[]THE MAID of the OAKS.

ACT I. SCENE I.

DEAR Charles, welcome to England! and doubly welcome to Oldſworth's Oaks—Friendſhip I ſee has wings, as well as love—you arrive at the moment I wiſhed; I hope in your haſte you have not forgot a fancy dreſs.

No, no; I am a true friend, and prepar'd for all your whimſies, amorous and poetical. Your ſum⯑mons found me the day after my arrival, and I took poſt immediately—next to my eagerneſs to [2] ſee you, was that of being in time for the Fête Champétre—Novelty and pleaſure are the beings I purſue—They have led me half the world over already, and for ought I know they may ſometime or other carry me to the Otaheite.

You have purſued but their ſhadows—here they reign, in the manners of this New Arcadia, and the ſmiles of the ſweet Maid of the Oaks.

Who, in the name of curioſity, is ſhe that bears this romantic title? for your letter was a mere eclogue; the devil a thing could I make out, but a rhapſody upon rural innocence, and an in⯑vitation from a gentleman I did not know, to an entertainment I never ſaw—What, are we to have a repreſentation of the Paſtor-fido in a Garden?

The Paſtor-fido is before you in propria perſona; the buſineſs of the day is a wedding, and Charles Dupeley is invited to ſee his friend, Sir Harry Grovebey, united to the moſt charming of her ſex.

The devil it is! What a young fellow of your hopes and fortune, ſacrificed to a marriage of ro⯑mance! But, prithee, relieve my impatience, and tell me who ſhe is.

An orphan ward of the worthy old gentleman, at whoſe ſeat you now are: His character is ſin⯑gular, and as amiable in its way as her's. Inhe⯑riting a great eſtate, and liberally educated, his [3] diſpoſition led him early to a country life, where his benevolence and hoſpitality are boundleſs; and theſe qualities, joined with an imagination bor⯑dering upon the whimſical, have given a peculiar turn to the manners of the neighbourhood, that, in my opinion, degrades the poliſh of courts—but judge of the original.

Mr. Oldworth, I preſent you my friend; he is juſt arrived from abroad; I will not repeat how much he is worthy of your friendſhip.

To be worthy of your's, Sir Harry, is the beſt recommendation.

—Sir, your friend is going to receive from my hands, a lovely girl, whoſe merit he has diſcern'd and lov'd for its own ſake: Such nuptials ſhould recal the ideas of a better age; he has permitted me to celebrate them upon my own plan, and I ſhall be happy to re⯑ceive the judgement of an accompliſh'd critic.

Sir, by what I already ſee of Oldworth's Oaks, and know of the character of the maſter, I am perſuaded the talent moſt neceſſary for the com⯑pany will be that of giving due praiſe.

Lord, Sir, come down to the building directly—all the trades are together by the ears—it is for all the world like the tower of Babylon—they have drove a broad-wheel waggon over two hampers of wine, and it is all running among lilies and honey⯑ſuckles [4] —one of the cooks ſtumbled over one of the clouds, and threw a ham and chickens into a tub of white waſh—a lamp-lighter ſpilt a gallon of oil into a cream'd apple-tart, and they have ſent for more roſes, and there is not one left with⯑in twenty miles.

Why, honeſt Hurry, if there is none to be had, you need not be in ſuch haſte about 'em—Mercy on us! my Fête has turn'd this poor fellow's head already, he will certainly get a fever.

Get a favour, Sir!—why there has not been one left theſe three hours; all the girls in the pariſh have been ſcrambling for them, and I muſt get a hundred yards more—Lord a mercy! there is ſo much to do at once, and nobody to do it, that it is enough to moider one's head.

Ha, ha, ha, is this one of the examples you pro⯑duce, Sir Harry, to degrade the poliſh of courts?

If I did, have you never met with a courtier in your travels, as buſy, as important, and as inſigni⯑ficant, upon yet more trifling occaſions?—Why, my friend Hurry's is the true buſtle of an anti⯑chamber, with this difference, that there is rather more attachment and fidelity to the maſter at the bottom of it.

Law, Sir, if you loiter longer, I tell you they will all be at loggerheads—they were very near it when I came away.

Mr. Dupeley, you'll excuſe me—Hurry con⯑vinces me, my preſence is neceſſary elſewhere—this is a buſy day!

The greateſt compliment you can pay me, is not not to look upon me as a ſtranger.

I forgot to tell you, Sir Harry, that Lady Bab Lardoon is in the neighbourhood, and I expect her every moment—ſhe promiſed to be with us long before the hour of general invitation.

Who is ſhe, pray?

Oh, ſhe's a ſuperiour!—a phoenix!—more worthy your curioſity than any object of your travels!—She is an epitome, or rather a caricature of what is call'd very fine life, and the firſt female gameſter of the time.

For all that, ſhe is amiable—one cannot help diſcerning and admiring the natural excellence of her heart and underſtanding; though ſhe is an example, that neither is proof againſt a falſe educa⯑tion, and a rage for faſhionable exceſſes—But when you ſee her, ſhe will beſt explain herſelf—This fellow will give me no reſt.

Reſt, Sir, why I have not ſlept this fortnight; come along, Sir, pray make haſte—nothing's to be done without it.

Nor with it, honeſt Hurry.

A cunning old fellow, I warrant!—with his ward and his love of merit for its own ſake—ha, ha, ha!—pr'ythee how came your acquaintance in this odd family?

Don't ſneer, and I will tell you—By mere chance' in a progreſs of amuſement to this ſide the country: The ſtory is too delicate for thy reliſh, ſuffice it that I came, ſaw, and lov'd—I laid my rank and fortune at the fair one's feet, and would have married inſtantly; but that Oldworth oppoſed my precipi⯑tancy, and inſiſted upon a probation of ſix months abſence—It has been a purgatory!

All this is perfectly en regle for a man of home education—I ſhould like to ſee the woman that could entangle me in this manner.

There is not a fellow in England has a more ſuſceptible heart: You may have learnt in your foreign tour to diſguiſe it, but if you have loſt it, put all your acquiſitions together, and the ballance will be againſt you.

I have learned at leaſt, not to have it impoſed upon: Shew me but a woman from an Italian [7] Princeſs, to a figurante at the French opera; or change the ſcene, and carry me to the rural nymphs from a vintage in Burgundy, to a dance round a may-pole at Oldſworth's Oaks—and at the firſt glance I will diſcover the whole extent of their artifice, find their true lure, and bring them to my hand as eaſily as a tame ſparrow.

And pray, my ſagacious friend, upon what cir⯑cumſtances have you formed your ſuſpicions that I am more likely to be impos'd upon than your⯑ſelf?

Upon every one I have ſeen and heard; but above all upon that natural propenſity of every true home⯑bred Engliſhman, to think one woman different from another—Now I hold there is but one woman in the world.

I perfectly agree, and Maria is that charming one.

Ay, but Maria, and Lady Bab, and Pamela Andrews, and Clariſſa Harlowe, and the girl that ſteals a heart in a country church, or ſhe that picks your pocket in Covent-Garden, are one and the ſame creature for all that—I am always too quick for them, and make fools of them firſt—Oh do but try them by the principle I have laid down; you'll find them as tranſparent as glaſs.

My own principle will anſwer my purpoſe juſt as well; with that perſpective I have looked through [8] the woman, and diſcovered the angel; and you will do the ſame when you ſee her, or never brag of your eye-ſight more.

Rhapſody and enthuſiaſm!—I ſhould as ſoon diſcover Mahomet's ſeventh heaven; but what ſays your uncle, old Groveby, to this match?

Faith I have aſked him no queſtions, and why ſhould I? when I know what muſt be his anſwer.

Oh, he can never diſapprove a paſſion that ſoars above the ſtars!

He has all the prejudices of his years, and wordly knowledge; the common old Gentleman's character—You may ſee it in every drama from the days of Terence, to thoſe of Congreve; though not perhaps with quite ſo much good humour, and ſo little obſtinacy as my Uncle ſhews. He is ever moſt impetuous, when moſt kind; and I dare truſt his reſentment will end with a dramatic forgiveneſs. Should it not, I may have pride in the ſacrifice of his eſtate, but no regret.—So much for fortune, Charles—are there any other means to reconcile me to your approbation?

'Gad I know but one more—Have you laid any plan for ſucceeding at the divorce-ſhop next winter? It would be ſome comfort to your friends, to ſee you had a retreat in your head.

Charles, I have liſtened to your raillery with [9] more patience than it deſerves, and ſhould at laſt be out of humour with ſuch an importation of con⯑ceit and affectation, if I was not ſure your good ſenſe would ſoon get the better of it. This is called knowing the world—to form notions without, per⯑haps, ever ſeeing a man in his natural character, or converſing with a woman of principle: and then, for fear of being impoſed upon, be really dup'd out of the moſt valuable feelings in human nature, confidence in friendſhip, and eſteem in love.

Lord, Sir, I am out of breath to find you, why almoſt every thing is ready, except yourſelf, and Madam Maria is gone to the Grove, and ſhe is ſo dreſs'd, and looks ſo charming!

Propitious be the hour!—here, Hurry, find out this Gentleman's ſervant, and ſhew him where he is to dreſs.

Oh, take care of yourſelf, Corydon, the firſt, I ſhall be time enough; Hurry ſhall firſt ſhew me a little of the preparation—what is going forward here?

Hold, Sir, not that way; my Maſter lets no body ſee his devices and figaries there.

Why, what is he doing there, Hurry?

Doing!—as you are a gentleman, I will tell you what he is doing—I hope no body hears us.

Why, he is going to make the ſun ſhin at midnight, and he is covering it with a thouſand yards of ſail-cloth, for fear the rain ſhould put it out—lord, ſuch doings!—here, this way, your honour.

But hark'ee, honeſt Hurry, do ſtand ſtill a mo⯑ment to oblige me.

Stand ſtill, Sir!—lord, Sir, if I ſtand ſtill, every thing ſtands ſtill; and then what a fine Sham-Peter ſhould we make of it!

You ſeem to know every thing here?

To be ſure I do—I am no fool I believe—what think you, Sir?

He that takes you for a fool, is not over wiſe, I warrant him; therefore let me aſk you a queſtion or two.

To-morrow, Sir, with all my heart; but I have ſo many queſtions to aſk myſelf, and ſo many anſwers to give, that I have not five minutes to ſpare.

Three minutes will do my buſineſs: Who is this Maid of the Oaks, friend Hurry?

A young lady, Sir.

I thought as much.

You are a courtier, friend Hurry.

I court her!—heaven forbid!—ſhe's going to be married, Sir.

Well ſaid ſimplicity! If you won't tell me who ſhe is, tell me what ſhe is?

She is one of the moſt charmingeſt, ſweeteſt, de⯑lightfuleſt, mildeſt, beutifuleſt, modeſteſt, genteeleſt, never to be prais'd enough young creature in all the world!

True courtier again! Who is her father, pray?

It's a wiſe child that knows its own father; lord bleſs her! ſhe does not want a father.

Not while Mr. Oldworth lives.

Nor when he is dead neither; every body would be glad to be her father, and every body wiſhes to be her huſband; and ſo, Sir, if you have more queſtions to aſk, I'll anſwer them another time, for I am wanted here, and there, and every where.

Shew me my chamber to dreſs, and I'll deſire no more of you at preſent.

Bleſs your honour for letting me go; I have been very miſerable all the while you were talking to me—this way, this way, Sir.

What a character!—yet he has his cunning, though the ſimpleſt ſwain in this region of perfect innocence, as Sir Harry calls it—ha, ha, ha!

SCENE II.

Come, buſtle away, my lads, ſtrike the ſcaffold, and then for the twelve o'clock tankard; up with the reſt of the feſtoons there on the top of the columns.

Holloa! you Sir! where are you running with thoſe flowers?

They're wanted for the Arcades; we can have no deceit there—if you want more here, you may make them of paper—any thing will go off by candle-light.

They want above a hundred more lamps yonder, for the illumination of the Portico.

Then they may get tallow-candles; I ſhan't have enough to make the ſky clear in the ſaloon—that damn'd Iriſh painter has made his ground ſo dingy, one might as ſoon make his head tranſparent as his portico.

Arrah! what is that you ſay of my head, Mr. Lamp-lighter?

I ſay you have ſpoil'd the tranſparency by putting black, where you ſhould have put blue.

There's a black eye for you; and you may be thankful you got it ſo eaſily—Trot away with your ladder upon your ſhoulder, or the devil fire me but you ſhall have black and blue both, my dear.

Good words, good words, gentlemen; no quar⯑relling—Your ſervant, Mr. O'Daub; upon my word you have hit off thoſe ornaments very well—the firſt painter we have here could not have done better.

No faith, I believe not, for all his hard name; ſure O'Daub was a ſcene painter before he was born, though I believe he is older than I too.

You a ſcene painter!

Ay, by my ſoul was I, and for foreign countries too.

Where was that pray?

Faith, I painted a whole ſet for the Swiſh, who [14] carries the temple of Jeruſalem about upon his back, and it made his fortune, though he got but a half-penny a-piece for his ſhew.

I wiſh we had known your merits, you ſhould certainly have been employ'd in greater parts of the work.

And, by my ſoul, it would have been better for you if you had—I would have put out Mr. Lan⯑ternbug's ſtars with one daſh of my pincil, by making them five times more bright—Ho! if you had ſeen the ſign of a ſetting ſun, that I painted for a linen-draper, in Bread-ſtreet, in Dublin—Devil burn me but the Auroree of O'Guide was a fool to it.

O'Guide!—who is he? Guid-o, I ſuppoſe you mean.

And if he has an O to his name, what ſignifies whether it comes before or behind—Faith I put it like my own of O'Daub, on the right ſide, to make him ſound more like a gentleman—beſides it is more melodious in the mouth, honey.

Well, Sir, the ſcaffold's down, and we are woundy dry—we have toil'd like horſes.

Reſt you merry, Maſter Carpenter—take a draught of the 'Squire's liquor, and welcome, you ſhall ſwim in it, when all is over.

Fait let me have one merry quarter of an hour before we at it again, and it will be no loſs of time neither—we will make the next quarter after, as good as an hour—and ſo his honour and the ſham⯑pater will gain by the loſs.

Well ſaid, O'Daub! and if you will give us the ſong you made, the quarter of an hour will be merrier ſtill.

Can you rhime, O'Daub?

Yes fait, as well as paint—all the difference is, I do one with a bruſh, and t'other with a pen; I do one with my head, and both with my hands—and if any of the poets of 'em all can produce better rhymes and raiſins too within the gardens, I'll be content to have one of my own bruſhes ramm'd down my throat, and ſo ſpoil me for a ſinger as well as a poet hereafter.

Well ſaid, Maſter Painter!

SCENE the OAKS.

Joy to my ſweet Maria! may long ſucceeding years reſemble this, her bridal hour! may health, and peace, and love ſtill inſpire her ſong, and make the harmony of her voice an emblem of her life! but come, my girl, if there is a wiſh remaining in your heart within my power to gratify, I hope, in this laſt hour of my cares, I ſhall not be a ſtranger to it.

If I have a wiſh you have not indulged, Sir, I fear it muſt be an improper one, or it would not have eſcaped you.

You ſeem diſconcerted, Maria, be more explicit.

My mind is incapable of reſerve with you; the moſt generous of men, is on the point of giving his hand to your—what ſhall I call myſelf? I am almoſt nameleſs, but as the creature of your bounty and cares, this title gives me a value in my own eyes; but I fear it is all I have to boaſt. The myſtery you have kept, makes me apprehenſive there is ſomething in my origin ought to be con⯑cealed—what am I to interpret from your ſmiles?

Every thing that is contrary to your ſurmiſes: be patient, ſweet Maid of the Oaks; before night all myſteries ſhall be cleared. It is not an ordinary wedding I celebrate, I prepare a feaſt for the heart—Lady Bab Lardoon, as I live!—the princeſs of diſſipation! catch an obſervation of her while you can, Maria; for though ſhe has been but three days out of London, ſhe is as uneaſy as a mole in ſun-ſhine, and would expire, if ſhe did not ſoon dive into her old element again.

Dear Maria, I am happy to be the firſt of your company to congratulate you—well, Mr. Oldworth, I am delighted with the idea of your Féte; it is ſo novel, ſo French, ſo expreſſive of what every body [19] underſtands, and nobody can explain; then there is ſomething ſo ſpirited in an undertaking of ex⯑pence, where a ſhower of rain would ſpoil it all.

I did not expect to eſcape from ſo fine a lady, but you and the world have free leave to comment upon all you ſee here.

I only hope that to celebrate a joyful event upon any plan, that neither hurts the morals, or polite⯑neſs of the company, and at the ſame time ſets thouſands of the induſtrious to work, cannot be thought blame worthy.

Oh, quite the contrary, and I am ſure it will have a run; a force upon the ſeaſons and the man⯑ners is the true teſt of a refined taſte, and it holds good from a cucumber at Chriſtmas, to an Italian opera.

Is the rule the ſame among the ladies, lady Bab; is it alſo a definition of their refinement to act in all things contrary to nature?

Not abſolutely in all things, though more ſo than people are apt to imagine; for even in circum⯑ſtances that ſeem moſt natural, faſhion prompts ten times, where inclination prompts once; and there would be an end of gallantry in this country, if it was not for the ſake of reputation.

What do you mean?

Why, that a woman without a connection, [20] grows every day a more awkward perſonage; one might as well go into company without powder—if one does not really deſpiſe old vulgar prejudices, it is abſolutely neceſſary to affect it, or one muſt ſit at home alone.

Indeed!

Yes, like lady Sproſe, and talk morals to the parrot.

This is new, indeed; I always ſuppoſed that in places where freedom of manners was moſt counte⯑nanced, a woman of unimpeachable conduct carried a certain reſpect.

Only fit for ſheep-walks and Oakeries!—I beg your pardon, Mr. Oldworth—in town it wou'd juſt raiſe you to the whiſt-party of old lady Cypher, Mrs. Squabble and lord Flimzey; and at every public place, you wou'd ſtand among the footmen to call your own chair, while all the maccaronies paſſed by, whiſtling a ſong through their tooth-picks, and giving a ſhrug—dem it, 'tis pity that ſo fine a woman ſhou'd be loſt to all common decency.

I believe I had better ſtay in the Oakery, as you call it; for I am afraid I ſhall never procure any civility in town, upon the terms required.

Oh, my dear, you have choſe a horrid word to expreſs the intercourſe of the bon ton; civility may be very proper in a mercer, when one is chuſing a [21] ſilk, but familiarity is the life of good company. I believe this is quite ſince your time Mr. Oldworth, but 'tis by far the greateſt improve⯑ment the beau monde ever made.

A certain eaſe was always an eſſential part of good breeding, but lady Bab muſt explain her meaning a little further, before we can decide upon the improvement.

I mean that participation of ſociety, in which the French uſed to excel, and we have now ſo much outdone our models—I maintain, that among the ſuperior ſet—mind, I only ſpeak of them—our men and women are put more upon a footing together in London, than they ever were before in any age or country.

And pray how has this happy reſolution been effected?

By the moſt charming of all inſtitutions, wherein we ſhew the world, that liberty is as well underſtood by our women as by our men; we have our Bill of Rights and our Conſtitution too, as well as they—we drop in at all hours, play at all parties, pay our own reckonings, and in every circumſtance (pet⯑ticoats excepted) are true lively jolly fellows.

But does not this give occaſion to a thouſand malicious inſinuations?

Ten thouſand, my dear—but no great meaſures [22] can be effected without a contempt of popular clamour.

Paying of reckonings is I confeſs new ſince my time; and I ſhould be afraid it might ſometimes be a little heavy upon a lady's pocket.

A mere trifle—one generally wins them—Jack Saunter of the guards, loſt a hundred and thirty to me upon ſcore at one time; I have not eat him half out yet—he will keep me beſt part of next winter; but excluſive of that, the club is the greateſt ſyſtem of oeconomy for married families, ever yet eſtabliſhed.

Indeed! but how ſo, pray?

Why, all the ſervants may be put to board wages, or ſent into the country, except the foot⯑men—no plunder of houſe-keepers, or maitres de hotel, no long butcher's bills—Lady Squander pro⯑teſts ſhe has wanted no proviſion in her family theſe ſix months, except potatoes to feed the chil⯑dren, and a few frogs for the French governeſs—then our dinner-ſocieties are ſo amuſing, all the doves and hawks together, and one converſes ſo freely; there's no topick of White's or Almack's, in which we do not bear a part.

Upon my word I ſhould be a little afraid, that ſome of thoſe ſubjects might not always be managed with ſufficient delicacy for a lady's ear, eſpecially an unmarried one.

Bleſs me! why where's the difference? Miſs muſt have had a ſtrange education indeed, not to know as much as her Chapron: I hope you would not have the daughters black-ball'd, when the mothers are choſe: Why it is almoſt the only place where ſome of them are likely to ſee each other.

I come to claim my lovely bride—here at her favourite tree I claim her mine!—the hour is almoſt on the point, the whole country is beginning to aſſemble; every preparation of Mr. Oldworth's fancy is preparing,

Repugnance would be affectation, my heart is all your own, and I ſcorn the look or action that does not avow it.

Come, Sir Harry, leave your proteſtations, which my girl does not want; and ſee a fair ſtranger.

Sir Harry, I rejoice at your happineſs—and do not think me ſo taſteleſs, Maria, as not to acknow⯑ledge an attachment like yours, preferable to all others, when it can be had—filer le parfait amour, is the firſt happineſs in life: But that you know is totally out of the queſtion in town; the matrimonial com⯑forts in our way, are abſolutely reduced to two; to [24] plague a man, and to bury him; the glory is to plague him firſt, and bury him afterwards.

I heartily congratulate Lady Bab. and all who are to partake of her converſation, upon her being able to bring ſo much vivacity into the country.

Nothing but the Fête Champétre could have effected it, for I ſet out in miſerable ſpirits—I had a horrid run before I left town—I ſuppoſe you ſaw my name in the papers.

I did, and therefore concluded there was not a word of truth in the report.

Your name in the papers! Lady Bab, for what pray?

The old ſtory—it is a mark of inſignificance now to be left out: Have not they begun with you yet, Maria?

Not that I know of; and I am not at all ambi⯑tious of the honour.

Oh, but you will have it—the Fête Champétre will be a delightful ſubject!—To be complimented one day, laugh'd at the next, and abuſed the third; you can't imagine how amuſing it is to read one's own name at breakfaſt in a morning paper.

Pray, how long may your ladyſhip have been ac⯑cuſtomed to this pleaſure?

Lord, a great while, and in all its ſtages: They firſt began with a modeſt inuendo, "we hear a certain Lady, not a hundred miles from Hanoverſquare, loſt, at one ſitting, ſome nights ago, two thouſund guineas—O tempora! O mores!"

Pray, Lady Bab, is this concluding ejaculation your own, or was it the Printer's?

His, you may be ſure; a dab of Latin adds ſur⯑prizing force to a paragraph, beſides ſhewing the learning of the author.

Well, but really I don't ſee ſuch a great matter in this; why ſhould you ſuppoſe any body applied this paragraph to you?

None but my intimates did, for it was applicable to half St. George's pariſh; but about a week after they honoured me with initials and italicks: "It is ſaid, Lady B. L's ill ſucceſs ſtill continues at the quinze table: it was obſerved, the ſame Lady ap⯑peared yeſterday at court, in a ribband collier, hav⯑ing laid aſide her diamond necklace, (diamond in italicks) as totally bourgeoiſe and unneceſſary for the dreſs of a woman of faſhion."

To be ſure this was advancing a little in fami⯑liarity.

At laſt, to my infinite amuſement, out I came at full length: "Lady Bab. Lardoon has tumbled down [26] three nights ſucceſſively; a certain colonel has done the ſame, and we hear that both parties keep houſe with ſprained ancles."

This laſt paragraph ſounds a little enigmatical.

And do you really feel no reſentment at all this?

Reſentment!—poor ſilly devils, if they did but know with what thorough contempt thoſe of my circle treat a remonſtrance—but hark, I hear the paſtoral's beginning.

Lord, I hope I ſhall find a ſhepherd!

The moſt elegant one in the world, Mr. Dupeley, Sir Harry's friend.

You don't mean Charles Dupeley, who has been ſo long abroad?

The very ſame; but I'm afraid he will never do, he is but half a maccaroni.

And very poſſibly the worſt half: It is a vulgar idea to think foreign accompliſhments fit a man for the polite world.

Lady Bab, I wiſh you would undertake him; he ſeems to have contracted all the common-place affectation of travel, and thinks himſelf quite an [27] over-match for the fair ſex, of whom his opinion is as ill founded as it is degrading.

O, is that his turn? what, he has been ſtudying ſome late poſthumous letters I ſuppoſe?—'twould be a delight to make a fool of ſuch a fellow!—where is he?

He is only gone to dreſs; I appointed to meet him on the other ſide the Grove; he'll be here in twenty minutes.

I'll attend him there in your place—I have it—I'll try my hand a little at naivetè—he never ſaw me—the dreſs I am going to put on for the Fête will do admirably to impoſe upon him: I'll make an example of his hypocriſy, and his graces, and his uſage du monde.

My life for it he will begin an acquaintance with you.

If he don't, I'll begin with him: There are two characters, under which one may ſay any thing to a man; that of perfect aſſurance, and of perfect innocence: Maria may be the beſt critick of the laſt; but under the appearance of it, lord have mercy!—I have heard and ſeen ſuch things!

Here they come! here they come! give them [28] room! pray, Sir, ſtand a little back—a little further, your honourable ladyſhip, let the happy couple ſtand foremoſt—here they come!

And, pray, when you can find breath to be underſtood, who or what is coming, Hurry?

All the clevereſt lads and girls that could be picked out within ten miles round; they have garlands in one hand, and roſes in another, and their pretty partners in another, and ſome are ſinging, and all ſo merry!

Stand ſtill, Hurry; I foreſaw you would be a ſad maſter of the ceremonies; why they ſhould not have appeared till the Lawn was full of company; they were to have danced there—you have let them in too ſoon by an hour.

Lord, Sir! 'twas impoſſible to keep them out.

Impoſſible! why, I am ſure they did not knock you down.

No, but they did worſe; for the pretty maids ſmiled, and ſmirked, and were ſo coaxing; and they called me dear Hurry, and ſweet Hurry, and one call'd me pretty Hurry, and I did but juſt open the d [...]or a moment, fleſh and blood could not re⯑ſiſt it, and ſo they all ruſhed by.

Ay, and now we ſhall have the whole crowd of the country break in.

No, Sir, no, never be afraid; we keep out all the old ones.

Ay, here they come croſs the lawn—I agree with Hurry, fleſh and blood could not ſtop them—Joy and gratitude are overbearing arguments, and they muſt have their courſe.

Now, Sir Harry! now, your ladyſhip! you ſhall ſee ſuch dancing, and hear ſuch ſinging!

So much for ſinging, and now for dancing; pray, give 'em room, Ladies and Gentlemen.

SCENE, the Garden Gate.

INDEED, Sir, we can't! it is as much as our places are worth: Pray don't inſiſt upon it.

I muſt ſee Sir Harry Groveby, and I will ſee him. Do ye think, ye Jackanapes, that I come to rob the houſe?

That is not the caſe, Sir; nobody viſits my maſter to-day without tickets; all the world will be here, and how ſhall we find room for all the world, if people were to come how they pleaſe, and when they pleaſe?

What, have you a ſtage play here, that one can⯑not be admitted without a ticket?

As you don't know what we have here to-day, I muſt deſire you to come to-morrow—Sir Harry won't ſee you to-day, he has a great deal of buſi⯑neſs upon his hands; and you can't be admitted [32] without a ticket; and moreover you are in ſuch a pickle, and nobody will be admitted but in a fan⯑ciful dreſs.

This is a dreſs after my own fancy, Sirrah; and whatever pickle I am in, I will put you in a worſe, if you don't immediately ſhew me to Sir Harry Groveby—

Sir Harry's going to be married—What would the man have?

I would have a ſight of him before he goes to be married. I ſhall marr his marriage, I believe.

I am his uncle, puppy, and ought to be at the wedding.

Are you ſo, Sir? Bleſs my heart! why would you not ſay ſo?—This way, good Sir! it was im⯑poſſible to know you, in ſuch a figure; I could ſooner have taken you for a ſmuggler than his uncle; no offence, Sir—If you will pleaſe to walk in that Grove there, I'll find him directly—I'm ſorry for what has happened—but you did not ſay you were a gentleman, and it was impoſſible to take you for one—no offence, I hope.

None at all, if you do as I bid you.

That I will, to be ſure. I hope you are come to be merry, Sir.

O, ay to be ſure—It is true, I ſee; I come at the very inſtant of his perdition—whether I ſucceed or not, I ſhall do my duty, and let other folks be merry if they like it—Going to be married! and to whom? to a young girl, without birth, fortune, or without any body's knowing any thing about her; and with⯑out ſo much as ſaying to me, his uncle, with your leave, or by your leave: If he will prefer the indul⯑gence of a boyiſh paſſion, to my affection and two thouſand pounds per annum; let him be as merry as he pleaſes. I ſhall return to Gloomſtock-hall, and make a new will directly.

SCENE changes to a GROVE.

I wiſh I may have ſtrength to ſupport my hap⯑pineſs: I cannot get the better of my agitation; and though this day is to complete my wiſhes, my heart, I don't know how, feels ſomething like diſtreſs—But what ſtrange perſon is coming this way? How got he admitted in that ſtrange dreſs?

Madam, your ſervant; I hope I don't intrude: I am waiting here for a young gentleman—If I diſturb you, I'll walk at the other end.

Indeed, Sir, you don't diſturb me. Shall I call any body to you, Sir?

Not for the world, fair lady; an odd kind of a pert, buſtling, reſtleſs fellow, is gone to do my buſineſs: and if I might be permitted to ſay a word or two, in the mean time, to ſo fair a creature, I ſhould acknowledge it a moſt particular favour: But I intrude, I fear.

Indeed you don't, Sir—I ſhould be happy to oblige you.

And you make me happy by ſuch civility—This is a moſt lovely creature!

Who can this be?

I find, Madam, there is going to be a wedding here to-day.

Yes, Sir; a very ſplendid one, by the preparations.

A very fooliſh buſineſs to make ſuch a fuſs about a matter which both parties may have reaſon to curſe this time twelve month.

I hope not, Sir—Do you know the parties?

One of them, too well, by being a near relation—Do you know the bride, young lady?

Pretty well, Sir: my near acquaintance with her makes me attend here to-day.

Might I, without being impertinent, beg to know ſomething about her—but you are partial to her, and won't ſpeak your mind.

I am, indeed, partial to her—every body is too partial to her—her fortune is much above her deſerts.

Ay, ay, I thought ſo—ſweet lady, your ſincerity is as lovely as your perſon—you really think then, ſhe does not deſerve ſo good a match?

Deſerve it, Sir! ſo far from deſerving it, that I don't know that human creature that can deſerve Sir Harry Groveby.

What a ſenſible ſweet creature this is!

Young lady, your underſtanding is very extraordinary for your age—you ſincerely think then, that this is a very unequal match?

Indeed I do, very ſincerely—

And that it ought not to be.

Ought not to be, Sir!

That, Sir, is another queſtion—If Sir Harry has promis'd—and the young lady's affections—

Ay, to be ſure, the young lady's affections! [...] are more to be conſider'd than the young man's cr [...] or the old man's happineſs—But pray, fair y [...] lady, what are your real ſentiments of this incog [...]

Upon my word, Sir—

I ſcarce know how to anſwer your queſtion—

Your delicacy to your friend won't let you ſpeak out; but I underſtand your objections—Nay, I feel 'em ſo much, that I am come on purpoſe to break the match.

Indeed, Sir!

Ay, indeed am I—a ſilly young puppy! without acquainting me with it, to go ſo far—I ſuppoſe ſome intereſted creature, with a little beauty and more cunning, has laid hold of this precious fool of a nephew of mine—

Your nephew, Sir!

Yes, yes, my nephew; but he muſt give up his girl, or renounce the relationſhip.

But conſider, Sir; what the poor young woman muſt ſuffer!

She ought to ſuffer, a deſigning baggage! I'll be [...]g'd if it is not ſome demure looking chit, with a [...] ſkin and a couple of dimples in her cheeks, that [...]one all this miſchief; you think ſo too, but you [...] ſpeak out.

But if Sir Harry is contented with ſuch ſmall accom⯑pliſhments—

He contented, a ſimpleton! don't ſay a word in his favour; have not you confeſſed, though her friend, that ſhe does not deſerve him? I'll take your word for it; you have good ſenſe, and can ſee his folly: You can't give up your friend to be ſure; I ſee your affection ſtruggling with your underſtanding; but you have convinced me that the fellow's undone.

For heaven's ſake, Sir!—I convinc'd you!

Had the young blockhead but half an eye he would have fallen in love with you; and if he had, there had been ſome excuſe for his folly; on my word you are ſo ſenſible and ſincere, I could fall in love with you myſelf—don't bluſh, maiden—I proteſt I never was half ſo much ſmitten in ſo ſhort a time, when I was as young a fool as my Nephew—don't bluſh, damſel—

You overpower me with your goodneſs; but, Sir, pray, let me plead for him.

Nay, nay, ſweet young lady, don't contradict your⯑ſelf; you ſpoke your ſentiments at firſt—truth is a charming thing, and you're a charming creature, and you ſhould never be aſunder. My nephew, (as you hinted at firſt) is a very ſilly fellow, and in ſhort it is a damn'd match.

I cannot ſtand this interview.

O, your humble ſervant, Sir Harry Groveby.

My dear Uncle, I am ſo happy—

O, to be ſure—you are very happy to ſee me here.

O, ho, you have ſome modeſty left—And ſo you are going to be married, and forgot that you had an uncle living, did you?

Indeed, Sir, I was afraid to truſt your prudence with my ſeeming indiſcretion; but were you to know the object of my choice—

Ay, to be ſure, I ſhall be bamboozeled as you have been; but where is the old fox, that has made a chicken of you? I ſhall let him know a piece of my mind.

Mr. Oldworth, Sir, is all probity, he knew nothing of my having an uncle, or he would never have given his conſent, without your's.

Ay, to be ſure, they have ſet a ſimpleton-trap, and you have popp'd your head into it; but I have but a ſhort word to ſay to you, give up the lady, or give up me.

Let me intreat you to ſee her firſt.

I have ſeen a young lady; and I am ſo put upon my mettle by your ingratitude, that if ſhe would but talk to me half an hour longer, I'd take her without a petticoat to Gloomſtock-Hall, and have my Cham⯑pétre-wedding too.

You are at liberty, Sir—

To play the fool, as you have done—her own friend and companion told me ſhe was undeſerving!

That Maria was undeſerving! where is ſhe who told you ſo? who is ſhe?

Your aunt, Sir, that may be; if I could get to talk to her again—ſo don't be in your airs—

Should ſhe dare to hint, or utter the leaſt injurious ſyllable of my Maria, I would forget her ſex, and treat her—

And if you ſhould dare to hint, or mutter the leaſt injurious ſyllable of my paſſion, I ſhould forget our relationſhip, and treat you—zounds, I don't know how I ſhould treat you.

But, dear Sir, who is the ſlanderer? ſhe has de⯑ceived you.

I don't know her name, and you muſt not call her names.

Where did you ſee her?

Here, here.

When, Sir?

This moment, Sir.

As I came in, Sir?

Yes, Sir, yes—ſhe could not bear the ſight of you, and went away.

Dear, Sir, that was Maria herſelf.

Maria! what Maria?

Maria, the Maid of the Oaks, my bride that is to be.

That's a fib, Harry, it can't be, and it ſhan't be.

It can be no other, and ſhe is the only perſon upon earth, that could ſpeak without rapture of herſelf.

And ſhe is the perſon you are going to marry?

I cannot deny it.

If you did, you ought to be hang'd—follow me, Sir, follow me, Sir—ſhew me to her this moment—don't look with that fooliſh face, but lead the way, and bring me to her, I ſay.

What do you mean, Sir?

What's that to you, Sir—ſhew me the girl, I ſay; ſhe has bamboozled you and me too, and I will be reveng'd.

But, dear Sir?

Don't dear me, I won't reſt a moment 'till I have ſeen her; either follow me, or lead the way, for I muſt and will ſee her directly, and then you ſhall know, and ſhe too, that I am—zounds! I'll ſhew you what I am—and ſo come along, you puppy you.

SCENE III. A Flower-Garden.

Hiſt, hiſt! Lady Bab, Here comes your prize; for the ſake of mirth, and the revenge of your ſex, don't miſs the opportunity.

Not for the world; you ſee I am dreſs'd for the purpoſe. I have been out of my wits this half hour, for fear the ſcene ſhould be loſt, by the interruption of the company—what is that he?

Yes, he is looking out for us.

Step behind that ſtump of ſhrubs, and you ſhall ſee what an excellent actreſs I ſhould have made, if fortune had not unluckily brought me into the world an Earl's daughter.

Don't be too haſty, for it is a pity Sir Harry ſhould not be a witneſs; he owes him vengeance too.

Away, away—

Where the devil is Sir Harry? this is certainly the place where I was appointed to find him; but I ſuppoſe I ſhall ſpring him and his bride from under a roſe-buſh by and by, like two pheaſants in pairing⯑time—

Hah! I wiſh that was a piece of game, ſhe ſhould not want a mate: is that a dreſs now for the day, or is ſhe one of the natives of this extraordinary region?—Oh! I ſee now, it is all pure Arcadian; her eyes have been uſed to nothing but daiſy hunting; they are as awkward to her, when ſhe looks at a man, as her elbows would be in a French Berline.

My ſpark does not ſeem to want obſervation, he is only deficient in expreſſion; but I will help him to that preſently. Now to my character.

What a neck ſhe has? how beautifully nature works, when ſhe is not ſpoil'd by a damn'd town ſtay-maker; what a pity ſhe is ſo awkward; I hope ſhe is not fooliſh.

You ſeem to wiſh for my noſegay, Sir, it is much at your ſervice.

Oh, the charming innocent!—my wiſhes extend a little further. A thouſand thanks, my fair one; I accept it as a faint image of your own ſweets. To whom am I ſo much obliged?

To the garden-man, to be ſure; he has made flowers grow all over the garden, and they ſmell ſo ſweet; pray ſmell 'em, they are charming ſweet I aſſure you, and have ſuch fine colours—law! you are a fine noſegay yourſelf, I think.

Exquiſite ſimplicity!

ſweet contraſt to [44] faſhionable affectation—Ah, I knew at firſt glance you were a compound of innocence and ſenſibility.

Lack-a-dazy heart! how could you hit upon my temper ſo exactly?

By a certain inſtinct I have, for I have ſeen few, or none of the ſort before; but, my dear girl, what is your name and ſituation?

Situation!

Ay, what are you?

I am a bride maid.

But, my ſweet image of ſimplicity, when you are not a bride maid, what is your way of life? how do you paſs your time?

I riſe with the lark, keep my hands always employ'd, dance upon a holiday, and eat brown bread with content.

O, the delicious deſcription!—beachen ſhades, bleating flocks, Pan, pipes, and paſtorals.

What an acquiſition to my fame, as well as pleaſure, to carry off this quinteſſence of Champétre!—'tis but an annuity job—I'll do it.

And pray, what may you be? for I never [45] ſaw any thing ſo out of the way in all my life!—he, he, he!

Be, my dear—I am a gentleman.

What a fine gentleman! bleſs me, what a thing it is!—this is a fine gentleman!—ha, ha, ha! I never ſaw any thing ſo comical in all my life—ha, ha, ha! and this is a fine gentleman, of which I have heard ſo much!

What is the matter, my dear? is there any thing ridiculous about me, that makes you laugh? What have you heard of fine gentlemen, my ſweet innocence?

That they are as gaudy as peacocks, as miſchievous as jays, as chattering as magpies, as wild as hawks—

And as loving as ſparrows—my beauteous Delia, do not leave out the beſt property of the feathered creation.

No, no, I did not mean to leave out that; I know you are very loving—of yourſelves; ha, ha, ha! You are a ſort of birds, that flock, but never pair.

Why, you are ſatirical, my faireſt; and have you heard any thing elſe of fine gentlemen?

Yes, a great deal more—That they take wives for fortunes, and miſtreſſes for ſhew; ſquander their money among taylors, barbers, cooks, and fidlers; [46] pawn their honour to ſharpers, and their eſtates to Jews; and at laſt run to foreign countries to repair a pale face, a flimzy carcaſe, and an empty pocket—that's a fine gentleman for you!

Hey-day! where has my Arcadian picked up this jumble?

I am afraid I have gone to far.

Pray, my dear, what is really your name?

My name is Philly.

Philly!

Philly Nettletop, of the vale.

And pray, my ſweet Philly, where did you learn this character of a fine gentleman?

O, I learnt it with my catechiſm—Mr. Oldworth has it taught to all the young maidens here about.

O, the glutton!—have I found at laſt the clue—I'll be hang'd if old ſly-boots has not a rural ſeraglio, and this is the favourite ſultana!

I fancy I have put him upon a new ſcent—why, a real fool now would not have afforded half this diverſion.

So it is from Mr. Oldworth, is it, my charming innocence, that you have learnt to be ſo much afraid of fine gentlemen?

No, not at all afraid; I believe you are perfectly harmleſs if one treats you right, as I do our young maſtiff at home.

And how is that, pray?

Why, while one keeps at a diſtance, he friſks, and he flies, and he barks, and tears, and grumbles, and makes a ſad rout about it—Lord you'd think he would devour one at a mouthful! but if one does but walk boldly up and look him in the face, and aſk him what he wants, he drops his ears and runs away directly.

Well ſaid, rural ſimplicity again!—Oh damn it, I need not be ſo ſqueamiſh here!—Well but, my dear heavenly creature, don't commit ſuch a ſin, as to waſte your youth, and your charms upon a ſet of ruſticks here; fly with me to the true region of plea⯑ſure—my chaiſe and four ſhall be ready at the back gate of the park, and we will take the opportunity, when all the ſervants are drunk, as they certainly will be, and the company is gone tired to bed.

And would you really love me dearly now, Satur⯑days and Sundays and all.

Oh, this will do without an annuity, I ſee!

You'll forget all this prittle-prattle gibberiſh to me now, as ſoon as you ſee the fine ſtrange ladies, by and by—there's Lady Bab Larpoon, I think they call her, from London.

Lady Bab Lardoon, indeed!—Oh, you have named a ſpecial object for a paſſion—I ſhould as ſoon be in love with the figure of the Great Mogul at the back of a pack of cards—If ſhe has any thing to do with hearts, it muſt be when they are trumps, and ſhe pulls them out of her pocket—No, ſweet Philly; thank heaven that gave me inſight into the ſex, and reſerv'd me for a woman in her native charms—here alone ſhe is to be found, and paradiſe is on her lips!

Thus let me thank you for my noſegay.

Oh, Lady Bab, I come to call your ladyſhip

Lord, I thought they never kiſs'd at a wed⯑ding till after the ceremony; but they cannot begin too ſoon—I aſk pardon for interruption.

Stay, Hurry; who was you looking for?

Why, I came with a meſſage for Lady Bab Larder, and would have carried her anſwer, but you ſtop'd her mouth.

Who! what! who!—This is Philly Nettletop!

Philly Fiddleſtick—'Tis Lady Bab Larder, I tell you; do you think I don't know her, becauſe ſhe has got a new dreſs? But you are ſurpriz'd and buſy, and I am in haſte, ſo your ſervant.

Surpriz'd indeed!—Lady Bab Lardoon!

No, no, Philly Nettletop!

Here's a damn'd ſcrape!

In every capacity, Sir—a rural innocent, Mr. Old⯑worth's miſtreſs, or the Great Mogul, equally grate⯑ful for your favourable opinion.

Mr. Oldworth, give me leave to preſent to you a gentleman remarkable for ſecond ſight; he knows all women by inſtinct,

From a Princeſs to a figurante, from a vintage to a May-pole—I am rejoiced, I came in time for the cataſtrophe.

Mr. Oldworth, there is your travell'd man for you! and I think I have given a pretty good account of him.

I hope the ladies are not the only characters in which Mr. Dupeley has been miſtaken!

Upon my word, Mr. Dupeley, conſidering you have not been two hours in the houſe, you have ſuc⯑ceeded admirably, to recommend yourſelf to your company; why you look as if you had gone your va toute upon a falſe card.

The devil's in her, I believe; ſhe overbears me ſo, that I have not a word to ſay for myſelf.

Well, tho' I laugh now, I am ſure I have moſt reaſon to be diſconcerted, for that blundering fellow ſpoiled my fortune.

How ſo?

Why, I ſhould have had an annuity

Come, come, my good folks, you have both acquit⯑ted yourſelves admirably: Mr. Dupeley muſt forgive the innocent deceit; and you, Lady Bab, like a gene⯑rous conqueror, ſhould bear the triumph moderately.

I own myſelf her captive, bound in her chains, and thus I lay all my former laurels at her feet.

The laurels have been moſtly poetical—gathered in imagination only; he, he, he!

Quarter, quarter, my dear invincible!

Now this ſcene is finiſhed, let me open another to you—Maria's charms have been as much ſignalized as her ladyſhip's wit—my old uncle Groveby—

Of Gloomſtock-hall.

The ſame, and full primed with the rhetorick of ſixty-five, againſt a marriage of inclination; but ſuch a converſion! ſuch a revolution!

Your uncle here! I muſt chide you, Sir Harry, for concealing from me, that you had a relation, ſo well intitled to be conſulted—which way is he?

I left him all in tranſport with my bride; he kiſſes her, and ſqueezes her hand—'gad, I ſhan't get her away from him, without your help.

Poor Sir Harry!

If ſhe has ſweetened that old Crab, that his ſourneſs will not ſet our teeth an edge, ſhe has work'd miracles indeed.

There you totally miſtake his character, Lady Bab:—no—he has the heart of an Oldworth.

Though I confeſs with very different manners; his expreſſion often puts me in mind of the harſh preparation of inſtruments; [52] your ear is jarred, before it is delighted—but at⯑tend to his ſentiments, and as Hamlet ſays,

He never ſaid or did an ill-natured thing in his life.

I wiſh I had him in town, to contraſt with ſome ſmooth ſucceſsful characters of my acquaintance, who will ſmile upon you, even though you affront them, and always flatter your judgement, when they mean to pick your pocket—but here he is, I declare, and looks if he was quite in tune.

I was coming to ſeek you, my Maria.

Your Maria! Sir, my Maria—ſhe will own me, if you won't—there, Sir, let her teach you your duty.

Sir, I have many pardons to aſk of you; but Sir Harry will be my witneſs, that my fault was in my ignorance; had I known your name and ſituation, I ſhould have paid you my reſpects months ago.

Sir, I don't wonder the graceleſs rogue forgot me, but I ſhall be even with him; he ſhan't have a guinea from me.

Good Sir, you are not ſerious that he has offended you—

I am ſerious, that I have found another inheritor for Gloomſtock-Hall—I have got a niece, worth twenty ſuch nephews,

Ay, you may look, Sir, but ſhe ſhall have every acre of it.

I ever found your kindneſs paternal, and you now give me the beſt proof of it.

No, Sir, had I been your father, and you had ſurpriſed me with a match like this, I ſhould have taken another method.

What would that have been, my dear Uncle?

I would have loaded you with all the rents, and you ſhould have been forced to keep me, at your own expence, for the reſt of my life, Sirrah.

There is a ſort of humour about this old fellow, that is not unpleaſant; I muſt have a little laugh with her before the day is over.

Well, Mr. Oldworth, I intend there ſhall be no more ceremony between us; I ſhall not quit your Champétre, I aſſure you—but what ſhall I do, to equip myſelf; one ſhall look like a fool, it ſeems, dreſſed in one's own cloaths.

Sir, your good humour and compliance will be a new compliment to the day—you ſhall be ſupplied— [54] I took care to be provided with plenty of habits for chance comers.

Why, then, this lady, who looks like a merry one, ſhall chooſe for me, if ſhe will do me that favour?

With great pleaſure, Sir; and before I have done with you, I'll make you look—

Ay, what ſhall I look, fair lady?

Why, like Old Burliegh, revived from the Cham⯑pétre, Leiceſter gave to Queen Elizabeth, at Ken⯑nelworth-Caſtle.

And no bad compliment, neither—Gad, fair lady, if you could revive more of 'em, it would do the country no harm, I believe.

Well, my good friends—now for a ſlight refreſh⯑ment, and then for the happy rites. Who muſt lead the bride?

That will I—ſhe is my neice, and only your ward. Give me your hand, Lady Paramount, of Gloom⯑ſtock-Hall.

And may I be thought worthy to offer mine to the lovely Phillida?

She accepts of your ſagacity as Cavalier Servante and Ceciſbo

and as we go along, we will talk of the annuity.

Gad, you deſerve one—and, if I durſt, I'd make it a jointure—and now, if you pleaſe, you may over hear that, my Lady Quickears.

SCENE I. A GROVE.

HERE, laſs, take this baſket, and run away to the church, or you'll be thrown out, and then you won't be married this year—tell all the girls to be ſure they ſtrew in time to the muſic; and bid Dolly Dump ſmile, and not look as if ſhe was at a funeral.

What a day of joy is this! I could leap out of my ſkin, and into it again—here, you, Robin—

What ſay you, Maſter Hurry?

What ſignifies what I ſay, when you are running and fluſtering about, that you can neither hear, ſee, nor underſtand!

Law, Maſter, I try to do every thing after you—where ſhall I go next?

Run away to the ringers, and ſet the bells a-going directly—and do you hear

Huzza all of you, till no body can hear the bells.

[57] What have I to do now?—ho, I muſt go down to the Tents.

No, I'll go firſt to the Shrub⯑bery, and tell the muſicianers—

That I have done already—I muſt take care that none of the ſervants—that will do by-and-by. I muſt bid the maids—'gad I muſt not go near them neither in theſe rampant ſpirits—I am ſo full of every thing, that I can think for nothing but to be mad with joy!

SCENE II. Arcades of Flowers.

Thank you, my honeſt friends and neighbours; if your hearts o'erflow with joy, how muſt it be with mine? I beg you to retire a moment.

Oh, my heart! my heart! what a moment is this? I cannot bear it! the tide's too ſtrong, and will o'er⯑whelm me.

What is the cauſe of this?

You are, Maria—you!

Am I, Sir?—heav'n forbid!

Heaven has granted it, and I avow it—I have liv'd to ſee in theſe times, ſucceſsful merit, and diſ⯑intereſted love—my hopes and wiſhes are accom⯑pliſh'd! my long projected joys are full, and I will proclaim 'em! I have a child!

Sir!

Come to my arms, Maria! thy father's arms! If my lips fail me, let my heart, in throbs, ſpeak the diſcovery.

O, Sir! explain this myſtery!

I have a father's right! my child's conduct has made it a proud one.

How, how, Sir!—I am loſt in rapture and amaze⯑ment!

So we are all.

Excuſe me, brother, Madam, all—my ſtory is very ſhort, Maria; the hour of your birth made me a widower, and you a ſplendid heireſs; I trembled at the dangers of that ſituation, made more dangerous by the loſs of your mother—to be the object of flat⯑tery, in the very cradle, and made a prey to intereſt is the common lot attending it—Theſe reflections, call them whim, call them ſingularities, what you pleaſe, induced me to conceal your birth; being abroad at the time, the plan was eaſily executed.

How blind have I been? Benevolent as you are to all, I might ſtill have perceived and interpreted the diſ⯑tinction of your unremitting tenderneſs—how could I miſtake the parent's partiality, the parent's fondneſs?

Your happineſs has been the motive of my actions, be it my excuſe—The deſign has anſwered wonder⯑fully—for though Maria's virtues would have found their luſtre under any tryal, there would have wanted the humble ſtation of the Maid of the Oaks to give her due proof of a diſintereſted lover.

O, Sir! expect not words—where ſhall I find even ſentiments of tenderneſs, gratitude, and duty, that were not yours before.

The life of my ward, is a pledge for that of the daughter and the wife—To you, Sir Harry, I ſhall make no apology for my ſecrecy; it has ſerved to give ſcope and exerciſe to your generoſity, a ſenſation more gratifying to minds, like your's, than any ac⯑quiſition of fortune—that pleaſure paſt, accept now, with Maria's hand, the inheritance of Oldworth's Oaks.

Sir, your conduct does not ſurpriſe, but it over⯑whelms me—long may you remain the poſſeſſor of Oldworth's Oaks! when you ceaſe to be ſo, he will ill deſerve to ſucceed you, who does not make your example the chief object of his imitation.

New joy to the diſintereſted lover, and to the deſtined Queen of the Oaks!

To the amiable pair, and the rewarder of their merits—Mr. Oldworth, you promiſed us a ſingular regale, but you have outdone yourſelf.

Regale! egad I don't know what to call it—he has almoſt turned the Champétre into a tragedy, I think—I never felt my eyes twinkle ſo oddly before, but I ſhall be merry by and by; and when I begin, have at you double bottles and long corks!

My worthy friend, brother let me call you! I have robbed you of a pleaſure; I know you alſo had your eye upon my Maid of the Oaks, for an exerciſe of your generoſity.

It is very true, I ſhould have been as well pleaſed as her lover to receive her only with an under petti⯑coat, though not quite for the ſame reaſon—but you may perceive how curſedly vexed I am at the diſap⯑pointment.

Ay, I muſt alter the diſpoſition of my acres once more—I will have no Nabobs nor Nabobbeſſes in my family.

The females would be the better of the two, for all that; they would not be guilty of ſo much rapa⯑city to acquire a fortune, and they would ſpend it to better purpoſes.

By as much as a province is better diſpoſed of in a jewel at the breaſt of a Cleopatra, than when it is melted down in the fat guts of mayors and burgeſſes of country corporations.

I agree in your preference between the two; but an honeſt country gentleman, and a plain Engliſh wife, is more reſpectable and uſeful than both—ſo do you hear, Madam, take care to provide me a ſecond ſon, fit for that ſort of family—let him be an honeſt fellow, and a jolly fellow, and in every reſpect a proper repreſentative for Gloomſtock-hall.

An't pleaſe your honour and worſhip, here are all the quality perſons in fanciful dreſſes—you never ſaw ſuch a ſight, they are for all the world like the Turks and Pruſſians—do but look at 'em, how they come [63] prancing along through the grove; I never ſaw any thing ſo fine, and ſo proud, and ſo fantaſtical—Lord, I wonder any body will ever wear a coat and waiſt⯑coat again—This is ſhampeter indeed!

My friend Hurry is in the right—Harry, come and help to dreſs me, for 'till I have got my fool's coat on, I can't make one among 'em.

I'll wait upon you—My ſweet Maria, I muſt leave you for a few minutes—for an age.

My heart is now diſburthen'd, and free to enter⯑tain my friends—Come, Maria, let us meet 'em, and ſhew in our faces the joy of our hearts—Will your ladyſhip and Mr. Dupeley aſſiſt us?

O, moſt willingly, Mr. Oldworth!

"Angels and miniſters of grace defend us!"

Hey-day! what is coming, Lady Bab?

O, that moſt hideous of all goblins, a country couſin—and I can neither avoid her, nor overlook her, as I ſhould to do in town.

Where is the barbarian?

Miſtake her if you can—the lovely Diana there that is talking to Maria, with a tin creſcent upon her head, big enough for a Turkiſh moſque.

Oh, I have her—

What can I do with her? ſhe'll ſuffocate me if you don't take her off my hands.

O couſin! Lady Bab! here am I at the head of my hunters—I left the company to come to you—I want to practiſe my ſong before I ſing it in publick, you ſhall hear me. Ha! ha! ha!

O you delicate creature! pray let us hear it—while ſhe is ſinging we'll ſteal off and join the com⯑pany.

Come, my dear, pray begin.

This is as it ſhould be—a dance, or a ſong, or a ſhout of joy, meets me at every turn; but come, ladies, I ſhall truſt you no more in the gardens; at leaſt not my fair dancers; though the evening is fine it may be deceitful, we have prepared a place under cover for the reſt of the entertainment.

Gentlemen, nobility, ladies and gentry, you are all wanted in the Temple of Venice, to—but I'll not ſay what, that you may be more ſurpriz'd; and if you are ſurpriz'd here, you'll be more ſurprized there, and we ſhan't have done with you there neither—pray make haſte or you'll get no places.

Bleſs my heart, how the whole place goes round with me!—my head ſeems quite illuminationed as well as that there.

See what it is to have more buſineſs than one's brains can bear; I am as giddy as a gooſe; yet I have not touched a drop of liquor to day—but three glaſſes of punch, a pint of hot negus to warm me, a bottle of cyder to cool me again, and a dram of cherry-bounce to keep all quiet—I ſhould like to lie down a little—but then what would become of the Sham-Peter—no, as I am entruſted with a high office, I ſcorn to flinch; I will keep my eyes open, and my head clear—ay, and my hands too—and I wiſh all my countrymen had done the ſame at this general election.

SCENE The Saloon.^*

Long, long, may it do ſo! my dear, my matchleſs daughter!—Come then, my friends and children; I ſee our joys are too ſincere and ſpirited to be any longer celebrated in magic and allegory.

I aſk your pardon, friend Oldworth; this reverend old gentleman Druid has charmed me, and I hope we ſhall have more of his company—A contempt for old times may be faſhionable, but I am pleas'd with every thing that brings them to my remembrance—I love an old oak at my heart, and can ſit under its ſhade 'till. I dream of Creſſy and Agincourt; it is the emblem of Britiſh fortitude, and like the heroic ſpirits of the iſland, while it o'ertops, it protects the undergrowth—And now, old ſon of Miſletoe, ſet that ſentiment to muſic.

And he ſhall, brother.

Well, Lady Bab, are your ſpirits quite exhauſted, or have the events of the day made you penſive? I begin to believe there are more rational ſyſtems of happineſs than ours—ſhou'd my fair inſtructreſs be⯑come a convert, my ambition wou'd be ſtill to fol⯑low her.

I am no convert—my mind has ever been on the ſide of reaſon, though the torrent in which I have lived has not allowed me time to practice, or even to contemplate it as I ought—but to follow faſhion, where we feel ſhame, is ſurely the ſtrongeſt of all hypocriſy, and from this moment I renounce it.

And you never made a better renounce in your life.

Lady Groveby, accept the friendſhip of one ſin⯑cerely deſirous to imitate your virtues—Mr. Oldworth, you do not know me yet; you forbad your company maſks upon their faces, I have worn one upon my character, to you, and to the world.

Lady Bab wanted but the reſolution to appear in her genuine charms, to make her a model to her rank, and to the age.

To thoſe charms I owe my converſion—and my heart, hitherto a prodigal, juſtly fixes with her, from whom it received the firſt impreſſion of love and reaſon—There wants but the hand of Lady Bab, to make Oldworth's Oaks diſtinguiſhed by another union, founded on merit in her ſex, and diſcernment in mine.

Sir, your propoſal does me honour; but it is time enough to talk of hearts and hands—Let us fol⯑low the example before us in every thing—after the life we have led, ſix months probation may be very proper for us both.

Amiable Lady Bab!—Confer the gift when you pleaſe; but my Fête Champétre ſhall be remember'd as the date of the promiſe—and now for ſuch a ſong and dance as will beſt conclude ſo happy a day.