SCENE I.

BUT, my dear Uncle, why in such a passion?—

I can't help it—I am out of all patience!—Did not I leave you one of the happiest men in the world?—

Well, and so you find me, Sir.

'Tis false—you are not happy—you can't be happy— 'tis false—and you shan't be happy.

If you are resolved to make me otherwise, Sir—

No, I am not resolved—'tis yourself that is resolved—Did not I leave you one of the happiest of men?—married to one of the most beautiful women in the world?—Did not I give you my blessing and a large fortune, and did I not stay and see you father of a fine boy?—Then only just stept over to visit my estate in St. Kitts, and, now I'm come back, here I find you married to another woman—and your first wife still living—and, egad, she is married to another man.

Dear Uncle, I should certainly have asked your opinion and my Uncle An­thony's on the subject, but your absence put it out of my power, and it was universally believed the ship in which you sailed was lost.

Well, you'll hear what my brother will say to it.

I trust, Sir, when I have ex­plained every thing, you will not only think me worthy of your pardon but even of being plead­ed for to my Uncle.

Not I, indeed—Nay, were it in my power to do you any good, I wou'd not—I shan't forgive you myself—much less ask him—But you are right in fixing on me for a mediator; my brother pays much regard to me truly—I have been of infinite service, to be sure, in reconciling him to his own poor boy. Nay, did he not even (for my brother Anthony would always be mas­ter, although he was the youngest) when I went to him to persuade him to forgive poor Charles, [Page 3]his son, did he not even (instead of my gaining him over and getting something for the poor boy) did he not even draw me into a promise never to do any thing for him myself?—My bro­ther does what he pleases with me—but nobody else shall—No, what I want in resolution, to him, I'll make up in obstinacy, to other peo­ple.

Sir, if you will but hear the just pleas I have to offer—

I will hear no pleas—What do you think my brother will say? Why you inconsi­derate boy! He had designed you for his heir!

I should be as sorry, Sir, to excite his displeasure as I am at incurring yours; yet, give me leave to add, I should derive very little enjoyment from the possession of a fortune which his son, my poor cousin, (but for a single act of imprudence) had a right to expect. And be assured, Sir, that if this seeming indiscretion of mine, when compared with that of his son's, shou'd be regarded so unfavorably as to make his offence appear lighter to my Uncle, and move him to forgiveness—I will contentedly support the burthen of his resentment.

Why now that's well spoken—You silly young rogue, I am not angry with you for getting rid of your wife—(for that I dare say is what every sensible man in the world wou'd do, if he cou'd) I am only angry with you for getting another—Cou'd not you know when you were well off, you blockhead?

Dear Uncle, as you are a bachelor, and can only speak of wives from the­ory, suppose we drop the subject?—Is my Uncle Anthony come to his house? He knows no­thing of the alteration that has taken place in my family, you tell me.—Shou'd I wait on him, or do you think he will favor me with a visit first?

Now what a deal of cere­mony!—'Tis a fine thing to look like a man of consequence. My brother Anthony has had more privilege [...] from his looks than I ever had from being eldest son—even you, whom I love so well, and have given half my fortune to (and 'tis not long you know that you have expected a six pence from Anthony) yet you never meet him without a low bow. "How do you do Sir?—I hope you are well, Uncle!—I am glad to see you!"—And you stumble over me, with "So Uncle, how is it? how is it Uncle"—And when you in­vite us both, "Uncle Anthony, I hope I shall have the honor of your company"—While you give me a nod, "Uncle, I shall see you."

Dear Sir—

Nay, with every other person 'tis the same thing—If we are stuffed into a coach, with a little chattering pert Miss, "Oh dear, Mr. Anthony Euston, you must not ride back­wards, here is room for you on this seat—and Mr. Euston, I know, will like one seat as well as ano­ther"—ad then am I put with my back to the horses, though my head is whirling all the time [Page 5]like one of the coach wheels. Then if any thing be lost, or wanted, when no servant is by, "Mr. Anthony Euston must not stir for the world—but Mr. Euston, they know, will be so kind as to go for it."—And this is all because I am good na­tured. Egad! if this is my reward, no wonder there are so few in the world of my temper.

But, dear Sir, no jesting—Does my Uncle intend to call on me or not?

Yes, I dare say he did intend it; and, if he does not hear of what you have been doing, before he gets to your house, he will.

Why then, my dear Uncle, will you step home, and give orders that none of the servants mention any thing to him this morning?

There now!—" I step home and give orders!" There 'tis, again!—Wou'd you ask my brother to "step home, and give orders?" No, I fancy not!—But I—poor I—will be so good as to do it you think—But for once I won't—Besides, Anthony never asks questions of servants. We enquired of our house-keeper, indeed, how you did, last night; she told us both you and your Lady were well, and so we thought all safe. Anthony will ask no more questions, therefore you may have the pleasure of explaining matters to him yourself, as you have to me.

I shou'd be sorry if any imper­fect account shou'd reach him; for, so sincere is my respect for him, I wou'd not even suffer for [Page 6]a moment in his esteem. I will be with him in half an hour, but I am afraid—

No, no, he'll not be out, nor have had any company in that time—for my brother is no sailor, and he'll be too fond of the exchange of a bed for a hammock to be stirring so soon. However, I think I will step home and give a caution to the servants that they don't mention your divorce to him.—As for my­self, I'll keep out of his way—I'll not go near him—for I will say this for my brother, although it was never in my power to persuade him to for­give an injury or an indiscretion in my life, yet I never said to him, "Brother Anthony don't forgive a thing," that he did not take my ad­vice.

Come, Uncle, walk into the parlor before you go—Let me introduce you to Lady Euston—Do step in and take your choco­late with her.

And, by the time I have ta­ken a turn in the Park, and eaten a mouthful of dinner, you'll, perhaps, have a new Lady Euston to introduce me to, and I may drink tea with her.

Well, Uncle, whether you stay or go, I must bid you a good morning, for I am obliged to attend a friend, who has a lawsuit depending, and I fear I shall be waited for—my presence won't be required long, and I'll be with my Uncle Anthony within half an hour.

Very well,

but you had better take an hour—Let me advise you to take an hour. Anthony is devilish sharp—he is not to be imposed upon. Take an hour, or an hour and half, before you see him—Anthony is a deep man, he is not to be deceived—for, I dare say, in his time, he has been as idle as yourself—and I will go on your errand.

SCENE II.

Married!

Yes, my Lady, as sure as death.

Amazing! It cannot be.

O yes, my Lady, I have known of it these three months; but, as they kept out of town till within this fortnight, and your Lady­ship has been abroad most of that time, I thought I would not tell your Ladyship till we returned to London, when your Ladyship was sure to hear of it. Why they live but just by, madam; and my master, I know, has been several times in company where they have been visiting.

Ay, she was your master's intended.

O yes, my Lady, I know that.

Insignificant girl—I tri­umphed, when I snatched him from her, and now I suppose she thinks to triumph equally.

No doubt, madam—But, if I was you, I wou'd let her see I cared nothing about him.

And do you imagine I do care? No, indeed, Bloom; my exchange is for the better, I am certain; and

entirely to my satisfaction.

Indeed I think so, madam: you cer­tainly have changed for the better—and, bless me, I think, of all the husbands I ever saw, my present master is sure the fondest.

As for that—no one cou'd be fonder than Sir George, at first.

Ay, my Lady, but Major Cyprus is not so flighty as Sir George.

Not so slighty—

I have been envy'd Sir George's gaiety a thou­sand times.

Yes, my Lady, when your Lady­ship married first, I suppose; but you know, in a few months, Sir George altered so much, and seemed so miserable, I protest every single rap that came at the door made my blood run cold, for I took it for the report of a pistol.

You need not have feared him, Bloom—he is too fond of the pleasures of [Page 9]this life. Dear pleasures which he wanted to retrench me in.

More shame for him, madam.—Now my present master is a soldier; and, what is more, I dare say will soon be call'd on to go abroad.

Hah!

Nay, I beg your Ladyship's pardon—I thought perhaps your Ladyship wished to see the Major show himself a courageous gen­tleman in the field; and that that was the rea­son of your presering him to Sir George.

I prefer! Did not my brother, from Sir George's humiliating suspi­cions and cruel treatment of me, compel us to a divorce; and then, as a defence for my weak­ness, forced me into the arms of the Major; being, I suppose, convinced that nothing less than a soldier, should undertake the guard of a Lady's honor!

Very true, madam—and I heard the Major say, this morning, as your Ladyship left the room, that "your Ladyship's honor would reqnire the guard of a file of mus­keteers."

Ungenerous man—even worse to me than Sir George—for poor Sir George, from my indiscreet partiality to this ingrate, had some pretence for his unkind ap­prehensions; but Mr. Cyprus, who knows what [Page 10]proofs of affection I have given him, even in preference to the man I had sworn to love—

Nay, I fancy, that is what frightens my master; for I believe he is a little fearful lest your Ladyship shou'd chance to be forsworn again.

Insolent supposition—He knows the delicacy of my sentiments—my honor to Sir George—knows that, although his un­wearied artifices conquered my too susceptible heart, and hurried me to indiscretions, I merit­ed not that severe contumely I have en­dured.

Bless my soul!—Well now I assure you, you surprize me!—And so, my Lady, there was nothing at all in it, when Sir George found my master in the closet?

What did you suppose?

Oh, my Lady, nothing—I hope I did not distress your Ladyship by the mention of Sir George's second marriage.

Ridiculous!

Nay, indeed, I always thought, as your Ladyship wou'd not live with him yourself, your Ladyship did not wish to prevent them that wou'd.

Don't mention that in­significant woman!

If I was your Ladyship, I am sure [Page 11]I wou'd not care—especially as I got married before him.

Leave me.

She'll have another husband within half a year—and so have three all alive at once—Well, I will say, 'tis very hard that, because I am poor, I never can have above one at a time.

And so Sir George has been married these three months to another, and intirely forgot me—To be so soon forgotten!—I shall never now forget him, I am certain. He has behaved like a man of resolution and spirit in casting me from his heart, and I feel the irreparable loss. Why were we divorced? I shou'd have disliked him still had be been my husband; and yet how tender, how patient to my failings to what Mr. Cyprus is—His cruel and unjust suspicions of me are not to be borne.—How provokingly did he treat me last night—I was too tame—but the next time he insults me, with his jealousy, I will endeavor to augment rather than pacify it—I'll try a reverse of conduct—Though, indeed, I am tolerably provoking in all our wrangles:—yes, thank heaven, I can say as cool spiteful things as any woman in the world.

SCENE III.

I assure you, Major, this is the first visit I have made since I set my foot in London.—Nay, and faith, no great compliment to you, neither; for, as I parted with my fellow passengers at Portsmouth, I don't know that I have a friend or acquaintance in the whole town but yourself.

I am happy in your want of friends, Colonel, if it gives you occasion to con­sider me as one.

As for that, I don't want friends neither, I believe; only they are not here, at present. I have plenty of friends on the other side the Atlantic.—Zounds, I think it wou'd be hard for a man, who has been so long in the army, and borne a post like mine in it, not to have a regiment of friends, at least.

Which is a great consolation to you, no doubt, Colonel.

The greatest in the world, Major. But what!—you have changed your house since I was last in England—this is not the same, I think, tho' near the same spot.

Yes—I have changed my house—and, what is more, changed my state too, Colonel.

Why, you are not married?

What surprises you?—

Nay, I am not sur­prised at your marrying, only at your appearing so easy about it.

And why not, Colonel? A valuable woman—

Very true—very true—and so I wish you joy with all my heart.

But, who is the Lady, pray? Do I know her, or any of her family?

Did you know Sir George Euston?—

I have heard of him.

She was his Lady.

A widow!

No—she was no widow.

Did not you say she was Sir George Euston's wife?

Very true—but Sir George is still living.

What, the devil, is the man living, and you married to his wife?

It was a divorce, Colonel.

A divorce!—Whu!—Now I understand you.—Why that's mariage en militaire.—You might well appear so easy.

Fy, Colonel—I assure you Lady Harriet Cyprus and I are a most happy cou­ple—and my having snatched her from "a dull doating husband" gives superior pleasure and triumph to our bliss.

The husband is much obliged to you both.

Why, poor fellow, that is the worst—In spite of the congratulations I receive from my friends, and my natural desire of fame, and propensity to conquest, I do feel, and can­not help it, a most deep sorrow and compassion for the thorns I have planted in his bosom.

But, I suppose, he used his Lady very ill, before he provoked her to the divorce, and certainly prefer'd some other?

Oh no, by no means!—He doated on her, even to the day of their separation, notwithstanding it was he who sued for the di­vorce.

He who sued for the di­vorce—Oh! that was it! I understood you, that you had planted thorns—but you said horns I sup­pose.

Ha! ha!

Oh! I wish you much joy—

Why ironically, Colonel? De­pend upon it, I am the envy of all the men in town—Lady Harriet Cyprus is a perfect beauty.

I am glad she is perfect in some respect.

Oh!

ridiculous, Colonel—Divorces happen now every day—and the favoured lover is the most admired and envy'd of mortals, while the poor husband becomes an object of general pity.

Ay, the husband?

Yes, the husband.

Ay, and you are the husband now.

Pshaw! the forsaken husband.

You pity him?

Certainly.

And, if he is a tender hearted man, I suppose, he pities you.

Ha, ha, ha—Let me describe a scene to you, where poor Sir George's situation must affect the most obdurate heart. Lady Har­riet Euston (now Lady Harriet Cyprus) was, when I first became acquainted with her, a very loving wife: (we are friends, Colonel, and I will venture to recount a few anecdotes to you) a very loving wife indeed; and but for my insinu­ations—artful insinuations I may call them—had continued her conjugal regard—she had been [Page 16]to this hour an example to wives, if I had not tempted her to stray.

Ay, you!—or some­body else.

Hear me out, Co­lonel—she was long an example to wives—she was I assure you.—But to describe to you Sir George's pitiable situation, and what was chiefly the cause of the divorce—One even­ing we had prolonged the tête-à-tête rather beyond the usual time; when, unexpected­ly, Sir George and a party of beaux and belles were rushing up stairs,—"Dear Ma­jor," cried my wife—

Your wife?—Sir George's you mean.

Yes, Sir George's then—but my wife now.

Ay, ay, and I most sincerely give you joy!

Pshaw, you put me out—"Dear Major," cried my wife: or Sir George's! if you will have it so—"What will become of us," (for Sir George had given us some little proofs of his jealousy) "what will become of us!" exclaimed the then Lady Harriet Euston—"Put me into your thimble; into the eye of your needle, madam," said I—Instead of which, cramm'd I was into that closet.

That closet!

That very identical closet, which you see there—for Sir George never loved the [Page 17]house after, and so settled it on her Ladyship—Screwed up in that closet, I believe I remained ten minuets; when old Lady Downfall, who was of the party, called for drops, the door was opened,— and out dropt your humble servant.

Zounds, it was enough to make you wish yourself—

Nay, it was Sir George's place to wish. Every beau in the room was round me in a moment; and, in a whisper, "Give you joy Major"—"The happiest man in the world"—"An Alexander"—"A conqueror every where."—Even old Sir Samson Shrivel, shook his head and wished to be in my place.

Zounds I would have thrust him into the closet, and kept him there for a month. But what did the husband say all this time?

That is what I was going to tell you—What did he say? Why, he said nothing. You may depend upon it, he heard and saw all the half stifled laughs, and was wise enough to know to whom they were directed—so poor fel­low he turned pale—bit his lips—looked at her Ladyship—looked at me—looked at his sword—and then cried, "Heigh ho!"

Heigh ho!—And what the deuce did you say?

What do you think I said? Egad I was a little confused.

Confused!

And do you know I said—Faith it was an odd speech, and has been laughed at since in a thousand sashionable circles—the con­clusion of it has been particularly marked. Dear Sir George, said I—He was standing where you may be (here, a little more this way) and I just where I am at present—"Dear Sir George," said I (half stifling a laugh, for by my soul I could not help it, though I pitied the poor devil too) Dear Sir George, said I, "I'll tell you what"—you will find nobody to blame in this affair—I protest my being in that closet was entirely ow­ing to "I'll tell you what"—In short to an—an undescribable something—There I made a full stop.

"An undescribable something."

'Tis true upon my soul; those were the very words.

Owing to an, "Unde­scribable something," and "I'll tell you what," that I got into this closet: and so I suppose the next day Sir George left both his wife and the closet, and you have ever since held possession.

After some other explana­tions, and regular proceedings, I became the happy husband he was never formed to be.

But I hope you keep the key of the closet.

You will have your joke, Colo­nel—Sir George, out of despair, is just married [Page 19]again—and Lady Harriet's affection for me is such—yet faith I must confess, to you, too Colonel, that noth with standing I am so very happy in my marriage—my wife so very beautiful and so af­fectionate—yet I am a sad wicked fellow; I have not forgot my old ways—no, I am going to­morrow evening to meet a Lady of untarnished reputation—a married lady—Faith 'tis wrong—I know it is—but I cannot withstand the temp­tation—no, I cannot forget my old ways.

And do you suppose her Ladyship can forget her old ways either?

For shame, Colonel—but you are so fond of a joke—egad I have a great mind to make you laugh most heartily at the business I have now on my hands—you wou'd say it was the most impudent thing of me—I'll tell you another time, on puporse to make you laugh; no other design whatever.

That is her Ladyship's bell—come I will introduce you to her directly; and, I flatter myself, you will ad­mire my choice.

It does ideed excite my admiration, most prodigiously.

SCENE I.

I'LL let my master know imme­diately, Sir.

Sir George has changed all his servants, I think, as well as his house, for I have not seen one that I know; and not one of them seems to know their old friend Anthony Euston.

I beg your pardon, Sir, I thought my master had been at home; but he is not.

Is not he?

No, Sir; he has been gone out this half hour.

He is gone to my house, then, I dare say—Is your Lady at home?

Yes, Sir.

Be so kind as to let her know I should be glad to see her.

What name, pray Sir?

Only say a relation, she will be glad to see.

Sir George may not be gone to my house, neither; for, perhaps, my brother has not yet called on him, and he may be ignorant of our arrival.—This house is a handsome one—yet, I wonder Sir George shou'd leave his other—for I remem­ber my neice was remarkably fond of its situation—Poor girl—if she knew it was Anthony, Anthony Euston, I believe she wou'd not be so long in coming.

Come, come, my dear! 'tis an old friend that wants to see you—

Come, come—sure you have kept me long enough!

I beg your pardon, ma­dam! I thought I had been speaking to my niece.

Your niece, Sir?

The Lady of the house, ma­dam.

I have the honour to be mistress of this house, Sir.

Madam?

My name is Euston, Sir.

Good Heaven! Is then my niece, that beautiful young woman dead?

The Lady that was Lady Harriet Ogle, Sir?—

Yes.—

No, Sir, she is still living, and very well—I saw her the other morning.

Madam, you rejoice me.

You are only mistaken in the house, Sir; that's all.

Madam, you make me hap­pier than I can express.—But how cou'd the mistake happen?—They told me my nephew lived here—Indeed, I named no names at the door, but only ask'd the man if his master was within; and your name being Euston, madam, I suppose, first cased the mistake.

Very likely, Sir.

I beg pardon for the trouble I have given you.

No apologies, Sir—Permit me to let one of my servants shew you to Lady Harriet's.

No, I am much obliged to you.—If it is the same house that Sir George Euston lived in, about two years ago, I know it very well.

It is, Sir.

Madam, I thank you—and once more beg pardon for the trouble I have given you, through a mistake.

Dear Sir, no apology—pet­mit the servant to shew you to Lady Harriet's.

No, madam, I thank you; I have been often there, and know the house very well.—Madam good morning to you—I beg your pardon—good morning, madam.

Good morning to you, Sir—This is certainly an Uncle of Lady Harriet's, who is unacquainted with her divorce—and I cou'd not inform him of it, 'twould have led to such disagreeable explanations, and such a long round-about story it must have caused—"Sir, I am second wise to your present niece's first hus­band."—Lud! Lud! how ashamed I shou'd have been—Lady Harriet had better explain it by far.

SCENE II.

Now the Major is gone, Colonel—notwithstanding all he has been talking, of [Page 24]love, and his vast happiness—you will hardly be­lieve it, perhaps—but he is not so very happy.

No!

No, poor man—you will hard­ly think it—but he is jealous.

What already? And, for Heaven sake, of whom?

Nay, I assure you he has no cause—Nor is he jealous of one, alone—he is so of every body—and will be so of you—therefore, I tell you, that you may be on your guard.—I am constantly with his Lady and him, and, be­cause the poor woman once shut him up in her closet, he now suspects a lover concealed in every part of the house—and I have known him, when the mad fit has been upon him, search for a supposed rival even in her drawers and band­boxes.

Pray Sir, do you live in the house?

I have been on a visit here these six weeks.

And during that time—

I have seen such things! Enough to terrify me from marrying—for wives are some­times so provoking, I am sure I cou'd not keep my temper—Now, here is Lady Harriet Cy­prus—you cannot think how provoking she is [Page 25]—she sometimes says such terrible things to her husband that, I am sure, if she was my wife—

Why you wou'd not beat her, would you? or lock her up?

No—but perhaps I might kick her lap dog, or do some outrage to her dress.

You wou'd make an admirable soldier, Sir Harry.

I must own, Colonel, I shou'd have no objection to a commission, where the re­gimentals were becoming.

Really!—

And indeed, Colonel, I am po­sitive you wou'd be obliged to press commission­ed officers, if it were not for the becomingness of some of their dresses.

Give me your hand, Sir Harry.—I like you much—and could I see you master of a firelock, or a wife—

No.—While my neighbours marry, I never shall.

Why so, Sir Harry?

Their wives will do for me.

I am amazed, Sir Harry, that the Major, jealous as you describe him, should suffer you to remain in his house!

I have often been surprised at it myself.

You have!

But he never was jealous of me. Zounds it piques me sometimes.—The ladies are fond of me, and yet the gentlemen are not jea­lous of me—But, indeed, my amours have all been managed so secretly that none of them have ever yet come to light.

But who has been to blame there, Sir Harry?

I have paid regard to the repu­tation of the ladies, and none to my own. I ex­pect an assignation to-morrow evening—and I question whether I shall men ion it to above three or four of my acquaintance, notwith­standing the lady is reputed a woman of honor, and is besides a married lady.

And would you di­vulge the appointment sooner on that account?

Certainly! Had I a wish to build a reputation.

Who have we here?

The Major and her Ladyship! He has been following her into the Park, and is now conducting her home. I assure you their company at present will not be very desirable, so step this way, dear Colonel, and I will indulge [Page 27]you with a few more particulars.—Egad, I can surprise you.

So, madam, I have followed you home, and now shou'd be glad to know, what unusual whim brought you into the Park so early?

How can you be so teazing as to ask questions? Especially when you see I am too fatigued to answer.

Fatigued, madam?—How is it possible—

Don't speak so loud.—I'm thinking of something else.

Zounds, madam, I say—

How can you, Major?—Sir George Euston, with all his faults, never asked me such impertinent questions!

Sir George, madam!—How dare you mention his name to me, ma­dam?—How dare you mention to me that con­temptible—?

Dear Major, do not be se­vere—consider you are—a married man yourself now.

Heavens! Madam, do not imagine—

And you know every gen­tleman is liable to—

What, madam?

Be married.—There is no­thing certain in this world.

Very well, madam!—Very well—I believe I understand your infinua­tion; and I deserve it.—I justly deserve it for venturing my happiness with a woman whose principles I knew.

How dare you, Major Cy­prus, upbraid me, or think, because my unhap­py partiality for you once betrayed me into in­discretions, I am not now an altered woman?—I am sure I have most heartily repented of all my faults, and wished a thousand times I had never s;een you.

Exceedingly well, indeed, madam!—Exceedingly well.—Repent you ever saw me! What am I to expect after such a de­claration?—And why repent you ever saw me?—What, you won't speak!—I believe you are the only woman who cou'd call me her husband, and be insensible of her happiness.—When you con­sider, too, your release from Sir George.—What makes you smile, madam?—Surely, after all your seeming contempt for Sir George, you wou'd not, even in idea, put him in competition with me?—Though, by heaven, your continual [Page 29]mention of him is enough—did I not know how much you despise him.—I am amazed how you cou'd ever consent to marry such a being, and so I have told you a hundred times—Not one accomplishment.

Now you provoke me—he had a thousand!—

That I am destitute of?

Oh!

Zounds, madam, what do you mean by that sigh?—And in what quality pray did your first husband, your first husband, madam—in what quality did he eclipse your hum­ble servant?

He danced better than any man I ever saw.

Danced better!

And his bow was exqui­site.—

O—your most obedient!

Then, sometimes, he was the most entertaining—

You would have a husband entertain his wife then?

Certainly—and entertain himself, at the same time.

I wish to heaven you had kept him, with all his accomplishments!

Oh!—

Damnation!—

Come hither.—Come, tell me, —wou'd you?—and so you wou'd really prefer your old husband to me?—

Old!—He was the youngest.

Madam, madam, I'll hear no more—I'll suffer no more.—Since you can compare that contemptible animal to me, I have done with you—you are below even my resent­ment.

Dear Major, say what you will, Sir George had his virtues—He seldom asked me where I was going; or who visited me in his absence?—Where I had been walking?—What made me so remarkably cheerful, or why I looked so very ill-natured?—In short, he was truly and literally, in every respect, a fashionable husband.

You are—

Sir, a gentleman below desires to see you; I did not know whether you chose to be at home or not, so I told him I believed you were gone out, but that I wou'd come and see.

I am gone out—go and tell him so.

I am in too ill a hu­mour to see any body—my temper is spoiled.—I am neither fit for company, peasure, business, nor any thing.

Nor I—I am spoil'd too.

The gentleman, madam, begs to see you.—Do you chose I shou'd shew him up?

Yes, shew him up—he may be of service to my spirits.—Who is he?—What is his name?

I ask'd him, madam, but he would not say.—He first asked me if my master was within; and when I return'd, and told him no, he said, tell your Lady, Lady Harriet, I desire to see her—He spoke as if he was acquaint­ed with your Ladyship.

Shew him up.—

You will please to take him into another room.

It is not my intention to leave this room till dinner.

Nor mine.

Then you'll have an op­portunity of assuring the gentleman, yourself, you are not at home.

Shou'd I shew the gentleman into another room, madam?

No.

Shew the gentleman up.—

Who in the name of wonder can it be, that wants both the Major and me? I thought our acquaintance had been all separate visitors.

Mr. Anthony Euston!—

—Is it possible I shou'd have the honor of a visit from you?

My dear Lady, and why not? What you heard, I suppose, I was lost; But have not you heard again that I was found?

No, upon my word, Sir, and the sight of you amazes me.

Was not my brother here this morning?

No, Sir.

Nor did not your husband expect me?

No, indeed, Sir!

My brother not here to tell your husband of our satety, after all the perils of shipwreck, imprisonment, and a story fit for a romance!

Is Mr. Euston too return'd safe?

Certainly.—'Tis strange he has not been here before me! Where is your husband?

Did you ask for him when you came in?

Yes, I asked the Servant if his master was at home, but he returned and said, no;—so I then asked him for his mistress—and here I find you, my dear Lady, as beautiful as ever!—But where is my nephew? I am all impatience till I see him.

He does not know what has happened I find.

What is the matter, my dear?

You are just arrived from abroad, Sir?

Only left the ship yesterday morning, came to London late in the evening, and, not having had a night's rest on shore for many months, went to bed as soon as I arrived; and, as soon as I rose this morning, came with my respects to you.

Then you have seen no accquaintance since you came to town?

You are the first.—Can you suppose I shou'd visit any one before I had seen you; or do you think any of my friends wou'd find me out the very night of my arrival?

And have you met with none of your English acquaintance while you have been abroad—nor read any of our English news-papers?

I have seen neither since I left England.—Indeed, when I am at a distance from my friends, as I hate to be imposed on, I seldom ask a question concerning them, and never read a paragraph where their names are mention'd:

I beg your Lady­ship's pardon—I thought the Major had been here;—he promised he wou'd go with me into the city on some business—He is not gone out, I hope?

Mr. Euston, you will ex­cuse me a moment—I will send

the Major to you immediately, Sir.

Let him explain to Mr. Euston—the task wou'd be too much for me.

My fellow traveller! Have you forgot me?

My good friend! Is it you?—I am heartily glad to see you—I thought it was you! and then again—Where is my friend your brother? Why you got to town before me—I am glad to meet you, faith!—So unexpectedly too!

Colonel I beg your pardon, I am afraid I have tired your patience?

Not at all—Sir Harry Harmless has been an excellent companion, but he has just left me.

I shou'd have call'd on you in the afternoon—Who wou'd have thought of meeting you here?

Why faith, Colonel, I do not know a more likely place to find a man at, than a relation's house.

What, are the Major and you related?

Sir!

Have I the honor of being related to you, Sir?

Not that I know of, Sir.—

If Lady Harriet has that honor, Sir, I presume to claim the same.

You are related to Lady Harriet then, Sir?

By very close ties.—

Sir I shall be happy to be better acquainted.

Tell him the story of the closet—Egad 'twill make him laugh.

Fy, fy!—He is a relation of my wife's.

He wou'd not like a good story the worse for that—Wou'd you, Mr. Anthony, have any dislike to a good story?

A story, Sir?—

Ay, a good story of a—a—zounds "I'll tell you what:" and "an undescribable something"—

For shame, for shame, Colonel!

Why, my fellow traveller, you are at your jokes, the same as ever I find.—What is all this?

Nothing, Sir; nothing, I assure you.

As good a story as ever was told. Tell it, Major; I wou'd, but I cannot look it as you do.—Egad you look it to the life.

Well, gentlemen, I should be very happy to hear this story, but I am obliged to defer it till some other time.—I have waited for Sir George as long as possible, and, as I find he does not come, I'm resolved to go in search of him—So, gentlemen, your humble servant—If I meet with Sir George, I shall re­turn, I dare say, immediately; and, if not, I [Page 37]shall certainly call in the afternoon—My com­pliments to her Ladyship—Your servant, gen­tlemen.

Pray, Sir, who did you ex­pect to meet here?

Only Sir George, Sir.

What Sir George, pray Sir?

Sir George Euston, Sir.

Sir George Euston, Sir!—Did you expect to meet Sir George Euston here.

Certainly I did, Sir.

That's all for want of hearing the story.—Do, my good friend, come back and hear the story of the "undescribable something,"—and of the closet—that little clo­set—and, "I'll tell you what!"

Colonel, permit me to speak seriously to the gentleman.—Sir,

you will never see Sir George Euston in this house, I am certain.

How so, pray Sir?

I am now master of this house, and—

You are master of this house!

Yes, Sir.

He took possession of the closet, some time ago.

But pray, Sir, does not La­dy Harriet Euston then live here?

That lady is no longer Lady Harriet Euston, Sir, but Cyprus—she is my wife.

You have spoiled the whole story, by beginning at the wrong end.

You astonish me!—I beg your pardon—I came but last night from the West-Indies, where I have been for some time, and where not the smailest intelligence from England has ever reached me; therefore you will excuse my ignorance.—But I think her La­dyship, knowing how great a stranger I was, ought to have dealt a little more openly with me.—

I dare say, Sir, her Lady­ship—

Yes, I suppose her Ladyship was unwilling to be the first to acquaint me with the death of Sir George.

The death of Sir George Sir!

Yes, Sir—for, while I give you joy on your marriage, give me leave to say that, mine is all damped by the loss of him—and my grief is doubly poignant; because, till this moment, I was not only unacquainted with Lady Harriet's second marriage, but, till this moment, I did not even know Sir George was dead!

Sir George is not dead, Sir.

What do you mean?—Did you not tell me you were married to his wife?

Very true, Sir—but you know that is no reason, now-a-days, why the La­dy's first husband shou'd be dead.

Why, my brother messmate, you are just like me—I had forgot that a man in England might marry his neigh­bour's wife, and his neighbour living in the next street.—And 'tis not the wives of their neighbours, only, these generous gentlement assail, but more especially the wives of their friends.

Shame on such friendship! Shame on such neighbourhood!—Let every ten­der husband and virtuous wife desert it!—

Sir, I wish you joy; and, though I know not who are the parties to be censured in this business, I wish her Ladyship joy—But more, in particular, I wish myself joy, with the sincerest congratulation, that, amidst the depravity of the times, I have followed a beloved wife to her peaceful grave, (mournful as the day was) without seeing her wrested from my arms by the insinuations of a villain: or being myself that vil­lain to force her to seek a refuge from my per­juries, in the protection of another!—

Dear Sir, let me assure you that, however Lady Harriet's conduct may meet censure from the unfeeling prude, the woman of sensibility and taste must applaud her spirit, [Page 40]which could no longer submit to the tyranny of Sir George.

Did her Ladyship then sue for the divorce?

No—Sir George, on some frivolous suspicion, was pleased to sue for it.

Is Sir George married again?

Yes, Sir, he is married—He has won the lady—and he has won her for­tune—but for her affection—there, I believe, we must excuse Sir George—that is a stake now playing for by many noblemen of fashion.

I suspect Sir George is the dupe of a fashionable gallantry.—I know his virtues—and am sorry to find a man of merit so betrayed.

Dear Sir, think on Lady Harriet, your relation.

Thank heaven, all ties be­tween Lady Harriet and me were dissolved when she was divorced from Sir George—and so they should, Sir, had she been my own daughter, and Sir George, with the principles I know he pos­sesses, an utter stranger to me.

Why then, I believe, my friend, you are not at a relation's house.

Colonel, you will call on me shortly.—Sir, (Mr. Cyprus, I think you call yourself) I assure you, Sir, as a particular friend [Page 41]of my nephew's, and of the family in general—I am, Sir, your most obedient servant—your humble servant, Sir.

For heaven's sake, who is this man? I took him to be Lady Harriet's un­cle! Explain to me who the brute is.

He came passenger from the West-Indies in the same ship with me, and that was the first of our acquaintance.—As he was no more reserved than I, we soon became intimate; and I learnt from him that his fortune (a pretty good one) was designed for a nephew, whom I now recollect (tho' the deuce take me if I thought of it before) to be this very Sir George Euston—and a son, an only child, by that wife he speaks so tenderly of, he disin­herits.

This is the very savage I heard Lady Harriet say the other day was drown'd.—What, has his son been guilty of the criminality of a divorce?

No—his guilt is in being married—married to some poor girl—without friends or fortune.—Thank heaven I have neither child nor wife to offend me; but, if I had, I don't know which I wou'd make the most obe­dient.

And were you never a lover, Colonel? Never in the service of the ladies?

O yes—I have been in a closet before now—and under a bed too—but then I was never pull'd out by a husband; and, on a discovery, I cou'd always describe the something that brought me there.

By heaven, you are so taken with that joke, I cannot reserve that which I be­fore hinted at from you any longer—Rat me if I have not an appointment for to-morrow even­ing with Euston's other wife!—Is it not the most impudent thing of me—

I'll be shot if I don't think so!—

The poor fellow thinks her as chaste as Diana; and so she is at present, as far as I know.—I was happy in her favor a few years ago—but, marriage not being then convenient, my passion was postponed—On her becoming Euston's wife, I renewed my addresses, and she has kindly allotted to-morrow evening for our first tête-à-tête.

Zounds, have a care, or you will be obliged to marry her too.

No, no—we shall be very circumspect in our conduct.—But laugh!—Why the devil don't you laugh?

No, I was thinking—

On what?—

Come, I must be gone, or I shall be too late for my business.

I'll attend you immediately—But what were you thinking on?

I was thinking on the happiness—of a married man.

SCENE I.

BLESS my soul!—Bless my soul! Why, what did my brother Anthony say?—Was not he in a dreadful passion?—Only think of his being made such a fool of!—It would not have signified had it been me. It had been a good joke if the mistake had happened to me; then you wou'd have had something to have laughed at.

Dear Sir, let us think no more about it—my Uncle has listened to reason, and approves my conduct in every circumstance.

Ay, 'tis very well, George—'tis all very well—but I know, had you been his son, he wou'd not have forgiven you—he loved that boy so well he wou'd never forgive him the smallest fault.

A very cruel proof of his af­fection.

'Tis true, notwithstanding—you know it is—Poor Charles!—George you must do something for him—You know your Uncle won't—and I am tied from it by a solemn [Page 45]promise. Many a letter and petition came from his wife to my brother and me, before we went abroad, but all in vain; for I had but just then given Anthony my word, and wou'd not equivocate, by causing the poor boy or his fa­mily to be relieved, in any shape, through my means; and therefore I forebore to mention their distress to you—However, now, though I have not forgot my promise, I will not be so particular about it—and, when the deviation from my word disturbs my conscience, I'll hush it to rest with having relieved a destitute family.

Say no more, Sir—I under­stand you—and to find out my cousin and his family shall immediately be my care.

That's right, George—Poor Charles is a Lieu­tenant in the East Indies.—His wife must be the first object of your bounty—Just before I left England she wrote me a letter from a village near York—where he left her, with two chil­dren, and she styles them, in her letter, "the offspring of want and wretchedness." I was a hard hearted fellow not to listen to her com­plaint—but, I think, since I have been at sea, I have been more compassionate—I never knew, before, what it was to be cold or hungry.

Can you tell me the name of the village, Sir, where I am to seek her?

Write to her at the post-office, Selby—If she should have left the place, they may still know where to send her letters. I [Page 46]wish some friend, that had not made a promise, would speak to my brother Anthony about them at present; perhaps, going to sea has changed his heart too.

No, Sir, I touched on that subject when I was with him this morning.

Did you?—Did you?—And what did he say?—

Asked if I meant to make him forbid me his sight—and, on my apologising, commanded me never to mention my poor cou­sin in his hearing again.

Ay, that is what I must ne­ver do—Well, so much the better—for now, George, neither you nor I can tell tales one of another.

You are right, Sir—Had my Uncle Anthony an estate to bestow on each of his family, he could not exact more obedience to his will than he does at present.

'Tis very true, George. But what keeps him so long away?—I expected he wou'd have been with your Lady before this time, acknowledging her for his niece: tho' they have had one meeting it seems.

My Uncle cannot be intro­duced to Lady Euston till to-morrow, Sir. Lord Layton, for whom he settled some business when he was abroad, called on him just as I came away, and, as his Lordship is going to Italy in a [Page 47]day or two, he entreated my Uncle to accom­pany him immediately to his country house (about ten miles from town) in order to look over some papers he has there.

Here comes your Lady, so I'll leave you.

Dear Mr. Euston, I hope I do not frighten you away—Sir George will be offended with me if I do.

No, madam—I am sure no man cou'd be offended at being left in such charming company.

My Uncle is grown a man of gallantry!

Yes, I inspire all the men.

Yes, I insire all the men.

I believe you do.

Cou'd I only inspire you with reason to listen to my arguments—

'Tis in vain.—The Major shall now feel my resentment—Did he imagine, because I was indifferent to the conduct of an undesserving woman, that I am not to be roused at such an in­jury as this?—An attempt on the principles of a woman of virtue!—'Tis done on purpose to try me, and by Heaven he shall find—That wretch too Sir Harry!—

Oh, pray have pity on poor Sir Harry.

No, madam.—I only defer my resentment till I have had some conversation with my Uncle Anthony.

Do, my dear Sir George, suffer me to revenge my own cause this once—and ever after—

I positively must!

Nay, Sir George, in a year or two, I may, perhaps, have no objection to your sighting a duel—but only three months mar­ried—I do wish to keep you a little longer.

Depend upon it, Lady Euston, death had never half the terrors I have beheld it with since I called you mine—but that life you have endeared to me—

You wou'd throw away im­mediately in my service—No, no, Sir George, a fond wife will never suffer her husband to re­venge her wrongs at so great a risk. Besides, the exertion of a little thought and fancy will more powerfully vindicate innocence, than that brilliant piece of steel, I assure you.

Perhaps you are right.

Certainly I am—Now, sup­pose a gentleman makes love to me—I divulge the affront to you, you call my insulter to an ac­count—Your ball misses; he fires into the air; and, to the same of having dared to wound your [Page 49]honor, he gains that of presenting you with your life.—

But, why must these circum­stances take place?

Well, then, we will suppose he kills you; how do you like that?

Hem!

Or, we will suppose, you kill him—Even how do you like that?

Well, I confess that, if a se­vere punishment could be thought of, for such insolence—

There is as severe a pun­nishment to men of gallantry (as they call them­selves) as sword or pistol; laugh at them—that is a ball which cannot miss; and yet kills only their vanity.

You are right.

Let me see—we have been now only three months married; and, in that short time, I have had no less than five or six men of fashion to turn into ridicule.—The first who ventured to declare his passion was Lord William Bloomly—his rank, joined to his un­common beauty, had insured him success; and, wherever I went, I was certain to hear his dis­tress whispered in my ear—at every opportunity he fell even upon his knees; and, as a tender earnest of my pity for him, begged, with all the eloquence of love, for "a single lock of my [Page 50]hair, which he wou'd value more than any other woman's person; the wealth of worlds; or (he is a great patriot you know) even the welfare of his country."

I am out of patience!

You will be more so—For I promised him this single lock.

You did not!

But I did—and added, with a blush, that I must insist on a few hairs from one of his eye-brows in return—which he absolutely refused;—and, on my urging it, was obliged to confess, "he valued that little brown arch more than the lock he had been begging for; con­sequently, more than any woman's person; the wealth of worlds; or even the welfare of his country."—I immediately circulated this anec­dote, and exhibited the gentleman, both as a gallant and a patriot; and now his Lordship's eye-brow, which was once the admiration, is be­come the ridicule of every drawing-room.

Your Ladyship then wou'd not menace your lover?—

Certainly not—"You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw," said Lord Bandy; "and your Lordship is positively the most lovely of mankind"—"What eyes," cried he; "what hair," cried I; "what lips," con­tinued he; "what teeth," added I; "what a hand and arm," said he; "and what a leg and foot," said I—"Your Ladyship is jesting," was [Page 51]his Lordship's last reply; and he has never since even paid me one compliment. Prudes censure my conduct—I am too free—while their favo­rite, Lady Strenuous, in another corner of the ball-room, cries to her admirer—"Desist, my Lord, or my dear Sir Charles shall know that you dare thus to wound my ears with your li­centious passion—if you ever presume to breath in again, I will acquaint him with it—depend upon it I will.

Oh! you have destroyed my peace of mind for ever."

There are too many such ladies, but no such wou'd I hazard my life for—that I have proved.

And, upon my word, Sir George, even the virtuous wife, who wou'd not have some regard to her husband's life, as well as his honour, if I were a gentleman, I should not feel myself under many obligations to.

You wou'd protect both?—

And the guilty not escape—Now (with your consent) what must be the con­fusion, shame, and disappointment, of my two masked lovers to-morrow evening—the brutal audacity of one, and isignificance of the other; both beneath your resentment, yet deserving ob­jects of mine. And, indeed, Sir George, it is my fixed opinion that, the man who wou'd en­deavour to wrong a virtuous wife shou'd be held too despicable for the resentment of the husband, and only worthy the debasement inflicted by our sex. I have already sent a letter to Sir Harry [Page 52]with the appointment at the masquerade, and the Major has my promise of a meeting at the same time—Come, come, Sir George, it is the first petition I ever presented; do not refuse me!—

Give me till the morning to consider of it?

With all my heart—and in the mean time reflect on this—that, in regard to your terrible sex, whether as licentious lovers or valiant champions—women, of real honour, are not in danger from the one; and, therefore, like me, ought to forego the assistance of the other.

SCENE II.

My good friend, I was just going to bed—but I am glad of your company, though I did not expect it.

Colonel, my errand at this time was merely to ask a favour of you.

Command it, and you will make me proud.

Why then, Colonel, with Lord Layton to-day (at whose house I dined) [Page 53]a circumstance happened on which account I expect his Lordship will call on me to-morrow for a fashionable satisfaction; and though, de­pend upon it, I wish for no such rash means of ending a dispute, yet, if his Lordship shou'd call upon me, 'tis fit I be prepared with a second; and I thank you for the friendly assurance you have now given me of your service.

You are as welcome to it—I was going to say, as my king—but, zounds, if I shou'd be killed in a pitiful quarrel at home, I shou'd blush even in my grave—for, when I die, I hope to have my knell rung by the groans of a score or two of our country's treacherous foes.

The service I shall put you to, Colonel, will not prevent that hope.

But what, for Hea­ven's sake, has brought you into a quarrel?

The cause of our quarrel was—you will call it a very trivial one, I dare say—a woman!

Why, my old friend, you have not been quarrelling about a woman—Oh, if I shou'd be kill'd for a woman, I shou'd cut a noble figure, indeed!—

Hear me, Colonel, hear me—and, as you may question my prudence, let me tell you the whole adventure.—

Nay, nay, I did not mean to question your prudence, nor to speak [Page 54]against the women either. I like them as well as you do—

I own I have a respect for their sex, which unites me to them as their father, their friend, and admirer.—And I beg you will give me your sentiments upon the cha­racter of one whose behaviour, this day, has surprised me beyond measure—I will describe it to you, and you will then tell me whether you believe me imposed upon, or whether you think she really clims that extraordinary atten­tion I have, some how, been compelled to give her.—

Well, let me hear.

Lord Layton and I had no sooner plac'd ourselves in his Lordship's coach than he exclaim'd, he had just seen the most beautiful girl his eyes ever beheld, to whom he had given a look of solicitation, and that she was returning her answer by making up to the coach—He begged a thousand pardons, but, with my permission, (as he ex­pected no other company at his country house) he wou'd take her down to dine with us.—I, knowing his Lordship well, (and the girl being now arrived at the coach door) reluctantly as­sented, and she was immediately handed in.

Zounds, he shou'd have taken a companion for you too!

Don't interrupt me.— [Page 55]When she had been seated about a minute, I cast my eyes upon her.—

'Sdeath, I shou'd not have staid half so long.

I was struck with her beau­ty—

And wished his Lordship out of the way, I suppose.—

No—no.—There was a senfibility in her countenance that amazed me—blushes on her cheeks—tears in her eyes—When his Lordship spoke to her, she answer'd him with a forced smile, and a tremor on her voice.—She avoided all conversation; and, when we alighted, I handed her out of the coach.

Ay, ay, I thought how it was.

You misunderstand me.—I perceived her hand tremble—

And so, I suppose, did yours.

If you interrupt me, Sir, you shall hear no more.

And, I believe, it will be for your credit if I don't.—

Let me tell you all that passed.

With all my heart—if you don't blush at it, I shan't.

I believe her to be a woman of virtue.—

Then what the devil were my Lord and you—

I have rescued her from him.

Why then, the deuce take me if you are not more in love than I thought you were.

Oh, had you seen her coun­tenance, so expressive of anguish! —The hope with which she lifted up her eyes to me, for deliverance!—The horror painted in her face, when I left the room! Heard her piercing cries, that called me back to her protection? The despair and earnest supplication that hung upon her tongue, while she entreated him to view her, not as an object of love, but charity!—The grief! the pathetic tenoerness with which she declared herself, "a virtuous though forsaken wife!—A poor, indigent, forlorn mother; pe­rishing, with her children,— for whose sake she had been tempted by the first lure that offered (prompted by more than common grief) to add the sense of guilt to all her other miseries!"—

'Sdeath—

Cou'd I? Ought I to have gone and left her?‐

Left her! No. But what did you do?

Returned to the chamber, and insisted on his Lordship's resigning her to me.—

And did he?—

She hung upon me; and, in spite of his menaces, I led her to my coach, (which was then come for me) and brought her safe away.—

I hope she got safe home too.—

Perfectly so—As her tears interrupted her, whenever she attempted to tell me where she lived, or explain any cir­cumstance of her life to me, I asked no ques­tions, but took her to my own house—desired my house-keeper to show her an apartment, and treat her with attention—and, promising to see and speak with her in the morning, left her to the repose which she must greatly want.—

And now you think his Lordship will send you to repose, for all this.

He may attempt it, for which I wish to be prepared.—

Well then, here is my hand—and, though I must acknowledge that you have had too little of the man of the world about you in the business, yet, as I said before, command me.—

Come then, Colonel, my coach is waiting for me at the door; will you go with me to the next coffee-house?—I have to [Page 58]meet a gentleman there on a little business; and afterwards we will enjoy half an hour's conver­sation together.—

With all my heart.

SCENE I.

WONDERS will never cease! Who wou'd have thought it!—Why surely it cannot be!—My brother Anthony to bring home a girl!—What wou'd he have said to me if I had done such a thing?—For my part, I never durst think of such a thing.—Perhaps it is some neighbour's child!—But if she is—the servant tells me she is very handsome, and Anthony wou'd not bring her home without some meaning.—What wou'd my nephew George say to this?—Why he would not believe it!—He would a great deal sooner believe it of me—And yet I—I!—Lord bless me—how people may be mistaken!—Here he comes.

Brother, good morning to you.—Have you seen George this morning?

No, brother.

Are you going there?

I believe I shall be presently, brother.

Perhaps he may, brother.

It was a fine moon-shining night, last night.

Yes, a fine night.

And 'tis a very fine day, to-day.

Yes—it is.

We have very fine weather, in­deed.

We have.—You have breakfasted, I suppose?

Yes—and so, I suppose, have you?

Yes, some time.—

I interrupt you, brother—but I am going.—

No, you do not.—But tell Sir George, if you shou'd see him, that I can­not call on him this morning, because I shall be busy.

You shall be busy!

Yes, I have got a little bu­siness to settle.

To be sure, business must be minded.

But be particular in deli­vering my apology, for I wou'd not have his Lady affronted.

One wou'd not affront a Lady to be sure.—No—no—no!

I wou'd not have her think I slight her.

No!—I am sure you wou'd not slight a Lady!—

—Good morning, brother!

Good morning.

We shall see you, perhaps, when your business is done!—Good morning, bro­ther.—

Yes—here is the challenge; and, truly, something noble in it.—He applauds my taking away the Lady, but says my manner was too rough.—I must retract some words.—My Lord, that cannot be.—

And now for a few bequests to my relations, in case his Lordship should prove victorious.—It is well my will is already made—for he has scarcely given me time to—

—What paternal weak­ness!

How strange it is that, altho' I [Page 62] have resisted, and can, with manly firmness, resist every innare pleading for that ungrateful boy I once called my son; that careless prodigal of a father's peace, and his own welfare—yet—when I consider myself as shortly to be an inhabitant of another world, and without the power to assist him—I wish—I wish—What?—Why, that heaven may then raise him up a friend to deal more gently with him than I have done.—A friend, whose temper, whose place in better may become to forgive his faults than an offended father.—

In vain are the strugglings of Nature.—Justice—example—and my word, irrevocably past, silence its pretences.—

The time is almost expired, and I must pay a short visit to my new lodger, and be gone.—John!

Is not this the time that the Lady gave me permission to wait n her?

The Lady sent word she wou'd wait on you, Sir.—This is the time; and, Sir, she is coming.

Shew her in.

I hope, Madam, my mes­sage did not disturb you?

Not at all, Sir.—I had asked per­mission [Page 63]to see you before I received it.

Well, Madam—Unless you have enquired of the servants, you are yet a stranger to my name and connections.

I am a stranger to them, Sir.—But your humanity must ever be engraved on my heart.

Then, Madam, for the ser­vice you are pleased to acknowledge I have ren­dered you, all I request, in return, is your con­sidence—Explain clearly to me the circumstances, the temptations that brought you into the situa­tion from whence I released you!—Declare them with frankness, and tax my humanity yet further; it shall not forsake you.—To en­courage you to this confession, my name is—

Hold, Sir!—That is an information I cannot return—therefore let us wave it—and, as I can remain grateful for your goodness without knowing to whom I am indebted, so pity still my weakness and my miseries, without a further knowledge of the wretched sufferer.

Madam, you have imposed on me a task too hard.—'Tis true you have won my pity; but 'tis fit you shou'd secure it too.—And while explanations are reserved, Doubt, that hardener of the human heart, must be your ene­my.

Alas!—

Come—I wish not to enact too much—but I am a man, Madam, and with every frailty incident to the species: suspicion has its place.

I know I am an object of suspicion—but you are deceived in me—indeed you are.—Guilt never harboured in my heart.—Maternal tenderness, for two helpless infants, hurried me in a moment to do I know not what, rather than lose them.—A deed! the horror of which (al­tho' by the mercy of eternal Providence I have escaped its direst consequences) must ever cover me with blushes; and, shou'd indulgent heaven reserve me for a meeting with my husband, must, with remorse, damp every joy the fond, fond, interview would give!

Be comforted.—

I mean not to encrease, but sooth your grief—Tell me but who you are, and why [...] abandoned by all your relations, friends, and husband?—I can excuse the feelings of a mother—the sudden starts, or rather madness of resolotion, formed by the excessive anguish of she soul.—Trust me, I can deal tenderly with human fallings.—No frivolous curiofity, but a desare to serve you thus orges me to entreat you will unfold yourself.

Oh, Sir, I have a husband, I think, who loves me.—Once I am sure the did.—My heart has never stray'd from him, since our fatal union.—What must that poor heart suffer, torn with remorse for the rash step my mad despair sggested to preserve my children?—Oh! in my [Page 65]bosom let his name lie hid, that none may know his wretched fortune in a hapless wife.

Your reasons have satisfied me—I do not ask your name.—Tell me but the circumstances that dróve you to the state from whence I released you—Be so far explicit, and I will ask no more.

Most willingly.—When first my husband saw me, I was friendless.—Com­passion caused his love for me—Gratitude mine for him.—Forlorn and destitute, no kind relation, no tender benefactor taught my heart affection.—Unused to all the little offices of kindness, could they but endear the object who bestowed them?—Sense of obligation, never before excited, pressed on my thoughts, and soon was changed to love.—He scorned to violate the heart that was his own, and we were married.

I find no room for accusa­tion here.—Go on—go on, Madam.—What has alienated your husband from you, and left you thus destitute at present?—If you can re­solve me that—if you still have acted with equal propriety, I am your friend—I have no censure for you.

But you will condemn my husband—even I must own he was to blame. Born of wealthy parents, the heir to large possessions, and I to none, when he married, all were given up, and he changed his state for mine.—We had no friend but in each other—yet happy was that state to [Page 66] me, till poverty surprised us; and the fond hope (which once he cherished) of paternal forgive­ness, vanished from my husband.—Then all our days were bitter as they had before been happy—tears were my only food, and sighs were his—even reproach I have endured from him, for making him the friendless wretch he call'd him­slef.—Yet—yet, at our parting, oh! then he cancell'd all—for when the regiment, in which he served, was ordered from the kingdom, he hung upon me, clasped his poor children, begg'd our forgiveness for the thousand outrages distress at our misfortunes had caused him to commit—swore that affection for us was the source of his impatience—prayed heaven to bless us, what­ever might be his fate—nay, prayed that death might speedily be his doom, so that it turned his father's heart to us.

And have you never ap­ply'd to his father?

Yes; but all in vain; and two months since, hearing my husband was made prisoner, (and destitute of every relief and eve­ry hope while he remained so) I left my children and came to London, resolved, in person, to supplicate his father's bounty; when I learnt (dire news) his father, visiting an estate abroad, was lost, and we left to despair.

What do you say?

Nay, do not blame him—I pardon him from my soul.—And as my husband, spite of his disobedience, loved him tenderly, I will ever give a tear in tribute to his memory.

Without hesitation!—with­out the smallest reserve, tell me your husband's name! Is it Euston?

It is!

His father is not dead!—He lives, and pardons him this moment!

You are his father!—I know it!—I see it in your loos!

And you shall henceforth see it in my actions!—Rise, rise, and behold

where I this moment again disown'd him for my son, while the poor of every kind (except himself) I ever styled my children—Oh! charity, partially dealt, never more receive that heavenly virtue's ritle.—Here

I provide for you, as a poor stranger, who never asked, and might not have deserved my bounty; while, as a daughter, begging for an alms, I shut my heart, and sent your supplications back.—Where was the merit of my thousands given, while one poor wretch, from proud resentment, peti­tioned me in vain?

I dare not call myself your daughter!

You are my daughter—and, when I have supplicated heaven to pardon my neglect of you, I'll ask your pardon, too.—You are my daughter—and let the infamy you have escaped serve only to make you more [Page 68]amiable—make you compassionate—compas­sionate to your own weak sex, in whatsoever suf­fering state you see them—They all were vir­tuous once, as well as you—and, had they met a father, might have been saved, like you.—For me—

Bless me, how has the time flown!—My dear, I have an engage­ment I cannot postpone above half an hour—and that time I must dedicate to—Now, me­thinks, I would wish to live.

Retire to your chamber.—I will, if possible, be with you speedily.—Where your husband is, and in what poor place your children, I am impatient till I know—but now I cannot wait.—Retire my child.—May we meet again in safety—

Now where's the Colonel?—I have just time to draw up a writing for him to sign when he arrives—and I'll about it instantly.—Oh! with what transport does the human heart dislodge the unnatural guests, Malice and Resentment, to take to its warm recesses the mild inhabitant, peaceful Charity.—Yet even more welcome is the returning virtue when thus'tis strengthen'd by parental fondness.

SCENE I.

WHAT success?—Will Sir George come?—What a tedious time have you been gone!

Dear madam, if you cou'd suppose how obstinate Sir George was—and how I had to beg, and to pray—

But will he come?

Yes, madam—at last he said he wou'd.

Thank Heaven—Then I shall have the unspeakable joy of giving him this!—

What; Sir George, madam?—Well, I declare, I was at my wit's ends to know what you cou'd want with Sir George.

To give him this letter, Bloom, from Lady Euston to the Major, which you so luckily found, and to have the extreme pleasure of informing him that I am not the only object deserving his resentment—but that even his wife of a few months—she whom the world says he doats upon, and who has driven me from his remembrance, is indiscreet as I have [Page 70]been—to see with my own eyes his confusion—hear him reproach her conduct, and make him own—He promised he'd come?

Yes, ma'am—but not till I knelt down and swore your Ladyship was dying; sud­denly taken ill; and con'd not leave the world in peace till you had communicated something from your own lips to him.

You did right—just as I ordered you—And what did he say to that?

Why, he said,—"I will come to the poor unhappy wretch!"

Wretch!—Are you sure he said so?

I am sure he said, "Poor" and "unhappy," and then, you know, "wretch" follows of course.

Who will be most wretched, in a few moments, he or I?

Very true, madam—I believe he'll find he has not changed for the better.

Con­fusion! What have you made me do?—You told me this letter was for the Major—it is di­rected to Sir Harry Harmless.

Oh that I shou'd not look at the direction!

No matter—this is even a greater dishonor to Sir George than were it to [Page 71]the Major, and will wound him deeper—But where is the Major then? He will not be en­gaged as I supposed—and may return.

Oh, no, my Lady, that I dare say he won't—you need not fear—go into your chamber, madam, and make yourself easy till Sir George comes, and make yourself easy when he does come too—for, though the Major may not be with Lady Euston, I dare say he has his appointments in some corner or another, as well as your Ladyship.

SCENE II.

I have been waiting for you all day—What meant the few words in your letter?—Why is my meeting with his Lordship deferred?

I am just come from Lord Layton—a friend of his Lordship's, know­ing I was acquainted with you, call'd and took me there—and, to tell you the truth, I think this business between you and his Lordship might be amicably and honorably settled—However, if you don't fight with him, you must fight with a mad headed fellow I have left below—so which do you choose?

What do you mean?

Nay, you will have a worse chance than you wou'd have had with his Lordship; for this man is a soldier, one who has been fighting for these four or five years past—besides, he's desperate—half mad; and has sworn, he'll either kill or be kill'd by you, in­stantly.

Let him come—Who, and what is he?—What has he to demand of me?

Nay, don't be too violent neither—He's a poor unfortunate lad, I fancy—and, notwithstanding all his blustering—henow and then looks so heart-wounded I can't help pitying him.

But what's his business? What is his quarrel with me?

Lord Layton is the innocent cause of it—he told the young man, who came to his Lordship's (somewhat sooner than I did) in search of the Lady whom you took away, that the Lady had confessed herself poor—and even perishing for subsistence—and that, consequently, she was willing to resign herself to the most liberal—which you proving, in spite of his Lordship's generosity, you carried off the prize—and, egad, I owned it was what I had suspected, notwithstanding your grave coun­tenance last night.

You told him you thought so?

Yes—for I wished to turn the whole matter into a joke with his Lordship—I did not think, at the time, that the young fellow wou'd have been so violent—for till this was explained he was as patient as a lamb; and only inquired, with trembling and sighs, for the Lady—but, when he heard what I said, egad, he laid hold of me, and swore, till I brought him to my friend, the "unpitying, vile purchaser of innocence," (meaning you) he wou'd not quit me—So here he has followed me through the streets—and, on condition that he wou'd be patient while I came and announced him to you, I have promised him you shall give him satis­faction.

What is this gentleman's name?

He did not tell us.

Does he know mine?

No; I thought it most prudent not to tell him; for, he's such a madman, he might have bawled it as we came in the streets.

What is he to the Lady?—Her brother?—her cousin?

Why, faith, I've a notion (though he did not say so) I have a notion he is her husband.

Indeed!

Why you don't like the business the worse for that? 'Tis crim. con. now, and you'll be quite in the fashion.

Let the young man come up—I'll withdraw for a moment—but do not give him to suppose I have not injured him.

That you may de­pend upon—I never tell a falsehood for myself, much less for another.

Neither let him know my name. I'll first send the Lady to him, and then return myself.

He's coming.

Where is this gentle­man?

Walk in here, Sir.

The man you wish to see—and whom you say has injured you—will be here and give you satisfaction immediately.

I thank him—Then I shall die and never see her more.

—Oh, Sir! cooled with the restraint you have thus long im­posed on me! I wish to ask a favour—I thought I was resolved never again to behold the wretch I have been deprived of; but, my rage for a mo­ment gone, I cannot think of dying, and she so near me, without once looking on her—I have [Page 75]come far to see her—suffered much—crossed half the Eastern clime in poverty—have endur­ed more pain, more toil, to gain my freedom, but to starve with her—and, dying, comfort her, than, had a throne been my waiting reward, my spirits cou'd have struggled with.—And, after all, I feel, I feel I could be repaid with a mere look—Then, why refuse me?—If I escape my an­tagonist, I have resolved on death! Let me then see her! I will not exchange a word with her—will they refuse her coming?

No—for here she is—

Oh!—But I am commanded not to fly to your arms—I must not run to you, and tell you all I feel!

I said—I thought—I wou'd not speak to you—but pity for your crimes and miseries compel me—And, I tell you, to alleviate your remorse, I pardon you—nay, perhaps, love you better, even in this agony of affliction, than if we had been blest with prosperous, virtuous days!—I know what you have suffered!—Your guilt convinces me!—I want no other plea from a heart like yours.—But where's your vile purchaser?—My rage returns!—I must die soon—but first in his breast!

He's here!—

Then to his heart—

May father!—

Yes—I am the man whose life you seek.—And, as your father, you might pursue your purpose—But, as your wife's friend and preserver, still kneel to me; and receive her, virtuous, from my hands.—

Virtuous!—Virtuous!—O my father—Even groaning under your displeasure, ever dear, and revered!—What are you now, while heavenly consolation pours from your lips?—

Father and son!—Why then there's to be no battle at last?—

No—Hostilities are past—and may their future days known only peace!—My son—

That tender name distracts me!—Let me be more composed—prepared—before I experience such unexpected happiness.—Maria, lead me from my father—Hereaster I will thank him; but now, I cannot.—

Oh! Yes, my husband, kneel to him again!—Kneel for me! For your poor children! Saved from want and wretchedness!—From being orphans!—Kneel to him for us all!—preserved from infamy!—

O spare the recollection—I feel too much!—A poor, forsaken, desperate, dying man, restored to love, to life, to him too—whose anger, (even while blest with thee) plung'd me in constant sorrow.—It is too much!

I thought my heart had been—but—

What? Do you weep?—Now that affects me more than any thing that has been said or done yet.—I don't like to see a woman cry, but I can't bear to see a man—a man's tears flow from so deep a source—they always appear to have come a long journey, and therefore I notice them as strangers, that have gone through fatigue, and trouble, on their way—While a woman's tears I consider as mere neighbours, that can call upon you when they like, and generally drop in on all occasions.

SCENE III.

That is Sir George—Heavens!—

Yes, my Lady, that it is—

Heavens! What a sensation—How am I agitated at his approach!—Cou'd I have thought, a few hours ago, I shou'd [Page 78]ever see him again?—Speak to him again!—Oh this shame—

Shame! Bless me!—One does feel a little ashamed sometimes on seeing a stranger; but, my Lady, Sir George is (as one may say) an old acquiantance.

I must retire for a moment—Do you receive him—and, before I return, give him to understand that I am not dying; but will come to him immediately.

Well, now I declare I begin to be ashamed myself—Own all I swore to him on my knees was a falsehood?—Why, what will he say? Dear me, I'm quite alarmed! I must re­tire for a moment too!—

How strange does it seem to me to find myself once more in this house, es­pecially when I consider who resides here—Who? Perhaps, by this time, poor Lady Harriet is no more—How amiably did my dear Lady Eu­ton enforce her dying request—I doubted the rectitude of complying with it—but she sur­mounted all my scruples, and her tenderness and generosity have endeared her to me more than ever.

How does Lady Harriet?

As well as can be expected, Sir.

How!

I hope you won't be angry, Sir—but she's a little better.

Angry!—No; I am very glad to hear it!

Are you indeed, Sir? Why then I believe she is a great deal better.

Indeed!—I am very glad; but then, if my attendance can be dispensed with—I may as well—

Let the chariot wait—perhaps, I may go out again.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!—that's the Major—that's my master!—my other master!—Oh, what will become of us all?

How unlucky!

Sir!—Dear Sir, hide yourself!

Hide!

On my knees I beg—Consider my poor dying Lady!

Go with that note immediately.

Here!—in here, Sir, for Heavens sake.

'Sdeath!—What shall I do? See him? Damnation!—And see him here too? No, I can't bear it—I must avoid him.

Here, Sir—here, quick!

There, there he is! thank Heaven! For, if my poor Lady had lost the Major, she might never have got a third husband. Lord bless me, I'm just as terrified as if I had never been used to these sort of things!

Ridiculed, baffled—laughed at—disappointed! How Sir George will enjoy this! A fine figure I cut on my knees to Sir Harry, when the Colonel and his friends were shown in! And then my ridiculous vanity in wishing him to be unmasked, confidently expecting it was Euston's wife!—Oh, damn it! I'll think no more of it; but as I am deprived the satisfaction of revenge on the Lady abroad, I'll e'en torment my Lady at home!

Lady Harriet—Lady Harriet.

What's the matter? You tremble—you look pale!

Tremble!—Bless me—I've been fast asleep—and such a dream! I thought I was falling—

Ay, my Lady, I always dream of falling too!

How long have you been come home?—What's o'clock? How long do you think I have slept, Bloom?

I dare say, pretty near an hour and half, my Lady.

A miserable dull book—fell out of my hand! and I dropp'd insensibly—

And with the candles so near your Ladyship! I'm sure your Ladyship was very lucky, you did not set yourself on fire!

Aye; does your Ladyship consider the danger with the lights so near you? You might have caught fire, and I shou'd have had all my valuable pictures, and library con­sumed in an instant!

And I consumed too.

Aye—and your Ladyship.

Very true—but I am fond of reading melancholy books, that set me to fleep.

Then I desire, for the future, you wou'd not read.

And don't you desire I wou'd not sleep too! I'm very sorry you dis­turbed me.—Bloom, come and dispose the sofa, and the lights—I'm resolved I'll finish my nap.

But, Mrs. Bloom, first order the French horns up—I'm out of spirits.

And do you imagine your horns will disturb my repose?—I shall like them of all things—they'll lull me to sleep.

Like them or not—I will have them.

You shall—you shall have them.

Colonel Downright, Sir, with two gentlemen, strangers, desire to be ad­mitted.

What can bring them here? They dare not come to laugh at me! No matter—I'll see them.

Shew them up

Major, these gentle­men, the Mr. Euston's, have begged me to introduce them to you, late as it is, on business in which they are materially—

Sir—Major Cyprus, I beg your pardon—but I have received intelligence that my nephew, Sir George Euston, is in this house, and I am come to conduct him safe out of it.

Sir!—

In short, Sir—Sir George Euston has been, by some unwarrantable means, led to pay a visit here, and I cannot leave the house until I see him.—If I should, my niece, Lady Euston, will be highly alarmed (know­ing you are at home) for her husband's safety.—

Sir George in this house! Ridiculous supposition!

Call her Ladyship's woman—She deliver'd the message of invitation—I shall know her again, for I saw her—and I saw Sir George soon after follow her.—

Bloom!—Bloom!—Wheres Bloom?

Pray were you at Sir George Euston's to-day, or this evening?—

I! At Sir George Euston's, Sir!—

Yes: I saw you there.—

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Oh dear!—I was not there indeed, Sir!

You see she denies it, and confirms the truth with her tears.

I distrust them both—Both her truth and her tears.—

Come, come, Mr. Anthony Euston, confess you were not brought hither to [Page 84]seek Sir George—Clear yourself, in your turn, from the suspicions I entertain of you.—But, if you dare to avow yourself the contriver, or even abettor of the affront offered me at the masque­rade—

Major Cyprus!—My brother Anthony knew no more of the appointment at the masquerade than the child unborn.—But, bless you, my niece and we meant you no ill by it; we only meant to have a joke at your and Sir Harry's expence—that was all.

Then give me leave to tell you, Mr. Euston, and you also Mr. Anthony, that your present visit—

We understand you, Sir—only assure us that Sir George Euston is safe and we'll leave your house immediately—

I! assure you that Sir George Euston is safe!

You seem surprised—Let me then speak a word with Lady Harriet, whom the servants tell me is at home. Is she or not?—

De­fire your Lady to come hither.—But have a care, gentlemen, how far you provoke me by your suspicons!—For, by Heaven—

I have no fears but for Sir George—nor will now your utmost rage induce me to quit the house till I am assured of his safety.—

And pray, Sir, who in this house is to assure you of it?—

Himself!—

Confusion!—

You see, Sir, my intelligence was good.—

Strange as my concealment may appear, the cause was such as I can with honour reveal.

Then, pray Sir, with "ho­nour reveal it."

Why then I assure you, Major—and I assure you all—upon my honour—and on the word of a gentleman—that my being here—was—entirely—owing—to—to—

To what?—To what, Sir?

"I'll tell you what"—to "an undescribable something"—to be sure!

Damnation!

Did not I tell you to keep the key of the closet?—

Colonel, I beg—this is not a time—

The horns are ready, Sir—wou'd you choose to have them?

No.—

Where is Sir George?

Here, my dear—just stept out of the closet.

What closet?

That—that very iden­tical closet.

Heigh ho!—

Indeed, Lady Euston, you have cause to reproach him.

I fear he will rather reproach me for this abrupt intrusion—but my appre­hensions for his safety (hearing no tidings from his uncle's) have alone impell'd me to it.

Had your Ladyship not written this letter to the amiable Sir Harry Harmless, (which I unfortunately supposed in­tended for Major Cyprus) your Ladyship's alarm­ing "apprehensions" might have been spared, as I sent for Sir George but to shew him this letter.

And that letter was only a joke—a scheme to mortify the Major and Sir Harry.

It was so—I own it.—And the confusion the scheme has occasioned, Sir George, needs all your forgiveness.

I sincerely pardon it—and hope the whole company will do me the justice to believe that my sole motive, for entering this house, was a compliance with, what I then thought, the dying request of that Lady.—And I now believe that her Ladyship's sole motive for wishing to see me was merely to shew me the etter of which she speaks—a copy of which, not without my knowledge, but against my opinion, was written by Lady euston to Major Cy­prus, appointing a fictitious interview, in return for his having dared to offend her with the pro­fession of a licentious passion!

Sir George, I am perfectly satisfied with this explantation.—But, after what has happened, the world may despise me for be­ing so, and therefore, Lady Harriet, from this moment we separate—And we had been wifer, as well as happier, if we had never met.

Most willingly separate—Your unkind treatment—and my own constant in­quietude—have long since taught a woman of the world too feelingly to acknowledge, "No lasting friendship is form'd on vice."

Preach this, my dear Lady, to all your fair countrywomen—enforce your words by your future conduct, and they shall draw a veil over the frailty of your past life.

Oh! Mr.Anthony, cou'd I but retrieve my innocence, my honour, for ever lost!

Yet, do not despair.—You can still possess one inestimable good—that in­born [Page 88]virtue which never perishes—which never leaves us but to return.—For, when you think it extinguished, feel but due remorse and it rises again in the soul.

That's right, brother Antho­ny—comfort her—it is your duty.—And we are all relations, you know—the whole company are related to one another.—Though it is in an odd kind of a jumbled way—I wish some learned gentleman, of the law, would tell us what rela­tions we all are—and what relation the child of a first husband is to his mother's second husband, while his own father is living.

Brother, you think too deeply.

Not at all, brother Anthony!—And, for fear the gentlemen of the long robe shou'd not be able to find out the present company's affinity, let us apply to the kindred ties of each others passions, weaknesses, and imperfec­tions; and, thereupon, agree to part, this evening, not only near relations but good friends.