ACT I.

BETTY, any body here ſince?

No madam, but here's a ſtrange ſervant.

Mrs Cockletop deſired me, as I paſs'd along Charing-Croſs; to enquire for one for her, at the Re⯑giſter-Office, and this is he, I ſuppoſe, ha, ha, ha, ſhe's too fine a lady, to look after theſe things herſelf.

Walk up young man.

Servant. (nods.)

Quite a ruſtic! how long have you been in town?

Our town?

London.

I thought as how you meant our town, I com'd from Yorkſop, in the county of Norfolk, to get a place.

Your name?

What of it?

What is it?

Oh! my name is Joey; but volks call'd me Mr Joey all the way up; that I com'd upon the coach roof, for as it's near Chriſtmas time; all the inſide paſ⯑ſengers were turkeys. I quitted-our-village in a huff, with one Nan Hawthorn, my ſweet-heart; cauſe why, ſhe got jealous, and ſawcy given.

The wages, this lady gives to her▪ foot-boy, are eight guineas a year.

Guineas! that won't do, I muſt have eight pounds.

Well, if you inſiſt upon eight pounds, ha, ha, ha.

Oh! I'm hired.

You can give, and take a meſſage.

Yes ſure.

Then, let's ſee, run.

Where?

To the door, you blockhead.

Well, I be's at the door, what now?

The deuce! open the ſtreet door.

Oh! here comes a lady.

My dear Belinda! come up (to Joey) when you hear the bell.

Theſe gentle volks don't mind what trouble they give a poor zarvant man.

My dear friend, I've quitted Southampton boarding ſchool without leave; though.

My ſweet girl! I'm very glad to ſee you, but is this a prudent ſtep?

To be ſure, when I was kept there; ſo long againſt my will, by my aunt.

Ah, Belinda! confeſs the truth, wasn't it to ſee your uncle's nephew, Frank, that you've ſcam⯑per'd up to town?

Ha, ha, ha, 'pon my honour you're a witch; but ſuppoſe ſo, why not? you and I were ſchool-fel⯑lows t'other day, yet here you're married; a propos, how is your dear huſband?

The Doctor is well.

You're already happy with the man you love, while I'm kept at a boarding-ſchool, when I'm able to teach my dancing-maſter.

Why then my dear Belinda, ſince your laſt letter, I've been planning ſchemes how to make you happy with the man you love.

My good creature, do tell me.

You know if your uncle, Mr Cockletop's tooth but aches, he fancies he'll die directly, if he hasn't my huſband Doctor Camomile's advice, he's the grand oracle of his health, the barometer, and thermometer of his animal ſyſtem; now as the Doctor is at Wincheſter, on a viſit to ſome of his old College chums, and won't leave his good orthodox bottle of [6] old port, to viſit him here in London; he ſhall viſit the Doctor at Wincheſter; if we can but get your uncle to leave town, on that hangs my grand ſcheme for the eſtabliſhment of you and Frank; your aunt's maid, Mrs Flounce, and Mr Napkin the butler are my con⯑federates.

Oh charming! but I muſt know it though.

Well?

And well?

I'm com'd up, as you bid me.

But you ſhou'dn't have come, 'till you had heard the bell.

And wounds, it's ringing yonder, hard enough to pull church ſteeple down.

Ha, ha, ha!

Joey, carry thoſe to your maſter.

Plants and Simples, cull'd for him, by the Doctor.—Your uncle will now be a bota⯑niſt, as well as an antiquarian.

Ha, ha, ha! but my aunt's new fangled rage for private theatricals, are to the full as unacountably ridiculous, as my crazy uncle's paſſion for muſty anti⯑quities.

Come be chearful my ſweet Belinda, for I'm going there directly, on your affairs.

My kind friend!

Call a coach

Ha, ha, ha! why you've put on the Lady's hat.

Ecod one would think the Lady had put on mine.

Your London Ladies are ſo manified, with their Switch Rattans, and their coats and waiſtcoats, and their tip-top hats, and their cauliflower cravats; that ecod, I ſhall be in Lon⯑don a long time before I know a man from a woman.(Takes up the baſket, and Exit.)

What a ſtrange incident, my marrying this old Mr Cockletop; 'pon my honour, was I ſingle, I'd have the moſt beautiful Theatre in my houſe, and his nephew Frank, ſhou'd be the Manager, of late he looks at me in a very particular manner; I can ſcarce think it poſſible for theſe features, to ſtrike any body with admiration.

Ma'am thoſe features muſt ſtrike every body with admiration.

you flatter 'em.

Not in the leaſt ma'am—but what ſignifies your beauty, or my ſkill in ſetting it off, my maſter ſince he's turn'd his brain—

Aye, ſince my huſband has turn'd Antiqua⯑rian—

With his curioſities, foreign cockleſhells, mouldy farthings, and all his old faſhioned trumpe⯑ries,—I dare ſay, he'd ſell you for the wing of a but⯑terfly.

Flounce; I'll take you to ſee Lear, to-mor⯑row night at Lord Rantum's private Theatre.

Thank'ee ma'am; but Miſs Toepit's maid told me all of them, except your Ladyſhip, made a ſtrange piece of bungling work of their play there laſt Wedneſday.

Work! Oh heavens, if Shakeſpeare cou'd have taken a peep at them, ha, ha, ha! Romeo and Juliet the play; the hero, on breaking open the tomb, totally forgot what he had to ſay next; in vain, the prompter whiſpers the word; poor Juliet might have remained in Capulet's Monument, 'till Doomſday; at length impatient; (for it grew monſtrous cold) I ſoftly bid him ſpeak; why don't you ſpeak? He, taking it, for what he ſhould ſay, with all the fervor of diſtract⯑ted love, burſt out "ſpeak, ſpeak, why don't you ſpeak." Ha, ha, ha!

My firſt piece of ſervice in my new place.

Ah! (ſcreams.)

(angrily.) Aſtoniſhing, Mr Cockletop, you won't even let me have my dreſſing room to myſelf.

Oh Mrs Cockletop, what a prize! I have bought one of the long books of Livy, a manuſcript ſo capitally illegible, that no man on the globe can diſ⯑tinguiſh or read a letter of it; let's ſee, what change he has given me. (reckons money.)

Full of ſnails.

The botanical plants from Doctor Camomile, carefully pick 'em up, every leaf has the virtue—

Will they heal my wounded pocket?

Eh! what you lizard! the valuable ſimples.

Do my dear, let poor Frank have a little money, give him a few guineas.

Aye Sir, a few guineas cou'd never come in better time, as I'm juſt whip and ſpur, you ſee? hey, ſpank to Southampton.

Pray Frank, what buſineſs have you there?

What! but to ſee, my lovely couſin.

Eh!

Oh! is that your buſineſs.

May be you like—

Aye, do you admire my niece?

Admire! I love her to diſtraction.

the ſweet girl doat on myſelf

get out of my ſight you Locuſt.

Love her! after all my fond hints to him

pray ſir, give me leave to expreſs my obliga⯑tions to you, when I was rehearſing Imogen with you t'other night, and was to have fainted in your arms—

Aye, you villain, you ſtepp'd aſide, and let my dear wife tumble backwards, and knock her fine head againſt the braſs fender—take a double hop out of your two boots, you jackdaw, how dare you ſtand before me with your horſe-whip in your hand?

Ma'am, Mrs Camomile.

Sir, command your nephew to think no more of my niece; love another, you Amateur; ſtand from the entrance.

Why, my dear uncle, you are really a good natured old lad, but for this nonſenſical paſſion for antiquities, in which you have no more judgment than my boot.

What's that?

Didn't you give twenty pounds for the firſt plate ever Hogarth engrav'd; though 'twas only a por⯑ter pot from the barley mow?

No.

Didn't you throw a lobſter in the fire, ſwear⯑ing it was a ſalamander?

Yes, but that was when I was ſick. In bo⯑dily health my mind is bright and poliſh'd; but you moſt audacious dromedary! traduce my ſkill in anti⯑quities!—Hark'ee, when you can prove to me, that it's poſſible I can be impoſed on in antiques, that is when I am in bodily health, I conſent to give you Belinda; here's my hand on't. Begone, your face is as odious to me as a new copper halfpenny.

Sir here's the receipt.

Ah Hearty! you're my uncle's ſteward, re⯑ceiver of his caſh, and yet do tip me a few guineas; cheat him a little, my honeſt fellow.

Muſtn't.

Plague of the money! I'm ſure I want it; my friend Jack Frolic, the player frank'd me into Co⯑vent-Garden, ſat down in the upper boxes, between Miſs Trump, and Mrs Roll about, when the curs'd orange woman thruſt in her baſket, with. "ſweet gentle⯑man treat the ladies," I was obliged to clap my hand on my pocket, ſay my purſe gone 'pon my honour; no entering a public place for the light finger'd gen⯑try; ſo the ladies treated the ſweet gentleman; coming home yeſterday, caught in a ſoaking ſhower; "your honour; coach unhir'd," in I jumps, not recollecting his diſmal honour hadn't a ſhilling to pay for't; ſo as the fellow clapt to one door, out I pops at t'other, [12] but then I got mobb'd by the watermen, and broke my noſe over a poſt running away from the link loy.

Why Frank, I'll lend you my own money with all my heart.

No, before I ſtrip you of what you may yet want to cheriſh your old age, I'll periſh; yet this is my Belinda's birth day, by heavens, I will wiſh, aye, and give her joy, though I foot it every mile to South⯑ampton, and dine on water-creſſes, by the ditch-ſide.

Spirited lad! I hope by means of this letter, I ſhall be able to ſerve him. I'll ſell my old maſter the ſmall collection of odd ſort of rarities Ive made him, but as his knowing them to be mine may leſſen their value in his opinion; this letter rouſes his deſire to buy them; then if I can but make him believe they are from Italy, or Herculaneum, or—

You're the new footmen?

Yes, I be's, I've put on my livery.

Here's a letter for your maſter, give it to him directly.

So I muſt give this letter too; Ecod! they're reſolved in London to keep no cats that wont catch mice.

"A ſervice in London is no ſuch diſgrace."

Isn't that?

Why Joey.

Nan! how glad I be's to ſee thee.

But what brings you here, and this fine laced coat?

Why I be fix'd here, for a zarvant man.

Zure! lard how comicle! and I hired here to day as maid.

Hills and mountains will meet. O dear—O—dear!

I'm now ſent in here by Mrs Flounce, to do up lady's dreſſing room, that it ſeems ſome clumſy booby has thrown leaves about'n.

I'm not a booby Nan; I find you're as ſaucy tongued as ever.

O la! was it you Joey! I ax pardon.

'Twas all along of your croſſneſs, I com'd up to London.

And 'twas your falſe heartedneſs drove me to ſeek my bread here.

Well, ſince good luck has brought us into one houſe—we'll never quarrel, nor be unkind any more.

Nor I never more will be jealous. —O ho! you've had this letter from Poll Primroſe; oh! you deceitful!

The devil! a'dy'e ſee, what you've done now, this letter was for meaſter—if I hav'n't a mind.—

"Sir, encouraged!" why Joey don't be angry, the firſt letter I ever get for my lady, you [14] ſhall open for me, that you ſhall.

"Better my fortune as other girls do!

Ecod!, you've ſpoil'd my fortune! what will become of me? before I've time enough to be ſet down in my place, I ſhall be kick'd out on't.

Where's Hearty?

For my uncle, how came it open?

It's open'd.

Why if it's you that—do you know that opening another man's letter is tranſportation.

Is it? then ecod I'll take the blame upon my⯑ſelf, rather than Nan ſhould go to Botany Bay,

'twas I broke it open Sir—but I meant only to—to break it open—all accident.

"Sir, Encouraged by your character, I ſhall to morrow in perſon offer you for ſale ſome Antique Rarities!" this promiſes ſomething,

well my lad, keep your own ſecret, and I'll bring you out of this curs'd ſcrape.

Do Sir.

Any wafers here?

I believe there's ſome in that box; but I'll get you a haperth.

My old conceited uncle has engaged to give me Belinda, when I can prove that its poſſible to im⯑poſe on him in Antiquities. This may do it, and bring me a convenient ſum beſides, for with all the ri⯑diculous enthuſiaſm of a virtuoſo, my uncle has ſmall [15] reading, no taſte, but has a plentiful ſtock of creduli⯑ty.

Why I could have done that myſelf.

There' you dog, ſtand to it ſtoutly

that's the very one you received.

A thouſand thanks, kind Sir,

But I ſhall want a diſguiſe;

harkyee, you've put on your new livery ſince you came, where are your own cloaths?

In the butler's pantry, for you muſt know, Sir, when I com'd I was waundy hungry, ſo I went there to get a ſnack.

Quick, go give the letter.

Yes, Sir.

Ha, ha, ha! yes, uncle, if you have caſh to buy Antiquities, I'm a ſtupid fellow indeed, if I can't find ſome to ſell you, and if I ſucceed; hey to Southampton with the triumphant news to Belinda.

That's the very letter, I was deſired to give it you, I aſſure you, Sir, it was not open'd.

The things this learned man mentions here are really very curious.

Sir, here be Mr Napkin, the butler, coming.

Sir, a man wants you there below.

Then Sir, do you ſend him up here above.

Eh! what are you idling here? come, come, I'll ſhew you the buſineſs of a footman, you muſt toaſt the muffins for mine and Mrs Flounce's breakfaſt.

I will Sir, and broil a beef-ſtake for my own,

Only that my brain is for ever running on my wife's charming niece Belinda; (oh! how I do love her: I love every thing old, but girls, and gui⯑neas;) I ſhould certainly be ſecond a Sir Hans Sloane— I'd be a Solander, and a Monmouth Geoffry.—Now, who's this?

If my uncle knows me now, he muſt have good ſpectacles.

Meaſter told me, as he told you in a letter, he'd call on you to-morrow with ſome rarities.

Oh, then you belong to the gentleman who ſent me this letter, where does your matter live?

At Brentford, but I be's from Taunton Dean, and as I was coming to Town to day, he thought I might as well drop them here; if you'll buy them, theſe be they.

Oh! what he's ſent you, with the things that are mentioned here

I warrant 'em all waundy rich; he gave me ſuch ſtrict charge about'n.

Rich! ah, theſe fordid ſouls can't conceive that the moſt extreme delight to the eye of an antiqua⯑rian is beautiful brown ruſt, and heavenly green ver⯑digreaſe. Let's ſee,

the firſt is a Neptune's trident from the barbarian gallery.

That's it—

One of Niobe's tears, preſerv'd in ſpirits.

That—

Curious! a piece of houſhold furniture from the ruins of Herculaneum, comprizing the genuine ſec⯑tion of the Eſcurial, Precious indeed!

ſection of the Eſcurial; aye then, it muſt be in the ſhape of—

That's it —

"The cap of William Tell, the ce⯑lebrated Swiſs patriot, worn when he ſhot the apple off his ſon's head.

I've forgot to bring any thing even like that, what ſhall I do

I warrant it's here Sir.

I hope it is, for I will not buy one without all.

Then all you ſhall have,

"That's it may hap?"

Great! this is indeed, what the Romans call'd the Pi-leus, or Cap of Liberty:

" half a yard of cloth from Otahiete, being a part of the mantle of Queen Oberea, preſented by her to Captain Cook."

Zounds, I was in ſuch a hurry to get to work, that I've forgot half my tools.

Where's the cloth from Otahiete?

I dare ſay it's here,

no, muſtn't hurt poor Joey. Eh!

belike that's it,—

What wonderful ſoft texture; we've no ſuch cloath in England, this muſt have been the fleece of a very fine ſheep.

Aye, taken from the back of an old ſtupid ram.

Speak of what you underſtand you clown, much talk may betray little knowledge. Cut your coat according to your cloath.

Yes, Sir, I cut your coat according to your cloth. I muſt fix him in his opinion now, with a lit⯑tle fineſſe,

Meaſter do expect fifty pounds for this balderdaſh.

Here's the money.

No, if he even thought you ſuch a fool to give it, he muſt be a rogue to take it, but he ſhan't make me a party. I'll let him know, I'm an honeſt man; damm'e if I don't throw them in the kennel, and quit his ſervice—

Leave them there, and take the mo⯑ney to your maſter, or I'll make him ſend you to the devil, you thick ſcull'd buffalo.

Not a penny of it will I touch.

Here my good fellow; here's a guinea for your⯑ſelf; there.—

Thank you, Sir; though I do think you're an old fool, and that you're moſt confoundedly humm'd.

Old fool! get you out of my houſe you ſcoun⯑drel, or I'll—

blow you to Taunton Dean you dog, I will.

Enter Mrs COCKLETOP and MRS CAMOMILE,

Heavens! Mr Cockletop, will you kill us?

Lord! what's on your head?

The cap of liberty; oh the ſuper-beautiful purchaſe I have juſt made; ſuch a charming addition to my little curious collection; Mis Camomile you've taſte, I'll give you a treat.—I'll ſhew her all,

Heavens! who has done this!

Pliny the elder.

Here take theſe, and fling them—

Lay your fingers on them, and I'll—Strabo, Campden— and Biſhop Pocock— madam you ſhou'd,

that is you—you do know— you're a Dilitnete. I ſay you are a celebrated Dili— and—now what a fine diſcourſe an F. R. S. would make on theſe, madam, I ſay.

Bleſs me! who has trimm'd you thus?

Sir Aſhton Lever, I wiſh your huſband Doc⯑tor Camomile was in town; I've here ſuch a feaſt, [20] for the venerable Bede. Travellers, come, and lay at my feet, the wonderful fruits of their wiſe reſearches. A wake!—prepare your underſtanding, here's a tear of—the devil, I forgot who cried this tear

Hem! it's a precious drop preſerv'd in ſpirits.

Ha, ha, ha!

Get along you moſt ſcandalous tongued, I de⯑ſire Mrs Cockletop you'll order your ſlip-ſlop out of the muſeum, then, here is a moſt valuable—

Here, I'm ſent to broil beef-ſtakes, and toaſt muffins, the cock ſaid Mr Frank took, and brought out of the kitchen the—

They all coſt me only fifty pounds; this is a Neptune's trident, and this piece of furniture from Herculaneum, the model of the Eſcurial, built in honour of St Lawrence who was broil'd on—

Thanke'e, Sir; I was looking for the toaſting fork, and gridiron.

Ha, ha, ha!

What is that?

Why Mr Cockletop what have you been about here?

Only look.

I believe I'm bit. Taunton Dean, he was a a rogue,

Is my face genuine?

Why 'tis an antique; but indeed my dear, you don't look well.

Don't I?

This may help my ſcheme, to get him out of town

my dear Sir, I wou'd, not ſhock you' but you look—

Do I?

My huſband, the Doctor, often told me, that your bodily illneſs always had an effect upon your mind.

No man living underſtands my conſtitution, but Doctor Camomile; I muſt be

phlebotomiz'd.

When a gentleman of your knowledge is ſo groſsly dup'd, it's a certain ſign—

It is, that I'm ill, or I never cou'd have been taken in.

Lud, I wiſh your huſband, the Doctor, was in town.

I adviſe Mr Cockletop to go to him to Wincheſter.

Here [...] Napkin, order horſes too: Your poor maſter will go to the Doctor at Wincheſter.

Aye, aye, to the Doctor,— to Wincheſter.

Napkin, ha, ha, ha! here's an opportu⯑nity for our plan; you know, as we've all without ſucceſs repeatedly endeavoured to perſuade the old couple, to ſettle ſome proviſion on their neice and ne⯑phew Frank and Belinda.

Aye, we muſt try ſtratagem.

The excuſe your miſtreſs gives is the chance of her having children of her own, whom ſhe can't wrong, by laviſhing their patrimony on others.

Ha, ha, ha! then to put her out of all hopes of that, as you have ſettled, we'll make her believe my maſter's dead, and as I am now going into the coun⯑try with him, leave that to me.

I fancy 'twill be eaſy, as ſhe already thinks him ill—

And weak; heard him threaten to climb up the mouldering walls of Nettleſton Abbey in ſearch of a ſprig of ivy, or an owl's neſt, and if I can't invent a ſtory to bring the old gentleman tumbling down—

Ha, ha, ha! and make your miſtreſs the mourning widow, eſtabliſh the dear, amiable young couple, well and happy.

'Twill be an excellent joke to laugh at over their wedding ſupper, but I muſt prepare for the jour⯑ney.

And I, home, to comfort poor Belinda, only do you act your part, moſt dolefully natural, and we muſt proſper.

Act II.

HOLLO! Mrs Camomile! here's a nick, ha, ha, ha! honeſt fellow; my horſe is at the livery ſta⯑bles t'other ſide of Weſtminſter bridge, you'd beſt ſtep on before me, have him out ready, you'll not have a moment to loſe

ha, ha, ha! well my mock curioſities may. have a better effect, on my uncle than Hearty's real ones; if they can help to cure him of an abſurd whim, that makes him the dupe of impoſters, ſiinging his money after things of no utility

getting late, I'd like to ſee if Mrs Camomile has any commands for her friend Belinda,

then hey for my divine Belinda.

Pray Sir, whither in ſuch a monſtrous hurry.

My love, in the name of miracles how did you get here?

You know we've the beſt friend in the world, in dear Mrs Camomile, the miſtreſs of this houſe.

Come, come, you happy pair of turtles— this room is the ſtage for a little comedy I'm to act with your aunt, of which I hope your union will prove the denouement.

Madam, my miſtreſs is juſt drove up to the door.

Oh heavens! if ſhe finds that I have run to town,

Stop, ſhe'll meet you on the ſtairs.

This way, Frank—when my aunt comes in here, we'll ſlip down.

But Belinda, you'll tell Frank what we're both at, and trip directly home, and you, and all the ſervants on with your ſables.

Sables! what, to celebrate my true-love's birth-day, no, now that my cruſty uncle's out of town, and I have caſh, I'll have ſuch a roaring entertainment at home—Tol—derol lol.

Will you hold your tongue, and come along.

If my little plot on their aunt but proſpers —Flounce, run and deſire Napkin to con over the leſſon I taught him, and look as diſmal as an executor left without a legacy.

And Madam, I'll bid him keep his hand⯑kerchief to his eyes for fear an unfortunate laugh ſhould come on his face, and ſpoil all—Here's my miſtreſs, madam, I wiſh you ſucceſs.

Oh Mrs Camomile!

Well, how do you do?

Our houſe ſeems ſo melancholy ſince my poor dear man has left town, that now I can't bear to ſtay at home.

And when he was at home, you was always gadding.

I forgot to ſhew you my dreſs, had it made up for Cordelia, in our intended play at Mr Pathos's; as you were not there, I put it on to conſult your taſte.

Oh my dear creature, I forgot to thank you for my ticket, but excuſe me, that an engage⯑ment—

Ha, ha, ha! You had no loſs, for our tra⯑gedy was converted into a ball.—Lear you know was our play—which we got up with every care and elegance; Well, Ma'am, Colonel Toper, who was to have play'd Gloſter, having conquer'd too many bottles of Bur⯑gundy after dinner,

"No, damme, I be for none of your ſtage—I'll ſit in the ſide boxes among the ladies, begin your play by yourſelves."—So ſays my Lord Brainleſs, I'll make an apology, and I'll—"Ladies and Gentlemen, Colonel Toper having been taken ſuddenly ill, hopes for your uſual indulgence to accept a dance inſtead of the tragedy."—The fid⯑dles ſtruck up Mrs Caſey, and audience and actors join'd in a country dance—'Pon my honour, tho' I laugh I am exceedingly melancholy.

You've nothing to make you uneaſy; you are ſure, that with my huſband. Doctor Camomile, Mr Cockletop is in ſafe hands.

Well, Mrs Camomile it aſtoniſhes me how you can be cheerful while your huſband's abſent; but indeed it's rather unfortunate when people are found with hearts of more ſenſibility than others.

Why, Ma'am, here's Mr Napkin juſt come below.

But is his matter return'd too ?

Well, if he is not, why ſhould that alarm you?

Then perhaps Napkin has brought word, where is he? why don't he come up—Napkin—

Torture me with ſuſpence—Oh Lord Mrs Camomile if any thing's the matter, I ſhall die.

My dear good maſter.

My huſband—Oh Lord! ſpeak, pray ſpeak.

Madam, will you have him brought up to town, or ſhall he be buried in the country?

Dead!

I wiſh, Henry the Eighth had levell'd Nettle⯑ſton Abbey, my ſweet maſter's thirſt of knowledge-ſuch a height—top of the old ſpire—his head giddy— feeble limbs—ſtretching too far, a ſtone giving way [27] —though I caught him by the heel—head foremoſt— corner of a tombſtone—daſh—Oh!

My fears are true—I faint—I die—pleaſe to reach that chair.

Nay, nay, my dear friend, pray be com⯑forted.

Comforted, did you ſay? how is that poſſible, my dear Mrs Camomile, when I've heard you yourſelf remark that mourning don't become me —though if I was to dreſs like Almeria in the Mourn⯑ing Bride—

To confeſs the truth, I was afraid to tell you, but I before knew of this melancholy event, and there that fooliſh boy your nephew Frank, through his zealous reſpect for the memory of his uncle, has, contrary to all cuſtom and decorum, already ordered the whole family to put on the black clothes that were only t'other day laid by when the mourning for your brother-in-law expir'd.

Madam, you're very obliging.

I ſee his loſs bears hard upon your mind, therefore it mayn't be proper ſo ſoon troubling you with worldly affairs—but now my dear, you'll have no [28] children of your own, indeed you ſhould think of ſome eſtabliſhment for your niece Belinda.

I'll firſt eſtabliſh my huſband's nephew Frank, merely to ſhew I prefer my dear man's relations to my own.

This will anſwer the ſame purpoſe, as Frank marries Belinda,

—Well ſhall I tell the lad your good intentions towards him?

You're very good, I'll tell him myſelf— but I'll firſt conſult you my good friend on the thoughts I have in my mind how to make him happy, but in my interview with the boy I wouldn't have any body elſe by; the hour of ſorrow's ſacred, it's a cruel world, and people luxurious, ſenſual, gay, and fortunate, have no feeling for the diſconſolate, widow.

My dear creature endeavour to keep up your ſpirits.

Ah friend, what ſhould a poor woman do that has loſt ſo good a huſband, but try to—get a bet⯑ter.

Ha, ha, ha! this is the moſt whimſical thought of your friend Mrs Camomile.

Iſn't it charming?

Your aunt, and indeed the whole family, ex⯑cept Mrs Flounce, actually believe, that my uncle's [29] dead; this is your natal day, the birth of beauty; I'll give an entertainment upon my ſoul, ha, ha, ha! pert Mrs Flounce ſays, Oh, Sir; I Can't run any bills with the trades people—but dem bills and credit, while we've money—my uncle's curioſity guineas ſhall fly— Illuminate the rooms, brilliant luſtres, gerandoles and chandeliers.

Yes ſir! la! how where's Joey to do all this? Mr John, light the cluſters, jeridoles, and chanticleers.

Lord Frank what's come to you?

Money and long ſeparated friends have a joy⯑ful meeting—prepare the ſaloon-bell, we will have a ball.

Air the balloon, for maſter's going to play ball.

And lay ſupper, then let Napkin ſend for a pipe and tabor for a dance we muſt have, tol, lol, lol.

But indeed now this is extravagance.

Can't I afford a little extravagance? an't my kind aunt to give me my uncle's caſh, then my Belinda you and I go to church, and Hymen in his ſaffron robes ſhall lead us to the roſy bower.

For Heavens ſake Frank, a little decency be⯑fore the ſervants, how unfeeling they muſt think you.

I'll ſhew you the feeling of ſervants for ſuch a maſter.

Harkee! Tom, the coachman, you know your maſ⯑ter's no more.

Aye, Sir, death has whip'd his horſes to their journey's end, to our great ſorrow.

Poor Tom! I'm told you're ſo griev'd, you have ſworn never to touch a drop of punch as long as you live.

Me! I'll be damn'd if I ever ſwore any ſuch thing.

Ha, ha, ha! a jovial bout the ſervants ſhall have. Fly, and every one bring in his hand ſomething toward the good cheer of the night.

All my doors open, this blowy night reminds me of Liſbon earthquake, but my ſtorm cap has pro⯑tected me, —odd my not finding Belinda at Southamp⯑ton—I wiſh I had come into town over London-bridge; that now is a ſort of young ruin—but then over Weſt⯑minſter-Bridge, to ſee my man Joey; mounted like the emperor of Morocco's blackamoor—I'm not ſorry Nap⯑kin left me, nobody knows now I've been after my ſweet Belinda—how glad my loving wife will be when ſhe finds I am come home and well—

Eh, my dearee has company—this don't ſpeak much feeling for my illneſs.

While Napkin is uncorking the wine, I'll ſee if I can't ſpread a table cloth as well as a hammer cloth.

I wonder who drives my old [31] maſter now in t'other world?—does he go up or down hill?

Eh! now who has put Thomas my coachman into mourning?—As I left you a pied zebra, why do I find you a black bear?

Gee up!

What's all this about?

I love's beet-root—

Yes, and ſo do I— Tell me young woman, for whom are you in mourning.

Haven't, I miſtook the houſe? I believe I'm at next door.

Ha, ha, ha! Flounce if you had ſeen how ca⯑pitally doleful I play'd my part.

None of your dolefuls now maſter's out of town, Miſtreſs ſafe at Mrs Camomile's, the houſe to ourſelves and the young pair—ſince Mr Frank will treat us to a little hop.

Aye Flounce, for muſic you know, Im no bad ſcraper.

No, Napkin, nothing gives ſo much ſpirit to a dance as a pipe and tabor—ſo ſend out and ſee if one can be had.

My fiddle John.

Now liſten Flounce for our country dance; only mind the violin, why I'll Lift up Ja [...]ky Bull ſprightly enough to move the dead, aye, even to make our old maſter caper about.—

So my good friend, I bring you into the coun⯑try, you leave me ſick, ſneak away, and here I find you like N [...]ro at Rome, raſping your Cremona, ex⯑plain what brings you all in black—if any body's de⯑ceas'd, why do you celebrate the funeral rites with feaſting and fiddling; and if no body's dead, why change my dovehouſe into a rookery.

Oh then there is ſomebody! who is it? Eh, tell me! Vexation, an't I to know? Sblood, are people to die in my houſe, and the maſter not to be told?

What, or who ſhall I ſay?

What am I to think of all this?

Why Sir, from ſeeing us all in black—you're to think—that—that—

What?

That we're in mourning.

But for whom? it can't be my friend Mrs Ca⯑momile, or my nephew Frank? oh Lord, if it ſhould be Miſs Belinda—no, no, they wou'dn't fiddle and dance for them—now there is one belov'd perſon [33] that I don't care a farthing for

—yet I left her ſo well—I ſee they are afraid to ſhock me— Napkin is it—is it—

It is—my—wi—wi—wife—'tis ſo, his ſi⯑lence is a funeral oration.

Oh, ho? it be a bitter ſharp night, my hands are ſtone.

Are you petrified, I wiſh you were; I'd put you in a caſe.

But, Sir, here we come home, and find all our ſervants in mourning, and when I aſk for whom, they ſhake their heads and walk away.

Joey, its for—for your miſtreſs.

My Lady dead! I believe I ought to cry

The gentle friend and companion of my youth.

Yes, I ſhould cry.

Oh!

The beſt of wives—

The kindeſt miſtreſs,

Yet my ſervants' rejoicing ſhews how ill ſhe was beloved.

Yes Sir, I ſaid to myſelf when I com'd, Joey, ſaid I, you have got a good maſter, but a bad miſtreſs.

Stay, I'm releas'd from her extravagant vaga⯑ries, why ſhe'd give as much for a little toilette patch box as would purchaſe the black letter palace of plea⯑sure [34] —her week's hair dreſſing would buy me Colly Cibber's, Foppington wig—then her temper.

She was a wixen devil.

With her lace cap and her fripperies,—her private plays, with her denouement and cataſtrophe.

If I didn't ſuſpect ſhe play'd in private with that Mr Denoumong behind the tapeſtry.

I've no right to be ſo ſad.

Yes, Sir, we man be glad, ha, ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!

The funeral over—I'll do what I've long wiſhed, convert her dreſſing room into my muſeum—the room has an eaſter proſpect—the windows face Athens—though diſgraced now by cockſpur Perſu⯑mery, and Fleet-ſtreet japannery—I'll remove her things out of it.

Kick them down ſtairs, an't you man of the houſe?

I am! you're but a boy—but I ſee you've ſpi⯑rit—follow me to her dreſſing-room.

Yes, Sir.—Hem!

Every room, every article of furniture only reminds me of my dear man—my belov'd Frank's ill tim'd mirth don't correſpond with his haſte in getting Every body into mourning, but indeed my poor huſ⯑band was never an uncle [...]o him.

Oh madam, you look ſo well in your weeds.

Do I ?—though I revere the memory of my late huſband, yet his ridiculous paſſion for ſhells, foſſils, and antique nonſenſe was got to ſuch an intole⯑rable height—was determined on the firſt opportu⯑nity I'd fling all his rubbiſh out of the houſe, and now I'll do it, it's a good large room, and I think taſtily [...]itted up will make me a moſt beautiful little theatre —the thought charms me, but alas my charmer is no more. I'll inſtantly go up, and throw all his old cop⯑pers and crocodiles out—his muſeum

[...] moſt horrid place, but I will have it clear'd out, [...] you come and help me.

Yes, an't pleaſe you.

Ha, ha, ha! if our miſtreſs could but pop her head out of her coffin and ſee what a fine rum⯑mage we have made among her falderals, trinketies, and ginglibobs

A, by itſelf A-l-o-lo-t-i-ti-on, lotion for the face,

face! ecod I think it's a good notion for the ſtomach—the very thing I wanted to warm my gay little heart—they ſay what people ſet their hearts on in this world, runs ſo much in their heads, that even in t'other they can't reſt if they ſhould be diſturbed—Maiſter ſays he'll give theſe to the flames— I'll aſk him to give them to my flame pretty Nan—if ſhe gets this here cap upon her [...]ate, and our lady miſtreſs was to come ſtalking in with a candle in her dead hand.

And then ſays Nan, with a trembling voice "Who's here" not pereciving her.

Don't be afraid Joey, its only me.

Mercy on us.

Heavn's! who pulled my things about this way?

Now the devil was in our maſter, that he couldn't let'n bide.—I thought we ſhould have her up

Who did it?

Will it quiet your poor ſoul?

Bid Nan make haſte down to me.

Down! then ſhe's,

Ah, theſe London ladies lead tory rory lives,

Nan,

Don't hurt Nan—I'll go for a Parſon.

Parſon! then my intentions to marry Frank is already known among the ſervants—but I'll ſee how Flounce dare to let my room be ranſack'd in this man⯑ner.

I've left the parſon in the room—who's there? but he inſiſts it be auld maſter that's dead—the good gentleman that juſt now with me for madam's death [37] cried ſo fine, all alive and merry: but this ſtupid mi⯑ſter won't believe it, ſo if he meets her there, and [...] ſtill diſturbed about her rumplified caps, ſhe'll gave it him for certain; I know nought where maſter's got to, and the ſervant's ſeem all to hide. Can't find Nan, I would we were both ſafe again in the country —Well, I've ſaved this drop of cordial—who's you? Heaven defend us ſhe is come again—I have no hopes now but my bottle and this table.

Frank!

this is the room I deſired Mrs Camomile to bid him meet me in, and here he comes this way—Frank—

I'm glad there's no light though ; to diſcover my bluſhes at the open declaration I muſt make him.

As dark as an Egyptian catacomb. Belinda venturing to town muſt be on the report of her aunt's death, and if Hearty has told her—I'll ſpeak to her here.

Are you there ?

Yes, 'tis ſhe. I wiſh we had a light—where are you, you little guinea pig?

Eh, my dear when I bury Mr Cockletop.

Bury me—

—When for you I'll make a mummy of Mrs Cockletop.

Angels and Miniſters! it's the ghoſt of my deceas'd huſband come to upbraid me —oh much wrong'd ſpouſe!

Spouſe! it's the ſpirit of my wife—Oh Lord! oh great injured goblin!

Oh here's the parſon ſtriving to lay my miſ⯑treſs—but ſhell ſurely tear his head off—it's my poor dear maſter—help, murder!

Eh! what work's here?

My lady's ghoſt tearing old maſter to pieces.

Mr Cockletop alive!

My wife not dead.

Uncle, you promis'd that when proved to be deceived in Antiquities, Belinda ſhould be mine,

Now zure beſides the fifty pounds, give her to poor Taunton Dean.

Was't you? take her: I was a wiſe man till my brain got Love coddl'd—ſo my dear let's forgive Frank and Belinda, and forget our follies.

Come, come, let us transfer our paſſion for ancient virtue to the encouragement of Modern Geni⯑us.—Had not Rome, and Athens, cheriſh'd the arts of their times, they'd have left no antiquities for us to admire.