[]A SCHOOL for FATHERS.

SCENE I.

Well ſaid, Dy; thank you, Dy. This, Mr. Jenkins, is the way I make my daughter entertain me every morning at breakfaſt. Come here, and kiſs me, you ſlut! come here, and kiſs me, you baggage!

Lord, papa, you call one ſuch names—

A fine girl, Mr. Jenkins, a deviliſh fine girl! ſhe has got my eye to a twinkle. There's fire for [2] you—ſpirit!—I deſign to marry her to a duke. How much money do you think a duke would expect with ſuch a wench?

Why, Colonel, with ſubmiſſion, I think there is no occaſion to go out of our own county here; we have never a Duke in it, I believe, but we have many an honeſt gentleman, who, in my opinion, might deſerve the young lady.

So you would have me marry Dy to a country 'ſquire, eh! How ſay you to this, Dy? would not you rather be married to a Duke?

So my huſband's a rake, papa, I don't care what he is.

A rake! you damned confounded little bag⯑gage: why, you wou'd not wiſh to marry a rake, wou'd you?—So her huſband is a rake, ſhe does not care what he is! ha, ha, ha, ha!

Well, but liſten to me, papa—When you go out with your gun, do you take any pleaſure in ſhoot⯑ing the poor tame ducks, and chickens in your yard? No; the partridge, the pheaſant, the woodcock are the game! there is ſome ſport in bringing them down, becauſe they are wild; and it is juſt the ſame with an huſband or a lover. I would not waſte powder and ſhot to wound one of your ſober pretty behaved gen⯑tlemen; but to hit a libertine, extravagant, madcap fellow, to take him upon the wing—

Do you hear her, Mr. Jenkins? ha, ha, ha!

Well, but, good colonel, what do you ſay to my worthy and honourable patron here, Sir John Flowerdale? He has an eſtate of eight thouſand pounds a-year as well paid rents as any in the kingdom, and but one only daughter to enjoy it; and yet he is will⯑ing, you ſee, to give this daughter to your ſon.

Pray, Mr. Jenkins, how does Miſs Clariſſa and our univerſity friend Mr. Lionel? That is the only [3] grave young man I ever liked, and the only handſome one I ever was acquainted with, that did not make love to me.

Ay, Mr. Jenkins, who is this Lionel? They ſay he is a damn'd witty knowing fellow; and egad, I think him well enough for one brought up in a col⯑lege.

His father was a general officer, a particular friend of Sir John's, who, like many more brave men, that live and die in defending their country, left little elſe than honour behind him. Sir John ſent this young man, at his own expence, to Oxford; where, while, his ſon lived, they were upon the ſame footing: And ſince our young gentleman's death, which you know unfortunately happened about two years ago, he has continued him there. During the vacation, he is come to pay us a viſit; and Sir John intends that he ſhall ſhortly take orders, for a very conſiderable benefice in the gift of the family, the preſent incumbent of which is an aged man.

The laſt time I was at your houſe, he was teaching Miſs Clariſſa mathematics and philoſophy. Lord, what a ſtrange brain I have! If I was to ſit down to diſtract myſelf with ſuch ſtudies—

Go, huſſey, let ſome of your brother's raſcals inform their maſter that he has been long enough at his toilet; here is a meſſage from Sir John Flowerdale—You a brain for mathematics indeed! We ſhall have women wanting to head our regiments to-morrow or next day.

Well, papa, and ſuppoſe we did, I believe, in a battle of the ſexes, you men would hardly get the better of us.

SCENE II.

Well, Mr. Jenkins! don't you think now that a Nobleman, a Duke, an Earl, or a Marquis, might be content to ſhare his title—I ſay, you under⯑ſtand me—with a ſweetener of thirty or forty thouſand pounds, to pay off mortgages? Beſides, there's a pro⯑ſpect of my whole eſtate; for, I dare ſwear, her bro⯑ther will never have any children.

I ſhould be concerned at that, Colonel, when there are two ſuch fortunes to deſcend to his heirs, as yours and Sir John Flowerdale's.

Why, look you, Mr. Jenkins, Sir John Flowerdale is an honeſt gentleman; our families are nearly related; we have been neighbours time out of mind; and if he and I have an odd diſpute now and then, it is not for want of a cordial eſteem at bottom. He is going to marry his daughter to my ſon; ſhe is a beautiful girl, an elegant girl, a ſenſible girl, a worthy girl, and—a word in your ear—damn me, if I an't very ſorry for her.

Sorry! Colonel?

Ay—between ourſelves, Mr. Jenkins, my ſon won't do.

How do you mean?

I tell you, Mr. Jenkins, he won't do—he is not the thing, a prig—At ſixteen years old, or there⯑abouts, he was a bold, ſprightly boy, as you ſhould ſee in a thouſand; could drink his pint of port, or his bottle of claret—now he mixes all his wine with water.

Oh; if that be his only fault, Colonel, he will never make the worſe huſband, I'll anſwer for it.

You know my wife is a woman of quality—I was prevailed upon to ſend him to be brought up by her brother Lord Jeſſamy, who had no children of his own, and promiſed to leave him an eſtate—he has got the eſtate indeed; but the fellow has taken his Lordſhip's name for it. Now, Mr. Jenkins, I would be glad to know, how the name of Jeſſamy is better than that of Oldboy?

Well! but Colonel, it is allowed on all hands that his Lordſhip has given your ſon an excellent edu⯑cation.

Pſhaw! he ſent him to the univerſity, and to travel forſooth; but what of that? I was abroad, and at the univerſity myſelf, and never a ruſh the better for either. I quarrelled with his Lordſhip about ſix years before his death, and ſo had not an opportunity of ſeeing how the youth went on; if I had, Mr. Jenkins, I would no more have ſuffered him to be made ſuch a monkey of—He has been in my houſe but three days, and it is all turned topſy-turvy by him and his raſcally ſervants—then his chamber is like a perfumer's ſhop with waſh-balls, paſtes, and pomatum—and do you know he had the impudence to tell me yeſterday at my own table, that I did not know how to behave myſelf?

Pray, Colonel, how does my Lady Mary?

What, my wife? In the old way, Mr. Jenkins; always complaining; ever ſomething the matter with [6] her head, or her back, or her legs—but we have had the devil to pay lately—ſhe and I did not ſpeak to one another for three weeks.

How ſo, Sir?

A little affair of jealouſy—you muſt know my gamekeeper's daughter has had a child, and the plaguy baggage takes it into her head to lay it to me—Upon my ſoul, it is a fine fat chubby infant as ever I ſet my eyes on; I have ſent it to nurſe; and, between you and me, I believe I ſhall leave it a for⯑tune.

Ah, Colonel, you will never give over.

You know my Lady has a pretty vein of poetry; ſhe writ me an heroic epiſtle upon it, where ſhe calls me her dear falſe Damon; ſo I let her cry a little, promiſed to do ſo no more, and now we are as good friends as ever.

Well, Colonel, I muſt take my leave; I have delivered my meſſage, and Sir John may expect the pleaſure of your company to dinner.

Ay, ay, we'll come—pox o' ceremony among friends. But won't you ſtay to ſee my ſon? I have ſent to him, and ſuppoſe he will be here as ſoon as his valet-de-chambre will give him leave.

There is no occaſion, good Sir: preſent my humble reſpects, that's all.

Well, but, zounds, Jenkins, you muſt not go till you drink ſomething—let you and I have a bottle of hock—

Not for the world, Colonel; I never touch any thing ſtrong in the morning.

Never touch anything ſtrong! Why, one bottle won't hurt you, man! this is old, and as mild as milk.

Well, but, Colonel, pray excuſe me.

SCENE III.

Shut the door; why don't you ſhut the door there? Have you a mind I ſhould catch my death? This houſe is abſolutely the cave of Aeolus; one had as good live on the eddy ſtone, or in a wind⯑mill.

I thought they told your Ladyſhip that there was a meſſenger here from Sir John Flowerdale.

Well, Sir, and ſo there was; but he had not patience to wait upon your curling-irons. Mr. Jenkins was here, Sir John Flowerdale's ſteward, who has lived in the family theſe forty years.

And pray, Sir, might not Sir John Flow⯑erdale have come himſelf? If he had been acquainted with the rules of good breeding; he would have known that I ought to have been viſited.

Upon my word, Colonel, this is a ſole⯑ciſm.

'Sblood, my Lady, it's none. Sir John Flow⯑etdale came but laſt night from his ſiſter's ſeat in the weſt, and is a little out of order. But I ſuppoſe he thinks he ought to appear before him with his daughter in one hand, and his rent-roll in the other, and cry, Sir, pray do me the favour to accept them.

Nay, but, Mr. Oldboy, permit me to ſay—

He need not give himſelf ſo many affected airs; I think it's very well if he gets ſuch a girl for going for; ſhe's one of the handſomeſt and richeſt in this country, and more than he deſerves.

That's an exceeding fine China jar your Ladyſhip has got in the next room; I ſaw the fellow of it the other day at William's, and will ſend to my agent to purchaſe it: it is the true matchleſs old blue and white. Lady Betty Barebones has a couple that ſhe gave an hundred guineas for, on board an India⯑man; but ſhe reckons them at a hundred and twenty-five, on account of half a dozen of plates, four nankeen beakers, and a couple of ſhaking Mandarins, that the cuſtom-houſe officers took from under her petticoats.

Did you ever hear the like of this! He's chat⯑tering about old china, while I am talking to him of a fine girl. I tell you what, Mr. Jeſſamy, ſince that's the name you chooſe to be called by, I have a good mind to knock you down.

Knock me down! Colonel? What do you mean? I muſt tell you, Sir, this is a language to which I have not been accuſtomed; and, if you think proper to continue or repeat it, I ſhall be under a ne⯑ceſſity of quitting your houſe.

Quitting my houſe?

Yes, Sir, incontinently.

Why, Sir, am not I your father, Sir? and have not I a right to talk to you as I like? I will, ſirrah. But perhaps, I mayn't be your father, and I hope not.

Heavens and earth, Mr. Oldboy!

What's the matter, Madam! I mean, Madam, that he might have been changed at nurſe, Madam; and I believe he was.

Huh! huh! huh!

Do you laugh at me, you ſaucy jackanapes!

Who's there, ſomebody bring me a chair. Really, Mr. Oldboy, you throw my weakly frame into ſuch repeated convulſions—but I ſee your aim; you want to lay me in my grave, and you will very ſoon have that ſatisfaction.

I can't bear the ſight of him.

Open that window, give me air, or I ſhall faint.

Hold, hold, let me tie a handkerchief about my neck firſt. This curſed ſharp north wind—Antoine, bring down my muff.

Ay, do, and his great-coat.

Marg'ret, ſome hartſhorn. My dear Mr. Oldboy, why will you fly out in this way, when you know how it ſhocks my tender nerves?

'Sblood, Madam, its enough to make a man mad.

Hartſhorn! hartſhorn!

Colonel!

Do you hear the puppy?

Will you give me leave to aſk you one queſtion?

I don't know whether I will or not.

I ſhould be glad to know, that's all, what ſingle circumſtance in my conduct, carriage, or figure you can poſſibly find fault with—Perhaps I may be brought to reform—Pr'ythee, let me hear from your own mouth, then, ſeriouſly, what it is you do like, and what it is you do not like.

Hum!

Be ingenuous, ſpeak, and ſpare not.

You would know?

SCENE IV.

What's the matter with the Colonel, Ma'am? Does your Ladyſhip know?

Heigho! don't be ſurpriſed, child; it was the ſame thing with my late dear brother, Lord Jeſſamy; they never could agree: that good natur⯑ed, friendly ſoul, knowing the delicacy of my con⯑ſtitution, has often ſaid, Siſter Mary, I pity you. Not but your papa has good qualities, and I aſſure you I remember him a very fine gentleman himſelf. In the year of the hard froſt, one thouſand ſeven hundred and thirty-nine, when he firſt paid his ad⯑dreſſes to me, he was called agreeable Jack Oldboy, though I married him without the conſent of your noble grandfather.

I think he ought to be proud of me: I believe there's many a Duke, nay Prince, who would eſteem themſelves happy in having ſuch a ſon—

Yes, my dear; but your ſiſter was always your papa's favourite: he intends to give her a pro⯑digious fortune, and ſets his heart upon ſeeing her a woman of quality.

He ſhould wiſh to ſee her look a little like a gentlewoman firſt. When ſhe was in London, laſt winter, I am told ſhe was taken notice of by a few men. But ſhe wants air, manner—

And has not a bit of the genius of our fa⯑mily, and I never knew a woman of it but herſelf with⯑out. I have tried her: about three years ago, I ſet her to tranſlate a little French ſong: I found ſhe had not even an idea of verſification: and ſhe put down love and joy for rhyme—ſo I gave her over.

Why, indeed, ſhe appears to have more of the Thaleſtris than the Sappho about her.

Well, my dear, I muſt go and dreſs my⯑ſelf; though I proteſt I am fitter for my bed than my coach. And condeſcend to the Colonel a little—do, my dear, if it be only to oblige your mamma.

SCENE V.

Hold a little: I am going to ſee a provincial Ba⯑ronet here; who would fain prevail upon me to marry his daughter: the old gentleman has heard of my parts and underſtanding, Miſs of my figure and addreſs. But, ſuppoſe I ſhould not like her on an interview? Why, poſitively, then I will not have her; the treaty's at an end, and, ſans compliment, we break up the congreſs.

[12] Antoine, appretez la toilet. I am going to ſpend a curſed day; that I perceive already; I heartily wiſh my viſit was over.

SCENE VI.

My dear Lady, what ails you?

Nothing, Jenny, nothing.

Pardon me, Madam, there is ſomething ails you indeed. Lord! what ſignifies all the grandeur and riches in this world! if they can't procure one content. I am ſure it vexes me to the heart, ſo it does, to ſee ſuch a dear, ſweet, worthy young Lady as you are, pining yourſelf to death.

Jenny, you are a good girl, and I am very much obliged to you for feeling ſo much on my ac⯑count; but, in a little time, I hope I ſhall be eaſier.

Why, now, here to day, Madam, for ſartain you ought to be merry to-day, when there's a fine gen⯑tleman coming to court you! but, if you like any one elſe better, I am ſure, I wiſh you had him, with all my ſoul.

Suppoſe, Jenny, I was ſo unfortunate, as to like a man without my father's approbation; would you wiſh me married to him?

I wiſh you married to any one, Madam, that could make you happy.

Heigho!

Madam! Madam! yonder's Sir John and Mr. Lionel on the terras: I believe they are coming up here. Poor, dear Mr. Lionel, he does not ſeem to be in over great ſpirits either. To be ſure, Madam, it's no buſineſs of mind; but, I believe, if the truth was known, there are thoſe in the houſe, who wou'd give more than ever I ſhall be worth, or any the likes of me, to prevent the marriage of a ſartain perſon that ſhall be nameleſs.

What do you mean? I don't underſtand you.

I hope you are not angry, Madam?

Ah! Jenny—

Lauk, Madam! do you think, when Mr. Lionel's a clergyman, he'll be obliged to cut off his hair? I'm ſure it will be a thouſand pities, for it is the ſweeteſt colour, and looks the niceſt put up in a cue.

I'm going into my dreſſing-room—It ſeems then, Mr. Lionel is a great favourite of your's; but, pray Jenny, have a care how you talk in this manner to any one elſe.

Me talk, Madam! I thought you knew me better; and, my dear Lady, keep up your ſpirits, I'm ſure I have dreſſed you to-day as nice as hands and pins can make you.

SCENE VII.

Indeed, Lionel, I will not hear of it. What! to run from us all of a ſudden, this way; and at ſ [...]ch a time too; the eve of my daughter's wedding, as I may call it; when your company muſt be doubly agreeable, as well as neceſſary to us? I am ſure you have no ſtudies at preſent, that require your attendance at Oxford: I muſt, therefore, inſiſt on your putting ſuch thoughts out of your head.

Upon my word, Sir, I have been ſo long from the univerſity, that it is time for me to think of returning. It is true, I have no abſolute ſtudies; but, really, Sir, I ſhall be obliged to you, if you will give me leave to go.

Come, come, my dear Lionel, I have for ſome time obſerved a more than ordinary gravity grow⯑ing upon you, and I am not to learn the reaſon of it: I know, to minds ſerious, and well inclined, like yours, the ſacred function you are about to embrace—

Dear Sir, your goodneſs to me of every kind is ſo great, ſo unmerited! Your condeſcenſion, your friendly attentions—in ſhort, Sir, I want words to expreſs my ſenſe of obligations—

Fie, fie! no more of them. By my laſt letters, I find that my old friend the Rector, ſtill con⯑tinues in good health, conſidering his advanced years. You may imagine I am far from deſiring the death of ſo worthy and pious a man; yet I muſt own, at this time, I could wiſh you were in orders, as you might then perform the ceremony of my daughter's marriage; which would give me a ſecret ſatisfaction.

No doubt, Sir, any office in my power that could be inſtrumental to the happineſs of any of your family, I ſhould perform with pleaſure.

Why, really, Lionel, from the character of her intended huſband, I have no room to doubt, but this match will make Clariſſa perfectly happy: to be ſure, the alliance is the moſt eligible for both families.

If the gentleman is ſenſible of his happineſs in the alliance, Sir.—

The fondneſs of a father is always ſu⯑ſpected of partiality; yet, I believe, I may venture to ſay, that few young women will be found more unex⯑ceptionable than my daughter: her perſon is agreeable, her temper ſweet, her underſtanding good; and, with the obligations ſhe has to your inſtruction—

You do my endeavours too much honour, Sir; I have been able to add nothing to Miſs Flower⯑dale's accompliſhments, but a little knowledge in mat⯑ters of ſmall importance to a mind already ſo well im⯑proved.

I don't think ſo; a little knowledge, even in thoſe matters, is neceſſary for a woman, in whom I am far from conſidering ignorance as a deſireable [16] characteriſtic: when intelligence is not attended with impertinent affectation, it teaches them to judge with preciſion, and gives them a degree of ſolidity neceſſary for the companion of a ſenſible man.

Yonder's Mr. Jenkins; I fancy he's looking for you, Sir.

I ſee him; he's come back from colonel Oldboy's; here is my daughter coming to you too; I have a few words to ſay to Jenkins, and will return to you again in a minute.

SCENE VIII.

Perhaps, Madam, you are not at leiſure now: otherwiſe, if you thought proper, we would reſume the ſubject we were upon yeſterday.

I am ſure, Sir, I give you a great deal of trouble.

Madam, you give me no trouble; I ſhould think every hour of my life happily employed in your ſervice; and, as this is probably the laſt time I ſhall have the ſatisfaction of attending you upon the ſame occaſion—

Upon my word, Mr. Lionel, I think myſelf extremely obliged to you; and ſhall ever conſider the enjoyment of your friendſhip—

My friendſhip, Madam, can be of little mo⯑ment to you; but if the moſt perfect adoration, if the warmeſt wiſhes for your felicity, though I ſhould never be witneſs of it; if theſe, Madam, can have any merit to continue in your remembrance a man once honoured with a ſhare of your eſteem—

Hold Sir—I think I hear ſomebody.

If you pleaſe, Madam, we will turn over this celeſtial globe once more—Have you looked at the book I left you yeſterday?

Really, Sir, I have been ſo much diſturbed in my thoughts for theſe two or three days paſt, that I have not been able to look at any thing.

I am ſorry to hear that, Madam: I hope there was nothing particular to diſturb you. The care Sir John takes to diſpoſe of your hand in a manner ſuitable to your birth and fortune—

I don't know, Sir;—I own I am diſturbed, I own I am uneaſy; there is ſomething weighs upon my heart, which I would fain diſcloſe.

Upon your heart, Madam! did you ſay your heart?

I did, Sir,—I—

Madam! Madam! Here's a coach and ſix dri⯑ving up the avenue: It's Colonel Oldboy's family; and I believe the gentleman is in it, that's coming to court you.—Lord, I muſt run, and have a peep at him out of the window.

Madam, I'll take my leave.

Why ſo, Sir?—Bleſs me, Mr. Lionel, what's the matter!—You turn pale.

Madam!

Pray ſpeak to me, Sir.—You tremble.—Tell me the cauſe of this ſudden change.—How are you?—Where's your diſorder?

Oh fortune! fortune!

SCENE IX.

My dear Clariſſa—I'm glad I have found you alone.—For Heaven's ſake, don't let any one break in upon us;—and give me leave to ſit down with you a little:—I am in ſuch a tremor—

Mercy on us! what has happened?

You may remember I told you, that when we were laſt winter in London, I was followed by an odi⯑ous fellow, one Harman; I can't ſay but the wretch pleaſed me, though he is but a younger brother, and not worth ſixpence: And—in ſhort, when I was leaving town, I promiſed to correſpond with him.

Do you think that was prudent?

Madneſs! But this is not the worſt; for what do you think? the creature had the aſſurance to write to me about three weeks ago, deſiring permiſſion to come down, and ſpend the ſummer at my father's.

At your father's!

Ay, who never ſaw him, knows nothing of him, and would as ſoon conſent to my marrying a horſe-jockey. He told me a long ſtory of ſome tale he in⯑tended to invent, to make my father receive him as an indifferent perſon; and ſome gentleman in London, he ſaid, would procure him a letter that ſhould give it a face; and he longed to ſee me ſo, he ſaid he could [19] not live without it; and if he could be permitted but to ſpend a week with me—

Well, and what anſwer did you make?

Oh! abuſed him, and refuſed to liſten to any ſuch thing—But—I vow I tremble while I tell it you—juſt before we left our houſe, the impudent mon⯑ſter arrived there, attended by a couple of ſervants, and is now actually coming here with my father.

Upon my word, this is a dreadful thing.

Dreadful, my dear!—I happened to be at the window as he came into the court, and I declare I had like to have fainted away.

Isn't my Lady below?

Yes, and I muſt run down to her. You'll have my brother here preſently too; he would fain have come in the coach with my mother and me, but my father inſiſted on his walking with him over the fields.

Well, Diana, with regard to your affair—I think you muſt find ſome method of immediately in⯑forming this gentleman that you conſider the outrage he has committed againſt you in the moſt heinous light, and inſiſt upon his going away directly.

Why, I believe that will be the beſt way—but then he'll be begging my pardon, and aſking to ſtay.

Why then you muſt tell him poſitively, you won't conſent to it; and if he perſiſts in ſo extravagant a deſign, tell him you'll never ſee him again as long as you live.

Muſt I tell him ſo?

SCENE X.

How eaſy to direct the conduct of others! how hard to regulate our own! I can give my friend advice, while I am conſcious of the ſame indiſcretions in my⯑ſelf. Yet is it criminal to know the moſt worthy, moſt amiable man in the world, and not to be inſen⯑ſible to his merit? But my father, the kindeſt, beſt of fathers, will he approve the choice I have made? Nay, has he not made another choice for me? And, after all, how can I be ſure that the man I love, loves me again? He never told me ſo; but his looks, his actions, his preſent anxiety ſufficiently declare what his dclicacy, his generofity, will not ſuffer him to utter—

SCENE XI.

Well, and how does my old friend Dick Ran⯑tum? I have not ſeen him theſe twelve years: he was an honeſt worthy fellow as ever breathed; I re⯑member he kept a girl in London, and was curſedly plagued by his wife's relations.

Sir Richard was always a man of ſpirit, Colonel.

But as to this buſineſs of yours, which he tells me of in his letter—I don't ſee much in it.—An affair with a citizen's daughter—pinked her brother in a duel—Is the fellow likely to die?

Why, Sir, we hope not; but as the matter is dubious, and will probably make ſome noiſe, I thought it was better to be for a little time out of the way; when hearing my caſe, Sir Richard Rantum mentioned you; he ſaid, he was ſure you would permit me to remain at your houſe for a few days, and offered me a recommendation.

And there's likely to be a brat in the caſe—And the girl's friends are in buſineſs—I'll tell you what will be the conſequence then—They will be for going to law with you for a maintenance—but no matter, I'll take the affair in hand for you—make me your ſolicitor; and if you are obliged to pay for a ſingle ſpoonful of pap, I'll be content to father all the chil⯑dren in the Foundling Hoſpital.

I'm ſure, Sir, you are very kind.

But hold—hark you—you ſay there's money to be had—ſuppoſe you were to marry the wench?

Do you think, Sir, that would be ſo right, after what has happened? Beſides, there's a ſtronger [22] objection—To tell you the truth, I am honourably in love in another place.

Oh! you are.

Yes, Sir, but there are obſtacles—A father—In ſhort, Sir, the miſtreſs of my heart lives in this very county, which makes even my preſent ſituation a little irkſome.

In this county! Zounds! then I am ſure I am acquainted with her, and the firſt letter of her name is—

Excuſe me, Sir, I have ſome particular rea⯑ſons—

But look who comes yonder—Ha! ha! ha! My ſon picking his ſteps like a dancing-maſter. Pr'ythee, Harman, go into the houſe, and let my wife and daughter know we are come, while I go and have ſome ſport with him: they will introduce you to Sir John Flowerdale.

Then, Sir, I'll take the liberty—

But d'ye hear, I muſt have a little more diſ⯑courſe with you about this girl; perhaps ſhe's a neigh⯑bour of mine, and I may be of ſervice to you.

D'ye think you cou'd?

I dare to ſay.

But perhaps you might not chooſe.

Try me, try me.

Well, remember, Colonel, if I find your friendſhip can be of uſe to me, depend upon it, I ſhall put it to the teſt.

SCENE XII.

Why, zounds! one would think you had ne⯑ver put your feet to the ground before; you make as [23] much work about walking a quarter of a mile, as if you had gone a pilgrimage to Jeruſalem.

Colonel, you have uſed me extremely ill, to drag me through the dirty roads in this manner; you told me the way was all over a bowling-green: only ſee what a condition I am in!

Why, how did I know the roads were dirty? is that my fault? Beſides, we miſtook the way. Zounds, man! your legs will be never the worſe when they are bruſhed a little.

Antoine! have you ſent La Roque for the ſhoes and ſtockings? Give me the glaſs out of your pocket—not a duſt of powder left in my hair, and the friſſure as flat as the fore-top of an attorney's clerk—get your comb and pomatum; you muſt bor⯑row ſome powder; I ſuppoſe there's ſuch a thing as a dreſſing-room in the houſe?

SCENE XIII.

Ay, and a cellar, too, I hope; for I want a glaſs of wine curſedly—but hold! hold! Frank, where are you going? Stay, and pay your devoirs here, if you pleaſe; I ſee there's ſomebody coming out to welcome us.

Colonel, your moſt obedient; Sir John is walk⯑ing with my Lady in the garden, and has commiſſion⯑ed me to receive you.

Mr. Lionel, I am heartily glad to ſee you—come here, Frank—this is my ſon, Sir.

Sir, I am extremely proud to—

Can't you get the powder then?

Miſs Clary, my little Miſs Clary—give me a kiſs, my dear—as handſome as an angel, by Heavens— [24] Frank, why don't you come here? This is Miſs Flowerdale.

Oh Heavens, Clariſſa! juſt as I ſaid, that im⯑pudent devil is come here with my father.

Had'nt we better go into the houſe?

SCENE I.

Well, but Mr. Lionel, conſider, pray conſi⯑der now; how can you be ſo purdigious undiſcreet as you are, walking about the hall here, while the gen⯑tlefolks are within in the parlour? Don't you think they'll wonder at your getting up ſo ſoon after dinner, and before any of the reſt of the company?

For Heaven's ſake, Jenny, don't ſpeak to me: I neither know where I am, nor what I am doing; I am the moſt wretched and miſerable of all mankind.

Poor dear ſoul, I pity you. Yes, yes, I believe you are miſerable enough indeed; and I aſſure you, I have pitied you a great while, and ſpoke many a word in your favour; when you little thought you had ſuch a friend in a corner.

But, good Jenny, ſince by ſome accident or other, you have been able to diſcover what I would willingly hide from all the world; I conjure you, as you regard my intereſt, as you value your Lady's peace and honour, never let the moſt diſtant hint of it eſcape you; for it is a ſecret of that importance—

And, perhaps, you think I can't keep a ſecret. Ah! Mr. Lionel, it muſt be hear, ſee, and ſay nothing in this world, or one has no buſineſs to live in it: be⯑ſides who would not be in love with my Lady? There's never a man this day alive but might be proud of it; for ſhe is the handſomeſt, ſweeteſt temperdeſt! And I am ſure one of the beſt miſtreſſes ever poor girl had.

Oh Jenny! ſhe's an angel.

And ſo ſhe is indeed—Do you know that ſhe gave me her blue and ſilver ſack to-day, and it is every crum as good as new; and, go things as they will, don't you be fretting and vexing yourſelf, for I am mortally ſartain ſhe would liverer ſee a toad than this Jeſſamy. Though I muſt ſay, to my thinking, he's a very likely man; and a finer pair of eye-brows, and a more delicater noſe I never ſaw on a face.

By Heavens, I ſhall run mad.

And why ſo? It is not beauty that always takes the fancy: Moreover, to let you know, if it was, I don't think him any more to compare to you, than a thiſtle is to a carnation: and ſo's a ſign; for, mark my words, my Lady loves you as much as ſhe hates him.

What you tell me, Jenny, is a thing I neither merit or expect: No, I am unhappy; and let me con⯑tinue ſo: my moſt preſumptuous thoughts ſhall never carry me to a wiſh that may affect her quiet, or give her cauſe to repent.

That's very honourable of you, I muſt needs ſay; but for all that, liking's liking, and one can't help it; and if it ſhould be my Lady's caſe, it is no fault of yours. I am ſure, when ſhe called me into her dreſſing-room, before ſhe went down to dinner, there ſhe ſtood with her eyes brim full of tears; and ſo I fell a-crying for company—and then ſhe ſaid, ſhe could not abide the chap in the parlour; and at the ſame time, ſhe bid me take an opportunity to ſpeak to you, and de⯑ſire you wou'd meet her in the garden this evening after tea; for ſhe has ſomething to ſay to you.

Jenny, I ſee you are my friend: for which I thank you, though I know it is impoſſible to do me any ſervice; take this ring, and wear it for my ſake.

I am very much obliged to your honour; I am your friend indeed—but, I ſay, you won't forget to be in the garden now; and in the mean time keep as little in the houſe as you can, for walls have eyes and ears; and I can tell you, the ſervants take notice of your uneaſineſs, tho' I am always deſiring them to mind their buſineſs.

Pray have a care, Jenny, have a care my dear girl; a word may breed ſuſpicion.

Pſha! have a care yourſelf; it is you that breeds ſuſpicion, ſighing and pining about; you look for all the world like a ghoſt; and if you don't pluck up your ſpirits, you will be a ghoſt ſoon; letting things get the better of you. Though to be ſure, when I thinks with myſelf, being croſs'd in love is a terrible thing—There was a young man in the town where I was born made away with himſelf upon account of it.

Things ſhan't get the better of me, Jenny.

No more they don't ought. And once again ſay, fortune is thrown in your diſh, and you are not to fling it out; my Lady's eſtate will be better than three biſhopricks, if Sir John could give them to you. Think of that, Mr. Lionel, think of that.

Think of what.

SCENE II.

Very well, my Lady, I'll come again to you preſently; I am only going into the garden for a mouthful of air. Aha! my little Abigail! Here Molly, Jenny, Betty! What's your name? Why don't you anſwer me, huſſy, when I call you?

If you want any thing, Sir, I'll call one of the footmen.

The footmen! the footmen! Damn me, I ne⯑ver knew one of them, in my life, that would'nt prefer a raſcal to a gentleman—Come here, you ſlut, put your hands about my neck, and kiſs me.

Who I, Sir!

Ay, here's money for you; what the devil are you afraid of? I'll take you into keeping; you ſhall go and live at one of my tenant's houſes.

I wonder you aren't aſham'd, Sir, to make an honeſt girl any ſuch propoſal; you that have a worthy gentlewoman, nay, a Lady of your own—To be ſure, ſhe's a little ſtricken in years; but why ſhould'nt ſhe grow elderly as well as yourſelf?

Burn a Lady, I love a pretty girl—

Well then, you may go look for one, Sir; I have no pretenſions to the title.

Why, you pert baggage, you don't know me.

What do you pinch my fingers for? Yes, yes, I know you well enough, and your charekter's well known all over the country, running after poor young creatures as you do, to ruinate them.

What! then people ſay—

Indeed, they talk very bad of you; and what⯑ever you may think, Sir, tho' I'm in a menial ſtation, I'm come of people that wou [...]d'nt ſee me put upon; [29] there are thoſe that wou'd take my part againſt the proudeſt he in the land, that ſhould offer any thing uncivil.

Well, come, let me know now; how does your young Lady like my ſon?

You want to pump me, do you? I ſuppoſe you would know whether I can keep my tongue within my teeth.

She does'nt like him then?

I don't day ſo, Sir—Isn't this a ſhame now—I ſuppoſe to-morrow or next day it will be reported that Jenny has been talking, Jenny ſaid that, and t'other—But here, Sir, I ax you, Did I tell you any ſuch thing?

Why, yes, you did.

I!—Lord bleſs me, how can you—

Ad, I'll mouzle you.

Ah! ah!

What do you bawl for?

Ah! ah! ah!

SCENE III.

Mr. Oldboy, won't you give me your hand to lead me up ſtairs, my dear?—Sir, I am pro⯑digiouſly obliged to you; I proteſt I have not been ſo well, I don't know when: I have had no return of my bilious complaint after dinner to-day; and ate ſo vora⯑ciouſly! Did you obſerve, Miſs? the whole wing of a partridge! Dr. Arſnic will be quite aſtoniſhed when he hears it; ſurely his new invented medicine has done me a prodigious deal of ſervice.

Ah! you'll always be taking one ſlop or other, till you poiſon yourſelf.

It brought Sir Barnaby Drugg from death's door, after having tried the Spaw and Briſtol waters without effect: it is good for ſeveral things; in many, ſovereign, as in colds and conſumptions, and lowneſs of ſpirits; it corrects the humours, rectifies the juices, regulates the nervous ſyſtem; creates an appetite, pre⯑vents fluſhings and ſickneſs after meals; as alſo vain fears and head-achs; it is the fineſt thing in the world for an aſthma: and no body that takes it, is ever troubled with hyſterics.

Give me a pinch of your Lordſhip's ſnuff.

This is a mighty pretty ſort of man, Co⯑lonel; who is he?

A young fellow, my Lady, recommended to me.

I proteſt he has the ſweeteſt taſte for poetry!—He has repeated to me two or three of his own things; and I have been telling him of the poem my late brother Lord Jeſſamy made on the mouſe that was drowned—

Ay, a fine ſubject for a poem; a mouſe that was drowned in a—

Huſh, my dear Colonel! don't mention it; to be ſure, the circumſtance was vaſtly indelicate; but for the number of lines, the poem was as charm⯑ing a morſel—I heard the Earl of Punley ſay, who underſtood Latin, that it was equal to any thing in Catullus.

Well, how did you like your ſon's behaviour at dinner, Madam? I thought the girl looked a little aſkew at him—Why, he found fault with every thing, and contradicted every body!

Softly!—Miſs Flowerdale I underſtand has deſired a private conference with him.

What! Harman, have you got entertaining my daughter there? Come hither, Dy; has he been giving you a hiſtory of the accident that brought him down here?

No, Papa, the gentleman has been telling me—

No matter what, Miſs—'tis not polite to repeat what has been ſaid.

Well, well, my Lady; you know the compact we made; the boy is yours, the girl mine—Give me your hand, Dy.

Colonel, I have done.—Pray, Sir, was there any news when you left London; any thing about the Eaſt-Indies, the miniſtry, or politics of any kind? I am ſtrangely fond of politics: but I hear nothing ſince my Lord Jeſſamy's death; he uſed to write me all the affairs of the nation, for he was a very great politician himſelf. I have a manuſcript ſpeech of his in my cabinet—He never ſpoke it, but it is as fine a thing as ever came from man.

What is that crawling on your Ladyſhip's petticoat?

Where! where!

Zounds! a ſpider with legs as long as my arm.

Oh Heavens! Ah, don't let me look at it; I ſhall faint, I ſhall faint! A ſpider! a ſpider! a ſpider!

SCENE IV.

Hold! zounds, let her go; I knew the ſpider would ſet her a galloping, with her damned fuſs about her brother my Lord Jeſſamy—Harman, come here—How do you like my daughter? Is the girl you are in love with as handſome as this?

In my opinion, Sir.

What, as handſome as Dy!—I'll lay you twenty pounds ſhe has not ſuch a pair of eyes.—He tells me he's in love, Dy; raging mad for love; and, by his talk, I begin to believe him.

Now, for my part, papa, I doubt it very much; though, by what I heard the gentleman ſay juſt now within, I find he imagines the Lady has a violent partiality for him; and yet he may be miſtaken there too.

For ſhame, Dy! what the miſchief do you mean? How can you talk ſo tartly to a poor young fellow under misfortunes? Give him your hand, and aſk his pardon. Don't mind her, Harman.—For all this, ſhe is as good-natur'd a little devil, as ever was born.

You may remember, Sir, I told you before dinner, that I had for ſome time carried on a private correſpondence with my lovely girl; and that her fa⯑ther, whoſe conſent we deſpair of obtaining, is the great obſtacle to our happineſs.

Why don't you carry her off in ſpight of him, then?—I ran away with my wife—aſk my Lady Mary, ſhe'll tell you the thing herſelf.—Her old con⯑ceited [33] Lord of a father thought I was not good enough; but I mounted a garden-wall, notwithſtanding their cheveux-de-frize of broken glaſs bottles, took her out of a three pair of ſtairs window, and brought her down a ladder in my arms.—By the way, ſhe would have ſqueezed through a cat-hole to get at me.—And I would have taken her out of the Tower of London, damme, if it had been ſurrounded with the three regi⯑ments of guards.

But ſurely, papa, you would not perſuade the gentleman to ſuch a proceeding as this is; conſider the noiſe it will make in the country; and, if you are known to be the adviſer and abettor—

Why, what do I care? I ſay, if he takes my advice, he'll run away with her; and I'll give him all the aſſiſtance I can.

I am ſure, Sir, you are very kind; and, to tell you the truth, I have more than once had the very ſcheme in my head, if I thought it was feaſible, and knew how to go about it.

Feaſible, and knew how to go about it! The thing's feaſible enough, if the girl's willing to go off with you, and you have ſpirit ſufficient to undertake it.

O, as for that, Sir, I can anſwer.

What, Sir, that the lady will be willing to go off with you?

No, Ma'am; that I have ſpirit enough to take her, if ſhe is willing to go; and thus far I dare venture to promiſe, that between this and to-morrow morning, I will find out whether ſhe is or not.

So he may; ſhe lives but in this county; and tell her, Harman, you have met with a friend, who is inclined to ſerve you. You ſhall have my poſt-chaiſe at a minute's warning; and if a hundred pieces will be of any uſe to you, you may command 'em.

And you are really ſerious, Sir?

Serious! damme, if I an't. I have put twenty young fellows in a way of getting girls that they never would have thought of: and bring her to my houſe; whenever you come, you ſhall have a ſupper and a bed; but you muſt marry her firſt, becauſe my Lady will be ſqueamiſh.

Well, but, my dear papa; upon my word, you have a great deal to anſwer for: ſuppoſe it was your own caſe to have a daughter in ſuch circumſtances, would you be obliged to any one—

Hold your tongue, huſſy! who bid you put in your oar? However, Harman, I don't want to ſet you upon any thing; 'tis no affair of mine, to be ſure; I only give you advice, and tell you how I would act if I was in your place.

I aſſure you, Sir, I am quite charm'd with the advice; and, ſince you are ready to ſtand my friend, I am determined to follow it.

You are—

Poſitively—

Say no more then; here's my hand:—You underſtand me—No occaſion to talk any further of it at preſent—When we are alone—Dy, take Mr. Har⯑man into the drawing-room, and give him ſome tea.—I ſay, Harman, Mum—

O, Sir.

What the Devil's the matter with you?

SCENE V.

Sir, I deſire to know what groſs acts of im⯑prudence you have ever diſcovered in me, to authorize you in this licence, or make you imagine I ſhould not ſhew ſuch marks of my reſentment as your monſtrous treatment of me deſerves?

Nay, my dear Diana, I confeſs I have been rather too bold;—but conſider, I languiſh'd to ſee you; and, when an opportunity offer'd to give me that plea⯑ſure without running any riſque, either of your quiet or reputation, how hard was it to be reſiſted? 'Tis true, I little thought my viſit would be attended with ſuch happy conſequences as it now ſeems to promiſe.

What do you mean?

Why, don't you ſee your father has an incli⯑nation I ſhould run away with you, and is contriving the means himſelf?

And do you think me capable of concurring? Do you think I have no more duty?

I don't know that, Madam; I am ſure your refuſing to ſeize ſuch an opportunity to make me hap⯑py, gives evident proofs that you have very little love.

If there is no way to convince you of my love but by my indiſcretion, you are welcome to conſider it in what light you pleaſe.

Was ever ſo unfortunate a dog?

Very pretty this, upon my word! But is it poſſible you can be in earneſt?

It is a matter of too much conſequence to jeſt about.

And you ſeriouſly think I ought—

I ſhall ſay no more, Ma'am.

Nay, but, for Heaven's ſake—

No, Madam, no; I have done.

And are you poſitively in this violent fuſs about the matter, or only giving yourſelf airs?

You may ſuppoſe what you think proper, Madam.

Well, come; let us go into the drawing⯑room and drink tea, and afterwards we'll talk of matters.

I won't drink any tea.

Why ſo?

Becauſe I'm not dry.

Not dry! Ridiculous.

I wiſh you would let me alone.

Nay, pr'ythee—

I won't.

Well, will you if I conſent to—pleaſe?

I don't know whether I will or not.

Ha, ha, ha, poor Harman!

SCENE VI.

Say'ſt thou ſo, my girl! Then Love renounce me, if I drive not old Truepenny's humour to the utter⯑moſt.—Let me conſider—What ill conſequence can poſſibly attend it?—The deſign is his own, as in part will be the execution—He may perhaps be angry when he finds out the deceit.—Well;—he deceives himſelf; and faults we commit ourſelves, we ſeldom find much difficulty in pardoning.

SCENE VII.

Come, brother, I'll undertake to be miſtreſs of the ceremony upon this occaſion, and introduce you to your firſt audience.—Miſs Flowerdale is not here, I perceive; but no matter—

Upon my word, a pretty elegant dreſſing⯑room this; but confound our builders, or architects, as they call themſelves, they are all errant ſtone-maſons; not one of them know the ſituation of doors, windows, or chimnies.

My dear brother, you are not come here as a virtuoſo to admire the temple; but as a votary to addreſs the deity to whom it belongs. Shew, I be⯑ſeech you, a little more devotion; and tell me, how do you like Miſs Flowerdale? Don't you think her very handſome?

Pale;—but that I am determined ſhe ſhall remedy? for, as ſoon as we are married, I will make her put on rouge:—Let me ſee:—has ſhe got any in her boxes here? Veritable toilet a la Angloiſe. No⯑thing but a bottle of Hungary-water, two or three rows of pins, a paper of patches, and a little bole-armoniac by way of tooth-powder.

Brother, I would fain give you ſome advice upon this occaſion, which may be of ſervice to you: You are now going to entertain a young Lady—Let me prevail upon you to lay aſide thoſe airs, on account of which ſome people are impertinent enough to call you a coxcomb; for I am aſraid, ſhe may be apt to think you a coxcomb too, as I aſſure you ſhe is very capable of diſtinguiſhing.

So much the worſe for me.—If ſhe is capable of diſtinguiſhing, I ſhall meet with a terrible repulſe. I don't believe ſhe'll have me.

I don't believe ſhe will, indeed.

Go on, ſiſter,—ha, ha, ha!

I proteſt I am ſerious—Though, I perceive, you have more faith in the counſellor before you there, the looking-glaſs. But give me leave to tell you, it is not a powder'd head, a lac'd coat, a grimace, a [39] ſhrug, a bow, or a few pert phraſes, learnt by rote, that conſtitute the power of pleaſing all women.

You had better return to the gentleman, and give him his tea, my dear.

Theſe qualifications we find in our parrots and monkies. I would undertake to teach Poll, in three weeks, the faſhionable jargon of half the fine men about town; and I am ſure it muſt be allowed, that pug, in a ſcarlet coat, is a gentleman as degagé and alluring as moſt of them.

SCENE VIII.

Sir, I took the liberty to deſire a few mo⯑ments private converſation with you—I hope you will excuſe it—I am, really, greatly embarraſs'd. But, in an affair of ſuch immediate conſequence to us both—

My dear creature, don't be embarraſs'd before me; I ſhould be extremely ſorry to ſtrike you with any awe; but, this is a ſpecies of mauvaiſe honte, which the company I ſhall introduce you to, will ſoon cure you of.

Upon my word, I don't underſtand you.

Perhaps, you may be under ſome un⯑eaſineſs, leſt I ſhould not be quite ſo warm in the pro⯑ſecution of this affair, as you could wiſh: it is true, with regard to quality, I might do better; and, with regard to fortune, full as well—But you pleaſe me—Upon my ſoul, I have not met with any thing more agreeable to me a great while.

Pray, Sir, keep your ſeat.

Mauvaiſe honte again. My dear, there is nothing in theſe little familiarities between you and me—When we are married, I ſhall do every thing to render your life happy—

Ah! Sir, pardon me. The happineſs of my life depends upon a circumſtance—

Oh!—I underſtand you—You have been told, I ſuppoſe, of the Italian opera girl—Rat people's tongues—However, 'tis true, I had an affair with her at Naples, and ſhe is now here. But, be ſatisfied, I'll give her a thouſand pounds, and ſend her about her buſineſs.

Me, Sir! I proteſt nobody told me—Lord! I never heard any ſuch thing, or enquired about it.

Nor have they not been chattering to you of my affair at Piſa, with the Principeſſa del—

No, indeed, Sir.

Well! I was afraid they might, becauſe, in this rude country—But, why ſilent, on a ſudden?—don't be afraid to ſpeak.

No, Sir; I will come to the ſubject on which I took to liberty to trouble you—Indeed, I have great reliance on your generoſity.

You'll find me generous as a prince, de⯑pend on't.

I am bleſs'd, Sir, with one of the beſt of fathers: I never yet diſobey'd him; in which I have had little merit; for his commands hitherto have only been to ſecure my own felicity.

Apres ma chere.

But now, Sir, I am under the ſhocking ne⯑ceſſity of diſobeying him, or being wretched for ever.

Hem!

Our union is impoſſible—my preſent ſituation—the gloomy proſpect before me—the inquietude of my mind—

SCENE IX.

Who's there?

Do you call, Sir?

Hark you, old gentleman; who are you?

Sir, my name is Jenkins.

Oh! you are Sir John Flowerdale's ſte⯑ward; a ſervant he puts confidence in.

Sir, I have ſerved Sir John Flowerdale many years: he is the beſt of maſters; and, I believe, he has ſome dependence on my attachment and fidelity.

Then, Mr. Jenkins, I ſhall condeſcend to ſpeak to you. Does your maſter know who I am? Does he know, Sir, that I am likely to be a Peer of Great-Britain? That I have ten thouſand pounds a-year; that I have paſſed through all Europe with diſ⯑tinguiſhed eclat; that I refuſed the daughter of Myn⯑heer Van Slokenfolk, the great Dutch Burgomaſter; and, that, if I had not had the misfortune of being bred a proteſtant, I might have married the niece of his preſent holineſs the Pope; with a fortune of two hundred thouſand piaſtres?

I am ſure, Sir, my maſter has all the reſpect imaginable—

Then, Sir, how comes he, after my ſhewing an inclination to be allied to his family; how comes he, I ſay, to bring me to his houſe to be affronted? I have let his daughter go; but, I think, I was in the wong; for a woman that inſults me, is no more ſafe than a man. I have brought a Lady to reaſon before now, for giving me ſaucy language; and left her male friends to revenge it.

Pray, good Sir, what is the matter?

Why, Sir, this is the matter, Sir—Your maſter's daughter, Sir, has behaved to me with damn'd inſolence, and impertinence; and, you may tell Sir John Flowerdale, firſt, with regard to her, that I think, ſhe is a ſilly, ignorant, awkward, ill-bred country puſs.

Oh! Sir, for Heav'ns ſake—

And, that, with regard to himſelf, he is, in my opinion, an old, doating, ridiculous, country 'Squire: without the knowledge of either men or [43] things, and, that he is below my notice, if it were not to deſpiſe him.

Good Lord! Good Lord!

And, adviſe him and his daughter to keep out of my way; for, by gad, I will affront them in the firſt place I meet them—And, if your maſter is for carrying things further; tell him, I fence better than any man in Europe.

SCENE X.

I muſt go and inform Sir John of what has happened; but, I will not tell him of the outrageous behaviour of this young ſpark; for he is a man of ſpirit, and would reſent it. Egad, my own fingers itched to be at him once or twice; and, as ſtout as he is, I fancy theſe old fiſts would give him a bellyful. He complains of [44] Miſs Clariſſa; but, ſhe is incapable of treating him in the manner he ſays. Perhaps, ſhe may have behaved with ſome coldneſs towards him; and, yet, that is a myſtery to me too—

SCENE XI.

Hiſt—methought I heard a noiſe—ſhould we be ſurprized together, at a juncture ſo critical, what might be the conſequence!—I know not how it is; but, at this, the happieſt moment of my life, I feel a damp, a tremor, at my heart—

Then, what ſhould I do? If you tremble, I ought to be terrified indeed, who have diſcovered ſen⯑timents, which, perhaps, I ſhould have hid, with a frankneſs, that, by a man leſs generous, leſs noble-minded [45] than yourſelf, might be conſtrued to my diſ⯑advantage.

Oh! wound me not with ſo cruel an expreſ⯑ſion—You love me, and have condeſcended to confeſs it—You have ſeen my torments, and been kind enough to pity them—If this is to have err'd—

Be calm, and liſten to me: what I have done has not been lightly imagined, nor raſhly undertaken: it is the work of reflection, of conviction; my love is not a ſacrifice to my own fancy, but a tribute to your worth; did I think there was a more deſerving man in the world—

If, to doat on you more than life, be to de⯑ſerve you, ſo far I have merit; if, to have no wiſh, no hope, no thought, but you, can entitle me to the en⯑vied diſtinction of a moment's regard, ſo far I dare pretend.

That I have this day refuſed a man, with whom I could not be happy, is nothing ſingular; born for quiet and ſimplicity, the crowds of the world, the noiſe attending pomp and diſtinction, have no charms for me: I wiſh to paſs my life in rational tranquillity, with a friend whoſe virtues I can reſpect, whoſe ta⯑lents I can admire; who will make my eſteem the baſis of my affection.

O charming creature! Yes, let me indulge the flattering idea; form'd with the ſame ſentiments, the ſame feelings, the ſame tender paſſion for each other, Nature deſign'd us to compoſe that ſacred union, which nothing but death can annul.

One only thing remember. Secure in each others affections, here we muſt reſt; I would not give my father a moment's pain, to purchaſe the empire of the world.

Command, diſpoſe of me as you pleaſe; an⯑gels take cognizance of the vows of innocence and [46] virtue; and, I will believe that ours are already re⯑giſter'd in Heaven.

I will believe ſo too.

SCENE XII.

Who's there? Lionel!

Heav'ns! 'tis Sir John Flowerdale.

Who's there?

'Tis I, Sir; I am here; Lionel.

My dear lad, I have been ſearching for you this half hour, and was at laſt told you had come into the garden: I have a piece of news, which I dare ſwear will ſhock and ſurprize you; my daughter has refuſed Colonel Oldboy's ſon, who is this minute departed the houſe in violent reſentment of her ill treatment.

Is he gone, Sir?

Yes, and the family are preparing to fol⯑low him. Oh! Lionel, Clariſſa has deceived me: in this affair ſhe has ſuffered me to deceive myſelf. The meaſures which I have been ſo long preparing, are broken in a moment—my hopes fruſtrated; and both parties, in the eye of the world, rendered light and ridiculous.

I am ſorry to ſee you ſo much moved; pray Sir, recover yourſelf.

I am ſorry, Lionel, ſhe has profited no bet⯑ter by your leſſons of philoſophy, than to impoſe upon and diſtreſs ſo kind a father.

Have juſter thoughts of her, Sir; ſhe has not impoſed on you; ſhe is incapable—have but a little patience, and things may yet be brought about.

No, Lionel, no; the matter is paſt, and there's an end of it; yet I would conjecture to what ſuch an unexpected turn in her conduct can be owing; I would fain be ſatisfied of the motive that could urge her to ſo extraordinary a proceeding, without the leaſt intimation, the leaſt warning to me, or any of her friends.

Perhaps, Sir, the gentleman may have been too impetuous, and offended Miſs Flowerdale's delicacy—certainly nothing elſe could occaſion—

Heaven only knows—I think, indeed, there can be no ſettled averſion; and ſurely her affec⯑tions are not engaged elſewhere.

Engag'd, Sir!—No, Sir.

I think not, Lionel.

You may be poſitive, Sir—I'm ſure—

O worthy young man, whoſe integrity, openneſs, and every good quality have rendered dear to me as my own child; I ſee this affair troubles you as much as it does me.

It troubles me indeed, Sir.

However, my particular diſappointment ought not to be detrimental to you, nor ſhall it: I well know how irkſome it is to a generous mind to live in a ſtate of dependence, and have long had it in my thoughts to make you eaſy for life.

Sir John, the ſituation of my mind at preſent is a little diſturb'd—ſpare me—I beſeech you, ſpare [48] me; why will you perſiſt in a goodneſs that makes me aſham'd of myſelf?

There is an eſtate in this county which I purchaſed ſome years ago; by me it will never be miſſed; and whoever marries my daughter, will have little reaſon to complain of my diſpoſing of ſuch a trifle for my own gratification. On the preſent marriage I intended to perfect a deed of gift in your favour, which has been for ſome time prepared; my lawyer has this day completed it; and it is yours, my dear Lionel—

Sir, If you preſented a piſtol with deſign to ſhoot me, I would ſubmit to it; but you muſt excuſe me; I cannot lay myſelf under more obligations.

Your delicacy carries you too far; in this I confer a favour on myſelf: however, we'll talk no more on the ſubject at preſent; let us walk towards the houſe, our friends will depart elſe without my bidding them adieu.

SCENE XIII.

So then, my dear Clariſſa, you really give credit to the ravings of that French wreteh; with re⯑gard to a plurality of worlds?

I don't make it an abſolute article of belief; but I think it an ingenious conjecture, with great pro⯑bability on its ſide.

And we are a moon to the moon! Nay, child, I know ſomething of aſtronomy, but can I believe that little ſhining thing there, which ſeems not much lar⯑ger than a ſilver plate, contains great cities like Lon⯑don? and who can tell but they may have kings there and parliaments, and plays and operas, and people of faſhion! Lord! the people of faſhion in the moon muſt be ſtrange creatures.

Methinks Venus ſhines very bright in yonder corner.

Venus! O pray let me look at Venus; I ſup⯑poſe, if there are any inhabitants there, they muſt be all lovers.

Was ever ſuch a wretch!—I can't ſtay a mo⯑ment in a place; where is my repoſe?—fled with my virtue. Was I then born for falſehood and diſſimula⯑tion? I was, I was, and live to be conſcious of it! To impoſe upon my friend! to betray my benefactor, and lie to hide my ingratitude▪—a monſter in a moment—No; I may be the moſt unfortunate of men, but I will not be the moſt odious; while my heart is yet capable of dictating what is honeſt, I will obey its voice.

SCENE XIV.

Dy, where are you? What the miſchief! is this a time to be walking in the garden! The coach has been ready this half hour.

I am learning aſtronomy, Sir; do you know papa, that the moon is inhabited?

Huſſy, you are half a lunatic yourſelf; come here, things have gone juſt as I imagin'd they wou'd; the girl has refus'd your brother; I knew he muſt diſ⯑guſt her.

Women will want taſte now and then, Sir.

Well, I have had a long conference with your father about the elopement, and he continues firm in his opinion that I ought to attempt it: in ſhort, all the neceſſary operations are ſettled between us, and I am to leave his houſe to-morrow morning, if I can but perſuade the young Lady—

Ay, but I hope the young Lady will have more ſenſe.

Friend Lionel, good night to you; Miſs Cla⯑riſſa, my dear, tho' I am father of the puppy who has diſpleaſed you, give me a kiſs; you ſerv'd him right, and I thank you for it.

SCENE I.

PRy'thee, hear me.

My dear, what would you ſay?

I am afraid of the ſtep we are going to take; indeed, I am: 'tis true, my father is the contriver of it; but, really, on conſideration, I think I ſhould appear leſs culpable, if he was not ſo; I am at once criminal myſelf, and rendering him ridiculous.

Do you love me?

Suppoſe I do, you give me a very ill proof of your love for me, when you would take advantage of my tenderneſs to blind my reaſon: how can you have ſo little regard for my honour, as to ſacrifice it to a vain triumph? For, it is in that light I ſee the raſh action you are forcing me to commit; nay, methinks my con⯑ſenting to it ſhould injure me in your own eſteem.

Come, get yourſelf ready: where is your band⯑box, hat, and cloak? Slip into the garden; be there, at the iron-gate which you ſhewed me juſt now; and as the poſt-chaiſe comes round, I will ſtep and take you in.

Dear Harman, let me beg of you to deſiſt.

Dear Diana, let me beg of you to go on.

I ſhall never have reſolution to carry me thro' it.

We ſhall have four horſes, my dear, and they will aſſiſt us.

In ſhort—I—cannot go with you.

But before me—into the garden—won't you?

SCENE II.

Hey-dey! what's the meaning of this? Who is it went out of the room there? Have you and my daughter been in conference, Mr. Harman?

Yes, faith, Sir; ſhe has been taking me to taſk here, very ſeverely, with regard to this affair; and ſhe has ſaid ſo much againſt it, and put it into ſuch a ſtrange light—

A buſy, impertinent baggage; egad, I wiſh I had catched her meddling, and after I ordered her not! but you have ſent to the girl, and you ſay ſhe is ready to go with you; you muſt not diſappoint her now.

No, no, Colonel; I always have politeneſs enough to hear a lady's reaſons; but conſtancy enough to keep a will of my own.

Very well; now let me aſk you,—don't you think it would be proper, upon this occaſion, to have a letter ready writ for the father, to let him know who has got his daughter, and ſo forth?

Certainly, Sir; and I'll write it directly.

You write it! you be damn'd! I won't truſt you with it; I tell you, Harman, you'll commit ſome curſed blunder, if you don't leave the management of [54] this whole affair to me: I have writ the letter for you myſelf.

Have you, Sir?

Ay—here, read it; I think its the thing: how⯑ever, you are welcome to make any alteration.

"Sir, I have loved your daughter a great while, ſecretly; ſhe aſſures me ther is no hopes of your conſenting to our marriage; I therefore take her without it. I am a gentleman who will uſe her well; and, when you conſider the matter, I dare ſwear you will be willing to give her a fortune. If not, you ſhall find I dare behave myſelf like a man: a word to the wiſe. You muſt expect to hear from me in another ſtyle."

Well, will it do?

Bravo, Colonel.

As ſoon as you have got off with the girl, then ſend your ſervant back to leave it at the houſe, with orders to have it deliver'd to the old gentleman.

Upon my honour, I will.

And now, Sir, look into the court yonder; there's a chaiſe, Sir, and four of the prettieſt bay geld⯑ings in England for you, Sir, with two boys in ſcarlet and ſilver jackets that will whiſk you along—

Boys! Colonel? little Cupids, to tranſport me to the ſummit of my deſires.

Ay, but for all that, it mayn't be amiſs for me to talk to them a little for you—Dick, come hither—you are to go with this gentleman, and do whatever he bids you; and take into the chaiſe whoever he pleaſes; and drive like devils, do you hear; but, be kind to the dumb beaſts.

Leave that to me, Sir—And ſo, my dear Co⯑lonel, bon voyage!

SCENE III.

Mr. Oldboy, here is a note from Sir John Flowerdale; it is addreſs'd to me, intreating my ſon to come over there again this morning. A maid brought it: ſhe is in the anti-chamber—We had better ſpeak to her—Child, child, why don't you come in?

I chuſe to ſtay where I am, if your Ladyſhip pleaſes.

Stay where you are! why ſo?

I am afraid of the old gentleman there.

Afraid of me, huſſy?

Pray, Colonel, have patience—Afraid! Here is ſomething at the bottom of this.—What did you mean by that expreſſion, child?

Why the Colonel knows very well, Madam, he wanted to be rude with me yeſterday.

Oh Mr. Oldboy!

Lady Mary, don't provoke me, but let me talk to the girl about her buſineſs.—How come you to bring this note here?

Why, Sir John gave it to me, to deliver to my uncle Jenkins, and I took it down to his houſe; but while we were talking together, he remembered that he had ſome buſineſs with Sir John, ſo he deſired me to bring it; becauſe he ſaid it was not proper to be ſent by any of the common ſervants.

Colonel, look in my face, and help bluſh⯑ing, if you can.

What the plague's the matter, my Lady? I have not been wronging you now, as you call it.

Indeed, my Lady, he offered to make me his kept madam: I am ſure his uſage of me put me into ſuch a twitter, that I did not know what I was doing all the day after.

I don't doubt it, though I ſo lately forgave him; but as the poet ſays, His ſex is all deceit. Read Pamela, child, and reſiſt temptation.

Yes, Madam, I will.

Why I tell you, my Lady, it was all a joke.

No, Sir, it was no joke, you made me a proffer of money, ſo you did; whereby I told you, you had a Lady of your own, and that though ſhe was old, you had no right to deſpiſe her.

And how dare you, miſtreſs, make uſe of my name? Is it for ſuch trollops as you to talk of per⯑ſons of diſtinction behind their backs?

Why, Madam, I only ſaid you was in years.

Sir John Flowerdale ſhall be inform'd of your impertinence, and you ſhall be turn'd out of the family; I ſee you are a confident creature, and I be⯑lieve no better than you ſhould be.

I ſcorn your words, Madam.

Get out of the room; how dare you ſtay in this room to talk impudently to me?

Very well, Madam, I ſhall let my Lady know how you have us'd me; but I ſhan't be turn'd out oſ my place, Madam; nor at a loſs, if I am; and if you are angry with every one that won't fay you are young, I believe there is very few you will keep friends with.

SCENE IV.

What is the matter here?

I will have a ſeparate maintenance, I will indeed. Only a new inſtance of your father's infidelity, my dear. Then with ſuch low wretches, farmer's daughters and ſervant wenches: but any thing with a cap on, 'tis all the ſame to him.

Upon my word, Sir, I am ſorry to tell you, that thoſe practices very ill ſuit the cha⯑racter which you ought to endeavour to ſupport in the world.

Is this a recompence for my love and re⯑gard; I, who have been tender and faithful as a turtle dove?

A man of your birth and diſtinction ſhould, methinks, have views of a higher nature, than ſuch low, ſuch vulgar libertiniſm.

Conſider my birth and family too—Lady Mary Jeſſamy might have had the beſt matches in England.

Then, Sir, your grey hairs.

I, that have brought you ſo many lovely ſweet babes.

Nay, Sir, it is a reflection on me.

The heinous ſin too!

Indeed, Sir, I bluſh for you.

'Sdeath and fire, you little effeminate puppy, do you know who you talk to?—And you, Madam, do you know who I am?—Get up to your chamber, or zounds I'll make ſuch a—

Ah! my dear, come away from him.

SCENE V.

Am I to be tutor'd, and call'd to an account!—How now, you ſcoundrel, what do you want?

A letter, Sir.

A letter! from whom, ſirrah?

The gentleman's ſervant, an't pleaſe your honour, that left this juſt now in the poſt-chaiſe—the gentleman my young lady went away with.

Your young lady, ſirrah—Your young lady went away with no gentleman, you dog—What gen⯑tleman! What young lady, ſirrah!

There is ſome myſtery in this—With your leave, Sir, I'll open the letter: I believe it con⯑tains no ſecrets.

What are you going to do, you jackanapes? you ſhan't open a letter of mine—Dy—Diana!—Somebody call my daughter to me there—‘"To John Oldboy, Eſq.—Sir, I have lov'd your daughter a great while ſecretly—Conſenting to our marriage"’

So, ſo.

You villain—you dog, what is it you have brought me here?

Pleaſe your honour, if you'll have patience, I'll tell your honour—As I told your honour before, the gentleman's ſervant that went off juſt now in the poſt-chaiſe, come to the gate, and left it after his maſter was gone. I ſaw my young lady go into the chaiſe with the gentleman.

A very fine joke indeed! pray, Colonel, do you generally write letters to yourſelf? Why this is your own hand.

Call all the ſervants in the houſe, let horſes be ſaddled directly—every one take a different road.

Why, your honour, Dick ſaid it was by your own orders.

My orders! you raſcal? I thought he was go⯑ing to run away with another gentleman's daughter—Dy—Diana Oldboy!

Don't waſte your lungs to no purpoſe, Sir; your daughter is half a dozen miles off by this time.

Sirrah, you have been brib'd to further the ſcheme of a pick-pocket here.

Beſides, the matter is entirely of your own contriving, as well as the letter and ſpirit of this ele⯑gant epiſtle.

You are a coxcomb, and I'll diſinherit you; the letter is none of my writing; it was writ by the devil, and the devil contrived it. Diana, Margaret, my Lady Mary, William, John!—

I am very glad of this, prodigiouſly glad of it, upon my honour—he! he! he!—it will be a jeſt this hundred years.

What's the matter now? O! her Ladyſhip has heard of it, and is at her bell; and the Colonel anſwers her. A pretty duet; but a little too much upon the fortè methinks: it would be a diverting thing now, to ſtand unſeen at the old gentleman's elbow.

SCENE VI.

She's gone, by the Lord! fairly ſlole away, with that poaching, concy-catching raſcal!. However, I won't follow her; no, damme; take my whip, and my cap, and my coat, and order the groom to un⯑ſaddle the horſes; I won't follow her the length of a ſpur-leather. Come here, you Sir, and pull off my boot;

ſhe has made a fool of me once, ſhe ſhan't do it a ſecond time; not but I'll be reveng'd too, for I'll never give her ſixpence; the diſappoint⯑ment will put the ſcoundrel out of temper, and he'll thraſh her a dozen times a-day; the thought pleaſes me; I hope be'll do it.

[61] What do you ſtand gaping and ſtaring at, you impudent dogs? are you laughing at me? I'll teach you to be merry at my expence.—

SCENE VII.

Where have you been, Jenny? I was enquir⯑ing for you—why will you go out without letting me know?

Dear Ma'am, never any thing happen'd ſo un⯑lucky; I am ſorry you wanted me—But I was ſent to Colonel Oldboy's with a letter; where I have been ſo uſed—Lord have mercy upon me—quality indeed—I ſay quality—pray, Madam, do you think that I looks any ways like an immodeſt parſon—to be ſure I have a gay air, and I can't help it, and I loves to appear a little genteeliſh, that's what I do.

Jenny, take away this book.

Heaven preſerve me, Madam! you are crying;

O my dear Jenny!

My dear miſtreſs, what's the matter?

I am undone.

No, Madam; no, Lord forbid!

I am indeed—I have been raſh enough to diſ⯑cover my weakneſs for a man, who treats me with con⯑tempt.

Is Mr. Lionel ungrateful, then?

I have loſt his eſteem for ever, Jenny. Since laſt night, that I fatally confeſs'd what I ſhould have kept a ſecret from all the world, he has ſcarce condeſcended to caſt a look at me, nor given me an anſwer, when I ſpoke to him, but with coldneſs and reſerve.

Then he is a naſty, barbarous, unhuman brute.

Hold, Jenny, hold; it is all my fault.

Your fault, Madam! I wiſh I was to hear ſuch a word come out of his mouth: if he was a miniſter to-morrow, and to ſay ſuch a thing from his pulpit, and I by, I'd tell him it was falſe upon the ſpot.

Somebody's at the door; ſee who it is.

You in fault indeed!—that I know to be the moſt virtuouſeſt, niceſt, moſt delicateſt—

How now?

Madam, it's a meſſage from Mr. Lionel. If you are alone, and at leiſure, he would be glad to wait upon you: I'll tell him, Madam, that you're buſy.

Where is he, Jenny!

In the ſtudy, the man ſays.

Then go to him, and tell him I ſhould be glad to ſee him: but do not bring him up immediately, be⯑cauſe I will ſtand in the balcony a few minutes for a little air.

Do ſo, dear Madam, for your eyes are as red as ferret's; you are ready to faint too; mercy on us, for what do you grieve and vex yourſelf?—if I was as you—

Oh!

SCENE VIII.

So then, the myſtery is diſcovered:—but is it poſſible that my daughter's refuſal of Colonel Old⯑boy's ſon ſhould procced from a clandeſtine engage⯑ment, and that engagement with Lionel?

My niece, Sir, is in her young Lady's ſecrets, and Lord knows ſhe had little deſign to betray them; but having remarked ſome odd expreſſions of her's yeſterday, when ſhe came down to me this morning with the letter, I queſtioned her; and, in ſhort, drew the whole affair out; upon which I feigned a recollec⯑tion of ſome buſineſs with you, and deſired her to carry the letter to Colonel Oldboy's herſelf, while I came up hither.

And they are mutually promiſed to each other, and that promiſe was exchanged yeſterday?

Yes, Sir, and it is my duty to tell you; elſe I would rather die than be the means of wounding the heart of my dear young lady: for if there is one upon earth of truly noble and delicate ſentiments—

I thought ſo once, Jenkins.

And think ſo ſtill: O good Sir John, now is the time for you to exert that character of worth and gentleneſs which the world ſo deſervedly has given you. You have indeed cauſe to be offended; but conſider, Sir, your daughter is young, beautiful, and amiable; the poor youth unexperienced, ſenſible, and at a time of life when ſuch temptations are hard to be reſiſted; their opportunities were many, their caſt of thinking the ſame.

Jenkins, I can allow for all theſe things; but the young hypocrites—There's the thing, Jenkins; their hypocriſy, their hypocriſy wounds me.

Call it by a gentler name, Sir; modeſty on her part, apprehenſion on his.

Then what opportunity have they had? They never were together but when my ſiſter or myſelf made one of the company; beſides, I had ſo firm a re⯑liance on Lionel's honour and gratitude—

Sir, I can never think that Nature ſtamp'd that gracious countenance of his, to maſk a corrupt heart.

How! at the very time that he was conſci⯑ous of being himſelf the cauſe of it, did he not ſhew more concern at this affair than I did? Nay, don't I tell you that laſt night, of his own accord, he offered to be a mediator in the affair, and deſired my leave to ſpeak to my daughter? I thought myſelf obliged to him, conſented; and in conſequence of his aſſurance of ſuc⯑ceſs, wrote that letter to Colonel Oldboy, to deſire the family would come here again to-day.

Sir, as we were ſtanding in the next room, I heard a meſſage delivered from Mr. Lionel, deſiring leave to wait upon your daughter; I dare ſwear they will be here preſently; ſuppoſe we were to ſtep into that cloſet, and overhear their converſation?

What, Jenkins, after having lived ſo many years in confidence with my child, ſhall I become an eves-dropper to detect her?

It is neceſſary at preſent.—Come in, my dear maſter, let us only conſider that we were once young like them; ſubject to the ſame paſſions, the ſame in⯑diſcretions; and it is the duty of every man to pardon errors incident to his kind.

SCENE IX.

Sir, you deſired to ſpeak to me; I need not tell you the preſent ſituation of my heart; it is full. Whatever you have to ſay, I beg you will explain yourſelf; and, if poſſible, rid me of the anxiety under which I have laboured for ſome hours.

Madam, your anxiety cannot be greater than mine; I come, indeed, to ſpeak to you; and yet, I know not how; I come to adviſe you, ſhall I ſay as a friend? yes, as a friend to your glory, your felicity; dearer to me than my life.

Go on, Sir.

Sir John Flowerdale, Madam, is ſuch a fa⯑ther as few are bleſſed with; his care, his prudence has provided for you a match.—Your refuſal renders him inconſolable. Liſten to no ſuggeſtions that would pervert you from your duty, but make the worthieſt of men happy by ſubmitting to his will.

How, Sir, after what paſſed between us ye⯑ſterday evening, can you adviſe me to marry Mr. Jeſſamy?

I would adviſe you to marry any one, Madam, rather than a villain.

A villain, Sir!

I ſhould be the worſt of villains, Madam, was I to talk to you in any other ſtrain: Nay, am I not a villain, at once treacherous and ungrateful? Received into this houſe as an aſylum; what have I done! Betrayed the confidence of a friend that truſted me; endeavoured to ſacrifice his peace, and the honour of his family, to my own unwarrantable deſires.

Say no more, Sir; ſay no more; I ſee my error too late; I have parted from the rules preſcribed to my ſex; I have miſtaken indecorum for a laudable ſin⯑cerity; and it is juſt I ſhould meet with the treatment my imprudence deſerves.

'Tis I, only I, am to blame; while I took advantage of the father's ſecurity, I practiſed upon the tenderneſs and ingenuity of the daughter; my own imagination gone aſtray, I artfully laboured to lead yours after it: but here, Madam, I give you back thoſe vows which I inſidiouſly extorted from you; keep them for ſome happier man, who may receive them without wounding his honour, or his peace.

For Heaven's ſake!

Why do you weep?

Don't ſpeak to me.

Oh! my Clariſſa, my heart is broke; I am hateful to myſelf for loving you; yet, before I leave you for ever, I will once more touch that lovely hand—indulge my fondneſs with a laſt look—pray for your health and proſperity.

Can you forſake me? Have I then given my affections to a man who rejects and diſregards them?—Let me throw myſelf at my father's feet; he is generous and compaſſionate:—He knows your worth—

Farewell, farewell!

SCENE X.

O Madam! I have betray'd you. I have gone and ſaid ſomething I ſhould not have ſaid to my uncle Jenkins; and, as ſure as day, he has gone and told it all to Sir John.

My father!

Go, Jenkins, and deſire that young gen⯑tleman to come back—ſtay where you are—But what have I done to you, my child? How have I deſerv'd that you ſhould treat me like an enemy? Has there been any undeſigned rigour in my conduct, or terror in my looks?

Oh Sir!

Here is Mr. Lionel.

Come in—When I tell you that I am in⯑ſtructed in all your proceedings, and that I have been ear-witneſs to your converſation in this place; you will, perhaps, imagine what my thoughts are of you, and the meaſures which juſtice preſcribes me to follow.

Sir, I have nothing to ſay in my own defence; I ſtand before you, ſelf-convicted, ſelf-condemn'd, and ſhall ſubmit without murmuring to the ſentence of my judge.

As for you, Clariſſa, ſince your earlieſt infan⯑cy, you have known no parent but me; I have been to you, at once, both father and mother; and, that I might the better fulfill thoſe united duties, tho' left a widower in the prime of my days, I would never enter into a ſecond marriage.—I loved you for your likeneſs to your dear mother: but that mother never [69] deceiv'd me—and there the likeneſs fails—you have repaid my affection with diſſimulation—Clariſſa, you ſhould have truſted me.

O my dear, ſweet Lady.

As for you, Mr. Lionel, what terms can I find ſtrong enough to paint the exceſs of my friendſhip?—I loved, I eſteemed, I honoured your father: he was a brave, a generous, and a ſincere man; I thought you inherited his good qualities—you were left an or⯑phan, I adopted you, put you upon the footing of my own ſon; educated you like a gentleman; and deſign'd you for a profeſſion, to which, I thought, your virtues would have been an ornament.

Dear me, dear me.

Hold your tongue.

What return you have made me, you ſeem to be acquainted with yourſelf; and, therefore, I ſhall not repeat it—Yet, remember as an aggravation of your guilt, that the laſt mark of my bounty was con⯑ferr'd upon you in the very inſtant, when you were undermining my deſigns. Now, Sir, I have but one thing more to ſay to you—Take my daughter; was ſhe worth millions, ſhe is at your ſervice.

To me, Sir!—your daughter!—do you give her to me? Without fortune—without friends—without—

You have them all in your heart; him whom virtue raiſes, fortune cannot abaſe.

O, Sir, let me on my knees kiſs that dear hand—acknowledge my error, and intreat forgiveneſs and bleſſing.

You have not erred, my dear daughter; you have diſtinguiſh'd. It is I ſhould aſk pardon, for this little trial of you; for I am happier in the ſon-in-law you have given me, than if you had married a prince.

My patron—my friend—my father—I would [70] fain ſay ſomething; but, as your goodneſs exceeds all bounds—

I think I hear a coach drive into the court; it is Colonel Oldboy's family; I will go and receive them. Don't make yourſelves uneaſy at this; we muſt endeavour to pacify them as well as we can. My dear Lionel, if I have made you happy, you have made me ſo; Heaven bleſs you, my children, and make you deſerving of one another.

SCENE XI.

O dear, Madam, upon my knees, I humbly beg your pardon: dear Mr. Lionel, forgive me: I did not deſign to diſcover it, indeed: and you won't turn me off, Madam, will you? I'll ſerve you for nothing.

Getup, my good Jenny; I freely forgive you, if there is any thing to be forgiven. I know you love me; and, I am ſure here is one who will join with me in rewarding your ſevices.

Well, if I did not know, as ſure as could be, that ſome good would happen, by my left eye itching this morning.

SCENE XII.

'Tis all in vain, my dear;—ſet me down any where; I can't go a ſtep further—I knew, when Mr. Oldboy inſiſted upon my coming, that I ſhould be ſeized with a meagrim by the way; and it's well I did not die in the coach.

But, pr'ythee, why will you let yourſelf be affected with ſuch trifles?—Nothing more common than for young women of faſhion to go off with low fellows!

Only feel, my dear, how I tremble! Not a nerve but what is in agitation; and my blood runs cold, cold!

Well, but, Lady Mary, don't let us ex⯑poſe ourſelves to thoſe people; I ſee there is not one of the raſcals about us, that has not a grin upon his countenance.

Expoſe ourſelves! my dear? Your father will be as ridiculous as Hudibras, or Don Quixote.

I give you my word, my good friend, and neighbour, the joy I feel upon this occaſion, is greatly allayed by the diſappointment of an aliance with your family; but I have explained to you how things have happened—You ſee my ſituation; and, as you are kind enough to conſider it yourſelf, I hope you will excuſe it to your ſon.

Sir John Flowerdale, how do you do? You ſee we have obey'd your ſummons; and I have the pleaſure to aſſure you, that my ſon yielded to my intreaties with very little diſagreement: in ſhort, if I may ſpeak metaphorically, he is content to ſtand can⯑didate again, notwithſtanding his late repulſe, when he hopes for an unanimous election.

Well, but, my Lady, you may ſave your rheto⯑ric: ▪for the borough is diſpoſed of to a worthier member.

SCENE XIII.

Here are my ſon and daughter.

Is this pretty, Sir John?

Believe me, Madam, it is not for want of a juſt ſenſe of Mr. Jeſſamy's merit, that this affair has gone off on any ſide: but the heart is a delicate thing; and after it has once felt, if the object is meritorious, the impreſſion is not eaſily effac'd; it would therefore have been an injury to him, to have given him in ap⯑pearance what another in reality poſſeſſed.

Upon my honour, upon my ſoul, Sir John, I am not the leaſt offended at this contre temps—Pray, Lady Mary, ſay no more about it.

Tol, lol, lol, lol.

But my dear Colonel, I am afraid, after [73] all, this affair is taken amiſs by you: yes, I ſee you are angry on your ſon's account; but let me repeat it, I have a very high opinion of his merit.

Ay! that's more than I have. Taken amiſs! I don't take any thing amiſs; I never was in better ſpirits, or more pleaſed in my life.

Come, you are uneaſy at ſomething, Co⯑lonel.

Me! Gad I am not uneaſy—Are you a juſtice of peace! Then you could give me a warrant, cou'dn't you? You muſt know, Sir John, a little accident has happen'd in my family ſince I ſaw you laſt; you and I may ſhake hands—Daughters, Sir, daughters! Your's has ſnapt at a young fellow without your approbation; and how do you think mine has ſerv'd me this morning?—Only run away with the ſcoundrel I brought to din⯑ner here yeſterday.

I am exceſſively concerned.

Now I'm not a bit concern'd—No, dam'me, I am glad it has happened! yet, thus far, I'll confeſs, I ſhould be ſorry that either of them would come in my way, becauſe a man's temper may ſometimes get the better of him: and I believe I ſhould be tempted to break her neck, and blow his brains out.

But pray, Sir, explain this affair.

I can explain it no farther—Dy, my daughter Dy, has run away from us.

SCENE XIV.

No, my dear papa, I am not run away; and upon my knees, I intreat your pardon for the folly I have committed; but, let it be ſome alleviation, that duty, affection, were too ſtrong to ſuffer me to carry it to extremity: and, if you knew the agony I have been in ſince I ſaw you laſt—

How's this?

Sir, I reſtore your daughter to you; whoſe fault, as far as it goes, I muſt alſo take upon myſelf; we have been known to each other ſome time; as Lady Richly, your ſiſter, in London, can acquaint you—

Dy, come here—Now, you raſcal, where's [...]our ſword; if you are a gentleman, you ſhall fight me; if you are a ſcrub, I'll horſe-whip you—Draw, Sirrah—Shut the door there, don't let him eſcape.

Sir, don't imagine I want to eſcape; I am ex⯑tremely ſorry for what has happened, but am ready to give you any ſatisfaction you think proper.

Follow me into the garden then—Zounds! I have no ſword about me—Sir John Flowerdale—lend us a caſe of piſtols, or a couple of guns; and come and ſee fair play.

My dear papa!

Sir John Flowerdale—O my indiſcretion—we came here, Sir, to beg your mediation in our favour.

Mr. Oldboy, if you attempt to fight, I hall expire.

Pray, Colonel, let me ſpeak a word to you in private.

Slugs and a ſaw-pit—

Why, Miſs Dy, you are a perfect heroine for a romance—And, pray who is this courteous knight?

O Sir, you that I thought ſuch a pretty behav'd gentleman!

What buſineſs are you of, friend?

My chief trade, Sir, is plain dealing; and, as that is a commodity you have no reaſon to be very fond of, I would not adviſe you to purchaſe any of it by impertinence.

And is this what you would adviſe me to?

It is, indeed, my dear old friend; as things are ſituated, there is, in my opinion, no other prudent method of proceeding; and it is the method I would adopt myſelf, was I in your caſe.

Why, I believe you are in the right of it—Say what you will for me then.

Well! young people, I have been able to uſe a few arguments, which have ſoftened my neigh⯑bour here; and in ſome meaſure pacified his reſentment. I find, Sir, you are a gentleman by your connections?

Sir, till it is found that my character and fa⯑mily will bear the ſtricteſt ſcrutiny, I deſire no favour—And for fortune—

Oh! rot your fortune, I don't mind that—I know you are a gentleman, or Dick Rantum would not have recommended you. And ſo, Dy, kiſs and friends.

What, Sir, have you no more to ſay to the man who has uſed you ſo ill?

Us'd me ill!—That's as I take it—he has done a mettled thing; and, perhaps, I like him the better for it; it's long before you would have ſpirit enough to run away with a wench—Harman, give me your hand; let's hear no more of this now.

I am ſo bound by your generoſity, Sir—

SCENE XV.

Call more people in here—Sir John Flower⯑dale, what ſay you? ſhall we ſpend the day together, and dedicate it to love and harmony?

With all my heart.

Then take off my great-coat.