ACT I.

ONCE again, Mr. Mac Dermot, have done with this nonſenſe.

Arrah, and why ſo ſcoffiſh? Sure now a little bit of making love—

Pſhaw! Do me the favour to anſwer my queſtions. The Count, your maſter, is in love with Miſs Lucy Peckham?

Faith, and you may ſay that.

Is he really well born?

Oh! As for that, honey, let him alone. The nobleſt blood of France, aye, and what is better, of Ireland too, trickles to his finger's ends. The Villars and the O'Connol⯑lies.

And he wiſhes to marry into the family of the Peckhams?

The divle a bit, my dear.

How?

He is viry willing to marry the young Lady, but not her family. His pride and his paſſion have had many a tough battle about that, d'ye ſee. Only think! A direct deſcindant of the former kings of Ireland, and collateral couſin to a priſent peer of France, to beſmear and beſmoulder his dignity by rubbing it againſt porter butts, vinegar caſks, and beer barrels.

Miſs Lucy is indeed a lovely girl, animated to exceſs, and ſometimes apparently giddy and flighty: but ſhe has an excellent underſtanding, and a noble heart; and theſe are ſuperior to birth, which is indeed a thing of mere accident.

Faith, and that it is—I, a ſimple Iriſhman, as I am—why now, I would have been born a duke, had they been civil enough to have aſked my conſint.

The Count fell in love with her at the convent, to which ſhe was ſent to improve her French.

And where I think you firſt met with her?

Yes—ſhe ſaw me friendleſs, and conceived a generous and diſintereſted affection [3] for me.—He has followed her to England; has taken apartments in our neighbourhood, and lives in ſplendour—yet is not rich.

Um, um.—No—But then he is a Colonel in the Iriſh brigade; and, beſide his pay, has ſacrit ſupplies.

From whom?

Faith, and I don't believe he knows that himſelf.

That's ſtrange!—His pride is ex⯑ceſſive.

To ſpake the truth, that now is his failing.—An if it was not for that, oh! he would be the jewel of a maſter!—He trates his infariors with contimpt, keeps his diſtance with his aquals, and values the rubbiſhing duſt of his great grandfathers above diamonds!

His character is in perfect contraſt to that of his humble rival, Sir Samuel Sheepy; who, even when he addreſſes a footman, is all bows and affability; whoſe chief diſcourſe is, Yes, if you pleaſe, and, No, thank you; and who, in the company of his miſtreſs, ſtammers, blun⯑ders, and bluſhes, like a great boy.

What is it you till me? He the ri⯑val of the Count my maſter! That old—

A bachelor, and only fifty; rich, of a good family, and a great favourite with Lady Peckham, by never having the courage to contradict her.

Why, there now! You talk of the Count's pride! Here is this city lady as proud as ten counts! Her own coach horſes, ready harneſſed, don't carry their heads higher! And then ſhe is as inſolent, and as vulgar, and—Hem!

Here, fellers—go with theſe here cards

‘Oh! Tell that there butler to come to me—inſtantly.’—And—Do you hear?—Vhen you comes back, get thoſe diſmal heads of yourn better powder'd; put on your noo liveries, and make yourſelves a little like chriſtians.—Theſe creeters are no better nur brootes, Sir Samooel! They are all ſo monſtrous low, and wulgar!—I have a party to-night; I hopes you vill make von?

Certainly, my Lady.

So, Miſs! is Sir Paul come to town?

I have not ſeen him, Madam.

Sir Paul generally ſleeps at our country ſeat, at Hackney.

A pleaſant retreat, my Lady!

Waſtly! A wery paradiſe!—Vhere is my daughter, Miſs?

I don't know, Madam.

And vhy don't you know? Pleaſe to go and tell her Sir Samooel is here.

—A young purſon that my daughter has taken under her purtection.

Seems mild and modeſt, my Lady.

Not too much of that, Sir Samooel.—Who

—pray, who are you, young man?

I!—Faith, my Lady, I—I am—my⯑ſilf: Mac Dermot.

Who?

The Count's gintleman.

Gentleman!—Gentleman, indeed!—Count's gentleman!—Ha!—A kind of mungrel Count, Sir Samooel; half French, [6] half Iriſh! As good a gentleman, I ſuppoſe, as his footman here! I believes you have ſeen him though?

I think I once had the honor to meet him here, my Lady.

An honor, Sir Samooel, not of my ſeeking, I aſſure you! Aſpires to the hand of Miſs Loocy Peckham!—He!—An outlandiſh French foriner!—I hates 'em all! I looks upon none on 'em as no better nur ſavages! Vhat do they vant vith us? Vhy our money, to be ſure! A parcel of beggars!—I viſhes I vus Queen of England for von day only! I vould uſher my orders to take and conquer 'em all, and tranſ⯑port 'em to the plantations, inſtead of negurs.

I have heard, my Lady, that the Count was my rival.

He your rival, Sir Samooel! He! A half bred, higglety-pigglety, Iriſh, French fortin hunter rival you indeed!—

—Vell, Miſs! Vhere is my daughter?

In her own apartment, Madam, dreſſing.

She'll be down preſently, Sir Sa⯑mooel—Gentleman indeed! The Count's Gen⯑tleman! Ha! Pride and Poverty!

Pride!—By the holy footſtool, but your Ladyſhip and Lucifer are a pair!

Here comes Sir Paul.

Then I will be after going.

No, no; ſtay where you are.

Ah! My ſweet dear Liddy! You are the angel I wiſhed firſt to meet! Come to my—

—Why how now, huſ⯑ſey? Why ſo ſhy?

Reſerve your tranſports, Sir, for Lady Peckham.

Lady!—But who have we here?

Mr. Mac Dermot, Sir.

Oh! I remember—ſervant to the Count, my intended ſon-in-law.

The viry ſame, Sir.

I hear an excellent character of your maſter. They tell me he is a fine, hearty, dauntleſs, ſwaggering fellow! If ſo, he is a man of family, and the very huſband for my Lucy.

Faith, thin, and he is all that!

As for this Sir Samuel Sheepy, he ſhall decamp—A water drinker! A bowing, ſcraping, ſimpering, ceremonious Sir! Never contradicts any body!—Dammee! An old ba⯑chelor! And he! He have the impudence to make love to my fine, young, ſpirited wench!—But he is my Lady's choice!—Is ſhe within?

Yes, Sir.

I ſuppoſe we ſhall have a fine breeze on this ſubject! But, what! Am I not the monarch, the Grand Seignior of this houſe? Am I not abſolute? Shall I not diſpoſe of my daughter as I pleaſe? Do you hear, young man? Go, preſent my compliments to the Count, and tell him I mean to give him a call this morning.

I am waiting for him here, Sir.

Waiting for him here, Sir! No, Sir! You cannot wait for him here, Sir!

But, Sir—

And, Sir! Why don't you go?

The Count bid me, Sir—

And I bid you, Sir—Pack! Be⯑gone!

—Now we're alone, my dear Lydia—Why, where are you going, huſſey?

Didn't you hear my Lady call?

Call? No.—And if ſhe did, let her call.

Surely, Sir, you would not have me offend her?

Offend! Let me ſee who dare be offended with you in this houſe! It is my will that you ſhould be the Sultana!

Me, Sir!

You, my Queen of Hearts! You! My houſe, my wealth, my ſervants, myſelf, all are yours!

You talk unintelligibly, Sir.

Do I? Why then I'll ſpeak plainer.—I am in love with you! You are a delicious crea⯑ture, and I am determined to make your for⯑tune!—I'll take you a houſe up in Mary-le⯑bone; a neat ſnug box; hire you ſervants, keep you a carriage, buy you rings, clothes, and jewels, and come and ſup with you every eve⯑ning!—Do you underſtand me now?

Perfectly, Sir!

Well, and—hay!—Does not the plan tickle your fancy? Do not your veins tin⯑gle, your heart beat, your—hay? What ſay you?

I really, Sir, don't know what to ſay—except that I cannot comply, unleſs a [9] Lady, whom I think it my duty to conſult, ſhould give her conſent.

What Lady? Who?

Lady Peckham, Sir.

My wife!—Zounds! Are you mad? Tell my wife?

I ſhall further aſk the advice of your ſon and daughter, who will wonder at your cha⯑rity, in taking a poor orphan like me under your protection; ‘will be happy to ſee them⯑ſelves ruined for my ſake, and will profit by the example of ſo venerable a father.’

Poh! Nonſenſe!

A little farther off, if you pleaſe, Sir.

Nearer! Angel! Nearer!

I'll raiſe the houſe, Sir!

Pſhaw!

Help!

My handkerchief! You ſweet—

Lydia! Sir!

How now, Sir!—

Hem!—Say it was a mouſe—

What is the matter, Sir?

What's that to you, Sir?—What do you want, Sir? Who ſent for you, Sir?

I perceive you are not well, Sir!

Sir!

How were you taken?

Taken!—

Young ſcoundrel!—Take yourſelf away, Sir!

Impoſſible, Sir! You tremble! Your looks are diſordered! Your eyes wild!

Here's a dog!

Be ſo obliging, Miſs Lydia, as to run and inform Lady Peckham how ill my father is!

Why, you imp!

Lydia! Stay where you are—You audacious!—Will you begone?

That I certainly will not, Sir, while I ſee you in ſuch a way!

Way, Sir!—Very well, Sir!—Very well!

I'll reach you a chair, Sir—Pray ſit down—Pray cool yourſelf.

Oh, that I were cooling you in a horſepond!

You are growing old, Sir.

You lie, Sir!

You ſhould be more careful of your⯑ſelf—Shall I ſend for a phyſician?

Dammee, but I'll phyſic you! I'll—

A ſly, invi⯑dious—The demure dog has a mind to her him⯑ſelf—Yes, yes!—Oh! Dammee, pitiful Peter, but I'll fit you!

You ſee, Sir!

I do.

I muſt leave this family.

Leave! Why, charming Lydia, will you afflict me thus? Have I not declared my purpoſe?

Which cannot be accompliſhed. You promiſe marriage, but your father will never conſent.

Then we will marry without his con⯑ſent.

Oh, no! Do not hope it! When I marry, it ſhall be to render both my huſband and myſelf reſpectable, and happy: not to em⯑bitter, not to diſhonour both.

A perſon, who calls himſelf Mr. Do⯑rimont, enquires for you, Madam.

Heavens! Can it be? Shew him up inſtantly.

You ſeem alarmed!

No, no! Overjoyed!

Who is it?

I ſcarcely can tell you. A gentleman who uſed to viſit me in the convent.

Have you been long acquainted?

Little more than two years; during which he was my monitor, conſoler, and guide

His ap⯑pearance—

Is poor; but his heart is rich in bene⯑volence. Pray leave us.

Ah! Sir—

I am happy to have found you once again.

What, Sir, has brought you to Eng⯑land?

Buſineſs; part of which was to ſee you.

You have been always generous and kind—Yet I am ſorry you ſhould ſee me thus.

Why?

What are you?

An humble dependant—A lady's companion.

Alas! Why did you leave the convent without informing me?

'Twas unexpected.—You had for⯑borne your viſits; and I feared death, or ſome misfortune. At my mother's deceaſe, the young lady with whom I live having an affection for me, and ſeeing me deſerted, offered to take me with her to England, promiſing I ſhould rather be her friend than her companion.

And has ſhe kept her word?

On her part faithfully, tenderly!

That is ſome conſolation!

But—

What?

She has a mother, who does not fail to make inſeriority feelingly underſtand itſelf.

Indeed!—

But with whom were you in ſuch earneſt converſation when I entered?

The brother of my young lady: a gentleman worthy your eſteem.

And worthy yours?—You bluſh!

Do you blame me for being juſt?

No—He is rich, young, and hand⯑ſome.—Do you often meet?

We do.

You are lovely, inexperienced, and unprotected!

Fear nothing—I ſhall not eaſily for⯑get myſelf.

I hope not.—But what does he ſay?

That he loves me.

Is that all?

No—He offers me ſecret marriage.

Secret marriage!

I ſee the danger, and wiſh to ſhun it.—You may find me ſome place of refuge in France.

Can you ſo eaſily renounce all the flattering proſpects love has raiſed?

Yes; and not only them, but love itſelf, when it is my duty.

Noble-minded girl!—Remain where you are—Nay, indulge your hopes; for know, your lover will be honoured by your hand.

Sir!—Honoured.

Honoured!—By birth you are greatly his ſuperior.

Can you be ſerious?—Oh, trifle not [14] with a too trembling heart!—Why did my mo⯑ther conceal this ſecret from me?—Or, if true, why die and leave it unrevealed?

There were reaſons—She was not your mother.

Not!—Oh, ſir! You have conjured up ten thouſand buſy thoughts!—Is my mother living?

No.

My father?

He is.

Why has he ſo long forſaken me?

That muſt be told hereafter. Be patient—wait the event.—You are acquainted, I think, with Count Conolly Villars?

He viſits here.

I have buſineſs with him.

Ah, Sir! I fear you will meet a cool reception! Your humble appearance and his pride will but ill agree.

Fear not—My buſineſs is to lower his pride.

Sir! He may inſult you.

Humble though I myſelf am, I hope to teach him humility. To viſit you, and to accompliſh this, was the purport of my jour⯑ney.—Adieu for the preſent—Think on what I have ſaid; and, though by birth you are noble, remember, virtue alone is true nobility.

Well, Lydia! Any news for me?

Mr. Mac Dermot has been here, with [15] the Count's compliments; but in reality to ſee if Lady Peckham were at home. You know how much he wiſhes to avoid her.

Yes; and I don't wonder at it.—She has juſt been with me, uſhering her orders, as ſhe calls it.—"I deſires, Miſs, you vill receive Sir Samooel Sheepy as your intended ſpouſe."—And ſo ſhe has ſent me here to be courted; and the inamorato is coming, as ſoon as he can take breath and courage!

But why, my dear, do you indulge yourſelf in mocking your mamma?

Lydia, I muſt either laugh or cry; and, though I laugh, I aſſure you it is often with an aching heart.

My dear girl!

I hope, however, you will own there is no great harm in laughing a little at this charm⯑ing Adonis, this whimſical lover of mine!

Perhaps not.

What can his reaſon be for making love to me?

There's a queſtion! Pray, my dear, do you never look in your glaſs?

Um—yes—But does he never look in his glaſs too?

Perhaps his ſight begins to decay.—But are not you alarmed?

No.

Do not you love the Count?

Um—Yes.

Well! And you know how violent and prejudiced Lady Peckham is!

Perfectly! But I have Sir Paul on my ſide; and, as for Sir Samuel, he was dandled ſo [16] long in the nurſery, and is ſtill ſo much of the aukward, baſhful boy, that he will never dare to put the queſtion directly to me; and I am de⯑termined never to underſtand him till he does.

Here he comes.

Don't leave me.

Madam—Hem!—Madam—

Sir—Hem! Sir—

Count his bows!

Madam, I—Hem!—I am afraid—I am troubleſome.

Sir—Hem!—A gentleman of your merit—Hem!—

Oh, Madam!—I am afraid—Hem!—You are buſy.

Sir—Hem!—

Do me the honour to bid me be⯑gone.

Surely, Sir, you would not have me guilty of rudeneſs?

What a blunder!—Ma⯑dam—Hem!—I aſk ten thouſand pardons!

Good manners require—Hem!

That I ſhould begone without bidding.

Sir!

I ſuppoſe I'm wrong again▪

I didn't ſay ſo, Sir!

Didn't you, Ma⯑dam?

A perſon of your politeneſs, breed⯑ing, and accompliſhments—Hem!—

She's laughing at me.

Ought to be treated with all reve⯑rence.

Yes! She's making a fool of me!

Sir!—Were you pleaſed to ſpeak, Sir?—Hem!—

Hem!—Not a word, Madam!

This will be a witty converſation.

I preſume, Sir—Hem!—You have ſomething to communicate.—

Madam!—Hem!—Yes, Madam, I mean no, Madam—No—Nothing—Hem!—

Nothing, Sir Samuel!

Hem!—Nothing—Nothing.

Then may I take the liberty, Sir, to enquire—Hem!—What the purport of your viſit is?—Hem!—

The—the—the—Hem!—The—purport is—Hem!—I—I have really forgotten!

Oh, pray, Sir, take time to recollect yourſelf—Hem!—I am ſure, Sir Samuel—Hem!—You have ſomething to ſay to me—Hem!

Yes—No—no—nothing.

Fie! Sir Samuel! Nothing to ſay to a lady!

No!—Hem!—I never had any thing to ſay to ladies in my life! That is—Yes—Yes—I own—I have ſomething of the—the utmoſt—Hem!

Indeed!

A thing which—lies at my heart!—Hem!

Mercy!—Sir Samuel!—Hem!—

Which I—Hem!—Have long—But I will take ſome other opportunity.

By no means, Sir Samuel! You have quite alarmed me! I am impatient to hear! I am afraid you are troubled in mind—Hem!

Why—Hem!—Yes, Madam—Rather—Hem!

I declare, I thought ſo! I am very ſorry! Perhaps you are afraid of death?

Madam!

Yet you are not ſo very old!

Madam!

But I would not have you terrify yourſelf too much—Hem!

Madam!

I perceive I have gueſſed it.

Madam! Hem! No, Madam.

No!—What then is this important ſecret?—Nay, pray tell me—Hem!

Hem! N—n—n—n not at preſent, Madam.

Nay, Sir Samuel!

Some other time, Madam—Hem!

And can you be ſo cruel to me? Can you? I declare, I ſhall dream about you! Shall think I ſee you in your winding-ſheet! Or ſome ſuch frightful figure! And ſhall wake all in a tremble—Hem!

A tremble indeed, Madam!

And won't you tell me, Sir Samuel? Won't you?

N—n—n—n not at preſent, Ma⯑dam—Hem!

Well, if you won't, Sir Samuel, I muſt leave you; for what you have ſaid has ab⯑ſolutely given me the vapours!—Hem!

I, Madam!—Have I given you the vapours?

Yes, you have, Sir Samuel; and ſhockingly too! You have put ſuch gloomy ideas into my mind!

Bleſs me, Madam—Hem!

Your ſalts, Lydia!—Hem!

I hope, Madam, you—you are not very ill!

Oh, I ſhall be better in another room—Hem!

Yes, yes; 'tis my company that has given her the vapours.

Shall I—

No, no—Stay where you are, Sir Samuel.

She wants to be rid of me!—Hem!

Only, remember, you are under a promiſe to tell me your ſecret—Hem!—If you don't, I ſhall certainly ſee your ghoſt! Remem⯑ber—Hem!

Madam—I—

—

Miſs Lydia—Hem!

Sir!

If you would—hem! be ſo civil, I—

Oh, Sir! I have the vapours as bad as Miſs Lucy!

Have you?—Hem! Bleſs me! ‘Death! Winding-ſheets! Ghoſts!—Gloomy ideas indeed—Hem!—She was laughing at [20] me! I am ſure ſhe was! Hem! All my life long have I been laughed at by young co⯑quettiſh girls! Yet I can't forſake 'em! Then’ the vapours! My old trick! I always give young ladies the vapours! I make 'em ill! They are always ſick of me! Hem!—'Tis very ſtrange that I can't learn to talk without having a word to ſay! A thing ſo common too! Why can't I give myſelf monkey airs, ſkip here and there, be ſelf-ſufficient, impertinent, and be⯑have like a puppy, purpoſely to pleaſe the la⯑dies? What! Is there no ſuch thing to be found as a woman who can love a man for his mo⯑deſty? This foreign count, now, my rival, is quite a different thing! He

—He walks with a ſtraight back, and a cocked-up chin, and a ſtrut, and a ſtride, and ſtares, and takes ſnuff, and—! Yes, yes! He's the man for the ladies!

ACT II.

I CANNOT forget it—My father alive! And I of noble deſcent!—'Tis very ſtrange!—Hope, doubt, and apprehenſion are all in arms! Imagination hurries me beyond all li⯑mits of probability!

Why do you thus ſeek ſolitude?

To indulge thought.

Has your friend brought you bad news?

No.

What has he ſaid?

Strange things!

Heavens!—What?

You would think me a lunatic, were I to repeat them.

Lydia, you are unjuſt.

Am I?—Well then, I am told—Would you believe it?—I am told that my family is illuſtrious!

Good heavens!—'Tis true! I feel it is true! Charming Lydia,

thus let love pay you that homage which the world, blind and malignant, denies.

Riſe, Edmund. Birth can at beſt but confer imaginary dignity; there is no true gran⯑deur but of mind.

Some one is coming!

Aye, aye! Get you gone.

I am all tranſport!

Huſh! Away!

My angel!

A gentleman to you, Madam.

This ſudden return, Sir, is kind.

I have bethought me. The mo⯑ment is critical, and what I have to communi⯑cate of importance. Are we ſecure?

We are. This is my apartment.

Have you ſeen the Count, Sir?

No. But I have written to him anonymouſly.

And why anonymouſly?

To rouſe his feelings, wound his vanity, and excite his anger. His ſlumbering faculties muſt be awakened.—Is he kind to you?

No. Yet I believe him to be gene⯑rous, benevolent, and noble of heart; though his habitual haughtineſs gives him the appear⯑ance of qualities the very reverſe.

Worthy, kind girl!—You were born for the conſolation of a too unfortunate father!

Again you remind me that I have a father. Why am I not allowed to ſee him? Why am I not ſuffered to fly into his arms?

He dreads leſt his wretched and pitiable condition ſhould make you meet him with coldneſs.

Oh! How little does he know my heart! Yet ſpeak; tell me, what monſter was the cauſe of his miſery?

The monſter Pride.

Pride!

Your mother's pride, which firſt ſquandered his wealth, and next endangered his life.

How you alarm me!

A deſpicable diſpute for preceden⯑cy was the occaſion of a duel, in which your father killed his antagoniſt, whoſe enraged fa⯑mily, by ſuborning witneſſes, cauſed him to be convicted of murder, obliged him to fly the kingdom, and with your mother wander under a borrowed name, a fugitive in diſtant coun⯑tries.

Heavens!—But why leave me ig⯑norant of my birth?

That, being unfortunate, you might be humble: that you might not grieve after happineſs which you ſeemed deſtined [24] not to enjoy. 'Twas the precaution of a fond father, deſirous to alleviate, if not ſuccour your diſtreſs.

Oh! How I burn to ſee him!—Is he not in danger? Is his life ſecure?

He himſelf can ſcarcely ſay. His enemies have diſcovered him, are hot in purſuit, and fertile in ſtratagems and ſnares. They know that juſtice is now buſied in his behalf; but juſtice is ſlow, and revenge is reſtleſs.—Their activity, I hear, is redoubled.

Guard, I conjure you, guard my fa⯑ther's ſafety! Let me fly to ſeek him! Conduct me to his feet!

He wiſhed you firſt to be informed of his true ſituation; leſt, knowing him to be noble, you ſhould expect to ſee him in all the pomp of affluence, inſtead of meeting a poor, dejected, forlorn old man.

His fears are unjuſt; injurious to every feeling of filial affection and duty! The little I have I will freely partake with him. My clothes, the diamond which my ſuppoſed mother left me, whatever I poſſeſs ſhall inſtantly be ſold for his relief: my life ſhall be devoted to ſoften his ſorrows. Oh that I could prove myſelf wor⯑thy to be his daughter! Oh that I could pour out my ſoul to ſecure his felicity!

Forbear!—Let me breathe!—Affection cannot find utterance!—Oh! this melting heart!—My child!

Sir!

My Lydia!

Heavens!

My child!—My daughter!

Can it be?—My father!—Oh ecſtaſy!

Riſe, my child!—Suffer me to appeaſe my melting heart!—Oh, delight of my eyes!—Why is not your brother like you?

My brother! Who? Have I a bro⯑ther?

The Count is your brother.

'Tis too much!

He is not worthy ſuch a ſiſter.

The ſiſter of the Count! I!—Ah! Nature, thy inſtincts are fabulous: for, were they not, his heart would have beaten as warmly toward me, as mine has done for him!

I will make him bluſh at his ar⯑rogance. You ſhall witneſs his confuſion; which ſhall be public, that it may be effectual.

Would you have me avoid explana⯑tion with him?

Yes, for the preſent.—I mean to ſee him. Our meeting will be warm; but he ſhall feel the authority of a father.

If you are a ſtranger to him, I fear leſt—

No, no. He knows me, but knows not all his obligations to me.—I have ſecretly ſupplied him with money, and gained him pro⯑motion; which he has vainly attributed to his perſonal merits. But I muſt be gone. My bur⯑thened heart is eaſed! Once more, dear child of my affections, be prudent. I have much to ap⯑prehend; but, ſhould the preſent moment prove benign, my future days will all be peace!

Who's there?

'Tis I!—Open the door!

I am buſy, Sir.

Pſhaw! Open the door, Itell you!

Who is it?

Sir Paul.

And does he take the liberty to come into your apartment?

Oh, Sir, he will take any liberty he can.

Why don't you open the door?

You are ſurrounded by danger and temptation!

Have no fears for me, Sir.

Will you open the door, I ſay?

Let him come in.

What is the reaſon, you dear little baggage, that you always ſhut yourſelf up ſo carefully?

You are one of the reaſons, Sir.

Pſhaw! You need not be afraid of me!

I'm not afraid of you, Sir.

Why that's right. I'm come to talk matters over with you. My Lady's out—a wiſiting.

—The coaſt is clear. I have ſecured my graceleſs dog of a ſon—I ſuſpect—!

What, Sir?

But it won't do! Mind! Take the hint!—I've heard of an excellent houſe!

You are running on as uſual, Sir.

With a convenient back door!—I'll beſpeak you a carriage! Chooſe your own liveries! Keep as many footmen as you pleaſe! Indulge in every thing your heart can wiſh! Operas, balls, routs, maſquerades! Rotten Row of a Sunday! Town houſe and country houſe! Bath, Briſtol, or Buxton! Hot wells, or cold wells! Only—Hem!—Hay?

Sir, I muſt not hear ſuch ribaldry.

Indeed but you muſt, my dear—How will you help it? You can't eſcape me now! I have you faſt! No ſcapegrace ſcoundrel of a—!

And ſo—

And ſo, Sir!

Zounds!

And ſo!

Locked up together! You were buſy!

Well, Sir?

Oh, very, Sir! Perhaps you have a houſe yourſelf, Sir?

Sir?

With a convenient back door?

So far from offering the lady ſuch an inſult, Sir, I am almoſt tempted to chaſtiſe that impotent effrontery which has been ſo dar⯑ing.

Hem!—You are very civil, Sir! And, as a return for your compliment, I am ready to do myſelf the pleaſure, Sir, to wait on you down ſtairs.

I'll ſpare you the trouble, Sir.

Though this Lady's reſidence here will be but ſhort, I would have you beware, Sir, how you ſhock her ears again, with a propoſal ſo vile!

Your caution is kind, Sir!

I am ſorry it is neceſſary, Sir! What! The head of a houſe! The father of a family! Oh! Shame! He who, tottering on the brink of the grave, would gratify appetites which he no longer knows, by reducing the happy to miſery and the innocent to guilt, de⯑ſerves to ſink into that contempt and infamy into which he would plunge unwary ſimplicity.

So, Mr. Picard; what have you got there?

Von lettre for Monſieur le Comte.

Well, give it me, and go about your buſineſs.

No! I not go about my biſaneſs! My biſaneſs is to ſpeaka to you.

To me!—And what is it you want?

Mon argent! My vage an my congé! My diſmiſs!

How, man alive!

You are dee—dee factotum to dee Count. He ſuffare no ſomebody to ſpeaka to him; ſo I am come ſpeaka to you.

Arrah now, and are you crazy? Quit the ſarvice of a Count! Your reaſon, man?

My raiſon is you talka too moſh enough; he no talk at all! I follow him from France; [29] I yet live vid him by and by four month, he no ſpeaka to me four vord!

What then?

Vat den!—Je ſuis François, moi! I ave dee tongue for a dee ſpeaka; I mus ſpeaka; I vila ſpeaka! He not ſo moſh do me dee faveur to ſcold a me! I ave leave dee beſt Madame in Paris for Monſieur le Comte—Quelle Femme! Her tongue vas nevare ſtill! Nevare! She ſcold and ſhe clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, from all day an all night! Oh! It vas delight to hear!

And ſo you want to be ſcolded?

Oui—I love to be ſcold, I love to ſcold; to be fall out an to be fall in—C'eſt mon gout—Dee plaiſir of my life! J'irai crever! If I no ſpeak I burſt!

And is it you now, ſpalpeen, that would chatter in the priſence of the Count?

Shatter! Shatter! Ha! Vat you mean ſhatter?

Have not you roaſt beef and plum pudding?

Vat is roas beef, vat is plom boodin, gotam! if I no ſpeaka? I ave a dee Maſter in France dat ſtarva me, dat pay me no gage, dat leave a me tout en guenilles; all rag an tattare; yet I love him better as moſh! Pourquoi?

Helas! J'étois ſon cher ami! His dear fren! He talka to me, I talka to him! I laugh at his joke, he laugh auſſi, an I am both togeder ſo happy as dee prince! But dee Count▪ Oh! He as proud!—Ha!—Comme ça.

Poh! Now—My good fillow, have patience.

Patience! Moi!—I no patience—If I no ſpeak I am enragé—I am French—I am Picard—Ven dee heart is full dee tongue mus run! I give you varn—Let my Maſta ſpeak, or I ſhall diſmiſſa my Maſta!

Here comes the Count! Stand back, man, and hould your tongue!

The more I reflect on my own infa⯑tuation, the more I am aſtoniſhed!

My Lord—

A man of my birth! My rank! ‘So to forget himſelf!—Still ſhe is an angel!—But the family of a cit!’—A brewer's daughter!

My Lord—

The world contains not a woman ſo lovely!—‘Yet the vulgar, haughty, diſguſting airs of the mother! The inſulting familiarity of the father! And the free, unceremonious tone of the whole family!—I am faſcinated!"—Nei⯑ther do they condeſcend to court my alliance! I muſt be the humble ſuitor: I muſt entreat, muſt ſupplicate permiſſion to degrade my noble anceſtors, who will abjure me, bluſhing through their winding ſheets!’—I muſt peti⯑tion, and fawn, and acknowledge the high honour done▪—No! If I do!—Yet 'tis falſe! I ſhall! I feel I ſhall be thus abject.

If—I might be ſo bould—

Well, Sir—

A letter for your Lordſhip.

Oh!—What from the ambaſſador?

No faith, my Lord.

Ha! The Ducheſs▪

No, my Lord, nor the Ducheſs, neither.

Who then, Sir?

Faith, my Lord, that is more than I can ſay—But perhaps the letter itſilf can tell you.

Sir!—Who brought it?

Un pauvre valet footaman, mee Lor—His ſhoe, his ſtocking, his habit, his chapeau, vas all patch an piece. And he vas—

Bo!

Foh!—Open it, and inform me of the contents.

Yes, my Lord.

His viſage, mee Lor—

How now!

Mee Lor—

'Sblood, man—!

She is ever uppermoſt! I cannot baniſh her my thoughts! Do you hear?—Diſmiſs thoſe—

Yes, my Lord.—Hark you, ſpal⯑peens!

Monſieur le Comte—

Again!

I ave von requéte to beg—

Pay that fellow his wages imme⯑diately!

I tould you ſo!

Huſh! Silence!

Silence! I am no Engliſh! I hate ſilence! I—

Poh! Bodtheration! Be aſy!—I will try now to make your pace!

Inſolent menial!—Well, Sir? The contents?

Faith, my Lord, I am afraid the con⯑tints will not plaſe you!

How ſo, Sir?

Why, as for the how ſo, my Lord, if your Lordſhip will but be plaſed to rade—

Didn't I order you to read?

To be ſure you did, my Lord; but I ſhould take it as a viry particular grate fa⯑vour, if that your Lordſhip would but be plaſed to rade for yourſilf.

Why, Sir?

Your Lordſhip's timper is a little warm; and—

Read!

Well—If I muſt I muſt!—‘The per⯑ſon who thinks proper, at preſent, to addreſs you’—

Sir!

My Lord!

Be pleaſed to begin the letter, Sir!

Begin? Sarra the word of beginning is here—before or after—

`The perſon'?

Yes, my Lord.

Mighty odd!

Proceed, Sir.

‘The perſon who thinks proper, at preſent, to addreſs you, takes the liberty to inform you that your haughtineſs, inſtead of being dignified, is ridiculous.’

Sir!

Why now, I tould your Lordſhip!

Go on!

‘The little—merit—you have’—

The little merit I have? The little?—The little?—

—Go on!

‘The little merit you have—can⯑not convince the world that your pride—is not—is not—is not—’

Is not what?

`Impertinent.'

Raſcal!

Viry well, my Lord!—

I humbly thank your Lordſhip!—By Jaſus! But I'll remimber the favour—

Read, Sir.

To the divle I pitch me if I do!

Read, Mac Dermot.

No, my Lord!—Mac Dermot is a man!—An Engliſhman!—Or an Iriſhman, by Jaſus, which is better ſtill! And by the holy poker, if but that your Lordſhip was not a Lord [34] now!—

Pick up that purſe, Mac Dermot.

'Tis viry well!—Oh!—Well!—Well!—Well!

You may keep it—Mac Dermot.

What!—I touch it!—No, my Lord!—Don't you think it!—I deſpiſe your guineas!—An Iriſhman is not to be paid for a blow!

—I—I have been haſty—

Well, well!—'Tis viry well!

I am—I—I am ſorry, Mac Dermot.

My Lord!

Very ſorry—

My Lord!

Pray forget it!

I cannot forgive myſelf.

By the bleſſed Mary, then, but I can.—Your Lordſhip is a noble gentleman!—There is many an upſtart Lord has the courage to ſtrike, whin they know their poor ſtarving depindants hands are chained to their ſides, by writchedneſs and oppreſſion: but few indeed have the courage to own the injury!

I will remember, Mac Dermot, that I am in your debt.

Faith, and if you do, my Lord, your mimory will be better than mine!—I have lived with your Lordſhip ſome years; and, though not always a kind, you have always been a ginerous maſter. To be ſure, I niver before [35] had the honour of a blow from your Lordſhip; but then I niver before had the ſatisfaction to be quite ſure that, while you remimbered your⯑ſilf to be a Lord, you had not forgotten poor Mac Dermot was a man.

Well, well!

He thinks he has a licence now to prate.—There is no teaching ſervants; nay indeed there is no teaching any body a ſenſe of propriety!

Did your Lordſhip ſpake?

Give me that letter. And—take the money—It is yours.

Your Lordſhip will be plaſed for to pardon me there.—If you think proper, you may give me twice as much to-morrow.—But the divle a doit I'll touch for to-day!

Wait within call.

I niver before knew he was all togedther ſuch a jewel of a maſter!

'Tis this infernal letter that cauſed me to betray myſelf thus to my ſervant!—And who is this inſolent, this raſh adviſer? May I periſh if I do not puniſh the affront!—Here is no name!—A ſtrange hand too!—

‘The friend who gives you this uſeful leſſon has diſ⯑guiſed his hand, and concealed his name’—Anonymous coward!—‘His preſent intention being to awaken reflection, and make you bluſh at your own bloated vanity'—Intolerable! Or, if not, to prepare you for a viſit from one who thinks it his duty to lower your arrogance; and who will undertake the diſagreeable taſk this very day.’—Will he? Will he?—Mac Der⯑mot!

My Lord!

If any ſtranger enquire for me, inform me inſtantly.

Yes, my Lord.

Good-morrow, Count.

Why, where are my fellows? No body to ſhew the gentleman up?

Oh! You are too ceremonious by half, Count!

A little ceremony, Sir, is the eſſence of good breeding.

Pſha!

Pſha, Sir!

Ceremony, like fringe hiding a beau⯑tiful face, makes you ſuſpect grace itſelf of de⯑formity.

Do you hear, Mac Dermot?

My Lord!

See that thoſe raſcals are more atten⯑tive!

Why, what is the matter with you, Count?

Count! Count!

You ſeem out of temper!

Oh dear! No—No—Upon my honour, no!—You totally miſtake—I aſſure you, you miſtake. I'm very glad to ſee you! I am indeed!

I'm very glad you are. Though you have an odd mode of expreſſing your joy! But [37] you are one of the unaccountables! Caſt off this formality—

Very fine!

Formality, Sir!

Give the heart its genuine flow!—Throw away conſtraint, and don't appear as if you were always on the tenter-hooks of imagi⯑nary inſult!

I!

This is damn'd imperti⯑nent!

You en⯑tirely miſconceive me! My character is frank and open! No man has leſs conſtraint! I even ſtudy to be, as it were, ſpontaneous!

Ha, ha, ha! I perceive you do!

Really, Sir!—

Does he mean to inſult me?

I thought to have put you in a good humour.

I am in a good humour, Sir! I never was in a better humour, Sir! Never, Sir! 'Sdeath! A good humour, indeed!—Some little regard to propriety, and ſuch manners as good breeding preſcribes to gentlemen—

Ha, ha, ha! Well, well, Count, en⯑deavour to forget the gentleman, and—

Sir! No, Sir: however you may think proper to act, that is a character I ſhall never forget.

Never, except at ſuch moments as theſe, I grant, Count.

By—!

Well gulped!—I had a ſort of a meſ⯑ſage; but I find I muſt take ſome other oppor⯑tunity, when you are not quite in ſo good a hu⯑mour.

I'll tell my ſiſter what—

Sir!—Your ſiſter!—My divine Lu⯑cy!—A meſſage!

So! The magic chord is touched!

Dear Sir, I—I, I, I,—I am afraid I am warm.—Your ſiſter you ſaid!—I doubt I—that is—

Well, well, make no apologies.

Apologies! No, Sir!—I did'nt mean—That is—Yes—I—My Lucy! My Lucy! What meſſage?

Nay, I cannot well ſay myſelf. You know the madcap.—She bade me tell you, if I happened

to ſee you, that ſhe wanted to give you a lecture.

Indeed!

I'm lectured by the whole family.

On what ſubject?

Perhaps you'll take pet again!

I, Sir!—Take pet!—My ſenſe of propriety, Sir—

Why, ay? Your ſenſe of propriety, which, by the bye, my ſlippant ſiſter calls your pride,

is always on the watch, to catch the moment when it becomes you to take offence.

You—You are determined I ſhall not want opportunities!

You miſtake, Count—I have a friend⯑ſhip for you.—Why, what a forbidding ſtare is that now! Ay! A friendſhip for you.

Sir—I—I am not inſenſible of the—honour—

Yes, you are.

Sir, you are exceedingly miſtaken! Very exceed⯑ingly! Indeed you are! As I am a man of honour, [39] there is no gentleman whom I ſhould think it a higher—that is—Upon my ſoul—!

Is the Count at home, young man?

Yes, Sir.

I hear my father! We have had a fra⯑cas; I muſt eſcape! If you will come and liſten to my ſiſter's lecture, ſo—Good-morrow!

'Tis inſufferable! Never ſure did man of my rank run the gauntlet thus! No re⯑ſpect! No diſtinction of perſons! But with peo⯑ple of this claſs 'tis ever ſo—Hail fellow well met!

Ay! Hail fellow well met! Hay! You jolly dog!

Hem! Good—Good-morrow, Sir!

Here is another family lecturer!

Was not that young Mock-mo⯑deſty that bruſhed by me on the ſtairs?

It was your ſon, Sir.

Good morning, Sir!

ſaid the ſcoundrel, when he was out of my reach.—Dammee!

I would have ſhewn him the ſhorteſt way to the bottom!—Well—Hay! You have elegant apartments here!

Very indifferent, Sir!

I ſhall remain in town for a fort⯑night, and am glad you live ſo near—We'll ſtorm the wine-cellar!—I hear you are no flinch⯑er!—Hay! When ſhall we have a ſet-to! [40] Hay! When ſhall we have a rory tory? A catch, and a toaſt, and a gallon a man!—But—Hay!—What's the matter?—An't you well?

Oh, yes, Sir Paul! Exceedingly well, Sir Paul! Never better, Sir Paul!

Why, that's right—I thought you had been ſtruck dumb.

Oh! By no means, Sir Paul! I am very happy to ſee you! Extremely happy! In⯑expreſſibly—

I knew you would—What ſay you to my Lucy? Hay!

Say! That ſhe—She is a phoenix!

Dammee, ſo ſhe is! What is a phoenix?

I adore her!

That's right!

The day that makes her mine, will be the happieſt of my life!

So it will—For I'll make youas drunk as an emperor! Hollo, there!—Get your maſter's hat—Come, come; you ſhall dine with me.

Sir!

Dammee, I'll make you drunk to⯑day!

Did you ſpeak to me, Sir?

To you? Why, what the devil! Do you think I ſpoke to your footman?

Oh, no, Sir Paul! No! I—Pardon me—I—I was abſent.

Abſent!—I ſmell a rat—Your dig⯑nity took miff!

No, Sir Paul; by no means—No—I—That is—I will acknowledge, I am not very much accuſtomed to ſuch familiarities.

Are you not? Then you ſoon muſt be.

Sir!

Ay, Sir! A few leſſons from me will cure you.

Sir—I—

I am the man to make you throw off! I'll teach you to kick your ſtatelineſs down ſtairs, and toſs your pride, as I do my wig, be⯑hind the fire.

Good breeding, Sir—

Good breeding, Sir, is a block⯑head, Sir! None of your ſormal Don Glums! None of your grand pas for me! A friend, good fellowſhip, and t'other bottle! That's my motto!

People of my rank diſtinguiſh—

Damn diſtinctions!

They make it a condition, Sir—

Indeed!—Look you, my dear Count, either unbridle, or you and I are two. You tell me you love my daughter—She is the fineſt girl in England; and I believe the ſlut has taken a fancy to you. The match pleaſes me, becauſe it diſpleaſes my wife—And, ex⯑cept when you are riding your high horſe, I like you, Count.—Diſmount, and it's a match.—If not, turn the peg, and prance! I'm your humble!

I'll not endure it! Racks ſhall not make me bend to this!

Lucy is a wench after my own heart!—No piping, no pining, no ſobbing for her! I have a fine fellow in my eye—

Sir!

None of your Sir Ramrod Grum⯑ble-gizzards!

By Heavens! I would cut the vil⯑lain's throat who ſhould dare impede my hap⯑pineſs!

Why ay! Dammee, now you talk!

The loſs of my Lucy would render me the moſt wretched of beings!

To be ſure—

Come, come!

Dinner is waiting! I ſmell the haunch! It perfumes the whole ſtreet! Come along! I hate the ſhackles of ceremony! A ſmoking table, and a repleniſhed ſide⯑board, ſoon put all men on a level! Your hungry and thirſty ſouls for me! He that enters my houſe, always depoſits his grandeur, if he has any, at the door!

"This brown jug, my dear Tom, which now foams with mild ale."

Well ſaid, old Toby! Oh!

ACT III.

I SHALL never recover from my ſurprize!

Huſh!

The Count your brother?—My ſiſter, my family, muſt be informed.

Not on your life, Edmund. So impla⯑cable are his enemies, that my father informs me an Exempt, bribed by them, has followed him to England.

Impotent malice! The laws will here protect him.

Oh! Who can ſay? The wicked cun⯑ning of ſuch life-hunters is dreadful!—I inſiſt therefore upon your promiſe.

My Angel! Fear nothing!

Turn about!—Now me.

Oh ſiſter! I am the happieſt of men!

And you appear to be very buſy too, with your happineſs.

Did you but know!—

Oh! I know a great deal more than you ſuſpect—Not but you ſeem to be taking meaſures to inform the whole houſe.

Of what?

That you two are never eaſy apart.

Siſter—I—I muſt inſiſt that you ſpeak of this Lady with—with every reſpect!

Brother!

Edmund!

Siſter! I don't underſtand—Are you narrow-minded enough to ſuppoſe this young lady unworthy the hand of—

Of my brother?—No—To call my Lydia Siſter

is one of the things on earth I moſt fervently wiſh.

My generous friend!

My charming girl!

But—then—

There are now no buts! It will be an honour—I ſay, ſiſter, you—you don't know—In ſhort I muſt very earneſtly ſolicit you to treat [45] Miſs Lydia with all poſſible delicacy—I—I—I cannot tell you more at preſent—But I once again requeſt, I conjure, nay I—

Hem!

Hem!—Humph!

You—You underſtand me, ſiſter.

Indeed I don't!—There now goes one of your Lord and Maſters! Take care of him! He'll make an excellent grand Turk—

‘Treat Miſs Lydia, I ſay, with all poſſible delicacy’—And have I, Lydia, have I ſhewn a want of delicacy to my friend?

Oh, no! My heart throbs with an oppreſſive ſenſe of your generous, your affec⯑tionate attention to me.

Oppreſſive?—Well! This is the proudeſt world!

Nay, I didn't mean—

Oh! No matter!

Have you had any converſation with the Count?

No—There has been no opportunity yet to-day—I am really afraid his pride is quite as abſurd as that of my good Mamma!

And your affection begins to cool.

Um—I—I can't ſay that—Heigho!—He has his faults.

I hope he has his virtues too!

So do I—But how to cure thoſe faults?

If incurable, 'twould break my heart!

Your ardor ſurpriſes me!—But, huſh!

I was afraid, Madam, love [46] would not have found ſo much as a moment to ſpeak its anxieties—Nay even now—

Sir, I—I am ſenſible of my own unworthineſs.

That lady, Sir, is my friend.

Madam!

Why are you ſurpriſed?

Madam!—No—no, not ſurpriſed—There is a maxim, indeed, which ſays—Friend⯑ſhip can only ſubſiſt between equals.

But where is the inferiority?

Madam!

You are above the poor, the pitiful idea, that wealth confers any claims?

Perhaps it does not, Madam. But beauty, underſtanding, wit, in ſhort, mind, con⯑fers ten thouſand! And in theſe I never beheld your peer!

Very prettily ſpoken, indeed! And I am almoſt perſuaded that you love me very dearly.

Madam, I adore you!

Yes, you are continually thinking of my good qualities.

Eternally, Madam! I think of no⯑thing elſe!

True—You never remember your own!

Were I totally inſenſible of my own, Madam, I ſhould be unworthy of you.

You admire me even in my repreſen⯑tatives, my relations and friends! Affable to all, good-humoured to all, attentive to all, your politeneſs, eaſe, and urbanity extend to every [47] perſon for whom you think my heart is any way intereſted! Your paſſions are all ſubſervient to love!

Yes, Madam; ſubſervient is the very word! They are all ſubſervient to love!

You never recollect the dignity of your deſcent, nor accuſe mine of meanneſs! You have too much underſtanding to plume your thoughts with turgid arrogance; or to pre⯑ſume on the imaginary merit of an accident, which none but ignorance, prejudice, and folly, are ſo beſotted as to attribute to themſelves!

Mankind have agreed, Madam, to honour the deſcendants of the wiſe and the brave.

They have ſo—But you have too much native merit to arrogate to yourſelf the worth of others! You are no jay, decked in the pea⯑cock's feathers! You are not idiot enough to imagine that a ſkin of parchment, on which is emblazoned the arms and acts of one wiſe man, with a long liſt of ſucceeding fools, is any ho⯑nour to you! Reſponſible to mankind for the uſe or the abuſe of ſuch talents as you feel yourſelf endowed with, you think only of how you may deſerve greatly; and diſdain to be that ſecondary thing, that inſignificant cypher, which is worthleſs except from ſituation!

The feelings of injured honour, Ma⯑dam, perhaps may be too irritable. They ſhrink from inſult, and ſpurn at contamination! Yet honour is the ſource of a thouſand virtues! The parent of ten thouſand glorious deeds! Ho⯑nour is generous, ſincere, and magnanimous! The protector of innocence, the aſſertor of right, the [48] avenger of wrong! Yes! Honour is the patron of arts, the promoter of ſcience, the bulwark of government, the defender of kings, and the ſa⯑viour of nations!—Indulge me then in cheriſhing a ſentiment ſo noble!

Indulge?—Applaud, you mean! Ho⯑nour with you never degenerates into oſtenta⯑tion! Is never preſumptuous! Is no boaſter! Is eager to earn, but ſcorns to extort pre-eminence! Your honour is not that abject inflated phantom which uſurps conteſted claims, exacts ſubmiſſion which it does not merit, offends, irritates, and incites diſguſt, nay tarniſhes even virtue itſelf! You do not, under the word Honour, ſeek a miſerable cobweb covering for exorbitant pride!

Madam, accuſation ſo pointed, ſo—

Nay, now! Have not I been reading your panegyric?

My lady deſires you will come to her immediately, Madam.

Very well

—I am a thoughtleſs, ſlighty girl! What I ſay can have but little meaning—Elſe, indeed, I would have ventured to have given you a word of advice—But—'Tis no matter.

Madam, you have ſtung me to the ſoul! If I am indeed what you deſcribe, 'twere time I ſhould reform.

I muſt be gone.—I have, I own, been wildly picturing ſomething to myſelf, which I greatly fear I could not love!

And is it my likeneſs?—Surely it [49] cannot be!—Could not love?—Excruciating thought!

Where is the Count?

This moment gone—

Which way?

Through that door.

Ah! 'Tis too late! The footman is telling him.

Why are you ſo much alarmed?

The clouds are collected, and the ſtorm is coming!

What do you mean?

Lady Peckham has watched her op⯑portunity: Sir Paul has dropt aſleep in his arm⯑chair; ſhe has ordered your ſiſter to her apart⯑ment, and has ſent to the Count to come and ſpeak with her; that is, to come and be inſulted, here in the drawing-room.

What can be done?

I know not—I dread her intolerable tongue.

Perhaps were you to retire, and, when they grow warm▪ to interrupt them at the proper moment, the preſence of a third perſon might be ſome reſtraint on the workings of pride; of the violent ebullitions of which I am in great apprehenſion.

Had I but met the Count before he had received the meſſage!—

Here comes Lady Peckham. Begone!

I have delivered your ladyſhip's meſ⯑ſage, and the Count is coming.

Wery vell!—Go you about your buſineſs, feller—

Your company is not vanted, miſs.

So, Sir! They tells me, Sir, that you and my fooliſh huſband are colloguing to⯑gether, for to marry my daughter! Is this troo, Sir?

If it were, Madam?

Do you know who Miſs Loocy Peckham is, Sir?

Not very well, Madam.

Sir!

Except that ſhe is—your daughter.

And do you know who I am, Sir?

I have been told, Madam—

Told, Sir! Told! Vhat have you been told? Vhat have you been told, Sir?

That your ladyſhip was an honeſt wax-chandler's daughter.

Yes, Sir! The debbidy of his vard, Sir! A common councilman, and city ſword⯑bearer! Had an aldermand's gownd von year, vus choſen ſheriff the next, and died a lord mayor elect!

And do you know, Sir, that I de⯑ſigns Sir Samooel Sheepy, Sir, an Engliſh knight [51] and barrowknight, for the ſpouſe of my daugh⯑ter? A gentleman that is a gentleman! A pur⯑ſon of honour and purtenſions, and not a papiſh Jeſubite!

Of his honours and pretenſions I am yet to be informed, Madam.

Vhat, Sir! Do you mean for to ſay, Sir, or to inſinivate, Sir, that Sir Samooel Sheepy is not your betters?

If Sir Samuel himſelf, Madam, had put ſuch a queſtion to me, I would have replied with my ſword; or, more properly, with my cane.

Cane! Wery vell, Sir! I'll let Sir Samooel know that you threatens to cane him! I'll take care to report you! Cane quotha! He ſhall talk to you!

Let him, Madam!

Madam! Madam! At every vord—Pray, Sir, do you know that Sir Paul Peckham has had the honour to be knighted by the King's own hand?

I have heard as much, Madam.

Madam, indeed!—And for you for to think for to look up to my daughter!

Up, Madam!

Yes, Sir—Up, Sir!—Pray, Sir, vhat are your purtenſions?

Madam!

Who are you, Sir? Vhere do you come from? Who knows you? Vhat pariſh do you belong to?

Madam, I am of a family known to hiſtory, known to Europe, known to the whole univerſe!

Ah! I believes you are better known nur truſted!

The names of Connolly and Villars, Madam, never before were ſo degraded as they have been in my perſon.

Oh! I makes no doubt but you are a purſon that vould degurade any name!

Inſult like what I have received from you, Madam, no man that breathes ſhould utter, and eſcape death—But you are—

Vhat, Sir? Vhat am I, Sir? Vhat am I, Sir?

A woman.

A voman, indeed! Sir, I vould have you to know, Sir, as how I am a lady! A lady, Sir, of his Majeſty's own making! And moreover, Sir, don't you go for to flatter your⯑ſelf that I ſhall beſtow the hand and fortin of Miſs Loocy Peckham upon any needy outlandiſh Count Somebody-nobody! My daughter, Sir, is for your betters!

Madam, though ſcurril—

I ſay, Madam, though ſuch vul—ſuch accuſations are beneath all anſwer, yet I muſt tell you that, by marrying your daughter, if after this I ſhould ſink myſelf ſo low—I ſay by marrying your daughter, Madam, I ſhould con⯑fer an honour on your family, as much ſuperior to its expectations, as the ſplendour of the glo⯑rious ſun is to the twinkling of the worthleſs glow-worm.

Vhat!—Vhat!—

Marry come up! An Iriſh French foriner! Not ſo good as von of our pariſh porpers! And you! You purtend to compare yourſelf to the united [53] houſes of the Peckhams and the Pringles! Your family indeed! Yourn! Vhere's your ſettle⯑ment? Yourn! Vusn't my great uncle, Mr. Peter Pringle, the cheeſemonger of Cateaton⯑ſtreet, a major in the Train-Bands before you vus born, or thought of?

So, ſo! I'm too late!

Let me entreat your Ladyſhip—

Vhat! Hasn't I an ownd ſiſter at this day married to Mr. Poladore Spragges, the tip-toppeſt hot-preſſer in all Crutched Friars! Isn't my maiden aunt, Miſs Angelica Pringle, vorth thirty thouſand pounds, in the South Sea funds, every day ſhe riſes! And doesn't I my⯑ſelf go to bed, and get up, the greateſt lady in this here city? And for to purtend for to talk to me of his family! Hisn!

I muſt tell you, my Lady, you ſtrangely forget yourſelf, and expoſe your family to ridicule.

You muſt tell me, Sir! Vhy, Sir, how dare you have the temeracity for to come for to go for to dare for to tell me! Here's fine doings! Henpecked by my own chicken!

The Count, Madam, is a man of the firſt diſtinction, in his native country!

Vhat country is that, Sir? Who ever heard of any country but England? A Count among beggars! How much is his Countſhip vorth?

I had determined to be ſilent, Ma⯑dam, but I find it is impoſſible!

And, I muſt inform you, my family is as ancient, as exalted, and as renowned, as you have proved yours to be—what I ſhall not [54] repeat! That I am the heir to more rich acres than I believe your Ladyſhip ever rode over! That my father's vaſſals are more numerous than your Ladyſhip's vaunted guineas! That the magnificence in which he has lived looked with contempt on the petty paltry ſtrainings of a trader's pride!—And that in his hall are daily fed—

Yes, Madam, are daily fed, now, at this moment, Madam, more faithful ad⯑herents, with their menials and followers, than all your boaſted wealth could for a ſingle year ſupply!

Are? At this moment, ſay you, Count?

Sir—I—I have ſaid.

I know you to be a man of honour, and that you cannot ſay what is not.

I—I—I have ſaid, Sir.

You have ſaid more in a minute nur you can prove in a year!

Madam, I will pledge my life for the Count's veracity.

You pledge! Vhat do you know about the matter? I'll pledge that he has been telling a pack of the moſt monſtrous—

Forbear, Madam! Such inſult is too groſs to be endured, almoſt, from an angry wo⯑man! Dear Count—

Voman again! Wery fine! Wery pretty! Voman quotha! To be called a voman by my own witals!

What have I done!—

A lie!

As for you, Sir, I doesn't believe [55] von vord you ſay! I knows the tricks of ſuch ſham ſhevaleers as you too vell!

Torture!

But I'll take care to have you prog⯑noſticated.

Damnation!

I'll have you karakatoored in your troo colours! I'll have you painted in your fa⯑ther's hall; you and your vooden ſhoe ſhrug and ſnuffle ſcare-crows; ‘your half dozen lank and lean ſhotten herring ſhadows; vith the light ſhining through 'em, like parchment at a vorkſhop vinder; grinning hunger over a diſh of ſoup-meegur, vith a ſecond courſe of frogs; and a plate of hedge-berries and crab apples for the deſſert!’ I'll depicter you! I'll not forget your waſſals!

I can ſupport it no longer.

My dear Count—

Sir!—I am a diſhonoured villain!

There! There! He tells you him⯑ſelf he is a willin! His conſcience flies in his face, and he owns it!

Ma⯑dam! He is a noble-hearted gentleman! His agonizing mind deems it villainy to ſuffer inſult ſo groſs.—Sorry am I, Madam, to be obliged to tell you that, humble though your family is, the diſgrace with which you have loaded it is inde⯑lible! With anguiſh of heart you force me to repeat, I bluſh while I liſten to you!

Vhy who ever heard the like of [56] this here now? Here's a prodigal ſon! Here's a regenerate reprobate! Here's a graceleſs Gog⯑magog! To purtend as how he's aſhamed of me! Me! A purſon of my carriage, connec⯑tions, and breeding! I! Whoſe wery entrance, of a ball night, puts Haberdaſher's-hall all in a combuſtion!

Marry my daughter, indeed!—Faugh!

Into what has my impetuous anger hurried me?—Guilty of falſehood!—I?—To recede is impoſſible!—What! Stand detected before this city madam! Whoſe tongue, itch⯑ing with the very ſcrophula of pride, would ite⯑rate liar in my ear! No! Falſehood itſelf is not ſo foul!—Mac Dermot!

My Lord!

Mac Dermot—I—You—You have heard of the ſtate which formerly my father held; of his houſehold grandeur, of the hinds and ſervants whom he daily fed, and the train by which he was attended!

To be ſure I have, my Lord.—Here, your dukes and your peers know nothing at all of ſtyle! Abroad, ſome hundreds ſtarve, that one may ate! But, in England, they have learned the trick of aich man ating for himſilf!

Pſha! Liſten—The—The misfor⯑tunes that ſince have befallen us are little known in this country.

To be ſure they are not, my Lord.

Nor—N—Hem!—Nor would I have them—D—D—D—a—Hem!—Do you under⯑ſtand me, Mac Dermot?

My Lord!

I—I—I would not be expoſed to the inſolent taunts of upſtart wealth.

Faith then, my Lord, you muſt not live in this city.

Nay, but—attend to me—I—I would—I would have them think—

What, my Lord?

Mac Dermot—there are ſituations—I ſay, it may ſometimes be wiſe, at leaſt prudent—and—and—excuſable—Have not you remarked, Mac Dermot, that Lydia—

Oh! To be ſure I have remarked, my Lord, that ſhe is a ſweet crater; that Miſs Liddy!

Nay, but—Her influence in the fa⯑mily—

Oh yes, my Lord.

Now—if—if—Suppoſe you were—to take—an opportunity—Is ſhe proud?

Mild as mother's milk, my Lord!

If ſhe were perſuaded—I ſay—Our family misfortunes—That is—No—No—The family magnificence—Do you comprehend me?

My Lord!

Pſha!—Damnation!

Why, now, am I Mac Dermot, or am I not?—The Divle!—He would have me take an opportu⯑nity [58] with Miſs Liddy!—Faith and I would very willingly do that—And perſuade her—Oh! Honey, but ſhe is not ſo aſy to be perſuaded!

To be ſure he muſt mane ſome⯑thing!

Oh! Hona mon dioul! But I have it!—Ahoo! What a thickſcull have I been, all this while!—He is a little bit aſhamed to be thought poor, among this tribe of Balifarnians, who have nothing but their dirty guineas to boaſt of—And ſo he would have me perſuade—Oh ho!—Let me alone. There ſhe goes! I will be after—Bo! Fluſtration! There is that Mr. Edmund, now, cloſe at her heels!—The young royſter is always getting the ſweet crater up in a corner!—Take an opportunity? Sarra the opportunity there is for me to take!

ACT IV.

PRAY, Sir, is the Count within?

The Count, Sir! And pray why may you aſk?

I want to ſpeak with him, Sir.

Spake! Oh! The Count is not ſo aſy to be ſpoken with. Plaſe to deliver your meſſage to me.

Inform him I am come for an an⯑ſwer to my letter.

Letter, Sir!—What! The letter brought by a ſhabby footman?

Ay, ay—Has he read it?

Read it! Faith, and it has been very well read! But pray, Sir, now, are you the writer?

I am.

Then take my advice! Make your eſcape!—'Tis very well for you my maſter is not at home!

Why ſo?

Why ſo? Man alive! Have you a mind to be murdered?

Fear nothing.

By the holy phial but there he is!—Why, will you begone now?

No—I will not.

Marcy upon my ſoul!—For the Lord's ſake, Sir!—Why, Sir, I tell you he'll have your blood! And won't you begone now?

No, Sir.

Lord Jaſus! What will I do? If he comes into this room, here will be murder!

Go—Tell him I am waiting for him.

Me tell him!—I warn you to begone! Remimber, I waſh my hands of your blood.—Make off!—Make off, I tell you, while I go and keep him to his own apartment!

Hark you, young man! Tell the Count, your maſter, that the ſtranger, who wrote the anonymous letter to him, is here, waiting for an anſwer.

Yes, Sir.

The ſears of the ſervant ſtrongly ſpeak the anger of the maſter.—But that was what I partly feared, and partly wiſhed.

Where is the raſh, the audacious,

the inſolent wretch, who—

My father!

I ſcarcely could have expected ſo kind a welcome, Sir! 'Tis exemplary!

Paſſion, Sir, is ſometimes guilty of improprieties—Pray pardon me!

I imagined—

How now, Sir! Begone!

Why ſo? Let him ſtay!

Begone, or!—

Stay, I ſay!

And do you hear—I am not at home.

Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Here will be murder!

What ſhould that mean, Sir?

Sir!—There are reaſons—I ought not to expoſe my father's ſafety.

Rather own, you ought not to bluſh at your father's poverty! Is this my re⯑ception? This the warm welcome of a duteous ſon?

'Tis ſo ſudden—Yet my heart feels an affection—

Which is ſtifled by your vanity! Your father is contemned, becauſe he is unfor⯑tunate!

No, Sir. I do not merit a reproach ſo cruel. Contemn my father! You know me not.—Tell me, which way can I prove my re⯑ſpect and love?

By openly acknowledging me: not by concealment; not by diſavowing me in the day of my diſtreſs!

Think, Sir, of your own ſafety!

What danger is there with peo⯑ple of honour? Preſent me to the family of Sir Paul.

Impoſſible, Sir!

Impoſſible!

Let me conjure you not to be too precipitate. You know not the vulgar pomp of new-made gentry; whoſe ſuffocating pride treats indigent merit, nay, birth itſelf, with the moſt imperious diſdain!

Talk not of their pride, but of [62] your own! You complain of others haughti⯑neſs? You! In whom the vice is ſo intolerable, that you willingly would diſown your father!

Sir, you wrong me.

But, determined to be known for what I am, ſince you refuſe, I'll introduce myſelf.

For heaven's ſake, Sir! I entreat! I ſupplicate! On my knees, I conjure you to for⯑bear!

Yes; pride, kneeling, conjures a father in poverty to ſuffer himſelf to be diſ⯑claimed! Your mother's pride was my houſe's downfal: this ſhe has bequeathed to you!

Sir—

I tell you, I know he is at home!

Upon my ſoul, Sir Paul—

Zounds! Why I ſaw him from my own window!

Here is Sir Paul! You know not, Sir, how much is at ſtake! I have not time to tell you now; but let my intrea⯑ties—!

Oh! How humble are the proud! But remember, I conſent only on condition that you reſtrain your arrogance. If, while I am preſent, any ſymptom—

'Sblood! I knew you were at home! But to inſtruct ſervants how to lie, with the moſt cool, compoſed, and barefaced im⯑pudence, is one branch of modern education.

I am ſorry, Sir Paul.

Pſhaw! Damn apologies. I have good news for you.

Sir!

I do believe, (God forgive me!) that my wife is growing reaſonable!

Does ſhe conſent?

Yes—To permit you to aſk her pardon.

Sir! Aſk pardon?

Yes, Sir; aſk par⯑don.

Hem!—

Zounds! Again!—Why, what the plague can he do here?

Your ſervant, Sir.

Sir, your very humble.

What can this mean?

You ſeem ſurpriſed, Sir.

Yes! You have a trick of taking people by ſurpriſe.

Does he know him?

Odd enough!—Who is this queer old fellow?

All is ſafe!—

Sir, the—the—gentleman

What ſhall I ſay?

A gentleman, Sir, who—

A gentleman!

Yes—That is—

What, ſome poor relation, I ſup⯑poſe?

Yes, Sir—A relation—The—the fa⯑mily eſtates have been under his manage⯑ment.

Oh! Your ſteward?

No—Not abſolutely my—my ſtew⯑ard—

What, your land-bailiff, then?

No, Sir—No—That is—

Does not ſeem to have made his fortune by his office! A little weather-beaten.

He is a man of the ſtricteſt probity, Sir.

Nay, his appearance is the pledge of his honeſty!

I can perceive he is prac⯑tiſing deceit! Oh vanity! But I will reſtrain my anger. The moment of open puniſhment is not yet come.

Let me requeſt you, Sir, not to reveal yourſelf.

Well, Sir.

His oecono⯑my and good management are equal to his fidelity.

Confounded odd all this, though!

Well, Count, I have exerted my whole authority with Lady Peckham; and her ſon Edmund, who has more influence over her than any body elſe, is your friend. So be wary, do your duty, and the day is your own.

My duty, Sir!

Yes, Sir. Your duty, Sir.

A damned ſtrange fellow!

Is it not your duty, Count, to ſerve yourſelf?

And would you contend about a word?

Very true, Sir!—You ſeem a—a plain ſpoken—a—Hem!

Yes! I think it my duty to tell vice, and folly, the truth.

Hem!—You hear, Count?

His punctilious pride is contempt⯑ible!

Sir!

And Sir!—I repeat: do your duty, Sir.

The moſt unaccountable! Hem!—

I am on the rack! He will betray himſelf.

The old gentle⯑man does not mince matters!

You will ruin me.

Do as he requires, or I will feign no longer.

Lady Peckham is expecting you. Come, come; try whether you cannot put on a winning ſubmiſſive air.

I ſhall burſt!

Submiſſive, Sir!—Remember!

I ſhall not forget, Sir!

You approve my advice, don't you, Sir?

Entirely. The leſſon you give him, Sir, is a uſeful and a neceſſary one. I know him!

Fiends!

What, Sir—You—have lived long in the family?

Sir!

Nay, don't be affronted!

Let us begone, Sir! I am ready to attend you.

The blunteſt, drolleſt—!

We are loſing time, Sir.

Well, well; in a moment.

Pray, under favour, what may be the amount of the Count's rent roll?

Sir! His rent roll, Sir?

Ay, his rent roll—The nett pro⯑duce of his eſtates?

Why that queſtion to me, Sir?

For heaven's ſake, Sir Paul, let us go.

'Sblood! What a violent hurry you're in all of a ſudden!

Lady Peckham is waiting, Sir. I beg, I entreat—

The myſtery thickens!

Pray, Sir, has the Count—

For the love of mercy, Sir, anſwer no queſtions; hear none, aſk none! I am frantic!

Silence, Sir!

Has the Count ever talked of his eſtates?

Oh yes.

Damnation!

And told you the amount?

No—no—But, as you—

I muſt inſiſt, Sir, on going.

I'm not prepared, Sir, juſt now to anſwer your queſtion, of the rent roll. I have buſineſs, and muſt leave you; but I will [67] ſhortly give you the information you require. In the mean time, young gentleman, think on what has paſſed! Obſerve Sir Paul's advice, and act as becomes you. Put off your vanity—Be humble, and know yourſelf.

Thank heaven he is gone!

Your ſteward is an odd one!

Sir—I—I tell you he is not my ſteward.

No!

No, Sir.

What is he then?

Sir—I—

I thought you taught every body to keep their diſtance; but he treats you with as little ceremony as—

as he did me.

Pſhaw!" Come, come—Lady Peckham is waiting.

I muſt own, Sir Paul, I meet with many mortifications. Your daughter is an angel. But ‘there are certain things to which a man [68] of my rank muſt not, cannot ſtoop. Do you, Sir Paul, come to an agreement with your lady, and I am ready.— [Calls] Mac Der⯑mot!—I'll return in a moment.’

Solicitation, Sir Paul, does not be⯑come me; it is a thing I have not been accuſ⯑tomed to. Do you ſpeak for me. Say all, ſay every thing you pleaſe. Your mediation will, I preſume, be ſufficient.

Damn me if this is not beyond all human patience! After all I have done in your behalf! What! Would you have me and my whole family approach your footſtool, there preſent my daughter, and kneel⯑ing beg your highneſs to accept her? No, my haughty Count! Either my daughter is worth aſking for, or not worth having. Carry your pomp to a better market; I'll ſtoop to it no longer. Your ſervant, Sir!

Nay, Sir Paul—Muſt I endure this? Muſt I?—I! The deſcendant of an [69] ancient race! The rightful lord of athouſand vaſſals! ‘Ought I to cringe in ſupplicatory baſeneſs, uſe ſervile diſhonourable adulation, bend to ſufflated wealth, act the paraſite to new-fledged pride, and petition where I ſhould command? No! Earth ſhould hide me rather! But that love, imperious love hurries me forward, with impulſe irreſiſtible!’ What! Wait, and fawn on Madam, and mince, and ſimper, and act the ſkipjack, and chatter to her parrot, and be of her opinion, and fetch and carry, and praiſe her taſte, and join her ſcandal, and laugh when ſhe laughs, and kiſs her monkey!—And to whom?—Oh!

Oh, yes! Stabling for a hundred horſes! Open houſe all the year about! Sar⯑vants five and twinty to the ſcore; all making work for one another!

Then the Count, your maſter, ſhould be immenſely rich.

Should be? To be ſure he is. Don't I tell you—

Yes; you tell me one thing at night, and another in the morning—You had forgotten the Colonel's pay!—And the ſecret ſupplies!

Faith, and ſo I had!

And pray was this all your own in⯑vention?

Why, as to that—And is it me, now, that you would have to betray my maſter?

What, then, he bid you ſpread this report?

Arrah now, did I ſay that?—Did I ſay that?—I tell you he bid me no ſuch thing!—What, and did you think, now, you could get that out of me? By St. Patrick, but I would bite off my tongue, if it ſhould dare to blunder out one word againſt ſo good a maſter!—

Honeſt, affectionate fellow!

Oh! Blarney!—She wants to be too cunning for me, the ſweet crater! And ſo, for fear of—Miſs Liddy, your ſervant.

I almoſt love him myſelf, for his love to his maſter.

I tell you, I have done with him. He is a pompous, inſolent coxcomb! The Great Mogul himſelf is a fool to him!

All men have their foibles, Sir.

Damn his foibles. I have enough to do with my own! And, do you hear, Sir?

Don't let me be troubled with any of your foibles either! You underſtand me.

I'll not be trifled with.

What has put him into ſo ill a hu⯑mour?

The curſed ſupercilious haughtineſs of the Count. He has inſulted Sir Samuel Sheepy, too!

I am ſorry for it; but that's a trifle.

Well, brother, have you ſucceeded with my mamma?

I believe ſo—I can't tell—Where is the Count?

I hear him on the ſtairs.

Well, warn him to be careful.

What's the matter?

The old ſtory! The Count's pride. If he ſhould quarrel again with Lady Peckham, all will then be over!

You have put me quite in a tremor!

I will inform my mamma, Sir, that you are here; and ſhe will be with you immediately.

May I not, Madam, be indulged with one previous word?

Yes, Sir; one, and but one. Inſtead of conciliating, I find your manners offend and diſguſt every one. Either caſt away your hau⯑teur, regain the affections and conſent of my friends, and above all make your peace with Lady Peckham, or this ſhall be the laſt meet⯑ing of our lives!

Are you aware, Sir, of your danger? Sir Samuel, Sir Paul, Lady Peckham, all af⯑fronted! [72] Nay your beſt friend, Edmund, has this moment left the room to avoid you! Oh! Think on that lovely lady! And if you have any affection for her, for yourſelf, or for your father—recall your reaſon, diſcard your folly, and act with a little common ſenſe!

This is ſtrange!—My father?—She know my father?—And why am I ſchooled and tutored thus? ‘What have I done? What is it they expect from me?—Do I indeed offend and diſguſt?—Which way? Has not love in⯑duced me to overlook all the high diſtinctions which honour holds ſacred? Nay, am I not now come on the moſt abject of errands?—Yet, to loſe her—!’ The laſt meeting of our lives!—They will abſolutely drive me mad among 'em!

Madam

—When I laſt had the honour—of a—an interview with your lady⯑ſhip, I—I am afraid—I might poſſibly be inad⯑vertently betrayed into—ſome warmth.

Vhy, Sir, ſeeing as how my ſon tells me you are a real nobleman, and not von of the rifraff fortin hunting fellers, if ſo be as you thinks fit to make proper pologies, vhy, Sir, I—I—

To a lady, Madam, every apology may be made. Any conceſſions therefore—

Oh, Sir, as for that there, I vants nothing but vhat is right and downright. And I ſuppoſes, Sir, you are wery villin to own that an outlandiſh foriner muſt think himſelf highly [73] honoured, by a connexion with an Engliſh fa⯑mily of diſtinction. Becauſe that I am ſure you cannot deny. And that it vus a moſt perump⯑tery purceedin in you, being as you are but a Frenchman, or of an Iriſh generation at beſt, to purtend to the hand and fortin of Miſs Loocy Peckham, vithout my connivance.

Madam!

As I tells you, Sir, I am upright and downright. So do you, or do you not?

Madam—! I am ready to acknow⯑ledge that the charms of your daughter's mind, and perſon, are equal to any rank!

Her mind and purſon, indeed! No, Sir! Her family and fortin!—And I be⯑lieves, Sir, now you are come to your proper ſenſes, you vill own too that no outlandiſh lord, vhatever, can uphold any comparagement vith the Peckham family and connexions!

Madam, though I am ready to offer every ex⯑cuſe which can reaſonably be required, for any former inadvertency; yet, Madam, no con⯑ſideration whatever ſhall lead me—I ſay, Ma⯑dam, my own honour, a ſenſe of what is due to my anceſtors, myſelf, and to truth—that is, Madam—No! The world, racks, ſhall not force me to rank my family with yours.

Vhy, Sir! Vhat is it that you are talking of? Rank my family vith yourn, indeed! Marry come up! No, to be ſure! I ſay rank! I knows wery vell vhat is my doo: and that there, Sir, is the thing that I vould have you for to know! And I inſiſt upon it, Sir, that you ſhall know it; and ſhall own that you [72] [...] [73] [...] [74] knows it; or, Sir, I rewoke every thing I have condeſcended to ſpecify vith my ſon! So do you, Sir, or do you not?

Madam—What, Madam?

Do you depoſe, that outlandiſh foriners are all beggars, and ſlaves; and that von Engliſhman is vorth a hundred French⯑men?

Madam—Whatever you pleaſe.

Oh! Wery vell!—And do you purdict that this here city is the firſt city in the whole vorld?

I—I believe it is, Madam.

Oh! Wery vell!—And that the Moniment, and the Tower, and Lununbridge, are moſt magnanimous and ſuperfluous build⯑ings?

Madam—

I'll have no circumbendibus! Are they, or are they not?

Your ladyſhip is pleaſed to ſay ſo.

To be ſure I does! Becauſe I knows it to be troo! And that the wretches in forin parts are all fed upon bran; ſeeing as how there is no corn?

As your ladyſhip thinks!

And that the whole country could not purwide von lord mayor's feaſt?

I—Certainly not, Madam: they have few turtle and no aldermen.

Ah! A pretty country, indeed! No aldermen! And that it vould be the hite of [75] purſumption, in you, for to go for to ſet your⯑ſelf up as my equal? Do you own that?

No, Madam!

Sir!

No force, no temptation ſhall in⯑duce me ſo to diſhonour my great progenitors!

Vhy, Sir!

My ſwelling heart can hold no longer! Honour revolts at ſuch baſeneſs! Patience itſelf cannot brook a fallacy ſo glaring! No! Though deſtruction were to ſwallow me, I would aſſert my houſe's rights, and its ſuperior claims!

Wery vell, Sir! Waſtly vell, Sir! And I vould have you for to know, Sir, vhile my name is my Lady Peckham, I vill diſſert my houſes rights, and claims! That I deſpiſes all—! Ha, ha!—Ha! Wery fine, indeed! Am I to be ſent here to be hectored, and huffed, and bluffed, and bullied, and bounced, and bluſtered, and brow-beat, and ſcoffed, and ſcouted, and—! Ha!

Madam—

I a brought my hogs to a fine market! But I'll let 'em know who's at home!

My warmth, Madam—

Your honour and glory, indeed! And for to purtend for to ſend for me here, to palaver me over as I ſuppoſed—

I am ready to own, Madam—

But I'll rid the houſe of you! I'll take good care you ſhall have no daughter of mine! You may poſt off to your father's hall, and there ſtarve in ſtate. Varm it with a blaze of dried leaves, and ſtop up the gaps in the [76] ſhattered vinders, and old groaning doors, vith clay; then ſend your ſhivering waſſals, that ſtand jabbering behind your von armed vooden chair, to ſkin the ſheep that died of hunger and the rot, to make you a varm vinter ſurtout!

Madam—

My daughter, indeed! I'll kara⯑katoor you!

Flames and fury!

How now, Sir!

Sir, your humble ſer⯑vant.

What does this mean, Sir? Let me paſs!

A word or two firſt, if you pleaſe, Sir.

Let me paſs!

Sir I muſt humbly entreat—

Damnation!—What is it you want with me, Sir? Who are you, Sir?

My name is Sheepy, Sir.

Sheepy?

So, ſo, ſo! Hell and the devil! At ſuch a moment as this!

I am told, Sir, I have ſome obli⯑gations to you, which it becomes me to diſ⯑charge.

Well, Sir.

Not quite ſo well, Sir, as I could wiſh.

Was ever man ſo tormented?

I am informed, Sir, that you have condeſcended to mention me, in my abſence.

And ſo, Sir?

You did me an honour, Sir.

Either ſpeak your buſineſs, and ſuf⯑fer me to paſs, or I will nail you to the door!

Dear Sir, you are ſo warm!

—I have been told you were ſo good as to threaten to cane me.

Ay, Sir? By whom!

By Lady Peckham, Sir.

Indeed!—Well; ſuppoſe it.

'Twas kind of you!—Unluckily, I have not been much uſed to threatening meſ⯑ſages, and am really afraid I ſhall not be very prompt at ſubmiſſion.

Oh, do not doubt yourſelf, Sir.

Humble though I am, I do not find that a ſwaggering look—

Sir!

Moderate your anger, kind Sir—I have a petition to you.

Damn your ſneer, Sir! Speak!

Bleſs me, Sir! You are ſo warm! It is only that you would kindly do me the fa⯑vour either to cut my throat, or ſuffer me to cut yours.

Are you mad, Sir? Do you recollect where you are? In whoſe houſe?

Gadſo! True, Sir! I ſhould be ſorry to be interrupted—Luckily, my carriage is at the door; and I know a ſnug room in a [78] neighbouring tavern, where this buſineſs may be effectually ſettled, as quietly, as coolly, and as privately as poſſible.

'Twere well for you, Sir, had you choſen another opportunity—But come!

Oh! Sir! I know my place—After you!

Away, Sir!

I am purſued, beſet, and cannot eſcape!

Blood and thunder! Why what's all this? Oh! And is it you, Sir?

Where is the Count?

Faith and that is more than I can tell.

—‘Here, here, I tell you!’ This room!] Why what the divle—!

I am hunted! My liberty, per⯑haps my life, is in danger!

Why ſure the Count would not—

Here! Take, hide this packet from the eyes of my purſuers! Don't loſe it; but, if you have any ſenſe of worth and honeſ⯑ty, deliver it ſafe into the hands of Sir Paul Peckham!

Niver fear me, honey.

That's the man. Seize him!

Sir, you are our priſoner.

On what authority, Sir?

Authority, Sir? The authority of law, Sir.

For what crime?

As to crime, Sir, I can't tell; but for a trifling debt, of fifty thouſand pounds.

At whoſe ſuit?

At mine, Sir.

Yours? Vile wretch! Gentlemen▪ he is a ſpy: the creature of a foreign Court! I never had dealings with him in my life!

We know nothing of that, Sir. He has ſworn to the debt.

No parleying; take him away.

Ay, ay. Come, Sir.

Help! Reſ⯑cue! Falſe Impriſonment!

Why what is all this now?—Poor ould gintleman!

Where is my ſhillalee?—Oh, by St. Peter and his crook, but I will be one among you, ſcoundrels!

ACT V.

BE pacified: you are too much alarmed.

If Sir Paul ſhould have let them paſs, what dreadful conſequences may have fol⯑lowed! Where can he be?

He is here!

Oh, Sir!—Where are they?—Has any thing happened?

Happened!—Dammee! I could not believe my own ears!—A ſilky Simon!—The Count was in a right humour—'Sblood! I had a great mind to have let him kill the old fool.

Then they have not fought! Are they ſafe, Sir?

Yes, yes; they are ſafe enough—But do you know the amorous ſwain, his blood being heated, could only be pacified on condi⯑tion that he might have another interview with Lucy!—I'm glad on't!—I'll go and give her her leſſon.

Oh, Sir, leave him to my ſiſter, ſhe needs no inſtructions.

No?—Gad, I believe not! She's my own girl! But clear the coaſt; he is com⯑ing!

I will go to Lady Peckham; and do you, Lydia, watch for the Count.

Ay, ay. He is ſuddenly grown humble; apologized to me, and promiſed to come and plead with my lady. But away.

Well, Sir Samuel, you are here!

Yes, Sir.

And I half wiſh I was any where elſe, already.

And ſo you abſolutely have the courage to attack my Lucy? Ha, ha, ha! Why you are quite a hero! You fear neither man nor woman!

I wiſh I didn't—

Nay, but don't begin to look ſo pitiful! She'll be here in a minute. Don't flinch! Stand to your guns! She'll not eaſily ſtrike! Ha, ha, ha! Die hard, my old boy!

What is the matter with me? I declare he has talked me into a tremble! Why ſhould I be ſo terrified at a harmleſs woman? I can't help it! A pair of beautiful eyes are flam⯑ing ſwords, which no armour can reſiſt!

So, Sir Samuel!

Bleſs me!—My heart is in my mouth!

You ſeem taken by ſurpriſe.

Madam—Hem!—No, Madam—Yes, Madam.

My Papa informed me you were wait⯑ing, purpoſely to diſcloſe this important ſecret.

Madam—Hem!—Yes, Madam—

Do you know that I have had you in my mind I don't know how often, ſince I ſaw you?

Hem!—Have you, Madam?

Yes, I have—'Tis a pity, nay indeed a ſhame, that ſo famous an Engliſh family as that of the Sheepy's ſhould become extinct.

Hem!—There is no danger of that, Madam.

No!—Why it is too late in life for you to marry, Sir Samuel—

Hem!—Yes, Madam. No, Ma⯑dam.

Indeed! So you—! Well! I ſhould like to know your choice—Some ſtaid body, I imagine.

Madam—Hem!—

But I would not have her too old, and diſagreeable.

Hem! I can aſſure you, Madam—She—Hem!—She is a very beautiful young lady.

You ſurpriſe me!—Oh! Then per⯑haps ſhe is ſome low-born girl, who has more pride than underſtanding, and is willing to ſa⯑crifice her youth, and beauty, to the ſilly vanity of riding in a coach?

Quite—Hem!—Quite the contrary, Madam.

Then ſhe muſt be poor, and muſt think [83] of marrying you for the ſake of your riches, hoping you will die ſoon.

Madam—Hem! She is very rich.

Is it poſſible!

And I ſhould flatter myſelf would not expect me to die too ſoon.

Oh! But ſhe will! Young women never marry old men, but with a wiſh to dance over their graves.

Hem!

Perhaps the poor girl may—may have made a faux pas.

Hem! Her virtue is unſpotted, Madam.

You amaze me! Young, rich, beau⯑tiful, and virtuous! What can her reaſon be for making choice of you? Why does not ſhe rather marry ſome youth, whoſe rare qualities reſemble her own?—Oh! I've found the ſecret at laſt! She's an idiot.

Hem! No, Madam—No—Hem!—I am afraid ſhe has too much wit!

Nay then, Sir Samuel, you are the moſt fortunate gentleman I ever heard or read of!—But are you ſure ſhe is in love with you?

Hem! N—Not very, Madam.

No!—Oh ho! I have unriddled it at laſt! You have been bargaining for her with her father, or her mother, or—Ay, ay! The poor young lady's conſent has never been aſked!—And would you be ſo ſelfiſh as to ſeek your own ſingle gratification, and be contented to ſee her condemned to miſery, pining to death for the youth ſhe loves, and juſtly deteſting the [84] ſight of you, as the wicked unfeeling author of her wretchedneſs?

Hem!

Madam I—Hem!—I wiſh you a good even⯑ing.

Another word, Sir Samuel. Have you ever talked to the young lady on the ſubject?

Hem! I—Hem!—I have and—Hem! I have not.

You never made a direct propoſal?

Hem! No, Madam.

But why?

I, I—Hem!—I can't very well tell.

But I can.—With much folly and de⯑pravity, there is ſtill ſome virtue in you.

Madam!

Though you could form ſo unjuſt a project, you never had the courage to inſult the lady by an avowal of your guilt.

Hem! Guilt, Madam!

Yes, Sir, guilt—However, Sir, ſhe has perfectly underſtood your inſinuations.

Madam!

She has infinite reſpect for filial du⯑ties. But, though ſhe would beware of offend⯑ing her parents, I know her to be equally de⯑termined never to entail miſery on herſelf; nor to accept a huſband whom ſhe could neither eſteem, admire, nor love!

Madam—I—Hem!—Your ſer⯑vant, Madam.

Not till you firſt promiſe—

I'll promiſe any thing, Madam.

That you will not render yourſelf more ridiculous, by perſevering in ſo abſurd, ſo unjuſt a purſuit.

No, Madam! I'm quite ridiculous enough already!

Nay, more, that you will not ſeek ſome leſs friended, more enſlaved, or more ti⯑mid young creature, whom your miſapplied wealth might command.

Whatever you pleaſe, Madam!

But that you will rather apply your ſuperfluous hoards to the protection of youthful innocence.

Suffer me but to depart, Madam, and I will bequeath my eſtates in perpetuity as you ſhall direct; I'll entail them on the Magda⯑len; or I'll advertiſe for marriageable men and maids, and you ſhall portion out my money among them! I'll—I'll do any thing, except marry, or go a courting!

Why then, Sir Samuel—

There—That be your reward.

Madam—Your humble ſervant.

Ha, ha, ha! Poor Sir Samuel! This is the firſt time he ever forgot his bow.

Well, Sir! have you effectually made your peace with my mamma?

I have done my endeavour, Ma⯑dam—Would I were at peace with myſelf!

And are you ſtill, Sir, under the domi⯑nion of prejudice ſo weak? Do you ſtill repent [84] [...] [85] [...] [86] of what you ſo long have deemed your conde⯑ſcenſion?

Far otherwiſe, Madam. There are beings ſo peculiarly favoured of heaven, and en⯑dowed with ſuch high perfections, both of body and of mind, that they are ſuperior to all the diſ⯑tinctions of men, among whom they walk angels upon earth! You are one of theſe! And my miſery is, I never can deſerve you!

You may have ſtumbled, but this ſelf⯑condemnation ſhews it was but to riſe with ten⯑fold ſtrength. Perſevere, and we will be ſevered only by death.

At length, my dear Count, Lady Peckham is pacified. To ſtoop to her ill-placed pride, to overlook her prejudice, and to peti⯑tion as you did, was noble in you. I have ſe⯑conded your efforts, have pledged myſelf for your honour, and guaranteed your veracity.

Then, Sir, you have ſtruck a dagger to my heart! I have been guilty of falſehood! That very pride, and that exalted, or I fear extravagant, ſenſe of honour, which ſhould have preſerved me from a ſtain ſo hateful, have daſhed me down the precipice!

You amaze me!

'Tis true, 'twas inadvertent; but rankling vanity, ſtrengthened by a purer motive, the trembling alarms of love, induced me to perſiſt; nay, a ſecond time to aid deception.

You did wrong—But which of us can ſay they never erred?

Ay! Who will ſtand forth and affirm, [87] that, amid the rude whirl, the confuſed doubts, or the terrors of paſſion, they never once have been betrayed into your crime? For a crime I own it is; and with conſequences ſo wide, ſo pernicious, and ſo fatal, that, when it ſhall be extirpated from the earth, that moment man will be perfect! But, in this poor world's pre⯑ſent ſtate, it is ſo far venial, that (painful, hu⯑miliating thought!) no—the nobleſt, the pureſt of us all, cannot ſtrike his heart, and ſay—I never was a liar!

But what have you ſaid that—

Come, come! We muſt ſtrike while the iron is hot! We muſt take my Lady while ſhe is in the humour, ſince ſhe muſt neceſ⯑ſarily be a party in our deeds. And firſt I have agreed, as you know, Count, that my daugh⯑ter's portion ſhall be 80,000l. The remainder will chiefly reſt with you. What ſettlement do you intend to make? And on what eſtates?

None, Sir.

None!

I have no eſtates.

Sir!—Why, what!—Zounds!— [88] After the enquiries I made, I cannot be ſo de⯑ceived! Are not you Count Connolly Villars?

I am, Sir.

A colonel in the armies of the Moſt Chriſtian King?

I am, Sir.

Recommended to me by Meſſieurs Devigny, the great merchants at Marſeilles?

The ſame, Sir.

Why, then, what do you mean?

When I firſt paid my addreſſes to this lady, I imagined my rank and family were a ſufficient counterpoiſe to wealth.

Ha! Gold in one ſcale, honour in t'other?—Flimſy ware!—No, no—Kick the beam—

But, ardent, violent, and eternal, as my love for your angelic daughter is, and muſt be, even the loſs of her ſhall not tempt me, any longer, to practiſe the leaſt impoſition.

Well, but, 's blood! The ſteward! The family eſtates!

I have told you the truth, Sir.

What's the matter, Lydia?

Poor Mr. Mac Dermot—!

What of him?—Any harm?

He has been in ſome fray, and is ſo bruiſed!

Bruiſed! Where is he?

Below, with a packet, which he wants to deliver to Sir Paul.

To me?

Yes, Sir. Pray go to him.

A packet for me!

I ſhall never hear the laſt of this from my Lady!

Brother, go to my mamma, and en⯑deavour to keep her in temper.

Be not dejected! I know my father's affection for me, and do not yet deſpair.

Charming, generous girl!—This poor Mac Dermot!

He is afraid of ſeeing you. He ſays you will never pardon him, for having taken the part of ſome man, whom you threatened to mur⯑der!

I? I threatened to murder no man!—Will you, Madam, be ſo kind as to tell him I am here; and that I inſiſt on ſeeing him?

With pleaſure.

Kingdoms ſhould not tempt me to paſs another day like this!

How now, Mac Dermot! Where have you been? What's the matter with you?

No great matter, my Lord—Only a little bit of a joint here.

Broken?

A double tooth or two—Not much, my Lord.

Much!—How?—What have you been doing?

I hope your Lordſhip won't be angry!

But the raſcals ſazed him neck and heels!

Seized who?

He was as innocent as the babe unborn, my Lord, and he tould 'em ſo:

the dirty rapſcallions!

Who are you talking of?

To be ſure, he—he ſent your Lordſhip a—a viry impartinent letter.

How?

There were three of them. Niver did your Lordſhip ſet your two good-looking eyes on ſuch a pair of thieves!

For heaven's ſake, tell your ſtory ſtraight forward! What letter do you mean? Who?

I hope your Lordſhip will forget and forgive! It would have moved the bowels of your compaſſion, to have ſeen the ould gintleman!

Is it poſſible? What can he mean? What old gentleman?

The dirty ſhaberoons took him by the throat—My viry blood boiled!—Upon my ſoul, my Lord, I could not bear it! I hope you will forgive me! By the merciful fa⯑ther, I could not bear it!

Tell me, this moment, who you mean!

He came running back, out of breath, and aſked for your Lordſhip. And ſo, my Lord,

being a fillow-crater in diſtriſs—

Came where?

A couple of as ill-looking Tyburn⯑turnpike bum-bailiffs as your Lordſhip could [91] wiſh! With a cowardly complotter at their back! It was he that came behind me with his ſhillalee, while I was hard at work with them both But the brave ould gentleman ſtepped in; ánd, by the Virgin's night-cap, but he gave him his doſe!

Once more, tell me inſtantly, what old gentleman?

Conſidering his age, he is as active, and as brave a fillow, as ever handled a fiſt.

He cannot ſurely mean my father! Mac Dermot, I entreat, I command you to tell me of whom you are talking.

If your Lordſhip had but ſeen the noble ould ſoul, I'm ſure you would have for⯑given me.

But what letter—?

Oh! The divle burn the letter! Now, my Lord, don't mention it! Pray don't remimber it, your Lordſhip! Pray don't! By my ſoul, now, my Lord, he is a fine ould fillow! Oh! How he laid about him!

Was it the perſon who came this af⯑ternoon?

My Lord—

Fear nothing! Speak.

Why, then, my Lord—To be ſure—it was he himſilf.

And is he ſafe? Did you free him from them?

Why, my Lord, I could not hilp it!

I could not hilp it! By the holy footſtool, but I couldn't!

Mac Dermot!

My Lord!

Well, well! A time will come—

My Lord!

Are you much hurt, Mac Dermot?—Here!—Hollo!—

Call a chair! Run for a ſurgeon and a phyſician! The beſt that can be procured.

For me, my Lord?

For you, my noble fellow!

Spare yourſelf the labour, young man.

Go! Do as I order you; inſtantly.

Mac Dermot, you muſt be put to bed!

To bed, my Lord!

And loſe ſome blood!

Faith, my Lord, that will be a little too much! I've loſt quite blood enough already.

Pray! I requeſt! I muſt have you do as I deſire! I would not have any ill happen to you, for the world!

Oh! And the divle of ill or harm can happen to Mac Dermot, the while he has ſuch an a ginerous prince royal of a maſter! Though I believe, the beſt thing that could happen to me juſt now, would be a good ſupper, and a hearty tiff of whiſky punch.

Not for the Indies!

Faith, my Lord, it was hard work; and has given me a very craving kind of a call.

The chair is waiting, Sir.

Go, my good fellow! Obey me but this once, and I'll never act the maſter to you more.

Well, well, my Lord. But I hope your Lordſhip won't quite kill me with kind⯑neſs.

So, Count, I find, after all your pretended raptures, you ne⯑ver wiſhed to marry my daughter!

Sir!

Why did not you retract like a man; and not make a paltry, falſe excuſe of po⯑verty?

Sir, I made no falſe excuſe!

How, Sir! Shall I not believe my eyes? Have I not bills here in my hand, drawn in your favour, for five hundred thouſand crowns?

In mine!

In yours! Given me this moment by your own ſervant.

Impoſſible, Sir!

Impoſſible, is it? Why, look you, here are the bills: and, hollo!

Go you, Sir, and deſire Mr. Mac Der⯑mot to come back.

Stir not for your life, on ſuch an er⯑rand! He muſt not, ſhall not be diſturbed.

Nay, my word, it ſeems, is not to be believed; nor perhaps the bills themſelves! But, Sir, though you vaunt ſo highly of being a man of honour, the trick was beneath a man of honeſty.

Here's a komakul kind of an ob⯑ſtroperous perſon, that ſays he muſt ſpeak to the Count—You may come in, Miſter.

Ah! What, my friend the ſtew⯑ard! [94] I am glad you are come! Never was ſo amazed in my life! Your maſter, here, has been telling me he has no eſtates!

How!

My maſter, Sir!

The feelings of man cannot ſupport this open ſhame!

Whither now, Sir?

Ay! Talk to him! I'm in a miſt!

Suffer me to paſs, Sir.

Speak the truth—Render me contempt⯑ible! Abhorrent! But make me not a witneſs of my own diſgrace!

Stay, Sir!

I cannot.

Stay! Or dread a father's male⯑diction!

His Father! The plague! Hem!—Lydia!

Huſh!

Father, indeed! Vhat he! So, ſo! Here's a wirago! Here's a chouſe!

My Lady—

I thought vhat vould be the upſhot on't!

Madam.

Spurred on by ſuppoſitions and conceits the moſt abſurd, wholly intent upon yourſelf, contemning others, exacting reſpect you did not merit, refuſing ceremony where 'twas due, protuberant with pride, yet poorly [...]arping at and holding idiot warfare with the pride of others, forgetful of the dignity of rea⯑ſon, but with tenacious graſp clinging to the lu⯑dicrous [95] dignity of birth, the heir indeed and firſt born of Folly, ignorance itſelf has mocked and taunted at you!

Wery troo! Give him his own!

Zounds! My Lady!—I wiſh he would give you your own a little! Not but it's right enough!

To be ſure! I knows wery vell I am right

Your father too has been avoided, nay diſowned! Your father! Who for years has lived in indigence, that he might ſecretly ſupply your wants, ſupport you in ſplendour, and preſerve you from all the miſery of which he made himſelf the willing victim!

Sir! You! Was it you? Oh! In⯑gratitude!

Your father was offenſive to your ſight! And what was it you deſpiſed? Why this poor garb! You wiſhed no kindred with virtuous poverty! Had I appeared in all my former ſtate, though knave or fool had been blazoned on my brow, yet, decked in the trap⯑pings of magnificence, I had received an open welcome. But, bleſt be my penury! Since it has been your puniſhment.

Sir, wrung as my heart is by remorſe, and guilty as I know myſelf, for I have ſtill in⯑creaſe of guilt, no words can mitigate my crimes. Yet, though I have erred, I feel I have ſomething in me capable of good; and ſtrong propenſities to all the tender ties, the filial du⯑ties, and the ſeverer virtues which I have ſeemed to want; a mind which, once convinced, has ſtrength to ſhun and to ſubdue its maſter paſ⯑ſion, [96] renounce its folly, and abhor its turpitude. Deep is my offence againſt you and nature! But let nature plead in my behalf. Here at your feet, repentant for my faults, I claim that pity which a father ſo good, and ſo affectionate, will not ſure refuſe.

Oh! No—For now you ſpeak like the ſon of my heart, the image of my brighteſt hopes! You have ſtood the fiery trial, and are pure!

Vhy but hark you me, Miſter—Vhy vhat! You are not a Count too, to be ſure!

No, Madam.

Vhy then—

If a title can flatter your Ladyſhip, mine is ſomething higher.

How!

I am a Marquis.

A Marquis! You! Vell!

For an outlandiſh Marquis!

My Lady—!

Well but the bills?

They are mine.

Yours, Sir!

Remittances for ſome recovered arrears.—But where is my brave protector? My hero!

Safe, Sir! Every care is taken of the generous fellow.—Is the phyſician come?

Yes, yes. I have taken care of that. I have ſent him my own phyſician. Hem!—

My cook!

You know not half his worth!

Which ſhall not go unrewarded.

No, by heaven!

We have now the means; we no longer are oppreſſed and poor.

Yet are you not in preſent danger?

No. Malice has ſpent its laſt ef⯑fort. Our ambaſſador has juſt ſent me the final deciſion of the judges: my ſentence is re⯑verſed, my whole eſtates are reſtored, and the power of my perſecutors is at an end.

Oh! Fortune! Oh! My Father!—And may I hope it?—My Lucy! May I—?

Yes! Hope every thing!

Mine!

Yours! Heart and ſoul!

She is a brave wench!

Hold a blow, if you pleaſe! Vhat! Am I nobody?

Madam, to you a thouſand excuſes are due.

To be ſure they are!

I am conſcious of my paſt ridicule, and will no more contend with your ladyſhip, for prejudices ſo falſe and weak.

I knoo I vus right! I knoo you made yourſelf ridicolous! I told you ſo often enough!

Well ſaid, my Lady!—But hark you, Miſs Lydia—

And, Sir.

A moment's patience, Sir.—Count! How ſhall I tell him?—My ſon! Look at this charming, this virtuous young lady.

Zounds! What now?

I am conſcious of having treated her [98] with proud unkindneſs, at the very moment too, when I perceived ſhe was ſincerely my friend.

Your friend!—Look at her! Does not your heart throb? Feel you not ſen⯑ſations more tender?—Are you not all doubt, allhope, all fear, all perturbation?

Sir!—What!—Who?

Can you not imagine?—Look at her, I ſay!—Behold her agitation!

Mercy!

Open your arms, your heart, to re⯑ceive her—

Sir! Madam! Who?

Your ſiſter!

My ſiſter!

My deareſt, beſt of brothers!

My friend! My Lydia!

Oh! How culpable have I been!

'Sblood! Here's a pretty piece of buſineſs!

Vhat's that you ſay, Sir? Miſs Liddy the Count's ſiſter!

'Tis very true, Madam.

Troo! Vell, I purteſt I'm quite in a quandary!

And now, Sir—

Yes, 'tis my turn now!—Yes, Sir!

While labouring to reclaim the follies of youth—

Yes, Sir!

We ought not to forget the vices of age.

Hem! We'll talk of them after ſupper, Sir.

Well, Sir, on condition—

Oh! Any condition you pleaſe, Sir!

My dear Father!—

My kind ſon!

Sly raſcal!

We ſhall want a houſe, Sir.

Hem! Ay, ay!

Somewhere in Mary-le-bone.

Very well!

With a—

Zounds!

Huſh! Don't mention the back door!

Then we are all friends?

To be ſure—But, you may as well not tell Scapegrace!

Never fear.

Not a word of the new liveries!

Depend upon my honour.

My ſiſter and my friend! Can it be?

Would you not wiſh it thus?

Oh! Moſt ardently!

Chequered are the ſcenes of life. Pleaſure and pain, joy and grief, auſterity and laughter, intermingling, weave a motley web. Our prejudices are our puniſhments: they cling about us, warp our actions, diſtort our manners, render us the food of ſatire, the mockery of fools, and torture us, as wailing ur⯑chins are tormented to make ſport for boys. Error and folly impede the progreſs of perfec⯑tion. [100] Truth alone can make men wiſe and happy. Myſelf the ſacrifice of falſehood and miſtake, feebly have I ſtriven to ſtem the tor⯑rent▪ and here my taſk, and here I hope my troubles end.