ACT I.

SURE, never man was ſo ſuddenly involved as I have been!—and yet I cannot charge either my wife or myſelf with any particular extravagance. We do but live like other people of our rank; and yet, in leſs than four years that we have been mar⯑ried, an eſtate of four thouſand pounds a-year has dwindled into nothing!—Heigh-ho!—

—I can neither get this Air into my head, or out of it.

I am often plagued ſo, myſelf, Sir, after the firſt night of a new Opera, tho' I have a to⯑lerable ear, and catch a tune pretty readily.

What a propoſal!—I would die firſt. Get me pen, ink, and paper

I'll fetch them inſtantly from the Library, Sir.

You need not. I'll write there.

He ſeems deviliſhly flurried by that ſame letter. I wiſh I could come fairly at its con⯑tents. 'Tis no billet-doux, I am certain; for I have never found him tripping that way, ſince I have been in the family. It muſt be ſome matter of bu⯑ſineſs, and if it is, it may concern me as well as my maſter. I have had my doubts that our affairs were going wrong, for ſome months paſt. Our hall has been crowded with ſturdy Tradeſmen, and we have had ſneaking Jews cloſeted in the Library.—Egad, I'll venture; for where intereſt is concerned, even my honour muſt give way—

He may ſurpriſe me, tho'.—I wiſh his ſhoes creaked

—No—all's ſafe yet; and now for the indulgence of a reaſonable curioſity.—

Here's a bill, as long as his Taylor's!

Puppy! What are you meddling with [3] thoſe papers for? Give this letter to James, and order him to carry it inſtantly.

Muſt I not put the things to rights, firſt, Sir?

Do as I order you, and leave the room.

Ay, and the place, too, as ſoon as your Honour can provide yourſelf.

I ſhould not chuſe to depend upon a poſt obit for my wages.

How ſhall I be able to reveal my ſitua⯑tion to Lady Mary! My heart bleeds for what ſhe muſt ſuffer!

Colonel Mountfort, Sir.

Deſire him to walk in.

Good-morrow, Woodley! What, not dreſſed yet! I expected to find you booted, and ready to ſet out for Newmarket. You'll be late on the turf. Your horſes run, I ſuppoſe? What matches have you made?

None, Colonel. I ſhall not be there, this Meeting.

You amaze me.

Would I had never been there! I am ſick of the diverſion, and ſhall never make another bett on the turf while I live.

Why don't you diſpoſe of your ſtud, then? It muſt be an enormous, and now an uſeleſs expence.

Horſes are the leaſt part of the extrava⯑gances incident to racing.

That is ſelon, Woodley; for I have known ſeveral fortunes made on the turf.

True—but by thoſe only who had none to loſe. They are ſureſt to win, who carry leaſt weight.

Take my advice, then, and ſell your horſes.

Why, faith, I wiſh they were diſpoſed of. But yet, I don't know, I ſhould be aſhamed, I think, to advertiſe them, as it might look ſome-how as if one could not afford to keep them. Ha! ha! ha!

Ridiculous ſuppoſition!

Ridiculous, indeed! That you know, Mountfort, is far from the caſe, but I really am tired of the ſport; and the Meeting, too, is at a time of the year when there are ſo many more agreeable amuſements to be met with in London, ſo that I ſhould be glad to get rid of them, with all my heart.

Let me diſpoſe of them for you, then. I'll be your Auctioneer, and try if I can't emblazon their pedigree with a little of that true humour which Charles Surface beſtows on his anceſtors, when he ſets up their pictures to ſale. Bucephalus, the fa⯑mous Bucephalus, Gentlemen, deſcended in a right line from the renowned quadrupede of that name, which had the honour of carrying a greater brute than himſelf—the immortal Alexander—

Bravo! Colonel.

Or ſhall we deduce his lineage from—

You had better conſult Tatterſall, for their pedigree, as he is your only herald in thoſe points. Heigh-ho!

Heigh-ho! This is but poor encourage⯑ment for me to enter on my new profeſſion. Surely there is ſomething malignant in the air, at preſent; for every man I have converſed with, this morning, ſeems rather to be depreſſed with the gloom of November, than enlivened by the ſunſhine of April. I have juſt now left Jack Knightly and Will Careleſs calculating, not their nativities, but their deaths.

I ſaw them both at Boodle's, yeſterday, in good health.

Not the more likely to live, for that, I aſ⯑ſure you. However, it was not their natural exiſt⯑ence, [5] but their neceſſary ſubſiſtence, that employed their mathematics.

You aſtoniſh me!—Why, it is but lately they came into poſſeſſion of great eſtates.

True:—but then they have travelled the modern ſhort and eaſy road to ruin, of granting annuities for this twelvemonth paſt, and are now ſo nearly arrived at the laſt ſtage of their journey, that I think Jack ſaid he had but two months to run; and Will flattered himſelf, that as the ſummer was approaching, he might be able to hold out four. I adviſed their compounding the terms, and run⯑ning together for three months each.

Poor fellows! I am ſorry for them.

Would I could promiſe myſelf even ſo long a reprieve.

What! moping again, Woodley? You'll infect me, if I ſtay.—Where are the Ladies?—In truth, my viſit was to them, for I ſcarce hoped to find you here. Are Lady Mary and your ſiſter viſible? or ſhall I paſs on to your Uncle's apartment, and pay my reſpects to him? I think there is a door of communication to his houſe from this room. Shall I go this way?

That may be a ſervice of danger, Colonel; for I fear Sir William is not at preſent much delighted either with his vicinity, or affinity, to any of this family, except my ſiſter.

I am glad to hear you can except my ſweet Louiſa; for, notwithſtanding the bruſqueneſs of his manners, I have ſuch an opinion of the old Knight's good ſenſe and good nature, that I cannot readily acquit thoſe he is offended with, as wholly free from blame.

I ſubſcribe to your cenſure, as far as it relates to myſelf; but the aſperity of his behaviour to Lady Mary, renders me extremely unhappy; and not even my paſt obligations, or future proſpects, [6] ſhall ever make me acquieſce in his treating my wife with diſreſpect.

Allow me to ſay, Woodley, that perſons ſo nearly connected, ought to diſpenſe with ceremony, in favour of ſincerity.

That's a dangerous tenet, Colonel, and may be extended 'till downright rudeneſs may be conſidered but as the privilege of family-chat.

I think you have no cauſe for ſuch an appre⯑henſion, in this caſe, as Sir William is quite as ſingular for goodneſs of heart, as for a deficiency in that outward varniſh which too often ſupplies the place of it. But to compound the argument, let us admit there may be faults on both ſides.

My dear Woodley, don't I look like a hag, to-day? Do you know that I have not ſlept an hour, the whole night!

I'm ſorry for it, my dear:—I hope it was not any illneſs that prevented your reſt.

No—I was not the leaſt ill; but the uncommon brilliancy of Lady Muſhroom's ear-rings, that I ſaw at the Opera, in the evening, twinkled all night before my eyes, and would not ſuffer me to cloſe them.

Vanity has her vigils, I perceive, Ladies.

That's but fair, Colonel, as her feſtivals ſeem to beſtow ſuch ſupreme delight on her votaries of both ſexes.

I think, now, that a thouſand pounds added to my own, would make them out-blaze Lady Muſhroom's; and I am ſure my dear Woodley won't refuſe me ſuch a trifle.

I can refuſe you nothing—but we'll talk of it ſome other time.

What makes you look ſo grave, my Love? I ſhould almoſt ſuppoſe that letter was from your Uncle, if he did not live in the ſame houſe, and had not a peculiar delight in ſeeing the effect of his own ill temper.

The reprehenſions of ſincere friends pro⯑ceed oftener from kindneſs, than ill-nature.

Will you ſend for Set⯑well to-morrow, my Dear, if you are not at leiſure to-day? I muſt have this bar taken out, the middle ſtone larger, and the drop at leaſt twice this ſize: and pray hurry him, for I muſt poſitively wear them at Court, next Sunday.

It muſt be ſo.

You don't attend to me, Mr. Woodley?

O, yes, my Dear, I hear every word you ſay. Give me the ear-rings, I'll carry them myſelf to the Jeweller.

Here they are;—but don't be too extravagant:—I would not have more than a thouſand pounds added, on any account.

I give you credit for that laſt caution, Lady Mary; as 'tis uncommon to hear a wife re⯑ſtraining her huſband's generoſity to herſelf, in this day.

His indulgence, Colonel, has ever exceeded my wiſhes.

But never equalled my own.

My heart is breaking for her.

With Mrs. Bromley's compliments, Madam, and requeſts you'll do her the honour to call on her.

O! 'tis the Catalogue ſhe promiſed to mark for me. My compliments, and I ſhall be at her door in a few minutes.—Louiſa, are you diſ⯑poſed for Chriſt [...]e's Rooms, this morning? There are abundance of fine things, and, of courſe, fine people, to be there. I delight in an Auction, one meets with ſo many things there, one never thought one wanted before.

Though it is not my paſſion, I'll attend your Ladyſhip with pleaſure.

See, Wood⯑ley, what an unconſcionable creature Bromley is! She has marked a whole ſide of the Catalogue.—A luſtre that holds a hundred lights! I think I ſhould like that, now, for our grand ſaloon, in the country. I own, I ſhould delight vaſtly to aſtoniſh our neigh⯑bours in Dorſetſhire—if ever we go there. Have you any objection, my Dear?

But one, my Dear—I am to ſettle with my Banker, to day.

No matter—Mrs. Bromley ſhall be my Banker. Her purſe is always at the ſervice of her friends.—O, here's the ſweeteſt ſett of fillagree dreſſing-plate!—I muſt have that, Woodley, inſtead of the one I have had theſe two years.—'Tis abſo⯑lutely Gothic.

I cannot wound her by reſtraint.

Don't you think Mrs. Bromley a de⯑lightful creature, Colonel?—‘Two of the largeſt Seve vaſes that have ever been imported.’ I po⯑ſitively muſt have them. How good it was in the dear Bromley to note theſe articles!—Why don't you tell me how you like my friend?

I have not the honour, Madam, of knowing her ſufficiently to judge of her character, and there⯑fore can only ſpeak of it as doubtful.

Doubtful, Colonel!

In ſome caſes, Lady Mary, to doubt, is rather to compliment, than to cenſure.

And, in other caſes, to doubt, is to be cer⯑tain.

You don't affect to be doubtful, I hope, Miſs Woodley?

By no means, I aſſure you. Mrs. Brom⯑ley's character is quite clear to me.

If you talk in this ſtile, Louiſa, I ſhall certainly conclude that you are jealous of the dear Bromley.

I know not on what account I ſhould be ſo, except in your good graces; for I hope you don't think me vain enough to attempt rivalling her with her preſent Ceciſbeo, Sir Harry Granger.

That ridiculous compound of affectation and epicuriſm! who ruminates upon every meal, and tries to preſerve the reliſh of his ſauces, by a repetition of their ingredients in every new com⯑pany that admits him.

You are monſtrouſly cenſorious, Colo⯑nel; but I will allow that he is a little out of faſhion, at preſent; and for that reaſon, I have forbidden his ever coming into this houſe. The Bromleys dine here to-day, my Dear

—But we loſe time. The Auction may begin, and ſome of the dear things I have ſet my heart upon be gone before we get there.—I ſhall never forget that old frightful Mandarin, Lord Gobble, for whipping up the Seve China Dejeuner from me, at the laſt ſale.

Will your Ladyſhip permit me to have the honour of attending you?

There's a vacant ſeat in the coach, and you ſhall be welcome, if you won't be ſpiteful. Good morrow, Woodley! Come, Louiſa.

So—I am once more left at leiſure for my own reflection. Solitude is ſaid to be a relief to the unhappy; but thought only ſerves to double my diſtreſs. Surely my poverty begins to be appa⯑rent, [10] or Knightly would not write ſo preſſingly.—His note ſurpriſes me.

The peremptory ſtile of this billet alarms me! Knightly uſed to be a careleſs, liberal fellow; but Mountfort told me juſt now, that he is on the verge of ruin. His ſtate, however, is to be envied, in com⯑pariſon of mine. He falls alone. No wife, no family, at once to ſhare and aggravate his wretched⯑neſs. I'll go this moment and acquit me of his de⯑mand, by parting with theſe toys—

How much my Mary's beauty added to their luſtre! Let me fly from the thought.

Juſt on the wing, my dear friend! How lucky thus to catch you flying, as it were!

The good fortune is rather mine, Mr. Bromley.

No, no; you compliment.—But where are the dear, the divine Ladies?—Mayn't I hope to be cheared with one glance from their bright eyes?—What a beautiful creature is Lady Mary!—Do you know ſhe wants but little, very little, my dear friend, to be the top of the tree, the very para⯑gon of fine taſte and bon ton; and I think ſhe will very ſoon acquire that little. My Dame has an ex⯑cellent hand at touching up the laſt poliſh.

I allow Mrs. Bromley to be perfectly elegant.

No, no; there you are wrong.—She is pretty, lively, and ſo forth, but ſomewhat ſubſy, you know.—But Lady Mary, Lady Mary is the thing!—But what's here?

—A new purchaſe, I preſume? They are fine, very fine, indeed! What now may the value be?—Some thouſands, I ſuppoſe.

They did coſt a pretty large ſum, when they were bought.

Not new, then, I perceive—but fine, very fine, indeed!

Lady Mary don't quite like the faſhion—the ſetting, I mean;—and therefore I ſhould not be ſorry to part with them—and buy others.

O, that alters the caſe conſiderably! Let us ſee—let's ſee. Why now, upon examining them cloſely, they appear but middling, very mid⯑dling, indeed. I don't wonder Lady Mary ſhould not like them—no luſtre—very old faſhion'd—they'll ſell for little or nothing, believe me.

They coſt me fifteen hundred pounds, about four years ago.

Fifteen hundred pounds!—You amaze me!—You muſt have been ſadly impoſed upon! very ſadly, indeed, my dear friend! What monſtrous cheats theſe tradesfolks are!—Why, theſe jewels, now, will not bring above three hundred.

That's more than the common diſpro⯑portion between buying and ſelling, I ſhould think, Mr. Bromley.

I mean in the Trade, Mr. Woodley. Among the Trade, diamonds are a drug, a mere drug, indeed: and money is a rare jewel in all trades now, I'll aſſure you. A Gentleman, or a friend, per⯑haps, might give more. Come, for the frolic's ſake, I'll turn jeweller myſelf, and offer you a cool five [12] hundred for them. What ſay you? Is it a bargain, Woodley?

I cannot bear the thought of carrying them abroad to ſell!—Well, if you really think they are worth no more—

Nay, I have over-rated them; but I never compute by pounds, ſhillings, and pence, when dealing with a friend. Diamonds are, as I told you before, a mere drug; and caſh, caſh, my dear boy, your only valuable commodity. Here, here it is

—I have not quite ſo much about me, I find.

That's unlucky

for I want three hundred of it, this very inſtant.

Does the wind ſit in that point?—I'll ſee—I'll ſee. O! here is juſt the three hundred, cut and dry, my boy. You ſhall have the other two this evening at Boodle's. We'll cut a card, or throw a caſt for it, or how you will.

I ſhan't go to Boodle's to-night—nor do I think I ſhall ever play again.

The knowing-ones are taken in. I would not have given ſo much for the jewels, if I had thought ſo.—What, not play? That's good, very good, indeed! You have a ſort of lover's quarrel to the dice, I perceive. But though they have, I confeſs, uſed you a little ſcurvily, they'll make you amends ſome other time. One lucky hit, you know, may repay all your loſſes.

They have ſo often, and ſo fatally de⯑ceived me—

That you'll truſt them again, for all that.

I think not. But we ſhall meet at dinner?

Yes, yes; I obey the dear, ſweet Lady Mary's invitation. I ſhall bring the money with me. Beſides, I recollect, that you and I have a little [13] matter of buſineſs to ſettle; but it ſhan't break in upon our pleaſures, tho'. You ſhall have no trouble but juſt to ſet your name. A memorandum is all I want, my boy.

I have a particular reaſon for deſiring that you will not mention the tranſaction of the jewels to my wife, or even to yours.

Secret—ſecret as the grave, my dear friend—truſty as ſteel, my boy. You may always depend upon honeſt Bob Bromley. We ſhall be with you at five, tho' that's rather early

—Nay, no ceremony.

I am going out this moment.

I have liſtened and pryed to good purpoſe, I think, and am thoroughly confirmed in my reſolution of ſhifting my quarters, to-morrow morning. Up tents, and away, then! But I cannot help being a little concerned at leaving my maſter and Lady; becauſe I am ſure I ſhall never get ſo good a place again. All maſters—no ſervants—every one did as he liked. It grieves me to think what a hand the reſt of the ſervants have made of them. There's the lazy Houſekeeper, the drunken Butler, the cribbing Coachman!—But what ſignifies moralizing! Let me look about me a little, and ſee if there be any ſmall matters lying looſe, that are of no farther uſe to my maſter, and may be of ſome to me.—

Theſe have been worn, but never waſhed, and he may miſs them. No, that's not probable, as he has at leaſt twenty pair more than he knows any thing of—

This ſnuff-box, too, is but a bauble, of more curioſity than value: I ſhall accept of it as a keep-ſake—

By the quietneſs in the neſt, the birds are flown; and I am glad of it. My apartment ſmokes a little, to-day. I'll have the tables brought here, and try if the game be recoverable: tho', to be ſure, I have but little hopes; for ſure there never was any man ſo unlucky.—Waters!

What! is old Square-Toes ruined, too? Egad, I ſhould be glad of that.

—Why, hey, what are you doing here?—Waters! I ſay—

Only removing a few uſeleſs things of my maſter's, Sir.

Then you will certainly remove your⯑ſelf; for I know nothing half ſo uſeleſs, as a pert, coxcomical, lazy Valet-de-Chambre.

As your Honour chuſes to be alone, I ſhall retire directly.

Retire! There's a phraſe now for a foot⯑man! But theſe puppies all mimic their maſters, even in their language, and what's worſe, in their vices. I'll anſwer for it that fellow now, is as idle, as diſſipat⯑ed, and extravagant, as my nephew himſelf. But why do I think of a man whoſe miſconduct has ſo totally alienated my affections? Yet he was a ſweet boy at Eton, and a fine youth at College. His in⯑diſcreet marriage has ruined him—a fine Lady—a Lady of Quality, forſooth, and without a fortune to ſupport her vanity. But, no matter now—I re⯑nounce them both.—Waters!—I wiſh Louiſa was removed from this ſcene of folly and extravagance, and ſafely ſettled in the country. There is no other place for a woman to be ſecure in.

I wiſh you would advance, Mr. Slow-boots. I have called you at leaſt a dozen times.

I came the very moment—

Well, well, well—apologies take up time.—Bring the back-gammon tables here, then go to Counſellor Belford, and deſire him to come to me, directly.—

—Why don't you go the ſhorteſt way?

Your Honour bid me bring the tables, firſt.

Of what uſe are they, when Belford is not here to play?—

—No, come back, and fetch the tables, and I'll place the men juſt to ſhew you how I was gammoned, and I think you'll allow there never was ſuch luck.

I am utterly ignorant of every point of the game, Sir.

Stupidity in the abſtract! How often have you been in the room, while Belford and I have been playing! Had we been ſaying or doing any thing we ought not, you would have picked it up faſt enough, I warrant you.

Indeed, Sir—

No words—I hate prate—fly to Mr. Belford's—

—I'll go and ſhew Jones how it was; for tho' ſhe is my Houſekeeper, now, ſhe is a Parſon's daughter, and muſt underſtand back⯑gammon. I am ſure ſhe will be aſtoniſhed at Bel⯑ford's move.

ACT II.

HOW truly do I rejoice to ſee my good friend Mr. Belford! But may I flat⯑ter myſelf that the honour of this viſit was intended for me?

I am ſorry, my dear Sir, that there ſhould be a neceſſity for diſcriminating the perſon to whom my reſpects are paid, in a family I ſo equal⯑ly regard, and which was once ſo happily united.

If indeed you regard this family, or ever had any friendſhip for me—But I cannot ſpeak.

I am already apprized of your difficul⯑ties, and would ſpare you the pain of even hinting at them, were it in my power to redreſs them.

Then be aſſured it is; for amidſt all my diſtreſſes, nothing afflicts me half ſo much as Sir William's implacable reſentment againſt Lady Mary and me. If he were but reconciled—

That is, in plain Engliſh, my young friend, if he could be reconciled to your expenſive mode of living, he ought in honour to aſſiſt in ſup⯑porting it. But that, I doubt, will never be brought to paſs, though Sir William is both rich and ge⯑nerous—

To all the world, but me.

In this caſe, then, you ſhould ſuſpect your own conduct, rather than his character.—But remonſtrances are uſeleſs, now; and I promiſe to uſe my utmoſt intereſt to bring about a reconciliation. [17] But I much fear that we ſhall not be able to get Lady Mary included in the family-compact; for I know no man more reſolute in what he conceives to be right, than Sir William.

My honour, as well as my love, obliges me to vindicate her; and I here pledge them both, that ſhe is free from blame.

I am glad to find you ſtill a lover, Mr. Woodley; but I who am but a friend, in this queſ⯑tion, can't help thinking, that if Lady Mary had ſpent more of her time in Dorſetſhire, and leſs at Spa, Paris, and other places of diſſipation and ex⯑travagance, ſhe would have been more entitled to Sir William's eſteem, and you would have had leſs need of his aſſiſtance.

The fault was mine alone.—Vain of poſ⯑ſeſſing ſuch a treaſure—

You childiſhly expoſed it to the gaze of fops and foreigners.—And let me tell you, Mr. Woodley, you are a lucky man, in theſe licentious times, to have preſerved ſuch a gem pure and entire, even at the expence of your other poſſeſſions. But, prithee, why don't you now retreat into the country?

My wife is quite ignorant of my pre⯑ſent circumſtances—I have not reſolution to ac⯑quaint her with them—and to propoſe quitting London, in this gay ſeaſon, without aſſigning ſome cauſe—

Would, in your ſituation, be extremely prudent.

I cannot bear the thought of giving her uneaſineſs—

And ſo cruelly prefer the evil to the cure.

I humbly beg your Honour's pardon for my intruſion, but I have been at your Chambers, [18] and at the Temple Coffee-houſe, to look for you. My maſter is quite impatient to ſee you, Sir, and one of Mr. Woodley's ſervants told me you were here.

This ſeems to fall out luckily. I will not detain you a moment. Dear Belford, remember what a cauſe you have in hand.

Do not diſtruſt my attention to my client, tho' I cannot warrant ſucceſs to the ſuit.

I cannot tell your Honour how proud I am to meet you. My good, dear maſter has been as angry with me for not finding you at home, as if I had committed the greateſt of faults; and I would die rather than vex him.

I know my friend's haſty temper, per⯑fectly well; but I alſo know that his good-nature is an over-match for it.

O, Sir! you don't know how good and generous he is.

You are miſtaken, Waters; I am no ſtranger to Sir William's benevolence.

Indeed, Sir, with ſubmiſſion you are;—for he takes as much pains to conceal his goodneſs, as others do to reveal theirs. He would never for⯑give me if he knew I mentioned it; but my heart is ſo glad, I can't help telling your Honour that he apprenticed my eldeſt boy, laſt week, and pays for the ſchooling of the two youngeſt.

Theſe are noble bounties, I confeſs, Waters; but I think your feelings on the occaſion do as much honour to human nature, as the Knight's generoſity;—for a liberal hand is more frequently to be met with, than a grateful heart.—But where is Sir William?

I left him going to take a turn in the garden, and I don't in the leaſt doubt but he will come in as cool as a cucumber, tho' when he went [19] down ſtairs he was as angry with me, as if he had never done me any good.

Shew me the way, and I'll go to him directly.

They are pretty, I confeſs; but even I think them rather dear.

What an idea for my dear Lady Mary! Do you know, now, that the equipage of Mrs. Stockwell's toilet, the Broker's wife, coſt thirteen hundred pounds?

I remember her at Paris—an over⯑dreſſed Thing!—I thought ſhe had been a Jeweller's wife, and looked upon her as a ſtalking ſhew-glaſs, to expoſe her huſband's goods for ſale. But the poor man, I ſuppoſe, was ruined by her extravagance.

Yes, yes, he was done-up, very ſoon after. But the woman had wit in her madneſs, however; for ſhe ſecreted her paraphernalia, and her chariot has rolled on her perſonal fortune, ever ſince. Women are much wiſer, now-a-days, than they uſed to be.

Your Ladyſhip's maſquerade dreſs is juſt come home, Ma'am.

Let me ſee! let me ſee!

How beautiful! My dear crea⯑ture, ‘You'll look a Goddeſs, and you'll move a Queen!’

Ah, Bromley! I have juſt recollected that I can't go as a Sultana. I have ſent my ear-rings to be altered, and the reſt of my jewels will make no figure without them.

Hire, hire, my Dear.

I don't underſtand you.

What a baby, Mrs. Williams! but 'tis a ſweet baby, we muſt allow. Why, for fifty, or a hundred guineas, at moſt, you may hire as many diamonds as would out-blaze the throne of Dehli.

A hundred guineas! What a ſum for one night's vanity! No—I'll go as a Shepherdeſs.

That wou'd be a diſguiſe, indeed, in theſe days of martial ardour, when our whole Sex have exchanged their old faſhion'd ſimplicity of dreſs and manners, for the military air, the ſmart cockade, and lively regimental.

But one may be allowed to look inno⯑cent in maſquerade, I hope?

Ha, my little fly one! have I found you out?—Nothing but a Corydon cou'd have inſpired ſuch an idea.

All dreſſes, I fancy, are alike to Mr. Woodley.

Mr. Woodley! Ridiculous! Why, ſurely, my dear, you don't think of expoſing your⯑ſelf to be the jeſt of the whole Town, by going en groupe with your huſband to a Maſquerade!—Would not the dear, good natured Sir Harry Granger, or even the wiſe Colonel Mountfort, make a better Corydon for our ſweet Shepherdeſs, think you?

How idly you talk!—Mountfort is Louiſa's Ceciſbeo, and Sir Harry, I fancy, would be proud to enliſt under your banner, in the ſame capacity.

This is wilful blindneſs, Lady Mary, for you can't avoid ſeeing that Sir Harry is your ſlave. I pity him with all my heart, and w [...]ſh you would do ſo too. Poor ſoul, how he doats upon you!

You'll make me angry, Mrs. Bromley.—But, prithee, why muſt I be treated like a picture for a drawing room, not to be hung up without its companion? I want no Corydon, I aſſure you.

No, to be ſure—quite lonely and diſcreet. Come, come, my dear Lady Mary, you were not deſigned for a ſimple Shepherdeſs:—the Sultana is your natural character—born to command, and be adored. But you muſt and ſhall be fine; for let the men ſay what they will of native charms, our diamonds add conſiderably to the luſtre of our eyes. What ſay you, Mrs. Williams?

There never was a truer word ſpoken, Ma'am; for though my Lady wants no off⯑ſettings, and looks like an angel in any dreſs—

A truce with your flattery, Williams!—Take away the dreſs—I ſhall conſider of it.

Nobody's flattery will go down, now, but Mrs. Bromley's, it ſeems.

I ſhould like the Sultana, I confeſs; but—

But what?

Can't you gueſs? You know I have been ſtripped at play, and have ſquandered a great deal of money, this morning. I am ſorry I bought theſe toys.

Bleſs me! how you talk? you that have the fondeſt, and the moſt indulgent huſband breathing!

For that very reaſon, my dear Bromley.

You really talk like a wife of the laſt century.—Here's a fuſs, indeed, about a poor hundred guineas! Do you know, now, that I would not have this ſtory told of you, in any polite circle, for treble the ſum.—If it ſhould take wind, you'd be ſneered to death with encomiums on your Lady⯑ſhip's very uncommon prudence.

Why, I ſhould not care to be thought [22] too prudent, neither; ſo I beg you'll not mention it to any one.

You may rely on my friendſhip.—And now, my Dear, what jewels would you have?

You can't imagine how much diſtreſſed I am, upon this trifling ſubject. I'm reſolved not to aſk Mr Woodley for money, to-day.

Borrow, then. You may com⯑mand thouſands, to my knowledge. Sir Harry is as rich as all Duke's Place, and I am ſure he would be happy to lay all his treaſures at your feet.

Borrow money from Sir Harry Gran⯑ger!—You cannot mean it!

Ha, ha, ha! Sure never mortal was ſo eaſily taken-in, as my dear Lady Mary! You could not think me ſerious, I hope.—Not but I know many wives—

Who are a reproach to their Sex, perhaps.

No preaching, if you love me!—I ſhall get the jewels for you, on my own credit; for I am reſolved that you ſhall not only be the lovelieſt, but the fineſt woman, in all that dear, gay, motley Aſſembly, to-night.

I thank you, my dear Bromley.—I think the dreſs will become me.—But I owe you a monſtrous deal of money, I'm afraid, already.—How much is it?

A trifle, a very trifle, indeed, between ſuch friends! and I ſhall be apt to quarrel with you, if ever you mention it again—let the men ſettle it.—I ſhall bring the jewels with me at five; 'till then, adio mia cara.

Mr. Bromley comes, I hope?

Lord! who knows any thing of a Huſband's engagements, my Dear? But there is no doubt of his attending your ſummons, on any occa⯑ſion, for my poor Bromley dies for you. You are quite a monopolizer, Lady Mary!

What a rattle you are!

I tell you, I will hear no more of him.—If he has deſtroyed his fortune, he ſhall not de⯑ſtroy my peace.—

Cinque ace.—Come, come, 'tis your throw.

It is amazing, Sir William, that you can be ſo anxious about this trifling game, and at the ſame time ſo indifferent about your nephew!

I am in earneſt about every thing, Mr. Belford; conſequently, in my reſentment againſt my ſilly nephew, who is a ſlave to his wife, and a victim to his vanity. Will you take the box, I ſay?

Gently, gently, my good Sir William.—You have put yourſelf in a paſſion, already.

No, Sir, 'tis you that have put me in a paſſion.—I hate gently, and all the phlegmatic people in the world.

And yet you and I have been friends, theſe twenty years.

True, true, my dear Belford!—and, perhaps, I am indebted to your gently, for our conti⯑nuing ſo.—But don't put my patience to any further trial, at preſent.—Sit down, I entreat you.

But one word more, and I have done.

Well, I am patient, but don't harp again on the ſame ſtring—No more of Mr. Wood⯑ley.

You have a noble fortune, Sir William!

Yes, thanks to Providence! more than I have occaſion for myſelf, and therefore I conſider the overplus but as a bank for my friends.—Do you want money, Belford? Name the ſum, and take it.

Thank you, Sir William, but 'tis not my wants I wiſh you to ſupply, but thoſe of your nephew.

What! at it again? I will not give him a doit—not a doit, Sir. My fortune ſhall not be laviſhed to indulge his vanity, or ſupply his prodigality.

I am perſuaded he has ſo thoroughly re⯑flected upon his paſt folly, that he would make a proper uſe of your future kindneſs.

Let him alter his conduct, firſt, if he expects I ſhould alter mine. His repentance may merit my bounty; but my liberality ſhall not pre⯑vent his reformation.

But if Mr. Woodley ſhould be undone, what will become of your niece?

Let her ſhare his fate, as ſhe has done his folly—ſhe has earned it.—An extravagant woman, that could not be content to live at one of the fineſt Seats in England, but muſt friſk it to Spa and Paris, forſooth, like the reſt of the ſilly Engliſh, to ſquander their money, and be laughed at by Foreigners!

I underſtood Miſs Woodley had remain⯑ed in England.

What, Louiſa! I did not ſpeak of her—ſhe is the beſt girl on earth.—No, no—ſhe ſhan't ſuffer for other people's faults. If he has involved her fortune too, I ſhall take care of her.

Do you intend ſhe ſhall live with you?

No, Sir, no—I'll have no miſtreſs in my houſe, but old Jones. I would not diſplace her for a Ducheſs—it would break the poor woman's heart.—But I ſhall take proper care of Louiſa.—

I wiſh ſhe was well married, out of the way.

But now give me leave, Sir William—

Neither now, nor then, Mr. Belford. The matter is all ſettled in my mind, and the game gone quite out of my head. I'll ſend for Louiſa, directly, and talk this matter over with her.—Waters! (enter Waters) Step in to Mr. Woodley's, and deſire my niece to come to me immediately.

I am ſorry I have been ſo unſucceſsful in my ſuit, Sir William, and wiſh you a good-day.

You are not angry with me, I hope, Belford?—I am as ſorry for my nephew's indiſcre⯑tion as you or any one can be.

If you are, you will certainly aſſiſt him. (aſide) But I know it muſt be all done in your own way.

Dine with me, and we'll play out our party, after dinner.

With all my heart, but I ſhall be too many for you, as uſual.

If I had not the greateſt regard ima⯑ginable for my old friend, I ſhould hate him abominably, for always beating me at backgammon. But let me conſider, now—She has ten thouſand pounds of her own. I will give her as much more, at preſent, and my whole eſtate, after my death.—No, no,—that won't be acting juſtly—Woodley may have children—They have not offended me, though their father has;—and if they ſhould be half ſo pleaſant as he was when he was a child, I ſhould love them dearly, as I once did him. But I muſt ſtrive to forget all that buſineſs, now.—Here comes Louiſa.

Well, child; you know, I ſuppoſe, that my hopeful nephew is totally ruined—

Sir!

Why don't you come nearer? I wouldn't have all the houſe hear me.—

My nephew, I tell you, is ruined.

I could not have imagined, Sir, when you did me the honour of ſending for me, that you meant to alarm or inſult me.

I ſend for you! I in⯑ſult you!—That blundering Waters!—No, Madam, you are the laſt perſon in the world, except your huſband, that I ſhould think of ſending for.

The reſpect I have for you, Sir, as Mr. Woodley's relation, muſt make it extremely painful to me to know that I am ſo diſagreeable to you.

Reſpect for me, Madam! I don't de⯑ſire your reſpect, nor deſerve your reſpect.—

If ſhe talks in this way, ſhe'll ſtagger my reſolution.—I wanted to ſpeak with my niece, Madam, and my blundering ſervant—

Has brought you one that is proud of that title, Sir.

You have a title of your own, Madam.—I hate titles—and one reaſon why I never married, was becauſe I would not have my wife called my Lady.

I ſee, Sir William, that you are not inclined—

To converſe with Ladies, Madam.—I would ſpeak with Louiſa, upon buſineſs.

I ſhall no longer obtrude on you, Sir; but before I go, muſt requeſt you'll explain what you meant by ſaying that Mr. Woodley was ruined.

She knows nothing of the matter, I find, and I cannot bear to ſhock her.—I think, Madam, you ought to underſtand that matter as well as I.—Ruined!—Why, 'tis a common phraſe, at preſent, Madam.—Dukes, Lords, and Commons, nay, the whole Nation, are ruined, Ma⯑dam—'tis [27] quite the Ton; and I ſuppoſe that neither Mr. Woodley nor you would chuſe to be out of the faſhion.

I hope, Sir, you'll allow that Mr. Woodley's fortune, and my rank, entitles us—

To be ruined in good company, Ma⯑dam.—

She has touched the right key now. I'm no more afraid of her. Had ſhe fallen a-crying, I might have been ruined too.

I am ſorry to find, Sir, that your pre⯑judices againſt Mr. Woodley and me are ſo ſtrong, that it would be in vain for us to attempt a juſtifi⯑cation of our conduct.

Quite ſo, indeed, Madam.

I ſhall therefore take my leave, Sir.

You have mine, with all my heart.

Shall I ſend Miſs Woodley to you, Sir?

No, Madam, no; I'll ſend for her when I am a little more compoſed. Your ſervant—your ſervant, Madam.—

—Waters!—What a martyrdom has this fellow expoſed me to!—Waters!—

—Thou eternal blockhead, dolt, dunderhead—

Does your Honour ſpeak to me?

No; to the door; to the window; to this table—Matter itſelf has more intelligence than thou.

Would your Honour pleaſe to have dinner ſerved? It is quite ready.

Let it wait.

Mr. Belford is below, Sir,

Well, well, I'll go then. What a provoking blunder!

If Belford ſhould ſucceed with my uncle, all may yet be well. Something muſt be done, and quickly too. I can no longer endure the agony of endea⯑vouring to impoſe upon the world, and myſelf, by perſonating a borrowed character. But here ſhe comes, who innocently adds to all my ſufferings, and tips the darts of poverty with anguiſh!

O! my dear Woodley! ſuch a trial ordeal as I have undergone! I declare I would ra⯑ther be buried alive, in Dorſetſhire, than endure ſuch another tête-à-tête. He has done every thing, but beat me.

I don't comprehend you—Whom do you mean?

Nay, that's downright perverſeneſs; for I am certain there is not ſuch another creature upon earth, as your precious Uncle.

I hope you have not quarrelled with him, Lady Mary?

No, truly; he has ſpared me that trouble, by quarrelling with me, moſt outrageouſly.

Then all my hopes in Belford are at an end. I am very ſorry you happened to come in his way.

I'm ſure ſo am I, Mr. Woodley. The interview was not of my ſeeking; and though I was as mild as a lamb, he was as rude as a bear. The deuce take his blundering ſervant for bringing me into ſuch a ſcrape!

I ſhould hope that your regard for me would have prevented—

And ſo it did, I aſſure you; for I did not laugh, tho' he ſaid ſomething ſo ridiculous, [29] about your being ruined, the Nation being ruined, and all the world being ruined, that I had much ado to keep my countenance. However, I behaved very decently all the while, and even condeſcended to en⯑treat that he would give you leave to juſtify your conduct to him.

And did my dear Mary obtain his per⯑miſſion?

Your earneſtneſs ſtartles me, Mr. Woodley. Of what conſequence can the old-faſhion⯑ed opinion of an obſtinate Don Choleric, who hates us both, be of to us? I wiſh he would endow an Hoſpital with his fortune, that our ſolicitude to pleaſe might end with our expectations.

Mine ſhould not, I aſſure you.

That muſt be as you pleaſe, Mr. Woodley; but I declare, that from this hour—

Make no raſh vows, Madam. You know not how much you have been, or may be, in⯑debted to Sir William.

I indebted to him! No, Mr. Woodley, that I poſitively deny.

And ſo do I, with both my hands, and all my heart; for be the queſtion in Law, Phyſic, or Divinity, I'll pawn my life on't, that Lady Mary is right.

I am much obliged to you for your good opinion, Mr. Bromley.

And I wager on Mr. Woodley's ſide, were it only to keep up the argument. The queſtion, then?

Ay, ay, the queſtion?

There are ſecrets in all families, you know, my dear Bromley.

And it is always prudent to keep them ſo, Lady Mary.

Very good, very good, indeed.

Curioſity, thank heaven, is not one of my failings. 'Tis ever a mark both of igno⯑rance and ill-breeding. I am aſtoniſhed how any one can be infected with ſuch an impertinent weakneſs.

Yes, yes, my Dame is quite above all ſilly curioſity—

The verieſt eaves-dropper that ever exiſted. She'll not reſt 'till ſhe has got the whole ſtory, and I ſhall have it the moment we get home.

They are quite charming, indeed! I ſhall outblaze the Queen of Diamonds.

What jewels are theſe? I hope you have not bought them, Lady Mary!

You hope I have not bought them—What an odd ſpeech, Mr. Woodley! No; I have only borrowed them, and will lend you part, if you'll go en Turc. I can ſpare enough to ornament his turban, can't I, Bromley?

Surely you don't perſiſt in making a family party, Lady Mary?

You ſhall have theſe.

Prithee, don't teize me, Lady Mary—I ſhall not go to the Maſquerade.

Don't teize me! Something extraordinary muſt have diſturbed him.

You'll have a charming ſqueeze at your rout, Lady Mary! Not a vacant chair to be found in the whole houſe, I warrant you.

You flatter me. No; I believe there will hardly be any body. Do you know that I have had a hundred and ninety-one excuſes within theſe two days?

Ay, but you'll have nine hundred [31] and ninety people, for all that. I hope Lady Sitfaſt won't come! That woman never orders her carriage till near one, tho' ſhe plagues the ſervant to call it up, every five minutes after eleven.

Then there's that poor, drooping Mrs. Henpeck, who always loſes, and ſits moaning over her loſſes, and playing the after-game, 'till the ſer⯑vants are obliged to put her out along with the candles.

No more excuſes, I hope?

Dinner is ſerved, pleaſe your Ladyſhip.

Is Sir Harry Granger come?

O, no; he has no longer the entrée here.

I'm heartily ſorry for it. No man tem⯑pers a ſallad like Sir Harry. He is a perfect com⯑pendium of the whole art of cookery, and has more good receipts in his pocket-book, than ever were publiſhed by the celebrated Hannah Glaſs.

Moſt excellent qualifications for a man of faſhion!

True, very true, indeed! Eating is the rage, the high ton, at preſent, and indeed is one of the moſt refined of our modern ſtudies.—Will your Ladyſhip permit me the tranſcendant honour of your fair hand?

I attend Mrs. Bromley.

ACT III.

I AM no drinking man myſelf, Belford; but yet I do not approve of this water ſyſtem of yours. It keeps the ſpirits too low—

To ſay or do any thing mad or fooliſh, I grant it may. But if water does not raiſe, it never depreſſes the ſpirits. Can you ſay as much for your generous wine?

Well, well, I won't diſpute with you, becauſe I hate argument; and as you are an honeſt fellow, I can venture to take my glaſs chearfully in your company, tho' you don't partake of my liquor. But I'd give ſomething, ay, more than I'll mention, that you'd ſhare only one pint of claret with me, now.

I have made no vows, Sir William; and to humour a friend can eaſily diſpenſe with rules of my own making: So here's your fair niece, Louiſa Woodley, in a bumper.

Thank you, thank you, my good friend! She is a moſt excellent girl, and I like to have her toaſted by ſuch a man as you. I wiſh ſhe was well ſettled, with all my heart.

There can be no doubt of her marrying to advantage. She is a fine young woman, with a fine fortune.

And ſo may be ſacrificed to ſome fine young man, that may ſpend her fortune in finery, as her hopeful brother has done, and leave her a beg⯑gar. [33] No, no,—I'll prevent that—I have thought of a match for her—Fill your glaſs, Belford!—a prudent, ſober, ſenſible man.—

I wiſh he'd take the hint.

Rare qualities, indeed, for a young man of faſhion to poſſeſs, in theſe days, Sir Wil⯑liam.

Who told you that he was a young man of faſhion? Why, Sir, there have been no men born, at leaſt, for theſe laſt thirty years—all monkies and macaronies. No Hearts of Oak, now, Belford,—all dwindled, dwindled into aſpens!

Your ſarcaſm is rather too general, my good friend. Courage is the birth-right of an Engliſhman, and while one acre of our ſoil remains, both the Oak and the Laurel will thrive on it.—We muſt not prejudge the riſing generation; and I have not the leaſt doubt but your niece will make a very proper choice.

A choice! I hope ſhe has been better educated, than to have a choice, Sir. I was not conſulted in her brother's match, and you ſee the conſequence.—I ſhall diſpoſe of Louiſa in my own way.—I have a huſband now in my eye for her, Belford.

Whoever obtains Miſs Woodley, will, I dare ſay, be a very happy man.

Stick to that, my dear Belford.—Yes, yes, whoever marries Louiſa will be a very happy man, and I am extremely glad you think ſo.—

I wiſh he'd come to the point.

You know, Sir William, that I have long been acquainted with Miſs Woodley's merit.

You charm me, my dear Belford. I am glad you know her worth, and you will therefore cheriſh it.—She is mild and timid—but you'll be kind and gentle to her, even for my ſake, my good old friend.

Kind and gentle to her! and your good old friend!

Why, are not you my friend?

Moſt certainly.

Then why all this reiteration? If you marry Louiſa—

I marry her, Sir William!

Yes, Sir—Did you not, this moment, allow that who ever married her, would be a very happy man? And I ſuppoſe, you can have no poſſible objection to being a very happy man, Mr. Belford?

Yes, Sir, the ſtrongeſt in the world, if my happineſs is to be purchaſed at the expence of another's miſery.—But I am wrong for being ſerious, when I am certain you do but jeſt.

In the firſt place, Sir, I never ſaid any thing in jeſt, ſince I was born.—And, ſecondly, Sir, I never was more in earneſt, in the whole courſe of my life. I therefore requeſt from you a ſerious anſwer.—Jeſt, indeed! No, truly, Counſellor, I am no joker.

Why, then, Sir, I ſhould think myſelf highly honoured—

Pſha, pſha, pſha—

Patience, my good friend—

No, Sir—I will have no patience with your nonſenſical compliments—none of your ho⯑nours, I ſay.

In a word, then, Sir William, the diſparity of years between forty-eight and eigh⯑teen—

Is juſt nothing at all.—What need you tell her you are forty-eight?

There will be no occaſion, I grant you—Self-evident propoſitions need no proof.

Hark'ye, Belford, you fatigue me to death with your logic and ſophiſtry.—The point [35] may be reduced to two words,—Will you marry my niece, or no?

It is a match ſo infinitely beyond my pretenſions, Sir William—

I hope I may be allowed the beſt judge in that matter, Mr. Belford.

By no means, Sir William, your partial kindneſs towards me—

Is almoſt worn out, by your tireſome, falſe modeſty;—and, if I thought I ſhould have as much plague with Louiſa, as I have had with you, I'd renounce my project, and leave her to die an old maid.

The propoſal is ſo highly favourable to me—

That you conſent.

Were I certain that Miſs Woodley's inclinations—

I told you, before, that I could diſ⯑poſe of them as I pleaſed; ſo that if you have no other objection, I ſhall carry my point, and ſettle one of my family to my entire ſatisfaction, at laſt.

It is impoſſible that I can have any objection, if ſhe has none.

Your hand then, my dear Belford—'Tis a match.—Order your clerks to ſet about the writings directly.—Your eſtate lies in Staffordſhire, I think.—You know I add ten thouſand to her fortune.

But ſurely, my dear Sir William, Miſs Woodley ought to be made acquainted—

Why, has ſhe not been acquainted with you ever ſince ſhe was born? If I miſtake not, you were preſent at her chriſtening.—The wedding ſhall be next week—The ſooner my dear girl is happily ſettled, the better.

Your kindneſs overwhelms me—but ſtill, Miſs Woodley—

Shall be made acquainted with her happineſs, this evening. I leave all the articles of ſettlement to your own honour.—I know you'll make a proper proviſion for my niece, becauſe it is poſ⯑ſible you may die before her—but no pin-money, I charge you—'Tis but a prelude to alimony, believe me.

I ſhall endeavour to acquit myſelf as ſuch a generous confidence deſerves.

Hurry, hurry your clerks, and bring this happy event to a ſpeedy concluſion, my dear nephew.

I have the ſtrongeſt motives to enforce their diligence, as well as the higheſt ſenſe of my obligations to your friendſhip.

No ſpeeches—haſten the buſineſs, and adieu.—

—I'll ſpeak to Jones, direct⯑ly, to prepare for the wedding-dinner. She can't bear to be hurried; and I'd have every thing mag⯑nificent on that day, which I ſhall deem the happieſt of my whole life; becauſe it will be the firſt time I could ever get any of my family to know their own intereſt, and act as I would have them.

I am very glad to ſee you, my dear child.—And now what have you to ſay to me?

I was informed, Sir, by my ſiſter, that you deſired to ſpeak with me, and I am therefore come to receive your commands.

Why, my dear, it will neither be queſ⯑tions nor commands, but croſs-purpoſes, if you keep at ſuch a diſtance as will make it impoſſible we ſhould hear one another. Come nearer, I ſay—What are you afraid of?

Sir—

So, ſo—that will do.—And now, my dear child, you can't imagine what a heavenly tem⯑per [37] I am in, and what favourable diſpoſitions I have towards you.

I am very happy, Sir—

So you'll ſay, my dear, when you know all. But you muſt deſerve my kindneſs, by your frankneſs;—therefore, firſt tell me, whether you have any particular objection to matrimony?

It is a ſubject, Sir, that I have never much thought upon.

That's ſingular, now; for I am told that the girls of theſe days think of nothing elſe. But, luckily, there is no occaſion for your conſidering about the matter, as you have ſuch a friend as I am to conſider for you, child.

Sir!

And ſo I ſhall make your mind eaſy at once, by letting you know that I have provided a huſband for you.

Now, Heaven forbid!

And ſuch a one as is not to be met with every day, I aſſure you—a man after my own heart—has not a fault, Louiſa, but that he is a water-drinker. But I won't anticipate, by telling you his name. He ſhall ſurpriſe you with it him⯑ſelf.—Why, hey!—what's the matter now? You don't ſeem at all overjoyed!—You are not hankering after a title, I hope; for, believe me, niece, if there be either happineſs or virtue left in the preſent world, they are only to be met with in the middle ranks of life. What makes you tremble ſo?

You are not unacquainted with my ti⯑midity, Sir.

Yes, yes, I underſtand the timidity of your whole ſex—

Doves before mar⯑riage, and Kites after.—You'll ſoon get the bet⯑ter of your timidity, I'll anſwer for it.

As I am certain, Sir, that 'tis your wiſh to make me happy—

You are right, my dear; but it muſt be my own way. Your brother's want of reſpect to my opinion, you ſee, has been his ruin, child. Don't attempt to copy him, Louiſa.

If you would but condeſcend to hear me, Sir—

Why, child, I know every thing already, that you would wiſh to ſay. Your obligations to me, and your modeſty, and your timidity, and your ſettlement, and all that—

Dear Sir, I have not a thought about a ſettlement—

Well, well, every thing ſhall be taken care of, except a proviſion for a ſeparate mainte⯑nance. I bar that; for if you can't live happily with ſuch a huſband as I have choſen for you, I ſhould think you deſerved to ſtarve, tho' you were my niece a thouſand times.

But, my dear uncle—

But, my dear niece, don't inſiſt upon it; for a woman who thinks of ſeparation at the moment of her union, does not intend to abide by her huſband, as ſhe ought to do, 'till death do them part.

I neither think of union nor ſeparation, Sir—

Modeſt and virtuous that—

Hear me but one word, Sir—

Enough's ſaid, enough's ſaid, my dear. Here, take this bill, to provide for your dreſs. I'd have every thing handſome. The ladies are great belles in Staffordſhire; and I'd have my niece make as good an appearnace as any private gentlewoman among them. Why don't you take the bill? 'Tis for five hundred pounds, and I hope you think that ſufficient.

I have no ſort of occaſion for it, Sir; and if you would but indulge me with a moment's converſation—

Pſha, pſha, pſha,—I hate all this af⯑fected delicacy. Take money from the old man whenever you can get it. Haſten your milliners and mantua-makers, and get all your matters ready by this day ſe'nnight, for I won't have the wedding de⯑ferred an hour longer. Delays are ever dangerous.

What, in the name of wonder, can this dear, kind, cruel uncle of mine intend for me? I almoſt doubt whether I wake or not. Married in a week, to a man perhaps I never ſaw! No, that's impoſſible—he is too good to think of ſuch an union. Poſſibly Mountfort may have applied for his conſent, before he aſked mine!—Too fond a hope, I fear.—I wiſh I could ſee Counſellor Belford; my uncle keeps no ſecret from him, and he is a friend to all our fa⯑mily. I'll write to him to come to me inſtantly.

I cannot proceed on this buſineſs, in earneſt, till Sir William has had ſome conference with his niece. It is poſſible ſhe may diſlike the match, or perhaps be otherwiſe engaged—and then I ſhould become the ſtanding jeſt of all my brother Benchers. I muſt ſpeak to Sir William again.

My good Mr. Belford, I never was ſo glad to ſee you in my whole life. I have been this moment writing to you.

You make me the happieſt of mortals, Madam.—

This Brief opens well! I need not be much afraid of being laughed at now.

There is ſomething ſo particular—

I know not how to mention it—Mr. Belford, my good uncle has—

I find completed his kindneſs, and ac⯑quainted you, Madam—

No, Sir, but as you ſhare his confidence, I muſt entreat that you'll inform me—

Her modeſty diſtreſſes me vaſtly; but I like her the better for it! I wiſh I had a ſpeech ready.—Did not Sir William, Madam, ſay any thing of matrimony to you?

You can't imagine, Sir, how he has ſur⯑priſed and terrified me, by talking of my being to be married in a week.

You might be ſurpriſed, to be ſure, Ma⯑dam; but I don't ſee any occaſion for your being terrified, any more than for ſuch a violent hurry. The writings can't be properly engroſſed in that time. The Law ſeldom keeps pace with a Lover's wiſhes;—and however impatient I may be to expedite this buſineſs, you ſhall not be hurried, fair Lady, but be at liberty to name your own day.

It ſhall be Doomſday, then—However, I thank you, Sir, for allowing me even a reprieve.

Hey-dey! Where ſits the wind now?—You have no abſolute averſion to marriage, I hope, Miſs Woodley?

I deſpiſe affectation, Sir, and am above diſguiſe, with an old friend like you:—I have no averſion to marriage, when I can beſtow my hand with my heart;—but I would rather die, than be ſa⯑crificed to a frightful fordid wretch, who has tre⯑panned my uncle out of his conſent, becauſe he de⯑ſpaired of mine, and takes me merely as an appen⯑dage to my fortune.

How lucky was my coming back!—But why ſhould you ſuppoſe, Madam, that your uncle would ſacrifice you to a frightful ſordid wretch? Your intended huſband is a very different kind of man, I'll aſſure you, Madam.

Let him be what he will, Sir, I ſhall de⯑teſt him.

I never thought, Miſs Woodley, that my conduct or character had in any inſtance merit⯑ed your deteſtation, Madam.

Deteſt you, Mr. Belford! No, that's impoſſible!—But how are you concerned in the mat⯑ter?

Not much, at preſent, Madam;—for I ſcorn to take advantage of your uncle's engagements, unleſs ratified by your conſent.

Oh, Mr. Belford!

Nay, never whimper about it. I own, I ſuſpected, from the firſt, that it was rather too good news to be true:—but don't make yourſelf unhappy, Miſs Woodley; for I would rather live and die a batchelor, than marry the fineſt woman in England, as is now the caſe

who was not equally ready to have and to hold.

Generous, worthy man!

Not more generous than prudent, Ma⯑dam, on this occaſion. But, as I hope I have now deſerved your confidence, Miſs Woodley, tell me then, if you have any particular attachment, and I ſhall endeavour to ſerve you with Sir William;—though I know I ſhall, for a time, ſtand in the light of a culprit before him, by declining the honour he intended me.

You overpower me with obligations, Mr. Belford.

No ſpeeches, my dear Madam. If I was not ſufficiently gratified by the honour of the act, no acknowledgements could make me amends for the diſappointment; ſo frankly name the hap⯑py man who is to raiſe my envy, and compleat your happineſs.

Though I think that a well-placed and mutual affection need not raiſe a bluſh upon the chaſteſt cheek, yet mine will glow when I name Co⯑lonel Mountfort.

Colonel Mountfort! I'm ſorry for it▪

Why ſo, Sir?

Becauſe he's a very pretty fellow, Ma⯑dam, and for that reaſon may fall within your un⯑cle's chapter of coxcombs, and prevent his conſent.

Then I ſhall never give mine to marry any man elſe.

That's ſomewhat in the Knight's own ſtile, Miſs Woodley. But I heartily wiſh you ſuc⯑ceſs, and ſhall ſhew myſelf a warmer Friend than a Lover, by uſing my beſt pleadings in my rival's ſuit.

Accept my warmeſt thanks, my good old friend.

Ay, ay,—I knew ſhe would always think of me as her old friend.

I'll play no more.

Why, to be ſure, my dear friend, luck has run confoundedly againſt you; but I never ſaw you give out for ſuch a trifling loſs, before.

Seven hundred pounds is no trifle, Mr. Bromley!

A trifle, indeed, to a perſon of your immenſe fortune!

You have made a falſe eſtimate of my circumſtances. I am rather a diſtreſſed man, at preſent, Mr. Bromley.

Are you ſo? Then 'tis time for me to take care of myſelf.—You ſurpriſe me vaſtly! Diſtreſſed did you ſay?

I hate to repeat it; but 'tis ſo true, that I had ſome thoughts of applying to your friend⯑ſhip, to extricate me out of my preſent difficulties, Mr. Bromley.

Command me, command me, my dear Woodley! Every thing that poor Bob Brom⯑ley has in the world—

except his money,—is at your ſervice.—But let us clear as we go—ſettle our little matters firſt—juſt ſet your name to this paper—or will you take another throw, my friend, and let it be double or quit?

For ſhame, Woodley!—at hazard in your own houſe! I thought you had enough of that at Clubs.

Play among friends is wrong, very wrong, I confeſs, Colonel; but one can't be always grave and wiſe.—Come, my dear Woodley, let us make an end of our buſineſs—the pen, or the box, my dear boy?

Deſperate ſituations require deſperate remedies.—Give me the box—

Damn the dice!

'Tis double, now, you know, my unlucky friend; which makes upon the whole ex⯑actly the ſum of ſeven thouſand three hundred and fifty-four pounds, including the dear Lady Mary's trifling debt to Mrs. Bromley.

True, Sir.

Well, I have brought a bond with me, and when I have filled up the blanks, if you pleaſe we'll perfect it in the next room.

With all my heart.—

Sure ne⯑ver man was ſo completely unfortunate! Never, by Heaven, will I touch a die again!

Then I give you joy of your loſſes; for I [44] know you are too much a man of honour to break your vow.

Gameſters, like lovers, you know, Colonel—And after all, now, this is but matter of form between friends and men of honour, like you and me.—Don't you think ſo, Colonel?

I conſider all compulſive obligations be⯑tween men as a diſgrace to human nature. But while there are ſuch things as knaves in the world, Mr. Bromley, we muſt ſubmit to the mean ſecurities of bars and bonds. But between men of honour, as you ſay—

Certainly, my dear Sir, men of ho⯑nour are—

Too often the dupes of knaves, Mr. Bromley.

I don't like him.—We'll talk over the affair you hinted at in the next room. Command me, on all occaſions—ever—ever at your ſervice. But I muſt attend the ladies. The ladies and the coffee are powerful attractions to me. You'll follow me, I preſume, Colonel?

Yes, with pleaſure, through my whole re⯑giment, with a drum at your heels. I am perſuaded, Woodley, that fellow is a knave, and I wiſh you would exclude both him and his flaunting wife from your's and Lady Mary's ſociety. I can't con⯑ceive why you are ſo partial to them.

The great civilities we received from them, at Spa, firſt attached my wife to Mrs. Brom⯑ley, who was there in the firſt ſets, and even in Lon⯑don, where people are more nice. She keeps very good company, I aſſure you, Colonel.

You'll pardon me, Woodley!—She is ſeldom ſeen in public but with ſome damaged Dowager of Quality, who would be excluded from ſociety if her title did not ſerve as a herald to make way for her Ladyſhip.—But enough of them! I am come to ſpeak to you on a much more intereſting ſubject, [45] and to prove—what, however, I cannot doubt—your friendſhip for me.

Be aſſured, my dear Mountfort—

I am ſo—you need not make profeſſions;—therefore, with the frankneſs of a ſoldier, I venture to aſk the higheſt proof of your regard, by conſent⯑ing to make the fair Louiſa mine.

My ſiſter!

You ſeem to heſitate, Mr. Woodley! My fortune is—

As unexceptionable as your character, Colonel; and as I truly love Louiſa, and ſhould rejoice in her happineſs—

You conſent to mine. Is it ſo, my friend?

I know not how to anſwer you.

You alarm me extremely, Mr. Woodley! For heaven's ſake, ſpeak out!—What can be your objections?

None in the world, to you; but cir⯑cumſtanced as I am at preſent, it would involve me in the greateſt difficulties, to be called upon ſo ſud⯑denly for ten thouſand pounds.

That ſhall not be the caſe, Woodley. I ſhould think even Louiſa too dearly purchaſed, at the expence of diſtreſſing you. When I aſked for your ſiſter's hand, I did not demand her purſe; nor ſhall I accept the one, 'till I have ſigned a releaſe for the other.

Mountfort, that muſt not, ſhall not be! I never will accept of ſuch a ſacrifice.

Hark-ye, Woodley! A ſoldier's character ſhould be uniform; and if there could be one who was not liberal, I ſhould ſuſpect his courage to be of the mere animal kind. My fortune is ſufficiently ample; and I would as ſoon mount my charger, cry ſtand and deliver, as take money I don't want, from a friend who does.

Your generoſity, Colonel—

Is of too ſelfiſh a nature to merit praiſe; for I feel here

that the true luxury of fortune lies more in giving, than in ſpending.

I will not leſſen it, by offering thanks. But have you opened your trenches before the Knight of the Caſtle yet?

He uſed to ſpeak well of you, and his opinion is of ſome conſequence in this buſineſs.

My ſentiments are even with the good old Knight's, I aſſure you. I eſteem his good qualities, and do not diſlike even his foibles, as they are truly natural and unſophiſticate. But there, perhaps, you may ſee me play the uſurer, like any Jew. He may double or treble Louiſa's fortune, without the leaſt impediment from any ſcruple or modeſty of mine.

When do you purpoſe to make the eſſay?

As ſoon as poſſible; for 'till I have paid the proper reſpect due to him, I do not think myſelf entitled to throw myſelf at Louiſa's feet.

May ſucceſs attend you, my generous friend!

Fie, Woodley—no more of that!—But adieu.

ACT IV.

AND ſo that was all?

Every word, I aſſure you. But we ſhall ſoon make it up, for ours are but lovers' quarrels.

Lovers! talk of love after four years marriage! Believe me, Lady Mary, 'tis all a farce.

No, my dear Mrs. Bromley, I cannot give you credit againſt the feelings of my own heart. I love Mr. Woodley, and I am firmly per⯑ſuaded that he has a ſincere affection for me, not⯑withſtanding the little peeviſhneſs of his behaviour to-day, which I own makes me apprehend that ſomething muſt have ruffled him extremely.

How did you like his peremptory reſolve, of paſſing the whole ſummer in Dorſet⯑ſhire?

Not at all, I confeſs; 'tis frightful to think of it—though there is a tolerable neighbour⯑hood—

Of empty houſes.—No creature ſtays at their family ſeats, now-a-days, unleſs it be ſome antiquated Dowager, who, like an old Gothic corner cupboard, remains fixed to the freehold.

I vow I won't go into the country—'tis quite mauvais ton—except you'll come with us; and then we'll fly about to all the bathing-places, and give a maſquerade at one of them.

I ſhould like to paſs a few weeks ſo, well enough;—and, indeed, my dear, you'll be quite forgotten, if you don't do ſomething in that way. But are you ſure that Mr. Woodley would like it? for I muſt ſay, though I aſk your pardon, Lady Mary, he is dull—abſolutely dull, indeed, my dear.

Why, I own, of late he has been rather gloomy;—but he is vaſtly good-natured, and never before refuſed any requeſt of mine.

That may be:—but had Mr. Bromley talked to me in the ſame manner—

You would have loved him juſt as well as you do now.

You are admirable at gueſſing, my dear;—for as that ſame romantic notion of love never was the band of our connexion—

You ſtartle me, Mrs. Bromley. Mar⯑riage without love muſt ſurely be a ſtate of the greateſt unhappineſs.

No, I don't feel in the leaſt unhappy.—Convenience is the beſt matrimonial cement, and keeps many couples together for years, whoſe love did not out-laſt the honey-moon.—But theſe are myſteries, into which you ſeem not yet initiated.

I hope I ſhall never know them by experience.

My dear ſiſter—

I thought you were alone; I had ſomething in parti⯑cular to tell you.

You alarm me vaſtly, Louiſa!—What is the matter, my dear? You know I keep no ſecrets from Mrs. Bromley.

Another time, Lady Mary. Family affairs—

Pray, my dear, make no ſtranger of me!—

I hope Mountfort has jilted he [...] ▪ I die to know.—Has the gallant Colonel deſerted, my dear?

Colonel Mountfort, Madam, is no way concerned in the preſent queſtion.

Then I would not give ſixpence for the whole ſtory.

You look diſtreſſed, Louiſa!—What can have happened? I'm all impatience.

Though I had rather be excuſed, Lady Mary, yet as you preſs ſo earneſtly to know, my Uncle—

Pſha!

Has inſiſted on my marrying—

Not himſelf, hope?

Giddy creature! I Whom, my dear Louiſa?

Counſellor Belford.

And is that all? I think it a monſtrous good match.

Monſtrous, indeed!—Why, he's fifty, at leaſt.

Fifty! fiddle-ſtick! What does that ſignify? He is rich enough for threeſcore; and money, money, my dear, qualifies all diſ⯑proportions.

This is by much too ſerious a ſubject for jeſting, Mrs. Bromley.—But Sir William is not your ſole Guardian, Louiſa; and your brother, I am certain, will never conſent to ſacrifice you to his uncle's caprice.

I would not, on any account, my dear ſiſter, have my brother oppoſe Sir William in any thing, as he is already but too much offended with him. Beſides, I am in hopes that there will not be any occaſion for his interpoſing.

She's coming round, I find.

Mr. Bromley, Madam, has ſent the car⯑riage, and deſires to ſpeak with you, at home, im⯑mediately.

I'm glad of the releaſe.—What now can he poſſibly want with me? But I am all obedience, though it breaks my heart to leave you. But I ſhall return quickly, before any one ſits down to Loo.—And ſo, my dear,

I leave you to ſettle your important matters, which ſhould be ſoon determined, were you my ſiſter.

Thank Heaven, I am not!—She is levity itſelf.

Her lightneſs, Louiſa, extends no farther than her manners:—her morals are irre⯑proachable; and when the mind is untainted, its gaiety, like a coloured trimming to a grave ſuit, ſerves only to enliven it.

You are too partial, ſiſter; for I much fear that you will one day diſcover Mrs. Bromley's manners and morals to be both of a piece.

No more upon the ſubject, at pre⯑ſent!—and in truth I wonder how you can have ſpirits to talk of any thing elſe but your own melan⯑choly ſituation.—Married to Belford! to your Grandfather!

I ſhould be ſad, indeed, if ſuch a marriage was to take place;—but my Intended has generouſly conſented to break off the match, at my requeſt, and to ſcreen me from Sir William's diſpleaſure, at the ſame time.

Then the old Barriſter is charming, and I think I could be a little in love with him myſelf. But I cannot ſubmit to this new inſult from Sir William! What could he mean by diſ⯑poſing of you without deigning to conſult Mr. Woodley? I ſhall inſiſt upon an explanation of his conduct.

I again intreat you, Lady Mary, not to involve my brother farther with Sir William—you do not know the conſequences.

I am quite weary of all this temporiz⯑ing, Louiſa; and as you are ſafe on ſhore, you muſt allow me to guide the helm for myſelf, at preſent.—You'll permit me, at leaſt, to acquaint Mr. Woodley with his uncle's contemptuous neglect of him in this matter, which I ſhall go and do directly.

Well, for once, Waters, I will ac⯑knowledge myſelf the happieſt man in England.

I am proud to hear that your Honour is ſo well pleaſed.

Yes, yes, I am pleaſed, and I won't be pleaſed alone—they ſhall be pleaſed too!—They ſhall have a noble ſervice of plate!—Louiſa deſerves every thing—ſhe behaved like an angel! I thought I ſhould have had more trouble with her; but though it be ſtrange, it is certainly true, that all girls like to be married.

Colonel Mountfort, Sir.

I ſhall be glad to ſee him.—Wa't on him up, Waters.

The Colonel is a very good young man, as young men go, at preſent—but nothing to compare to what his father was.

I am very glad to ſee you, my young friend. Set chairs, Waters.

I am much obliged to you, Sir William, and happy to perceive by your looks that all in⯑quiries after your health muſt be ſuperfluous.

I thank you, Sir!—I fancy, indeed, I do look tolerably well, for ſerenity of mind goes a great way towards clearing up the countenance; and I do not know when my ſpirits have ever been ſo harmo⯑nized, as at this moment.

How fortunate!—May I flatter myſelf, Sir William, that the preſent happy temper of your mind will aſſiſt my ſuit, and render you propitious!

Propitious! Nonſenſe.—You are an idle young rogue!—With ſuch a noble fortune as yours—But I won't ſcold, now.—You have been on the Turf, I ſuppoſe, or fleeced at the Gaming-table?—But I hope the Terra Firma is ſafe. I ſhould be grieved to ſee my old friend's eſtate in the hands of knaves or ſharpers.—What ſum do you want? I know you to be a man of honour.

You quite amaze me, Sir, by ſuſpicions which, I will be bold to ſay, are unworthy both of Sir William Woodley and me. I am no gam⯑bler, Sir, nor have I diſſipated the noble inheri⯑tance derived from my anceſtors.

I am heartily glad of it, Sir!—I aſk your pardon, young man.—

What the deuce, then, can he want from me?

If I were ſo unfortunately weak, as you for a moment ſeemed to imagine, the reſpect I bear you, would have prevented my applying to you upon ſuch an occaſion, as your good opinion, Sir, is of the greateſt conſequence to my happineſs.

There you are wrong, Colonel;—you had much better apply to me, than to any one elſe.—I am no cent. per cent. man—I never received a ſhilling intereſt from any friend in my life; and I have my doubts whether I ſhould even take it from the Funds, now that the Nation is ſo poor.—But come, Colonel, if you don't want money, in what other way can I poſſibly ſerve you? I have no in⯑tereſt at Court.

You have an intereſt, Sir, in what is far dearer to me than either wealth or preferment:—your lovely niece, Louiſa, Sir—

Thank Heaven, ſhe is better diſpoſed of!

You pauſe!—Do not keep me on the rack, Sir William.

I was only recollecting myſelf.—Am much obliged to you, Sir, for the honour—I think that's the phraſe—you intend my niece; but ſhe's married, Sir.

Married, Sir William!

Yes, Sir,—married, and ſettled in the country.

This raillery is rather cruel, Sir.

I never joke, Sir.—I have paſſed my word that ſhe ſhall be married this day ſe'nnight; and if all the Emperors, Kings, Princes, and Po⯑tentates in Europe, nay the Great Mogul himſelf, were to demand her in marriage, William Woodley would not forfeit his promiſe: ſo that married ſhe is, to all intents and purpoſes, my gay Colonel.

And has Miſs Woodley conſented, Sir?

Ay, to be ſure; I force no-body.

Confuſion!—Impoſſible, Sir!

Why ſhould you think ſo? She is a modeſt, dutiful girl. It would be hard, indeed, if I was to have no comfort in my family. But don't be diſheartened, Colonel! Many a gallant ſoldier has met with a repulſe, before now.

If you could conceive the tenderneſs of my affection for Miſs Woodley, Sir, you would not treat my ſufferings ſo ſlightly.

It may be a diſappointment, to be ſure, Sir, for ſhe is a fine young woman, I confeſs; but my friend has her, Sir, and you muſt think of her no more.

It is not in my power to obey your injunc⯑tion.—

I wiſh it were, falſe and ungrateful girl!—But pray, Sir, who is the envied man ſo doubly bleſſed in your friendſhip and Miſs Wood⯑ley's love?

That's a ſecret, Colonel.

That, I think, I have a right to know, Sir.

What! you want to exerciſe your va⯑lour a little—ſa, ſa, ſa,—by challenging your ri⯑val? But keep your proweſs for the common foe: we cannot ſpare a ſoldier, at preſent, Colonel.

This treatment is unlike yourſelf, Sir Wil⯑liam. But Miſs Woodley, I ſuppoſe, will inform me;—I preſume ſhe is not bound to keep the ſecret.

There you are wrong again, my young hero; for ſhe really is bound by the ſtrongeſt of all poſſible ties—the not knowing it.

You cannot now be ſerious, Sir; and I will try if I have yet power enough over Louiſa's heart to make her ſo—for I will know my rival. Adieu, Sir William!

Your ſervant, Colonel Huff-Cap. What a hot-brained boy! I am doubly glad Louiſa has eſcaped him:—I would have no paſſionate man in the family, but myſelf. How lucky 'tis that Louiſa does not know her huſband's name!—Wo⯑men ſhould ever be kept in ignorance, to prevent miſchief. I have conducted this buſineſs moſt ad⯑mirably!—I have ſome doubts, however, whether my nephew ſhould not be made acquainted with it; but he does not deſerve my confidence, and he ſhan't vex me now.

Are all things going on briſkly and cleverly, as they ſhould do, my dear nephew?

The ſwifteſt bowl does not always hit the jack, Sir William; and "fair and ſoftly" is an eſtabliſhed maxim in the Law.

Well, well, we muſt ſubmit; but I hope you'll uſe as much diſpatch as poſſible.

Diſpatch is a term, Sir, not to be found in any Law Dictionary that I know of; and I fancy it will be a long time before the matters you talk of will be diſpatched.

Why, ſurely you have a mind to try my temper, with your fair and ſoftly! But if you knew as much as I do, you would, perhaps, think it worth while to mend your pace a little; for ‘many things fall out between the cup and lip,’ Mr. Belford.

So you'll find preſently.—The moſt material point in this important affair does not appear to be yet adjuſted.

Now—what can he mean?

There can be no marriage without the conſent of parties; and I don't find that Miſs Woodley—

If I was not in the moſt heavenly tem⯑per, you would put me in a rage. Have I not told you, Sir, that ſhe had no conſent, no choice, but what I pleaſe to give? And in twenty years ac⯑quaintance, have you ever known me ſay an untruth, Sir? My niece is all compliance and gentleneſs; and you'll be a very happy man, my dear nephew.

I ſhould be unworthy of happineſs, if I could enjoy it on ſuch terms, Sir William.

Why, what's the matter, Belford?—Your head ſeems to be turned with your good for⯑tune, and you want to turn mine. No man that is unworthy can be happy—

In ſhort, Sir William—

Ay, ay, that's the thing—now you talk ſenſe! I like in ſhort—ſtick to that, my friend. If [56] you want more clerks, don't value expence, I'll clear all coſts—You know I hate the Law's delay.

No law, but that of honour, has any thing to do in this caſe, Sir William; and however irkſome the taſk, I muſt beg you will per⯑mit me to undeceive you.

Then you acknowledge you have de⯑ceived me? I am thunder-ſtruck!

No, my good friend—'tis you that have deceived yourſelf.

Your propoſition is falſe, Sir. I never deceived myſelf, nor any one elſe, ſince I was born, Sir. I ſcorn and abhor deceit, Mr. Belford. But come, Sir, let me know what all this round-about tends to? Deſpiſe the chicanery of your profeſſion, and ſpeak as if you was a witneſs on the table—not a Lawyer at the bar, Sir.

I fear I ſhall rather appear a criminal at the bar to you, at preſent, Sir William.

What, then, you are married, I ſuppoſe?—have a wife already? Nay, don't ſmile, Sir, there is no joke in this matter; and you ought to have been hanged, if you had married my niece.

I think ſo too, though not upon the ac⯑count you mention, as I give you my honour I have no wife; and if I continue in my preſent mood, may venture to ſay that I never ſhall have one.

Mighty well, mighty ill, Mr. Belford! You have rewarded my ſincere friendly attachment—

With true gratitude, Sir.

Don't offer to ſay ſo. What! to ſpurn my niece with twenty thouſand pounds! Let me tell you, Sir—

That ſhe is much too good for me.

Why really I begin to think ſo.

I rejoice, therefore, my dear friend—

No, Sir, don't rejoice. I am not your friend, nor ever will be your friend. You have [57] broke my heart—fruſtrated all my ſchemes—diſap⯑pointed my niece.—Poor girl, I feel for her!—Young minds are eaſily broken by grief.—You will have much to anſwer for on her account, I aſſure you, Mr. Belford.

I ſhould have much more to anſwer for to Miſs Woodley, Sir William, if I did not decline the match.

Decline! Zounds, Sir, I won't bear ſo contemptuous an expreſſion!—

I wiſh I had not been quite ſo peremptory with the Colonel.—If I could bring myſelf to unſay what I have once ut⯑tered, I would give Louiſa to Colonel Mountſort, to vex you.

I agree with you, Sir William, that it would be a more ſuitable match.

Don't agree with me, Mr. Belford, I won't ſuffer it.

Allow me at leaſt to ſay—

No, Sir, I won't allow you to ſay any thing, but yes, or no, to this ſimple queſtion: Do you accept, or reject, my niece?

The phraſe is rather too ſtrong, Sir; but I have already told you, that upon mature conſi⯑deration, I decline the honour.

Confound your honour, and your con⯑ſideration too!—And now, Sir, I decline any further converſation, connection, or correſpondence, with you; and ſo, Sir, I am—no—I am not, your humble ſervant.

His rage will ſoon ſubſide, and we ſha [...]l be as good friends as ever. I am glad his reſent⯑ment is entirely pointed at me, as 'tis probable, that to make his niece amends for the loſs of a huſb [...]nd ſhe did not like, he may give her one ſhe does:—and ſo ends, exactly as it ſhould, the matr [...]monial ſchemes of an Old Batchelor!

I wiſh you would defer it till to⯑morrow! It will otherwiſe break up the aſſembly, and make a monſtrous buſtle in the family.

A fig for the aſſembly, and the buſtle, too! No, no, my ſweet ſimpleton, buſineſs of ſome kinds brook no delay.

You have no right to complain of my ſimplicity, Mr. Bromley. It is thro' me that you get this money from the Woodleys.

Money, child! I have never touch⯑ed above a thouſand pounds of their caſh yet. This piece of paper is all I have got for ſpending my time with a dull fool, and endeavouring to perſuade him that he was a Solomon, and his ſilly wife the Queen of Sheba. But I muſt be paid for my attendance and trouble, and in a few minutes I ſhall convert this manuſcript into the ſum of ſeven thouſand three hundred and fifty-three pounds, with coſts—coſts muſt be added.

I can have no objection to your being paid for your time and trouble, my dear. All I deſire is, that you may not lay on the execution 'till to-morrow. Let us devote this evening to pleaſure, my dear Brommy. I am to play gold Loo to-night, and I have a certain preſentiment that I ſhall win conſiderably.

As to your winning, I believe you are pretty ſecure in that point. You don't leave much to chance, I imagine, my dove. But tho' you might win, I ſhall loſe conſiderably, if this bond be not put in force this very night. I have been with Woodley's attorney, Mr. Fleece'em, a very ho⯑neſt man, and for a ſmall token of friendſhip, he has informed me, that there will be ſix executions in the houſe to morrow.

Six executions! Nay, then, they are done up, indeed, and it does not ſignify much keeping any further terms with them. Yet I ſtill wiſh you would poſtpone this ugly buſineſs, 'till we are gone to the maſquerade. Poor Lady Mary! it will be a ſad diſappointment to her, not to ſhew her finery.

Now you talk of finery, here, look at theſe!

Let me ſee! They are Lady Mary's ear-rings!

No; they were, my ſweet innocent!

But how came you by them? She told me they were gone to be new-ſet.

Aſk no queſtions, but take them, and think yourſelf happy in ſuch a provident huſband.

Thank you, my dear Brom⯑my! They are beautiful, indeed!—I have long wiſhed for them, I confeſs.

I muſt go and expedite this buſi⯑neſs directly. Don't be frightened, dove, when the Bailiffs come in. They'll add to Lady Mary's ſqueeze, you know.—But take a little hartſhorn in your pocket:—it will be proper for you to faint, I think.

Never fear my acting properly.—But the carriage is at the door, and I have twenty places to call at. Shall I ſet you down at your lawyer's, to ſave my dear the fatigue of walking?

How happy am I in ſuch a diſcreet, tender wife!—

A diſſembling jade!—Come, dove.

I follow, my dear Brommy.—

Hateful wretch!

ACT V.

FOUR gold Loo tables, with Monſters—Four p [...]und four!—Two at half-crowns! Thruſt them to the lower end of the room, James; they are ſeldom worth more than twelve ſhillings a piece.

Where ſhall I fix the Whiſt tables, Mr. Forward?

Damn the Whiſkers! Even the gold players never make it worth a gentleman's while to ſnuff their candles. I wiſh the Parliament would put down all ſneaking games!—A man can neither win or loſe a fortune with any degree of credit at them. No—Pharo, Pharo's the ſport.

Is this a Pharaoh's table, Mr. Forward?

No; but ſet that in the center, in the beſt place in the room. That's a Macao-table, and [...]ome of the birds, I fancy, will be picked pretty bare that play at it—Five pound five.—Do you hear, James? The moment the company's gone, pack up all the cards and candles, whether uſed or not, and carry them to my room:—I may have occaſion for them, if I ſhould ſee company while I am out of place.

What, you leave us a few packs to make merry with in the Servants Hall, Mr. Forward? I likes a game at All [...]ours, dea [...]ly.

Why, ſervants ſhould have their amuſe⯑ments, as well as their betters, James; ſo you may ſtrip the Whiſt-tables for your own uſe. The Dons always take ſnuff, and fully their cards confound⯑edly.

Thank. you, thank you, Mr. Forward! Muſt I carry up the candles to your room that mayn't be lighted?

Certainly; the others will only ſerve for my bed-chamber, or to dreſs by. I deteſt tallow.

Well, well, I'll do as I'm bid.—

What a thief it is! and as great a Jew to a poor fellow-ſervant, as if he was not the ſame fleſh and blood!

I ſhall make about twelve pieces pack⯑ing penny. I wiſh my maſter may win to-night, as I ſhall call upon him for my wages to-morrow: and, to do him juſtice, he is always ready to pay, when he has it. The Funds are low at preſent, and a prudent man ſhould not ſuffer his money to lie dead, eſpecially in ſuch hands where it may be buried, too.

Let the ices be brought before eleven, Forward, as I wiſh the aſſembly to break up early. Are the bouquets come from the King's Road? Let there be a profuſion of rofes in all the rooms: they are delicious, at this [...]aſon.

Your Ladyſhip ſhall be obeyed—

for the laſt time by your Ladyſhip's moſt humble.

Your indifference upon this occaſion really amazes me, Mr. Woodley! I thought you loved your ſiſter.

I do, moſt tenderly, and ſhall therefore rejoice at ſeeing her under the protection of a wor⯑thy man.

Bleſs me! is there nothing but worth to be conſid [...]red, in matrimony? no allowance to be made for liking? I vow, if you had been fifty times as worthy as you are, I would never have married you, if you had not been agreeable, alſo.

Sweet flatterer!

But as the match is not to take place, his being agreeable or not is of no conſequence, now.

I don't comprehend you.

You don't chooſe to comprehend me, Mr. Woodley. But ſtill I muſt ſay, that the indig⯑nity of Sir William's preſuming to diſpoſe of your ſiſter without your conſent, is not to be endured.

You are miſinformed, my dear. Mount⯑fort aſked my conſent, before he applied to Sir Wil⯑liam—I did not ſee you ſince.

Mountfort is quite out of the preſent queſtion, I tell you, Mr. Woodley.

You rave, my dear!

One of us does, that's certain.

I am not mad, yet, Madam—though I have enough to make me ſo.

This is too much, Mr. Woodley. Every one takes notice of your behaviour to me, of late; and wonder how I bear it.

Did you know what I bear—

From me, Mr. Woodley?

Not from, but for, you, Mary.

You terrify me! Explain your mean⯑ing, I intereat you.

It will too ſoon ceaſe to be a myſtery.

Then, do not let me be the laſt to know it.

Could every pang I now endure, be doubled to ſave you from the ſhock which you muſt feel, I'd bear them all, without complaining. But ruin comes on apace! and that you muſt ſhare it ag⯑gravates my diſtreſs.

Ungenerous Woodley! to think I would ſhrink from any miſery that attends on you! But ſpeak your meaning clearly—ſuſpence is tor⯑ture—what miſery awaits us?

Our fortune's gone, my Mary!—We are undone!

Gone! Not all—my jointure ſtill is left.—Diſpoſe of that, and let me go into retirement with you. With pleaſure I'll renounce all the fan⯑taſtic gaieties of life, and find true happineſs in your ſociety.

Your nobleneſs of mind but adds to my diſtreſs.—Your jointure! No, I will live a beggar, all my days, rather than leave you one, when I muſt leave you. Somewhat may yet be done to ſave us from deſtruction. I have a dependence on Mr. Bromley's friendſhip.

So have I;—but we muſt be our own friends, my dear.—I will go into Dorſetſhire, imme⯑diately. Let us diſcharge hal [...] our ſervants, and become patterns of oeconomy and conjugal happineſs.

Generous, charming woman! Happi⯑neſs muſt attend you, every where.

'Tis the inſeparable companion of an upright heart; and my dear Woodley ſhall ſoon be convinced from my conduct, that chearfulneſs can ſurvive gaiety, and true love make ample amends for the loſs of fortune.

Your ſenſe and virtue have removed the heavieſt weight that hung upon my hear [...].

Then clear your brow, my d [...]ar, and let us act the laſt ſcene of the farce with the ſame ſpirit as the firſt.

Colonel Mountfort, Sir.

Shew him into my dreſſing-room—I'll wait on him inſtantly.

Don't let even Colonel Mountfort perceive your dejection, my dear Woodley. We ſhould, in kindneſs to our friends, conceal our ſor⯑rows.

If Mountfort has ſucceeded with my uncle, Louiſa's happineſs will lighten my diſtreſs.

I have not time to aſk an explanation of this matter, now.—But let me again intreat you to be chearful:—ſomething tells me that our ſitua⯑tion is not ſo bad as you imagine. Let us not anti⯑cipate misfortune:—'tis always too ſoon to be wretched.

I will exert my utmoſt power, my dear, to emulate your fortitude.

My fortitude! Ah Woodley! little doſt thou know the perturbation here.—Ruin comes on apace!—The ſhock was ſudden and ſevere; but 'twas my love, not reſolution, bore me through it.—And now let me collect myſelf a little, and try, by Reaſon's ſtandard, the value of thoſe joys which I reſign.—Dreſs! Won't my little perſon look as well in a plain ſilk, as in all this finery? Vanity ſays, Yes.—Grandeur—what is it? A magnificent ſide-board, a train of uſeleſs ſervants, gay furniture, crouded rooms, and blazing lights, which but oppreſs the ſpirits, without affording enjoyment. Elegance is not confined to ſtate: her handmaid Neatneſs ſhall preſide at our board, and render our rural fare de⯑licious.—Operas! Ranelagh! Plays! Maſquerades! Aſſemblies! Company! ay, there's the rub! So⯑ciety! dear Society! I ſhall not find, a Mrs. Brom⯑ley in Dorſetſhire; but I ſhall have my Woodley there, and my endeavours not to let him ſee I grieve, [65] will ſoon make me ceaſe to do ſo. My reſolution's fixed—I'll acquaint Louiſa with it inſtantly,

Upon my honour, Colonel, I am as unable to fathom Sir William's meaning, as you can be. I am certain that no perſon ever propoſed to me for Louiſa, but yourſelf, and ſhe could not poſſibly give her conſent, before it was aſked.

This aſſurance has revived my hopes a little; but 'tis impoſſible my heart can be at eaſe, till your ſiſter has pronounced my doom.

If ſhe conſults her own heart, Mount⯑fort, you will not, I fancy, have much reaſon to com⯑plain of her ſentence. But as ſhe is the only Oedi⯑pus that can expound this riddle, let us apply to her for the explanation.

You prevent my wiſhes, for you have an undoubted right to make the enquiry.

Tell my ſiſter I deſire to ſpeak with her, immediately.

How my heart throbs, at her ap⯑proach!

For ſhame, my gallant friend!

O Woodley! when all one's happineſs is ſtaked on the turn of a die, who would not trem⯑ble when he ſtood the caſt?

Miſs Woodley, Sir, has juſt ſent to let Sir William know ſhe wiſhes to pay her reſpects to him:—at her return ſhe will wait upon you.

Inhuman girl! She trifles with my anxiety—perhaps rejoices in it.

Lovers are of all beings the moſt irra⯑tiona. I'd hazard my life that Louiſa has never heard of your propoſal to Sir William, and of courſe can know nothing of your anxiety.

She will be ſoon acquainted with both. But have not you informed her?

No, on my honour; I have not ſeen her ſince you left me.

Your coolneſs on this ſubject, Mr. Woodley, by no means accords with my impatience.

You wrong me, Mountfort. Be aſſur⯑ed, that your union with Louiſa is an object my heart is ſet on; but that heart is torn to pieces, at preſent.—I cannot ſpeak—Louiſa never ſtays long with her uncle—ſhe will return in a few minutes.

They will be years to me.

Let us meet her then, before ſhe goes into the drawing-room.

Poor child! I am very ſorry ſhe is coming—I know not what excuſe to make for Bel⯑ford—I fear it will be a grievous diſappointment to her.

I come, Sir, moſt joyfully to tell you ſomething that I am ſure will give you pleaſure.

My poor dear! and I have ſome⯑thing to tell you, that I am ſure will give you pain.

Indeed, Sir, I am ſo much rejoiced at preſent, that there are but very few things that could render me unhappy.

So much the worſe—the ſhock will be the greater! I ſhall never have the courage to tell her.—The ſuddenneſs of this event, Louiſa—

Do you know it, Sir?

Ay, but too well, my dear.

You quite ſurpriſe me, Sir! It is not above five minutes, ſince it was determined.

Yes, yes, 'tis more than that—above half an hour. But though matters have taken an unexpected turn, I would not have you fret, or grieve, child!

So far from it, Sir, that I am quite re⯑joiced, and flattered myſelf that you would be ſo too, as I know it is a point you have long ſet your heart upon;—and I muſt do Lady Mary the juſtice to de⯑clare the plan was intirely her own.

Lady Mary! I gueſſed as much.—How did ſhe dare to thwart my ſchemes?

Dear Sir, have you not always wiſhed that my brother and ſiſter ſhould live in Dorſetſhire? and now that Lady Mary has, of her own accord, determined to quit London, you ſeem offended.

Softly, ſoftly, child; don't hurry me!—For once in my life, I perceive I am left behind.—

So, I find ſhe knows nothing of Belford, and that work is all to do, yet.—Go on, my dear! Lady Mary, you ſay—

Has, unſolicited by any one, reſolved to give up all the gaiety and diſſipation of this town, and remain in Dorſetſhire till my brother's affairs are intirely retrieved.

She'll not return in a hurry, then, I doubt.—I am glad of it, my dear, for your ſake, as well as your brother's:—air and exerciſe will be of great uſe to you.—

I'm afraid ſhe'll ſtand in need of them, when ſhe is acquainted with her miſ⯑fortune.

But, my good, dear uncle, won't you give Lady Mary credit for her prudence? and won't you permit my brother and ſiſter to take leave of you, before they go?

I hate all forms and ceremonies, child!—They have had my leave to go into the coun⯑try, theſe three years paſt; and I am leſs diſpleaſed with your ſiſter, for her prudent reſolution. And ſo, at your requeſt, my dear, you may all breakfaſt with me before you ſet out to-morrow.—

I'll defer acquainting her till then, with Belford's be⯑haviour.

I don't believe, Sir, that they can ſet out ſo immediately; but I am certain they will not defer a moment to accept your kind invitation, on that account.

Stop, child, ſtop! I won't have them come to me, till the very hour they are going. If I were to ſee your brother often, I might be weak enough to grow fond of him again; ſo don't let him come, I charge you, 'till his boots are on. I have trouble enough on my hands for others, al⯑ready. You don't know what I ſuffer on your ac⯑count, Louiſa, at this moment. But you ſhall know all about it, when you are ſetting off for Dorſet⯑ſhire.

I wiſh I dare venture to make the good man's mind eaſy, with regard to me.—As I am perfectly reſigned to your commands, Sir, on every occaſion, I hope I ſhall never give you cauſe for any real trouble.

There now, ſhe'll break my heart with her mildneſs!—I hope for your own ſake you'll be reſigned, my dear. But go, child, and tell your brother and Lady Mary, that I ſhall be glad to ſee them on the morning they are ſetting out; but not before, upon any account whatever.

I rejoice to be the meſſenger of ſuch glad tidings; for if he ſees my brother, I am certain he will ſerve him.

Fifty pieces on the rubber!

A bet, my Lord.

A Pam fluſh!

You ſeldom deal, I think, without one, Madam.

My Pam box can beſt anſwer that hint, Madam; for this is the firſt guinea I have been able to put into it, this whole winter.—But you loſe, at preſent, Madam, and therefore have leave to ſpeak.—Pleaſe to mark the Loo, Madam—'tis juſt ſixty guineas.

How much am 'I obliged to you, my excellent friend, for ſo generouſly ſaving me from the pain of offending the beſt of uncles!

And let me join my gratitude, Sir, for your having ſo kindly removed, I hope, the only obſtacle to my happineſs, by releaſing Sir William from his promiſe.

I heartily wiſh he may be inclined to transfer his favour to you, Sir.

My dear couſin, here's a place for you! The Monſters muſt come in with Mrs. Bromley.

I'll wait upon you, in a moment.

The Monſters poſitively ſhall not come in, 'till 'tis a ſingle ſtake;—and then I ſhall never have a fluſh after, I ſuppoſe.

My dear Bromley, I have a thouſand things to ſay to you of the utmoſt importance. I wiſh you would not play, to-night.

Not play! you muſt excuſe me, indeed, Lady Mary! Beſides, we ſhall have time [70] enough to talk over thoſe ſame important matters, you know, at the Maſquerade.

I ſhall not go, to-night, and have ſomething ſo intereſting to tell you—

'Tis impoſſible ſhe ſhould ſuſpect any thing.—Your Ladyſhip knows I hate melancholy ſtories.—

Is the Loo over?—

I can't help feeling a little aukward, when I ſpeak to her.

Another fluſh, as I live! I don't be⯑lieve we ſhall have a ſingle ſtake, theſe two hours.

Your Ladyſhip's baſted—you trumpted the King of Diamonds.

What then, Madam? Here take the Diamond, I have my game without it.

No, Madam—a renounce is a Beaſt.

I won't ſubmit to it.—Judgment! Several. Your Ladyſhip's a Beaſt! a Beaſt!

What a racket they make, at this pal⯑try play! Not above a crown a-fiſh, I dare ſwear!—The Loo is juſt two hundred and forty guineas!—Deal, Madam.

Not keep your promiſe, Bromley?

Why, no, indeed, Madam! I cannot poſſibly think of ruſticating myſelf with your Ladyſhip;—but if any of the ſummer camps ſhould happen to lie near you, I may give you a call, en paſſant, to ſee how love and a cottage agree with you.—Will you never let me in, Mrs. Henpeck?

Dear Madam, I wiſh you had been in my place, the whole evening, with all my heart! I have loſt near three hundred pounds in it.—Heigh⯑ho!

I had vainly flattered myſelf, it ſeems, that my company might have rendered the country [71] paſſable, at leaſt, to one who profeſſed herſelf my friend.

I always thought your Ladyſhip very romantic.—

I wiſh ſhe would not teaze me ſo!

This ſhock is much ſeverer to me, than the firſt I felt, as friends were dearer to me than fortune.—But let me riſe above her worthleſſneſs, nor let her ſee how her unkindneſs wounds me.

Lurched at four! 'tis confounded hard!

I bet you three to one.

—

Will Mr. Bromley be here, to-night?

Certainly.—Sooner than you wiſh, I fancy.

Pray, Mrs. Bromley, did you hire thoſe ear-rings from my jeweller? I'm glad now, he did not alter them.

I have never yet been under the neceſſity of hiring jewels, Madam, whatever other people may have been. But though the ſetting of theſe is not altered, Madam, the property is;—for they are mine, at preſent, I aſſure you.

You'll pardon me, Mrs. Bromley.—Mr. Woodley, pray are not thoſe my ear-rings?

They were, my dear.—

This is ungenerous of Bromley!—I will explain this mat⯑ter another time, my dear.

Nay, Mr. Woodley, it requires but little explanation. Lady Mary is not ſo much a child as not to know, that, in this country, and in theſe times, property quickly changes hands, from thoſe who have ſquandered their own fortunes, and poſſibly that of others, to thoſe who have been more prudent, and leſs laviſh.

The Loo is over, Mrs. Bromley.—Bring the Monſters, Sir.

I thought it would never be a ſingle ſtake!

Her unkindneſs would be in⯑ſupportable, did not the inſolence of it render her deſpicable.

Don't you think, Miſs Woodley, that Lady Mary looks uncommonly grave, this evening?

You will not be ſurpriſed at her ſeriouſ⯑neſs, when I tell you that ſhe has determined on quitting London immediately, and retiring with my brother into Dorſetſhire. I ſhall go with them, Colonel.

And I ſhall as certainly follow my leader. Sir William can have no objection to my being can⯑toned in the neighbourhood of Woodley Park, I preſume?

Four by honours, again! This is the fourth time you have dealt them, in the rubber. Six⯑teen out of twenty, are odds that Demoivre could not play againſt.—There's your money, there's your money, Sir!

No—double or quit with your Lord⯑ſhip.

I know I am a bubble, but I hate to cut a loſer.—'Tis a bet, Sir.

Two Pams, as I hope to be ſaved!

Fie, Madam, don't ſwear! 'tis vaſtly ill-bred.

'Tis much worſe breeding to cheat, Mrs. Bromley.

Mean creature! I ſcorn your words.

You ſhould begin by ſcorning mean actions, Madam. But you ſhan't take up the Loo, I aſſure you—I have long ſuſpected you of ſuch tricks.

And ſo have I.—Heigh-ho!—ſhe has got a deal of my money.—Heigh-ho!

And of mine too, I aſſure you;—but her ſurpriſing luck is now clearly accounted for.

I won't touch another card with ſuch vulgar, ſuſpicious wretches.

We have renounced you firſt, Madam;—ſo if you pleaſe to riſe from the table, Madam, and I'll take care that you ſhall never ſit down to any other where-ever I am preſent, I aſſure you, Madam.

Put all the Monſters out, at once.—Heigh-ho!

I did not think your Ladyſhip would ſtand tamely by, and ſuffer me to be inſulted in your houſe; but 'tis the laſt time I ſhall ever come into it, I promiſe you.

I ſhall take care that you ſhan't break that promiſe, if you ſhou'd happen to forget it, Mrs. Bromley.

You ſpeak like an oracle, with⯑out conſciouſneſs, Madam; for this is the laſt night you will ever have any authority here, believe me: and ſo I leave your Ladyſhip to your future rural felicity.

Was there ever ſo ſudden and extraordinary a change in any human creature!

'Tis rather a diſcovery, than a metamor⯑phoſe, my dear Lady Mary!—I have long ſeen through Mrs. Bromley's maſk—'twas only made of gauze.

There are ſome Gentlemen below, Sir, who, though not invited, inſiſt upon coming up.

Admit them, directly—all Gentlemen are welcome.

I ſhould have done ſo, Sir, but that theſe Gentlemen don't ſeem to be well enough dreſſed for my Lady's aſſembly—They are but Bailiffs, Sir.

Diſtraction! my diſgrace is public, now!

At whoſe ſuit do they come here?

I think they mentioned Mr. Bromley, Sir.

Impoſſible! he is the very friend I thought of applying to, in my preſent difficulties.

Don't be too confident, Mr. Woodley. I know that fellow to be a conſummate knave.

Don't let your ſpirits ſink, my dear Woodley.—We'll inquire into the matter, and ac⯑commodate it immediately.—I beg your Ladyſhip not to be alarmed—every thing ſhall be ſettled, directly. Try to ſupport your ſiſter's ſinking heart, my dear Louiſa.

Bailiffs, did the fellow ſay? Egad, I'll decamp in time.

You muſt not ſtir, 'till the rubber is out, Sir.

Your Lordſhip muſt excuſe me!—Such incidents are ſo common, to be ſure, in the preſent times, that they ceaſe to be ſcandalous; but that does not prevent my being affected by them. I ſhall re⯑member that ſeven to four are the points of our game, and for debts of honour, my Lord, you'll always find me ſolvent.

Theſe ſcenes are apt to affect me, too, Charles!—I never could ſtand them.—Peers are pri⯑vileged from ſuch ſympathies; ſo let us counter⯑march [75] down the back-ſtairs, together, or we may be lurched, though we are ſeven.

I ſhall faint, if I ſee them!—I muſt go, Ladies.

Let us have another round, Madam! We are all married women, you know.

My antipathy to theſe harpies was con⯑tracted while I was a widow, Madam.—'Tis your deal, Madam—Poor Lady Mary!—Heigh-ho!

Ay, poor Lady Mary, I ſay too;—tho' to be ſure, one cannot have any great compaſſion for ſuch an extravagant woman.

Compaſſion! No, truly!—Such ſuppers after her routs! though I was never aſked to one of them. That cheat Bromley was one of her chief favourites, you know.

She is gone out of the room, as I live, without making the leaſt apology.—Did you ever hear of ſuch rudeneſs! I'll never viſit her again.—Heigh-ho!

Nor I.—'Tis time to break up, indeed, when the Lady of the houſe has retired!—I'll carry off this Pam, to triumph over that rude wretch, Bromley. I ſhall have the honour of ſeeing you all, to-morrow night.

Certainly.

My coach was not ordered 'till twelve.—Will you carry me to Lady Freakiſh's rout? They never meet there, 'till eleven.

With pleaſure.—But I inſiſt upon telling the ſtory of the Woodleys.

And I of Mrs. Bromley.

Then I have nothing left to do, but to count my loſſes.—Heigh-ho!

Why didn't you ſay I was gone to bed? She'll break my reſt, for this night, at leaſt. She has heard of her misfortune, I fear.

O Sir!—

Yes, yes, 'tis all out, now.—Nay, my dear child, don't take on ſo—you'll break my heart, if you do.—'I was not my ſault, Louiſa.

Don't talk or think of faults, now, Sir.—You know that before this diſgraceful event happen⯑ed in the family—

Don't you talk of it in ſuch a me⯑lancholy ſtrain, child;—'tis no diſgrace, I tell you.

'Tis too public to be concealed, Sir. The Bailiffs are but this moment gone out of the houſe.

What houſe? This houſe? Your brother's houſe? What! have they carried him to priſon? I thought it would come to this.

No, Sir—Colonel Mountfort gene⯑rouſly—

What had he to do with it? Why ſhould [...]olonel Mountfort, or any one elſe? Why didn't they ſend to me?—But what have I to do wi [...]h your brother, child? He ſhould have gone to pri [...]on.

He would not long have languiſhed there, Sir believe me; a broken heart would ſoon have r [...]l [...]aſed him.

Pſha, pſha—with your broken heart—You play the fool with me!—My nephew pe⯑riſh in a ga [...]! But he has brought it all on himſelf, you know, child.

I grant that his imprudence, Sir, has ex⯑ceeded every thing, but your good-nature.

Confound my good-nature! it is for ever bringing me into ſcrapes—

And bringing others out of them, my dear uncle.

Well, well, well—I want Belford, now, extremely!—Every thing falls out unlucky!—But what of Colonel Mountfort, child?

I was going to tell you, Sir, that he be⯑came ſecurity for my brother, on the inſtant.

That's noble! for he did not know that I would diſcharge the debt.—Nay, for that mat⯑ter, I don't know that I ſhall—I promiſe nothing—but I like this action of the Colonel.

I rejoice to hear it, Sir.

Ay! then perhaps you like the Co⯑lonel? Be honeſt, ſpeak out.—I ſhould be glad to make you ſome amends for a loſs you don't yet know of;—but I can conceal it no longer.—Belſord has declared off!—but he is unworthy your reſentment. The Colonel's father was my friend, and a noble fellow he was!

And his ſon is every way worthy of ſuch a father!

I rejoice to find her ſo eaſily reconciled.—Well, that matter is ſettled, for the preſent.—But are you certain that your brother and Lady Mary will hold their reſolution of retiring to Dorſetſhire?

You know, Sir, it was their determined purpoſe, before this misfortune happened.

That's ſomething in their favour, to be ſure, and I'm glad you told me of it.—One good act of choice, is worth all the virtues of neceſſity, in the world.—I ſhould be glad to make their minds eaſy, to-night—But they'd thank me, and talk to me, and diſcompoſe me, and I ſhould loſe my night's reſt—for I hate thanks.—I ſhould be glad to ſee Co⯑lonel [78] Mountfort:—his behaviour has ſhewn a reſpect to me, and the family.

You will meet him now, at my brother's, Sir, where your preſence will make them all happy.

Well, child, I can deny you no⯑thing.—I like to make people happy, when they'll aſſiſt me in doing ſo, themſelves; without which the beſt endeavours are but labour in vain.—But the country is the place!—You muſt ſettle in the coun⯑try, Louiſa!—There is no ſafety for good folks in London, believe me, child.

I ſhould hope, Sir, that with prudence and virtue one might be ſafe any where.

A fig for your prudence—ay, and for virtue too, againſt example! Example, child, is the ruin of us all. We naturally ſtrive to ape thoſe that are called our Betters, and ſo become worſe than we otherwiſe ſhould be.—But this is no time for mo⯑ralizing. Do you ſtep in and tell your brother I am coming. I'll juſt wrap my cloak round me and follow you.

Fear not, my gallant Colonel! Mr. Woodley ſhall have ample vengeance upon that ſcoundrel Bromley; for as he has evidently altered the date of the bond, we ſhall find a way to reward his ingenuity.

I know not whether I am moſt aſtoniſh⯑ed at his villany, or at my own weakneſs in being duped by it.

The uprightneſs of your own heart, my dear Woodley, is the beſt excuſe for your credulity.

I come the happy meſſenger of joyful tidings! My dear good uncle—But he's here.

I'm glad to meet you here, all to⯑gether, for I have buſineſs with every one of you, jointly and ſeverally.—And firſt for you, Colonel, I am very much obliged to you, Sir, and I ſcorn to be obliged to any man, without making him ſome return for his kindneſs. I therefore make you a pre⯑ſent I refuſed you, a few hours ago, for the ſake of old Sir Doubtful Deliberation there.—But do you take Louiſa, and for aught I know, you may make her as good a huſband as he would have done.

I ſhall uſe my beſt endeavours, Sir, to deſerve—

That's right—ſtick to that.—No thanks, but deſerve as much as ever you can.—And as for you, Mr. Belford, though I am confoundedly angry with you, I muſt get you to ſettle this young man's affairs; his debts of honour, his poſt obits, &c.; though perhaps it may be only affording him an opportunity for deranging them again.—That's the modern phraſe, I think, for being over-head-and-ears in debt.

The ſufferings my follies have brought upon me, Sir, and the remembrance of your gene⯑roſity, will remain too ſtrongly impreſſed on my mind, to admit of my relapſing into my former errors; as that would be adding ingratitude to ex⯑travagance, and vice to folly.

Well, well, I hope ſo.—Kindneſs ſhould be the ſtrongeſt tie to a generous mind, and I ſuſpect you not of any baſeneſs in your nature;—though, to be ſure, you have ſhewn a plentiful lack of wiſdom in your conduct. But misfortunes [80] make Solomons of us all!—And now, Madam,

to ſhew you that the merit of your vo⯑luntary retirement into the country, is not loſt upon me, I make you a preſent of this houſe, for your winter reſidence.

Your kindneſs, Sir,—

Stop there—I won't be thanked—I wiſh to do as I would be done by; and as I ſhould not like to be confined in the fineſt place in the world, not even Woodley Park, I would not impoſe ſuch a reſtraint on one who I doubt not will hereafter merit my indulgence.

Gratitude overwhelms me, Sir!—I cannot ſpeak my ſenſe of your goodneſs as it deſerves.

So much the better!—There are nobler ways of ſhewing one's ſentiments.

They ſhall be demonſtrated in my future conduct, Sir; for the virtue that ariſes from the conviction of paſt errors, muſt be at once ſincere, and permanent.