[]THE CHELSEA PENSIONER; A COMIC OPERA.

ACT I.

That's right my lads—we may boaſt and chat⯑ter of our proweſſes, but love is the only goal for which we ſtart upon the courſe of honour—without love our laurels would be but in a wither'd condition; and I'll bett all the world to a corn of powder, that he goes neareſt to the mouth of a cannon, who has ſome miſtreſs to brag of his exploits to when he returns home.

Bravo, Lively—you and the old ſong ſay the very ſame thing. Give it us my boy.

With all my heart: in the mean time, take care of this old gentleman here.

Thank ye, Lively; thank you.—Come, old gentleman—ſay here's to you.

Why, lord, I tell you, they knows no more about the reſpect due to us Gentlemen Soldiers—why damme they thinks us fit for nothing but a cat-o'-nine tails, and to be hired out and ſhot at for five⯑pence a day.

Why that's true, as you ſay, Plunder; but then who have we to thank for it?—our ſuperiors—Merit is not [4] rewarded—Come, my lads, here's confuſion to the firſt inventor of jumping over heads. For my part, I ſay lit⯑tle; but if I had been rewarded as I ought, for my be⯑haviour in that there ſcrimmage!—Why now I ſuppoſe you have heard of poor old Blenheim.

Heard of him!—he is one of the diſgraces of his country. There is no general to whom I would pay more reſpect; deſcended from an antient family, he inhe⯑rired only a brown muſket; and after having diſtinguiſhed himſelf in moſt of the Great Duke of Marlborough's▪ wars, with a bravery, the admiration of every one, is, at the age of ſixty-five, nobly rewarded by a brevet for Chel⯑ſea Hoſpital, whither, I am told, he is now on his way, and where his wife, a waſher-woman, and his daughter a ſeamſtreſs, are waiting his arrival.

Poor old Blenheim!—Why do you think if as how I had been a general, and Blenheim had ſerved under me, that I would have broke his poor old heart, by put⯑ting a parcel of boys before him, becauſe one was my Lord this thing's footman, and t'other carried my Lady that thing's lap dog—

Why to be ſure there muſt be ſomething wrong going on; but for my part, if they did not tax dogs, and horſes, and ſervants, and encloſe commons, they might do what they pleaſed, for ought I cared. What do you ſay, old Pedagogue?

Why, Squire, I ſay what I have ſaid a hundred times, that your great people ſhould all be ſent to ſchool.

Why to be ſure, if they would ſue out a writ of diſcretion, and join iſſue with common ſenſe, they would be more likely to get a favourable verdict from their coun⯑try—en't I right, maſter Barber?

Why I'll tell you what—I thinks if as why I may ſpeak the truth, that we are all of us ſhaved too cloſe▪

You think, old Periwig!—for me, if I was commanding officer about and concerning the affairs of this nation, every rank and file ſhould be made either co⯑lonel or general.

Come, come, you are too violent; thoſe at the head of affairs know when and how to manage matters a deviliſh deal better than you can dictate to them.

Manage matters! why I tell you their promo⯑tions are intereſt, their manoeuvres ignorance, and their camps parties of pleaſure.

Ha! ha! ha!

You ſeem, my old friend, to find ſomething pleaſant in our converſation.

Pleaſant!—Pardon me, Sir, not very pleaſant, but light and airy as may be expected at your time of life—You ſeem to govern the nation over your bottle, and to amend the ſtate and legiſlature at every bumper: you contend that others are neglected; that you are neglected yourſelves. This is a partial evil not to be lamented; and if you are ſoldiers, you ought to be aſhamed of ſuch pal⯑try conſiderations.

In your days, my friend, this might be good doctrine for aught I know; but now the caſe is altered, and every man thinks only of his own intereſt.

So much the worſe; and if the caſe is altered, you are properly requited; neglect ought to be your por⯑tion.

How's this do you inſult us in return for our hoſpitality?

Far from it; I deal with you as a friend, and pay you with honeſt truth for the ſhelter you afford me.

There is ſomething like wiſdom in your re⯑marks, old gentleman, but mix'd, I think, with rather too much ſpleen. This public ſpirit, which you require, is certainly a virtue, but by no means a duty.

In your ſtation 'tis a duty—the very founda⯑tion of every military virtue.—Whoever dedicates him⯑ſelf to the ſervice of his country, ſhould conſider his country unable to requite his ſervices; for in fact, that which he devotes to the public good, is above all price.—No more of theſe complaints then—'Tis una⯑voidable in counties like ours, that bravery muſt ſome⯑times fall into neglect, otherwiſe there would be no ſub⯑ordination; for how could you reward as you ought an Engliſh army, unleſs every one could command in chief?

And pray who are you that talk to us in that ſtile?

Blenheim.

Blenheim!—

Blenheim—that poor old Chelſea Penſioner, for whom but now you ſeemed to have ſo much compaſ⯑ſion.

And can you who have been treated ſo ungrate⯑fully, inculcate the principles of public virtue, and diſin⯑tereſted love of our country?

From whom then do you expect to hear your duty—from theſe gentlemen, who never ſaw fire but in the corner of a chimney? 'Tis true I have been wrong'd, neglected, taken up, impriſoned, accuſed of violating the [7] King's rights, in the very moment I protected them, and that by the very man whoſe life I ſaved in battle, he who is poſſeſſed of a conſiderable place in the revenues, while I am groveling in this abject condition; but what ſigni⯑fies all this? the actions of my life may be effaced from the memory of a Court, but the memory of mankind will be more retentive, and if it ſhould not, I have the conſcious remembrance, and that is ſufficient.

A queer old codger this!—Come my honeſt fellows; I believe the ſkittle pins wait for us; good bye old rugged and tough, we'll come and ſmoke a pipe with you at Chelſea.

Come, Lively, let us go and ſee what recruits we can pick up at Wandſworth Fair.

March on, Corporal.

Now they are gone, how can I ſerve you—do you want money?

No young man, I thank thee, I have where⯑withal to conduct me to my laſt retreat.

What! a retreat for ſuch merit!—It makes me look with horror on my country, and bluſh for every drop of blood I've ſpilt in her cauſe.

For ſhame! diſtinguiſh better; my wrongs—

Are a ſcandal to the nation; and by Heaven I'd ſtrangle the villain.

My poor lad! thy compaſſion is folly! when thou ſhalt have ſtrangled all the world, will it give me the uſe of this arm, or make me a day younger?

No—but it would teach ſuch miſcreants how to uſe others.

And by what title do you pretend to execute my revenge?—Have I transferred to you a right I do not myſelf poſſeſs?—No, my good young man!—If I would have revenged myſelf, half a regiment would have de⯑ſerted under my command; but I am reſigned to my fate; imitate my example, and allow me to be a judge of what is right and honourable.

At leaſt point me out your enemies that I may hate them.

Nay, let your children hate them, let them imbibe from their very infancy a deteſtation for them.

They ſhall—who are they?

The enemies of my country.

Come, ſerjeant, the men are all expecting you; there are a fine parcel of raw country fellows, and one animating ſpeech at the drum head makes them our own, my boy.

Plunder, can we ſpare one of the men to conduct old Blenheim to Chelſea?

Fire old Blenheim, we have no time to conſider about invalids.

Come, Plunder, thou art an honeſt fellow; thy fortune has a ſimilitude to mine; the only difference is, thou ran'ſt away, and took up a muſket after ruining a poor old mother, whilſt I entered in the guards, after being turn'd out of doors by a rich old father.

Well, lad, what of this?

I'll tell thee what of this, as thou art my Pylades, I muſt needs entruſt thee with my ſecrets;—I love this old fellow; nay, more, I love his daughter.

Oh, oh, you do?

Ay, you rogue, and I have ſome reaſon to be⯑lieve I am not altogether diſagreeable to her.

And do you expect governor Lively will ever conſent that his ſon ſhould marry the daughter of an old Chelſea Penſioner?

If he does not, I'll diſcard him, as he has me and chuſe the old Chelſea Penſioner as the beſt father of the two;—but, however, I am not without hopes;—thou know'ſt what a perfect veneration my father has for every military relict, and I think, if I was to throw my⯑ſelf at his feet, plead Blenheim's cauſe, and my own at the ſame time▪ I could get the old invalid a good employ myſelf re-inſtated into his favour▪ and thee a com⯑miſſion.—Come along,—I'll firſt to my duty,—that diſ⯑charged, I'll fly to comfort my Nancy, and then to throw myſelf at the feet of my father.

Why, Miſtreſs Eſter, your good man makes it rather late; it begins to draw towards the heel of the evening.

I wonder, indeed, he does not come, tho' to ſay the truth, I am glad he ſtaid till I had done my ironing, for if I get the money where I am to carry home theſe things, we'll have a comfortable bit of ſomething for ſup⯑per.

So we will, Mrs. Eſter, I am ſure I ſhall make one with more pleaſure than ever I did at a fe [...]ſt upon St. Criſpin's day; beſides, who knows, if we ſhould wax merry, but the thread of our diſcourſe may turn upon my love for Miſs Nancy;—dear me, I ſhould be at home to a peg.

I'll ſpeak a good word for thee, neighbour Lap⯑ſtone, never fear—what doſt thee ſay, daughter, to our old friend?

Indeed, mother, his being our old friend is no very ſtrong recommendation to me.

No, I warrant you, you can't get your fine ſer⯑jeant out of your head;—one would imagine your mo⯑ther's example was enough to frighten you from ever thinking of a red coat.

I am ſure, mother, I have heard you ſay a hun⯑dred times, that with all your troubles, you could live the ſame life over again for the love of my father.

So I could, child, ſo I could, and be happy enough in the main; I can ſafely ſwear, in all our marches, duſtings, and famiſhings, a-bed early, a-bed late, I never was the woman that ſaid a croſs-grain'd word to him.

What makes you ſo averſe then to my partiality for the ſerjeant?

Why, child, 'tis all along of his father that we have been brought to misfortunes.

Yes, Miſs, I do aſſure you 'tis very true: when Penſioner Malplaquet came yeſterday to have his ſhoe heel-tapped, for 'tis tore out already though he has had it but five months; however, that's not very marvel⯑lous; the Contractors give the poor Penſioners bad beer, or any thing now a-days; a fault ſomewhere to be ſure there is; I wiſh it could be enquired out—but, as I was a ſaying, Penſioner Malplaquet knows the good-looking young Serjeant that comes after you—you knows who I mean, he that makes me prick my fingers with my awl ſo often for vexation. And he ſays that he is the only child of Governor Lively: now, Governor Lively is the gentleman that was the cauſe how and conſarning your father's being taken up for a ſmugger.

And what a barbarous villain he muſt be, when all the world knows your father loſt the uſe of his arm by ſaving the old rogue's life at the battle of Fontenoy!

Then make yourſelf eaſy, mother, for the au⯑thor of any misfortune to my father ſhall never impreſs me with one favourable ſentiment.

How prettily ſhe talks it, neighbour▪

Sharp as a pairing-knife.

Neighbour Lapſtone, ſuppoſe you was to go to⯑wards Batterſea bridge and try to meet my old man while I carry this ironing home—As to thee, daughter, I ſhall never conſent to make thee unhappy; and, I truſt, thou haſt duty enough never to make me ſo, or thy poor fa⯑ther; and, as to the reſt, if thou refuſeſt our good neigh⯑bour here, only becauſe he is poor, I can tell thee, wench, as there is no ſtation ever ſo high but has its bitters, ſo there is no ſtation ever ſo low but has its weets.

So, Miſs, it ſeems I ſhall never be able to get the length of your foot.

I am afraid not.

What, I ſuppoſe you can't buckle too then?

I cannot, indeed.

And pray, Miſs, med a body ax why?

I have many reaſons which you can't poſſibly gueſs.

Why, to be ſure, nobody knows where the ſhoe pinches ſo well as them that wears it.

In the firſt place, you are not my choice.

Why, Miſs, that's true; but a ready-made ſhoe ſometimes fits as well as a beſpoke one.

Then there is ſuch a diſproportion in our ages, that I am ſure—

What you thinks if we were to be married to⯑gether it would be all one as if I was to clap an old ſole to a new upper-leather.

And how do you think we ſhould agree then?

Why for all the world like John and Jean in the old ballad.

What, that you ſing ſometimes in your ſtall?

Yes, Miſs.

I wiſh you'd ſing it—'twould divert me.

Why, Miſs, I ought to be going towards Bat terſea bridge; but I am ſure I would do any thing to di⯑vert you.

Here ſhe is, by heaven, and alone!—my dear Nancy, I flew to you, for a ſingle moment, to inform you—

Sir, I have received ſufficient information, in your abſence, to determine me never to hear you upon any ſubject again.

How!

I know who you are, Sir,—why, you concealed your real name and family from me.—Perhaps you and your father were not to be ſatisfied, till the ruin of the daughter, was added to the ruin of the father.

By heaven I have not the moſt diſtant concep⯑tion of what you mean; I ſwear to you my intentions in relation to you proceed from the pureſt and moſt diſin⯑tereſted affection.

Are you not the ſon of governor Lively?

I am.

That oppreſſor of innocence, that tyrant who ſought to deſtroy his very preſerver.

No, let me defend him;—tho' he has diſcarded me, driven me an alien from his houſe, I deſerved it all, and aſſumed another name only that I might not be a reproach to him;—nor did I ever know him capable of an injuſtice;—what would you inſinuate then?—what preſerver do you mean?

My father, who ſaved his life.

Your father!—ſtay—it muſt be ſo—our conver⯑ſation, every thing confirms it:—but I'll anſwer with my life whatever injuſtice poor Blenheim has ſuffered, my father is unconſcious of the cauſe;—nay, I have often heard him declare he would load the old ſoldier with fa⯑vours who ſaved his life at Fontenoy;—this is delightful, I'll fly to him this inſtant.

Thou art a worthy youth—forgive my raſh⯑neſs.

Thy fault was, as thou art, amiable to perfec⯑tion—I go—when ſhall I return and demand thee of thy father?

Suffer me to ſpeak one word to your father, and I'll away;—here he comes, take no notice that you know who I am, nor let your mother.

Come along, neighbour.

Ah, my, daughter!

My dear father!—how we have wiſhed for you!

Where's thy poor mother?

I expect her every moment.

Ah, young man.

I took the liberty of coming to prepare your fa⯑mily for your reception; and once more to know if my friendſhip can be ſerviceable to you;—poor as my ſitua⯑tion is.—I have a relation powerful enough to redreſs your wrongs; ſuffer him to receive an account of them to-morrow from your own mouth.

Thy friendſhip I accept with all my heart, young man;—I have a regard for youth; in that happy ſeaſon, the heart is unhackney'd in the ways of men; be⯑ſides thou art a good lad, and haſt many excellent ſenti⯑ments, and as thou art purſuing the road to glory, my advice may perhaps aſſiſt thee.

Ah, my dear old man, and ſo thou'rt come home at laſt—and how doſt?

Not quite ſo young as formerly, good wife, but as ſincere believe me;—come young man, wilt thou par⯑take a poor ſupper with us?

My duty calls me hence;—I'll ſee you to-mor⯑row, and I hope, with good news.

ACT II.

THE inhabitants of this hoſpitalble aſylum are conſigning one of their companions to the earth, while the good-natured neighbours flock around, and with an ho⯑neſt grief regard the old veterans, whoſe eyes are ſwollen at the remembrance of that time when young and luſty they ſought glory in the field with the preſent object of their concern—Generous grief!—It becomes the na⯑tives of this beneficent country, for of all the tributes due to worth, there's none ſo graceful or ſo noble as the tear that bedews the grave of a ſoldier;—but the ceremo⯑ny is at an end and here they come.

Ah poor fellow, 'tis all over with him ſure e⯑nough!—well, we have not buried him all, for he left behind him at the battle of Hockſtet, as good a leg and as fine an arm as ever mounted a breach or poized a firelock.

Well, he was a noble, fine fellow.

Ah! I ſhall never forget before the breath went out of his body—he called me to him—ſays he, you [24] ſee Malplaquet, what a campaign I am going to make—give me ſome ammunition to take with me, my boy—ſo with that I gave him the guzzle, he drank a good ſwig, ſhook me by the hand, cried, damme, good bye! and went off like a ſucking babe.—Ah! 'twill be my turn next.

Come, come, don't take it ſo to heart.

There was a time to be ſure—we had our day once, that nobody can deny—but now we are as uſeleſs as ſo many broke up mortars, or ſpiked cannon—ah! we are fit for nothing now but to drink and talk of what we could do formerly.

Drink—well and what can we do better?—won't you take a ſup with us, brother?

With all my heart.

Who have we here?

Why, 'tis I.

You, friend Lapſtone? and how came you ſo metamorphoſed?

Why you know you was ſaying laſt night at ſupper, that you ſhould like to marry your daughter to a ſoldier, and ſo what does I do—I borrows the dead gen⯑tleman penſioner's coat to aſk you how I looks in it—don't you think I have a good milantary air?

Admirable!—but I ſhould think your joints as well as mine are not very ſupple.

Oh Lord, you don't know how liſſom I be, Mr. Manoeuvre, the drill ſerjeant in the Park, tells me, that with a little treading upon my toes, and cudgelling over the ſhoulders, he is ſure in a week he could make me turn out in the line;—beſides, we ought all to go for ſoldiers now.

Ay! why now friend Lapſtone?

Why I am creditably informed that the French are determined this ſummer to evade us in four places.—They are to make a retreat in Cornwall, embark a large body of troops upon the coaſt of Ireland, throw ſuccours into Portſmouth harbour, and take a diverſion upon the Thames.

Indeed!

Nay more!—They are to ſet fire to all the ſhipping in the river, knock down the Tower, and ſur⯑prize the Lord Mayor as he goes a ſwan-hopping.

Why indeed this buſineſs is enough to ſurprize any body.—But ſtill I think you and I can do but little ſervice; we are too old.

Old?—Why Lord love you, I am but ſixty one—to be ſure they ſcratched me off the liſt for malici⯑ous men upon the church door.

Well friend Lapſtone, if I were to counſel you, while others ſerve their country in the field, you ſhould endeavour to be uſeful to it in your ſtall.

I' cod I believe he's right;—if I get wounded with my pairing knife or my awl, I have no occaſion for a ſurgeon to cure me; I can't ſay ſo much for a bay⯑onet or a firelock—no, I'm determined—I'll viſit no re⯑devouſes, but houſes of call, nor think about quarters, except to cobble 'em.

I hope he won't know me in this diſguiſe; I ſhould fain hear his ſtory without diſcovering myſelf; it will be told with more ingenuity, and I ſhall hear it with leſs confuſion.—For thee, Frederick, thou haſt ſo pleaſed me, that if this appears as thou haſt related it, I'll forgive thee every thing.

Sir, your eagerneſs ever to do juſtice, prompted what I have done; in the relation of which, you'll find I have been faithful.

But how came your intimacy with the daugh⯑ter?

Paſſing frequently, Sir, this way, I continually noticed her at ſome induſtrious employment; I enquired who ſhe was, got introduced, and loved her; but though her perſon and converſation won my very ſoul, yet theſe were nothing in my eſteem, compared with the unparalleled affection for her father.

But here he comes; I have brought this gentleman to ſhare with me the pleaſure of your converſation.

I longed to ſee you, Sir—you are allied to a worthy young man—but I am afraid that by viſiting me you will involve yourſelf in a danger you are not aware of—in the ruin of a man proſcribed.—If a real criminal is puniſhed, he will ſoon be forgotten, but if a man of blameleſs integrity is injured, he will be perſecuted with unrelenting hatred, for the very mention of his name is a ſatire on the times, and his exiſtence is to the con⯑ſcience of his enemies an unceaſing remembrancer of guilt.

I fear your words have too much truth in them; and yet in the courſe of human contingencies it muſt happen, that men of worth will occaſionally be plunged in misfortune.

But ought that conſideration to check the no⯑ble ardour of a ſoldier? the pooreſt penſioner in this charity has his moments of exultation when he recollects he has fought bravely.

True, a love of glory is a noble paſſion!—but do you think the pleaſure that ſprings from conqueſt has a ſincere and laſting charm in it?—Alas! when a de⯑luge of human blood bids the tears of natural affection flow in rivers round the land, can the mind in that ſitu⯑ation taſte of joy?

Never.—Yet ſurely when this blood is ſpilt in their defence, of whom nature intended us the guardians, though our ſenſibility may be ſhocked, our honour can never be ſtained.—In my mind, defence and repriſals are the only juſtifiable meaſures in war, while ambition is but another name for maſſacre.

You have diſtinguiſhed right.—But in your purſuits after fame you will have a worſe enemy to guard againſt than ambition—Envy!—which when you have done your duty, will make even accidents a ground of impeachment againſt you.—Have you done all that was poſſible?—You ought to have done bet⯑ter.—The charge is aggravated, and the good you have done dwindles into nothing—your downfall is effected, and ſome worthleſs wretch is ſure to riſe upon your ruins.

This is indeed a melancholy truth.

But 'tis a truth that ſprings from error more than injuſtice; I teach it to this young man that he may riſe ſuperior to it—that he may conſult his own heart, and in that manly ſelf-conference enquire—‘[31] "Were I reduced to the condition of old Blenheim, would my innocence make even affliction ſmile?"’ If you heſitate a moment to ſay yes to this queſtion, paſs your life in obſcurity, for you have not the materials for a public character.

What injuſtice have I been guilty of to this man? I would have diſcovered myſelf and remedied all, but that I wiſh to come provided with the means; I have thought what employ to procure him, and mean to ſup⯑ply myſelf with the neceſſary inſtruments before I acquaint him with his good fortune.

Yonder comes his wife and daughter, Sir.

You tell me the old woman don't know who I am; I ſuppoſe ſhe'll abuſe me liberally; I'll humour it—and as to the daughter, I mean to make a trial of her.

Dear Sir—

Nay, I muſt inſiſt, upon your duty, that you'll not interfere; aſſiſting the father is one thing; but con⯑ſenting to my ſon's marriage with the daughter, is an⯑other; her birth, to be ſure, is as good as yours; and fortune I do not regard; but—

My life on't, then, you'll find that a prince might accept her alliance without a bluſh—but they are here.

Nay, come along child; I am not afraid to ſpeak to him, not I.

My anxiety makes me break through every de⯑corum; pray tell me—what of my father?

Ay, let us know ſomething about my old man; they tells me, Sir, you are come to right him; I am ſure 'tis high time; do you know this Governor Sir?

A little.

Is not he a ſad old villain?

Huſh, mother, conſider this gentleman's his re⯑lation.

What of that? what of that? the truth's the truth.

Aye, aye, don't mince the matter, ſpeak what you think of him; I aſſure you nobody would be ſo likely to blame him, for doing wrong, as I ſhould.

Wrong, Sir, you ſhall judge yourſelf whether he has done wrong or no: after all poor Blenheim's ſuf⯑ferings, I am ſure I ſhall never forget when his dear arm was ſhot, through and through, at Fontenoy; I was waiting, with ſome other gentlemen's wives, upon a bag⯑gage-waggon; and when he was brought home, ſays he, wife, this is a ſmart wound; but I am glad I received it, for it ſaved my captain's life; and don't you think, after this, that he muſt be the cruelleſt, hard▪hearted old rogue—

Oh! certainly, I never met with ſuch an infa⯑mous piece of buſineſs in my life; but, now, what plan would you have me purſue to make him do juſtice?

Why, Sir, if you'll be ſo good, I'd have you go to him, tell him what a villain he is; and that, if he ever expects to ſleep quietly in his bed, he'll come here di⯑rectly, and reward my poor huſband for all he has under⯑gone.

You may depend upon me—he ſhall be righted; and I don't doubt but there are many years of happineſs yet in ſtore for you.

Why, moſt of my family lived to a good round age; and, for my part, I'm brave and hearty.

So you ſeem.

Poor woman! ſhe's very ſincere at leaſt.

I hope you'll have the goodneſs to pardon her, Sir; her anxiety for my father outweighs every other conſideration.

Your father has been ill-treated, matters have been falſely repreſented to me, and he has ſeverely ſuf⯑fered for it; I mean to atone for my error, but I hear it is expected that I ſhall countenance an extravagant paſ⯑ſion which, it ſeems, my only ſon has thought proper to entertain for you.

Sir, my father's leſſons and example has fortified me againſt the ſevereſt ſtrokes of fortune; his happineſs, [35] therefore, accompliſhed, I ſhall reſign myſelf to what⯑ever may be my fate without a ſigh.

I am glad to hear it; this good ſenſe ſeems to promiſe me that you'll ſee, very fairly, the propriety of breaking off this matter intirely.

For Heaven's ſake, Sir—

Sir, I ſhan't hear a word from you; the girls has a hundred times your underſtanding; ſhe can't, for the life of her, deny but that I talk very reaſonably; can you now, young woman?

Indeed, Sir—I—I a think Sir—

As I do—I knew it well enough; well then, I ſuppoſe you won't be at all ſhocked when I tell you I have found out a match for my ſon.

Sir!

Hold your tongue, I tell you—and 'tis the ſweeteſt girl! her perſon is lovely, tempting, enchanting, beautiful.

Nay, for Heaven's ſake, Sir—

Will you let me go on, Sir? ſhe has the moſt charming, little, delicate—you know her, Frederick.

Do I, Sir?—I wiſh I did not.

Yes, you do, and you'll love her, I am ſure you will, when I tell you who ſhe is.

Never.

May he be happy—let her be who ſhe will.

You won't, hey, I'll try that; 'tis—

Who, Sir?

Oh! Heaven!

Why, that little baggage there, that ſtands frightened out of her wits; go to her and comfort her.

What happineſs!

Well, do you wiſh you did not know her?

What exceſs of goodneſs!

I did not intend to have yielded ſo ſoon you jade; but I don't know how it is, I am almoſt as much in love with you as my ſon; but ſuppoſe I had not forgiven you, could you have been happy together in ſo low a ſitu⯑ation?

Yes, Sir, even if I had been obliged to have carried his knapſack.

You ſay you are old Blenheim's friends.

Yes, he's our ancient comrade as it were, and un⯑derſtanding he is here, we are come to crack a noggin with him.

You'd be ſorry to have him uſed ill, ſhould not you?

I ſhould like to ſee the man that dared to do it.

You ſee thoſe two men going out of the gate, one of them is Governor Lively's ſon, and the other ſome friend in diſguiſe;—I know there's miſchief hatching, for I heard them ſay they'd have the warrants filled up, and then come and ſurprize them.

Hey—fire and fury, follow me.

'Tis true, my honeſt comrade; the grievances of people in our ſituation, are not attended to ſo much as they ought; but in the beſt inſtitutions there will, of neceſſity, creep ſome abuſes, and we ſhould be more reaſonable, if inſtead of magnifying the few we find, we were thankful we find no more;—but who have we here?

Oh, huſband, a whole heap of your friends have ſeized the young man, and the ſtrange gentleman that's with him, and are forcing them before you; and neigh⯑bour Lapſtone ſays, 'tis well they did, for they were juſt going for a warrant to take you up, and carry you to priſon again.

He's a meddling fool;—their intentions are the faireſt depend upon it.

So, old gentleman, we are your priſoners it ſeems.

My priſoners—let me underſtand you, Sir.

Why, theſe men, who, I think, are a little too buſy in your affairs, will needs have it that we mean you ſome foul play.

And do they mean to ſhew their friendſhip to me by this outrage?

Why, lookee, Maſter, Blenheim—you are a hearty one—I have ſerved with you, and I honour you—and if theſe gemmen here means you no foul play all's well enough; but if they did, I am the man that would go through a little rough work rather than ſee it.

Theſe gentlemen can mean me no ill, for I have done them none—pray, Sir, forgive them.

On one condition, I will.

Name it.

That you'll forget your wrongs and forgive me—the unfortunate, though innocent author of them.

How, Sir—are you Governor Lively?

Yes, and to ſhew you that the world is ſome⯑times miſtaken, at the moment your friends believed I was meditating miſchief againſt you, I was haſtening to procure the means of exalting you to a ſituation you de⯑ſerve, and would adorn.

I do not deny, Sir, but that my heart feels proudly at this moment, and though I do not wiſh this for myſelf, I wiſh it as an example for the world.

But how ſhall I thank thee, my ſon?

Another myſtery—your ſon!

Yes, my worthy ſon! who has pointed me out this moſt noble period of my life—how ſhall I reward him?

'Tis not in your power, Sir,—poor as old Blen⯑heim is, he has a treaſure in his poſſeſſion infinitely above all yours.

My only treaſure is my daughter—and if your father conſents, I know not where I could beſtow her ſo worthily.

Take her, and don't ſay a word—we none of us, I am ſure, know very well how to explain our preſent ſenſations—let muſic, therefore, expreſs for us what we can't expreſs for ourſelves.