ACT I.

A Very pleaſant, ſociable companion, indeed, Mr. Viſorly! can you pore over newſpapers at no other time? You compliment me moſt highly in letting me ſee that, while you are in my company, you need other entertainment.

My dear, I beg your pardon. One is anxious, you know, for the good of one's country.

You are anxious, Mr. Viſorly, for any thing that is to ſhew diſreſpect to me.

Lord how you talk—I ſhew diſreſpect to you!

There! are you not ſtill inattentive to me and my remonſtrances? Ah! I might have known what I had to expect. This is the conſe⯑quence of loſing ſight of what was due to my birth and rank, and marrying a commoner.

My dear Lady Jemima, why ſhou'd you urge that ſo often? I am ſenſible of the honor, and of my own unworthineſs.

Still you pay no attention to what I [2] am complaining of. Any thing, I find, is prefer⯑able to my converſation.

Never ſpoke a truer word in her life

My dear, I ſhall have done in a moment—I am among the deaths.

I wiſh to the Lord you were.

Oh fie, fie, Lady Jemima!

You would provoke the patience of a ſaint.

What is the matter?

Tol lol de rol!

The man is mad.

Tol lol de rol!

What frenzy has ſeized you?

Frenzy, my dear! only the frenzy that ariſes from good news.

Can't you give utterance to your good news without ſuch abſurdity?

Well, well, I will, my dear,

"On Thurſday, the 14th of laſt March, died at an advanced age, at Calcutta in Bengal"—Tol lol de rol!

Oh, mad, mad!

"John Cleveland, Eſq.—his immenſe wealth devolves on his only ſon, who is ſhortly expected in England." There is a fortune for our dear ſon, Leonard!

How do you mean for our Leonard?

Mr. Cleveland, the ſon and heir of the deceaſed, is my firſt couſin—I'm his neareſt of kin—The old fellow, who is dead, was ſuch a capricious ſort of animal, that he might have left every ſhilling of it away from his own ſon; but now it is come into his poſſeſſion, it is in the fair road to our family.

This, indeed, is welcome news;—and here comes our dear Leonard to partake it.

Ah, my dear boy!

Ah, my dear ſon!

Good morning—How do you do?

Here is news!

Ah, my boy, we have news for you!

Well, let me have it.

Why then—

No, no, Mr. Viſorly—I'll tell it him.

I'll ſave you the trouble—Old Cleveland is dead at Calcutta—his ſon inherits all his for⯑tune—And the good news is, that their bulſes and lacks may eventually come to our family.

Ay, my boy!

Yes, Leonard!

I would not give five guineas for the chance of inheritance.

No!

No. I know a little more of the cir⯑cumſtances than you do. Mr. Cleveland has a daughter.

Poh, poh! ſome—ſome—you under⯑ſtand me.

Mr. Viſorly, I am ſhocked at your indelicate alluſions.

I wiſh they were well grounded; but 'tis a melancholy fact, that the daughter is legitimate, and her mother, Cleveland's wife, is living.

Dear me, dear me!

How do you know all this?

From the moſt poſitive information.—Cleveland's own acknowledgement. He has written to me.

Really!

Yes—Stating that as we were the neareſt, and only male relations he had, to us he has taken the liberty of conſigning his remittances—with directions how he wiſhes them to be inveſted. Underſtanding that your reſidence in London was only caſual, and alſo thinking the trouble of buſineſs more ſuited to my time of life, he thought it better to addreſs his letter to me. In it, he ex⯑plains all the particulars of his marriage; and recommends his wife and daughter to our at⯑tention.

How—are they not with him?

No. His daughter we may hourly ex⯑pect—Not being able to ſettle his affairs immedi⯑ately on the death of his father, he ſent her before him, unwilling to detain her from her mother.

Why, is the mother in England?

Yes;—and has been for ſeveral years. His marriage was without the conſent of his father, and, for ſome time, unknown to him—Enraged when he diſcovered it, he inſiſted on a ſeparation,—to avoid ruin, which would have been the con⯑ſequence of his father's reſentment, he was forced to comply. The child was ſuffered to remain with him—The wife was doom'd to return to England, where, for theſe fifteen years ſhe has lived in retirement.

Well, what is to be done?

They are recommended, it ſeems, to our attention; but, really, I don't well ſee how I can reconcile to myſelf, taking notice of, and introducing to my acquaintances, people, one doesn't know who—and that have been living one doesn't know where,

What do you talk of? Are they not the [5] wife and daughter of a nabob? Your high-bred friends will worſhip you for the introduction. Think what will be the magnificence of their houſe, the ſplendour of their equipage, the bril⯑liancy of their entertainments. Such ſuppers as theirs will be the faſhionable world would ſcram⯑ble for a ſeat at, even if they were given by a perſonage from a hotter place than Bengal.

Leonard ſays very truly. We ſhall get credit by ſhewing ſuch gold pheaſants to our friends.

Certainly: for all will be charmed with the ſplendour of their plumage—even thoſe who are ſo little faſhionable as not to attempt plucking the feathers.

Well, we muſt prepare to ſhew them all poſſible civility.

Ay, ay, pray let us; for I have ſomething in view that will pay us for our trouble.

What is that, ſon?

The hope of making the young lady a part of our family.

What an excellent thought! Ah, Leo⯑nard, Leonard, you are a cunning rogue!

You amaze me, child, that you don't extend your views—My ſon, the grandſon of the earl of Caſtlegreat, ought to aſpire to the proudeſt heireſſes of the nobleſt peers—not ſtoop to a thing of muſhroom growth.

Conſider, mother, this muſhroom is the growth of a golden ſoil.

Well, ſon, purſue your own inclina⯑tions; my affection for you will always make me yield to your wiſhes.

Then this glorious fortune may be mine. Invite them to your houſe. The mother having [6] long experienced a conſtrained ſecluſion from ſo⯑ciety, will, doubtleſs, be gratified with attentions from a woman of your rank—the daughter is young—I don't deſpair of ſucceſs with her; and the preference the father has ſhewn, in the truſt con⯑ſigned to me, makes me hope every thing from him. So, all ſeems fair for my ſucceſs; and half a million at leaſt is the prize. Think of that—think of that.

A perſon below deſires to ſpeak with you, Sir.

What is his name?

He ſays his own name is immaterial; but he deſired me to mention the name of Cleveland.

Shew him up directly.

You are welcome, Sir.

Thank you, Sir; thank you. So, I be got to you at laſt. You great folks take a plaguy time coming at. Ma'am, your humble ſervant. Mayhap, I ſhould ſay your Ladyſhip—Pray ex⯑cuſe all faults.

Never mind, Lady Jemima doesn't ſtand on ceremony.

Don't ſhe? Why, then, Lady Jemima is a lady juſt after my own heart.

Well, Sir—you come concerning Mr. Cleveland.

Why, yes, Sir; yes. You muſt know, Sir, that I am an old fellow that remember Mrs. Cleveland (Heaven bleſs her!) when ſhe was not the height of my knee. Often and often is the time that I have danced her o'top of it. Well, that is neither here nor there. When her father [7] died—Ah! I ſhall never forget it—he has not left a better man behind him—there was not a dry eye in the village except the undertaker's, and folks do ſay he cried a bit. Well, her father, good ſoul! had met with ſo many loſſes and croſſes, that there was little enough left for his daughter to live like a lady on; ſo ſhe was perſuaded by her friends to take a voyage to India with a couſin of her's, who had married, and was going to ſettle there.

Mr. Cleveland has acquainted me with the reſt. There he married her, and from thence, by the ſeverity of his father, he was forced to ſend her.

Ah, poor dear! home ſhe came again, miſerable enough, to be ſure. Well, mayhap, all for the beſt; now ſhe will be as happy as the day is long. But for this many a year ſhe has led but a loneſome ſort of a life; for you may think my dame and I, though we love her like a child of our own, can't have been company good enough for her: but ſhe was as kind to us, and made as much of us, as though we had been the beſt people in the land.

We ſhall ſoon, I hope, have the pleaſure of receiving her in this houſe. She muſt not think of ſeeing any other habitation.

Oh, certainly not. She muſt make this her abode.

Oh, to be ſure; to be ſure.

When did Mrs. Cleveland arrive?

But laſt night.

And where is ſhe?

Why, ſhe is at a—at a—What the plague do you call it? It is the like of an inn, only it goes by a finer name.

Oh, an Hotel.

Ay, ay, an Hotel.

But what Hotel?

Od rabbit it, I forget the name of it; but I can aſk the man who ſhewed me the way here; for, as I never was in London before, I can't travel without a guide. He waits below to take me back again—he will tell me

Stay, Sir, he ſhall direct us both. The carriage is waiting, and I will not loſe a mo⯑ment in paying my reſpects to Mrs. Cleveland.

Well, now, that is kind of you, indeed, my lady. I will leave the direction below ſtairs, and go on before.

By no means. Lady Jemima will take you in the carriage with her.

Why, you are joking ſure!

My dear Leonard, think if I ſhould meet any of my friends with this Bumpkin for my Ciciſbeo.

Oh, mother, to oblige me

My mother is ready to attend you, Sir.

Pſha, Pſha! no tricks upon travellers. Her ladyſhip ride with ſuch a lout as me!

It may well ſurprize you

—Oh, Sir, I ſhall be proud of the honour.

The honour! that is a good one. Come, then, my lady. Lord, how my dame would laugh to ſee me ſeated in a coach with a Lady Jemima!

Won't you accompany my mother, Sir? I have buſineſs which muſt detain me.

Yes, yes, I will go with you, Lady Jemima

—I ſay, Leonard, where will her Ladyſhip wiſh the ruſtic if ſhe meets any of her noble relatives? Ha! ha! 'tis a good joke—Ah, Leonard, you are a droll dog!

If my deſigns ſucceed, on what a pinnacle of for⯑tune ſhall I be placed! The independence be⯑queathed me by my grandfather I have turned to good account. What, though it has been the means of effecting the ruin of a few thoughtleſs profligates? There vices were incurable, and they would have been as completely beggared by the ſkilful operations of others if all my thoughts had been engaged in the exerciſe of devotion, and my guineas appropriated to charitable donations—Nay, to preſerve my eſtimation with the world, I have raiſed from the earth thoſe whom others, leſs mindful of opinion, would have left groveling in miſery.—Pſha! when I ſcrutinize my conduct with an eye half inclined to condemnation, I find matter for praiſe inſtead of cenſure. Dupes will be dupes—Knaves will make their prey of them—and lucky is the dupe that becomes the prey of a knave with ſome conſcience, and a great regard for a good reputation. Whom have we here?

Peace be unto this houſe!

Who is this? With what Hedge Divine have I the honour of an acquaintance?

Thy name is Leonard Viſorly.

Well, Sir, what is your buſineſs?

To diſcourſe with thee on the ſtate of thy conſcience.

I requeſt you will ſave yourſelf that trou⯑ble: my conſcience is a charge of which I chooſe to have the ſole guardianſhip.

But it is my duty to inquire whether thou haſt treated that precious charge like unto a faith⯑ful guardian—Whether thou haſt not ſtained with guilt, that which was conſigned to thy care ſpot⯑leſs and pure; and which now goads thee with complainings for thy iniquity. Therefore, I ſay—

You ſhall ſay no more in this houſe. Out with you directly

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, is this the way you treat an old friend, after ſo long an abſence?

An old friend!—What do you mean? Who are you?

And ſo, my reverend appearance has con⯑cealed from your recognition your friend, and brother in iniquity, Jeremy Sharpſet!

Sharpſet!

The very ſame.

But what is the meaning of this trans⯑formation?

The reſtleſſneſs of my diſpoſition, and inclination for any purſuit in preference to laudable exertion, and honeſt induſtry.

I am afraid you felt the loſs of me.

Yes, I confeſs it—You were very ſer⯑viceable.

Yes, I was. I did the roguery, and you received the profits.

Come, come—You were not ill paid.

Oh, no—I don't complain. How is poor Drooply?

Still the creature of my bounty.

Well, that is kind of you—A generous weakneſs in your character—You ſwindled him out of two thouſand a year, and are good enough to allow him a hundred. Ah, you are a model of philanthropy.

Come, a truce with your ſarcaſm.

Ah, bleſs your honeſt tender heart! He is as grateful to you as ever, I conclude.

Yes, he eſteems me his friend and pre⯑ſerver.

Poor fellow! "He was wont to ſet the table in a roar, now quite chop-fallen." I declare I never think of him but with a heart-ache.

Well, well—but what have you been do⯑ing ſince we parted?

All ſorts of things I ought not to do. To confeſs the truth, the reaſon I quitted you, was, I was tired of the work you chalked out for me—You wanted to puſh me a little farther in roguery than I liked. I am but a petty larceny villain—That ruin of poor Drooply, in which I was the chief engine for you—that hit me hard. I am fooliſh enough to have qualms. I know you deſpiſe me for it; but we all have our weakneſſes.

Well, well; but what became of you?

I'll tell you. I had unluckily, once in my life, dined at a Lord Mayor's feaſt.—I ſhall never forget it. Talk of Earls and Dukes en⯑tertaining!—Pſha! a rivulet to the ocean. Ever after I panted for City honours—So, all my honeſt earnings I was determined to depoſit in trade. An opportunity ſoon offered—I was to become a ſleeping partner in a great houſe. I paid down my caſh to the laſt guinea—A docket was ſtruck againſt the firm the very next week, ſo the poor ſleeping partner had nothing but the open air for his ſlumbers; and, inſtead of being in the road to claim a ſeat at a Guildhall dinner, I had ſcarcely enough to purchaſe one in Porridge Iſland.

So, all your hopes of a gold chain va⯑niſhed?

Yes; and I was in a very likely way to be adorned with an iron one;—but I was reſolved to take myſelf out of the reach of temptation and danger, by leaving London.

In what capacity did you travel?

Still I had a taſte for partnerſhip. I en⯑gaged with a very reſpectable Gentleman to divide with him the attention and profits of—

Of what?

A collection of wild beaſts.

I gueſs you were not a ſleeping partner here.

No; my companions were rather hoſtile to repoſe. Not much liking ſuch uncivilized ſo⯑ciety, and being a little apprehenſive that my fellow-travellers might one time or other make a ſupper of me, I ſoon cut this connection; and inſtead of exhibiting the merits of others, I got a taſte for diſplaying my own.

How, pray?

I joined a party of ſtrolling players.

Indeed!

I know you muſt be ſhocked at my de⯑ſcending ſo damn'd low as to turn actor. But I did not diſgrace myſelf long.

How happened that?

The audience would not let me.

How ſo?

I came out in Richard the Third. I thought it deviliſh fine; but the good folks in the front thought otherwiſe. I ranted—they hooted—However, I out-roared them, and puſhed on till I got into Boſworth Field—"A horſe, a horſe! my kingdom for a horſe!" When a drunken, Fox⯑hunting ſquire (I ſhall never loſe the ſound of his damn'd voice) bawled out of the boxes, that I ſhould have the beſt horſe in his ſtable, if I would ride away directly, and never come back again.

Ha! ha! ha!

The actor's warn'd me it would not do. I thought it envy in them, and have ſome reaſon to think they ſent in a party to hiſs me. However, by way of comfort, they told me, though I ſhould never act tragedy, they thought I ſhould ſucceed in low comedy—Low comedy! only think of their impudence! Is this a face for low comedy? No, no, damn it! I could not ſtoop to that.

Well, your next reſource?

Oh, then I got a call, and mounted the habiliments in which you ſee me; this was lucra⯑tive; but my conſcience would not ſuffer me any longer to drain from the pockets of the poor, the earnings of their induſtry: nay, what is worſe, em⯑bitter their innocent minds with groundleſs terrors, and inſpire them with prejudice againſt their fel⯑low-creatures.

So then you deign at laſt to return to me.

Yes; for I had rather cheat the rich, than delude the poor.

Well, well, I'll endeavour to find you employment.

That I don't doubt, as long as there is a pigeon to be plucked, and as I am diſpoſed to be a rook at your ſervice.

No, I have at preſent honeſter objects in view, to attain which I may need your aſſiſtance.

Well, I'm glad of that; for, upon my ſoul, I am tired of being a rogue.

If I reach the point of my preſent aim, I may, myſelf, relinquiſh that character. I ſhall then have wealth enough to gratify even my ambition. I am no further a knave than as it forwards my grand purſuit, the attainment of wealth. And who would not uſe any means to gain that, which covers vice with the garb of reſpect, and without which virtue meets but pity or deriſion.

Well obſerved; and never was obſerva⯑tion more patly illuſtrated. You are a glorious inſtance of the firſt part of your ſentiment, and here comes a proof of the latter.

Ah, Drooply, how do you do?

How do you do, my dear fellow?

Where have you hid yourſelf? nobody has ſeen you of late?

I have been ſtriving to follow the example of my acquaintances, and learning to be as ſhy of them as they are of me.

Why, what an altered being you are! you uſed to be a merry fellow.

Yes, for I uſed to be a rich fellow.

Come, come, cheer up. Good ſpirits are a man's beſt friends.

Ay; but like the reſt of his friends, when his money leaves him, they leave him too.

Nay, nay; your friends have not all de⯑ſerted you.

All but you. There is not another man in the world who would care a ſtraw if the devil had one.

If you are ſo deſpondent, I muſt recom⯑mend you a ſpiritual comforter. Can your rever⯑ence adminiſter conſolation to this afflicted being?

No; for I can't return him the money I won of him.

Whom have we here?

What, not remember me! If I had done you a kindneſs, I might expect to be forgotten▪ but I thought every one remembered an ill-turn.

In this pious paſtor you behold a quondam acquaintance, Mr. Sharpſet.

What! Sharpſet turned Methodiſt?

Yes; but don't wrong my underſtanding—Only from neceſſity.

You might triumph now, if you were diſ⯑poſed to indulge ſpleen; for the man who was the chief gainer by your loſſes at play, is now as low in the world as yourſelf.

No, I am ſo completely without gratifica⯑tion, I have not even the comfort a malicious diſ⯑poſition would afford me. It is far from a relief to me, to ſee another unfortunate.

You are mutually diſtreſſed; yet, how differently you bear your misfortunes.

That is eaſily accounted for. I have a thouſand reſources—Drooply has none. Born to no other inheritance, I have learned to turn to ac⯑count [16] what I inherit from nature; ſo that, tho' my acquiſitions have been ſquandered, I am ſtill in poſſeſſion of my original patrimony.

Ah, you lucky dog! you have an eſtate in every corner of your brain, and a pretty income at the end of every finger. Now, the whole pro⯑duce of my ſkull would not get me change for ſixpence: and as for my hands, curſe them! they are fit for nothing but to dangle by my ſides, or ſtuff out my coat-pockets.

Why, I am afraid they will never fill your pockets with any thing but themſelves.

Oh I wiſh I had been a Turk!

A Turk!

Yes, a Turk: they are the only wiſe peo⯑ple on earth: they teach all their great men ſome honeſt employment.

Do they? I know ſome great men I wiſh they would give a leſſon to.

Oh if we had that good muſſulman cuſtom among us, how many a rich man would be of more uſe to ſociety when his eſtate was gone, than while he poſſeſſed it! as a good cobler is a more valuable character than a rich man who does not employ his wealth properly.

Why, you are turning moraliſt!

Yes; the loſs of wealth ſeldom leſſens a man's morality. While I am creeping about, ſuch a piece of moving lumber, what reſpect I feel for every reputable tinker that comes in my way. This very morning how I did envy a merry rogue of a ſhoeblack! With what glee he put the poliſh of an artiſt on the boot he was blacking: how merrily he bruſhed and ſung, and how conceitedly and happily he looked at his work when he had done it! Oh, you jolly dog, thought I, what a happy man had been ſpoiled, if you had been born [17] to two thouſand a year! you would never have enjoyed the luxury of poliſhing a ſhoe, or the in⯑dependent exultation of exiſting by your own induſtry.

We muſt endeavour to diſpel your melan⯑choly. You are a martyr to ennui. I muſt find you employment.

You muſt do ſomething beſide—find me capacity.

That you don't want. Your talents have been only ſlumbering.

Hav'n't they? they have had a pretty long nap, and a ſound one too. I'm afraid it will be a hard matter to wake them.

I don't deſpair; eſpecially when I ſhall ſet the loud voice of friendſhip to rouſe them.

If they don't wake at that call, you may take your oath their ſlumber is everlaſting. But tho' I am maſter of this poor tenement, I really am ſo ignorant of the ſtate of the upper ſtory, as not to know whether the inhabitants have periſhed by neglect, or are only dozing from want of em⯑ployment; but this I do know, there is a lively fellow in the firſt floor

who would dance with joy to do you the ſlighteſt ſer⯑vice, and loſe every drop of blood to prove his friendſhip and gratitude.

ACT II.

Yes, I have not been in town above half an hour.

Have you brought with you from the country houſe the box, which, I told you, con⯑tains the writings of your property.

Yes—ſhall I give it to you?

No; I am too buſy at preſent—Only take care of it.

Well, my dear brother, I am ſo glad we are to have our houſe full of company—Oh, that is delightful! How I do love a racketting, noiſy ſcene! In a morning the faſhionable buſtle of Bond⯑ſtreet, the muſical thunder of a footman's rap—the dealing out tickets to the whole ton-world—and then at night, driving to twenty different aſſem⯑blies—ſeeing the whole world in the courſe of an evening—Oh, dear, dear, what a charming age to live in! we ſee more of life in one day, than our anceſtors did in their whole exiſtence.

Yes; but I doubt whether we are the happier for it.

To be ſure we are. What is all this but happineſs? care can never reach us, for in all this hurry nobody has time to think; and you know it is thinking makes one unhappy.

Well, I'm not Cynic enough to attempt to reaſon people out of their notions of happineſs; for as it exiſts in imagination, the idea is the [19] reality. But, my dear Caroline, I have told you my wiſh to be thought well of by this young Eaſt Indian. From living in the ſame houſe, and being nearly of an age, you will moſt likely contract a friendſhip.

Yes; and her taking my brother for her lover, will be the beſt ſecurity for that friendſhip; for then, we can't be rivals—and nothing is ſo apt to make young ladies diſagree, as being both of the ſame mind.

This way, Mrs. Cleveland.

Here comes the mother.

Believe me, madam, we experience the greateſt pleaſure in welcoming you to this houſe. My daughter, madam—my ſon, Leonard.

I feel extreme happineſs in the event of this moment, which makes me known to you, madam. Suffer me to aſſure you, that if I can be the humble inſtrument of rendering you a ſervice, I ſhall eſteem it the greateſt bliſs of my life.

Sir, I thank you.

I hope, madam, we ſhall be able to make your reſidence here, not entirely diſagree⯑able to you: our friends and connections, among whom, I am proud to ſay, are ſome of the firſt rank, will, I am ſure, do their poſſible to ſecond our poor endeavours.

Your kindneſs, madam, merits my warmeſt return of gratitude. The endearing at⯑tentions with which you honour me, will tend to ſoothe the terrors of a mind anxious for the ſafety [20] of the dear objects on which all its future happineſs depends.

With what ſincere joy, madam, I conſider how ſhort will be the continuance of your appre⯑henſions, and how complete the happineſs you will ſo ſoon poſſeſs.

Heaven grant it! I have paſſed many a tedious year with no other ſolace than the hope of what now appears ſo near me. Fifteen years' ab⯑ſence from the huſband of my affections, and from my dear child, has been a period, you may well conceive, barren of comfort:—and, even now, I have much to dread—a long and dangerous voyage.—But I will hope the beſt, and not wrong Provi⯑dence, by doubting its goodneſs.

I am out of breath—quite out of breath—And I am almoſt out of my wits—ſhe is arrived! ſhe is arrived!

My daughter!

Yes—I have ſeen her, I have ſeen her!

O good heaven!

I have—Ah, the ſweet little dear! and not ſo little either—She is quite a woman. Ah bleſs her! I've had a kiſs, and I'll have another—I beg pardon gentlefolks—if I'm unmannerly 'tis joy makes me ſo.

Where is ſhe?

In this very houſe by this time. Oh here ſhe comes! here ſhe comes!

My child! Oh, my ſweet child!

My mother!

How have I longed for this bleſt moment! But your dear father, did you leave him well?

Yes—quite well—And eager for the hap⯑pineſs which I feel now.

My ſweet, ſweet Julia! How well am I repaid for my paſt years of miſery! Oh, height of bliſs! The mother claſps once more in her fond arms, her long loſt, only child.—

Pardon theſe tranſports—Joy like mine will keep no limits.

We all participate too much in your feli⯑city to wiſh repreſſed ſuch exquiſite emotions.

Yes, madam, we all feel boundleſs joy. What a pretty little creature it is, Leonard—Oh, you will be a happy rogue!

My Julia, to theſe generous friends we owe the utmoſt gratitude; their kindneſs grants us an aſylum while your father ſhall remain from us.

'Tis for us to be grateful, for your kind compliance with our wiſhes

Tho' we can't rival the ſplendour of Calcutta, I hope London will have ſome charms for you.

Oh yes, I find already it has every charm: for I'm with my mother, and with friends who look as if they loved me.

And who that ſets eyes on you, can help loving you, you dear, pretty creature? I beg par⯑don, gentlefolks.

Who is that good old gentleman? You can't think how glad he was to ſee me: he kiſſed me as fondly as if I had been his own daughter.

He is one, my Julia, who has made my comfort for theſe fifteen years the chief buſi⯑neſs of his life.

What, has he been ſo kind to my dear mother? Oh then I muſt kiſs him again.

I am too happy—I am too happy!

Tho' my new friends are ſo kind to me, I muſt not forget thoſe who have loved me before. Where is Gangica?

Here, my dear miſtreſs.

Mother you muſt love Gangica for my ſake; ſhe has leſt her country and all her relations, be⯑cauſe ſhe would not part from me: therefore I muſt love her better than ever, and every body that loves me, muſt love Gangica.

Her affection for my dear child makes her certain of my love. But I feel ex⯑hauſted with exceſs of joy. We ſhould not la⯑ment that there are few incidents in life, which waken ſuch extreme delight; for were they fre⯑quent, how ſhortly would our weak frames yield to the tumults of ecſtacy!

Let me conduct you, madam, to your apartments.

You are all goodneſs. Come, my dear child.

I can't tell how it is—I be no whimperer, gentle⯑men; but ſomehow, my eyes do nothing but moiſten to-day.

I feel the tear of ſenſibility bedew my [23] cheek. Ah, Leonard, my boy, if you can but get her.—

Huſh, ſir, huſh!

Wha delight, ſir, you muſt feel at the happineſs of this family, to whom you have ſhewn ſo much attach⯑ment! What gratitude do they not owe you!

Gratitude to me! That is a great miſ⯑take of yours, and it behoves me to ſet you right. Mrs. Cleveland's father ſaved me once from ruin—me and my family from beggary; and I think he muſt have but a bad notion of the value of a kind⯑neſs done him, who, if he could live long enough, would not ſtrive to repay it down to the fiftieth generation.

What a noble heart!

Noble heart! Pſha, pſha! ſure the world is not ſo bad that a man need be praiſed for not being a monſter.

I am proud of the happineſs of being known to you.

And ſo am I, moſt ſincerely.

Why to be ſure a mighty matter to be proud of, gentlemen, being known to an old ſtupid country bumpkin. Surely you be jeering a body—but if you be, I can't find in my heart to be angry; for as long as you are ſo good and ſo kind to the dear creatures I love, you may flout and jeer at me as much as you pleaſe.

You miſtake us extremely: it is the fartheſt from our thoughts to be deficient in any particle of reſpect.

You never can be at a loſs for our mean⯑ing—We feel the value of ſuch integrity as yours; and be aſſured we ſhall always ſay leſs of your merits, than we think you deſerve.

Always leſs than you deſerve.

Do you know I ſhall take that very kind of you—for if you are ſo good as to fancy I have any deſerts at all, you muſt in conſcience think they be very little—And if ſo be you keep your word, and ſay leſs than you think, I ſhall be mighty happy—becauſe then, you will juſt ſay no⯑thing at all. So, gentlemen, as in duty bound, I am your moſt humble ſervant.

This old ruſtic, ſir, appears to ſtand vaſtly well with the mother; I muſt endeavour to gain his good graces; for the ſentiments of a man ſhe has known ſo long, and eſteems ſo highly, muſt have great weight with her.

Very true—I'll take care to pay him vaſt attention. I'll do your buſineſs with him—I'll cajole the old fool.

Yes, ſir; but be cautious leſt your partial affection for me ſhould make you too laviſh in my panegyric.

Do you think I don't know how to get round ſuch a ſilly old bumpkin? leave me to wheedle him—I'll do it cunningly, ſhrewdly, Leo⯑nard—wiſely, my boy.

Now the game is ſtarted, I muſt ſet my whole pack full cry for the chace. Here comes my prime agent in knavery, Sharpſet. Having uſed him ſo eſſentially in the plunder of Drooply, and that buſineſs completed, I could have diſ⯑penſed with his return; for no intercourſe is ſo grating as that which ſubſiſts with a confederate in villainy. However, to keep him in my power, I have ſtill contrived to keep him in my debt; ſo that I need not fear him, and he has talents to render him ſtill uſeful to me.

I am glad to find you return'd to the laity. I would rather ſee knavery wear any garb than that of religion.

Your reaſon for which, is, that then only you are afraid of its being an overmatch for you.

Not ſo; but that I have not ceaſed to reſpect, tho' I have dared to violate.

Heyday! I believe you congratulate me on laying down the trade of preaching, becauſe you mean to take it up. But it tells well for morality, that even ſome knaves can admire the cauſe, which honeſt men are riſking their lives to defend. But, a truce to this ſtyle, for it ſits awkwardly upon us. Your viſitors, I find, are arrived.

Yes; and the girl is beautiful as an angel.

Oh, a divinity!

Why, have you ſeen her?

No.

Then, whence theſe raptures?

Did not you tell me ſhe was heireſs to half a million?

Oh! your ſervant—but I aſſure you her intrinſic worth—

Can be nothing to her ſterling worth.

I am convinced I feel ſomething like love.

To be ſure you do. I ſhould adore a twentieth part of the ſum, if it were in the pocket of the uglieſt old harridan that ever was ducked for a witch.

You ſeem to hold beauty very cheap.

Oh no—I only value money very highly.

But when they are combined—

That is always poſſible—Whoever has the money, need not be long without the beauty.

In one object I hope to poſſeſs the ulti⯑matum of my wiſhes in both. It muſt now be my [...]are to have all around her impreſſed with eſteem for me—my eulogium wafted to her on every breath, cannot fail of infuſing a favourable pre⯑poſſeſſion. Be you mindful, that on all occaſions your report of me may ſwell the gale of appro⯑bation. I need not tell you that your intereſt will be no ſufferer by your panegyric.

And I aſſure you I am ſo good natur'd a fellow, that, make it equally profitable to me, and I would rather ſpeak in a man's praiſe than againſt him—So much am I unlike the greater part of my acquaintance.

The chief perſonage I wiſh to enliſt in my favour, is an old ruſtic, much devoted to the family, and ranking high in the mother's eſteem. His name is Oakworth.

What?

Oakworth.

Oak—Oak—worth.—Where does he come from?

With Mrs Cleveland from Warwickſhire. What ſurpriſes you?

Oh nothing—Only it ſtrikes me, I have heard that name before.

Be earneſt to throw yourſelf in his way▪ and remember by diſcreetly applied praiſe, [...]o pave my paſſage to the eſteem I deſire. To merit eſteem is at beſt a tedious method of obtaining it—The purchaſed diploma equally gives the title, and ſaves the labour of deſerving it.

So, I am to throw myſelf in the way of this old ruſtic, Oakworth—You little gueſs, my very worthy friend, what you are directing—To throw myſelf in the way of no leſs intereſting a perſonage to me than my identical dad—my own natural father. It is now a long while ſince I ſaw the good old boy:—I was but fourteen, I think, when it entered my mad head to ſcamper away from him—A project well worthy of ſo experi⯑enced an age. That frolic has thrown me into many a ſituation which would be whimſical to re⯑late—Yes, and many a ſituation it would not be prudent to relate. I long to have a glimpſe of the old buck. I wonder whether he would know me—Whom have we got here? Oh! this is one of the Aſiatic importations.

Don't be fright'ned, my dear—I am very tame.

You not hurt me?

Lord love you, not I. I ſuppoſe ſhe [28] thought I ſhou'd dart at her like one of her native tygers. I aſſure you, my dear, I ſha'n't bite.

No, no; but you may do great deal miſchief, and not bite.

But I won't do any miſchief at all.

Dat's good man. You not wonder I am afraid—I am ſtranger.

'Tis a ſign ſo by your being afraid; for, were you not a ſtranger you would know that nobody in this country has the power of wronging another with impunity. Beſide, your being a ſtranger, is a ſure title to protection.

O den, dis be very good country. Glad I come here.

And ſo am I, glad you are come here, my little marigold.

What for you glad I come here?

Becauſe I like the look of you.

Oh, you mock—You not like my cop⯑per face.

Why not, my dear? In my mind a lady looks better with a face of copper, than of braſs—And that is all the faſhion.

Oh, if my face were like my dear Miſs Julia's! Oh ſhe ſo pretty! ſhe ſo good!

And you love her very much?

Ay, dat I do—I would die for her.—Oh, I would do great deal more—I would live to bear pain in my limbs, and ſorrow in my heart, to make her happy.

Well ſaid, my little diſciple of Brama! If the hallowed waves of the Ganges had any ſhare in infuſing this gratitude, I wiſh its ſtream lay near enough to be reſorted to as a faſhionable bathing place. This little ſun-burnt favourite may do Leonard ſervice—I'll try to retain her in his cauſe. [29]

I know who loves your young lady very much.

So do I.

Ay!—who?

Every body.

Yes, yes;—but there is a gentleman here, in this houſe—a young handſome gentleman.

Yes.

Very handſome.

Yes,—very handſome.

What, you have ſeen him?

Yes,—I ſee him now.

Who?

Why, handſome—very handſome gentle⯑man.

Meaning me—This girl's ſimplicity has done more than all the bronze of her ſex could ever accompliſh—wonderful to relate—made me bluſh.—I had no notion tho' that theſe natives of Indoſ⯑tan had ſo much taſte. But, my dear, I am not the only handſome gentleman in this houſe—I mean another, who has conceived a great eſteem for your young lady; and your good opinion of him will, I know, give him great ſatisfaction—and ſo—but I had better have done with talking, and appeal to the rhetoric of all times, and all nations

you muſt know, my dear, that this gentleman is very generous—and I am ſure he will be highly pleaſed at my making you a preſent from him of this little purſe.

But what for you give me dis.

Why, that—that you may ſpeak well of this young gentleman.

How I ſpeak well of him I not know?

Um—But when you do know him—

Den, if he good man, I ſpeak well of him widout dis—if he bad man, I not ſpeak well [30] of him for whole ſhip-full of money.

So, ſo,—my friend Leonard will not be able to buy his diploma here. There is ſomething mighty faſcinating in this duſky piece of diſintereſt⯑edneſs. Since I find we are not likely to come to a right underſtanding as agents, I'll try how we can agree as principals. Pray, my dear, have you left your heart in India?

No—my heart in de right place.

I'll anſwer for that—'Tis in the right place I am ſure. But you have not reſolved never to love any body?

No—I love great many.

The deuce you do!

Yes; my young lady I love dearly, dearly. And I love every body dat love her.

Oh, is that all? But all your love ſeems to belong to your lady. Can't you love a little on your own account?

What you ſay?

Why, you have not made a vow to die a maid.

I never make vows—it is wicked.

Very well—why then, if I were to be very fond of you.

Yes.

Would you be fond of me?

I not know.

Why not?

Becauſe, tho' your face white and pretty, I not know if your mind ſo.

Why, that's true, my love—But you may take my word for it.

No, no—not take man's word when he praiſe himſelf.

Well, how are you to know.

Why, in great, long time—if I find you do all good—not one bit of bad.

Oh Lord—Oh Lord—Oh Lord! here is a trial of gallantry! here is a teſt for a lover!

Well, good bye—I ſtay too long while with you. My lady want me, may be. I ſee you again ſometime.

Yes, my dear, I hope ſo.

Good bye, good bye.

I am afraid I ſtand but a poor chance of ſucceſs here. It is not very likely that my little Gentoo's ſyſtem for chooſing a lover ſhould come into faſhion—But if it ſhould, Lord, Lord, what a different claſs of beings the favourites of the ladies would be! no—yes—'tis he—my papa, by all that's miraculous! Oh the deuce—what a buſineſs here will be!

Whew, whew,—plague take it! I never was ſo tired with riding a whole day after the Fox, as I am now with half an hours plaguy palaver from this old maſter of the houſe. He may be a very good ſort of man—which I don't doubt; but he be curſed tireſome. Who be this [...]ine ſpark? ſervant, ſir.

How do you do—how do you do?

Pretty well; at your ſervice. Poor gen⯑tleman, he have got the tooth-ach, I believe▪ I am afraid you feel uncomfortable, ſir.

I do, upon my ſoul, ſir.

Are you often attacked in this way?

No, ſir, I have not been attacked in this way, for a great many years.

Dear, dear! what, you be quite taken by ſurprize?

Never more ſo in my life, ſir.

Well, ſir, but I hope you will ſoon get rid of ſo troubleſome a companion.

I hope I ſhall, ſir.

And as you ſeem to be very uneaſy, it will be but kind in me to keep you company a bit.

If you ſtay with me, how the devil am I to get rid of my troubleſome companion?

Oh Lord, Oh Lord!

You ſeem to be in huge great pain. I would not be plagued in this way. I would get ſomebody to lug him out.

Oh how I wiſh ſomebody would be ſo kind!

If I could borrow a pair of pinchers, I would do it for you in a moment—I have drawn fifty ſo in our village.

Oh! I could not think of troubling you.

It will be a pleaſure.

No, by no means—I think I am rather better.

Ah! the fear of the tug always makes it leave off aching. But you'd better have him out—he'll plague you again.

I am afraid he will, but I muſt bear it▪ He doesn't know my voice, and my face and per⯑ſon muſt be ſtill more altered—Hang it, I'll e'en try

I begin to feel eaſier, ſir.

Heartily glad to hear it.

My face is rather enlarged, ſir.

Um! I ſee no ſwelling at all—Ah! you were more frightened than hurt.

So it turns out, ſir—for he has not the ſlight⯑eſt remembrance of me

Upon my ſoul, it was very kind of you to offer to operate—and for an entire ſtranger too.

Yes—and a pretty lift you would have given to my poor grinders.—But how came you to underſtand drawing teeth?

Oh, in a little village; a man that means to do good to his neighbours, muſt turn his hand to every thing. Why, I have bled folks afore⯑now.

That has run in the family. I have bled 'em a little too,

Well, Sir, and I dare ſay you have a good dame at home who is as ready to aſſiſt her neighbours as you are?

Why, yes; my old girl don't grudge ſtirring her ſtumps when there is any good to be done.

I'm glad to hear the good old dame is alive. Now, I'll venture to touch on a tender ſubject

Any—any ſons and daughters?

No—no; they be all gone

What—none leſt?

No, no—Yes—one, mayhap—one may be alive—one ungracious boy—No, no; it be hardly poſſible, though there is a chance, a little chance—I have always kept a watch on the Old Bailey Seſſions Papers, and the County Aſſize liſts—and to be ſure I never found his name down in them; but there is little certainty or comfort in that—for you know, my poor wicked boy may have been hanged, or ſent to Botany Bay under ſome other name.

Hanged, or ſent to Botany Bay!

Ah! ſir, it grieves my heart to think it—but he had ſuch little ſharping tricks about him when he was but a child, that I were forced to laſh, and laſh, every day of my life. I dare ſay, if he be alive, he have got my well-meant marks on his back to this day.

Really! It aches at the recollection.

Yes—you muſt ſuppoſe I had his well doing at heart—and ſo I never ſpared him. I did hope, by good advice, and good example, and a good horſewhip, all together, to have made an honeſt man of him—But the rogue ſcampered away when he was but a younker, and ſo got looſe into the wide wicked world, with a bad diſpoſition, and neceſſity to whet it. You muſt needs think as I do, about what is become of him.

I really think, ſir, you judge too ſeverely of your ſon, Je—What is your ſon's name, ſir?

Jeremy.

O, ſir, take comfort—Many a lad with as bad a beginning has turned out a great man.

Ay, a great man, mayhap—but I am afraid nobody with ſo bad a beginning has turned out a good one.

Upon my ſoul, you can't think how it ſhocks me that you ſhould judge ſo harſhly of a child of your own. I dare ſwear no more harm has happend to Jerry than there has to me.

O dear, O dear! it be quite a different caſe.

Not at all—not at all—A caſe very much in point, I aſſure you.

How be that? Why, were you a bit of a rogue when you were a younker?

To own the truth to you, my dear ſir, (but don't mention it) I was.

Ah! but you never ran away from your home.

I did.

You don't ſay ſo?

Honour.

Yes, yes; but you ſoon ſaw your error, and went back to your father?

So far from it, my good ſir, that it was many years before we met.

Indeed!

And, then, quite by accident.

Really!

Yes; and the beſt joke was, he did not know me.

Not know you! Oh the old fool!—Beg pardon, ſir, for making ſo free with your father.

No apology. Pray make as free with him as you pleaſe. Was it not droll?

Deviliſh droll—Ha, ha, ha! I can't help laughing. So, you met him, and he did not know you?

No—he did not know me.

Well, and what did he ſay when he did know you?

Why, that, my dear ſir, I muſt defer tel⯑ling you till another opportunity.

Well, Sir, whenever you pleaſe—I long to hear the reſt.

Depend upon it, ſir, it won't be con⯑cealed from you. Good day to you, ſir.

Good bye, ſir. Ha, ha, ha! only think of your own father's not knowing you, ha, ha▪ ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

ACT III.

But you ſurely won't ſtay at home this evening too?

Yes, indeed I had rather.

You have the moſt unaccountable domeſtic propenſity. Has novelty no pleaſure for you?

Yes, 'tis novelty makes me domeſtic; a dear novelty, the novelty of a mother. Now I have gained her ſweet ſociety, ſhould I reſign it for frivolous amuſements I can command at all times?

Well, you are a dear, good girl.

But where are you going this evening?

That I cannot tell without referring to my engagement liſt; but as near as I can gueſs, to about a dozen aſſemblies, the opera, a concert, and a maſqued ball.

My dear Caroline, you'll be fatigued to death.

Oh, no. I am never weary with pleaſure.

And do you often make theſe laborious exertions for your amuſement?

Oh, yes, all through the ſeaſon—And I don't think that half long enough.

Well, to be equal to ſuch efforts, a woman of faſhion muſt be endued with more ſtrength than any creature in the univerſe.

To be ſure. Your elephant is nothing to [37] her; for groveling inſtinct reſtrains him from ex⯑ceeding the paltry limits of mere corporeal ex⯑ertion; but the elevated ſpirits, and glowing ima⯑gination of a woman of faſhion make her a being all eſſence—She is like the wind, light, fleet, and invincible.

And is ſhe not ſometimes like the wind in my native country, which now breathes all gentle⯑neſs, yet, in a few hours will whirl a whole fortune to deſtruction.

Why, yes, I am afraid there have been in⯑ſtances of the tornado kind. I really don't know whether many men may not be better pleaſed with your quiet ſtay-at-home notions, than with more daſh and ſpirit; but perhaps you never yet ex⯑amined your inclinations with an eye to how a huſband would approve them. Ah, Julia, you bluſh, my dear; I believe this ſcrutiny has not been unattended to.

How you talk!

Yes. I talk, and you think; but both on the ſame ſubject. My dear girl, have I yet claim enough on your confidence to aſk, if the being I allude to has ſtolen into your dreams, and been admitted into your waking reveries in the form of a beautiful accompliſhed youth, whoſe exact like⯑neſs you have never yet realized, or have you already aſſigned him "A local habitation and a name?"

Heigho!

Oh, then I lay my life Mr. Heigho has a name and place of abode. Am I not right?

Yes.

And in what quarter of the globe does he exiſt?

Nay, where ſhou'd he? I have not been [38] long enough in this country to have found him here. I muſt have met him before.

So, my poor brother, your chance is gone. What is his name?

Henry Melville.

And you expect him here, no doubt.

Oh, yes, in the ſame veſſel with my father.

And does he know your partiality?

Yes, and I know his for me; and my father approves.

Oh, you happy girl! Now, the man I love neither knows my partiality for him; nor do I know whether he cares at all for me—And if we did know that we cared for each other, I am ſure my father would let us care on till both our hearts broke, before he would give his conſent.

Why ſo?

Becauſe the poor dear fellow has loſt all his fortune; but luckily my father's conſent is not eſſential, as I have a fortune independent of him.

Then you are not in a very hopeleſs ſtate?

Oh, yes, I am: for my lover (my love I ſhould ſay) loſt all ſelf-importance with his for⯑tune; and I very much fear I ſhall never be able to make him comprehend that a young woman with a good eſtate is ready to let him be maſter of it.

How ſtrange!

Hints won't do—And if I could bring myſelf to ſay to him plainly, "Dear Sir, I adore you!" he would only think I was making a jeſt of him.

Mr. Drooply to wait on you, Ma'am.

Lord, how my heart beats; Julia, my dear girl, this is the very man.

Then, my ſweet Caroline, you can very well diſpenſe with me.

Oh, no—pray don't go.

You would be very angry if I took you at your word. Adieu!

Will this provoking creature for ever give me the trouble of making love to him without underſtanding me?

So, ſir, you are come.

Yes; but I will go away again if I intrude.

Nay! did not I ſend for you?

So I underſtood.

And why do you give me the trouble? You made your viſits formerly without being ſent for.

Did I? Yes. I dare ſay I was a very troubleſome fellow.

Nay, you found thoſe viſits always received with pleaſure; therefore, it is ſtrange you need be reminded to continue them.

My viſits received with pleaſure! Ah, this is the way in which you always uſed to banter me.

Banter you! Stupidity!

Yes, yes. I know you are at your old tricks. You were always cutting your jokes at me.

I?

Yes, you; and I remember I uſed to laugh at them; but that was when my pockets were full. Upon my ſoul, I can't now. No, no, [40] you muſt excuſe me. I defy a man to laugh at a joke when he has loſt all his money.

You ſtrange creature! Do you know that I have been thinking of you a great deal lately?

Yes, I don't doubt it—to play me ſome trick or other.

Silly animal!

I have been even dreaming of you—Do you ever dream of me?

I could not think of taking ſuch a liberty.

Provoking! Oh, I had almoſt forgot—I knew I had ſomething particular to tell you. It was whiſpered to me t'other night at Lady Blab's, that you—(now mind, if it is true, I ſhan't be angry) that you had told ſome friend in confidence (now mind, I have promiſed not to be angry) that you were in love.

I told ſome friend?

Yes; and that delicacy, occaſioned by the loſs of your fortune had prevented you from de⯑claring your paſſion to the object of it.

I never—

Now do ſtop a moment; but that if you thought it would be favourably received (—now remember I have promiſed not to be angry—) you would overcome your diffidence, and reveal it.

I aſſure you that—

A moment's patience pray—At laſt, by great entreaty, I learnt the lady's name.

And what was it?

Need you be told—it was—Caroline Vi⯑ſorly.

Upon my ſoul it is a trumped-up ſtory from beginning to end.

Incorrigible ſtupidity!

Beg pardon—did not know company was here

If you want any thing, you need not run away, child.

Well, ſir, I have no more to ſay—Only don't en⯑tirely relinquiſh the ſociety of one, to whom yours ever was, and ever will be, a pleaſure. Adieu!

Now who the devil can have told ſuch a curſed pack of lies of me—All done to ruin me in her good opinion. That I, a poor undone dog, with not a ſixpence in the world but what I re⯑ceive from her brother's friendſhip—I might ſay his—charity, ſhould preſume to cheriſh hopes of Caroline Viſorly. No, no—all my hopes of her va⯑niſhed with my fortune. I love her—I do love her; and what a good-natured ſoul it is not to have flown into a rage at ſuppoſing I could be guilty of ſuch vanity—ſuch preſumption, ſuch folly—Ay, that—that ſaved me:—knowing the folly, ſhe pardoned the preſumption.

You happy, very happy man.

Oh yes, my dear, very, very—

Bleſs me—but you not look, you not ſpeak like happy man.

And pray, my little dear, what ſhould make you ſuppoſe I am a happy man?

Becauſe pretty lady love you.

Pretty lady love me! Why, even little [...]awny muſt cut a joke at me.

Yes; pretty lady dat went out juſt now love you.

Oh, I am known for a butt by inſtinct. I have not a doubt but it would be the ſame all the world over. If I were to land at Otaheite, the natives would begin quizzing me directly in their damn'd gibberiſh. Why, you are a comical little rogue. So, that lady loves me, does ſhe?

Yes.

You'd find it hard to make me believe that.

And you find it much more great deal harder make me believe ſhe not love you.

Indeed!

Yes; ſhe not make me believe herſelf if ſhe ſay ſhe not love you.

No?

No;—becauſe dey tell me dat always tell true.

They? Who are they?

Deſe—

Truth not always come from here

always from here

Hey!

You tink, becauſe I ſtranger, I not un⯑derſtand. Oh, language of love is de ſame in my country, your country, all country.

Hey! What! No, it can't be. Let me think—Um! Faith, it begins to dawn—now it glares! Oh what a blind dolt have I been! Ha! ha! Huzza, I hear myſelf laugh again, and think I could cut a caper—Tol lol de rol! Whew! A fine girl loves me, and ſo. Fortune, go hang.

Is my father at home?

Yes, ſir.

Tell him I wiſh to ſee him directly

‘Sir, knowing you to have the management of Mr. Cleveland's concerns, I write to inform you that the ſhip in which he came paſſenger from India, was wrecked off Portland the 29th ult. and every ſoul periſhed.’

Well, my dear boy, what news—what news?

Very important, ſir, Cleveland is no more.

Dear me—dear me!

By this I learn that the veſſel that brought him from Bengal is wrecked, and he has periſhed.

Poor man! poor man! alack! he was a good twenty years younger than I am—only to think that I ſhould outlive him! Ah, there is no knowing who is to go to the grave firſt—mayhap I may outlive you, Leonard.

Oh, ſir, don't indulge ſuch melancholy ideas. His death, tho' to be ſure very dreadful, and likely to awaken ſenſibility in the breaſts of his relations, yet carries with it to us a kind of conſola⯑tion.

How do you mean, Leonard?

You know my wiſh to be united to his [4] daughter;—and, perhaps, he might have had in his mind a different alliance for her.

Very true.

Now my attainment of that object is infinitely more ſecure, the mother and the girl being both under our own roof, and likely now to continue ſo.

Very true. Lord, what a blockhead was I, to fall a blubbering, and for a man too, who, tho' he was my firſt couſin, I ſhould not have known from Adam. But I have a very tender heart.

Yes, and a very ſoft head.

But, now, ſir, to break theſe diſmal tidings to his wife and daughter—that muſt be my mother's buſineſs.

Yes, we will go and prepare her to make the melancholy diſcovery. You have the way, my dear Leonard, of placing things in a right point of view. It is really quite a weakneſs my being ſo tender hearted.

My dear, dear Julia, what happineſs has heaven allotted me, to compenſate for my paſt wretchedneſs! To have my lovely child reſtored to me, adorned with every grace, endowed with each perfection a mother's fondeſt wiſhes could deſire—Oh, none but a mother can know the happineſs I feel.

May increaſing joy be ever my dear mo⯑ther's portion—it muſt—goodneſs like her's muſt be the object of heaven's choiceſt bleſſings.

When your dear father, and the happy youth to whom my Julia has aſſigned her [45] heart have paſſed the perils of the ocean, and tread ſecure on Engliſh ground, then ſhall I have no wiſh on earth ungratified; but till thoſe joyful tidings reach me, my heart will beat with appre⯑henſion.

Nay, do not be alarmed with needleſs ter⯑rors. I feel confident of their ſafety.

Ah, my dear girl, yours is the age of ſweet deluſion, when Hope, as yet unknown for a deceiver, promiſes each wiſh acquaintance with reality.

I have eſcaped the perils which you dread, and reached your arms in ſafety. Why not be confident the ſame good fate attends on them?

Ah, my Julia—but winds and waves are treacherous—beſides the Foe—nay, that's a ſilly terror—The Ocean is our own, and our ex⯑tended Fleets, rich with the commerce of the world, fail as ſecurely to their native Ports, as if peace univerſal reigned.

Then, free from apprehenſion let us await the ſpeedy completion of our happineſs.

Oh, Madam! Oh, my young lady! Oh me, unhappy me!

What is the matter?

Oh, I can't ſpeak—I can't tell you what I know cut your dear hearts, and make dem bleed as mine do.

Speak, Child, for heaven's ſake!

Tell us, Gangica, tell us all.

You will know—you muſt know—but ſpare poor Gangica—don't bid her tell you, for ſear you hate her for making you ſo wretched.

Speak, Gangica, directly.

Your dear, dear father dead—dead—dead.

Where is my child?

Oh, Julia! Julia!

I find the diſmal tidings are already known, madam, be comforted.

Alas!—

This be a woeful day—alack, alack, that ever I lived to ſee it!

A letter has been juſt now brought, directed for Miſs Cleveland

It may contain ſomething important, and I hope—

Pray, give it me—I graſp at any hope—Julia, 'tis from Henry Melville

‘Snatched by Providence from a wat'ry grave, I haſte to acquaint my deareſt Julia with my ſafety—As my ſituation was infinitely more peri⯑lous than her dear father's, I rely on his deliver⯑ance, and conclude he will have embraced his lovely daughter before this reaches her.’ No, no, he has not embraced his lovely daughter—he never will embrace her—

Take comfort, madam. You have now ſtrong reaſon to hope the beſt.

Yes, deareſt mother, be aſſured the ſame protecting angel has preſerved my father too.

Do, do hope it. Heaven will not for⯑ſake the good.

Come, my child—In Heaven I truſt.

Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh dear! This world be full of troubles. But a little bit ago we were ſo happy as nothing was ever like it—And now it is all weeping and miſery. Oh thoſe devildom hard blowing gales and curſed craggy rocks, they have brought cruel ſorrow to many a family. Poor little Gangica, ſhe takes on as diſmally as any on us. It is a tender-hearted little creature. Gan⯑gica, come, dear, don't you droop, you may ſee your young lady's father again, alive and well.

No, no, no—I never ſee him more—He be ſunk down—deep down—roaring waves roll over him—I never ſee him more.

Yes, yes; heaven will let him live to comfort his wife, his child, ay, and to reward your [...]delity.

Oh, if he live—if I ſee him again▪ [...] be my reward.

Sir, how do you do? Ah, my little dear▪ you here. Why, you have been crying, and you look gloomy too, ſir.

Yes, ſir; we have neither much cauſe to look chearfully.

I am ſorry for that—I heard indeed that [...]ll news had arrived which concerns the ladies.

Then, when you know that we belong to thoſe ladies, you can't expect us to be gay when thoſe we love are in affliction.

Very true, ſir. But, poor thing

come, do chear up a little—don't be ſo very diſmal,—do let me ſee you ſmile again.

Smile when I full of ſorrow—Why, you wiſh my face mock my heart.

Come, ſir, leave her as nature made her—don't teach her any of your damn'd faſhionable tricks, making the face look one thing while the heart means another. Go, my good girl, and com⯑fort yourſelf with the hope that we may ſoon have reaſon to ſmile again.

There is a creature that will make me expect in future to find the faireſt mind in a dark coloured caſe. I hope I may live to ſee her as happy as ſhe deſerves to be. If I had but a ſon of my own—but what ſignifies wiſhing?

Ah, what indeed! for have you not a ſon of your own, ſir?

If I have; I love her too well to wiſh ſhe had him. No, no,—if I had a ſon ſuch as I could wiſh—

I am afraid you are very hard to pleaſe, ſir.

I ſhould take great pains to get him this girl for a wife.

And I am ſo much of your way of think⯑ing, that if you were my father, I ſhould be highly grateful for your kind endeavours.

Would you? then only let me find out that you are worthy of her, and tho' you are a ſtranger to me, I'll do all I can for you

That is very kind of you indeed, ſir.

But, hold, hold;—are you ſure your father would approve of it?

Quite ſure, Sir.

How do you know?

He has already ſignified his approbation.

Indeed! When?

Juſt now, ſir.

Why, has he ever ſeen the girl?

Oh Lord, yes, ſir.

Well, well! but I ſhould like to have a little converſation with the old gentleman.

Ah, ſir, you have had a great deal in your time.

What then I know him.

Nobody half ſo well, ſir.

Really! What, an old acquaintance?

A very old one, ſir—you knew him long before I did.

Bleſs my ſoul! and pray, ſir, what is your name?

I am called Sharpſet, ſir.

Then you muſt be miſtaken, ſir—I have no acquaintance of that name.

My dear ſir, that is not the family name, that is not my father's name.

Well, what is your father's name?

The very reaſon, ſir, which made me adopt another name ſtill prevents me from juſt at preſent avowing my real one; but, depend upon it you ſhall know, ſir.

Well, ſir, whenever it is proper to tell me, I ſhall be glad to know,

but give me your hand for your father's ſake.

And I graſp yours with affection—for my father's ſake.

That, I find, is the houſe of Mr. Viſorly. There I ſhall learn my Julia's reſidence. This is but a ſorry garb for a lover to ſeek his miſtreſs in; but if I know my Julia's heart, her joy at finding me preſerved from death, will make her little heed, or ſcarcely ſee the poorneſs of my raiment. Her father's ſafety, though I little doubt it, I long to be aſſured of. Now then, to be re⯑ſolved on that important point, and meet my Julia.

To find ſhe is in this houſe is more good fortune than I could hope.

My Julia!

Oh Henry! To behold you again after ſuch danger—But where is my father?

Have you not ſeen him yet?

Oh, no, no—tell me, does he live?

I hope ſo, Julia.

Oh, is it only hope?

Be comforted—he may be ſafe, he ſurely muſt. Soon as our veſſel bulged on the rock, and the impetuous torrent ruſhed at the dreadful chaſm to o'erwhelm us, the boats were inſtantly hauled [51] out, and in a moment throng'd. In one, leaſt crowded, was your father; he called to me, and earneſtly conjured me to come into it—As I was going to comply, I ſaw a poor old man kneeling to heaven to ſave him from the fate his feeble age denied him to contend againſt. The boat could ſafely hold but one—I placed him in it, ſeized on a friendly coop, and with it truſted to the waves.

My generous Henry! But my father—

The ſea was very boiſterous, and often waſhed over me; yet, at intervals I ſnatched a ſhort view, and ſtill ſaw his boat riding in ſafety. At length the burſting billows ſhowering ſo fre⯑quently their torrents on me, deluged my ſenſes. When I recovered them, I found myſelf in a ſmall veſſel, whoſe crew had humanely reſcued me from death.

Oh my poor father!

Nay, droop not, Julia—This veſſel was a ſloop of war ſailing for the Downs. Before I recovered, it was under weigh, I was therefore forced to remain in it till it gain'd its ſtation.—Landed at Deal, I could of courſe hear no tidings of your father, whoſe boat, no doubt, ſafely reached the neareſt ſhore. His not being yet arrived, argues nothing againſt his ſafety.

But, would he not have written to ac⯑quaint us with it?—News of the wreck could reach us, but no intelligence from him—No, he is gone! My father is gone for ever.

My Julia's grief diſtracts me—Still let me hope 'tis without cauſe; but as no moment ſhould be loſt to prove it groundleſs, I will this inſtant fly to know the truth▪ Farewell, my Julia! When next we meet, I truſt all grief will vaniſh.

ACT IV.

Where have you been? I never wanted your aſſiſtance more, and I have been hunting after you of late in vain.

Whew! you ſeem in a bleſſed humour. What has produced ſuch an amiable tone of temper?

All my ſcheme is likely to be ruined. There is a lover, a favoured lover, come to light.

Oh the deuce!

Yes, ſaved from the wreck—damnation! But there is ſtill one conſolation, he brings no tid⯑ings of the father. The waves have not ſpared him.

Poor man!

Amiable tenderneſs!

Mock as you will, I cannot, like you, ſteel my heart againſt the common feelings of humanity.

Pſha! he's dead—Will your preaching reanimate him? No. Then to the purpoſe of do⯑ing ſervice to the living, of aiding your friend.

How?

This girl, now the rightful inheritor of her father's immenſe fortune, muſt be mine.

But you tell me of a lover.

Yes, and there is not time for endeavour⯑ing to undermine his hold on her heart—Meaſures muſt be adopted, ſudden and forcible.

How do you mean?

To bear her away. Once in my poſſeſ⯑ſion, all may go ſmoothly: at her age, nay, at any age, a transfer of affection is no uncommon incident.

But the difficulty—See how ſhe is ſur⯑rounded.

Difficulty! every difficulty yields to the enterpriſing. Her lover is gone, like a true hero of romance, to conjure up the dead. 'Tis eaſy to get the reſt out of the way—Firſt, I'll remove the main obſtacle, her ruſtic protector.

Remove him! how do you mean, remove him?

We muſt lack invention, indeed, not to effect that—By an hundred ſtratagems we can keep him out of the way long enough to anſwer my purpoſe.

But I have a trifling objection to his being put to the ſlighteſt inconvenience.

Objection? what?

He only happens to be my father.

What do you ſay? your father?

My father!

You aſtoniſh me. Well, well, this may turn to account. Then you may have influence to bring him over to my intereſt.

Not I, nor all the world would be able to influence him to a diſhoneſt action—Beſide, friend Leonard, to let you into a ſecret, I neither like your ſcheme, nor wiſh to forward it. After a long abſence, I have had the happineſs to meet my father, and when I behold in him what a glow of youth an honeſt heart infuſes into an aged face, I am determined to abandon my roguery, and try to make the roſy honours of honeſty, hereditary.

You mean, then, to defeat my purpoſes?

I certainly mean not to aid them.

But am I to expect your oppoſition?

I hope, Leonard, your own reflections will render that needleſs. Could you have fairly gained the girl's affections, I ſhould have rejoiced at your ſucceſs, and thought the ſociety of an amiable woman the likelieſt ſchool for forming an honeſt man; but force—to uſe force againſt a lovely, helpleſs female, none but a devil could in⯑ſpire the thought, and none but devils could be found to execute it.

Bravo! one might judge by your energy that you were a new-made proſelyte. Apoſtates are always the maddeſt enthuſiaſts—But, fool! do you think I am to be preached out of my inten⯑tions?

And do you think I am to be bullied out of mine?

Well, ſir, take your courſe, but be cautious that you do not thwart me—Dare not to breathe a word of my deſigns, unleſs your devotion to your new tenets is warm enough to make you welcome a priſon in their defence. Mark me, a priſon. You may remember there are certain bonds of yours in my poſſeſſion that give me as entire a power over your perſon, as tho' you were my purchaſed ſlave. Remember this, and act accordingly.

How my blood boils at the villain! too true he has me in his power; but I'll keep him in view—I'll watch his motions. I've deſerved a priſon before now, and have eſcaped it; well, then, if I am brought to one at laſt for a good deed, all's ſquare again, and I begin the world a freſh man.

Why, Drooply—ſurpriſing! ſo ſprightly—ſo gay!

Gay as a lark, my boy.

What, have you found your eſtate again?

No; but I have found myſelf again. I've regained my ſpirits, and they are worth all the eſtates in the univerſe.

But what has effected this wonderful change?

What! need you aſk? what can breathe animation into a clod of deſpondency, but woman, dear, lovely, angelic woman.

So, you have gained your ſpirits by loſing your heart.

Yes; and a man hardly knows he has a heart till he loſes it. But, huzza! I am in love, and what is more, I am beloved—Damn my eſtate, and give me your hand, my boy, though you won it.

I won it! yes, and won it fairly too.

Who doubts it? not I, I'm ſure.

Why then may be you ought.

You are a comical dog.

I ſay perhaps you ought to doubt it.

Heyday—the oddeſt kind of quizzing this! the man who won my eſtate, wanting to make me believe I was cheated of it. You are a deviliſh droll dog! but I have ſomething elſe to do than to mind your waggery▪

Stay! you are an honeſt fellow, and have been damn'd unlucky in your acquaintance.

Poh, poh, poh!

Drooply, when a man aſſures you of his honeſty, I'll give you leave to doubt him; but when he inſiſts on his knavery, don't be ſo ſtupidly incredulous.

What are you driving at?

Plainly to tell you, you have been duped, cheated—robbed.

By you?

Yes;—but I have been only ſecond in command. Do you remember by whoſe kindneſs you were firſt made happy with my acquaintance?

Hum! yes; by my friend, Leonard Vi⯑ſorly.

He is my commanding officer.

Leonard! my friend! my patron!

Your plunderer—He laid plans which I only executed—he received the booty while I was paid but a ſubaltern's ſhare.

I am petrified.

But be ſilent—be prudent! for I've but ſhewn you your malady, without being able to preſcribe a remedy. He has played the politician ſo well, that his villainy is known only to me—the minor agents were all of my employing—So, remember, don't break out; for you have nothing but my teſtimony to ſupport an accuſation, and he has wound his ſnares ſo well, that he has me in his toils. Adieu! be cautious, and truſt that the day of retribution will come.

Here is a damper to my gaiety! not even love can ſupport a man's ſpirits againſt ingratitude. I loſt my fortune; but ſtill I thought I had a friend left. To find that friend my—Oh damn it, I can't bear the thought. I'll go inſtantly [57] and ſeek Caroline; but how to tell her of her brother's villainy? I hope I may not meet him—I ſhou'd not know how to—

Drooply!

How do you do? How do you do?

What, wont you ſhake hands with me?

Won't I ſhake hands with you! that is a good joke

Not but I think ſhaking hands a curſed fooliſh habit.

Why?

Becauſe in this damn'd hypocritical world one often gives the gripe of friendſhip to a ſcoun⯑drel.

Very true; one is often miſtaken.

Yes, miſerably.

But when we come to the knowledge of a friend's real worth—

It ſometimes teaches us to conſider him a friend no longer.

Your gloom, I find, has taken the general courſe, and led you to miſanthropy. When men have been unfortunate they generally grow unjuſt.

Yes; and for that there is ſome excuſe—But when men are unjuſt and fortunate too, what black ſouls they muſt have.

Very true; but have you had experience of ſuch?

Havn't I loſt a fortune?

Yes—by play, not knavery.

Why, play and knavery are ſo much con⯑nected, that I can't ſeparate them for the ſoul of me.

You appear to have ſuſpicions.

No, no ſuſpicions at all.

You ſurely talk as if you had doubts.

You miſtake—I have not a doubt on the ſubject. Good bye! I am very miſerable, and of courſe very bad company for you.

When we meet again I ſhall be glad to ſee you more chearful.

Why, when we meet again, Leonard—Farewel.

Um! all is not as it ſhould be! Can that villain, Sharpſet, have dared reveal to him—I fear it—and if he have betrayed me to him, he will not ſtop there. His malice then, muſt have a check—he ſhall inſtantly be taken care of. I have the power to ſecure him. The old ruſtic, whom he calls his father, I have been forced to entrap ſomewhat illegally; but he will be ſafe till my ſcheme is executed, and then the fellow that I have bribed to ſwear a debt againſt him, may, by flight, ſecure himſelf from the vengeance of the violated law. All is well arranged, and this very night ſhall put me ſecurely in poſſeſſion of my Eaſtern beauty, and her Eaſtern riches.

But what right, I ſay, have you to keep me here againſt my will?

Lord love your heart, I don't vant to keep any Gemman in my houſe againſt his vill.

Then let me out directly.

You may go farther, and fare vorſe. Vhere do do you think to go?

Why, home to be ſure.

That is a deviliſh good one. You are a comical kind of a Gemman; but a great many comical Gemmen wiſits me—I ſees moſt of the vits one time or other.

Have done with your nonſenſe, and let me go home—And dam'me but I'll trounce you and the raſcals who brought me here.

Vy, as for your trouncing, I laughs at that. I does nothing but vat I can juſtify.

What! can you juſtify kidnapping a man in the ſtreets? I am too old to go for a ſol⯑dier. If I were not, and my country wanted me, I ſhould not need be dragged to my duty.

Vat do you talk about kidnapping for? You knows as vell as I can tell you vy you came here.

I'll be curſed if I do.

Vy, you know if you paid your debts, you could not be brought into trouble.

Pay my debts! I don't owe a farthing to mortal man.

Come, come, do behave a little genteelly. There is nothing unlike a Gemman in not paying your debts; but it's damn'd ſhabby to deny 'em.

Well, ſir, ſince you inſiſt upon it, pray, whom may I be indebted to?

"To Thomas Teſ⯑tify von hundred pounds."

I never heard of ſuch a man—I am not the perſon. It is a miſtake.

Ay, ay, it is all right. I owe the money—That can't be denied.

What!

You here, ſir!

Bleſs my ſoul!

Oh, they know von another—Both of a kidney, I varrant. Oh, that old one is a deep one.

How came you here, ſir!

Dragged here—dragged by main force.

On what pretence?

Becauſe they want to perſuade me I owe a hundred pounds to a Mr. Thomas Teſtify.

Whom you know nothing of?

No more than the man in the moon.

Sir, there is rank villainy going forward.

Yes, that is pretty clear.

You muſt ſend directly for Mrs. Cleve⯑land—Every thing dear to herſelf depends on it. Therefore ſend to her immediately, and tell her not to leave her daughter—

Let me ſee him inſtantly; and, Gangica, do you ſtay under the care of the ſervants. My good friend, do I find you in a place like this?

And are you ſo very good as to ſeek me in a place like this? How came you to know of my being here?

You ſent for me, did you not?

No.

Amazing! A meſſenger came to me, acquainting me with your ſituation, and di⯑recting [61] me where to find you—On which you may conclude I loſt no time in haſtening to you.

Dear, good creature!

But who can have been ſo kind to inform me where?—

The kindneſs, madam, was the kindneſs of the devil, who often puts on the ſemblance of goodneſs only to betray. Quit this place, and return home inſtantly—There is a villainous deſign againſt your daughter—Your abſence and his, has been artfully cauſed, to effect her ruin.

Oh, horrible!

Loſe not a moment in queſtioning, or all is loſt—Though the debt alledged, be a falſe one, give your draft for it, and take him with you. Haſte, madam, haſte; and heaven proſper you.

The evening is as dark as I cou'd wiſh. The moon has civilly withdrawn her intruſive rays. The mother and Oakworth are admirably diſpoſed of. My own family too conveniently from home; for, though I am not ſure they would thwart a de⯑ſign ſo greatly for my advantage, yet, I had rather be without needleſs confidants. Simpſon! Simp⯑ſon!

Sir?

Is the carriage at the garden gate, and every thing in readineſs?

Yes, ſir▪

Very well. Wait hereabout, or be at the garden gate.

Now, then, to my young lady.

I wiſh my mother would return, and bring me news of poor Oakworth. 'Tis hard, that he, ſo good and friendly to others, ſhould himſelf expe⯑rience cruel treatment. Alas! my ſpirits quite ſink under the preſſure of misfortune. Oh, my dear father, may I hope ever again to be bleſſed with thy fond embrace?

Ha! who is there?

I beg your pardon, ſir, for my childiſh alarm. But I am really ſo weak, that I am agi⯑tated by the ſlighteſt circumſtance. Indeed I beg your pardon.

Madam, my ſituation is a moſt unfortu⯑nate one. I hoped by years of attention to your every wiſh, to have convinced you, that for you alone I cheriſhed exiſtence.

Sir!

But I have the miſery to find your hand is not unpromiſed, nor, I fear, your mind uninflu⯑enced.

Sir, my hand and heart are both moſt ſo⯑lemnly affianced.

Then all my cheriſhed hopes are vaniſhed. I thought to have convinced you by every action, that my ſoul was your's before my lips ſhould [63] venture the confeſſion. I indulged the gay dream, that by my tender aſſiduity you might be won to ſympathy, and have heard me breathe the vows of love with looks that ſpoke a language—Ah! how remote from what they now convey—Yet even thoſe looks, ſo adverſe to my wiſhes—thoſe eyes, could they dart death, ſhould not impede me from declaring this heart to you devoted, never will forego its claim.

Sir! what mean you?

Liſted under Love's banner, never to deſert his cauſe. You muſt—You ſhall be mine.

Horrible!

A whole life of tenderneſs ſhall atone for what has now the look of violence

Violence! Oh, heaven! help! help! Oh!

She is mine!

Well, I have found no great difficulty in ſcampering over the garden wall—If any of the family ſhould find me here though, I ſhould be ſtrangely ſuſpected of either an intrigue or a bur⯑glary—It was an excellent thought of Caroline's to let me know when we ſhould next meet, by leaving a letter for me in a ſly corner of the pa⯑vilion; for, there is no truſting ſervants—I'll e'en get my dear little packet, and over the wall again

Ha! I hear ſome⯑body coming

Oh, you are there, Simpſon! here, take the lady in your arms. A fortunate fainting fit has prevented outcry. Place her in the carriage, while I return for an inſtant, for I have forgot to provide myſelf with the moſt material companion for long journies. Here, take one of my piſtols, and defend your prize at the hazard of your life.

What the devil ſhall I do? And what prize have I got here?

My ſweet, pretty moon, do enlighten me a little more, that I may ſee who I am hugging ſo lo⯑vingly

Thank you kindly, my dear Lady Luna. What, the young Eaſt Indian! Oh, that villain!—She revives! Don't be alarm'd, Madam.

Where am I? Who are you?

No agent of villainy; but one who will protect you.

Oh, where is that wretch; am I in his power?

No, madam, nor ever ſhall be. Ha! he is coming.

Let me fly from his ſight.

There, madam, into that Pavilion.

She is ſafe, and I have got my dear Caroline's letter—So, now, Mr. Leonard, have at you!

Drooply! What do you do here?

I am only engaged in a little affair of gal⯑lantry.

What here! Do you diſgrace my father's houſe with your gallantries?

Do you never diſgrace your father's houſe with your gallantries?

Inſolent!

No, no; I muſt do you the juſtice to own, you carry your gallantries out of your father's houſe.

What do you mean?

Mean! Sure you forget Simpſon is in the ſecret.

What of Simpſon?

An't I Simpſon? You did me the honour to ſalute me ſo juſt now.

Damnation! Well, ſir, then there is your charge?

Here, you villain

Drooply, I am in your power—command any thing—do but this inſtant reſtore me Julia, and you ſhall again glitter in gaiety, again be the rich, the courted Drooply.

Yes, to be pillaged again, you conclude, by the well-laid ſchemes of the friendly Mr. Vi⯑ſorly.

Ha!

This is no time to prove my innocence. I am traduced, vilely ſlandered—All this I can [66] up, and will; but the moments are moſt precious to me. Where is the lady? reſtore me Julia, and make your own terms.

What terms do you think wou'd bribe me to reſtore a lovely innocent to a villain's power? I am poor, I am wretchedly poor. But, would you return my fortune, would you add your own, your father's, nay, all the wealth of this rich city, it ſhould not bribe me to an act of villainy.

Be prudent, and attend to what I ſay.

I'll attend to one thing you ſaid moſt ſtrictly. You charged me to defend my prize at the hazard of my life—That I do moſt willingly.

Drooply, urge me no further—I am deſperate—Julia muſt be mine—Be wiſe, accept the offers of my friendſhip—don't riſk my ven⯑geance.

Your vengeance! poh! what! becauſe you found me gentle, nay, humble, to the man I thought my friend and patron, do you think I want ſpirit to oppoſe a robber and a raviſher? Leonard, be aſſured it is a vaſt pleaſure to me to have a pop at you on my own account; but had I no wrongs, ſooner than be your accomplice in the ruin of an unprotected woman, dam'me, but I would march up to you if you held a lighted match to the touch-hole of a nine-pounder.

She muſt have been taken this way.

Give her up, give her up this inſtant, or I'll throttle you both.

Where is my daughter?

Ay, where is the lady? give her up di⯑rectly—Curſe your piſtols, I don't mind your piſ⯑tols—Give her up, I ſay.

Heavens! is it you? you concerned in this villainy? where is my daughter, ſir?

Aſk that gentleman—He has conveyed her hence.

You, then, that I have accuſed, are her defender, I aſk your pardon.

May I periſh if he isn't making his bow for the mother's civility.

Where is my daughter, ſir?

There is one hope left. If he conveyed her to the carriage (and where elſe could he) they have doubtleſs driven off with her. Where is the lady, villain?

Dam'me, if his impudence does not pe⯑trify me.

Ay, where is the lady, villain?

A little patience, you ſhall know the whole.

No, ſir, no fabrications, no fictions—Where is the lady?

Should you be pleaſed to ſee her?

Doubtleſs.

Oh, I'll do any thing to oblige you.

Now, ſir, why don't you appeal to the lady to proclaim your in⯑nocence? what, dumb! ah, I know your modeſty of old. Then I will ſpeak for you. From which of us, madam, have you experienced this outrage?

Oh, from him, from him.

Mrs. CLEVELAND and OAKWORTH expreſs aſtoniſhment, and LEONARD ruſhes out.

That is right, Leonard—move off; but run as faſt as you will, the devil muſt overtake you.

Then to you I owe my daughter's preſervation. Oh, ſir, accept a mother's thanks.

Offer them, madam, to Providence only, which made me the humble inſtrument to preſerve an angel, and expoſe a fiend. Where, madam, ſhall I have the honour of conducting you?

Any where ſo I avoid that hated habitation.

Let us go, madam, to the hotel where we firſt arrived.

And where, would to heaven, we had remained. Come, deareſt Julia.

ACT V.

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, it is a bad buſineſs, a very bad buſineſs.

Yes, I ſhould—I ſhould condemn ſuch means. Oh fie! againſt her will.

Seemingly, ſir, only ſeemingly—The man who would deal ſucceſsfully with the ſex muſt often force them to follow their own inclinations.

I don't know that; but I have found that the man who would deal quietly with the ſe [...] is always forced to let them follow their own incli⯑nations.

It was a deſperate effort; but the only chance left for obtaining her. That foiled, ſhe is loſt moſt certainly, perhaps her fortune too.

Perhaps! why, to be ſure it is. If ſhe is loſt, her fortune muſt be loſt—You can't contrive to marry the fortune without marrying the girl, can you?

No, ſir: but with your aid the fortune may be ours without the incumbrance.

The fortune ours—Eh, how?

Had Cleveland died unmarried you were his heir.

Yes—what of that?

Are we ſure he did not die unmarried?

We ſhould be pretty ſure, I think, when he has left a wife and child behind to con⯑vince us.

Is ſhe his wife? Can ſhe prove herſelf ſuch?

Eh!

Yes, yes, very true. But you ſurely do not doubt the marriage therefore to claim a property, becauſe, perhaps, legal proof can't be obtained—

Is, you think, not ſtrictly within the pale of moral rectitude.

I can't ſay but I am of that opinion.

Oh, ſir, deſpiſe all abſtract refinement, and be aſſured that you fulfil every moral obligation when your conduct is ſanctioned by the laws of your country.

There is ſomething in that; but yet juſtice, you know, can only be guided by appear⯑ances, and one's conſcience will not always acqui⯑eſce—

My dear ſir, when your conſcience op⯑poſes a legal decree, you ſhould conſider it as act⯑ing contumaciouſly, and that it ought to be ſilenced for contempt of the court.

If I could be ſatisfied that they were really not married.

There is ſtrong preſumption. Would Cleveland's father, think you, have endeavoured to diſſolve the ſacred ties of marriage? Have in⯑ſiſted [71] on his ſon's abruptly diſmiſſing—a wife? No, no, ſir—depend on it, the father, anxious for his ſon's reſpectability, demanded only his parting with a favourite miſtreſs.

Very likely—very likely—I always ſaid you had the way of placing things in a right point of view, Oh, my ſcruples are gone—ſhould I be robbed of my right by a miſtreſs, and a—

Certainly not, ſir. Now then you are convinced of the rectitude of your cauſe, let me urge a ſtrong motive for proceeding with vigour. I have this morning received the unwelcome tidings of the failure of a ſpeculation in which I had embarked the entire amount of my own fortune, ſo that I am now compelled to become a burthen to you.

O lord, lord, dear me, how ſorry I am to hear it; for, my dear boy, to let you into the true ſtate of my affairs—Lady Jemima's curſed faſhionable ſtile of living has made ſuch a miſer⯑able hole in my property, that it is not clear to me, but I may die in a jail.

You amaze me, ſir—then, this is our only reſource, and at all hazards we muſt accompliſh it.

Mr. Oakworth deſires to ſee both you and my young maſter directly, ſir.

Very well.

I'll keep out of his way. He is a paſ⯑ſionate old fellow, and I am ſure he would loſe his temper with me. Do you ſee him, ſir, and let him [...]e the bearer of your determination.

How is my dear child now?

Better, much better, thanks to your tender care.

Oh the wretch that could alarm my angel thus, and aim by violence to tear my pre⯑cious treaſure from her mother's arms! Heaven's vengeance will await him.

My ſpirits would, I think, ſoon recover this rude ſhock, but for the dread that overpowers me for the fate of my dear father.

Ah, my child, I fear—

Yet, ſtill, my love, there is hope, that hope we will cheriſh. Come, my child, take comfort—take comfort, deareſt Julia.

Oh, what are all the riches we poſſeſs with⯑out my father!

Poor indeed! but we will truſt he yet ſurvives to beſtow a value on the gifts of for⯑tune.

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what will this world come too?

What is the matter?

Roguery! Villainy! Infamy!

Where? from what quarter?

From the devil's neſt, the houſe of the Viſorlys.

Pray, let me know the worſt.

I will—I will—As you deſired me, I de⯑manded that all the property remitted by Mr. Cleve⯑land ſhould be conſigned to you.

Well, could they refuſe it?

They did—they did—I mean the old one did; for the young raſcal took care to keep out of my way. He was wiſe—he was wiſe there.

But on what plea, on what pretence were you refuſed?

A wicked pretence, a damnable pretence—a pretence they ought to ſwing for.

What—what?

That they did not believe—they did not believe—

What?

Muſt I tell you?

Yes, pray do.

That you were—Mr. Cleveland's wife—

Gracious heaven!

Yes; and he ſaid that he was heir at law, and ſhould not part with a ſixpence of what was his right.

Oh, Julia!

Dear mother, can this man's prepoſterous claim give you a moment's concern?

My child, we are loſt—We are ruined.

What do you ſay?

Never till this moment did I reflect that I have no legal teſtimony in my poſſeſſion to prove myſelf a wife. Married in India, in pri⯑vate too—my huſband dead—my child without a proof of—Oh God, Oh God!

Compoſe yourſelf, dear madam.

Hard as my lot is, were I alone con⯑cerned I might feel reſignation; but my dear girl, my lovely Julia—heireſs of thouſands, is—the child of poverty.

Dear mother, do not let me add to your [74] affliction—With you, with ſuch a mother I can bear poverty, I can indeed.

Poverty—no, no, not ſo bad as pover⯑ty.—You know I have a home—'tis but an hum⯑ble one to be ſure, and I am a tough old fellow, I can work like a horſe.—Poverty, not ſo bad as poverty either.

Oh Henry!

Julia—deareſt Julia, you are in tears, and you have cauſe—I hoped to dry them, but, alas—

Then my dear huſband is no more.

My cup of miſery is full,

ſir, you were to have been united to my daughter, her father ſanctioned your affections: I am informed he loved your merits, and thought them, tho' uncombined with fortune, ſufficient to entitle you to the heireſs of his wealth. I now muſt tell you that wealth is loſt to her.

For her ſake I lament it, not for my own.—To her generous father's bounty I owe al⯑moſt exiſtence,—he found me only grateful, and his goodneſs called mere gratitude deſert; for I fear I have no merit, but an honeſt heart—yet, while that ſhall beat within my breaſt, I'll preſs my Julia to it, nor would I reſign my dear, my deſ⯑tined bride to be the huſband of an Empreſs.

Oh, little do the vicious know how precious are the ſweets of virtue! that alone can elevate the ſoul amidſt calamity and poverty.

Sir, ſir, a word with you, if you pleaſe.

What do you want?

This hotel of mine, ſir, ſtands at a very great rent.

So I ſuppoſe.

Taxes come very high.

Well.

A great many ſervants.

So I ſee—and what the devil is all this to me?

It ought to make people conſider.

Don't plague me about what people ought to conſider.

To cut the matter ſhort, ſir, you know that one of the ladies, as I came into the room, was owning her poverty.

Eh! what?

Yes, ſir; and as I can't afford to loſe my money, I beg leave to hint that I ſhall look to you to ſee my bill fairly diſcharged.

Impudent ſcoundrel!

Sir, I ſhall teach you to uſe better language to a man in his own houſe.

Heyday, nothing but buſtle and uproar!

I hope you are not hurt, ſir.

Not at all; but no thanks for that to the careleſs dog of a poſtilion who overturned me. I have been quarrelling with him outſide of the houſe, and I find you are at the ſame employment within. Get me a coach directly.

Yes, ſir.

Well, what is the matter here?

Only this worthy maſter of the houſe inſulting his cuſtomers.

That is an odd way of recommending him⯑ſelf.

Away with you, and be careful that you let none of your inſolence break out before the ladies, or I'll be the death of you, you dog.

Sir, give me leave to aſk, that is, if there be no offence in the queſtion, are the ladies you mention under any pecuniary embarraſſment? for it would be a ſad thing to have ladies liable to the rudeneſs of this unfeeling fellow.

No, ſir, thank heaven! Even my poor pocket could ſatisfy his paltry demands. No, no,—tho' they are unfortunate, they are not in the power of ſuch a pitiful ſcoundrel as that.

I am glad of it; but ſtill you ſay they are unfortunate.

Yes; miſery be the lot of the villians who made them ſo!

Who are thoſe villians.

Their own relations.

Heav'ns, what depravity! But can't this villiany be in any way redreſſed?

Only one way, if at all; and there the remedy would be as bad as the diſeaſe.

What is the remedy.

Going to law.

If law can give the remedy, redreſs is certain; in this country the way to juſtice is not through blind mazes and crooked paths—No, 'tis a public road, open to all, obvious to all.

That is very true; but like other public [77] roads, you would get on a very little way, with⯑out money to pay the tolls.

The warm intereſt you take in the cauſe of your friends convinces me that they are worthy of it. I have a fortune, an ample fortune, and I can no way employ it ſo ſatisfactorily as in reſcuing the virtuous from the machinations of villainy.

Sir, ſir, let me rightly underſtand you. I beg your pardon; but do you indeed mean to employ your fortune to relieve the diſtreſs of ſtrangers, utter ſtrangers to you?

Certainly, or how ſhould I relieve diſ⯑treſs at all; for all that belong to me, thank hea⯑ven, are above the power of fortune's malice.

Bleſs you! bleſs you! the widow's bleſſing—the orphan's—

Nay, nay, good old man, I were bleſt enough for all that I can do, in ſeeing how happy I have made you. But a widow—an orphan, ſay you? Thoſe are ſacred names. The huſband gone, who is protector to the widow!—Heaven—The parent loſt, who is the orphan's father? Hea⯑ven. The man then, who will not aſſert their rights, is not uncharitable only; for he is impious.—Good man, why do you tremble thus?

I am old—I feel now, I am an old man; and tho' my nerves, I think, would bear me ſtoutly up, under adverſity, yet, ſomehow this ſudden turn of good fortune has ſhook me, has ſhook me a good deal.

Compoſe yourſelf—then tell the ladies that I ſhall ſee them very ſoon; for I now muſt go.

Don't go, don't go yet. Let them hear, ſir, from your own lips your goodneſs.

My buſineſs hence is nothing trivial; and only a caſe of misfortune could have detained me [78] here an inſtant; therefore aſſure your friends—But why not debar myſelf a few moments longer of my own gratification, to convince them of my certain protection

my good old friend, tell the ladies I wait to ſee them.

Ay, ay, 'twill make but a few minutes difference, and the dear good creatures I ſo long to behold will forgive me when I tell them that the cauſe of my delay, was to dry the tear of affliction.

Sir, your goodneſs—

My father!

My wife! my child! Oh, heavenly powers!

Put the things carefully into a chamber, and be ſure take care of that little box.

Yes, ſir.

And here we are, my deareſt Caroline, with the parſon's bleſſing upon us. I hardly durſt raiſe my hopes to this happineſs, even before your worthy brother contrived to make me an eſtate out of pocket; but my generous girl, when I re⯑flect that you take a beggar to your arms—

Nay, nay, I am only doing an act of com⯑mon honeſty, in paying the debts of my family; and I am to conſider you a very gentle creditor [79] to be ſatisfied with leſs than a third of your demand, and to take charge of me into the bargain.

My deareſt girl!

But, amidſt our happineſs, let us not for⯑get the melancholy ſituation of the dear Cleve⯑lands—Let us inſtantly try to ſee them.

Here comes the little Gentoo full of glee. Oh, this looks well!

Gangica!

Ah, you here! Oh I glad of dat—I ſo happy.

What has happened to make you ſo.

Dis too full of joy to let me talk. I can't tell you—but come—come wid me—you know all—den you be too happy to talk—Come, come.

The villains! ample ſhall be their puniſh⯑ment.

It will be ample, be aſſured; but do not you wreſt vengeance from that Power who beſt knows how to deal it, that Power which never withholds its ſuccour from the innocent, nor le [...]s the guilty 'ſcape its awful indignation.

But why did you not, the inſtant that you landed, acquaint us with your ſafety?

Alas! I had loſt the power of doing ſo. Enfeebled by fatigue, when I reached the ſhore, I ſcarce had ſenſe or motion, a fever followed, from which reaſon and health returned together—So, on the inſtant I ſet out to be myſelf the herald of my ſafety.

I ſought you on the coaſt near Port⯑land.

Well might you hear no tidings of me; for we made our landing at the Iſle of Wight, to the humanity of whoſe inhabitants myſelf and poor companions owe our lives. Think you thoſe wretches, the Viſorlys will venture to you?

Convinced that you are no longer living, I have no doubt but the inſtructions we have given to Oakworth to communicate, will bring them here.

The young one has never ſeen me, and Old Viſorly not ſince I was quite a child; ſo it is impoſſible I ſhould be known.

But promiſe to preſerve your temper.

Depend on me.

This way.

I hear Oakworth's voice. We will retire.

This is the ſtranger I told you of. I leave you with the gentleman, begging his pardon for introducing him to ſuch damn'd bad company.

We underſtand that you have volunteered to defend the cauſe of Mrs. Cleveland. Are we rightly informed, ſir?

You are.

I thought the days of chivalry were over.

So did I: but ſince monſters ſtill exiſt,—'tis fit that they revive again.

You have begun your career of enter⯑prize, moſt illuſtrious knight, with rather a hope⯑leſs adventure.

It may not be found ſo.

You ſeem an intelligent man. A little converſation will, I have no doubt, bring us to the ſame opinion, and all errors will be rectified before we part.

You need not doubt it, ſir.

Now, my boy, Leonard, will talk him over in a grand ſtile. Oh, he is a bleſſing to my old age.

This woman has the power of influencing perſons very much in her favour.

Innocence always has that power.

Innocence! Sir, ſir, you are duped, deceived.

You, perhaps, are not aware that ſhe has no proofs of her marriage.

Proofs may be found.

In India, you think. Will you go thither for them?

I have been.

What?

I have been.

You knew Cleveland, perhaps?

Yes.

Do you know, then, of his marriage?

I was preſent at it.

You ſurprize me.

Will this ſatisfy you?

A witneſs may be ſuborned. The law [83] will ſcarcely be content with one perſon's teſti⯑mony.

With mine it clearly will.

You may be miſtaken, ſir. It will be raſh to riſk it. I will make an offer, a hand⯑ſome offer—We will reſign our claim to half the fortune, manage the buſineſs with the ladies as you pleaſe, you may depend on our ſecreſy. We tender to you, mind, to yourſelf half the for⯑tune.

It is a handſome offer.

Very indeed! may be you think a third would be enough.

No, no, far from it; for though the bribe ſounds handſomely, it would be want of policy in me to take it.

How?

For this plain reaſon, that, tho' I admit theſe ladies to be Cleveland's wife and daughter, ſtill Cleveland's fortune is the right of—

Whom?

Me.

You! by what title?

The cleareſt in the world—founded on the ſimple principle, that while a man can prove himſelf alive, his heirs are not allowed to take poſſeſſion of his property.

Alive!

Why, gentlemen, you are very hard to be convinced. Surely you ſhould admit a man alive, when he is able himſelf to tell you ſo.

Confuſion!

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!

And, how do you now feel yourſelves, my very worthy couſins?

Come, come in, and thank your kinſmen for all their kindneſs.

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, did I ever think you would have brought me into ſuch diſ⯑grace!

Senſible rebuke of age to youth! You ſhould have led your ſon into the path of honeſty, not been ſeduced by him into the road of villainy.

I'll go home, and if I continue in my preſent mind, I think it very likely I ſhall hang myſelf before to-morrow morning. Oh Leonard, Leonard!

With your company, ſir,

I cannot diſpenſe, till I receive aſſurance that my property remitted to you is veſted as I directed.

My worthy brother, give me joy.

Your brother!

Even ſo, ſir.

You are well paired. I wiſh you all the happineſs that mutual poverty can give you.

Poverty! nay, we need not ſtarve. My eſtate is ſurely ſufficient to prevent that.

Your eſtate! You muſt firſt perſuade me to reſign the writings of it.

Thank you, dear brother; but you hap⯑pen to forget you have already done that.

I! how—when?

By your direction I brought the box to town with me, which you ſaid, contained the writings.

Yes,—ay—that box—hey! let me ſee it—I have got the key of it.

The key, my dear fellow! Do you think [85] I do things ſo curſed mechanically as to want keys? A man juſt come into poſſeſſion of an eſtate, and not break open the box that contained his claim to it.

What, broke open!

Yes, with a kitchen poker. Lord, how alarmed you are! Yes, I broke it open, and found I had killed two birds with one ſtone; for, inſtead of only getting the writings of one eſtate, I found the writings of two—This lady's and my own.

Curſes fall on me!

That they will, faſt enough never fear. What a ſhrewd gueſſer you muſt be! You had the wiſdom to foreſee, that ſome time or other, there would be a junction of the properties, and you therefore commodiouſly packed up the writ⯑ings together. Ah, you are a conſiderate fellow!

Sir, we need your preſence here no longer. My property I find is veſted as I ap⯑pointed. Now, ſir, depart, loaded not with my reproaches, not with my malediction; for the whole world's contempt, and the heavieſt curſes of the injured would add but a feather's weight to the mountain of remorſe which conſcious guilt will heap upon thy wretched boſom. When I reflect on the ſeverity of ſuffering conſcience can inflict, I could almoſt forget my injuries, and pity thee.

To palliate my guilt I do not ſeek—yet, in juſtice, let me declare, the erroneous judgment of the world made me a villian. I beheld the eye of obſervance and reſpect ever directed to the wealthy; were he fool or knave, no matter. [86] While all that is truly amiable or great in genius or in virtue, when linked with poverty, was heed⯑ed with the ſtare of diſavowal, or the ſcowl of contempt. To be a golden idol for the world's worſhip was my aim. I have loſt my fortune, character, and happineſs in the attempt, and now muſt meet in penury mankind's abhorrence, and feel too, I deſerve it.

I grieve to think how much you muſt be afflicted.

I am indeed; for with all his unworthi⯑neſs, I cannot forget he is my brother.

Such remembrance honours you; for never ſhould the principles of juſtice abſorb the feelings of nature.

Ah, my good friend, you at liberty!

Yes, ſir, I found bail.

I am very glad to ſee you.

Sir, I ſhall ever feel myſelf your debtor.

Oh, Madam!

I know a way to repay him, Madam.

How?

By making him rightful poſſeſſor of the treaſure he holds in his hand.

Gangica, do you conſent to—

I do all as you pleaſe, ma'am.

I am ſure it will pleaſe me that you make yourſelf happy.

Now I have performed my promiſe, you muſt renew my acquaintance with your father.

You and my father, ſir, have never been aſunder.

Hey! What do you mean?

To reſtore you a truant ſon, ſir, who, till he had atoned as far as lay in his power for his former errors, could not hope to be acknowledged by ſuch a father.

What, my own boy turned out an ho⯑neſt man?

Yes, ſir; and who, now knowing the precious value of that firſt of titles, will never forfeit it.

Now, then, I can ſay I am completely happy.

Ever, ever may you remain ſo!—You will; for benevolence like yours makes the human heart a heaven.

The gratitude I owe to all who have be⯑friended theſe dear objects of my love, I hope to ſhew by ſomething more than words. What a proſpect of happineſs opens to our view! Bleſt with friends, proved ſuch in the trying moments of affliction—with fortune to command profuſely every luxury, and I truſt, with minds to employ it only in purſuit of one—the luxury of doing good.