ACT I. SCENE I.

AND are you sure, Tabby, the postman had no letters for me to-day? I am cer­tain it was his rap; which has more music in it to the ears of an expecting lover, than the most favourite air of a Fisher or Bach.

Indeed, madam, were I young and handsome as you are, I would not be balk'd about it; for tho' Mr. Montague neglects writing, Sir John Seymour would not, had he the same opportunity.

Sir John Seymour! What know you, pray, of Sir John Seymour?

Nay, nothing, madam; only—

Only what? I charge you speak!

That he must love you, madam, and that dearly, to be so vast generous as he is to me upon all occasions.

I hope you don't accept of any favors from him.

Lord, madam, he does the favor so genteely, and so privately, there's no refusing the gentleman.

I charge you, as you value your place, to decline any thing his generosity offers; as you are not to learn of my father's having early contracted me to another abroad.

And yet, madam, I should think a bird in the cage is worth two in the air. And as to my old master Sir Jacob, so as he parts not with his money, he cares not, I believe, had you married the Hoity-toity man from beyond sea, or were to elope with our Robin.

I must tell you, you give your tongue a liberty very unbecoming, depending, I suppose, for your security on the confidence I have placed in you: But as my prior engagement prevents, I fear, any ho­nourable conclusion with Sir John, I beg no more impertinence on that head.

Madam, I can be secret as well as another, when services are thus rewarded.

Leave me.

They first make us familiar, then wonder at our freedom.

Mercy on me! what a pity it is one cannot take a hackney­coach as formerly I used a seat in a Playhouse, at half price! It would be the certain making of me! Where­as this walking every day to and from 'Change creates such an appetite, that I foresee I shall eat myself out of house and home before Christmas; unless, indeed, I should be fortunate enough to be laid up with a strong fit of the gout, or visited by that old family complaint the rheumatism: Rare disorders both for economy! no eating, no drinking, no! But why delay commu­nicating the contents of friend Wentworth's letter to my daughter Flavia?

Ah, Flavia! child, good morrow!

Sir, good day to you!

Ah! child, my good days are all over.

All over, Sir; you alarm me! I do not un­derstand you.

Not any thing succeeds that I undertake; deceived at home, disappointed abroad, every day brings on new expences, and no money to pay with.

Excuse me, if I conceive you torment your­self, Sir, without a cause; as in the city I know you to be esteemed a good man.

Who? me, child? good? I good? Heaven forgive them who say so ill of me!

Is it then saying any ill of you, Sir, to say you are rich?

Can they say worse? for, supposing me rich, how can I be safe? shall I not be assassinated? will not my house be surrounded night and day with thieves? Double locks, treble keys, and a hamper of padlocks, will not avail me any thing!

If your affairs are as desperate as you would have them thought, permit me to enquire what it is you have in that strong box in your study, so curiously chain'd to the wall, which you keep lock'd with treble keys, and visit so regularly twice a-day?

Strong box, child? what strong box? I have no strong box:—That you see is an old iron chest, bought as a fixture with the house; and I keep it locked because there is nothing in it fit to be seen.

How then, Sir, are you to defray the ex­pences of my marriage, when—

Why that, child, is the very disappointment I was mentioning. Your intend­ed husband Mr. Montague is coming over, it's true; but 'tis in his coffin, I hear.

How, Sir! in his coffin, say you?

Yes. Our neighbour Wentworth has been with me this morning, with an account from abroad of his death in some absurd duel.—I don't like these same duels—shall ne'er like them again—as by this means you are at present disappointed of getting a husband—and I

in getting rid of a daughter. —Mercy on me! how care, as a body may say, mounts behind a man.

The manner of his death, Sir, I own affects me, and must have felt it severely, had not our know­ledge of each other been in its infancy when he left England. Are you acquainted, Sir, with any other particulars relative to this unhappy affair?

Not any; one misfortune I thought suf­ficient to know at a time. Besides, my thoughts were immediately turned on the hopes of recovering some­thing from his executors on the contract; for though he has lost his life, child, it is no reason I should lose my money.

How, Sir! recover on the contract? And is it possible such an idea could enter into your mind at an hour like that you received the fatal news in?

Night and day, child, business must be minded: "Take care of business, and it will take care of you," is an excellent saying; and as the opinion I mean to take will cost me nothing, why, if I find myself without a remedy, I'll e'en oblige you, and think no more about it. So, child, I'll just step in, send Robin to market, and then to cousin Capias, make a case of it as of a pauper, and return immediately.

Do you hear? not a word of my being a good man, or any strong box, I charge you.

How undesignedly do we often-times take pains to discover the very thing we would most wish to conceal. Nor am I, I fear, if I examine my own heart, less guilty in this particular than my father; for with all my caution and reprimands to this maid of mine, I fear she is more in the secret of my heart about Sir John Seymour than I could wish her. Surely, 'tis a strange weakness our sex are ever guilty of, in thus making confidants of those whose very interest it is often-times to betray us. But hark!— by the noise, my father, I fear, is returned;

as I live, and with him Tabby trembling like quicksilver!

So, madam Minx! you thought to escape me with this letter, did you?

Relying, I warrant, on my not having as much Mer­cury in my heels now as formerly! but you are mis­taken, you jade! I have enough left yet to do your business. And now pray tell me from whence comes it, and for whom is it design'd? For I can see no direction or post-mark it has

Thanks to the happy invention of lemon­juice!

Dear Sir, I am all over in such a fluster, not knowing what you meant to be at upon the stairs, that I scarce know whether I stand upon my head or my heels; nor shall I be able to recover myself, or tell you a single syllable, this half-hour, unless you take off your handcuffs.

Whence had it you, I say?

From a man, Sir.

As I suspected. And for my daughter, I suppose?

Yes, Sir; for your daughter—my mistress.

Why, sure, you do not mean to discover me?

Trust me for that, madam.

And you know it's contents, perhaps?

Not I, truly, Sir. How is it possible I should know what a letter contains, before it comes to my hands? and you do not seem very willing to part with it.

Not till Mrs. Pert there satisfies my curio­sity, by telling me from what man she had it.

That then, Sir, I can soon do, by assuring you I received it from Mr. Edging, the man-millener in Tavistock-street, and contains, I suppose, some new pattern for a ruffle, taken from the Lady's Magazine.

Female policy never fails a chamber-maid at a pinch, I see.

Oh! a pattern. Is that all?

All? yes, Sir; all. And a very pretty pattern, no doubt, you have made of yourself in this business.

Peace, insolence! Here then, child

take the pattern, if it is one.

Yes, Sir, it is a pattern, I assure you; and one, when I have finish'd, I hope you will approve.

Not having any direction on it, this cover may serve to keep a whole year's accounts. Ah! what would become of me, if I did not stoop

to these things myself.

What a miserable, suspicious, covetous old—Had he been my father, I believe I should have poisoned him a twelvemonth ago!

Why, daughter, you seem to be wonder­fully taken methinks with that same pattern.—My mind misgives me strangely.

How truly now does he speak, with­out knowing it!

It contains to deceit, believe me, Sir

and, with your leave, will in­stantly go and draw it out.

Well, well; do so, child.

Come then, Tabby, follow me: I shall have occasion for your assistance.

He little suspects, I believe, that fire is the engine my mistress draws with upon these occa­sions.

Go, for an impudent baggage!—And now, for neighbour Capias, whose opinion I must know before I discover—

Softly, rascal, or you will break all the eggs! Why, where are you running, in such a plaguy hurry?

To get dinner ready quickly, and not waste the fire.

Blockhead! fool! ass! have I not told you a thousand times, never to light the fire till the things for dinner are all brought into the house. How­ever, I have put it out;—therefore stay, and—

Zooks, what a—

Why, you rascal! if I had not a little [Page 7]oeconomy in these matters, you could not eat, as you do, twice a-day.

And when at father's, I am sure, I eat more at once.

But come; let's know what sort of a bargain you have made.

Here they are; the best in the market; eggs at a halfpenny a-piece.

And a dear bargain too.

Too small, by the sixteenth of an inch, I see already. Oh, Heavens! if I send such an extravagant dog as you to market, I shall soon be ruin'd. Well, spend-thrift, and how many have you brought me?

A groat's worth.

A groat's worth! Did ever any body hear the like? And what the devil, sirrah, can we do, do you think, with eight eggs?

Why, Sir, a'n't we four in family?

I know it, puppy! but can any person eat more than one egg, blockhead? Besides, a good servant, who minds his master's interest, would go to the cook's, cheapen every joint—taste all—buy none—and make a good meal into the bargain: Therefore, do you hear, puppy? take 'em in, and measure me four by my own egg-scale—you'll find it in the study—the rest you may carry back; I will not have them. And be sure make haste, as I'm but stepping to next door, and shall not be long before I return.

Not having any bowels himself, he never thinks of those who have. Measure an egg!

was there ever such a Save­all? O

Pinch-Gut-Farm how have I wrong'd you, in the many wry words I have given thee!

Well, Tabby, this attention and constancy of Sir John's, knowing me contracted to another at the time he first profess'd a partiality for me, I own is more than I expected; for the men in general, let them say what they will, are a mere changeable silk.

Yes, madam; but Sir John, like your old garnet and white tabby

is laing, you see. [Page 8]—A hint this I think she has worn it long enough; I hope she'll take it.

And now, Tabby, to your care and management I commit this letter; which, if possible, deliver to Sir John himself. I have there confirm'd to him the unfortunate affair of Mr. Mon­tague, and of my present situation.

Rather an unlucky affair for Mr. Montague, to be sure, madam; but it's an ill wind, they say, blows nobody good; and your remedy, I believe, waits only to be taken to hand.

Waste no time, good Tabby, in talking; but instantly go, lest my father return and enquire for you. Besides, I'm all impatience to know the result of my letter, before I speak to him on the subject.

Good or bad, I'll not delay it, madam; and as the distance is not far, I shall not be long in my return

So, so, so! misfortune on misfortune! and no remedy on the contract! How all mankind conspire to torment me—But may not cousin Capias have been guilty of a little mistake in practice here? The greatest lawyers have been. What if I send a Quaere or two to the Attorney-General of the Ledger? He is in full practice, and gives his opinion gratis. But then, like many other opinions, it may be worth nothing when I've got it; as he's often more knotty than his tye. Sure I was born a martyr to disappointments!

What trifle has discon­certed you now, Sir?

Trifle? All alike, I see, seeking my ruin. And where, pray, is that Jezebel your maid?

Gone out, Sir.

Gone out? To lay out more money, perhaps?

Rather, I hope, to bring some in, Sir. If you knew all—

Ay, Flavia? How, my child? That's a good girl! tell me, and be some comfort to me in the midst of my misfortunes!

Why, Sir—the letter—

Well, child—what of the letter? tell me.

Was, as you suspected, no pattern; but a letter from—

From whom? Speak, for I long to be weighing the money!

But you must first, Sir—weigh the man, if my happiness has any interest with you.

That, child, depends entirely upon what the principal is; therefore, explain; for as yet I un­derstand you not.

You must know then, Sir, that letter was from Sir John Seymour.

Well, child! from Sir John Seymour: Go on!

Your impatience, Sir, prevents my pro­ceeding.

Proceed then.

Who has long been an admirer of mine.

Why, I protest, I begin to admire you myself, child.

Let me entreat you, Sir, to—

Well, well! I have done, child: Go on!

But knowing the early contract you made with Mr. Montague, he despaired of success, and declined carrying his partiality for me beyond a gene­rous and polite friendship; but being since inform'd of the unhappy fate of Mr. Montague, has ventured to write on that subject, with a tender of his hand and heart, in case I confirm'd the truth of this information.

Well, and you have confirm'd it, have you not?

I have, Sir; and Tabby is now gone with the answer.

And wrote you nothing more?

Yes, Sir; that I would take an early opportunity of communicating the affair to you, and if possible prevail on you to permit his visits more openly.

That was dutiful: and you know, child, I was ever easily prevail'd on to your advantage—or my own. Sir John expects no money, I suppose?

My situation, Sir, has hitherto made it [Page 10]impossible for me ever to know his sentiments on that head.

Well, madam, I have seen Sir John; and here is—

Another pattern, is it, Mrs. Contriver? However, Flavia, take and read it, that I may know what way I may be pre­vailed on in this business.

So, so; my mistress has discovered all; and now see who will, I suppose.

Short, sensible, and to the purpose! I like it well; and, from it's contents, believe I shall not give your rhetoric, child, much trouble, as I find myself more than half inclined to give my consent already.

As things, then, Sir, should not be done by halves, give your full consent at once; and let me go tell Sir John you'll be glad to see him.

Do you think, hussey, your mistress has not a tongue of her own, that she needs your alarum to be always going?

Her good wishes for my happiness, Sir, may make her perhaps freer than is becoming; you must excuse her, therefore, for my sake: and as I have no reason to doubt the sincerity of Sir John, let me pre­vail on you to see him; for I confess he won my heart when I had not a hand to give him.

And now you have, he must not look for a single guinea to cross it with, if he expects my consent.

Well, Sir; but will it not be time enough to refuse when he makes the request?

No, child; a request in money-matters is better prevented than refused: Therefore you had better send and let him know I am at home, and shall be glad to see him; and the sooner the better; for delays, I find, are dangerous.

You see, madam—just as I said—no matter who the man is—for I'll venture to say, he knows no more of Sir John than I do the length of his bags, or he the getting up small linen.

Well, well, Tabby

delay not, but fly with your message instantly, and in a lover's key tell him the pleasing news.

And now I'm alone, I may safely examine neighbour Heeltap's rent; for "Count money, they say, after your father;" aye, and weigh it too, as the world goes, if you would avoid being cheated: And yet, after all our care and caution, a light guinea, I see

will be creeping in. This knave of a Crispin had but five pounds to pay me for a whole year's rent, and three out of the five I see are short

Oh, the hang dog! the sweater! I will instantly send him notice to quit at Christmas. Here, Robin! Robin!

Why, Robin, I say!

Mercy on me! what vile noise is that I hear? Upon these occasions, a man's money

is never safer than in his own pocket; and now come who will.

Master Wentworth, Sir; and Sir; and Sir John Sey­mour.

I am glad to see you, neighbour; and your friend there.

A friend of mine, Sir Jacob? why, he is more likely to be a friend of yours, I understand.

Ah! that's as it may turn out.

Miss Flavia, your daughter, Sir, has long been the object of my affection.

Has she?—Here Robin,

go call her down!—The fight of her, perhaps, may throw him off his guard.

Yes, Sir.

And, but for a prior engagement I under­stood she was under, should have declared my inten­tions much sooner.

She has no money, Sir John; a right philosopher; she carries all she has about her. But then she's a girl of such prudence—

And that's a rare quality in this age.

Why, she is prudence itself; writes an admirable hand, and casts accounts like a broker.

Uncommon talents these.

And then she works with her needle like a nun.

A fortune in itself.

And, in my mind, as good, if not ac­tually better, than money. Why, prudence is worth at least a hundred a-year, and a hundred a-year in the three and a half per cent. is worth 3000l. there's one item. Writing will save a steward's wages; that's 50l. a-year; and, in the three and a half per cent. is worth at least 1500l; there's another item. Needlework is dear now; her needlework is worth at least 60l. a-year; 60l. a-year, long annuities, is 1500l. more. So you see, Sir John, there's a fortune of 6000l. paid down at once; no bonds, no mortgages, all ready money; prompt payment, Mr. Wentworth.

And my friend Sir John, I dare say, will not have the least objection to settle the whole of the lady's fortune on her.

Will he?

And a considerable addition from my own, Sir Jacob; sufficient, I hope, to make two affectionate hearts happy; or rather one; for

here comes all my soul holds dear.

But is Sir John, neighbour, tenant in fee, or tenant for life only? for that, you know—

Yes, Sir Jacob; I know you are the most fortunate man in the world, in having such a son-in-law; in himself amiable, in his family noble, in his fortune independent.

Say you so? why then, if he settles her fortune upon her for life, and his own upon first and other sons in tail-male, I think I may venture to give my consent without further enquiry. And so, Sir John, and daughter Flavia

as the making of others happy is two and a half per cent. better than making one's self so; why, you have my consent to marry when you please. In the mean time, that I may not retract, being old, and have gotten but a shallow memory, with your leave, Sir John, we will enter into a bit of a contract, which our friend Went­worth here will witness on your part, and I on that of my daughter.

I cannot have the least objection, Sir; and, with your leave, Sir Jacob, will ring for pen, ink, and paper.

I believe I can save you the trouble

and at the table there we shall finish this business in the dispatch of a transfer.—See how

time and accident bring things to use!

Of what place shall I write you?

Of Seymour-Place, in Dorsetshire.

Of Seymour-Place in Dorset­shire. There,

I believe little else is necessary now but to sign.

Not any thing, Sir.

But should not the lady, Sir Jacob, have read to her what she is to sign.

No, she's a dutiful girl, and will sign any thing I bid her.—There

As for instance, Sir.

But as you, Sir John, are principal in this business, you'll please to sign next.

Most chearfully

And now, that jezebel Tabby once dis­charged, all my she cares are over.

Robin, Sir, being out of the way, I answered the door myself, and here is a strange ser­vant below, earnest to speak with you.

How! with me, say you?

Yes, Sir, with you, and you only; and that instantly, he says.

My very words, believe me, Sir Jacob.

Well, fellow, would you speak with any one here?

Or I must return you no answer, Sir.

And what want you? who are you? whence come you?

Softly, good old gentleman, if you please: three interrogations in a breath are too much for any honest man to answer.

Will you tell me, fellow, who you are, I say? or will you get out of my house?

The first before the last, if you please then: and, at a word, I am the servant of my master.

But who is your master, jackanapes?

A stranger, good Sir; therefore, as a stranger, with your leave, I will return and say you give him welcome.

Has this stranger no name, varlet?

Doubtless; and I think a very honest one: 'Tis

somewhat of the longest, I confess— his name is George Frederic Montague.

Who! how! what!

Yes, Sir—George Frederic Montague— (who, as I said before, has the good fortune to have me for his servant)—is just arrived post from Dover, desires to see you, sent me with this message, and now expects my return with impatience, to be admitted

And if you want to know who I am, my name—or rather names—for you must know—like master like man—I have my three—John Epaulet Trimwell, gentleman and valet-de-chambre, as you see, to this very honorable stranger.

'Tis all a lie, rascal! Mr. Montague, your master as you impudently call him, is dead.

Dead is he?

Yes; dead.

Poor gentleman! he must certainly walk then; for he was alive and in tolerable good spirits not a quarter of an hour ago; and they must have done him great injustice, to have killed him without my knowing any thing of the matter.

Just or unjust, I tell you he is dead, ab­solutely dead.

I believe there is no doubt of it.

Excuse me, Sir, if my doubts are not so easily satisfied; and with your leave, will step and soon convince ye, ye are all in the wrong here.

What can all this mean? Sir Jacob! this fellow is either a knave or a fool.

Both, neighbour Wentworth, both; and deserves to be set in the stocks. A rascal! I wish I were a justice of the peace, for his sake!

And yet what he says of Mr. Montague seems very particular, notwithstanding my letter.

But see, he returns; and with him the person whom he calls his master.

Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce my dead master to you; and pray peruse him well. Do, [Page 16]Sir, speak, and convince this honorable company, and particularly that good old gentleman there

that you are really flesh and blood, and not the dead thing they took you for.

Why, really, Sir Jacob, I must confess it has more the appearance of the one than the other, from the strange reception my sudden arrival has met with from you; which ought to be what the French call enjoué, and not hold a barbare English consultation to know whether you are at home or not.

Beggars and strangers, young gentleman, I am never at home to.

But as I am neither one or the other, Sir, I—

No? why, who are you? I know you not! Your gentleman puppy there, indeed, calls you George Frederic Montague; but he fell in a duel, by the hand of one Neville, as my neighbour here can testify

Such, certainly, was the information I received from my correspondent, by the last mail from Paris.

A mere affair of gallantry, believe me; and a slight scratch soon settled the business, as these letters and papers will confirm.

You know the hand and seal. Trimwell, give this note to that gentleman

then instantly go to Lowe's Hotel, enquire after my letters; I have ordered them to be directed there, as well as those for my sister Clarissa. Be care­ful of them till my return, which will not be long first.

As I suspected; and the whole of neighbour Wentworth's foreign intelligence a cursed lie, perhaps! and my daughter engaged in two contracts at once! I shall go distracted! had she died in her cradle, I had been happy! But what say the letters?

Do, dear Wentworth, explain; for I am on the rack.

The papers he has given Sir Jacob, and my note, will I presume unravel this whole mystery.

What may this mean? I think I may safety comply with the request.

Why, these papers, Sir John, prove the bearer to be no other than the very Montague my daughter was contracted to; but the frippery airs, dress, and manners of a French court, have so altered and womaniz'd him, as a body may say, I knew him not. Your contract, therefore, shall be return'd you; and you, child, may go in and say your prayers; and thank Heaven, in the confusion, you are likely to have any hust and at all. —Either way, I part with no money; that's my com­fort in the worst of ills.

Insolent, unfeeling old wretch! But know, young man

it shall not end here; for he must win her first who wears her now, and that from the point of my sword! You may perhaps see me again, Sir.

Let me prevail on you, Sir, to follow your friend, and divert him if possible from a resolution I so feelingly dread being put in execution on this strange discovery, whilst I retire.

Strange indeed, madam! but, by waiting the event of matters, I may be the better able perhaps to prevent any ill consequences.

Well, Sir Jacob, have the letters and papers confirm'd me the living or the dead Montague, contracted to your daughter?

Living or dead, I [Page 18]wish you were safely in bed together, that I might at once know the end of all my care and expence.

I have an hundred pound bill

Sir,

I must get you to discount for me, as the expence of travelling has taken away all my ready money; and in London, I am told, we are oftener in want of small change than sums.

The bill I suppose is good.

As a French banker's credit, with an Eng­lish acceptance, can make it.

Well, well; I'll step to a neighbour's, and see what I can do. You pay the discount? for I see it has three days to run.

By all means, Sir; and your coach-hire into the bargain.

I shall find you here at my return?

Or at the Hotel in Covent-Garden; I am there for the present: And in case of my absence, it may be lest with my servant; I believe him honest, and may be trusted.

As my own strong box is my neighbour upon these occasions, to walk to it, and charge coach-hire, would be a stroke known hitherto only to lawyers. Populus me sibilat at mihi plaudo.

Since the opportunity, Sir, now offers, in me behold

Clarissa, sister to the living Montague; and learning you were here, presumed on the long intimacy which subsisted between you and my late father, to write the note my servant gave you.

Ah! is it possible? Time, and the little knowledge I had of you whilst in England, and your present disguise, I confess made me not recollect you.

I must rely for the present on your secrecy and friendship.

Rely on both. Pray proceed.

The death of my brother, and his falling by the hands of Mr. Neville, were mere reports; the first taking rise from a duel he was engaged in at Rome, on an affair of honourable love; and the latter from Mr. Neville's sudden departure from Paris on the cool [Page 19]reception his addresses to me met with from my brother, who no sooner recovered and married the lady, than my love for Neville returned, and deter­mined me to personate my brother, and follow him here to England.

And have you been successful in your pursuit?

Being but just arrived, I have not: his leaving Paris without ever daring to bid me adieu, I know not where he is.

And pray what may be the steps you mean to take?

To remain in this disguise; by the help of which, and the letters I have brought, Sir Jacob will not suspect the deceit, and I shall be the better able to make those enquiries after Mr. Neville, which in my own character, as a woman, might perhaps be thought indelicate. Besides, from a Chancery trust reposed in Sir Jacob, was he to know of my design, he would certainly use every art to prevent my ever marrying at all.

I see your situation, and from the deli­cacy of it will give you every assistance possible. You lodge at the Hotel, you say?

And the short time I mean to stay, this dis­guise will protect me. Favor me with your company there, and I'll explain more to you.

ACT II. SCENE I.

NEVER, sure, was Hounslow post-horse more weary in going a double stage, than I in waiting for this same master of mine. After a journey, to take some refreshment suits most travel­lers; yet he takes nothing here, but his portmanteau and humble servant, then instantly sets out to pay a visit to a covetous old dog of a miser, who knowing persons of my rank and order are at board-wages, would sooner see a stranger break his neck in his house than his fast. I can bear this airy diet no longer; I will e'en go and appease the angry tumults within, by finding some diversion for my teeth

But who have we here?

Arrah! my dear master, your portman­teau is so mortal heavy, and little Timsey has padded so far with it, he must be after giving his shoulders a holiday awhile

Let it be short then; as I am going only to that Hotel

Long or short, if I am to be after carry­ing it any further, I must get a brother of the strap, I believe, to lend me a cast of his office, by carrying it for me.

A-propos! you seem at leisure, honest friend; do lend this chairman a hand with this portmanteau into that Hotel,

whilst I discharge him.

With pleasure, Sir; but as he is tired, [Page 21]had I not better lend him two when I am about it?

A clever fellow this. Here, Sir

Little Tim's not paid, your honour.

Here then, friend.

Oh, long life to your honour! you could not give me less for carrying your wig-box! and I am sure your portmanteau made little Timsey reel again.

There then! now are you paid?

Arrah, faith am I! and in full, and so your sarvent!

O, my jewel, that little Timsey was but a jontleman, to return the civi­lity!

The impositions of these fellows are into­lerable

So, friend, you have done as I desired you?

I have, Sir.

And pray what sort of a house is this?

An excellent Hotel, Sir, I assure you: Good beds, handsome furniture, a man-cook, and civil waiters; lodging sit for an Ambassador at least.

You are a servant, I presume.

It being my misfortune (as it is that of many others) to have the appetite of a gentleman, without the estate, I am; and in my services, Sir— clock-like—to be set a-going either backward or for­ward, at a master's pleasure.

Have you been long a servant?

Coming, Sir, of a running generation, I have been of the trade ever since I could go.

Indeed!

Even so, Sir. My father was ticket­porter to one of the inns of court; my mother went out a-washing; and, when with-child of me, a few shirts being missing from one of her customers, out of pure modesty, she fairly run the country; so that you see, Sir, I was born to my trade, and have it by birth and education.

Are you in want of a master then?

At present I am, Sir.—And no lie either.

And I in want of a servant, during my stay here, which is uncertain: Would you choose to engage?

Most readily.—For who knows, our's being but a travelling engagement, my first master may mean to give me the slip

—What are your terms, Sir?

Three guineas a-month.

I am your man, Sir; my name Trim­well; and the best recommendation—

Is your countenance; on which I shall depend without further enquiries. Here's money. Enquire at the lodge, if there are any letters for Mr. Neville, whilst I step in and give some neces­sary orders.

Let me see; three guineas a-month, and a bachelor's sineture place? No bad circumstance this of the port­manteau, I think; times are pressing, and behoves men of my industry to look about them. And as for my young Parisian, should he mean to resign me, why, Trimwell's provided for. And now for the letters. Neville, I think, is the name.

Trimwell!

Oh, the devil! here's my other master, before I was aware of him.

Where are you going? I ordered you to wait at the Hotel.

True, Sir; but being impatient for your return, I kept upon the look-out, and chance directed me this way.

This fellow of hers is a shrewd one, I warrant, by the ease and air of his dialect.

Go then, and enquire if there are any letters for me or for my sister, as I ordered you.

Where, pray, Sir, am I to bring them?

To my apartments in the Hotel: You will find us there.

The devil I shall! A [Page 23]rare town this! half-an-hour ago, I scarce knew whe­ther I had any master at all or not, and now I have two, and both in a house. What shall I do with them? for they say there is no serving two: And yet why not? Double wages, double meals, are great spurs to invention. Courage, Trimwell, and go exe­cute both thy masters' orders at once!

A lucky circumstance this; for, if I mistake not, this is Montague's ser­vant I saw at Sir Jacob's. Pray, friend, where can I find your master?

In that Hotel, Sir. Which master now does he mean, I wonder.

Go tell him then, a gentleman wishes to speak with him; whom, if he is a man of honour, he will not refuse seeing.

By his manner, all is not right, I fear: I will excuse myself therefore carrying the message

It being an Hotel, Sir, if you please to step in, the servants of the house will obey any of your commands, as I am in haste to execute some orders I have just received,—from—

No trifling, Sir! but go this moment with my message.

You must know, Sir, my master is—

Shew me the way this instant, sirrah, or—

Go I must, I see; so I'll e'en take him to the first master I find. This way, Sir, if you please.

No; never shall a rival carry off my lovely Flavia! I must not, will not, lose her! and tho' this Mon­tague may have escaped death in Paris, he—

There, that's the gentleman, Sir; and now, with your leave, I'll step to enquire about the letters. Indeed, I believe I had better step [Page 24]any where than wait the event of this business.

Your commands with me, Sir?

With you, Sir! I do not re­collect I ever had the honour of seeing you before.

I was informed by the servant, Sir, you earnestly desired to see me, and spoke in terms which carried some resentment with them.

He misunderstood me then most exceed­ingly, Sir; and I ask pardon for the mistake: but the person I spoke of is his master; who is a—

I am his master, Sir, and am what?

You his master, Sir?

Yes, I most certainly am, Sir.

Why then, Sir, there is the strongest re­semblance I ever saw, between your servant and the servant of a gentleman just arrived from Paris.

It is not long since I left that place my­self, Sir.

The name of the gentleman I want is Montague.

I knew him well, Sir.

As the affair then between us does not require secrecy, that gentleman, by virtue of a con­tract, now seeks to rob me of the only woman I adore, and am myself contracted to!

He will never then accomplish his design, or interrupt your felicity, Sir; as I have been informed, within this hour, he died soon after I left that place.

Pardon me, Sir, but the report is totally groundless; as I this morning saw him alive and well; and Sir Jacob Thrift, the lady's father, has taken every possible method to be assured of his iden­tity, and by letters and other credentials it is now be­yond a doubt. And as you say you have some know­ledge of him, if you should chance to meet him be­fore I see him, let me intreat you to tell him, that if he merits the hand he aspires to, Sir John Sey­mour expects to hear from him as a man of honour ought, who glories in being his rival, and hope my [Page 25]situation will justify the liberty of the request I am now making. Sir, your servant.

Sir, your servant. A strange adventure this! I am actually lost in astonishment! Montague recovered, and now in England? In either case, I will instantly return to Paris on the wings of love, to behold my charming Clarissa once more, and prevail on her if possible to be mine; for Sir John Seymour's situation is not more distressing than my own.

Here, Sir; here is your—

Trimwell, will you go with me to Paris?

When, Sir?

Instantly.

What! to-night, Sir?

No; we will sleep first, and set out by day-break.

I'm for a nap then first, Sir, if you please; as I entirely agree with friend Sancho, that he was a wise man who first invented sleep. Here are your letters, Sir

—But I have made a strange mistake I fear, by putting both masters' letters into one pocket! what shall I do? I have it

—A brother liveryman, Sir, desired me to en­quire at the same time for his master's letters; but being all foreigners, and I not understanding the lan­guage, be pleased, Sir, to examine and take what are for you

, and—

Ah! what do I see? a letter directed to Clarissa Montague? and to be left at Lowe's Hotel till called for?—What can this mean? I am in a maze! Can she too be in England, and I not know it?—Where is the servant for whose master you had this letter? what is his name? and with whom does he live? speak instantly!

His name, Sir— is—is—is—Richard—and he lives with—with—I ne­ver heard with whom, Sir.

Why, how could you ask for his master's letters, if you did not know his name?

True, Sir.—What invention now?

Oh, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, Sir, with a direction where to find him.

Give me that paper.

I have it not, Sir; I have lost it out of my pocket—I—

How then is this letter to be delivered, if you do not know where to find him?

On second thoughts, Sir,—I recollect— he was to meet me in the Piazza; and if you please to give me the letter, I will go find him.

No, Trimwell, this letter concerns me nearly, and I am determined to open it.

—And yet the indelicacy of such a step cannot be justified; I will not, there­fore, open it. But charge you, as you regard my hap­piness, and your own interest, go find Richard in­stantly, and learn from him where he is to carry the letter

and be not long in your re­turn, as I expect a person with money, which, in case of my absence, you must receive.

Your commands shall be obeyed, Sir.— But what excuse have I, Sir, for it's having the seal broke?

I will reseal it

and if you but find Richard, all will be well again, and you amply re­warded.

Richard—

He little thinks, I believe, this same Richard is no other than my other master; to whom I will instantly go and de­liver this letter.

Trimwell! what has delay'd you thus? have you enquired about my letters, as I ordered you?

I have, Sir, and received only this one.

How's this? a letter from Paris, and seal'd with Neville's arms!

What can this mean? It is not his hand. If he is returned there, I am utterly undone.

It has [Page 27]been opened!—To whom, Sir, have you betrayed the secrets of this letter?

Open'd, Sir? It cannot be! why, it has never been out of my hands since I received it.

And are you hardy enough to deny it, villain? why, look!

On my knees, kind Sir, I entreat your forgiveness! but there coming a letter also for me from an old withered relation of mine in the country, who wrote a hand I never could read, I applied to a civil good-natured gentleman to read it for me, and in my hurry gave him your letter for mine, which he resealed the moment we disco­vered the mistake.

From the arms, this civil gen­tleman could certainly be no other than Neville himself. And where, pray, did you meet this kind friend of yours?

At—at—at—

By the confusion of his answers, I suspect his veracity: However, I'll go communicate the circumstances to Mr. Wentworth, and in my way call on Sir Jacob, lest he discover my situation before I receive my money.

What a fortunate planet must I have been born under, to have matters go on thus swim­mingly! Egad, Trimwell, if your masters will find you in belief, you will find them in lies, I warrant. What an immense sum now should I be worth to a prime-minister, as a porter; for I can out-lie a cour­tier, a lover, a chamber-maid, a milliner's apprentice, a lawyer, or even the news-papers at a general election.

Well, Mr. Gentleman, is your honour's master within? I have urgent business with him.

Which now of my honourable masters can old Cent. per Cent. want? To be inqui­sitive is the very badge of our office: I'll sift him.— What, pray, Sir, may be your business with him?

That's no answer to my question, Mr. [Page 28]Inquisitive! My business is with him, not with you; therefore, is he within, or no, I say?

Unless I know your business, Sir, he is not within.

Oh, the insolence of office!— But, when I have told you my business, will he be within then, think you?

Perhaps he may—if I like your business.

Why then, Mr. Prime-Minister, be pleased to tell your master, I have brought the money, and desire to know if he be within or no.

I'll e'en venture then to say no, in order to give one or other of my masters a proof of my honesty, should old Square-toes dare trust me with it; therefore—No, Sir; my master's not within, I assure you.

Where can I find him?

I know not: it's a question we seldom ask each other when we go out.

And his return—

Like my own, uncertain.

Are you honest?

Tolerably so. Who dare doubt it?

Here, then; take this bag of an hundred pounds; and be sure you give it him when he returns; and tell him, I have book'd the discount and charges.

Yes, Sir.

And yet, notwithstand­ing my commission, it were prudent, methinks, not to leave it without a receipt: the hang-dog, with his tolerable honesty, may say he never received it

—So, do you hear? you can write, I suppose, Mr. Gentleman's—gentleman?

Write, Sir?

Yes, Sir, write? as I don't chuse to leave the money without a receipt.

Oh, you are perfectly right, Sir; and, if you please, I'll take the money in with me, and bring a receipt ready wrote.

But I do not chuse any such thing, Sir, or to part with you or the money out of my sight, [Page 29]without a receipt; therefore, come to the table, and write one instantly.

It would be better worded, Sir, I should think, if you would please to set down and write it, and let me sign it.

What, blockhead, you cannot write a receipt, I suppose!

To be sure, Sir, joining, with a few pounds, shillings, and pence, was as far as I went in my education; more, in one of my cloth, would have been pedantry.

Here, then

let us see what sort of a scrawl you make.

There, that will do; and now, dispose of it as your tolerable honesty, or knavery, best advises; I care not.

A fair wind to you, old trader! And I shall not find it a difficult matter, I believe, to per­suade either of my young captains to receive your lading, and pay the duty.

Well, Trimwell; have you been and found Richard, as I ordered you?

No, Sir; but I have found a much better thing—this bag of money. You expected to receive some?

Yes; an hundred pounds.

The money is certainly yours then, Sir; exactly the sum.

And, while I examine it, I once more de­sire you not to rest till you have found Richard.

I will feek him high and low, Sir, instantly.

Do so.

I am glad, however, the right owner has got the money.

How distressed and agitated has this circumstance of the letter made me! Its being directed "to be left till [Page 30]called for," makes every present search after her uncer­tain, and carries with it the appearance of a secresy most alarming. What if I go to Sir Jacob's, on the information received from Sir John? By pretending business with her brother, I may hear, perhaps, some­thing of my Clarissa, without my design being even suspected. It shall be so.

Blockhead! how often have I told you I am never at home to men without names? come to rob me, perhaps! I will not see him.

He looks like no such sort of a parson, Sir.

Looks, fool? who trusts to looks now-a-days, when thieves, sharpers, and swindlers, are as well drest as lords and courtiers on a birth-day? no, no; I will not see him.

Let me prevail on you, Sir; it may be somebody you'd wish to see.

Well then, if I must—do you hear?— go shew him up.—But be sure, daughter, you do not leave the room; for tho' you cannot defend me your­self, you can scream and raise the house.

Perhaps somebody from Mr. Montague, or Sir John.

Whoever it is, he's here, to answer for himself, I see.

You see, Sir Jacob, I use the freedom of a son-in-law already; but money, you know—

Is soon parted with. You have been at some gaming-table at the west end of the town, I warrant; and now come to take up more to carry to the same market.

You, I see, Sir Jacob, are taking upon you the authority of a father-in-law; and, by your prudent care, have prevented my being guilty of the excesses you lay to my charge, as you have not yet paid me my money.

How! not paid you? that's pleasant.

Rather serious, Sir, as my errand here is to receive it.

Reckon fair, if you never pay, young gentleman! Come, come, you have received it.

I beg, Sir, to be rightly understood! and, when I say I have not received it, a gentleman tells you so; and am now come to receive it.

That's being serious, indeed! but, Sir, to be as serious as you, the money has been paid.

That's a mistake, or something worse, Sir Jacob; and permit me to say, it has not been paid.

I have debited your account.

Then, Sir, if you have debited my account, as you call it, act like an honest man, and let it be for value received!

I have been in quest of my master—

There's the man I paid it to.

Why, what's the matter now, old gentle­man?

Sirrah, you have received the money; I paid it you. Where's my hundred pounds, villain?

Hundred pounds! gone into a hundred hands, by this time.

There—there—I said so.—I paid it you by your master's orders.

You paid it me, by my master's order; and, by my master's order, I paid it to my master.

There! I said I had a witness: The thing is clear, you see; you have received it, young gentle­man.

I received it! what does all this mean?— Rascal

have you paid me an hundred pounds?

No, Sir.

Now, Sir Jacob!

Have not you paid it to your master?

Yes, Sir.

Now, Mr. Montague!

Have you paid it to me?

I have not paid it to you, Sir.

Pay it back to me then.

I have paid it to my master.

Will you persist, villain, in saying you have paid me?

No, Sir—not you—I never meant it—I never paid you a shilling.

Robber! Villain! Plunderer! where's my hundred pounds? you have it; you have given a receipt

You shall go before a ma­gistrate! there's one just by; he owes me money, and will hang you for nothing.

If you will but let me speak—do, spare my life, Sir—I performed my trust like an honest man, Sir—and my master—

Your master again, Sir!

No, not to you, Sir; here's the gentleman, Sir, that I paid it to.

So, so! you are welcome, Sir! you have my money then, have you?

I your money, Sir? not one shilling of yours; I have received my own.

Villain! Murderer!

the gentleman contradicts you. You shan't wait for the gallows; I'll execute you myself.

You—hurry a man out of his senses.

You dog, you have hurried me out of my money! and I'll hurry you out of your life!

I tell you, Sir—that is the gentleman I paid the money to, by your order.

Did he pay you an hundred pounds?

The fellow tells you truth.

There; you see, Sir; I always tell truth.

Then it was my money he paid you.

No, it was my money, Sir; money in­tended for me! and let me tell you, Sir

—How!—how is this?—that face?—can I believe my eyes?

What miracle is this?—that voice?—can I believe my ears?

I am ready to faint.—Mr. Neville!

My Clarissa! it is—it must be so—and we shall yet be happy.

Good Heavens! a woman! Never sure appeared deceit more amiable.

"Mr. Neville—my Clarissa—and still be happy?" Why, what the devil are they at now? what is all this?

Oh, let me thus enfold you within these arms.

I am happy to find such a shelter; and let the step I have taken convince you of my affection. More I cannot at present communicate.

So, so! my master is my mistress then at last.

My young lady would have been finely off in a husband: I shall never trust to the evidence of my eyes or ears again, I believe.

Here's a discovery, neighbour Wentworth! This same George Frederick Montague is a woman at last; and her hopeful brother, my in­tended son-in-law, alive and merry, I fear.

I knew it all, Sir Jacob; and came to en­joy the denouement.

And what, pray, Sir John, came you to enjoy?

The news my friend Wentworth in­formed me of—your intended son-in-law being married at Rome; and hope every obstacle to your daughter's happiness and my own is now removed. What say you, my Flavia?

If my father consents, Sir, the inclination of my heart is sufficiently known to you.

How! what! Alive and married, say you? worse and worse!

Even so, believe me, Sir Jacob.

Alive or dead then, it shall go hard but I'll recover on the contract.—But, you baggage, you! what a spirit you must have to adventure thus!—A woman want to marry my daughter.—That's plea­sant!—But my money! you wanted my money too! [Page 34]Villain!

impostor! rascal! I hear no certain account of that all this time.

As for names, good Sir, call me as many as you please—they are slight wounds, and will break no bones—Scoundrel and rascal are the familiar terms of society, and friendship is a great-coat we put off and on as best suits our conveniency. But will not you, kind Sir,

be pleased to be my advo­cate upon this occasion, and set this matter right.

I certainly, Sir Jacob, received an hundred pound from him.

Design'd for Mr. Clarissa there?

No, design'd for me, and delivered to my servant.

Your servant! why, who the devil servant is he?

Mine.

Mine.

Yours!

Yours!

I hired him at the Hotel.

As did I, and received the best of cha­racters with him from the master.

Now do I wish I was safe in the Bastile, or in bed with a high sever.

How like a hang-dog do you look! have you nothing to say for yourself, impostor?

To be sure, I have been a little unlucky in my services of to-day, both in this money-business, and in the affair of the letters; but as every thing seems likely to find it's right owner, and no ill conse­quences have happen'd, I hope I shall be pardon'd by you, Sir

by you, Sir—that is to say, by you, madam

and by you, good Sir

Most readily; your mistakes have made me the happiest of women.

And me the happiest of men.

And, as I see I'm to lose nothing by it, why, I forgive you. But you're a sad dog!

Why, Sir, you must acknowledge, I am as gentlemen go now; a kind of a person, with a shabby fort of genteel about me. I told you truth about the [Page 35]money, and you see I have been serving but one master all this time.

There seems some honesty about the fellow after all.—Sir Jacob, may I now aspire to take your daughter's hand?

Ay, ay: Here

I give it you with all my soul; and if I recover hand­somely on the contract, I may perhaps find in my heart to give ye—your wedding-supper into the bargain.

That, Sir Jacob, I have taken the li­berty of providing.

Have you so? why, that is kind and friendly of you. And if ever I marry—which Heaven forbid, till there's an act for exporting all the false heads and false bottoms in the kingdom!—I'll return the compliment. Let us lose no time, there­fore, but in to business; for every man has business

such as it is. And now, may you both be as happy as modern matrimony can make you!

The possessing a woman of virtue, Sir Jacob

is with me it's best security.

And with me

the greatest blessing man is capable of receiving.