SCENE I.

BUT, my good friend Testy, do lower the pitch of your voice a little; for to speak so very loud is really not well-bred.

I'll speak as loud as I like, and say what I like. Damn your fine breeding!—an ounce of honesty is worth an hundred weight of it.

There now—ounce and hundred weight! Can't you contrive to think, and talk a little like a Man of Fashion? When you quitted busi⯑ness, you shou'd have dispos'd of your vulga⯑rity with your stock in trade. Copy me. Do you find any thing vulgar about me?

Psha! you and I liv'd too long together to think of cajoling each other: you are as vulgar as I am—I wish you were half as honest.

My good friend, if we are not to attempt cajoling each other, the less you say about your honesty the better.

Why, what have you to say against my ho⯑nesty?

Nothing, I am too well bred: beside, I was your partner in trade for twenty-five years.—I reap'd half the profits of your ingenuity, and had you been honester, I might be poorer. But, my dear friend, let us settle our business a little quietly, if you will be so kind. Your son, you say, is come to town:—good. You insist he may be introduc'd to our ward, Miss Hartley:—he shall.

That's fair.

I thought you'd say so; because 'tis very un⯑fair to my own son, who being absent from England, ought not to have a rival introduc'd to the Lady I wish to be his wife. But remem⯑ber, as she cannot marry without our joint con⯑sent, we must agree, that which ever she pre⯑fers shall have our mutual approbation.

Why, yes.

Ah! mine is the boy that will win her! Edu⯑cated with every advantage; now receiving the last polish, the finishing stroke to his accom⯑plishments, in a Tour through Europe!—Oh! he is a—

Yes, he is a pretty boy. That youth will put foreign ingenuity to the test. If they can send him away more dissipated than they find him, I will give them credit for one miracle.

Leave your growling, good Mr. Bear, and look after your own unlick'd cub. His coun⯑try breeding will render him vastly pleasing to a young lady!

He is a model of perfection. Innocent him⯑self, he will never suspect that evil exists, that may make him liable to imposition: but I have adopted a remedy in my choice of a profession for him.

As how, pray?

To render him in some degree a match for the roguery of the world, I shall make him a Lawyer.

And I dare say, his Yorkshire simplicity will qualify him admirably for the profession!

Well, Flourish, the only thing we were ever in one mind about, was parting, and I conclude you have no objection to it now.

None in the least.

I shall send my son, and mind, fair play's the word.

Certainly

Let me see you out.

Oh! damn your civility! Stay where you are.

Oh! you pretty behaved, accom⯑plished creature! Is it not strange, that in so many years acquaintance, the polish of my manners shold not have induced him to rub off his vulgar rust!

Captain O'Neill, Sir.

Shew the Captain in.

I rejoice to see you, Captain O'Niell. You are welcome to town.

Sir Simon Flourish, your most obedient.—Permit me to enquire after her Ladyship, and your lovely ward, Miss Hartley.

Both in fine health and spirits; and they will very much regret not being at home to receive you.

Proud as I am always to pay them my pro⯑found respects, at this moment my business lies entirely with you, Sir Simon.

Oh Lord! I hope he don't want to borrow money of me

Your commands, if you please, Captain.

An affair of honour compels me to be trou⯑blesome to you.

An affair of honour compels him to be trou⯑blesome to me! Oh, that is worse than borrow⯑ing money.

My wounded reputation must be heal'd.

Oh Lord! Oh Lord! How have I offended him?

Slander can only be washed out with blood.

Oh! my precious blood! Oh dear! Oh dear! I suppose I have said some ill natur'd thing of him behind his back, for I am sure I never durst affront him to his face.

A little after your leaving Bath—

A little after my leaving Bath!

Oh yes, some damn'd good-natur'd friend blabb'd when my back was turned

Why really, Captain, I don't recollect what can have given you offence at Bath.

That I readily believe; for it would be hard to expect you to recollect what you never heard.

Eh!

I say, Sir Simon, you cannot be expected to know the insult offer'd me, by a man who did not arrive till you were gone.

Oh, the man that insulted you did not arrive till I was gone! Lord, what a load is off my [10] mind!

And so Captain, a villain had the audacity to insult you.

I was insulted, Sir Simon.

You'll not let him live. You'll tear him to atoms—I know you will—Blood and thunder! if it were my case—

Be cool, Sir Simon—you are too desperate.

I am—I know it is my fault; but fire and fury!—Can I assist you in this business?

That is the very cause of my visit to you—Will you honour me so far as to deliver a bit of a message for me?

What, carry a challenge for you?

Exactly.

What, and be your Second?

If I may take the liberty to ask such a favour?

My dear Captain, give me your hand. I am the happiest man alive to serve a friend. I'll see you through this affair; I'll take care of you. Where am I to go? What am I to do first?

Why, first of all, there is a little preparatory business. Before I can receive satisfaction for the injury done me, I must put it in the power of my adversary to give it me.

As how, pray?

You must know, the young man is unluckily in prison for debt: and as he has friends who are able to release him, I thought it wou'd be taking a liberty to rob them of a pleasure they have the best right to;—but they scorn to be outdone in politeness, and, I believe, wou'd let him remain till doomsday, before they would dispute the point with me.

And so you mean to pay his debts on purpose to fight him?

I do, and I wish I had a better motive; for though injur'd honour demands atonement, I wou'd rather do one little bit of a kindness than revenge a thousand injuries.

Will it cost you much?

More than is quite convenient, and therefore I must trespass on your goodness in a second instance.

Eh! what, how?

I shall be under the necessity of troubling you for three hundred pounds.

Lord! it is a vast deal of money: I think you had better not fight him till there is an Act of Insolvency. Or, could'nt you get a snug little room in the Prison, and fight him at his own home; that would be more genteel and accommodating. No, no—plague take it, that won't do; for if you kill him, they will keep [12] us there. I should like to see you fight amaz⯑ingly, but then to pay three hundred pounds for it, it is very dear: I only paid a guinea to see Johnson and Big Ben, and their way of fighting is quite as fashionable now-a days!

Understand me, Sir Simon. I don't intend to be under an obligation to you or any man. I have brought my Commission as security for the sum.

Security! my dear friend, do you think I want security? That is like a Trader; there is no security with People of Fashion. Yet I may as well take it by way of memorandum.

Well, tell me who he is, and where he is to be found. I'll carry him the money and the challenge.

Oh! by no means. He must not know the money comes from me. He may feel it un⯑pleasant to be under an obligation to a man he has wrong'd; and to know that I had injur'd his feelings, would not be the way to satisfy mine.

You are a very strange man! There is the money, manage it your own way.

I thank you, and as soon as he has got the miseries of a prison a little out of his mind, you shall wait on him.

As soon as you please. The sooner the bet⯑ter.

You are too impetuous, you fiery little fellow! We must not be in a hurry, for misfortune is apt to lower a man's spirit, and I scorn to meet a foe in a state of degradation.

Well, you must act as you chuse, only fight soon, for I shall think of nothing else. I know I am a desperate dog. When I was at school, they us'd to call me the little Game-Cock. You are to do as you like, but were it my own affair, I should stand close, muzzle to muzzle, toe to toe.—Damme, I'd fight him in a saw-pit. I wonder I have not fought yet. I never was even ask'd to be a Second till now; but, I be⯑lieve, I know pretty well from the newspapers what a Second has to do:—To load the pistols, measure the ground, take care they stand near enough, and let them fire as long as they like. I believe that is all. Oh no! If the parties are wounded, he is to leave them on the ground, to the mercy of chance, and take care of himself.

I am not to dictate your conduct, Sir Simon; only it might be well if every Second would consider that his office is that of a Friend to ad⯑just an affair of Honour▪ not of a Sheriff to wit⯑ness an execution. Good morning, Sir Simon.

What a lucky dog I am! To be concerned in a Duel was the only thing wanting to compleat me as a Man of Fashion. I shall state the case next day in the newspapers, with my name at full length. Then a glorious con⯑fusion always takes place! People just remem⯑ber the names, but forget whether they were [14] Principals or Seconds! Oh! my character will be up! I shall be a Man of Fashion indeed!

My dear, Sir Simon! how glad I am you're at home! If I am ever so little a while away from you, my darling, it appears a long, tedious age. How does my lovy do? Do look tender! 'tis so becoming to you; and beside, if you don't, you know you break my heart.

Now really, Lady Flourish, you are too fond before company, indeed you are. 'Tis your only fault, my dear. But you ought to consider, that to be fond of a husband at all, is very un⯑fashionable; and therefore, when a wife feels that amiable weakness, she ought never to ex⯑pose it before people.

But I can't help exposing it. Miss Hartly knows I have been talking of nothing else but my dearest the whole time I have been out: all the while I was buying my china, and my gold muslins, and my lace, I was longing to be at home with my darling.

Lord, my dear: I wish you had indulg'd your longing, and then you wou'd n't have laid out so much money. And how is my dear Miss Hartley? You don't seem in spirits.

Indeed I am not: but the cause of my want of spirits must remain a secret to you.

They, sir, who, like me, never knew misfortune, are apt to trifle with their felicity.

Old Testy's stupid bumpkin of a son is to be introduced to you this morning: but there is no fear of his rivalling my boy Jack. How I long to see the rogue again! Where is he now, I wonder? May be, eating macaroni with the Grand Duke, or having the honour of kissing the toe of his Holinesss the Pope. Oh! what high fellows my son is living with!

Where ever he is, my dearest, he can meet nobody so fine a gentleman as his papa.

Oh! you are too partial, Lady Flourish—a great deal, a great deal too partial. I have news for you—Captain O'Neill has been here.

Captain O'Neill in town?

I shou'd like to tell them of his engaging me to be his Second.

You know the Captain is a man of great bravery, and knowing me to be of the same turn—hum! hum we have [16] had a good deal of conversation on the subject of Duelling

I hope the Captain is not going to fight a Duel▪

Oh dear, no.

I am glad to hear you say so. I was quite agitated at the thought of any friend of your's being engag'd in so horrid a business.

I must not blab, I find. She'd lay an inform⯑ation, and destroy my renown. Were I a Principal instead of a Second, I shou'd be vastly oblig'd to her.

I wonder how many Duels Jack has fought abroad—that is, fought, or been Second in? 'Tis just the same thing. The credit is the same, and so is the danger pretty nearly; for the Principals are often so cursedly frighten'd, that it is an even chance whether they hit their antagonist, or their own Second.

Though I abhor the practice, yet when men deem such trials necessary, I hope they conduct themselves with proper courage.

That is mighty well of you. You don't know what it is to receive a man's fire, or you wou'd not talk so lightly about it.

Young Mr. Testy, Sir.

Very well.

Come, my dear, rest yourself a little before you encounter the fatigue of this Bumpkin's conversation.

Ay, do; I'll talk to him first.

Well, Tom, I'm glad to see you: you are welcome to London. Oh! what a Quiz it is!

Thank you, thank you, Sir Simon. Lord! Lord! why you be quite another guise kind of a man than what you us'd to be! I remember, as thof it was but yesterday, when father and you us'd to weigh I and Jack Flourish in the great warehouse scales, and I always were hea⯑viest.

Yes, and you'll continue heaviest as long as you live▪ But, Tom, don't talk about weights and scales, 'tis so vulgar. Damn Trade, and all that belongs to it. I am a Gentleman and a Knight now.

Yes, Sir Simon▪ so they tell me; but for all that▪ don't damn Trade; for I don't think as how you'd a' been a Gentleman and a Knight, if the money you got by the warehouse had not given you a bit of a lift.

Oh the vulgar young dog!

Well, Sir Simon, father sent me a courting, and so, you see, I am come; so no more words, let's set about it.

Oh yes, with all my heart. I'll see if Miss Hartley is ready to receive you. What a young Savage! I dare say they wou'd buy him at Exe⯑ter 'Change.

Well, faint heart never won fair lady. Dang it, I'll shew her a Yorkshire boy is not afraid of a pretty girl.

SCENE II.

And now give me a kiss, you little rogue you.

Lord! Sir Simon, how can you be so rude!

Now, Kitty, mind you say all the ill-natur'd things you can to your young Mistress of this Country Blockhead. Always praise my son Jack to her, and he'll bring you over trinkets enough for you to set up a raffle-shop at Mar⯑gate. Here the Booby comes. Now you may go and fetch Miss Hartley.

There, Mr. Testy, good bye: I leave you to your love-making. What a Lout it is!

So this be young Madam that father wants me to marry. Egad she is a tight lass enow!—Well, Miss, and so father says as how he wishes I'd marry you; and so, d'ye see, if you've no mighty objection, we may even be ax'd in church together.

What does the Booby mean! Lord, he takes me for my Mistress! Not such a Booby as I thought him.

Why, you don't answer, Miss. Speak out—don't be shame-fac'd. So, as I was saying, I have no disliking to you, nor liking for any body else, and if you have no particular dislik⯑ing to me more than to other people, I dare say we shall be as happy a couple as goes.

Gemini, what a flutter I am in! If I can but make him believe I am my Mistress, my fortune is made. I must try to behave like a Lady; but if I am modest, like my Mistress, I shall never pass upon him. No, no, I must be free and dashing, as fine Ladies are in general.

Why, young man, I have been considering what you have been saying; and, as I don't think you quite so great a brute as I expected you to be, I don't much care if I take you upon trial.

Take me upon trial!—What, does she make a horse of me? But dang it, free and easy—I like her the better. But mayhap, Miss, if I am not so great a brute now, I may be a greater when I am married. Ah! what do you say to that, my tight Filly?

I'll do all I can to make you fashionable.

Thank you, thank you. I'll do as much for you. Dang it, I didn't think I should have been so much at home with a fine Lady.

What is your name, young man?

Tom Testy.

Well, Tom.

Tom! How familiar and kind!

I'll have you Tom. 'Tis a bargain.

Is it? There's my hand, and my lips too, I like you. How little we know in Yorkshire about London folk. They told me, you fine Ladies were squeamish and shy, and all that nonsense.

No, Tom. That is quite gone by in high life.

So much the better. Well, but Miss, and when shall we be married? Hey! let it be soon.

When you like, 'tis all one to me. Only, Tom, don't mention it, let us be snug. We'll steal a march; marry first, and tell the old ones after.

So we will: that will be good ſun.

Now mind, when you go home to your father, you don't tell him what we have settled.

No, not I; but I don't live at father's; I've got a place of my own, do as I like, live in the Temple. I am to be a Counsellor, father says, and a plaguy good one I shall make; for it is all done by eating, and I have a fine appetite, if the London air don't spoil it. Lord, what a happy life we shall lead!

SCENE III.

Was ever man more miserably circum⯑stanced? Bred up as heir to a splendid fortune, [23] and all my hopes destroy'd, by the caprice of a splenetic old uncle. Shut up here, in the King's Bench, for debt; and, not only de⯑priv'd of the happiness of beholding the wo⯑man I adore, but asham'd to acquaint her with the wretchedness of my situation.

Mr. Flourish, Sir, has sent you the book of travels he borrow'd; and says he will call on you presently.

That good humour'd, whimsical fellow, Flourish, is always welcome to me.

It is queer enough that his father, Sir Simon [24] Flourish, should be humm'd so as to think he is going the Tour of Europe, when, all the while, he never got a step farther than St. George's Fields.

Here he comes.

Ah! my boy, Harcourt, how are you?

Why Jack, what makes you booted?

A man ought to be booted, when he's on a journey. An't I going the Tour of Europe?

Oh! I beg your pardon. I had forgot; but you don't seem furnish'd with a very elegant riding▪dress—boots and black are not very cor⯑rect—hey!

The customs of countries differ; but to tell you the truth, so much travelling has made vast havock among my leather, and as for my black small clothes, I wear them as mourning for the demise of my last colour'd pair.

But my dear Jack, what can be the joke of your staying in this sad place?

All the joke was in getting here. Staying is not quite so comical.

But, Jack, I must know what brought you here?

Poll.

Poll!—What Poll?

Not know Poll?—Where the devil have you liv'd?—Not know Poll?—Why Poll is the rage—In Hyde Park every morning—rides the best horse—drives the best curricle—gives the best dinners—damme, the first Dutchess in the land envies Poll!

I beg Poll's pardon for not knowing her.

So you ought, for Poll's familiar and kind, she'd have no objection to knowing you. But the thing is, father said I shou'd be a Man of Fashion, and so I am, an't I?—Damme, you still look at my legs—well, black-legs don't make me a bit less a Man of Fashion.

Oh! by no means.

Well.—But about Poll—As I was to be a Man of Fashion, who so proper to make me one as Poll? Poll has made and unmade half the fine men of the day. I kept Poll when I was at school; Poll stuck to me at college; and when father fix'd I should travel, and see the world, who so fit to shew it me as Poll?

Well, why did n't Poll shew it you?

She did, she shew'd me here.

But why not take her abroad with you?

She wou'd not go. Poll said she wou'd do any thing but cross the water with me. And I could not find in my heart to go abroad with⯑out her. So I touch'd father's cash, and resolv'd to finish my education in my own country.

Very patriotic, truly!

Well, father went to Bath—I staid in town—the money flew—Poll knew how to dash it. When all was gone, it was natural enough to come here, you know.

But how were you able to leave Poll?

She did not trouble me to think about that: when the money was gone, Poll left me.

So Poll wou'd not follow your fortunes to the King's Bench!—How unkind!

So I told her—"Ah, Poll!" said I, "'tis damn'd ill-natur'd to leave me."

And what did she say?

She only laugh'd and said,—"She told me at first, she'd do any thing but cross the water with me."

You must throw yourself on your father's mercy at last, and the sooner you do it the better.

For me?

No, Sir,—for Mr. Harcourt.

Ah! nobody writes to me.

"I am led to believe the enclos'd notes will liberate you. They are sent for that purpose."—Astonishing!—No name.—Does any body wait?

No, Sir.

This must be from my dear girl.

Ah! you are a happy fellow! Your dear girl writes to you. Though Poll would not cross the water, she might send me a letter now and then. It is damn'd unkind.—But no, no, poor girl, I shou'dn't scold her for what she can't help. I ought to remember, Poll can't write.

This must be my Harriot's generosity. Charming girl! How could she discover my si⯑tuation?—But what will not Love discover?—

So, you're going to leave me. 'Tis devillsh hard to be cut by every body.

Depend on it, my dear fellow, I will be with you soon.

Ah! do come and see me. Don't be like Poll, afraid of crossing the water.

No, Jack—depend upon it. Adieu!—Now to my charming girl.—

Ah! your's is a charming girl, indeed, to send you money.—If Poll had a million, I dare say she wou'dn't think of sending me a shilling, and yet she us'd to say she lov'd me vastly.

SCENE I.

How distressing is my Harcourt's absence! and the mysterious concealment of his residence encreases my anxiety! Can he think so meanly of me, as to suppose his loss of fortune will lesson my affection?

My life!

Oh Charles!

My angel, what a tedious absence!

If my Charles thought it so, why not sooner fly to his adoring Harriot?

I follow'd you to Bath, but, unluckily you had left it the day before I arriv'd; and what then happen'd I could not prevail on myself to disclose to you: I was resolv'd to bear my mis⯑fortunes alone; but your kindness has dispell'd them, and now I fly with gratitude to thank my deliverer.

Your deliverer!

Yes, my Harriot! attempt not to conceal your generous conduct. But for you, a prison wou'd have been my habitation for life.

A prison, Charles! Has such been your dis⯑tress, and yet conceal it from me?

Can it be possible that I am not indebted to you for my deliverance?

By concealing from me your situation, you prevented me from being your deliverer. Oh, Charles! that was a false pride, which avoided the assistance of her who loves you. True af⯑fection shou'd seek occasions for receiving kind⯑ness, conscious it bestows most delight when it affords the power of obliging.

Pardon me, Harriot▪ Poverty will be proud. But what am I to think? See here, my love, this cover enclosed notes sufficient to discharge my debts.

Whoever has had the pleasure of releasing you, claims my gratitude, yet excites my envy.

Generous girl! To avoid suspicion, I had better leave you now, my Harriot.

SCENE II.

Kitty, did you see Old Testy's Yorkshire prodigy when he was here?

Yes, my Lady.

I conclude he is a shocking Saracen.

Yes, my Lady.

I suppose Miss Hartley votes him a sad bore.

Lord, your Ladyship! I could not think of Miss Hartley being troubled with such a brute of a fellow, especially, my Lady, as his Honour Sir Simon designs Miss for his own son; so, an't please you, my Lady, I sent him away with a flea in his ear.

Captain O'Niel, I am prodigiously happy to see you. Kitty, you need not wait.

I protest and vow, that meeting your Lady⯑ship gives me the most superlative pleasure.

Why then, I protest and vow the pleasure is mutual.

Your Ladyship does me a great deal of ho⯑nour. I will beg of her Ladyship to say a kind word for me to Miss Hartley, for I want very much to be thought well of by that lovely girl.

I am glad to find your Ladyship alone.

Glad to find me alone, Captain?

Prodigiously so, my Lady. I have a favour to beg of your Ladyship.

A favour of me! I hope, Captain, you are not going to ask any thing improper?

I hope your Ladyship will not think it so.

Indeed but I shall, if I ought to think it so; for tho' you are a very pretty man, and very much of a gentleman, and dance delightfully, and have a profusion of elegant accomplish⯑ments,—and—

Oh! Madam, Madam, you confuse me.

Do I?—Well, I protest 'tis very becoming to you. Confusion seems quite natural to you; but I will have compassion on your modesty.

It is very generous in your Ladyship to com⯑passionate a national infirmity. Bashfulness▪ and the brogue always go together. [...]t let me intreat you to take an interest in my happiness▪

I take an interest in your happiness! You'll absolutely make me faint.

What shou'd your Ladyship faint about? Why, my Lady, I but desire—

Oh! you shou'd conquer your desires!

But I only wish—

Fie, fie! I must not gratify your wishes.—Don't press me any further; for tho' I have a great deal of resolution, you have an infinity of insinuation.

I wish you would let me insinuate my mean⯑ing—

Don't shock me. I know what you want to insinuate.—Think what a dreadful thing it is to seduce the wife of your friend.

My Lady—

Oh, Captain O'Neil! how can you go to per⯑suade me to be unfaithful to poor, dear, little Sir Simon?

Can I believe my ears? Why fire and fury, Captain O'Neil! how durst you think of such a thing!

Here's a blessed piece of a blunder.

Sir Simon, I'm quite shock'd at your intru⯑sion. How can you be so ill-bred? I beg you'll not interfere with my concerns. "I am myself the guardian of my honour, and will not brook so insolent a monitor."

Oh you Violator of Friendship! Oh you Se⯑ducer! Why, Tarquin was a Joseph to you!

Sir Simon, upon my honour, I meant not the least harm.

Why, did I not hear her say, you wanted her to be unfaithful to poor, dear, little Sir Simon.

Will you hear me, Sir Simon?

No, you monster of iniquity! you wanted to separate a pair of fine turtle-doves.—You de⯑luder of innocence, you destroyer of the peace of families!

Very well, Sir Simon, I plainly see what you mean. You are too fond of fighting to listen to reason; and since nothing but spilling my in⯑nocent blood will appease you, I must submit. There, Sir Simon,

I little thought to cock either of these against you.

Cock them against me!

Take your choice, Sir.

Take my choice! No, I shan't take my choice.

Oh, you may trust to them—they have done execution in their time. But may be, you don't think one a piece enough? Well, then, fetch a pair of your own I'll measure out a few paces while you are gone.

A few paces!

Oh! I beg your pardon: I had forgot—you like to fight muzzle to muzzle.

Muzzle to muzzle! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!—

Well, I must assent to your savage propensi⯑ties. I must fight you how you like.

But damme, if I'll fight you at all.

Not fight me! Oh! the patience of St. Patrick cou'd not brook such contemptuous treatment! You won't even fight me?

I won't, upon my soul.

You positively refuse to treat me like a gen⯑tleman? O what extremities you drive me to!

How can you dis⯑tress me so!

How the devil can you distress me so?

Not fight me? Oh 'tis cruel treatment!

It is, upon my soul.

Now, will you fight me?

You are taking the worst way in the world to persuade me.

I'll try it a little more, however.

Hold, for mercy! I'll ask your pardon—any⯑thing—What will satisfy you?

Nothing that a poltroon can offer. I am sorry I have degraded myself by striking a coward.

So am I—very.

Oh, you are a desperate dog! You wou'd stand close, toe to toe—muzzle to muzzle—Damme, you'd fight in a saw-pit. Oh, you are a pretty fellow for a Second!

Very well for a Second, but not quite so well for a Principal. But, Captain, I hope you'll be kind enough not to mention this trifling affair; for 'tis a pity, the reputation a man has been collecting his whole life, should be whisk'd away in a moment.—What a vapour Honour is, that it will fly away in the dusting a coat! Do be tender, Captain—Pray don't mention this!

In my opinion, you are too contemptible to be mentioned at all.

Your opinion I shall always have the highest respect for.

Good bye, my little game-cock. I shall re⯑member you always stand muzzle to muzzle.—Oh, you are a desperate dog indeed▪

I have been very unlucky. I am afraid I have not acted quite like a Man of Fashion. In the first place, to interrupt a Gen⯑tleman's making love to my wife, was not at all like a Man of Fashion—no—that was very low breeding indeed. As to getting a beating—that will happen to Men of Fashion, now and then. But one part of my behaviour, I hope, sets all to rights—I behav'd very ill, and I ask'd pardon. If that is not like a Man of Fashion, the devil's in't.

SCENE III.

I have been puzzling over maps, these two hours, to find out where I have been, or rather where I ought to have been; and 'tis a great deal more troublesome to travel in imagination than in reality: for I must keep my eyes open, while I am tracing my journey on paper; but if I had gone it in earnest, I might have slept com⯑fortably from post to post, as most Travellers do!

Ah! Charles, my boy, coming to see me so soon is kind indeed!

And I have brought a friend to see you.

What a mighty queer world we live in! This is a gentleman I am proud to hear call me friend—and yet half an hour ago I was ready to cut his throat!

Cut your friend's throat?

Why, it happens every day—don't it? Your making a wonder of that proves you live out of the world.

By your account, to live out of the world seems the only chance one has to live at all.

You are pretty right there; for between those who, having too little courage, want to be thought to have enough, and those who have so much, 'tis always boiling over—a quiet man's life is in a constant state of requisition.

But, how came you two to quarrel?

The only way that two honest men can quar⯑rel—by mistake.—However, before we troubled our pistols to speak for us, we thought it no dishonour to speak a little for ourselves; by which means we found out, that though we met to settle a dispute, devil a dispute we had to settle.

How was that?

Why, it appears that this same good looking [41] countenance of mine is unlucky enough to re⯑semble the phiz of a Gentleman Blacklegs, who by a little trick or two in the way of his trade, disburthen'd our friend of his cash. He thought, when he met me in the Rooms at Bath, (and the place, to be sure▪ was not much in my fa⯑vour) that he had nick'd his man and accosted me accordingly. We lost one another in the croud, and he departed in his error. I learnt his name, and follow'd him to London; where, if I hadn't had wisdom enough to ask an explana⯑tion, I might have been sent out of the world for the misfortune of resembling a scoundrel.

How much I must ever feel bound to you!

Ah! Harcourt, appearances are very deceit⯑ful, and he who forms his opinions from them will blunder on in the dark, let the sun shine ever so bright.

And that is blundering indeed.

Captain O'Neil—my friend, Jack Flourish, is a very whimsical fellow.—If he had been out of Limbo, you wou'd have seen him earlier; for I shou'd have brought him for my Second.

No, you would not; for to be Second in a Duel is, in my mind, an employment pretty nearly as honourable as to be Jack Ketch's Deputy.

All the Flourishes are not of that opinion. I presume you are no relation to that little game-cock, Sir Simon?

My father a little game-cock?

Sir Simon your father! Why, Sir Simon's son is on his travels.

Yes, Sir Simon's son travels like a mill⯑horse, a great deal in a small space. But here he is, here's Jack Flourish, and if he had not had the wisdom to stay at home, he wou'd have lost the good fortune of becoming acquainted with you. He is a fool who quits Old England—for damme, if he'll find such fellows any where as he leaves behind him.

I should be jealous of your praise, if Old England and Old Ireland were not exactly the same spot of ground. So you are, really and truly, the fine travell'd young Gentleman, Mr. Flourish? Oh, you are a hopeful boy! I assure you, your father believes you have been seen and admir'd in every Court in Europe.

So I ought to have been seen and admir'd in every Court in Europe, but I was unluckily in⯑troduc'd at the Court of King's Bench, and am not likely to visit any other Court in a hurry.

You must contrive to be on terms with your father, to assist me in obtaining his sanction to my passion for his Ward, Miss Hartley.

What! you have a passion for Miss Hartley? So have I too—That is unlucky.

A passion for Miss Hartley?

Yes: but I am by no means sure she has a passion for me: so, if you can prove she has for you, there are two to one against me.

I'll lay the odds.

Is it so? Enough said, then. He that can't make sport, never let him spoil it. 'Tis true, I had a liking for the young Lady, but the first principle of my liking was—to makeher happy; and as long as that is brought about, whether by you or me, is the same thing among friends. Ha! ha! ha! ha! my young Traveller, I can't help laughing to think that this very morning I was dusting the coat of a relation of your's.

That was very kind of you; and while your hand is in, I'll thank you to dust mine—for I'm sure it wants it.

Farewel, my young Traveller—every assist⯑ance I can give, you may depend on—Well, Charles, you are a lucky dog to get such a sweet girl as Miss Hartley. Oh, the dear crea⯑tures, how I love them!

Jack, I've been thinking how you are to get at liberty.

Have you? Well, how?

Acquaint your father that you are return'd from abroad, then get a Rule for the day, and see him: his joy at the sight of you may soften his heart, and pave the way for your forgive⯑ness.

Well said. I'll do it. I'll have a rule—I'll hire a horse, as we call it.

Well, my boy, success attend you. All the assistance I can give you depend on. Farewel, my young Traveller!

Damme, 'tis a lucky thought.—Aye, but they won't trust me out alone. I must take one of their watch dogs along with me. How shall I [45] manage that? I have it.—Yonder goes little Dicky. That's lucky! He's the man for my purpose. I must go to Monmouth-street my⯑self, to brush up appearances, and so I'll take little Dicky with me, dress him smartly, and introduce him to my father as a Foreign Noble⯑man who came over with me.—Well said.—Huzza! Dicky! Dicky! I am so happy that I shall see the outside of that damn'd wall once more!

Do you vant me, Master Flourish?

Dicky, my boy, you are a clever little fel⯑low; you are the only man that can serve me.

Vy, then, make it vorth my vhile, and no⯑body readier.

I am going to have a Rule, hire a horse, as we call it, and you shall get up behind. There is nobody else in your way fit for a Gentleman's companion:—You are the only genteel article.

To be sure, they are damn'd wulgar.

I am going to take you to my father's, and you must pass for a Man of Fashion.

Well, my Master, I'll try. I shall look it very well.

No, no: I must put you on a lac'd coat.

SCENE IV.

And so you like London prodigiously?

Hugely! What did my Quiz of a Father mean by keeping me in the Country so long? I ought to have been as wise as I am now five years ago.

To be sure; and your knowledge wou'd not have surpriz'd people either.

No, not at all. I am not half so knowing as I ought to be, for all I was bred in Yorkshire.

That was in your favour.

Oh! 'twas Heaven's mercy I was pitched into a cutish county, or I shou'd never have been [48] able to shew my face here. Why, boys of six⯑teen here know a great deal more than I do.

Boys of sixteen! Men of sixteen, you mean! Sixteen! why, 'tis the prime of a man's life! Who are your greatest men on the turf?—your men of sixteen. Who keep your dashing women in the greatest style?—your men of sixteen.

So I thought. It came into my head, that keeping your dashing women was a very young trick.

Every thing now is in a state of forwardness unknown to our ancestors. London may be termed an immense hot house, where every thing is forc'd. You eat your fruit before it is in season. You run through your constitution before it is matured. You spend your estate before you are in possession, and get divorced from your wife before you ought to have mar⯑ried. 'Tis a lively system—Is it not?

Aye, a short life and a merry one.

But you were out of luck last night.

Yes, a little; and when I had lost all my mo⯑ney, it was vastly friendly of you to lend me the 200l. but I lost them too.

It will happen so sometimes. A lad of spirit does not mind such trifles. I will thank you, though, to return me the money: for I am ra⯑ther out of cash.

Eh!

I'll thank you for the 200l. I lent you.

My dear friend, I could as soon give you a million. My father does not allowance me in such a grand stile as that comes to. I must catch him in a devilish good humour, aye, and in a great many of them, before I get 200l. of him.

'Tis damn'd shabby of you to borrow money you can't pay.

Is this your friendship? Why, did not you force it on me? Did not you tell me you only liv'd in obliging your friends?

You make a small mistake; I told you, I only liv'd by obliging my friends. But as it is not convenient to you to pay the money, give me your Note, and it will do just as well.

Ah! now you are my friend again. I thought you would not desert me so soon. You who so kindly took me by the hand—taught me to punt at Faro, told me the nicks and crabs at Hazard, and though you never play yourself, were so kind to introduce me to all your friends that do.

Here's a stamp—sign your name—I have fill'd it up. I thought you cou'dn't pay me di⯑rectly.

What is this?—‘On demand, I promise to pay Nic. Snare, Esq. 400l. value receiv'd.’—Dang it, man, you lent me but two.

And do you think I'm to be paid nothing for my risk? Your father may disinherit you, and I may never get a doit. No, no, I shall never live by obliging my friends at that rate.

Oh, this is damn'd scandalous! pay four hun⯑dred pounds for two, and not have the worth of a six pence to show for it! Damn London—I wish I had staid in Yorkshire all the days of my life.

It is very ungrateful of you to put yourself in a passion with me, who have taught you so many pretty games.

Yes, and you want to teach me another pretty game—to shew me that One and One make Four.

Tom! Let me in.

Zounds, my father! I must open the door.

No, you shan't till you have settled our business.

Tom, I say, let me in.

Coming, Sir.

If you don't sign, I'll tell him all your pranks.

There, and the devil do you good with it. Damn Gaming—damn Swindling—and damn—

How do you do, Sir.

How do I do? You made great haste to ask me! Why, you have company. Is this the way you pass your mornings? You ought to be at study, Sir.

This Gentleman comes to assist me in my studies, Sir.

Oh! that is very kind of him. Thank you, Sir, for all you have taught my son.

O, Sir, 'tis a pleasure to me.

Do you practise much at the bar, Sir?

Not much now, Sir. I have had in my time a pretty deal of Old Baily practice.

And retir'd from it with your just deserts?

Not exactly, Sir, or I must say I should have been in a more elevated situation. Men often retire from the Bar with less than they merit.

More's the pity. Well—I will not intrude any longer, Tom. I call'd to give you money [52] to pay for your furniture and your books: ne⯑ver be in debt longer than you can help. Al⯑ways pay your way. There's a draft for 400l. and so good morning, and thank you kindly for all you have done for my son.

A very good kind of an old gentleman that father of your's: mind what he says—"Never be in debt longer than you can help. Always pay your way." That 400l. will just balance our little account.

Why, you an't such a rogue?

You had better be correct in your language, young Gentleman, or you must satisfy my ho⯑nour.

Oh, damn your honour! Did not you hear my father say, it was for my Upholsterer and Bookseller? They have been for their money already, and if I don't pay them, who knows but they will send me to jail?

Oh no! Tradesmen are us'd to go without their money; but Gentlemen, like me, must touch the ready, or your character is lost for ever. So at once pay me, or I'll expose you.

There—plague take you—there is the money. And now if I don't marry directly, I may go hang myself; and of two evils—

Marry, by all means. Good-bye, Tom. Re⯑member, I live by obliging my friends!

The devil fly away with such friends! Oh, I'm in a pretty mess! If Miss Hartley hadn't taken such a fancy to me, what wou'd have be⯑come of me! 'Tis Heaven's mercy I was a likely lad!—My beauty has sav'd my bacon. I'm in a fine way—I shall certainly be arrested—I can't save my liberty, that is certain. All I can do is to try to lose it my own way. Of the two, 'tis better to marry than go to jail; but at whose suit I shall be obliged to surrender myself, my Wife's, or my Tradesmen's, depends entirely on whether the Bailiff, or the Parson does his business quickest.

SCENE V.

Well, thank my stars, I shan't long be oblig'd to do such menial business! Call'd here, and call'd there—No, no, I shall soon be young Mr. Testy's wife; and then Madam Testy will call her servants about her as haughtily as the first Lady in the land.

Dear me, here comes my papa that is to be.

What! I have found somebody at last: I have been hunting from room to room, and the devil a soul cou'd I see.

Sir, my Master and Mistress are not at home.

Since I can't prove to the contrary, I incline to believe so.

Pray, Sir, let me show you out. You have intruded yourself into my Lady's dressing⯑room.

Don't hurry me, you young baggage—and pray who are you with that pretty face?

Your daughter that is to be.

I am Kitty, Sir.

Kitty, you are a pretty girl. Give me a kiss, Kitty.

Lord, Sir, don't be rumbustical!

I say, Kitty—this is what I have wanted a long while.

I say, Kitty, do you like your place? Shou'd you have any objection to quit it, to live with a middle-aged gentleman as a kind of a Housekeeper, eh?

Lord, Sir, I hope you have no design upon my Honour!

No, not I—I dare say your honour has been long out of the way of any body's design—But tell me, cou'd you like such a plain-spoken, comely-looking matter-of-fact-man as myself, eh?

This is lucky. I'll humour the old fellow, and when I marry his son, he'll not be angry with me, for fear of my exposing him.

Well, what do you say, my pretty?

I don't know what to say, Sir.—If I cou'd have it under your hand that you woudn't for⯑sake me—

Under my hand—hum!—Damn it, there is no making love now without signing and seal⯑ing. A love-letter will be sent back unopen'd, unless 'tis on stamp'd paper; and Cupid him⯑self wou'd not be half so good a go between as a common Attorney.

Well, what am I to give you under my hand?

Only your promise that you love me, and won't forsake me.

Come, there is no great harm in a promise without a penalty.

—

There, there's my written promise, and now, my pretty dear—

Kitty! is your Lady come home, Kitty?

Oh dear me, here is Sir Simon! What shall I do? Coming, Sir. I woudn't have him see you and me alone together, for the world.

Nor I neither. The rascal wou'd banter me to death.

And I shou'd lose my character. Oh, dear Sir, hide yourself.

Where? where?

Any where, Sir.

Kitty!

Coming, Sir—there, under the sopha, Sir.

Zounds! I shall be cramp'd to death.

Kitty, I say.

Make haste, make haste.

Well, if I must, I must.

Send him away directly.

Yes, Sir, yes.

Why, Kitty, what are you in such a bustle about? My Lady is not at home, is she?

No, Sir, no.

I'm glad of it. I came home on purpose to catch you alone, Kitty.

Oh ho! you did, did you?

You are the prettiest little rogue in the world, Kitty. You know how long I have been in love with you, Kitty; now, do have compassion on me!

Pray, Sir, be quiet, and don't take such li⯑berties.

Why, my dear, charming Kitty.

Pray, Captain O Neil, do me the kindness to walk this way.

My Lady's voice!

By all that's discordant! She must not see me here with you. I told her I should not be at home till night. She'll suspect something.

Well she may, if she sees me in this rum⯑pl'd condition. Oh dear, what shall I do? where shall I run?

Here here,—come, quick.

Oh dear! oh dear!

This way, Captain O'Neil. Allow me to shew you into my little dressing-room.

Your Ladyship does me great honour.

Pray, sit down. I conducted you here, Cap⯑tain O'Neil, that I might not be agitated again by Sir Simon's intrusion.

Vastly well.

Mada the reason of my calling now is—

I know your reasons very well, you can't im⯑pose on me, though you have on my husband.

My dear Lady, I wish to be understood.

I don't in the least doubt it: but gentlemen of your country, with the best intentions in the world, sometimes [...]nd it a very difficult matter. But I understand you perfectly; the passion you ventur'd to intimate this morning—

I have, now, my Lady, entirely relinquish'd—

What! you barbarous man, have you en⯑snared my susceptible heart, and do you now abandon your conquest?

I ensnare your susceptible heart!

Yes, you inhuman creature!—Oh! Oh!

'Tis too much, too much to bear!

'Tis too much for me to bear. To hear one's wife make love to another man, is too much for anybody to bear!

Sir Simon!

Sir Simon!

Yes, the wrong'd Sir Simon.—Is this the way you reward my faithful love, my fond attach⯑ment?

Get her a little water, Sir Simon:—I'll give her some air.

Don't give her any air, she'll be better with⯑out it.

Very well, Sir Simon! This is your faithful love—your fond attachment!

Oh, the blessing of mutual affection! These are the fond turtle-doves.—Faith you are well pair'd.

I shall never recover this terrible shock!

Now the impediment is remov'd, let me re⯑commend a little ventilation to your Ladyship.

Pray sit, and enjoy it as comfortably as you can

What have we got here! It looks like a great turtle, left on the shore by the retiring of the tide.

Favour me with one of your fins.

Mr. Testy, what the devil do you do here?

Mr. Testy, what is your business in my dressing-room?

Your dressing-room is a place of wonderful business indeed!

Pray, to which party do you belong?

Which party! You see I am out now; and, what is not uncommon, I kept my place as long as I cou'd.

What do you mean by your outs and ins in my house? I have a great mind to make an ex⯑ample of you. To be found under the sopha, in my wife's dressing-room! Why, the Bank of England could hardly pay the damages a libe⯑ral crim. con. Jury would give me.

SCENE I.

Here comes Sir Simon. Heavens! how shall I account for your being here?

Don't be alarm'd, my love; I'll think of some excuse.

Eh! who have we here? a young man tete a tete with my Ward! Well done; it runs through the family; I'll be bound there isn't an unpair'd turtle in my whole establishment. This is a worse business than my wife's a great deal, for this young lady will wish to carry her fortune [66] as well as her inclinations, out of my family. Now, though my wife may send her affections on a visit, I still keep at home all I married her for.

Pray, Miss Hartley, have I the honour of know⯑ing this Gentleman?

The Gentleman, Sir, has business with you.

Sir, your son, who is my particular friend, both of the same College, has commissioned me to acquaint you of his safe arrival in England.

My boy arrived! Huzza! Sir, I shall be proud of your acquaintance. How soon may I expect to see my son?

Very shortly, Sir. I got the start of him, and hasten'd to make you happy with this in⯑telligence.

How far have you been travelling, Sir?

Just as far as your son, Sir Simon?

Well, Sir, and how do you like foreign parts?

Ah! Sir, I believe Travellers, who have seen more of foreign countries than I have, will give the palm to Old England.

Sir, I must now take my leave.

Won't you stay till your friend arrives?

Now, Sir Simon, I am particularly engaged; but I shall hope for the pleasure of being fur⯑ther known to you.

You honour me very much, Sir, and a thou⯑sand thanks for your kind visit.

My son return'd, and so soon to see him! This atones for all my disasters. The sight of my accomplish'd boy will almost com⯑pensate for the loss of being Second in a Duel to an Irishman; will almost make me forget the hearty threshing he gave me, and my wife's making love to him. These are misfortunes, to be sure—but Jack is come home, and I will think no more of them.

I will endeavour to repress every anxious thought, and dwell only on the prospect of future happiness.

SCENE II.

Are you sure, Tom, you dogg'd the right man?

Quite sure, Master Bluff.

And why didn't you take him?

Because he got into church before I could get at him.

And so I am to be kept waiting here till he chuses to come out of church? Oh, here he comes.

Well, the job is done; I'm a married man for the first time in my life. 'Tis devilish co⯑mical. I wonder how I shall like it! Mrs. Testy, how do you do, my dear?

How do you do, Tom?

Tom! I don't know whether I like to be call'd Tom now. It don't shew respect enough from a Wife to her Husband.

Respect from a Wife to a Husband! O Tom! your Country Education! I see you will be very troublesome to me.

I don't know whether I shall be troublesome or no. Dang it, one can't begin too soon to shew one is determin'd to wear the breeches.

Mrs. Testy, I desire you will consi⯑der what is due to a Husband.

And I desire, Mr. Testy, you will consider what is due to a Wife.

And I desire, Mr Testy, you will consider what is due to a Creditor.

I am sorry, good folks, to interrupt your nuptial harmony. Here's a little bit of a writ against you.

At whose suit?

Your Bookseller's.

And here's another.

At whose suit?

Your Upholsterer's.

Writs against my dearly beloved? How soon the comforts of matrimony begin!

Well, I don't mind; when I touch my wife's fortune I shall be at liberty directly.

Your debts must be very small, if your wife's fortune will pay them.

Where must I go

That depends on how much of the ready you have got.

Damn it, they are all for the ready. I say, wife—my dear—

What do you want?

Have you got any of the ready?

No, not I.

Have n't you, indeed!—search.

I have nothing but two pocket pieces and a silver bodkin.

Come, come, poor as a rat—I see you [71] must go to prison directly; I have no room for such paupers as you: so come along.

My darling—and must I be torn from my loving wife?

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 'tis very distressing.

Bless my soul, who is that coming yonder—Sure, 'tis Jack Flourish; it is—Stand back a little.

Here I am once more at large in London streets. What a luxury it is again to be jostled about, and nearly run over by the coaches and carts! Lord, how happy I am to be out of that damn'd cage, though only for a day! Dicky, you look vastly well.

Yes, my master, good clothes become me.

As I was obliged to have a jailor to attend me▪ it is lucky, Dicky, I cou'd get one so much of a gentleman.

It wou'd be damn'd hard if I cou'd not behave like a gemman, who have liv'd all my life in gemmen's company, in the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea, and the Debtors Side of Newgate.

Yes, Dicky, 'tis certainly very genteel to be intimate in those places; but, you know, one shou'd not brag of one's connections: so mum's the word before my father; I must pass you [72] off for a Foreign Count; so mind your hits, Dicky.

Ecod, I'll speak to him. Don't let him see your face. Do you walk a little that way;

Kitty (for as I am going to ask a favour of him, it might not be so prudent to let him know I have married his Mistress.

Lord! you fool, many a gentleman would be much oblig'd to you for marrying his Mistress.

I say, Jack—Jack Flourish—

Eh!

What, don't you know me? I know you, you see, for all your outlandish clothes.

What, Tom Testy?

Yes, I be Tom Testy.

I am devilish glad to see you.

Be you indeed! that's right. 'Tis lucky to meet friends when one wants them, is it not? One should never be shy of a friend when he is in trouble, shou'd one?

No, to be sure not. What the devil does he mean?

If I was to meet a friend with a Bailiff at his elbow—

I should be as glad to see him as if I met him walking with a Nobleman.

Bailiff and Nobleman! Yes, yes, he twigs me. He knows Dicky here in his real and mas⯑querade character both.

I say, I should be as happy to shake hands with him at one time as another.

And so should I, upon my soul.

O damn it, all's up—I am found out—

I say, Tom—I see how the thing is—How the devil came you to know it?

Know it! dang it, I could not help knowing it; for before he said a word, he gave me such a cursed thump on the shoulder▪ as nobody would have ventur'd to have done that hadn't the law to back him.

Eh!

Come, come, I an't to stay here a whole Term arresting you. Will the Gemman bail you or not?

Aye, Jack, will you bail me?

I bail!—I bail you! Here's an affair! What. Tom, you arrested?—ha! ha! well said, young Rural.

Don't laugh! don't laugh, Jack—What will you do for me?

I can't bail you, I'm not an housekeeper. But where are you going?

Ay, where am I going?

Straight to the King's Bench.

The King's Bench—that's unlucky-

for then we shall know more of one another than I wish. I say, Tom▪ Newgate is a very pretty prison. You had better go to New⯑gate.

Newgate! Don't mention it.

Well, there is no persuading people to their good against their inclination. If you will go to the King's Bench, I will certainly come and see you there.

Will you be so kind?

I will, upon my soul

It is vastly good natur'd of you.

Not at all. It won't be putting me out of my way in the least.

It is your good-nature makes you say so.—Good-bye, Jack; we shall meet again soon, then.

Yes, Tom, much sooner than I wish.

Farewel.

Good-bye, you'll not forget to come.

No, not I: but if I should, here is a Gentleman will remind me.

Take care of him.

Now how stand our other jobs?

SCENE III.

I am surpriz'd you have the assurance to en⯑ter my doors again. Where the devil are you come to hide yourself now? There is no so⯑pha here for you: but you may get up the chim⯑ney if you will.

Pshaw! I am come on business: you'll, may be, like worse your darling Boy—Your ac⯑complish'd Traveller is not far off.

I know it.

You know it, do you? What, you know he is in the King's Bench?

What do you say?

In Banco [...]egis.

What the devil should he do in the King's Bench. He is just arrived from abroad, and I shall see him in a few minutes.

In a few minutes! So you may, but you must gallop to St. George's Fields, then—ha! ha! ha! the all-accomplish'd youth that has been getting the finishing stroke to his fashion⯑able education! Well, you have not been much [77] out—it is the finishing stroke to many a fashion⯑able education.

What is come to the man! That damn'd so⯑pha you crept under, has cramp'd your faculties as well as your limbs. Don't tease me with your nonsense.

Par ici, Monsieur le Comte.

There, there, what dy'e say now? My son is in the King's Bench, is he?

Why here he is faith, and I've been told a damn'd lie then.

My dear, dear Jack, come to my arms.

Ah! mon Pere, comment vous portez vous? O mon Dieu! I had forgot—I must speak English now.—How do you do, father?

What, forgot your English, boy?

'Tis so long since I have spoken it, that it is as aukward to me, as the acknowledgment of an old friend to a man who has got sudden promo⯑tion. Well, father, how do you do?

Happy to see you, my boy.

Bien oblige—Damn it, there I go again.

Never mind, Jack, it shews your breeding.

Ah! Testy! how are you, my old boy?

La! la!—There's French for you, puppy.

As sulky as ever, eh!

Why don't you travel and polish a bit, my old Buck?

Polish a bit, my old Buck! Don't be so damn'd familiar, or I shall try whether my cane can't polish a bit my young Buck.

What a sour old Crab it is, father. Permit⯑tez moi a vous—

Psha! that is, permit me to introduce to you my friend and companion, Count Tipstaffo Kingsbencheni.

Those damn'd foreign names—I never cou'd learn one of them.

I am the Count's most obsequious humble servant.

Vy, my Master, for matter of that—

Silence, you dog, or you'll ruin me. The Count speaks little English—Hush!

Well, my boy, tell me where have you been.

You'll know all in good time, father: to tell you at once where I have been, would surprise you too much.

Really!

It wou'd, upon my honour.

What, then, you have been further than you expected to go?

Not further. I have been where I did not expect to go.

Indeed!

Now the old doting fool will swallow all his lies for gospel.

Well, Jack, come tell me all about it. I say, are the women very pretty abroad?

If I had not found them so pretty at home, I might have been able to tell you.

The women, Sir, are, to be sure, very handsome; but leaving England to seek Beauty, is like going abroad to look for Liberty. The prime commo⯑dities are in our own market.

Well, Jack, in what Court did you chiefly re⯑side?

In what Court?—Why, where I chiefly re⯑sided was not exactly a Court; but it belong'd to one.

And so, my son liv'd in a palace?

Yes, yes, a kind of a palace—large enough of all conscience: rooms rather shabby, though—not kept neat—and surrounded by a damn'd high wall.

Aye, for fear people shou'd get in.

No, for fear people shou'd get out.

What, so afraid to part with you?

Oh! very much—Once I have the honour to get in, 'tis devilish hard to get out again.

Now, in my mind, that is carrying civility too far.

But how is my mother-in-law, Lady Flourish, eh? why you look glum, Father; has any thing happened?

O! nothing, but what is so common now-a-days, that 'tis quite a folly to think about it. But I am very rude to pay so little attention to your friend the Count. Sir, wou'd you be pleased to take some refreshment?

I thanks your Honour, nothing at all: I took a drap of gin as I came along.

Oh! curse you, you stupid dog.

A drap of gin!

'Tis a strange liqueur for a foreign noble⯑man! The Count speaks English pretty flu⯑ently, though rather queerly.

Yes, yes, he don't speak much; but the little he does, he speaks like a native.

Yes, like a native of Broad St. Giles's.

Don't let him hear you: h'ell be offended, [81] and he is a damn'd fighting little fellow, when he is provok'd.

It looks like a woman's hand.

‘This comes to desire you to tell Mr. Testy, that his son is in the King's Bench. This is from one who is much concern'd in his welfare.’ Why, Testy, you find there is a little bit of a mistake. 'Tis your son, not mine, that is in the King's Bench—ha! ha! ha! ha!

I don't know whether I am awake, or asleep, alive or dead.

Ha! ha! ha! he would have it you were in the King's Bench.

I in the King's Bench! yes! I look vastly as if I had been in the King's Bench—ha! ha! ha!

Ha, ha! ha! ha!

It can't be. 'Tis out of all human possibility.

You may soon be convinc d; you may see him in a few minutes—but you must gallop to St. George's Fields, then—ha! ha! ha! ha!

I'll go directly, and if I find him there, I'll disinherit him; and I'll adopt—damme—I'll adopt one of the Catabaw Indians.

We will go along with you.

Come then, call a coach there—I'm mad—stark mad.

Won't you go; Jack?

What, to the King's Bench? I wonder what kind of a place it can be. I have a great mind to go out of curiosity. What do you say, Count? Will you go by way of a lounge?

You need not speak, the Count nods assent.

Aye, it will be a new sight to the Count.

Not very.

Come, Dicky, for go we must, you know.

Aye, aye, returnable—nolens, volens.

Hush! yes, yes, the Count and I will go with you, and see this queer kind of a place. What do you stop for, father?

To let the Count go first.

Aye, by all means. I beg the Count's pardon.

SCENE IV.

Though the prison is so full, you have got as good as a room to yourselves, for there is only one gentleman belongs to it.

One gentleman belongs to it!

Yes. He is gone out on a Day Rule, but he must be home soon; he'll be pleasant company for you and the Lady.

Yes, very! 'Tis devilish pleasant to have a gentleman sleep in the room with one's wife.

It may be a little awkward to the Lady at first, but she'll soon come into it.

Where is this ungracious villain?

Oh lord! Oh lord! here's my father. Hide yourself, hide yourself,

Now I shall have it sweetly.

Let me come to the rascal—

Why, you graceless wretch, what have you to say for yourself?

Lord, father, you have come upon me in such a hurry, I have not settled what I have to say for myself.

They have lodg'd him in my room, by Ju⯑piter.

You to turn out profligate and extravagant, when I took such care to the contrary! Didn't I breed you out of the way of all manner of harm!

Yes, and therefore not knowing it, when he saw it, how was he able to avoid it?

Aye, how was I able to avoid it?

Till you came to London, did you know what it was to have more than six-pence in your pocket?

Then how the devil did you expect him to know the value of guineas, when you trusted him with them?

Hold your tongue, will you?

Didn't I always tell you how foolish you were to bring him up in that ridiculous way. I knew my plan was the best, was it not, my boy?

Oh certainly, father; no doubt about it.

Oh, here's Master Flourish come home.—Pray, Master Flourish—

Master Flourish come home! Why, how the devil does he know you?

Ah! what, Bob⯑by, is it you?—Hold your tongue you, dog—Oh! I knew Bobby abroad! Bobby was head jailer to the Emperor of Morocco. Ah! Bob⯑by! how do you do, Bobby—how long have you been in England, Bobby?

How long have I—

I want to talk with you, Bobby, about the Emperor's two daughters, Bobla⯑tilda and Gruntawiska. Come this way—Ex⯑cuse me

I have some secrets to talk to Bobby about.

Well, you rascal, what can you say for your⯑self, you stupid dolt?

Why father, if I have been a stupid dolt one way, I have been pretty cunning another. I was cheated out of my money, to be sure, but I have cheated other people out of a Wife.

A Wife! What does the blockhead mean?

Not such a blockhead as you think.▪Suppose now, I should have married Miss Hartley, all out of my own head, without any of your help?

Married Miss Hartley!

Aye, married Miss Hartley▪ and suppose she [86] shou'd like me well enough to follow me to prison.

Prodigious!

Nothing but my own eyes cou'd have con⯑vinc'd me.

Come to my arms. All is forgiven. You are a clever boy. I did not think it had been in you. Eh! Simon, what do you think of my boy now?

I am petriſied!

Huzza! huzza! Yorkshire for ever!—Huzza!

I am glad to find you so merry; we heard you were come here, and thinking a friend of our's might be in a little hobble, we came to intercede.

There needs no intercession; 'tis all right—'tis all as it shou'd be, my dear girl.

We have heard of your marriage. Take him, take him, take your husband.

Sir!

Nay, don't be shame-fac'd; it is all known; 'tis all forgiv'n.

All known! all forgiv'n! Generous conduct! our mutual affection made us overlook every other consideration, and marriage has now ra⯑tified the union of our hearts.

What is all this?

Why, Tom, what the devil, has your wife married another husband so soon?

What do you mean?

Why what the devil right have you to marry Tom's wife?

My wife! that is a good one. I believe they are all mad. I never saw that fine Lady in my life.

You didn't? And all you have been telling me about your marriage is a damn'd lie then—Let me come at him.

Will you be quiet, father, and hear a little reason? I tell you I married Miss Hartley, and you shall have her own word for it. Mrs. Testy! Mrs. Testy!

There, what do you say now? There's my wife!

The devil it is!

Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Why, what the devil do you all laugh at?

Only at a little error in your politics My rural Machiavel, instead of the Mistress, you have married the Maid!

What!

It is very true, husband.

The devil it is!

Well, Mr. Wiseacre, you have married all out of your own head, without my help, and now you may keep your precious bargain with⯑out my help. You may starve, you may rot in a prison, for you shall never have sixpence from me.

Lord, Sir, how can you be so unkind! You didn't look so cross at me the last time I saw you.

Eh! what?

Don't you remember, how good-humour'd you look'd just before you got under the sopha.

Oh! now the murder is out. I say, Testy, you had better give hush-money, for if we old fellows let the girls tell all they know about us, it may not be for our credit: besides, the world may be spiteful enough to say you are angry with your son, because you wanted to marry the girl yourself.

I don't know, Sir, as to marrying, but I have a little bit of paper here, which—

Hold your tongue—Say no more. I believe you are quite good enough for the blockhead you have got, and so he may pack into York⯑shire again, and carry you with him as a sam⯑ple of a London Fine Lady.

But this gentleman's taking the liberty of marrying our Ward without our consent is a thing which—

Oh! 'tis a very great insult—and a word in your ear, my little game-cock—If you mean to call him to account for it, I'll be your Second.

I don't want to have any thing to do with Seconds.

When I was going to fight him, you were to have been my Second, and I only offer to re⯑turn the obligation.

What, is this the gentleman you redeem'd out of prison, to have the pleasure of fighting?

Is it to you, then, I owe my liberty? Gene⯑rous man!

Oh, it was very generous, to be sure, to re⯑lease you out of prison, that I might have the satisfaction of sending you out of the world. But Sir Simon, this gentleman, in fortune, is equal to the Lady he has wedded.

Captain O'Neil, I am not conscious of what you are asserting.

But I am, or I wou'd not assert it. Under⯑standing that your Uncle had taken it into his head to be angry with you for nothing at all, I called on the old gentleman to talk with him a little about it—"If your Nephew had been [90] guilty of a dishonourable action," said I, "de⯑vil a word wou'd O'Neil offer in his behalf; but as he has been a dupe to the villainy of others, restore him to your favour, and launch him into the world again, with experience for his Pilot."—So the old gentleman shook hands with me, and swore he was ready to do the same with you as soon as you pleased.

Thanks are too poor for such nobleness of soul!

Nobleness of soul! for walking a few steps out of my common road, for the pleasure of reconciling a discarded Nephew to a rich old Uncle. Oh! if people wou'd but just lengthen their morning's walk to do a few good natur'd actions, they can scarcely conceive what health and spirits such exercise wou'd give them, and how much sweeter they wou'd rest for it at night!

Harcourt, I give you joy.

Give him joy—why, you part with your Mis⯑tress very easily.

'Tis the fashion, father.

Well, I think we may all adjourn, we have staid in this dismal place long enough.

I have for one, I'm sure.

Then let us be gone directly.

That is sooner said than done.

Master Flourish, here is the man, from Mon⯑mouth Street. He knows you are come home, and he must and will have his cloaths. He has got mine.

Must have his cloaths—Knows you are come home! Why, that is the Count. I smell powder.

And that is a scent I know you're not fond of.

Hush!—Knows you are come home! What, this is your home then?

Why, father, the—the—the—

The—the—I thought there was something damn'd odd about that Emperor of Moroco's Jailer, and I suppose you will tell me now, the Count is the Emperor himself.

Come, father, the truth must out—The two different systems of education have at last been compleated in the same college; and though I don't think keeping Terms here absolutely neces⯑sary for the finish of every young gentleman's education; yet, as a school of adversity it has taught me this lesson—Never, by folly and ex⯑travagance, to run the chance of returning, when once you do me the honour to take my name out of the books

Come, you must forgive him. You know the brave are always compassionate.

Very true; besides, it is useless to repine at [92] what is past, especially as you acknowledge you have learn'd some good, which I am not quite sure you wou d have done by travelling—And if your friends here will be but indulgent, you may▪ possess all the credit of going Abroad with the advantage of having remained at Home.