[] THE DUPES OF FANCY.

Scene I. The Kitchen.

WHAT is that which you are taken with ſo much, Mr. Lazy-bones? why you have been looking at yourſelf this half-hour, and now you look as if you were frightened out of your wits!

Frighten'd!—frighten'd at what?

At yourſelf to be ſure, and I do not wonder at it; why your head looks like a rumpled hen that has gone through a hedge backwards, and your face is as pale as a parſnip.

You are making me out a ſtrange creature forſooth, may'nt a body tie on one's neckcloth without being frightened out of one's wits at the looking-glaſs.

Tying on your neckcloth truly;—heavens what a ſloven;—why you have not above half tied it;—I ſuppoſe you will be for making love to me with your collar open again.—You look in the face for all the world like the picture of the ſtarved poet, in my maſter's dreſſing room.

Faith and troth you are full of your ſkits, Mrs. Dolly; but for all that, I have heard people ſay, that to be careleſs is to be modiſh.

Modiſh, modiſh, ha! ha! ha!—I never ſaw ſuch a modiſh ninny as you before, it is enough to make one kill one's ſelf with laughing, I am ſure you ſhall never go into the parlour ſuch a comical figure as that—only look at yourſelf again.

Why, how would you have me look?

Like a man to be ſure.—You that are drawn for the militia too—why you ought to look like a ſoldier!

How in the name of patience am I to look like a ſoldier before I'm taught.

Let me put on your neckcloth, and I'll ſhew you how.

Ah, that you ſhall, and thank you too.

Kneel down then, and you ſhall ſee what a comely figure I will make of you.

Kneel, aye, that I will and pray too, if you like it, my dear little chick-a-biddy.

There! there! there!—you ſeem now as if you had a little blood in your face, you look like a ſoldier now with a witneſs.

Murder! murder! murder!—Oh, pray!

Ha! ha! ha!—Well, now ſince I have brought you to your prayers I am ſatisfied, and you ſhall be releas'd—but it is a pity you had not been choak'd, you look'd ſo pretty.

And ſhould you have lik'd to have ſeen me choak'd Dolly?

Choak me if I ſhould not.

Why Dolly, now that's ſo cruel of you.

Why?—becauſe you're ſuch a lazy, lubberly, ſlovenly creature.—Don't you know that this is Saturday, that Alderman Grub is coming to viſit Maſter, and you've got nothing ready.

Lord help you, be'ant I always ready, what would the woman have me do?

What?—why there are all the knives to clean; my Maſter's new wig to comb out; the tobacco pipes to wax at the ends; and the ſand⯑diſhes to be got in readineſs—you know that they ſmoke like a couple of Turks!

Lord bleſs me I had forgot all that to be ſure.

I knew you had, you've a precious memory, but my Maſter would not be apt to forget you I fancy, if you had not got them all prepared in time;—you know he is never ſo happy as when ſurrounded with ſmoke.

Nor I neither, Dolly—Lord, it is my heart's delight.

I'm glad to hear that, for it convinces me that you will make a better ſoldier.

What are they ſo fond of ſmoke then?

Every good ſoldier is fond of the ſmoke of gunpowder to be ſure.

Oh, I never lik'd that ever ſince I had like to have been blown up with it the laſt fifth of November; I'll tell you all about it;—you muſt [12] know that I had got a whole pound of powder, and was making of ſquibs.

Making of ſquibs was you, and ſo, I ſuppoſe, you went off in a cracker?

Odds-bobbs! Maſter's bell rings.

Aye, and if he catches you here with your gunpowder ſtories, he will be for blowing us both up.

SCENE II.

They ſay that every man has his hobby horſe, and without one has ſomething in purſuit, life is as inſipid as tripe, without muſtard or vinegar.—My hobby-horſe is my flower-garden, and I can ride that with ſafety, for I ſhall never be afraid of that kicking me in the ſtomach, or breaking my neck with ſtumbling.—I expect my friend Grub here by and by, and think that I ſhall amaze him with the variety of colours, which I ſhall preſent to him in my amphitheatre.—Mr. Grub has his hobby-horſe too, but his horſe is a butter-fly;—I often tell him, that he is as fond of purſuing a fly, as a fiſh or a ſwallow.—But I muſt make haſte, he will be here ſoon, and if we ſhould not happen to have the dinner on table exactly at one, he will be for ſtinging me with reproaches, and buzzing in my ears like a gnat.

Did you ring, Sir?

Yes, to be ſure—yet one would have thought that you had forgot it, by your being ſo long in coming—What was you about?

Nothing, Sir.

I ſuppoſe ſo—I ſhould have been angry with you had you not told me the truth, for that is one of the hardeſt things in the world to get at.

Oh, Sir, I always tell the truth.

You are miſtaken, I am afraid, and have marr'd all; you only told me truth by way of accident, becauſe you was too dull of invention, and had not time to tell me a falſhood.

I never tell a falſhood, Sir, but when I cannot help it.

Well,—I hope Dolly told you that Alderman Grub was coming to dine with me to day?

Yes, Sir.

And are all things in readineſs?

Yes—Sir;—No—Sir.

Yes, Sir; no, Sir!—there ſeems to be a lie, and a true ſaying, both in a breath, which of them am I to believe?

Which you pleaſe, Sir.

I ſuppoſe ſo—therefore I am inclin'd to believe that you have got nothing ready.

'Faith, Sir, you have hit it.

Hit it, have I?—Why you audacious Scoundrel, I have a good mind to hit you; I'll knock you down, you blockhead—Where is my Wig?

Upon the block, Sir.

I wonder that you have it not on then; is it dreſs'd?

No, Sir, not quite dreſs'd.

I declare I have a good mind to give you a good dreſſing—go to your brother block and finiſh it immediately; it is inſufferable to have two blockheads in the houſe at once. But firſt take this, and bid the gard'ner to place it in the Amphitheatre; the third row; between that of Arrogance and In⯑difference; being a modiſt flower, its bluſhes will be the more diſtinctly ſeen.

"What a ſtrange thing is fear, it ſits as Lord Chief Juſtice of our Conſcience, and often extorts a falſhood, or makes us tell the truth, by being over-aw'd from Apprehenſion of Conviction—This fellow of mine, take him in common, as a ſervant, is not a bad one;—he has always an in⯑clination to tell the truth, yet his heart is never couragious enough to prevent his give way to a falſhood.—But how goes time—

odds ſo, it is almoſt twelve o'clock, we ſhall have Maſter Grub here by one."

Did you ring, Sir?

Aye, how goes on the Dinner?

As faſt as the Jack and Fire can make it, Sir;—Cook, Sir, is broiling away like a poſt-horſe in the Dog-days.

And if ſhe ſhould happen to be a minute too late, my friend Grub would have no more mercy upon her, than the haſty rider upon his jaded ſteed.

Cook, you know, Sir, is a little rough in her paces, if he were to fall foul of her, he might ſtand a chance to be flung, and get his baſtings.

Where's my Neice—Mrs. Prate-a-dace?

In her dreſſing room, Sir.

Tell her it is Twelve o'Clock—Mr. Grub will be here preſently; bid her get ready to receive him, and not be behind hand as ſhe generally is upon theſe occaſions.

Oh, never fear her, Sir; ſhe may be ready to receive him in order to pleaſe you, but ſhe will be the more glad to get rid of him to pleaſe herſelf.

What do you mean by that you impudent baggage,—hey?

I can hardly tell what I mean, myſelf, Sir;—but there is a certain old gentleman that will acquaint you ſoon enough I warrant you.

An old Gentleman!—What old Gentleman, Huzzy?

Why Sir, the old gentleman that goes ſee-ſaw, ſee-ſaw in the face of our clock, who has got only one lock of hair on his forehead, and a ſcythe in his hand;—old Maſter Time.

Was there ever ſuch inſolence.—Away with you then, and don't ſtay looſing your time here, but mind your buſineſs, and take care that every thing be properly placed.

Mean while I'll go and take a peep into the garden; and, like a good and prudent Miniſter, ſee that my affairs be properly arrang'd fit for the eye of public inſpection.

SCENE III. The Houſe.

Here is the place, and this the Temple wherein reſides the Goddeſs of my affections:—while I like a poor and devoted Pilgrim have wander'd hither thus diſguis'd, to render up my offerings, and ſoothe thoſe pangs of love which rankle in my breaſt—I have taken this diſguiſe, leſt I ſhould be diſcover'd by the imperious and avaricious eye of one that is fix'd by fate as a guard to check the inclinations of her lenient boſom.—Therefore will put my little ſtratagem into execution, by ſinging an old Engliſh Ballad, and ſee if I cannot attract the notice of ſome of the Domeſtics; to whom, I may communicate my purpoſe, and thro' whom I may perhaps have an opportunity of ſeeing the beloved object of my heart.

Faith you ſing well Maſter, let me have one of your Songs, I like them vaſtly.

And ſo do I, come let me have one, too.

Nay, you have given me too many—I only aſk'd for one, and you have given me two.

Why did'nt you ſay one, two; and that makes a couple to be ſure.

Does it ſo, Mr. Sharpſhins, but one will do for me, I thank you; tho' I wiſh it had been Dolly of our Alley—inſtead of Sally of our Alley, then I ſhould have been ſinging it all day to my ſweetheart, here.

Sweetheart!—you're a pretty fellow for a ſweetheart to be ſure;—come, come, come along in and mind your buſineſs, or elſe inſtead of a ſweetheart, you may chance to meet with a ſour face from my Maſter by and bye.

Dolly! Dolly!

Dolly! Dolly!—How the deuce did you come by my name ſo pat?

Why, I told him to be ſure.

Don't you know me?

Know you!—not I.

Don't you know Mr. Willing⯑ford.

Mr. Willingford! mercy upon me; oh! dear, you have almoſt frightened me out of my wits.

As ſure as I am alive it is Mr. Willing⯑ford, why it has ſtruck me almoſt into an Egyptian Mummy.

Come in, Sir, pray come in, and let me hide you as faſt as I can, I would not have my Maſter ſee you for all the world.

Nor I either—not but that I am glad to ſee you, don't you be afraid of that.—ha! ha! ha! I can't help laughing at it—this is a comical kind of a joke.

Come in, Sir, for heaven's ſake, and let me hide you, or elſe it will be a Tragical joke, I'm afraid.

Aye, away with you, Sir, away with you for your own ſake, for Dolly's ſake, and for my ſake; we'll take care of you—tho' hide and ſeek is no bad game by the bye—I know one that will be glad to find you.

SCENE IV.

The ſtory which I have been reading, puts me ex⯑actly in mind of poor Mr. Willingford and myſelf.—His father died, and left him nothing but a good education, and the wide and hazardous world to ramble in;—Mine bequeath'd me all he had by his will, but left me no will of my own;—he has made me over to the care of an avaricious uncle, until I arrive at the age of twenty-one, which, thank heaven, is almoſt at hand; yet he wiſhes to transfer me to a beaſtly creature, who would fain preſent himſelf to me as a huſband—but I will die firſt—I am told they cannot force me to marry any body againſt my will, and that is a comfortable conſo⯑lation.—Ah! poor Mr. Willingford, when I think of thee—

Miſs, Miſs, Miſſey!

What's the matter?

Come down ſtairs and I'll tell you.

Why can't you tell me while I am above ſtairs?

There is ſomebody juſt come in, who wants to ſpeak with you.

I know who you mean, therefore I ſhall not hurry myſelf.

No you don't; if you did, I fancy you would talk in a different ſtrain.

Is the girl mad?—I wiſh you would not take the liberty to teaze me in ſuch a man⯑ner—you know I hate the fellow.

What fellow?

What fellow!—why the fellow that you are talking about—that naſty fuſty, wig-pated fellow—Old Grub.

Grub! Grub!—he is no Grub; he is a gentleman every inch of him, and a pretty one too.

Who is he then, why don't you tell me?

Why, who ſhould it be but Mr. Willingford?

Mr. Willingford!—bleſs me you have ſtruck me with aſtoniſhment—I hope my Uncle has not ſeen him; if he has, we ſhall have a ſad piece of work, and all our hopes will be totally overſet.—Where is my Uncle?

In the Garden.

And where's Mr. Willingford?

I have taken care of him, he's ſafe enough out of harms way, I promiſe you.

Is he?

Aye that he is.

Where is he then?

Where do you think?

I cannot think, nor do I care, ſo he is but ſafe out of danger;—where is he?—prithee tell me girl.

Why I have ſlipp'd him up the back ſtairs into my bed-room, I have got the key in my pocket, and here it is.

Charming! you are a dear good creature and I love you for it.—But what is to be done; I know not what to do, or what to ſay—I am all confuſion; I that ſhould at this moment be nothing but contrivance and manoeuvre, am, by the pre⯑ſent unaccountable flurry on my ſpirits, rendered in⯑capable of every thing, that might be the means of my future happineſs.

I'll endeavour to help you out—I'm not in love you know—I've got no flurry on my ſpirits.

You are the beſt of creatures, and ſhall never have occaſion to repent this act of kindneſs.

I'll tell you what then—you know my Maſter and old Grub, always go poking and pottering about the garden after dinner, and will be for holding their argumentations of an hour and a half long, about their flowers, their butterflies and the duce knows what.

Well—what then?—my dear good girl—what then?

What then?—why then you will have nothing to do after dinner, but to let Mr. Willing⯑ford know that you are alone and you won't want company, I warrant you.

After dinner!—Now you talk of dinner, what is he to do?—Muſt the poor dear creature ſet ſtarving in your bed-room all the time; I dare ſay he has not dined;—did you aſk him?

Dined?—Why I am told that your true lovers never want to eat.

Prithee don't be fooliſh.

Don't make yourſelf uneaſy, Miſs, I was neither ſo fooliſh or ſo brutiſh, but I had thought enough about me to take proper care of him.

In what reſpect?

In reſpect to his dinner—for I have ſent him up a cold Collection as they call it, and provided him with ſome veal and ham; the cold giblet pye, ſome cold pudding, by way of ſettling his love, and a bottle of wine to waſh it down whenever he pleaſes.

Excellent!—you delight me.—

that is my uncle's bell.—Go, and aſk what he wants, and let me know immediately.

I am delighted with the frankneſs and attachment of this good natured girl, but extreamly aggitated at the ſtate of poor Mr. Willingford; ſure it is the moſt provoking and tantalizing ſituation in the world.—The man I love, and whom I have not ſeen this month, to have him under the very roof with me, and even there depriv'd the ſight of him, when inſtead of receiving him as I ought, to have him lock'd up in a ſtate of apprehenſion and fear, is hard indeed!

Miſs, my Maſter is in the ſtrangeſt mood imaginable, and deſires that you will come down immediately.

Tell him that I am coming

he will find me in as ſtrange a mood as himſelf;—I have juſt as little inclination to ſet down to dinner, as I have to hear the con⯑verſation that I am likely to be peſtered with while I am at the table.

SCENE V.

Did you want me, Sir?

Where's my Wig, Sirrah? Muſt I dine in my Night-cap think you; go and fetch it immediately, or I'll have you ſet in the ſtocks for diſobedience.

Sir, I have juſt done it—I have got to the hundred and fortieth curl, and have only five more to do.

Five, you Scoundrel you, why, if there had been five hundred Curls, you might have done them before this time.—What is the reaſon you have not done it before?—I inſiſt upon knowing.

I'll tell you indeed, Sir, if you won't be angry.

Tell me then, immediately.

Why then, ſince the truth muſt out, it muſt;—that bitter fury of a Cook, Sir!

The Cook! What has ſhe thrown it upon the fire in one of her infernal Tantrums?

No, Sir;—but as I hope to be ſav'd, I was only getting a ſop in the pan, and the great ſplaw-footed creature puſhed me down, and ſo, to ſave my head from going into the fire, I tumbl'd with my hands into the Dripping-pan, which ſcal⯑ded my poor fingers ſo much that I was oblig'd to to run to Dr. Seret's in order, as a body might ſay, to get them nointed before I could make uſe of them again.

I wiſh you and the Cook were both in Heaven.

Heaven forbid Sir!

Heaven forbid indeed—Go and fetch my wig, I ſay, bring it to me done or undone?

I'm gone, Sir.

I'm out of all patience,

Sir, Sir, Sir!

What is the matter now?

Mr. Grub is arriv'd. Sir, and the clock is juſt upon the ſtroke of one.

Bring in my Wig, call down my Niece, and carry in the dinner.

Sir, if you pleaſe, Miſs deſires that you will excuſe her coming down to dinner to day.

Excuſe? I'll have no excuſe—What is the matter with her now?

She's got a ſad pain in her ſtomach, Sir.

Pain in her ſtomach?—A good dinner is the beſt remedy in the world for a pain in the ſtomach—tell her to come down immediately.

Here it is, Sir;—here it is at laſt.

Here it is—here it is—No there it is—I think there it is—You villain you've ruin'd me—I wiſh you had broken your neck with all my heart.

'Twas not my fault, Sir,

Not your fault you Scoundrel?

No, Sir.

No! Whoſe fault was it pray?

Dolly's Sir.

Mine? Oh, Monſterous!

Yes, if your confounded long train had not been in the way, I ſhould not have had this mis⯑fortune!

Why her train ſeems always to be in your way—this is the ſecond time to day that you have got yourſelf entangled in her ſkirts.—One would think that you were blind—Come you blun⯑der-ſkull, you, put it on as it is; I muſt make the beſt of it now, and ſee if you can find the way to ſhew Mr. Grub into the parlour; Dolly, run and call your Miſtreſs down, away with you both.

SCENE VI.

Mr. Grub, I am heartily glad to ſee you—always punctual—punctual as the clock—you gentlemen of the City look ſharp after Time.

Conſider the hour, Maſter Tintem, it is dinner Time, and my ſtomach generally looks ſharp after that—but my eye, my eye, Mr. Tintem at this moment, looks very ſharp after ſomething elſe—My dear, Miſs Tintem, how do you do?—My dear little ſweetheart how do you do?

I thank you, Sir, but very in⯑different.

Indifferent!—I'm very ſorry for that, but I hope you will never be indifferent to me.

You ſeem to be but a very in⯑different creature at the beſt.

Come my good friend;—Sit down—ſay, what I ſhall help you too?

Why, Sir, if you pleaſe, I will thank you for a little of the roaſted Pig—I am glad you have got a young pig, there is nothing that I love better than a young Pig, and every thing that is young, ſo does my dear little girl there, I dare ſay, does'nt ſhe?

Oh, what an amorous devil!

Wou'd you wiſh me, Sir, to be fond of nothing but what is young?

No, to be ſure,

Then you never can expect that I can be fond of you.

That's a douſer for you old one.

The devil's in the girl to be ſure; you'll never get Mr. Grub for a huſband, while you paſs ſuch compliments as thoſe upon him.

Oh, never mind the little Puſs—for as to compliments, and all them there kind of things, I never minded them,—nay, to tell you the truth, I always hated compliments.

I ſhould think it ſtrange, indeed, if you could ever love them, eſpecially, if they came in the manner my Niece beſtows them on you.

Ah, let the little thing ſay what ſhe will ſhe will never be able to make me quarrel with my Victuals.

That I really believe.

Will you give me leave to help you to a little of this roaſted Duck—I aſſure you it is highly ſeaſon'd; and ſeems to be well dreſs'd—a clean plate Gaby.

Roaſted Duck!—I was always very, very fond of a roaſted Duck.

What a fond creature it is!—

I dare ſay, that will be his an⯑ſwer to every thing upon the Table.

Shall I help you to a Leg or a Wing, Maſter Grub?

Both if you pleaſe, my very good friend.

'Tis a pity he had not the whole Duck, feathers and all.

That's right, I like every body to ſpeak their mind, it ſhews the proper freedom of ſpirit, and ſaves a great deal of unneceſſary trouble.

I likes Freedom, and I hates trouble;—you may be ſure of that by the ſpeeches, you muſt have heard me make in Guildhall—I ſay nothing now, but don't you think that we are in a ſweet ſituation?

Sweet! not very ſweet at pre⯑ſent; for you muſt confeſs we have been rather ſowered of late.

Sowered—pray by what means.?

Why I think the ſweetneſs of our ſituation has been greatly abated by the high price your Company has ſet upon Sugars.

Oh! that has prov'd a monſtorous good thing to our Company.

But monſtorous things are not at all times the moſt pleaſant, either to the Eye or to the Mind, and I know of no monſter ſo frightful, to the greateſt part of his Majeſty's Subjects, as that Monſter call'd Monopoly.

A Monopoly! I never ſaw any of them there creatures in all my Life—Pray, Sir, what are they like? And what part of the world do theſe Monopolies come from.

Lord they are to be ſeen at Exeter Change or the Lyceum every Day.

From all parts I fancy, but it is an animal that ſeems to thrive more in this Country than any other.

Ah, Maſter Tintem, you ſeem to be more acquainted with theſe here matters than I am—you have travelled a good deal you know; I'm told that you have been to all the Watering-places in England; but as to my part I was never any farther than Margate—I went there and came back by Water, which made me ſo ſick of the Journey, that I don't think I ſhall ever go there again.

No, indeed?

No not I—Beſides they are ſuch a ſet of impoſing Raſcals, that they would often charge me Six-pence for a half-penny's worth of Small beer, and you know one can get a quart of good ſound porter in London for three-pence half-penny.

Ah, you will find impoſition in every part of the Kingdom now-a-days.

A little more Duck if you pleaſe.

I knew he'd finiſh it.

How do you like it—don't you find the ſauce rather Predominant.

"I have not taſted any yet—I wiſh you would give me a little of it."

"A little of what?"

"Why a little of the Predominant as you call it.—I ſuppoſe that is ſome new kind of ſauce, I wiſh you would give me a little of it."

I beg pardon, Maſter Grub, but you can't help being entertaining.

Aye that's my way—I'm generally ſaid to be the life of the company.

I'll be hang'd if he be'ant as great a Gaby as myſelf.

Will you drink a glaſs of wine?

With all my heart, and I dare ſay my little intended will not refuſe to join me.—I'll give you a toaſt, if I can remember one—odds-bobbs I have it—I'll give you, ‘"Love without Intereſt."’

With all my heart, Sir.

That's good—I muſt join you in that—Come, ‘"Love without Intereſt."’

Lord bleſs us what is the matter—call in Dolly!

Dolly! Dolly!—make haſte, bring in the ſmelling-bottle—bring in the hartſhorn—Mr. Grub is a-dying.—Some water too!

I hope it is no ſpaſm.

Apply the bottle to his noſe, and the water to his temples immediately—I hope it is no apoplexy.

No, I do not think it is that, I fancy it was only the toaſt ſtuck in his ſtomach.

Toaſt! toaſt!—why you damn'd villain, have you put toaſt in the wine?

Toaſt, Sir!—toaſt!—Lord, Sir, I never did ſuch a fooliſh thing in all my life!

Why did not you ſay that the toaſt ſtuck in his ſtomach?

I only meant the ſentimental toaſt which he had given himſelf.

Oh, he revives!

Mercy upon me where am I?

In our houſe, Sir.

Oh! my poor head—Oh! my ſtomach, I thought that I ſhould have been choaked.

Ah! poor gentleman, that would have been a pity indeed!

Bleſs me my good friend, I have been ſadly alarmed; but I aſſure you, I am over-joyed to ſee you ſo much recovered.

I thank you my very good friend—I thank you.—What do I ſee, my dear little ſweet⯑heart?—I warrant ſhe has been ready to cry at my misfortune?

Ha! ha! ha!

Is that the way you ſhew your feeling?—what do you laugh at my affliction?

I beg your pardon, Sir,—I did not laugh at your afflictions, but your expreſſions.

Lord, Sir, do you think that my Miſtreſs is to fall a-crying every time you choak yourſelf with eating, or ſuffocate yourſelf with drinking?—ha! ha! ha!

Gaby and you Miſs Tarter, take the dinner things away,

and Madam my Niece, you ſhall be confined to your dreſſing-room without ſociety.

Nay, don't be cruel to her, don't baniſh her this time; her laughing was perhaps only an in⯑nocent frolick—a liberty, you know, that lovers will take with one another, now and then.

"Sir, ſhe muſt not be indulged in this way—but conſole herſelf alone, 'till ſhe can behave better."

"Oh, the little piggy-wiggy—it grieves me to hear ſo cruel a decree."

"It is no cruelty to me, Sir, I can aſſure you."

"There's for you again—come, Sir, you and I will go and take a peep into the garden, while ſhe ſits a little by herſelf, ſo that ſhe may be ſoftened by reflection."

"Ah, Maſter Tintem, you are a wag—you ſeem to know how to manage the Ladies to a nicety—perhaps it may be all for the beſt.—My dear little intended don't you mourn—don't you get piping now by yourſelf—a little abſence, they ſay, is ſometimes a great ſedement to love—is it not deary?"

You'll excuſe me if I laugh a little—I cannot help it now, ha! ha! ha!

Away with you, Madam, we ſhall be back to tea—then ſee if you can prepare it in time, and meet Mr. Grub in a more agreeable humour.

By, by!—don't you get piping I ſay.

Ha! ha! ha!—By, by! ha! ha! ha!

What a ſweet bewitching, wicked little devil it is.

SCENE I. The Garden.

A fine chearful afternoon I proteſt!

The weather is chearful enough it is true, but as to myſelf, I am melancholy enough.

I am ſorry for that—why ſhould you be melancholy—what's the matter?

That little Niece of your's, runs ſtrangely in my head.

I'm glad to hear that; 'tis a good ſign.

And yet my mind is not perfectly at eaſe about her.

Better and better ſtill, I ſhould be ſorry if it were.

I am very much obliged to you for your kindneſs; it ſeems to be a laughing matter to you, but it is otherwiſe to me.

I wiſh he be'ant love ſick already.

Ha! ha! ha!—quite touched I ſee—poor Mr. Grub, ſhe ſeems to have got faſt hold of you my friend,

Nay, not not ſo faſt as you imagine.

What is the matter with you then?

Why, to tell you the truth, I do not think that ſhe ſeems to pay me ſo much attention as I could wiſh.

No!

No—there is very litttle affection, I am afraid, about that tittering heart of her's—I doubt ſhe does not love me truly.

Not love you?—never trouble yourſelf about that—I'll make her love you.

What, whether ſhe will or not—that muſt be a curious ſecret indeed.

Aye, I know the proper phyſic for the ladies when they happen to be diſobedient.

Phyſic?

Aye, phyſic.

I wiſh they may not be going to give the poor creature love-powder.

She is in my power at preſent, and ſhall marry you whether ſhe will or not, and when ſhe is yours, you know what you have to do.

What is that?

Why you have nothing to do then but to keep her under your thumb.

Under his thumb! and if he does, I wiſh ſhe may not ſlip through his fingers.

I am told there is a Mr. Willingford, a young ſpark, to whom ſhe turns a willing ear, if ſo, it will be a difficult matter to wean her of him.

You are right enough there old Gen⯑tleman.

Oh, never let that give you any concern; he is nothing but a Boy, and a Beggar.

As to his being a Beggar, that will be no impediment, eſpecially if he has been ingenious enough to coax her Heart from her.

Oh, never mind the heart, ſo you have got the Body.—Poſſeſſion you know is every thing.

Aye, but the mind often ſets the Body capering.

Confound your capering appre⯑henſions I ſay—Why, you talk like a Simpleton—what can you be afraid of.

There was a confounded Stag's head, and an aukward pair of horns in your hall, which look'd butt in my face as I entered your houſe to day, and I cannot help thinking them omnious.

What a cowardly old fool!

Mr. Grub, Mr. Grub, take care what you ſay—"My Niece was the daughter of my brother—my brother was the ſon of my mother, and my mother was the pattern of Virtue—No, Mr. Grub, if you have any qualms of that kind in your mind you've miſtaken the ſtock;" the blood of the Tintem's is of a peculiar dye, pure as the peerleſs Stream, and chaſte as the mountain Snow.

And as cold too, I'm afraid.

Cold?

Aye, cold, I think;—why your niece always looks as chilly as an Icicle at me.

One would think ſhe was dead by his talking.

You don't like the match perhaps

Yes, my very good friend, I likes the match very well,—but—but

You would like the money with⯑out the match I ſuppoſe.

The devil doubt him.

No, no—I don't ſay that either, your Niece is young and beautiful, a little ſweet creature any body might be fond of, and I will do her the juſtice to ſay that I think ſhe would like any young fellow better than me.

You never ſaid a truer thing in all your life.

Well, well, we'll drop the ſubject at preſent, and after another interview or two, you will be better able to judge of her diſpoſition.

I think ſo too, and therefore let us go and amuſe ourſelves with a ſight of your Hobby-horſe, as you call it.

And ſo you ſhall;—go you on Gaby, and tell Jonas the gardner to place this flower as I told you before, then return home, and fetch me the key of the pinery—I have forgot it.

Where did you ſay it was to be placed, Sir, between 'gnorance and impudence?

No, Mr. Impudence;—between arrogance and indifference, they are two very faſhion⯑able flowers.

And therefore muſt be a kin to the gentry Gaby was talking of I ſuppoſe,

Couſin Germins I aſſure you.

SCENE II.

There—I'm glad you are once more got together, and I wiſh that Old Harry would break the ſhins of him that parts you.

What a comical girl.

What a good one; ſhe has been the providential inſtrument of our preſent bleſſed interview.

Do not call that thing bleſſed, which chance may have an opportunity of over⯑turning.

My dear Miſs Tintem, I reſt on hope and truſt in providence, you know I am a child of her's; and Chance muſt be a churl indeed, ſhould ſhe at this moment thwart me in my wiſhes.

What are your wiſhes?

It rather ſurpriſes me that you ſhould aſk.

I do not doubt but you will be polite enough to reſolve me then.

Moſt certainly, and that from my heart—ah, me! I wiſh that you were mine, but that you know already, and your aſking me to tell you now, ſeems as if you doubted me.

I do not doubt; but, when I con⯑ſider the preſent ſtate of things, I am rather ſur⯑priſed that you ſhould perſevere in running after me, eſpecially when I ſhall tell you what a formidable rival you have to encounter.

A rival? is it poſſible!

It is true, and that is more.

I am ſorry for it.

And ſo am I; for he is a favourite of my Uncle's, and a wealthy one alſo.

And perhaps you love him too.

You ſhall ſee him by and by, then you will be able to judge, if it be poſſible for me to reſiſt him.

Indeed! this is a circumſtance I did not expect; this gives me a pain more exquiſite then ever I felt before.—Is it poſſible?

Is what poſſible?

That you ſhould love him.

Nay, I have not told you that—you ſhould ſtay till you are convinced. (Amiable creature, but I'll torture him no further)

—Come, come, chear up—one would think that you ſuſpected me;—it carries danger with it, if your doubts begin to quicken only on report.

"Report is a dangerous fiend, ſeldom to be credited; but the doubts I have, aroſe from what you ſaid yourſelf, and never did I hold your word ſo ſlight, as not to credit whatever you have been pleaſed to tell me."

"I do believe you, and therefore I—I—I—"

"Speak out."

"It is—it is—‘"Time enough yet"’ as the ſong ſays."

"But ſhall I tell you what I hope you was going to ſay."

"That might ſhew too much conceit in you perhaps, and put a maiden to the bluſh."

Well;—it it enough—I ſhall reſt ſatisfied without doing the one or ſaying the other, and truſt to the event.

But to digreſs a little from the preſent parley, Dolly told me of all your ſtratagem, how ſhe diſcovered you, and that you ſang char⯑mingly.

I am afraid Dolly has deceived you.

Will you give me leave to judge?

I can deny you nothing, as I know you have generoſity and candour enough to over⯑look defect, when poor Endeavour does her utmoſt to oblige.

I hope ſo.

I will try to ſing you a little ſong, which I made reſpecting the ſituation of a poor re⯑cruit, whom I once met upon a journey, lamenting that his ill ſtars had parted him from his favourite fair one.

I beg pardon for interrupting you, but I could not help telling you that Gaby is juſt return'd from the Garden, and ſays, there had like to have been, a ſad piece of work about you both.

What was the matter then?

Do they know that I am here?

No—but Maſter and old Grub had like to have quarrelled about you.

In what reſpect?

Why Mr. Grub had found out, (ſaving your preſence Miſs) that you had an affection for Mr. Willingford.

That is odd indeed—affection for Mr. Willingford!—who could tell him ſuch a piece of news as that—it is more than Mr. Wil⯑lingford knows himſelf.

Lord, Miſs—but I'll ſay no more.

What had this quarrel like to have riſen from?

What?—why Mr, Grub was jealous of you to be ſure; and talked about the pair of ſtag's horns in the hall ſtaring him in the face this morn⯑ing, which had given him the qualms.

I wiſh they had butted him in the ſtomach, with all my heart.

I have not ability to find out all this myſtery, I confeſs.

'Tis no matter.

I dare ſay they will quarrel, I am ſure it would be the higheſt entertainment to you both, were you to go and liſten to their comical con⯑verſation.

Is this Mr. Grub, as you call him, the gentleman you ſignified to be my rival?

The ſame; I promiſed that you ſhould ſee him; therefore we can go and ſtand with ſafety and unſeen behind the old yew hedge near the amphitheatre, where you may at once behold his delicious perſon, and hear his bewitching con⯑verſation.

Agreed.

"Dolly, you muſt be ſure to take care, ſhould we be put to flight, to find a ready ſhelter again for Mr. Willingford."

"Put to flight!—I know of no ſhelter in ſuch a caſe, that would be ſo convenient as a tight poſt chaiſe and four good horſes, to hurry you both out of harms way in an inſtant."

"An excellent thought."

"Is the girl bewitched?"

"Not ſo bewitched, but I could tell you which would be the beſt road you could take."

"Bravo!"

"Prithee, girl, don't be fooliſh; come let us go and liſten to the learned diſ⯑quiſitions of my ſagacious Uncle, and the trite obſervations of your more formidable rival."

"With all my heart."

SCENE III.

Here they are Mr. Grub—here are my beauties—there's a diſplay for you—there's an arrangement, all the colours of the rain⯑bow; the eye is raviſhed with beholding, and the noſe with ſmelling.

This is truly a fine ſight, Maſter Tintem.

Fine indeed! though I ſay it, Mr. Grub;—this is nature in her holiday-cloaths; you ſay you are fond of flowers Mr. Grub.

So fond of them, that I always buy a halfpenny noſegay when I can, and ſtick it in my boſom whenever I go to church on a ſunday.

Ha! ha! ha!—a halfpenny noſegay Mr. Grub?—I beg your pardon, but you make me laugh—a halfpenny noſegay truly—they muſt have been weeds my good friend;—weeds—what ſort of flowers could they have been?

Sometimes a bunch of primroſes, or the lillies of the valley; at other times I have treated myſelf with a few pale ſnow-drops, or yellow crocuſes; which in my opinion, are the firſt of flowers.

The firſt of flowers—ha! ha! ha!

You muſt acknowledge that they are generally the firſt in the ſeaſon.

I will acknowledge that they are the firſt colour'd weeds which the ſpring throws up; but we do not place them under the denomination of Flowers.

No!

No—you talk of putting a whole bunch of Flowers in your boſom for a halfpenny; when many a ſingle root of ſome of the Flowers now before you, have coſt me, ten, twenty, nay thirty pounds.

Mercy on me;—why you make me tremble at the very Idea.

Why ſhould you tremble about it, when I have told you it is my Hobby-horſe; and there are many of your high-flying daſhers of the Turf, will give you a thouſand or fifteen hun⯑dred guineas for a Hobby-horſe, that ſhall crack a hole in the Fortune, or break the neck of his Rider, before he has had him a Week.

Mercy on us;—when I think on the fol⯑lies and extravagancies of the age, I bleſs my ſtars, that I happen'd to be born with ſo much prudence about me.

Come, come, Mr. Prudence, do not arrogate ſo much to your own merit;—you have got your Hobby-horſe too;—I am told that you had the liberality, when you was at Mr. Lot⯑tum's Auction the other day, to give twenty guineas for a frame of dead Butterflies.

Why that is neither here or there, as the ſaying is—We will not talk of them there things juſt now, but as to the matter of that, I don't know why I ſhould not have my Hobby-horſe, as you call it, as well as any body elſe.

To be ſure—to be ſure;—yours you know is a fly, and mine is a flower, that is the difference—ſo we will drop the preſent parley, and look before us.

There they are, hard at it.

Hold your impertinence, Mr, Simpleton, if we ſhould be diſcovered, it will mar all.

Here Mr, Grub, here's a flower for you, what do you think I call this.

Nay, I can't tell.

Did you never ſee a ſign which bore a reſemblance to this.

A ſign?—I have ſeen the ſign of the Flower-de-Lucey; the Roſe and Crown, and the Scotch Thiſtle, which I ſuppoſe is one of the Flowers of Edinborough.

Aye, but that is not the Idea—did you never ſee the ſign of a General like this flower?

A General!

Aye, a General?

No truly.

Why then, I'll tell you—That is the Duke of Cumberland.

The Duke of Cumberland!

Aye, the Great Duke of Cum⯑berland;—that flower made its firſt appearance in the Botanical world, in the Rebellion, Forty-five;—was nam'd in honor of the Britiſh hero of that day, and ſuch a flower as this is enough to immortalize the memory of any General in the world.

What, is it an Evergreen, then?

An Evergreen?—Bleſs the man—Why, you ſeem to have no Idea of vegetation at all;—no more taſte for a flower, than I have for a dead butterfly.

Yes, I have generally got a good taſte for them, when they produce a good ſmell to me,

but this flower ſeems to have no ſmell at all.

Pſha;—what the Duce has ſmell to do with the beauty of a Flower;—it is the Colour we look at—the colour.

Odds ſo,—I ſuppoſe ſo.

What a couple of comical creatures, ha, ha, ha.

Wiſt, Wiſt!—I heard a ſtrange kind of noiſe juſt now—you hav'nt any Varment about the Garden, have you—no Pole-cats or Weaſels—I am ſtrangely fearful of thoſe kind of gentry;—and as to a Rat!—the very ſight of a Rat would turn my whole maſt of blood into a poſſet.

There again! I am ſure there are Varment about us.

Vermin—the Devil!—'Tis only ſome of thoſe curſed Magpies who peſtre the gar⯑den every day for the ſake of the cherries.

Magpies! I hate your Magpies, they are the moſt hateful omnious bird that flies.—I was at Cuckold's point the other day, when I happened to be croſs'd by one of thoſe infernal Chatter-boxes, and in a minute or two after, I had the misfortune to break both my ſhins over a Hog-trough at my Couſin Crumplet's the Baker's door, which laid me up for a week.

There again—there are certainly Var⯑ment.

The Magpies, I tell you, the Magpies,—Look you here my friend Grub; ſince you are fond of a flower that has got a ſmell—Here is one I fancy that will tickle your taſte, and your ſmell at the ſame time

Aye, that's right—take it up and ſmell to it—Put on your Spectacles, and look at it—there is a Turban, there is your Furr, there is the very Saſh and Sabre of the Emperor himſelf.

Emperor!

Aye, Emperor;—that is the Em⯑peror of Morocco!—

The Emperor of Morocco; why you deal in nothing but grand names—This flower, I perceive has got a charming ſmell, this is ſomething like a Flower; the Emperor of Morocco;—grand, very grand,—a fine ſounding name, I proteſt.

Damme there goes the King of Bohemia!

Damn your King of Bohemia.

Damn your Emperor of Morocco! I would not have loſt my king of Bohemia, for all the Emperors in the world—no, not the Emperor of the Moon.

You wretch, you Nonentity, you thing without an Idea!

You fool, you Frantic, you Daſey-hun⯑ter, you ſtem of a Dog-roſe, you bud of a Crocus, [45] you ſtinking root of a Daffy down-dilly; I would not have loſt my King of Bohemia for all the non⯑ſenſical flowers in your garden.

Why, you Catterpiller, you Bug, you Beetle, you Gnat, you Grub—I would not have had my Emperor deſtroy'd for all the con⯑temptible collection of Inſects which you have been ſcraping together theſe thirty years;—and give me leave to tell you, Sir, that you behave like a dirty fellow.

Damme, Sirrah, if it were not for fear of your taking the Law of me, I would tell you a bit of my mind.

Mind, mind?—why you have no mind, you are a meer inſect;—but I'll cloſe your mouth for you preſently—I'll lop your greedy ex⯑pectations, I warrant you.

I defy you—I defy you.

My Niece, you Cockatrice, my Niece.

Your Niece, I would not give a fig for your Niece.

That is as falſe as you are fooliſh; you Rattleſnake, it is—"You would ſay very dif⯑ferent things, and tell a different ſtory, if her for⯑tune were before you—you would give all your ſoul for that"—I wiſh poor Willingford was here with all my heart; you ſhould ſee that I would give her to him before your face.

"No, you would not—you love yourſelf too much for that—I know how fond you would be of giving her fortune to a Begger; I dare you to that—I dare you to that!"

"I ſhall choak with rage."

"Now, Sir—Now my dear Miſs—now is your time!"

"Aye, now or never."

"Aye, now is the time indeed."

"I am terrified to death."

"Never fear, have a good heart, think of the event;—do not ſhrink, while ſuch a plea as ours depends upon the moment."

"Mr. Grub, give me leave to tell you, Sir, that I think you have behaved like an arrant ſcoundrel."

"Take care what you ſay, or I'll make the Gentlemen of the great Wig ſhake their heads at you;—they'll make a good breakfaſt of the word Scoundrel, in Weſtminſter Hall, I warrant you—therefore I would adviſe you to take care what you ſay.."

"You ought rather to be afraid of what I may do."

"Why, what would you do?"

"What!"

"Aye, what?"

"If young Willingford was here, I would convince you in a minute."

"You would be for preſenting your Niece to him I ſuppoſe?"

Cripple me if I would not.

Cripple me if I think you would.

Would to Heaven he was here this moment.

Now my dear Miſs Tintem.

Here we both are, ready for your gracious confirmation.

How is this—you have taken me by ſurpriſe—this act is rather ſudden upon me—yet, after all, may I be annihilated if I be not glad of it.—Now you Hornet, you Beetle, you Butter⯑fly—you ſhall ſee that I will keep my word—you ſhall ſee that I will dare to do, what you dar'd me to—take her lad—ſhe is your's—and Heaven bleſs you both together!

Heaven bleſs your Honor! for this dear good-natur'd action.

Well ſaid, Mrs. Nettle-top.

Huzza!—huzza!—huzza!—The Emperor of Morocco for ever!—down with the King of Bohemia! down with your Grubs and your Catterpillars.

I don't like this—he has played me the devil of a trick—I don't like it—I knew thoſe curſed magpies would prove omnious.

So Maſter Tintem, you have finiſhed the buſineſs rarely, upon my word.

Aye; and it is finiſhed as it ought to be—I hope I have convinced you that I am not only a Floriſt, but a Pugiliſt!—I think I have given you a fair trimming;—and now I will ſing with the Poet—"Revenge, revenge, revenge ſhall appeaſe my reſtleſs ſpright."

Why you ſeem as if you were crazy, and foam at the mouth like a mad dog;—you have made a fine hand of it, truly, to give your Niece to ſuch a vagabond as that, who has not got a farthing in the world, and, in all likelihood, will ſpend her fortune in a month.

Sir, I will convince you, that he has beſtowed his Niece upon one that loves her, and one that is too ſenſible of the principles of a gentleman, and a man of honor, than to ſuffer himſelf and this amiable lady to be treated with ill-manners, by ſuch a ſcoundrel as you are.

Take care what you ſay; a ſcoundrel, Sirrah!

You ſhall ſee that I neither fear what I ſay, or care what I do, if you don't leave the room immediately, you ſhall feel the force of my reſentment. "In reſpect to ſuch a bloated piece of conſequence as you are—Go home and take this, by way of haſt'ning your journey—There,—there—there! take that—"

Oh, you Villain, I'll make you bleed for this treatment, I will.

Take care of the Varment!

Take care of the Magpies!

And your Couſin Crumplet's Hog-Trough.

He is rightly ſerv'd—and now ſince the matter is over, I am glad that it is done, as it is done.

It gives me infinite pleaſure, Sir, to hear you ſay ſo much.

And I feel a ſecret ſatisfaction in having done ſo much. But Willingford, how came you here ſo opportunely?

Upon my Hobby-horſe. Sir.

What you've got your Hobby-horſe too, have you?—Pray, what kind of a Hobby did you ride.

My Hobby was a little Roſey boy, with airy wings call'd Love, led by a blind capri⯑cious guide, call'd Fortune, who from my cradle hath for ever thwarted me in my paths; but now the bounteous Goddeſs has brought me to the foun⯑tain of ſublunary bliſs, and crown'd me with the hand of this fair Lady, whom I love dearer than myſelf, and will cheriſh with the utmoſt efforts of my Life.

Well ſaid—You have honeſtly and fairly expreſs'd yourſelf, and confirm'd me alſo, that I have done right in this Act;—you have help'd to take away a load, which hung heavily about my Heart; and it ſhall be my Hobby-horſe in future, to make you both as happy as I can.