[]THE TOWN BEFORE YOU, A COMEDY.

SCENE I.—A plain Apartment, with a few Books.

HOW well thoſe fellows wrote, thoſe an⯑tients! How finely they ſatirize the rich, and what reſpect they have for virtue in rags! My dear, I will tranſlate the paſſage—off hand now, d'ye hear, off hand!

‘Poliarchus, the rich Athenian, wantoning in gluttony, looks with contempt on the poor Caſſander: Caſſander repoſing on his bed of ſtraw, thanks the Gods that he has health and virtue; and prays to be preſerved from the misfortune of being rich, like Poliarchus, whoſe floors are ſtained with the wine of drunkenneſs, and whoſe ſilver couch is con⯑ſtantly crowded by phyſicians.’

Are you ſure that is a juſt tranſlation, Mr. Fancourt?

What, Madam, do you doubt my knowledge of Greek! Some people can hardly read Engliſh at ſight; I can tranſlate at ſight, thanks to the milk I ſuck'd in at Oxford. Doctor Johnſon and I, were both Oxford men. —I like to read that old Quiz, he was ſo fond of us Oxford fellows. But he had too much reſpect for riches—he liked rich people.

To ſay truth, I have a little of his way of thinking. I had never much reſpect towards thoſe Philoſophers who are always throwing ſarcaſms on the rich—

I do maintain, Ma⯑dam, that the rich are the vileſt—

Come, come, Mr. Fancourt, your extravagancies have rendered you poor, and therefore you are always raving thus, and pouring your philipics on people of fortune;—as though vice and folly could only be found in palaces, and virtue in garrets.

Hey day! Why Ma'am—why—

For my part, I believe there is as much goodneſs amongſt perſons of fortune, as amongſt the poor—and I do not ſee why the power of dreſſing elegantly, and living in well educated ſociety, ſhould debaſe the heart, or weaken the underſtanding.

You do not ſee! why you are the greateſt—the moſt abominable—upon my ſoul, you are the moſt provoking fool that ever—

My dear Sir, I do not doubt it—you have repeated theſe opinions too often for me not to be convinced of their juſtice. But really now, between ourſelves

as opinion is nothing [3] without example, I will take the liberty to quote yourſelf in ſupport of mine.

Me! quote me!

Even your great and mighty ſelf! Mr. Fancourt, when I married you, you were not poor—not ſo poor as you are now; and I think at that time you had no particular vices; but as diſſipation has brought poverty upon you, I have obſerved that by little and little your ſhallow virtues have diſappeared, till—

'Till what?

Till you are capable of al⯑moſt any action that will not endanger your neck. Nay, I no longer mind your threaten⯑ing looks—I am ſo convinced of what I have ſaid, that my heart feels horror.

I'll make it feel ſomething elſe.

You cannot. All other power over my heart is over; you can afflict it no more! But obſerve my deduction. I ſtate you to yourſelf as a proof that poverty is ſometimes the ſource of wickedneſs; and that ſqualid wretchedneſs is as capable of debaſing the heart, as affluence and ſplendor.

Very well, woman! very well! ſtill the noiſe of that child there—

what an odious ſqualing it keeps!

It is not eaſy, Mr. Fancourt, to ſtill the noiſe of children who are hungry. Though they are the children of the firſt Mrs. Fancourt, it pierces my heart to hear them— why will you not do ſomething to get bread for them?

What would you have me do? I was not bred to ſtand behind a counter, nor [4] to cry "Chairs to mend" in the ſtreets. You know all that—what did you marry me for?

Alas! becauſe I loved you. The ſweetneſs of your manners diſguiſed the emptineſs of your heart, and I romantically thought that poverty could never be an evil, when two hearts fondly ſhared its difficulties. But now—permit me to aſk, why you married me?

Becauſe you had a modicum of a fortune—a ſcore of hundreds: and I had not ſo many ſhillings.

That little modicum might have been a bank, if properly managed, and—

Pſhaw!—ſtuff! I hate ſuch cant. What do you want?

A perſon left this parcel, Sir, and ſaid there was no anſwer.

Such abominable cant!

I am as tired of it as I uſed to be of my Grandmother's ſpelling through Hannah Glaſs's Art of Cookery, and I believe in my conſcience —the devil! here is gold!

Gold!

Keep off—you are too good, too pure, to want ſuch vile traſh. Twenty guineas by Jupiter—ah, ah!

Here is a note dropt

‘Accept this purſe, Sir, from one who is ſorry to ſee ſuch merit in confined circumſtances, and who was charmed with your delicate manner of revealing it.’

Who is it ſigned by?

Robert Floyer.

Ay, Sir Robert Floyer, a fine old Welchman, who got himſelf made Sheriff, then a Knight—thoſe two dignities generally follow, like the Old Bailey and a whipping. I made the old blockhead believe that I was deeply verſed in Welch antiquities—that Snowden was once a burning mountain, and that the Ap Morgans and Ap Shoneſes were lineally deſcended from King Priam. You ſee I know how to turn my wits to account—I can make money, though I can't make ſhoes.

Yes, and you ſee there is generoſity where there is no poverty; and that but for the beneficence of a man of fortune, a rich man, your children to-day wou'd have wanted a dinner.

Pſha! what merit is there in the generoſity of a rich man! a fellow who takes out a handful of guineas from his ſtore as you would dip a bucket into a well? give me the virtue of the poor man who divides his laſt ſhilling—his laſt two-pence with his friend; who takes his pint of porter from his thirſty lips, and ſhares it with his poorer neighbour.

Ah, here is your poor ſiſter —I will go and receive her—you can now aſſiſt her diſtreſſes—what pleaſure it will give you!

None of your documents—if ſhe is in diſtreſs, let her pawn her ſuperfluities, as other poor people do.

There is ſome difference between ſharing one's laſt two-pence with a friend, and one's laſt twenty guineas.

SCENE II.—A Square.

Rot et, here be three caerds or noates, or what the devil they be, left after all. Dang et, I have delivered ſeventeen—all the way from Mancheſter-ſquare to Petty France; from there to Biſhopſgate-ſtreet after ſweet⯑meats for Miſs, and then to the Hay-market about the pianny forty. Hang me if I doant make dead men of theſe

dead men tell no tales. The people they were for, will never know their loſs. I can ſay I found nobody at hoam; ha, ha, ha! that was amoaſt the firſt word I larn'd, when I come to Lunnun—"Not at hoam, Sir." Dad! the gentry here have the cheapeſt way of entertain⯑ing their friends; it doesn't coſt above a dozen or two lies a day to keep acquaintance with great quality. Hey! did you ſpeak to me, Sir?

Yes, my lad—Pray which is Sir Robert Floyer's?

Which is—

What, don't you know Sir Robert's? Why, Sir Robert is as well known in Wales as the Monument in Lunnun, or my Lord Mayor in his gilt coach.

Very likely: But which is his houſe in this ſtreet?

Why this houſe to be ſure

Why I live we'en. Pray, Sir, what may be your buſineſs we'en?

I am the young lady's ſtaymaker.

Staymaker!

why, I took you for a curnel, or a coptain, or a great knight belonging to a prince, or ſome'at of that ſort. Why, your coate is amoaſt the colour of ſcarlet. Aye, I know why that be —you think to paſs for one of thoſe brave fel⯑lows who go over ſea to fight for their country, and, i'faith, its pity but you ſhou'd!

Prithee let your young lady know that I am here. I am recommended by Lady Horatia Horton; I work for all the ladies of fine taſte in town.

Fine teaſte! Dad! we cut this morning for breakfaſt the fineſt pork griſkin I ever teaſted in my life. Come with me down the eary ſteps, and I'll give ye a bit with freſh muſtard that ſhall put your teaſte in tune for the whole day.

SCENE—An elegant Apartment (within).

Humphrey! Hum⯑phrey! Where can this loitering raſcal ſtay? So you found Mr. Fancourt's houſe?

Yes, Sir; in one of the retired ſtreets near Bloomſbury?

Well, I am glad I ſent him thoſe few guineas. Fancourt ſeems to be a lad of merit; and when he opened his diſtreſſes to me, [8] he did it in ſuch a delicate, modeſt way! He is an excellent companion, and he has a pretty taſte for antiquities—I like antiquities.

So I gueſs'd, Sir, by the vaſt quan⯑tity of old worm-eaten furniture you have at home, which you never make any uſe of, but to ſhew to ſtrangers. All from the old caſtles be⯑longing to your forefathers, Sir, I take it?

Yes, all from my forefathers caſ⯑tles. Hum

My grandfather was the firſt man of his family who ever went to bed, or got up his own maſter.

Two or three rooms of precious rotten furniture, Sir, give people a notion of the antiquity of your family

I believe the dog has found me out—it was for that very reaſon I bought it. You may remember, David, the year that I was ſheriff—I ſay that year in which I was high ſheriff for the county.—Ho—here comes Humphrey.

Where have you been, you loitering, weſt-country booby, theſe three hours?

Three hours! Why, Sir, 'tis my belief you wou'd have loitered ſix hours, if you had ſeen what I have ſeen, and heard what I have heard.

What haſt thou ſeen and heard?

Why, in my way to Biſhopſgate-ſtreet, I ſaw folks go into that old faſhioned houſe, where Gog and and Magog ſtand up to guard the mince-pies, whilſt the Lord Mayor dines.

Guildhall.

Yes, Gilthall—it is all over gilt and finery. So I follow'd a gemman into a great chamber, and there—O, my eyes! there I ſaw beautiful angels coming down through the clouds, on purpoſe to hold up the glaſs candleſticks, thus

Gad! I ſhou'd like to ſee them.

And the gemmen were debating. Yes—O! my ears! I heard a city debate, and they called one another Mr. Deputy—and one of them, with a fine red double chin, got up and ſaid, ‘I am ſorry to differ from Mr. Deputy (ſpeaking gruffly); but I contend that theſe innovations bode no good to our con⯑ſtitutions. The hour for dining, ſince my time, was two; it has been three, four, and ſix; and I ſuſpect ſhortly it may be eight— hum! I move, therefore, that a petition be preſented to the Lord Mayor—hum— hum—’

On which a little ſquinting gentleman roſe, and ſaid

‘I ſupport the worthy Deputy who ſpoke laſt. Theſe late hours are ruinous to the body cor⯑porate. On Lord Mayor's Day we dined ſo late, that when I went afterwards to Fiſh⯑monger's-hall to ſupper, the turbots were gone, nay, the ſecond courſe was demoliſhed, the ſweetmeats were pocketed, and nothing remained but cheeſe and pickles.’

You are a pickle! Get out—here is a great lady coming—get out of her way— go!

What, Madam, is your Ladyſhip going? Has not my daughter had the honour to ſee you, Lady Charlotte?

Yes; and I have left her with a perſon of much greater conſequence—ſhe is in deep conſultation with her milliner. To a girl of eighteen, Sir Robert, a milliner is of as much importance as an aid-du-camp to a general. I knew my diſtance when ſhe en⯑tered, and immediately took leave—Pray, Sir, order my chair

Madam, forgive me, if, before you go, I juſt plump one queſtion. What do you think of Mr. Conway?

Ha, ha, ha! Think of Mr. Conway? That he has all the advantages which belong to faſhion, without its vices. He has certainly ſome vanity, but more good ſenſe. His friends are well choſen; he admires beauty; he loves goodneſs; and there is a young lady—

Adieu, Sir Robert! Your anxiety about Mr. Conway I perfectly underſtand, and I hope you are ſatisfied.

What a thing it is to have a lady of quality ſo familiar with one!

Well, Georgina, what now? What now?

O, papa! look at this cap—did you ever ſee ſo bewitching a thing?

Pho! you little fool!

Look at this bow—look at the tip of this ſcarlet feather! Here, Jenny, put it away, with great care.

Care, indeed

it is pity my talents have not better employment than taking care of feathers, and wiping band-boxes.

Good bye, papa; I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's. I do love to go there. And what do you think I long to be? I long to be a ſculptor!

I don't underſtand ye.

O! Lady Horatia does look ſo charmingly whilſt at her labours; her ſweet white hands appear like the very marble ſhe is at work upon.

Did I hear right? At work upon marble?

Bleſs me! Why did I never tell you before that ſhe is a ſculptor? She has a large room full of fine things of her own work. O dear! I wiſh ſhe wou'd teach me her art; I could ſpend my life amidſt fine ſtatues. But pray, papa, when am I to be preſented! I am not in town till I am preſented.

Not in town!

Nay, indeed, its true; Lady Char⯑lotte told me ſo. I can't go any where in pub⯑lic, nor be ſpoken to by a ſingle creature, till I have been preſented: I am not come out till then.

Not come out! Bleſs me, Geor⯑gina, my dear, why then Saint James's has its ſlang as well as Saint Giles's.

Yes, to be ſure it has; and we muſt make haſte and get the ſlang, or they will [12] find us out to be mere bumpkins. When ſhall I be preſented?

Have patience. I am come to town about a little buſineſs of that ſort myſelf. Perhaps we ſhall be preſented together.

How, ha, ha, ha! preſented to⯑gether! Was ever ſuch a thing heard of? Miſs and her papa preſented together! Then did you never come out till now, papa?

Pſhaw! mine is quite a different buſineſs. If I am put into a great office, I muſt be preſented in courſe.

Why, what are you going to be?

That I cannot tell.

If they give you your choice, pray be a duke. O! how I ſhou'd doat on your being a duke!

Why?

Then I ſhou'd be a lady—Lady Georgina—delightful! Lady Georgina's name ſhould fly about the town as though it were made with wings to it.

Nonſenſe! You a duke's daugh⯑ter, indeed! A pretty figure you'd make as a duke's daughter!

Figure! Where the difficulty? I can do it exactly—you ſhall ſee now—When I was laſt at Lady Horatia Horton's, a counteſs from the Opera came in, thus

—Bleſs me, Lady Horatia, how cou'd you be at home to-night? I gal⯑lopp'd ſixty miles to-day, have kill'd one coach-horſe, and ſpoiled another, merely to hear the Banti—O! the Banti!

The bantling! why, whoſe bant⯑ling was it!

O! her upper tones!—and, O! her under tones! whilſt ſhe was flying from B to C, hanging upon G, running into cantabile from E, and ſinking down by juſt gradations to D, the whole houſe were magnetized—I ſaw a general faint—a miniſter of ſtate take out his ſmelling bottle, and a prince of the blood blew his noſe.

Blew his noſe! very affecting in⯑deed! and counteſſes are charming creatures. But, dear Georgina, the warmth of thy ima⯑gination would diſturb my peace, did not thy extreme giddineſs prevent its faſtening on any one object for more than ten minutes together. Hah! take care of thyſelf, my dear Georgina, thou art treading upon men-traps and ſpring⯑guns. Thy paths, though ſeemingly covered with flowers, are full of thorns, prickles, and adders.

Thorns, prickles, and adders! law, Papa, why people never ſeem to feel them, and I dare ſay I ſhall dance over them as lightly as my neighbours.

Yes, DISSIPATION! thou art the enemy of female honour. It is on thy accurſed altar that the peace of the wife, the repoſe of the huſband, and the welfare of whole families, are continually offer'd up. O! ſhield my child.

from the corrup⯑tion of DISSIPATION!

SCENE—ASGILL's Lodgings.

My maſter is engaged, Sir, but I will acquaint him that you are here.

Hah, Conway, I ſaw you come in, ſo I follow'd you up—I know you are at home in Aſgill's lodgings.

Are you acquainted with Mr. Aſgill.

No; notwithſtanding he keeps good company, and is nephew to a rich old Sir Simon in the City, who between loans and lum⯑ber, makes money faſter than he tells lies! but there are an odd ſort of three corner'd mortals one can never cloſe with—they preſent a point at every turn; you may as eaſily come into contact with a porcupine. I know all the people in town except himſelf, and I came in on purpoſe to aſk you to make us inti⯑mate.

That will be impoſſible. Pray Fancourt, how do you get acquainted with every body, for—let me ſay it in a whiſper—your reputation is not of the very firſt water.

Pho! what men are diamonds in the way of reputation? French paſte does as well, and one is not ſo much afraid to damage it. If I were ſuch a fellow as you, with a character of the true water, I ſhould be in eternal anxiety —never dare to turn to the right or the left— fearful of a ſpeck here, of a flaw there; as it is, I bruſh on through the world—my French paſte makes a ſhew, and if I loſe it—why I loſe a thing of no value.

Amazing!

Hang me if I would be trou⯑bled with a firſt rate character, any more than with a firſt rate beauty—it would only [15] create envy, and my friends would never reſt 'till they had robb'd me of it.

O! that talents ſhould be thus en⯑liſted in the ſervice of vice.

That I ſwear you learnt from our old one-eyed Proctor of Brazen Noſe—I re⯑member the very words; I have heard them fifty times whilſt I ſtood on his blind ſide. O! that a man ſhould thus live on the ſcraps of others all his life, and never dare coin a prin⯑ciple for himſelf! So, you won't introduce me to Aſgill?

very well —very well—I'll introduce myſelf to an Arch⯑biſhop before I am a week older, and get my⯑ſelf made a Prebend in revenge.

Aſgill, I am come to diſengage my⯑ſelf from the hunt; I cannot be with you to⯑morrow.

Very well—I ſhall not enquire your reaſons; nor ſhall I pretend to gueſs that there is a little Welch Diana in the way of the hunt— you have not ſeen her I dare ſwear.

Be not ſo daring—I have ſeen her; but I have only ſeen her. She is as wild as one of the kids on her father's mountains.

Where have you met with her?

At Lady Horatio Horton's; but her volatility is ſo great, that it wou'd be as eaſy to catch quickſilver.

I cannot ſay I think ſo—ſhe does not want life; but it is the ſweet penſiveneſs of her character that charms me—a thouſand graces [16] hang about penſiveneſs which mere animal ſpirits deſtroy.

I have not ſeen her in that humour.

And then her fine taſte.

Her taſte is as fine as other people's I dare ſwear; but ſhe will bear a little poliſh.

She bear poliſh—ha, ha, ha! where will you find ſuch a mind, ſuch an under⯑ſtanding?

I have no doubt of its native excel⯑lence, and I hope to have the pleaſure of im⯑proving it.

You! what do you mean, Sir? of whom are you ſpeaking?

Of whom do you ſpeak?

Of Lady Horatia Horton—did you not name her?

Ha, ha, ha! ſo this is confidence by chance! dear Aſgill, I have blundered on your ſecret very undeſignedly—I was ſpeaking of the daughter of Sir Robert Floyer.

But you mentioned Lady Horatia; and the moment her idea is preſented to me, every other is ſwallowed up. O! Conway, ſhe engroſſes my whole ſoul—to ſee her is bliſs, and the ſound of her voice is rapture.

Heyday!

You have the ſecret by chance; but you are welcome to it, and I am prepared for all your jeſts on my paſſion for a woman who is devoted to ſculpture.

Faith, I perceive no room for jeſts. I think it muſt be charming to ſee a fine wo⯑man ſit with a chiſſel, and bring out of a block of marble, a form as graceful as her own; every feature glowing with animation beneath [17] her eye, and every ſtroke of the mallet warm⯑ing the cold maſs into mind and expreſſion.

I thank you; but your eulogy is not compleat, for the purity of my Horatia chaſtiſes the art ſhe loves. The ſubjects ſhe ſelects, Delicacy itſelf would paint out: with an enchanting modeſty ſhe ſeeks for models only in the graces of her own ſex, the daughters of Britain, and the matrons of Greece.

Very well: but you are a Son of Britain—does Lady Horatia—

Yes—no—I can not tell. She treats me with rigour, yet I think her heart has paſſion. I ſometimes fancy I ſee it ſhine like the ſun in November—unwillingly, and by ſtarts.

Why do you not lead to an ex⯑planation.

I cannot; for ſhe is rich, and I am as you know, dependent on the will of an Uncle.

He has the reputation of being a Croeſus.

True; but a fortune, whoſe baſis is commerce, may be doubled, or diſſolved in a month.

Well. Pray for me, my dear Aſgill, that I may catch my little Welch fawn; I have no prayers to make for you; for I perceive your's is one of thoſe ſober paſſions, that, end as it may, your mind will keep its equilibrium. O! how delightful it muſt be to love with ſo much good ſenſe.

O! how he miſtakes! it is in ſouls like mine that love rages with all his fury. [18] The gay, the volatile, can ſcarcely maintain a paſſion; but in the ſerious and reflective mind, love raiſes a deſpotic throne, and, like the burning ſun of Africa, he pours his chiefeſt ardors upon ſlaves.

Perkins! how now! your looks alarm me. What news from the City?

O! Sir!

My good friend, ſpeak. You very much diſtreſs me. Something is amiſs.

Would I could ſay your fears were unfounded. Something is amiſs — your Uncle—

Nay, ſpeak at once! I can bear any thing rather than ſuſpence.

Then ſummon all your fortitude! your Uncle, the good Sir Simon, has ſent me to tell you that—he—is—undone.

Oh!

undone! did you ſay ſo, Perkins? did you?

The misfortunes which have ſhaken the trade of Europe have at laſt reached him. He who lately ranked on Change a two hun⯑dred thouſand pound man, may not, when his creditors are ſatisfied, be able to com⯑mand one thouſand pound.

Your news is heavy, very heavy! leave me, dear Perkins! I want to ruminate on my misfortunes alone.

My worthy, my unhappy Uncle! the tide of affliction muſt roll [19] heavy on him.

It is determined—I ſee Lady Horatia no more. No—never more—

never ſhall her delicacy be inſulted by ſeeing a beggar court her to his arms.

But what can I do? bred to no pro⯑feſſion, knowing nothing; ignorant of every art by which independence, or even bread may be obtained; I am thrown a vagabond upon the world. O! my too indulgent Uncle, when you ſent me to Cambridge, had you placed me, rather, in a counting-houſe, I might now have been in a ſituation to have ſoften'd all your afflictions—inſtead of which—O, horror! my ſoul ſickens—my head is dizzy—I ſink to death.

SCENE I.—A Lodging Houſe.

Nay, Mr. Tippy— ſtay, Sir, you ſhall hear—you ſhall hear me.

Shall hear;—why how the devil can I avoid it? a pound of cotton ſtuff'd into my ears would not keep out the ſound—I wonder you can open your mouth ſo wide, with ſuch a pain in it.

Aye—between my tooth-ache and you, I am almoſt mad. Sir, I tell you plainly I do not like your goings on, and I de⯑ſire you to quit my lodgings.

Not for the world; for then I muſt quit you, my dear, good humour⯑ed, quiet Mrs. Bullruſh.

None of your jeers. I don't like the ſort of company you keep

That's odd; for my friends are of all ſorts and complexions.

And of all characters too, I be⯑lieve. They ſeem moſt of them to be men who live by their wits.

Yes;—I like to have my wits about me.

And, Sir, you have been in my lodgings fourteen weeks, and I have never yet ſeen the colour of your money.

No!—that's a reproach I am aſham'd of—you ſhall make it no more

There—bright yellow gold as ever came from the mint—does not the colour charm ye

Good morning!

Nay, this is too bad—ſtop— ſtop!

SCENE II.—St. James's Street.—the Palace, Fruit Shop, &c.

The ſun always brings out butter⯑flies—a fine ſhew of women to-day.

Tippy—Tippy—hey!

Who is ſo familiar with my name?

Hah! Fancourt—I have not ſeen you theſe ſix months—are you engaged there?

No—I'll come to you.

The fellow looks as well as ever; I wonder what he's upon now

Well, my boy—how goes the world?

How goes the world—round, I ſuppoſe; for its inhabitants ſeem all giddy— where have you been ſince we parted at Bath?

Bath? that was a twelvemonth ſince. I have been in a thouſand ſhapes, and a thou⯑ſand places ſince then. The laſt was Italy.

Italy! how the devil could you get there? was you bear driver? I mean did you hold the leading ſtrings of ſome pretty Maſter, running the tour?

How I got there you may know here⯑after; but there I have been. Zounds, man, I learnt to be a critic there—I talk of ſtatues and intaglios—of buſts and medallions—I find fault where ever I go—my judgment is aſked—my ſatire is feared—I am courted and hated—O! its a glorious thing to be a critic.

Why you don't pretend that you are really a connoiſſeur?

I pretend to any thing that will either get me into a dining parlour, or a wine cellar. I pronounce on Paintings and Tokay—on Statues and Old Hock; I know exactly the grapes from which the one was preſſed, and the age in which the other was chiſſell'd—pſha! man, there requires little to be a connoiſſeur, but impudence.

Well—but how do you live— plainly—how do you eat?

For the laſt three months I have eat on the ſtrong likeneſs I bear to Lord Beechgrove.

The reſemblance is aſtoniſhing— they call you his polygraph.

You are miſtaken. They call his Lordſhip my polygraph.

I ſtand corrected. But how have you lived on this reſemblance, has he taken you up for the ſake of the likeneſs?

Taken me up! you are curſt unlucky in your phraſes to-day. No, no—he has been uſeful to me without his knowledge: for inſtance, I paſs'd one night through Portland Place, and ſaw a great route. I daſh'd into the hall, curſing the crowd of carriages which prevented my chariot from coming up. The porter in⯑ſtantly knew me; gave my name—and LORD [23] BEECHGROVE reſounded all the way up the ſtairs. The lady of the houſe received me; placed me immediately at a Loo table, and in two hours I brought off two hundred guineas.

Lucky raſcal!

I lately walk'd down to Barnet; took a chaiſe and four, and bade them whiſk me to the Royal Hotel, Pall-Mall. Away we flaſh'd; roads all mud—horſes plunging—poſt-boys cutting; meaſured Finchley Common in ſeven⯑teen minutes, ten ſeconds. Rode over a ſmoak⯑ing Common Councilman at the Adam and Eve—run in at Tottenham Court Road, and came neatly up

Ha, ha, ha!

The waiters recognized my Lordſhip, gave me the beſt apartments, the very rooms the Turkiſh Ambaſſador had, and there I lived in firſt ſtyle; no epicure—never choſe more than five things at table; drank Champaigne: in ten days took my leave to viſit my Cumber⯑land eſtate, and ordered the bill to be ready againſt my return.

Gad, I adviſe you to take his Lord⯑ſhip up, and ſwear that he's an impoſtor—you may then enjoy his Cumberland eſtate.

I have taken a fancy to an eſtate in another county; a better ſcheme, my boy!

A plan which ſometimes forces me to take ſhelter, like Her⯑cules, under the diſguiſe of a petticoat. Yes, like him, I exchange my club for a diſtaff, or like Achilles, transform my ſurtout to a gauze robe, and my waiſtcoat to a lace tucker.

Hah—high examples! Come, tell me—No, defer! defer! here comes a lovely [24] Welch girl, whoſe father I ſometimes do the honour to call upon.

O! dear Mr. Fancourt, how do you do? Nay, do not ſtop me. I hate to ſtand in the ſtreet, people ſtare at one ſo.

For that very reaſon you do not hate to ſtand in the ſtreet. What is beauty good for, if it is not to be looked at?

Oh, ho—now I find where⯑about you are. I know more of this family than you gueſs at, mon ami.

Whilſt theſe gentlemen are talk⯑ing to Miſs, I'll ſtep in here for a hap'eth of apples.

How came you here without your carriage?

It is ſo charming a morning that I bid it follow me from Pall-mall, where I have been ſhopping. Nay, I beg you let me paſs. Bleſs me! where is my ſervant?

I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's on the moſt particular buſineſs in the world.

O! ſuch extortioning! ſuch cheatery!—I never heard the like—I wonder they are not afraid to ſtand in their ſhoes.

What is the matter, Humphrey?

Miſs, as I hope to be—I did but juſt pop into my mouth a little bit of a peach —'twere no bigger than a walnut—it went down at a gulp like a pill—and they have made me pay a ſhilling for it.

Why, how could you think of going into ſuch a ſhop?

Such a ſhop! why not? A ſhop's a ſhop, if honeſt people did but keep it, and as free for me as another.

Follow me—I am aſhamed of the noiſe you make.

A ſhilling! Upon my ſay-ſo if— aye, I'll mark you, never fear.

She's a lovely girl! an heireſs? I'll pretend ignorance for the preſent

She is—we'll ſpeak of that hereafter. Her father is coming towards us from the Park. Now her father is a rich old fool, and we are two wits. Folly has been the natural food of wit, ſince the ſun firſt threw his burning glance upon mankind.

I underſtand ye—But I'll lend no aſ⯑ſiſtance unleſs we halve it—remember that— halves or nothing.

Why, to be ſure.

Are you upon honour?

To the laſt breath—The old fool —hang it—he is no fool neither. In ten words, for here he comes, he was of uſe on a late election, and the parliament-man

ad⯑viſed him to come up to town to receive ac⯑knowledgments from the miniſter. He was afraid to leave his daughter behind, ſo wiſely brought her up.

My dear, Sir, how I rejoice to ſee you! I call'd at your houſe to return thanks for the great—

O! not a word, not a word, Mr. Fancourt. Silence will oblige me—

Permit me, Sir Robert, to make you known to my Lord Beechgrove.

Lord Beechgrove

Is he not a near relation of the Duke of—

Firſt couſin, and his moſt parti⯑cular adviſer.

My Lord, I am your Lordſhip's very obedient, very humble ſervant.

Sir Robert, I am rejoiced to ſee you. We have long look'd for you in town. I have heard you much ſpoken of at a certain table. We know our friends, Sir Robert. Pray, Mr. Fancourt, bring Sir Robert to dine with me. I am ſorry to leave you, but it is a cabi⯑net morning, and the concerns of Europe, you know, muſt not be neglected. Adieu!

That's right—never neglect bu⯑ſineſs. O! I wiſh all the peers were like this peerleſs peer. Ay, there he goes into the Pa⯑lace, I ſee. Mr. Fancourt, I am prodigiouſly obliged to you for making me known to his lordſhip. Is he a man of large fortune?

Yes; but a little out at preſent. It is amazing what vaſt ſums he has expended for the public. He was juſt aſking me if I knew any honeſt man who could lend him a thouſand pounds. He could have ten times that of the Jews—But he hates the Jews—O! he has never any dealings with the Jews.

Perfectly right.

O! I always ſay, my lord, what⯑ever you do, borrow money of the Chriſtians —always borrow of the Chriſtians. He only wants it for a month, juſt till quarter-day. [27] Sir Robert, its an opportunity now—he has amazing intereſt—a ſingle ſentence, whilſt he is ſwallowing a glaſs of Burgundy, would do your buſineſs.

Indeed! Whilſt he is ſwallow⯑ing a glaſs of Burgundy?

I'll ſhew you now. This is my glaſs

you ſhall be the great man; we'll ſuppoſe his name to be SNAPPER, and I am Lord Beech⯑grove. Come, SNAPPER, "here's to the girl we love!"

I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt do ſomething for that Welch knight; he who was ſheriff there t'other day—

High ſheriff for the county.

Pardon me! High ſheriff for the county

He is the ſaddeſt old raſcal

he

is the greateſt enemy we have in the principality.

Why, Sir, what do you mean? They never had ſuch a friend; I ſpent more money to favour the cauſe than I care to own. I was for ever on horſeback; there was not a cottager who could influence the ſixteenth couſin of a voter, whom I did not en⯑tertain; and the fact is, it was ſolely owing to me—

What, do you take me to be ſuch a ninny as to plead your ſervices. You are a mere chicken! Liſten. I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt have him on our ſide

The old ſcoundrel killed his ſet of coach greys, and fifteen nags in riding about the country to oppoſe us

He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and the ap Shoneſes in three coun⯑ties. [28] In ſhort, we muſt have him—ſo here goes— "the girl we love!" Thus, I ſwallow the girl, he ſwallows the hint, and the buſineſs is done. Will you lend me the thouſand pounds?

I will—I underſtand; this is what you call kicking a man up ſtairs.

Only for a month.

Nay, if it is for ſix weeks. I ſhall not ſtand upon a fortnight.

Thus it is to deal with men of generoſity.

Call upon me after dinner. I am hurried juſt now; our member lives in the next ſtreet, and I am going to him; but I'll write a draft on my banker for the thouſand pounds againſt you call. O! I like to oblige a lord.

Well, now to him who is rich in expedients, of what conſequence is being pen⯑nyleſs? Let groſs, plodding ſpirits dig and labour; it is ours to gather the fruit.

SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Here, I have brought this odd garment for Miſs. What is ſhe going to do with it?

I can't tell.

Could a body ſee that fine place they talk about, where Madam makes men and women all in marble.

Perhaps you may get a peep at it. There is company there at preſent. It is called a ſchool.

School! Zooks, I am glad to hear great folks go to ſchool. Some of them, mayhap, may larn better manners.

SCENE—A large, elegant Apartment, with va⯑rious Pieces of Sculpture, Statues, Urns, &c.

This is, indeed, a ſchool! Here are copies of all that is valuable in the art ſhe loves. Ah, the lovely artiſt herſelf.

Dear Lady Charlotte, I re⯑joice to ſee you. They did not tell me you were here.

I have been here a long while; de⯑lighting myſelf with your charming works. But how full of labour is the amuſement you have choſen?

I do not find it ſo.

So different from faſhionable life.

O! the labour of a faſhion⯑able life wou'd kill me; I ſhould ſink under it. Chipping marble is playing with feathers compared to that.

How ſo?

The diſcipline of a life in fa⯑ſhion is by no means of the mildeſt ſort

Conſider, for inſtance, the neceſſary vi⯑gils and abſtinence of a gameſter. It is expe⯑dient [30] that ſhe works hard and lives ſparingly; for if ſhe does not keep her ſpirits perfectly cool, inſtead of cheating her friend, her friend may cheat her^*. My labours are leſs and more innocent than hers.

O! I perceive you will be able to defend yourſelf.

In the next place reflect on the toils of a determined beauty. Whether ſhe wakes or ſleeps; whatever ſhe does, whereever ſhe goes, it is all with relation to the one great object which engroſſes her meditations. After hours waſted, murder'd, in the hard work of the toi⯑lette, away ſhe ſprings! Her wheels thunder rapidly through the ſtreets—ſhe flies from aſ⯑ſembly, to aſſembly. Does the muſic of the concert faſcinate her? No. Does poliſh'd converſation intereſt her? No. Some other beauty has been the belle of the evening; her heart has been torn with envy; ſhe returns home; drags off her ornaments in diſguſt, and throws herſelf on a ſleepleſs bed in anguiſh. Are my labours leſs pardonable than hers?

You will be too hard for me in argument, ſo I drop your ſtatues, to talk of yourſelf. Something, I ſee, is wrong. What is it?

Come, be explicit— You will not ſpeak! In plain language, when did you ſee Mr. Aſgill?

Not this week—no—not for a whole week! I will conceal nothing from you. I find now that my tenderneſs more than equals his. I have no joy left—the chiſſel [31] drops from my hand, the marble block is no longer moulded into fleſh, my taſte has no em⯑ployment, and my heart is breaking.

How do you account for his abſence?

Tired with my haughty coldneſs, he has forſaken me. I die with jealouſy and ſelf-reproach. He has found an object more amia⯑ble and more tender. I knew he loved me, and I gloried in my conqueſt.—

O, Aſgill! thou art revenged!

What hearts we poſſeſs! Always too cold, or too feeling. My dear Horatia, ſtonify your's a little. As you give ſpirit to marble, transfuſe the marble to your heart. See, here is your little Welch friend.

O! Lady Horatia! I am ſo re⯑joiced! Bleſs me! you are weeping—what has happened?

A favourite goldfinch has happened to die, my dear.

And laſt night I loſt a Canary bird. I am ſure I cried for half an hour. Give me your goldfinch, and we will bury them to⯑gether. O, dear! and you ſhall copy them in marble; that will be a ſweet taſk for you.

You know what I have hurried here for?

No.

No! Why did not you tell me you wanted to give my form to the ſtatue of Andromache—Andromache mourning for her huſband; that you have juſt began to chip out there, you know.

I did ſo; but I am out of ſpirits to-day.

O! I will not be diſappointed. Your favourite work will put you in ſpirits. I have brought a dreſs for the purpoſe; Hum⯑phrey, bring it in.

I ſhall be ſadly mortified if you ſend me away.

Come, ſit down, Lady Ho⯑ratia, it will amuſe you.

Yes, do; and 'tis very fortunate that I loſt my Canary bird. I'll think of that, and then I ſhall look ſad enough for Hector's widow.

Pho! you little chit! Well, ſtand on the pedeſtal, and lean on the broken column now, with proper penſiveneſs and grace.

Yes, I will be exactly the thing.

O! my poor Ca⯑nary bird!

Ha, ha, ha! Come, let us place your drapery in ſtatue like order.

Now, keep ſteady, and think of your Canary bird.

Mr. Conway.

Who?

Mr. Conway.

Dear! Mr. Conway.

Some Gentlemen are with him, and they wiſh to ſee the ſchool.

Dear Lady Charlotte, receive them, then—I cannot—I cannot indeed!

Gracious! now I think of it, I have a great mind to run up again; I will, I declare, and ſee what Mr. Conway ſays to me as a ſtatue.

A ſtatue—why, ſurely, you do not expect to impoſe on him?

O yes, I do—I am ſure he will not find me out

Now, dear Lady Char⯑lotte, juſt place my veil a little on this ſide. O! make haſte—make haſte—I hear them coming.

I muſt gra⯑tify you. What a giddy thing you are!

Lady Charlotte, you have heard of Mr. Tippy?

Ah, ah, what, this is the place! don't mind me, Ma'am; don't mind me, I am uſed to run about this town, and correct its follies; 'tis a damn'd good town, that is certain; one [34] always finds ſubjects for ridicule! well, what the devil am I to ſee?

Look around.

I, juſt warm from the School of Florence; I who have trod the Roman Way; have ſeen the Baths of Trajan, and the Dog Kennels of Nero, I look at the works of an Engliſh artiſt. Ha, ha, ha!

Heavens! it is—it is ſhe! ah! how well do you repreſent yourſelf: for you are yourſelf all marble; at leaſt your heart is ſo. Yes, flinty-hearted charmer! you are ever cold and inſenſate. O! I could ſtand and gaze my life away, like Pygmalion, had I, like him, the power to warm my ſtatue into love! what, will you not bleſs me with one glance. Ah, you act your part too well.

Here is an arm; faith, it would make a very good leg; and this fine Grecian lady is like a Kentiſh hop-picker!

Critic! come hither; come this way; here is a new ſubject—has not this the true Grecian character?

What is this? is this Lady Horatia's chiſſel?

No—it is by a greater artiſt.

An Engliſh one, I'll be ſworn

Grecian indeed! a mere block-chipper!

Is it ill proportioned?

Pſhaw! nonſenſe! talk of proportions to ſcale makers and carpenters; the thought is mechanical! a mere wax doll! where are the inflexions? a human figure made on this prin⯑ciple, could never move. Now I will convince [35] you—nothing like conviction; obſerve the muſcle of this foot!

O! do not touch me

There, Sir, you ſee I can move; and I can dance

What, Mr. Tippy! the breath⯑ing form of beauty a wax doll! the work of a block chipper! ha, ha, ha.

Why, Tippy, how is this? is it the Firſt of April to-day?

Accept my ſmelling bottle; you ſeem ready to ſink.

Who! I am done up as a connoiſſeur.

Mr. Tippy! Critic! Mr. Tippy!

Ha, ha, ha! done up indeed; they purſue him as ſmall birds do a hawk. Angel!

Why, you were the perſon whom I wanted to make a fool of—pray follow him.

How is it poſſible for me to quit the ſpot where you—

I declare, Mr. Conway, I will not hear you; I have told you ſo twenty times. And as to your kneeling, one finds ſuch things in novels; but no man who really loves, thinks of ſuch fooleries.

How do you know that?

I am ſure of it; there was a young man who came down to Glamorganſhire from College, and almoſt broke his heart about me! and he never knelt once.

O, roſes and carnations!

then—did—how—how, I ſay, were you ſure that he loved you?

How! O, I was ſure of it.

Was he always telling you ſo?

He never told me ſo once. He uſed to run away from me; and, at laſt, he had a fever, and in his ravings, he talk'd of no one but me.

Who told you ſo?

His ſiſter told me ſo!

And did you not pity him?

Yes, I pitied him, becauſe I could not love him.

O, that ſaves my life.

And where is he now?

I don't know; but I have heard he is recovered, and makes a very great figure ſomewhere. They always get over it.

But if you ſhould not love me, I ſhould die.

Love! I wou'd not love for all the world. Miſs Gwatkin was in love once, and ſhe grew as pale as horſe-radiſh. Fooliſh creature, if ſhe had kept her colour, perhaps the Gentleman would have liked her.

O! let me teach you to love; I ſee you are yet as ignorant of it, as—

As that fine Mr. Tippy was of ſculpture, ha, ha! teach me to love; what, teach me to be wretched, to weep, to be ſleep⯑leſs, to loſe my bloom. O! if I ever thought it poſſible that I could love you, I ſhould hate you beyond all bearing—I would fly from you, and never ſee you more.

She flies! O happy omen! let her but dread me, and I have advanced one ſtep; if ſhe fears to love me, the buſineſs is half com⯑pleated.

SCENE—A Counting-Houſe.

Has not my Nephew been here yet?

He was here laſt night, Sir—I took care that he ſaw no one but me, and he went away in ſuch diſtreſs, that my heart ach'd for him.

Dear lad!

Here he comes—here he comes—

O! how ſhall. I ſpeak to him? I have given myſelf a taſk that I can hardly bear.

My dear boy!

O! Sir, what ſhall I ſay to you—words cannot utter—

Come, come, hope the beſt— perhaps matters may not turn out ſo badly.

Yes, I will hope and pray for you. But in the mean time

my dear Sir, I am aſhamed, I bluſh at ſuch an offering. But it is my all—

What, what is it you mean?

You know I have by inheritance a little land; it is but one hundred pounds a year —O! that it were thouſands. In this paper, [38] Sir, it is made over to you

And now

O! my father!

O! ſtop, ſtop—my dear Sidney, ſtop!

He has ruſhed into the ſtreet like a flaſh. Let him go, Sir. Such a moment as this does good to the heart of man. He will be better for this affliction as long as he lives.

But does he not deſerve all my love; all my anxiety; all my care?

He does—he does—

This Lady Horatia, whom I am told of, muſt be an angel if ſhe deſerves him. I wonder now, Perkins, what effect the news of his poverty will have upon her. I have a good mind to wait upon her myſelf, to ſee how ſhe takes it.

Will you, Sir?

I have no great opinion of theſe fine ladies. She may be good for ſomething; but in general, I believe, you may take them by the buſhel; there is not much choice.

Then will you go yourſelf, Sir Simon?

Yes, I think I will go; and if I find her worthy my SIDNEY—O! but ſhe can⯑not be worthy! birth, and beauty and riches are all fine things; but when put into the ſcale againſt ſuch innate goodneſs; ſuch an upright mind; ſuch rectitude of character, it is weighing jewels againſt droſs!

SCENE I.—FANCOURT's.

Affected pleaſantry, Mr. Fan⯑court, is the poor refuge of an uneaſy heart. The converſation which has paſſed in the next room with Mr. Tippy, I have heard; and I fear you have an action in contemplation which will hereafter give you remorſe.

Remorſe, ha, ha, ha!

Pray do not think that every thing is to be carried off with a laugh.

Not carried off with a laugh! Let me tell you, my, dear, that as long as you can get the world to laugh with you, you may carry any point you pleaſe. Only make wickedneſs pleaſant, and they'll heartily forgive you.

But, Sir, remorſe of heart— Do you never feel that?

Oh, exceedingly. Yes, I feel re⯑morſe very much, when in any of my—little —odd—excentricities, which you, in your vulgar dialect, call wickedneſſes, I cannot get the laugh on my ſide.

What, then, do the world really laugh at wickedneſſes?

O! yes, always, my dear, always— when they do not ſuffer by it. A man will be [40] horridly mad if I cheat him of a thouſand pounds; but if I ſwindle his neighbour out of it, he laughs, and ſays, ‘That Fancourt is a ſad, wicked fellow, but he's clever; hang the dog, tho' he does deſerve the gallows, I like him after all.’

Monſtrous!

If one ſeduces any one's wife, the injured huſband rages, but his friend ſimpers; and when he meets the aggreſſor he takes him under the arm, and ſays, "Come, tell us the ſtory."

O flagitious! Well, Sir, and a daughter?

A daughter! O! what—what you heard Tippy juſt now, did you? You heard what was ſaid about Sir Robert Floyer's daughter?

I did.

Well, then, my dear, keep ſilence; for if you do not, I will ſlit that pretty tongue of your's, and make it chatter double, like a ſtarling's.

Oh, horrible! I cannot con⯑tain myſelf! Here is a plot laid for the bitter anguiſh of a father, for the ruin of a child!

I will—that dreſs—yes, that dreſs of the Savoyard—I ſtill have it—and in that—

Hark ye, woman, leſt you ſhould miſtake the good humour I have ſhewn, I tell you, that if you dare to utter—to whiſper with the ſlighteſt breath, what your impertinent cu⯑rioſity [41] has put you in poſſeſſion of, every mi⯑ſery that I can inflict awaits you! I have a dagger

not for your body, but for your mind. I have ſomething that ſhall pierce your ſpirit, through, and through!

I tremble at your threats— yet I cannot forbear to bid you remember, that the young woman, whoſe fortune and peace you deſign to ruin, is the daughter of the man who, touched by your diſtreſſes, ſent you yeſterday noble relief.

Yeſterday is paſt, and a thouſand to-morrows are to come; I muſt provide for them; my opportunities are few, and my wants are preſſing!

Now, Mr. Fancourt, what ſay you—is POVERTY the nurſe of virtue?

Woman! I cannot argue—Re⯑member!

O! how has neceſſity hardened his heart! Yes, poverty, thou haſt a thouſand ills beſides thy nakedneſs and want! But this young creature ſhall not be its victim. I muſt try to ſave her—I feel it a duty, and will not be deterr'd.

SCENE II.—The Room of ſtatues, at Lady HO⯑RATIA's.

Yes, tell your lady, Sir Simon Aſ⯑gill from the city

Why, what an odd place this [42] is! Your ſervant, Madam

Why, you look as melancholy as the wife of a lame duck juſt waddled home from the Alley. O! here comes the lady herſelf.

Lady Horatia Horton, I am your moſt obe⯑dient ſervant.

Sir, I am—

I Lady Horatia—ha, ha, ha!

I wonder who he is.

Madam, I wait on you on a me⯑lancholy occaſion.

I'll keep it up. Then, Sir, I wiſh you had ſtaid away. I hate melancholy. Sir, this is my birth-day. I am this day eighteen years of age, and I will not be made melancholy.

Eighteen years; my nephew is ten years older. A happy age, Madam; the union of youth and manhood! Were I a lady I would never take a boy to guide me through life. Eight and twenty is the age, and that is the age of my nephew.

Ha, ha, ha! And pray, Sir, ha, ha, ha! Now pray, Sir, who is your nephew?

How flippant ſhe is! My nephew, Madam—Gad, I don't much like her

My nephew is that unfortunate young man, who has been ſo long in love with you— Sidney Aſgill.

So—I ſhall have ſome of Lady Horatia's ſecrets preſently. How I will teize her about Sidney Aſgill.

I underſtand he has poſſeſſed your good opinion.

Yes, I admire him exceedingly— I never ſaw him in my life

Then, Madam, it muſt give you pain to know that he is undone. I am his uncle, on whom he depends; but the misfortunes of trade—In ſhort, Madam, if you will be ſo ge⯑nerous on account of his great merit as to marry him, you will marry a beggar.

I marry a beggar on account of his great merit—Law, Sir! ha, ha, ha!

Conſider, Madam, how he loves you.

What ſignifies his love—a beggar! I am ſure if my papa ſhou'd—O, dear! I for⯑get—I am Lady Horatia

I did not know you had a father.

Yes, Sir, I have a father, and a dear father; and if I ſhould—Pho! I blunder again

Well, that's not to the point. You ſay, Madam, you will not marry my ne⯑phew, becauſe he's a beggar. You will not marry Sidney Aſgill, though he is dying for you.

Certainly I will not.

I am ſafe in ſaying that, for I am ſure Lady Horatia will not marry a beggar.

I deſire I may hear no more of your nephew, Sir; a frightful, ugly, diſagreeable, odd tempered mortal! I can't abide him.

Then, Madam, as it wou'd not be civil to correct you, I have a great mind to lay my ſtick about your ridiculous mummery [44] here!

You ſay you will not marry my Nephew?

I do ſay I will not, Sir,

I never will! The winter ſhall ſcorch firſt, and the ſummer freeze.

Then by—you ſhall not, hang me if you do! I will look amongſt the girls in the City. We have as much beauty, more money, and more goodneſs eaſt of Temple Bar, than can be found in all the ſquares weſt of it. So, Madam, I leave you, I leave you to your follies

Refuſe my Nephew! I am glad of it; I am glad of it! he ſhall have a City girl! I have one in my eye, ten times as handſome as you are—old Simon ſays ſo!

Then let him have a City girl, old Simon! ha, ha, ha! law, what a fury he went off in!

O! Lady Horatia, I have been ſo diverted— ha, ha, ha!

What has ſo amuſed you, my dear?

Yes, yes, I know all about Sidney Aſgill—O! how fly you were, ha, ha, ha!

You amaze me; where is Sir Simon?

O! here has been the queereſt old Cit! ſtorming and raving becauſe I would not marry his Nephew.

What can this mean?

He took me for you; and he came to tell you that his Nephew was a beggar, and [45] that he was dying for you, and I know not what ſtuff.

Is Mr. Aſgill dying?

Do not look ſo frightened. For love of you—no otherwiſe dying; but he'll get over it; they always do.

And does he ſay Sidney is a beggar?

O! yes, he repeated that, as though it was a recommendation. You cannot think what a paſſion he went away in; for I vowed nothing on earth ſhou'd make me marry a beggar; and he took me all the while for you, ha, ha, ha!

O! I had forgot; the beſt of all is, he ſwears his Nephew ſhall marry a City beauty, with a great, large, clumſy City fortune.

Marry! marry!

I ſhou'd like to ſee the bride. He declares ſhe is twenty times as handſome as I am —I mean, as you are.

O! you know not what you have done!

And ſhe is very handſome? cruel Georgina! and I ſhall appear to Sidney Aſgill, mean, ſordid, deteſta⯑ble! he is in poverty, and will think that I deſpiſe him! he—you have undone me! and beautiful too—beautiful and rich—O! I am loſt!

Why, what can the matter be? I certainly have done ſomething wrong. But to be ſure ſhe will not marry a beggar; and yet I don't know—perhaps ſhe may; one hears for ever of the whims of fine ladies, who ſit and contrive what odd thing they ſhall do, to ſur⯑prize the town with next.

SCENE III.—A Drawing Room at SIR ROBERT's.

Such an impudent, inſolent clown as you are; you to pretend for to talk; you! one who never learnt his horn-book.

Better never larn a horn-book, than ſuch books as you have learnt to read, you trumpery! I tell you, I doant like your goings on, and I'll tell maſter. You are always filling Miſs's head with ſtuff; and I doant like many things as I do ſee.

You ſee! you don't know what you ſee.

Doant I? yes, I do, and what I hear too. I yeard a fine tale of you in Wales— yes, yes, it is not for nothing that you are drawn forth in your ſilk gowns, and all this fine rufflety-tufflety; and going half naked, as though you were a lady of faſhion. D'ye remember the Coptain who uſed to come on pretence of admiring the old tattered velvet furniture, that came out of my maſter's great grandfather's caſtle, three hundred years ago?—

Heyday!

Quarrelling about my tattered velvet furniture! I am proud of thoſe rags: the rags of a man's anceſtry ought to be dear to him. I would [47] give fifty acres for the rags of the old doublet of that anceſtor of mine, who came over with the Ambaſſador of King Priam.

I am ſorry you interrupted them; I like thoſe children of nature; I am fond of natural characters; no diſguiſe—all open ho⯑neſty—what their hearts prompt, their tongues utter.

True, Sir, true: I am glad you like plainneſs; and therefore tell you, Mr. Fancourt, that the draft I promiſed you for my Lord Beechgrove, I have altered my mind about.

Sir!

All that affair about Mr. Snapper was very pleaſant to be ſure; but I have met with a thing that has ſtagger'd me a good deal.

The devil! ſtaggered, Sir?

Yes, Sir; I do not underſtand a man's wanting favours, and then treating thoſe ill who would do them ſervice.

My very heart ſhrivels like ſcorch⯑ed parchment

Treat you ill, Sir! who has dared to accuſe me of treating you ill, Sir Robert? I defy the man; I defy the human being. Whu! I wiſh I was out of the houſe

Dear, Mr. Fancourt, I have not the leaſt ſuſpicion that you wou'd uſe me ill. I believe it to be impoſſible. No, Sir, it is my Lord Beechgrove of whom I complain. Why, Sir, do you know I met him in the Park, and he would not ſpeak to me! would ſcarcely return my bow! tho' an hour before [48] he invited me to viſit him, as you know. Bleſs me! what's the matter, Mr. Fancourt.

O! Sir Robert, I am ſeized with a vertigo, which is ſometimes very troubleſome

If I had a glaſs of hartſhorn and water—

Here—Thomas—Humphrey— I'll go myſelf.

Ha, ha, ha! he has ſeen the real Lord Beechgrove. O! my back cracks like an old wainſcot. The thouſand is gone like laſt year's moonſhire, if I can't—

O! you devil, out of the houſe!

What has happen'd?

What has happen'd! why old Taffy has ſeen—out of the houſe—do not ſtay to aſk queſtions; he has ſeen your polygraph— out—out—here he comes!

O! this will be too much for me, I fear, at laſt. Sir Robert you are very good

O! bleſs me every ſpring and fail! I am better now. You were pleaſed to ſay ſomething, Sir, about my friend, Lord Beechgrove. O! I re⯑member now—he met you, and did not re⯑collect you.

That was very odd tho'! and I ſaid—ſays I— ‘My Lord, the thouſand pounds which Mr. Fancourt ſpoke to me of—’

Did you—did you?

Well, Sir Robert, and what ſaid my Lord?

Never a word—never a word. Stared as though I had been a new caught monſter. I had not changed my dreſs, though he had changed his. The difference of dreſs made me almoſt think once, that I might be miſtaken; but on looking again, I was ſure of my man.

Aye—pray what was his dreſs, Sir?

Regimentals.

Regimentals? a hint!

O! he had his regimentals on—aye—he is a Colonel in the Guards. Rather odd not ſpeaking, I confeſs; but a man, whoſe head is ſtuff'd with the buſineſs of all Europe, muſt be forgiven if a ſlight acquaintance ſlips out of it.

Why, I can make allowances, Mr. Fancourt; I remember myſelf, when I was High Sheriff for the county, I once paſſed an acqaintance, but I made him an apology; and, Sir, I ſhall expect an apology from my Lord, for not returning my bow, before I ad⯑vance the thouſand pounds. A thouſand pounds is money, Mr. Fancourt.

It is—it is, Sir, and the man who will not make a bow for a thouſand pounds, ought never to poſſeſs a thouſand pence

I will go, Sir, and bring his Lordſhip here

He dines to-day at the Dutcheſs's in his own ſquare; but I'll engage to bring him away in ſpite of wit, and beauty, and cham⯑paigne. [50] I'll be a match for thee yet, old Taffy!

I wiſh my Lord wou'd invite me to dine at a Dutcheſs's. I never did dine with a Dutcheſs. It muſt be very delightful! I ſhould go back to Glamorganſhire, and be able to amuſe my neighbours with all her Grace's bons mots, and repeat her Grace's toaſts; I would hold my aſs-ſkin ſlily under the table, and pencil down her good things. 'Tis all the faſhion now. Many a man gets a dinner by being known to write down the wit of his hoſt or hoſteſs; tho', after long watching, he frequently brings away empty tablets.

Aye, Miſs, you may laugh, but for my part, I doesn't ſee any thing in your ala⯑blaſter ſtatutes—all of one colour, like a duck's egg. Give me a fine large picture, with robes of red, and blue, and rich damaſk car⯑tains.

Your taſte is excellent!

But if you talk of ſtatuary, go to Mrs. Silvertip's.

Who is ſhe?

Why, a lady who makes the fineſt ſtatutes in the world, all in wax. There are generals,— and ſailors — and princeſſes — and dukes—and old women, more natural than life. Now if I can raiſe her curioſity to go there, Jack's buſineſs is done

Dear Jenny, how can I ſee them?

Why, by going to her Exhibition on Fiſh-ſtreet-hill.

Fiſh-ſtreet-hill—where is that?

Hang me if I know

O! Miſs, every body knows where that is. 'Tis juſt by Groſvenor Square.

I wonder if ſhe wou'd teach me her art?

Yes, to be ſure ſhe wou'd. All arts are to be learnt by thoſe who have money, ex⯑cept the art of being happy.

Then the firſt uſe I would make of it, ſhould be to imitate the features of Mr. Conway in wax. I then ſhou'd be able to look at him without bluſhing, and even talk to him without his being a bit the wiſer.

Mr. Conway, indeed!

O dear! yes I will, I will learn the art. I know his countenance ſo well, that I ſhou'd be able to copy it without ever ſeeing him more. And yet there is one look, which no art can imitate!

Devil take him!

Well, Miſs, I'll carry you there to-morrow. But Sir Robert muſt not know it.

O not for the world! I will go— I will go—I will go.

Yes, ſo you ſhall; but Mr. Conway ſhall never be the better for it. You have a large fortune, my dear, and are handſome; my brother is handſome, and has no fortune—the beſt reaſon for to bring you together.

Where is my daughter?

Juſt gone to her dreſſing-room, Sir.

Then I'll go and hear her on the harp a little. She has a ſweet finger; aye— and ſhe is a ſweet girl; but my heart has a thou⯑ſand aches about her, and dearly as I love her, I am ready ſometimes to exclaim with the old ſong, ‘"I wonder any man alive, would ever have a daughter."’

O! you old— if you'd had wit enough for to have put a proper value on my charms, I would have taken every care about your daughter off your hands;—but I'll be re⯑venged for all your tricks! here I have been ſpending anxious days, and ſleepleſs nights, for two years;—making up the ſmarteſt caps of waſh'd gauze and dyed ribbons;—buying new braids of hair, of a nice nut brown—and all without being able to touch the old gooſe, any more than if his heart was made of leather. But I'll match you! ſince you will not make me your wife, I'll give your daughter a huſband; and if you ſhould die of the mortification, I know where to find a place to dance on.

SCENE IV.—ASGILL's Lodgings.

O! 'tis in vain! never, Conway, will I ſue for compaſſion from a proud beauty, who [53] treated me with haughtineſs, even when ſhe believed me heir to proſperity.

Pride and lovelineſs ought to go together. I diſlike the vulgar railing againſt the haughtineſs of conſcious beauty. She, who over values herſelf, will never ſink too low; and the lady of whom we ſpeak, perhaps loves you.

For that very reaſon, I will not again appear before her. I am too proud to raiſe a conflict in her boſom between her pride, and her tenderneſs, and to owe at length, perhaps, to her compaſſion, the acceptance to which her love would never have acceded.

You are very nice. If my heart were not pre-occupied, and ſo fine a woman had an inclination to make me maſter of herſelf and for⯑tune, I would not quarrel with her about the motive; I wou'd thank the pretty creature, and give her all the love I could.

Yes; but you are a man of fortune. By this time, I ſuppoſe, people begin to talk of my diſtreſs'd ſtate.

I have heard it mentioned.

What has been ſaid?

A lady obſerved, that it was pity a man ſo handſome ſhou'd be ſunk ſo low; and her huſband ſaid he was ſorry, becauſe you were ſuch a good kind of young man.

Good kind of young man! I am ſorry I have incurr'd ſuch an ap⯑probation.

No, no, do not imagine

that I wiſh for the re⯑putation of a bad heart. But the term, "Good kind of young man," in our days, is ſo [54] applied, that I deſire not to be honoured with it. An idle fellow, who hangs looſe on ſo⯑ciety, without merit or avocation, or one who corrupts the ſiſter of his friend, or runs away with his daughter, or does all thoſe things which mankind ought to execrate, is ſaid, in excuſe, to be a good kind of young man. In ſhort, good kind of young man, in the pre⯑ſent acceptance, may very fairly be tranſlated ſcoundrel.

Sir, here is the perſon you ordered from Tower-hill. Slopſeller, I think he calls himſelf.

Slopſeller! How do you tranſlate that? Apothecary, I ſuppoſe?

Ha, ha, ha! No, I aſſure you. A Tower-hill ſlopſeller does not deal in emulſions and ſyrups, he—but you muſt excuſe my telling you what he deals in.

My dear Conway, adieu! Often think of me, and ſpeak of me as I deſerve; but be ſure you never ſuffer people to call me a good kind of young man.

Aſgill, though there is ſome plea⯑ſantry in your manner, there is alſo a ſeriouſneſs which ſhocks me. What are you going to do?

What I ought to do. What, do you imagine I intend to ſtay at home, to parade Bond-ſtreet, and make the circle of Picca⯑dilly, Saint James's-ſtreet, and Pall-mall? No, no, my burning brain cannot be cooled by ſuch expedients; 'tis only the powerful voice of my country can regulate its diſtraction—Aſk no queſtions—my reſolution is fixed—Farewell!

What! and is the frenzy of your brain regulated by the hope of ſerving your country? Do all your private woes ſink be⯑fore that powerful principle! O! glorious effect of patriotic love! Every ſelfiſh feeling vaniſhes—to tear myſelf from you becomes a DUTY. I go—deſpiſe not this weakneſs—I venerate, I pity you!

Friend of my heart! He goes in tears! Oh! the drops which manly friendſhip forces from the eye, are more precious than thoſe collected in the groves of rich Arabia— They ſink into my heart—they cheriſh it!— Now come in, Sir.

Have you brought what I ordered?

Yes; here are the things, Sir.

This, then, is the complete dreſs of an Engliſh ſailor?

Complete!

O! the ſight of it warms my heart! In this dreſs what heroes have bled—what gal⯑lant acts have been atchieved! Thoſe who have worn it, have given England all her glory—have given her the boundleſs empire of the ocean.

Ay, Sir, it was your Raleighs, and your Drakes, and your Boſcawens who did all that.

O! whilſt our grateful retroſpection twines laurels around the heroes of departed days, let us not forget what is due to thoſe of our own! Let us look with gratitude towards a HOWE, and hang, with tributary tears, over [56] the names of MONTAGUE, HARVEY, and HUTT!

Ah! the three laſt are gone.

But ſome remain. There only wants occaſion, and other Montagues, and other Harveys will ſtart out like meteors, and glide along the Britiſh ſky, blazing in glory!

Gad! he's a fine fellow, and will make a noble ſailor; but our fleets, thank heaven, are full of ſuch.

There are ſtill two bills unpaid—go and diſcharge them. That purſe contains ſuffi⯑cient.

Now, all my debts paid, and a few guineas in my pocket, I quit my country; but I quit her, to ſerve her! O! may the boundleſs bleſ⯑ſings of heaven deſcend upon her; may my arm contribute to reſtore peace to her; and may GLORY and MONARCHY be hers, till time ſhall be no more!

SCENE I.—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Yes—order the horſes in⯑ſtantly—and yet —no—I ſhall not want them— Go to his uncle in the city! How ſtrange that will be! But can I heſitate on decorums, when EXISTENCE is at ſtake? Can I ſuffer Sidney Aſgill to believe that Georgina's fooleries are my ſentiments? Can I ſuffer another to have the tranſport of lifting him from poverty, whilſt I am deſpiſed! The thought breaks my heart-ſtrings! Ah! Mr. Conway!

I flew the moment I received your commands.

My commands! Sir, I only ſent to aſk—it was only with an intention to —

Speak, Lady Horatia.

Do me the honour to repoſe confidence in me.

Yes, Sir, I believe I can— I believe I ought—but ſhame weighs down my very ſoul. In one moment what will you think of me?

What I have always thought, that you are one of the firſt of your ſex.

I muſt ſpeak, for the conflict is too great for me to endure. You are the friend of Aſgill—the friend of his youth—the choſen of his heart.

— Permit me to then to aſk, even though your an⯑ſwer ſhou'd be a breach of confidence, did you ever hear him mention any other lady as one —as one—with whom he wiſhed to unite his fate?

O never! You are the object of his adoration.

Then find him out—purſue him! What have I ſaid? My ſoul ſhrinks at the ſound of the words I have uttered.

Would my Aſgill's ears could have received them! Go on, Madam.

Go on! Alas! need I add an⯑other ſentence! You ſee that—humble me not too far—I am proud—Had Aſgill con⯑tinued the heir of ſplendid poſſeſſions, perhaps my pride and coldneſs would never have abated; but he is poor; he is undone!

Peerleſs woman!

My fortune is his—my heart —my ſoul!

O! ſuffer me to kneel for him! For him I thank you, adorable, tranſcendent woman!

I feel your kindneſs in endea⯑vouring to abate my confuſion. The ſtep I have taken I ſhou'd yeſterday have thought leſs eaſy than to die. Permit me to leave you, nor dare to think

that, be⯑cauſe my paſſion is ſtrong, my conduct ſhall be [59] weak! My reputation is in your hands— preſerve it as you wou'd your own life and ho⯑nour.

I accept the glorious depoſit, and I will deſerve the truſt. What grace can dig⯑nity of ſoul beſtow! The very conduct which from a vulgar mind would diſguſt, from ſuch elegance and virtue becomes faſcinating. Now, Aſgill, I will dare to ſeek thee; and I will pour ſuch tranſport on thy heart, as ſhall make thee confeſs, the hour of thy poverty the moſt bleſſed of thy life.

SCENE II—Sir ROBERT FLOYER's Library.

Bring up his lordſhip and Mr. Fancourt directly—fly down—never keep a lord in waiting.

No, I won't receive his lordſhip ſitting

that will look like want of reſpect. I will be ſtanding. No—that will not be the thing neither; for then I ſhall have no opportu⯑nity to ſhew my veneration, by riſing at his entrance. No—I muſt ſit, and—Yes, there I've hit it—I'll be reading—deeply employed in reading. Then, when the great man enters, ſtart up, and daſh away the book. Let me ſee—it ſhall be a large book. I'll get up and reach one down.

—Chambers's Dic⯑tionary—that will do.

"The Fall of the Roman Empire." Bleſs me—my lord!

O, dear! I am quite confounded. My lord, I beg your lordſhip's pardon a million of times. Mr. Fancourt—O, my knee!

Reach his lordſhip a chair. A moſt untoward ac⯑cident, my lord; but pray accept it as an omen. You found me ſprawling at your feet—it ſhews how devoted I am to your ſervice.

Sir Robert, I have often heard of the politeneſs of the Welch gentlemen, and you really confirm all that has been ſaid. The year in which you were ſheriff, Sir Robert, was ſuch a year of ſplendour and magnificence, as Gla⯑morganſhire will long remember. We heard a vaſt deal of it at Saint James's; it amuſed the Royal Circle for a month.

Why, my lord, I did my beſt on that occaſion. When I was high ſheriff for the county, I neither ſpared myſelf or my purſe. A hanging in the morning, and an aſ⯑ſembly at night; giving the judges a dinner to-day, and to-morrow conſulting Jack Ketch about a new gallows. Such a variety of buſi⯑neſs, my lord, demands a man's whole atten⯑tion.

Certainly, certainly. A little thing happened this morning, Sir Robert, which has given me pain. You addreſſed me in the Park, I really was, at that moment, throwing over in my mind the compact between Ruſſia and Po⯑land. In ſhort, I had almoſt determined to go to Saint Peterſburgh, ambaſſador myſelf; for I think one or two points might be reviſed. At that very moment, Sir Robert, juſt as I was [61] delivering my credentials to the Empreſs, and receiving one of thoſe delicious ſmiles, which—

You will go too far.

I ſay, juſt then, Sir Robert, you ad⯑dreſſed me.

No wonder, my lord, that you overlooked me; I am aſhamed to have made a complaint of ſuch a trifle.

Pray, my lord, examine Sir Ro⯑bert's ſhelves; you will find them well ſtocked.

All dead ſtock, my lord; heavy dead ſtock.

Pardon me, Sir, pardon me! Such ſtock is never dead. You have here in calf's-ſkin and ſheep's-ſkin, the very ſouls of the au⯑thors. Well choſen, I dare ſay.

Why, my lord, as to the choice, I left that to my broker. He furniſhed the whole houſe, from the kitchen to the garret; the pots and the poets; the frying-pans and the philoſo⯑phers were all of his chooſing.

Now, Sir Robert, if you would do the thing genteely, write the draft without his obſerving it, and I'll preſent it to him after we have left the houſe. Great men muſt not have ſervices tendered them coarſely.

I underſtand you; there is a nice way of doing things. Pray, my lord, amuſe yourſelf with a folio or two. A certain deli⯑cate—it ſhall be ſo.

"The debates of Leadenhall-ſtreet." Pleaſant reading—light— pretty reading in a heavy morning!

Leadenhall-ſtreet—A thought ſtrikes me.

Then ſtrike again.

I ſay, my lord, as Sir Robert is a liberal man, and fond of patronage, ſuppoſe you give him, by way of outſet, a place at the Board of Controul for Indian affairs, juſt till a better thing offers.

The thought was too obvious to be miſſed—exactly ſuits his diſcernment and ſpirit.

The na⯑bobs

—the begums

—muſ⯑lins, alaballas, mul-muls, and nanſooks

Nankeen china

Patna rice

O, my lord! my lord!

Not a word—mum!

Faith, I had better go about it di⯑rectly—no time to be loſt—let us finiſh the bu⯑ſineſs at once.

Sir Robert, your ſervant.

Sir Robert, your ſervant.

"Sir Robert, your ſervant"—mighty ſhort! Well, but they're in a hurry to ſerve me—a little rudeneſs, when it proceeds from kindneſs, may be par⯑doned.

O! dear papa, there is a woman in the ſquare with ſome odd muſic; I am going to the bow-window to hear her.

Get along, madcap!

be⯑gums, nabobs, Patna rice—Sir Robert, your ſervant—mighty ſhort!

SCENE III.—The ſquare.

This is the houſe; here will I place myſelf—fortunately I may attract the lovely victim.

Make von curteſy to de lady, you lit impudent ting.

Do not chide her. Where did you come from?

From von great vay off; I live among de mountains, and I be come to make pleaſe de prit lady of dis country.

Take up l'argent, ma petite, and put it in votre poche—Bleſs your charité. Lady, I can tell de fortune by looking at de vite hand.

Can you? O! dear Jenny, let us have her up.

Laws, Miſs, don't let ſuch creatures come in; they may ſteal ſomething; there's a wicked look in her eyes; I underſtand eyes as well as ſhe does hands.

Dat prit young voman's by your ſide, lady, be born to von great luck— ſhe vill ave de grande offer.

Well, Miſs, if you will have her in— I'll go and open the door.

Thus far I am ſucceſsful. O! horrid! that ſuch youth and goodneſs ſhould be⯑come the prey of two villains! Ah! the door opens.

Come, come—make haſte.

SCENE—Changes to the Drawing-room.

Come, let me look at your prit vite hand.

Ah, I ſee—I ſee— But I ave not de power to tell de fortune before any von—dat gentle—ſweet temper young vo⯑mans muſt go.

Go, Jenny, d'ye hear? Leave the room; go directly.

I ſhou'd not have thought of that foreign woman's impudence, to have me ſent out of the room—I don't like her—I'll liſten, I am determined.

Now, Miſs, me vill tell you —you be born to be ver happy, if you be ver good.

Dear! Do you think I am not good?

Bau! Bau! dere be von— two vicked mens, who ave de vicked deſign upon you—Il faut, you muſt not ſee gentle⯑mens, but in de preſence of your papa. Your papa be your bon friend.

I never heard any thing ſo ridi⯑culous. Never ſee gentlemen, but in my papa's preſence. O! you are a fine fortune-teller! Good-day

Madam, if you would not be loſt beyond redemption, obſerve what I have ſaid. Two villains have laid ſuch a train—

Amazing! Why, you now ſpeak good Engliſh.

Hah! I had forgot; but when the heart feels it is hard to diſſemble. You have detected me. Charming young wo⯑man, ſlight not the cautions which I wear this diſguiſe to give! Surely they muſt have weight with you, when I tell you, that it is perhaps at the hazard of my life, that I appear before you.

You freeze me!

Treat not lightly then the advice of one, who runs ſuch riſks to preſs it [66] upon you—I know not exactly what is deſigned —I have awakened your caution, and my duty is compleat.

Get out of the houſe, you impoſtor—you deceiving jezabel. If you do not go this minute, I will order the footman to ſweep you out.

Young lady think upon my words.

Think upon her words—a vagabond! did you ever ſee ſuch aſſurance, Miſs? I have a great mind to beat her hurdy-gurdy about her ears.

Be ſilent! what I have heard ſhall ſink into my heart. I will be circumſpect

Here's a pretty kettle of fiſh! who can that vile woman be? Jack has let ſomebody into our ſecret, who has betrayed us. What labour it will coſt me to throw her off her guard! but I'll try

Yes, yes; this letter will bring Jack. Hang me, if I don't believe I have ſpelt diſguiſe wrong. Well, no matter—the mean⯑ing is undiſguiſed enough

Here Humphrey!

Humphrey!

Come, none of your flummery.

Nay, don't be croſs—you know we have made it up—here, take this letter, and carry it to my brother Jack. Come now,

you know I am working you the [67] corners of a new handkerchief, twenty times as pretty as this

Shall I have it by Friday, when I go to Bob's wedding?

You ſhall.

Well, give it me

The old place, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, yes, the old place

Hang the bell—go directly.

The wafer's wet, ha, ha, ha! now ſhe thinks I can't read wroiting—help her ſappy head! ha, ha, ha! I can read and wroite too, but that's a ſecret between me and my ownſelf

I would not break a ſeal for the world—for that I know would be a moſt unhonorable thing; but as to a chamber⯑maid's wet wafer—there—it opens like a boil'd oyſter.

'Tis a dainty ſcrawl. The lines run as ſtraight as the zig-zag of a ſcrew.

‘"LovingBrother,"’—well that's koind— ‘"cum here to-morrow in your old diſguiſe—I mean the (ſpelling) f—e—m—fem. (looking earneſtly) f—e, fe. M. by itſelf M."’ Yes, it is female— ‘"and call yourſelf, as before, Miſs Sally Mar⯑tin."’ So, ſo! then that ſtrapping wench that I have let in ſometimes, is all the while her brother Jack.

‘"There's ſomething in the wind—we muſt make ſhort work—be ſure you come— your affectionate ſiſter, Jane."’

So Jack and Jane are a pretty pair; now, what can they be upon? that's nothing to I— I think I won't carry it—yes,

yes, I think I will—I [68] will carry it—I will ſee Jack in petticoats once more.

SCENE V.—St. James's Park.

O! you are come

I have been waiting here theſe two hours. I began to fear that you were ſlippery —that you were upon your tricks.

What, with each other? O fye! never. I drove to the banker's and back as faſt as the horſes of a wretched hack could carry me. In my way I met a fellow in his chariot, who two years ſince borrowed money of me for ſhoes.

I never ſhall meet ſuch a fellow, for I never lend—make a point of that. Come, give me the money—my moiety of the thou⯑ſand pounds.

Directly—directly— ha! how d'ye do?

Here is the—

Ha! I ſaw you laſt night

a full concert. I ſhall be at the tennis-court preſently

Rot the tennis-court! give me the notes.

The notes! well, there are the notes.

Well, what are theſe?

What are they? why, the notes— your ſhare of the thouſand pounds procured by me this morning

Here are five notes, five and twenty pounds each.

What, can't you reckon? four notes, five and twenty pounds each, make one hundred—one hundred pounds, principal mo⯑ney. Dear Tippy, do not look ſo thunder⯑ſtruck—you are very welcome. I confeſs I had ſome thoughts of making it fifty; but re⯑collecting our antient friendſhip, when I bought into the four per cents. with the reſt, I re⯑ſerved a whole hundred for you. Good day, Tippy.

Stay, Sir—ſtay you ſhall

Nay, my good fellow, do not make an uproar in the Park; becauſe you know if you do, Tippy, I ſhall be under the neceſſity of relating ſome little anecdotes of you, which may end in a proceſſion to Newgate.

So, you have bought nine hundred pounds ſtock?

I have.

And you are determined I ſhall touch but one.

Only one, Tippy.

Very well—very well.

Zounds! what wou'd the man have? an hundred pounds for only juſt walking into an old ſprawling fellow's library —and—the devil!—he's here—I'm off!—

Is he? he is—no, I'll not run—he's coming towards me—I'll not flinch. Now you ſhall ſee, Mr. Fancourt, what it is to uſe a brother raſcal ill. Is not the world wide enough for our tricks, but we muſt cheat one another? I'll ſacrifice myſelf rather than not be revenged.

Hah! there's his Lordſhip—he ſeems very buſy—perhaps I had better paſs on —no, I won't—ſurely, after ſuch a favour— Hah! my Lord, your moſt obedient.

Well now I declare

My Lord, I ſay, your moſt obedient.

Pray, Sir, who are you?

I am aſtoniſhed!

Who, I ſay, are you; who thus, twice have taken the freedom to addreſs me in public?

Who am I? what, does not your Lordſhip know me now? O! perhaps the de⯑licious ſmiles of the Empreſs are in your Lord⯑ſhip's head again—perhaps the Poliſh treaty— perhaps—

Perhaps neither of theſe! I am engroſſed by your impertinence. Who are you, Sir?

Who am I? why, the man who, two hours ſince, lent you a thouſand pounds, principal money, to keep you from the gripe of the Jews.

A thouſand pounds. Eh, eh!

Lent me a thouſand pounds! Sir,

I am full of concern for you—I ſee you have been impoſed on. Sir, there is a fellow about this town ſo like me, that we might play the two Socias, or the two Dromios, or paſs for two brown ruſſetans grow⯑ing on the ſame twig. He reſembles my per⯑ſon; he imitates my very dreſs—Sir, depend on it, he has alſo aſſumed my name, and has ſwindled you out of one thouſand pounds, prin⯑cipal money.

Why, my Lord, I am thunder-ſtruck. Then, what you ſaid to me this morn⯑ing—I mean what he ſaid, concerning the Be⯑gums, and the Nanſooks—

Was all to cozen you, depend on't. You are cheated, I ſee clearly. Sorry for you —can't ſtay—clearly cheated, Sir, depend on't

My Lord—my Lord, grant me a moment—permit me to aſk one queſtion—do you know Mr. Fancourt?

Do I know Mr. Fancourt, Sir! there are a ſort of people one may be ſaid to know, becauſe one meets them every where. But as to Mr. Fancourt, why, Sir, I would not keep a groom who was acquainted with ſuch a —ſuch a perſon.

Oh!

If you want to find his character, you will hear of it in Bow-ſtreet; if you want to find his lodgings, you muſt go to St. Giles's. Do I know Mr. Fancourt indeed!

Is it ground I ſtand upon? I am amazed—never were two men ſo alike on earth. [72] The look—the voice—the dreſs—but can Fancourt be a villain? no, it is not poſſible; to me he cannot be a villain—yet—I know not what to conjecture.

No—his looks are innocent—it is not poſſible that he can be guilty.

How d'ye do, Knight? how d'ye do?

Yet I'll try him

Sir, I have ſeen a man who tells me you are a villain.

'Tis well he does not let me ſee him. But who is the man—who is he, Sir?

Lord Beechgrove—the real Lord Beechgrove, Sir.

Hell and ten thouſand furies!

explain, Sir, explain! I really cannot poſſibly comprehend you.

He tells me, Sir, that the man you brought to me to-day, is an impoſtor, and that in concert with him, you have cheated me of a thouſand pounds.

How, Sir, an impoſtor!

but I'll be cool—I'll be cool—where was you told of this—where, Sir?

On this very ſpot, Sir.

Hah! I begin to ſmoke— what, Lord Beechgrove has juſt left you then?

This moment—I found him here.

So, this is Tippy's damn'd re⯑venge!

ha, ha, ha! O what a—ha, ha, [73] ha! what a droll dog! why, Sir, do you not know that my noble friend is the greateſt joker in England? ha, ha, ha! I ſuppoſe he might tell you there was a man about town who re⯑ſembled him?

He did—he did ſure enough— he ſaid they were as like as two drums.

Ay, ay, he plays thoſe tricks con⯑tinually—he is inexhauſtible as a joker. O! the raſcal!

That's very odd in a Privy Coun⯑ſellor.

It is by way of unbending, Sir— thoſe great men muſt unbend. The lion muſt dandle the kid ſometimes—the villain!

I could tell you ſuch tales of him. Hah! here his Lordſhip comes.

You ſhall have the other four hundred

Ah, ah, Sir Robert—what, I frighten⯑ed you, did I?—I ſhan't truſt you

Take it—here it is—the dog has been up to me this time

Really, my Lord, it was not right to play on Sir Robert's credulity. He could not know but that you might be in earneſt. But I muſt particularly inſiſt on one thing, my Lord, that you do not ſpeak of my character in ſuch terms, though in jeſt. The jeſt which laughs away a man's reputation, is deadly poiſon admi⯑niſtered in honey.

Well, I won't—I won't. What do [74] you think I told him, Fancourt? I told him you lived at St. Giles's, ha, ha, ha!

No!—did you?

He did indeed, ha, ha, ha! and that you were known in Bow-ſtreet, ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Well, now I propoſe that we three jolly fellows, full of good humour, and lovers of fun, daſh off to the Star and Garter—Cham⯑paigne and a ſong ſhall cheer our hearts, and ſet us above the cares of the world.

With all my heart. Rattle glaſſes with a Lord—h—m—m—

it will be as good as dining with a Dutcheſs.

Come along, my little fellow; I'll in⯑troduce you to three Lords, and a Duke.

Here then we go—jeſt, mirth and pleaſure inſpire us!

SCENE I.—TIPPY's Lodgings.

I'll take poſſeſſion of his room myſelf, hang me if I don't!

here am I obliged to mend my gowns inſtead of buy⯑ing new ones, becauſe my lodgers won't pay me

No, no, Mr. Tippy— I'll fit you! I ſpoke to my neighbour Holdfaſt, yeſterday; no one ever got out of his clutches yet, if once Holdfaſt touch'd him on the ſhoulder

Bleſs me! how my teeth tor⯑ment me again

Betty! Betty—bring me a little brandy to hold in my mouth. I'll e'en go myſelf, ſhe always brings ſuch a drop!

Yes, yes—tell them ſo—

no, my artful ſiſter, it won't do

‘Wear the ſame diſguiſe, and come as Miſs Sally Martin.’ That is not poſſible—my landlady's maid, who uſed to lend me that ſmart dreſs, is off. What the devil can I do? to go there as a man, after having juſt been there as Lord Beechgrove, would be kicking down the milk pail with a vengeance! and yet to loſe that ſweet girl and her ſweet eſtate— well, I can't go—I cannot go to Sir Robert's, [76] pos!

What's this? my landlady's gown? gad it is!

if it fits me, I'll borrow it to perſonate Miſs Sally Martin

Hang me, but it does very well. She has often ſaid, ſhe would fit me, and now ſhe has done it. And the ſmart bonnet too

Freeze me, but I look as well as my landlady. Who—who the devil is this?

HOLDFAST, the Bailiff? whu! I am in the jaws of the lion!

Well, Madam, is Mr. Tippy come home? I have been watching for him the whole day

I have been hunting him through every tavern, coffee-houſe, and gaming-houſe. I have been within three minutes of him, fifteen times. O! that I had but hold of his ſkirts!

Alack-a-day, Mrs. Bullruſh, ſtill plagued with your teeth?

Well, Madam, don't ſpeak. If I once catch the young villain, we ſha'n't part,

I have one room double grated, and if he ſlides out of that, it muſt be thro' the keyhole.

Very well—I underſtand you. I'll ſtay here till you come back, Mrs. Bullruſh; yes—I will.

Poor creature! her teeth torment her like— what the dickens! why there's Mrs. Bullruſh!

a trick! a trick!

no— yes—'tis all in white!

perhaps— [77] Mrs. Bullruſh—Mrs. Bullruſh! oh!

SCENE II.—SIR SIMON ASGILL's Counting-Houſes.—He is ſeated, looking melancholy and oppreſs'd.

Sir, Sir—I pray you, Sir, ſpeak!

Perkins! I have carried it too far. My boy can no where be found. Why did I hit on ſuch a plan? I ought to have known that the ſenſibility of his heart, and the noble⯑neſs of his ſoul, could neither ſupport ſeeing my diſtreſs, or living a uſeleſs member of ſociety.

Sir, be comforted—it is not yet noon; perhaps the evening may bring us tidings.

A lady, Sir, deſires to ſee you.

I can ſee no lady

She is particularly preſſing, and re⯑queſts to ſee you alone.

Who is ſhe?

I have never ſeen her. Her ſer⯑vants are in mourning

Shall I con⯑duct her to the drawing-room, Sir?

No—if I muſt ſee her, bring her in here. The counting-houſe of an Engliſh merchant is reſpectable enough for the reception [78] of a prince;—I ſhould not be aſhamed to re⯑ceive my king in it.

Well, Perkins, you find the lady will have me alone—if I was in ſpirits to joke now, I could make myſelf merry at the fancy.

Well, Sir, I hope your ſpirits and your jokes will ſoon come back. Faith, ſhe's a pretty lady

Your humble ſervant, Madam.

Pray ſit down.

I thank you.

You ſeem faint, Madam.

No, Sir—no. In a moment I ſhall be better.

Not uſed, perhaps, to the buſtle of driving thro' the City?

Not often. O! how ſhall I begin? my heart burſts with feeling, yet my tongue cannot give it utterance

Pray may I aſk—what brought you here to-day?

To-day, Sir—I came to-day

on a buſineſs ſo important—that— I ſcarcely know how to mention it, Sir—but— you have a nephew

I hope ſo, Ma'am.

You have heard of Lady Ho⯑ratia Horton,

Heard of her—yes—I have heard of her!

It is believ'd, Sir, that Mr. Aſgill has ſome regard for her.

I hope not. My nephew, I be⯑lieve, knows better than to regard ſuch a gill-flirt.

Gill-flirt! Lady Horatia Hor⯑ton, a gill-flirt.

Yes—the greateſt gill-flirt I ever ſaw in my life.

Ah, he means Geor⯑gina, who ſaw him yeſterday. I am ſo con⯑fuſed, I know not how to explain

My nephew in love with a ſtone-cutter!

Sir!

A hewer of marble! why he may as well live in a quarry.

Monſtrous!

Her ſtudy is a work-ſhop—her drawing-room a maſon's ſaw-yard.

Inſupportable! can this be the uncle of Sidney Aſgill?

There ſhe chiſſels out wo⯑mens' faces with young ſerpents hanging in drop curls, by way of a new faſhion'd tete.

Nay, I can bear it no longer! Sir, this more than gothic ignorance, is a diſgrace to the age in which we live, and to your own ſituation. The head of the beautiful MEDUSA is amongſt the wonders of the art. O! the more than martial ſkill, which could make BEAUTY horrible!

Hey! The dumb lady cured! what is ſhe crazy?

At the ſame place you ſaw

the touching NIOBE, mourn⯑ing over her children;—the light ATALANTA flying from her lover—the graceful GANYMEDE caught up to Olympus for his beauty, did none of thoſe ſtrike ye? none of thoſe awaken your adoration for the ſublime art,—for SCULPTURE! whoſe long enduring beauties bid defiance to time, and laugh at ages!

"I am mad Beſs, believe me."

Your coarſeneſs, Sir, is hardly to be borne! how different from yours is the mind of your nephew! he has ſat whole hours admiring thoſe wonders of the art, and patiently watching the ſtrokes of the chiſſel, which pre⯑ſumed at diſtant imitation.

It is the firſt inſtance of his folly I ever heard. I thought Sidney had been a dif⯑ferent ſort of a man.

I ſuppoſe you have been em⯑ploying your talents to the more exalted pur⯑poſes of importing verdigreaſe, and blubber, and in making monopolies.

Monopolies! no, Madam, never! there is one monopoly, and only one, to which I give my aſſent;—may the poſterity of Engliſh⯑men continue to monopolize this little iſland, as long as the ſea fills its channel, or the winds blow upon its rocks! have you any commiſſion for me, Madam?

Commiſſion—Sir—I came— I intended—it was my deſign—no, Sir, I have no commiſſion.

When you have, Madam, I ſhall be happy to ſee you again, but I really have not [81] had time to read my letters, which I muſt beg to do directly. Order the lady's carriage.

Sir—I really feel myſelf ſo inſulted that—perhaps, Sir—but no matter. Perhaps you are right—yes, Sir, you are very right

Perkins! come in Perkins!

why I was never ſo ſtunn'd in my life. Here's a woman comes on pretence to ſpeak about my nephew, and then begins ſome gib⯑beriſh about ſculpture,—and talks of Gany⯑mede, and Atalanta, and Olympus, and ſuch vile traſh as lads learn out of Ovid; books, that if I was a member of parliament, I'd bring in a bill to make it felony for any bookſeller to vend.

It would do you more honor, Sir, than any canal bill, bill for roads, or any other improvement that was ever brought before the Houſe.

Hah, Mr. Conway, what news— what news?

Alas! none, Sir. I have follow'd our poor Sidney by every poſſible clue that I could obtain; but he has paſs'd away like a vapour— not a trace remains

O! fye—O! fye.

I ſuppoſe Lady Horatia Horton has been here to make enquiries.

Who?

Lady Horatia Horton. She ſtept into her carriage as I came up to the gate— but ſhe ſeem'd to be weeping, ſo I avoided her.

Bleſs me, Sir—there has been ſome miſtake.

I don't know—I am all in a wood! why, was that lady in mourning, Lady Horatia Horton?

Aſſuredly.

Why 'tis quite a different perſon from her I ſaw, yeſterday, at her houſe.

O yes, ha, ha—I have heard about that. The lady you ſaw was quite a different perſon.

Gad I hope I ſhall never have the luck to ſee her again.

Why, Sir?

I can't endure her.

Sir! not endure her? why, ſhe is the moſt charming of her ſex. That lady, Sir, has more ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, more playful innocence of heart, and more beauty than half the women in the world.

I hope I may form a different opi⯑nion, Mr. Conway.

No, Sir—no man ſhall form a dif⯑ferent opinion—or if he does, he muſt take care to conceal it in my preſence.

I ſhall take no care, Sir. I will uſe the freedom of an Engliſhman to ſpeak all I think of you, and of every man, and of every woman too. How dared ſhe aſſume a character ſhe was not?—how dared ſhe ſay ſuch things of my nephew to my face?

Sir! whatever that lady ſays, I make myſelf anſwerable for.

O, Gentlemen, let me entreat you! —you will both be ſorry—you have been both too warm.

I adviſe you to perſuade Sir Simon that he has been ſo!—I ſhall expect his apology.

Why, what's in the wind to-day, Perkins! I affront every one who comes near me, without deſigning it, I am ſure.

Your temper has been a little ruffled, Sir; you are ſore about Mr. Aſgill.

Sore indeed! and my heart will be ſore ſoon, as well as my temper, if I do not hear of him, But about this Lady Horatia— 'tis very odd! what could bring her here? per⯑haps ſhe came to tell me ſome news. I think I will go to her.

It would be beſt, Sir.

I certainly will—after change. But I hope I ſhall not ſee her marble mon⯑ſters again—they'll put me out of ſorts if I do. What a taſte!

Dear Sir, any taſte is better than no taſte, and a lady who employs her thoughts and her chiſſel on works of art, is, at leaſt, not idle; and, therefore, as Doctor Johnſon ſays, not in the way of being wicked.

SCENE changes to SIR ROBERT's Drawing-Room.

Why, what a noddy have I been, to take this ſtrapper always for a girl!

What is the oaf grinning at? do as I bid you—tell Mrs. Jenny her friend Miſs Sally Martin is here.

Gad, I had a good run. I was hardly ſafe in the hack, before the bailiff and my landlady were in purſuit.

O! Jack, I am ſo—

Huſh! come to the point. I am in danger every moment that I ſtay. What pro⯑greſs have you made with your miſtreſs! What is to be done?

Why what is to be done, is to get her any way into your power—once get her to your lodgings, and a marriage muſt follow.

Good!

I have prevail'd on her to go with me alone, to the famous wax-work. She knows not where it is, ſo I'll bring her in a hack to your lodgings; and then—mercy! here ſhe comes—what ſhall we do?

Do!—upon my ſoul ſhe's a ſweet creature! I hope ſhe won't detect the Con⯑noiſeur, in petticoats.

Bleſs me, Jenny—who is this?

A— ſtranger Ma'am—a lady that. Did you not ſay, Madam, that you ran into the hall to avoid ſome gentlemen who were rude to you?

and then, Miſs, that blunder⯑ing fellow, Humphrey, brought him up—I mean brought the lady up here.

Yes, Ma'am, he brought me up here. Really a modeſt woman can hardly walk the ſtreets, men are ſo impertinent. One gentle⯑man ſeiz'd my hand; d—n you, Sir, ſays I— I mean I ſaid, bleſs me, Sir, I beg you won't be rude.

A very odd lady, Jenny!

Curſe the petticoats! Madam I ſcorn to impoſe on you—no, Madam, I have a ſoul above it—I am not a lady. I put on this diſ⯑guiſe to procure admiſſion here, that I might tell you how I adore you, Madam

my paſſion for you is ſo great, that if you do not look on me with pity—if you do not liſten to me with compaſſion—

A lady at my daughter's feet!

ſome great favour ſure ſhe is aſking. What did you ſhriek for?

Shriek, Sir—O, Sir, the poor lady —ſhe was ſaying as how that ſhe had a cruel huſband—I never heard of ſuch a villain! and ſhe was deploring Miſs to ſpeak to you in the [86] affair, for you know him. He ſeems a moſt ſweet young fellow, Ma'am, it would be great pity to betray him!

The Savoyard! O, I remember all at this moment!

Do I know your huſband, Ma'am! Pray do not wheel round in this manner— there's nothing ſhameful in having a bad huſ⯑band—if there were, few married women would care to ſhew their faces.

O, Sir, I ſhould die with confuſion.

Pray, Madam, is the fault all your huſband's?

O, entirely, Sir;—my behaviour to him is quite angelic.

I dare ſay your face is angelic, if one could but ſee it

Perhaps you live a little too gaily for him, poor man!

Not at all! I am a pattern of prudence —generally at home by four in the morning. Charming creature! pity my diſtreſs!

Pray Ma'am turn, and ſhew your⯑ſelf to my Papa, and if you tell him the ſame affecting ſtory you began to me—

Nay pray, Ma'am, do not betray him! how can you have the heart? he would die rather than do you an ill turn. Did you obſerve what teeth he has?

Sweet lady, ſpeak! a deſign ſo pure, and eloquence ſo irreſiſtable, will affect Sir Robert as it ought.

Sweet lady turn round! gad, there's ſome fudge here—I am ſure there is. Sir Robert take my advice—look in the lady's face.

Nay, Madam, 'tis in vain. I will ſee your bright eyes, or never —

A Thalaſtris, by Jupiter!

nay, I will have a peep, ſpite of your dexterity, Miſs!

come, to the right about! by Heavens this muſt be a man— Sir Robert, I ſmell a rat

Zounds! what Tippy! I am a bit of a Marplot here. This comes of your entruſting your friends by halves

What it is a man, then! I thought it was the moſt robuſt damſel I had ever met with.

Get out of the houſe

You might well hide your face! get out, or I will make you ſhew it at the Old Bailey

Who is he?

Oh, a fellow who lives by his wits; one whoſe ſtock in trade is all in the pia mater.

How came he here in this diſguiſe? where have you ſeen him? I inſiſt on knowing the truth.

She ſeems ſadly puzzled—the girl has been taught that 'tis a ſin to tell lies.

Why don't you ſpeak, Georgina? come be bold! your prompter I ſee is at your elbow.

Pray ſpeak, Miſs. Say it is your ſtaymaker.

Yes, I will ſpeak. I aſſure you, Sir,

I never ſaw that perſon till now; but a circumſtance which, I believe, muſt relate to him, has ſtruck my recollection, and makes me ſhudder.

What is it, child?

Sir—I—yeſterday, Sir, I had my fortune told.

Pho!

Nay, Sir, mine was no common fortune-teller; ſhe was certainly a well-bred wo⯑man in diſguiſe.

Why, what did ſhe ſay to you?

She told me that two men—two moſt unprincipled monſters, had laid a plot for my deſtruction

Her diſguiſe was that of a Savoyard, with muſic.

Whu!

I remember you ran through the library to go to liſten to her.

Pray—pray, Madam, what ſort of a perſon was this pretended Savoyard?

An agreeable little woman, with eyes full of intelligence, and manners full of good ſenſe.

Yes, it was my devil, I ſee clearly.

This ſeeming lady is probably one of the two men I had notice of, who introduced himſelf here, to carry on deſigns which make me tremble.

I believe you do, my dear. I never ſaw you ſo grave, nor heard you talk ſo diſcreetly before; a little fright has done you [89] good. May you never ceaſe to tremble, Georgina, when you recollect the hazards of this hour!

You, Jenny, have always nouriſh'd my follies, and cheriſh'd my abſurdities; I will never hold communication with you more. Go directly to the houſekeeper, receive your wages, and leave my father's houſe. Begone!

Why, ſhe can never mean this in earneſt; this muſt be all fudge before her father.

O! that every miſguided daughter would retrieve her errors before it be too late, and, like you, take ſhelter in the arms of a fond and forgiving father!

My dear Georgina, I wiſh thou hadſt either a mo⯑ther, or a huſband!

A moſt edifying ſcene, this!

Mr. Fancourt, you know who this fellow is.

Not abſolutely know him—I have ſeen him; and I will trace him out, Sir, if it be poſſible. And I'll find your little Savoyard too, Madam; your pretty fortune-teller; it ſhall go hard but I'll meet with her!

O! I wiſh he may diſcover her, for I ſhall cheriſh burning gratitude towards her, to the laſt hour of my exiſtence! My dear Sir, I feel like one of our little Welch kids at home, trembling on the brink of a monſtrous precipice, when its ſond parent ap⯑pears, and guides back its feeble ſteps, to crop the flow'ry herbage in ſafety.

SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

Madam, your moſt obedient. I did not know that you were Lady Horatia Horton this morning; ſo I came to apologize, and all that.

An unnceſſary trouble, Sir.

Not at all, Madam, not at all. If I offend, I am always ready to make amends. A little gipſey yeſterday took your name, and railed at Sidney; I could not bear it.

And was it therefore, Sir, that you inſulted my art? Was it therefore that you laughed at, and abuſed my—

Your monſters, Madam. O! keep clear of them, whatever you do! Don't talk of them!

Why, is this poſſible?

Madam, this life is too ſhort to ſquander time upon triſles; ſo, let us come to the point! I am told that you have a great re⯑gard for my nephew, and I love and admire you for it; talk of him, and we ſhall agree to the end of the chapter.

The perſon who told you ſo, Sir, took an unwarrantable freedom.

Why, you told me ſo yourſelf. Would any lady fly into the city, to talk to a croſs old fellow about his nephew, if ſhe had not ſet her heart upon him? Pho! pho! that ſpoke your ſentiments pretty plainly.

O dear! I tell you, I hate your nephew?

Do you? O, you woman! You downright woman! I ſee how it is. When he was rich, you loved him; when you looked forward to fine equipage, ſplendour and ex⯑pence, you acknowledged his merits; but now that you have heard he is poor, you deſpiſe him. O! woman, woman!

Sir, it is falſe. You injure me in every part of your opinion. When he was rich, he never knew that he had cauſed a tender thought in me; it was only his poverty that made my paſſion break out with⯑out diſguiſe. It was his diſtreſs that made me feel, and acknowledge I adore him.

What, then, you do love him?

What have I ſaid?

What you ought never to recal. Speak on; you now talk like a ſenſible wo⯑man.

Well, then, receive my full confeſſion. You, his ſecond father! Mr. Aſ⯑gill has twined himſelf into my ſoul; his po⯑verty has endeared him to me a thouſand times. Go, Sir, ſearch him out; bring him from his retreat, and tell him, that Horatia Horton knows no value in wealth, but in the plea⯑ſure of dividing it with him.

Huzza, huzza! here's a woman for ye! Madam, he is not poor. I'll put down for Aſgill thouſand for thouſand, as long as you pleaſe, and when I die, leave him a plumb!

Sir!

It was all a ſagacious trick of [92] mine. I wanted to try if the dear lad really loved me, and if he poſſeſſed real worth of ſoul. Sentiments, truly noble, he often ut⯑tered; but noble ſentiments are uttered by ſcoundrels, who do not poſſeſs one feeling, which, if brought to the touchſtone, would not diſgrace humanity.

Mr. Aſgill not poor!

Nay, then I underſtand the flimſy contrivance. A pitiful plot, to force me to reveal a ſecret, which I choſe to bury in the bottom of my heart. Preſuming!

Make me a dupe! Now, Sir, know that your nephew rich, and your nephew poor, are two diſtinct perſons. I deteſt his art, and recal all I have ſaid. The rich Mr. Aſgill, I ſhall teach myſelf henceforward to deſpiſe.

Whu! Why, what's in the wind now? Upon my ſoul, I would rather caſt up the moſt intricate account of compound intereſt, than attempt to calculate what will pleaſe a woman. Refuſe a man becauſe he is rich!!!

O, Sir! I followed you here with⯑out your permiſſion, my tidings are ſo good, Mr. Aſgill is found.

Ah, Perkins, I ſaw it in thy eyes, without a word. Thou art an honeſt fellow, Perkins

In what ſtreet or alley was he found?

Street, Sir! A very wide, and a very turbulent ſtreet. You will be ſurpriſed to hear. I employed my own brother in the bu⯑ſineſs. He traced him laſt night down to [93] Portſmouth, where he had entered himſelf on board a man of war before the maſt!

Oh!

Nay, come, Sir, he is returned.

Is he come back?

William prevailed on him; put him into a chaiſe and four, and brought him back to his own lodgings.

Come along, come along! It ſhall be the beſt day William ever ſaw.

SCENE—FANCOURT's.

Yes—no, my dear— yes—

I hope you have been well amuſed ſince yeſterday, Mr. Fancourt?

Perfectly ſo, Mrs. Fancourt.

You ſhou'd let me know when you do not mean to return. It is rather unpleaſant to ſit up all night watching.

O! you can find amuſement.

How?

You are fond of maſquerading, you know.

I do not underſtand you; I never was at more than one maſquerade, nor ever formed a wiſh to repeat it.

And the habit you then wore, I remember, was that of a Savoyard.

It was.

And did you then tell fortunes too?

I die with fear. Surely I am betrayed.

Come, tell me, Madam, have you not lately repeated the ſcene of the Savoyard?

Sir! O! he will have no mercy on me!

But, why need I aſk? I know you have. That fortune-telling was a pretty thought, my dear; but did it occur to you to tell your own fortune? Did you foretel to your⯑ſelf your own fate on the diſcovery.

Alas! I know too well I muſt expect all that malice and revenge can inſpire; but if I have ſaved an innocent from deſtruc⯑tion, and turned away the arrow which was about to pierce the heart of her benevolent father, I am reſigned.

Who are you, who enter with ſo little ceremony into my apartments?

What, Maſter Fancourt, don't you remember us? Mayhap you'll know this?

And this?

Here is a coach waiting below with two of our companions; ſo the quicker you are, the better.

This ſudden ſurpriſe has overpowered me. On whoſe ac⯑count do I ſee you?

You'll know that in proper time. I never likes to anſwer trogatories.

Where am I going?

You'll ſee when we arrive.

Wherever it is, I will not ſtir without this woman. She ſhall accompany me wherever I go.

Why, you have a very fond huſ⯑band, Madam.

Not ſo; but he is my huſ⯑band: I therefore follow without a murmur.

Go firſt; I will not leave you in the room?

Come, gentlemen, let us follow the lady. Bear witneſs that I am a polite huſband to the laſt.

SCENE—Sir ROBERT's Drawing-room.

A ſad, ſad ſlut! Why, what a town this is! A ſtranger, like me, ſhould go about in leading-ſtrings. Plotters, deceivers in every corner of it. Whether the people one aſſociates with, are what they appear to be, or whether it may not be all one univerſal maſ⯑querade, there is no gueſſing.

Come—come forth!

Now art thou a woman, or a griffin, prithee tell me?

Dear Sir, I can tell you no more than I have; I have confeſs'd every thing; and, on [96] my bended knees, I aſk for mercy.

I am not a griffin, Sir.

Get up; your flummery of kneel⯑ing has no effect. How far I ſhall have mercy on a wretch, who plann'd the diſhonour of my child, I ſhall conſider. I have never met with ſo atrocious a jade, ſince the year I was high ſheriff for the county. Retire. Your brother, my Lord Beechgrove, approaches.

I care not that for your ſneers!

I'll teach you, my old gentleman, what it is for ſixty to have the impudence to ſlight five and twenty. I have waſted as many tender bluſhes, ſoft ogles, and enamoured glances on your ſhrivell'd chops, as might have fubdued half the gallant ſoldiers in the allied armies; but I'll be up with you yet!

O, a huſſy! What a ſad thing it is for a young man, like me, to have wanted gallantry.

My Lord, I am your lordſhip's moſt obe⯑dient. Why, you have made great haſte in undreſſing, my lord; you are a quick hand at a toilette, I ſee.

Hey!

I did not exactly know, at firſt, how to direct to you, to ſummon your lordſhip hither, but your ſiſter, the lady Jenny, help'd me out—Mr. Tippy!

The devil!

Pray, when do you publiſh, Sir? [97] Your life muſt be an amuſing one. Put me down as a ſubſcriber.

Nay, ſince all is out, I'll brazen it. I'll put you down for ſomething elſe, Sir, when I publiſh.

Aye.

Be aſſured the public ſhall not want the ſtory of Taffy, the Welch knight; who came up a wool-gathering from Glamorgan⯑ſhire, after Begums, Nanſooks, and Patna-rice.

Well, well, I feel that I deſerve this, ſo I take it patiently. Here comes more company; ſome of your friends, my lord.

So, Tippy—all is up!

Faith, I think, all is down—we have rather a tumble.

Be it ſo! I have aim'd high; re⯑ſolved if I did fall, to fall from an eminence. Well, Sir Knight, you'll give us a bottle of Champaigne at parting, and let us be merry once again! You thought it celeſtial happineſs, laſt night, to get tipſey with a lord, and hear him roar out an indecent catch. Do you re⯑member, Tippy, how he oped his mouth, and how his eyes water'd with joy? Ha, ha!

I can bear all this, for I really have been ſo prepoſterouſly ridiculous, that, I think, I deſerve even more than your malice can ſuggeſt.

"I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt have him on our ſide." Ha, ha, ha! "The old [98] ſcoundrel had like to have undone us

He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and ap Shoneſes in the county." Ha, ha, ha! That was well, I never hook'd a gudgeon with ſo little trouble in my life!

It is, it is herſelf! My charming Savoyard, how I rejoice to ſee you! You are my mother, ſiſter, friend—

You, Madam, to whoſe officiouſneſs my friend and I, owe our diſgrace—you ſhall be rewarded. Now liſten

for I am going to plunge a dagger into your heart—you are not my wife.

Not your wife?

No. Your affectation and delicacy would not permit you to be married in a Church, you may remember, ſo I took advan⯑tage of your folly, and brought a man, who was never prieſt till that moment.

It is very true, and I am he; it was I who married you.

Can it be poſſible? Do I hear right? Am I releas'd from obedience to a man whom I abhor? Is it no longer my duty to aſſociate with vice? Is it no longer my fate to eat the bread of wickedneſs? O, bliſsful moment!

I am ſurpriſed you feel ſo; he is a very good kind of young man.

O! welcome poverty and want!

Never! Your fate is united to [99] mine. You are my mother, ſiſter, friend! I muſt quit you a few moments, for Lady Ho⯑ratia Horton has ſent Mr. Conway for me; but I will leave you in my own apartment. My father's roof is your everlaſting protection!

This is, indeed, a ſtroke! Is ſhe to be happy?

Yes, that ſhe ſhall, if my pro⯑tection can make her ſo.

Unhappy man, farewell! The ruin of my peace and fortune I can forgive! O! whilſt innocence and friendſhip invite me to repoſe, may you find it in repentance.

And now, gentlemen, leave my houſe this moment, or the next you ſhall be returned into the hands of the conſtables. Go! turn out upon the world!

We will turn out upon the world; ſo let the world beware! Come, Tippy, the field before us is a wide one—let us erect our banners! Talents are our armed forces, with which we encounter Vanity and Foll. Where-ever they appear, we wage war. Allons!

Be of good heart, my boy! The foe is numerous, but weak. Conqueſt and pillage are our own!

I am glad you are off! Theſe gentlemen have given me ſome amuſement, together with ſome experience, and it has coſt me only one thouſand pounds —a cheap bargain!

SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room.

No—no—Adieu to low ſpirits for ever! My heart is as light as the feather in your hair; I know all; Mr. Conway has told me every thing; there was no plot on me! No, my Aſgill has proved himſelf in the hour of trial, as noble, as delicate, as brave as my fancy had always painted him.

Well, happineſs is a moſt be⯑coming thing; it gives fire and expreſſion to every feature. But can it be poſſible that Mr. Aſgill ſhould deſign to ſerve as a ſailor? I thought the party with whom he—

Mention parties at an hour like this! O! let ſuch diſtinctions melt into air, and be obliterated for ever! Let every party join hand and heart to ſave this country, and to cheriſh its BLESSED CONSTITUTION!

See, here comes Georgina, playing the little tyrant with her enamour'd Conway.

I proteſt I will not hear ſuch things, Mr. Conway.

Why will you teaze me thus? Lady Horatia, I beg you chide him; for he has been talking nonſenſe to me all the way in your coach.

It will give him more plea⯑ſure if you chide him. Nay, I will be more [101] malicious ſtill, ſpite of your frowns; I abſo⯑lutely will tell you—

You do not hate him.

O! that ſound is bliſs to me!

Ah, but I am ſure I do not love him.

How do you know, angel?

Why, I never keep wakeful about you, nor ever dream about you. And I do not grow pale, like Miſs Gwatkin; and I eat my breakfaſt with pleaſure, and I dine very well; and if I do not ſee you for a whole day together, I only think—well, to-morrow I ſhall be more lucky.

Enough, enough— more than I hoped. On theſe terms I am con⯑tent to bind my fate to yours. Such artleſs candour renders you enchanting.

Well, then—but do not ſpeak to my papa about it for whole week. Bleſs me— here's old Simon.

Here, Madam, I have brought ye your ſailor; and if you do not receive him with kindneſs, and welcome him back with your whole ſoul, you are no woman for me!

Adored miſtreſs of my heart! am I welcome?

Welcome! O, Aſgill, there are characters ſo high, ſo noble, that to be chained in by common decorums, would be to have no taſte for excellence, and my heart [102] bounds with diſdain from ſuch frozen rules! I, who have hitherto treated you with coldneſs, almoſt bordering on diſdain, now declare, in the preſence of my friends, that I am proud to make you maſter of my fate; that I feel exalted in having it in my power to confer happineſs on you.

O! woman unequall'd!— Bleſſed be the hour in which you believed me poor and undone! Sir Simon has been feeding my ſoul with exſtacy.

Mr. Aſgill, you muſt, indeed, love Sir Simon; but I know not how I ſhall ſet about doing ſo; he hates the arts; he thinks there is nothing dignified in ſculpture; he hears, without veneration, the names of Phidias, and Michael Angelo.

Come, come, Madam, throw away your chiſel and your marble blocks, and ſet about making a good wife. That ART is the nobleſt pride of an Engliſhwoman.

Lady Horatia, you are all ſmiles! I declare I ſhould not ſo eaſily have forgiven a man

who could fly from me to the boiſterous ocean, and prove ſuch inſenſibility to beauty and love.

Misjudge me not! I, inſenſible to beauty, and to love! O! my glowing ſoul confeſſes their force, and adores their power. Yet the enthuſiaſm which ſeized me, when I trod the deck of the Victory, can never be chill'd! In the glorious tars around me, va⯑lour, intrepidity, heroiſm, ſhone forth with all their fires; they flaſhed through my heart! And, I ſwear, that ſhould my country need my aſſiſtance, I will again reſume the trowſers, [103] and ſail before the maſt, wherever ſhe bids her cannon roar, or her proud pendants fly.

Ah! repoſe on us! And when you look on the gallant ſpirits, who do honour to this habit, let every fear ſubſide; for, whilſt the ſea flows, and Engliſh ſailors are themſelves, ENG⯑LAND MUST BE THE MISTRESS OF THE GLOBE!