[]THE BELLE'S STRATAGEM.

SCENE I.—Lincoln's-Inn.

LINCOLN's-INN!—Well, but where to find him, now I am in Lincoln's-Inn?—Where did he ſay his Maſter was?

He only ſaid in Lincoln's-Inn, Sir.

That's pretty! And your wiſdom never enquired at whoſe chambers?

Sir, you ſpoke to the ſervant yourſelf.

If I was too impatient to aſk queſtions, you ought to have taken directions, blockhead!

Ha, Courtall!—Bid him keep the horſes in motion, and then enquire at all the chambers round.

What the devil brings you to this part of the town?— Have any of the Long Robes, handſome wives, ſiſters or chambermaids?

Perhaps they have;—but I came on a different errand; and, had thy good fortune brought thee here half [2] an hour ſooner, I'd have given thee ſuch a treat, ha! ha! ha!

I'm ſorry I miſs'd it: what was it?

I was informed a few days ſince, that my couſins Fallow were come to town, and deſired earneſtly to ſee me at their lodgings in Warwick-Court, Holborn. Away drove I, painting them all the way as ſo many Hebes. They came from the fartheſt part of Northumber⯑land, had never been in town, and in courſe were made up of ruſticity, innocence, and beauty.

Well!

After waiting thirty minutes, during which there was a violent buſtle, in bounced five ſallow dam⯑ſels, four of them maypoles;—the fifth, Nature, by way of variety, had bent in the Aeſop ſtyle.—But they all opened at once, like hounds on a freſh ſcent:—‘Oh, couſin Courtall!—How do you do, couſin Courtall! Lord, couſin, I am glad you are come! We want you to go with us to the Park, and the Plays, and the Opera, and Almack's, and all the fine places!’— The devil, thought I, my dears, may attend you, for I am ſure I won't.—However, I heroically ſtayed an hour with them, and diſcovered, the virgins were all come to town with the hopes of leaving it—Wives:—their heads full of Knight-Baronights, Fops, and adventures.

Well, how did you get off?

Oh, pleaded a million engagements.—How⯑ever, conſcience twitched me; ſo I breakfaſted with them this morning, and afterwards 'ſquired them to the gardens here, as the moſt private place in town; and then took a ſorrowful leave, complaining of my hard, hard fortune, that obliged me to ſet off immediately for Dor⯑ſetſhire, ha! ha! ha!

I congratulate your eſcape!—Courtall at Al⯑mack's, with five aukward country couſins! ha! ha! ha!—Why, your exiſtence, as a Man of Gallantry, could never have ſurvived it.

Death, and fire! had they come to town, like the ruſtics of the laſt age, to ſee Paul's, the Lions, and the Wax-work—at their ſervice;—but the couſins of our days come up Ladies—and, with the knowledge they glean from magazines and pocket-books, Fine Ladies; laugh at the baſhfulneſs of their grandmothers, and boldly de⯑mand their entrées in the firſt circles.

Where can this fellow be!—Come, give me ſome news—I have been at war with woodcocks and par⯑tridges theſe two months, and am a ſtranger to all that has paſſed out of their region.

Oh! enough for three Gazettes. The Ladies are going to petition for a bill, that, during the war, every man may be allowed Two Wives.

'Tis impoſſible they ſhould ſucceed, for the ma⯑jority of both Houſes know what it is to have one.

Gallantry was black-ball'd at the Coterie laſt Thurſday, and Prudence and Chaſtity voted in.

Ay, that may hold 'till the Camps break up.— But have ye no elopements? no divorces?

Divorces are abſolutely out, and the Commons-Doctors ſtarving; ſo they are publiſhing trials of Crim. Con. with all the ſeparate evidences at large; which they find has always a wonderful effect on their trade, actions tumbling in upon them afterwards, like mackarel at Graveſend.

What more?

Nothing—for weddings, deaths, and politics, I never talk of, but whilſt my hair is dreſſing. But prithee, Saville, how came you in town, whilſt all the qualified gentry are playing at pop-gun on Coxheath, and the country over-run with hares and foxes?

I came to meet my friend Doricourt, who, you know, is lately arrived from Rome.

Arrived! Yes, faith, and has cut us all out! —His carriage, his liveries, his dreſs, himſelf, are the [4] rage of the day! His firſt appearance ſet the whole Ton in a ferment, and his valet is beſieged by levées of tay⯑lors, habit-makers, and other Miniſters of Faſhion, to gratify the impatience of their cuſtomers for becoming à la mode de Doricourt. Nay, the beautiful Lady Fro⯑lic, t'other night, with two ſiſter Counteſſes, inſiſted upon his waiſtcoat for muffs; and their ſnowy arms now bear it in triumph about town, to the heart-rending af⯑fliction of all our Beaux Gorçons.

Indeed! Well, thoſe little gallantries will ſoon be over; he's on the point of marriage.

Marriage! Doricourt on the point of marriage! 'Tis the happieſt tidings you could have given, next to his being hanged—Who is the Bride elect?

I never ſaw her; but 'tis Miſs Hardy, the rich heireſs—the match was made by the parents, and the courtſhip begun on their nurſes knees; Maſter uſed to crow at Miſs, and Miſs uſed to chuckle at Maſter.

Oh! then by this time they care no more for each other, than I do for my country couſins.

I don't know that; they have never met ſince thus high, and ſo, probably, have ſome regard for each other.

Never met! Odd!

A whim of Mr. Hardy's; he thought his daugh⯑ter's charms would make a more forcible impreſſion, if her lover remained in ignorance of them 'till his return from the Continent.

Mr. Doricourt, Sir, has been at Counſellor Pleadwell's, and gone about five minutes.

Five minutes! Zounds! I have been five minutes too late all my life-time!—Good morrow, Courtall; I muſt purſue him.

Promiſe to dine with me to-day; I have ſome honeſt fellows.

Can't promiſe; perhaps I may.—See there, there's a bevy of female Patagonians, coming down upon us.

By the Lord, then, it muſt be my ſtrapping couſins.—I dare not look behind me—Run, man, run.

SCENE II.—A Hall at Doricourt's. A gentle knock at the door.

Tap! What ſneaking devil art thou?

So! I ſuppoſe you are one of Monſieur's cuſtomers too? He's above ſtairs, now, overhauling all his Honour's things to a parcel of 'em.

No, Sir; it is with you, if you pleaſe, that I want to ſpeak.

Me! Well, what do you want with me?

Sir, you muſt know that I am—I am the Gen⯑tleman who writes the Tête-à-têtes in the Magazines.

Oh, oh!—What, you are the fellow that ties folks together, in your ſixpenny cuts, that never meet any where elſe?

Oh, dear Sir, excuſe me!—we always go on foundation; and if you can help me to a few anecdotes of your maſter, ſuch as what Marchioneſs he loſt money to, in Paris—who is his favourite Lady in town—or the name of the Girl he firſt made love to at College—or any incidents that happened to his Grandmother, or Great aunts—a couple will do, by way of ſupporters—I'll weave a web of intrigues, loſſes, and gallantries, between them, that ſhall fill four pages, procure me a dozen dinners, and you, Sir, a bottle of wine for your trouble.

Oh, oh! I heard the butler talk of you, when [6] I lived at Lord Tinket's. But what the devil do you mean by a bottle of wine! — You gave him a crown for a retaining fee.

Oh, Sir, that was for a Lord's amours; a Commoner's are never but half. Why, I have had a Ba⯑ronet's for five ſhillings, though he was a married man, and changed his miſtreſs every ſix weeks.

Don't tell me! What ſignifies a Baronet, or a bit of a Lord, who, may be, was never further than ſun and ſun round London? We have travelled, man! My maſter has been in Italy, and over the whole iſland of Spain; talked to the Queen of France, and danced with her at a maſquerade. Ay, and ſuch folks don't go to maſquerades for nothing; but mum—not a word more—Unleſs you'll rank my maſter with a Lord, I'll not be guilty of blab⯑bing his ſecrets, I aſſure you.

Well, Sir, perhaps you'll throw in a hint or two of other families, where you've lived, that may be worked up into ſomething; and ſo, Sir, here is one, two, three, four, five ſhillings.

Well, that's honeſt,

To tell you the truth, I don't know much of my maſter's concerns yet;—but here comes Monſieur and his gang: I'll pump them: they have trotted after him all round Europe, from the Canaries to the Iſle of Wight.

Well then, you have ſhew'd us all?

All, en vérité, Meſſieurs! you avez ſeen every ting. Serviteur, ſerviteur.

Ah, here comes one autre curious Engliſhman, and dat's one autre guinea pour moi.

Allons, Monſieur, dis way; I will ſhew you tings, ſuch tings you never ſee, begar, in England!—velvets by Le [7] Moſſe, ſuits cut by Verdue, trimmings by Groſſette, em⯑broidery by Detanville—

Puppy!—where is your Maſter?

Zounds! you chattering frog-eating dunder-head, can't you ſee a Gentleman?—'Tis Mr. Saville.

Monſieur Saville! Je ſuis mort de peur. — Ten touſand pardons! Excuſez mon erreur, and permit me you conduct to Monſieur Doricourt; he be too happy à vous voir.

Step below a bit;—we'll make it out ſome-how! —I ſuppoſe a ſlice of ſirloin won't make the ſtory go down the worſe.

SCENE III.—An Apartment at Doricourt's.

I ſhall be too late for St. James's; bid him come immediately.

Monſieur Saville.

Moſt fortunate! My dear Saville, let the warmth of this embrace ſpeak the pleaſure of my heart.

Well, this is ſome comfort, after the ſcurvy re⯑ception I met with in your hall.—I prepared my mind, as I came up ſtairs, for a bon jour, a grimace, and an adieu.

Why ſo?

Judging of the maſter from the reſt of the family. What the devil is the meaning of that flock of foreigners below, with their parchment faces and ſnuffy whiſkers? What! can't an Engliſhman ſtand behind your carriage, buckle your ſhoe, or bruſh your coat?

Stale, my dear Saville, ſtale! Engliſhmen make the beſt Soldiers, Citizens, Artizans, and Philoſophers in the world; but the very worſt Footmen. I keep French [8] fellows and Germans, as the Romans kept ſlaves; be⯑cauſe their own countrymen had minds too enlarged and haughty to deſcend with a grace to the duties of ſuch a ſtation.

A good excuſe for a bad practice.

On my honour, experience will convince you of its truth. A Frenchman neither hears, ſees, nor breathes, but as his maſter directs; and his whole ſyſtem of conduct is compris'd in one ſhort word, Obedience! An Engliſhman reaſons, forms opinions, cogitates, and diſputes; he is the mere creature of your will: the other, a being, conſcious of equal importance in the univerſal ſcale with yourſelf, and is therefore your judge, whilſt he wears your livery, and decides on your actions with the freedom of a cenſor.

And this in defence of a cuſtom I have heard you execrate, together with all the adventitious manners imported by our Travell'd Gentry.

Ay, but that was at eighteen; we are always very wiſe at eighteen. But conſider this point: we go into Italy, where the ſole buſineſs of the people is to ſtudy and improve the powers of Muſic: we yield to the faſcination, and grow enthuſiaſts in the charming ſcience: we travel over France, and ſee the whole kingdom compoſing or⯑naments, and inventing Faſhions: we condeſcend to avail ourſelves of their induſtry, and adopt their modes: we return to England, and find the nation intent on the moſt important objects; Polity, Commerce, War, with all the Liberal Arts, employ her ſons; the latent ſparks glow afreſh within our boſoms; the ſweet follies of the Continent im⯑perceptibly ſlide away, whilſt Senators, Stateſmen, Patri⯑ots and Heroes, emerge from the virtû of Italy, and the frippery of France.

I may as well give it up! You had always the art of placing your faults in the beſt light; and I can't [9] help loving you, faults and all: ſo, to ſtart a ſubject which muſt pleaſe you, When do you expect Miſs Hardy?

Oh, the hour of expectation is paſt. She is ar⯑rived, and I this morning had the honour of an interview at Pleadwell's. The writings were ready; and, in obedi⯑ence to the will of Mr. Hardy, we met to ſign and ſeal.

Has the event anſwered? Did your heart leap, or ſink, when you beheld your Miſtreſs?

Faith, neither one nor t'other; ſhes a fine girl, as far as mere fleſh and blood goes.——But—

But what?

Why, ſhe's only a fine girl; complexion, ſhape, and features; nothing more.

Is not that enough?

No! ſhe ſhould have ſpirit! fire! l'air enjoué! that ſomething, that nothing, which every body feels, and which no body can deſcribe, in the reſiſtleſs charmers of Italy and France.

Thanks to the parſimony of my father, that kept me from travel! I would not have loſt my reliſh for true unaffected Engliſh beauty, to have been quarrell'd for by all the Belles of Verſailles and Florence.

Pho! thou haſt no taſte. Engliſh beauty! 'Tis inſipidity; it wants the zeſt, it wants poignancy, Frank! Why, I have known a Frenchwoman, indebted to nature for no one thing but a pair of decent eyes, reckon in her ſuite as many Counts, Marquiſſes, and Petits Maî⯑tres, as would ſatisfy three dozen of our firſt-rate toaſts. I have known an Italian Marquizina make ten conqueſts in ſtepping from her carriage, and carry her ſlaves from one city to another, whoſe real intrinſic beauty would have yielded to half the little Griſettes that pace your Mall on a Sunday.

And has Miſs Hardy nothing of this?

If ſhe has, ſhe was pleaſed to keep it to herſelf. I was in the room half an hour before I could catch the [10] colour of her eyes; and every attempt to draw her into converſation occaſioned ſo cruel an embarraſſment, that I was reduced to the neceſſity of news, French fleets, and Spaniſh captures, with her father.

So Miſs Hardy, with only beauty, modeſty, and merit, is doom'd to the arms of a huſband who will deſpiſe her.

You are unjuſt. Though ſhe has not inſpir'd me with violent paſſion, my honour ſecures her felicity.

Come, come, Doricourt, you know very well that when the honour of a huſband is locum-tenens for his heart, his wife muſt be as indifferent as himſelf, if ſhe is not unhappy.

Pho! never moraliſe without ſpectacles. But, as we are upon the tender ſubject, how did you bear Touch⯑wood's carrying Lady Frances?

You know I never look'd up to her with hope, and Sir George is every way worthy of her.

A la mode Angloiſe, a philoſopher even in love.

Come, I detain you—you ſeem dreſs'd at all points, and of courſe have an engagement.

To St. James's. I dine at Hardy's, and accom⯑pany them to the maſquerade in the evening: but break⯑faſt with me to-morrow, and we'll talk of our old com⯑panions; for I ſwear to you, Saville, the air of the Con⯑tinent has not effaced one youthful prejudice or attach⯑ment.

—With an exception to the caſe of Ladies and Servants.

True; there I plead guilty:—but I have never yet found any man whom I could cordially take to my heart, and call Friend, who was not born beneath a Britiſh ſky, and whoſe heart and manners were not truly Engliſh.

SCENE IV.—An Apartment at Mr. Hardy's. Villers ſeated on a ſopha, reading.

Hah, Villers, have you ſeen Mrs. Racket?— Miſs Hardy, I find, is out.

I have not ſeen her yet. I have made a voyage to Lapland ſince I came in.

A Lady at her toilette is as difficult to be moved, as a Qua⯑ker,

. What events have happened in the world ſince yeſterday? have you heard?

Oh, yes; I ſtopt at Tatterſall's as I came by, and there I found Lord James Jeſſamy, Sir William Wilding, and Mr. —. But, now I think of it, you ſha'n't know a ſyllable of the matter; for I have been informed you never believe above one half of what I ſay.

My dear fellow, ſomebody has impoſed upon you moſt egregiouſly!—Half! Why, I never believe one tenth part of what you ſay; that is, according to the plain and literal expreſſion: but, as I underſtand you, your intelli⯑gence is amuſing.

That's very hard now, very hard. I never re⯑lated a falſity in my life, unleſs I ſtumbled on it by miſ⯑take; and if it were otherwiſe, your dull matter-of-fact people are infinitely oblig'd to thoſe warm imaginations which ſoar into fiction to amuſe you; for, poſitively, the common events of this little dirty world are not worth talking about, unleſs you embelliſh 'em!—Hah! here comes Mrs. Rackett: Adieu to weeds, I ſee! All life!

Enter, Madam, in all your charms! Villers has been abu⯑ſing your toilette for keeping you ſo long; but I think we are much oblig'd to it, and ſo are you.

How ſo, pray? Good-morning t'ye both. Here, here's a hand a-piece for you.

How ſo! Becauſe it has given you ſo many beauties.

Delightful compliment! What do your think of that, Villers?

That he and his Compliments are alike—ſhewy, but won't bear examining.—So you brought Miſs Hardy to town laſt night?

Yes, I ſhould have brought her before, but I had a fall from my horſe, that confined me a week. —I ſuppoſe in her heart ſhe wiſhed me hanged a dozen times an hour.

Why?

Had ſhe not an expecting Lover in town all the time? She meets him this morning at the Lawyer's. —I hope ſhe'll charm him; ſhe's the ſweeteſt girl in the world.

Vanity, like murder, will out.—You have con⯑vinced me you think yourſelf more charming.

How can that be?

No woman ever praiſes another, unleſs ſhe thinks herſelf ſuperior in the very perfections ſhe allows.

Nor no man ever rails at the ſex, unleſs he is conſcious he deſerves their hatred.

Thank ye, Flutter—I'll owe ye a bou⯑quet for that. I am going to viſit the new-married Lady Frances Touchwood.—Who knows her huſband?

Every body.

Is there not ſomething odd in his cha⯑racter?

Nothing, but that he is paſſionately fond of his wife;—and ſo petulant is his love, that he open'd the cage of a favourite Bullfinch, and ſent it to catch Butterflies, becauſe ſhe rewarded its ſong with her kiſſes.

Intolerable monſter! Such a brute de⯑ſerves—

Nay, nay, nay, nay, this is your ſex now — Give a woman but one ſtroke of character, off ſhe goes, like a ball from a racket; ſees the whole man, marks [13] him down for an angel or a devil, and ſo exhibits him to her acquaintance.—This monſter! this brute! is one of the worthieſt fellows upon earth; ſound ſenſe, and a liberal mind; but doats on his wife to ſuch exceſs, that he quarrels with every thing ſhe admires, and is jealous of her tippet and noſegay.

Oh, leſs love for me, kind Cupid! I can ſee no difference between the torment of ſuch an affec⯑tion, and hatred.

Oh, pardon me, inconceivable difference, incon⯑ceivable; I ſee it as clearly as your bracelet. In the one caſe the huſband would ſay, as Mr. Snapper ſaid t'other day, Zounds! Madam, do you ſuppoſe that my table, and my houſe, and my pictures!—A-propos, des Bottes. There was the divineſt Plague of Athens ſold yeſterday at Lang⯑ford's! the dead figures ſo natural, you would have ſworn they had been alive! Lord Primroſe bid Five hundred— Six, ſaid Lady Carmine.—A thouſand, ſaid Ingot the Na⯑bob.—Down went the hammer.—A rouleau for your bar⯑gain, ſaid Sir Jeremy Jingle. And what anſwer do you think Ingot made him?

Why, took the offer.

Sir, I would oblige you, but I buy this picture to place in the nurſery: the children have already got Whittington and his Cat; 'tis juſt this ſize, and they'll make good companions.

Ha! ha! ha! Well, I proteſt that's juſt the way now—the Nabobs and their wives outbid one at every ſale, and the creatures have no more taſte—

There again! You forget this ſtory is told by Flutter, who always remembers every thing but the circumſtances and the perſon he talks about: — 'twas Ingot who offer'd a rouleau for the bargain, and Sir Jeremy Jingle who made the reply.

Egad, I believe you are right. — Well, the ſtory is as good one way as t'other, you know. Good morning. [12] [...] [13] [...] [14] I am going to Mrs. Crotchet's concert, and in my way back ſhall make my bow at Sir George's.

I'll venture every figure in your taylor's bill, you make ſome blunder there.

Done! My taylor's bill has not been paid theſe two years; and I'll open my mouth with as much care as Mrs. Bridget Button, who wears cork plumpers in each cheek, and never hazards more than ſix words for fear of ſhewing them.

'Tis a good-natur'd inſignificant creature! let in every where, and cared for no where.—There's Miſs Hardy return'd from Lincoln's-Inn:—ſhe ſeems rather chagrin'd.

Then I leave you to your communications.

Adieu! I am rejoiced to ſee you ſo well, Madam! but I muſt tear myſelf away.

Don't vaniſh in a moment.

Oh, inhuman! you are two of the moſt danger⯑ous women in town—Staying here to be cannonaded by four ſuch eyes, is equal to a rencontre with Paul Jones, or a midnight march to Omoa!—They'll ſwallow the nonſenſe for the ſake of the compliment.

Order Du Queſne never to come again; he ſhall poſitively dreſs my hair no more.

And this odious ſilk, how unbe⯑coming it is!—I was bewitched to chuſe it.

Did you over ſee ſuch a fright as I am to-day?

Yes, I have ſeen you look much worſe.

How can you be ſo provoking? If I do not look this morning worſe than ever I look'd in my life, I am naturally a fright. You ſhall have it which way you will.

Juſt as you pleaſe; but pray what is the meaning of all this?

Men are all diſſemblers! flatterers! deceivers! Have I not heard a thouſand times of my air, my eyes, my ſhape — all made for victory! and to-day, when I bent my whole heart on one poor cooqueſt, I have proved that all thoſe imputed charms amount to no⯑thing;—for Doricourt ſaw them unmov'd.—A huſband of fifteen months could not have examin'd me with more cutting indifference.

Then you return it like a wife of fifteen months, and be as indifferent as he.

Aye, there's the ſting! The blooming boy, who left his image in my young heart, is at four and twenty improv'd in every grace that fix'd him there. It is the ſame face that my memory, and my dreams, con⯑ſtantly painted to me; but its graces are finiſhed, and every beauty heightened. How mortifying, to feel my⯑ſelf at the ſame moment his ſlave, and an object of per⯑fect indifference to him!

How are you certain that was the caſe? Did you expect him to kneel down before the lawyer, his clerks, and your father, to make oath of your beauty?

No; but he ſhould have look'd as if a ſudden ray had pierced him! he ſhould have been breathleſs! ſpeechleſs! for, oh! Caroline, all this was I.

I am ſorry you was ſuch a fool. Can you expect a man, who has courted and been courted by half the fine women in Europe, to feel like a girl from a boarding-ſchool? He is the prettieſt fellow you have ſeen, and in courſe bewilders your imagination; but he has ſeen a million of pretty women, child, before he ſaw you; and his firſt feelings have been over long ago.

Your raillery diſtreſſes me; but I will touch his heart, or never be his wife.

Abſurd, and romantic! If you have no reaſon to believe his heart pre-engaged, be ſatisfied; if he is a man of honour, you'll have nothing to com⯑plain of.

Nothing to complain of! Heav'ns! ſhall I marry the man I adore, with ſuch an expectation as that?

And when you have fretted yourſelf pale, my dear, you'll have mended your expectation greatly.

Yet I have one hope. If there is any power whoſe peculiar care is faithful love, that power I invoke to aid me.

Well, now; wasn't I right? Aye, Letty! Aye, Couſin Racket! wasn't I right? I knew 'twould be ſo. He was all agog to ſee her before he went abroad; and, if he had, he'd have thought no more of her face, may be, than his own.

May be, not half ſo much.

Aye, may be ſo:—but I ſee into things; ex⯑actly as I foreſaw, to-day he fell deſperately in love with the wench, he! he! he!

Indeed, Sir! how did you perceive it?

That's a pretty queſtion! How do I perceive every thing? How did I foreſee the fall of corn, and the riſe of taxes? How did I know, that if we quarrelled with America, Norway deals would be dearer? How did I foretell that a war would ſink the funds? How did I forewarn Parſon Homily, that if he didn't ſome way or other contrive to get more votes than Rubrick, he'd loſe the lectureſhip? How did I—But what the devil makes you ſo dull, Letitia? I thought to have found you popping about as briſk as the jacks of your harpfi⯑chord.

Surely, Sir, 'tis a very ſerious occaſion.

Pho, pho! girls ſhould never be grave be⯑fore marriage. How did you feel, Couſin, beforehand? Aye!

Feel! why exceedingly full of cares.

Did you?

I could not ſleep for thinking of my coach, my liveries, and my chairmen; the taſte of clothes I ſhould be preſented in, diſtracted me for a week; and whether I ſhould be married in white or lilac, gave me the moſt cruel anxiety.

And is it poſſible that you felt no other care?

And pray, of what ſort may your cares be, Mrs. Letitia? I begin to foreſee now that you have taken a diſlike to Doricourt.

Indeed, Sir, I have not.

Then what's all this melancholy about? A'n't you going to be married? and, what's more, to a ſenſible man? and, what's more to a young girl, to a handſome man? And what's all this melancholy for, I ſay?

Why, becauſe he is handſome and ſen⯑ſible, and becauſe ſhe's over head and ears in love with him; all which, it ſeems, your foreknowledge had not told you a word of.

Fye, Caroline!

Well, come, do you tell me what's the mat⯑ter then? If you don't like him, hang the ſigning and ſealing, he ſha'n't have ye:—and yet I can't ſay that neither; for you know that eſtate, that coſt his father and me upwards of fourſcore thouſand pounds, muſt go all to him if you won't have him: if he won't have you, in⯑deed, 'twill be all yours. All that's clear, engroſs'd upon parchment, and the poor dear man ſet his hand to it whilſt he was a dying.—"Ah!" ſaid I, ‘I foreſee you'll never live to ſee 'em come together; but their firſt ſon [18] ſhall be chriſtened Jeremiah after you, that I promiſe you."’—But come, I ſay, what is the matter? Don't you like him?

I fear, Sir—if I muſt ſpeak—I fear I was leſs agreeable in Mr. Doricourt's eyes, than he appeared in mine.

There you are miſtaken; for I aſked him, and he told me he liked you vaſtly. Don't you think he muſt have taken a fancy to her?

Why really I think ſo, as I was not by.

My dear Sir, I am convinced he has not; but if there is ſpirit or invention in woman, he ſhall.

Right, Girl; go to your toilette—

It is not my toilette that can ſerve me: but a plan has ſtruck me, if you will not oppoſe it, which flat⯑ters me with brilliant ſucceſs.

Oppoſe it! not I indeed! What is it?

Why, Sir—it may ſeem a little paradoxical; but, as he does not like me enough, I want him to like me ſtill leſs, and will at our next interview endeavour to heighten his indifference into diſlike.

Who the devil could have foreſeen that?

Heaven and earth! Letitia, are you ſe⯑rious?

As ſerious as the moſt important buſineſs of my life demands.

Why endeavour to make him diſlike you?

Becauſe 'tis much eaſier to convert a ſentiment into its oppoſite, than to transform indifference into tender paſſion.

That may be good philoſophy, but I am afraid you'll find it a bad maxim.

I have the ſtrongeſt confidence in it. I am in⯑ſpired with unuſual ſpirits, and on this hazard willingly [19] ſtake my chance for happineſs. I am impatient to begin my meaſures.

Can you foreſee the end of this, Couſin?

No, Sir; nothing leſs than your pene⯑tration can do that, I am ſure; and I can't ſtay now to conſider it. I am going to call on the Ogles, and then to Lady Frances Touchwood's, and then to an Auction, and then—I don't know where—but I ſhall be at home time enough to witneſs this extraordinary interview. Good-bye.

Well, 'tis an odd thing—I can't underſtand it—but I foreſee Letty will have her way, and ſo I ſha'n't give myſelf the trouble to diſpute it.

SCENE I. Sir George Touchwood's.

MARRIED, ha! ha! ha! you, whom I heard in Paris ſay ſuch things of the ſex, are in London a married man.

The ſex is ſtill what it has ever been ſince la petite morale baniſhed ſubſtantial virtues; and ra⯑ther than have given my name to one of your high-bred faſhionable dames, I'd have croſſed the line in a ſire-ſhip, and married a Japaneſe.

Yet you have married an Engliſh beauty, yea, and a beauty born in high life.

True; but ſhe has a ſimplicity of heart and manners, that would have become the fair Hebrew dam⯑ſels toaſted by the Patriarchs.

Ha! ha! Why, thou art a downright matri⯑monial Quixote. My life on't, ſhe becomes as mere a Town Lady in ſix months as though ſhe had been bred to the trade.

Common—common—

. No, Sir, Lady Frances deſpiſes high life ſo much from the ideas I have given her, that ſhe'll live in it like a ſala⯑mander in fire.

Oh, that the circle dans la place Victoire could witneſs thy extravagance! I'll ſend thee off to St. Evreux this night, drawn at full length, and coloured after nature.

Tell him then, to add to the ridicule, that Touchwood glories in the name of Huſband; that he has found in one Engliſhwoman more beauty than French⯑men ever ſaw, and more goodneſs than Frenchwomen can conceive.

Well—enough of deſcription. Introduce me to this phoenix; I came on purpoſe.

Introduce!—oh, aye, to be ſure—I believe Lady Frances is engaged juſt now—but another time. How handſome the dog looks to-day!

Another time!—but I have no other time. 'Sdeath! this is the only hour I can command this fort⯑night!

So then, you can't dine with us to-day? That's very un⯑lucky.

Oh, yes—as to dinner—yes, I can, I believe, contrive to dine with you to-day.

Pſha! I didn't think on what I was ſaying; I meant ſupper—You can't ſup with us?

Why, ſupper will be rather more convenient than dinner—But you are fortunate—if you had aſk'd me any other night, I could not have come.

To-night!—Gad, now I recollect, we are particularly engaged to-night.—But to-morrow night—

Why look ye, Sir George, 'tis very plain you have no inclination to let me ſee your wife at all; ſo here I ſit

—There's my hat, and here are my legs.—Now I ſha'n't ſtir till I have ſeen her; and I have no engagements: I'll breakfaſt, dine, and ſup with you every day this week.

Was there ever ſuch a provoking wretch! But, to be plain with you, Doricourt, I and my houſe are at your ſervice: but you are a damn'd agreeable fel⯑low, and ten years younger than I am; and the women, I obſerve, always ſimper when you appear. For theſe reaſons, I had rather, when Lady Frances and I are to⯑gether, that you ſhould forget we are acquainted, further than a nod, a ſmile, or a how-d'ye.

Very well.

It is not merely yourſelf in propriâ perſanâ that I object to; but, if you are intimate here, you'll make my houſe ſtill more the faſhion than it is; and it is already ſo much ſo, that my doors are of no uſe to me. I married Lady Frances to engroſs her to myſelf; yet ſuch is the bleſſed freedom of modern manners, that, in ſpite of me, her eyes, thoughts, and converſation, are conti⯑nually divided amongſt all the Flirts and Coxcombs of Faſhion.

To be ſure, I confeſs that kind of freedom is carried rather too far. 'Tis hard one can't have a jewel in one's cabinet, but the whole town muſt be gratified with its luſtre. He ſha'n't preach me out of ſeeing his wife, though.

Well, now, that's reaſonable. When you take time to reflect, Doricourt, I always obſerve you de⯑cide right, and therefore I hope—

Sir, my Lady deſires—

I am particularly engaged.

Oh, Lord, that ſhall be no excuſe in the world

. Lead the way, John.— I'll attend your Lady.

What devil poſſeſſed me to talk about her!— Here, Doricourt!

Doricourt!

Acquaint your Lady, that Mrs. Racket, and Miſs Ogle, are here.

I ſhall hardly know Lady Frances, 'tis ſo long ſince I was in Shropſhire.

And I'll be ſworn you never ſaw her out of Shropſhire.—Her father kept her locked up with his Caterpillars and Shells; and loved her beyond any thing —but a blue Butterfly, and a petrified Frog!

Ha! ha! ha!—Well, 'twas a cheap way of breeding her:—you know he was very poor, though a Lord; and very high-ſpirited, though a Virtuoſo.— In town, her Pantheons, Operas, and Robes de Cour, would have ſwallowed his Sea-Weeds, Moths, and Mon⯑ſters, in ſix weeks!—Sir George, I find, thinks his Wife a moſt extraordinary creature: he has taught her to deſpiſe every thing like Faſhionable Life, and boaſts that example will have no effect on her.

There's a great degree of impertinence in all that—I'll try to make her a Fine Lady, to humble him.

That's juſt the thing I wiſh.

I beg ten thouſand pardons, my dear Mrs. Racket.—Miſs Ogle, I rejoice to ſee you: I ſhould have come to you ſooner, but I was detained in conver⯑ſation by Mr. Doricourt.

Pray make no apology; I am quite happy that we have your Ladyſhip in town at laſt.—What ſtay do you make?

A ſhort one! Sir George talks with regret of the ſcenes we have left; and as the ceremony of pre⯑ſentation is over, will, I believe, ſoon return.

Sure he can't be ſo cruel! Does your La⯑dyſhip wiſh to return ſo ſoon?

I have not the habit of conſulting my own wiſhes; but, I think, if they decide, we ſhall not return immediately. I have yet hardly form'd an idea of Lon⯑don.

I ſhall quarrel with your Lord and Maſter, if he dares think of depriving us of you ſo ſoon. How do you diſpoſe of yourſelf to-day?

Sir George is going with me this morning to the mercer's, to chuſe a ſilk; and then—

Chuſe a ſilk for you! ha! ha! ha! Sir George chuſes your laces too, I hope; your gloves, and your pincuſhions!

Madam!

I am glad to ſee you bluſh, my dear Lady Frances. Theſe are ſtrange homeſpun ways! If you do theſe things, pray keep 'em ſecret. Lord bleſs us! If the Town ſhould know your huſband chuſes your gowns!

You are very young, my Lady, and have been brought up in ſolitude. The maxims you learnt among the Wood-Nymphs in Shropſhire, won't paſs current here, I aſſure you.

Why, my dear creature, you look quite frighten'd!—Come, you ſhall go with us to an Exhibi⯑tion, [24] and an Auction.—Afterwards, we'll take a turn in the Park, and then drive to Kenſington;—ſo we ſhall be at home by four, to dreſs; and in the evening I'll at⯑tend you to Lady Brilliant's maſquerade.

I ſhall be very happy to be of your party, if Sir George has no engagements.

What! Do you ſtand ſo low in your own opinion, that you dare not truſt yourſelf without Sir George! If you chuſe to play Darby and Joan, my dear, you ſhould have ſtay'd in the country;—'tis an Exhibi⯑tion not calculated for London, I aſſure you!

What I ſuppoſe, my Lady, you and Sir George, will be ſeen pacing it comfortably round the Canal, arm and arm, and then go lovingly into the ſame carriage;—dine tête-à-tête ſpend the evening at Pic⯑quet, and ſo go ſoberly to bed at Eleven!—Such a ſnug plan may do for an Attorney and his Wife; but, for Lady Frances Touchwood, 'tis as unſuitable as linfey-woolfey, or a black bonnet at the Feſtino!

Theſe are rather new doctrines to me!— But, my dear Mrs. Rackett, you and Miſs Ogle muſt judge of theſe things better than I can. As you obſerve, I am but young, and may have caught abſurd opinions.— Here is Sir George!

'Sdeath! another room full!

My love! Mrs. Racket, and the Miſs Ogles.

Give you joy, Sir George.—We came to rob you of Lady Frances for a few hours.

A few hours!

Oh, yes! I am going to an Exhibition, and an Auction, and the Park, and Kenſington, and a thouſand places!—It is quite ridiculous, I find, for mar⯑ried people to be always together—We ſhall be laughed at!

I am aſtoniſhed!—Mrs. Racket, what does the dear creature mean?

Mean, Sir George!—what ſhe ſays, I imagine.

Why, you know, Sir, as Lady Frances had the misfortune to be bred entirely in the Coun⯑try, ſhe cannot be ſuppoſed to be verſed in Faſhionable Life.

No; heaven forbid ſhe ſhould!—If ſhe had, Madam, ſhe would never have been my Wife!

Are you ſerious?

Perfectly ſo.—I ſhould never have had the courage to have married a well-bred Fine Lady.

Pray, Sir, what do you take a Fine Lady to be, that you expreſs ſuch fear of her?

A being eaſily deſcribed, Madam, as ſhe is ſeen every where, but in her own houſe. She ſleeps at home, but ſhe lives all over the town. In her mind, every ſenti⯑ment gives place to the Luſt of Conqueſt, and the va⯑nity of being particular. The feelings of Wife, and Mother, are loſt in the whirl of diſſipation. If ſhe con⯑tinues virtuous, 'tis by chance—and if ſhe preſerves h [...]r Huſhand from ruin, 'tis by her dexterity at the Card-Table!—Such a Woman I take to be a perfect Fine Lady!

And you I take to be a ſlanderous Cynic of two-and-thirty.—Twenty years hence, one might have forgiven ſuch a libel!—Now, Sir, hear my defini⯑tion of a Fine Lady:—She is a creature for whom Na⯑ture has done much, and Education more; ſhe has Taſte, Elegance, Spirit, Underſtanding. In her manner ſhe is free, in her morals nice. Her behaviour is undiſtin⯑guiſhingly polite to her Huſband, and all mankind;—her ſentiments are for their hours of retirement. In a word, a Fine Lady is the life of converſation, the ſpirit of ſociety, the joy of the public!—Pleaſure follows where ever ſhe appears, and the kindeſt wiſhes attend her ſlum⯑bers. [26] —Make haſte, then, my dear Lady Frances, com⯑mence Fine Lady, and force your Huſband to acknow⯑ledge the juſtneſs of my picture!

I am ſure 'tis a delightful one. How can you diſlike it, Sir George? You painted Faſhionable Life in colours ſo diſguſting, that I thought I hated it; but, on a nearer view, it ſeems charming. I have hitherto lived in obſcurity; 'tis time that I ſhould be a Woman of the World. I long to begin;—my heart pants with expectation and delight!

Come, then; let us begin directly. I am impatient to introduce you to that Society, which you were born to ornament and charm.

Adieu! my Love!—We ſhull meet again at dinner.

Sure, I am in a dream!—Fanny!

Sir George?

Will you go without me?

Will you go without me!—ha! ha! ha! what a pathetic addreſs! Why, ſure you would not always be ſeen ſide by ſide, like two beans upon a ſtalk. Are you afraid to truſt Lady Frances with me, Sir?

Heaven and earth! with whom can a man truſt his wife, in the preſent ſtate of ſociety? Formerly there were diſtinctions of character amongſt ye: every claſs of females had its particular deſcription; Grand⯑mothers were pious, Aunts diſcreet, Old Maids cenſorious! but now aunts, grandmothers, girls, and maiden gentle⯑women, are all the ſame creature;—a wrinkle more or leſs is the ſole difference between ye.

That Maiden Gentlewomen have loſt their cenſoriouſneſs, is ſurely not in your catalogue of grie⯑vances.

Indeed it is—and ranked amongſt the moſt ſerious grievances.—Things went well, Madam, when the tongues at three or four old Virgins kept all the Wives [27] and Daughters of a pariſh in awe. They were the Dragons that guarded the Heſperian fruit; and I wonder they have not been oblig'd, by act of parliament, to reſume their function.

Ha! ha! ha! and penſion'd, I ſuppoſe, for making ſtrict enquiries into the lives and converſations of their neighbours.

With all my heart, and impowered to oblige every woman to conform her conduct to her real ſituation. You, for inſtance, are a Widow: your air ſhould be ſe⯑date, your dreſs grave, your deportment matronly, and in all things an example to the young women growing up about you!—inſtead of which, you are dreſs'd for con⯑queſt, think of nothing but enſnaring hearts; are a Coquette, a Wit, and a Fine Lady.

Bear witneſs to what he ſays! A Coquette! a Wit! and a Fine Lady! Who would have expected an eulogy from ſuch an ill-natur'd mortal!—Valour to a Soldier, Wiſdom to a Judge, or glory to a Prince, is not more than ſuch a character to a Woman.

Sir George, I ſee, languiſhes for the charm⯑ing ſociety of a century and a half ago; when a grave 'Squire, and a ſtill graver Dame, ſurrounded by a ſober family, form'd a ſtiff groupe in a mouldy old houſe in the corner of a Park.

Delightful ſerenity! Undiſturb'd by any noiſe but the cawing of rooks, and the quarterly rumbling of an old family-coach on a ſtate-viſit; with the happy intervention of a friendly call from the Pariſh Apothecary, or the Curate's Wife.

And what is the ſociety of which you boaſt? —a meer chaos, in which all diſtinction of rank is loſt in a ridiculous affectation of eaſe, and every different order of beings huddled together, as they were before the crea⯑tion. In the ſame ſelect party, you will often find the wife of a Biſhop and a Sharper, of an Earl and a Fidler. In ſhort, 'tis one univerſal maſquerade, all diſguiſed in the ſame habits and manners.

Mr. Flutter.

Here comes an illuſtration. Now I defy you to tell from his appearance, whether Flutter is a Privy Counſellor or a Mercer, a Lawyer, or a Grocer's 'Pren⯑tice.

Oh, juſt which you pleaſe, Sir George; ſo you don't make me a Lord Mayor. Ah, Mrs. Racket!— Lady Frances, your moſt obedient; you look—now hang me, if that's not provoking!—had your gown been of another colour, I ſhould have ſaid the prettieſt thing you ever heard in your life.

Pray give it us.

I was yeſterday at Mrs. Bloomer's. She was dreſs'd all in green; no other colour to be ſeen but that of her face and boſom. So ſays I, My dear Mrs. Bloomer! you look like a Carnation, juſt burſting from its pod.

And what ſaid her Huſband?

Her Huſband! Why, her Huſband laugh'd, and ſaid a Cucumber would have been a happier ſimile.

But there are Huſbands, Sir, who would rather have corrected than amended your compariſon; I, for inſtance, ſhould conſider a man's complimenting my Wife as an impertinence.

Why, what harm can there be in compliments? Sure they are not infectious; and, if they were, you, Sir George, of all people breathing, have reaſon to be ſatiſ⯑fied about your Lady's attachment; every body talks of it: that little Bird there, that ſhe killed out of jealouſy, the moſt extraordinary inſtance of affection, that ever was given.

I kill a Bird through jealouſy!—Heavens! Mr. Flutter, how can you impute ſuch a cruelty to me?

I could have forgiven you, if you had.

Oh, what a blundering Fool!—No, no—now I remember— 'twas your Bird, Lady Frances— that's it; [29] your Bullfinch, which Sir George, in one of the refine⯑ments of his paſſion, ſent into the wide world to ſeek its fortune.—He took it for a Knight in diſguiſe.

Is it poſſible! O, Sir George, could I have imagin'd it was you who depriv'd me of a creature I was ſo fond of?

Mr. Flutter, you are one of thoſe buſy, idle, meddling people, who, from mere vacuity of mind, are, the moſt dangerous inmates in a family. You have neither feelings nor opinions of your own; but, like a glaſs in a tavern, bear about thoſe of every Blockhead, who gives you his;—and, becauſe you mean no harm, think your⯑ſelves excus'd, though broken friendſhips, diſcords, and murders, are the conſequences of your indiſcretions.

Vacuity of Mind!— What was the next? I'll write down this ſermon; 'tis the firſt I have heard ſince my Grandmother's funeral.

Come, Lady Frances, you ſee what a cruel creature your loving Huſband can be; ſo let us leave him.

Madam, Lady Frances ſhall not go.

Shall not, Sir George?—This is the firſt time ſuch an expreſſion—

My love! my life!

Don't imagine I'll be treated like a Child! denied what I wiſh, and then pacified with ſweet words.

The Bullfinch! that's an excel⯑lent ſubject; never let it down.

I ſee plainly you would deprive me of every pleaſure, as well as of my ſweet Bird—out of pure love!—Barbarous Man!

'Tis well, Madam;—your reſentment of that circumſtance proves to me, what I did not before ſuſ⯑pect, that you are deficient both in tenderneſs and un⯑derſtanding.—Tremble to think the hour approaches, in which you would give worlds for ſuch a proof of my love. Go, Madam, give yourſelf to the Public; aban⯑don [30] your heart to diſſipation, and ſee if, in the ſcenes of gaiety and folly that await you, you can find a re⯑compence for the loſt affection of a doating Huſband.

Lord! what a fine thing it is to have the gift of Speech! I ſuppoſe Sir George practiſes at Coachmakers-hall, or the Black-horſe in Bond-ſtreet.

He is really angry; I cannot go.

Not go! Fooliſh Creature! you are arri⯑ved at the moment, which ſome time or other was ſure to happen; and every thing depends on the uſe you make of it.

Come, Lady Frances! don't heſitate!— the minutes are precious.

I could find in my heart!—and yet I won't give up neither.—If I ſhould in this inſtance, he'll expect it for ever.

Now you act like a Woman of Spirit.

A fair tug, by Jupiter—between Duty and Plea⯑ſure!—Pleaſure beats, and off we go, Iö triumphe!

Scene changes to an Auction Room.—Buſts, Pictures, &c. &c.

Very well,—very well.—This morning will be de⯑voted to curioſity; my ſale begins to-morrow at eleven. But, Mrs. Fagg, if you do no better than you did in Lord Fillagree's ſale, I ſhall diſcharge you. — You want a knack terribly: and this dreſs—why, nobody can miſtake you for a Gentlewoman.

Very true, Mr. Silvertongue; but I can't dreſs like a Lady upon Half-a-crown a day, as the ſaying is— If you want me to dreſs like a Lady, you muſt double my pay.—Double or quits, Mr. Silvertongue.

—Five Shillings a day! what a demand! Why, Woman, there are a thouſand Parſons in the town, who [31] don't make Five Shilllings a day; though they preach, pray, chriſten, marry, and bury, for the Good of the Com⯑munity.—Five Shillings a day!—why, 'tis the pay of a Lieutenant in a marching Regiment, who keeps a Ser⯑vant, a Miſtreſs, a Horſe; fights, dreſſes, ogles, makes love, and dies upon Five Shillings a day.

Oh, as to that, all that's very right. A Soldier ſhould not be too fond of life; and forcing him to do all theſe things upon Five Shillings a day, is the readieſt way to make him tir'd on't.

Well, Maſk, have you been looking into the An⯑tiquaries?—have you got all the terms of art in a ſtring —aye?

Yes, I have: I know the Age of a Coin by the taſte; and can fix the Birth-day of a Medal, Anno Mundi or Anno Domini, though the green ruſt ſhould have eaten up every character. But you know, the brown ſuit and the wig I wear when I perſonate the Antiquary, are in Limbo.

Thoſe you have on, may do.

Theſe!—Why, in theſe I am a young travell'd Cognoſcento: Mr. Glib bought them of Sir Tom Tot⯑ter's Valet; and I am going there directly. You know his Picture-Sale comes on to-day; and I have got my head full of Parmegiano, Sal Roſa, Metzu, Tarbaek, and Vandermeer. I talk of the relief of Woovermans, the ſpirit of Teniers, the colouring of the Venetian School, and the correctneſs of the Roman. I diſtinguiſh Claude by his Sleep, and Ruyſdael by his Water. The rapidity of Tintoret's pencil ſtrikes me at the firſt glance; whilſt the harmony of Vandyk, and the glow of Correggio, point out their Maſters.

Hey-day, Mr. Silvertongue! what, nobody here!

Oh, my Lady, we ſhall have company enough [32] in a trice; if your carriage is ſeen at my door, no other will paſs it, I am ſure.

Familiar Monſter!

That's a beauti⯑ful Diana, Mr. Silvertongue; but in the name of Won⯑der, how came Actaeon to be placed on the top of a Houſe?

That's a David and Bathſheba, Ma'am.

Oh, I crave their pardon!— I remember the Names, but know nothing of the Story.

Was not that Lady Frances Touchwood, coming up with Mrs. Racket?

I think ſo;—yes, it is, faith.—Let us go nearer.

Yes, Sir, this is to be the firſt Lot:—the Model of a City, in wax.

The Model of a City! What City?

That I have not been able to diſcover; but call it Rome, Pekin, or Lo [...]don, 'tis ſtill a City: you'll find in it the ſame jarring intereſts, the ſame paſſions, the ſame virtues, and the ſame vices, whatever the name.

You may as well preſent us a Map of Terra Incognita.

Oh, pardon me, Sir! a lively imagination would convert this waxen City into an endleſs and intereſting amuſement. For inſtance—look into this little Houſe on the right-hand; there are four old Prudes in it, taking care of their Neighbours Reputations. This elegant Manſion on the left, decorated with Corinthian pillars — who needs be told that it belongs to a Court Lord, and is the habitation of Patriotiſm, Philoſophy, and Virtue? Here's a City Hall—the rich ſteams that iſſue from the windows, nouriſh a neighbouring Work-Houſe. Here's a Church— we'll paſs over that, the doors are ſhut. The Parſonage-houſe comes next;—we'll take a peep here, however.— [33] Look at the Doctor! he's aſleep on a volume of Toland; whilſt his Lady is putting on rouge for the Maſquerade.— Oh! oh! this can be no Engliſh City; our Parſons are all orthodox, and their Wives the daughters of Modeſty and Meekneſs.

I wiſh Sir George was here.—This man follows me about, and ſtares at me in ſuch a way, that I am quite uneaſy.

He has travell'd, and is heir to an immenſe eſtate; ſo he's impertinent by Patent.

You are very cruel, Ladies. Miſs Ogle—you will not let me ſpeak to you. As to this little ſcornful Beauty, ſhe has frown'd me dead fifty times.

Sir—I am a married Woman.

A married Woman! a good hint.

'Twould be a ſhame if ſuch a charming Woman was not married. But I ſee you are a Daphne juſt come from your ſheep, and your meadows; your crook, and your water⯑falls. Pray now, who is the happy Damon, to whom you have vow'd eternal truth and conſtancy?

'Tis Lady Frances Touchwood, Mr. Court⯑all, to whom you are ſpeaking.

Lady Frances! By Heaven, that's Saville's old flame.

I beg your Ladyſhip's pardon. I ought to have believed that ſuch beauty could belong only to your Name——a Name I have long been enamour'd of; becauſe I knew it to be that of the fineſt Woman in the world.

My dear Mrs. Racket, I am To frighten'd! Here's a Man making love to me, though he knows I am married.

Oh, the ſooner for that, my dear; don't [34] mind him. Was you at the Caſſino laſt night, Mr, Courtall?

I look'd in.—'Twas impoſſible to ſtay. No body there but Antiques. You'll be at Lady Brilliant's to-night, doubtleſs?

Yes, I go with Lady Frances.

Bleſs me! I did not know this Gentleman was acquainted with Mrs. Racket.—I behaved ſo rude to him!

Come, Ma'am;

'tis paſt one. I proteſt, if we don't fly to Kenſington, we ſha'n't find a ſoul there.

Won't this Gentleman go with us?

To be ſure, you make me happy, Madam, beyond deſcription.

Oh, never mind him—he'll follow.

Lady Touchwood! with a vengeance! But, 'tis always ſo;—your reſerved Ladies are like Ice, 'egad!— no ſooner begin to ſoften, than they melt.

SCENE I. Mr. Hardy's.

COME, prepare, prepare; your Lover is coming. Let [...] My Lover!—Confeſs now that my abſence at dinner was a ſevere mortificati [...] to him.

I can't abſolutely ſwear it ſpoilt his appe⯑tite; he eat as if he was hungry, and drank his wine as though he liked it.

What was the apology?

That you were ill;—but I gave him a hint, that your extreme baſhfulneſs could not ſupport his eye.

If I comprehend him, aukwardneſs and baſh⯑fulneſs are the laſt faults he can pardon in a woman; ſo expect to ſee me transform'd into the verieſt maukin.

You perſevere then?

Certainly. I know the deſign is a raſh one, and the event important;—it either makes Doricourt mine by all the tendereſt ties of paſſion, or deprives me of him for ever; and never to be his wife will afflict me leſs, than to be his wife and not be belov'd.

So you wo'n't truſt to the good old max⯑im—"Marry firſt, and love will follow?"

As readily as I would venture my laſt guinea, that good fortune might follow. The woman that has not touch'd the heart of a man before he leads her to the al⯑tar, has ſcarcely a chance to charm it when, poſſeſſion and ſecurity turn their powerful arms againſt her.—But here he comes.—I'll diſappear for a moment.—Don't ſpare me.

So!

this is my miſtreſs, I preſume.—Ma foi! the painter has hit her off.—The downcaſt eye—the bluſhing cheek—timid—apprehenſive —baſhful.—A tear and a prayer-book would have made her La Bella Magdalena.—

Is that an impromptu?

Madam!—!

Finely caught! —Not abſolutely—it ſtruck me during the deſſert, as a motto for your picture.

Gallantly turn'd! I perceive, however, Miſs Hardy's charms have made no violent impreſſion on you.—And who can wonder?—the poor girl's defects are ſo obvious.

Defects!

Merely thoſe of education.—Her father's indulgence ruin'd her.—Mauvaiſe honte—conceit and ig⯑norance—all unite in the Lady you are to marry.

Marry!—I marry ſuch a woman!—Your pic⯑ture, I hope, is overcharged.—I marry mauvaiſe honte, pertneſs and ignorance!

Thank your ſtars, that uglineſs and ill temper are not added to the liſt.—You muſt think her handſome?

Half her perſonal beauty would content me; but could the Medicean Venus be animated for me, and endowed with a vulgar ſoul, I ſhould become the ſtatue, and my heart transform'd to marble.

Bleſs us!—We are in a hopeful way then!

There muſt be ſome envy in this!— I ſee ſhe is a coquette. Ha, ha, ha! And you imagine I am perſuaded of the truth of your character? ha, ha, ha! Miſs Hardy, I have been aſſur'd, Madam, is elegant and accompliſhed:—but one muſt allow for a Lady's painting.

I'll be even with him for that. Ha! ha! ha! and ſo you have found me but!—Well, I proteſt I meant no harm; 'twas only to increaſe the éclat of her appearance, that I threw a veil over her charms.—Here comes the Lady;—her elegance and accompliſhments will announce themſelves.

La! Couſin, do you know that our John—oh, dear heart!—I didn't ſee you, Sir.

Fye, Letitia! Mr. Doricourt thinks you a woman of elegant manners. Stand forward, and confirm his opinion.

No, no; keep before me.—He's my Sweetheart; and 'tis impudent to look one's Sweetheart in the face, you know.

You'll allow in future for a Lady's paint⯑ing, Sir. Ha! ha! ha!

I am aſtoniſh'd!

Well, hang it, I'll take heart.—Why, he is but a Man, you know, Couſin;—and I'll let him ſee I was'nt born in a Wood to be ſcar'd by an Owl.

He! he! he!

—

—You have been a great Traveller, Sir, I hear?

Yes, Madam.

Then I wiſh you'd tell us about the fine ſights you ſaw when you went over-ſea.—I have read in a book, that there are ſome countries where the Men and Women are all Horſes.—Did you ſee any of them?

Mr. Doricourt is not prepared, my dear, for theſe enquiries; he is reflecting on the importance of the queſtion, and will anſwer you—when he can.

When he can! Why, he's as ſlow in ſpeech, as Aunt Margery, when ſhe's reading Thomas Aquinas;— and ſtands gaping like mum-chance.

Have a little diſcretion.

Hold your tongue!—Sure I may ſay what I pleaſe before I am married, if I can't afterwards.—D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to a Sweetheart. He is not the firſt I have had.

Indeed!

Oh, Lud! He ſpeaks!—Why, if you muſt know— there was the Curate at home:—when Papa was a-hunting, he uſed to come a ſuitoring, and make ſpeeches to me out of books.—No body knows what a mort of fine things he uſed to ſay to me;—and call me Venis, and Jubah, and Dinah!

And pray, fair Lady, how did you anſwer him?

Why, I uſed to ſay, Look you, Mr. Curate, don't think to come over me with your flim-flams; for a better Man than ever trod in your ſhoes, is coming over-ſea to marry me;—but, ifags! I begin to think I was out.—Par⯑ſon Dobbins was the ſprightfuller man of the two.

Surely this cannot be Miſs Hardy!

Laws! why, don't you know me! You ſaw me to-day—but I was daunted before my Father, and the Lawyer, and all them, and did not care to ſpeak out:— ſo, may be, you thought I couldn't;—but I can talk as faſt as any body, when I know folks a little:—and now I have ſhewn my parts, I hope you'll like me better.

I foreſee this won't do!—Mr. Doricourt, may be you take my Daughter for a Fool; but your are miſ⯑taken: ſhe's a ſenſible Girl as any in England.

I am convinced ſhe has a very uncommon under⯑ſtanding, Sir.

I did not think he had been ſuch an Aſs.

My Father will undo the whole.—Laws! Papa, how can you think he can take me for a fool! when every body knows I beat the Potecary at Conundrums laſt Chriſtmas-time? and did'nt I make a ſtring of names, all in riddles, for the Lady's Diary?—There was a little River, and a great Houſe; that was Newcaſtle. —There was what a Lamb ſays, and three Letters; that was Ba, and k-e-r, ker, Baker.—There was—

Don't ſtand ba-a-ing there. You'll make me mad in a moment!—I tell you, Sir, that for all that, ſhe's dev'liſh ſenſible.

Sir, I give all poſſible credit to your aſſertions.

Laws! Papa, do come along. If you ſtand watching, how can my Sweetheart break his mind, and tell me how he admires me?

That would be difficult, indeed, Madam.

I tell you, Letty, I'll have no more of this.— I ſee well enough—

Laws! don't ſnub me before my Huſband—that is is to be.—You'll teach him to ſnub me too,—and I be⯑lieve, by his looks, he'd like to begin now.—So, let us go, Couſin; you may tell the Gentleman what a genus I have—how I can cut Watch-papers, and work Cat-gut; make Quadrille-baſkets with Pins, and take Profiles in Shade; ay, as well as the Lady at N^o. 62, South Moul⯑ton-ſtreet, Groſvenor-ſquare.

What think you of my painting, now?

Oh, mere water-colours, Madam! The Lady has caricatured your picture.

And how does ſhe ſtrike yon on the whole?

Like a good Deſign, ſpoilt by the incapacity of the Artiſt. Her faults are evidently the reſult of her Fa⯑ther's weak indulgence. I obſerved an expreſſion in her eye, that ſeemed to ſatyriſe the folly of her lips.

But at her age, when Education is fixed, and Manner becomes Nature—hopes of improvement—

Would be as rational, as hopes of Gold from a Jugler's Crucible.—Doricourt's Wife muſt be incapable of improvement; but it muſt be becauſe ſhe's got be⯑yond it.

I am pleaſed your misfortune ſits no heavier.

Your pardon, Madam; ſo mercurial was the hour in which I was born, that misfortunes always go plump to the bottom of my heart, like a pebble in water, and leave the ſurface unruffled.—I ſhall certainly ſet off for Bath, or the other world, to-night;—but whether I ſhall uſe a chaiſe with four ſwift courſers, or go off in a [4O] tangent—from the aperture of a piſtol, deſerves conſider⯑ation; ſo I make my adieus.

Oh, but I intreat you, poſtpone your jour⯑ney 'till to-morrow; determine on which you will—you muſt be this night at the Maſquerade.

Maſquerade!

Why not?—If you reſolve to viſit the other world, you may as well take one night's pleaſure firſt in this, you know.

Faith, that's very true; Ladies are the beſt Philoſophers, after all. Expert me at the Maſquerade.

He's a charming Fellow!—I think Le⯑titia ſha'n't have him.

What's he gone?

Yes; and I am glad he is. You would have ruined us!—Now, I beg, Mr. Hardy, you won't in⯑terfere in this buſineſs; it is a little out of your way.

Hang me, if I don't though. I foreſee very clearly what will be the end of it, if I leave ye to your⯑ſelves; ſo, I'll e'en follow him to the Maſquerade, and tell him all about it: Let me ſee.—What ſhall my dreſs be? A Great Mogul? No.—A Grenadier? No;—no, that, I foreſee, would make a laugh. Hang me, if I don't ſend to my favourite little Quick, and borrow his Jew Iſaac's dreſs:—I know the Dog likes a glaſs of good wine; ſo I'll give him a bottle of my Forty-eight, and he ſhall teach me. Aye, that's it—I'll be Cunning Little Iſaac! If they complain of my want of wit, I'll tell 'em the curſed Duenna wears the breeches, and has ſpoilt my parts.

SCENE II.—Courtall's.

You ſhan't go yet:—Another catch, and ano⯑ther bottle!

May I be a bottle, and an empty bottle, if you catch me at that!—Why, I am going to the Maſquerade. Jack—, you know who I mean, is to meet me, and we are to have a leap at the new luſtres.

And I am going too—a Harlequin—

Am not I in a pretty pickle to make Harle⯑quinades?—And Tony, here—he is going in the diſ⯑guiſe—in the diſguiſe—of a Gentleman!

We are all very diſguiſed; ſo bid them draw up—D'ye hear!

Thy ſkull, Courtall, is a Lady's thimble:—no, an egg-ſhell.

Nay, then you are gone too; you never aſpire to ſimiles, but in your cups.

No, no; I am ſteady enough—but the fumes of the wine paſs directly through thy egg-ſhell, and leave thy brain as cool as—Hey! I am quite ſober; my ſimiles fail me.

Then we'll ſit down here, and have one ſober bottle.—Bring a table and glaſſes.

I'll not ſwallow another drop; no, though the juice ſhould be the true Falernian.

By the bright eyes of her you love, you ſhall drink her health.

Ah!

Her I loved is gone

— She's married!

Then bleſs your ſtars you are not her Huſband! [42] I would be Huſband to no Woman in Europe, who was not dev'liſh rich, and dev'liſh ugly.

Wherefore ugly?

Becauſe ſhe could not have the conſcience to exact thoſe attentions that a Pretty Wife expects; or, if ſhe ſhould, her reſentments would be perfectly eaſy to me, nobody would undertake to revenge her cauſe.

Thou art a moſt licentious fellow!

I ſhould hate my own wife, that's certain; but I have a warm heart for thoſe of other people; and ſo here's to the prettieſt Wife in England—Lady Frances Touchwood.

Lady Frances Touchwood! I riſe to drink her.

How the devil came Lady Frances in your head? I never knew you give a Woman of Chaſtity before.

That's odd, for you have heard me give half the Women of Faſhion in England.—But, pray now, what do you take a Woman of Chaſtity to be?

Such a woman as Lady Frances Touchwood, Sir.

Oh, you are grave, Sir; I remember you was an Adorer of her's—Why did'nt you marry her?

I had not the arrogance to look ſo high—Had my fortune been worthy of her, ſhe ſhould not have been ignorant of my admiration.

Precious fellow! What, I ſuppoſe you would not dare tell her now that you admire her?

No, nor you.

By the Lord, I have told her ſo.

Have! Impoſſible!

Ha! ha! ha!—Is it ſo?

How did ſhe receive the declaration?

Why, in the old way; bluſhed, and frowned, and ſaid ſhe was married.

What amazing things thou art capable of! I [43] could more eaſily have taken the Pope by the beard, than prophaned her ears with ſuch a declaration.

I ſhall meet her at Lady Brilliant's to-night, where I ſhall repeat it; and I'll lay my life, under a maſk, ſhe'll hear it all without bluſh, or frown.

'Tis falſe, Sir!—She won't.

She will!

Nay, I'd venture to lay a round ſum, that I prevail on her to go out with me— only to taſte the freſh air, I mean.

Prepoſterous vanity! From this moment I ſuſpect that half the victories you have boaſted, are falſe and ſlanderous, as your pretended influence with Lady Fran⯑ces.

Pretended!—How ſhould ſuch a Fellow as you, now, who never ſoared beyond a cherry—cheeked Daugh⯑ter of a Ploughman in Norfolk, judge of the influence of a Man of my Figure and Habits? I could ſhew thee a liſt, in which there are names to ſhake thy faith in the whole ſex!—and, to that liſt I have no doubt of adding the name of Lady —

Hold, Sir! My ears cannot bear the profanation; —you cannot—dare not approach her!—For your ſoul you dare not mention Love to her! Her look would freeze the word, whilſt it hovered on thy licentious lips!

Whu! whu! Well, we ſhall ſee—this evening, by Jupiter, the trial ſhall be made—If I fail—I fail.

I think thou dareſt not!—But my life, my honour on her purity.

Hot-headed fool! But ſince he has brought it to this point, by Gad I'll try what can be done with her Ladyſhip

—

She's froſt-work, and the prejudices of education yet ſtrong: ergo, paſſionate pro⯑feſſions will only inflame her pride, and put her on her guard.—For other arts then!

Dick, do you know any of the ſervants at Sir George Touchwood's?

Yes, Sir; I knows the Groom, and one of the Houſe-maids: for the matter-o'-that, ſhe's my own Couſin; and it was my Mother that holp'd her to the place.

Do you know Lady Frances's Maid?

I can't ſay as how I know ſhe.

Do you know Sir George's Valet?

No, Sir; but Sally is very thick with Mr. Gib⯑ſon, Sir George's Gentleman.

Then go there directly, and employ Sally to diſcover whether her Maſter goes to Lady Brilliant's this evening; and, if he does, the name of the ſhop that ſold his Habit.

Yes, Sir.

Be exact in your intelligence, and come to me at Boodle's.

If I cannot otherwiſe ſuc⯑ceed, I'll beguile her as Jove did Alcmena, in the ſhape of her Huſband. The poſſeſſion of ſo fine a Woman — the triumph over Saville, are each a ſufficient motive; and united, they ſhall be reſiſtleſs.

SCENE III. — The Street.

The air has recover'd me! What have I been doing! Perhaps my petulance may be the cauſe of her ruin, whoſe honour I aſſerted:—his vanity is piqued;— and where Women are concerned, Courtall can be a villain.

Ha! that's his Servant!—Dick!

Sir.

Where are you going, Dick?

Going! I am going, Sir, where my Maſter ſent me.

Well anſwer'd;—but I have a particular reaſon for my enquiry, and you muſt tell me.

Why then, Sir, I am going to call upon a Cou⯑ſin of mine, that lives at Sir George Touchwood's.

Very well.—There,

you muſt make your Couſin drink my health.—What are you going about?

Why, Sir, I believe 'tis no harm, or elſeways I am ſure I would not blab.—I am only going to ax if Sir George goes to the Maſquerade to-night, and what Dreſs he wears.

Enough! Now, Dick, if you will call at my lodgings in your way back, and acquaint me with your Couſin's intelligence, I'll double the trifle I have given you.

Bleſs your honour, I'll call—never fear.

Surely the occaſion may juſtify the means:—'tis doubly my duty to be Lady Frances's Protector. Court⯑all, I ſee, is planning an artful ſcheme; but Saville ſhall out-plot him.

SCENE IV.—Sir George Touchwood's.

For ſhame, Sir George! you have left Lady Fran⯑ces in tears.—How can you afflict her?

'Tis I that am afflicted;—my dream of hap⯑pineſs is over.—Lady Frances and I are diſunited.

The Devil! Why, you have been in town but ten days: ſhe can have made no acquaintance for a Com⯑mons affair yet.

Pho! 'tis our minds that are diſunited: ſhe no longer places her whole delight in me; ſhe has yield⯑ed herſelf up to the world!

Yielded herſelf up to the World! Why did you not bring her to town in a Cage? Then ſhe might have taken a peep at the World!—But, after all, what has the World done? A twelvemonth ſince you was the gayeſt fellow in it:—If any body aſk'd who dreſſes beſt?—Sir George Touchwood.—Who is the moſt gallant Man? Sir George Touchwood.—Who is the moſt wedded to Amuſement and Diſſipation? Sir George Touchwood.— And now Sir George is metamorphoſed into a ſour Cen⯑ſor; and talks of Faſhionable Life with as much bitter⯑neſs, as the old crabbed Fellow in Rome.

The moment I became poſſeſſed of ſuch a jewel as Lady Frances, every thing wore a different complex⯑ion: that Society in which I liv'd with ſo much éclat, be⯑came the object of my terror; and I think of the man⯑ners of Polite Life, as I do of the atmoſphere of a Peſt-houſe.—My Wife is already infected; ſhe was ſet upon this morning by Maids, Widows, and Bachelors, who carried her off in triumph, in ſpite of my diſpleaſure.

Aye, to be ſure; there would have been no triumph in the caſe, if you had not oppos'd it:—but I have heard the whole ſtory from Mrs. Rackett; and I aſſure you, Lady Frances didn't enjoy the morning at all;—ſhe wiſh'd for you fifty times.

Indeed! Are you ſure of that?

Perfectly ſure.

I wiſh I had known it:—my uneaſineſs at dinner was occaſioned by very different ideas.

Here then ſhe comes, to receive your apology; but if ſhe is true Woman, her diſpleaſure will riſe in propor⯑tion to your contrition; — and till you grow careleſs about her pardon, ſhe won't grant it: — however, I'll leave you.—Matrimonial Duets are ſeldom ſet in the ſtyle I like.

The ſweet ſorrow that glitters in theſe eyes, I [47] cannot bear

. Look chearfully, you Rogue.

I cannot look otherwiſe, if you are pleas'd with me.

Well, Fanny, to-day you made your entrée in the Faſhionable World; tell me honeſtly the impreſſions you receiv'd.

Indeed, Sir George, I was ſo hurried from place to place, that I had not time to find out what my impreſſions were.

That's the very ſpirit of the life you have choſen.

Every body about me ſeem'd happy—but every body ſeem'd in a hurry to be happy ſomewhere elſe.

And you like this?

One muſt like what the reſt of the World likes.

Pernicious maxim!

But, my dear Sir George, you have not promis'd to go with me to the Maſquerade.

'Twould be a ſhocking indecorum to be ſeen together, you know.

Oh, no; I aſk'd Mrs. Racket, and ſhe told me we might be ſeen together at the Maſquerade—with⯑out being laugh'd at.

Really?

Indeed, to tell you the truth, I could wiſh it was the faſhion for married people to be inſeparable; for I have more heart-felt ſatisfaction in fifteen minutes with you at my ſide, than fifteen days of amuſement could give me without you.

My ſweet Creature! How that confeſſion charms me!—Let us begin the Faſhion.

O, impoſſible! We ſhould not gain a ſingle proſelyte; and you can't conceive what ſpiteful things would be ſaid of us.—At Kenſington to-day a Lady met us, whom we ſaw at Court, when we were preſented; ſhe [48] lifted up her hands in amazement!—Bleſs me! ſaid ſhe to her companion, here's Lady Francis without Sir Hurlo Thrumbo!—My dear Mrs. Racket, conſider what an im⯑portant charge you have! for Heaven's ſake take her home again, or ſome Enchanter on a flying Dragon will deſcend and carry her off. — Oh, ſaid another, I dare ſay Lady Frances has a clue at her heel, like the peerleſs Roſamond:—her tender ſwain would never have truſted her ſo far without ſuch a precaution.

Heav'n and Earth!—How ſhall Innocence preſerve its luſtre amidſt manners ſo corrupt! — My dear Fanny, I feel a ſentiment for thee at this moment, tenderer than Love — more animated than Paſſion.——I could weep over that purity, expos'd to the ſullying breath of Faſhion, and the Ton, in whoſe latitudinary vortex Chaſtity herſelf can ſcarcely move unſpotted.

Your Honour talk'd, I thought, ſomething about going to the Maſquerade?

Well.

Isn't it?—hasn't your Honour?—I thought your Honour had forgot to order a Dreſs.

Well conſider'd, Gibſon.—Come, will you be Jew, Turk, or Heretic; a Chineſe Emperor, or a Ballad-Singer; a Rake, or a Watchman?

Oh, neither, my Love; I can't take the trouble to ſupport a character.

You'll wear a Domino then:—I ſaw a pink Domino trimm'd with blue at the ſhop where I bought my Habit.—Would you like it?

Any thing, any thing.

Then go about it directly, Gibſon.—A pink Domino trimm'd with blue, and a Hat of the ſame— Come, you have not ſeen my Dreſs yet—it is moſt beauti⯑ful; I long to have it on.

A pink Domino trimm'd with blue, and a Hat of the ſame—What the devil can it ſignify to Sally now what his Dreſs is to be?—Surely the Slut has not made an aſſignation to meet her Maſter!

SCENE—A Maſquerade.

HEY! Tom Fool! what buſineſs have you here?

What, Sir! Affront a Prince in his own Dominions!

Who'll buy my Noſtrums? Who'll buy my Noſtrums?

What are they?

Different ſorts, and for different cuſtomers. Here's a Liquor for Ladies—it expels the rage of Gaming and Gallantry. Here's a Pill for Members of Parliament —good to ſettle Conſciences. Here's an Eye-Water for Jealous Huſbands—it thickens the Viſual Membrane, through which they ſee too clearly. Here's a Decoction for the Clergy—it never ſits eaſy, if the patient has more than One Living. Here's a Draught for Lawyers—a great promoter of Modeſty. Here's a Powder for Pro⯑jectors—'twill rectify the fumes of an Empty Stomach, and diſſipate their airy caſtles.

Have you a Noſtrum that can give patience to Young Heirs, whoſe Uncles and Fathers are ſtout and healthy?

Yes; and I have an Infuſion for Creditors— it gives reſignation and humility, when Fine Gentlemen break their promiſes, or plead their privilege.

Come along:—I'll find you cuſtomers for your whole cargo.

Why, isn't it a ſhame to ſee ſo many ſtout, well-built Young Fellows, maſquerading, and cutting Couranta's here at home—inſtead of making the French cut capers to the tune of your Cannon—or ſweating the Spaniards with an Engliſh Fandango?—I foreſee the end of all this.

Why, thou little teſty Iſraelite! back to Duke's Place; and preach your tribe into a ſubſcription for the good of the land on whoſe milk and honey ye fatten. — Where are your Joſhuas and your Gideons, aye? What! all dwindled into Stockbrokers, Pedlars, and Rag-Men?

No, not all. Some of us turn Chriſtians, and by degrees grow into all the privileges of Engliſhmen! In the ſecond generation we are Patriots, Rebels, Cour⯑tiers, and Huſbands.

What, my little Iſaac!—How the Devil came you here? Where's your old Margaret?

Oh, I have got rid of her.

How?

Why, I perſuaded a young Iriſhman that ſhe was a blooming plump Beauty of eighteen; ſo they made an Elopement, ha! ha! ha! and ſhe is now the Toaſt of Tipperary. Ha! there's Couſin Racket and her Party; they ſha'n't know me.

Look at this dumpling Jew; he muſt be a Levite by his figure. You have ſurely practiſed the fleſh-hook a long time, friend, to have raiſed that goodly preſence.

About as long, my briſk Widow, as you have been angling for a ſecond Huſband; but my hook has been better baited than your's.—You have only caught Gudgeons, I ſee.

Oh! this is one of the Geniuses they hire to en⯑tertain the Company with their accidental ſallies.—Let me look at your Common-Place Book, friend.—I want a few good things.

I'd oblige you, with all my heart; but you'll ſpoil them in repeating—or, if you ſhou'd not, they'll gain you no reputation—for no body will believe they are your own.

He knows ye, Flutter;—the little Gentleman fancies himſelf a Wit, I ſee.

There's no depending on what you ſee—the eyes of the jealous are not to be truſted.—Look to your Lady.

He knows ye, Sir George.

What! am I the Town-talk?

I can neither ſee Doricourt nor Letty.—I muſt find them out.

Well, Lady Frances, is not all this charm⯑ing? Could you have conceived ſuch a brilliant aſſem⯑blage of objects?

Delightful! The days of enchantment are reſtor'd; the columns glow with Sapphires and Rubies. Emperors and Fairies, Beauties and Dwarfs, meet me at every ſtep.

How lively are firſt impreſſions on ſenſible minds! In four hours, vapidity and languor will take place of that exquiſite ſenſe of joy, which flutters your little heart.

What an inhuman creature! Fate has not allow'd us theſe ſenſations above ten times in our lives; and would you have us ſhorten them by antici⯑pation?

O Lord! your Wiſe Men are the greateſt Fools upon earth:—they reaſon about their enjoyments, and analyſe their pleaſures, whilſt the eſſence eſcapes. Look, Lady Frances: D'ye ſee that Figure ſtrutting in the dreſs of an Emperor? His Father retails Oranges in Botolph Lane. That Gypſey is a Maid of Honour, and that Rag-man a Phyſician.

Why, you know every body.

Oh, every creature.—A Maſk is nothing at all to me.—I can give you the hiſtory of half the people here. In the next apartment there's a whole family, who, to my knowledge, have lived on Water-Creſſes this month, to make a figure here to-night;—but, to make up for that, they'll cram their pockets with cold Ducks and Chickens, for a Carnival to-morrow.

Oh, I ſhould like to ſee this provident Family.

Honour me with your arm.

Come, Sir George, you ſhall be my Beau. —We'll make the tour of the rooms, and meet them. Oh! your pardon, you muſt follow Lady Frances; or the wit and fine parts of Mr. Flutter may drive you out of her head. Ha! ha! ha!

I was going to follow her, and now I dare not. How can I be ſuch a fool as to be govern'd by the fear of that ridicule which I deſpiſe!

Ha! my Lord!—I thought you had been enga⯑ged at Weſtminſter on this important night.

So I am—I ſlipt out as ſoon as Lord Trope got upon his legs; I can badinage here an hour or two, and be back again before he is down.—There's a fine Fi⯑gure! I'll addreſs her.

Charity, fair Lady! Charity for a poor Pilgrim.

Charity! If you mean my prayers, Heaven grant thee Wit, Pilgrim.

That bleſſing would do from a Devotee: from you I aſk other charities;—ſuch charities as Beauty ſhould beſtow—ſoft Looks—ſweet Words—and kind Wiſhes.

Alas! I am bankrupt of theſe, and forced to turn Beggar myſelf.—There he is!—how ſhall I catch his attention?

Will you grant me no favour?

Yes, one—I'll make you my Partner—not for life, but through the ſoft mazes of a minuet.—Dare you dance?

Some ſpirit in that.

I dare do any thing you command.

Do you know her, my Lord?

No: Such a woman as that, would formerly have been known in any diſguiſe; but Beauty is now common—Venus ſeems to have given her Ceſtus to the whole ſex.

She dances divinely.—

Somebody muſt know her! Let us enquire who ſhe is.

I have ſeen Courtall in Sir George's habit, though he endeavoured to keep himſelf conceal'd. Go, and ſeat yourſelf in the tea-room, and on no account diſcover your face:—remember too, Kitty, that the Woman you are to perſonate is a Woman of Virtue.

I am afraid I ſhall find that a difficult character: indeed I believe it is ſeldom kept up through a whole Maſ⯑querade.

Of that you can be no judge—Follow my direc⯑tions, and you ſhall be rewarded.

Ha! Saville! Did you ſee a Lady dance juſt now?

No.

Very odd. No body knows her.

Where is Miſs Hardy?

Cutting Watch-papers, and making Conun⯑drums, I ſuppoſe.

What do you mean?

Faith, I hardly know. She's not here, however, Mrs. Racket tells me.—I aſk'd no further.

Your indifference ſeems increas'd.

Quite the reverſe; 'tis advanced thirty-two de⯑grees towards hatred.

You are jeſting?

Then it muſt be with a very ill grace, my dear Saville; for I never felt ſo ſeriouſly: Do you know the creature's almoſt an Ideot?

What!

An Ideot. What the devil ſhall I do with her? Egad! I think I'll feign myſelf mad—and then Hardy will propoſe to cancel the engagements.

An excellent expedient. I muſt leave you; you are myſterious, and I can't ſtay to unravel ye. — I came here to watch over Innocence and Beauty.

The Guardian of Innocence and Beauty at three and twenty! Is there not a cloven foot under that black gown, Saville?

No, faith. Courtall is here on a moſt deteſtable deſign.—I found means to get a knowledge of the Lady's dreſs, and have brought a girl to perſonate her, whoſe [55] reputation cannot be hurt.—You ſhall know the reſult to-morrow. Adieu.

Yes, I think that will do.—I'll feign myſelf mad, ſee the Doctor to pronounce me incurable, and when the parchments are deſtroyed—

By Heaven, the ſame ſweet creature!

You have choſen an odd ſituation for ſtudy. Faſhion and Taſte preſide in this ſpot:—they throw their ſpells around you: — ten thouſand delights ſpring up at their command;—and you, a Stoic—a being without ſen⯑ſes, are wrapt in reflection.

And you, the moſt charming being in the world, awake me to admiration. Did you come from the Stars?

Yes, and I ſhall reaſcend in a moment.

Pray ſhew me your face before you go.

Beware of imprudent curioſity; it loſt Paradiſe.

Eve's curioſity was rais'd by the Devil;—'tis an Angel tempts mine.—So your alluſion is not in point.

But why would you ſee my face?

To fall in love with it.

And what then?

Why, then—Aye, curſe it! there's the rub.

Your Miſtreſs will be angry;—but, perhaps, you have no Miſtreſs?

Yes, yes; and a ſweet one it is!

What! is ſhe old?

No.

Ugly?

No.

What then?

Pho! don't talk about her; but ſhew me your face.

My vanity forbids it;—'twould frighten you.

Impoſſible! Your Shape is graceful, your Air bewitching, your Boſom tranſparent, and your Chin would tempt me to kiſs it, if I did not ſee a pouting red Lip above it, that demands—

You grow too free.

Shew me your face then—only half a glance.

Not for worlds.

What! you will have a little gentle force?

I am gone for ever!

'Tis falſe;—I'll follow to the end.

How can you be thus intereſted for a ſtranger?

Goodneſs will ever intereſt; its home is Heaven: on earth 'tis but a Wanderer. Imprudent Lady! why have you left the ſide of your Protector? Where is your Huſband?

Why, what's that to him?

Surely it can't be merely his habit;— there's ſomething in him that awes me.

Pho! 'tis only his grey beard.—I know him; he keeps a Lottery-office on Cornhill.

My province, as an Enchanter, lays open every ſecret to me. Lady! there are dangers abroad—Beware!

'Tis very odd; his manner has made me tremble. Let us ſeek Sir George.

He is coming towards us.

There ſhe is! If I can but diſengage her from that fool Flutter—crown me, ye Schemers, with immor⯑tal wreaths.

O my dear Sir George! I rejoice to meet you—an old Conjuror has been frightening me with his Prophecies.—Where's Mrs. Rackett?

In the dancing-room.—I promis'd to ſend you to her, Mr. Flutter.

Ah! ſhe wants me to dance. With all my heart.

Why do you keep on your maſk?—'tis too warm.

'Tis very warm—I want air—let us go.

You ſeem quite agitated.—Sha'n't we bid our company adieu?

No, no;—there's no time for forms. I'll juſt give directions to the carriage, and be with you in a moment.

Put on your maſk; I have a particular reaſon for it.

Now, Kitty, you know your leſſon. Lady Fran⯑ces,

let me lead you to your Huſband.

Heavens! is Mr. Saville the Conjuror? Sir George is juſt ſtept to the door to give directions.—We are going home immediately.

No, Madam, you are deceiv'd: Sir George is this way.

This is aſtoniſhing!

Be not alarm'd: you have eſcap'd a ſnare, and ſhall be in ſafety in a moment.

Now!

'Tis pity to go ſo ſoon.

Perhaps I may bring you back, my Angel— but go now, you muſt.

By Heavens! I never was charm'd till now.— Engliſh beauty—French vivacity—wit—elegance. Your name, my Angel!—tell me your name, though you perſiſt in concealing your face.

My name has a ſpell in it.

I thought ſo; it muſt be Charming.

But if reveal'd, the charm is broke.

I'll anſwer for its force.

Suppoſe it Harriet, or Charlotte, or Maria, or—

Hang Harriet, and Charlotte, and Maria—the name your Father gave ye!

That can't be worth knowing, 'tis ſo tranſient a thing.

How, tranſient?

Heav'n forbid my name ſhould be laſting till I am married.

Married! The chains of Matrimony are too heavy and vulgar for ſuch a ſpirit as yours.—The flowery wreaths of Cupid are the only bands you ſhould wear.

They are the lighteſt, I believe: but 'tis poſſible to wear thoſe of Marriage gracefully.—Throw 'em looſely round, and twiſt 'em in a True-Lover's Knot for the Boſom.

An Angel! But what will you be when a Wife?

A Woman.—If my Huſband ſhould prove a Churl, [59] a Fool, or a Tyrant, I'd break his heart, ruin his for⯑tune, elope with the firſt pretty Fellow that aſk'd me— and return the contempt of the world with ſcorn, whilſt my feelings prey'd upon my life.

Amazing!

What if you lov'd him, and he were worthy of your love?

Why, then I'd be any thing—and all!—Grave, gay, capricious — the ſoul of whim, the ſpirit of va⯑riety—live with him in the eye of faſhion, or in the ſhade of retirement—change my country, my ſex,— feaſt with him in an Eſquimaux hut, or a Perſian pavi⯑lion—join him in the victorious war-dance on the borders of Lake Ontario, or ſleep to the ſoft breathings of the flute in the cinnamon groves of Ceylon—dig with him in the mines of Golconda, or enter the dan⯑gerous precincts of the Mogul's Seraglo—cheat him of his wiſhes, and overturn his empire to reſtore the Huſband of my Heart to the bleſſings of Liberty and Love.

Delightful wildneſs! Oh, to catch thee, and hold thee for ever in this little cage!

Hold, Sir! Though Cupid muſt give the bait that tempts me to the ſnare, 'tis Hymen muſt ſpread the net to catch me.

'Tis in vain to aſſume airs of coldneſs—Fate has ordain'd you mine.

How do you know?

I feel it here. I never met with a Woman ſo per⯑fectly to my taſte; and I won't believe it form'd you ſo, on purpoſe to tantalize me.

This moment is worth my whole exiſtence.

Come, ſhew me your face, and rivet my chains.

To-morrow you ſhall be ſatisfied.

To-morrow! and not to-night?

No.

Where then ſhall I wait on you to-morrow?— Where ſee you?

You ſhall ſee me in an hour when you leaſt ex⯑pect me.

Why all this myſtery?

I like to be myſterious. At preſent be content to know that I am a Woman of Family and Fortune. Adieu!

Adieu! Then I am come at the fag end.

Let me ſee you to your carriage.

As you value knowing me, ſtir not a ſtep. If I am follow'd, you never ſee me more.

Barbarous Creature! She's gone! What, and is this really ſerious?—am I in love?—Pho! it can't be—O Flutter! do you know that charming Creature?

What charming Creature? I paſs'd a thouſand.

She went out at that door, as you enter'd.

Oh, yes;—I know her very well.

Do you, my dear Fellow? Who?

She's kept by Lord George Jennett.

Impudent Scoundrel!

Kept!!!

Yes; Colonel Gorget had her firſt; — then Mr. Loveill;—then—I forget exactly how many; and at laſt ſhe's Lord George's.

I'll murder Gorget, poiſon Lord George, and ſhoot myſelf.

Now's the time, I ſee, to clear up the whole. Mr. Doricourt!—I ſay—Flutter was miſtaken; I know who you are in love with.

A ſtrange rencontre! Who?

My Letty.

Oh! I underſtand your rebuke;—'tis too ſoon, Sir, to aſſume the Father-in-law.

Zounds! what do you mean by that? I tell you that the Lady you admire, is Letitia Hardy.

I am glad you are ſo well ſatisfied with the ſtate of my heart.—I wiſh I was.

Stop a moment.—Stop, I ſay! What, you won't? Very well—if I don't play you a trick for this, may I never be a Grand-father! I'll plot with Letty now, and not againſt her; aye, hang me if I don't. There's ſomething in my head, that ſhall tingle in his heart.— He ſhall have a lecture upon impatience, that I foreſee he'll be the better for as long as he lives.

Flutter, come with us; we're going to raiſe a laugh at Courtall's.

With all my heart. "Live to Live," was my Father's motto: "Live to Laugh," is mine.

SCENE—Courtall's.

Where have you brought me, Sir George? This is not our home.

'Tis my home, beautiful Lady Frances!

Oh, forgive the ardency of my paſſion, which has compell'd me to deceive you.

Mr. Courtall! what will become of me?

Oh, ſay but that you pardon the Wretch who adores you. Did you but know the agonizing tortures of my heart, ſince I had the felicity of converſing with you this morning—or the deſpair that now—

Oh! I'm undone!

Zounds! my dear Lady Frances. I am not at home. Raſcal! do you hear?—Let no body in; I am not at home.

Sir, I told the Gentlemen ſo.

Eternal curſes! they are coming up. Step into this room, adorable Creature! one moment; I'll throw them out of the window if they ſtay three.

O Gemini! beg the Petticoat's pardon.—Juſt ſaw a corner of it.

No wonder admittance was ſo difficult. I thought you took us for Bailiffs.

Upon my ſoul, I am deviliſh glad to ſee you— but you perceive how I am circumſtanc'd. Excuſe me at this moment.

Tell us who 'tis then.

Oh, fie!

We won't blab.

I can't, upon honour.—Thus far—She's a Wo⯑man of the firſt Character and Rank. Saville,

have I influence, or have I not?

Why, ſure, you do not inſinuate—

No, not inſinuate, but ſwear, that ſhe's now in my bed-chamber:—by gad, I don't deceive you.—There's Generalſhip, you Rogue! Such an humble, diſtant, ſighing Fellow as thou art, at the end of a ſix-months ſiege, would have boaſted of a kiſs from her glove.—I only give the ſignal, and—pop!—ſhe's in my arms.

What, Lady Fran—

Huſh! You ſhall ſee her name to-morrow morn⯑ing in red letters at the end of my liſt. Gentlemen, you muſt excuſe me now. Come and drink chocolate at twelve, but—

Aye, let us go, out of reſpect to the Lady:—'tis a Perſon of Rank.

Is it?—Then I'll have a peep at her.

This is too much, Sir.

By Jupiter, we'll all have a peep.

Gentlemen, conſider—for Heaven's ſake—a Lady of Quality. What will be the conſequences?

The conſequences!—Why, you'll have your throat cut, that's all—but I'll write your Elegy. So, [63] now for the door!

—Beg your Ladyſhip's pardon, whoever you are:

Emerge from darkneſs like the glorious Sun, and bleſs the wond'ring circle with your charms.

Kitty Willis! ha! ha! ha!

Kitty Willis! ha! ha! ha! Kitty Willis!

Why, what a Fellow you are, Courtall, to attempt impoſing on your friends in this manner! A Lady of Quality—an Earl's Daughter—Your Lady⯑ſhip's moſt obedient.—Ha! ha! ha!

Courtall, have you influence, or have you not?

The Man's moon-ſtruck.

Hell, and ten thouſand Furies, ſeize you all to⯑gether!

What! me, too, Mr. Courtall? me, whom you have knelt to, pray'd to, and adored?

That's right, Kitty; give him a little more.

Diſappointed and laugh'd at!—

Laugh'd at and deſpis'd. I have fullfiled my deſign, which was to expoſe your villainy, and laugh at your preſumption. Adieu, Sir! Remember how you again boaſt of your influence with Women of Rank; and, when you next want amuſement, dare not to look up to the virtuous and to the noble for a Companion.

And, Courtall, before you carry a Lady into your bed-chamber again, look under her maſk, d'ye hear?

There's no bearing this! I'll ſet off for Paris directly.

SCENE I.—Hardy's.

WHIMSICAL enough! I Dying for her, and hates her; believes her a Fool, and a Woman of brilliant Underſtanding!

As true as you are alive;—but when I went up to him laſt night, at the Pantheon, out of downright good-nature to explain things—my Gentleman whips round upon his heel, and ſnapt me as ſhort as if I had been a beggar-woman with ſix children, and he Overſeer of the Pariſh.

Here comes the Wonder-worker—

Here comes the Enchantreſs, who can go to Maſquerades, and ſing and dance, and talk a Man out of his wits!— But pray, have we Morning Maſquerades?

Oh, no—but I am ſo enamour'd of this all-con⯑quering Habit, that I could not reſiſt putting it on, the moment I had breakfaſted. I ſhall wear it on the day I am married, and then lay it by in ſpices—like the mi⯑raculous Robes of St. Bridget.

That's as moſt Brides do. The charms that helped to catch the Huſband, are generally laid by, one after another, 'till the Lady grows a downright Wife, and then runs crying to her Mother, becauſe ſhe has trans⯑form'd her Lover into a downright Huſband.

Liſten to me.—I ha'n't ſlept to-night, for think⯑ing of plots to plague Doricourt;—and they drove one another out of my head ſo quick, that I was as giddy as a gooſe, and could make nothing of 'em —I wiſh to goodneſs you could contrive ſomething.

Contrive to plague him! Nothing ſo eaſy. Don't undeceive him, Madam, 'till he is your Huſband. Marry him whilſt he poſſeſſes the ſentiments you labour'd to give him of Miſs Hardy—and when you are his Wife—

Oh, Heavens! I ſee the whole—that's the very thing. My dear Mr. Villers, you are the divineſt Man.

Don't make love to me, Huſſey.

No, pray don't—for I deſign to have Vil⯑lers myſelf in about ſix years.—There's an oddity in him that pleaſes me.—He holds Women in contempt; and I ſhould like to have an opportunity of breaking his heart for that.

And when I am heartily tired of life, I know no Woman whom I would with more pleaſure make my Executioner.

It cannot be—I foreſee it will be impoſſible to bring it about. You know the wedding wasn't to take place this week or more—and Letty will never be able to play the Fool ſo long.

The knot ſhall be tied to-night.—I have it all here,

the licence is ready. Feign yourſelf ill, ſend for Doricourt, and tell him you can't go out of the world in peace, except you ſee the cere⯑mony performed.

I feign myſelf ill! I could as ſoon feign myſelf a Roman Ambaſſador.—I was never ill in my life, but with the tooth-ach—when Letty's Mother was a breed⯑ing I had all the qualms.

Oh, I have no fears for you.—But what ſays Miſs Hardy? Are you willing to make the irrevocable vow before night?

Oh, Heavens!—I—I—'Tis ſo exceeding ſudden, that really—

That really ſhe is frighten'd out of her wits—leſt it ſhould be impoſſible to bring matters about. But I have taken the ſcheme into my protection, and you [66] ſhall be Mrs. Doricourt before night. Come,

to bed directly: your room ſhall be cramm'd with phials, and all the apparatus of Death;—then heigh preſto! for Doricourt.

You go and put off your conquering dreſs,

and get all your aukward airs ready—And you practiſe a few groans

—And you—if poſſible—an air of gravity

. I'll anſwer for the plot.

Married in jeſt! 'Tis an odd idea! Well, I'll venture it.

Aye, I'll be ſworn!

'tis paſt three. The Budget's to be open'd this morning. I'll juſt ſtep down to the Houſe.—Will you go?

What! with a mortal ſickneſs?

What a Blockhead! I believe, if half of us were to ſtay away with mortal ſickneſſes, it would be for the health of the Nation. Good-morning.—Ill call and feel your pulſe as I come back.

You won't find 'em over briſk, I fancy. I foreſee ſome ill happening from this making believe to die before one's time. But hang it—a-hem!—I am a ſtout man yet; only fifty-ſix—What's that? In the laſt Yearly Bill there were three lived to above an hundred. Fifty-ſix!— Fiddle-de-dee! I am not afraid, not I.

SCENE II. Doricourt's.

Undreſs'd ſo late?

I didn't go to bed 'till late—'twas late before I ſlept-late when I roſe. Do you know Lord George Jennett?

Yes.

Has he a Miſtreſs?

Yes.

What ſort of a creature is ſhe?

Why, ſhe ſpends him three thouſand a year with the eaſe of a Ducheſs, and entertains his friends with the grace of a Ninon. Ergo, ſhe is handſome, ſpirited, and clever.

In the name of Caprice, what ails you?

You have hit it—Elle eſt mon Caprice—The Miſ⯑treſs of Lord George Jennett is my caprice—Oh, inſuf⯑ferable!

What, you ſaw her at the Maſquerade?

Saw her, lov'd her, died for her—without know⯑ing her—And now the curſe is, I can't hate her.

Ridiculous enough! All this diſtreſs about a Kept Woman, whom any man may have, I dare ſwear, in a fortnight—They've been jarring ſome time.

Have her! The ſentiment I have conceived for the Witch is ſo unaccountable, that, in that line, I can⯑not bear her idea. Was ſhe a Woman of Honour, for a Wife, I cou'd adore her—but, I really believe, if ſhe ſhould ſend me an aſſignation, I ſhould hate her.

Hey-day! This ſounds like Love. What be⯑comes of poor Miſs Hardy?

Her name has given me an ague. Dear Saville, how ſhall I contrive to make old Hardy cancel the en⯑gagements! The moiety of the eſtate which he will for⯑feit, ſhall be his the next moment, by deed of gift.

Let me ſee—Can't you get it inſinuated that you are a dev'liſh wild fellow; that you are an Infidel, and attached to wenching, gaming, and ſo forth?

Aye, ſuch a character might have done ſome good two centuries back.—But who the devil can it frighten now? I believe it muſt be the mad ſcheme, at laſt.—There, will that do for the grin?

Ridiculous!—But, how are you certain that the Woman who has ſo bewildered you, belongs to Lord George?

Flutter told me ſo.

Then fifty to one againſt the intelligence.

It muſt be ſo. There was a myſtery in her manner, for which nothing elſe can account.

Who can this be?

The proverb is your anſwer—'tis Flutter himſelf. Tip him a ſcene of the Mad-man, and ſee how it takes.

I will—a good way to ſend it about town. Shall it be of the melancholy kind, or the raving?

Rant!—rant!—Here he comes.

Talk not to me who can pull comets by the beard, and overſet an iſland!

There! This is he!—this is he who hath ſent my poor ſoul, without coat or breeches, to be toſſed about in ether like a duck-feather! Villain, give me my ſoul again!

Upon my ſoul I hav'n't got it.

Oh, Mr. Flutter, what a melancholy ſight!—I little thought to have ſeen my poor friend reduced to this.

Mercy defend me! What's he mad?

You ſee how it is. A curſed Italian Lady—Jea⯑louſy—gave him a drug; and every full of the moon—

Moon! Who dares talk of the Moon? The patroneſs of genius—the rectifier of wits—the—Oh! here ſhe is!—I feel her—ſhe tugs at my brain—ſhe has it—ſhe has it—Oh!

Well! this is dreadful! exceeding dreadful, I proteſt. Have you had Monro?

Not yet. The worthy Miſs Hardy—what a misfortune!

Aye, very true.—Do they know it?

Oh, no; the paroxyſm ſeized him but this morn⯑ing.

Adieu! I can't ſtay.

But you muſt.

Stay, and aſſiſt me: —perhaps he'll return again in a moment; and, when he is in this way, his ſtrength is prodigious.

Can't indeed—can't upon my ſoul.

Flutter—Don't make a miſtake, now;—remem⯑ber 'tis Doricourt that's mad.

Yes—you mad.

No, no; Doricourt.

Egad, I'll ſay you are both mad, and then I can't miſtake.

SCENE III.—.Sir George Touchwood's.

The bird is eſcaped—Courtall is gone to France.

Heaven and earth! Have ye been to ſeek him?

Seek him! Aye.

How did you get his name? I ſhould never have told it you.

I learnt it in the firſt Coffee-houſe I entered.— Every body is full of the ſtory.

Thank Heaven! he's gone!—But I have a ſtory for you—The Hardy family are forming a plot upon your Friend Doricourt, and we are expected in the even⯑ing to aſſiſt.

With all my heart, my Angel; but I can't ſtay to hear it unfolded. They told me Mr. Saville would be at home in half an hour, and I am impatient to ſee him. The adventure of laſt night—

Think of it only with gratitude. The danger I was in has overſet a new ſyſtem of conduct, that, perhaps, I was too much inclined to adopt. But hence⯑forward, my dear Sir George, you ſhall be my conſtant Companion, and Protector. And, when they ridicule the unfaſhionable Monſters, the felicity of our hearts ſhall make their ſatire pointleſs.

Charming Angel! You almoſt reconcile me to Courtall. Hark! here's company

'Tis your lively Widow—I'll ſtep down the back ſtairs, to eſcape her.

Oh, Lady Frances! I am ſhock'd to death. —Have you received a card from us?

Yes; within theſe twenty minutes.

Aye, 'tis of no conſequence.—'Tis all over—Doricourt is mad.

Mad!

My poor Letitia!—Juſt as we were enjoy⯑ing ourſelves with the proſpect of a ſcheme that was planned for their mutual happineſs, in came Flutter, breathleſs, with the intelligence:—I flew here to know if you had heard it.

No, indeed—and I hope it is one of Mr. Flutter's dreams.

A-propos; now we ſhall be informed. Mr. Saville, I re⯑joice to ſee you, though Sir George will be diſappointed: he's gone to your lodgings.

I ſhould have been happy to have prevented Sir George. I hope your Ladyſhip's adventure laſt night did not diſturb your dreams?

Not at all; for I never ſlept a moment. My eſcape, and the importance of my obligations to you, employed my thoughts. But we have juſt had ſhocking intelligence—Is is true that Doricourt is mad?

So; the buſineſs is done.

Madam, I am ſorry to ſay, that I have juſt been a melancholy witneſs of his ravings: he was in the height of a paroxyſm.

Oh, there can be no doubt of it. Flut⯑ter told us the whole hiſtory. Some Italian Princeſs gave him a drug, in a box of ſweetmeats, ſent to him by her own page; and it renders him lunatic every month. Poor Miſs Hardy! I never felt ſo much on any occaſion in my life.

To ſoften your concern, I will inform you, Madam, that Miſs Hardy is leſs to be pitied than you imagine.

Why ſo, Sir?

'Tis rather a delicate ſubject—but he did not love Miſs Hardy.

He did love Miſs Hardy, Sir, and would have been the happieſt of men.

Pardon me, Madam; his heart was not only free from that Lady's chains, but abſolutely captivated by another.

No, Sir—no. It was Miſs Hardy who captivated him. She met him laſt night at the Maſque⯑rade, and charmed him in diſguiſe—He profeſſed the moſt violent paſſion for her; and a plan was laid, this even⯑ing, to cheat him into happineſs.

Ha! ha! ha!—Upon my ſoul, I muſt beg your pardon; I have not eaten of the Italian Princeſs's box of ſweetmeats, ſent by her own page; and yet I am as mad as Doricourt, ha! ha! ha!

So it appears—What can all this mean?

Why, Madam, he is at preſent in his perfect ſenſes; but he'll loſe 'em in ten minutes, through joy.— The madneſs was only a feint, to avoid marrying Miſs Hardy, ha! ha! ha!—I'll carry him the intelligence directly.

Not for worlds. I owe him revenge, now, for what he has made us ſuffer. You muſt promiſe not to divulge a ſyllable I have told you; and when Dori⯑ricourt is ſummoned to Mr. Hardy's, prevail on him to come—madneſs, and all.

Pray do. I ſhould like to ſee him ſhewing off, now I am in the ſecret.

You muſt be obeyed; though 'tis inhuman to conceal his happineſs.

I am going home; ſo I'll ſet you down at his lodgings, and acquaint you, by the way, with our whole ſcheme. Allons!

I attend you

You won't fail us?

No; depend on us.

SCENE IV.—Doricourt's.

What effect can the mo⯑rals of Fourſcore have on a mind torn with paſſion?

Is it poſſible ſuch a ſoul as her's, can ſupport it⯑ſelf in ſo humiliating a ſituation? A kept Woman!

Well, well—I am glad it is ſo—I am glad it is ſo!

What a happy dog you are, Doricourt! I might have been mad, or beggar'd, or piſtol'd myſelf, without its being mentioned—But you, forſooth! the whole Fe⯑male World is concerned for. I reported the ſtate of your brain to five different women—The lip of the firſt trem⯑bled; the white boſom of the ſecond heaved a ſigh; the third ejaculated, and turned her eye—to the glaſs; the fourth bleſſed herſelf; and the fifth ſaid, whilſt ſhe pinned a curl, ‘Well, now, perhaps, he'll be an amuſing Com⯑panion; his native dullneſs was intolerable.’

Envy! ſheer envy, by the ſmiles of Hebe!— There are not leſs than forty pair of the brighteſt eyes in town will drop cryſtals, when they hear of my mis⯑fortune.

Well, but I have news for you:—Poor Hardy is confined to his bed; they ſay he is going out of the world by the firſt poſt, and he wants to give you his bleſ⯑ſing.

Ill! ſo ill! I am ſorry from my ſoul. He's a worthy little Fellow—if he had not the gift of foreſeeing ſo ſtrongly.

Well; you muſt go and take leave.

What! to act the Lunatic in the dying Man's chamber?

Exactly the thing; and will bring your buſineſs to a ſhort iſſue: for his laſt commands muſt be, That you are not to marry his Daughter.

That's true, by Jupiter!—and yet, hang it, impoſe upon a poor fellow at ſo ſerious a moment!— I can't do it.

You muſt, 'faith. I am anſwerable for your ap⯑pearance, though it ſhould be in a ſtrait waiſtcoat. He knows your ſituation, and ſeems the more deſirous of an interview.

I don't like encountering Racket.—She's an arch little devil, and will diſcover the cheat.

There's a fellow!—Cheated Ninety-nine Women; and now afraid of the Hundredth.

And with reaſon—for that hundredth is a Wi⯑dow

SCENE V. Hardy's.

And ſo Miſs Hardy is actually to be mar⯑ried to-night?

If her Fate does not deceive her. You are appriſed of the ſcheme, and we hope it will ſucceed.

Deuce take her! ſhe's ſix years younger than I am.

—Is Mr. Doricourt handſome?

Handſome, generous, young, and rich.— There's a Huſband for ye! Isn't he worth pulling caps for?

I' my conſcience, the Widow ſpeaks as though ſhe'd give cap, ears, and all for him.

I wonder you didn't try to catch this wonderful Man, Mrs. Racket?

Really, Miſs Ogle, I had not time. Be⯑ſides, when I marry, ſo many ſtout young fellows will [74] hang themſelves, that, out of regard to ſociety, in theſe ſad times, I ſhall poſtpone it for a few years. This will coſt her a new lace—I heard it crack.

Well, here we are.—But where's the Knight of the Woeful Countenance?

Here ſoon, I hope—for a woeful Night it will be without him.

Oh, fie! do you condeſcend to pun?

Why not? It requires genius to make a good pun—ſome men of bright parts can't reach it. I know a Lawyer who writes them on the back of his briefs; and ſays they are of great uſe—in a dry cauſe.

Here they come!—Here they come!—Their coach ſtopped, as mine drove off.

Then Miſs Hardy's fate is at a criſis.— She plays a hazardous game, and I tremble for her.

Come, let me guide you!—This way, my poor Friend! Why are you ſo furious?

The Houſe of Death—to the Houſe of Death!

Ah! this is the ſpot!

How wild and fiery he looks!

Now, I think, he looks terrified.

Poor creature, how his eyes work!

I never ſaw a Madman before—Let me examine him—Will he bite?

Pray keep out of his reach, Ladies—You don't know your danger. He's like a Wild Cat, if a ſudden thought ſeiſes him.

You talk like a Keeper of Wild Cats—How much do you demand for ſhewing the Monſter?

I don't like this—I muſt rouſe their ſenſibility. There! there ſhe darts through the air in liquid flames! [] Down again! Now I have her—Oh, ſhe burns, ſhe ſcorches!—Oh! ſhe eats into my very heart!

Ha! ha! ha!

He ſees the Apparition of the wicked Ita⯑lian Princeſs.

Keep her Highneſs faſt, Doricourt.

Give her a pinch, before you let her go.

I am laughed at!

Laughed at—aye, to be ſure; why, I could play the Madman better than you▪—There! there ſhe is! Now I have her! Ha! ha! ha!

I knew that Devil would diſcover me.

I'll leave the houſe:—I'm covered with confuſion.

Stay, Sir—You muſt not go. 'Twas poorly done, Mr. Doricourt, to affect madneſs, rather than fulfil your engagements.

Affect madneſs!—Saville, what can I do?

Since you are diſcovered, confeſs the whole.

Aye, turn Evidence, and ſave Yourſelf.

Yes; ſince my deſigns have been ſo unaccount⯑ably diſcovered, I will avow the whole. I cannot love Miſs Hardy—and I will never —

Hold, my dear Doricourt! be not ſo raſh. What will the world ſay to ſuch —

Damn the world! What will the world give me for the loſs of happineſs? Muſt I ſacrifice my peace, to pleaſe the world?

Yes, every thing, rather than be branded with diſhonour.

Though our arguments ſhould fail, there is a Pleader, whom you ſurely cannot withſtand—the dying Mr. Hardy ſupplicates you not to forſake his Child.

Mr. Hardy requeſts you to grant him a moment's [76] converſation, Mr. Doricourt, though you ſhould perſiſt ſo ſend him miſerable to the grave. Let me conduct you to his chamber.

Oh, aye, any where; to the Antipodes—to the Moon—Carry me—Do with me what you will.

Mortification and diſappointment, then, are ſpecifics in a caſe of ſtubbornneſs.—I'll follow, and let you know what paſſes.

Ladies, Ladies, have the charity to take me with you, that I may make no blunder in repeating the ſtory.

Sir George, you don't know Mr. Saville.

Ten thouſand pardons—but I will not pardon myſelf, for not obſerving you. I have been with the ut⯑moſt impatience at your door twice to-day.

I am concerned you had ſo much trouble, Sir George.

Trouble! what a word!—I hardly know how to addreſs you; I am diſtreſſed beyond meaſure; and it is the higheſt proof of my opinion of your honour, and the delicacy of your mind, that I open my heart to you.

What has diſturbed you, Sir George?

Your having preſerved Lady Frances, in ſo imminent a danger. Start not, Saville; to protect Lady Frances, was my right. You have wreſted from me my deareſt privilege.

I hardly know how to anſwer ſuch a reproach. I cannot apologize for what I have done.

I do not mean to reproach you; I hardly know what I mean. There is one method by which you may reſtore peace to me; I cannot endure that my Wife ſhould be ſo infinitely indebted to any man who is leſs than my Brother.

Pray explain yourſelf.

I have a Siſter, Saville, who is amiable; and you are worthy of her, I ſhall give her a commiſſion to ſteal your heart, out of revenge for what you have done.

I am infinitely honoured, Sir George; but —

I cannot liſten to a ſentence which begins with ſo unpromiſing a word. You muſt go with us into Hampſhire; and, if you ſee each other with the eyes I do, your felicity will be complete. I know no one, to whoſe heart I would ſo readily commit the care of my Siſter's happineſs.

I will attend you to Hampſhire, with pleaſure; but not on the plan of retirement. Society has claims on Lady Frances, that forbid it.

Claims, Saville!

Yes, claims; Lady Frances was born to be the ornament of Courts. She is ſufficiently alarmed, not to wander beyond the reach of her Protector;—and, from the Britiſh Court, the moſt tenderly-anxious Huſband could not wiſh to baniſh his Wife. Bid her keep in her eye the bright Example who preſides there; the ſplendour of whoſe rank yields to the ſuperior luſtre of her Virtue.

I allow the force of your argument. Now for intelligence!

Oh! Heav'ns! do you know —

Let me tell the ſtory—As ſoon as Doricourt—

I proteſt you ſha'n't—ſaid Mr. Hardy—

No, 'twas Doricourt ſpoke firſt—ſays he—No, 'twas the Parſon—ſays he —

Stop his mouth, Sir George—he'll ſpoil the tale.

Never heed circumſtances—the reſult—the reſult.

No, no; you ſhall have it in form.—Mr. Hardy performed the Sick Man like an Angel—He ſat [78] up in his bed, and talked ſo pathetically, that the tears ſtood in Doricourt's eyes.

Aye, ſtood—they did not drop, but ſtood.—I ſhall, in future, be very exact. The Parſon ſeized the moment; you know, they never miſs an opportunity.

Make haſte, ſaid Doricourt; if I have time to reflect, poor Hardy will die unhappy.

They were got as far as the Day of Judgement, when we ſlipt out of the room.

Then, by this time, they muſt have reached Amazement, which, every body knows, is the end of Ma⯑trimony.

Aye, the Reverend Fathers ended the ſer⯑vice with that word, Prophetically—to teach the Bride what a capricious Monſter a Huſband is.

I rather think it was Sarcaſtically—to prepare the Bridegroom for the unreaſonable humours and vaga⯑ries of his Help-mate.

Here comes the Bridegroom of to-night.

Joy! joy! joy!

If he's a ſample of Bridegrooms, keep me ſingle!—A younger Brother, from the Funeral of his Fa⯑ther, could not carry a more fretful countenance.

Oh!—Now, he's melancholy mad, I ſuppoſe.

You do not conſider the importance of the occaſion.

No; nor how ſhocking a thing it is for a Man to be forced to marry one Woman, whilſt his heart is de⯑voted to another.

Well, now 'tis over, I confeſs to you, Mr. Doricourt, I think 'twas a moſt ridiculous piece of Quixotiſm, to give up the happineſs of a whole life to a Man who perhaps has but a few moments to be ſenſi⯑ble of the ſacrifice.

So it appeared to me.—But, thought I, Mr. Doricourt has travelled—he knows beſt.

Zounds! Confuſion!—Did ye not all ſet upon me?—Didn't ye talk to me of Honour—Compaſſion— Juſtice?

Very true—You have acted according to their dictates, and I hope the utmoſt felicity of the Married State will reward you.

Never, Sir George! To Felicity I bid adieu— but I will endeavour to be content. Where is my—I muſt ſpeak it—where is my Wife?

Mr. Doricourt, this Lady was preſſing to be in⯑troduced to you.

Oh!

.

I told you laſt night, you ſhou'd ſee me at a time when you leaſt expected me and I have kept my promiſe.

Whoever you are, Madam, you could not have arrived at a happier moment.—Mr. Doricourt is juſt mar⯑ried.

Married! Impoſſible! 'Tis but a few hours ſince he ſwore to me eternal Love: I believ'd him, gave him up my Virgin heart—and now!—Ungrateful Sex!

Your Virgin heart! No, Lady—my fate, thank Heaven! yet wants that torture. Nothing but the conviction that you was another's, could have made me think one moment of Marriage, to have ſaved the lives of half Mankind. But this viſit, Madam, is as barbarous as unexpected. It is now my duty to forget you, which, ſpite of your ſituation, I found difficult enough.

My ſituation!—What ſituation?

I muſt apologiſe for explaining it in this company —but, Madam, I am not ignorant, that you are the com⯑panion of Lord George Jennet—and this is the only cir⯑cumſtance that can give me peace.

[...]mdash;a Companion! Ridiculous pretence! No, Sir, [80] know, to your confuſion, that my heart, my honour, my name is unſpotted as her's you have married; my birth equal to your own, my fortune large—That, and my per⯑ſon, might have been your's.—But, Sir, farewell!

Oh, ſtay a moment—Raſcal! is ſhe not —

Who, ſhe? O Lard! no—'Twas quite a different perſon that I meant.—I never ſaw that Lady before.

Then, never ſhalt thou ſee her more.

Have mercy upon the poor Man!—Hea⯑vens! He'll murder him.

Murder him! Yes, you, myſelf, and all Man⯑kind. Sir George—Saville—Villers—'twas you who puſh'd me on this precipice;—'tis you who have ſnatch'd from me joy, felicity, and life.

There! Now, how well he acts the Mad⯑man!—This is ſomething like! I knew he would do it well enough, when the time came.

Hard-hearted Woman! enjoy my ruin—riot in my wretchedneſs.

This is too much. You are now the Huſband of my Daughter; and how dare you ſhew all this paſſion about another Woman?

Alive again!

Alive! aye, and merry. Here, wipe off the flour from my face. I was never in better health and ſpirits in my life.—I foreſaw t'would do—.Why, my illneſs was only a fetch, Man! to make you marry Letty.

It was! Baſe and ungenerous! Well, Sir, you ſhall be gratified. The poſſeſſion of my heart was no ob⯑ject either with You, or your Daughter. My fortune and name was all you deſired, and theſe—I leave ye. My native England I ſhall quit, nor ever behold you more. But, Lady, that in my exile I may have one conſolation, grant me the favour you denied laſt night;—let me behold [81] all that maſk conceals, that your whole image may be im⯑preſs'd on my heart, and chear my diſtant ſolitary hours.

'This is the moſt awful moment of my life. Oh, Doricourt, the ſlight action of taking off my Maſk, ſtamps me the moſt bleſt or miſerable of Women!

What can this mean? Reveal your face, I con⯑jure you.

Behold it.

Rapture! Tranſport! Heaven!

Now for a touch of the happy Madman.

This ſcheme was mine.

I will not allow that. This little ſtratagem aroſe from my diſappointment, in not having made the impreſ⯑ſion on you I wiſh'd. The timidity of the Engliſh cha⯑racter threw a veil over me, you could not penetrate. You have forced me to emerge in ſome meaſure from my natural reſerve, and to throw off the veil that hid me.

I am yet in a ſtate of intoxication—I cannot an⯑ſwer you.—Speak on, ſweet Angel!

You ſee I can be any thing; chuſe then my cha⯑racter—your Taſte ſhall fix it. Shall I be an Engliſh Wife?—or, breaking from the bonds of Nature and Edu⯑cation, ſtep forth to the world in all the captivating glare of Foreign Manners?

You ſhall be nothing but yourſelf—nothing can be captivating that you are not. I will not wrong your penetration, by pretending that you won my heart at the firſt interview; but you have now my whole ſoul—your perſon, your face, your mind, I would not exchange for thoſe of any other Woman breathing.

A Dog! how well he makes up for paſt ſlights! Couſin Racket, I wiſh you a good Huſband with all my heart. Mr. Flutter, I'll believe every word you ſay this fortnight. Mr. Villers, you and I have manag'd [82] this to a T. I never was ſo merry in my life—'Gad, I believe I can dance.

Charming, charming creature!

Congratulate me, my dear friends! Can you conceive my happineſs?

No, congratulate me; for mine is the greateſt.

No, congratulate me, that I have eſcaped with life, and give me ſome ſticking plaſter—this wild cat has torn the ſkin from my throat.

I expect to be among the firſt who are con⯑gratulated—for I have recovered one Angel, while Dori⯑court has gained another.

Pho! pho! Don't talk of Angels, we ſhall be happier by half as Mortals. Come into the next room; I have order'd out every drop of my Forty-eight, and I'll invite the whole pariſh of St. George's, but what we'll drink it out—except one dozen, which I ſhall keep under three double locks, for a certain Chriſtening, that I fore⯑ſee will happen within this twelvemonth.

My charming Bride! It was a ſtrange perver⯑ſion of Taſte, that led me to conſider the delicate timidity of your deportment, as the mark of an uninform'd mind, or inelegant manners. I feel now it is to that innate modeſty, Engliſh Huſbands owe a felicity the Married Men of other nations are ſtrangers to: it is a ſacred veil to your own charms; it is the ſureſt bulwark to your Huſband's honour; and curſed be the hour—ſhould it ever arrive— in which Britiſh Ladies ſhall ſacrifice to foreign Graces the Grace of Modeſty!