SCENE I.

WAS there no poſſibility of bribing one of the ſervants?

None in the world, Sir, which indeed ſurprized me, for tho' I muſt confeſs they have all good places, I have known folks with better, and in a greater man's ſervice, who wou'd not let a bribe ſlip thro' their fingers for want of the trouble of clinching the f1ſt upon it.

What ſhall I do, Canteen? you are an old campaigner, and ſhould be ripe with ſtratagem in deſperate caſes!

I have got a ſcheme to ſerve you, if you'll un⯑dertake it.

Can you doubt me?

Then be attentive: Old Wrongward's houſe, on the approaching wedding, is throng'd as a fair with company; dreſs yourſelf in the ſtyle of an elderly gentleman travelling the country; pretend to miſapprehend ev'ry body; in ſhort aſſume the character of a deaf man, and, thus diſguiſed, put up at his houſe, as if you took it for an inn.

Pho! Pho! I ſhall be taken before a Ma⯑g1ſtrate.

Not you, indeed, Sir; at all theſe public wed⯑dings there are a great number of ſtrangers, in⯑vited by the chief gueſts; you'll paſs as a friend to ſome of the company—But grant you are taken for the character you aſſume, an old, deaf, blundering blockhead; your m1ſtakes will create [11]ſo much entertainment, that nobody will think of turning you out of doors till you have full opportunity of diſcovering yourſelf to your m1ſtreſs.

And do you think ſhe'll l1ſten to me?

I'm ſure of it, Sir; I'd ſtake my life to a car⯑touch box, that your letters from camp have been intercepted, and ſome damn'd ſtory trump'd up by that old villain her guardian, to make her marry his own ſon.

It muſt be ſo, my Sophia otherwiſe could never have forgot me.

It muſt be ſo! Lord, Sir, if you were not ſo much in love, it would appear to you as plain as a pike-ſtaff; but when once love gets into a man's head, poor reaſon is brought before a court-martial of the paſſions, and caſhiered with⯑out a hearing.

But it will be neceſſary to appriſe Sophia of this, if I can by any means convey a letter to her.

A light breaks in upon me; I met a little flower girl ſtanding at the inn-door, as freſh, and as [12]blooming as the ſweeteſt roſe in her baſket— Don't you imagine a letter may be conveyed by her into the garriſon?

Can we truſt her?

She's as ſure as a rifle barrel, Sir;—You know what a ſmooth tongue and a ſmart figure will do with a girl in the country; I have perſuaded her, that I am over head and ears in love with her— and have ſwore, by the god of love, and the god of battles, that I'll make her Mrs. Canteen, if ſhe pleaſes, before to-morrow morning.

Where is ſhe?

Selling noſegays to paſſengers, as they go in and out of their carriages; but I'll bring her to you, Sir, in the drawing of a trigger, in the mean time write your letter;—There's pen, ink, and paper on the table.

My all depends on her receiving this letter—otherwiſe, the ſurprize of ſo unex⯑pectedly meeting me, might occaſion a diſcovery —

Oh! here come Mars and Venus already.

Noſegays, your Honour?

Come hither, my pretty dear, and let me ſee them.

O Sir, don't tumble over my baſket! I can't let you pick and chuſe at a common price.

Let him take which he pleaſes, he's as generous as a Prince, huſſey.

Is he? by Goſh then he ſhall have the myrtle and the jeſſamine, and the two moſs roſes I was taking up to the Squire's, where the great wed⯑ding is to be.

What's that you ſay? Are you going to the houſe, where the great wedding is to be?

Yes, and I ſhall ſell all my noſegays there, and am promiſed a ribban for a bride-favor, by John the Butler.

O ho! John the Butler! I find I'm not ſole proprietor of my little noſegay merchant.

Now, my ſweet dear, blooming little Flora, if you will grant me one favour, I will give you a guinea.

Who I, Sir! I'd have you to know, Sir, that I ſcorn your guineas—I am no ſuch parſon— though I'm poor, I'm honeſt, that let me tell you— and I'd rather ſell noſegays with my vartue, than ride in a coach and ſix without it.

Zounds! what an exploſion was there, from a carbine like a pocket p1ſtol—why who's going to meddle with your vartue? I tell you, you may keep the guinea and your vartue together.

May I?

Yes; but I find, Betſy, I'm greatly deceiv'd in your temper. I thought you were as meek as a violet, but I find you are as ſharp as a ſweet briar.

I only want you, my dear, to take this letter for me, and deliver it into the young Lady's [15]hand who is to be married to-morrow; and to take care that nobody ſees you.

As ſure as a gun I know who you are.

Ay, prithee who am I?

You are her old ſweetheart, and ſhe has turned falſe-hearted.

Oons what a witch it is! I'll go and prepare your dreſs, Sir.

It's the talk of the whole village how Miſs So⯑phia had forſaken a malicious officer that was in love with her.

Will you take this letter for me?

That I will with all my heart, —and between ourſelves tho' I am a poor girl, give her her own into the bargain.

My dear, you muſt not ſay a word to her; only deliver the letter.

What then you wou'd not have me ſcold her?

By no means, —that wou'd ruin me for ever in her eſteem; but what is your name, my love?

Betſy Bloſſom, an't pleaſe you.

Well, my dear Betſy, go off immediately, and remember that the whole happineſs of my life depends on your care and ſecreſy.

SCENE II.

You are a terrible reader, Sternhold: can't you ſpeak your words ſhorter?—you ſound every ſyllable, as if you had a ſpeaking-trumpet at your mouth.

I can't help it, your honor; it is a way I have got.

It's like the grind of an ill-ton'd barrel-organ in my ears—but go on, for you were born a pariſh clerk, and will chaunt every thing in pſalm-tune to the end of the chapter.

Rome, April 1ſt. Yeſterday morning between twelve and one, his Holineſs the Pope was ſafe⯑ly deliver'd of twins—the mother and children are well, and likely to live.

Why is the fellow mad? the Pope deliver'd of twins! zounds! you may as well tell me of [18]St. Paul's dancing the hayes, or the Monument turning prize-fighter.

Shall I go on?

Read over that laſt article again, for I'm ſure you have made a blunder.

Rome, April 1ſt. Yeſterday morning between twelve and one, his Holineſs the Pope was ſafely delivered of twins—the mother and children are well, and likely to live.

Truly this is a moſt extraordinary event if it be a fact, and muſt cauſe ſtrange confuſion among the Cardinals; but upon ſecond thoughts it's not al⯑together paſt belief, for there's a well-known ſtory of a female Pope, who was diſcovered by her pregnancy, Pope Joan I think ſhe was called —but give me the paper, for damn me if I can believe it yet—

‘Mr. Printer, if you think the following croſs read⯑ings’—croſs readings! ha! ha! ha!—con⯑found thoſe croſs readings—as if things were not croſs enough of themſelves.

And he ſeem'd deeply concern'd?

Oh, deeply concern'd, and his eyes, poor ſoul, as red as blood with crying.

Is not that Soply I ſee? eh! how's this? where's my ſon George! has the raſcal the im⯑pudence to ſtir an inch from your apron-ſtring?

Sir, he cannot with propriety leave the com⯑pany; more eſpecially, as infirmities prevent your entertaining them.

Infirmities! why what infirmities have I got, except a little touch of the gout, now and then? If I could walk, and had the uſe of my right hand, and could ſee without ſpectacles, I'd be as hale a man as any in the county.

But who is that little blooming rogue with you?

A ſlower-girl, Sir; ſhe has brought me ſome jeſſamine and moſs roſes.

Ay? tell her to come this way, and let me look at her moſs roſes.

Go ſhew him your noſegays, Betſy, and keep him in chat, whilſt I run and write an anſwer.

But Lord, Ma'am, he bears ſuch a terrible character, l'm atraid to go nigh him.

Pho! pho! never fear him; he has not been out of that chair, except at bed times, theſe three months, but is roll'd up and down the houſe like a great baby; go to him, I ſay, and I'll return immediately.

You may go about your buſineſs, Sternhold, I'm tired of your damn'd drone—It's worſe than an old cloath's man in London.

Lord! Lord! What will this world come to!

By Goſs, as he can't budge, I'll have a little fun with him.

Come hither, my pretty maid, and let me look at your moſs roſes.

Aye to be ſure, Sir, there are not ſo fine ones in all the country.

Upon my word they are fine ones—But is Sophy gone? Is there nobody ſees us?

Not a ſoul, we are both together, all alone by ourſelves.

But are you ſure that there's nobody l1ſtening?

Oh! very ſartin, Sir,

Then give me a kiſs, you little ſmiling rogue.

Oh dear Sir, woud'n't you be aſhamed to kiſs ſuch a poor girl as I?

Aſhamed! not I, by the Lord Harry; come hither I ſay.

Now to plague him—Why you muſt know, Sir, that I'm afraid ſome of the family will ſee us; but if you'll fetch a walk with me any where.

Fetch a walk with her! I could as ſoon fetch the Tower upon my back.

But now I look at your legs, I ſuppoſe you can't walk.—O Lud! They're like mill poſts.

No, no, not quite ſo bad, they're a little ſwelled to be ſure, but there's a great deal of flannel about them.

Shall I help you, Sir?

Zounds! you've broke my arm, you jade.

Betſy!

I'm coming, Ma'am.

Then you won't come and kiſs me, huſſey?

I think it is you that won't kiſs me, Sir.— Lord! Sir, if you want a kiſs, why don't you come and take it?

O you wicked baggage, you know that I can't ſtir—I'd give half my eſtate for a pair of legs to be revenged of you.

Then you won't ſetch a walk, Sir, nor give me a kiſs —very well!—I'll not be denied the next man I aſk—good by, Sir—I muſt go, ha! ha! ha!

What, Sir, is not Sophia here?

She was here this moment.

What's the matter with you, Sir? I hope you're not ill?

No, but I was bargaining for ſome moſs roſes, and they have prickt my fingers ſo confoundedly.

I have very bad news to tell you, Sir; Meadows has been ſeen about the houſe.

The Devil he has! Then, boy, we are undone. If ſhe ſees him, our intercepting his letters, and the ſtory of his marriage with another will all be diſcovered.

She has ſeen no ſtranger to-day?

Not a ſoul to my knowledge, except a poor little innocent flower girl.

It's no matter; that woman, I'm perſuaded, has brought her a letter.

Ecod, like enough.

Then Sir, if you will ſit with the company, I'll go in purſuit of her, and if in the power of gold, I'll get ev'ry thing our of her.

Ay, with all my heart, —here, William.

Did you call, Sir!

Roll me into the company

Softly you raſcal, if legs could be purchaſed, what wou'dn't I give for a new pair?

SCENE III. Changes to the outſide of Old Wrongward's houſe.

What a couple of damn'd rogues my maſter and I are, to ſtop all theſe here letters—it would [26]go greatly againſt my conſcience, only for what I get by it—Well, my maſter cheats his ward, and I cheat my maſter, for he has never ſeen this picture

nor the letter that came with it yet—if theſe ar'n't mock diamonds round it, it will bring a pretty penny—let me ſee now.

Good day, Mr. John.

Ah! my pretty Betſy—come hither, my little dear.

What's that you are looking at ſo cloſe, Mr. John?

Only a picture, my love, are you a good judge of painting Betſy?

Painting! Lord, Sir, you muſt aſk ſome fine London Lady that queſtion; we poor folks in the country know nothing of the matter.

How do you like that, Betſy?

It has a vaſt fine frame round it.

Yes, yes, you are a great judge of painting, I ſee clearly.

And looks as natural as you that are ſpeaking to me.

Eh! why, zounds! ſhe takes it for my pic⯑ture.

What fine eyes!

Fine eyes! oh! yes, ſhe takes it for me.

And two cheeks like cherries—then ſuch pret⯑ty hair—ſo curl'd, ſo frized and ſo flower'd, it looks like a white thorn in full bloſſom.

You muſt know, my dear, I wore my hair ſo when that was drawn for me.

Is this your picture, Mr. John?

I thought you knew that already.

I vow, I took it for a gentleman's.

What, then, you don't think it like me?

Like you? no more like you than a carna⯑tion is like a butcher's broom.

Butcher's broom! what a Fleet-market com⯑pariſon!—You think then I am alter'd ſince it was drawn for me?

Oh! quite chang'd, you are as brown as a cheſnut to what you were; and your eyes, that were once ſo blue, are now as grey as the very willows.

I am ſitting for a ſtriking likeneſs, I find.

Then your forehead's grown ſquare—your chin ſharp—your noſe flat—your teeth— no, they're not grown at all—for I cant ſee above one or two left in your head.

Zounds! have done, you unmerciful baggage: give me my picture. I may be alter'd a little, but it is impoſſible I can be ſo damnably meta⯑morphos'd as you deſcribe.

What, after making a bargain?

So, ſo, Mr. John, what bargain is this you have been ſtriking?

Bargain! Sir—I was only agreeing about ſome tulips.

That was all, your honour—John only wanted ſome tulips of me.

Not a word of the picture.

But, Sir, can't the gardener ſupply you?

Sir, he ſays, I want too many, and that he won't ſpoil his beds to pleaſe me or any man in England.

Now, Sir, I can give him plenty, and never mind ſpoiling a bed when it is made worth my while.

I believe you, young damſel—Harkee, John,

—I ſuppoſe this girl has been em⯑ployed [30]by Meadows to convey a letter to Sophia. Get you gone, and I'll ſound her.

You had better leave her to me, Sir.

No, no, ſhe's too artful for you.

Ay, and for you too, I'll be ſworn—I don't like to leave her alone with him.

Not gone yet, Sir?

Oh! yes, I'm gone—

—Very far gone, I find, in love, for now am I as jealous as the Devil of him—Oh! my poor picture, I ſhall never ſee it's face again.

Can you keep a ſecret, my dear?

I don't know, Sir; I never was tried.

Come, come, I know you have; and if you'll divulge it to me, I'll give you more than you got from Captain Meadows.

Captain Meadows! who is he, Sir? I don't know him—

—He's only pumping me now, but he ſhall get nothing by it.

What, then, you have neither brought nor re⯑ceived a letter here to-day?

Lord! Sir, who'd truſt the likes of me with a letter?

Let me ſee now, in which pocket have you got it?

Keep your hands to yourſelf, I have nothing ſmuggled about me—you ſhan't rummage me like a cuſtom-houſe officer.

Look at this, huſſey—I have both power and inclination to reward you.

I'm ſure, Sir, there's nothing I wouldn't do to ſerve you.

Then you'll give me the letter?

Letter! Lord! Sir, what letter?

Come, I inſ1ſt upon your taking this

And now.

And now, your honour, I'll go home to my father's, and bring you the letter immediately.

Your father's! how came it there?

It came by the poſt, yeſterday, from Devon⯑ſhire.

Devonſhire! what the Devil is Devonſhire to me?

I thought you wanted to know ſomething about my brother the gardener, who wrote us a main long letter yeſterday, and, what ſurprized us all, he's going to be married.

A moſt intereſting piece of information I muſt confeſs. She's a downright ideot.—How ridi⯑culous do my ſuſpicions make me!

By Goſs, I have trickt him nicely. So now to my dear Mr. Canteen.

Ah! Betſy, I've been watching you, and I fear'd you'd have turn'd traitor and betray'd us.

No, Mr. Canteen, I never wou'd do that— I wou'd not betray you, no, not for five pound.

What not for five pound? O matchleſs fide⯑lity!—But come, have you got an anſwer?

Yes, I have that and John's picture both to⯑gether.

John's picture? well, this is the firſt time I ever knew a man vain of his uglineſs! If I had ſuch an old lion's head riveted upon my ſhoulders, I'd quarrel with a baſon of ſpring water, for reflecting my own countenance on me.

Ay—but his picture is very handſome—it's no more like him than box is like ſouthern⯑wood.

No, then he has ſet for his picture by proxy, or perhaps, like many others coxcombs, purchas'd it, as we ſometimes do ſhoes, ready made. But come, let us look at it.

Here it is.

Zounds! this is my maſter's picture.

What, captain Meadows's?

His own likeneſs—and the very miniature I ſaw him incloſe about ſix weeks ago to Miſs Sophia.

As ſure as can be, he ſtole it.

I don't know how he came by it: but you're certain he gave it you?

Quite ſartin.

Then come along, my Betſy; if you behave well now, I'll make great advantages of this diſ⯑covery: you ſhall introduce me to John as your brother, and I'll terrify him with a confeſſion before I have done with him.

SCENE changes to a View before the Stables.

I hope your hay is good, friend?

It's no matter how my hay is. I tell you, you are m1ſtaken in the houſe; this is no inn.

Why if you think ſo, give him a feed of oats; but take care to rub him down well.

Rub down the Devil! I tell you, my maſter keeps no inn.

Throw a few beans among the oats, if you have any.

Throw a few beans among the oats! Zounds! who promis'd to give you any oats?

That's a good lad, I know you'll take care of him.

He's as deaf as a door nail.—He doesn't un⯑derſtand a word I ſay.

Did you ſpeak to me, young man?

I have been bawling to you this hour, to tell you this is no inn: yonder is the George, or the Swan, or the King's Arms, where you'll get your horſe and yourſelf taken care of.

Well, well, I'll take your word for the good⯑neſs of your corn; you had no occaſion to be ſo loud in praiſe of it.

What the Devil ſhall I do with him? He drove his horſe into the ſtable, before I knew where I was, and if I turn him adrift, I ſhall be proſecuted by act of parliament.

My good lad, do you hear me?

I wiſh I could make you hear me as plain.

I like your countenance.

That's more than I do your's.

There's ſomething in it tells me, you will do the beaſt juſtice, therefore here's a ſhilling for you—and if I find I have not been m1ſtaken in the opinion I have formed of you, I ſhall re⯑member you when I go away alſo.

This is the firſt word of ſenſe I have got out of him—well, as his horſe is in the ſtable, let him ſtay there; my maſter, I'm ſure, will never miſs his one night's keep; but then the beſt joke will be when he gets into the houſe—ha! ha! ha! I ſhall kill myſelf with laughing at the thoughts of it.

Ha! ha! ha! Very good, very good indeed.

What the Devil does he laugh at?

I find you are a fellow of a good deal of humour.

Humour! What does he mean?

You tell a deviliſh good ſtory, but I can't ſtay to hear the end of it, for I'm greatly fatigued and very weary—now remember you rub him [38]down well, and don't forget the beans amongſt the oats.

I tell a dev'liſh good ſtory, and have a great deal of humour! If'tis ſo, you are the firſt that ever diſcovered my talents—Well! I have got a ſhilling from you, ſo mum's the word, you're deaf—I am dumb, old gentleman.

SCENE I. A Hall in Old Wrongward's Houſe; ſeveral Ser⯑vants running acroſs the Stage with Supper.

He's ſwearing like a dragon about the iced cream.

I wiſh he was to feed upon nothing elſe till his temper became as cool as his ſtomach.

A man had better ſtand cook in Belzebub's kitchen. Here have I been broiling myſelf, like a beef-ſteak, for theſe two hours, and am thanked in a volley of oaths for it afterwards.

There's not a drop of Madeira in the room; and the Butler is to be turn'd-off to-morrow.

Aye, I like this.—It's an old ſaying, good buſineſs makes a good houſe.

This is ſome gentleman invited to ſupper; we had better tell him it's on the table.

Certainly!—It's on the table, Sir.

No, I'll not pull off my boots till I go to bed.

Pull of his boots! who ſaid any thing about his boots? Tho', now I look at them, damn me if ever I ſaw a dirtier pair in the courſe of my life.

What have you got for ſupper?

Every thing the ſeaſon can afford, is on the table, Sir?

Why, you blockhead, woodcocks are not in ſeaſon.

I ſaid nothing about woodcocks—but, Sir, there's a delightful carp ſtewed in claret—a fine [41]jack roaſted with a pudding in his belly—ſome choice pheaſants—and ſuch cherry tarts—apple pies, jellies, iced creams, and ſweetmeats, that my teeth water at the bare thoughts of them.

Very well, that will do, my friend; but take care you get me ſome good muſhroom ſauce to it.

Muſhroom ſauce! to what, Sir?

A broil'd fowl will do well enough.

A broil'd fowl! I didn't mention a word of broil'd fowl—did I, Bob?

Not a ſyllable.

Zounds! he's deaf.

Or mad; ſpeak louder to him—try if you can make him hear you.

Supper is on the table, Sir; and if you are in⯑vited to the houſe by my maſter, it will be as much as our places are worth, if we do not bring you up to him immediately.

Well, do the beſt you can for me.

Ah! it's all in vain to talk to him; let us ſee if we can make him underſtand by ſigns.

Bleſs you, my lad, I am not particular.

Fill me a bumper of Madeira—though the enemy has got poſſeſſion of the greater part of my outworks, I'll take care to keep him from the citadel, whilſt there's a flaſk in my cellar to ſupport me.

This way, Sir.

Aye! I ſee all your rooms are full, but it's no matter, I'm fond of company.

Here's a ſtranger! do you know him, George?

I ſuppoſe he's a friend to ſome of the company.

Certainly—go to him, boy, and aſk him if he has ſupp'd.

Sir, I eſteem myſelf particularly honour'd in the favour of this viſit—here, William, lay a ſide table for this gentleman—As we are juſt done ſupper, I beg, Sir, you'll not conſider yourſelf a ſtranger.

Very dear, indeed, Sir; good Virginia is hard to be come at, but I always carry a box of Oroonoko in my pocket

Warm travelling, Sir.

There was none ſtirring, when I was in town, Sir.

Stirring! no nor moving for it, Sir, in this part of the world—though the gout conſines me [44]to this chair, I feel myſelf as hot as if I was roaſting on ths coaſt of Guinea.

Yonder he ſits; if he ſhould be diſcovered, all my hopes of happineſs are gone for ever.

I feel myſelf in ſuch agitation at the ſight of my Sophia, that I fear it will mar my counter⯑feiting.

Come, old gentleman, I'll give you a toaſt, that I'm ſure you'll have no objection to—here's to the young couple.

With all my heart; I'm ſure he has not a better ſubject in his dominions.

Ay, and what's better, he's going the right road to raiſe more good ſubjects.

The King!

The King! why I drank my ſon and daughter that is to be's health.

Ah, Sir! there's no anſwering for what people will ſay.

No anſwering for what people will ſay! damn me if ever I knew any thing ſo impudent in the whole courſe of my life before.

Pray does any of the company know him?

I don't, for my part.

Nor I.

Nor I.

Nor I, nor any of us.

No, not one of us.

How I tremble for him, now.

Here, William, who ſhew'd this old fellow here?

I did, Sir; I took him to be one of the company.

Why, nobody here knows him.

Sir, I have the pleaſure of drinking your health.

Did you ever know any thing like this, George?

Do you hear, my lad? Send up the boot-catcher to me.

Send up the boot-catcher to him, we'll ſend up the thief-catcher to him—this fellow is come to rob the houſe.

This wine is dev'liſh good; but I have a poor head, and am very ſleepy—Bon repos, good folks; I muſt leave you.

Stop him, George.

Why, Gentlemen, all this preſſing: it is to no purpoſe; I am determined to go to bed; and as a proof of it, there's half a crown for my ſhare of the bill, as I can't ſtay till its called—will no⯑body give me a light?

Why, you raſcal, can you give no rational ac⯑count of this man?

All I can tell you is, he has ſet the whole family in an uproar—the groom ſays, he's deaf —the butler ſays, he's mad; but all agree in pronouncing him the moſt impudent, trouble⯑ſome, dirty old fellow, ever came into a houſe —do but look at his boots, Sir.

Love has inſpired me with a thought for his deliverance.

Bleſs me! I know this Gentleman's face perfectly well—it is the celebrated Doctor Humdrum; I ſaw him ſeveral times at Bath, tho' I never ſpoke to him: he's the firſt phyſician in England; but has been troubled with a moſt obſtinate deafneſs for ſeve⯑ral years; and, what is moſt extraordinary, does every thing in this power to conceal it.

Deaf! why does he come here to plague us with his deafneſs?

I thought, Sir, you had more humanity than not to feel for ſuch a misfortune.

But are you ſure he's deaf?

Does not hear a word you ſay to him.

You'll let me go to bed then? Upon my ſoul, it gives me pain to part from ſuch good com⯑pany; but I'm quite weary.

Ay, poor Gentleman, I pity him, he ſhall have a bed—he has taken the houſe for an inn, I ſup⯑poſe; a very good joke, faith—ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! a dev'liſh good ſong, a dev'liſh good ſong indeed; but I can't ſtay to encore it.

George, do you go and ſee the Gentleman is taken great care of.

Ha! here come the fiddles—come girls, foot it away, I'll ſit up with you an hour extraordi⯑nary, and if this confounded gout would give my joints a holiday, I'd have a reel with the youngeſt of you.

SCENE III.

So, Captain Meadows's ſervant is your brother, Betſy.

Oh, that was only—he! he!

Yes, Ma'am, as Betſy wou'd ſay, that was only to deceive John, your Guardian's privy counſellor.

I underſtand you, you are her ſweetheart.

Oh! dear, your lay'ſhip—you do ſo ſhame one.

But how have you proceeded ſince this diſ⯑covery?

Vaſtly clever, I warrant him; he has frightened the butler out of his wits.

I threatened him with a proſecution for ſtop⯑ping the picture, unleſs he turned King's evi⯑dence and informed againſt his maſter—my me⯑naces had the deſired effect, and he is devoted to our ſervice.

Very well, don't be out of the way for a mo⯑ment; I dont know how ſoon we may want you and your evidence—but, as a reward for your and Betſy's ſervices, whenever you have her con⯑ſent, I will give her a portion.

I thank your ladyſhip, I'm ſure I do.

Now is my freedom gone.

What, you won't marry me?

Elſe how ſhou'd I loſe my freedom?

I dont know what you mean, Mr. Canteen, by loſing your freedom; but, if I thought you loſt any thing when you married me, I wou'dn't have you for all my love to you.

Pho! pho! you little fool, by giving up my freedom, I mean, I give up my heart into your poſſeſſion for life.

Do you? Then, by goſh! you ſhall have my heart for life inſtead of it.

This is my young Lady's apartment; and you muſt not ſtay here.

My good girl, you needn't give yourſelf the trouble, I never have my bed warmed.

I didn't come to warm your bed—I want you to get out of the room.

No, no, it's a bad cuſtom; good night to you.

Odds my life but he'd provoke a ſaint,

I tell you again and again that this is my young Lady's room, and you muſt quit it.

A ſack poſſet! I'll not taſte it. Come let me lock my door, for I muſt be ſtirring early.

The Devil a door do you lock here to-night.

Ah! you wanton young baggage, I under⯑ſtand you; but all thoſe days are over with me.

Oh, Lord! what has the old naſty fellow got into his head now?

But come, we'll have one ſmack, and then bon ſoir.

Help, help, murder!

What's the matter, Sally?

This old villain was going to ruinate me.

I wiſh he was out of the houſe; I wonder my maſter gave him a bed.

You'll take care to call me early.

Damn me! if I call you.

It's a ſhame for a man at your years to be⯑have ſo.

Ay, an old man like you, with one foot in the grave.

You are m1ſtaken, my dear, I can get up as well as any young fellow in England.—I am a mighty good riſer, I muſt mount carly, there⯑fore call me by five.

We may as well talk to a ſtone wall.

I ſhall loſe my place for this.

You needn't wait for the light.

Wait for the light! Damn me! if I had my will, but I'd darken your lights for you, and leave you to grope your way out of the houſe.

Why, I believe, that's the ſafeſt way, ſo bring me an extinguiſher; you're a good natur'd lad, and I'll remember you for this.

If I cou'd write, I'd make him underſtand me at once.—Can you write, Joe?

I can chalk main well, but nobody can under⯑ſtand it except myſelf.

Why you, Bob, went to ſchool, I know.

Ay, but it's ſo long ago, I forgot all my larn⯑ing: I'll make my mark, if you pleaſe.

And it's my misfortune to neither read nor write

'Sdeath and fire, he's undreſſing! we muſt do ſomethign immediately.

What ſwinging piſtols he has!

Lay you there, my good friends—I hope I ſhan't have the ſame need for you here as at the laſt inn where I lay.

Do you hear that?

I am ſorry I ſhot the oſtler and kitchen maid, I own; but what am I to think of people who come into my room after I am in bed?

Oh! the bloody minded old rogue!

I know the advantages which may be taken of my deafneſs, and am determined to ſecure myſelf.

I am determined to do the ſame, and ſo good night.

I'll ſtay no longer.

Oh! if I am hindmoſt, may I be ſhot like the poor oſtler and kitchen maid!

And may I be burnt if I ſtay to be ſhot!

Oh, Fortune, auſpicious to my warmeſt hopes! —Now cou'd I but ſee, and converſe one mo⯑ment with my Sophia.—Ha! yonder comes a light—'tis ſhe—'tis ſhe herſelf, my adorable Sophia.

I am come to tell you to lock yourſelf in im⯑mediately— to-morrow I'll ſpeak to you—it is dangerous for us to continue a moment together.

But isn't to-morrow to be your wedding-day? am I not to loſe you for ever to-morrow?

No, Meadows, I am now ſatisfied of your honour and my guardian's villany; a plot has been juſt diſcovered to me, will aſtoniſh you— To-morrow I will quit this houſe, and put my⯑ſelf under yonr protection.

My love, my life! you tranſport me.

He ſhall leave the houſe to-night.—Ha! what do I ſee?

It's all over, and I may as well throw off the maſk now as to-morrow.

He deſerves a horſe-pond inſtead of a good bed.

I ſhou'd prefer a good bed notwithſtanding, Mr. Wrongward.

Why he has got his hearing.

Yes, Sir, and my feeling too, of reſentment for the baſe advantage you took of me and this young lady.

Advantage! who the devil are you?

Can't you diſcover Meadows under this diſguiſe? that man whom you have ſo much injured?

Meadows! this is curſed unlucky—but, George, we muſt get him out of the houſe as faſt as poſſible.

If you don't come by fair means, I'll lay you by the heels, and force you into court.

All, I fear, is diſcover'd.

Eh! who is that fellow got hold of John?

Let his worſhip know, John; or I ſhall be committed for an aſſault, in the very act of thief-taking.

Why, Sir, if I muſt ſpeak, it is you and my young maſter have brought me to this diſgrace.

Who, I and my Son? why the fellow has loſt his wits—or elſe he is drunk—take him to bed, I hate a drunkard.

Lies won't do now, I muſt ſpeak truth, or ſuffer for it—Captain Meadows, I humbly aſk your forgiveneſs, but ev'ry letter you ſent to Miſs Sophia, I ſtopt, by the poſitive orders of both my maſters.

It's all very true, Sir, and amongſt the reſt, he ſtop'd the miniature you ſent Miſs Sophia, by which he was diſcovered—for the ugly dog had the impudence to attempt to paſs it upon my Betſy, here, for his own proper likeneſs.

Out of my ſight, raſcal—come Sophia, I am ſorry you have been d1ſturbed—Captain, you may have a bed, if you pleaſe.

No, Sir, I ſhall quit your houſe, and take my Sophia with me.

What, would you ſteal a ward from her guardian?

Nay, if you proceed to force, make a priſoner of her—take the conſequence.

She has been long a priſoner, Sir, in a place ſhe diſlikes; but here is my habeas for her removal.

So, as you reſpect the law, gentlemen, ſtand by.

Roll me out of the way; I ſhall be ſhot, or run through, between them.

What, have I no aſſ1ſtance? where are all my ſervants?

George, a word with you, George, this is a very ugly ſtory, and we had better make the beſt of it.

What, Sir, will you acquieſce in your diſ⯑honour?

Good night; you ſhall hear from me.

Stay, Captain; I have ſomething to propoſe to you.

I perceive what you intend, but I will not ſtay to be a witneſs of your weakneſs, and my own ſhame—I ſhall take other ſteps to right myſelf.

You ſee what an obſtinate boy he is: but I won't croſs your inclinations, Sophia; you have my conſent.—This is always my way, when I can't help it.

I take you at your word, Sir; but to-morrow will put your ward under the protection of the law, for I will never take advantage of her par⯑tiality in my favour, until ſhe is at full liberty to chooſe for herſelf.