SCENE I. Before a Country Inn and great Gates leading to Whimmy's Houſe.

TOBY, Toby Thatch! what doſt ſtand gaping about there?

Been up hill to look towards great road.

Any carriages coming?

Fine coach and four horſes—a high thing—O me! chay—a pheaton (I think they call it)—and a whiſ⯑key-me-gig.

And there's a boat full of company juſt put in at the cove, all to ſee 'Squire Whimmy's improve⯑ments—Then there's our poney-race. Dang my buttons, we ſhall have a houſe full to-day. What a donkey was I to let that daughter of mine go gad⯑ding to Blandford. Company flocking,—and my child, that ought to have my intereſt at heart, when ſhe ſhou'd be preparing entertainment for the gueſts, mayhap, ſhe's now gawking over a race-courſe.

And all the buſineſs left upon I.

Always grumbling, you idle raſcal.

Well, I've more trades than the beſt idle raſcal in all England. I'm waiter and attend the company, as oſtler I wait on horſes; I paints the names on the ſmugglers' boats; I plays the fiddle at church; I'm a tight lockſmith; I'm a bit'n a pariſh conſtable; and for walking on meſſages to Weymouth, Bland⯑ford, Corfe, Poole, or Wareham, I'm allow'd to be as ſmart a footpad as any in the county of Dorſet. [Laughing without.] There's the 'Squire's ſarvants within, ha! ha! ha!—they've rare ſtingo at home, and yet come drinking our taplaſh. I'll go ſarve 'em. (Going.)—but there's their maſter come upon 'em;—he's in a mortiſh fury with ſom'at.

Dang my buttons! This daughter of mine not come yet, and here the houſe now chuck full.

I'll run and ſee; for I warrants Kitty will bring home ſome fine ballads.

Our ſubſcription' not full to buy the ſilver cup; and the folks are already gaping for the race. Take you the paper about and ax what the company will give towards it.

I wool.

You, ſirrah! did I not build this inn here for you at the very entrance of my improvements? Did not I put you and your family into it, and an't you getting money here as if you coin'd it? Is it not a bean-garden that I've turn'd you into; and an't you fattening in it, like a baſe ungrateful great boar as you are?

Great boar! I don't underſtand what your honour would be at.

Here, on the very day I have propriated to oblige the world of taſte and faſhion, by ſhowing them my houſe, pictures, gardens, and improvements, you muſt fix your damn'd twopenny poney-race.

I did it to draw company to the village.

Yes, to your own paltry alehouſe, you ſordid raſcal!

Improvements!—Who'd come to view your im⯑provements, Sir, if they wa'n't ſure of a good din⯑ner from me? If they can eat marvel and drink water, they may feaſt upon your improvements; but after all their eye-gluttony in your gardens, their palates are ready enough for a Scotch-collop at the Red Lion. Here, you Toby, why don't you mind the company. (Calling off.) Dang my buttons!—Landlord—Big boar—Pay his rent.

Here's plebeian gratitude!—Oh! plague of the fingers that ſign'd you a ſeven years leaſe.

No, no,—I'll walk up to Whimmy's—Oh! why he's here—How d'ye do, Dick?—Found you out, eh!

My name is Richard.—What! the friend of my youth, Billy Pranks.—

Now ſhall I be twitted with former favours; and I don't like that.

So, you've pick'd up the mocuſſes in the Indies! Pack'd up, came over.—Never look'd after me.

I aſk'd every body after you.

What! I ſuppoſe you aſk'd King Charles at Cha⯑ring-Croſs;—Nobody about 'Change could tell of William Pranks, the banker, of Lombard-ſtreet.—You hound, I was your friend when you hadn't an⯑other; but now you don't want one—

Hound, what's the matter with you? Wou'd you have me advertiſe or ſend the bellman about to cry you?

You're moſt plaguily alter'd for the worſe. Well, I've been told all about you.

Then, as you have heard l've hopes of a peerage, you might be a little more reſpectful, Billy.

If you want to have more reſpect than another man, be better than another man; for your being call'd a lord, can neither give you a wiſe head or a good heart. How's your daughter? fine girl, I hear; wonder'd at it, when I thought of your phiz.

You are as civil as ever.

You ſhall give her to my nephew, the greateſt rogue in England.

Why there may be finer girls than my daughter, yet I think ſhe's too good for a rogue.

Where did you make your fortune?

You know in the Indies to be ſure.

If I had millions this fellow ſtill overawes me, that I'm a mere mouſe before him.

I ſcorn to remind you;—you owe all that fortune to me.

'Twill be long enough before I repay you.

Only think of all the good things I've done for you. Didn't I ſuffer you to write for me from ſix in the morning to ſeven at night; lock'd you up, and fed you upon bread and cheeſe, to ſharpen your in⯑duſtry upon the grindſtone of neceſſity.

Yes; you did keep my noſe to the grindſtone.

Wasn't it I got you out to Bombay in a reſpecta⯑ble line of a guinea-pig? Didn't I procure the let⯑ters to the Governor and general officers? Didn't I write myſelf, "This young man, the bearer, is a "prudent lad, that will do all you dirty work?"

Certainly, your letter did me great honour.

Didn't you derive all your intereſt from a pam⯑phlet [7]that I wrote, and gave you the credit of, tho' I thought 'twou'd bring the author to the pillory?

I acknowledge all your goodneſs.

Then give your daughter to my nephew; they ſhall have every penny I'm worth when I die.

Aye; but there's danger of your living a great while, Billy.

What! are you afraid of it, you golden calf?

Where is your nephew?

Was in the Temple; is now in the King's Bench; he doesn't know it, but it's I that keep him there, to make him, from a dread of confinement, avoid run⯑ning in debt. Shan't give him two ſixpences unleſs he marries your daughter.

Aye; but I've promis'd her to a good young man in the neighbourhood here, who has made the tour of Europe. Ah! Mr. Peregrine brought home taſte enough to lay out my gardens, diſpoſe my ſta⯑tues, and make yon ſpot the ſeat of virtù and ele⯑gance.

Got his money like a knave, and now gives it away like a fool.

Not half an hour ſince I actually promis'd Mr. Peregrine that he ſhou'd marry her to-morrow.

But, don't you recollect a prior promiſe to me? Didn't you engage if you ever made a fortune and had a child, my next a-kin ſhou'd have both?

Aye; but Peregrine will ſhoot me if I break my word to him.

Break it with me, and I'll cut your wizen.

Oh dear! I'm brought into this dilemma by my bad memory. Hark ye, Billy, I'll make Peregrine wait, on pretext that his conſtancy muſt be tried.—Yes, I'll ſend him to travel again for a ſeven years.

Inſtead of marriage, let him go to-morrow.

Aye; but on his return he'll claim my promiſe.

Pſhaw!—his back turn'd, my nephew will be here;—I've already ſent for him; Tom's a ſprightly blade, monſtrous wicked tho'.—This the entrance to your grounds?

Yes, I've tranſported Italy into England.

Italy!

Here you'll ſee gardens.

I've a garden at Brixton Cauſeway.

Such bananas—

What! do they boil better with a bit of corn'd beef than a ſummer cabbage?

Cabbage! My hot-houſe!—half a dozen ſuch peaches laſt Chriſtmas! upon a ſum up, the rearing will coſt me two guineas a piece.

For whoſe eating?

My own, to be ſure.

Old Nick jump after them; ſwallow in a minute what would have kept a whole family for a twelve⯑month.

Wer'n't they my own?

Superfluities are not our own, whilſt the poor want common neceſſaries. When do you dine?

Not till to-morrow, becauſe I reſign my houſe and improvements to-day to the admiration of a won⯑dering public; but you ſhall ſup with me, my friend.

Thank ye.

Sir, Parſon Jack be making collections for the poor ſufferers that was burnt out there at Minehead. He has ſent the paper here, to put down your wor⯑ſhip's name for a trifle.

I wiſh Parſon Jack would mind the buſineſs of his own pariſh; what have we to do with the poor of another county?

Hark ye, Dick Whimmy, in the hour of cala⯑mity, the unhappy of every country are our fellow-citizens

Put that down.

Your name, Sir?

Never mind my name—If I can do any good, I don't want to blow a trumpet about it.

Eh! well, as it's a charity, I'll give—

How much?

I'll give them—As I love to be modeſt, put down plain Dick Whimmy, one pound one.

I'll give it myſelf, and dang me if your ſhabby name ſhall diſgrace our pariſh paper.

That fellow has a ſoul.

There's a ſaucy villain.

Yes; but Dick, a ſordid mind ſinks a man into contempt, though maſter of millions.

I deſire, Billy, not to hear diſagreeable things; will you come up with me now?

I'll throw on a ſhirt.

Well, you'll excuſe me till ſupper.—I muſt give Tully, my gardener, his leſſon,—and—no hermit got yet! Look! I've advertiſed for a man to ſit dreſſed up as a hermit in the hermitage of my gar⯑dens.

Dick, have a good ſupper; remember old times.

Yes, I ſhall never forget bread and cheeſe.

Invites every body to ſee his gardens, and then the ſhy churl ſneak out of the way. Tell me of carvings and paintings! I ſay the beſt part of a gen⯑tleman's houſe is his kitchen and wine cellar.

Shall your horſe have any oats, Sir?

Yes, Sir; but if you pleaſe, Sir, I'll ſee him eat them myſelf, Sir; for if the poor beaſt is cheated, he can't even ſummons us to a court of conſcience.

Stand to look at a horſe eating corn! Ecod then you muſt be main fond of ſeeing other folks at din⯑ner.

Have you forgot any thing in the chaiſe, Ma'am?

Oh dear! yes,

You dropt this.

Oh Lord! my book of ballads that I bought at Blandford.

A divine girl!—but what the devil does ſhe want with a book of ballads?

—Really Miſs don't you go any farther?

Why no, Sir.—Lud I hope he won't find out that my father keeps this inn here,

—Sir, I wait here, and expect my friends to ſend a ſervant and a horſe for me.

Oho! then you're fond of riding, I preſume, Miſs?

Oh, yes, Sir, with a pillion.

Oh!—behind a—Heavens! that I was the happy ſervant to ride before you.

Cou'dn't expect a gentleman like you, Sir.—Dear, I'm afraid my father or Toby will come out to expoſe me,

Then, Sir, you're going on to Weymouth?

Yes, Ma'am, my feet, head, body, and hands, but my ſoul remains at—What's the name of this village, Miſs?

I really don't know, Sir,—though I was born in it,

I wonder, do we change horſes here, or get ano⯑ther chaiſe?

I fancy, Sir, you change the carriage.—Lud! I wiſh it was ready, and he'd go off, though when he's gone, I ſhall be indeed unhappy.

Miſs, won't you take ſome refreſhment? we'd beſt—ſtep in.—Permit me the honour of accompa⯑nying you.

Oh dear! then he finds out who I am, and will deſpiſe me.—Why no, Sir—my grand papa's ſervant may be now waiting, and he's a very croſs cruſty grumps, if he'd ſee a gentleman with me.

Eh! what's going forward yonder up the hill? a race here I believe.

Oh! yes, Sir, for the ſilver cup.—Dear! what a fine thing 'twou'd be for father to win it. Our par⯑lour cuſtomers love to drink out of ſilver.

Cuſtomers!

Oh, Lud!—I mean, Sir—my papa—likes a race. Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſervant.

Madam,

Oh, by Heavens! ſhe's a cherubim! a good for⯑tune, I dare ſay—thinks me rolling in gold. Ah! ſhe'll be in all the faſhionable blaze of Weymouth, and ſhou'd I ſee her, I muſt ſneak out of the way with my empty pockets.

I was right enough—'tis Tom Pranks.

What! my worthy Cambridge Johnian, George Peregrine? ah! how d'ye do?

Ah! but Tom, what has brought you here? what are you on?

I'm on air, fire—Are you on a viſit down here?

Viſit! no, at home; I've a ſort of little lodge hard by, at which I ſhall be very happy to ſee you; but, come, what brought you down here? To ſee Mr. Whimmy's gardens!

Whimmy! who's he? You can't conceive what a variety of high—low—jack—and game, ſince the morning we parted at the Shakeſpeare, you in a poſt-chaiſe for Dover. I in a phaeton for New-market, juſt run a horſe at Blandford—loſt—beſt of the fun, I'm at this moment a priſoner in the King's Bench.

A priſoner in the King's Bench, and 122 miles from town? Why, Tom, you've ſkipp'd out of bounds indeed! Come, how?

Why you may ſuppoſe, George, that my expences far exceeded my uncle's allowance—thought to help out by a lucky hit now and then, ſo bought a blood mare, had her put in training, then entered for the plate at Blandford—a beautiful thing—the crack of the caurſe—but before the meeting, a few poſitive mechanical raſcals thruſt me into the King's Bench—muſt go to Blandford though, ſo procured the rules, and in hopes the turf could bring me in money enough to pay my debts, off I ſpank'd for Dorſet⯑ſhire, and, ſpite of informers, appeared on the courſe. The opinion ſeemed all in favour of my mare; but, like a curſed green horn, I withdrew her from the plate, and made a by-match to run her againſt Lord Skelter's ſour-crout, to ride ourſelves—but after the firſt round, my infernal groom told me I carried too much weight, ſlung part away, came in firſt; but my Lord inſiſting on our being again weighed, I was too light by a pound and an half, ſo that though I won, I loſt the race; two hun⯑dred to my Lord; in ſhort, every guinea of a full [17]five hundred that an honeſt methodiſt preacher, my landlord in the rules, raiſed to equip me for the expedition.

Ah, Tom! I thought when you and I were at Cambridge together, your ſcampers to Newmarket would turn to this at laſt.

Certainly it's life, my boy.—You were always a dead fag, and I was a blood. You know I never could prevail on you, even then, to make one of our toxophilite club.

But where are you going now?

Can you tell me? Dem'me if I can tell you.—Sir, I was diſtreſſed—diſtracted—I—

Ay! but Tom, your mare,—as ſhe won—

She's gone; ſold her for five hundred—went to dinner, tuck'd three bottles under my girdle—hopp'd off as ſteady as old time to the aſſembly, laugh'd at the minuets—tol lol,

adjourn⯑ed to a ſnug hazard party—loſt every face—roll'd into the ſtreet at eight in the morning—ſaw a car⯑riage at the Greyhound door—pretty girl all alone—finding it was a return chaiſe, ſtept in without knowing whither bound—had a moſt delectable chat—a lovely creature—ſingle—hither we've come—ſhe's there—I'm here—ſhe's an angel with a great fortune—I'm a dog without the price of a collar.

Ha! ha! ha! Well this is a moſt curious detail of your adventures. Tom you hav'n't heard, per⯑haps, I'm going to be married to the heireſs of the Caſtle yonder?

Indeed! this is your muzzing for a fellowſhip.

But won't you return to the King's Bench?

No! can't do that; they'd never let me out again.

Yes; but if you're found out here, it will be worſe: what will you do?

What will I do? Damn it, you're always putting me to the mathematics: fling by your Euclid, and you tell me what I ſhall do.

Ha! ha! ha! the very thing for you, Tom, ha! ha! ha!

Plague of your ſneer; what are you at?

Read that paper.

Paper! what's this?

‘A liberal offer.—A perſon wanted to ſit dreſſed as a hermit in the her⯑mitage [19]of very capital gardens: on condition of his attendance for ſeven years, he will be entitled to a gratuity of two thouſand pounds, and three hun⯑dred a year for the remainder of his life.—For par⯑ticulars inquire within.’—Eh! what's all this about? Hermit!

Tom, why ſuppoſe you apply for this.

Me! what I turn hermit?—Pooh, nonſenſe! a high go, faith.

Will your uncle pay your debts?

He! I've got a hint 'twas he threw me into pri⯑ſon.—No! never ſhall I touch an ounce of his.

A couple of thouſands—three hundred a year for life!

Oh! but how wou'd it tell among one's friends? mine are all bloods, my dear.

While you can keep pace with them in flaſh and expence: but drove into a corner by ſickneſs or po⯑verty, there they leave you.

Three hundred a year—

If you think it an object, I'll anſwer for your get⯑ting the ſituation.

What elſe can I do? for when I came into this village, I didn't know which way to turn my face; back to London I cannot go; I'll have it—two thou⯑ſand! three hundred a year! I'll have it. Tol, lol.

No, but ſtop—can I believe that you'd continue ſeven years?

Seven thouſand! Be independent of uncle—dreſs'd up in a gown and long beard, dam'me, I'll be a fine old bald-headed buck—beſides the change of perſon, if the marſhal ſhould ſend conſtables down here after me—the very thing!

Stop in the houſe a few minutes and I'll acquaint Mr. Whimmy.

Do, tell him I'll be a hermit, a pilgrim.

SCENE II. A Room in the Inn.

Oh! the gentlefolks that came from Weymouth by water; they ſeem to have got a ſouſing.

All your fault, Bite.

Mine! 'twas your's, Mr. Poz.

You know you wou'dn't let the ſail be up.

If it had we ſhou'd have tipp'd over, been knock'd againſt Durdle Door rock, as they call it.

I know better; we ſhou'd ha' ſkim'd like a ſwal⯑low—boxing about three hours in dabbling oars.

I wiſh we had dinner; I'm proud to ſay I'm quite peckiſh.

Ay! you peck'd all the way at the ham and cold fowls.

We were ſo blown about—the wind ſharpens one's appetite.

I know better—we came upon a party of plea⯑ſure, and had nothing but croſſes and wrangling. Keep your temper like Mr. Apathy yonder.

Aye! becauſe Mr. Apathy's a man of faſhion, his abſent inſipidity is thought agreeable.

Water excurſion! horrid!

And this is a party of pleaſure,

Some vulgar club-room, I ſuppoſe.

This the preſident's chair.

Aye, it juſt ſuits a fat beadle.

So it does. Will you pleaſe to ſit, Ma'am,

Offer me a great chair, indeed.

Oh! that dear ſweet gentleman—from his having ſuch fine running horſes, he muſt be certainly ſome great ſquire. Heigh ho!

Pray do you know this young lady?

Miſs, will you take a glaſs of negus?

I ax pardon. Miſs, will you be kind enough to go boil the lobſters for the company? Dang my buttons, this is letting you go to Blandford races—I'll buy riding habits and feather'd hats for you—go put on your mob-cap and whire apron—there's the keys—get along.

I ſhall, father; don't be angry. As that charm⯑ing gentleman doesn't ſee me in this mean ſituation, I don't care what any body elſe thinks of me; but he's far off by this,

What wou'd you pleaſe to have, ladies?—Father, I hope the gentlemen haven't been long waiting. Here, Toby, I'll look to every thing myſelf, father; don't make yourſelf uneaſy.

Oh! then, good man, that is your daughter?

Yes, Ma'am, that is my daughter.

You ſhou'dn't ſuffer her to give herſelf ſuch airs before people.

True, Ma'am, that's all along of an aunt of her mother's—leaving her a little budget of money—makes the ſaucy ſlut independent of me.

I aſk pardon, I fear I intrude?

Oh! no, Sir, we dine in this room; but we were juſt on the wing to ſee the gardens, come.

Maſter, I be's poor woman, brings fiſh to Bland⯑ford; Mrs. Pooley, at the Greyhound, ſends you this, you had forgot there,

Yes, faith, here's my jockey dreſs—there you beauty

If one of you gentlefolks be called Lawyer Poz, and be come from London to breed diſturbances, there's a mon would talk with you.

Any man that talks to me, muſt pay for my talk to him. Where?

Landlord, I have now ſeen ſince I came here two ſuch females, one, the fineſt woman in the world—and—

Sir, you ſhould always except the preſent com⯑pany.

Madam, I aſk pardon—and the other the moſt ordinary I ever ſaw, except the preſent company,

I like a party of pleaſure, come Madam.

Yes, I recollect this Attorney Poz, and a very li⯑tigious ſcoundrel he is too. Eh! they ſell wine in our ale houſe—waiter!

—the charming young lady by this is with her friends.

Did you pleaſe to call? this brandy and water for you, Sir?—Oh, Lord! I ſhall ſink with ſhame,

My dear, if you pleaſe to get me—Eh! why 'tis certainly ſhe? could ſhe have ſo much deception? but I'll not diſtreſs her,

Sir, I—I—the—the waiter—ſhall bring—you what—you want.

Poor thing! I feel her confuſion from my ſoul,

I—do, Miſs—Ma'am—my dear—I—I—dam'me but I'm as much confuſed as herſelf! I—hem!—Irang the bell.

Yes, Sir—you call'd—I thought you call'd—you wanted—

Yes, my dear, I wanted—that is it.—Curſe me if I know what I wanted,

Her modeſty gives me ſome hope that this may have been the firſt little art ſhe was ever guilty of.

Toby! bring the gentleman the—the—Sir, you ſhall have it preſently.

You moſt delicate piece of artful lovelineſs!—now is ſhe the maid or daughter of the Red Lion? the daughter ſhe muſt be. Oh! ho! now I ſee her wiſh for the ſilver cup—dam'me I wiſh I cou'd win it for her. I've my jockey dreſs here ready (puts his hand on the valiſe.) and wou'd ride, but a horſe is neceſſary. This lovely impoſtor—ſuch a fair cheat! old Grumps waiting to bring her to grandpappa! a very good offer that, faith, ha! ha! ha! Oh! this has clinch'd it. I'll turn hermit for one-and-twenty years, if only to be near this beautiful hypocrite.

Sir, I believe you are the gentleman—Mr. Pere⯑grine's compliments, would be glad to ſee you up at my maſter's.

Very well, Sir! I've a mind to ring the bell again for another look at this charming girl—girl! true, I'm a hermit.

SCENE I. Before the Inn.

WELL, where is this man?

He's not in the road, nor he's not in the houſe, nor he's not in the ſtable, nor he's not in—

Zounds! I don't want to know where he is not—where is he?

Here be the very mon.

Eh! what Ham Bar [...]bones, the Methodiſt preacher, informer, pedlar, money-lender, broker, old-clo [...]hs-man, in the way of my profeſſion a moſt choice friend; the converſation between him and I won't admit of a third perſon.

Has your maſter no call for you? but you muſt ſtand grin⯑ning here.

Yes, Sir, I've the knives to rub, and dinner-tables to ſet out; but I'll be in the way, for I know when a lawyer comes down here amongſt us, he ſoon cuts out work for the conſtable.

Ah! Maſter Barebones, ſo far from London, how doſt do?

Lives—as much as honeſt folks can do now-a-days.

I know better, my old friend; you'll live where an honeſt man will ſtarve.

Vhen I vas a coal-heaver, my face vas a black angel, but my inward man vas as vhite as a vhite wall that is vhite.

Plague o'your canting to me! any buſineſs? Come, to it.

I am a tender Chriſtian, and vith my money I did relieve the poor by lending it them.

On good intereſt.

I did take care of myſelf; I did lend five hundred pounds to a young Muſter Pranks.

What! are you telling me this? Wasn't it I that threw him into the King's Bench for you?

As he received the money by a third hand, not knowing I vas the creditor, vhen he got the rules he did take lodgings in my houſe in St. George's Fields; I did adviſe him to run away, he did; then I did tell the Marſhal.

But I ſuppoſe, as you knew where he went, you'll try to re-take him for the reward.

I'll do that thing. 'Twas to run a horſe at Bland⯑ford races that made him run from his bail. Don't you know him?

No! when I ſend a man to quod, 'tis enough for me if my bailiff knows him. Lucky for you find⯑ing me here; I come down to Weymouth on buſi⯑neſs; as I ſhall charge my client three guineas a day for my travelling expences, I thought I might as well give my wife a little country air and a ſea-dip—left her behind, ill at Weymouth, when I came upon this water excurſion to ſee Mr. Whimmy's improvements. Barebones, I'm in genteel company, ſo don't ſeem to know me—Oh! yonder I ſee they're [31]going into the gardens; you and I will talk over this affair.

You are encompaſſed with the wicked—I am moved by the ſpirit.

Ha! ha! ſanctified muns and rogue's heart.

SCENE II. A magnificent Garden, with Statues, Fountains, &c.

The company flocking in already to ſee my gar⯑dens; that tough old bully Pranks won't even pay me the compliment. I muſt have a good ſupper for him tho', or he'll do nothing but quarrel—give orders to Mrs. Maggs, my houſekeeper, about it. Oh! here ſhe is. Since I ſet her to ſhow my houſe and pictures, it has given her ſuch a conſequential—all talk herſelf, but never liſtens to any body elſe, always dinning in my ears the grandeur of the laſt people ſhe lived with; nothing but the family of the Olmondles.

Mrs. Maggs, you muſt—

Well, Sir, I know that very well.

What, before I tell you! a gentleman ſups with me to-night.

Well, Sir, I know a gentleman ſups with you.

Ay! you know now I tell you; and I'll have—

Well, Sir, I know what you'd have.

Before I tell you! I muſt be ſure have a brill and variety of other fiſh.

Well, I know you muſt have a brill, and variety of other fiſh.

Certainly you know when I tell you. Beſides all other wines, as my friend is a London ſoaker, have ſome of my oldeſt port, ſome bottled porter, and a pipe.

Well, I know you muſt have bottled porter and pipe of port.

Now you know nothing at all about it—go along.

Ah! when I lived with Squire Olmondle, he never bid me go along.

Stupid wiſe fool!

Ah! the Olmondles! that was the genteel family that knew how to treat a houſekeeper like a gentle-woman.

Damn the Olmondles! I deteſt the very name; it grates my ear like cutting of cork—a teaſing ninny! you know all, won't let any body elſe know any thing, and after all know nothing at all. Mrs. Maggs, ſtep and bring me word.

Certainly, Sir, I'll bring you word—

Of what now? See if the young man, the her⯑mit that I hir'd—

Well, Sir, I know that.

Ay! you know that and this—and after that, Mrs. Maggs, you muſt—

Well, Sir, I will, you may depend upon it.

Now what will ſhe! never knew one of your profeſs'd, notable, clever women worth a penny in a houſe, but to ſay all and do nothing. Where's my—Oh! Tully, my Iriſh gard'ner?

Tully, have you placed my new hermit yet at his poſt?

Ay! faith, and he ſtarted for the poſt; for as I led him thro' the paddock yonder, up he jumps upon a little horſe, and away he ſcampered as if the devil was before him, round the fiſh-pond.

My hermit galloping round a fiſh-pond! Tully, to-morrow you may go with the other ſervants to Wool Fair, but to-day you muſt bruſh up all your eloquence for your poſt of Ciceroni to deſcribe the attic urbanity of my Engliſh Tuſculum here. But mind, Tully, I command you not to take a penny from one of the company.

A penny! not I, Sir: but mayn't I take half-a-crown if they offer it?

No. Gentlemen ſuffering the public to pay their ſervants wages, and turning their own houſes into a Sadlers Wells and a Royal Grove, is mean. I never paid for ſeeing pictures in palaces and grape vines in gardens, that I didn't bluſh for the diſgrace thrown upon the dignity of the owner. Is the water party come that ſtopt at the Red Lion?

Yes, Sir. Mrs. Maggs is now ſhowing them the houſe. Ah! ſhe told them, that the picture of Mary Magdalen was Mrs. Molly Olmondle.

A moſt horrid—

Sir, don't fret about that woman; you know in the ſhowing way I'll bring up your credit with a wet finger; Mrs. Maggs will inſiſt that this is a py⯑ramid—now pray, Sir, isn't it an obſticle? I muſt go and put on my Wedneſday's fine ſuit of cloaths that you gave me to ſhow the gardens in.—What country fellow's that ſtalking about the walks—only I'm in a hurry to dreſs myſelf, or by my ſoul I'd knock his head againſt the gateway.

Stop, Tully, pray remember the names and cha⯑racters of the ſeveral antiques.

I'll tell 'em of your anticks.

Obſticle! my anticks! very ignorant this ſaid Maſter Tully; I muſt watch how you go on with your deſcription.—Poor Peregrine thinks he marries my daughter to-morrow, I've ſcarce the heart to kill him with the diſappointment.—I ſhou'd like to come at the people's real opinion of my gardens and improvements.

Were you deſired to walk in here?

Noa! 'twas my own fancy.

Why then it's my own fancy that you walk out again.

Ah! if I thought I cou'dn't do that I ſhou'dn't have comd in, I can tell thee.

What! keep your diſtance.

I wool; becauſe, at the ſame time, you keep your's—

Oh! the company. I wiſh to hear how Mr. Tully performs his office of orator. If I could mix amongſt them without being known—this clodpate's ha [...] wig, and frock, may do it—you've no objec⯑tion to a draught of ſtrong beer and a ſlice of beef?

Noa!

Noa! then come with me.

I wool.

Doo!

Yez.

Hem! my Lady, this is counted the fineſt place in all Ireland—England I mean.

Pagan wanity!

What noiſe is this under ground?

My Lady, its the ſuccedaneous river of black Tartary; it creeps over ſticks and ſtones like an eel, hops like a trout, and then jumps like a ſalmon up the rocks yonder; then it ſails away ſo gay into the ſea like a maiden ray.

I've ſpoken with the poſt-chaiſe boy that did drive a gemman and the girl of the alehouſe to the village here, and by the deſcription it's young Mr. Pranks, the man ve vants.

The pariſh conſtable is the waiter at the Red Lion, engage him to arreſt—hem!

I don't think they can know me—now I ſhall hear how my gard'ner performs his office,

What figure call you this?

Ay! you're a nice figure to come thruſt your noſe into the company of ladies and gentlemen,

No! I mean this.

That's Venus, the goddeſs of med'cine—a pretty employment I've got to throw away my roratory and knowledge to divart ſuch dirty blackguards as you.

—this is—

Apollo of Belvidere,

Ay! that's Poll the bell-weather, that run after Daphne, and was kick'd out of heaven by Jove, (I'll be free) and ſo turn'd cow-boy to—

Shepherd to king Admetus,

Ay! they'll all meet us; but who bid you put in your prate?

Heavens! who is that?

That is—that is,

—that is, my Lady—I don't know what it is myſelf,

—Why, your Honour, it's not a watch-box, nor it's not a wheel⯑barrow, nor it's not a—

Minerva—Pallas.

It's not a palace, or a cake-houſe—I wiſh you'd hold your gab—you made me ſay it was a watch⯑box juſt now—why it's marvle, it's all made of marvle.

But the lady marvles who 'twas made for.

Oh! 'twas made for my maſter; he bought it from the ſtone-man.

Is it like?—

I'm glad you like it.

This I ſuppoſe is—

Not at all, my Lady, 'tis, 'tis—

Saturn eating his child—

Yes, Ma'am, 'tis the child eating citron—will you hold your prate,

—this, gentlemen and ladies, is—

Idolatry!

What is it? Pooh! Now had not you beſt all teach me inſtead of I larning you! You ſee, your Honour, he has a flute in his mouth.

Such a damn'd Iriſh plough-ploy!

Ay! "The Iriſh plough-boy that whiſtled o'er "the lea," that's the man.

Curs'd ſtout fellow this, Who is he?

Hercules of Farneſe.

It's not bare knees, but big knees and big legs,—that's the tir'd paver reſting himſelf on his ſtone paving-ſtick.

Oh heavens! I've ſent to Italy for a fine purpoſe,

But I'm talking here by word of mouth, when I might ſay it all in reading, as I have it by heart from my deſcribing-book—now I deſire you'll hold your tongues, for if you talk, you'll put me out; pleaſe your Honour, hem! (takes out a book and looks at it) "Theſe gar"—Oh! now I go on vel⯑vet; Theſe gardens, which are now the admiration of the larn'd and curiſh, were once a barren flat, like Saliſbury Plain, till Mr. Humphry Freak Whimmy, Eſq. gave forty thouſand pounds for the ould caſtle and lands, turn'd the courſe of the river through them, and with Roman taſte and Britiſh magnificence—

Pray, friend,

what o'clock is it?

Roman—half an hour after one—two—Roman—two—Roman—breeches—hem!—breeches—Britiſh magnificence—the river—in the ould caſtle—ran!—round the lands. The curiſh—of Saliſbury Plain. The devil's in this man, and his what o'clock is it? He's put me all out—ſo I muſt—my deſcribing book.

Bri-tiſh mag-ni-fi-ci—Oh! here it is.

Having firſt travell'd to ſee the ancient beauties of Italy, I-I-taly—I—

Italy,

and ſelected with claſſical—Ah! ah! claſſical—Ah! damnation!

Theſe gardens which are now the admiration of the larned and curiſh, were once a barren flat like Saliſ⯑bury Plain, till Mr. Humphrey Freak—

Oh! my—Pray, my friend, does Mr. Freak take ſnuff?

Yes, blackguard—till Humphrey Freak Whimmy, Eſquire—Humphrey, Eſquire—Saliſbury Street—pooh!—the Plain—larned and curiſh—river upon the ould caſtle—land turned—aboat—about—

Why the orator's in a hobble.

Orator Hobble—oh! the devil take—I was ſail⯑ing on like a young ſwan, till this fellow comes with his ſnuff-box.

Theſe gardens, which are now the admiration of the larn'd and curiſh, [43]were once a barren flat like Saliſbury Plain,

till Humphrey Freak Whimmy, Eſquire, gave forty thouſand pounds for the ould caſtle,

and lands round it.

Turning to the left you wind through a moſt de⯑licious ſhrubbery.

Humphrey Freak—a barren flat. My maſter's a flat.

You reach the labyrinth.

Like Saliſbury Plain.

So intricate that you're puzzled to get out.

I'm puzzled to get out—I'm out—Humphrey Whimmy—

Damn'd blockhead!

Is a damn'd blockhead.

Ha! ha! ha!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I don't wonder at your laughing at my maſter's nonſenſe in laying out ſo much money on the balderdaſh you ſee round about you here. But, ladies and gentlemen, though my maſter's a fool, you'll remember my trouble, I hope.

Not a farthing.

Why a didn't expect any thing from ſuch an ill-looking beggarly whelp as you. Will you walk out of the grounds, if you plaiſe, Sir? The next thing you're to ſee is—

An aviary and pheaſantry.

Yes, my maſter's knavery and pleaſantry. Then there is King Pluto's Tartary—then my maſter's Ely⯑ſian Fields—then my maſter's hanging wood, where my maſter will hang himſelf, and then the hermitage.

If the new hermit's not ready, he'll diſgrace me as much as my worthy gard'ner has done.

I muſt be ſure.—

Oh! ſtop—you and your farthing. Pretty man⯑ners to walk out before the gentlemen and ladies, that know how to pay their money.

The ſpirit doth whiſper, "Ham Barebones ariſe, "and ſpeak the word to thy deluded brethren."—Down, accurſed Dagon.

Why, then I ſuppoſe you think yourſelf a fine Roman buſt. The devil's in your aſſurance to cock yourſelf up there! If you plaiſe, you'll walk down.

Brethren, I vas a coal-heaver, but on the ſtony cage where I now ſtand, I have brought you ſome biſcuits, baked in the oven of charity, carefully con⯑ſarved for the chickens of the church, and the ſweet ſwallows of—

Oh! the devil!—If what o'clock hasn't pull'd up a ſluice. Half the garden will be overflowed; and we ſhall have the carp and tench dancing among the daiſes.

SCENE II. Another part of the Gardens, with the view of the Outſide of an Hermitage.

The race is over, and I not ſee it. Since this dear gentleman is obligated to take a hermit's place, [46]he can't be angry at my playing off the fine lady upon him—In there he ſits.

Huzza, my girl! the day is your's.

The gracious!—

Tully left me in the hermitage—ſlipt out again—flung off my gown, beard; and girdle—had my jockey-dreſs that I rode in at Blandford ready under it—the poney I found younder; had firſt try'd it though—ſpank up the hill—four poor jades ready to ſtart—a village race—horſe, mare, colt, or filly—I was enter'd—rode myſelf—won. Huzza! the glorious prize is your's.

What a wild gentleman! Sir, don't think little of me for the fib I told you this morning.

No, my ſweeteſt, when a man's heart is ſet in a flame by ſuch a charming girl as you, it isn't a cup of tea that can extinguiſh it.

Wou'd you have a cup of tea, Sir?—la! Sir, you hav'n't din'd.

Oh! yes, my dear, I did—yeſterday.

It's Mr. Whimmy's way not to allow the hermit any dinner on the day when the company's expected: but, ecod, you ſhan't faſt while my father's houſe affords a dinner.

—But, what did you come down here and turn hermit for?

For love of you, my dear—dying for you theſe five years.

Sure!

Never ſaw you before this morning.

—

The very Lady I danc'd with at Bland⯑ford aſſembly!—My love, a gentleman comes yon⯑der with whom I muſt talk politics.

The deuce is in you for a hermit.

I—I wiſh my father, with his other changes of humour, wou'd give up this fancy of reſigning the houſe thus to ſtrangers; people, one don't know who, every Wedneſday here come ſtamping and ſtaring about—even my dreſſing-room is not my own.

My charming angel, to meet you here!

Bleſs me, Sir, you!—I hope you're very well, Sir?

On a viſit here?

No, Sir, this is my father's houſe.

Her father's houſe!—Oh! here may be another cruſty old grumps. And hem! my dear, you love riding on a pillion, like Queen Elizabeth going in ſtate.

Sir!

I mean—your parlour cuſtomers like to drink out of ſilver.

Parlour cuſtomers!—But the unexpected honour of ſeeing you here!

Merely for admiſſion to you, my angel; I've hired as your father's hermit—dying for you ever ſince we parted—a fine creature—but demme, if I ever thought of you ſince.

I thought you then a rattler, and find I was right,—but don't teaſe me now with nonſenſe, for I'm really diſtreſs'd.

Eh! Peregrine's intended, diſtreſs'd! eh!—how? tell me—you may. Why, my dear Ma'am, I'm—you don't know, perhaps, that I'm your Peregrine's moſt intimate friend.

Was it, indeed, you I ſaw juſt now arm-in-arm with him?—Oh! then you don't know, perhaps, that my father, after giving his ſanction to the ad⯑dreſſes of a young gentleman in the neighbourhood, now ſuddenly changes his mind, and inſiſts upon my marrying the nephew of ſome old friend of his.—Yonder's Peregrine,

he hasn't yet heard this unlucky news.

My friend, Peregrine's intended ſpoſa; I had hopes, that if he got this lady and her fortune, he might tip me a thouſand pounds, without a ſeven year's impriſonment in the old gentleman's hermi⯑tage; but borrowing money is throwing water upon the warm heart of friendſhip.

'Sdeath, the company!—I muſt now earn my an⯑nuity.—Heh! is that Kitty gliding through the buſhes?—a moſt dear dangerous little Barleycorn this. Marriage is all out of ſight, and, without it, to take all a ſimple young girl's innocence may beſtow, would be, indeed, giving life in my breaſt to the worm that never dies.

SCENE III. The Hermitage.

Are you within, Mr. Hermit?

This poor hermit mus'n't ſit here, and have no dinner. My maſter has got ſo cruſty with me of late, that I'm quite weary of looking after other people's concerns; and as our young lady's to be married to⯑morrow, this will be no place for me. If I cou'd get a man to my mind, I'd keep houſe for myſelf, and this handſome fellow is juſt to my liking.—Beſides, my conceited ſon, Natty Maggs, is ſoon out of his time; he ſhall have a father to thraſh him, when he gets ſaucy to me.

The hermit's Wedneſday allowance is roots and cold water, but—

What are you doing here, Kitty Barleycorn?

O Lord! Mrs. Maggs the houſekeeper! Ma'am, I was going—

I know you was going. Child, do you know the danger of a young woman like you, reſorting to this lonely place, where this new-come hermit ſits with his books, and his ſkull, and his croſs bones? Do you know, Kitty, that this hermit may be a ram⯑ſcallion?

Yes, Ma'am—to be ſure, Ma'am—Thank ye, Ma'am—

What have you got there?

A little eatables and a little drinkables.

For this Mr. Tom?

Yes, Ma'am.

Then you were now going to ſee him?

Yes, Ma'am.

And you'd have heard ſome love nonſenſe from him?

Yes, Ma'am.

And you think me very impertinent for interrupt⯑ing you?

Yes, Ma'am.

Child, take example from me—Do you think I'd ſit there alone, to eat and drink with any ſtrange hermit?

Yes, Ma'am.

Mrs. Maggs, here, I've brought the dinner.

What dinner?—Go along!

Why, the roaſt fowl for you and the hermit, as you ordered me.

Child, do you know the danger of a young wo⯑man, like you, going into this lonely place? Do you know, Mrs. Maggs, that this hermit may be a ram⯑ſcallion?—Ha! ha! ha!

Now, if you plaiſe, your honour, don't walk upon the graſs beds.

Oh!

SCENE IV. Inſide of an Hermitage. Young Pranks diſcovered in his Hermit's Dreſs at a Table, with lamp, ſkull, bones, large book, and jockey whip.

A hermit ſhou'd have been my laſt trade. Tol de rol lol. How dev'liſh well Slingſby kick'd the tamborine.

Zounds!

Eh! Nobody!—I wiſh that gander, Tully, wou'd bring his flock of ſtaring geeſe, till I get down again to play with my little lamb at the Red Lion. Old Whimmy on the other days, it ſeems, ſtints me to a bottle. Dam'me, what's two bottles to me? how many have I won, by jumping over the table at Med⯑ley's? By'r leave pair and his nob.

The hermitage, plaiſe your honour.

Is this your anchorite!

My Lady, I didn't hear he was an anchor-ſmith. He's old Father Anthony.

Aye! what ſignifies your old experience, man, with your beard acroſs your forehead? What the devil have you been about with your indecency?—Now, if you can but ſit quiet, Tom, juſt while I ex⯑plain you.

Tom!—I'll break your head.

Will you? arrah, man, I'll break your two heads, plaiſe your honours.

My ſarcophagus defaced,—my Hercules thrown down,—my labyrinth overflown! Now, but let's hear how Tully and my new galloping hermit go on.

Gentlemen and ladies, this is a hermit. Here he lives, and never ſtirs out of this loneſome grotto.—Hide your boots, you devil, you.

What! not taken off his boots?

What's that to you?—you've come in here too. Here he always ſits at his prayers, all alone by him⯑ſelf, and nobody with him, and never ſees a human ſoul.

Tedious fool!—I'll quicken him tho' with a touch of the rippers.

He's ſo meek and quiet.

Oh!

He eats nothing but herbs.

And wild berries.

And gooſeberries! What, you will be putting in your jabber. Lives on roots and fruits.

Nice roaſt fowl, faith!

Man, what bewitch'd you to ſpoil my deſcrip⯑tions?

and drinks of the pure—

—Purling rill.

He dosn't drink purl and gill. The hermit drinks nothing but—

Mere element.

A mere elephant!

The limpid brook.

I'll make you a limping rook, if you don't hold your—He drinks nothing but—

Water.

Aye! this hermit drinks nothing but clear rock water.

I'm proud to ſay, this is

dev'liſh good wine.

Wine and roaſt chicken! why you did it on pur⯑poſe.

I wiſh, whoever left them, had told me.

Tho' he's a clean, well-behaved old man.

Say gentleman, you raſcal.

Oh! be aiſy. An't you an old ſaint?

Theſe two villains muttering and quarrelling!

He neither uſes napkins, nor plates, nor knives, nor forks. All his houſehold furniture is in the empty trunk of that hollow tree. That's his cup⯑board; and there he keeps his wooden diſh and his little pitcher.

Ah! well let's—

There! you ſee his bed is the moſs, and the herbs and the innocent ſimplicities of the earth. Go, you!

Ah!

So! is this the hermit's ſimplicity?

And this, I am proud to ſay, is his little pitcher.

A ſmart dinner—a pair of women! and I ſitting like a grave owl!

I've follow'd you, dang my buttons!—So you've com'd up here after this new hermit.

O father! you're the cruel ſtep-mother.

Well, this is—

Yes, Sir, I know it is as you ſay. I have my rea⯑ſons, as Mr. Oldmondle ſays.

Arrah! Tom, is this like a hermit, to have Kitty and Mrs. Maggs? What do you ſtand ſhaking your fiſt at?

Mr.—what's it, has a pretty looking poney in the paddock yonder; but I'd run my brute againſt it for fifty pounds.

Done, damme! and I'll ride myſelf.

Zounds! I forgot—but ſince it is ſo, hey!—we ſtart!—the way—knees tight—toes in—ſpur [59]out—carpet ground—ſlow gallop—crack—take the lead—tough at bottom, t'other horſes wind rakes hot—ſlack girt—want a ſob—down ears—whiſk tail—up noſe like a pig—rattle whip—give a-looſe—puſh for it, hey! all to fortune, the way, the way.

Holloa! ſtop, Tom; come back till I explain you out!

Sir, here's—

Sir, cou'dn't you find any man in England to make a jeſt of but me? How dare you, Sir, intro⯑duce ſuch a raſcal as that? He a hermit!

Sir, I'm very ſorry.

I lay out forty thouſand pounds, and then ſuch a ſcoundrel to get me laugh'd at by the world! but, you marry no daughter of mine. A good excuſe to quarrel and put Pranks's advice into practice.

You did collect ſome valuable things to be ſure, but your taſte's not confirm'd. You ſhall tra⯑vel again; make another ſeven year's tour; and, by Heavens! not till you return will I give you my daughter.

Sir! ſure you can't have the cruelty—Sir, only think.

I'm determin'd, won't hear a word.

But, Sir!

SCENE I. The Gardens.

TO conſider on the plaguy news this puppy, my 'prentice, has brought me; he too gaping at Whimmy's raree ſhow.—Natty Mags.

Beats Kenſington hollow!—make a ſmart Vauxhall!—wants an orcheſter—caſ⯑kade—a handſome box to eat cuſtards.

The Marſhal of the King's Bench—

Yes, Sir, as you deſired, he gave your nephew, young Mr. Tom, the rules; but he's run away. The Marſhal's beſt reſpects, Sir, has got information he's down in theſe parts; a man's come after him; but he'd know if you'd have him catch'd and cag'd up again.

A mad dog; but like me

Yes, Sir, he's a ſad raſcal.

What!—after all I have done for him—ingratitude is worſe than—

A face without cheek whiſkers.

Whiſkers!

Sir, I was only ſaying—by the deſcription, Mr. Tom rattled off from Greyhound door at Blandford for Weymouth with a pretty girl in a poſt-chaiſe.

Weymouth! I'll have him—Step you and fetch my horſe up from the inn, ſirrah! Stop, I'll go my⯑ſelf.

Fetch his horſe, ſirrah! As Kit Cateaton ſays, the time's out for ſirrahs and ſcoundrels—cracks over the ſconce with canes—I'm not an apprentice now, to breakfaſt on cold ſcrag of mutton and ſmall beer—retiring from table after dinner with one glaſs of wine; I'm not an apprentice now. I'll no more pu⯑niſh my half ounce at the playhouſe, than 'fraid to cry up, or cut down the new piece over a pint and an oyſter, but thank the footman for letting me in, and ſneaking ſoftly up ſtairs with my ſhoes in my hand, and my hat in my pocket, to my flock bed in the attic.—Your authority over me is out, and I'll let you know it too, old Bounce.—I'll let him and every body know that I am out of my time.— [63]Nobody's boy; but my own man—and dem'me I'll ſet up for myſelf. Eh! hey!—

For the ſoul of me I can't bide at home while this delightful Mr. Tom the hermit is here.

One of the family! Servant, Ma'am,

my dear, when in town, my mode to fetch a rural ſaunter, croſs Holborn before breakfaſt to Bagnigge Wells, cull the newſpapers, give a twiggle on the organ, and take a tiff of rum and milk. Shall I thank your pretty good nature?

Sir, if I had you down at our houſe, we keep the Red Lion.

Red Lion!—How d'ye do, girl!

My dear, my late maſter, Mr. Pranks of Lom⯑bard-ſtreet, a friend of Mr. Whimmy's, they've agreed that young Mr. Tom Pranks—

La! I heard Mr. Peregrine call my hermit by ſome'at like that name.

I ſuppoſe every body knows he's to marry the lady of this houſe.

No, Sir, it's the young lady of our houſe he's to marry; but I don't ſet up for a lady either; though [64]when dreſſed like, ſooth, all the folks here allows that ſomebody would make a good ſort of a lady. Aye! all except Mrs. Maggs;—but ſhe's jealous and envious.

Mrs. Maggs! who's ſhe, pray?

The 'ſquire's houſekeeper.

Oh! the devil! true, my very honoured mo⯑ther, her laſt letter, which I never anſwered, ſaid, that ſhe was coming to live with ſome old rich Eaſt India Quiz in this very part of the country,

She'll claim me as her ſon; but I'd ſooner be found playing at ſkettles at the Devil and Bag-o'-nails.—Oh, zounds! yon is indeed my very mamma

—She'll be for calling me her ſon, and her dear boy Natty. But dem'me, as Kit Cateaton ſays, I'm juſt out of my time; nobody's boy, but my own man. Eh! hey!

Mr. Tom really a gentleman after all? going to be married to Miſs Dian?—Ah! that's becauſe ſhe has fortin.—I ſhall break my heart.

Ah! my cherub—

Ay, Sir, now that you're going to get this great fortin by marrying—

Marrying who! Mrs. Maggs?

Then he hasn't yet heard—and you'd really wed poor humble I?

Wed! Eh! Why, my love, I—I—love you to be ſure, and—we'll walk and talk together, and when tired we'll ſit and reſt ourſelves in the hermi⯑tage, my love. Tol de rol lol, I love you ſo, oh! my divine creature!—Diſtraction!—Roſe buds!—Sun beams—and pretty birds! Come; but ſuch in⯑nocence.—I'm in a humour now—I'll not venture into the hermitage, honour and humanity forbid it.

Sir, ſince you're ſo good as to think of a poor girl like me, you ſha'n't demean yourſelf for want of be⯑ing informed that you may have Miſs Dian and all her wealth.

I have Miſs Dian?

Yes, Sir, it's agreed upon.

By whom?

Miſs's papa and the old gentleman—Mr.—Mr.—Lud now I've forgot the name again.

Can't be my uncle?—Was it—but drop my name—may get about; and if the knabbers ſhou'd follow me—no, no, it can't be me.—How⯑ever, her intention is charming.—Kitty kiſs me, you're a lovely—a good girl—and for your diſ⯑intereſted generoſity in revealing a circumſtance that you ſuppoſed might rob you of me; for I will be vain enough to think you're—a—little—partial—to⯑wards—a certain ordinary fellow,

—I owe you eternal gratitude.

Oh, then you are—but my joy that you're not to have a lady and a fortune is very ill-na⯑tured of me. Don't you think ſo?

Oh! you ſweet—

Dang my buttons, go home and ſweeten the punch, and ſqueeze the lemons.—Come and handſell your ſilver cup; you're an honeſt lad, I muſt ſay; but if you want any chat with my daughter, you muſt come to my houſe for it, good Maſter Hermit.

Well, if a publican will keep the ſign of an angel, there a ſaint may take his bottle,

SCENE II. Before BARLEYCORN'S.

Come, now do, child, mind the buſineſs.

Oh! I'm ſo happy!—I've yet ſome hopes that this dear—Father, though he is a hermit, he is a gentle⯑man too.

Well, I'd be a gentleman if I'd nothing elſe to do.

I forgot my ſinging, I don't know how long, ſince I've ſeen this ſweet fellow,

"A young gentleman ſhe ſaw."

"Who belonged to the law."—Meaſter, I'm now conſtable.—Miſs Kitty, you like bache⯑lors of every ſtation.

Dearly!

Do you? it's that new come Mr. Tom has brought you to this; ſo if he does marry you, let him keep you to himſelf an he can.

"Being at a noble wedding,

"In the famous town of Reading."

Od dang you both, am I to be rhim'd and ballad ſung, and the buſineſs of my houſe all—Will you go?

"If ſhe's rich you'll riſe to fame."

"If ſhe's poor you are the ſame."

Will you go?

"She was left by a good grannum."

"Wed me, Sir, or elſe I'll fight you."

You'll fight me? Dang my buttons I'll fight you, and knock you to the devil, you idle raſcal; I'll ſing and ballad you,

and you, you baggage!

Father, I believe you're uncle to the Babes in the wood.

You're the ould barbarous Blackamore.

I'll

—Get in you jade,

Oh! Jahn Grum, here be the mon that ſent for us.

According to Lawyer Poz's advice, I'll have young Muſter Pranks apprehended.—You be's a ſinner and a publican.

I'm no ſinner, and only ſarvant to the publican. Eh Jahn, I'm a bit'n a pariſh conſtable though, 'twas ſaid you wanted to attach ſom'en, wa'n't it Jahn?

Hum!

I does. Seize him; he run'd out of priſon, Tho⯑mas Pranks is the man.

Oh! Thomas Pranks's man.

I thought him a ſarvant of grace.

Oh, he thought him a ſarvant out of place, d'ye ſee, Jahn.

Hum!

I followed the chap with this here varrant, I be's coom'd from Babylon after him.

Babylon! oh, that mun be in Barkſhire.

Great London itſelf. Thou ſeem'ſt ſtrong in fleſh, is the ſpirit with thee?

Don't vally the devil his ſelf, when I'm doing my duty, no more does my aſſiſtant, Jahn Grum, doey?

Hum!

There bee's deſcription of his parſon,

Meaſter Barleycorn would know if you'll eat dinner at Red Lion.—You may bring company, for we've entertainment for mon and beaſt—An't we Jahn?

Hum!

Get a good dinner for me, for I loves to eat and drink of the beſt.

You're a genteel mon—

Jahn, he'll be as drunk as a tinker, then I comes chalk double on him. Eh, Jahn!

Hum!

Oh! the Squire,

Where did he run—

Oh, you are the canting bawler that broke down one of my ſta⯑tues,

I had an inward call.

Curſe your call!

He does put it in mine head, with the ſame act, to comfort my fleſh and do a good vork, I vill get myſelf an appetite fore dinner with diſboliſhing this man's idols in his groves and high places.

If you are ſtill a conſtable, why didn't you take that dangerous leveller into cuſtody?

I munna, he be the planter, and walks at large where he liſt; but I'm going to catch the defender, and I'll bring his body and ſoul before your worſhip, in ſaſararo.—Come, Jahn!

Hum!

This prancing hermit has ſo deranged and jumbled all my ſchemes of elegant magnificence—No atten⯑tion to my old friend Pranks; my daughter not yet prepared to receive his nephew—the final diſmiſſion not yet given to Peregrine—Lucky that the reſt of my houſehold is in train, that all my ſervants are ſo⯑ber and regular.—An't this my fine Iriſh orator?

Upon my ſoul this hermit is no better than a bad man, that he can't ſtay there at his buſineſs, where he has nothing to do but ſit quiet—Oh fie, to come here drinking in a public houſe!

And my coachman!—

Ah! Maſter Tully, I ſaw you go out at the gate, and ſo out of pure good nature I followed you, to give you a little hint, that if Maſter hears you left the gar⯑dens to-day, you may chance to loſe your place; be⯑ſides, coming here to booze is not quite the thing.

My daughter's footman too!

Eh, waiter!

The negus I ordered, a gill of wine, ſome water, ſu⯑gar, and a lemon.

Why, for wine, [...] out the licence to-morrow; the man is to call n [...]xt Wedneſday with the lemons; my daughter Kitty has loſt the key of the ſugar-cheſt; nobody drinks water at Red Lion, ſo I have brought you a mug of ale.

Hey! you ſcoundrels, what are you at here with your mugs?

Sir, I came to look for coachman.

And I came to bid the gard'ner drive home.

And, Sir, I came after the hermit, becauſe he came before me.

You moſt ſtupid—

Stop, Sir, what ſort of talk is that, I'm ſtupid? faith, and that's a ſacret, Sir, Sir Iſaac Newton never found out. Sir, I'm a gard'ner, and though I do dig, I'm not a ſpalpeen potatoe-boy—I've read big books of bo [...]amy, and the Millar's Dictionary and Cyclopaddy's. Didn't I graft a mayduke uppon a kackagay apple-tree then in my hot-houſe. Didn't my Lord (when he breakfaſted with you) pull from the ſame tree a canniſter of Hyſon tea and a baſket of Seville oranges? A'n't my flowers ſo ſweet that the hives round the country are empty, and the ſwarms of [74]bees come in a grand congregation into your gardens, humming every body with their bagpipes, ſo diſcreet all in their black bonnets and their yellow velvet breeches?

Men! raſcals! I wiſh I could, like the Great Mo⯑gul, be attended only by women. Ay, one comfort, my female ſervants are diligent and ſober.

Faith, Sir, and here's the head of your female ſervants coming in very ſober here; but how ſhe'll get out, for I don't think her buſineſs here is to drink tea.

I will find him.

Mrs. Maggs, did you want me or my coachman?

No, Sir, it was the hermit brought me here.

Why, I think—

Yes, Sir, I know you think.

'Twas the hermit brought us all here.

He's come after Kitty—and my love for him is—

He's a ramping devil.

"With cockle ſhell on hat brim."

There he hops over the buſh like a jackdaw

Stop him!

What vexations! Now, my dear Mrs. Maggs, I've found out that Tully is a worthleſs man, my whole dependence of ſhewing my fine place is upon you.

Now that is ſo like Mr. Olmondle.

Bleſs me! here comes this moſt delightful young man. I proteſt his very approach brings all my blood up in my face, my heart throbs,—and my limbs—I'm ſuch a poor creature—ſo faint—I muſt ſit,

Come out there, you moſt delicate lovelineſs, my darling roſe bud.

Oh, dear Sir—

By the lord, this is my little pitcher again.

Mr. Thomas!

A'n't you aſhamed of yourſelf, Kitty Barleycorn?

Come, my dear creatures, you muſtn't—

Well, I know we muſtn't—

What, Ma'am? Don't quarrel about me, zounds! I'm like a ſtately peacock between a pheaſant and a turkey hen.

La! you're ſo wild—

But he's very merry, he! he! he!

Wild! merry! my whole life has been one frolic.

Ay, I dare ſay, when you were a boy—

Such diverſions! altering the numbers of doors to puzzle the poſtman, at Chriſtmas in a ſtage coach changing the directions of geeſe, hares, and turkeys, with a bit of chalk and charcoal making a whole room of family portraits ſquint down upon every body.

I vow you muſt not come and ſee our pictures.

La! he's ſo pleaſant! Well, and ah, Mr. Tom!

My ſweet creature, I came to hanſel the ſilver cup. Hey! a bottle of port and a roaſted orange! Ladies, I vow on the honour of a hermit, I'll treat you with a biſhop.

Toby!

Eh! where's this young dog my prentice, bad as my mad nephew. Waiter! my horſe.

Sir, you'll return to ſup at our houſe.

Fooliſh Dick Whimmy to have no dinner! plague of his gardens, in his ponds plenty of carp and tench, that nobody dare fling into a frying-pan; on his green ſlopes, neither graſs lamb nor aſparagus, and for flocks of geeſe and chickens, there a pea⯑cock ſtruts, or an eagle perches, that inſtead of any body eating him, by the Lord, looks as if he'd eat us. My dear, I'm going to Weymouth, cou'dn't you give one a ſnack.

Oh! our bill of fare, Sir,

As fine a bill of fare as e'er I look'd on,

what diſh ſhall I chooſe—a white fore⯑head, a brace of black eyes, garniſh'd with long [78]auburn eye-laſhes, two roſy cheeks, cherry lips, my deſert.

A pity, Mr. Thomas, to diſguiſe his fine hair and delightful ſhape, in that long old beard and gown. La! Sir, what a choice hermit you'd make for Mr. Whimmy; you'd be a nice bald-headed buck, as Tom ſays.

I a bald-headed buck! don't you ſee I wear my own hair, child?

I've brew'd the biſhop. Eh! what old fellow—ſo ſmooth with Kitty—Sir, a word if you pleaſe,

—Zounds, my uncle!

Stop that ſcoundrel,

Oh, Heavens! my ſon Natty!

Mamma! ſhe has me, but I won't be diſgrac'd,

My dear child, who could think of ſeeing you down here,

Any buſineſs with me, Ma'am?

Why, my dear! Don't you know me, Natty?

Zounds, Ma'am, don't Natty me!

Won't you ſpeak to your mother?

Who are you talking to, Ma'am?

Look at me—my own child deny me,

John, is that the young man you ſaw?

Hum!

I ſhall be late with my party,

Stay, my dear boy!

I'm nobody's boy, but my own man, he! he!

Seize him,

Your name?

What of it?

What is it?

What it was yeſterday, and will be to-morrow.

Mind how he ſhuffles; do ye ſee it, John? Tell me your name to-morrow,

Muſn't, becauſe of mamma.

You belong to Mr. Pranks.

Suppoſing ſo.

Then I ſuppoſe you're my priſoner.

Me! for what!

You broke out of jail in Babylon, but we'll hand⯑cuff and ſend you to Dorcheſter.

Handcuff! Broke jail in Babylon! Ay! why ſurely they take me for Tom Pranks!—I'm not the perſon you want.

I arreſt you.

I'm not the man indeed, my friend.

Who anſwers for you? who knows you?

Then I muſt own mother—let me go, this gen⯑tlewoman here is my honour'd mamma.

A wicked wretch, firſt to deny, and now to own me in his diſtreſs!

Mrs. Maggs, be he your ſon?

Oh! no, he's no ſon of mine.

Nay, my dear mamma.

Sir, don't mamma me; who are you talking to?

Ay! why ſure, ſweet mamma!—

Stop; you ſee, my friend, it won't paſs. John, look he don't run away, while I read diſcription of his parſon,

five feet eight inches tall, an expreſſive eye, pleaſing features, good complexion, fine teeth, ſhew your teeth,

a handſome countenance—

'Pon my ſoul this deſcription's very much like me tho'.

Well-made, a genteel deportment; upon the whole, an elegant figure.

Amazing! what a picture of me!

Aſtoniſhing like the child indeed.

You ſee it's you.

No, it's ſuch another handſome fellow, but really not me.

Come, I arreſt you with a little tap,

hold his legs, Jahn, that he mayn't kick I.

Damn'd uncivil this!

I can't bear to ſee him treated ſo—let the child go, you fellows!

Yes, the child ſhall go—to priſon.

You're wrong, he's my ſon.

And juſt now you ſaid—Ay, I ſee how 'tis, Meaſter Butler told me that Mrs. Maggs locks her⯑ſelf in her own room, and there drinks the pre⯑ſarved apricocks—Jahn don't mind, Madam Maggs is ſo fond of talking ſhe'll ſay any thing—bring him along.

Sir, gentlemen conſtables! mamma! kind coun⯑try juſtices! mother!

Why, you horrid villains, you ſhall not!—my child!

SCENE III. The Gardens. Statues thrown down, and broken fragments lying about; ſhrubs and plants, as pulled up.

I vill complete the good work; lay there ac⯑curſed,

and I vill pulls [84]up thy groves, and I vill root thee out of the land,

Sir, your dinner's waiting.

Dang my buttons! here's a fine kick-up! what raſcal cou'd have got in here—ſome one that owes the 'ſquire a grudge.

I've been doing of the job, 'twas all pagan wanity.

So it was, Sir, and you were right to capſize it.

Oh! father, I ſhall go diſtracted; I'm ſure it's my belov'd Tom that they're taking pris'ner to Dor⯑cheſter, yet ſo cruel not to let me ſee him.

I've left the priſoner in ſafe cuſtody with Jahn Grum.

Then I brings him up to town, and lodges him with the Marſhal.

Oh heaven! tell me, Toby, is it the hermit?

No.

It is he.

'Tis not tho'—why you're as bad as Mrs. Maggs, who juſt now ſaid he was her ſon, and he wasn't her ſon—there's diſcription of his perſon,

Handſome, elegant, fine teeth, expreſſive eye—'tis he! you hard-hearted creature—but I'll releaſe my own true love, tho' I beg my bread for it.

Ay now, ſhe too has been drinking apricocks.—Be's I to lay the cloth for you in the two-bedded room,

I loves to eat in a parlour.

Why we wiſh to reſarve that for—

Parlour! than, Sir, ſhan't I tap no vind—he won't inform—

I drinks vind, for I thirſts after the good things of this world.

That's right.

He's a wet Chriſtian.

Shall they take up dinner?

Yes, I hungers after good; I could munch one morcil of Portlin mutton; yea, one pound and an half, and ſix, and four, and two wheat ears, roaſted in wine leaves, and other ſettries of niceiſh ſaver.

The 'ſquire—dang my buttons, here'll be work.

Fury and diſtraction! what's all here!—Tully!

This is your going to the alehouſe, here's your brags, here's yellow-breech'd bees humming their bag-pipes—but I'll turn over a new leaf, I'll dig and root out—

Arrah, Sir, I wiſh you'd let the leaves and the trees alone! you've been digging and rooting pret⯑tily: [87]what put it into your head to pull up the plants in this manner?

My head, there's my dancing Faunus.

Oh! I ſee how this is; you want to keep me only as your ſhow-man, and take the head gard'ning into your own hands—the geranums all torn, the myrtles, and lillies, and laylocks, are all pull'd about as if they were old bean ſtalks.

You raſcal! what do you talk of your paltry plants—look at my ſtatues, none equal to them in the Barbarini gallery.

The barber's gallery! Only tell a body what you intend to put down in the place—if yourſelf was planted, the devil a thing would grow out of your head but potatoe apples.

Two of my Seaſons—

You don't know the ſeaſons; you're a gentleman, and you've money to buy roots and fruits, but I tell you, you don't know an annual from an ever⯑green. I got myſelf finely laughed at to-day by ſhowing your kickſhaws, but I waſh my hands out of it. There's your deſcribing book

and you may get another Ciceroni magpye to chatter to the company.

There's a villain!

Knock people's hats off—can't think who the fel⯑low was!—Dick, I'm on the ſpur to fetch my nephew from Weymouth; an idle ſcoundrel! what perplexities he has involved me in! Dolts to ap⯑prehend Natty Maggs for him; theſe country con⯑ſtables are ſo obſtinate, won't even take my word: but what ſort of wild people have you ſettled amongſt here that pull folks heads about?

Yes, heads, legs, and arms, look!

Ha! ha! ha! a good deed however.

What, to demoliſh my beauties?

Your modern gardens are art ſpoiling nature [...] fixing up a ſtone woman where one expects to find a roſy girl of health, fleſh, and blood: if we muſt have ſtatues, inſtead of importing ancient heathen gods into Engliſh meadow, why not encourage Britiſh arts to celebrate Britiſh heroes? for a Jupiter by Phidias give me an Elliot by a Bacon: the five thouſand pounds you laid out upon that clumſy Pantheon yonder, wou'd have built a neat cluſter of alms-houſes, where age and infancy might find an aſylum from the pangs of indigence.

Why, but Billy—

'Sblood, when I reflect I owe my preſent inde⯑pendence to my education in the Blue Coat School, as I drive my whiſky on a Sunday by Dulwich Col⯑lege, I feel more warmth of affection for the me⯑mory of Edward the king, or Alleyn the player, than for all the travelling cognoſcenti in Chriſten⯑dom. Dick, I love reaſon.

A rare chace, but I got from him—zounds!

Oh, damme, I'll have you,

He likes reaſon, and the fellow's mad; there he runs after my hermit. Certainly 'twas this ſavage old Goth committed theſe barbariſms—I hope he'll not find his nephew; however, I muſt prepare my daughter for the marriage.

SCENE III. Inſide of Hermitage. YOUNG PRANKS ſitting in his Hermit's Dreſs, as if put on haſtily.

I thought I had a glimpſe of him darting this way—Eh! one of Whimmy's toys [90]—

Father Dominick—ſeen a ſcoundrel run in here—Do ye hear! can you ſpeak!—it was certainly my nephew; a hound! ſkulking about, and ſuffer a poor innocent man to be taken up for him; to be handcuff'd, haul'd, and dragg'd—

An innocent man ſuffer for me!

You! Oh you villain! How dare you borrow money about as you have done!

Sir,

I—I—borrow'd money to get out of debt.

Eh! how?

Yes, Sir, to pay my debts.

But why get in debt?

All owing to my good principle, the people wou'd truſt me, my character was ſo excellent.

Then from your excellent character they think you a damn'd rogue—you villain!

Dear Sir, diſcriminate between vice and folly; you are the only one I ever wrong'd, my ſecond [91]parent, my friend, my benefactor. Sooner than let this perſon you ſpoke of juſt now any longer bear the diſgrace that I only deſerve, I'll inſtantly free him by delivering myſelf up to hopeleſs impriſon⯑ment,

Eh! ſtop you rogue you, conſider how terrible a priſon is.

Lord, Sir, no! the only difference between the people walking by and I is, that they're on one ſide of the door and I'm on t'other. A priſon! to reſign myſelf to it, now, is barely performing the duties of honeſty.

Surrenders to free the guiltleſs! Not ſo bad as I thought him.

Sir, I've been told, ſince you're a banker gen⯑tleman in Lombard-ſtreet, London, you bankers, Sir, have always a great deal of money.

I've heard of petticoat pads—a piſtol may come out here! Well, my dear, granting I have money, do you want any?

Not myſelf, Sir; there's a young gentleman is taken up for debt, Sir; I thought it a pity he ſhould go to priſon, as he got out of it before, and [92]that, you know, Sir, is a ſign he doesn't like it; hard for a perſon to go where they can't be happy.

Upon my word this young lady reaſons exceeding pretty—Well, Miſs?

And Sir, my aunt by mother's ſide, has left me three hundred pounds independent of my father, here are the papers, Sir, all about it, Sir, if you'd be ſo kind as to advance the money, and tranſact the buſineſs of releaſing the young gentleman with it, I'd be very much obliged to you, Sir,

Here's a charming girl! And ſo, my dear, you think Natty Maggs ſo fine a fellow, that you give up all your fortune to releaſe him.

Natty Maggs! No, Sir, our 'ſquire's hermit.

Hermit! She muſt mean my wild nephew,

Sir, keep the papers, I know you'll free him; you look ſo good-natured, I beſeech you, Sir, Sir,

Tol lol lol,

The heart of an amiable woman is the true touchſtone of manly merit. This good and delicate creature loves my nephew, and he muſt be a worthy lad. The girl, no matter for [93]her ſituation, is come of a good ſtock, and ſhould be tranſplanted. I didn't, till now, know my nephew—I'll forgive, I'll give him all—Go to the King's Bench again! that he ſhan't, while I've a gui⯑nea to keep him out of it, tol lol lol.

SCENE IV. A Gallery in Whimmy's Houſe.

Stop, Tom, whither now?

To the King's Bench—what's the matter? Oh, true, Miſs Dian told me—upon my ſoul her father uſes you both very ill—who is this whelp he is going to give her to?

I don't know; Mr. Whimmy has never even ſeen him.

No! An uncle, isn't it that's bringing this about? I've a good uncle—but long before he'd think of providing me with an heireſs—but then I've been ſuch a curſed fellow.

One chance, this ſpark may, as it's a forced thing, [...] indifferent, and the old gentleman doats ſo upon [94]his daughter, that were an emperor to ſlight her, 'twou'd for ever loſe his favour.

What's this uncle's name?—who, where, what is he?

I know nothing about him.

Nor old Whimmy neither.

I've never ſeen him, I told you.

Then I'll perſonate him, and I warrant you diſ⯑guſt the old gentleman ſufficiently to make him break off the match; then, Peregrine, is your harveſt, I'll be with you in a trice. Never be diſmay'd, Pe⯑regrine, when you admit me as a ſchemer into your cabinet; for I have turn'd my coat ſo often ſince I arriv'd in theſe parts, that there is no doubt of my being a moſt finiſhed politician.

In vain talking, child;—I muſt keep my firſt promiſe.

But, dear Sir, will you ſentence your child to miſery?

Sir, you encourag'd me with a certainty that I ſhou'd be the happieſt of men, and now in a mo⯑ment, to ſnatch me from Heaven, and plunge me into an abyſs of deſpair.

Can't help it, Dian;—I muſt give you to my friend's nephew.

Sir, here's a young gentleman will ſee you—ſeems in a piteous taking. Here's my maſter, Sir.

Oh! I will not have her.

Ah! who are you?

Certainly Tom Pranks.

What do you want?

I don't want a wife.

Who the devil cares, whether you do or no—have you any buſineſs?

No; I'm a gentleman. My uncle ſays I muſt marry your daughter; but I won't.

Ah! can this be the wild rogue I've heard ſo much of? why, your uncle told me you were an⯑other-gueſs being. Dian, this is your huſband.—How do you like him?

I fee this. Sir, if Mr. Peregrine can pardon me, ſince you've ſet your heart on't, I'm reſign'd to your will, with the dutiful obedience of a daughter.

Now, that's very lucky. Peregrine, you ſee—

Then, Sir, ſince the lady is ſo very fickle, I re⯑ſign her with little regret.

Ah! this is all very well; then we'll call your uncle; Parſon Jack is in the next room, and you ſhall be married immediately.

But I won't marry, oh!

—I'll never ſay, father-in-law, to ſuch an ugly old fellow as you.

Why, you damn'd impudent young ſcoundrel, dare you affront me, and refuſe my daughter? then let your uncle do his worſt. There, Peregrine, take Dian, and may I be curs'd if ever I again attempt to part you.

You'll alter your mind again, Sir.

I'll put that out of my power—go, Doctor,

tack that couple together inſtantly.

My uncle! oh! zounds!

Billy, what bouncing you've kept about this ne⯑phew of your's. He, a buck, and a blood!—a blubbering milkſop.

My Tom a milkſop! I ſay he's a buck.

I ſay he's an aſs.

There's the buck! a taſteleſs hound, has been abuſing me here, and refuſed my daughter.

Oh! the devil! am I really the character I only perſonated.

Where is he?

Can't you ſee? thraſh him for his impudence to me.

Why, ah, Tom!

Aye, poor Tom!

By the Lord, it's my galloping hermit!

and your nephew.

Sir, I now ſee your goodneſs; but had I even be⯑fore known it, I cou'd not have enjoy'd the bleſſing you deſign'd for me, at the expence of a friend's happineſs. Mr. Peregrine has love and merit.—I admire, but don't deſerve the lady.

Then, ſince you're ſo diſintereſted as to decline the golden pippin, I'll give you a ſweet wild ſtrawberry.

O Mr. Banker, have you—'tis he

thanky, Sir.

Tom, here's a girl that wou'd have barter'd all her little fortune for your freedom; and now as you hope for mine, take her.

Why, ſhe's daughter to the Red Lion.

Aye, my honeſt landlord, that reliev'd the ſuf⯑ferers, while you were ſwallowing peaches in Decem⯑ber, and the poor ſhivering in cold and nakedneſs. Red Lion, Dick! where honour's derived from be⯑nevolence; ſhe's daughter to a nobleman. What ſay you, my girl?

Only, Sir, that my heart is fill'd with gratitude; but you muſt aſk the Red Lion's conſent; for tho' you were a huſband for a queen, I wou'd not have a prince, if it might grieve an indulgent parent.

Your worſhip, here's the defender is obſtropolos, and has lick'd I and John Grum.

Aye, dem'me, I plump'd 'em.

Was't you, Natty? I'm ſorry that my irregularities ſhou'd have involv'd you in this trouble.

Oh! Natty Maggs—my child to be haul'd and maul'd—but this comes of your denying me your honour'd mother.

Haul'd and maul'd—may the ſon never get better uſage who cou'd deny his parent.

Dang my buttons, you ſhall—

What's this?

Only this devout preacher walks into Mr. Barley⯑corn's and crams himſelf like a great fowl; then walks off without diſcharging his ſhot; when aſk'd, ſays he, you'll be paid above, and ſays Mr. Barley⯑corn, by who there? and ſays he, why by Abdiel; ſo they walk'd up ſtairs to me, where I was taking a pint and a whiff of tobacco. I was chriſten'd Mr. Tull [...] ▪ ſo I walks down—but who ever ſaw an angel with a pipe in his mouth? I don't mind paying for a man [...] dinner; but, Sir, be ſo kind as to ſend this geatleman to jall. How do ye do, Mrs. Maggs?

My Saint George's Fields landlord!

The ſpirit openeth my mouth.

You opened your mouth to ſwallow a leg of lamb, honey.

All things ſhall be in common with the righteous?

Pay me for ſarving capias on Muſter Pranks.

Me! how?

Capias! What, you villain, are you that Ham Barebones that has lent my nephew money at an ex⯑orbitant uſance.

That, like the devil, tempted me by the means, and now puniſhes me for the ſin.

Talk of righteouſneſs! and bilk the houſe of an honeſt induſtrious man.

Mrs. Peregrine

Deareſt father, your bleſſing.

There, my bleſſing on you both, you two ſouls.

Then, my dear uncle, I take my lovely Kitty Bar⯑leycorn, and whilſt her gentle qualities convince our friends, that birth and rank are not neceſſary to con⯑ſtitute an amiable wife, my reſpect for her virtues may prove, that the thoughtleſs prodigal can make a good huſband.

Oh! I'm happy! ha! ha! ha! We've all got ſo very generous. Peregrine, with his little fortune, have Dian and all my wealth; your nephew, with your riches, takes little Kitty Barleycorn with nothing at all; and ecod, Mrs. Maggs looks ſo ſpruce, that I could find in my heart to—

Now that's ſo like Mr. Olmondle,

Oh!

And now, Mrs. Maggs, you will be drinking the apricocks.

Then, Sir, ſhall we be merry. Here ends my ſe⯑ven years hermitage, and, inſtead of my annuity, I ſhall think myſelf nobly rewarded, if my extravagant tricks and fancies can, by an indulgent ſmile, receive the forgiveneſs of my generous friends.