THE TWO CONNOISSEURS.
[]ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. — Chambers in the Temple.
Tom Careleſs and Mr. Cycle.
CARELESS.
WHATE'ER the ſucceſs of your journey may be,
My dear rural ſage, you are welcome to me:
Your benevolent projects I hope you'll complete,
By this trip from your ſnug ſcientific retreat.
In return for amuſement you've given me there,
By your fine apparatus, and lectures on air,
I'll ſhew you the town; and the town is a ſcience.
MR. CYCLE.
On my tutor, dear Tom, I've a perfect reliance,
For I know in that ſtudy what vigils you've kept.
CARELESS.
'Tis the only one, truly, where I'm an adept;
[6]For as to the law, that's the ſcience of thorns,
And tho' its black robe my lean figure adorns,
Perhaps twice a year, for my father's good pleaſure,
I've renounc'd, I confeſs, both its toil and its treaſure.
From my ſapient Lord Coke this advantage I gain;
He led me to find out a flaw in my brain,
That title! on which, as wiſe parents have done,
My father laid claim to the ſeals for his ſon.
MR. CYCLE.
Such language, dear Tom, is in truth but a brogue,
That betrays the young heir as an indolent rogue.
'Tis the cant of ye all—ye want talents to drudge.
CARELESS.
Well! think me, my friend, wiſe enough for a judge,
I ſtill muſt rejoice I have nothing to do,
As my heart now inclines me to wait upon you.
I wiſh I could raiſe you the caſh you require,
But you know I depend on a cloſe-handed ſire,
Who promiſes largely, and often has ſaid
He will make me a Croeſus whenever I wed;
But to drive me, I think, to the conjugal ſtate,
Keeps the purſe of the batchelor woefully ſtrait;
And guineas at preſent are ſcarce, to my ſorrow.
How much are you now come to London to borrow?
Two thouſand, d'ye ſay?
MR. CYCLE.
Yes! two thouſand at leaſt,
And perhaps rather more, as my plan is increas'd.
I wiſh for no profit, but public eſteem;
And much good to the world muſt ariſe from my ſcheme.
CARELESS.
[7]Well! I wiſh you may proſper, but, as I'm a ſinner,
I as ſoon ſhould expect a roaſt Phoenix for dinner,
As in times like the preſent ſuch loans from a friend,
When Opulence has not a ſtiver to lend.
You philoſophers look with contempt upon caſh;
But the fools of this town are ſo fond of the traſh,
That as you're a chemiſt, both ſkilful and bold,
You had beſt try to make a few odd lumps of gold;
And this newly-found art you may try with leſs coſt,
Since to borrow with eaſe ſeems an art that is loſt.
MR. CYCLE.
Dear Careleſs, you're welcome to rally my hopes;
So attack them with all your rhetorical tropes!
The man is ill-wrapt in philoſophy's cloak,
Whoſe boſom is ruffled, dear Tom, by a joke.
I know money's ſcarce; yet I will not deſpond:
I've two friends who'll ſupply what I want, on my bond.
CARELESS.
What! two ſuch good friends; ſo rich, open, and free!
Dear Cycle, I pray introduce them to me;
For not one of that caſt my long liſt can produce:
Why! man, ſuch a friend is the golden-egg'd gooſe;
You may hunt for the bird e'en as long as you're able,
But at laſt you will find it is only a fable.
I wanted but one hundred pounds, t'other day,
And aſk'd fifty friends, that chance threw in my way,
But they all ſhook their heads, with a negative nod,
So I dunn'd my old father, in ſpite of the rod.
But pray do I know the good creatures you mean?
MR. CYCLE.
Aye! both.—They're two friends, whom for years I've not ſeen;
[8]But in juvenile days I held each as my brother,
And I truſt that we all are ſtill dear to each other.
You're acquainted with Beril—
CARELESS.
Well! there, I confeſs;
Your wiſhes have ſome little chance of ſucceſs.
If there's one in the world, who, regardleſs of pelf,
Would relieve a friend's wants, tho' he ſtraiten'd himſelf;
You have now nam'd the man. Yet perhaps he can't lend:
I know he has ſuffer'd by aiding a friend;
And I fancy he has but a ſlender eſtate.
'Tis true, he don't play, tho' careſt by the great;
Yet in ſtatues and books he's expenſive 'tis, ſaid—
I have ſeen him bid high for a porphyry head.
MR. CYCLE.
'Tis hard, fortune ſtill ſhould torment him with croſſes;
I ſooth'd him to bear the ſevereſt of loſſes:
I was with him, when blaſted in youth's blooming charm▪
His lovely Sophia was torn from his arms.
You knew not, I think, that unfortunate fair,
The victim of cruelty, love, and deſpair.
She was bound to our friend by a mutual affection,
But her rich ſordid parents oppos'd the connection.
The canker of ſorrow inceſſantly prey'd
On the periſhing bloom of the delicate maid:
Her duty, her ſuff'rings, made nature relent,
And wrung from her father a tardy conſent;
But death render'd vain the late ſanction he gave,
And his child's bridal bed was the pitileſs grave.
Many years have now ſoften'd the lover's wild grief:
Perhaps ſome new beauty now yields him relief.
He's ſtill ſingle, I think?
CARELESS.
[9]Yes! in learning and art
He has ſought the chief balm for the wounds of his heart;
Hence a pleaſing mild elegance runs thro' his life;
And had I a ſiſter I'd wiſh her his wife.—
But now for your ſecond friend!—What is his name?
For acquaintance with him too I'll certainly claim.
You ſay that I know him: come! tell me who is it!
MR. CYCLE.
Yes! indeed, it is one whom you frequently viſit.
And here you muſt own, that my hopes are well founded,
Since in kindneſs and wealth he has ever abounded;
And a legacy lately—
CARELESS.
You don't mean Bijou,
That collector of knick-knacks?
MR. CYCLE.
Indeed, Tom, I do.
I've a title to aſk any favor from him:
He has ſome little vanity, ſome little whim,
Yet ſtill he's a friendly, benevolent man.
CARELESS.
You may rap at his door—but get in if you can!
Your friend, when you ſaw him, was jocund and free,
His heart full of bounty, his ſpirit of glee;
His vanities too had ſo mirthful a caſt,
That Friendſhip herſelf even wiſh'd them to laſt.
But Marriage, that changer of mind and of feature,
Has made poor Bijou quite a different creature.
MR. CYCLE.
I am told that his wife, with a pocket well laden,
Was a little, fat, ancient, and well-behav'd maiden;
[10]Who, having a ſimilar taſte for virtù,
Put her cabinet under the care of Bijou.
CARELESS.
Yes, indeed! in an odd fit of amorous hunger,
He married an old curioſity-monger,
Who is ready to faint, if a viſitor knocks
While ſhe's bruſhing the duſt from her raree-ſhew box.
Her maid t'other day threw her into a ſwoon,
By cracking the eye of a great ſtuff'd baboon;
For inſtead of young children, whoſe troubleſome noiſe
Might diſturb their ſedate, virtuoſical joys,
She fills their fine houſe with new monſters or mummies.
MR. CYCLE.
Of your ſtory, dear Tom, I perceive what the ſum is.
You don't like the lady:—ſhe may not pleaſe you,
And yet be an excellent wife for Bijou.
I am told ſhe has really much merit and taſte.
In her morals they ſay ſhe's remarkably chaſte;
So with lectures, perhaps, ſhe has wounded your ear,
And you rakes of the Temple may think her ſevere.
CARELESS.
No, faith! with the lady I ſtand very well,
I bought her eſteem with an old empty ſhell.
I own ſhe has piety, morals, and ſenſe:
To chaſtity no one will doubt her pretence.
But tho' with theſe virtues I freely inveſt her,
My heart, I confeſs, is inclin'd to deteſt her.
She has ruin'd her huſband—at leaſt ſo I think;
To a dwarf ſhe has made his benevolence ſhrink,
And puff'd up his vanity into a giant.
To all her ſtrange whims he's ſo ſervilely pliant,
[11]He'd obey her caprice, whatſoe'er it might hint,
And deny himſelf bread to buy her an odd flint.
MR. CYCLE.
Why, Tom, that's a proof of his fond tender heart.
CARELESS.
To me it proves nought but her ladyſhip's art:
And ſo you yourſelf would explain the whole riddle,
If you heard her once flatter his pencil or fiddle,
As a more wretched bruſh never blotted poor paper,
And ne'er ſqueak'd a Cremona beneath a worſe ſcraper.
Tho' pamper'd with flattery thus by his wife,
Our friend has quite loſt all his humor and life;
And whenever I look on his cold chearleſs face,
As he ſtands by the ſide of his wife's foſſil-caſe,
I think her a perfect Meduſa, I own,
Who has turn'd her poor huſband himſelf into ſtone.
MR. CYCLE.
You loungers, dear Tom, in your idle diſputes,
Love to ridicule all life's amuſing purſuits:
But they all have their uſe; and the lady who joys
In collecting an odd ſet of whimſical toys,
Is herſelf a rare gem, that my judgment regards,
More than all the fair votaries of ſcandal and cards.
I know I ſhall like her, in ſpite of your ſtricture,
And I'm going to ſee how you've fail'd in her picture.
My old friend's good-will I ſhall put to the trial,
And ſolicit his aid without fear of denial.
CARELESS.
Come along!—I will ſee if your welcome is hearty;
Indeed I may ſerve you by joining the party,
And I'm eager to know (for my portrait is true)
What you think of the change ſhe has wrought in Bijou.
[12]To a knowledge of nature I ne'er will pretend,
If, when you have ſeen, in the houſe of our friend,
All the natural rarities rang'd in a glaſs,
You don't rank his heart in the petrified claſs.
Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Drawing Room at Mrs. Bijou's, with a Door open into an interior Cabinet of Curioſities. — Several ſtuff'd Creatures and other Rarities diſcovered in the Apart⯑ment.
JOAN,
with a Bruſh.
Lackaday! would I once were well out of this houſe,
Where I tremble to move, full as much as a mouſe!
And Nanny's afraid to come into this room;
Indeed the poor creature can ſcarce hold a broom,
For my miſtreſs, ſhe ſays, has done nothing but bait her,
Since ſhe bruſh'd off the tail of the new alligator.
I've a great mind to lay up my bruſh on the ſhelf,
And leave madam to duſt all her monſters herſelf,
Would my maſter would make her, for theſe ſtocks and ſtones,
A young little plaything of good fleſh and bones!
But, alas! theſe old ladies who can't raiſe a baby,
Are as full of nonſenſical maggots as may be.
And our houſe is ſo cramm'd with this whimſical jumble,
That if you touch one thing, another will tumble,
Madam ſays, I miſplace whatſoever I clean,
But I'll venture to wipe off the duſt from this ſcreen.
Throws it down▪
A plague take the things! they do nothing but fall.
Lud! my fingers have run thro' the cover and all.
Taking up the Screen, and uncovering it.
[13]'Tis my maſter's new drawing—how madam will thunder—
This fine naked beauty I've torn quite aſunder:
And the rent muſt be ſeen—I can thruſt my whole thumb in,
And I've no time to mend it—my miſtreſs is coming—
MRS. BIJOU
(entering in a dark brown Bed-gown, with a Bruſh of Peacock's Feathers.)
Some new miſchief's done here.—Lord! Joan what's the matter?
I am ſure you broke ſomething—I heard ſuch a clatter.
JOAN.
Indeed, Ma'am, I've had a moſt cruel diſaſter,
The ſcreen—
MRS. BIJOU.
What! the beautiful work of your maſter!
JOAN.
My finger ſlipt thro', as I wip'd it in haſte,
But I'm ſure I can mend it again with ſome paſte.
MRS. BIJOU.
You awkward, pert huſſy! pray let it alone!
Can paſte mend a flaw in a goddeſs's zone?
Ye ſtars! give me patience!—Get out of this door,
And pray let me never ſet eyes on you more!
I knew I ſhould ſuffer as ſoon as you came,
For taking a thing with ſo gothic a name.
JOAN.
I'll go—for I live but the life of a cur:
Yet pray! on my name do not throw any ſlur!
I am ſure 'tis good Engliſh, altho' it is Joan,
And that's more than you're able to ſay of your own.
Exit.
MR. BIJOU
(entering.)
What's the matter, my dear?—What new plague from your maids?
You for ever are vext by theſe peſtilent jades:
[14]If bred in this town, you object to their morals;
If ruſties, they break all your glaſſes or corals.
Let 'em come whence they will, they bring trouble and ſtrife,
And your quarrels have made me half ſick of my life.
MRS. BIJOU.
Don't ſay ſo!—You know, my dear Mr. Bijou,
I take no young maids, out of fondneſs to you;
And theſe middle-ag'd creatures are all ſo unhandy,
They make me as fretful as old Mr. Shandy.
But, my dear, if you ſee me ſometimes in a flame,
I think you won't ſay that my temper's to blame:
'Twas my love for the works of your delicate hand,
Which produc'd an emotion I could not command.
If I rated old Joan in a great agitation,
I am ſure you will own I had much provocation,
When you ſee this ſad cauſe of the buſtle between us:
She has utterly ruin'd your very beſt Venus,
This new lovely drawing! the joy of all eyes!
I vow I could cry.—
MR. BIJOU.
What ſweet ſoftneſs!—ſhe cries!—
Theſe feelings, indeed, prove the true connoiſſeur:
This ill treatment of Art her fine ſenſe can't endure.
Henceforth, of my works let them ſay what they will,
No painter can boaſt ſuch a teſt of his ſkill.—
Come, chear up, my dear Cognoſcente! come! come!
I can mend it again with a bruſh-full of gum.
MRS. BIJOU.
D'ye think you can mend it?—and won't it look brown,
If you don't hide the ſkin with the ſkirt of a gown?
[15]'Twould be pity to cloak up a body ſo fine,
Eſpecially ſince you have drawn it from mine.
And you know I caught cold, when I ſtript to the waiſt,
To fit for the figure, in true attic taſte:
But I did it from fondneſs, that you might not roam,
And wickedly hunt after models from home.
To be ſure I love art—but all artiſts, they ſay,
By their ſtudies of nature are tempted to ſtray;
And I own that your genius gives me great alarms.
MR. BIJOU.
My dear, tender creature! pray truſt your own charms!
MRS. BIJOU.
Affectionate terrors will riſe in my head.
I was jealous, I own, t'other day, of the dead.
MR. BIJOU.
What fond ſenſibility! exquiſite feeling!
MRS. BIJOU.
I hope I was wrong, but ſtrange fancies will ſteal in,
When fondneſs has open'd the heart to ſuſpicion.
You're ſo dear to the females of every condition:
But, I hope, Lady Fancybird was not ſo vicious;
There was nothing, indeed, in her air meretricous;
Yet a jealous pang ſeiz'd me, I own, when I found
That by will ſhe bequeath'd to you three thouſand pound.
'Tis true, that a legacy's very commodious;
Yet the money appears to me utterly odious,
When I think it was poſſibly meant as the price
Of endearments, to which ſhe had art to entice,
And not in return for the pictures you drew,
Of her parrot, her bull-finch, and old cockatoo.
MR. BIJOU.
[16]Lord! my dear, if ſuch phantoms your quiet conſume,
You will make the old lady jump out of her tomb.
'Tis true, that I flatter'd her favourite paſſion,
As I love to be well with old ladies of faſhion:
But pray don't ſuppoſe, I was e'er ſo abſurd
As to ſtroke her pale cheek for the pole of her bird.
MRS. BIJOU.
Ah! you humorous man, you've ſuch infinite wit,
You can turn to a jeſt whatſoe'er you think fit!—
But my heart on this point can be never at eaſe,
Unleſs you'll allow me to ſpend, as I pleaſe,
Half the money, of which you're ſo oddly poſſeſt;
Aud then I ſhall think it an honeſt bequeſt.
Beſides, there's an auction at Lady Toy-Truckle's,
And I long for a rap at the Ducheſs's knuckles,
Who out-bid me, you know, t'other day, for a ſhell.
'Tis all for your credit.
MR. BIJOU.
Well! well! my dear, well!
I never refuſe you the caſh I can ſpare.
MRS. BIJOU.
You are ſure I ſhall turn it to ſomething moſt rare:
For indeed I'm no pitiful hoarder of pelf;
And I've now ſet my heart on ſome true antient delf.
MR. BIJOU.
Tis time you were dreſt.
MRS. BIJOU.
As I live, there's a rap;
I'm not fit to be ſeen, in this bed-gown and cap.
Run! and charge them, my dear, not to let in a ſoul!—
With my cabinet duſt I'm as black as a coal.
MR. BIJOU
[17](looking out.)
I'm too late.
MRS. BIJOU.
For my orders they don't care a pin;
And to vex me, old Joan has let ſomebody in.
I'll eſcape—I can't bear to be ſeen in this trim.
MR. BIJOU.
'Tis only Tom Careleſs—you need not mind him.
Enter Careleſs and Mr. Cycle.
CARELESS.
Here, good folks! I have brought you a very rare bird;
'Tis five years ſince his notes in this town have been heard.
MR. BIJOU.
Mr. Cycle! my worthy, old friend! how d'ye do? —
Give me leave to preſent to you Mrs. Bijou!
MRS. BIJOU.
I'm aſham'd to be found in this garb.
MR. BIJOU.
O! my dear,
From a man of true ſcience you've nothing to fear;
He'll freely allow, for he's candid and juſt,
Philoſophical ladies muſt dabble in duſt.—
Mr. Cycle, my wife is a curious collector:
In natural knowledge I hope you'll direct her;
You are maſter of all, from the earth to the ſtars,
And may aid her in ranging her foſſils and ſpars.
MR. CYCLE.
She ſhall freely command all the little I know.
MRS. BIJOU.
You're extremely obliging, dear Sir, to ſay ſo
[18]But I cannot attend you in this duſty veſt.
I'll ſoon ſlip it off.
CARELESS.
You ſhan't ſtir, I proteſt.
To talk of your dreſs, my dear Ma'am, is a joke,
To a ſage, who exiſts but in chemical ſmoke.
Your robe is indeed like the robe of Saint Bruno,
Yet ſtill by your air we might take you for Juno;
While the tail of your peacock, that type of command,
With ſuch dignity waves in your awful white hand.
MRS. BIJOU.
You're a young ſaucy creature!
MR. CYCLE.
Theſe idle rogues, Madam,
More like ſons of the Serpent, than children of Adam,
Are apt to eſteem it a dull occupation,
To ſtudy the wonders of this fair creation:
And hence they all rally, with humour ill-plac'd,
Thoſe who ſeek for amuſement in ſcience and taſte.
MR. BIJOU.
Well ſaid! Mr. Cycle—I'm glad that Virtù
Has found both a friend and a champion in you.
Come and peep at my wife's philoſophical treaſure!
I hope you'll ſurvey it again, at your leiſure.—
My dear, d'ye allow me to ſhew your muſeum?—
I'm exact in all matters of tuum and meum.
MRS. BIJOU.
My Cycle, I'm ſure, is a privileg'd man.
MR. BIJOU.
It is open.—Come, Sir!
Exeunt into the interior Apartment.
MRS. BIJOU.
Tell me, Tom, if you can,
[19]Is not this Mr. Cycle a man of great worth,
Who wrote a moſt excellent book on the Earth.
CARELESS.
'Tis the author himſelf; and I know not what college
Can ſhew his ſuperior in virtue and knowledge.
He's a man of few words, with a heart and a mind
Ever buſied in ſchemes for the good of mankind;
And he now viſits London, in hopes to procure
Some ſupport in a plan for relieving the poor.
MRS. BIJOU.
The poor!—of their name I'm alarm'd at the mention:
Mr. Cycle, indeed, may have no ill intention,
But I fear he'll involve my good huſband in trouble—
Theſe projects of charity end in a bubble.
The poor are ungrateful, diſorderly wretches,
Who can ſhift for themſelves by their tricks and their fetches;
They deſerve not a learned philoſopher's thought.
CARELESS.
Your pardon!—He'll think, if he thinks as he ought,
That Philoſophy, drawing from Heaven her birth,
Is the ſcience of ſoft'ning the evils on earth.
By your fears you have done our friend infinite wrong,
For tho' his heart's tender, his judgment is ſtrong:
To the projects of Folly he never can ſtoop—
Philanthropy's friend is not Phantaſy's dupe.
MRS. BIJOU.
Why, Careleſs! you talk in a language quite new:
Who could dream of a charity-ſermon from you?
CARELESS.
Oh! a cobler can preach, when his ſpirit's inflam'd.
Mine is apt to blaze forth, if I hear a friend blam'd;
[20]And indeed I can't ſtifle my heart's ebullitions,
When ſuch good folks as you harbour vile ſuppoſitions.
But I'm ſure you'll forgive all the warmth I have ſhewn,
When the worth of our friend is to you better known.
If you're angry, I know that your anger will ceaſe,
When you hear on what terms I can purchaſe my peace.
A ſhell I can bring you—my intereſt ſuch is—
Very like what you lately gave up to the Ducheſs.
Perhaps I may give it you—
MRS. BIJOU.
You're a good ſoul—
As large as her Grace's, and perfectly whole?
CARELESS.
Yes, I think 'tis as large, and in colour as high.
MRS. BIJOU.
Are you ſure of its ſhape?
CARELESS.
Do you queſtion my eye?
I'll convince you I'm right; let us inſtantly look
At the fine colour'd plates in your great Daniſh book.
MRS. BIJOU.
Come—you give me more joy than I'm able to ſpeak—
I can't bear that her Grace ſhould poſſeſs an Unique.
They retire into the interior Apartment, from whence Mr. Bijou and Mr. Cycle return.
MR. BIJOU.
This ſcheme, my good friend, does you honor indeed.
In a buſineſs ſo noble I hope you'll proceed;
And may you accompliſh your utmoſt deſires,
In raiſing the ſum which your project requires!—
[21]Pray look at this new little drawing of mine!
Don't you think it an elegant pretty deſign?
MR. CYCLE.
Very lively indeed!—But, my friend, you forget
What I've ſaid on the point of incurring this debt.
Do not fly from the ſubject!—I hate all evaſion:
I muſt ſay for your aid I have ſerious occaſion.
You know what I've aſk'd, and in aſking I deem
That I give you a proof of my cordial eſteem.
In a poor-houſe myſelf I would rather work hard,
Than apply thus to one whom I did not regard.
MR. BIJOU.
Mr. Cycle, I know you're a man without guile,
And you think in a noble and ſingular ſtyle;
But if aſking for caſh is of love a ſure teſt,
With affectionate friends all the wealthy are bleſt.
MR. CYCLE.
I have done, as I ſee that you wiſh to evade
A requeſt, that I thought I with juſtice had made;
As you know, when of fortune you felt a reverſe,
You had once the command of my proſperous purſe;
And ſince you of opulence now are poſſeſt,
More enrich'd too of late by a friendly bequeſt,
I ſuppos'd, without trouble—
MR. BIJOU.
Dear Cycle, 'tis true:
You ſhall have it; but mum! towards Mrs. Bijou!
MR. CYCLE.
O! I now underſtand all the cauſe of demur;
And if that is the caſe, I have done, my dear Sir.
At the hazard of diſcord the ſum you ſhan't lend;
In family ſtrife I'll not plunge my old friend.
MR. BIJOU.
[22]Do not think me a ſlave!—there's no danger of ſtrife.
But you'll find, if you e'er try the conjugal life,
It is beſt not to waken the frowns of a wife.
Beſides, there is ſurely no reaſon why you
Should talk on ſuch buſineſs to Mrs. Bijou.
MR. CYCLE.
There is certainly none—you ſhall do as you pleaſe.
MR. BIJOU.
One thouſand, my friend, I can ſpare you with eaſe;
'Tis the ſum I ſhall go to receive very ſoon;
If you'll call here again, you ſhall have it by noon.
And to tell you the truth, I would have you make haſte,
Leſt my wife ſhould demand it for matters of taſte.
When an auction is near, ſhe is apt to be raſh,
In laying her hand upon all my looſe caſh;
And as ſhe is thought ſo judicious a buyer,
Her elegant wiſhes I ſeldom deny her.
Yet 'tis time to grow prudent:—but huſh! here they come.
Remember my charge—dear philoſopher, mum!
Enter Mrs. Bijou and Careleſs.
MRS. BIJOU.
O my dear! I'm in raptures: my young friend has cur'd
All the bitter vexation I've lately endur'd.
Now in ſhells by the Ducheſs I am not ſurpaſt;
Tom will bring me the fellow to what ſhe bought laſt.
MR. BIJOU.
He's exceedingly kind!—But my dear, it grows late;
Remember the gueſt, whom you muſt not make wait.
Old Baron Van-Bettle's appointed to-day
Your curious collection of flies to ſurvey;
[23]As ſome buſineſs abroad will oblige me to leave him,
I entreat you, my dear, to be dreſt to receive him.
Theſe friends will excuſe you.
MRS. BIJOU.
I'll bid them farewell.
Mr. Cycle, your ſervant!—Remember the ſhell!
Exit.
MR. BIJOU.
O my friend! you've a thouſand new drawings to ſee.—
I can tell you, our artiſts grow jealous of me.
JOAN
(entering haſtily.)
Sir, a coach is juſt ſtopt, and a man with a ſtar on—
MR. BIJOU.
Od's life! I muſt leave you, to wait on the Baron.
MR. CYCLE.
I beg we mayn't keep you.
MR. BIJOU.
My good friends, adieu!
Dear Cycle! pray meet me again here at two!
I am ſorry I'm forc'd thus to part with you now,
But for ſuch an engagement I'm ſure you'll allow;
For the ſlies are all rang'd in the parlour below,
And a gueſt like the Baron one can't leave, you know.
As the key's in the caſe, he perhaps might unlock it,
And whip the beſt butterfly into his pocket.
'Tis a law with the curious to watch a collector,
And you never muſt truſt him without an inſpector.
Exit.
CARELESS.
Now, my friend, what d'ye ſay to the portrait I drew?
Were my colours too dark for good Madam Bijou?
But how have you ſar'd in your money-petition?
If you get it, I'll call you a mighty magician.
[24]I can tell you, that Madam ſuſpected a plot.
MR. CYCLE.
I've his promiſe—but ſhall I accept it, or not?
CARELESS.
If you can, by all means!—'twill be ſav'd from her clutches,
Who would throw it away in out-bidding a Ducheſs:
And at auctions indeed ſhe'd her huſband undo,
Were ſhe not in her houſe quite a cloſe-handed Jew.
But on ſaving a penny ſhe frequenly ponders,
And her avarice ſcrapes what her vanity ſquanders.—
O! if I were her maſter, her whimſies I'd cure,
And make a good wife of this vile connoiſſeur.—
Now for Beril—he's one of a different caſt.
MR. CYCLE.
Come along!—ſince I ſaw him ſome long years have paſt,
And I'm eager to claſp his affectionate hand.
CARELESS.
Stop a moment! and anſwer me this one demand!
Don't you ſee a ſad change in our poor friend below?
Where's the lively companion, the humorous beau?
All his pleaſantry's gone—
MR. CYCLE.
I confeſs, by his carriage,
He ſeems to be render'd more ſerious by marriage.
CARELESS.
By my life, I am griev'd, in thus ſeeing him grow
The poor trumpeting ſlave to his wife's raree-ſhew.—
Well! ye Gods! if, whenever my nuptial ſtar twinkles,
I ſhould wed an old hunter of odd periwinkles,
To engage her nice eye with unchanging attraction,
May I turn in her arms to a cold petrifaction!
End of ACT I.
ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I. — An elegant Apartment, ornamented with a few Buſts and Books, a large Statue covered up, and a Door open into a more extenſive Library.
[25]Mr. Beril and Harry.
MR. BERIL.
PRAY, Harry, remove from the ſtatue its caſe;
And be careful in clearing the duſt from its baſe.
HARRY.
Directly, Sir?
MR. BERIL.
Yes! you muſt inſtantly do it,
For my worthy Lord Seewell is coming to view it.—
Now, my ſweet Lady Frances! I ſoon ſhall behold
All thy quick ſenſibility wake and unfold:
Thou wilt pay to this ſculpture the tribute moſt dear;
Thou wilt praiſe the fine work by an eloquent tear,
Unleſs by gay Harriot thy ſoftneſs is check'd.
How I long in thy features to mark the effect
Produc'd by the wonders of exquiſite art,
On a delicate mind and a ſenſible heart!
But why on thy graces do I raſhly dwell?
Why ſtudy thoſe charms, that I know but too well?
[26]In my ſtation 'tis madneſs to think of thy hand;
Yet thou, of all women in this lovely land,
Thou only could'ſt fill, in my deſolate breaſt,
The place that my tender Sophia poſſeſt.
HARRY
(advancing.)
There, Sir, 'tis as neat as a new-twiſted cord;
But I hope you won't ſell this fine thing to my Lord.
He's a deſperate bidder for ſtone-work, I'm told;
Yet I hope you will keep it in ſpite of his gold.
MR. BERIL.
Do you hope ſo?—pray why?— I ſhould rather have thought
You'd rejoice if his lordſhip the ſtatue had bought;
It would ſave you ſome trouble.
HARRY.
For that I don't care.
Why I wiſh you to keep it, I'll freely declare:—
I've obſerv'd, ſince the day that poor Miſs Sophy died,
And that's five years, I think, next Bartholomew-tide,
There is only this ſtatue, that's now in our ſight,
In which you have ſeem'd to take any delight;
And if this marble woman your heart ſo engages,
Before you ſhould ſell her I'd give up my wages.
MR. BERIL.
Thou'rt a generous lad, with an excellent heart!—
Honeſt Harry! the ſtatue and I ſhall not part.
But I hear a coach ſtop:—haſte, and let my Lord in!
Exit Harry.
MR. BERIL
(alone.)
Harry's warmth is affecting.—'Tis pleaſant to win
A regard unconſtrain'd from the low ranks of life,
Which are falſely ſuppos'd full of baſeneſs and ſtrife.
[27]How miſtaken is he, who inceſſantly raves,
That domeſtics are nothing but idiots or knaves!
When nature oft ſhines, with a luſtre moſt fervent,
In the zeal of an honeſt, affectionate ſervant.
Enter Lord Seewell, with Lady Frances and Lady Harriot.
LORD SEEWELL.
Dear Beril, my girls would attend me, to ſee
Either you or your ſtatue.—Howe'er that may be,
I know you'll allow them a ſight of your treaſure.
MR. BERIL.
My Lord, I confeſs, I had hopes of this pleaſure;
And my ſtatue henceforth I more highly ſhall rate,
Since to that I'm in debt for an honour ſo great.
LADY HARRIOT.
That's right, Mr. Beril:—I pray make it known,
That we come for the ſake of the marble alone;
For tho' we have both a fair name, as I think,
Yet our poor reputations will inſtantly ſink,
If 'tis ſaid by your neighbour, old Lady Snap-Fan,
That inſtead of a ſtatue, we viſit a man.
MR. BERIL.
If on ſpirit and worth there is any reliance,
Lady Harriot may ſet every hag at defiance;
And force even Scandal in ſilence to ſit—
If not juſt to her innocence, aw'd by her wit.
LADY HARRIOT.
My dear Sir, do not talk in ſo pleaſing a tone,
If you do, I ſhan't reliſh the ſilence of ſtone,
And the ſtatue'll ſeem dull.—So pray! tell us where is it,
Pray preſent us to her that we're now come to viſit.
MR. BERIL.
[28]Here's the lady you honour.
Shewing the Statue.
LORD SEEWELL.
Indeed this is fine:
What perfect expreſſion! what ſtrength of deſign!
MR. BERIL.
Pray! my dear Lady Frances, advance to the place,
Which will give you, I think, the beſt view of the face.
'Tis the tender Alceſtis, juſt yielding her breath,
On the arm of her huſband reclining in death;
And tho' pain o'er her form ſo much langour has thrown,
You may ſtill diſcern beauties reſembling your own.
LORD SEEWELL.
Whence came it, dear Beril?—'tis ſurely antique;
The work, my good friend, is undoubtedly Greek.
I ſwear the Laocoon is not ſo fine:
Had I choice of the two, this, I'm clear, would be mine.
The ſubject more pleaſing! —expreſſion ſtill higher!—
This long-hidden treaſure where could you acquire?
MR. BERIL.
I owe it to chance, to acknowledge the truth,
And a princely and brave Neapolitan youth,
Whom I luckily ſav'd, in a villainous ſtrife,
From the dagger of jealouſy, aim'd at his life.
The work was dug up on his father's eſtate,
And, knowing my paſſion for marble is great,
He nobly has ſent me the gift in your view,
In return for what accident led me to do.
LORD SEEWELL.
'Tis the firſt piece of ſculpture perhaps on the earth,
And I hardly know how to appreciate its worth;
[29]But if ever you wiſh to diſpoſe of the treaſure,
I'll accept it at three thouſand guineas with pleaſure.
MR. BERIL.
My Lord, you now ſpeak with that liberal ſpirit
Which you ever diſplay when you eſtimate merit.
Tho' I own works of art, of ſuch high eſtimation,
Seem but ill to agree with my fortune and ſtation,
Yet theſe figures at preſent I wiſh to retain,
Tho' the wiſh may appear oſtentatious and vain.
But, my Lord, if they e'er change their maſter anew,
They ſhall find a more worthy poſſeſſor in you.
LADY HARRIOT.
Well! ye dear connoiſſeurs! you amaze me, I own,
By the value you ſet on this ſorrowful ſtone.
I indeed can believe 'tis a fine piece of art;
But to buy it for furniture!—as to my part,
I'd as ſoon o'er my houſe throw a ſepulchre's gloom,
And purchaſe from Weſtminſter-Abbey a tomb.
LORD SEEWELL.
You're a wild idle gipſy, and paſt all correcting;
You have not the leaſt reliſh for what is affecting.
LADY HARRIOT.
That's your fault, dear Papa;—but my ſiſter, you ſee,
Makes ample amends for this failing in me;
She gazes, like you, with ſuch ſerious delight,
That ſhe's half turn'd to marble herſelf by the ſight:
I vow it has made her unable to ſpeak,
And has drawn a cold tear down her petrified cheek.
LADY FRANCES.
Pray! my dear, don't expoſe me!
MR. BERIL.
[30]O ſeek not to hide
What nature deſign'd your chief beauty and pride!—
With different charms ſhe enriches the earth;
To your ſiſter ſhe gave the ſweet dimples of mirth;
And, that each in her province no rival may find,
All the ſoft penſive graces to you ſhe aſſign'd.
LADY HARRIOT.
Believe me, you ſhine, Mr. Beril, moſt brightly,
In the delicate ſcience of praiſing politely;
In which many beaux are ſo ſavagely ſtupid,
They a ſcalping-knife take for the weapon of Cupid;
And to tickle one nymph, baſely ſlaſh every other.—
Well! dear Frances, how are you?
LADY FRANCES.
Indeed I can't ſmother,
What I feel in ſurveying this wonder of art;
It has ſomething which takes ſuch faſt hold of the heart.
In the faint dying wife ſuch a fond reſignation!
In the poor widow'd huſband ſuch wild agitation!
Such ſorrow! ſuch anguiſh! ſuch love to Alceſtis!
LADY HARRIOT.
That is true; but I know the whole ſtory a jeſt is;
And Admetus, I think, ſuch a ſhuffling poltroon,
That he moves me no more than the man in the moon.
A pitiful fellow! to live, in his caſe,
And let his poor wife paſs the Styx in his place!
Modern huſbands, indeed, I believe would be merry,
If their wives in their ſtead would croſs over that ferry.
MR. BERIL.
[31]But perhaps, Ma'am, you think that no huſband could find
A young modern wife of Alceſtis's mind?
LADY HARRIOT.
No! indeed, my good Sir!—Here's my dear ſiſter Fan,
She'd be willing to die, to preſerve her good man;
But I own for myſelf, I ſhould doubt and demur,
If I thought my ſpouſe wiſh'd his own trip to defer:
Tho' myſelf to his fortunes I'd freely devote,
If we both might embark at one time in the boat;
I confeſs I ſhould ſcarce be ſo wondrouſly kind,
As to ſet ſail myſelf, but to leave him behind.
HARRY
(entering.)
Two gentlemen, Sir, wiſh to ſee you below;
Mr. Careleſs is one.
LORD SEEWELL
(to Mr. Beril.)
Harriot's favourite beau!
LADY HARRIOT.
Lord, Papa! Mr. Beril will think me in love.
MR. BERIL
(to Harry.)
Let the gentlemen know we expect them above.
Exit Harry.
LORD SEEWELL.
Tom and Harriot have long had flirtations together,
But their courtſhip has changeable fits, like the weather:
The improvident girl, thinking lovers are plenty,
Declares ſhe won't wed till ſhe's paſt one-and-twenty;
Nor e'en then take her beau, (in her charms ſuch her truſt is)
Unleſs he bids fair to become a chief juſtice;
And Tom is the heir of too large an eſtate,
To load his gay ſpirit with law's heavy weight.
[32]But here comes our young lawyer, to urge his own plea!
Enter Careleſs and Mr. Cycle.
MR. BERIL.
My dear Tom! how d'ye do?—My good ſtars! can it be?
Is it you, my dear Cycle, my long-abſent friend?
MR. CYCLE.
And ſtill heartily yours.
MR. BERIL.
But why would you not ſend,
And of your affection afford me a proof,
By beſpeaking your quarters here under my roof.
However I'm happy that chance is ſo kind,
As to give me th' occaſion I've long wiſh'd to find,
To preſent you to one, who, of all men on earth,
Is moſt able to judge of your genius and worth.—
My dear Lord, to your notice now let me commend
The man to whoſe name you're already a friend!
Behold Mr. Cycle!
LORD SEEWELL.
Dear Sir, let me ſay,
That I often have wiſh'd for this fortunate day,
Which makes me acquainted with one whom I deem
So juſtly entitled to public eſteem;
Whoſe writings and life ſhew in faireſt alliance,
Philanthropical virtue and genuine ſcience.
MR. CYCLE.
My good Lord, theſe are honours far more than my due,
Yet I own with delight I receive them from you;
As you're led to o'er-rate my poor merits, I feel,
By this dear partial friend's kind affectionate zeal.
LORD SEEWELL.
[33]He indeed is your friend—I regard his applauſe;
But to wiſh your acquaintance I've ſtill higher cauſe.
Be aſſur'd I ſhall think myſelf truly your debtor,
If you'll give me the pleaſure of knowing you better.
Either Beril or Careleſs will guide you to me;
I have ſome things perhaps it may pleaſe you to ſee:
Yet no gem, I believe, that's ſo worthy your ſight,
As a ſtatue which Beril has juſt brought to light.
Allow me to ſhew it you—
MR. BERIL
(to Lady Frances.)
Your tender breaſt,
My dear Lady Frances, I fear, is oppreſt▪
By this ſculptur'd diſtreſs, the mere creature of art,
Yet too painful a ſcene for ſo feeling a heart.
LADY FRANCES.
No, indeed! at firſt ſight, tho' it made my veins thrill,
And I felt thro' my boſom a cold icy chill,
That impreſſion once over, I view it again
With a ſoothing delight, unembitter'd by pain.
LADY HARRIOT
(to Careleſs.)
And pray, Sir, from which court of juſtice come you?
CARELESS.
From the worſhipful court of wiſe Madam Bijou;
Where, blind as old Themis, ſhe utters decrees
On the price of ſtuff'd parrots and petrified trees.
LADY HARRIOT.
O you miſchievous creature! you certainly mean,
By the ſound of her name to awaken my ſpleen:
You know that the thought of her ſickens me quite,
And that I at her houſe muſt do penance to-night.
CARELESS.
[34]Then I vow I'll be there, if it's only to ſee
How Mortification and you may agree:
Even that gloomy ſpright muſt appear with ſome grace,
If it lurks in the lines of ſo lively a face.
LADY HARRIOT.
All my gaiety dies when her preſence I come in;
No cramp-fiſh could give me a ſhock ſo benumbing—
She's my utter averſion—
LORD SEEWELL.
Pray tell me, my dear,
Of whom do you ſpeak in a ſtyle ſo ſevere?
LADY HARRIOT.
Of your friend, dear Papa, your good Mrs. Bijou.
LORD SEEWELL.
That's ungrateful, dear Harriot—ſhe's civil to you;
And you ſhould not indulge a ſatyrical vein.
LADY HARRIOT.
You forget, my dear Sir, how you often complain
That her low little pride, and nonſenſical whim,
Have reduc'd your old friend to a pitiful trim;
And I think ſhe has made him ſo gloomy a ſlave,
She has pent her good man in Trophonius' cave.
Such to him was the temple of Hymen; for after
He enter'd its veſtibule,—farewell to laughter.
LORD SEEWELL.
Why, Harriot! you really are quite acrimonious:
But if you call wedlock the cave of Trophonius,
Have a care, if that cavern you chance to ſtep near!
You love laughing too well to reſign it, my dear.
LADY HARRIOT.
[35]And therefore, tho' woo'd like the nymph of Toboſo,
I never will marry an old virtuoſo,
Who thinks himſelf bleſt with taſte, ſcience, and worth,
Becauſe he picks up all the odd things on earth.—
When a paſſion for art, or for nature, is join'd
With a warm friendly heart, and a liberal mind,
I reſpect the pure taſte which that union produces,
Free from vanity's ſordid fantaſtic abuſes.
Tho' I do not poſſeſs it, I ſee and commend
Such taſte, dear Papa, both in you and your friend;
But I view with an utter contempt, I confeſs,
Thoſe who awkwardly ape what you really poſſeſs:
And for Mrs. Bijou, ſhe has juſt as much ſoul
As a monkey, who carries queer things to its hole:
She with wonderful guſto, half Gothic, half Dutch,
Like an old ſquirrel, hides all ſhe can in her hutch.
CARELESS.
An excellent portrait! and true, I proteſt,
For I've juſt had a peep at the old ſquirrel's neſt.
LADY HARRIOT.
Pray, ſince we together her cloſet inſpected,
What whimſical rarities has ſhe collected?
CARELESS.
O, before I could count half the baubles ſhe buys,
I could tell you the name of each ſtar in the ſkies:
Her ſphere is too wide for my genius to ſcan it;
But I know what ſhe reckons her Georgian planet,
Her newly-found ſtar—which to-night, if you're free,
Thro' a glaſs ſhe perhaps may allow you to ſee.
LADY HARRIOT.
[36]What wonder is this?—is it fleſh, fiſh, or fowl?
A Lilliput dog? or a Brobdignag owl?
Or is it a remnant from Joſeph's odd coat?
CARELESS.
It is ſomething once held by a perſon of note
In our iſland; and now I defy you to gueſs.
LADY HARRIOT.
Is it Eſſex's ring? or the ruff of Queen Beſs?
Or Alfred's cake-toaſter? or Rizzio's fiddle?
Pray tell me!—I hate to be teaz'd by a riddle.
CARELESS.
In ſhort, 'tis a night-cap, not worth half a groat,
Which ſhe for a guinea has luckily bought;
Becauſe this old fragment of worſted, ſhe vows,
Once ſerv'd as a crown for poor Chatterton's brows:
Tho' I think we ſhould find, if we knew the whole truth,
That the cap was ne'er ſeen by that wonderful youth.
LADY HARRIOT.
Now, Chatterton! boaſt, that thy ill-fated verſe
Can teach antiquarians to open their purſe!
Yet hadſt thou, in miſery, ſu'd for that guinea,
Its miſtreſs had call'd thee a vain rhyming ninny;
And prov'd, to thy grief, by the ſtyle of her giving,
Virtuoſos have little eſteem for the living.
LORD SEEWELL.
Come, Harriot! I muſt ſtop the tide of your wit,
Tho' you're now on a topic you don't love to quit.
(To Mr. Beril.)
We muſt take our leave—Many thanks for our pleaſure.—
Mr▪ Cycle, remember!—your firſt day of leiſure!—
[37]You ſha'n't ſtir, my dear Beril, you ſha'n't leave your friend;
Here is Careleſs, you know, on the girls to attend.
Let us ſee you together, and ſhortly!—Adieu!
LADY HARRIOT
(to Careleſs aſide.)
Below let me whiſper a few words to you!
Mr. Beril and Mr. Cycle.
MR. BERIL.
Well, my worthy old friend, I rejoice you are here,
And that now you are known to that excellent peer;
Who, free from all pride, affectation, and vanity,
Unites uſeful virtue to pleaſing urbanity;
Plain, ſimple, ſincere, yet of judgment refin'd,
And fond of the arts, as they're friends to mankind;
Ennobled much leſs by his birth than his ſpirit,
The model of Honor, and patron of Merit!
But how have you done for this age? and what plan,
For the profit of ſcience, or ſervice of man,
Brings you now from your fav'rite ſequeſter'd retreat?
Whate'er the occaſion, I'm glad that we meet;
Tho' I meant to be with you ere next ſummer's ſun.
MR. CYCLE.
I know, my dear Beril, that you are not one
Whoſe welcome will ſuddenly ſink into ſorrow,
When I tell you, I now viſit London to borrow.
MR. BERIL.
If I'm able to levy the ſum you require,
The world can ſcarce give me a pleaſure much higher,
Than that of aſſiſting a friend, to whoſe mind
I have infinite debts of a far deeper kind.
I can never forget what I owe to your care,
In the frenzy of deſolate love and deſpair;
[38]When my reaſon had yielded to paſſion's wild ſtrife,
Your friendſhip alone reconcil'd me to life.
But tell me, dear Cycle, what ſum will ſuffice?
MR. CYCLE.
You muſt know, I have lately been led to deviſe
A ſcheme for the poor—
MR. BERIL.
My dear friend, at your leiſure
I'll hear your benevolent projects with pleaſure;
But farther diſcourſe you muſt let me prevent,
On the ſource of your wants, till I know their extent;
For indeed I can't reſt, till I'm happily ſure
That whatever you wiſh I have means to procure.
MR. CYCLE.
Not to keep you in doubt, then, my dear ardent friend,
Two thouſand, I fancy, will anſwer my end:
The one I am promis'd to-day from Bijou;
For the other, I own, I've depended on you.
MR. BERIL.
And why not allow me to furniſh the whole?—
Poor Bijou has a wife with no liberal ſoul;
If any demur in that quarter you ſee,
I entreat you to take all you wiſh for of me.
But of this more anon—here is Careleſs return'd.
Mr. Beril, Mr. Cycle, and Careleſs.
CARELESS.
Well! my worthy philoſopher, a'n't you concern'd
To find our friend ſtill unſupply'd with a wife,
Thus form'd as he is for the conjugal life?
As you're fond of new ſchemes for the good of the nation,
I'll recommend one to your conſideration;
[39]To revive wedded love, that old, obſolete paſſion,
And bring honeſt Hymen again into faſhion!
MR. CYCLE.
In truth, my dear Tom, I am quite of your mind,
There is no better ſcheme for the good of mankind;
And nothing, I know, that could give it more weight
Than the grace which our friend would beſtow on that ſtate.
MR. BERIL.
You are merry, good friends!—I ſubſcribe to your joke—
My gravity's fit for the conjugal yoke!
CARELESS.
I am ſerious, indeed, and have often declar'd,
That had I a ſiſter, for wedlock prepar'd,
Of all men in the world, if you'd deign to embrace her,
In your arms it would make me moſt happy to place her.
But you're courted too much to be eaſily won;
He, whom many are fond of, can fix upon none.
MR. BERIL.
Indeed, my dear Tom, you are wrong on this theme.—
In return for a proof of your cordial eſteem,
I'll tell you the reaſon, with frankneſs and truth,
Why no nymph has ſupply'd the loſt love of my youth:
There is one, whoſe mild virtue and elegant grace,
The dear girl I deplore in my heart might replace;
But my fortune's too humble for her rank of life,
Tho' ſhe may be your ſiſter, ſhe can't be my wife.
CARELESS.
Would you wed Lady Frances?
MR. CYCLE.
The lady I've ſeen?—
She is like poor Sophia in features and mien.
MR. BERIL.
[40]You are right, my dear friend;—it was that very thought
Led my heart to attach itſelf more than it ought:
But my reaſon conſiders her rank and her ſtation,
And forbids me to form any raſh expectation.
Nor would I attempt to engage her affection,
Without the leaſt hope of our happy connection.
CARELESS.
More honor than foreſight you ſhew by this ſtrain.
Be bold!—there is nothing you may not attain.—
More of this when we meet!—I muſt now ſay adieu.
MR. CYCLE.
So muſt I—for you know my appointment at two.
MR. BERIL.
But I hope, my good friends, you will both dine with me.
MR. CYCLE.
For myſelf, I'll return to you ſoon after three.
CARELESS.
I am griev'd to refuſe ſuch a frank invitation:
But to tell you the truth—I've a kind aſſignation.
MR. BERIL.
Love and pleaſure attend you!
CARELESS.
Dear Beril, adieu!
Let us all meet to-night at the houſe of Bijou!
Exeunt.
The Drawing Room of Mrs. Bijou.
MRS. BIJOU
(ſpeaking as ſhe enters.)
Look over the ſtair-caſe! and tell me who knocks!
JOAN
(entering.)
Mr. Varniſh is come, with a thing in a box.
MRS. BIJOU.
[41]A thing in a box!—You're a horrible Goth:
But as you're to leave me, I'll ſtifle my wrath.
'Tis a picture, you oaf!—bid him bring it to me.
Exit Joan.
Some cabinet jewel I now hope to ſee.
This intelligent Varniſh my patronage courts,
And I get the firſt peep at whate'er he imports.
Mrs. Bijou and Mr. Varniſh.
MRS. BIJOU.
Well, Varniſh!
MR. VARNISH.
Dear Madam, with moſt humble duty,
I have brought you a gem of unparagon'd beauty.
MRS. BIJOU.
Good Varniſh! what is it?
MR. VARNISH.
An exquiſite Titian:
You never ſaw one in ſuch brilliant condition.
MRS. BIJOU.
And what is the ſubject?
MR. VARNISH
(opening the caſe.)
Now, Ma'am, I'll diſplay it.—
Here's a feaſt for the eye that knows how to ſurvey it!
Here's a Joſeph!—I ne'er ſaw his like in my life.
And pray, Ma'am, obſerve what a Potiphar's wife!
How chaſte the deſign! yet the colours how warm!
What tints in each face! and what life in each form!
Pray! Madam, remark how he ſtruggles to fly!
We hear him exclaiming, "No, Miſtreſs, not I!"
MRS. BIJOU.
[42]It ſeems very fine, and has ſtriking expreſſion.—
Was it ever in any great perſon's poſſeſſion?
MR. VARNISH.
Not a ſoul here has ſeen it, except a poor Peer,
For whom it was bought:—but, alas! 'twas too dear.
His ſteward, my friend—but I muſt not be raſh,
And betray a good Earl, with more guſto than caſh.—
Our Lords are all poor, and ſo ruin'd my trade is,
I ſhould ſtarve, were it not for you well-judging ladies.
There's my old Lady Ogle-nud, had ſhe a peep,
Would certainly buy it before ſhe would ſleep:
But having receiv'd many favours from you,
I made it a point you ſhould have the firſt view.
MRS. BIJOU.
I thank you, good Varniſh.—But what is the price?
MR. VARNISH.
She'd give me a thouſand, I know, in a trice,
And buy ſome companions beſides, if I had 'em;
But I'll leave it with you for eight hundred, dear Madam.
MRS. BIJOU.
Eight hundred!—Sure, Varniſh, that ſum is too much.
MR. VARNISH.
Dear, Madam, obſerve what a delicate touch!
See how finely 'tis pencil'd! and what preſervation!
There is not, I know, ſuch a gem in the nation;
And Italy has not a brighter, I'm ſure.
The figures ſo glowing! the ſtory ſo pure!—
Good ladies would never have wandering ſpouſes,
If they'd only hang ſubjects like this in their houſes.
MRS. BIJOU.
[43]I proteſt, your remark is ingenious and new:
You have guſto in Morals as well as Virtu.
MR. VARNISH
(aſide.)
I have hopes that my hint will aſſiſt our tranſaction,
For the old dame is jealous, they ſay, to diſtraction.
MRS. BIJOU.
Well! I own, Mr. Varniſh, your picture is fine.—
If my huſband is rich, it ſhall quickly be mine.
Here he comes to decide it.
Enter Mr. Bijou.
MRS. BIJOU.
My dear, here's a ſight!
You are luckily come to complete my delight.
Mr. Varniſh has been ſo exceedingly kind,
As he knows on a Titian I've long ſet my mind,
To bring me the fineſt I ever ſurvey'd:
And as we have often, befriended his trade,
He offers to leave it a bargain with us.
MR. BIJOU.
Its merit or price it is vain to diſcuſs:
Tho' the picture poſſeſſes ſo tempting an air,
At preſent, my dear, I've no money to ſpare.
MRS. BIJOU.
Mr. Varniſh, pray ſtep in the parlour below!
Our final reſolve you ſhall preſently know.
MR. VARNISH.
Dear Madam, for hours I'll wait on your pleaſure;
And I beg you will note all its beauties at leiſure.
[44] (Aſide, as he goes out.)
Now ſucceſs to the ſex!—Be this ſtruggle more glorious!
May the Joſeph be kind! and the Lady victorious!
MRS. BIJOU.
My deareſt, you'll not let the picture depart,
When you ſee it has taken ſuch hold on my heart!—
I really can't reſt, till a Titian we've got,
That we may have ſomething Lord Seewell has not.
And as we expect him, you know, here to-night,
I would ſhew him this piece with triumphant delight.
MR. BIJOU.
I love to indulge all your wiſhes, my dear;
But I'm quite out of caſh.—
MRS. BIJOU.
Nay! Bijou! I am clear
You have now all I want in your pocket.—Come! come!
I know you went out to receive a large ſum;
And ſtill have it about you.—I vow I will look.—
Here it is!—here are notes in this little red book.
Takes out his Pocket-Book.
MR. BIJOU.
Indeed, I muſt beg you that book to releaſe!
MRS. BIJOU.
Here are ten, I declare, of an hundred apiece!—
I'll take juſt enough, and reſtore you the reſt.
MR. BIJOU.
I can't ſuffer this freedom, my dear, I proteſt;
For the notes are not mine, they belong to a friend.
MRS. BIJOU.
To a friend!—O! I gueſs, Sir, to whom you would lend.
[45]Your ſly-looking gueſt, Mr. Cycle's the man;
I know he was here on a borrowing plan.
Throw your thouſand away on a charity bubble!
And leave your poor wife to vexation and trouble!
MR. BIJOU.
Nay! my dear, be not vex'd!—you have miſunderſtood:
The ſum will be ſafe, and the intereſt good.
MRS. BIJOU.
And what is the pitiful profit you'll raiſe,
Compar'd to the tranſport with which we ſhould gaze
On the picture my fondneſs would have you poſſeſs,
For reaſons the pureſt that wife can profeſs?
Unkind as you are!—I have reaſons above
Even profit and pleaſure—the reaſons of love.
'Tis my aim, by this modeſt production of art,
To ſtrengthen your virtue and chaſten your heart.
If you daily ſurvey an example ſo bright,
This model of continence ever in ſight,
No naughty young women will tempt you to wander,
But your truth and your love will grow firmer and fonder.
MR. BIJOU.
What a tender idea!— how virtuouſly kind!
What affection and taſte! by each other refin'd!
MRS. BIJOU.
But if for a poor and a fooliſh projector,
You can thwart a fond wife, and afflict and neglect her—
Go! go! I ſhall weep, while abroad you may roam,
That your charity has no beginning at home.
MR. BIJOU.
It begins, and ſhall end there.—I'm melted, my dear!—
You may keep all the notes!—Let me kiſs off that tear!
MRS. BIJOU.
[46]Now again youre my own, dear, delightful Bijou!
And the Titian is mine, and my love will be true!
Exit in great haſte.
MR. BIJOU
(alone.)
Such virtuous endearments what heart could reſiſt?
Yet I fear by poor Cycle this ſum will be miſs'd.
And what ſhall I ſay for the failure?—In ſooth,
I think 'twill be faireſt to tell him the truth:
And, ſage as he is, he perhaps too has felt
That Gold, at the breath of a woman, will melt.—
As I live, here he is! and I look rather ſmall,
With a pocket ſo empty, to anſwer his call.
Enter Mr. Cycle.
MR. BIJOU.
Mr. Cycle, you're come, and I'm really confus'd;
But I know the miſchance will by you be excus'd.
In notes I had got you the thouſand complete,
They were all in this pocket—
MR. CYCLE.
The thieves of the ſtreet
Have not pick'd it, I hope, in the buſtle of ſtrife?
MR. BIJOU.
It was pick'd, I confeſs, by the hand of my wife;
But for reaſons ſo pure, in ſo tender a mode—
MR. CYCLE.
I am happy the ſum is ſo juſtly beſtow'd.
MR. BIJOU.
I know you'll forgive, when I come to explain.
MR. CYCLE.
Dear Bijou! let me ſave you at once from that pain;
[47]And aſſure you, with truth, that I now really come
As ready to quit, as to take up the ſum;
Since Beril's ſo kind, that, without my deſire,
He has offer'd me all that my wants can require.
MR. BIJOU.
I proteſt, I am glad you have found ſuch a friend;
But if you hereafter ſhould wiſh me to lend,
I beg you will call without ſcruple on me.—
Your worthy friend Beril to-night we ſhall ſee;
And Seewell, in guſto the firſt of our Earls,
Will be here with his daughters, two delicate girls!
To prove, my good friend, your forgiveneſs is hearty,
Let me hope you will kindly make one of the party!
MR. CYCLE.
Moſt chearfully!
MR. BIJOU.
Well!—I am griev'd, I muſt ſay,
That I cannot detain you to dinner to-day;
But to tell you the truth, when for theſe gala nights
My wife is preparing to ſhew her fine ſights,
She ſpends ſo much time in adjuſting her ſhelves,
That we take a cold ſnap in the kitchen ourſelves.
So I'm ſure you'll excuſe it.
MR. CYCLE.
Your reaſon is ſtrong;
And I'm ſorry, my friend, I've intruded ſo long.
MR. BIJOU.
We have time enough yet—do not hurry away!
MR. CYCLE.
It really grows late.
MR. BIJOU.
I won't preſs you to ſtay,
[48]As at night o'er our concert you'll come to preſide.—
I am heartily glad all your wants are ſupply'd.
MR. CYCLE.
Indeed, I believe you, my honeſt Bijou!
So, till night, fare you well!
MR. BIJOU.
My dear Cycle, adieu!
End of ACT II.
ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I.
Lord Seewell and Lady Harriot.
LADY HARRIOT.
DEAR Papa, don't betray me!—Her delicate mind
Would be wounded, I know, and would think me unkind;
So far from allowing, what now I impart,
She herſelf little knows the true ſtate of her heart.
LORD SEEWELL.
Believe me, my dear, I with pleaſure ſurvey
The ſiſterly fondneſs you warmly diſplay.
But you, who for others ſo ſenſibly feel,
May here be the dupe of affectionate zeal;
And I hope you're miſtaken.
LADY HARRIOT.
My dear Sir, obſerve!
You may trace her attachment in every nerve:
[49]If I name Mr. Beril in ſome idle tale,
Poor Fanny will bluſh, and as often turn pale.
In his abſence ſtill more and more penſive ſhe grows,
Yet thinks not from whence her uneaſineſs flows.
And when he returns, tho' her pleaſure is meek,
Yet the glow of content may be ſeen on her cheek;
And her heart, as if fully conſol'd by his ſight,
Appears to repoſe in a tranquil delight.
Dear Papa, you'll perceive, if you'll open your eyes,
That from none but herſelf ſhe her love can diſguiſe.
One other exception perhaps we may find,
As I think Mr. Beril is equally blind,
And robb'd, like herſelf, of the talent of ſeeing,
By that diffident love, which denies it own being.
LORD SEEWELL.
I hope this attachment, which neither has ſhewn,
Exiſts, my good girl, in your fancy alone.
LADY HARRIOT.
Why ſo, my dear Sir?—Should it prove, as you fear,
I hope, dear Papa, that you won't be ſevere.
Conſider the delicate frame of my ſiſter!
But I know you've a heart that can never reſiſt her,
If you once clearly ſee ſhe has fixt her affection,
Tho' ſhe own not her wiſhes for ſuch a connection;
As you know that her nature's ſo modeſt and meek,
She would die from concealment before ſhe would ſpeak.
I have ſtrength to encounter the croſſes of life,
And to make my part good, as a daughter or wife:
But our gentle ſweet Frances is ill-form'd to bear
The undeſerv'd load of vexation and care;
[50]And therefore ſhould wed, unregardful of pelf,
A huſband as tender and mild as herſelf.
LORD SEEWELL.
Your reaſoning, I think, is not perfectly juſt.
In the kindneſs of Beril perhaps I might truſt;
But the motive you urge for this union, my dear,
Is what, I confeſs, would awaken my fear.
As you ſay, your mild ſiſter ſhould never be harraſs'd
By thoſe various ills with which life is embarraſs'd,
I ſhould guard her from all the vexations that wait
On a liberal mind with a narrow eſtate:
And if Beril had thoughts of becoming my ſon,
Had I not more objections, yet this muſt be one.
LADY HARRIOT.
I'll remove it, my Lord, for indeed this is all:
As you think they'll be pinch'd by an income too ſmall,
You ſhall add to their fortune, and large it will be,
Two thirds of the portion you've deſtin'd for me.
LORD SEEWELL.
Dear Harriot! I'm charm'd with thy ſoul, I confeſs;
Thou'rt a generous girl—to a noble exceſs.
LADY HARRIOT.
To that name, dear Papa, I've no title, indeed,
As I only give up what I never can need.
In your houſe all my wants will, I know, be ſupply'd;
And if I ſhould leave it, as Careleſs's bride,
The liberal heir of ſo large an eſtate
Will not grieve that my fortune has ſunk in its weight.
Or ſhould my ſwain frown at the change in my purſe,
He may e'en take old Themis for better for worſe;
For tho', I confeſs, he has won my regard,
Yet the knot of my love is not twiſted ſo hard,
[51]But 'twill ſlip in a moment, if ever I ſee
That he's rather more fond of my purſe than of me,
LORD SEEWELL.
'Tis a pity, the friendly illuſions of youth
Cannot inſtantly turn into ſubſtance and truth.
Your affectionate fancy, my dear, is delighted
With the dream of beholding two perſons united,
Whom you fondly ſuppoſe only form'd for each other.
LADY HARRIOT.
I ſhould like Mr. Beril, I own, for my brother,
Becauſe I'm convinc'd, that no mortal on earth,
In manners, in temper, in taſte, and in worth,
Is form'd ſo exactly to ſuit ſuch a wife.
On their laſting attachment I'd venture my life.
LORD SEEWELL.
Your warm heart, my good girl, your young judgment deceives,
And what the firſt wiſhes the ſecond believes.
Dear Harriot, to this fancied match there may be
Many bars, which your eyes are unable to ſee:
A miſtreſs conceal'd with a young little fry—
LADY HARRIOT.
Should an angel declare it, the fact I'd deny;
For had Beril been loaded with ſuch a connection,
In his eyes I had never perceiv'd his affection.
But I'll preſently ſolve any doubts of this kind,
As I'm ſoon to be told the true ſtate of his mind;
For Careleſs has promis'd—
LORD SEEWELL.
O fie! my dear, fie!
Your intemperate zeal has now riſen too high.
[52]I am really concern'd at your great indiſcretion.
LADY HARRIOT.
Nay! but hear me, my Lord!—I have dropt no expreſſion,
No! not one ſingle hint, that could truly diſcover
Why in ſuch a reſearch I commiſſion'd my lover!
Don't think, dear Papa, I'd my ſiſter betray!—
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Mr. Beril, my Lord, ſent this letter.
LORD SEEWELL.
Stay! ſtay!
Does any one wait for an anſwer below?
SERVANT.
No, my Lord, the man's gone.
LORD SEEWELL.
Very well! you may go!
Exit Servant.
LADY HARRIOT.
Should this be an offer!—'twould give me great pleaſure;
But I fear he's too modeſt to take ſuch a meaſure.—
Dear Papa! does he venture on any advances?
LORD SEEWELL.
There, my dear!—you'll not find any mention of Frances;
And I think by the note, which to you I reſign,
Your conjectures are not ſo well founded as mine.
LADY HARRIOT
(peruſing the Letter.)
"Occaſion for money!"—"The ſtatue to you!"—
I'm amaz'd—and can hardly believe it is true.
He never would part with ſo dear a poſſeſſion,
But for ſome urgent reaſon.
LORD SEEWELL.
You ſee his confeſſio [...]
[53]His ſtrong call for money is frankly declar'd;
And I fear his ſmall fortune is greatly impair'd.
LADY HARRIOT.
Theſe tidings, indeed, give me real concern:
But the ſource of this ſtep I will ſpeedily learn.
Careleſs ſoon will be here.—I will make him diſcover;
And till we know all, give no peace to my lover.—
But now, my dear Lord, by this note you may find,
How the heart of my ſiſter is really inclin'd:
I'm convinc'd this will prove her affection is ſtrong.
Here ſhe comes for the trial—pray ſee if I'm wrong.
LORD SEEWELL.
Well, my dear, I will try, by an innocent plot,
If your ſiſter has really this paſſion or not.
Enter Lady Frances.
LORD SEEWELL.
Dear Fanny, you're come our concern to partake,
For we both are much griev'd for our friend Beril's ſake.
LADY FRANCES.
Mr. Beril! dear Sir!—Is he hurt?—Is he kill'd?
LORD SEEWELL.
No!—with terrors too lively your boſom is fill'd.
My dear, how you tremble!—But I was to blame,
To raiſe this alarm in your delicate frame.
He is well; but ſome croſſes of fortune, I fear,
Make him fell what he juſtly conſider'd ſo dear.
You will ſee by this letter.—
(Aſide, to Lady Harriot.)
Ah, Har
⯑riot, 'tis ſo;
The exceſs of her fear from affection muſt flow!
LADY FRANCES.
[54]How painful to him muſt the exigence be,
Which extorts from his hand the agreement I ſee!
How cruel! for him to relinquiſh a treaſure,
Whence his elegant ſpirit deriv'd ſo much pleaſure!
But I truſt, dear Papa, that your generous mind
Will not now preſs the bargain he once has declin'd;
And ſcorning to profit by any diſtreſs,
Will not catch at the gem he ſtill ought to poſſeſs.
LORD SEEWELL.
My dear, can I now, what I offer'd, withhold?
And ſhould I, the ſtatue no leſs would be ſold.
LADY FRANCES.
Perhaps, if you choſe half its value to lend,
From ſo galling a ſale you might reſcue your friend!
LORD SEEWELL.
I am pleas'd, my dear girl, with your ſpirit, I own,
But theſe are bad times for a dangerous loan;
And, to tell you the truth in this knotty affair,
I have juſt at this criſis no money to ſpare.
But I'll frankly explain our finances to you,
And you ſhall inſtruct me in what I ſhall do.—
As I've ſeen that old fathers, tho' reckon'd moſt ſage,
Often injure a child by the frolicks of age,
That you may not ſuffer from follies like theſe,
I have juſt now conſign'd to the care of truſtees
All I've ſav'd for you both:—ſo if I prove unſteady,
You are ſafe.—When you wed, both your fortunes are ready.
LADY FRANCES.
Let the fortune of Harriot be ſacred, I pray,
For not very diſtant is her wedding-day.
[55]But as I am convinc'd I ſhall not wed at all,
Let my portion, Papa, anſwer every call:
I muſt beg you to look on it ſtill as your own;
And if it may ſerve for ſo timely a loan,
It can't give me more joy, whatſoever my ſtation,
Than by ſaving your friend from ſuch mortification.
LORD SEEWELL.
My dear girls! you are both the delight of my life:
May each warm-hearted daughter be bleſt as a wife!—
What I ſaid was but meant your kind ſpirit to try,
For the wants of our friend I can amply ſupply.
Of eſteem it will pleaſe me to give him a proof,
And preſerve the fine ſtatue ſtill under his roof.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Mr. Careleſs, my Lord!
LADY HARRIOT.
Now the whole I ſhall know.
Going.
LORD SEEWELL.
Stay!—
SERVANT.
He wiſhes to ſee Lady Harriot below.
LORD SEEWELL.
Being equally anxious this point to diſcover,
We will all, my dear Harriot, attend on your lover.
Exeunt.
SCENE, the Apartments of Mrs. Bijou.
MR. BIJOU.
Where the deuce is my wife?—All her rarities plac'd!
Her apartments adjuſted with exquiſite taſte!
[56]Some diſaſter has happen'd, or ſhe would be here,
Where ſhe ought to be waiting to welcome the Peer;
And I fancy I heard her in anger below.
Enter Mrs. Bijou, in great Agitation.
MR. BIJOU.
What's the matter, my love?
MRS. BIJOU.
O, my dear, ſuch a blow!
I really had ſwoon'd, if vexation and wrath
Had not quicken'd my ſpirits, to ſcold at the Goth.
That awkward old Joan!—an unmannerly minx!
Has knock'd off the nipple, my dear, from a Sphinx;
And now on our chimney it cannot be plac'd,
With a wound ſo indelicate maim'd and diſgrac'd.
But I've happily got theſe two Griffins of gold,
In the room of the Sphinxes, our candles to hold.
MR. BIJOU.
My dear, the exchange is moſt lucky and right,
For a Sphinx is an awkward diſpenſer of light;
But whether your Griffin's of gold or of copper,
A flame from his mouth is exceedingly proper.
MRS. BIJOU.
By your leſſons, my love, I improve in Virtù:
All the guſto I have, I have gather'd from you.—
I have fixt the Great Mummy, my dear, to the wall,
Leſt the pert Lady Harriot ſhould give him a fall:
She'd be glad to throw down my old king, out of ſpite;
And I would not be vext in our triumph to-night.
I know our new picture will ſtir up her gall,
And this Titian will make us the envy of all.
[57]My dear, don't you think it looks well by this light?
MR. BIJOU.
The colours, indeed, are uncommonly bright.
MRS. BIJOU.
What a beautiful youth is this Joſeph!—I ſwear,
I am more and more charm'd with his delicate air;
I delight in him more ſince I've found, dear Bijou,
That in one of his features he's very like you.
MR. BIJOU.
Where can you, my dear, any likeneſs ſuppoſe?
MRS. BIJOU.
I proteſt he has got the true turn of your noſe;
Not the aquiline curve, but a little Socratic:
And his eye flaſhes fire, that is chaſtly ecſtatic.—
There's a rap at our door! and I hope my Lord's come.
If vexation and envy do not ſtrike him dumb,
I think he'll harangue, like a critic of Greece,
On the exquiſite charms of this beautiful piece!
I long to behold how he's touch'd by the ſight:
But I know that his envy will ſink his delight.
The moment he ſees it, he'll think his luck cruel,
In miſſing ſo precious a cabinet jewel.
Enter Mr. Beril and Mr. Cycle.
MR. BIJOU.
Dear Cycle, I take this exceedingly kind;
And I hope you've not left your Cremona behind.
In your preſence to-night I moſt truly rejoice,
And ſhall call for the aid of your hand and your voice,
(As my wife gives a ſnug little concert below)
When you've ſeen what her upper apartments can ſhew.
MR. CYCLE.
[58]You may freely command me, my friend, as you pleaſe.
MRS. BIJOU.
You're a judge, Mr. Beril, of treaſures like theſe;
And I'm eager to ſhew you a Titian, that's new
Since we laſt had the joy of a viſit from you.
MR. BERIL.
The ſtory is told, Ma'am, with ſtriking expreſſion.
MRS. BIJOU.
Don't you envy my huſband this brilliant poſſeſſion?
I thought you'd burſt forth into rapturous praiſe;
But with no keen delight on this picture you gaze!
MR. BERIL.
To confeſs, Ma'am, the truth, I'm a whimſical being,
And a ſubject like this I've no pleaſure in ſeeing.
On your lovely ſex 'tis a ſatire moſt bitter,
That ill-nature may laugh at, and levity titter:
But I'm griev'd, when an artiſt has laviſh'd his care
On a ſtory that ſeems a diſgrace to the Fair.
MRS. BIJOU.
Our ſex's chief luſtre, I own, it obſcures:
But think what a leſſon it offers to yours!
Enter Lady Harriot, Lady Frances, Lord Seewell, and Mr. Careleſs.
MR. BIJOU.
My dear Lord, I this inſtant was wiſhing for you.
Your voice is deciſive in points of Virtù;
And you're come in the moment to end an odd ſtrife,
In a matter of taſte about Potiphar's wife.—
Should her ſtory be painted?—We want your deciſion;
And here is the picture that caus'd our diviſion.
LORD SEEWELL.
[59]Ha! my poor old acquaintance!—But how, dear Bijou,
How the deuce could this picture find favor with you?
I hope that rogue Varniſh has play'd you no trick.—
You have paid no great price—
MRS. BIJOU.
I am cut to the quick!
Sure, my Lord, you ne'er look'd on this picture before?
LORD SEEWELL.
Dear Madam! 'tis one that I turn'd out of door;
And, as I may aid you to 'ſcape from a fraud,
I'll proceed to inform you, I bought it abroad,
To relieve the diſtreſs of an indigent youth,
Who copied old Maſters with ſpirit and truth;
And when it came home, as I valu'd it not,
My ſteward, by chance, this gay furniture got.
To a new houſe of his it has lately been carried;
And as your friend Varniſh his daughter has married,
I ſuppoſe the ſly rogue by this picture has try'd,
To increaſe the ſmall fortune he gain'd with his bride.
Search the garment of Joſeph! you'll find on its hem,
And within a dark fold, the two letters T. M.
MRS. BIJOU.
Aye! there is the mark! —we are cheated, we're plunder'd.
That infamous villain, to aſk me eight hundred!—
But the law ſhall reſtore it.
MR. BIJOU.
See! Mrs. Bijou,
See the fruits of my haſty indulgence to you!
LORD SEEWELL.
Chear up, my old friend!—'Tis my wiſh, that this night
May be witneſs to nothing but peace and delight.
[60]I'll engage to make Varniſh your money reſtore;
And perhaps this adventure may ſave you much more.
All we old connoiſſeurs, if the truth we would own,
Have, at times, been outwitted with canvas or ſtone:
But here's one, whoſe example our tribe now invites
To correct our miſtakes, and improve our delights.
Here's Beril, tho' bleſt with a treaſure moſt rare,
That with few works of art will admit of compare,
Gives up the proud joys, that on ſuch wealth attend,
For the nobler delight of aſſiſting a friend!
MR. BERIL.
My Lord! you amaze me; how could you divine?—
O, Careleſs! your zeal has betray'd my deſign.
LORD SEEWELL.
You have fixt on the traitor, yet are not aware,
That you're almoſt involv'd in a dangerous ſnare:
But I'll ſhew you this traitor's accomplice, my friend,
And tell you what miſchief theſe plotters intend.
You muſt know, Tom and Harriot in concert purſue
Their dark machinations 'gainſt Frances and you:
They have ſworn you've a tender eſteem for each other,
Which you both have in modeſty labour'd to ſmother.
If their charge can be prov'd, I your freedom reſtrain,
And ſentence you both to the conjugal chain.
MR. BERIL.
O, my Lord! that I love Lady Frances, is true;
Yet I could not avow it to her, or to you:
But to force my confeſſion, ſuch means you employ,
I almoſt may call them the torture of joy.
I'm o'erwhelm'd with ſurprize, with delight, and with dread,
Leſt I falſely have heard the kind things you have ſaid.
[61]Speak! my dear Lady Frances, my anguiſh relieve!
Does this tumult of hope my wild fancy deceive?
LADY FRANCES.
I ſo long have my father's indulgence confeſt,
That againſt his decrees I ſhall never proteſt.
MR. BERIL.
O, how ſhall I thank thee, dear pride of my life!
LORD SEEWELL.
By cheriſhing ſtill in the mind of your wife,
Such generous feelings as you have diſplay'd.—
From my hand, my dear Beril, receive the kind maid!
Your ſtatue is not more indebted to art,
Than ſhe is to nature for moulding her heart.
They both ſhall be yours; both the ſtatue and bride!
And the wants of your friend ſhall no leſs be ſupply'd.—
Being free from one modiſh and wealth—waſting vice,
From thoſe peſts of our order, the turf and the dice,
I enjoy, my dear children, the fortunate power,
Of ſecuring your bliſs by an affluent dower.
Your quiet ſhall ne'er by your income be hurt,
Which ſhall equal your wiſh, tho' below your deſert.
MR. BERIL.
Of your kindneſs, my Lord, I ſo feel the exceſs,
That my voice cannot ſpeak what my heart would expreſs.
MR. BIJOU.
I am charm'd, my dear Lord, by your choice of a ſon.
LORD SEEWELL.
I know, my old friend, you'll approve what I've done.
You and I, dear Bijou, wanting proper correction,
Have on vanity laviſhed the dues of affection.
We have both ſquander'd caſh on too many a whim;
But in taſte let us take a new leſſon from him!
[62]And rate our improvements in real Virtù,
By the generous acts he may teach us to do;
To remember this truth is the connoiſſeur's duty;
"A benevolent deed is the eſſence of beauty."
MR. BIJOU.
I confeſs, I too oft have been vanity's fool;
But ſhall hope to grow wiſe, my good Lord, in your ſchool,
And, as mirth ſhould be coupled with wiſdom, I'll go
And ſee if the fiddles are ready below.
Exit.
LORD SEEWELL.
To-night, my dear Madam, you muſt not look grave;
Tho' Varniſh has prov'd ſuch an impudent knave,
I promiſe to make him your money refund.
MRS. BIJOU.
With ſurprize and vexation I almoſt was ſtunn'd,
But depending, my Lord, on your friendly aſſiſtance,
I am ready to drive all chagrin to a diſtance,
And to ſhare in the joy of our dear happy gueſts.
MR. BERIL.
What I owe to you, Careleſs, this fair one atteſts:
And our ſiſter, I hope, if I dare uſe the name,
From your friendſhip will judge of your love's ardent flame,
And, ſhort'ning your rigorous term of probation,
Now fill your kind heart with complete exultation.
LADY HARRIOT.
The warm blaze of our joy, I aſſure you, dear brother,
With the cold damp of prudery I will not ſmother,
Your friend has for you play'd ſo feeling a part,
I confeſs, I am charm'd with his ſpirit and heart.
As in law and long courtſhip he likes not to drudge,
I will make him at once my comptroller and judge.
CARELESS.
[63]I with tranſport and pride the dear office embrace!
LORD SEEWELL.
And long may you fill it with ſpirit and grace!—
My voice, my dear Careleſs, confirms her election;
And I give her with joy to your tender direction.
For ſealing, dear Tom, you may fix your own day,
Without dreading from law any irkſome delay,
As your father and I have, with friendly advances,
Already adjuſted your nuptial finances.
MR. BIJOU
(entering).
Our muſicians below are all ready, my Lord:
Of pleaſure you teach us to touch the true chord.
I've ſelected a few little pieces to-night,
That are ſuited, I hope, to the preſent delight.—
May we all think this day the beſt day of our life!
It will prove ſo, I'm ſure, both to me and my wife.
If a bargain ſhould tempt us, we will not be raſh,
But remember the Titian, and pocket our caſh.
To Friendſhip and Want all we can we will give,
And buy no more baubles as long as we live.