SCENE I. An Apartment at Lord RAKELAND's.

AT home? To be sure I am—how could you make any doubts about it?

Deny me to my old acquaintance, and favourite friend, Tom Contest!

My dear Contest, I congratulate us both that your travels are completed, and that you are come to taste, for the remainder of your life, the joys of your own country.

Whether to taste joy or sorrow I am yet in doubt; for I am uncertain in what manner I shall be received by my father.

Have not you seen him yet?

No:—nor dare I till I know in what humour he is.

In a good one, you may depend upon it; for he is very lately married.

To my utter concern! I heard some time ago indeed, that it was his design to marry again; but as he has never condescended to make me acquainted with it himself, I know nothing far­ther respecting the marriage than what public report has thrown in my way. Pray can you tell me who my new mother is?

I am told she is very young, extremely lively, and prodigiously beautiful. I am told too that she has been confined in the country, dressed, and treated like a child, till her present age of eighteen, in order to preserve the appearance of youth in her mother.

But who is her mother? Of what family is she?

That I don't know—and I suppose your fa­ther did not consider of what family she was, but merely what family she was likely to bring him.

Yes, I have no doubt but he married on pur­pose [Page 3] to disinherit me, for having written to him, "that I had fixed my affections upon a widow of small fortune, but one who was so perfectly to my wishes, that even his commands could not force me to forsake her."

And were you in earnest?

I thought I was then: but at present I am more humble. I have implored his pardon for those hasty expressions, and now only presume by sup­plication to obtain his approbation of my choice.

Is she a foreigner?

No; an English woman.—We met at Flo­rence—parted at Venice—and she arrived in London just four days before me.

And when will you introduce me to her?

Are you as much a man of gallantry as ever? If you are, you shall first promise me not to make love to her.

As to that, my dear friend, you know I never make a promise when I think there is the least probability of my breaking it.

Then positively you shall not see my choice [Page 4] till I am secure of her. But I can tell you what I'll do—I'll introduce you to my young mother-in-law, if you like.

My dear friend, that will do quite as well—nay, I don't know if it won't do better. Come, let us go directly.

Hold! not till I have obtained my father's leave:—for, after offending him so highly as not to hear from him these six months, I thought it necessary to send a letter to him as soon as I arrived this morning, to beg his permission to wait upon him. And here, I suppose, is his answer.

Your servant enquired for you, Sir, and left this.

An invitation to go to his house immediately.

—Why my father tells me he was only married this very morning! I heard he was married a week ago!

And so did I—and so did half the town. His marriage has even been in the newspapers these three days.

Ay, these things are always announced before they take place: and I most sincerely wish it had been delayed still longer.

I do not—for I long to have a kiss of the bride.

Pshaw! my Lord: as it is the wedding day, I cannot think of taking you now: it may be improper.

Not at all, not at all. A wedding day is a public day; and Sir Adam knows upon what familiar terms you and I are. Indeed, my dear friend, my going will be considered but as neigh­bourly. I can take no denial—I must go.

Well, if it must be so, come then.

Notwithstanding the cause I have for rejoicing at this kind invitation from my father, still I feel embarrassed at the thoughts of appearing before him, in the presence of his young wife; for I have no doubt but she'll take a dislike to me.

And if she should, I have no doubt but she'll take a liking to me. So come away, and be in spirits.

SCENE II. An Apartment at Sir ADAM CONTEST's.

Nothing is so provoking as to be in a situation where one is expected to be merry—it is like being asked in company "to tell a good story, and to be entertaining;" and then you are sure to be duller than ever you were in your life. Now, notwithstanding this is my wedding day, I am in such a blessed humour that I should like to make every person's life in this house a burthen to them. But I won't

—No, I won't.—What a continual com­bat is mine! To feel a perpetual tendency to every vice, and to possess no one laudable qua­lity, but that of a determination to overcome all my temptations. I am strongly impelled to violent anger, and yet I have the resolution to be a calm, peaceable man—I am inclined to suspicion, yet I conquer it, and will place con­fidence in others—I am disposed to malice, yet I constantly get the better of it—I am addicted to love, yet I—No, hold!—there I must stop—that is a failing which always did get the better of me. Behold an instance of it.

Now I will be in a good humour, in spite of all my doubts and fears.

Did you send for me, Sir Adam?

Yes, my dear; your guardian is just stept home, to bring his wife to dine with us; and I wished to have a few minutes conversation with you. Sit down.

I observed, Lady Contest (and it gave me uneasiness), that at church this morning, while the ceremony was performing, you looked very pale. You have not yet wholly regained your colour: and in­stead of your usual cheerful countenance and air, I perceive a pensive, dejected—Come, look cheerful.

—Why don't you look cheerful?

—Consider, every one should be happy upon their wedding day, for it is a day that seldom comes above once in a person's life.

But with you, Sir Adam, it has come twice.

Very true—it has—and my first was a day indeed! I shall never forget it! My wife was as young as you are now—

And you were younger than you are now.

—No, I won't be angry.

—She was beautiful too—nay more, she was good; she possessed every quality.—But this is not a proper topic on the present occasion; and so, my dear, let us change the subject.

Pray, Sir Adam, is it true that your son is come to town?

It is; and I expect him here every moment.

And have you invited no other company all day?

Your guardian and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Ploughman, you know, will be here; and what other company would you have?

In the country we had always fiddles and dancing at every wedding; and I declare I have been merrier at other people's weddings, than I think I am likely to be at my own.

If you loved me, Lady Contest, you would be merry in my company alone. Do you love me? My first wife loved me dearly.

And so do I love you dearly—just the same as I would love my father, if he were alive.

Now could I lay her at my feet for that sentence. But I won't—I won't.

Answer me this—would you change husbands with any one of your acquaint­ance?

What signifies now my answering such a ques­tion as that, when I am sure not one of my ac­quaintance would change with me?

What makes you think so?

—

—Your equipage will be by far the most splendid of any lady's you will visit. I have made good my promise in respect to your jewels too; and I hope you like them?

Like them! to be sure!—Oh my dear Sir Adam, they even make me like you.

A very poor proof of your love, if you can give me no other.

But I'll give you fifty others.

Name them.

First—I will always be obedient to you.

That's well.

Second—I will never be angry with you if you should go out and stay for a month—nay, for a year—or for as long as ever you like.

Sure I [Page 10] was not born to commit murder? I had better go out of the room.

"And old Robin Gray was kind to me."

Oh my first wife, my first wife, what a treasure was she! But my trea­sure is gone!

Not all your money, I hope, Sir Adam; for my guardian told me you had a great deal.

And did you marry me for that? What makes you blush? Come, confess to me—for there was always a sincerity in your nature which charmed me beyond your beauty. It was that sincerity, and that alone, which captivated me.

Then I am surprised you did not marry your chaplain's widow, good old Mrs. Brown!

Why so?

Because I have heard you say "there was not so sincere a woman on the face of the earth."

And egad I almost wish I had mar­ried her. By what I have now said, Lady Contest, I meant to let you know, that in comparison [Page 11] with virtues, I have no esteem for a youthful or a beautiful face.

Oh dear! how you and I differ! for I here declare, I do love a beautiful youthful face, bet­ter than I love any thing in the whole world.

Leave the room—leave the room instantly.

No: Come back—come back, my dear—

—

I'll be in a good humour pre­sently—but not just yet.—Yes—I will get the better of it.—I won't use her ill—I have sworn at the altar, not to use her ill, and I will keep my vow.

—Pray, Lady Contest, pray, have not you heard from your mother yet?

Not a line, nor a word.

It is wonderful that she should not send us a proper address! There is no doubt but that every letter we have sent to her since she has been abroad, has miscarried. However, it will be great joy and pride to her, when she hears of your marriage.

Yes—for she always said I was not born to make my fortune.

Which prediction I have annulled. And after all—Come hither—come hither—

—And after all, I do not repent that I have—for although I cannot say that you possess all those qualifications which my first wife did, yet you behave very well considering your age.

And I am sure so do you, considering yours.

All my resolution is gone, and I can keep my temper no longer.

Go into your own chamber immediately.

I'll—I'll—I'll—

No, I'll go another way.

My young master and another gentleman.

I kneel, Sir, for your pardon and your blessing.

You have behaved very ill; but as you appear sensible of it, I forgive, and am glad to see you. But I expect that your future conduct shall give proof of your repentance. My Lord Rakeland, I beg pardon for introducing this subject before you; but you are not wholly un­acquainted with it, I suppose?

Mr. Contest has partly informed me.

—Ask for your mother.

I sincerely congratulate you on your nuptials, Sir, and I hope Lady Contest is well.

Desire Lady Contest to walk this way.

I, sincerely congratulate you, too, Sir Adam.

Thank you, my Lord, thank you.

My dear, this is my son—and this, Tom, is your mother-in-law.

Dear Sir Adam,

I was never so surprised in my life! Always when you spoke of your son you called him Tom, and Tommy, and I expected to see a little boy.

And have you any objection to his being a man?

Oh no, I think I like him the better.

—Sir, I am very glad to see you.

I give your Ladyship joy.

I shall be very fond of him, Sir Adam—I shall like him as well as if he was my own.

Now am I in a rage, lest seeing my son a man, she should be more powerfully re­minded that I am old; and I long to turn him out of doors. But I won't—no—I'll be the kinder to him for this very suspicion. Come, Tom, let me shake hands with you—we have not shaken hands a great while; and let this be a sign of the full renewal of my paternal affec­tion.

Sir Adam, you have not introduced me to Lady Contest.

Is this another son?

What, could you be fond of him too?

Yes, I could.

And like him as well as if he were your own?

Yes, I could.

But he is not my son.

I can't help thinking he is.

I tell you he is not.

Nay, nay, you are joking—I am sure he is.

I tell you, no.

Why he is very like you.

No, he is not so like when you are close. I beg ten thou­sand pardons, Sir, you are not at all like Sir Adam.

Zounds, now I am jealous—and I am afraid my propensity will get the better of me. But no, it shan't—No, it shall not.—My Lord, I beg your pardon, but I want half an hour's pri­vate conversation with my son; will you excuse us?

Certainly, Sir Adam—I beg you will make no stranger of me.

Come, Tom.

—There, now, I have left them alone; and I think this is triumphing over my jealousy pretty well. Well done, Sir Adam, well done, well done.

My dear Lady Contest, though I acknow­ledge I have not the happiness to be your son, yet, permit me to beg a blessing on my knees—'Tis this—Tell me when and where I shall have the happiness of seeing you again?

Dear Sir, without any compliment, the happi­ness will be done to me.

Enchanting woman! appoint the time.

I'll ask Sir Adam.

No—without his being present.

I don't know if I sha'n't like that full as well.

Appoint a time, then; just to play a game at cribbage.

Or what do you think of "Beggar my Neighbour?"—would not that do as well?

Perfectly as well. The very thing.

But you must take care how you play; for it is a game you may lose a great deal of money by.

But Sir Adam must not know of it.

Resolutions come and go—I wish I could [Page 17] have kept mine, and staid away a little longer.

What, my Lord, here still? holding conversation with this giddy woman?

I assure you, Sir Adam, I am very well pleased with Lady Contest's con­versation.

And I am sure, my Lord, I am very much pleased with yours.

We have been talking about a game at cards.

But you said Sir Adam was not to be of the party.

Yes, Sir Adam—but not Mr. Contest.

No, indeed you said Sir Adam.

Oh no.

Yes—because, don't you remem­ber I said—and you made answer—

I don't remember any thing—

What! don't you remember kneeling for my blessing?

How! What!

Sir Adam, it would be a breach of good man­ners were I to contradict Lady Contest a second time; therefore I acknowledge that she is right—and that I have been in the wrong.

Won't you ask him to dinner?

Ask him to dinner! What a difference between you and my first wife!—Would she have wished me to ask him to dinner? would she have suffered a man to kneel—

I did not suffer him to kneel a moment.

—But my first wife was a model of perfection, and it is unjust to reproach you with the com­parison. Yet I cannot help saying—would she had lived!

And I am sure I wish so, with all my heart.

But she was suddenly snatched from me.

How was it, Sir Adam? Were you not at sea [Page 19] together? And so a storm arose—and so you took to the long-boat—and she would stay in the ship—and so she called to you, and you would not go—and you called to her, and she would not come. And so your boat sailed, and her ship sunk.

Don't, don't—I can't bear to hear it repeated. I loved her too sincerely. But the only proof I can now give of my affection, is to be kind to her son; and as by what he acknowledged to me, his heart I perceived was bent upon mar­riage, I have given him leave to introduce to me the lady on whom he has fixed his choice—and if I like her—

Has he fixed his choice? Who is the young lady? What is her name?

I did not ask her name.

But I hope you will give your consent, who­ever she is.

And if I do, in a little time they may both wish I had not. Young people are so capricious they don't know their own minds half an hour. For instance, I dare say you think very highly of that young Lord who was here just now; but if you were to see him two or three times a week, you would cease to admire him.

I should like to try. Do invite him here two or three times a week, on purpose to try.

Mr. and Mrs. Ploughman are come, Sir, and dinner is almost ready.

Oh! Oh!—Oh dear! Sir Adam—Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!

What's the matter? What in the name of heaven is the matter?

I wish I may die if I have not lost my wedding ring.—Oh! 'tis a sure sign of some ill luck.

Here, John!

Go and look for your mistress's wedding ring; she has dropt it somewhere about the house.

I am afraid it was in the street, as I stepp'd out of my coach. Oh! indeed, Sir Adam, it did not stick close. I remember I pulled my glove off just at that time; go and look there, John.

Oh! Sir Adam, some ill luck will certainly happen to one or both of us: you may depend upon it.

Childish nonsense! What ill luck can happen to us while we are good?

But suppose we should not be good?

We always may if we please.

I know we may. But then sometimes 'tis a great deal of trouble.

Come, don't frighten yourself about omens; you'll find your ring again.

Do you think that young Lord mayn't have found it? Suppose we send to ask him?

Did you miss it while he was here?

No, nor should not have missed any thing, if he had staid till midnight.

Come, come to din­ner.

But I must say this has been a very careless thing of you. My first wife would not have lost her wedding ring.

But indeed, Sir Adam, mine did not fit.

SCENE I. An Apartment at Mr. MILLDEN's.

MY dear Lady Autumn, Mr. Contest is not of a proper age for a lover, much less for a husband of yours.

Mrs. Hamford, I believe, old as you pretend to think me now, you thought me young but a few weeks ago at Venice; when, on your first landing there, you imposed upon me your ro­mantic tale, and prevailed with me to bring you to England.

Hold, Madam, do not conclude too hastily, that, because I have for a few days since my arrival in my native country, deferred my pro­mise of revealing to you my real name and my connections here, that I am for this reason an impostor.

No; upon recollection, you certainly have been living on a savage island for these ten or twelve years, which gives you all these Hottentot ideas in respect to the advanced age of women. In some savage countries women are old at seventeen; but in this enlightened nation we are all young at seventy.

Lady Autumn, I make no apology for enter­ing your apartment thus abruptly, because I come with good news—Your daughter is mar­ried.

Married! What! while I have been abroad?

No doubt—But I cannot give you any parti­culars of the marriage, nor tell you even the gen­tleman's name—for I only passed her guardian by accident in his carriage, and I had not an op­portunity to enquire, nor he to inform me far­ther, than "that it was a most advantageous union for your daughter, for that her husband is a man of fortune and title."

There, Lady Autumn! you find you have a daughter old enough to be a wife.

More shame for her—Why was not my con­sent asked?

You were out of England, and no letters reached you. However, your daughter's guar­dian will call upon you in the evening, and ex­plain to you every particular.

But now, my dear Mr. Millden, and you my dear Mrs. Hamford, don't let this marriage escape your lips, if Mr. Contest should call this [Page 24] evening—for if my daughter's husband should not, after all, be a man of some importance, I should wish to keep it a secret from Mr. Contest that I have a daughter married.

Mrs. Hamford, I observe a gloom upon your countenance; I hope no enquiries you have made concerning any part of your family since you ar­rived in England—

—You tremble! What's the matter?

I tremble till a visit which I am now going to make is over; and then, whatever is my destiny, I trust in that Power which has supported me through numerous trials, to give me resignation.

SCENE II. An Apartment at Sir ADAM CON­TEST's.

Has any body called on me, Hannah, since I have been out?

Yes, Madam, an elderly gentlewoman; but she refused to leave her name—she said she had particular business, and wanted to speak to you in private.

Then pray let me see her when she comes again.

I told her, Madam, that you were only gone to the milliner's in the next street.

Has any body else called, Hannah?

No, ma'am.

Lord Rakeland, if your Ladyship is not en­gaged—

Oh! Hannah, Hannah! is this the elderly gentlewoman?—Oh! for shame, Hannah!—However, poor Hannah, don't be uneasy. I won't be very angry with you.

You may desire his Lordship to walk up.

Upon my word, my lady—

Oh, hold your tongue, Hannah—you know this is the elderly gentlewoman you meant—but no matter—I am almost every bit as well pleased.

My adorable Lady Contest—

I hope you are very well—but I need not ask, for you look charmingly.

And you look like a divinity! I met Sir Adam this moment in his carriage going out, and that emboldened me—

Yes, Sir, he is gone out for a little while with my guardian; but he'll soon be back. I sup­pose, Sir, you called to play an hand of cards.

No—my errand was to tell you—I love you; I adore you; and to plead for your love in re­turn.

But that is not in my power to give.

You cannot possibly have given it to Sir Adam!

I sha'n't tell you what I have done with it.

You could love me; I know you could.

If you were my husband I would try: and then, perhaps, take all the pains I would, I could not.

Oh! that I were your husband!

You would not kneel so if you were. Not even on the wedding day.

No, but I would clasp you thus.

Oh dear! Oh dear! I am afraid Sir Adam's first wife would not have suffered this!

Why talk of Sir Adam? Oh! that you were mine, instead of his!

And would you really marry me, if I were single?

Would I?—yes—this instant, were you un­married, this instant, with rapture, I would be­come your happy bridegroom.

I wonder what Sir Adam would say were he to hear you talk thus! He suspected you were in love with me at the very first—I can't say I did—I suspected nothing—but I have found a great deal.

Nothing to my disadvantage, I hope?

No—nor any thing that shall be of disadvan­tage to Sir Adam.

Why are you perpetually talking of your husband?

Because, when I am in your company, I am always thinking of him.

Do I make you think of your husband?

Yes—and you make me tremble for him.

Never be unhappy about Sir Adam.

I won't—and he shall never have cause to be unhappy about me—for I'll go lock myself up till he comes home.

What are you alarmed at? Is there any thing to terrify you either in my coun­tenance or address?—In your presence, I feel myself an object of pity, not of terror.

Ay, but this may be all make-believe, like the poor little boy in the song.

A lady, a stranger, who Mrs Hannah says your Ladyship gave orders should be admitted—

Very true—Desire her to walk in—shew her up.

Who is it?

I don't know—I can't tell—I thought you had been her: but I was mistaken.

Will she stay long?

I don't know any thing about her.

Dear Lady Contest, do not let me meet her on the stairs; conceal me somewhere till she is gone. [Page 30] Here, I'll go into this dressing-room.

Then you will hear our discourse.

No matter; I will keep it a secret.

No, no; you must go away—out of the house.

I can't—I won't—don't expose yourself be­fore the lady.

—I beg pardon, Madam.

—No apologies, Madam.

I am afraid I am not right!

Yes, Madam—Pray are not you the lady who called this afternoon, and said you had parti­cular business?

I am.

—And are you Lady CONTEST?

Yes, Ma'am.

Sir Adam's wife?

Yes, Ma'am, Sir Adam's wife—Won't you please to sit down?

There is then, Lady Contest, a very material circumstance in my life, that I wish to reveal to you; and to receive from you advice how to act, rather than by confiding in the judgment of any of my own family, be flattered, by their par­tiality, into a blameable system of conduct. Such is the nature of my present errand to you: but, to my great surprise, I find you so very, very young—

Yes, Ma'am, thank heaven.

And you are very happy, I presume?

—Y-e-s, Ma'am—yes, very happy, all things considered.

I am sorry then to be the messenger of news [Page 32] that will, most probably, destroy that happiness for ever.

Dear me! what news? You frighten me out of my wits!

You are now, Lady Contest, newly married; in the height of youth, health, prosperity; and I am the fatal object who, in one moment, may crush all those joys!

Oh! then pray don't—you'll break my heart if you do. What have I done, or what has hap­pened to take away from me all my joys?—Where's my pocket handkerchief?

Here, take mine, and compose yourself.

—Thank you, Ma'am.

And now, my dear, I will inform you—and at the same time flatter myself that you will deal frankly with me, and not restrain any of those sensations which my tale may cause.

Dear Madam, I never conceal any of my sen­sations—I can't if I would.

Then what will they be when I tell you—I am [Page 33] Sir Adam Contest's wife—his wife whom he thinks drowned; but who was preserved and restored to life, though not till now restored to my own country.

Dear Madam, I don't know any body on earth I should be happier to see!

But consider, my dear, you are no longer wife to Sir Adam!

And is that all?—here, take your handker­chief again.

And come you out of your hiding place.

—Come, come, for you need no longer conceal yourself now, or be miserable; for I have no longer a husband to prevent my being your wife—or to prevent me from loving you—for oh! oh! I do—

—though I durst not say so before.

May I enquire who this gentleman is?

A poor man that has been dying for love of me, even though he thought it a sin.

I beg pardon, and promise never to be guilty for the future.—I wish you a good evening.

You are not going away?

I have an engagement it is impossible to post­pone.—Good evening.

But you will soon come back, I hope?—for I suppose you hold your mind to be my husband?

Alas! that is a happiness above my hopes.

Above your hopes!

It is.

Then it shall be beneath mine.

And is it possible that you can think of part­ing with Sir Adam without the least reluctance?

Pray, Madam, when did you see Sir Adam last?

Above fifteen years ago.

He is greatly altered since that time.

Still will my affection be the same.

And so it ought; for he loves you still—he is for ever talking of you; and declares he never [Page 35] knew what happiness was since he lost you. Oh! he will be so pleased to change me for you!

I hope you do not flatter me!

I am sure I don't—I expect him at home every minute, and then you'll see!

Excuse me—At present I could not support an interview. I will take my leave till I hear from you; and will confide in your artless and ingenuous friendship to inform Sir Adam of my escape.

You may depend upon me, Lady Contest.

Adieu!

Dear Madam, I would insist on waiting upon you down stairs; but I won't stand upon any ceremony with you in your own house.

Nobody so plagued as I am with servants!

Bless me, Sir Adam, I did not know you were come home!

I have been at home this quarter of an hour. The coachman has made himself tipsy on the joyful occasion of our marriage, and was very near dashing out my brains in turning a corner.

And is that worth being in such an ill temper about?—Ah! you would not be so cross, if you knew something.

Knew what?—I have a piece of news to tell you.

And I have a piece of news to tell you.

Your mother is arrived in town: your guardian heard so this morning, but he did not mention it to me till this moment, because he thinks it is proper for him to wait upon, and acquaint her with our marriage in form, before I throw myself at her feet, to ask her blessing.

Very well—with all my heart. And now, Sir Adam—what do you think?

What do I think!

What will you give me to tell you something that will make you go almost out of your wits with joy?

What do you mean?—Have I got another estate left me?

No: something better.

Better than that!

A great deal better—you will think.

—Has the county meeting agreed to elect me their representative?

No.

What any thing better than that?

A great deal better than that—and something the most surprising!—Guess again.

Pshaw! I'll guess no more—I hate such teaz­ing—it is unmannerly—would my first wife have served me so?

Now you have hit upon it.

Upon what?

Your first wife.

Ay, I shall never see her like again!

No, but you may see her—for she is alive, and you may have her home as soon as you please.

What the deuce does the woman mean?

Your first wife—escaped in the long boat—as surprising a story as Robinson Crusoe!—I have seen her, and she longs to see you.

Why, what do you mean?—

Alive?

As much alive as I am.

And what does she intend to do?—

Poor woman! poor creature! where does she in­tend to go?

Go! Come home, to be sure.

Home!—what does she call her home?

You are her home.

I her home!—Come to me!—What can I do with her?—and what is to become of you?

Oh! never mind me.

Yes, but I can't think to part with you—

I can't think to turn a poor young creature like you upon the wide world.—Her [Page 39] age will secure her; she won't be in half the danger.

Poor soul! if you knew what she has suffered—

And have not I suffered too? I am sure I have lamented her loss every hour of my life; you have heard me.

And yet you don't seem half so much pleased at her return as I am.

I cannot help being concerned to think, what a melancholy twelve or fourteen years the poor woman has experienced! most likely upon some desert island, instead of being in heaven!

But if you are concerned upon her account, you ought to be pleased upon your own, my dear—

I beg pardon; I mean Sir Adam.

No, no, call me "my dear"—do not shew reserve to me already; for if you do, you will break my heart.

I would not break your heart for the world—and indeed, Sir Adam—you will always be dear to me—quite as dear when we are parted, nay, I think, dearer than if we were living together.

Don't talk of parting—Can you resolve to part from me?

Yes, because I know you will be so much happier with your first wife.

But if our parting should give you any unea­siness—

It won't a bit.

No!

No,

—not when I know you are with that good, prudent woman, your first wife.

—Now here is a time to exert my power over myself: what signifies having exerted it in trivial matters, if from a trial such as this I shrink?—

—Well, Madam, I am prepared to see my first wife—and to part with my second.

Then sit down and write to her, that you long to see her.

No! I can sacrifice all my sensations, but I cannot sacrifice truth.

Will you give me leave to write to her, a kind letter for you, and invite her to come hither di­rectly?

—You may do as you like.

Ay, I shan't be with you long, and so you may as well let me have my own way while I stay.—

Here they are; only a few words, but very kind; telling her to "fly to your impatient wishes." Here, John—

—Take this letter to Mr. Millden's immediately.

—

—Come, look pleased; consider how charming it is for old friends to meet.

Yes, if they are not too old. However, fear nothing in regard to my conduct, for I will, I will act properly—so properly, that I will not trust my own judgment; and the first person I consult shall be your mother, and I'll go to her this instant.

—Sure never such a strange, intricate affair ever happened before!—but strange as it is, I will act as I ought to do—My incli­nation may rebel, but my reason shall conquer—I will act as I ought to do.

Lady Autumn and Mr. Contest.

And here your mother comes most opportunely.

Sir Adam, according to your permission, I have brought the lady on whom I have placed my affections, to receive from—

Oh my dear mother, how do you do?

Mother!—Your mother!

Yes—though she looks very well, does not she?

This is the lady on whom I have fixed my choice.

What, on my mamma! Nay, Mr. Contest, now I am sure you are joking—ha, ha, ha, ha,—ha, ha, ha, ha,—fixed your choice on my mother!

And my mother! your father's mother!—Why you are as bad as the man in the farce—fall in love with your grandmother.

Dear mamma, don't make yourself uneasy, if you have a mind to marry my son; for there is a lady now at Mr. Millden's, and who is coming here, that will claim him for her son, and make me no longer wife to Sir Adam.

This can be no other than Mrs. Hamford, whom I brought to England.

Mr. Contest, will you step for a moment to the person in the next room.

Sir Adam Contest, I come to inform you, that there is a lady in the next room who has been near fainting at the sound of your voice.

And I believe I shall faint at the sound of her's.

Her son is supporting her to you.

Dear Sir Adam, fly and embrace your first wife.

—Dear Lady Contest, notwithstanding his seeming insensibility he loves you to distraction: a thousand times has he de­clared to me, he did not think there was such a woman in the world.

And I did flatter myself, there was not.

Oh! Sir Adam!

Oh my dear! If you knew what I have suf­fered, and what I still suffer on your account, you would pity me.

Sir Adam, I give you joy of a wife that suits your own age.

And such a one shall my son marry, when he has my consent.

Come, come, Sir Adam and Lady Autumn, these mutual reproaches, for almost the self-same fault, ought to convince you, that in your plans of wedlock you have both been wrong.

However, it shall be my endeavour to be henceforward right: for after settling upon my young bride a handsome dower, I will peaceably yield her up;—and though it is a hard struggle, yet, like all my other struggles, it will, I have no doubt, give me happiness in the end.

Good b'ye, Sir Adam—good b'ye—I did love you a little upon my word; and if I was not sure you were going to be so much happier with your first wife, I should never know a moment's peace.

I thank you. And at parting, all I have to request of you is—that you will not marry again till I die.

Indeed, Sir Adam, I will not—but then you won't make it long?

I believe I shan't.

And my next husband shall be of my own age; but he shall possess, Sir Adam, your prin­ciples of honour. And then, if my wedding ring should unhappily sit loose, I will guard it with unwearied discretion: and I will hold it sacred—even though it should pinch my finger.