[]THE MINIATURE PICTURE.

SCENE I. Mr. Camply's Study.

COME in.

Sir, here is a young gentleman come to wait upon you; ſays his Name is Revel, I think.

Revel

Revel, ha! Sir Harry Revel perhaps; deſire him to walk in.

I have not ſeen him ſince he was ten years old: his father was the worthieſt [10] of men; and I muſt return ſome of the attention he beſtowed on me to his ſon.

Sir Harry Revel, I believe; I did not know that you were come to the univerſity, or I ſhould certain⯑ly have waited upon you firſt; but you will eaſily diſpenſe with ceremony, for as you have been partly educated abroad, the formalities of an Engliſh col⯑lege muſt appear rather ſtrange to you.

Yes faith, ſtrange enough, and all the old fogrums with their faces as ſtarch'd and as prim as their bands—why we all move by clock-work; au pied de la lettre, indeed, my good ſir; for the clock directs all our motions.

I fancy my good couſin is a great puppy.

The melancholy event of your good father's death muſt make every place appear dull to you, Sir Harry; but I hope a change of ſcene, and the at⯑tentions of your family—

Family attentions and family affairs are equally my averſion, couſin—and really the queer fancy of my father's ordering me to Oxford in his will, after I had been for three years at an academy in [11] France, is ſuch an out-of-the-way thing, that I am half comforted for his death by it already.

Indeed, Sir Harry!

Beſides, couſin, ten thouſand a year, a title, and a pretty wife, are comforts that—

Are you married, Sir Harry?

O no, not yet, but I ſhall be in a ſhort time. A-propos, as I muſt ſoon leave this country for a little time, while I go to ſee the old manſion, I muſt beg you will give me two or three franks for my intended—

Does ſhe inhabit this country then, Sir? What a giddy mortal!

Yes, Sir; only Miſs Loveleſs; you know—here—

Loveleſs! Miſs Loveleſs!

Yes, couſin—What makes you ſtare ſo? Becauſe the lady has had ſenſe enough to refuſe all the ſquires of Oxfordſhire, is that any reaſon why ſhe ſhould not accept of me?

A vain wretch!

Oh, no—no—no, I give you joy, Sir Harry; I think you are well fitted to each other But are you ſure, Sir, it is the ſame Miſs Loveleſs I mean?

I cannot poſſibly gueſs what Miſs Loveleſs may run in your head, but I mean the great heireſs, Miſs Loveleſs, who lives here in Oxford.

Indeed!

Indeed; and what of that?

O nothing at all; nothing at all.

Ha, ha, ha! my dear brother, ha, ha! I ſhall die, ha, ha! I ſhall die at your poor diſconcerted viſage; ha, ha!

My ſiſter, as I hope to live! why, my dear Beſs, what whim now? When we parted at breakfaſt your eyes were red, and your ſpirits were gone; I thought at dinner to have ſeen you the ſame ſigh⯑ing melancholy creature, and here you are all life and ſpirits, and in breeches too. What does all this mean? explain, explain, my little Oxonian.

Not all life and ſpirits neither, my dear brother; you know I have not ſeen Belvil this week—we have quarrelled.

I ſuſpected as much, but I would not aſk. Pray what could you quarrel about? You told me you had given him your picture, and that he intended to make a demand in form to me.

All this was true; but for all this I have not ſeen him this week—heigh ho! and I really fear I ſhall never ſee him as my lover again.

How! then you really love him, my poor Beſs?

My dear brother, indeed I do; it is that, and your being in love too, that has made me put on this dreſs.

Me! you dream; I in love? I? ridiculous! what could make you take that into your head?

O my good Sir, all your coldneſs and indiffer⯑ence cannot impoſe upon me; that animal, that Belvil, has taught my heart to read into the hearts of others.

Well, and what knowledge do you get from mine!

Why I have read that you are deeply, aye, deeply in love with that weathercock, Flirtilla Loveleſs.

Poh, poh; nonſenſe.

Very good ſenſe, for it is true.

Suppoſing it is true, what is that to your quar⯑rel with Belvil?

Why, this dreſs ſhall reconcile me to him, that is, if he deſerves it, and make Miſs Loveleſs fling herſelf at your head, or at your feet, or—

Into the river ſooner. I really do not under⯑ſtand you.

You know ſhe has flirted with, and refus'd half the country; the only two perſons who have not ſacrificed their time or inclinations to her coquetry are you and Belvil. Now I think ſhe likes you.

O that is quite impoſſible—for I never ſpeak to her.

So much the better; nothing piques a coquet like your obſtinate ſilence. Brother, pray let me aſk you one queſtion; if you do not feel afraid of her, why ſhould you not ſpeak to her?

Why, why—poh, what a queſtion. I'll tell you, Betſy; I like her too well to permit her to ex⯑erciſe her power over me; ſhe is ſo handſome, and ſo capricious, that ſhe would pretend to like me for one day, ſend me to the devil the next, and laugh at me for loving her all the reſt of her life.

I have not viſited her theſe ſix years, becauſe I ſaw you avoided her; but her repeated refuſals convince me ſhe likes ſome one, and that you are that one, her bluſhes, whenever you are named, ſufficiently explain.

That may be pride hurt—

Aye, aye, pride to be ſure.

Well, but Belvil and you—I am all impatience.

He ſaid—it was yeſterday ſe'en night he ſaid—Miſs Loveleſs was prodigiouſly handſome and very agreeable. Why no, quoth your fooliſh ſiſter; no, quoth that creature—No; ſhe is very witty. I obſerved that ſhe was a great flirt, and that if I married him he ſhould never ſpeak to her. He ſaid, that was very ſilly. I grew angry, he laugh'd me into a paſſion, and my paſſion ſent him out of the houſe.

This was all fooliſh enough, and then you were ſorry—hey.

Did he take your pic⯑ture with him?

O yes, he had it hung about his neck; but that is not the worſt part of the ſtory: I find he has been ever ſince with Miſs Loveleſs; ſix days with that odious flirtilla. Now, as I could deceive you, I am certain of improving upon them; as Sir Harry Revel then will I go there, make violent love to her, rout Belvil, humble her vanity, and when I have deprived her of her whole train of admirers, and her airs, I will offer you as a—

Heyday, ſiſter, not ſo faſt; when it is time I can offer myſelf; but I do not approve of your going unleſs the aunt is in the plot.

I have wrote to her, ſhe diſapproves much of her niece's conduct, and is very glad to enter into any ſcheme that is likely to alter it. Come, do not look ſo grave—wiſh me ſucceſs, and Belvil true.

Pray contrive to make Belvil believe I am gone to London, if he ſhould call.

I will.

I wiſh her ſucceſs indeed; if ſhe can get the better of that intolerable ſpirit of coquetry and love of admiration that ſo entirely poſſeſſes Miſs Loveleſs, I ſhall fling myſelf at her feet, and think myſelf too happy to ſecure her peace of mind and honour for ever.

Brother, here is Mrs. Arabella Loveleſs, but lord Mackgrinnon is with her, therefore pray contrive to call him out of the way.

I will.

Give me leave to preſent my couſin, Sir Harry Revel, to you: and, my lord, I muſt beg the favour of you, as you have been ſome time at Oxford, to introduce him to your ſocieties.

I ſhall be very happy to make him acquainted with ſome of the moſt learned and diſcreet gentle⯑men of the different colleges, particularly with my worthy friends at Baliol: he'll meet with good cheer, as well as with cheerful and witty people, and aw for nothing, for I am at home wherever I go.

That I dare ſay.

I hate his northern dialect.

O, my lord, every one muſt be glad when you do them the honour of making their houſes your home.

A pert ſheeld, I fancy.

Pray, Mr. Camply, have you not built a new hot-houſe lately? to tell you the truth my viſit was partly to your new plants, but chiefly to our new neighbour here; as his worthy father was a particular friend of mine, I wiſh'd to aſk him ſome queſtions that—

If lord Macgrinnon will take a walk round the ſhrubbery with me, by the time we return I ima⯑gine your buſineſs with Sir Harry will be over.

I'll attend you with great pleaſure.

How do you think my new character fits upon me? Dear madam, if under this diſguiſe I can be of any ſervice to you, and find out Mr. Belvil's way of thinking in regard to your niece, I ſhall be too happy.

As to Mr. Belvil's way of thinking, I dare be ſworn my niece has no ſhare in it.

Indeed!

Yes, indeed! but my dear Miſs Camply, what am I to think of my niece? ſhe has given Mr. Belvil juſt the ſame encouragement that every other ſuitor has met with. Lord Macgrinnon too is upon her liſt—and yet they ſeem all to be far from her heart.

Is there no one do you think that is near it?

O no; if there was any particular perſon whom ſhe meant to pleaſe, ſhe would not permit herſelf ſuch univerſal coquetry.

My dear Madam,

there's no man can hear me; all women are born coquets, and nothing but a great paſſion for one object can cure that natural propenſity we all have to co⯑quetry.

Surely, good ſenſe might cure it.

Good ſenſe; good ſenſe only ſtrengthens the foible, as it increaſes our power over mankind—but to our point; is there no one among your niece's train of admirers whom you ſhould wiſh her to prefer?

None; Mr. Belvil is not her lover—lord Mac⯑grinnon is a proud Scotchman, who praiſes her beauty, and talks of the delights of love from morning till night; but I ſuſpect his views are in⯑tereſted, from the queſtions he has aſk'd other peo⯑ple concerning her eſtate, her money, her plate, her houſes—in ſhort, whatever his intentions are, the ſecreſy he involves them in, beſpeaks them to be of no good kind.

Perhaps, when Sir Harry Revel appears as a ſe⯑rious rival, we ſhall find out his plan—but, ma⯑dam, do you think Miſs Loveleſs hates my bro⯑ther?

Would to heaven your brother did not diſlike her!—he would be a friend and protector to any woman that could pleaſe him.

Then ſet your heart at reſt about him: I know he loves her, though he diſapproves of her conduct; and if you will take the excuſe of a fiddle to-mor⯑row night, to call in your neighbours, by way of my brother's coming to your houſe, as if it was a natural thing, I will take care to bring matters to ſuch a criſis, that your niece ſhall be obliged to confeſs a preference to my brother; if ſhe feels it, which I ſuſpect.

You ſeem to be a connoiſſeur in the language of looks; I that live with her never ſuſpected as much.

She never names him, I dare ſay.

More than that, I think, ſhe generally turns off the converſation when he is named: you ſee, Miſs Camply, this is a bad ſign—

An excellent one rather: lord, my dear madam, you ſeem never to have taken the trouble of peep⯑ing into your own mind; you are ſo perfectly un⯑acquainted with that of our ſex in general—and—

I do not know which delights me moſt, her phi⯑loſophy, or vivacity; my ignorance proceeds not from my not ſearching into my own heart, but that no one has taken the trouble of aſking if I had one or not; for you know, Miſs Camply, I am an old maid.

And ſo would I be one too, if at your time of life that title would ſit upon me with ſo much [23] good-humour and dignity—I think I hear my bro⯑ther's voice at a diſtance; remember that you are only to announce me as Sir Harry; and perſuade your niece that I, Miſs Camply, am gone to Lon⯑don, and that you will have a dance to-morrow night.

I ſhall certainly not forget any part of a ſcheme which is likely to join our families into one happy group.

Your are an excellent being—

What, making fine ſpeeches, couſin—

Not making love ſurely to ſuch an antiquated gentlewoman?

Why not, my lord?

I would no more ſquander my breath than I would my money, unleſs I were to get cent. per cent. intereſt for it.

I dare ſay not; true Scottiſh oeconomy—I hope not to reap a cent. per cent. intereſt there, my lord, but receive through other hands intereſt ſur⯑paſſing the principal.

Other hands! he does not mean the niece ſure? he, he! what the niece, hey?

Now, Mr. Camply, may not I ſee theſe plants I mentioned?

Certainly. Gentlemen, will you walk?

We will follow you preſently, couſin.

How do you like the univerſity, Sir Harry?

I don't know; I ſuppoſe it is like all other uni⯑verſities—we young fellows leave in them all the little learning we are ever poſſeſſed of; and carry no ſort of knowledge out of them, which can be of any ſervice to us during the reſt of our lives—how ſhould we—we drink port—drive ſtage coaches—and laugh at the old Dons—Pſhaw—Pray, my lord, how do you like Miſs Loveleſs, is ſhe not very handſome?

Handſome eneugh; and trowth a believe what am teld o'her, that ſhe's gote aw the different pairts o' geud breeding at the beſt ſcheuls; but one of her greateſt accompliſhments is her fortune.

Pſhaw, dirt; mere dirt, my lord! I have heard much of her high ſpirit and contempt for our ſex— [25] for women in general—Egad I like her for it—What do you think, my lord, is likely to ſoften her into love, beſide ten thouſand a year and a to⯑lerable figure?

If he does mean to attack her, I will miſlead him.

She has had ſo many fine ſpeeches made to her, that I believe nothing but neglect would move her.—I will make him behave quite rude to her, and then ſhe will hate him.

Pretend not to ſee her, tak na notice of her beauty; rail againſt the whole ſex, and I'll warrant ſhe's your awn.

Umph—Indeed!

And I will feed her vanity; which in good truth, as they ſay, is her only weakneſs; I woul cram it till it ſhall overflow all her gude ſenſe—take this with you, Sir Harry, I believe ſhe has a great deal of pride, but na vanity at all; na, na vanity at all, I think—

That's a Scotch lie now, he has ſome deſign in that.

No vanity, my lord, why the world attribute vanity to her, as the only ſhade to her perfections—Now ſwear to your lie, Sawney.

Upon my credit, I never ſaw any thing like it; pride ſhe has, and a great deal; and my advice can only come from my deſire of being of ſome ſarvice to you.

Much obliged to you, my lord; have I not ſome reaſon to ſuſpect your advice, for I am told you are one of her lovers?

Mere jeſt or calumny, Sir Harry, na, na; na Macgrinnon ever married a woman that had na title—Indeed Miſs Loveleſs's fortune might make a mon forget ſhe was not noble, if he might have it aw without any lawyers interfering; but not me, Sir Harry. Na, I will na be the firſt o' my fami⯑ly to ſet the example of marrying only a ſimple gentlewoman.

So you think it would be very fooliſh for any one to marry without getting the fortune intirely into one's own hands?

Moſt ſurely; and in truth, Sir Harry, women are come to ſuch a pretty high-flying paſs now-a-days, that ruin and beggary are the only things that can keep a wife within the bounds of decency. Why, ye hear of nathing but divorces; na, I ſhould [27] be ſorry were I to give my name to any woman, that if ſhe choſe to play the devil I muſt return one ſix-pence of her money for ſeparate maintenance, or that ſhe ſhould exact an allowance from me—Na, na, Sir Harry, keep the power and the pence together in your awn hands.

And you would have my wife love me as the Indians worſhip the devil, through fear?

Hey? trowth I a' think fear is the ſtrongeſt had we ha o' mankind or womankind.

I muſt inform you, my lord, that I am per⯑fectly acquainted with woman; I judge of the whole ſex by one whoſe mind I thoroughly poſſeſs.

Poſſeſs, in trowth; and ſuppoſe you do, you poſ⯑ſeſs a riddle, that's aw, a riddle; na, na, Sir Harry, womens' minds are weak, guided by the impulſe of the moment—here and there a flaſh of wit, but na judgment—

I could ſpit in his Scotch face.

Hey? what may ye be muttering, pray, Sir?

I ſay the whole ſex are much obliged to your lordſhip. I am quite of a different opinion, my lord; and as I was telling you, if I was a woman myſelf, I could not be better acquainted with the ſex than I am; and I imagine it is the unjuſt uſur⯑pation of all their natural rights and liberties which men are poſſeſſed of that makes our ſex—I ſay, that makes women, my lord, women, run into ſuch errors.

Why, if you was a woman yourſelf you could not plead better for them than you do.

I love them all; I reſpect, I honour them.

I love them too; but as to reſpect and honour—

In ſhort, my Lord, if I ſucceed with Miſs Love⯑leſs, all the buſineſs I ſhall give her family will be to ſettle her whole fortune upon herſelf.

A downright feul.

Entirely in her own power; that ſhe may feel totally independent of me, and free as air; that I may be certain nothing but her own heart and inclination gives me her time and attentions.

Aw, that's mare than I intend—ſuch liberty as that may tempt her—Na, na, Sir Harry, you are quite wrong.

Wrong or not, ſuch are my ideas; and I ſhall follow them as faſt as poſſible.

And I ſhall follow you as faſt as poſſible. I hope at leaſt he will take my advice in trying to pique her pride, and make her ſo angry, that I may gain time to get her conſent, and to make mine upon my own terms—for if once I have her for⯑tune, ſhe may go and hang herſelf for what I care.

SCENE, the Drawing-room in Miſs Love⯑leſs's Houſe.

SO you do not admire this charming poem of Henry and Emma—

No, indeed; that Emma you admire ſo much is a moſt unnatural creature—ſo mean-ſpirited—ſo ſervile—ſo humble—in ſhort, no woman ever thought as Prior makes her think.

Yes, I know one that did.

Hey? What do you mutter between your teeth?

I ſay, I believe, I know one woman whoſe manner of thinking might have ſerv'd as a model for Emma's mind.

The ſentimental grave Miſs Camply, perhaps?

I wiſh you were as grave, my dear niece.

Thank heaven, my dear aunt, your wiſh will never come to paſs—a formal—prim—demure—Lord, aunt, I dare ſay, poor ſoul, ſhe will die an old maid.

If ſhe does, then it will be from choice, and not from neceſſity.

A-propos; Mr. Belvil, it is reported you are the charming ſwain ſhe preferred to any other.

O faith, madam, Miſs Camply and I were brought up together; and—therefore—it is no wonder that—that—

What a fooliſh dog I am!

He certainly is over head and ears in love with me—What a delightful thing it will be to torment that prude, Camply, and perhaps pique her inſen⯑ſible brother!

From Mr. Camply, madam.

My dear, I will return preſently; I will juſt go and anſwer this.

What can that be!

A note from Camply—perhaps his ſiſter has complained of me: I am a ſilly puppy; for here am I making love to a woman I do not care about, and perhaps ſhall entangle myſelf in ſuch a manner that I ſhall not know how to retreat—without feel⯑ing the leaſt pleaſure in the purſuit too. What a curſed fool—

What, deep in thought, Mr. Belvil; come, I'll gueſs the ſubject of that reverie.

My reveries can have but one ſubject, and you muſt be too well acquainted with your own merit not to know it.

Pſhaw; you are a flatterer—Do you know, Mr. Belvil, that I am tempted now-and-then to believe that you are upon the point of turning politician?

Pray, why, madam?

Becauſe you fall into ſuch unaccountable reve⯑ries; then I am ſure you muſt be ſtudying about ſome matters of importance—perhaps you are a patriot, and are forming a new ſyſtem of govern⯑ment—Lard, there will be no bearing you if you turn reformer.

Ha, ha! no indeed, Miſs Loveleſs—when I am perfectly ſatisfied with a reformation of my own private conduct, I may then perhaps adviſe the community at large—but now—ridiculous—ha, ha!

Ha! what's that?

What?

A picture, as I hope to live! Why, Mr. Belvil, this is a very odd fancy of yours never to have ſhewn me that—nay, I inſiſt upon ſeeing it.

How unlucky!

O certainly;

it is only a picture that I had given me one day in joke—nothing ſerious—a joke—he—a joke—he—that's all. What an imprudent puppy I am!

A joke, is that all? O then, I'll try him

So it is only a joke—

A joke that engroſſes all my ſerious thoughts though.

Oh, if you ſtudy your ſpeeches, I would not give one farthing for them.

Remember that I only lend you that picture, and that you muſt return it as ſoon as poſſible—Pray compare that face with your own, and ima⯑gine, if poſſible you can, that it can even be look'd at with patience, except indeed to ſerve as a foil.

I'll try him.

Well now I proteſt it is prettier than I thought. I will keep it, with your leave, to examine the beauty at leiſure; as you are ſo indifferent about it, I will put in my pocket [35] till I have an opportunity of comparing it with the original. He looks confuſed.

How imprudent I have been!

O certainly—keep it—fling it away—do juſt what you pleaſe with it—he, he!—

My dear niece, Mr. Camply's note was to in⯑form me of the arrival of Sir Harry Revel at Ox⯑ford: as Mr. Camply and his ſiſter are gone to London upon buſineſs, they have deſired me to ſhew their couſin ſome attention, in order to diſſi⯑pate his melancholy, having juſt loſt his father, by whoſe death he gets ten thouſand a year. Pray, Mr. Belvil, did you ever ſee him?

Not ſince he was ten years old: he was then very like Miſs Camply—very handſome—

He dines here.

He dines here—handſome—ten thouſand a year, and a baronet—all theſe things are worth thinking about—I long to ſee him.

Confounded ſpirit of coquetry! how unlike my Eliza!

With your leave, ladies, I ſhall go and put a little powder in my hair, and return preſently.

Well, my dear, has Mr. Belvil made any pro⯑poſals yet?

Lard, aunt, the inſtant a man ſpeaks to one you imagine he muſt propoſe—

I can tell you, niece, that your encouraging ſo many ſuitors, without my hearing of any thing ſerious, alarms me very much for the ſake of your reputation; there is my lord Macgrinnon who tells the whole world he is in love with you.

And he tells me ſo too.

For ſhame, niece; I ſhould have bluſh'd myſelf into a fever before I could have ſaid ſuch a thing. And pray do not you know that Mr. Belvil has even been attached to Miſs Camply, and yet you have ſuffered him to dangle after you for a whole week—I wiſh I knew his intentions.

Indeed, ma'am, if you chuſe to call me to an account for every fooliſh fellow that deſerts coun⯑try miſſes for me, you will have enough to do—Will you condemn me in the high court of your judgment, becauſe my charms monopolize the at⯑tentions of mankind?—Really, aunt—really, you are too unreaſonable—I can't help it if I am ad⯑mired—

I only ſpeak to you as a friend—you are your own miſtreſs—but I do not ſee that you like any one yourſelf.

Like, O yes, ma'am—I like him beſt that ſays the fineſt things to me; and in ſhort, my dear aunt, I never will marry till I can find a man who will let the whole world admire me

and that it will without his leave, I fancy.—Stay, I muſt ſee what ſort of looks I am in, for I muſt try what ſort of heart this baronet has—

Your ſervant, Mi⯑lud

Pawawawh—She looks as high and as ſlooty, as if a Macgrinnon did not do her a grat del of ho⯑nour in courting her—Do you ken, now, miſs Loveleſs—do you ken, that na Macgrinnon but me ever was the ſlave of beauty alone, before now—

Umph—ha—

Have ye been kulling ſome birds this morning, Mr. Belvil?

No, my lord, I have been killing time in the pleaſanteſt manner in the world, at the feet of miſs Loveleſs.

Augh, in gud troth—and ſo wud I, but I never can find ye alone.

Alone! what can he poſſibly have to ſay alone?

What you have been often told in public—that you look like an angel.

Augh, and ſo you do—and I wud have told you hoo like an angel you were a long time ago, had you behaved more like a woman—

I really do not underſtand you.

If you will indulge me with a tête-à-tête, I will unriddle my meaning—

A tète-à-tète!—Well, I'll meet you in the gar⯑den to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.

May I be permitted

Ha! you perfidious—Madam, I am your moſt obedient—

Heavens and earth, ma'am, I did not expect to find a ſalon ſo truly à la fran⯑coiſe in this horrid country—and ſome fine pictures too—That is a Rubens, I fancy—and that a Rem⯑brandt—Pray is that a Carravagio?—Yes, 'tis I ſee.

He does not even look at me—'tis a pretty fellow, tho'.

He is ſtill like Eliza, but not ſo well tho'.

Pray, Sir Harry, how do you like Oxfordſhire?

'Pon my ſoul, madam, I know nothing about the ſhire—am but juſt come into it, and faith have ſeen nothing in it yet that would make me wiſh ever to ſee it again.

Whaut! Sir Harry, I muſt needs ſay we are all much obliged to you for your poleet compliment.

What a Highland ſavage he is!

What a puppy you are!

O, my lord, we always except the company preſent—always—always—he! he! always—

He laughs to ſhew his teeth, I ſuppoſe.

O, do you know that your picture is come home?

Where is it? it cannot do juſtice to the origi⯑nal, I am ſure.

Na—na—give me liveing pictures, good fleſh and blood.

What a brute!

What a coxcomb!

Will you look at it, Mr. Belvil? Gentlemen, will you give me your opinion of it?

Indeed I ſhan't go to look at my own picture: will you ſtay with me, Sir Harry?

O, yes; I deteſt thoſe modern daubs.

Modern daubs, indeed! So you do not like modern beauties, Sir Harry?

Beauties—yes, faith, madam, I like beauties; but your Engliſh artiſt here gives you ladies a yel⯑low purple complexion, and then to ſet it off dreſſes you in a bright roſe colour or blue drapery.

An inſenſible creature! he turns his back upon me to give me a diſſertation upon painting

I ſuppoſe you prefer a fine picture to a fine woman, ſir; your paſſionate lovers of virtù are very fond of inanimate beauties.

Now is her vanity ready to burſt; ſhe is ripe for my purpoſe

I did not know there was ſo angelic a being as yourſelf in England. I have examined all the beauties, both dead and liv⯑ing, of France and Italy, and I think you excel every thing I have yet ſeen, except a famous Ma⯑dona of Guido's at Florence, which you put me in mind of.

Be ſo good to turn your head a little this way; no, no, I miſtake, recline it on the other ſide, lean it upon the right ſhoulder: no, no, I mean the left—aye, there—now half ſhut your eyes; divine upon my ſoul!—Now look up to heaven—heavenly, by this light!—No, no, look down if you pleaſe; aye, ſo—juſt ſo—you beautiful charming angel, thus low let me kneel and adore you.

I proteſt you kill me with confuſion.

Here will I be fixed immoveable for ever till you tell me you will be mine; command my for⯑tune and my life; ſettle my whole eſtate as you pleaſe, ſo as you give me your heart. When ſhall I be bleſs'd with your hand? ſpeak, ſpeak, my lovely creature; I am upon the rack till you con⯑ſent.

Really you do not give one time to breathe, much leſs to ſpeak?

Your anſwer—I die for your anſwer.

You ſhall have my anſwer to-night. I vow you hurry one out of one's wits.

Thank you, deareſt, beſt of women.

I think I have performed my part to a miracle.

The moſt impetuous man I ever met with. But Sir Harry, how could my charms have any effect upon you, who have been brought up with your couſin, who is the moſt ſuperlatively accompliſhed woman in the world, if one may credit Mr. Bel⯑vil's accounts of her?

I ſuppoſe you have ſeen her, and know there is nothing ſo very extraordinary about her? Now for a deſcription of myſelf.

Yes, I have ſeen her; but ſhe bluſhes ſo much at every thing, and at nothing—and her counte⯑nance alters from one moment to another into ſuch a variety of expreſſions, that I really never could decide any thing about her—I ſuppoſe Mr. Belvil's paſſion for her was only a nurſery prejudice.

Now do I dread to have my queſtions anſwered.

His addreſſes to you are no ſecret in Cam⯑ply's houſe, I aſſure you; and I thought my fool⯑iſh couſin ſeem'd to look very grave upon the ſub⯑ject—but I truſt you have refuſed Mr. Belvil's offers—

His offers—Lard, Sir Harry, you are juſt like my aunt, who fancies every dangler one has is to offer; he has done every thing a reſpectful lover could do, but offer: but I ſuppoſe he will.

Aye, aye, to be ſure!

Heaven forbid!

Yes, he can't think ſeriouſly about Miſs Camply.

Why not, pray?

Why, he has truſted her picture to me, and that looks as if he did not care about her.

It does, indeed! Pray let me ſee that picture—pray compare that face with this portrait, and ſee if there is the leaſt chance of Eliza's making any conqueſt when you are near?

For heaven's ſake, Sir Harry, hide it—hide it—here is Mr. Belvil—

Gen⯑tlemen—Mr. Belvil, where is my aunt?—I muſt find her—

Do not you think this very handſome?

Death and deſtruction! where did you get that?

Why, it was given me this moment by a fair lady, and I intend to make uſe of it as a paſſport to the good graces of the lady who ſat for it.

I can hardly contain myſelf. What ſhall I ſay to him?

Now do I die to know if it is myſelf or Miſs Camply that he is ſo much diſturbed about.

What is the matter, Mr. Belvil? you look out of countenance—You look—faith I've hit it. You look like the ſecretary of the war-office when he receives the news of a defeat inſtead of a victory—or like Sir Tantivy on a froſty morning.

You may think yourſelf very witty, Sir Harry, but your mirth at—

at this time, is the very height of cruelty.

I could kiſs him for that now.

Are you deaf, man? I ſay Miſs Loveleſs gave me this; and really I think it like Eliza—but in her grave looks though.

Then you are very well acquainted with Miſs Loveleſs already.

I could beat him with pleaſure!

O yes, ſir, ſo well that, if I do not change my mind, we ſhall in all probability be married as ſoon as the lawyers can finiſh their buſineſs.

I give you joy, ſir; I think you are admirably well fitted to one another; for, entre nous, Sir Harry, the lady's vanity is equal to yours; excuſe me.

Take care, Mr. Belvil, take care: I ſhall make you repent of thoſe words ere long—but you ſeem piqued; is it Miſs Loveleſs or my couſin's charms that diſturb you ſo much?

Why do you aſk, ſir? is it any thing to you what are my ſentiments of either?

O yes, ſir, I am in love with both; and ſhall be heartily tired of my wife, that is to be, in a very ſhort time; and then intend to have an affaire de coeur with my couſin; ſhe has a fine ſentimental mind, and a lovely perſon, and that is the true thing for a miſtreſs.

Come, come, Sir Harry, if you can be ſerious for a few minutes, I ſhall intreat your patience, and your aſſiſtance, perhaps, in an affair which makes me truly wretched.

I begin to pity him!

Serious!—ha, ha, ha, ſerious! upon my credit, Belvil, thy ſerious phiz [48] would make any man ſerious but myſelf; but I never was ſerious in my life, nor ever intend to be ſo; and as you ſeem to be in the dolorous penſe⯑roſo ſtile, I will leave you to improve upon your own reflections

Joli comme le jour ce petit minois là.

I inſiſt upon your not going, Sir Harry; that picture once was mine.

The more fool you for parting with it.

Part with it; part with it; I would as ſoon part with my life.

Poh, poh, Mr. Belvil, it is quite ridiculous in you to appear ſo anxious about a picture, which, I repeat, you have parted with ſo eaſily.

No; by that heaven that hears us, I would as ſoon part with the original, if I was poſſeſſed of her—but it was folly and imprudence that made me lend it to Miſs Loveleſs; and her giving it to you was greater folly ſtill. I do intreat you, Sir Harry, I beſeech you; ſhall I kneel to you for it; what is there I will not do, if you will make me eaſy by reſtoring it?

Why, did the girl give it you?

Yes, ſhe did.

She did—faith the girl is as great a ſimpleton as you are.

Very well, Sir Harry; the confeſſion I have made gives you a right to upbraid me; but tho' my heart is neatly broken by the conſequences of my fooliſh conduct, my ſpirit, my ſpirit is not—

Poor ſighing ſwain!

Hell and furies! Sir Harry, do you laugh at me?

What would the man have? you may marry my couſin if you like it.

I never ſhall be ſo happy; I ſhould be diſtracted with joy did I imagine ſhe would forgive me. Dear, dear, good Sir Harry, be inſtrumental to my happineſs.

Stand off—I am afraid you will bite me, for you are mad, mad by this light.

If he had kiſſed me, I ſhould have been a woman at once.

What then you really are ready to hang yourſelf about Eliza, hey!

I never lov'd any woman but your couſin: Oh! if you knew her!

I know her, d'ye ſee, juſt as well as I know myſelf—faith—ha, ha!—faith, I can't help laugh⯑ing—ſo—ſhe—ha, ha! let me ſee, ſhe gives you her picture, you give it away, and—ha, ha!—upon my credit as pretty a couple of ninnies as ever I read of.

I will have it, d'ye hear? I will, do you hear, Sir Harry, or it ſhall coſt you your life to keep it.

Not ſo loud, ſir, you crack the drum of my ear; theſe country gentlemen are ſo robuſt. You will—then by Jove you ſhall not have it; for ſhould ſhe be cruel and not ſurrender, I ſhall ſhew this picture to the whole world, and ſwear ſhe has, and that will do as well.

Then you are a villain.

With all my ſpirit; a raſcal, a coxcomb, a puppy; and you, the worthy Mr. Belvil. But ſeriouſly now, Bilvil; you will be a lucky man to have ſuch a gallant as myſelf to eſcort your wife about—for I ſhall appear in every public place with her; cloſe to her ear—always at her elbow—always—

This uſage is not to be borne.

Well—

What is there in that boy that quite unmans me?

I expect, Sir Harry, that you will give me ſatisfaction?

Oh, ſir, I expect ſatisfaction likewiſe; but this is not a proper place to ſhew our courage in. To⯑morrow, if you pleaſe, Mr. Belvil, if you will meet me at the end of the cheſnut-tree walk at ſeven o' clock, we will decide this matter with any arms you pleaſe; till then I keep the picture; to-morrow the conqueror ſhall wear it.

Bravely ſpoken, Sir Harry! with ſwords we will decide this point, and if you fall, I ſhall proclaim to the world, that in your ſerious moments you are a contraſt to your uſual character, which I muſt inform you, Sir Harry, is one of the moſt profli⯑gate and debauched I ever met with. If you ſur⯑vive me, all I aſk of you is to juſtify me to your couſin; it is to do juſtice to her honour that I ex⯑poſe my life.

I'll anſwer for your juſtification.

I die to undeceive him. Well, ſir, one of us will live to lay our laurels and our perſon at her feet.

I have a ſerious affair to ſettle, therefore I muſt leave you.

Remember the hour.

Yes, yes.

Now I have ſuffi⯑ciently puniſhed him, I ſhall give him ſatisfaction, but in a much pleaſanter way than he expects. Here is then at laſt returned to me the copy of a very fooliſh original; and were the fate of it to be well deſcribed in a modern play, I fancy it would teach many giddy girls like myſelf not to part with the one till the other was ſecured as faſt as a lawyer and parſon could bind it.

SCENE, Miſs Loveleſs's Garden.

HA! he here!

I came—I came—to—Pray, Miſs Loveleſs, where is your aunt?

So this viſit is not to me, I find.

My aunt is in the houſe, I believe. Lord, I thought you were in London; for as we give a ball to-night, the gravity of ſuch a very ſober creature as you are will quite diſcompoſe our dancing.

Your aunt has done my ſiſter and me the honour of inviting us, and I haſtened out of town on pur⯑poſe to attend her commands.

Her commands! I ſuppoſe you mean to dance with her too. I proteſt, Mr. Camply, it will be quite edifying to ſee her, like a true maid of ho⯑nour [54] in queen Beſs's days, with her hands thus—and footing it demurely, ſo—her eyes rivetted upon her feet all the time, leſt the left foot ſhould take place improperly of the right.

Ha, ha, ha! charming, I proteſt. Now draw my picture.

Pſhaw!—How in the name of wonder ſhould I deſcribe your dancing, when the very ſound of your voice is quite a new thing to me.

Were I as vain as my couſin, Sir Harry, I ſhould ſay that look'd like a reproach to me for not ſpeaking to you before.

Lard now, do not apply general obſervations to particular people—For heaven's ſake let us think of ourſelves as little as we always have done.

Yes, yes; I know you ever had much leſs re⯑gard for yourſelf than for any one elſe in the world.

Myſelf—myſelf again; why, did you ever think about myſelf.

O no, not at all—never, never—Ha, ha, ha! I am quite diverted—

At our raillery, I ſuppoſe.

That is the moſt provoking laugh I ever heard; I'll cure him of that affectation, I'm determined—Pray, excuſe me, Mr. Camply, when I tell you that nature never intended you for raillery; it ſits upon you juſt as a veil and beads would ſit upon me.

Indeed! if raillery is as proper for me as a con⯑vent is for you, I ſhould do nothing but laugh at my own jokes for the reſt of my life. Beſides, I think you would make a very pretty nun.

You are quite miſtaken, Mr. Camply; for I could give you a proof that I have too much of the woman about me to make a ſaint of.

A proof!

Yes; what do you think brings me into the garden at this time of the morning?

Indeed, I do not know.

Why, curioſity.

Curioſity! as I have none of that ingredient in my compoſition, I do not deſire to know what is the object of yours.

Provoking indifference!

What do you think then of an appointment?

I ſhould be ſorry to interrupt the ſmalleſt of your amuſements; and if I ſee right, the object of them is too entertaining for my gravity to reliſh, and ſo will take my leave.

O pray ſtay.

My lord, your ſervant.

Well, my lord, what can you poſſibly have to ſay to me?

That you are my divinity—the idol of my wor⯑ſhip—ſee the very ſun ſhines brighter than uſual [57] to light up your beauties, and the birds make a concert to hail your charms; while the very roſes fade with envy at ſeeing themſelves out-done.

Stop, ſtop, my lord; there is ſo much poetry in all that, that it deſerves to be remembered at leaſt. From whence did you borrow or ſteal it?

From the brilliancy of thoſe eyes, which might inſpire the dulleſt clod of earth—thoſe eyes that promiſe—

Promiſe! take care, my lord; my eyes and my tongue do always go together, and words ought to expreſs what the heart feels.

And ſo they ought, moſt charming angel! and by St. Andrew's holy croſs I ſwear, that mine are true when I profeſs you are the ſtar that lights up my future hopes of happineſs.

A northern ſtar then, for it is a very cold one.—Pray, my lord, what am I to derive from all this.

That my perſon and fortune are yours; that if you will but conſent, this night we will ſet off for [58] Scotland; where we will live only to love all the reſt of our lives.

The uſual way of propoſing in his country, my lord, is accompanied by ſettlements, and the conſent of ones parents.

Augh, my dear Miſs Loveleſs, ſettlements and conſents are not neceſſary between people that love; nay, marriage was invented only to bind the feuls and vulgar of both ſexes; but you—your mind, like the ſoaring eagle, deſpiſes all little game, and ſhould have no tie but your heart.

What does the fool mean?

Your aunt does not want you; come with me into Scotland, and then we will conform to the odious cuſtom of joining hands, when our hearts are one: believe the moſt ardent, the moſt paſſion⯑ate, the moſt faithful of lovers; here will I be ri⯑vetted like a ſtatue to the earth, till you conſent to go with me.

O ho! I think I begin now to ſee.

Why this is a down-right run-a-way ſcheme, my lord; ſo I am to go and live with you firſt, and be your wife afterwards.

If you do not like my ſociety, you may re⯑turn when you have gean part of the way with me; but you mun ken that I would have my own chaplain and the whole clan of Macgrinnons be the perſons to join our hands.

Well, my lord, I am quite delighted with the novelty of this idea; it is ſingular and out of the common ſtile. Will you be in that arbour at eight o'clock this evening, where I will meet you, and if you have a poſt-chaiſe and four ready, I will accompany your lordſhip ſome part of the way at leaſt.

O moſt certainly I will be there to a moment. Thank you, moſt lovely, moſt enchanting of wo⯑men. I leave you now that no one may ſuſpect us of agreeing ſo well. Adieu.

Yes, yes, we agree perfectly I believe in deceiv⯑ing each other; and could his high cheek bones imagine that I ſhould give myſelf into his power? a wretch!—Ha, ſweet revenge!

John, get the great en⯑gine put to the edge of the water, and place the pipe ſo as to come in at the top of that arbour, that when I order you, you may convey in a great quantity of water into it.

Into the harber, my lady?

Yes, gardener.

La, un pleaſe ye, my lady, madam, it will ſpoil the hone-ſuckles at the top, and parfitly drown and ruinate the bottom.

Aye; no matter, John: it is only to refreſh ſome hot-headed creature that is to be there about eight o'clock.

Laws, madam, you ben't in earneſt ſure! Why is it a man you be going to ſerve ſo?

Not an Engliſhman, John.

Zookers, a Frenchman, may-hap.

What think you of a Scotchman, John, hey?

Sniggers, my lady! maiſter Crump ſays as how they be worſe enemies to us than the French; and that they have brought upon us all this 'Merican buſineſs, ſo I don't care if I drown a few of 'em.

Yes, but John, you muſt take care not to convey in the water, but as if it rained very hard, d'ye hear, and here is ſomething for you to make merry with afterwards.

The very thoughts of it makes me merry; oddſ⯑niggs! I'll make it rain like ſmoke about his ears.

Now go and tell Suſan, the cook maid, to come here.

Yes. My humble thanks to you for all favours, my lady.

Suſan, you muſt go this evening at a quarter after eight o'clock to that arbour, and let a gen⯑tleman talk to you and lead you to his poſt-chaiſe; I'll take care he ſhall not do you any hurt, nor take you away.

I am very agreeable to any thing you bids me, my lady; but ſhould like to know a little about your meaning.

My meaning is, Suſan, that he ſhould take you for me, and juſt as you are going, I'll ſtop you.

Lack-a-day, madam, he'll never take ſuch a creature as me for you: beſide, I don't find in my heart to uſe any one in ſuch a way, except it were that proud Scotch lord that comes here. No offence, I hope.

Why it is he, Suſan, I mean to ſerve ſo: but for your life don't you tell any one of this; if you do, it will coſt you your place; ſo remember.

Lack-a-day, ſhe's very comical, and ſhe is ſo pretty, and ſo good humoured, that I does not care what I does for her.

So, John, pray now what makes you look ſo merry.

Pray what makes you look ſo merry, Mrs. Suſan?

I won't tell you, John.

And I won't tell you, Mrs. Suſan; ſo now we're quits—Tit for tat, as the old woman ſaid—hey!—you know—

Out upon you, and your ſayings.

Come, come, Mrs. Suſan, you ſhan't ſtir till you tell me what it is makes you look ſo briſk.

Hands off, man; it is no buſineſs of thine; I ſhall paſs for a lady before the day's over, I can tell you.

Paſs for a lady! I believe in my heart you'd paſs for any thing but my wife

You hurt me, you great oaf you; I'll be your wife whenever you leave off your jealous pated whims, man, and not before.

Why, look ye, Suſan, you always looks ſmirk⯑ing enough when folks talks to you, but when I talks to ye, ye look as grum, as grum as a black froſt, d'ye ſee.

Why do'ſt always ſcold ſo then, John? talk pleaſant greable things, and then I'll be as affaba⯑lous as my lady is.

So, then; you means to keep me in diſpenſe theſe ten years.

Aye; and ten to that, unleſs you alter; ſo good morning to you, Mr. Black Froſt.

Now what in the name of Old Nick did ſhe mean when ſhe ſaid ſhe was to paſs for a lady? oddſnigs but I'll watch her all day.

SCENE changes to Camply's houſe. Eliza and her brother.

Here, brother, I have got my picture ſafe at laſt; and never will I part with it, but to my huſband, whoever he is.

Tell me, how did Belvil behave?

So well, that I wiſhed myſelf in petticoats again twenty times; but, indeed, you are all ſad, ſad, ſad creatures!

Am I a ſad creature?

Yes; why, yes. Pray, why have you never given miſs Loveleſs a hope of your heart? I can⯑not help thinking her levity would have ceaſed with your ſeeming indifference.

No ſuch thing, no ſuch thing; truſt me my dear; I have told you my reaſons for the ſilence I have kept, and this morning have received a con⯑vincing proof that I am right; Oh! Miſs Loveleſs is a coquet.

A coquet! you are ſo, I am ſo, it is in human nature that we ſhould be ſo, when our thoughts are not entirely fixed upon one object. I have no pa⯑tience with you, brother; you are ſo unreaſonable.

Oh, if you mean to give me a lecture upon co⯑quettry, let us ſit down and diſcuſs this matter quietly.

From Mr. Belvil, ſir.

Directed to me—Does the ſervant wait?

No, ſir; he ſaid it required no anſwer, and left it.

Leave it.

Give it, give it me directly!

Ah! me—my brother—his will—and a letter.

My dear Mr. Camply, fearing leſt the levity of Sir Harry's diſpoſition might tempt him to miſ⯑repreſent the cauſes of our duel, I write to um—um—um—um—I leave her my whole fortune—um—What a generous man! Well, ſiſter—

He needed not have given me this proof of his affections; but I will reward him.

Suppoſe we ſit down, and finiſh our diſſertation upon coquettry?

Much obliged to you; but I muſt go and com⯑poſe myſelf to digeſt a much better ſubject: for in a little time I muſt meet Belvil to kill him, as he thinks—and my heart—feel how it beats, brother—if I don't make haſte it will certainly jump out, and be in the walk long before my legs can carry me there.

I dare ſay, my dear, it is there already. Come, I'll go with you into your own room.

SCENE changes to the Cheſnut Tree Walk.

So, I may—perhaps—I may never—never ſee Eliza's face again. In an hour—I may be no more.

SCENE changes to the Walk.

Oh, heavens! I thought ſhe was in London—What can bring her here, and juſt at this critical inſtant! I dare not ſpeak to her; and if I durſt, this preſent moment would be an improper one.

A very fine evening, Mr. Belvil.

Yes, madam.

Not too hot though.

No, madam.

I ſuppoſe you are not walking by way of amuſe⯑ment only, but going ſomewhere?

No, madam.

O, taking a walk only?

No, madam.

Yes, madam; No madam; yes, madam, no, madam: Lard, I came here by way of having a little converſation, and if you anſwer by mono⯑ſyllables only, we ſhall have a pretty dialogue.

Miſs Camply, your preſence, though always to me—the—the—moſt charming thing in the world—is—is—is—juſt now very unſeaſonable—I wiſh you would go into your own houſe.

Why, do you imagine I have come quite to the end of this walk in order to enjoy the ſhade of theſe trees, and ſhall go home merely becauſe you do not like my company? No indeed, ſir, you may take yourſelf away if you pleaſe

How ſhall I get her away?

Do you chuſe to talk to me or go, for you muſt do either?

I can do neither; but beg you will leave this fatal place.

This fatal place—I fancy you have been read⯑ing blank verſe of late—perhaps living in ſociety with the tragic muſe. Nay, do not ſtrut about ſo like a diſtreſs'd hero, but anſwer one queſtion I will aſk you—

You can make me do any thing.

Pray, who are you looking for? I proteſt I be⯑lieve you have made an appointment, and are [70] afraid I ſhould diſturb it—for I know you have been living with Miſs Loveleſs, and I aſſure you I do not care about it; but as you are no longer my lover, it is but fair you ſhould reſtore me the picture I gave you when you was.

I hope to give it you ſoon—

Soon! Now, now, Mr. Belvil, or never.

Now, I cannot.

Then do you ſee this?

Now, by all that's villainous he has given it to you?

Who, my couſin? yes, Mr. Belvil, he has; and I ſhall keep it to give to ſome one who will be more careful of it than you have been.

Not to him, Miſs Camply, not to him; for if he fails in his promiſe of meeting me here, I will purſue him to the end of the world, and tear his falſe heart from that breaſt, which—I beg your pardon, Miſs Camply—but he is a villain.

Lord, now I think him a very pretty man.

I may never ſee you again, Miſs Camply, but beware of him—his deſigns are of the worſt na⯑ture; he meant that you ſhould be in love with him.

You meant, Miſs Loveleſs, ſhould be ſo with you.

Hear me ſeriouſly, Eliza; I repeat it, this may be the laſt time I ſhall ſpeak to you. I deteſt Miſs Loveleſs; I never lov'd but you—if Sir Harry was not a villain, he would not have given you that picture: I was to have diſputed it with him at this hour, but I imagine he is a coward, and will not come. Now, Eliza, if ever I was dear to you—

thus let me intreat you to tell me, that you do not hate me, and that you forgive me; at leaſt I dare not—nay, with the reſolution I have taken—I cannot aſk for more.

I really cannot anſwer for myſelf—Sir Harry muſt anſwer for me.

What! is it you, Eliza? that ſoft Eliza, that could ever drop a tear upon woes not her own, that thus mocks my diſtreſs? Surely I dream!

Why, I'll fight you if you like it, inſtead of Sir Harry.

Eliza, for pity's ſake be ſerious. Tell me that you forgive me?

I muſt aſk Sir Harry's leave.

I'll owe nothing to him but my death; would to heaven Eliza you would kill me—but this gaiety of yours is worſe than ten thouſand deaths. What can you mean? tell me, my dear Eliza? O hea⯑vens!

I feel, when I hold this ſoft, this lovely hand, as if ten millions of little cupids were playing about my heart, and bidding it hope—at leaſt for pardon.

I can hardly ſpeak—my ſtupid Belvil—and do not you ſee, and do not you feel that Sir Harry?

Again, Sir Harry; come

come, ſpeak?

Why, that you hold him to your breaſt at this inſtant.

Ha! is it poſſible? Is it poſſible? Heavens and earth! my heart overflows with joy—with grati⯑tude—with love—I want words to expreſs my feelings. What can I ſay to you? and were you the gay coxcomb I have hated ſo much? and was it for me you diſguiſed yourſelf?

Stop, ſtop; not entirely for you: I wanted my picture, not knowing what imprudencies you might be drawn into about it; and I wanted to ſhew you that—in ſhort I am afraid you think me a ſtrange bold creature; but however I do not repent, for here is, among many others, proofs of what I wiſh'd, one which I may deſtroy now.

And now, Eliza, when will you completely forgive me, and call yourſelf mine?

Not this twelvemonth.

Defend me from ſuch a reſolution! I muſt get your brother to make you change it.

Well, let us finiſh his adventures firſt, and then talk upon the ſubject.

His adventures! why, has he changed his ſex too?

No, no, no! but if you will walk to the houſe with me, I will tell you all my plans.

SCENE changes to Miſs Loveleſs's houſe.

You really look very pretty, my dear niece.

Yes, madam, and I am to have a pretty partner for to night.

Who is that, pray?

Sir Harry Revel—and he wants to lead me a dance for life.

Pray, can you be in earneſt for a moment, my dear niece, and anſwer me the truth from the bot⯑tom of your heart?

Well, I will be very ſober, and anſwer upon my honour truly to every queſtion you ſhall aſk.

Do you like Sir Harry?

Yes, I do like him.

But do you love him?

No. A very pretty catechiſm this.

Then poſitively you ſhall not marry him. Is there any one you like then? ſince love is out of the queſtion, that you like better than him?

No, I believe not.

I believe you do not ſpeak the truth; what think you of Mr. Camply?—Why do you bluſh?

I never thought about him at all, for he never ſpeaks to me, nor thinks of me.

Very handſome and very ſenſible, tho'.

And very ſtupid.

Come, come, child, you like him.

Why, then, aunt, ſince I am reſolved to marry Sir Harry, I will own to you that I might have preferred Mr. Camply to all the world, but now he is quite out of the queſtion.

Miſs Loveleſs, I have brought you Sir Harry Revel's excuſes, and this note.

Did you know the contents of this note, Miſs Cam⯑ply?

Yes, Miſs Loveleſs.

Why then I muſt confeſs the ſame uncivil folly runs thro' the whole family; it is downright non⯑ſenſe.

Well, that is very odd; for my couſin is reckoned very ſenſible, almoſt as clever as my⯑ſelf.

The girl's a downright fool

—Well, Miſs Camply, Mr. Belvil will be here preſently; I ſhall dance with him.

Pardon me, madam, I am engaged to dance with Miſs Camply.

And I am engaged to Sir Harry.

I fancy, good people, you mean to be witty in ſome way or other; but as I do not underſtand how, I muſt own I think the place you have choſen [78] to exhibit in, makes it rather uncivil; theſe jokes in my houſe are almoſt rude.

Miſs Loveleſs, your head thus; look down, no; up, yes—aye, that will do—Do you recollect ſuch a ſcene?

Intolerable! that puppy has given her an ac⯑count of my behaviour.

My couſin is very juſtly vain of your encourage⯑ment, Miſs Loveleſs, and I thank you in his name for your great condeſcenſion.

Miſs Camply, this is not to be borne; do you mean to affront me?

No; if I could not affront you when a man, I am ſure my female character cannot offend.

O heavens! and were you Sir Harry Revel only to laugh at me? grant me patience!

No, Miſs Loveleſs; not to laugh at you, but to regain my own lover, whom you had nearly ſtolen from me.

Not that neither; do not be offended, Miſs Loveleſs, if I acknowledge that I had not the leaſt ſerious intentions about you.

What, is there a combination—a plot to laugh at me—I can tell you, Miſs Camply, if my beha⯑viour appeared extraordinary, I think yours to the full as reprehenſible, to put me on a maſculine habit and perſonate a man for the ſake of an odious man.

I never encouraged but that one odious man; but you, Miſs Loveleſs, have encouraged many.

Can you ſtand tamely by, and ſee me reproached in this manner?

Your conduct, my dear, deſerves ſuch re⯑proaches.

Why, madam, I ſhall be the ridicule of the country; but I will not ſtay to bear it—I wiſh you joy both of you of your intended match; and I hope you will be as heartily tired of each other ſoon, as I am of you at preſent—but you ſhall not have the pleaſure of ſeeing me mortified—I ſhall go and live at Paris for the remainder of my life; I [80] have an uncle that will let me live as privately as I pleaſe. Pray, madam, make my excuſes to the company—ſay I have got the head-ach; ſay any thing, and to morrow I'll go and leave you and all my follies behind me.

Miſs Loveleſs, it is all my fault—My ſiſter has treated you in this manner only to try you, and if my whole life can atone for the moment of pain ſhe has occaſioned, diſpoſe of it. I tremble for her anſwer.

I am ſo amazed, I ſhall faint—

Dear Miſs Loveleſs, my brother has been dying for you theſe three years; pray forgive him; he dares not kneel, but I will, for him.

What am I to ſay to you, you odd creature?

Come, child, don't ſtand petrified like a ſtatue; I have ſaid enough; now ſpeak for yourſelf.

Miſs Loveleſs, dare I flatter myſelf you will hear my petition?

No, Mr. Camply, I am determined to go, and will not make you ſo bad a preſent as that of my hand—beſides, I like no one, and, not you cer⯑tainly, of all men in the world; for had you liked me theſe three years, you could not have kept it ſo ſecret.

Then my ſiſter has deceived me only to make me ſtill more wretched than I was—ſhe—ſhe—preſumed, you—did not hate me—

I am a preſuming young woman, indeed; but I have good eyes and a feeling heart; and I am ſure you cannot be happy without each other—ſo, there—come—your hand—and yours—

No, I don't like him.

No, ſhe hates me; I ſee that—

Oh, you do not like him! then, Mrs. Arabella, what do you ſay upon this ſubject?

I ſay, ſince my niece has pride enough to op⯑poſe her own happineſs, that ſhe has owned to me that ſhe likes Mr. Camply.

Why then, aunt, I do think you are much worſe than Mr. Belvil, Miſs Camply, or her bro⯑ther; and therefore, to be revenged, I'll e'en ſtay and try to be happier than you all ſeem to be—and now, Mr. Camply, if upon farther acquaint⯑ance we do not change our minds, we may follow the example of Mr. Belvil and your ſiſter.

I thank you, miſs, for my ſiſter is ſoon to be married.

O not this twelvemonth—and as no one ſhall ſay I lead them into a ſcrape, we will all four be married together, and you, as my elder brother, muſt begin the dance.

I ſhall endeavour to haſten the period, for a twelvemonth ſeems an age.

Enough of this! now we are all agreed, I will ſhew you a ſcene that may amuſe you, if you will follow me into the garden.

SCENE changes to the garden, lord Macgrinnon peeping out of the arbour.

The de'el ſurely tempted me to feex upon this neeght—for I am wat to the ſkan—

Sir, ſir, ſir, ſir—

Augh, are you there?

I'll lady you, with a vengeance, Mrs. Suſan; what, man, can't you be ſatisfied without my miſtreſs?

Hoot, huſh, mon, your miſtreſs chuſes to go.

But I don't chuſe it, I tell you, you ſarpent, you viper.

I never ſaw ſo rude a brute: is this the way you treat your miſtreſs, fellow?

Fellow yourſelf; why, 'tis becauſe ſhe is my miſtreſs that ſhe ſhan't go with thee; why, if thee beeſt a lord, thee beeſt only a man—and as an Engliſhman, I'm the beſt of the two, and ſo you ſhall find me, if you dare lay hold of her again.

He's certainly bewitch'd—ſpeak to him, ſweet love—

Why, John—

Why, zounds, I could tear your ugly eyes out, ſo I could

there—there—now, will you take my miſtreſs—

Help! help! murder!

What is the matter, my lord? what is the matter?

Why, Miſs Loveleſs and I were going to take a walk together, and that fellow is mad, I believe, for he will not let her do as ſhe likes.

Miſs Loveleſs! why, my lord, is this Miſs Loveleſs? you dream.

Faith—an uglier dream by half—what in the name of wonder can all this be?

This is a fine evening, my lord; but you look diſturb'd, what is the matter?

Matter, why all the plagues of Egypt I believe: yes, yes, I am diſturb'd, and wet to the ſkin too; ſo pray what do you talk of a fine evening for, there has been a violent ſtorm of rain.

Na, na—

I am much obliged to you, my lord, for your very kind intentions, and love of my fortune; I was ſo inſenſible of the nature of your affection, that it is to me you are indebted for that ſhower of rain from yonder engine, and for a beating into the bargain from honeſt John, who thought it was his miſtreſs you were going off with.

What, and ſo you did not like him then—Ah! Suſan, Suſan, I've a month's mind never to be jealous again.

Why, you great jolter-head you, did'ſt think I was going to run away; don't ye know that no⯑thing but gentlefolks run away with one another?

Well, well, ſay no more; if ever I am jealous again I wiſh a froſt may nip all the trees in the [86] garden; odſnigs, if Mr. Camply had not come, I believe in my heart I ſhould have broke every bone in your ſkin, my lord.

Thank ye, I feel as if you had done it. Never did any man of the family of Macgrinnon ſuffer ſuch indignities as I have ſuffered from this com⯑pany; to be deluded by a woman is a trifle; a man of ſenſe will expect it: but I canna help re⯑flecting on the impertinencies, the jeers, and the ſluicing that have been thrown at me, without thinking that the happineſs of my noble anceſtors is diſturbed by the unworthy treatment that has been offered to their lineal deſcendant.

Certainly nothing but his vanity could induce him to think that I was weak enough to comply with his requeſt; and now, Miſs Camply, I will confeſs that I am much indebted to you for curing me of my ridiculous plan of conduct, and I wiſh you may ſucceed in every thing you undertake as you have in this.

Why, mine was rather a bold ſcheme, I muſt confeſs? but if the reſt of the company

will forget what a very lively coxcomb I [87] have been, I ſhall not repent of the pains I have taken to pleaſe every one.