[]THE RUNAWAY.

OH, for the luxury of night-gown and ſlippers! No jaded hack of Parnaſſus can be more tired than I am—the roads ſo duſty, and the ſun ſo hot—'twould be leſs intolerable riding poſt in Africa.

What a wild imagination!—But in the name of Fortune, why are you alone? What have you done with all the College youths?—This is the firſt vacation you ever came home unaccompanied, and I aſſure you we are quite diſappointed.

Oh, moſt unconſcionable Woman! Never to be ſatisfied with conqueſt—There's poor Lumley ſhot through by your wicked eyes.

A notable victory indeed!—however, his name ſerves to make a figure in the liſts of one's conqueſts, and ſo you may give him juſt hope enough to feed his ſighs,—but not to encourage his preſumption.

Paragon of generoſity!—And what portion of comfort will your Ladyſhip beſtow on Egerton and Fil⯑mer, who ſtill hug the chains of the reſiſtleſs Arabella?

Upon my word, your catalogue grows in⯑tereſting—'tis worth while now to enquire for your vouch⯑ers—Proofs, George, proofs.

Why, the firſt writes ſonnets in your praiſe, and the laſt toaſts you till he can't ſee.

Oh, excellent!—The Dulcinea of one—and Circe of the other—ha! ha!—to transform him into a beaſt—I hope you have better love-tokens for the bluſhing Harriet—How does—

Fye, Bella—you uſe me ill.

Why, Siſter, you plead guilty, before the charge is exhibited—But tell me, my ſweet Harriet, who is this favour'd mortal, of whom you mean to enquire?

Indeed, Brother, I have no enquiries to make; but I imagine my Couſin can inform you whom ſhe meant.

Oh, doubtleſs—but you look ſo offended, Harriet, that I dare not venture the enquiry: aſk for Sir Charles Seymour yourſelf.

Seymour! Ho, ho! Very fine truly!

If Seymour be the man, my Siſter, ſet your heart at reſt—he is on the point of marriage, if I am not miſtaken, with a fine blooming Girl, not more than eighteen.—Soft, dove-like eyes—pouting lips—teeth that were, doubtleſs, made of oriental pearl—a neck—I want a ſimile now—ivory, wax, alabaſter!—no; they won't do.

One would imagine, Bro⯑ther, you were drawing the picture of your own Miſtreſs, inſtead of Sir Charles's, your colours are ſo warm.

A fine Woman, Harriet, gives warmth to all around her—She is that univerſal ſpirit, about which Philoſophers talk; the true point of attraction that go⯑verns Nature, and controuls the univerſe of Man.

Heiday, George! Did the charms of Lady Dinah inſpire this rhapſody?

Charms! What, of that antiquated, ſenten⯑tious, delicate Lady, who bleſs'd us with her long ſpeeches at dinner?

You muſt learn to be more reſpectful in your epithets, Sir; for that ſententious, delicate Lady deſigns you the honour of becoming your Mother.

My Mother! Heaven ſorefend—you jeſt, ſurely.

You ſhall judge.—We met her in our late viſit to Bath—She renewed her acquaintance with your Father, with whom, in Mrs. Hargrave's life-time, ſhe had been intimate—He invited her to return with us, and ſhe has been here this month—They are frequently [3] cloſeted together—She has forty thouſand pounds, and is Siſter to an Iriſh Peer.

She might have been Grandmother to the Peer, by the days ſhe has numbered—But her exceſſive propri⯑ety and decorum overcome me—How can they agree with my father's vociferation, October, and hounds?

Oh, I aſſure you, wondrouſly well—ſhe kiſſes Jowler, takes Ringwood on her lap, and has, more than once, ſipp'd out of your Father's tankard.—Delicacies, Couſin, are eaſily made to give way, when we have cer⯑tain ends to anſwer.

Very true; and beware of that period, when de⯑licacies muſt give way—tremble at the hour, Bella, when you'll riſe from the labours of your toilette with no end in view, but the conqueſt of ſome Quixote Galant in his grand climacteric—on whom you'll ſquander more en⯑couraging glances, than all the ſighs and ardor of two and twenty can extort from you now.

Memento mori! Quite a College compliment: you ought rather to have ſuppoſed that my power will increaſe; and that, like Ninon, I might give myſelf the airs of eighteen at eighty—But here's John coming to ſummon us to coffee.—Harriet!

Come, Harriet—why that penſive air? Give me your hand.

Excuſe me—I'll only ſtep and look at my birds, and follow you inſtantly—

—"Set your heart at reſt, my Siſter."—Oh, Brother!—you have robb'd that heart of reſt for ever.—Cruel intelligence!—Something has long ſat heavy in my boſom—and now the weight is irremoveable—Perfidious Seymour!—yet, of what can I accuſe him? He never profeſs'd to love me—Oh yes, his ardent looks—his ſighs—his conſuſion—his reſpectful attentions, have a thouſand times profeſs'd the ſtrongeſt paſſion—Surely, a man cannot in honour, be exculpated, who by ſuch methods defrauds a Woman of her heart; even tho' the word Love ſhould never paſs his lips. Yet I ought not to have truſted theſe ſeeming proofs—no; I muſt only blame my own credulity—O partial Nature!—why have you given us hearts ſo replete with tenderneſs, and minds ſo weak, ſo yielding?

Hang this Lady Dinah—one's forc'd to be ſo dreſs'd, and ſo formal!—In the country we ſhould be all ſhepherds and ſnepherdeſies—Meadows, ditches, rooks, and court-manners, are the ſtrangeſt combination!

Hiſt—ſhe's in the hall, I ſee—I'll go and 'ſquire her in.

To you, Sir, who have been ſo long con⯑verſant with the fine manners o [...] [...]e Antients, the frivo⯑lous cuſtom of tea-drinking muſt appear ridiculous.

No cuſtom can be ridiculous, Madam, that gives us the ſociety of the Ladies—The young men of thoſe days deſerve your L [...]dyſhip [...]s pity, for having never taſted theſe elegant hours.

He is juſt what his Father deſcribed.

No;—Barbary Beſs is ſpavin'd; let her be taken care of: I'll have Longſhanks, and ſee that he's ſaddled by five—So we ſha'n't have you in the hunt to-morrow, George,—you muſt have more time to ſhake off the lazy ruſt of Cambridge, I ſuppoſe.—What ſort of hours d'ye keep at College?

Oh, Sir, we are frequently up before the Sun, there.

Hah!—then 'tis when you ha'n't been in bed all night, I believe.—And how do you ſtand in other matters?—Have the muſty old Dons tired you with their Greek, and their Geometry, and their learned Experiments to ſhew what air, and fire, and water, are made of? Ha! ha! ha!

Oh, no, Sir—he never ſtudied them cloſely enough to be tired—his Philoſophy and mine keep pretty equal pace, I believe.

As uſual, my lively Couſin—If you had ſaid my Philoſophy and your Coquetry, I ſhould have thought you had meant to compliment me—However, Sir, I am not tired of my ſtudies—though Bella has not exactly hit the reaſon.

The Muſes, Sir, ſufficiently recompence the moſt painful aſſiduities by which we ob⯑tain their favour—Their true lovers are never ſatiated with the pleaſures they beſtow—thoſe, indeed, who court them, like the Toaſts of the ſeaſon, becauſe it is the faſhion, are neither warm'd by their beauties, nor pene⯑trated with their charms—but theſe are faithleſs Knights;—your Son, I dare ſay, has enliſted himſelf among their ſincereſt Votaries.

You do me great honour, Madam,—I have no doubt but you are perfectly acquainted with the Muſes. They ſhed their favours on a few only—but thoſe who ſhare them muſt, like you, be irreſiſtible. I'll catch her Ladyſhip's ſtyle.

Humph—I am glad he likes her.

You men are ſo full of flattery! In Athens, in Lacedemon, that vice was for ages unknown—it was then the Athenians were the happieſt, and the La⯑cedemonians the—

Oh mercy!—I have burnt my fingers in the moſt terrible manner.

I wiſh the misfortune had happened to her La⯑dyſhip's tongue.

Dear Bella, I am quite concerned.

Pho!—I only meant to break in upon her harangue, there's no bearing ſo much Wiſdom.

Mr. Drummond.

Benedicite!—ah!—my dear Godſon!—why, this is an unexpected pleaſure—I did not know you were arrived.

I have had that happineſs only a few hours, Sir, and I was on the point of paying my devoirs to you at the Park.

Ungracious Rogue! a few hours, and not been with me yet!—however—ſtay where you are, ſtay where you are, George—you cannot come under my roof with ſafety now, I aſſure you; ſuch a pair of eyes, ſuch a bloom, ſuch a ſhape!—Ah Girls, Girls!

Dear Mr. Drummond, of what, or whom, are you talking? You make me quite jealous.

Oh! you are all out-done, eclipſed—you have no chance with my Incognita—Then ſhe has the prettieſt foot—and moves a Grace!

Teaſing creature!

Pretty Bella!—well, it ſhall be ſatisfied. Mr. Hargrave, I wait on you, Sir, to requeſt an apart⯑ment for a young Lady of beauty, and honour, who hath put herſelf under my protecti [...]n.—But as I really think my houſe a dangerous ſituation for her, conſidering that I am ſingle, young and handſome,

I cannot in conſcience expoſe her to it.—You, being a grave, orderly man, and having a couple of decent, well⯑behaved young women for a Daughter and Niece; I think ſhe will be more agreeably protected here—and this is my buſineſs.

A young Lady who hath put herſelf under your protection! Who is ſhe?

Her name ſhe wiſhes to conceal.

That's very odd—Where did you meet with her?

At the houſe of a Widow Tenant of mine, a few miles from hence, where ſhe had taken refuge from a marriage to which an Uncle would have forced her.—She had no companion but the good old Lady, whom I found employed in aſſiſting her to weep, inſtead of conſoling her.—In ſhort, there were reaſons to think her ſituation highly dangerous, and I prevail'd on her to leave it.

And ſo your credulity is again taken in, and the air of a weeping Beauty is the trap that caught you?—Ha, ha! ha!—Will you never be ſick of impoſitions?

I don't remember that I was ever impoſed on.

No! don't I know how many people you have plagued yourſelf about, who had not a grain of me⯑rit to deſerve it?

I want merit Mr. Hargrave; yet all the bleſſings of health and fortune have not been with-held from me.

Aye, aye—there's no getting you to hear rea⯑ſon on this ſubject.

'Tis too late to reaſon now. The young Lady is at my houſe—I have promiſed to bring her here, and we muſt endeavour to raiſe the poor Girl's ſpirits. She would have ſpoil'd the prettieſt face in England—beg pardon, Ladies—one of the prettieſt faces, with weep⯑ing at the old Widows.

An old Widow, a pretty Girl, a Lover, a tyran⯑nical Uncle—'tis a charming group for the amuſement of a village circle.—I long to ſee this Beauty.

Her beauty, according to Mr. Drummond, may be conſpicuous enough—but her pretenſions to birth and honour ſeem to be a more doubtful matter.

Pardon me, Madam, why ſhould we doubt of either? A Lady in ſuch a ſituation has a right to protec⯑tion;

and I hope, Sir, you will not with⯑hold yours.

Oh, no, to be ſure, George.—'Sbud! refuſe protection to a fine Girl!—'twould be, with you, a crying Sin, I warrant—but Mr. Drummond, I ſhould ſuppoſe—

Come, be ſatisfied, the weakneſſes with which you reproach me, might have induced me to have ſnatched her from an alarming ſituation without much examination.—But, in compliment to your delicacy, I have made proper enquiries.—She was placed under the care of Mrs. Carlton by a perſon of credit.—She has diſ⯑patched a meſſenger to her Uncle, who, I preſume, will be here to-morrow.

Pray, Sir, permit us to wait on the Lady, and conduct her here; I am ſtrongly intereſted for her.

'Tis an odd affair—what ſay you to it, my Lady?

As your Family ſeem deſirous to receive her, Sir, I am ſorry to perceive an impropriety in the requeſt—but I ſhould apprehend that any appearance of encourage⯑ment to young Ladies in diſobedience—particularly when accompanied with the glaring indecorum of an elope⯑ment—

Aye, very true—'Sbud, Mr. Drummond, how can you encourage ſuch—

Madam, I do not mean to encourage, but to reſtore the young Lady to her family. She ſeems terrified at the peculiar ſeverity of her Uncle's temper; ſo we'll put ourſelves in form, receive him in full aſſembly, and divide his anger amongſt us.—Your Ladyſhip, I'm ſure, muſt be happy to render the recovery of the firſt falſe ſtep as eaſy as poſſible.

Why aye, my Lady—there can be no harm in that, you know.

Very well, Sir—if you think ſo, I can have no farther objection.

Well then, Harriet, you may go—I think

And I with you, Couſin.

Come then, my pretty doves—I'll eſcort you.—George, ſteel your heart, ſteel your heart, you Rogue.

It is ſteel'd, Sir.

You need not go, George—I want to ſpeak to you.

Bleſs me!—what does he intend to ſay now?—he's going to open the affair to his Son—well—theſe are the moſt aukward moments in a Woman's life—but one muſt go through it.

I have letters to write, which I'll take this leiſure to do, if you'll pardon my abſence, Gentlemen.

To be ſure, Madam

—Well, George, how do you like that Lady?

Extravagantly, Sir,—I never ſaw a Lady ſo learn'd.

Oh, ſhe's clever—ſhe's an Earl's Siſter too, and a forty thouſand pounder, boy.

That's a fine fortune.

Aye, very fine, very fine—and then her inte⯑reſt!—ſuppoſe I could prevail with her—eh, George—if one could keep her in the family, I ſay—would not that be a ſtroke?

An alliance with ſo noble a family, Sir, is cer⯑tainly a deſirable circumſtance.

The Gentlemen are in the ſmoaking parlour, Sir.

Very well—are the pipes and October in rea⯑dineſs?

Yes, Sir.

Well then, we'll talk over the affair to-mor⯑row—what—I ſuppoſe your ſtoma [...]h is too ſqueamiſh for tobacco and ſtrong beer?—you'll find the Juſtice, and ſome more of your old friends there.

Pardon me, Sir, I made too free with the bottle at dinner, and have felt the effects in my head ever ſince—I believe a turn in the garden is a better recipe than the fumes of tobacco.

Well, well, we won't diſpute the matter with you now, boy—but you know I don't like milkſops.

Nor I, Sir.

Aye, aye, George is a brave Boy—Old Eng⯑land is diſgraced by a ſet of whipſters who affect to deſ⯑piſe the jolly manners of their Anceſtors, while they only ſerve to ſhew us, how greatly manners may be alter'd without being mended—

'Sbud, I don't know that we are a bit wiſer, happier, or greater, than we were in good old Beſs's days—when our Men of Rank were robuſt, and our Women of Faſhion buxom.

Aye, aye, a plague on all the innovations that tend to produce a race of pretty follows inſtead of Eng⯑liſhmen—and puny girls, for the Mothers of Heroes—Give me a roſy buxom laſs, with eyes that ſparkle like the glaſ⯑ſes we toaſt her in—adad, I'd drink her health till the world danced round like a top—But, what a plague, 'Squire, d'ye ſtay here for? come into t'other room, and if you have a mind to make wiſe ſpeeches there, we can drink in the mean time, and then what you ſay will have a proper effect.

Well, well, I'll go, but I want to conſult you—I have been thinking whether this Greenwood eſtate—

Tuſh—you know very well, I can neither con⯑ſider or adviſe, till I have had my brace—I am as dark, till the liquor ſends its ſpirits into my brains, as a lan⯑tern without its candle—ſo, if you've any knotty point to propoſe, keep it till I'm enlighten'd.

Well, come along.

The people from the Crown, Sir, and the Roſe, and the Antelope, are here again about their licences.

There—this is what I got by coming for you—I charged the Butler not to l [...]t this dog in.

Why, how can I help it?—bid 'em come again to-morrow—'tis of no conſequence.

And here's a Pauper to be paſs'd—a lame Man with four Children.

Well, turn him over to the Cook, and let him wait till we are at leiſure.

And a Conſtable has brought up a man, for breaking into farmer Thompſon's barn laſt night.

Has he?

well, tell him to wait too—we are going to be buſv now, and can't be diſ⯑turb'd. But bid him take care he doesn't let the priſoner eſcape, as he did that dog Farlow, d'ye hear?

Yes, Sir—but—Juſtice Manly is now in the ſmoaking-room—I've ſpoke to him about the licences, and we may'nt have another bench this—

Will you pleaſe to march, Sir?

Well done, old Boy—Burn himſelf could not have diſpatch'd buſineſs with more expedition.

The Miller is here, Sir, with a man that he cotch'd with a hate that he had taken in the ſpringe—but the poor fellow, pleaſe your Honour, has a large fa⯑mily.

What! a Hare—Come along, Juſtice.

Here's a ſpecial Fellow of a Philoſopher now—would perſuade that Pleaſure has no exiſtence, when bounteous Nature teems with her—ſhe courts my ſenſes in a thouſand varied modes—She poſſeſſes herſelf of my underſtanding in the ſhape of Reaſon—and ſhe ſeizes my heart in the form of Woman, dear, beauteous, all-ſubdu⯑ing Woman. And there is one—Memory, be faithful to her charms! Shew me the beauteous form, the animated face, the mind that beam'd in her eyes—the bluſhing ſmile that repaid my admiration, and raiſed an altar in my heart, on which every other paſſion is ſacrificed—on which every hope, deſire, and wiſh, is ſanctified by her.

Oh, monſtrous—George Hargrave morali⯑zing in the garden, whilſt the fineſt girl in England is in the parlour!—what is become of your gallantry?

Gone, ſweet Couſin, gone.

Indeed! who has robb'd you of it?

A Woman.

Come then, and regain it from a Woman, and ſuch a Woman—

Is ſhe ſo beautiful?

Beautiful! look at me,—I myſelf am not ſo handſome.

Ha! ha! ha!—that, I confeſs, is an infallible criterion.—But I'll bet this whole volume of Wiſdom, [11] againſt one of your Billet-doux, that ſhe's not within fifty degrees of her who witch'd away my heart.

Witch'd it indeed, if in ſix weeks it has not made one excurſion—I never knew you ſo conſtant before. However, I propheſy her charm is broke; the Divinity who will reign—perhaps for another ſix weeks—is com⯑ing down the ſteps with Harriet—but, that her rays may not dazzle your mortal ſight, ſhelter yourſelf behind the clump, and examine her.

Well, how d'ye like her?

Like her!—the air is all Ambroſia—every hap⯑py conſtellation is in conjunction—each bounteous ſtar has lent its influence, and Venus guided the event.

Heyday—what event? Sure this cannot be your Maſquerade Lady!

It is, it is—ſhe is the ſweet Thief—ſhe is my Wood Nymph—Oh, I am tranſported!

And I—amazed!—how can it—

No matter how—whether by chance or witch⯑craft—Now could I apoſtrophize—Pſhaw—away, and at her feet—theſe tranſports—

So, ſo, ſo,—and pray, what's the cauſe of theſe tranſports?

You are the cauſe—'tis to you, my dear Mr. Drummond, I am indebted for the happineſs which dawns on me.

Then, God grant, my dear Boy, the dawn may not deceive thee—I wiſh it to brighten into the faireſt day—But how have I been inſtrumental to all this?

That Lady I have ſeen before at a Maſquerade—She poſſeſſed herſelf of my heart at once, but I deſpair'd of ever beholding her again—Pray preſent me—

Hold, George, hold—perhaps you'd better never be preſented; for, tho' you may have put her in poſſeſſion of your heart, 'tis by no means an evidence, that ſhe has had the ſame complaiſance for you—Sup⯑poſe, for inſtance, ſuch a trifle as hers being engaged.

Oh unconſcionable! to fancy the galloping imagination of a man in love, capable of ſo reoſonable a ſuppoſition!—But, pray have ſo much decency, George, to poſtpone your entrée till you are more compoſed, I'll [12] go, and prepare her for the reception of a ſtrange creature, that you may appear to advantage.

Advantage! oh, I will hope every advantage, from ſo fortunate a chance—her heart cannot—ſhall not be engaged—and ſhe ſhall be mine—Pardon, my dear Sir, theſe effuſions of my joy.

I do pardon them—'tis an odd circumſtance,—Are you acquainted with the Lady's name?

No one knew her—She ſeemed like an Angel de⯑ſcended to aſtoniſh her beholders, and vaniſh the moment ſhe had fixt their hearts—Unluckily Mrs. Fitzherbert ſtopt me, and a jealous coxcomb in her train ſeized that moment, to hurry her out of the room.

That misfortune, perhaps, I can repair—but you ſeem ſo extravagantly diſpoſed to raptures, that I hardly dare tell you I know ſomething of her family.

I am rejoiced—for I am convinced you know nothing that will not juſtify my paſſion.

This eagerneſs to helieve might have been ſo fatal, that I tremble fer you—But you are fortunate—ſhe is the Daughter of a deceaſed Major Morley—a man, to whoſe friendſhip, and elegance of manners, I was indebt⯑ed for happy and rational hours, amidſt the buſtle of a Camp.

Fortunate indeed! for then my paſſion muſt have your ſanction—but I thought you had not known—

I knew her Father's picture on her arm—but her delicacy is ſo alarmed at the idea of expoſing the name of her Family in ſuch a ſituation, that ſhe would not conſent to be introduced here, but on condition of its being conceal'd.

Charming delicacy! I will keep her ſecret. My only conſolation was, that ſuch a Woman could not be long concealed, and it would have been the buſineſs of my life, till I had diſeover'd her—

but your goodneſs has brought about the event—your goodneſs, to which I owe more than—

Nay, ſtop your acknowledgements, and don't arrogate to your own merits the affection I have for you; for, tranſcendent as without doubt they are, you owe great part of it to circumſtances, in which they have very little concern.

I am contented to hold your eſt [...]em by any tie—But, dear Sir, the Lady—

Impatient Rogue!—Well, come, I'll intro⯑duce you, and may the moment be auſpicious!

May it! Oh Love, ſweet Tyrant! I yield my heart to thee a willing ſlave—to Love I devote my future life—never more ſhall I experience the aching void of in⯑difference, or know one moment unoccupied by thee.

ZOUNDS, 'tis almoſt ſeven;—

the ſcent will be cold—let's rouſe the lazy rogue with a long.

Aye, a good thought—come, begin.

Hah, my young Hercules!—But how now, in this dreſs! don't you hunt with us?

Oh, I have only changed liveries,—I uſed to wear that of Adonis—but now I ſerve his miſtreſs—Venus.

And a moſt hazardous ſervice you have choſen—I would rather ſubject myſelf to the fate of Ac⯑teon, than to the caprice and inſolence of the handſomeſt Coquette in England.

Acteon's fate would be leſs than you'd deſerve, if, knowing my Goddeſs, you ſhould dare profane her with ſuch epithets.

May I never ſtart Puſs, if I believe your Goddeſs to be more than a very Woman—that is, a being whoſe ſoul is vanity—taſte, voluptuouſneſs—form, deceitful—and manners, unnatural.

Heyday!—turn'd Satyriſt on the ſex at eight and twenty!—What jilting Blowſalind has work'd this miracle?

Faith, I take my copies from higher ſchools—Amongſt the Blowſalinds there is ſtill Nature and Honeſty—but examine our Drawing-rooms, Ope⯑ras, and Water-drinking places—you'll find the firſt turn'd fairly out of doors, and the laſt exchanged for Af⯑fectation and Hypocriſy—ſo henceforward

I abandon all Ladies, but thoſe of the woods, and chaſe only the harmleſs game, to which my ſagacious hounds conduct me.

Ha! ha!—and in a ſhort time be fit ſociety for your hounds only. Good morning, Sir.

So, George—Come, you'd better mount—I'll give you a Lecture upon Air, and the advantages of a good Conſtitution, on our Downs, worth all you cou'd hear in a muſty College theſe fifty years.

I beg, Sir, to be excus'd this morning—to⯑morrow I'll reſume my uſual poſt, and lead where you only will venture to follow me.

Well—we ſhall put you to the teſt.

Yes, yes, you're a keen Sportſman—I ſaw the Game you are in purſuit of, ſcudding away to the garden—beat the buſhes, and I'll warrant you'll ſtart her, and run her down too.

Egad! I ſtarted a fine young Puſs a few days ago—She ſeem'd ſhy, and made her doublings; but I ſtuck to the ſcent, and ſhou'd infallibly have got her, if that ſly poaching togue, Drummond, had not laid a ſpringe in her way.

Why, ſhe's the very Puſs I mean; he hous'd her here.

Oh, ho! then I ſuppoſe he only pointed the game for you—Sweet Sir, your humble—After College commons, a coarſer diſh than Pheaſant, I think, might have gone down.

Your whip, Sir—your bit wants laſhing. To talk thus of Mr. Drummond, whom you do know, is not more inſolent than your profanation of a Lady whom you do not know.

O! cry you mercy—Plague take me if I quarrel for any wench in England—You are heartily welcome to her, Sir, only I hope another time you'll be honeſt, and hunt without a ſtalking-horſe.

Barbarian! How critically did Mr. Drummond relieve the lovely Girl—This brute had diſcovered her, and ſhe would have ſuffered every indignity that Igno⯑rance, ſupported by the pride of Fortune, could have in⯑flicted. In the garden—that's fortunate beyond my ex⯑pectations—'midſt groves and fountains—the very ſcene where a lover ſhould tell his tale—and the ſweet conſci⯑ouſneſs which beamed in her eyes laſt night, flatters me that ſhe will not hate me for my tale—I'll go in all the confidence of hope.

What an heavenly morning!—ſurely'tis in Eng⯑land that Summer keeps her court—for ſhe's no where elſe ſo lovely.—And what a ſweet garden this is!—But tell me, my heart—is it the brightneſs of the morning, the verdure of the garden, the melody of the birds, that gives thee theſe enchanting ſenſations?—Ah, no!—it is that thou haſt found thy Lord—it is, that I have again ſeen the Man, who, ſince I firſt beheld him, has been the only image in my mind.—How different from the empty, the preſuming Baldwin!—yet, I owe him this obligation—if his hateful perſeverance had not forced me from London, I might never have ſeen, but once, the Man who, that once, poſſeſs'd himſelf of my tendereſt wiſhes.—Ha!

Abroad ſo early, Madam!—the fine Ladies in London are yet in their firſt ſleep.

It would have been impoſſible to have reſiſted the chearful call of the Hunters, if the morning had been leſs enticing.

Oh, do not imagine yourſelf obliged to the Hunt⯑ers, Madam, it was my good Genius—I thank her—that inſpired them, and did me the favour to lead me here.

If ſhe uſually influences you to no better purpoſe, her claims to your gratitude are but weak.

'Till lately I thought ſo, and ſuppoſed my⯑ſelf influenced by the worſt Genius that ever fell to the lot of a poor mortal—but ſhe has entirely retrieved her⯑ſelf in my opinion, and by two or three capital ſtrokes has made me forget her unlucky pranks, and believe her one of the beſt diſpoſed Sylphs in all the regions of Fancy.

You recommend this aërial attend⯑ant very ſtrongly—Have you any intention to part from her?

I would willingly exchange her—if your Genius would be ſo obliging to take a fancy to me—I'll accept her with all my heart—and give you mine.

You wou'd loſe by the exchange.

Impoſſible!—for my quondam friend would ſay a thouſand things for me, that I could not for myſelf—ſo I ſhould gain your good opinion—and that would be well gained, whatever I might loſe to attain it.

Your Genius is, at leaſt, a gallant one, I per⯑ceive—but

I was on the point of leaving the garden, Sir.—The Ladies, I imagine, are riſen by this time.

Indeed they are not, but if they ſhould—theſe are precious moments, which I muſt not loſe—may I pre⯑ſume to uſe them in telling you how happy I am, in the event which placed you in my Father's houſe?—but you have, perhaps, forgot the preſumptuous Tancred, who gave ſuch diſturbance to the Gentleman honour'd by pro⯑tecting you, at the Maſquerade?

No, Sir, I remember—and, if I don't miſtake, you were nearly engaged in a fracas with that Gentleman—I was happy, when I obſerv'd you ſtopt by a maſk, and ſeized that moment to leave the room.

A moment, Madam, that I have never ceas'd to regret 'till now—but that which I at preſent poſſeſs, is a felicity ſo unexpected, and unhop'd for—

You forget, Sir, theſe gallantries are out of place here—under a maſk, a Shepherd may ſigh, or an Eaſtern Prince amuſe himſelf in ſaying the moſt extravagant things—but they know there are delicacies to be obſerved in real life, quite incompatible with the freedoms of a Maſquerade.

Whilſt you are thus ſevere on mere gallantries, I will venture to hope that a moſt tender and reſpectful paſſion will be treated more favourably.

Sir!

I comprehend, Madam, what your delicacy muſt feel, and will therefore only add, that from the firſt moment I be⯑held you, my heart has known no other object. You have been the Miſtreſs of its Wiſhes—and you are the Miſtreſs of its Fate.

Indeed, Sir, this declaration, at a time when I muſt appear in ſo ſtrange a light to your family, hurts me greatly—I can ſcarcely believe you mean it a compliment—but, ſurely, my ſituation here ought—

I acknowledge, Madam, the confeſſion I have dared to make, is premature—it is ill timed—nothing can excuſe it, but the peculiarity of our ſituation.—When I reflect, that in a few moments your Uncle may arrive, that he may ſnatch you from us, and that ſuch an opportunity never may be mine again—

So, ſo, my young ones, have I found you? 'tis a moſt delicious morning—but is it uſual with you, Madam, to taſte the air ſo early?

Yes, Sir—in the Country, at leaſt—I ſeldom mur⯑der ſuch hours in ſleep.

Aye, 'tis to that practice you are indebted for the roſes in your cheeks—What, I ſuppoſe, you brought the Lady into the garden, George, to read her a iecture on Ve⯑getation—to explain the nature and cauſe of Heat—or, perhaps, more abſtracted ſubjects have engaged—

Stop, dear Sir—I aſſure you I am not abſtracted enough to enter on theſe ſubjects with ſuch an object before me—I found the Lady here, and had ſcarcely paid her my morning compliments when you appeared.

For which you do not thank me, I preſume—but come, Madam, you are my ward, 'till I have the pleaſure of preſenting you to your Uncle; and I come to conduct you to breakfaſt. George, you may follow; but take care you keep your diſtance.

Diſtance!—as well might you perſuade the ſhadow to forſake its Sun, or erring mortals give up hopes of mercy. [18] —With what ſweet confidence ſhe gives her hand to Mr Drummond!—if theſe are the privileges of Age, I'll be young no longer.

Both in the garden—and in deep converſa⯑tion!

It appear'd ſo, my Lady, as I ſaw them from the window—he looked eagerly in her face; and ſhe bluſh'd, and ſeem'd confuſed.

Confuſed indeed!—yes, ſo the Impertinent af⯑fected to appear laſt night—tho' it was evident ſhe had neither eyes nor thoughts but for Mr. Hargrave's Son—who paid her thoſe attentions which, from the preſent habits of life, are paid to every Woman—tho', I think, Mr. George Hargrave ſhould be ſuperior to theſe modern gallantries.

I dares to ſay ſhe is ſome impoſtor—Huſbands in good truth are not ſo plenty, that a woman need run away to eſcape one.

I have no doubt of her being a low perſon—and as to her prettineſs, 'tis of the kind one ſees in wooden Dolls—cherry-colour cheeks, and eyes, that from the total abſence of expreſſion might be taken for glaſs.

I wonder Mr. Hargrave did not ſtand by his own opinion, and let her ſtay where ſhe was; but whatever Mr. Drummond ſays is law here.

Becauſe Mr. Hargrave imagines he'll make his Son his heir—but if he does, he'll only ſhare with the paupers of the neighbouring villages; for theſe Mr. Drummond ſeems to conſider his family; and I am miſtaken, if he does n't find it a pretty expenſive one.

Oh, Ma'am, he believes every melancholy tale that's told him as a proof of his piety—Here's the Bow, my Lady—but as he fancies her prettyneſs was in danger, he had better have kept her in his own houſe, and ſtood guard himſelf.

Aye—that employment, or any other that would keep him at home, might be uſeful—Want of reſt

abſolutely transforms me—the deteſtable Horns, and their noiſy accompanyment, waked me from the moſt delight⯑ful dream—How do I look to-day, Suſan?

Oh, charmingly, my Lady.

'Tis a moſt provoking circumſtance, the colour of my hair ſhould be ſo ſoon changed—but Mrs. Gibſon's Liquid entirely hides that accident, I believe.

Entirely, my Lady—and then, her Bloom, it is im⯑poſſible to diſtinguiſh from nature.

You need not ſpeak ſo loud. In compliance with the cuſtom of modern times, a woman is forced to keep the uſe of theſe ſort of things as ſecretly as ſhe would an Ille⯑gitimate Birth. It was not ſo among the Antients—The Roman Ladies made a point of excelling in Arts of this kind; and the Empreſs Poppea was not aſhamed to carry in her train five hundred Aſſes, in whoſe milk ſhe bathed every morning for the benefit of her complexion.

Five hundred Aſſes in one Lady's train!—thank Heaven, we have no ſuch engroſſing now-a-days—our Toaſts have all their full ſhare.

Indeed! Mrs. Suſan,

this wench has ideas. Pray, what do you think of the young Collegian?

Oh, my Lady, he is the ſweeteſt, ſmarteſt Man—I think he is exactly like the picture of your Ladyſhip's Brother, that died when he was eighteen.

People uſed to ſay that Brother, and myſelf, bore a ſtrong reſemblance.

I dare to ſay you did, my Lady; for there's ſomething in the turn of young Mr. Hargrave's face, vaſtly like your Ladyſhip's.

Well, Suſan—I believe I may truſt you—I think you can be faithful.

Moſt ſurely, my Lady—I would rather die than be⯑tray your Ladyſhip.

Well, then—I proteſt I hardly know how to ac⯑knowledge it—But—

But what, my Lady?—your Ladyſhip alarms me.

I too am alarm'd—but I know your faith—

There will ſoon be a moſt intimate and never to be diſſolved connexion between me—and—young Mr. Har⯑grave.

Young Mr. Hargrave, Madam!

Yes, Young Mr. Hargrave, Madam—What doſt ſtretch thy eyes ſo widely at, wench?—Mr. George Hargrave, I ſay, is to be my Huſband—I am to be his Wife—Is it paſt thy comprehenſion?

I moſt humbly beg your Ladyſhip's pardon—it was my ſurpriſe—the whole houſe concludes your Lady⯑ſhip is to marry Old Mr. Hargrave—but, to be ſure, the Son is a much more ſuitable match for your Ladyſhip.

Old Mr. Hargrave, indeed!—the whole houſe is very impertinent in its concluſions—Go, and bring the Bergamot hither.

I marry Old Mr. Hargrave! monſtrous abſurdity! and by ſo prepoſterous an union to be⯑come the mother of that fine fellow, his Son!—'twould be inſupportable—no, Miſtreſs Suſan, 'tis Young Mr. Har⯑grave I am to marry.

—Here, ſcent that handkerchief, while I write to my agent to prepare matters for the writings.

To prepare matters for the writings! a very fine buſineſs indeed; and what you'll ſorely repent of, my good Lady, take my word for it—All thoſe ſcented waters, nor any other waters, will be able to keep up your ſpirits this time twelvemonth—A "never to be diſſolved connexion," between fifty and twenty-one, ha! ha! ha!—I ſhall burſt with the ridiculous ſecret—I muſt find Jarvis, and give it vent—"never to be diſſolved connexion!"—ha, ha, ha!

What transformations this Love can make! You look as grave, George, and ſpeak as ſententiouſly, as an Old-Bailey Fortune-teller.

And is it only to preſerve your ſpirits, Bella, that you keep your heart ſo cold?

The recipe is certainly not a bad one, if we may judge from the effects of the oppoſite element on your ſpirits—but I adviſe you, whatever you do, not to aſſume an ap⯑pearance of gravity—'tis the moſt dangerous character in the world.

How ſo?

Oh, the advantages you would loſe by it are incon-conceivable. While you can ſuſtain that of a giddy, thoughtleſs, undeſigning, great Boy, all the impertinent and fooliſh things you commit will be excus'd—laugh'd at—nay, if accompanied by a certain manner, they will be applauded—but do the ſame things with a grave reflecting face, and [...]n [...]por [...]nt air—and you'll be condemn'd, n [...]m. con.

Sir Charles Seymour is driving up the avenue, Sir.

Is he?—I am rejoiced—

Sir Charles Seymour, Brother?—I thought you told us yeſterday he was on the point of marriage.

Well, my dear Harriet, and what then? Is his being on the point of marriage any reaſon why he ſhould not be here?—he is even now haſtening to pay his devoirs to the Lady—I left him yeſterday at a friend's houſe on the road, and he promiſed to call on us in his way to-day—but I hear him—

Harriet, you look quite pale—I had no concep⯑tion that Sir Charles was of ſerious conſequence to you.

My dear Bella—I am aſhamed of myſelf—I'll go with you to your dreſſing-room—I muſt not ſee him while I look ſo ridiculouſly—I dread my Brother's raillery.

Come then, hold by me. Deuce take it, what bu⯑ſineſs have women with hearts?—If I could influence the Houſe, handſome men ſhould be ſhut out of ſociety, 'till they grew harmleſs, by becoming Huſbands.

Ha! the birds are flown.

Let us purſue 'em then.

Pho—they are not worth purſuing—Bella's a Co⯑quette, and Harriet's in love.

Harriet in love!

Aye, ſhe's in for't, depend on't—but that's nothing, I have intelligence for the man—my Incognita's found, ſhe's now in the houſe—my beauteous Wood Nymph!

Miſs Hargrave's heart another's!

Miſs Hargrave's heart another's—why, my Siſter's heart is certainly engaged—but how's all this?

O George! I love—I love your Siſter—to diſtrac⯑tion, doat on her.

A pretty time, for the mountain to give up its bur⯑then truly! Why did you not tell me this before? If your heart had been as open to me, as mine has ever been to you—I might have ſerv'd you; but now—

Oh, reproach me not, but pity me—I love your Siſter—long have lov'd her.

And not intruſt your love to me!—You diſtruſted me, Charles, and you'll be properly puniſh'd.

Severely am I puniſh'd—fool, fool, that I was, thus to have built a ſuperſtructure of happineſs for all my life to come, that in one moment diſſolves into air! I cannot ſee your Siſter—I muſt leave you.

Indeed, you ſhall not leave me, Seymour—On what grounds did you build your hopes, that you ſeem ſo greatly diſappointed?—Had my Siſter accepted your addreſſes?

No—I never preſumed to make her any—my fortune was ſo ſmall, that I had no hopes of obtaining your Father's conſent—and therefore made it a point of honour not to endeavour to gain her affection.

Yes, yes, you took great care.

But my Uncle's death having removed every cauſe of fear on that head, I flatter'd myſelf I had nothing elſe to apprehend.

Courage, my friend, and your difficulties may va⯑niſh. 'Tis your humble diſtant lovers who have ſung thro' every age of their ſcornful Phillis's—You never knew a bold fellow, who could love Women without miſtaking 'em for Angels, whine about their cruelty.

Do you not tell me your Siſter's heart is engaged?—Then what have I to ſtruggle for? it was her heart I wiſh'd to poſſeſs. Could Miſs Hargrave be indelicate enough, which I am ſure ſhe could not, to beſtow her hand on me without it, I would reject it.

Bravo!—nobly reſolved! keep it up by all means.—Come how, I'll introduce you to one of the fineſt Girls you ever ſaw in your life—but remember you are not to ſuffer your heart to be intereſted there, for that's my quarry—and death to the man who attempts to rob me of my prize!

Oh, you are very ſecure, I aſſure you—my heart is adamant from this moment.

Run and tell my Son I want to ſpeak to him here di [...]ectly

Her forty thouſand pounds will juſt enable me to buy the Greenwood Eſtate,—and to my cer⯑ta [...]n knowledge, that young Rakehelly won't be able to keep it to his back much longer. We ſhall then have more land than any family in the country, and a Borough of our own into the bargain. Humph—But ſuppoſe George ſhould not have a mind to marry her now? Why then,—why then—as to his mind, when two parties differ, the weaker muſt give way—the match is for the advancement of your fortune, ſays I; and if it can't ſatisfy your mind, you muſt teach it what I have always taught you—obedience.—

[23] Oh, George, I ſent for you into the garden, that we might have no interruptions; for, as I was ſaying, there's an affair of conſequence I want to talk to you about.

I am all attention, Sir.

I don't deſign that you ſhall return to College any more—I have other views, which I hope will not be diſagree⯑able to you—You—you like Lady Dinah, you ſay?

She is a Lady of great erudition, with⯑out doubt.

I don't know what your notions may be of her age; I could wiſh her a few years younger, but—

Pardon me, Sir, I think there can be no objection to her age; and the preference her Ladyſhip gives to our fa⯑mily, is certainly a high compliment.

Ho, ho, then you are acquainted already with what I was going to communicate to you—I am ſurpriſed at that.

Matrimonial negotiations, Sir, are ſeldom long con⯑cealed; 'tis a ſubject on which every body is fond of talking—the young, in hopes that their turn will come;—and thoſe who are older—

By way of giving a fillip to their memories, I ſuppoſe you mean, George, ch?—well, I am glad you are ſo merry; I was a little uneaſy about what you might think of this affair—tho' I never mention'd it in my life—but perhaps, Lady Dinah may have hinted it to her woman, and then I ſhould not wonder if the whole pariſh knew it. However, you have no objection, and that's enough—tho' if you had, I muſt have had my way, George.

Without doubt, Sir.

Have you ſpoken to Lady Dinah on the ſubject?

Spoke—n—o, Sir, I could not think of addreſſing Lady Dinah on ſo delicate an affair without your permiſſion.

Well then, my dear Boy—I would have you ſpeak to her now, and, I think, the ſooner the better.

To be ſure, Sir—I ſhall obey you—

Well, you have ſet my heart at reſt—I am as happy as a Prince—I never fixt my mind on any thing in my life, ſo much as I have done on this marriage—and it would have gall'd me ſorely if you had been againſt it—but you are a good Boy, George, a very good Boy, and I'll go in, and prepare Lady Dinah for your viſit.

Why, my dear Father, you are quite elated on the proſpect of your nuptials—but why muſt I make ſpeeches to Lady Dinah? I am totally ignorant of the mode that elderly Gentlemen adopt on ſuch occaſions.

What, have you been opening your heart to your Father, George?

No, faith—he has been opening his to me—He has been making me the confident of his paſſion for Lady Dinah.

No! ha, ha, ha—is it poſſible?—what ſtyle does he talk in? is it flames and darts, or eſteem and ſentiment?

I don't imagine my good Father thinks of either—her fortune, I preſume, is his object; and I ſhall not venture to hint an objection; for contradiction, you know, only lends him freſh ardor. Where is Seymour and Harriet?

Your Siſter is in the drawing-room, and Sir Charles I juſt now ſaw in the Orange-walk, with his arms folded thus—and his eyes fixt on a ſhrub, in the moſt penſeroſo ſtyle you can conceive—Why—he has no appearance of a happy youth on the verge of Bridegroomiſm.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Why do you laugh?

At the embarraſment I have thrown the ſimpletons into—ha, ha, ha!

What ſimpletons?—what embarraſment?

That you cannot gueſs, my ſweet Couſin, with all your penetration.

I ſhall expire, if you won't let me know it—now do—pray, George—come—be pleas'd to tell it me.

No, no, you look ſo pretty while you are coaxing, that I muſt—muſt ſee you in that humour a little longer.

That's unkind—come—tell me this ſecret—tho' I'll be hang'd if I don't gueſs it.

Nay, then I muſt tell you; for if you ſhou'd find it out, I ſhall loſe the pleaſure of obliging you.—Seymour and my Siſter doat on one another—and I have made each believe, that the other has different engagements.

Oh, I am rejoiced to hear it.

Rejoic'd! I aſſure you, I am highly offended.

At what? Sir Charles is your friend, and every way an eligible match for your Siſter.

Very true—I am happy in their attachment, and therefore offended.—Sir Charles has been as chary of his ſecret, as if I had not deſerv'd his confidence.

I believe he never addreſs'd your Siſter.

Aye, ſo he pretends, he never made love to her—ridiculous ſubterfuge!—he ſtole into her heart by the help of thoſe ſilent tender obſervances, which are the ſureſt battery when there's time to play 'em off—If any man had thus obtain'd my Siſter's heart—left her a prey to diſappoint⯑ment, [25] and then ſaid—he meant nothing—my ſword ſhould have faught him, that his conduct was not leſs diſhonourable, than if he had knelt at her feet, and ſworn a million oaths.

Why, this might be uſeful—but, mercy upon us! if every girl had ſuch a ſnap-dragon of a Brother,—no Beaus—and very few pretty fellows would venture to come near her—pray, when did you form this miſchievous deſign?

Oh, Sir Charles has been heaping up the meaſure of his offences ſome time—'twould have diverted you to have ſeen the tricks he play'd to get Harriet's picture—At laſt he begg'd it, to get the drapery copied for his Siſter's; and I know 'tis at this moment in his boſom, tho' he has ſworn an hundred times 'tis ſtill at the Painter's.

Ha!—I'll fly and tell her the news—If I don't miſtake, ſhe'd rather have her picture there than in the Gal⯑lery of Beauties at Hampton.

Sdeath!—ſtop—Why, are not you angry?—ſhut out by parchment proviſoes from all the flutters of Courtſhip your⯑ſelf—you had a right to participate in Harriet's.

Very true; this might be ſufficient for me—But what pleaſure can you have in tormenting two hearts ſo at⯑tach'd to each other?

I do mean to plague 'em a little; and it will be the greateſt favour we can do them—for they are ſuch ſentimental people—you know—that they'll bluſh, and heſitate, and tor⯑ment each other, ſix months before they can come to an ex⯑planation—But, by alarming their jealouſy, they'll betray themſelves in as many hours.

Oh, cry your mercy!—So there's not one grain of miſchief in all this; and you carry on the plan in downright charity—well, really in that light there is ſome reaſon—

Aye, more reaſon than is neceſſary to induce you to join in it—even tho' there were miſchief—ſo promiſe me your aſſiſtance with a good grace.

Well, I do promiſe; for I really think—

Oh, I'll accept of very ſlight aſſurances.

A-propos! Here's Harriet—I'm juſt as angry as you wiſh me: leave us, and you ſhall have a good account of her.

Brother! Mr. Drummond, I fancy, wonders at your abſence: he's alone with the Lady—

Then he poſſeſſes a privilege that half mankind would grudge him.

Have you ſeen Sir Charles yet?

Indeed I have not—I confeſs I was ſo weak, as to retire twice from the drawing-room, becauſe I heard his voice—tho' I was conſcious my abſence muſt appear odd, and fearful the cauſe might be ſuſpected.

Ah!—pray be careful that you give him in particu⯑lar no reaſon to gueſs at that—I adviſe you to treat him with the greateſt coldneſs.

Moſt certainly I ſhall, whatever it coſts me—It would be the moſt cruel mortification, if I thought he would ever ſuſpect my weakneſs—I wonder, Bella, if the Lady whom he is to marry, is ſo handſome as George deſcribes her.

Of what conſequence is that to you, child?—never think about it; if you ſuffer your mind to be ſoften'd with reflections of that ſort, you'll never behave with a proper de⯑gree of ſcorn to him.

Oh, do not fear it; I aſſure you, I poſſeſs a vaſt deal of ſcorn for him.

I am ſure you fib,

—Well now, by way of example, he is coming this way, I ſee.

Is he?—come then, let us go.

Yes, yes, you are quite a Heroine, I perceive—Surely you will not fly to prove your indifference?—Stay and mortify him with an appearance of careleſsneſs and good-humour—For inſtance: when he appears, look at him with ſuch an unmeaning eye, as one glances over an acquaintance ſhabbily dreſs'd at Ranelagh—and when he ſpeaks to you, look another way; and then, ſuddenly recollecting yourſelf,—What is that you were ſaying, Sir Charles? I beg pardon, I really did not attend—then, without minding his anſwer—Bella, I was thinking of that ſweet fellow who open'd the ball with Lady Harriet—Did you ever ſee ſuch eyes? and then the air with which he danced!—O Lord! I never ſhall forget him.

You'll find me a bad ſcholar, I believe—however, I'll go through the interview, if you'll aſſiſt me.

Fear me not.

Ladies—this is rather unexpected—I hope I don't intrude.

Sir Charles Seymour can never be an unwelcome in⯑truder.

Miſs Hargrave—I have not had the happineſs of paying my reſpects to you ſince I arriv'd—I hope you have enjoyed a perfect ſhare of health and ſpirits, ſince I left Har⯑grave-Place.

I never have been better, Sir; and my ſpirits are ſeldom ſo good as they are now.

Your looks indeed, Madam, ſpeak you in poſ⯑ſeſſion of that happineſs I wiſh you

—You, Miſs Sydney, are always in ſpirits.

In general, Sir—I have not wiſdom enough to be troubled with reflections to deſtroy my repoſe.

Do you imagine it then a proof of wiſdom to be unhappy?

One might think ſo; for wiſe folks are always grave.

Then I'll never attempt to be wiſe—henceforward I'll be gaiety itſelf—I am de [...]ermined to devote myſelf to pleaſure, and only live to laugh.

Perhaps you may not always find ſubjects, Couſin, unleſs you do as I do—laugh at your own abſurdities.

Oh, fear not—we need not always look at home; the world abounds with ſubjects for mirth, and the men will be ſo obliging as to furniſh a ſufficient number, when every other reſource fails.

Miſs Hargrave was not always ſo ſevere.

Fye, Sir Charles—do not miſtake pleaſanty for ſeverity—but exuberant ſpirits frequently overflow in im⯑pertinence; therefore I pardon your thinking that mine do.

Impertinence! Surely, Madam, you cannot ſup⯑poſe I meant to—

Nay, Bella, I appeal to you; did not Sir Charles intimate ſome ſuch thing?

Why—a—I don't know—To be ſure there was a kind of a diſtant intimation—tho' perhaps Sir Charles only means that you are aukward—ha! ha!—But conſider, Sir, this character of Harriet's is but lately aſſumed—and new characters, like new ſtays, never ſit till they have been worn.

Very well, Ladies; I will not diſpute your right to underſtand my expreſſions in what manner you pleaſe—but I hope you will allow me the ſame—and that, when a Lady's eyes ſpeak diſdain, I may, without offence, tranſlate it into Love.

'Tis an error that men are apt to fall into; but the eyes talk in an idiom, warm from the heart; and ſo ſkilful an obſerver as Sir Charles will not miſtake their language.

Are they alike intelligible to all?

So plain, that nine times out of ten, at leaſt, miſ⯑takes muſt be wilful.

Then pray examine mine, Madam, and by the [...]port you make I ſhall judge of your proficiency in their dialect.

Oh—I'll examine yours, Sir Charles—I am a better judge than Harriet—let me ſee—aye—'tis ſo, in one I per⯑ceive love and jealouſy—in the other, hope and a wedding. Now am I not a Propheteſs?

Prove but one in the laſt article, and I aſk no more of Fate—now—will you read? Madam!

You are ſo intirely ſatisfied with Bella's tranſlation, Sir, that I will not run the riſk of mortifying you with a dif⯑ferent conſtruction—come, Couſin—let us return to our company.

Fye! that air of pique is enough to ruin all.

Do you not find the garden agreeable, Miſs Har⯑grave? I begin to think it charming.

Perfectly agreeable, Sir—but the happy never fly ſociety—I wonder to ſee you alone. Come, Bella.

Bravo!

Aſtoniſhing! What is become of that ſweetneſs—that dove-like ſoftneſs, which ſtole into my heart, and deceived me into dreams of bliſs? She flies from me, and talks of her company, and returning to her ſociety—Oh Harriet! oh my Harriet! thy ſociety is prized by me beyond that of the whole world; and ſtill to poſſeſs it, with the hope that once glowed in my boſom, would be a bleſſing for which I would ſacrifice every other, that Nature or Fortune has beſtowed.

I AM ſurpriſed, Madam, at your thinking in this manner—when I ſpoke to my Son this morning—I aſſure you, he expreſs'd a great deal of ſatisfaction about the affair—I won⯑der indeed he has not been here.

Now, I could almoſt blame you, Mr. Hargrave—pardon me—but you have certainly been too precipitate—your Son has ſcarcely been at home four and twenty hours, and cannot poſſibly have received any impreſſion, or formed an idea of my character.—He has been ſo much engaged, in⯑deed, with other perſons, that I have had no opportunity of converſing with him; and how, ſo circumſtanced, can he have form'd a judgment of his own heart?

Good God! Madam, he has given the beſt proof in the world that he has formed a judgment; for he told me this morning, that the proſpect of the marriage made him very happy.—I don't know what other proof a man can give that he knows his own heart—and let me tell you, Madam, I have accuſtomed my children to pay a proper regard to my inclination.

I am apprehenſive, Sir, that Mr. George Har⯑grave's obedience may influence him more than I cou'd wiſh—and I aſſure you, I cannot think of uniting myſelf to any man, who does not prefer me for my own ſake, without ad⯑verting to any other conſideration.

His obedience to me, influence him more than you could wiſh!—why really I don't underſtand you, my Lady—Zounds! I thought ſhe had been a ſenſible Wo⯑man.

Not underſtand me, Mr. Hargrave! I have too high an opinion of your good ſenſe, to ſuppoſe that I am un⯑intelligible to you.

My opinion, Madam, is, that an obedient Son is likely to make a kind Huſband—George is a fine young fel⯑low as any in England, though I his father ſay it,—and there's not a woman in the kingdom, who might not be proud to call him her huſband—too obedient—

Bleſs me! this man has no ideas

—You miſtake me, Mr. Hargrave; I do not mean to leſſen the merit of obedience in your Son—but, I confeſs, I wiſh him to have a more delicate, a more tender motive, for offering his hand to me.

Look ye, Madam—you have a great under⯑ſtanding, to be ſure—and I confeſs you talk above my reach—but I muſt nevertheleſs take the liberty to blame your Ladyſhip;—a perſon of your Ladyſhip's experience—and, al⯑low me to ſay, your date in the world, muſt know that there are occaſions in which we ſhould not be too nice.

Too nice! Mr. Hargrave—

Aye—too nice, my Lady,—a Boy and Girl of ſixteen, have time before 'em—they may be whimſical, and be off and on, and play at ſhilly-ſhally as long as they have a mind.—But, my Lady, at a certain ſeaſon we muſt leave off theſe tricks, or be content to go to the grave old Batchelors and—

I am utterly aſtoniſhed, Mr. Hargrave—you ſurely mean to offend me—you inſult me.

No—by no means—I would not offend your Ladyſhip for the world—I have the higheſt reſpect for you, and ſhall rejoice to call you my Daughter—if you are not ſo, it will be your own fault—for George, I am ſure, is ready the moment you will give your conſent—The writings ſhall be drawn when you think proper, and the marriage conſum⯑mated without delay.

Well, Sir—I really do not know what to ſay—when Mr. George Hargrave ſhall imagine it a proper period to talk to me on the ſubject—I—I—

Well, well, Madam—I allow this is a topic on which a Lady does not chuſe to explain herſelf but to the prin⯑cipal—I waited on your Ladyſhip only to inform you that I had talked to my Son concerning the affair, and to incline you, when he waits on you, to give him a favourable hearing.

Mr. Hargrave—a perſon of your Son's merit is entitled to a proper attention from any Woman he addreſſes.

There—now we are right again—I was fearful that you had not liked my Boy—and that your difficulties aroſe from that quarter—but ſince you like George, 'tis all very well, very well.

Mr. Hargrave!—I am ſurpriſed at your con⯑ceiving ſo unjuſt an idea—Mr. George Hargrave is, as you have ſaid, a match for any woman, whatever be her rank.

My dear Lady Dinah—I am quite happy to hear you ſay ſo—I am ſure George loves you—odds bobs, I hear him on the ſtairs—I'll go and ſend him to you this moment, and he ſhall tell you ſo himſelf—you'll ſurely believe him.

Mr. Hargrave, Mr. Hargrave—bleſs me, what an impetuous obſtinate old Man—what can I do?—I am in an exceedingly indelicate ſituation—he will tell his Son that I am waiting here in expectation of a declaration of love from him—Sure never woman was in ſo aukward an embarras—I wiſh the Son poſſeſſed a little of the Father's impetuoſity—this would not then have happened.

Your Ladyſhip's moſt obedient ſervant.

S—i—r

My Father permits me, Madam, to make my ac⯑knowledgments to your Ladyſhip, for the honour you deſign our Family.

I muſt confeſs, Sir, this interview is ſomewhat unexpected—it is indeed quite premature—I was not prepared for it, and I am really in great confuſion.

I am ſenſible, Madam, a viſit of this kind to a Lady of your delicacy muſt be a little diſtreſſing—but I intreat you to be compoſed—I hope you will have no reaſon to regret a reſolution which myſelf, and the reſt of the family, have ſo much cauſe to rejoice in—and I aſſure your Ladyſhip, every thing on my part, that can contribute to your felicity, you ſhall always command.

You are very polite, Sir—We have had ſo little opportunity of converſing, Mr. Hargrave, that I am afraid you expreſs rather your Father's ſentiments than your own. It is impoſſible, indeed, from ſo ſhort a knowledge, that you can have formed any ſentiments of me yourſelf.

Pardon me, Madam, my ſentiments for you are full of reſpect—and I am convinced your qualities will excite the veneration of all who have the honour of being connected with you. My Father could hardly have done it better.

Why, this young Man has certainly been taught to make love by his Tutor at College.

I am concerned this viſit ſeems ſo embarraſſing to your Ladyſhip—I certainly ſhould have deferr'd it, from an apprehenſion of its being diſagreeable, but, in obedience to my Father, I—

Then it is to your Father, Sir, that I am in⯑debted for the favour of ſeeing you.

By no means, Madam—it would certainly have been my inclination to have waited on your Ladyſhip, but my Father's wiſhes induced me to haſten it.

Really! a pretty extraordinary confeſſion!

—I think it neceſſary to aſſure you, Sir, that—that this af⯑fair has been brought thus forward by Mr. Hargrave—and the propoſals he made, in which it was evident, his whole heart was concern'd, were quite unexpected.

I have not the leaſt doubt of it, Madam, nor am I at all ſurpriſed at my Father's earneſtneſs, on a ſubject ſo in⯑tereſting—What can ſhe mean by apologizing to me?

It would certainly have been proper, Sir, to have allowed you time to have formed a judgment yourſelf, on a point which coucerns you ſo highly.

The time has been quite ſufficient, Madam—I highly approve the ſteps my Father has taken—but if I did not, the reſpect I bear to his determination would certainly have pre⯑vented my oppoſing them. I muſt end this extraordinary viſit

—Shall I have the honour of conducting your Ladyſhip to the Company?

N—o, Sir—I have ſome orders to give my Woman, I'll rejoin the Ladies in a few minutes.

Then I'll wiſh your Ladyſhip a good morning.

Amazement! why, what a viſit from a Lover!—Is this the language in which men uſually talk to wo⯑men, with whom they are on the point of marriage?—Reſpect! Veneration! Obedience to my Father!—And ſhall I have the honour of conducting your Ladyſhip to the Compa⯑ny?—A pretty Lover-like requeſt truly!—But this cold⯑neſs to me proceeds from a cauſe I now underſtand—This morning, what fire was there in his eyes! what animation in his countenance! whenever he addreſs'd himſelf to that creature Mr. Drummond brought here?—Would his requeſt to her have been to conduct her to Company?—No, no;—But I muſt be cautious—I muſt be patient now—but you will find, Sir, when I poſſeſs the privileges of a Wife, I ſhall not ſo eaſily give them up—your fiery glances, if not directed to me, ſhall at leaſt, in my preſence, be addreſſed to no other.

Hang Muſic—it only makes me melancholy—Heigh-ho '—theſe Lovers inſect me too, I believe—Seducive Italy! what are your attractions? Oh, for Fortunatus's cap—I'd convince myſelf in a moment if my doubts are [33] juſtly founded—And ſuppoſe they ſhould—what then?—Ah! they think I am made of ice, whilſt the gaiety of my diſpoſition only ſerves to conceal a heart as tenderly ſuſceptible as the moſt ſerious of my ſex can poſſeſs—

Ah, my dear Ma'am, I am rejoiced to ſee you; I have been juſt long enough alone to be tired of myſelf, and to be charmed at ſo agreeable a relief.

Can that ever be the caſe with Miſs Sidney? I thought you had poſſeſs'd the happieſt flow of ſpirits in the world.

Pho!—your great ſpirits are mere Jack-a-lanterns in the brain—they dance about, ſhine, and make vagaries—while thoſe who poſſeſs happineſs, ſoberly and quietly en⯑joy their treaſure.

Indeed! I hope dulneſs is not your criterion of happineſs—if it is, there are few aſſemblies where you'll not find a great number to envy.

Oh, no—Dulneſs is the character of thoſe who are too wiſe, not too happy.

Two Ladies in council—on faſhion, or news?

On a better ſubject—laughing at the ſlaves we have made, and forging chains for more.

That's not the buſineſs of fine Women—Nature meant to ſave them the trouble of plotting—for traps and chains, ſhe beſtowed ſparkling eyes, and timid bluſhes, with a whole multitude of graces, that hang about the form, and wanton in the air.

Well, after all, Men are delightful creatures—flat⯑tery, cards, and ſcandal, help one thro' the day tolerably well—I don't know how we ſhould exiſt without 'em in the country.

And which of 'em would you relinquiſh in town?

Not flattery, becauſe it keeps one in ſpirits, and gives a glow to the complexion—Scandal, you may take away—but pray leave us cards, to keep us awake, with the faſhionable world, on Sunday evenings.

And, in lieu of ſcandal, you'll be content with con⯑queſt.

Ridiculous! Conqueſt is not ſuch an object with Wo⯑men, as the Men imagine—for my part, I ſhould conceive a net that would catch the hearts of the whole ſex, a property of very little value.

But, you would think it a very pleaſant one, my gentle Cuz. or, at leaſt

you'd pick out one happy favourite before you gave the reſt to deſpair.

Poſitively no—I don't know one that I ſhould not let fly away with the reſt.

Now, how can you fib, with ſuch an unbluſhing face? This debate, Madam,

will let you into Bel⯑la's ſecret—ſhe has, at this moment, an image in her heart, that gives a flat contradiction to her tongue.

Indeed!—you make your aſſertion with great effron⯑tery—but now, to compliment your diſcernment, whoſe image do you think of?

Ha, Bella—liſten with your greedieſt ears to catch the tranſporting ſound—breathe not, ye ſofteſt Zephyrs! be ſilent, ye harmonious Spheres! while I articulate the name of—

Oh, I won't hear it.

Belville!

Oh, frightful!—don't attend to him—George's be⯑lief is always under the influence of his fancy.

In this inſtance, if I may judge from your looks, he has not hinted at a fiction.

Indeed you are miſtaken; his gueſs might have been as good, if you had named Preſter John.

Hum—I wiſh it may be ſo, for I have heard a ſtory about a certain Lady on the Continent, whom a certain Gen⯑tleman—

Thinks handſomer than Bella Sydney—mortifying—ha, ha, ha!

Nay more, to whom be devotes his hours.

His heart

On whom he doats.

Pſha!

Grows melancholy.

Nonſenſe!

Nay, fights for her.

Ridiculous!

Lives only at her feet.

You are really very inſupportable, Sir—do find ſome other ſubject to amuſe yourſelf.

Ha, ha, ha! the Gudgeon has bit—See, Madam, a Coquette ſtruggling with the conſciouſneſs of love,—are not thoſe pouts, and angry bluſhes, proofs of Belville's happi⯑neſs?

I cannot perceive theſe proofs—Mr. Belville, per⯑haps, is not in ſo enviable a ſtate.

Oh, you are a good Girl, and, I aſſure you, perfectly right—Lovers, thank our ſtars! are too plenty, for an ab⯑ſent one to give us much pain.—What, turn your arms on your aſſociate, George!—I'll break the league, and diſcover all.

You dare not, you love miſchief too well—it is as dear to you as the ſighs of your Lover.

A-propos! where's Sir Charles?

In the garden probably—ſighing to the winds—and I wiſh you'd find him—and leave us.

Ha! Perhaps they'll waft his ſighs to Harriet—and ſhe muſt not hear 'em yet—and ſo, Sir Charles—

Oh, pray make me one of your party.

Stay, Madam, I entreat you—believe me, they will not thank you—I'll tell you the ſtory.

I'll hear it from Miſs Sydney.

Nay, if you are determined—

In vain do I endeavour to conceal it from myſelf—This ſpot has charms for me, that I can find in no other—here have I ſeen—perhaps for the laſt time, Sir Charles Seymour. My Couſin's preſence was unlucky—I ſhould have heard him—but it would have been a crime in him to have talked to me of love—an inſult that I muſt have reſented—and yet 'tis the only ſubject on which I could wiſh to have heard him. Bleſs me! he's here again—he haunts this place—but he does not obſerve me, and I'll conceal myſelf; for I feel I could not now behave with proper reſerve.

Ha, not here then!—Sweet reſemblance of her I love! come from thy hiding-place.

In her abſence thou art the deareſt object to my eyes. What a face is this!

Ho ho!—ſo the Picture's come home from the Painter's, is it, Sir—and the drapery quite to your mind?

The artifice I uſed to obtain it, thoſe who love can pardon.

And how many times a day doſt thou break the decalogue in worſhipping that Image?

Every hour that I live. I gaze on it till I think it looks, and ſpeaks to me; it lies all night on my heart, and is the firſt object I addreſs in the morning.

Oh, complete your character, and turn Monk—'tis plain you're half a Papiſt.

Why condemn me to cells and penitence?

That you mayn't violate the laws of Nature, by pretending to a character for which ſhe never deſigned you. Your bonds, inſtead of ſilken fetters, appear to be hempen cords. Come, confeſs, have not you been examining on which of theſe trees you would be moſt gracefully pendent?

That gaieté de coeur, George, bears no mark of the tender paſſion; and, to be plain, I believe you know very little about it.

You are confoundedly miſtaken—we are both Lo⯑vers, but the difference between us lies thus: Cupid to me is a little familiar rogue, with an arch leer—and cheeks dimpled with continual ſmiles—To you—an aweful Deity, deck'd out in his whole regalia of darts, flames, and qui⯑vers, and ſo forth—I play with him—you—

Spare yourſelf the trouble of ſo long an expla⯑nation—All you would ſay is, that you love with hope—I with deſpair.

Very conciſe, and moſt pathetically expreſt—melancholy ſuits your features, Charles—'twere pity your Miſtreſs ſhould encourage you; it would deprive you of that ſomething in your air which is ſo touching—Ha! ha! ha!—poor Seymour! Come, let us go in ſearch of the girls, they are gone to the wood; who knows but you may find a nymph there, who'll have the kindneſs to put hang⯑ing and drowning out of your head?

Cupid is deaf, as well as blind.

Her picture in his boſom, and kiſs it with ſuch rapture too! Well—I am glad I am convinced—I am per⯑fectly at eaſe. He loves them without hope, and George was miſtaken in ſuppoſing him ſo near marriage—but he loves notwithſtanding—her picture lies all night on his heart, and her idea is never abſent from his mind—Well, be it ſo—I am perfectly at eaſe, and ſhall no longer find a diffi⯑culty in aſſuming an indifference that is become real—Oh, Seymour!

Inſolent wretch!—Nothing leſs than the conviction of my own ſenſes could have induced me to believe ſo ſhock⯑ing an indecorum—I ſaw her myſelf look at him with eyes that were downright gloting—I ſaw him ſnatch her hand, and preſs it to his lips, with an ardour that is incon⯑ceivable—and when the creature pretended to bluſh, and made a reluctant effort to withdraw it—my Youth, ſo full of veneration and reſpect for me, refuſed to reſign it—till the creature had given him a gracious ſmile of reconcilia⯑tion—Heavens! they are coming this way—ſure they do not perceive me—See there!—Nay, if you will come here.

I entreat you, Sir, not to perſiſt in following me—You'll force me to appeal to Mr. Drummond for protec⯑tion.

You need no protection, Madam, that you will not find in my reſpect—But you are barbarous to deprive me of converſing with you—'tis a felicity, I have ſo lately taſted, that 'tis no wonder I am greedy of it.

If you believe your attentions would not diſpleaſe me in my proper character—I ought to be offended that you addreſs them to a perſon, of whoſe name and family you are ignorant.

Can a name deprive you of that face, that air—or rob you of your mind—of what then am I ignorant?—'tis thoſe I addreſs with the moſt paſſionate vows of—

I poſitively will not liſten to you—However, if the acquaintance ſhould place us on a footing, I'll then [38] converſe with you—if on my own terms.

I have no diſlike to the charming freedom of the Engliſh manners—you ſhall be as gallant as you pleaſe; but I give you notice, the inſtant you become dangerous, I ſhall be grave.

How dangerous—

Oh, the moment you grow of conſequence enough to endanger my heart, I ſhall ſhut myſelf from you—but as long as you continue harmleſs, you may play.

This is not to be borne—I will not be harmleſs—I declare open war againſt your heart, not in play, but downright earneſt.

Nay, then, I muſt collect my forces to oppoſe you—my heart will ſtand a long ſiege, depend on it.

If you'll promiſe it ſhall yield at laſt, a ten years ſiege will be richly rewarded.

Oh, no; I make no promiſes—try your forces; if you ſhould poſſeſs yourſelf of it in ſpite of me—I can only bewail its captivity.

Your permiſſion to take the field is all I can at preſent hope; and thus on my knees, dear charming Crea⯑ture—

There's veneration and reſpect!

Hold, Sir—I will be ſo generous to tell you, that whenever you kneel I ſhall fly.

And I'll purſue—till my Atalanta confeſſes I have won the prize.

So,—there's a look! what a bleſſed Mother⯑in-law I ſhall have!

What!—not ſtay even to explain—to apolo⯑giſe—follow her before my face—oh, Monſters, Furies! yes, yes, ſhe'll yield without the trouble of a ten years ſiege—ſhe can ſcarcely hold out ten minutes—oh, ye ſhall both ſuffer for this—I will go this inſtant—I will do ſome⯑thing.

Hah, my good Lady, is it ſo? ha, ha, ha! I muſt ſee if I can't make myſelf uſeful here. A Lady, who like my miſtreſs gives way to her moſt unbridled paſſions, is the only one worth being ſerved by a girl of ſpirit and intrigue. I'll follow, and aid your Ladyſhip with my counſel before you [39] have time to cool—

—So—'tis needleſs, here ſhe ebbs, like a ſtormy ſea.

A moment's reflection has convinced me I ſhould be wrong—he muſt not ſuſpect that I influence his Father againſt the minion—nor will I allow her the ſatisfaction of thinking ſhe gives to me the pangs of jealouſy—but I will not loſe him—ſomething muſt be done.

Oh, my Lady, I was witneſs to the whole affair—Oh, a baſe man! I could have trampled him under my feet.

Baſe, indeed! but 'tis on her my reſentment chiefly falls—oh, Suſan—revenge!

I am ſure my heart achs for you, my Lady—there's nothing I would not do—Oh, ſhe's an artful ſlut.

She's as dangerous as artful—I muſt be rid of her, yet I know not how.—Oh France! for thy Baſtile, for thy Lettres de Cachet!

There are ways and means here, my Lady—Miſs told a fine tale to get into the houſe, and I fancy I can tell as fine a tale to get her out of it, and I ſhou'd think it neither ſin nor ſhame in the ſervice of ſo good a Lady.

If thou canſt contrive any method—I care not what—any plan to rid me of her; command my fortune.

Oh, dear my Lady, as to that—as to your fortune, my Lady, that's out of the queſtion—but I know your Lady⯑ſhip's generoſity—I think I could ſend her packing,—perhaps before night.

Can you!—The inſtant ſhe goes, I'll give you two hundred pounds.

She ſhall go, my Lady, if I have in⯑vention, or Jarvis a tongue.

Jarvis! Are you mad?—I wou'd not have him ſuſpect that I am concerned in the affair, for the univerſe.

Oh, dear my Lady—I vow I wou'd not mention your name to him—no, not for another two hundred pounds;—no, no, Miſs ſhall be got rid of, without giving Jarvis, or any one, the leaſt reaſon to ſuſpect that your Ladyſhip is privy to the matter.

I am convinced ſhe is an impoſtor, and I wonder Mr. Hargrave doesn't ſee it—but there will be more labour in rouſing his ſtupid apprehenſion, than in explaining to an en⯑thuſiaſt the conceptions of a Bolingbroke.

I am more afraid of Mr. Drummond than him.

Aye—he will ſupport that Girl's intereſt, in order to mortify me—

That doesn't ſignify, my Lady—I have a card as good as any he holds to play againſt him—your Ladyſhip muſt have ſeen that the old Juſtice has full as much weight with the 'Squire, as Mr. Drummond.

I obſerve that Mr. Hargrave is continually wa⯑vering between them—they influence his actions like two principal ſenſes—Mr. Drummond is the friend of his under⯑ſtanding, the other of his humour.—But what is the card you mean to play?

I mean to play one of his ſenſes againſt the other, my Lady, that's all—for I am miſtaken if I can't govern the Juſtice, as much as his whole five put together.

That is indeed a card—my hopes catch life at it—Suſan, ſay to him what you will, promiſe what you will—I ſuppoſe you have the way to the old fool's heart, and know by what road to reach it—at all events the Girl muſt be got rid of; the method I leave to you.—There's the dinner bell—I muſt walk a little to recover my compoſure, and then, I ſuppoſe, I may have the honour of ſitting for the young Lady's foil.

I am ſure ſhe can't have a better—ha, ha, ha!—Two hundred pounds! Oh the charms of jealouſy and re⯑venge—I might have ſerved one of your good ſort of orderly old women, 'till I had been grey—theſe two hundreds will quicken Mr. Jarvis a little—we ſhall ſee him more attentive, I fancy, than he has been, and then farewell to ſervitude—Hah, Jarvis!

My dear Goddeſs, I kiſs your fingers—I have been hunting for you in every walk in the garden.

Why—what did you want with me, Jarvis?

Why, faith, I have the ſame kind of neceſſity for you, that a Beau has for a looking-glaſs—you admire me, and keep me in good humour with myſelf.

Oh, if you want to be put in temper, I've got an excellent cordial. Now for your parts—now to prove your⯑ſelf the clever fellow that you think you are.

That you think, my dear, you mean—but what ex-

Liſten!—We have diſcovered that the young 'Squire thinks eighteen a prettier age than fifty—that he pre⯑fers natural roſes to Warren's, and that gravity and wiſdom are no match for the fire of two hazel eyes, aſſiſted by the rea⯑ſoning of ſmiles and dimples.

And he's in the right on't—didn't I tell you this morning they reckon'd without their hoſt?

Here has he been on his knees at the feet of the Damſel, and her Ladyſhip behind that buſh, amuſing herſelf with his tranſports—ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!—I warrant her, 'tis the only tranſports ſhe'll ever ſee him in. George Hargrave marry our old Lady! no, no—I have a very good opinion of that young fellow; he's exactly what I ſhould be, if I was heir to his Father's acres—juſt ſuch a ſpirited, careleſs deportment—a certain prevailing aſſurance—upon my ſoul, Suſan, you and I ought to have mo⯑ved in a higher ſphere.

Come, come, you muſt conſider this affair in ano⯑ther light; 'twou'd be a ſhame, that becauſe this Girl has a pretty face, and was found weeping by a compaſſionate old Gentleman—it wou'd be a ſhame, I ſay, that for theſe reaſons, ſhe ſhou'd marry into a great Family, and cheat the Siſter of a Peer, of a Huſband—Read the ſtory this way, act with ſpi⯑rit, and our Lady will, on the day of our marriage, give us two hundred pounds.

Humph!—on the day of our marriage—cannot you, Child, prevail on your Lady to give me the two hundred, without tacking that condition to it?

Pho, Sauce-box!—Well, but theſe two hundreds now—what will you do for 'em?

Do for 'em—Oh, any thing—the moſt extravagant thing in the world—run off with the girl—blow up the houſe—turn Turk—or marry you.

Upon my word, Sir.

Well, but the buſineſs, Child, the buſineſs.

The buſineſs is, that we muſt contrive to open ſome door for this Girl to walk out of the houſe.

But how—upon what ground—when, and where?

Why, if we could contrive the buſineſs, I have no doubt of the ſpirit and fire of your execution.—Do you re⯑member the occupation which once gave employment to theſe talents of yours—I mean that of an itinerant Player?

Oh, yes—I remember the barns that I have made [42] echo with the ravings of Oreſtes, and the ſtables in which I have ſighed forth the woes of Romeo.

Well, but have you any recollection of a pretty Juliet—a tall elegant Girl—in ſhort, do you not remember one of the ſtrolling party exceedingly like the ſtrange gueſt now in the houſe?

Hum!—Why, what devil ſent thee to tempt me this morning?—ſo I am to ſell my honour—my honeſty—

Pho, pho—honeſty and honour are ſentiments for people whoſe fortunes are made—let us once be independent, and we'll be as honourable and as honeſt as the beſt of 'em—ſo let's go in, and ſettle our plan.

Well—'tis the fate of great men to be in the hands of Women; and therefore, my ſweet Abigail—I am yours.

NAY, but hear him—hear him, Harriet.

Can this be you, Bella, who this morning ſeem'd fearful that I ſhould not treat him with ſufficient ſcorn—now perſuading me to allow a private interview to a Man who is profeſſedly the lover of another?

How apprehenſive you very delicate Ladies are! Why muſt you ſuppoſe he wants to talk to you about love—or on any topic, that his approaching marriage would make improper?

Why—what can he have to ſay to me?

Admit him, and he'll tell you—perhaps he wants to conſult your taſte about the trimmings of his wedding clothes—or to beg your choice in his ruffles—or—

Pho!—this is downright ridicule.

Well then—you won't admit him?

I ſhall tell him you don't chooſe to ſee him, tho' he is going to [43] leave us directly—but I approve your caution, Harriet, you are perfectly right.

Going to leave us directly, Bella!

Immediately, my dear—I heard him order his chaiſe, and mutter ſomething about inſupportable—but I think you'll be exceedingly imprudent in receiving his viſit, and adviſe you by all means to refuſe it.

Dear Bella!

Well then you will ſee him—I ſhall acquaint him with the ſucceſs of my embaſſy—but remember ſcorn, Harriet, ſcorn.

Now, what am I to expect? my heart beats ſtrangely—but remember, fooliſh Girl, the picture of his Miſtreſs is in his boſom.

The requeſt I ventured to make by Miſs Sidney, Madam, muſt appear ſtrange to you—the engagements which I—

Renders it an extraordinary requeſt indeed, Sir.

I fear'd you would think ſo, and conſcious of thoſe engagements, I ſhou'd not have preſum'd to have made it—but as it's probably the laſt time I may ever ſee you—I ſeize it, to tell you that—I adore you.

Sir Charles! I am aſtoniſhed,—in my Father's houſe at leaſt, I ſhould have been ſecure from ſuch an inſult.

Forgive me, I intreat you. Nothing could have forced this declaration from me, but my deſpair.

The engagement you talk of, Sir, ought to have prevented theſe effects of your deſpair.

I acknowledge it—and they have kept me ſilent ever ſince I arrived—but when I thought of leaving you in a few moments, I ſound the idea inſupportable.

The picture you wear, Sir Charles—might conſole you ſurely.

Hah—I thought you were ignorant, Madam, of my poſſeſſing it.

Without doubt you did, Sir Charles—but no, Sir—I am acquainted with your wearing that Picture—and wonder how you could preſume—but I deſerve the inſult, for liſtening to you a moment.

Oh, ſtay, Miſs Hargrave, I intreat you,—I will give up the picture, ſince it ſo offends you—yet how can I part from it?

Oh, keep it, Sir—keep it by all means—you miſtake me entirely, Sir; I have no right to claim ſuch a ſa⯑crifice.

You have a right, Madam—here it is—

but do not rob me of it.

Rob you of it!—in ſhort, Sir Charles, you redouble your rudeneſs every moment—

I did not think you would have ſo reſented it—but I reſign it to you, Madam—nay, you muſt take it.

I take it, Sir!

—My Picture!—aſtoniſhing!

Your picture, Madam!!

Look at the ſimpletons—na, ha, ha!

What a fine attitude!—do it again, Sir Charles—ha, ha, ha!—Well, Harriet—how do you like Sir Charles's Miſtreſs? Is ſhe as handſome as George repreſented her?

Hold, hold! 'tis time now to have mercy. My dear Harriet, allow me to preſent to you my moſt valued friend, as the Man whom I ſhou'd rejoice to ſee your Huſband. To you, my Seymour, I preſent a Siſter, whoſe heart has no en⯑gagements that I am acquainted with, to ſuperſede your claim.

I am ſpeechleſs with joy, and with amazement.

Forgive the embarraſment I have occaſion'd you—you have ſuffer'd ſomething; but your felicity will be heighten'd from the compariſon. My dear Harriet, Seymour has always loved you—the picture which ſo offended you is a proof, you cannot doubt.

And that you were ſo offended, is ſupreme feli⯑city—ſtupid wretch—not to perceive my bliſs!

You have taken a liberty with me that I cannot pardon.

Nay, but you ſhall pardon it—and as a proof, give him back your picture this minute.

Return it to me, Madam, I intreat you

I will receive it as the moſt precious gift.

Come, give the poor thing its bauble.

Well, take it, Sir—ſince you had no ſhare in this brilliant contrivance.

Eternal bleſſings on that hand!

You, George, are never ſo happy, as in exerciſing your wit, at my expence.

And you, Harriet, never ſo heartily forgave me in your Life, and therefore—

Hold, George—I cannot bear Miſs Hargrave's ſuffering in this manner; I will take on myſelf the tranſport⯑ing office of defending her—this hour, Madam, I ſhall for ever remember with gratitude, and will endeavour to deſerve it, by a life devoted to your happineſs.

Come, Harriet—I muſt take you away, that Sir Charles may bring down his raptures to the ſtandard of com⯑mon mortals—at preſent, I ſee his in the clouds.

'Tis merciful to relieve me.

Charming Miſs Sydney—I'll never quarrel with your vivacity again.—But why have I been made to ſuffer thus?

Becauſe you did not tell me why you wanted my Siſter's picture—but I have taken a friendly vengeance; my plot has told you more of my Siſter's heart in a few hours, than all your ſighs and humility, wou'd have obtained in as many months.

For which I thank you—and my preſent happineſs receives a brighter glow from this illuſion of miſery—I'll fly and pour out my joy and gratitude, at the feet of my charming Harriet.

Oh, ſtay, ſtay—we may want your aſſiſtance. Here's your Father coming, George. Your repartee to Lady Dinah at dinner, ſpoilt her digeſtion—and ſhe's been repre⯑ſenting you—that's all.

I hope ſhe repreſented her ſneer too, which ſuffuſed with tears the lovelieſt eyes in the world. Could I do leſs than ſupport h [...]r againſt the ill-humour of that antiquated pedant?—By Jupiter, I'll draw her in colours to my Father, that ſhall make him ſhrink from the fate he is preparing for himſelf.

Why, George, how's this?—Dy'e know what you've done?—you've affronted Lady Dinah.

I did not deſign to affront her, Sir—I only meant to convince her that ſhe ſhou'd not inſult the amiable young Lady, whom Mr. Drummond placed under your protection.

Don't tell me—amiable young Lady! How do you know what ſhe is?—on the footing you are with Lady Dinah, let me tell you, if ſhe had inſulted an hundred young Ladies, you ought not to have ſeen it—at leaſt, not reſented it.

Pardon me, Sir—I did not conceive that Lady Di⯑nah ſhou'd have aſſumed in your houſe—at leaſt till ſhe be⯑comes your Wife—a right to—

What's that you ſay, Sir?

Indeed, Sir, to confeſs the truth, I am aſtoniſh'd at your partiality for that Lady—ſhe is the laſt woman in the world, whom I could wiſh to ſee in the place of my amiable Mother.

Your Mother!

I ſhou'd think it a breach of my duty, to ſee you plunge yourſelf into ſo irretrievable a fate, without acquaint⯑ing you with my ſentiments—if you ſaw her in the light I do, Sir—you would think on your wedding day with horror.

Why—why—are you mad?

If you wiſhed to keep your engagements a ſecret, Sir—I am ſorry I mention'd the affair, but—

Oh—'tis no ſecret, Sir, I aſſure you—every body talks of it—for my part, I ſhall be quite happy in paying my reſpects to my new Aunt—I have put a coral ſtring in my tambour already, that I may finiſh it time enough for her firſt Boy to wear at its chriſtening.

Look ye, Sir—I perceive that you have all that backwardneſs in obeying me that I expected, and, in order to conceal it, are attempting to throw the affair into ridicule—but I tell you it will not do—I know what I am about, and my commands ſhall not be diſputed.

Commands, Sir!—I am quite at a loſs—

Well then, to prevent further miſtakes, I ac⯑quaint you, that I deſign Lady Dinah for your Wife, and not your Mother—and moreover, that the marriage ſhall take place in a very few days.

—And, d'ye hear?—acquaint your pert Couſin, that the coral ſtring will do for your firſt Boy.

So, ſo, ſo! and is this the end of all the cloſetings?

What the devil!—it muſt be all a dream.

Wife!!—Lady Dinah my Wife!

Ha, ha, ha! dear George, forgive me, but I muſt laugh, or I can't exiſt—ha, ha, ha! oh, my Couſin Dinah!

Pray, Bella, ſpare your mirth, and tell me what I am to do—for I am incapable of thinking.

Do! why run to Lady Dinah—fling yourſelf at her ſeet, tell her you had no idea of the bliſs that was deſigned you—and that you'll make her the tendereſt, fondeſt Huſ⯑band in the world—ha, ha, ha!

Oh, Couſin, for once forget your ſprightlineſs—I cannot bear it—Seymour, what am I to do?

My dear George, I pity you from my ſoul—but I know not what advice to give you.

Well, then ſeriouſly I think—ha, ha, ha! but 'tis impoſſible to be ſerious—I am aſtoniſh'd you are not more ſtruck with your Father's tender cares for you.

Have you no mercy, Bella?

You have none upon yourſelf, or inſtead of ſtanding here with that countenance ſi triſte, you wou'd be with Mr. Drummond.

He is, indeed, my only reſource—I'll fly to him this inſtant, and if it fails me—I am the moſt miſerable man on earth.

What can induce Mr. Hargrave to ſacrifice ſuch a fellow as George, to a Lady Dinah?—Prepoſterous!

Her rank and fortune—and I dread the lengths to which his obſtinacy may carry him; he has no more reſpect for the divinity of Love, than for that of the Aegyptian Apis—Let us find Harriet, and tell her the ſtrange ſtory; ſhe is not the only perſon, I fear, to whom it will be painful.

Is it poſſible that Lady Dinah, in the depth of her wiſdom, can imagine ſuch an union proper?

Be merciful—Love has forc'd Heroes to forget their valour, and Philoſophers their ſyſtems—no wonder he ſhou'd make a Woman forget her wrinkles.

Egad, ▪tis a ſervice of danger.

Danger! ſure you've no qualms?

No, no, child—no qualms—the reſolution with which I could go thro' an affair of this ſort, would in another hemiſphere make my fortune—but hang it, in theſe cold northern regions there's no room for a man of genius to ſtrike a bold ſtroke—the foſtering plains of Aſia, ſor ſuch talents as mine!

Now I think England's a very pretty ſoil.

Why, aye, if one could be ſure of keeping clear of a dozen ill-bred fellows, who decide on the conduct of a man of ſpirit at the Old Bailey, then indeed we need not care; for an air of Ton, and a carriage, on whatever ſprings it moves, introduces one to the beſt circles—But let us conſider our bottom—this girl was plac'd under the care of the old gentlewoman, by a perſon of credit.

Pho, pho, what! ſhe brought a recommendation—don't we know how eaſily a character is to be had—ſpotleſs as ſilver, or as bright as gold! 'tis a wonder ſhe did not af⯑ford a name too; I warrant ſhe had ſufficient reaſons to con⯑ceal her own.

It does look like it, and there's a myſtery in the affair—Now, myſteries, as my Lady ſays, we have a right to explain as we pleaſe.

Aye, to be ſure—and this is the explanation. She is an unprotected, artful girl, who having caught a taſte for the life of a fine Lady, thinks the ſhorteſt way to gratify her longing, is by gaining the heart of ſome credulous fool, who'll make her his wife for the ſake of her—Beauty.

True—That with this view ſhe told her ſtory to Mr. Drummond, who—innocent ſoul—not ſeeing her drift, introduced her here, where ſhe attempts to ſucceed, by play⯑ing off her artillery on the gunpowder conſtitution of George Hargrave, Eſq; the younger.

Oh, delightful!—why, if I continue with my Lady, I ſhall be her miſtreſs as long as ſhe lives—and now I think on't, I believe that muſt be our plan—You and I can be married juſt the ſame, you know.

Oh, juſt the ſame, my dear, juſt the ſame; no⯑thing ſhall prevent that—

but my being able to coax you out of the Two Hundred.

Hark! here comes the Juſtice—ſlip away, and leave me to manage him—I know I can make him uſeful—You need not be jealous now.

Jealous! no, no; I have liv'd among the great too long, to be tormented with ſo vulgar a paſſion.

Hah, hah! have I caught you, my little Pickſey? Come, no ſtruggling—I will have a kiſs, by Jingo.

Lud! you are the ſtrangeſt Gentleman—

You are wondrous coy, methinks.

Coy—ſo I ſhould—What have Gentlewomen without fortune, to recommend 'em elſe?

Aye—but that roſy, pouting mouth tells different tales, I warrant, to the fine Gentlemen in London. I have been thinking you'd make a pretty little Houſekeeper—yes you would, Huſſey—yes you would—will you come and live with me?

Oh, dear Sir—I ſhould like it vaſtly; but I think you had better go to London with me—I aſſure you, my [49] Lady ſpeaks very highly of your talents in the law—and ſhe has great intereſt—ſo, as ſoon as ſhe is Lady Dinah Hargrave—Your Worſhip is acquainted with that affair, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, yes; my friend has told me of it—but under ſtrict injunctions of ſecrecy.

Secrecy! aye, to be ſure—but I dare ſay Mr. Drummond has been informed of it.

Oh, I know nothing of him—he's queer and cloſe; one can never get him in at a bout—he's not ſtaunch.

I believe he is not ſtaunch to our match; and if that is prevented, we ſhall leave the country directly.

Why, what can prevent it, Sweety?

Perhaps Mr. Drummond's advice; for he can ma⯑nage Mr. Hargrave.

Ah—but my advice will go as far as his, I be⯑lieve; and do you think I'll part with you—you little wicked rogue you?

Then if you find the match is likely to go off, you muſt uſe all your intereſt to bring it to bear; and then we ſha'n't part, you little wicked rogue you.

That I will—I'll plead for the wedding as vigo⯑rouſly, as if I had an hundred guineas with a brief.

Well—but d'ye mind me? I don't like the ſtranger this ſame 'Squire uſher'd here.

Not like her! why, ſhe's a deviliſh fine girl;—adad, the warm ſparkling of her eyes catches one's heart, as if it was made of tinder.

Upon my word—a deviliſh fine Girl—the ſparkling of her eyes!—

Oh—I don't mean—that is—Oh, I would rather have one kind look of thine, ſweet Mrs. Sukey—for t'other I dare not ſquint at.

Hah!—I believe you are a Coquet—but however, I have certain reaſons to wiſh this beautiful Angel out of the houſe. I have obſerved looks that I don't like, between her and young Hargrave—and—you comprehend me—whatever interrupts the marriage, we are gone.

I underſtand you—you may depend upon me—let me ſee—how ſhall we manage to get her out of Drummond's clutches?

That's your buſineſs—I ſay, that muſt be done, and you muſt do it.

To be ſure, Mrs. Suſan—let me conſider—

We muſt have no qualms, Mr. Juſtice.

We will have none—but what your ſmiles, ſweet Sukey, can diſperſe—I muſt venture a little—the tender paſſions make one do any thing. Omnia vincit amor, ſay no more.

She ſhall be ſent packing.

Have I not given you the word of a Magiſtrate?—But come now, give me one kiſs, you little dear, cruel, ſoft, ſweet, charming, baggage.

Oh, fye—you won't aſk for wages, before you've done your work.

Stop—don't run ſo faſt—don't run ſo faſt, Huſſy—

I wiſh I had known it before matters had been carried ſo far—on a ſubject of this nature no woman can be affronted with impunity.

I▪ am careleſs of her reſentment—I will never be her huſband—nor huſband to any woman, but her to whom I have given my vows.

Hah!—have you carried your affair ſo forward?

Yes, Sir, I have made that enchanting Girl the offer of my heart and hand, and tho' her delicacy forbids her, while our families remain unknown to each other, to give the aſſent my heart aſpires to—yet ſhe allows me to [...]atch hopes, that I would not forfeit to become maſter of the univerſe.

There's a little of the ardor of youth in this—the ardor of youth, George—however, I will not blame you▪ for twenty years ago, I might have been tempted to enter the liſts with you, myſelf.

I ſhou'd fear leſs to meet a Hector in the field—in ſuch a cauſe the fury of Achilles would inſpire me—and I would bear off my lovely prize from amidſt the embattled phalanx.

Bravo—I like to ſee a man romantic in his love, and in his friendſhips—the virtues of him who is not an enthuſiaſt in thoſe noble paſſions, will never have ſtrength to riſe into fortitude, patriotiſm, and philanthropy—but here comes your Father, leave us.

May the ſubject inſpire you with reſiſtleſs clo⯑quence!

So, Mr. Hargrave.

So, Mr. Drummond—what, I gueſs your bu⯑ſineſs.

I ſuppoſe you do, and I hope you are prepared to hear me with temper.

You'll talk to no purpoſe, for I am fixed, and therefore the temper will ſignify nothing.

Strange infatuation! why muſt George be ſacrificed to your ambition?—ſurely, it may be gratified without tying him to your Lady Dinah.

How?

By marrying her yourſelf—which, till now, I ſuppoſed to have been your deſign—and that wou'd have been ſufficiently prepoſterous.

What!—make me a ſecond time the ſlave of hyſterics, longings, and vapours!—no, no, I've got my neck out of the nooſe—catch it there again if you can—what, her Ladyſhip is not youthful enough for George, I ſuppoſe?

True—but a more forcible objection is the diſ⯑proportion in their minds—it wou'd not be leſs reaſon⯑able to expect a new element to be produced between earth and fire, than that felicity ſhou'd be the reſult of ſuch a marriage.

Pſha, pſha—what, do you ſuppoſe the whole world has the ſame idle notions about love and conſtancy, and ſtuff, that you have? D'ye think, if George was to become a widower at five and twenty, he'd whine all his life for the loſs of his deary?

Not if his deary, as you call her, ſhould be a Lady Dinah; and if you marry him with no other view than to procure him a happy widowhood, I admire the election you have made—but, if ſhe ſhou'd be like my loſt love—my ſainted Harriet—my—oh! Hargrave—

Come, come, I am very ſorry I have moved you ſo—I did not mean to affect you—come, give me your hand—'ſbud, if a man has any thing to do with one of you fellows with your fine feelings, he muſt be as cau⯑tious as if he was carrying a candle in a gunpowder barrel.

'Tis over, my friend—but when I can hear my Harriet named, without giving my heart a fond re⯑gret for what I have loſt—reproach me—for then, I ſhall deſerve it.

Well, well—it ſhall be your own way—but come, let me convince you that you are wrong in this buſineſs

—'sbud! I tell you it has been the ſtudy of my life to make George a great man—I brought Lady Dinah here with no [52] other deſign—and now, when I thought the matter was brought to bear—when Lady Dinah had conſented—and my Son, as I ſuppoſed, eager for the wedding—why!—'tis all a flam!

My good friend—the motives, from which you wou'd ſacrifice your Son's happineſs, appear to me ſo weak.

Weak!—why, I tell you, I have provided a wife for George, who will make him, perhaps, one of the firſt men in the kingdom.

That is, ſhe would make him a Court Dangler, an attendant on Miniſters levees—one whoſe ambition is to be foſtered with the cameleon food of ſmiles and nods, and who would receive a familiar ſqueeze with as much rapture as the plaudits of a nation—oh—ſhame—to transform an independent Engliſh Gentleman into ſuch a being!

Well, to cut the argument ſhort—the bar⯑gain is ſtruck, and George ſhall marry Lady Dinah, or never have an acre of my land, that's all.

And he ſhall never poſſeſs a rood of mine, if he does.

There, I thought twou'd come to this: what a ſhame it is for a man to be ſo obſtinate!—but hold—faith, if ſo, I may loſe more than I get by the bargain—he'll ſtick to his word.

I am very much ſurprized, Mr. Drummond—Sir—that I can't be left alone in the diſcharge of my magiſ⯑terial duties, but muſt be continually thwarted by you.

This interruption, Mr. Juſtice, is ill-timed, and rather out of rule—I cou'd wiſh you had choſen ano⯑ther opportunity.

No opportunity like the preſent—no time like the preſent, Sir—you've cauſe, indeed, to be diſpleas'd with my not obſerving rules, when you are continually break⯑ing the laws.

Ha, ha, ha! let us hear—what hen-rooſt robbery have you to lay to my charge now?

Aye, Sir, you may think to turn it off with a joke, if you pleaſe—but for all that, I can prove you to be a bad member of ſociety, for you counteract the wiſe de⯑ſigns of our legiſlators, and obſtruct the operations of juſ⯑tice—yes, Sir, you do.

Don't be ſo warm—what is this affair?

Why, the poacher, whom we committed laſt night, [53] Mr. Drummond has releaſed, and given money to his family—How can we expect a due obſervance of our laws, when raſcals find encouragement for breaking them?—Shall Lords and Commons in their wiſdom aſſemble in Par⯑ment, to make laws about hares and partridges, only to be laughed at? Oh, 'tis abominable!

Very true; and let me tell you, Mr. Drum⯑mond, it is very extraordinary that you will be conti⯑nually—

Peace, ye men of juſtice—I have all the re⯑gard to the laws of my country, which it is the duty and intereſt of every member of ſociety to poſſeſs—If the man had been a poacher, he ſhou'd not have been protected by me—the poor fellow found the hare in his garden, which ſhe had conſiderably injured.

Ho, ho—what, the raſcal juſtifies himſelf! an unqualified man gives reaſons for deſtroying a hare!—Zounds, if a gang of ruffians ſhou'd burn my houſe, wou'd you expect me to hear their reaſons?

Ah, there it works—Suſan's my own

—there can be no reaſons—if he had found her in his houſe, in his bed-chamber—in his bed, and offer'd to touch her—I'd pro⯑ſecute him for poaching.

Oh, bluſh to avow ſuch principles!

Look'ee, Mr. Drummond, though you go⯑vern George with your whimſical notions, you ſha'n't me.—I foreſee how it will be as ſoon as I'm gone—my fences will be cut down—my meadows turned into common—my corn-fields laid open—my woods at the mercy of every man who carries an axe—and, oh—this is noble, this is great!

Indeed, 'tis ridiculous.

I'll take care that my property ſha'n't fall a ſa⯑crifice to ſuch whimſies—I'll tye it up, I warrant me—and ſo, Juſtice, come along.

We were talking on a ſubject, Mr. Hargrave, of more importance, at preſent, than this; and, I beg you'll hear me farther.

Enough has been ſaid already, Mr. Drummond,—or if not, I'll give you one anſwer for all—I ſhall never think myſelf obliged to ſtudy the humour of a man, who thinks in ſuch oppoſition to me; I have a humour of my own, which I am determined to gratify, in ſeeing George a great man—He ſhall marry Lady Dinah in two days; and all the fine reaſoning in the world, you will ſee, has [54] leſs ſtrength than my reſolution—'Sbud, if I can't have the willing obedience of a Son, I'll enjoy the prerogatives of a Father—Come along, Juſtice.

D'ye hear with what a fine firm tone he ſpeaks?—This was only a political ſtroke, to reſtore the balance of power.

Why don't you follow, Sir?

My ſon ſhall be a great Man!—To ſuch a vanity as this, how many have been ſacrificed!—He ſhall be great—The happi⯑neſs of love, the felicities that flow from a ſuitable union, his heart ſhall be a ſtranger to—but he ſhall convey my name, deck'd with titles, to poſterity, though, to purchaſe theſe diſtinctions, he lives a wretch—This is the ſilent language of the heart, which we hold up to ourſelves as the voice of Reaſon and Prudence.

Miſs Morley!—Why this penſive air?

I am a little diſtreſs'd, Sir—the delicacy of the mo⯑tive which induced you to place me here, I am perfectly ſen⯑ſible of—yet—

Yet—what, my dear Child?

Do not think me capricious, if I intreat you to take me back to your own houſe, till my uncle arrives—I cannot think of remaining here.

Then 'tis as I hoped

—What can have diſguſted you?—Come, be frank; conſider me as a friend, to whom you may ſafely open your heart.

Your goodneſs, Sir, is exceſſive—Shall I confeſs—the Lady who will ſoon have moſt right here, treats me unkindly.

That you can't wonder at—Be aſſured, I will effectually defend you from her inſults—But do you not pity poor George, for the fate his father deſigns him?

Yes—I do pity him.

If I dared, I would go ſtill further—I would hope, that, as his happineſs depends on you—

Sir!

Let me not alarm you—I am acquainted with his paſſion, and wiſh to know that 'tis not diſpleaſing to you.

So circumſtanced, Sir—what can I ſay?—He is deſtined to be the huſband of another.

It is enough—I bind myſelf to you from this moment, and promiſe to effect your happineſs, if within the compaſs of my abilities or fortune. But, that I may know my taſk—favour me with the key to your Uncle's cha⯑racter.

My Uncle poſſeſſes a heart, Sir, that would do him honour, if he would be guided by it—but unhappily he has conceived an opinion that his temper is too flexible—that he is too eaſily perſuaded—and the conſequence is—he'll never be perſuaded at all.

I am ſorry to hear that—a man who is obſtinate from ſuch a miſtake, muſt be in the moſt incurable ſtage of the diſorder. However, we'll attack this man of might—his flexibility ſhall be beſieged, and if it won't capitulate, we'll undermine it.

Ah, Sir! my Uncle is in a ſtate of mind ill prepared for yielding—He returned from Spain with eager pleaſure to his native country; but the diſguſt he has conceiv'd for the alteration of manners during his abſence, has given him an impatience that you will hardly be able to combat.

Take courage—let me now lead you back to your young companions—I am obliged to be abſent a ſhort time—but I'll watch over you, and, if poſſible, lead you to happineſs.

Where the devil does my clerk ſtay with Burn! But I know I'm right—yes, yes, 'tis a clear caſe. By the ſtatute Anno Primo Caroli Secundum—obtaining goods on falſe pretences, felony, with benefit—hum—with benefit.—Now obtaining entrance into houſes, upon falſe preten⯑ces, muſt be worſe—I have no doubt but it amounts to a burglary, and that I ſhall be authorized to commit—Ho! here they are! where is my clerk and Burn?

Aye, aye, here's a pretty buſineſs—bringing this Girl into my houſe now is the conſequence of Mr. Drum⯑mond's fine ſeelings—he will never take my advice—but I'll ſhew him who is beſt qualified to ſiſt into an affair of this ſort—and yet I am a little puzzled—a ſtroller—

It is, doubtleſs, a ſtrange ſtory, Mr. Hargrave—and I beg that you will yourſelf queſtion my ſervant con⯑cerning it.

Why, what can ſhe mean—what can her deſign be?

To you I ſhou'd imagine her deſign muſt be very obvious, 'though Mr. Drummond's penetration was ſo eaſily eluded—By aſſuming the airs and manners of a per⯑ſon of rank, ſhe doubtleſs expects to impoſe on the cre⯑dulity of ſome young heir, and to procure—a jaunt to Scot⯑land—that, Mr. Hargrave, I take to be her deſign.

Hoh, ho, is it ſo—now I underſtand your Ladyſhip—if your man can prove what he aſſerts, be aſſured, Madam, ſhe ſhall not ſtay in my houſe another moment—I'll young heir the baggage.

But conſider, dear Mr. Hargrave, before you take any ſteps in this affair—that 'tis poſſible, we may have been deceived, for tho' my ſervant avows having been on the moſt intimate terms with her, he may be miſtaken in her perſon, you know.

Oh, Madam, I ſhall inquire into that—ſhe ſhall pick up no young heirs here, I warrant her—I ſhall ſee into that immediately.

Here's the young man—the witneſs—I have brought him up in order to his examination.—Here,—do you ſtand there.—In the firſt place,—

in the firſt place, how old are you?

Fiddle de de—What ſignifies how old he is?

Why, yes it does—for—if he is not of age—

Pſha, pſha—I'll examine him myſelf. How long is it ſince you left the ſtrollers you were engaged with?

It is about two years ſince I had the honour of being taken into my Lady's ſervice,—and at that time I left the company.

And did you leave the young woman in the compa⯑ny at that time?

I did, Sir, and I have never ſeen her ſince till now.

I am ſtrangely puzzled—I don't know what to think—

It is indeed a difficult caſe—a very difficult caſe—I remember Burn in the chapter on Vagrants—

Prithee, be ſilent—at this time you are not likely to clear up matters at all.

A Juſtice be ſilent!—a ſilent Juſtice!—a pretty thing indeed—are we not the very mouth of the law?

What does your Ladyſhip adviſe?

I adviſe!—I don't adviſe, Mr. Hargrave.

Why then, let the parties be confronted—

Aye—let the parties be confronted.

Ay, ay, let us be confronted: if I once ſpeak to her, ſhe'll be too much daſh'd to be able to deny the charge.

Did your honour call?

Go and tell my daughter, that I deſire ſhe'll bring her viſitant here—the young Lady.

Two glaſſes of brandy, and tremble yet!—I wiſh I had ſwallow'd the third bumper.

Now, Mr. Hargrave, it will be exceedingly im⯑proper, that I ſhould be preſent at this interview, ſo I ſhall retire till the affair is ſettled.

'Sbud, my Lady, if you go, I'll go too—and the Juſtice may ſettle it as well as he can.

Nay, if you are for that—I ſhall be gone in a crack—I won't be left in the lurch—not I.

Bleſs me! I am ſurpriſed—only conſider what an imputation may be thrown on my character.

So—now 'tis determin'd.

Robert inform'd us, Sir, that you requeſted our at⯑tendance.

Yes, Harriet—I did ſend Robert—'tis about an odd affair—I had rather—but I don't know—pray, Madam—

be ſo kind to tell us if you know any thing of that perſon—

No, Sir, I believe not—I do not recollect—I may have ſeen him before.

Oh, Miſs Jenny—you don't recollect—what, you have forgot your old companion William Jarvis?

I do not remember indeed, that I was ever honour'd with ſuch a companion—and the miſtake you have made of my name, convinces me that I never was.

Pſha, pſha—this won't do now—you was always a good actreſs, but behind the ſcenes, you know, we uſed to come down from our ſtilts, and talk in our own proper perſons—Why ſure, you will not pretend to forget our adventures at Colcheſter—the affair of the Blue Domino at Warwick—nor the plot which you and Mrs. Varniſh laid againſt the Manager at Beconsfield.

Dear Sir, nothing is ſo evident, as that the man has miſtaken this Lady for another perſon—I—hope you'll permit us to go without hearing any more of his impertinence.

If he is miſtaken, no excuſes will be ſufficient—I don't know what to ſay—'tis a perplexing buſineſs—but I wiſh you wou'd be ſo kind to anſwer the man, Madam.

Aſtoniſhment has kept me ſilent till now, Sir—and I muſt ſtill be ſilent—for I have not yet been taught to make defences.

Dear Madam—why ſurely you have not forgot how often you have been my Juliet, and I your Alexander.

Hark you, Sir,—if you dare utter another word to that Lady, I'll break every bone in your body—leave the room, raſcal, this inſtant.

You are too hot, George—he ſhall ſtay—and ſince things have gone ſo far, I'll ſift the ſtory to the bottom—If the young Gentlewoman is not what he repreſents her, ſhe has nothing to fear—Speak boldly—where did you laſt ſee that Lady?

Aye, ſpeak boldly—give her a few more circum⯑ſtances, perhaps ſome of them may hit—People on occaſions of this ſort have generally ſhort memories.

Surely, Sir, you cannot allow theſe horrid—

I do allow, Sir—and if you can't be ſilent, leave the room.

Yes, Sir, or elſe you'll be committed for contempt of Court. Now, for your name, child, your name, and that of your family.

The name of my family, demanded on ſuch an oc⯑caſion, I think myſelf bound to conceal—my ſilence on that ſubject, hitherto aroſe from a point of delicacy—that motive is now greatly ſtrengthened, and I refuſe to diſcover a name—which my imprudent conduct has diſgraced.

Ho, ho—pray let the Lady be treated with reſpect—a perſon of Conſequence—ſtands upon Conſtitutional ground—a Patriot, I'll aſſure you—ſhe refuſes to anſwer Inter⯑rogatories.

Sir, I cannot be any longer a ſilent witneſs of theſe in⯑ſults—Your preſence, Madam, ſupports that raſcal, or he ſhou'd feel the immediate effect of my reſentment.

Your reſentment will be unneceſſary Sir, if he is not ſupported by truth—I ſhall take care that he is properly puniſh'd.

A Gentleman in a coach-and-ſix enquires for your honour—his name is Morley.

Hah—'tis my Uncle—I no longer dread his preſence—now, Sir, you will be ſatisfied concerning my family.

Her Uncle—Heavens! Madam, what have we done!

Done!—nothing—madneſs!

So, ſo—the niece of a man who keeps a coach and ſix!—we are got into a wrong box here—

ſhe can be no Patriot, our Patriots don't ride in coaches and ſix.

Stay, Sir—we have not done with you yet—you muſt now exhibit another part in this ſcene—what ſays your oracle Burn to ſuch a fellow as this, Juſtice?

Ay, you raſcal—'tis now your turn—thou art a vilifier, a cheat, an impoſtor—'tis a downright conſpiracy—The niece of a man who keeps a coach and ſix!—why, how doſt think to eſcape? thou'lt cut a noble figure in the pillory, Mr. "Alexander the Great."

Sir,—your honours—I humbly crave pardon for my miſtake—I cou'd have ſworn the Lady had been my old ac⯑quaintance, the likeneſs is ſo ſtrong.—But I humbly aſk par⯑don—my Lady!—

Expect no protection from me, I diſcharge you from my ſervice from this moment.—The dilemma into which you have deceived me excites my warmeſt reſentment.

Since Your Ladyſhip gives him up, he has no other protection—Who's there?

Secure this fellow till I have leiſure to inquire into the bottom of the affair—he is only the Agent, I am convinced.

Aye, Sir, but I am dumb—or we ſhall loſe the reward.] I beſeech your honour—'twas all a miſtake.

Take him away.

Hah—are you ſuſpicious, Sir!—I hope Suſan has not put me in this fellow's power—I muſt be ſure of that.

'Tis a conſpiracy, that's certain—and will, I believe, come under Scan. Mag.

for 'tis a moſt ſcandalous Libel—but hold—'gad-ſo—let me ſee—it can be no libel; 'tis a falſe ſtory—if it had been true—aye, then indeed—if it had been true

—but I'll go home and conſult Burn, and you ſhall know what he ſays. Egad, it won't be amiſs to get out of this Morley's way.

Surely ſhe muſt have been privy to this ſcandalous plot—but 'tis no matter—my fate is at its criſis.—Mr. Mor⯑ley's arrival fixes it.—At this moment my fortitude for⯑ſakes me, and I tremble to meet the Man, on whoſe caprice depends, the value of my exiſtence.