SCENE I.

I REJOICE to find that your ladyſhip's good nature is as much delighted as mine, at lady Frankland's happy eſcape from the galling chain of matrimony.

Why really, Clarinda, I look upon it, that next to the felicity of widowhood is that of being ſepa⯑rated. However, there are, my dear, ſome mate⯑rial differences: While the tyrant lives to whom we have been bound, we never can forget we have been ſlaves. There are, beſides, ſome other diſ⯑agreeable circumſtances which attend a ſeparation, from which, thank Heaven, my ſtate is free.

You mean, I ſuppoſe, the power a huſband has of withdrawing alimony, in caſe of indiſcretion, and forcing the wretched wife upon certain moyens de vivre, whether ſhe will or no.

True. Now you know that ſince that Gothic ſtatute of the Black-Ram, in the North-weſt Rid⯑ing, has been aboliſhed, we widows may chuſe what hobby-horſe we pleaſe; ſometimes, for varie⯑ty, perhaps an aſs; but oh! defend me from a mule, 'tis ſo vaſtly like a huſband.

Oh! the happieſt ſimile in the world: for, on my conſcience, they ſeem equally to be deviations from the laws of nature. However, when broke, from reſtiveneſs, they are the beſt pack-ſaddle am⯑blers in the world.

But now, my dear Clarinda, that we have got this pretty little bird out of its cage, what think you will it do with its freedom? 'Tis vaſtly wild, and will, I imagine, take flight to ſome Arcadian grove, and ſit and ſing alone.

O no; that muſt not be: it would diſgrace our generalſhip. She dies for ſentimental paſſion; and when once her romance is known, I warrant we ſhall be able to ſupply her with pretenders enough, who may aſſume by turns, the crook and ſcrip, the helmet and the lance, to hold her in play. Nay, piqued as ſhe was at what ſhe ſtiled lord Frank⯑land's indifference toward her, I am perſuaded that if one tender tear had but gliſtened in his eye, at the inſtant of their ſeparation, ſhe would have ſunk into his arms, and like the plaintive turtle, have [3] moaned and cooed away the remainder of her life, in true conjugal inſipidity.

I am ſurprized this did not happen, for I am quite of opinion that lord Frankland loves her.

He certainly does; but then he did not deify her. My lord knows himſelf to be a mere mortal man, and has not the preſumption of lxion, to cope with goddeſſes.

He once, I think, admired you, Clarinda; it was thought you liked him too: how happened you to eſcape the nooſe?

Platonics, lady Fanſhaw, all Platonics. So vul⯑gar a notion as matrimony, never once, I believe, entered either of our heads; and I dare ſwear he wiſhes now, that he had never changed his mind ſince in that article.

'Tis poſſible he may; and that at length, tired with the pettiſhneſs of a ſpoiled child, he may re⯑turn and throw his devoirs again at the feet of one who will at leaſt treat him like a reaſonable creature.

I dare not indulge the hope; but I ſhall endea⯑vour though, to lay every obſtacle in the way to their re-union. Lady Frankland is young and handſome; ſhe may be virtuous too; but how long that ſame fortreſs, called Chaſtity, will hold out when beſieged by flattery, the love of which is her chief foible, I cannot ſay.

Why juſt as long, Clarinda, as any other fortreſs, where the governor loves money, and the beſiegers come up to his price. But among thoſe who either are, or pretend to be, her adorers, I cannot yet per⯑ceive that ſhe has ſhewn the ſmalleſt preference; and I really believe that ſhe admires Alexander, Cy⯑rus, or Orondates, more than any man alive.

Perhaps ſhe may think ſo too; but be aſſured, lady Fanſhaw, that any perſon who ardently deſires to inſpire a romantic paſſion is not unſuſceptible of a natural one; and when that takes place, ſhe will e'en act an old proverb, and accept of the living dog, inſtead of the dead lion.

But come, my dear Clarinda, and let us attend the levee of this eccentric comet, which, like other blazing ſtars, perhaps glitters but to fall.

SCENE II.

Thou beauteous ſhade of that angelic form, whoſe wild caprices have deſtroyed my peace, I could for ever gaze upon thee! As lord Townly ſays, "Why did I marry?" Oh! rather ſay, Why did I quit my charge, deputed as I was her virtue's guard?

Good morning to your lordſhip.

Good morrow, Charles.

I grieve to find your lordſhip's contemplations ſtill fixed upon that gloomy ſubject.

And wherefore ſhould they not? Why gloomy, Charles? Look with what innocence ſhe ſmiles upon me! and ſure that painting is the portrait of her heart.

I have not the leaſt doubt of lady Frankland's innocence or virtue; but ſurely, my lord, it were a childiſh folly to caſt our play-thing from us, then ſit and mourn its loſs.

I have not done ſo, Charles: I have thrown a diamond in a flaming furnace; if it eſcape without a crack or flaw, its value then is proved.

Ay, if it does, my lord.

Why ſhould you doubt it, Charles? I know her merits, and her foibles too—her real love of virtue, with her fond wiſhes to inſpire a vain, romantic paſſion.

And can you think, my lord, that to obtain ſo fair, ſo rich a prize, there are not men who will aſ⯑ſume the ſemblance of a more romantic paſſion, than even your lordſhip feels?

Perdition's in that thought! Oh, Charles, had I but ſhewn the thouſandth part of that fond love I feel for lady Frankland, this fatal ſeparation ne'er had happened.

I have been, my lord, to inquire lady Frank⯑land's health, and was anſwered by her woman that her ladyſhip had ſat up late, reading a new ro⯑mance; that ſhe had wept much, and ſlept little, but was in tolerable health this morning.

May each new morn, freſh from its downy wings, ſhed health and happineſs around her! Order my chariot, Ambroſe, and ſee that all things are got ready for my departure this morning. I ſhall go to Belle-veüe, for how long I know not. Perhaps air, exerciſe, and change of objects, may throw off this ſad weight.

Shall I accompany your lordſhip?

No, Charles; you ſeem to have ſome doubts of lady Frankland's conduct: I would have you, therefore, be a witneſs to it; for my part I have none. Your intimacy with Emilia, who now lives with my wife, will furniſh you with ſufficient op⯑portunities to know every ſtep ſhe takes, and I ſhall thank you with true gratitude, to deal with ſtricteſt juſtice.

Ay, toward myſelf I will. This poor, weak man has parted from his wife, for wiſhing he ſhould love her, and now ſits pining at yon baby-face, and longs to have the limbs to it again. But ſhould that happen, he may perhaps get others, which muſt contract and cripple mine. Counſellor Frankland, with four hundred pounds a-year, and that dipt up to the chin too, is but a poor lover ſor Emilia, with [7] fifteen hundred; but the ſame man, heir to lord Frankland's rank and fortune, ſounds well enough. Therefore the caſe ſtands thus: my bird is almoſt caught, and ſhall I looſe the ſtring, and let it fly, to lure his to the neſt again, where it may ſit and breed, while I am whiſtled down the wind to prey at fortune?

SCENE III.

Nicodumpus, Nicodumpus, maka de hot vater for my lady breakfaſt. Vite, Nicodumpus.

What can ſhe mean now?

Why you no ſtir, Nicodumpus? my lady up this half-an-hour, and has no gota her tea. In my countré de valet de chambre hava de caffé, de ga⯑teau, ready again de lady ſit up in her bed; they carry it to her ruelle, they clap it upon her lap, they tell her de news of de ville, of de compagne, of every ting in de vorld; they maka her laugh, and put her in de bon humeur for de whole day. O, de Engliſh ſerviteurs ſont de mere bétes!

Why there now, youſe run on at a fine rate, and Iſe does not know what youſe been jabbering about, this half hour. The Devil take all your country, ſay I: Youſe come over here, poor, ſorry, lean, ſpectacles, to take the bread out of our Engliſh [8] mouths, and then prate to us in outlandiſh gibber⯑iſh, of ruelly's, villy's, and Cato's. But I'll be hanged if Mrs. Cato, that lived with my lady be⯑fore ſhe ever ſaw your ugly feace, were not worth a ſhip-load on ye.

What, you filthy animal, do you ſtand making a names of me? Spectacle! me no ſpectacle; me no wear de ſpectacle on my eyes. Ver fine indeed! I vill make complain of my lady directly; I vill maka her turna you out, you miſerable ver de terre, and I vill get de French valet for her, who ſhall know how to treat mademoiſelle de Fontange vid de propre complaiſance.

Youſe turn me out, youſe be hanged firſt. Sure one Engliſhman is able to flog a dozen of your wiſhy-waſhy ſoup-meagre munſeers, let alone ſuch a flippery, flimſey doll Margery, as you.

Oh, de monſter, de barbicon! je dechireray ton viſage, vid my nail.

If youſe at that work, have at you.

Noa, damn it, they ſay ſhe is a woman, and I don't care to ſtrike her, neither. But hearkee me; ſend your fine man, your varlet, that is to treat you with compliments, and Iſe treat him with as ſound a rib-roaſting, as ever our noble generals gave his countrymen at Minden; ay, that I will.

Oh, oh, oh!

Goodlack, what is the matter, dear mademoi⯑ſelle? you ſeem to be in a moſt piteous taking. For goodneſs ſake, Nicodemus, what have you done to poor mademoiſelle?

Why, nothing at all, Mrs. Lucy, and Iſe ſorry for it: Thoſe damned furbeloes and flounces about her heels there, have ſaved her beacon, or I'd have trimmed her jacket for her; ay, that I would.

Oh! he has mada de baddeſt names of me—he calla me de ſpectacle, de marjoram—oh, oh!

Dear mademoiſelle, do not take on ſo, though it is very affecting really. Come, Mr. Nicodemus, pray aſk mademoiſelle's pardon; come, kiſs and be friends, do now.

Iſe aſk her pardon! Iſe kiſs her! not I truly—Iſc juſt as ſoon hug an hedgehog. Let her be glad ſhe was not a mon, and go off quietly with what ſhe has gotten.

Come, dear mademoiſelle, walk in with me; your nerves ſeem mightily affected, and I have got ſome excellent hartſhorn, which I hope will compoſe you.

Oh, de béte, de monſter!

SCENE IV.

[10] Heigh ho! why cannot I repeat the reſt? Dear unhappy Eloiſe; but oh! far more unhappy lady Frankland! She had experienced thoſe tranſports ſhe ſo feelingly deſcribes, whilſt I, unhappy I, with all the tenderneſs of fond affections glowing in my breaſt, was doomed to the embraces of a marble ſtatue! Surely my glaſs deceives me, or I might well inſpire that ardent love which lifts us to the ſkies upon its ſeraph's wings. Cruel parents, was it for you I wedded! you choſe, indeed, a man of worth and honour for me: O, the rare gift! but to become once weary of a faultleſs perſon, is to be doomed to laſſitude for life. This ſurely, is ſevere!

Upon my word, lady Frankland, you will ſpoil thoſe fine eyes of yours, with conſtant poring; and then, I fear you will become ſo very, very wiſe too, that our beaux won't be able to converſe with you, and we ſhall abſolutely be deſerted by every crea⯑ture, but the grave Sir William Belville, who I be⯑lieve reads a little, and the ſagacious counſellor Frankland, learned in the laws.

I aſſure you, Emilia, I almoſt wiſh I had never learned my letters; ſor the delicate and refined ſen⯑timents, which books have inſpired me with, have only ſerved to diſguſt me with almoſt all mankind.

And yet you would have me read and ſigh, and weep over a parcel of doleful devils, who, ten to one, never exiſted, nor is it a farthing matter whe⯑ther they did or no. Not I truly; if knowledge is to make me unhappy, I am ſure 'tis wiſdom to remain in ignorance; and I heartily wiſh dame Eve had thought ſo too.

Yet you loſe vaſt pleaſure, Emilia.

Grant it; you muſt allow that I eſcape much pain: And I am perſuaded, that your ladyſhip might have been as happy with lord Frankland, as any woman in England, if your ideas had not been perverted and diſturbed by an heap of vile roman⯑tic traſh.

No, Emilia, it was impoſſible. But let me not accuſe my lord for this; my ill ſtars only were to blame.

Bleſs me, what had ſtars to do in that caſe?—unleſs you mean ſtars and garters; and I dare ſay his lordſhip might eaſily have obtained a red ribbon, at leaſt, if that could have rendered you happy.

My dear wild girl, you have wandered very far from my meaning. When I accuſed my fate, in order to excuſe my lord, it was for not having af⯑forded me ſome glorious opportunity of manifeſt⯑ing a paſſion for him, by ſome noble, generous deed, which muſt have extorted his admiration, his gratitude, and love. For, to deal candidly, what right had I to have expected that lord Frankland ſhould be a paſſionate lover? what ſacrifice had I made him? by what heroic devotement had I awakened the ſenſibility of his ſoul? where was the merit of having obeyed my parents, and accepted for an huſband one, to whom I could poſſibly have no exception?

Indeed, my dear lady Frankland, you talk ſtrange⯑ly, and put me in mind of a young lady of my ac⯑quaintance, deeply verſed in romance, who, with a [12] large fortune, ran away with an enſign; but when they had got clear off, ſhe would not be content unleſs he returned and ſuffered her to leap out of a window to him: The experiment was made, and the poor lady diſcovered, and confined, till a more ſuitable match could be found out for her.

With which, I ſuppoſe, ſhe was miſerable for life. Why ſhould love meddle in matches of con⯑venience? Oh, ye delights of ſenſible ſouls! charms of impaſſioned hearts! where are ye? alas! in free and independent love alone, in the mutual yield⯑ing of two fond hearts, which have beſtowed them⯑ſelves!

Oh, for Heaven's ſake, dear lady Frankland, don't run on at this rate! I vow I am frightened leſt you ſhould tempt me to throw away myſelf and fortune, upon ſome beggar in purſuit of theſe ſame tranſports, which, after all, I do not believe are to be found any where but in the heated imagination of ſome poet or romance-monger.

I hope that my dear Emilia will experience every happineſs which ſhe can wiſh. I own your reproof is juſt, and I ſhall henceforth avoid any diſcourſe that may elevate your notions to ſuch an height, as may perhaps make you feel thoſe bitter pangs of diſappointment, which have been my lot.

My dear lady Frankland, I had not the leaſt idea of your growing ſerious on the ſubject: But luckily here comes company to divert it. I have ſome letters to write, and ſhall return the moment they are finiſhed.

Joy to my dear lady Frankland, joy to the world of love and gaity.

Joy to the lovers of liberty, that you have reco⯑vered yours.

I thank ye, ladies, for your congratulations; but as yet I confeſs I do not ſee of what great advan⯑tage this ſame boaſted liberty will be of to me. I have really no purſuits to follow, no inclinations to indulge, that need reſtraint; and to become one's own miſtreſs, at my age, is, I think, a thing rather to be feared than wiſhed.

Why truly, madam, yours is a critical ſituation. But what is female liberty, after all, but a name? for a fine woman can never enjoy it, but in the mo⯑ment ſhe renounces it; and it is only worth pre⯑ſerving, in order to part with it to good purpoſe.

I am aſtoniſhed, Sir Harry, to hear you preach ſuch abſurd doctrine: Lady Frankland is very young; her ignorance is therefore pardonable; but give me leave, who have been my own miſtreſs theſe ten years, to inſtruct her ladyſhip in the charms and uſe of liberty, and I fancy ſhe will find there is ſomething in them more than a name.

Madam, I bow to your ſuperior judgment, and muſt confeſs I do not know a more experienced guide, to all the paths of pleaſure. You and the gay Clarinda here, would have made notable prieſt⯑eſſes, [14] were the myſteries of the Bona Dea now in vogue. But, madam,

I would not have your ladyſhip diſcouraged by what I have ſaid with regard to liberty, for 'tis, doubtleſs, a moſt delightful thing to be free.

True, Sir Harry, provided one knows how to uſe that freedom; but to run gadding about the world, without meaning or deſign, is certainly a groſs abuſe of it.

Abſolute proſtitution of our greateſt bleſſing—But, in my opinion, there is but one meaſure for your ladyſhip to purſue; to chuſe a proper con⯑ductor, and leave the reſt to him. A perſon, en⯑dowed with your ladyſhip's beauty, and delicacy of ſentiment, muſt ſurely have the choice of many.

There lies the difficulty, Sir Harry. When they who wiſhed my happineſs, as ardently as I can do, whoſe judgment and experience were far ſuperior to mine, have erred, what have I not to fear, even in the choice of a mere ſentimental friendſhip, which is all my ſituation can admit of?

Your ladyſhip means, I ſuppoſe, in chuſing lord Frankland for your huſband.

I ſwear, for my part, I ever thought it an ill⯑ſuited match.

Why, he is really a good ſort of man, and ſen⯑ſible enough too, but unhappily wants taſte; not at all cut out for diſcovering the elegant and re⯑fined charms of your ladyſhip's mind. Beſides, [15] really the deſire of pleaſing an huſband, is in gene⯑ral ſo very languid, that a fine woman ſeldom ex⯑erts her moſt amiable qualities, toward him. To charm, to conquer, ſhe reſerves for other eyes, and other hearts than his.

Indeed, Sir Harry, I ſhould look upon myſelf as highly culpable, if that had been my caſe. My ut⯑moſt wiſh was to inſpire lord Frankland with the moſt delicate paſſion: How I have failed, I know not!

Oh, the ſweet plaintive turtle! Come, come, my dear, lord Frankland is a reaſonable creature; he leaves you at liberty.

And you would be unworthy of ſuch rational treatment, ſhould you ſquander ſo great a treaſure, in idleneſs or diſſipation.

I am not much afraid of falling into either of theſe extremes, Sir Harry.

Was there ever ſo rude a monſter, as that Charles Frankland! I met him in the ante-chamber, and made him as civil a curteſy, as any third couſin could poſſibly do, and the bear came up to me, whipt me about the neck, and kiſſed me with the ſame ruſtic freedom he uſed to do at my father's in Wales, when he came circuit with the judges, and dined at our houſe.

Oh, poor Emilia! ha, ha, ha!

Do ſettle my tucker, Clarinda.

So, Sir, you have followed me, I ſee.

He muſt be a dull hound, indeed, who could be found at a fault, in ſo ſhort a courſe. I am glad to ſee your ladyſhip,

I find your ladyſhip ſo much engaged with the croud which ſurrounds you, that I ſhall, for the pre⯑ſent, take my leave; but as I have ſomething of im⯑portance to communicate to you, I intreat you will allow me the honour of waiting on you this evening, when the company may be ſeated at cards, and I may have the felicity of entertaining your ladyſhip apart.

I ſhall be glad to ſee you, Sir Harry.

I doubt it not

Well now, my dear giddy Emilia, what is this terrible diſaſter, which you complain of?

Why, madam, all I know of the matter, is, that my couſin ſeems offended at my being glad to ſee her.

Not ſo neither, Mr. Charles; but you need not drag one's cloaths off, as you uſed to do. Beſides, I am not ſo great a romp as I was, and had not my hair dreſſed then. I am ſure he has diſconcerted it mightily; has not he, lady Fanſhaw?

Not much, my dear.

This fracas will ſoon be made up, I imagine. Mr. Frankland, you'll do me the pleaſure of your com⯑pany to dinner. Come, ladies.

I ſhall attend your ladyſhip.

Frankland.] An aſſignation ſo publicly made, I think I never ſaw: it almoſt wears the face of in⯑nocence, from indiſcretion. This is a rare place to ſeek a wife in! I think I had better play Sir Harry's game, and look out for an intrigue. Ay, ſurely, were it the woman only that I ſought: but, in that caſe, the fortune is as transferable as the laſs, and I would not give ſix-pence for the latter, with⯑out the former▪

SCENE I.

WELL, Mr. Frankland, now that you have drawn me from the company, prithee what is this mighty important buſineſs, you ſaid you had to communicate to me?

How can my dear Emilia be ſo cold—aſk ſuch a cruel queſtion!

I declare I am not in the leaſt cold; I think the weather rather warm for the ſeaſon: and as to cru⯑elty, 'tis a moſt unjuſt charge, for I vow I never hurt any thing in my life, no not a fly.

How can you trifle thus?

Nay, but it is you that trifle, and I beg you will not detain me, for I am ſure the company within will ſit down to loo in five minutes, and I would not loſe my place at the table, for any conſidera⯑tion; therefore, if you have any thing to ſay, ſpeak, vite, vite, as Fontange ſays.

Since I find, madam, that you cannot with pa⯑tience ſpare a few minutes to one, whoſe every hour of life is devoted to you, I ſhall not treſpaſs on you longer, but leave you, madam, to more agreeable avocations.

No, I ſwear you ſhall not make a fool of me, neither; I am ſure lady Frankland will aſk what buſineſs you had with me, therefore do, pray do, tell it me, directly.

If my eyes have not already made the too pre⯑ſumptuous declaration, then let my tongue avow it—Emilia, I adore you.

Ha, ha, ha! and is that the mighty ſecret, la⯑bouring in your breaſt?—Why, my good couſin Charles, you ought certainly to be a great wit, for you really have a very bad memory, and ſeem utterly to forget that you have told me the ſame ſtory, by night and by day, an hundred times at leaſt, within theſe three years, and that I have al⯑ways received this pompous declaration, juſt as I do at preſent—Ha, ha, ha!

I am extremely unhappy, madam, to find that the moſt important concern of my life ſhould be⯑come a matter of ridicule and mirth to you. But though you cannot feel for others, let your own danger awaken your ſenſibility: You ſtand at pre⯑ſent on the brink of ruin, and have no other place of ſafety, that I can ſee, but theſe arms, to take re⯑fuge in.

Then ſure my caſe is deſperate, indeed! But what danger, Sir, what ruin, am I threatened with?

With one of the greateſt misfortunes that can poſſibly befal an innocent young woman—the loſs of reputation, madam.

My character, Sir, is far above the reach of ma⯑lice, nor has the tongue of ſlander ever yet pro⯑nounced my name.

It will not long be ſilent then, be aſſured of it, aſſociated as you now are with perſons, whoſe cha⯑racters have been ſo long infamous, that ſcandal has forgot their names.

I neither know, nor own ſuch vile acquaintance; but if you would not have me think you worſe, far worſe, than thoſe you have deſcribed, ſpeak out di⯑rectly; name them to me, Sir, nor like a baſe aſ⯑ſaſſin, attempt to wound thoſe by night, you dare not look upon by day.

My dear Emilia, you are young, and do not ſee through the artifices of that vile woman.

What woman? Sure you dare not hint it!

Lady Frankland is—

An angel.

I ſay, a fallen one.

Oh, thou art one, and of the blackeſt dye!—She vile, ſhe artful! thou art a monſter but to think it. Her mind and perſon are as pure as mountain-ſnow, which the ſun's beams have never glanced upon.

This is prodigious fine, very poetical truly. But now, my dear Emilia—

Stand off; there's poiſon in your touch, as in your ſpeech.

Are you then deaf, as well as blind? Were you not preſent this morning, when ſhe publicly gave an aſſignation to Sir Harry Wilmot? her bed-cham⯑ber, I ſuppoſe, will be the ſcene.

Sir, I command you ſilence; let not your ve⯑nomed tongue offend my ears, with ſuch baſe, ſuch vile ſuggeſtions.

You bid me ſpeak, and you ſhall hear me out. Is not the grave Sir William Belville ever ſighing at her feet, with twenty coxcombs more, who in their turns ſhall hope, nor hope in vain.

Leave me, Sir; I deſire you'll leave me.

No, my lovely Emilia, I cannot, will not leave you: I will defend you, even againſt yourſelf. I have ſhewn you the precipice, on which you ſtand; let me now point out the path to happineſs and ſafety. This vile lady Frankland—

Again, Sir!

Can never think of returning back to her huſ⯑band again; and, in failure of lawful iſſue, you know I am his heir; therefore no deſpicable match for my Emilia.

Thou art indeed, the moſt deſpicable, meaneſt wretch that lives. So, ſir, the ſource of this pol⯑luted ſtream, at length appears: You have traduced [22] one innocent woman, to entrap another. But know, that were you this moment, what I hope you ne⯑ver will be, in poſſeſſion of lord Frankland's wealth and honours, and that Emilia had not a ſhilling in the world, ſhe would fly you with the ſame deteſ⯑tation and contempt, ſhe does at preſent. And ſo, my lord Would-be, adieu.

I fear I have over-ſhot the mark. I thought to have frightened the little Welch puſs, with the cry of ſcandal opening againſt her, and that ſhe would have taken cover in my arms. But faith ſhe is a ſtout one, and worth ſcampering after, the whole circumference of her eſtate; and, by fair or foul means, I will yet hunt her down.

Serviteur, mademoiſelle.

Oh, your honour's tres humble ſervante; com⯑ment ſe porte Mr. Padrick, your honour's Iris ſer⯑viteur? he never a come to ſee us ſince a we leave Parliamentary-ſtreet. Oh, he be de inconſtant varlet!

I ſhall take care to chide him for it, mademoi⯑ſelle, and ſend him to wait upon you directly.

Oh, your honour maka me very, very glad. I do like Mr. Padrick dearly, he be ſo very coxco⯑mical he maka me laugh; and then he maka de plays vid de kiſſes in it. Oh, it was very, very ſweet.

Well, mademoiſelle, Patrick ſhall certainly re⯑freſh your lips, with ſome of thoſe ſweet kiſſes [23] again. But tell me, how do you like your manner of living, ſince your removal to Pall-Mall? I ſup⯑poſe you are quite happy here without a maſter.

Oh, point de tout, not at all. My lady ſhe keep a de very bad hour; pauvre Fontange ſhe muſt ſit up for her lady. I am ſure me look a de vizard, for want of de ſleep.

How happens that, mademoiſelle? what can ſhe find to do alone?

Why ſhe have a de companie dat ſtay with her ſometime till one or two o'clok; den ſhe go up to her chambre; dere ſhe ſit down to ſigh, or to read a de great big boke; den may be, that laughing miſs Emilie ſhe come in, whip away de boke, and ſit prate-a-prate to her till we no want candle to go to bed. But I beg a your honour's pardon: I have a de lettre to my lady, from Sir Harry Wil⯑mot.

Serviteur, mademoiſelle. Proceed in your vo⯑cation.

Your tres humble.—Pray ſouvenez monſieur Padrick.

A letter from Sir Harry! What then, his ſto⯑mach does not ſerve, or perhaps he thinks the treat will keep cold. I am ſorry for it. I wiſh he, or the Devil had her. I know not what to think of her. I greatly fear ſhe may be honeſt. But if I can contrive any method to ruin her in lord Frank⯑land's opinion, 'tis quite equal, and ſhe may then remain as chaſte as ſhe pleaſes, for me. This French [24] woman may be of uſe: She certainly knows her lady's ſecrets; and it will be very extraordinary, if an Engliſhman's gold, and an Iriſhman's kiſſes, may not be able to open the lock of that curious repo⯑ſitory. She may aſſiſt in my deſign on Emilia too, whom I am determined to have, were it only to gratify my pique.

SCENE II.

The pool is out, and my cards are really ſo diſ⯑agreeable that I am tired of playing. I wiſh Emi⯑lia would come and take them.

Will you play, Emilia?

No, madam, I would rather be excuſed, at preſent.

Then we have done, if your ladyſhip pleaſes, and I am glad of it; for I confeſs I think that play, among friends, is a moſt ſhameful miſemployment of time, and that cards appear properly in the hands of ſharpers only, merely as implements of their trade.

For all that, Sir William, cards are a very com⯑fortable reſource ſometimes.

Ay, where the company is not large enough to make up a country-dance.

I am ſure half the people of faſhion in England, would paſs many a dull evening, nay, perhaps ſome of them might hang or drown themſelves, if it was not for the relief which theſe little innocent paint⯑ings afford.

I am ſo far of Sir William Belville's opinion, that I think avarice is the true ſource of play; and how perſons of liberal minds, and eaſy fortunes, can reconcile ſo mean a motive to themſelves, is to me ſurprizing.

There are few people, madam, who are truly ac⯑quainted with the ſprings of their own actions, and many who are actuated by the baſeſt, would be ſhocked if they knew them.

This is a grave ſubject, Sir William; I think we grow rather too wiſe.

Why I really think ſo too, ſo I'll e'en go trifle. O Clarinda, ſuch a capuchin as I ſaw in the Park, yeſterday! I will have juſt ſuch another poſitively, and will inſtantly go enter into cloſe conſultation with my milliner, on this important ſubject.

I wiſh Sir Harry Wilmot was here; he would enliven us all, even without cards.

You'll not have your wiſh to-night, lady Fan⯑ſhaw—Sir Harry is engaged.

Prithee where, Clarinda?

At lady Subtle's: He is ſolely devoted to her, for the preſent. Her huſband is in the country, [26] and I dare ſay he would not ſpend this evening from her, for a nabob's fortune.

Ridiculous! how can you talk ſo? why he has been in her good graces, above this month, which is long enough, believe me, to ſurfeit him. He has had a dozen amours, at leaſt, within theſe twelve months.

A dozen, did you ſay, lady Fanſhaw?

I did indeed; and your ladyſhip may be aſſured I have ſpoken within bounds.

I dare ſay ſo too; and yet he has behaved with honour, to them all.

How you amaze me! with honour ſaid you? I thought till now, that conſtancy in love had been a virtue.

I have met with ſome ſuch muſty moral, among the metaphyſics of old romances; but the bon ton of later times, have exploded it long ſince, I aſſure your ladyſhip.

I humbly beg a mille pardon of your ladyſhip, and of all de ladyſhips, for me entre here; but I have a beg of Nicodumpus this half-hour, to bring a this lettre to your ladyſhip; but he pretend a he do not entendez moi, and I am forced to bring it myſelf, for which I beg a mille pardon again.

Give it to me, mademoiſelle.—I ſhall return im⯑mediately.

Each word, each glance, diſcovers ſome new charm, And dead, not cold, is he ſhe cannot warm.

O fye, Sir William! what a mere whining ina⯑morato you are! why don't you ſay all theſe fine things to her face? what ſignifies your ſighing them out, after ſhe has got beyond ear-ſhot?

The delicate and high reſpect I bear toward her ladyſhip's unhappy ſituation, muſt ſeal my lips in everlaſting ſilence; nor ſhall I ever breathe a ſigh or wiſh, that may offend her.

Ha, ha, ha!

And ſo you think ſhe would be offended! Lord, Sir William, though you are very young, you need not pretend to be quite ſo innocent. Offended! ha, ha, ha!

I am pleaſed to hear you ſo merry, ladies. Pri⯑thee communicate the occaſion; for I ſhould be glad to try if there be ſympathy in mirth, as well as contagion in ſorrow. Do tell me what you laugh at.

Lady Fanſhaw and Clarinda, madam, were ſay⯑ing—

What, pray?

Why, that of all ſimple animals, a baſhful lover was the moſt ridiculous.

I believe there are few men, now-a-days, ridicu⯑lous on that account. I have, indeed, read of lovers who have ſighed whole years away, without daring to acquaint the happy object with their paſſion.

While, perhaps, the pining fair one ſat ſighing, in her turn, to waving woods and purling ſtreams, for him again. Ha, ha, ha!

That too might have happened, I believe, Cla⯑rinda.

And don't your ladyſhip think they were a cou⯑ple of mighty ſilly mortals?

You know my ſentiments upon that ſubject, al⯑ready, ladies.

For my part, I think there is happineſs ſufficient, in the bare loving of an amiable object.

What, without any hope or deſire of a return?

It is impoſſible to diveſt a lover of the fond hope of being pitied, at leaſt, by the object he adores; and while he confines his wiſhes within that bound, he is indeed a lover: but when he vainly thinks his ſervices ſhould merit a reward, perhaps incon⯑ſiſtent with the honour or happineſs of the beloved object, ſelf-love aſſumes the place of paſſion, and it no longer deſerves even the name.

Upon my word, Sir William, I am charmed with the elegant and juſt deſcription you have given of [29] love, and am rejoiced to find the dear idea ſtill ex⯑iſts in any breaſt beſides my own.

They muſt be inſenſible, indeed, who could have had the happineſs of converſing with your ladyſhip, without being, in ſome degree, inſpired by that de⯑licacy and refinement, which accompany all your words and actions; and if I have been able to con⯑ceive, or expreſs proper ſentiments of the nobleſt paſſion, I own myſelf indebted for them, to my knowledge of lady Frankland.

This goes on ſwimmingly; let us leave them together; I dare ſay they wiſh us gone, Clarinda.—

We muſt bid your ladyſhip good evening: Clarinda and I are under an engagement to meet lady Rattle, and ſome other company at Vauxhall.

You are not coming with us, Sir William?

No, madam, but I think it time alſo to retire. I wiſh your ladyſhip good-night.

Stupid fellow! I would not have gone away theſe two hours, if I had thought ſo.

Sir William Belville is really a very agreeable and polite man. Oh, if lord Frankland had been capa⯑ble of his refined, his delicate ſentiments of love, how happy had I been! this were indeed the golden age again reſtored to me!—But let me ſee once more, what ſays the gay Sir Harry?

[30] "Madam,

"I am totally in deſpair at loſing the moſt pre⯑cious moments of my life; but company have broke in upon me, and prevented my laying my devoirs at your feet. What would I not give to eſcape from them! but, unluckily, they are perſons of the firſt condition:—I cannot therefore taſte of hap⯑pineſs, till to-morrow. I moſt earneſtly conjure dear lady Frankland, to abridge ſome hours of cruel and diſtracting abſence, by permitting me to attend her levee at the toilet: 'Till then I have the honour to be

Her ladyſhip's moſt paſſionate adorer,

H. WILMOT."

Vain coxcomb! is this then the important buſi⯑neſs he had to communicate to me? But I will ſee him, to mortify the inſolence of his preſumption.

Pray, what is your ladyſhip ruminating ſo very ſeriouſly upon?

I have much to think of, Emilia; but I pro⯑miſed you this morning, you may remember, to confine my ideas to my own breaſt. I fancy you look grave too: what, has Mr. Frankland boiſter⯑ouſly preſumed to kiſs your hand, or neglected to take up your fan, when you dropt it on purpoſe for him? or—

No ſuch matters, I aſſure your ladyſhip. Yet he has indeed furniſhed me with a very copious ſub⯑ject for contemplation. But—

I claim no right over your ſecrets, my dear; and from the good opinion I have formed of your cha⯑racter, [31] I dare ſay you may be ſafely truſted with the keeping of them yourſelf. But, as I moſt ſin⯑cerely wiſh your happineſs, I muſt ſay, that I think you would have a better chance for it with any other man, than Mr. Frankland: There is a reſerve, even in his gayeſt manners, that ſeems to ſquint ſuſpicion.

I am ſo far of your ladyſhip's opinion, that I promiſe you Mr. Frankland ſhall never have it in his power to render me unhappy. But let us talk no more upon ſo diſagreeable a ſubject. I have juſt got the laſt new ſong, that your ladyſhip ſeemed fond of: will you ſtep into the next room, and hear it with the harpſichord?

With all my heart.

SCENE III.

You have ſtaid a confounded while; but I ſup⯑poſe you waited for an anſwer—Give it to me.

Fait, and if I had done that, myſelf would not have been here ſo ſoon itſelf; for how could miſs Emilia give an anſwer to a letter ſhe would not read, unleſs ſhe was a conjuror, or a witch?

Not read my letter!

Not ſhe indeed; ſhe ſcorned the motion, though mademoiſelle palavered her at the greateſt rate, and ſaid ſhe was ſure it muſt be very pretty, when it [32] would come from the young concealor; but madam Emilia ſhe ſaid ſhe would not pry into the conceal⯑ment; that is, ſhe would not break the ſeal, I ſup⯑poſe. Augh, ſhe is very witty.

Leave your nonſenſical prate, and be gone.

Well, there is your letter for you again, ſafe and ſound; not a bit worſe than when you gave it me—O yes, fait, it has got a little clean dirt in my pocket, but that's no great ſignify, it will ſerve a poor body well enough ſtill. Shall I carry it to Mrs. Suſan Ta⯑per in Threadneedle-ſtreet? may be it would bid her bring home the ſhirts, if ſhe is able to carry them, with the load your honour has given her already.

Blockhead, give me the letter.

Fait, that's very fooliſh now. I am ſure your ho⯑nour was a full hour a writing it; and what do you throw it away for?

Leave the room.

The inſolence of this proud girl, diſtracts me. I fear I am on the brink of ruin: my fortune mortgaged for more than it is worth; my honour pawned at play; and, what is worſe, my credit ſunk with her, who was to have redeemed them all! ſhould ſhe acquaint lord Frank⯑land with what I have ſaid of his wife, his fooliſh fondneſs for her honour may make him caſt me off, both from his heart and fortune. Beggary, con⯑tempt, and infamy, ſtare in my face. I muſt find out ſome means to avoid their frowns, or elſe eſ⯑cape from them by the help of a piſtol: but as that is at any time in my power, I'll make one effort more, before I draw the trigger, and deſerve death, at leaſt, before I fly to it.

SCENE I.

How ſtrongly do I feel the force of this ſenti⯑ment in my own breaſt! I hoped the opening charms of the ſoft breathing ſpring, would have removed my languor; I grew ſick of the country in a few hours, and I ſhall probably be tired of London, in as ſhort a ſpace.

I hope I ſee your lordſhip in good health; your ſudden return has alarmed me.

I thank you, Ambroſe; but I am as well as ever I expect to be!

My deareſt lord, you break my heart to hear you talk ſo ſadly. If your old ſervant gueſſes right, your malady is love—Love for the ſweeteſt, beſt of women, your lordſhip's wife. Oh! ſhe is all made up of gentleneſs and generoſity! I won⯑der, indeed I do, how you could have the heart to part with her, indeed I do, my lord.

Full well I know her exquiſite perfections, Ambroſe, and admire them all. But with a heart that lov'd as mine did, how could I bear daily to be reproached with want of tenderneſs and paſſion for her! I found it impoſſible to act up to her romantic notions; and as I could not make her happy, I determined not to make her wretched, tho' 'tis too ſure that ſhe has rendered me ſo.

I am certain, my lord, her gentle heart would break, if ſhe ſuſpected that you grieved for her. She ever has received your poor old ſervant with the greateſt kindneſs, and made me even ſit down before her, when ſhe thought that I looked feeble or fatigued, while ſhe inquired minutely of your lordſhip's health. Then let me go to her, and tell her what I am ſure your lordſhip thinks, I know ſhe will hear me, indeed ſhe will—Oh! on my knees I beg that I may be the bleſſed meſſen⯑ger of peace, the happy cauſe of your re-union!

I command you not to attempt it. [The pride of manhood and of love forbid it: could I have condeſcended to have whined and ſighed before her, we never ſhould have parted; but ſince that has happened, nothing but a full conviction of the injury ſhe has done my love, ſhall ever make us meet again. Mean time, I will watch over her, like her guardian angel, and ſhield her from each wrong, or violence, ſhe brings not on herſelf. Should that e'er happen, my care is at an end.]

Go, Ambroſe, and inquire her health, and let Emilia know I ſhould be glad to ſee her. But for your life, breathe not a ſyllable of what has paſt.

I will obey your lordſhip, tho' 'tis the firſt ſe⯑vere command you ever laid upon me.

You will find me in the library.

SCENE II.

Bright as the ſun, and as the morning fair! Eh, ma charmante! what an amazing freſhneſs of com⯑plexion! what a profuſion of lovely hair! upon my ſoul, lady Frankland, you are vaſtly hand⯑ſome.

I am glad to ſee you in ſuch top ſpirits, Sir Harry. I ſuppoſe them the effect of your laſt night's party.

Laſt night—Let me conſider, where was I laſt night? Oh the curſed embarras du monde! which prevented my waiting on your ladyſhip. I have a vaſt mind to turn ſhepherd, and renounce the world at once. Should not you like to be a ſhep⯑herdeſs now?

O vaſtly! with ſuch a faithful ſwain.

Egad, and ſo I am. Conſtancy is, I think, my greateſt foible, at preſent.—'Tis apt to wear out a miſtreſs's patience.

Then lady Subtle may boaſt of her charms, if they have been powerful enough to ſix the lively, roving, Sir Harry Wilmot.

Lady Subtle! why you know, ma chere, her charms are in the wane, abſolutely expiring—We have been old acquaintance, and it would have been cruel in me to have refuſed her the ſhadow of an amour, when ſhe is ſo very near becoming a ghoſt. I am glad to find ſhe is jealous.

Is ſhe in a bad ſtate of health, Sir Harry?

O, by no means, ſhe is as fat and florid as any woman in England of her age, which I believe is near forty.

Pray where is the danger then, of her becoming a ghoſt?

Helas, ma chere innocente! don't you meet a thouſand ghoſts in every public place? Bodies without ſouls, who have haunted the world ſo long, that they are worn out of every one's remem⯑brance, and might glide in and out, without ever being taken notice of, if it were not for the ſpace they occupy. Have you never been joſtled by a fat red ghoſt, in the box lobby of the playhouſe, [37] or at the puppet-ſhow caſcade at Vauxhall? ha! ha! ha!

As they differ in every reſpect from ſpirits, I ſhould never have thought of ſtiling them ghoſts, tho', as you have explained it, I own the term is apt enough; yet I fancy that blanks would do ſtill better, as ſome authors have lately uſed them, merely to make up bulk, and ſtuff life's volume.

I vow, madam, your ladyſhip has an infinity of wit, as well as beauty. But now, prithee, dear lady Frankland, what do you ſeriouſly mean to do with them both?

I do not find myſelf overburthen'd with either of thoſe rare qualities, Sir Harry; but if I ſhould, I muſt e'en look out for ſome good-natured perſon, who will be kind enough to aſſiſt me in bearing the load.

Ay, now your ladyſhip talks reaſon. Mutual offices are the very bands of ſociety. And among the croud of adorers, who bow before your ſhrine, have you yet fixed on one whom you think equal to ſo bleſt a charge? I may be impertinent—Your ladyſhip's bluſhes ſeem to hint as much.

No, Sir Harry, a heart like mine has nothing to diſguiſe—If I bluſhed, it was not ſhame, but pride, that glowed upon my cheek, from the ſlight notion you ſeem to have conceived of me, that among the trifling characters which frequent my drawing room, there could be found one capable of attaching my confidence, or regards.

Why, that is vaſtly ſevere now, when there are ſuch a number of pretty fellows, who dedicate their ſervices to your ladyſhip. What pains ſhe takes to ſhew me ſhe is not engaged?

It would be the height of vanity in me, to ſet down their viſits to my own account, Sir Harry, while I am bleſt with a companion in my houſe, whoſe mind is free, and perſon diſengag'd, and where each charm that can attract in both, unite in my Emilia.

Faith I have always heard your ladyſhip reck⯑oned a little romantic, but never believed it till now. Emilia! why we know her price is matri⯑mony, to become a property for life, egad. And ſure no man of ſpirit would condeſcend to ſuch terms, unleſs with a view to lord Frankland's circumſtances, madam.

Sir, you grow inſolent.

I vow I did not mean it, and aſk a thouſand pardons—but ſurely, madam, with that blaze, that glow of youth and beauty which ſurrounds you, it is impoſſible you ſhould think of living diſengag'd! Were the Heſperian fruit planted in our ſtreets, it would require ten dragons to ſecure it. Alas! you have not one.

In this imminent danger, what think you of my appointing ſuch an excellent guardian as Sir Harry Wilmot? ha! ha! ha!

You may gibe if you pleaſe, madam, but I cer⯑tainly ſhould be the very thing, if I were not ſo much engag'd. Lord, what ſhall I do for means to get free!

Pray do not give yourſelf the leaſt trouble upon that account, Sir Harry, for tho' I am, as you ob⯑ſerved, a little romantic, I have not bravery ſufficient to turn knight-errant; and I muſt ſurpaſs even the renowned Don Quixote, ſhould I think of encoun⯑tering the numerous hoſt of rivals which your attachment might enrage.

No, madam, your ladyſhip is miſtaken, there are not a vaſt number, who at this time lay claim to my devoirs.

O but, Sir Harry, my heart is ſo very tender, that I ſhould be moved to reſtore you back to the groans of lady Subtle, or the firſt ſtalking ſhade of thoſe numberleſs ghoſts your cruelty has made, that might come to haunt me for you.

I aſſure your ladyſhip you are wrong to make a jeſt of my behaviour to lady Subtle; there are few men of my rank in life, who have either morals, or politeneſs, ſufficient to pay the leaſt regard to a dying reputation.—Now, madam, it has ever been my principle and practice both, never pub⯑lickly to abandon a miſtreſs; and when I have been inſufferably tired of a lady, I have kept my chamber, and ſeen no company for three days to⯑gether, in order to give her the credit of the rup⯑ture. But you are not to expect ſuch nice morals from the generality of men, I'll aſſure you, madam.

How you amaze me! is this, Sir Harry, what you ſtile morals, principles, politeneſs! to betray, to expoſe a wretched woman! ſurely I am in a dream, I cannot think myſelf awake.

Why truly, madam, I think we are both very near taking a nap; we have wandered from the point ſtrangely; and I ought to beg your lady⯑ſhip's pardon, for having made ſo improper an uſe of the favour you have indulged me in. Eh donc, ma belle, will you now ſeriouſly fix upon the happy man, who is to love and be beloved by you?

You increaſe my aſtoniſhment every ſyllable you utter.

She muſt be very ignorant, to be ſo ſubject to wonder.

I am young, perhaps not inſenſible; but neither my youth nor ſenſibility ſhall ever betray me into imprudence. If my affections are to be gained, it muſt be time, aſſiduity, reflection, the ſoft ha⯑bitudes of friendſhip and eſteem, that muſt obtain them, even without my choice.

I admire you vaſtly, madam, upon my ſoul I do—but I have not the honour to be of the antient chivalry; nor had I the leaſt notion of your lady⯑ſhip's allowing me the happineſs of a tête à tête, merely to aſſiſt you in compoſing a romance. Adieu, donc, ma chere princeſſe, belle heroine, adieu.

Where will my wonder end! Is this the man of gallantry, the irreſiſtable Sir Harry Wilmot! Surely that woman muſt firſt be a dupe to her own paſ⯑ſions, who could comply with his. Not ſuch the lovers I have read of, who ſighed whole years in ſilence, nor to the world revealed their bitter an⯑guiſh, their conſuming pain; the whiſpering woods alone were conſcious of their woe, till echo caught the ſound, and bore it on her dying voice to the beloved fair.

SCENE III.

This charming woman fills up all my thoughts, my every wiſh is her's, nay my whole ſoul! What delicacy of ſentiment, what elegance of form and manners! Happy—rather ſay unhappy lord Frank⯑land, whoſe ſure poſſeſſion made him contemn a prize, that kings might become rivals for.

Why ſo grave, Sir William?

You miſtake, Sir Harry, I was only thoughtful.

Why curſe me if ever I could diſtinguiſh be⯑tween thought and gravity, in all my life; and as I look upon reflexion to be a mere dull mechanic ſort of buſineſs, I have reſolved never to think, while I live.

A moſt rational reſolution, truly!

But, my dear Sir William, egad I had like to have forgot—you are under the higheſt obligation to me, this very moment; and I will be thanked, poſitively I will.

You need but name it, Sir Harry, and reſt aſ⯑ſured of my gratitude.

Why then, Sir Knight, I have atchieved ſuch a feat in your favour, as you will be tranſported at—cleared the cover'd way, my boy, and left the de⯑file open to you, and you alone. But not to ar⯑rogate too much, I muſt confeſs that it was pure want of that noble ſpirit of perſeverance, which you are ſo amply poſſeſſed of, that made me quit the aſſault; for to ſay the truth, I am tolerable enough at a ſkirmiſh, but deviliſh bad at a ſiege.

You ſpeak in riddle, Sir Harry, pray explain yourſelf, that I may thank you as I ought.

Well then, my dear Belville, thus the matter ſtands—We have both of us, you know, ſighed for that Delia, that Caſſandra, that queen of all ro⯑mance, lady Frankland.

Sir Harry, lady Frankland has a huſband, and—

Sir William, I know ſhe has, and—they are parted; but ſuppoſe they lived together; is it not poſſible to fall in love with another man's wife? [43] anſwer me that, and from your heart, my grave Sir William Belville.

A paſſion in that place, muſt be an hopeleſs one.

Not at all, I aſſure you; for if I would but have ſtarved on hope, for a few days, I might have lived on certainty, as long as I lik'd it after. But egad, my conſtitution is not ſtrong enough to faſt through a lent, though I were ſure to feaſt at the carnival.

Sir Harry, I hope ſtill I do not underſtand you; lady Frankland's character is free from blame.

And always ſhall be ſo, for me, I aſſure you; but to be plain, Sir William, her ladyſhip did me the honour of an aſſignation, this morning, for all that.

An aſſignation, Sir Harry!

Ay, poſitively, a tête à tête.

Go on, Sir.

Go on, Sir! egad I don't know whether I ſhall or no. I fancy I have miſtaken my man, and inſtead of talking to my old friend, Will. Belville, have ſtumbled on ſome country couſin, who, becauſe he is related to her ladyſhip, thinks it incumbent on his honour, to vindicate her's. Go on, Sir!

Diſtraction! torture!

Sir Harry, I was only impatient to know the reſult of this aſſig⯑nation.

To be ſhort then, her ladyſhip aſſumed all the airs of an heroine in romance, talked of conſtancy, aſſiduity, friendſhip, eſteem—and modeſtly gave me to underſtand, that I muſt dangle ſome months, at leaſt, after her, before ſhe could think of re⯑warding my labour. Ha! ha!

But did ſhe promiſe to be kind upon theſe terms, Sir Harry?

Why, not expreſly indeed; but ſure, Belville, you and I are too well acquainted with the ſex, not to know that a conſtant attendance for a fort⯑night, a few warm ſighs, ſome drops of heat diſ⯑tilling from the eyes, with a volley of flattery planted againſt her ears, would have carried this proud princeſs captive, and made her fink into my arms.

Sir Harry, notwithſtanding the lightneſs of your manners, I have ever believed you to be a man of honour; I muſt therefore ſuppoſe, that you have framed this ſtory, purely to try my opinion and re⯑gards for lady Frankland; and that on that diſco⯑very, you will freely own the falſehood.

The falſehood, Sir!

Yes Sir—to traduce that lady's honour, is the baſeſt, meaneſt falſehood. She grant you an aſſig⯑nation!

By heaven, ſhe did.

By heaven, 'tis falſe, and thus I will aſſert it.

Nay then, have at you, in defence of truth.

In defence of honour.

Bleſs me! what's the matter!

Sir William, my life is in your hands.

Then take it freely. I hope you are not hurt.

Not much. If you know how to uſe it, this adventure will be a vaſt advantage to you. A con⯑quering lover is a treaſure in romance, virtue is her fort, but ſentiment her foible. Help me to my chair, 'tis at the park gate, my wound grows painful, and the walks begin to fill. Do not boaſt of this affair to any one but lady Frankland.

Upon my honour, I ſhall not, even to her, Sir Harry.

Succeſs attend you, you deſerve it.

To deſerve is to obtain, Sir Harry; for he who founds his ſchemes in honour, has already ſecured [46] to himſelf that ſelf-applauſe which is more pre⯑cious than any other gratification can poſſibly be.

"Virtue is her fort, but ſentiment her foible." That muſt be lady Frankland. 'Tis very odd, now, I have coquetted with half a dozen at once, and have been kind to two or three, and yet never had the honour of a duel being ſought for me, tho' I have endeavoured to ſet the men together by the ears, with all my might. But theſe ſly, ſlow things, that have either the reality, or appearance of virtue, do fifty times more miſchief, than we good natur'd, generous hearted girls are capable of doing. Or perhaps our gallants, like our nation, love fighting for fighting ſake, without any hopes of being paid for it.

Oh Emilia! ſuch a dreadful accident!

Bleſs me! what has happened?

A duel between Sir William Belville, and Sir Harry Wilmot.

How did it end?

I fear 'tis all over, with poor Sir Harry.

But Sir William, dear Clarinda, what of him!

So, my little ſly one, you are caught, I ſind—

Can one hear of bloodſhed, without concern?

But why diſtinguiſh between the combatants?

Pſhaw, prithee tell me the whole of this ſtory?

Prithee firſt tell me, whether your emotion ariſes from ſentiment, or paſſion?

Neither, neither; compaſſion all.

Well then, all I know of the matter is, that juſt now as I entered the park, I ſaw theſe gen⯑tlemen both draw their ſwords, and engage; and before I could get up to the place, Sir William had become maſter of Sir Harry's ſword.

Were they both wounded?

I cannot inform you, I know Sir Harry was.

Surely the provocation muſt have been great that could tempt them to draw in the park. I thought Sir William had more temper and pru⯑dence. Do you know the ſubject of this quarrel?

I know there was a woman in the caſe, whom I dare pronounce to be lady Frankland.

Impoſſible! what right have either of them to aſperſe or vindicate her fame? She neither does, nor can belong to either of them.

That is perhaps, the very reaſon why they fought about her. A woman in her circumſtances, is looked upon as lawful plunder, to which the long⯑eſt ſword gives a title.

My dear unhappy friend, I am grieved to the heart for her. I was going to viſit lord Frankland, juſt acroſs the park, but I ſhall firſt return to her for a few minutes. I intreat, Clarinda, that you will not mention this affair to any mortal.

Not I, you may depend upon it. The ſecret would burſt me.

But ſhall I ſend to know how Sir William does?

Pſhaw, I hope he is not hurt, with all my heart.

Farewell, Emilia.

I am fortunate, madam, in meeting you in a place, where you cannot avoid me.

You are much miſtaken, Sir, if you think it is not what I would wiſh to do in every place.

I have no reaſon to doubt your ſincerity, madam, but it was carrying your cruelty too far, to refuſe reading my letter—No judge condemns unheard.

I have heard you, Sir, and from your own lips condemn you, nor can any of your artful palliatives ever induce me to change my opinion. I therefore requeſt that you will ſpare yourſelf and me the fruitleſs trouble of attempting it; for be aſſured, that I will never receive letter or meſſage, nor hold converſe or commerce with you more.

For heaven's ſake hear me one word, my Emilia!

No, Sir. But to rid you of perhaps your greateſt uneaſineſs, I promiſe you I never ſhall repeat the vile calumny you thought proper to inſult me with; ſo that your ſecret remains ſafer, even in a woman's breaſt, than it was in your own. But for the future, I adviſe you to be more cautious.

So then, all is ſafe with regard to lord Frank⯑land I find.—But what an aſs am I to think my⯑ſelf ſo, while I am in the power of a woman? no, that can never be, till ſhe is in mine.

Well Patrick, have you ſeen Fontange?

Yes, pleaſe your honour, I have ſeen her all over.

What's all over?

Why by my ſhoul ſhe is all over impudence, I think.

What do you mean?

Why faith, when I enquir'd for her below, they ſaid ſhe was above; ſo up I went to the top of the houſe, to the very garret, to her chambray, as ſhe call'd it, and knocked at the door, out of pure civility, ſhe anſwer'd, enter, or entry, or ſomething like that; ſo in I went, and found her ſowing on her bodices, without ſo much as an apron or bed⯑gown about her ſhoulders—augh, ſhe has made me ſick about the heart.

You are plaguy dainty, truly, to be offended at ſeeing a woman half naked.

Augh hone, my jewel, if it was one of my own country girls, with a ſkin as white as a crud, or a new potatoe, it would not have affected my ſto⯑mach that way.

Well, hold your nonſenſe—did ſhe promiſe to come to my chambers?

Faith, honey, it is but aſk and have with her. I'll be bound ſhe is there already.

And you, blockhead, have got the keys, run home directly, I'll follow you as quick as poſſible, fly—

Troth let her wait, I'll not fly a ſtep for her.

Be gone.

SCENE I.

YOU cannot imagine, my dear Emilia, how much I am ſhocked at what you have told me. I fear I ſhall now become a common topic of diſ⯑courſe. What a triumph for lord Frankland! his character will riſe upon the ruin of mine.—Good heaven, what will become of me!

Indeed, my dear lady Frankland, you firſt de⯑ceive yourſelf, and then argue right, upon wrong principles. You muſt certainly imagine lord Frank⯑land a monſter, before you can ſuppoſe it poſſible for him to rejoice at your diſhonour. On the con⯑trary, I am certain he would be ſenſible of the higheſt concern, were he acquainted even with your preſent diſtreſs.

O! do not ſay ſo, Emilia, I can bear his reſent⯑ment better than his pity. I fear I have de⯑ſerved the one, and am certain I have no claim to the other.

You judge too hardly of yourſelf, my dear; but I have ſtrong hopes that this unlucky affair will never reach his, or any other ears. Sir Harry has nothing to boaſt of; we may therefore depend on his ſilence; and I have too good an opinion of Sir William Belville, to ſuppoſe him capable of ever [53] mentioning it; and I would not have your ladyſhip ſeem to know one word of the matter.

Grant it ſhould remain a ſecret, Emilia; how painful muſt my ſituation be! conſcious of the higheſt obligation, which I muſt not acknowledge, even to the generous hand that has conferr'd it To a mind open and grateful as mine, this muſt be torture.

Have a care, lady Frankland, of over-rating the obligation. Sir William knows that your ſituation cannot admit of a return, and if I am not much deceiv'd with regard to his character, his ſenti⯑ments are too generous to expect one.

By ſhewing my want of power to repay it, you but enhance the debt.

Sir William Belville, madam.

Your ſervant, ladies, I ſcarce expected the plea⯑ſure of finding you at home this fine day, when all the world is abroad.

That may perhaps be one reaſon for our ſtaying at home, Sir William. I hate crowds of every kind.

If half the world could entertain themſelves or others, as either of you ladies can, there would [54] ſcarce be ſuch a thing as a crowd: ſelect parties and rational converſation, would then become the faſhion. But when the mind is vacant of ideas; its activity will ſeek them from outward objects, which ſtrike upon the ſenſes, yet leave no more impreſſion, than our forms do on a looking glaſs; while the charms of refined ſenſe, and elegant converſe, remain indelible upon the ſoul.

For my part, Sir William, I relinquiſh any ſhare in that very fine compliment, for I confeſs I have great pleaſure in ſeeing a number of well dreſſed people together, looking as if they were pleaſed themſelves, and wiſhing to pleaſe others; and I ſhould certainly have been in the park an hour ago, if I had not ſtaid in compliment to her lady⯑ſhip.

You render me uneaſy, Emilia, pray do not ſuffer your complaiſance for me to treſpaſs on your pleaſures.

Tho' you modeſtly refuſe it, madam, you have ſtill a part in the eulogium; nor is it for want of ideas in yourſelf, but to inſpire them in others, that you need ever wiſh to appear in public; and who that ſees Emilia, muſt not be captivated with the pleaſing one of ſprightly innocence?

Ay, but then, Sir William, it leaves no more impreſſion, than our forms do on a looking glaſs, you know, ſo I'll even vaniſh away.

All forms, however pleaſing, are tranſient, I con⯑feſs; but when animated by a noble mind, they then become ſuch ſubſtances as ſtars are made of.

Then ſure my dear Emilia may ſhine forth the morning's harbinger, for never was there yet a nobler mind join'd to a fairer perſon.

The compariſon had been more juſt, madam, had you alluded to our nightly planet, which bor⯑rows its reflected light from the bright ſun, as ſhe from you.

Your compliment is ſo very high, Sir William, that there is no replying to it. We ſeem to have got beyond the clouds, and had better beware the fate of Icarus.

It were falling indeed, madam, to deſcend to any terreſtrial ſubject, while I have the happineſs of contemplating, and converſing with a ſeraph.

Upon my word, Sir William, your extravagant politeneſs diſtreſſes me; yet I confeſs my foible, if it is one, in being pleaſed at being approved and eſteemed by a perſon of your refined ſenti⯑ments. I hope too, that it is a pleaſure I may in⯑dulge with innocence.

Tranſporting ſound! my raptures are too ſtrong for expreſſion. Thus give me leave to thank you.

Oh! Sir William! beware of ecſtaſies! they are, alas, inconſiſtent with my hapleſs lot!

Never, madam, ſhall I aſpire to higher bliſs, than what I now enjoy.

Perhaps, Sir William, I have been led too far▪—But ſtill remember, Sir, that I am bound by the ſtrongeſt ties. They muſt be preſerved inviolate; and if I am really dear to you, you will ever hold them ſacred.

Far, far from Belville's heart, be every wiſh for tranſient joys, attended by remorſe; much ſooner would he die, than e'er create a pang in the ſoft boſom of ſair innocence.

Lady Fanſhaw, madam.

I vow you are a moſt unaccountable creature, lady Frankland, I have waited for you this full hour; and what is worſe, I am afraid the auction is begun, and the room ſo ſtuff'd, that we ſhall not be able to ſee the beautiful pagoda, nor get into the circle among the men; but be jamm'd up in ſome obſcure nook among the canaille, who frequent ſuch places, merely to ſtare at their bet⯑ters, and poiſon the air with the fumes of tobacco.

I aſk your ladyſhip many pardons—I utterly forgot to order a card to be ſent, to let you know I could not attend you this morning.

Vaſtly polite, truly—not go with me! after pre⯑venting my being there two hours ago, and getting a ſeat cloſe to the auctioneer! I ſhould have had the very beſt place, ma'am, Mr. Langford and I are very well acquainted.

By your own account, madam, her ladyſhip has done you a favour, by preventing you from being ſqueez'd up in a crowd.

You are vaſtly miſtaken, Sir, there is nothing more pleaſant, and healthful too; and I am cer⯑tain half the people of faſhion in London would die of fevers, if it were not for the benefit of per⯑ſpiration, which they can only receive in ſuch places, as they are too delicate to uſe exerciſe ſuf⯑ficient to procure it any other way.

This is really, madam, the only rational argu⯑ment I ever heard urged in favour of a crowd; and I ſhall henceforth conſider myſelf, or any of my friends in ſuch a ſituation, as only ſuffering a painful operation for the benefit of health.

But now, dear lady Frankland, you have not an idea of what you will loſe, if you don't come with me directly; there's my lord Mount Faſhion, who has travelled thro' Perſia, and the Mogul's country, purely to acquire a knowledge in painting and architecture, makes his firſt public appearance there this morning; and will decide exactly, with regard to the value of the bronzes, and the antiquity of the china.

Such a virtuoſo muſt be equally an honour and advantage to his country, ſurely!

O but, Sir William, they ſay he is a mighty pretty fellow too; in ſhort, all the pretty fellows in Town will be there.—Do come, for heaven's ſake, lady Frankland! I ſhall break my heart if I don't [58] go, and I can't decently ſtalk in alone, like one that nobody knows.

Rather than your ladyſhip ſhould ſuffer ſo ex⯑treme a diſappointment, come then, I will accom⯑pany you.

Away, away then, quickly my dear, my cha⯑riot is at the door. Your's Sir William.

Sir William, your ſervant.

Lord Mount Faſhion, and all the pretty fellows in town there! ſure that could not be the motive for her going.—Yet ſhe abſolutely refuſed, till they were mentioned; nor once deſired me to accom⯑pany her. This is ſtrange! Oh! ſhe is too dear to my fond heart! I cannot bear that other men ſhould gaze upon her charms; for if they do, they'll love. I'll follow at a diſtance and obſerve her, ſhe will attract all eyes, and I may paſs unnotic'd.

SCENE II.

So you think, Emilia, that lady Frankland reads too much!

I do indeed, my lord.

Were her books well choſen, that could hardly be; but I fear her ſtudies ſerve rather to augment, [59] than amend her only foible. But pray, Emilia, who are lady Franlkand's chief intimates? I do not mean the crowds that fill her drawing room, but thoſe who are admitted en famille.

Does your lordſhip mean men or women?

Both, Emilia; but more particularly the latter; for I would have you and every woman I regard, more nice in the choice of their female, even than their male acquaintance. Believe me much de⯑pends upon it.

Lady Fanſhaw and Clarinda are, I think, the moſt intimate of our female friends; Sir Harry Wilmot and Sir William Belville are more fre⯑quently with us, than any other men.

You ſurprize me, Emilia! Clarinda intimate with lady Frankland! I am ſorry for it.

And why, my lord? Clarinda is ſprightly, ſen⯑ſible, and chearful.

Beware of that ſpirit, ſenſe, and gaiety, Emilia, which have not virtue for their baſe! they are dangerous inſtruments in dangerous hands! I am ſhock'd at her intimacy with my wife, which ſhe has compaſſed ſince our ſeparation; and if I have yet any influence with lady Frankland, or with you, you will both immediately quit all con⯑nection there. The reſt of the perſons you have named, I am unacquainted with, except Sir Wil⯑liam Belville, who bears the character of a man of honour. Clarinda! lady Frankland! thoſe names ought never to be joined.

I am very certain, my lord, that lady Frankland would ſacrifice any thing on earth to your deſire. I will anſwer for it that ſhe gives up Clarinda di⯑rectly. I promiſe your lordſhip that I ſhall.

Do not flatter me, Emilia; could ſhe have ſacri⯑fic'd her only foible to my fond love, we had been bleſt indeed!

Pardon me, my lord, if I ſuſpect that foible might have been cured, if proper means had been applied.

Do not ſpeak of it, Emilia; my wounds all bleed afreſh. There was no way to cure it, nor could we have lived on any terms, but by indulging it to an exceſs, which muſt have rendered us both contemptible. I am impatient till you ſee my wife; alas! all that remains to me of that endearing name, is that fair ſhadow

Let her break off all further commerce with Clarinda, if ſhe regards her own honour, or my peace.

Your lordſhip need not doubt your being obey'd.

I am grieved at thinking what may be the event of this connection. All women who have forfeited their own title to virtue, envy thoſe who poſſeſs it; and would wiſh to ſink them to their own baſe level. I am certain lady Frankland is virtuous, open, and ſincere. But alas! what arms are theſe, to combat the charms of flattery, the attractions of [61] pleaſure, and the ſnares of ſeduction! ſhould ſhe ſink under them. I ſurely am to blame, who have expoſed her youth and inexperience to a trial, per⯑haps too hard. But ſhould ſhe paſs this more than ordeal fire, unſullied and unhurt, ſhe will be ſomething more than woman; and adoration, late her claim, will then become her due. I'll hope the beſt.

SCENE III.

What can my maſter, and that ugly mademoiſelle there, be doing in the bed-chamber within, this full half hour together? Sure the devil would not put an ill thing in his head. Faith myſelf will peep through the key-hole, and try.

No ſuch thing, at all; they are talking very faſt tho', and there can't be no great harm ſure, in liſt'ning to their diſcourſe, ſince it would not be about love.

O faith, here they come, and a body may hear ſomething now.

Upon a my [...]ord, conceleur, I do run a de very great dangere for your ſervice. Madame Emilic ſhe be de heireſs you know, and that do make a it de hanging matter for pauvre Fontange. Ah! Morblieu, ſi je ſera pendue! What a diſgrace to my family! not one of dem would own a me, if I ſhould be hanged.

Courage, mademoiſelle, the hazard is not ſo great as you imagine, then think of the reward. A thouſand pounds! Why that will enable you to return to your own country, with eclat, ſet up an equigage, and outſhine half the women in Lan⯑guedoc. Why a thouſand Engliſh pounds, Fon⯑tange, twenty thouſand livres Françoiſes, is the portion of a marchioneſs there.

But are you very ſure your honour mean a de mar⯑riage, after you carry her off? or elſe Fontange vil a have noting to ſay to it. She would no turn procurateur for any ting in de vorld; but in de honorable way, ſhe ſerve a her friend, ſans doute.

O, fear me not, mademoiſelle.—You have the beſt ſecurity in the world, over me, my own in⯑tereſt.

You muſt not come a to de houſe, till it is black dark; you get a ready de parſon and de coach; den leave a de reſt to me.

My life and fortune both depend on the event.

I wiſh a your honour de bon ſucceſs, vid all my heart; but you will not forget pauvre Fontange. I will have a de bond ready for your honour to ſign, when you come a to de houſe.

With all my heart, mademoiſelle. Would I had ſigned and ſealed with Emilia!

Tout en bon tems—Adieu, Monſieur, adieu.

Myſelf was never ſo bothered what to do, in the courſe of my whole life. To be ſure I would be glad my maſter was married to madam Emilia, becauſe I believe he loves her. But this ſtealing her away by night has an ugly look with it.—And to have that wicked mademoiſelle get a good thouſand pound for helping to ruin the innocent creature; augh, that would vex me to the heart. I'll go directly, and conſult with my old friend and goſſip, Jimmy Kavanagh, that is in a good place here in town, and may be he would tell me what I would do; for I don't much care to betray my poor maſter, neither.

SCENE IV.

I vow, Clarinda, this was vaſtly kind, now, and really more than I deſerve; but I declare, you are the very paragon of good-nature.

Why truly, Sir Harry, I muſt ſay, it ſhews a moſt dove-like diſpoſition in me, to hazard my re⯑putation, by viſiting a man who has juſt now endan⯑gered his life for another lady.

There you are miſtaken, Clarinda; curſe me, if I either did, or would fight, for any woman in England—except yourſelf, ma belle fille.

O, your ſervant, Sir—But what could have been your cauſe of quarrel, then? For Sir William, I think, never plays.

Why, that ſame doughty knight-errant, you have named, took it into his wiſe head, that be⯑cauſe a certain fair lady had never allowed him a tête à tête, ſhe never meant to indulge herſelf, or any body elſe, with one; and upon my declaring that ſhe had done me that favour, talked in a high, ridiculous, romantic ſtrain of the lady's honour and character; and ſeemed to hint as if he ſuſpected me of a falſehood. That you'll allow was not to be endured.

O, by no means, Sir Harry. However, I have not quite ſo much pity for you, as I had, as you were paid, I ſuppoſe, before-hand. A tête à tête with lady Frankland, was, I think, an over-pay⯑ment for the ſlight ſcratch you have received. But you certainly did ill to boaſt: I could not have ſuſpected you of ſo much diſhonour, Sir Harry.

Why now, my dear Clarinda, there's the miſ-chief on't. I had nothing to boaſt of; for this ſame petite partie ended in a very abſurd propoſal on her ſide, for entering into the Platonic ſyſtem, which I poſitively refuſed. Car je n'ai pas le tems. Admired the elegant impracticability of her lady⯑ſhip's ſeraphics, made my bow, and withdrew.

Very abſurd and ridiculous, truly! Equally ſo, on both ſides. I never could have ſuppoſed, that a man who knows the world, as well as you have a right to do, could have ſlipp'd ſuch an opportu⯑nity, ſo ſimply. Ha, ha, ha.

Why faith, Clarinda, there is a kind of baſhful courage about thoſe modeſt dames, that is capable of putting the moſt impudent fellow in the world out of countenance; and tho' I was never in better ſpirits for an attack, ſhe talked ſo queerly of friend⯑ſhip, eſteem, honour, and ſuch ſtuff, that ſhe left me little to ſay, and leſs to do; ſo I e'en quitted the field, and marched off.

Shame of all cowards, ſay I; if your double defeat ſhould be known, you will be hooted out of the world both of love and gallantry; and faith, you deſerve it.

Point de tout, ma chere fille, no man is wiſe or brave at all times, and I ſhall only ſmile at my late defeat, if I can but triumph here,

Pſhaw, let me go; it would be ſcandalous in me to ſubmit to a beaten general—conqueſt is the road to conqueſt, both in love and war; and the illuſtrious name of our victorious leader, has been a legion added to our troops: Engliſh women, as well as men, chuſe to liſt under a brave com⯑mander.

Vaſtly ſevere and piquant, truly! but I ſhall have my repriſals, ſome other time.

You'll have better luck than you deſerve, then. Farewel, poor recreant knight.

Adieu, ma bizarre!

SCENE V.

Love and jealouſy are twins, I find, born in the ſelf-ſame moment. What tranſports have I felt, what agonies endured, within a few ſhort hours! That angel form which bleſſed my eyes and ears this morn, e're noon transformed into a mortal object! ſurrounded by a crowd of coxcombs! By heaven, ſhe freely gave her hand to lord Mount-Faſhion, and ſuffered him to lead her from that vulgar ſcene of hurry, noiſe, and nonſenſe. I'll ſee if ſhe is returned.

Is your lady at home, friend?

Noa, Sir, I'ſe wiſh ſhe were, for ſervants are all well y'clemmed, and cook ſays dinner's a-ſpoil⯑ing—Madam Emilia's at home tho', if your ho⯑nour pleaſes to walk in.

No, friend, 'tis very well.

And yet I think I will go in, and wait for her.

Soa, Sir, what mun you want now?

I have changed my mind, and will go in to wait for your lady's return.

You'ſe welcome. I'ſe ſwear you'ſe a perſon of quality, for they never know their own minds.

Do walk in, Sir, pray.

SCENE VI.

After the declaration you made this morning; it ſurprizes me, madam, to find you in this re⯑tired ſituation.

One often ſays more, Sir William, as well as leſs, than they think, according to the degree of ſpirits they happen to be in. I confeſs myſelf a rattle, and have vivacity enough to be fond of public places. Yet, I very ſoon tire of them, and frequently prefer the gaiety of theſe little objects, which I can create with my pencil, and the enjoy⯑ment of my own thoughts, to the more glaring ſhadows which ſurround me abroad, and no thought at all. 'Tis vaſtly pleaſant to think ſome⯑times, Sir William.

They are, indeed, truly unhappy who do not find it ſo. Guilt alone can make reflection pain⯑ful.

I muſt differ with you, Sir William; for I really know many good ſort of people, who I am ſure [68] have nothing to reproach themſelves with, yet for want of an early habit, dread ſitting alone, as much as if they feared ſpirits, and would run into any kind of company, rather than endure their own.

Charming, ſenſible, unaffected girl

He muſt be a happy man, Emilia, who ſhall ſhare the pleaſures of retirement, with a companion lively and rational as you.

Pray do not make me vain, Sir William; per⯑haps no body may have it ſo much in their power as you.

That declaration ought to make me proud, ma⯑dam.—But I have been ſo charmed with your ſen⯑timents upon retirement, that I almoſt forgot the occaſion of my intruding upon yours. Do you know any thing of lady Frankland? Does ſhe dine at home?

I have not ſeen her ſince morning, but I am ſo well acquainted with her ladyſhip's regularity and politeneſs, that I have not the leaſt doubt of her returning to dinner

Bleſs me 'tis very late; I have never known her ſtay ſo long abroad.

I have ſome little buſineſs to communicate to her ladyſhip, and ſhall take the liberty of waiting on her ſoon after dinner.

O, here ſhe comes; and as you ſay you have buſineſs, I ſhall withdraw; but pray don't detain her long, Sir William, for I am vaſtly hungry.

Will my dear Emilia excuſe me this treſpaſs on her patience? But I vow it was not poſſible for me to get away from lord Mount-Faſhion, one moment ſooner.

Sir William, your ſervant.

Your's, Madam; I am ſurprized that his lord⯑ſhip could part with you, even now, Madam: I did ſuppoſe you had been gone to dine with him at lady Fanſhaw's, or ſome other of his lordſhip's fond admirers.

I don't underſtand you, Sir William; I ſhould certainly have dined abroad, if I had happened to have one of my own ſervants with me, to have ſent home to Emilia. I did not expect the fa⯑vour of your company, Sir, therefore cannot charge myſelf with any want of politeneſs toward you.

Want of politenefs, Madam! is that a term to me? whoſe heart-ſtrings you have ſtrained, and taught to feel more racking agonies, than e'er Damien knew! keep your politeneſs for your lord Mount-Faſhion, Madam; I hoped I had an higher claim.

Are theſe the ſentiments, Sir William, which gave that claim? Where is that nice reſpect, thoſe ſoft expreſſions of friendſhip and eſteem, which pleaded for that claim?

Vaniſhed, Madam! fled in the moment that you gave your hand to that ſame peregrine lord.

Deluſion all! they never yet exiſted in your breaſt; ſelf-love alone aſſumed the form of ſenti⯑mental paſſion, and has impoſed on you, but never ſhall again on me.

Cruel, unkind! vain metaphyſical diſtinction! you know I would ſacrifice a thouſand lives to pleaſe you, detach myſelf from the whole uni⯑verſe, and give up every thought to you, and you alone! Is this ſelf-love?

True love requires no ſacrifice, but the heart; ſelf love muſt have its triumphs: ſuſpicion is its conſtant mate, and the leaſt degree of complaiſance ſhewn to another object, appears a robbery to ſelfiſh minds. In ſhort, there can be no ſlavery equal to that a jealous lover would impoſe.

I, Madam, I render you a ſlave! you, Madam, whoſe empire is ſo abſolutely over me!

Sir William, I ſhall ever acknowledge the high⯑eſt obligations to you; you have drawn me from the verge of a precipice, into which my own im⯑prudence had like to have plunged me—I awake from an illuſion, and can dream no more—Be my friend ſtill, this is the only rank that you can ever hold in my regards.

Heavens, Madam! what crime have I com⯑mitted, that you ſhould wiſh my death?

Far from it, Sir William; I wiſh your happi⯑neſs, ſo far as it may not be inconſiſtent with my own; and by depriving you of all right to be jealous, I lay you under the happy neceſſity of ceaſing to be ſo. I begin to dread the violence of your temper, and what we fear, we cannot love.

I begin to know you, Madam, in my turn; the refinement of a platonic paſſion, but ill agrees with the ſlightneſs of your conduct. Sir Harry Wilmot would have been a more ſuitable lover, and I was certainly wrong to interfere—

Stop there, Sir William; I know already how much I am indebted to you, upon that occaſion; and ſhall therefore retire, to ſave you the confuſion of having reproached me with an obligation, which even this behaviour cannot cancel, nor ſhall I forget.

Diſtraction! what have I done! upbraided lady Frankland! ſhe is, ſhe muſt be irrecoverably loſt to me! But by what bond could I have hoped to hold her? Platonics, I am now convinced, are all a jeſt; and her virtue, and my own honour, both forbid all other ties.

SCENE I.

MY deareſt Emilia, I have now opened my whole ſoul to you. My mind is a perfect chaos; yet I feel as if a weight had been taken off my breaſt, by this moſt fortunate breach with Sir William. Oh, my Emilia, how near have I been to ruin! I am frighted even at the proſpect.

You ſhould contemplate it rather, with that kind of pleaſure, with which they view the wreck, who have juſt eſcaped the ſtorm, with a proper ſenſe toward providence, and a ſteady purpoſe never to run the ſame riſque again.

Humbled as I now am, Emilia, ſuch reſolutions are natural, and bare remembrance of the peril I've eſcaped, muſt certainly inſure my perſeverance. But alas, my friend, have I not reaſon to accuſe my fate, for turning thoſe advantages, which are deemed a bleſſing to my ſex, into a curſe for me! youth, beauty, innocence, and ſenſibility, to what have ye reduced me! to become the ſport of fop⯑pery, or victim of jealouſy! Is this the world I have been taught to admire? For what illuſions have I ſtrayed from real happineſs, which I am now convinced is only to be found, in the calm in⯑dulgence [74] of rational affections. In the repoſe, rather than tumult of the ſoul.

I rejoice to find that the natural good ſenſe of my amiable friend has been only hoodwinked, but not blinded, and that ſhe can ſo clearly ſee her errors now

Yes, wretch that I am! I ſee them but too late; after I have forfeited the friendſhip, the confidence, and regards, of the beſt of men and huſbands! thank heaven, though, that I have nothing to re⯑proach myſelf with, except imprudence; and yet, Emilia, can I hope that Lord Frankland ſhould take my word for this, or even condeſcend to liſten to my juſtification? How I deteſt the writers of romance! Oh, Emilia, 'tis but too eaſy to ſwerve from the right path, but difficult indeed to recover it again.

Why difficult? the little deviation you have made, requires no artful clue. There are no bars againſt you, but thoſe your fears create. Lord Frankland is ſtill the ſame tender, affectionate huſband he has ever been, and gave a proof of it this morning, by requeſting you to quit all farther intimacy with Clarinda, whom he ſeems to think no ſafe companion for your honour.

Another precipice! an angel's guard has ſurely hovered over me! O were he to forbid my converſe with all the world, with light itſelf, with every thing but thee, nay, nay, even with thee, Emilia! his will ſhould be obeyed.

My heart exults at finding yours ſo ſenſible of duty. O, Lady Frankland, you have indeed [75] eſcaped from many dangers yet unknown. Nor can a wife e'er find a place of ſafety, but under the protection of that heaven-appointed guard, her huſband. Loſe not a moment then, but let us fly to your aſylum—That generous man, who has ever pitied and bewailed your errors, will open wide his arms to your returning virtue.

Alas, Emilia, a certain native pride, or rather conſcious ſhame, which generous minds alone, are capable of, reſtrains my ſteps. I muſt firſt endea⯑vour to be reconciled to myſelf, before I can even hope for his forgiveneſs.

Mr Ambroſe is come to wait upon your lady⯑ſhip.

In a lucky minute, ſure! a thought has juſt occurred—If bleſt with ſucceſs, my dear Emilia ſhall be the firſt partaker of my joy. For the preſent, leave me.

Deſire Mr Ambroſe to walk in.

Now for the laſt act of expiring romance!

How does my Lord, and yours, good Am⯑broſe?

In health, may heaven be praiſed for it; I have not been ſo happy as to ſee your ladyſhip, for ſome time paſt, though I have called here daily, by my lord's command.

I am obliged to his lordſhip, and to you alſo, Mr Ambroſe.

O madam, would it were within my power to oblige your ladyſhip, your poor old ſervant would lay down his life, to ſhew his duty.

Then, Ambroſe, you have it in your power to do me a moſt eſſential ſervice.

Your Ladyſhip has but to command, and I obey. Would to heaven that my lord and you loved your⯑ſelves, but as well as I love either of you. I know not which of you was to blame, but I am ſure my heart bleeds for you both. How it uſed to delight me, to ſee you together. It was a bleſſed ſight! and ſince your ſeparation, I have ſeen nothing but affliction in our houſe.

I take the blame upon myſelf, good Ambroſe, yet I have hopes my fault may be repaired, if you will but implicitly follow my directions.

Doubtleſs, madam, I ſhall obey.

You know that my picture remains ſtill in my lord's houſe.

Ay, madam, and my lord knows it too, full well; he ſhuts himſelf up with it whole days, gazes on it, talks to it, then ſighs enough to break one's heart to hear him—'Tis all his company and conſolation, now—I dare not ſpeak. But—

Your words pierce through my ſoul! I have not merited this kindneſs; I thought his heart inſenſible [77] and cold, dead to all tenderneſs for me; but let his generous foftneſs quicken mine. Ambroſe, you muſt ſteal that picture for me, and bring it hither this very inſtant, unſeen by mortal eye.

What, madam! rob my maſter of his only treaſure! Bid me lay down my life, and I'll obey.

Be aſſured I do not mean to deprive him of it. This evening you ſhall replace it in my huſband's chamber. My ſole requeſt is that you will not let him know it has been moved. You can't refuſe me, ſure!

Your ladyſhip is goodneſs itſelf, and I can't ſup⯑poſe you would put an end to my life, by the grief it would give me to afflict, or offend the beſt of maſters—I will then inſtantly obey your ladyſhip's commands—But pray, good lady, remember that it muſt be reſtored, this very evening.

You may rely upon my promiſe, indeed, good Ambroſe—

Ambroſe. To hymen's ſacred power, though late, an ardent votary I bend—Oh! may he proſper, and aſſiſt my purpoſe!

SCENE II.

I can't tell you how much I am diſappointed at the folly of that coxcomb, Sir Harry—I had great hopes that his ſpirited aſſurance might have conquered her timid baſhfulneſs; and a breach once [78] made in that baſtion, the citadel falls of courſe. I begin to fear ſhe'll conterwork us all, and either keep the fortreſs in her own hands, or perhaps de⯑liver it back again to the former governor, in ſtatu quo.

I can't agree with you, Clarinda, though even Sir Harry has failed. For I dare ſwear no woman ever parted from her huſband, with a deſign of playing the drude with all the reſt of the world. I fancy now, that Sir William will carry the town—not by ſtorm indeed, but by ſtarving the be⯑ſieged into terms of capitulation.

I don't underſtand your ladyſhip.

Why then, in plainer Engliſh, Sir William is grown jealous, and will, if poſſible, prevent any other man from coming near her. By this means, ſhe will find herſelf priſoner, and may then probably ſurrender her perſon, to obtain her liberty, en parole, at leaſt.

You deal ſtill in tropes, Lady Fanſhaw.

Ay, but you underſtand me, for all that, Clarinda. You know full well that when a woman puts herſelf into the power of a man, he becomes a tyrant, ſhe a ſlave, from that moment; and all the difference I can find, between marriage and gallan⯑try, is, that one is perpetual, the other temporary, only.

I care not by what means her ruin is accom⯑pliſhed, provided it be accompliſhed. Her fatal marriage with Lord Frankland, blaſted all my [79] hopes, and I cannot bear to think that ſhe ſhould taſte the heart-felt joy of her own virtue, while I am de⯑prived of that, as well as of what I reſigned it for.

Nay, as to that Clarinda, it is no ſuch mighty matter, that one need wiſh to rob her of it, for we both know with regard to the world, the appearance will anſwer, as well as the reality. But if you are bent upon her ruin, blaſt her reputation, my dear—The ſtory you told me of the duel, pro⯑perly managed, is ſufficient to do that effectually.

That alone ſhall deſtroy her fame, ſhould ſhe even preſerve her chaſtity, which you ſeem to think improbable.

I have half a ſcore viſits to make to morrow morning and I ſhall take care to whiſper this ad⯑venture in every one of them, with the tendereſt profeſſions of pity for her misfortune, and a ‘who could have ſuſpected it? I vow I thought her perfectly innocent, but I am afraid lord Frankland had his reaſons—though he had too much pride to publiſh them,’

This will do, my dear Lady Fanſhaw; for let women value themſelves ever ſo much upon their in⯑nocence, the loſs of character is next to that of virtue.

O much worſe, Clarinda—But I muſt go and viſit that ſimple Sir Harry, as he is confined; I own I deſpiſe him, but to perſons of certain ranks in life, one muſt be civil, you know.

I ſhall ſend to know if Lady Frankland be at home. If ſhe is, I'll pay her a viſit; perhaps Sir William may be there, and I may poſſibly diſcover ſomething to corroborate our ſtory. But that ſilly chit Emilia never leaves her, ſo that the woman wants opportunity, were ſhe ever ſo well inclined—I wiſh that girl was any how out of the way.

She'll marry Charles Frankland, and be a wretch.

SCENE III.

You have told me a moſt extraordinary ſtory, James; are you ſure your countryman's veracity may be depended upon.

Pleaſe your honour, I have known him from a child, and never had cauſe to doubt it—He is ſimply honeſt.

Then ſure his maſter is an horrid villain! bid your friend attend me in my ſtudy—I muſt have all the particulars from himſelf.

Can it be poſſible there lives a wretch ſo vile, to form a ſcheme for violating helpleſs innocence, and ſpoiling blooming beauty! my fair, my ſen⯑ſible Emilia, I will protect thee, at the hazard of my life; ſurely ſhe holds a place within my breaſt, its feelings are too ſtrong for friendſhip's power; her danger has awakened all my tenderneſs, en⯑deared her to my ſoul, and made me know eſteem to be the ſureſt baſe for love.

SCENE IV.

That was as nicely done now as if I had a hand in it, myſelf. High preſto, paſs and be gone—as the conjurer ſays. That muſt be the houſe, for I ſaw my lady's ugly Frenchwoman open the door—Aye, aye, I am right.

So Nic.—How do'ſt do, my lad? Is your Lady at home?

Why aye—I think ſo.

There, carry that card to her then, from my lady madam Clarinda, and bring me an anſwer, ſtraight.

Nic. has a rare place of it, ſurely—Such a fine handſome woman as his miſtreſs, muſt have a deal of rich gallants come after her—And ſhe is not cruel, I find.

My lady will write an anſwer, directly, and you mun ſtay to carry it, for iſe get going enough.

You're a lucky rogue, Nic, to get into ſuch a ſervice; to have ſo beautiful a young lady your miſtreſs—I warrant me you'll be for purchaſing into the funds, by and by.

Funds! I believe you'ſe making fun of me—Why mon, ſince thoſe curſed ſociations for drop⯑ping of vails, have been in faſhion, a poor ſarvant can ſcarce keep himſelf whole and clean. Funds quotha!

Why really, as you ſay, ſince the incroachment upon our perquiſites, it is not worth any man of ſpirit's while to wear a livery, except where there is a little private buſineſs going forward—You under⯑ſtand me; and in that caſe, we muſt be touched handſomely, for huſh-money, you know. I'll warrant now, you make above forty pounds a year of your lady.

Not I, as I hope to be ſaved—She gives me but the bare ten guineas, and I have hardly any re⯑quiſites at all; for my lady don't love play.

Don't ſhe, really?

Here's my lady's anſwer

Good by to you, friend Nic. Since you're ſo plaguy dry.

That indeed, I am always—And ſhould be glad to take a pot of beer with you, with all my heart.

Another time may ſerve, good Mr Sly-boots.

Oh, I am all in a fluſter, I tremble from head to foot. If you do not ſucceed, that madame Clarin⯑da's ſerviteur diſcovery me—He ſaw me at de door—O, de bonté, monſieur, what vill become of me, if ſhe be not very, very quiet?

Why faith, mademoiſelle, I find myſelf a little diſconcerted too, at preſent, and have a foreboding ſufficient to deter another man from the attempt, but I am determined to proceed, in ſpite of qualms, either of my conſcience, or her virtue—This night puts an end to my life, or my misfortunes. I come prepared you ſee.

O de bonne grace! you terrify me out of my life—Why, monſieur, if you ſhould ſhoot a yourſelf, the king he get a your fortune—I never can recover my bond, againſt your heirs.

You need not be in pain upon that account, mademoiſelle, for if I ſhould be taken off this moment, by an apoplexy, I ſhould die my own executor.

Helas! den, I have venture my neck for noting, I have de great mind to go and diſcover de whole affair this very minute, ſince I find I am no to be paid.

If you attempt to ſqueak, I ſhall ſilence you. Madame.

Pardonnez moi, monſieur, take away de piſtol, and I vill no ſqueaka—But do, pray ſign a de bond, if it be only for de ſatisfaction to my own conſcience, that I did no commit a de ſin, for noting.

There, mademoiſelle, and may you be intitled to your reward, with all my heart. It is not wit⯑neſſed, therefore not valid.

Je vous rend mille, grace, monſieur—The bell ring, get into that cloſet; de key is in de inſide—Be ſure you no ſtir, till all de houſe be in de bed.

Doubt not my diſcretion.

SCENE V.

You are repiqued, Clarinda.

Well, that makes us even. I wiſh Thomas was returned.

From Lady Frankland, ma'm,

To me! what can it mean?

‘Lady Frankland's and Emilia's compliments to Clarinda, and requeſt ſhe will not give herſelf [85] the trouble of coming any more to Lady Frank⯑land's houſe, as they are under a neceſſity of de⯑clining her viſits, for reaſons not proper to be explained.’—Forbid the houſe! this is aſtoniſhing!

It would almoſt tempt one to think they had a familiar, who could diſcover your heart to them.

For that matter, I believe one of them is familiar enough—with the gentlemen, at leaſt; if what Thomas ſays be true.

Why really, Betty, gentlemen are the moſt agreeable familiars a lady can have.

Very true, to be ſure, my lady; but too much familiarity breeds content, as the proverb ſays; and I never ſhould have thought of repeating what Thomas told me, the longeſt day I have to live, if it was not for their hypocriſy in refuſing the viſits of ſuch a ſweet virtuous lady as my miſtreſs, that I have known, as it were, from a child. But ſome folks have fair faces, and foul hearts, in troth.—

They had better have ſhut other people's doors againſt me, than their own; for henceforth, where I enter, they never more ſhall be received—I'll blaſt that little prudiſh minx Emilia, too; I'll ſay any thing of them both that revenge can inſtigate.

Upon my verily, ma'm, I cannot bear to ſee you ſo inſtigationed by ſlights and malice, when if you knew but all, you need not be beholding to inven⯑tions, in the leaſt, ma'm; for as ſure as day, and as I hope to be ſaved, ma'm, Thomas ſaw a man [86] muffled up in a diſguiſe, let in juſt n [...]w, to Lady Frankland's houſe, by her mademaſelle there, who to be ſure and ſartin is like the reſt of her country⯑women, no better than ſhe ſhould be.

Ha, Clarinda! this is a lucky diſcovery for you.—I find her grave ladyſhip has not conſined her ſtudies intirely to romance, but has dipt a little into the more practical buſineſs of novel too, and ſeems to be a pretty apt ſcholar, for her time, truly.

This ſecret is worth a million—who could he be?

It muſt certainly be the ſly Sir William.

No matter who—She is now in my power, and I will uſe the advantage—This very inſtant I will write to Lord Frankland, he may command ad⯑mittance, though I am denied, ‘for reaſons not proper to be explained’, and will, I hope, find reaſon to be convinced that her affected delicacy is as eaſily conquered, as the natural openneſs of my too generous heart.

I am ſure it would be a burning ſin, and ſhame too, not to detract, and ruinate ſuch vild hypocrite creatures, for a couple of ſlippery heels, as they are.

I am of opinion, Clarinda, that your information will have but little weight with Lord Frankland, as you may be ſuppoſed to have ſome intereſt in the diſcovery.

You are miſtaken, madam, he has the quickeſt ſenſe of honour, and will fly, either to convict or acquit her—Bid Thomas be in the way to carry my Letter.

What a triumph will be mine! this night I ſhall ex⯑poſe, and laugh to ſcorn the ſaint-like Lady Frank⯑land, tear off the veil ſhe has ſo long aſſumed, and ſhew her genuine features to the world.

Well, come my dear, do give vent to your re⯑fentment—or it may hurt you mightily.

SCENE VI.

I am uneaſy, till I know from Emilia, whether my wife has broke off her intercouſe with Clarinda.—Why ſhould I doubt it? ſhe never yet oppoſed my will, her temper's eaſy as her air; calm, placid, and ſerene, as that fair ſemblance.

Ha! what enchantment's this! that countenance, no longer placid and ſerene, ſpeaks agonizing woe! the hair diſhevelled too! the hands held up in ſup⯑plication! can it be to me! tears ſtreaming from the eyes, the precious drops, perhaps, of penitence and love! amazement all! Who waits?

Ambroſe, look there! explain this wonder to my aſtoniſhed ſenſe, while I have reaſon left to comprehend you. How came that picture thus?

My deareſt lord, upon my bended knees I beg forgiveneſs; but could you have ſeen with what an earneſt fondneſs and deſire ſhe urged me to this deed, you would yourſelf have granted her requeſt—How then could I refuſe!

Do not torture me! but ſay, with brevity, and truth, who urged you to this deed?

O! moderate the ſtrong emotions of your mind, and I will tell you all. It was my lady Frankland, your lordſhip's fond, repentant, faithful wife—But if the crime be paſt forgiveneſs, O let your anger fall on me; even drive me from your ſight, which of all puniſhments would be the ſaddeſt to me, but forgive my lady.

Riſe, Ambroſe, riſe, and ſhare your maſter's joy, which thus runs o'er.

It muſt be ſo—It was her former, 'tis her preſent image. Quick let me fly then, to this fair tranſ⯑formed, kiſs off the pearly drops from her pale cheek, and dry them with the warmeſt ſighs of love; claſp thoſe imploring hands, and preſs that heaving boſom to my heart.

May heaven be praiſed for this moſt bleſt event! I ſhall ſee my deareſt lord and lady happy once more, and then I've lived enough.

With what impatience have I told the minutes, ſince I deemed it poſſible Lord Frankland might have ſeen the picture! Ambroſe, perhaps, de⯑ceived me. He may not look upon it, or if he ſhould, how am I ſure that he will turn his eyes on me? But ſhould he even deſpiſe my ſorrows, and leave me to my fate, I ought not to complain! But 'tis impoſſible—I know his generous heart will melt at my diſtreſs. At leaſt, he ſure will pity and forgive!

My bounding heart ſprings from my breaſt, to meet her—How beautiful ſhe looks! and Oh! how exquiſite thoſe charms, which even the veil of ſorrow cannot ſhade!

Heavens!

Is then the deareſt, faireſt of her ſex, again re⯑ſtored to the fond heart and arms, of her adoring huſband!

Oh! if not held unworthy of that bleſſing, her wiſhes are complete.

Unworthy, ſaid you! you never were, nor could be ſo; through all the winding maze of gaiety and youth, my eyes have followed ſtill their dar⯑ling object; nor has my heart one moment ceaſed to love, to pity, and eſteem you. Had the charms of pleaſure, or the ſnares of vice, infatuated your heart, that heart would ne'er have ſighed to turn [90] again to me. When I was firſt flattered at re⯑ceiving the poſſeſſion of it with that fair hand, I claimed it as an huſband's right—I now accept it as a generous gift, and ſet the higher value on the prize.

Alas, my lord, your tenderneſs and generoſity overpower me—They are indeed much more than I deſerve, yet, though bluſhing for my follies, let me ſay no crime has rendered me unworthy of your goodneſs—My heart is free from ſtain, and hence⯑forth I may hope thy image there, ſhall ſhield it from all future weakneſs.

Can you ſuppoſe I doubt it, while with tran⯑ſports ſuch as thoſe, I claſp it to my own.

My dear Lady Erankland, joy, like mine, is not to be reſtrained by common forms—Lucy this moment told me ſhe ſaw Lord Frankland come into your dreſſing room, and though perhaps, I inter⯑rupt your happineſs, I muſt indulge my own, by wiſhing to you both, that true felicity which I well know you both deſerve.

The generous friend who has ſhared the ſorrows of my heart, has a right ſurely to partake its joys; and if my preſent happineſs could admit addition, it muſt be found in that which my Emilia feels.

I know of nought that could increaſe my bliſs, but ſeeing you rejoice, Emilia.

Madam, Sir William Belville is below, and begs to ſpeak with you immediately; he ſays the cauſe of his intruſion at ſo late an hour, will be a ſufficient apology for it. There is a ſervant of Mr Frank⯑land's, Patrick, madam, who ſays he has been at Lord Frankland's with a letter for him, but his lordſhip was not at home.

They were miſtaken, Lucy, for this is now my home.

What ſhall I do, Lady Frankland?

See him, by all means, Emilia. There muſt be ſome uncommon cauſe for ſuch an ill-timed viſit.

Deſire him to walk in here, Lucy, every mark of politeneſs, is due to his character.

What buſineſs Mr Frankland's ſervant can have with Sir William, or with me, I can not imagine.

A little time will explain this myſtery, Emilia.

I am extremely happy at finding your Lordſhip here, as I am perſuaded this meeting muſt render Lady Frankland and you ſo; and as the affair which brings me hither, concerns the honour of [92] your lordſhip's Family. For which reaſon I meant to have waited on you at your houſe.

Sir William I am very glad to ſee you, upon any occaſion, but I think I have as little to fear, on the account you mention, as any man, for I happen not to be bleſt with any female relations, but thoſe ladies who now ſtand before you.

Then, my Lord, you may indeed boaſt your having nothing to be alarmed at from feminine connections; for if virtue and innocence were to be⯑come embodied, and chuſe their forms, they would be thoſe of Lady Frankland and Emilia—But your lordſhip has, I think, a male relation, counſellor Frankland.

Augh, that's my maſter, now, and faith myſelf is almoſt ſorry I expoſed him before ſuch great company.

What of him, Sir William? I look upon him as a very honeſt, ſenſible, and ſober young man, rather too grave for one of his age.

Augh hone, how little he knows of him?

I fear then you are deceived, my lord—This honeſt ſimple fellow here, his own ſervant, this morning overheard a ſcheme laid between him and Fontange, Lady Frankland's woman, for no leſs than the abſolute ruin of this lady.

Heavens! how I tremble!

I am unwilling to think ſo vilely of human na⯑ture, in any inſtance, and much more ſo of Charles Frankland, in particular, as to ſuppoſe this to be true. What proof can you produce, friend, that ſuch a villainy was e'er intended?

Upon my ſafe conſcience, my lord, my own two ears heard them talk about it, in my maſter's cham⯑bers; and that ugly jade, that madame Fontange, was to get a good thouſand pounds for aſſiſting him in carrying her off.

I cannot be perſuaded that Charles is ſuch a villain!

Why, my lord, if he is not in the houſe this very inſtant, why then Patrick's a lyar, and never believe him more, Augh-hone! myſelf is ſorry enough for his doing ſuch a bad thing, and it would break my heart to ſee him go to Tyburn for it, among a parcel of dirty, black-guard highway⯑men, that would loſe their life for five or ſix guineas, and not among gentlemen, like himſelf, that would be hanged for killing their friend in a fair quarrel, or running handſomely away with their miſtreſs. But upon my own ſoul, though, it would be a thouſand pities to ruin that ſweet creture, for all that.

If Charles be found in the houſe, Emilia, I fear the reſt of the ſtory is then too true. Yet as the crime has not been perpetrated, I would wiſh to ſave him both from the ſhame, as well as the [94] puniſhment he deſerves. I will go ſearch, and bring him from his hold.

I requeſt your lordſhip will allow me, and this honeſt fellow, to attend you, if it be only to ap⯑prove our truth.

By no means, Sir William, your honour has been proved ſufficiently, in the detection. His ſervants honeſty ſhall be rewarded.

Great luck to your lordſhip.

How is it poſſible, Sir William, to repay this ſervice?

I ſhall ever conſider it as the greateſt happineſs of my life, that it has been in my power to render you any, madam; and if it might not appear to be preſuming too much upon the preſent incident, I ſhould intreat you to accept all the future ſervices of my life. I rejoice to find your ladyſhip has led the way into the only path to real happineſs.

I have not the leaſt doubt of your generoſity, Sir William, and ſhall ever be ready, with true gra⯑titude, to own my obligations.

If your ladyſhip thinks you have any, 'tis in your power to overpay them now, by joining me to requeſt the fair Emilia to accept my hand and heart. Both your ladyſhip and I have ſeen the error of imagining they can be ſeparated.

I allow it, Sir William, and as I know no per⯑ſon ſo capable of rendering my Emilia happy, I en⯑treat—

My dear lady Frankland, I will not make a merit of granting that to your requeſt, which I think Sir William's own deſerts have a right to claim.

The generous manner of conferring, would, if poſſible, double the obligation.

I have ſecured the poor unhappy wretch to ſave him from himſelf.

Then it was true, my lord.

Too true, Sir; I made his vile accomplice, trem⯑bling and ſcared, convey me to the place where he lay concealed; but when he ſaw me ſtand before him, guilt and confuſion flaſhed into his face—He thought it was an apparition, and ſtiffened quite with horror. I cloſed upon him inſtantly, and ſeized the piſtols which lay by his ſide. He then fell on his knees, confeſſed his crime, and begged that I would give him from my hand, that death which he deſerved.

I grieve to think, my lord, this happy hour ſhould have been interrupted by ſuch a ſad event.

'Tis rather ſure an addition to my bliſs, that you are ſaved from miſery, Emilia—But to Sir William Belville, your firſt and greateſt thanks are due.

If he is not ſatisfied with my payments, my lord, he muſt e'en take out a ſtatute of bankruptcy againſt me, for I have already ſurrendered to him every thing I was miſtreſs of.

Then I give him joy, with all my heart.

As for you, honeſt Patrick, I think the leaſt re⯑turn I can make you, for ſaving my life and ho⯑nour, is to preſent you with the ſame ſum that Fontange was to have had for deſtroying both.

Heaven bleſs and proſper your ladyſhip, for that. Patrick will carry it into his own country, and that itſelf would be a help to poor Ireland, for every one has a pluck at it, and would be glad to take all they can get from it, and no body never gives it nothing at all.

One of your ſervants has juſt brought this from your lordſhip's houſe, he ſays the man who gave it him, bid him carry it where-ever you were, if he ſhould not meet with your honour at home.

Have I permiſſion?

From Clarinda!

Malicious woman! Oh! let the venomed ſhaft with which ſhe meant to wound my tendereſt part, now lodge in her own breaſt.

[97] You ſee, my dear, I had ſufficient cauſe to warn you againſt this dangerous woman; and I am pleaſed to find that her reſentment has ariſen from your kind attention to my deſire in forbidding her your houſe.

This fortunate deliverance, with every other ſuc⯑ceſsful event of my future life, may add to my happineſs, but cannot increaſe that love and grati⯑tude, with which my heart o'erflows to thee its generous protector, and its ſureſt guide.

Pleaſe your ladyſhip, mademoiſelle has got out of the window of the room where his lordſhip left her, thoa I'ſe have the key ſafe enough in my poc⯑ket—Shall I go after, and lug her back?

No, let the wretch eſcape; the diſappointment of her avarice, be the puniſhment of her crime; but henceforth I intreat my deareſt wife will never employ foreigners again, while there are perſons in our own country, both in trade and ſervice, ſuf⯑ficient to ſupply our uſes.

In this, and every thing elſe, my pride and plea⯑ſure ſhall be, to obey my deareſt lord.