SCENE I.

THIS game bears a strong resemblance to love; it pleases only while it is new. After a while, the hand places every pin in its right place, mechanically, with­out the attention's being engaged—as in love the tongue continues habitually to pronounce the tender names, "my life," and "my dear," long after all affection has ceased.

SCENE II.

Your humble servant, madam.

Your's, sir.

For ever with the hermit in your hands?

For ever with gloom upon your brow?

The post is just arrived.

And the news it brings?—

Is not very pleasing.

The vile republicans, I suppose, are still successful?

The news I speak of relates to ourselves.

Are we still considered as among the living?

Strange rumors are abroad.

From Holland?

No, from London.

What concern have I with London?

You profess to love monarchy, madam.

With my whole heart.

Yet are a rebel in your own house.

That only proves that my husband is no monarch.

So much the worse both for him and you.

So much the better. Monarchy may be very well in a state, but in wedlock, give me the English constitution. Let the wife be the Parliament, the husband the executive power.

The Parliament should then learn to manage the finances better.

What do you mean?

The particulars of my father's will are not unknown to you.

Oh, no! — I know them well!

He left me a fortune of eighty thousand pounds.

He shewed himself a man of judgment.

But under the express conditions that I should never marry a WIDOW, or keep a RIDING-HORSE.

Ridiculous whims.

That is not so clear. He knew the national failing, and was not insensible to my propensity to horse-racing. Many a lord has been reduced to a pedestrian, solely from keeping too many horses.

And what was the objection to widows?

That clause was dictated by his own woeful expe­rience.

No great flattery to your mother.

Let the dead rest in peace. In short, my father irre­vocably ordained, that in case of my failing in either of these conditions, the whole fortune should revert to my cousin.

I have heard that about a hundred times.

But your memory is so faithless, that I must take the liberty of repeating it for the hundred and first time.

Do you know which of all the animals that inhabit the earth is the most tiresome?

Well?—

An Englishman.

Humph!—Since you are so learned in zoology, you probably know also what the most thoughtless and ungrate­ful of all creatures are called?

Well?—

French women.

Give vent to your spleen as freely as you please, sir; but don't expect that I should stay and listen to it.

Yes, madam, I do expect that you should stay!— that you should listen while I lead back your attention to that unhappy day when I first saw you in Flanders in a miserable cottage, a prey to the severest want, with no re­mains of your former splendor, save the empty title of countess.

Did not Francis the first, after the battle of Pavia, write to his mother, "We have lost every thing but our honor?"

Your melancholy situation made a stronger impres­sion upon me, even than your beauty.

Then you do allow me to be handsome?

Alas!—men are, with respect to women, like stran­gers cast upon a desert island; prone to taste of every fruit that looks fair to the eye, though perhaps they are eating what may prove their bane.

A true husband's compliment. Indeed, my dear Mr. Fullarton, you might take out a patent for making fine speeches.

Joke, if you please; but to me the recollection is fatally serious. My compassion awakened, love but too soon followed.

A splendid triumph for my charms.

I made you an offer of my hand —

Which necessity compelled me to accept.

Necessity!—But even this confession, insulting as it is, shall be turned to your shame. Your husband had died for his native country upon the field of honor, as you were pleased to inform me, and left you wholly destitute. I im­parted to you the conditions of my father's will, shewed you what hazards I was ready to run for your sake, and explain­ed the necessity of your former situation remaining a pro­found secret.

Well!—and I have never revealed it.

Not in plain and positive terms; but scarcely do we eat a single meal without my being reminded, by hints and allusions, of the superior merits of the dear deceased—nay even in mixed companies do you not perpetually refer to the same subject, in broken sentences that can scarcely be mis­taken.

'Tis impossible to weigh every word one utters.

When a word may cost eighty thousand pounds, I should think it worth the trouble of weighing.

Really you wear out my patience.

Then mine may be called to your assistance; for it has been so long kept in constant exercise, that it is now grown callous against fatigue.

Gallant again.

But to the point. This day, madam, I have receiv­ed a threatening letter from London.—My cousin, who has a strong inclination for my fortune, keeps his spies here, and these right honorable gentlemen have taken the trouble of weighing your unweighed words, in consequence of which, their employer is endeavoring to obtain proofs of your for­mer widowhood, and I stand no bad chance of taking your fair hand a begging with me.

I would rather beg, than drag on this dull solitary life any longer.

I don't pretend to be so well acquainted with the pleasures of begging as yourself, since you know them by experience.

What an indelicate allusion.

Well, it may at length be exhausted by means of a single cup.

Why did'nt you leave me in Flanders?

Because I was a fool. Would to God that I had avoided widows as cautiously as I have riding-horses.

Ha! ha! ha!—Had you rather have been reduced to beggary by a horse than a fine woman?

Nearly so!—Love is the most dangerous race that a man can run, since his life's repose is staked upon the course.

Repose!—An Englishman's only idea of repose is in being left to eat his roast-beef unmolested!—Your father was a short-sighted fool, but for that I am not responsible. If he was so much afraid of these terrible evils, he should have sent you to Hindostan, where the widows burn them­selves with their husbands, and then his eighty thousand pounds would have been secure on one side, while, on the other, the sacred cows of the Bramins would have effaced all ideas of riding-horses.—Ha! ha! ha!

SCENE III.

Job! Cato! Socrates! and all ye who have been fellow-sufferers with myself from vixen wives, look down upon me with compassion from your immortal mansions, and teach me the difficult task of bearing my own folly with patience!— Happy the man who can ascribe his misfortunes to others!— Woe to him who must impute them solely to himself!

SCENE IV.

Hist! Hist! —

What's the matter?—Come in.

My good friend, may you be valet to the most noble gentleman who owns this mansion?

Say rather to the most noble lady—I am—her valet.

No matter which. Introduce me then if you please.

By what name?

As Monsieur Pierre Ronsard, formerly Major-Domo at the Castle of Bellevue in Champagne, now first valet-de-chambre, and privy-counsellor to the gracious Count my master, a volunteer in the troops of the holy Roman Empire.

An emigrant, I presume?

We are upon our travels.

For your pleasure?

Honor is our tyrant, we obey her nod.

Well, sir, you are introduced.—And now, what do you want.

How!—Have I entered the temple of hospitality without paying due homage to the high-priest?—He must excuse it, since he was not in his costume.

A truce to ceremony. I tell you I am Mr. Fullarton the master of this house.

Was I blind that I could not instantly discern the stamp of honor impressed upon that brow?

Enough, my friend, I see your aim. Flattery is a muddy pool, and those who dabble in it, though they may catch good fish, yet can never come away with unsoiled hands. Probably you are in want of solid coin, and would give in exchange the specious currency of the tongue, but I am a Briton, and do not value things for outside shew. Take this,

Heaven forbid!—Shall I who have the honor of serv­ing a Count, who will shortly be created Marechal of France, accept an alms?

Since he is not yet a marechal —

I beg you to hear my story.—We came to the inn —

With a large suite, I suppose?

Valet, coachman, groom, game-keeper, butler, steward, cook —

I pity the Count, sincerely, for in so small an inn, he must find very indifferent accommodations for such a retinue.

With submission, sir, there is room in plenty. The Count, my master, has so high an opinion of my talents, that he does me the honor of concentrating all these offices in my single person.

I understand you. Does your master want my as­sistance?

His Excellency has fallen into a trifling embarrass­ment, and understanding this mansion to be inhabited by a very noble-minded gentleman, has sent me hither in quality of his valet-de-chambre —

To the point, if you please, without circumlocution.

In my capacity of game-keeper, I this morning shot a partridge—

On my manor, I suppose?

I trust your Excellency will pardon it; and I am au­thorized, by my Lord, the Count, to say that he earnestly requests you will in return shoot as much game as you please upon his estates in Champagne.

And is this all?

Not quite.—When we arrived at the inn, I was sum­moned into my master's presence, in quality of cook, and or­dered to dress the aforesaid partridge. While it was at the fire, the London coach arrived, and in it a lawyer, who ap­peared very hungry.

As is commonly the case with lawyers in this country.

My master's politeness being unbounded, he order­ed me, as his butler, to lay a knife and fork for this lawyer. The partridge was served up—it was soon demolished—and, after dinner, a game at piquet was proposed. Here fortune was not favorable to the Count, though indeed his loss was insignificant, the trifling sum of three guineas, for the pay­ment of which he offered to pledge his word of honor.

A precious pledge!

Yet the lawyer had the unparallelled impudence to assert, that it was not a safe mortgage.

In few words, then, your master is short of money?

By no means!—He has several thousands now by him.

Yet could not pay three guineas?

His pocket-book is full of notes and bills of exchange, but unfortunately he is short of running cash. A cursed highwayman stopped us yesterday, and would not be satis­fied till I had surrendered to him the sum of five hundred guineas, which I carried as cashier to his Excellency.

Then the upshot is, that your master is in want of three guineas.—Take them.

I acknowledge this liberality with transport and gra­titude, and am in despair that I cannot avail myself of it.

Then what the devil do you want?

Honor forbids our accepting any thing in the way of benefaction; but we have in our possession a nag, which we wish to sell, and which, as coachman and groom to his Lord­ship, I am commissioned to do myself the honor of offering you at the small sum of three guineas.

A riding-horse!

A nag, if you please—I only said a nag. He is now below in the court.

I wish to oblige your master, but I can by no means make this purchase.

'Tis a very clever beast I assure you. It was our in­tention to have taught him by degrees the valuable art of [Page 13] living entirely without food, and he has already made a con­siderable progress in acquiring it.

And does the Count mean to pursue his travels on foot?

He is fond of pedestrianizing; 'tis a mere uncon­strained mode of travelling.—If one comes to a fine pros­pect, there is nothing to do but to sit down on the smooth turf, under the shade of a spreading tree, and feast one's eyes all day on the lovely scene.

But such travellers are seldom well received at En­glish inns.

When a man feels his own consequence, he concerns himself little about the opinion of the multitude.

My friend, the money is entirely at your service, but I cannot permit the beast to be left.

No money without barter. I intreat you, noble sir, to favor us upon this point!—I must not touch a shilling, un­less I am to leave our travelling companion.

But I do not want a nag, I never ride.

So much the better for him; he will have nothing to do but to recover the fatigues he has undergone in our ser­vice. In one word, sir, I intreat you to oblige my master! —You may depend upon the most noble proofs of his grati­tude the moment he is restored to his estates.

Well, well! here are the three guineas. I am much obliged to the Count for the confidence he has placed in me, and if he loves partridges, I beg the favor of his company to supper this evening.

Commend me to the English, say I—there is nothing like them for helping a man of quality out of his distresses. I hasten to the Count to carry him the money, together with this most obliging invitation—and if your honor should wish for a specimen of excellent French cookery, I entreat you to lay your commands upon Monsieur Pierre Ronsard, first cook to the gracious Count his master, a volunteer in the service of the holy Roman empire.

SCENE V.

The poor devil excites my compassion. He has indeed no country, but flatters himself he has, like the lunatic in chains, who believes himself a king, or emperor. Yet I ought to be one of the last people in the world to feel com­passion towards an Emigrant, since my life is daily embit­tered by one of that class. To-day, however, I hope she will be in a tolerable humor, since I have invited one of her own countrymen to be our guest.

SCENE VI.

Your honor—

Well, what's the matter?

Your honor has made a devilish bad bargain.

How so?

The beast is lame.

Very well.

Has lost an eye.

No matter.

He's nothing but skin and bone.

Put him in the stable, and feed him well.

He is not worth five shillings.

Go, and do as I bid you.

Well, for my part.

SCENE VII.

Bravo, Count!—And so to spare yourself the weight of an obligation, you have burthened your benefactor with an [Page 15] useless animal. This reluctance to accept a kindness is a hateful principle in man's nature—often as he is obliged to seek assistance, why should he be ashamed of receiving it? Yet to acknowledge an obligation is to confess weakness, and from such a confession, the pride of our hearts ever revolts.

SCENE VIII.

Peace and happiness rest on this house!

That depends upon Heaven, and my wife.—To whom am I indebted for this benevolent wish?

My name is Warbifax, by profession an attorney.

Peace is seldom the wish of your profession.

I hope to accommodate all matters peaceably.

You are come upon some negociation?

That is my business.

May I ask whence you come, and from whom?

From London, from your cousin.

Indeed, and what does my cousin want?

A trifle!—Only the possession of eighty thousand pounds.

His desires are moderate—but as I bear him a sin­cere good-will, I should be happy to hear he had attained the object of them. And how does he hope to acquire such a treasure?

By inheritance.

From whom can he expect so noble a bequest?

Fortunately it does not rest upon expectation—it is already bequeathed.

So much the better.—May one ask by whom?

The late William Fullarton, Esq.

Ha! that was my father's name!

The same.

You joke.

I never joked in my life.

A second Cato.

No such insults I desire; I am a good Christian.

And are come upon a christian-like errand.

I stand here as a servant of justice.

Justice, poor lady, is often unfortunate in her ser­vants.

And I ask you plainly, sincerely, and audibly, once for all, without reserve or circumlocution, whether you are inclined freely, voluntarily, and without let, molestation, or resistance, to resign the abovementioned property to your cousin?

By no means.

You do not forget the conditions of your father's will?

No, I remember them perfectly.

That you should not marry a Widow.

Even so!

Nor keep a Riding-Horse.

Granted.

Both which conditions you have broken.

How so?

Your present lady is a Widow.

That I deny.

At least was so when you married her.

Your proofs?

Her own confession.

Whose confession?

Mrs. Fullarton's.

She joked.

Perhaps so—but the property is in consequence de­manded in earnest.

First prove your claim to it.

We have witnesses sufficient.

How many?

Six.

I can produce twelve who will swear the contrary.

Then we must send for certain people from Flanders.

From Flanders!—

Nay, they may possibly be already on their way.

Cursed fate!

You see that we know what we are about.

Probably you received your information from the devil, and he was a liar from the beginning.

And, perhaps, the devil lied also when he whisper­ed that you had, this day, bought a Riding-Horse?

I bought a Riding-Horse?

Of a French gentleman now at the neighboring inn.

'Tis a miserable beast, blind and lame, which I have taken out of compassion to itself and its late owner.

No matter—'tis still a Riding-Horse.

This clause was made by my father solely to prevent my property's being squandered away at New-Market.

No one doubts his meaning.

Then, as every body must be sensible how miserable a figure a blind and lame animal would make upon the turf, it follows of course that I have not transgressed my father's injunction, but adhered punctually to the spirit of his will.

I do not speak of the spirit—my concern is with the letter.

And could my father return back from his heavenly abode, he would explain his meaning precisely as I have done.

But since the dead cannot return to explain their wills, the living have wisely provided lawyers to see that they be faithfully and literally executed.

I have never sat upon the horse, consequently he is not my Riding-Horse.

The will says nothing of sitting upon the horse, it speaks only of keeping the horse. The animal is now in your [Page 18] stable, you have paid three guineas for him, consequently he is your horse, consequently you keep a Riding-Horse, con­sequently you have not complied with the conditions of the will, consequently your property devolves to your cousin.

If my father knew that I had done this to help a poor wretch out of his necessities —

Your father cannot know it—and it could be of no use if he did know it. The words are clear, and "flourish the dead letter of the law!" say I.

I wish the marechal of France had been at the devil!

Amen! in God's name!

SCENE. IX.

Sir, your most humble servant.

Your's Count.

Accept my most hearty thanks—

For what?

For so generously putting me into a situation to re­deem my pledged honor.

I am sorry I did it.

How!—Is it possible to repent helping a fellow-creature out of his distress?

Very possible, when this kindness may cost a man his whole property.

His whole property?

By a whimsical clause in my father's will, I am to lose my whole inheritance if ever I keep a Riding-Horse.

Well?

Well! Here stands Mr. Warbifax, a great lawyer—

And a great piquet-player.

Who, on the part of my cousin, claims this inhe­ritance.

On what plea [...]

That I have bought a Riding-Horse.

Of me?

Yes.

Here must be some mistake.

No mistake at all.

Have you seen the animal?

No, nor will I see him. If my cousin [...] to have my whole property, the horse shall be included as a part of it.

Ronsard, I hope it was not a Riding-Horse you sold?

Heaven forbid!

How!

I was particularly careful to describe the animal as a nag.

A Riding-Horse, or a riding-nag, 'tis all the same.

By no means. Especially if it be taken into conside­ration, that the nag is only a mule.

A mule!

Yes, my dear sir, a mule.

I breathe again.

He carried my master's baggage during the whole of the last campaign, and for his faithful services was promoted to the rank of a nag.

And so the noble Count rode a mule?

He would not be the less a Count, though he were to ride upon a cat—as some people would still remain an ass, though mounted upon Bucephalus himself.

Mr. Warbifax, "flourish the dead letter of the law!" say I.—As my father only mentions a Riding-Horse—

Well, well—but if I must give up this point, I don't know how you'll get rid of the other clause respecting the Widow?

The Widow?—What do you mean?

Another of my father's whims. He married a widow himself, with whom he lived very unhappily, and I am re­strained [Page 20] from marrying a Widow, under the same forfeiture that attaches to my keeping a Riding-Horse.

And this condition? —

The all-knowing Mr. Warbifax, asserts to be broken.

And can prove it.

Not so easily as you suppose. I married a young French emigrant in Flanders, who must herself best know whether she was a widow or not.

I have her own confession.

That we shall see.

Angelica, your company is requested here.

A French emigrant, and her name Ange­lica! Heaven protect me!—

SCENE X.

God be thanked, I am once more to see other faces besides our own!—

What can this mean?

A twinge of conscience. Ha! ha! ha!

Incomprehensible!

Is that lady your wife?

Alas, she is!

Then I heartily wish you joy, sir, your property is not forfeited.

How so?

She was no widow.

How do you know that?

By the most incontestable evidence.—I have myself the honor of being her husband.

Her husband!

Her husband!

Yes, indeed, her husband!

You are then Count Valcour?

The same.

And were not killed in Flanders?

I was severely wounded, and it was chiefly through a contrivance of my own, that my wife was deceived into a belief of my death.

Thank Heaven that you are still alive!—Yet it grieves me Count —

Oh, do not be uneasy! It gives me no concern at all.

She is your's by right.

I shall not assert my claim.

I resign her most willingly.

You are extremely obliging.

And return your nag into the bargain.

They are both in very good hands.

My conscience will not permit my keeping them.

My repose compels me to decline accepting them.

Politeness is a most charming thing.

Gentlemen, this is all very fine—but who knows what you may have been concerting together?—I demand proofs.

Her own confession, Mr. Attorney.

She did not utter a syllable.

She was sufficiently explicit without it.

The laws say nothing of such explicitness.

Then we have only to question her.

Angelica, your two husbands wish to speak with you.

SCENE XI.

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

You laugh?

Haven't I reason?—Many a poor girl weeps be­cause she cannot get one husband, why shouldn't I laugh, when Heaven has blessed me with two. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—

I cannot say that I find this so very comic.

Welcome, my Lord Count.

Madam, your most obedient.

Permit me to have the honor of introducing my husband to you.

I wish you joy of your good fortune.

Sir, allow me the honor of present­ing my husband to you.

I know not a word in our language sufficiently ex­pressive of your effrontery.

I hope Monsieur Ronsard has not forgotten me?

Oh, no! I recollected your ladyship at the very first glance.

And so you really are still alive?

Yes, I live to mourn your loss.

Extremely gallant!—But how happens this?—I thought you had died on the field of honor?

I did almost.

And I heard that you had been hanged as a spy.

I was almost.

Ha! ha! ha!—You are not shot, and you are not hanged.—Upon my word, this places me in a most embar­rassing situation.

How so?

I know not to which husband I properly belong.

Mr. Fullarton is so polite that he would wave his claim.

While the Count is so generous that he insists upon resigning his.

Far be it from me to separate so happy a pair.

I should bear the loss like a philosopher.

I could not endure the thoughts of interrupting the repose of a whole family.

You will rather restore a guest which has been long banished. Repose was for many years the sole object of my adoration, till at length I fatally drove away this mis­tress to introduce a wife.

Very flattering upon my word. Yet from you, sir, whose spirits are clouded with the smoke of your sea-coal, I had nothing better to expect. But from you, dear hus­band,

from you who were educated on the banks of the Marne —

To forego one's own gratification for the sake of a friend, is the very quintessence of politeness.

Then I am to remain with you?

Justice is the idol of a Briton. Older claims must aupercede mine.

Then I am to return to you?

You carry your generosity too far, sir.

And you, your modesty, Count.

Nothing that Angelica could find with me, would compensate for her losses in leaving you.

And nothing in my house could alone to her for the happiness she would forego in not returning to you.

With me she would have a dangerous journey to en­counter.

Travelling is her passion.

Want would be her companion.

Want is not so dreadful to her as solitude. Did you not say so yourself, madam?

A most noble contest!—My curiosity is extremely excited, to see how these very gallant gentlemen will settle the affair at last.

Is it a matter of perfect indifference to you, to which husband you are to be awarded?

Nearly so—since neither is good for much.

Then—if I must speak plainly and explicitly—I do hereby declare, that I had rather submit my neck to the guillotine, than bend it a second time beneath the yoke from which it has once escaped.

Sincerity on one side, has a claim to equal sincerity on the other—I shall therefore candidly acknowledge, that I had rather be banished for life to Botany-Bay, than con­demned to reside another week under the same roof with that lady.

Bravo!—I suppose the gentlemen have laid a consi­derable bet which shall say the rudest things to an affection­ate wife.

Well, Mr. Attorney, you are silent.

With astonishment.

How stand matters with the forfeiture?

Very ill!

Suppose you carry my cousin a wife instead of the fortune?

I am not invested with powers for such an actus in praejudicium tertii.

Gentlemen, are you aware that my patience is not quite as inexhaustible as the widow of Sarepta's cruise of oil. I scorn you both with all my heart—and if a lawyer were here—

If that be all—here stands Mr. Warbifax, a very ce­lebrated attorney —

Indeed!—Then tell me, sir, upon what terms I can engage you to free me from both these monsters?

A woman who has two husbands, according to our laws, is punishable with death.

Better than living with either of them.

I had thought of a more pleasant expedient for your emancipation.

The law is positive.

But that speaks only of two husbands—now, if a woman should marry three? —

She would certainly be saved.

Oh, Lord!—then I suppose I shall be oblig­ed to take her—

Again I say, "flourish the dead letter of the law!"—Mr. Warbifax, you are still a bachelor.

At your service.

Suppose we make over the wife to you?

That would be most obliging.

What recompense were you to have received from my cousin, had he gained his suit?

A thousand pounds.

Take the lady, and I will make it ten thousand.

Ten thousand pounds?

Now indeed, I feel the full pressure of my poverty! How gladly, Mr. Fullarton, would I emulate your genero­sity, were my poor nag but still in my power.

If I thought the Esquire were serious in his propo­sal? —

He never was more serious.

And my consent is not to be asked?

You will become a person of consequence—will live within the air of the court—

And what do you say, Count?

That I most sincerely wish you happy.

Then, since to speak the truth, I had rather marry the devil himself, than continue the slave of either of your humours—

May I be favored with your name, sir?

Jonas Warbifax.

A most horrid name, in good faith—yet its owner too is ugly—they are even with each other—and, any thing rather than remain in my present state.—

If you are satisfied?

Perfectly so.

Thank God!

Provided that in the first place all be drawn up in due form.

You may make out the writings yourself.

This very hour?

This moment, if you please.

And when shall we depart?

This evening.

I am transported!—I shall be ready for my journey in a few minutes. Gentlemen, your most obedient!—In the arms of my new husband, I shall soon forget that I ever had the honor of belonging to either of you; or if I recol­lect it, the remembrance will be only as of a horrible dream. Adieu! and be assured that deeply as I interest myself in your fates, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear that you had both yawned yourselves to death!—Ha! ha! ha!—

Upon my word, the lady seems pleased with her new destiny!

'Tis very extraordinary!—but not less advanta­geous!—

Indeed a most singular adventure!

And would afford materials for a very affecting bal­lad.

Or for an excellent comedy.

But where would be the moral?

That a man cannot purchase repose at too dear a rate, and that it is no bad bargain to get rid of a vixen wise even at the expence of half one's property.

And one's last Riding-Horse into the bargain.