SCENE I.—DARNLEY'S Garden, and view of his ſmall Villa.

AND ſo, Darnley, you prefer this ſolitary life, to all the joys of London—to be ſure you've a nice ſnug Villa, and a charming wife here—but its dull—the ſcene tires—it wants variety, Harry.

No, Sir George.—Since I retir'd to this peaceful ſpot, I have not had a wiſh be⯑yond it: I've been ſo happy in that humble cottage, that when I'm doom'd to leave it, the world will be a waſte, and life not have a charm!

How you are alter'd, Darnley? When we were brother officers you were the greateſt rake in the regiment; but from the [2]time we were quarter'd at Worceſter, where you firſt beheld Miſs Dormer—

I ſaw the folly of my former life; I own'd the power of her ſuperior charms, and leaving a buſy and tumultuous world, retir'd with her to this ſequeſter'd ſcene—'tis now three years ſince I married.

And from that time to this, have you liv'd in this out-of-the-way place?

Yes: and till you yeſterday honour'd me with a viſit, I have not ſeen a friend within my doors—but isn't it a happy life, Sir George? Our affections have room to ſhoot—care and diſtruſt are baniſh'd from our cottage, and with ſuch a woman as Mrs. Darnley to con⯑verſe with, what is the world to me? I can defy and ſcorn its malice.

She's an angelic creature indeed, Darnley: and at Worceſter, I had myſelf near⯑ly fallen a victim to her charms; but about your future life—do you mean to live for ever in theſe woods and meadows?

No—would to heaven I could!—I fear I muſt forego my preſent calm, and mix in active life again: When I married, I ſold my commiſſion, you remember, to purchaſe this ſmall farm—Mrs. Darnley's portion was but a trifle, and an encreaſing family has ſo enlarg'd my expences, that unleſs I return to the army—

Ah—you want to be raking again?

No—I want to ſecure an indepen⯑dence for my family—I want to ſee my chil⯑dren affluent, and to attain this, I have once more applied to my uncle Sir Paul Perpetual, [3]who was ſo offended at my ſelling out, that he has ever ſince abandon'd me.

What—does the old beau ſtill perſevere in his reſentment?

His anger has encreas'd; for he writes me word; he intends marrying Lady Sa⯑rah Savage, on purpoſe to have heirs more worthy his eſtate:—Oh! my friend:—'tis hard, that fortune ſhould beſtow ſuch treaſures, and then compel me to deſert them?

So it is: but now I think on't, this Lady Sarah Savage and her brother are my intimate friends; and as you are their neighbours, I'll introduce you and Mrs. Darn⯑ley to their notice—When are they expected from town?

To day.

Then we'll pay them a viſit: Lady Sarah Savage ſhall interfere with your uncle, and if that fails, her brother can eaſily enſure your promotion in the army—but ſee; here's Mrs. Darnley?

Look at her, Sir George—do you, can you blame me?—who would not act as I have done?

I would by heav'ns!—I'd live with her in a hermitage!—die with her on a pilgrimage!—I'd—ſdeath: if I don't mind, I ſhall diſcover all.

Maria!

Oh Harry!—I have been look⯑ing for you every where—I declare you're grown quite a truant—Before your friend came, you [4]us'd to walk with me over the farm: or ride with me to ſee our children; or ſit and read to me under our favourite Beach Tree—but now—Sir George!—I beg your pardon—I didn't ſee you before.

Madam!

My friend is all kindneſs, Maria; he has promis'd to introduce me to the honour⯑able Mr. Savage:

What:—take you to Savage houſe!

Ay—why not:—you ſhall go with me.

No—let me ſtay here—I am not weary of my preſent life.

Nor I—but 'tis a great connexion: and though not abſolutely diſtreſs'd, I would improve my fortune—I would ſee you and my children have every comfort.

We have, while you are with us—conſider we have never liv'd a day apart, and if they lure you into faſhionable ſcenes, you'll be corrupted, Harry—you'll deſpiſe the humble roof you once rever'd, and I perhaps ſhall be forgotten and neglected.

Never!—I cannot bear the ſuppo⯑ſition; and while we have hearts to endure, and hands to labour, there is ſufficient for our cottage!—I will not go—My friend, who ſees my motive, I'm ſure, will not condemn me.

No—always obey the Ladies; but Darnley, I ſee our horſes—you recollect we were to ride to ſee your children: ſo, Ma⯑dam, I have the ſuperlative honour—

What, Clara!—been picking flowers my angel!—well!—I thought they had all died—all died from envy egad! ha! ha!—excuſe me—I never laugh but at my own wit.

Do you? then you laugh very ſel⯑dom, I believe.

No—very often: for I take the joke though nobody elſe does, ha! ha!—come Darnley—adieu Ladies—I'll not run away with him!—

What a coxcomb it is!—and if he wasn't a duelliſt into the bargain, I'd tell Mr. Darnley all my ſuſpicions—that I would—but he's ſo fond of fighting, that I heard him ſay, he once ſent a man a challenge for wafering a letter inſtead of ſealing it.—I wiſh he was gone.

Indeed ſo do I, couſin—Mr. Darnley is ſo chang'd ſince he arriv'd—his ideas ſo enlarg'd—he talks of viſiting at Savage Houſe, of improving his fortune.

Fortune!—ay: and this morning he gave me his note for two hundred pounds, beg⯑ging me to get one of my guardians to lend money upon it—his excuſe was that his expen⯑ces exceeded his income, and by his uncle's marriage with Lady Sarah Savage, all his ex⯑pectations were ruined—Now, my life on't, this is all Sir George's doings—He has ſtole into our cottage like the Arch-fiend into paradiſe, and I won't eat another apple while he ſtays!

Is Darnley then diſtreſſed?—Oh Clara!

Don't be unhappy—I ſhall apply to both my guardians; Sir Paul and Mr. Fluſh, they are now at Bath, and one way or other the Villa ſhall flouriſh ſtill—Lord! I ſhall have plenty of money when I come of age, and I'll throw it all into the ſcale, and come and plant, ſow, and reap with you and your huſband.

What give up the gaieties of London, couſin?

London! ay: I hate it—I once paſs'd a month there, but they hurried me ſo from ſight to ſight, that in the buſtle all places ap⯑pear'd alike—I ſaw no difference—And, if you'll believe me, one morning after ſeeing Weſt⯑minſter Hall in term time, they took me in⯑ſide Bedlam; and ſo confus'd was I, that I didn't know the lawyers and their clients, from the keepers and their patients.

"Trompite, trompite tra!"

Who can this be?

"Tra—tra—tra!"

Bleſs us!—What animal's this?

He has miſtaken his way, I ſuppoſe—Sir—

I beg pardon, Sir—but perhaps you don't know that this garden—

"Beviamo tutta trè!"—ah, ha!— les Demoiſelles!—Ladies, à votre ſervice.—

Sir!

I and the Honourable Miſter Savage arrive laſt night—ce Matin I take a my little valk—ſee your ſmall Chateau, and am ſo en⯑chanté w [...]h the ſpectàcle that—me voici!—I honour you with my firſt viſit—eh bien!—vat is your names?

Our names!—rather we ſhould aſk yours.

Mine!—Diable!—do you not know me?

No—how ſhould we?

Vat! not know I am Signor Cygnet— de firſt Violin in Europe! de beſt compoſer in de whole world!—de huſband of Signora Cygnet —de great ſinger at de opera—de profeſſional—de Abbey—de—Marbleu!—and am I not myſelf?

No—I don't think you are yourſelf.

And ſo, Sir, you are on a viſit at Mr. Savage's?

Oui—in my vay to Bath I con⯑deſcend to paſs a few days there—Lady Sarah Savage, ſhe love muſic, or pretend to love— vich is de ſame ting you know—they entertain me comme çâ—give me good dinners, and take ticketts for mine and my vife's concert—mais there be two tings I don't like.

And what are they, Sir?

Vy Miſter Savage, he give me cold ſuppers and ſleep in the beſt bed himſelf—Now, begar!—I vill have hot ſuppers and de beſt bed, or elſe I take a my fiddle and promenez—"Malbrouk s'en va, &c."

—De grand Duke—O! de grand Duke—he never uſe me thus—never—jamais!

The Grand Duke!

Oui—ven I was at Florence how you tink he treat me? accoutez—he quarrel with all his Miniſters—all but one!

And who was that one?

Me!—me he ſhake by the hand and go to my vife's benefit toût le même—de ſame as ever!

Upon my word, muſic ſeems ſo important a ſcience, that I think you had better let your little boy have ſome leſſons—it is neceſſary for his education—isn't it, Signor?

Neceſſaire!—ma foi: 'tis de only education now-a-days—never mind vat you call Latin and Greek—put de fiddle in his lit⯑tle hand and let him ſcrape away! den he vill be great man—like me: and call for hot ſup⯑per and beſt bed verever he go!

What! ſhall I give up making a parſon of him, Clary?

Parſon!—pif!—vat is de parſon to de muſician?—he ride his old white horſe—preach away at four or five churches, and vat he get?—forty pounds a year—Eh bien! I and my vife ride in vis-a-vis—ſing only ven we like, and make five thouſand a year—ah ha! voila la difference!—Parſon!—begar! de blind fidler get more money!

More ſhame for the country then, where foreign arrogance is ſo rewarded, and gentlemanly merit ſo inſulted—come Clara—

Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Darnley; but I and your huſband have juſt been preſent at an accident, that—

An accident, ſir!

Yes: Lady Sarah Savage, who is one of thoſe ladies call'd female phaetoneers, was driving four in hand acroſs the heath; the horſes took fright, and ran away with her, when Darnley, with more gallantry than pru⯑dence, rode a-head of the unruly animals, and ſtopt them on the edge of a precipice.

Heaven be prais'd!—and where is the lady, ſir?

My friend is conducting her to the villa, where he begs you'll inſtantly join them.

By all means—come—

Signor, won't you aſſiſt your friend?

Non—I am muſician, not phyſician, and my head is ſo full of de tune.

So full of de vapour, he means—like the inſide of his own violin—come couſin—now isn't it a pity, that while we have butterflies and bullfinches in the garden, we ſhould be tormented with coxcombs and fiddlers—inſects, adieu

Signor, I rejoice to ſee you; you have often aſſiſted me in my amours, and I now want your aid more than ever.

Eh bien!—my vife has a concert at Bath next week.

Has ſhe! then I'll give a dinner to ſome Somerſetſhire bumpkins, and force off [10]a ſcore or two of tickets—You ſaw the lady I firſt ſpoke to—ſhe has won my heart, and I have won her huſband's.

Dat is good—den if you make de diſcord between them—

Ay, Sgnior: if I excite jealouſy! and this accident has ſprung the mine—Lady Sarah Savage is already half in love with Darn⯑ley—She has invited him to Savage houſe, and if he takes Mrs. Darnley along with him—

Dey will be both out of tune for ever—ah ha! I go to Mr. Savage, touteſuite.

Do—and increaſe Lady Sarah's love for Darnley—aſſiſt in all my ſchemes; triumph I muſt, and will; for I offer'd Mrs. Darnley my hand long before this huſband won her heart.

I will be firſt fiddle reſt aſſurè—tenez; I vill compoſe two duettos—one between Lady Sarah Savage and de huſband—de other be⯑tween you and de vife—allòns. You no con⯑ceive the power of muſic, Sir George.

I do, Signor—for as Shakeſpeare ſays: ‘There's nought ſo ſtockiſh, hard and full of rage, but muſic for a time does change its nature.’

Shakeſpeare! vat is dat Shakeſpeare? He never compoſe a ſingle tune, and dough at preſent he make a little noiſe, begar, you'll ſoon find de fiddle and de bravura vill lay him on de ſhelf—now-a-days, ſound always get de better of ſenſe, mon ami—Ah ha! venez! you no forget my vife's benefit.

SCENE II.—A Room inſide Mr. DARNLEY'S Villa, Prints, Books, Fowling Pieces, Fiſhing Tackle, &c.

Well Clara: if Lady Sarah Savage be a picture of town-bred women of faſhion, let me remain a plain ſimple ruſtic all my life—Did you ever ſee any thing ſo confi⯑dent—ſo maſculine—her brother too! "What you call impudence," ſays he, "we call eaſe."

Ay: they're a precious pair; and yet in London they are both the Rage!—quite at the top of the beau monde—But, couſin, they've order'd their carriages, and inſiſt on our going to Savage houſe—Mercy on us! what's to become of two lambs amongſt ſuch a parcel of wolves?

This is Sir George's ſcheme: to delude Mr. Darnley from this tranquil ſpot into faſhionable life, is the firſt ſtep towards af⯑fecting his baſe deſigns—He told Mr. Savage about your fortune too—

I know it: and the vulgar man made downright love to me directly;—'faith-Coz. I believe Sir George wants to get me married, and you unmarried.

Bring round the Phaeton, and d'ye hear—don't tighten the curbs—I'll whip and gallop them every inch of the road.

"She'll whip and gallop them!" there now!—this is one of the modern breed of [12]fine ladies, who, inſtead of being feminine and tender, have the Rage for confidence and bold⯑neſs—Look at her dreſs—ſhe's more like a man than a woman, and her language is as maſcu⯑linè as her manners.

John, exerciſe the pointers, and the hounds—I ſhall ſhoot to-morrow, and hunt the next day.

Any thing elſe, madam?

No—nothing—Oh yes: call at the taylor's and enquire for my fencing jacket—tell him I broke two foils in my laſt rencontre, and aſk him if any body ought to make aſſaults in a gown and petticoat?—Ah! my little dears—here

Well! and how do ye do? Oh Wil⯑liam!—tell the recruiting ſerjeant I muſt learn the new military manoeuvres, and bid him bring the largeſt fuſil in the regiment—there—go along—

I hope you have recover'd your fright, ma'am.

Recover'd!—heh!—why, where's my deliverer!—my dear charming Mr. Darnley?

Madam!

He is certainly the moſt divine engaging creature—I mean to take him home [13]with me, and the Phaeton is waiting—ſo call him, child—

call him directly.

Call:—whom, madam?

Why, Mr. Darnley, to be ſure; what does the girl ſtare at?—did ſhe never ſee a perſon of quality before.

Never—its the firſt time, ma'am; and if this is the ſpecimen, I hope it will be the laſt:—I'll call Mr. Darnley.

I wiſh I was like you, my dear—I wiſh I was married—its ſo comfortable—ſo con⯑venient—heigho!—I ſhall be ſo glad when old Sir Paul is my ſtalking horſe—my huſband I mean—ſhan't you, Mrs.—

Excuſe me, madam: when I reflect, that Sir Paul is Mr. Darnley's uncle, and by your union he is deprived of all his future fortune, you cannot blame me, if —

Deprive my dear Darnley of his fortune!—ſo it does—well!—that's vaſtly droll!—but then it makes mine, which is the ſame thing you know—See!—here's my bear of a brother!—you've no idea what low, vulgar company he keeps?—nothing but Buffoons, Bow-ſtreet Officers, and Boxers!—and only conceive, my dear, me and my friends mixing in ſuch horrid ſociety.

Surely Mr. Savage cannot wiſh—

He does, ma'am: and only con⯑ceive I ſay my intimate acquaintance—people of the firſt conſequence—ſuch as Signor Cyg⯑net, the huſband of the fine Soprano—Monſieur Puppitini, the inventor of the dear Fantoccini, and Count Spavin the greateſt of Horſe Doctors—only imagine ſuch pick'd com⯑pany [14]as this, mixing with my brother's low-liv'd wretched crew.

Indeed, ma'am, people of rank ought to ſet a better example.

So Savage—ſiſter I mean—I loſt ten pounds by your ſilly accident—The moment I ſaw the horſes off, I ſaid to my friends around me, ten pounds to five, the driver gets a tum⯑ble—"done!"—"it's a bett" ſays I—away flew the racers,—ſnap went the reins—five to four in my ſavour!—when plague on't! the Squire rode acroſs, ſtopt the carriage—you ſav'd your neck, and I—loſt my wager.

You brute: did you ever hear your brother, Lord Savage, talk in this man⯑ner?

My brother!—pough!—he's a gen⯑tleman to be ſure—proud, independent, and all in the grandee ſtyle—but I!—I'm not like him—I'm a man of faſhion—I'm not a gentleman.

No—that you are not upon my honour.

I am the hero of my ſociety—he is the ſlave of his—he keeps high company, ma'am

lives with judges, generals, and admirals—but does he ever encourage the arts and ſciences? does he ever ſhake hands with men of genius? ſuch as peace officers, tennis play'rs, and boxers—no, no—that was left for me.

Yes: and though born to wealth and titles, there you ſtand, that have been ſix times bottle holder at a boxing match!—vulgar ſcience!—I hope Sir Paul don't underſtand it.

No—not now—but if he makes you his wife, it may be neceſſary he ſhould, learn,— I ſay, ma'am, that was a ſtraight one—wasn't it.

Indeed I don't know, ſir; —Wou'd Mr. Darnley were here!—I am unequal to their ſociety; but from the lit⯑tle I have learnt, I think one hour of domeſ⯑tic life worth all this new unintelligible ſcene.

Hark'ye:

here's a letter from the old beau, Sir Paul—he is coming to Bath, and can only ſtay one day with us, in his way; but as people of quality are not always people of quantity you know, he ſhan't ſtir, till the marriage is effected—mum!—I'll keep him cloſe—

Ha! ſquire!—come Mrs. Darnley;

I'll drive you and your pretty couſin—

Sir, I am unus'd to viſiting; unfit—

Nonſenſe!—I never take an excuſe; when I aſk people to my houſe, I make them go when I like—ſtay while I like, and behave as I like—ſo come along—ſquire mind you don't ſnap the reins; and d'ye hear; as my ſiſter is rather lame—only juſt recover'd from the gout—

The gout!—how dare you, ſir?

What!—do you deny it?—do you diſown having been our'd by a quack doctor, and returning him thanks in all the papers? ‘Lady Sarah Savage informs Dr. Panacea, that his alagaronic antiſpaſmodonic tincture, has entirely remov'd the gout from the extremi⯑ties, [16]and ſhe now hunts, ſhoots, eats and drinks more freely than ever!’—now isn't it a ſhame, ma'am? between them, they plun⯑der both the patient and the phyſician.—The quack cheats the doctor of his fee, and the woman robs the man of his gout.

Oh, Mr. Darnley!—I am ſo glad you're going to Savage houſe—'twill be ſuch a relief—come—I'll appoint you my rural Cicis⯑beo—my guardian ſhepherd—you ſav'd my life, and I won't let you die for me, I am deter⯑min'd!

SCENE I.—The Honourable Mr. SAVAGE'S Park and Garden—a Canal with a Veſſel on it—a Bridge—a Temple ſurrounded with Weeping Wil⯑lows—at the Wing a Portico and Steps leading to the Houſe.

Why now indeed you are an alter'd man?

I am—I am—the wine—the ſcene —the company—has ſo tranſported me, that I begin to think I'm not quite ſober, Sir George— I do indeed.

No wonder at it—you've led the life of a recluſe and every new ſcene dazzles you —you are like a nun eſcap'd from a convent.

No—more like a Friar in one—at leaſt if I may judge by my eating and drinking— But my friend—this is a glorious place, and I begin to think I've liv'd too long out of the world—coop'd up in a cottage—buried in a farm—What did I know of life and all its plea⯑ſures?

Ay: what indeed?—in town—and Savage-houſe is the ſame thing you ſee; for they always bring London into the country with them —but Lady Sarah, Darnley—I ſaw you at din⯑ner;—ſhe gave you ſuch affectionate looks.—

Fie! fie Sir George—you forget— I am a married man.

A married man!—what then!

Why then I love my wife—I do— I tenderly love her—and when I chuſe to play the fool, let me expoſe myſelf, but not wound her for heaven's ſake!

Nonſenſe!—you don't know Lady Sarah—ſhe is one of thoſe confident females, who won't let a man eſcape—who mark you for their prey—lure you into their talons; and, if you don't yield, will ſo claw you.—

What! make me love her whether I will or not?

Certainly: but conſider the ad⯑vantages of her friendſhip: firſt ſhe can get you promotion in the army; ſecondly, by gaining an aſcendancy over her, you may prevent her marrying your uncle; and thirdly, you can pro⯑vide for your family without injuring your ho⯑nour—there!—there's an opportunity!

That's true; and if I thought— hark'ye; as we're alone, and you're my beſt of friends—I've got a letter from her! the Signor brought it me—here!

—She appoints me to meet her in her dreſſing-room.

Bravo, Signor!—

—let's read. —

— ‘Lady Sarah Savage, having ſomething particular to communicate to Mr. Darnley, begs to ſee him in her dreſſ⯑ing-room in an hour's time.’—Go by all means,—go, I inſiſt.

Why, if I can perſuade her not to mar⯑ry Sir Paul, or even get her to interfere with him —I'll go!—I'm fix'd—I'll write to her this inſtant. ‘He that eſſays no danger gains no praiſe!’

Joy! joy my lads! Sir Paul is arri⯑ved! and how do you think the old boy intro⯑duced himſelf to my porter?—"Tell your maſ⯑ter, ſays he, a young gentleman deſires to ſee him."

Young gentleman!—that's ex⯑cellent—he's at leaſt ſeventy-two.

No, you wrong him; he's only ſe⯑venty—Sir Paul Perpetual—Old P. I mean; for that's his nick name you know—has been the ancient beau of the age theſe thirty years, and as his great grief is, that he never had a ſon, he wants my conſent to marry my ſiſter.

And do you mean to conſent, ſir?

Certainly—I ſay

—I want his fortune to repair my own, and therefore he ſhan't leave the houſe till the mar⯑riage is effected—you know my way.—I've given the hint to the ſervants.

Sir here's the young gentleman.

Squire, take my place at the table— puſh the wine about, and tell the jovial crew to prepare for quizzing—quizzing you rogue!— go

—the licenſe is in my pocket, a parſon's in the houſe, and if we can but con⯑fuſe the young gentleman, we'll marry him in a joke, and afterwards take his fortune in earneſt.

"Be lively, briſk and jolly!—lively, briſk and jolly!"

Ah, my boys!—here I am—as young and hearty—but I can't ſtay; I muſt be at Bath to-morrow.

At Bath!—what to drink the wa⯑ters? to renovate before marriage, Sir Paul.

No—upon my ſoul there's no occa⯑ſion—though, at preſent, perhaps a little phyſical advice wouldn't be much amiſs: for between ourſelves, I've juſt cut a tooth, and ſuffer'd moſt violently from the hooping cough!

—Why what do you laugh at?

Nothing—nothing—only we won⯑der'd how ſuch a chicken as you could ſtruggle againſt a pair of ſuch mortal diſorders!—but, ſeriouſly—what takes you to Bath?

Such an event? I have trac'd a ſon; a boy above twenty years of age! that's my firſt reaſon—my ſecond is—to ſee my grandfather.

Your grandfather!

Hark'ye—he ſhall make ſettlements on my firſt four children.

Pray, Sir Paul—I beg your pardon though—what age may your grandfather be?

Two hundred, if he's an hour! heh? an't I right, old P.?

Old P.! there it is now!—here I ſtand, that walk as much as any man—that ride as much as any man—that am every night at a concert, an opera, or a club—that ſing, dance, game or intrigue! and what's more, that have done all this for ſixty years!—and yet to be call'd [21]old P!—they ſaid I never was a father—but I ſhall ſoon prove the great and glorious fact.

Ay! how will you prove it?

How! why you've all heard of my little Nelly—poor girl! ſhe was jealous, and ſhe left me to marry a tradeſman—a clerk at a lot⯑tery office, and three months after we parted ſhe was deliver'd of a boy—a fine boy! as like me as one Cupid is to another—a year after her marriage, ſhe died, and I can hear nothing of her huſband; but let him ſay what he will, I'll ſwear the boy was mine; I'll ſwear it, becauſe I'm convinc'd I'm father to more children than one, Sir George.

Very likely; but where did you learn all this?

From Nelly's ſiſter; a month ago I accidentally met her at Tunbridge; ſhe had neither ſeen nor heard of the huſband ſince her ſiſter's death, but ſhe remember'd the child went by his mother's name! its mine!—I'm ſure its mine! and

I tell you what—you'd better be careful; for when you and other young ſprigs of faſhion ſmile at me, jeer me, and call me the infirm old P.!—'gad! you little think you dogs, you are laughing at your own father perhaps! however, I've trac'd my boy to Bath, and whoever diſcovers him ſhall have the too beſt racers in my ſtud.

What fidget and fizgig? then I'll ſeek for young P. myſelf—I'll find him—I'll— but hold—hold—

don't go yet—your nephew's in the houſe.

What Darnley?—zounds! then I won't ſtay a moment—no—not even to ſee my dear Lady Sarah, who I'll marry if its only to [22]diſappoint that rural reprobate—that—I'm gone.

No—you're not—I'll tell you a ſecret; you ſhall ſtay a week with me.

A week!

Ay: I've my reaſons—ſo don't think of ſtirring; for your horſes are turn'd out to graſs—your ſaddles and bridles ſnug in a hid⯑ing place, and all the gates double bar'd, inſide and out.

What the devil! make a priſoner of me?

Nonſenſe!—I only foreſtall your wiſhes:—I'm ſure you want ſome ſoft diſcourſes with my ſiſter, and don't I know what my viſi⯑tors like better than they do themſelves? don't I know you like getting drunk?—ſo come; come in and drink!

I don't—I hate drinking; and death and fire! haven't I told you I want to find my ſon—

Humour him; humour him, Sir Paul; or he'll refuſe you his ſiſter.

Ay: give conſent, or elſe—

Or elſe I loſe my wife I ſuppoſe; when I'm in the country, don't I like always to live quiet, and keep early hours, and would you lock me in a houſe where you never ſee the ſun? where you go to bed juſt before it riſes, and get up the moment after it ſets?

Will you give up the marriage, and let Darnley have his wiſh?

No—I'll die firſt—I'll—

Then will you join the jolly crew and prove—

That you have as much health, youth, and ſpirits—

As any choice ſpirit—

Or young gentleman—

In the whole world!—I'm rous'd! I'm fir'd! and to ſhew I'm ſeaſon'd! true Engliſh heart of Oak!—allôns!

"Bring the flaſk! the muſic—

"Joy ſhall quickly find us—

"Let us dance and laugh and ſing, and drive old care behind us!"

Can this be the manſion of ele⯑gance and taſte? I meet with nothing but rude⯑neſs and neglect!—I wiſh I could find Mr. Darn⯑ley!—I dare ſay, by this time, he is ſicken'd of the ſcene, and anxious as myſelf, to ſee his home again.

Fill away my boys!—fill!—fill!—while I like a faithful gal⯑lant!—gallant! hold, hold, friend Darnley. This letter is to benefit your intereſt, not ſacrifice your honour.

Heavens!—what do I ſee? Mr. Darnley!

Yes:—you do; you ſee Mr. Darnley.

Why?—what's the matter with you!—what's that letter?

This letter?—this is a love letter, my angel,—ha!—why it is!—it is my wife!

Yes: that wife who in the hour of diſſipation you forget—can I believe it?—in a little hour can all our paſt attachment—but why am I alarmed?—Faſhion may dupe the wicked and the weak, but virtue ſuch as his muſt ſcorn its empty power.

Forget!—no never!—and now I look at you—I think I ought to be maſſacred for having even for a moment neglected you—Oh Maria!—I have ſuch news for you—Lady Sarah has been ſo kind—ſhe has promiſed to promote me—to befriend you—and in ſhort ſhe has taken a liking to the whole family.

And why, Harry?

Why! ay: there's the rub! but don't be jealous, Maria—I entreat you, don't be jealous!—for by heaven, I love you!—I do ſo ten⯑derly that if it were not for my promiſe, I could find in my heart to return home directly.

Do; let us begone—the place diſtracts me: and I fear this high company will corrupt you.

High company!—hang it:—if that's all you're afraid of, there's not much danger in this houſe I fancy—but my letter—my word to Sir George—and conſider our intereſt, Maria.

Oh no—conſult our happineſs my love; and ſurely there is none in this tumultu⯑ous ſcene—we left all joy behind us, in our children and our cottage, Harry; and there alone we ſhall recover it—come.

She's right—the pretty prattler has reaſon on her ſide and who can diſobey—

ha!—Sir George and Lady Sarah in cloſe converſation!—they beckon me!—again!

Why do you pauſe?

I'm in for it—the die is caſt!—Ma⯑ria!—excuſe me.

How! will you leave me, Mr. Darnley?

What can I do?—'tis but for a ſhort time.—

You muſt not.

Nay: only for an hour.

—This is the firſt time you ever us'd me thus.

So it is—now what a pretty ſcoun⯑drel I am!—and this is faſhionable life is it?—Oh fool! fool! to quit ſubſtantial peace for artificial pleaſure!—don't weep, Maria—I go for our mutual advantage—I go to make our chil⯑dren happy.

Then ſtay with their mother—they never wiſh'd that we ſhould part.

Nor will we—we've liv'd ſo long and happily together, that I would rather loſe the little we have left, than hurt your quiet.—

Sir George ſtay with her—I'll ſee Lady Sarah, entreat her forgiveneſs, and return inſtantly; for, oh my friend!—my heart drops blood for every tear ſhe ſheds.

P'ſha!—remember your intereſt—Lady Sarah will ſoon reconcile your ſcruples, and leave me to compoſe Mrs. Darnley—nay: take your opportunity—you muſt keep the ap⯑pointment—I inſiſt—ſo begone!—

What a fuſs here is about a man's leaving his [26]wife for an hour, when ſo many worthy couple would be happy to part for ever.

Sir George, tell me, where is he gone? tell me, that I may fly and overtake him!

Why! can't you gueſs?

No, indeed, I cannot.

Not that he is gone to Lady Sarah to keep an aſſignation with her.

An aſſignation.

In her dreſſing-room! at this very hour—the gay ſcene has ſo alter'd him, that you ſee he has left you to keep the appointment.

I'll not believe it!—he is above ſuch baſeneſs.

Won't you?—then I'll prove it.

I defy you!—he knows the value of my heart too well to trifle with it; and I've known his ſo long, that I'll not venture to ſuſpect it—no—though his friend defames it.

Nay then—you remember his hand-writing—here is his anſwer to the lady's letter—read.

Ha!—it is too plain—I am deceiv'd—deſerted.

I was the bearer of that letter, and preſerv'd it merely to ſhew it you, I thought it the duty of a friend.

And from the ſame duty, you advis'd him to write it.—Oh! I have known you long, Sir George—you are one of thoſe who find no happineſs but in marring that of others—who ſeduce the affections of the huſband, the better to betray the honour of the wife! and when you've ſpoilt all ſocial and domeſtic peace, the [27]friend you laugh at, and the woman ſcorn!—I know you well!

My dear ma'am, how you miſtake!—I meant to oblige you.

Sir—there is but one way—leave me—nay, I inſiſt—

I ſhall obey.

I muſt have ſtronger proof be⯑fore I am convinc'd, and then obſerve, Sir George, if his truth weakens, I'll add ſtrength to mine! my conſtancy and honour ſhall be ſo ex⯑emplary, that I will ſhame him from his follies! make him repent: and when reclaim'd, be proud to ſay he is my own again!

SCENE II.—An elegant Apartment leading to Lady SARAH'S Dreſſing-Room—the Door in the Flat.

Yes: yes: its all over the Houſe—Sir George makes no ſecret of the aſſignation, and I've no doubt but Darnley is now in that room waiting for Lady Sarah Savage—ſhe can't come at preſent—the ſervant ſays, ſhe's gone to the ſtables to ſee the beaſts unharneſs'd—faith! if ſhe'd go to her brother's party ſhe'd ſee that buſineſs already done!—however I'll pre⯑vent Darnley's expoſing himſelf, and as he is certainly conceal'd in that room, I'll talk to him.—Dear!—here's my guardian again!

So far, I'm ſafe, my dear girl; you don't know what your poor guardian has ſuf⯑fer'd in this high—no—this low-lif'd houſe!—they forc'd me into a room full of buffoons, boxers, and blacklegs—made me drink a bowl of punch, and I'd as ſoon drink ſo much poiſon—then winking and nodding they began whiſpering pretty loudly—"ſmoke the old prig!—damme, quiz him!"

Quiz him!—what's that, Guardy?

Why, with our young men of qua⯑lity, quizzing is a ſubſtitute for wit, my dear; ſo one man challeng'd me to play on the violin, and when I roſe to move my elbows, another whip'd the chair from under me; a ſecond put hot coals into my pocket, ſo when I felt for my hankerchief, I burnt my fingers; a third tried to cut off my tail, but that aſſaſſin I purſued, when unluckily in running after him, they had tied a ſtring acroſs the ſtairs, and I pitch'd headforemoſt into a barrel of water, they had placed for the purpoſe.

Indeed, its quite terrible, Gaurdy.

Then they ſhew'd me a licenſe; brought me a fat parſon, and ſaid, if I'd in⯑ſtantly be married, they'd let me go to find my ſon—if not, I ſhould be lock'd in, and have plenty of it—now here's hoſpitality!—but they've overſhot the mark; and if I get out of their doors, I'll not only break off the match, but promiſe to befriend Darnley.—

What! diſappoint Lady Sarah, and relieve my poor diſtreſſed friend—then I'll get you out [29]of the houſe—I will, if I'm quizz'd to death for it—You ſee that door—if he meets Darnley, he'll at leaſt interrupt the aſſignation.—

Secure my eſcape—only get me out of this den of ſavages, and, if I don't befriend Darnley, may I never live to ſee old age. Where does that door lead to?

I fancy to Lady Sarah's dreſſing room; for it is full of half boots, horſe great coats, mi⯑litary ſaſhes, helmet caps, and amazonian jack⯑ets! and this is your only way to eſcape—enter that room.

Yes—

Put on one of Lady Sarah Savage's great coats, tie one of her ſaſhes round your waiſt—throw a fur tippet about your neck, and with a whip in your hand, and her driv⯑ing hat on your head—

I underſtand—the ſervants will take me for their miſtreſs, and open the gates; Oh! you dear girl!

—I'll about it inſtantly—

I ſay, Clara, the hounds below are unkennel'd; they have ſtarted me for game, and after keeping them at bay, by ſouſing in a flood of water, I take to cover; that is, I put on Lady Sarah Savage's cloathes to avoid paſſing for a wild beaſt; mum!

If he does but get out of the houſe, the marriage is broken off and Darnley made happy.

I'm at home to nobody but Mr. Darnley.

We're undone, ruin'd; ſtay where you are; here's Lady Sarah.

—The devil!

Huſh! lock yourſelf in, and don't ſtir till I tap at the door, or ſtop—ſtop—leſt ſhe or ſomebody elſe ſhould tap, don't open it till I give you a ſignal—let me ſee; what ſhall be the watchword? Oh, "quizzing," you won't for⯑get "quizzing," Guardy.

No—I ſhall remember it theſe fifty years; ſo when I hear the word "quizzing," out I come, and—ſoftly—here ſhe is

Tell my dear Signor, I ſhall get rid of all theſe benefit tickets; heh!

—what young creature's this?

How d'ye do again ma'am?

Again! you're vaſtly forward child; I never ſaw you before.

No ma'am! that's very ſtrange; you ſaw me this morning at Mr. Darnley's, and in⯑vited me to your houſe.

Oh, ay: now I recollect; you muſt excuſe me; we people of rank are ſo very abſent; we're extremely intimate with a perſon in the morning, and don't know them at night; well! I'm vaſtly glad to ſee you; but you muſtn't ſtay here, I'm engaged child.

I ſhan't intrude, ma'am—good day.

Adieu! ſtop—ſtop—I forgot; give me two guineas.

Two guineas, ma'am!

Yes: for theſe tickets; they're for the Signor's wife's benefit at Bath next Mon⯑day, [31]the whole town will be there—nay, I ſhall at⯑tend—I'd make you take more, but as you'll have to pay card money bye and bye, it would be aſking you to one's houſe abſolutely to make a bargain of you!

there—you may go.

A bargain indeed! and a bad one too: for if I was mean enough to make money by my gueſts, would I lay it out on foreigners who loll in carriages? no—not while ſo many of our gallant ſoldiers and ſailors have only wooden limbs to ſtand on!

I am gone, ma'am,

and now may Darnley get out of the ſcrape—Sir Paul get out of the houſe—and ſhe and her brother knock their ſtupid heads to⯑gether.

I ſuppoſe this ſilly creature has interrupted the charming Mr. Darnley, and he has ſtept into my dreſſing room—

—lock'd inſide—it muſt be ſo—

—I declare I hear him moving;

—he ſighs!—poor man!

—don't be dejected, my dear ſir; when I'm married to that old tottering beau, Sir Paul, I'll think of nothing but you. So come, Mr. Darnley,

come my ſweet Mr. Darnley.

Can it be poſſible?—then all's confirm'd madam, when I am convinced that my huſband—that Mr. Darnley has been de⯑coyed into that room.

Bleſs me!—its Mrs. Darnley!—this is a little aukward—how⯑ever I'll ſoon talk her out of it,

Don't be uneaſy, my dear—theſe faſhionable intrigues are [32]very harmleſs, I'll aſſure you, and if you had had my free and liberal education—but poor thing! I ſuppoſe you were ſent to ſchool for inſtruction.

To ſchool! as certainly ma'am—

There it is then: for what could you learn! only to ſing well enough to ſpoil converſation—to play on the harpſichord, ſo as to give papa, mama, and the whole family an afternoon's nap—to dance ſo aukwardly as to be always out of tune and place; and to ſpeak juſt French enough, to make you forget Engliſh; this is a boarding ſchool education—But I my dear—

Hear me, madam! when I firſt ſaw you, I was the happieſt of women—I had a huſband who lov'd and honour'd me—who doat⯑ed on his children, and knew no pleaſure but in his family! and now how ſevere is the reverſe! you have robb'd me of that treaſure, ſeduc'd it from my heart, and I return to a melancholy home, without a friend for my own diſtreſſes, or a father for my children!

And how can I help it?—didn't I mean to do you both a ſervice by introducing you to the great world?

Great world!—there again, madam!—when I enter'd this houſe, I expected from the exalted rank of its owner to have been ſurrounded with kindneſs, elegance, and hoſpita⯑lity!—but I find that high birth doesn't create high breeding, nor am I, becauſe humbly born, leſs likely to ſet a poliſh'd example than yourſelf—Oh Darnley! why will you not come forth and ſave your once lov'd wife from agonies too great to bear.

So Savage—here's a pretty ſtory buzz'd about!—they ſay that Darnley, the country 'ſquire, is lock'd up in your dreſſing-room! if this is true you Jezabel—

Scandalous brute!—but I don't wonder at it, you've had ſuch a low vulgar educa⯑tion.

I had an education!—well that's more than ever you had!—but look'ye, Miſs, no time muſt be loſt; for if Sir Paul diſcovers your intriguing, he'll break off the marriage, and we are ruin'd—yes; ruined madam!

you and your infamous huſband will make your own plots and marr mine—ſo I'll unkennel him.

Hold, ſir—indeed he is not to blame—he was betray'd into that room.

Betray'd!—nay, then I muſt con⯑feſs, brother, that Mr. Darnley is there; I dare ſay he conceal'd himſelf on purpoſe to expoſe me to Sir Paul—nay, I am ſure of it now.

I ſee him through the key-hole—the raſcal's in diſguiſe!

John call up the club—un⯑looſe the hounds—tell the whole houſe to pre⯑pare for quizzing—quizzing, you rogue.—

—John, open the back-door, and ſhew the diſguis'd gentleman out of the houſe directly—go—and as for you Mrs. Darnley—

Confuſion!—Darnley!

Is he then innocent?—Oh Har⯑ry!

Amazing! why, who was that wretch in my coat, hat, and tippet!

No leſs a gentleman than Sir Paul Perpetual—Clara told me the whole ſtory—he put on that diſguiſe to avoid the ſnares that were laid for him, and he has ere this left the houſe, determined to break off an union, that would have undone me and my family—lady Sarah, I entreat your pardon; but here

here is my apology.

Sir, I have ſhewn the diſguis'd gentle⯑man down ſtairs.

Go to the devil with you.—

Brother!

Siſter!

We are the fools that are out⯑witted.

Yes: we've turn'd out the wrong man—but let's purſue and overtake him inſtant⯑ly; come,—'ſquire, I inſiſt you leave my houſe directly, and as to you Miſs—if I catch the young gentleman, I'll have ſome ſport, I'm de⯑termined—I'll turn you both looſe amongſt the hounds below, and the Club ſhall decide, whe⯑ther [35]ther old P. isn't the prettieſt looking female of the two!

I reſolved, Maria, to meet any cen⯑ſure, rather than give a pang to ſuch a heart as yours; but let us be gone—

Ay: let us return to our villa, nor ever wander more.

No—not yet Maria.

Not yet!

No—I have a plan to execute—Sir George, my beſt of friends, has invited us both to his aunt's houſe at Bath, and is now waiting without to conduct us.

Do not go! let me entreat you; do not—I have a thouſand fears.

Nay, nay: he will introduce us to friends, who can render us eſſential ſervice; come—come—indulge me—the ſociety will be pleaſant, and unlike this ill-bred ſcene—

Well! if it muſt be ſo—Ah, Har⯑ry! I have now paſs'd hours in the humble and exalted ſcenes of life, and I find that good breed⯑ing is confin'd to no rank or ſituation! it conſiſts in good ſenſe, and good humour, and I believe we may ſee as large a ſhare of it under the roof of the cottage, as in the ſplendid manſions of the great!

SCENE I.—A ſuperb room in FLUSH'S houſe; handſome ſideboard of Plate—Pictures in elegant Frames—gilded chairs—two ſervants in fine live⯑ries, putting ſilver coffee pot, tea urn, &c. on the table for breakfaſt, a third ſervant ſhewing in READY.

Tell your maſter, his agent deſires to ſee him.

Sir, Mr. Fluſh is hardly dreſt yet.

Not up!—why it's two o'clock.

Very likely, ſir—my maſter ſeldom riſes ſooner—beſides he gave a grand ſupper laſt night; all the firſt people in Bath were preſent, ſir.

Well! well! tell him Mr. Ready is here:

now isn't it amazing that a man who was only twelve years ago clerk to a lottery-office-keeper in London, ſhould be ſo rich, and ſo viſited, and how has he done all this? how, but by the modern myſtery of money lending!—by opening a ſhop in the city for li⯑nens, gauzes; and muſlins—by keeping a fine houſe near Bond ſtreet, and another in Bath. His ſon manages in London, and I here, while he by not appearing, is every where noticed and reſpected.

James! Thomas! tell the cook to ſend a plan of my dinner.

He's ſuch an epicure! and he, who formerly could ſcarcely get neceſſaries, is now not ſatisfied with luxuries.

Ha! Ready! how d'ye do, Ready?

Sir!

Sit down, Ready—ſit down.

well! how go on money matters?

I have alter'd the advertiſement as you deſir'd, and inſerted it in the Bath and Briſtol papers.

Read it—read it.

You ſcoundrels!

is this a pine apple for a gentleman? buy a larger; buy one if it coſts ten pounds; I can afford it—read, Ready, read.

‘Money mat⯑ters!—the nobility, gentry, ladies of faſhion, officers of rank, bankers, &c. may be ſecretly accommodated with money to any amount, on perſonal ſecurity only, by applying to P. O. Holly Street, Bath—No. 93.’

Excellent! well! does the trap fill! have you caught any birds?

Plenty; plenty of pigeons already;

here, here's a note for five hundred—left by a daſhing young parſon—I think it's good.

It is—treat him well; give him value; I can afford it.

Value! but in what manner, Sir?

Oh! pay him in the old way, Ready; firſt, give him my draft at a week for [38]thirty guineas, then offer him damag'd linen and muſlin to the amount of one hundred and twenty, and bid him call again in a fortnight—you have his note all the time you know.

Certainly, ſir; and when he calls—

Give him a bad bill for one hundred and fifty, and pay him the odd hundred in trifles; ſuch as paſte buckles, gilt bracelets, Weſtphalia hams, painted prints, neats tongues, and Stilton cheeſes—ſo ſhake hands, and have done with Maſter Parſon.

But not with the bill, ſir.

No—my bankers diſcount it, and pay it away, till paſſing through different hands, ſomebody gives value for it at laſt, and then the glorious work begins—then comes the hero into combat! an attorney is employ'd! an attorney, my boy! action is brought upon action! decla⯑ration filed upon declaration! till the drawer, acceptor, and indorſers all get into the King's Bench—the King's Bench—no—I beg pardon; the high money-lenders, and low attornies, have ſo fill'd it, with their dupes, that there isn't room there—the houſe overflows! ſo Newgate, Newgate is the ſhop!

Here's your ſon! juſt arriv'd from London!

Shew him in.

I'm told, ſir, Mr. Gingham is quite another man, ſince I ſaw him.

Yes, yes, you knew his curſt, ingenu⯑ous, candid diſpoſition; he learnt it in the coun⯑try, the dog would ſpeak the truth, and his ſim⯑plicity [39]ſo injur'd our trade, that I threatened to turn him out of doors; but he has reform'd Ready! the boy has the good ſenſe to tell a lie now, and I've ſent for him to witneſs his bleſſed reformation.

Ay, ſir, your ſon always ſpoke his mind too freely—in ſhort, Mr. Gingham was too honeſt for his profeſſion.

He was; however he has given me his word, never to ſpeak what comes uppermoſt, and he is now what he ought to be; a regular, ſo⯑lemn, jeſuitical—in ſhort—he's a very promiſing young man.

Sir, your hand—Ready yours, well! here I am—quite converted—like father, like ſon—tell a lie without bluſhing.

Here—I told you ſo—ay, ay, I knew the boy would come to ſomething good at laſt—ſo my dear boy you've left off telling the truth—ſpeaking your mind.

Mum! cloſe as the cabinet—keep you in my eye—put on your face, and do it ſo punctually, you wouldn't know young P. O. from yourſelf—

zounds! what a fine houſe you've got! how its furniſh'd! what plate! what pictures!

The reſult of trade and honeſt induſtry, Frank—yes—its pretty furniture isn't it?

Pretty furniture! it's ſo handſome, that except yourſelf, curſe me, if I ſee a ſhabby bit in the room!—nay, nay, upon my ſoul, I didn't allude to you; I meant Ready.

He's at his old tricks I ſee—as candid as ever.

Plague on't! I could ſooner bite off my tongue, than ſtop its ſpeaking what I think! nay, ſir, now pray.

Well, well, I excuſe you this once; I, a ſhabby bit! however we ſhall ſoon ſee—how goes on the ſhop in London?

The ſhop!

Ay, the ſhop in the city that you've the care of—the linens—the—

Oh ay: now I recollect; why very well upon the whole, I believe, ſir—very well—only between ourſelves; I'm afraid it won't laſt; I think we and our tricks ſhall be found out—you underſtand—

Found out! 'ſblood, ſirrah—

Softly ſir—ſoftly—don't put yourſelf in a paſſion, and lay the blame on me; don't charge me with our ruin, for every body knew my opinion long ago; didn't they, Ready? I told it to a thouſand people—ſays I, "ſwind⯑ling will never thrive, and I and my poor fa⯑ther ſhall get duck'd at laſt!"

You did! did you?

That I did, ſir; and I'll prove I ſaid ſo—the other night I ſlept at the weſt end, and two friends—diſtreſs'd old officers in the army—brought their notes to be diſcounted—ſays I, ‘Gentlemen, it won't do—you'll get little caſh, but a quantity of trumpery nonſenſe, ſuch as hams, cheeſes, prints, linens, and other ve⯑getables!’ ſaid they; ‘we know that—we know you and your father are two infernal ſharpers, but a guinea now is worth ten a month hence—ſo give us the money.’

Well: and you took their note, didn't you?

No, I didn't—I gave them the caſh, ſhook the two old ſoldiers by the hand, and ſaid I was tir'd of ſuch d—d ſwindling prac⯑tices.

This is ſad work, Mr. Gingham you'll never be at the top of your profeſſion.

The top!—Oh! what the pillory? no—I leave that to you, Ready!

Was there ever ſuch a ſcoundrel?—but we'll hear more,

—So, you ſleep at the weſt end of the town, do you?

Always—its vulgar to be in the city of an evening; beſides I like to walk in Kenſington-gardens in the morning—You know Kenſington-gardens, father—the place where there's ſuch a mixture of green leaves and brown powder—of blue violets and yellow ſhoes; and where there's ſuch a croud, that to get air and exerciſe you ſtand a chance of broken bones and ſuffocation!—Well!—there I ſtrut away, my boys—

You do—do you?—I can hardly keep my hands off the raſcal—So then I ſuppoſe, the moment my back was turn'd, you never thought of buſineſs.

Buſineſs!—no never—Did I, Ready? I recollected my father play'd the ſame game before me; that when he was clerk at the lottery-of⯑fice, at billiards all the morning, and at hazard all the evening—therefore, ſays I, where's the diffe⯑rence?—none! but that he had the policy to conceal his tricks, and I the folly to ſhew mine—heh! I'm right—an't I, Ready?

You villain!—is this your reformation? not even conceal your own faults, much more [42]mine. Expoſe my character, neglect my trade, and ſtrut away in Kenſington-gardens! I have done with you from the country you came, and to the country you ſhall return—Speak the truth, indeed! zounds! ſirrah, what has truth to do with money lending!

Oh, Guardy—I'm juſt come to Bath with Mr. and Mrs. Darnley—we are all on a viſit at Sir George Gauntlet's, and—

Its only my ſon, Clara—a ſimple fooliſh young man.

More knave than fool, upon my honour, ma'am.

The gentleman don't praiſe himſelf I ſee, Mr. Fluſh.

No, ma'am—nor do I know any bo⯑dy that will praiſe me—unleſs my father indeed.

Silence, ſir!—well: but about the ru⯑ral pair, my dear ward; do you know I have a great regard for Mr. and Mrs. Darnley.

Have you? I'm vaſtly glad of that for your joint guardian, Sir Paul, is ſo employ'd in ſeeking for his loſt child, that he has forgot his promiſe to aſſiſt Darnley; therefore I want you to do him a favour.

A favour!—he may command me.

The caſe is this—his increaſe of family has ſo enlarg'd his expences, that he has thoughts of returning to the army—Sir George has pro⯑miſed to procure him a company, but Mrs. Darnley, not chuſing he ſhould owe his promo⯑tion to him, wiſhes he ſhould purchaſe; now, [43]Guardy, if you would lend him two hundred pounds.

Two hundred pounds, child!

Ay, two hundred pounds, father!

Who bid you ſpeak, ſir?—Why, Clara, in money matters there is an etiquette.

True: but this is your friend.

So it is, ma'am: the man he has a great regard for.

And when you conſider the charms of Mrs. Darnley, and the wants of her children—

He can't refuſe, ma'am—indeed he don't intend it—and therefore as I ſee he means to grant the favour, I'll ſave him the trouble of putting his hand in his pocket—Here, ma'am!

here are two bank notes of a hundred each—they belong to Mr. Fluſh—now they belong to Mr. Darnley—

—he begs you'll give them to his friend—and preſent his compliments—and ſay, he'll double the ſum.

Stand off—ſtand off—or by heavens I'll—

Double the ſum, whenever call'd upon, ma'am.

Hold your tongue, or I'll knock it down your throat, ſirrah.—I ſay, Clara, in the the way of buſineſs, I've no objection to do Mr. Darnley a ſervice; that is, if I can make a pro⯑fit by it—firſt, he ſhould ſend me his note.

Here it is, ſir.

That's right—now we can proceed—here, ſir—

take the note to my agent, and tell him to give Mr. Darnley thirty pounds—I can afford it.

This is too bad—take in his own friend, and a man with a family,

Sir,—a word if you pleaſe—I told you, we were all blown upon—now, here's an opportunity for retrieving our reputation—lend him the two hundred pounds—prove, for once, we can behave like gentlemen, and hark'ye—we ſhan't reach the top of the profeſſion.

This is beyond bearing—quit the room directly—'sdeath!—leave my houſe, ſir—be⯑gone!—I diſinherit you—I—

Lord!—why ſo angry, guardian?—I'm ſure he is a good young man, and as warm in his heart—

Warm in his heart!—nonſenſe!—will he be warm in the funds? no—never—while he is ſo candid—ſo—

Not while he is candid, ſir?

No—do you think I made my fortune by candour or openneſs; anſwer me, ſir—did I ever get a ſhilling by ſpeaking the truth— ſpeak!

No, ſir, I never ſaid you did—I know the contrary, ſir; madam, I'm of a communicative diſpoſition, I own; but there are many ſecrets of my father's I never blabb'd.

Are there, ſir?

Yes, that there are, ſir.

I don't recollect them.

Don't you? Why, now, did I ever mention, ſir, that you got theſe pictures by ſue⯑ing out execution? That you got that plate, by its being pawn'd to you for half its value; that you intrigue with a female money-lender; and that the laſt time you were made a bankrupt, [45]you went to get your certificate ſigned in a new vis-a-vis? did I, or will I ever mention theſe things?

Begone, ſir—I'll never ſee you more— Yet, ſtay—you have papers in your poſſeſſion —meet me in an hour's time at my agent's, ſir, —at Mr. Ready's.

Forgive me this once, father—I'll never let the cat out any more.

No, ſir, I never will forgive you— I am engaged, ſir, and you know we great men are ſelect in our company.

Well, if it muſt be ſo—farewell, father! the world is all before me, and what trade to follow, heaven only knows. Good bye, madam!—your ſex will never befriend me, be⯑cauſe I can't keep a ſecret, you ſee.

I will befriend you, ſir; for while there is ſo much deception and hypocriſy in the world, it would indeed be unjuſt, not to ap⯑prove ſuch frankneſs and honeſty. Guardy, let me intercede for him; I'll anſwer for his con⯑duct.

Aye; and if ever I mention duck⯑ing or ſwindling again.—There! you ſee he's fix'd, ma'am.

At preſent he is, and therefore leave him, perhaps by the time you meet him at the agent's I ſhall have talked him into good humour. Adieu! depend on't, I ſhan't forget your gene⯑rous intentions.

Nor ſhall I, yours; and if fortune ſmiles on me, I'll prove that I deſerve your kindneſs—If ever my father pardons—but I ſee he's more and more angry, ſo I take my leave. May every bleſſing attend you—may you meet with a heart as liberal as your own—May your [46]couſins' diſtreſſes vaniſh—may your guardian once more value a ſon, who can't help ſpeaking the truth for the ſoul of him.

Upon my word he's a charming man! and pardon him you muſt, Guardy, if its only to pleaſe me.

No—I'm determined.

The dinner's ready.

Come, Clara, you ſhall dine with me; I want to talk to you, and if I cou'd ſee my joint Guardian, Sir Paul—

I met him at your door—he's only juſt gone by.

Juſt gone by! that's a miſtake; for the old beau has been gone by theſe thirty years: however, come in—come, and eat and drink what you like. Call for burgundy, champagne, or tokay—Ay, call for tokay at a guinea a pint; I can afford it, my dear Ward, I can afford it.

SCENE II.—The Creſcent and the ſurrounding country.

Sir George, I own my weakneſs: the proud, the haughty lady Sarah is humbled; Darnley has enſnared my heart, and one way or other, I muſt inſure his pity—Heigho! you are his friend, Sir George.

You ſee I am; and that he eſteems me more than ever, is evident from his bringing Mrs. Darnley to my houſe—did you mind his orders to her?—take an airing my dear with Sir George in his phaeton! it will raiſe your ſpirits, my love!—Ha! ha! he abſolutely throws her into my arms.

Yes; but ſhe abſolutely contrives to get out of them again.

She does; and therefore, there is no way but the one I mentioned—we muſt make Darnley jealous.

True:—I'll tell him that you love his wife.

Nay, nay, not me—fix on ſome⯑body elſe—we'll ſoon find an object, and then by convincing him of her falſehood, he naturally turns his thoughts to another woman; which is you, you know—and ſhe wanting a protector, conſequently flies to another man, which is me, you know we'll add the Signor to the confede⯑racy.

You're a ſad wretch—a ſad wretch indeed, Sir George, to impoſe on a friend, who places ſuch confidence—ſuch—I won't hear you—poſitively I won't hear you—only obſerve, if I don't win the cruel Darnley's affections, I'll drive my Phaeton down a precipice in reality; I will, or with the bayonet of my fuſil, pierce my too tender heart, and expire at his feet.

So Sarah—I and Sir Paul have had ſuch an adventure!—though we quarrel'd laſt night, we made it up to day; for I never think alike two hours together—Do you, ſiſter?

Never: but when I think of you brother, then I think more than I ſay, I aſſure you.

No; you ſay more than you think, I aſſure you—but would you believe it? The old boy has ſeen his ſon,—we trac'd him from the ſtage coach he came in, to the pump room, from the pump room, to the billiard room—there Sir Paul ſaw him playing with the marker, and when he heard the young man's name, he fainted; actually fainted in my arms.

What, in a fit! poor old man! well! if you'll believe me, Sir George, I never ſaw a perſon in a fit in all my life.

Long before he recover'd, the young man was gone—the bird was flown—for the ſtanders by, all blacklegs began laying betts on Sir Paul's recovery, and thoſe who were againſt him, wouldn't let water be thrown in his face.

Inhuman wretches!—they ought to have ſous'd him to death: but pray, brother, who is this child? where does he come from? what's the ſtory?

Why—about twenty years ago, Sir Paul's lady quarrell'd with him at Tunbridge, and married a citizen—Four months after the mar⯑riage ſhe had a ſon, which the citizen brought up as his own, and Sir Paul now ſwears the boy was his—'gad! it will be curious; for the child will have two fathers.

Curious! not at all—but why ſhould you meddle?

Becauſe it ſecures me the two beſt racers in his ſtud—Fidget and Fizgig; and what's better, becauſe it ſtill ſecures us Sir Paul's fortune: for though he won't marry you him⯑ſelf, he intends his ſon ſhould; and, if I could but once more ſee the young man—I know he goes by his mother's name—

heh! its him! there he is again!—get out of the way; don't interrupt—

No—I have too great a regard for Sir Paul's property to interrupt any plan for ſecuring it; beſides, Sir George and I have bu⯑ſineſs—come—I ſay brother, tell the old gentle⯑man to be careful, and in his eagerneſs bid him not claim another man's child inſtead of his own!

Where can Sir Paul be loitering? he ſaid he'd follow me—mum!

Oh! what a whirligig world is this? I that was brought up to lend money; muſt now try to borrow it: but where? who'll truſt a wan⯑dering linen-draper! who'll truſt the notorious young P. O.? however, Iv'e got my equivalent; I can ſpeak my mind now—no longer need I ſmother my thoughts, and be ready to burſt: no longer have an itching on my tongue, and be ready to bite it in two—no, no, I may open now. The ſweet lady ſends me word my father is inex⯑orable, but hopes ſhe ſhall ſoon ſee me again; heigho! I hope ſo too; when I think of her, my heart feels ſuch queer ſenſations—I have it: ſhe has taken leſſons of my father, and ſwindled me out of my affections; but then my poverty— I can never indulge even a hope.—

—Ha! here's the friend of the queer old gentleman, who fainted in the billiard room.

Sir, the honour⯑able Henry Savage has the pleaſure—the feli⯑city—What are you—

the honourable?

Ay: why didn't you know it?

No: nor never ſhould if you hadn't told me—ha! ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! you're a droll dog! 'gad! you ſhall come to my houſe, and paſs a week with me.

Faith! a year with all my ſoul! I've nothing to do with myſelf; I've left off trade; haven't change for ſixpence in the world, [51]and ſo my little right honourable—I'll honour you with my company.

Huſh! if you want money don't own it: we great people are cloſe—

I know it; oeconomical too!—you live cheap.

What! people of faſhion live cheap?

To be ſure; you don't pay; and if that iſn't living cheap, the devil's in't!—ha! here's the fainting gentleman again!—who the deuce is he?

I fancy you'll find him a pretty near relation of yours—at leaſt, if you were born at Tunbridge, and your mother's name was Ging⯑ham.

It was; that's the name of her, and of the town.

Say you ſo?—

—The racers are mine, Sir Paul!

Ay: my whole ſtud—any thing: every thing! only let me have another peep at my dear boy!—only let me prove to poſterity!

There he is!

Where!

There! there is your ſon! who was born at Tunbridge—whoſe mother's name was Gingham, and who is now without a ſhilling in his pocket, or a friend in the world—joy! joy! old boy! you've got a young P. at laſt!

Stand off! let me come at him; come to thy father's arms!

My father!

Ay: thy real father! who has a for⯑tune to beſtow on thee, and health, youth, and ſpirits to ſhare in all thy pleaſures—The dog has my right eye to a T.

Pray does your friend bite in his fits?

Hark'ye—its Sir Paul Perpetual! better known by the name of old P.—he has an immenſe property.

Has he?

Yes: and if its certain you are his ſon, he'll give you every farthing of it.

Oh! if that's the caſe—if he has an immenſe property—let me ſee who dare deny it? Sir, your bleſſing!—

—I always ſaid I wasn't my father's own child.

Riſe my boy! my darling! and tell us how the citizen educated you!—The turn of my noſe exactly!

I've done with linens, gauzes, and muſlins now!—let the ſhop and all its ſwindling go to the bottom—I'm the ſon of Sir Paul Perpetual, better known by the name of old P. I'm not a tradeſman —.

Tradeſman!—zounds!—my ſon brought up in a ſhop! — how it freezes my warm blood!—look'ye, my boy—two things I muſt re⯑queſt of you—never to talk about trade, or men⯑tion your former father's name.

Never—I'll never mention his name becauſe I deſpiſe it; but as to trade, what's bred in the bone, you know father —

Well—well—come to Mr. Savage's houſe; there we'll introduce you to your in⯑tended wiſe—Miſs Savage will ſoon break you of talking about trade, or the city—ſo come along.

Ay: pray give up the city—the rich rogues have no taſte for us men of wit and ge⯑nius—they eſtimate every thing by property, [53]and if the great Ben Jonſon—nay, if the great Big Ben were alive, is there one citizen would give the poor dogs a dinner?

No—you're right there; in the ci⯑ty a man that has no money, has no wit—the ſmalleſt bank note is more entertaining than the wittieſt manuſcript; and talk of Ben Jonſon's name for jokes—damme, Abraham Newland beats him hollow! isn't it true, my boy?

As true, as that you beat my other father hollow—come—henceforth, no money lending tricks for me. But young P. O. ſhall ſtick to gay old P.

SCENE I.—A Drawing-Room in Mr. SAVAGE'S Houſe at Bath.

Bravo! Signor braviſſimo!—and ſo Lady Sarah Savage has actually perſuaded Darnley, that his wife loves another man?

Si—at firſt he no believe—but Lady Sarah lay it down with ſuch courâge—her oaths were ſo ſuperbe, and mine ſo magnifique, that 'at laſt he accompany us with tears—pauvre Miſter Darnley!—Ah! ha!—you no forget my vife's concert.

And who did you ſay Mrs. Darn⯑ley was attached to?

Attendez—Sir Paul—what you call—old P.—he has found one child—eh bien!—the enfant was at the comedie, and ſaw Madame Darnley and her 'couſin maltraité by ſome qu'on appelle bobbies—villains who fight de duels, and interrupt de muſic—Vell! de child relieve de ladies, conduct them home—ſup, and dough all de time he make love to Mad'moiſelle Clara—

Yet, Lady Sarah Savage fixes on him for Mrs. Darnley's gallant—excellent! and if this ſcheme fails, I underſtand ſhe has another—there is Mr. Fluſh—a ſort of money agent.

Je connois—je connois—he make a you poor, by lending you caſh.

This Mr. Fluſh has got Darnley's note for two hundred pounds—now he can't pay it; and therefore if Lady Sarah Savage buys it up—

Je comprehende—ſhe ſay, give me my heart, or pay me my money—ah ha!—I ſee you will be the firſt fiddle yourſelf;—

le voici!—here is Mr. Fluſh!

No—it's Sir Paul and the ſon you ſpoke of—good day Signor—and if you ſee Darnley, tell him I'm out of town.

I vill! — ecoutez—I no like to meet this Sir Paul—ven he aſk me to his houſe, he always ſing himſelf—toujours—if he has de cold—de ſore throat—il chante! and begar: he ſing as well with the hoarſeneſs, as without—bon-jour, Sir George—bon-jour—

Ah ha!—you no forget my vife's concert?

Darnley, jealous of his wife! and ſhe under my own roof!—now, if I can perſuade her to retaliate—here's her ſuppoſed gallant.

I tell you, father, Clara Sedley is the girl of my heart!—your ward is the girl for young P.

Nonſenſe!—haven't I made you a gentleman—ſtuck a ſword by your ſide?—haven't I brought you here to addreſs Lady Sarah Sa⯑vage?—ha! Sir George!—now mind

and conceal your low education—not a word about trade or the warehouſe; for I mean to put you into the army, and I've told every [56]body you've been on your travels.—Sir George!—my ſon!

Sir, I'm very proud of the honour.

Sir!—I'm very proud of—

—right India muſlin, by all that's—mum!

You've been a great traveller, ſir,—much abroad?

Abroad!—yes, ſir—I was ſeldom at home—generally at the Weſt End, for between ourſelves, though I was brought up to trade, I always deſpis'd the warehouſe—always—pſhaw!

Zounds!—mind what you're at—conſider, if you talk as my ſon, about linens and the warehouſe, they'll take your father for a tradeſman; they'll ſay I'm a haberdaſher, knighted on a city addreſs!

A haberdaſher!—that's a good one, a very good one—upon my ſoul; Sir George, my father is'nt ſuch a fool, as you take him for—no—that he isn't—are you, father?

When Mr. Fluſh comes, ſhew him up ſtairs.

Here's your intended wife, ſir—'gad! I hope it will be a match, for Lady Sarah is ſo anxious for a huſband, that in the scramble, ſhe might ſeize me at laſt—come, Sir Paul—let's leave the happy pair together.

Now, remember what I told you—Lady Sarah is the eſſence of faſhion and good breeding; and if you want to poliſh, and rub off the city-ruſt, imitate her—copy her elegant manner.

Ay: ſhe's the rage!—and, if he wants to ſecure her affections, bid him imitate [57]his father, Sir Paul—copy you, and he muſt ſucceed with the women.

Ay, that he muſt, Sir George—there's not a girl at Newmarket, not a dancer at the opera, or a ſinger at the ancient concert, but adores me—they treat me with the ſame re⯑ſpect they would a father—they ſay I'm ſo quiet—ſo inoffenſive—ſo harmleſs.

Harmleſs! do they ſay you're harm⯑leſs, father?

Ay, harmleſs, and under that idea, I've done more miſchief, then any ten danger⯑ous men in Europe—So copy her manners, and ſucceſs to you, my boy!

Bravo! theſe are fine times, Maſ⯑ter Gingham,—but will they laſt?—is there no trick play'd, or to be play'd thee?—Sir Paul I'm told has a way of diſguiſing himſelf in women's cloathes, ſurely this is'nt another maſ⯑querading affair—Ah! here's ſpouſe!—now to imitate her faſhionable manners.

Marry him, I will: becauſe in the firſt place, there's a ſcarcity of huſbands; and in the next, being his wife, ſecures Sir Paul's fortune, and makes Darnley for ever in my pow'r—beſides, I can draw the youth into all my ſchemes—hem!

Hem!

If this is a woman of faſhion, the breed is grown pretty bold I think.

I muſt ſhew him my ſpirit—ter⯑rify him before marriage, in order to tame [58]him after.

Sir!

Ma'am.

Give me a chair!

A chair, ma'am?

Yes, a chair, ſir.

Eſſence of breeding!—ſhe's the eſſence of braſs!

A chair, ma'am!

He little knows what a life I ſhall lead him.

Heh!—a chair, ma'am!—here's a chair, I ſay—

Oh, I forgot—I am really ſo ab⯑ſent—

he! he! he!

Are you really!—he! he! he!—I ſhould like to—

imitate her manners! hang me if I dare—ſhe has ſet me all in a tremble—pheugh!

Look up, my hero!

You can't think how I rejoice at your be⯑ing deſigned for the army. I'm of a military, mar⯑tial turn myſelf, and ſhall ſerve every campaign with you.

You ſerve campaigns!—I wiſh I was out of the room—pheugh!

I ſhall make an excellent ſol⯑dier—a dauntleſs warrior! and if you talk of little unfledg'd fluttering enſigns, look at me—look!—

march!—wheel about!—left!—make ready!—preſent!—fire!

It is—it is an impoſtor!—ugh!

Shan't I make a warlike appear⯑ance! animate one army, and intimidate ano⯑ther? reſtore the name of amazon—revive the age of chivalry, and if there are fools that threaten, and cowards that dread an invaſion; Oh! how the thought fires me!—

—give me a few champions like myſelf, and we'll ſtand on our white cliffs, and ſcare away whole na⯑tions.

Damme, it's another man in wo⯑man's cloathes! don't agitate yourſelf—be com⯑pos'd—

what would I give to be ſnug behind the counter?

I am no timid helpleſs woman; I can ſhoot—I can fence—flouriſh a ſword, or fire off a muſket!—penetrate your ſword arm at the firſt thruſt, or lodge a bullet in your fore⯑head at forty yards.

Keep cool—my hero keep cool! Oh! it's a clear caſe—it's a man, and here am I to rub off the ruſt, by being run through the bo⯑dy! ſit down my fine fellow! ſit down.

Fine fellow!

Ay, I ſee how it is—Sir Paul has adopted me out of joke, and you are to make mince meat of me for my vanity!

Why, what is all this!

mince meat!

He ſmiles! then the joke's at an end, and they don't mean to hurt me! give me your hand—you comical dog, give me your hand.

Comical dog! what do you mean? explain.

Explain! nay: that's too bad—do you think I don't know you my jolly boy?—do you think I can't ſee you are a gentleman?

What! I a gentleman?

Ay, and a brave one too!—why I ſuſpected you at firſt ſight!—I ſaw there was nothing feminine about you, and then when I looked you full in the face, "pooh," ſays I, this can never be a woman!

Not a woman!—have I ſtudied modern faſhions? exceeded all the preſent race of high ſpirited women! only to be miſtaken for—Oh Lord! I never wept before in all my life—but this—Oh, I ſhall faint—Oh! Oh!

My raſcal of a ſon has gone off with all my papers—Darnley's note amongſt the num⯑ber—and though Lady Sarah would give twice the value for it, I cannot find him—

Huſh! not ſo loud father—he'll flouriſh a ſword—fire off a muſket!

He!—who!—but how came you here, ſir? in this diſguiſe too!

Phoo!—it isn't me that's diſguis'd; a word—

—there!

What! that lady!

No; that comical dog—I'm ſure of it—mum!

Ha! ha! ha!—you blockhead! why it's Lady Sarah Savage! ſhe's rather maſculine to be [61]ſure: but Lord help you—ſhe and I are old friends.

What! you know her? do you!

Know her!—why I'll take my oath ſhe's a woman.

He'll take his oath!—Oh then I ſee my error—ſhe's on the pavé, diſcarded; and they want to palm her on me.

Fool!—would you make more blun⯑ders! can't you tell a women of faſhion from a—.

No—there it is, ſir,—if women of faſhion will talk and dreſs like women of ano⯑ther deſcription, who the devil can tell one from the other! and, if likewiſe they will hunt, ſhoot, and fence, and prefer maſçuline aſſurance, to feminine diffidence, is it amazing, that a gentle⯑man ſhould confound the ſexes? however, I'm glad it's not a man.

Come—come—without further en⯑quiry, give me Darnley's note; the one Clara brought; the comical dog there, as you call her, is in love with Darnley, and wants to hold the bill as a rod over his head: I ſhall only aſk her one hundred pounds premium for it.

Only a hundred premium! heh!

No; I can afford it: and ſhe, by arreſt⯑ing him, can make her own terms—you under⯑ſtand!

Perfectly; ſo I'll ſhew her the note, and make peace—

—madam—lady.

Pſhaw! don't come near me, brute.

I am convinc'd of my miſtake, ma'am—this gentleman will take his oath on the ſubject, and therefore—in hopes of making amends—here is a note, my lady; a note of Mr. Darnley's for two hundred pounds.

What did you ſay, ſir?

A note of Mr. Darnley's, ma'am!

So it is; ſign'd with his own dear hand—

—well, now I look at you again, ſir, I'm quite aſham'd of our ſilly miſ⯑underſtanding—I am indeed—he! he! perhaps it was my fault—nay—I dare ſay it was—and ſo, that's Mr. Darnley's note, is it?

It is, and now I recollect, wasn't the lady I conducted from the play, his wife?

It was—but entre nous—what's the price of that fooliſh bit of paper?

Only three hundred pounds! one hun⯑dred for the premium, and two for the princi⯑pal.

Here is the money then.

Softly; keep the principal, becauſe you'll both want it, and as to the note, I'll keep that, leſt ſomebody elſe ſhould want it!

you brought me up to the trade, and if I haven't learnt a trick or two, Mr. Fluſh, it's no fault of yours.

What! would you turn ſwindler, you raſcal!

Ay, this is a new mode of get⯑ting money.

No—not ſo very new—is it Mr. Fluſh?—however, as the wife is the only perſon that ought to have a pow'r over the huſband, [63]I'll e'en go inſtantly to Mrs. Darnley, and give it her.—

What, ſir?

A note for two hundred pounds, ſir,—have you any objections? never mind the loſs of the premium, Mr. Fluſh—you can afford it, you know—adieu!—Mr. Bluff,

your ſervant—it wouldn't do—you you comical dog, it wouldn't do!—

'Sdeath!—this is the very man you told me of.

Ay, now can you want further proof of his attachment to your wife?—I'll leave it to any body?—isn't it evident, Mr. Fluſh?

His giving her two hundred pounds is a ſtrong circumſtance to be ſure—but then, when I recollect the money is mine, and not his—

What then, ſir.

Why then, I think, the lady ought to be in love with me, and not him, ſir.

I'll ſet out for London, and never ſee her more—yet no—I'll be ſatisfied—I'll know the worſt!—I'll inſtantly purſue this new found idol of her heart, and if I catch him in her preſence—

Kill him—for a wretch, who can't diſtinguiſh the human ſpecies, isn't fit to live—come—I'll go with you.

So will I—but pray don't kill him, till I've got my papers.

Nay, don't fret about it, Mr. Darnley—you ſhall return with me to Savage-houſe—come—never think of going to Lon⯑don at this time of year—it's ſo thin—all the great houſes are lock'd up, and there's no mak⯑ing a faſhionable party; is there, Mr. Fluſh?

Your pardon, ma'am—I and my attor⯑ney can always collect a faſhionable party, and if the great houſes are lock'd up, why there are great people in lock-up-houſes, ſo don't be afraid of finding good company, Mr. Darnley!

SCENE II.—A library in Sir George Gauntlet's houſe.

Sir! Sir! Mrs. Darnley is coming here to look for ſome books.

That's fortunate: did you deliver my meſſage to her, and her huſband?

I did, ſir, I told them you were gone out of town, and would not return till to mor⯑row.

Very well! then, in caſe of acci⯑dent, leave open the private door that leads behind the library.

A man of intrigue ſhould al⯑ways have a place to lay ſnug in, and where is he ſo little likely to be diſcover'd, as amongſt works of ſtudy and reflection! here ſhe is! [65]mind we're not interrupted.

Will Mr. Darnley never be con⯑vinc'd of this friend's hypocriſy! he is ſo credu⯑lous, that he even now places more confidence in him, than ever: I'm glad Sir George is out of town—I can at leaſt paſs another hour in peace, and—

Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Darnley; I'm only a living volume, and if you will pe⯑ruſe my thoughts, you'll read of nothing but your⯑ſelf—you are engraved here in indelible letters, upon my honour.

Sir, I was inform'd—but this is no time for parleying—alone and unprotected!

Nay, you know I have long pro⯑feſſed a regard for you; long thought you the fineſt woman on earth! and as a proof, didn't I offer you my hand, before my friend—

Friend! call him by ſome other name, Sir George, and don't profane ſuch ho⯑nourable terms.

Why, isn't he my friend? havn't I ſo completely gain'd his affections, that he wiſhes me to win yours? does he not bring you here—to my houſe!—leave me tête-a-tête with you! and in every reſpect prove ſo kind, ſo obliging—.

Hold, ſir—if he has expoſed me to inſults, I am the perſon to accuſe him—not [66]you! I know his heart, and I know yours—one has my love—my eſteem—the other—

Has what, my ſweet creature?

My ſcorn.

Nay then—I muſt tell you, that when I condeſcend to love a woman, I always inſiſt on making her happy; and therefore, with opportunity on my ſide, and the whole world to lay the blame on your huſband—

On him! the world is not ſo eaſily deceiv'd! but leſt it ſhould, I'll vindicate his fame—I'll proclaim the falſehood of his friend—his perfidy—

Gently—gently—I ſee I muſt take advantage now or never!

What do you mean, ſir?

Firſt to faſten the door, and then, my angel—

And then, my angel—to give you two hundred pounds—this note, ma'am, is Mr. Darnley's—it accidentally fell into my hands, and I deſignedly place it in yours—put it up, ma'am—keep it tight in your pocket; for what, with one having a rage for diſguiſes—another having a rage for ſwindling—a third—

—ha! my judge of good breeding! is it you?

This blockhead has ruin'd one ſcheme already, I ſee.

I'll tell you a ſecret Sir George; you faſhionable people are very vulgar—it is your fine cloathes, gay equipages, and ſuperb houſes that are well bred, and not yourſelves, egad! now only pull off that ſpangled coat—ſtick your⯑ſelf behind a counter, and—.

Sir, don't you ſee I'm buſy?

To be ſure I do.

Why don't you leave the room then?

Becauſe I've no where elſe to go.

Then I command you; this lady and I are engag'd.

Engag'd, Sir George!—Sir,

if you'll conduct me to Mr. Darnley, I ſhall think myſelf a ſecond time indebted to your gallantry.

Madam, I inſiſt—

—retire this inſtant, Sir—retire—

Oh! I perceive—he detains her for baſe purpoſes! oh fie! fie!—fie for ſhame, Sir George—is this your good breeding!—your hand, ma'am—

'Sdeath—obey me, or this ſword, with which I've ſo often fought.

Often fought! what in earneſt?

Raſcal! draw.

No—I'd rather not.

What! you don't like to fight!

No—who the devil does! but you call me raſcal, ſir—now I've been long in doubt whether I am one or not—but if I was half as clear on the ſubject as you muſt be, I'd own it publickly—I'd ſay, "I Sir George Gauntlet am ſuch a rude—ill bred—vulgar"—.

Coward!—come on—

Come on!—well! why ſhouldn't I! I may be alarm'd at maſculine women, but I don't care that—

—for ef⯑feminate [68]men! ſo, though I never learnt to fence in all my life—though I don't know whether to hold my ſword in my right hand or my left, have at thee!—ha!—ha!—

Zounds!—if this ſhould be Darn⯑ley—

—it is! I'm ruin'd—undone!—

Ay, ay, I muſt take leſſons—I'm touch'd—pink'd—

If I ſtir, I meet Darnley—hark'ye Sir—

—that lady's huſband is now on the ſtairs, and your preſent wound is on⯑ly a ſlight one; but if you hint or ſpeak one word againſt my honour—

You'll run me through the body I ſuppoſe—well! as I can't fence—mum!

I ſhall not leave the room—I ſhall be conceal'd, and on the ſlighteſt inſinuation, by heaven! I'll come forth and cut you into atoms; promiſe—or—you know my way—

I do—I'll live and fight another day.

I wiſh I knew the name of Sir George's fencing maſter—

—my dear ma'am, don't be uneaſy—it's only graz'd, and if they don't ſend doctors and apothecaries to me, I ſhall live to pink him, again and again.

Let me bind your hand, with my handkerchief.

Indeed—indeed, I owe you much.

'Tis now beyond a doubt—Oh woman! woman!

You hav'nt got the rage—no, you are what a woman ought to be; mild, gentle, affectionate—an angel by all that's ſacred.

How! make love before my face! —

So Mrs. Darnley —

Oh my dear!—I'm ſo glad you're come — this gallant, generous young man —

Generous young man!

Generous young man!

Has been wounded in my cauſe, and —

And you bound up his arm, with your handkerchief! —nay, don't deny it, madam—with my own eyes, I ſaw it—well, ſir! what have you to ſay, ſir? to that handkerchief, ſir?

Say, ſir!—why, I ſay, the handker⯑chief is as fine cambrick as ever was ſold—twelve ſhillings a yard, ſir!—at leaſt I uſed to ſell ſuch for a guinea—a guinea, Mr. Bluff—as to any thing elſe, if you are the lady's huſ⯑band —

I am her huſband, ſir!—who has long lov'd—long ador'd her!—and now comes here to witneſs her falſehood and his own diſhonour.

What does he ſay?—diſho⯑nour!

Yes, madam—with him! with this gallant, generous young man! did he not laſt night accompany you from the play, and now do I not find you praiſing each other to my very [70]face?—obſerve me, Maria—as you have found me tender in my affections; ſo you ſhall find me ſevere in my reſentment.

I know not what he means: but I thought they'd make him hate me—I guilty of falſehood! diſhonour to my huſband! Oh, Harry! if you believe me ſo debas'd, take up that weapon, and pierce me to the heart!—in pity do!—I cannot live and know that you condemn me.

Do you not love him.

Whom!

Him.

Me!—love me!—I wiſh ſhe did, for if I didn't uſe her better than you do, I'd cut my jealous head off!—look'ye, great lord and maſter!—ſhe is more faithful to you, than you deſerve—I know it, becauſe juſt before you enter'd the room, Sir George Gauntlet, like a vile ſeducer as he is, was attempting to —

crau—au—au!

I ſhall be a dead man, before I know it.

Sir George Gauntlet!—paltry eva⯑ſions!—he is out of town and has ſo often prov'd himſelf a friend. —

Friend!—Oh, Mr. Darnley! at laſt I am compell'd to tell you, he is your enemy and mine—it is that very friend, who would deſtroy your domeſtic peace; who would rob you of a heart, that is, and ever ſhall be all your own! and that, even now, might have triumph'd o'er a helpleſs woman, had not his friendly arm been ſtretch'd to ſerve me.

It's true—I'll ſwear it!—I'll—

crau—au—au!

I'll not believe it—he is above ſuch arts, and I would have you, madam, not en⯑creaſe your guilt, by daring to abuſe my beſt of friends.

Beſt of friends!—upon my ſoul▪ you've a rare ſet of acquaintance then.—Sir! I always had a knack at ſpeaking what comes up⯑permoſt, and I ſay, Sir George wanted to turn me out, in order to lock her in—I ſay, he gave me this wound, in trying to defend her from his inſolence—I ſay he is now conceal'd in this room!

No—I don't ſay he is in the room—I don't! becauſe—becauſe—

its better to be choak'd then kill'd.

See how he prevaricates: and there⯑fore, that my friend may be ſlander'd and I deceiv'd no longer, 'tis time I ſhould decide—Maria!—It almoſt kills me to pronounce it—

we meet no more—

Stay—ſpare me but a moment—I cannot—will not loſe him; Harry, think of our love—our children. —

Sir! ſir!—let me aſk you two queſ⯑tions—

Ay, grin away you—Sir! can you ſence, and will you fight?

Perhaps, you'll find, I can, ſir.

And if I prove that Sir George hid himſelf to avoid you, will you ſtand by, and ſee a poor fellow cut to atoms?

No—on the contrary, I ſhall be ſo convinc'd of the truth of your ſtory —

Say you ſo? then come out you black infernal ſeducer!

There—there he is! and now come on, if you dare—here's a pair of the beſt fencers in Europe?

'Tis all unravel'd—deteſted hypo⯑crite!

Ah, Darnley!—how d'ye do!—this is a droll circumſtance, isn't it!—but I hope you are convinc'd.

Yes, ſir, I am convinc'd.

We're all convinc'd, ſir.

That you and Lady Sarah have join'd in a conſpiracy to deceive me and betray my wife; that you have meanly put on the maſk of friend⯑ſhip, to conceal the blackeſt artifices, and that if you had come to my houſe and boldly plun⯑der'd me of all my fortune—

He'd only have been hang'd!—but now he ſhall be cut to atoms.

Be cautious in your language, Mr. Darnley—you know my diſpoſition.

I do—I know you well: and hence⯑forth if you dare, either by action, word, or look; mark me, ſir—raiſe but a bluſh in her unſullied [73]cheek, I will reſent it—I'll inflict a puniſhment, great as your arrogance deſerves!

Arrogance!

Ay, arrogance!—are you deaf!

Sir, this requires an explanation; you ſhall hear from me.

Pooh!

Delay not then, for I ſhall leave your houſe this moment,

—come Ma⯑ria—to you and this gentleman I have a thouſand apologies—

Bleſs you! I'm amply paid in letting my tongue wag—and as to any thing elſe, allow me once more to ſpeak my mind to your ſweet couſin, Clara! come let's go to her—Oh! you well bred ruffian!—to be firſt pink'd, and then nearly choak'd by ſuch a —; on the whole, though, I never fought better in all my life!

SCENE I.—A Room in a Tavern—Dinner under Covers—Darnley diſcover'd ſitting at the Table— Waiter attending.

Tell Sir George Gauntlet, Mr. Darn⯑ley is waiting—what's o'clock?

Six, ſir.

The time draws near—I wonder where my friend can be? put ſome wine on the table and leave me.

Sir George is below, in cloſe conver⯑ſation with a gentleman, who ſeems anxious to ſee you, ſir.

His ſecond, I ſuppoſe—tell him, I am here—

'Sdeath!—to what have I reduc'd myſelf?—I that had every joy this world can give—a peaceful home—a wife that lov'd, and children that rever'd me!—I to be now in a tavern, on the eve of meeting with a pro⯑feſs'd duelliſt? to be about to commit murder, or elſe to live diſhonour'd and diſgrac'd—Oh, Maria!—when thou ſhalt hear thy huſband is no more, wilt thou forgive me?—wilt thou— but my fate determines hers, and if I fall ſhe is for ever loſt!

The gentleman from Sir George Gaunt⯑let, ſir.

Admit him—now then for the event!

I'm ſo fag'd—ſo completely knock'd up

ha, ha! what's here?—the very thing to revive me.

I hope, ſir, you haven't been talk⯑ing to Sir George.

Yes, but I have though—you em⯑ploy'd me as ſecond, and if you're ſhot, it ſhall be in the way I like beſt.

Waiter! waiter!

Sir! ſir!—Sir George order'd that diſh not to be touch'd till he came.

Did he?—then it's the pick'd thing I ſuppoſe, ſo I'll eat it all up directly,

here—it's quite at his ſervice, and I wiſh the whole were in his ſtomach with all my ſoul!—

Ah! here's ſomething that I can ſwallow.

Well after hunting every where for Sir George, I found him below ſtairs at laſt—"ſo" ſays I "my little Librarian"—al⯑luding to the book-caſe you know—"when are you and this jealous huſband"—alluding to you, you know—"to fight this fooliſh duel?"

Clara! my dear Clara Sedley!

Well, ſir.

Says I "the fact is this; one will be kill'd, the other be hang'd, and the world get rid of two hot-headed fellows:" ſays he, "Will [76]Darnley make me an apology?" ſays I "he might as well."

You did not!

Ah, but I did though "it's very well for faſhionable huſbands, to leave their wives with friends, in hopes of getting divorces and damages; but what right," ſays I, "has a country ſquire to quit his farm, and truſt his wife, with baronets, fools, and coxcombs?— to plant his own horns" ſays I!

"Suc⯑ceſs to trade."

And how did this end, ſir?

How!—why the other ſecond in⯑terfer'd—ſaid Sir George could'nt fire at you, and adviſed him to apologize—he heſitated— I put my hand on my ſword—reminded him of my fine fencing—he ſign'd this paper—I've al⯑ready ſhewn it to Mrs. Darnley, and ſo—

Here's the child that has two fathers!

'Tis ample, final ſatisfaction—wasn't my Maria happy?

She was—but with women, grief ſoon follows joy, you know—ſhe ſays, your un⯑cle, whoever he is, has order'd you to quit Bath, and go abroad—that ſhe is to be left behind, and as your fortune is exhauſted, ſhe fears you muſt conſent—I'm ſorry I'm pinch'd too—however—

Here's confuſion to your ſtingy old uncle!

Unfeeling! perſecuting man!—ſeparate me from all I love—I know the motive for this barbarous conduct—he has found a ſon, on whom he means to laviſh all his favours, and while he rolls in luxury, I and my family may ſtarve —may—but he comes.

So Mr. Darnley: how dare you in⯑trude into the houſes of great people, and thus repeatedly diſgrace me?—look'ye, ſir—I have made up my mind—you muſt ſeek your fortune abroad—I'll pay your expences to the continent, and leſt your family ſhould be a burthen to you, I'll provide for your wife at home.

Oh, ſir! do not part us!

I will!—I'm reſolv'd!

hah!—what do I ſee?—my boy!—my darling!—how came you here you rogue?

Father, you're come in time—juſt in time to finiſh the bottle!

drink! drink the laſt toaſt!

Ay, what is it?

"Confuſion to Darnley's"—

With all my heart—"confuſion to Darnley's"—

"Stingy old uncle!"

Stingy old uncle!—why that's confuſion to myſelf you dog!

What! is it you—well! hang me if I didn't think it was my father—that is my other father, the money-lender—couſin—rela⯑tion—how are you!

Nonſenſe! never mind him—I've brought you your commiſſion—a company in a regiment ſerving in Ireland.

Have you!

who'd have thought my father was your miſerly uncle, heh!

It's three hundred a-year, my boy! pſha! don't mind him I tell you,

I reſerve every thing for you—I always meant to give all I could to my ſon.

Did you!—Oh then it comes to the ſame point; why, perhaps, you'll give me two hundred pounds.

Ay, that I will.

What! and the commiſſion too!

Yes, and the commiſſion too! here they are both—and ſome ten years hence, I'll join the regiment, and ſerve under you; un⯑der my brave ſon!

No—under your brave nephew if you like—I don't underſtand the exerciſe, and Darnley does! and therefore, as we're all rela⯑tions—all in a family, I'll e'en give him the commiſſion—Nay, don't be ſhy couſin—it makes no difference father, does it?

Death and fire! it does, ſir, it makes all the difference, and I ſwear—

Softly—you can make me a hero in another way—as I was brought up to trade, pop me into the train bands—then I can be kill'd in the artillery ground in one day, and be alive in the ſhop the next! ſo keep the commiſſion, couſin; keep it—

and here—here's the money to take you, your wife and children to Ireland—

—there! now moderate your joy, father! you've done a kind, generous action to be ſure: but why! why in ſuch an ecſtacy!

Ecſtacy! agony you puppy!

Gently, gently, at the public break⯑faſt I ſhall ſound forth your praiſes—come, [79]couſin—the beſt of the joke is, I've another fa⯑ther; and though he wont lend you a ſhilling, I'll make him ſend you linen enough to ſhirt your whole regiment.—Farewell, thou liberal man!— look!—Self-gratification has brought tears of joy into his eyes!

Tears of joy!—if being cheated out of my money, makes me cry for pleaſure, what ſhall I do, if I get it back again?—was there ever ſuch a fellow?—however the com⯑miſſion is of no uſe to Darnley—but then the two hundred pounds—and the eaſe with which he did it.

A letter from your Ward, Sir Paul. It requires an immediate anſwer.

I'll come directly—

— So—So—they have heard of her ſudden acqui⯑ſition of fortune—of the Copper Mines being diſcovered on her eſtate, and now like true ſava⯑ges, they mean to paw the property—but I've a huſband for her in my eye. She has formed an affection for this liberal ſon of mine, and the dog can't take her for a man in woman's cloathes.

You knave!—if I catch you—how! has he left the tavern!—Ah! Sir Paul!—pray Sir, have you ſeen any thing of my ſon?

I know nothing of your ſon, ſir.

He has been diſtributing my property— giving away my money, Sir Paul.

'Gad! My ſon has been doing me the ſame favour.

Ay, ſir; but my ſon has ſwindled me out of two hundred pounds.

That's the exact ſum!—my ſon has ſwindled me out of—ſo let's ſhake hands and cry for joy!

Well, well—I can afford it—but, Sir Paul, there is only one way he can make me retribution—you've heard of our ward's copper mines, and though you have only known me as a private gentleman, and I you as joint guar⯑dian—yet I think you will conſent to her marrying the man I propoſe.

And pray, who may the gentleman be?—not the Honourable Mr. Savage, I hope, for he has no property, but my two racers.

No—no—my Son!—my rogue of a Son!—will you agree?

Why I would with pleaſure only—

What Brother Guardian?

I mean to propoſe my rogue of a ſon.

Your ſon!—why how came you by a ſon?—but to the point—my boy has won her heart, Sir Paul.

So has mine too, Mr. Fluſh.

Yours too!—Sdeath, Sir Paul—this racing has turned your brain.

Racing!—Iv'e done with it, ſir— I hate it—I'm above the turf now.

Above the turf!—I wiſh you were under it!—do you pretend ſhe loves both our ſons?—two men at the ſame time, ſir?

To be ſure—ſhe's not the firſt wo⯑man that has lov'd twenty at the ſame time, ſir— but as ſhe can't marry without our joint conſent, and is now in great diſtreſs at Lady Sarah Sa⯑vage's public breakfaſt, let's adjourn there di⯑rectly.

With all my heart—I can afford it— Publick breakfaſt!—why this is later than uſual—

—Nine o'clock at night!

Ah, theſe are late hours: but what need we care, Mr. Fluſh?—we that have health, youth, ſpirits—do you know there is only one houſe in England that affects my conſtitution?

And what houſe is that?

I never was there but twice—the firſt time there was a motion about relieving poor inſolvent debtors, and the houſe was ſo empty I got an ague. The next time, ſomebody mov'd to remove the hackney coaches from Bond-Street, and the benches were ſo cram'd that I was thrown into a ſever!—So hey for the breakfaſt.—Youth's the ſeaſon made for joy!

Love is then our duty! &c.

SCENE II.—A garden at Mr. Savage's on Lanſ⯑aown hill—a marquee at the upper wing, in which is ſeen a table full of fruits, wine, meat, tea urns, coffee pots, &c. A diſtant view of Bath—moon riſing.—Long flouriſh of clarinets!

Call Miſs Clara—

—I have given this party in order to ſecure this young creature and her fortune, for my brutiſh brother has ſo leſſen'd our gold, that only her copper can ſave us from ſinking—if her guardians refuſe, we are prepar'd for bolder ſchemes.

Well: my dear girl, how do you like our break⯑faſt? —breakfaſt by moonlight? isn't it quite charming—ſo nouvêlle?

Quite—and in addition to tea and coffee, here are fowls, fruit, and wine, ſo that you may breakfaſt, dine, drink tea, and ſup all in the ſame meal—nouvêlle!—ſurely nobody elſe is ſo ſingular.

I don't know—I never copy—the world's ſo very ignorant—that only act unlike other people, and you're pretty ſure of being right, but, didn't you like the muſic—the ſinging?—

No; I don't much like theſe ſine ſing⯑ers —it's a long time before you prevail on them to ſing, and then when they once begin—faith! they never ſtop. I declare I only ſaw one perſon I liked amongſt the party.

And who was that?—the dear Signor!

No—the dear creature, my guardian's ſon.

What! that monſter? I wonder who invited ſuch a heterogeneous animal, and you to prefer him—

Even to your brother, Ma'am—I know Mr. Savage deſigns me his hand; but, if my guardians will agree—and why they leave me in this ſcene of danger when I wrote to Sir Paul—

Here they are both—I'll go call my brother, and by the time I return, I hope I ſhall call you ſiſter—adieu!—Gingham, in⯑deed!

Here ſhe is—here's the girl to anſwer for herſelf—now be cool, Sir Paul—compoſe yourſelf, and I'll fairly put the queſtion to her. Clara, haven't you fix'd your affections?

To confeſs the truth, I have, Sir.

Very well—ſoftly, Sir Paul! and now, what is the Gentleman's name?

Ay, what is his name, Clary?

Gingham, Sir.

There! I told you ſo—it's my ſon!

Why there! I told you ſo—it's my ſon!

Your ſon!—In the firſt place I don't believe you have a ſon; and in the next, do you pretend that this Gingham—

Is my boy! my own darling child!— and I'll prove it.

Well, well, if this is the caſe. I'll make you a fair propoſition, let's call in both our ſons, and let the one ſhe prefers be her huſband.

Agreed—and I'll bet you a hun⯑dred pounds ſhe chuſes mine.

Done,—I'll bet you a hundred ſhe chuſes mine.

My life! my love! my Clara!

Here he comes!

Here he comes

I cannot live a moment from thee—I—

Now, Clara—Silence, Sir Paul!—don't you chuſe him!—him!—for your huſband?

I do, Sir.

Huzza! I've won my bet!

Here is a father don't know his own child.

And here's a child don't know his own father! upon my ſoul, Gentlemen, I cannot tell which of you had the honour of inventing me; but here I am, and if you have more property to diſtribute—if either of you has another two hundred pounds, I'll diſ⯑poſe of it ſo nearly, that tears of joy ſhall trickle down your cheeks!

Sir Paul!

Mr. Fluſh—We were joint guar⯑dians juſt now and—

And now we're joint fathers it ſeems.—

This muſt be the tradeſman—a word in private, if you pleaſe, Sir. (They enter the Marquee.

Lay your heads together; ſettle it as you pleaſe; for while Clara ſmiles on me, I care not whether I'm ſon to a haberdaſher, or heir to the grand Turk.

I hope they won't quarrel—I fear Mr. Fluſh will inſiſt—

He inſiſt!—bleſs you, he'd ſell me for half a crown.

He's mine! he's mine! the father knows his own child at laſt.—I never ſuſpected Fluſh was clerk to a Lottery Office, and conſe⯑quently little thought he was the tradeſman who married my Nelly—'gad! I always took him for a gentleman.

Did you?—that was very good natur'd of you—and ſo you give me up, Mr. Fluſh?

Yes, I can afford it.—The Tunbridge ſtory is perfectly explain'd, and I have done with you, you rogue—Your wiſe father here has pro⯑mis'd to reſtore my papers, ſo now you may ſpeak truth till you're black in the face.

May I? —then I won't; leſt other faces ſhould be of the ſame complexion—but, gentlemen, ſince you've found out who I belong to, will you inform me who this lady is to be⯑long to?

Ay, Mr. Fluſh—I'm ſure I ſhall have your conſent—you are a monied man and have lived with people of rank.

Your pardon, ma'am, if I had lived with people of rank, I had not been a monied man—the fact is, I touch caſh wherever I can, and Sir Paul has brib'd me ſo handſomely, that I have ſold my conſent—I have ſold my ward as well as my ſon, and for this plain reaſon—I can afford it.

Clary, take his hand, my Girl.

The dog has an odd way of ſpeaking his mind, but inſtead of checking him, encourage him; many a man only wants to be told of his errors to correct them, and that is my caſe—

Your caſe, Sir?

Yes, my boy—ſince you talked of ſelf-gratification bringing tears of pleaſure into my eyes, I reſolv'd to try the experiment—I determin'd to retrench my expences, to ſell my hounds, diſpoſe of my ſtud, and ſee if I could not lay out my money on rational and ſolid pleaſures; in beſtowing happineſs on two as innocent and injur'd creatures as ever exiſted!

Niece, your hand—Darnley for⯑give what's paſt, and henceforth if I don't prove a friend to you, tell that ſon of mine to ſpeak his mind to me—tell him to take another two hundred pounds out of my pocket; nay, diſ⯑perſe my whole property—any thing, ſo you don't drink "Confuſion to a ſtingy old uncle!"

Sir, we owe every thing to your ſon—he has been our pilot through the ſtorms of faſhion, and if he now ſecures to us in⯑dependence and our cottage—

Independence and a cottage! S'life! you ſhall have affluence and a farm as large as Saliſbury Plain—I'll come and ſee you every ſummer! ay! for ſixty years to come!—odsheart! they ſay I'm like an old Volcano burnt out! but it's a miſtake—I'm like an Egyptian lamp that flames for ever!—A'nt I, my boy?

Muſt I ſpeak truth, father?—mum!

You have made me the happieſt of men, Sir Paul; but you muſt excuſe me when I ſay, that your ſon has the firſt and greateſt claim—

Nay, Couſin; if you knew me half as well as I know myſelf, you would find I have as many faults as any of you.—But come, let's adjourn from this vulgar faſhionable ſcene, and while they drink one toaſt, we'll give another—