SCENE I. The Farmer's Houſe.
SCENE I.

AFTER having laboured ſo hard during the beſt part of our lives, thus at laſt to fall into poverty! To what pur⯑poſe is it, that we have never ceaſed our cares and pains for a ſingle moment, in or⯑der to breed up our children with credit? If they were but of an age to earn their own bread, it would be ſomething! My dear chil⯑dren, it is not for myſelf, it is for you that I ſhed tears; in loſing our cattle we have loſt our all. What remains is far from be⯑ing ſufficient to pay our landlord. What is to become of us? If my good huſband did not ſupport my ſinking courage, I ſhould [2]die with grief. But how worthy a cha⯑racter he is! What a man! How tranquil in the midſt of our misfortunes! Were I not ſure that affection makes him conceal the greateſt part of his troubles from the fear of afflicting me, I ſhould believe he were in⯑ſenſible to them. "Why doſt thou weep, Martha?" he often ſays, when I can no longer reſtrain my tears: "We have had a loſs, it is true; but who knows what Providence has in ſtore for us? I, for my part, make that my dependence." Alas! though never rich himſelf, he was always a friend to the unfortunate! How many fa⯑milies in this village has he ſaved from mi⯑ſery by his advice and aſſiſtance! There is not a better man on earth; and I ſtill poſſeſs what many women want in the midſt of riches, a worthy huſband, and children whoſe good diſpoſitions fill our hearts with joy. Whilſt I think on theſe bleſſings, I feel that Providence watches over us, and my griefs become lighter. Take courage then, Martha, enough is left to conſole thee in thy affliction. (She ad⯑vances to the door and calls) Jenny, Jenny!

SCENE II.

Did you call?

Here, my child, take thy break⯑faſt.

Oh, my dear mother, you have given me above half; I cannot eat all this.

No; look at it, it is no more than thy ordinary portion: you are not ill, I hope?

Not at all; but I have not ſo good an appetite as uſual.

What is it you tell me? How long is it ſince you have been thus dainty? Come, come, eat your breakfaſt like a good girl.

It is too much, I aſſure you; half of it is ſufficient for me.

Here, keep this for Lucy.

What! has ſhe given you the mea⯑ſure of her appetite, I pray?

This is enough for her; I know ſhe will not aſk for more.

You ſeem to think you know your ſiſter wonderous well; but I anſwer for it, [4]Lucy can eat her own ſhare as well as you: here is a piece that I have prepared for her.

No, no; ſhe will keep that for the evening, and then ſhe will give me half in her turn: leave us alone, we have ſet⯑tled the matter between us.

What means all this? I am curious to know.

Why do you aſk me? It is a ſe⯑cret between us two: I beg, dear mother, that you will not ſeem as if you perceived any thing of the matter.

Nay, now you increaſe my curio⯑ſity, and I muſt abſolutely know the bottom of this.

Well then, ſince you command it, I will tell you all: yeſterday evening we overheard my father ſay to you, ſince we have ſuffered the loſs of our cattle, we muſt ſub⯑mit to the will of Heaven, and try to turn this misfortune into a bleſſing; we muſt be the more diligent and induſtrious, and ſtrive with all poſſible oeconomy to ſupport our family. You replied, with an embrace, that you would be the firſt to ſet the example. I made a ſign to my ſiſter to retire; we em⯑braced each other alſo; whatever you had engaged to do for us, we agreed together in return to do for you.

My dear children, you take too large a ſhare in our troubles, they are not ſuited to your age; fear nothing, Heaven will have care of you. Oh, my child, you have made me feel the happineſs of being a mother. What earthly good can equal the joy which this inſtance of your tender duty has given me! but be comforted. I have re⯑ſerved the remainder of this for you, and you may, at leaſt to-day, eat your bread as uſual; it is neceſſary that you ſhould get ſtrength, in order to earn ſomething for us when you grow older. Will you not be glad to labour for your father and mother?

Ah, glad indeed! that I ſhall; but we can begin now: our hands, it is true, are ſmall, but we will work the longer for that, and all that we earn we will give to my father to purchaſe more cattle. Then we will rear poultry and ſell our eggs; and this money, all this money, we will gladly bring to you, dear mother.

Oh, do not weep, I beſeech you; you make my heart ſink.

Be ſatisfied; if I weep it is for joy; but it is time that thou ſhould'ſt breakfaſt. There are many things to do in the houſe, [6]and I would have thy father find every thing in order at his return.

Is he gone into the field with my brothers?

No, he took a walk down to the hall; he wanted to ſpeak with our land⯑lord.

Oh, ſo much the better. My fa⯑ther always came home in good ſpirits from him. That Mr. Parks is an excellent man, is he not?

Yes, my dear, hitherto he has been very good to us; pray Heaven he may con⯑tinue to be ſo now we have occaſion for it. But ſince our great loſſes, we are no longer in a condition to pay our rent; and often thoſe who have ſhewn us the greateſt kind⯑neſs, whilſt we owed them nothing, look upon us with a very different eye when they think they are in danger of loſing by us.

Our landlord, I am ſure, is not a man of this ſort.

I hope he is not, child, or we ſhall be much to be pitied.

I long for my father's return to hear the good news. Will he be back this morning?

He went out at ſun riſe, and I ex⯑pect him back every minute.

Then before I breakfaſt, I will go and draw ſome beer to refreſh him; he will be glad of a draught after his walk.

No, no, eat your bread; I will take care of that myſelf.

You aſked me juſt now whether I would work for my father and mother, and now you prevent my doing ſo.

Do as you will then; I will not de⯑prive you of this pleaſure: your father, I know, will repay you with his careſſes.

And I do not know which of us is the beſt pleaſed when I deſerve them; and I will do my beſt to do ſo.

SCENE III.

My dear children, Heaven is my witneſs, it is chiefly on your account that I dread po⯑verty, and yet it is from you that I receive the greateſt comfort. How much more ought I to love you, ſince you are the only bleſſing that is left me. Had I never been unfortunate, I ſhould never have had thoſe proofs of your affection. Perhaps alſo you will aſſiſt me in conquering my grief, whilſt I am only ſtriving to hide it from you. No, I will not interrupt, by my murmurings, [8]the innocent gaity of your tender age.

It is to thee alone that I will utter my complaints; to thee who art as yet inſen⯑ſible to the ſorrows of thy parents. I may ſhed tears in thy preſence without fearing to afflict thee. Happy infant, I weep for thy lot, whilſt thou anſwereſt me with a ſmile.

SCENE IV.

Give it to me, mother, that I may kiſs it. My little friend, when you are as able as I am, you ſhall work for your father and mother too. Oh, you ſhall ſee what care I will take of this little baby, that it may become ſtrong and robuſt. But ſtay, we are buſy at preſent, you muſt go ſleep a little.

Mother, I have juſt brought the beer: will you lend me the key of the cupboard, that I may fetch ſome clean linen and a waiſtcoat for my father: I know he will return overcome with heat and fatigue.

Aye, and if he has any good news [9]he will not care how much he fatigues him⯑ſelf, in order to haſten to us with it.

I know it; and then without reſting he will go to the field: he never loſes a moment.

This is a good leſſon for us; you, for example, would do well to haſten your breakfaſt and go to ſchool, as ſoon as you have aſked your father's bleſſing.

To ſchool! Oh, no, I ſhall not go there now.

What do you ſay, Jenny? Do you not mean to learn to read and write? No, no, my child, I hope, however we may be reduced, to be always able to afford you this inſtruction, though I ſhould be forced to ſtint myſelf in common neceſſaries for it.

But there will be no occaſion for any more expence on that account. Does not my brother Valentine read as fluently as our ſchoolmaſter at his deſk? He will be maſter to Lucy and me; he told me ſo this morn⯑ing. Siſter, ſaid he, you know that I am allowed half an hour's reſt after dinner be⯑fore I return to work; well then, if you will, during that time, begin a leſſon with me, I will finiſh it when I come home in the evening. You have nothing to do but to ap⯑ply [10]diligently, and I'll anſwer for it, you will ſoon be the beſt ſcholar in the village. Let us begin to-day, and you ſhall ſee.

Now, was this Valentine's own thought?

Yes, his own indeed, mother; it would never have come into my head. It is I, ſaid he, who have coſt my parents the moſt, being the eldeſt; had they ſpent leſs on me they would have had the money for you, my ſiſters; I ought, therefore, to give you back the inſtruction that I have received, now that our father cannot afford it you.

Alas, could we have known at the time that we were providing maſters for him, that he would one day have wanted neceſſa⯑ries! He has coſt us ſomething, it is true, in his education, but I do not regret it; the money has been well laid out: Valen⯑tine is grateful, and does his beſt to give us proofs of it.

SCENE V.

Here he is, here he is!

Who, Lucy?

My father: he is juſt come.

SCENE VI.

Ah, my dear friend!

My dear father!

How glad I am to ſee you.

Good morning to you, my dear; good morning to you, children.

Are not you ſadly tired with your walk?

No, I feel myſelf quite nimble: but, my poor Martha, you look ſorrowful; I ſee you have been weeping.

It it true; but do not be uneaſy at that, for they were tears of pleaſure at having ſuch dutiful children. If you did but know how much ſatisfaction they have given me this morning on your account!

Theſe are ſweet words to me: there is not a greater happineſs when we do our own duty than to ſee it done by thoſe who belong to us. As I went to the Squire's this morning, my heart filled with your idea; now I return home and find my wiſe and children wholly engroſſed by mine. What comfort is this?

Will you take any thing? Will [12]you change your dreſs? Jenny has provided every thing for you.

No, I thank you, there is no occa⯑ſion; the thought of it alone is ſufficient refreſhment to me.

Well, you have ſeen our landlord; how did he receive you?

As I expected: he has a feeling and good heart. He is a man, Martha, of the higheſt honour and humanity.

Indeed! did he compaſſionate our misfortunes? Tell me all.

As ſoon as he was informed of my arrival, without making me wait a moment, he came out to me, and took me into his beſt parlour.

Into his beſt parlour!

Yes, Jenny; he was drinking coffee with his lady, and they ordered a ham on the ſame table for me; and Madam was ſo good as to cut me a ſlice.

What, Madam herſelf?

Yes, indeed, with her own hands, and in ſo obliging a manner—

Oh, the dear lady!

They would not let me ſpeak about buſineſs till I had finiſhed my breakfaſt.

How charming is this! and then—

Well then, my good Thorowgood, ſaid Mr. Parks, what news? Very bad, an⯑ſwered I; I have loſt all my cattle in the ſpace of eight days, by a diſeaſe brought on by the drought of the ſeaſon. I am ruined, and I am come to inform you of it, that you may be at liberty to let your farm to another tenant. I come alſo to offer you all that I have left in the world: it is a great trouble to me that I have not ſufficient to ſatisfy you; but I promiſe, on the word of an honeſt man, to labour night and day till I can do ſo. I ſhall eat of the bread of bitterneſs till I have paid my debt to the utmoſt far⯑thing.

Oh, certainly, we will do it rea⯑dily. What did Mr. Parks ſay to this?

I was already acquainted with your loſſes, honeſt Thorowgood, ſaid he, and am heartily ſorry for them. I pity you alſo, ſaid Madam, with her ſweet voice: I pity you with all my heart.

The worthy couple! how good they are!

I do not come here, ſaid I, to ex⯑cite compaſſion, I have no occaſion for it, as I am able to work. My great con⯑cern is, that I cannot acquit myſelf of my debt to you: I own I feel for my wife and [14]my young family: I who would have ſhed my blood to preſerve them from want! You who are rich and without children, know not what it is to ſee thoſe ſuffer to whom we have given life. Ah! if you had ſuch children as I have; if you loved them with all your ſoul, and were beloved by them as I am!—In ſaying this, grief made me hide my face; and when I lifted up my eyes again, I ſaw Mr. Parks was no longer looking at me: he had turned towards his wife; their eyes were filled with tears, and fixed on each other. Pity was not the only ſentiment which then affected them; I plainly ſaw that ſomething which more nearly concerned themſelves, occupied their minds.

And did you not aſk them what it was?

I had not the courage; but as I con⯑tinued to talk of my children, Mr. Parks ſtrove to change the diſcourſe. I perceived clearly that ſome private affliction was the cauſe of this, and therefore haſtened to quit the ſubject, and began talking about my corn, and reckoning how much it would yield towards paying my rent.

And pray, was not Mr. Parks very angry when he found it fall ſo ſhort of that ſum?

Quite the contrary; he bid me not deſpair. Go home to your wife, ſaid the good gentleman, I will order my horſe and be with you preſently, when we will ſettle every thing. I have always looked upon you as an honeſt man, therefore I will do no⯑thing in this buſineſs without your concur⯑rence.

Is this poſſible? how much do we owe him?

Four hundred and fifty pounds.

Alas, alas, how ſhall we be ever able to pay this money!

It is true; and yet had we ſaved our cattle, and our crops had anſwered this year, we ſhould have had enough, and ſome⯑thing over.

But as it is, what will become of us?

Why all that we can do now, is to collect together our houſehold goods and farming utenſils, and ſell them to pay our landlord: we will keep nothing but what is on our backs; we can then ſhew ourſelves before him with a clear conſcience. This is the only courſe that we can take to avoid miſery.

I think I heard a knock at the door. Yes, I ſee ſome one. [16]

It is Mr. Pinch.

Mr. Pinch! What does he want with me, I wonder? we have never had any quarrel.

I ſhudder with fear. We are un⯑done, my dear Thorowgood. We ſhall be taken to jail. I know the ſteward; ſome miſchief is ſure to happen wherever he in⯑terferes.

Compoſe yourſelf, wife; we have nothing to fear. Take away the children, and leave me alone with him.

What do you mean? I muſt ſtay with you.

No, no, leave us together; knave as he is, I am not afraid of him. You only vex me by ſtaying: go, I beg of you.

Since you inſiſt upon it, I muſt obey.

SCENE VII.

Thorowgood, did not I ſee you on the road to the Squire's juſt now?

Very likely; in fact. I am juſt re⯑turned from thence. I have been with my landlord to give up to him the ſtate of my affairs.

What! without conſulting me, have you ſettled matters together.

No, not yet.

So much the better. I am come to offer my ſervices, and to put you in a me⯑thod to defend yourſelf againſt him.

Againſt him! Pray was it not Mr. Parks who gave you the place that you hold? Do not you ſerve him?

I allow it, therefore I ſhould not chuſe to be ſeen openly in this buſineſs; my deſign is to ſupport you ſecretly. I can re⯑commend you a lawyer of this town, by whoſe means you ſhall be the gainer where you ex⯑pect to loſe: you underſtand me. He is one of thoſe we call a ſhrewd, knaviſh, fel⯑low: truſt to him, he'll ſettle the buſineſs for you: he is my friend.

A knaviſh fellow and your friend! I ſhould have gueſſed ſo. Only ſee the force of ſympathy.

You muſt not take things ſo li⯑terally: I mean that he is a man capable of bringing you ſafe out of your embarraſſ⯑ments, and the preſent juncture is very fa⯑vourable [18]to you; this year having proved ruinous to the farmers in many places, will eaſily account for your becoming bankrupt.

I ſhall have nothing to do with your plan, Sir, but ſhall pay my landlord my full debt whenever fortune enables me.

You deſpiſe the law then, though it offers you its aſſiſtance.

No, I do not deſpiſe it, but I think a man's conſcience ſhould be his juſt law: and if I make a bargain which is not con⯑trary to that, I think honour obliges me to ſtand to it, even though the law might diſ⯑charge me from it.

Take my word for it, neither your honour or conſcience will ſuffer in this bu⯑ſineſs: it is not your fault that you have had thoſe loſſes.

How do you know that? perhaps I was to blame to purchaſe ſo many cattle at once; had I bought but the half, my loſs would not have been ſo great, and I ſhould have had money enough left to pay my rent.

And be it your fault or not, the thing is done now. And are you aware of what you expoſe yourſelf to, when you leave all to the diſcretion of Mr. Parks? Why he has it in his power to throw you into priſon.

And if he has that power, why ſhould I ſeek to take it from him? and if he means to treat me with humanity, why rob him of that pleaſure?

Well, ſuppoſe he ſhould not prove rigorous, he is mortal, you know; and his heirs may not be ſo tractable; whereas, if you follow my advice, you may ſecure your⯑ſelf from accidents, and procure a final ac⯑quittance of the debt.

What! can your lawyer make my landlord believe that he is paid before he has received his juſt due?

No; but after having made him⯑ſelf acquainted with your affairs, he can ſettle them much to your advantage, and put ſome money in your pocket beſides; you underſtand me.

I do not want his aſſiſtance for this; I can make the matter as clear to my land⯑lord myſelf; he knows very well the mis⯑fortunes which have reduced me. I cannot now paſs for a man of property.

Very true, but one ought always to do things by rule. Now this lawyer whom I recommend, is one of the beſt in the country in managing a buſineſs of this ſort: beſides, I mean myſelf to lend you every aſſiſtance in my power.

I cannot imagine what may be your motive for acting in this manner ſo much againſt the Squire's intereſt, unleſs it is be⯑cauſe he appears willing to ſettle my affairs without conſulting you, and ſo deprive you of the perquiſites of your office.

What perquiſites?

Come, come, we know how moſt ſtewards make their fortunes. You all love to fiſh in troubled waters.

Nay, you talk at random. I only mean to be your friend in this. Put your affair into my hands and thoſe of my friend; we will ſettle them, I'll anſwer for it.

I do not doubt it. And ſo, Mr. Pinch, you think I will let you, to whom I owe nothing, have the fingering of my mo⯑ney, in order to defraud my landlord, to whom I owe ſo much; beſides the many obligations that I have to him for his con⯑ſtant goodneſs to me.

Why, you will not be the leſs his debtor for this; all your effects are not ſuf⯑ficient to clear your account with him. Now if you take my advice, you may pre⯑ſerve a part, and all that you earn hereafter will be your own.

I cannot ſee the thing in this light: I am determined to give up all that I have [21]to my landlord; and whatever I can ſave hereafter, I will lay by to pay the remain⯑der of my debt to him.

Is it your deſign then to exhauſt your ſtrength by labour, without reaping the profit? Do you mean to paſs your whole life in working for others?

You do not know the pleaſure which a man has in being ſatisfied with himſelf. With what tears of joy ſhall I, from time to time, carry to Mr. Parks the fruits of my induſtry! What happineſs ſhall I experience in having it in my power to prove my gratitude, and to convince him that he was not deceived, when he took me for an honeſt man, and that when I loſt my little fortune, I did not loſe my probity alſo!

Ah, Thorowgood, Thorowgood, I ſee you do not know your own intereſt.

You mean, that I do not promote yours. Do you think that I am to be made thus the dupe to your avarice? You want to draw me into a knaviſh act, in order to reap the profit of it yourſelf. Why do you not go to my landlord, and offer him your ſervices againſt me? It is becauſe you know he has too much goodneſs to ſeek my ruin, and yet you thought that I might be un⯑grateful enough to deprive him of his juſt [22]due. No, Mr. Pinch, you may, if you pleaſe, forget your obligations to him; for my part, I ſhall remember mine as long as I live. I have had no occaſion for you hi⯑therto, and I think I ſhall be able to do without you in future. Go then, and ſeek clients elſewhere for your roguiſh friends.

What, do you dare to abuſe me? Do you know that I can, ſoon or late, make you feel my vengeance?

You ought rather to dread mine, if I were to lay your ſecret practices open to Mr. Parks.

Oh, good Thorowgood, let me en⯑treat you—

Be gone for a poltroon as you are: I am as incapable of uſing my advantage over you, as of taking your advice.

SCENE VIII.

Theſe are the men who ought to promote peace in the country, and they often ſeek to ſow diviſions. It is ſuch as theſe who are the ruin of the peaſants, by plunging them into law-ſuits: inſtead of acting as a medi⯑ator between the rich and poor, their only aim is to eſtrange them from each other. [23]Where is the gentleman who would not have a pleaſure in treating his tenants with humanity, if he did but know, that in return he was regarded as a friend and father? Oh, Mr. Parks, be you ſuch to me! it is more than my own deſtiny that I give into your hands, it is that of my wife and children alſo.

SCENE I.

No, I tell you, Martha, we have no⯑thing to fear from the ſteward; I can aſſure you, he is more afraid of me at this very in⯑ſtant, than ever I ſhall be of him.

Well, I believe you would not de⯑ceive me, unleſs it be to quiet my uneaſineſs.

Be ſatisfied then; I have ſome good news for you. I thought that Humphries had loſt all his cattle as well as I; but upon caſting my eye over our garden, I ſaw on the other ſide the hedge four fine cows grazing in the meadow below.

But what then?

You muſt know there is a bargain between us, which gives me a right to two of thoſe beaſts.

How is that?

I will tell you: when the diſeaſe firſt broke out amongſt our cattle, I ſaw Humphries was quite caſt down by it; as I had always hitherto been more fortunate than he, I offered to do all in my power to ſerve him. He thanked me in ſo affecting a manner, that I wiſhed to give him ſome proof of my good will to him upon the ſpot. You muſt know, juſt before the diſorder appeared, we had made a joint purchaſe of twelve cows at a neigh⯑bouring fair. It is true, I advanced two⯑thirds of the money; but upon his conſent⯑ing to graze them for a certain time on his farm, (which was an excellent bargain for him in point of money, as we ſet⯑tled it) I told him that whatever of the herd ſhould eſcape the mortality, we would divide equally between us. At that time I had no reaſon to think that this arrangement would turn out in my favour; and now, though it has, I ſhould be far from taking advantage of it if it regarded myſelf alone; but I am no longer maſter of my own. I am obliged to give up all my remain⯑ing [25]property to my landlord. I ſhould, therefore, think myſelf guilty of a theft, if I did not, on this account, lay claim to every thing due to me.

And have you ſeen Humphries ſince our loſſes?

No, but I juſt now ſent our ſon George through the garden gate after him. See, he is come back already.

SCENE II.

Well, ſon, what does Humphries ſay?

That he does not know what I am talking about, nor what you have to do with his cows.

You certainly muſt have made ſome miſtake in your meſſage.

No, no, father; I told him the whole matter clearly as you ordered me; and he un⯑derſtood me ſo well, that he repeated word for word with the ſteward who was with him on a viſit: beſides, he is coming to ſpeak to you himſelf.

That is well; we ſhall ſettle matters at the firſt word. Humphries knows, as well as I do, what we promiſed each other.

Have you any written agreement between you?

I do not want it, wife. Can one wiſh better ſecurity than a man's word? When that fails, there is an end of all inte⯑grity.

You imagine all the world like your⯑ſelf; but ah, my good friend, when intereſt is in the caſe—

What do you mean? I will never believe my neighbour capable of ſuch vil⯑lainy. I have always looked upon him as an honeſt man; but here he comes: you will ſee every thing will be explained.

You may return to your work, George, I do not want you.

Very well, father.

SCENE III.

I am glad you are come, Humpries; I'll lay a wager George has made ſome con⯑fuſion between us.

Indeed I believe ſo; I was not able to comprehend a word of what he ſaid to me. He told me that you had ſent him to fetch my cows.

No, I ordered him to demand mine of you.

Your cows?

Yes, thoſe that I ſaw in the mea⯑dow. Have not you ſaved four?

Without doubt. But how came they to be yours?

Two of thoſe belong to me. Did not we paſs our words to each other to di⯑vide between us amicably whatever ſhould be left after the diſeaſe?

But, Thorowgood—

No evaſions, Humphries, tell me plainly; was not this agreed between us?

I cannot deny it, neighbour; but one ſays many things that one does not al⯑ways ſtand to. Do but conſider my ſitua⯑tion; to have ſo fine a herd of cattle as I had, and to ſave but four of them!

I am much more to be pitied for be⯑ing under the neceſſity of aſking them of you. When we made the bargain, which of us was moſt likely to be the gainer by it? Had not I the greateſt number of cows? Did not I agree to it out of kindneſs to you? and did not you yourſelf look upon it in that light?

To be ſure, neighbour; but after ſo great a loſs—

I ſee, then, the extent of your inte⯑grity. [28]You are one of thoſe honeſt men who can walk uprightly as long as proſpe⯑rity holds, but ſtumble at the firſt ſtep if for⯑tune change ever ſo little. I find, my wife knew you better than I did; and I plainly ſee that we muſt not depend too much on the rectitude of others.

But Mr. Pinch aſſures me that the law does not bind me to the bargain.

I have nothing farther to ſay to you if you conſult the chicane of the law before your conſcience. I was once your friend, and that reſtrains me from publicly expoſing your diſhoneſty. Go, I give you up your cattle; I ſhould never have claimed them for myſelf alone, it was on Mr. Park's ac⯑count; but I muſt work a year the longer for him: you may go, I acquit you of your promiſe.

Ah, Tho⯑rowgood, you ſtab me to the heart!

SCENE IV.

I could never have expected this from a man whom I looked upon as one of my beſt friends.

Come, cheer up, my good man, it is now my turn to be the comforter.

Ah, Martha, I can bear up againſt the loſſes of fortune, but not againſt thoſe of friendſhip!

Be comforted, we ſhall find friends, I will anſwer for it, more to be depended on. See, here comes Robert, our rich neighbour: perhaps he has ſomething to propoſe for our good.

SCENE V.

Good morrow, Thorowgood; well, how goes it?

Bad enough truly, neighbour; you know, I ſuppoſe, that I am ruined?

Yes, I have juſt been told of it; and this is the reaſon why I am come to ſee you.

I am now worth nothing.

How ſo? have you not a fine field of wheat, of which you may make many a good pound? If you mean to ſell it, I am your man; I will buy it as it is, and pay the mo⯑ney down; what ſay you?

If you have a mind to it, ſo much the better; my landlord will be here this morning, and you may ſettle the matter with him. I will not interfere in your bargain.

I have nothing to do with Mr. Parks; the wheat is yours.

It did, indeed, belong to me a few days ago, but it is not mine now.

How! have you ſold it to him then?

No, but ſince my loſſes, being no longer in a condition to pay, I have given him up all that I poſſeſs.

Are you mad, Thorowgood? why you have the law on your ſide; till your grain is made over to your landlord, by ſome ſe⯑curity, it belongs to you, and you may do what you pleaſe with it. Come, come, you have loſt too much already; aſk Martha what ſhe thinks of the matter?

Why, I think that we ought, in the firſt place, to pay our debts, at any rate; if we have loſt our cattle, our landlord has not gained by it; the loſs, therefore, is our affair, not his.

But you muſt not carry this ſo far as to deprive yourſelf of bread. You ought to keep ſomething in reſerve to be above want.

What, at the expence of our good landlord!

But he is ſo rich! When you have given up all to him, it will be no more in [31]his pocket than a crown-piece would be to you.

Why I believe he could do without it; but that is no reaſon that I ſhould take it from him.

But do not you know what a gene⯑rous and compaſſionate man he is?

For this very reaſon I ought to be the more fair in my dealings with him.

What! would you have us uſe him ill, becauſe he treats others well?

Fye, fye, neighbour! it would be in⯑famous.

Come, come, do not be ſo ſtiff; take my advice; it depends all on the man⯑ner in which we ſee things. There is no doubt but your landlord would do you a kindneſs; but to make that matter ſure, do one to yourſelf. Do you want to be one amongſt the number of the poor that he re⯑lieves?

He will not have that pleaſure long, if all his tenants take your advice.

You are an obſtinate man, and I loſe my time talking to you. I have but one word more to ſay: Will you ſell me your wheat; yes, or no?

Ha, I un⯑derſtood now what you would be at, and [32]why you intereſt yourſelf ſo much in my af⯑fairs. Hark ye, you are a rich fellow, and this would be a convenient bargain to you; but I have a better ſcheme than this to pro⯑poſe to you.

Now you ſpeak reaſon; let us hear.

I expect my landlord here every mi⯑nute; he always carries about him a well-furniſhed purſe, a gold watch, and ſome rings of value. Suppoſe you and I wait for him at the corner of the grove, and rob him of them; it would be no bad adventure this.

What do you mean, Thorowgood?

Why, he is ſo rich, the loſs to him will be no more than a crown would be to us.

Aye, but the gallows!

Aye, that alone reſtrains you: but if I were to judge you, Meadows, I would let you ſee that you do not deſerve it the leſs for what you have juſt now propoſed to me. I ſee no difference, for my part, between rob⯑bing a man of his money, or robbing him of the fruits of his land.

Oh, there is a great difference in the two caſes.

There may be ſo; but if you will reflect a little, I am of opinion, you will think as I do.

I do not deſire it, indeed; there is little to be got by this way of reaſoning. Come, come, Thorowgood, conſider your own intereſt a little better: your landlord will have great obligations to you, to be ſure, when you have reduced yourſelf to want on his account: he will only deſpiſe you, and treat you the worſe for it.

If his heart were like yours, I ſhould have reaſon to fear this.

And pray what harm have I done you? but you are an obſtinate man. I wiſh to preſerve your family from want; it is you that are the hard-hearted man, and will be guilty of all their ſufferings, and, perhaps, their death. I only deſire to give you your own price for your wheat; that is, if you are reaſonable; and here is the money.

Meadows, I have loſt in eight days all that I am worth, and am reduced to the laſt farthing; but if ever I am guilty of a diſhoneſt action, even to ſupply my moſt urgent neceſſities,

may Heaven ſtrike me dead with its thunder!

Very well. No matter what becomes of your wife and children, leave them to beg their bread, whilſt you enjoy on your dunghill, the pleaſure of [34]hearing yourſelf called—the worthy Tho⯑rowgood, the honeſt man.

And that is what you will never hear ſaid of yourſelf. Thou wretch! thou haſt more money than thou knoweſt what to do with; and yet, in your eagerneſs to amaſs more, you want to cheat others, and to make me a knave like yourſelf.

Get out of my houſe this in⯑ſtant, before I knock you down.

SCENE VI.

I never in my life ſaw a more impu⯑dent rogue. He knows how much I abhor all ſort of diſhoneſty, and yet he comes ſeri⯑ouſly to propoſe a downright robbery to me: he would not have done this when my affairs were in a better ſtate. Poverty is indeed ter⯑rible, when it expoſes us to ſuch affronts as theſe. O Martha, never let us be ſhaken by the miſeries of our ſituation! the poorer we are, the more rigid muſt be our integrity.

Otherwiſe it will be thought that we were only reſpected for our riches.

This is my comfort in the midſt of my troubles. Let us not attend, Martha, to [35]what others ſay, we have occaſion only for ourſelves.

Who knocks? Cannot I have a moment's peace?

SCENE VII.

Good morrow, good folks.

What do you want, farmer? are you come to propoſe ſome piece of knavery to me?

I, Thorowgood! Did you ever hear any thing of that kind from me?

No, never, never; forgive me; it was the re⯑mains of my indignation which tranſported me. Did you know what has happened to me within this hour, you would excuſe me for diſtruſting all mankind. The ſervant of my landlord wants me to commit a fraud; my friend has repaid my kindneſs with ingra⯑titude; and the richeſt man in the village would barter my honeſty for a trifling gain.

Think no more of theſe wretches; if they chooſe to make a trade of doing ill, you are too good to diſturb yourſelf about them. Hear me: I have but two words to ſay: I know that it is not in your power to [36]pay Squire Parks; it is at preſent im⯑poſſible for me to advance the ſum that you want; but try to obtain time of your land⯑lord; I will be anſwerable for it; he ſhall have my ſecurity.

See, huſband, what good⯑neſs!

O my dear neighbour, how came you by ſo ſaving a thought for us?

It was a very natural one: I ſaid to myſelf, the kind hearted Thorowgood was always ready, to the utmoſt of his power, to give his aſſiſtance to others; it would be hard, indeed, if he ſhould find no one in his turn to aſſiſt him; and I therefore am come—

It ſeems as if Heaven had ſent him to our ſuccour.

Why, Thorowgood, art thou dumb?

Ah, my dear friend, Hear⯑ty, I am not ſilent from inſenſibility; I feel your kindneſs at the bottom of my heart, but I cannot accept it.

And why not? it will not be uſeleſs to you. However well Mr. Parks may be diſpoſed towards you, he will be ſtill better pleaſed when he has my ſecurity for your debt.

But who will be my ſecurity to you?

Your own probity, induſtry, and ingenuity.

And yet you ſee to what I am reduc⯑ed; one bad year has ruined me: a ſecond of the ſame ſort may add your ruin to mine.

No matter, I will run the riſque.

But I will not ſuffer it: it is enough that my family ſuffers by me without ſeeing my friends do ſo alſo. I ſhould never more enjoy a moment's peace. Every fog, every cloud, the leaſt ſtorm of wind, would caſt terror into my heart.

My dear Thorow⯑good, if you did but know how much you af⯑flict me by your refuſal! Will you, then, let me do nothing for you?

You have done enough in thus com⯑forting my afflicted heart; it is torn to pieces; but the tears which I now ſee in your eyes are as balm to its wounds. O, my good friend, though it is a ſad thing to become an object of pity, yet there is a wide difference between being pitied, and being ill ſpoken of! Thanks be to heaven, you will never have cauſe to regret having known me. In what⯑ever place we meet, I ſhall never have occa⯑ſion to draw my hat over my face, or turn aſide my head, to avoid the ſhame of bluſhing in your preſence.

The more you reſiſt, the more my friendſhip increaſes; and you are ſo cruel, you will not give me yours in return.

Think well of it, I beſeech you: I know your ſlender means. Should I be your friend, were I to plunge you into difficulties, in order to draw myſelf out of them? No, no, my good neighbour, I am as yet guilty of the ruin of no one; and it ſhall never be ſaid that I will become ſo. As long as I live I will ſleep with a clear conſcience. It is this which converts the mat of ſtraw into a bed of down.

I will preſs you no more; I feel that I am not worthy to put an end to your troubles; Providence, no doubt, reſerves that for itſelf. All I aſk, is, that you will de⯑pend on me next to Providence; and my hands, and my little fortune, you ſhall always find at your ſervice. Farewell.

SCENE VIII.

I have a friend then, my dear Mar⯑tha; I rejoice, however, that he has left me. I might, perhaps, have yielded to his entrea⯑ties [39]from the fear of afflicting him. We are delivered then from a great temptation, but we muſt prevent his return. Come, my wife, we muſt act with ſpirit, let us aſſemble to⯑gether all our effects againſt Squire Parks's coming. I would not have him think that we had deliberated for a moment in doing our duty.

SCENE I.

Come, courage, Martha; keep up your ſpirits till we have finiſhed our buſineſs.

I believe it is now all done.

How! is this all that we have to give to our landlord? I never wiſhed ſo much to have our little ſtock of neceſſaries in good [40]order about us as I do at the inſtant that I am going to be deprived of them. Have you ſearched in every corner?

Yes, my dear, I turned over every drawer in the cupboard.

I feel myſelf the lighter for all this; theſe things were like a load on my heart, which almoſt ſtifled it.

You muſt be ſadly fatigued; you had better take a draught of beer to refreſh you.

Put ſome for us both into this cup.

What is the matter with you; your hand trembles?

Nothing at all; but it is ſo many years ſince this piece of plate has been in our family.

It does not go out of it now, how⯑ever, in a bad cauſe.

My grandfather bequeathed it to his eldeſt grandſon; but I, alas! ſhall not be able to leave it to mine.

Your laſt bleſſing will be the more pure for this.

Yes, I ſhall have that conſolation.

See here, the firſt letter of your name, which I had engraved with mine.

Well, my dear, this cypher is no re⯑proach to us; we ourſelves have been yet more united.

And we will be ſo always, though this were the laſt time that we ſhould drink together. Here, my dear wife;

come, we muſt now put all theſe things in order; let us begin with my wedding ſuit.

How happy I was, Martha, the firſt time I put this on, when I took you to church! and how often has the ſight of it brought back to my mind agreeable remembrances! I never opened that cupboard without looking at it, and I never looked at it without think⯑ing with pleaſure on the day of our marriage: it gives me pleaſure now for another reaſon.

For what, my dear?

For having preſerved it ſo well, that it will help a little towards paying our debts: ſee, it is in very good condition yet: they do not wear theſe great ſleeves and large plaits now; they did not ſpare ſtuff at that time of day; and I am glad of it: why here is almoſt enough to make two ſuch as are worn now.

Here is mine alſo; let us put them [42]together, and I ſhall beg of our landlord to let them both be ſold at the ſame time; it would grieve me to have them ſeparated.

Do not be ſo ſuperſtitious; ſup⯑poſe they were, my dear, what then? would our hearts be divided by that?

No, Thorowgood, I have no fear of that; it is not ſuperſtition, my dear huſ⯑band; it is a —, I don't know what to call it; but I ſhould rather they were to re⯑main together.

Come, come, make yourſelf eaſy, Mr. Parks will, I dare ſay, indulge this lit⯑tle weakneſs of yours.

What bundle is this?

It is Valentine's: you know it is the linen and jewels which we found with him in his cradle, look at them, they ſeem to be of great value.

Hold, Martha, we have no right to this, nor has our landlord any claim to it; it belongs to Valentine: if he were our ſon, the caſe would be dif⯑ferent; put it back into the box, we will ſpeak to Mr. Parks about it.

Provided he will take our words!

I have no fear of that; he is juſt [43]and ſenſible; and when I relate the circum⯑ſtance, to him, he will be of our opinion.

SCENE II.

Here, father, here are my Sunday clothes, and theſe are Jenny's; ſhall I put them on the table?

Yes, child, by thoſe of your father and mother.

Oh, my poor children, how ſorry I am for you!

No, Martha, we ought to rejoice, not grieve for them now. Should we weep for their being good children?

Tell me, would you wiſh to keep theſe clothes?

Certainly, if you could keep yours too; but ſince you are obliged to give yours to our landlord, I will alſo do the ſame. Do not you owe him all you have?

All, my child.

I am ſure I had rather always go in a ragged frock, than that people ſhould ſay, ſee how flaunting Lucy is dreſſed; but it is at other people's expence.

Right, my dear child; this is think⯑ing [44]as you ought; preſerve theſe ſentiments, and you will never be unhappy, nor will your courage ever be caſt down.

Your father is in the right: never fear, we will work night and day before you and your ſiſter ſhall want.

And we, in our turns, will do our beſt that you ſhall not want.

In thus aſſiſting each other, I hope, we ſhall be able to bring ourſelves out of this unfortunate ſituation; but ſhould we not, we ſhall at leaſt have nothing to re⯑proach ourſelves with: no man on earth will dare to deſpiſe us, or look down upon you. When we are dead, they may tell you, it is true, that your parents were poor, but never that they were diſhoneſt. You need not bluſh when you ſhed tears over their graves: no one will puſh you back whilſt they trample on them, with indignation, be⯑fore your face.

I will go and ſee, father, if I have forgotten nothing. When Jenny has done, we ſhall have ſomething elſe to bring you.

SCENE III.

Why, Martha, what ſtill caſt down? Shall our children be more courageous than we? We poſſeſs all their love; but do not [45]let us leſſen it by giving them cauſe to eſteem us leſs. They know that it is not our bad conduct which has brought theſe misfor⯑tunes upon us; but if we ſuffer ourſelves to be overcome by a weak deſpair, we ſhall appear faulty to them. Come, let us think no more of our troubles than as they have given us occaſion to feel the comfort which our children have given us.

Yes, my dear, it is the ſweeteſt that a mother can feel. Could I ever have ex⯑pected to ſee them ſo ſenſible and good, at ſo early an age?

And why not, Martha? Could I ever doubt that a woman like thee, would not bring my children up as worthy as her⯑ſelf? They will be the ſtaff of our old age; when decrepit with years, we may reſt aſ⯑ſuredly upon them. But I hear Valentine's voice; I have ſomething important to ſay to him.—Martha, ſhall I beg of thee to leave me alone with him a little?

Why do you aſk it? Am not I as much concerned as you in every thing that regards him? Do you believe that he is leſs dear to me than to you?

It is for this reaſon that I wiſh you to be away juſt now; it is your tenderneſs for him that I dread.

You make me tremble: what can this ſecret be? Is it any misfortune that has befallen him?

No, my dear, on the contrary, it is concerning his good fortune that I am now going to ſpeak to him.

And are you afraid that I ſhould be witneſs to this?

Well, then, ſtay if you will; but you muſt promiſe me not to contradict what I ſhall ſay: if you love him, and wiſh his good, you muſt acquieſce in whatever I propoſe to him.

But why did not you before entruſt me with your deſigns?

Here he comes; you ſhall hear them in his preſence.

SCENE IV.

Good morrow, father, I am come to ſee if you are returned ſafe.

Yes, ſon, as you ſee.

And how were you received by the Squire?

As well as I could wiſh: he is not one of thoſe haughty and unfeeling men, who will ſcarcely allow us poor people to be their[47]fellow creatures. He will come here pre⯑ſently; and you ſee what I have prepared to give up to him towards my debt.

What, do you mean to ſtrip your⯑ſelf, in one moment, of all that you have earned by hard labour?

This is not the greateſt ſacrifice that I muſt make to-day, I muſt endure a loſs which will go much nearer to my heart.

What have you to loſe more?

Alas, it is thyſelf, Valentine! thee whom I have ever loved ſo tenderly.

Me, father!

What do you ſay?

Since the word has paſſed my lips, I muſt repeat it; yes, my child, we muſt part.

But why do you drive me from your preſence? Have I given you any cauſe of complaint?

Oh, never, never! you know it too, Thorowgood; no ſon was ever more ſubmiſ⯑ſive, or more tender towards his parents.

And I, Martha, am as ready as you to declare this. Yes, Valentine, you have done for us a hundred times more than we had a right to expect. I love you with all the tenderneſs of a real father; but, never⯑theleſs, you know that I am not yours. [48]Had we continued in proſperity, you ſhould have always been our ſon, our dear ſon; all my other children believe you to be their brother. I meant, after my death, that you ſhould have ſhared with them the little ſub⯑ſtance which you have daily helped me to increaſe. This hope was a comfort to my heart, but it is deſtroyed; nothing now is left us, not even the diſtant proſpect of a re-eſtabliſhment.

And is this the moment which you have choſen to caſt me from amongſt the number of your children?

Yes, I ought to do ſo; the ties of blood bind them to our lot, whatever it be; if we ſuffer, they ought to ſuffer with us; but you, what right have I to involve you in my diſtreſs? No, Valentine, I adviſe you as a friend; and if it muſt be, I command you as a father to quit an unfortunate fa⯑mily. It is time that you ſhould do ſome⯑thing for yourſelf; ſince it is no longer in my power to give you a fortune, I rejoice that I have had you ſo well inſtructed as to enable you to gain one.

You muſt not remind me of theſe obligations, if you wiſh to have me aban⯑don you; I muſt firſt forget them myſelf: you ſaved my life in my infancy; your wife [49]nouriſhed me with her milk; you have bred me up, and educated me without expect⯑ing any recompence; and you command me to be ungrateful for all theſe benefits.

I have only acquitted myſelf to you as one man ought to another. Should not I have been a monſter, had I left you to periſh?

And yet you would have me prove myſelf one, by withdrawing from you my aſſiſtance when you moſt want it.

You know me, Valentine; you know that I ſhould be aſhamed to live at the expence of another.

My life, then, to this moment has been a very ſhameful one; have not I hi⯑therto ſubſiſted by you alone?

But have not you ſufficiently repaid me by your labour?

My hands, it is true, have repaid what your hands have done for me; but my heart has not yet repaid your love. O my father, recall to your remembrance the firſt days of my infancy, when I was as a ſtranger in your family. How many times have you preſſed me in your arms at your return from hard labour, which you had prolonged in order to ſupport me. And you, my dear mother, can you forget the many tender careſſes that you have laviſhed on me, [50]at the very time when I was eating the bread of your children? You alone received me when abandoned by all the world; and ſhall I now abandon you? I was your ſon to in⯑herit your fortune, and ſhall I not be ſo to ſhare your poverty? Alas, how much you muſt have deſpiſed me before you could be⯑lieve me capable of this!

Deſpiſe you, Valentine! No, my ſon, I eſteem you the more for theſe ſenti⯑ments: but, I ſay again, it is time that you ſhould think of doing ſomething for your⯑ſelf.

No. I think only of you: I will burden myſelf with your labours; I will afflict myſelf with your griefs: my head, my hands, all that I have, all that I am, I give you. I devote myſelf entirely to you: whether you go, or remain, I will never quit you: you may fly me, but you ſhall not hinder my following you. When you hear me groaning the whole night, ſtretched at the door of your cottage, you will ſurely open it to me.

Perhaps I may no longer have one.

Then I will follow you to the wild [51]common or the bleak dreary mountain: wherever you go I will be with you.

You hear him, Thorowgood?

Ah, I knew it well, my dear mother; I knew that you would not drive me from your heart.

Come to my arms, my ſon, my dear ſon! it is I now who entreat thee never more to quit us.

Never, never, my father! without relations, without friends, on whom could my heart repoſe? I have no one on earth but you to love. I feel that you are a thouſand times more dear to me ſince you have loſt your all. I have hitherto only given you the ſweat of my brow, but my blood is ready to be ſhed for you. O my father! ſince you no longer urge me to quit you, you muſt preſs me the more cloſely in your arms.

SCENE V.

And I, Thorowgood, wilt thou repulſe me?

What doſt thou here, wretch? Is it not [52]enough to have betrayed me? Muſt you alſo diſturb, by your preſence, the joy which this moment affords me?

Do not oppreſs me more; I ſuffer already too cruelly by a bitter repentance: you may either bring me back to the paths of honour, or expoſe me as the moſt unworthy of men, to the eyes of others as well as my own.

What then would you have with me?

Give me back your friendſhip. Think not, Thorowgood, that I was ſo baſe as to renounce it for a paltry gain: but you know what loſſes I have ſuffered. The fear of ſeeing my children want had blinded me; but it was uſing them very ill: I already feel that I ſhall love them leſs, after having been guilty of ſo black an action. Deliver me from my ſhame; give me back my own eſ⯑teem, though at the price of my blood, give me back my friend!

Ah, Humphries, how difficult is it to cure the wound which thou haſt made! Nevertheleſs, I am touched with your ſpeedy return to virtue, and forget your offence.

Make me forget it then myſelf, and receive that which was the cauſe of it.

What do you propoſe? Shall I put a price on our reconciliation? No, Hum⯑phries, [53]keep what belongs to you, if you wiſh my friendſhip.

I will not accept it if you refuſe me: have you not advantages enough over me without this? You have no other way of being generous to me. Do not let me have before my eyes what will be a conſtant re⯑proach to my heart.

If it be ſo, I accept your offer; but you muſt promiſe me that, on the firſt return of good fortune, I ſhall be at liberty to ſatis⯑fy myſelf in my turn.

I have no will but yours: from henceforward let our loſſes and gains be in common between us.

You have recovered my good opinion.

Come, Martha, what⯑ever misfortunes may happen to me in the courſe of this day, I ſhall always find cauſe for conſolation, ſince I have preſerved a ſon, and found a loſt friend.

SCENE I.

O Father! O Mother! Come, come quickly.

SCENE II.

Well, what is the mat⯑ter, child? why do you make this outcry?

There is a grand coach juſt now ſtopped at the door, with four beautiful horſes, and a number of fine folks all bedizened with lace, both before and behind, and a gentle⯑man in it. O mother, what a ſweet counte⯑nance he has!—How do you do, m [...] dear, he ſaid to me, ſmiling—Where is your fa⯑ther and mother?—

He wants to ſpeak to you.

Odd ſo, I'll lay my life it is our landlord! I muſt run to receive him.

SCENE III.

What! this is the gentleman, then, to whom, as my father ſaid, all that we have belongs.

Yes, my child, we owe him a great deal of money, and as we have not half enough to diſcharge our debt, we are willing to do as much as we can, and give him up all our remaining property.

And what can he do with it? he has too fine a carriage to make uſe of our cart, and he is too well dreſſed to wear ſuch clothes as we have.

That is very true; but he will ſell them and take the money; we have no other way of paying, and even that will not be ſufficient.

Do you think that he will be ſo wicked as to treat us in ſuch a cruel manner? if you had ſeen how good-natured he looked upon me—

There is no wickedneſs in all that, Jenny, it is no more than juſtice.

It is a ſad thing, however—let me take a laſt look at my holiday clothes. Could [56]you have thought, mother, laſt ſpring, when you gave me this jacket and petticoat, that I ſhould wear them only two or three times? It was but laſt Sunday that I felt ſuch plea⯑ſure at being ſo ſmartly dreſſed! and you yourſelf, mother, were ſo happy to ſee it!

Come, don't grieve, I do not mind my fine clothes; we worked to get them, and we will work to have others. But here is the gentleman coming; I will go look for my ſiſter in the garden.

SCENE IV.

Well, where are you going, my dear? are you afraid of me?

Oh no, Sir, no one can be afraid of you that looks in your face: excuſe me a moment, I ſhall be back directly.

SCENE V.

What a ſprightly countenance that little girl has?

Aye, and her ſiſter too, I'll warrant her; they are both of them as lively girls as you would wiſh to ſee.

Ah, Martha, how goes it?

As the times are, Sir, but very ſo ſo. I hope you are well, Sir.

Perfectly well, thank God. I have a thouſand things to ſay from my wife; do you know that ſhe had a great inclination to come with me!

And ſhe would not have done amiſs: our country air is much better than your cloſe air in town.

But, Sir, I hope you uſe no ceremony here: pray be covered. You are at home in your tenant's houſe.

You ſee it would not go on my head: it is the cuſ⯑tom to appear with ſuch hats as theſe in town upon ſome occaſions.

It is rightly ſaid, what is the cuſtom in town is not ſo in the country.

But it is odd enough to uſe hats that will not go on one's head.

SCENE VI.

Where would you have this laid, Sir?

There, in the corner; that will do: deſire the coachman to take the horſes to the beſt inn, and put up the car⯑riage.

Have you any other orders to give the ſervants?

Tell them to order a good dinner for themſelves; I mean to treat them to-day; but let them avoid drinking to ex⯑ceſs. I ſhall not return to town before the evening: you muſt be ready at ſix.

Very well, Sir.

SCENE VII.

You ſee, Thorowgood, we [59]ſhall have full time to talk together; but firſt, I ſhould be glad to ſee all your family. Where are your children?

All at work; my ſons in the field, and my daughters in the garden. But will you come and look at your corn fields?

Not now, in the evening, when the heat of the day is over.

They look finely: there is to the va⯑lue of a hundred pounds, if there be a ſhil⯑ling.

Well, ſo much the better.

But what does all this mean? one would imagine that you were going to have an auction here. Why all this linen and furniture piled up in this manner?

It is becauſe we expected your com⯑ing, Sir.

And what then?

I told you this morning that we ſhould not be able to pay our rent; it is therefore our duty to give you up what we have, and you ſee it collected here. With the ſale of our furniture, clothes, and corn, we mean to pay you as far as we can. Whatever may be deficient, we will endeavour to earn by our labour, till we have paid to a far⯑thing. I hope, Sir, you will at preſent, be [60]ſatisfied with this on account, and have a little patience for the reſt.

As you have always been ſo indul⯑gent to us—and, indeed, it is not by any fault of ours that we are in this diſtreſs.

You know as well as myſelf, Sir, that I had drained the marſhes in order to make them fit for paſture, and they were in a thriving way. All the money that we had remaining laſt year, we laid out in cattle, in order to fatten them for ſale. Twenty head of good cattle was a little fortune, which promiſed fair to pay our rent, by ſending a few of them off to market. A drought came on; there was ſcarcely a blade of graſs in my fields: I fed my cattle with the ſtraw of my bed, the thatch of my barn, and ſome⯑times with the vegetables that were for my family's uſe. When I wanted to get rid of them, I could find no purchaſer, owing to the ſcarcity of fodder. A murrain got amongſt them, and I loſt them all: I owe nothing, however, to any body but to you, Sir. Come and look at your grounds, you will ſee whether I have neglected to culti⯑vate them; you will ſee if my own labour, with that of my wife and children, may not enable me one day to pay all my debts: I can, however, give you no other ſecurity [61]than my own word; but as I have always been punctual, till now, in my engagements with you, I ſhould hope that you would have ſome reliance on my promiſe.

Yes, my friends, I do know you. Why ſhould I not be content with the promiſe of ſuch honeſt, worthy people as you are?

I give you thanks, Sir; your kind words are ſtill more pleaſing than your good⯑neſs itſelf. How ſeldom will a creditor give the character of an honeſt man to the debtor by whom he has loſt?

How ſeldom alſo does it hap⯑pen, my friend Thorowgood, that a creditor can with truth ſay, that the debtor, by whom he has ſuffered, is worthy of that appellation?

SCENE VIII.

Here, Sir, here is all that we have; our chickens, our eggs, and our money: we have nothing elſe in the world, have we, Jenny?

No, indeed, Sir, nothing more.

What, ſo much money! how came you by it?

With my ſiſter's chickens, my eggs and flowers, which my mother ſold for us in town.

Theſe were our firſt ſavings as a beginning towards our ſupport; but we part with all freely for your ſake.

That we do with all our hearts.

And I receive it with all my heart. No money ever gave me ſo much pleaſure! Come, Sir, this is ſo much paid.

How happy I am, my dear girls, to ſee that you have the ſame ſenti⯑ments with your father.

What, then, is it from your own ſuggeſtions alone that you have done this?

As my father himſelf is not able to pay, it is but right to help him all in our power.

Oh, Thorowgood, what ex⯑quiſite [63]happineſs you muſt feel under your afflictions! The tenderneſs of your children is more than a compenſation for all your loſſes.

No, my dear girls, I will not ſtrip you of your firſt riches. Take back what you have ſo nobly offered me. I have no accounts to ſettle but with your father.

Give them their own way; they feel no concern in parting with theſe things.

And do you feel none at ſee⯑ing them loſe their little fortune?

How, Sir? There is nothing more natural and pleaſing than to receive aſſiſtance from our children. Were I as rich as a king, all my poſſeſſions ſhould be theirs; when I have nothing, whatever they poſſeſs is mine.

Won't you be always glad to pay for us?

Ah, father, can you doubt it?

I wiſh we had a hundred times more, we would give it all with the ſame pleaſure.

You hear what they ſay, Sir.

And I would not receive it, were it a thouſand times more conſiderable.

Here my dear good little girl, take back your treaſure, pray do.

You will find it there with the other things.

What are you about? hold, hold.

I will not even liſten to you. Come, Jenny.

SCENE IX.

I told you that they were ſhrewd laſſes: they are not ſo eaſily caught.

But what, Thorowgood, do you really mean to make them pay for you?

Why not, Sir? it is very natural.

Methinks you are little ac⯑quainted with the manners of the town.

It is enough for me to know that I act right: whether in town or country no matter. Juſtice and duty are to me one and the ſame thing. Is not this the practice where you live?

It is preciſely the reverſe on moſt occaſions.

Do you tell me ſo, Sir?

Yes, my friend, you are ſur⯑prized, yet it is too true. When by folly and extravagance, ambitious and deſtructive ſchemes, people have put it out of their power to pay their debts, they transfer to their chil⯑dren the property which they may have ob⯑tained from the credulity and confidence of their creditors; and when the latter apply for payment, the parents poſſeſs nothing, and all that they ſeemed to have, is found in the hands of their children, who will not part with it.

What abomina⯑ble knavery!

It is horrible.

And do the laws take no notice of theſe tricks?

Art and cunning find a way to ſilence them.

Your laws are as corrupt as thoſe who ſtifle their voice, if they will not ſpeak out on ſuch occaſions. Hear me, Sir; I am entirely ignorant of law proceedings; but I would not heſitate to ſay openly to that juſ⯑tice, which would ſubmit to that reſtriction —Thou haſt no farther buſineſs upon earth; be gone then to hell, where the wicked ſhall at laſt meet with due puniſhment. Were I the dupe of the father, I would go to the [66]children, and aſk them, by what right they retained the property which ought to be re⯑ſtored to me? If they ſhould tell me, that they received it from their parents, my an⯑ſwer would be, your parents could not be⯑ſtow it on you; it belongs to me. I would compel them, without mercy, to ſell the bed from under them in order to ſatisfy me.

Matters are not carried on in that manner with us.

I would have them carried on in my way: ſuch fathers and ſuch children are no better than a knot of thieves.

The fathers are the moſt cri⯑minal.

No, Sir, begging your pardon; the latter are ſtill more ſo; the former are knaves, but the others are monſters. When a ſtranger hath relieved us in our diſtreſs, are we not in duty bound, whilſt we have a drop of generous blood in our veins, to re⯑lieve him in turn, if he ſhould want our aſ⯑ſiſtance? and children, who owe every thing to their parents, have coſt them ſo much anxiety, care and toil, ſhall they not act in the ſame manner? I ſhudder at the bare thought of ſuch a thing; were I to ſee my father incapable of paying what he owed, though he had not left me a penny, I ſhould [67]ſtill think myſelf bound to fulfil all his en⯑gagements. I ſhould conſider it as a duty of inheritance in me to acquit his memory, and preſerve the integrity of his name. Though I were to live upon bread alone, to the laſt hour of my life, and be obliged to work the fleſh from my bones, I would en⯑deavour to pay all his debts; and when I had done ſo, I would go to his grave, and addreſs him thus: Father, now reſt in peace, thou oweſt nothing.

Thou art a noble fellow, Thorowgood!

Yes, Sir, I would do ſo.—Gracious heaven! can we honor with the name of children thoſe unnatural beings, who, rather than deprive themſelves of ſome few com⯑forts of life, would ſuffer their fathers to be treated like knaves? Without being one of their unfortunate creditors, I could curſe ſuch monſters of children.

SCENE X.

Father, Humphries's cows are come; would you have them brought in?

Do you conſider what you ſay? I'll [68]go and look at them: excuſe me for a mo⯑ment, Sir. This matter concerns you; they are like wiſe your property. I will tell you preſently how I came by them,

Thanks be to Heaven, bleſſings are flowing in on all ſides to-day!

SCENE XI.

Your huſband really aſto⯑niſhes me, Martha. I was very ſenſible, in⯑deed, that he was full of honour and probi⯑ty; but to find him poſſeſs ſuch elevated ſen⯑timents in the very depth of diſtreſs, is what, I muſt own, I did not expect.

I have always ſeen him behave in the ſame manner, Sir, as you do now: in all tranſactions his firſt object is to find out the ſide of juſtice; and when he has found it, he adheres to it, and will ſupport it with all, and againſt all, beginning by himſelf. How⯑ever, he is no more than what he ought to be.

True; but then in the ſitua⯑tion to which he is reduced, not to heſitate a moment!

Oh, Sir, you know but little of him; [69]he would ſee us all without a morſel of bread, rather than have the leaſt cauſe of re⯑proach to himſelf; and that without appear⯑ing any way diſturbed. He is never caſt down; he is leſs the ſport of Fortune than his fortune is of him.

You muſt love him dearly, Martha.

Love him! Ah, Sir, can you doubt it? What would have become of me but for the comfort that he affords me? I am always happy, when I ſee him with a cheerful coun⯑tenance. I cannot imagine I have any wants as long as Heaven vouchſafes to preſerve him to me. He is indeed my all upon earth.

SCENE XII.

I give you joy, Sir; two of the fineſt cows in the whole country! Oh, let me alone, I will go to-morrow, yes, I will go myſelf to market. They will fetch ten pounds a piece the leaſt penny: they ſha'n't go for a farthing leſs, not to a prince. You may reckon upon ſo much; this will reduce our account ſo much. We will ſettle it, if you pleaſe. My debts hang like a mountain on my ſhoulders. I long to be eaſed of the heavy burden.

I wiſh it as much as you can, my friend.

You know what I remain in your debt for the reſt of my rent?

Yes, but firſt of all, Thorowgood, are you really in earneſt in this propoſal, that I ſhould take your furniture, clothes, corn, cows, and all that you poſſeſs?

Sir, I am always in earneſt in mat⯑ters of buſineſs.

Have you reflected ſeriouſly upon it? Do you conſider that all your pro⯑perty is at ſtake?

My property! it is no longer mine, it is yours. Hear me, Sir; you know per⯑fectly well, that I would not attempt to act a generous part by you at the expence of my family. I give you up nothing but what be⯑longs to you. Reſt aſſured that I would not offer it to you, if I thought I could retain it with a ſafe conſcience. It would become me, truly, to make you preſents! You would laugh at me. To cut the matter ſhort, I cannot pay you the debt in ready money: I reſign, therefore, all my poſſeſſions, without injury to your remaining claim, which I will pay, that I will, you may depend; you ſhall [71]be next in conſideration after the immediate neceſſaries of life are ſupplied.

Very well; but it would be dreadful to ſtrip you entirely. Chuſe out, amongſt all theſe effects, what you value moſt. I flatter myſelf you will not refuſe a trifling preſent of friendſhip from me.

When you talk ſo, it would ill be⯑come me to decline ſuch a favor.

Here then. I will retain theſe inſtruments of my buſineſs; with theſe, together with in⯑duſtry and reſolution, we may always find means to relieve our diſtreſs.

What, do you take nothing more?

No, Sir, theſe are ſufficient. If hea⯑ven will aſſiſt me, I ſhall not deſpair of ſup⯑porting my wife and children with credit, and of laying up by degrees ſufficient to pay you.

Very well; now is your turn, Martha. I will have no jealouſy: you muſt take ſomething as well as your huſband. Chuſe what you will.

What muſt I too? You are too good, indeed, Sir.

No compliments. Come, what do you chuſe?

Well then, ſince you are willing to give me ſome of your property;

I beg it as a favour, Sir, that you will let me take the cradle of the infant that I have at the breaſt.

What, was it in⯑cluded in the things that you were giving up? Would you have deprived your infant of a cradle?

Would he not al⯑ways have found one in my arms?

And could you once think that would have accepted it?

I have already told you, Sir, that children ſhould pay for their parents. When the one ſuffers, what pretence can the others have to refuſe ſharing in the affliction? There is nothing that I am not ready to do for my children; but, at the ſame time, there is nothing that I do not expect from them in return. My blood is theirs, as their blood is mine.

What a man! how unſhaken in his principles!

What you have taken, I give you: it is yours. Now you ſurrender the remainder to me, your houſe⯑hold [73]goods, your clothes, corn, and the cattle that you have newly acquired? Do you trans⯑fer all right and property in them to me?

We do, Sir.

And without any regret.

Rather ſay, with the greateſt plea⯑ſure.

Receive likewiſe all the money that we have.

Won't you reckon it? There are five and twenty pounds.

Your word is ſufficient. So you make me abſolute maſter of all: and you are ſatisfied that I ſhall diſpoſe of it as I pleaſe, without any oppoſition from you?

As it is now your property, we have no more title or claim to it than to your lands. We ſhould be ſtrange ſort of folks, indeed, to aſſume the liberty of controlling you, in any reſpect, as to the diſpoſal of it.

Conſider well the conditions that you are laying on yourſelf. It is not my intention to extort this agreement from you; but once the matter is ſo ſettled—

Oh! be not afraid that I ſhall attempt to recall my words. No, Sir, we are already [74]too ſenſible of your kindneſs in allowing us time: diſpoſe of all things as you think pro⯑per. We ſhall only beg of Heaven that all may proſper in your hands.

Now we underſtand one an⯑other: then I acknowledge in turn that I have no farther claim upon you, being ſatis⯑fied for all that you might be indebted to me, in conſideration of your having ſurren⯑dered up theſe effects.

But no, Sir, you would loſe conſiderably; this will not amount to one half of your debt. Such a parcel of trumpery and rags for a hundred and fifty pounds!

But it is my pleaſure to take them at that rate. Am not I at liberty to do this as I think proper?

I have nothing to ſay as to that; yet I think it would be better to have them ap⯑praiſed, in order to know exactly what they are worth.

Peace, friend; they have a value in my eyes which no perſon on carth could poſſibly eſtimate. They are the fruits of the toil and frugality of an honeſt and wor⯑thy family. When I reflect how many drops of ſweat they muſt have coſt you, I think them of value enough to make me the am⯑pleſt [75]ſatisfaction. Now, my good friends, you owe me nothing.

Good Sir, how ſhall I thank you?

Heaven be praiſed, my dear, we are no longer in debt!

O matchleſs goodneſs! how ſhall we be ever able to ſhew our gratitude for ſo much generoſity!

With our hearts, Martha; and there we have funds to diſcharge our obligations.

Will you now be ſo good as to tell me where we ſhall carry all theſe things, and when you will be pleaſed to have the keys delivered up.

I will tell you, provided you will forbear to interrupt me.

My good friends, I am rich; and my parents taught me, from my infant years, to do good to the virtuous and wor⯑thy; but I never, till this day, ſo fully expe⯑rienced the exquiſite delight of benevolent actions. My worthy Thorowgood

they behaviour hath filled me with eſteem and admiration: all that thou haſt made over to me to diſcharge thy debts, I reſtore to thee in turn, to acquit myſelf of a [76]duty which thy misfortunes and integrity claim from me.

What then, ſhall I no longer be apprehenſive of ſeeing my children in diſtreſs! O thou worthy, thou bounteous landlord!

I can ſcarcely believe what I have juſt now heard. No, Sir, it is impoſſible; and though theſe words may have eſcaped you in the en⯑thuſiaſtic emotions of your goodneſs, ſhall I be baſe enough to avail myſelf of them? No, no, I never will conſent.

Softly, ſoftly, Thorowgood, you juſt now admitted that I was abſolute maſter of your property, and perfectly at li⯑berty to diſpoſe of it agreeable to my own fancy; and would you now deprive me of theſe rights?

Ah, Sir. you have ſeduced me into this; but why ſhould I complain? Shall I receive bread from Heaven, and refuſe it from you, whom it hath ſent as a tutelary angel to relieve us in our diſtreſſes! Yes, I will become worthy of thy bounty, by receiving it as it is offered, with a ſoul full of joy and ſenſibility: but furniſh me alſo with proper expreſſions to [77]thank you,

I am afraid of not appearing ſufficiently grateful for your favours.

Be comforted, Thorowgood; I ſee what is now paſſing at the bottom of your heart, perhaps, better than yourſelf, and am fully ſatisfied. Mar⯑tha, call your children; I know with what tenderneſs they love you; I would fain let them ſee that I can love you alſo.

Jenny, Lu⯑cy! come, make haſte, run as faſt as your legs can carry you.

Here, here we are, mother.

SCENE XIII.

Come, my dear children, look round about you; all that you ſee there, you know we had given up to this gentleman, our landlord; well then, you muſt know that he has given it up to us back again; he will neither take our money, our corn, nor our cows; he acquits us of our whole debt for nothing.

And will you not, then, take our money?

No, my dear children, the ala⯑crity which you have ſhewn in aſſiſting your parents, has taught me how worthy you all are to be relieved in your afflictions: take back, then, all that you have given for them, but make that uſe of it to which your tender⯑neſs firſt prompted you. For example, Lu⯑cy; as your father has loſt his cattle, would you not be glad to employ what you have ſaved in buying others for him?

I am far ſhort of having enough for that.

But, ſuppoſing that you had enough, would you be well pleaſed to make ſuch a preſent?

Ah, Sir! I ſhould leap for joy.

I ſhould be curious to ſee how you and Jenny would behave on ſuch an oc⯑caſion. Thorowgood, as you underſtand theſe matters better than your daughters, I commiſſion you to go to-morrow to market for them, and buy for each of them ſix young heifers, the beſt that you can find. The mo⯑ney will be ready to pay them at my houſe: it is a little preſent which I make your chil⯑dren, [79]that they may have the pleaſure of making you one in turn.

Ah, dear Sir! when will you have done heaping favours? Come, my chil⯑dren, and join with me in thanking our ge⯑nerous benefactor.

Riſe, Martha; riſe, my good girls.

Sir, I knew you very well to be a man of humanity, and a worthy man, but I was not ſufficiently acquainted with all your virtues; and I am really at a loſs how to be⯑have to you.

O my beloved wife! oh that we could but compriſe in one word, one ſingle word, all that our hearts now feel!

Sir, I will offer my prayers day and night to Heaven, not for you, no; one of your ac⯑tions is beyond a thouſand of my prayers; but that there may appear now and then upon earth, a few men like you, to preſerve wretchedneſs from deſpair.

Don't you ſee, my children, that hill yonder, from the top of which there is a view of the city where [80]our benefactor reſides: we go up it every Sunday in our way to church; well then, we never will aſcend it without looking out for his place of abode, pouring out our bleſ⯑ſing upon it, and praying to Heaven for him, his wife, and all that belongs to him, before we go to pray for ourſelves. Will you re⯑member this?

O father, do you think that I can ever forget it?

We will begin as ſoon as we leave home.

Yes, Sir, every day and every mi⯑nute; in the fields, or in our cottage, where⯑ſoever we are, our firſt thoughts ſhall be de⯑voted to you: we ſhall not be ſenſible of a moment of our exiſtence, without reflecting that we enjoy it through your goodneſs, without being ready to lay it down for you at all times. You may, when you pleaſe, demand our blood, it is yours. Ah, why can I not at this moment pour every drop of mine into your veins, if it would but double the years of your life.

Be happy, Thorowgood, con⯑tinue the bleſſing of your wife, and bring up your children to think as you do. I will viſit you ſometimes to enjoy this pleaſing ſight; and, I am ſure, I ſhall be the better for it. [81]But now all our buſineſs is over, do you know that I expect a dinner from you?

Bet⯑ter and better ſtill; this is a new treat.

But, my dear, what can we offer the good gentleman?

Such as we have, Martha; I know him: a bit of dry bread will give him more ſatisfaction than if he had unexpectedly found a large joint of roaſt beef at our table.

But ſtill—

Make your⯑ſelf eaſy, Martha,

you will find in that enough to regale us; but let us go together, and take a walk in your garden; we all have occaſion for a little freſh air to recruit our ſpirits.

SCENE I.

What a noble piece of meat! Our landlord, I ſee, has not been ſparing of his proviſions.

There, ſiſter, look what a huge hump-backed pye! O, I dare ſay, it is very nice.

Mother, do you know what is in it?

No, my dear, the town-folks have many things that we know nothing of in the country.

Oh, our landlord muſt be a very [83]worthy good man, to give us back all our things, buy us cows, and bring us ſuch nice victuals beſides! Jenny, we muſt hatch our eggs, and carry him the chickens

Oh, I do ſo long to do it; I wiſh they were plump and great chickens now: I could do any thing for him, I love him ſo.

I will go and make him a noſegay of our fineſt flowers.

That is right; and you, Jenny, you muſt help to ſet things to-rights in the houſe. Go and cut ſome ſlices of bread; do it pro⯑perly; and when you have done, bring it in; I want our landlord to ſee that you know ſomething of the management of a houſe.

SCENE II.

Let me ſee; nothing, I think, is wanting; the napkins and plates—now I muſt ſet the chairs.

Now every thing is ready, he may come as ſoon as he pleaſes.

SCENE III.

How is this, Sir! what have you been doing? I believe that you imagined you had kings to entertain: what a noble piece of beef! and again,

what a glorious treat is here! it looks very tempting.

It is a pye which my wife has ſent you.

Is it poſſible that Madam ſhould think of us?

Oh, I readily believe it; ſhe treated me in the kindeſt manner this morning: I would lay any wager that, next to my wife, ſhe is the beſt woman in the world. Odſo, Martha, let the month of January but come, and we ſhall have our turn. Look at this woman, Sir; I defy you to find her equal at managing a wheel.

When winter comes, ſhe ſhall, during the long evenings, ſpin for yourſelf and your lady, and make you a piece of cloth the fineſt you ever ſaw, I will warrant it.

What a pleaſure ſhall I have! I will not loſe a moment.

I am much obliged to you, my friends, but it is unneceſſary; Martha has enough to do to mind her children; and it would be—

Hold, Sir, not a word more will I [85]hear; we have ſuffered you long enough to have your own way; it is but juſt that we ſhould have our will for once at leaſt. Would you prevent us from being grateful? That would be depriving us of all the plea⯑ſure of our lives, and you are too good to de⯑ſire that: come, let us ſit down.

There is your place, Sir; come, Martha, take yours alſo.

Do not you wait for your children? they muſt ſit down with us. I wiſh to have the pleaſure of dining with the worthieſt family that I know.

And we ſhall not be behind hand with you, Sir; we ſhall alſo be able to ſay, that we have had at our table the moſt com⯑paſſionate and generous man upon earth, which is preferable to dining with kings, who have not ſuch ſentiments.

Is not Valentine yet returned from the fields?

No, my dear, nor George.

And the girls, what are they about?

You will find preſently that they have not been trifling. See, here comes Jenny.

SCENE IV.

Oh, oh, the bread, that is right; come hither, child;

Though ours be houſhold bread, it is, however, well taſted: you have what is lighter in town, but this is more ſtrengthening for working people: luckily it is ſtill quite freſh. But how is this Mar⯑tha? you have forgotten ſomething mate⯑rial.

It is not your fault, my dear; on ſuch a day as this, our hearts are ſo taken up with joy and pleaſure, that we cannot think of every thing.

Something wanting, you ſay; what is it, pray?

Something to drink, wife; would you entertain Mr. Parks with a horſe-feaſt? that would be ſtrange, indeed.

What was I thinking of? I ſet it to cool.

Run, make haſte; our cyder is ſomewhat rough, Sir; it cuts the throat, but is ſound.

What do you mean? the gentleman has brought ſome wine.

Yes, my friend, and I muſt own that I think my liquor a little better than yours.

You have brought wine too! How, Sir, had you not done enough without that? This is too much; what, bring us wine too!

Oh, it is not for you only; I mean to drink a part myſelf. This day is to us all a day of pleaſure; and good wine is an excellent aſſociate with joy and feſtivity.

Indeed, I had formerly ſome excel⯑lent wine always by me, which I kept for my father. When I happened to meet with good markets in town, my firſt buſineſs was to go and buy half a dozen bottles of the beſt that I could get, be the price what it would: I did not drink it myſelf, I gave it to wife to keep for thoſe days when my father came to ſee us, and then I entertained him well. Do you remember, Martha, how happy the good old man uſed to be? My children, he would ſay, this wine ſtrengthens and cheers me; but your affection, which makes you deny yourſelves comforts for my ſake, [88]ſtrengthens and rejoices my heart ſtill more: he was ſometimes ſo much affected, that the tears flowed down his cheeks. You cannot conceive how exquiſite the wine taſted to me, whilſt I had my father drinking by my ſide.

I hope you will not find this amiſs neither.

Ah, Sir, your kindneſs is ſufficient to make it delicious.

SCENE V.

Will you permit me, Sir, to fix this in your button hole?

I am much obliged to you, my dear Lucy,

but it is as big as yourſelf. I would lay a wager that you have left none for your father and mo⯑ther. Come, I muſt divide it; I ſhall re⯑ceive nothing for myſelf alone to-day: there, Martha; there, Thorowgood; here is for you, Jenny; and Lucy, here is for you,

This is like a wedding-day, every one his noſegay.

One would take Mr. Parks for the bridegroom; he gives the dinner and the flowers.

Well ſaid; my Jenny is in her gay mood.

This ſprightly remark ſhall be worth a wedding gown to her on the day of her marriage.

So, Sir, we have nothing to do but to ſit with our arms acroſs, and leave you to do every thing; her wedding gown ſhe muſt earn herſelf.

But, father, ſuppoſe I ſhould earn mine firſt?

Do you hear the little baggage! Upon my word, it becomes ſuch a little girl as you to have ſuch notions in your head: but come, come, let us think of no⯑thing but dinner; let us be merry and gay.

Let us wait till your ſon's return. I will not dine until the whole flock be round me.

What a pity it is, Sir, that you have no children; you ſeem ſo fond of them.

Ah, Martha, you make my heart bleed a-new! Heaven had bleſſed me with a ſon, but—

An only ſon? and he is dead? what a terrible affliction!

I know not if he be dead, but he is ſo to me.

Perhaps he is in ſome foreign coun⯑try, and you do not hear from him.

Do not afflict yourſelf, my dear Sir, pray do not; if he be ſtill alive, you will certainly ſee him again. What! ſhall you ſoften the ſorrows of the wretched, and yet be wretch⯑ed yourſelf? No, no, heaven is too juſt: you ſee how it treats me for only having done my duty; and you who riſe ſo far above it, can it forſake you? Impoſſible. Come, come, be cheerful; let us not loſe a moment of this glorious and joyful day.

Yes, my dear Thorowgood, I ſhould reproach myſelf if I embittered thy joys.

You owe me this attention: it would be ſpoiling your own work. But why are my boys ſo ſlow in returning to-day?

I will ſee whether they are coming. Oh, I ſee George.

What George all alone; does not Valentine come? he ſhould know that it is dinner time. I beg a thouſand pardons, Sir, for making you wait.

All in good time, Martha; I am not impatient in ſuch pleaſing company; an hour ſooner or later will make no dif⯑ference: the days are long, and provided I get home before it is dark, my wife will not be under any anxiety.

Here is George, however.

SCENE VI.

Come, my ſon, look upon that good man; next to heaven and thy parents, it is to him that thou wilt owe the greateſt obligations during life. Conſider him attentively; it is our worthy landlord, to whom we were to have given up all that we poſſeſſed upon earth, and who has now given it back to us.

And who likewiſe gives to your ſiſters a fine flock. Every day of your life, my ſon, you muſt bleſs him in your heart: we ſhall ſet you the example as long as we live; and you ſhall continue that duty when we ſhall be no more. Will you [92]not? Will you promiſe me to perform this faithfully?

How is it poſſible to neglect it, when the gentleman has been ſo good to us? but my father ſaid yeſterday that we ſhould quit the farm. Are we now to con⯑tinue in it?

Yes, for ever, my dear boy, for ever. I hope in God, to ſee my great grand⯑children born in it.

Oh, my dear mother, it is for your ſake that I am moſt rejoiced: I may now tell it you; this whole night paſt I have done nothing but weep on your account.

And why ſo, my good boy?

Come, Sir, and I will tell you the reaſon: do you ſee, near yonder hedge, an old apple tree that has ſcarcely any leaves on it? My mother was ſaying, this ſpring, that ſhe was very ſorry that the froſt had injured it ſo much, for ſhe had never eat ſo good apples, as it bore, in her life, and that the tree was like⯑ly to die; the next morning, before ſhe was up, my brother and I went to pick out the moſt flouriſhing buds we could ſee, in order to engraft them on other trees in the or⯑chard, [93]that in caſe the old tree ſhould periſh, my mother might ſtill have ſome good ap⯑ples; had we left the farm, it would have been a ſad thing; ſomebody elſe would have come into it, and in time have eaten of the fruit which we had engrafted.

Nothing could be eaſier than for you to have taken them with you, and then nobody would have benefited by your labour.

Why ſhould I do ſo? that would have been no advantage; and though it were, I know very well that we ought not to ſeek an advantage to ourſelves, that would be a prejudice to our fellow-crea⯑tures: on the contrary, I ſhould have wiſhed them to gather good fruit from our trees.

But did you not juſt now ſay, that it would be a ſad thing if others ſhould eat the fruit which you had engrafted?

Undoubtedly it would be a ſad thing to me, that my mother ſhould be de⯑prived of it; for though I wiſh good apples to others, I had much rather my mother ſhould have them.

Thou art a good boy.

My dear Thorowgood, I am every hour more and more and more ena⯑moured [94]of your children: the only conteſt between you ſeems to be, who ſhall love the other beſt.

There is nothing like love and har⯑mony in families. When my father and mother were living, all my ſtudy, night and day, was how I ſhould pleaſe them beſt. I would have carried them on my ſhoulders in their old age: I am amply rewarded. I ſee, by experience, whatever we do for our pa⯑rents is returned by our children.

But where is Va⯑lentine? Why is he not with you?

He will not come to dinner.

But why ſo?

He has taken it into his head to finiſh his weeding before night; I preſſed him to come home with me, promiſing to aſſiſt him as much as I could in the after⯑noon, but he would not liſten to me. I have bread enough left, he ſaid, ſhewing me the half of his breakfaſt; I ſhall dine upon this.

Excellent lad! becauſe I have not been in the field to-day, he wants to do my work. He ſaw us bend⯑ing under the preſſure of misfortune, and he would fain ſupport us by his frugality and induſtry. George, go back, pray, and tell him [95]that we command him to return, and that we ſhall not eat any thing till he comes.

Ah, Sir, did you but know him, you would love him as much as we do.

Father, ſhall I go along with my ſiſter and George to fetch him?

I will engage, we will ſoon make him come.

Go then, but do not loiter by the way.

SCENE VII.

Thorowgood, you have no idea of the emotion that I feel this day; I ſee plainly that children are the choiceſt bleſſings of heaven.

Yes, when they are like ours; then, indeed, they are real bleſſings; and parents enjoy in them a treaſure ineſtimable. O, Sir, you cannot imagine how much the ca⯑lamities of life are leſſened, when our chil⯑dren aſſiſt us in ſupporting them,

Only cheer up your heart, Sir, in whatever part of the world your ſon may be, I firmly believe that he will make your latter days the happieſt of your life.

Ah, were he but ſtill alive, and of the happy diſpoſition of your chil⯑dren! But why ſhould I flatter myſelf with any ſuch vain hopes? No, I have no longer any ſon to comfort me in the decline of life. Happy Thorowgood! you may grow old; you will enjoy the delight of ſeeing yourſelf revive in the five children to whom you have given birth.

Five children did you ſay, Sir? No; pardon me, only four.

The little one that is aſleep behind the curtain, Lucy, George, and Jenny; theſe are all I have.

And the boy, who is in the fields.

He is not my ſon, though I love him as much as if he were ſo, and I have done for him all that I could have done for a child of my own, and the worthy lad is deſerving of all my tenderneſs; he love us as much as if we had given him birth, and he works for our ſupport as if he were the eldeſt of my little family.

And where is his family?

That we are as much ſtrangers to as you are; we ſaved his life when he was an infant in the cradle; my wife ſuckled him, and he has always lived with us. He muſt [97]not have been of common origin; he had round his neck a coral, adorned with gold and jewels; and the linen he had on was of the fineſt kind.

You preſerved his life! you are ignorant of his family; and he is not of vulgar race! Ah, dear Thorowgood, quick⯑ly tell me how he fell into your hands.

It is a melancholy ſtory:—We then lived in the north of England; I rented a farm there on the banks of a river; it was an excellent ſituation, and the land yielded abundantly;—no thanks to the care of the former tenant though—

Paſs over theſe circumſtances, pray, and only tell me all that relates to Va⯑lentine; that alone inflames my curioſity.

Well, Sir, to come to the point at once; you muſt know, that one night we were rouſed from our ſleep by the water's ruſhing into our houſe on all ſides: we had hardly time to get upon the roof to wait for relief there: in the morning a boat came to our aſſiſtance; the whole country was under water; the river was covered with the ruins of houſes and furniture, carried away by the force of the current. I was endeavouring to comfort my wife, who lamented the loſs of our cottage, but ſtill more that of her ſon, [98]who was ſtifled in the water before he awoke; in the mean time, I ſuddenly per⯑ceived a cradle, toſſed about in the flood, which was running rapidly, and threatening every moment to ſwallow it up. I could not bear the ſight; I threw off my clothes, and, regardleſs of danger, I plunged into the river, ſwimming with all my might towards the cradle. I was driven back ſeveral times, and almoſt exhauſted with fatigue; but the cries of the child, which I heard as I ap⯑proached, inſpired me with freſh ſpirits and vigour: in ſhort, after much difficulty and danger, I got up to it, and brought it to the bank a good way lower down. My wife followed me creeping, more dead than alive, along the ſide of the river. I preſented the infant to her, which continued crying until ſhe gave it the breaſt. Poor Martha fancied that ſhe had recovered her loſt child. We then made all poſſible inquiries to ſee if we could diſcover the parents, but we never could get any information: our affliction at length ceaſed; we continued to look upon him as our own ſon. I have related the whole ſtory to the boy himſelf a hundred times: I concealed it indeed from my own children, to let them enjoy the pleaſure of thinking him their brother, and to avoid all [99]occaſion of jealouſy. I have had him in⯑ſtructed like the reſt: he does his work as well as I can myſelf: he talks as if he were reading out of a book: and he can read and write as well as our ſchoolmaſter.

And how long, pray, may it be ſince this happened?

About fifteen years and a few months, as well as I can remember. But hold, I can tell you to a minute, for I had a me⯑morial drawn up the magiſtrate of the place, ſigned by the rector, and atteſted by the peo⯑ple, who were witneſſes of the event. When I quitted the country, I took care to carry it with me. Go fetch it, Martha.

It is here in this little box, with the clothes and coral which Valentine then had: we have kept them carefully, and put them by this morning; becauſe, if you, Sir, had ſold our effects, it would not have been juſt, that what belonged to the boy, ſhould have gone with them.

Fetch them quickly, my dear.

There, my dear.

See, Sir.

It is he; it is he himſelf! O gra⯑cious God, haſt thou then reſtored my boy!

What ſay you!—What, our Valentine your ſon? O my dear, my worthy Sir! I ſee your whole frame is agitated.

A chair, a chair, wife, quick⯑ly; he is ready to fall!

I know not what I am about; I am quite beſide myſelf. How ſurprized will our dear boy be!

O day for ever bleſſed! to find my ſon, my long-loſt ſon again! What will be the joy, the tranſports of my wife! It is now we ſhall begin to live! Oh, lead me, Thorowgood, lead me to him! For heaven's ſake let me ſee my boy, and preſs him to a father's breaſt!

No, Sir, no, with your leave. Joy and ſurprize would kill my poor Valentine. He will be here preſently. Step into this room until I have prepared him; he will be the better able to meet you, and you will be more compoſed.

Here he comes, with his ſpade on his ſhoulder: look how faſt he walks.

He comes, he comes! how my heart beats: let me fly to receive him.

No, Sir, that would be of no ſervice to either of you; and this time you muſt let me have my way.

SCENE VIII.

This event will, perhaps, make me an object of pity. Valentine is now become a great man. Who knows if he will have any farther regard for us; or whether he will not bluſh to look on us?

Oh, if ſuch a thing were to happen, I ſhould never feel comfort more! I have brought him up with ſuch care and tender⯑neſs! I love him ſo dearly; he was like one of my own children.

SCENE IX.

Stay, ſtay here; I will let you [102]know when it is time that you ſhould ap⯑pear.

But why this, my dear woman; why in tears?

Ah, my dear, it is through joy and ſorrow both that I weep.

How are you able to reconcile that?

I am overjoyed that Valentine and his parents have, at length, found each other; but he will be loſt to us, and this afflicts me. Oh, if he ſhould ever forget us!

What an abominable notion you have gotten in your head! Forget us, wife! no more than we can forget him. I ſee, plain⯑ly, you know but little of him yet.

SCENE X.

O my dear fa⯑ther and mother, what tranſports of joy I feel.

Jenny and Lucy have been telling me what the landlord has done for us. Where is the worthy gentleman? let me kiſs his hand, and thank him for all his goodneſs.

SCENE XI.

Here, here, my ſon! Yes, you are my own ſon? My own fleſh and blood! My love, my life, my all!

Do not be alarmed, Valentine; it is ſo, it is true; he is your father.

Yes, my dear boy, all has now been cleared up; this gentleman, for fifteen years, has bewailed your loſs, and now we ſhall weep to loſe you.

I your ſon! You my father;

All⯑gracious, almighty God! what returns ſhall I make thee for thy goodneſs?

I have poured out ſupplications to heaven a thouſand times, that I might learn to whom I was indebted for life; and I have received it from you, who have now reſtored life, by your benignant goodneſs, to thoſe who preſerved mine. What powerful motives are theſe to increaſe filial piety, and to ſtimulate all my efforts, that I may merit your tenderneſs by the moſt zealous duty and affection!

My heart already tells me how worthy thou art of my love. Yes, my ſon, my dear, my only ſon, this heart has been always full of thee. But thy mother! what tranſport will ſhe not feel at ſight of thee!

Ah, lead me to her, I entreat you. How I long to throw myſelf at her feet, and claſp her in my arms!

Come then, my ſon, I re⯑proach myſelf for every moment that I delay her happineſs. Let us run; let us fly.

Conſider what you are about; will you break the good lady's heart by exceſs of joy? No, no, it ſhall not be ſo; firſt let us drink a glaſs of wine to ſtrengthen our minds and bodies, otherwiſe we ſhall all be wrong; I will then go and break the matter diſtantly [105]to Madam, and prepare her for the inter⯑view with her ſon. Ah, Valentine, how happy you will be to know her!

I ſhall ſee her then to-day, after having ſo long dreaded that I ſhould never have that comfort! It is impoſſible to expreſs the tenderneſs that I already feel for her.

And, Valentine, will you always love me?

Will I love you! I will always call you mother as well as her. If ſhe brought me into life, did not you cheriſh it with the milk of your boſom, after my ſe⯑cond father preſerved it? What muſt have become of me but for you both? Your kind⯑neſs to me hath been greater than I ſhall ever be able to repay.

Say not ſo, my child. Ah, though it were to coſt me half of my fortune, I am reſolved that theſe worthy people—

I will not ſuffer you to ſay another word on this ſub⯑ject: your friendſhip, with that of my lady and Valentine, will be our beſt reward. I defy you, with all your riches, to give us any thing equal to that. But why do we longer delay ſitting down to table? Come, ſit Valentine here beſide your father. Yes, I underſtand you; Martha ſhall be near [106]you; the good creature loves you ſo ten⯑derly!

Come, wife, don't be fooliſh: why thoſe tears? we are not loſt to one an⯑other; were he a worthleſs lad, then, indeed, he would be loſt to us, and we ſhould have reaſon to lament him.

You ſee them, father: have I not reaſon to love them?

Well, ſhall we have an end of this? the one is as great a fool as the other. Come, Martha, to divert you a little, ſeat the chil⯑dren, and bring us ſome glaſſes.

I told you, Sir, juſt now, that virtue never failed of a reward; here you ſee a proof of it. You had ſcarcely performed a good ac⯑tion before you were inſtantly recompenſed for it. You gave us property that was no longer ours, and we have given you an only ſon, whom you had conſidered as loſt.

And you, my children, [117]hence learn never to deſpair of heaven or yourſelves. When a flood, fifteen years ago, ſwept away my cottage, Providence gave me, at the ſame time, the means of requit⯑ing one day the man who was deſtined to be my benefactor. This day, when the effects of an unfavourable ſeaſon ſeemed to threaten me with hopeleſs deſtruction, it has, on the contrary, re-eſtabliſhed my little fortune. God makes uſe of every thing to reward thoſe who do their duty. It is from two of the moſt dreadful ſcourges that we have de⯑rived our good fortune: let this be a leſſon to you all your lives! When a man acts right, though misfortune ſhould perſecute him, though the lightning ſhould flaſh round his head, and thunder ſhake every thing about him, ſo long as he has no reproach to make to himſelf, he remains firm as a rock,

or if he falls for a moment, he riſes up again with new vigour—a glaſs of wine, Sir.

It is, that we may all drink your health.

With the utmoſt pleaſure.

Valentine, you alone can call him father with your lips; but we all ſay the ſame in our hearts as well as you—To your health, Sir.

To your health, Sir.

I thank you, my dear boy; I thank you all, my chil⯑dren. How ſweet is the name of father!

No wine ever taſted ſo exqui⯑ſitely to me.

Nor to me, therefore I will repleniſh to you now, Valentine. Hear what I ſay: though you are now become a great perſon, I will never ſuffer you to be called by any other name in my cottage. By calling you ſo, we ſhall be more ſenſible that you ſtill dwell in our hearts.

And wherever I go, if I ſhall meet you, I ſhall addreſs you by the name of fa⯑ther.

But now I think of it, Sir, we related to you in what manner we found your ſon, it is now your turn to tell us how you loſt him.

Moſt willingly, my friend, as the recital can no longer diſtreſs me: I had been married a year when a war broke out, and I received orders to proceed with my re⯑giment to the Weſt-Indies: my wife, not⯑withſtanding all entreaties, would accom⯑pany me in that long and dangerous voyage, after giving birth to this dear boy, the only [109]one that we have left. I had an uncle, a dig⯑nitary of the church, who lived near Dur⯑ham; the infant was conſigned to a nurſe in his neighbourhood, that he might have an eye to him, and give us information about him. I received no account the three firſt years of my abſence. Uneaſy at ſo long a ſilence, I wrote to ſome friends in London: the moſt zealous of them viſited the place, whence he acquainted me, that ſoon after my departure, a ſudden inundation had ravaged the coun⯑try, that my uncle had fallen a victim to his intrepid exertions on that calamitous occa⯑ſion; that the houſe of the nurſe had been ſwept away by the flood, and that my ſon periſhed with her; this dreadful news op⯑preſſed me with ſorrow, and almoſt broke my wife's heart. At my return to England, I was reſtrained from making any reſearches, which appeared uſeleſs, leſt my ill ſucceſs ſhould revive thoſe bitter ſorrows which time had ſomewhat alleviated.

What, for ſix years that I have been your tenant, and might have put an end to your grief! I ſhall never forgive myſelf for having ſuffered you to pine ſo long. I often told you of my happineſs, why did you ne⯑ver mention your ſorrows to me?

Could I have thought that [110]you alone were capable of terminating them! And beſides, I muſt confeſs, that I endea⯑voured all in my power to baniſh theſe ſad reflections from my mind. I was particu⯑larly fearful of reviving them in the com⯑pany of my wife. This very morning, when you wanted to talk about your children, don't you recollect how cautiouſly I endeavoured to turn the converſation to other ſubjects?

O my dear father, with what bound⯑leſs affection I ſhall ever love you, to oblite⯑rate the remembrance of ſo many tears!

Let us men⯑tion them no more, ſince their ſource is at an end.

Do not flatter yourſelf with that ex⯑pectation, Sir; he will make you ſhed tears as long as you live, but they will be tears of joy only. You are far from knowing him yet ſufficiently: when you have obſerved all his excellent qualities, he will become a thouſand times dearer to you. How happy it makes me to ſee you ſo worthy of each other!

It is to your inſtructions, my worthy friends, that I am indebted for his merit; it was under you he learned to reliſh ſentiments of honour and virtue. I have the [111]comfort to find him exactly ſuch as I would wiſh to have formed him myſelf. Ah, how ſhall I be able to reward you as I ought!

Reward us! Oh, that he has done a long time ſince; Valentine himſelf has taken care of that: night and day he has laboured all inches power for our benefit. Do you imagine that without his care and toil our fields would have proſpered as they have done?

You will have a heavy loſs, then, in loſing his aſſiſtance?

Alas! it is the ſatisfaction of his ſo⯑ciety that we ſhall have moſt cauſe to regret.

No, father it is but right to tell you of what they, perhaps, would conceal, leſt they might again intereſt your generoſity of heart; all my efforts were due to them for their care and tenderneſs to me in my infant years, and I had no merit in working for them; but as induſtrious as they are, my hands were neceſſary to them: if they loſe my aſſiſtance, it is my duty to make them a compenſation—there is but one method: luckily it depends on the firſt favour I have to ſolicit at your hands, and you will not ſurely refuſe me in this joyful and happy moment; will you, father?

No, my ſon; ſpeak out; aſk; [112]there is nothing that you have not a right to obtain.

Well, then, I entreat you to give them thoſe lands for me, ſince I am no lon⯑ger to aſſiſt in cultivating them.

What ſay'ſt thou, Va⯑lentine?

What does he ſay? Ah, what fills my heart with rapture, as it proves to me that he is full of gratitude. Yes, my ſon; now am I certain of ſoon poſſeſſing thy affection, ſince I ſee thee ſo ſenſible of the tenderneſs that theſe worthy people had for you. Thorowgood, receive this farm from the hands of our ſon. I will not rob him of the joy that he feels in beſtowing it upon you. I will only add for myſelf and my wife, the tenement that Humphries occu⯑pies, which is yours from this moment.

Forbear, Sir, pray forbear: ſpare us; do not quite overwhelm us. How ſhall we be ever capable of diſcharging our obli⯑gations? you will make us ungrateful, in ſpite of ourſelves.

Do not then begin to be ſo, by robbing me of the joy with which I re⯑ceive the preſent that you have made me. Is not a ſon a thouſand times more valuable than the lands that I leave you? Speak, an⯑ſwer me. [113]Would you give your own for any ſuch conſideration?

You have always the art to confound and ſilence me, therefore I will leave you to act as you pleaſe: it would be criminal in us to combat your kindneſs.

This morning we were unable my dear, to pay half our debts, and now we overflow with riches. O my children, I may now die without being anxious about you; and whilſt I loſe you, Valentine, I ſee you provided with a father worthy of you! I am afraid my poor brains will be turned with exceſs of joy.

Come, Thorowgood, drink a glaſs of wine to ſettle them.

An excellent motion, and I will ſe⯑cond it.

Come, wife, come, children.

Come, I ſay, this is a glaſs of gra⯑titude; you muſt all drink it up. Yes, Mar⯑tha, notwithſtanding all your nods and winks, they muſt do it.

But, my dear, I am afraid—

So much the bet⯑ter, my dear; I wiſh them to feel it in their heads, that they may always remember this [114]great day. Let them drink deeply to the health of our benefactor. When they ſhall hereafter reflect on all that he has done for them, they will give him back, for every drop of wine, a thouſand tears of gratitude and tenderneſs. Excuſe them, good Sir, they are not yet of an age to comprehend the boundleſs extent of your favours; but let them grow up, as long as they live, you ſhall be bleſſed by them and their children.

Yes, I dare anſwer for them; I know their excellent hearts. O, my dear little ſiſters, and you my brother, I ſhall ne⯑ver forget your kindneſs to me!

Father, you will permit me to huſ⯑band my pocket-money, and ſave what I can to give them to ſettle in the world.

Gently, Sir; I pray don't of⯑fer to encroach on my privileges. I juſt now engaged for Jenny's wedding clothes.

Well, then, George and Lucy ſhall be my care. Don't you conſent, my dear mother?

Father Thorowgood, won't you give your advice too?

How could I deny you what ſeems to give you ſo much pleaſure? Yes, I agree to it for you as much as for myſelf. I ſti⯑pulate, however, one condition, which I ſhall propoſe to Mr. Parks.

Let us hear what it is.

You have often told me that you and my lady wiſhed for a little retreat in theſe parts, to paſs the ſummer in. The neigh⯑bouring land is to be ſold; you may buy it, and build a lodge to your own mind; by theſe means we ſhall have you near us for half the year. I would lay my life that Va⯑lentine would grow melancholy, if he were always to be cooped up in the city.

What ſay you to this, my ſon?

I ſhould be heartily glad of it, I muſt own; I like dearly the air of the coun⯑try.

Be it ſo then. You ſee, Thorowgood, I am more ready to comply with your deſire than you were with mine.

Becauſe there is ſome difference; but I have not done; the ground is extenſive enough to allow good gardens. Look at me, Sir: you do not yet now all that I am ca⯑pable of doing: I was formerly a gardener, and have not yet forgotten my old trade: I take upon myſelf to lay out the garden in ſuch a manner, that people ſhall come far and near to view it as a curioſity.

I will undertake to dig the canals and trenches, to make the terrace, and plant the trees of your walk.

And I and my girls will make the borders, and plant them with flowers.

We will take the fineſt that we have in our own garden.

O, when ſhall we go to work?

What do you mean, my friends? I muſt then till your grounds, whilſt you are at work in my garden.

I gueſſed that you would ſtill be ſo unkind as to oppoſe me. Hear me, Sir; we ſhall be more expeditious in our work; and beſides, the beſt time for working in your garden is preciſely the ſeaſon when there is ſcarcely any thing to be done in the fields. Though Valentine be now a perſon of con⯑ſequence, ſtill I hope that he will not refuſe his aſſiſtance: his hands are uſed to the ma⯑nagement of the ſpade; and to work for you will be the greateſt pleaſure to him. Only let us have our own way: every one will work cheerfully, and the whole will be finiſhed before you have time to think about it. But here comes the worthy Humphries. What does he want?

SCENE XII.

I come to know, Thorowgood, whether you are pleaſed with your cows.

Ah, my dear neighbour, I am much more ſo that we can ſtill be friends: your re⯑turn completes my day's joy. Come and ſit down with us. I will ſeat you in the com⯑pany of the beſt man upon earth.

What do I ſee! our landlord here?

No, Humphries, I am no longer any thing to you but plain Mr. Parks; there is your preſent landlord,

What, is it ſo, Thorowgood?

Yes, my friend, it is even ſo: but rich as I am, we ſhall be no leſs familiar than we have been.

I am at a loſs to comprehend this.

I believe you; it would puzzle many more. We rarely meet with a man ſo ge⯑nerous as our landlord; but the ſhort of the matter is, that I am now, through his favour, the maſter of this farm and your tenement.

It is true; I have juſt now given him the entire property in it.

Well, Thorowgood, I give you joy of your good fortune, with all my heart; and I am neither envious nor jealous of it. I hope you will be as good a landlord to me as Mr. Parks has been.

Ah, my friend, how happy am I that I now have it in my power to acknowledge your honeſty to me this morning! Conſider what you would have gained by following the advice of a bad man: for two paltry cows, which you might have retained, you would have loſt a valuable friend: my little fortune would have made you mad with en⯑vy and rage. On ſeeing me the owner of your tenement, you would have been in con⯑tinual dread of being turned out by me through revenge. That idea would have em⯑bittered your life; inſtead of that, you have now in me a friend, that will ſtand by you on all occaſions. It will give me the greateſt pleaſure to ſerve you: I can begin this mo⯑ment. I return you the two cows you ſent me, and I hold you exempt from paying any rent for two years.

I thought nothing could have [119]increaſed the pleaſure I felt in conferring fa⯑vours upon you; but the uſe you now make of them, enhances and ſweetens my joy be⯑yond any thing that ever I experienced be⯑fore.

Ah, Sir, it would ill become me to profit by your favours, and not benefit like⯑wiſe by your example. It is you that have enabled me to oblige my neighbour; and I thank you for this additional pleaſure.

Ah, my friend, how ſhall I become worthy of your kindneſs! no⯑thing pains me ſo much as that I have it not in my power to ſhew my gratitude.

What do you ſay, Humphries? God preſerve me from doing ſervice to others with the view of having it returned! To do good is a wonderful thing, that carries along with it its beſt reward.

Heaven will bleſs you in your wife, your children, and all your undertakings; and, for my part, I ſhall never think of you but with eyes overflowing with the tendereſt tears. I already wiſh you happier than my⯑ſelf. I am only jealous of one thing; it is of the honour that Mr. Parks has done you in dining with you. Hear me: I have a fat lamb that I was going to ſell, it ſhall now [120]ſerve to renew our friendſhip. Mr. Parks, you Martha, and your children, muſt all come and eat part of it to-morrow.

I like the motion very well. What do you ſay, Sir?

I deny nothing this day.

Nor I, truly. This has been a won⯑derful day, Humphries. My wife and I are obliged to go this moment to town; but to⯑morrow ſhall tell you wonders that will de⯑light and ſurprize you; and that will ſhew you more clearly, that the virtue which re⯑mains unſhaken in adverſity always receives its reward.

SCENE I.

NO, no, papa, do not be afraid: I will take the greateſt care that no acci⯑dent ſhall happen to your papers, I will put [144]up your books too in the cloſet.—

We ſhall have ſome fine diverſion! When the cat is away, the mice (it is ſaid) will play.

Well now, Lucy, is mama gone out, and all our little friends arrived?

My friends are all three come; but none of your companions yet.

O, I can eaſily believe you, ſiſter. We do not want to run a gadding like you girls; and ſo we are not the firſt to keep ap⯑pointments of this nature. You muſt force us from our ſtudy, if you would have us. Look you, I would lay any wager that the Danbys, at leaſt, are hard at work, while we are ſpeaking.

Yes, to ſettle what fine tricks they can contrive to put upon us.—But pray, Frank, is it true that papa will let us paſs the evening here? Our room above is ſo very ſmall, we could not have found room to turn ourſelves well round.

Could my papa refuſe you any thing, when I concerned myſelf to aſk it? Softly, little girl, do not diſcompoſe the pa⯑papers—Let them lie.

Keep that advice, Sir, to yourſelf: I meant to lay them ſmooth.

No, no, [145]you cannot miſs; I am charged with that commiſſion.

Truly, my papa could not have given it to ſo orderly a gentleman; let me at leaſt aſſiſt you then; and afterwards I will put the chairs in order. Theſe great books I ſhall remove firſt.

Do not think of touching them! At moſt I can permit you only to take one by one, and pile them up upon my hand.

There is enough.

One more only. So—I have now ſufficient for one turn.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! there, there they go! Thoſe handſome books that papa would never let us touch! I fancy he will be greatly pleaſed to ſee them all tumbled together thus!

I had loſt the center of Gravity, as my tutor ſays; and you know, he is Gravity itſelf.

Deuce take it! They have been at Sadler's Wells, I think, and learned to tumble ſure!

You will never finiſh, if I do not aſſiſt you. So, d'ye ſee, I will ſpread my apron, and do you ſtoop down and pile them in it.

That is well thought, indeed!

Softly, brother, they will rub one againſt another! So; I have got them all, and now I will carry them into the cloſet.

Bleſs me! I ſhould never do to live in the country where men go upon all-fours like monkies.

Could you ſee how neatly I have ranged them on the chimney, you would be charmed! So let me have the reſt.

Well, every body muſt acknow⯑ledge that girls are cleverer than boys.

O yes, and you particularly. Iſa⯑bella is conſtantly employed in putting by your ſhreds and rags.

And if your tutor had not conſtantly his eye upon you, you would never know where you ſhould find your exerciſes and tranſlations.

But I fancy I have now got them all.

Yes, yes; there is nothing left; ſo get you gone.

There; ſo that is done, and we [147]ſhall now have elbow-room enough. I can⯑not help thinking what fine work we ſhall be ſure to make. However, I am ſurpriſed that they are not come yet. For my part, I can ſay I hardly ever make any one wait for me when a viſit is in the caſe.

Ay, very well: but, brother, you muſt hide this ſpeaking trumpet. If your friends ſhould happen to perceive it, they will be ſure to ſtun us with their noiſe.

Stay, ſtay; I will put it up behind the door, as perhaps I ſhall want it. Let your little friends come now and din me with their chattering, as they uſed to do, and we ſhall ſee who will cry out loudeſt.

Pſha! we need but join together; we ſhould very ſhortly get the upper hand of ſuch a little thing as you.

O no; for if you ladies have your clappers ſo well hung, we gentlemen poſſeſs a fine clear manly voice, which every one re⯑ſpects: as thus—You hear me?

Yes; and have ſo much reſpect, as you ſay, for you, that I will take myſelf away. Farewel. I will run and join my friends.

And bid the ſervant ſend me up my viſitors when they arrive.

Yes, yes.

Here is what has often brought me from the furtheſt corner of the garden, much againſt my inclination; and, I think, I hear it ſtill. —So ho! there! Frank! Frank!—My young friends live only at the corner of the ſtreet. Let me ſee if I can hurry them.

Well, is not this ſurpriſing! It is like Harlequin's enchanted horn. I think I hear them talking to each other on the ſtairs.

Yes, yes! I proteſt the two Dan⯑by's

Suppoſe I were to jump on the table, and receive them ſitting on my throne?

SCENE II.

Could not you have ſtaid a little at the door till I was mounted on my throne, that I might give you audience, as they ſay, in all my glory?

Good, indeed! you have no occaſion to look exactly like a king. And active as you are, the throne might poſſibly cauſe your majeſty a tumble.

Why, to ſay the truth, I have read of many tumbles of that nature in my an⯑cient hiſtory.

And in ſome ſort, ſuch an accident has happened to my brother, though he is no great prince. He fell down ſtairs laſt week, and hurt his noſe conſiderably.

Yes, indee⯑deed! It pains me ſti-ſtill a little, and that ma-a-aſter Roberts is a very nau-au-aughty boy.

Does he deſign to come to-night?

I hope not: if we had ex⯑pected him here, we ſhould not have ſtirred out.

He o-o-only thinks of mis-miſchief.

What has he done then?

We were both going out laſt Saturday. I ſtopped to get a handkerchief: my brother went down ſtairs alone, and, as it happened, Roberts hearing ſome one, came out ſlily, jumped at once upon my brother, who was frighted, loſt his footing, and rolled down the ſtairs from top to bottom.

Poor Danby! I am ſorry for you. [150]Roberts looks for all the world as if he loved ſuch miſchief. We ſhall have his company this evening for the firſt time in our lives, his father begged papa to let him come and ſee us.

I am ſorry for it; for we do not ſpeak to one another.

My papa ſuppoſed you all good friends, becauſe you lodge together, and con⯑ſidered that you would have the greater plea⯑ſure if he came.

The greater pleaſure! We ſhould like to have him ten miles off. Since he has been our neighbour, we are continu⯑ally uneaſy. He has frequently amuſed him⯑ſelf with breaking windows, and then tried to lay the blame on us.

Does no one complain about him to his father?

Oh! I do not know what to make of him, he is ſuch an odd ſort of a man! He ſcolds a little, pays the damage, and that is all.

If I were your papa, I would quit my lodgings, and live ſomewhere elſe.

Yes, ſo he means to do, and therefore yeſterday gave warning; and now we are forbidden all manner of connection with this Roberts, he is ſo wicked! Would you think it, very few go by the houſe, with⯑out [151]being apprehenſive that he will put ſome trick upon them. Sometimes he diverts him⯑ſelf by ſquirting puddle water at them, or elſe pelting them with rotten apples. Nay, he will ſometimes faſten rabbits tails or bits of rags behind their backs, at which the people, when they ſee it, all burſt out a laughing. Then too he has what he calls his caxen fiſhery.

Caxen fiſhery!

Yes: he will take the peo⯑ple's wigs off, as they paſs him, with a hook, as you would carp. When any poor man ſtops before his window to converſe with an acquaintance, Roberts immediately goes up to the balcony, with a ſtring ſuſpended from a fiſhing-rod, and at the end of it a hook, with which he jerks the poor man's wig off. Then he runs and ties it to a dog that he has before provided for the purpoſe, after which he drives the creature out into the ſtreet, and off he ſets that inſtant, ſo that the poor perri⯑wig has frequently been dragged for twenty minutes through the mud, before its owner can lay hold of it again.

But this is more than mere amuſe⯑ment!

And yet this is nothing to the ſtories that I could tell you. Why, he lames or bruiſes all the dogs and cats that [152]come within his reach. Nor is it long ago, when one of his relations broke a leg, by ſlipping down upon the ſtairs where Roberts had been ſcattering peas on purpoſe. Ay, it is ſo; or elſe our name is not Danby. And for the ſervants, I am ſure, his father would not get one to attend him, if he did not pay extraordinary wages.

Shall I tell you now? I long to ſee him. I like boys a little merry.

Nothing is more natural: but Roberts's mirth is not like other chil⯑dren's. You, I know, love laughing in your heart; but would not, for the world, hurt any one; whereas this wicked fellow laughs at bumps and bruiſes.

Oh, that does not fright me in the leaſt. I ſhall be much more pleaſed in pay⯑ing him as he deſerves.

If he ſhould come, my bro⯑ther will not offend you by withdrawing? He would do him ſome freſh miſchief.

Ye-ye-yes, I will go.

No, no: we are old friends; and poſitively no new comer ſhall divide us. I will take care and manage him, I warrant you.—But do not I hear a noiſe upon the ſtairs?—It is Roberts.—No, I ſee my ſiſter and her company.

SCENE III.

Your humble ſervant, my good friends! but why not ſeated, brother? You might eaſily have got the gentlemen a chair a-piece, ſince they have been with you. Sure there has been time enough.

As if we did not know that it is uſual to ſtand up when we receive ladies.

I am charmed to find you know your duty; but where is maſter Roberts?

I did ſuppoſe that you would have brought him with you.

It is a long time now, thank Heaven, ſince we have been ſeparated from him.

Is he then unluckier than Lu⯑cy's brother?

Certainly he would be un⯑lucky then, indeed!

Lucy's brother! He is a very lamb to Roberts. We have known him for a long time. Have we not, dear ſiſter?

We have, and he has played me many a trick.

He was very intimate with An⯑thony, my brother; but he is rid of him en⯑tirely now: why, he is the ſaddeſt fellow in the world!

Oh, as for that, my brother is even with him there.

But to do miſchief merely for the pleaſure of it—there is the villainy!

No, no, my brother is better than that comes to.

Do you really think ſo? I am obliged to you!

Well, well, my dear Lucy, we will be under your protection, you are the biggeſt of us; and beſides, at preſent you are miſtreſs of the houſe, and may command him.

Do not you be afraid. I will keep him perfectly in bounds.

Yes, yes, Lucy: you ſhall take care of the ladies, and for you,

I will take you under my protection.

Oh! he will hardly think of playing tricks with me. He knows me, I aſſure you. I only fear for my brother.

He makes ga-ga-me of me! yes, al-al-ways!

That is his way; he always at⯑tacks the leaſt. He would never vex my ſiſ⯑ter,—none but me.

I can believe you: ſuch as he are always cowards. I compare him to a puppy following cloſe upon a cat as long as ſhe keeps running: but if once the cat turns [155]round, and ſhews her whiſkers, then the puppy ſcampers for it.

Well then, ſiſter, you ſhall be the cat.

And let him ſee your whiſkers.

But methinks it would not be amiſs if we ſat down. Though we expect this Mr. Miſchief-maker, we have no need, I fancy, to remain ſtanding up till he chuſes to appear.

Huſh! here he is.

SCENE IV.

Your ſervant. Your papa was pleaſed to let me wait upon you: ſo I am come to ſpend the evening with you.

We are glad to ſee you, and ſhall have a deal of pleaſure in your company, at leaſt my brother.

Yes, indeed; he wants for good example.

Do I? So your g [...]d example, you would have the gentleman [...]uppoſe, is not ſufficient.

Well, a truce to compliments. As miſtreſs of the houſe, it is neceſſary that I [156]ſhould let you know who is who. This tall young lady, in the firſt place, is Miſs Dorin⯑da Lambton.

I am charmed to hear it.

And theſe are the Miſs—

O, I know them very well. This here is

my lady—what is her name? Pentweazle, that will take you off the company, as ſimple as ſhe ſeems: and there is

Miſs Up-and-down, who broke her leg by running from the rod. This gentleman,

obſerve him, he is a grave wiſe Grecian, who looks ſtrait before him when he walks, as if he pitied us poor ſilly children. And this other good little friend of mine

is Pe-pe-peter Grievous, whoſe dear mama forgot, poor creature! to untie his tongue when he was born.

And who am I, ſir, for methinks you ſeem quite clever at this ſort of portrait painting?

Oh, I am not ſufficiently ac⯑quainted with you yet, to take your likeneſs: but I ſhall let you have it ſoon.

For you, ſir, I could draw you at a[157]glance, and I muſt tell you, the ſimilitude would not be very pleaſing. I could never have ſuppoſed it poſſible that any well bred little gentleman, as I imagine you affect to be, ſhould think of turning natural defects into a theme for banter. If my little friends were not ſincerely ſuch, they would have reaſon to reproach me for expoſing them to your indecency. But they can ſee that I could not have expected half ſo much my⯑ſelf.

Why, Frank, I proteſt your ſiſter is mighty eloquent. You need not go to church on Sundays, having ſuch a charming preacher in the houſe.

She has tolerable ſkill, when any one is to be told the truth; and therefore both my ſiſter Iſabella and I love her ſincerely.

Well, well, you ſee I have tole⯑rable ſkill likewiſe in telling truth; and therefore no doubt you will love me, too, ſin⯑cerely.

I aſk your par⯑don, miſs, for having taken the employment out of your hands, as you are yourſelf ſo cle⯑ver at it.

Your excuſes and your bow are both an inſult; but an inſult ſuch as I deſpiſe. Though, were they on the other hand ſin⯑cere, they would hardly make atonement for ſo coarſe an incivility. If I had not conſi⯑dered [158]every word that you ſaid as meant in joke, however groſs I cannot but ſuppoſe it, I ſhould know what ſuited me to do, and ſhould have done it likewiſe. Let me there⯑fore beg, ſir, that you will indulge in no more freedoms of this nature, if you mean that we ſhould remain together.

Well, but I ſee, you do not underſtand a little harmleſs piece of banter. Let us be friends.

With all my heart, ſir; but provided—

You are an honeſt little fellow, too, and I will ſhake hands with you.

Maſter Roberts!

Pray, ſir, let this child alone; or—

Well—or what?—my little Jack-a-dandy.

I am little, I acknowledge, but yet ſtrong enough; and ſo you will find me, when my friends require to be defended.

Say you ſo? in that caſe I ſhould like to be one of them. But beforehand, if you pleaſe, we will have a bruſh, juſt to ſee [159]how you will be able to defend them.—

But one moment, if you pleaſe, young ladies. I will not do him any harm. Well, Mr. Roberts, pray how do you find yourſelf? I fancy, I am your maſter.

Take your knee off, —or you will ſtifle me.

No, no; you muſt not think of getting up, unleſs you firſt aſk pardon.

Pardon!

Yes, ſir, and of all the company, as you have certainly offended all the com⯑pany.

Well, well; I do aſk pardon.

If you ſhould inſult us again, be aſſured, we will ſend you down into the cel⯑lar till to-morrow morning, which will ſure⯑ly cool your courage. That is much better than to hurt you. We do not think you worth the trouble.—Riſe.

You have no right to be offended; for remember, it was yourſelf began the conteſt.

I could never have ſuppoſed your brother half ſo valiant!

Oh! a lion is hardly bolder; and [160]yet, Dorinda, he never quarrels. He is, in ſhort, although I ſay it, the beſt tempered little fellow in the world.

But what are we doing? We ought to think of ſome amuſement for the evening.

Certainly we ought, or why are we all come together? Well, what play ſhall we chuſe? Something funny? What ſay you, Danby?

We will let the ladies chuſe.

There, Frank, there is a leſſon for you: we may chuſe. Well then, ſuppoſe we play at queſtions and commands? or poſ⯑ſibly you would like a game at cards much better?

I ſhould rather play at ſomething with the leaſt Danby: if you have a picture⯑book, we will turn it over: ſhall we?

O-o-o-oh, yes, yes.

With all my heart, ſweet dears! I will carry you up ſtairs. You will neither want for pictures nor playthings there.

My friends, will you go with me for amuſement into my apart⯑ment? I have a charming bonnet that you will like to ſee.

Yes, yes, yes; let us go.

Will you accept my hand as far as your apartment, Miſs Lucy?

Rather let Miſs Dorinda or Alice have it, if they pleaſe.

What then, do you mean to leave me by myſelf here?

No, ſir; theſe young ladies will excuſe me, ſo I ſhall ſtay; but I am obliged to leave you for a moment.

Are you? but I will follow you. I do not like to be left alone by night, and in a houſe where I am a ſtranger.

SCENE I.

The truth is, I was apprehenſive leſt you might think of playing me ſome trick, ſo I accompanied you. But now that we are returned, and all alone, we may de⯑viſe ſome mirth between us.

Very willingly; I aſk no better: ſo let us think a little.

We muſt have ſome fun, I fancy, with the younger Danby.

If by fun you mean ſome trick to hurt him, I ſay no: I will not be in a joking humour; ſo pray leave him out if you are bent on miſchief.

They told me that you were al⯑ways merry, and fond of ſomething funny.

And ſo I am: but, notwithſtand⯑ing, without hurt to any one. However, let me know what ſort of fun you meant.

Look you: here are two large needles. I will ſtick them both with the points upward in the bottom of two chairs, that common eyes ſhall not diſcern them. in the next place you ſhall offer two of theſe young ladies the two chairs, for very likely they would ſuſpect that I meant them miſ⯑chief of ſome ſort or other, and they will na⯑turally both ſit down; but figure to yourſelf what ſtrange grimaces they will both make! Ha! ha! ha! ha! It makes me die a laugh⯑ing, when I barely think what faces we ſhall ſee them put on! Ay, ay, and your prudiſh ſiſter, too, will find the matter quite divert⯑ing.

But ſuppoſe I were to treat you juſt in the ſame manner, would you like it?

Oh! treat me! that is different; but thoſe little idiots—

So you call them idiots, do you, ſince they are not miſchievous?

Well, you are mighty formal and preciſe. Then ſhall I mention ſomething elſe?

Yes, do.

Then I have ſome thread as ſtrong as whipcord in my pocket. I will thread one of theſe great needles with a little of it; and as ſoon as they are all come down, one of us ſhall go up very politely towards them, make a deal of ſcraping, and wry faces, while the other, keeping ſtill behind, ſhall ſew their gowns together. They will all want to dance, as you may gueſs; ſo up we will come, and take them out.—Ha! ha! you know the reſt; ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Yes, to tear their gowns, and get them anger when their parents find it out?

Why there is the fun.

What! have you no pleaſure then in any thing but doing miſchief?

But is does not hurt me.

O ho! I underſtand: you think of no one but yourſelf, and all the world is no⯑thing to you!

Well; but we are come together to divert ourſelves, and we muſt poſitively have ſome laughing. So ſuppoſe we frighten Laura and the leaſt Danby?

But that is quite wrong. Suppoſ⯑ing any one ſhould frighten you?

With all my heart, if any one is but able. I am afraid of nothing.

Say you ſo?—That we ſhall ſee, perhaps.—

Well, about this frightening?

I have an ugly maſk at home. I will run and fetch it. And do you, when I am gone, contrive to bring the little children down, and you ſhall ſee—I will not be ab⯑ſent half a minute.

Good!—There ſhall be a better maſk ready for you, though!—

But Roberts! Ro⯑berts!

What is the matter?

It will be better that we ſhould come upon them where we are, if I can bring the others down; for when there are but two or three in this part of the houſe, there ſome⯑times comes a ſpirit; and in that caſe, we ourſelves ſhould be but badly off.

What is all this ſtory of a ſpirit?

Nay, it is true. At firſt one hears a noiſe, and then a phantom with a lighted torch glides by, and then the room ſeems all on fire.

Oh! methinks I ſee it now.

See what?— O dear!—And what can bring the phantom here?

The reaſon, as we are told, is this: There was a mi [...]er who lived here formerly, and he was robbed one night of all his money: in deſpair he cut his throat, and now from time to time his ghoſt goes up and down—

O ho! I will ſtay no longer here, unleſs you get more company.

But recollect how brave you were juſt now.

You muſt not fancy I am afraid: —but—but—but—but—but I will go and fetch my maſk.

Do, do; and I will prepare things here.—What pleaſure we ſhall have!

Oh! enough to make one die with laughing!

They will be finely frightened!

That they will! and therefore I will make haſte. I am at home and back again—you ſhall ſee how ſoon!

Ah! ah! you want to frighten others, and are not afraid yourſelf! Well, well, I have thought of ſomething that will frighten you, or I am very much miſtaken.

SCENE II.

We ſaw Maſter Roberts run acroſs the ſtreet this moment—What is the mat⯑ter? Have you had a quarrel?

On the contrary, he thinks me his beſt friend. I have ſeemed willing to go ſhares with him in a trick that he means to put upon the little ones above; but it is him⯑ſelf that he will trick, and never wiſh to come here a third time.

Well, what is your project?

You ſhall know very ſoon. At preſent I have no time to loſe, for every thing muſt be in readineſs againſt his coming back: ſo, ladies, I requeſt permiſſion to be abſent for about five minutes.

Yes, go, go: but do not ſtay longer. We are all impatient to be told what you deſign.

I ſhall conſider it my duty to in⯑form you when I have finiſhed my prepara⯑tions. So once more with your leave. I will come again in leſs, perhaps, than five mi⯑nutes.

Ah! ah! ah!—Two pretty fellows together! We ſhall ſee what good comes out between them! They are well matched.

Oh! for Heaven's ſake, Miſs Lucy, do not do ſuch diſhonour to my friend, your brother, as to name him and that wicked Roberts together.

You are in the right, Danby. One is nothing but politeneſs, and the other quite a ſavage.

Savage as he is, however, I would lay a wager that Frank will be found his maſter.

What a piece of ſervice Frank would do us, could he clear the houſe of ſuch a fellow! We ſhall have no pleaſure all the evening if he ſtays among us.

I am afraid, however, Frank will proceed too far, and think himſelf permitted to do any thing againſt this Roberts.

He can never do enough; and though his ſcheme ſhould be a little hard on Roberts, there will be inſtruction in it: it is the greateſt ſervice that one can do him: and his father, I am perſuaded, will be pleaſ⯑ed with Frank, when he hears what pains he has taken to inſtruct his ſon. Alas! he would part with half his fortune to have Ro⯑berts like him.

So, Lucy, do not you go about to thwart your brother's good intentions.

But, my dear Miſs Alice, I am in a tickliſh ſituation: I am now inſtead of my [168]mama, and cannot poſſibly let any thing go forward that ſhe would not approve.

Let him have his way. We will take the blame of what he does upon ourſelves.

Yes, let him ſiſter. War, I ſay, war; war for ever with the wicked!

I have ſettled every thing, and Roberts may appear when⯑ever he thinks proper. We will receive him.

But, I hope, you will tell me—

Yes, we will be in the plot too: and more than that, aſſiſt you if we can.

No, ladies, that is not neceſſary. There is a little violence, I muſt acknow⯑ledge, in my plot, and therefore I will not make you parties. I have been ſettling every thing with Ralph in the ſtable. He conceives my meaning clearly, and will ſecond it with great dexterity.

But ſtill, you do not acquaint me—

This is all of the contrivance that you need know. We will go to Blind-man's Buff, that Roberts may ſuſpect no harm on his return. I will let myſelf be caught, and he or ſhe that blinds me muſt take care that I may have an opportunity of ſeeing through the handkerchief, and fixing upon Roberts. After he is blinded, you ſhall ſteal into the cloſet, take away the lights, and leave us both together. When I want your aid, I will call you.

It is maſter Roberts; but he was not in the play. You muſt begin again.

Undoubtedly, Frank is right.

Well, be it ſo; but if I catch you again, it ſhall be all fair. Remember, I have warned you.

O yes, yes.

What think you of it?

O how fright⯑ful! I ſhould certainly be terrified at ſeeing it my⯑ſelf. Well, hide it carefully: we will play a little, and then ſlip away.

Yes, yes, we will: but I muſt, firſt of all, do ſomething to teize the ladies.

I will go up to Dorinda, and turn her round: if ſhe ſhould catch me, ſhe will ſuppoſe it to be you, and muſt ſet out again.

Good! good! I will have a little ſun with her too.

Well; when will you have told each other all your ſecrets? Two fine gentlemen! why, do not you ſee, the game ſtands ſtill?

You need not ſtay for us; we are ready.

Now, Miſs Dorinda, I will put myſelf into your way.

(Roberts brings a chair, and puts it ſo that Dorinda may tumble over it; but Frank takes it away, and puts himſelf inſtead, upon his hands and feet, with ſo much noiſe, that Dorinda may hear him. As ſhe ſlides [172]along her feet, as if at hazard, ſhe encounters Frank, ſloops and ſeizes him.)

It is Maſter Frank.

Yes, indeed; I am taken. What ill luck! ſo ſoon?

O, ho! you wanted to throw me down! I thought nobody but maſter Roberts played ſuch tricks; but it ſhall not be long before I take revenge.

How many horſes in your father's ſtable?

Three; black, white, and grey.

Turn about three times, and catch whom you may.

Ah! ha! I have caught you! have I? It is a boy. It is Roberts!

Yes, yes; I am not miſtaken.

Why lay hold on me?

Do not mind it. You ſhall catch Danby. I will puſh him towards you.

Do, and you ſhall ſee how I will make him ſqueak: I will pinch him till the very blood comes.

Well: have you finiſhed? Oh make haſte. You take a [173]deal of time. What miſchief are you whiſpering to each other?

How many horſes in your father's ſtable?

Three; black, white and grey.

Turn about—

Be quiet pray, young ladies, and not quit your places till the game is begun.—Turn about three times, and catch whom you may.—

The ghoſt! the ghoſt! Run, Roberts, for your life.

It is you then that come to ſteal my treaſure?

Fire! fire! Danby! Where are you, Frank! Murder! murder! Dorinda!

I have ſeared them all away. Pull off your bandage, and look at me.

Pull it off, I ſay—

I know you well, your name is Ro⯑berts.

What you think to eſcape me, do you?

I have done no⯑thing to you. You were never robbed by me.

Never robbed by you? You are capable of any villainy! Who ſquirts at people in the ſtreet? Who faſtens rabbits' tails behind their backs? Who fiſhes for their wigs? Who lames poor dogs and cats? Who ſticks up pins in chairs to prick his friends when they ſit down! And who has in his pocket even now, a maſk to frighten two poor little children?

I have done all this! indeed, I own it! but for heaven's ſake pardon me, and I will not do ſo any more.

Who will anſwer for you?

Thoſe that you have frightened away, if you will but call them.

Do you promiſe me yourſelf?

Yes, yes; upon my honour.

Well then, I take pity on you; but re⯑member, had it been my pleaſure, I might eaſily fly away with you through the window.

SCENE the Laſt.

What is all this diſturbance?

It is not I that make it. Pray, pray, do not come near me!

Who can this be on the ground?

You know me well enough, and have already taken pity on me.

I already taken pity on you!

It was not I that robbed you.

Robbed me! what does all this mean? do not I know you, maſter Roberts?—

Yes, yes; that is my name, good ghoſt: ſo pray do not hurt me.

I am aſtoniſhed! why in ſuch a poſture?

Mr. Jephſon, is it you?

He is gone then! is he?

There, there he ſtands!—the phantom! —don't you ſee him?

Well! what ſignifies all this?

Let me explain the whole, papa. This phantom is your groom; and we have put on him your wig and gown.

Yes, ſir, it is I.

An odd ſort of ſport this, Frank!

True, but aſk the company if maſter Roberts has not well deſerved to be thus frighten⯑ed. He deſigned to frighten Laura and Danby: I only wiſhed to hinder him. Let him but ſhew the frightful maſk that he has about him.

Is this true?

I cannot deny it: here it is, ſir.

You have met with nothing, then, but what you deſerve.

We perſuaded Miſs Lucy to permit her brother to make uſe of this device to puniſh Roberts.

If you knew beſides, ſir, all the other tricks that he meant to play us—

What, ſir, is this the ſample that you give us of your behaviour, the firſt time you ſet foot within my doors? You have been diſre⯑ſpectful to me in the perſon of my children, who were pleaſed with the expectation of having you as their gueſt. You have been diſreſpectful to theſe ladies, whom I need not ſay you ſhould have honoured and regarded. So be gone! Your fa⯑ther, when he comes to know that you have been turned out of doors, will ſee how neceſſary it is to correct the vices of your heart. I will not permit your deteſtable example to corrupt my children. Go, and never let me ſee you here again!

And you, my friends, although the circumſtances of the caſe may very poſſibly excuſe what you have done, yet never, for the time to come, indulge your⯑ſelves in ſuch ſport. The fears which have power to affect children at a tender age, may poſſibly be followed by the worſt conſequences during their whole life. Avenge yourſelves upon the wicked only by behaving better; and remember, after the example which maſter Roberts has afforded you, that by intending harm to others, you will ofteneſt bring it down upon yourſelves.