ſo much at the expence of your Couſin Talbot; but his manner, perſon and converſation, are all ſo truly original, that gravity itſelf muſt be provok'd to laughter in his company.

It's very true, Harriet; he is a moſt ex⯑traordinary being, I muſt confeſs.

He introduc'd himſelf to Charlotte this moment; and ſuch a figure does he cut! He can neither walk, ſit nor ſtand ſtill, with gazing at his perſon—Charlotte and he are together; ſhe ſeems delighted with him.

Then, Ma'am, ſhe likes him?

She likes to laugh at him, Sir—Do, Man⯑deville, come, and take a look at him.

Will you go, Captain Crevelt?

I'll juſt ſpeak to Johnſon, Sir, and follow you.

I never ſaw that woman in my life before, who in a moment has had ſuch a power over me.—She will not marry him, they ſay,—but what then? Does it follow of courſe, that the muſt like me?

I underſtand your Honor wiſh'd to ſee me.

Yes, Johnſon; as you came to London before me, I wiſh'd to aſk you, if you knew any thing of the family of this young lady your maſ⯑ter intends his ſon ſhall marry?

Why, Sir, I underſtand ſhe is the daughter of a Sir Oliver Oldſtock; an old acquaintance of the Colonel's—her father, I hear, meant ſhe ſhou'd marry Mr. Mandeville, ſuppoſing he wou'd be my maſter's heir; but when a ſon made his appear⯑ance, like all worldly men, Sir Oliver chang'd his note; and the poor young lady is to become a ſa⯑crifice to this—I wiſh he wasn't my maſter's ſon.

But ſhe won't, Johnſon, be made a ſacri⯑fice.

I hope not, Sir;—but, lord! what won't money do? Don't we ſee money every day couple age and deformity to youth and beauty; a young creature, like an angel, link'd to an old ſkeleton of dry bones—as if the Daemon of avarice and ſin had acquir'd ſuch aſcendancy in the world, as to bring about an union betwixt death and immor⯑tality?

Why, Johnſon, you ſpeak with great feeling and ſpirit on the ſubject.

Ah, Captain Crevelt! what a charming couple you two wou'd make—I, who have ſeen [37] your Honor in the field, wou'd expect a Granby or a Marlborough from, ſuch a marriage.

I promiſed to follow them; but the leſs I ſee her, the better for my peace: it's only feeding a paſſion I ſhou'd baniſh from my heart for ever.—Johnſon, take no notice that I have aſk'd you any queſtions concerning Miſs Old⯑ſtock: ſhou'd I be inquir'd for, I am gone to the library—Books, or my own thoughts, are the only ſociety I am fit for.

Well, as long as I live, I never will think there is any thing in great blood again. Here is a ſon of one of the beſt families in the kingdom, with neither perſon nor mind ſuperior to one of his father's domeſtics—and if we turn our eyes to the other ſide, we behold the offspring of an old ſol⯑dier, with the ſoul of a prince, and the head of a prime miniſter.

Mr. Johnſon, Mr. Johnſon, here's a let⯑ter for you, brought by the penny poſt;

and ſhort a time as you have been in London. I'm ſure it's a love letter.

Aye; pray, Nancy, how have you made that diſcovery? Is it by the elegant penmanſhip of its pothook-and-hanger ſuperſcription, or by the God of Love's own broad ſeal, ſtamp'd upon it by a wafer and thimble?

Ecod, Mr. Johnſon, you're a knowing hand; I'll engage you have hook'd in many a poor girl in your time.

But I haven't paid the poſtage.

That's always paid beforehand into the office with the letter.

But you know, Nancy, letters are con⯑vey'd [38] now upon a new eſtabliſhment, and for fear of miſtakes, I'll ev'n pay double poſtage.

It's mighty well! I ſuppoſe when you find this is a miſtake, you'll be for having the over⯑charge back again.

Now for my letter.—'Sdeath! it's from my ſweet little Mrs. Wilkins!

I was afraid I ſhou'd have had no poſtſcript; but all's right, I find.—Yes, my ſweet Mrs. Wil⯑kins, I will go and talk to you about thoſe trifles I brought with me from India: but you ſhall have no mandarins—indeed, I thought you had one too many of theſe old figures.

Well, Miſs; how do you like me? Don't you think I look like a captain?

Like a captain! It wou'd be doing you injuſtice to compare you to any one officer under His Majeſty: I am really at a loſs for a compari⯑ſon to match you with—Come, turn about, and let me ſee your ſhapes—Mercy! what a long ſword they have tied you to!

That was all my own thought: I haven't learnt to ſence yet; and as I am told a gentleman is nobody till he has fought about a ſcore duels, I was determined the firſt time I fought not to be overreach'd by any body.

A very prudent reſolution I muſt confeſs! valour is by no means incompatible with diſcre⯑tion: but pray, Sir, are you ſo very quarrel ſome, that you expect to have all thoſe duels upon your hands?

Me quarrelſome!—Bleſs your heart, I'm as quiet as a lamb.

Then why do you expect to fight ſo much?

Becauſe it's the faſhion; and you know a man had better be out of the world than out of the faſhion.

Then I think you are taking an excellent method to have your choice.

Yes; fighting's quite a gentleman-like amuſement;—beſides, it will be put in the newſ⯑papers; and I ſhall read my own name in print, along with the debates of Lords and Commons; and that's the cauſe, I ſuppoſe, of all duels.

I believe duels have been fought more than once—and, oh, fatal deluſion! perhaps a valuable life loſt for a cauſe altogether as frivo⯑lous!

But now I am dreſs'd, do you ſee me, I wiſh to ſhew myſelf to ſome of my old acquain⯑tances; therefore, ſuppoſe you and I go this even⯑ing to Bagnigge Wells, and drink tea—the hot rolls are ſo nice there, you can't think!

Some other time; I can't poſſibly go this evening.

Mayhap you think I won't pay for the tea, but I will; and moreover than that, I'll treat you to the half-play afterwards.

You muſt, indeed, excuſe me, Sir.—

I wiſh I cou'd get rid of him.—This mo⯑ment poor Crevelt paſs'd me with a dejected air—I follow'd him with a ſtol'n glance, till I trac'd him into the library.—I wiſh I knew what was the matter with him; I never ſaw a man in my life I pity ſo much.

How they'd ſtare at our hop, to ſee me in this dreſs!

This fellow takes no notice of me; his regimentals have actually rivall'd me!

Dreſs I ſee is every thing: ſuch a ſuit of regimentals wou'd make any man a great officer—How this world goes! fine fellows are made by taylors, and taylors un⯑done by fine fellows!

My Narciſſus is ſo engag'd with his per⯑ſon, it wou'd be fooliſh to loſe this opportunity of getting rid of him: I'll drop careleſſly into the library—I never ſaw ſo ſudden an alteration in a man's looks as in poor Crevelt's. I hope he's not in love—Poor Charlotte, if the object be not in England!

To be ſure, Caleb, you haven't a pair of legs!—It is not every Captain who can beat a march with ſuch a pair of drum⯑ſticks—I wonder how my legs would look in a pair of new boots—I never rode of a Sunday, but in a pair of my father's old ones—Moſt ſmart captains, I obſerve, foot as well as horſe, mount the ſtreets in boots.—So, you won't go to Bag⯑nigge Wells?

—Eh! why ſhe's gone!—Ecod, I'm glad of it!—and now the coaſt is clear, I'll have a ramble.—What ſignifies my being dreſs'd, if nobody ſees me?—I'll call over to Jacob Wilkins's, and take a glaſs with him.— Who knows, but one of theſe days, when I return [41] from abroad a great warrior, but old Jacob may take down his ſign, and hang me up over his door.

Really, my Lord, I tremble for the con⯑ſequences of this interview; if Sir Oliver ſhou'd meet us, and happen to be in one of his jealous moods, it is in vain to tell him of the innocency of our converſation; he will interpret my very looks, and draw the ſtrangeſt inferences from even the tone of voice with which I utter the moſt good⯑natur'd ſentence.

Il eſt bien extraordinaire; it appears to me very ſtrange, Madam, dat people of faſhion en Angleterre can be ſo bourgois. Mon Dieu! en France, quand un homme eſt marié, ven ve marry, by Gar, our friends cannot nous obligé more dan by take care of our vives.

Oh, my Lord! you're a reſin'd people; we are, at leaſt, half a century behind you in point of civilization.

But on my vord, you improve every [...]ay; people de faſhion in both countries, vil be [...]er ſoon les mêmes; a preſent voila le difference—at preſent, ſee the difference between France [...]nd England—Un Anglois eſt trop bruſque, [...]oo rough; un Françis, peurêtre trop poli; but at be fault fur coté droit, on de right ſide—ſup⯑ [...]oſe nous avons—ſuppoſe ve have von traité de [...]ommerce, pour un exchange des maniers; Jack [...]ull is von guinea too heavy; & un Frenchman, [...]tre nous, peutêtre un Louis d'Or too light;— [...]w to make a de balance even, ſcrape de Englis, vat you call ſweat a de Engliſh guinea, & aug⯑ [...]entez le Louis d'Or, and you give de poliſh to one, and de proper weight to the other.

I bluſh, my Lord, to think my educa⯑tion was ſo cruelly neglected, that I cannot hold a converſation with you in your own language.— People of condition ſhou'd always ſpeak French.

Mais j'eſpere—me hope you underſtand?

Oh, perfectly, my Lord; you ſpeak the language of the Graces; and that, our ſex under⯑ſtand in every country.

Si j'entends; vous, ma belle ange! If I underſtand, it is you have give me the inſtructions.

How well he makes himſelf underſtood! I never heard ſuch ſweet broken Engliſh in my life before.

Mais, Madam! may I beg leave to ſo⯑licit—

My Lord! Dear Count!

Madam, may I ſolicit votre pitie, pour un paſſion qui brule mon ame—my paſſion con⯑ſume a my heart.

Oh, heavens! what a diſcovery is here? How fatal to the happineſs of both!—I hope, my Lord, you will exert your philoſophy on this occa⯑ſion, and conſider the inſurmountable obſtacle.

Obſtacle, Madam! quelle obſtacle to a man of my rank and fortune?

Oh, fie, fie, my Lord! can a man of your delicacy talk in this ſtrain?

Ah, ſi vous pouviez lire—if you cou'd read a my heart—

Go, unhappy youth! and endeavour to extinguiſh a fruitleſs flame, that, if it continue to burn, muſt only prove a ſource of diſquietude [...] us both: go, too-pleaſing ſeducer! and like to faithful, but honourable Werter, leave your ill ſtar'd, ſympathyzing Charlotte to her tears!

My Charlotte! No, it is my Harriet.

Harriet!—What Harriet?

Your niece, Madam; that petite ange—

My niece! Was my niece the object of all this adoration?

Is there one elſe living deſerve ſo much?

Yes, a hundred, if you had eyes to ſee.

Eh bien! Madam, what you ſay to my propoſal?

My niece is engag'd; or, if ſhe wasn't, you ſhou'd not have her.

Mais, le Chevalier Oldſtock dit le con⯑traire.—Sir Oliver ſay quite different.

Sir Oliver's an old fool, and I ſuppoſe didn't underſtand you, for you ſpeak terrible Eng⯑liſh.

I ſpeak terrible Englis!—Mon Dieu!— [...]il eſt bien etrange!—juſt now I ſpeak ver ſweet broke Englis.

Well, Count, what ſays my wife?

She does refuſe—ſhe vil not conſent.

I'm glad of it.

Diable! pourquois you glad of it?

Becauſe now I ſhall have an opportunity of ſhewing my authority, and letting her know, you ſhall have my niece in ſpite of her.—She's my own brother's daughter; he left her an orphan in my care, and I'll diſpoſe of her as I like; I aſk'd Lady Oldſtock's approbation, only for the pleaſure of being refus'd it—I love contradiction.

Mon cher Chevalier! you tranſport me.

Yes, Count; contradiction's my hobby horſe; I mount him every hour of the day; and he more he kicks and flings, the greater delight I [...]ake in riding him.—I know you think me a whim⯑ſical old fellow; but you are new to our clime and [44] our manners—we delight in thinking for ourſelves—oppoſition is the very ſoul of an Engliſhman—he likes it in himſelf, and in others alſo; peace and proſperity, with good eating and drinking, would throw him into a lethargy, if imagination didn't ſupply that ſpur to goad him on conſtantly to action.

Now, mon chere Pere, me ville ſettle—

Odſo! that's right—mind, the foundation ſtone of our agreement is, that you ſettle in Eng⯑land—a niece of mine ſhall never breed ſubjects to fight againſt her king and country!

Monſieur, you have my vord of honour; and now I vill go viſit my pretty Miſs, vat you call Harriet: mais, Monſieur, reſt aſſure me vil die, and live in England.

Well ſaid, Monſieur! cart before the horſe.—But now I am alone, let me ſee how my accounts ſtand: I haye ſecured the French nabob for my niece; now it would be a maſter ſtroke if I cou'd obtain the Engliſh one for my daughter, and thus center the two nabobs in my own family. This ſon of the Colonel's is a down right ſavage: Charlotte never cou'd like him; or if ſhe cou'd, intereſt tells me I ſhou'd not; therefore her liking's out of the queſtion: there's to be a diviſion of the Colonel's property, between the ſon and Man⯑deville: I want the whole, if poſſible. The Co⯑lonel's not fifty, and in my mind he's a better look⯑ing man than either his ſon or his nephew. Char⯑lotte's having ten thouſand pounds independent of me, makes her very obſtinate; debates will run high, I fear; as, indeed, they very often do in my fa⯑mily, where, tho' I'm conſtantly left in a mino⯑rity, I never loſe a queſtion—'tis true, I have open mouths upon me from all ſides, till, like greater men, I'm fairly badger'd: but it's only waiting till the ſtrangers are all out, and I tell the houſe [45] as I pleaſe afterwards.—Zoonds! here comes Man⯑deville: I wiſh I cou'd get decently out of his way.

I have been in ſearch of you, Sir Oliver.

I wiſh I had known that; I'd have ſav'd you a good deal of trouble.—Well, my good Sir, had you any thing particular to ſay to me?

Is your conduct towards me conſiſtent with honour?

I don't underſtand you.

How convenient it is to aſſume ignorance of a ſubject on which it is painful to hear the truth, even to the man incapable of reſpecting it! Ho⯑nour, tho' ſhut out from the heart, will ſtill knock at its gates, and tell the guilty, there' is a regiſter kept in the avenging court of remorſe for every act of injuſtice.

Upon my word, Mr, Mandeville, you ſpeak to me in a very ſtrange ſtile; this is not a manner in which I am accuſtom'd to be addreſs'd. You bounce in all of a ſudden, tranſported with rage, for what cauſe is beſt known to yourſelf, and with a knock-me-down countenance, treat me as if my age and my rank had no kind of reſpect due to them.

Sir, no man honours age more than I; or more readily yields rank every reſpect it can claim, when that rank does not forfeit its title to eſteem, by meanly ſinking and degrading itſelf:—but, when men in ſuperior ſtations behave as if their actions were above all cenſure and control, they muſt be told that they are deceiving themſelves, as well as the world, and that no man is ſuffer'd to injure another with impunity.

Well, Sir, in what particular have I in⯑jur'd [46] you, to provoke the thunder of this terrible Phillipic?

Can you ſeriouſly aſk me that queſtion, when you ſanction the addreſſes of Count Pier⯑point to your niece?

Well, and what then?

Have you forgot your prior engagement to me?

Mr. Mandeville, the poet ſays, that "Every day's a ſatire on the laſt;" now I ſay that every day's a contradiction to the laſt; as circum⯑ſtances vary, or events fall out, we are compelled by neceſſity to change our minds. As to my niece, whom I conſider in the light of a daughter, I think it my duty, in providing her with a huſband, to make the beſt bargain I can for her.

Sir, have you no regard to what the world will ſay on this occaſion? The world, Sir; that harſh, blind, misjudging multitude; whoſe ſlan⯑der, if it ſoil the ermine purity of virtue, what will it ſay, when it has juſtice upon its ſide?

Nothing that I value—Young man, when you have lived as many years with the world as I have, you'll learn to make your happineſs inde⯑pendent of its opinion—Don't you ſee knaves and fools every day riſe into conſequence, and all from the opinion of the world—the opinion of the world, Sir! It's a mouthful of moonſhine!

I believe with you that the world is too indolent—too much occupied with its pleaſures, or its miſeries, to take up the buſineſs of a cenſor—I fear it never examines thoroughly, any man's pretenſions to its favour: the more he aſks, the more he generally obtains from the world; hence, folly, confidence and vice, revel in the arms of luxury, whilſt merit, proud, and retiring from the conſcious dignity of genius and virtue, is ſuffer'd to periſh for want of bread!—But, Sir—

But me no more this debate, Mr. Man⯑deville—the queſtion is put, and I am going.— Partial as I am to a polemical mode of diſcourſe, I find that there may be ſometimes even too much contradiction.

What ſhall I do with this deceitful, un⯑feeling man? But can I heſitate whilſt I have a particle of ſpirit left? I'll go this moment, ſtate the matter to Count Pierpoint, and he ſhall reſign, or fight for his miſtreſs!

Dear Mandeville, what is the matter?— My uncle has juſt parted from you, ſeemingly much out of temper, and the wildneſs and diſorder of your looks, terrify me?

My heart is torn to pieces, Harriet—Indignation at the ungenerous treatment I have met with from your uncle, added to my fears of loſing you, diſtract me.

But can you doubt your Harriet? There is no power upon earth ſhall force me to be ano⯑ther's; do then, dear Mandeville! ſtrive to calm this tumult in your mind—Betrayed by the vio⯑lence of your paſſion, you talk'd of going in ſearch of Count Pierpoint—let me beſeech you not.

You were deceived, Harrier, in what you heard me ſay—do not prevent my going—I have buſineſs of a moſt particular nature calls me.

I know perfectly the buſineſs that calls you—but let me conjure you, by all that regard you ever profeſs'd for me, not to think of it—You ſay your fears of loſing me, diſtract you—judge then of the ſtate of my heart, by your own—Has Harriet no fears for her Mandeville, at a moment, ſhe ſees him eat up with an ungovernable rage— [48] about, perhaps, to hurry himſelf, or a fellow⯑creature into eternity?

Your apprehenſions, Harriet, are ground⯑leſs—from what I learn of the Count's character, I believe him to be a man of too nice honour; too equitable, too generous, to reduce me to the neceſſity of proceeding to extremities; I only wiſh to explain matters to him.

I can recommend a much better courſe to you, and one much more likely to ſucceed—Go to your uncle, that good, that noble-hearted man —tell him your ſtory—if any body has weight with Sir Oliver, it is Colonel Talbot.

Nobody has weight with him, when ava⯑rice claims his ear.

You are miſtaken: he is not ſo great a ſlave to avarice as you ſuppoſe him.

He is your uncle, Harriet, and I cannot ſpeak of him with harſhneſs.

I know by your eyes, you are not ſo angry as you were.

I will be guided by you in every thing—There is a faſcinating power, Harriet, in your looks and accents, when you wou'd perſuade, that cannot be reſiſted; a melting ſoftneſs clings about my heart as I liſten and behold you; there is ſure a divinity in angel-beauty! You cauſed the tem⯑peſt in my ſoul, and have calm'd it.

SCENE, An Apartment at Mandeville's.

COME, my boy, ſince you won't go to Jacob Wilkins's with me, we'll tope a little here—Fill your glaſs higher—higher yet; I'll have no ſky⯑lights—This is a bumper toaſt.

Well, what is it?

Our noble ſelves.

I find that you think a ſentiment, like charity, ſhould begin at home.

I do to be ſure.

We ſhould have begun with the king and conſtitution.

Then here it goes—and, though it's the ſecond toaſt now, it ſhall be firſt next bottle.

Next bottle! But, Mr. Talbot, I have a particular engagement upon my hands this even⯑ing—I hope you'll excuſe my leaving you.

You ſhan't ſtir a foot

Your wine's ſo good—I wonder how any body can quit ſuch liquor.

But ſuppoſe there's a lady in the caſe—you won't preſs me to ſtay ſurely, after I tell you that?

Damn it! Take me with you!

Impoſſible!

Then ſit down and drink with me, for I won't part with you.

What the devil ſhall I do

It wants but a quarter to ſix, and Mrs. Wilkins will be waiting tea for me.

Come, to the charge again, and a brimmer it ſhall be.

I ſhall get ſuddled too;—I have often in a frolic aſſumed drunkenneſs; ſuppoſe I practiſe that ſtratagem now to get away from him?

Why, now I look at you, I think you are getting a little forward.

But I am not quite ſo bad as you think; do let me go, Mr. Talbot.

Do you think I have no more regard for you? I tell you, you muſt go to bed—now do go to bed.

How the devil ſhall I get away from him? Zounds, Sir, I am not drunk.

Poor fellow! I am ſorry to ſee you ſo far gone; but I'll take care of you for this night. No, no; no going out this night.

S'death and fire! Will this convince you that I am ſober.

Take another turn, and I'll tell you.

But will you let me go then?

After we have had another bottle.

Zounds! another bottle!—Well, I'll go down to the cellar for it.

Mind you don't ſtay.

No, no; I ſhan't ſtay—

long in this houſe, now I have got out of your clutches, young gentleman.

This is a deviliſh honeſt bottle—there is half a pint in it yet—Well, my friend is gone, ſo here goes his health

Poor fellow!—I never ſaw a man ſo ſoon drunk and ſober—Damn it, how he ſtays!—I long for a glaſs of wine; tho [51] he's not here, ecod, I'll fill my glaſs—a good bottle of wine is excellent company.

What, Sir, drinking by yourſelf?

I'm ſure that's not my fault—I ſhall be very glad if you'll ſit down and keep me company: I expect Johnſon every minute with the other bottle.

I ſuppoſe. Sir, Johnſon has been your companion?

Yes; and a choice companion he is; only apt to get muzz'd too ſoon.—Come, come, let me fill you a glaſs.

I'll drink none, Sir; nor ſhall you drink any more; your father deſires to ſee you inſtantly.

You'll let me finiſh the bottle?

You muſt drink no more! He puts me beyond all patience.

Ecod, then I'll take it with me.

Set it down, Sir.

There,

, I have ſet it down, and am ready to go with you; we muſt be good friends again now we have crack'd a bottle to⯑gether.

SCENE, A Library.

It is to no purpoſe—I cannot read—This ador⯑able girl has taken ſuch entire poſſeſſion of my mind, it has'nt room for any other object; when Mr. Mandeville told me ſhe was going to be mar⯑ried, [52] and to whom, my hope died within me, for then I knew all hope was loſt; but grant there was no diſhonour, no ingratitude in harbouring a paſſion for a woman intended for the ſon of my benefactor; how ſhould a low-born, abject thing, like me, aſpite to one ſo much above him? Wou'd not my birth be an inſurmountable bar to my hopes? She comes this way—I would avoid her, but have not the power.

Bleſs me! Captain Crevelt

I did'nt ſee you—I was quite abſorbed in poor Viola's me⯑lancholy relation of undivulged love; this little picture is ſo highly finiſhed, ſo delicately coloured with touches of the true pathetic, that I never read it without being wonderfully affected—Don't you think it one of the fineſt paſſages in all Shakeſ⯑peare?

I ſo much admire it, Madam, that I would give the world this moment for the pencil of its immortal writer, to paint one of our ſex in the ſame ſtate of uncomplaining deſpondency.

I proteſt you ſpoke thoſe laſt words with ſo ſerious an air, that I'm half inclined to think you're in love yourſelf: if that be the caſe, come, make me your confidante; I'll be as ſecret and as ſilent as Shakeſpeare's own marble Grief and Patience: I have the muſic of the Avon ſwan this moment at my heart, and cou'd hear a lover whiſper his tale under a tree in which the [53] nightingale ſung, and the moon tipt its boughs with ſilver.

You ſpeak, Madam, like one well vers'd in the paſſion.

And is that ſtrange, Sir, when I come with Shakeſpeare in my hand; a maſter who teaches the whole hiſtory of the paſſions? His keen and ardent eye in a fine frenzy rolling, pierced into the ſecret chambers of the heart where the paſſions ſlumber; and woke them, as he ſwept his lyre divine to all their changeful moods of pain and joy, till kindled up to madneſs, or to ecſtaſy; but, when he touches upon love, though the flaſh be momentary, it reſembles lightning, ſuddenly rift⯑ing the ſurface of the earth, and diſcloſing the ra⯑diant portal of a diamond quarry.

Were I to wiſh another laurel on the grave of Shakeſpeare, it ſhould be planted by the hand of ſo charming a commentator.

Sir, there is a laurel already planted on his grave by one of our ſex, which will flouriſh till the ſpirit of his genius, and his writings are no more remembered—but to the point—I have pronoune'd you in love; now let me know who your miſtreſs is?

Madam, I dare not.

Dare not! Is that a ſoldier's phraſe? Courage, man; there is nothing impoſſible to ſpirit and perſeverance: beſides, the more diffi⯑culties lay in the road to your miſtreſs, the better ſhe'll like you for ſurmounting them.

But ſuppoſe there was a difficulty not to be ſurmounted?

If your miſtreſs does not diſlike you, I now of no other difficulty which is not to be ſurmounted.

But even preſuming that were the caſe, which I have by no means reaſon to imagine, I cannot think of her without condemning myſelf.

Is ſhe ſo much beneath you?

She's above my praiſe, and above my hopes.

If ſhe deſerves all this adoration, ſhe never will think herſelf above a man of merit.

Then, Madam, you don't think marry⯑ing for love entirely out of faſhion?

I never would marry for any thing elſe.

Then I'm undone; ſhe loves the man for whom ſhe is intended; and the aſſur⯑ance of that I have now received from her own lips, was meant as a reproach to a paſſion ſhe has diſcovered, in ſpite of all my efforts to conceal it.

What's the matter, Sir?

I fear, Madam, I only interrupt your ſtudies.

How can you talk ſo! I don't know any one whoſe converſation, on ſo ſhort an acquaint⯑ance, is ſo agreeable to me; this laſt has been par⯑ticularly intereſting.

It is plain from the ſarcaſm of that reply, that ſhe underſtands me—but I am juſtly puniſhed for my apoſtacy to honour, in daring to think of her.

He appears confuſed and embarraſſed all of a ſudden; I fear my vanity has betrayed me too far, and that I have been miſtaken in the object of his affections.

I have not power to ſpeak to her.

No, no; I'm not the object.

Sir, the Colonel wiſhes to ſee you imme⯑diately.

What a releaſe from torture!

I ſhall wait on him.

Madam, your moſt obedient.

[55] Manet Charlotte.

So, I have as good as told a man I like him, who, it is plain, is in love with another woman: unhappy Charlotte!

Charlotte!

Sir!

Sir! How melancholy a monoſyllable comes from a woman's mouth; it ſounds as diſ⯑mal as a ſingle bell after a full peal. But, Char⯑lotte, what's the matter? I never ſaw you ſo thoughtful before: I hope it is not your marriage that makes you uneaſy.

It never gave me an uneaſy moment. I had made up my mind on the ſubject.

Well, well; let the matter reſt then: however, I muſt confeſs I ſhould like to ſee my girl well married and ſettled before I left the world.

I don't think I ſhall ever marry.

Never marry!

No.

Confound thoſe monoſyllables! Char⯑lotte, let me have no more of them; the laconic ſtyle does not become you: I wonder from whom you take it; for my part I'm fond of the figure of amplification in diſcourſe; and I'm ſure your mother deals in an eloquence copious at times, even to redundancy.

Sir, I have not ſpirits for converſation.

I am ſurpriſed at that, when you have every thing your own way: you won't marry this body, nor you won't marry t'other; and I, like [56] an eaſy, indulgent old ſoul, humour you in every thing, fond as I am of contradiction.

Hav'nt you all's one as held me up to ſale to the higheſt bidder?—I was firſt intended for Mr. Mandeville, next deſtined to Colonel Tal⯑bot's new-found heir.

His new-found bear you ſhou'd ſay; but Charlotte, Charlotte, how uncandid you are! when I propoſed the laſt match I had not ſeen the man.

Sir, you change your mind ſo often, and band me about in ſo extraordinary a manner, that I ſhall become a topic for public ridicule.

Well, and if I do change my mind often, isn't it for your good? As one project ſtarts up in my mind better than another, in order to take ad⯑vantage of that, I muſt naturally contradict myſelf. The Spaniſh proverb ſays, a wiſe man often changes his mind, a fool never.

According to that proverb you ſhould be a ſecond Solomon: who you intend for me next I cannot poſſibly gueſs; but as I never will marry without your conſent, I truſt it will not be deem⯑ed undutiful, if I always retain a negative to my⯑ſelf, in a matter which ſo nearly concerns my hap⯑pineſs as the choice of a huſband.

I fear, like all great projectors and poli⯑ticians, I reſine too much; I ſpin the wires that compoſe my nets ſo fine, that though they anſwer the purpoſe of deceiving the eye, when their ſtrength is tried, a touch breaks them.—What's to be done? ſhe actually ſets my authority at de⯑fiance; but this comes of rich uncles leaving fat legacies to their nieces; it converts a father into a cypher.

Sir Oliver, Sir Oliver, the whole world is condemning you.

So much the better; a quarter of the world never was right, but the whole, is always wrong; you have brought me this good news, I ſuppoſe, knowing I was out of ſpirits.

To contract for me, without my know⯑ledge, and with an utter ſtranger too! as if I had, not the common privilege of a thinking rational creature?

Ecod, I think you have too much of that privilege: why, you ungrateful minx, do you fly in my face for endeavouring to get a count for you.

A count! A ſtrange kind of count—the fellow made love to me.

Then indeed muſt he be a ſtrange kind of count.

I ſhall ſue for a ſeparate maintenance.

And I ſhall ſue for the little property my father left in his hands.

Damn it, ſince you have begun, come, fire away from both ſides, volley after volley; don't ſpare me, I'll make you raiſe the ſiege at laſt; contradiction's my element, as fire is the Sala⯑mander's. I can't have too much of it; my opi⯑nion is impregnable.

It's in vain to ſpeak to him.

Speak to him, child! now he's in all his glory.

Hobbs maintains that the whole world is in a ſtate of warfare, and I believe him.

I ſay, Sir Oliver, are you deaf?

But it is a wiſe law in nature.

Dear uncle, will you liſten to me?

Oppoſition calls forth the latent powers of the mind.

Was there ever any thing ſo provoking!

Your greateſt men have been form'd by difficulties.

Every moment is big with danger to my happineſs.

Methinks I now reſemble the memorable column of Engliſh infantry at Fontenoy, marching down between two forts, with all their batteries playing upon it: whiz, fly the ſmall ſhot from the left; and bang go the great guns from the right; but on we march, firm as a wedge; without confuſion, without diſorder, without diſmay; and quit the field of battle with honour.

My principal fear, is a quarrel between Count Pierpoint and Mr. Mandeville.

You had better ſpeak to his friend, Cap⯑tain Crevelt; for my part, I have no influence! with the Count.

Dear aunt, how can you talk thus? So fine a woman will never loſe her influence.

Pray, Harriet, have you ever read that elegant fellow St. Everemond's account of the lovely Ninon; She who retain'd her beauty and power of faſcination to the age of eighty?

I have never read St. Everemond, Madam.

Then you have read nothing: he was the intimate friend of Fontaine, Racine, and Cor⯑neille; all the great men of his time valued his friendſhip: but what moſt endears him to me was his eſteem for the lovely Ninon—I ſhall never forget one of her letters, in which ſhe mentions he firſt wearing ſpectacles; but, ſaid that charming woman, as I had always a grave look, ſpectacle become me.

I declare, aunt, I have always thought th [...] [59] ſame of you, when I have ſeen you with your ſpectacles on.

But you're miſtaken, Harriet, if you ſuppoſe I wear ſpectacles from any neceſſity I have for them—I wear them by way of prevention.

As I hope to live, here comes the Count; he'll teaze me to death if I ſtay—I never ſaw you look ſo well, aunt.

You may go, Harriet, and find Captain Crevelt—I'll once more try my influence with this Frenchman.

Well, Count; I hope you have chang'd your opinion ſince our laſt converſation, and that you're become a little more Angliciſed.

Eh bien! Madam, je ne puis pas com⯑prendre, I no underſtand.

Why, we have chang'd characters; you can't underſtand me now, and I cou'dn't under⯑ſtand you before: but, Count, I'd adviſe you to conſider you are in England; and tho' it may be the etiquette in France to treat a married lady with as much attention as a ſingle, it is in this country of jealous circumſpection, very dangerous: it is almoſt ſufficient to cauſe a ſeparation.

Ah, Madam! have a ſome pity on thoſe whom your charms enſlave, quand I'amour eſt dans le coeur; il fait l'eſprit comme lui même; dat is, ven love is in de heart, he make a dey underſtand blind as himſelf, by Gar.

The French are certainly the moſt agree⯑able people in the world; if they tranſgreſs, they make reparation with ſo good a grace, that it's delightful to be on good or bad terms with them.

I made von grand faux pas; but like good general, me vill profit by my loſs.

—Madam [60] Old⯑ſtock is vat you call von grand baſtion, or outwork: I will take a that firſt; & la petite cita⯑del, Mademoiſelle Harriet, follow of courſe, by Gar.

Well, Count, I forgive you; but it's on condition that you are more circumſpect in future.

If I cou'd lay my hand on Burn's Juſtice in the library, that wou'd ſet me right: but I think it's a queſtion for gentlemen of the common law.—Eh! what's all this?

Madam, permettez moi baiſer votte main; I muſt kiſs a your von pretty hand in ſign of recon⯑ciliation.

I was thinking of the common law; but here promiſes to ariſe a queſtion for gentlemen of the civil law.

Jealouſy, Count, is a tree of Engliſh growth.

It may be a tree of Engliſh growth; but it's a tree would never flouriſh, if a taſte for French gardening did not ſo often make the branches ſprout.

Mon Dieu! quelle grand diſproportion in your age and the Chevalier Oldſtock!

When a woman marries very young, my Lord, a dozen years difference is nothing in the age of a huſband.

A dozen years! Damme, if there's a dozen months between us.

That's a moſt beautiful brilliant, Count on your finger—I think I never ſaw ſo large a one the rich cluſter of its rays caſt a light actually ce⯑leſtial.

If that poor diamond cou'dſ peak now [61] perhaps we'd find it was not very celeſtially come by.

To reconcile me complete, permettez moi to make you von preſent.

Dear Count, I cannot think of accept⯑ing a ring of ſuch immenſe value—No, no, Count, I am not ſuch an infant as to wiſh to poſſeſs every thing that I admire.

No, to be ſure, you an't.—Why, Count, how is all this ?

Oh! heavens! Sir Oliver!

Yes, my Lady; does the great diſpro⯑portion of our years frighten you?

Upon my vord, Monſieur Oldſtock, this is not behave with your uſual politeſſe.

Why, what the devil, man! aren't you content with one of my chickens, but you muſt have my old hen into the bargain?

Old hen!

Yes, my Lady; when I had you firſt you were no pullet.

Now there will be no end to his ſuſpi⯑cions.

Ecod, I think this is putting ſuſpicion out of the queſtion,—Well, my Lady, what have you to ſay for yourſelf ? You aſk'd me if I wasn't deaf; now are you dumb?—Damn it, ſay ſome⯑thing, if it's only to contradict me.

Monſieur Oldſtock, je ſuis—I am your very good friend.

You are, Count; and, what's more, I find you're my wife's friend.

Sir Oliver, conſcious as I am of the pu⯑rity of my thoughts, I cou'd look down with con⯑tempt on every extravagance to which your jealous temper hurries you; but when I conſider how the faireſt reputations are every day injur'd from the [62] ſlighteſt foundations—if it ſhou'd creep into the public prints—

Then I'll give you a little comfort—no⯑body will believe it.

The cool malignity of his temper is even more provoking than his jealouſy—I can't bear to have been all my life reproach'd for nothing.

Count Pierpoint, no apologies: I am not at all angry with you, nor do I entertain any ſuſpicion of, my wife—Love of admiration is her ruling paſſion; and as long as ſhe lives, ſhe'll fancy herſelf an object of that admiration.

Vous ſavez trés bien my paſſion pour Mademoiſelle Harriet.

I know every thing—I now ſee your view, in all this attention to Lady Oldſtock: you imprudently made her your enemy, not knowing her character; but you have very wiſely rectified your miſtake.—You ſee, Count, I'm a keen old fellow; I haven't liv'd for nothing ſo many years in the world.

Mon Dieu! vous etes un Machiavel.

Come along, Count.—But before you go, how do you think your friend Colonel Talbot ſtands affected as to matrimony? Do you imagine, if a fine girl was thrown in his way, that he'd marry her?

Nothing more like, on my vord; il eſt un homme de gallantrie; ſans dout he has a de ſon, if dat be no objection.

Objection! he ſhou'd marry for that very reaſon, and get more ſons, if it was only to convince the world that he has mended his hand in the buſineſs.

SCENE continues at Mandeville's.

I AM half in love with Count Pierpoint for his noble behaviour—The moment matters were pro⯑perly explain'd to him, he withdrew his claim in⯑ſtantly—Well, I never more will hear the French ſpoken ill of; they carry the point of honour to a pitch of heroiſm—but, Charlotte, what is the mat⯑ter? Your ſpirits are intolerably depreſſed!

You only fancy ſo from the unuſual gaiety of your own.

I have a great mind to ſend Captain Cre⯑velt to you; you are juſt fit company for each other: two moping, melancholy fools.

From ſome converſation I have had with him, I take it that he is in love.

And I fancy I have a fair friend much in the ſame ſituation.

He leaves town to day.

Unleſs you iſſue your ſovereign commands to the contrary.

My ſovereign commands! How you trifle: what influence have I over him?

That influence which a beautiful woman will always have over a man of exquiſite ſenſibi⯑lity—Mandeville told me he was eternally talking of you.

Talking of me! Lord, I wonder what the man can have to ſay about me!

Oh! a thouſand handſome things, I dare [64] ſay: but if you wiſh to be ſatisfied as to the par⯑ticulars, you may have them from the gentleman's own mouth, for here he comes; ſo I'll leave you together.

Then you will be ſo ill natured?

Good natured, ſweet couſin.—

Eternally talking of me! Whence, then, aroſe his ſudden coldneſs and reſerve, when I but too plainly diſcovered my partiality for him? Yet I may have been miſtaken; a mind poſſeſſed of ſo much delicacy as his, might have deemed it crimi⯑nal to addreſs me on the ſcore of love, at a time h [...] thought I was intended for the ſon of his friend Colonel Talbot—it is, it muſt be ſo—the pulſes o [...] my heart quicken at the thought—but he's here.

Miſs Oldſtock, as I mean to quit tow this evening, and poſſibly may never ſee you again I am come to ſolicit the honour of a few minute converſation.

Never ſee me again! I hope you are no going back to India.

No, Madam, that is not my intention.

Oh! then I underſtand you; it is th [...] compound of every female excellence, of who you ſpoke to me in ſuch raptures, who is the cau [...] of your leaving us.

I own it, Madam.

But you talk'd of never ſeeing me again is your miſtreſs that jealous creature as to exa [...] ſuch a promiſe from you?

No, Madam; that is a puniſhment I v [...] ⯑luntarily inflict upon myſelf.

You do ſay the moſt gallant things, wi [...] the moſt ſombre countenance; your wit and yo [...] face, Captain Crevelt, are the diamond and [65] ſoil; the dark ſhade of the one, lends a more vivid glow to the other's ſparkling brilliancy:—what an alteration the preſence of your miſtreſs wou'd make in your looks; Cou'd you look thus in her pre⯑ſence?

In the preſent ſtate of my heart, I could hot look otherwiſe.

No! not if ſhe ſmil'd upon you?

A ſmile from her wou'd raiſe me from deſpair: but that, Madam—Confuſion! yonder I ſee Colonel Talbot; this is the ſecond time to day he has found me in earneſt converſation with her.

I didn't think it poſſible till now, Colonel Talbot cou'd put me out of temper.

Will he not ſuſpect that I am meanly ſtealing myſelf upon her affections, and attribute her diſlike of his ſon to me?—But he comes; I cannot meet his eye in the preſent ſtate of my feel⯑ings.—Adieu, dear Miſs Oldſtock!

But are we never to meet again?

It is a ſacrifice, Madam, that pierces, and widows my heart for ever; but honour and grati⯑tude demand it.

Wasn't that Captain Crevelt, Miſs Old⯑ſtock, that parted from you?

Yes, Sir; he has juſt taken his leave of me, and ſaid I ſhall never ſee him again.

There is a reſinement in Crevelt's temper, that to ſtrangers makes his conduct at times appear very unaccountable; but I fancy I have diſcovered the cauſe of this extraordinary reſolution.

And ſure, Sir, you can prevail upon him to alter it?

Then my lovely girl wiſhes he ſhould alter his reſolution?

Oh, Sir! is it poſſible to be acquainted with ſo noble, ſo accompliſh'd, ſo brave a youth, and not eſteem him? Never ſee me more!—

It is as I ſuſpected; and, indeed, as I wiſh; for who but Crevelt is worthy of ſuch a woman?—

I hope, Miſs Oldſtock, you are now per⯑fectly convinced, that I wou'd not purchaſe the greateſt earthly happineſs at the price of your peace of mind—highly as my pride, and natural affection wou'd be gratified to call you daughter, I truſt I can turn my eye with manly firmneſs from the bright, the flattering proſpect; and, reſign'd to the diſpenſations of a Power who never afflicts his creature but for wiſe and good purpoſes, point out a man in every reſpect but birth and fortune deſerving of you.

Birth and fortune, Colonel! deſpicable diſtinctions! when nature aſſerts her ſuperior claims to reverence, by ennobling the ſpirit, how low it lays the inſolence of anceſtry, and humbles the vanity of wealth.

Madam, your words penetrate my very ſoul; with an aching, joyleſs heart, I look back to thoſe imaginary ſcenes of happineſs, fancy had painted in meeting with a ſon; the only pledge of love from the firſt object of my affections, and whoſe image ſtill warms this deſolated boſom—Birth! when I ſurvey my own offspring, and be⯑hold poor Crevelt, I am aſham'd to think ſo empty a thing as family pride had ever any inſluence over me.

But you will prevail upon him to alter his reſolution?

On one condition, Madam.

What is that, Colonel?

That you will receive him as my adopted [67] ſon—Your father's objections I will remove, by making him your equal in fortune.

I don't know how to thank you, Colo⯑nel; but, perhaps, he's already gone.

Gone, without ſeeing me firſt, impoſſible!—But what ſays my ſweet girl to the propoſal I have made her?

You are ſo good, ſo diſintereſted, and ſo generous, that it is impoſſible not to acquieſce in any propoſal of your's: but yet I will not make you an abſolute promiſe; mind that, Colonel; till I find you have effectually accompliſhed my re⯑queſt, and induced Captain Crevelt to alter his reſolution.

Luckily, Sir Oliver has taken a very great liking to him; and told me that he wou'd inſiſt upon his paſſing a few days at his houſe, previous to viſiting his relations—Tho' Crevelt poſſeſſes the ſpirit of a lion, there is a gentleneſs and flexibi⯑lity in his nature, which cannot reſiſt ſolicitation from a friend—Oh, my heart, be ſtill! tho' I am denied happineſs in that quarter whence I fondly expected it, let me enjoy it as Heaven thinks pro⯑per to beſtow the boon, by exerting my beſt ef⯑forts to impart it to the truly deſerving.

J'eſpere, Monſieur Mandeville, you are perfectly ſatisfy—ſur mon honneur, had I know Mademoiſelle Harriet was engagé, I never wou'd pay l'addreſſe.

I believe it, Count; and hope you will forgive the warmth, I was at firſt: betrayed into.

Mon Dieu! il eſt l'everveſcence d'un grande ame no brave man ever reſign ſa maitreſſe avec ſang froid.

Now Mandeville, to completely remove [68] your fears in regard to Harriet, know, I have made your peace with her uncle—wou'd you believe it? he actually propoſed his daughter to me—however by the dint of argument, added to the influence of an old friendſhip, I at laſt brought him to reaſon.

Colonel, Colonel, is this ſtrict obſervance of treaty? the carriages are waiting for us at the door—were we not all to ſet off for my houſe imme⯑diately; did you not promiſe to paſs ten days with me when you had contradicted me into conſent at laſt?

Monſieur Oldſtock, your niece was very pretty to be ſure; mais, mon Dieu! votre fille be very pretty auſſi; me underſtand ſhe ville not marry young Monſieur Talbot, & mon ami the Colonel will not have her—ch bien, vat you ſay to me for von huſband.

With all my heart and ſoul, Count—I don't know a French gentleman of a long time I have taken ſuch a liking to—damn me! if you have not a fine roaſt-beef countenance.

I fancy, Count, that lady's affections are alſo engaged.

Je ſuis trés malheureux! all de Engliſh lady be engaged! but me be not ſurprized; for if de foreigner ſet ſo much value on de Engliſh lady, vat muſt their own countrymen who know them better, do?

Why, what the deuce, Colonel, is all this? You won't marry my daughter yourſelf; you won't ſuffer your ſon, whatever her inclina⯑tions may be, to marry her; and now you put the Count againſt her.

Will you leave the lady to her own choice?

The worſt of it is, I muſt do that—Count, a word in your ear—to her yourſelf—you're a dev'liſh ſtraight, well looking fellow; no appear⯑ance of frogs about you, except upon your coat—I ſhou'd like to ſee an union between France and England, if it were only becauſe it has been ſo long thought a contradiction in politics.

How unſubſtantial are all the proſpects of man, in whatever hope flatters him with happi⯑neſs—this unhappy boy diſtracts me!

Damn me! if I wou'dn't ſend him down into Wales or Yorkſhire—for about fifteen pounds a year, you may get him decently boarded and clad, and educated into the bargain.

I have been in ſearch of Mr. Talbot, Sir, ſince you ſpoke to me; and have juſt heard that he is gone to one Jacob Wilkins's, an innkeeper, near Smithfield.

I am expoſed, you ſee, already.

It's your own fault if you continue to be expoſed; come along, Colonel; yonder I ſee Cap⯑tain Crevelt putting the women into the carriages: We'll drive round by this "Wilkins's; and take this young mohawk by ſurpriſe; the moment you get poſſeſſion of him, baniſh him into Wales.

I will myſelf go in perſon to Wilkins's; and from his own lips learn every particular re⯑ſpecting this unhappy youth, from the hour I left him in his care; and as you propoſe going home that way, Sir Oliver, I will treſpaſs ſo far upon your patience as to requeſt you will wait for me, whilſt I make this inquiry.

Dear Sir, don't make yourſelf ſo un⯑happy.

What is there wealth can purchaſe I can⯑not poſſeſs? my feelings are at once a ſatire, and a leſſon to avarice.

SCENE, a Room at Jacob Wilkins's.

I'm ſure I ſhall never forget the firſt time I was in this room; where you ſee Mr. Wil⯑kins has his Honor the Colonel's picture hung up—dear heart, what a handſome man he is! it's a great pity he does not marry.

He's very much altered—conſider, it's many years ſince that picture was painted; his face is parched to the complexion of an old drum head, and his hair is perfectly ſilver.

What effect ſilver hair may have upon your great ladies I will not pretend to ſay; but this I'll ſwear to; bait your hook properly with gold, and a poor girl is a trout you may take with a ſingle hair of any colour. If it wasn't for his money, do you think I'd ever have married old Jacob Wilkins?

Why no, I hardly think you wou'd; but why, my dear creature, has his name eſcaped your lips? ſhou'd he poſſeſs ſuch a treaſure! the man worthy of you ſhould always meet you with the ardour of a lover, and dart as I do with tranſport into your arms.

Oh! madam! madam! my matter is come home, and is raving like mad at your leaving the bar, and drinking tea up ſtairs.

He doesn't know I have any body with me?

Lord! ma'am, to be ſure he doesn't; I told him you were not well, and that you found the bar too cold for you.

You're an excellent girl.

How the devil will you get me out?

I hear his cough at the foot of the ſtairs—dear Madam he's coming up.

'S'death I'll run and ſhut myſelf up in hat little room yonder.

By no means! that's our own bed chamber; his bureau is in it; and as he pays his brewer to day, perhaps it's there he's going now or money.

I have it Madam; I'll let down this win⯑dow curtain, and the gentleman may get behind it; if my maſter aſks why it is down, you may ſay you were ſo ill, the light was too much for you.

Such a ſervant is worth her weight in gold.

Here, Madam; tie this handkerchief about your head; appear very bad indeed—there, Ma⯑dam, let him come now when he pleaſes, we are ready for him.

So, Mr. Amber; you have a curioſity to ſee the upper part of my houſe; you can't think how pleaſant it is; my wife can tell you what a proſpect there is on my upper ſtory.

Poor Mrs. Wilkins is quite muffled up; he's very bad poor woman; I'm ſorry we diſturbed her.

Why, Fanny, my love, what's the mat⯑er? you were very well when I went out.

I have been ſeized all of a ſudden, with ſuch a terrible pain in one ſide of my face I can hardly get my words out.

I am ſorry to hear this, Fanny—but what wiſeacre has let this, curtain down? I can't bear to ſhut out the light of a fine day.

Has the brute a mind to be the death of me?

Will it do you any good to keep me in the dark?

To be ſure it will when I can't bear the light.

Friend Wilkins, friend Wilkins, the light is too much for her.

You're a conſiderate man, Mr, Amber, and I dare ſay make an excellent huſband.

Well, well, then let the curtain remain down—come, Fanny, give your old Jacob a kiſs.

I'm too fond of you, Jacob, and you take advantage of that.

No, but I don't—kiſs me again, you fond fool, it will do you good.

Ah! you're a happy couple; but you take the right method to be ſo, by giving way to one another.

But now we are up ſtairs, friend Amber ſit down, and I'll go bring ſome money out of the next room and pay you.

I beg of you, Jacob, to take him down ſtairs and pay him; even your talking ſets my head diſtracted.

My dear, I ſhan't be two minutes ſettling with him; it will affront him if you turn him out of the room; you ſhall have the place to yourſel [...] immediately.

Madam, you're undone; if you don't come down ſtairs immediately; Ned, the new waiter, ſaw Mr. Johnſon, and He as good as told me he'd acquaint my maſter.

What ſhall I do? I'm afraid to leave the room.

You need'nt ſtop a minute; it's only ſqueezing Ned's hand, and ſlipping a ſly half guinea into it, and all will be right.

Oh! Betty, I wiſh he was well out of the houſe—you'll excuſe me, Mr. Amber, a little; I'm wanted down ſtairs.

Don't notice me, child, buſineſs muſt be minded; but let me ſee; ſuppoſe I ſign my receipt and have it ready for him.

Here is the money, my old boy; have you got your receipt ready?

I was going to ſign it; but my eyes are ſo dim, I can't ſee with that curtain down.

As my wiſe's not here to complain of the light, I'll draw it up for you.

That will do, I have light enough now.

And I have too much—Oh! the Jezabel.

Ruined!

My dear Mrs. Wilkins I beg ten thouſand pardons for letting ſo much light into the room, but I declare I cou'd not ſee to write my receipt.

Well, Mr. Johnſon! what brought you here; what have you to ſay for yourſelf; are you come to rob my houſe?

Oh! ho! I fear the dimneſs of my eyes have made others too clear ſighte—but, friend Wilkins, don't be too haſty in judging.

'S'death and fire, man, ſhan't I believe my own eyes?

Not always.

You're dev'liſh conſiderate!

But we are all apt to be ſuſpicious at times—I'll wiſh you a good evening—there is my re⯑ceipt: the fondeſt couples will ſpar now and then—but I never like to meddle in family quarrels.

Go, Madam; pack up your alls; and leave my houſe immediately; if you are in want of a morſel of bread, it wou'd give me pleaſure to refuſe it to you. As for you, Sir, I'll take care your buſineſs ſhall be done with Colonel Talbot—I'll ſee you both beggars, and that will be ſome ſa⯑tisfaction to me.

Colonel Talbot is coming up ſtairs, Sir, to ſpeak to you.

Confuſion! I'm undone!

Johnſon, here!

Yes, Sir, Johnſon; your worthy gentle⯑man is here on a viſit to that wretch my wife.

Wretch, Mr. Wilkins!

Yes, Madam, an ungrateful wretch.

I'm ſorry, Johnſon—for this; I was given to underſtand you were come in ſearch of my ſon.

Wretch! I'll diſcover all, if I'm ruined for ever.

He's not your ſon, Sir—

Devil! Devil! what is ſhe going to ſay?

Not my ſon! ſpeak again, woman.

But dear Colonel, ſure you won't believe what this wicked woman will ſay?

Away, villain, and let me hear her—alarmed nature ſtarts up in my heart, and opens a thouſand ears to liſten to her.

He loſt your ſon, Sir, when he was a boy of twelve years old; and you may be ſure. Sir, it wasn't the kindeſt uſage made the child leave him; the booby he palmed upon you is his own.

Unprincipled, inhuman villain! let me hear the whole truth from your own lips, or by every power that's ſacred and divine, this moment is your laſt.

Dear Sir, put up your ſword, and I'll tell you every thing—What ſhe ſays is partly true; your ſon ſtrayed from me when he was about twelve years old; but had he been my own, I cou'dn't have uſed him better: as a proof of it, his mother, in her laſt illneſs, came, as ſhe often did, privately to ſee him, and was ſo well pleaſed with my wife's and my treatment of her ſon, that ſhe gave me a fifty-pound Bank note—I ſhall never forget the day; it was the laſt time I ever ſaw her: ſhe hung a ſmall picture of herſelf, ſet in gold, about the child's neck, and wept bitterly over him.

Can you produce that picture?

Your ſon took it with him; he was ſo fond of it, I cou'd never keep it out of his hands but by locking it up; which I ſometimes did, as [76] the ſevereſt of all puniſhments I cou'd inflict upon him.

I muſt have better proof this tale is true, before I let you eſcape that juſtice I fear is due to your wickedneſs.—Johnſon, take him from my ſight, and let him be ſecur'd; I cannot bear to look at him.— Tell the company waiting for me in car⯑riages at the door, to come in; for I am ſo agi⯑tated, and anxious for more particulars, I cannot quit this deteſted ſpot.

They are here, Sir.

Dear Sir, what is the matter? Obſerving a confuſion in the houſe immediately after you went in, we were alarmed for your ſafety.

Oh, Crevelt! I am the unhappieſt of fa⯑thers; that creature whom you all ſuppoſe my ſon, is not ſo.

Good fortune be prais'd!

He's ſon to the fellow who keeps this houſe—He ſays, my poor child ſtray'd from him when a boy; but this tale is ſo improbable, that I rather fear he has fall'n a victim to this fellow's villany and avarice.

Dear Sir, compoſe yourſelf, and hope hu⯑man nature cannot be ſo deprav'd; it wrings my heart to ſee you in this diſtreſs—But who is this villain?

His name is Wilkins.—When I committed my child to his care, he lived at Henly: he pre⯑tends he loſt him at twelve years old; and, oh! agony to think! if he, indeed, be living, he is at this moment a wandering outcaſt and a beggar.

Merciful heaven! What do I hear? Can [77] it be poſſible! Shall I, to my lov'd and honour'd patron, find a fond and living father? Sir, did that man loſe a ſon of yours at twelve years of age?

Yes, Crevelt; I have no ſon but you now.

I am your ſon, Sir—your happy ſon! that ſon you loſt.

You! You, Crevelt!

Yes, Sir, the veteran, whoſe name I bear, took me with him at the age you mention from Henly; where I lived with the man you have juſt named, whom I always thought my father; it was the pride of poor Crevelt's heart to have me believed his ſon: I bore his name, and publicly acknowledged him as my father; for you, Sir, could not have lov'd me better; his dying requeſt to me was, ſtill to retain the name of Crevelt, and never forget the man who made me a ſoldier.

My ſon! my ſon! The hand of Providence has ſurely directed every circumſtance of your life; you were brought to me a ſtranger and a child; I became your parent by reſiſtleſs inſtinct; in battle once I owed my life to you, and now a ſecond time you ſave it.

O! Harriet. There is a chord of delight in my heart never touch'd before: and ſure, he who made that heart, now moves its ſprings to ecſtaſy by the finger of an angel.

He talk'd of your taking with you a pic⯑ture of your mother—had you ever any ſuch thing?

I have it ſtill, Sir, and ever wore it next my heart.

You ſee the frame is ſhattered;—it was by a muſ⯑quet ball the day every body thought I was kill'd.

It is indeed your mother; and ſee here thoſe ſpecks under the eye; are they my child's blood, or the tears of a fond parent?

You muſt not come in; I have already explained every thing ſuffi⯑ciently.

I tell you I will come in: zounds! will nobody father me?

Young man you have been deceived; you are Wilkins's ſon, not mine.

Pho, pho! Father, do you think I know no better?

If you don't come out this moment, and no longer diſturb my maſter, I'll take you by the ſhoulder.

Why here's a fellow for you—forgets he is talking to a captain!

That is a rank you are ſo utterly unfit for, that it would only expoſe you to unhappineſs and ridicule; therefore your commiſſion ſhall be ſold; and for being one day my ſon, the purchaſe money ſhall be appropriated to ſetting you up in buſineſs.

Well, what keeps you now?

You are in a devil of a hurry, Mr. John⯑ſon: I find I muſt put up with old Jacob again; but let me aſk you one queſtion, an't I to be en⯑titled to half-pay for my ſervices.

You ſhall have full pay if you do'nt go about your buſineſs.

Well, if I can't be a half-pay captain I'll be a no-pay captain—for once a captain and al⯑ways a captain.

Captain Crevelt—I beg your pardon, cap⯑tain Talbot, give me your hand; you want nothing now but a wife, and if my daughter Charlotte—

Eh bien! Monſieur Chevalier, you have forgot?

Why, no, Count, I have not forgot; but you muſt know, whatever my reſpect for you may [79] be, there is not that man living whoſe alliance I ſo much deſire as colonel Talbot's; beſides, I under⯑ſtand there is another branch of the family of my mind.

Chevalier, I love and I reſpect the Eng⯑liſh, and by gar me vil have a wife among you.

It is not in words to expreſs my plea⯑ſure—to make a boſom friend, and find a near relation, in leſs time than others form a common acquaintance, overflows my heart with tranſport.

I could wiſh alſo to ſhew this affecting diſcovery touches me, if I was not apprehenſive, Sir Oliver, of your unfortunate ſuſpicious temper.

Captain Talbot, be ſo good as to ſtep this way—Do give my wife a kiſs; I know, my dear, your lips itch for it; and, with all her faults, believe me, ſhe has a heart that beats in uniſon to the feelings of all preſent, and a tear for miſery and friendſhip.

Miſs Oldſtock, it is your father's wiſh and mine to unite our families—now that I have a ſon I can propoſe to you, there is only your ac⯑ceptance of him neceſſary to make me happy.

Why, Sir, if the gentleman has but courage to ſpeak for himſelf—

As I don't expect the pleaſure of contra⯑diction from either party on this occaſion, I'll join their hands,

without waiting for an anſwer—there—Colonel, you are now one of my family.

That aſſurance, Sir Oliver, ſeals, and completes my happineſs—you, Mandeville, ſhall ſhare a portion of my fortune as a ſon, and may happineſs ſtill wait on you and your lovely Har⯑riot—and now

if this court-martial, to whom we appeal, acquit us with honour, I ſhall bleſs the hour my boy ſaid, "He would be a Soldier."