SCENE I.—An Apartment in Greville Houſe; Servants talking without.

SILENCE, I ſay! Why, you keep as loud a gabbling as if you were ſettling the balance of Europe in the lobby of the Houſe of Commons. Order, I ſay—the queſtion is this. Our old maſter being dead, and our young one expected every moment from abroad, ought we, when he arrives, to laugh or cry? Hear the Cook!

Why, I thinks, that for the death of an old maſter, a little dripping from the eyes would be quite natural.

It may be natural, maſter Cook; but lord bleſs you, the genteel feel of your tip top folks, is no more like nature, than one of your fine kabobbed fricaſſees is to plain roaſt and taties. Beſides, when a man leaves behind him a good ten thouſand a year, I think it quite natural for the heir to laugh. What ſay you, Coachy?

I pulls with you, Mr. Valet—young maſter muſt in the main be glad, for we all know that the old gemman ſeeing that he run ſkittiſh, kept him upon low provender beyond ſea. So my verdict is, Mr. Butler, that we all ſmiles agreeably.

So ſay I. Dam'me, I'll look as pleaſed as punch, ha! ha!

Softly. And will you, ſir, who have but thirty pounds a-year, dare to be as pleaſed at ſeeing your maſter, as I, who have fifty? No, no —ſubordination is every thing.

Ecod, the beſt reaſon we ſhould not be ſorry, is, that the old Buck left us no legacies.

That ſettles it.

Here he comes—I am to look moſt pleaſed, and ſtand in the front. Back a little, Coachy, and remember I am to ſpeak.

Why this boiſterous mirth?

You are to ſpeak, you know.

Is it thus you honor the memory of your departed maſter? My love, welcome to England, and to my father's houſe. If I can truſt my heart, the greateſt happineſs I ſhall feel from proſperity, (ſhould it await us,) will be in placing my Maria in the elevated ſtation her virtues will illumine.

Travelling indeed! nothing but extortion I declare—Such a gang of them! Firſt, in comes the bill; then remember the Waiter—John Oſtler, [3]ſir—the Chambermaid, ma'am—don't forget poor Boots—I am the Porter—the Poſt Boy, your ho⯑nor—ſo that your hand keeps conſtantly moving up and down, up and down, like the great lump of wood at Chelſea waterworks.—

—What are you all nodding and winking at? why don't you ſet chairs?—

—Now, go along all of you, and ſee the luggage unpacked—

— why don't you go?

To be ordered about by ſuch a dowdy! My dear Coachy, this will never do for us.

A parcel of lazy chaps. I dare ſay—but I'll make them ſtir their ſtumps. Well, here we are at laſt. Oh gemini gig! how my poor bones do ache!

My Greville, excuſe her familia⯑rity —ſhe has lived with me from my infancy, and is, indeed, a faithful, affectionate creature.

Aye, that I am. Oh bleſs its pretty face!

Leave us, good Sally.

Leave you?

Yes.

Well, I will. I am a fooliſh, good na⯑tured—I'll go and ſcold the ſervants.

You look uneaſy, Charles.

'Tis for thy ſake, Maria. Between hope and fear my mind is tortured: when I reflect on my father's determined, but juſt, reſentment at my diſſipated conduct while in England—ſo deter⯑mined, that I dared not acquaint him of my union with my adored Maria—then I fear that he died without bleſſing me, and has eſtranged me from his houſe and fortune. When I reflect that I am [4]perhaps deſtitute of the means of ſupporting thee —ſurrounded by creditors—

Oh! maſter, here is ſuch a frightful old fellow wants to ſpeak with you. Such a—Oh Lord! here he is.

Your name, friend, and buſineſs?

Sir, my name is—ſo, there is a lady in the caſe—my name, ſir, is Nicholas Rue, and my buſineſs will be explained by this letter.

Now to have a peep,

Eh! as I hope to live theſe fifty years—Miſs Egerton. How my maſter will be ſurpriſed!

What happy tidings! preſent my beſt reſpects to your maſter—I will wait on him im⯑mediately.

Very well, ſir. How my maſter will be ſurpriſed!

This letter, Maria, is from my father's executor.

He! he! how happy I am!

The familiarity of this girl is intolerable.

Tolerable indeed! Oh, Mr.Eger⯑ton, her noble brother behaved different: He never thought me tolerable.

For ſhame, Sally!

And ſo it is a ſhame that a poor ſervant ſhould be out of her wits for joy at hearing her dear lady's good fortune? Sir, I has as much right to be happy as you has, and I will be happy, tho' you make me cry all day for it.

Well, Well—loving Maria atones for a thouſand faults.

Ha! he! perhaps this is as lucky for Miſter Somebody, as for Sally Down⯑right.

Dear Sally—!

Do you ſay dear?

Pray be ſilent.

My love, I muſt haſten to Mr. Under⯑mine.

Who?

Mr. Undermine, my father's executor.

Heavens!

Do you know him, Maria!

Alas! too well.

Know him! he is the blackeſt villain, ſir—It was he who ruined her dear brother, and drove him from England, to wander, nobody knows where.

Oh, Greville! I doubt the goodneſs of that fortune to which he is harbinger.

You alarm me; but I will haſten to him.

And I'll go with you, and, by gemini gig, I'll give it him—

For heaven's ſake, be quiet! Droop not my deareſt love! 'Tis proſperity awaits us. I go [6]to ſeize the prize, and lay it at thy feet, a fit ob⯑lation to thy ſurpaſſing virtues.

Heigho!

Don't ſigh, dear lady! I know from ex⯑perience riches don't give happineſs. When poor, I was happy, and now that I am independent, having £.3 10s. a year in the conſolidated real grand Bank of England, yet I'm not happy; but I ſhall be ſo when my darling miſtreſs is a great lady, and her dear brother comes home a general.

Poor Egerton! What perils has he not encountered for my ſake—perhaps his precious life—

Oh, no, no—take comfort, for ſure no⯑body wou'd go to kill ſo handſome and good a creature as he is—beſides, ma'am, has not he a mole on his right arm? Was he not born with a cawl? And has he not a pocket-piece that I got conjured?

Peace, fooliſh girl! Yet I will take comfort, for he has the protecting arm of heaven.

SCENE II.—A Room in UNDERMINE'S Houſe,

That the ſiſter of Eger⯑ton ſhou'd be the lady—this is news indeed. They muſt be married, and then my old rogue of a maſter gets the eſtate, and poor I, only a thouſand pounds for aſſiſting in the roguery; but 'tis a ſnug ſum.

Good morning. You look ill, Nicholas.

Oh dear! don't ſay ſo—I feel pretty much in the old way—eat little to be ſure—ſleep leſs.

Ah! but you have been a ſad old rogue, Nicholas.

I have always executed your honor's com⯑mands faithfully. Sir, I don't like 12 o'clock at night. All dark as pitch! The church-bell toll⯑ing, and nothing elſe to be heard but the rats in the wainſcott.

Don't talk of it.

Then, ſomehow a trembling ſeizes me—

And you feel a kind of ſhivering damp, don't you?

Yes.

I know—I know. Then the dreams. I dreamt that old Greville came to my bed, and de⯑manded juſtice to his ſon, with horrible ghaſtly eyes like—juſt like yours, Nicholas;—and—pſhaw! I'm becoming a ſuperſtitious fool. Away to Greville with my letter.

I have already been there. You ſee how anxious I am to put you in poſſeſſion.

How anxious you are to touch the £.1000, Nicholas!

Well, ſir! he is arrived, and with him—

Aye!

A lady.

His wife, think you?

I'll tell you who ſhe is, and leave you to judge—the ſiſter of Egerton.

Indeed!

Whom you ruined.

And he deſerved it for his folly. What chance had he, with only old blind juſtice on his ſide, while I had poſſeſſion, a long purſe, and a chancery ſuit, ha! ha! you don't laugh, Nicholas?

Lord, ſir, I hav'n't laughed theſe thirty years.

Ah! you have been a ſad rogue. But when am I to expect Greville?

Directly, ſir.

Then give me his father's will out of that drawer.

Which will, ſir?

Which will? why, you are a wag, Ni⯑cholas. Not his ſecond will, which you burnt. Ha! ha! you are a wag. No, no—this is the will for us, Nicholas; the ſecond did not ſuit quite ſo well—it did not contain this beautiful provi [...]oe—‘But in caſe my ſaid ſon ſhall have acted, or ſhall act, contrary to this my will, I then bequeath all my eſtates, whatſoever and whereſoever, to my herein named executor, adviſer, and valued friend, Urban Undermine eſquire.’ —And was not I a good adviſer, eh? But then, Nicholas, what trouble I had, to make the old ſuperannuated fool ſign it. How I had, to enforce the ſin of diſ⯑obedience, read to him all the tragical ſtories of improvident marriages—yet, Nicholas, we are not quite ſafe, while my late ſervants, the witneſſes to the burnt will, are forth coming. Have you been to Newgate to ſee them?

Yes, ſir; and ſays I to them—you know my maſter's plate was found at the bottom of your trunks, (which you know, ſir, I put there myſelf,) and the law has condemned you to be hang'd— now your kind maſter has got your ſentence ſoftened to a mere trip to Botany Bay.

And they were quite happy, I ſuppoſe?

No, ſir—they grumbled.

Ah! man—man—never contented. This is my reward for ſending them to a charming [9]flouriſhing colony, where there is every luxury— even a play-houſe, Nicholas.

And I am told, ſir, there are very good actors there.

I dare ſay there are.

Run to the window, and ſee if it be Greville.

Lord, ſir, I can't run—nor I can't ſee.

Pſhaw! old withered dolt!—can't ſee—one comfort is, you will ſoon be dead.

But I can hear—Soon be dead, eh? Oh dear me, no—equally obliged to you notwithſtand⯑ing —I am pretty well—indeed—excepting a ſlight liver complaint, a flying gout, and a touch of the dropſy, I am quite well—Ah! the one thouſand pounds muſt be firſt duly and truly paid, or I'll ſhew you a trick you little expect, old maſter of mine.

'Tis he—'tis Greville—run to the door.

I can't run, I tell you.

If he be but married! Now for manage⯑ment —If he be but married—

Mr. Greville, I preſume—allow me to congratulate you on your arrival in England. I hope you en⯑joyed your health abroad?

Perfectly ſo. Excuſe me, Mr. Under⯑mine; but my anxiety—

I underſtand—I here, ſir, is your good father's will.

‘I, Robert Greville, do make and declare this my will. To my only ſon, Charles [10]Greville, I bequeath my forgiveneſs and bleſſing, (bows in thankfulneſs,) together with all my eſ⯑tates, real and perſonal, provided my ſaid ſon has not during my life contracted, or does not, till he has fulfilled his twenty-fifth year, con⯑tract—matrimony.’

He is miſerable—I am a happy man!

‘And in caſe my ſaid ſon ſhall have acted, or ſhall act contrary to this my will, I then bequeath all my eſtates, whatſo⯑ever and whereſoever, to my herein-named exe⯑cutor, adviſer, and valued friend, Urban Un⯑dermine, eſquire.’

Moſt accompliſhed ruin! Oh, Maria!

You ſeem indiſpoſed.

How ſhall I act? Sir, the dying bleſſing of a juſtly offended father has agitated my ſpirits.

And ſhall this wretch, the enemy of Maria, riot in the bleſſings ſhe ſhould enjoy?

Mr. Greville!

Suppoſe I conceal my marriage— The clergyman who officiated abroad, being dead, and the certificate ſafe in my poſſeſſion, detection is impoſſible.

Sir, the pleaſure I might otherwiſe feel at ſo large an acquiſition of property as your mar⯑riage gives me, is really, ſir, changed into anguiſh on your account.

I'll conceal my marriage—I'll tor⯑ture him. Mr. Undermine, how happy am I to relieve your benevolent heart from the anguiſh which oppreſſes it, and make you happy by de⯑claring, I am not married; but you don't ſeem happy.

N—no—not married!—Is it poſſible that—

It is quite poſſible.

That is—I mean—I—I—have the pleaſure of knowing Miſs Egerton.

True, and ſhe ſays ſhe knows you well.

Yet, on reflection, who can wonder—

What do you ſay?

Who can wonder, I ſay, that the ſiſter of a proud beggar ſhould be loſt to thoſe celeſtial virtues—

'Tis falſe! Virtues! ſhe is their repreſent⯑ative on earth.

Except chaſtity.

Diſtraction! Oh, my wrong'd wife! am I the aſſaſſin of thy fame?—If I remain here, I ſhall betray myſelf.

Yet, I ſay—

Say no more, ſir.

Allow me to adviſe—

Pardon me, good ſir—the advice you have here given is ſo excellent,

that I ſhould be deemed a monopoliſt, did I engroſs more. Let the world benefit; my family have had quite enough of it.

In ſhort, then, Mr. Greville—

In ſhort, then, Mr. Undermine, I am equal to the attendance on my own affairs. Do you prove your attention to yours, by promptly attending me in the capacity of executor, and not as heir, to my father.

So, ſo, ſo—Yet he muſt be married: but then how to prove it—how to manage—

Well, ſir, here I am—ready to touch.

You can run, I ſee.

Why, after a thouſand pounds, I can hobble a bit.

Can you? Then hobble to Lucern, in Switzerland, and obtain proof of their union—he denies being married.

Deny being married! But I'll take my oath he is.

I dare ſay you will—But who will believe you, Nicholas? I'll probe him to the quick—a licentious profligate! Ah, Nicholas! let this be a leſſon to you. Avoid the ſin of ſeduction!

I will, ſir.

To rob innocence of its thouſand charms.

To rob me of my thouſand pounds!

But he is married. I'll after him directly.

Sir, you forget the ſteward is coming.

True, true, old April—a full twenty years ſince we met.

He muſt be tottering on the grave, poor old fellow.

He tells me he has brought Roſe Sydney to town with him, our joint ward. I have left the care of her entirely to him, becauſe it never ſtruck me how I cou'd get any thing by her.

Up ſtairs, do you ſay? Come along, Roſe.

The old fellow is fumbling his way up. Don't hurry yourſelf, friend April, I'll help you.

Who the devil wants your help! Friend Undermine, how are you? heartily glad to ſee you,

Ah, Mr. April!

What, old Nick! alive! You grow de⯑viliſh like your nameſake! Ha, ha!

My dear Roſe; aſk pardon—forgot to introduce, and all that—Undermine, this is our ward, our pretty Roſe—brought her up to town to ſee all the devilments and things, and marry her to my grandſon Plethora, who is by this time, I warrant, a celebrated phyſician.

That is, Guardy, if I like him.

To be ſure—no compulſion—no—no— You ſee mine has been a difficult taſk, friend Un⯑dermine—not only to take care of a large lump of land, but alſo this pretty little morſel of live ſtock.

Which is certainly the harder taſk of the two; for where you leave a paſture at night, there you are ſure to find the paſture in the morning; but you may leave me peaceably browzing in that paſture in the evening, and the next day, hear of my curvetting and friſking it on a certain Green, called Gretna.

Ha, ha! madam, you will be eſteemed a wit.

She will—for ſhe has three thouſand a year, ha, ha! But, old Nick, have not you a bit of dried wainſcot in the houſe, commonly called a houſekeeper. Roſe will want an army of miliners, haberdaſhers, and odds and ends.

Do you imagine, ſir, we exiſt without the blandiſhments of the ſofter ſex? Allow me to conduct you—don't be alarm'd, miſs, you may rely on my prudence and delicacy.

Come, let me look at you, old boy. You are grown deviliſh ruſty.

Impudent blockhead!

My countenance is the ſame.

Yes, braſs never ruſts; but you muſt want repoſe.

Repoſe, ha, ha! Why I walked good twenty miles yeſterday, over hedge and ſtubble, to ſhoot you a bag of birds, old boy. How you ſtare!

How the devil have you contrived to keep ſo ruddy a face?

By keeping clean hands, friend Under⯑mine.

And how do you manage to keep your body upright?

By keeping my heart in the ſame attitude; for I ſoon found out that the weight of every ill⯑gotten guinea is laid on a man's ſhoulders for life —bends him down—there is no getting rid of the load.

So I preferr'd a long life to a long annuity, and a light heart to a heavy purſe, eh, maſter Under⯑mine?

A moſt excellent plan indeed—for the country.

Well, but the news—is Greville arrived? The young heir—the dear boy, Charles—is he well?

Yes, a pretty chick he is—a profligate—a ſeducer.

What! Oh, I ſee—a joke of yours, to try to prevent my laughing, ha, ha! Eh, you ſhake your head tho'.

What would you ſay, if I told you he had baſely ſeduced a virtuous and ſuperior woman?

I would ſay it was a lie.

Go then, and convince yourſelf.

What Charles Greville guilty of diſhonor, merely to get a faſhionable name?

And even there he will be diſappointed. Formerly, indeed, the ruin of an innocent woman was thought wickedneſs enough to entitle you to a ſeat in the cotorie of faſhion; but now, unleſs that woman be the wife of your friend, or the daughter of your benefactor, your guſto is ſcouted, and you are black-balled for want of a due quali⯑fication.

Oh, rare London, ha, ha! Should not laugh tho'.—Sad doings. I'll go to him; if what you ſay be true, he wont dare to look even me in the face—but it can't be.—Oh! he was the braveſt, nobleſt lad. I'll tell you ſtories of him, will make you ſo laugh, ha, ha! And I'll tell you ſtories will make you ſo cry.

SCENE I. —An Apartment in UNDERMINE'S Houſe.

But tell me, tell me—have you ſeen my grandſon Plethora lately?

No, not lately.

Is he one of your firſt rate doctors, eh?

Not quite, I believe.

He muſt be grown a tremendous fellow. Sent him to town in high condition—full of health —all ſinew—ſtrong as a caſtle.

You'll find your caſtle reduced to mere lath and plaiſter.

And a power of money in his pocket.

Aye, how much?

All I was worth.

The devil you did?

To be ſure. The road of life is con⯑foundedly up hill, ſo I determined the boy ſhould not want provender. Beſides, they ſay money gets money—and by this time I dare ſay he has doubled, aye, trebled it.

Ha! ha! Give all he has to a young ſpendthrift. Well, you'll follow me to Greville's?

Never to do things by halves is a maxim in the family of the Aprils.

And you have certainly proved yourſelf the firſt of the Aprils, ha! ha!

Ah, Roſe, my girl, I expect your lover every moment.

Nay, fair play—ſee him, and hear him—let us have no ſend⯑ing adrift without a fair trial. Egad, you'll ſee a man fit for a huſband; like—like what I was fifty years ago.

Of this I am ſure: I never can hate any thing that reſembles my dear Guardy.

Bleſs thee!—

—Eh—here he comes—the head of Apollo, the ſtrength of Hercules, the voice of a Stentor, the—:

Eh! what! no!

How are you, Grandad?

Roſe, my love, ſpeak to it.

Alas! poor ghoſt!

How goes it, I ſay?—Grown quite ſlim and genteel ſince you ſaw me laſt, an't I?

Quite!

This is ſhape and make, is not it?

Why, Bob—ha, ha! ſhould not laugh— Poor fellow! perhaps 'tis intenſe ſtudy.—But, he, he! zounds, doctor, inſtead of giving it to others, you ſeem to have taken all the phyſic yourſelf.

Yes, of cherry-bounce quantum ſuff.— and old Oporto, —a couple of magnums—that's my phyſic—a ſhort life and a merry one, ha, ha!— Ugh, ugh! But you ſent word you wanted me on buſineſs. What is it, eh?

Why, I had an intention of propoſing a marriage between you and that ſweet girl. But I don't know what to ſay—you don't ſeem exactly calculated. What do you think, Roſe?

Nay, don't laugh at my grandſon. Age is reſpectable. I ſay, old one, what do you think of marriage?

With that fine girl—with all my heart. A ſhort life, and a merry one.

Don't be raſh, ſir. And will you venture to run away with me?

That I will. Eaſy ſtages tho'.

Eaſy ſtages!—It won't do, Guardy.

No; we muſt give it up. But what have you done with all the money I gave you?

Why, I duly conſidered the hardneſs of the times, and ſo threw it into circulation.

Indeed! And pray how do you intend to live?

I am one of the hoſt of Pharoah.

Dam'me, you are one of the lean kine, ha! ha! But zounds and fury!—

Oh, don't!—If you touch him you'll kill him.

You have arrived in time; for I have juſt decanted the laſt hundred. Come, tip a rou⯑leau.

I heard you kept a carriage.

Two—a gig and a tandem.

You a phyſician! Why, you ignorant—

Come, tip.

Eh! ignorant—I beg your pardon—No, I ſee you underſtand at leaſt the grand principle of the [19]profeſſion,

ha, ha! But, 'ſdeath! what have you to ſhew for all the money?

Shew! Aſk at the College.

Oh! in Warwick Lane.

Warwick Lane! Curſe the old quizes! ha, ha!—ugh, ugh!—No, I mean the Horſe College.

The Horſe College!

To be ſure. Farriery is now the only learning fit for a man of faſhion. Why, have not you read the Rights of Cattle?

No.

No! Then you are a yahoo.—Nor Looſe Thoughts on a Horſe-ſhoe, ſix volumes folio, price twenty guineas?

No.

Nor you, ma'm?

No, ſir.

What, both ignorant of horſe-ſhoeing! Why, you an't fit to ſhew your heads in poliſhed ſociety. I tell you 'tis the only thing going.

Indeed! Well, as it is a thing going, there can be no harm in wiſhing it gone.

Gone! Why, bleſs you, ſo far from that, there's Lord Snaffle learning to read a purpoſe. But I muſt be off.

Where?

To the College to be ſure—never miſs— famous day. Two lectures—one, a grand diſſer⯑tation on the uſe and abuſe of cruppers.

Amazing!

The other, on the proper application of the horſewhip.

You need not go on that account. I'll ſhew you that in two minutes,

But, I ſay—if I am to match with that [20]nice girl, ſay the word, that I may go into training accordingly.

Certainly nor, ſir.

Then good bye—I ſay, a ſhort life and a merry one, he, he!—ugh, ugh!

So, all my property gone to make a far⯑rier. I ſay, did you ever ſee ſuch a bit of blood, ha, ha! But I muſt away to Greville's. Good bye, my girl! Horſe-ſhoeing!—Egad, doctor, you ſhall have a bellyful of it; for into the coun⯑try you go, and farrier you are for life.

SCENE II. —A Library at GREVILLL'S.

Greville not yet returned?

There he is, ma'am, pacing up and down the Square, with his arms croſſed—now he ſtops— now he walks quick.

Oh! call him to me.

He is coming, ma'am. Don't agitate your dear ſpirits.—

To conceal my marriage—How can I aſk it of my wife? To confeſs it, then!

Ruin without hope. I cannot bear the thought. Unfortunate Maria!

Not ſo— while I poſſeſs your love—Oh, tell me, Charles! the wild diſorder of your eye terrifies me. Gre⯑ville [21] points to Sally.)—Leave us good Sally!

—Tell me, Oh, tell me the worſt.

I will—it is—for us, a priſon during life. Beggary for our child.

This horrid fate you can alone avert,

Oh, Charles! how unkind to think that misfortune ſhall for a moment oppreſs your heart, which I can avert. 'Twill be a happineſs—

Happineſs, Maria! mark me. To prevent the heavy hand of poverty from cruſhing us, you muſt declare—how ſhall I utter it?—that we are not married. Should that be known, I am diſinherited.

Oh! muſt we part?

I mean not chat. Conſent to live with me, yet—

Say on.

Declare yourſelf—think the reſt.

Your miſtreſs.

I will. Pardon me a moment's agitation,

Yes, cheerfully.

Think, my love, 'twill be but a tranſient ſorrow.

Alas! I think but this—it was my Greville aſked it; and I ſolemnly ſwear by the holy marriage vow, never to claim the honour'd name of wife, but at your command.

Let me adore thee!

Yet, oh!

Is this cheerfulneſs, Maria?

'Tis not for myſelf—the title of miſ⯑treſs gives not this pang. But, oh Charles, what name will attach to our pretty innocent?

I cannot bear the conflict. Let ruin come.

Oh no! forgive me—but at that moment the mother felt ſtrong within me. Indeed I will be all you wiſh. Pray look happy. Come, you ſhall ſee I'll act my part to admiration! Be gay.

Maria—my love!—

I am better. It was my laſt ſtruggle. Indeed I am better.

Within there!

You were very near at hand.—Her ſe⯑crecy will be neceſſary. By your alacrity, I judge it would be needleſs to repeat what has now paſſed?

Why, ſir, to ſpeak the truth, I overheard every word you ſaid.

This, then, is your duty?—

Ah, ſir!—If my love for my dear miſtreſs had not been ſtronger than my duty, you would not have been ſo long troubled with Sally Downright.

Well, well—have the ſervants aſked you any queſtions about your miſtreſs?

A, thouſand.

What anſwer did you give them?

None.

That was right. Now attend to my orders. You mutt deny my marriage with your miſtreſs.

I won't.

What!

I will not.

I am not to be triſted with. Will you obey my orders?

Then leave this houſe inſtantly.

I won't go.

Her dear noble brother left her to my care—

But your charge is ſuperſeded by a huſ⯑band's protection.

Act like a huſband, and I'll go, bag and baggage. —'Till then, here I ſits.

Would you ſee us reduced to want?

Want!—Nonſenſe! Have not I a pair of hands ſtrong enough to work for you? And I ſuppoſe his are ſtrong enough to work for himſelf. Want, indeed!

Leave her with me. I know I can prevail. Retire, my love.

My mind is too oppreſſed to meet Un⯑dermine. Tell him to return in two hours.

Compoſe your ſpirits.

Thanks, my kind Maria.

What! deny his own honourable, real, lawful ſpouſe, and ſuch a lady! And then expect me to encourage—

Come, come—you can refuſe me nothing.

I cannot ſay it.

But you can be ſilent.

That I can.

Then promiſe me to remain ſo, ſhould the ſubject be mentioned to you.

I do.

Aye, but ſeriouſly?

Or may I never ſee your dear brother again. 'Tis lucky he does not know of theſe doings.

Mr. Undermine.

Be prudent, Sally—remember.

This is the confident, I ſuppoſe.

I'll try a dole of flattery: that coſts nothing. You are as handſome as an angel.

So are you, ſir.

Me! no, that won't do. Ah! then I muſt apply to the grand ſpecific;

put that in your pocket for my ſake; but don't talk about it.

You ſhall never hear of it again depend on't.

I ſay—a handſome couple.

Very.

I ſuppoſe you had a very jolly wedding.

Come, come, you may truſt me. Why ſhould you ſuppoſe me a babbling idiot, that cannot keep a fecret?

Why ſhould you ſuppoſe me one?

I'll thank you juſt to look at that purſe again.

Certainly, ſir.

But, can you really be ſnug?

I can—keep the purſe—I inſiſt on it—I have her—I have her.

Can you be ſecret?

Yes.

So Can I.

God bleſs my ſoul!—She is gone—and the purſe is gone—Somehow, I didn't manage quite ſo cleverly. Eh! but now for the miſtreſs. I'll humble her, however—yes—with the earth— Madam, I am under the neceſſity of aſking by what name I am to have the honor of addreſſing you.

By a name moſt unhappy, moſt wronged—yet, by the ſtill proud name of Egerton. Mr. Greville cannot ſee you at preſent. In two hours he will be at leiſure. That is the door.

Alas! madam, I pity you.

I thank, you for thinking I deſerve it. How ſuperior, then, am I, to that wretch, who baſely defrauds worth, and drives from his friends and country a noble youth, to encounter calamity, perhaps death;— for, in the awful hour of retribution, who will pity him. That, ſir, is the door.

God bleſs my ſoul! I have not triumphed quite ſo much as I expected. I don't exactly know what to do. I ſee no particular uſe in ſtaying here, and, as ſhe obſerved, that certainly is the door. God bleſs my ſoul!

My maſter is not at home, ſir,

Pugh—pugh—tell him 'tis April come to ſee him. I am his ſteward.

Indeed, ſir—

And who are you?

I am Sally, ſir—I came with them from foreign parts.

Then I ſuppoſe you can prattle German, Sally?—

Me jabber their outlandiſh ſtuff! Sir, I'll give you my opinion on that ſubject. I thinks, that, for a true-born Briton to ſpeak one word of foreign lingo, is a mortal ſin.

Bravo, Engliſh Sally! and how did you like the people?

Not at all—a parcel of conceited chaps— pretended not to underſtand me, tho' I ſpoke as legibly to them in the real vulgar tongue as I does to you.

Ha, ha! And how did you like the country?

Not a bit—high ſrightful mountains all covered with ice. Ugh!

And horrible roaring caſcades, making ſuch terrible noiſes. No —Taunton Dean for my money. Regular hay⯑fields, and corn-fields, and a good turnpike-road.

Egad, you are a girl to my mind.

And I am ſure you are a nice old man.

Do you think ſo, ha, ha! Now to ſound her. Pray, Sally, how long has our young maſter been married?

And ſo you think me a nice old man, eh?

Yes, that I do—ha! ha!

And ſo they were married abroad, eh?

Then it is ſo. Ah, here he comes—he is grown a noble fellow. Pity that ſo fine a tree ſhould be rotten at the core. Ah! I ſee he is a man of pleaſure, he looks ſo miſerable.

Ah! April, the ſame man I left.

Yes, the ſame—body and heart.—Can you ſay ſo to me, Charles?

So, ſo—more torture.

What a charming creature!

Don't be offended, madam—you look like an angel—nay don't droop—I dare ſay you will be one. Heaven is merciful! give me [27]your fair hand. An old man's bleſſing will not harm you, lady.

He weeps. Oh Greville, let us re⯑tire. Even the pity of a villain did not move me; but the virtuous tears of that old man preſs on my heart with agony inſupportable.

Oh, Charles! Charles!

Mr. April, are you content to be a ſilent obſerver of my conduct?

I cannot—I cannot.

Then, ſir, you muſt eſtrange yourſelf from this houſe.

I'll go— I'll go—Is this my once noble boy— my pride? —forbid me his houſe!

Never mind his forbidding. I ſhall al⯑ways be proud to ſee you, ſir.

Thank you, Sally. I, that tought him to ſhoot flying, and now have his dogs ſo trained— coveys waiting for him to come and ſhoot them— 'tis all over. Pray, (but tell me if I am imper⯑tinent,) who is that lovely creature?

The ſiſter of Mr. Egerton. Ah! there is a man. How I loved him! Platonic, I aſſure you. And the regard was mutual; for, excepting the old greyhound, I was firſt favourite.

What, he likes greyhounds—then I dare ſay he is a fine fellow. I'll think no more of Gre⯑ville— And ſo, your love was platonic, eh? —Ha! ha! —nay, if I can't laugh, 'tis all over with me. yes, I will leave your houſe. Lend me your arm, my good girl; for to ſay the truth, Sally, this quarter of an hour has ſhook me worſe than the laſt twenty years wear.

SCENE I.—An Apartment in UNDERMINE'S Houſe.

Well, ſir, what news of Greville? Does he confeſs?

No.

Dear me, I ſhould like to touch. I am an old man, and I can't, I ſuppoſe, hope to live always. Do you think I can, ſir?

Not always, I ſhou'd think.

Ah!

then, ſir, if—ever—I ſhould by any accident happen to die—it would be con⯑ſoling to clutch the £.1000 firſt. Oh dear—I forgot.—Your nephew Roſtrum, the young auctioneer, is below.

What does he want?

Every thing—riches, title, ſenſe, ele⯑gance; becauſe

he wants the caſh.

Well, well, give him a guinea—ſtay, I have a thought. Suppoſe I make him an engine to torment Greville— but he is ſuch a Sneakup! Were he a boy of metal, I would adopt him— but he is ſo honeſt, Nicholas.

'Tis excuſable in youth, ſir.— Time and your inſtructions—

Then he is deficient in ſpirit.

Lord, ſir, you have never allowed him fair play: give him a purſe full of gold— try that— adod, it would make a buck of me.

I will try it.

And, ſir, — a thought has ſtruck me too.

Out with it.

I don't think, ſir, we lead very happy lives.

No—not remarkably ſo.

Suppoſe then, ſir, when you get the Greville eſtate, and I get the thouſand pounds, that we get rid of the cold damps and ſhiverings.

Aye, but how!—how!

Lord, ſir, don't you ſee, how the great contrive it. Inſtead of paſſing twelve o'clock at night in darkneſs, and the blue devils—their houſes are illuminated, full of company and jollity.

And a moſt excellent plan it is—I'll do it. —Yes, I'll paſs the next fifty years of my life in luxury and honourable uprightneſs.

And edod I'll have my jollifications, and who knows but in time I may learn to laugh again.

Now how to provide handſomely for my nephew, without it's coſting me a farthing—I have it—marry him to Roſe Sidney—ah! let me alone for management. Ah, here is my young auctioneer.

How do you do, ſir.

Curſe your bowing—come here, ſir, —hold up your head.

Civility, ſir, in my line is every thing.

Yes, but I am going to make a daſhing buck of you, and in that line—civility will be all againft you.

What, ſir, am I to leave my pulpit, —and part with my little hammer.

There is ſomething better than your little hammer.

Oh dear, and what am I to do with all this?

What you pleaſe.

I'll go to a ſale.

Go to a ſale—I gave it you to throw to the devil.

I'll take it to my attorney's.

Take it to Bond-ſtreet—purchaſe expen⯑ſive cloaths, horſes, carriages—I'll make a man of you.

Well, I ſhou'd not have thought that be⯑coming a ſprig of faſhion was the way to make a man of me.

I ſay, how do you feel with a heavy purſe?

Quite light, ſir—the caſh certainly looſens a man's joints, and gives a ſort of a—I—don't— care—a—damn—for—any—body, kind of a feel.—

Obey me, and my fortune's yours—diſobey me, and you are a beggar. In the firſt place, forget your abſurd auctioneer jargon—you underſtand.—

Sir, I take your bidding—I mean I take your hint.

And get rid of that reſpectful manner, the age of ſupple adulation is paſſed; bend now to the great, and they will ſink you lower. —No, you muſt aſſume a ſuperiority—you muſt hold up your head.—Do you think, for inſtance, you can get rid of your reſpect for me?

With the greateſt eaſe poſſible.

Very well. Obſerve, every thing may be done by management. I who am now look'd up to —aye, ſir, look'd up to; once kept you, know, — a paltry grocer's s;hop.

It was a chandler's ſhop.

Was it—well—well—how have I become what I am—by management—for inſtance—I am thought to poſſeſs a ſtrong underſtanding—is it ſo?

It never ſtruck me that you did.

Very well—again—the world calls me a man of ſcrupulous integrity—am I ſo?

Certainly not, ſir.

Very well, then—all the effect of manage⯑ment. Say little—yet never ſeem ignorant; but by ſignificant nods and ſmiles, ſeem to ſay, I know all—but won't tell.

Oh! when ever I don't underſtand a ſub⯑ject, I muſt nod.

Yes.

Then, my dear uncle, I ſhall nod my head off to a certainty.

No, no, you may manage—get a ſmat⯑tering of politics at a party bookſeller's —morality you may learn at the playhouſes—mechaniſm at Merlin's. —and the fine arts—

At my own auction room.

Confound your auction room—away and begin your career. —Stay; a little trifle I had forgot —I am going to marry you to a—

Marry me! —Oh lock, ſir!

Oh lock, ſir!——You ſneaking—

Upon my foul I meant ſink me—I meant to ſay—ſo you are going to marry me. Sink me.

Yes; and to a lady who has all the re⯑quiſites for an excellent wife. In the firſt place, ſhe is eſteemed beautiful by all who have ſeen her— fine eſtate in Worceſterſhire.

Fine eſtate! I ſhou'd like to ſell it—free⯑hold or copyhold?

Freehold, I believe.

Within a ring fence.

How the devil ſhould I know. In the next place, ſhe is remarkably ſenſible and witty— that I had from a gentleman who ſays her eſtate is the prettieſt in the county.

A moſt excellent authority.

And thirdly, ſhe has a crowd of lovers, which certainly proves—

That her eſtate is the prettieſt in the coun⯑ty; quite natural, for now a-days no gentleman comes more frequently to the hammer than little Cupid—but I muſt away; this purſe makes me very fidgetty.

Succeſs attend you—don't forget my leſ⯑ſons —

—Management is every thing—remember—hypocriſy.

Hypocriſy! I am ſure I ought to nod now, for thank heaven that, is a ſubject I am completely ignorant of.

SCENE II.—Bond Street.

'Tis ſtrange, that I ſhould paſs unheeded amidſt a crowd of friends, that none ſhould know me; ſurely the necromancers of old were fools to ſtudy life away in vain attempts to become imper⯑vious to human ſight, when, to render themſelves inviſible to their neareſt friends, 'twas only to put on the garb of wretchedneſs.

This is the only treaſure I have left—my ſweeteſt Roſe.

But what have I to do with love or happineſs. Yet I'll not part with thee, ſweet remembrancer, tho' nature's calls are moſt imperious, and I ſicken with hunger.

Plague take this purſe; I don't know what to do with it. I don't care two-pence for horſes—I hate gaming. I can't drive curricles. And as for the once concealed charms of the fair— no need of a purſe for that—now a-days, they are all to be ſeen gratis.—Heigho! I am no more fit to be a blood, than my uncle is to be a biſhop—I have nothing to do—no where to go—Oh! what a curſed bore it is to be a gentleman.—Eh! what have we here—Oh! I ſee a ſoldier returned from the wars in the full dreſs of victory—As we cono⯑ſcenti ſay, 'tis a grand head, and in nature's beſt manner. On canvaſs it would fetch twenty gui⯑neas, but on the ſhoulders of a poor ſoldier nobody will give ſixpence for it—throw this [34]to the devil—no—ſuppoſe, inſtead, I try to get my name inſerted in a better catalogue. —Sir, your moſt obedient—this fine ſharp air gives a keen appetite.

It does indeed.

Comical place this Bond Street—brilliant equipages daſhing along—moſt of the owners tho' are in the predicament of your coat—rather out at the elbows.

Sir!

I don't mean to offend.—You ſeem a ſtran⯑ger; give me leave, ſir, to ſhew you the lions— that ſmall gentleman, with a large coronet, is a new peer of ninety-ſeven—that lady all the bucks are ogling, is an old woman of ninety-ſeven—that ſeven feet giant is a milliner—that gentleman runn⯑ing acroſs the way to ſhake hands with a bailiſſ, is over head and ears in debt; don't be ſurpriſed, he is in parliament—in the phaeton with little ponies fits a female gambler, and a great orator: The female gambler, the great orator, and the little ponies are all upon ſale, and may be knocked down to the beſt bidder.—I was once a delightful auc⯑tioneer—my preſent trade is buckiſm—pray, ſir what may your trade be?

Alexander's!

By my ſoul 'tis an intereſting picture, and it ſhan't be my fault if it has not a gilt frame. Sir will you have the goodneſs to lend me twenty pounds?

Do you mean to inſult me?

I do not indeed—will you then have the goodneſs to let me lend you twenty pounds.

No, ſir.

Proud as Lucifer—I'll loſe ſome money to him—a remarkable clear bright ſun-ſhiny day.

Yes.

I'll bet you ten pounds it rains—

Madman—leave me.

Leave you! oh very well—if you inſiſt— good bye to you.

Sir; here is a purſe which you dropt.

I dropt—oh! you fly dog—Is that your trick—ring dropping—a brilliant and a draft—I underſtand it all—my dear fellow it won't do— oh for ſhame of yourſelf.

A moſt extraordinary character, but bene⯑volence fills his heart, and I will not inſult it, by refuſing to take from his purſe ſuch benefits as nature ſo ſtrongly craves.

Do my eyes deceive me—my ſiſter's ſervant in Eng⯑land. Sally!

Oh! my dear maſter; alive! —he! he! he!— ah! but you are not well.

Not quite well—

And in poverty.

Oh! 'tis the ſoldier's lean inheritance. He muſt feel nothing a misfortune—but diſgrace. But tell me—why do I meet you in England— surely, Sally, you have not deſerted Maria?

I deſert her!—have you received no letter?

None. You ſeem agitated—is my ſiſter well?

Yes—heaven bleſs her—

Then I gueſs the cauſe—ſhe is married?—

—Ah! did'ſt thou not hear me— ſhe is then married?—

—no anſwer— damnation—the thought is madneſs.—On thy foul, [36]I charge thee, ſpeak. Is ſhe a wife?—yet ſilent— oh! while ſtrength and reaſon hold—'lead me to her.

SCENE III.—An Apartment in GREVILLE'S houſe.

Where is ſhe?

Ah! that voice.—It is my brother?

What means my brother?

Come not near me but anſwer.—Art thou a wife?

Ah! have I not ſworn to conceal my marriage?—Oh! William!—pardon my ſilence— I am moſt unhappy, yet moſt innocent.

The laws of honour are ſimple unſophiſti⯑cated —thou art an angel, or—'tis plain—I ſee the burning blaſh of guilt—and are my ſufferings for thee thus repaid?

Sufferings! oh! tell me—

I will tell thee, for thou haſt deſerved to know them—When I had given thee all, I ſought my fortunes in a German regiment in the pay of England; we were ordered to the Weſt In⯑dies —there, ſlowly recovering from the peſtilential fever of the iſland, my emaciated ſtate would not allow me to dreſs in the ranks with my uſual alacrity; the conſequence was, that from the cane of a young enſign I received on my ſhoulders a blow.

Yes, a blow—in the paroxiſm of madneſs I felled him with the earth,

Yet, it was cowardly in me, for it was a boy that ſtruck me.

Oh!

The puniſhment of death I was prepared to meet—but Maria! picture the agony of this proud heart, when I was ordered to the halberts— yes, to be puniſhed with ignominy.

Oh! my brother.

I ſhall ſoon conclude—I flew with deſpe⯑ration on my guard, hoping from them to meet the death I longed for—I was deceived, they fa⯑voured my eſcape—at that moment thy image ruſhed upon my heart, and nature bade me ſtruggle with my fate, and find a ſiſter—I have found her, and may the heavy curſe—

Oh! do not curſe me—ſuſpend it but a day—an hour—grant me this, William, or you do not love me.

Not love thee!—unhappy girl—even now ſpite of it's wrongs, my heart throbs as it would burſt to meet thee.—Yes—one embrace, for her honoured ſake who bore thee—no more—curſe on my feeble nature.

Ah! you look ſaint.

It is not ſtrange—I have not lately taſted food.

Oh! William, protect your valued life—take this—on my knees let me entreat it—

Do not inſult me, girl!

Indeed I meant it not, —Oh! Greville, come and ſave my heart from breaking.

Greville! ah!—that then is the villain's name.

Oh ſtay!—my brother—hear me!

SCENE IV.—An Apartment at UNDERMINE'S.

Heigh ho! no information yet of my dear Egerton; I fear to enquire for him, for ſhould my guardian, Undermine, know of my attachment, I ſhould become the object of his fixed malevolence. —pſhaw—here comes his nephew to make love to me.

There ſhe ſtands.

"Deel take the wars, that hurried Willie from me."

Who the devil is Willie—I feel very auk⯑ward.

How do you do ma'am?

Now for a ſpecimen of a modern lover.

I hear, ma'am, you have a charming eſtate.

A modern lover indeed—which eſtate, in my opinion, ſir, you value above it's merits.

I beg your pardon, ma'am—no—when I am call'd in to value an eſtate, I—

Sir!—

Zounds! no, ma'am; what I wiſh to ſpeak of is quite another article, I mean quite another lot—I mean quite another affair—'tis not the fine eſtate in Worceſterſhire; but,

but the holy eſtate of matrimony, ma'am.

Well ſir, what of it?—pray ſpeak?

I am tongue-tied—'tis damned hard, I can only preach in my own pulpit.

What did you ſay, ſir?

I ſaid ma'am, that—I'll try my uncle's way.

You underſtand?

Indeed I do not.

Nor I neither.

—Ma'am!

Sir!

I ſay—

I have it—I'll pour forth a torrent of eloquence.—Oh! miſs, believe me, I deſpiſe riches—ah! how bleſſed ſhould I be to live with you in a retired and peaceful cottage; ſituate in a delightful ſporting country, with at⯑tached and detached offices, roomy cellaring, and commodious attics.

Sir!

Together would we inhale the vernal breeze in an acre and a half of garden ground, crammed with eſculents and choice fruit trees— well ſtocked and cropped.

The poor man is mad.

With content ſmiling round us. I would not languiſh fortown enjoyments—no—tho' ſituated only an agreeable diſtance from the turnpike road, with the accommodation of a ſtage coach paſſing daily to London.

But ſir, I hate a cottage—and when I marry—

The premiſes may be viewed with tickets, and immediate poſſeſſion had.

Quite—quite mad.—

Well, miſs—after all that, don't you love me?

No—

Damn Willie—my name is Tom.

Tom, is it? ha, ha!

She is a ſweet creature—perhaps, ma'am, [40]your heart has been previouſly diſpoſed of by pri⯑vate contract?

It has—

Oh! Willie is a ſoldier is he? then what chance has a ſimple auctioneer, with his little ham⯑mer, againſt a ſoldier with his long ſword—ſo ma'am, you can't bid for me—I mean you can't love me?

No, ſir.

What a pity—is there no agreeable attitude I could put myſelf into—no way—what would I give for one kiſs.

I'll tell you how you may obtain twenty.

How?

By giving up the lover, and aſſuming a character I am ſure you will ſucceed in—a ſincere friend.

Indeed! thank you—quite happineſs enough for me—only place me next to Sweet Willie O in your heart, and I am ſatisfied—what ſhall I ſay—I'll ſerve you with fidelity—pugh!— that I would do for any body elſe—I'll—I'll fight for you; and that I would not do for any body elſe.

Oh! ſir, could I but learn where my ſoldier is—

I'll run and enquire at the War Office.

Thank you, dear ſir.

Oh charming—farewell. Would it not be as well tho' if I knew his name, becauſe, if I aſk, the clerks for Sweet Willie O! they may not com⯑prehend—

True! true! —his name is William Eger⯑ton.

Happy fellow—one more friendly hug.

Hey-day!

There's management—he'll do— he'll do.

More vexation!—Shame girl—in the arms of a ſtranger!—

He is my nephew—will be my heir—and he is a very clever fellow.

He has a queer way of ſhewing it.

A tolerable well-looking man, is not he?

I can't tell.

He has an excellent heart.

I don't know.

Do you think I would deceive you.

I can't ſay—you may be all alike—my grandſon has ruined my fortune—Greville has ruined my happineſs, and, perhaps, I may find him a coxcomb—my Roſe ungrateful—and you a ſcoun⯑drel —ſo I'll to the country again, and in the mean time, my dear, you ſhall ſee as much of this vir⯑tuous town as you poſſibly can, out of a two pair of ſtairs window.

You are a clever fellow—an exceeding clever fellow. —I ſay, how did you manage to win her ſo ſoon.

I don't know—I believe I have an odd agreeable tickling way with me. Did you never ſee me coax the ladies to bid at my auctions?—adieu uncle—

Come back, ſir—I can't part with you— this match with management, I conclude, is as good as ſettled.

Exactly.

Very well—now you muſt get a miſtreſs—

A what?

A miſtreſs—you raſcal—do you bluſh?

I bluſh!—ſir, I bluſh to think, that you ſhould think, that I ſhould think of bluſliing

—only getting a miſtreſs, when a man is going to be married—

Well, ſir.

I can only ſay the neceſſity of it does not ſtrike me.

Neceſſity!—I tell you 'tis the etiquette.

Oh! the etiquette is it?

Now for my grand attack on Greville—fol⯑low me, ſir.

This will never do for me. Oh! I foreſee a diſſolution of partnerſhip here—but he is a rela⯑tion —what then—am I therefore to ſacrifice prin⯑ciple to duty—no—I remember our ſchool adage was "Amicus Plato ſed majis amica veritas;" which I thus interpret—Undermine is my uncle, but in⯑tegrity is my father.

SCENE I.—A Library in Greville's Houſe.

Tell your maſter I wait for him—

My maſter is from home—I will acquaint my miſtreſs with your arrival—

A noble manſion, is not it?

A charming tenement indeed. What is the ground rent?

How ſhould I know? Here ſhe comes. What think you of this incumbrance with it, eh? Is not ſhe beautiful?

Very; but ſhe ſeems unhappy.

'Tis the more incumbent in you then to en⯑deavour to make her otherwiſe—

My miſtreſs.

Gentlemen, I expect Mr. Greville home every moment. Oh, would he were come!

Madam, Mr. Roſtrum, my nephew—now addreſs her.

But ſhe is in tears, ſir.

What's that to you, ſir? tears! nonſenſe! Is ſhe not a miſtreſs?

Is ſhe not a woman?

Come let us have a ſpecimen of the agree⯑able tickling way you were talking of.

What ſhall I ſay? Ma'am, what a capital room, ma'am, this would be for a ſale.

Very probably, ſir

That is all, ma'am.

S'death, is that your tickling way? Make love to her, you raſcal.

Yes, ſir.

Be ſprightly.

Yes, ſir.

Dance up to her, you dog.

Yes, ſir.

You are the moſt charming creature.

Sir!

Oh, I am glad you are returned.

What is the matter?

Nothing.

No inſult has been offered?

No—I am ſo timid—indeed, quite childiſh; but Oh! I have a tale to tell you, Charles. Yet that wretch ſhall not triumph in our agitation. No—until he is gone I am calm.

Matchltſs girl! Come, ſir, diſpatch.

My nephew, ſir.

If I can but put him off his guard.—Now is your time.

Theſe, ſir, are the ready money ſecurities. Bonds to the amount of £ 5,000.

Bravo!

elſe are exchequer bills—that is an India bond.

I cannot bear it. 'Tis torture inſupportable! I will declare thy innocence.—Poverty, death I can en⯑dure; but not thy tears, Maria. Mr, Under⯑mine.—

Hold—Greville—!

Stand aſide; here comes ſomebody will ſoon tell who is who. I'll get out of the way.

Who anſwers to the name of Greville?

I do.

Give me your hand.

What do you mean?

The gripe of everlaſt⯑ing friendſhip—for 'tis death muſt part us. You are a villain,

Oh my brother!

Brother!

Oh raiſe not your arm againſt—

Who?

Her huſband.

Her huſband!

Yes; ſpite of the poverty that name en⯑tails on me, ſpite of impending ruin, my heart triumphantly exults in proclaiming her my loved, my [46] honored wife!

By my ſoul, Maria, I would not raiſe another bluſh upon that angel cheek to purchaſe the world's dominion.

Then the eſtate is mine. Strut, you dog.

I do, ſir.

My darling ſiſter! my pride! let me now hold thee to my heart with raptur.

Tears from a ſoldier!

Unfeeling man! did net tears of joy ſtart from me at beholding beauty and innocence re⯑ſtored to their native luſtre, I were unworthy of the name of ſoldier. And, ſir, it may be prudent for you to remember, that a ſoldier's heart is like his ſword, formed of tempered ſteel; for while it bends with ſympathizing pity to the touch of woe, it can reſume its ſpringing energy to puniſh arro⯑gance, or cruſh oppreſſion.

Strut, uncle!

No, no—a little is very well. It would not be feeling. When will it be convenient Mr. Greville to give poſſeſſion?

Immediately,

I ſay—I'll triumph by and by—at preſent we'll go home, ſhug and quiet. Ten thouſand a year, here is management, you dog.

Sir, allow me with gratitude to return this purſe. You will find that I have greatly benefited by your gene⯑roſity.

Nay, don't.

I inſiſt, ſir.

Conceited fellow! but I muſt away to en⯑quire for Sweet Willie O.

Come, Mr. Egerton.

Egerton! did I hear rightly? Sir, one word, if you pleaſe. Will you take this purſe again?

No, ſir.

You won't! We'll ſee that. Have you forgot a lady called Roſe Sydney?

Have I forgot her!

(ſighing.)

I have juſt parted from her, and ſhe ſaid—will you take this purſe?

Excuſe me—but tell me—

She ſaid—you had better take it, or the devil a word will you get out of me.

Well, well.

Now you are an honeſt fellow again—ſhe loves you—ſincerely—and if you will meet me in an hour in Berkley Square, ſhe ſhall tell you ſo.

Don't trifle with my feelings.

By heaven, I am ſerious. You ſhall have a kiſs, and I'll have another. And I ſay—bring a parſon with you.

I don't know any. Who will introduce me?

Who will introduce you to a parſon! look at your friend in your right hand, my dear fellow— he is gentleman uſher to all mankind, in court or in city.—In public, he will eſcort you to a great man in his ſtate chamber, or in private to a pretty woman in her bed chamber.

You are not happy, Greville.

Yes, Maria—though bereſt of fortune; tho' a priſon opens its gates to receive us, yet bleſſed with thy love, and my heart's approbation, I feel that I am happy. Accept my homage, Oh, celeſtial virtue! Nature's ſweet nurſe—'ts thou alone can pour a healing balm upon the wounded ſpirit, and lull the throbbing heart to reſt.

Oh, now 'tis Mrs, Greville, is it? Did not I ſay it would be ſo? Now every thing is as it ſhould be, and my tongue can wag again.

Oh my dear maſter—Well, you muſt tell me how you have been, and where you have been, and—ſir

I am entirely ſatisfied with your conduct, and to ſhew I am perfectly reconciled, you may if you pleaſe

But here am I talking a heap of nonſenſe, while he wants reſt and refreſhment.

Oh true.

Maria! how could I miſtake the glow of virtue for the bluſh of guilt! This lovely cheek reſembles that of the chalte queen of night, which can only be illumined by a ray from heaven. Come, my ſiſter.

Ah! here comes my early, my excellent old friend. Circumſtances obliged me to behave hardly to him; but I know the way to his honeſt heart.

Huzza! he is my own bey again. Ecod, I could jump over the moon. But he ſhan't ſee my joy, that is—if I can help it. Ha, ha! No, he has inſulted my regard for him, and it demands ſatisfaction.

Well, good April—!

Called for orders, ſir.

Sir! is that language to a friend, to your own boy? Come, if I have been a little frolicſome, pray who was my inſtructor?

I don't know.

No—don't you remember the miſchievous pranks you taught me?

Yes—Ha, ha!—No I don't.

What! not making me fill the apotheca⯑ry's boots with cold water?

He, he, he!

It was not cold water, it was hot haſty-pudding.

True; and then April, in our ſhooting excurſions, how you aſſiſted me in climbing the hills. I think I feel at this moment the preſſure of your friendly hand upon my infant fingers. I wonder how it would feel now.

Oh! my dear Charley boy!

Now you ſhall ſee how merry an old man can be, ha, ha—! The old pye-balled poney is dead tho'. Ecod, I'll tell you a good joke. My dog of a grandſon has ſpent every ſhilling I am worth, ha, ha—! But you look grave.

Have I not reaſon?

What reaſon?

Are you, then, ignorant, that by my marriage I forfeit my father's eſtate to Mr. Under⯑mine?

Eh! what! forfeit! 'Tis impoſſible.

Such is my father's will.

That your father's will? Then my old maſter, heaven reſt his ſoul, is gone to the devil to a certainty. But Undermine can't think of keeping it.

Ah, you then know little of Mr. Under⯑mine.

But I will know him, aye thoroughly. There muſt be villany. I'll to him directly.—He

[50]poſſeſs the Greville eſtate—no, no! Tho' his majeſty has not a more peaceable ſubject in his dominions than myſelf, yet, rather than that, I would throttle him to a certainty. Come, come, cheer up. That's right—don't droop; for while the left ſide is the ſtouteſt, I warrant it will ſome how contrive to prop up the other.

SCENE II.—An Apartment in UNDERMINE'S houſe.

Well, nephew, I am a made man; and if I could but ſee you married to Miſs Sydney.

Now for a little ſwaggering!—Make yourſelf eaſy. I mean to marry her in an hour.

The devil you do! But how will you get April's conſent?

That for his conſent. I'll carry her off.

You don't ſay ſo!

I will —ſink me!

But are you ſure of her conſent?

I don't care that for her conſent neither. I'll carry her off, whether ſhe will or no.

Amazing! I didn't think it was in you. But, I ſay—you muſt have ſomebody to aſiſt in carrying her off.

I will—I'll get two of our auction-porters, careful fellows—Carried home a Venus the other day without the ſmalleſt fracture.

Nonſenſe!—They won't do.

No! Then I'll get an officer in the army to aſs;iſt me in the elopement.

That's right—they are uſed to it. Now for management! Take that. Obſerve—that key—

Is a patent one.

Pſha! It opens the eſcrutoire up-ſtairs. In the right-hand drawer you will find the title deeds of her eſtate, which April put into my care; and poſſeſſion—

Is every thing.—Bravo! This is luck in⯑deed.

But ſtay—I muſl not ſeem to conſent to your carrying her off.

Certainly not.

I muſt reſiſt you, and you muſt puſh me about.

I will.

Ah! but may I depend on you?

You may, upon my foul. Good bye, ha, ha!

I ſay—this is management.

It is.

You'll trick the old one.

I mean it, I aſſure you, ha, ha!

I did not think it was in him.

I give you joy, ſir, with all my heart and ſoul.

Aye, Nicholas, 'tis all ſettled, ſo ſay no more about it. All quite ſettled.

Except the one thouſand pound, ſir.

What? Oh, true. But at preſent I have not any caſh in the houſe.

A check on your banker, ſir.

Eh! But without pen and ink—

Here they are, ſir.

Well, well—a thouſand pounds isn't it?

And intereſt.

Intereſt!—It has not been due an hour.

A little intereſt, ſir.

How much?

Five hundred pounds, ſir.

Here's a damn'd villain.—There's no need for hurry.

I am an old man, and have no time to loſe.

You muſt hire ſervants.

I will, ſir.

I mean to ſup in my new manſion.

You ſhall, ſir.

And let me have a band of muſic—

I'll go directly. I can hire them in St. James's ſtreet.

Aye, go directly, Nicholas.

And as your banker lives in Pall Mall, it will be quite handy.

By and by.

It muſt be paid directly; for being due for a little roguery, it of courſe becomes a debt of honor.

Zounds! don't teize ſo. Intereſtforſooth! Conſider what an enormous ſum a thouſand pounds is, for only juſt popping a will into the fire. I won't be hurried, I tell you.

And if I had popped it into the fire, what a pretty way I ſhould be in. Ah! you had no ſuch fool to deal with. No, it is ſewed up ſafe here in my coat. By day the comforter of my heart, by night the companion of my pillow; and it ſhall not be burnt till the thouſand pounds is paid. Aye, and with ſwinging intereſt too.

Ah! Mr. April, I did not ſee you.

What do you ſay?—I am very deaf.

I am deviliſh glad of it. Then all is ſnug.

Burnt will!

Mr. April.—

How to fathom it—

I ſay, I ſhall be ſteward now—'tis a great undertaking; but I ſuppoſe I ſhall contrive not to loſe much by it.

I dare ſay you will.—A thouſand pounds.

Prepare the tenants for my arrival.

Yes; I'll tell them old Nick is coming among them. What the devil did he ſay about ſewing up?

The country air may be of ſervice.

Yes, with the'help of that, you may live ſome weeks.

Oh dear! ſome weeks—A large quantity of years, you mean? Well, good bye, April.

Eh—what—By heaven I felt ſomething like parchment—If it ſhould, be—I'll be convinced —Good bye, Nick—a laſt embrace.

'Tis ſuffocation!

'Tis parchment.

Zounds! it had like to have been a laſt embrace indeed.

How ſhall I get at that parchment? I can eaſily perſuade him he is ill—perhaps by that means —I'll try—once more.

No, no—there is my hand.

Eh!—what! good God!

What is the matter?

Let me look at you—good God!—don't be alarmed.

But I am very much alarmed. Am I ill?

I dare ſay you feel— flurried.

Exceedingly.

Palpitation at the heart'—'tis parchment?

Oh yes—very ſudden this. I felt quite well juſt now.

Did you? That's an alarming ſymptom; for I have always obſerved, that nothing makes the phyſcian look ſo grave, as the patient's ſaying he feels quite well. My dear friend, ſend for one directly.

I don't know what to ſay, They ſome⯑times ſave your life; but then it is ſure to coſt you a guinea.

And ſaving yours is certainly not worth it. But I ſee you are a philoſopher—You are prepared for death,

Oh dear! not at all—I am quite terrified. If perſpiration is good for me, I feel that copiouſly.—What ſhall I do?

Come, for old acquaintance ſake, my grandſon ſhall attend you gratis.

Oh, thank you.

Wonderful phyſician! Never loſt a pa⯑tient—!

becauſe he never had a patient to loſe. I expect him here in five minutes. You had better go to your room.

Aye.

Keep yourſelf warm.

I will.

Above all things, don't change your clothes.

I won't.

Shall I button your coat?

No, no—I'll do that myſelf.

Go, I'll follow, and talk to you of your latter end, and keep up your ſpirits.

I believe I am dying. 'Tis very good of you to get me a doctor gratis, (exit, and re-enters.) But I ſay—who is to pay the apothecary?

I'll ſettle that too.—(Exit Nicholas.)—Now for Undermine—If he have one ſpark of hu⯑manity in his compoſition, I'll call it forth; if not, and I can get that coat—

Nicholas! What April here—I gueſs your errand, and am ſorry, ſir, I cannot continue you as ſteward.

I your ſteward! No, that is not my errand, I am a feeble fellow, ſliding out of the world; but Greville is a noble fellow riſing into it. 'Tis reſpecting him I come. You muſt aſſiſt him. How is he to live?

Oh! his integrity will ſupport him.

True; but conſider what a way you [56]would be in, if you had nothing but your integrity to ſupport you.

Sir, I ſee you only want to triflle with me.

True; I only want a trifle of you.

I am flint.

Well; but even flint, when properly hit, will ſend forth warm, vivid ſparks.

I muſt leave you. Time preſſes.

So do his wants.

A nobleman is waiting for me.

A bailiff is waiting for him.

If you proceed, expect ſome perſonal inſult.

Throw your purſe at me. Come—

I ſhall burſt with rage.

They will famiſh with hunger.

Unhand me, I ſay.

What, a blow!

Yes; take him that.

No, no, that you meant for myſelf, and I'll take it, ſo you will give ſomething better to poor Greville.

I will not.

You ſcoundrel! And do you ſuppoſe, that becauſe I would ſubmit to a blow to endeavour to ſave a friend from ruin, that I want the ſpirit of a man to reſent an indignity. Aſk my pardon.

Pardon!

Aye.

I do—help! help!

On your knees, or your laſt hour is come.

Well, I do—I do, Help! help!

Leave my houſe, ſir, leave my houſe. By heaven, I'll be revenged.

By hell, you are a villain.

SCENE I.—Outſide of UNDERMINE'S houſe.

That is the houſe.

Does that contain—

Softly—recollect, ſir, you are only a ſu⯑baltern in this affair, and that I am your command⯑ing officer; ſo, obey orders.

How do you intend to proceed?

I am too great a general to communicate my plan of operations; I ſhall do my duty in giving you poſſeſſion of the lovely citadel, and then take care and do your duty.

I ſay, when the alarm is given, do you retreat—you know how to do that, I dare ſay.

I fear to truſt my happineſs. Can it be poſſible that my adored girl ſtill thinks with kind⯑neſs on her poor Egerton? Ah! a noiſe—what an anxious moment!

I will carry her off.

You ſhall not, ſir, I am her guardian.

Do you think I care for guardians? dare to ſtir hand or foot, and I'll cruſh you into atoms, you old ſcoundrel.

That will do—zounds! be quiet—they are gone, I tell you.

Eh! ſo they are, ha, ha!—well, how did I do it?

Oh, capitally—

has the ſoldier got her?

Yes.

That's as it ſhould be.

Exactly.

Well!

Well!

Are you mad?

What is the matter?

The matter! why don't you go?

Where?

Why zounds! how can you marry the girl if you ſtand here.

I marry! oh, very true. I declare it quite eſcaped me.

'Sdeath! run.

I am a-going, a-going, a-going—

Sir! where ſhall I bring the bride?

To Greville's. Go along.

I ſay—this is management.

Yes, yes—but go along.

Sir, you would make a capital puff at an auction.

Zounds! go.

So that's ſettled—and now to Greville's in triumph. I'll walk in with erected creſt, and—ugh! confound the fellow, how he has bruiſed me!

SCENE II.—An Apartment at Mr. UNDERMINE'S.

I wiſh the doctor were come.—Bleſs me, I hope I ſhan't die—I don't care what pain I ſuffer, ſo I don't die. Oh! for a ſwinging rheu⯑matiſm that would laſt me twenty years—do read a little to me.

"Crumbs of comfort for an aged ſinner."

Theſe books are quite new to me.

Have you had my letter?

Yes.

Don't forget—'tis the coat I want—and remember you are a phyſician, not a farrier.

I will—and if I ſucceed, remember you tip. How do you do?

That's what I want to know of you.

True—oh I ſee—

Shall I detail my ſymptoms?

No—'tis a clear caſe—if you were to talk for an hour, I ſhould not know more of your com⯑plaint than I do at preſent.

Bleed him—

I will. You have no ob⯑jection to part with a little blood?

I have an objection to part with any thing.

Except to advantage. Now, if by ſink⯑ing an ounce or two of blood, you can produce an [61] income of ſixteen pounds of fleſh, the advantage is immenſe.

How ſenſibly he talks! why, 'tis five thouſand per cent profit. I'll be bled directly.

Help him.

No, no, I can do that myſelf.

'Tis very terrifying—I'll read a little more. But, doctor, are you ſure now I ſhall not be ſuddenly called to heaven.

I am very ſure of that.

Oh, you are.

Then, pray, ſir, what is my complaint?

Complaint! what ſhall I ſay? I wiſh he would return—oh, 'tis the—the glanders.

The glanders! zounds! do you make a horſe of me?

No—we will be content with making an aſs of you.

Or perhaps the diſorder may be ſeated in the coats be⯑longing to the ſtomach.

No, no—the diſorder was ſeated in the coat belonging to the back, ha, ha! but now 'tis removed,

Do you ſee this?

I am undone.

And how the devil could you expect a moment's eaſe with ſuch a thing as this laying next your heart—you may go—you are quite cured.

Cured! I am ruined. Oh! if I had but touched the thouſand pounds, I would not mind the intereſt—perhaps 'tis not too late.

Sole heir without reſervation or reſtriction; huzza!

Sir, honourable ſir, will you allow me to aſk you one ſmall favour?

What is it?

Only to delay mentioning this

joyful diſcovery for a few moments. My maſter and I have a little account to ſettle, and I ſhould like juſt to ſtrike a balance before he knows what has happened.

Oh, I underſtand—we have bled you, and now you want to go and bleed him.

Juſt a little, ſir.

With all my heart, old Nick. Devil claw devil.

Oh, thank you, ſir.

But diſpatch—

I fly, ſir.

Now with heels as light as our hearts we'll away to Greville's.

Stop—ſtop for me, grandfather.

I beg your pardon, old one. Here take my arm—let your grandfather aſſiſt you. Upon my ſoul, I quite forget you.

SCENE III.—An elegant Drawing room in GRE⯑VILLE'S houſe, illuminated.—A band of muſic playing.—A number of Servants dreſſed in ſplendid liveries.

Approach! is Greville gone?

Not yet, ſir.

Any of my gueſts arrived?

No, ſir.

Has the Traiteur furniſhed a ſplendid en⯑tertainment?

Yes, ſir.

Let muſic uſher in the gueſts.

Zounds! he here.—

— Don't go away, ſir.

How do you do?

How do you do?

I have overcome my paſſion, and thought better.

Oh, very well—then 'tis all over.

Yes.

You impudent raſcal, how dare you ſtand between me and my friend?— Begone, you ſcoundrel!—I thought you would ſee the abſurdity of my ſupporting Greville.

Oh yes; it would have been quite out of character.

Heyday! my ward here! why, girl—?

Come here—come here—give me your hand, you dog—I ſuppoſe 'tis all ſettled.

It is—the wedding's over.

I ſay—what will that old fool April ſay, I wonder?

We ſhall hear.

I underſtand. Mr. Un⯑dermine, have you given our ward permiſſion to marry?

To be ſure I have.

If that be the caſe, my dear, you have mine.

Gentlemen, I thank you.

He thank me! what has he to do with it. Oh! I forgot he helped you to this delicious morſel.

No, he did not; he helped himſelf—and what is more, perſuaded a parſon to ſay grace.

Egerton her huſband! Did not I order you to marry her? Did not I bid—

You did bid, ſir; but honor bid more.

I give you joy, my girl. You have choſen a noble fellow.

Well, and I give her joy, for ſhe has choſen a beggar.

On that point I beg to be heard. You re⯑member you gave me a key—here it is.

Well, ſir?

It belonged, ladies and gentlemen, to an eſcrutoire, with a ſecretary drawer. Pannells richly fineered—ſcrole pediment head—bracket feet—the whole finiſhed in a workmanlike manner, and well worth the attention—

At the auctioneer again. Zounds! you are ſo fond of it, I dare ſay you would ſell me.

Sir, I would knock you down with all the pleaſure in life.

But what of the key?—the key—

The key certainly opened the drawer you [65] mentioned; and it as certainly opened a drawer you did not mention.

What?

Be quiet. There I found a parcel of pa⯑pers, and title deeds, which you muſt have put there entirely by miſtake, my dear ſir, becauſe I perceived they belonged to Mr. Egerton.

Give them to me directly, directly—I ſay, ſir, reſtore—

Every thing to its right owner. Certainly —I don't wiſh to keep your, or any man's pro⯑perty —ſo, Egerton, there are your papers again— and, Uncle, there is your key again.

Ha, ha!

What diſintereſted integrity!

What damned raſcality!

Oh fie! no, no.

What is it then?

Management.

Well, you have managed finely for your⯑ſelf however—I diſcard you. Had you followed my inſtructions, you would have been exalted—

To the pillory, I ſuppoſe.—No ſir, tho' you don't ſcruple it to others, far be it from me to rob you of your natural inheritance.

I would have left you all I am worth.

What then? you forget all you are worth belongs to other people. When you were gone, they would naturally aſk me for their own, and how could I have the face to refuſe them?

Give me your hand. You have acted your part nobly; and now 'tis my turn.

All this I laugh at. Am I not poſſeſſed of the Greville eſtate? Who has any thing to ſay on that ſubject!

I believe I ſhall trouble you with a word or two.

I ſee Greville is about to depart, and I muſt beg you will all follow his example.

My beſt friends, allow me to preſent to you a ſiſter. By this gentleman's kindneſs, Maria, happineſs again dawns upon us.

And I will make it blaze with meridian ſplendour.

Let us then leave this man to the full en⯑joyment of ſuch reflections as his conſcience may adminiſter.

I beg your pardon a moment. Umph! Mr. Undermine, I hear doubts have ariſen re⯑ſpecting the authenticity of the late Mr. Greville's ſignature.

Indeed!—Sir, to ſhew my fairneſs, I'll leave this point to your deci⯑ſion.

'Tis genuine, it muſt be confeſſed.

Muſt it ſo?

Any objection to my reading it?

None.

Perhaps it may tire you?

By no means. I think it remarkably en⯑tertaining.

‘I, Robert Greville, do declare this my laſt will.— To my only ſon, Charles Greville, I give and bequeath my forgiveneſs and my bleſſing, toge⯑ther with all my eſtates real and perſonal.’— Umph! that is very entertaining.

Very—but I prefer the remainder—"Pro⯑vided my ſaid ſon"—go on—go on.

What do you ſay?

'Pſhaw!—"Provided my ſaid ſon has not "contracted"—why don't you go on?

I don't ſee any thing like it.

You don't—ha, ha! Give me leave to di⯑rect your attention.

What does this mean!

Mean!—That my young maſter, my friend, my dear Charles, is happy—that my old maſter is in heaven, and that I am in heaven; two wills were made; by the laſt, which he endea⯑voured to ſuppreſs, you are ſole heir, without re⯑ſervation.

Is it poſſible?

How ſhall I expreſs my gratitude for this diſcovery?—for giving happineſs to my Maria?

And to me too. Oh, you are a nice old man.

He muſt have dealt with—

Old Nick. You are right—I did—and here he comes.

Ah, Nicholas—Nicholas!

Ah, maſter—maſter!

A dreadful affair this!

Very ſhocking indeed, ſir.

Eh—zounds! I have given him a draft for a thouſand pounds.

Nicholas— Come here, Nicholas. I am not angry. My con⯑ſolation is, what's done, can't be undone. I gave you a draft—

You did, ſir. And my conſolation is, what's done, can't be undone.

Indeed! But it will be of no uſe. I have no caſh at my banker's.

Dear ſir, what credit you have! They paid it without a word.

You have not been—

Yes, ſir—I juſt contrived to hobble there.

You infernal!

Old friends ſhould not quarrel, Nicholas; ſup⯑poſe we go home, and talk it over agreeably. I'll propoſe ſomething reaſonable.

It muſt be very reaſonable.

It ſhall. Gentlemen—

What, bowing! You forget, ſir, your own leſſons.—Be erect, and I'll tell you how you may be ſo;—become an honeſt man, and on my life, that will make you hold up your head more gallantly than the firſt dancing maſter in Europe can;—‘depend on't, ſir. Roguery is the worſt trade a man can follow; for (to the credit of human nature) I ſincerely believe, that where one fortune is raiſed by purſuing the devious mazes of chicanery, a hundred are acquired by walking in the ſimple path of induſtrious inte⯑grity.’

Indeed!

You had better ſtick to management!

Management!—Oh, I have had enough of that.

Now, being all as happy as heart can wiſh, come along with me, Sally. Good bye to you—

Where are you going, April?

To the kitchen. I have no notion of your houſes, not I, where all the joy is confined to [69] the drawing-room. Let there be degrees in every thing but happineſs; and 'fore George, if any ſer⯑vant in this houſe be ſober enough to wait on you at ſupper, I'll diſcharge him to-morrow morning. —Poor fellows! muſt not make them ill tho' Never mind—Come along Sally.

Oh, you are a nice old man!

If I muſt have thanks, gentlemen, let me receive them here!—

Happy fellows! you are to be envied.

So are you. We have received hap⯑pineſs, you have given it.

Your fortunes, ſir, will be our peculiar care.

Thank you, dear ladies; but, with your permiſſion, I'll ſtick to my trade.