[]THE LORD OF THE MANOR.

ACT I. SCENE I.

KEEP it up, jolly ringers—ding dong and away with it again. A merry peal puts my ſpirits quite in a hey-day—what ſay you, my little fo⯑reigner?

You know, Peggy, my ſpirits are generally in time and tune with your's. I was out of my wits for your coming back to know what was going on—Is all this for the wake?

Wake! An hundred wakes together would not make ſuch a day as this is like to be. Our new land⯑lord, that has bought all this great eſtate of Caſtle Ma⯑nor, is arrived; and Rental the ſteward, who went up to London upon the purchaſe, is with him, and is to be continued ſteward. He has been preſenting the tenants—and they are ſtill flocking up to the caſtle to get a ſight of Sir John,—Sir John—

What is his name?

I declare I had almoſt forgot it, tho' I have heard all about him—Sir John Contraſt—Knight and Ba⯑ronet—and as rich as Mexico—an ox is to be roaſted whole—the whole country will be aſſembled—ſuch feaſting—dancing—

Oh! how I long to ſee it! I hope papa will let us go—do not you, ſiſter?

No, indeed; my hopes are juſt the reverſe; I hate nothing ſo much as a croud and noiſe.—Enjoy the [3] gaiety for which your temper is ſo well fitted, An⯑nette, but do not grudge me what is equally ſuited to mine—retirement.

I grudge it to you only, Sophy, becauſe it nou⯑riſhes pain.

Well ſaid, my mademoiſelle; though I hate the French in my heart, as a true Engliſhwoman, I'll be friends with their ſunſhine as long as I live, for mak⯑ing thy blood ſo lively in thy veins. Were it not for Annette and me, this houſe would be worſe than a nunnery.

Heigh ho!

Aye, that's the old tune. It's ſo all night long—ſigh! ſigh! pine, pine! I can hardly get a wink of ſleep.

And how is it ever to end? The two fathers are ſpecially circumſtanced to make a family alliance. A curate with forty pounds a year has endow'd his ſon with two ſure qualities to entail his poverty, Learning and Modeſty; and our gentleman (my maſter, God bleſs him!) is poſſeſſed of this manſion, a farm of an hundred acres, a gun and a brace of ſpaniels—I ſhould have thought the example ſo long before your eyes of living upon love might have made you—

Charmed with it Peggy—And ſo indeed I am—It was the life of a mother I can never forget. I do not paſs an hour without reflecting on the happineſs ſhe enjoyed and diffuſed—"May ſuch be my ſitua⯑tion! it is my favourite proſpect."

"Aye, 'tis like your favourite moonſhine, juſt of the ſame ſubſtance." Helpleſs ſouls! you have not a ſingle faculty to make the pot boil between you—I ſhould like to ſee you at work in a dairy—your lit⯑tle nice fingers may ſerve to rear an unfledged linnet, but would make ſad work at cramming poultry for market—

But you, my good Peggy, ought not to upbraid me; for you have helped to ſpoil me by taking every care and labour off my hands—the humility of our for⯑tunes ought to have put us more upon a level.

That's a notion I cannot bear. I ſpeak my mind familiarly to be ſure, becauſe I mean no harm; but I never pretend to be more than a ſervant; and you were born to be a lady—I'm ſure on't—I ſee it as ſure as the gypſies in every turn of your countenance.—Read Pamela Andrews, and the Fortunate Country Maid.

Have done Peggy, or you'll make me ſeriouſly an⯑gry; this ſeems your particular day of nonſenſe.

No nonſenſe, but a plain road to fortune. Our young landlord, Sir John Contraſt's ſon, is expected every hour; now get but your ſilly paſſion for Trumore out of your head, and my life on't it will do—I dreamt laſt night I ſaw you with a bunch of nettles in your breaſt for a noſegay; and that's a ſure ſign of a wed⯑ding—Let us watch for him at the park-gate, and take your aim; your eyes will carry further, and hit ſurer, than the beſt gun your father has.

Peggy, how odd you are!

Yes, my whole life has been an oddity—all made up of chequers and chances—you don't know half of it—but Margery Hearts-eaſe is always honeſt and gay; and has a joke and a ſong for the beſt and worſt of times.

It would be a thouſand pities you ever ſhould.

But here comes your father, and Rental the ſteward;—they ſeem in deep diſcourſe.

Let us go in then; it might diſpleaſe my father to interrupt them.

Go thy ways, poor girl! thou art more afraid of being interrupted in diſcourſing with thy own ſimple heart.

Peggy, when do you think my ſighing-time will come?

Don't be too ſure of yourſelf, miſs; there is no age in which a woman is ſo likely to be infected with folly, as juſt when ſhe arrives at what they call years of diſcretion.

But you are the only tenant upon the manor, that has not congratulated our new lord upon taking poſ⯑ſeſſion of his purchaſe.

Strange diſpoſition of events! That he of all man⯑kind ſhould be a purchaſer in this county!—I muſt not ſee Sir John Contraſt.

Why ſo? he is prepared—in giving him an ac⯑count of his tenants, your name was not forgot.

And pray, my friend, how did you deſcribe me?

As what I always found you—an honeſt man. One can go no farther than that word in praiſe of a cha⯑racter; therefore, to make him the better acquainted with yours, I was forced to tell him the worſt I knew of you.

Good Rental, what might that be?

I told him, you had the benevolence of a prince, with means little better than a cottager; that conſe⯑quently your family was often indebted to your gun (at which you were the beſt hand in the country) for the only meat in your kitchen.

But what ſaid he to the gun?

He ſhook his head, and ſaid, if you were a poacher, woe be to you when his ſon arrived.

His ſon!—

Yes, his only ſon in fact. The eldeſt it ſeems was turned out of doors twenty years ago, for a mar⯑riage againſt his conſent. This is by a ſecond wife, and declared his heir. He gives him full rein to run his own courſe, ſo he does not marry—and by all accounts a fine rate he goes at.

And what is become of that elder?

Nobody knows. But the old ſervants who remem⯑ber him are always lamenting the change.

You know him well.

What do you mean?

A diſcovery that will ſurprize you—I have lived with you, the many years we have been acquainted—an intimate—a friend—and an impoſtor.

An impoſtor!

Your new maſter, the purchaſer of this eſtate is an obſtinate father—I am a diſinherited ſon—put thoſe [10] circumſtances together, and inſtead of Raſhly, call me—

Is it poſſible!

Call me Contraſt.

Mr. Raſhly, Sir John Contraſt's ſon!

Even ſo—for the ſole offence of a marriage with the moſt amiable of womankind, I received one of Sir John's reſcripts as he calls the ſignification of his plea⯑ſure, with a note of a thouſand pounds, and a prohi⯑bition of his preſence for ever. I knew his temper too well to reply.

You muſt know him beſt—I had conceived him of a diſpoſition more odd than harſh.

You are right; but this oddity has all the effects of harſhneſs. Sir John Contraſt has ever thought deci⯑ſion to be the criterion of wiſdom; and is as much averſe to retract an error as a right action. In ſhort, in his character, there is a continual variance between a good heart and a perverſe head; and he often ap⯑pears angry with all mankind, when in fact he is only out of humour with himſelf.

I always thought you muſt have been bred above the ſtation I ſaw you in, but I never gueſſed how much—could you immediately ſubmit to ſuch a change of ſituation?

No, I thought of different profeſſions to ſupport the rank of a gentleman. I afterwards placed my eldeſt daughter, then an infant, under the care of a relation, and went abroad—There my Annette was born, and for the ſake of oeconomy for ſome years educated. In ſhort, after various trials, I found I wanted ſupple⯑neſs for ſome of my purſuits, and talents perhaps for others; and my laſt reſource was a cottage and love, in the moſt literal ſenſe of both.

But why did you change your name?—the pride of Sir John Contraſt would never have ſuffered it to be ſaid, that his ſon was in the capacity of a poor far⯑mer.

Our claims were upon the virtues, not the weak⯑neſſes of the heart; and when they failed, obſcurity was not only choice but prudence. Why give our children the name and knowledge of a rank that might alienate their minds from the humble life to which they were deſtined?

What a ſacrifice! how ſtrange this ſituation muſt have appeared to you at firſt!

My Anna was equally fitted for a cottage or a court. Her perſon, her accompliſhments, her temper—the univerſal charm of her ſociety, made our new life a conſtant ſource of delight—

Not ſo, my good ſir, you have two living images of her; and for their ſakes you muſt try to work upon this old obdurate—Heaven has ſent you together for that purpoſe.

No my friend, he is inflexibility itſelf—I mean to fly him—it muſt be your part to diſpoſe of my farm and little property.

Your intention is too haſty—I pretend to no ſkill in plotting, but I think I ſee my way clearly in your caſe—dear Sir, be adviſed by me—

Hollo countryman, do you belong to the lodge?

Hey-day, what ſtrange figure have we here?

As I live, the young heir's gentleman. I got ac⯑quainted with his character when I was in London to ſolicit the ſtewardſhip, and it is as curious as his maſ⯑ter's.

What countryman is he?

True Engliſh by birth. He took his foreign name upon his travels to ſave his maſter's reputation—no⯑thing ſo diſgraceful now-a-days, as to be waited upon by your own countrymen—pray be contented to—

Hollo! countrymen, which is the neareſt way—What Mr. Rental! faith the ſun was ſo much in my eyes I did not know you.

Welcome to Caſtle Manor, Mr. Homeſtall—I for⯑get your French name.

La Nippe at your ſervice; and when you ſee me thus equipped, I hope you'll forget my Engliſh one.

Pray how came you to be on foot?

A ſpring of the chaiſe broke at the bottom of the hill; the boy was quite a bore in tying it up; ſo I took out my luggage and determined to walk home.

The prettieſt little package I ever ſaw.

What may it contain?

The current utenſils of a fine gentleman—as neceſ⯑ſary to his exiſtence as current caſh. It is a toilette à chaſſe, in Engliſh the macaroni's knapſack—It con⯑tains a freſh perfum [...]d fil [...]et for the hair, a pot of cold cream for the face, and a callico under-waiſtcoat com⯑preſſed between two ſachets à l'adorat de Narciſſe; with a dreſſing of Marechalle powder, court plaiſter, lip-ſalve, eau de luce—

To be ſure that cargo does not exactly ſuit the family of the Homeſtalls.

Non, non—my maſter would not truſt a black pin in my hands, if I did not talk broken Engliſh—I ex⯑pect him here every minute.

What time was he to leave London?

The chaiſe was order'd at one this morning—I muſt allow him an hour for yawning, picking his teeth, and damning his journey—that would bring it to—

Upon my word, a pretty full allowance for ſuch em⯑ployments.

Nothing—I have known Lord Dangle and his friend Billy Vapid in ſuſpence in St. James's Street, between a fruit-ſhop and a gambling-houſe, thrice the time, and the chaiſe door open all the while.

Well ſaid, Mr. La Nippe. I ſee you are a ſaty⯑riſt.

But what time of the morning had you brought him to?

Two o'clock—oh, he dares not ſtay much longer—for he is made up for the journey. I doubt whe⯑ther he could take himſelf to pieces; but, if he could, I am ſure he could never put himſelf together again without my aſſiſtance—his curls pinned, his ancles rolled, his—

His ancles rolled? pray what may you mean by that?

The preſervation of a Ranelagh leg—the true mode of keeping it from one ſeaſon to another—What's a Macaroni without a Ranelagh leg—our's has carried it hollow ſix ſeaſons together.

We don't underſtand you.

Why ſir, with ſix yards of flannel roller to ſweat the ſmall, and prop the calf, and only an hour's atten⯑tion every day (nothing for a gentleman to ſpare), to ſit with his heels in the air, and keep the blood back, I will undertake to—oh I'll leave nature in the lurch at her beſt works—and produce a leg with the muſcle of a Hercules, and the ancle of the Apollo Belvidere.

And is this a common practice?

Common! what do you think, but to hide the rol⯑ler, makes the young fellows ſo damn'd fond of boots at all hours?—they can't leave them off at the play-houſe now-a-days—but let me be gone.

Nay, nay, you have time to ſpare—He muſt be many miles off; for it is a hundred and twenty from London.

Lord help you! I ſee you have no notion how a ge⯑nius travels.

He cannot fly, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, and in a whirlwind—over orange-barrows and oyſter-baſkets at every corner—You may trace his whole journey by yelping dogs, broken-back'd pigs, and diſmember'd geeſe.

Ha! ha! ha!

There's no deſcribing it in common words—I'll give you a ſample in muſic.

Glories! I am ſure it has made you ſweat to de⯑ſcribe them; and I hardly know if I have a whole bone in my body at hearing them.

Well, I'm glad it pleaſes you; but as ſure as death my maſter will get home before me—

Never fear; you've time enough, I tell you—He ſtops ſhort at the edge of the foreſt—His game-keepers and pointers meet him there—He ſhoots home.

What the Devil ſignifies that? the ſportſmen of faſhion ſhoot as faſt as they travel

Zounds! there's his whiſtle—If he finds me loitering here, he'll vent more oaths in a minute than have been heard in this foreſt ſince its foundation.

Sir, you may ſtep into Mr. Raſhly's houſe till he is gone by.

I thank you, Sir.

My brother here? farewell, Rental—

Stay Sir, it is impoſſible he can have a ſuſpicion of you—Let us ſee whether he tallies with this impudent fellow's account—ſift him boldly—I have a thouſand thoughts for you.

If he anſwers the deſcription I have heard, I ſhall never keep my temper.

Perhaps ſo much the better—but he is alighting from his horſe.

Searchum, take up the dogs, one might as well beat for game in Hyde-Park.

The manors are poached to deſolation, the ſaddles are gridirons, and the air is impregnated with ſcurf and freckle—In another half hour I ſhall be a Mu⯑latto in grain, in ſpite of my paraſol, by all that's ſultry—but come to buſineſs—

Searchum, get warrants immediately for ſeizing guns, nets, and ſnares, let every dog in the pariſh be col⯑lected for hanging to-morrow morning—give them a taſte of Norfolk diſcipline—"Nothing like execu⯑tions to ſupport government."

I hope, young gentleman, you will be better adviſed than to proceed ſo raſhly.

And pray, friend, who may you be, that are ſo for⯑ward with your hope?

A tenant upon this eſtate theſe ſixteen years, where I have been uſed to ſee harmony between high and low eſtabliſhed upon the beſt baſis—Protection, with⯑out pride, and reſpect without ſervility.

Odd language for a farmer!—but in plain Engliſh it implies indulgence for arrears, and impunity for poach⯑ing.—And you, Sir, what may be your occupation?

I have been long, ſir, ſteward at Caſtle Manor; your father's goodneſs continues me ſo. I'm ſorry, ſir, you have had no ſport—but your game-keepers are ſtrangers—if this gentleman had been with you, he knows every haunt of the country.

Oh I don't doubt it; and is this gentleman quali⯑fied to carry a gun?

I always thought ſo, ſir.

Where is your qualification?

In my birth-right as a free man—Nature gave the birds of the air in common to us all; and I think it no crime to purſue them, when my heart tells me I am ready, if called upon, to exerciſe the ſame gun againſt the enemies of my king and country.

A period again! if it were not for his dreſs I ſhould take him for a ſtrolling orator eſcaped from Soho—but to cut the diſpute ſhort—You Mr. Steward, and you Mr. Monitor of the foreſt, take notice that I require unconditional ſubmiſſion in my ſupremacy of the game.

In what manner, ſir?

The county gaol ſhall teach tranſgreſſors—thanks to my fellow ſportſmen in the ſenate, we have as good a ſyſtem of game laws as can be found in the moſt gentleman-like country upon the continent.

"By gentleman-like I am afraid, young ſir, you mean arbitrary—It is true we have ſuch laws—mo⯑dern and unnatural excreſcences, which have grown and ſtrengthened by inſenſible degrees, 'till they lie upon our ſtatute-book like a wen upon a fair pro⯑portion'd body—a deformity fed by wholeſome juices.—I hope, ſir, we ſhall have your aſſiſtance to remove the evil."

"Juſt the contrary. Tho' our ſyſtem be excellent for the preſervation of game, it ſtill wants a little foreign enforcement—In France, the inſignia of a Lord Paramont of the chace are gallowſes with his arms upon every hill in his eſtate—they embelliſh a proſpect better than the fineſt clump Brown ever planted." You look at me with ſurprize, old re⯑former of the groves.

I confeſs I do, ſir! In days when I frequented the world, a high-bred town ſpark and a ſportſman were [23] the greateſt oppoſites in nature—The bean and the ſquire were always—

Oh, I begin to take you—your days—the ruſticat⯑ed remains of a ruined Temple Critic—a ſmatterer of high life from the ſcenes of Cibber, which remain up⯑on his imagination, as they do upon the ſtage, forty years after the real characters are loſt—Thy ideas of a gentleman are as obſolete, old ſpeculator, as the flaxen wig, and "ſtap my vitals."

May I preſume, ſir, to aſk what is the character that has ſucceeded?

Look at me—

We were comparing, ſir—

Coxcombs—never baulk the word—the firſt thing in which we differ from your days is, that we glory in our title, and I am the acknowledged chief.—In all walks of life, it is true ambition to be at the head of a claſs.

And may I aſk, ſir, if the claſs over which you ſo eminently preſide is very numerous?

No, faith; and we diminiſh every day; the cockade predominates—the times have ſet nine tenths of our men of faſhion upon being their own ſoldiers—I ſhou'd as ſoon have thought of being my own gun⯑ſmith.

But is it poſſible you can have been idle at ſuch times?

Idle!—I never killed more birds any ſeven days in my life than in the preciſe week the French were off Plymouth.

Singular character!

Right for once, old Tramontane—ſingularity is the ſecret of refined life. In the preſent day it con⯑nects the Nimrod and the man of taſte—thus we hunt our pointers at full ſpeed; our foxes at midday; crown the evening with French cookery, and waſh down our fatigues with orgeat and icid lemonade.

Sir, ſir,—apart un inſtant, Monſieur—ſuch an adventure! I have diſcovered ſuch a girl 1 ſuch a ſhape! ſuch—

Bête! did you ever know me think of a woman in the country?

No, nor much any where elſe.

I think, I diſcover Monſieur la Nippe's buſineſs—humour it, I beſeech you, ſir, and aſk Contraſt in.

Sir, will you accept any refreſhment my poor houſe affords?—I hope you take nothing ill I have ſaid.

No, ſir, I bear no malice, and I will drink your health in a bowl of milk and water—

I'd not take the trouble of looking at his daughter, if it was not for the hope of being reveng'd of this old cruſty de triſtibus.

I muſt get him into this intrigue, for my own ſake with the maid, if not for his with the miſtreſs.

How ſurely and involuntarily my feet bring me to this ſpot! Conſcious ſcenes! Sophy! Doſt thou re⯑member [26] them with my conſtancy?—Doſt thou viſit them with my ſenſibility?

Is it impoſſible to get a glance at her at a diſtance? If I could but do it unperceiv'd—

So, ſir, do you think I did not ſpy you from the window, prowling like a fox about a hen-rooſt? but ſet your heart at reſt, the pullet you are in ſearch of will ſoon be upon a perch too high for your reach.

What do you mean?

Do you ſee that caſtle there?—there—Sir John Contraſt's great ſeat—mine are no caſtles in the air.

Well, what of that?

Well then, if you had my ſecond ſight, you wou'd ſee Sophy in a coach and ſix white horſes driving in at the great gate.

What wou'd you lead my thoughts to?

Patience!—Reaſon!—Sir John's ſon is paying his addreſſes within—Conſult Sophy's intereſt, and your own too in the end, and reſign her.

Horror and diſtraction! you cannot be in earneſt—would Sophia ſuffer even a look from a ſtranger with⯑out a repulſe?

Time enough to repulſe when ſtrangers grow im⯑pertinent—mean while, why not be courted a little? there's curioſity in it, only to ſee how many ways the creatures can find to pleaſe us.

Theſe are your thoughts—but, Sophia.

Thinks like me, or ſhe's not a woman. Look ye, I hate to be ill-natur'd—but don't fancy I'm your ene⯑my, becauſe I'm her friend; and depend upon it we all love to be tempted—ſome few to be ſure for the [28] pride of reſiſting, and that may be Sophy's caſe—but ten for one think the pleaſure of yielding worth the chance of repentance. I won't promiſe I am not one of the number.

Tormenting woman,—I cannot however but be alarmed, and ſhall watch your ſteps cloſely, young gentleman; yes, my Sophia, I will hover round thee like a watchful ſpirit—inviſible, but anxious to prove thy truth, and if neceſſary, to defend it.

What do you think of her eyes?

Paſſable for a village,

Her complection! her ſkin! her delicacy!

Oh perfectly delicate; ſhe looks like the diet of her nurſery, extract of leveret and pheaſant with egg.

Girls, you may retire when you pleaſe.

Peggy, what are you doing?

"Gad, but he ſhall ſee a little more of her firſt."—It's only the guitar, madam!—It hung ſo looſe upon the peg, I was afraid the kitten wou'd pull it off—

Lord! it ſpeaks of itſelf, I think—juſt as if it wanted—

Muſic too—a ſyren compleat—I am to be tempted by all the enchantments of Calypſo's Grotto—à la bonheur, try your ſkill, my dear.

Officious girl, carry it back directly.

Oh, by no means, miſs, pray favour us with a ſong.

Come, girls, don't be aſhamed of an innocent and pleaſing talent—perhaps the warble of Nature may pleaſe Mr. Contraſt, from its novelty.

Indeed, Sir, I wiſh to be excuſed; upon my word, I am not able to ſing—

Dear ſiſter, ſing the ſong my father made upon a butterfly—I have laugh'd at the inſect ever ſince.

Bravo, Miſs; very well indeed—

Gad, I don't know what to make of him; but all great men are of the family of the Whimſicals.

La Nippe, on to the caſtle; announce me to my fa⯑ther, and get things to cool—I am ſtill hot enough to be page of the preſence in the palace of Lucifer.

What horns are thoſe?

Your honour's maſter of the hounds, and your whole hunting equipage are arrived.

Have they the new liveries?

They have—and for elegance they would ſhame the hunt at Fontainebleau.

Let them draw up before the door, I'll ſee them as I paſs.—

One word at parting, friend Raſhly.—Your daughters are not without attractions—nor you void of a certain ſort of oddity that may be diverting; but your gun muſt be ſurrender'd, and from a pheaſant to a ſquirrel—chaſſe defendue—no pardon for poaching—and ſo good day, old Aeſop in the ſhades.

I muſt follow—but I requeſt you to take no ſteps till you ſee me again—give me but time to work in your favour!—

You are too ſanguine—but I conſent, upon condi⯑tion that I do not ſee my father.

As yet it is no part of my plan that you ſhould.

The huntſmen, Sir, have been practiſing a new chorus ſong; will you hear it?

A hunting ſong quite breaks my ears, it is a conti⯑nued yell of horn and morn, wake the day and hark away—but they may begin; I ſhall hear enough as I walk off.

ACT II. SCENE I.

I Confeſs, Annette, you are a very forward ſcholar in affairs of the heart: but would you really per⯑ſuade me, that the women in France ſcorn to be in love?

Juſt the contrary. Love, there, is the paſſion of all ages. One learns to liſp it in the cradle; and they will trifle with it at the brink of the grave; but it is always the cherup of life, not the moping malady, as it is here.

And according to the notions of that fantaſtical people, how is the paſſion to be ſhewn?

Oh! in a woman, by any thing but confeſſing it.

Surely, Annette, you muſt now be wrong: inſin⯑cerity and artifice may, for aught I know, be the vices [35] of fine folks in courts and cities; but in the rural ſcenes, where you as well as myſelf have been bred, I am perſuaded the tongue and the heart go together in all countries alike.

So they may too: it would be wrong if the tongue told fibs of the heart; but what occaſion for telling all the truth?—I wiſh you ſaw a girl in Provence as ſhe trips down the mountain with a baſket of grapes upon her head, and all her ſwains about her, with a glance at one, and a nod at another, and a tap to a third—'till up riſes the moon, and up ſtrikes the tabor and pipe—away go the baſkets—"Adieu panniers, Ven⯑dange eſt faite!"—her heart dances faſter than her feet, and ſhe makes ten lads happy inſtead of one, by each thinking himſelf the favourite.

But the real favourite is not to be in ſuſpence for ever?

No, no; ſhe ſolves the myſtery at laſt, but in a lively key.

I admire your vivacity, Annette; but I diſlike your maxims. For my part, I ſcorn even the ſhadow of de⯑ceit towards the man I love, and would ſooner die than give him pain.

So wou'd I too, dear ſiſter—but why not beſtow pleaſures with a ſmile?

Giddy girl—you know not love.

Oh! but you are miſtaken—I underſtand ſentiment perfectly, and could act it to admiration. I cou'd gaze at the moon, prattle to the evening breeze, and make a companion of a roſe for hours together—"only I don't like to prick my fingers with it"—à propos now; here's a charming buſh in full blow, and you ſhall hear me addreſs it exactly in your cha⯑racter—

Get you gone, you trifler—you'll make me angry.

Well, I'll only ſtroll with you as far as yonder great tree, and leave you to kiſs the reſt of the roſes to the ſame tune.

Yonder ſhe is—and the young one going away—now's the time—at her, Sir.

It's a damn'd vulgar buſineſs you're drawing me into, La Nippe—I could never ſhew my face again if it were known I was guilty of the drudgery of get⯑ting a woman for myſelf.

What do you mean, Sir, that you never make love?

No, certainly, you blockhead—modern epicures al⯑ways buy it ready-made.

"Aye, and in town it is fitted to all purchaſers, like a ſhoe in Cranburn-alley—but here—

"Is the ſcene of novelty and experiment—be it ſo for once—it is the ſporting ſeaſon—I'll courſe this [38] little puſs myſelf." But hold, ſhe is turned, and coming this way.

I did not recollect that theſe walks are no longer to be open for the neighbourhood—How ſimple was that girl not to remind me! If I ſhould be ſeen, I may be thought impertinent—and alone too—

So, Miſs Raſhly, we meet as patly as if you had known my inclinations.

He too, of all others!—I know it is an intruſion, Sir, to be here—I was retiring.

It is the moſt lucky intruſion you ever made in your life.

Permit me, Sir, to paſs?

Not till you hear your good fortune, my dear. You have attracted in one moment what hundreds of your ſex have twinkled their eyes whole years for in vain—my notice—I will bring you into the world myſelf—your fortune's made.

Sir, this ſort of converſation is new to me, and I wiſh it to continue ſo.

Yes, ſhe'll do when ſhe is well dreſs'd—one ſees by her bluſh how rouge will become her—I ſhall ſoon teach her to ſmile—La belle gorge when adjuſted in French ſtays—

Sir, tho' your language is incomprehenſible, your manners are offenſive—I inſiſt upon paſſing.

Oh fye child—the firſt thing you do muſt be to correct that frown and this coyneſs—they have no more to do with thy figure than a red cloak or blue ſtockings—No, no, my girl, learn to look a man in the face, whatever he ſays to you—it is one of the firſt principles for high life; and high as the very pinnacle of female ambition ſhall thine be—thou ſhalt drive four poneys with a poſtilion no bigger than a marmoſet.

Inſufferable!

You ſhall make your firſt appearance in my box at the opera—a place of enchantment you can have no [40] notion of—Have you ſeen Contraſt's Sultana? ſhall be the cry—"All the women in the town are Aethiops to her, or blindneſs confound me"—there's the lan⯑guage to fix a woman's reputation!—there's the ſecret to make her adored—beauty!—it is not worth that,

in compariſon of faſhion.

Sir, I have tried while I could to treat you with ſome degree of reſpect—you put it out of my power—reſentment and contempt are the only—

Clariſſa Harlow in her altitudes!—what circulating library has ſupplied you with language and action up⯑on this occaſion? or has your antiquated father in⯑ſtructed you, as he has me, in the mode of his days?—Things are reverſed, my dear—when we fellows of ſuperior claſs ſhew ourſelves, the women throw them⯑ſelves at us; and happy is ſhe we deign to catch in our arms.

Unheard-of aſſurance! What do you ſee in me to encourage ſuch inſolence? Or is it the very baſeneſs of your nature, that inſults a woman becauſe ſhe has no protector?

Protection is not ſo diſtant as you imagined—com⯑poſe yourſelf, my Sophia—I have heard all—leave [41] to me to ſettle the difference with this unworthy ruffian.

Way-laid, by all that's deſperate—a ruſtic bully—but I muſt ſubmit, for I conclude he has a foreſt mob within call.

A mob to encounter thee!—a mob of fleas—of gnats—of piſmires—a waſp would be a ſure aſſaſſin—but to be ſerious, Sir—tho' the brutality of your be⯑haviour calls for chaſtiſement, the meanneſs of it places you beneath reſentment.

How he aſſumes! becauſe I know as little of a quarter-ſtaff, as he of the weapons of a gentleman.

It would indeed be profanation of Engliſh oak to put it into ſuch hands—thou outſide without a heart—when the mind is nerveleſs, the figure of a man may be cudgelled with a nettle.

For heaven's ſake, Trumore, be not violent, you make me tremble—no further quarrel.

Another word, Sir, and no more—could I ſuppoſe you a real ſample of our faſhionable youth, I ſhould think my country indeed degraded—but it cannot be—away!—and tell your few fellows, if even few exiſt, that there is ſtill ſpirit enough among common [42] people to defend beauty and innocence; and when ſuch as you dare affronts like theſe, it is not rank nor eſtate, nor even effeminacy, that ſhall ſave them.

Very ſententious truly—quite Raſhly's flouriſh.—In Italy now I could have this fellow put under ground for a ſequin—in this damned country, we can do nothing but deſpiſe him. Boxing was once genteel; but till the faſhion returns, it would be as low to accept the challenge of a vulgar as to refuſe it to an equal.

How is my Sophia? happy, happy moment that brought me to your reſcue.

If the thoughts you moſt wiſh I ſhould entertain of my deliverer can repay you, trace them by your own heart, Trumore; they will harmonize with its tender⯑eſt emotions.

Oh, the rapture of my Sophia's preference! thus let me pour forth my gratitude.

So, inconſiderate pair, is it thus you keep your en⯑gagements with me? Neither the duty of one, nor the word of honour of the other, I ſee, is a ſanction—

Reſtrain your diſpleaſure, Sir, till you hear what has happened—no breach of promiſe—

I have no leiſure for excuſes, nor for reproaches—fortune more than my reſentment is againſt you.—Sophy, my affairs will probably compel me to ſeek another and a diſtant home. Prepare yourſelf to ſet out with me at an hour's warning.

What do I hear? Sir, part us not—I'll be your ſlave to obtain her preſence—let me but follow her—let me but enjoy the hopes of at laſt deſerving her.

What have you not already deſerved?—If we are to ſeparate, here in a father's preſence I engage to you a faith that time and diſtance ſhall never change.

I accept in the ſame preſence the ſacred pledge, and will cheriſh the remembrance of it with a truth, which, like the brilliant ore, proves its purity by its trials.

Here then break off, and to time and diſtance leave the further teſt of your ſincerity: at preſent I can flat⯑ter you with no other remedy.—Daughter, return to the houſe.—Trumore, you muſt not follow.

I ſubmit; I have ſaved her from a ruffian—I reſign her to a father—and angels aſſiſt to guard her!

Come, Sophia—the world is wide, and innocence an univerſal paſſport.

Get poſt-horſes for the chaiſe directly.

To carry her off, Sir?—quick work—I thought how it would be when you ſet yourſelf to it.

I wiſh you had been among the other curs I or⯑der'd to be hanged before you had put me upon the trace of her—find me a quick conveyance from this region of barbariſm, or the ſpirit of the place ſhall be tried upon you—it will be no "profanation of Eng⯑liſh oak to cudgel you."

In the name of wonder, what has happened?

Happened! I have been nearly worried by a curſed confounded two-legged maſtiff. Where was you, Sir, not to be within call?

Juſt where I ought to be by the true rule of a valet de chambre's office all the world over—trying the ſame game with the maid, I ſuppoſed you were trying with the miſtreſs—

but, all for your honour's intereſt, to make her your friend—

Rot her friendſhip—I would not expoſe my nerves to a ſecond encounter with this new piece of Piety in pattens, to ſecure all the ruſtic females from the Land's End to the Orknies.

You ſhall not need till ſhe is brought to proper terms. Look ye, ſir, Peggy the maid is a fly wench, why not make her a convenient one?—Commiſſion me to pay her price, and ſhe ſhall deliver this toy into your hands—that's love exactly in your own way, you know.

I would not give five pounds for her, if it were not for vengeance.

Your vengeance need not ſtop there. The father you know, by his own confeſſion, is a poacher. I have enquired of Peggy if he has no enemies—he has but one it ſeems in the pariſh; but he is worth a hundred—an attorney—broken by Raſhly's faculty in deciding differences—this fellow ſhall ſaddle him with as many actions for game in half an hour, as ſhall ſend him to jail, perhaps for the reſt of his days.

Your plan is not unpromiſing, and you may try one of my rouleaus upon it.—If I could at the ſame time correct the dog of a lover, I believe I ſhould grow cool again, and put off my journey for the accom⯑pliſhment.

It is not impoſſible—what think you of a preſs⯑gang?

Tranſcendent, if one could be found. The game laws and the preſs act ought always to go hand in hand—and, were they properly enforced, the conſti⯑tution might be more bearable to a man of faſhion.

I'll about this buſineſs directly.

Content: mean while, I'll give an airing to my ina⯑bility upon the lawn.—Hark ye, La Nippe, before you go, I think the ſummary of our projects is thus—the father to jail; the lover to ſea; my pointers, if you will, in Raſhly's chamber; and his daughter in exchange in mine.

Exactly, ſir.

"Beſides theſe peculiarities of my circumſtances, and many others which you are yet a ſtranger to, you [48] muſt ſee an unſurmountable reaſon for diſcontinu⯑ing an intercourſe with Trumore—the abſence of his father—it would be indelicate in you, as well as diſhonourable in me, to proceed to a union un⯑known to him, and to which he may have the greateſt objections.

"Dear ſir, there wanted no argument to convince me of your tenderneſs—I am intirely at your diſ⯑poſal—if a tear drops when I obey you, it is an in⯑voluntary tribute to my fortune, think it not repug⯑nance to your will."

Be comforted, Sophia, with the reflection that I la⯑ment, and do not blame your attachment; you know I agree, both upon experience and principle, that the only baſis for happineſs in every ſtation of life is diſin⯑tereſted love.

Sir, Mr. Rental is coming into the gate, and with him a ſtrange gentleman I never ſaw before—an old man, and Rental is pulling off his hat and bowing; I wonder who he is.

Sir John Contraſt! how my heart throbs at his ap⯑proach!

Girls, I have a reaſon to be conceal⯑ed; you muſt not diſcover I was within—

I tell you, Rental, that laſt cottage ſhall come down, there is not a male creature about it—nothing but girls with black eyes, and no induſtry—but what ſort of dwelling have we here?

The ſeat of innocence, once the ſeat of more hap⯑pineſs than at preſent.

The ſeat of innocence?—aye, to be ſure, and theſe I ſuppoſe are the children of innocence that in⯑habit it—

What could my father mean by going away him⯑ſelf, and inſiſting we ſhou'd not decline an interview with Sir John Contraſt and Rental?—I have ſeen enough of the family already.

Is that he? Lord! ſiſter, don't quake; he does not look ſo ungracious—

Zounds! are all my farms over-run thus with evil-eyed wenches?

Suſpend your opinion, I beſeech you, ſir, and ſpeak to the young women; the family is indeed worth your notice.—

Now, Nature and Fortune, work your way.

Young women, how may you earn your lively⯑hood?

Sir!

They are too innocent, I ſee, to anſwer a plain queſ⯑tion.

You alarm them, ſir; they are as timid as fawns. My young miſtreſſes, it is Sir John Contraſt ſpeaks to you; in your father's abſence, he wants to enquire of you into the circumſtances of your family.

What is your father, young woman?

The beſt of parents.

Not very rich, I imagine?

He is content.

What buſineſs does he follow?

He has a ſmall farm of his own; he rents a larger upon this manor—he cultivates both.

You two are not of much ſervice to him, I'm afraid?

Too little, ſir,—his indulgence ſometimes pre⯑vents even our feeble attempts—Mr. Rental knows it is his fault—but I believe his only one.

What then is your employment?

I work at my needle for him; I read to him; I re⯑ceive his inſtructions—I once receiv'd them from a mother—I repeat to him her precepts—they often draw his tears; but he aſſures me they are pleaſing.

Yes, but I always ſtop them for all that—the mo⯑ment his eyes moiſten, I ſing or chatter them dry.

This is paſt bearing, Rental—the ſeat of inno⯑cence!—it is the ſeat of witchcraft.

Pure Nature, ſir.

And what witchcraft's ſo powerful?—have not you learnt that it is a bleſſing when the ſex takes to arti⯑fice and affectation? Were women to continue in per⯑ſon and in heart, as Nature forms her favourites among them, they would turn the heads of all mankind.

Permit me, ſir, to ſay you are the firſt that were ever angry at finding them undegenerated.

Have not I ſuffer'd by it?—I loſt a ſon by this ſort of artleſs Nature before—my preſent Hopeful, it is true, is an exception; Nature wou'd ſtand a poor chance with him againſt a French heel, and a head as big as a buſhel.

I am glad, ſir, you are eaſy upon that head.

And ſo, my little gypſey (for I find you talk gib⯑beriſh), your prattle is always at your tongue's end?

Not always—I can hold my tongue to people I don't like.—I talk to divert my father—and would do the ſame now—if it could put you in a humour to be his friend.

Fye, Annette, you are very bold.

Siſter, I am ſure the gentleman is not angry. I ſhou'd not have ventur'd to be ſo free, if he had not the very look, the ſort of half-ſmiling gravity of papa, when he is pleas'd with me in his heart—and does not care directly to own it.

Wheedling jade!—but, may be, that's another proof of woman in pure Nature.

Indeed, ſir, I mean no harm; and I am ſure you have not thought I did, for your frowns vaniſh like ſummer clouds, before one can well ſay they are formed.

This is paſt enduring.—Rental, take notice—the de⯑cree is paſt irrevocably as fate—no reply—this houſe and all that belongs to it—father, daughters, ſervants, to the very ſquirrels and linnets, ſhall—

Be laid low, Sir?

Be ſecur'd! protected! raiſed!—It ſhall become the manſion of plenty and joy; and theſe girls ſhall pay the landlord in ſong and ſentiment.

I thank you in the name of their father. A man more worthy your favour does not live—and you only can ſave him from his enemies.

Who are they?

He has one in particular, honourable and benevo⯑lent in his nature, but who vowed enmity to him in a fit of paſſion, and has obſtinately adhered to it ever ſince.

Does he ſo? gad, that's no fool tho'! no weather⯑cock!—and how did he deſerve this enmity? but that's no matter with a man of the deciſion and wiſ⯑dom you deſcribe.

You'll beſt decide upon the provocation, when the effects of it are laid before you as an impartial judge.

I hate impartiality, and ſet out this buſineſs upon a quite contrary principle.—Come forward, my little clients, give a kiſs of partiality a piece—now I am feed your advocate for ever—ſo come to the Caſtle in the evening; bring your father with you; let this ob⯑ſtinate dog appear if he dare—my obſtinacy is now bound to defeat his, right or wrong—he ſhall give way, and he may look for an excuſe to himſelf in the eyes of my little charmers.

He is very poſitive.

He ſhall go to the ſtocks, if he is.—What, not yield when the intereſt of my darlings is in queſtion? By all that's ſteady, I'll build a new houſe of correction, and they ſhall keep the key.

But be upon your guard, Sir; he will be aſſerting his former reſolutions.

Peggy, have done.

It is Sir John.

I'm ſure he looks compliant.

As Jack did once the Giant.

Remember your clients with troubles beſet.

Remember Sophia, remember Annette.

ACT III. SCENE I.

IF you offer to be impudent again, you ſhall have it on both ears inſtead of one. I tell you I'm a married woman; is not that an anſwer?

Yes, of encouragement, my dear—it ſeldom is an objection in the world I have inhabited.

The world is at a fine paſs by your account—"But theſe are ſome of your outlandiſh notions—they wou'd make fine cutting of throats among Engliſh huſbands.

"Cutting throats! Oh, my ſweet Peg, how igno⯑rant you are! I wiſh your huſband was at home with all my heart—I'd ſhew you how to follow the example of our betters—I wou'd dine with you both every day, and he ſhould thank me for pre⯑ſerving the peace of his family.

"Keep your diſtance, Mr. Aſſurance"—If this be the new ſtyle of matrimony, Heaven keep Sophia clear of it, I ſay.

Oh my dear, you need be in no pain about that. She is not in the leaſt danger.

Why, did not you tell me your maſter was mad in love for her, and wou'd make my fortune if I wou'd help him?

Exactly! but what has that to do with marriage?

What the deuce has it to do with elſe?

Pleaſure and profit. He'll love her out of vanity if ſhe makes a figure as his miſtreſs; he'd hate her for faſhion's ſake if ſhe was his wife. Let us but get the couple well eſtabliſhed in London—who knows but you and I may be exalted to be their toads.

Toads!

One takes any name for a fortune, and this is be⯑come a faſhionable one I aſſure you. In ſhort you [61] will be the companion of her pleaſures; dreſs'd as well as herſelf; courted by every man who has a de⯑ſign upon her—and make a market of her every day. Oh, you'll have quite the pull of me in employment.

Indeed!

Yes, I ſhall change damnably for the worſe in quitting the life of a valet for that of a companion. "Follower to what he calls a man of faſhion! zounds I'd rather be a bailiff's follower by half—if it was not for what may come after.

I have no longer any patience with the Rogue's im⯑pudence!

"So having declar'd yourſelf a pimp—you wou'd make me a procureſs, and Miſs Sophy a—

"Hold your tongue, you jade—and don't give groſs names to characters ſo much in faſhion." Come, don't be ſilly and angry now—I have dealt openly with you, knowing you to be a woman of ſenſe and ſpirit—

Don't be in a paſſion I tell you—here my dear—here's a gentle receipt for anger—here—did you ever ſee this ſort of thing before?

What is it?

A rouleau! fifty guineas wrapt up in this ſmall compaſs. One may know it by its make, it is from the firſt club in town—there it is, eſcaped from ſhar⯑pers and creditors, to purchaſe beauty and kindneſs.

I cou'd tear his eyes out—is there no way to be even with him?

Aye, take a minute my dear to conſider—I know but few of your ſex wou'd require ſo much time.

No means of fitting the rogue! Gad I have a thought—if I am not too much in a paſſion to diſſem⯑ble—I am not much uſed to artifice—but they ſay it never fails a woman at a pinch.

Why to be ſure, I was conſidering upon that little device—let's feel, is it heavy?

Oh! of great weight.

Law not at all, I cou'd carry a hundred of them—but pray now tell me fairly what am I to do for it?

Nothing but an office of good-nature—you are to put your miſtreſs into my maſter's hands—you wo⯑men can do more with one another in this ſort of buſineſs in a day, then a lover (at leaſt ſuch a one as ours) will do in a year.

Lord, how modeſt you are all at once—ſpeak out—I am to ſeduce my miſtreſs for—

Fye, what names you are giving things again!—you are to remove fooliſh prejudices; to open a friend's eyes to their intereſt—zounds child it's an office for a ſtateſman.

Oh, that's all—

Not quite all; you know there's a ſomething that regards ourſelves, but that goes of courſe in nego⯑ciations of this ſort.

Oh, does it?—and what do you call this pretty in⯑vention?

An abridgement of polite arithmetic—a purſe muſt be counted, which is troubleſome; a note requires [64] reading, which to ſome perſons may be inconvenient—but the rouleau conveys fifty guineas to your pocket without a ſingle chink, and takes up leſs room than a toothpick caſe.

This bewitches me, I think,

Yes, my dear, it's always reckon'd bewitching.

Excellent! now you are a girl exactly after my own heart—where ſhall we meet?

Why, you muſt know this is the day of our wake; and Sir John gives a treat to all the tenants, ſo every body will be buſy, and ſo about an hour before ſun ſet come to the hay rick by the poole of the farm yard.

Oh, you jade, I ſhall have no patience if you make me wait.

I'll come whenever I am ſure the coaſt is clear—but in the mean time you ſhall find a harveſt cag, with a ſup of cordial to keep up your ſpirits; in the coun⯑try we never make a bargain with dry lips.

What the devil, my dairy-maid drinks drams!—ſhe'll be fit to cry milk in the ſtreets of London—I need not have paid ſo high if I had known that.

Be ſure now to be punctual.

And you to be complying.

Oh, as for that you know—"If your object your offer of one ſhould reſiſt" &c.

Come, ſtir my lads—briſkly, briſkly—up with the reſt of the advertiſements—we ſhall have the wake fill'd before we are ready.

Hey day! what have we here? if you have any ſhew to exhibit friend, you ought to aſk leave before you erect your booth.

Ah, ſir, the Lord of the Manor is too good a ſub⯑ject to obſtruct my work.—

Bring forward the great Butt there, place it in view by the drum and colours.

By your dreſs you ſhould belong to the army; pray, ſir, what is your real buſineſs?

I am a manufacturer of honor and glory—vulgarly call'd a recruiting dealer—or more vulgarly ſtill, a ſkin merchant. I come to a country wake as to a good market—a little patience, and you ſhall ſee my prac⯑tice—come paſte up more bills—and the devices—they are not half thick enough—where's the lyon rampant, with a grenadier's cap upon his head?

Here, ſir, here.

And the marine device?

Here it is—done to the life—the prize boarded; the decks running with arrack punch, and dammed up with gold duſt.

Right lad, place that next the lyon. I don't ſee the London Taylor with his foot upon the neck of the French king.

Here he is in all his glory.

Paſte him up on the other flank of the lyon—ſo, ſo, pretty well—what have you left for the corner?

The Eaſt-Indies, Captain, a nabob in triumph, throwing rough diamonds to the young fifers to play at marbles.

Very well, very well—ſir, how do you like my ſhop.

Faith, ſir, the conſtruction ſeems to be as curi⯑ous as your employment—I think you call'd yourſelf a ſkin merchant.

Mine, ſir, is a new trade, but a neceſſary and a happy one, for it flouriſhes in proportion to the ſpirit of the nation—and if our rulers will but employ it properly—Captain Trepan ſhall furniſh them for next year with twenty thouſand new Alexanders at five pence a day.

Well, captain, as you have call'd your's a trade, will you oblige me ſo much as to explain how it is carried on?

Oh, with pleaſure, ſir! ſuppoſe new regiments are to be raiſed—I am applied to—Captain Trepan—that's my name, ſir—How are ſkins now?—how many may you want?—five hundred—Why, your ho⯑nor, anſwers I, thoſe that are fit for all uſe, that [69] bear fire, and wear well in all climates, cannot be af⯑foarded for leſs than ten pounds a piece—we have an inferior ſort that we ſell by the hundred—I'll take half and half ſays my employer!—your place of de⯑livery?—Plymouth!—agreed!—and they are on ſhip⯑board in a month.

But captain, ſure this buſineſs is ſubject to frauds?

Yes, there are rogues in all trades—but my word is known. I never run the ſame recruit thro' more than three regiments in my life—and that only when we have been hard preſſed for a review.

Very conſcientious, upon my word.

Aye, and my conſcience has made me—I export more goods than all the trade together. Let us but have a fair trial with our enemies in any part of the world—and then ſee if captain Trepan's ſkins don't figure—but here, ſerjeant Crimp, let the recruits fall in.

"Very fine language, Captain—I ſee you are a great writer as well as an orator.

"I cou'd not do without the talents of both, Sir—next to gold and brandy, a glib tongue and a ready [70] pen are the beſt implements in our trade—novelty in every line, you ſee—new cloaths, new arms, new commanders, new—

"There I doubt a little, whether novelty is ſo proper—would not old commanders be more en⯑couraging?

"No it is not thought ſo—old commanders, like old wines, may be good to ſtick to; but the new ſparkles, and gets into the head, and preſently makes it fit to be run againſt the wall"—ſee how my new Colonels ſtand over the old ones with their names in capitals as tall as their ſpontoons.

Arranged with a great deal of fancy indeed.

Aye, and meaning too—I can tell you—but do only look at my recruits—do but look at them—

there's ſtuff for all work—ſouthern rangers, and north⯑ern hunters—low-landers and high-landers, and loyals and royals, and chaſſeurs and daſheurs—I ſuppoſe now you would like ſuch a fellow, as that.

It is a thouſand pities he ſhould be ſhot at.

Be in no apprehenſion, he'll never die by powder.

What do you mean?

Lord help you, how you might be impoſed upon—he's my decoy-duck—mere ſhew goods for the ſhop window—not an inch of wear and teat in the whole piece.—The dog inherited deſertion from his family. His brother was called Quick-Silver Jack, he was hanged at laſt at Berlin, after having ſerved ſix dif⯑ferent princes in the ſame pair of ſhoes.

Which is the commander of the party?

Your pleaſure, Sir.

A muſquet in a regiment upon foreign ſervice.

And a handful of guineas to boot, my lad of mettle; this is ſomething like a recruit.

What's this—Trumore enliſting—can I believe my eyes?

Yes, and your heart too—which is always on the ſide of a well-meant action.

What has driven you to ſuch an act of deſperation?

Raſhly quits the country—I am convinced his re⯑pugnance to my union with his daughter is the cauſe. He is provident—I am undone—he is beſides in im⯑mediate trouble—perhaps going to jail upon informa⯑tions for killing game—I muſt give him a proof of my reſpect and my friendſhip—as well as of my re⯑ſignation.

Generous youth—but I'll let all things go on—if they do not unitedly work upon the old man's heart, it muſt be adamant. Captain, you'll ſee Sir John Contraſt.

I ſhall atteſt my recruits before him, and this brave fellow at their head.

I ſhall be ready, but there is a condition muſt firſt be complied with.

Name it.

Twenty guineas to make up a ſum for an indiſpen⯑ſible obligation—I ſcorn to take it as enliſting mo⯑ney—you ſhall be repaid.

You ſhall have it—any thing more?

Abſence for half an hour—in that time depend up⯑on't I'll meet you at the Caſtle.

Here's a fine ſet of country fellows getting round us, a march and a ſong might do well.

You are right!

Come, my lads, we'll give you a taſte of a ſol⯑dier's life. Corporal Snap—give them the ſong our officers uſed to be ſo fond of—it will pleaſe their ſweethearts as well as themſelves—ſtrike up drums.

The rogue has drank it every drop; poppy water and cherry brandy together work delightfully—he'll ſleep ſome hours in a charming ditch where I have had him convey'd—pleaſant dreams to you, monſieur La Nippe. What wou'd I give if I cou'd requite your maſter as well.

My life on't the dog's off—the moment Trepan told me of his pelaver—I ſuſpected he was an old hand—with his voluntary ſervice—and his honour—and his half hour.

Miſtreſs, did you ſee a young fellow with a ſcarlet cockade in his hat paſs this way?

Not I, indeed, friend—I was otherways employed.

Nay, don't be croſs—we are looking for a deſerter—he is deſcribed as a likely young fellow—come, if [75] you can give me intelligence, you ſhall have half the reward for apprehending him.

Here's another bribe—one may have them, I ſee, for betraying either ſex. And what would you do with him?

Oh, no harm, as it is the firſt fault. We ſhould put him in the black hole at preſent, juſt to give him the reliſh of bread and water; the party marches at midnight; he'll be handcuffed upon the road; but as ſoon as he gets between decks in a tranſport—he'll be perfectly at liberty again.

Gad, whoever he is, if I cou'd ſee him, I'd give him a hint of your intended kindneſs.

Hey! who's this coming—the hero of the plot, young Contraſt

it wou'd be ſpecial vengeance—a bold ſtroke its true—but a public juſtice to woman kind—hang fear—I'll do't—hark ye—Mr. what d'ye call 'em—did you ever ſee the man you are in ſearch of?

No, but I think I ſhould know him.

That's your mark, I fancy.

Gad it muſt be ſo—but I don't ſee his cockade.

I ſaw him pull it off, and throw it in the ditch as he came over yonder ſtile.

Ah! an old hand, as I ſuſpected—meet me at the Caſtle, where we ſhall convict him—you ſhall have the reward.

To be ſure, money does every thing; but have ſome pity upon the young man—you won't treat him worſe than what you told me.

No, no, get you gone, he'll never know who did his buſineſs.

But don't treat him hardly?—

Well overtaken brother ſoldier.

Friend, I conclude you are of this neighbourhood, by the happy familiarity that diſtinguiſhes it; but at preſent it is miſapplied, you miſtake me for ſome other.

Miſtake you—no, no, your legs wou'd diſcover you among a thouſand—I never ſaw a fellow better ſet up⯑on his pins.

Not ſo much out there.

But where have you been loitering ſo long? is your knapſack packed? have you taken leave of your ſweet⯑heart?—ſhe muſt not go with you, I can tell you—we are allowed but four women a company for embarka⯑tion, and the officers have choſen them all already.

Sure there is ſome ſtrange quality in this air—the people are not only impudent—but mad.

I ſhall find a way to bring you to your ſenſes, ſir; what did you pull the cockade out of your hat for, you dog?

What the devil can he mean?

Why, you raſcal, you won't deny that you are en⯑liſted to embark immediately for the Weſt-Indies? have not you touched twenty guineas for the legs you are ſo proud of? pretty dearly bought.

Now it's plain how well you know me—thy own gunpowder ſcorch me, if I'd lie in a tent two nights to be Captain General of the united Potentates of Eu⯑rope.

The dog's inſolence out-does the common—but come, walk on quietly before me.—

Walk before you!—

Oh, oh! mutinous too—

Here we are, ſerjeant! what are your orders?

Lay hold of that fellow—he's a deſerter—a thief—and the ſaucieſt dog in the army.—Have you no hand⯑cuffs?

No occaſion for 'em, maſter ſerjeant—don't be too hard upon the young man—brandy be my poiſon but I like the looks of him—hear my heart—take a whiff—

—what, not burn priming! come load then.—

It is plain theſe are a ſet of murderers—no help! no relief!

Relief, ſirrah! you're no centry yet. Serjeant, give me charge of him—Moll Flagon never fail'd when ſhe anſwer'd for her man.

With all my heart, honeſt Moll!—and ſee what you can make of him.—

Never fear, I'll make a ſoldier and a huſband of him—here, firſt of all—let's ſee—what a damn'd hat he has got—here, change with him Jack.—

Why, only hear me—I'm a man of faſhion—

Ha! ha! ha! I'll faſhion you preſently—

There, now you look ſomething like—and now let's ſee what caſh you have about you.

Very little—but you ſhall have it every farthing if you'll let me go.

Go, you jolly dog—ay, that you ſhall, thro' the world; you and I together—I'll ſtick to you thro' life, my ſon of ſulphur.

Oh, I am a man of faſhion.

Stop, Sophia.

Trumore, this is the only moment I cou'd refuſe liſtening to you. My father is, for aught I know, going to jail.

Comfort yourſelf on his part—I promiſe you his ſafety. I would not leave the county 'till I was cer⯑tain of it. I now take leave of him—of you—and all that makes life dear.

Oh my fears! what means that ribband in your hat?

The enſign of honor, when worn upon true princi⯑ples. A paſſion for our country is the only one that ought to have competition with virtuous love—when they unite in the heart, our actions are inſpiration.

Trumore, this is too much for me—heaven knows how little I am formed for the reliſh of ambition—theſe heroic notions, how often do they lead to the miſery of ourſelves!—of thoſe we leave!—I claim no merit in my apprehenſions—alas, they are too ſelfiſh.

I came to bid farewell in one ſhort word; but the utterance fails me—Annette, ſpeak for me; and when I am gone, comfort your ſiſter.

Indeed, Trumore, it will be out of my power—my notes will now be as melancholy as her own—to ſooth her, I muſt ſympathize with her in the alarms of ab⯑ſence and danger.

What is here!—a concert of ſorrow? Reſerve your tears, my young miſtreſſes, if your ſmiles will not do the buſineſs better, to work upon the old Ba⯑ronet in the cauſe of your father—he is going to be called before him—let a parent owe his happineſs to you in the firſt place; and may it be an omen for your lover being as fortunate in the next!

Raſhly appearing before the juſtice! I have an in⯑tereſt and a buſineſs there before you—I fly to execute it—then, Fortune, grant me one more look of her, and take me afterwards to thy direction!

The moment is ſtrangely critical to you all. Come on, young ladies, I have a ſtory for you will ſurprize and encourage you.

We are guided by you—but what can we hope from our ſilly tears, oppoſed to the malice of my fa⯑ther's enemies?

Every thing—you know not half the intereſt you poſſeſs in the judge.

I have atteſted the men, in compliance with your beating order—but no more of your occupation—I'm not for purchaſing human fleſh—give me the man (aye, and the woman too) that engages upon frank love and kindneſs, and ſo to other buſineſs.

One word more, your worſhip. The ſerjeant has juſt apprehended a deſerter. I am ſure your worſhip will be glad to have him convicted—he is the worſt of ſwindlers.

How do you make him out a ſwindler?

He borrows for ſhew the moſt valuable commodi⯑ties in the nation, courage and fidelity; and ſo raiſes money upon property of which he does not poſſeſs an atom.

Does he ſo?—then bring him in—I'd rather ſee one thief of the public puniſh'd, than an hundred pri⯑vate ones.

Here, Moll, produce your priſoners.—

What, in the name of ſorcery, is this! my ſon in a ſoldier's accoutrements!—I ſhould not have been more ſurprized, if he had been metamorphoſed into a fiſh.

I was in a fair way to be food for one—I ſhou'd have been ſhark's meet before I got half way to the Weſt Indies.

Stark mad, by all that's fantaſtical!—Can nobody tell me how he was ſeized?

Seized! why, by that ruffian, neck and heels; and for my accoutrements, you muſt aſk this harpy, who aſſiſted at my toilette.

A perfect innocent miſtake, as I hope to be pardon'd, your worſhip—I was ſent to ſeek a deſerter—with the beſt legs in England—was it poſſible not to be de⯑ceived? but, thanks to Fortune, here's a ſure acquittal—this baggage put him into my hands as the very perſon.

Only a little retaliation, your worſhip—a wolf was in full chace of an innocent lamb, that, to be ſure, I had fooliſhly helped to expoſe to his paws—a trap of⯑fered to my hand, and I muſt own I did ſet it, and the wolf was caught, as you ſee. But, indeed, I was com⯑ing to your worſhip, to prevent all further harm. I meant honeſtly, and a little merrily I confeſs—I can⯑not be one without the other for my life.

Plague on you all! this myſtery thickens, inſtead of clearing.

It is clear, however, my party is out of the ſcrape—and as for the fellow really enliſted—

He is here to fulfill all engagements.

Well ſaid, my lad of truth; then my twenty gui⯑neas are alive again.

You ſhall ſee them employ'd; I wou'd have mortgaged ten lives rather than have wanted them.

Mr. Raſhly is charged with informations for killing game to the amount of forty pounds. By aſſiſtance of this gentleman I have made up the ſum. The law is cruel to him; to me it is kind; it enables me to ſhew him the heart he perhaps has doubted.

He is free—and now, Sir, I am your man, and will follow wherever the ſervice of my country leads.

Brave generous fellow! I foreſaw his intent, and wou'd not have baulked it for a kingdom.

Oh, Rental, I am glad you are come; you find me in a wilderneſs here.

A moment, Sir, and I'm ſure you'll not miſtake your path.

The twiſt is magical, indeed, I think, for I can't un⯑do it—oh, there it is at laſt—

[88] Put up your's again, Mr. Trumore—poor fellow! you'll want it in your new life.

One of my rouleaus! I have been robbed, I ſee, as well as kidnapped.

Huſſy! how came you by all that money?

Perfectly honeſtly—I ſold my miſtreſs and myſelf for it—it is not neceſſary to deliver the goods, for his honour is provided with a miſtreſs;

and my lover is about as well off.—Come, Sir, never look ſo croſs after your money—what fine gentleman wou'd grudge to let an honeſt man out of jail, when he can buy his daughter's modeſty into the bargain?

Rental, do you ſee into this?

Clearly, Sir, and it muſt end with reconciling you to your ſon.

How! reconcile me to bribery and debauchery!—never—if the dog cou'd ſucceed with a girl by his face, or his tongue, or his legs, or any thing that na⯑ture has given him, why there's a ſort of fair play that might palliate—but there is an unmanlineſs in [89] vice without paſſion—death! inſipidity is converted into infamy—but where is this Raſhly and his girls?

This Raſhly! this the father of theſe girls! and do not his features deceive me?—who is it I ſee?

The ſon I mean to reconcile—who offended upon principles the moſt oppoſite to thoſe you juſt now con⯑demned—the children of his offence—and thanks only to the inheritance of his virtues, that they are not be⯑come the puniſhment of his poverty.

My elder brother come to light!

Riſe till I am ſure I am awake—this is the con⯑fuſion of a delirium.

Why do not you ſpeak, Sir?

What form of words will become me? to ſay I re⯑pent, would be an injury to the dead and living. I have erred, but I have been happy—one duty I can plead; reſignation to your will—ſo may I thrive in [90] the deciſion of this anxious moment as I never taxed your juſtice.

Rental, do you expect I ſhall ever retract?

No, Sir, for I was witneſs to the ſolemnity of your vow, that you would protect the father of your little clients againſt all his enemies—right or wrong, they ſhould yield.

Yes, but I little thought how very ſtubborn an old fellow I ſhould have to deal with.

Come forward, clients.

I am overcome with dread.

Come, I'll make ſhort work of it as uſual—ſo hear all—my decree is made.

Now juſtice and nature!

Memory and tenderneſs!

Caprice and paſſion!

Deciſion and conſiſtency!—I diſcarded one ſon for a marriage—I have brought up a ſecond—not to marry—but to attempt to debauch his own niece—I'll try what ſort of vexation the other ſex will produce—ſo liſten, girls—take poſſeſſion of this caſtle—it is yours—nay, I only keep my word—you remember how I promiſed to treat the old obſtinate your father was afraid of. This is the houſe of ſelf-correction, and I give you the key.

Gratitude—love and joy—

Up, ye little charmers—your looks have aſked me bleſſing this hour.

And now for Trumore to compleat the happineſs. Sir John permit me your ear apart.

So! the confuſion of chances ſeems winding up to a miracle, and quite in my favour—the run of theſe laſt twelve hours exceeds all calculation, ſtrike me pennyleſs—where is that dog La Nippe?

Here he is in a pleaſant plight—

Whence, in the devil's name, comeſt thou?

From the bottom of a black ditch—how I got there I know no more than the man in the moon—I waked and found myſelf half ſmother'd in dirt, lying like King Log in the fable, with a congreſs of frogs on my back.

My dear, I hope you are ſatisfied with your bargain, I did my beſt "to ſettle your buſineſs compleatly."

Oh! thou witch of Endor.

Another plot upon me, Rental—but does the young fellow ſay nothing himſelf for his pretenſions.

I have none, Sir—they aſpired too high when di⯑rected to Sophy Raſhly; they muſt ceaſe for ever when I think of Miſs Contraſt.

Now, for the blood of me, I can't ſee that diſ⯑tinction. Can you, Contraſt?

So far from it, Sir, that I think the purity of his attachment to the poor farmer's daughter, is the beſt recommendation to the fortune of the heireſs.

I confirm the decree—it is exactly my old way—I have not been apt to retract an action, but no man more ready to correct it by doing the reverſe another time. I am now convinced mutual affection makes the only true equality in marriage; and in my preſent humour (I don't know how long 'twill laſt) I wiſh there was not a wedding in the nation formed upon any other intereſt—what ſay you, man of faſhion?

Dear Sir, don't treat my brother's foibles too ſe⯑verely. His zeal, to be eminent, only wants a right turn.

Let him find that turn, and he knows I have where-withal to keep him from the inconvenience of a younger brother, though he loſes Caſtle Manor.

I reſign it, and all its appendages. And with all my faults, my brother ſhall find I am neither envious nor mercenary.

Horſes for town inſtantly; there is my true ſphere—and if ever I am caught in a rural in⯑trigue again, may I be tied to an old ram, like my pointers for ſheep-biting, and but [...]ed into a conſiſt⯑ence with the clay of this damned foreſt.

And now to return to my recruit—I promiſed he ſhould be atteſted to-night—and ſo he ſhall—to his [94] bride—if afterwards his country demands his aſſiſtance—get him a commiſſion, Sophy, and pray for a ſhort end to the war—a prayer in which every good ſubject in the nation will join you.

Sir, you have given me a poſſeſſion that makes all other treaſures poor. Witneſs love and truth, how much I deſpiſe the temptation of ambition, when weighed againſt one hour of Sophia's ſociety. But theſe are times when ſervice to the public is a tribute that juſtice and virtue indiſcriminately impoſe upon private happineſs. And the man who refuſes upon their call, a ſacrifice to the exigency of his country, ill deſerves to be a ſharer in her proſperity.

Sir, the tenants from the wake, in eagerneſs of honeſt joy, preſs to be admitted.

Throw open the doors.

I hope you will not ſee a countenance that does not expreſs an intereſt in the events of Caſtle Manor.