[] FIRE AND WATER! &c.

SCENE I.

That's right, my boys, always ſing while you work; a ſong, in my mind, makes labour eaſy, in ſpite of mine and his Majeſty's enemies.

So it had need, maſter Launch; for we have enough of it: theſe curſed French Monſieurs find us conſtant employment.

True; but the harder you are drove now, the faſter we ſhall drive them by-and-by.—

Come, come, get to your dinners: I fancy your ſto⯑machs have ſtruck twelve. You muſt recollect too, my lads, that you are hereby inſuring the defence of your country againſt mine and his Majeſty's enemies.

Damn your and his Majeſty's enemies—for my part I don't care a chip for 'em, and I dare ſay we ſhall give them ſuch a welcome if they do come, as will make them wiſh they had ſtaid in their own country—tho'f I'm told it's a bitter bad one.

Why that's the reaſon they are ſo deſirous to viſit ours. But loſe no time, my lads; I expect our chief lord down every inſtant, and as he is a great friend to harmony, I beg we may have no diſcord.

How can we help it, maſter Launch, when our wives are always complaining?—it's un⯑poſſible to keep them in tune, for we hav'n't time to wind them up.

But conſider, I'm a man of conſequence, principal ſtore-keeper to his Majeſty's yard, here at Portſmouth, and know all the King's ſecrets; and let me tell you, if the French ſhould come, they'll take your wives away from you: think of that.

Why if that's all they'll take away, there's no ſuch great matter; becauſe why, we know the worſt of it; and I am told as how the French are civil enough to every body's wives but their own.

Yes, yes, if that's the worſt, there's no harm done; but damn 'em, I was afraid for my religion; I was afraid they would have taken away our religion and left us their own, and be damned to them.

Come here, Nancy, you look gloomy, child. I hope you are not afraid of the French taking you away?

No, papa, I have no ſuch fears, I aſſure you; but can you wonder at my being penſive, when one I hold ſo dear is now encount'ring the dangers of the ſea, or the attacks of the enemy?

I'll tell you what, child; I'm a man of conſequence, and I could wiſh you to think no more of that midſhipman, that Frederick; ſo mark my words, I'm a man of conſequence.

But, my dear papa, what objection can you poſſibly have? Isn't he ſon to his worſhip the Mayor; and of equal conſequence with ourſelves?

Why there now is one part of my objec⯑tion—quaking, tottering, neighbour Tremor, equal to a man of my conſequence, who am the King's Officer for life, and reſpected by all his Majeſty's workmen! whereas the Mayor, as you call him, is only worſhipped by vagrants, and loſes his honour in a twelvemonth.

But, ſir—

Beſides, isn't he a republican tallow⯑chandler, who ſells candles to the mob, and forces us to light up for liberty? and am not I on the other ſide the queſtion? and don't wiſh to have any hand in ſuch ſtuff.

Stuff, papa!

Yes, child, kitchen-ſtuff, fit only for ſuch fellows to deal in.

But ſure, ſir, my Frederick is not to an⯑ſwer for his father's folly; he is himſelf a ſlave to no party; and is he not bravely venturing his life in the ſervice of his King?

But what would you think if he ſhould return from that ſervice with only half an eye, and a couple of wooden legs peeping through his pocket⯑holes?

Why love him the better, for preferring his country's welfare to his own ſafety—What would the world ſay if the daughters of England withheld their tenderneſs from thoſe who moſt deſerved it?

Well, child, I like your ſpirit; but you know I have ſomebody elſe in my eye, who agrees to every thing I ſay, and thinks juſt as I do about mine and his Majeſty's enemies—my friend Ambuſcade I mean, a man after my own heart.

He may be after your heart, papa, but he's very oppoſite to mine—a capering, ſtrutting, impu⯑dent fencing maſter, always teizing one to death with ſcraps of old ſongs—I neither like his looks nor his manners—in ſhort, ſir, I wiſh you don't find him im⯑poſe upon you very materially.

Impoſe upon me, child—a man of my conſequence! Yes, I ſhould like that amazingly—upon me, indeed, who have the care of his Majeſty's Royal Dock, and know all the ſtate ſecrets!

Yes, ſir, and that I take it is the reaſon of his ſeeming attachment, that he may get ſome know⯑ledge of you.

Get knowledge out of me! No, damn me, I defy him to get knowledge out of me!—nobody would ever imagine that I knew any thing.

But let me beg of you to liſten to my Fre⯑derick; conſider, ſir, good men are ſcarce.

Then, learn to be content, girl—you have got one good man already for your father, hav'n't you? would you have a couple to your own ſhare, you unconſcionable baggage?

Dear ſir, you are entirely out of the queſ⯑tion; but isn't it very natural for a young girl to wiſh to be ſettled? and—

To be ſure it is, and ſo you ſhall; but the men have ſomething elſe to think of now; the country's up in arms at preſent, therefore let me intreat you to keep your's quiet for a time.

SCENE, The Street.

All's ſafe, I think—yes—Icod, this French invaſion puts one into ſuch a panic, that one hardly dare to peep one's head out—one's functions are all in a quake—ſcarce eat and drink as we uſed to do—not a feaſt in the town hall theſe two months—dripping will be very ſcarce. What noiſe is that!

oh! nobody—then, as I'm his Right Worſhipful the Mayor, the French would be very glad to catch me, no doubt; well, what a dangerous thing it is to be in power! I ſhould certainly be thrown into the Baſtile, they would take no ranſom for ſuch a precious captive—no—zounds! what noiſe is that?

Lord, who have we here?

Hah! my father! what can be the matter with him?

Oh dear, ſir! I beg pardon for being a little ſurpriz'd—but, pray, good, kind ſir, what news from—what is it you, you dog? how came you from ſea?

In an open boat, ſir; and juſt landed this inſtant.

Why, you hav'nt deſerted from the ſhip's crew, have you? I hope you were not afraid, for I hate fear as much as I do the French; don't diſgrace your family, Frederick; I hope you'll ſhine as much as your father has done.

Never doubt it, ſir; I, like the reſt of my countrymen, only wiſh the French would lay aſide their running fights, and try a few broadſides with us; and we'll convince them an Engliſhman's heart, like his climate, though often overcaſt, will ſoon clear again, and ſhew the world a glorious day.

Give me your hand—well ſon, you are a fine long-ſix; I'm glad to ſee you burn ſo fierce—I knew you were caſt in a good mould; but I hate fear.

And ſo do I too—tho' I bring rather alarming news—the combin'd fleet is actually in the channel—I was order'd on ſhore on purpoſe to give you infor⯑mation.

Zounds, you don't ſay ſo! O lud, what ſhall I do:—what ſhall I do!

And they are bearing down as faſt as they can.

Dear me! dear me! and I ſhall be laid hold of firſt for being in power; and who knows but my very friends may turn againſt me—attacked in my own manſion houſe, I may be knocked down by my own mace-bearer, or run through the body with my-own ſword of ſtate.

Don't be ſo alarm'd, ſir; you ſhould think of putting the place in a ſtate of defence.

So I will—O gracious, what a ſituation! Well, I will put the town in a ſtate of defence—Zounds! I'll embody the whole corporation—and, to encourage them, order them two gallons of porter with an allowance of bread and cheeſe, and a pint of wine for the officers.—Don't you think they will make a good ſtand?

Doubtleſs, ſir, if you don't go to fiſly-cuffs yourſelves—you ſhould never ſmite one another, be⯑cauſe it gives the public an opportunity of having ſo many ſtrokes at you.

Ha! ha! ha! a good hit i'faith—but mum—you know we muſt not touch up the great, whate⯑ver we think. However, if ſome folks above, had done ſome things below, why ſome things would not have been ſo middling.

Don't deceive yourſelf, my dear father; be⯑lieve me, every nerve of Britain is exerted; nor need we fear while our veteran commanders feel all the fire of youth; and our infant prince the intrepidity of manhood.

Well, I'm alive again—there's nothing like a good heart; and now for the French—

lord, what's that noiſe?

It's only the ſhout of the ſailors in the har⯑bour.

Is that all? I was afraid the enemy was al⯑ready landed; but I'm glad they're not come yet, be⯑cauſe—it gives one time for preparation, to ſhew that—one is not afraid of them.

SCENE III.

Here I am ſafely lodged without much fear of being diſcovered; well

this electrical ſtroke, as the doctor ſaid, will moſt likely ſhake all Europe; but I can't help, however, feeling ſome qualms in endeavouring to deſtroy my old native coun⯑try; but have not I more obligations to my new one? Am not I ſent here as a conductor charged with mat⯑ter of the firſt conſequence?—Well, Firebrand—

Is the wild-fire, and all the combuſtible ſtuff ready?

Yes, yes, maſter Sulphur, San Benito may take 'em when he pleaſes: they are all ready to light.

Then extinguiſh yourſelf, good Firebrand.

I'm out, maſter.

O that fellow is a man of my own kidney, fire is his element; a perfect ſalamander. Before he was tranſported he had burnt down two Methodiſt Meeting-houſes to prevent bigotry; three priſons, to promote the liberty of the ſubject; and half a dozen of his own apartments, to ſave trouble of moving fur⯑niture. In another year he would have broke all the Fire-offices in town.

Well, my dear Sulphur, is every thing prepared for execution?

All is ready, thank heaven, my good father San Banito.

That's right, that's right—for, from certain intelligence, I hear the French are to land this afternoon, and I hope ere to-morrow to ſee the Dock-yard in a blaze.

That will be a bright proſpect, indeed! but have you ſecured the families in our intereſt, whoſe conſciences you manage?

Why not entirely, the Catholicks are grown more ſqueamiſh—and will do nothing now to hurt their country for conſcience ſake.

How I hate ſuch unconſcientious dogs!

I have indeed prevailed over a married lady of ſome diſtinction to favour our plot, by giving her abſolution for paſt, and indulgence for future in⯑trigues; but the huſband, though a good Catholic, cannot be perſuaded that he ſhall live better under any other government.

Why the man's no fool—damn his ſenſe!

One thing, however, I have obtain⯑ed; he has promiſed me not to drive his cattle up 'till he can't help it.

Why that is ſomething to be ſure; for the French will bring very voracious appetites from ſea. But have you been able to do any good at the camps?

Not much there—they are ſo curſed loyal to their country, that I believe they wiſh for nothing better than an opportunity of dying in its defence.

Pray heaven they may! but have you brought nobody over to your cauſe?

Yes, a few—I have ſecured twenty Ja⯑cobite drummers, five diſaffected ſuttlers, fifty raw recruits, and all the contractors to a man.

How did you manage that?

By promiſing them the Pope's contract for ſalt fiſh every Lent ſeaſon.

Well done, father, that was ſecuring their intereſt, by encouraging their principle; but, could you not have prevail'd upon them to poiſon the bread? that would have done the buſineſs at once.

So it would; but I thought it of no great conſequence.

How ſo?

Becauſe they ſay it's half poiſon already.

P'ſha! this doing things by [...]alves, maſter Jeſuit, is doing nothing.

Nothing, do you call it! hav'n't I made my ſanctity the means of introducing me into families in order to betray their confidence—have not I—

Nonſenſe; what ſignifies your ſanctity? it's not the faſhion here—the appearance of it, in⯑deed, was neceſſary among the ſaints at Boſton—but—

But—but what, ſir!—have not I expos'd my perſon for your ſake? hav'n't I written ſeditious paragraphs in the News Papers, for theſe three months paſt, in order to divide the people—the only way the Engliſh ever can fall.

Trifles!

Hav'n't I kept in pay all the foreign ſer⯑vants in town, in order to betray their maſter's ſe⯑crets? S'blood, did not my hair-dreſſer bring over the heads of a plot in Papillotes?

Well, my good father, to ſerve your own purpoſes.

Your's Mr. Sulphur; to carry on your infernal ſchemes for a ſet of fellows who have neither gratitude nor recollection.

Falſe, by the Congreſs!

Congreſs! ſenators in woollen night-caps and flannel petticoats—and generals from ſhop-boards, green-ſtalls and night cellars.

Oh heavens! what defamation!

A ſet of hypocrites—who are ſending out emiſſaries to embroil the whole world.

Zounds, you dog, I'll warm you, however, I'll make Europe feel Ame⯑rica, I will

Why, maſters, you are both in a flame!

Ha! ha!

taking fire, gentlemen, before your time! what an inflammable group! you look like the pope, the devil and the pretender, on a bonfire night: be ſo good, Mr. Lucifer, as to leave us in the dark.

Wound me in the ſword arm! but this is a whimſical way to begin by cutting your own throats inſtead of other people's; fie, for ſhame! "Let the tempeſt of war".

ha! ha!

Why, he ſhould not abuſe the congreſs; he knows it is a ſore part; can I help it if the mem⯑bers have not learned to dance?

And he ſhould not undervalue my ſervi⯑ces; are we not all embarked in the ſame cauſe?

So, you are diſputing about your gentility, are you? a very pretty employment for a mongrel American and a diſcarded Jeſuit. "The prieſt calls the Lawyer a cheat." Can't you be content to impoſe upon mankind, and laugh at 'em too as I do? "For why ſhould we quarrel for riches?" ah—ah!

Well but, Mr. Ambuſcade, how ſtand your affairs with old Launch—Have you play'd upon the weakneſs of his girl, my little merry one?

What, kiſs and tell, my Buck of Brim⯑ſtone! Hit me in the flanconade if I do—We French⯑men (for you know I was born in Paris, tho' I don't chooſe to own it) we Frenchmen, I ſay, are form'd for intrigue.

Ha! hah!—Sa, ſa!

'Pſha! pox take love; have you got us admiſſion into the dock yard and ſtore-houſes? can our plan be put in execution?

All will be ready at the time appointed; the conſequential old fool, Launch, and I, are hand and glove, as thick as muſtard.

Then be ſure to bite him hard.

Certainly; always ſtrike when the boſom is open?

Never fear me; ha! ha! certain of my mark, open or ſhut; but be ſure you be upon your guard, gentlemen; recollect that great man, John the Painter, and yet he was hang'd

"My Gilderoy was a bonny boy,"—he was hang'd too.

A great man, Heaven knows! John was a pretty fellow: if he had not been ſo indiſcreet as to commit a few burglaries, he would have merited cano⯑nization.

If you are ſo nice, maſter Sulphur, I'm afraid few of your countrymen will obtain that ho⯑nour.

No more of your ſarcaſms, good father—If I live, I'll hang that Jeſuit

Come, come, we muſt join againſt the common foe, or we ſhall ruin the cauſe; you are juſt like the Engliſh, always quarrelling with their ene⯑mies, or each other—"Kiſs curſe you, curſe kiſs you, and fight."

Ha! ha!

can't you fol⯑low my example? are we not going to fire the whole town; and do not I appear as happy as if I was going to make all the world ſo?

True; but quarrelling, you know, is your profeſſion.

Yes, but there's nothing I diſlike ſo much, for all that.

SCENE IV.

Ah, my dear Frede⯑rick, you ſee your power over me; but I am ſo over⯑joyed to behold you returned ſafe from the enemy, that I can't help expreſſing my tenderneſs.

And believe me, my charming Nancy, when in purſuit of that enemy, your idea would intrude itſelf, and ſometimes ſteal away my attention from duty: but to remove every future apprehenſion, give me your hand without delay.

So I would inſtantly, my dear Frederick, if we could only obtain my father's concurrence to place us a little above want; for I cannot perſuade myſelf, in return for your affection, to bring a beggar to your arms.

The more I admire the generoſity of your temper, the more I regret your reſolution. But how are you certain, my dear girl, your father will not conſent to our union?

I am convinced he will not, not only from his inveteracy to yours, but from his unaccountable attachment to Ambuſcade, who cajoles him juſt as he pleaſes.

Well then, let him keep his conſent and his fortune to himſelf: while my country wants a ſea⯑man, or I have an arm to lift in her defence, we can never want a ſupport.

But let us not be raſh, my Frederick! if we could but convince him that this Ambuſcade was ſome deſigning fellow, which I ſhrewdly ſuſpect he is, much might be done.

You are right.

They ſay he is a Frenchman; I have ſeen two ſtrange perſons frequently in his company, and I cannot but think he has ſome bad intentions, which he endeavours to conceal under the appearance of gaiety.

True, I'll watch his motions, and proba⯑bly—

Huſh! huſh! here he comes; ſtep behind there, quick, and you'll probably hear more.—

Ha! ha! what alone, my little love?—"Deſpair⯑ing beſide the clear ſtream"—You Engliſh girls are ſo fond of ſolitude, that you are always flying from ſo⯑ciety.

No, ſir, I fly from nothing but imperti⯑nence, which I deteſt.

So do I too. "None but the brave de⯑ſerve the fair."

Ha! ha!—however, tho' I do hate impertinence, you look ſo charmingly to-day, that I muſt kiſs your fair hands—Diſarm me but I muſt—O I hate impertinence

Sir, I muſt inſiſt on your taking none of theſe liberties.

How! an Engliſh girl, and find fault with liberty! why it is a rebellion againſt your conſtitu⯑tion.

So it may, ſir; but ſhould I find myſelf inclined to make uſe of the freedom of my birth-right, you may aſſure yourſelf I ſhall not do it with a Frenchman.

A Frenchman! how came you to think of that? Do I carry any appearance of a Frenchman about me?

Yes, the undeniable marks of your coun⯑try—a fair outſide, and a falſe heart.

Ha! ha! ha! eaſy and familiar—but that's a certain ſign of love. Well, it's always the ſame—ſure of ſucceſs wherever I go.

I knew you could not refuſe me; obſerve my figure, this foot, this leg, the whole perſon irreſiſtible; a ſalmigundy of perfections which no one tune can equal; ſo I beg leave to celebrate them in a muſical olio.

Mighty fine! but, at preſent, I wiſh you would take yourſelf away.

Do you ſo? ſure miſs, you are not han⯑kering after that ſea-lubber, Frederick? oh! if he was but here! but he's now [...] for powder abroad.

You'll probably find him too hard for your digeſtion at home.

Of one thing, miſs, you may aſſure your⯑ſelf that I ſhall never be jealous; my jealouſy ſhall ſleep in the ſcabbard, and that's a neceſſary quality in a huſband now-a-days.

Huſband! in the name of heaven!

Yes, my ſweet chicken, I am in love with you up to the hilts; and your father muſt give his conſent ſoon, or I ſhall fall to without ſaying grace.

Hands off! keep your diſtance, fellow.

Diſtance! zounds, 'tis Frederick himſelf!

What are you muttering there? come ſir, to the right about, march.

To the right about, march! I don't under⯑ſtand that; you and I muſt have a little trial of ſkill. I dare ſay he knows nothing of fencing

With all my heart, I am ready for you.

Help! murder! oh heavens! ſeize that Frenchman.

Oh Lord! what, Frenchmen! are they come? O dear, ſweet Monſeer, ſpare my life, and I'll give you all the light I am able; but, indeed, I am nobody—I am not mayor of the town I aſſure you.

Ay, good Mr. Frenchmen, laugh at me; pray do—

Why, what is all this diſturbance about? who the devil have we here? what, maſter Tremor, don't you know your own ſon?

Why, what? where? when? how? is that you, Frederick? well, thank heaven I deceived the French, by telling 'em I was a man of no conſe⯑quence.

And whoever ſaid you was?—no, you muſt look to ſomebody elſe for that.

That's right, maſter Launch; let them feel you truſt it home to them, ha! ha!

I hope we ſhall truſt it home to you ſoon—ha! ha!—

To arms, gentlemen! the combined fleets are com⯑ing down upon us; your worſhip is expected in the town hall.

Arms! O Lud! I know nothing of arms.

Then you had better take to your legs I think.

But he ſeeems ſo frighten'd that he has ſcarce got a leg to take to—

Frighten'd? do you know whom you ſpeak to? I'm tbe mayor of the place.

Stab me to the quick, but you denied it juſt now.

O dear! I deny? not for the world—I de⯑ny nothing; and I confeſs nothing.

Yes, you do both: you confeſs yourſelf a coward, and then deny that you're afraid,

Come, ſir, courage; the French, as open enemies, are not to be dreaded; I only fear 'em when they come under the character of friends; what ſay you, Mr. Ambuſcade?

I am like his worſhip: I deny nothing, and I confeſs nothing.

Well, gentlemen, let private differences ſubſide; while we can wield a ſword, our country has a right to it; and now is the time to ſhow that intre⯑pidity and valour which have always adorned the Engliſh annals.

That's right, and then a fig for mine and his majeſty's enemies.

SCENE The Port.

I Have been watching this half hour, but all to no purpoſe. Stab me! if I don't believe the French ad⯑miral's taſte is only for contemplation—Oh! this taking places in perſpective will never do for me! ſo I'll e'en look about me and take care of myſelf. If I could but find ſome perſon of creditable appearance to vouch for my conſequence a little, I ſhould ſoon get old Launch's conſent to marry his daughter, and live comfortably upon his fortune all the reſt of my life—At leaſt as long as it would hold out—But ſtay,—this is not betraying my enemies according to my bribe—Pſha! what ſignifies that? its betraying my friends according to my conſcience; and that method will introduce me into much better company.

But huſh! who have we here? I'll obſerve 'em

Bien arrivé, Madame Commode.

Ma foi, ver well indeed, and vat is beſt, have eſcape de obſervation of our creditors á Londres, graces á Dieu! dis invaſion will pay all the French debt in England at von ſtroke.

And by gar, we take de example from our own country; when de debt gro trop grand, we beg not to pay it at all. Heh! my dear madame Com⯑mode? he! he! he!

Oui, oui, oui, mon cher Fripon, he! he! but it is not becauſe we are poor; no, tanks to my ſenſe and the folly of my cuſtomers! I have realiſe von little fortune dat vilenable us to retire to de banks of de Seine, aux environs de Paris, for de reſt of our days, my dear Fripon!

Oh! the Englis for mi money, or bi gar me for deirs! Yes, yes, that ſhop of your's was von coup de maitre! Les jolies fillies for de gentlemen; and de ſmuggled good for de ladi!

Ah, dere vas ſmuggled good vidout nombre, and ſome ver prit too—all light commodité a-la-mode.

By gar de ladi a-la-mode know where to put the ſmuggled good! He! he! he! he!

Oui, oui, de branch contraband for them to deal in.

And for deir huſbands to wear, he! madame!

Bien arrangé, enverité mon cher Fripon, we have made our fortune in good time—de Englis will ſoon begin to ope deir eye.

Pardonnez moi, voila le contraire; have I not paſs for de Grand Seigneur de Marquis François, vid out being ſuſpected? am I not arrivé in my own caroſſe, and at de expence of my creditors? have I not keep les domeſtiques and give no wage? les grands apartments, and pay no rent? exactement like a man of qualité, vidout being ſuſpect?

Yes, I know you never pay at all.

Good ſir, who never pay at all, your moſt obedient.

Je n'ai pas l'honneur de vous connoitre, good ſir.

No!

No, mon ami, ſo allez vous en, good ſir!

What then, have you really forgotten your old friend Ambuſcade, who was fellow-appren⯑tice with you in Fleet-ditch, at the ſign of the Bob-Major, and that uſed to dine with you every day at the Twopenny Ordinary, where they chain down the knives and forks?

Oh ma foi, I remember my dear friend very well; I canno eſcape de chain

Let me pre⯑ſent you to Madame Commode

Yes, I remember Madame Commode too, when ſhe kept the boarding ſchool for young miſſes, at the ſign of the Three Chickens.

Oh taiſſez vouz done: don't you ſpeak of the ſhicken, madame vil faint! But what do you do here, mounſieur Ambuſcade?

I thruſt in cart and tierce—I teach the practice of arms to gentlemen! Ha! ha!

And to de ladi too—ha! ha!

Very probably, for, I am going to be marrie!

Bien probable indeed, mounſieur Ambuſcade.

But there is a ſmall rub in the way.

Rub! what be dat rub?

Why the lady's father is a little particular, and wants to know ſomething about my family.

Votre famille! ah diable! c'eſt manvaiſe ça,

Why yes; but if you and Madame Com⯑mode would take upon you to recollect that it was not mauvaiſe, why I would take upon me to forget the Bob-major, the Three Chickens, and the Twopenny Ordinary.

Oh den I vil recollect whatever you pleaſe, and Madame vil have de complaiſance to ſwear it.

Sans doute! any thing to oblige my old friends.

Well, then, ſtep with me, and I'll give you your inſtructions as we go.

De tout mon coeur! but, Monſieur Ambuſ⯑cade, not one word of the ſhicken.

Not for the world, my dear dame Partlet, believe me, I am no ſuch dove.

SCENE II.

I'll tell you what, child,—I'll hear no more; do you think I'll encourage theſe quarrels about you? a pretty employment, truly, if govern⯑ment ſhould know of it!

But, my dear father, I aſſure you they are totally againſt my wiſh; and if you would but be convinced—

Convinc'd, indeed! no, child—his ma⯑jeſty's ſervants are not ſo eaſily convinced. I ſuppoſe, now, you can't love when I deſire it; or let it alone when I bid you?

Indeed, ſir, I cannot.

Very dutiful, indeed, but all authority is now at an end; and a father is of no conſequence at all.

Did I ever diſobey any of your commands, ſir, except in permitting my Frederick to hold a place in my heart?

Aye—but you ſhould turn him out of that place, if it does not ſuit your intereſt; that's the way with people of conſequence; but who have we here?

Is your name Launch?

No.

No! what is it then?

Mr. Launch.

Then here's a letter for you, Mr. Launch.

Whom does it come from?

I can't tell, Mr. Launch.

Then take yourſelf back again.

Yes, Mr. Launch.

Let's ſee what the jackanapes has brought.

Zounds! what a number of honors and et cetera's! But this is the way your great men always write to keep up appearances—becauſe honor and et cetera imply every thing, and mean nothing—Gadſo, child, the company are to be here immediately; ſo run and order ſome glaſſes, and wine, and cakes to be laid in the—no, now I think of it, we'll ſit out in the garden as I intended—theſe outlandiſh people are uſed to live in the open air.

I dare ſay they are.

Then, go and ſee that every thing is ready.

But won't it look odd in me tho' to entertain foreign⯑ers at theſe times? No, not in the leaſt; all people of conſequence do the ſame. French ways and French plays are quite the faſhion now-a-days.

SCENE III.

Here they come—Well, Mr. Ambuſcade, I ſuppoſe theſe are the people of conſequence you wrote to me about.

Yes, ſir,—This is the Marchioneſs de Gre⯑nouille.

Mrs. Marchionneſs, I am proud to ſee you!

This is the Marquis de Crapaud.

You are welcome, Mr. Marquis de Crop⯑po; come, take your ſeats: and now, gentlemen, fill about. Will your Marquiſhip be ſo good, now you have wet your whiſtle, to let us hear how they chant in your country.

De tout mon coeur: allons.

Excellent! why it's fine as the opera, and as eaſy to be underſtood. We can ſing a little in Eng⯑land—

Bravo, bravo, Mr. Launch—"O the roaſt beef of Old England!" that's another good ſong.

Very fine indeed—ma for mounſieur Launch ſing like de Nightingale!

Oh je vous aſſure me Lor Launch il chant comme un ange.

My Lord Launch! bleſs us, how polite and ſenſible the French Noblemen are!

But now, Mr. Launch, I hope you are ſa⯑tisfied about my family; ha! ha! and all that; ha! ha! the account!—

There is no occaſion, ſir, to begin that ſubject.

Indeed but there is—deſcended, I think you ſay from—

De Valets de Place a ver antient famille a Paris, and always introduce to de Englis, de moment dey arrive.

Really! the Valets de Place very reſpec⯑table indeed.

And his uncle was grand Trateur to the King.

What's that? Traitor to the King?

Oh no! not Traitor; he means he was oeconomical, and furniſhed the King's table by con⯑tract.

Oh, what treator to the King! that's another thing.

Well, my ſweet miſs Nancy, then we are to be happy without more ceremony?

Indeed, ſir, but we never ſhall.

Come, come, child, I have given Mr. Ambuſcade my promiſe; ſo give him your hand with⯑out further trouble.

This is as it ſhould be. I wiſh I had not forgot that letter tho'; however, they'll be hanged, I ſhall be married, and all will be ſettled, and my poor rival too.

Aye, aye, I ſee you; you may go back again, it's all over with you.

Over with you, you mean; look there if you pleaſe!

Hell and the devil!

And purgatory into the bargain.

I am extremely ſorry, Mr. Launch, to be the meſſenger of ill news; but I fear your imprudence has brought you under the power of the law.

Under the power of the law! why I am a King's officer, and above it.

Gracious me, where are the incendiaries? Yes, yes, I thought how it would end with people of conſequence.

Bleſs me, Mr. Mayor, what end are you talking of?

A rope's end, maſter Launch; ſuch trea⯑chery in office, ſuch colleaguing with foreigners! but I'll darken your day-light; I'll never let his Majeſty's friends be his enemies again!

Why what does all this mean?

The ſtory is too long. Suffice it to ſay, that I found thoſe wretches in the very act of ſetting fire to the ſtore-houſes; and this ſinging, capering raſcal in particular, they accuſe of procuring admiſſion for them by an expreſs order from you.

Aye, I have it under his own hand; here is the infernal ſcroll;

I ſhou'dn't wonder if it was to flaſh in his face!

Under my hand! let's look at it!—no more my hand than the King of Pruſſia's—it's all a plot of mine and his Majeſty's enemies.

Come, ſir, before you leave this place, do one piece of juſtice at leaſt; in⯑form us how you came by that ſcroll?

No matter! "Then farewel my trim-built wherry."

By gar I am aſhame of his company.

Et moi auſſi; I am ver much aſham'd in⯑deed;

O Mr. raſcal,

are you here? ſo I have found you then at laſt?

Ay, you ſpeak to dis gentleman—did not he ſpeak to you, ſir?

No, ſir, I believe he means you.

Zounds! do you know whom you are ſpeaking to? This is a French Marquis, a man of conſequence, the Marquis de Croppo.

Aye, it's no, conſequence to me, and there⯑fore I ſhall take the liberty of ſecuring him and this lady; I ſuppoſe ſhe's a lady of faſhion. Will your ladyſhip pleaſe to go with me? I beg pardon, gentle⯑men, but I have an information.

Will you, ſir, ſign a warrant for their com⯑mitment?

O dear not I, while they are ſo near me; they'll ſinge the very paper. Take 'em away, and I'll ſign as many as you pleaſe.

Well then remove them.

Good Mr Mayor, one word.

Zounds don't come near me for the world. He's a train of gunpowder, a walking firework!

Pray, ſir, be informed—

I ſhall be blown up—I ſhall be blown up!

Come, ſir, hear reaſon.

Monſieur le Mayeur, ecoutez un petit moment.

Zounds! don't ſtand here talking me out of my ſenſes. Get along, and be hang'd; that's the beſt exit you can make.

Hang! by gar I no like hang.

This is the mo [...] [...]uſt I ever had in my life; I ſhall never be able to parry cart—ah! pretty Jack; "My Gilderoy was a bonny boy," he was hang'd too, I told y [...]u before; but, "Since I muſt ſwing, &c"

Thank Heaven! I am now eaſy—

I ſhall never love fo⯑reigners again as long as I live—come, neighbour

give me your hand: you and I have often diſ⯑agreed, but that's over; your ſon is a brave fellow, and will, I dare ſay, in a ſhort time, be a man of conſequence; and if my girl is a ſufficient recom⯑pence, take her, there ſhe is.

I am more than rewarded.

Well, then, for once, I am right; let party ſubſide; the common enemy without, ſhould unite every one at home

So it ſhould; but I'm glad we have got rid of the French, for all that.

'Pſha! my dear father, never fear the French; they may talk of invading us, but, believe me, they will never do it effectually but with their vices.

You are right; there, indeed, mine and his majeſty's enemies ſucceed but too well; but, come, here's proſperity to the Britiſh arms wherever they are carried; and I hope (for the puniſhment of France and Spain) they will ſoon be joined with thoſe of America.