ACT I. Scene a Study in Sir Thomas Richacre's Houſe. Doctor Goodman and Emily are diſcovered ſitting: the Doctor ſhutting a Book, they pre⯑ſently riſe.

HERE, madam, if you pleaſe, we'll con⯑clude the labour of the day.

Call it rather the pleaſure of the day, ſir,—for ſuch it is to me, I aſſure you—to you indeed, ſir, I fear it muſt be otherwiſe—the inſtruction of a ſilly girl, no doubt, is painful and tedious.

Pardon me, madam, I did not call it labour in that ſenſe; ſo far am I from think⯑ing it irkſome, the hours I paſs in this our every morning's exerciſe, and the duties of my holy function, are the happieſt of my life:—for, believe me, were you my own child, inſtead of my honour'd patron's, I could not love you better!

Nor do I think Sir Thomas's affection (altho' the beſt of fathers) exceeds the very pa⯑ternal regard you have ever been pleaſed to expreſs for me—and—I know not why—I [2]think I feel not a more filial love for him, than for yourſelf, ſir!

Dear madam, ſay not ſo:—the many hours we paſs together in our delightful ſtudies, beget in you a cuſtomary regard— think it no more.

Perhaps it is no more, ſir, nay, it cannot—for never had a child a kinder parent!

Nor ever had a man a truer friend! Indeed, ſo general is his goodneſs, he might be a pattern for mankind:—he never ſaw an infant without a parent's fondneſs, or a grey head, but, like a child, he honour'd it!

Ha, ha! what, hard at it?—What is it?—Ethics or mathematics, aſtrology or the⯑ology?—'tis a thouſand pities, Doctor, your pupil is a girl, otherwiſe ſhe would certainly be a biſhop in time.

Perhaps not, papa;—you ſee Dr. Goodman, with as much piety, learning, good ſenſe, and, I am ſure, as good a heart as any, has hitherto attained to no greater dignities than rector of this pariſh, your chaplain, ſir, and my tutor.

Were I, madam, what you are pleaſed to ſay of me, it does not at all follow I ſhould ever be ſo exalted.—There are, no doubt, an infinitely greater number of deſerving miniſters than there are mitres, or even inferior dignities; but whoever has attained to that of an honeſt man, will feel, that church or ſtate can never raiſe him higher!

I think ſo too, Doctor; and, in that reſpect, there is not a more exalted character than yourſelf.

Heaven forbid, ſir!

But all this while I forget your boy, Doctor.—I made my morning's airing ſhorter than uſual, that I might be in the way when he arrived.—He is not come yet, I ſuppoſe?

No, ſir.

Does young Mr. Goodman come home from Oxford to day, ſir?

Yes, madam, I expect him.

Bleſs me! I thought he was not to have come till next week, ſir.

Yes, yes, he'll be here to day, and then you may have a new tutor, for I ſuppoſe you have almoſt tir'd your old one.—I war⯑rant, by this time, he can ſpeak Greek as well as his father; what think you, Doctor?

I not only think that of him, ſir, but, were he not my own, I could be bold to ſay, he is the moſt accompliſhed youth I ever ſaw, and, add to that—the beſt!

Ay, ay, George is a good boy!— ay, and a clever one too—every body ſays ſo as well as yourſelf:—but if they did not, the crow, you know, always thinks her own young whiteſt, ha, ha, ha!—Let me ſee,

'tis paſt one,—will the rogue be here to dinner, think you?

I expect him every moment, ſir.

Od! I wish he was come! I have not ſeen him this age:—and are not you glad he is coming, Emily?

Yes, indeed, ſir, very glad—for I think him a moſt amiable young man; and [4]have often thought it a thouſand pities he is not heir to a good fortune; as this idolatrous world of ours, ſtill worshipping a golden calf, would value him much more for inheriting a fund of wealth than virtues:—and a rich cox⯑comb is oftner propoſed to us poor girls, than the moſt deſerving of our affections, whoſe me⯑rits are not back'd with that powerful recom⯑mendation—a great eſtate!

It's very true, my dear,—too often the caſe, I muſt confeſs.

And I make no doubt, but even our ridiculous worthleſs neighbour, Lord Sealand's addreſſes, would be eſteemed an honour, and plain George Goodman's, an affront, to moſt great families in the kingdom.

Why, he is a peer of the realm, you know.

True, papa; and there are very few ſo ill-bred, as to think a coronet may ſometimes cover a weak head, or a glittering ſtar, a bad heart!

Ha, ha! well ſaid, my little ſati⯑riſt!—We are to be honour'd with his lord⯑ship's company to day at dinner, on purpoſe to ſee George.

His lordship has been always kind enough to take great notice of my poor boy.

That is the only proof of underſtand⯑ing he ever gave—and, but for that, he would be intolerable, with his unaccountable whims and caprices.—Now own, papa, don't you think it a ſtrange amuſement he has lately taken to, keeping ſailing veſſels, to be ſo often toſſing about on the ſea as he is?

Why ay, child, I think it rather too boiſterous to be called pleaſure; but he ſeldom makes a much longer trip than juſt acroſs to Calais, to furnish himſelf with ſome of their knicknacks and fopperies.

Right, papa; for ſuch a finical wa⯑terfly is he, that, when on shore, he lays out more money in powder and perfumes in a week, than, I fear, he gives to the poor in a year.—I never ſee him, papa, but I think of beau Mizen in the play. Ha, ha, ha!

Well, but, Emily, my dear, you, of all people in the world, should not be ſo ſevere upon him: he's a very warm admirer of you, you know; and has almoſt aſk'd my con⯑ſent to marry you.

He is not a bit more in my good graces for that, I aſſure you, papa; for, could he obtain your conſent, I believe he'd care very little whether he had mine or not.

But Sir Thomas, I am perſuaded, madam, will never grant one without the other.

That I confide in, ſir.—I ſuppoſe I shall be teiz'd to death with his ſupercilious nonſenſe to day, which he gives me to under⯑ſtand he means for courtship.

And are not you delighted at the very idea of being his lady?—Counteſs of Sealand!

Not I, indeed, papa; lud! lud! what a character! a foppish ſailor! a compound of tar and civet! faugh!—I'd ſooner marry our honeſt Old Metre yonder, and be dame to the clerk of the pariſh.

Ha, ha, ha! here comes the old pſalm-ſinger as faſt as he can hobble.

Poor good old man! he's worth a court-calendar full of ſuch lords!

Your reverence! your reverence!— goodlack, I moſt humbly crave your worship's pardon for my abrupt intruſion,

but I come a joyful harbinger! As I am a ſin⯑ner, ſir, your well-beloved ſon is juſt arrived.

Indeed!

Is he faith, old Sternhold?

Yes, in truth, your worship, or may I never ſet another ſtave.

O lud, ay! he is juſt ſtepping out of the poſt-chaiſe—bleſs me—what a figure I am!—I—I beg pardon, ſir, but in⯑deed I can't ſtay—I muſt go and make myſelf a little more fit to be ſeen?

Did you obſerve the girl, Doctor?

Moſt heedfully, ſir—and fear—

He approacheth, your honours, he approacheth!

Ay, here he comes, ſure enough.

Your bleſſing, ſir,

Heaven grant thee grace!

My honour'd patron! my ſecond fa⯑ther!

I can't reſiſt an impulſe that throws me at your feet, and bids me beg your bleſſing too!

Heaven bleſs and preſerve you, my good lad!

My dear father, forgive this tranſport —I fear it hurries me into a neglect, I'd ſooner die than willingly be guilty of —but—this meeting overpowers me!—don't be offended, ſir,

at the frankneſs of a poor lad like me—indeed I am very happy to ſee you, ſir! I hope both you, ſir, and my dear father, are as well as—

Well? odzookers! who can be ill and look ſuch a ruddy-cheek'd rogue as you in the face?—faith, you look bravely, my lad!— and a devilish handſome young dog you are grown! rare work, I warrant, he has made at Oxford, Doctor! how many dozen have you left crying their eyes out, eh, George?

You are merry, ſir,

Well, but—joking apart—have you left ne'er a little tender ſoul breaking her heart after you;—a ſweetheart, eh, George? for I'll engage you have got one, boy.

To what end, ſir, ſo young and un⯑provided for, as I am?—But, excuſe me, ſir, for interrupting you by hoping Miſs Richacre is well.

Ay, Emily is pure hearty, and as reſerv'd as yourſelf—She wont confeſs the power of the little blind boy any more than you.

The longer ſhe is, ſir, before ſhe makes her choice, we may reaſonably hope the better it will be.—But, I believe, ſir, she may wait long indeed, before she finds one to de⯑ſerve her.

Odzookers, George, that's a civiler thing than ever I heard Lord Sealand ſay of her, with all his courtship.

Lord Sealand!

I—I hope, ſir, I do not offend in ſpeaking my ſentiments ſo freely?

Offend! no, no, boy—I like you the better for ſpeaking your thoughts—I wish all mankind did ſo, they would not be the worſe for it.

Then, with your worship's indulgence, I can withhold no longer—As I am an unwor⯑thy ſinner, ſir,

I am more delighted to behold you than a full congregation! and that is the delight of my old heart.

What, my good old friend! nothing but my extreme joy at ſeeing my honour'd pa⯑rent and protector, could have made me over⯑look you—I am very glad to ſee you—I hope you are well!

In troth, the better for ſeeing you well, ſir!

Ah, my old playfellow, "Thou haſt born me on this back a thouſand times!"

And a pleaſant load thou wert, my ever gentle taſk-maſter! he, he, he!—and, in like ſportful ſort, although I am waxen old, I hope to live to bear your tender offspring!

No, my poor Yorick! time will, I fear, bear you away firſt!

Not ſo neither, George—for, as my mother uſed to ſay to me, thoſe eyes of yours will make many a pretty girl's heart ach—ſo, don't be timorous, lad, but look about you; and, if you take a liking to a girl, let her be who she may, attack her boldly—I am a [9]whimſical old fellow, and if I take it into my head, may make you worth her having.

Sir, I fear your goodneſs will—

Pho, pho, be quiet, Doctor—you know I am not (like too many in the world) eaſily talked out of a good deſign, or into a bad one—but, tell us, George, ſincerely, now we are upon the ſubject, have you really ne'er a ſweetheart at Oxford?

No, I aſſure you, ſir.—I never ſaw a face there that made the leaſt impreſſion on me.

And you are heart-whole, ha?

As when I left this houſe, ſir!

Why, how have you paſs'd your time, lad? always at your ſtudies?

Pretty conſtantly, ſir—the only re⯑turn in my power for your great bounty to me, was the making a proper uſe of it.—But, if I may be ſo bold, ſir, I think you mentioned ſomething of Lord Sealand's having paid his addreſſes to Miſs Richacre.

Ay, George, I believe I might—

But I think, ſir, you ſaid too, that Miſs Emily had not hitherto confeſs'd any particular inclination—

Why, no—but he's very rich— and when a ſuitor is both wealthy and noble, you know—

Very true, ſir!

Not that I believe Emily likes him a jot better for thoſe accidental advan⯑tages, as ſhe calls them—She and I are much of a mind about him; for, in my opinion, [10]he is but a frothy kind of a ſpark, like too many of the preſent age—and it is paying you no compliment, George, to ſay ſuch a lad as you are, is worth a ſcore ſuch as Lord Sealand.

I fear, ſir, what you are pleaſed to ſay of my poor boy will make him vain.

Vain of what ſuch an old fellow as I ſay! no, no,—If Emily had ſaid as much indeed—but, Doctor, I muſt rob you of George's company a little—come, boy,—you muſt go and aſk my girl how ſhe is—ſhe'll be glad to ſee you, I'm ſure—She juſt ſaw you alight, and ſcamper'd away to ſet her cap ſtrait, or ſome ſuch important matter—Come along, my boy, and I'll promiſe you a kiſs for your pains.

Will you excuſe me a few moments, my dear ſir, while I pay my reſpects to Miſs Richacre?

Ay, ay, attend Sir Thomas by all means—meantime, I'll ſtep and ſee a poor cottager hard by, who, Metre has juſt been telling me, is very ill.

You are as humane as ever, ſir, heaven bleſs you!

And you too, my dear boy!

Amen! and heaven be with you both! for ſuch a father and ſuch a ſon, are hardly to be parallel'd!—No marvel his good worship is ſo well pleaſed in ye—he, wheſe benignity extendeth even unto my unworthy ſelf, and my poor child, Martha; whom he hath moſt benevolently reared, as waiting-maid [11]unto his fair daughter, from childhood even unto womanhood—and, in commiſeration of my forlorn condition, when my loving help⯑mate, Rebecca, departed this tranſitory life, bountifully took me to end my days in peace in his moſt hoſpitable manſion!

Lord, ma'am, there's nobody here but my father—

Whom ſeeketh her good ladyship, Martha?

I thought Mr. Goodman had been here.

No, madam—his reverence is gone to viſit the afflicted.

O, no—I don't mean the Doctor, but George Goodman—I met his father this mo⯑ment, and he ſaid he was this way.

Good madam, I moſt humbly crave forgiveneſs for my miſapprehenſion—my dearly beloved young maſter departed hence but even now indeed, to accompany his worship, in order to pay his moſt dutiful reſpects unto your ladyship.

Run, Patty—tell my papa I came down the other ſtairs, and am here.

So pleaſe your ladyship, I will ac⯑quaint his worship forthwith.

Thank you, Mr. Metre.

I long for the ſweet young pair to meet methinks!

And ſo, Patty, you did ſee him, you ſay?

Yes, ma'am, I juſt had a peep at him as he paſſed thro' the hall, and he did look ſo handſome you can't think.

I wish you are not in love with him, girl.

Ah, madam! if I was as much his betters as he is mine, I'd ſoon tell him a piece of my mind.

Why really the youth's not amiſs— I had a glimpſe of him myſelf, and think him conſiderably improved, I muſt confeſs—his complexion more florid, and air more lively than when he left us.

Ay, ma'am, that he is, more lively and more lovely too than ever; and ſo you would ſay, ma'am, I am ſure, if you ſpoke your thoughts.

Indeed! and pray how came you ſo well acquainted with my thoughts?

Why, ma'am, the dreſſing glaſs diſ⯑covered them to me—for you have look'd more in it ſince you knew young Mr. Goodman was arrived, than ever I knew you in all my life before—And I'll be whipt if you don't wish to appear as handſome in his eyes as he does in yours.

O you wicked girl, how can you ſay ſo?

Indeed, ma'am, if I was as rich as your ladyſhip, and we were both at our own diſpoſal, I fancy we should puzzle the poor young gentleman which to chooſe—for his choice he might have, that's certain.

And, in that caſe, you think he'd be puzzled which to chooſe?

O, dear ma'am, I had quite forgot one thing—that is—If I was as beautiful as your ladyship.

O, your ladyship's moſt obedient!

and ſo you have quite forgot your ſweetheart, William?

William?—yes—no, ma'am—that is —O gemini, ma'am, here the ſweet gentleman comes as ſure as a gun!

Eh! what! where?

Here, Emily, my girl, where are you? I was juſt going to ſtorm your dreſſing room as old Amen overtook me—I have brought an old acquaintance to ſee you.

With your leave, ſir—

Ay, ay, kiſs her, boy, kiſs her!— and kiſs him, girl! you two muſt not be ſtrange.

Madam!—I—I hope—

Sir!—I am—very—

Heyday! Madam—I hope—and, Sir, I am very—and there they both ſtop!— why what ail you both? you are not tongue⯑tied ſure all on a ſudden?—Pray, ſir,—what may you hope?—and, ma'am,—what are you very?—come, come, I fancy I can explain the matter—I ſuppoſe, George, if the truth was known, you hope to get another kiſs—and you, Emily, are very willing to give it him! well, [14]well, with all my heart, never heed me—kiſs her again, boy, kiſs her again!

Sir, I beg pardon for—

Pho, pho, kiſs her again, I tell you—I inſiſt upon it—and then, perhaps, you'll recover your ſpeech a little.

I am ſo over⯑joy'd, madam—

Sir, I am extremely—

Dear heart, ſir, I hope you won't be angry, but indeed I cant hold my tongue any longer—You're welcome to Kent, ſir! I hope you are well, ſir?

Very well, I thank you, Patty.—I am glad to ſee you—I hope you are well?

Pretty well, 'thank you, ſir; how do you do?

Why look you there now—I war⯑rant Miſtreſs Patt could hold on a—how d'ye do, ſir? and a—pretty well, thank you, ſir! till this day fortnight;

while you ſtand as mute as an Egyptian mummy.

Dear papa, forgive me.—Sir—I beg your pardon, but indeed I was ſo glad to ſee you, I had ſcarce power to tell you ſo!

You have bereft me, madam, of re⯑ply, by ſaying the very words I would have utter'd if I could—may I flatter myſelf ſo far as to think—

O yes, indeed, ſir, you may flatter yourſelf—for my lady and I are both very glad to ſee you!

Hold your tongue, you chatter-box! I don't know any buſineſs you have here.

Dear heart, ſir! I did but juſt ſpeak —Chatter-box!—I wiſh I had been as cunning as ſome folks, and held my tongue, I might then have been kiſs'd a little as well as ſome other people.

Pray, papa, excuſe her—ſhe always ſeem'd to have ſo great reſpect for Mr. Good⯑man, and was ſo deſirous now of ſeeing him, that I gave her leave to come with me.

So pleaſe your worſhip, the right honourable the Earl of Sealand is juſt alight⯑ing from his gilded cha-ri-ot.

I'll go to him directly—children, I'll leave you to yourſelves a little—you'll find your tongues, perhaps, when my back's turn'd —but, George, you have not much time to ſpare—Lord Sealand will be enquiring for you, ſo get dreſs'd as ſoon as poſſible.

I will, ſir.

Come along then, old Pitch-pipe, and young madam Prate-a-pace!

We follow your good and merry worſhip! ha, ha, ha! Martha, my child, come your ways.

I'll come preſently, father—I am in great hopes he will kiſs me yet!

Preſently will not do, child, come now!

Wilt thou never learn more manners than to hearken unto gentlefolks' diſcourſe? an eves-dropper! fie for ſhame! get thee gone about thy buſineſs, that's my good girl.

Psha! fiddle, faddle! how provoking this is! now I am ſure I sha'n't get a kiſs.

Your honour's very hum⯑ble ſervant! heaven bleſs you, my ſweet young maſter!

And you too, my good old friend!

Juſt ſuch a lovely pair were thoſe firſt formed—ah! would your conditions were as equal! then might I hope, ere long, unto your nuptial benediction, moſt joyfully to cry Amen!

What a whimſical old ſoul it is!

But exceeding kind and honeſt—at leaſt to me—he knows no bounds to his good wishes for my welfare—which is all I can ſay in extenuation of his freedom now to you, madam!

O, the well-meaning good creature cannot eaſily offend me.

Have a care, dear madam, your condeſcenſion don't deſtroy the reſpect I should preſerve—

Let me beg of you to forget thoſe diſtant words, reſpect, and madam—our com⯑pliments are over, (tho' with much difficulty)

let us now reſume that innocent fa⯑miliarity we were bred together in, and ever were delighted with—when we parted laſt, you was leſs ceremonious; then, inſtead of madam, you call'd me your Emily—nay more, your dear Emily!

That I ſtill might without a crime! for ſure there can be nothing dearer to me.

Then why this diſtance—this reſerve?

O Emily! think but of your con⯑dition, your rank in life, and think of mine!

And ſhall that lay a reſtraint upon our lips?—muſt they be denied to expreſs what our hearts will feel, forgetful of diſtinc⯑tion?

What my heart feels they can't ex⯑preſs—gratitude, love, admiration! all the moſt ſuſceptible can feel, or eloquent deſcribe, is there.—My deareſt Emily, ſtill I muſt call you ſo—why are you thus kind—thus conde⯑ſcending!—

In what?—'prithee, now, where is the mighty difference between us? is not your father in every reſpect (but the loweſt of all conſiderations, riches) as good as mine? and wherein can I pretend to vie with thee, who art an abſtract of both their virtues!—but we grow ſerious—beſides, you have to dreſs, and ſee that odious Sealand, which this detains you from; ſo, 'till we meet at dinner, dear George, adieu!

Adieu, ſweet Emily! lovely, en⯑gaging, bewitching Emily! O that I were but rich enough to dare aſpire to thee! never did I repine at want of fortune but on thy account, and when I find that the only bar to my ſucceſs, I muſt repine; ſince, were I not the child of poverty and dependance, what might I not hope!—her partiality for me, I think, is evident—and my determination to conquer this ill-ſuited paſſion, ſhe has, in one moment, utterly deſtroyed!

I gave my father the ſlip nicely— and here he is yet—and alone too, that's charming! Now, who knows but I may have better luck than I had before

—Pray, ſir, is not my young lady here?

Hoity toity! why he's ſpeech⯑leſs again—may be he is always ſo when he wants to kiſs a pretty girl—I wiſh Sir Thomas wou'd pop in his head, and cry (as he did juſt now) kiſs her, boy! kiſs her again!

— Sir! Sir!—pray is not madam Emily here?

Ha! Emily! what of Emily?

Nothing, ſir,—only I thought ſhe had been here—

Yes, no—ſhe has juſt left me—the happieſt, yet moſt wretched, of mankind!

Not one kiſs, by jingo! I could cry for madneſs! I ſuppoſe he's proud, and thinks himſelf too much above me—marry come up! and yet—he is a pretty gentleman, and if I was as rich as a jew I'd marry him directly.— Stay—let me conſider—I have got a little money by me that my father knows nothing of, if I don't buy a lottery-ticket I'll be burnt!—and if I get the twenty-thouſand-pound-prize, nay, if I am ſo unlucky as to get only the ten-thouſand, I'll tell him my mind directly—and ſure then he won't think himſelf above me! I've heard ſay, that in London the gentry—ay, even your lords and dukes, now and then marry poor girls that are pretty—like me, for [19]love—nay, (tho' I hardly know how to believe it) folks ſay, they'll ſometimes take up with their own, ay, or other people's, kept-madams! and I am ſure it wou'd not be a quarter ſo bad as that, for a parſon's ſon to marry a clerk's daughter!

ACT II. Scene, Sir Thomas Richacre's Garden.—A Summer Houſe in view.—Metre comes out of the Summer Houſe, William meets him carrying a Chair.

HERE, maſter Metre, here be another chair, and now it be all right, I believe —there be two for madam Emily and young maſter Goodman—two elbow-ones for Sir Thomas and his reverence, and this gilded da⯑maſk one you bid me fetch for my lord—but ecod, if I was his worſhip, I'd ſet upon it myſelf.

Ha, ha, ha!—well, put it into the ſummer-houſe with the reſt, that's my good lad.

Never ſtir if I don't believe it be made of lead, it feels ſo plaguy heavy—thof I ſuppoſe I only think ſo 'cauſe I fetch'd it with an ill-will—for, to be ſure, I did grudge my labour moſt confoundedly.

Why ſo, William? I never knew thee idle yet—Why ſo?

Why, becauſe I don't like un—and it goes mortally again' the grain with me to do any thing for ſuch a ſcape-grace—for, as the ould ſaving be—he is like the wind at eaſt, good to neither man nor beaſt!

For ſhame, William, for ſhame! you should not ſpeak ſo diſreſpectfully of a noble⯑man.

Nobleman! why I hope, maſter Metre, you don't think ſuch a whiffling chap as Lord Sealand deſerves to be called noble? I'll be judg'd by yourſelf now, if he be one crumb like his worship, or a quarter ſo noble, —thof he be no more but a knight-barrow-knight.

I profeſs, William, I do not think this light young lord ſo deſerving of his dig⯑nity as our nobles in general are ſaid to be; which maketh me moſt heartily wiſh he was more like his worſhip's honour than he is.

More like un! I'll be ſhot an' he be a bit like un—no more than a crab-apple be like a golden-pippin! I wonder, for my part (nay, for that matter, ſo do the whole neighbourhood) why ſuch a good gentleman as Sir Thomas, keeps company with him, and lets him come dangling here for ever a'ter young madam, like a tantony-pig?

Why, thou knoweſt, William, his lordſhip hath a great eſtate adjoining to his worſhip's—and, although he hath it not in his will, I fear, to do much good, it is in his power to do a great deal of harm, therefore, [21]I conjecture, his worship holdeth it prudent to keep friends with him.

More the pity, I ſay, maſter Metre, that what few good men there be in the world ſhould be obligated to truckle to the bad—or that any one ſhould have a good eſtate that has not a good heart likewiſe!

William! thou art an honeſt righ⯑teous lad, I verily believe; and, although it hath pleaſed heaven to place thee in ſo hum⯑ble a ſtation, the uprightneſs of thy heart would adorn the princes and the rulers of the land, more than their coſtly raiment, precious ſtones, purple and fine linen!

Thanks to your kind opinion, maſter Metre—I do hope I shall never prove no other⯑wiſe.

I am morally certain thou wilt not— hold forth thy hand—there is a shilling for thee—and I will beſtow upon thee too a do⯑nation of good books, particularly, the Old and New Teſtament, the Liturgy, with, thereunto annexed, the Old and New Verſion of the Pſalms of David, done into English Metre.

'Thank you kindly—odſbobs, I shall be quite ſet up—

Moreover, I will recommend thee unto his reverence, to ſucceed me in my holy office upon my demiſe—

What, me to be clerk and ſexton! oh lord!

To qualify thee for which important undertaking, I will inſtruct thee in every thing appertaining unto a clerkship—particularly in pſalmody—likewiſe how to adapt, as well as [22]ſet, a ſtave—and eke alſo, both audibly and emphatically to cry Amen!

I shall ſoon learn, for I know all the notches already, and can give the key with the pitch-pipe, and ſing fol fa with e'er a he in the parish—and as to Amen—no offence, maſter Metre, I hope—but I could ſay it twice as laudable as you do.

Audible, thou would'ſt ſay, William —and audibly did I uſe to ſay it—but, alack⯑aday, I am waxen old, and my voice is im⯑paired—but when I was thy age—hem! A—a—men!

Odſbobs! here comes my lady.

No, not here!—where is my George? what can have become of him?—Mr. Metre!

Did your good ladyship pleaſe to call?

Are you going into the houſe, pray?

Unleſs your ladyship hath occaſion to ſend me elſewhere.

No, only be ſo good to tell Patty I want to ſpeak with her.

I will communicate your ladyship's pleaſure unto her incontinently.—Ah! when young, I had a voice like any bell!—and, as the old ſong ſayeth, could dig a grave, and ſet a ſtave, and ſay Amen full well!

William!

Ma'am!

Step to the cottage below our garden-door in the green-lane; I am told the poor labourer there is ill, and the family in great diſtreſs—give this to the poor woman—

and be careful not to mention it to any body elſe, I charge you.

No, indeed, ma'am, I'll never open my lips about it, but when I'm praying heaven to bleſs and preſerve your ladyship's goodneſs!

Run then, William, as faſt as you can; and go out at the garden-door, that none of our family may ſee you.

Yes, ma'am, I will—I'm ſure I should not think this a heavy load if it weigh'd as much again as the gilt chair, for I should like to be ſo employ'd from one week's end to the other!

What a humane creature! ſuch good⯑neſs muſt not go unrewarded.—How diffe⯑rent are our natures! this uninſtructed boy, poſſeſſing virtues too ſeldom met with in the moſt exalted!—What then avail a pompous title, wealth, and illuſtrious anceſtry? ſince the meaneſt peaſant, poſſeſſing but humanity, has no ſuperior! while the heart that cannot feel for others' woes, diſgraces, not only a diſtin⯑guished rank, but even our very nature!

Did you want me, ma'am? my father ſaid—

Yes, Patty; my papa intends paſſing the afternoon in the ſummer-houſe, ſo order coffee and tea to be ſerved there.

Yes, ma'am.

Patty—have you ſeen any thing of young Mr. Goodman ſince dinner?

Yes, ma'am, I ſaw him ſteal ſlily by the hall windows a little while ago—I don't know where he went, but I have a notion he has ſeen ſome trollop in the neighbourhood, as he came along in the poſt-chaiſe, that he has taken a liking to, and is gone in ſearch of— and I'm ſure that's a shame, when he might pick and chooſe out of the two prettieſt in the whole county!

Why, Patty, this is love in downright earneſt—I'll be whipt if you have not quite forgot poor William, and are jealous of this young gentleman.

Jealous! not I indeed, ma'am—Wil⯑liam is worth a dozen of him—young gentle⯑man! he don't behave like one, that's what he don't, for he has not once had the good manners to offer to ſalute me ſince he came home.

Poor Patty! that is provoking, in⯑deed—

Yes, ma'am—I believe you'd think it was, if he had ſerv'd you ſo!

Indeed! ha, ha, ha! why I wish you are not jealous of me next.

No, ma'am, I am pretty ſecure there, if I really did like him well enough to care about him—for, your ladyship being heireſs to ſo many thouſand pounds a year, he would [25]never dare to make love to you, ma'am—and I hope, ma'am, ſetting caſe you was weak enough to like the poor lad, you'd never demean yourſelf ſo much as to tell him ſo.

I don't know that, Patty; for ſetting caſe (as you phraſe it) I lik'd him, I ſhould make very little ſcruple of confeſſing it.

Indeed! lord, lord, how little pride ſome people have! If I was a baronet's daughter, I'd never think of taking up with a poor clergyman's ſon, when I might marry a lord, and be a counteſs.

A mind like his would reflect a luſtre upon the meaneſt origin! and I deſire, Patty, you would reſtrain this freedom, nor make ſo free with Mr. Goodman's name again.

Dear heart, ma'am, I did but juſt ſpeak—and I ſhould not have ſaid what I have, had not your ladyſhip aſk'd me about him—if I am a little jealous of him, there's ſomebody to the full as jealous of me!

How I am tormented with this ſilly girl, while my mind is rack'd with a thouſand apprehenſions!

You wanted coffee and tea ſerv'd in the ſummer-houſe, I think you ſaid, ma'am?

Yes, child!

Child! goodlack!—ay—ſhe is in love with him as ſure as a gun, as well as myſelf—I'm ſure I won't buy a lottery ticket ſince that's the caſe, for, 'twou'd be only throw⯑ing my money away!

Heyday! what ails the fooliſh girl! I wiſh she is not jealous in good earneſt—and —what's the matter with the other foolish [26]girl! I wish ſhe is not more affected than she ought—for, were I certain George was abſolutely gone upon the errand Patty men⯑tioned, I believe—I should not be very well pleas'd!—but it cannot be—therefore be ſtill, my heart! poor frighten'd fool! nor throb and flutter without cauſe!

Ma'am, I ha'run as hard as ever I cou'd, and the poor ſouls ſend their duty and ten thouſand thanks to your ladyship—but, bleſſed be providence, they ſay, they don't want any money now.

How ſo, William?

Why, ma'am, what d'ye think? when I went into the cot, who should I ſee ſitting by the ſick man but young Maſter Goodman; and thof the poor ſoul be ſo bad, 'twould ha' puzzled a ſtranger to tell which of the two ail'd moſt, young gentleman look'd ſo piteouſly.

Indeed! was young Mr. Goodman there?

Yes, indeed, ma'am—

My mind's at reſt again!

And the poor woman told me he had been there a good while, and had writ a deſcription to be made up at 'pottecary's for her huſband, and had guve 'em money to pay for it, and more to buy victuals with, and kiſs'd the ſweet babes, and was ſo kind to 'em, nothing could be like it!

The dear, the amiable youth! how could I wrong him by my late ungenerous fears!

And when I came out, ma'am, who should I ſee but his worship and Dr. Goodman, and they ax'd me what I had been doing there, and what I was crying about— for, to be ſure, young gentleman's goodneſs had made my eyes water a little—and when I told 'em, I wish I may never ſtir if their honours did not almoſt cry too!

And where did my papa and the doctor go, William?

Why where do you think they went, ma'am?

Nay, how can I tell?

I am ſure it made my heart dance with joy, to ſee ſuch a grand gentleman as Sir Thomas Richacre, a knight-barrow-knight, juſtice of peace and quorum, ſtoop to go into a poor hovel like that—

What, the cottage you had juſt come out of!

Yes, indeed, ma'am—into poor Quickſet's little hut!—but I cou'd not ſee Lord Sealand, thof I look'd all about—and if he had gone along with their honours, his coat wou'd not ha' ſet the worſe on his back o' Sunday, as the ſaying be—axing your lady⯑ship's pardon!

Indeed, William, I am entirely of your mind—but, if I was not, why do you aſk my pardon? it is not me you are ſpeak⯑ing againſt.

Noa, madam, mercy forbid! it's out of any one's power to ſay ill of your lady⯑ship— [28]but it be rife all over the parish that your ladyship's going to be married to my lord, and there's not a living ſoul but what pities you: for your ladyship's as much be⯑lov'd as my lord's hated—and to be ſure, that's not a little.

Well, William, I am not married to his lordship yet—and 'till I am, you need not fear offending me by ſuch remarks.

Thank your ladyship's goodneſs— does your ladyship pleaſe to want any thing elſe?

No, 'thank you, William, not at preſent.

Now I know the poor ſouls don't want for any thing, if I can but coax Patty into a good humour, I shall be as happy as a king—Odrabbit it! I axe ten thouſand pardons, but if I had not like to ha' forgot to remember to give your lady⯑ship the piece of gold again, I'll be shot.

William, you are a humane good lad, and shall not want encouragement—keep it yourſelf as an earneſt of what I may do farther for you.

'Thank you kindly and heartily, ma'am!—it be more your goodneſs than my deſert—

now I'll run back again to the cottage t'other way, and watch 'till their honours be gone in at garden door, then make the poor ſouls have the money, whether they will or not!

Married to Lord Sealand! I shudder to hear it mentioned! whence could ſuch a report take riſe? from himſelf, or from Sir [29]Thomas? ſure my dear father, kind to all be⯑ſides, will never ſingle me out to be cruel to! and (as he does nothing without his worthy friend's advice) ſurely the good, the pious Doctor Goodman never can approve it! —why should I fear then?—and yet I do— the bare idea that it is poſſible makes me tremble—gracious heaven! how dreadful is my preſent ſituation! demanded by a worthleſs inſolent I deteſt! hopeleſs of him I cannot chuſe but love! Oh! George, where is the ſpot, or what the condition I should not think a paradiſe with thee, rather than share a king⯑dom with Lord Sealand!

Heavens! here comes the hateful wretch—let me endeavour to conceal my agi⯑tation!

Emily, my divine creature! how could you be ſo cruel to leave me to mope and grow ſtupid for want of your animating brilliancy and vivacity? 'twas abolutely bar⯑barous, cariſſima mia!

Thoſe are qualities, my lord, I am not happy enough to poſſeſs—but ſurely 'tis impoſſible for Lord Sealand ever to be grave, whoſe animating brilliancy and vivacity would diſpel the gloom of a Greenland winter.

O you flatterer! but, perhaps, you really think ſo—do you, my adorâble? make me happy by confeſſing it.

I dare ſay your lordſhip has not the leaſt doubt but every body thinks ſo.

Mia bella Signora! I ſee you do—I read it in thoſe eyes, whoſe brightneſs I adore more than the beacons on the South-foreland, when I am returning from Calais in a hazy evening.

Calais! bleſs me, does your lordſhip ever venture ſo far.

Far! O child, that's nothing to me who have even had thoughts of ſailing up the Baltic, or croſſing the Bay of Biſcay, mere⯑ly to kiſs the empreſs's fair hand, and the pope's great toe! and for a kiſs of thoſe di⯑vine lips, I would explore the North-Eaſt-Paſſage! nor think I flatter you, my angel, when I ſwear, that neither flip when I am aboard, or capillaire aſhore, are half ſo dear to me!

You do me great honour indeed, my lord—but does your lordſhip ever taſte the li⯑quor they call flip?

Taſte it? ay, many a can do I toſs off when I have my watch-coat and trow⯑ſers on, and am turning to windward in a briſk gale—but the flip I drink is not like the vile ſtuff commonly ſo call'd, for mine has a moſt delicate flavour, as I always mix it with capillaire.

Well, it is amazing to me what could induce a perſon of your lordſhip's delicacy to venture upon this dangerous amuſement you have lately taken a fancy to.

Why, faith, mia cara! I com⯑menced ſailor merely to avoid the imputation of effeminacy—tho' if we meet with any bad weather at ſea, I immediately retire to my [31]cabin, and order my pilot, O'Connor, to make for land with all convenient ſpeed.

Ha, ha, ha! you are perfectly in the right upon my word, my lord.

But let us change the coarſe indelicate ſubject—I am almoſt tir'd of the ſcheme, and another ſea-ſickneſs will make me drop it, I believe—pray what's become of George? firſt he walk'd off—then you, mia crudel! deſerted us—and ſoon after, Sir Tho⯑mas aſk'd me to go with him to ſee the ſick fellow old Goodman was ſpeaking of—as if I had been a phyſician—which I declining, he took away Domine, and left me to indulge in ſoliloquy, juſt as I was concluding our marriage, ma chere! upon honour I have not been treated ſo politely ever ſince I lodg'd with Mynheer Vander-Dunder, the fat Burgo-maſter at Rotterdam.

Concluding our marriage, did you ſay, my lord!

Si, Signora—we were on the very brink of ſettling the preliminaries.

Why, does your lordſhip really ſup⯑poſe we are to be married?

Is it poſſible you can ſtill make that a queſtion? have not I told you repeatedly I would marry you, my angel?

But did I ever conſent to marry your lordſhip?

Conſent? egad I don't recollect I ever aſk'd you—on purpoſe to ſpare your confuſion in conſenting, as I am ſure my adorâble will.

Perhaps your lordſhip may be de⯑ceiv'd!

What do I ſee! Emily and Lord Sealand hand in hand! diſtraction! now I am loſt indeed!—but ſhe ſeems averſe to him— why then should I tamely give her up? what is his fortune, title, birth, to me? I have a mind as noble, name as fair, tho' unadorn'd with honours and poſſeſſions!—but I rave— and, if perceiv'd, shall be thought a mean liſt'ner to their converſe.

Ha! George! where have you been, you runaway! in ſome dull arbour I ſuppoſe, poring over your muſty Greek.

I beg pardon, my lord, for this ac⯑cidental intruſion—

O you are come quite oppor⯑tunely to help me ſoften the rigour of this obdurate fair one.

I shall be but an indifferent advo⯑cate for love, my lord—it is a language I have not been uſed to talk.

Pho, pho, tell me ſomething mon⯑ſtrous tender now out of your Ovid, Catullus, Tibullus, or any of the ſoft amorous dogs, ſuited to the extreme violence of my paſſion.

Were I in your place, my lord, I should rather follow their example, than barely repeat their words—they never ſaid any thing to the object of their wishes but what was dictated and inſpir'd by love itſelf!

Ay, that's true—but a rough tar as I am, can't be ſuppos'd to have ſo many [33]fine expreſſions ready on theſe occaſions, as you ſtudying rhyming ſonneteers; and Lady Sea⯑land, like a tender mother, would never ſuffer me to read or ſtudy much, for fear of ſpoiling my eyes, or making my head ake—come, do now, ſay ſomething monſtrous clever for me— and, in the mean time, (as I fancy my dad, that is to be, is return'd by this) I ſhall go and make you happy, my angel, by concluding the treaty with him.

My lord!—be not ſo precipitate I intreat your lordſhip!

He, I am ſure, will be no leſs proud of the honour of having me for a ſon-in-law, than you, my charmer, are to have me for a huſband—therefore, mia cara ſpoſa! think what day will be moſt agreable to you for the celebration of our nuptials; but, for your own ſake as well as mine, let me intreat you, not to delay our felicity too long!—Addio! (juſqu'au revoir) Addio! mia conteſſa cariſſima! fa, la, la, &c.

Inſolent reptile!

Now had I not a father more attentive to the happineſs than grandeur of his child, I ſhould be completely miſerable!—Oh, Georgel do not think lightly of me for this declaration —I'd ſooner beg with thee, than ſhine in all the ſplendor this wretch's utmoſt power could place me!

Deareſt Emily! think not of me— had providence deſign'd us for each other, my lot in life had been more ſuited to your birth —as it is, tho' I have preſum'd to love, I never cheriſh'd hope—for, not even to gain [34]thee, Emily! would I abuſe my honour'd pa⯑tron's confidence! may you, ſweet maid, but meet one more deſerving, while I pray heaven to bleſs and to protect you!

Do not talk ſo—thee only can I love! to thee only will I ever give my hand—I am ſure my father will never force me to marry Sealand, or any one, againſt my will—and perhaps ſome bleſſed moment may incline him to prefer my poor, but virtuous George!

No more, no more, ſweet Emily! I cannot bear it!

Well! we'll drop the ſubject!—pray, did you ſee Sir Thomas juſt now where you have been?

Where I have been?—

Yes, at the cottage, down the lane— William told me all.

Did he?—but, 'tis no great matter, for the poor woman told me all too, when ſhe return'd from the door, (whither William had taken her to deliver your benefaction)—and likewiſe, that Sir Thomas and my father were talking with him in the lane—whereon, ſuſ⯑pecting they were coming there, I quitted the cot immediately, and return'd another way un⯑perceived by them.

Why, George, where haſt been, lad? I have been ſeeking you.

Sir, I was only—

Come, come, never bluſh at a good action; that's a falſe ſhame, and almoſt as wrong as not to be aſham'd of a bad one: I know [35]where you have been, and how employed.— Your charity is ſterling, I am ſure, without that too common alloy of oſtentation—and ſo is your's, my dear good girl!—but, pray, have you ſeen nothing of my lord lately, Emily? I expected to have found him here, for when I aſk'd him to go with me, he declin'd it, ſay⯑ing he'd walk a turn or two in the garden with you till I return'd.

He was here juſt now, papa, and after addreſſing me in a moſt inſolent manner, ſaying he was ſure both you, ſir, and myſelf would be proud of his alliance, he left me (as he ſaid) to conclude the treaty with you!

He did, ha? O, come along, I'll conclude it preſently.

Sir! I hope—dear ſir,

ſpeak to my papa—for heaven's ſake in⯑tercede for me.

Don't alarm yourſelf, dear madam —Sir Thomas will do nothing contrary to your happineſs or inclination, I am certain.

What's the fool frighten'd at?

You ſaid, ſir, you'd conclude this hateful treaty!

Why, ay, ſo I will—

Then I am loſt indeed!

Is it poſſible, ſir! muſt your poor Emily be made a ſacrifice!

Heyday! what the plague's the matter with the girl? I'll conclude it—put an end to it—break it off, you fool!—what can I ſay more to pleaſe you? I'd ſooner marry you to William, or old Metre, than the firſt duke in the land, if he had no better a heart than Lord Sealand.

Then I am happy!

And I!

Ma'am, Lord Sealand ſent me to beg the favour of your ladyſhip to come and play a tune upon your harpſichord till Sir Thomas return'd—which (as you came in the garden way) his lordſhip did not know you was, ſir.

A tune, eh?—ay, ay, we'll go play him a tune directly—I'll ſoon put you out of your pain, I warrant you—for when he hears what muſt be known before you marry any one, and what I believe I ſhall now tell him, I fancy he'll give over the chace of his own accord.

Heavens! what can that be?

If he does not, you will perhaps think better of him than you do at preſent, and willingly be Lady Sealand.

Never, ſir, I am certain!

Well, well, there's no knowing— we ſhall ſee—go, children, go before us.

Come, my ſweet Emily!

What can my father mean?

I know not what to think, whether to with or dread an explanation.

Nor I!—but (be it what it may) aſſure yourſelf, dear George, I never will be Lady Sealand!

I believe, my good old friend, no better time than now for the diſcovery.

I think ſo too, dear ſir—heaven proſper the event!

Shall ſhe be Sealand's if he holds his purpoſe?

By no means, ſir! and heaven avert, hereſelf ſhould ever wiſh it!

Ay, ſo ſay I—but to be a counteſs is perhaps an almoſt irreſiſtable temptation!

By gemini, I am in great hopes ſhe'll have my lord! and if ſhe does, I think I ſtand no bad chance of having young Mr. Goodman! oh, lud! the very thoughts of it make me al⯑moſt out of my wits!—but, hang this college-education —he ſeems ſo very baſhful, I am afraid he'll never have courage to aſk one the queſtion downright—what ſhall I do then?— why, I don't know any other way than this— if he can't get the better of his modeſty, and aſk me, I muſt e'en try if I can't conquer mine, and aſk him!

Ecod, here ſhe be!—I've found the little baggage at laſt—why, Patty, love! I thought I'd loſt you—never ſtir if I ha'n't look'd up and down for you like bewitch'd— odſbodikins! I'm glad I ha' found you.

Why, did you want any thing, William?

Want any thing, Patty! no, not I —nothing but to ſee thee, cauſe you know you was a little frumpiſh afore dinner; and I 'a'n't [38]been eaſy in my mind ever ſince—come, Patty, won't you make it up?

Make what up, Mr. William? I don't know that we have had any difference— you have done nothing to offend me, and I have no reaſon to ſuppoſe I have ſaid or done any thing to affront you.

Me! no, lord love your dear heart! I never was angry with you two minutes toge⯑ther in my life—ſo let's kiſs and friends—

Kiſs!—Pray, Mr. William, keep your diſtance—I don't know what behaviour of mine can have caus'd you to forget yourſelf ſo much.

Why, Patty, you be only joking ſure—come, gi' us a buſs, you little croſs-patch you.

Why, William, you have been drink⯑ing ſure, or you could never be ſo bold.

Drinking, Patty!—I don't know what you mean by ſuch an inſinivation as that —I believe (ay, and you knows it too as well as I do) there ben't a ſoberer lad in all the pariſh—drinking!—lord help me!—if I have ſwallow'd a drop or a crumb of any thing ſince breakfaſt, but one horn of ale, and a bit of meat as big as my three fingers, I'm a drunk⯑ard and a glutton into the bargain! and I'd as lief be thought a thief as either—ſo you ſhou'd not ſay that of me, Patty!

Bleſs me, Mr. William, I ſaid nothing about your eating—it's nothing to me what you eat, or drink either—what do you think I care? or whether you ever eat or drink again or not!

Indeed!—if I thought you was in earneſt, Patty, I don't think I ever ſhould!

Well, that's none of my buſineſs, you know—I don't concern myſelf about inferior ſervants!—all I deſire of you is, that you will not make ſo free with me for the future as you have had the confidence to do lately, for I am determin'd I won't put up with it!

Why, I am ſure you can't ſay I ever behav'd uncivil to you, Patty—and if ſo be I have made bold to tell you I lov'd you, I ſaid nought but truth—ay, and you have ſaid as much to me more than once, for all you're ſo ſcornful now.

I ſay I lov'd you? no, William!—I own I had a ſort of friendſhip for you, becauſe I thought you an honeſt young man and ſo forth—but, love? O, no, William! I am very ſorry you miſtook my civility—I never had ſuch a thought I aſſure you—I have very different views!

Patty!—eh?—what do you ſay?— don't you go to—dear Patty!—odrabbit it! my heart's ſo full I can't ſpeak to her—and, if I could help it, I'd never ſpeak to her again!

I ſhould be very glad of it—and I deſire, nay, I inſiſt upon it, that you never offer to open your lips to me again; for if you do I ſha'n't anſwer you, and ſo, your ſer⯑vant!

Stay, Patty—one word more before we break off our courtſhip—for a courtſhip it has been, ſay what you will—ay, and a tender one too! or elſe when I ſet off for Oxford ſo long ago with Maſter George—

George! you make very free with your betters methinks—it might be Mr. Good⯑man in your mouth.

Ay, bleſs his dear ſoul! there's no name too kind for him—but, as I was going to ſay—if ſo be you was not in love with me, as well as I in love with you, why did you break this bit of gold with me, which I have worn next my heart ever ſince? but I'll be hang'd if I wear it any longer—come off, rot thee!—there, there's your keep-ſake, your love-token again! and you're a falſe-hearted girl!— and if you'll promiſe never to ſpeak to me again, I never will to you while I have breath in my body!

I believe there's no great need of pro⯑miſing on my ſide, I ſhan't be the firſt to break the ſilence, I dare ſay.

Why then fare thee well, Patty! my heart's my own again!

Ay, and a good riddance! take up with a footman indeed, when I have ſuch a proſpect of being a gentlewoman—I wonder who'd be fool then! I'm ſure I won't be ſuch a one, and ſo your ſervant, Mr. William!

And your ſervant, Mrs. Patt! if you go to that—a murrain take her for a ſcorn⯑ful young toad!

I don't care a braſs thimble for you! no nor a pin's point! —and you're a baſe, deceitful, falſe-hearted—

odrabbit it! I don't think I ſhall get the better of this the longeſt day I have to live!

ACT III. Scene, the Summer-houſe.—Lord Sealand, Sir Tho⯑mas Richacre, Doctor Goodman, George, and Emily, diſcovered ſeated.

AND now the decks are clear'd of the tea equipage, if you pleaſe, Sir Thomas, we'll reſume our topic.

With all my heart, my lord; the ſooner we come to the point the better.

You have ſome private buſi⯑neſs with his lordſhip, I believe, Sir—

O no, there are no ſecrets going forward, George; at leaſt, none that are to re⯑main ſo—you need not ſtir, boy.

With your leave, ſir, I'll take a turn or two in the garden the while—

I dread the event, nor dare I ſtay to hear it— heaven preſerve you, my dear—loſt Emily!

Now, ſir, if you pleaſe—for I wait with as much impatience as a becalm'd veſſel for a briſk gale to drive her ſafe into port.

A briſk gale quotha! ecod, I have a notion there will blow ſuch a breeze pre⯑ſently as will go near to overſet you, my lord —or that your veſſel, not being heart of oak, will ſpring a leak; for our diſcourſe will take a turn you little think of.

Dear papa, permit me to retire!

By no means, my dear—there is a particular reaſon why you ſhould be preſent, otherwiſe indeed it might be deem'd a ſoleciſm in forms—but, don't be alarm'd, for I have not the moſt diſtant idea that this will come to any thing.

What a ſavage!—O, ſir, we'll diſpenſe with a little form—to the point, if you pleaſe, Lady Sealand and I are all atten⯑tion.

Inſolent and cruel!

To begin then—your lordſhip hath addreſs'd this young woman?—

This angel! this goddeſs whom I adore!

Plain Engliſh, if you pleaſe, my lord—and demanded her of me in marriage? —pray now, if I may be ſo bold, what is your lordſhip's motive for it?

What can it be but the moſt ar⯑dent paſſon?

For her?

For her! who elſe, dear ſir, could I poſſibly—

Say rather, what elſe?

I don't underſtand you, ſir.

Why, your lordſhip being (no doubt) pretty well inform'd of the value of my rent-roll; is that, or this

the goddeſs you adore?

This is mighty ſtrange, Sir Tho⯑mas—

No offence I hope, my lord— but, as I muſt be aſſur'd that whoever marries her has no other motive than a real, a diſin⯑tereſted affection for herſelf; this is the ſingle [43]queſtion, upon your anſwer to which depends the event.

Propoſe it, dear ſir, propoſe it.

If, inſtead of being daughter to a baronet, and heireſs to a very conſiderable eſtate, ſhe had no other recommendation or endow⯑ment than her own beauty and virtue, would you, my lord, or would you not, raiſe her to the rank of Lady Sealand?

Is it poſſible, ſir, you can have a doubt of it? what is the condition I wou'd not raiſe her from!

Emily, my dear, come hither—I am going to loſe thee, my little cherub!

Sir! is it poſſible!—

The time is come, ſweet child, I muſt reſign thee!

Good ſir, ſupport me—I cannot—oh!

Dear ſir, her ſpirits are quite overcome—

Don't be alarm'd, gentlemen;— nothing but the mauvaiſe honte uſual on theſe occaſions—or perhaps the exceſs of joy may have been too powerful for her—where the devil is my eau-de-luce?—look up, cariſſima mia ſpoſa!

O my dear father!—

One kiſs, ſweet girl! and I reſign that name—for, I am not your father!—

Gracious heaven!—

What do you ſay, Sir Thomas?

I am not her father—and now, my lord, determine—here ſhe is, as rich in perſonal and mental gifts, as ſhe is poor in fortune, for ſhe has none!

The devil! what a narrow eſcape! I had like to have weigh'd anchor, and hoiſted ſale for that damn'd long round-the-world-voy-age of matrimony, in a veſſel without either ballaſt or proviſion!

—Why, undoubt⯑edly, Sir Thomas, fortune was my leaſt conſi⯑deration—but, if the young lady is not your daughter, 'tis proper I ſhould firſt know who is her father—it may be ſomebody whoſe fa⯑mily it would be improper for me to marry into.

Moſt honour'd ſir!—

Riſe, riſe, my dear! you muſt kneel no more to me!

Where ſhall I kneel? where ſeek my father, if you are not!

Turn hither, my heart's darling! and behold him—

Did I hear right? are you, ſir, are you my father!

I am! I am!

I have endur'd a long conſtraint, but at length am free to boaſt—I am your father!—

Heyday! here's a turn! the wind has chop'd about with a vengeance—one mi⯑nute ſouth, and the next due north as ever it can blow.

O ſir, forgive me, nor think this an ill return for your paternal good⯑neſs.—I love—I honour you moſt highly, ſir, and ever muſt revere you! but nature pleads moſt ſtrongly in my breaſt—I love my father too!

Why that's my brave girl! I never yet knew half your goodneſs, and love you (if poſſible) better now than ever.

Well, upon honour, this is the moſt whimſical adventure I ever met with— what, in the name of oddity, Sir Thomas, could induce you to bring up the young gentlewoman as your's?

That's my concern, my lord—I had my reaſons for it, which time perhaps may ſhew—the only queſtion neceſſary at preſent is, whether (if ſhe is willing) you will, or will not, marry her?

A moment's pauſe, I beg, Sir Thomas—

Pho, pho, come—ſpeak boldly, man—was it the girl, or the eſtate you ador'd? in plain engliſh, are you a man of honour, or are you a—

Sir Thomas—you are really ſo precipitate—I beg the indulgence of a few moments reflection—I'll—think a little, ma⯑dam, and let you know my determination pre⯑ſently—

My lord, you need not trouble your⯑ſelf to think about it; for reſt aſſur'd, that (fall'n as you may think me) nothing can in⯑duce me ever to be your lordſhip's!

I never met with ſuch a curſed embarras before!

Ha, ha, ha! ſo much for modern love!—Emily, you have loſt your counteſs⯑ſhip, my dear—

His refuſal has made me happy, ſir, beyond expreſſion—and ſo I flatter myſelf it will make George—ha!—George!—mer⯑ciful heaven! the thought occur'd not 'till this moment—he is my brother!

And I fancy you had conceiv'd more than a ſiſterly affection for him—eh, Emily?—

I had indeed, ſir! for, to confeſs what now is needleſs to conceal, I lov'd him ar⯑dently; and (ignorant of my birth) had I been miſtreſs of the world, he muſt have ſhar'd it with me, or I had been a beggar!

Ay, I thought as much—well, well, time's a good phyſician, and cures more ills than half the doctors living—it will wear off, I warrant you—no ſign of my lord wea⯑thercock's turning about again? no!—I be⯑lieve it's in vain to expect him—we had better ſeek for George, and inform him of what has paſs'd.

Come, my delight! my only pride! my ſweet child, come—

Excuſe me a little, my dear father! I'll follow you directly—I will but dry theſ [...] tears and—oh!

Pho, pho, never take on ſo about it, Emily—you ſha'n't go without a huſband yet, if there's one in the kingdom that deſerves you—what ſay you to a Richacre, my girl?

Oh, ſir, that I reſpect, revere and love you with a moſt filial affection, I think you do not boubt—but—moſt honour'd ſir! my other parent!—let me ſtop there—my heart's too [47]full!—be not offended, ſir—I can no more— Oh, George! George!

Well, well, we'll talk no more about it at preſent—but upon my word you muſt not remain ſingle, Emily—for, to tell you the truth, I ſhould have been ſadly baulk'd, and my whole ſcheme fruſtrated, had my lord behav'd otherwiſe; as I have all along had hopes (which I flatter myſelf will yet be ac⯑compliſh'd) of prevailing on you to accept for ever that name you have ſo long honour'd by the uſing!—come along, my old friend— friend, quotha! ecod, who knows how nearly we may be related ſoon! eh?—ha, ha, ha!

What a reverſe of fate! how am I bereft of all my fond, vain hopes of happineſs and love!—had I been reduc'd to the moſt abject poverty—had I loſt him I thought my father, and found no other—had every calamity our woe-fill'd lives are fraught with, but this, at once beſel me, I had ſtill been happy; but now, (oh, George! oh, brother!) I am ſunk ten thouſand times more deep than wretch e'er plung'd before!

Alone, Emily? where are Sir Tho⯑mas and my father? I ſaw my lord go down the yew-tree walk, ſo thinking the conference over, I return'd to learn how it had ended— what was th' important ſecret on which ſo much depended?

Oh, George!—

How! weeping! then I know enough, and now am nothing! O fortune! title! how powerful are your charms that can betray goodneſs itſelf and make it err!

Forbear, forbear!—you know not why I grieve—you can't conceive the exquiſite diſtreſs of my preſent ſituation!

Not conceive how dreadful to be given to thoſe we hate, as I am perſuaded you do Sealand?

Oh, George, there now needs no diſ⯑guiſe—the doom irrevocable's paſt! did you indeed e'er love me?

Love you! do I breathe? do I ex⯑iſt?—could I, but to love you!

Then we both are truly wretched!

We are indeed! but if, as I have fondly thought, our love was mutual, how doubly wretched is your fate—doom'd thus to marry one that you deteſt!

No, that's not my grief—'thank hea⯑ven he has refus'd me.

Refus'd you!

You will not wonder when I can tell you why—Sir Thomas Richacre—is—not my father!

Not your father! amazing—yet moſt happy ſound! then I may hope—and the firſt gleam I ever knew now ſhoots into my ſoul!

No, there is no hope—an eternal barrier is fix'd between us! for you are—I cannot ſpeak it!

I am—gracious heaven!—what?

My brother!

Your brother!

My dear, dear brother!

Support me, or I fall!

With my very life!

So, ſo! here's fine work going for⯑ward—kiſſing and hugging at a rare rate! it's more than he ever offer'd to me!—by jingo, I don't half like this; ſhe'll never have my lord, nor I him, if they go on thus—it's well I did not buy the lottery-ticket, ſeeing how matters are going!

Look up, dear George!

Dear George! lord, how loving we are!

Am I indeed ſo near to you?

Yes, you can't be much nearer, I think! in her very arms! how near wou'd you be, I wonder!

Your brother!

What!

Then there is no hope indeed!

No, I hope not—but, what can this mean?

Patty!—how long have you been here?

I am but this moment come, madam —Sir Thomas ſent me to deſire your lady⯑ſhip—

O Patty, you muſt forget thoſe words —I am no lady now—

No ma'am! how ſo?

No longer heireſs to a ſplendid for⯑tune, but ſiſter to this much lov'd youth—the [50]virtues of a reverend parent muſt be now our joint inheritance!

But to what purpoſe, Emily, was you bred up as daughter to Sir Thomas?

He told Lord Sealand there was a reaſon for it, which time perhaps would ſhew— and, in addition to my miſery, after my lord had left us, ſaid he was pleas'd at his refuſal of me; having all along intended I ſhould ſtill keep the name of Richacre—meaning, no doubt, with my concurrence, to marry me himſelf!

Aſtoniſhing! yet that accounts for all.

Good gracious! I hardly know how to believe all this—I am afraid ſhe's only jok⯑ing

—lord, ma'am, I hope you an't ſerious all this time—are n't you Sir Thomas's daughter indeed?

No, Patty, you have loſt your miſtreſs.

I have found a huſband in the ſtead tho', and that's ten times better!—but I muſt ſeem ſorry—Dear heart, ma'am, I am vaſtly concern'd to hear this, for you was very good to me, and I muſt never expect to have ſo many nice cloaths given me again, un⯑leſs his worſhip ſhould really be ſo kind as to marry you himſelf, ma'am.

Happy, happy girl! 'would I had no greater grief than thine!

Why, to be ſure, ma'am, the black ox has trod upon your foot a little, as the ſay⯑ing is—and one misfortune ſeldom comes alone, as the other ſaying is—you have been very unlucky indeed, ma'am, to loſe a great fortune, [51]and your ſweetheart too, both at once—for I do verily believe you had a kindneſs for Mr. Goodman before you knew he was your bro⯑ther—but now that's all over.—

'Thank my kind ſtars! and I ſhall be Mrs. Goodman as ſure as fate!

No, Patty, it is not all over!—

Nor will be but with life!

Lord, ma'am! why ſure you wou'd not love your own brother!

Not love him! who ſhall debar me that?

Nay, ma'am, I only juſt ſpoke—for brothers and ſiſters did formerly marry I grant, or the world could not have been peopled— but that's quite out of faſhion now, you know, ma'am—unleſs indeed you had been roman⯑catholic-papiſhes, and were lucky enough to be Sir Thomas's children inſtead of Dr. Good⯑man's; becauſe I have heard ſay, if people have but money enough, the pope will grant a —compenſation—I think they call it, or ſome ſuch hard name, (I ſuppoſe it means an act of parliament) for a man to marry his own grand⯑mother! but indeed, ma'am, if I was you, I'd think no more of my brother, but take Sir Thomas at his word, and marry my father— that is, as he is not your father.

Prithee have done, Patty; I am not yet reconcil'd enough unto my fate, to bear this ill-tim'd mirth—I might, nay, perhaps I ſhall, find refuge in a cloyſter, and dedicate my future wretched life to heaven!

No, Emily! 'tis I ſhould be ſequeſ⯑tered from the world; you have been taught to look for happineſs, and, by accepting of Sir [52]Thomas's moſt worthy hand and noble fortune, yet may find it.

Impoſſible! oh, name it not again— never will I baſely take the hand and fortune I cannot in return for give my heart!

Forgive me, deareſt maid! nor think I had any view in what I ſaid, but your repoſe and welfare; for what little patrimony my honour'd father may have gather'd for us both, ſhall now be wholly yours; as I will immedi⯑ately enter into holy orders, devote my life to a religious celibacy, nor ever think again of love or womankind!

O goodneſs heart! that will be a great pity, ſir; for there's many a pretty girl, I dare ſay, would be proud to have you.

Come, my dear brother! let us attend Sir Thomas and our father, I promis'd to fol⯑low them directly.

Our father! oh, Emily—my ſiſter! —I cannot bear the thought—it ſhocks—it overpow'rs—it mads me!—my ſweet Emily —go you, while I endeavour to compoſe this agitation of my ſpirits before I ſee them.

May heaven reſtore you to your peace of mind!—but mine—is loſt for ever!

Sir,—ſir,—ſir!

What do you ſay, child?

Why, ſir,—I hope you won't be angry at ſuch a ſimple girl as me offering to adviſe you—but really I would not have you think of living ſingle; for to my certain knowledge, there is a girl in the world, ay, and a good [53]pretty girl too, that's not far off, would be very ſorry you ſhou'd die a batchelor.

Which I moſt ſurely ſhall!

Mercy forbid, ſir!—for indeed you are a very pretty gentleman! and ſeeing as how you and your ſiſter can't conveniently come together, if I was in your place, I ſhou'd look about me a little—and if ſuch a thing was to happen, that you even took a fancy to me, ſir, I don't think I could find in my heart to be cruel to you—and tho' I am not your equals, you might go farther and fare worſe— for I have a little money by me, and a proſ⯑pect of getting a very large ſum ſoon—and you know, ſir, I am a ſort of an heireſs (as I may call it) beſides, and I dare ſay my father has ſav'd ſomething worth having.

How this ſilly girl torments me! I had better check her, or the giddy creature may ſuppoſe I know not what—I thank you, Patty, for your good will to me,—

Thank you, Patty! O gemini, I be⯑lieve he'll come to at laſt.

But hope you'll not deceive yourſelf into what might hereafter prove a trouble to you.

No indeed, ſir, it never would—ſo far from it, every thing I did for you wou'd be a pleaſure to me!

Still you miſtake me, my good girl—

Good girl! O the dear ſoul, I ſhall have him as ſure as a gun!

No, in⯑deed, ſir, I don't—

Pray hear me without interruption—

Yes, ſir, that I will

for, to be ſure, I cou'd hear you talk for ever!

I am afraid you have conceiv'd ſome⯑thing like love for me—

Like love? indeed, ſir, if a poor baſh⯑ful girl muſt ſpeak out—it's love in downright earneſt!

Pray don't interrupt me—you have entertain'd, I ſay, a partiality for me you miſ⯑take for love, and which a return to might poſ⯑ſibly confirm in you; but, as that can never be, I intreat you, for your own repoſe, in time to check it, and never think again of what is im⯑poſſible!—Oh, love! thou tyrant o'er the heart, how contradictory are thy decrees!

Impoſſible! why is it impoſſible? ſure I am not his fiſter too—lord, lord! that any body ſhould ſtand ſo in their own light!— well—it don't ſignify fretting about it—if I can't have him, I muſt have ſomebody elſe?— and, as he won't marry me, I think I'll e'en behave kinder to poor William, for I'm ſure he loves me dearly—and if I can but coax him to forget how I uſed him to day, and aſk me the queſtion (as he often has before) again, if I don't have him, I'll be whipt!—as I live, here he comes, and a likely lad he is as any in the pariſh—George Goodman, with all his airs, an't half ſo handſome.—I'll pretend not to ſee him, to try if he'll break his reſolution and ſpeak firſt.

Ay, there ſhe ſtands, a ſulky thing! what can have made the little puſs ſo plaguy croſs-grain'd to day?—ſhe won't take a bit of notice of me—a ſtubborn young baggage! and I'll be hang'd if I ſpeak to her firſt—if I can help it!

Not one word, by jingo!—if I don't take care I ſhall loſe him too—ſince he won't ſpeak, I muſt! ſo, come down proud ſtomach! —William!

Did you call, Mrs. Patty?

Ay, William,—why you paſs by a body as if you had never ſeen one before.

Why, Mrs. Patty, I be unwilling to anger any one—and the laſt time we parted, you know you bid me never ſpeak to you again; ſo I was trying to pleaſe you that way —thof it almoſt breaks my heart! but if it kill'd me outright, I ſhou'd not care, if it did but pleaſure you, Patty!

Lord, William! why you did not think I was in right earneſt, did you?— ha, ha, ha!

Eh!—he, he, he! why, wa'n't you Patty?

Wa'n't I! why no, I tell you—I only did it to try you a little—ha, ha, ha!—that was all.

Was that all? lord, lord, if I cou'd not ha'ſworn you was in downright earneſt! for you have look'd all day long as if you cou'd eat me with a grain of ſalt!

But I cou'd not tho', William—for I have too great a regard for you to hurt a hair of your head.

Have you indeed?—well now, that is kind to tell it me!

I ſhould be very ungrateful to behave otherwiſe than kind to you, William, who have always profeſt ſo much love to me—nay, more than once even aſk'd me to marry you.

Ay, more than twenty times, Patty —and, if you were but willing, I'd axe your father leave to get Mr. Liturgy, our curate, to publiſh the banns for us next ſabbath; and, as ſoon as ever we were out-ax'd, I'd marry you, and love you to my dying day!

I thank you kindly, William, for your offer—but, had not we better wait a few years longer, 'till we have ſav'd a little to be⯑gin the world with; as I don't imagine you are much richer than myſelf.

Pho, never heed riches, Patty— it's none but thoſe who have too much already, that marry for the lucre of gain!—not that I be poor neither—laſt wages, I gave my father to ſave for me, made (with what he had before of mine) forty-four pounds, twelve ſhillings and fix-pence—that is, in even money, forty-two golden guineas and a half—ſo, you ſee, Patty, I be ſomebody, and ha' gotten a good round ſum to begin the world—but, if we had not a ſixpenny-piece between us, a young cou⯑ple that have health and limbs to work, a good heart, and a ſound conſcience, have enough to begin twenty worlds!

That's very true, William—and I don't think there's a heartier young couple in [57]the county than we are—beſides, I have a very handſome ſum of money by me too, and a power of good cloaths Miſs Emily gave me—

Well then, Patty, ſhall us put what little we have together, and make a match on't, eh?

Indeed, William, I don't know what to ſay to it—

Come, never be faint-hearted—nor ſtand ſhilly-ſhally about it, you ſimple tony—

Bleſs my eyeſight! what do I ſee? I hope the boy hath no unchaſte purpoſe!

You know, Patty, I do love you dearly—

But honeſtly I truſt—

And if you'll only ſay the word—

Goodlack, I am terrified!

I'll go buy a ring directly.—

Oh!—I am ſatisfied!

I do know the ſize of this dear finger to a tittle—and it ſhall be as heavy as your heart can wiſh.

No, heavy rings are not the faſhion now—let it be a light one, Willy.

Now then, my dear Patt, you be my own for ever and ever!

He, he, he! their amorous parley is wond'rous pretty, I do proteſt!

Well, I vow, Billy, you have a moſt bewitching tongue, and have quite won my heart!

He, he! that's pure!

But you muſt aſk my father's leave, for I would not do ſuch a thing without his bleſſing for ever ſo much.

Thou art a dutiful good child, and heaven I hope will bleſs and proſper you!

Why you know, Patty, I mention'd that before, and I'll go directly and tell un the whole ſtory—odsfleſh! here he is, as ſure as a gun!—well, how lucky this be!

Heyday! what hath exhilarated thee ſo, William?—thou lookeſt as merry and happy!—

Merry and happy! ay, that I be— and hilarated too, as you call it, I believe; for, ecod! I hardly know whether I ſtand upon my head or my heels!

Why?—what hath pleaſed thee ſo overmuch?

What I do hope will not diſpleaſe you, or we ſhall be all in a ſad quandary.

Lord, I am ſo aſham'd, I can't look my father in the face.

What is all this about?

Why, fir,—I—that is, Patty and I, if—you—

Patty, and I, if—you! what? what? —why doſt not ſpeak out?—doſt thou know, Martha, what it is he lacketh?

I believe, father, I partly gueſs—

Well, what is it?—

Why don't you tell my father, Mr. William?

No, do you, Patty—

Come, come, ſpeak out boldly, lad! —faint heart never won fair lady.

Ecod, you've hit it! for—you muſt know, ſir,—Patty being in love with me— that is—I being in love with ſhe I mean—if ſo be you were but willing, we ſhou'd be main proud to become man and wife together!

Is this true, Martha?

If you pleaſe, father!

Yes, if you pleaſe, fa her!

Why, William, as I have often told thee before, I believe thou art a very honeſt good lad—but, in troth, ye are both full young.

No indeed we a'n't, father!

'Twould be only loſing time to ſtay any longer—

Well, I will take it into ſerious co⯑gitation—as you will be under my eye—I think—I ſhall not oppoſe your virtuous incli⯑nations, but will moſt humbly ſolicit the ſanc⯑tion and permiſſion of his reverence and Sir Thomas, which I am prone to think, at my intreaty, will not be withheld.

No, I hope not!

And then, father, when I am Patty's ſpouſe, I'll keep the bible you ſaid to day you'd give me as choice as old gold, to write the names of all our children in; if ſo be that we increaſe and multiply, which I do hope and pray to heaven we may, Patty!

Ay, and ſo do I, I am ſure, William!

Never did I unto any prayer more fervently ejaculate Amen!

All three go off repeating—Amen!

ACT IV. Scene, a retired Part of the Garden.

WHY do you perſiſt, my lord, in detain⯑ing me thus rudely, and prevent my returning to the houſe? pray let me paſs, my lord—I deſire you'd leave me!

Leave you? impoſſible, my an⯑gelic creature! I exiſt but in your preſence!

That your lordſhip's exiſtence has no ſort of dependance upon me, I have had a moſt convincing proof.

How can you be ſo cruel, my adorable! have I not declared the moſt ardent paſſion for you? am I not now confirming it? what can I ſay or you deſire more?

Indeed, my lord, I never thought to hear ſuch words as theſe from you again—the effect Sir Thomas's explanation had upon your lordſhip, made me conclude—

O, crudel! can you ſuppoſe I love you more or leſs, my charmer, for being daughter to this gentleman or that? no—my love is (as Sir Thomas wiſh'd it) intirely per⯑ſonal, and in poſſeſſing you, my angel, I aſk no more!—bravo, Sealand!

How have I been deceived! I bluſh to think how much I have wrong'd this gene⯑rous man!

Why do you turn away, ma chére? why avoid me? ſure I deſerve a better treatment—I, that am waiting to receive, and place you in a ſtate of affluence ſuperior to that in which you have been bred, and from which you are ſo unexpectedly fall'n—but grieve not at that, for in my arms you'll find ſafe harbour from all the ſtorms of fortune!— Pretty and poetical that! I don't think Ovid, or any of the love-ſick tribe, ever ſaid a better thing.

O my lord! pardon me, I beſeech you, for having thought of you ſo unworthily —I feel the warmeſt gratitude for this ſo gene⯑rous a declaration, but cannot profit by it.

Say not ſo, my charmer—you know not half the good that waits on you and yours—your father ſhall be rais'd as high as I have power or intereſt to advance him—your brother too—

Ah, my poor George!

He ſhall be poor no longer— I'll give him a living, buy him a commiſſion —or place him to his wiſh in whatever ſtile of life he may prefer—ſay but you will be mine—

What is there elſe I wou'd not do to ſerve my father and too-much-lov'd brother! and teſtify my gratitude, and the great reſpect I now have for your lordſhip.

No more, no more; prithee, my charming angel, have done with gratitude, reſpect, and all ſuch cold unanimated expreſ⯑ſions—love is all I require; give me but that, and all the joys and luxuries of life attend [62]you—well ſaid again, Sealand! egad, this love makes a man talk divinely!

Oh, ſir! think not of a wretched creature, who ne'er can taſte of joy again!— were you, if poſſible, more noble, good and ge⯑nerous than I now find you—were you at once the greateſt and the beſt of human kind—ſo indelible is the impreſſion (tho' ever unattain⯑able the object it is made by!) on my afflicted heart, I could not marry with your lordſhip.

Ha? what!—marry? O no, my dear, I did not mean that!

My lord!—

I love you, my divine creature, to adoration, almoſt diſtraction—every thing but matrimony—and that, oh, that wou'd be downright madneſs indeed! non, non, mia cara ſignora! that's quite out of the queſtion now —your planks are ſtarted! and, from a veſſel of burthen richly freighted, that has loſt her cargo in a ſtorm, you muſt now be cut down to a pleaſure-boat!—no had metaphor that for a ſailor—'gad, I think I ſhine to day!

Good heaven! what can your lord⯑ſhip mean?

Mean, my charmer? mean that I adore you!—that you ſhall be as happy as love and gold can make you—ſhall command my heart and ſhare my fortune—any thing but marriage; and that your own good ſenſe muſt tell you is now impoſſible!

At length I awake—my dream of ho⯑nour, generoſity, reſpect, and gratitude is now no more—

But when your father and George are inform'd of what I propoſe for their ad⯑vancement, [63]as well as for your own, I am ſure they will readily—

Stop your licentious tongue, aban⯑don'd wretch! are you not content with this moſt baſe attempt on me, but muſt my pious father and moſt virtuous brother be your ſa⯑crifices too! muſt they partake and countenance ſuch guilt! oh, ſhame, ſhame! diſgrace and ſcandal to your dignity and birth!

Heyday! what is all this? you can't be ſerious ſure, child, in rejecting ſo gen⯑teel an offer?

Sweet heaven look down with pity on me! the meaſure of my woes was full be⯑fore—now it o'erflows!

Why, my dear, you have really made a very fine progreſs in the ſmall time you have known yourſelf to be the parſon's daughter —you both preach and pray moſt divinely upon my ſoul!—but we'll leave ſuch dull ſtuff at preſent to thoſe who know no better how to employ themſelves—come, my Venus! let us retire to yonder moſſy couch; where Paphian, Cyprian, and Citherêan boughs entwine to form a ſhade for love!

Unhand me, ſir!—how do you dare inſult me thus!—be aſſur'd, altho' Sir Tho⯑mas is not my father, he will reſent this out⯑rage.

O fie! how can you be ſo ill⯑bred, my dear creature, and want ſo much courting to your own happineſs? Come—I am certain you'll not be angry at a little gentle violence—let me thus force my angel to be kind!

For honour's ſake, my lord, forbear! pity my diſtreſs'd condition, bereft of fortune, love, almoſt of life! nor with unmanly violence add infamy to my already inſupportable af⯑flictions!

'Tis all in vain—you are a charm⯑ing girl, I love you, the place is bien com⯑mode! and—

On my knees I beg!—think what diſtraction a reverend parent and a tender bro⯑ther both muſt feel for my undoing! and, with a nobleneſs ſuited to your birth, my lord! forego the advantage you now have o'er my defenceleſs ſituation, and quit your horrid purpoſe!

Ridiculous! to ſuppoſe I'd miſs this golden opportunity—no, no!—comply therefore, my charmer! and ſpare me the diſ⯑agreeable neceſſity of compelling you—you won't, eh? why then we muſt have a fair trial of who is ſtrongeſt—

Help, help, ſweet heaven! reſcue a helpleſs creature from deſtruction! oh, ſave me from diſhonour and perdition!

You may as well be ſilent, child, for we are far enough from the houſe—nobody hears you—

Yes, villain, I do!

And ſo has heaven!

Pox take him! is he here?—I wiſh he was at Oxford again with all my ſoul.

O my dear brother! my protector! my guardian angel!

My ſiſter! my ſweet innocence!

O rot you both! I have got into a bleſſed ſcrape here—I wiſh I was in the Bay of Biſcay with all my heart!

Cruel inſulter! to trample on a wretch juſt fall'n to earth!

How did you dare, ſir—if you had no other ſenſe of guilt—how did you dare to violate the laws of hoſpitality thus groſsly!

Oh, now you are going to preach —very good—proceed, ſir—I am all attention! and muſt edify, no doubt, as I ſhall be finely lectur'd (I ſuppoſe) between you.

Inſenſible villain! dead to every feeling of ſhame, remorſe, of honour or huma⯑nity!

Sir, your moſt obedient!

But, my lord! tho' you did not think this poor girl worthy to be your wife, remem⯑ber ſhe is my ſiſter, and not to be diſhonour'd by the moſt exalted ruffian!—for your pre⯑ſent ſafety be thankful we are unarm'd; elſe, in the cauſe of injur'd virtue, I ſhould forget there was a female preſent, and puniſh your atrocious villainy on the ſpot!

Why really, ſir, if you are cer⯑tain of victory before the encounter, I think it full as well indeed that we are unarm'd!

My dear George, contain yourſelf— oh!—I can ſcarce ſtand—pray lead me in!

Lean on me, my ſweet ſiſter, and fear nothing! have a care, ſir, how we meet again, it may be fatal to you!

Be calm, my brother! my deliverer!

Fear nothing, deareſt!—bear up— bear up! he muſt be more than man who in⯑jures you while I am by, and leſs than man who could at any time attempt it!

Pox take you for an ignorant, impertinent, meddleſome puppy, I ſay!—here am I to loſe a fine girl, becauſe her ſtupid bro⯑ther knows ſo little of the world—rot him!— but I'll not drop the affair here I am deter⯑mined—let me conſider—um!—ay faith, the very thing! then ſhe may ſquall 'till ſhe's hoarſe again, and I need not apprehend a ſecond interruption—my French ſcoundrel ſhall about it inſtantly.

—Hold—what noiſe is that?—

Apropos! yonder is the very fel⯑low I want—La Poudre! La Poudre!

Eſt ce que your lorſhip pleſe to vant a me?

Yes, I do pleaſe to vant a you, you puppy; come hither—

Je ſuis bien aiſe—I ver much glad den I happen to valk a dis vay—ſave a your lorſhip de peine to ſend for me.

Hold your damn'd Babel of a tongue, and mind what I ſay.

I am not ſay von vard, mi lor— I am dumb.

I wiſh you was with all my ſoul—at leaſt for the preſent—

Fort bien, my lor—I ſhall not open my mous—je ne dirai pas un mot—not von vard I vil ſpeak.

Then ceaſe that confuſion of lan⯑guages, you damn'd French chattering raſcal, and hear me!

I hear a your lorſhip parfaitement bien, and ſo may de whole pariſhe, ma foi!— you talk a ſo loud, I hear you if I was two tree mile off—

Ha! egad the puppy ſays true— and that's not altogether ſo proper at preſent— who was that with you?

Your lorſhip coaſhaman, Robert.

That's lucky, by Jupiter! call the ſurly ſavage hither.

I vil, my lor—ici!—Robert! Robert!—come ſpeak a mi lor—courez, cou⯑rez, plus vite! for vy you not make a great haſte, you ſurly ſauvage!

Do you want me, my lord?

Yes, Robert; put the horſes to directly.

I can't juſt yet a while, my lord; the poor things have not quite din'd.

I tell you they muſt be put to directly—I have not a moment to ſpare.

Very well, my lord—then they ſhall only juſt finiſh the handful of meat that's in the manger—

Damn the manger! I tell you I muſt go immediately.

What, mayn't they make an end of the mouthful they're about, my lord?

I tell you no! I'll make an end of you, you raſcal, if you don't get the carriage ready this inſtant.

Very well, my lord!—then I'll get 'em rubb'd down and put to preſently—

Rubb'd down! you damn'd pro⯑voking dilatory raſcal, if they're not put to this moment, I'll [...] down with a witneſs!

I wonder [...]no'd wiſh to be a coach⯑horſe? poor ſouls I can never have a meal in comfort!

But hark ye, Robert! go this way, or you'll ruin all—thro' the private door, which you may unbolt, at the bottom of this walk—if any of Sir Thomas's people are at the ſtables, make ſome pretence to get them out of the way—let nobody ſee you take the carriage out, be ſure, if you can poſſibly avoid it, then ſaddle La Poudre's horſe, and wait for us at that garden-gate.

Very well, my lord.—what maggot's in his head now, I wonder! not that I car'd a whiſp of hay what was going forward, if the poor beaſtes had but fill'd their bellies—it's bad enough of all conſcience to be a coach-man, but, damn it, it's worſe yet to be a coach-horſe.

Diable! for vy is all dis, mi lor?

Why, I have got into a curſed dilemma here, La Poudre, and you muſt be a damn'd raſcal to endeavour to help me out of it.

Sans doute, my lord!—aſſuré⯑ment I ſal do every ting in my poſſibilité— mais vat dilemme, mi lor, is it I mus help you out?

I had like to have been finely taken in here, La Poudre:—Emily is not Sir Thomas's daughter, but the parſon's.

Ah, morbleu! den I ſuppoſe ſhe have peu on point d'argent, littel or no moneys —not ſo grande fortune as you did expeck?

You have hit it—therefore I have declin'd marrying her as I intended, and offer'd (inſtead) to take her into keeping.

Vous avez raiſon, mi lor; 'tis ver vel juge—and ſhe vil make ver pretty fille de joye for your keep, en verité.

Why, ay, La Poudre, tho' ſhe is not freighted for a matrimonial voyage, ſhe'd make a charming pleaſure yatch! but ſhe has refus'd that—

Refuſe dat? la grande ſotte! oh que de great a fool!

Her puppy of a brother juſt now interrupted me in an attempt upon her, and they are gone in doors to acquaint the family of it, I ſuppoſe—now, unleſs I can contrive to carry her off, I loſe her for ever!

Parbleu, c'eſt vrai, mi lor—it is ver true inteed.

In hopes of which, you hear how I have order'd the carriage—now, if you think it poſſible to decoy her out, Robert and I will be ready to hurry her into it in a moment.

Je ne ſcai pas, mi lor—it vil be ver difficile—but I will try all my poſſibilité.

No matter what unaccountable lies you tell—

Lie! bygar I vil lie and ſwear thro' tick and thro' tin;

If you ſucceed, the moment ſhe is without the garden door, do you bolt it within to prevent their tracing us; then climb over the wall directly, mount your horſe, and ſcour away as if you rode for your life.

Oui, mi lor—but vere mus I ſcoure?

Down to the beach as hard as ever you can ride, and hail the Tarquin—bid O'Connor bring the ſkiff aſhore immediately, and both of you wait my coming to aſſiſt me.

Je vous entend bien, mi lor— and I ſal ſcoure comme le diable!

Then, if I get her but ſafe down there, I have no more to do but whiſk her on board the Tarquin, put off to ſea, and—

Allez, allez, mi lor—ſomebody come—

I am gone—ſucceed, my dear La Poudre, and you are made for ever!—now, [71]Venus! be propitious to my ſcheme, I'll ſail for Paphos, and there worſhip thee!

Ma foi! it be de old gentilman himſelf come! parbleu, I no like his look—he is fort enragé—in one devil a great paſſion—mort de ma vie! I wiſh I no get break a my bone! fa, la, la, la, &c.

Where is the raſcal?

Fa, la, la, la!—who, ſire?

That ſcoundrel of a lord!—

Mi lor ſcoundrel? je ne ſcais pas —I am not acquaint vid mi lor Scoundrel, ni monſieur Raſcal non plus! I have not de hon⯑neur to know de gentilmens en verité—who do you mean, ſire?

Mean, ſire! why, when I aſk for a ſcoundrel, a raſcal, and a lord, who can I mean but Lord Sealand?

Mi lor Sealand!—

Heaven forbid there ſhould exiſt another lord, thoſe names could be applied to!

Is the villain here yet, ſir?

I don't know where he is, not I, nor will this fellow tell me.

Parbleu! I am amaze! je vous en prie, gentilmens, vat is all dis fracas and tintamarre?—eſt ce que you dit aſk a me, ſire, vere be mi lor Sealand?

Why, who ſhould I aſk but you? do you think I enquir'd of the trees and flower-plots?

Je vous demande pardon, dat I ave no underſtand vat you ſpeak ven you aſk or mi lor Scoundrel—

Well, now you do underſtand— where is he?

Vat, mi lor Sealand?

Yes, you damn'd incomprehenſible puppy! Lord Sealand.

Sire, he be only juſt valk littel way down de jardin.

Down which walk?—

Down dat a walk, ſire—

Now then, if the villain has a heart, I'll put it to the proof!

C'eſt par la gauche, de left hand, fire;

gentilmens, mi lor be juſt by de orangerie.

He ſha'n't be there long, a dog! nor in any other place that I am maſter of— for, as ſoon as I have told him what a ſcoun⯑drel I think him, if he don't walk out of his own accord, I ſhall make bold to kick him out!

Kick him out! mort de ma vie! kick a mi lor Sealand? vat, in de name of vonder, all dis mean, ſire?

It means that your wicked lord has made a moſt infamous attempt upon my daughter's honour?

Your daughtere, ſire!—vat daughtere?

My Emily—my dear, my in⯑nocent child!

Your ſhild, ſire! be mademoiſelle Emily your ſhild?

She is! which that diſgrace-to-his-rank no ſooner knew, than (not content moſt poorly to reject her he had juſt before ſolicited for a wife) he wickedly endeavoured to ſeduce her to be his miſtreſs!

Very wicked inteed, ſire!—

Nay more, to aggravate his guilt, propoſed rewards for me, her wretched father! to be the pander to my daughter's infamy!

Helas! c'eſt une choſe bien in⯑fame et extraordinaire, inteed! I am quite ſhocka to hear it! I no muſh vonder now de old gentilman be go kick a mi lor—but I vonder great deal you ave ſo muſh patience and phi⯑loſophie dat you no go give him littel kick too, ſire.

'Twould ill become my cloth to ſeek revenge—tho' I came here, I muſt con⯑feſs, in anger; and, had I met him, ſhould have loaded him with bittereſt reproaches— but, on reflection, think it better to avoid him —if he repents his fault, I am ſatisfied!

'Tis very good of you inteed, ſire—for mi lor ave been fort mechant, very naughty I mus confeſs; and I ſhou'd be no muſh ſurpriſe if de young gentilman fight a mi lor and kill him—ecoutez!—hark a, mon⯑ſieur! I think I hear de ſword claſh—oh, que oui! dey fight! dey fight! ah, mon pauvre [74]lor! he vill be kill! he vill be kill! and I fall loſe my place!

Kill'd! forbid it heaven! tho' he deſerves the worſt that could befall him, yet —let me endeavour to prevent more ſin!

Ha, ha, ha, ha! ſo far I ave tell de very pritty lie inteed, to get dem all out of de vay—now, vile de coaſt be cleare, I go to de maiſon, and try all my poſſibilité to get mademoiſelle to mi lor—eh! parbleu, it vill be no politique to come back dis way and meet a les gentilſhommes again! vat I ſall do, ma foi!—let a me conſidere—

George—brother! where are you, my dear, cruel George?—

Quel bonheur! here come de lady quite apropos!—now for de bold ſtroke— ah miſerable que je ſuis! la peur me fait mourir! I am frighten to death! help a meurtre! meurtre!

Ah, murder? merciful heaven! I fear'd as much, and therefore followed— where? who?

Ah, madame! I am frighten out of my ſenſe! Young monſieur Goodaman be gone out of de gate of de jardin to fight a mi lor Sealand, and I juſtement hear de ſword claſh and piſtol fire!

Gracious heaven defend him!—bro⯑ther! father! help! murder! help!

Ha, ha, ha, ha! dat is bien fait —ver vell done inteed!

you be goot girl, run ver vell—mi lor vill keſh you dans un moment, and carry you quite away! ha, ha, ha, ha!

Where, in the devil's name, has he hid himſelf?

Ah, ma foi! here come old gen⯑tilman again! now I muſt run bolt a de jardin door apres mademoiſelle, climb over de vall, (take care I no break a my neck tho') monter á cheval, and ſcoure down to de beeche as if de devil vas ſcoure after me!—ha, ha, ha, ha! bygar, I am von very greata deviliſh lucky rogue! ha, ha, ha, ha!

'Tis in vain to ſeek him here, ſir; he muſt certainly have returned up the yew⯑tree walk to the houſe, while we have been this way, and may offer freſh inſult to my ſiſter—the thought alarms me!—let me fly to her protection!

Why, there's no finding the dog any where, Doctor—he is not in the garden I'm ſure—unleſs he has hid himſelf at the [76]bottom of the canal—I'll have it dragg'd, and if I find him there, I ſha'n't have quite ſo bad an opinion of him as I had.

Let us hope, ſir, he has reflected on the heinouſneſs of his behaviour, and with⯑drawn himſelf privately through ſhame.

Shame, a villain! he was not aſham'd of committing the offence, but I ſup⯑poſe he'd bluſh up to the eyes to aſk pardon; nay, run the beſt friend he has in the world through the body, or blow his brains out, ſooner than do it!

It is to that falſe ſhame, ſir, we may attribute moſt of the impious duels, by which our laws divine and human are daily ſcandaliz'd and broken!

Ay, it's too true, Doctor—the more the pity!—come, George—heyday! what's gone with him?

He went in doors to Emily, I be⯑lieve, ſir.

Well—come, my good friend, let us forget this puppy that has vex'd us— 'thank heaven no harm came of it—I think we had e'en as well go tell your ſweet girl what I was propoſing, when George and ſhe came in from Sealand; and have the wedding cele⯑brated as ſoon as poſſible.

Dear ſir, conſider once more the vaſt diſparity before you finally determine— the obligations you have conferr'd on me and mine already, are never to be cancell'd, but this unthought-of condeſcenſion—

No more, no more, my dear old friend! I have conſidered it thoroughly, and (if you will ſo far indulge me) it ſhall be ſo— [77]we'll ſhew the libertine we can ſet a proper value upon merit, without the recommendation of fortune, tho' he cou'd not, by offering her a huſband not much inferior to himſelf, who will love her and protect her!

Have you ſeen my ſiſter, ſir?

Not ſince we left her in the houſe; is ſhe not there?

No, ſir! Patty ſays, that fearful of my having a rencounter with Lord Sealand, ſhe follow'd me into the garden.

Bleſs me! where can ſhe have gone ſo ſuddenly?

Why the devil's in the people to day, I think, i'my conſcience—one can't turn one's head, but, like goblins and fairies, or a jugler's cups and balls, they're vaniſh'd!— Odzookers! now I think a little, my mind miſgives me—ſure that damn'd fellow, Sealand, has not convey'd her off!

Which way, dear ſir? the garden door, you ſee, is ſhut, and faſt bolted, which, if they had gone out of it, muſt have been left open.

Why, Emily! Sealand! French⯑man! ſcoundrel!—where, in the devil's name, are you all got to?

Sir! ſir! your worſhip!

What are you bawling about, you raſcal? is not one enough at a time?

Your worſhip!

What does the blockhead ſtare ſo at? have you ſeen your young lady any where lately?

N—n—no, your worſhip!

Nor Lord Sealand?

N—n—no, ſir! I ha'n't ſeen ne'er a one of them ſince tea-time—

Then what do you come to plague us now for, you puppy!

Lord, your honour! I only came to tell your worſhip the poor woman, Dame Quickſet, that lives at the cottage where your honours all went after dinner to day, is begging for dear life to ſpeak to your worſhip.

I am buſy now—I can't ſpeak to her—zounds! I cou'd not ſpeak to the great mogul if he was here—why, Emily! Sealand!

Dear ſir, be patient for a moment —it may be ſomething concerning my child— pray let her ſpeak with you.

Where is his good worſhip? I muſt ſpeak with un, for it be upon life and death!

O, heaven bleſs your wor⯑ſhip! you're undone! you're undone!

So I have been juſt thinking!— but how, how?

Young madam! your daughter! your daughter!

What of her!—

Speak! ſpeak!—

Where is ſhe, good woman, where is ſhe?

Heaven knows where by this, not I!—ſome vile villains have kidnap'd the pre⯑cious lady away, to have their wicked will of her; or elſe (for the lucre of gold) to ſell her for a neger-ſlave, or a turk, I do verily believe!

A negro or a turk! why what a plague does the woman mean?

Why, an't pleaſe your worſhip, a ſtrange outlandiſh looking man came galloping down our lane not a minute agone, whipping and ſpurring poor beaſt like any mad! and a fine chariot came driving a'ter him from your worſhip's garden door, as thof 'twou'd ha' tore the ground to very bits; with ſomebody ſcreaming and crying i'th' inſide on't as thof they had been murder'd! and, as it paſs'd by our hut, who ſhould I ſee it was but the ſweet young Lady Richacre, your worſhip's daughter, with ſome vile rogue ſitting beſide and holding her, diſguiſed like a gentleman!

As ſure as death it was that dog Sealand!

Good heaven protect my child!

Follow me, William! and help to get arms and horſes ready!

Od rot un! I'll take blunderbuſs from hall-chimney for myſelf, and, if I come up with un, I'll make un remember the day o'the month I warrant un!

Metre! John! Coachman I ſaddle all the horſes! load all the fire arms! raiſe the whole county! blood! I'll blow the villains all to pieces!

ACT V. Scene, a Parlour.

DEAR heart, how I tremble! I am ſadly afraid they won't overtake them—lud, lud! I wiſh ſomebody was come back again, for I begin to be afraid to ſtay in the houſe any longer—who knows but they'll come and run away with me next! O, I wiſh William was come back! I hope the dear ſoul won't come to any harm!—lud, lud! what a twitter am I in!—and what can have become of my father?—ſure he has not follow'd them a-foot —hark! did not I hear a noiſe? perhaps I forgot to faſten the hall-door in my fright, and ſomebody is coming to run away with me!

O dear father! is it you? I am glad you are come back!—where have you been? what have you heard? have you ſeen any thing of them?

What! hath no one returned yet, Martha?

Nobody but you, father.—

Goodlack! goodlack! was there ever the like heard of! neither tale nor tidings can I learn, and I have run up and down al⯑moſt [81]every lane in the pariſh, untill my poor old legs are juſt ready to drop off!

You had better ſit down, father, and reſt yourſelf, while I get ſomething for you.

Sit down, child? no, I will neither eat, nor drink, nor reſt, untill the precious lady is found!—I wanted but to know if any one had been more proſperous than myſelf, before I journeyed to any vaſt diſtance; and ſince no one hath, I will travel unto the world's end, but I will find her!

Pray, dear father, don't—for, if you ſhould chance to meet with the villains, they may murder you, and then come and run away with me!—indeed I can't ſtay here any longer by myſelf with ſuch dreadful apprehenſions— O! I am terrified out of my ſenſes!

Be compoſed, my good child—they muſt be hardened wretches indeed to ſlay a poor old man like me, who could aſſail them with nought but prayers and ſupplications— therefore, make faſt the door after me, and look heedfully unto the manſion, child, while I—

—as I am a ſinner, my reverend maſter is returned!—I pray heaven he bringeth joyful tidings!—

Ha? what's that I hear? joyful tidings, ſaid you? is ſhe found, Metre? is ſhe found?

No, truly, if your reverence hath not been ſo proſperous!

Diſtraction! O my child! my loſt, loſt, violated child!

The Philiſtines are come upon her, verily!

Here, Patty! where are you?

Lord! here's his worſhip come back, ſir—who knows but he may have had better luck —I am in great hopes—

No, no, no! there are no hopes! no hopes!

Patty! Metre!

Here, your worſhip!—

Who's at home? has nobody found this raſcal yet? nobody return'd?

Yes, an't pleaſe your worſhip, his reverence is returned, and ſo am I.

And ſo are you!—why I did not know you had been any where—where the devil did you hide yourſelf? I call'd and bawl'd for you before I went out 'till I was hoarſe again, but could not find you.

Indeed, your worſhip, my poor father has been running all over the pariſh, ſeeking for young madam, 'till he is almoſt dead.

Well! and has he found her?

Oh, no, no, no!

Why then I wiſh he was quite dead —and I wiſh I was dead—and we were all dead! and buried! and—

Good your worſhip wax not wroth with your poor old ſervant! I did my beſt, in truth; and was juſt going to repeat my feeble endeavours as his reverence came in.

Dear ſir, adviſe me—I am almoſt diſtracted!—what ſhall I do? where ſhall I ſeek her?

I know no more than you—almoſt diſtracted, quotha? zounds! I have been ſtark mad this half hour!

Will your good worſhip pleaſe to repoſe you in your eaſy chair?

Repoſe the devil!—

Mercy on us!

Which way did you go, Doctor?

I went firſt, ſir, to Lord Sealand's houſe—

Pſha! that I know already, for I was there juſt after you—what could induce you to go there? you might be ſure enough he would not carry her home—which way did George go?

I know not, ſir—heaven will, I hope, direct him better!

He can't have worſe luck than I had go which way he will—for, ſo far from a coach or a chariot, I could not ſee ſo much as a cart or a wheel-barrow—but, come, come—don't let us ſtand chattering here—let us go look ſomewhere or other—

Hilli ho! my hearts!—what cheer, honies?—what, all under hatches? tumble up, tumble up, my jewels!—

By my [84]ſoul! this is the ſtrangeſt veſſel I ever ſtuck foot aboard—the devil a hand is there walking deck to keep watch! ſo, fait, I e'en made bold to take a peep into the cabin!

Who the devil are you, ſir? what do you want here?

Arrah, be eaſy, my jewel! don't put yourſelf out of your latitude, and you'll know who I am preſently—but why won't you ſtation a hand upon deck yonder to keep a bit of a look out? or you may be boarded by a land-pirate, honey!

Go, Martha, and make faſt the door, child.

Dear heart! I am almoſt afraid this ſtrange man is come to run away with me!

What's your buſineſs? what do you want of me?

What do I want with you? the devil a toothful do I want of you, but a little civil diſcourſe; nor that neither, unleſs you are the commander here.

Well, ſir, I am the commander as you call it—What then?

Why then—I'll lower my top-ſail to you, honey!

But—what's your buſineſs? for I'm in haſte—

Why you are to know, joy, I am juſt come full ſail upon the outſide of a horſe (with another in tow) from the ſalt-ſea-ſhore, to bring you advice of a ſweet cratur, a female young woman, (belonging here) and my maſter Lord Sealand—

Lord Scoundrel!—

Indeed you may ſay that—more pity the two words ſhould ever be ſplic'd to⯑gether!

But your news, ſir, your news!

Why, you muſt know, I receav'd orders from Mounſeer Powder-puff, my lord's walley-de-ſhaver, to have our ſkiff ready to carry my lord, and the young woman I mention'd, aboard our cutter, the Tarquin—but I ſoon found, by her unwillingneſs, that ſhe was not a volunteer of her own accord; but had been preſs'd into the ſarvice without giving her con⯑ſent to it—ſo, faith! I began to be a little queer with my lord about it; for the ſweet cratur look'd as innocent as a ſucking dove, ay, or a new-born dove's egg! and I determin'd not to aid and aſſiſt at making her otherwiſe!

Eternal bleſſings on you for your goodneſs!

Devil a goodneſs in the caſe, honey —'twas no more than the duty of every honeſt man that is not a rogue!

Give me your hand, my heart of oak! I am your friend for ever!

So, while we were raving and ſquabbling within half a cable's length of land, a good clever likely young jontleman, and a carrotty-pated livery-ſervant, came galloping and ſplaſhing into the ſalt-ſea, as if they were riding poſt over to France or Holland! for their horſes were fairly afloat, and half way to the ſkiff in the turning of a handſpike.

So, friend!—

Hollo! you young harebrains! ſays I—have a care you don't run foul of our [86]little nut-ſhell, and ſpill us all! upon which the poor girl cry'd out, it was her brother!

Her brother!

Devil fire me! ſays little Brian O'Connor (that's myſelf) if their beaſts ſhall board us, and ſend us to the bottom, if he was your brother and ſiſter too! but, do you hear, young jontleman? ſays I, have a little wit in your folly, and don't fink your friends and your foes together, but take in a reef a two and we'll be alongſide you preſently.

That was right, friend, that was right!

Upon which, you may take your ſwear, my bug-of-a-lord did all he could to prevent my carrying the boat aſhore—and, at laſt, when he found nothing elſe would do, (nor that neither) was trying to huſsle me overboard—

Was it poſſible!

Indeed it was not!—for, as ſoon as I perceav'd it, Oho! thinks little Brian, are you for that fun? I'll be bound I match you to a tittle, my jewel! ſo, upon my conſcience, I made no more ceremony, but gave him as pretty a genteel lift as you ſhall ſee in a ſum⯑mer's day, and capſiz'd him (ſouſe!) headlong into the wet ocean! where he look'd, for all the world, like the gold and filver fiſh folks keep in glaſs waſhing-rubs!

Ha, ha, ha! well done, well done, i'faith!

But (notwithſtanding his demerits) he was not drowned, ſir, I hope!

There we differ, old Stave, for once—for I hope he was.

No, faith, ſir, as ill luck would have it, he was not drown'd.

The more the pity, ſay I.

Upon my conſcience, ſir, you ſay very right—it was God's mercy and a thouſand pities ſure enough! but I take it he was a little damp or ſo, for when he ſcrambled aſhore, the ſalt brine ran from him by pailfuls.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! I ſhall burſt, I ſhall burſt! upon ſecond thoughts I am glad the dog was not drown'd, for if he had, I ſhould have been kill'd outright.

Yes, fait, and ſo would he too!

But how ended the matter, pray ſir?

O, it was ſoon over, honey! for when I had thrown the whale into Jonas's belly—

Jonas into the whale's belly, I apprehend you mean, ſir!

Well! the whale into Jonas, or Jonas into the whale, it's all one an't it? —when I had given my lord a ſummerſet, I ſay, and ſpilt him into the ocean, we got aſhore preſently—but, as the young jontleman was hoiſting his ſiſter out of the boat, his draggle-tail'd lordſhip lent him ſuch a pat o'the cheek, as was enough to break his hand⯑ſome face, or put one of his forecaſtle lights out!

The cowardly villain! but he re⯑paid it, I hope?

Och! I'll be bound he did—and with intereſt too—for he had the honour of horſe-whipping his lordſhip to his heart's con⯑tent! and (by way of premium) I divarted [88]myſelf the mean time with beating his impu⯑dent French walley-de-ſhaver!

Bravo! bravo! ha, ha, ha! but what became of the livery-ſervant all this while? ſure he was not idle?

What, the lad with the bunch of carrots growing on his head? indeed he was not—for he had no ſooner handed the poor frighted girl out of the gangway, and brought the two horſes they went, and I came upon, to an anchor; but the tight lad beſeag'd the coach-box, took it by ſtorm, and is now piloting the young jontleman and lady ſafe into port here, aboard my lord's own chariot, fait: leaving him and his raſcally companions to pad the hoof, and trudge home upon their ten toes!

Odſo! then let's go meet 'em! they can't be far off by this, and I long to ſee the dear rogues again—

—hark! ſure I hear a carriage ſtop.

My lady's come back, ſir! my lady's come back! young Mr. Goodman and William have found her, and they are all come back together!

Rejoice and ſing! kill the fatted calf and be merry, for the loſt ſheep is found!

My dear, dear, brave boy! thou'rt welcome home again!

O my lov'd ſire! ſcarce did I know my father, ere I was torn from him! but am reſtor'd (thank heaven!) to his paternal arms!

Thanks, gracious providence! I ſee my child again!

Amen!—

Odzookers! George! I have been in a plaguy pucker about you, you rogue!

Sir, I am eternally bound to you for this ſolicitude! And, was not my dear father exceedingly alarm'd?

Alarm'd! why I tell you I have been almoſt out of my wits about you both!

Sir, I am bound to you for ever! but, my dear father—

—is not he happy too that my ſiſter, his ſweet daughter, is ſafe reſtored?

Ay, that he is, I'll anſwer for him—and, as you have ſo bravely help'd to recover a daughter for him, the leaſt he can do in return is to provide you with a father, by reſtoring me my ſon!

Sir! what does my patron ſay?

Say?—ecod I don't know what to ſay?—only that, in having you for my heir, I am father to one of the beſt and braveſt lads in the kingdom!

Father—

Yes, my dear boy! I am indeed! —your father! George, your father!

Odzookers, Doctor, I could contain my⯑ſelf no longer, faith!

Dear ſir, he is your own, and truly worth the claiming!

Indulgent powers! is it poſſible?

O good gracious! ma'am! here's good news for you.

Wonderful! wonderful! moſt won⯑derful!

Am I in a dream!—

Upon my conſcience I can't tell— but, if you are, you have had a very pleaſant ride in your ſleep!

Dear ſirs! what am I to think?— within theſe few hours I thought myſelf the ſon of this worthy divine, and this ſweet maid, your daughter, ſir—

we then were wretched beyond idea, ſuppoſing our⯑ſelves the iſſue of one parent! and now, ſir—

And now, my dear boy! all is ſet right—you are my ſon, my own fleſh and blood! at leaſt your mother, Lady Richacre, (who was a pattern of conjugal fidelity) told me ſo—and Emily is as ſurely Dr. Goodman's daughter.

Tranſporting ſounds! then we may yet be happy!

Devil burn me! but this makes out the old ſaying good—that it's a wiſe father knows his own child—O no, fait, I don't mean ſo neither—(tho' that may be true too) but, it's a wiſe child knows it's own father!

Moſt honour'd parent!

(if I really am ſo bleſt) may I preſume to aſk why we have both been bred in ſuch a mutual error?

I'll tell thee, George—I had ob⯑ſerv'd, with great concern, how ſeldom young men, bred in the inſolent pride of inheriting great eſtates, deſerv'd them!—I am a whimſical old fellow, you know—and therefore propoſed to, and prevail'd on, my reſpected friend (as we became widowers almoſt together) to join with me in a project I had formed (in imita⯑tion of the Spectator's Leontine and Eudoxus) of exchanging children for a time—hoping thereby to render you more worthy than you might otherwiſe have been, of the fortune and title you was born to—the experiment was a ſingular one, I own, but the event has fully juſtified it!

And, ſir!—if I dare aſk one queſtion more—what recompence did you purpoſe to this young lady for being deluded with ſuch an imaginary grandeur?

Bleſs me! what is he ſaying?

Was it to realize the golden dream?

Why, I had ſome ſuch notion, indeed, George.—

If I remember right the ſtory you alluded to, ſir, the good, the generous Eudoxus, join'd the young and loving pair: is that my ſire's intention? or (which I dread to aſk!)— is it to—marry her yourſelf?

Ha? what! marry Emily myſelf? bleſs her dear little heart, heaven forbid! no, no, I had a younger ſpark in my eye for her—

Benignity itſelf! he means my George, I'm certain, and I ſhall yet be bleſt!

Then, ſir, I may ſpeak plainer—

What will the dear youth ſay!

And declare, that I am vet a beggar, if you add not to my late acquiſition of for⯑tune, the ſupreme delight of reſtoring this lov'd maid to the ſtation ſhe was bred in, by per⯑mitting me ſtill to call this beſt of men my father!

What do you aſk me for? ſhe's none of mine, you fool! why don't you aſk the Doctor?

My indulgent fa⯑ther!

O, ſir! either my behaviour has hitherto been unfilial, or you will kindly receive me for your ſon again.

My ever deareſt ſon!—take her, and may heaven ſhower down eternal bleſſings on you both!

Amen!—

Ay, and ſo be it too, ſay I!

Now, if my Emily thinks me not unworthy—

O talk not ſo! 'tis I that am unwor⯑thy—yet wherefore?—if deſert conſiſted but in riches, then I were indeed deficient! but, conſcious of a mind ſuperior to the diſtinctions of birth and fortune, I feel that I deſerve your love! for, had our conditions really been as we imagined, preferring thee, the worthieſt, to the moſt wealthy, I ſhould have gloried in my acquiſition more than in a conqueſt of the moſt exalted!

I know it, my ſweet Emily! I know it.

And, if my preſerver loves like me, he will not aſk, but take my trembling hand; [93]aſſur'd, that he poſſeſſes wholly my fond, my beating heart!

Thus then I take thy ſnowy hand! here ſeal my faith!

and hence⯑forth we are one!

Ay, and a very pretty ſplice you have both made on't!

I have ſo full a ſenſe, ſir, of your moſt unexampled goodneſs, in firſt adopting your poor girl, and now confirming thus your favour, I cannot thank you as I ought!—let theſe duteous, grateful tears ſpeak for me!

Riſe, riſe, my ſweet child! you are my daughter now indeed!

Well! I wiſh I may never taſte another cheekful of beef and biſcuit, or a ſup of grog again, if this is not as pretty a piece of buſineſs—

My good friend! the preſerver of my Emily! amid theſe ſeveral tranſports I have too long overlook'd you!

Och! no offence, gra! I have been overlooking you too, 'till I don't know what ails me fait! but I've a notion the ſalt-water that ſpalpeen of a lord ſplaſh'd in my face when I tilted him overboard, had not got out of the corners of my eyes before! for ſome drops trickled down the ſcuppers of my cheeks into my mouth juſt now that taſted quite brackiſh! they could not be tears ſure! for (tho' we Iriſhmen are apt to make blunders) a [94]weather-beaten chap like myſelf would not cry, ſure, at what he's ſo well pleas'd with!

You have a double title to my gratitude, as I receiv'd aſſiſtance from you againſt your own maſter; not fearing, in the cauſe of virtue, to offend the wretch you ſerv'd!

I'll tell you what, honey!—Saint Patrick be thankful, I'm never afraid of doing what's right!—for tho' I'm but a menial man of low degree, I am ſprung from a very great offspring, and have got the thick blood of the kings of Ireland bubbling in my veins, joy!— and, in my fooliſh way of thinking, ſo far from offending, I ſarv'd my maſter moſt faithfully by not ſarving him at all at all, in ſuch an unjontlemanlike undertaking!

You are a right honeſt tar! and ſhall never ſerve any one again while you live.

Indeed and I will always ſarve both you and yours with all the blood in my bones!

How, or in what words ſhall I ex⯑preſs my very fervent thanks to you, for hav⯑ing ſav'd a helpleſs creature from what I dread to think of!

I'll tell you how you ſhall thank me, jewel! by holding your ſweet tongue, and never ſaying another word about it!

Generous man! my deeds ſhall then ſpeak for me.

Dear father! now every thing elſe is ſettled ſo nicely, do, pray, put in a word for poor William.

And yourſelf, eh, Martha?

If you pleaſe, father.

Well, I will adventure to addreſs their honours—hem! hem! good your wor⯑ſhip!—and good your reverence!—this ſeem⯑ing an auſpicious hour, your poor old ſervant hath an humble boon to crave.

What is it, old ſilver-locks?

That it may pleaſe your honours, when the bans of matrimony are publiſhed between my dear and honourable young maſter and miſtreſs, (as I truſt his reverence will not approve they ſhould be married by licence) the names of my poor child, Martha Metre, ſpinſter—and her choſen ſpouſe and helpmate, William Strongbow, batchelor, both of this pariſh, may be permitted moſt humbly to follow.

William Strongbow! what, young carrotty-poll? where is the red-headed rogue? I have not ſeen him ſince he ſcal'd the coach-box.

He is in the hall, I believe, father!

William Strongbow! approach his worſhip's preſence.

Did your worſhip pleaſe to want me?

Ay, come hither, William—I am told you have behav'd like a man of Kent to day, in helping to reſcue my maid of Kent here from Lord Sealand and his myrmidons?

I did my beſt, an't like your wor⯑ſhip, as I was in duty bound.

And likewiſe that you and Patty want to make a match together?

If your worſhip and his reverence pleaſe to give us leave.

What ſay you, Patty?

William has ſpoke my mind, your honours!

Why then marry away, you young rogues, as faſt as you can! you have my good⯑will.

I humbly thank your wor⯑ſhip!—

And mine!

I humbly thank your reve⯑rence!—

And I pray heaven to bleſs and proſper you!

Amen!—

And in reward for your ſervice to day, I'll make a man of you, my boy!

I moſt humbly thank your noble worſhip's honour and goodneſs!

And, with your leave, ſir, I will give Patty a little portion.

'Thank you kindly, ſir! and may you and my dear young lady be as happy together as you deſerve!

I thank you, Patty!—may you,

and every virtuous pair be no leſs ſo!

Amen!—

And now, Patty, we ſhall be as merry as grigs, or as midſummer-day is long!

That we ſhall, William! and I long for the wedding to be over, that, inſtead of plain Patty, I may hear myſelf call'd Mrs. Strongbow!

Now, I believe, all parties are re⯑warded and ſatisfied, except the poor Quickſets; and they too ſhall partake the happineſs they, by the timely alarm given us, were in great meaſure the means of, and never be poor, or want for any thing again, unleſs it be health, and that the richeſt of us can't beſtow! And ſo, every thing is ſettled, and we are all hap⯑py! are we not, old boy? ſhake hands, my heart of oak! what ſay you?

Why, ſir, I ſay—the honour of wagging a fiſt with you wou'd make the happy if I was ever ſo miſerable! but I'm after think⯑ing the young jontleman and his little ſweet⯑lips there, ay, and t'other young couple too, won't be quite eaſy 'till they have ſhook hands and been ſplic'd together in church, fait!

The idea tranſports me!—my Emily!—my deſtin'd bride! we now approach the height of human bliſs! bleſt as we are in the paternal care of theſe our beſt of fathers, the affections of our faithful friends and ſer⯑vants, and the fruition of our mutual diſin⯑tereſted love!—the vices of that miſcreant lord, you happily was delivered from, are pu⯑niſhed by an indelible diſgrace! while the [98]virtues of this circle are rewarded with a per⯑fect, and, I hope 'twill prove, a laſting felicity!

AMEN!