SCENE I. A Chamber.

SIR, I muſt ſay you preſume too far.

I ſaw your ladyſhip and admired, and if that be preſumption, who is free from it? admiration naturally produced a more tender emotion—I communicated my feelings to Mrs. Muſlin;—Mrs. Muſlin reported them to your ladyſhip, and your ladyſhip, with a mind, liberal as your perſon is elegant, permits me to throw myſelf at your feet.

You have miſconſtrued the liberty I allowed—my houſe is always open to perſons of faſhion, and as a viſitor only I expected you.

Nay, madam, your privy counſellor in⯑formed me I ſhould be admitted into the inte⯑rior cabinet, and your principal lady in waiting introduced me in form accordingly.

And ſhall I call her now, ſir, to ſhew you the way back?

pleaſant im⯑pudent fellow.

You are not ſo cruel—I ſee pardon beaming from your eye, and frolic ſmiling on your cheek.

And ſhould I pardon, from that inſtant, the ſervile ſuppliant, now at my feet, would loſe all ſenſe of obligation, and from the miſtreſs's ſlave aſpire to be her tyrant.

I neither deſire to be ſlave or tyrant, but to love upon equal terms—you conſent—I read it in your eyes—and I am ſecret as the grave.

Secret you may be, but it is not the mere colour of reputation can protect a woman's honor.—I might perhaps carry on an intrigue with ſecrecy, but my mind—

Upon my ſoul I have no deſign upon your ladyſhip's mind, my heart is captivated; and if I did not totally miſunderſtand my good friend, and your ladyſhip's very good friend, Mrs. Muſlin, a certain perſon, (whom modeſty will not permit me to name) is not totally in⯑different in your opinion

Grace, where is your lady?

Sir Buzzard's voice!

My lady, Sir!

Yes, your lady, ma'am!—

She is in her own room, ſir, but I believe not yet dreſs'd—I'll let her know you want her, ſir.

As I hope to be ſaved, here is my maſter, and in one of his gruff humours, quite in a tantrum—the gentleman cannot go out that way—follow me.

Into the next room—make haſte

I go, perhaps into the interior cabinet—This alarm I truſt will convince your ladyſhip that in love, as in war, delays are dangerous—Go on, Mrs. Grace.

What an infernal life I lead!

What has rais'd the ſtorm now?

Why aſk!—you know I am mar⯑ried—and married to you—I am my own maſ⯑ter, and hate impertinent queſtions—I have loſt my money—I am glad of it.—Oh! I wiſh I had never married

And I, with all my heart▪

Yet you leaped at my offer—you were glad to ſnatch at me—

Who I? I was ſeduced into the match!—have I not brought reputation to your houſe, ſir?

Reputation to my houſe!—you have turn'd my houſe topſy turvy; inſide out; you have irritated me into a complication of com⯑plaints, and reduced my fortune to galloping decay—have fretted me down to a mere ſkele⯑ton.

Sir, ſome reſpect is due to my birth;—I am daughter to a nobleman, and [23] till honoured with my hand, your family could not boaſt a drop of blood in their veins.

No blood in their veins! I, indeed have loſt both fleſh and blood; no blood in my veins!—Have I not lent your brother money—your uncle, money—your couſins money!—which of your honourable, or right honourable relations are out of my debt?—If I had no blood in my veins, how the devil have you and yours bled me ſo plentifully?

I deſpiſe your meanneſs—

Your family are leeches—I could never ſhake them off.

Sir, your connexion with me was an honor, which with all your land and wealth, you had no right to expect. What was your family before your union with me?

Men and women.

Could they boaſt antiquity?

Yes, my grandfather lived to ninety—my father to eighty-ſix.

You married me—

To perpetuate my family—are you ſatisfied?

No, I am not ſatisfied.

I know it, I know it.—I know it.

My anceſtors can be traced to the Normans—the Danes—the Saxons.

Which only proves you have ſprung from pirates and invaders; but what is it to me if you were related to the Picts, the Scots, or the Romans?—I am a Savage!

Yes, you are a ſavage indeed—

And the Savages let me tell you, are the oldeſt and pureſt blood in the country.

How ſhall I get rid of him—Sir Buzzard, you don't intend to ſtay here I hope?

You hope ſo, do you?—I am glad of that, then here I ſhall have a comfortable nap.

I'll raiſe the ſpirit of con⯑tradiction to ſend him off

now that is kind, thanks for your com⯑pany, and I'll read, or ſing a lullaby to com⯑poſe you; ſhall I kiſs you?—come now, ſmile my dear.

I hate ſmiling, ſmiling is the cun⯑ning covering of deceit,

and kiſſing—am I in a habit of conſtitution for kiſſing?

Am not I your wife?

I feel you are—do not roll your baſi⯑liſks—they have loſt their faſcinating powers.

But you ſhall not go—

Not go!—I am maſter of my own houſe!

Then I will be miſtreſs of my time;—I may find a companion.

With all my heart—a woman who would keep her huſband at home, is worſe than a corn on his foot, there is no ſtirring at eaſe for her!—O that mine were cut off.

You will go before me though, I ſhall wear weeds for my love—your face looks this inſtant pale as marble, and I can ſee "Here lieth Sir Buzzard Savage," written on your fore⯑head.

I am ill it is true.

Ill! you have a mortal blackneſs under your eyes.

Eh! What!

Do not ſtare ſo—it alarms me!

My head ſwims!—I feel a palpi⯑tation here, juſt upon my temple.

A dangerous ſymptom.

I know it, and you are glad of it. Oh, Lord! I ſhall preſently be enrolled on Death's liſt of Bath patients, who die where they come to live for the recovery of their health.

Now to deliver my poor diſtreſſed ſwain from confinement.

SCENE II. Another Apartment.

Nay, my nonpareil—my ſweeteſt, deareſt of all girls, you may believe every word I ſay.

I have lov'd you—

Love me!—dear ſir!—Well, whe⯑ther you ſpeak truth or no, I like to hear you ſay ſo—yet, I fear you are falſe-hearted, it was my lady you came to viſit.

Your lady! no, no, child, you were the object, and I got myſelf introduced to the lady, that I might with more eaſe become intimate with the maid.

Cannot believe that—my lady is much hand ſomer than I—What a fine complexion!

Mere rouge!

White teeth!

For which ſhe's obliged to the Den⯑tiſt—

Charming hair!

All falſe.

Then, what polite converſation!

Pſha, child ſhe has not the native bloom of your cheeks, the nectarine of your lip, the pearl of your teeth, the natural curl of your treſſes, nor the wit of your imagination.

How I likes to hear him praiſe me and abuſe my lady!—and you really love me?

Moſt devoutly—could we not retire to a more private chamber?

Swear you'll not be falſe hearted.

By Jupiter, Venus, Cupid, and all the Gods and Goddeſſes, never

Then hear me ſwear

by this purſe

I like you.

Take it my girl—take it.

And by this ring, I'll

My dear don't ſwear ſo often—but kiſs me huſſey—I have a ſecret to tell you.

A ſecret! but may not that ſecret ſpeak for itſelf hereafter, and diſcover all.

Dear ma'am you can't think how the gentleman has been praiſing your ladyſhip's complexion, teeth, hair, and I don't know what.

Yes, I was praiſing your ladyſhip's—I—I—I—don't know what.

There's no impediment now, ſir, to your retiring, and I requeſt you will inſtantly withdraw.

For the preſent I ſubmit to your rigid and peremptory ſentence;—it is my way never to deny or palliate my faults. When I travel in purſuit of pleaſure, I always take a view of ſuch beautiful ſeats as lie before me, and for the life of me, I could not help caſting an eye on this little ſnug box, which lay ſo convenient to your ladyſhip's manſion-houſe.

I hope your ladyſhip will excuſe me;—I thought I was doing no harm,—I thought your ladyſhip diſmiſſed the gentleman, and your ladyſhip knows we chambermaids have the ſame claim to our lady's caſt lovers, as to their caſt cloaths.

Order chairs, and tell my ſiſter I'll attend her to—Devil take the fellow, yet I admire him for his impudence.

SCENE III.

And ſo you were recommended by old Corderius, the ſchoolmaſter, to teach our young lady the Latin lingo.

Yes; to inſtruct her in the reediments of the dead languages.

Dead languages! do you mean the languages ſpoken in the other world? for ecod ſhe can chatter glibby enough in the living tongue.

I am to inſtruct her, man, in Greek and Latin.

Greek and Latin! will not that teach her ſtrology and conjuration?

Here, Sir, is Mr. a—a—What's your name, Scotchey?

Alexander M'Claſſic.

He's Mr. M'Claſſic, come from Mr. Corderius to learn Miſs Clary the dead lan⯑guages, which he has got alive at his tongue's end.

Here, Sir, are my credentials.

My friend Corderius gives you an ex⯑cellent character, young man, for honeſty, and literary abilities, and you may begin with your pupil when you pleaſe.

He has began with her already▪

You are perfect maſter of the claſſics, I preſume.

My father keept an academy, where I firſt acquired the roodiments, and after I ma⯑triculated at Aberdeen; there I made an inti⯑mate acquantance with the philoſophers, Chriſ⯑tian, and Heathen,—the logicians, mathema⯑ticians, aſtronomers, navigators, botaniſts, che⯑miſts, and aw the tribe of nateral philoſophers.

What a number of ſcholars are in Aber⯑deen!

Be ſilent, fool.

As to the claſſics, I am maiſter of Ho⯑mer, Xenophon, Sophocles, Seneca, Virgil, Ovid, Terence, Salluſt, Livy and Horace.

Have you learned all thoſe gentle⯑men?

Silence, you inquiſitive puppy.

I teach them aw, and will make the young lady miſtreſs of them aw.

Miſtreſs of them all! Ecod ſhe'll ne⯑ver remember half of her ſervant's names! but o' tag, rag, and bobtail; how comes it that with all thoſe ſcholars you've taught, you go ſo poorly? Ecod your cloaths are all in jeopardy. He! he! he!

Silence. Go you, ſirrah, and call miſs Clara.

I go—I go—I go—I go—I go—let me ſee—he teaches muſicians, magicians, and phyſicians—and he'll teach her conjuration and ſtar-gazing—and—mum.

You are, I preſume, Sir, a ſcholar.

I never deny my ignorance—it is my misfortune, and a man ſhould only be aſhamed of his faults,—I do not underſtand a word of any language but my native tongue, except a few phraſes I have picked up,—but I have read moſt Engliſh authors; born in po⯑verty I was debarred the benefit of a liberal education,—I am candid—that's my way.

This is a common caſe.

No doubt one half of the literati are un⯑lettered, and like light or Birmingham guineas, paſs for more than they are worth.

You intend to mary the lady your⯑ſelf?

Yes.

And you have ſecluded her frae com⯑pany, aw that was judicious—be cautious what men you introduce to her.

Yes; and women too,

That's right,—recreations which pru⯑dence [30] prohibits at home, and decency denies the exerciſe of in public, may eaſily be enjoyed at the preevate houſe of a confidential friend.

You are right, there are many obliging, convenient, liberal-hearted, female beauty brok⯑ers, who ſupport elegance and expence by trad⯑ing in a contraband commerce of the ſexes.

Well, my girl,—your tutor has given you a leſſon, I underſtand.

Yes, Sir.

Who the devil is at the door?—I be⯑lieve they have got a battering-ram, and are going to ſtorm us after the manner of the Greeks and Romans.

Such ſilks, and ruſtlings!

What's the matter?

There are cork rumps—hoops and high heels in the houſe.

Who knocks at the door?

They are covered with paint, patches and pomatum.

Who knock'd at the door?

Falſe hair, curls and perfumes!—don't blame me, they came upon me unawares; I puſh'd, and they puſh'd,—but they puſh'd harder, and overturned me.

Who overturned you?

They are full of flirtation, and giggling, and bedizened with gauze and ribbands; Lady Savage and her ſiſter, with their long tails ſweep⯑ing behind.

Lady Savage and her ſiſter! Lady De⯑vil and her imp!—Where are they?

Running all over the houſe—up ſtairs and down ſtairs, to and fro,—in and out—back⯑wards and forwards—round about—here and there, and every where.

I am not at home,—there is no body at home—we are all out—I'll retire to my cloſet; you will ſtep with me, Mr. M'Claſſic, and do you, my lamb, lock yourſelf up to avoid 'em.

He, he, he,—here is a bluſter,—Ecod we ſhall have rare ſport.

Where, my dear, in ſuch haſte?

Indeed I cannot ſtay—muſt I not go, Nicholas?

Yes, you muſt go,—go—go—go

Be not alarmed, miſs, we are Mr. Or⯑deal's intimate friends.

Yes, miſs, they are our intimate friends.

Come to viſit you, my dear.

Yes; they are come to viſit us,—my dear.

Where is Sir Ordeal?

Out—out—out

we ſhall have ſwinging fun.

Ladies, farewell.

Fie, my dear,—it would be impolite to leave company.

Miſs Clary,—Manners makes the man—we are teaching her the Latin lingo.

Are you very happy, my dear, on be⯑ing on the verge of matrimony?

Speak, my dear.

I cannot ſay I'm very happy; nor I cannot ſay I am diſpleaſed; I do not wiſh to be married, nor have I any objection to a huſ⯑band—Heigho!

But to confeſs the truth, you have no deſire to marry Mr. Ordeal, he is ſuch an old fellow; though if addreſſed by a handſome, wealthy, good natured youth, you'd—Heigho!

Do not ſpeak diſreſpectfully of my guar⯑dian—he is very kind to me.

I approve your prudence in pre⯑ferring an old lover to a young one; after mar⯑riage you will no longer be confined like an infant;—then you will enjoy ſuch pleaſure in making his money fly, and in ſeeing him ap⯑proach the grave.

But for fear he ſhould live too long, be ſure you get him a phyſician.

A phyſician! O, death!

My guardian has taught me how a mar⯑ried lady ought to conduct herſelf.

Let us hear, my dear pretty creature.

I have it by heart; he has taught me, that all young men are cunning and deceitful, and that I muſt never liſten to or believe their flattering tongues; that a man and his wife are one perſon, and ſhould act as if inſpired by one ſoul!—that a wife ſhould not complain of her huſband to her moſt intimate friends, nor form any connexions without his approbation.

There's inſtruction for you; you ſee we take care of her ſoul.

Moreover, he has taught me, that in pri⯑vate a wif ſhould receive no company without [33] her huſband's knowledge, and in public ſhould not think herſelf protected but by his preſence; that ſhe ſhould obey him in all things, and place her higheſt delight in making him happy.

Theſe were the duties of a wife in the laſt century,—but we will inſtruct you in the duties of a wife, who would cut a figure in the polite circles of the preſent day▪—Siſter, begin.

Muſt conſider matrimony a means to increaſe liberty, and defy ſcandal.

Muſt retain your favourite ci⯑ciſbeo, confidante, maid ſervant and footman.

That will be, I.

See whom you pleaſe, where you pleaſe, and when you pleaſe.

That muſt be very pleaſant!—go on.

Muſt be miſtreſs of your own hours,—turn day into night, and night into day.—

Keep a ſeparate purſe, a ſeparate car⯑riage, and a ſeparate bed.

Never attend to oeconomy, but ſink, play, and ſquander your money, to the laſt ſhilling, and ſtretch your huſband's credit to the utmoſt.

Here is work cut out for mantua-makers and milleners.

You muſt always diſſimulate in con⯑verſation with your huſband, and when you can⯑not deceive you muſt inſiſt—if he oppoſes your will, rant, and laugh at him.

Ha, ha, ha!

And if theſe fail, accuſe him of cruelty, ſigh, ſob, weep, ſcream out, and fall into fits.

I can contain no longer!—out of my houſe!—

Shame! Shame! What, liſtening to the private converſation of ladies?

Private converſation! open, abomina⯑ble inſtruction,—how can you anſwer to your conſcience, for attempting to poiſon a young creature's morals!—retire, retire, my lamb.—

Farewell, ladies.

Adieu, pretty Clara.

And remember our inſtructions.

Inſtructions!—down-right libertine principles!—you may laugh, ladies,—you may laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Perhaps the ladies think their beauty ſufficient excuſe for their levity,—but ah, they are wrong—naething can atone for want of delicacy, without which there can be nae charms in the face, nae elegance in the perſon.

Ordeal, your moſt obedient—call'd at your ladyſhip's houſe, and Miſs Conſtance in⯑form'd me you were on a viſit here.

We came to ſee Mr. Ordeal's pure na⯑ture, and he has affronted us!

Affronted!—impoſſible!

Haud your tongue, lady, haud your tongue!—levity degrades a woman, however her name may be elevated by birth, teetle, or fortin.

Who are you?

A man.

Yes, and a ſcholar ecod!

Out of my houſe!

I'll prophecy for your comfort, if you marry Clara ſhe'll ſoon draw a compariſon between your winter frown, and the ſummer ſmiles of a pretty fellow.

I deſpiſe your prophecy—Oracles have long ſince ceaſed; when they exiſted the devil ſpoke through them, which may be your lady⯑ſhip's caſe.

Ordeal, take care, I wear a ſword.

I weer a ſword.

Do you daar echo my words?

Do you daar echo my words?

Knock out his teeth with one of your hard ones.

Raſcal

Raſcal! hear firſt, and ſtrike after,—you appear an officer, but I am convinced you are nae ſoldier; touch but a hair o' my heed wi your hand, and the dee'l gang away wi my ſoul, gin I dinna ſplit you through the crown.

Sir, Sir, ſhall I bring him the old broad ſword.

There was juſt ſuch a fellow as this at the Havannah—

There were ſeveral ſuch fellows at the Havannah, and ſuch fellows only could have beaten the brave fellows who defended it,—were you there?

My regiment did ſervice there—and if it had not been for a damn'd ague,—but no mat⯑ter,—I overlook this fellow's inſolence,—but Mr. Ordeal, you have been too ſevere on the ladies

Too ſevere on the ladies—I am your echo again—zounds, do you take the man for a Shrove-Tide cock, ſet up to receive blows without returning them?

Let's go, we are not likely to receive protection from the Colonel.

I ken, madam, what you are.

Stand off, fellow—

Theſe are ladies of honour.—

Their honour, like your courage, is in their own poſſeſſion, but remember the cha⯑racter of both is in the opinion of others.

Do you hear the fellow?

He's mad, and not worth notice.

Were I Clara, I ſhould prefer a young Indian, though ſure of being his widow; and burning with him in a month, to living with you for an age.

Ordeal, you ſhall anſwer this—but—

But what dare you ſay?

Say—I ſay—my immediate duty is to attend the ladies.

My brave Caledonian!

but here, here, ſtep out and get yourſelf new rigged—

Yes, he is out of feather and wants pluming.

But you, you ſirrah, if ever you let thoſe women enter my doors again, out you go—oh, what a fierce beaſt, and a perilous enemy to the commonwealth, is a wicked woman.

SCENE I.

SHALL I introduce the Gentleman, my lady?

Yes,—no,—yes, Grace.

I like the gentleman, becauſe he likes your ladyſhip,—and that ſhews him a man of taſte—I go.—

Stay, Grace,—let me conſider, this interview may be attended with all the ill conſequences of an illicit correſpondence.—what are you muſing on Grace?

I am thinking how very ugly Sir Buzzard is in compariſon with your ladyſhip's lover.—

Sir Buzzard's plainneſs, Grace, is not his worſt fault,—it is his peeviſh aſperity of diſpoſition renders him odious to me,—Grace, I will not ſee this gentleman, it will endanger my reputation.—

Lay, my lady, but conſider, my repu⯑tation, my honour is pledged,—he is a delight⯑ful creature.—Then conſider what an airy, nice dreſſed gentleman he is—and conſider, Sir Buz⯑zard wears flannel under-waiſtcoats, and ſwan⯑ſkin ſtockings.

Can I ever again face Sir Buz⯑zard?

If I was your ladyſhip, I would not face my lover too ſuddenly,—no, I would re⯑cline [38] upon the ſopha,—

loſt in thinking,—ſo,—with my fan ſhading my face thus, and every thing about me. degagee.—

You ſay he waits.—

Or when the dear man approach'd, turn ſhort—ſtrike him with the full flaſh of my charms, and ſcream out. Ah!—

Are you mad, girl?

A thouſand pardons, my lady, but proteſt I am beſide myſelf.

There is no retracting, and I think I will take him by ſurpriſe.—I'll keep up the appearance of reſentment, and have the ſatisfaction of hearing him humbly plead for pardon—

Now you muſt acknowledge I am your friend.

My ſweet girl, I do acknowledge it—

A fine figure!

Madam—

Heaven defend me!

Not from an ardent lover!—

I cannot ſcold the fellow he looks ſo pleaſant!—Pray, Sir, by what warrant do you come here?

I underſtand from Mrs. Muſlin, by warrant from your own lips,—but the warrant is incompleat till your ladyſhip has affix'd the privy ſeal to it

A married woman can grant no⯑thing without the conſent of her huſband.

Well thought on; but I do not come unprepared, man and wife are one perſon, and when a married lady gives me reaſon to think a tete-a-tete would not be diſagreeable, I always take care to bring my authority along with me.

But ſuppoſe a lady ſhould acknow⯑ledge your authority;—your inclinations, I imagine, Sir, could not eaſily be attach'd to a ſingle object.

Yes they could,—though I candidly acknowledge I entertain an affection for the whole ſex.

Then there is an individual you prefer to the whole ſex?

There is.

Handſome?

Yes.

Senſible?

Yes.

And you really prefer her—

If I denied it I ſhould be inſincere and unworthy your attention.

And pray, Sir, may I enquire, who is the favourite fair?

Nay, the leſs we ſay, or think of her, the better, ſhe is abſent—

Yes, Sir,—I perceive ſhe is abſent—

and you too are abſent.

Yes, ſhe is abſent,—and—Sir Buzzard is abſent, and we are together,—and you are a fine woman,—and I am—

What, Sir?

A man,—a young man, not a very ill made man, and a very well dreſs'd man, with a briſk flow of ſpirits, a warm heart, and a ſoul which at this inſtant vibrates with ſenſibility.

I ſay it is falſe, I left all the papers in London—

I proteſt Sir Buzzard is at the door—you muſt be concealed again—

Unfortunate!

You cannot get out of that room till I pleaſe—

Oh, mercy, Sir, you have ruin'd me; oh, my lady, my lady, oh, oh, I ſhall faint with pain; juſt when I got to the door, there was my maſter, and not knowing it, I run plump againſt him, and he trod upon my foot,—oh,—but it is much better.

A meſſenger is come down from London for the title deeds of Proſpect Farm,—do you know where they are?

What ſhould I know about your muſty parchments?

Why not?—you ſpend the rents faſt enough—but I remember now, they are in a box that lies in the wardrobe in that room, and—

La, Sir,—I will get it.

You are not tall enough to reach it.

But I can ſtand on a chair, Sir, though I need not do that,—our new footman is in the cloſet ſettling your cloaths, Sir.—yes, Sir,— [41] our new footman, Sir, is in the cloſet ſett'ling your honour's wardrobe, and he'll help me.

What can ſhe mean? ſhall I deſire Grace to bring the box out to you?

No, let the footman bring it out, I have not ſeen him yet,—Grace, bid the fellow bring in the box.

He's taking it down, Sir.

Leave it in the cloſet, I muſt get ſome other papers out of the ſcrutore

.

Come, young man, I'll get you my lady's cards for Wedneſday's route, and they muſt be delivered immediately.

What a metamorphoſis!—you'll be expeditious.

A good looking fellow;—but ſtand off;—he is enough to ſuffocate a man with per⯑fume! What's your name, Civet Cat?

What's my name? I was chriſten'd Patrick, your honour.

An Iriſhman!—eh,—heav'n knows we had blunders enough in t [...]e family before,—

—this is the wrong box.

Yes, we have all got into the wrong box

.

When next we meet—

.

Nothing could be more lucky, my lady,—the new livery that came home for your laſt footman George, lay in the bottom of my maſter's wardrobe. I muſt ſee him ſafe out—

This is too mortifying, it hurts my pride—had I met a man of a generous diſ⯑poſition—but here comes my torment, and reflection flies.

I have found more than I ſought for, Lady Flippant;—who am I to thank for this addition to my wardrobe?

Theſe cloaths!—you mean theſe cloaths!—he, he, he,—they are really very pretty cloaths—you like them, my dear?

No, I don't like them, my dear; and who the devil did they come from, my dear? and to whom do they belong, my dear?

Elegant manufacture!—nothing like it made in England.

Where did they come from?

Paris.

Who owns them?

They are your cloaths, my love!—

Mine! Did you ever ſee me wear ſuch frippery?

Yes, yours poſitively; but I did not intend you ſhould have ſeen them—they were ſmuggled.

Smuggled!

Yes, ſmuggled from Paris, by my milliner, and ſent here for the purpoſe of orna⯑menting you, my ſweet love!—

Sweet love!—now that's fulſome—yet thou art my ſweet love!

Am I?—

Yes, like an apothecary's doſe,—my bitter ſweet.—

How ill-natur'd!—but no mat⯑ter, you ſhall wear theſe cloaths at the ball this evening.

I will not.

You ſhall.

Damn me if I do.

Very well, Sir, then I'll ſend 'em back.

They ſhall not be ſent back, I begin to like them,—a good colour, and not too gaudy.—I'll keep them.

Keep them!

Yes, and wear them.

Wear them,—where?

At the ball this evening.—

I fear you will take cold.

You wiſh I ſhould take cold, but I will not take cold,—and I will wear the cloaths; you lay out a revenue on your back, and I will, at leaſt for this once, follow your example.—I'll keep the cloaths, and go to the ball in them this evening.

The ſmuggled cloaths are fairly forfeited.

Dinner, my Lady!—

bleſs me!

Silence, all is well.—Sir Buzzard you ſee found the cloaths I ordered Mrs. Muſlin to procure him from Paris.

Well, I am ſure, Sir, my Lady has fitted you nicely, and I admire her taſte, that I do; but will you wear them, Sir?

Yes, wear them, Sir!

Not 'till after dinner, Sir.

Directly, Mrs. Prate,—I will ſur⯑prize the company in them:—let dinner be kept back.

It was good luck he did not find the gentleman's ſword—yet little matter if he had, for intriguing with an incumbrance about him; but how ſhall I get him away?

Poor ſoul! he muſt have patience—contrive to convey him through the garden, to a chair, he may pretend he is a ſervant taken ill, which will blind ſuſpicion.

Well thought on,—my Lady's no fool, but ſhe muſt be a great fool indeed, who could not make a fool of a huſband.

SCENE II,—Ordeal's Houſe.

He, he, he, lack a daiſy, Miſs Clara—the Scotchman looks gaily in his new cloaths,—he is a brave youth,—what a leg

—but I have got more of the calf.

Yes, a good deal more calf, Nicholas;—but what can be the reaſon that while he's teaching me, he ſighs as piteouſly as if in pain,—it goes to my heart to hear him without being able to give him eaſe.

Why—why—ecod now, Miſs Clary, when you ſpeak to me, it makes me ſigh, and gives me the heart-burn.

What would you have me do, good Ni⯑cholas?

What would I have you do? I'll tell you—ecod I cannot—but I'll tell you what the Scotchman ought to do—he,—he ought.—

What!

Ecod, he ought to,—to—Sugar and Honey!—what red lips you have!

What ought he to do?—

What ought he to do!—why he ought to—how old are you?

Do not tantalize me, Nicholas.

Well, I will tell you, he ought to—bleſs my eyes, what a fine face ſhe has!—he ought to—he ought to—what pretty buckles yours are!—he ought to,—well, ſhake hands, I will tell you

ſoft as ſattin,—he ought to—ecod, I ſhould like to do it.

Do what?

I mean no offence—but he ought to—

that's what he ought—

Oh, ſhame, Nicholas,—ſhame.

What ſhame!—liſten to me,—and I won't go behind the buſh with you—my maſter is a fool, and thinks nobody knows any thing but himſelf—Now, when I ſee a young man and a young lady together,—and hear them ſigh, and ſee them ogle—why, I ſigh myſelf, and I—I—ecod, I know what's what.

And what is it you know, Nicholas?

That the Scotch ſcholard loves you, and that you like the Scotch ſcholard—I'ze been in love, and I'ze never think of it, but—Oh, but I can not tell you how it diſturbs me—

And I am diſturbed too—heigh ho!

Clara, your tutor tells me, you make an aſtoniſhing progreſs in your Grammar, and I am to hear you ſpeak a leſſon,—bring chairs, Nicholas

.

Ha you got your Grammar, lady?

Yes, Sir, I have been ſtudying my laſt leſſon

.

Be ſeated, lady,

.

Modeſt creature!—how the bluſh man⯑tles on her cheek!—don't be aſhamed, Clary—Mac Claſſic

what a ſub⯑ject [47] for ſpeculation—ſhe is an orange tree, poſ⯑ſeſſing at once the ſprightly verdure of the ſpring, the ſweet bloſſom of the ſummer, and the ripe fruit of autumn. It revives me to look on her.

It revives us to look on you.—

What think you of her eyes,—they ſhoot arrows of deſire into the heart, but on her lips lies an honied ſalve to heal the wound.

Will you hear her repeat a leſſon?

See her mouth, a door of coral, opening to a colonade of pearl.

Then her boſom, your honour.

Where the devil is the fellow going?

.

My ſpirits are ſo agitated, I ſhall betray myſelf.

Come, my lamb—begin.—there is a mild creature, wax of my own faſhioning, and I have moulded her into the very temper of my affections.—

She can give you Latin for every thing about you.

Reſtrain your tongue, ſirrah. Go on with your leſſon, ſweeteſt, and never mind this fellow.

Amo, I love,

amas, thou loveſt,

amat, he loves!

. Oh!

Amamus, we love. Oh!

He, he, he, amo—I love!

Silence, raſcal!—but, Mac Claſſic, are the firſt leſſons in Lilly's grammar upon love?

Aw grammars begin wi it, Sir—be⯑cauſe love is the primoeval principle of nature.

He, he, he!

Out of the room, you ſcoundrel!

I go, zir. Amo, I love, amo, you love, amo, he loves, amo, we love,—he, he, he!

Shall we proceed, Sir.

If you pleaſe.

There are three poor people below you deſired to call.

I ſhall return directly.—

Where are you going? Stay here,—Clara may want ſomething—you'll give her a new leſſon now, Mr. M'Claſſick—I think ſhe has got enough of amo and amas.

Zooks! he's jealous, zure as a gun, and left me here to watch you—but ecod, I'll be no ſpoil-ſport—ſo teach away—I love, you love—he loves.

What are you muſing on?—I like to hear your inſtructions when we are alone.

To ſeduce ſuch innocence would be damnable; when you are married to Mr. Ordeal, my inſtructions will no longer pleaſe,—you love him?

I do indeed, as much as if he was my father,—but I never think of him when you are preſent.

Then you love him from gratitude?

Juſt ſo!—could I have any other mo⯑tive [49] —If there be any other kind of love, I wiſh you'd let me know it.

There is another kind,—give me your hand—there is a love known by its effects, it beats on the pulſe, trembles on the breath, gives eyes to the thoughts, and thoughts to the eyes.

O la! then I'm ſure you are in love, for your eyes ſpeak and laugh,—why did you touch my hand?—indeed—indeed, I'm afraid I have taken it from you—I hope there's no danger in it.

Love is the child of deſire, nurs'd by delight—weaned by inconſtancy, conſumed by neglect, kill'd by diſſembling, and buried by ingratitude.

How cruel to kill it.

But then 'tis the parent of jealouſy, the diſuniter of friendſhip, and cauſe of diſobe⯑dience; an arbitrary tyrant of the mind, that triumphs over wiſdom, tramples upon pru⯑dence, and vanquiſhes even virtue.

O, you fright me with that deſcription.

But where virtue is the baſis of this paſſion, it produces the utmoſt happineſs en⯑joyed on earth, and gives mortals a taſte of heaven!

Now that is delightful! and to tell you the truth I have heard my guardian ſpeak of it, but I could never feel it in his hand as I did in your's; he ſays—"love is fire full of cold—honey full of gall—and pleaſure full of pain;"—but I ſee he knows nothing of the matter;—are you really in love?

Yes, my dear, deeply—deeeply;—but why do you aſk?

Becauſe—

Here comes Mr. Ordeal.

I wiſh he was in Jericho.

Very well—very well—here Nicholas!—where's the raſcal? Clara, my dear, ſeek him, and give orders for dinner, there's a good girl.

.

Heigho!

I obey, Sir.

An amiable, modeſt creature, Mr. M'Claſſic—nothing ardent in her diſpoſition, has no more idea of love than an infant, yet a charming fertilizing conſtitution, but chaſte as ice,—"her heart like the ſalamander—cold, cold, in the midſt of flame."

Virtue beams in her een, and animates her countenance; like the finiſhing touches of the painter, it enlivens the portrait, and in⯑creaſes the beauty of the object.

Poetically conceiv'd, and prettily pro⯑nounc'd;—yes, ſhe ſhrinks from the touch like the ſenſitive plant—you have a prolific imagi⯑nation, Mr. M'Claſſic, conſidering you come from a northern climate

—yet Mr. M'Claſſic, there is no judging of a woman's chaſtity, who has never been in the way of temptation.

Very true, Sir.

And women are virtuous in proportion to the temptations they withſtand.

A juſt concluſion, Sir.

Then you think it would be difficult to find a young inexperienced girl proof againſt promiſes, ſighs and tears—and who could with⯑ſtand the cunning inſinuations of a lover.

Certainly, Sir.

Well, I think differently; I think I could truſt Clara—but ſhe's a nonpareil—yes, cool as a cucumber in a hot bed—yet not prone to vegetation—but M'Claſſic, I have an expe⯑riment to make, and you muſt aſſiſt me.

Command me, Sir.

Clara I think is a pure lamb.

Sir, there can be no doubt; but you were ſpeaking of an experiment, Sir.

I have fortified her mind with morals, which will prove a ſhield to her by day, and a breaſt-plate by night.—But the experiment—you muſt be my inſtrument.

In what reſpect, Sir?

To ſound the depth of her inclinations,—to feel how the pulſe of her affection beats towards me.

Sir!

If ſhe ſhould not like me—but that is a point for future conſideration—if ſhe ſhould like me, I will marry her in the morning.

Marry her, Sir!

Yes, marry her, Sir.

And in the morning. O my heart! and muſt I loſe her after all?

In the morning—I have had a ſpecial licence ſometime—yes, ſhe loves me—I know ſhe loves me—and ſoon as we have dined, I will go to Sir Buzzard's, to engage him and his friends to attend the ceremony. In the mean time you muſt try the experiment—come-in to dinner, and I'll give you further inſtructions.

SCENE I. Sir Buzzard's.

CONSIDER, Sir Buzzard, we are in danger of a diſcoveey every in⯑inſtant.

What can I do?—Would you have me court the girl for you? Beſides, this buſi⯑neſs raiſes a qualm in my conſcience.

Conſcience!

Yes, conſcience!—my conſcience cannot boaſt ſuch extenſive latitude and longi⯑tude as your's,—you have a convenient con⯑ſcience, it ſtretches or contracts like India rub⯑ber; your conſcience is a ſervant of all work—which you diſcharge at a moment's warning.

May the fire of a platoon never again raiſe my ſpirits, but it would be better for a man to attack a breach daily and on a forlorn hope, than to ſit down before a coquet.

"Have you ever attacked a breach, Colonel?"

You hear he has attacked a widow, and upon a forlorn hope."

I ſay, Sir, your ſiſter is a coquet.

I ſay ſhe is a downright jilt. He who confides in the ſex will be deceived—I de⯑ſpiſe them.

Yet keep a girl in a corner.

"But not from affection to the girl, I keep her becauſe it pleaſes my humour, and vexes my wife." You know the ſex but ſu⯑perficially; there is my rib, when we married, ſhe was all delicacy and good humour, and from her ſmooth behaviour and oily tongue, I conſi⯑dered her a miracle of goodneſs. But the wind ſoon veer'd about, and before the end of the honey-moon blew a rank ſtorm.

"Talking of ſtorms."

"Hear me out—Upon refuſing to indulge her in ſome faſhionable ſubſcriptions, there was a total eclipſe of the amiable, her paſſion ſwell'd like a roaring ſea, producing nothing but fury, outrage and noiſe."

I forgive you, madam,—I forgive you—being determined to marry Clara in the morn⯑ing.

Ordeal, I underſtand they have been abuſing you—but their beſt friends cant 'ſcape their malignity—they have tongues of charcoal, with which they are for ever blackening or burn⯑ing characters.

I ſhall, immediately ſet off with my bride for London, from whence we will pro⯑ceed on the grand tour.

Have not I heard you exclaim againſt the grand tour.

You have heard me exclaim againſt ſending our youth abroad without a proper con⯑troul. You have heard me ſay, that on ſuch expeditions they too often contaminate their na⯑tive virtue and conſtitutions, by bartering the honeſt habits acquired in old England, for the [54] gew-gaw ornaments, and deſpicable effeminacies of the Continent.

Pray, Mr. Ordeal, what retinue do you travel with?

The young Scotchman, Pure Nature's tutor, no doubt will make one.

I wiſh he may not make two; I ſpeak my mind, Ordeal.

What, the Colonel's friend! ſplit you through the crown?

She is at it again—madam, you ſhould recollect.

Then I ſuppoſe you will no longer re⯑ſtrain her taſte in dreſs—but allow her to throw off her preſent thin attire, and appear like a fa⯑ſhionable chriſtian,—in feathers and a hoop.

A hoop! no—it makes a woman ap⯑pear like a walking ſphere, encircled from the nadir to the meridian—and if the effeminacy of the men was not ſo well known, one would be apt to imagine that the women were all in a ſtate of—But I will not ſpeak my mind now,—though it is my way.

Coffee is ſerved in the ſaloon, madam.

Have you ſeen Miſs Conſtance?

.

I believe, Sir, ſhe is reading in the garden.

Sir Buzzard, I admire your dreſs,—you look as fine—as—as the King of Pruſſia in wax-work.

ſhall I have the honor of your hand, Madam?

No, Sir, I ſhall never give my hand to a man who has loſt my good opinion.

—Do you hear that?

After her.

After her purſe you mean.

Capricious woman!

. —I once knew a Major—

Know the Widow, man.—

A Major in the forty-ſecond.

Away with you.

.

You will excuſe me to the ladies—Conſtance you hear is in the garden, I will ſeek her, and for the laſt time plead my paſſion, but if ſhe perſeveres in rejecting my addreſſes, I have your conſent to carry her by ſtratagem.

Carry her off any way and I will be ſatisfied.—

SCENE II.—A Grotto: Conſtance diſcover'd ſitting, ſleeping, with a hand⯑kerchief overher face—a book near her.

Aſleep!—to diſturb her would offend delicacy—and I muſt ſooth her,—I will ſit here till ſhe wakes, here comes one of the ſer⯑vants.

How my landlady will laugh to ſee me thus capariſon'd,—a woman ſleeping, by the God of Love!—what a fortunate fellow am I! [56] —no ſooner does one adventure vaniſh than ano⯑ther preſents itſelf to my view—how gently ſhe breathes,—the gale is reviving,—

a ſigh of ſenſibility,—poor ſoul!—it were pity ſhe ſhould ſigh in vain. Yes, I will ſee her face.

O, Heaven's!—it is Con⯑ſtance—my life!—my heaven!—

.

Help!—oh, help!—

Unhand the lady, villain!

O, heavens, it is De Courcy!—

Ha! is it you? I have met my bleſſing and my curſe.

De Courcy!—

I have been your dupe, Sir, and I know it.—Am well inform'd of thoſe combinations by which you defrauded me,—and am deter⯑min'd, Sir, to give the law it's courſe.

I ſcorn to retort your aſſertions,—you have been a dupe to your own folly. Pride, and high founding language but ill ſuit with the meanneſs of your appearance, aſſumed for the purpoſe of ſome low intrigue,—metamorphoſe into a gentleman, and I'll enforce ſatisfaction for this inſolence.

O, I ſhall faint.

My dear love,—pardon the moment⯑ary neglect into which paſſion led me.—I have been but one day in England—tomorrow I ſhould have gone for York,—my ſoul was all im⯑patience to ſee you.—

What, in a livery!

A livery—yes,—it is a diſguiſe I own, worn for a purpoſe I'll not attempt to palliate [57] or juſtify—but your appearance like a heavenly viſion inſpires me with virtuous thoughts.

I do not urge an explanation which muſt increaſe your confuſion.

I will explain all another time.—Here comes ſome of the family.

Theſe alarms will ruin my conſtitu⯑tion,—it was fortunate I took bark this morn⯑ing, or my whole nervous ſyſtem would be ſhaken to pieces.—Where is this gentleman?—Cheaterly tells me a ſtranger has been rude to you, have you turn'd him out, Patrick?

Sir, I ſhall ſend a letter to your houſe immediately, to which I implore your attention—I am wretched, you were my father's friend.

Madam, if I was not, I am a man, and every thing that affects my fellow-creatures concerns me.

Patrick,—do you hear?—no anſwer,—I ſhall never recover my health,—don't ir⯑ritate me, raſcal.—

Raſcal!—to whom do you addreſs your⯑ſelf?

To you, ſcoundrel.—

Why, you deſpicable,—that epithet again, and this ſword.—

This is no Iriſhman!—what the de⯑vil is become of your brogue?—who are you?

A gentleman!—

A gentleman! ha, ha, ha, this is good!—a gentleman in a livery!—but which are you? [58] a gentleman in waiting, or a gentleman of the road?

Ah, ah! I now ſee how I came by the new ſuit, ſmuggled from Paris.

The ſervant is mad, and Sir Buzzard has caught the contagion.

I have it here.

What have you there?

Nothing that I know of, upon my honor.

Nothing in your maſter's head! How dare you joke with your betters, young man?

I ſhall be the laughing-ſtock of fools and jeſt of the malignant.

Oh, dear, dear, ſure there is no harm done! It is all my fault,—Miſs Conſtance is ready to break her heart;—you muſt know, Sir, I was the only perſon in the houſe who knew this gentleman, he is her lover, and he wheedled me, and wheedled me, till I conſented to bring him into the houſe, and ſo I ſhut him into my lady's cloſet.

The girl tells the truth.

He is a gentleman, and you ſhut him up in your lady's cloſet.

Now, I ſee what you conceive in your head.

And ſo, Sir, my lady coming in, the gentlemen was oblig'd to lie cloſe.

And he wheedled you, and wheedled you,—"And he lay cloſe,—Eh"—and he never ſaw your lady?

Never ſaw her, as I hope to be ſaved!

You hear the girl ſwear.

O, it's plain there was nothing between them.

"Nothing between them indeed, Sir, that is the naked truth."

Then give me leave, Sir, to enquire who you are? and what are your pretenſions to viſit my niece?

As to my pretenſions, Sir, nothing can be better founded,—I love the lady,—but what is ſtill more material, the lady has long ſince confeſs'd that ſhe loves me.

Candid and open.

And your name is De Courcy?

To that name I was born, but an old good natured uncle taking it into his head to viſit elizium—in obedience to his will, and in gra⯑titude for ſixteen hundred pounds a year, I now bear the name and arms of Welford.

You ſeem an honeſt fellow, worthy the love of Conſtance.

What is his honeſty to me? I am to inform you, Sir, the father of Conſtance is dead; I am her natural guardian, and you ſhall never have my conſent to marry her.

May I never obtain her conſent, if ever I aſk yours.

She has not a ſhilling fortune.

I am glad of it, I have ſufficient for⯑tune for both,—I will ſettle a fortune on her.

A fellow of noble generoſity!—

There is a gentleman, I am deter⯑mined ſhe ſhall marry.

Mark me,—let that gentleman be whom he may, if he preſumes to ſpeak to her, write to her,—or even thinks of her as a wife, I ſhall [60] make him ſuch an example—but this is loſing time,—farewell, I muſt wait on Conſtance.

You ſhall not go an inch into my houſe,—that is your way out.

I will go into any man's houſe, Sir, where ſhe is,—debar me acceſs to my love!—Were you the Grand Signor, and detain'd her, I would force into the inmoſt receſſes of your ſeraglio, put you to death in the midſt of your Janiſſaries, and carry her off in triumph.

I do not often ſwear, it is not my way, but damn me if I would not aſſiſt you.

Nay, then we muſt try your cou⯑rage,

—O, for an eſtringent to brace my nerves.

Excuſe me from running you through the body while you wear my cloaths; that coat is in excellent taſte, and I cannot think of running it through the body.—

A ſoldier, and a wit!

Take it, take it;

—now let me ſee if you get into my houſe.

What, going to ſight a duel!—Oh, for ſhame!—duelling is a mode of ſatisfaction unworthy gentlemen, practis'd now by every vulgar fellow;—people of faſhion ſhould ex⯑plode it.

You know I pay great reſpect to your opinion,—and if,—but he ſhall not go into my houſe.

Conſider what an improper place for quarreling.

You are right, Sir, this is too cold a ſituation for ſtripping;—

now for Conſtance, love, and happineſs.

Bravo, my boy!—bravo!

Sure ſome malign devil has deter⯑min'd to make me ridiculous!—let me after him.

Are you mad, Sir Buzzard?

Stark mad!

Nearly ſtark naked mad.

The cloaths,—the ſmuggled cloaths you provided for me.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Away! you old—get home;—perhaps your Scotch tutor may prepare Pure Nature for the grand tour, and provide you more company than you expect.—Why did I marry?—why plunge into a mortal diſeaſe, for which there is no remedy but poiſon,—no re⯑lief but death?

Can I ſee Conſtance?

She is lock'd up in her own apart⯑ment to avoid her lover.

To avoid him!—He is a noble fellow, and ſhe muſt have him;—I will in to Sir Buz⯑zard, and argue this caſe:—He preſumes to controul this young lady, his niece, by paren⯑tal authority; but I will convince him, the principle of that authority is to make our chil⯑dren or wards happy,—not miſerable.

Sir Buzzard is in a horrid rage.

I muſt contrive to appeaſe him. Conſtance I ſuppoſe has her ſuſpicions;—an [62] amicable girl—I really love her, pity her ſitua⯑tion, and am determined never to ſee Welford again, but for the purpoſe of facilitating a marriage between them.—I muſt alſo effectuate a breach between my ſiſter and this puſilani⯑mous colonel.

That may be eaſily accompliſhed—the widow has no ſmall ſhare of vanity.

True!—

We muſt perſuade her ſhe was the ob⯑ject of Mr. Welford's admiration.

I will ſwear he brib'd me to introduce him to her.

And I will contrive to get her and the gentleman together at my houſe, and your ladyſhip ſhall ſend the Colonel to ſurpirze them, which will produce an irreconcileable quarrel.

Here comes the widow—do you lay the train.

De Courcy is gone, after a very loud altercation with Cheaterly, which terminated in mutual vows of vengeance; he charges Cheaterly with having impoſed on him at play.

There is nothing ſcandalous in that—play has become a ſcience, faſhionable in prac⯑tice, and like other faux pas, 'tis only blameable in diſcovery. Pray how has Conſtance behaved?

Remains locked up in her own room▪ and perſeveres in denying an interview to her lover:—this De Courcy is in my opinion a charming fellow.

But I muſt know for what pur⯑poſe he was brought into my cloſet.—I am certain Conſtance was not the object; ſo ſpeak, Grace.

Well, my lady, the truth is, the gentleman came after the widow.

I thought ſo,—this duplicity, ſiſter, hurts me.

Dear, my lady, it is all my fault,—the gentleman ſaw Mrs. Volatile at the play with your ladyſhip, and ſent for me in the morning—and,—but am I ſure of pardon if I tell?

Yes, if you tell nothing but the truth.

Well, my lady, the poor young gen⯑tleman to be fureſwore bitterly he was ſmitten;—by all the Gods, ſays he, ſhe is one of the moſt beautifuleſt,—moſt youngeſt, and moſt ele⯑ganteſt creatures my eyes ever beheld!—but I, telling him as how ſhe was poſitively engaged to colonel Staff,—then he began to curſe.—

Why preſume to tell him ſo?—Who gave you knowledge of my engagements?

Hear the girl, ſiſter;

ſhe's caught.

Do'nt be angry, madam,—I told him, madam—thinking no harm, and ſo he curs'd, and call'd on Heaven, and poor gentleman ſigh'd ſo, that I took pity on him, and by his perſuaſions and promiſes brought him into the cloſet, where he was to have been concealed,—Yes, ma'am—'till I could have contriv'd to have brought you into the room, which I ſhould have done, but that my lady firſt came, and then Sir Buzzard, who made up the noiſe that diſturb'd the houſe.

You are an impudent girl, go wait in my dreſſing-room 'till my coming.

Yes, my lady,—but oh, ſure, you do'nt intend to diſcharge me,—what could I do [64] when ſo pretty a gentleman knelt to me, and cried to me for aſſiſtance—and ſqueez'd my hand, and forc'd a purſe into my boſom—Oh! oh!

—you will ſpeak to my lady.

I will, Grace!

there

—let me ſee you preſently.

A pretty ſcheme this!—your maid, Lady Flippant, has uſed me well—did I ever make any poſitive engagements with the Colonel?

I hope not, but really you take ſuch pains to torment each other, I was appre⯑henſive you were privately married.

Heav'n forbid!—I have been pru⯑dently conſidering the Colonel's ſituation ſome time paſt—his eſtate I underſtand has been long languiſhing in a decline, and his creditors no doubt are in expectation of mine.

Then to beſtow it on Welford—think of the pleaſure of ſweet five and twenty ſmiling upon you from morning 'till night.

And from night to morning—think of that, madam.

Then our triumph over a girl of ſuch beauty as Conſtance—the buz of the po⯑lite world, and their impertinent ill-nature.

Certainly there are inducements.

Inducements! you will have the exquiſite ſatisfaction of being lampoon'd, epi⯑gramm'd, and paragraph'd—or perhaps be etch'd in aqua fortis, and ſtuck up in the print ſhops. Then to have the tribe of antiquated maidens, diſguſted wives, and diſappointed wi⯑dows railing at your prudence, yet envying [65] your ſituation—"Lord bleſs us!"—ejaculates Lady Toothleſs, "I wonder at her indiſcretion, to marry a man ſo young. The Colonel would have been much more ſuitable."—Then ſhe takes five years from your lover's age, and adds to your's—"That's he!—that's he!"—ex⯑claims Miſs Squintum, as ſhe ogles from a ſide box, with one eye worn out in ſearching for defects in beauty, and the other on the decline—"That's he,—but I cannot perceive what ſhe ſaw in the fellow; he is as plain as herſelf—and I wonder how women can follow fel⯑lows."—The blooming youth hands you to your ſeat—the whole circle ſtare at you—a gene⯑ral whiſper's bre [...]th'd round—you gaze in return with perfect compoſure—ſalute your acquaint⯑ance—adjuſt your tucker, giggle behind your fan, aſſume a perfect indifference, whiſper your handſome huſband to mortify them, and laugh out to ſhew your inward ſatisfaction and ineffa⯑ble contempt.

But how is all this to be brought about?

Call at my houſe within an hour, and if I do not ſettle it, diſcard me from your con⯑fidence.—

She ſhall be punctual—come, ſiſter, I ſee you were unacquainted with your lover's paſſion,—but you muſt acknowledge I had ſufficient cauſe for ſuſpicion.

Yet you muſt allow there was no deceit on my part.

You have play'd your part admirably.

Yes, Muſlin, all good actreſſes are not upon the ſtage.

SCENE III. Ordeal's Houſe.

You are no longer a Scotchman I zee—

Yes, Nicholas, I have only laid aſide the tone and accent, but am ſtill a Scotchman; I have no reaſon to be aſhamed of my country, and I truſt my country will never have reaſon to be aſhamed of me.

Why zee maſter, I could never zee any difference between your Engliſh and Scotch; though to be zure I could hear it in their ſpeak⯑ing, and that is the only difference I think ſhould ever be between them; but take a fool's advice now,—make the beſt uſe of your time.

What employs your thoughts, my love?

In truth, love itſelf; if the pleaſing de⯑ſcription you have given me be true, and I have no reaſon to doubt your veracity, to live with thoſe we love muſt be the extent of human happineſs;—but then, Mr. Ordeal has told me that your ſex often requite the moſt ſincere paſ⯑ſion with cold indifference.

The charge is too true; but my affec⯑tion can only ceaſe with life.

I owe every thing to Mr. Ordeal's good⯑neſs, and the very arguments you urged to gain my love, perſuade me againſt being un⯑grateful!—obedience is the only return I can make his kindneſs, and how can I diſobey him, when my heart informs me that ingratitude is [67] one of thoſe heinous ſins at which Heaven is moſt offended?

It is true, no quality of the ſoul is more lovely than gratitude;—but Mr. Ordeal is not actuated by paſſion,—he offers you his hand from motives of generoſity, not love,—all you owe him is friendſhip, which an union with me could not diminiſh.

You can perſuade me to any thing;—you ſwear you love me,—I believe you,—and if the pleaſure I take in ſeeing you, and hearing you, and the pain I feel when you leave me, be love, I love you above all things.

Have you ſettled every thing?

Good Nicholas, do not interrupt her.

Who, I, a ſpoil-ſport! mum!—

Would not my conſenting to marry you be injuſtice to my benefactor?

The value I ſet upon your love is ſuch, I would not accept it, but as the voluntary gift of your ſoul!—I will obtain Mr. Ordeal's con⯑ſent.

Then I am for ever yours.

—What do I ſee!

But when will you obtain his conſent?

Never.

O, we are undone.

Is this the way you repay my confidence? and you,

innocent [68] miſs, is this a grateful return for years of kind⯑neſs?—But

what ſhall I ſay to you, raſcal!—you, whom I thought watchful as a lynx, have ſlumber'd like another Argus—were your eyes piped into a nap by this Mer⯑cury, or was your mouth ſtopped by a ſop, Mr. Cerberus?

Yes, I loves a ſop;—but I will be called no names—zee maſter,—our bargain is this, a month's warning, or a month's wages; zo, pay me, and I'll go, but remember it was not I brought maiſter M'Claſſic into the houſe.

Your reſentment, Sir, muſt fall ſolely upon me—I only have deceiv'd you,—a word in private,—

could human nature repel the influence of ſuch beauty?—

had I been leſs honourable, or Clara leſs virtuous, I might now perhaps be impoſing upon your credulity a ſeduced maid, with a vitiated mind: I am young,—Clara is pure nature,—the experiment I have made was dangerous.—

But you were only to have made the ex⯑periment to try how far her inclinations coincided with mine.

Conſider, ſhe was an orange tree.—

You were to have been the inſtrument for promoting my happineſs.

She poſſeſs'd the verdure of the ſpring—

Hear me!

The bloſſom of the ſummer—

Hear me!

The ripe fruit of autumn.

And you would conſider me the falling leaf in winter—hear me, Sir!—

Hav [...] [69] you not been urging the temptations of pleaſure to ſeduce her into your own deſigns?—have you not alienated her affections from me?

Sir, I came into your houſe for the very purpoſe of gaining her love.

Who are you, Sir?

A ſoldier—my name Douglas,—my fortune a competency,—my country Scotland—the ſame perſon who aſſiſted you when attack'd by ruffians on Marlborough Downs.

The kind gentleman in whoſe arms I fainted!

From the firſt inſtant I ſaw her, my ſoul caught the inſpiration of virtuous love.

You are unfaſhionable, Sir,—from the diſſipated converſation of the young fellows of the times, one would imagine there was neither honeſty in man, nor chaſtity in woman;—but your conduct contradicts their aſperſions.

It is too true, the arts of ſeduction are ſo ſedulouſly ſtudied, that honeſt love ap⯑pears in danger of being extirpated.

There are many, many melancholy examples;—but be aſſured, young man, though ſenſual pleaſures ariſe from ſeducing innocence, it is plucking bloſſoms from a ſweet-briar, which will rankle in the fleſh.

Your obſervation, Sir, is juſt,—though it does not apply to me.—

"My cenſure does not fall ſolely on youth,—no, the gardens of beauty and innocence are alſo deſpoil'd by old debilitated wretches, who cannot cultivate the ſoil, but lay waſte its beau⯑ties."

Do you forgive me, Sir?

I blame you not, I am your debtor for many inſtances of duty and affection;—look on her, Douglas;—yet her beauty is the leaſt of her excellence,—but as it is a principal part of benevolence to aſſiſt ano⯑ther moſt when there is moſt need of aſſiſtance,—and that you need not owe too much to the generoſity of your huſband,—as you cannot be my wife, I adopt you for my child—love in⯑ſpires its votaries with ſentiment, and I acknow⯑ledge the benign influence.

You weep, my lovely Clara!

And ſo do you,—and ſo do I,—I ſee you are all joy,—but, my children, the tranſports of a virtuous paſſion are the leaſt parts of its happineſs,—we will this inſtant to Sir Buzzard Savage's,—a young lady, his niece, calls for my protection.

You mean Conſtance Heartfree! young De Courcy, of York, my particular friend, is, I believe, betrothed to her.—

You are right;—take your bride by the hand;—the women will laugh at me for loſing her, but I am above the laugh of the world, and I will laugh at the world in my turn,—that is my way.—

SCENE I. Lady Flippant's Dreſſing Room.

THE ſtorm bends this way, and here will I meet it.

you ſhall inſtantly march out of my houſe.

My lady ſcorns your ſuſpicions.

Stop your gabble, you diminitive pandar in petticoats!—It is clear that Conſtance was ignorant of Welford's arrival in England!—it is apparent he did not come to my houſe after her.—What, is your noble blood at a loſs for an excuſe?

Who has inſtilled jealouſy into that head of yours, barren of every thing but what is monſtrous!

It is your Ladyſhip has made my head monſtrous.

Sure the devil inſtigates ſome women!—the widow—

Do not throw the blame on the poor devil—it is nature inſtigates them, and ſhe is to the full as ſubtle and certain in her operations.

I juſt now ſpoke to her as ſhe ſtept out of a chair into Mrs. Muſlin's, and in return was [72] ſhot through the heart with a look of ill-nature and contempt—if I was not the cooleſt fellow in the ſervice, I'd run mad,—aye,—mad, mad—

You would have cauſe to run mad, if you knew ſhe is now at Mrs. Muſlin's, en⯑joying a tete-a-tete with Welford.

Impoſſible!

I am ready to take my oath of it!

the truth is, I told a great lie to your honour.

O, confound me, but I believe you now.

The widow gone to Welford, on an aſſignation—ha! ha! ha! I will after her this inſtant, and cut his throat!—No, I will not ſtir—I am pleas'd—perfectly pleas'd!—I will diſcharge ſuch a volley about his ears;—gone to viſit Welford!—but why ſhould I be vex'd?—I will follow her, ſpring a mine, and blow them up together—Burſt on her like a hand-granade.

Ridiculous—you are all gun⯑powder.

Ungrateful woman!

Deceitful ſex!

Surprize her and her lover!

I will break with her—I mean I will purſue her.

Well, you ſee it was your ſiſter, not your wife, Welford came to viſit; are you ready to make an apology for your vulgar ſuſpicions?

An apology to you! O, impudence! have you not been the ruſt of my health, have you not fretted me down to a mere ſkeleton? [73] make you an apology!—give me my waſted fleſh.

I ſhall for London in the morning.

If you dare!

Will ſhew out at every place of public entertainment.

At your peril.

At your coſt.

The law gives me authority to con⯑fine you, and I will exerciſe it—I am your huſband.

I am heartily ſorry for it! will have public breakfaſts, public dinners, and public nights.

You ſhall have bread and water, in a narrow room.

A box at the Opera, and ſubſcribe to all the Concerts.

You devil!

Will purchaſe a new vis-a-vis—a town chariot and phaeton.

You—you have a deſign upon my life.

Heav'ns! how ardently I pant to be elevated in the phaeton, to take the circuit of Hyde Park, rolling in a cloud of duſt, four horſes, two outriders, whip in hand, flowing manes, hunters tails, ſweep down Piccadilly, turn into St. James's-ſtreet,—up fly the club⯑houſe windows, out pop the powdered heads of the bucks and beauxs of faſhion—ſome nod, ſome ſmile, ſome kiſs hands,—all praiſe—ſhe is a goddeſs, exclaims one,—a venus, ejaculates an⯑other,—an angel, ſighs a third. I cut on, flaſh [74] down Pall Mall ſwift as lightning, rattle furiouſly through Charing-Croſs, overturn Lady Dap⯑per's whim and cats at Northumberland Houſe, loſe a wheel in the Strand, leap from my ſeat as the carriage falls, and am received in the arms of ſome handſome fellow whom love has directed to my aſſiſtance.

She is mad! ſhe is mad! outrageous mad!

He carries me into a houſe, fainting—

Stop there; I will be divorc'd.

Then I will have a ſeparate main⯑tenance.

Not a ſhilling.

You cannot deprive me of my ſettlement.

Ay, there is the grievance! O, con⯑found all jointures and ſettlements, thoſe en⯑courage your levities, and ſtimulate you all to tranſgreſs.

My poor ſpirits are ex⯑hauſted! Heigh ho! I am tired of this diſſi⯑pated life.

I wait upon your ladyſhip, to return grateful thanks for the many favours you have conferred upon me, and to take my leave, as I am determined to quit this houſe.

What! without your uncle's con⯑ſent?

I cannot think his conſent neceſſary, while he and your ladyſhip aſſent to the perſecu⯑tion I experienced from a man I deſpiſe.

And pray where do you intend to go?

I have found a protector—Mr. Ordeal, the friend of my unfortunate father. Lady Flip⯑pant, it hurts my heart to part you upon thoſe terms.

In tears, Conſtance!

Why ſo diſtreſs'd?

My heart is too full.

Be ſeated;

you love this Mr. Welford ſincerely—but he is!

what is it to me what he is!

To me he is every thing—and it is my hope!—

—but why ſhould I hope?—

Conſtance—I really love you—our manners have divided us; but be aſſured, my dear girl, though I run the circle of faſhion⯑able life, my mind is not devoid of ſenſibility—our education has been different.

It was my happineſs to receive in⯑ſtruction from a pious and tender mother, who early taught me the precepts of virtue, and im⯑preſſed upon my heart, that a pure reputation with humble poverty, was preferable to a ſuſ⯑picious character, though blazoned with all the pomp and ornaments of elevated life—but ſhe is no more.

Alas, Conſtance! it was my misfortune to be educated in all the giddy foibles and levities of the times.

But I have obſerved a diſpo⯑ſition in your ladyſhip ſuſceptible of the ten⯑dereſt offices of friendſhip,—and where there is feeling—

There is hope of reformation—you would have ſaid ſo—indeed, Conſtance, [74] [...] [75] [...] [76] there are ſentiments here, which often upbraid me; but ſure nothing has tranſpir'd, injurious to my honour.

The world is cenſorious, madam, and thoſe whoſe converſation is the moſt entertaining are often the moſt dangerous; to ſimplicity they impute cunning, and give a criminal conſtruction to the moſt innocent actions.

I am all joy, Lady Flippant! Con⯑ſtance, this is Clara, hereafter I truſt you will be inſeparable friends.

I ſhall endeavour to merit the lady's friendſhip.

They may boaſt of Queen Emma walk⯑ing over burning ploughſhares, but here is a girl has done more, ſhe has lived in a faſhionable family without cenſure.

But, Mr. Ordeal, what is the cauſe of your joy?

It muſt be diſclos'd—Pure Nature has beſtowed her hand and heart on the Scotch lad, who turns out to be Captain Douglas, Welford's intimate friend.

Sir, I know the gentleman, and he bears a high character.

Conſtance, take this young lady to the drawing-room, ſend Grace to me, and order your maid over to Welford's, to let him know you will be there preſently. I have a ſerious reaſon for my requeſt, and will not be denied.

I obey.

The poor girl's ſituation is truly pitiable—it was our ſubject when you came in—the tears are not yet out of my eyes.

Never bluſh for weeping; tears are the certain ſymptoms of a noble ſoul.

Do you know that I have ſerious thoughts of throwing aſide all faſhionable le⯑vities?

I know it is almoſt time; I believe your inclinations are virtuous, and your irregularities I do not impute to nature;—no, my lady, na⯑ture has endowed you with amiable qualities, among which, I think generoſity is prevalent—like moſt of your ſex, you have taken up levity through whim, and maintain it through habit, though perhaps your ſoul ſtruggles to be de⯑livered from the trammels;—break them, then, and you will do more than Caeſar;—he con⯑quered countries,—but the greateſt glory human nature can acquire is to conquer ourſelves;—I have good news for Conſtance,—her father is living.

Heav'ns!—are you ſerious?

I have had letters from London, and he returns by the next ſhips from India;—nay more,—he has remitted thirty thouſand pounds to her ſole uſe, with directions to pre⯑pare a houſe for his reception.

O, I am overjoy'd—why has ſhe never heard from him before?

He was ſent upon an embaſſy to the in⯑terior parts of the country, and his letters were intercepted and deſtroyed.—But ſeriouſly, has your ladyſhip known nothing of this before?

Never.

There is roguery on foot,—an expreſs was ſent to your ſeat at York, which not meet⯑ing the lady there was forwarded to this city, and delivered at this houſe.

I ſee into it, this accounts for the warm impetuous paſſion of Cheaterly; the girl and her fortune were no doubt to be ſacrificed, between him and my worthy ſpouſe. Then you muſt aſſiſt me in perſuading Conſtance to go to Welford; it will produce an incident which will puniſh the young gentleman's paſſion for in⯑trigue, and give Conſtance an authority over him;

but do you believe my re⯑pentance ſincere?

I hope ſo!—but I believe nothing with⯑out proof—that is my way—where there is le⯑vity the world will ſuſpect, and when the world has once cauſe to ſuſpect a woman, her cha⯑racter becomes as much the ſport of its ma⯑lice, as if there was a certainty of her having abandoned it.

I am penitent! but do you really forgive my lecture to Pure Nature?

Yes, and am convinc'd you are no falſe prophet; for, as you foretold, Clara pre⯑ferred the ſummer dimples of youth to the winter wrinkles of age,—I ſpeak my mind, that is my way.

SCENE II. Mrs. Muſlin's.

Your opinion, madam, is juſt! vivacity is an attribute to woman,—gravity natural [79] to man:—and probably the ſexes were thus contraſted, that the ſaturnine diſpoſition of the male might be relieved by the ſprightlineſs of the female,—your ſmiles alleviate our pains, your approbation rewards our dangers.

And our converſation illuſtrates my opinion—you are grave,—I, perhaps, too vola⯑tile.

The poor gentleman ſeems as if ſome⯑thing preyed upon his mind;—let me recom⯑mend matrimony,—it is the only cure for me⯑lancholy.

And often a ſpecific for all complaints.

Well,—buſineſs muſt be minded

Muſt ſee you to the door.

A great fortune,—may I truſt her with you?

May I truſt myſelf with her?

A good, merry, convenient, civil old woman:—ſhe recommends matrimony—

Pray, ma⯑dam, what kind of lover would you prefer?

I muſt tell you the lover I would not prefer. I would not prefer a coxcomb,—a flut⯑tering ſummer inſect,—a talkative creature, full of inſipid geſture, laughter, and noiſe, who pays more attention to his hair than to his intellects,—who poſſeſſes neither ſentiment for friendſhip, nor ſenſibility for love—but is curſt with a ſoul devoid of manlineſs, and bent on the gratifica⯑tion of its own puny affections.

An excellent picture, yet the ſpecies of animal you deſcribe are favorites.—The ladies are grown ſo enamoured of delicate limbs, and effeminate faces, one would imagine they wiſhed to have their lovers women in every thing.

Dear Sir, there is a woman below en⯑quiring for you—ſhe inſiſts upon coming up, and has ſuch a tongue!

I would not be ſeen for the world.

She would ſurely blaſt the reputation of my houſe.—Sir, you muſt go down to her.—O my poor character!

Any thing to ſave the reputation of your houſe.

Madam, madam, the ſlut is upon the ſtairs.—Step into this cloſet till the impudent creature is gone.—

You do not know, Sir, you have been ſitting with Mrs. Volatile, ſiſter to Sir Buzzard Savage.

Mr. Welford.

I know that voice.

It is the clack of Mrs. Honor, waiting maid to Miſs Conſtance.

Then keep her out for Heaven's ſake.

I will have admittance.

Coming, Mrs. Honor.—O the au⯑dacious wretch—I ſee, Sir, you are a man of gallantry, but, pray, diſpatch the creature as faſt as poſſible.

Madam I inſiſt upon going in firſt.

No me'm—you will pardon me.

What, two!—ladies, your moſt obe⯑dient.—

You have no buſineſs here, me'm,—

My buſineſs, me'm, is no buſineſs of your's—or if it was your buſineſs, me'm, yet it is not the buſineſs of the likes of you to look down upon the likes of me, me'm.

The likes of you I look down upon with ſcorn.—It is not for the likes of you, to look up to the likes of me, me'm.—I ſerves a lady of vartue.

Vartue! Your inſinuation is low, me'm, high as you carry your head.

Grace, ſtand on my right hand—Ho⯑nor, take your place on my left—How happy would it be for England, were all her great men in my ſituation—Grace ſupporting one ſide, Ho⯑nor ſupporting the other.—Now, ladies, to the cauſe of your viſit.

My lady underſtanding that her ſiſter was here—

My Lady ſent me to let you know—

One at a time.

Sir, you muſt know—

My lady ſent—

Here is a guinea for her who ſpeaks ſecond—What; dumb!—but money ſeals as well as unſeals the mouths of great ſpeakers.

Me'm, I ſhall certainly ſpeak firſt—Sir, you muſt know—

Speak firſt, me'm! I ſerve a lady of quality.

Order in the houſe—let me ſettle this point of precedence—I believe it is regular that Grace ſhould take the lead of Honor, ſo Mrs. Grace begin.

Thank you for preferring ſhe.

Now Grace, what is your baſineſs with me?

La, Sir, I have no buſineſs with you—I want to ſpeak with Mrs. Volatile.

Child, ſhe is not here.

Not here—but I believe ſhe is there

By this guinea ſhe is not.

By this guinea I will ſwear it—mum—but my lady wants to ſee her directly—Mrs. Honor, your very obedient—an audacious huſ⯑ſey!—

Me'm, your moſt humble—

Lord, Sir, I found it as difficult to get at you, as if you had been a great Turk.

Mrs. Muſlin did not know you perhaps.

Not know me! ſhe knew me to be var⯑tuous, though as the ſaying is, "tell me your company and I will tell you what you are"—and I, and my miſtreſs live in a family where there is not much vartue practiſed—but I am ſilent—ſervants ſhould neither have eyes, nor ears, nor tongues, therefore I am always blind, deaf and dumb, let me hear or ſee what I may.

Lower your voice, you may be over⯑heard.

Then there is Sir Buzzard's ſiſter, the widow, though her huſband is not dead ſix months, is friſky and briſk—gadding about, and running mad for another—

Speak low, a gentleman lies ill in the next room.

As to Sir Buzzard, they have put their [83] fingers into his eyes ſo often, he is blind as a beetle. I muſt make you laugh about the widow—

I cannot permit you to ſtay any longer from your Lady. Here's for your good report

Dear Sir, you diſtreſs me—

Farewell—

Heav'n be prais'd! I have got rid of you!—Now to relieve my widow, who I ſuppoſe is mortified into humility, or burſting with rage.

Madam, I feel for your ſituation, and did every thing in my power to ſtop the impetuous flow of the woman's tongue—but be not af⯑fected at what ſhe ſaid—"Cenſure and calum⯑ny are taxes paid by the moſt elevated charac⯑ters, nor is it poſſible to make defence againſt the impoſt, but by obſcurity."

It is beneath me, Sir, to defend my character againſt the aſperſions of ſo mean a wretch—I feel however for the impreſſions her falſhoods may have made on you.

You ſeem frightened, madam, quite fluſter'd I proteſt—ſure the gentleman attempted no rudeneſs—

That woman has ſlandered me groſly!

Soothe your paſſion, madam, nothing ſo prejudicial to beauty as intemperate warmth—conſider the vulgar ſet up a preſcription, for exerciſing latitude of tongue, that ſhews no re⯑ſpect to perſons.

Your hand, Mrs. Muſlin—ſome drops—ſome water—I faint—I am overcome—I die! oh!

Support her, dear Sir, 'till I return—let me run for reſtoratives—

open her hands, chafe her temples,—a-lack a day—This is a maſter ſtroke of the widow's!

This is worſe than the ſtate of Tanta⯑lus—human nature cannot hold out—ſhe is really handſome. I will venture to kiſs her however—

Madam, Sir,—there is Miſs Conſtance and Colonel Staff with her—

What will become of me?

What will become of me?

In his private chamber, and juſt ſprung from his arms!—Oh, hell and furies! but I will be cool,—we, Sir, will meet hereafter; this intruſion, madam, is, I ſee, as unſeaſonable as unexpected; I am ſorry to have interrupted you.

I am unconcerned at your ſuſpicions, Colonel,—you will not be cenſorious, Miſs Conſtance—my buſineſs here was to prevent that imprudent ſtep which you are about to take.

You have ſucceeded, madam

.

Will you hear me?

I am ſorty, Sir, for the confuſion I have cauſed—having gained my eſteem without dif⯑ficulty—you have reſign'd it with the ſame eaſe—

This undeniable proof of your duplicity has reinſtated my ſenſes, and I will run the gauntlet no longer—you feel am calm—quite calm,—but I will have revenge;—you, Sir?—

Well, Sir!—it is my duty to clear this lady from ſuſpicion, to which her ſituation lays her open, and in which I am innocently in⯑volved.

You may have an intereſt in juſtifying yourſelf, Sir, but I requeſt not to be included in your defence; I am going.

I give up the purſuit—Madam, if my acts and deeds—

Your acts and deeds! Yes, I have heard of your acts and deeds from yourſelf, Colo⯑nel—but, be aſſured, a man without ſpirit ſhall never controul the acts and deeds of my for⯑tune.

A true Parthian,—ſhe ſhot as ſhe ſlew.

Conſtance, will you attend to me?

No, Sir,—you need not take the trouble [86] of ſpeaking to me now, or of enquiring for me hereafter.

Was ever man ſo unfortunate!—to have all my wiſhes blaſted in the moment of ripening!—to loſe the object of my love in the inſtant of recovering her—who waits there? to have an intrigue with a wife, a widow, and a maid, in the courſe of one day, and be diſ⯑appointed in all—will nobody anſwer?

What is the mater, Sir?

Where is the lady?

She went out with the Colonel.

I ſpeak of the young lady.

She left the houſe in a chair,—but I cannot tell where ſhe went.

I will this inſtant to Sir Buzzard's!—I will follow her over the world;—what an un⯑fortunate fellow!—

What anſwer has Doctor Spruce ſent?

He ſaid, Sir, he would not write,—but remember your ungenerous treatment, and have revenge!—pardon me, Sir, but theſe were his words.

Would have revenge?

Yes, Sir, and I ſaw a letter on his table directed to Sir Buzzard Savage;—there was an [87] attorney with him, and I heard him ſay the pe⯑nalty is treble the money loſt.

How much is he arreſted for?

Upwards of ſeventy pounds.

Here is a note for a hundred—

fly and get him diſcharged.

A letter to Sir Buzzard!—an attorney with him!—treble the penalty!—this Spruce I fear will turn traitor.

Captain Douglas, your moſt obedient,—how long have you been in Bath? I have not ſeen you for an age.

I believe, Sir, not ſince the York meet⯑ing, when my friend De Courcy loſt his mo⯑ney.

He is too ardent to attempt play,—always off his guard.

And had the misfortune to play with thoſe who kept a conſtant centinel upon his weakneſs;—he confided in you, and was de⯑ceived;—care, and a plain underſtanding, may preſerve a man's property from the plunder of a common robber,—but honeſty has no pro⯑tection from the frauds of ſuperior cunning.

I won nothing from him;—I loſt—the truth is, the knowing ones took us in.—

But you ſhared the winnings—

Will you dare—

I will dare any thing that is honeſt.

Your friend, Sir, has dared to traduce my character, by the imputation you inſinuate. But he and you ſhould know me better, than to ſuppoſe any man could affront me with impuni⯑ty.

I know you have a mind capable of vindicating your conduct, even at the riſque of your own life, and the life of him you have in⯑jured—men like you, habituated in deceit, be⯑come callous to humanity;—deſtitute of prin⯑ciple,—they are not deterred by the compunc⯑tions of conſcience,—but will inſure the profits of their cunning, even at the price of blood.

My family, Sir—

Is honourable!—ſpeak not of your family—their virtues render your vices the more conſpicuous.

Oh you traitor!—the reverend Mr▪ Spruce has made a full confeſſion.—So I have been your pigeon, but the law ſhall do me juſtice.

This is your ſcheme, puſillanimous, mean wretch—

for you, Sir,

we ſhall meet again.

Yes,—at the next aſſizes;—the fel⯑low's mind is ſowed with hempſeed, and will yet produce a halter.—or if he eſcapes hanging, I ſhall ſee him periſhing in a gaol, under as many wants as are in the Daily Advertiſer;—have you been pigeon'd, Sir?

No Sir.

I have,—he has pluck'd ſome quill feathers from me,—he has pinion'd me!—oh the raſcal!—but I ſhall recover my mortgages, and bonds, with treble penalties!

Diſtraction!—ſhe is loſt!—I have been at your houſe, my Lady,—at Mr. Ordeal's—at every inn in the town,—but can get no tidings of her.

It is ſurpriſing, you, who poſſeſs a heart open and liberal, panting with affection for the whole ſex, ſhould run diſtracted for the loſs of an individual!

You overlook me, Welford—

Douglas!—my friend!—O, Douglas, I have loſt my Conſtance!—I—

No truant, I have been your ad⯑vocate and regained her for you—on condition of repentance—.

My life!—

Repentance!—let him marry, and he will live and die in a ſtate of repentance.

What!—marry me, an orphan without a ſhilling?

Talk not of wealth,—were the riches of the world in your poſſeſſion, by Heaven they would not add a grain to the eſtimation of your worth.

Generous and noble!

How, Sir, can I repay your generoſity?

The ſatisfaction which reſults from aid⯑ing virtue in diſtreſs, is the only intereſt a ge⯑nerous mind can wiſh to receive for its ſer⯑vices;—becauſe it is the only intereſt ſuch a mind can enjoy.

Return to my houſe;—there you ſhall be acquainted with a matter which nearly concerns your happineſs.

Which I never expect to taſte!

Your happineſs is in your own power, commence the practice of virtue, and you will be enamoured of its ſweets,—try the experiment, and never fear ſucceſs.

What ſay you to that, Sir Buz⯑zard?

I ſay a man can never be too old to mend—I ſay I have been poſitive all my life, and I ſay if you follow the advice of your an⯑cient and ſapient friend, my endeavours to pro⯑cure domeſtic happineſs ſhall not be wanting—Ordeal, the laugh will be againſt us both.

Laugh at me as long as you pleaſe, but had I married Clara, the laugh would have been ſtill ſtronger againſt me;—the Scot has done right, and the girl has done right,—the mutual inclination of two virtuous ſouls, cannot but render them more virtuous;—the inhabitants of countries united by nature and policy ſhould take every opportunity of ſtrength⯑ening the connexion;—I ſee you all think as I do!—and here I hope we ſhall alſo meet approbation.