ACT I.

WELL but, my dear Caroline, tho' I grant you that Sir George Haſtings has his peculiarities, ſtill you muſt grant me that he has many very amiable qualities.

I never denied Sir George's merit, Sir, but all his good qualities cannot conceal his unaccount⯑able coxcombry; ‘his attention is conſtantly cen⯑tered in himſelf, and there is no enduring a man who fancies that every woman muſt at firſt ſight fall violently in love with him.’

Do you hear her, Miſs Montagu?

Why, Sir John, there is no accounting for in⯑clination, you know; — however, I cannot look upon Sir George in the very ridiculous light he appears to Miſs Dormer.

No — why he is a narciſſus that continually makes love to his own ſhadow, and I can't bear the idea of a huſband, in whoſe affection I am likely to be every moment rival'd by the looking⯑glaſs.

Nay now, my dear, you are rather hard upon him. — Sir George may poſſibly be a little too fond of himſelf —

But that does'nt prevent him from entertain⯑ing very tender ſentiments for Caroline Dormer.

He may be unneceſſarily attentive to the niceties of dreſs —

But then he is attentive to every law of juſtice and generoſity.

And if his foibles provoke us to an occaſional ſmile, his worth muſt always excite our warmeſt admiratiun.

Upon my word, Harriot, a very florid winding up of a period, and very proper for an elevated thought in a ſentimental Comedy; — but I tell you, I ſhould reliſh theſe encomiums on Sir George well enough, if he Was not ſo particularly recom⯑mended [3] to my attention. — I really can't ſup⯑port the imagination of vowing honour and obe⯑dience to the object of my own ridicule, and it wou'd mortify my pride beyond conception, to ſee my huſband the conſtant jeſt of his acquaint⯑ance.

My dear Caroline, don't be too difficult in your choice, nor entertain any romantic idea of finding a husband, all perfection. — The expectation of too much before marriage, frequently imbitters the union after; — and as the beſt men will have their little blemiſhes, we may farley number thoſe among the beſt, in whoſe characters we can diſ⯑cover nothing more than a few triſling peculiarities.

I ſee, Sir, you make a point of this affair.

I wou'd not make a point of any thing, my dear, which I thought wou'd be in the leaſt repug⯑nant to your happineſs: — but, really, when I con⯑ſider this propoſal in every reſpect, when I con⯑ſider the rank, the fortune, and what is above all, the merit of the man, I cannot but with that you wou'd give him a favourable reception; and this the more eſpecially, as I am convinced, if the match ſhould take place, that your fine ſenſe and ſweetneſs of temper, will eaſily mould your huſ⯑band to your wiſh, and quickly remove every trace of thoſe foibles, which, are at preſent the only reaſon of your objection.

You are very good, Sir.

This morning, my dear, Sir George purpoſes to declare himfelf in form.—If you can receive his addreſſes, you will make him happy, and ob⯑lige me exceedingly; — but if you cannot, deal ingenuouſly, and reject him; the juſtice which I owe to him, as well as the tenderneſs which I have for you, makes this advice doubly recpſite.

Mr.Willoughby, Sir.

I'll wait upon him inſtantly.

Think therefore ſeriouſly, Caroline, before you deter⯑mine, for I neither wiſh to cheat my friend into the poſſeſſion of a reluctant heart, nor to ſacrifice my daughter to the object of her averſion.

Well, Harriot, what ſhall I do?—You hear he has actually mention'd him to me in the moſt ſe⯑rious terms, and that this very morning he is to make a formal declaration.

And what then, does'nt Sir John deſire you to reject him, if he is really diſagreeable? —Can you poſſibly wiſh for a greater degree of indulgence?

And yet that very indulgence, my dear Miſs Montagu, is likely to render me extremely mi⯑ſerable.

Why indeed, Miſs Dormer— remember, child, you complimented me firſt with the cold reſpect⯑ful [5] epithet of Miſs—the men in general ſay that the ſureſt way of making a woman wretched is to indulge her inclinations—But pray, my dear, why is this liberty which Sir John allows you, of promoting your own happineſs, ſo very likely to make you miſerable.

Ah, Harriot! don't you ſee that while he is ſo generouſly anxious to conſult my wiſhes, I am bound by gratitude, as well as juſtice, to pay the greateſt regard to his expectations.

You are really an excellent girl, my dear. But pray anſwer me one queſtion ſeriouſly.

What is it?

Is this diſlike, which you entertain to your fa⯑ther's choice, entirely the reſult of your averſion to Sir George? or is it, be honeſt now, the con⯑ſequence of a ſecret partiality for ſomebody elſe?

A ſecret partiality for ſomebody elſe? Pray, my dear, for whom is it likely I ſhould entertain a partiality?

Caroline, Caroline, this reſerve is ill ſuited both to the nature of our friendſhip and the cuſtom⯑ary frankneſs of your temper—yet notwithſtanding the ſecreſy you have hitherto ſo unkindly obſerv'd, I can eaſily ſee that Mr. Villars—What, con⯑ſcious, Caroline?

O Harriot, ſpare me—nor be offended that I have endeavour'd to keep a ſecret from you, which I abſolutely ſhudder to whiſper to myſelf—to deal candidly, my dear, I muſt acknowledge that your charge is but too juſt—and notwithſtanding every effort of my pride, and every argument of my prudence, I find this humble yet deſerving Villars poſſeſſes a much higher place in my eſteem than can be conſiſtent with my happineſs.

Why, to do the young fellow juſtice, he is really very agreeable, and has ſomething in his manner that would do credit to a more eligible ſituation—but—

Ay, Harriot, there's the misfortune—agreeable as he is in every reſpect, he is ſtill a total depen⯑dent on my father, and thinks himſelf extremely happy that his talents have obtain'd him even a temporary eſtabliſhment in an opulent family.

Well, my dear, Sir John is generous, and Mr. Villars is very uſeful to him in his literary re⯑ſearches; beſides, I am not a little pleas'd at the diſtinction with which he, as well as the Captain, conſtantly treats Mr. Villars.

I don't know how it is—Mr. Villars has a man⯑ner of commanding reſpect from every body; he is humble without ſervility, and ſpirited—

Oh! he is every thing that's amiable, no doubt —and the ſtars have been exceedingly relentleſs [7] in not giving him a large fortune—however, if I have any ſkill in the buſineſs of the heart, Villars is to the full as uneaſy upon your account as you can poſſibly be on his—he is always contriving excuſes for converſing with you, yet when he does, he is in viſible confuſion; and it was only yeſ⯑terday evening, when I beg'd he wou'd put a letter for me into the poſt-office, that he ſtam⯑mer'd out, in the utmoſt perplexity, ‘I ſhall take particular care, Madam, to deliver it to Miſs Dormer.’

If this be the caſe, Harriot, I muſt indeed behave with particular circumſpection to him; and yet, tho' I ſee the impoſſibility of ever being his, he has given me an inſuperable averſion to the reſt of his ſex.

What then do you intend to do with Sir George?

To reject him; but ſtill to do it without giving any offence to my father.

And how do you propoſe to manage it?

By throwing myſelf honeſtly upon Sir George's humanity, by telling him my affection is engaged, and by begging of him to withdraw his addreſſes in ſuch a manner as ſhall appear to be the reſult of his own choice, and not the conſequence of my diſinclination—Sir George, notwithſtanding his egregious vanity is uncommonly good-natur'd —but let us retire to my room, my dear, I am [8] unfit for company at preſent, and here we are likely to be broken in upon. —O Harriot.

And O, Caroline, what a very fooliſh figure does a woman make, when ſhe is lamentably in love.

Well, my brother-in-law elect, —you are very ſplendidly dreſs'd this morning.

Why, Jack, I think, I do make a pretty to⯑lerable appearance.

And do you think this appearance calculated to make an impreſſion upon a woman of ſpirit. — Zounds, man, give up your pretenſions, for no⯑thing but a fellow of life is likely to ſucceed with my ſiſter I can promiſe you.

A fellow of life, Jack; —that is, I ſuppoſe, a fellow of profligacy: —truly you pay your ſiſter a very pretty compliment.

And why pray do you neceſſarily connect the idea of life with the idea of profligacy?

Becauſe, in the vocabulary of libertines, like you, Jack, the word life always means a round of every thing that is fooliſh or unwarrantable.

Why, what the devil are you turn'd fanatic, George, that you begin to deal ſo much in ſecond⯑hand morality?

In ſhort, your fellows of ſpirit never allow a man a ſcruple of common-ſenſe, till he has en⯑tirely proſtituted his understanding; nor ſuppoſe him to be fit for a commerce with the world, till he abſolutely merits to be hunted out of ſociety.

Well but, George, there is one exceſs of which you yourſelf have been guilty; and I have known the time, when you took a bottle ſo freely, that you were generally made toaſt-maſter of the com⯑pany.

Yes, but I ſoon found out that drinking was deteſtable, and toaſting the greateſt of all abſur⯑dities.

Why how wou'd you wiſh to paſs an evening? — Can any thing exceed the pleaſure of ſociety, with a few ſelect friends of good-nature and viva⯑city?

O nothing to be ſure is ſo delightful as guzzling down half a dozen bottles, and enjoying the ratio⯑nal diſcourſe—of where does the toaſt ſtand—with you, Sir William—no, with you, Sir George— fill him a bumper, Captain Dormer—fill him to the top. —O, an evening ſpent in this manner muſt be delectable, eſpecially if a couple of fools should happily quarrel in their cups, and cut one another's throat to prove the ſuperiority of their underſtanding.

Ha! ha! ha! —But was this all your objection to the bottle?

No, for it made my heach ach, and diſorder'd my dreſs beyond bearing.

Disorder'd your dreſs, ha! ha! ha! what un⯑accountable coxcombry.

Why to be ſure it's a very ridiculous thing for a man to ſhew a little regard for decency.

Well, notwithſtanding you are a coxcomb ſyſ⯑tematically, I am ſure the character will not be a ſtrong recommendation to my ſiſter.

Your ſiſter, Jack, is a woman of ſenſe, and muſt ſee that ſhe has a much ſtronger chance of being happy with me, than poor Miſs Montagu has of being happy with her brother. —My heart is una⯑dulterated, and is therefore worth any woman's acceptance.

O no doubt it is a very valuable acquiſition.

Whereas, you fellows of life, hawk about your hearts from commoner to commoner, till they be⯑come quite contemptible; and then with the ad⯑ditional merit of broken constitutions, —tottering limbs, —pale cheeks, and hollow eyes, you po⯑litely offer the refuſe of the ſtews to ladies of fortune, family, and character.

And ſo your affection is unadulterated; —ha! ha! ha!

Ay, laugh on and welcome; —but who have we here?

Mr. Willoughby, who will keep you in coun⯑tenance with maxims of muſty morality.

What, my good-natur'd optimiſt, who thinks every thing happens for the beſt?

Ay, Candide to perfection, who is continually bleſſing his ſtars the more they load him with misfortunes; —and pray heaven his buſineſs here this morning has not been to talk with Sir John about my intimacy in his family.

Sir George, your moſt obedient. —Captain, I am your humble ſervant.

Mr. Willoughby, yours. —How do the ladies, Sir? —the good Mrs. Willoughby, and your ami⯑able daughter.

Why my daughter, Sir George, is very well; — and my wife is as uſual, continually embittering every comfort of life, and lamenting the miſeries attendant on mortality.

I wonder ſhe does not chuſe to follow the ſenſi⯑ble example you ſet her, and endeavour rather to leſſen, than to aggravate the meaſure of unavoid⯑able misfortunes. —She's a young woman, and miſanthropy at her age is rather out of character.

Why yes, Sir George, ſhe's twenty good years younger than I am, and yet ſhe is twenty times more impatient under the ſmalleſt diſappointment.

But, my good friend, you don't think her youth a very unfortunate circumſtance?

O, Sir George, my principle is to think every thing for the beſt.

Well ſaid, Mr. Willoughby.

It was'nt her youth, however, that ſtruck me, but the ſobriety of her conduct, and her affection for my daughter; —ſhe was beſides a diſtant rela⯑tion of my firſt wife's—liv'd with us in the ſame houſe; and ſome how I lik'd her, becauſe having no fortune, it gave her but little expectation of a better huſband.

But why don't you teach her to adopt ſome part of your own fortitude under diſappointment?

Perhaps it is not in her power to exerciſe ſo de⯑ſirable a philoſophy.

My dear Captain, life has misfortunes enough without our being induſtrious to encreaſe the num⯑ber of them—when an accident therefore happens, we ſhou'd conſider that, bad as it may be, it might have been ſtill worſe; and inſtead of arro⯑gantly murmuring at the diſpenſations of provi⯑dence, we ſhou'd thankfully acknowledge the goodneſs that did not plunge us into a deeper de⯑gree of affliction.

Upon my word I think there is much reaſon in this argument.

Ay, and much policy too, Sir George — we ſhou'd always imagine that every thing happens for the beſt—about ten years ago I broke my leg by a fall from a horſe—

And pray did this prove a fortunate accident?

Yes; for your father, who generouſly pitied my ſituation, got my place continued to my family; ſo that, if I drop off to-morrow, there's a comfortable proviſion for them—Indeed when the accident happened I cou'dn't foreſee this conſe⯑quence — however, I made the beſt of matters— was thankful that I hadn't broke both my legs, and drew a kind of negative good fortune from a ſtroke of real calamity.

Why what the devil is this fellow Dormer laugh⯑ing at?

Why how the devil can I help laughing, when the very evils of life are made ſo many indirect inſtruments of happineſs.

Oh! let him laugh, Sir George; he can by no means joke me out of my ſentiments—why when my ſon was ſtolen from me in his infancy—I found a conſolation in reflecting that I had not loſt my daughter too;—and tho' I have never ſince been able to hear any account of my poor boy, I am ſatisfied he was taken from me for the beſt, and I bear my lot with reſignation.

How! do you ſet down the loſs of your ſon in the chapter of fortunate accidents?

Negatively he may, Dormer; for he might have turned out a libertine like yourſelf, and in that caſe his being loſt is indeed a very fortunate cir⯑cumſtance.

Very ſmart truly—but I ſuppoſe you bear your lot with reſignation too, Sir George, —for you have lately got a good two thouſand a year by the death of this young fellow's godfather, old Webly the humoriſt; and it is your intereſt to pray that he never may be found, as there is a certain clauſe in the will you know, which —

Which obliges me to inveſt him with this eſtate if ever he is diſcovered—a mighty hardſhip really; and you muſt be a very pretty fellow to ſuppoſe it any way difficult for an honeſt man, to do a com⯑mon act of juſtice.

All for the beſt ſtill, Captain.—Sir George we are certain will do good with his fortune, —whereas had it been poſſeſſed by my boy, —how am I ſure that it wou'd not be applied to very different pur⯑poſes: — yet who knows that it might either; — who knows but—however

I am poſitive every thing happened for the beſt, — and ſo—and ſo a good morning to you.

Poor man, how ſenſibly he feels the loſs of his ſon, notwithſtanding his endeavours to be chear⯑ful. —But what am I throwing away my time upon you for, when I have buſineſs of ſo much impor⯑tance [15] with your ſiſter? Good bye, Jack, and now let us ſee if profligates only are to meet encourage⯑ment from the ladies.

Ha! ha! ha! was there ever ſuch a compound of ſentiment and vanity. —Caroline muſt keep the fellow in a glaſs caſe, or he'll kill himſelf before the honey-moon is over, with the fatigue of ſeeing company.

Jack, Jack, come back a little—I want a word or two with you.

I fear'd as much

What are your com⯑mands, Sir?

Why, Jack, I need not tell you how anxious I am to have you ſettled in the world, nor is it ne⯑ceſſary for me to put you in mind of the engage⯑ment I enter'd into with my late worthy friend, Sir Ralph Montagu.

I know your obliging ſollicitude for me ex⯑tremely well, Sir, and I feel it with the moſt grate⯑ful ſenſibility, —but ſure there is yet time enough before I undertake the important charge of a fa⯑mily.

Come, come, you have ſeen enough of the world to become, if you pleaſe, a uſeful member of ſociety; —beſides, Miſs Montagu is now without a father, and ſhou'd be treated with an additional degree of attention. —Nothing therefore can be more improper than to keep a young lady of her merit [16] and fortune waiting for the reſult of your deter⯑mination, when you ought to think it a very great honour that ſhe can be prevail'd upon to receive you as a huſband.

Miſs Montagu, Sir, will, I dare ſay, be no way offended at the delay, if I can judge from the in⯑difference with which ſhe conſtantly behaves to me.

And how can ſhe behave otherwiſe, when you conſtantly treat her with indifference? —To be plain with you however, Jack, I fear you are too wild, too diſſipated, to think ſeriouſly:—you more⯑over poſſeſs a ſpirit of gallantry, which gives me many an uneaſy moment, —and I am not a little troubled at your continual viſits to Mr. Willough⯑by's.

To Mr. Willoughby, Sir, —to your own parti⯑cular friend!

Yes, and the more I eſteem him, the more uneaſy I muſt naturally be at your viſiting there ſo frequently. —Miſs Willoughby has a fine perſon, and a feeling heart; ſhe thinks, beſides, I have obliged her father, and may in the fulneſs of her gratitude, imbibe ſentiments for the ſon of his benefactor. — ‘Take care, therefore, take care; gallantry, tho' a faſhionable crime, is a very deteſtable one; and the wretch who pilfers from us in the hour of his neceſſity, is an innocent cha⯑racter, compared to the plunderer who wantonly robs us of happineſs and reputation.’

I hope, Sir, I ſhall never do any thing to bring a reflection upon the honour of my family.

I hope not, Jack, and therefore I cou'd wiſh you were not a man of gallantry:—to engage the confidence of the innocent on purpoſe to betray it, is as mean as it is inhuman.

Every thing is ready in the library, Sir.

Very well—

Come, Jack, think a little on what I have ſaid;—in my ſon let me for once find a friend; — the honour of my family is now materially truſted in your hands, and tho' my tenderneſs for you may feel at any proſtitution of that honour, be aſſur'd that my juſtice will never allow me to pardon it.

Well, Villars, I fancy Willoughby has at laſt made a complaint to my father, for I am com⯑manded, in the moſt poſitive terms to think of an immediate marriage with Miſs Montagu.

And isn't it by much the moſt ſenſible courſe you can follow? — Miſs Montagu is a very fine young lady.

True—but you have never ſeen Miſs Wil⯑loughby.

Beſides the great fortune—

Miſs Willoughby.

That courts your acceptance, if I may ſo ex⯑preſs myſelf—

Miſs Willoughby.

Oh—I ſee how it is; —and are you then deter⯑min'd to marry Miſs Willoughby?

Not ſo faſt—not quite ſo faſt, my dear Villars, I beg of you: —Miſs Willoughby certainly poſ⯑ſeſſes a greater ſhare of my affection than any other woman in the world; and I don't know, if my father could be brought to approve of ſuch a match, that I ſhould find the leaſt diſinclination to marry her: — but as matters ſtand at preſent there's no likelihood of ſuch a circumſtance, and therefore I wou'dn't chooſe to diſoblige Sir John in ſo material a point, eſpecially as my wiſhes with regard to Miſs Willoughby may poſſibly be in⯑dulg'd without ſo conſiderable a ſacrifice.

I don't underſtand you.

Why Miſs Willoughby knew all along of my en⯑gagement with Miſs Montagu, and conſequently had no reaſon to ſuppoſe that my intentions cou'd be very matrimonial; beſides, ſhe let nobody into the ſecret of my addreſſes but her ridiculous ſtep⯑mother, who is a miſerable compound of avarice and affectation: —indeed, to do the young lady juſtice, it was a conſiderable time before ſhe wou'd hear a ſyllable of a tender nature from me, on account of my connection with Miſs Montagu.

And how did you manage it at laſt?

Why in the cuſtomary manner: — I talk'd a damn'd deal of nonſenſe with a very tragical tone and a very melancholy countenance — exclaim'd [19] againſt the tyranny of fathers who wanted to force the inclinations of their children from deſpicable motives of intereſt—and curs'd the poor ſtars for giving her ſo much beauty, and making me ſo ſenſible of it:— then preſſing her tenderly by the hand, I uſually ran out of the room, as if in vio⯑lent emotion, affecting to gulp down a torrent of tears, and left her own pity to be my advocate the moment ſhe recovered the uſe of her recollection.

What, and did this auſwer your purpoſe, Sir?

Oh, perfectly; the women are inconceivably fond of the pathetic, and liſten to you with rapture if you talk about death or diſtraction—ſpring but the mine of their pity, you ſoon blow their hearts into a flame — and reap more ſervice from an hour of compleat ſubſtantial miſery than from a whole year of the moſt paſſionate adoration.

Well, Captain, and may I preſume to aſk what uſe you intend to make of Miſs Willoughoy's par⯑tiality for you?

Why faith, Villars, that's a very puzzling queſ⯑tion upon the whole; — notwithſtanding all my levity, you know I have the deepeſt reverence for my father, and he muſt not be diſoblig'd upon any account, — tho' to deal honeſtly with you, I have no mighty inclination to Miſs Montagu.

And what muſt become of poor Miſs Willoughby?

Why I ſhou'd'nt like to be a raſcal there neither, —yet what can one do; — where a woman's weak enough to encourage the addreſſes of a man whom ſhe knows to be pre-engaged, ſhe gives him a kind [20] of title to deceive her: — beſides, Villars, Miſs Willoughby has herſelf ſhewn a genius for dupli⯑city in this affair which ſhou'd make a man of any ſenſe a little conſiderate.

How ſo, pray?

Don't you recollect ſhe has deceiv'd her father thro' the whole tranſaction? and it is a maxim with me that the woman who can forget the ſenti⯑ments of nature, has half an inclination to forget the ſentiments of virtue.

Poor Miſs Willoughby!

You are mightily concern'd for a woman you never ſaw in your life; however, be eaſy — I am as ſentimental for a libertine, you know, as any fellow in the kingdom, and it ſhall be Miſs Wil⯑loughby's own fault if matters are carried to extre⯑mities. — But, Villars, ſtep with me to my agent's, and we'll talk farther on this ſubject: —few people deſpiſe money more than myſelf, and yet there are few to whom a ſnug ſum would at this moment be more acceptable.

You promiſe me then that in this affair of Miſs Willoughby's—

Zounds, Villars, I won't brag too much neither, — I am ſtill fleſh and blood, — and theſe make a very dangerous compoſition in the hour of love and opportunity.

My dear Captain, this is no jeſting matter—the happineſs of a deſerving young lady is at ſtake, and a laugh will but poorly repay a violation of your honour, or a breach of your humanity.

ACT II.

AND ſo my prudenr, ſage, conſiderate dear, you have actually advited Sir John Dormer to reſtrain his ſon's viſits to our houſe?

Yes, that was my buſineſs at Sir John's this morning.

And you imagine this wiſe meaſure will turn out for the beſt I ſuppoſe?

I do really —

What? You think it for the beſt to let your poor family continue always in obſcurity;—and look upon it as a great unhappineſs, whenever they have the leaſt chance of riſing in the world?

And you think I have done a mighty fooliſh thing in preſerving the peace as well as the honour of my poor family, from the greateſt of all mis⯑fortunes?

From the greateſt of all misfortunes! did any body ever hear the like? —Why I tell you Cap⯑tain Dormer is in love, paſſionately in love with your daughter.

So much the worſe —

So much the worſe! this is the only thing in which you ever forgot your all for the beſt princi⯑ple. — So much the worſe! ſo much the better I tell you;—and in all likelihood he might have married her, if your ridiculous fear of being happy, had not put Sir John upon his guard, to prevent ſo deſirable a circumſtance.

What, madam, wou'd you have me trepan the only ſon of my benefactor, into a marriage with my daughter, and at a time too when I know him engaged to a lady of Miſs Montagu's family and fortune. —O, Mrs. Willoughby, I am aſhamed of theſe arguments; and if there is no way to be rich without being deſpicable, let us look upon poverty as the moſt eligible of all ſituations.

Don't tell me of Miſs Montagu's family, Mr. Willoughby, your daughter is not her inferior in that reſpect;—beſides, a woman of beauty, edu⯑cated as I have educated Cornelia, even if ſhe has not altogether ſo much money, has merit enough to deſerve the firſt man in the kingdom. — I am ſure if I was a ſingle woman again —

You have been a ſingle woman, madam, and are now married to a fellow old enough for your father.

I don't deſerve to be reproach'd by you, Mr. Willoughby; —you are, at leaſt, a gainer by my pity.

I think ſo, my dear-I think all for the beſt.

What all for the beſt; my marrying a man as old as my father? —Have a little gratitude, Mr. Willoughby.

Well, well, my dear, —'tis fooliſh for a man and wife to quarrel, becauſe they muſt make it up again. —However, we were here talking of Cap⯑tain Dormer, —and what is our girl's beauty and education to the purpoſe?

Very much to the purpoſe. —They ſhew there would have been no impropriety in ſuffering Cap⯑tain Dormer to marry Cornelia, and they ſhew that you behav'd very abſurdly in ſtriving to pre⯑vent the advancement of your own daughter.

Madam, madam, young women are apt enough to err of themſelves, but a father has indeed a great deal to anſwer for, who expoſes his daughter to unneceſſary temptations —Captain Dormer has been already too ſucceſsful in ſome families of our acquaintance; and if, while we are contriving to trap him into a marriage with Cornelia, he ſhould find it poſſible to rob her of her honour, we ſhall be very properly puniſhed for the baſe⯑neſs of our deſigns.

And do you think that poſſible, after the ſhare I have had in her education? —tho' I am but her mother-in-law —

My good wife, it is by ſuppoſing our own children wiſer than the children of other people, that ſo many are conſtantly ruined. —If we are deſirous, therefore, of preſerving them unſullied, [24] we ſhould always keep them out of danger; — but our ridiculous partiality, conſtantly paints them in the moſt flattering colours or perfection, and we never ſuppoſe them cap [...]ble of committing the ſmalleſt miſtake, till they [...] totally undone.

Well, it is in vain to talk with you; —but re⯑member I ſay, you will always be the enemy of your own family.

I ſhall always endeavour, madam, to act as be⯑comes a father, —but I ſhall alſo ſtrive to act as becomes an honeſt man, —and therefore Captain Dormer ſhall have no more interviews with my daughter.

No? —

No. —My avarice ſhall neither lead me to injure the happineſs of my friend's family, nor ſhall my weakneſs betray the honour of my own. —Every thing will, I dare ſay, turn out for the beſt; tho' if the worſt ſhou'd happen, I ſhall ſtill find a con⯑ſolation in having taken every juſtifiable method to prevent it.

O, madam, I have heard all:—what will be⯑come of me?

Ah, my poor dear child, was there ever ſo pre⯑poſterous a fool as your father!

Dear madam, ſay ſomething to comfort me. — You have kindly made yourſelf the confidant of my ſentiments for Captain Dormer, and I muſt [25] be the moſt miſerable creature in the world, if my father is inflexibly determined to drive him from the houſe.

I can ſay nothing to you, Cornelia, but what muſt add to your regret:— there is no hope of any favourable turn in the affairs of our family: — day after day produces freſh diſappointments; and inſtead of having any agreeable proſpect to cheer us as we go on, the view becomes more and more clouded with misfortunes. —No, there's no enduring life upon theſe terms; — no, there's no poſſibility of enduring it.

O that I had never ſeen Captain Dormer, —or that he had been leſs amiable! —

Ah, my dear child, I know but too well how to pity your diſtreſs:— I have been in love my⯑ſelf; ſtrangely as he now neglects my advice, I was once very deſperately in love with your fa⯑ther: — He was the firſt man that ever ſaid a ten⯑der thing to me; —and Mexico, if he was dead to⯑morrow, would not purchaſe a ſingle glance of regard for another, nor the mines of Peru obtain a ſmile of approbation.

Well, madam, it is happy for me that you have yourſelf been ſuſceptible of the ſofter impreſſions, ſince that ſuſceptibility has induc'd you to aſſiſt me, during my acquaintance with Captain Dormer.

It is happy for you, Cornelia, and it ſhall be happy for you. —My tenderneſs is more than the tenderneſs of a ſtep-mother, —and there is nothing I admire ſo much as conſtancy in love. — My thoughts, therefore, have not been idle on this affair, and I believe you will allow my underſtand⯑ing to be tollerable.

The whole world concurs in an opinion of your good-ſenſe, madam, but few entertain a higher idea of it than Captain Dormer.

The Captain, my dear, is a man of taſte and diſcernment.

And yet I muſt give him up for ever.

'Tis your own fault; —why won't you take my advice, and make him yours ſecurely? —there is but one way —

O, madam, you know my abhorrence of an elopement — I have often told you —

Yes, and I have often told you, —that your fa⯑ther's forgiveneſs may be eaſily obtain'd; —but that Dormer once married to that Harriot Montagu, is loſt for ever. —Do you imagine, child, I wou'd adviſe you to an impropriety?

But how can I betray the dignity of my ſex, in propoſing ſo bold a meaſure to the Captain?

To be ſure it's very bold in a woman who has given away her heart, to make an honourable of⯑fer [27] of her hand to a lover. —However, ſtay child— let poor Dormer be forc'd into this marriage with Miſs Montagu, —let him be torn irrecoverably from you, —and let your obſtinacy, like your fa⯑ther's, continually counteract the happineſs of your family; —were you once Mrs. Dormer, very handſome things might be done for Mr. Wil⯑loughby.

O, madam, don't attack me in ſo tender a point!

Come up ſtairs child; —ſuſpecting your father's buſineſs to Sir John Dormer's this morning, and dreading the conſequence, I have pack'd up all your things ready for an expedition to Scotland: —you muſt determine, therefore, inſtantly; —and if you determine to have Dormer, you muſt act inſtantly too.

What will become of me!

I don't know what will become of you, if you don't take my advice; —and I am ſure, on the preſent occaſion, I give you advice that wou'd be very agreeable to half the young ladies within the bills of mortality.

Nay, my dear Miſs Dormer, there is no bear⯑ing ſo unjuſt an inſenſibility to the power of your own attractions.

Indeed, Sir George, you over-rate my little merits exceedingly; —and probably the greateſt I can boaſt, is my conſciouſneſs of their being con⯑tracted within a very limited circle.

Well, madam, the very modeſty which induces you to decline every pretenſion to the admiration of the world, is but a freſh proof how greatly you deſerve it.

You have much politeneſs, Sir George, but po⯑liteneſs is your peculiar characteriſtic—

At leaſt, madam, I have much ſincerity; —and if Sir John's mediation in my favour, together with as fervent an attachment as ever warm'd the boſom can obtain a look of approbation from Miſs Dormer, ſhe may reſt ſatisfied that the buſi⯑neſs of my life, will be an unremitting ſollicitude for the advancement of her happineſs.

I am infinitely honour'd by this declaration, — and I believe there are not many ladies—

Why, madam, if the vanity may be excuſed, I flatter myſelf there are not many ladies who wou'd highly diſapprove my addreſſes. — I have more than once reſiſted ſome flattering overtures, and from very fine women too; —but my heart was reſerv'd for Miſs Dormer, and ſhe will make me the happieſt man exiſting, by kindly condeſ⯑cending to accept it.

I am very ſenſible how juſt a value ſhou'd be [29] plac'd upon ſuch an affection as yours, Sir George, and it gives me no little —

So the Captain imagin'd I ſhou'd not ſucceed with her.

You Will Pardon My Confuſion, Sir George, —But The Declaration I Am Going To Make—

Will demand my everlaſting gratitude, madam.

I ſhall be very happy to find you really of this opinion.

I muſt be eternally of this opinion; condeſcen⯑ſion and benignity, madam, are animating every feature of that beautiful face, and I am ſatisfied you will be prevail'd upon, not utterly to diſregard the heart that ſo paſſionately ſolicits your accep⯑tance.

Indeed, Sir George, I muſt own you are poſſeſs'd of extraordinary merit.

This goodneſs is too much, madam.

Your underſtanding is enlarg'd.

Dear Miſs Dormer!

Your perſon is unexceptionable.

You diſtreſs me, madam, by this exceſſive ge⯑neroſity.

Your manners are amiable.

I want words to thank you, madam.

And your humanity is unbounded.

What I am, madam, take me:—I am yours and only yours; nor ſhou'd the united graces, if proſtrate at my feet and ſoliciting for pity, rival you a moment in my affection.—No, Miſs Dor⯑mer, your happineſs will ever be the ulimate ob⯑ject of my attention, and I ſhall no longer wiſh to exiſt, than while I am ſtudious to promote it.

Sir George, I fear you miſunderſtand me, —and yet it is in your power to make me very happy.

How can I miſunderſtand you, my deareſt creature, if it is in my power to make you happy.

'Tis in your power indeed, Sir George.

Bewitching lovelineſs, how you tranſport me; —ſo the Captain thought I ſhou'd'nt ſucceed with her.

But if you wou'd wiſh to ſee me happy, — you muſt withdraw your addreſſes.

Miſs Dormer!

It is impoſſible for me ever to return your affec⯑tion.

Miſs Dormer!

And I ſhall be miſerable beyond belief by a continuance of your ſollicitation.

Miſs Dormer!

O, Sir George, to the greatneſs of your huma⯑nity let me appeal againſt the prepoſſeſſion of your heart. — You ſee before you a diſtreſſed young creature, whoſe affection is already engaged; — and who, tho' ſhe thinks herſelf highly honoured by your ſentiments, is wholly unable to return them.

I am extremely ſorry, madam, —to have been —I ſay, madam, —that—really I am ſo exceedingly diſconcerted, that I don't know what to ſay. —

O, Sir George, you have no occaſion for apo⯑logies, tho' I have unhappily too much; —but I know the nicety of your honour, and I depend upon it with ſecurity. —Let me then entreat an additional act of goodneſs at your hands, which is abſolutely neceſſary, as well for my peace, as for my father's: — this is to contrive ſuch a method of withdrawing your addreſſes, as will not expoſe me to his diſpleaſure. —Let the diſcontinuance of them appear, not to be the re⯑ſult of my requeſt, but the confequence of your own determination; he is a zealous advocate for you, and I ſhou'd incur his ſevereſt reſentment, if he was to be acquainted with the real im⯑pediment to the match. — You are diſtreſ⯑ſed, Sir George, and I am ſinking with confuſion; —I ſhall therefore only add that I truſt you with more than life, and that I conjure you to com⯑paſſionate [32] my ſituation. — By this conduct you will engage my eternal eſteem, and merit that happineſs with a much more deſerving woman, which it is impoſſible for you ever to enjoy with me.

What is all this! — a dream! —No, 'tis no dream, and I feel myſelf awake but too ſenſibly. — What then, am I rejected, deſpis'd, where I ſuppos'd myſelf certain of ſucceſs and approba⯑tion. —This is too much; —neither my pride nor my tenderneſs can ſupport the indignity, —and I ſhall—what ſhall I do? Shall I meanly betray the poor girl who has generouſly thrown herſelf upon my humanity, and convince the world by ſuch a conduct that ſhe was right in refuſing me: —no, damn it—I ſcorn a littleneſs of that nature, and I muſt ſhew myſelf worthy of her affection, tho' her unfortunate pre-engagement wou'd not ſuffer me to obtain it. But how in the name of perplex⯑ity ſhall I manage the matter? —A refuſal on my ſide neceſſarily incurs the general reſentment of the family, and the cenſure of the world into the bargain; — ſo that in all probability I ſhall not only have the honour of riſquing my life but my reputation, and this for the happineſs of giv⯑ing the woman I admire to the arms of my rival. —Really the proſpect is a very comfortable one.

Upon my word, Caroline, you have acted a very heroic part; —but this unaccountable love is able to carry the moſt timid of the romantic la⯑dies thro' the greateſt difficulties. —Now had I [33] been in your ſituation, I cou'd no more have aſk'd the man to take my fault upon himſelf, than I cou'd have made downright love to him.

Ah, Harriot, you little know to what extremi⯑ties a ſtrong prepoſſeſſion is capable of driving a woman, even where there is the moſt evident im⯑poſſibility of ever obtaining the object of her in⯑clinations.

O, my dear, I ſee very plainly that it is capable of driving a woman to very great extremities.

Well I am convinc'd that if any thing was to prevent your marriage with my brother, you wou'd, notwithſtanding this ſeeming inſenſibility, look upon the reſt of his ſex with the utmoſt averſion.

I wonder, Caroline, after my repeated declara⯑tions of indifference with regard to your brother, that you can imagine I conſider him with the ſmal⯑leſt partiality. —There was indeed a time when I might have been prevailed upon to endure the creature, —but his negligence quickly alarmed my pride, and prevented me from ſquandering a ſin⯑gle ſentiment of tenderneſs, upon a man who ſeem'd ſo little inclin'd to deſerve it.

Well, my dear, I am in hopes that you will have but little reaſon to blame his negligence for the future, —becauſe I know he intends this very day to ſolicit your approbation.

O he does me infinite honour, and I ſuppoſe you imagine he is entitled to one of my beſt curt⯑ſies [34] for ſo extraordinary an inſtance of his con⯑deſcenſion; —but, Caroline, I am not altogether ſo critically ſituated as to be glad of a huſband at any rate, —nor have I ſuch a meanneſs of diſpoſi⯑tion as to favour any addreſſes which are made to me with a viſible reluctance.

A viſible reluctance, my dear—?

Yes, Caroline, a viſible reluctance. —'Tis true indeed there are a good many kind-hearted crea⯑tures who can ſtoop to fatter a fellow's vanity, even while he treats them with contempt; —but I am made of different materials, my dear, — I love to mortify the preſumption of thoſe confi⯑dent puppies, who aſk my hand with as much fa⯑miliarity as if they aſk'd a pinch of ſnuff, and ſeem to ſay, ‘ſo child, I want to make you the upper ſervant of my family.’

You are a whimſical creature, Harriot, —but how can you contrive to invalidate the contract between my brother and you, if you are even ſe⯑rious in your determination?

If I can gueſs right, your brother will himſelf find a very expeditious method of breaking it. — However, if he ſhou'd not, I am in no great hurry for a tyrant, and my Strephon's impudent brow ſhall be pretty well loaded with wrinkles, before he finds me in the humour of ſaying, ‘whenever you pleaſe, good Sir, —and I am very much oblig'd to you.’

Well, well, Jack muſt ſolicit for himſelf, and I am ſure, notwithſtanding this pretended want [35] of feeling, you are no way deſtitute of good⯑nature and ſenſibility.

Good-nature and ſenſibility, Caroline; —ay, 'tis this good-nature and ſenſibility that makes the men ſo intolerably vain, and renders us ſo fre⯑quently contemptible. —If a fellow treats us with ever ſo much inſolence, he has only to burſt into a paſſionate rant, and tell a groſs lie with a prodigious agitation; — in proportion as he whines we become ſoftened; till at laſt, burſting into tears, we bid the ſweet creature riſe, —tell him that our fortune is entirely at his ſervice, and beg that he will immediately aſſume the power of making us compleatly miſerable.

What a picture!

While he, ſcarcely able to ſtifle his laughter, retires to divert his diſſolute companions with our weakneſs, and breaking into a yawn of inſolent affectation, cries, ‘poor fool ſhe's doatingly fond of me.’ —However, Caroline, to convince you at once with regard to my ſentiments for your bro⯑ther —

Well!

Let me tell you now you have determin'd againſt Sir George, that this very coxcomb as you call him, this Narciſſus, who can love nothing but himſelf, according to your account —

Aſtoniſhment!

Is the only man I ſhall ever think of ſeriouſly — [36] There, wonder, —be amaz'd that I don't ſee with your eyes, —and deſpiſe my want of taſte;—I'm a mad girl, you know, and poſſibly like Sir George for his peculiarities, —but ſtill foibles are leſs culpa⯑ble than faults, Caroline, and the vanities even of a coxcomb arc more ealſily cured than the vices of a libertine.

Mr. Villars ladies, ſends his compliments, and is ready if you are diſengaged, to play over the new air which you commended laſt night at the Opera.

O we'll wait upon him inſtantly.

O yes, we'll wait upon him inſtantly!

How can you be ſo provoking, Harriot?

What, provoking to wait upon your Corydon inſtantly. —Come, my ſweet ſhepherdeſs, let me ſhew it to the parlour.

Mr: Willoughby is return'd I find, and has got the letter Cornelia left for him. —Well, by this time ſhe's with her huſband that is to be, and will, I ſuppoſe, be ſpeedily on her journey. —The Cap⯑tain can't recede now, and let his father be pleated or diſpleaſed, he is ſtill heir to his title and for⯑tune. —What a difficulty I had to ſhew her the neceſſity, —pay the propriety of this meaſure; — [37] fond as ſhe is of Dormer, it was hardly poſſible to engage her in it, and ſhe ſeem'd at one time more determin'd to give him up for ever, than betray the dignity of the female character. —Dignity indeed—I think I know what be⯑longs to female dignity, as well as moſt people; — theſe very young girls, however, art ſtrange crea⯑tures; — their nicety is not in the leaſt wounded when they tell a man they love him. —But O'tis a deviation from dignity to own they wiſh him for a huſband. —Here comes Mr. Willoughby; —he mus'nt know my ſhare in this transaction 'till he finds himſelf happy in the good conſe⯑quences, and owns there is at leaſt one ſenſible head in the family.

Let a coach be call'd directly, —ſhe muſt cer⯑tainly be gone off to this libertine Dormer.

Well, have your elevated notions done you any ſervice, or has all turn'd out for the beſt now?

Madam, madam, don't diſtract me, — don't diſtract me, —I am ſufficiently miſerable without theſe unneceſſary reproaches.

O you are! I am heartily glad of it —

Yet ſomething whiſpers at my heart that all will ſtill turn out for the beſt —

Indeed!

Yes, —the diſpenſations of providence are al⯑ways [38] ways founded on juſtice; —and none are ever ſuf⯑ferers in the end, but thoſe who have merited the utmoſt ſeverity from its hands.

Fine philoſophy truly; —and I ſuppoſe you wou'd have thought it for the beſt if you had loſt me, as well as your daughter?

I wou'd have tried at leaſt, madam, to be as eaſy as poſſible under ſo great a misfortune.

You wou'd you barbarous man, —but you are miſerable enough without ſuch a circumſtance, and that's ſome comfort to me. — Your obſti⯑nacy has made your only child deſperate, and you have thought it better to run the hazard of her ruin, than to eſtabliſh her happineſs on a certain foundation.

I tell you, madam, any diſtreſs is preferable to the perpetration of a crime; and there was no way of acting upon your principles, without the blackeſt ingratitude to the common benefactor of my family. — I feel for the indiſcretion of this unhappy girl with the ſevereſt poignancy, but I rejoice that my partiality for her led the father into no action that could impeach the probity of the man.

Mighty fine.

This, madam, is a conſolation, a great conſo⯑lation in this hour of affection; and let me tell you that in the ſevereſt trials, the truly honeſt feel a ſatisfaction, which is never experienced in the moſt flattering moments of a guilty proſperity.

Well, well, follow your own courſe, and an⯑ſwer for the conſequences. —Had my advice been taken, — but who indeed takes ſenſible advice now-a-days; —you never took my advice in your life, and you ſee what the effect has proved to your unfortunate family.

A truce with, your wiſdom, madam, I beſeech you; for if it only teaches you to be worthleſs, it wou'd be happy for you to be the greateſt idiot in the kingdom:—but I have no time to waſte in words, every poſſible meaſure muſt be taken for the recovery of this infatuated girl —

And ſuppoſe you ſhou'd not be able to recover this infatuated girl as you call her, —what medi⯑cine will your philoſophy in that caſe adminiſter for ſo great a misfortune.

The beſt of all medicines, —the conſciouſneſs of having never deſerv'd it.

Why you ill-bred brute won't you take me along with you —I muſt go with him to ſee that every thing is conducted with propriety.

ACT III.

INTO how very hopeleſs a ſituation has my fortune at laſt plung'd me, and how unluck⯑ily has the very accident which I conſider'd as the moſt happy circumſtance of my life, turn'd out a ſource of diſappointment and diſtreſs. — Here, while I was rejoicing on being entertained by Sir John Dormer, was it poſſible for me to ſuppoſe that his amiable daughter wou'd have made ſo abſolute a conqueſt of my heart. — But on the other hand, was it poſſible to ſee ſo much ſweet⯑neſs, affability, and merit, without the warmeſt admiration? — Yet to what purpoſe do I conti⯑nually indulge myſelf in thinking of Miſs Dor⯑mer? —My lot in life is as precarious as it is poor, whereas ſhe is entitled to cheriſh the no⯑bleſt expectations. —'Tis true indeed, Captain Dormer has favour'd me with his friendſhip, and I am in hourly hope of an enſigncy by his means—. And will an enſigncy — No— I'll lock the ſe⯑cret eternally in my boſom, and ſince I cannot raiſe myſelf up to the importance of her proſpects, ſhe ſhall never be reduc'd to the penury of mine.

All alive and merry, my dear Villars, I am now in caſh enough; but here my boy is the commiſſion I have been ſoliciting for you. —'l is juſt ſign'd, —and you muſt do me the additional favour of accepting this note to buy regimentals.

You overwhelm me with this generoſity —

Nay, no heſitating, — you ſhall give me a draft upon the agent for the money, or do any thing your ridiculous nicety requires, ſo you only con⯑deſcend to oblige me.

I am at a loſs for words to —

I am very glad of it, as I don't want to be thank'd for an act of common juſtice; the ne⯑ceſſities of the worthy have a conſtant claim upon the ſuperfluities of the rich, and we in reality only pay a debt, where the world imagines we confer an obligation.

This way of thinking is ſo noble, that —

Poh, —poh, —poh man, let's have none of theſe elaborate acknowledgements, eſpecially at this time—when I have news for you; — ſuch news, —wou'd you believe it, Miſs Willoughby has actually left her father, and is now at my private lodgings in Pall mall.

You aſtoniſh me!

Read this letter, and it will inform you of every thing.

‘My deareſt Dormer, my unrelenting father has this morning commanded me, never to re⯑ceive a viſit from you more —’

There's a touch of the pathetic, Villars. — My unrelenting father has this morning com⯑manded me, never to receive a viſit from you more.

‘But there's no poſſibility of exiſting without my Dormer —’

But there's no poſſibility of exiſting without my Dormer.

‘I have therefore ſent ſome cloathes, and a few ornaments, to the houſe in Pall-mall, where I have occaſionally met him, and ſhall follow them immediately myſelf —’

And ſhall follow them immediately myſelf. — Ay, there ſhe drops the heroic, and ſenſibly pro⯑ceeds to buſineſs.

‘If my Dormer's paſſion is as ſincere and as honourable as I think it, he will take inſtant meaſures for carrying me to Scotland —’

No—Scotland is too far to the north, Villars —too far to the north—but mind what follows.

‘And put it out of the power of the moſt ma⯑lignant deſtiny—’

There ſhe's in heroics again, Villars.

‘To rob him or his Cornelia Willoughby.’

To rob him of his Cornelia Willoughby. — O you muſt ſpeak that with all the emphaſis of tra⯑gedy [43] tenderneſs, man:—your voice muſt be broken, —your boſom muſt be thump'd, —your eyes muſt be fix'd. —Zounds it will never do without a deal of the paſſionate.

How can you turn a woman into ridicule, whoſe partiality for yourſelf, is the only cauſe of her indiſcretion?

And how can you ſuppoſe that her partiality for me, ſhou'd render me blind to the impropriety of her conduct? —I can ſee when a woman plays the fool with myſelf, as ſoon as when ſhe plays it with other people.

Well, but what do you intend to do, you ſee her elopement is upon an abſolute ſuppoſition of your intending to marry her?

I don't know that, nor do I ſee how I am bound to take more care of a lady's honour, than ſhe chooſes to take herſelf. —But even admitting the force of your ſuppoſition, what can I do? —It is not in my power to marry her, ſhe knows herſelf it is not in my power, and I ſhou'd cut a very ridiculous figure in the eye of the world, if after a fine girl threw herſelf voluntarily into my arms, with a perfect knowledge of my ſituation, I was to read her a lecture of morality with a prim, puritanical phyz, and to cry, ‘you ſhan't ſtay with me, Miſs, you muſt go home and be du⯑tiful to your papa.’

My dear Captain, a fond woman always judges of her lover by herſelf; and Miſs Willough by imagines, becauſe ſhe is ready to run any riſk for [44] your ſake, that you will as readily run any hazard for her's, —ſhe therefore truſts you —

Zounds, Villars, how prepoſterouſly you argue; —doesn't every woman who truſts entirely to the diſcretion of a lover, —truſt a robber with her purſe, and an enemy with her reputation? A woman of real principle will never put it into a man's power to be perſidious, and I ſhou'd not care to truſt any of theſe eloping damſels with my honour, who are ſuch miſerable guardians of their own.

You are a very extrrordinary man indeed, to think meanly of a woman, for giving you the greateſt proof which ſhe can poſſibly ſhew of her affection.

I muſt think meanly of any woman who, gives me an improper proof of her affection, tho' I may be inclin'd to take an advantage of it.

Indeed!

O, Villars, if the women did but know how we doat upon them for keeping us at a ſenſible diſtance, and how we deſpiſe them where they are forwardly fond, their very pride wou'd ſerve them in the room of reaſon, and they would learn to be prudent even from the greatneſs of their vanity.

So then you think Miſs Willoughby fair game, now ſhe has —

Undoubtedly; —formerly, indeed, I had ſome ſcruples on her father's account, —but now ſhe [45] has gone this length, there is no reſiſting the temptation. —As I told you before, Villars, ſhe knows I can't marry her, ſhe knows I am already engag'd, —and what the devil do you think ſhe wants with me—hey?

Why but —

Why but, — why but what? Only conſider man what a mind a woman muſt have, who can plunge her whole family in wretchedneſs for any fellow's ſake; honour believe me, Villars, never took root in a boſom which is dead to the ſeelings of nature; nor are thoſe in the leaſt to be pitied who are willingly deſtroy'd.

Well, well, I ſtay ſtill —

But well, well, — I hav'nt time to hear what you wou'd ſay, —for I want you to go to Pall⯑mall directly to ſee that Miſs Willoughby is pro⯑perly accommodated. — I know the moment ſhe is miſs'd I ſhall be ſuſpected, ſo I'll go to my fa⯑ther's and be in the way there, to ſave appearances as much as poſſible,

Why hav'nt you been at Pall-mall yourſelf to receive her?

Yes, but I had only time to take a few trifling liberties, —and I am now going to make love very much againſt my inclination to Miſs Mon⯑tagu —My father read me a damn'd ſevere lecture this morning, and the beſt way of preventing any ſuſpicion from faſtening on me about Miſs Wil⯑loughby, is to ſhew every mark of readineſs to [46] comply with his inclinations; —but go, my dear boy, about the buſineſs, and I'll do as much for you, whene'er a pretty woman brings you into diffi⯑culties.

O, I am much oblig'd to you.

The people of the houſe will admit you di⯑rectly; —and remember, that a trifling lie or two muſt choak neither of us, if any body ſhou'd queſtion us about the little run-away.

Why how the plague ſhall I act in this affair, —or with what face can I poſſibly tell Sir John that I am deſirous of declining an alliance with his family, after I have ſo repeatedly ſolicited his in⯑fluence with Miſs Dormer. — I promiſed to wait till he return'd from the Cocoa-tree—I wiſh he was come back with all my heart—for my preſent ſituation is none of the moſt agreeable. —Upon my word it was a mighty modeſt requeſt of the young lady, at the very moment ſhe refus'd me, to deſire I wou'd take the whole blame upon my⯑ſelf. — Your women of ſentiment, however, have a very extraordinary manner of doing things — O but here comes Sir John, what the devil ſhall I ſay to him.

Sir George I give you joy, —joy a thouſand times. —I met Caroline as I was coming up ſtairs, and by her ſilence as well as bluſhing. I [47] read her readineſs to comply with my wiſhes, and find her the excellent girl I always imagin'd her.

She is a very excellent young lady indeed, and I am very much oblig'd to her.

You can't now, conceive the tranſport of my heart at her chearful concurrence, but I hope you will one day experience, that a dutiful child is the firſt of all human felicities.

It muſt be a very great happineſs indeed, Sir John.

Well, Sir George, our lawyers ſhall meet this very evening, and every thing ſhall be ſettled to our mutual ſatisfaction.

Yes, Sir John, I wiſh to ſettle every thing to your ſatisfaction.

There will be no great occaſion for expenſive preparations.

O none in the world, none in the world.

I don't ſee any neceſſity you have to move out of our preſent houſe in Berkeley-ſquare.

Nor I either.

You have room enough there.

Plenty.

Why what's the matter, Sir George, you ſpeak with an air of coldneſs and embarraſſment that ſurprizes me?

Sir John, I am incapable of a duplicity.

Well.

And notwithſtanding my wiſhes for Miſs Dor⯑mer are as ardent as ſhe is deſerving, —a circum⯑ſtance has happen'd, which muſt forever deny me the bleſſing of her hand.

You aſtoniſh me! —but what circumſtance— ſhe is ready—

Yes, yes, ſhe is very ready, Sir John.

Then pray acquaint me with the impediment.

My dear Sir John, a point, a very nice point of honour prevents the poſſibility of my indul⯑ging you in this requeſt: you may, however, ſafely aſſure yourſelf that I am now no leſs worthy of your good opinion, than when you favour'd me with the warmeſt reeommendation to Miſs Dor⯑mer.

Mighty well, Sir George, mighty well, —and ſo you come into my houſe to ſolicit my influence in your favour, over the affections of my daughter, obtain her approbation, and then, without pro⯑ducing one cauſe for a change in your ſentiments, affront us both in the groſſeſt manner, by in⯑ſtantly receding from your engagements.

You are warm, Sir John.

Have I not abundant cauſe for warmth, when you deny a reaſon for the affront which on this occaſion you have offered to my family. — If you know any thing in my daughter's conduct that renders her unworthy of your alliance, pro⯑nounce it freely — and I ſhall myſelf be the firſt to approve your rejection of her. — But, Sir George, if you capriciouſly decline a treaty which you yourſelf took ſo much pains to commence, without aſſigning a ſufficient cauſe for your be⯑haviour; be aſſur'd I will have ample ſatisfaction. — Nor ſhall the altar itſelf protect you from the united vengeance of an injur'd friend and an in⯑ſulted father.

Sir John, I eaſily conceive the purport of this menace: — but whatever meaſures you intend to take, let me tell you, I ſhall one day have your thanks for the conduct which now excites your in⯑dignation; and, let me alſo tell you, that the very moment in which your hand is raiſed againſt my life, will be the moment in which I ſhall prove myſelf the trueſt friend to your family.

Away, away, you are all profeſſion and falſ⯑hood. — My daughter told me that you were in⯑capable of loving any thing but yourſelf.

I thank her very heartily, Sir.

And that the wiſhes of your heart were entirely centred in the admiration of your own adorable perſon.

O, I am infinitely oblig'd to her.

But inſignificant, as ſhe juſtly repreſented you—

Inſignificant!

That inſignificence ſhall not be your protection.

My protection! mdash;So, I want to be protected!

Therefore, unleſs you wou'd prove yourſelf as deſtitute of courage as of honour, meet me at the Cocoa-tree in an hour; we can eaſily have a pri⯑vate room, and, if you fail, I ſhall ſet ſuch a ſtig⯑ma on the coward, as will render him a ſcorn even to the greateſt proſligate in the kingdom.

So—now I am engag'd in a pretty piece of buſineſs —and muſt hazard my life for a woman, who has not only rejected my addreſſes, but mention'd me with contempt; and danger join'd to inſult is my reward, where, in reality, I ought to meet with thanks and approbation, la la la la lalla, (hums a French air)— Well, be it as it will, Miſs Dormer's ſecret ſhall be inviolably preſerv'd. — A thruſt through the guts is, to be ſure, diſagreeable enough, but if fellows every day hazard it in defence of the baſeſt actions, there can be no mighty heroiſm in running a little riſque, to ſupport the cauſe of honour and generoſity.

Where ſhall I hide my miſerable head, or how ſhall I avoid the ſtroke of impending deſtruction. — The man who ſhou'd have been the guardian, is himſelf the perſon that attacks my honour, and the unlimited confidence which I raſhly repos'd in his af⯑fection, is now made uſe of to cover me with diſgrace. — O that my unhappy ſex would learn a little pru⯑dence, and be well convinc'd, when they fly from the imaginary oppreſſion of a father, that they are ſeeking protection from the moſt cruel of all ene⯑mies, thoſe who mean to ſacrifice their peace, and blaſt their reputation.

Madam, there is a Gentleman from Captain Dormer come to wait upon you.

What can he want with me?

I really can't ſay, Madam. — But, if you pleaſe, I'll ſend him up, and then you can know his buſi⯑neſs from himſelf.

How am I inſulted and expos'd! But the woman deſerves no reſpect from others, who does not ſhew a proper regard for her own character.

Lord! what a mighty fuſs we make, though I don't ſee we are a bit handſomer than other people. — Well, Madam, what ſhall I ſay to the gentleman?

Shew the gentleman up.

Yes, Madam.

Whoever he is he cannot increaſe my fears, and may poſſibly bring me ſome intelligence to mitigate their ſeverity.

Madam, your moſt obedient. — I wait upon you with Captain Dormer's reſpects, to apologize for his unavoidable abſence a few hours, and to hope that every thing here is quite to your ſatisfaction.

As the Captain, Sir, has engag'd your good offices on this occaſion, I ſuppoſe you are ac⯑quainted with the hiſtory of my indiſcretion.

The Captain, Madam, gave me no particular account of matters, but only ſent me as a friend, on whoſe ſecreſy he cou'd rely, to apologize for his abſence, and to enquire how you approved of this ſituation.

Sir, I don't approve of this ſituation at all.

I ſhou'd be ſorry, Madam, that my preſence diſtreſſed you.

'Tis not your preſence, Sir, which diſtreſſes me, 'tis the conſciouſneſs of my own folly; 'tis the danger to which I have expos'd myſelf. — But, Sir, your appearance is the appearance of hu⯑manity; and I think you look with compaſſion on an unhappy young creature, whom the perfidy of a man too tenderly eſteem'd, has devoted to diſ⯑truction; if you do, Sir, ſave me — I conjure you, by all you hold moſt dear, to ſave me from diſ⯑honour. [53] — I have been indiſcreet, but not criminal, and the purity of my intention has ſome claim to pity, though the raſhneſs of my ſlight may be wholly without excuſe.

Be compos'd, Madam — Pray be compoſed — You affect me exceedingly. — And you ſhall find a protector in me, if you have any juſt cauſe to apprehend the leaſt violence from Captain Dormer.

If I have any cauſe, Sir. — Why, inſtead of proceeding with me to a place where we might be ſecurely united, am I detained in this unac⯑countable houſe? — Why did he here attempt liberties, that muſt be ſhocking to the mind of ſenſibility? — And why at his departure did he give the people here orders to confine me to theſe apartments.

You feel too ſtrongly, Madam.

Can I feel too ſtrongly, Sir, where my ever⯑laſting peace of mind is deſtroy'd; and where the man who declared he only exiſted for my ſake, is cruelly induſtrious to plunge me into infamy? — Unknowing in the ways of the world, I cou'd not diſtinguiſh between the language of ſincerity, and the voice of diſſimulation. — By my own in⯑tegrity I judg'd of his truth, and cou'd not think that any man wou'd be monſter enough to return a tender partiality for himſelf with diſgrace and deſtruction.

Madam, there is ſomething in your manner — there is ſomething in this generous indignation [54] that diſpoſcs me very warmly to ſerve you, and if you really deſire to leave this houſe, you ſhall leave it inſtantly; the people have directions to obey me in every thing, and I do not think my⯑ſelf oblig'd to anſwer Mr. Dormer's expectations, where his demands are evidently contrary to the principles of virtue.

Sir you charm me with theſe ſentiments.

Madam, they are ſentiments which ſhould re⯑gulate the conduct of every man; for he who ſuffers a bad action to be committed when he has the power of preventing it, is, in my opinion, as guilty as the actual perpetrator of the crime.

I am eternally indebted to this generoſity, Sir.

Not in the leaſt, Madam. — For, abſtracted from my general abhorrence of what is indefen⯑ſible, I find, I know not how, an irreſiſtable in⯑clination to ſerve you. — But we loſe time. — I'll order a coach directly to the door, and leave you at perfect liberty to follow your own inclinations.

I have a fix'd reliance on your honour, Sir, and only lament that I have nothing but thanks to ſhew my gratitude for this goodneſs.

My dear Madam, your thanks are more than I deſerve. What I have done, humanity made my duty; and the moſt contemptible of mankind, is he who declines the performance of a good action becauſe he has not an expectation of being re⯑warded.

ACT IV.

CAPTAIN Dormer, don't keep me on the rack, but give me up my daughter.

Sir, I have repeatedly told you—

Yes, Sir, you have repeatedly told me, that you are wholly unconcern'd in her flight— But this is the only thing in which I cou'd find it any way difficult to believe you.

Mr. Willoughby, this doubt of my veracity is neither kind nor delicate.

Don't inſult me, Captain Dormer, while you are loading me with calamity, or poſſibly I may forget that you are the ſon of my benefactor. — However, Sir, I do not come here to menace, but to ſupplicate. — I do not come here to provoke the warmth of your temper, but to intereſt the ſenſibility of your heart. — You ſee me a diſtreſs'd, unfortunate, miſerable old man. — The whole happineſs of my life is wrapp'd up in the inconſi⯑derate girl you have ſtolen from my arms — and if ſhe is not inſtantly return'd, my portion will be diſtraction. — Reſtore her therefore, I beſeech you, and reſtore her while ſhe is innocent. — The [56] blow is a barbarous one, which is aim'd at the boſom of a friend; and the triumph is deſpicable indeed, which is purchaſed at the expcnce of hu⯑manity.

Why, how contemptible a raſcal is a libertine!

For pity's ſake give me back my child; nor deſtroy, in your giddy purſuit of pleaſure, the eternal peace of a man who wou'd readily riſque his life for the advancement of your happineſs. — You have generoſity, Captain Dormer, and you have underitanding— yet you combat the natural benevolence of your heart, and oppoſe the evi⯑dent ſenſe of your own conviction: You are cruel, becauſe it is gallant; and you are licentious, be⯑cauſe it is faſhionable. — But, Sir, let my diſtreſs, my anguiſh, reſtore you to yourſelf, and teach you, in ſome meaſure, to anticipate the feelings of a father. Early in life an only ſon was taken from me; and the evening of my days is now to be mark'd with the pollution of an only daughter.— O! Mr. Dormer, you men of pleaſure know not how wide a ruin you ſpread in the progreſs of your unwarrantable inclinations. — You do not recollect, that, beſides the unhappy victim ſacri⯑fic'd, there is a family to participate in her inju⯑ries; a mother, perhaps to die at her deſtruction, and a wretch like me to madden at her diſgrace.

I cannot be the raſcal I intended.

Sir, — Mr. Willoughby, be ſatisſied. — Miſs Wil⯑loughby is ſafe and well — nor ſhall I ever enter⯑tain a wiſh to diſturb your happineſs, or to injure her reputation.

Eternal bleſſings on you for this generous de⯑claration. — But, if you ſpeak your real ſenti⯑ments, conduct me inſtantly to my child.

With pleaſure, Sir — and I have great reaſon to imagine, that the anxiety ſhe has ſuffer'd in conſequence of this little Indiſcretion, will make her additionally worthy of your affection.

Why, I always ſaid, that every thing happens for the beſt; and that many accidents are really bleſſings in diſguiſe, which we lament as abſolute misfortunes.

Your philoſophy will be juſtified in the preſent caſe, I aſſure you.

Give me your hand, Captain. — I eſteem you more than ever. — But come; I am impatient to ſee my poor girl. — Her fault was the reſult of her inexperience; and if we were all to be pu⯑niſh'd for the errors of indiſcretion, what wou'd become of the beſt of us?

Juſtly conſider'd, Sir.

Come along, come along, man: I want to be gone — and my miſerable wife, whom I didn't care to bring in, for fear ſhe ſhou'd be clamorous, waits for me in a coach at the end of the ſtreet.

I attend you, Sir — yet, if half the gay fellows about town were inform'd of the buſineſs I am going upon — I fancy they'd laugh at me pretty heartily.

Ah, Captain! a man of ſenſe ſhou'd deſpiſe the ridicule of the profligate, and recollect, that the laughter of a thouſand fools is by no means ſo cutting as the ſeverity of his own deteſtation.

Thus, my dear Madam, have I given you the whole hiſtory of my infatuation; and I have now only to repeat my ſincere concern for thinking it poſſible that Captain Dormer cou'd be inſenſible of your very great merit, and to intreat the fa⯑vour of your interpoſition with my father.

My dear girl, there is no occaſion whatſoever for this generous apology.

Indeed, Madam, there is—I was unpardonably vain in attempting to diſpute a heart with you, and I was extremely culpable, in forgetting how much the completion of my own wiſhes might diſturb the peace of a family, to which my father had ſo many obligations.

My dear Miſs Willoughby, we women are all fools when we are in love, and it is but natural that our own happineſs ſhou'd be more immedi⯑ately the object of our attention than the happi⯑neſs of other people— But I want to aſk you a queſtion about this recreant of ours, to which I beg you will give me an ingenuous anſwer.

Pray propoſe your queſtion, Madam.

Then, my dear, ſuppoſe matters cou'd be ſo brought about, that Sir John wou'd approve the Captain's attachment to you, cou'd you, tell me candidly, forgive the inſolent uſe which he has juſt made of your generoſity?

Dear Miſs Montagu, why do you aſk me ſuch a queſtion?

Becauſe I am pretty ſure you may ſtill have him, if you think him worth your acceptance.

I really don't underſtand you.

You ſhall underſtand me then—I never will marry Captain Dormer.

Madam!

He's not a man to my taſte.

No!

No—he is worſe to me, to make uſe of an af⯑fected ſimile, than prepar'd chicken gloves, or almond paſte.

Indeed!

Yes—he is more offenſive than Naples dew, or Venitian cream, the eſſence of daffodil, or the Imperial milk of roſes.

You can't be ſerious ſurely—not like him!

No, poſitively, I do not like him.

Why, where can there be ſo—

O bravo.

You reprove me very juſtly, Madam—and I bluſh to ſpeak of a man with softneſs, whom I ſhou'd always conſider with indignation.

Come, come, my dear, the Captain is a very agreeable young fellow after all—But I know he is as indifferent about me, as I can poſſibly be about him, and I ſhou'd never have a ſyllable of the tender kind from him—if he was not ex⯑tremely unwilling to diſoblige his father.

Has he yet declar'd himſelf, Madam?

Why, not expreſſly—but I expect him every moment to open with the uſual formality, and if you pleaſe, we can not only render the ſcene a whimſical one, but make him ſmart very ſenſibly for the liberties of this morning.

In what manner pray?

Why the moment he comes, you ſhall retire in⯑to this cloſet—and in the midſt of all his pro⯑feſſions to me, I ſhall take an opportunity of men⯑tioning [61] your name with an air of jealous reſent⯑ment.

Well!

This I am ſure will induce him to make violent proteſtations, that this heav'nly face of mine alone is the object of his adoration; and, as the men think it no way diſhonourable to tell a trifling little fib to a woman, I ſhall ſoon have him vow⯑ing everlaſting fidelity and ſwearing.

I conceive the whole deſign, Madam.

Well then, when he is in the meridian of all his nonſenſe—do you ſteal ſoftly out of the cloſet and ſit in that chair—I'll take care that he doesn't ſee you—If he forſwears his paſſion for you, give him a gentle pull by the ſleeve—and, looking him ſtedfaſtly in the face, leave all the reſt to accident.

I am afraid I ſhan't have ſpirits to go through with it.

Courage, child; havn't I given you ſpirits enough in declaring that I'll never marry him? — I think you ſaid my woman let you in, and that you ſaw nobody elſe.

Yes.

Why then ſhe ſhall keep your being here a ſe⯑cret from every body, and I warrant we'll pay the Captain off pretty handſomely—but why ſo me⯑lancholy?

Why, my dear Miſs Montagu, I don't know, if in juſtice to you, I ſhou'd think any more of Dormer—he has ſo many accompliſhments—

Well, my dear, to make you entirely eaſy, there is a man in the world who is, in my opinion, much more accompliſh'd; —but not a word to any body on this matter for your life—I only mention it to you in confidence, and to ſhew the probability of your yet being happy with Dormer.

Madam, the pens and paper are laid in the next room.

Very well—go—and Jenny —

Madam.

Don't give the leaſt hint to any of the family that Miſs Willoughby is here.

By no means, Madam.

And now we'll prepare a letter to your father —But come, my dear girl, you muſt not be ſo dejected — Your little error is amply attoned for by the generoſity of this conduct; and there are ſome faults which, like happy ſhades in a fine picture, actually give a forcible effect to the ami⯑able light of our characters.

Come in, my dear Sir — come in — don't be alarm'd Miſs Willoughby — your father is pre⯑pared to overlook every — Why, ſhe isn't here!

Pray, Sir, didn't I tell you ſo?

What isn't ſhe here?

No, Madam.

No!

Lord bleſs you, Sir, didn't I tell you ſo as you came up?

And where is ſhe gone to?

Do you deſire I ſhou'd tell the truth?

Ay, ſpeak the truth child, and fear nothing — But let's take a peep into this room.

Then the truth is—

That's a good girl, ſpeak up.

The truth is, I don't know where ſhe's gone.

Death and confuſion, — where can ſhe be gone to?

That I don't know, as I ſaid before — But ſhe went with your friend — the gentleman you ſent here on a meſſage to her.

O, ſhe's gone away with a friend of your's, is ſhe — for ſhame Captain Dormer — you a tender lover — you animated with that exquiſite ſoftneſs which ſouls of ſenſibility feel.

Death, Madam, why will you teaze me in this manner — I tell you I have been betray'd. —

No, Sir, it is I who am betray'd. — And ſo a friend of his has carried her off.

Yes, and every thing happens for the beſt now — does not it?

Mr. Willoughby, [...] me.

Captain Dormer, after this re-iterated inſult, this aggravated cruelty — 'tis infamous to talk with you. — However, Sir, old as you think me, and little as you dread my reſentment, you ſhall feel it heavily. — No! injur'd as I am, you ſhall never receive a ſtroke from me. — I am too miſerable myſelf by the loſs of a child, to ſtab my beſt benefactor even in the perſon of a worthleſs ſon. — You are therefore [65] afe. — Safe as the fears of cowardice can wiſh. — But, if you have feelings, to thoſe feelings I con⯑ſign you. — They will wake a ſcorpion in that boſom to avenge my wrongs. — For know, though bad men may find it poſſible to elude the juſtice of a whole univerſe, they are yet utterly without means of flying from their own recollection.

Mr. Willoughby, let me only explain the matter —

Sir, I'll talk to no monſters.

Dear Mrs. Willoughby, your huſband is ſo im⯑petuous —

Don't ſpeak to me, Sir — don't ſpeak to me. — A perfidious lover ſhall never gain an audience from Mr. Willoughby. — But, my dear, — what do you intend doing?

Pray, Madam, don't teaze me.

Why, you il1-natur'd — but I won't forget the bounds of propriety — eſpecially as you are not madman enough to fight — It wou'd be little for the better if you were killed.

Death, Madam, any thing wou'd be for the better, that ſet me free from your intollerable im⯑pertinence.

Did the world ever hear ſuch a vulgar fellow — But theſe huſbands have no more breeding! — And here he has gone without giving me his hand. — In a little time I ſuppoſe the fair ſex will [66] be entirely neglected. —

But, Sir, a word in your ear. — You are a baſe man. — I would not violate propriety for the world — but you are a baſe man. Sir John ſhall know every thing inſtantly. — 'T was I that urg'd my poor girl to repoſe that implicit confidence in your honour — and ſince my advice has loſt — my aſſi⯑duity will do any thing to recover her.

Why, how juſt is it that profligacy ſhou'd be conſtantly attended with puniſhment, and how rea⯑ſonable is it, that thoſe who make no ſcruple of wounding the happineſs of others, ſhou'd be con⯑ſpicuouſly miſerable themſelves. — How ſhall I look my father in the face, when this matter comes to be known; or how ſhall I ſee this unhap⯑py old man, whom I have ſo infamouſly wrong'd. — What a poor, what a paltry, what a mercileſs paſſion, is this paſſion of gallantry; yet it reflects no ſcandal whatever upon it's followers, though it begins in the moſt deſpicable falſhood, and ter⯑minates in the moſt irreparable deſtruction. — A man of gallantry, is the only wretch who can deſpiſe the ſenſe of ſhame, and ſtifle the feelings of gratitude without reproach; take him into your houſe, he attempts the ſanctity of your bed; — load him with obligations, and he betrays the purity of your daughter. — The ſenſible world however allows him to be a man of honour all the time, and he ſtabs you with impunity to the heart for preſuming to complain of your wrongs. — Why did not I ſee the blackneſs of this character a little earlier. — But — no — My curſed pride would reſiſt the arguments of my conviction. — And for a pitiful triumph over an unſuſpecting innocent, I muſt baſely diveſt myſelf both of rea⯑ſon and humanity. Where can this girl be fled to? — Villars I am ſure is incapable of betraying me, and as ſhe came here with her own con⯑ſent [67] ſhe was prepared for the conſequences of courſe.

My dear Villars you are come moſt luckily, here Miſs Willoughby is gone off, and the peo⯑ple of the houſe have the impudence to ſay, by your means.

Well, and they ſay very juſtly.

How's this?

I ſuffer'd her to eſcape — I aſſiſted in her eſcape — and am now ready to anſwer for the con⯑ſequences.

Indeed!

But firſt, Sir, let me return you the commiſ⯑ſion, and the note with which you were this morn⯑ing ſo kind as to preſent me. — I do not mean to keep your favours while I counteract your views, and I ſcorn to profit by the generoſity of any man, unleſs upon terms that merit my approbation.

Death and the devil, Sir, how dare you uſe me in this manner: how dare you betray my con⯑fidence ſo ſcandalouſly, draw, and give me inſtant ſatisfaction.

I came here on purpoſe to give you ſatisfaction — but before I draw ſuffer me to aſk a queſtion or two in my turn. — And now, Sir, how dare you ſuppoſe, that I was to be made the inſtrument of your licentiouſneſs; how dare you suppoſe that I [68] wou'd be the pander to your vices, and join with you in a barbarous contrivance of deſtroying a young creature, whoſe inexperience was her only crime?

Here's a fellow!

But I ſuppoſe you inſulted me on account of my ſituation, and imagin'd, becauſe I was poor that I was conſequently worthleſs; however, Sir, be now undeceiv'd, and, in the midſt of your affluence, and my poverty, know, that I am your ſuperior, for the beſt of all reaſons, becauſe I diſ⯑dain to commit a deſpicable action.

I am aſtoniſh'd at the very impudence of his rectitude, and can't ſay a ſyllable to him.

When I came here, inſtead of a willing victim to your wiſhes, I found Miſs Willougby in the ut⯑moſt affliction, conſcious of her indſcretion in flying from her father, and ſhuddering with ap⯑prehenſion of violence from you. — She ſoon in⯑form'd me of her fears, and lamented, in the moſt pathetic terms, how greatly ſhe had been deceiv'd in the object of her affection. — She imagin'd an honourable union with you, wou'd have been the conſequence of her flight; and little ſuppoſed that the man ſhe lov'd wou'd make uſe of her partiality for himſelf to cover her with diſgrace. — Thus diſappointed, thus betray'd, ſhe aſk'd for my protection, ſhe receiv'd it — and now, Sir, (drawing) take your revenge.

Yes, Sir, I will take my revenge, but it ſhall be thus: (throwing down his ſword and ſhaking [69] Villars by the hand) Thus, my dear Villars, let me thank you for the ſuperiority of your principles; I am myſelf juſt awakened to a ſenſe of true honour, and cannot, now I know the real motive of your conduct, reſent, as an injury, what I muſt look upon with the higheſt admiration.

How agreeably you ſurprize me, Sir.

Dear Villars, take theſe trifles again, or I ſhall not think you forgive me. (Villars accepts the com⯑miſſion, &c.) But, my poor girl — and ſo ſhe has principle after all — what a raſcal have I been! — Do tell me where ſhe's gone.

Indeed I cannot. — I only ſaw her into a coach; but I ſuppoſe ſhe is returned to her father's.

No — ſhe is not — her father is but juſt gone — he came to me, as I ſuſpected, on the very firſt knowledge of her flight; and ſhew'd ſo deep a diſtreſs, that I cou'dn't perſevere in my deſign of ſeeming wholly ignorant of her elopement.

Well!

I therefore brought him here to give her back; and the poor man was actually in extaſies — but when he found ſhe was gone, he loſt all patince; and, naturally enough, imagining that ſhe was carry'd off by my contrivance, treated me with a freedom, which nothing but the conviction of my guilt could enable me to endure, even from the father of Miſs Willoughby.

Upon my word, this affair has drawn you into a very diſagreeable ſituation.

Into a diſagreeable ſituation! — into a damn'd one — and I ſhall hate the word Gallantry as long as I live. — My friend's daughter too! — ſhame — ſhame — ſhame — Zounds! Villars, a man ought to be good even from policy, if he is not ſo from inclination. — Damn it; you don't know half the perplexities of my ſituation.

No!

No. — Diſtracted as I am, I muſt aſſume a calm unruffled face immediately, before Miſs Montagu.

What, are you going to Miſs Montagu di⯑rectly?

Yes, inſtantly — I have myſelf requeſted a tete a tete, to make a formal declaration — and truly I am in a pretty frame of mind to make love to a woman of her vivacity.

Why, indeed, your hands are pretty full of bu⯑ſineſs.

Yes, yes, I have buſineſs enough; and my father will know every thing preſently. — But I muſt be a man of gallantry, and be damn'd to me! — Villars, you now ſee, that the greateſt of all idiots is he who makes himſelf deſpicable to deſtroy his own happineſs.

Well, here I am; and a pleaſant affair I have to go through! — I wiſh it was well over:— [71] For, though there may be a great deal of bravery in venturing one's life, I can't ſay that there is a great deal of ſatisfaction.

Sir John Dormer, Sir.

Shew Sir John up. — Now for it.

Sir John, your moſt obedient.

Well, Sir George; I ſee you are a man of cou⯑rage at leaſt; and ſo far I find you worth my re⯑ſentment.

No reproaches now, my dear Sir John: For the greateſt enemies make a point of being per⯑fectly well bred, when they are going to cut one another's throats.

Then, Sir George, that I may anſwer your ideas of politeneſs, let me beg of you to draw inſtantly.

There is no refuſing a requeſt which is made with ſo much civility; and now, Sir, I am all obedience to your commands.

And now to puniſh the infamous inſult which has been offer'd to my family.

Then puniſh it here, Sir: For I alone am cul⯑pable.

How's this!

O Sir, hear me with pity: For the dread of your reſentment is inſupportable.

A lady upon her knees! Pray, Madam, ſuf⯑fer me raiſe you up.

No, Sir George: This attitude beſt becomes a creature like me, who has not only expos'd her benefactor to danger, but even rais'd a ſword againſt the life of her father.

Riſe, Caroline. — But tell me, in the name of wonder, what am I to underſtand by this?

My indiſcretion, Sir — my diſobedience:— For, though you have ever treated me with the moſt unbounded indulgence, I have nevertheleſs ungratefully diſappointed your views, and plac'd my affection upon an object that can never be in⯑titled to your approbation.

So my throat ſeems to be pretty ſafe this time.

Go on.

Actuated by my regard for this object, though utterly deſpairing to obtain him, I truſted Sir George with the ſecret, in the fulneſs of my heart; and begg'd he would not only withdraw his addreſſes, but withdraw them in ſuch a man⯑ner, as might ſave me even from the ſuſpicion of any unwillingneſs to pay an implicit obedience to your commands.

This is very extraordinary.

Yes, but it's very true for all that.

Sir George ſaw my diſtreſs, and kindly com⯑plied with my requeſt; and hadn't I accidentally overheard the altercation which produc'd this meeting, the beſt of fathers or the nobleſt of men

had perhaps fallen a ſacri⯑fice to the unhappy prepoſſeſſion of an inconſi⯑derate daughter.

I never knew ſo ſenſible a woman in my life.

Diſtracted at the extremity to which matters were carried, I knew not how to act— The mo⯑ment I was capable of reſolving, I reſolv'd to fly here and wait for your arrival—not coming to any determination till you, Sir, and Sir George had quitted the houſe—here I hinted to the people my apprehenſion of a miſunderſtanding between you, and deſir'd to be plac'd in the next room to that which he told me was reſerv'd for your uſe— the reſt is already known—and I am now to in⯑treat Sir George's forgiveneſs, for the danger to which his unexampled greatneſs of mind had ſo nearly expos'd him—and to implore your pardon, Sir, for daring to entertain even a hopeleſs pre⯑poſſeſſion, when I knew it muſt combat with the favourite object of your inclinations.

Come, Sir John—what the devil are you dream⯑ing of — you and I are friends now—and there⯑fore we need not ſtand altogether upon cere⯑monies.

I am conſidering, Sir George, whether I ought moſt to be pleas'd, or offended with my daughter.

Zounds, man, be pleas'd with her, for it will be moſt to your own ſatisfaction.

Then, Caroline, let me tell you that I am charm'd with your frankneſs upon this occaſion— though I am ſorry it was not ſhewn a little ear⯑lier —had you ingenuouſly told me the ſituation of your heart when I talk'd to you this morning, you wou'd have ſav'd yourſelf much anxiety, and prevented me from behaving in a manner to Sir George that I muſt be eternally aſham'd of.

Indeed, Sir, if you knew my motive—

Come, come, my dear Miſs Dormer—don't let us pain ourſelves with the recollection of paſt anxieties—when we may indulge ourſelves with the proſpect of future happineſs—I have no no⯑tion of the wiſdom that makes us miſerable— and therefore, Sir John muſt and ſhall, if he ex⯑pects me to overlook his cavalier conduct of to⯑day, do me the favour to conſult your incli⯑nations.

You are too good, Sir George—but—

Speak up my dear, and tell us candidly who you have diſtinguiſhed with your approbation— I am not one of the fathers who wiſh to maintain a deſpotic authority, nor will I make my daughter wretched, to convince the world that I am maſter in my family.

O fye, Sir John, there are a great many good fathers who never refuſe any thing but happineſs to their children.

I am ſo overwhelm'd with this goodneſs—it is at preſent too much for me. As we go home in the coach I ſhall endeavour to let you know every thing—Eſpecially as the object of my choice is—

Is he a man of merit, my dear—is he a good man — he that is worthy in himſelf, is above the deſpicable neceſſity of ſtealing a reputation from the virtue of his progenitors; the riches of the heart are the nobleſt of all poſſeſſions.

I am entirely of Sir John's opinion—the riches of the heart are the nobleſt of all poſſeſſions, and I don't think that, on the preſent occaſion, I have proved myſelf the pooreſt fellow in the kingdom —notwithſtanding my recent inſignificance.

ACT V.

Why, what can keep this hopeful Corydon of ours.

Poſſibly ſome other attachment.

Jealouſy, Miſs Willoughby—rank jealouſy, my dear girl—O that we ſhou'd be ſuch fools as to beſtow a ſingle thought upon theſe wretched fel⯑lows, who are not ſenſible of the obligation.

Madam, Madam, Captain Dormer is coming up.

To your ambuſh, my dear—and be ſure you watch a proper opportunity of annoying the enemy.

O you ſhan't have any occaſion to queſtion my generalſhip.

Miſs Montagu, your moſt obedi ent

Captain Dormer, your moſt devoted humble ſervant.

I am come my dear Miſs Montagu. —

I ſee you are, my dear Captain Dormer.

The amiable vivacity of your temper, Madam, has always been an object of my admiration—but I come now to ſolicit you in regard to a ſubject—

Upon which it is criminal I ſuppoſe to exerciſe my amiable vivacity.

I need not inform you, Madam, of the engage⯑ment which, ſo happily for me, ſubſiſts between our families—nor need I remind you—

Why then do you give yourſelf this trouble, Sir, if the information is ſo very unneceſſary?

That I may tell you, Madam, I am inexpreſſi⯑bly fortunate in the honour of this interview, and that I may aſſure the moſt charming of her ſex the whole felicity of my life materially depends upon her approbation.

Upon my word, a very pretty ſpeech, Captain, and very tolerably expreſs'd — but do you know now, that I look upon the whole buſineſs of mak⯑ing love to be mighty fooliſh, and have no notion of a woman's ſenſe, who is to be flatter'd out of her liberty, by a flimſy compliment to her perſon.

This livelineſs is charming—but you muſt not however rally me out of my purpoſe—ſuffer me therefore, my dear Miſs Montagu, to implore—

Now poſitively I muſt ſtop you, for there is no bearing the inſolence of this humility.

What inſolence—my dear Miſs Montague—Is it inſolence thus to fall at your feet—Is it inſo⯑lence—

For heaven's ſake Dormer don't make a fool of yourſelf—for I tell you the humbleſt ſupplications with which you men can poſſibly teaze the wo⯑men, are an unaccountable mixture of pride and abſurdity.

There is ſomething ſo very new in this opinion, Madam, that I ſhould be glad you'd let me know how it is to be ſupported.

O'tis very eaſily ſupported, if you only ſuffer me to put the general purport of all love addreſſes, from the time of the firſt pair, down to the pre⯑ſent hour, into ſomething like plain Engliſh.

Pray do.

Why then ſuppoſe, that a tender lover, like you, ſhou'd offer up his adoration at the altar of ſome terreſtrial divinity like myſelf, let me aſk you if this wou'd not be the meaning of his pretty harangue, however he might ſtudy to diſguiſe his deſign with the plauſible language of adulation.

Now for it.

Don't interrupt me—Madam, your beauty is ſo exquiſite, and your merit is ſo tranſcendent, that Emperors themſelves might juſtly tremble to ap⯑proach [79] you, and languiſh in the deepeſt deſpair of being allied to ſo much perfection.

Well ſaid.

Yet, though all hearts are yours, and though you were born to triumph over an admiring world, I deſire you will inſtantly appoint me the maſter of your fate—my happineſs depends upon your being a ſlave, and I muſt be eternally wretched, without the power of making you miſerable — you muſt therefore promiſe to know no will but my humour, and no pleaſure but my inclination— Your preſent ſtate of freedom you muſt exchange for the moſt mortifying dependence, and throw your whole fortune at my feet, for the honour of managing the domeſtic concerns of my family. If you—

What the devil is there more of it?

If you behave well, that is if you put up with every caprice of my temper, and every irregu⯑larity of my conduct; if you meanly kiſs the hand that ſtrikes at your repoſe, and treat me with re⯑verence when I offer you the groſſeſt indignities, you ſhall have an occaſional new gown, and ſome⯑times the uſe of your own chariot— Nay, if you are very good indeed, I may carry my kindneſs ſtill farther, and uſe you with nearly as much ci⯑vility as any of my ſervants.

What hav'nt you done yet?

O I cou'd go on for an hour—But what do you think of this ſpecimen — Isn't it a true tranſlation of all the love ſpeeches that have been made ſince [80] the commencement of the world, and aren't you men a ſet of very modeſt creatures, to ſuppoſe that an addreſs of this elegant nature is calculated to make an inſtant conqueſt of our affections?

This ſpirit is bewitching, and increaſes my admiration, though it treats me with ſeverity.

Well, notwithſtanding the frightful idea which I entertain of matrimony, I am nevertheleſs half afraid I ſhall be at laſt cheated out of my freedom as well as the reſt or my ſex — but then I muſt be perfectly convinc'd of my admirer's ſincerity.

A decent hint that, though I wiſh it had been ſpar'd. —

And can you, my dear Miſs Montagu, poſſibly doubt the ſincerity of my pro⯑feſſions, and cruelly turn away thoſe irreſiſtible eyes when I vow an everlaſting fidelity? — What, ſtill ſilent, my angel — not a word — not one word to reſcue me from deſtraction — but be it ſo — If Miſs Montagu decrees my fate, I ſubmit without murmuring, for death itſelf is inſinitely preferra⯑ble to the idea of offending her.

I think I am pretty ſafe now.

Now, who wou'd believe that this fellow cou'd lye with ſo very grave a countenance.

Why you are in a violent hurry Captain Dormer.

O, zounds, ſhe calls me back does ſhe?

What, my dear Miſs Montagu, do you relent, do you feel the leaſt compaſſion for the diſtreſſes of a heart that adores you?

Sit down, Captain. — Sit down here — I am a ſtrange, fooliſh creature — and cannot diſguiſe [81] my ſentiments. — But if I thought myſelf the only object. —

By all my hopes—

Well, don't ſwear — I muſt believe you. — And yet I am ſtrangely apprehenſive that in the extenſive circle of your acquaintance you muſt have form'd ſome attachments. — The world has been talking — and 'tis no ſecret that Miſs Wil⯑loughby has accompliſhments.

Yes, Madam — Miſs Willoughby has accom⯑pliſhments, but they are very trifling.

Then you never entertained any tenderneſs for her, I ſuppoſe.

For Miſs Willoughby, Madam — O my dear Miſs Montagu, you don't think me altogether deſtitute of underſtanding!

Why, you juſt now own'd that ſhe had accom⯑pliſhments.

Yes, I ſaid that ſhe had trifling ones.

And no more?

The baby's face is regular enough—and might ſerve very well for the window of a toy-ſhop.

Then I find there is nothing to be apprehended on her account.

On her account, my angel, you ſhan't leſſen the merit of your own attractions ſo much as to admit the poſſibility of ſuppoſing it.

I am very much oblig'd to you, Sir.

Not a word, not one word to reſcue me from diſtraction —

The baby's face is regular enough, and might ſerve very well for the window of a toy-ſhop —

But be it ſo—If Miſs Montagu decrees my fate, I ſubmit without murmuring. —

O don't think the Gentleman altogether deſti⯑tute of underſtanding —

For death itſelf is infinitely more preferrable to the idea of offending her — There Miſs Wil⯑loughby is a man of honour for you —

And are theſe the men who value themſelves ſo much upon their veracity?

O my dear, they have veracity to a very pru⯑dent degree, for they never tell a falſhood to any body who is capable of calling them to an ac⯑count — But come, Miſs Willoughby, let us [83] leave the Gentleman to himſelf — he has a very pretty ſubject for a reverie, and it wou'd be cruel to diſturb him in his agreeable reflections — Sir, your moſt obedient — Give it him home, my dear girl — have no mercy on him —

Sir, your moſt reſpectful —

That's right — Sir, your moſt oblig'd —

Your moſt faithful —

Bravo! — And moſt devoted humble ſervant.

So; I have had a hopeful time on't — my evil genius has been along arrear in my debt, and now pays me off with a witneſs. — What a ſneaking, what a pitiful puppy do I appear — thus detect⯑ed, and thus laughed at — But I deſerve it all — I woudn't ſee the infamy of practiſing deceit upon a woman — I muſt even think myſelf call'd upon to betray, becauſe the object was a woman; and laugh at the anguiſh I gave a worthy heart, becauſe it was lodg'd in a female breaſt —— Notwithſtanding all my mortification, however, I am overjoyed at finding Miſs Willoughby ſafe — I may now perhaps prevent the matter from reach⯑ing my father's ears — not that I fear he will diſ⯑card — but what is inſinitely worſe, if he knows it, will eternally deſpiſe me — How merry the girls were with me — Sir, your moſt reſpectful — Sir, your moſt oblig'd — Sir, your moſt faithful —

Sir, your moſt devoted humble ſervant —

O! now I am completely done for —

Well, Sir, what can be urg'd for you now? — Is this the reformation I was to expect — and is this the regard which you entertain for the credit of your family?

If you'll give me leave to clear this matter up, Sir —

'Tis already clear'd up — Mr. Willoughby — Miſs Montagu have clear'd it up — And now ſup⯑poſe Mr. Willoughby, liſtening only to the dictates of his rage, and not to the pleadings of his friend⯑ſhip for me, had demanded reparation for his wrongs, how, after robbing him of his daughter, cou'd you come prepar'd againſt his life — And how, after deſtroying a young lady's reputation, cou'd you attempt to embrue your hands in the blood of her father? —But, Sir, you are a man of ſpirit, you are a man of honour, and that ſpirit, and that honour are to be ſufficient pleas for every violence offer'd to juſtice, and ev'ry outrage commited upon humanity — You have a title to be guilty, becauſe you have the character of being brave, and you may perpetrate the black⯑eſt crime with impunity, becauſe you have the diabolical reſolution to defend it.

There is ſo much propriety in this reproach, Sir — that I feel myſelf unable to anſwer it —

That ſword I gave you, Sir, to be exerted in the cauſe of honour, not to be drawn in the ſupport of infamy — I gave it to be us'd in the defence of your country, not to be exercis'd in the vio⯑lation of her laws — but why do I talk of honour to him who looks with admiration upon ſhame, and thinks himſelf accompliſh'd in proportion as he becomes profligate — why do I reaſon with a man who glories in the proſtitution of his under⯑ſtanding, and imagines he exalts his character as he deſtroys the peace of ſociety? — Perhaps, in his ideas of bravery he may be oblig'd even to raiſe his arm againſt my boſom, and perhaps he may puniſh a reproachful mention of his vices, though, it comes from the lips of his father.

Sir, I have been culpable — extremely culpa⯑ble — but my preſent intention is to remove Mr. Willoughby's diſtreſs — not to defend the injury I offered him — and I can with truth affirm, that the principal part of my miſconduct in this affair, originally proceeded from the great veneration which I entertained for that very father, who now thinks me ſo profligate and unnatural.

Mighty well!

I lov'd Miſs Willoughby, Sir, tenderly lov'd her, before you enter'd into any engagement about Miſs Montagu — But fearful of diſobliging you, I kept the circumſtance of my paſſion a ſecret, as I did not ſuppoſe you wou'd countenance a union, where there was ſo material a diſparity of ſituations.

And, pray, Sir, how dare you ſuppoſe that I ſhou'd be more offended at the performance of a good action—than at the commiſſion of a diſ⯑honourable one? —How dare you imagine I ſhou'd be diſpleas'd at your marriage with Miſs Wil⯑loughby, and that I ſhou'd not be infinitely more diſpleas'd at this ſcandalous ſeduction? —But it was your regard for me which led you to betray the confidence of your friend, as well as to at⯑tempt the innocence of his daughter—Yes, Sir, your regard for me is extremely evident—You knew how much my happineſs depended upon your reputable riſe in the world, and how warmly I expected you wou'd be a credit to your country, as well as an ornament to your family—Your natural advantages were great, and your educa⯑tion has been liberal—Yet, inſtead of the ſlatter⯑ing proſpects with which my imagination was once delighted, I have now nothing before me but a gloomy ſcene of diſappointment and regret—In⯑ſtead of hearing my ſon's name with joy, and exult⯑ing in the growing dignity of his character, I am hourly mortified with ſome freſh accounts of his licentiouſneſs, and hourly trembling, left the hand of well-grounded reſentment, or the ſword of public juſtice, ſhould cut him off in the perpe⯑tration of his crimes—Inſtead of finding him the ſupport of my age, he inceſſantly ſaps the foun⯑dation of my life, and inſtead of kindly nouriſhing the lamp of my exiſtence with his virtues, he ſinks me down into the grave, an equal victim of ſorrow and diſgrace.

No more, Sir, I beſeech you no more—nor ſup⯑poſe me ſuch a monſter— My life hitherto has [87] been a ſcene of folly and diſſipation, and I reflect, with the deepeſt concern, upon the anxiety which the beſt of fathers has ſuffer'd on my account— but if he can be prevail'd upon to forgive the paſt, the future, I will boldly ſay, ſhall merit his appro⯑bation —for I am now ſatisfied that nothing can be conſiſtent with the principles of honour, which is any way repugnant to the laws of morality.

Riſe, and be my ſon again—there is a candour, there is a generoſity in this acknowledgment which engages my confidence, and I ſtill ſlatter myſelf with a belief, that you will anſwer my warmeſt expectations.

You are too good, Sir—But the freedom with which I ſhall communicate the moſt unfa⯑vourable circumſtances of this affair, as well as my readineſs to fulfill all your commands, ſhall in ſome meaſure prove the certainty of my re⯑formation.

Why, Jack, this is ſpeaking like my ſon— And to let you ſee that your inclination is the only object of my wiſhes, Miſs Willoughby's hand now waits to crown your return to virtue.

Miſs Willoughby's, Sir!

Yes, —Miſs Montagu, juſt as I entered, ac⯑quainted me with the whimſical diſtreſs of your courtſhip ſcene, in terms equally conſiſtent with her uſual good-nature and vivacity, and on account, of your attachment to Miſs Willoughby, as well [88] as her own fix'd diſinclination to be your's, re⯑queſted I wou'd not think any longer of the treaty between our families—Finding her determin'd in the ſolicitation, I wou'd by no means force her wiſhes—and am now rejoic'd at ſo lucky an op⯑portunity of rewarding, as you yourſelf cou'd deſire, the merit of your preſent character.

There is no doing juſtice to the generoſity of your ſentiments, Sir—

Poh, poh, man, the parent that makes his chil⯑dren happieſt always gives them the beſt fortunes —We'll, now join the company chearfully— But remember for the future, my dear boy, what every ſon ſhou'd conſtantly have in view, that more than your own happineſs and your own honour are truſted to your care, and that you cannot experience a misfortune, nor ſuffer a diſ⯑grace, without ſenſibly wounding the boſom of your father.

So then, it ſeems, I am not quite deteſtible after all. —It ſeems there are ſome women, though I have been rejected, who can ſtill think me amiable—and declare, if ever they change their ſituation, I muſt poſitively be the man. —Villars had the ſecret from Miſs Dormer—and Miſs Dormer had the acknowledgement of Miſs Montagu's regard for me, from Miſs Mon⯑tague herſelf—her refuſal of Dormer more⯑over [89] over corroborates the intelligence, even if there was any thing very improbable in my having en⯑gag'd a lady's affection. —Upon my ſoul I don't ſee but Harriot is to the full as handſome as Caroline; and then her underſtanding — Yes, I think 'tis pretty evident that ſhe has the advan⯑tage in underſtanding — Ay, but can I ſo readily forget Caroline — Can I ſo quickly remove my addreſſes, and offer up that heart at the ſhrine of the one which has been ſo recently rejected at the altar of the other—Why, to be ſure, there will be nothing extremely gallant in ſuch an affair —But, at the ſame time, there will be nothing extremely prepoſterous — It doesn't follow, be⯑cauſe I have been repuls'd by one woman, that I ſhould forſwear the whole ſex; and, in a fit of amorous lunacy, like the knight errants of old, nobly dedicate my life to deſpair, becauſe I un⯑fortunately loſt the original object of my affec⯑tions — Beſides, at the preſent period, changing hands is all the faſhion; and while it is ſo meri⯑torious in men of quality to part with their wives, it cannot ſurely be very criminal to part with our miſtreſſes — here, by all that's opportune, ſhe comes — what a bewitching girl — O! 'twou'd be barbarous to let her pine — I'll give her en⯑couragement at once, and put an end to her anxiety.

O! there's no bearing their loves, and their joys — their tears, and their congratulations — Sir John has join'd the hands of another couple — and Caroline has now Miſs Willoughby to keep her in countenance — But pray, Sir George, wasn't [90] poor Villars overjoy'd when you told him of Sir John's deſign of receiving him as a ſon-in-law.

He was, both with gratitude and aſtoniſhment — however, I carried him immediately to Sir John; here Miſs Dormer was ſent for, and, with⯑out the leaſt hint of her private ſentiments, Sir John, who had properly ſounded the young fel⯑low's inclinations, introduce'd him as a man whom he found worthy to be his ſon-in-law, and her huſband.

I pity'd her ſituation moſt heartily.

I pity the ſituation of every lady in love, Madam

I am ſure Miſs Dormer thinks herſelf much indebted to your generoſity.

Perhaps, Madam, I may yet have obligations to the prepoſſeſſion of Miſs Dormer.

Prepoſſeſſions are ſtrong things, Sir George.

And, in a lady's boſom, Madam, very trou⯑bleſome.

Not where the object is attainable—

True, Madam — and he muſt be a barbarian who, conſcious of a lady's tenderneſs, poſſeſſes the ability without the inclination to return it — I think that hint will give her ſome conſolation.

The men, I believe, Sir George, have but few opportunities of exerciſing ſuch a barbarity — Indications of tenderneſs ſeldom firſt proceed from the ladies.

I don't know that, Madam — but was I happy enough to be the object of a lady's eſteem — I would ſacrafice much to remove her anxiety — This will make her ſpeak or the devil's in't.

Kind creature! and ſo you'd condeſcend to take pity on her.

I would do every thing to make her happy, Madam — why, what the plague muſt ſhe be in love, and is the courtſhip to come entirely from my ſide?

Well! you are a whimſical creature, and ſo I leave you —

Stay, Miſs Montagu —

For what?

I will be generous and ſpare her bluſhes

I have ſomething very ſerious to ſay to you.

Serious indeed if one may judge by your gravity.

Miſs Montagu, I am inexpreſſibly concerned — I ſay inexpreſſibly concern'd to ſee you of late ſo melancholy.

To ſee me of late ſo melancholy! — Why, Sir George, I never had better ſpirits.

No!

No — really —

I cou'd not imagine it.

And why ſo, pray?

Why ſo, Madam? Nay, I have no particular reaſon — but Miſs Montagu, I ſhould be ſorry to ſee you labour under the ſmalleſt uneaſineſs — I have the higheſt opinion of your merit, Madam — and —

Surely Caroline has not—

I ſhall be al⯑ways proud of poſſeſſing a place in the good opi⯑nion of Sir George Haſtings.

You do poſſeſs the principal place in my good opinion, Madam — and —

Zounds, this interruption is abominable.

Ay, this is right; now the rooms are thrown together, we ſhall have ſpace enough for a coun⯑try dance in the evening — Villars we now are bothers.

To my unſpeakable tranſport.

Nay, no acknowledgment, my dear Mr. Wil⯑loughby — I am acting no more than an intereſt⯑ed part, and conſulting my own wiſhes in the wiſhes of my children.

Doesn't every thing happen for the beſt now?— And isn't this excellent young man, to whom I probably owe my child, another proof, that if we are deſirous of happineſs we muſt labour to de⯑ſerve it.

My Scotch ſcheme has help'd the buſineſs greatly for all that.

We'll have a public wedding — the friends of all our families ſhall be invited — and Mr. Villars, let not any humility in the ſituation of your's, prevent you from calling the worthy to be wit⯑neſſes of the juſtice which fortune renders to your merit.

Sir, your goodneſs is unbounded — but juſtice obliges me to tell you, that the man thus honour'd with your eſteem, is even more humble than you think him; that he has no family, no relations — and, out of this company, no friends.

How's this?

Pray wasn't Mr. Villars, the clergyman in my neighbourhood, your uncle?

He was the beſt of men; and more than a father to me in every thing but the actual re⯑lation.

Stand out of the way —

My dear, I deſire you won't forget the rules of propriety.

You ſaid, Sir, you were ignorant of your family.

I did, Sir.

Some unhappy father, like me, now bleeds for the loſs of a ſon — Pray go on —

My dear —

At an early ſtage of infancy, ſome wandering miſcreants ſtole me from my friends, and carried me into a diſtant part of the country, where a woman, who call'd herſelf my mother, being com⯑mitted to priſon for a theft, fell ill of a fever, that put a period to her life — with her dying breath ſhe related this circumſtance, and wou'd have told more, but the laſt agonies taking away her utter⯑ance, prevented the poſſibility of any farther declaration.

How unfortunate!

How extremely unfortunate!

It wou'd have been ſtill more unfortunate, hadn't the good Mr. Villars, who kept a little academy in the place, attended the poor wretch with medicines, and look'd with an eye of com⯑paſſion on my helpleſs ſituation — Mr. Villars was the univerſal friend of mankind, the rich never mentioned him without reverence, and the poor never beheld him without joy — But his in⯑come was too narrow for the extent of his bene⯑volence, and he was involved in continual diſ⯑treſſes from the uncommon excellence of his heart.

Zounds, no perſon doubts his being a good man.

Mr. Villars, without heſitating, ordered me to be taken care of, and as ſoon as I was capable of inſtruction, receiv'd me into his houſe, where I was educated in common with the reſt of his pupils — and at laſt grew ſufficiently qualified to be his aſſiſtant; but his neceſſities encreaſing with the exerciſe of his virtues, notwithſtanding my utmoſt aſſiduity, he was oblig'd to ſell his aca⯑demy, and I had at laſt the mortification of clo⯑ſing his eyes in the very priſon, from which I was originally reſcu'd by the greatneſs of his humanity.

And was it juſt at this time that Sir John bought the ſeat in your neighbourhood?

It was, Madam — and it was at this time alſo, that hearing Sir John had an occaſion for an aſſiſtant in ſome literary employments, I procur'd the recommendation to him which has given me [96] the honour of being known in this family — The only trace of what I ever was, is this picture; which was by ſome means in my poſſeſſion when I was ſtolen, as the woman who ſtole me declar'd in the courſe of her imperfect narration; fearing to diſ⯑poſe of it, ſhe kept it to the hour of her death, and then delivered it up as a poſſible means of finding out my family —

Let me ſee this picture.

No, let me ſee it for the love of heaven — O Sir John — Sir John — this was Lady Dormer's picture — ſhe made a preſent of it to my firſt wife, and here on the ſetting are the initials of her name.

I remember it perfectly — I myſelf ordered the letters to be engrav'd.

I can ſcarce ſpeak.

While I have power to aſk — tell me, Sir, what is your age.

Twenty-two.

Receive my thanks, receive my thanks, kind heav'n! — O my boy, my boy! Providence ſtill orders all things for the beſt, and I am in reality your father.

O, Sir! bleſs your ſon, and aſſure him he has a father.

My brother my deliverer too! — this is happi⯑neſs indeed —

Let me embrace you too — Your ſiſter will tell you what a mother-in-law I am, and how much ſhe is indebted to my leſſons of propriety. Well! I begin myſelf to think every thing happens for the beſt, after the unexpected good fortune of this morning.

Not to Sir George, I am ſure — for he loſes a good eſtate by this unexpected diſcovery.

What, you begin to crow again, do you? — But, let me tell you, I think every accident hap⯑pens for the beſt, which enables me to do an act of juſtice, and advance the welfare of the de⯑ſerving.

Generouſly conſider'd indeed, Sir George — few people, I believe, would give up a fortune ſo eaſily.

Why, my friend Jack there, if he loſt both an eſtate and a miſtreſs in a couple of hours, wou'd hardly ſet ſo good a face upon matters, notwith⯑ſtanding he is much my ſuperior in ſerenity of countenance.

And perhaps, Sir George, even you, may be a conſiderable gainer in the end, if we can but contrive to make an actual comedy of to-day's adventures, by your marriage with a certain la⯑dy in this company.

And poſſibly that might be yet effected, through your interpoſition, Sir John, with Miſs Montagu.

What? is your denouement to be produc'd at my expence; upon my word, I ſhould be much oblig'd to Sir John's interpoſition for ſuch a purpoſe!

I ſhou'd at leaſt, Madam — and though I come rather with an ill grace after ſo recent a rejection—

Your affection is not unadulterated now George

Why, no — But I hav'nt yet told Miſs Mon⯑tagu — that death itſelf is infinitely preferable to the idea of offending her —

though I wou'd readily riſk my life to purchaſe her fa⯑vourable opinion.

Well, don't talk to me on this ſubject now, Sir George — You have to be ſure merited much — and you are in every reſpect ſo greatly the oppo⯑ſite of my confident ſwain there, who thought I muſt fly into his arms the moment he condeſcend⯑ed to receive me — that — however, I won't hear a ſyllable from you now — if you can make a tollerable bow to me do, but don't let me hear a ſyllable of nonſenſe, I beg of you.

This goodneſs —

Didn't the lady ſay ſhe wou'dn't hear a ſyllable of nonſenſe —

And ſo you begin to talk to her, do you?

Mighty fine! is it nonſenſe to make a grateful acknowledgment for the kindneſs of a lady — What will the men come to at laſt? —

So he thinks, Madam—Though Villars

'tis a little hard, becauſe Miſs Mon⯑tagu chooſes to conſult her own happineſs, that I am to acknowledge the receipt of an obligation.

My dear Sir George, Miſs Montagu has too much diſcernment not to ſee the value of ſo de⯑ſerving a lover — Addreſs her therefore certain of ſucceſs, and look ſecurely for happineſs ac⯑cording to Mr. Willoughby's principle, becauſe you richly merit it.

Right, Sir John — Providence looks down de⯑lighted on the actions of the worthy, and, how⯑ever it may command adverſity to frown on the beginning of their days, they will acknowledge with me, that all it's diſpenſations are full of be⯑nignity in the end.