ACT I. SCENE I.

AND are you ſure, Tabby, the poſtman had no letters for me to-day? I am cer⯑tain it was his rap; which has more muſic in it to the ears of an expecting lover, than the moſt favourite air of a Fiſher or Bach.

Indeed, madam, were I young and handſome as you are, I would not be balk'd about it; for tho' Mr. Montague neglects writing, Sir John Seymour would not, had he the ſame opportunity.

Sir John Seymour! What know you, pray, of Sir John Seymour?

Nay, nothing, madam; only—

Only what? I charge you ſpeak!

That he muſt love you, madam, and that dearly, to be ſo vaſt generous as he is to me upon all occaſions.

I hope you don't accept of any favors from him.

Lord, madam, he does the favor ſo genteely, and ſo privately, there's no refuſing the gentleman.

I charge you, as you value your place, to decline any thing his generoſity offers; as you are not to learn of my father's having early contracted me to another abroad.

And yet, madam, I ſhould think a bird in the cage is worth two in the air. And as to my old maſter Sir Jacob, ſo as he parts not with his money, he cares not, I believe, had you married the Hoity-toity man from beyond ſea, or were to elope with our Robin.

I muſt tell you, you give your tongue a liberty very unbecoming, depending, I ſuppoſe, for your ſecurity on the confidence I have placed in you: But as my prior engagement prevents, I fear, any ho⯑nourable concluſion with Sir John, I beg no more impertinence on that head.

Madam, I can be ſecret as well as another, when ſervices are thus rewarded.

Leave me.

They firſt make us familiar, then wonder at our freedom.

Mercy on me! what a pity it is one cannot take a hackney⯑coach as formerly I uſed a ſeat in a Playhouſe, at half price! It would be the certain making of me! Where⯑as this walking every day to and from 'Change creates ſuch an appetite, that I foreſee I ſhall eat myſelf out of houſe and home before Chriſtmas; unleſs, indeed, I ſhould be fortunate enough to be laid up with a ſtrong fit of the gout, or viſited by that old family complaint the rheumatiſm: Rare diſorders both for economy! no eating, no drinking, no! But why delay commu⯑nicating the contents of friend Wentworth's letter to my daughter Flavia?

Ah, Flavia! child, good morrow!

Sir, good day to you!

Ah! child, my good days are all over.

All over, Sir; you alarm me! I do not un⯑derſtand you.

Not any thing ſucceeds that I undertake; deceived at home, diſappointed abroad, every day brings on new expences, and no money to pay with.

Excuſe me, if I conceive you torment your⯑ſelf, Sir, without a cauſe; as in the city I know you to be eſteemed a good man.

Who? me, child? good? I good? Heaven forgive them who ſay ſo ill of me!

Is it then ſaying any ill of you, Sir, to ſay you are rich?

Can they ſay worſe? for, ſuppoſing me rich, how can I be ſafe? ſhall I not be aſſaſſinated? will not my houſe be ſurrounded night and day with thieves? Double locks, treble keys, and a hamper of padlocks, will not avail me any thing!

If your affairs are as deſperate as you would have them thought, permit me to enquire what it is you have in that ſtrong box in your ſtudy, ſo curiouſly chain'd to the wall, which you keep lock'd with treble keys, and viſit ſo regularly twice a-day?

Strong box, child? what ſtrong box? I have no ſtrong box:—That you ſee is an old iron cheſt, bought as a fixture with the houſe; and I keep it locked becauſe there is nothing in it fit to be ſeen.

How then, Sir, are you to defray the ex⯑pences of my marriage, when—

Why that, child, is the very diſappointment I was mentioning. Your intend⯑ed huſband Mr. Montague is coming over, it's true; but 'tis in his coffin, I hear.

How, Sir! in his coffin, ſay you?

Yes. Our neighbour Wentworth has been with me this morning, with an account from abroad of his death in ſome abſurd duel.—I don't like theſe ſame duels—ſhall ne'er like them again—as by this means you are at preſent diſappointed of getting a huſband—and I

in getting rid of a daughter. —Mercy on me! how care, as a body may ſay, mounts behind a man.

The manner of his death, Sir, I own affects me, and muſt have felt it ſeverely, had not our know⯑ledge of each other been in its infancy when he left England. Are you acquainted, Sir, with any other particulars relative to this unhappy affair?

Not any; one misfortune I thought ſuf⯑ficient to know at a time. Beſides, my thoughts were immediately turned on the hopes of recovering ſome⯑thing from his executors on the contract; for though he has loſt his life, child, it is no reaſon I ſhould loſe my money.

How, Sir! recover on the contract? And is it poſſible ſuch an idea could enter into your mind at an hour like that you received the fatal news in?

Night and day, child, buſineſs muſt be minded: "Take care of buſineſs, and it will take care of you," is an excellent ſaying; and as the opinion I mean to take will coſt me nothing, why, if I find myſelf without a remedy, I'll e'en oblige you, and think no more about it. So, child, I'll juſt ſtep in, ſend Robin to market, and then to couſin Capias, make a caſe of it as of a pauper, and return immediately.

Do you hear? not a word of my being a good man, or any ſtrong box, I charge you.

How undeſignedly do we often-times take pains to diſcover the very thing we would moſt wiſh to conceal. Nor am I, I fear, if I examine my own heart, leſs guilty in this particular than my father; for with all my caution and reprimands to this maid of mine, I fear ſhe is more in the ſecret of my heart about Sir John Seymour than I could wiſh her. Surely, 'tis a ſtrange weakneſs our ſex are ever guilty of, in thus making confidants of thoſe whoſe very intereſt it is often-times to betray us. But hark!— by the noiſe, my father, I fear, is returned;

as I live, and with him Tabby trembling like quickſilver!

So, madam Minx! you thought to eſcape me with this letter, did you?

Relying, I warrant, on my not having as much Mer⯑cury in my heels now as formerly! but you are miſ⯑taken, you jade! I have enough left yet to do your buſineſs. And now pray tell me from whence comes it, and for whom is it deſign'd? For I can ſee no direction or poſt-mark it has

Thanks to the happy invention of lemon⯑juice!

Dear Sir, I am all over in ſuch a fluſter, not knowing what you meant to be at upon the ſtairs, that I ſcarce know whether I ſtand upon my head or my heels; nor ſhall I be able to recover myſelf, or tell you a ſingle ſyllable, this half-hour, unleſs you take off your handcuffs.

Whence had it you, I ſay?

From a man, Sir.

As I ſuſpected. And for my daughter, I ſuppoſe?

Yes, Sir; for your daughter—my miſtreſs.

Why, ſure, you do not mean to diſcover me?

Truſt me for that, madam.

And you know it's contents, perhaps?

Not I, truly, Sir. How is it poſſible I ſhould know what a letter contains, before it comes to my hands? and you do not ſeem very willing to part with it.

Not till Mrs. Pert there ſatisfies my curio⯑ſity, by telling me from what man ſhe had it.

That then, Sir, I can ſoon do, by aſſuring you I received it from Mr. Edging, the man-millener in Taviſtock-ſtreet, and contains, I ſuppoſe, ſome new pattern for a ruffle, taken from the Lady's Magazine.

Female policy never fails a chamber-maid at a pinch, I ſee.

Oh! a pattern. Is that all?

All? yes, Sir; all. And a very pretty pattern, no doubt, you have made of yourſelf in this buſineſs.

Peace, inſolence! Here then, child

take the pattern, if it is one.

Yes, Sir, it is a pattern, I aſſure you; and one, when I have finiſh'd, I hope you will approve.

Not having any direction on it, this cover may ſerve to keep a whole year's accounts. Ah! what would become of me, if I did not ſtoop

to theſe things myſelf.

What a miſerable, ſuſpicious, covetous old—Had he been my father, I believe I ſhould have poiſoned him a twelvemonth ago!

Why, daughter, you ſeem to be wonder⯑fully taken methinks with that ſame pattern.—My mind miſgives me ſtrangely.

How truly now does he ſpeak, with⯑out knowing it!

It contains to deceit, believe me, Sir

and, with your leave, will in⯑ſtantly go and draw it out.

Well, well; do ſo, child.

Come then, Tabby, follow me: I ſhall have occaſion for your aſſiſtance.

He little ſuſpects, I believe, that fire is the engine my miſtreſs draws with upon theſe occa⯑ſions.

Go, for an impudent baggage!—And now, for neighbour Capias, whoſe opinion I muſt know before I diſcover—

Softly, raſcal, or you will break all the eggs! Why, where are you running, in ſuch a plaguy hurry?

To get dinner ready quickly, and not waſte the fire.

Blockhead! fool! aſs! have I not told you a thouſand times, never to light the fire till the things for dinner are all brought into the houſe. How⯑ever, I have put it out;—therefore ſtay, and—

Zooks, what a—

Why, you raſcal! if I had not a little [7]oeconomy in theſe matters, you could not eat, as you do, twice a-day.

And when at father's, I am ſure, I eat more at once.

But come; let's know what ſort of a bargain you have made.

Here they are; the beſt in the market; eggs at a halfpenny a-piece.

And a dear bargain too.

Too ſmall, by the ſixteenth of an inch, I ſee already. Oh, Heavens! if I ſend ſuch an extravagant dog as you to market, I ſhall ſoon be ruin'd. Well, ſpend-thrift, and how many have you brought me?

A groat's worth.

A groat's worth! Did ever any body hear the like? And what the devil, ſirrah, can we do, do you think, with eight eggs?

Why, Sir, a'n't we four in family?

I know it, puppy! but can any perſon eat more than one egg, blockhead? Beſides, a good ſervant, who minds his maſter's intereſt, would go to the cook's, cheapen every joint—taſte all—buy none—and make a good meal into the bargain: Therefore, do you hear, puppy? take 'em in, and meaſure me four by my own egg-ſcale—you'll find it in the ſtudy—the reſt you may carry back; I will not have them. And be ſure make haſte, as I'm but ſtepping to next door, and ſhall not be long before I return.

Not having any bowels himſelf, he never thinks of thoſe who have. Meaſure an egg!

was there ever ſuch a Save⯑all? O

Pinch-Gut-Farm how have I wrong'd you, in the many wry words I have given thee!

Well, Tabby, this attention and conſtancy of Sir John's, knowing me contracted to another at the time he firſt profeſs'd a partiality for me, I own is more than I expected; for the men in general, let them ſay what they will, are a mere changeable ſilk.

Yes, madam; but Sir John, like your old garnet and white tabby

is laing, you ſee. [8]—A hint this I think ſhe has worn it long enough; I hope ſhe'll take it.

And now, Tabby, to your care and management I commit this letter; which, if poſſible, deliver to Sir John himſelf. I have there confirm'd to him the unfortunate affair of Mr. Mon⯑tague, and of my preſent ſituation.

Rather an unlucky affair for Mr. Montague, to be ſure, madam; but it's an ill wind, they ſay, blows nobody good; and your remedy, I believe, waits only to be taken to hand.

Waſte no time, good Tabby, in talking; but inſtantly go, leſt my father return and enquire for you. Beſides, I'm all impatience to know the reſult of my letter, before I ſpeak to him on the ſubject.

Good or bad, I'll not delay it, madam; and as the diſtance is not far, I ſhall not be long in my return

So, ſo, ſo! misfortune on misfortune! and no remedy on the contract! How all mankind conſpire to torment me—But may not couſin Capias have been guilty of a little miſtake in practice here? The greateſt lawyers have been. What if I ſend a Quaere or two to the Attorney-General of the Ledger? He is in full practice, and gives his opinion gratis. But then, like many other opinions, it may be worth nothing when I've got it; as he's often more knotty than his tye. Sure I was born a martyr to diſappointments!

What trifle has diſcon⯑certed you now, Sir?

Trifle? All alike, I ſee, ſeeking my ruin. And where, pray, is that Jezebel your maid?

Gone out, Sir.

Gone out? To lay out more money, perhaps?

Rather, I hope, to bring ſome in, Sir. If you knew all—

Ay, Flavia? How, my child? That's a good girl! tell me, and be ſome comfort to me in the midſt of my misfortunes!

Why, Sir—the letter—

Well, child—what of the letter? tell me.

Was, as you ſuſpected, no pattern; but a letter from—

From whom? Speak, for I long to be weighing the money!

But you muſt firſt, Sir—weigh the man, if my happineſs has any intereſt with you.

That, child, depends entirely upon what the principal is; therefore, explain; for as yet I un⯑derſtand you not.

You muſt know then, Sir, that letter was from Sir John Seymour.

Well, child! from Sir John Seymour: Go on!

Your impatience, Sir, prevents my pro⯑ceeding.

Proceed then.

Who has long been an admirer of mine.

Why, I proteſt, I begin to admire you myſelf, child.

Let me entreat you, Sir, to—

Well, well! I have done, child: Go on!

But knowing the early contract you made with Mr. Montague, he deſpaired of ſucceſs, and declined carrying his partiality for me beyond a gene⯑rous and polite friendſhip; but being ſince inform'd of the unhappy fate of Mr. Montague, has ventured to write on that ſubject, with a tender of his hand and heart, in caſe I confirm'd the truth of this information.

Well, and you have confirm'd it, have you not?

I have, Sir; and Tabby is now gone with the anſwer.

And wrote you nothing more?

Yes, Sir; that I would take an early opportunity of communicating the affair to you, and if poſſible prevail on you to permit his viſits more openly.

That was dutiful: and you know, child, I was ever eaſily prevail'd on to your advantage—or my own. Sir John expects no money, I ſuppoſe?

My ſituation, Sir, has hitherto made it [10]impoſſible for me ever to know his ſentiments on that head.

Well, madam, I have ſeen Sir John; and here is—

Another pattern, is it, Mrs. Contriver? However, Flavia, take and read it, that I may know what way I may be pre⯑vailed on in this buſineſs.

So, ſo; my miſtreſs has diſcovered all; and now ſee who will, I ſuppoſe.

Short, ſenſible, and to the purpoſe! I like it well; and, from it's contents, believe I ſhall not give your rhetoric, child, much trouble, as I find myſelf more than half inclined to give my conſent already.

As things, then, Sir, ſhould not be done by halves, give your full conſent at once; and let me go tell Sir John you'll be glad to ſee him.

Do you think, huſſey, your miſtreſs has not a tongue of her own, that ſhe needs your alarum to be always going?

Her good wiſhes for my happineſs, Sir, may make her perhaps freer than is becoming; you muſt excuſe her, therefore, for my ſake: and as I have no reaſon to doubt the ſincerity of Sir John, let me pre⯑vail on you to ſee him; for I confeſs he won my heart when I had not a hand to give him.

And now you have, he muſt not look for a ſingle guinea to croſs it with, if he expects my conſent.

Well, Sir; but will it not be time enough to refuſe when he makes the requeſt?

No, child; a requeſt in money-matters is better prevented than refuſed: Therefore you had better ſend and let him know I am at home, and ſhall be glad to ſee him; and the ſooner the better; for delays, I find, are dangerous.

You ſee, madam—juſt as I ſaid—no matter who the man is—for I'll venture to ſay, he knows no more of Sir John than I do the length of his bags, or he the getting up ſmall linen.

Well, well, Tabby

delay not, but fly with your meſſage inſtantly, and in a lover's key tell him the pleaſing news.

And now I'm alone, I may ſafely examine neighbour Heeltap's rent; for "Count money, they ſay, after your father;" aye, and weigh it too, as the world goes, if you would avoid being cheated: And yet, after all our care and caution, a light guinea, I ſee

will be creeping in. This knave of a Criſpin had but five pounds to pay me for a whole year's rent, and three out of the five I ſee are ſhort

Oh, the hang dog! the ſweater! I will inſtantly ſend him notice to quit at Chriſtmas. Here, Robin! Robin!

Why, Robin, I ſay!

Mercy on me! what vile noiſe is that I hear? Upon theſe occaſions, a man's money

is never ſafer than in his own pocket; and now come who will.

Maſter Wentworth, Sir; and Sir; and Sir John Sey⯑mour.

I am glad to ſee you, neighbour; and your friend there.

A friend of mine, Sir Jacob? why, he is more likely to be a friend of yours, I underſtand.

Ah! that's as it may turn out.

Miſs Flavia, your daughter, Sir, has long been the object of my affection.

Has ſhe?—Here Robin,

go call her down!—The fight of her, perhaps, may throw him off his guard.

Yes, Sir.

And, but for a prior engagement I under⯑ſtood ſhe was under, ſhould have declared my inten⯑tions much ſooner.

She has no money, Sir John; a right philoſopher; ſhe carries all ſhe has about her. But then ſhe's a girl of ſuch prudence—

And that's a rare quality in this age.

Why, ſhe is prudence itſelf; writes an admirable hand, and caſts accounts like a broker.

Uncommon talents theſe.

And then ſhe works with her needle like a nun.

A fortune in itſelf.

And, in my mind, as good, if not ac⯑tually better, than money. Why, prudence is worth at leaſt a hundred a-year, and a hundred a-year in the three and a half per cent. is worth 3000l. there's one item. Writing will ſave a ſteward's wages; that's 50l. a-year; and, in the three and a half per cent. is worth at leaſt 1500l; there's another item. Needlework is dear now; her needlework is worth at leaſt 60l. a-year; 60l. a-year, long annuities, is 1500l. more. So you ſee, Sir John, there's a fortune of 6000l. paid down at once; no bonds, no mortgages, all ready money; prompt payment, Mr. Wentworth.

And my friend Sir John, I dare ſay, will not have the leaſt objection to ſettle the whole of the lady's fortune on her.

Will he?

And a conſiderable addition from my own, Sir Jacob; ſufficient, I hope, to make two affectionate hearts happy; or rather one; for

here comes all my ſoul holds dear.

But is Sir John, neighbour, tenant in fee, or tenant for life only? for that, you know—

Yes, Sir Jacob; I know you are the moſt fortunate man in the world, in having ſuch a ſon-in-law; in himſelf amiable, in his family noble, in his fortune independent.

Say you ſo? why then, if he ſettles her fortune upon her for life, and his own upon firſt and other ſons in tail-male, I think I may venture to give my conſent without further enquiry. And ſo, Sir John, and daughter Flavia

as the making of others happy is two and a half per cent. better than making one's ſelf ſo; why, you have my conſent to marry when you pleaſe. In the mean time, that I may not retract, being old, and have gotten but a ſhallow memory, with your leave, Sir John, we will enter into a bit of a contract, which our friend Went⯑worth here will witneſs on your part, and I on that of my daughter.

I cannot have the leaſt objection, Sir; and, with your leave, Sir Jacob, will ring for pen, ink, and paper.

I believe I can ſave you the trouble

and at the table there we ſhall finiſh this buſineſs in the diſpatch of a transfer.—See how

time and accident bring things to uſe!

Of what place ſhall I write you?

Of Seymour-Place, in Dorſetſhire.

Of Seymour-Place in Dorſet⯑ſhire. There,

I believe little elſe is neceſſary now but to ſign.

Not any thing, Sir.

But ſhould not the lady, Sir Jacob, have read to her what ſhe is to ſign.

No, ſhe's a dutiful girl, and will ſign any thing I bid her.—There

As for inſtance, Sir.

But as you, Sir John, are principal in this buſineſs, you'll pleaſe to ſign next.

Moſt chearfully

And now, that jezebel Tabby once diſ⯑charged, all my ſhe cares are over.

Robin, Sir, being out of the way, I anſwered the door myſelf, and here is a ſtrange ſer⯑vant below, earneſt to ſpeak with you.

How! with me, ſay you?

Yes, Sir, with you, and you only; and that inſtantly, he ſays.

My very words, believe me, Sir Jacob.

Well, fellow, would you ſpeak with any one here?

Or I muſt return you no anſwer, Sir.

And what want you? who are you? whence come you?

Softly, good old gentleman, if you pleaſe: three interrogations in a breath are too much for any honeſt man to anſwer.

Will you tell me, fellow, who you are, I ſay? or will you get out of my houſe?

The firſt before the laſt, if you pleaſe then: and, at a word, I am the ſervant of my maſter.

But who is your maſter, jackanapes?

A ſtranger, good Sir; therefore, as a ſtranger, with your leave, I will return and ſay you give him welcome.

Has this ſtranger no name, varlet?

Doubtleſs; and I think a very honeſt one: 'Tis

ſomewhat of the longeſt, I confeſs— his name is George Frederic Montague.

Who! how! what!

Yes, Sir—George Frederic Montague— (who, as I ſaid before, has the good fortune to have me for his ſervant)—is juſt arrived poſt from Dover, deſires to ſee you, ſent me with this meſſage, and now expects my return with impatience, to be admitted

And if you want to know who I am, my name—or rather names—for you muſt know—like maſter like man—I have my three—John Epaulet Trimwell, gentleman and valet-de-chambre, as you ſee, to this very honorable ſtranger.

'Tis all a lie, raſcal! Mr. Montague, your maſter as you impudently call him, is dead.

Dead is he?

Yes; dead.

Poor gentleman! he muſt certainly walk then; for he was alive and in tolerable good ſpirits not a quarter of an hour ago; and they muſt have done him great injuſtice, to have killed him without my knowing any thing of the matter.

Juſt or unjuſt, I tell you he is dead, ab⯑ſolutely dead.

I believe there is no doubt of it.

Excuſe me, Sir, if my doubts are not ſo eaſily ſatisfied; and with your leave, will ſtep and ſoon convince ye, ye are all in the wrong here.

What can all this mean? Sir Jacob! this fellow is either a knave or a fool.

Both, neighbour Wentworth, both; and deſerves to be ſet in the ſtocks. A raſcal! I wiſh I were a juſtice of the peace, for his ſake!

And yet what he ſays of Mr. Montague ſeems very particular, notwithſtanding my letter.

But ſee, he returns; and with him the perſon whom he calls his maſter.

Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce my dead maſter to you; and pray peruſe him well. Do, [16]Sir, ſpeak, and convince this honorable company, and particularly that good old gentleman there

that you are really fleſh and blood, and not the dead thing they took you for.

Why, really, Sir Jacob, I muſt confeſs it has more the appearance of the one than the other, from the ſtrange reception my ſudden arrival has met with from you; which ought to be what the French call enjoué, and not hold a barbare Engliſh conſultation to know whether you are at home or not.

Beggars and ſtrangers, young gentleman, I am never at home to.

But as I am neither one or the other, Sir, I—

No? why, who are you? I know you not! Your gentleman puppy there, indeed, calls you George Frederic Montague; but he fell in a duel, by the hand of one Neville, as my neighbour here can teſtify

Such, certainly, was the information I received from my correſpondent, by the laſt mail from Paris.

A mere affair of gallantry, believe me; and a ſlight ſcratch ſoon ſettled the buſineſs, as theſe letters and papers will confirm.

You know the hand and ſeal. Trimwell, give this note to that gentleman

then inſtantly go to Lowe's Hotel, enquire after my letters; I have ordered them to be directed there, as well as thoſe for my ſiſter Clariſſa. Be care⯑ful of them till my return, which will not be long firſt.

As I ſuſpected; and the whole of neighbour Wentworth's foreign intelligence a curſed lie, perhaps! and my daughter engaged in two contracts at once! I ſhall go diſtracted! had ſhe died in her cradle, I had been happy! But what ſay the letters?

Do, dear Wentworth, explain; for I am on the rack.

The papers he has given Sir Jacob, and my note, will I preſume unravel this whole myſtery.

What may this mean? I think I may ſafety comply with the requeſt.

Why, theſe papers, Sir John, prove the bearer to be no other than the very Montague my daughter was contracted to; but the frippery airs, dreſs, and manners of a French court, have ſo altered and womaniz'd him, as a body may ſay, I knew him not. Your contract, therefore, ſhall be return'd you; and you, child, may go in and ſay your prayers; and thank Heaven, in the confuſion, you are likely to have any huſt and at all. —Either way, I part with no money; that's my com⯑fort in the worſt of ills.

Inſolent, unfeeling old wretch! But know, young man

it ſhall not end here; for he muſt win her firſt who wears her now, and that from the point of my ſword! You may perhaps ſee me again, Sir.

Let me prevail on you, Sir, to follow your friend, and divert him if poſſible from a reſolution I ſo feelingly dread being put in execution on this ſtrange diſcovery, whilſt I retire.

Strange indeed, madam! but, by waiting the event of matters, I may be the better able perhaps to prevent any ill conſequences.

Well, Sir Jacob, have the letters and papers confirm'd me the living or the dead Montague, contracted to your daughter?

Living or dead, I [18]wiſh you were ſafely in bed together, that I might at once know the end of all my care and expence.

I have an hundred pound bill

Sir,

I muſt get you to diſcount for me, as the expence of travelling has taken away all my ready money; and in London, I am told, we are oftener in want of ſmall change than ſums.

The bill I ſuppoſe is good.

As a French banker's credit, with an Eng⯑liſh acceptance, can make it.

Well, well; I'll ſtep to a neighbour's, and ſee what I can do. You pay the diſcount? for I ſee it has three days to run.

By all means, Sir; and your coach-hire into the bargain.

I ſhall find you here at my return?

Or at the Hotel in Covent-Garden; I am there for the preſent: And in caſe of my abſence, it may be leſt with my ſervant; I believe him honeſt, and may be truſted.

As my own ſtrong box is my neighbour upon theſe occaſions, to walk to it, and charge coach-hire, would be a ſtroke known hitherto only to lawyers. Populus me ſibilat at mihi plaudo.

Since the opportunity, Sir, now offers, in me behold

Clariſſa, ſiſter to the living Montague; and learning you were here, preſumed on the long intimacy which ſubſiſted between you and my late father, to write the note my ſervant gave you.

Ah! is it poſſible? Time, and the little knowledge I had of you whilſt in England, and your preſent diſguiſe, I confeſs made me not recollect you.

I muſt rely for the preſent on your ſecrecy and friendſhip.

Rely on both. Pray proceed.

The death of my brother, and his falling by the hands of Mr. Neville, were mere reports; the firſt taking riſe from a duel he was engaged in at Rome, on an affair of honourable love; and the latter from Mr. Neville's ſudden departure from Paris on the cool [19]reception his addreſſes to me met with from my brother, who no ſooner recovered and married the lady, than my love for Neville returned, and deter⯑mined me to perſonate my brother, and follow him here to England.

And have you been ſucceſsful in your purſuit?

Being but juſt arrived, I have not: his leaving Paris without ever daring to bid me adieu, I know not where he is.

And pray what may be the ſteps you mean to take?

To remain in this diſguiſe; by the help of which, and the letters I have brought, Sir Jacob will not ſuſpect the deceit, and I ſhall be the better able to make thoſe enquiries after Mr. Neville, which in my own character, as a woman, might perhaps be thought indelicate. Beſides, from a Chancery truſt repoſed in Sir Jacob, was he to know of my deſign, he would certainly uſe every art to prevent my ever marrying at all.

I ſee your ſituation, and from the deli⯑cacy of it will give you every aſſiſtance poſſible. You lodge at the Hotel, you ſay?

And the ſhort time I mean to ſtay, this diſ⯑guiſe will protect me. Favor me with your company there, and I'll explain more to you.

ACT II. SCENE I.

NEVER, ſure, was Hounſlow poſt-horſe more weary in going a double ſtage, than I in waiting for this ſame maſter of mine. After a journey, to take ſome refreſhment ſuits moſt travel⯑lers; yet he takes nothing here, but his portmanteau and humble ſervant, then inſtantly ſets out to pay a viſit to a covetous old dog of a miſer, who knowing perſons of my rank and order are at board-wages, would ſooner ſee a ſtranger break his neck in his houſe than his faſt. I can bear this airy diet no longer; I will e'en go and appeaſe the angry tumults within, by finding ſome diverſion for my teeth

But who have we here?

Arrah! my dear maſter, your portman⯑teau is ſo mortal heavy, and little Timſey has padded ſo far with it, he muſt be after giving his ſhoulders a holiday awhile

Let it be ſhort then; as I am going only to that Hotel

Long or ſhort, if I am to be after carry⯑ing it any further, I muſt get a brother of the ſtrap, I believe, to lend me a caſt of his office, by carrying it for me.

A-propos! you ſeem at leiſure, honeſt friend; do lend this chairman a hand with this portmanteau into that Hotel,

whilſt I diſcharge him.

With pleaſure, Sir; but as he is tired, [21]had I not better lend him two when I am about it?

A clever fellow this. Here, Sir

Little Tim's not paid, your honour.

Here then, friend.

Oh, long life to your honour! you could not give me leſs for carrying your wig-box! and I am ſure your portmanteau made little Timſey reel again.

There then! now are you paid?

Arrah, faith am I! and in full, and ſo your ſarvent!

O, my jewel, that little Timſey was but a jontleman, to return the civi⯑lity!

The impoſitions of theſe fellows are into⯑lerable

So, friend, you have done as I deſired you?

I have, Sir.

And pray what ſort of a houſe is this?

An excellent Hotel, Sir, I aſſure you: Good beds, handſome furniture, a man-cook, and civil waiters; lodging ſit for an Ambaſſador at leaſt.

You are a ſervant, I preſume.

It being my misfortune (as it is that of many others) to have the appetite of a gentleman, without the eſtate, I am; and in my ſervices, Sir— clock-like—to be ſet a-going either backward or for⯑ward, at a maſter's pleaſure.

Have you been long a ſervant?

Coming, Sir, of a running generation, I have been of the trade ever ſince I could go.

Indeed!

Even ſo, Sir. My father was ticket⯑porter to one of the inns of court; my mother went out a-waſhing; and, when with-child of me, a few ſhirts being miſſing from one of her cuſtomers, out of pure modeſty, ſhe fairly run the country; ſo that you ſee, Sir, I was born to my trade, and have it by birth and education.

Are you in want of a maſter then?

At preſent I am, Sir.—And no lie either.

And I in want of a ſervant, during my ſtay here, which is uncertain: Would you chooſe to engage?

Moſt readily.—For who knows, our's being but a travelling engagement, my firſt maſter may mean to give me the ſlip

—What are your terms, Sir?

Three guineas a-month.

I am your man, Sir; my name Trim⯑well; and the beſt recommendation—

Is your countenance; on which I ſhall depend without further enquiries. Here's money. Enquire at the lodge, if there are any letters for Mr. Neville, whilſt I ſtep in and give ſome neceſ⯑ſary orders.

Let me ſee; three guineas a-month, and a bachelor's ſineture place? No bad circumſtance this of the port⯑manteau, I think; times are preſſing, and behoves men of my induſtry to look about them. And as for my young Pariſian, ſhould he mean to reſign me, why, Trimwell's provided for. And now for the letters. Neville, I think, is the name.

Trimwell!

Oh, the devil! here's my other maſter, before I was aware of him.

Where are you going? I ordered you to wait at the Hotel.

True, Sir; but being impatient for your return, I kept upon the look-out, and chance directed me this way.

This fellow of hers is a ſhrewd one, I warrant, by the eaſe and air of his dialect.

Go then, and enquire if there are any letters for me or for my ſiſter, as I ordered you.

Where, pray, Sir, am I to bring them?

To my apartments in the Hotel: You will find us there.

The devil I ſhall! A [23]rare town this! half-an-hour ago, I ſcarce knew whe⯑ther I had any maſter at all or not, and now I have two, and both in a houſe. What ſhall I do with them? for they ſay there is no ſerving two: And yet why not? Double wages, double meals, are great ſpurs to invention. Courage, Trimwell, and go exe⯑cute both thy maſters' orders at once!

A lucky circumſtance this; for, if I miſtake not, this is Montague's ſer⯑vant I ſaw at Sir Jacob's. Pray, friend, where can I find your maſter?

In that Hotel, Sir. Which maſter now does he mean, I wonder.

Go tell him then, a gentleman wiſhes to ſpeak with him; whom, if he is a man of honour, he will not refuſe ſeeing.

By his manner, all is not right, I fear: I will excuſe myſelf therefore carrying the meſſage

It being an Hotel, Sir, if you pleaſe to ſtep in, the ſervants of the houſe will obey any of your commands, as I am in haſte to execute ſome orders I have juſt received,—from—

No trifling, Sir! but go this moment with my meſſage.

You muſt know, Sir, my maſter is—

Shew me the way this inſtant, ſirrah, or—

Go I muſt, I ſee; ſo I'll e'en take him to the firſt maſter I find. This way, Sir, if you pleaſe.

No; never ſhall a rival carry off my lovely Flavia! I muſt not, will not, loſe her! and tho' this Mon⯑tague may have eſcaped death in Paris, he—

There, that's the gentleman, Sir; and now, with your leave, I'll ſtep to enquire about the letters. Indeed, I believe I had better ſtep [24]any where than wait the event of this buſineſs.

Your commands with me, Sir?

With you, Sir! I do not re⯑collect I ever had the honour of ſeeing you before.

I was informed by the ſervant, Sir, you earneſtly deſired to ſee me, and ſpoke in terms which carried ſome reſentment with them.

He miſunderſtood me then moſt exceed⯑ingly, Sir; and I aſk pardon for the miſtake: but the perſon I ſpoke of is his maſter; who is a—

I am his maſter, Sir, and am what?

You his maſter, Sir?

Yes, I moſt certainly am, Sir.

Why then, Sir, there is the ſtrongeſt re⯑ſemblance I ever ſaw, between your ſervant and the ſervant of a gentleman juſt arrived from Paris.

It is not long ſince I left that place my⯑ſelf, Sir.

The name of the gentleman I want is Montague.

I knew him well, Sir.

As the affair then between us does not require ſecrecy, that gentleman, by virtue of a con⯑tract, now ſeeks to rob me of the only woman I adore, and am myſelf contracted to!

He will never then accompliſh his deſign, or interrupt your felicity, Sir; as I have been informed, within this hour, he died ſoon after I left that place.

Pardon me, Sir, but the report is totally groundleſs; as I this morning ſaw him alive and well; and Sir Jacob Thrift, the lady's father, has taken every poſſible method to be aſſured of his iden⯑tity, and by letters and other credentials it is now be⯑yond a doubt. And as you ſay you have ſome know⯑ledge of him, if you ſhould chance to meet him be⯑fore I ſee him, let me intreat you to tell him, that if he merits the hand he aſpires to, Sir John Sey⯑mour expects to hear from him as a man of honour ought, who glories in being his rival, and hope my [25]ſituation will juſtify the liberty of the requeſt I am now making. Sir, your ſervant.

Sir, your ſervant. A ſtrange adventure this! I am actually loſt in aſtoniſhment! Montague recovered, and now in England? In either caſe, I will inſtantly return to Paris on the wings of love, to behold my charming Clariſſa once more, and prevail on her if poſſible to be mine; for Sir John Seymour's ſituation is not more diſtreſſing than my own.

Here, Sir; here is your—

Trimwell, will you go with me to Paris?

When, Sir?

Inſtantly.

What! to-night, Sir?

No; we will ſleep firſt, and ſet out by day-break.

I'm for a nap then firſt, Sir, if you pleaſe; as I entirely agree with friend Sancho, that he was a wiſe man who firſt invented ſleep. Here are your letters, Sir

—But I have made a ſtrange miſtake I fear, by putting both maſters' letters into one pocket! what ſhall I do? I have it

—A brother liveryman, Sir, deſired me to en⯑quire at the ſame time for his maſter's letters; but being all foreigners, and I not underſtanding the lan⯑guage, be pleaſed, Sir, to examine and take what are for you

, and—

Ah! what do I ſee? a letter directed to Clariſſa Montague? and to be left at Lowe's Hotel till called for?—What can this mean? I am in a maze! Can ſhe too be in England, and I not know it?—Where is the ſervant for whoſe maſter you had this letter? what is his name? and with whom does he live? ſpeak inſtantly!

His name, Sir— is—is—is—Richard—and he lives with—with—I ne⯑ver heard with whom, Sir.

Why, how could you aſk for his maſter's letters, if you did not know his name?

True, Sir.—What invention now?

Oh, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, Sir, with a direction where to find him.

Give me that paper.

I have it not, Sir; I have loſt it out of my pocket—I—

How then is this letter to be delivered, if you do not know where to find him?

On ſecond thoughts, Sir,—I recollect— he was to meet me in the Piazza; and if you pleaſe to give me the letter, I will go find him.

No, Trimwell, this letter concerns me nearly, and I am determined to open it.

—And yet the indelicacy of ſuch a ſtep cannot be juſtified; I will not, there⯑fore, open it. But charge you, as you regard my hap⯑pineſs, and your own intereſt, go find Richard in⯑ſtantly, and learn from him where he is to carry the letter

and be not long in your re⯑turn, as I expect a perſon with money, which, in caſe of my abſence, you muſt receive.

Your commands ſhall be obeyed, Sir.— But what excuſe have I, Sir, for it's having the ſeal broke?

I will reſeal it

and if you but find Richard, all will be well again, and you amply re⯑warded.

Richard—

He little thinks, I believe, this ſame Richard is no other than my other maſter; to whom I will inſtantly go and de⯑liver this letter.

Trimwell! what has delay'd you thus? have you enquired about my letters, as I ordered you?

I have, Sir, and received only this one.

How's this? a letter from Paris, and ſeal'd with Neville's arms!

What can this mean? It is not his hand. If he is returned there, I am utterly undone.

It has [27]been opened!—To whom, Sir, have you betrayed the ſecrets of this letter?

Open'd, Sir? It cannot be! why, it has never been out of my hands ſince I received it.

And are you hardy enough to deny it, villain? why, look!

On my knees, kind Sir, I entreat your forgiveneſs! but there coming a letter alſo for me from an old withered relation of mine in the country, who wrote a hand I never could read, I applied to a civil good-natured gentleman to read it for me, and in my hurry gave him your letter for mine, which he reſealed the moment we diſco⯑vered the miſtake.

From the arms, this civil gen⯑tleman could certainly be no other than Neville himſelf. And where, pray, did you meet this kind friend of yours?

At—at—at—

By the confuſion of his anſwers, I ſuſpect his veracity: However, I'll go communicate the circumſtances to Mr. Wentworth, and in my way call on Sir Jacob, leſt he diſcover my ſituation before I receive my money.

What a fortunate planet muſt I have been born under, to have matters go on thus ſwim⯑mingly! Egad, Trimwell, if your maſters will find you in belief, you will find them in lies, I warrant. What an immenſe ſum now ſhould I be worth to a prime-miniſter, as a porter; for I can out-lie a cour⯑tier, a lover, a chamber-maid, a milliner's apprentice, a lawyer, or even the news-papers at a general election.

Well, Mr. Gentleman, is your honour's maſter within? I have urgent buſineſs with him.

Which now of my honourable maſters can old Cent. per Cent. want? To be inqui⯑ſitive is the very badge of our office: I'll ſift him.— What, pray, Sir, may be your buſineſs with him?

That's no anſwer to my queſtion, Mr. [28]Inquiſitive! My buſineſs is with him, not with you; therefore, is he within, or no, I ſay?

Unleſs I know your buſineſs, Sir, he is not within.

Oh, the inſolence of office!— But, when I have told you my buſineſs, will he be within then, think you?

Perhaps he may—if I like your buſineſs.

Why then, Mr. Prime-Miniſter, be pleaſed to tell your maſter, I have brought the money, and deſire to know if he be within or no.

I'll e'en venture then to ſay no, in order to give one or other of my maſters a proof of my honeſty, ſhould old Square-toes dare truſt me with it; therefore—No, Sir; my maſter's not within, I aſſure you.

Where can I find him?

I know not: it's a queſtion we ſeldom aſk each other when we go out.

And his return—

Like my own, uncertain.

Are you honeſt?

Tolerably ſo. Who dare doubt it?

Here, then; take this bag of an hundred pounds; and be ſure you give it him when he returns; and tell him, I have book'd the diſcount and charges.

Yes, Sir.

And yet, notwithſtand⯑ing my commiſſion, it were prudent, methinks, not to leave it without a receipt: the hang-dog, with his tolerable honeſty, may ſay he never received it

—So, do you hear? you can write, I ſuppoſe, Mr. Gentleman's—gentleman?

Write, Sir?

Yes, Sir, write? as I don't chuſe to leave the money without a receipt.

Oh, you are perfectly right, Sir; and, if you pleaſe, I'll take the money in with me, and bring a receipt ready wrote.

But I do not chuſe any ſuch thing, Sir, or to part with you or the money out of my ſight, [29]without a receipt; therefore, come to the table, and write one inſtantly.

It would be better worded, Sir, I ſhould think, if you would pleaſe to ſet down and write it, and let me ſign it.

What, blockhead, you cannot write a receipt, I ſuppoſe!

To be ſure, Sir, joining, with a few pounds, ſhillings, and pence, was as far as I went in my education; more, in one of my cloth, would have been pedantry.

Here, then

let us ſee what ſort of a ſcrawl you make.

There, that will do; and now, diſpoſe of it as your tolerable honeſty, or knavery, beſt adviſes; I care not.

A fair wind to you, old trader! And I ſhall not find it a difficult matter, I believe, to per⯑ſuade either of my young captains to receive your lading, and pay the duty.

Well, Trimwell; have you been and found Richard, as I ordered you?

No, Sir; but I have found a much better thing—this bag of money. You expected to receive ſome?

Yes; an hundred pounds.

The money is certainly yours then, Sir; exactly the ſum.

And, while I examine it, I once more de⯑ſire you not to reſt till you have found Richard.

I will feek him high and low, Sir, inſtantly.

Do ſo.

I am glad, however, the right owner has got the money.

How diſtreſſed and agitated has this circumſtance of the letter made me! Its being directed "to be left till [30]called for," makes every preſent ſearch after her uncer⯑tain, and carries with it the appearance of a ſecreſy moſt alarming. What if I go to Sir Jacob's, on the information received from Sir John? By pretending buſineſs with her brother, I may hear, perhaps, ſome⯑thing of my Clariſſa, without my deſign being even ſuſpected. It ſhall be ſo.

Blockhead! how often have I told you I am never at home to men without names? come to rob me, perhaps! I will not ſee him.

He looks like no ſuch ſort of a parſon, Sir.

Looks, fool? who truſts to looks now-a-days, when thieves, ſharpers, and ſwindlers, are as well dreſt as lords and courtiers on a birth-day? no, no; I will not ſee him.

Let me prevail on you, Sir; it may be ſomebody you'd wiſh to ſee.

Well then, if I muſt—do you hear?— go ſhew him up.—But be ſure, daughter, you do not leave the room; for tho' you cannot defend me your⯑ſelf, you can ſcream and raiſe the houſe.

Perhaps ſomebody from Mr. Montague, or Sir John.

Whoever it is, he's here, to anſwer for himſelf, I ſee.

You ſee, Sir Jacob, I uſe the freedom of a ſon-in-law already; but money, you know—

Is ſoon parted with. You have been at ſome gaming-table at the weſt end of the town, I warrant; and now come to take up more to carry to the ſame market.

You, I ſee, Sir Jacob, are taking upon you the authority of a father-in-law; and, by your prudent care, have prevented my being guilty of the exceſſes you lay to my charge, as you have not yet paid me my money.

How! not paid you? that's pleaſant.

Rather ſerious, Sir, as my errand here is to receive it.

Reckon fair, if you never pay, young gentleman! Come, come, you have received it.

I beg, Sir, to be rightly underſtood! and, when I ſay I have not received it, a gentleman tells you ſo; and am now come to receive it.

That's being ſerious, indeed! but, Sir, to be as ſerious as you, the money has been paid.

That's a miſtake, or ſomething worſe, Sir Jacob; and permit me to ſay, it has not been paid.

I have debited your account.

Then, Sir, if you have debited my account, as you call it, act like an honeſt man, and let it be for value received!

I have been in queſt of my maſter—

There's the man I paid it to.

Why, what's the matter now, old gentle⯑man?

Sirrah, you have received the money; I paid it you. Where's my hundred pounds, villain?

Hundred pounds! gone into a hundred hands, by this time.

There—there—I ſaid ſo.—I paid it you by your maſter's orders.

You paid it me, by my maſter's order; and, by my maſter's order, I paid it to my maſter.

There! I ſaid I had a witneſs: The thing is clear, you ſee; you have received it, young gentle⯑man.

I received it! what does all this mean?— Raſcal

have you paid me an hundred pounds?

No, Sir.

Now, Sir Jacob!

Have not you paid it to your maſter?

Yes, Sir.

Now, Mr. Montague!

Have you paid it to me?

I have not paid it to you, Sir.

Pay it back to me then.

I have paid it to my maſter.

Will you perſiſt, villain, in ſaying you have paid me?

No, Sir—not you—I never meant it—I never paid you a ſhilling.

Robber! Villain! Plunderer! where's my hundred pounds? you have it; you have given a receipt

You ſhall go before a ma⯑giſtrate! there's one juſt by; he owes me money, and will hang you for nothing.

If you will but let me ſpeak—do, ſpare my life, Sir—I performed my truſt like an honeſt man, Sir—and my maſter—

Your maſter again, Sir!

No, not to you, Sir; here's the gentleman, Sir, that I paid it to.

So, ſo! you are welcome, Sir! you have my money then, have you?

I your money, Sir? not one ſhilling of yours; I have received my own.

Villain! Murderer!

the gentleman contradicts you. You ſhan't wait for the gallows; I'll execute you myſelf.

You—hurry a man out of his ſenſes.

You dog, you have hurried me out of my money! and I'll hurry you out of your life!

I tell you, Sir—that is the gentleman I paid the money to, by your order.

Did he pay you an hundred pounds?

The fellow tells you truth.

There; you ſee, Sir; I always tell truth.

Then it was my money he paid you.

No, it was my money, Sir; money in⯑tended for me! and let me tell you, Sir

—How!—how is this?—that face?—can I believe my eyes?

What miracle is this?—that voice?—can I believe my ears?

I am ready to faint.—Mr. Neville!

My Clariſſa! it is—it muſt be ſo—and we ſhall yet be happy.

Good Heavens! a woman! Never ſure appeared deceit more amiable.

"Mr. Neville—my Clariſſa—and ſtill be happy?" Why, what the devil are they at now? what is all this?

Oh, let me thus enfold you within theſe arms.

I am happy to find ſuch a ſhelter; and let the ſtep I have taken convince you of my affection. More I cannot at preſent communicate.

So, ſo! my maſter is my miſtreſs then at laſt.

My young lady would have been finely off in a huſband: I ſhall never truſt to the evidence of my eyes or ears again, I believe.

Here's a diſcovery, neighbour Wentworth! This ſame George Frederick Montague is a woman at laſt; and her hopeful brother, my in⯑tended ſon-in-law, alive and merry, I fear.

I knew it all, Sir Jacob; and came to en⯑joy the denouement.

And what, pray, Sir John, came you to enjoy?

The news my friend Wentworth in⯑formed me of—your intended ſon-in-law being married at Rome; and hope every obſtacle to your daughter's happineſs and my own is now removed. What ſay you, my Flavia?

If my father conſents, Sir, the inclination of my heart is ſufficiently known to you.

How! what! Alive and married, ſay you? worſe and worſe!

Even ſo, believe me, Sir Jacob.

Alive or dead then, it ſhall go hard but I'll recover on the contract.—But, you baggage, you! what a ſpirit you muſt have to adventure thus!—A woman want to marry my daughter.—That's plea⯑ſant!—But my money! you wanted my money too! [34]Villain!

impoſtor! raſcal! I hear no certain account of that all this time.

As for names, good Sir, call me as many as you pleaſe—they are ſlight wounds, and will break no bones—Scoundrel and raſcal are the familiar terms of ſociety, and friendſhip is a great-coat we put off and on as beſt ſuits our conveniency. But will not you, kind Sir,

be pleaſed to be my advo⯑cate upon this occaſion, and ſet this matter right.

I certainly, Sir Jacob, received an hundred pound from him.

Deſign'd for Mr. Clariſſa there?

No, deſign'd for me, and delivered to my ſervant.

Your ſervant! why, who the devil ſervant is he?

Mine.

Mine.

Yours!

Yours!

I hired him at the Hotel.

As did I, and received the beſt of cha⯑racters with him from the maſter.

Now do I wiſh I was ſafe in the Baſtile, or in bed with a high ſever.

How like a hang-dog do you look! have you nothing to ſay for yourſelf, impoſtor?

To be ſure, I have been a little unlucky in my ſervices of to-day, both in this money-buſineſs, and in the affair of the letters; but as every thing ſeems likely to find it's right owner, and no ill conſe⯑quences have happen'd, I hope I ſhall be pardon'd by you, Sir

by you, Sir—that is to ſay, by you, madam

and by you, good Sir

Moſt readily; your miſtakes have made me the happieſt of women.

And me the happieſt of men.

And, as I ſee I'm to loſe nothing by it, why, I forgive you. But you're a ſad dog!

Why, Sir, you muſt acknowledge, I am as gentlemen go now; a kind of a perſon, with a ſhabby fort of genteel about me. I told you truth about the [35]money, and you ſee I have been ſerving but one maſter all this time.

There ſeems ſome honeſty about the fellow after all.—Sir Jacob, may I now aſpire to take your daughter's hand?

Ay, ay: Here

I give it you with all my ſoul; and if I recover hand⯑ſomely on the contract, I may perhaps find in my heart to give ye—your wedding-ſupper into the bargain.

That, Sir Jacob, I have taken the li⯑berty of providing.

Have you ſo? why, that is kind and friendly of you. And if ever I marry—which Heaven forbid, till there's an act for exporting all the falſe heads and falſe bottoms in the kingdom!—I'll return the compliment. Let us loſe no time, there⯑fore, but in to buſineſs; for every man has buſineſs

ſuch as it is. And now, may you both be as happy as modern matrimony can make you!

The poſſeſſing a woman of virtue, Sir Jacob

is with me it's beſt ſecurity.

And with me

the greateſt bleſſing man is capable of receiving.