SCENE I.

WAS there no possibility of bribing one of the servants?

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

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

I have got a scheme to serve you, if you'll un­dertake it.

Can you doubt me?

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

Pho! Pho! I shall be taken before a Ma­g1strate.

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

And do you think she'll l1sten to me?

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

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

It must be so! Lord, Sir, if you were not so much in love, it would appear to you as plain as a pike-staff; but when once love gets into a man's head, poor reason is brought before a court-martial of the passions, and cashiered with­out a hearing.

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

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

Can we trust her?

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

Where is she?

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

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

Oh! here come Mars and Venus already.

Nosegays, your Honour?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May I?

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

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

As sure as a gun I know who you are.

Ay, prithee who am I?

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

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

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

Will you take this letter for me?

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

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

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

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

Betsy Blossom, an't please you.

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

SCENE II.

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

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

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

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

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

Shall I go on?

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

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

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

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

And he seem'd deeply concern'd?

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

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

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

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

But who is that little blooming rogue with you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord! Lord! What will this world come to!

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

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

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

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

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

But are you sure that there's nobody l1stening?

Oh! very sartin, Sir,

Then give me a kiss, you little smiling rogue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shall I help you, Sir?

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

Betsy!

I'm coming, Ma'am.

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

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

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

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

What, Sir, is not Sophia here?

She was here this moment.

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

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

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

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

She has seen no stranger to-day?

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

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

Ecod, like enough.

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

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

Did you call, Sir!

Roll me into the company

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

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

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

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

Good day, Mr. John.

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

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

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

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

How do you like that, Betsy?

It has a vast fine frame round it.

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

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

Eh! why, zounds! she takes it for my picture.

What fine eyes!

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

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

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

Is this your picture, Mr. John?

I thought you knew that already.

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

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

Like you? no more like you than a carna­tion is like a butcher's broom.

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

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

I am sitting for a striking likeness, I find.

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

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

What, after making a bargain?

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

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

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

Not a word of the picture.

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

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

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

I believe you, young damsel—Harkee, John,

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

You had better leave her to me, Sir.

No, no, she's too artful for you.

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

Not gone yet, Sir?

Oh! yes, I'm gone—

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

Can you keep a secret, my dear?

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

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

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

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

What, then, you have neither brought nor re­ceived a letter here to-day?

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

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

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

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

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

Then you'll give me the letter?

Letter! Lord! Sir, what letter?

Come, I ins1st upon your taking this

And now.

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

Your father's! how came it there?

It came by the post, yesterday, from Devon­shire.

Devonshire! what the Devil is Devonshire to me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I have that and John's picture both to­gether.

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

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

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

Here it is.

Zounds! this is my master's picture.

What, captain Meadows's?

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

As sure as can be, he stole it.

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

Quite sartin.

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

SCENE changes to a View before the Stables.

I hope your hay is good, friend?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's as deaf as a door nail.—He doesn't un­derstand a word I say.

Did you speak to me, young man?

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

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

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

My good lad, do you hear me?

I wish I could make you hear me as plain.

I like your countenance.

That's more than I do your's.

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

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

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

What the Devil does he laugh at?

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

Humour! What does he mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Certainly!—It's on the table, Sir.

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

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

What have you got for supper?

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

Why, you blockhead, woodcocks are not in season.

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

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

Mushroom sauce! to what, Sir?

A broil'd fowl will do well enough.

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

Not a syllable.

Zounds! he's deaf.

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

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

Well, do the best you can for me.

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

Bless you, my lad, I am not particular.

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

This way, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warm travelling, Sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King!

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

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

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

Pray does any of the company know him?

I don't, for my part.

Nor I.

Nor I.

Nor I, nor any of us.

No, not one of us.

How I tremble for him, now.

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

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

Why, nobody here knows him.

Sir, I have the pleasure of drinking your health.

Did you ever know any thing like this, George?

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

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

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

Stop him, George.

Why, Gentlemen, all this pressing: it is to no purpose; I am determined to go to bed; and as a proof of it, there's half a crown for my share of the bill, as I can't stay till its called—will no­body give me a light?

Why, you rascal, can you give no rational ac­count of this man?

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

Love has inspired me with a thought for his deliverance.

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

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

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

But are you sure he's deaf?

Does not hear a word you say to him.

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

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

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

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

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

SCENE III.

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

Oh, that was only—he! he!

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

I understand you, you are her sweetheart.

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

But how have you proceeded since this dis­covery?

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

I threatened him with a prosecution for stop­ping the picture, unless he turned King's evi­dence and informed against his master—my me­naces had the desired effect, and he is devoted to our service.

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

I thank your ladyship, I'm sure I do.

Now is my freedom gone.

What, you won't marry me?

Else how shou'd I lose my freedom?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odds my life but he'd provoke a saint,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Help, help, murder!

What's the matter, Sally?

This old villain was going to ruinate me.

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

You'll take care to call me early.

Damn me! if I call you.

It's a shame for a man at your years to be­have so.

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

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

We may as well talk to a stone wall.

I shall lose my place for this.

You needn't wait for the light.

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

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

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

I can chalk main well, but nobody can under­stand it except myself.

Why you, Bob, went to school, I know.

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

And it's my misfortune to neither read nor write

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

What swinging pistols he has!

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

Do you hear that?

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

Oh! the bloody minded old rogue!

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

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

I'll stay no longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My love, my life! you transport me.

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

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

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

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

Why he has got his hearing.

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

Advantage! who the devil are you?

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

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

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

All, I fear, is discover'd.

Eh! who is that fellow got hold of John?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, would you steal a ward from her guardian?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, Sir, will you acquiesce in your dis­honour?

Good night; you shall hear from me.

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

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

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

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