The town before you, a comedy: as acted at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden. By Mrs. Cowley. Cowley, Mrs. (Hannah), 1743-1809. 115 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2008 September 004903663 T51491 CW112671524 K046841.000 CW3312671524 ECLL 0447800700

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The town before you, a comedy: as acted at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden. By Mrs. Cowley. Cowley, Mrs. (Hannah), 1743-1809. xi,[5],103,[1]p. ; 8⁰. printed by G. Woodfall, for T. N. Longman, London : 1795. With a half-title. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT51491. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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eng

THE TOWN BEFORE YOU, A COMEDY, AS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.

BY MRS. COWLEY.

LONDON: PRINTED BY G. WOODFALL, FOR T. N. LONGMAN, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1795.

TO MRS. FRUSHARD, CALCUTTA. MADAM,

I SELDOM write Dedications. Whenever I have written one, it has been from an impulſe of veneration, or of tender gratitude. THE BELLE's STRATAGEM I dedicated to her Majeſty; THE TOWN BEFORE YOU is dedicated to you.

The virtues which you practiſe in your elegant pavilions at GASSARY, have reach'd the Britiſh ſhores. Their reputation now echoes back again to thoſe of the Ganges; and I would perſuade myſelf that I may be the cauſe of extending it ſtill farther. Yes, I would hope that this humble pen may ſpeak to thoſe of after times, and tell them that you quietly perform ſuch acts of graceful goodneſs, as open a thouſand mouths in your praiſe, whilſt you perſuade yourſelf that all is ſecret, and that no one finds you out to be more amiable and reſpected, than the generality of human creatures.

This ſelf deception is a little help'd on, by him, to whom of all earthly beings you are bound to look up. He aids your charming impoſitions—he aſſiſts you in fixing fetters of gratitude on all around you, and then perſuades himſelf and you, that Heaven alone is privy to the deed. But you could not hope always to go on in this ſort of concealment—at length you are unveil'd!

I am unable to meaſure the extent of my private obligations to you; but may this public acknowledgement of them convince you that they throb in my heart, and that I muſt be

Ever, MADAM, Your faithfully devoted, H. COWLEY.
PREFACE.

THE following is rather the Comedy which the Public have choſen it to be, than the Comedy which I intended. Some things have been left out, and ſome have been added ſince the firſt repreſentation: In ſhort, the Comedy has been new claſs'd—it has been torn from its genus.

It is hoped, however, that there may be found characters, in THE TOWN BEFORE YOU, to intereſt, and ſituations to attach; and that thoſe events which were vivacity in the Theatre, will not be dulneſs in the cloſet.

But it muſt be noticed, that the ſcene, in the ſecond act, between TIPPY and his Landlady, and that in the fifth act, between TIPPY and the Bailiff, were no part of my original deſign. They were written during the illneſs of MRS. POPE, after the Piece had been played ſeveral nights. Alas! I am ſorry to remark, that no ſcenes in the Comedy (to uſe the Stage idiom) go off better.

An acute Critic lately ſaid, in one of thoſe aſſemblies where converſation, though ſometimes light, is ſeldom without meaning, "A Comedy to pleaſe, in the preſent day, muſt be made, not written." It requires no great expanſe of comprehenſion to perceive the meaning of this dogma; the truth of which I am equally ready to acknowledge, and to deplore: But ſhould it want illuſtration, it may be found every week in a popular Piece, where a great Actor, holding a ſword in his left hand, and making aukward puſhes with it, charms the audience infinitely more than he could do, by all the wit and obſervation which the ingenious Author might have given him; and brings down ſuch applauſes, as the bewitching dialogue of CIBBER, and of FARQUHAR pants for in vain!

The patient developement of character, the repeated touches which colour it up to Nature, and ſwell it into identity and exiſtence (and which gave celebrity to CONGREVE), we have now no reliſh for. The combinations of intereſt, the ſtrokes which are meant to reach the heart, we are equally incapable of taſting. LAUGH! LAUGH! LAUGH! is the demand: Not a word muſt be uttered that looks like inſtruction, or a ſentence which ought to be remembered.

From a Stage, in ſuch a ſtate, it is time to withdraw; but I call on my younger cotemporaries, I invoke the riſing generation, to correct a taſte which, to be gratified, demands neither genius or intellect;— which aſks only a happy knack at inventing TRICK. I adjure them to reſtore to the Drama SENSE, OBSERVATION, WIT, LESSON! and to teach our Writers to reſpect their own talents.

What mother can now lead her daughters to the great National School, THE THEATRE, in the confidence of their receiving either poliſh or improvement? Should the luckleſs Bard ſtumble on a reflection, or a ſentiment, the audience yawn, and wait for the next tumble from a chair, or a tripping up of the heels, to put them into attention. Surely I ſhall be forgiven for ſatiriſing myſelf; I have made ſuch things, and I bluſh to have made them.

O! GENIUS of a poliſh'd age, deſcend!—plant thy banners in our Theatres, and bid ELEGANCE and FEELING take place of the droll and the laugh, which formerly were found only in the Booths of Bartlemy Fair, and were divided between Flocton and Yates! With actors capable of giving force to all that is intellectual, is it not pity to condemn them to ſuch drudgery? THEY are no longer neceſſary. Let Sadler's Wells and the Circus empty themſelves of their performers to furniſh our Stage; the expence to Managers will be leſs, and their buſineſs will be carried on better. The UNDERSTANDING, DISCERNMENT, and EDUCATION, which diſtinguiſh our modern actors, are uſeleſs to them;—ſtrong muſcles are in greater repute, and grimace has more powerful attraction.

PROLOGUE, MRS. MATTOCKS. AH! ah! you're here, and comfortably tight? Well ſqueez'd and preſs'd, I ſee—from left to right. Waiting the moment when the curtain riſes, Gaſping for plots, adventures, and ſurpriſes! Were I a Poet—a Dramatic Wit, And by the Stage Tarantula were bit, My Prologue ſhou'd, as was the good old way, A word or two upon the ſubject ſay; Hint a looſe outline of the ſcene within, And let you gueſs the whole ere we begin. In preſent times, the Prologue and its Play, Are as near kin as Michaelmas and May— Confin'd, then, not to ſay a word of that, I'll tell a ſtory—and I have one pat. A Boniface of late, placed near his door, "Good larders here, of genuine wines, rich ſtore." In gold the gaudy invitation hung, And to the ſhifting Zephyrs gently ſwung. It chanc'd a traveller, with ſtomach keen, Leapt from his Rozinante, tir'd and lean, 'Talk'd of his ſupper, with an eager air— Reſolved, for once, in no expence to ſpare; I'll have ſtewed carp, he cried, and chicken roaſt. And, bring me, of the Burgundy you boaſt. Y—e—s, Sir, the ſtaring, curtfying Damſel ſaid, And, in a trice, the table-cloth was laid. I am my own man, he adds, in accents bold, Nor ſhall I fear, to-night, my houſehold ſcold; One hundred miles, betwixt me and my dear— Odds bobs! her ſhrill alarum can't reach here! At length came back the pretty, ſimpering Kate, And plac'd—two eggs upon his lonely plate. Our Traveller amazed, the Landlord call'd, Hoſt! Hoſt! in angry accents loudly bawl'd; He came—Where are your ducks, your lobſters, turkey, hare? "Why, there you have them—in the Bill of Fare; "There you have game, and fowl, and fiſh, well dreſt, "And neat old Port, to give the whole a zeſt; "My houſe affords no other, Sir, believe me, "I ſcorns, I'm ſure, to go for to deceive ye." The gueſt fatigued, enraged, the Inn forſook, And the road, ſlowly, to another took: There, without promiſe, all was neat and clean, His food was wholeſome, and his room not mean. So—not to raiſe high hopes, we cannot meet, We truſt this night's plain fare is freſh and ſweet; And ſhou'd you like the dreſſing, we invite ye, To come as often as the diſh delights ye; A hearty welcome you will always find, And to your wills, our Hoſt, and Houſe, reſign'd.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. Mr. Lewis. Mr. Munden. Mr. Holman. Mr. Pope. Mr. Quick. Mr. Powell. Mr. Faweett. Mr. Hull. Mr. Thompſon. Mr. Williamſon. Mr. Croſs. Mr. Simmons. Mrs. Pope. Miſs Wallis. Mrs. Mattocks. Miſs Chapman. Mrs. Martyr. Miſs Stuart. Miſs Leſerve.
THE TOWN BEFORE YOU, A COMEDY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A plain Apartment, with a few Books. FANCOURT ſits reading—Mrs. FANCOURT at work at ſome diſtance. FANCOURT.

HOW well thoſe fellows wrote, thoſe antients! How finely they ſatirize the rich, and what reſpect they have for virtue in rags! My dear, I will tranſlate the paſſage—off hand now, d'ye hear, off hand! (riſes and reads)

Poliarchus, the rich Athenian, wantoning in gluttony, looks with contempt on the poor Caſſander: Caſſander repoſing on his bed of ſtraw, thanks the Gods that he has health and virtue; and prays to be preſerved from the misfortune of being rich, like Poliarchus, whoſe floors are ſtained with the wine of drunkenneſs, and whoſe ſilver couch is conſtantly crowded by phyſicians.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Are you ſure that is a juſt tranſlation, Mr. Fancourt?

Mr. Fancourt.

What, Madam, do you doubt my knowledge of Greek! Some people can hardly read Engliſh at ſight; I can tranſlate at ſight, thanks to the milk I ſuck'd in at Oxford. Doctor Johnſon and I, were both Oxford men. —I like to read that old Quiz, he was ſo fond of us Oxford fellows. But he had too much reſpect for riches—he liked rich people.

Mrs. Fancourt.

To ſay truth, I have a little of his way of thinking. I had never much reſpect towards thoſe Philoſophers who are always throwing ſarcaſms on the rich—

Fancourt.

(interrupting) I do maintain, Madam, that the rich are the vileſt—

Mrs. Fancourt.

Come, come, Mr. Fancourt, your extravagancies have rendered you poor, and therefore you are always raving thus, and pouring your philipics on people of fortune;—as though vice and folly could only be found in palaces, and virtue in garrets.

Fancourt.

Hey day! Why Ma'am—why—

Mrs. Fancourt.

For my part, I believe there is as much goodneſs amongſt perſons of fortune, as amongſt the poor—and I do not ſee why the power of dreſſing elegantly, and living in well educated ſociety, ſhould debaſe the heart, or weaken the underſtanding.

Fancourt.

You do not ſee! why you are the greateſt—the moſt abominable—upon my ſoul, you are the moſt provoking fool that ever—

Mrs. Fancourt.

My dear Sir, I do not doubt it—you have repeated theſe opinions too often for me not to be convinced of their juſtice. But really now, between ourſelves (riſing and laying down her work) as opinion is nothing without example, I will take the liberty to quote yourſelf in ſupport of mine.

Fancourt.

Me! quote me!

Mrs. Fancourt.

Even your great and mighty ſelf! Mr. Fancourt, when I married you, you were not poor—not ſo poor as you are now; and I think at that time you had no particular vices; but as diſſipation has brought poverty upon you, I have obſerved that by little and little your ſhallow virtues have diſappeared, till—

Fancourt.

(impatiently) 'Till what?

Mrs. Fancourt.

Till you are capable of almoſt any action that will not endanger your neck. Nay, I no longer mind your threatening looks—I am ſo convinced of what I have ſaid, that my heart feels horror.

Fancourt.

I'll make it feel ſomething elſe.

Mrs. Fancourt.

You cannot. All other power over my heart is over; you can afflict it no more! But obſerve my deduction. I ſtate you to yourſelf as a proof that poverty is ſometimes the ſource of wickedneſs; and that ſqualid wretchedneſs is as capable of debaſing the heart, as affluence and ſplendor.

Fancourt.

Very well, woman! very well! ſtill the noiſe of that child there— (going to the door) what an odious ſqualing it keeps!

Mrs. Fancourt.

It is not eaſy, Mr. Fancourt, to ſtill the noiſe of children who are hungry. Though they are the children of the firſt Mrs. Fancourt, it pierces my heart to hear them— why will you not do ſomething to get bread for them?

Fancourt.

What would you have me do? I was not bred to ſtand behind a counter, nor to cry "Chairs to mend" in the ſtreets. You know all that—what did you marry me for?

Mrs. Fancourt.

Alas! becauſe I loved you. The ſweetneſs of your manners diſguiſed the emptineſs of your heart, and I romantically thought that poverty could never be an evil, when two hearts fondly ſhared its difficulties. But now—permit me to aſk, why you married me?

Fancourt.

Becauſe you had a modicum of a fortune—a ſcore of hundreds: and I had not ſo many ſhillings.

Mrs. Fancourt.

That little modicum might have been a bank, if properly managed, and—

Fancourt.

Pſhaw!—ſtuff! I hate ſuch cant. What do you want?

Enter a female Servant. Servant.

A perſon left this parcel, Sir, and ſaid there was no anſwer. Exit.

Fancourt.

Such abominable cant! (untying the up parcel) I am as tired of it as I uſed to be of my Grandmother's ſpelling through Hannah Glaſs's Art of Cookery, and I believe in my conſcience —the devil! here is gold!

Mrs. Fancourt.

Gold!

Fancourt.

Keep off—you are too good, too pure, to want ſuch vile traſh. Twenty guineas by Jupiter—ah, ah! (ſhaking the purſe.)

Mrs. Fancourt.

Here is a note dropt (takes it up and reads) Accept this purſe, Sir, from one who is ſorry to ſee ſuch merit in confined circumſtances, and who was charmed with your delicate manner of revealing it.

Fancourt.

Who is it ſigned by?

Mrs. Fancourt.

Robert Floyer.

Fancourt.

Ay, Sir Robert Floyer, a fine old Welchman, who got himſelf made Sheriff, then a Knight—thoſe two dignities generally follow, like the Old Bailey and a whipping. I made the old blockhead believe that I was deeply verſed in Welch antiquities—that Snowden was once a burning mountain, and that the Ap Morgans and Ap Shoneſes were lineally deſcended from King Priam. You ſee I know how to turn my wits to account—I can make money, though I can't make ſhoes.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Yes, and you ſee there is generoſity where there is no poverty; and that but for the beneficence of a man of fortune, a rich man, your children to-day wou'd have wanted a dinner.

Fancourt.

Pſha! what merit is there in the generoſity of a rich man! a fellow who takes out a handful of guineas from his ſtore as you would dip a bucket into a well? give me the virtue of the poor man who divides his laſt ſhilling—his laſt two-pence with his friend; who takes his pint of porter from his thirſty lips, and ſhares it with his poorer neighbour.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Ah, here is your poor ſiſter —I will go and receive her—you can now aſſiſt her diſtreſſes—what pleaſure it will give you!

Fancourt.

None of your documents—if ſhe is in diſtreſs, let her pawn her ſuperfluities, as other poor people do. (going out.) There is ſome difference between ſharing one's laſt two-pence with a friend, and one's laſt twenty guineas. Exit.

Mrs. Fancourt goes out on the oppoſite ſide, with an air of abhorrence.
SCENE II.—A Square. Enter HUMPHREY (ſearching his pockets). Humphrey.

Rot et, here be three caerds or noates, or what the devil they be, left after all. Dang et, I have delivered ſeventeen—all the way from Mancheſter-ſquare to Petty France; from there to Biſhopſgate-ſtreet after ſweetmeats for Miſs, and then to the Hay-market about the pianny forty. Hang me if I doant make dead men of theſe (tearing the notes); dead men tell no tales. The people they were for, will never know their loſs. I can ſay I found nobody at hoam; ha, ha, ha! that was amoaſt the firſt word I larn'd, when I come to Lunnun—"Not at hoam, Sir." Dad! the gentry here have the cheapeſt way of entertaining their friends; it doesn't coſt above a dozen or two lies a day to keep acquaintance with great quality. Hey! did you ſpeak to me, Sir?

BUCKRAM enters. Buckram.

Yes, my lad—Pray which is Sir Robert Floyer's?

Humphrey.

Which is— (burſting into a laugh) What, don't you know Sir Robert's? Why, Sir Robert is as well known in Wales as the Monument in Lunnun, or my Lord Mayor in his gilt coach.

Buckram.

Very likely: But which is his houſe in this ſtreet?

Humphrey.

Why this houſe to be ſure (takes off his hat). Why I live we'en. Pray, Sir, what may be your buſineſs we'en?

Buckram.

I am the young lady's ſtaymaker.

Humphrey.

Staymaker! (puts on his hat) why, I took you for a curnel, or a coptain, or a great knight belonging to a prince, or ſome'at of that ſort. Why, your coate is amoaſt the colour of ſcarlet. Aye, I know why that be —you think to paſs for one of thoſe brave fellows who go over ſea to fight for their country, and, i'faith, its pity but you ſhou'd!

Buckram.

Prithee let your young lady know that I am here. I am recommended by Lady Horatia Horton; I work for all the ladies of fine taſte in town.

Humphrey.

Fine teaſte! Dad! we cut this morning for breakfaſt the fineſt pork griſkin I ever teaſted in my life. Come with me down the eary ſteps, and I'll give ye a bit with freſh muſtard that ſhall put your teaſte in tune for the whole day.

Exeunt.
SCENE—An elegant Apartment (within). Enter Sir ROBERT, followed by a Servant. Sir Robert

(looking out). Humphrey! Humphrey! Where can this loitering raſcal ſtay? So you found Mr. Fancourt's houſe?

Servant.

Yes, Sir; in one of the retired ſtreets near Bloomſbury?

Sir Robert.

Well, I am glad I ſent him thoſe few guineas. Fancourt ſeems to be a lad of merit; and when he opened his diſtreſſes to me, he did it in ſuch a delicate, modeſt way! He is an excellent companion, and he has a pretty taſte for antiquities—I like antiquities.

Servant.

So I gueſs'd, Sir, by the vaſt quantity of old worm-eaten furniture you have at home, which you never make any uſe of, but to ſhew to ſtrangers. All from the old caſtles belonging to your forefathers, Sir, I take it?

Sir Robert.

Yes, all from my forefathers caſtles. Hum (aſide). My grandfather was the firſt man of his family who ever went to bed, or got up his own maſter.

Servant.

Two or three rooms of precious rotten furniture, Sir, give people a notion of the antiquity of your family (archly).

Sir Robert

(aſide). I believe the dog has found me out—it was for that very reaſon I bought it. You may remember, David, the year that I was ſheriff—I ſay that year in which I was high ſheriff for the county.—Ho—here comes Humphrey. Enter HUMPHREY. Where have you been, you loitering, weſt-country booby, theſe three hours?

Humphrey.

Three hours! Why, Sir, 'tis my belief you wou'd have loitered ſix hours, if you had ſeen what I have ſeen, and heard what I have heard.

Sir Robert.

What haſt thou ſeen and heard?

Humphrey.

Why, in my way to Biſhopſgate-ſtreet, I ſaw folks go into that old faſhioned houſe, where Gog and and Magog ſtand up to guard the mince-pies, whilſt the Lord Mayor dines.

Sir Robert.

Guildhall.

Humphrey.

Yes, Gilthall—it is all over gilt and finery. So I follow'd a gemman into a great chamber, and there—O, my eyes! there I ſaw beautiful angels coming down through the clouds, on purpoſe to hold up the glaſs candleſticks, thus (ſtretching out his arm).

Sir Robert

(ſeriouſly). Gad! I ſhou'd like to ſee them.

Humphrey.

And the gemmen were debating. Yes—O! my ears! I heard a city debate, and they called one another Mr. Deputy—and one of them, with a fine red double chin, got up and ſaid, I am ſorry to differ from Mr. Deputy (ſpeaking gruffly); but I contend that theſe innovations bode no good to our conſtitutions. The hour for dining, ſince my time, was two; it has been three, four, and ſix; and I ſuſpect ſhortly it may be eight— hum! I move, therefore, that a petition be preſented to the Lord Mayor—hum— hum—

On which a little ſquinting gentleman roſe, and ſaid (in a ſhrill quick voice), I ſupport the worthy Deputy who ſpoke laſt. Theſe late hours are ruinous to the body corporate. On Lord Mayor's Day we dined ſo late, that when I went afterwards to Fiſhmonger's-hall to ſupper, the turbots were gone, nay, the ſecond courſe was demoliſhed, the ſweetmeats were pocketed, and nothing remained but cheeſe and pickles.

Sir Robert.

You are a pickle! Get out—here is a great lady coming—get out of her way— go! Exit. Humphrey. Enter Lady CHARLOTTE. What, Madam, is your Ladyſhip going? Has not my daughter had the honour to ſee you, Lady Charlotte?

Lady Charlotte.

Yes; and I have left her with a perſon of much greater conſequence—ſhe is in deep conſultation with her milliner. To a girl of eighteen, Sir Robert, a milliner is of as much importance as an aid-du-camp to a general. I knew my diſtance when ſhe entered, and immediately took leave—Pray, Sir, order my chair (to the firſt ſervant, who goes off).

Sir Robert.

Madam, forgive me, if, before you go, I juſt plump one queſtion. What do you think of Mr. Conway?

Lady Charlotte.

Ha, ha, ha! Think of Mr. Conway? That he has all the advantages which belong to faſhion, without its vices. He has certainly ſome vanity, but more good ſenſe. His friends are well choſen; he admires beauty; he loves goodneſs; and there is a young lady— (archly) Adieu, Sir Robert! Your anxiety about Mr. Conway I perfectly underſtand, and I hope you are ſatisfied. Exit.

Sir Robert

(bowing repeatedly). What a thing it is to have a lady of quality ſo familiar with one!

GEORGINA enters haſtily, followed by JENNY.

Well, Georgina, what now? What now?

Georgina.

O, papa! look at this cap—did you ever ſee ſo bewitching a thing?

Sir Robert.

Pho! you little fool!

Georgina.

Look at this bow—look at the tip of this ſcarlet feather! Here, Jenny, put it away, with great care.

Jenny.

Care, indeed (aſide); it is pity my talents have not better employment than taking care of feathers, and wiping band-boxes. Exit.

Georgina.

Good bye, papa; I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's. I do love to go there. And what do you think I long to be? I long to be a ſculptor!

Sir Robert.

I don't underſtand ye.

Georgina.

O! Lady Horatia does look ſo charmingly whilſt at her labours; her ſweet white hands appear like the very marble ſhe is at work upon.

Sir Robert.

Did I hear right? At work upon marble?

Georgina.

Bleſs me! Why did I never tell you before that ſhe is a ſculptor? She has a large room full of fine things of her own work. O dear! I wiſh ſhe wou'd teach me her art; I could ſpend my life amidſt fine ſtatues. But pray, papa, when am I to be preſented! I am not in town till I am preſented.

Sir Robert.

Not in town!

Georgina.

Nay, indeed, its true; Lady Charlotte told me ſo. I can't go any where in public, nor be ſpoken to by a ſingle creature, till I have been preſented: I am not come out till then.

Sir Robert.

Not come out! Bleſs me, Georgina, my dear, why then Saint James's has its ſlang as well as Saint Giles's.

Georgina.

Yes, to be ſure it has; and we muſt make haſte and get the ſlang, or they will find us out to be mere bumpkins. When ſhall I be preſented?

Sir Robert.

Have patience. I am come to town about a little buſineſs of that ſort myſelf. Perhaps we ſhall be preſented together.

Georgina.

How, ha, ha, ha! preſented together! Was ever ſuch a thing heard of? Miſs and her papa preſented together! Then did you never come out till now, papa?

Sir Robert.

Pſhaw! mine is quite a different buſineſs. If I am put into a great office, I muſt be preſented in courſe.

Georgina.

Why, what are you going to be?

Sir Robert.

That I cannot tell.

Georgina.

If they give you your choice, pray be a duke. O! how I ſhou'd doat on your being a duke!

Sir Robert.

Why?

Georgina.

Then I ſhou'd be a lady—Lady Georgina—delightful! Lady Georgina's name ſhould fly about the town as though it were made with wings to it.

Sir Robert.

Nonſenſe! You a duke's daughter, indeed! A pretty figure you'd make as a duke's daughter!

Georgina.

Figure! Where the difficulty? I can do it exactly—you ſhall ſee now—When I was laſt at Lady Horatia Horton's, a counteſs from the Opera came in, thus (ſtriding acroſs, and ſitting down abruptly) —Bleſs me, Lady Horatia, how cou'd you be at home to-night? I gallopp'd ſixty miles to-day, have kill'd one coach-horſe, and ſpoiled another, merely to hear the Banti—O! the Banti!

Sir Robert.

The bantling! why, whoſe bantling was it!

Georgina.

O! her upper tones!—and, O! her under tones! whilſt ſhe was flying from B to C, hanging upon G, running into cantabile from E, and ſinking down by juſt gradations to D, the whole houſe were magnetized—I ſaw a general faint—a miniſter of ſtate take out his ſmelling bottle, and a prince of the blood blew his noſe.

Sir Robert.

Blew his noſe! very affecting indeed! and counteſſes are charming creatures. But, dear Georgina, the warmth of thy imagination would diſturb my peace, did not thy extreme giddineſs prevent its faſtening on any one object for more than ten minutes together. Hah! take care of thyſelf, my dear Georgina, thou art treading upon men-traps and ſpringguns. Thy paths, though ſeemingly covered with flowers, are full of thorns, prickles, and adders.

Georgina.

Thorns, prickles, and adders! law, Papa, why people never ſeem to feel them, and I dare ſay I ſhall dance over them as lightly as my neighbours. Exit.

Sir Robert.

Yes, DISSIPATION! thou art the enemy of female honour. It is on thy accurſed altar that the peace of the wife, the repoſe of the huſband, and the welfare of whole families, are continually offer'd up. O! ſhield my child. (lifting up his eyes and hands) from the corruption of DISSIPATION! Exit.

SCENE—ASGILL's Lodgings. CONWAY enters, preceded by a Servant. Servant.

My maſter is engaged, Sir, but I will acquaint him that you are here. Exit.

FANCOURT runs in. Fancourt.

Hah, Conway, I ſaw you come in, ſo I follow'd you up—I know you are at home in Aſgill's lodgings.

Conway.

Are you acquainted with Mr. Aſgill.

Fancourt.

No; notwithſtanding he keeps good company, and is nephew to a rich old Sir Simon in the City, who between loans and lumber, makes money faſter than he tells lies! but there are an odd ſort of three corner'd mortals one can never cloſe with—they preſent a point at every turn; you may as eaſily come into contact with a porcupine. I know all the people in town except himſelf, and I came in on purpoſe to aſk you to make us intimate.

Conway.

That will be impoſſible. Pray Fancourt, how do you get acquainted with every body, for—let me ſay it in a whiſper—your reputation is not of the very firſt water. (not whiſpering.)

Fancourt.

Pho! what men are diamonds in the way of reputation? French paſte does as well, and one is not ſo much afraid to damage it. If I were ſuch a fellow as you, with a character of the true water, I ſhould be in eternal anxiety —never dare to turn to the right or the left— fearful of a ſpeck here, of a flaw there; as it is, I bruſh on through the world—my French paſte makes a ſhew, and if I loſe it—why I loſe a thing of no value.

Conway.

Amazing!

Fancourt.

Hang me if I would be troubled with a firſt rate character, any more than with a firſt rate beauty—it would only create envy, and my friends would never reſt 'till they had robb'd me of it.

Conway.

O! that talents ſhould be thus enliſted in the ſervice of vice.

Fancourt.

That I ſwear you learnt from our old one-eyed Proctor of Brazen Noſe—I remember the very words; I have heard them fifty times whilſt I ſtood on his blind ſide. O! that a man ſhould thus live on the ſcraps of others all his life, and never dare coin a principle for himſelf! So, you won't introduce me to Aſgill? (Conway ſhakes his head) very well —very well—I'll introduce myſelf to an Archbiſhop before I am a week older, and get myſelf made a Prebend in revenge.

Exit. Enter ASGILL. Conway.

Aſgill, I am come to diſengage myſelf from the hunt; I cannot be with you tomorrow.

Aſgill.

Very well—I ſhall not enquire your reaſons; nor ſhall I pretend to gueſs that there is a little Welch Diana in the way of the hunt— you have not ſeen her I dare ſwear.

Conway.

Be not ſo daring—I have ſeen her; but I have only ſeen her. She is as wild as one of the kids on her father's mountains.

Aſgill.

Where have you met with her?

Conway.

At Lady Horatio Horton's; but her volatility is ſo great, that it wou'd be as eaſy to catch quickſilver.

Aſgill.

I cannot ſay I think ſo—ſhe does not want life; but it is the ſweet penſiveneſs of her character that charms me—a thouſand graces hang about penſiveneſs which mere animal ſpirits deſtroy.

Conway.

I have not ſeen her in that humour.

Aſgill.

And then her fine taſte.

Conway.

Her taſte is as fine as other people's I dare ſwear; but ſhe will bear a little poliſh.

Aſgill.

She bear poliſh—ha, ha, ha! where will you find ſuch a mind, ſuch an underſtanding?

Conway.

I have no doubt of its native excellence, and I hope to have the pleaſure of improving it.

Aſgill.

You! what do you mean, Sir? of whom are you ſpeaking?

Conway.

Of whom do you ſpeak?

Aſgill.

Of Lady Horatia Horton—did you not name her?

Conway.

Ha, ha, ha! ſo this is confidence by chance! dear Aſgill, I have blundered on your ſecret very undeſignedly—I was ſpeaking of the daughter of Sir Robert Floyer.

Aſgill.

But you mentioned Lady Horatia; and the moment her idea is preſented to me, every other is ſwallowed up. O! Conway, ſhe engroſſes my whole ſoul—to ſee her is bliſs, and the ſound of her voice is rapture.

Conway.

Heyday!

Aſgill.

You have the ſecret by chance; but you are welcome to it, and I am prepared for all your jeſts on my paſſion for a woman who is devoted to ſculpture.

Conway.

Faith, I perceive no room for jeſts. I think it muſt be charming to ſee a fine woman ſit with a chiſſel, and bring out of a block of marble, a form as graceful as her own; every feature glowing with animation beneath her eye, and every ſtroke of the mallet warming the cold maſs into mind and expreſſion.

Aſgill.

(ſmiling and catching his hand). I thank you; but your eulogy is not compleat, for the purity of my Horatia chaſtiſes the art ſhe loves. The ſubjects ſhe ſelects, Delicacy itſelf would paint out: with an enchanting modeſty ſhe ſeeks for models only in the graces of her own ſex, the daughters of Britain, and the matrons of Greece.

Conway.

Very well: but you are a Son of Britain—does Lady Horatia—

Aſgill.

(eagerly). Yes—no—I can not tell. She treats me with rigour, yet I think her heart has paſſion. I ſometimes fancy I ſee it ſhine like the ſun in November—unwillingly, and by ſtarts.

Conway.

Why do you not lead to an explanation.

Aſgill.

I cannot; for ſhe is rich, and I am as you know, dependent on the will of an Uncle.

Conway.

He has the reputation of being a Croeſus.

Aſgill.

True; but a fortune, whoſe baſis is commerce, may be doubled, or diſſolved in a month.

Conway.

Well. Pray for me, my dear Aſgill, that I may catch my little Welch fawn; I have no prayers to make for you; for I perceive your's is one of thoſe ſober paſſions, that, end as it may, your mind will keep its equilibrium. O! how delightful it muſt be to love with ſo much good ſenſe. Exit. laughing.

Aſgill.

O! how he miſtakes! it is in ſouls like mine that love rages with all his fury. The gay, the volatile, can ſcarcely maintain a paſſion; but in the ſerious and reflective mind, love raiſes a deſpotic throne, and, like the burning ſun of Africa, he pours his chiefeſt ardors upon ſlaves.

Enter PERKINS.

Perkins! how now! your looks alarm me. What news from the City?

Perkins.

O! Sir!

Aſgill.

My good friend, ſpeak. You very much diſtreſs me. Something is amiſs.

Perkins.

Would I could ſay your fears were unfounded. Something is amiſs — your Uncle—

Aſgill.

Nay, ſpeak at once! I can bear any thing rather than ſuſpence.

Perkins.

Then ſummon all your fortitude! your Uncle, the good Sir Simon, has ſent me to tell you that—he—is—undone.

Aſgill.

Oh! (preſſing his forehead with his hand) undone! did you ſay ſo, Perkins? did you?

Perkins.

The misfortunes which have ſhaken the trade of Europe have at laſt reached him. He who lately ranked on Change a two hundred thouſand pound man, may not, when his creditors are ſatisfied, be able to command one thouſand pound.

Aſgill.

(after a diſtreſsful ſilence). Your news is heavy, very heavy! leave me, dear Perkins! I want to ruminate on my misfortunes alone. Exit. Perkins. (Throws himſelf into a chair). My worthy, my unhappy Uncle! the tide of affliction muſt roll heavy on him. (Ariſes after a pauſe). It is determined—I ſee Lady Horatia no more. No—never more— (ſighing deeply) never ſhall her delicacy be inſulted by ſeeing a beggar court her to his arms. (Walks backwards and forwards). But what can I do? bred to no profeſſion, knowing nothing; ignorant of every art by which independence, or even bread may be obtained; I am thrown a vagabond upon the world. O! my too indulgent Uncle, when you ſent me to Cambridge, had you placed me, rather, in a counting-houſe, I might now have been in a ſituation to have ſoften'd all your afflictions—inſtead of which—O, horror! my ſoul ſickens—my head is dizzy—I ſink to death. Goes off reeling.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Lodging Houſe. TIPPY walks haſtily acroſs the ſtage, and almoſt goes off—Mrs. BULLRUSH follows him. Mrs. Bullruſh

(bawling) Nay, Mr. Tippy— ſtay, Sir, you ſhall hear—you ſhall hear me. (Groans and puts a handkerchief to her mouth.)

Tippy

(turning). Shall hear;—why how the devil can I avoid it? a pound of cotton ſtuff'd into my ears would not keep out the ſound—I wonder you can open your mouth ſo wide, with ſuch a pain in it.

Mrs. Bullruſh.

Aye—between my tooth-ache and you, I am almoſt mad. Sir, I tell you plainly I do not like your goings on, and I deſire you to quit my lodgings.

Tippy

(chucking her chin). Not for the world; for then I muſt quit you, my dear, good humoured, quiet Mrs. Bullruſh.

Mrs. Bullruſh.

None of your jeers. I don't like the ſort of company you keep (groaning).

Tippy.

That's odd; for my friends are of all ſorts and complexions.

Mrs. Bullruſh.

And of all characters too, I believe. They ſeem moſt of them to be men who live by their wits.

Tippy.

Yes;—I like to have my wits about me.

Mrs. Bullruſh.

And, Sir, you have been in my lodgings fourteen weeks, and I have never yet ſeen the colour of your money.

Tippy.

No!—that's a reproach I am aſham'd of—you ſhall make it no more (takes out a purſe, and pours gold into his hand). There—bright yellow gold as ever came from the mint—does not the colour charm ye (ſhe attempts to ſnatch it). Good morning! Exit.

Mrs. Bullruſh.

Nay, this is too bad—ſtop— ſtop! Runs after him with her handkerchief up.

SCENE II.—St. James's Street.—the Palace, Fruit Shop, &c. FANCOURT is diſcovered in the fruit-ſhop, talking to the miſtreſs, and eating fruit. He looks through the window. Fancourt.

The ſun always brings out butterflies—a fine ſhew of women to-day. (Tippy walks acroſs). Tippy—Tippy—hey!

Tippy.

Who is ſo familiar with my name? (looking round). Hah! Fancourt—I have not ſeen you theſe ſix months—are you engaged there?

Fancourt.

No—I'll come to you.

Tippy.

The fellow looks as well as ever; I wonder what he's upon now (Fancourt comes from the ſhop). Well, my boy—how goes the world?

Fancourt.

How goes the world—round, I ſuppoſe; for its inhabitants ſeem all giddy— where have you been ſince we parted at Bath?

Tippy.

Bath? that was a twelvemonth ſince. I have been in a thouſand ſhapes, and a thouſand places ſince then. The laſt was Italy.

Fancourt.

Italy! how the devil could you get there? was you bear driver? I mean did you hold the leading ſtrings of ſome pretty Maſter, running the tour?

Tippy.

How I got there you may know hereafter; but there I have been. Zounds, man, I learnt to be a critic there—I talk of ſtatues and intaglios—of buſts and medallions—I find fault where ever I go—my judgment is aſked—my ſatire is feared—I am courted and hated—O! its a glorious thing to be a critic.

Fancourt.

Why you don't pretend that you are really a connoiſſeur?

Tippy.

I pretend to any thing that will either get me into a dining parlour, or a wine cellar. I pronounce on Paintings and Tokay—on Statues and Old Hock; I know exactly the grapes from which the one was preſſed, and the age in which the other was chiſſell'd—pſha! man, there requires little to be a connoiſſeur, but impudence.

Fancourt.

Well—but how do you live— plainly—how do you eat?

Tippy.

For the laſt three months I have eat on the ſtrong likeneſs I bear to Lord Beechgrove.

Fancourt.

The reſemblance is aſtoniſhing— they call you his polygraph.

Tippy.

You are miſtaken. They call his Lordſhip my polygraph.

Fancourt.

I ſtand corrected. But how have you lived on this reſemblance, has he taken you up for the ſake of the likeneſs?

Tippy.

Taken me up! you are curſt unlucky in your phraſes to-day. No, no—he has been uſeful to me without his knowledge: for inſtance, I paſs'd one night through Portland Place, and ſaw a great route. I daſh'd into the hall, curſing the crowd of carriages which prevented my chariot from coming up. The porter inſtantly knew me; gave my name—and LORD BEECHGROVE reſounded all the way up the ſtairs. The lady of the houſe received me; placed me immediately at a Loo table, and in two hours I brought off two hundred guineas.

Fancourt.

Lucky raſcal!

Tippy.

I lately walk'd down to Barnet; took a chaiſe and four, and bade them whiſk me to the Royal Hotel, Pall-Mall. Away we flaſh'd; roads all mud—horſes plunging—poſt-boys cutting; meaſured Finchley Common in ſeventeen minutes, ten ſeconds. Rode over a ſmoaking Common Councilman at the Adam and Eve—run in at Tottenham Court Road, and came neatly up (making poſtillion-like motions).

Fancourt.

Ha, ha, ha!

Tippy.

The waiters recognized my Lordſhip, gave me the beſt apartments, the very rooms the Turkiſh Ambaſſador had, and there I lived in firſt ſtyle; no epicure—never choſe more than five things at table; drank Champaigne: in ten days took my leave to viſit my Cumberland eſtate, and ordered the bill to be ready againſt my return.

Fancourt.

Gad, I adviſe you to take his Lordſhip up, and ſwear that he's an impoſtor—you may then enjoy his Cumberland eſtate.

Tippy.

I have taken a fancy to an eſtate in another county; a better ſcheme, my boy! (ſlapping him on the ſhoulder). A plan which ſometimes forces me to take ſhelter, like Hercules, under the diſguiſe of a petticoat. Yes, like him, I exchange my club for a diſtaff, or like Achilles, transform my ſurtout to a gauze robe, and my waiſtcoat to a lace tucker.

Fancourt.

Hah—high examples! Come, tell me—No, defer! defer! here comes a lovely Welch girl, whoſe father I ſometimes do the honour to call upon.

GEORGINA enters from Pall-mall, followed by HUMPHREY. Georgina.

O! dear Mr. Fancourt, how do you do? Nay, do not ſtop me. I hate to ſtand in the ſtreet, people ſtare at one ſo.

Fancourt.

For that very reaſon you do not hate to ſtand in the ſtreet. What is beauty good for, if it is not to be looked at?

Tippy

(aſide). Oh, ho—now I find whereabout you are. I know more of this family than you gueſs at, mon ami.

Humphrey.

Whilſt theſe gentlemen are talking to Miſs, I'll ſtep in here for a hap'eth of apples. (goes into the fruit-ſhop.)

Fancourt.

How came you here without your carriage?

Georgina.

It is ſo charming a morning that I bid it follow me from Pall-mall, where I have been ſhopping. Nay, I beg you let me paſs. Bleſs me! where is my ſervant? (looking round) I am going to Lady Horatia Horton's on the moſt particular buſineſs in the world. (Humphrey burſts out of the ſhop).

Humphrey.

O! ſuch extortioning! ſuch cheatery!—I never heard the like—I wonder they are not afraid to ſtand in their ſhoes.

Georgina.

What is the matter, Humphrey?

Humphrey.

Miſs, as I hope to be—I did but juſt pop into my mouth a little bit of a peach —'twere no bigger than a walnut—it went down at a gulp like a pill—and they have made me pay a ſhilling for it.

Georgina.

Why, how could you think of going into ſuch a ſhop?

Humphrey.

Such a ſhop! why not? A ſhop's a ſhop, if honeſt people did but keep it, and as free for me as another.

Georgina.

Follow me—I am aſhamed of the noiſe you make. Exit.

Humphrey.

A ſhilling! Upon my ſay-ſo if— aye, I'll mark you, never fear. (following).

Tippy.

She's a lovely girl! an heireſs? I'll pretend ignorance for the preſent (aſide).

Fancourt.

She is—we'll ſpeak of that hereafter. Her father is coming towards us from the Park. Now her father is a rich old fool, and we are two wits. Folly has been the natural food of wit, ſince the ſun firſt threw his burning glance upon mankind.

Tippy.

I underſtand ye—But I'll lend no aſſiſtance unleſs we halve it—remember that— halves or nothing.

Fancourt.

Why, to be ſure.

Tippy.

Are you upon honour?

Fancourt.

To the laſt breath—The old fool —hang it—he is no fool neither. In ten words, for here he comes, he was of uſe on a late election, and the parliament-man (ſneering) adviſed him to come up to town to receive acknowledgments from the miniſter. He was afraid to leave his daughter behind, ſo wiſely brought her up. Enter Sir ROBERT FLOYER. (Running towards him.) My dear, Sir, how I rejoice to ſee you! I call'd at your houſe to return thanks for the great—

Sir Robert.

O! not a word, not a word, Mr. Fancourt. Silence will oblige me—

Fancourt.

Permit me, Sir Robert, to make you known to my Lord Beechgrove.

Sir Robert.

Lord Beechgrove (whiſpering); Is he not a near relation of the Duke of—

Fancourt.

Firſt couſin, and his moſt particular adviſer.

Sir Robert.

My Lord, I am your Lordſhip's very obedient, very humble ſervant.

Tippy.

Sir Robert, I am rejoiced to ſee you. We have long look'd for you in town. I have heard you much ſpoken of at a certain table. We know our friends, Sir Robert. Pray, Mr. Fancourt, bring Sir Robert to dine with me. I am ſorry to leave you, but it is a cabinet morning, and the concerns of Europe, you know, muſt not be neglected. Adieu! Exit.

Sir Robert.

That's right—never neglect buſineſs. O! I wiſh all the peers were like this peerleſs peer. Ay, there he goes into the Palace, I ſee. Mr. Fancourt, I am prodigiouſly obliged to you for making me known to his lordſhip. Is he a man of large fortune?

Fancourt.

Yes; but a little out at preſent. It is amazing what vaſt ſums he has expended for the public. He was juſt aſking me if I knew any honeſt man who could lend him a thouſand pounds. He could have ten times that of the Jews—But he hates the Jews—O! he has never any dealings with the Jews.

Sir Robert.

Perfectly right.

Fancourt.

O! I always ſay, my lord, whatever you do, borrow money of the Chriſtians —always borrow of the Chriſtians. He only wants it for a month, juſt till quarter-day. Sir Robert, its an opportunity now—he has amazing intereſt—a ſingle ſentence, whilſt he is ſwallowing a glaſs of Burgundy, would do your buſineſs.

Sir Robert.

Indeed! Whilſt he is ſwallowing a glaſs of Burgundy?

Fancourt.

I'll ſhew you now. This is my glaſs (holding up his glove, formed like a glaſs). you ſhall be the great man; we'll ſuppoſe his name to be SNAPPER, and I am Lord Beechgrove. Come, SNAPPER, "here's to the girl we love!" (ſips) I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt do ſomething for that Welch knight; he who was ſheriff there t'other day—

Sir Robert

(interrupting). High ſheriff for the county.

Fancourt.

Pardon me! High ſheriff for the county (ſips). He is the ſaddeſt old raſcal (Sir Robert ſtares); he (ſips) is the greateſt enemy we have in the principality.

Sir Robert

(in a paſſion). Why, Sir, what do you mean? They never had ſuch a friend; I ſpent more money to favour the cauſe than I care to own. I was for ever on horſeback; there was not a cottager who could influence the ſixteenth couſin of a voter, whom I did not entertain; and the fact is, it was ſolely owing to me—

Fancourt.

What, do you take me to be ſuch a ninny as to plead your ſervices. You are a mere chicken! Liſten. I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt have him on our ſide (ſips). The old ſcoundrel killed his ſet of coach greys, and fifteen nags in riding about the country to oppoſe us (ſips). He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and the ap Shoneſes in three counties. In ſhort, we muſt have him—ſo here goes— "the girl we love!" Thus, I ſwallow the girl, he ſwallows the hint, and the buſineſs is done. Will you lend me the thouſand pounds?

Sir Robert.

I will—I underſtand; this is what you call kicking a man up ſtairs.

Fancourt.

Only for a month.

Sir Robert.

Nay, if it is for ſix weeks. I ſhall not ſtand upon a fortnight.

Fancourt.

Thus it is to deal with men of generoſity.

Sir Robert.

Call upon me after dinner. I am hurried juſt now; our member lives in the next ſtreet, and I am going to him; but I'll write a draft on my banker for the thouſand pounds againſt you call. O! I like to oblige a lord. Exit.

Fancourt.

Well, now to him who is rich in expedients, of what conſequence is being pennyleſs? Let groſs, plodding ſpirits dig and labour; it is ours to gather the fruit. Exit.

SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room. Enter HUMPHREY, with Georgina's dreſs hanging on his arm; Maid meets him. Humphrey.

Here, I have brought this odd garment for Miſs. What is ſhe going to do with it?

Maid.

I can't tell.

Humphrey.

Could a body ſee that fine place they talk about, where Madam makes men and women all in marble.

Maid.

Perhaps you may get a peep at it. There is company there at preſent. It is called a ſchool.

Humphrey.

School! Zooks, I am glad to hear great folks go to ſchool. Some of them, mayhap, may larn better manners. Exit.

SCENE—A large, elegant Apartment, with various Pieces of Sculpture, Statues, Urns, &c. Lady CHARLOTTE walks down from the top, viewing the ſtatues. Lady Charlotte.

This is, indeed, a ſchool! Here are copies of all that is valuable in the art ſhe loves. Ah, the lovely artiſt herſelf.

Enter Lady HORATIA. Lady Horatia.

Dear Lady Charlotte, I rejoice to ſee you. They did not tell me you were here.

Charlotte.

I have been here a long while; delighting myſelf with your charming works. But how full of labour is the amuſement you have choſen?

Lady Horatia.

I do not find it ſo.

Lady Charlotte.

So different from faſhionable life.

Lady Horatia.

O! the labour of a faſhionable life wou'd kill me; I ſhould ſink under it. Chipping marble is playing with feathers compared to that.

Lady Charlotte.

How ſo?

Lady Horatia.

The diſcipline of a life in faſhion is by no means of the mildeſt ſort (ſmiling). Conſider, for inſtance, the neceſſary vigils and abſtinence of a gameſter. It is expedient that ſhe works hard and lives ſparingly; for if ſhe does not keep her ſpirits perfectly cool, inſtead of cheating her friend, her friend may cheat herThis reflection is copied, pretty nearly, from the elegant Doctor Horne.. My labours are leſs and more innocent than hers.

Lady Charlotte.

O! I perceive you will be able to defend yourſelf.

Lady Horatia.

In the next place reflect on the toils of a determined beauty. Whether ſhe wakes or ſleeps; whatever ſhe does, whereever ſhe goes, it is all with relation to the one great object which engroſſes her meditations. After hours waſted, murder'd, in the hard work of the toilette, away ſhe ſprings! Her wheels thunder rapidly through the ſtreets—ſhe flies from aſſembly, to aſſembly. Does the muſic of the concert faſcinate her? No. Does poliſh'd converſation intereſt her? No. Some other beauty has been the belle of the evening; her heart has been torn with envy; ſhe returns home; drags off her ornaments in diſguſt, and throws herſelf on a ſleepleſs bed in anguiſh. Are my labours leſs pardonable than hers?

Lady Charlotte.

You will be too hard for me in argument, ſo I drop your ſtatues, to talk of yourſelf. Something, I ſee, is wrong. What is it? (tenderly) Come, be explicit— You will not ſpeak! In plain language, when did you ſee Mr. Aſgill?

Lady Horatia.

Not this week—no—not for a whole week! I will conceal nothing from you. I find now that my tenderneſs more than equals his. I have no joy left—the chiſſel drops from my hand, the marble block is no longer moulded into fleſh, my taſte has no employment, and my heart is breaking.

Lady Charlotte.

How do you account for his abſence?

Lady Horatia.

Tired with my haughty coldneſs, he has forſaken me. I die with jealouſy and ſelf-reproach. He has found an object more amiable and more tender. I knew he loved me, and I gloried in my conqueſt.— "Yet ſtill I tried each fickle art "Importunate, and vain, "And whilſt his paſſion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain." O, Aſgill! thou art revenged!

Lady Charlotte.

What hearts we poſſeſs! Always too cold, or too feeling. My dear Horatia, ſtonify your's a little. As you give ſpirit to marble, transfuſe the marble to your heart. See, here is your little Welch friend.

Enter GEORGINA. Georgina.

O! Lady Horatia! I am ſo rejoiced! Bleſs me! you are weeping—what has happened?

Lady Charlotte.

A favourite goldfinch has happened to die, my dear.

Georgina.

And laſt night I loſt a Canary bird. I am ſure I cried for half an hour. Give me your goldfinch, and we will bury them together. O, dear! and you ſhall copy them in marble; that will be a ſweet taſk for you. (Lady H. takes her hand, and ſmiles). You know what I have hurried here for?

Lady Horatia.

No.

Georgina.

No! Why did not you tell me you wanted to give my form to the ſtatue of Andromache—Andromache mourning for her huſband; that you have juſt began to chip out there, you know. (pointing to a block of marble).

Lady Horatia.

I did ſo; but I am out of ſpirits to-day.

Georgina.

O! I will not be diſappointed. Your favourite work will put you in ſpirits. I have brought a dreſs for the purpoſe; Humphrey, bring it in. HUMPHREY enters with the dreſs, and ſhews marks of aukward wonder. I ſhall be ſadly mortified if you ſend me away.

Lady Charlotte.

Come, ſit down, Lady Horatia, it will amuſe you.

Georgina.

Yes, do; and 'tis very fortunate that I loſt my Canary bird. I'll think of that, and then I ſhall look ſad enough for Hector's widow.

Lady Horatia.

Pho! you little chit! Well, ſtand on the pedeſtal, and lean on the broken column now, with proper penſiveneſs and grace.

(Georgina runs up ſteps behind the pedeſtal). Georgina.

Yes, I will be exactly the thing. (tries to look very melancholy). O! my poor Canary bird!

Lady Horatia.

Ha, ha, ha! Come, let us place your drapery in ſtatue like order. (ſhe and Lady Charlotte place the folds). Now, keep ſteady, and think of your Canary bird.

Enter Servant. Servant.

Mr. Conway.

Lady Horatia.

Who?

Servant.

Mr. Conway.

Georgina

(ſtarting). Dear! Mr. Conway.

Servant.

Some Gentlemen are with him, and they wiſh to ſee the ſchool.

Lady Horatia.

Dear Lady Charlotte, receive them, then—I cannot—I cannot indeed! Exit.

Georgina

(runs down). Gracious! now I think of it, I have a great mind to run up again; I will, I declare, and ſee what Mr. Conway ſays to me as a ſtatue.

Lady Charlotte.

A ſtatue—why, ſurely, you do not expect to impoſe on him?

Georgina.

O yes, I do—I am ſure he will not find me out (runs up). Now, dear Lady Charlotte, juſt place my veil a little on this ſide. O! make haſte—make haſte—I hear them coming.

Lady Charlotte

(placing the veil). I muſt gratify you. What a giddy thing you are!

Enter CONWAY, with TIPPY, and three Gentlemen. Conway.

Lady Charlotte, you have heard of Mr. Tippy?

Tippy.

Ah, ah, what, this is the place! don't mind me, Ma'am; don't mind me, I am uſed to run about this town, and correct its follies; 'tis a damn'd good town, that is certain; one always finds ſubjects for ridicule! well, what the devil am I to ſee?

Conway.

Look around.

Tippy.

I, juſt warm from the School of Florence; I who have trod the Roman Way; have ſeen the Baths of Trajan, and the Dog Kennels of Nero, I look at the works of an Engliſh artiſt. Ha, ha, ha! (walking amidſt the ſtatues, and obſerving them thro' a glaſs).

Conway.

Heavens! it is—it is ſhe! ah! how well do you repreſent yourſelf: for you are yourſelf all marble; at leaſt your heart is ſo. Yes, flinty-hearted charmer! you are ever cold and inſenſate. O! I could ſtand and gaze my life away, like Pygmalion, had I, like him, the power to warm my ſtatue into love! what, will you not bleſs me with one glance. Ah, you act your part too well.

Tippy.

Here is an arm; faith, it would make a very good leg; and this fine Grecian lady is like a Kentiſh hop-picker!

Conway.

Critic! come hither; come this way; here is a new ſubject—has not this the true Grecian character?

Tippy.

What is this? is this Lady Horatia's chiſſel? (looking thro' his glaſs).

Conway.

No—it is by a greater artiſt.

Tippy.

An Engliſh one, I'll be ſworn (looking) Grecian indeed! a mere block-chipper!

Conway.

Is it ill proportioned?

Tippy.

Pſhaw! nonſenſe! talk of proportions to ſcale makers and carpenters; the thought is mechanical! a mere wax doll! where are the inflexions? a human figure made on this principle, could never move. Now I will convince you—nothing like conviction; obſerve the muſcle of this foot!

Georgina

(ſhrieks). O! do not touch me (leaps down). There, Sir, you ſee I can move; and I can dance (dancing round him).

(Tippy ſeats himſelf, in extreme confuſion, on the pedeſtal). Lady Charlotte.

What, Mr. Tippy! the breathing form of beauty a wax doll! the work of a block chipper! ha, ha, ha.

Gentleman.

Why, Tippy, how is this? is it the Firſt of April to-day?

Lady Charlotte.

Accept my ſmelling bottle; you ſeem ready to ſink.

Tippy.

Who! I am done up as a connoiſſeur. (ſtarts up, and runs out).

Lady Charlotte.

Mr. Tippy! Critic! Mr. Tippy! Exit. follow'd by all but Conway and Georgina.

Conway.

Ha, ha, ha! done up indeed; they purſue him as ſmall birds do a hawk. Angel! (turning to Georgina).

Georgina.

Why, you were the perſon whom I wanted to make a fool of—pray follow him.

Conway.

How is it poſſible for me to quit the ſpot where you—

Georgina.

I declare, Mr. Conway, I will not hear you; I have told you ſo twenty times. And as to your kneeling, one finds ſuch things in novels; but no man who really loves, thinks of ſuch fooleries.

Conway

(riſing). How do you know that?

Georgina.

I am ſure of it; there was a young man who came down to Glamorganſhire from College, and almoſt broke his heart about me! and he never knelt once.

Conway

(ſtartled). O, roſes and carnations! (aſide) then—did—how—how, I ſay, were you ſure that he loved you?

Georgina.

How! O, I was ſure of it.

Conway.

Was he always telling you ſo?

Georgina.

He never told me ſo once. He uſed to run away from me; and, at laſt, he had a fever, and in his ravings, he talk'd of no one but me.

Conway.

Who told you ſo?

Georgina.

His ſiſter told me ſo!

Conway.

And did you not pity him?

Georgina.

Yes, I pitied him, becauſe I could not love him.

Conway.

O, that ſaves my life. (aſide) And where is he now?

Georgina.

I don't know; but I have heard he is recovered, and makes a very great figure ſomewhere. They always get over it.

Conway.

But if you ſhould not love me, I ſhould die.

Georgina.

Love! I wou'd not love for all the world. Miſs Gwatkin was in love once, and ſhe grew as pale as horſe-radiſh. Fooliſh creature, if ſhe had kept her colour, perhaps the Gentleman would have liked her.

Conway.

O! let me teach you to love; I ſee you are yet as ignorant of it, as—

Georgina.

As that fine Mr. Tippy was of ſculpture, ha, ha! teach me to love; what, teach me to be wretched, to weep, to be ſleepleſs, to loſe my bloom. O! if I ever thought it poſſible that I could love you, I ſhould hate you beyond all bearing—I would fly from you, and never ſee you more. Runs off haſtily.

Conway.

She flies! O happy omen! let her but dread me, and I have advanced one ſtep; if ſhe fears to love me, the buſineſs is half compleated. Going off with an air of triumph.

SCENE—A Counting-Houſe. Enter SIR SIMON and PERKINS. Sir Simon.

Has not my Nephew been here yet?

Perkins.

He was here laſt night, Sir—I took care that he ſaw no one but me, and he went away in ſuch diſtreſs, that my heart ach'd for him.

Sir Simon.

Dear lad!

Perkins.

Here he comes—here he comes—

Sir Simon.

O! how ſhall. I ſpeak to him? I have given myſelf a taſk that I can hardly bear. Enter ASGILL. My dear boy!

Aſgill.

O! Sir, what ſhall I ſay to you—words cannot utter—

Sir Simon.

Come, come, hope the beſt— perhaps matters may not turn out ſo badly.

Aſgill.

Yes, I will hope and pray for you. But in the mean time (taking out a folded parchment) my dear Sir, I am aſhamed, I bluſh at ſuch an offering. But it is my all—

Sir Simon.

What, what is it you mean?

Aſgill.

You know I have by inheritance a little land; it is but one hundred pounds a year —O! that it were thouſands. In this paper, Sir, it is made over to you (lays it at his feet). And now (Sir Simon looks aſtoniſhed, takes up the paper, ſeems much moved, and turns his back). O! my father! (guſhes into tears, and runs out).

Sir Simon.

O! ſtop, ſtop—my dear Sidney, ſtop!

Perkins.

He has ruſhed into the ſtreet like a flaſh. Let him go, Sir. Such a moment as this does good to the heart of man. He will be better for this affliction as long as he lives.

Sir Simon.

But does he not deſerve all my love; all my anxiety; all my care?

Perkins.

He does—he does—

Sir Simon.

This Lady Horatia, whom I am told of, muſt be an angel if ſhe deſerves him. I wonder now, Perkins, what effect the news of his poverty will have upon her. I have a good mind to wait upon her myſelf, to ſee how ſhe takes it.

Perkins.

Will you, Sir?

Sir Simon.

I have no great opinion of theſe fine ladies. She may be good for ſomething; but in general, I believe, you may take them by the buſhel; there is not much choice.

Perkins.

Then will you go yourſelf, Sir Simon?

Sir Simon.

Yes, I think I will go; and if I find her worthy my SIDNEY—O! but ſhe cannot be worthy! birth, and beauty and riches are all fine things; but when put into the ſcale againſt ſuch innate goodneſs; ſuch an upright mind; ſuch rectitude of character, it is weighing jewels againſt droſs! Exeunt.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—FANCOURT's. Enter FANCOURT, ſinging with a careleſs air, followed by Mrs. FANCOURT. "To obey your will at any time, "I am ready—I am ready to reſign her." Mrs. Fancourt.

Affected pleaſantry, Mr. Fancourt, is the poor refuge of an uneaſy heart. The converſation which has paſſed in the next room with Mr. Tippy, I have heard; and I fear you have an action in contemplation which will hereafter give you remorſe.

Fancourt.

Remorſe, ha, ha, ha!

Mrs. Fancourt.

Pray do not think that every thing is to be carried off with a laugh.

Fancourt.

Not carried off with a laugh! Let me tell you, my, dear, that as long as you can get the world to laugh with you, you may carry any point you pleaſe. Only make wickedneſs pleaſant, and they'll heartily forgive you.

Mrs. Fancourt.

But, Sir, remorſe of heart— Do you never feel that?

Fancourt.

Oh, exceedingly. Yes, I feel remorſe very much, when in any of my—little —odd—excentricities, which you, in your vulgar dialect, call wickedneſſes, I cannot get the laugh on my ſide.

Mrs. Fancourt.

What, then, do the world really laugh at wickedneſſes?

Fancourt.

O! yes, always, my dear, always— when they do not ſuffer by it. A man will be horridly mad if I cheat him of a thouſand pounds; but if I ſwindle his neighbour out of it, he laughs, and ſays, That Fancourt is a ſad, wicked fellow, but he's clever; hang the dog, tho' he does deſerve the gallows, I like him after all.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Monſtrous!

Fancourt.

If one ſeduces any one's wife, the injured huſband rages, but his friend ſimpers; and when he meets the aggreſſor he takes him under the arm, and ſays, "Come, tell us the ſtory."

Mrs. Fancourt.

O flagitious! Well, Sir, and a daughter?

Fancourt.

A daughter! O! what—what you heard Tippy juſt now, did you? You heard what was ſaid about Sir Robert Floyer's daughter?

Mrs. Fancourt.

I did.

Fancourt.

Well, then, my dear, keep ſilence; for if you do not, I will ſlit that pretty tongue of your's, and make it chatter double, like a ſtarling's. Exit.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Oh, horrible! I cannot contain myſelf! Here is a plot laid for the bitter anguiſh of a father, for the ruin of a child! (pauſing) I will—that dreſs—yes, that dreſs of the Savoyard—I ſtill have it—and in that—

FANCOURT returns. Fancourt.

Hark ye, woman, leſt you ſhould miſtake the good humour I have ſhewn, I tell you, that if you dare to utter—to whiſper with the ſlighteſt breath, what your impertinent curioſity has put you in poſſeſſion of, every miſery that I can inflict awaits you! I have a dagger (ſhe ſtarts), not for your body, but for your mind. I have ſomething that ſhall pierce your ſpirit, through, and through!

Mrs. Fancourt.

I tremble at your threats— yet I cannot forbear to bid you remember, that the young woman, whoſe fortune and peace you deſign to ruin, is the daughter of the man who, touched by your diſtreſſes, ſent you yeſterday noble relief.

Fancourt.

Yeſterday is paſt, and a thouſand to-morrows are to come; I muſt provide for them; my opportunities are few, and my wants are preſſing! (heavily and louring)

Mrs. Fancourt.

Now, Mr. Fancourt, what ſay you—is POVERTY the nurſe of virtue?

Fancourt.

Woman! I cannot argue—Remember! Exit. with a ſtern air, and ſhaking his finger.

Mrs. Fancourt

(after a pauſe). O! how has neceſſity hardened his heart! Yes, poverty, thou haſt a thouſand ills beſides thy nakedneſs and want! But this young creature ſhall not be its victim. I muſt try to ſave her—I feel it a duty, and will not be deterr'd. Exit.

SCENE II.—The Room of ſtatues, at Lady HORATIA's. Enter Sir SIMON ASGILL, followed by a ſervant. Sir Simon.

Yes, tell your lady, Sir Simon Aſgill from the city (walking a little way up, and looking about him). Why, what an odd place this is! Your ſervant, Madam (bowing to the figure of a woman). Why, you look as melancholy as the wife of a lame duck juſt waddled home from the Alley. O! here comes the lady herſelf. Enter GEORGINA. Lady Horatia Horton, I am your moſt obedient ſervant.

Georgina.

Sir, I am— (making a low curteſy) I Lady Horatia—ha, ha, ha! (tittering) I wonder who he is.

Sir Simon.

Madam, I wait on you on a melancholy occaſion.

Georgina

(aſide). I'll keep it up. Then, Sir, I wiſh you had ſtaid away. I hate melancholy. Sir, this is my birth-day. I am this day eighteen years of age, and I will not be made melancholy.

Sir Simon.

Eighteen years; my nephew is ten years older. A happy age, Madam; the union of youth and manhood! Were I a lady I would never take a boy to guide me through life. Eight and twenty is the age, and that is the age of my nephew.

Georgina.

Ha, ha, ha! And pray, Sir, ha, ha, ha! Now pray, Sir, who is your nephew?

Sir Simon

(aſide). How flippant ſhe is! My nephew, Madam—Gad, I don't much like her (aſide). My nephew is that unfortunate young man, who has been ſo long in love with you— Sidney Aſgill.

Georgina

(aſide). So—I ſhall have ſome of Lady Horatia's ſecrets preſently. How I will teize her about Sidney Aſgill.

Sir Simon.

I underſtand he has poſſeſſed your good opinion.

Georgina.

Yes, I admire him exceedingly— I never ſaw him in my life (tittering).

Sir Simon.

Then, Madam, it muſt give you pain to know that he is undone. I am his uncle, on whom he depends; but the misfortunes of trade—In ſhort, Madam, if you will be ſo generous on account of his great merit as to marry him, you will marry a beggar.

Georgina.

I marry a beggar on account of his great merit—Law, Sir! ha, ha, ha!

Sir Simon.

Conſider, Madam, how he loves you.

Georgina.

What ſignifies his love—a beggar! I am ſure if my papa ſhou'd—O, dear! I forget—I am Lady Horatia (aſide).

Sir Simon.

I did not know you had a father.

Georgina.

Yes, Sir, I have a father, and a dear father; and if I ſhould—Pho! I blunder again (aſide).

Sir Simon.

Well, that's not to the point. You ſay, Madam, you will not marry my nephew, becauſe he's a beggar. You will not marry Sidney Aſgill, though he is dying for you.

Georgina.

Certainly I will not. (with a determined air). I am ſafe in ſaying that, for I am ſure Lady Horatia will not marry a beggar. (aſide). I deſire I may hear no more of your nephew, Sir; a frightful, ugly, diſagreeable, odd tempered mortal! I can't abide him.

Sir Simon.

Then, Madam, as it wou'd not be civil to correct you, I have a great mind to lay my ſtick about your ridiculous mummery here! (in a great paſſion). You ſay you will not marry my Nephew?

Georgina.

I do ſay I will not, Sir, (in a pet). I never will! The winter ſhall ſcorch firſt, and the ſummer freeze.

Sir Simon.

Then by—you ſhall not, hang me if you do! I will look amongſt the girls in the City. We have as much beauty, more money, and more goodneſs eaſt of Temple Bar, than can be found in all the ſquares weſt of it. So, Madam, I leave you, I leave you to your follies (pointing to the ſtatuary). Refuſe my Nephew! I am glad of it; I am glad of it! he ſhall have a City girl! I have one in my eye, ten times as handſome as you are—old Simon ſays ſo!

Exit. with an air of ſpite. Georgina.

Then let him have a City girl, old Simon! ha, ha, ha! law, what a fury he went off in! Enter LADY HORATIA. O! Lady Horatia, I have been ſo diverted— ha, ha, ha!

Lady Horatia.

What has ſo amuſed you, my dear?

Georgina.

Yes, yes, I know all about Sidney Aſgill—O! how fly you were, ha, ha, ha!

Lady Horatia.

You amaze me; where is Sir Simon? (looking round).

Georgina.

O! here has been the queereſt old Cit! ſtorming and raving becauſe I would not marry his Nephew.

Lady Horatia.

What can this mean?

Georgina.

He took me for you; and he came to tell you that his Nephew was a beggar, and that he was dying for you, and I know not what ſtuff.

Lady Horatia.

Is Mr. Aſgill dying? (greatly alarmed)

Georgina.

Do not look ſo frightened. For love of you—no otherwiſe dying; but he'll get over it; they always do.

Lady Horatia.

And does he ſay Sidney is a beggar?

Georgina.

O! yes, he repeated that, as though it was a recommendation. You cannot think what a paſſion he went away in; for I vowed nothing on earth ſhou'd make me marry a beggar; and he took me all the while for you, ha, ha, ha! (going, and returning). O! I had forgot; the beſt of all is, he ſwears his Nephew ſhall marry a City beauty, with a great, large, clumſy City fortune.

Lady Horatia.

Marry! marry!

Georgina.

I ſhou'd like to ſee the bride. He declares ſhe is twenty times as handſome as I am —I mean, as you are.

Lady Horatia.

O! you know not what you have done! (going, and returning). And ſhe is very handſome? cruel Georgina! and I ſhall appear to Sidney Aſgill, mean, ſordid, deteſtable! he is in poverty, and will think that I deſpiſe him! he—you have undone me! and beautiful too—beautiful and rich—O! I am loſt!

Exit. in extreme diſtreſs. Georgina.

Why, what can the matter be? I certainly have done ſomething wrong. But to be ſure ſhe will not marry a beggar; and yet I don't know—perhaps ſhe may; one hears for ever of the whims of fine ladies, who ſit and contrive what odd thing they ſhall do, to ſurprize the town with next. Exit.

SCENE III.—A Drawing Room at SIR ROBERT's. A noiſe without, of ſcolding. Enter JENNY, followed by HUMPHREY. Jenny.

Such an impudent, inſolent clown as you are; you to pretend for to talk; you! one who never learnt his horn-book.

Humphrey.

Better never larn a horn-book, than ſuch books as you have learnt to read, you trumpery! I tell you, I doant like your goings on, and I'll tell maſter. You are always filling Miſs's head with ſtuff; and I doant like many things as I do ſee.

Jenny.

You ſee! you don't know what you ſee.

Humphrey.

Doant I? yes, I do, and what I hear too. I yeard a fine tale of you in Wales— yes, yes, it is not for nothing that you are drawn forth in your ſilk gowns, and all this fine rufflety-tufflety; and going half naked, as though you were a lady of faſhion. D'ye remember the Coptain who uſed to come on pretence of admiring the old tattered velvet furniture, that came out of my maſter's great grandfather's caſtle, three hundred years ago?—

Enter SIR ROBERT, and FANCOURT. Sir Robert.

Heyday! Humphrey and Jenny run off frightened. Quarrelling about my tattered velvet furniture! I am proud of thoſe rags: the rags of a man's anceſtry ought to be dear to him. I would give fifty acres for the rags of the old doublet of that anceſtor of mine, who came over with the Ambaſſador of King Priam.

Fancourt.

I am ſorry you interrupted them; I like thoſe children of nature; I am fond of natural characters; no diſguiſe—all open honeſty—what their hearts prompt, their tongues utter.

Sir Robert.

True, Sir, true: I am glad you like plainneſs; and therefore tell you, Mr. Fancourt, that the draft I promiſed you for my Lord Beechgrove, I have altered my mind about.

Fancourt

(aſtoniſhed). Sir!

Sir Robert.

All that affair about Mr. Snapper was very pleaſant to be ſure; but I have met with a thing that has ſtagger'd me a good deal.

Fancourt

(aſide). The devil! ſtaggered, Sir?

Sir Robert.

Yes, Sir; I do not underſtand a man's wanting favours, and then treating thoſe ill who would do them ſervice.

Fancourt.

My very heart ſhrivels like ſcorched parchment (aſide). Treat you ill, Sir! who has dared to accuſe me of treating you ill, Sir Robert? I defy the man; I defy the human being. Whu! I wiſh I was out of the houſe

(aſide). Sir Robert.

Dear, Mr. Fancourt, I have not the leaſt ſuſpicion that you wou'd uſe me ill. I believe it to be impoſſible. No, Sir, it is my Lord Beechgrove of whom I complain. Why, Sir, do you know I met him in the Park, and he would not ſpeak to me! would ſcarcely return my bow! tho' an hour before he invited me to viſit him, as you know. Bleſs me! what's the matter, Mr. Fancourt.

Fancourt.

O! Sir Robert, I am ſeized with a vertigo, which is ſometimes very troubleſome (ſmothering a laugh). If I had a glaſs of hartſhorn and water—

Sir Robert.

Here—Thomas—Humphrey— I'll go myſelf. Exit.

Fancourt.

Ha, ha, ha! he has ſeen the real Lord Beechgrove. O! my back cracks like an old wainſcot. The thouſand is gone like laſt year's moonſhire, if I can't— TIPPY enters. O! you devil, out of the houſe!

Tippy.

What has happen'd?

Fancourt.

What has happen'd! why old Taffy has ſeen—out of the houſe—do not ſtay to aſk queſtions; he has ſeen your polygraph— out—out—here he comes! (Tippy vaniſhes). SIR ROBERT enters, follow'd by a Servant with a glaſs. O! this will be too much for me, I fear, at laſt. Sir Robert you are very good (drinks). O! bleſs me every ſpring and fail! I am better now. You were pleaſed to ſay ſomething, Sir, about my friend, Lord Beechgrove. O! I remember now—he met you, and did not recollect you.

Sir Robert.

That was very odd tho'! and I ſaid—ſays I— My Lord, the thouſand pounds which Mr. Fancourt ſpoke to me of—

Fancourt.

Did you—did you? (coughs and laughs with his back turned). Well, Sir Robert, and what ſaid my Lord?

Sir Robert.

Never a word—never a word. Stared as though I had been a new caught monſter. I had not changed my dreſs, though he had changed his. The difference of dreſs made me almoſt think once, that I might be miſtaken; but on looking again, I was ſure of my man.

Fancourt.

Aye—pray what was his dreſs, Sir?

Sir Robert.

Regimentals.

Fancourt.

Regimentals? a hint! (ſignificantly aſide) O! he had his regimentals on—aye—he is a Colonel in the Guards. Rather odd not ſpeaking, I confeſs; but a man, whoſe head is ſtuff'd with the buſineſs of all Europe, muſt be forgiven if a ſlight acquaintance ſlips out of it.

Sir Robert.

Why, I can make allowances, Mr. Fancourt; I remember myſelf, when I was High Sheriff for the county, I once paſſed an acqaintance, but I made him an apology; and, Sir, I ſhall expect an apology from my Lord, for not returning my bow, before I advance the thouſand pounds. A thouſand pounds is money, Mr. Fancourt.

Fancourt.

It is—it is, Sir, and the man who will not make a bow for a thouſand pounds, ought never to poſſeſs a thouſand pence (laughs aſide). I will go, Sir, and bring his Lordſhip here (going). He dines to-day at the Dutcheſs's in his own ſquare; but I'll engage to bring him away in ſpite of wit, and beauty, and champaigne. I'll be a match for thee yet, old Taffy! (aſide).

Exit. Sir Robert.

I wiſh my Lord wou'd invite me to dine at a Dutcheſs's. I never did dine with a Dutcheſs. It muſt be very delightful! I ſhould go back to Glamorganſhire, and be able to amuſe my neighbours with all her Grace's bons mots, and repeat her Grace's toaſts; I would hold my aſs-ſkin ſlily under the table, and pencil down her good things. 'Tis all the faſhion now. Many a man gets a dinner by being known to write down the wit of his hoſt or hoſteſs; tho', after long watching, he frequently brings away empty tablets. Exit.

GEORGINA enters laughing audibly, followed by JENNY. Jenny.

Aye, Miſs, you may laugh, but for my part, I doesn't ſee any thing in your alablaſter ſtatutes—all of one colour, like a duck's egg. Give me a fine large picture, with robes of red, and blue, and rich damaſk cartains.

Georgina.

Your taſte is excellent! (continuing to laugh).

Jenny.

But if you talk of ſtatuary, go to Mrs. Silvertip's.

Georgina.

Who is ſhe?

Jenny.

Why, a lady who makes the fineſt ſtatutes in the world, all in wax. There are generals,— and ſailors — and princeſſes — and dukes—and old women, more natural than life. Now if I can raiſe her curioſity to go there, Jack's buſineſs is done (aſide).

Georgina.

Dear Jenny, how can I ſee them?

Jenny.

Why, by going to her Exhibition on Fiſh-ſtreet-hill.

Georgina.

Fiſh-ſtreet-hill—where is that?

Jenny.

Hang me if I know (aſide). O! Miſs, every body knows where that is. 'Tis juſt by Groſvenor Square.

Georgina.

I wonder if ſhe wou'd teach me her art?

Jenny.

Yes, to be ſure ſhe wou'd. All arts are to be learnt by thoſe who have money, except the art of being happy.

Georgina.

Then the firſt uſe I would make of it, ſhould be to imitate the features of Mr. Conway in wax. I then ſhou'd be able to look at him without bluſhing, and even talk to him without his being a bit the wiſer.

Jenny.

Mr. Conway, indeed! (aſide, petulantly).

Georgina.

O dear! yes I will, I will learn the art. I know his countenance ſo well, that I ſhou'd be able to copy it without ever ſeeing him more. And yet there is one look, which no art can imitate! (tenderly).

Jenny.

Devil take him! (aſide). Well, Miſs, I'll carry you there to-morrow. But Sir Robert muſt not know it.

Georgina.

O not for the world! I will go— I will go—I will go. Runs off.

Jenny.

Yes, ſo you ſhall; but Mr. Conway ſhall never be the better for it. You have a large fortune, my dear, and are handſome; my brother is handſome, and has no fortune—the beſt reaſon for to bring you together.

Enter SIR ROBERT. Sir Robert.

Where is my daughter?

Jenny.

Juſt gone to her dreſſing-room, Sir.

Sir Robert.

Then I'll go and hear her on the harp a little. She has a ſweet finger; aye— and ſhe is a ſweet girl; but my heart has a thouſand aches about her, and dearly as I love her, I am ready ſometimes to exclaim with the old ſong, "I wonder any man alive, would ever have a daughter."

Jenny.

O! you old— if you'd had wit enough for to have put a proper value on my charms, I would have taken every care about your daughter off your hands;—but I'll be revenged for all your tricks! here I have been ſpending anxious days, and ſleepleſs nights, for two years;—making up the ſmarteſt caps of waſh'd gauze and dyed ribbons;—buying new braids of hair, of a nice nut brown—and all without being able to touch the old gooſe, any more than if his heart was made of leather. But I'll match you! ſince you will not make me your wife, I'll give your daughter a huſband; and if you ſhould die of the mortification, I know where to find a place to dance on. Exit.

SCENE IV.—ASGILL's Lodgings. Enter ASGILL and CONWAY. Aſgill.

O! 'tis in vain! never, Conway, will I ſue for compaſſion from a proud beauty, who treated me with haughtineſs, even when ſhe believed me heir to proſperity.

Conway.

Pride and lovelineſs ought to go together. I diſlike the vulgar railing againſt the haughtineſs of conſcious beauty. She, who over values herſelf, will never ſink too low; and the lady of whom we ſpeak, perhaps loves you.

Aſgill.

For that very reaſon, I will not again appear before her. I am too proud to raiſe a conflict in her boſom between her pride, and her tenderneſs, and to owe at length, perhaps, to her compaſſion, the acceptance to which her love would never have acceded.

Conway.

You are very nice. If my heart were not pre-occupied, and ſo fine a woman had an inclination to make me maſter of herſelf and fortune, I would not quarrel with her about the motive; I wou'd thank the pretty creature, and give her all the love I could.

Aſgill.

Yes; but you are a man of fortune. By this time, I ſuppoſe, people begin to talk of my diſtreſs'd ſtate.

Conway.

I have heard it mentioned.

Aſgill.

What has been ſaid?

Conway.

A lady obſerved, that it was pity a man ſo handſome ſhou'd be ſunk ſo low; and her huſband ſaid he was ſorry, becauſe you were ſuch a good kind of young man.

Aſgill

(with contempt). Good kind of young man! I am ſorry I have incurr'd ſuch an approbation. (Conway ſeems ſurpriſed) No, no, do not imagine (ſmiling) that I wiſh for the reputation of a bad heart. But the term, "Good kind of young man," in our days, is ſo applied, that I deſire not to be honoured with it. An idle fellow, who hangs looſe on ſociety, without merit or avocation, or one who corrupts the ſiſter of his friend, or runs away with his daughter, or does all thoſe things which mankind ought to execrate, is ſaid, in excuſe, to be a good kind of young man. In ſhort, good kind of young man, in the preſent acceptance, may very fairly be tranſlated ſcoundrel.

Enter Servant. Servant.

Sir, here is the perſon you ordered from Tower-hill. Slopſeller, I think he calls himſelf. Exit.

Conway.

Slopſeller! How do you tranſlate that? Apothecary, I ſuppoſe?

Aſgill.

Ha, ha, ha! No, I aſſure you. A Tower-hill ſlopſeller does not deal in emulſions and ſyrups, he—but you muſt excuſe my telling you what he deals in. (growing grave) My dear Conway, adieu! Often think of me, and ſpeak of me as I deſerve; but be ſure you never ſuffer people to call me a good kind of young man.

Conway.

Aſgill, though there is ſome pleaſantry in your manner, there is alſo a ſeriouſneſs which ſhocks me. What are you going to do?

Aſgill.

What I ought to do. What, do you imagine I intend to ſtay at home, to parade Bond-ſtreet, and make the circle of Piccadilly, Saint James's-ſtreet, and Pall-mall? No, no, my burning brain cannot be cooled by ſuch expedients; 'tis only the powerful voice of my country can regulate its diſtraction—Aſk no queſtions—my reſolution is fixed—Farewell!

Conway.

What! and is the frenzy of your brain regulated by the hope of ſerving your country? Do all your private woes ſink before that powerful principle! O! glorious effect of patriotic love! Every ſelfiſh feeling vaniſhes—to tear myſelf from you becomes a DUTY. I go—deſpiſe not this weakneſs—I venerate, I pity you! Exit.

Aſgill.

Friend of my heart! He goes in tears! Oh! the drops which manly friendſhip forces from the eye, are more precious than thoſe collected in the groves of rich Arabia— They ſink into my heart—they cheriſh it!— Now come in, Sir. Enter a Man, with a bundle. Have you brought what I ordered?

Man.

Yes; here are the things, Sir. (opens the bundle)

Aſgill.

This, then, is the complete dreſs of an Engliſh ſailor?

Man.

Complete! (opening and diſplaying it)

Aſgill.

O! the ſight of it warms my heart! In this dreſs what heroes have bled—what gallant acts have been atchieved! Thoſe who have worn it, have given England all her glory—have given her the boundleſs empire of the ocean.

Man.

Ay, Sir, it was your Raleighs, and your Drakes, and your Boſcawens who did all that.

Aſgill.

O! whilſt our grateful retroſpection twines laurels around the heroes of departed days, let us not forget what is due to thoſe of our own! Let us look with gratitude towards a HOWE, and hang, with tributary tears, over the names of MONTAGUE, HARVEY, and HUTT!

Man.

Ah! the three laſt are gone.

Aſgill.

But ſome remain. There only wants occaſion, and other Montagues, and other Harveys will ſtart out like meteors, and glide along the Britiſh ſky, blazing in glory!

(Goes out, preſſing the bundle to him.) Man.

Gad! he's a fine fellow, and will make a noble ſailor; but our fleets, thank heaven, are full of ſuch. Exit.

ASGILL returns, meeting a Servant. Aſgill.

There are ſtill two bills unpaid—go and diſcharge them. That purſe contains ſufficient. Exit Servant. Now, all my debts paid, and a few guineas in my pocket, I quit my country; but I quit her, to ſerve her! O! may the boundleſs bleſſings of heaven deſcend upon her; may my arm contribute to reſtore peace to her; and may GLORY and MONARCHY be hers, till time ſhall be no more! Exit.

END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room. She enters with rapidity and diſorder, then turns, and ſpeaks. Lady Horatia.

Yes—order the horſes inſtantly—and yet —no—I ſhall not want them— Go to his uncle in the city! How ſtrange that will be! But can I heſitate on decorums, when EXISTENCE is at ſtake? Can I ſuffer Sidney Aſgill to believe that Georgina's fooleries are my ſentiments? Can I ſuffer another to have the tranſport of lifting him from poverty, whilſt I am deſpiſed! The thought breaks my heart-ſtrings! Ah! Mr. Conway!

Enter CONWAY. Conway.

I flew the moment I received your commands.

Lady Horatia.

My commands! Sir, I only ſent to aſk—it was only with an intention to — (much confuſed.)

Conway.

Speak, Lady Horatia. (a pauſe) Do me the honour to repoſe confidence in me.

Lady Horatia.

Yes, Sir, I believe I can— I believe I ought—but ſhame weighs down my very ſoul. In one moment what will you think of me?

Conway.

What I have always thought, that you are one of the firſt of your ſex.

Lady Horatia

(walks a little way in extreme agitation, then returns). I muſt ſpeak, for the conflict is too great for me to endure. You are the friend of Aſgill—the friend of his youth—the choſen of his heart. (he bows) — Permit me to then to aſk, even though your anſwer ſhou'd be a breach of confidence, did you ever hear him mention any other lady as one —as one—with whom he wiſhed to unite his fate?

Conway.

O never! You are the object of his adoration.

Lady Horatia.

(with quickneſs) Then find him out—purſue him! What have I ſaid? My ſoul ſhrinks at the ſound of the words I have uttered.

Conway.

Would my Aſgill's ears could have received them! Go on, Madam.

Lady Horatia,

Go on! Alas! need I add another ſentence! You ſee that—humble me not too far—I am proud—Had Aſgill continued the heir of ſplendid poſſeſſions, perhaps my pride and coldneſs would never have abated; but he is poor; he is undone!

Conway.

Peerleſs woman!

Lady Horatia.

My fortune is his—my heart —my ſoul!

Conway.

O! ſuffer me to kneel for him! For him I thank you, adorable, tranſcendent woman!

Lady Horatia.

I feel your kindneſs in endeavouring to abate my confuſion. The ſtep I have taken I ſhou'd yeſterday have thought leſs eaſy than to die. Permit me to leave you, nor dare to think (with reſumed dignity) that, becauſe my paſſion is ſtrong, my conduct ſhall be weak! My reputation is in your hands— preſerve it as you wou'd your own life and honour. Exit.

Conway.

I accept the glorious depoſit, and I will deſerve the truſt. What grace can dignity of ſoul beſtow! The very conduct which from a vulgar mind would diſguſt, from ſuch elegance and virtue becomes faſcinating. Now, Aſgill, I will dare to ſeek thee; and I will pour ſuch tranſport on thy heart, as ſhall make thee confeſs, the hour of thy poverty the moſt bleſſed of thy life. Exit.

SCENE II—Sir ROBERT FLOYER's Library. Enter Sir ROBERT in a hurry, followed by a Servant. Sir Robert.

Bring up his lordſhip and Mr. Fancourt directly—fly down—never keep a lord in waiting. Exit Servant. (Sits.) No, I won't receive his lordſhip ſitting (riſes), that will look like want of reſpect. I will be ſtanding. No—that will not be the thing neither; for then I ſhall have no opportunity to ſhew my veneration, by riſing at his entrance. No—I muſt ſit, and—Yes, there I've hit it—I'll be reading—deeply employed in reading. Then, when the great man enters, ſtart up, and daſh away the book. Let me ſee—it ſhall be a large book. I'll get up and reach one down. (mounts the library ſteps, and takes down a book) —Chambers's Dictionary—that will do. (Takes down another) "The Fall of the Roman Empire." Bleſs me—my lord!

(A ſervant announces Lord Beechgrove. Sir Robert looking round ſees Tippy enter, dreſſed as Lord Beechgrove, followed by Fancourt. In his fright he tumbles with the books from the ſteps. They help him up.) Sir Robert.

O, dear! I am quite confounded. My lord, I beg your lordſhip's pardon a million of times. Mr. Fancourt—O, my knee! (rubs it) Reach his lordſhip a chair. A moſt untoward accident, my lord; but pray accept it as an omen. You found me ſprawling at your feet—it ſhews how devoted I am to your ſervice.

Tippy,

Sir Robert, I have often heard of the politeneſs of the Welch gentlemen, and you really confirm all that has been ſaid. The year in which you were ſheriff, Sir Robert, was ſuch a year of ſplendour and magnificence, as Glamorganſhire will long remember. We heard a vaſt deal of it at Saint James's; it amuſed the Royal Circle for a month.

Sir Robert.

Why, my lord, I did my beſt on that occaſion. When I was high ſheriff for the county, I neither ſpared myſelf or my purſe. A hanging in the morning, and an aſſembly at night; giving the judges a dinner to-day, and to-morrow conſulting Jack Ketch about a new gallows. Such a variety of buſineſs, my lord, demands a man's whole attention.

Tippy.

Certainly, certainly. A little thing happened this morning, Sir Robert, which has given me pain. You addreſſed me in the Park, I really was, at that moment, throwing over in my mind the compact between Ruſſia and Poland. In ſhort, I had almoſt determined to go to Saint Peterſburgh, ambaſſador myſelf; for I think one or two points might be reviſed. At that very moment, Sir Robert, juſt as I was delivering my credentials to the Empreſs, and receiving one of thoſe delicious ſmiles, which—

Fancourt.

You will go too far. (twitching him)

Tippy.

I ſay, juſt then, Sir Robert, you addreſſed me.

Sir Robert.

No wonder, my lord, that you overlooked me; I am aſhamed to have made a complaint of ſuch a trifle.

Fancourt.

Pray, my lord, examine Sir Robert's ſhelves; you will find them well ſtocked.

Sir Robert.

All dead ſtock, my lord; heavy dead ſtock.

Tippy.

Pardon me, Sir, pardon me! Such ſtock is never dead. You have here in calf's-ſkin and ſheep's-ſkin, the very ſouls of the authors. Well choſen, I dare ſay.

Sir Robert.

Why, my lord, as to the choice, I left that to my broker. He furniſhed the whole houſe, from the kitchen to the garret; the pots and the poets; the frying-pans and the philoſophers were all of his chooſing.

Fancourt.

Now, Sir Robert, if you would do the thing genteely, write the draft without his obſerving it, and I'll preſent it to him after we have left the houſe. Great men muſt not have ſervices tendered them coarſely.

Sir Robert.

I underſtand you; there is a nice way of doing things. Pray, my lord, amuſe yourſelf with a folio or two. A certain delicate—it ſhall be ſo. (goes and writes)

Tippy

(taking up a book). "The debates of Leadenhall-ſtreet." Pleaſant reading—light— pretty reading in a heavy morning!

Fancourt.

Leadenhall-ſtreet—A thought ſtrikes me.

Tippy.

Then ſtrike again.

Fancourt.

I ſay, my lord, as Sir Robert is a liberal man, and fond of patronage, ſuppoſe you give him, by way of outſet, a place at the Board of Controul for Indian affairs, juſt till a better thing offers. (Sir Robert writes, and liſtens by turns).

Tippy.

The thought was too obvious to be miſſed—exactly ſuits his diſcernment and ſpirit. (whiſpers, then ſpeaks audibly) The nabobs (whiſpers) —the begums (whiſpers) —muſlins, alaballas, mul-muls, and nanſooks (whiſpers), Nankeen china (whiſpers), Patna rice (whiſpers).

Sir Robert

(runs up). O, my lord! my lord! (ſlides the draft into Fancourt's hands) Not a word—mum! (his finger to his lip)

(Fancourt holds up the draft to catch Tippy's eye.) Tippy.

Faith, I had better go about it directly—no time to be loſt—let us finiſh the buſineſs at once. (looking ſignificantly at Fancourt) Sir Robert, your ſervant.

Fancourt.

Sir Robert, your ſervant. (both hurrying off)

Sir Robert

(ſtands and ſtares). "Sir Robert, your ſervant"—mighty ſhort! Well, but they're in a hurry to ſerve me—a little rudeneſs, when it proceeds from kindneſs, may be pardoned.

Enter GEORGINA haſtily, followed by JENNY. Georgina.

O! dear papa, there is a woman in the ſquare with ſome odd muſic; I am going to the bow-window to hear her. Exit.

Sir Robert.

Get along, madcap! (going) begums, nabobs, Patna rice—Sir Robert, your ſervant—mighty ſhort! Exit.

SCENE III.—The ſquare. Mrs. FANCOURT, dreſſed as a Savoyard, enters, winding a hurdy gurdy, attended by two children, the one with a tambour, the other with a cymbal. Mrs. Fancourt.

This is the houſe; here will I place myſelf—fortunately I may attract the lovely victim. (ſings and plays) I be von poor Savoyard, Get but lit, and labour hard; Wet and cold me oft' endure, Patience be my only cure. GEORGINA appears, JENNY ſtands behind her. Ah, Ah, charmante lady, caſt down your bright eye, Compaſſionate look, or perhaps I be die; I ſee von ſweet ſmile ſtealing over your face, It give you new beauty, it give you new grace, I be von poor Savoyard, Get but lit, and labour hard; Wet and cold me oft endure, Patience be my only cure. Make von curteſy to de lady, you lit impudent ting.

Georgina.

Do not chide her. Where did you come from?

Mrs. Fancourt.

From von great vay off; I live among de mountains, and I be come to make pleaſe de prit lady of dis country. (Georgina throws down ſilver.) Take up l'argent, ma petite, and put it in votre poche—Bleſs your charité. Lady, I can tell de fortune by looking at de vite hand.

Georgina.

Can you? O! dear Jenny, let us have her up.

Jenny.

Laws, Miſs, don't let ſuch creatures come in; they may ſteal ſomething; there's a wicked look in her eyes; I underſtand eyes as well as ſhe does hands.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Dat prit young voman's by your ſide, lady, be born to von great luck— ſhe vill ave de grande offer.

Jenny.

Well, Miſs, if you will have her in— I'll go and open the door.

They leave the balcony. Mrs. Fancourt.

Thus far I am ſucceſsful. O! horrid! that ſuch youth and goodneſs ſhould become the prey of two villains! Ah! the door opens.

Jenny

(opening the door). Come, come—make haſte. They enter.

SCENE—Changes to the Drawing-room. GEORGINA enters, followed by Mrs. FANCOURT and JENNY. Mrs. Fancourt.

Come, let me look at your prit vite hand. (takes Georgina's hand, and pretends to examine the lines.) Ah, I ſee—I ſee— But I ave not de power to tell de fortune before any von—dat gentle—ſweet temper young vomans muſt go.

Georgina.

Go, Jenny, d'ye hear? Leave the room; go directly.

Jenny

(going reluctantly). I ſhou'd not have thought of that foreign woman's impudence, to have me ſent out of the room—I don't like her—I'll liſten, I am determined. Exit.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Now, Miſs, me vill tell you —you be born to be ver happy, if you be ver good.

Georgina.

Dear! Do you think I am not good?

Mrs. Fancourt.

Bau! Bau! dere be von— two vicked mens, who ave de vicked deſign upon you—Il faut, you muſt not ſee gentlemens, but in de preſence of your papa. Your papa be your bon friend.

Georgina.

I never heard any thing ſo ridiculous. Never ſee gentlemen, but in my papa's preſence. O! you are a fine fortune-teller! Good-day (going).

Mrs. Fancourt

(is agitated; follows, and ſeizes her). Madam, if you would not be loſt beyond redemption, obſerve what I have ſaid. Two villains have laid ſuch a train—

Georgina.

Amazing! Why, you now ſpeak good Engliſh.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Hah! I had forgot; but when the heart feels it is hard to diſſemble. You have detected me. Charming young woman, ſlight not the cautions which I wear this diſguiſe to give! Surely they muſt have weight with you, when I tell you, that it is perhaps at the hazard of my life, that I appear before you.

Georgina.

You freeze me!

Mrs. Fancourt.

Treat not lightly then the advice of one, who runs ſuch riſks to preſs it upon you—I know not exactly what is deſigned —I have awakened your caution, and my duty is compleat.

Jenny

(running in). Get out of the houſe, you impoſtor—you deceiving jezabel. If you do not go this minute, I will order the footman to ſweep you out.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Young lady think upon my words. Exit.

Jenny.

Think upon her words—a vagabond! did you ever ſee ſuch aſſurance, Miſs? I have a great mind to beat her hurdy-gurdy about her ears.

Georgina.

Be ſilent! what I have heard ſhall ſink into my heart. I will be circumſpect (walking ſlowly and gravely off).

Jenny.

Here's a pretty kettle of fiſh! who can that vile woman be? Jack has let ſomebody into our ſecret, who has betrayed us. What labour it will coſt me to throw her off her guard! but I'll try (takes a letter from her pocket, and looks it over). Yes, yes; this letter will bring Jack. Hang me, if I don't believe I have ſpelt diſguiſe wrong. Well, no matter—the meaning is undiſguiſed enough (wafers the letter). Here Humphrey! (ſmiling, and ſpeaking very gently) Humphrey!

HUMPHREY entering.

Come, none of your flummery.

Jenny.

Nay, don't be croſs—you know we have made it up—here, take this letter, and carry it to my brother Jack. Come now, (coaxingly) you know I am working you the corners of a new handkerchief, twenty times as pretty as this (touching that which he wears).

Humphrey.

Shall I have it by Friday, when I go to Bob's wedding?

Jenny.

You ſhall. (bell rings)

Humphrey.

Well, give it me (ſnatching the letter). The old place, I ſuppoſe.

Jenny.

Yes, yes, the old place (bell again). Hang the bell—go directly. Exit.

Humphrey.

The wafer's wet, ha, ha, ha! now ſhe thinks I can't read wroiting—help her ſappy head! ha, ha, ha! I can read and wroite too, but that's a ſecret between me and my ownſelf (looking at it all round). I would not break a ſeal for the world—for that I know would be a moſt unhonorable thing; but as to a chambermaid's wet wafer—there—it opens like a boil'd oyſter.

'Tis a dainty ſcrawl. The lines run as ſtraight as the zig-zag of a ſcrew. (reads) "LovingBrother,"—well that's koind— "cum here to-morrow in your old diſguiſe—I mean the (ſpelling) f—e—m—fem. (looking earneſtly) f—e, fe. M. by itſelf M." Yes, it is female— "and call yourſelf, as before, Miſs Sally Martin." So, ſo! then that ſtrapping wench that I have let in ſometimes, is all the while her brother Jack. (ſcratches his head, and reads again) "There's ſomething in the wind—we muſt make ſhort work—be ſure you come— your affectionate ſiſter, Jane."

So Jack and Jane are a pretty pair; now, what can they be upon? that's nothing to I— I think I won't carry it—yes, (looks at the corners of his handkerchief) yes, I think I will—I will carry it—I will ſee Jack in petticoats once more. Exit.

SCENE V.—St. James's Park. TIPPY walking backwards and forwards with an air of great uneaſineſs—FANCOURT appears. Tippy

(running towards him) O! you are come (breathleſs). I have been waiting here theſe two hours. I began to fear that you were ſlippery —that you were upon your tricks.

Fancourt.

What, with each other? O fye! never. I drove to the banker's and back as faſt as the horſes of a wretched hack could carry me. In my way I met a fellow in his chariot, who two years ſince borrowed money of me for ſhoes.

Tippy.

I never ſhall meet ſuch a fellow, for I never lend—make a point of that. Come, give me the money—my moiety of the thouſand pounds.

Fancourt

(unwilling). Directly—directly— ha! how d'ye do? (bowing to thoſe ſuppos'd to be paſſing). Here is the— (puts his hand ſlowly in his pocket). Ha! I ſaw you laſt night (to others) a full concert. I ſhall be at the tennis-court preſently (running off towards the top).

Tippy

(following). Rot the tennis-court! give me the notes.

Fancourt.

The notes! well, there are the notes.

(Tippy looks at the notes aſtoniſhed, and at Fancourt by turns). Tippy.

Well, what are theſe?

Fancourt.

What are they? why, the notes— your ſhare of the thouſand pounds procured by me this morning (careleſsly).

Tippy.

Here are five notes, five and twenty pounds each.

Fancourt.

What, can't you reckon? four notes, five and twenty pounds each, make one hundred—one hundred pounds, principal money. Dear Tippy, do not look ſo thunderſtruck—you are very welcome. I confeſs I had ſome thoughts of making it fifty; but recollecting our antient friendſhip, when I bought into the four per cents. with the reſt, I reſerved a whole hundred for you. Good day, Tippy.

Tippy

(ſeizing him). Stay, Sir—ſtay you ſhall (fiercely).

Fancourt.

Nay, my good fellow, do not make an uproar in the Park; becauſe you know if you do, Tippy, I ſhall be under the neceſſity of relating ſome little anecdotes of you, which may end in a proceſſion to Newgate.

Tippy

(trembling with paſſion). So, you have bought nine hundred pounds ſtock?

Fancourt.

I have.

Tippy.

And you are determined I ſhall touch but one.

Fancourt.

Only one, Tippy.

Tippy

(ſmothering rage). Very well—very well.

Fancourt

(in a paſſion). Zounds! what wou'd the man have? an hundred pounds for only juſt walking into an old ſprawling fellow's library —and—the devil!—he's here—I'm off!— (runs off).

Tippy.

Is he? he is—no, I'll not run—he's coming towards me—I'll not flinch. Now you ſhall ſee, Mr. Fancourt, what it is to uſe a brother raſcal ill. Is not the world wide enough for our tricks, but we muſt cheat one another? I'll ſacrifice myſelf rather than not be revenged. (Takes out his pocket book and pencil, ſeeming very intent).

Enter SIR ROBERT. Sir Robert.

Hah! there's his Lordſhip—he ſeems very buſy—perhaps I had better paſs on —no, I won't—ſurely, after ſuch a favour— Hah! my Lord, your moſt obedient. (Tippy looks at him, gazes, then continues to write). Well now I declare (looks amazed). My Lord, I ſay, your moſt obedient.

Tippy.

Pray, Sir, who are you?

Sir Robert.

I am aſtoniſhed!

Tippy.

Who, I ſay, are you; who thus, twice have taken the freedom to addreſs me in public?

Sir Robert.

Who am I? what, does not your Lordſhip know me now? O! perhaps the delicious ſmiles of the Empreſs are in your Lordſhip's head again—perhaps the Poliſh treaty— perhaps—

Tippy

(in a feigned paſſion). Perhaps neither of theſe! I am engroſſed by your impertinence. Who are you, Sir?

Sir Robert.

Who am I? why, the man who, two hours ſince, lent you a thouſand pounds, principal money, to keep you from the gripe of the Jews.

Tippy.

A thouſand pounds. Eh, eh! (looking very gravely). Lent me a thouſand pounds! Sir, (ſeizing his hand) I am full of concern for you—I ſee you have been impoſed on. Sir, there is a fellow about this town ſo like me, that we might play the two Socias, or the two Dromios, or paſs for two brown ruſſetans growing on the ſame twig. He reſembles my perſon; he imitates my very dreſs—Sir, depend on it, he has alſo aſſumed my name, and has ſwindled you out of one thouſand pounds, principal money.

Sir Robert.

Why, my Lord, I am thunder-ſtruck. Then, what you ſaid to me this morning—I mean what he ſaid, concerning the Begums, and the Nanſooks—

Tippy.

Was all to cozen you, depend on't. You are cheated, I ſee clearly. Sorry for you —can't ſtay—clearly cheated, Sir, depend on't (going).

Sir Robert

(much agitated). My Lord—my Lord, grant me a moment—permit me to aſk one queſtion—do you know Mr. Fancourt?

Tippy

(with ſcorn). Do I know Mr. Fancourt, Sir! there are a ſort of people one may be ſaid to know, becauſe one meets them every where. But as to Mr. Fancourt, why, Sir, I would not keep a groom who was acquainted with ſuch a —ſuch a perſon.

Sir Robert.

Oh!

Tippy.

If you want to find his character, you will hear of it in Bow-ſtreet; if you want to find his lodgings, you muſt go to St. Giles's. Do I know Mr. Fancourt indeed! Exit.

Sir Robert.

Is it ground I ſtand upon? I am amazed—never were two men ſo alike on earth. The look—the voice—the dreſs—but can Fancourt be a villain? no, it is not poſſible; to me he cannot be a villain—yet—I know not what to conjecture. Ente FANCOURT behind, grinning, and claps him on the ſhoulder. (Turns and gazes on him). No—his looks are innocent—it is not poſſible that he can be guilty.

Fancourt.

How d'ye do, Knight? how d'ye do?

Sir Robert.

Yet I'll try him (looks ſternly). Sir, I have ſeen a man who tells me you are a villain.

Fancourt.

'Tis well he does not let me ſee him. But who is the man—who is he, Sir?

Sir Robert.

Lord Beechgrove—the real Lord Beechgrove, Sir.

Fancourt.

Hell and ten thouſand furies! (aſide) explain, Sir, explain! I really cannot poſſibly comprehend you.

Sir Robert.

He tells me, Sir, that the man you brought to me to-day, is an impoſtor, and that in concert with him, you have cheated me of a thouſand pounds.

Fancourt.

How, Sir, an impoſtor! (in a rage) but I'll be cool—I'll be cool—where was you told of this—where, Sir?

Sir Robert.

On this very ſpot, Sir.

Fancourt

(aſide). Hah! I begin to ſmoke— what, Lord Beechgrove has juſt left you then?

Sir Robert.

This moment—I found him here.

Fancourt.

So, this is Tippy's damn'd revenge! (aſide) ha, ha, ha! O what a—ha, ha, ha! what a droll dog! why, Sir, do you not know that my noble friend is the greateſt joker in England? ha, ha, ha! I ſuppoſe he might tell you there was a man about town who reſembled him?

Sir Robert.

He did—he did ſure enough— he ſaid they were as like as two drums.

Fancourt.

Ay, ay, he plays thoſe tricks continually—he is inexhauſtible as a joker. O! the raſcal! (aſide).

Sir Robert.

That's very odd in a Privy Counſellor.

Fancourt.

It is by way of unbending, Sir— thoſe great men muſt unbend. The lion muſt dandle the kid ſometimes—the villain! (aſide) I could tell you ſuch tales of him. Hah! here his Lordſhip comes. Enter TIPPY. (Runs up to him) You ſhall have the other four hundred (apart).

Tippy.

Ah, ah, Sir Robert—what, I frightened you, did I?—I ſhan't truſt you (apart to Fancourt).

Fancourt

(giving him notes). Take it—here it is—the dog has been up to me this time (aſide). Really, my Lord, it was not right to play on Sir Robert's credulity. He could not know but that you might be in earneſt. But I muſt particularly inſiſt on one thing, my Lord, that you do not ſpeak of my character in ſuch terms, though in jeſt. The jeſt which laughs away a man's reputation, is deadly poiſon adminiſtered in honey.

Tippy.

Well, I won't—I won't. What do you think I told him, Fancourt? I told him you lived at St. Giles's, ha, ha, ha!

Fancourt.

No!—did you?

Sir Robert.

He did indeed, ha, ha, ha! and that you were known in Bow-ſtreet, ha, ha, ha!

All.

Ha, ha, ha!

Fancourt.

Well, now I propoſe that we three jolly fellows, full of good humour, and lovers of fun, daſh off to the Star and Garter—Champaigne and a ſong ſhall cheer our hearts, and ſet us above the cares of the world.

Sir Robert.

With all my heart. Rattle glaſſes with a Lord—h—m—m— (with ſecret delight) it will be as good as dining with a Dutcheſs.

Tippy.

Come along, my little fellow; I'll introduce you to three Lords, and a Duke.

Fancourt.

Here then we go—jeſt, mirth and pleaſure inſpire us!

They take Sir Robert between them and go off, wave their hats, and huzza.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—TIPPY's Lodgings. Enter Mrs. BULLRUSH, bringing in the Gown ſhe wore in the firſt ſcene, work bag, &c. Mrs. Bullruſh.

I'll take poſſeſſion of his room myſelf, hang me if I don't! (ſits down) here am I obliged to mend my gowns inſtead of buying new ones, becauſe my lodgers won't pay me (threads a needle). No, no, Mr. Tippy— I'll fit you! I ſpoke to my neighbour Holdfaſt, yeſterday; no one ever got out of his clutches yet, if once Holdfaſt touch'd him on the ſhoulder (works a little), Bleſs me! how my teeth torment me again (puts up her handkerchief) Betty! Betty—bring me a little brandy to hold in my mouth. I'll e'en go myſelf, ſhe always brings ſuch a drop! Exit.

Enter TIPPY, with a Letter in his hand. Tippy.

Yes, yes—tell them ſo— (ſpeaking gaily) no, my artful ſiſter, it won't do (reading) Wear the ſame diſguiſe, and come as Miſs Sally Martin. That is not poſſible—my landlady's maid, who uſed to lend me that ſmart dreſs, is off. What the devil can I do? to go there as a man, after having juſt been there as Lord Beechgrove, would be kicking down the milk pail with a vengeance! and yet to loſe that ſweet girl and her ſweet eſtate— well, I can't go—I cannot go to Sir Robert's, pos! (going out, runs againſt the table). What's this? my landlady's gown? gad it is! (opens it) if it fits me, I'll borrow it to perſonate Miſs Sally Martin (puts it on). Hang me, but it does very well. She has often ſaid, ſhe would fit me, and now ſhe has done it. And the ſmart bonnet too (puts it on). Freeze me, but I look as well as my landlady. Who—who the devil is this? (looking thro' the door) HOLDFAST, the Bailiff? whu! I am in the jaws of the lion!

(throws himſelf into a chair). Enter HOLDFAST. Holdfaſt.

Well, Madam, is Mr. Tippy come home? I have been watching for him the whole day (Tippy groans). I have been hunting him through every tavern, coffee-houſe, and gaming-houſe. I have been within three minutes of him, fifteen times. O! that I had but hold of his ſkirts! (Tippy groans). Alack-a-day, Mrs. Bullruſh, ſtill plagued with your teeth? (Tippy makes motions with his hand). Well, Madam, don't ſpeak. If I once catch the young villain, we ſha'n't part, (Tippy groans) I have one room double grated, and if he ſlides out of that, it muſt be thro' the keyhole. (Tippy groans, gets up, and puts Holdfaſt into his chair, making motions). Very well—I underſtand you. I'll ſtay here till you come back, Mrs. Bullruſh; yes—I will. Exit. Tippy groaning. Poor creature! her teeth torment her like— what the dickens! why there's Mrs. Bullruſh! (looking out) a trick! a trick! (bawling out) no— yes—'tis all in white! (looks ſcared) perhaps— Mrs. Bullruſh—Mrs. Bullruſh! oh! (goes off trembling and frighten'd).

SCENE II.—SIR SIMON ASGILL's Counting-Houſes.—He is ſeated, looking melancholy and oppreſs'd. PERKINS enters—he looks at SIR SIMON with great concern. Perkins.

Sir, Sir—I pray you, Sir, ſpeak!

Sir Simon.

Perkins! I have carried it too far. My boy can no where be found. Why did I hit on ſuch a plan? I ought to have known that the ſenſibility of his heart, and the nobleneſs of his ſoul, could neither ſupport ſeeing my diſtreſs, or living a uſeleſs member of ſociety.

Perkins.

Sir, be comforted—it is not yet noon; perhaps the evening may bring us tidings.

Enter a Servant.

A lady, Sir, deſires to ſee you.

Sir Simon.

I can ſee no lady (petulantly).

Servant.

She is particularly preſſing, and requeſts to ſee you alone.

Sir Simon.

Who is ſhe?

Servant.

I have never ſeen her. Her ſervants are in mourning (a pauſe). Shall I conduct her to the drawing-room, Sir?

Sir Simon.

No—if I muſt ſee her, bring her in here. The counting-houſe of an Engliſh merchant is reſpectable enough for the reception of a prince;—I ſhould not be aſhamed to receive my king in it. (exit. Servant). Well, Perkins, you find the lady will have me alone—if I was in ſpirits to joke now, I could make myſelf merry at the fancy.

Perkins.

Well, Sir, I hope your ſpirits and your jokes will ſoon come back. Faith, ſhe's a pretty lady Exit.

Enter LADY HORATIA. Sir Simon.

Your humble ſervant, Madam. (She curtſeys, and ſeems confuſed). Pray ſit down.

Lady Horatia.

I thank you. (He ſtands by her chair—ſhe fans herſelf).

Sir Simon.

You ſeem faint, Madam.

Lady Horatia.

No, Sir—no. In a moment I ſhall be better.

Sir Simon.

Not uſed, perhaps, to the buſtle of driving thro' the City?

Lady Horatia.

Not often. O! how ſhall I begin? my heart burſts with feeling, yet my tongue cannot give it utterance (aſide).

Sir Simon.

Pray may I aſk—what brought you here to-day?

Lady Horatia.

To-day, Sir—I came to-day (breathleſs) on a buſineſs ſo important—that— I ſcarcely know how to mention it, Sir—but— you have a nephew (looking on her fan).

Sir Simon.

I hope ſo, Ma'am.

Lady Horatia.

You have heard of Lady Horatia Horton,

Sir Simon.

Heard of her—yes—I have heard of her!

Lady Horatia.

It is believ'd, Sir, that Mr. Aſgill has ſome regard for her.

Sir Simon.

I hope not. My nephew, I believe, knows better than to regard ſuch a gill-flirt.

Lady Horatia.

Gill-flirt! Lady Horatia Horton, a gill-flirt.

Sir Simon.

Yes—the greateſt gill-flirt I ever ſaw in my life.

Lady Horatia

(riſing). Ah, he means Georgina, who ſaw him yeſterday. I am ſo confuſed, I know not how to explain (aſide).

Sir Simon.

My nephew in love with a ſtone-cutter!

Lady Horatia.

Sir!

Sir Simon.

A hewer of marble! why he may as well live in a quarry.

Lady Horatia.

Monſtrous! (aſide).

Sir Simon.

Her ſtudy is a work-ſhop—her drawing-room a maſon's ſaw-yard.

Lady Horatia

(aſide). Inſupportable! can this be the uncle of Sidney Aſgill?

Sir Simon.

There ſhe chiſſels out womens' faces with young ſerpents hanging in drop curls, by way of a new faſhion'd tete.

Lady Horatia

(in great warmth). Nay, I can bear it no longer! Sir, this more than gothic ignorance, is a diſgrace to the age in which we live, and to your own ſituation. The head of the beautiful MEDUSA is amongſt the wonders of the art. O! the more than martial ſkill, which could make BEAUTY horrible!

Sir Simon.

Hey! The dumb lady cured! what is ſhe crazy?

Lady Horatia.

At the ſame place you ſaw (with enthuſiaſm) the touching NIOBE, mourning over her children;—the light ATALANTA flying from her lover—the graceful GANYMEDE caught up to Olympus for his beauty, did none of thoſe ſtrike ye? none of thoſe awaken your adoration for the ſublime art,—for SCULPTURE! whoſe long enduring beauties bid defiance to time, and laugh at ages!

Sir Simon

(ſinging). "I am mad Beſs, believe me."

Lady Horatia.

Your coarſeneſs, Sir, is hardly to be borne! how different from yours is the mind of your nephew! he has ſat whole hours admiring thoſe wonders of the art, and patiently watching the ſtrokes of the chiſſel, which preſumed at diſtant imitation.

Sir Simon.

It is the firſt inſtance of his folly I ever heard. I thought Sidney had been a different ſort of a man.

Lady Horatia.

I ſuppoſe you have been employing your talents to the more exalted purpoſes of importing verdigreaſe, and blubber, and in making monopolies.

Sir Simon.

Monopolies! no, Madam, never! there is one monopoly, and only one, to which I give my aſſent;—may the poſterity of Engliſhmen continue to monopolize this little iſland, as long as the ſea fills its channel, or the winds blow upon its rocks! have you any commiſſion for me, Madam?

Lady Horatia.

Commiſſion—Sir—I came— I intended—it was my deſign—no, Sir, I have no commiſſion.

Sir Simon.

When you have, Madam, I ſhall be happy to ſee you again, but I really have not had time to read my letters, which I muſt beg to do directly. Order the lady's carriage.

Lady Horatia.

Sir—I really feel myſelf ſo inſulted that—perhaps, Sir—but no matter. Perhaps you are right—yes, Sir, you are very right (goes out weeping, yet with dignity).

Sir Simon.

Perkins! come in Perkins! (he enters) why I was never ſo ſtunn'd in my life. Here's a woman comes on pretence to ſpeak about my nephew, and then begins ſome gibberiſh about ſculpture,—and talks of Ganymede, and Atalanta, and Olympus, and ſuch vile traſh as lads learn out of Ovid; books, that if I was a member of parliament, I'd bring in a bill to make it felony for any bookſeller to vend.

Perkins.

It would do you more honor, Sir, than any canal bill, bill for roads, or any other improvement that was ever brought before the Houſe.

CONWAY enters. Sir Simon.

Hah, Mr. Conway, what news— what news? (running towards him).

Conway.

Alas! none, Sir. I have follow'd our poor Sidney by every poſſible clue that I could obtain; but he has paſs'd away like a vapour— not a trace remains (ſighing).

Sir Simon.

O! fye—O! fye. (ſhaking his head with a melancholy air).

Conway.

I ſuppoſe Lady Horatia Horton has been here to make enquiries.

Sir Simon.

Who?

Conway.

Lady Horatia Horton. She ſtept into her carriage as I came up to the gate— but ſhe ſeem'd to be weeping, ſo I avoided her.

Perkins.

Bleſs me, Sir—there has been ſome miſtake. (to Sir Simon)

Sir Simon.

I don't know—I am all in a wood! why, was that lady in mourning, Lady Horatia Horton?

Conway.

Aſſuredly.

Sir Simon.

Why 'tis quite a different perſon from her I ſaw, yeſterday, at her houſe.

Conway

(ſmiling). O yes, ha, ha—I have heard about that. The lady you ſaw was quite a different perſon.

Sir Simon.

Gad I hope I ſhall never have the luck to ſee her again.

Conway.

Why, Sir?

Sir Simon.

I can't endure her.

Conway

(angrily). Sir! not endure her? why, ſhe is the moſt charming of her ſex. That lady, Sir, has more ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, more playful innocence of heart, and more beauty than half the women in the world.

Sir Simon.

I hope I may form a different opinion, Mr. Conway.

Conway.

No, Sir—no man ſhall form a different opinion—or if he does, he muſt take care to conceal it in my preſence.

Sir Simon.

I ſhall take no care, Sir. I will uſe the freedom of an Engliſhman to ſpeak all I think of you, and of every man, and of every woman too. How dared ſhe aſſume a character ſhe was not?—how dared ſhe ſay ſuch things of my nephew to my face?

Conway.

Sir! whatever that lady ſays, I make myſelf anſwerable for.

Perkins.

O, Gentlemen, let me entreat you! —you will both be ſorry—you have been both too warm.

Conway.

I adviſe you to perſuade Sir Simon that he has been ſo!—I ſhall expect his apology.

Exit. Sir Simon

(ſtaring). Why, what's in the wind to-day, Perkins! I affront every one who comes near me, without deſigning it, I am ſure.

Perkins.

Your temper has been a little ruffled, Sir; you are ſore about Mr. Aſgill.

Sir Simon.

Sore indeed! and my heart will be ſore ſoon, as well as my temper, if I do not hear of him, But about this Lady Horatia— 'tis very odd! what could bring her here? perhaps ſhe came to tell me ſome news. I think I will go to her.

Perkins.

It would be beſt, Sir.

Sir Simon.

I certainly will—after change. But I hope I ſhall not ſee her marble monſters again—they'll put me out of ſorts if I do. What a taſte!

Perkins.

Dear Sir, any taſte is better than no taſte, and a lady who employs her thoughts and her chiſſel on works of art, is, at leaſt, not idle; and, therefore, as Doctor Johnſon ſays, not in the way of being wicked. Exeunt.

SCENE changes to SIR ROBERT's Drawing-Room. Enter TIPPY, with HUMPHREY. Humphrey.

Why, what a noddy have I been, to take this ſtrapper always for a girl! (aſide).

Tippy.

What is the oaf grinning at? do as I bid you—tell Mrs. Jenny her friend Miſs Sally Martin is here. Humprey goes out, making faces. Gad, I had a good run. I was hardly ſafe in the hack, before the bailiff and my landlady were in purſuit.

Enter JENNY. Jenny.

O! Jack, I am ſo—

Tippy.

Huſh! come to the point. I am in danger every moment that I ſtay. What progreſs have you made with your miſtreſs! What is to be done?

Jenny.

Why what is to be done, is to get her any way into your power—once get her to your lodgings, and a marriage muſt follow.

Tippy

(ſneeringly). Good!

Jenny.

I have prevail'd on her to go with me alone, to the famous wax-work. She knows not where it is, ſo I'll bring her in a hack to your lodgings; and then—mercy! here ſhe comes—what ſhall we do?

Tippy.

Do!—upon my ſoul ſhe's a ſweet creature! I hope ſhe won't detect the Connoiſeur, in petticoats.

GEORGINA enters—TIPPY bows very low— recovers himſelf, and curtſeys. Georgina.

Bleſs me, Jenny—who is this?

Jenny.

A— ſtranger Ma'am—a lady that. Did you not ſay, Madam, that you ran into the hall to avoid ſome gentlemen who were rude to you? (to Tippy) and then, Miſs, that blundering fellow, Humphrey, brought him up—I mean brought the lady up here.

Tippy.

Yes, Ma'am, he brought me up here. Really a modeſt woman can hardly walk the ſtreets, men are ſo impertinent. One gentleman ſeiz'd my hand; d—n you, Sir, ſays I— I mean I ſaid, bleſs me, Sir, I beg you won't be rude.

Georgina.

A very odd lady, Jenny!

Tippy.

Curſe the petticoats! Madam I ſcorn to impoſe on you—no, Madam, I have a ſoul above it—I am not a lady. I put on this diſguiſe to procure admiſſion here, that I might tell you how I adore you, Madam (kneeling) my paſſion for you is ſo great, that if you do not look on me with pity—if you do not liſten to me with compaſſion— (Jenny ſhrieks).

SIR ROBERT enters, with FANCOURT. Sir Robert.

A lady at my daughter's feet! (Tippy ſtarts up) ſome great favour ſure ſhe is aſking. What did you ſhriek for?

Jenny.

Shriek, Sir—O, Sir, the poor lady —ſhe was ſaying as how that ſhe had a cruel huſband—I never heard of ſuch a villain! and ſhe was deploring Miſs to ſpeak to you in the affair, for you know him. He ſeems a moſt ſweet young fellow, Ma'am, it would be great pity to betray him! (aside)

Georgina

(to herſelf). The Savoyard! O, I remember all at this moment!

Sir Robert.

Do I know your huſband, Ma'am! Pray do not wheel round in this manner— there's nothing ſhameful in having a bad huſband—if there were, few married women would care to ſhew their faces.

Tippy

(in a ſhrill voice). O, Sir, I ſhould die with confuſion. (ſtill keeping his back to Sir Robert).

Sir Robert.

Pray, Madam, is the fault all your huſband's?

Tippy.

O, entirely, Sir;—my behaviour to him is quite angelic.

Sir Robert.

I dare ſay your face is angelic, if one could but ſee it (ſtill wheeling to get a peep at her). Perhaps you live a little too gaily for him, poor man!

Tippy.

Not at all! I am a pattern of prudence —generally at home by four in the morning. Charming creature! pity my diſtreſs! (in his own voice to Georgina).

Georgina.

Pray Ma'am turn, and ſhew yourſelf to my Papa, and if you tell him the ſame affecting ſtory you began to me—

Jenny

(apart). Nay pray, Ma'am, do not betray him! how can you have the heart? he would die rather than do you an ill turn. Did you obſerve what teeth he has?

Georgina.

Sweet lady, ſpeak! a deſign ſo pure, and eloquence ſo irreſiſtable, will affect Sir Robert as it ought.

Fancourt.

Sweet lady turn round! gad, there's ſome fudge here—I am ſure there is. Sir Robert take my advice—look in the lady's face.

Sir Robert

(goes to her). Nay, Madam, 'tis in vain. I will ſee your bright eyes, or never — (Tippy trips up Sir Robert, and then attempts to run off).

Fancourt.

A Thalaſtris, by Jupiter! (ſeizing Tippy) nay, I will have a peep, ſpite of your dexterity, Miſs! (Tippy ſtruggles) come, to the right about! by Heavens this muſt be a man— Sir Robert, I ſmell a rat (turns him). Zounds! what Tippy! I am a bit of a Marplot here. This comes of your entruſting your friends by halves (apart).

Sir Robert.

What it is a man, then! I thought it was the moſt robuſt damſel I had ever met with.

Fancourt.

Get out of the houſe (puſhing him). You might well hide your face! get out, or I will make you ſhew it at the Old Bailey (drives him out).

Sir Robert.

Who is he?

Fancourt.

Oh, a fellow who lives by his wits; one whoſe ſtock in trade is all in the pia mater. (touching his forehead).

Sir Robert

(to Georgina). How came he here in this diſguiſe? where have you ſeen him? I inſiſt on knowing the truth.

Fancourt.

She ſeems ſadly puzzled—the girl has been taught that 'tis a ſin to tell lies.

Sir Robert.

Why don't you ſpeak, Georgina? come be bold! your prompter I ſee is at your elbow.

Jenny.

Pray ſpeak, Miſs. Say it is your ſtaymaker. (aſide)

Georgina.

Yes, I will ſpeak. I aſſure you, Sir, (taking her father's hand) I never ſaw that perſon till now; but a circumſtance which, I believe, muſt relate to him, has ſtruck my recollection, and makes me ſhudder.

Sir Robert.

What is it, child?

Georgina.

Sir—I—yeſterday, Sir, I had my fortune told.

Sir Robert.

Pho!

Georgina.

Nay, Sir, mine was no common fortune-teller; ſhe was certainly a well-bred woman in diſguiſe.

Sir Robert.

Why, what did ſhe ſay to you?

Georgina.

She told me that two men—two moſt unprincipled monſters, had laid a plot for my deſtruction (he ſtarts). Her diſguiſe was that of a Savoyard, with muſic.

Fancourt.

Whu! (aſide.)

Sir Robert.

I remember you ran through the library to go to liſten to her.

Fancourt.

Pray—pray, Madam, what ſort of a perſon was this pretended Savoyard?

Georgina.

An agreeable little woman, with eyes full of intelligence, and manners full of good ſenſe.

Fancourt.

Yes, it was my devil, I ſee clearly. (aſide.)

Georgina.

This ſeeming lady is probably one of the two men I had notice of, who introduced himſelf here, to carry on deſigns which make me tremble.

Sir Robert.

I believe you do, my dear. I never ſaw you ſo grave, nor heard you talk ſo diſcreetly before; a little fright has done you good. May you never ceaſe to tremble, Georgina, when you recollect the hazards of this hour!

Georgina.

You, Jenny, have always nouriſh'd my follies, and cheriſh'd my abſurdities; I will never hold communication with you more. Go directly to the houſekeeper, receive your wages, and leave my father's houſe. Begone!

Jenny.

Why, ſhe can never mean this in earneſt; this muſt be all fudge before her father. (goes heſitatingly.)

Sir Robert.

O! that every miſguided daughter would retrieve her errors before it be too late, and, like you, take ſhelter in the arms of a fond and forgiving father! (embracing her.) My dear Georgina, I wiſh thou hadſt either a mother, or a huſband!

Fancourt.

A moſt edifying ſcene, this! (aſide.)

Sir Robert.

Mr. Fancourt, you know who this fellow is.

Fancourt.

Not abſolutely know him—I have ſeen him; and I will trace him out, Sir, if it be poſſible. And I'll find your little Savoyard too, Madam; your pretty fortune-teller; it ſhall go hard but I'll meet with her! Exit.

Georgina.

O! I wiſh he may diſcover her, for I ſhall cheriſh burning gratitude towards her, to the laſt hour of my exiſtence! My dear Sir, I feel like one of our little Welch kids at home, trembling on the brink of a monſtrous precipice, when its ſond parent appears, and guides back its feeble ſteps, to crop the flow'ry herbage in ſafety.

Led out by her father.
SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room. She enters, meeting Sir SIMON. Sir Simon

(entering). Madam, your moſt obedient. I did not know that you were Lady Horatia Horton this morning; ſo I came to apologize, and all that.

Lady Horatia.

An unnceſſary trouble, Sir. (coldly.)

Sir Simon.

Not at all, Madam, not at all. If I offend, I am always ready to make amends. A little gipſey yeſterday took your name, and railed at Sidney; I could not bear it.

Lady Horatia.

And was it therefore, Sir, that you inſulted my art? Was it therefore that you laughed at, and abuſed my—

Sir Simon.

Your monſters, Madam. O! keep clear of them, whatever you do! Don't talk of them!

Lady Horatia.

Why, is this poſſible?

Sir Simon.

Madam, this life is too ſhort to ſquander time upon triſles; ſo, let us come to the point! I am told that you have a great regard for my nephew, and I love and admire you for it; talk of him, and we ſhall agree to the end of the chapter.

Lady Horatia.

The perſon who told you ſo, Sir, took an unwarrantable freedom.

Sir Simon.

Why, you told me ſo yourſelf. Would any lady fly into the city, to talk to a croſs old fellow about his nephew, if ſhe had not ſet her heart upon him? Pho! pho! that ſpoke your ſentiments pretty plainly.

Lady Horatia

(weeping with vexation). O dear! I tell you, I hate your nephew?

Sir Simon.

Do you? O, you woman! You downright woman! I ſee how it is. When he was rich, you loved him; when you looked forward to fine equipage, ſplendour and expence, you acknowledged his merits; but now that you have heard he is poor, you deſpiſe him. O! woman, woman!

Lady Horatia

(with heat). Sir, it is falſe. You injure me in every part of your opinion. When he was rich, he never knew that he had cauſed a tender thought in me; it was only his poverty that made my paſſion break out without diſguiſe. It was his diſtreſs that made me feel, and acknowledge I adore him.

Sir Simon.

What, then, you do love him?

Lady Horatia

(much confuſed). What have I ſaid?

Sir Simon.

What you ought never to recal. Speak on; you now talk like a ſenſible woman.

Lady Horatia.

Well, then, receive my full confeſſion. You, his ſecond father! Mr. Aſgill has twined himſelf into my ſoul; his poverty has endeared him to me a thouſand times. Go, Sir, ſearch him out; bring him from his retreat, and tell him, that Horatia Horton knows no value in wealth, but in the pleaſure of dividing it with him.

Sir Simon.

Huzza, huzza! here's a woman for ye! Madam, he is not poor. I'll put down for Aſgill thouſand for thouſand, as long as you pleaſe, and when I die, leave him a plumb!

Lady Horatia.

Sir!

Sir Simon.

It was all a ſagacious trick of mine. I wanted to try if the dear lad really loved me, and if he poſſeſſed real worth of ſoul. Sentiments, truly noble, he often uttered; but noble ſentiments are uttered by ſcoundrels, who do not poſſeſs one feeling, which, if brought to the touchſtone, would not diſgrace humanity.

Lady Horatia.

Mr. Aſgill not poor! (pauſing.) Nay, then I underſtand the flimſy contrivance. A pitiful plot, to force me to reveal a ſecret, which I choſe to bury in the bottom of my heart. Preſuming! (haughtily.) Make me a dupe! Now, Sir, know that your nephew rich, and your nephew poor, are two diſtinct perſons. I deteſt his art, and recal all I have ſaid. The rich Mr. Aſgill, I ſhall teach myſelf henceforward to deſpiſe. Exit.

Sir Simon.

Whu! Why, what's in the wind now? Upon my ſoul, I would rather caſt up the moſt intricate account of compound intereſt, than attempt to calculate what will pleaſe a woman. Refuſe a man becauſe he is rich!!!

Enter PERKINS. Perkins.

O, Sir! I followed you here without your permiſſion, my tidings are ſo good, Mr. Aſgill is found.

Sir Simon.

Ah, Perkins, I ſaw it in thy eyes, without a word. Thou art an honeſt fellow, Perkins (ſqueezing his hand). In what ſtreet or alley was he found?

Perkins.

Street, Sir! A very wide, and a very turbulent ſtreet. You will be ſurpriſed to hear. I employed my own brother in the buſineſs. He traced him laſt night down to Portſmouth, where he had entered himſelf on board a man of war before the maſt!

Sir Simon.

Oh!

Perkins.

Nay, come, Sir, he is returned.

Sir Simon.

Is he come back?

Perkins.

William prevailed on him; put him into a chaiſe and four, and brought him back to his own lodgings.

Sir Simon.

Come along, come along! It ſhall be the beſt day William ever ſaw. Exit.

SCENE—FANCOURT's. Enter FANCOURT, followed by Mrs. FANCOURT. Fancourt

(careleſsly). Yes—no, my dear— yes—

Mrs. Fancourt.

I hope you have been well amuſed ſince yeſterday, Mr. Fancourt?

Fancourt.

Perfectly ſo, Mrs. Fancourt.

Mrs. Fancourt.

You ſhou'd let me know when you do not mean to return. It is rather unpleaſant to ſit up all night watching.

Fancourt.

O! you can find amuſement.

Mrs. Fancourt.

How?

Fancourt.

You are fond of maſquerading, you know.

Mrs. Fancourt.

I do not underſtand you; I never was at more than one maſquerade, nor ever formed a wiſh to repeat it.

Fancourt.

And the habit you then wore, I remember, was that of a Savoyard.

Mrs. Fancourt

(ſtarting). It was.

Fancourt.

And did you then tell fortunes too?

Mrs. Fancourt

(aſide). I die with fear. Surely I am betrayed.

Fancourt

(ſeizing her hand), Come, tell me, Madam, have you not lately repeated the ſcene of the Savoyard?

Mrs. Fancourt.

Sir! O! he will have no mercy on me! (trembling.)

Fancourt.

But, why need I aſk? I know you have. That fortune-telling was a pretty thought, my dear; but did it occur to you to tell your own fortune? Did you foretel to yourſelf your own fate on the diſcovery.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Alas! I know too well I muſt expect all that malice and revenge can inſpire; but if I have ſaved an innocent from deſtruction, and turned away the arrow which was about to pierce the heart of her benevolent father, I am reſigned.

Enter two Men. Fancourt.

Who are you, who enter with ſo little ceremony into my apartments?

1ſt Man.

What, Maſter Fancourt, don't you remember us? Mayhap you'll know this? (taking a conſtable's ſtaff from his pocket.)

2d Man,

And this? (drawing forth another.)

1ſt Man.

Here is a coach waiting below with two of our companions; ſo the quicker you are, the better.

Fancourt

(pale and trembling). This ſudden ſurpriſe has overpowered me. On whoſe account do I ſee you?

1ſt Man.

You'll know that in proper time. I never likes to anſwer trogatories.

Fancourt.

Where am I going?

2d Man.

You'll ſee when we arrive.

Fancourt.

Wherever it is, I will not ſtir without this woman. She ſhall accompany me wherever I go.

2d Man.

Why, you have a very fond huſband, Madam.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Not ſo; but he is my huſband: I therefore follow without a murmur.

Fancourt.

Go firſt; I will not leave you in the room? Exit Mrs. Fancourt. Come, gentlemen, let us follow the lady. Bear witneſs that I am a polite huſband to the laſt. Exit.

SCENE—Sir ROBERT's Drawing-room. He enters with a troubled air. Sir Robert.

A ſad, ſad ſlut! Why, what a town this is! A ſtranger, like me, ſhould go about in leading-ſtrings. Plotters, deceivers in every corner of it. Whether the people one aſſociates with, are what they appear to be, or whether it may not be all one univerſal maſquerade, there is no gueſſing. (Goes and opens the door.) Come—come forth! JENNY comes out, and walks to the front. He looks at her earneſtly. Now art thou a woman, or a griffin, prithee tell me?

Jenny.

Dear Sir, I can tell you no more than I have; I have confeſs'd every thing; and, on my bended knees, I aſk for mercy. (kneeling) I am not a griffin, Sir.

Sir Robert.

Get up; your flummery of kneeling has no effect. How far I ſhall have mercy on a wretch, who plann'd the diſhonour of my child, I ſhall conſider. I have never met with ſo atrocious a jade, ſince the year I was high ſheriff for the county. Retire. Your brother, my Lord Beechgrove, approaches.

Jenny

(ſtarting up). I care not that for your ſneers! (ſnapping her fingers.) I'll teach you, my old gentleman, what it is for ſixty to have the impudence to ſlight five and twenty. I have waſted as many tender bluſhes, ſoft ogles, and enamoured glances on your ſhrivell'd chops, as might have fubdued half the gallant ſoldiers in the allied armies; but I'll be up with you yet!

Exit. Sir Robert.

O, a huſſy! What a ſad thing it is for a young man, like me, to have wanted gallantry. TIPPY enters. My Lord, I am your lordſhip's moſt obedient. Why, you have made great haſte in undreſſing, my lord; you are a quick hand at a toilette, I ſee.

Tippy

(looking aghaſt). Hey!

Sir Robert.

I did not exactly know, at firſt, how to direct to you, to ſummon your lordſhip hither, but your ſiſter, the lady Jenny, help'd me out—Mr. Tippy!

Tippy

(aſide). The devil!

Sir Robert.

Pray, when do you publiſh, Sir? Your life muſt be an amuſing one. Put me down as a ſubſcriber.

Tippy

(aſide). Nay, ſince all is out, I'll brazen it. I'll put you down for ſomething elſe, Sir, when I publiſh.

Sir Robert.

Aye.

Tippy.

Be aſſured the public ſhall not want the ſtory of Taffy, the Welch knight; who came up a wool-gathering from Glamorganſhire, after Begums, Nanſooks, and Patna-rice.

Sir Robert.

Well, well, I feel that I deſerve this, ſo I take it patiently. Here comes more company; ſome of your friends, my lord.

FANCOURT enters, Mrs. FANCOURT, and Conſtables. Sir ROBERT nods to the Conſtables, who retire. Fancourt.

So, Tippy—all is up!

Tippy.

Faith, I think, all is down—we have rather a tumble.

Fancourt.

Be it ſo! I have aim'd high; reſolved if I did fall, to fall from an eminence. Well, Sir Knight, you'll give us a bottle of Champaigne at parting, and let us be merry once again! You thought it celeſtial happineſs, laſt night, to get tipſey with a lord, and hear him roar out an indecent catch. Do you remember, Tippy, how he oped his mouth, and how his eyes water'd with joy? Ha, ha!

Sir Robert.

I can bear all this, for I really have been ſo prepoſterouſly ridiculous, that, I think, I deſerve even more than your malice can ſuggeſt.

Fancourt,

"I ſay, SNAPPER, we muſt have him on our ſide." Ha, ha, ha! "The old ſcoundrel had like to have undone us (ſips). He is a great fool, but he is related to all the ap Morgans, and ap Shoneſes in the county." Ha, ha, ha! That was well, I never hook'd a gudgeon with ſo little trouble in my life!

GEORGINA ruſhes in.

It is, it is herſelf! My charming Savoyard, how I rejoice to ſee you! You are my mother, ſiſter, friend—

Fancourt

(going up to Mrs. Fancourt). You, Madam, to whoſe officiouſneſs my friend and I, owe our diſgrace—you ſhall be rewarded. Now liſten (ſeizing her hand), for I am going to plunge a dagger into your heart—you are not my wife. (flinging away her hand.)

Mrs. Fancourt.

Not your wife?

Fancourt.

No. Your affectation and delicacy would not permit you to be married in a Church, you may remember, ſo I took advantage of your folly, and brought a man, who was never prieſt till that moment.

Tippy.

It is very true, and I am he; it was I who married you. (bowing low)

Mrs. Fancourt.

Can it be poſſible? Do I hear right? Am I releas'd from obedience to a man whom I abhor? Is it no longer my duty to aſſociate with vice? Is it no longer my fate to eat the bread of wickedneſs? O, bliſsful moment!

Tippy.

I am ſurpriſed you feel ſo; he is a very good kind of young man.

Mrs. Fancourt.

O! welcome poverty and want!

Georgina.

Never! Your fate is united to mine. You are my mother, ſiſter, friend! I muſt quit you a few moments, for Lady Horatia Horton has ſent Mr. Conway for me; but I will leave you in my own apartment. My father's roof is your everlaſting protection!

Fancourt.

This is, indeed, a ſtroke! Is ſhe to be happy?

Sir Robert.

Yes, that ſhe ſhall, if my protection can make her ſo.

Mrs. Fancourt.

Unhappy man, farewell! The ruin of my peace and fortune I can forgive! O! whilſt innocence and friendſhip invite me to repoſe, may you find it in repentance.

Georgina leads her out. Sir Robert.

And now, gentlemen, leave my houſe this moment, or the next you ſhall be returned into the hands of the conſtables. Go! turn out upon the world!

Fancourt.

We will turn out upon the world; ſo let the world beware! Come, Tippy, the field before us is a wide one—let us erect our banners! Talents are our armed forces, with which we encounter Vanity and Foll. Where-ever they appear, we wage war. Allons! (to Tippy.) Be of good heart, my boy! The foe is numerous, but weak. Conqueſt and pillage are our own! They go off.

Sir Robert

(looking after them). I am glad you are off! Theſe gentlemen have given me ſome amuſement, together with ſome experience, and it has coſt me only one thouſand pounds —a cheap bargain! Exit.

SCENE—Lady HORATIA's Drawing-room. Lady HORATIA enters, accompanied by Lady CHARLOTTE. Lady Horatia.

No—no—Adieu to low ſpirits for ever! My heart is as light as the feather in your hair; I know all; Mr. Conway has told me every thing; there was no plot on me! No, my Aſgill has proved himſelf in the hour of trial, as noble, as delicate, as brave as my fancy had always painted him.

Lady Charlotte.

Well, happineſs is a moſt becoming thing; it gives fire and expreſſion to every feature. But can it be poſſible that Mr. Aſgill ſhould deſign to ſerve as a ſailor? I thought the party with whom he—

Lady Horatia.

Mention parties at an hour like this! O! let ſuch diſtinctions melt into air, and be obliterated for ever! Let every party join hand and heart to ſave this country, and to cheriſh its BLESSED CONSTITUTION!

Lady Charlotte.

See, here comes Georgina, playing the little tyrant with her enamour'd Conway.

Enter CONWAY leading GEORGINA. Georgina.

I proteſt I will not hear ſuch things, Mr. Conway. (ſnatches away her hand) Why will you teaze me thus? Lady Horatia, I beg you chide him; for he has been talking nonſenſe to me all the way in your coach.

Lady Horatia.

It will give him more pleaſure if you chide him. Nay, I will be more malicious ſtill, ſpite of your frowns; I abſolutely will tell you— Georgina puts her hand to Lady Horatia's mouth. You do not hate him.

Conway.

O! that ſound is bliſs to me!

Georgina.

Ah, but I am ſure I do not love him.

Conway.

How do you know, angel?

Georgina.

Why, I never keep wakeful about you, nor ever dream about you. And I do not grow pale, like Miſs Gwatkin; and I eat my breakfaſt with pleaſure, and I dine very well; and if I do not ſee you for a whole day together, I only think—well, to-morrow I ſhall be more lucky.

Conway

(in rapture). Enough, enough— more than I hoped. On theſe terms I am content to bind my fate to yours. Such artleſs candour renders you enchanting.

Georgina.

Well, then—but do not ſpeak to my papa about it for whole week. Bleſs me— here's old Simon. (runs to the top, followed by Conway.)

Enter Sir SIMON, with ASGILL, in a ſailor's dreſs. Sir Simon.

Here, Madam, I have brought ye your ſailor; and if you do not receive him with kindneſs, and welcome him back with your whole ſoul, you are no woman for me!

Aſgill

(ruſhing to her feet). Adored miſtreſs of my heart! am I welcome?

Lady Horatia.

Welcome! O, Aſgill, there are characters ſo high, ſo noble, that to be chained in by common decorums, would be to have no taſte for excellence, and my heart bounds with diſdain from ſuch frozen rules! I, who have hitherto treated you with coldneſs, almoſt bordering on diſdain, now declare, in the preſence of my friends, that I am proud to make you maſter of my fate; that I feel exalted in having it in my power to confer happineſs on you.

Aſgill

(riſing). O! woman unequall'd!— Bleſſed be the hour in which you believed me poor and undone! Sir Simon has been feeding my ſoul with exſtacy.

Lady Horatia.

Mr. Aſgill, you muſt, indeed, love Sir Simon; but I know not how I ſhall ſet about doing ſo; he hates the arts; he thinks there is nothing dignified in ſculpture; he hears, without veneration, the names of Phidias, and Michael Angelo.

Sir Simon.

Come, come, Madam, throw away your chiſel and your marble blocks, and ſet about making a good wife. That ART is the nobleſt pride of an Engliſhwoman.

Lady Charlotte.

Lady Horatia, you are all ſmiles! I declare I ſhould not ſo eaſily have forgiven a man (looking on Aſgill) who could fly from me to the boiſterous ocean, and prove ſuch inſenſibility to beauty and love.

Aſgill.

Misjudge me not! I, inſenſible to beauty, and to love! O! my glowing ſoul confeſſes their force, and adores their power. Yet the enthuſiaſm which ſeized me, when I trod the deck of the Victory, can never be chill'd! In the glorious tars around me, valour, intrepidity, heroiſm, ſhone forth with all their fires; they flaſhed through my heart! And, I ſwear, that ſhould my country need my aſſiſtance, I will again reſume the trowſers, and ſail before the maſt, wherever ſhe bids her cannon roar, or her proud pendants fly. (Advancing forward) Ah! repoſe on us! And when you look on the gallant ſpirits, who do honour to this habit, let every fear ſubſide; for, whilſt the ſea flows, and Engliſh ſailors are themſelves, ENGLAND MUST BE THE MISTRESS OF THE GLOBE!

THE END.
EPILOGUE, MISS WALLIS. THROUGH five long Acts—a pretty decent ſwing— I've been a giddy, tender, harmleſs thing; Light as a feather, in the morn of May, Borne by the perfum'd breath of blue-eyed day. Nor have I yet thrown by my ſtudied part, GEORGINA, ſtill I am, in garb, and heart— GEORGINA humbly ſtands again before ye, Of gratitude ſo full!—ſhe half adores ye. It puzzles me to gueſs, when Conway's wife, On what ſweet plan to form my married life: My heart beats high to think how I ſhall flaſh, Pre-eminent, and bold, like Lady Daſh. Reflection ne'er to me ſhall be a damper, My curricle I'll drive—on horſeback ſcamper— Keep Pharo Banks—take the long odds at races, And know the knowing ones, in all their paces; Lounge at Newmarket in the betting-rooms, And prate to Lady Harriet—and my grooms. But whilſt I thus blaze on, in Folly's road, And profligate, forſake my bleſt abode— Where is my huſband's peace?—his honour—where? Who ſhall his lonely hours conſole, and ſhare? O! the black proſpect ſcares my trembling art, And from the headlong precipice I ſtart. Dear wedded happineſs! my ſoul is thine, My pride ſhall be, in thy mild paths to ſhine— My CONWAY's temperate joys I'll make my own, And his felicity my life ſhall crown; With him through Pleaſure's paths I'll ſometimes roam, But ſtill my firſt enjoyment, ſhall be HOME. The Houſehold Gods ten thouſand graces wear. Nor ſtoop to borrow tinſel'd, foreign glare— Yet never ſhall your Houſehold Deities frown, Though you ſhould ſteal an hour, to ſee—THE TOWN!