SCENE FIRST—A HALL OF STATE.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE FIRST—A CHURCH.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST—THE CHURCH.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST—THE TENT OF MAHOMET.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE EIGHTH.

SCENE NINTH.

SCENE TENTH.

SCENE ELEVENTH.

SCENE FIRST—THE SULTAN'S TENT.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE EIGHTH.

SCENE NINTH.

SCENE FIRST— The Antichamber to the Queen of Caſtile's Preſence-Chamber, to which it opens by the Scene's dividing.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE FIRST—A ROOM OF STATE.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE FIRST—A GARDEN.

OH, plague take it! Flora is coming this way. Well, I have had the good luck of a clear coaſt once to day; and ſo now I muſt compound for a little vexation and diſappointment.—

What is in the wind now? What do you want?

SCENE SECOND.

Mademoiſelle Adelinda! I have been looking for you all over the houſe and gardens, this long while.

Well then, long-looked-for is found at laſt.—

Lord, Mademoiſelle! what can you be always in this garden for?

For?—Freſh air; and the dear com⯑fort of being alone, and in peace and quiet.

You were not formerly ſo fond of the gar⯑den; nor ſo deſirous of being alone. What amuſe⯑ment can you find here, by yourſelf?

Amuſement?—I dance Rigadoons, and ſtudy the Stars.

Study the Stars! at high noon day?

Oh yes! I can read enough in them now to tell you your fortune.

I did not know, that amongſt your other very rare qualifications, that fortune-telling was to be reckoned.

Oh! I will give you an inſtant proof of that—Shew me your hand—

you are in love with a man, who is much younger than yourſelf:—he has ſlighted all your advances;—but you have ſtill hopes.—

How came this into the little ſer⯑pent's head?—

Keep your eyes fixed upon mine, Flora!—Let me ſee—what your face ſays.—Why you are a great miſchief maker;—a plotter;—very curious;—malicious;—and,—as I am alive, given to thieving—

And you, Mademoiſelle! are [253] given to be vulgar and rude to every body. You are born to diſgrace your birth and high rank, and your noble parents. And I tell you, without the help of the ſtars, that it will be your fortune, to be ſent back once more to your Convent:—and for life too this time.—For I heard my Lord ſwear by St. Dennis that you ſhould be a Nun. So, Mademoiſelle! unleſs you mend your manners and alter you conduct, your fate will be, to wear the Veil,—eat Soup meager, ſleep in a Dormitory, and do Pennance for the remainder of your days.—

Bravo, Flora!—A word in your ear.

The next time my Mother lectures me, you ſhall be turn'd out neck and heels.—You are by nature ſufficiently impertinent without the aid of any of the Marchio⯑neſs's eloquence. Beſides you ſelect only the dregs of it; and you deliver her ſermons with as ill a grace as you wear her caſt-off gowns.

'T is not what the Marchioneſs alone ſays, that I repeat—every body ſpeaks thus of you, and unleſs—

—You can grow young again, this pretty Youth, on whom you have ſet your heart, will leave you to hang yourſelf upon yon willow.

My Lady has waited in her dreſſing-room this hour for you:—ſhe ſent me to look for you.—

Very well! Go you and tell my Mother that I am coming.—

I wait to attend you to her—

But I do not chuſe your attendance; ſo march without me.

No, Mademoiſelle! I ſhall wait your lei⯑ſure here.

And ſo you will not go without me?

No, Mademoiſelle! I promiſe you, that I ſhall not move from this ſpot, but to follow you.

Well then, Flora! I find, that I muſt make you my confident.

Ah, Mademoiſelle! I ſuſpected that you had other amuſements in this garden, beſides ſtar⯑gazing and dancing Rigadoons. 'T is well you are willing to tell me; for I was bent upon finding out why you are grown ſo aſtoniſhingly fond of ſolitude.

I have had a hundred times a mind to truſt you, Flora! for I have been in conſtant fear of your great penetration.—Why you muſt know then that, through great charity, I keep a whole family here—Father—Mother—Children; and I come every morning, noon, and night, to feed them.

Lord, Mademoiſelle! How do theſe beg⯑gars get into the Garden to be fed by you?

They live here conſtantly, and this is their eldeſt Child. See

what a fine large black Spider it is.

O pray, Mademoiſelle!—Oh, dear! Oh, dear—

Now decamp without me; or I'll fetch the whole family.—

If you do I ſhall faint—or go into fits—

Faint, ha! ha! ha!—

Indeed, Mademoiſelle! I ſhall faint unleſs you throw it away.

Then I ſhall be obliged to let it crawl upon your face, till you have done fainting: for I have no ſal volatile, nor eau de luce to recover you. So faint, or go, whichſoever you pleaſe inſtantly.

A perverſe little devil!—What miſchief is in her wild head now I wonder.

SCENE THIRD.

So I am rid of this Argus.—

But here comes my Mother—Well! out of the frying pan into the fire.—Heigh ho!—I muſt en⯑dure it: I cannot frighten her away.

SCENE FOURTH.

Why, Adelinda! when I ſent laſt night to entreat you to ſpend this morning in my [256] dreſſing-room, would you not oblige me?—You may one day perhaps experience the pang which a mother feels, when ſhe begs in vain, for a proof of kindneſs, and common civility, from her Child.

Lord, Madam! I thought my father would be there; and I was ſo wearied out, laſt night, with hearing of my ungrateful, rebellious conduct, of my incorrigible vulgarity, of my want of taſte and judgment; and of what a diſgrace I am to his name and blood; that I was truly glad to eſcape from his paſſionate exclamations, which gall and irritate me ſo, that I am forced to ſay things which he does not like.—

Adelinda! you muſt take care how you provoke your Father: you made him ſo very angry laſt night that I trembled for you.

Yes, there was reaſon to tremble. I expect that he will give me a good beating in one of his paſſions: for, ſure, never was mortal in ſuch a rage, as he was in with me, laſt night. It is very un⯑fortunate for me, that I have either eyes, under⯑ſtanding, or the uſe of ſpeech: ſince I can neither look, think, nor ſpeak, without putting my father into a moſt horrible pucker.

It was impoſſible to forbear from being angry with you laſt night. I aſſure you, that I ſhould have joined in reſenting your behaviour, but your father's ſevere determination, after he had com⯑manded you from his preſence, terrified me to death; and I forgot my own diſpleaſure againſt you, in my [257] ſorrow at the puniſhment which your father ſwore to inflict upon you: and, but for my interpoſition, he would this day have ſent you back to your Convent.

What! to make a Nun of me?

I fear ſo.—

Merciful ſtars! I did not think that he had been in ſuch a wicked paſſion as that came to neither.—And all for my telling him an unwel⯑come truth. I fear and eſteem my father; but he has never taught me to love him. He is juſtice herſelf, he holds the ſcales with a ſteady hand, and wields the ſword with unrelenting rigour;—except when he is himſelf the culprit. But thanks to you, Madam! for interpoſing, ſo that he has broken the Oath; 't was raſhly made; and not fit to be kept: but in his next paſſion, he will again ſwear, and as eaſily break the vow.

I hope, for your own ſake, that you will not make the experiment; for, however willing I may be to ſue for your peace, I may loſe my influ⯑ence: for your Mother, Adelinda! could not, laſt night, obtain your pardon till ſhe knelt for it at your father's feet.

O, my dear Mother! what do I not owe to your patience and your goodneſs?—But 't is all, all, in vain; for I was born to diſgrace and grieve you. Yet do not hate,—do not curſe me!—

Horrid thought!—no more of this; we will not awaken humiliating ſenſations.—Let the future redeem the paſt.—I have promis'd for [258] you, that you will change your conduct. That you will behave with more duty and attention to your Father; and that you will treat your Couſin more properly.

Oh! that Couſin of mine is as plague⯑ful as a Ghoſt in a haunted houſe; I am never at quiet for him: I am always engaged, either in a quarrel with himſelf; or with my father about him. I wiſh that the Chaplain would exorciſe him for an evil ſpirit; and confine him to the bottom of the Red Sea for nine hundred and ninety-nine years. I am ſure that I would never light the end of candle that ſhould releaſe him.

I am aſtoniſhed that neither his birth, his rank, nor his accompliſhments, procure him reſpect, or even common civility, from you, and yet you are much indebted to his generous diſin⯑tereſtedneſs.—Your Father has offered, if you will not change your conduct, to ſettle his whole fortune upon him: but he moſt nobly rejected it, declaring that he would never enjoy what he conſidered as your birthright, unleſs you ſhared it with him. He laments, yet always leſſens, your imperfections.—And he avers, that notwithſtanding your foibles, that both in heart and mind you are capable of great things.

He ſticks to his text I find; for he always begins his ſermons by telling me what fine things I could do, if I would but give my ſoul elbow room. Yet I ſuſpect he treats me with the oil of fool, alias flattery, only for the oſtentation of diſplaying [259] his own ſagacity, whilſt I queſtion his ſeeing further into a millſtone than other people.

Adelinda! be ſerious, and give me your attention.—If your father's intentions be not altered, by his laſt night's anger, you will you know be very ſhortly your Couſin's Wife; even within a few days. Therefore, my dear Child! this is the criſis of your fate; and I am trembling for your future happineſs, with all the anxiety of a Mother, who ſees the rock, upon which your heedleſs youth will drive, to its aſſured deſtruction.

Alas! Madam, I cannot new make myſelf, either to ſhew my gratitude to you, or my obedience to my Lordly Father. He might as well quarrel with his pack of hounds, becauſe they have not flowing manes like his coach-horſes, as with me for not being a fine lady.—And when all is ſaid and done, for my ſhare, I do not perceive what there is ſo outrageouſly amiſs in me, to make all this conſtant havock about.

That you have good qualities every body allows—But your bluntneſs, your rudeneſs of ſpeech, your intractable temper, your churliſh man⯑ners, your inflexible obſtinate humour, diſgrace the nobleneſs of your birth, and diſguſt every one who lives, or converſes, with you. And, indeed, unleſs you correct your untoward diſpoſition, you cannot expect to live on comfortable and pleaſant terms with the Count, when the lover will be loſt in the huſband. And would you not wiſh to be conſidered as your [260] huſband's firſt friend, and favourite companion. Could you like to live neglected, deſpiſed, forgotten?

No, faith! I do not ſay that neither.

Then, for your own ſake, determine to poliſh your manners, and ſoften the ruggedneſs of your temper.

There is ſo much wanting to be done, Madam! to make me what you with, that I ſhall never have the heart even to begin. I might toil up a high hill, but, alas! I am quite hopeleſs of walking up the outſide of a church ſteeple;—indeed, Madam! my reformation is a moral impoſſibility; and you al⯑ways paint me ſo much of a Black-a-moor, that I am ſure 't is labour in vain to attempt to waſh me white.

No, my dear Child! it is not; if you would but once reſolve to conſtrain your tem⯑per:—make the effort at leaſt.—Reflect ſeriouſly upon the conſequence of your firſt ſteps in life; they will ſtamp your character with the world: and have you no wiſh to be admired?

Oh, no! there is more coſt than wor⯑ſhip in it;—to gain your ſort of admiration, I muſt be conſtantly in the pillory—and for what?—why only the hopes of a mouthful of moon-ſhine.

But, ſurely, you would at leaſt wiſh to be eſteemed?

Eſteemed? yes! I cannot live in any comfort without that: eſteem is requiſite to be ſure; 't is like the air one breathes, a want, but not a plea⯑ſure.

But, Adelinda! even eſteem is very reluctantly paid, if not refuſed, to thoſe whoſe ſtrange humour, and rude, offenſive familiarity, diſguſt and affront every body. And, if you will perſiſt in re⯑taining your churliſhneſs, and inattention, how will you appear in poliſhed ſociety?

O Lord! Madam! like a carp out of water. The ſociety which delights you, is not my element: and I ſhall never be any thing in it, but a queer fiſh gaping and floundering about. For the fine folks, and fine manners, of your poliſhed ſocieties, are my hatred and utter averſion; their maxims would ſuffocate every natural feeling of my heart, and annihilate every uſeful property of my under⯑ſtanding; for I muſt love and hate by a factitious rule and meaſure; and judge and give my voice, by weights which I know to be falſe; the faſtidious drams and ſcruples, illegally ſtamped as ſtandard, by the uſurped authority of folly, falſhood, affectation, and nonſenſe.

What a ſarcaſtic, ungovernable ſpi⯑rit? We have loſt our two Sons, and you, the only Child whom Providence has ſpared to us, are deter⯑mind to be the conſtant ſource of diſquiet and afflic⯑tion to our minds.—O Adelinda! you have blaſted all my comfort;—long, very long, have I looked forward to your preſent age of reaſon, and antici⯑pated the treaſure, that I hoped to find, in your ten⯑der affection as a Child, and your ſympathy as a friend. But all theſe flattering dreams vaniſh. You [262] have filled my heart with grief and bitter diſappoint⯑ment for the preſent; and I look forward to the fu⯑ture, with that fearful agony, which makes even the very thoughts of life painful to me.

O, my Mother!—

Can you then feel for me? O! rouſe all your affection, all your reaſon, all your duty. Can you not reſolve, my dear Child? will you not promiſe?—

I can at this mo⯑ment reſolve, if you ſpeak the word—to die—But, O my dear Mother!—I cannot—indeed—I cannot promiſe what you wiſh.—

Alas! Adelinda! can you thus par⯑take the anguiſh of my ſoul, and have the power, yet want the will, to give me peace?—

I cannot ſpeak the agonizing grief that tears my heart—to think what ſorrow I give to yours. I diſdain a falſehood—I cannot promiſe—becauſe I know, too certainly know, the fatal impoſſibility of keeping my word. Ceaſe to love me, Mother! I am unworthy your affection. Alas! I know I am.—

Yonder your father comes, the Count is with him, Dear Adelinda!

at leaſt in your father's preſence, for my ſake, conſtrain your temper. Do not ſpeak, if you cannot ſpeak reſpect⯑fully. I have paſſed my word, that you will alter your conduct, elſe your father will break off this [163] treaty of marriage, and ſend you back to a Cloiſter for life. Think of what I ſuffered, laſt night, for your ſake; and let not ſuch deep humiliation have been in vain. You are ſilent, my Child! I will yet hope what you dare not promiſe.

SCENE FIFTH.

Did the diſtance deceive me, or did I ſee Adelinda on her knees?

You did, my Lord!

Why, what thunderbolt was ſtrong enough, to bow your ſtubborn pride?

My Lord! when gentle Angels warn us of impending dangers; there needs no thunder⯑bolt to bow the ſtubborn will. Their kindneſs melts the heart, trembling we own their mercy; and kneel, with gratitude and humbleneſs, to thank that good⯑neſs, which we cannot merit.

My charming Couſin!

How came you, Adelinda! to ſay ſo gracious, and ſo proper a thing? Why are you not always thus?

Becauſe, my Lord! I am not like an [264] Italian Greyhound; fawning without friendſhip, and licking the hand of every ſtranger as cordially as that of his Maſter. I prefer the diſpoſition of the honeſt Engliſh Maſtiff, who is ſubmiſſive only to the kind maſter whom he loves, and who will fight till he dies, for thoſe to whom he is attached.

I preſume, Madam! that you have told Adelinda, what you have promiſed for her—and, that it was only at your intreaty, that I have forgiven her behaviour to me laſt night?

I have, my Lord! and Adelinda will, I hope, fulfil the promiſe which I have ventured to make for her; and by becoming as amiable and as complacent in her manners as you can wiſh, ſhe will not only rejoice my anxious heart, but reward all my care.

Impoſſible!

This day then, my dear Count! we will ſign the Settlements, and to-morrow ſhall be the day of the celebration of your Nuptials—

To-morrow, my Lord? No! no! no! not,—not, to-morrow, for Heaven's ſake!—

Shall it be Thurſday, Adelinda?

Oh! no! no!

Let it be Saturday then.

No! I beg not.

Adelinda! there is no obliging you—I will name the day. To-morrow you give your hand to the Count—

or you return to your Convent for life, whichſoever you pleaſe.—

My dear Lord!—

Madam! I will not recede—therefore do not requeſt, what I muſt have the pain of refuſing, even to you.

Daughter! I give your hand to this young Lord: but for him my ancient name would be extinct. I am proud that he is my relation and my friend: And he is moſt deſervedly the Son of my choice. As you value my bleſſing, Adelinda! I exhort you to merit his affection and preſerve his eſteem.

Moſt gratefully I thank you, my Lord! for the honour which you confer upon me, and the ſacred truſt which you repoſe in me. I will aſpire to maintain, in all its luſtre, that name which has been for ſo many ages renowned: and the happineſs of your lovely Daughter ſhall be the conſtant object of my tendereſt attention.

I reſign her with full confidence to your care. Count! avoid my errours. Adelinda! let your altered conduct oblige me to forget the paſt. Imitate your Mother's exalted merit; or become an alien to your father's love.

SCENE SIXTH.

My dear Count! though to call you Son, is the firſt wiſh of my heart; yet this is a trying moment, which only a Mother, like me, can feel.— Remember, my dear Adelinda! that your own hap⯑pineſs, and the felicity of your parents, depend upon your conduct—

Heaven bleſs you, my dear Girl! and may no child of yours ever make you know the anxious care, which at this mo⯑ment rends my heart—

SCENE SEVENTH.

My fair Adelinda! are my wiſhes indeed accompliſhed? Your heart ſympa⯑thizes with your Mother's feelings; Is it then ſub⯑dued? are you changed?

O Lord, yes! changed, yes.—

But ſeriouſly?

In down-right earneſt to be ſure.

I know that you are ſincere—Therefore tell me—are you now ſerious?

Oh! I am much too ſincere at times, and ſo as to diſpleaſe you moſt mightily.

'T is true. For often your ſincerity ariſes from the peculiarly uncouth ruggedneſs of your temper, rather than from a ſcrupulous love of truth. Your ſincerity is the ſquib of peeviſh petulance, and and not the conſcientious award of juſt judgment.

What a pointed, preciſe, witty, waſ⯑piſh, wiredrawn, diſtinction you have made: and your domineering deciſion amblingly alliterates as agreeably as the clinking cadence of the Church Clock's chimes.

It is but too juſt a deciſion:—however let it paſs, my fair Couſin!—at this moſt awful period of our lives, let us rather reſolve againſt all future diſputes, than now enter upon new ones. You are my deſtined Bride;—

Yes.—ſo it ſeems.

Seems? why are you not? what do you think of it?

What do I think of it?—Nothing at all.—

A clear explication truly!—

Rightly obſerved, Couſin! 'T is a moſt [268] accurate, admirable, excellent explication indeed!— For when deſpotic authority ſays, "Daughter, you ſhall marry that man,"—and that very man ſays, "Mademoiſelle! you are deſtined to make my for⯑tune, and, therefore, I reject you not."—The girl has nothing to think about: for ſhe is precluded from the privilege of thinking to any purpoſe,—and I aſſure you, that I think nothing about marrying you, my Lord!

Still haughty! ſtill intractable!

Hola, Couſin! have a care, that your ſincerity be not the ſquib of peeviſh petu⯑lance:—It was but this moment that you reſolved againſt all diſputes; and you begin already. So to war we go, jangling like hammer and tongs, as uſual.

That phraſe is ſuperlatively ele⯑gant!

Then, if you don't like it, mend it.—

How ill does that ruſtic ſpeech and man⯑ner agree with eyes that ſeem to ſparkle with intelli⯑gence as well as beauty. Your countenance and diſ⯑poſition are by no means aſſorted; they correſpond ſo little together, that they would diſappoint and diſ⯑guſt good company.

Good Company! What is Good Company?

Ridiculous queſtion! Do you not know what Good Company is?

No. Nor you neither, Couſin! by your [169] not anſwering my queſtion. But I ſuppoſe that your Good Company, like the Monſter that I ſaw the other Day, is a non-deſcript; and ſo are your People of faſhion; and polite Circles; and the great World: with all the immenſe farrago of faſhionable phraſes, that pretend to claſs folks into tribes, which I hold to be as non-deſcript, as my Monſter from the Moon Mountains in Africa.

You miſtake, fair Lady! Good Company is as eaſily defined as wit, ſenſe, taſte, or judgment. Good Company, Adelinda! is the ſelect part of People of Rank and Education, of People of great talents and amiable manners; who, having, from ſuperior under⯑ſtandings, a ſtronger claim to diſtinction and reſpect, than the generality of the World poſſeſs, ſeek out each other; and being aſſimilated by the attractive chain of real merit, enter into friendſhip, aſſort to⯑gether, and form that elect part of ſociety, which I diſtinguiſh by the name of Good Company.

And do you make one in Good Company.

I have that flattering diſtinction.

Well! if you be Good Company then is Good Company the moſt weariſome thing upon the face of God Almighty's Earth—

Have you any Snuff, my Lord! for your good Company has vapoured me to death.

I expected not ſo very enchant⯑ing a compliment.

I have told you a hundred times that [270] it is the way of me to ſpeak what I think; if it offend you, you can revenge yourſelf: the catalogue of my manifold imperfections is ſo very extenſive that you can find more ample faults of mine to deſ⯑cant upon, than I have picked out of yours, of your being tireſome, teaſing and thwarting:—I do not beg for quarter.—

Indeed you do not deſerve it; but your ſacred ſex protects you; I am bound to reſpect it, even though you ſet at defiance, good breeding, po⯑liteneſs, and even the common regards of decent civility.

And where is the real merit of your good breeding, your politeneſs, and your regards? flummery and nonſenſe! you flatter, becauſe you want to be flattered in return. Flattery, I ſuppoſe, is the current coin which buys a place in Good Com⯑pany.—Let people ſpeak as they think, and ſeem only what they are; juſt as God made them and Nature formed them. As for me, I cannot ſtem the impulſe of my diſpoſition; it carries me away; the current is too ſtrong for my reſiſtance.

But you ſhould endeavour to exterminate ſo ungracious a diſpoſition.

Yes, and make myſelf juſt as artificial and ridiculous a figure as the Yew trees in the Kit⯑chen Garden, tortured into every poſſible form that can make them appear outlandiſh and diſagreeable—

What an unbending mind! what a ſtubborn ſpirit! What hope is there of ſoft⯑ening it?

He is dreaming with his eyes open, and talking Gibberiſh in his ſleep—I'll eſcape—

Adelinda, ſtay!—I was loſt in thought— Can I by any entreaty win you to render your humour complacent—? Beautiful Adelinda! you might, if you pleaſed, inſpire me with the moſt ar⯑dent paſſion for you. Your heart, I am ſure, is good, though ſo rugged and diſcourteous to all around you. And (though I lament its conſtant miſapplication) yet I cannot help admiring the ſtrong powers of your underſtanding. Why then will you call forth diſlike, where you might excite love? Why brave cenſure, when you might create eſteem? Make but a juſt uſe of the invaluable gifts, with which nature has en⯑dowed you, and you will enſlave my very ſoul.

Couſin! you plead ſo well, that methinks I am half ſorry, that 't is impoſſible for you to gain your ſuit—

Say not ſo, Adelinda! Reflect, that in a few hours you will be my Wife: conſider that the happineſs of my future life is in your hands; and, if you cannot gain a proper aſcendancy over your diſ⯑poſition, that I am doomed to be miſerable; and every moment of my exiſtence, I ſhall have to bluſh, with ſhame and grief, at my Wife's miſconduct.—

No, my Lord! I will ſave you from ſo ſad a fate, from this all-dreaded ſhame; never, I promiſe you, ſhall my Huſband have to bluſh at my miſconduct.—

How you delight me by this promiſe: then, my amiable Adelinda! you will correct your failings, and kindly condeſcend to be guided by the tender advice of the man, who wiſhes to adore you?

I moſt devoutly make you a ſecond promiſe:—and I call Heaven to witneſs the ſincerity of my intentions.—That in no one circumſtance of my future life ſhall the advice of you, my Couſin! the Count D'Olſtain,—ever govern me.—

No?—You ſpeak riddles! You promiſe that I ſhall never have to bluſh at your miſconduct; and yet you threateningly promiſe defiance againſt me, either as your friend or counſellor.—For Hea⯑ven's ſake! condeſcend to explain this myſtery.

No: I ſhall give no explanation; I intend to ſurpriſe every body.—

How can you take a pride in torturing me? You ſuffer your ſtrange temper to drown every benevolent feeling of your heart. Have you no kind⯑neſs for others? no ſympathy for their diſtreſs? Why ſhould you rejoice in creating miſery when you might—

Stop! ſtop! for the love of charity, do not ſtun my ears with any more of your tedious preachments.—Know, my Lord! that ſuch as my manners and diſpoſition are, ſuch I would have them to be; and ſuch they ſhall remain, if I were to live to the age of Methuſelah.—Therefore, if you can work no ſurer miracle than my reformation, you will never be canonized for a Saint—But to ſhew you, [273] that I can, occaſionally, do a civil and polite thing, I rid you of my vulgarity; and leave you to the full enjoyment of your own Good Company.

SCENE EIGHTH.

What a ſtrange, what a perverſe Girl! If I marry her, I ſacrifice all my future happineſs.—If I reject her, the Marquis will oblige her to take the Veil; and make me the unjuſt poſſeſſor of her birth-right.

SCENE FIRST—A SALOON.

YOUR Servant, Monſieur Straſbourg!

Down to the ground, yours, Madam Flora!

Charming fellow! how handſome he is! What a fine figure! What an elegant air!— I'll plague him a little, however.—Why, Straſbourg! for a Steward how magnificently you dreſs—But you are rich; your father had the management of the old Marquis's fortune, and of his Son's, for forty years. You are his heir and ſtill Steward:—And a moſt pompous fine gentleman to be ſure you are; but they ſay you can afford it: yet, if I were my Lord—

You would not keep a Steward who looked ſo much like yourſelf. Ha! my ſmart Abigail! but I muſt decline the felicity of your company juſt now; for my Lord is coming hither upon buſineſs— ſo permit me to hand you out of the ſaloon.

Well, Monſieur! I am here upon my Lady's buſineſs; I came here to look for Mademoiſelle Adelinda.—

Then, as ſhe is not here, by all means purſue your buſineſs.—

Suppoſe, Straſbourg! that to keep your dreſs in proper countenance, you were to embroider your manners with a ſlight border of politeneſs.

Child! if I did, you would miſtake my meaning. I think you moſt enchantingly agreeable, and you treat me in a manner that flatters me moſt delightfully: and if it were not for the extraordinary eſteem and reſpect, that I have for your Lady, I ſhould encourage your predilection.—

What do you mean? what do you in⯑ſinuate?

Only, divine perfection of a woman! that your Lady would take it very ill at my hands, if I ſeduced her favourite Abigail from that path of diſcretion which her years exact that ſhe ſhould tread in, and the practice of that virtue which ſhe is ſaid, hitherto, to have moſt religiouſly obſerved.—

Impudent Coxcomb! audacious Slanderer! good-for-nothing Story-teller!—

SCENE SECOND.

Thank your ſtars, Straſbourg! for my timely appearance—Why I believe that Flora was going to beat you.

No! no! I was not, but, but, I wiſh to Heaven that ſomebody would give him a good caning for me.—

Why, Straſbourg! what unpardonable offence have you committed to deſerve ſuch treatment from Flora?—

I only ſaid, my Lord! that the Mar⯑chioneſs would be diſpleaſed with me, if I ſeduced Flora's virtue: and behold, for this, ſhe calls me a ſlanderer! and a ſtory-teller!

No! it was not for that, but for ſuppoſing, ſuppoſing,—indeed, my Lord! I do not deſerve, de⯑ſerve—but I wiſh that you would not keep ſuch a fop of a Steward—There is no being happy in the houſe for him—he is ſo grand and ſo proud—and he ſays—and he ſays—that, that, he looks like your Lordſhip—

Why truly, Straſbourg! ſo I think you do—you are more ſumptuous to day than uſual, I think. I really muſt follow Flora's advice and diſ⯑miſs you—for you always appear ſo ſplendid, that indeed there is ſome hazard of your being miſtaken for me.

In Chriſtian charity, my Lord! you are bound not to diſmiſs me; for no other Nobleman in all Europe can afford to retain me in his ſervice.

How ſo, Straſbourg?

Becauſe your Lordſhip is the only one poſſeſſed of ſuch princely manners, as to afford, without any danger of miſtakes, or derogation from [277] your own dignity and conſequence, to keep a Steward who has the vanity to aſpire, in his dreſs and and deportment, to look like a gentleman

Now, Flora! if Straſbourg will pay you as curious a compliment, I am ſure that you muſt forgive him.

Pray, my Lord! do not intercede for me; for a quarrel with Flora is the delight of my ſoul; her arguments are ſo terſe, her wit ſo elegantly poliſhed, and her elocution ſo flowing, and ſo correct, that to be the object of her anger is the moſt hea⯑venly amuſement that I have any idea of. So no pardon, no quarter, ſweet Flora!

Hang the fellow, he always has the art to have every one of his ſide always; he knows how to flatter himſelf into people's liking, and out of their hatred.

SCENE THIRD.

Poor Flora!—Well, Straſbourg! what is the buſineſs?

My Lord! the Widow of your late tenant, Orland, ſends me word that ſhe is coming this morning with her rent; and to beg that your Lordſhip [278] will be pleaſed to renew the leaſe of the Olſtain Farm to her. I ſuppoſe that you have no objection to re⯑newing the leaſe; but at what rent, my Lord? all your other tenants have had their rents raiſed; but Dorcas tells me, that ſhe hopes as ſhe nurſed my Young Lady that you will favour her.—

Yes: on that conſideration; and as ſhe is a Widow, I will renew the leaſe, for the term of her life, at the ſame rent.—I ſuppoſe the report of Adelinda's marriage brought her hither juſt at this time, that ſhe might be preſent at the wedding. Has ſhe brought her pretty Daughter with her?

I do not know, my Lord!—'tis not certain—perhaps ſo—I believe ſhe has—I, I, rather think ſhe may—but I cannot be poſitive—

I begin to think, Straſbourg! that you are in love with that girl: you are always ſo em⯑barraſſed, ſo ſhy, and look ſo very ſilly, whenever I queſtion you about your viſits to that part of the Country. Your confuſed, myſterious anſwers, have made me ſuſpect that ſome love affair was your buſineſs at Olſtain, and not the barn-building, or ſeeing after the workmen.—I want to ſee this girl, this Zella, I have heard ſo much of her beauty.—But are you ſeriouſly in love with her, Straſbourg?