SCENE I.— A Lodging Houſe.

THY argufying, Harry, is all nonſenſe. Don't I know that I am Suſan Monroſe, the poor curate of Finchcliffe's daughter; and that thee beeſt my brother?

Pſhaw! You are a ſimpleton.

Ay, ay: mayhap I may. But I won't be wicked: ſo don't tempt me to pertend that thee beeſt an outlandiſh lord, when I know thee to be nobody but Harry Monroſe.

Be quiet; and liſten to what I have to ſay. I have always loved you, Suſan.

Well, Harry, thee canno' deny but there's no love loſt.

Though your education has been neg⯑lected, you are a charming girl. 'Twere a ſhame that ſo much beauty and intelligence ſhould be buried in obſcurity. I am determined to make your fortune, and my own.

Not by becoming a wicked cheat! No, Harry, that's not the way.

You miſtake: that is the only way. "'Tis the common calling! For gowns, gold chains, and white wands are its rewards." From high to low 'tis all bargain and ſale. And what is bargain and ſale? Why to diſplay the good ſide, and conceal the bad: that is, to cheat and lie!

Oh Harry, Harry! Is all the learning fa⯑ther beſtowed on thee come to this? He ſaid, when thee run away, how it would be.

I have travelled, know the world, and mean to profit by my knowledge. Fools and knaves are the two grand claſſes: for the honeſt men are too inſignificant, and too few, to form a claſs. Poverty and diſgrace are got by keeping them company; and he that would thrive muſt ſhun them, as he would the plague.

Surely, Harry, thee canno' be in down⯑right earneſt?

Such is the world: and ſhall I, like a driveller, make myſelf its football? No; it ſhall be mine! And I will ſpurn▪ it before me with the contempt it deſerves! While I deſpiſe and laugh at its prejudices, I will profit by them.

Look thee, Harry, I canno' tell why thee beeſt ſo bitter angry wi' the world. I can truly vouch I have met wi' many good folk, and few bad. And as to go for to ſay that thee beeſt a lord, I'll do no ſuch thing!

I muſt deceive the obſtinate fool, for her own advantage—You miſtake the matter. Once again, I tell you, I am a lord.

Oh for ſhame, Harry! Don't I know that to be an un poſſable thing?

Why?

Why! As if they could make a lord out of thee! Whereof a lord is a great—unſpeakable—Grandee!

Ha, ha, ha! But I am a foreign Count. Any man may be created a Count, abroad.

Created a Count? Oh, what blaſphemy! But what doſt tell me about Counts, and lords? Here beeſt thee a kind of a ſchool-maſter, to young Mr. Jonas: which be a deſſunt modeſt call⯑ing enough; but not fit for a lord! It be a deuced puzzleation thing to learn to read, and ſpell, and put together; and I be very ſure a downright lord would never take the trouble.

Well but, anſwer me: would it not re⯑joice your heart to be a lady?

What ſort of a lady? There be your lady ſuch as I ſaw go on a viſitation to the King's birth⯑day; and there be the Taylor's lady, that lives in the alley and ſells red herrings.

How acute you are, huſſey! Follow my advice and you ſhall ſoon be a real lady.

What and ride in my coach?

Ay, girl.

Keep two footmen, a parrot, a lap-dog, and a monkey?

Oh a whole menagerie of monkies.

Wear high feathers, long gowns, ſhort petticoats, red ſlippers, and clock ſtockings?

If you pleaſe.

Have my bed warmed every night, lie as long as I like of a morning, eat buttered crumpets for breakfaſt, plumb dumplings for dinner, and oranges and ſweetmeats for luncheon and ſupper?

Served up with ſugar-candy ſauce. Ha, ha, ha! Should you like it?

Like it? How am I to get it?

By getting a rich huſband.

What one of your London Squire Jemmies; with his thing'embobs down to his ancles, his hands in his pockets, his ſwitch in his boot, his impudent ſtare, and his hop ſkip and ſwagger "How do you do, my dear?"

Ha, ha, ha! By my ſoul, Suſan, thou art a jewel of a girl. I am enraptured with thy ſpirit of obſervation.

Why look thee, brother Harry, if it be thy meaning that I ſhould lend thee my little finger here toward the cheating of other people, thou'll be plaguily cheated thyſel': ſo take warning. No, Harry, I love thee too well to turn my hand to tricks that ſhall bring thee to ſhame.

Infatuated little fool! But I have her ſafe.—I find, Suſan, I have been miſta⯑ken. I thought you had a kind of a liking for my young pupil? Hay? Nay, ſpeak.

Who doſt mean?

Come, come, ſiſter, no hypocriſy!

May hap, Harry, thee beeſt joking me on account of young Mr. Jonas?

Indeed I am very ſerious. What if he ſhould offer you marriage?

Nay, brother Harry, an' if he ſhould make me ſuch an offer, where would be the harm? Mr. Jonas be well enough to ſee to: and, thof he be a bit oafiſh and ſkittiſh, yet, i'the main, a's good conditioned.

That is, you like him?

No, Harry, it is no' come to that yet: 'cauſe why a's of rich parentage, and I of poor; whereby thee mayſt take it for ſartin, Harry, that I know how to keep my thoughts to myſel'. So I think nought about him.

For what reaſon?

Reaſon enough. 'Tis little likely 'at his kinsfolk ſhould gi' conſent.

Fear nothing: they ſhall! I have the means.

Ay, marry! What be they?

Their own miſdeeds. He that would make the rich his tool muſt worm out their ſecret vices: he then has them in his gripe, and the ty⯑rant becomes the ſlave.

Harry, Harry, I do hugeouſly doubt thee beeſt becoming a reprobate!

Do not miſtake me, girl. I love not miſchief for its own ſake: I act but on the defen⯑ſive, and turn the weapons of oppreſſion againſt itſelf. My whole plan is this: I ſent for you up to town purpoſely to marry this headlong youth; who, if he has not the good fortune to have you, will make ſome cookmaid or kept miſtreſs his wife. I have lodged you here a few weeks to teach you a little of the town manner; and have brought Jonas to ſee you, who is mad after every woman he meets. To day I will introduce you to his mother, Lady Ferment. Prepare yourſelf, and act and ſpeak according to my inſtructions.

It ſignifies nothing talking, Har⯑ry: I'll do nought but that which is upright, and downright.

Zounds, girl, have done with this abſurd ſtuff. I know what is right, you do not. If fair and direct means cannot ſucceed, who is to blame? Neither you nor I. Once more, obey my directions. Great events are on the eve of diſcloſure. Should you traverſe and betray me, I will never own you for a ſiſter more.

SCENE II.

Why then I wunno' be conſarned i' wick⯑edneſs, Harry, do what thee wo't! No! I wun⯑no'! I wunno'!

I do love thee dearly: wi' aw my heart and ſoul: and I would no' ſee thee come to diſgrace no not to be the Queen of England! So dunno' thee expect it o' me—But then a ſays and declares there be no wicked⯑neſs i' the caſe. May hap there be not. I hope there be not! I do hope there be not!—As to Mr. Jonas, a' be a likely lad to look to. That there be no denying: A be plaguy rumbuſtical to be ſure: but, an it ſhould be our good hap to wed, I gueſs a'd be cured o' that—I do find myſel' in a ſtrange quandary. I be as good fleſh and blood mayhap as he. I be a woman, and he be but a mon. Yea, belemmy, we be aw Adam's children: but ſilks and ſatins make the difference.

SCENE III.— Changes to the Houſe of SIR JOB.

Upon my ſoul, Miſs Aurelia, it is true. I think I never ſaw a neater turned ancle! And for a white arm, and a fine fall of the neck, there is nobody like you!

Ha, ha, ha! I am ſurpriſed to hear all theſe gallant things from you, Mr. Jonas; when you yeſterday confeſſed you were in love with your tutor's ſiſter.

What, Miſs Suſan? So I was. But ſhe is like the reſt of you: if I offer to touch her, ſhe ſets up her back, and darts her ſharp little fangs, juſt like the cat at the maſtiff.

Is ſhe a prude?

I don't know what you call prude, but I know ſhe won't let me come at her.—You are my mother's companion.

Ay. Heigho! Happy girl!

But I have been thinking—

What?

You had better by half be mine.

Why?

What does my mother want with a dear delicious—now I do.

Why you are abſolutely a rake, Mr. Jonas.

A rake? No. I'll marry you.

Ha, ha, ha! What would Lady Ferment ſay?

What care I what ſhe ſays?

Indeed you are a ſad rake! You are ſo fond of the ladies!

How can I help it? I wiſh they were as fond of me! Ecod there would be rare work.

You make love to them all.

No: there's one exception.

Who is that?

My mother. She makes love to me.

And you treat her as you ſay the cat does the maſtiff.

Serve her right. She ſhould not be ſo fond, and fooliſh.

Jonas!

Tch! Tch! Tch! Here ſhe comes. Will you conſent?

I can't.

Why not?

I dare not venture on ſuch a ſeducer.

Ah! You have an eye ſomewhere elſe.

Pooh!

Yes, you have.

SCENE IV.— Enter LADY FERMENT.

Jonas, dear, what are you doing?

Not what I like.

Aurelia, child, take care of yourſelf! This pet boy is becoming a ſad tempter!

A very dangerous one indeed, my lady.

That's a fib, now.

You are, child. I am ſure you are; and it becomes young women not to truſt them⯑ſelves alone with you.

Ecod, you need not teach them that: they won't.

I have been telling him what a ſeducer he is.

Nonſenſe. I am not.

You are, Jonas, dear.

Ay, indeed are you! I muſt beware of you, Mr. Jonas.

Nah! You are all alike; with your flings and fleers.

'Twas lucky that my lady came!

Ya, ya, ya! Ecod I'll go and kill the par⯑rot, ſet the cat at the lap-dog, and give both your muffs to the monkey!

SCENE V.

Sweet boy!—I am glad, my dear, you ſee your danger. Your ſituation, child, is a peril⯑ous one.

Yes, yes, my lady, I am fully aware of my ſituation.

Come with me: I want to conſult you on a new dreſs. You have a very tolerable taſte, in putting on your things; and that is a great re⯑quiſite, in a dependent young woman. That and prudence, with a cautious tongue! Hear, ſee, and ſay nothing, is the waiting-woman's duty.

Waiting-woman, my Lady!

I don't mean you, child. You are ſomething above that: you are my companion.

It is a new calling: your Ladyſhip muſt be kind enough to inſtruct me.

I will, I will. Come with me: I will.

SCENE VI. Enter MONROSE, and MRS. CLACK.

So, as I tell you, Sir Count, I am no tattler. I don't go blabbing to this perſon, and chattering to that. I have no goſſiping acquaint⯑ance to babble all my ſecrets to. I have put a lock upon my lips. I don't know how I came to make ſo free with you! But you have ſuch a 'ſinu⯑ating way! However, you are as cloſe as my⯑ſelf. Beſide, though you are down in the world, you are a gentleman, Sir Count; and, if I tell you any thing, it is as ſafe as in my own boſom.

You need not doubt of that.

Oh, I know it! I know it!

Well, and ſo—?

And ſo, if what I am going to tell you of Sir Job and Mr. Taunton ſhould ever be known, I believe in my conſcience it would bring them to—dear! dear!

Indeed!

That's my notion of the matter. But there is no danger that you ſhould blab.

You know me too well.

I do! I do! And ſo, I will tell you. Miſs Aurelia is Mr. Taunton's diſtant relation. She was his firſt wife's ſiſter's child.

You amaze me!

To my certain knowledge! And, what is more, ſhe is, as I have heard a ſmall bird ſing, the rightful heireſs to a mortal deal of money.

Aha!

And, though nobody dare for the ſoul of them ſay ſo much, it's a crying ſin ſhe ſhould be cheated, as ſhe is, and robbed of her due.

Is it then known?

Oh, no! except to—

To whom?

Why, that—that is another ſecret.

Nay but, my dear Mrs. Clack, you are very well convinced you may truſt me.

I have truſted you with my maſter's ſecret; but this is my own. It concerns my own character; and if, at my age, I ſhould loſe that—

Can you think I would take away the character of my friend; who has generouſly open⯑ed her whole heart to me?

It would be a baſe action in you, if you did! What can be more wicked than to tell a circumſtance that ſhould ruin one's reputa⯑tion; after one has eſcaped ſo many traps, and ſnares, with as fair an outſide as any woman in the pariſh?

And could I, think you, be ſo wicked?

I have lived in this family many years: in which time, as you may ſuppoſe, a number of chance accidents have happened: and if Mr. Quake—that is—Bleſs me! what am I ſay⯑ing?

Who is Mr. Quake?

Nobody: nobody at all. I was rav⯑ing, I believe!—Miſs Aurelia was charitably edu⯑cated by an old lady, who—

You have told me that before. Who is Mr. Quake?

Why the whole blame does not lie on Mr. Taunton: Sir Job was the other executor.

Pſhaw! I know it. Who is Mr. Quake?

Why Mr. Quake—Bleſs me! I am ſo flurried!—Huſh! Somebody is coming! It is my maſter! Don't notice me. Why, Betty! Why don't you come?

SCENE VII. Enter SIR JOB.

A word, if you pleaſe, Sir.

Certainly, Sir Job.

I am come to tell you, Sir, that I don't approve your proceedings.

I am ſorry for that, Sir Job.

A fig for ſorrow, Sir. I will be maſter of my own premiſes!

Who ſo proper?

What right had you to bring this Miſs Aurelia into my doors?

Oh ho!—Lady Ferment want⯑ed a companion.

Don't companion me, Sir! You come here a ſtranger, you give yourſelf out for a foreign Count, you are received into my family as a tutor, and before you have been three months you cajole my Lady, controul me, and introduce your ma⯑dams as my inmates.

Moderate your anger, Sir Job.

Sir, I will be as angry as I pleaſe. I am in my own houſe, Sir. A'n't I, Sir?

Do you doubt it, Sir?

Yes, I do doubt it, Sir. No, I don't doubt it, Sir. What do you mean by doubt it, Sir?

Was Aurelia Roland then a total ſtranger to you, Sir Job?

Sir!—What—What do you mean by that queſtion?

Did you never hear her name mentioned?

I, Sir!—When?—What?—Where muſt I hear?

Are you wholly unacquainted with her family?

Sir, I—

Why ſhould the queſtion alarm you, Sir Job?

A—a—a—alarm!—What do you mean by alarm?

The Rolands, I am told, were formerly wealthy?

What—What is that to me?

It is poſſible you might have heard of ſuch a thing.

Sir, I am—I do—I don't underſtand.

The old ſhark! But I'll give him line for the preſent.—She is a charming handſome girl.

What of that, Sir?

I know you love my Lady: Yet the moſt loving huſbands are ſometimes caught tripping.

Hay? What?

A city knight and alderman might have a partiality for ſo fine a young creature.

Oh! Is that it? Ha, ha, ha! What, [13] you ſuſpected—hay?—Ha, ha, ha! That is very good! I perceive, Count, you are a wag. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Heigho!

Well, well, if any ſecrets ſhould have paſſed between you, and I can be of ſervice—You comprehend me?

Hay? What ſecrets? How?

Any amorous follies.

Oh!—No. Ha, ha, ha! By my knight⯑hood, never.

Then you don't know Aurelia?

Know? I—How—Where ſhould I—Hay?

If ſo, I have been miſinformed.

How! Informed? Bleſs me! I—Who?—Informed?

Come, come, don't deny it, Sir Job. You know more than you like to confeſs.

No—no—n n no, I don't.

Yes, you do.

No, indeed; upon my veracity!

Well, well, Sir Job, you have lived long enough in the world to know its maxims. If you ſtand in need of any man, you are wiſe and will make it that man's intereſt to be your friend. "You are an alderman, and a magiſtrate, and ſet a pro⯑per value on a ſmug wig, a ſmooth chin, and a ſhining pair of ſhoes. You have learnt the trick on't; and know that juſtice conſiſts in keeping gravity on the countenance, and money in the pocket. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

SCENE. VIII.

Mercy on me! What a tremble I am in! What does he mean? He half talks as if he knew Aurelia Ro—

Who's there?

What's the matter with you, Sir Job?

Nothing! Nothing, Sir Guy.

Zounds! You are in an ague! How pale you are!

A little qualm. It will go off.

Where's your ſon?

What Jonas?

No, your other ſon; the neglected Oliver.

I don't know. There's no peace in the houſe for him. Pays my Lady no reſpect.

Much more than ſhe deſerves.

Plays the very devil!

You miſtake: that is her part.

She? Oh no! Good creature! She's all my comfort.

Then God help you.

So tender! So loving!

That her firſt huſband hanged himſelf.

Ah! He was a fooliſh man. I know how to manage her.

And ſhe knows how to manage you.

Oh, we are well paired! I wiſh you had ſuch a wife!

The devil you do!

Such cordiality between us! Not but, if my Lady's nerves were not ſo weak, I ſhould often fall in a paſſion.

You ſhould?

Oh! I am plaguy hot, at times! Do you know, I am choſen Colonel of the What do you call it Aſſociates?

Indeed!

Ay, am I! Why I am a man of war by [15] birth-right. My father was army hatter, and fa⯑mous for inventing the Cumberland cock!

Tremendous!

And I myſelf was once a contractor for accoutrements, grenadiers' caps, cartouch boxes, bullets, and buff belts. Nay, I have ſince dealt in gunpowder.

SCENE IX. Enter LADY FERMENT.

What is that you talk about gunpowder▪ Sir Job? 'Tis unmannerly to mention ſuch things before ladies.

Oh, he never does when your Ladyſhip is preſent.

Oh no! Never!

My deary is always kind.

Go, man, and prepare your maſter's cho⯑colate.

Ah! My lovy is ever thinking of me! Sir Guy called, chucky, to enquire after your health. He heard you had got a cold at the maſ⯑querade, and was ſo ſorry! Was not you? Has been ſaying the civileſt things of you! Have not you?

Infinitely obliged to Sir Guy. Will you take a cup of chocolate, Sir, with my deary?

Oh no. I have juſt had a glaſs of bitters.

They are very good for the ſtomach.

And Sir Job knows your Ladyſhip is excellent at preparing them.

I'll match her for that with any wife in ten pariſhes.

Deary always thinks too well of me. Did you take your new-laid egg, ſweet, this morn⯑ing?

Surely I did! Lovy gave it me herſelf, with her own fair hand.

I have ordered your jelly at two.

Ah, precious!

Your glaſs of Cyprus wine and a biſcuit at four.

Kind lambkin!

And ſome turtle ſoup before dinner.

Do you hear?

You are become a military man, Sir Job, and require a ſtrengthening diet.

Very true. Ods thunder! Sweety will make a Sampſon of me!

A Sampſon!—Well, and how does your ſon Oliver, my Lady?

My ſon, indeed! He is no ſon of mine.

He is the ſon of your huſband; there⯑fore yours.

Ay, indeed!

Unqueſtionably: if you have any re⯑gard to your character.

Who would dare to impeach my cha⯑racter?

I ſhould. Every body would.

For a baronet and a man of breeding, Sir, you have a very ſtrange way with you.

I know it. 'Tis ſome people's failing to tell lies: 'tis mine to tell truth. But pray what are Oliver's faults?

A thouſand, Sir!

Name one.

I name?—Aſk his own father.

Ay, let us hear. Come, begin▪

Why don't you ſpeak, Sir?

My dear!

You have no pity on my poor nerves▪

Yes, I have, lovy.

Count over your graceleſs ſon's pranks. Have you loſt your tongue, man?

No, no, deary: but you know my me⯑mory begins to fail.

My poor tender frame! Proceed, Sir Job, and don't ſhew yourſelf a ſavage! Paint your ſon in his true colours.

I will, I will! Firſt he is a tall, well⯑made, handſome—

Handſome?

No, no! Ugly: a ſort of ugly fel⯑low.

Well ſaid, knight!

Has a bold, open, manly—Hem!—Inſolent air. Feeds like a hungry German at a table d'hôte, and refuſes to dine with the ſervants.

Oh the proud villain!

Aſpires to keep the beſt company.

Sir!

The worſt company: and, to maintain his extravagance, has audaciouſly petitioned for a hundred a year pocket money.

Of a father who has only a rent roll of three thouſand per annum, and a plumb and a half in the funds.

Very little more!

Oliver is acquainted with your affairs▪ and methinks he might be very uſeful.

What's true, Sir Job? Have not you renounced trade?

But not cloſed his accounts.

No, my Lady: you know, I have not cloſed my accounts.

Why will you dare, Sir Job, to talk in this ſtyle, and look me in the face?

No, no, my Lady! Not and look you in the face.

Why, knight, I think it is my Lady that deals in gun powder?

I ſee how it is! My nervous frame is not to be ſpared! I am to be thrown into a fit!

Heaven forbid, my Lady!

Why Sampſon!

Her ſit is coming!

Let it. I'll burn the feathers, and ſprinkle the water.

I am ſurpriſed, Sir Guy, at your be⯑haviour.

Likely enough: for I am ſurpriſed at yours.

You are a ſtrange perſon.

Ay▪ many people tell me ſo. But I hear you have a young lady come to be your companion, of whom Oliver relates wonders.

Oliver is a forward blockhead. Deary, I am ſure, won't like her long.

I am ſure to the contrary, Sir.

Ay, truly! I am glad to hear that.

She is a taſty perſon; juſt what I wanted. I have ſent her to my milliner's; and on a few er⯑rands.

On errands?

One muſt treat theſe kind of people pro⯑perly at firſt, or they grow familiar.

If ſhe poſſeſs the rare qualities Oliver deſcribes, your Ladyſhip I gueſs will ſoon have her at a very proper diſtance.

The greater the better.

She came recommended by your Engliſh foreign tutor?

By Count Monroſe, Sir.

Oh! ay: Count. I beg [...] Countſhip's pardon.

He is a gentleman.

So is every ſharper about town.

A man who returned to England loaded with honors.

It was all the baggage he had.

You have a licentious tongue, Sir Guy.

I know it. It is my plague; and it is a worſe plague to others than it is to myſelf. I warn your Ladyſhip to beware of it, and treat Oliver like your ſon; or I foreſee it will be buſy. It is the more dangerous too becauſe it deals in mere mat⯑ter of fact. What it relates is credited; for I am notoriouſly a ſtupid fellow, without a grain of in⯑vention. I came purpoſely to tell you this, in a friendly way. Sir Job, remember your new occu⯑pation. Think how you once dealt in grenadier's caps, cartouch boxes, bullets, and buff belts. Be a man of war: my Lady will love you the better.

Impertinent perſon.

Nay, lovy.

Begone, iron-hearted wretch!

SCENE I. The Terrace of the Houſe of SIR GUY, at a Village near London.

NAY but why are you ſo pettiſh?

Becauſe I like it.

An angry man, brother, rides a runaway horſe. Here have you every thing that heart could wiſh.

No, I have not.

What do you want?

To be rid of you.

Don't be ſo waſpiſh, brother.

I will, drone.

Pray let me adviſe you.

Do, that I may laugh at you.

Be conſiderate, be ſmooth. You are all fire and flaſh.

And you are all froſt and fool.

From the wiſe meek replies.

From jackdaws fooliſh ſaws.

Nay but give me a reaſon?

Give you brains, you mean.

Why are you ſo ſnappiſh?

For the good of my health.

I don't underſtand you!

Who ſaid you did?

How is your health concerned?

Would you have me, like yourſelf, a compoſition of cheeſe curd and cucumber, tie my⯑ſelf up in a money-bag, impriſon my ſoul in the [21] circumference of a guinea, ſink to inanity with hear⯑ing it chink, and crawl to my grave like a pullet dying of the pip?

Neglect a penny, and ſquander a pound.

Pſhaw! An aſs is a dull animal. "Put nutmeg in your drink, eat muſtard, and mend."

Patience is a good pilot.

You have leſs brains, leſs life, leſs pro⯑pagation in you, than a Cheſhire cheeſe: for that will at leaſt breed maggots: but a miſer begins and ends with himſelf. I wonder who the devil made you my brother! Give me a fellow that has miſ⯑chief in his marrow.

Well but about this young woman, that you were talking of: you ſurely muſt be miſtaken!

You ſurely muſt be a mule.

Her name cannot be Roland?

What impoſſibility has your wiſdom diſ⯑covered?

Sir Job would not take Aurelia Roland as a companion to his lady!

Why not?

Becauſe—Hem!—I don't know why.

No? You look as if you did.

Sir Job has ſons.

What then? Why is Aurelia Roland more dangerous to his ſons than any other woman?

You juſt told me how Oliver praiſed her. But I am ſure it cannot be Aurelia Roland.

And how the devil came you ſo ſure?

Have you ſeen her?

No.

Aurelia Roland? Impoſſible! And yet—Well, brother, I muſt bid you good day.

It will be the better when you are gone.

Patience is a jewel for a prince▪

Patience is a preaching puppy.

Don't go to market to buy vexation.

I need not go to market, I can have it brought home to me.

Don't burn your houſe to frighten away the rats.

Zounds and fire! This fellow would proverb a man to death in a fortnight.

SCENE II. Enter MR. SCRIBE.

Stay where you are, good woman.—Where is Sir Guy? As croſs but as kind hearted an old gentleman as ever breathed! He threatens the poor, as if he were their ſcourge: but he always relieves and feels for them, like the tendereſt of fathers.

Well, Sir, what do you want?

Here's another pauper brought before your worſhip.

And how comes that? Did not I ap⯑point you my clerk purpoſely to terrify the neighbourhood and drive away beggars?

And ordered me never to paſs paupers from the pariſh without acquainting you.

Why what the devil, ſellow, would you have me ſend them away by cartloads, ſick or well, and ſuffer them to die on the road; as is the prac⯑tice in other ſcoundrel pariſhes? Who is it?

A poor woman with five ſmall children.

Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Thus it is when beggarly boys and girls couple and propagate ploughmen, and weavers, and the riff-raff of the land; who all conſpire together to maintain ſuch clever fellows as myſelf in ſtate!—Send her here!

Come this way, good wo⯑man.

How do you know ſhe is a good woman? Is not ſhe poor? I'll teach her better tricks, I war⯑rant me!

SCENE III. Enter POOR WOMAN.

Now, miſtreſs! What buſineſs have you to be poor? Don't you know what a crime it is? Have you no huſband?

I had, Sir.

What, he is run away, I ſuppoſe?

He is dead, Sir.

Lord, Lord!—What buſineſs had he to die? And ſo you have five children?

Eight in all, Sir: five young ones at home.

Here's pretty doings! Here's impu⯑dence! Breeding of vermin at this rate, to people cabbins and commons, and multiply over moors and mountains! So that, if it were not for that politic purgative, gunpowder, by and by we ſhould not have an acre of waſte land left! Are you a⯑ware of your wickedneſs?

I hope in time, Sir, they will all learn to work.

Oh, oh! What you mean to inſinuate that they will grow and come to be good for ſome⯑thing?

If they don't firſt ſtarve, Sir.

Starve! To be ſure! What can they expect? Here's flying in the face of au⯑thority! [24] Where's the beadle? Pack her a⯑way!

I don't think you mean it, Sir.

The devil you don't! Why this is worſe and worſe!

When had you a good meal?

Never, ſince my huſband's death.

Here's impertinence!

When did you eat laſt?

Not theſe two days.

Damn me but this is inſufferable!—I'll teach you! Take her away!

Where, your Worſhip?

To the pantry, you damned villain! To the pantry!

Muſt I paſs her to her pariſh?

Do! Do! And I'll paſs you to the de⯑vil! Give her food; go home with her; examine, dive into wretchedneſs, and harden your heart, ſcoundrel; and then give me a full and true ac⯑count, that I may learn to harden mine. And do you hear, you vile huſſey! Let me catch you faſt⯑ing two days again, if you dare! Let me! That's all! In the mean time take this.

The prayers and bleſſings of the poor be your reward, Sir.

SCENE IV.

Damn me but it is very unaccountable! This woman I ſuſpect has feelings! And ſenſations! And thoughts! Nay I doubt whether ſhe have not [25] a heart, and a ſort of a ſoul; and yet ſhe is a pauper!

SCENE V. Enter MR. SCRIBE.

Here is a perſon in the parlour who de⯑ſires to know if he may be permitted to ſpeak a word with you.

A perſon? A prig you mean.

Why ſo, Sir?

By the impertinence and abſurdity of his meſſage. What mighty maggot am I, that a man is to aſk permiſſion to ſpeak to me?

You are ſo croſs and ſo kind, Sir!

Zounds! Sir, how can I help it, if my heart be made of ſuch vile pitiful melting materials, that it is overflowing at every inſtant; and I have no way of ſhutting and ſtopping up the flood gates of paſſion, but by being a crabbed, cankered, damned choleric ſcoundrel?

SCENE VI. The Houſe of SIR JOB.

You are a witneſs of the humble demeanor I am obliged to wear in my father's houſe. I am the ſon of Sir Job by a firſt wife. He was then poor, and I am told I have no claim upon his preſent wealth; but that gratitude and crouching are due for the favour of not turning me out of doors.

It appears you feel your wrongs, but that you ſubmit to them.

My father aids to inflict them unwillingly, and promiſes ultimate juſtice.

It is for your brother Jonas' ſake that you are thus treated.

Not with his intention. He has the caprice and obſtinacy of a pampered ſon, but his heart is open and kind.

This impartiality is to your honor.

Our parents and ſeniors are in poſſeſſion of their property, and the law tells them they have a right to diſpoſe of that as they pleaſe; but the hearts and affections of the young are not in their keeping.

Nay, nay, but every day's experience proves the contrary.

Can the cold and palſied hand of age tie the delicate knot of love?

No: but, cold and palſied as it is, it can weave the inevitable web of miſery.

Be it ſo! Let me periſh, ſo that I expire on the boſom of the woman I adore!

And is there ſuch a woman?

There is.

Will you not tell her name?

Yes, when I can perſuade myſelf ſhe can ſympathiſe with the ſtrong and throbbing emotions of my heart.

Heigho! Let us talk of the weather.

What are your thoughts on marriage?

Thoughts! It is a ſubject on which a pennyleſs damſel muſt not caſt a thought.

But if thoughts will intrude?

Why then thoughts are very impertinent things.

Viſitors which cannot be got rid of. There⯑fore what do you think of matrimony?

That it is the paradiſe of pleaſure for a [27] few months, and the cave of deſpair for the re⯑mainder of life.

It is the cradle of love.

Say the tomb: and, love being dead, jea⯑louſy, anger, ambition and avarice, all have full play.

What if love were vigorous enough to re⯑pel theſe ravagers?

He then falls a victim to the petty warfare of caprice, dullneſs, and the deſire of novelty.

What if beauty and wit be his guards?

Alackaday! They are guards that always deſert their poſt; and when on it are ſo intoxi⯑cated with ſelf-admiration that they never do their duty.

It ſeems, they are dangerous companions.

Ay, ay, let you and I beware of them.

I hope you do not follow the advice you give?

If I do not follow, it will drive me.

Where?

To—Pſhaw! From this houſe. No, no; I don't know what I ſay! I ſhall be driven away by the arrogance of Lady Ferment, which my education does not fit me to endure.

Then you are a ſtranger to love?

Fie! Have done! We are two outcaſts; but not I preſume the outcaſts of virtue. Her commands we muſt obey; and thoſe irrevocable commands are to fly the danger we cannot face.

SCENE VII. Enter JONAS with a paper in his hand.

So, ſo, brother Nol! Theſe are your tricks! It's my belief you are a ſad dog among the girls.

And what are you, Jonas?

Me? Lord! I am nobody! They only laugh at me! But I'll begin a new courſe! I'll be a ſad dog myſelf ſoon! You muſt know, I am confoundedly in love.

With whom?

Whom? Why with them all! And it's damned vexatious that I can't get one of them.

Jonas, beware: there is danger in your eagerneſs. Take a brother's advice, and don't indulge your appetites at the expence of your happineſs.

SCENE VIII. Enter MONROSE.

Well, pupil, have you finiſhed your theme?

Oh yes, I have finiſhed my theme; and a rare theme it is! All of my own invention!

I am glad of that; it is a mark of im⯑provement.

Oh I ſhall improve apace, with your help.

Well, and what is the ſubject?

What is that to you?

Nay you muſt ſhew it me.

Muſt! When?

You ſhould write nothing without my knowledge.

Why?

I am your governor.

Who told you ſo?

Come, come, we will not contend for trifles. I am your friend, which is better. Let me ſee what you have written?

You'll ſhew it Sir Job?

I will not indeed.

Honor?

Depend upon me.

Nay I don't much care if you do. My mother rules the roaſt, and I rule my mother.—I told you I had an inkling to Miſs Suſan.

Ay, but—

None of your buts, or I'll play you a trick. I like her. She's no fool, and can't chuſe but like me. So I have been inditing.

A love-letter?

I did it off-hand, at a ſmack. You ſhall hear.

Ha, ha, ha! An original compoſition.

Will it do?

You come to the point.

Why not? I want to be my own maſter: ſo I want a wife, that I may be maſter of ſomebody elſe.

But you have ſaid not a word of that.

Oh, when once we are married, ſhe'll hear it ſoon enough.

SCENE IX. Enter LADY FERMENT.

My dear Jonas, have not you finiſhed your morning ſtudies yet?

Yes. I have juſt done.

I make it a particular requeſt, Count, that you will not indulge the poor boy in ſevere application.

Oh leave that to me, mother.

Why do you always call me mother, dear?

Why a'n't you my mother?

Yes, my ſweet boy! But mamma is more affectionate.

Very well, mamma.

Or, now and then, madam.

I'll take care, madam.

And ſometimes your ladyſhip, or my lady.

Oh to be ſure, your ladyſhip, my lady.

Ah you are a ſaucy dear child.

Harkye, my lady your ladyſhip.

What do you ſay, bold face?

If I muſt not call you mother, don't call me child.

Hear him, Count! Dear impudent pet!

No, I'm too baſhful by half; which makes the girls all giggle ſo at me.

Ah! Let me kiſs you, brazen face.

No, you ſhan't: I am a man, and I'll kiſs ſomebody elſe.

Why, ſaucebox!

So I'll—I'll have a wife.

A wife?

Yes, I will; and ſince you won't look out for me, I have been looking out for myſelf.

Mercy! Jonas!

I tell you, I have.

Who?

A pretty girl.

Why, child!

I tell you, I am no child: I am a man, and I'll have her.

My dear Jonas, have pity on your poor mamma, and tell me who it is?

The Count's ſiſter.

Miſs Monroſe?

Her neck is as white as the driven ſnow!

When have you ſeen her, child?

Oh, I have ſeen her often enough.

Count!—She is poor.

I like her the better.

Had you paid your addreſſes to a city heireſs, indeed! Beſide, you forget, child, you are to go on your travels.

What of that? She may go on her travels too. We ſhall have a young Jonas, and it will be a fine opportunity for him to ſee the world, like other travellers, before his eyes are open.

Oh! you dear, witty, wicked darling.

I have opened my mind to her.

Which way?

The right ſtraight forward way, to be ſure; by letter.

Indeed! Count? And what anſwer have you received?

What do you mean by an anſwer, you ſilly woman? I have not ſent it yet. What an⯑ſwer ſhould I receive? She wants a huſband, does not ſhe? Beſide, a'n't I as rich as—as—as a ſilver⯑ſmith's ſhop, or a banker's money-ſhovel? Which is juſt what I want firſt—ſo give me ſome.

Some what, child?

Caſh. The ready.

You emptied my purſe only yeſterday.

What of that? I'll empty it again to⯑day.

Nay, my ſweet boy, you are too extra⯑vagant.

I want a wife and money. You muſt fur⯑niſh the laſt, that I may furniſh myſelf with the firſt.

Pray, dear Jonas, ſpare me.

Come, come; give me the rhino, or, look you, I'll begin.

Begin what?

To ſwear.

Mercy, child!

I will, like ten troopers!

For heaven's ſake, don't terrify me!

Give me the ſhiners then.

I muſt not.

Then I'll ſwear away.

I ſhall faint.

Curſe my boots and ſhoes, but I will.

Jonas!

I will by—

Here, here! How can you, child, be guilty of ſuch immorality?

You ſhould bribe me to be better.

Money, dear, ſhould never be got by immoral means.

Then it will never be got at all.

It would ſend us to a bad place.

Ah! There will be a deal of the beſt com⯑pany in that bad place. He that has money in his pocket is welcome every where.

SCENE X.

I muſt tell you, Count, your behaviour aſtoniſhes me.

Extremely ſorry to have aſtoniſhed your Ladyſhip.

Permit my ſon to viſit your ſiſter!

Your Ladyſhip's ſon did not aſk my leave.

A youth of his fortune and connections!

True: they are ſo great that, by your Ladyſhip's own order, he is never to be contra⯑dicted.

How came he to know, Sir, you had a ſiſter?

Very naturally, my Lady. I told him.

Oh you did!

I humbly hope the liberty was not un⯑pardonable.

Your hopes, Sir, are inſolent!

I bow to the mildneſs of your Ladyſhip's reproof.

I ſuppoſed you a gentleman, or I ſhould not have appointed you my ſon's tutor.

I hope my gentility will not diſgrace that of your Ladyſhip's ſon.

Your gentility, Sir! Your title of Count [34] might give an eclat as the tutor of my ſon: but of what real value is it?

Of very little, indeed, my Lady: it will not ſell for a guinea.

And may be bought for a guinea where you procured it.

"Happy country!"

But I will inſtantly put an end to ſuch proceedings.

Let me humbly entreat your Ladyſhip not to be raſh.

Raſh, Sir?

I may well have been to blame, ſince doubts are entertained whether even your Ladyſhip have eſcaped immaculate!

Sir!

I bend before your virtue, dangerous as the aſſaults are which I know it has endured!

You know, Sir! What is it you would inſinuate?

Pardon me for having eyes and ears! Pardon their indiſcretion when the gallant High⯑lander—

Sir!—The Highlander!

At the maſquerade, led the ſcarlet do⯑mino ſo tenderly to her chair, ordered it to Clarges⯑ſtreet, followed muffled up—

I ſhall ſink!

Shall I ſupport your Ladyſhip?

Upon my word, upon my honor, Count—

Oh, my Lady! I will champion your honor.

You ſafely may, indeed, indeed!

I will ſwear it! And who ſhall dare to [35] doubt? The only boon I aſk is that my ſiſter may be your gracious Ladyſhip's friend.

But ſurely, Count, not my daughter?

The Highlander, my Lady, was a re⯑markably handſome man!

I ſuppoſe this is Sir Job: what will he ſay?

Oh▪ your Ladyſhip and I poſſeſs the ſe⯑cret of making Sir Job ſay whatever we pleaſe.

Indeed! Was he too at the maſquerade?

He has been in maſquerade a great part of his life.

You are an incomprehenſible man, Count.

I ſhall find a time, my Lady, to make myſelf underſtood.

SCENE XI. Enter SERVANT.

Here is a dreſſed up kind of country lady, that aſks for her brother Harry.

Well, Sir?

So not knowing her, I kept her back with my arm and—

Do not be impertinent, Sir. Show her up.

Impertinent! This foreign Count takes upon him finely!

SCENE XII.

'Tis my ſiſter.

I will leave you alone.

Shall I not introduce her to your Lady⯑ſhip?

Introduce?—Oh, certainly! Certainly. I'll return in a moment.

I will remember your conde⯑ſcenſion.

But my honor, Count.

I am its guardian, and who ſhall dare impeach it? We are friends.

Moſt ſincerely—I wiſh he was at the divle with all my heart.

SCENE XIII. Enter SERVANT and SUSAN.

There is the Count, Madam.

Did not I tell thee, oaf, it was brother Harry? Thou'll believe me another time, I hope.

I'll take good care, Madam.

Here.

Oh, oh! That alters the caſe.

SCENE XIV.

What has been the matter?

Why, I curchied, and axt for you civilly enough: ſo a pulled and hauled me and made a combuſtibus.

You ſhould behave like other ladies.

Harry, Harry, I have no right to any ſuch title.

Why not? Where is the difference be⯑tween Suſan Monroſe and a lady?

Why that be what I canno' find out. But what mun I ſay now thee haſt brought me here? Mun I tell how I left father in dudgeon and run⯑ned away i' the broad wheeled waggon?

Not for your life.

I ſhall never perſonate myſel': I ſhanno' know how to demander my carriage. I ſhall nei⯑ther [37] know when to ſpeak nor when to hold my tongue.

Fear nothing; make your remarks freely on all you have heard and ſeen ſince you came to London.

Nay then belemmy I ſhall have enough to talk on. But you have made me dreſs myſel' out in ſuch tawdry flippets and flappets, ſo that I amſuch a mawx I can't abide myſel'.

They will ſoon hang eaſy on you.

There han I ſitten a long long hour while that outlandiſh barber, wi' his burning irons, wur a frowzling and a frizzling my top. And then, laſt of aw, a blinded me wi' dinging o' flour i' my face! No chriſtian ſoul i' our town would know me! I do believe they'd ſhout and ſet the dogs at me!

Curſe our town! Lady Ferment is com⯑ing. Up with your head, down with your ſhoul⯑ders, keep your arms back, talk away, and don't ſeem abaſhed.

Well, well, dunno' be croſs, and I'll do my beſt.

SCENE XV. Re-enter LADY FERMENT: they ſalute.

I congratulate you, madam, on your ſafe arrival in London.

Yea, belemmy, we came ſafe and ſoftly enough.

How did you travel, madam?

Why, I came by the broad wheeled—

By the Budworth coach, my Lady. But as your Ladyſhip hears my ſiſter ſpeaks the Cheſhire dialect.

Yea, belemmy, I dunno' much underſtand the Lunnun tongue.

You have been ſometime in town?

Five weeks and two days.

Have you ſeen much of it?

Yea, marry, I ha' ſeen more nur any mo⯑deſt body could for ſhame ſay.

Pray let me hear.

Nay, nay, but an I dunno' take ſpecial care I know my tongue will ſoon get o' the wrong ſide o' my teeth.

Never fear.

Her Ladyſhip will allow for your country education, and I am ſure will take nothing amiſs.

Oh, by no means.

Why then, i' my mind, as for your dreſſ⯑ed up Lunnun moppets here, wi' their bare necks and painted faces! Marcy on's! They look as if—

As if what?

I ſay nought.

You judge ſeverely, Miſs.

Ay, ay, Miſs! Every Molly now-a-days be a Miſs! There be Miſs Hop, and her papa the dancing-maſter: ſhe be one of your high-flying tip-top Miſſes. Wi' her noſe toſſed i' the air and her trail ſweeping the ſtreet. Then there be Miſs Midge: her papa keeps a milk-cellar, and ſhe be a more bedizened and a greater Miſs nur t'other.

But, you do not think them all alike?

No, truly: there be three ſort o' folk i' Lunnun. There be they that ha' more money nur wit, they that ha' more wit nur money, and they that ha' noather t'on nor t'other.

And of which kind do you think me?

Why, begging pardon for my audacity, I do ſuppoſe your Ladyſhip may ha' more money nur wit.

Well ſaid, Suſan!

And why?

Belike your Ladyſhip ha' been ſo buſied i' ſpending your money you hanno' had time to learn much wit.

A ſhrewd gipſy!—What do you mean by wit, ſiſter?

That be a wiſe queſtion! Your Lunnun fine Madams hanno' the wit to make a bed, duſt a table, or darn a ſtocking. They canno' ſo much as ready their own hair, or fettle a cap; poor crea⯑tures! But are obligated to hire ſome needy body to do every varſal kind o' thing.

Then you think the needy have more wit than money?

Yea, by my troth; and not much of oather.

Oh, the malicious little huſſey!

SCENE XVI. Enter AURELIA.

Well, child, have you executed my commiſſions?

To the beſt of my ability, madam.

Madam?

I beg your Ladyſhip's pardon.

Oh! Remember to be more reſpectful.

Permit me to introduce my ſiſter.

SCENE XVII. Enter OLIVER.

Now, Sir!

I hoped Aurelia had been alone.

What is your buſineſs?

None: or any that your Ladyſhip ſhall pleaſe to give me.

If you have none, Sir, your intruſion is unmannerly.

I beg pardon.

Will you walk in the Park preſently?

No.

Let me intreat you.

Impoſſible.

I have ſomething eſſential to ſay.

We have ſaid too much already.

What is all this whiſpering? Pleaſe, Sir, to go and ſee if Sir Job is come in.

SCENE XVIII.

I hope you will be good friends.

With all my heart.

And wi' aw my heart and ſoul too. You are a farrantly body; and I like you: that I do. I like you.

While you ſtay in town do me the favor, Miſs Monroſe, to accept apartments in my houſe. Aurelia, come with me.

Are you going?

I muſt obey: but I will tell you a ſecret▪ My reſidence here will be ſhort.

Are you coming, child?

You hear!

SCENE XIX.

Is not ſhe a charming girl, ſiſter?

Yea, belemmy, ſhe's quite a farrantly body; and I like her.

I knew you would. I muſt now tell you a little more of my plan.

Hold, Harry. If it be aught againſt con⯑ſcience dunno' tell it me! Dunno'!

Pſhaw! I muſt tell you, and you muſt act like a ſiſter. Your aid is indiſpenſible. Liſten and guard what I ſhall relate as you would life. Aurelia is a rich heireſs, cheated by two old har⯑pies; who want her out of the way.

Marcy! Be that poſſable?

Literally true.

And dunno' ſhe know it?

No, nor ſuſpect it.

Marry but I'll run and tell her.

Are you mad? 'Tis I muſt tell her.

Nay but wo't thee, Harry?

Moſt certainly. But I muſt wait the pro⯑per moment. I love her, and am determined to ſecure her fortune and marry her.

Ay, but what an ſhe wunno' ha' thee, Harry?

Why ſhould ſhe refuſe?

She may have other likings.

I care not if ſhe have.

Did no' thee mind how that young ſpark and ſhe juſt now gave one another ſuch looks?

I did. I read their meaning. They ſtruck to my heart! But no matter: let me once have her in my power, let me ſecure her mine, and I warrant I will reconcile her to the diſap⯑pointment.

But doſt thee truly and faithfully love her, Harry?

From my ſoul.

And thee wo't uſe her like a mon?

To her heart's deſire.

Why then ſetting that to be the caſe, Harry, I'll do my beſt for thee.

Seek her company, work yourſelf into her affections, and inſinuate thoſe good qualities which you know I poſſeſs.

I wiſh thee wur not a Count, Harry. Howſomdever, as far as conſcience and honeſty will go, I'll do my beſt.

SCENE XX.

Why ay! Succeſs, fortune, and Aurelia ſhall be mine! As for fame, give me but wealth, and that will come unaſked. And yet my curſed querulous conſcience takes part with my ſiſter, and upbraids me for being an impoſtor. Abſurd! Who are not impoſtors? Is any man the thing he ſeems? And, if feign we muſt, is it not better to feign ſomething that the world reſpects, than ſomething that it deſpiſes? The ſon of a curate, I have daſhed into life, met variety of adventures, viſited the Continent, and aſſumed the airs of a foreign Count. I have certainly diſgraced myſelf; but the world does not think ſo. Who would ſhew his naked face when a maſk is ſo pleaſant, ſo profitable, and ſo eaſily put on? My father gave me education, Nature gave me deſires, and I have [43] given myſelf a title. Why not? "If I am not a lord, it ſeems I ought to have been. I find no difficulty in being as extravagant as a lord, as proud as a lord, as idle as a lord, and as impudent as a lord. I could game like a lord, be duped like a lord, run in debt like a lord, and never pay, as naturally as if I had been born a lord. Let lords look to it, then, and reform. Let them be as ſuperior to the poor in virtue as they are in power, and I will bluſh for being an impoſtor."

SCENE I. The Houſe of SIR JOB.

MY Lady is gone out, and we are ſafe enough here.

Safe enough? In danger enough, you mean! Were you mad or drunk to admit Aurelia Roland into your houſe?

What could I do?

The orphan whom as executor you had robbed of her whole fortune.

I? It was you! You propoſed the plan.

And you carried it into effect.

You had one half of her property.

With good right! Fools catch the fiſh, wiſe men eat them.

My wife brought her here in ſpite of my teeth.

The wife will rule when the huſband's a fool. As for me, I have proved it to you again and again that I have been her beſt friend.

Nay, then, ſo have I.

Do you think, if ſhe had known her⯑ſelf to be the heireſs of a great fortune, that her behaviour would have been ſo modeſt?

Oh, no!

Her manners ſo winning?

Certainly not.

Her wit ſo keen? She may thank me, and me only, that ſhe is not a vain, capricious, pert, prating, ſprig of faſhion.

Oh, her fortune has been no loſs to her.

And a great gain to us.

We knew how to make a good uſe of the money.

And to make a good uſe of money is to be honeſt.

Yes: we convinced each other, at the time, that we acted like honeſt men.

And now, at preſent, what would ſhe do with her wealth, if ſhe had it?

Ay, and how could we do without it?

She would know nothing of the price of ſtocks.

She would never buy in at a proper time.

Buy in? She would always be ſelling out!

Inſtead of a good mortgage, ſhe would be for the purchaſe of ſome rake helly huſband—

That would call us to account.

Cut our throats.

Blow us upon 'Change.

File bills in Chancery.

Deliver us over to the ſword.

And the law.

"And the church."

And the devil.

She muſt be got rid of.

I have a thought.

What?

You have ſeen my ſon's tutor.

Yes: a keen fellow.

Has great influence with my wife.

Surely!

A bold, daſhing, impudent—one of your ſwaggering genteels.

Certain then to be a favourite with the ladies.

Secure him and the buſineſs is done. But do you know, from ſomething he ſaid this morning—

Bleſs me! what's that?

What are you doing, Sir?

What is that to you?

This way.

SCENE II. Enter JONAS and MONROSE.

Why did you kick the ſervant's bruſhes and pail down ſtairs?

Becauſe I like it. It's my humour. What buſineſs had you to let me go to that curſed hazard table?

I let! Did not I ſtruggle, and hold you; and did not you drive a pin into my arm, and break from me?

Serve you right! Why did you tell me of ſuch a pick-pocket place?

We were paſſing, you read the word "Billiards," and I merely remarked it was a gam⯑ing-houſe.

Well! It's genteel. I like to game.

Then you muſt be content to loſe.

But I don't chuſe to loſe. I chuſe to win. You ſhould have taken care of that.

I?

Yes, you.

My watch and all gone.

I could not ſtop you.

Nya! Who ſays you could? Do you think I am to be ſtopped by you?

SCENE III. Enter LADY FERMENT.

Jonas, dear, what is the matter?

Matter enough.

Bleſs me! Something has happened! What is it, Count?

I am ſorry to tell your Ladyſhip; but the truth muſt be known.

I am ready to ſink! What?

I have loſt my money.

Is that all?

All! Yes; and enough too.

What a tremble you have put me in!

You always grumble to give me more. I have no watch now.

Is that gone too? You will ruin your poor mother.

Serve her right, for having ruined her poor ſon. So give me twenty ſhiners.

My dear child, I have not them.

Get them, then.

I cannot! Indeed, Jonas, I cannot!

But you muſt.

Where? Which way?

You know the way faſt enough, without my telling.

I can prevail on Sir Job to do any thing, except part with his money.

What ſignifies your wrangling? You know very well I will have them.

Indeed, my dear, you cannot.

Can't I? Then I'll go and throw myſelf into the Serpentine river.

Cruel boy!

"As ſure as you are living, I will.

Hear me!

I'll go.

For heaven's ſake ſtay!" You will be my death.

It's a death of your own ſeeking.

The reproof is juſt.

SCENE IV. Re-enter through the ſame door SIR JOB and MR. TAUNTON: the latter bows and paſſes on.

What, Count, have you and your pupil been walking?

Yes, Sir, we are juſt returned.

When my Lady is gone, I wiſh to ſpeak with you.

I will attend you.

SCENE V.

I am going.

Stay.

Will you teaſe the old one then for me?

You know, good for nothing, that I will.

Now, lapwing! Where's your brother Oliver?

Can't tell, Sir Job.

Has he learnt better manners?

Don't know, Sir Job. If he would but have come with me, I would have taught him, Sir Job.

You hear, deary, what an obedient ſon you have got.

Ah! The dog can be ſaucy enough.

So I can, Sir Job.

Oh! Oh! You can?

It is not good manners to contradict my papa, Sir Job.

You don't know, ſweet, how Jonas loves you.

No, that you don't, Sir Job: nor you never ſhall know.

What a happy man my deareſt is in a ſon and a wife!

Very true, lovy.

I gueſs what ſhe wants.

And I indeed am the happieſt of women. Yet it is in my lambkin's power to make me hap⯑pier ſtill.

Ay truly!

It won't do.

Will you conſent?

Certainly I can refuſe my turtle nothing.

I foreſee a ſtorm.

And deary ſhall have his Cyprus wine, [49] his turtle ſoup, and any thing my hands can make him.

Thank you, lovy! Hem!—So you know nothing about Oliver?

How ſhould he, biddy? He is likely enough at ſome gaming table.

Oh! Five pounds to a crown at a gaming table! They are ſad places—vile, damned, pick⯑pocket places.

Zounds, you dog, how dare you ſwear?

And ſo, deary, now to make me com⯑pletely happy.

Yes, my lambkin.

If you could let me have juſt a little looſe caſh.

I have no looſe caſh, deary.

Nah, my ſweet one, if it were only fifty pounds.

Hem! No more, jewel?

I perceive, Sir Job, you are determined not to make me happy.

It is coming—I thought, lovy, that you were happy.

Your evaſions are vain, Sir.

I wiſh Oliver was here—I muſt be going, lambkin.

Your miſerly propenſities are contemp⯑tible. I'll be the ſlave of them no longer.

SCENE VI. Enter OLIVER.

What is the matter, Sir? Why is her La⯑dyſhip ſo angry?

What is that to you, Sir?

That's right! Stand by your father, you dog, or I'll diſinherit you.

Oh, Sir, you are in no need of ſupport.

You lie, ſirrah, I am.

Lady Ferment is too loving, too tender a wife—

To need your interference, inſolent Sir.

There, Sir, I told you ſo.

This uſage ſhall not continue, Sir Job.

No ſurely, my Lady.

Don't mind what I ſay—Do you know, ſtrip⯑ling, in whoſe preſence you are?

Speak up.

In the preſence of Lady Fer⯑ment, Sir.

Oh, Nol, you are a ſly fellow.

Do you forget that I have a right to knock you down when I pleaſe? Bombs and gunpowder, get out of my ſight.

You may follow me—Begone, you vile—what ſhall I call you?—See to the ſettling of that account with Paywell and Co. Five hundred nineteen ſeven and ſix in our favour. Get about your bu⯑ſineſs you, you, you Saracen Turk!

Why, Sir Job, I ſay—

I muſt have ſome money. The Serpentine river! Remember! I want pleaſure, I want a wife, I want a thouſand things. I will have ſome mo⯑ney.

SCENE VII. (As they go off, MONROSE enters.)

What, is he gone?

Oh Harry! I am main glad I have found thee.

What is the matter?

I have overheard ſuch baſe villainy!

How? Where?

Why a bit a gone I was righting myſel' i' the little back room there; and ſo I had ſteckt the door o' th' inſide; and there I heard a voice come into the next chamber and talk to ſomebody, and ſomebody gave anſwer in a gruff ſound, and there, merciful goodneſs, forgive me! There did they argument over the making away with Miſs Aurelia!

Making away with her!

As I am a chriſtian ſoul they did.

You mean getting her out of the way, I ſuppoſe.

Nay, but that wur not aw, Harry, for they preſently talked over thy name! They did, as I live and breathe! And mentioned of thee being conſarned i' the plot! They did!

Me?

If thee beeſt, Harry, if thee beeſt, Lord ha' mercy on thee!

Don't be frightened, fool.

Nay but art thee, Harry?

Pſhaw! No.

Nay but art thee? I charge thee tell me verily and truly! Art thee?

Once more, no, no.

I doubt thee, Harry, I do mortally doubt thee! Lord, lord, where is ſhe? What wull be⯑come of her?

Be pacified.

Thou art a good mon's ſon, Harry: think o' that. Dunno' diſgrace thy parentage.

Once more, girl, have done. I am as eager as you can be in Aurelia's defence. I [52] only determine to ſhare the good I mean to confer. Hark! I hear Sir Job! Begone!

Nay but bethink thee, Harry: ſay thy prayers and defy temptation. Do do, for the Lord Almighty's ſake do! For I do mainly doubt the wicked one is often at thy elbow.

What an impaſſioned little fool it is!

SCENE VIII. Enter SIR JOB and MR. TAUNTON.

Now we are alone, Count, I wiſh to ſay a word concerning this young woman: this Aure⯑lia.

Alone, Sir?

Mr. Taunton is my friend.

Yes, and confederate.

Confederate, Sir?

Ay, Sir, confederate.

I muſt rouſe their terrors—Are not you of opinion, gen⯑tlemen, that there is a deal of roguery in this world?

Why I—

Perhaps there may.

Groſs villany! Legal robbers!

Are are are there?

That plunder the defenceleſs, ſtrip the widow, and defraud the orphan: "yet aſſume to themſelves the port of juſtice, and condemn wretches in rags by wholeſale, ay, to the gallows, for petty three farthing thefts; while their own enormities are dreſſed out in authority, and law is made the guardian of great crimes and the merci⯑leſs puniſher of the unprotected."

Are—Do do do you think ſo?

Have you never known an inſtance?

Why I—I—Go with the crowd, if you would be kept in countenance.

Are you acquainted with no ſuch perſon?

I—Really you nonplus me. I don't know what to ſay.

Say? Why ſay the truth. Say that it is a depraved, oppreſſive, deſpicable world; and that he who would live in it, if he would not be trodden under foot, muſt be like it. Come, let us acknow⯑ledge ourſelves knaves.

Knaves?

Ay, Sir, knaves; and glory in having the wit to be ſo. Then men will fear us, fawn on us, crouch to us, bear us on their ſhoulders while living, and raiſe altars to us when dead.

Hem!—Men muſt ſell as markets go.

Really, Count, you you are very free. I—I—I mean ſevere.

You miſtake, Sir. So compaſſionate am I that the ſecret you wot of hitherto reſts with my⯑ſelf.

Does it?

It does.

And ſhall it reſt there?

Humph!—That—that is the point in debate. There are two old gentlemen of my ac⯑quaintance, and I, who reſemble each other exceed⯑ingly.

Ay! In what?

They love money; ſo do I. They wiſh to get a deal of it in a ſhort way; ſo do I. They have relations whom they would be glad to pro⯑vide for at other people's expence.

And ſo would you?

If they are prudent we may come to terms: if not—

Let me tell you, Sir, I don't under⯑ſtand all this.

No? Then you are very dull of appre⯑henſion.

Miſchief hatch, miſchief catch.

Are you mad?

Serpents breed in ſtill waters. Do evil and look for the like.

Well, well. Yonder comes a Lady who may quicken your faculties.

Nay but hark you, Count.

Since the gentleman does not know her, I will introduce him.

For heaven's ſake! Make your own terms! This way! Aſk what you pleaſe.

Well, provided Sir Gravity have reco⯑vered his underſtanding.

I will be an⯑ſwerable. This way! This way!

Noiſy fowlers catch no birds. Fools fiſh in troubled waters.

SCENE IX. Enter SUSAN at one Door, AURELIA at another.

That be the ſame gruff voice! For ſure they have been plotting together. Oh, Harry, Harry!—

—Dear Miſs, I be glad I ha' found you!

And ſo am I. I am ſorry to tell you, my ſweet girl, that in all probability our acquaintance muſt ſoon end.

Nay but why? I like you dearly! In faith and troth I do!

I believe it. Sympathy tells me you are ſincere. But I muſt quit this houſe.

Mun you? I be glad o' that.

True: You are a witneſs of my painful ſituation. What! Hire myſelf to be obliging? Take money to be a pretty behaved hypocrite? Bribed to be ſilent when I ought to ſpeak, and to ſpeak when I ought to be ſilent? Submit not only to inſult but to deceit? Oh no! The terrors of poverty ſhall not compel me to that.

Do you know, I have a ſecret to tell you.

Ay! What is it?

Why, firſt of aw, brother has a liking to you.

To me?

A's mortaciouſly in love!

Surely you miſtake.

No no, but I dunno'; a told me ſo himſel'.

I am ſorry for it.

Nay but ſurely, ſurely, brother be a likely mon?

I don't deny it.

A made a poſitive declaration that a likes you deſperately.

He is to blame. Heigho!

Mayhap your liking looks another way?

My dear girl, I read the honeſt ſincerity of your heart: I will therefore own there is but one man on earth—and for him I muſt never hope.

So poor brother has no chance?

Oh no, my affections are unalterable.

A's well ſpoken! Well ſhaped! A has a mort o' learning! There be few can fellow him.

I grant you all; but my heart is gone.

Why then, ſin' it be poſitively ſo, aw's ſaid and done. I know too ſure that where one likes one likes: ſo do you take care o' yourſel'.

What do you mean?

Why I munno' tell! There be miſchief hatching againſt you: but I munno' tell!

Againſt me?

I abominate ſuch wickedneſs, but I ſhould break my heart if any harm were to behappen him.

Who?

Why—No, I munno' tell!—But ſin' you be for going, go. Lunnun be a wicked place! You dunno' know belike that you are what they caw a rich heir.

I rich.

As I am a living ſoul you be. But do you make haſte from this houſe; and be ſure you let me know all about you! Be ſure you do, for mayhap I may ſee you righted yet. So pray you now dunno' forget me. I ſhall never forget you: and ſo I may happen to ſee you righted. Good bye. Lord Al⯑mighty bleſs you! Good bye!

SCENE X.

What can this dear warm-hearted creature mean? She has raiſed a thouſand tumultuous hopes and fears!—Whither can I go? To whom can I fly? Rich? An heireſs? Plots againſt me? Is it my perſon or my life? I am ſtrangely agitated! To take leave may be dangerous; and to depart ſecretly has the air of guilt. Fearful of others, ſuſpecting myſelf, and abandoned to a world of which I am ignorant, my heart ſinks at the pro⯑ſpect. [57] But, like a traveller in a deſert, I muſt pro⯑ceed or periſh.

SCENE XI. Enter SIR GUY, followed by a Servant.

Hark ye, young man, I ordered my car⯑riage to take me up here: pray tell me when it comes.

Yes, Sir.

It is Sir Guy.

A deviliſh fine girl, upon my ſoul! Seems deſirous to ſpeak to me—Your ſervant, Madam.

Sir Guy, your ſervant.

You are acquainted with me, I find: may I take the freedom to aſk who you are?

A helpleſs woman without a friend, and about to ſtray I know not whither.

Is it poſſible? Are you acquainted here?

I came to be the companion of Lady Fer⯑ment.

Oh, oh, you are my young friend Oli⯑ver's angel?

No, no, Sir Guy, mere mortal.

And you find your ſituation irkſome?

Not to be endured.

No wonder. What is your plan?

I have none. I am almoſt tempted to caſt myſelf on the mercy of the firſt human being that will protect me.

Will you go home with me?

That might be raſh: yet from all I have heard you have the heart of a man.

I don't know.

You would not inflict miſery for the plea⯑ſure of ſeeing it.

Don't be too ſure.

You would neither deſpiſe nor add to the wretchedneſs you could not relieve.

Don't preſume too far.

You would not contemn the forlorn, in⯑ſult the feeble, nor trample on the diſtreſſed.

Zounds, Madam, do you know that I am a Baronet of ſeven thouſand a year; and that I am but man? That I have raging deſires, irri⯑tating ſenſations, headlong paſſions, and the means of gratifying them? Do you know all that?

I am glad that you do.

That I cannot look on you, young beautiful and unprotected as you are, without feel⯑ing a mixture of emotions, ſome perhaps kind, ſome ridiculous, and ſome—Come, you ſhall go home with me.

Would you not deſpiſe me?

What, for truſting me: or believing me better than I am?

Indeed I have not an abject ſpirit.

What do you praiſe yourſelf for? Don't I tell you that your ſmiles have enchanted me? Come!

Well, I will accept your protection for a ſhort time, but not an hour longer than I can find the means without ſervility of ſupplying my own few wants.

Heyday! Few? The few wants of a fine lady!

I have no pretenſions to the character.

Huſſey, huſſey! By my ſoul I ſhall grow fooliſh. Your air, your ſhape, your looks, your [59] ſentimental prattle are ſo many Syrens. Come, come along.

I am told I have dangerous enemies. Perhaps I am ſilly, but my fears have been alarm⯑ed. Suffer me to walk alone and unnoticed to the Square.

Nay, but why?

I will give you my reaſons in the carriage.

Well, well; any thing you wiſh. Should you aſk me to marry, you are ſuch a bewitching ſorcereſs, curſe me if I ſhould not inſtantly com⯑ply. I am ſure I ſhould, ſo don't tempt me. Nor don't let my title, nor my ſeven thouſand a year, tempt you. Sit at a proper diſtance, and turn your eyes t'other way, or, in ſpite of ſixty-five, I ſhall be faſcinated.

SCENE XII. Enter OLIVER.

I am happy once more to find you alone. I have been watching for it with tormenting anxiety.

And why?

My heart is overcharged almoſt to burſt⯑ing, and will have relief. Pardon the raſhneſs with which I utter thoughts that I can no longer reſtrain.

Nay, pray deſiſt.

I have not the power. The tide of paſſion hurries me headlong forward; and, were death to follow like a thunderbolt, I muſt fall lifeleſs at your feet with the words trembling on my lip—I love.

I intreat you to forbear! Think how we are ſituated.

Till now I knew not how heavy a curſe [60] poverty and dependence can inflict. But I aſk nothing, hope nothing, ſave the aſſurance that you do not love another—Is that denied me?—Your ſilence is diſtracting!

You miſtake. Be pacified. Pray leave me: we may be obſerved.

Oh, that I could communicate but a ſpark of the fire that devours me! Surely the ſtrong ſympathies I feel cannot all be falſe; and they tell me, rapturous deluſion! that our ſouls pair inſtinc⯑tively. The mind that animates your beauteous form, and plays in your features, ſo harmonizes with my own that I ſeem conſcious only of exiſt⯑ence in your ſight!

Once more forbear. Affected coyneſs I deſpiſe. If I appear to fly you, 'tis the ſeverity of my fate to force me on that which perhaps rends my heart with as keen a pang as yours can feel.—Farewel!

Farewel! Why farewel? Aure⯑lia!

SCENE I. The Houſe of Mr. QUAKE.

BF kind enough to ſtay there, Mr. Buffalo, with your aſſiſtants, and let nobody paſs.

What is the reaſon of this, Sir?

Be patient. You'll hear ſoon enough. I think, Mr. Quake, you have long been the attor⯑ney of Mr. Taunton?

Yes.—Yes, Sir—for thirty years.

Have tranſacted all his ſecret concerns?

I, Sir, I—I have done his buſineſs.

Nay, nay, but his ſecret buſineſs?

What do you mean, Sir?

Can't you gueſs?

I, Sir?

Did you never hear of one Admiral Roland?

Mercy!—No.

Yes, you have.

No.

Why do you tremble?

Me? I am a little nervous. I am very ill. I am taken I don't know how.

No; you are not taken yet: they are only waiting for you.

For me, Sir? What have I done?

Aided and abetted in robbing an orphan.

As I hope for mercy I never robbed any body in my life; out of the honeſt way of my pro⯑feſſion.

Yes, but the honeſt way of your profeſ⯑ſion won't ſave your neck, though you are a lawyer, unleſs Aurelia Roland and her fortune too be forthcoming.

I have not a farthing of her fortune, Sir.

Evaſion is only waſte of time. Aurelia Roland has been forced or lured away from the houſe of Sir Job.

If ſhe has, I have had no concern in it.

But you know where ſhe is, Goodman Quibble.

Who could tell you that, Sir?

An intimate friend of yours, Sir; to whom you tell all your ſecrets. Mrs. Clack.

The devil take Mrs. Clack—I happened to be paſſing through the Square; and there, by accident—I ſaw Miſs Roland ſtep into the carriage with Sir Guy Taunton.

Oh, oh! With Sir Guy! It ſeems then, by accident, you do know her; and, by accident, you muſt remain in the cuſtody of theſe gentlemen without: that I may be ſure of your teſtimony when it is wanted.

I in cuſtody, Sir? 'Tis a lawyer's buſineſs to put people in cuſtody.

Or that or immediately go with me be⯑fore a magiſtrate. Your character will then be blown paſt all remedy. If you comply and behave prudently, you may ſtill perhaps be ſuffered to wear the maſk of honeſty.

Indeed, Sir, you wrong me. I am honeſt.

Ha, ha, ha!

As honeſt as I could be, and do my duty.

Ha, ha, ha! Your duty!

Yes, Sir; my duty. I was Mr. Taun⯑ton's attorney. Had I betrayed my employer, nobody would ever have truſted me again. I was guilty of no more roguery than was neceſſary to keep a good character in the world.

Give me thy hand, Old Logic! Thou ſay'ſt true. Thine is the current morality. That which is a man's intereſt is his duty. But come, decide: will you remain in cuſtody for a ſhort time or—?

In cuſtody, Sir, ſince it muſt be ſo. Though indeed I have fingered no part of this lady's fortune.

No, Sir! Why then you have been both knave and fool.

I fear as much.

You an attorney? Baw! You have not yet learned your rudiments. "What is a block⯑head? A blockhead is a poor devil. Who are men of underſtanding? Every one who has five thouſand a year. What is a knave? He that is hanged for cheating. And what an honeſt man? He that gets an eſtate by the ſame means. Who are moſt courted? Men of wit. And who are they? Thoſe that give good dinners, make their friends drunk with the beſt wines, and then pick their pockets at hazard and faro. Who are moſt imitated? Men of faſhion. And he is a man of the firſt faſhion who aſſociates with ſtable-boys in the morning, with opera-dancers and demireps after dinner, and with a Babel mixture of bullies, bubbles, and pickpockets from midnight to ſun⯑riſe."

SCENE II. Changes to the houſe of SIR JOB, with a cloſet door.

I can have no frolic till I get ſome money. Since we moved from the City, Sir Job keeps his looſe caſh, as he calls it, in that cloſet. If it were not for locks I could get at it; and then it would ſoon be looſe enough. If I had got poſſeſſion, I would make my mother give it me; and there is no harm in taking what is freely given.

Hay! Why the door is open! Who knows? Now for good luck!

SCENE III. Enter LADY FERMENT and OLIVER.

Are you ſure, Sir, you know nothing of her?

Only that ſhe is gone.

A very ſtrange proceeding indeed! Leave my houſe without ſaying a word?

I intreated her to tell where ſhe was going; but ſhe refuſed.

And how came you to know ſhe was going?

I—I queſtioned her.

Your oglings, Sir, have been remarked; and I ſuſpect you have been her eſcort.

Would that I had!—I have been on my father's buſineſs to receive this money.

Well, Sir, you may leave the money with me.

Pardon me, Madam. I am accountable.

Impertinence! Have you ſeen the Count?

No, my Lady.

Where can Jonas be gone? Wild thing! He is never a moment in a place.

My father has got the key of the cloſet, and I muſt keep this heavy bag in poſſeſſion till he comes.

The door is a-jar! Perhaps, knowing where I was gone, he left it open pur⯑poſely. This is fortunate.

I can't ſee him. Where is this inſolent youth gone with the money?

There, there. This ſpring lock will keep it ſafe enough.—When Sir Job comes in, my Lady, be kind enough to tell him I am waiting to pay the balance for which he ſent me.

That is lucky, however. He cannot now pretend he has no caſh. I muſt get ſome for this dear tormenting boy.

SCENE IV.

He has got ſome for himſelf.

Here's pleaſure! Here's frolic! Here's watches, and rings, and ribbands for Suſan! Oh lord! Oh lord! I was ſnug in the corner: Oliver could not ſee me. Ha, ha, ha! I have filled up the bag with counters. Hold! I muſt ſhut the door; and then this ſpring lock will make all ſafe. Your ſpring lock is a kind of politician's puzzle: he that is in can eaſily get out; but he that is out muſt procure a key.

Here they are! Where ſhall I find Suſan? Here's muſic! Here they are!

SCENE V. Enter SIR JOB, OLIVER, and LADY FERMENT.

There is a bill below for five hundred pounds, waiting payment: have you been where I ordered you?

Yes, Sir.

It is lucky this bill is come for payment: elſe, knowing I had money in the houſe, I ſhould have had no peace with my Lady.

Here are four hundred and fifteen bank; and a hundred guineas in that cloſet.

Go and fetch them.

You have the key, Sir.

Then how did you get in?

The door was open.

Oh, I remember.

I had no caſh, as I told you, deary; ſo, ha, ha, ha! I was not afraid of being robbed.

What is here, Sir? This neither weighs nor feels like guineas.

I counted and put them in myſelf.

Indeed! Then my touch deceives me.

Heyday! Why, what the devil are theſe?

Is this witchcraft?

You counted them yourſelf!

I am thunder-ſtruck!

Mercy! If this ſhould be a trick of Jonas'!

Sir Job, my Lady, if the tongue of man be capable of truth, I left this bag, or one like it, with a hundred guineas in that cloſet not twenty minutes ago. Your Ladyſhip ſaw me go in.

SCENE VI.

Leave off!

I muſt kiſs you!

I wunno' be poo'd and hawd a this'n!

What uproar is this?

The ſport is ſpoiled: I hoped there was nobody here.

How dare you ſtay in this houſe, you vile—I have no name bad enough for you. Get out of my doors!

What is the matter, Nol?

I am charged with fraud, with robbery, brother.

Whoo!

I juſt now left a bag with a hundred gui⯑neas in that cloſet, which has been ſtolen, and I am to be turned adrift like a felon.

Are you?

Yes, Sir; he is!

Curſe me if he ſhall. Nol is no thief.

How do you know, ſirrah?

Nol is no thief, I ſay.

Then who ſtole my hundred guineas?

Why, look you—If it was ſtealing, I ſtole them.

You!

I.

And where are they, dog?

Liſten! Hark!

You impudent, confounded whelp!

Nol! Will you have a few? I know you are at ſhort commons.

Jonas, though this is a bad trick, I am glad to find you have an honeſt and a generous heart. Yet conſider the conſequences of this thoughtleſs conduct. Think that a brother, whom you love, has been accuſed of theft; and in dan⯑ger of ſuffering all the diſgrace which ſuch a vice well deſerves.

I believe it was not quite right, but I have no time juſt now to be ſorrowful—Harkye, Suſan.

What ſayn you?

SCENE VII.

Look! What a ſweet pretty robin red⯑breaſt!

Where?

Look! Look! Can't you ſee it?

Where is it?

In its cage.

Oh the cunning ſly tooad!

I have her now!

How ſhall I get away? A's a deſperate wicked one!

Now we are fairly alone, I have a ſecret to tell you.

Ay marry! What be that?

Why that I am confoundedly in love.

In love be you?

Oh lord! Yes.

Why, an you be got in, the beſt way will be to get out again.

That's juſt my intention, and you muſt help me.

What i'the name of goodneſs ſhall I do?

But firſt tell me, what is your opinion of me?

Of you?

Ay; what do you think of me?

By the mackins, I think you bin a queeriſh kind of a youth!

You do?

Yea, by the maſs do I!

Why then there is a pair of us. But, queer as I am, could you like me?

Like you?

Ay: love me?

Yea, belemmy.

Beſt when furtheſt off.

Nah now—I want a wife, and I like you.

An I dunno' coax'n, I ſhall ne'er get away. I wiſh I had the key.

Am I to your taſte?

I canno' tell. In our town, it's taſte and try. We always bite afore we buy.

Oh! with all my heart!

Nay, nay: hold a blow! Pray now did you ever play at kiſſes and commands?

No: but I ſhould like to play at them ex⯑ceedingly.

Well then, I'll learn you how.

Oh lord, do! That is the very game I want to be at! I would fain both kiſs and com⯑mand.

It's a this'n. You be to kiſs when I com⯑mand.

That I will with all my ſoul!

And I be to kiſs when you command.

Oh lord! Better and better! Come, let us begin.

Nay, nay, but you be in too much a haſte. Firſt we are to pay our forfeits: ſo then the game begins.

Come then pay away! Oh, it will be rare ſport! Here; here. Take the guineas firſt.

No. I wunno' foul my fingers wi' they.

Why I got them purpoſely for you!

I tell you, I wunno' come near them.

Well, well, here's my handkerchief, and my pocket-book, and my pencil-caſe, and my [70] knife—No; I'll not give my knife: that cuts love.

Is that aw? Feel i'your coat pocket; for, you know, the more forfeits—

Oh, ay! The more kiſſes! Here! Take my gloves: two, mind, two: and the key, and—ſtay, ſtay! I'll give you my knee-buckles, and my ſhoe-buckles, and—

Hold a bit. I ha' enow now. So you be to hold your hat for mine.

Here it is. Make haſte!

By the mackins, i'this dowdy dreſs, I ha' got welly nought about me—Hold—In our town, the laſſes ſome⯑times gi' the lads their mittens, and their neck⯑kerchiefs, and—

And their garters.

Do they? Let me have them!

But then the lads awways turn about, you know, wi' their▪ faces t'other way.

What, ſo?

Yea, a that'n: but go a bit a gait.

A gait! What's that?

More further off.

So?

Nigher to the wall—Nigher yet—Now don't you turn!

What, not one peep?

Oh, no! for an you do the game's over!

Well, make haſte.

Dunno' you look. Stand ſtock ſtill. I ha' welly done.

You may turn about, now.

Hay! What! Are theſe your tricks?

Look! Look! What a pretty robin red⯑breaſt there be!

SCENE VIII.

Oh you confounded little jade, but I ſhall catch you! Well, it is plaguy tantalizing when one is in ſuch a hurry to be married, to be balked ſo often. Oh that I had a chaiſe and eight now at the door, and this dear little gipſy in my arms! She would ſtruggle: ſo ſhould I. "Pray, Mr. Jonas, let me go!" I can't, my love! "Conſider my bluſhes!" Conſider my impatience! "Nay but duty, decency!" Are both drabs; a queer pair of prudes; two frumpiſh freakiſh old-faſhioned tab⯑bies; all polite people now are aſhamed of their company. So let us leave them to their favourite friends, old maids cabal and a brandy bottle, and hey for Scotland, you ſweet charming—

SCENE IX. Enter MONROSE, bringing in SUSAN by the wriſt.

Again.

Leave us, Sir.

Leave you, Sir?

Yes; I can't waſte time in trifling, and am in no humour for compliments. Leave us.

You might be in a humour for good man⯑ners, methinks.

SCENE X.

The beeſt woundy crabbed, Harry.

What is the reaſon, madam, that you thus counteract me in my faireſt proſpects, and my deareſt hopes? How dare you traverſe me at the [72] very moment when miſery or happineſs ſupreme depends on the event? Why did you alarm Au⯑relia, and adviſe her to fly?

That my conſcience mought no' fly i' my face, Harry, as thine will do.

Your conſcience! Was it your con⯑ſcience that told you to betray your brother?

Yea belemmy wur it. But I would no' give ear to my conſcience, ſo I ſaid nought that could harm a hair o' thy head.

How! Did not you tell me yourſelf, juſt as we were interrupted, that you had betrayed me to her?

No, by my troth did not I. I only towd thee how I towd ſhe how deſperately thee ſaid thee wur in love. So ſhe ſaid ſhe wur mortal ſorry for it: for why? She had fixed her liking elſewhere.

Ay, ay: on this Oliver. Damned for⯑tune! I am her ſaviour. She is mine in equity, and mine ſhe ſhall be.

Then what does thee mean to do, Harry?

Secure her, win her, poſſeſs her. Ob⯑ſerve what I ſay, and for your life dare not this time to ſwerve one tittle from what I preſcribe. Send for a coach, return to your lodging, and be ready to receive her. She will be there within an hour.

That canno' be, Harry. I be mortal ſure ſhe wunno' come of her own good will.

Good-will or ill-will, come ſhe ſhall; and there I tell you ſhe will be. Prepare, therefore, to aid me, as I order you.

Thee may'ſt order what the wo't, Harry; but I'll be conſarned i' no ſuch deformity.

Damnation! Am I to be eternally [73] thwarted thus by a mere puppet! Once more, girl, liſten and obey.

Thee may'ſt fell me at thy feet, thee may'ſt kill me, an thee wo't, Harry; but I wunno'. I have ſaid it, and I wunno'.

Hell and—

Hark you, I know not how far your infernal obſtinacy may lead you▪ You have already injured me deeply; but, ſhould you venture to whiſper one more treacherous word, tremble at my vengeance.

SCENE XI.

Marcy keep me, what a wicked paſſion a be in! A'll come to no good; and my heart wull bruſt. What ſhall I do? I have no chriſtian ſoul to break my mind to. A ſaid a would bring poor Miſs Aurelia to my lodging. What if I do go and ſome how watch? Who knows but I mought ſave her from ruination, and betray him from a mort o' miſchief? I munno' tell ought, for then belike a wull be taken up; and what mought be⯑tide, oh Lord! Oh Lord! Suppoſing him before the juſtice!—I'll do't—I wull—I'll ſay my prayers and ventur, I'm detarmint.

SCENE XII. Enter JONAS.

Stop! Stop a moment!

Keep a gait, then! Do.

My ſweet girl, there is ſomething the mat⯑ter with you. I know there is, ſo don't deny it. Here I am, and if I can do you any ſervice, curſe me but I ſhall jump out of my ſkin for joy.

No, no, I ha' no ſoul on earth to open my boſom to.

What then you dare not truſt me? Damn it, I did not think you had thought ſo ill of me as that!

An any harm were to befaw him

I ſhould never more be i' my right mind. I love him from my very heart's core. A's my only brother. A has tricks, but a's a fine mon. There be few like him; an if a ſhould no' die in his bed, Lord ha' marcy upon me! I ſhould go raving melancholy.

Dry your eyes. He ſhall not die at all. We'll ſave him. I'll manage the matter.

Why wull you?

I hate liſteners, and yet I liſtened and heard all.

Did you, for ſure?

I did.

And will you be true and faithfoo'?

If I am not hate me. You have not be⯑trayed his ſecrets, mind: you have told nothing. I'll ſave him.

Wull you?

I will.

An you do, I ſhall love you to the longeſt breath I draw.

I hope ſo, for I ſhall love you longer▪ You are the ſweeteſt, bewitching—

Nay, but bethink you. Shall I go to the lodging houſe?

Do. It may prevent miſchief.

Well, and how then?

Oh, I have it! Brother Nol and old gruff Sir Guy.

Nay, nay, but that will betray Harry!

Not a bit. They are noble ſouls! Sound hearts! They would not hurt man, woman, or child. Do you make haſte. I muſt fly. I ſhall accompliſh it; and then, oh Lord, oh Lord! I ſhall be a happy dog!

SCENE XIII.

A's a greadly lad! A's a farrantly lad! And I be welly overcome to think a has ſo kind a heart! An a make his words good, I do believe I ſhall love him ten thouſand times better nur I do brother Harry!

SCENE I. The Lodgings of SUSAN. Loud knocking at the Street Door.

SO, ſo! A be come at long length.

A's in a wicked haſte—There—the door opens—Now for it! What wull be the upſhot on't?—Goodneſs, how dizzy I be!—Dear, dear, what be come to me!—I am taken all over as thof I had an ague fit—I mun bear up—I hear him—A be coming—Marcy deliver me!

SCENE II. (Enter MONROSE and AURELIA, preceded by a Female Servant with Candles, which ſhe places on the Table and departs.)

Let me intreat you to quiet your alarms, you are ſafe.

Safe! Inſulting mockery! Why have I been forced here? What is your purpoſe?

Kind as your heart could wiſh.

Are falſehood, artifice, and outrage kind?

Blame the depravity which not merely juſtifies but renders them unavoidable.

Away! 'Tis the vulgar cant of common place vice.

You are yourſelf the victim of this de⯑pravity.

Yes, Sir, I feel I am. I find myſelf en⯑ſnared, unprotected, and in your power. But if you hope to bend me to diſhoneſt purpoſes, I ſmile at your impotence.

I am no enemy, but a determined and active friend.

A friend!

I conjure you to conquer for a moment your ſuſpicions and fears. Grant me an attentive hearing.

Well, Sir, proceed.

You are an injured orphan. The heireſs to great wealth, of which you have been wickedly deprived. I am bleſſed in being your deliverer. Pardon me for boaſting, but I glory that by my efforts the iniquity has been diſcovered.

If that were true, what need was there for the compulſion you have practiſed?

How ſhall I anſwer? How expiate a fault that perhaps is unpardonable? Yet ſurely my crime itſelf will plead ſome abatement in my favour! 'Tis vain in me to falter—I love.

Love!

Ay, to diſtraction!—Why do you regard me with that ſovereign diſdain? My life, faculties, and ſoul, ſhall exhauſt themſelves to yield you pleaſure. I petition for that which a weak or [77] preſumptuous man would claim as a due, but which I will hoard in my heart as the precious boon of the divinity whom I adore.

The blandiſhment of words can neither diſguiſe nor palliate unworthy actions. Had your proceedings been open and direct, no taint of ſuſ⯑picion would have glanced on the profeſſions you make, or the benefits which you ſay you have the power to confer, and I ſhould have felt a bitter pang in refuſal. But, were my affections free, nay, had they before been devotedly yours, the deceit you have employed, and the planned artifice of which I find you capable, would have placed an eternal barrier between us.

If you knew the firm purpoſe of my ſoul to make you happy—

Pleading is vain.

I would fain prevail by ſoft and gentle means.

Do you threaten?

When you ſhall find how true how tender my heart can be, you will hereafter pardon the preſumption of this moment.

Should I loſe it, you and happineſs were loſt for ever.

Stand off!

My fate—

How now!

Harry!—Kill me—Put me out o' the world.

Get up.

I canno'.

Leave the room.

I munno'.

SCENE III.

Hold, or turn upon me.

Boy!

Forbear—

No ſuch boy, you find. I am not ſo eaſily to be ſhaken off. I am of the bull-dog breed. Damme I would muzzle any mad animal that ſhould attempt to toſs my ſweet Suſan.

Aurelia, are you ſafe?

Perfectly. Thanks to my kind and faith⯑ful friend here.

The chariot of Sir Guy is below: Do you, my brother, and Miſs Monroſe, return to my fa⯑ther's. Sir Guy is there. I muſt endeavour to bring this violent man.

Nay but will not that be dangerous?

Fear nothing. I am calm. I am prepared; and you know my principles. His preſence is ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary.

Surely, ſurely, you dunno' mean to harm brother Harry?

Harm him? No!

A's a good mon's ſon, and I hope a'll be a good mon himſel'. I do hope and truſt a wull.

SCENE IV. OLIVER following to the door, and MONROSE advancing lays hold of his arm.

A word with you, Sir.

Willingly. Your pleaſure.

You and I it ſeems are rivals. Time is precious, and I ſhall be brief. Yield your preten⯑ſions to Aurelia.

By what right, Sir, do you make this abrupt and peremptory demand?

By the right that every man has to guard his own happineſs.

And that right juſtifies my refuſal.

Sir, I am an angry man; an injured man; a determined man. My ſoul is on the ſtretch: my ſpirits are flaming. Beware of me!

I am aware of you.

I have riſked my all. This is the criſis of my fate; and either comply, or one of us ſhall never depart alive.

Your threats are impotent.

Then my deeds ſhall be deciſive.

Take this.

For what purpoſe?

A gentleman need not aſk.

Pſhaw! Jargon!

No delay! Aurelia is yours or mine.

Are you an aſſaſſin?

Do aſſaſſins furniſh their enemy with weapons?

If murder muſt be committed, the glory muſt be all your own: for never ſhall this arm be levelled at the life of man.

Damnation! Coward! Fire!

Fire you, madman!

Hell!

Think you I am to be bullied into what you call courage? If you are ſo wound up to mur⯑der, begin! Here is your mark! Take your level! A ſhot through the heart, or a bullet through the [80] brain. Then vaunt of your dexterity; and again reiterate your epithet, gentleman.

To be thus baffled!

Abandon your purpoſe, or diſpatch: for not all the arguments of hell, nor all its fiends, ſhall drive me to ſhed the blood of human being.

To be thus tamed! Oh! Idiot! I the maſter of accident? Fool! Fool! I am the very ſlave of prejudice.

What! Is an antipathy to crime, prejudice?

Leave me, Sir—to my own contempt. I am what I deſpiſe, a braggart.

Thank heaven! There are many braggarts in vice. You are a better man than you ſuppoſed. 'Tis no uncommon character. Remember then that Aurelia requires your aid.

Peace! I will be no man's automaton: will hear no pleadings. I am the lord of my own actions, and will be ſelf-moved.

You have a loftineſs of ſoul which I love: purſue its dictates.

It ſhall be ſo! Monroſe ſhall yet riſe on the necks of wretches that hope ere this to trample him in the duſt. Follow and be⯑hold!

SCENE V. The Houſe of SIR JOB.

'Sdeath, ſnail, how came Aurelia to be creeping acroſs fields with you at that time of night?

I—I—I don't know how it came.

Why did you not fight, and defend her?

I fight, indeed! Talk of guns, but don't go near them.

You ſay it was within a hundred yards of [81] a houſe. Why did not you bawl for help? Owls can hoot; and geeſe can cackle.

Really you croſs queſtion one like an Old Bailey barriſter!

And, really, you anſwer like an Old Bai⯑ley witneſs.

I only know that I took Aurelia out to walk; and that ſome ruffians ruſhed from behind a hedge, and carried her off.

It's a damned ſtrange ſtory; and a ſtrange affair too!

I hope you don't ſuſpect me, brother?

Why ſhould you ſuppoſe I ſuſpect you?

SCENE VI. Enter SIR JOB.

Now, Sampſon, is there any news of them yet? Are they come back? Are they ſafe?

I hear nothing.

You ſeem to care nothing.

I wiſh I had no cauſe.

And pray how do you mean to provide for Oliver?

I? Which way muſt I provide?

This fellow will tempt me to cut his throat.—Marry him.

Why I have thought of that. A wife's fortune might do the buſineſs. But he—

Look at me—To a wife without a for⯑tune.

Hay? What?

How, Sir Guy?

To the richeſt, pooreſt woman in Eng⯑land!

Who is that, brother?

Aurelia Roland, Balaam.

Why, brother?

Sir Guy!

Sir Job! Sir Jack a lent! What the de⯑vil are you both petrified?

How is ſhe rich?

In beauty, in mind, in virtue.

Oh! Is that all?

They can't pay for a penny loaf.

She is friendleſs, fatherleſs, portionleſs.

You have told one, two, three—hem!

Who is her friend?

I am.

Who is her father?

I am.

Who is her banker?

I am.

You talk in the clouds. You are not her father.

Who made you a judge? What do you know about fathers? He is a father that has a fa⯑ther's affection, and will perform a father's duties.

Nay but—Will you, Sir Guy?

Yes I will, Sir Gooſe!

What ſhall we do? We ſhall be blown.

I told you what would come of it. Feaſt with fools, and fare as they do.

Nay but what ſhall we do?

I don't know.

It is ſhe! Here ſhe comes!

SCENE VII. Enter AURELIA, SUSAN, and JONAS.

Oh, Sir Guy!

My dear girl, here you are once more ſafe and free.

Yes, and here is her deliverer.

Ay, indeed!

Oh, Sir, this dear, courageous, affectionate girl is the ſaviour of us all. While my heart beats, ſhe ſhall have a warm place in it.

She will have a warm place in other peo⯑ple's hearts as well as yours.

Oh ho!

But are you ſure though, are you deadly ſure that nobody will bring brother Harry to ſhame?

Moſt certain.

And yet I wiſh Oliver and he were returned.

It is time, I ſee, for me to be moving.

What, curlew, do you forebode a ſtorm?

I can't tell. High winds ruin a fair harveſt.

Stay where you are, I tell you.

I can't ſtay, and I won't ſtay.

SCENE VIII. Enter OLIVER and MONROSE.

Yet ſtay you muſt, Sir. Your preſence is neceſſary in court. Here am I a bold faced knave that appear without a ſummons, and call on you as one of my accuſers. Sir Job ſhall be another.

I wiſh I was any where but in this houſe.

"'Tis no uncommon caſe for the leaſt criminal to be condemned by his accomplices."

Are you mad? Why did you come here?

Why not come here, Sir? I aſk not you to bluſh for any crime of mine. Which of you ſober ſeniors will ſit as my judge?

Your pardon, Sir, my words do not [84] glance at you. Be my actions what they will, I can diſtinguiſh, ay, and can reverence virtue.

Go on: No apologies, I am no better than I ſhould be.

Well then, here I ſtand, and put myſelf upon my country. "What is my crime? A ſo⯑vereign contempt for the ſelfiſhneſs to which ge⯑nius and virtue are the daily ſacrifice; and, ſince honeſty could procure me neither favor nor for⯑tune, a reſolution to be no longer its dupe.

Syſtematic vice of all others is the moſt dangerous."

Fellows like me, thrown on the pave⯑ment, and wanting the varniſh of gold and hypo⯑criſy, give us but a bad name, and any idiot can trace halters in every feature. But turn here! Be⯑hold theſe grey beards! How ſmooth is all with⯑out! How ſanctified is all within! How ſedate is every hair and wrinkle! Have ſires like theſe their ſecret ſins? Can they plunder the orphan, per⯑ſecute the innocent, and diſturb the aſhes of the dead until they riſe and cry for vengeance?

What can this mean?

"Have patience.

Proceed then! Arraign me at your bar, claſs me with villains, load me with opprobrium and puniſhment; then contraſt my actions, my character, my crimes, with theſe honeſt, theſe ma⯑giſterial men; and, having ſo done, raiſe the whip, ſtrike, and applaud the wiſdom of your laws, and the juſtice of your deciſions.

Is this reality?"

Did I ſeek ſupport in villany by example, think you I ſhould want precedents?

Stand forth, reverend iniquity! Here are we three!

It is moſt ſtrange!

What more?

SCENE IX.— Enter LADY FERMENT.

What is the meaning of all this, Mr. Taunton? Here is the parlour full of Bow-ſtreet runners, keeping your attorney in cuſtody.

Mr. Quake?

Yes, Sir.

It's all over.

Nay, nay, you muſt not flinch. Stand to it, and if you have nerves ſtring them! Behold this lady.

Look at the lovely daughter of your generous mutual and confiding friend! Dying, he bequeathed the expiring mother and the helpleſs infant, not to your humanity but your juſtice. Where is the wealth he depoſited in truſt? Full fifty thouſand pounds, with the accu⯑mulating ſtock of twenty years! Anſwer! Has it been huſbanded well? Produce the ſtatement.

Good heavens!

Left to that charity which ever finds ſome gentle breaſt to hide in, here ſhe ſtands, if hearts you had, with wrong enough to wring thoſe hearts in pangs unutterable.

Are theſe things poſſible?

My witneſſes are ready. Let him that dare deny the charge.

Mr. Taunton! Have you no anſwer?

Nor you, Sir Job?

My blood runs cold! This man my brother?

Their ſilence is their aſſent.

The Lady ſhall have her due. The tree of knavery bears bitter fruit.

SCENE X.

Brother is a brave mon! I knew a wur! I knew a had it about him!

I am choaked! I could not ſay a word to the fellow.

Well, Sir, will you follow your leader's example?

Ay, ay; I have followed it a little too often!

What, aſhamed of knavery at theſe years!

I ſhall never ſhew my face in the City.

"Ha, ha, ha! The City? Why, man, you and I are petty knaves! Conſole yourſelf: crimes of a much deeper dye no longer are a nine days wonder. Some friendly ſcandal, with `Bleſs me, who would have thought it!' and a little groſs abuſe, which you'll not hear, is the utmoſt penalty. Meanwhile bows, ſalutations, and grinning courteſy will be current as ever. 'Tis only the needy villain that is ſhunned."

Heigho! It is bad I find to do wrong: but it is worſe to be found out.

SCENE XI.

Your reproof is ſevere.

Why, ay. I am ſtill a diſciple of the world and its maxims; I can perſecute vice in others and practiſe it myſelf like any potent Don in Chriſtendom.

'Tis ſtrange, Sir, that a fellow of your ſoul ſhould claſs himſelf with knaves.

Nothing is ſtrange. Man is all a con⯑tradiction. I thought myſelf an adept, I find my⯑ſelf a tyro. He that would ſucceed in knavery, muſt be wholly knave. I have compunctions and ſympathies which a man muſt either ſhake off or go hide in honeſt obſcurity.

"Are talents and genius, then, no recom⯑mendation?

Talents and genius are the admiration of a day: ſo is a calf with two heads, or any other monſter."

Brother Harry—Wull thee forgi' me?

Forgive thee, girl! My ſoul adores thy kind and honeſt nature.

I love thee, Harry! I love thee!

And damme but ſo do I!—I love you all.

Oh, how bleſſed is this moment! How grateful to my heart is the little power which wealth can give!

My everlaſting friend.

And you my ſaviour, you my protector.

Not a word for me?

Will not a look ſuffice?

You are a happy man, Sir.

You have proved the dignity of your mind. You have gained friends that will never forſake you.

The Goodneſs bleſs you! I ſaid from the firſt I loved you dearly.

I find I am quite left out among you!

Surely you don't forget your promiſe?

What wur that?

"I ſhall love you to the lateſt breath I draw."

No, no, I hanno' forgotten.

Why then, my Lady—You know what▪

Well, but, my dear Jonas—

Oh, her Ladyſhip will freely conſent, and will be happy to dance a reel at your wedding.—Well, I have hitherto lived, and fear I ſhall die wondering at the enormous vices, and the ſplendid virtues, which mingle and form the hiſtory of that motley creature man.

And what is it that will correct his er⯑rors? It is the virtue that has been exerciſed to day. It is purity of intention in ſome, benevo⯑lence of heart in others, and that kind, forgiving, and indulgent ſpirit, which ought to inhabit every human boſom.