SCENE I. A Chamber.

SIR, I must say you presume too far.

I saw your ladyship and admired, and if that be presumption, who is free from it? admiration naturally produced a more tender emotion—I communicated my feelings to Mrs. Muslin;—Mrs. Muslin reported them to your ladyship, and your ladyship, with a mind, liberal as your person is elegant, permits me to throw myself at your feet.

You have misconstrued the liberty I allowed—my house is always open to persons of fashion, and as a visitor only I expected you.

Nay, madam, your privy counsellor in­formed me I should be admitted into the inte­rior cabinet, and your principal lady in waiting introduced me in form accordingly.

And shall I call her now, sir, to shew you the way back?

pleasant im­pudent fellow.

You are not so cruel—I see pardon beaming from your eye, and frolic smiling on your cheek.

And should I pardon, from that instant, the servile suppliant, now at my feet, would lose all sense of obligation, and from the mistress's slave aspire to be her tyrant.

I neither desire to be slave or tyrant, but to love upon equal terms—you consent—I read it in your eyes—and I am secret as the grave.

Secret you may be, but it is not the mere colour of reputation can protect a woman's honor.—I might perhaps carry on an intrigue with secrecy, but my mind—

Upon my soul I have no design upon your ladyship's mind, my heart is captivated; and if I did not totally misunderstand my good friend, and your ladyship's very good friend, Mrs. Muslin, a certain person, (whom modesty will not permit me to name) is not totally in­different in your opinion

Grace, where is your lady?

Sir Buzzard's voice!

My lady, Sir!

Yes, your lady, ma'am!—

She is in her own room, sir, but I believe not yet dress'd—I'll let her know you want her, sir.

As I hope to be saved, here is my master, and in one of his gruff humours, quite in a tantrum—the gentleman cannot go out that way—follow me.

Into the next room—make haste

I go, perhaps into the interior cabinet—This alarm I trust will convince your ladyship that in love, as in war, delays are dangerous—Go on, Mrs. Grace.

What an infernal life I lead!

What has rais'd the storm now?

Why ask!—you know I am mar­ried—and married to you—I am my own mas­ter, and hate impertinent questions—I have lost my money—I am glad of it.—Oh! I wish I had never married

And I, with all my heart▪

Yet you leaped at my offer—you were glad to snatch at me—

Who I? I was seduced into the match!—have I not brought reputation to your house, sir?

Reputation to my house!—you have turn'd my house topsy turvy; inside out; you have irritated me into a complication of com­plaints, and reduced my fortune to galloping decay—have fretted me down to a mere skele­ton.

Sir, some respect is due to my birth;—I am daughter to a nobleman, and [Page 23] till honoured with my hand, your family could not boast a drop of blood in their veins.

No blood in their veins! I, indeed have lost both flesh and blood; no blood in my veins!—Have I not lent your brother money—your uncle, money—your cousins money!—which of your honourable, or right honourable relations are out of my debt?—If I had no blood in my veins, how the devil have you and yours bled me so plentifully?

I despise your meanness—

Your family are leeches—I could never shake them off.

Sir, your connexion with me was an honor, which with all your land and wealth, you had no right to expect. What was your family before your union with me?

Men and women.

Could they boast antiquity?

Yes, my grandfather lived to ninety—my father to eighty-six.

You married me—

To perpetuate my family—are you satisfied?

No, I am not satisfied.

I know it, I know it.—I know it.

My ancestors can be traced to the Normans—the Danes—the Saxons.

Which only proves you have sprung from pirates and invaders; but what is it to me if you were related to the Picts, the Scots, or the Romans?—I am a Savage!

Yes, you are a savage indeed—

And the Savages let me tell you, are the oldest and purest blood in the country.

How shall I get rid of him—Sir Buzzard, you don't intend to stay here I hope?

You hope so, do you?—I am glad of that, then here I shall have a comfortable nap.

I'll raise the spirit of con­tradiction to send him off

now that is kind, thanks for your com­pany, and I'll read, or sing a lullaby to com­pose you; shall I kiss you?—come now, smile my dear.

I hate smiling, smiling is the cun­ning covering of deceit,

and kissing—am I in a habit of constitution for kissing?

Am not I your wife?

I feel you are—do not roll your basi­lisks—they have lost their fascinating powers.

But you shall not go—

Not go!—I am master of my own house!

Then I will be mistress of my time;—I may find a companion.

With all my heart—a woman who would keep her husband at home, is worse than a corn on his foot, there is no stirring at ease for her!—O that mine were cut off.

You will go before me though, I shall wear weeds for my love—your face looks this instant pale as marble, and I can see "Here lieth Sir Buzzard Savage," written on your fore­head.

I am ill it is true.

Ill! you have a mortal blackness under your eyes.

Eh! What!

Do not stare so—it alarms me!

My head swims!—I feel a palpi­tation here, just upon my temple.

A dangerous symptom.

I know it, and you are glad of it. Oh, Lord! I shall presently be enrolled on Death's list of Bath patients, who die where they come to live for the recovery of their health.

Now to deliver my poor distressed swain from confinement.

SCENE II. Another Apartment.

Nay, my nonpareil—my sweetest, dearest of all girls, you may believe every word I say.

I have lov'd you—

Love me!—dear sir!—Well, whe­ther you speak truth or no, I like to hear you say so—yet, I fear you are false-hearted, it was my lady you came to visit.

Your lady! no, no, child, you were the object, and I got myself introduced to the lady, that I might with more ease become intimate with the maid.

Cannot believe that—my lady is much hand somer than I—What a fine complexion!

Mere rouge!

White teeth!

For which she's obliged to the Den­tist—

Charming hair!

All false.

Then, what polite conversation!

Psha, child she has not the native bloom of your cheeks, the nectarine of your lip, the pearl of your teeth, the natural curl of your tresses, nor the wit of your imagination.

How I likes to hear him praise me and abuse my lady!—and you really love me?

Most devoutly—could we not retire to a more private chamber?

Swear you'll not be false hearted.

By Jupiter, Venus, Cupid, and all the Gods and Goddesses, never

Then hear me swear

by this purse

I like you.

Take it my girl—take it.

And by this ring, I'll

My dear don't swear so often—but kiss me hussey—I have a secret to tell you.

A secret! but may not that secret speak for itself hereafter, and discover all.

Dear ma'am you can't think how the gentleman has been praising your ladyship's complexion, teeth, hair, and I don't know what.

Yes, I was praising your ladyship's—I—I—I—don't know what.

There's no impediment now, sir, to your retiring, and I request you will instantly withdraw.

For the present I submit to your rigid and peremptory sentence;—it is my way never to deny or palliate my faults. When I travel in pursuit of pleasure, I always take a view of such beautiful seats as lie before me, and for the life of me, I could not help casting an eye on this little snug box, which lay so convenient to your ladyship's mansion-house.

I hope your ladyship will excuse me;—I thought I was doing no harm,—I thought your ladyship dismissed the gentleman, and your ladyship knows we chambermaids have the same claim to our lady's cast lovers, as to their cast cloaths.

Order chairs, and tell my sister I'll attend her to—Devil take the fellow, yet I admire him for his impudence.

SCENE III.

And so you were recommended by old Corderius, the schoolmaster, to teach our young lady the Latin lingo.

Yes; to instruct her in the reediments of the dead languages.

Dead languages! do you mean the languages spoken in the other world? for ecod she can chatter glibby enough in the living tongue.

I am to instruct her, man, in Greek and Latin.

Greek and Latin! will not that teach her strology and conjuration?

Here, Sir, is Mr. a—a—What's your name, Scotchey?

Alexander M'Classic.

He's Mr. M'Classic, come from Mr. Corderius to learn Miss Clary the dead lan­guages, which he has got alive at his tongue's end.

Here, Sir, are my credentials.

My friend Corderius gives you an ex­cellent character, young man, for honesty, and literary abilities, and you may begin with your pupil when you please.

He has began with her already▪

You are perfect master of the classics, I presume.

My father keept an academy, where I first acquired the roodiments, and after I ma­triculated at Aberdeen; there I made an inti­mate acquantance with the philosophers, Chris­tian, and Heathen,—the logicians, mathema­ticians, astronomers, navigators, botanists, che­mists, and aw the tribe of nateral philosophers.

What a number of scholars are in Aber­deen!

Be silent, fool.

As to the classics, I am maister of Ho­mer, Xenophon, Sophocles, Seneca, Virgil, Ovid, Terence, Sallust, Livy and Horace.

Have you learned all those gentle­men?

Silence, you inquisitive puppy.

I teach them aw, and will make the young lady mistress of them aw.

Mistress of them all! Ecod she'll ne­ver remember half of her servant's names! but o' tag, rag, and bobtail; how comes it that with all those scholars you've taught, you go so poorly? Ecod your cloaths are all in jeopardy. He! he! he!

Silence. Go you, sirrah, and call miss Clara.

I go—I go—I go—I go—I go—let me see—he teaches musicians, magicians, and physicians—and he'll teach her conjuration and star-gazing—and—mum.

You are, I presume, Sir, a scholar.

I never deny my ignorance—it is my misfortune, and a man should only be ashamed of his faults,—I do not understand a word of any language but my native tongue, except a few phrases I have picked up,—but I have read most English authors; born in po­verty I was debarred the benefit of a liberal education,—I am candid—that's my way.

This is a common case.

No doubt one half of the literati are un­lettered, and like light or Birmingham guineas, pass for more than they are worth.

You intend to mary the lady your­self?

Yes.

And you have secluded her frae com­pany, aw that was judicious—be cautious what men you introduce to her.

Yes; and women too,

That's right,—recreations which pru­dence [Page 30] prohibits at home, and decency denies the exercise of in public, may easily be enjoyed at the preevate house of a confidential friend.

You are right, there are many obliging, convenient, liberal-hearted, female beauty brok­ers, who support elegance and expence by trad­ing in a contraband commerce of the sexes.

Well, my girl,—your tutor has given you a lesson, I understand.

Yes, Sir.

Who the devil is at the door?—I be­lieve they have got a battering-ram, and are going to storm us after the manner of the Greeks and Romans.

Such silks, and rustlings!

What's the matter?

There are cork rumps—hoops and high heels in the house.

Who knocks at the door?

They are covered with paint, patches and pomatum.

Who knock'd at the door?

False hair, curls and perfumes!—don't blame me, they came upon me unawares; I push'd, and they push'd,—but they push'd harder, and overturned me.

Who overturned you?

They are full of flirtation, and giggling, and bedizened with gauze and ribbands; Lady Savage and her sister, with their long tails sweep­ing behind.

Lady Savage and her sister! Lady De­vil and her imp!—Where are they?

Running all over the house—up stairs and down stairs, to and fro,—in and out—back­wards and forwards—round about—here and there, and every where.

I am not at home,—there is no body at home—we are all out—I'll retire to my closet; you will step with me, Mr. M'Classic, and do you, my lamb, lock yourself up to avoid 'em.

He, he, he,—here is a bluster,—Ecod we shall have rare sport.

Where, my dear, in such haste?

Indeed I cannot stay—must I not go, Nicholas?

Yes, you must go,—go—go—go

Be not alarmed, miss, we are Mr. Or­deal's intimate friends.

Yes, miss, they are our intimate friends.

Come to visit you, my dear.

Yes; they are come to visit us,—my dear.

Where is Sir Ordeal?

Out—out—out

we shall have swinging fun.

Ladies, farewell.

Fie, my dear,—it would be impolite to leave company.

Miss Clary,—Manners makes the man—we are teaching her the Latin lingo.

Are you very happy, my dear, on be­ing on the verge of matrimony?

Speak, my dear.

I cannot say I'm very happy; nor I cannot say I am displeased; I do not wish to be married, nor have I any objection to a hus­band—Heigho!

But to confess the truth, you have no desire to marry Mr. Ordeal, he is such an old fellow; though if addressed by a handsome, wealthy, good natured youth, you'd—Heigho!

Do not speak disrespectfully of my guar­dian—he is very kind to me.

I approve your prudence in pre­ferring an old lover to a young one; after mar­riage you will no longer be confined like an infant;—then you will enjoy such pleasure in making his money fly, and in seeing him ap­proach the grave.

But for fear he should live too long, be sure you get him a physician.

A physician! O, death!

My guardian has taught me how a mar­ried lady ought to conduct herself.

Let us hear, my dear pretty creature.

I have it by heart; he has taught me, that all young men are cunning and deceitful, and that I must never listen to or believe their flattering tongues; that a man and his wife are one person, and should act as if inspired by one soul!—that a wife should not complain of her husband to her most intimate friends, nor form any connexions without his approbation.

There's instruction for you; you see we take care of her soul.

Moreover, he has taught me, that in pri­vate a wif should receive no company without [Page 33] her husband's knowledge, and in public should not think herself protected but by his presence; that she should obey him in all things, and place her highest delight in making him happy.

These were the duties of a wife in the last century,—but we will instruct you in the duties of a wife, who would cut a figure in the polite circles of the present day▪—Sister, begin.

Must consider matrimony a means to increase liberty, and defy scandal.

Must retain your favourite ci­cisbeo, confidante, maid servant and footman.

That will be, I.

See whom you please, where you please, and when you please.

That must be very pleasant!—go on.

Must be mistress of your own hours,—turn day into night, and night into day.—

Keep a separate purse, a separate car­riage, and a separate bed.

Never attend to oeconomy, but sink, play, and squander your money, to the last shilling, and stretch your husband's credit to the utmost.

Here is work cut out for mantua-makers and milleners.

You must always dissimulate in con­versation with your husband, and when you can­not deceive you must insist—if he opposes your will, rant, and laugh at him.

Ha, ha, ha!

And if these fail, accuse him of cruelty, sigh, sob, weep, scream out, and fall into fits.

I can contain no longer!—out of my house!—

Shame! Shame! What, listening to the private conversation of ladies?

Private conversation! open, abomina­ble instruction,—how can you answer to your conscience, for attempting to poison a young creature's morals!—retire, retire, my lamb.—

Farewell, ladies.

Adieu, pretty Clara.

And remember our instructions.

Instructions!—down-right libertine principles!—you may laugh, ladies,—you may laugh. Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Perhaps the ladies think their beauty sufficient excuse for their levity,—but ah, they are wrong—naething can atone for want of delicacy, without which there can be nae charms in the face, nae elegance in the person.

Ordeal, your most obedient—call'd at your ladyship's house, and Miss Constance in­form'd me you were on a visit here.

We came to see Mr. Ordeal's pure na­ture, and he has affronted us!

Affronted!—impossible!

Haud your tongue, lady, haud your tongue!—levity degrades a woman, however her name may be elevated by birth, teetle, or fortin.

Who are you?

A man.

Yes, and a scholar ecod!

Out of my house!

I'll prophecy for your comfort, if you marry Clara she'll soon draw a comparison between your winter frown, and the summer smiles of a pretty fellow.

I despise your prophecy—Oracles have long since ceased; when they existed the devil spoke through them, which may be your lady­ship's case.

Ordeal, take care, I wear a sword.

I weer a sword.

Do you daar echo my words?

Do you daar echo my words?

Knock out his teeth with one of your hard ones.

Rascal

Rascal! hear first, and strike after,—you appear an officer, but I am convinced you are nae soldier; touch but a hair o' my heed wi your hand, and the dee'l gang away wi my soul, gin I dinna split you through the crown.

Sir, Sir, shall I bring him the old broad sword.

There was just such a fellow as this at the Havannah—

There were several such fellows at the Havannah, and such fellows only could have beaten the brave fellows who defended it,—were you there?

My regiment did service there—and if it had not been for a damn'd ague,—but no mat­ter,—I overlook this fellow's insolence,—but Mr. Ordeal, you have been too severe on the ladies

Too severe on the ladies—I am your echo again—zounds, do you take the man for a Shrove-Tide cock, set up to receive blows without returning them?

Let's go, we are not likely to receive protection from the Colonel.

I ken, madam, what you are.

Stand off, fellow—

These are ladies of honour.—

Their honour, like your courage, is in their own possession, but remember the cha­racter of both is in the opinion of others.

Do you hear the fellow?

He's mad, and not worth notice.

Were I Clara, I should prefer a young Indian, though sure of being his widow; and burning with him in a month, to living with you for an age.

Ordeal, you shall answer this—but—

But what dare you say?

Say—I say—my immediate duty is to attend the ladies.

My brave Caledonian!

but here, here, step out and get yourself new rigged—

Yes, he is out of feather and wants pluming.

But you, you sirrah, if ever you let those women enter my doors again, out you go—oh, what a fierce beast, and a perilous enemy to the commonwealth, is a wicked woman.

SCENE I.

SHALL I introduce the Gentleman, my lady?

Yes,—no,—yes, Grace.

I like the gentleman, because he likes your ladyship,—and that shews him a man of taste—I go.—

Stay, Grace,—let me consider, this interview may be attended with all the ill consequences of an illicit correspondence.—what are you musing on Grace?

I am thinking how very ugly Sir Buzzard is in comparison with your ladyship's lover.—

Sir Buzzard's plainness, Grace, is not his worst fault,—it is his peevish asperity of disposition renders him odious to me,—Grace, I will not see this gentleman, it will endanger my reputation.—

Lay, my lady, but consider, my repu­tation, my honour is pledged,—he is a delight­ful creature.—Then consider what an airy, nice dressed gentleman he is—and consider, Sir Buz­zard wears flannel under-waistcoats, and swan­skin stockings.

Can I ever again face Sir Buz­zard?

If I was your ladyship, I would not face my lover too suddenly,—no, I would re­cline [Page 38] upon the sopha,—

lost in thinking,—so,—with my fan shading my face thus, and every thing about me. degagee.—

You say he waits.—

Or when the dear man approach'd, turn short—strike him with the full flash of my charms, and scream out. Ah!—

Are you mad, girl?

A thousand pardons, my lady, but protest I am beside myself.

There is no retracting, and I think I will take him by surprise.—I'll keep up the appearance of resentment, and have the satisfaction of hearing him humbly plead for pardon—

Now you must acknowledge I am your friend.

My sweet girl, I do acknowledge it—

A fine figure!

Madam—

Heaven defend me!

Not from an ardent lover!—

I cannot scold the fellow he looks so pleasant!—Pray, Sir, by what warrant do you come here?

I understand from Mrs. Muslin, by warrant from your own lips,—but the warrant is incompleat till your ladyship has affix'd the privy seal to it

A married woman can grant no­thing without the consent of her husband.

Well thought on; but I do not come unprepared, man and wife are one person, and when a married lady gives me reason to think a tete-a-tete would not be disagreeable, I always take care to bring my authority along with me.

But suppose a lady should acknow­ledge your authority;—your inclinations, I imagine, Sir, could not easily be attach'd to a single object.

Yes they could,—though I candidly acknowledge I entertain an affection for the whole sex.

Then there is an individual you prefer to the whole sex?

There is.

Handsome?

Yes.

Sensible?

Yes.

And you really prefer her—

If I denied it I should be insincere and unworthy your attention.

And pray, Sir, may I enquire, who is the favourite fair?

Nay, the less we say, or think of her, the better, she is absent—

Yes, Sir,—I perceive she is absent—

and you too are absent.

Yes, she is absent,—and—Sir Buzzard is absent, and we are together,—and you are a fine woman,—and I am—

What, Sir?

A man,—a young man, not a very ill made man, and a very well dress'd man, with a brisk flow of spirits, a warm heart, and a soul which at this instant vibrates with sensibility.

I say it is false, I left all the papers in London—

I protest Sir Buzzard is at the door—you must be concealed again—

Unfortunate!

You cannot get out of that room till I please—

Oh, mercy, Sir, you have ruin'd me; oh, my lady, my lady, oh, oh, I shall faint with pain; just when I got to the door, there was my master, and not knowing it, I run plump against him, and he trod upon my foot,—oh,—but it is much better.

A messenger is come down from London for the title deeds of Prospect Farm,—do you know where they are?

What should I know about your musty parchments?

Why not?—you spend the rents fast enough—but I remember now, they are in a box that lies in the wardrobe in that room, and—

La, Sir,—I will get it.

You are not tall enough to reach it.

But I can stand on a chair, Sir, though I need not do that,—our new footman is in the closet settling your cloaths, Sir.—yes, Sir,— [Page 41] our new footman, Sir, is in the closet sett'ling your honour's wardrobe, and he'll help me.

What can she mean? shall I desire Grace to bring the box out to you?

No, let the footman bring it out, I have not seen him yet,—Grace, bid the fellow bring in the box.

He's taking it down, Sir.

Leave it in the closet, I must get some other papers out of the scrutore

.

Come, young man, I'll get you my lady's cards for Wednesday's route, and they must be delivered immediately.

What a metamorphosis!—you'll be expeditious.

A good looking fellow;—but stand off;—he is enough to suffocate a man with per­fume! What's your name, Civet Cat?

What's my name? I was christen'd Patrick, your honour.

An Irishman!—eh,—heav'n knows we had blunders enough in t [...]e family before,—

—this is the wrong box.

Yes, we have all got into the wrong box

.

When next we meet—

.

Nothing could be more lucky, my lady,—the new livery that came home for your last footman George, lay in the bottom of my master's wardrobe. I must see him safe out—

This is too mortifying, it hurts my pride—had I met a man of a generous dis­position—but here comes my torment, and reflection flies.

I have found more than I sought for, Lady Flippant;—who am I to thank for this addition to my wardrobe?

These cloaths!—you mean these cloaths!—he, he, he,—they are really very pretty cloaths—you like them, my dear?

No, I don't like them, my dear; and who the devil did they come from, my dear? and to whom do they belong, my dear?

Elegant manufacture!—nothing like it made in England.

Where did they come from?

Paris.

Who owns them?

They are your cloaths, my love!—

Mine! Did you ever see me wear such frippery?

Yes, yours positively; but I did not intend you should have seen them—they were smuggled.

Smuggled!

Yes, smuggled from Paris, by my milliner, and sent here for the purpose of orna­menting you, my sweet love!—

Sweet love!—now that's fulsome—yet thou art my sweet love!

Am I?—

Yes, like an apothecary's dose,—my bitter sweet.—

How ill-natur'd!—but no mat­ter, you shall wear these cloaths at the ball this evening.

I will not.

You shall.

Damn me if I do.

Very well, Sir, then I'll send 'em back.

They shall not be sent back, I begin to like them,—a good colour, and not too gaudy.—I'll keep them.

Keep them!

Yes, and wear them.

Wear them,—where?

At the ball this evening.—

I fear you will take cold.

You wish I should take cold, but I will not take cold,—and I will wear the cloaths; you lay out a revenue on your back, and I will, at least for this once, follow your example.—I'll keep the cloaths, and go to the ball in them this evening.

The smuggled cloaths are fairly forfeited.

Dinner, my Lady!—

bless me!

Silence, all is well.—Sir Buzzard you see found the cloaths I ordered Mrs. Muslin to procure him from Paris.

Well, I am sure, Sir, my Lady has fitted you nicely, and I admire her taste, that I do; but will you wear them, Sir?

Yes, wear them, Sir!

Not 'till after dinner, Sir.

Directly, Mrs. Prate,—I will sur­prize the company in them:—let dinner be kept back.

It was good luck he did not find the gentleman's sword—yet little matter if he had, for intriguing with an incumbrance about him; but how shall I get him away?

Poor soul! he must have patience—contrive to convey him through the garden, to a chair, he may pretend he is a servant taken ill, which will blind suspicion.

Well thought on,—my Lady's no fool, but she must be a great fool indeed, who could not make a fool of a husband.

SCENE II,—Ordeal's House.

He, he, he, lack a daisy, Miss Clara—the Scotchman looks gaily in his new cloaths,—he is a brave youth,—what a leg

—but I have got more of the calf.

Yes, a good deal more calf, Nicholas;—but what can be the reason that while he's teaching me, he sighs as piteously as if in pain,—it goes to my heart to hear him without being able to give him ease.

Why—why—ecod now, Miss Clary, when you speak to me, it makes me sigh, and gives me the heart-burn.

What would you have me do, good Ni­cholas?

What would I have you do? I'll tell you—ecod I cannot—but I'll tell you what the Scotchman ought to do—he,—he ought.—

What!

Ecod, he ought to,—to—Sugar and Honey!—what red lips you have!

What ought he to do?—

What ought he to do!—why he ought to—how old are you?

Do not tantalize me, Nicholas.

Well, I will tell you, he ought to—bless my eyes, what a fine face she has!—he ought to—he ought to—what pretty buckles yours are!—he ought to,—well, shake hands, I will tell you

soft as sattin,—he ought to—ecod, I should like to do it.

Do what?

I mean no offence—but he ought to—

that's what he ought—

Oh, shame, Nicholas,—shame.

What shame!—listen to me,—and I won't go behind the bush with you—my master is a fool, and thinks nobody knows any thing but himself—Now, when I see a young man and a young lady together,—and hear them sigh, and see them ogle—why, I sigh myself, and I—I—ecod, I know what's what.

And what is it you know, Nicholas?

That the Scotch scholard loves you, and that you like the Scotch scholard—I'ze been in love, and I'ze never think of it, but—Oh, but I can not tell you how it disturbs me—

And I am disturbed too—heigh ho!

Clara, your tutor tells me, you make an astonishing progress in your Grammar, and I am to hear you speak a lesson,—bring chairs, Nicholas

.

Ha you got your Grammar, lady?

Yes, Sir, I have been studying my last lesson

.

Be seated, lady,

.

Modest creature!—how the blush man­tles on her cheek!—don't be ashamed, Clary—Mac Classic

what a sub­ject [Page 47] for speculation—she is an orange tree, pos­sessing at once the sprightly verdure of the spring, the sweet blossom of the summer, and the ripe fruit of autumn. It revives me to look on her.

It revives us to look on you.—

What think you of her eyes,—they shoot arrows of desire into the heart, but on her lips lies an honied salve to heal the wound.

Will you hear her repeat a lesson?

See her mouth, a door of coral, opening to a colonade of pearl.

Then her bosom, your honour.

Where the devil is the fellow going?

.

My spirits are so agitated, I shall betray myself.

Come, my lamb—begin.—there is a mild creature, wax of my own fashioning, and I have moulded her into the very temper of my affections.—

She can give you Latin for every thing about you.

Restrain your tongue, sirrah. Go on with your lesson, sweetest, and never mind this fellow.

Amo, I love,

amas, thou lovest,

amat, he loves!

. Oh!

Amamus, we love. Oh!

He, he, he, amo—I love!

Silence, rascal!—but, Mac Classic, are the first lessons in Lilly's grammar upon love?

Aw grammars begin wi it, Sir—be­cause love is the primoeval principle of nature.

He, he, he!

Out of the room, you scoundrel!

I go, zir. Amo, I love, amo, you love, amo, he loves, amo, we love,—he, he, he!

Shall we proceed, Sir.

If you please.

There are three poor people below you desired to call.

I shall return directly.—

Where are you going? Stay here,—Clara may want something—you'll give her a new lesson now, Mr. M'Classick—I think she has got enough of amo and amas.

Zooks! he's jealous, zure as a gun, and left me here to watch you—but ecod, I'll be no spoil-sport—so teach away—I love, you love—he loves.

What are you musing on?—I like to hear your instructions when we are alone.

To seduce such innocence would be damnable; when you are married to Mr. Ordeal, my instructions will no longer please,—you love him?

I do indeed, as much as if he was my father,—but I never think of him when you are present.

Then you love him from gratitude?

Just so!—could I have any other mo­tive [Page 49] —If there be any other kind of love, I wish you'd let me know it.

There is another kind,—give me your hand—there is a love known by its effects, it beats on the pulse, trembles on the breath, gives eyes to the thoughts, and thoughts to the eyes.

O la! then I'm sure you are in love, for your eyes speak and laugh,—why did you touch my hand?—indeed—indeed, I'm afraid I have taken it from you—I hope there's no danger in it.

Love is the child of desire, nurs'd by delight—weaned by inconstancy, consumed by neglect, kill'd by dissembling, and buried by ingratitude.

How cruel to kill it.

But then 'tis the parent of jealousy, the disuniter of friendship, and cause of disobe­dience; an arbitrary tyrant of the mind, that triumphs over wisdom, tramples upon pru­dence, and vanquishes even virtue.

O, you fright me with that description.

But where virtue is the basis of this passion, it produces the utmost happiness en­joyed on earth, and gives mortals a taste of heaven!

Now that is delightful! and to tell you the truth I have heard my guardian speak of it, but I could never feel it in his hand as I did in your's; he says—"love is fire full of cold—honey full of gall—and pleasure full of pain;"—but I see he knows nothing of the matter;—are you really in love?

Yes, my dear, deeply—deeeply;—but why do you ask?

Because—

Here comes Mr. Ordeal.

I wish he was in Jericho.

Very well—very well—here Nicholas!—where's the rascal? Clara, my dear, seek him, and give orders for dinner, there's a good girl.

.

Heigho!

I obey, Sir.

An amiable, modest creature, Mr. M'Classic—nothing ardent in her disposition, has no more idea of love than an infant, yet a charming fertilizing constitution, but chaste as ice,—"her heart like the salamander—cold, cold, in the midst of flame."

Virtue beams in her een, and animates her countenance; like the finishing touches of the painter, it enlivens the portrait, and in­creases the beauty of the object.

Poetically conceiv'd, and prettily pro­nounc'd;—yes, she shrinks from the touch like the sensitive plant—you have a prolific imagi­nation, Mr. M'Classic, considering you come from a northern climate

—yet Mr. M'Classic, there is no judging of a woman's chastity, who has never been in the way of temptation.

Very true, Sir.

And women are virtuous in proportion to the temptations they withstand.

A just conclusion, Sir.

Then you think it would be difficult to find a young inexperienced girl proof against promises, sighs and tears—and who could with­stand the cunning insinuations of a lover.

Certainly, Sir.

Well, I think differently; I think I could trust Clara—but she's a nonpareil—yes, cool as a cucumber in a hot bed—yet not prone to vegetation—but M'Classic, I have an expe­riment to make, and you must assist me.

Command me, Sir.

Clara I think is a pure lamb.

Sir, there can be no doubt; but you were speaking of an experiment, Sir.

I have fortified her mind with morals, which will prove a shield to her by day, and a breast-plate by night.—But the experiment—you must be my instrument.

In what respect, Sir?

To sound the depth of her inclinations,—to feel how the pulse of her affection beats towards me.

Sir!

If she should not like me—but that is a point for future consideration—if she should like me, I will marry her in the morning.

Marry her, Sir!

Yes, marry her, Sir.

And in the morning. O my heart! and must I lose her after all?

In the morning—I have had a special licence sometime—yes, she loves me—I know she loves me—and soon as we have dined, I will go to Sir Buzzard's, to engage him and his friends to attend the ceremony. In the mean time you must try the experiment—come-in to dinner, and I'll give you further instructions.

SCENE I. Sir Buzzard's.

CONSIDER, Sir Buzzard, we are in danger of a discoveey every in­instant.

What can I do?—Would you have me court the girl for you? Besides, this busi­ness raises a qualm in my conscience.

Conscience!

Yes, conscience!—my conscience cannot boast such extensive latitude and longi­tude as your's,—you have a convenient con­science, it stretches or contracts like India rub­ber; your conscience is a servant of all work—which you discharge at a moment's warning.

May the fire of a platoon never again raise my spirits, but it would be better for a man to attack a breach daily and on a forlorn hope, than to sit down before a coquet.

"Have you ever attacked a breach, Colonel?"

You hear he has attacked a widow, and upon a forlorn hope."

I say, Sir, your sister is a coquet.

I say she is a downright jilt. He who confides in the sex will be deceived—I de­spise them.

Yet keep a girl in a corner.

"But not from affection to the girl, I keep her because it pleases my humour, and vexes my wife." You know the sex but su­perficially; there is my rib, when we married, she was all delicacy and good humour, and from her smooth behaviour and oily tongue, I consi­dered her a miracle of goodness. But the wind soon veer'd about, and before the end of the honey-moon blew a rank storm.

"Talking of storms."

"Hear me out—Upon refusing to indulge her in some fashionable subscriptions, there was a total eclipse of the amiable, her passion swell'd like a roaring sea, producing nothing but fury, outrage and noise."

I forgive you, madam,—I forgive you—being determined to marry Clara in the morn­ing.

Ordeal, I understand they have been abusing you—but their best friends cant 'scape their malignity—they have tongues of charcoal, with which they are for ever blackening or burn­ing characters.

I shall, immediately set off with my bride for London, from whence we will pro­ceed on the grand tour.

Have not I heard you exclaim against the grand tour.

You have heard me exclaim against sending our youth abroad without a proper con­troul. You have heard me say, that on such expeditions they too often contaminate their na­tive virtue and constitutions, by bartering the honest habits acquired in old England, for the [Page 54] gew-gaw ornaments, and despicable effeminacies of the Continent.

Pray, Mr. Ordeal, what retinue do you travel with?

The young Scotchman, Pure Nature's tutor, no doubt will make one.

I wish he may not make two; I speak my mind, Ordeal.

What, the Colonel's friend! split you through the crown?

She is at it again—madam, you should recollect.

Then I suppose you will no longer re­strain her taste in dress—but allow her to throw off her present thin attire, and appear like a fa­shionable christian,—in feathers and a hoop.

A hoop! no—it makes a woman ap­pear like a walking sphere, encircled from the nadir to the meridian—and if the effeminacy of the men was not so well known, one would be apt to imagine that the women were all in a state of—But I will not speak my mind now,—though it is my way.

Coffee is served in the saloon, madam.

Have you seen Miss Constance?

.

I believe, Sir, she is reading in the garden.

Sir Buzzard, I admire your dress,—you look as fine—as—as the King of Prussia in wax-work.

shall I have the honor of your hand, Madam?

No, Sir, I shall never give my hand to a man who has lost my good opinion.

—Do you hear that?

After her.

After her purse you mean.

Capricious woman!

. —I once knew a Major—

Know the Widow, man.—

A Major in the forty-second.

Away with you.

.

You will excuse me to the ladies—Constance you hear is in the garden, I will seek her, and for the last time plead my passion, but if she perseveres in rejecting my addresses, I have your consent to carry her by stratagem.

Carry her off any way and I will be satisfied.—

SCENE II.—A Grotto: Constance discover'd sitting, sleeping, with a hand­kerchief overher face—a book near her.

Asleep!—to disturb her would offend delicacy—and I must sooth her,—I will sit here till she wakes, here comes one of the ser­vants.

How my landlady will laugh to see me thus caparison'd,—a woman sleeping, by the God of Love!—what a fortunate fellow am I! [Page 56] —no sooner does one adventure vanish than ano­ther presents itself to my view—how gently she breathes,—the gale is reviving,—

a sigh of sensibility,—poor soul!—it were pity she should sigh in vain. Yes, I will see her face.

O, Heaven's!—it is Con­stance—my life!—my heaven!—

.

Help!—oh, help!—

Unhand the lady, villain!

O, heavens, it is De Courcy!—

Ha! is it you? I have met my blessing and my curse.

De Courcy!—

I have been your dupe, Sir, and I know it.—Am well inform'd of those combinations by which you defrauded me,—and am deter­min'd, Sir, to give the law it's course.

I scorn to retort your assertions,—you have been a dupe to your own folly. Pride, and high founding language but ill suit with the meanness of your appearance, assumed for the purpose of some low intrigue,—metamorphose into a gentleman, and I'll enforce satisfaction for this insolence.

O, I shall faint.

My dear love,—pardon the moment­ary neglect into which passion led me.—I have been but one day in England—tomorrow I should have gone for York,—my soul was all im­patience to see you.—

What, in a livery!

A livery—yes,—it is a disguise I own, worn for a purpose I'll not attempt to palliate [Page 57] or justify—but your appearance like a heavenly vision inspires me with virtuous thoughts.

I do not urge an explanation which must increase your confusion.

I will explain all another time.—Here comes some of the family.

These alarms will ruin my constitu­tion,—it was fortunate I took bark this morn­ing, or my whole nervous system would be shaken to pieces.—Where is this gentleman?—Cheaterly tells me a stranger has been rude to you, have you turn'd him out, Patrick?

Sir, I shall send a letter to your house immediately, to which I implore your attention—I am wretched, you were my father's friend.

Madam, if I was not, I am a man, and every thing that affects my fellow-creatures concerns me.

Patrick,—do you hear?—no answer,—I shall never recover my health,—don't ir­ritate me, rascal.—

Rascal!—to whom do you address your­self?

To you, scoundrel.—

Why, you despicable,—that epithet again, and this sword.—

This is no Irishman!—what the de­vil is become of your brogue?—who are you?

A gentleman!—

A gentleman! ha, ha, ha, this is good!—a gentleman in a livery!—but which are you? [Page 58] a gentleman in waiting, or a gentleman of the road?

Ah, ah! I now see how I came by the new suit, smuggled from Paris.

The servant is mad, and Sir Buzzard has caught the contagion.

I have it here.

What have you there?

Nothing that I know of, upon my honor.

Nothing in your master's head! How dare you joke with your betters, young man?

I shall be the laughing-stock of fools and jest of the malignant.

Oh, dear, dear, sure there is no harm done! It is all my fault,—Miss Constance is ready to break her heart;—you must know, Sir, I was the only person in the house who knew this gentleman, he is her lover, and he wheedled me, and wheedled me, till I consented to bring him into the house, and so I shut him into my lady's closet.

The girl tells the truth.

He is a gentleman, and you shut him up in your lady's closet.

Now, I see what you conceive in your head.

And so, Sir, my lady coming in, the gentlemen was oblig'd to lie close.

And he wheedled you, and wheedled you,—"And he lay close,—Eh"—and he never saw your lady?

Never saw her, as I hope to be saved!

You hear the girl swear.

O, it's plain there was nothing between them.

"Nothing between them indeed, Sir, that is the naked truth."

Then give me leave, Sir, to enquire who you are? and what are your pretensions to visit my niece?

As to my pretensions, Sir, nothing can be better founded,—I love the lady,—but what is still more material, the lady has long since confess'd that she loves me.

Candid and open.

And your name is De Courcy?

To that name I was born, but an old good natured uncle taking it into his head to visit elizium—in obedience to his will, and in gra­titude for sixteen hundred pounds a year, I now bear the name and arms of Welford.

You seem an honest fellow, worthy the love of Constance.

What is his honesty to me? I am to inform you, Sir, the father of Constance is dead; I am her natural guardian, and you shall never have my consent to marry her.

May I never obtain her consent, if ever I ask yours.

She has not a shilling fortune.

I am glad of it, I have sufficient for­tune for both,—I will settle a fortune on her.

A fellow of noble generosity!—

There is a gentleman, I am deter­mined she shall marry.

Mark me,—let that gentleman be whom he may, if he presumes to speak to her, write to her,—or even thinks of her as a wife, I shall [Page 60] make him such an example—but this is losing time,—farewell, I must wait on Constance.

You shall not go an inch into my house,—that is your way out.

I will go into any man's house, Sir, where she is,—debar me access to my love!—Were you the Grand Signor, and detain'd her, I would force into the inmost recesses of your seraglio, put you to death in the midst of your Janissaries, and carry her off in triumph.

I do not often swear, it is not my way, but damn me if I would not assist you.

Nay, then we must try your cou­rage,

—O, for an estringent to brace my nerves.

Excuse me from running you through the body while you wear my cloaths; that coat is in excellent taste, and I cannot think of running it through the body.—

A soldier, and a wit!

Take it, take it;

—now let me see if you get into my house.

What, going to sight a duel!—Oh, for shame!—duelling is a mode of satisfaction unworthy gentlemen, practis'd now by every vulgar fellow;—people of fashion should ex­plode it.

You know I pay great respect to your opinion,—and if,—but he shall not go into my house.

Consider what an improper place for quarreling.

You are right, Sir, this is too cold a situation for stripping;—

now for Constance, love, and happiness.

Bravo, my boy!—bravo!

Sure some malign devil has deter­min'd to make me ridiculous!—let me after him.

Are you mad, Sir Buzzard?

Stark mad!

Nearly stark naked mad.

The cloaths,—the smuggled cloaths you provided for me.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

Away! you old—get home;—perhaps your Scotch tutor may prepare Pure Nature for the grand tour, and provide you more company than you expect.—Why did I marry?—why plunge into a mortal disease, for which there is no remedy but poison,—no re­lief but death?

Can I see Constance?

She is lock'd up in her own apart­ment to avoid her lover.

To avoid him!—He is a noble fellow, and she must have him;—I will in to Sir Buz­zard, and argue this case:—He presumes to controul this young lady, his niece, by paren­tal authority; but I will convince him, the principle of that authority is to make our chil­dren or wards happy,—not miserable.

Sir Buzzard is in a horrid rage.

I must contrive to appease him. Constance I suppose has her suspicions;—an [Page 62] amicable girl—I really love her, pity her situa­tion, and am determined never to see Welford again, but for the purpose of facilitating a marriage between them.—I must also effectuate a breach between my sister and this pusilani­mous colonel.

That may be easily accomplished—the widow has no small share of vanity.

True!—

We must persuade her she was the ob­ject of Mr. Welford's admiration.

I will swear he brib'd me to introduce him to her.

And I will contrive to get her and the gentleman together at my house, and your ladyship shall send the Colonel to surpirze them, which will produce an irreconcileable quarrel.

Here comes the widow—do you lay the train.

De Courcy is gone, after a very loud altercation with Cheaterly, which terminated in mutual vows of vengeance; he charges Cheaterly with having imposed on him at play.

There is nothing scandalous in that—play has become a science, fashionable in prac­tice, and like other faux pas, 'tis only blameable in discovery. Pray how has Constance behaved?

Remains locked up in her own room▪ and perseveres in denying an interview to her lover:—this De Courcy is in my opinion a charming fellow.

But I must know for what pur­pose he was brought into my closet.—I am certain Constance was not the object; so speak, Grace.

Well, my lady, the truth is, the gentleman came after the widow.

I thought so,—this duplicity, sister, hurts me.

Dear, my lady, it is all my fault,—the gentleman saw Mrs. Volatile at the play with your ladyship, and sent for me in the morning—and,—but am I sure of pardon if I tell?

Yes, if you tell nothing but the truth.

Well, my lady, the poor young gen­tleman to be fureswore bitterly he was smitten;—by all the Gods, says he, she is one of the most beautifulest,—most youngest, and most ele­gantest creatures my eyes ever beheld!—but I, telling him as how she was positively engaged to colonel Staff,—then he began to curse.—

Why presume to tell him so?—Who gave you knowledge of my engagements?

Hear the girl, sister;

she's caught.

Do'nt be angry, madam,—I told him, madam—thinking no harm, and so he curs'd, and call'd on Heaven, and poor gentleman sigh'd so, that I took pity on him, and by his persuasions and promises brought him into the closet, where he was to have been concealed,—Yes, ma'am—'till I could have contriv'd to have brought you into the room, which I should have done, but that my lady first came, and then Sir Buzzard, who made up the noise that disturb'd the house.

You are an impudent girl, go wait in my dressing-room 'till my coming.

Yes, my lady,—but oh, sure, you do'nt intend to discharge me,—what could I do [Page 64] when so pretty a gentleman knelt to me, and cried to me for assistance—and squeez'd my hand, and forc'd a purse into my bosom—Oh! oh!

—you will speak to my lady.

I will, Grace!

there

—let me see you presently.

A pretty scheme this!—your maid, Lady Flippant, has used me well—did I ever make any positive engagements with the Colonel?

I hope not, but really you take such pains to torment each other, I was appre­hensive you were privately married.

Heav'n forbid!—I have been pru­dently considering the Colonel's situation some time past—his estate I understand has been long languishing in a decline, and his creditors no doubt are in expectation of mine.

Then to bestow it on Welford—think of the pleasure of sweet five and twenty smiling upon you from morning 'till night.

And from night to morning—think of that, madam.

Then our triumph over a girl of such beauty as Constance—the buz of the po­lite world, and their impertinent ill-nature.

Certainly there are inducements.

Inducements! you will have the exquisite satisfaction of being lampoon'd, epi­gramm'd, and paragraph'd—or perhaps be etch'd in aqua fortis, and stuck up in the print shops. Then to have the tribe of antiquated maidens, disgusted wives, and disappointed wi­dows railing at your prudence, yet envying [Page 65] your situation—"Lord bless us!"—ejaculates Lady Toothless, "I wonder at her indiscretion, to marry a man so young. The Colonel would have been much more suitable."—Then she takes five years from your lover's age, and adds to your's—"That's he!—that's he!"—ex­claims Miss Squintum, as she ogles from a side box, with one eye worn out in searching for defects in beauty, and the other on the decline—"That's he,—but I cannot perceive what she saw in the fellow; he is as plain as herself—and I wonder how women can follow fel­lows."—The blooming youth hands you to your seat—the whole circle stare at you—a gene­ral whisper's bre [...]th'd round—you gaze in return with perfect composure—salute your acquaint­ance—adjust your tucker, giggle behind your fan, assume a perfect indifference, whisper your handsome husband to mortify them, and laugh out to shew your inward satisfaction and ineffa­ble contempt.

But how is all this to be brought about?

Call at my house within an hour, and if I do not settle it, discard me from your con­fidence.—

She shall be punctual—come, sister, I see you were unacquainted with your lover's passion,—but you must acknowledge I had sufficient cause for suspicion.

Yet you must allow there was no deceit on my part.

You have play'd your part admirably.

Yes, Muslin, all good actresses are not upon the stage.

SCENE III. Ordeal's House.

You are no longer a Scotchman I zee—

Yes, Nicholas, I have only laid aside the tone and accent, but am still a Scotchman; I have no reason to be ashamed of my country, and I trust my country will never have reason to be ashamed of me.

Why zee master, I could never zee any difference between your English and Scotch; though to be zure I could hear it in their speak­ing, and that is the only difference I think should ever be between them; but take a fool's advice now,—make the best use of your time.

What employs your thoughts, my love?

In truth, love itself; if the pleasing de­scription you have given me be true, and I have no reason to doubt your veracity, to live with those we love must be the extent of human happiness;—but then, Mr. Ordeal has told me that your sex often requite the most sincere pas­sion with cold indifference.

The charge is too true; but my affec­tion can only cease with life.

I owe every thing to Mr. Ordeal's good­ness, and the very arguments you urged to gain my love, persuade me against being un­grateful!—obedience is the only return I can make his kindness, and how can I disobey him, when my heart informs me that ingratitude is [Page 67] one of those heinous sins at which Heaven is most offended?

It is true, no quality of the soul is more lovely than gratitude;—but Mr. Ordeal is not actuated by passion,—he offers you his hand from motives of generosity, not love,—all you owe him is friendship, which an union with me could not diminish.

You can persuade me to any thing;—you swear you love me,—I believe you,—and if the pleasure I take in seeing you, and hearing you, and the pain I feel when you leave me, be love, I love you above all things.

Have you settled every thing?

Good Nicholas, do not interrupt her.

Who, I, a spoil-sport! mum!—

Would not my consenting to marry you be injustice to my benefactor?

The value I set upon your love is such, I would not accept it, but as the voluntary gift of your soul!—I will obtain Mr. Ordeal's con­sent.

Then I am for ever yours.

—What do I see!

But when will you obtain his consent?

Never.

O, we are undone.

Is this the way you repay my confidence? and you,

innocent [Page 68] miss, is this a grateful return for years of kind­ness?—But

what shall I say to you, rascal!—you, whom I thought watchful as a lynx, have slumber'd like another Argus—were your eyes piped into a nap by this Mer­cury, or was your mouth stopped by a sop, Mr. Cerberus?

Yes, I loves a sop;—but I will be called no names—zee master,—our bargain is this, a month's warning, or a month's wages; zo, pay me, and I'll go, but remember it was not I brought maister M'Classic into the house.

Your resentment, Sir, must fall solely upon me—I only have deceiv'd you,—a word in private,—

could human nature repel the influence of such beauty?—

had I been less honourable, or Clara less virtuous, I might now perhaps be imposing upon your credulity a seduced maid, with a vitiated mind: I am young,—Clara is pure nature,—the experiment I have made was dangerous.—

But you were only to have made the ex­periment to try how far her inclinations coincided with mine.

Consider, she was an orange tree.—

You were to have been the instrument for promoting my happiness.

She possess'd the verdure of the spring—

Hear me!

The blossom of the summer—

Hear me!

The ripe fruit of autumn.

And you would consider me the falling leaf in winter—hear me, Sir!—

Hav [...] [Page 69] you not been urging the temptations of pleasure to seduce her into your own designs?—have you not alienated her affections from me?

Sir, I came into your house for the very purpose of gaining her love.

Who are you, Sir?

A soldier—my name Douglas,—my fortune a competency,—my country Scotland—the same person who assisted you when attack'd by ruffians on Marlborough Downs.

The kind gentleman in whose arms I fainted!

From the first instant I saw her, my soul caught the inspiration of virtuous love.

You are unfashionable, Sir,—from the dissipated conversation of the young fellows of the times, one would imagine there was neither honesty in man, nor chastity in woman;—but your conduct contradicts their aspersions.

It is too true, the arts of seduction are so sedulously studied, that honest love ap­pears in danger of being extirpated.

There are many, many melancholy examples;—but be assured, young man, though sensual pleasures arise from seducing innocence, it is plucking blossoms from a sweet-briar, which will rankle in the flesh.

Your observation, Sir, is just,—though it does not apply to me.—

"My censure does not fall solely on youth,—no, the gardens of beauty and innocence are also despoil'd by old debilitated wretches, who cannot cultivate the soil, but lay waste its beau­ties."

Do you forgive me, Sir?

I blame you not, I am your debtor for many instances of duty and affection;—look on her, Douglas;—yet her beauty is the least of her excellence,—but as it is a principal part of benevolence to assist ano­ther most when there is most need of assistance,—and that you need not owe too much to the generosity of your husband,—as you cannot be my wife, I adopt you for my child—love in­spires its votaries with sentiment, and I acknow­ledge the benign influence.

You weep, my lovely Clara!

And so do you,—and so do I,—I see you are all joy,—but, my children, the transports of a virtuous passion are the least parts of its happiness,—we will this instant to Sir Buzzard Savage's,—a young lady, his niece, calls for my protection.

You mean Constance Heartfree! young De Courcy, of York, my particular friend, is, I believe, betrothed to her.—

You are right;—take your bride by the hand;—the women will laugh at me for losing her, but I am above the laugh of the world, and I will laugh at the world in my turn,—that is my way.—

SCENE I. Lady Flippant's Dressing Room.

THE storm bends this way, and here will I meet it.

you shall instantly march out of my house.

My lady scorns your suspicions.

Stop your gabble, you diminitive pandar in petticoats!—It is clear that Constance was ignorant of Welford's arrival in England!—it is apparent he did not come to my house after her.—What, is your noble blood at a loss for an excuse?

Who has instilled jealousy into that head of yours, barren of every thing but what is monstrous!

It is your Ladyship has made my head monstrous.

Sure the devil instigates some women!—the widow—

Do not throw the blame on the poor devil—it is nature instigates them, and she is to the full as subtle and certain in her operations.

I just now spoke to her as she stept out of a chair into Mrs. Muslin's, and in return was [Page 72] shot through the heart with a look of ill-nature and contempt—if I was not the coolest fellow in the service, I'd run mad,—aye,—mad, mad—

You would have cause to run mad, if you knew she is now at Mrs. Muslin's, en­joying a tete-a-tete with Welford.

Impossible!

I am ready to take my oath of it!

the truth is, I told a great lie to your honour.

O, confound me, but I believe you now.

The widow gone to Welford, on an assignation—ha! ha! ha! I will after her this instant, and cut his throat!—No, I will not stir—I am pleas'd—perfectly pleas'd!—I will discharge such a volley about his ears;—gone to visit Welford!—but why should I be vex'd?—I will follow her, spring a mine, and blow them up together—Burst on her like a hand-granade.

Ridiculous—you are all gun­powder.

Ungrateful woman!

Deceitful sex!

Surprize her and her lover!

I will break with her—I mean I will pursue her.

Well, you see it was your sister, not your wife, Welford came to visit; are you ready to make an apology for your vulgar suspicions?

An apology to you! O, impudence! have you not been the rust of my health, have you not fretted me down to a mere skeleton? [Page 73] make you an apology!—give me my wasted flesh.

I shall for London in the morning.

If you dare!

Will shew out at every place of public entertainment.

At your peril.

At your cost.

The law gives me authority to con­fine you, and I will exercise it—I am your husband.

I am heartily sorry for it! will have public breakfasts, public dinners, and public nights.

You shall have bread and water, in a narrow room.

A box at the Opera, and subscribe to all the Concerts.

You devil!

Will purchase a new vis-a-vis—a town chariot and phaeton.

You—you have a design upon my life.

Heav'ns! how ardently I pant to be elevated in the phaeton, to take the circuit of Hyde Park, rolling in a cloud of dust, four horses, two outriders, whip in hand, flowing manes, hunters tails, sweep down Piccadilly, turn into St. James's-street,—up fly the club­house windows, out pop the powdered heads of the bucks and beauxs of fashion—some nod, some smile, some kiss hands,—all praise—she is a goddess, exclaims one,—a venus, ejaculates an­other,—an angel, sighs a third. I cut on, flash [Page 74] down Pall Mall swift as lightning, rattle furiously through Charing-Cross, overturn Lady Dap­per's whim and cats at Northumberland House, lose a wheel in the Strand, leap from my seat as the carriage falls, and am received in the arms of some handsome fellow whom love has directed to my assistance.

She is mad! she is mad! outrageous mad!

He carries me into a house, fainting—

Stop there; I will be divorc'd.

Then I will have a separate main­tenance.

Not a shilling.

You cannot deprive me of my settlement.

Ay, there is the grievance! O, con­found all jointures and settlements, those en­courage your levities, and stimulate you all to transgress.

My poor spirits are ex­hausted! Heigh ho! I am tired of this dissi­pated life.

I wait upon your ladyship, to return grateful thanks for the many favours you have conferred upon me, and to take my leave, as I am determined to quit this house.

What! without your uncle's con­sent?

I cannot think his consent necessary, while he and your ladyship assent to the persecu­tion I experienced from a man I despise.

And pray where do you intend to go?

I have found a protector—Mr. Ordeal, the friend of my unfortunate father. Lady Flip­pant, it hurts my heart to part you upon those terms.

In tears, Constance!

Why so distress'd?

My heart is too full.

Be seated;

you love this Mr. Welford sincerely—but he is!

what is it to me what he is!

To me he is every thing—and it is my hope!—

—but why should I hope?—

Constance—I really love you—our manners have divided us; but be assured, my dear girl, though I run the circle of fashion­able life, my mind is not devoid of sensibility—our education has been different.

It was my happiness to receive in­struction from a pious and tender mother, who early taught me the precepts of virtue, and im­pressed upon my heart, that a pure reputation with humble poverty, was preferable to a sus­picious character, though blazoned with all the pomp and ornaments of elevated life—but she is no more.

Alas, Constance! it was my misfortune to be educated in all the giddy foibles and levities of the times.

But I have observed a dispo­sition in your ladyship susceptible of the ten­derest offices of friendship,—and where there is feeling—

There is hope of reformation—you would have said so—indeed, Constance, [Page 74] [...] [Page 75] [...] [Page 76] there are sentiments here, which often upbraid me; but sure nothing has transpir'd, injurious to my honour.

The world is censorious, madam, and those whose conversation is the most entertaining are often the most dangerous; to simplicity they impute cunning, and give a criminal construction to the most innocent actions.

I am all joy, Lady Flippant! Con­stance, this is Clara, hereafter I trust you will be inseparable friends.

I shall endeavour to merit the lady's friendship.

They may boast of Queen Emma walk­ing over burning ploughshares, but here is a girl has done more, she has lived in a fashionable family without censure.

But, Mr. Ordeal, what is the cause of your joy?

It must be disclos'd—Pure Nature has bestowed her hand and heart on the Scotch lad, who turns out to be Captain Douglas, Welford's intimate friend.

Sir, I know the gentleman, and he bears a high character.

Constance, take this young lady to the drawing-room, send Grace to me, and order your maid over to Welford's, to let him know you will be there presently. I have a serious reason for my request, and will not be denied.

I obey.

The poor girl's situation is truly pitiable—it was our subject when you came in—the tears are not yet out of my eyes.

Never blush for weeping; tears are the certain symptoms of a noble soul.

Do you know that I have serious thoughts of throwing aside all fashionable le­vities?

I know it is almost time; I believe your inclinations are virtuous, and your irregularities I do not impute to nature;—no, my lady, na­ture has endowed you with amiable qualities, among which, I think generosity is prevalent—like most of your sex, you have taken up levity through whim, and maintain it through habit, though perhaps your soul struggles to be de­livered from the trammels;—break them, then, and you will do more than Caesar;—he con­quered countries,—but the greatest glory human nature can acquire is to conquer ourselves;—I have good news for Constance,—her father is living.

Heav'ns!—are you serious?

I have had letters from London, and he returns by the next ships from India;—nay more,—he has remitted thirty thousand pounds to her sole use, with directions to pre­pare a house for his reception.

O, I am overjoy'd—why has she never heard from him before?

He was sent upon an embassy to the in­terior parts of the country, and his letters were intercepted and destroyed.—But seriously, has your ladyship known nothing of this before?

Never.

There is roguery on foot,—an express was sent to your seat at York, which not meet­ing the lady there was forwarded to this city, and delivered at this house.

I see into it, this accounts for the warm impetuous passion of Cheaterly; the girl and her fortune were no doubt to be sacrificed, between him and my worthy spouse. Then you must assist me in persuading Constance to go to Welford; it will produce an incident which will punish the young gentleman's passion for in­trigue, and give Constance an authority over him;

but do you believe my re­pentance sincere?

I hope so!—but I believe nothing with­out proof—that is my way—where there is le­vity the world will suspect, and when the world has once cause to suspect a woman, her cha­racter becomes as much the sport of its ma­lice, as if there was a certainty of her having abandoned it.

I am penitent! but do you really forgive my lecture to Pure Nature?

Yes, and am convinc'd you are no false prophet; for, as you foretold, Clara pre­ferred the summer dimples of youth to the winter wrinkles of age,—I speak my mind, that is my way.

SCENE II. Mrs. Muslin's.

Your opinion, madam, is just! vivacity is an attribute to woman,—gravity natural [Page 79] to man:—and probably the sexes were thus contrasted, that the saturnine disposition of the male might be relieved by the sprightliness of the female,—your smiles alleviate our pains, your approbation rewards our dangers.

And our conversation illustrates my opinion—you are grave,—I, perhaps, too vola­tile.

The poor gentleman seems as if some­thing preyed upon his mind;—let me recom­mend matrimony,—it is the only cure for me­lancholy.

And often a specific for all complaints.

Well,—business must be minded

Must see you to the door.

A great fortune,—may I trust her with you?

May I trust myself with her?

A good, merry, convenient, civil old woman:—she recommends matrimony—

Pray, ma­dam, what kind of lover would you prefer?

I must tell you the lover I would not prefer. I would not prefer a coxcomb,—a flut­tering summer insect,—a talkative creature, full of insipid gesture, laughter, and noise, who pays more attention to his hair than to his intellects,—who possesses neither sentiment for friendship, nor sensibility for love—but is curst with a soul devoid of manliness, and bent on the gratifica­tion of its own puny affections.

An excellent picture, yet the species of animal you describe are favorites.—The ladies are grown so enamoured of delicate limbs, and effeminate faces, one would imagine they wished to have their lovers women in every thing.

Dear Sir, there is a woman below en­quiring for you—she insists upon coming up, and has such a tongue!

I would not be seen for the world.

She would surely blast the reputation of my house.—Sir, you must go down to her.—O my poor character!

Any thing to save the reputation of your house.

Madam, madam, the slut is upon the stairs.—Step into this closet till the impudent creature is gone.—

You do not know, Sir, you have been sitting with Mrs. Volatile, sister to Sir Buzzard Savage.

Mr. Welford.

I know that voice.

It is the clack of Mrs. Honor, waiting maid to Miss Constance.

Then keep her out for Heaven's sake.

I will have admittance.

Coming, Mrs. Honor.—O the au­dacious wretch—I see, Sir, you are a man of gallantry, but, pray, dispatch the creature as fast as possible.

Madam I insist upon going in first.

No me'm—you will pardon me.

What, two!—ladies, your most obe­dient.—

You have no business here, me'm,—

My business, me'm, is no business of your's—or if it was your business, me'm, yet it is not the business of the likes of you to look down upon the likes of me, me'm.

The likes of you I look down upon with scorn.—It is not for the likes of you, to look up to the likes of me, me'm.—I serves a lady of vartue.

Vartue! Your insinuation is low, me'm, high as you carry your head.

Grace, stand on my right hand—Ho­nor, take your place on my left—How happy would it be for England, were all her great men in my situation—Grace supporting one side, Ho­nor supporting the other.—Now, ladies, to the cause of your visit.

My lady understanding that her sister was here—

My Lady sent me to let you know—

One at a time.

Sir, you must know—

My lady sent—

Here is a guinea for her who speaks second—What; dumb!—but money seals as well as unseals the mouths of great speakers.

Me'm, I shall certainly speak first—Sir, you must know—

Speak first, me'm! I serve a lady of quality.

Order in the house—let me settle this point of precedence—I believe it is regular that Grace should take the lead of Honor, so Mrs. Grace begin.

Thank you for preferring she.

Now Grace, what is your basiness with me?

La, Sir, I have no business with you—I want to speak with Mrs. Volatile.

Child, she is not here.

Not here—but I believe she is there

By this guinea she is not.

By this guinea I will swear it—mum—but my lady wants to see her directly—Mrs. Honor, your very obedient—an audacious hus­sey!—

Me'm, your most humble—

Lord, Sir, I found it as difficult to get at you, as if you had been a great Turk.

Mrs. Muslin did not know you perhaps.

Not know me! she knew me to be var­tuous, though as the saying is, "tell me your company and I will tell you what you are"—and I, and my mistress live in a family where there is not much vartue practised—but I am silent—servants should neither have eyes, nor ears, nor tongues, therefore I am always blind, deaf and dumb, let me hear or see what I may.

Lower your voice, you may be over­heard.

Then there is Sir Buzzard's sister, the widow, though her husband is not dead six months, is frisky and brisk—gadding about, and running mad for another—

Speak low, a gentleman lies ill in the next room.

As to Sir Buzzard, they have put their [Page 83] fingers into his eyes so often, he is blind as a beetle. I must make you laugh about the widow—

I cannot permit you to stay any longer from your Lady. Here's for your good report

Dear Sir, you distress me—

Farewell—

Heav'n be prais'd! I have got rid of you!—Now to relieve my widow, who I suppose is mortified into humility, or bursting with rage.

Madam, I feel for your situation, and did every thing in my power to stop the impetuous flow of the woman's tongue—but be not af­fected at what she said—"Censure and calum­ny are taxes paid by the most elevated charac­ters, nor is it possible to make defence against the impost, but by obscurity."

It is beneath me, Sir, to defend my character against the aspersions of so mean a wretch—I feel however for the impressions her falshoods may have made on you.

You seem frightened, madam, quite fluster'd I protest—sure the gentleman attempted no rudeness—

That woman has slandered me grosly!

Soothe your passion, madam, nothing so prejudicial to beauty as intemperate warmth—consider the vulgar set up a prescription, for exercising latitude of tongue, that shews no re­spect to persons.

Your hand, Mrs. Muslin—some drops—some water—I faint—I am overcome—I die! oh!

Support her, dear Sir, 'till I return—let me run for restoratives—

open her hands, chafe her temples,—a-lack a day—This is a master stroke of the widow's!

This is worse than the state of Tanta­lus—human nature cannot hold out—she is really handsome. I will venture to kiss her however—

Madam, Sir,—there is Miss Constance and Colonel Staff with her—

What will become of me?

What will become of me?

In his private chamber, and just sprung from his arms!—Oh, hell and furies! but I will be cool,—we, Sir, will meet hereafter; this intrusion, madam, is, I see, as unseasonable as unexpected; I am sorry to have interrupted you.

I am unconcerned at your suspicions, Colonel,—you will not be censorious, Miss Constance—my business here was to prevent that imprudent step which you are about to take.

You have succeeded, madam

.

Will you hear me?

I am sorty, Sir, for the confusion I have caused—having gained my esteem without dif­ficulty—you have resign'd it with the same ease—

This undeniable proof of your duplicity has reinstated my senses, and I will run the gauntlet no longer—you feel am calm—quite calm,—but I will have revenge;—you, Sir?—

Well, Sir!—it is my duty to clear this lady from suspicion, to which her situation lays her open, and in which I am innocently in­volved.

You may have an interest in justifying yourself, Sir, but I request not to be included in your defence; I am going.

I give up the pursuit—Madam, if my acts and deeds—

Your acts and deeds! Yes, I have heard of your acts and deeds from yourself, Colo­nel—but, be assured, a man without spirit shall never controul the acts and deeds of my for­tune.

A true Parthian,—she shot as she slew.

Constance, will you attend to me?

No, Sir,—you need not take the trouble [Page 86] of speaking to me now, or of enquiring for me hereafter.

Was ever man so unfortunate!—to have all my wishes blasted in the moment of ripening!—to lose the object of my love in the instant of recovering her—who waits there? to have an intrigue with a wife, a widow, and a maid, in the course of one day, and be dis­appointed in all—will nobody answer?

What is the mater, Sir?

Where is the lady?

She went out with the Colonel.

I speak of the young lady.

She left the house in a chair,—but I cannot tell where she went.

I will this instant to Sir Buzzard's!—I will follow her over the world;—what an un­fortunate fellow!—

What answer has Doctor Spruce sent?

He said, Sir, he would not write,—but remember your ungenerous treatment, and have revenge!—pardon me, Sir, but these were his words.

Would have revenge?

Yes, Sir, and I saw a letter on his table directed to Sir Buzzard Savage;—there was an [Page 87] attorney with him, and I heard him say the pe­nalty is treble the money lost.

How much is he arrested for?

Upwards of seventy pounds.

Here is a note for a hundred—

fly and get him discharged.

A letter to Sir Buzzard!—an attorney with him!—treble the penalty!—this Spruce I fear will turn traitor.

Captain Douglas, your most obedient,—how long have you been in Bath? I have not seen you for an age.

I believe, Sir, not since the York meet­ing, when my friend De Courcy lost his mo­ney.

He is too ardent to attempt play,—always off his guard.

And had the misfortune to play with those who kept a constant centinel upon his weakness;—he confided in you, and was de­ceived;—care, and a plain understanding, may preserve a man's property from the plunder of a common robber,—but honesty has no pro­tection from the frauds of superior cunning.

I won nothing from him;—I lost—the truth is, the knowing ones took us in.—

But you shared the winnings—

Will you dare—

I will dare any thing that is honest.

Your friend, Sir, has dared to traduce my character, by the imputation you insinuate. But he and you should know me better, than to suppose any man could affront me with impuni­ty.

I know you have a mind capable of vindicating your conduct, even at the risque of your own life, and the life of him you have in­jured—men like you, habituated in deceit, be­come callous to humanity;—destitute of prin­ciple,—they are not deterred by the compunc­tions of conscience,—but will insure the profits of their cunning, even at the price of blood.

My family, Sir—

Is honourable!—speak not of your family—their virtues render your vices the more conspicuous.

Oh you traitor!—the reverend Mr▪ Spruce has made a full confession.—So I have been your pigeon, but the law shall do me justice.

This is your scheme, pusillanimous, mean wretch—

for you, Sir,

we shall meet again.

Yes,—at the next assizes;—the fel­low's mind is sowed with hempseed, and will yet produce a halter.—or if he escapes hanging, I shall see him perishing in a gaol, under as many wants as are in the Daily Advertiser;—have you been pigeon'd, Sir?

No Sir.

I have,—he has pluck'd some quill feathers from me,—he has pinion'd me!—oh the rascal!—but I shall recover my mortgages, and bonds, with treble penalties!

Distraction!—she is lost!—I have been at your house, my Lady,—at Mr. Ordeal's—at every inn in the town,—but can get no tidings of her.

It is surprising, you, who possess a heart open and liberal, panting with affection for the whole sex, should run distracted for the loss of an individual!

You overlook me, Welford—

Douglas!—my friend!—O, Douglas, I have lost my Constance!—I—

No truant, I have been your ad­vocate and regained her for you—on condition of repentance—.

My life!—

Repentance!—let him marry, and he will live and die in a state of repentance.

What!—marry me, an orphan without a shilling?

Talk not of wealth,—were the riches of the world in your possession, by Heaven they would not add a grain to the estimation of your worth.

Generous and noble!

How, Sir, can I repay your generosity?

The satisfaction which results from aid­ing virtue in distress, is the only interest a ge­nerous mind can wish to receive for its ser­vices;—because it is the only interest such a mind can enjoy.

Return to my house;—there you shall be acquainted with a matter which nearly concerns your happiness.

Which I never expect to taste!

Your happiness is in your own power, commence the practice of virtue, and you will be enamoured of its sweets,—try the experiment, and never fear success.

What say you to that, Sir Buz­zard?

I say a man can never be too old to mend—I say I have been positive all my life, and I say if you follow the advice of your an­cient and sapient friend, my endeavours to pro­cure domestic happiness shall not be wanting—Ordeal, the laugh will be against us both.

Laugh at me as long as you please, but had I married Clara, the laugh would have been still stronger against me;—the Scot has done right, and the girl has done right,—the mutual inclination of two virtuous souls, cannot but render them more virtuous;—the inhabitants of countries united by nature and policy should take every opportunity of strength­ening the connexion;—I see you all think as I do!—and here I hope we shall also meet approbation.