ACT I.

WHAT, will you never have done?—Here have I been three hours under your hands, and am ſcarce fit to be ſeen yet.

Oh, non, begar, you be ver fit to be ſeen—Me chalange all de friſeur in Angleterre to ſhew ſo compleat, ſo degagee a gentilhomme as you—Mafoy, you ſeem de finiſhed marqui—So gentileſſe, von wou'd ſwear dere was not von drop of de Eng⯑liſe blood in you.

You are a flattering raſcal—But I like you the better for it—How do my cloaths become me?

Oh, admirable!

Do they ſit eaſy?

Impoſſible to be better.

I think this ſuit will gain me credit in the world—A happy fancy, ſomething of the true ton, without the leaſt tincture of barbariſm—What a great pity 'tis, Fourbe, we can't entirely introduce the Italian manners and cuſtoms here?

Ah, 'tis great pity indeed—de nation never will do any good till den.

Never—When do you expect the cargo from Venice?

Every day, Sir.

Is it conſign'd to the Ambaſſador?

Ouy, Monſieur—all ver ſafe.

Or elſe thoſe harpies, the cuſtom-houſe offi⯑cers, wou'd be ſure to ſeize it.

Ah, unconſcionable!—to force de fine po⯑liſhe gentilhomme, to take up wid de Engliſe ma⯑nufacture.

Fourbe, you are a ſenſible fellow.

Dat is by following your inſtructions, Sir.

You may take the ſuit I had made up, at landing here, by that ignorant Engliſh taylor.

Je vous ſuis oblige—I am ſure dey are not fit to be ſeen.

Are the pictures ſent home I bought yeſ⯑terday?

Ouy, Monſieur—and de ver fine collec⯑tion dey be.

Do you think ſo?—I never examined them.

No, Sir!

No—they bore a great price, and were ſold for originals of Corregio and Titian; that was ſufficient.

O l'ame généreuſe!—How few have de ge⯑neroſity and taſte like you.

Well, leave me, and give orders to admit viſitors now.

Let me ſee—I was curſedly taken in laſt Night—Four hundred pieces—Umph!—Rather too dear for my experience. I ſhall be oblig'd, in my own defence, to be initiated into the myſteries of the family—I muſt, by all that's needful, elſe my venerable oaks that ſo long have rear'd their ſtately heads, will ſpee⯑dily tumble—Yet theſe are trifling vexations com⯑pared to that unlucky contract with Promiſe's Siſter.

My Lord Promiſe, to wait upon your Ho⯑nour.

Shew him up—

What, Promiſe!—where the deuce have you hid yourſelf for the laſt fortnight?

Tho' buried in obſcurity, yet buſily employed, I aſſure you—But, hey day!—What can you be poſſibly dreſs'd for now?—You are not going to a maſquerade?

No.

You don't intend this for a wedding ſuit, I hope?

No—Strike me into a non entity, if I do.

Ha! ha! ha!—Come, what's the real occaſion?

To diſplay my taſte and elegance, and I think this will give a convincing proof of both.

Ha! ha! ha!—Upon my ſoul you make ſuch large advances to the feminine gender, that in a little time 'twill be difficult to tell to which ſex you belong.

I wou'd have it ſo—I do it to be diſtin⯑guiſhed from the Tramontane—but I want to know where you have been?—I have hunted all the public places in London for you, without ſucceſs; and I thought, if alive, I muſt have met you at one of them.

You find you are miſtaken then—I can readily live without a continual round of diſſipation, though to you it may be impoſſible—Your exiſtence depends upon dreſs and faſhion—I deſpiſe both—Even my pleaſures are different from yours—I am wholly devoted to the charms of beauty, you, to thoſe hourly diſcovered by your looking-glaſs.

And, pray, which are moſt harmleſs to man⯑kind? I who am amuſed by dreſs, and a paſſion for myſelf, or you, who, for a trifling gratification, [4]are continually ſtudying the ruin of every girl hand⯑ſome enough to attract your Notice?

Why, Jack, you have not ſpirit enough to make an attack upon any female, either in an ho⯑nourable, or any other manner—Now, the warmth of my conſtitution hurries me on to pleaſures which you, taſteleſs mortals, never dream of.

And often expoſes you to very diſagreeable conſequences—Witneſs Miſs Standfield.

True, it ſometimes happens ſo—but then I have courage to ſupport myſelf under thoſe diffi⯑culties—And now you mention her, I own ſhe was a girl I lov'd more than I thought the levity of my na⯑ture cou'd admit of.

Yes, you gave a conſpicuous proof of that.

I did—Her father, Major Standfield, was my particular friend; a man I had an un⯑common regard for—therefore I avoided meeting him afterwards, leſt ſome unlucky chance ſhou'd lodge my ſword in his boſom—That you'll allow was honourable.

Oh! humane and honourable to the higheſt degree.

Yes, after the many proofs of my ſkill in the ſword, I could have no reaſon to doubt its ſucceſs with an old man, ſo, to be entirely out of harm's way, I took that opportunity of gratifying my deſire in viſiting the principal courts of Europe.

To which accident I was indebted for the pleaſure of your company home from Naples.

You was—During near five years reſi⯑dence abroad, I have never even heard from the poor girl, though, upon my ſoul, I have often ſevere⯑ly felt for the unhappy ſituation I left her in—which plainly proves that I am not deſtitute of com⯑paſſion.

Oh! a miracle of tenderneſs!

In foreign climes, as well as at home, I was confirm'd in my favourite principle, that [5]Women, if rightly attack'd, are ſure to yield—I found you indeed an altered fellow, without either life or ſoul, nor cou'd my utmoſt endeavours arouſe you—I wanted you to be a man of ſpirit; your ambition was to appear a firſt-rate Macaroni; you are returned fully qualified, and determined, I ſee, to ſhew the world what a contemptible creature an Engliſhman dwindles into, when he adopts the follies and vices of other nations.

Strike me ſpeechleſs, George! if you are not deviliſh ſevere—but, par late liber amente—I can't take any thing ill you ſay—May ill-breeding be my portion, if I don't pity your want of taſte!—Let me tell you, my Lord, 'tis we who enjoy all the real plea⯑ſures of life, without any of its inconveniences—Love, I grant you, is not admitted into our ſyſtem. We look upon it, at beſt, as a paſſion attended with ſo many diſagreeable ſenſations, that it is not worth the purſuit.

What a fellow, for a girl of my ſiſter's ſenſe, to be united to!

'Tis true we do amuſe ourſelves ſometimes with the ladies—imitate their manners—but care⯑fully avoid all ſerious connection with them—Oh. Lord! what a horrid thing love muſt be!—To take off all attention from ourſelves, and ſtudy to be what you call manly, brave, noble, and generous, in order to appear amiable in the eyes of the fair—Ha! ha! ha!—No, no, by all that's ridiculous, it will never do.

Then has a pretty girl no influence on thee?

Not in the leaſt—May the ſun freckle me if ſhe has! but as ſhe regards my dreſs and conver⯑ſation.

No you do not wiſh to make a conqueſt of one?

Not I, by all that's faſhionable! Hearkee, Promiſe, do you think if I loved a girl, that I cou'd [6]devote the time I do to the more eſſential buſineſs of decorating my perſon?—Look at me well, and an⯑ſwer truly.

No—that wou'd then be one of your leaſt cares.

Then, may my cloaths mis-fit me! if I wou'd forego that happineſs to poſſeſs all the graces the poets ever aſſembled in women!

You'll except my ſiſter—How do you in⯑tend to manage in that affair?

Now you puzzle me—but, when I know myſelf, I'll tell you.

Have you ſeen her ſince you came home?

No, but I deſign it.

Take care, or you'll loſe her—She's followed now by a briſker lover—But that I find wou'd be no misfortune to you—Don't you think our old dads were rather fooliſh when they ſigned that con⯑tract, which obliges you to marry each other, or for⯑feit thirty thouſand pounds?

I am afraid I ſhall ſuffer by their folly—But who is the happy man?

Tom Clement, a worthy young fellow of family and fortune.

I don't know him.

I ſuppoſe not—Come, I'll introduce you to two of the lovelieſt angelic creatures the ſun ever ſhone upon.

If you can convince me the ſun ſhines up⯑on any one I love better than myſelf, you may; if not, excuſe me—Pray, who are theſe lovely ange⯑lic creatures?

They are two of the faireſt of Eve's daughters, whom I have juſt decoyed up to town, upon the old ſcheme.

Then I may conclude it was about them you were ſo buſily employ'd during your late invi⯑ſibility?

Right—Not having viſited my father's eſlate in the wilds of Yorkſhire ſince my return from travel, I reſolv'd upon an excurſion thither—The romantic beauty of the country pleaſed me much, preſenting an agreeable contraſt to the place I had juſt left—On Sunday, knowing the church to be the only ſpot where I might pick and chuſe the ruſtics to advantage, I reſolved not to miſs the op⯑portunity.

For ſhame, my Lord, have you ſo little re⯑ligion in you?

Much the ſame as yourſelf in that re⯑ſpect, my boy—There is only this difference, you cannot think, I will not—But how ſhall I expreſs the aſtoniſhment which ſeized me upon beholding, amongſt many of homely garb and feature, two of the ſweeteſt girls nature ever formed.

So, ſo!—Freſh Game.

On enquiry, I found they were daughters to an old gentleman, whom a variety of misfortunes had drove to this part of the world as an aſylum—The eldeſt was handſome enough to juſtify the diſ⯑guiſes of Jove had he been on earth—But never was modeſty, beauty, and native elegance ſo happily united as in the youngeſt—I am not adamant at any time, here I took fire in an inſtant—As ſoon as ſer⯑vice was over, which I thought the longeſt ever per⯑formed, I introduced myſelf to the father and his two ſylvan deities.

You have a laconic method, by all that's mo⯑deſt!—Well, what ſucceſs?

I think you need not aſk that at any time—I ſeldom fail, even when circumſtances are againſt me, much leſs when conſidered as the only ſon of the Earl of Witton, and heir to the eſtate many miles round about me—The father received me with the greateſt reſpect; the daughters with a bewitching innocent diffidence, which gave freſh luſtre to their encreaſing charms.

And yet thoſe very charms you are labouring to deſtroy.

Don't interrupt me—I ſoon found that nothing was to be done amongſt thoſe peaceful wilds—London was the only place where I cou'd manage them to my wiſh—They never had been there, and I gloried in being their introducer.

I ſhou'd have thought it a hard matter to have enticed them hither.

No, quite eaſy to me—A few days ingra⯑tiated me into the old gentleman's favour—Replete with every virtue which can warm the human heart, his honeſt unſuſpecting mind has not an idea of de⯑ceit—Indeed, if he had, my plan was laid ſo well, he cou'd hardly have ſuſpected it—Many years had he paſs'd in this unfrequented vale, where he intomb'd one of the beſt of wives—Since her deceaſe, his chief care has been the education of theſe two darling daughters—

Which for the future you are willing to eaſe him the trouble of—Very charitable, upon my word, my Lord.

To own a truth to you, Epicene, I often know I am acting wrong, tho' I have not courage enough to ſet myſelf right—Even in this caſe—Such is Mr. Lambton's character, ſo revered his good⯑neſs, that I will freely confeſs, I never undertook any project of the like nature with half the remorſe or compunction I did this.

You are an original, by all that's whimſi⯑cal!—How can you be ſo deliberately wicked?

I am not—Youth and the impetuous dic⯑tates of nature impel me—I dread to look back—Yet, cou'd I find but one of the ſex above temptation, perhaps, I might be reclaim'd—But, no more, I want your immediate aſſiſtance in this affair.

Mine!

Yes, yours—don't be amaz'd—That was my errand hither.

The deuce it was!—to what end?

Why, as you are a particular friend, I'll ſpare you one of the girls.

I am much obliged to you, George, but I beg to be excuſed.

Ha! ha! ha!—Are you afraid of ventu⯑ring yourſelf with her? This is my buſineſs—Your Houſe is very large, commodious, and retired.

Well, what of that?

Can't you ſpare me half of it, to remain entirely at my diſpoſal during this affair?

Why, my Houſe?

As this is a particular caſe, I cou'd not ſo well manage every thing at one of thoſe common receptacles—Beſides, if there ſhou'd be any noiſe, it cannot ſo eaſily be heard there.

Pray, let's hear your ſcheme?

I found that my father knew Mr. Lamb⯑ton, and intended, had he not been called abroad ſo ſuddenly, to have drawn him from obſcurity; I, like a dutiful ſon, was reſolved to fulfil his deſires, there⯑fore counterfeiced a letter from him, inviting Mr. Lambton up to town, promiſing to provide hand⯑ſomely for him—Full of primitive ſimplicity, he im⯑mediately ſwallowed the bait, the family are juſt ar⯑rived in London, and I am about to conſummate my project.

A hopeful one, I perceive.

Only to ſeparate the daughters from the father, and, under pretence of viſiting my ſiſter, bring them hither.

How will you manage for a lady to repreſent her?

Suppoſe I dreſs you up? They are igno⯑rant of the world, and the deceit will eaſily paſs up⯑on them.

No, that I think would be carrying the joke too far—

I did but jeſt, I have already provided one for the character—You'll have no objection tho', I hope, to lend me a helping hand upon the occaſion?

Why, if you'll free me from any danger which may enſue on a diſcovery, I confeſs I ſhou'd like the frolic well enough.

Never fear—Yours will be an agreeable taſk, to entertain the eldeſt—She's wild and flighty, owing to the ſolitude ſhe was educated in, yet fraught with ſuch Innocence and ſimplicity, that had I not beheld her ſiſter, every wiſh wou'd have been gratified in her.

So you want me to amuſe her, while you be⯑ſiege your favourite object?

I do; who in ſuch a ſituation, I think, cannot fail to ſurrender.

What do you imagine the father will be do⯑ing in the mean time?

I have taken care the ſhall not interrupt me, and now that matters are ſettled with you, I'll ſtep and ſee how they do after their journey.

Do you hear, George, come back directly that I may know how to proceed.

As ſoon as poſſible—Not a minute is now to be loſt, till that arrives which crowns my bliſs in the enjoyment of love and beauty.

How theſe fooliſh paſſions tranſport the man! What are his raptures of love and beauty to the ſu⯑perior delights of a grand coup d'eclat at the dear, dear maſquerade!

Thank heaven! we are ſafe ar⯑rived—'Twas a fatiguing journey for one of my years, and nothing could have induced me to reviſit the world, but the hopes of you, my children, reap⯑ing ſome future advantage from it—As for myſelf, [11]declined in the vale of life, I was content with my ſituation—I thankfully enjoyed the bleſſings of pro⯑vidence, nor envied the ideal happineſs of thoſe above me.

Indeed, papa, I think you were much in the right—For my part, I prefer a cottage with vir⯑tue, to a palace with guilt.

So do I, yet I think it poſſible to gain the palace without partaking of the guilt.

I'm afraid you'll find yourſelf miſtaken, ſiſter.

Perhaps not—Every Thing at preſent ſeems fair for it—Under the protection of ſo great a man as the Earl of Witton, what have we to fear?—Are not we to be introduced to Lord Promiſe's ſiſter?—What may not ſhe do for us?—I'm ſure if I enjoy'd her fortune my heart would delight in find⯑ing out proper objects to make happy.

True, child, it ſhou'd be the province of thoſe whom providence hath thus diſtinguiſhed, and I acknowledge I've heard the beſt of characters of both—I am not apt lightly to diſtruſt, yet when I reflect on our ſituation, it makes me dread a diſap⯑pointment—Above two hundred miles from home—Our money almoſt exhauſted in coming hither—Not even an acquaintance in London to apply to—And two daughters, in ſome degree objects of temptation, expoſed to the ſnares of ſuch a town as this, with on⯑ly an aged father to protect them—In ſuch—

I can aſſure you, papa, you torment yourſelf with groundleſs chimeras—Could any one behave more politely than Lord Promiſe?—Did not he ſay you might depend upon his father's friendſhip for you—Is not his letter the greateſt ſecurity—Sure⯑ly then you cannot heſitate a moment, in preferring affluence, to the indigence we have juſt quitted.

Daughter, he that poſſeſſes content is richer than a ſcepter'd monarch—What cares had I to diſturb me at Monktown?—My honeſt friends and neighbours, during the many years I paſſed [12]amongſt them, regarded me as a father, friend, and Inſtructor. Poor people! my heart is with you ſtill—But I muſt now go ſee that Ralph has got our little baggage ſage, we need not expect to meet here with that fidelity and ſimplicity which characterizes our untaught villagers.

Still, ſiſter, I find you have not a ve⯑ry favourable opinion of the cauſe which brought us hither.

I own I have not—Ever ſince leaving our peaceful dwelling, I know not why, but an unuſual ſadneſs has taken poſſeſſion of me.

Oh, that's eaſily accounted for—It is becauſe you left that dear, ſweet, ſighing ſwain of yours, Mr. Wilville, behind—Tho' Sir Harry Tem⯑ple was with him, yet I was not ſad—Our journey, to me, ſeem'd enchantingly pleaſant—Oh, Lud!—The ſwiftneſs of our expedition—the variety of ob⯑jects—the uncommon politeneſs we were treated with on the road—the amazing noiſe, hurry, and buſtle we ſaw in coming hither, has filled my mind with images I never had the leaſt Idea of before—Oh! happy, happy creatures, who continually enjoy ſuch bleſſings without interruption.

Perhaps, not ſo happy as you imagine, ſiſ⯑ter—There may be real enjoyments here as well as in retirement, but I am apt to think true content is eaſier to be found in the moſs-grown cot, than the cloud-aſpiring dome.

There again we differ—I am heartily weary of ſolitude, and leave to you the undiſturbed enjoyment of going to reſt with the ſun, that, like him, you may be the harbinger of morn—treading the cowſlip bending green, to viſit your lowing herds, who conſtantly welcome and reward you with over⯑flowing bowls of nectar—at noon, feaſting on pa⯑triarchal luxuries—towards eve—but let that ſuffice. Contraſt it with what Lord Promiſe told us of a ſine lady's life—Riſing at noon—paying morning viſits— [13]dining at ſix—dreſſing—then whirling away to routs, balls, aſſemblies, maſquerades, where brilliant com⯑pany, muſic, dancing, and card parties make the time glide inſenſibly away, till bluſhing morn un⯑folds the fringed curtains of the gilded eaſt, and tears them unwillingly from their half enjoyed pleaſures—If ſuch a deſcription be true, who, in their ſenſes, wou'd have a doubt which to prefer?

Siſter, we had better not entirely depend up⯑on all Lord Promiſe told us—A little time, I am afraid, will diſpel the miſt which overſhadows your reaſon?

Then if it be a miſt, ſiſter, I never deſire it to be removed—Adieu, I hope for ever, to thoſe purling rills, deep embower'd ſhades, and fleecy nibblers of the plain, that hitherto have been our companions; a brighter ſcene now opens to my view, and if Sir Harry Temple knew but where to trace us, my joys then wou'd be compleat.

Flatter not yourſelf ſo much, Charlotte, as to imagine we have ſuch power over them—To ac⯑cident only are we indebted for their acquaintance—nor have we a right to expect it to continue—'Tis true, they did us a ſignal piece of ſervice in reſ⯑cuing us from ſuch a crew of gypſies, who, meet⯑ing us where they did, wou'd probably have robb'd, perhaps murder'd us.

I ſhall ever remember their heroic be⯑haviour—How ſoon they diſperſed and put to flight thoſe daſtardly wretches—Your fright gave you ad⯑ditional charms, and, notwithſtanding your timidity and delicacy, you gave ſufficient teſtimonies that your deliverer was not indifferent to you.

Too much otherwiſe, I fear, for my future peace.

The adventure was ſo much to my taſte, that I enjoyed it—My champion, I thought, received my acknowledgments with ſurprize—Per⯑haps, [14]he did not expect ſuch language from the ruſ⯑ticity of our appearance.

Why, really, it was ſomething uncommon.

We have often ſeen them ſince, and they as often offered up their vows—Our father ſeem'd pleas'd with their viſits, knows both their families, and acknowledges them accompliſh'd gen⯑tlemen.

'Tis true, he does, but appearances are oft deceitful—I confeſs Wilville raiſed emotions in my breaſt, I had till then been a ſtranger to—The confuſion I was in, the danger he reſcued me from, attended with ſuch a tender, reſpectful behaviour, beyond what I had ever ſeen or imagined, made too deep an impreſſion on me ever to be eraſed.

I ſhall keep you in countenance, for my heart, I believe, is in pretty near the ſame condi⯑tion.

I left the country with regret, as I had not an opportunity of acquainting him with our ſudden departure—I wiſh, yet fear, to ſee him again—Pray heaven he be ſincere in his profeſſions! for I find the future happineſs of my life depends upon it.

That you need not have the leaſt doubt of—I dare ſay they were diſtracted on miſſing us, and have diſpatch'd emiſſaries around the country in queſt of us.

Huſh, we are interrupted.

Mr. Lambton, I am heartily glad to ſee you—Welcome to London.

My Lord, I am much obliged to you for this favour.

Not in the leaſt—Ladies, I am happy in ſeeing you look ſo well after your journey—I thought it impoſſible your charms could have received addi⯑tion, yet I find change of air, and extraordinary ex⯑erciſe, have given encreaſing luſtre to the vermeil tincture of your cheeks.

My Lord, your politeneſs makes my girls bluſh.

There is no occaſion for that, Sir, they were ſufficiently captivating before—I rode poſt to town, Mr. Lambton, to appriſe my father of your coming, but unluckily found him laid up in a fit of the gout.

I am ſorry for it, my Lord.

Why, ſo am I, eſpecially as it deprives him of the pleaſure of welcoming you as he intend⯑ed—But, I hope, a few days will ſet him on his legs again, and then—not that he hath been idle, there is ſomething in view, which, in all probability, will, in a very ſhort time, make you ample amends for the injuries of fortune.

My Lord, you overwhelm me with kindneſs—I know not how to—

Not a word more—But, Mr. Lambton, my father has a particular requeſt to make you.

I beg, my Lord, you'll let me know it.

That you'll accept of this—

—Nay, I muſt beg of you not to examine it till you are more at leiſure

I fear, my Lord, 'tis ſome freſh obli⯑gation, and I have already received more than I can ever hope to return.

Do not mention it—Let me inſiſt on your putting it up—You have it in your power amply to repay me.

My Lord!

Come, let's change the ſubject—My ſiſ⯑ter, Lady Fanny Promiſe, having heard of your ar⯑rival, ſends her compliments to the ladies, and if not too much fatigued, hopes for the pleaſure of ſeeing them directly.

A [...] ▪ my Lord, I wiſh you'd excuſe them—Girls, like mine, bred up in retirement, have not ſufficient knowledge of the world, to render themſelves agreeable to a lady of her rank and qua⯑lity.

They have thoſe native graces of the mind and perſon, which are infinitely preferable—Where nature hath been ſo laviſh, her handmaid art, at diſtance waits behind, conſcious of her inability to add to their charms—What ſay you, ladies, will you favour me ſo far?

Juſt as my papa pleaſes, my Lord.

Well, my Lord, ſince you'll take the trouble of conducting them, tho' I am ſure you do them too much honour.

Rather give myſelf too much pleaſure, Sir.

My Lord, ſince you have my papa's permiſſion, we'll beg a little time to adjuſt our dreſs.

Name it, ladies, and my chariot ſhall at⯑tend you.

About an hour, my Lord.

Very well, I ſhall in the mean while in⯑form my ſiſter, that ſhe may prepare for your recep⯑tion—Ladies, your moſt obedient—Nay, no cere⯑mony, Mr. Lambton.

Give me leave, my Lord, to wait up⯑on you down ſtairs.

Now, ſiſter, don't you think my pre⯑ſages will prove true? You ſee fortune already ſmiles upon us—I hope Lady Fanny will invite us to reſide with her for the future.

How can you be ſo flighty?—Young as I am, every thing to me ſeems to wear a differe [...] aſpect—I do not like Lord Promiſo, nor this viſit, and wiſh you had not ſo readily engaged yourſelf.

You never will have ſpirit enough to make a figure in the world—However, do not let us waſte the time which ſhou'd be employ'd in dreſ⯑ſing.

If you recollect, we need no great prepara⯑tion—our wardrobe is ſoon looked over.

Too true, and a mortifying recollec⯑tion it is.

Not in the leaſt—Let not that diſturb you, Charlotte—Happier far our humble ſtate, cloathed in ſpotleſs innocence, and heaven-approving pover⯑ty, than if arrayed in all the ſplendid honours, and gilded trappings, of ſpecious guilt and infamy.

ACT II.

THEN you are certain Epicene is re⯑turned?

Oh, very certain—I had it from my brother, whom I ſaw this morning, en paſſant—He has been at home above three weeks, and poor neg⯑lected I never once enquired after.

I find he's not one of your moſt paſſio⯑nate lovers.

Why no—not quite ſo violent inh is tranſ⯑ports as your brother—In ſhort, I'm inform'd that he is now a finiſhed petite maitre.

Then I'll anſwer that he's not a favourite of our ſex.

Quite the contrary to a woman of ſpirit—Oh, I have not patience every day to ſee ſuch crowds of mincing, whiſſling, powder'd Maſter Jemmys ſill our public places, who only want to aſſume the pet⯑ticoat, to render them compleat Miſſes.

Ha! ha! ha! really they ſeem deter⯑mined to rob us of that diſtinction.

Don't you think it wou'd be a juſt retali⯑ation in us to claim the ſword and breeches? I'm ſure we ſhou'd become them as well as the beſt cox⯑comb of them all.

Suppoſe you try the experiment?

No, there I beg to be excuſed—At pre⯑ſent I have other matters in my head—You muſt know that I have been meditating a pleaſant revenge on Epicene for his contemptuous coldneſs.

He richly deſerves it, and cou'd not have fallen into better hands, for you always diſcover'd an excellent head for contriving miſchief.

I do love a little of it in my heart, and if you'll aid me on this occaſion, I don't doubt but he'll prove a charming ſubject to work upon.

Oh, you can't oblige me more than by employing me.

Nay, I never doubted you, but here you'll have a difficult part to ſuſtain.

So much the better, the more glory if I ſucceed—Come, let's hear.

You are entirely unknown to him, have been abroad, and are well acquainted with many of the places he travelled through.

I am.

Can't you pretend that you are a relation of ſome noble family whom you are intimate with?

Readily—I correſpond with ſeveral he viſited, who often mention'd him.

Very well then, you can eaſily frame a ſtory of your falling in love with him there, and fol⯑lowing him over to England.

What good will that do?

A great deal—We muſt let your brother into the ſecret, as his aſſiſtance will be neceſſary—and, a propos, here he comes.

Madam, I received your orders, and flew upon the wings of—

Love to be ſure—I thought ſo—Now for rhapſody of flames, darts, hearts, and eyes, all jumbled together to form a paſſionate declaration.

Charming, cruel girl! how can you thus—

I told you he was beginning—Very pretty tho'—Pray let's have it again—Charmingly cruel, or cruelly charming—it will do either way, and may ſerve now or any other time.

How can you take ſuch pleaſure in torment⯑ing a man who loves to the degree that I do?

Becauſe the greateſt pleaſure our ſex can enjoy is to torment—I'll not hear a word in anſwer— [20]I have many times told you that nothing in nature can be more ridiculous than the enraptur'd effuſions of two love-ſtricken creatures to a third perſon—There is now more intereſting Buſineſs for you—Your rival is in London.

Who, Epicene?

Even he—Don't put on a ſerious face till you have more reaſon—You have often heard of the contract executed between Epicene's father and mine, by which they were mutually bound, that we, when of age, ſhou'd marry each other, or forfeit thirty thouſand pounds.

I have.

His father is dead, and mine has long ſince repented the warmth of friendſhip which hurri⯑ed him on to ſo inconſiderate an act, and, as an atonement, often declared, cou'd I free myſelf from the obligation, his conſent ſhou'd await the choice of my heart—In this ſituation, you ſhall win and wear me.

I accept the conditions, Madam—With ſo glorious a reward in view, I will either deliver you or periſh in the attempt.

Heroically ſpoken—"None but the brave deſerve the fair"—Ha! ha! ha!—No great danger at preſent I believe—Come, follow me, and if I don't put you into a method of obtaining Epicene's part of the bond, and amply revenging yourſelf on him at the ſame time, then ſay, for once, a woman failed in plotting and contriving.

A Gentleman to wait on you, my Lady.

Conduct him up ſtairs—

—Let me beg of you to retire for a few moments—As ſoon as the Gentleman is gone, I'll inform you of my whole deſign.

Major Standfield!—Is it poſſible I ſee you again!—Where, in the name of wonder, have you buried yourſelf theſe four years paſt?

Oh, Lady Fanny! wou'd to heaven I had been buried, and mix'd my mouldering aſhes with my anceſtors, before I reached theſe years of ſorrow!

Bleſs me, Major! what's the matter?

Nothing, Madam—I beg your pardon—Pray, where's your brother?—I learn he's return'd from travel.

Upon my honour I don't know—Have you any particular buſineſs with him?

A little, Madam, but it will ſoon be ſettled.

I hope nothing diſagreeable has happen'd? How does Miſs Standfield?—What cou'd be her rea⯑ſon for withdrawing ſo ſuddenly from town, and li⯑ving ever ſince in ſuch impenetrable obſcurity?

Oh, Lady Fanny! you once profeſs'd a friendſhip for her—But 'tis no matter—nothing can now atone for injuries like mine!—

For the love of heaven, Major, explain yourſelf.

I can't, Madam, 'till I ſee Lord Promiſe.

Nay, pray; I conjure you, tell me—Can I ſerve you? If I can, my friendſhip and fortune are both at your ſervice.

Your worth, Madam, wou'd, if poſſible, atone for your brother's villany.

Villany!

Yes, Lady Fanny, the worſt of villany—The wretch who wantonly deprives the credulous virgin of her innocence and peace of mind, deſerves an epithet much worſe than that.

Has my brother been ſuch a wretch?

He has, Madam—Pardon my thus diſturb⯑ing you with a repetition of my wrongs, I thought to have conceal'd them 'till I had found their author—But griefs like mine will force their way—After ſix-and-twenty years ſpent in the ſervice of my country, I vainly hoped to paſs my latter days in eaſe and tranquillity, bleſt, as I thought myſelf, in a daughter, where grace and modeſty united to adorn the curious workmanſhip of heaven.

Pray go on, I am all attention.

Lord Promiſe, Madam, whom unſuſpecting⯑ly I admitted to my inmoſt friendſhip, in an evil hour, gain'd on the fond affection of an artleſs girl, and, for a few moments unworthy gratification, plunged a dagger in a father's breaſt, and entailed eternal infamy, ſhame, and ſorrow on the very crea⯑ture, whom honour ſhould have obliged him to pro⯑tect

Merciful powers!—Can I be related to fuch a monſter—Now do I readily account for the fettled melancholy which preyed upon the lovely girl before ſhe quitted London, and which I in vain urged her to diſcloſe—But why did you not inform me of this before?

An indignant ſhame tied up my tongue—My hand, tho' old, I hoped was not quite unnerved, on that alone I relied for ſatisfaction—Yet there I was diſappointed, to avoid my reſentment he quitted the kingdom—Defeated of my revenge, I retired to a little retreat in the fartheſt part of Devonſhire, ta⯑king with me the tear-concealing, yet almoſt grief-conſumed object of his looſe deſires.

Poor Eugenia!—Little did I ſuſpect the cauſe of your retreat, if I had, you ſhou'd not have gone without a partner in your ſorrows.

How can ſouls ſo nearly allied by nature, dif⯑fer ſo much in ſentiment!—There, a few months af⯑ter, I was preſented with a grandſon—An event which almoſt deprived the wretched mother of life, in giving birth to the innocent fruit of their guilty commerce.

What an affecting ſtory!

We have lived ever ſince in the utmoſt pri⯑vacy, waiting an opportunity for revenge or juſtice. Laſt week I received intelligence from a friend, whom I entruſted with the ſecret, that he was re⯑turned; this haſtened me up to town with my little family—Hitherto he hath evaded my ſearch—This [23]houſe I thought the moſt likely place to find him, and—

Dear Major, I am happy in meeting with you—For the love of mercy ſuſpend your anger—Perhaps I may procure you reparation, at leaſt, as far as 'tis in his power to make it.

Believe me, Madam, I had much rather have redreſs from equity than the ſword—elſe ſhou'd I now have conceal'd my purpoſe—But, if the firſt fail, I am determined to have recourſe to the lat⯑ter—If I fall, my ſorrows fall with me, and he will have the glory of compleatly finiſhing the misfortunes of an unhappy family.

I hope there will be no fear of that—Pray is Miſs Standfield ſtill in town?

She is, Madam.

Might I hope for the pleaſure of ſeeing her here?

I am afraid, my Lady, that will be impoſſi⯑ble—There is a conſcious inferiority attending fallen innocence, which dreads to look up at the unble⯑miſhed front of virtue.

To me, that ſhould not be—From our earlieſt acquaintance I always eſteem'd her as a friend, but now, I love her as a ſiſter—Let me en⯑treat you to conduct her hither.

I will try, Madam, if I can perſuade her to it.

Nay, but immediately—You muſt not attempt to meet Lord Promiſe firſt.

I ſhall not, Madam.

Depend upon my utmoſt endeavours to re-eſtabliſh your peace and honour, upon the moſt permanent baſis.

Your good wiſhes, Lady Fanny, I am afraid exceed your abilities to perform—Nevertheleſs, we are equally obliged to you—My daughter ſhall wait upon you—Take her under your protection, Ma⯑dam, and eaſe a father of ſome part of his vital-prey⯑ing cares.

Moſt gladly—Haſte her hither without the leaſt delay.

As ſoon as poſſible, Madam.

Oh, and I muſt inſiſt on ſeeing my little nephew at the ſame time—He ſhall be part of my charge.

Your Ladyſhip ſhall be obliged.

Poor Man! his ſtory has raiſed a powerful advocate in my breaſt—What a libertine is my bro⯑ther!—I am ſhock'd at his wickedneſs, and tremble for the conſequences—Yet, how to reform him?—A taſk, I am afraid, beyond my abilities, tho' ſtill, I think, nature's ſeeds, however ill the cultivation, were deſigned to raiſe the nobleſt fruits—I will at⯑tempt it, and may ſome power benignant inſpire me with the means to reclaim a brother, and re⯑lieve a friend!

Now, my good Ralph, I begin to have ſome hopes of you.

Efaith, Miſs, 'tis more than I have of myſelf. Wounds and heart!—I think I look more like a hog in armour, than any thing of chriſtian fleſh and blood.

I own you have not all the eaſe and elegance I cou'd wiſh, but it can't be helped, and you muſt do your beſt

And bad enough, I am afraid, that will be—You wou'd make me be thruſt up in this manner—I'm ſure I was eaſier and better in my own ſhapes—Now, pray may I aſk, what is all this mighty rout about?

I am going to viſit a lady of quality, and you muſt attend me—Put on your beſt behavi⯑our, for very likely there will be ſome grand compa⯑ny there

Then, I think, Miſs, you had better leave me behind.

Why ſo?

Becauſe I am ſure I ſhall be daſhed—For tho' I am reckon'd as tight a lad, and as feat a dancer as any at our maying, yet, if you'll believe me, I can ſcarce pull up courage enough to ſhew my ſhapes amongſt the laſſes, and you know we have ſome prime ones.

I muſt encourage him a little—

But you cannot imagine what an alteration there is in you now—That dreſs becomes you wonderfully, and you look quite graceful.

Yes, I always was ſaid to have grace—Maſter himſelf often told me that I was a gracious lad.

No, but I mean that you are genteel.

Oh—Why, for certain, all the laſſes uſed to prefer me for my gentility.

Very well then—be ruled by me, Ralph, and I don't doubt but every thing will ſuc⯑ceed to my wiſh.

Mayhap they may—I'm ſure, Miſs, I will do all in my power to ſerve you, for never from me if I don't love you heartily.

Love me!

Ay, may I be ſhot if I don't, as well as if you were my own ſiſter—Nay, why ſhou'dn't I?—I muſt be very ungrateful indeed, if I did not—I'm ſure maſter has been more than a father to me.

I believe you are gratitude itſelf—When my fortunes are accompliſhed you ſhall not go unrewarded.

Well, well, don't let that concern you—Be ſure now, when we are abroad, you aſk me to talk as little as poſſible.

Yes, yes, the leſs you ſpeak the better.

Adad, I believe it will—You may tell them I am dumb, if you pleaſe.

No, that will not do neither—All I want of you is to behave very mannerly, and avoid telling any ſtories about our mode of living in the country.

Oh, let me alone, I'll be bound to be cunning enough for the beſt of them—Not but, if they are fond of ſtories, I can match them there too, for I can tell plenty.

Stories?

Ay, I can tell them the ſtory of St. George and the Dragon, or Valentine and Orſon, or twenty as good—I am very famous for them, and have told them an hundred times over—You ſhall hear me—hem! hem!—There was a certain valiant knight who—who—

—Nay, nay, hear me out.

No, no, Ralph—be but ſilent, and do as well as you can.

Not ready yet, ſiſter?

Yes, I've been only giving a few in⯑ſtructions to my ſervant here.

Pray, ſiſter, what occaſion for him to attend us?

Oh, very great—Conſider the figure we ſhou'd make without one ſervant to wait upon us.

Better none than him—Has my father ſeen him thus?

No, my dear, I don't intend he ſhall till I return.

Well, I think you are very wrong—but you muſt have your way—Come, the coach has been waiting ſome time.

Pray, Miſs, am I to go within ſide the coach or without?

O, without ſide, by all means.

An't I to hold up your tail as you go in and out?

No, fool; come along.

Mr. Varniſh, your ſervant—I was told you went out, Sir, and have waited impatiently for your return.

I am ſorry I ſhou'd make you wait—Pray, Sir, what are your commands with me?

This houſe, I ſuppoſe, is yours, Sir?

It is, Sir, at your ſervice.

Lord Promiſe, I preſume, hired theſe lodgings for us?

His Lordſhip informed me you was a parti⯑cular friend of his, and requeſted, as a favour, that I wou'd accommodate you, to prevent the inconveni⯑ences attending common lodgings.

His Lordſhip was very good—I ima⯑gine, Sir, you are well acquainted with him?

I have had the honour of knowing his Lord⯑ſhip theſe ſeveral years paſt.

I beg your pardon, Sir, for being ſo inquiſitive—My reaſon was, an ambiguous note his Lordſhip put into my hand at leaving this, which you are to explain.

What was it, pray, Sir?

A draft for an hundred pounds, with theſe words—‘I hope Mr. Lambton will accept of this triſte as an earneſt of my wiſhes to ſerve him. I dare not be more explicit at preſent, but Mr. Varniſh can fully inform him of particulars. PROMISE’

True, Sir, his Lordſhip has repos'd that con⯑fidence in me.

Well, Sir, I ſhall take it as a favour if you'll explain his meaning.

With all my heart, Sir—Lord Promiſe is a Nobleman of the ſtricteſt honour and greateſt gene⯑roſity.

I don't doubt it, Sir.

I aſſure you his generoſity is unbounded—I have ſeen ſuch inſtances of it as wou'd amaze you.

Indeed, I have, ſince my ſhort know⯑ledge of him, experienced many proofs of his bene⯑volence.

Oh, dear Sir, nothing to his deſires or inten⯑tions—The moment he ſaw you and your family, he was reſolv'd to ſerve you.

How few Noblemen have ſuch great⯑neſs of ſoul!

Very few indeed, Sir—He obſerved, with concern, that you had lived many years in the world to little purpoſe.

How, Sir? I hope not—I endeavour⯑ed to fulſil the will of him who placed me in ſuch a ſituation, and that I thought the principal end of my creation—If I have erred, I truſt he will forgive me.

Dear Sir, you miſtake my meaning—He found you grown grey in obſcurity, without the leaſt reward for ſuch merit.

Yes, Sir, I've had the greateſt reward that cou'd poſſibly have been beſtow'd upon me here.

Really, Sir!—What was it, pray?

The teſtimony of a good conſcience.

I am glad to find it ſo, Sir—tho' 'tis more than I can ſay for myſelf

—But Lord Promiſe wiſhes to reward ſuch goodneſs in this world—He has many relations of great dignity in the world—They have heard your character from the Earl, and you may depend upon being ſpeedily provided for.

How ſhall I acknowledge ſo many un⯑merited obligations?

Very eaſily—I hope, Mr. Lambton, your long retirement from the world has not contracted your notions of life?

I believe not, Sir—On the contrary, the long heart-felt ſerenity I've enjoy'd, has expand⯑ed every grateful and noble thought within me.

Nay, I ſhou'd not wonder at it—Perſons long buried in ſolitude, are apt to look with a gloomy aſpect on the harmleſs amuſements of the world—And thoſe things, in their nature perfectly innocent, they, with a cynic ſeverity, condemn as abſolutely criminal.

Far otherwiſe with me, I aſſure you, Sir—I look on all mankind as my brethren, as ſuch I love, and wou'd, if poſſible, ſerve them—For ſure⯑ly that wretch muſt be dead to all feelings, whoſe boſom admits not that heav'n-born child of mercy, ſweet charity.

I am very glad, Sir, to find you have ſuch enlarged notions—Can you then be ſo chimerical as to prefer an empty name, a few imaginary virtues, to ſolid ſubſtantial happineſs?

I don't comprehend you.

In a word then, Lord Promiſe is captivated with the beauty of your youngeſt daughter, and it will be your own fault if you do not paſs the re⯑mainder of your days in eaſe and tranquillity.

Lord Promiſe in love with my daugh⯑ter?—it cannot be.

Truth, every ſyllable, Sir.

Good heav'n! can he—but I won't diſturb myſelf—He has not ſure any diſhonourable deſigns on my poor child?

Lord Promiſe, Sir, is all honour and gene⯑roſity.

I hope ſo—Gracious powers! how I tremble—Where are my children?—I'll ſtop their going till I have an explanation of this affair.

I met the young ladies going out, Sir, juſt as I came in hither.

Going, where?

To viſit my Lady Fanny Promiſe.

Are you ſure of that?

Quite certain, Sir, I knew the carriage and livery—I muſt keep him in ſuſpence till the buſineſs is over.

I am ſomething eaſier—They'll certain⯑ly be ſafe with her—When do they return?

In about two hours.

Well!—Is Ralph, my ſervant, in the houſe?

No, Sir, he attended the ladies.

I am glad of it—I can rely upon his honeſty and fidelity.

Dear Sir, let me beg of you to calm your emotion—Your apprehenſions are groundleſs, I can aſſure you.

They may be ſo—In the mean time I requeſt you'll return this note to his lordſhip—I muſt firſt know the nature of the obligations he wou'd confer upon me—Perhaps they may be ſuch as an honeſt, tho' poor man, wou'd be above receiving.—

Upon my word, Sir, you muſt excuſe me—I dare not accept it without my Lord's knowledge—I ſhall wait upon him directly, and on my return hope fully to ſatisfy all your ſcruples—In the mean time make yourſelf perfectly eaſy—You have only to rely on Lord Promiſe, and reſt contented

I am not much read or ſkill'd in the ways of mankind, yet I do not like this man's words or looks—Both ſeem to bear a double meaning—I am far from being eaſy in my mind!—Wou'd I had never come hither!—My poor unfledged young ones! I am afraid your father, in his latter days, has, by one imprudent action, involv'd you both in ruin! but I muſt now make the beſt of it—Thou never failing refuge of confiding innocence, guard and di⯑rect our trembling footſteps thro' this mazy laby⯑rinth of darkneſs and uncertainty!

ACT III.

WELL, Tom, have you heard anything of the girls yet?

No—I've ſearched every place where there was the leaſt likelihood of intelligence, but all to no purpoſe—Have you done any good?

Not I, by Gad!—All my efforts have been fruitleſs—I am almoſt diſtracted!—What unlucky dogs we were to leave them juſt at that critical junc⯑ture!—Or who cou'd imagine they wou'd have taken flight during the little time we were abſent?

Nothing cou'd equal my aſtoniſhment on miſ⯑fing them—Unkind Maria, not even to leave a line behind to account for this ſudden revolution—

Wilville, it muſt certainly be ſome unfore⯑ſeen accident which cou'd drive them up ſo unexpec⯑tedly.

Some fatal one, I fear—'tis a myſtery I am wretched till I unravel—I'm ſure we loſt no time in the purſuit—and all along I flatter'd myſelf with the hopes of overtaking them on the road.

Ay, ſo did I—We drove jehu like for it—and yet the curſed poſt-boys cou'd not get on faſt enough to ſatisfy my impatience—Zounds! I wou'd have outſtript the wind, and ſurpaſs'd all the fables of antiquity to have caught them—the laſt ſtage I was almoſt ſure of it—they were not above half an hour before—Such a diſappointment is enough to turn the brain of a philoſopher!

Really, Temple, I did not think you were ſo deſperately entangled before.

Nor I, by my ſoul—I did not know half the power the wild baggage had over me 'till I miſſed her. [32]Who the devil cou'd ſuppoſe I ſhou'd be taken with ſo romantic an oddity?—And yet, may I periſh if I was not ſtruck with her more than any woman I ever ſaw before.

That is to me amazing—I think there is as great a difference between her and her ſiſter as poſ⯑ſible.

True, there is a great difference indeed.

Maria poſſeſſes that ſweetneſs, that affability, that gentleneſs of manners which muſt—

O damn it, Tom! let's have no more of that ſickening ſtuff—I hate ſuch ſft killing creatures who lull me to ſleep with their inſipidity—Not but ſome⯑times I like a ſcene of the pathetic, by way of con⯑traſt—but, in general, they have too much opiate to ſuit my conſtitution—No, give me the girl of fancy, who ſoars above the region of vulgar mortals, and ſcorns to tread the beaten paths of dull diſcretion—Such a charmer is always new—each day diſcovers freſh incentives to love, and we are loſt in the plea⯑ſing charms of dear variety.

O brave! you improve in ſoridity—But this is a ſubject we ſhall never fall out about—Do you take your miſtreſs and her dear variety, leave to me the enjoyment of endleſs, undeſcribable happineſs in the poſſeſſion of her ſiſter.

Egad, I wiſh I cou'd—

Alas! theſe are lovers rhapſodies, and do not in the leaſt contribute to the recovery of them.

Do you know that Lord Promiſe they came up to town with?

Only by ſight.

What's his character?

That of a profeſs'd rake—He is the only ſon of the Earl of Witton, a nobleman, who is now abroad, as much reſpected for his virtue as his dignity—Was he at home, my firſt application ſhou'd be to him, as I am certain he has too much honour to countenance his ſon in any baſe ungenerous action.

Hearkee, Tom—I'll go directly and call him to an account, and if he does not give me a ſatisfac⯑tory anſwer to my enquiries about the girls, ſacri⯑fice him to my vengeance.

Hold, hold, be not ſo raſh—You have not the leaſt chance to gain any intelligence that way—I am equally intereſted with you, and as firmly deter⯑mined to uſe my endeavours to find them—I believe they were invited up to town by him, on ſome infa⯑mous deſign, and tremble leſt he ſhould ſucceed in his attempts.

And yet you have the patience coolly to talk in this manner—By heaven, I'll find him out, tho' ſurrounded by a thouſand imps of darkrieſs, and force him to give me ſatisfaction.

Believe me, Temple, I have as much courage as you, tho' not of that flaming kind—I wiſh for an opportunity of reſcuing theſe victims from his infer⯑nal clutches, not of ſignalizing my valour—He has too much ſpirit for ſo bad a heart—What wou'd be the conſequence of ſuch a meeting? Perhaps the ſending one of us totally unprepared to that judg⯑ment ſeat, where juſtice muſt be heard, tho' it wounds the breaſt of ſoft-eyed mercy.

I own, Wilville, you are in the right—My heart is always open to conviction—We will go calm⯑ly to work; I will be guided by you—Can you point out any feaſible method?

Let's try every means probable—I know his llow traveller, Jack Epicene—I can't ſay that he's [...] favourite of mine, yet on this occaſion he may be uſeful—'Tis very likely he is in his confidence, per⯑haps an aſſiſtant in this affair—Our beſt way will be to ſound him firſt—We'll thither directly, probably we may learn ſomething which will give us light to proceed further.

With all my heart—Let's about it immedi⯑ately, for never ſhall I have a moment's eaſe while the girl I adore is in danger.

Now, Polly, quite in readineſs I ſee—Is Epicene at hand to aſſiſt you?

He is, my Lord; but pray don't you think it muſt be a great mortification to one, who loves as I do, to become the inſtrument of your de⯑ſigns upon others?

I confeſs 'tis diſagreeable, but you ſhall not loſe by your compliance.

Unhappy minute, which put it in your power thus to command me!—

My pretty fair moraliſt, I have more agreeable buſineſs on my hands now than reaſoning with you—Only manage this affair with dexterity, and leave reflections to follow—They'll come faſt enough of themſelves.

'Tis a wicked office I have undertaken; my heart goes againſt it.

No qualms now, Polly—I thought I had removed theſe ſcruples?

The ſtings of conſcience, my Lord, are not ſo eaſily quieted—Neceſſity, not inclination, obliges me to join with you.

Then I am the more obliged to your ne⯑ceſſity.

My Lord, the ladies are juſt arrived.

Away to the drawing-room to receive them—I'll retire for a few moments—On my en⯑trance, remember to call Miſs Lambton out, and take care that we are not interrupted.

This way, Ladies; if you pleaſe, I'll con⯑duct you to my Lady's apartment.

Very well, friend, we follow you.

Hold, my honeſt lad; ſuppoſe you and I go into the kitchen to take a little refreſhment, and leave the ladies to themſelyes; don't you think it will be as well?

As well! Ecod, a great deal better—I thought as how Miſs was a fool, to dizen me out in this man⯑ner for folks to laugh and ſhout at me—but if ever they catch me behind a coach again in this trim, why my name is not Ralph Clumſey.

Oh, you muſt not mind ſuch trifling acci⯑dents—You'll be uſed to them ſoon.

Shall I?—By the Lord Harry, but I won't tho'—for if Maſter will ſtay here, he ſhall ſtay by himſelf, and ſo I'll tell him—But, young man, for the love of charity, give me a drink, for I have not breath to talk.

Come, my boy, follow me, and I will ſoon make you forget all your diſtreſſes in a jug of right old ſtingo.

Mercy be praiſed! there are ſome honeſt peo⯑ple in this town.

How happy am I, my dear Maria, in en⯑tertaining you in this manner—I have long'd to give vent to the effuſions of my heart, and own to you how much I lov'd.

My Lord!

Yes, Maria, I lov'd from the firſt moment I ſaw you, with an irreſiſtible impulſe.

Is it poſſible, my Lord?

As true as that you are beautiful—Love prompted me to this contrivance, and it has ſucceed⯑ed to my wiſhes—I have now the idol of my ſoul in [36]my poſſeſſion, and nothing but death ſhall ever ſe⯑parate us.

Good heav'ns! am I betray'd then?

Betray'd, my charmer! no, far from it—Can you call it betraying to live in endleſs felicity with him who adores you?—To be ſole diſpoſer of my life, my fortune, my happineſs?—Come, thou tempting love-inviting fair one, let us not waſte the precious moments which may be better ſpent in diſ⯑ſolving tranſports!

Away, my Lord, you cannot ſurely mean to uſe me thus!

Fear nothing, my beauteous angel!—No earthly power ſhall now diſturb our joys—Do you but ſmile, and kindly bleſs me with your endleſs charms, malicious deities may look with envy down on our ſuperior bliſs—Come, come to my arms, let me gently, tenderly preſs you to comply—

Hold, for pity's ſake!—

—In the name of all that's good, all that's powerful, I con⯑jure you to hear me!—for a few moments hear me.

Now for a ſtroke of the pathetic—What a pleaſure to have the tender ſupplicating creatures on their knees to one—

—Riſe firſt—Do not alarm yourſelf, my ſweet girl!—You have every thing to hope for, nothing to be apprehenſive of.

Whoſe houſe are we in at preſent, my Lord?

A perſon [...] entirely devoted to me.

Oh, my fluttering heart!—And is not that lady who received us your ſiſter?

As oppoſite to her as vice is to virtue.

Ye high-protecting powers who behold my diſtreſs, relieve me now, or I am loſt for ever!

My lovely innocent, you torment yourſelf with groundleſs apprehenſions—You are with a man who adores you, who wou'd lacrifice his life to con⯑vince you of his truth and conſtancy.

Give me a proof of it, my Lord, by reſto⯑ring me to my liberty.

Demand any other proof but that, and I will ſatisfy you—Make me happy, and poſſeſs every thing I can beſtow—'Tis not in my power to marry you or I would, but I can make you an offering of what few wives enjoy, an undivided heart—Your father ſhall be made eaſy for life—Your ſiſter ſhall partake of our felicity—All will owe their happineſs to you, and my behaviour muſt oblige you to confeſs that my love and generoſity ſhall deſerve the ſur⯑render you make—The devil's in't if this won't do—I'm ſure l've almoſt talk'd myſelf into a behef of the truth of it—

And do you think it poſſible, my Lord, that all the riches of the Eaſt cou'd tempt me a moment to deviate from the paths of virtue?—No, deſtitute as I am at this inſtant of a friend, except in heaven—conſcious of being entirely in your power, without the leaſt human means to eſcape—yet, ſuch is my reliance on providence, that I am regardleſs of the conſequences—You may kill me, if you pleaſe, but you cannot triumph over my innocence—and I have this conſolation in the midſt of my diſtreſs, that there is a being will amply revenge my cauſe, and reward my trivial ſufferings.

What the devil's the matter with me, that I am affected thus?

You heſitate, my Lord—If your breaſt be ſuſceptible of pity or manly ſentiment, do not take an ungenerous advantage of the helpleſs condition you have reduced me to, nor give me cauſe to look upon you as the deſtroyer of my peace and tranquil⯑lity.

Surely perſuaſive force dwells on her hea⯑venly accents!—There muſt be ſome magic power in virtue, when it can charm even ſuch a ſon of vice as I am!

A mighty conqueſt you have gain'd, indeed, my Lord!—Deceiv'd a poor old man, who near had reach'd his journey's end, without this fatal ſtroke to [38]help it, and thus betray'd to ruin his two unſuſpect⯑ing daughters!—Oh, my father! little did your fond honeſt heart imagine the reward preparing for your toilſome journey hither.

Certainly I have been long deceived!—Virtue is more than a name, or I could never feel theſe heart-rending compunctions—I muſt retire, or ſhe'll make a compleat proſeylite of me—

You have a ſiſter, my Lord, whom you dearly love, an honour'd parent, whoſe life, per⯑haps, depends on her proſperity, what muſt you think of that man who wantonly endeavours to de⯑ſtroy ſo fair a proſpect?—How much nobler he, who, commanding his paſſions, gives proof of his great⯑neſs of ſoul, by acknowledging his errors and ma⯑king every atonement in his power?

Why thus agitated, Maria?—By heav'n you've no cauſe—I love you to diſtraction, and can⯑not live without you—Yet I will not force your incli⯑nations—I am not that monſter neither—My tender⯑neſs, my generoſity, my reſpect ſhall rather gain you.

My Lord, if you have the leaſt tenderneſs, the leaſt humanity in your nature, reſtore me to thoſe, I am united to by duty and inclination.

And loſe my hopes for ever—it cannot be, 'tis too great a ſacrifice.

Leave me then but for a few minutes, till I try to recollect my ſcatter'd ſpirits.

Say you'll think kindly of me.

How can I ſo far contradict my heart?

Will you endeavour it?

I will—if poſſible.

How like a ſcoundrel I look now, defeated of my purpoſe!

Be compos'd, Madam, I leave you in perfect ſecurity, and hope my exceſs of paſ⯑ſion will, in ſome meaſure, plead my excuſe for what is paſt.

That, my Lord, I muſt judge of from your future conduct.

Sure, if the ſex but knew how amiably commanding a virtuous woman appears, even in the eyes of an abandon'd libertine, the moſt thoughtleſs wou'd ſhun the paths of vice.

What a precipice am I on!—'Tis dreadful to look around—yet I truſt that power which hither⯑to has ſaved, will ſtill preſerve me!—My father! where are now thy ſilver locks!—deſtitute of ſuc⯑cour, thy hapleſs child cannot comfort thee!—Oh, Wilville! thou once reſcued me—now indeed I want thy relieving hand—My ſiſter too!—perhaps at this inſtant ſtruggling in the toils of infamy!—Dreadful thought!—I will ſeek her out, offer my feeble aid, and either eſcape or periſh together!

Ha! ha! ha!—Oh, Miſs Lambton, fye up⯑on ſuch ruſticated notions—I find, my Lady, we ſhall have a great deal of trouble before we can give her the true ton.

I hope your Ladyſhip will pity the ſe⯑verity of my fortune—Tho' buried in ſolitude, my heart has long wiſhed to move in the circle of high⯑life, and it now expands at the approaching proſpect which you have aſſured me of.

You may depend upon it—under my protection you ſhall be introduced into the politeſt aſſemblies.

If Miſs will entruſt herſelf to my care, I will gladly join in the charge with your Ladyſhip, and anſwer for her improvement.

Directed by ſo profeſt a maſter, I'm ſure ſhe cannot fail.

I do think I am tolerably well qualified—Sup⯑poſe us now, Miſs, in the Pantheon, or any other faſhionable place—inſtead of ſtanding with a modeſt country diffidence, and a confuſion which increaſes [40]the unfaded roſes of your cheeks—ſweep along the room with all the becoming eaſe and aſſurance of a true-bred woman of faſhion—pull out your glaſs, ſurvey the objects round with a contemptuous diſ⯑dain—Oh, my dear Lady Squander—

—I am immenſely glad to ſee you—Have you heard the news?—Oh, I am ready to die at the thoughts of it—Ha! ha! ha!—Only the grave Mrs. Scruple de⯑tected laſt night with a captain of the guards—Mrs. Trifle—

—I am happy in ſeeing you abroad—I was informed you intended retiring into the country on the death of your monkey—

—No, Madam, but I deſign to⯑morrow night ſeeing Garrick's alteration of Hamlet. Oh, pray do bring Pompey along with you, it is a creature of infinite humour, and will relieve my too great attention to the play—Ha! ha! ha!

I own, Sir, I have very little idea of the deſcription you have been giving me, and hope you'll forgive my ſimplicity in aſking whether modeſ⯑ty and innocence are faſhionable qualities at theſe aſſemblies?

Umph!—why faith I can't ſay that they are—They indeed attract the notice of the firſt couple in the kingdom, otherwiſe names of no great conſe⯑quence now in the world.

I am very ſorry for it.

Sorry, why ſo?

Becauſe, charmed as I am with the brilliant ſcenes before me, I wou'd not purchaſe them with the loſs of either.

May I renounce the pleaſures of Italy, if the girls brain is not turned!

I beg pardon for my company; but Miſs, if you pleaſe, I want to ſpeak a few words to you.

Speak to me?

Yes, Miſs, if you'll go down ſtairs I'll tell it you.

You had better ſpare her that trouble, friend, by telling it here.

May hap I won't, tho'—

You may let it alone then; but the lady ſhall not ſtir, ſo get along about your buſineſs, fellow.

But I ſay ſhe ſhall, and let me ſee who'll hin⯑der her.

Who'll hinder her?—I, you ſcoundrel—

Will you?—We'll try that—

Hold, Ralph—for heaven's ſake, what's the matter?

Oh, Miſs, I have found it all out!—I over⯑heard the whole ſtory in the kitchen—they are all in a plot to murder and raviſh you and I and Miſs Ma⯑ria, and keep us here for ever, ſo come along and let us find out maſter.

Impoſſible!

Impoſſible, indeed, Miſs, the fool's drunk.

Drunk! no, nor mad neither, and I will have you out, Miſs, or die for it.

That you ſhall, villain!—

Nay, you have miſtaken your man, I be⯑lieve—

Help! murder! help!

Get up again, you ſhall have fair play.

Curſe your play—help! murder! help!

I fancy you'll not be in a hurry to meddle with a bit of Yorkſhire ſtuff again.

What's the meaning of all this noiſe and violence?

Aſk him there, he has more reaſon to tell you than I.

By all that's deviliſh, Promiſe, that barbarian had nigh put an end to my being—Keep him off till I get away—I thought him a tool, but if ever I am [42]again deceived, may I ſuffer tenfold what I have done now!

Oh, my Lord, I beg of you to unfold this myſtery, my ſervant ſays there is a plot formed to detain us here.

There is, Madam—Nay, ſtart not—'tis time to undeceive you—I have now no intereſt in letting you continue longer in your error—Thererfore view every object in its proper light—

Gracious goodneſs! where will this end!

This houſe you are cloſe confined in, with⯑out a poſſibility of eſcape—As a confirmation, ad⯑vance, Madam, no longer Lady Fanny Promiſe, but Miſs Spence for the future.

Ay, I thought what it would all come to—I'll be hang'd if I did not.

I am ſo overwhelm'd with ſurpriſe and aſtoniſhment, that I know not what to ſay.

Miſs Lambton, you are ſafe for the pre⯑ſent, that lady will attend you into another room—As for this champion who ſignaliſed himſelf ſo valiantly in your defence, he may be troubleſome—convey him into the ſtreet, he'll improve his talent, and meet with plenty of adventures there.

Ay, but two words to that bargain—you muſt have my leave firſt.

Stop, Ralph—Surely, my Lord, my ſervant's fidelity ought not to ſubject him to ill uſage. I will rely upon your honour for my ſafety here, and hope you will extend it to him.

Miſs Lambton, I pity your confuſion, and will not ſtay to encreaſe it—Diſmiſs your fears—Let your ſervant retire—he ſhall not be moleſted—and you have my honour for your protection.

Bye, Miſs, if there be law or juſtice in Eng⯑land, you ſhan't ſtay long here.

For heaven's ſake tell me, is my ſiſter in this houſe?

She is, Madam.

May I not ſee her, pray?

Not at preſent, Madam; but don't let that diſturb you—I can aſſure you ſhe is well and ſafe.

Does my father know where we are?

I am ſorry, Madam, I am not permitted to anſwer your queſtions to your ſatisfaction.

What will become of us!—Thus are my dreams of happineſs vaniſhed—The enraptured ſcenes my fancy drew exiſted but in imagination—now in their ſtead, each way I turn around, nought preſent themſelves but ſhame, deſpair, and infamy!

ACT IV.

MY dear Wilville, I am very much obli⯑ged to you for this viſit, I intended call⯑ing on you in a few days.

On me; for what, pray?

Pſha! a triſle—There's a ſubſcription amongſt a few of us men of taſte to raiſe ten thouſand pounds, to divide between three Italian ſingers and two capi⯑tal French dancers, to be invited over for that pur⯑poſe next winter. That ſum, with what the mana⯑gers can give, benefits, and a few triſting preſents, will enable them to live tolerably genteel, and oblige foreigners to confeſs that no nation out-does us in ge⯑neroſity to ſtrangers—Will you make one?

I can't ſay that I have the leaſt inclination, and muſt think half that ſum beſtow'd on natives of merit and character, wou'd be infinitely more laudable.

May I renounce every thing that's foreign if I think ſo—for in my opinion, a man cannot give a greater proof of the remains of old Engliſh barba⯑riſm, than by encouraging natives, let their merit be ever ſo deſerving—'tis as great a vulgariſm, and as much out of faſhion, as relieving the poor of the pa⯑riſh one lives in.

I ſhan't diſpute the matter with you now, having buſineſs, to us, or much greater moment—You know Lord Promiſe?

Who, George?—perfectly, few know him better—He juſt parted from me—

As I gueſs'd—

—Did he mention what occaſion'd his return to town ſo ſoon?

Oh, now I ſuſpect what you are about—You want to ſhare the ſpoil—Ay, I know the whole ſto⯑ry [45]—Two damn'd fine girls he brought up with him. When he's tired, I ſuppoſe, he intends introducing them on the town.

The town, Sir!—That the villain dares not.

Sir!

Hold, Temple, reſtrain the impetuoſity of your temper.

Confound my intellects! if there is not ſome myſtery in this affair!

Yes, Sir, there is a myſtery which you muſt unravel, or I ſhall have recourſe to diſagreeable me⯑thods to oblige you.

Tom, is your friend apt to be lunatic?—For bubble me at Arthur's, if I underſrand a ſyllable he ſays.

No trifling, Sir; inform me where the ladies are this inſtant, or give me immediate ſatisfaction.

Upon my ſoul, Sir! I'll give you every rea⯑ſonable ſatisfaction you can deſire—But for fighting you muſt excuſe me, as I think it damn'd unreaſon⯑able!

Put up! here comes Promiſe in right time to anſwer for himſelf.

Epicene! I want to—Who the devil are theſe!

I ſuppoſe you are Lord Promiſe?

I am, Sir—Give me leave to demand your [...]me?

Temple.

I have not the honour of knowing you.

I believe we ſhall be better acquainted be⯑fore we part.

Very poſſible.

Give me leave to aſk, my Lord, what you have done with the Lambton Family?

The Lambton Family!

Yes, my Lord, 'tis a plain queſtion, and re⯑quires an immediate anſwer.

Firſt, Sir, let me know who you are, that in this peremptory manner demands it?

One that is determin'd to make you render a ſtrict account of them.

Indeed!—I will then—They are under my protection.

Reſtore them directly to their liberty.

I will not.

You ſhall.

Who dares attempt to make me!

I!—

And I!

What! do you intend to aſſaſſinate me? But were you arm'd an hundred fold, thus I defy you—

No, my Lord, I ſcorn the thought.

Gentlemen! for heaven's ſake be calm!—What the devil's the matter?—Will nothing content ye but cutting one another's throats?—I'm ſure if you had the averſion to blood I have, you'd be peace⯑able enough.

Give up the ladies, my Lord.

You ſhall have my life firſt.

You muſt defend it well, or I will—Meet me to-morrow morning at ſix in the park, there to de⯑cide our differences.

Depend upon me.

No, 'tis I who have moſt reaſon, and muſh inſiſt on ſatisfaction firſt.

Patience, Gentlemen!—One at a time—Let me diſpatch one firſt, and then I ſhall chaſtize the inſolence of the other at my leiſure.

Be not too ſure—Meet me with a ſecond at the time appointed.

May an eternal ſtigma brand my name if I diſappoint you!

Till then farewel!

By all that's terrible! I am glad they are gone, for I was curſedly afraid they wou'd have turn'd their fury upon me.

Who are theſe mettleſome ſparks?

I know but one of them, Wilville—The other fiery one, I believe, is Sir Harry Temple.

I have heard of them both, but cannot imagine by what unlucky accident they came to the knowledge of theſe girls—Epicene, I am going to do you great honour.

Well, let's hear.

You ſhall be my ſecond in this affair.

Sink me into everlaſting oblivion, if I will!

You cannot be in earneſt?

I am, by all that's ſerious!

What's your reaſon?

George, you are a man of courage, and theſe affairs may be an amuſement to you—I, on the con⯑trary, have an averſion to a ſword out of its ſcabbard, much more to its being lodg'd in my body.

Then you poſitively refuſe?

If ever I draw a ſword again, after my late diſaſter, except it be to break a lamp, frighten a waiter, or pink an old woman, where I am ſure my courage will not be put to the trial, may I never re⯑taſte the life-giving air of the continent.

You are a contemptible fellow, below my anger—

Hearkee, Promiſe, another word of comfort, Major Standfield is in town—What, fight him too?

Very poſſible—I confeſs I have work enough upon my hands at preſent—But there is no [...]etreating, and I dare do any thing but think.

May I be deſpis'd by every perſon of faſhion if this fighting, even when there's a reaſonable occa⯑ſion, is not the moſt ridiculous thing in nature!

A lady below ſtairs, Sir, deſires to ſee you.

A lady to ſee me!—Who is ſhe?

I can't tell, Sir.

—Shew her up—

What buſineſs can a lady poſſibly have with me!—Here ſhe comes—Umph!—Veil'd!—a foreigner by her air.

—Madam, your moſt obedient—Pleaſe to be ſeated—I think myſelf greatly honour'd by this viſit—Pray, may I have the favour of knowing what has occaſion'd it.

Oh! Sir!

Madam!

Pity my confuſion—and—and—

And what, Madam?

Spare the bluſhes which force themſelves even thro' this veil of ſhame!

—Heyday!—A fine girl by all that's delicate, and confoundedly in love with me, or I am greatly miſtaken!—

—Compoſe your⯑ſelf, my dear, you have nothing to be alarm'd at—May I be electrified by your charms, if I am not a man of the niceſt honour—Withdraw that cloud, and throw yourſelf wholly on my protection.

O! theſe well-known ſounds!—But I will rely on your generoſity, and reveal my hapleſs ſtory—Behold this face—

—then judge of my unhappy deſtiny!

Whither does all this tend to!

Think how ſevere muſt be my reflections, when, impell'd by love, I forſake relations, friends, country, every tender tie of nature and affection, and ſacrifice them all for your dear, dear ſake!

For mine, Madam?—May I be offer'd up a victim on the altar of Venus, if I can comprehend the meaning of all this!

Do you not know me then?

Never ſaw you before, to my knowledge—Strike me blind if I did!

Then I am irremediably undone!—Un⯑kind Epicene! thus to ſlight a maid who adores you.

Pray, Madam, where do you ſay I have had that pleaſure?

Have not you been in Italy?

I have.

Were you not intimate at Piſa with the noble family of Bentivolio?

I was, Madam.

Do you not remember they were once vi⯑ſited by their neice, Julia?—I am that unhappy maid—At firſt ſight I lov'd, and time has only ſerved to confirm me in my hopelſs flame—I wrote, but virgin-modeſty forbad my ſending it—At laſt, hear⯑ing of your return to England, the long-ſuppreſs'd paſſion grew too violent to be conceal'd—I reſolv'd to follow you—eſcap'd from my friends—brav'd all the perils of ſo long a voyage, and am now come to caſt myſelf at your feet, there to receive the reward of my conſtancy, or, at once, put an end to my ſuf⯑ferings—

I am petrified with aſtoniſhment!—Riſe, Ma⯑dam—

Not till your cruel heart is ſoftned!—By letters from a friend, who was privy to my flight, I am inform'd my brother, to whoſe care I was entruſt⯑ed on my parents death, has traced my ſteps to Eng⯑land, nay, is this very moment in London, in ſearch of me, perhaps entering this houſe, when, ſuch is [...]is impetuous temper, and refin'd notions of honour, that your life will be in danger from his reſentment, and immediate death muſt be my portion.

What an unlucky affair this is!—Riſe, for heaven's ſake, Madam!

Never—here will I cling 'till I've won you to pity me!

'Tis falſe!—I know ſhe's here, and will have vengeance!

Oh gracious!—my brother's voice!—What will be the conſequence!

The devil it is!—Let me entreat you to riſe.

No, cruel, obdurate man!

Confuſion!—then my fears are true!—Have I at laſt found thee, thou ſhame to thy ſex?—As for you, villain, draw, and deſend your unworthy life.

Hold, Sir, I beſeech you hold!—May I be condemn'd to everlaſting infamy, if I am not entire⯑ly innocent in this affair!

Innocent!—but I waſte time in parlying with ſuch a wretch—draw, or this inſtant is your laſt.

Help! murder! help!

Another ſuch word and you are a dead man.

I'm afraid I am a dead man indeed—For pi⯑ty's ſake, Madam, convince your brother of his miſ⯑take.

Alas, Sir! what can I ſay?—He will be⯑lieve nothing from me; you had beſt own the truth.

I ſee your guilt confounds you—Is this the grateful return you make to ſuch unmerited acts of hoſpitality and kindneſs?—to ſeduce the niece of ſo noble a houſe—a houſe that prides itſelf on the puri⯑ty of its blood, and the number of princes allied to it. Could not the largeneſs of her fortune tempt you to demand her honourably in marriage, without having recourſe to ſuch baſe methods?

Eternal ſtupefaction ſeize me, if I am not ſo ſurpriz'd at this whole affair, that I have not power to anſwer.

Hard-hearted Epicene, ſo long to reſiſt the entreaties of one that loves as I do—Accept my hand and fortune—perhaps my brother kindly will forgive all errors paſt.

Well, Sir, what ſay you to that?—now I'll put your honour to the utmoſt proof—If I oblivio⯑nize [51]all former failings, are you willing to do her juſtice?

Really, Sir, if you'll allow me to ſpeak with⯑out offending you, I muſt ſay that this whole tranſac⯑tion is a perfect riddle to me—for if I knew any thing of you, her, or her honour, 'till this inſtant, may I be confin'd and embalm'd alive!

Then ſince you trifle, your doom is ſeal'd.

Will nothing elſe content you but my marrying this lady?

Nothing.

You are ſure you have an unconquerable af⯑fection for me?—

I think I have given ſufficient proofs of it.

Curſe your proofs and you too, my dear—

—You promiſe, if I marry this lady, I ſhall poſſeſs her fortune, which you ſay is ample?—

Without doubt.

And you, Madam, promiſe, that immediate⯑ly after marriage you will, according to the preſent faſhionable mode, provide yourſelf with a Ciceſbeo?

you may depend upon it.

Some comfort that—

—I ſhall be per⯑mitted to reſide in any part of Italy I pleaſe, no mat⯑ter how far diſtant from my lady here—

Nothing more reaſonable.

As I ſhall give you an unlimited liberty, Ma⯑ [...]m, to have what friends you pleaſe at your petite [...]uppers, or elſewhere, you, on your part, promiſe not to take it ill if in public or private I always treat you with the polite coldneſs and indifference of a huſ⯑band?

O, by no means, I do not wiſh to appear particular, and I am ſenſible that hardly any thing but the name of marriage exiſts now.

Nor you, Sir, when the harmleſs frolic takes you, be for cutting my throat again?

Umph!—Why, on my ſiſter's account, I ſhall forego that pleaſure,

Since the devil will have me married, I think I cou'd not have had more reaſonable terms.

Give me your hand, now I find you are a man of honour.

Oh, zounds! I had forgot—I am engag'd al⯑ready.

How, Sir?

I am, by all that's miſerable!

Very well, Sir—you know the conſequence.

What an unfortunate creature am I!—But hear me—I am already engag'd to marry another la⯑dy, or forfeit thirty thouſand pounds.

A trifle!—forfeit it.

My fortune will not enable me.

My ſiſter's ſhall—Come, ſince I find words will not bind you, ſtronger ties ſhall—ſit down, write your conſent to marry my ſiſter, under penalty of loſing your whole eſtate.

Dear Sir, this is ſuperlatively cruel!

No alternative—this or that—

O that I durſt fight!—Well, I muſt ſubmit—

—Your name, Madam.

What, don't you know that already?

No, curſe me if I do!

Julia Bentivolio.

Julia Bentivolio—

—Umph—umph—there, Sir—will that ſatisfy you?

I promiſe—umph—marry—Julia Bentivolio—forteiture whole fortune—John Epi⯑cene—ay, ay, this will do—Now, ſiſter, I give you leave to embrace your huſband.

Huſband!—What harmony in the name!

With rapture do I fold the darling of my wiſhes!

Zounds! my dear, not ſo violent in your em⯑braces!—'tis the moſt unfaſhionable thing in nature.

I am ſorry to interrupt your bliſs, but, Julia, you muſt retire with me, if the ardency of your paſ⯑ſion will allow you to live a few hours without her.

Wou'd I had never ſeen her!—

I expect, Sir, you'll give immediate orders for the ſolemnization of your nuptials—and not to delay your happineſs by unneceſſary preparations, I kindly intend to celebrate them this evening.

Now, brother, you are kind indeed!—Adieu, my beſt beloved!

Adieu, my future torment!—Married!—no, I'll hang myſelf out of the way, and at once prevent my troubles!—And yet I have not the heart to de⯑prive the world of ſuch a pattern of elegance and dreſs—What, if I diſpute this conſent at law, as forc'd and illegal?—yes, and perhaps have myſelf run thro' the body before its determin'd—No, I muſt be married—deviliſh hard luck!—Oh, my unfortu⯑nate ſtars!—to what a dilemma am I reduced—either to fight or marry.

Come, no more whining—have not I agreed to the ſiſters being together at your requeſt? what wou'd you be at?—is there any harm done to them?

No, but how long will they remain ſo?

As long as I am maſter of my paſſions, not a bit longer—I think I have had an uncommon ſhare of patience in this affair—for ſuch a perverſe obſtinate baggage I never before met with.

Happy wou'd our ſex be, if all, like her. were proof againſt the falſe attacks of perjur'd, faith⯑leſs men.

Better as it is, child—You wou'd then be too near perfection for us mere frail mortals to ap⯑proach—Go, go, imitate your betters, think of re⯑pentance when you paſt the power of ſinning.

Well, Varniſh, our ſchemes hitherto have proved abortive—You are almoſt preach'd into a reformee by a grey-headed old man—and I have been fairly foiled by a green girl—What a couple of curſed fools!—This conſcience is a plaguy troubleſome companion.

Ah, my Lord, we never can do any good while we liſten to it.

You muſt to Mr. Lambton again—tempt him once more—offer any terms you pleaſe—tell him the deed is done—try, if poſſible, to perſuade him to write to his daughter that he approves of it—that may go a great way with her—about it directly. I ſhall wait your return before I attempt any thing further.

How if I don't ſucceed?

Aſk me no queſtions, Varniſh—I am al⯑moſt diſtracted—Sure never was ſo ſtrange a com⯑pound of love, libertiniſm, generoſity, and honour!

I am, however, glad, Charlotte, that your eyes are at laſt opened to ſee the fallacy of your wild ideas.

Say no more, ſiſter, I am heartily aſham'd and mortified already—I begin to ſee things in a new light, but my experience had like to have coſt me dear.

Enough, my dear, to be ſenſible of having acted wrong, is pain ſufficient to the ingenious mind, therefore I have done—What do you think of our [55]preſent ſituation?—for my part—but we are inter⯑rupted—

Ladies, if you'll pleaſe to walk into the next room tea is ready.

Excuſe us, Madam; in the preſent pertur⯑bation of our minds, refreſhment is not worth a thought.

I am ſenſible, ladies, the part I have acted in this affair muſt make me appear odious in your eyes, as it has contemptible in my own, yet, if you will but hear me—

Too much have we heard already, to be any longer impos'd upon.

Believe me, I do not mean it.

Oh, vice! what power has thou attain'd, when thou wear'ſt the ſemblance that virtue us'd to pride in!—A form like yours, ſurely, never was de⯑ſign'd to be an inſtrument in a ſcheme ſo deteſtable.

Abhorr'd be the hour I ever was!

If I can read aright, you are not one of thoſe who are harden'd in the ways of guilt—Your appear⯑ance ſpeaks you ſprung from parents who wou'd hide their heads in ſhame at your unhappy conduct—Have you unwarily deviated from the paths of virtue? add not to your crimes by endeavouring to make others equally wretched.

What ſhall I ſay to gain belief?—Ap⯑pearances, I own, are ſtrong againſt me—but black as I may ſeem, hear but my melancholy ſtory, and then refuſe me pity if you can.

Proceed, and be aſſured we wiſh to find it ſo.

Behold before you the only, and once prided daughter, of an ancient happy couple, as Love and Hymen ever yet united—to myſelf alone I owe my ruin—unmindful of their precepts, and truſting in the force of my imaginary charms, I fell unthinkingly in the fatal ſnare laid by the moſt art⯑ful [56]of men—Lord Promiſe triumph'd over my inno⯑cence—To conceal my ſhame, I left my tender pa⯑rents, and ventur'd into the world deſtitute of for⯑tune, friends, or virtue!

Unhappy conſequences of one falſe ſtep!

Fatally ſo, indeed!—Deſerted, deſpis'd, and hateful to myſelf, I cou'd only have recourſe to the author of my ruin—for a while he behav'd with tenderneſs, cool indifference ſucceeded, and I was ſoon oblig'd to give place to newer objects—What cou'd I do? my dependance was ſolely upon him—I bore my fate with reſignation, conſcious of having deſerv'd it, but when he oblig'd me to act a part in your deception, my remorſe grew too violent to be ſtifled—Thank heav'n he has hitherto fail'd in his de⯑ſigns—and I am now come with a determin'd reſo⯑lution either to effect your deliverance, or ſhare your fate while you remain here.

Then we have ſtill ſome hopes, and provi⯑dence has not yet deſerted us!—But what's to be done? how get from theſe unhallow'd walls?

That will be a difficult taſk▪ I am afraid, guarded as you are by his watchful emiſſaries.

Pray, do you know Sir Harry Temple?

Not in the leaſt, Madam.

Nor a Mr. Wilville?

I can't recollect that I do.

Nay, if you did, 'twou'd be to no purpoſe, they, alas! are many miles from hence—all hopes of relief from them are vain—But do you know Lord Promiſe's Siſter?

I have ſlight knowledge of her.

I believe ſhe will be the only probable means of our delivery—Suppoſe you throw yourſelf upon her generoſity—confeſs your whole affecting ſtory, and relate our cruel detention—I think, if her breaſt be not totally void of every feminine virtue, ſhe will pity you, and protect us.

Alas, Madam, Iſcarce can gather cou⯑rage to approach her; yet to releaſe you, and in ſome meaſure atone for paſt offences, I wou'd ſubmit to any thing, however humiliating.

Then let me perſuade you to go thither.

Well, Madam, I will.

But this inſtant—conſider our ſituation—a moment's delay may put it out of her power to re⯑lieve us.

I'll go directly—in the mean time pray take a diſh of tea, and recruit your exhauſted ſpirits.

You'll return as ſoon as poſſible.

Depend upon it.

Come, ſiſter, let us endeavour to compoſe ourſelves, and call to mind that from adverſity oft ſpring our choiceſt bleſſings.

My daughters not yet return'd, nor any news of Lord Promiſe!—I am almoſt diſtracted!

Oh, Sir, you are come—well—now I hope my fears are over—Where are my children?

Safe, Sir; very ſafe, I aſſure you.

My bleſſing on you for the news!—May I not expect them home ſoon?

Why, Sir, they have been ſo agreeably en⯑tertain'd ſince they went abroad, that you muſt not [...] impatient if they don't return quite ſo ſoon as you expected.

My poor girls!—they have indeed ſeen very little of the world, nor have they any thing to recommend them to the company they are in, except it be their innocence and virtue.

Really, Mr. Lambton, you have reaſon to be proud of them—they charm every one with their behaviour—Lady Fanny loves them already like ſiſters, nay, ſhe ſays it will be their own faults, if [58]they do not always rank ſo in her eſteem, as her hap⯑pineſs is wound up in theirs.

Her goodneſs is too much, too much for ſuch unworthy objects—for how is it poſſible they can contribute to her happineſs?

I have told you, Sir, how violently fond my Lord is of Miſs Maria—every minute encreaſes his paſſion, and it is now arriv'd at ſuch a pitch, that he cannot live an hour without her.

Live an hour without her!—You can⯑not mean it, ſure?

Upon my word, Sir, I do—You are a happy man, Mr. Lambton, to be father to ſo beautiful a daughter!—make yourſelf perfectly eaſy—your for⯑tune is made for ever.

Oh, wou'd to heav'n I cou'd!—For goodneſs ſake, Sir, explain your dark ambiguous meaning.

I am come, Sir, to congratulate you on the happy change of your affairs—Lord Promiſe has al⯑ready obtain'd a vacant place of two hundred pounds a year for you; Miſs Maria has five hundred pounds yearly ſettled upon her during life, beſides houſe, equipage, ſervants, and—

How!—hold, for the love of charity! On what conditions were all theſe things obtain'd?

Conditions! none, Sir—Lord Promiſe is too generous to exact any—all he deſires in return, is to be aſſur'd of Miſs Maria's unalterable love and con⯑ſtancy.

Merciful powers! how is my old ago⯑nizing heart torn by a thouſand different emotions! If you have any humanity in you, anſwer me truly—Are my Lord's deſigns upon my daughter honour⯑able, or not?

Entirely, Sir, upon my credit.

I wiſh I may find them ſo.

'Tis true, it is not in his power to marry her; what of that, you cannot ſurely be ſo weak and blind [59]to your own intereſt, as to ſtand on mere punctilio? In every other reſpect ſhe will be more than his wife—and as to—

Stop your licentious tongue! nor dare to inſult the virtuous poverty of my white hairs!

Inſult, Sir! the fartheſt thing in the world from my thoughts—Can you term it inſult to be at once ſeated above the—

Thou pander—look on me well—con⯑ſider whom you tempt—a father—Then think, whe⯑ther worlds ought to bribe me to deviate a moment from my duty.

But, allowing your ſentiments their utmoſt weight, will you not patiently bear an evil which cannot be removed?

What, more myſtery!—Pray, pray ex⯑plain yourſelf, and let me know the worſt of my un⯑happy fate.

Miſs Maria, Sir, not ſo inſenſible of my Lord's favours, has kindly rewarded him with every return in her power to beſtow.

Then all is over!—break heart-ſtrings, break at once, and end this miſerable being!—

—Yet, 'tis, it muſt be falſe!—Her mind, pure and ſpotleſs as new-drifted ſnow, cou'd not ſo ſoon be tainted—No, my child you cou'd not, wou'd not ſell your innocence, nor part with that jewel of ineſtimable price!

To what end, Sir, ſhou'd I now impoſe on you?—Your daughter has accepted of my Lord's love and tenderneſs—ſhe now has ſent me to requeſt you'd make yourſelf eaſy at what has happen'd, and, as ſoon as your firſt emotions are over, will be glad to ſee you; in the mean time, if you will write her word that you are ſatisfied with her conduct, and happy, ſhe will be compleatly ſo.

Tantalize not ſuch a wretch as me with the name of happineſs!—Oh, cruel, cruel girl, thus to pierce the boſom of a tender, doting father! [60]May every—no, I will not curſe her—curſe, where I ſo many thouſand times have bleſs'd—'twou'd be un⯑natural—Let then the never-ceaſing ſting of con⯑ſcience at laſt work her to repentance—Where is ſhe? lead me to her, that if ſhe has any ſpark of vir⯑tue yet remaining in her, I may awaken it—

Hold, Sir—that at preſent is impoſſible.

Impoſſible, Sir!—What power ſhall hinder me?

I muſt, Sir—in compaſſion to your mind thus agitated, I muſt.

Compaſſion, ſaid'ſt thou?—if thou haſt the leaſt tincture of it in thy compoſition, have pity on a wretched father, born down with age and ſor⯑rows—torture me not in this manner, 'tis too much for my feeble nature long to ſupport—let me but ſee my children, and I ſhall be eaſier.

To-morrow you ſhall.

To-morrow's an age to one in doubt like me—Stranger as I am, I'll find my way to Lady Fanny's.

Your efforts are vain—this houſe you are con⯑fin'd in, till you have a proper ſenſe of my Lord's kindneſs, and agree to his propoſals—Your daugh⯑ters, tho' very ſafe, are not at his ſiſter's, nor can your utmoſt diligence find them out—I'll leave you an hour to conſider of this affair—Either accept the offers to make you and your children happy for life, or be oblig'd to return into the country to-morrow morning without them—

Stay! for mercy's ſake ſtay!—Kill me, but do not aſk me to be acceſ⯑ſary to my children's diſhonour!

He's gone—O, Charlotte!—Maria!—The comforts of my declining years at once torn from me!—and in ſuch a manner—condemn'd to everlaſting infamy—'tis too much!—Unhappy, poor old man! who now will cloſe thy eyes, and receive thy dying bleſſing? O, where are all my dreams of felicity!—thoſe days [61]I hop'd to ſpend amongſt the prattling liſpers of my daughters!—all vaniſh'd, and real anguiſh now ſuc⯑ceeds—I dare not think—it may be dangerous—

—Yet, ſomething whiſpers comfort to my wound⯑ed ſoul—I will, if poſſible, be patient, and put my confidence in that being who never fails to ſuccour the afflicted heart in the hour of calamity!

ACT V.

HA! ha! ha!—Upon my word, Lu⯑cy, you have manag'd this affair ad⯑mirably, beyond my expectations—We ſhall now proceed to the ſecond part of the ſcene, and if we don't torment him to ſome purpoſe, why I am great⯑ly deceived.

Never fear, I'll ſecond you—But you can't imagine how I'm affected with Miſs Spence's relation of the Miſs Lambtons confinement.

Not more than I am, I aſſure you—poor girls! I am impatient 'till we go to their relief.

Two Gentlemen, my Lady, Sir Harry Tem⯑ple and Mr. Wilville, deſire to ſpeak with you.

Hey-day! more adventures!—Wait on them up—

What can they want with me? ſomething relating to my righteous brother, I ſuppoſe—I muſt beg of you, my dear, to retire for a minute or two, and as ſoon as theſe gentlemen are gone, we'll proceed to Epi⯑cene's together.

Pardon this intruſion, my Lady, which no thing but the nature of our buſineſs cou'd excuſe.

There needs none, Sir.

Neceſſity, Madam, obliges us, after every other method has fail'd, to trouble you—We are in ſearch of two ladies, whom your brother has decoy'd up to twon, and by force ſecretes, ſpite of our utmoſt endeavours to ſind out and releaſe them.

I was right I find—

—Your ſearch is at an end, Gentlemen, if you mean Mr. Lamb⯑ton's family, who came to town this morning.

We do—Is it poſſible you can have heard of them?

I have, and was contriving means for their deliverance when you came in.

How fortunate!—Dear Lady, let us fly to give them liberty, and prevent the evils they are threatned with.

Hold, Sir; not ſo faſt—truſt all to my management, and I'll enſure you ſucceſs.

You ſhall be our tutelar deity on this occa⯑ſion, only conſider our impatience.

I do, therefore will not waſte time in uſe⯑leſs ceremonies—do you know Epicene?

Perfectly well.

You muſt accompany me thither directly, on our way I'll explain every thing, and give you proper inſtructions how to behave.

Lead on, Madam, and may our ſucceſs ex⯑ceed our wiſhes.

Strike me deaf at an opera, Promiſe, if ever I was in ſuch a dilemma before!—No, not even in Naples, when that curſed affair happen'd which forced me to live a month with Squalitini the bur⯑letta ſinger.

And ſo the brother abſolutely obliged you to ſign a contract.

Abſolutely; for, when his ſword was drawn, had he inſiſted on my binding myſelf to a tobacco planter, to work in his plantations the remainder of my life, I cou'd not have refuſed him.

What a ſpiritleſs dog!—Well, but was the Signiora handſome?

Deviliſhly ſo—But what was that to me?—Had ſhe the beauty of Venus, the chaſtity of Diana, and the wiſdom of Minerva—all theſe joined toge⯑ther [64]cou'd not have gained her admiſſion into the Co⯑terie, or let me into the ſecret at the next Newmar⯑ket meeting.

Quite the contrary, I believe.

Of what uſe are a woman's good qualities then?—If my deſtiny will have me yoked, give me a faſhionable wife, who will raiſe a man's reputation in the world.

Pray, how is that to be done?

Only by following the example of every day—eloping before the honey-moon is over—obtaining a divorce—and exalting the happy man to a level with the greateſt names of the preſent age.

Very clever indeed.

Oh, almoſt as certain a road to fame as mo⯑dern patriotiſm—But I have not told you all my miſ⯑fortunes—This viſit has deſtroyed an immenſe deal of happineſs I had in petto.

Ay! How ſo?

I intended to have cut a diſtinguiſhing figure at the next maſquerade, in the character of a French milliner.

Which this accident has prevented?

It has by all that's cruel!—For what Guſto cou'd I have, or how cou'd I poſſibly diſplay my ta⯑lents under ſuch an embarraſſment?

True—The world will ſuſtain an irrepara⯑ble loſs—But what do you think my ſiſter will ſay to you upon this occaſion?

May I be annihilated! if that does not giv [...] me the greateſt concern—She's a lady of the niceſt diſcernment, and if ſhe has unalterably fix'd her affec⯑tions on me, ſo as to drive her to ſome act of deſpe⯑ration, I ſhou'd never forgive myſelf.

Lady Fanny Promiſe deſires to ſpeak with you, my Lord.

Shew her up.

Your ſiſter!—Zounds, what ſhall I do?—I am quite unprepar'd for this rencontre.

Faith, ſo am I; her coming, I am afraid, bodes no good to either of us—retire you, and leave me to manage her.

My dear boy, help me out of this difficulty, and command me to eternity.

She has not ſure got a hint of what I am about, if ſhe has, I muſt ſhift ground directly.

Brother, I am glad to ſee you.

That's more than I can ſay by you—

Siſter, your ſervant—What, my little rogue Cle⯑ment!—I'll lay my life ſome miſchief's on foot now, for no other cauſe cou'd have brought you both hither.

You are a prophet, brother—Come, tell us now whether we ſhall ſucceed or no?

Where two women join their heads toge⯑ther, I think they are a match for the grand miſchief maker.

Thank you!—You had beſt take care of yourſelf—

—Pray, where is that pretty gentle⯑man, your travelling companion?

Who, Epicene?

The fame.

Somewhere in the houſe, I ſuppoſe—Is your buſineſs with him?

It is, and we are come to beg your aſſiſt⯑ [...]nce.

In what?

Only to plague him a little.

Poor devil! he's pretty well prepar'd to your hand, I aſſure you.

How! has he told you of his whimſical ſituation?

We were juſt talking of it when you inter⯑rupted us—but, how the deuce came you to know it?

Becauſe I contriv'd it.

You contriv'd it!

Yes—behold the diſtreſs'd Lady Julia Bentivolio.

Ha! ha! ha!—Upon my ſoul a glorious joke! ha! ha! ha!—Is it poſſible he can be ſo duped?—Well, what am I to do?

Withdraw 'till a convenient time, then ap⯑pear, and add to his diſtreſs, by inſiſting on the per⯑formance of his contract with me.

Ha! ha! ha! excellent!—I underſtand you—you cou'd not have oblig'd me more highly than by letting me into the ſecret—ha! ha! ha!—If I don't mortify him—

Away then, and ſend him up—but not the leaſt hint of what we are about.

No, not for the world.

And when that's over, my good brother, I ſhall take you to taſk in a manner you little ſuſpect. I think my plans are pretty well laid now, and can hardly fail of ſucceſs—This confiding in him, lulls him to perfect ſecurity.

Well, what am I to do?

Retire to your brother, but place your⯑ſelves within hearing, and when you think your pre⯑ſence neceſſary, both ſecond me, and join in the at⯑tack—Stay, take my laſt orders—when I have done with Epicene, and begun upon my brother, do you march off unperceiv'd, and lead up the reinforce⯑ments in regular order.

Never fear me—this will be a curious piece of generalſhip.

Ay, girl; and, if we ſucceed, we ſhall deſerve ſtatues raiſing to our memories—march.

Row, dow! dow! dow! row! dow!

Bravo!—mum!—

Dear Lady Fanny, this is ſo great an ho⯑nour—

And, I am afraid, ſo unwiſh'd for—

Wrong not your own charms ſo far as to ima⯑gine I wiſh not to devote my whole life to their con⯑templation.

But it muſt be at a diſtance tho', I find—Come, come, Mr. Epicene, 'tis in vain to diſguiſe my unhappy fate, tho' your politeneſs won'd gloſs it over—be ingenuous, and confeſs you have not a heart to beſtow.

Alas, Lady Fanny, our affections are not to be commanded—if they were, I ſwear by all that's beautiful, I know not a more deſerving object.

O feeble, weak attractions!—they cannot hold in chains the only man I ever wiſh'd to conquer!

Upon my ſoul, this is very diſtreſſing!

Yet, who can behold that aſſemblage of every thing noble and manly, without pitying, ra⯑ther than condemning the violence of my unreturn'd affection!

Far gone, by all that's affecting!—And yet what a proper ſenſe ſhe entertains of my merit!

Not a word to give me hopes!—Sure if I lay aſide the native modefty of my ſex, the object be⯑fore me will ſufficiently juſtify me to the world—You muſt, nay, you ſhall comply.

Egad, if I don't take care, ſhe may go greater lengths than I deſire—

—Believe me, Lady Fanny, an unlucky accident has render'd it utterly impoſſible for me to do you the juſtice you deſerve—notwithſtanding I love, nay, adore you more than any of your ſex.—

Except me, Mr. Epicene!

Confuſion!—what will become of me!

Why does my love turn away?—What woman's this, who ſeems to take an intereſt in you?

One, Madam, that has a prior claim to you, and is reſolv'd to aſſert it.

Indeed!—this is ſome artifice—I ſee thro' the weak device, and will ſoon defeat it—brother!

The brother!—this is too much!

Mr. Epicene, I am very glad to ſee you.

I wiſh with all my heart I could return the compliment.

I am come rather ſooner than I at firſt in⯑tended; but when I conſider'd the violence of your paſſion for my ſiſter, I cou'd no longer retard your happineſs.

You are too good!—too good, upon my ſoul!

Well, Sir, ſhall the ceremony be immediately per [...]orm'd?

If the ceremony at tyburn was perform'd, I ſhou'd have a happy riddance from my plagues!

I know not what right, Sir, you, or that lady has to my huſband.

Your huſband!—How, Sir, are you married to that lady?

No, Sir—not that I know of.

Oh, well—are you ready and willing to mar⯑ry my ſiſter?

Very ready, Sir—but curſedly unwilling!

Nay, then, I muſt have recourſe to other means—O brother! brother! come and right an in⯑jur'd ſiſter!

My ſiſter! why do you call in this alarm⯑ing manner?

I'm wrong'd, baſely wrong'd, and have not the leaſt hopes of redreſs, except from you.

For the love of charity, Promi [...]e, come and right me—'tis I have moſt need of it.

What's the reaſon of this confuſion?—Who are you, Sir?

Carlino Bentivolio—brother to this lady.

Ay, George, this is the damn'd fierce Italian who bully'd me ſo to-day—I wiſh'd for you then.

Well, ſiſter—to you—

I claim my contract.

You are determined to urge your claim?

I am.

Lookee, Epicene, I profeſs myſelf your friend—

A thouſand thanks, my dear boy?

And as a proof of my friendſhip, I will this inſtant—

What? what?

Sacrifice you, unleſs you do my ſiſter juſ⯑tice.

Oh, mercy on me!

This moment agree to marry her, or im⯑mediate death's your portion.

I will—I will!

How, Sir? have not you pro⯑miſed this lady that ſatisfaction?

Yes, I have—I am diſtracted between them! Really, gentlemen, I am but a man, if you expect to find me more, you'll be deviliſhly miſtaken—If I can oblige the ladies, I will—only determine between yourſelves whether I muſt marry one or both of them, and I ſhall obey you.

I ſee you are almoſt below my notice.

I wiſh I was entirely ſo.

I find I muſt be an umpire in this affair—Come, Epicene, if you wiſh to be deliver'd from your thraldom, you muſt make ſome humiliating conceſſions.

Heav'n knows, any thing that's in my power, I will.

In the firſt place, you muſt aſk pardon of theſe ladies, and, thro' them, of the whole ſex, for the cold unanimated, unworthy ideas, you always entertain's of thoſe maſter-pieces of nature.

I do.

Next, you muſt acknowledge you have not courage enough to attempt, nor ſenſe ſufficient to prize, the leaſt of their favours.

I acknowledge.

You muſt now ſay after me—

Well!

I confeſs, that a Macaroni is the moſt inſignificant—inſipid—uſeleſs—contemptible being—in the whole crea⯑tion—Very well, you are docile, I find—Laſtly, you muſt entirely quit the appearance of ſuch a deſ⯑picable ſpecies, and endeavour to aſſume the Man.

That's hard, nay, I am afraid impoſſible—You may as well bid me ſhake off my exiſtence.

For ſhame!—Think who you ſprung from, a race of hardy, virtuous, conquering Britons, and bluſh at your own degenerate exotic effeminan⯑cy—But I have done, and be aſſur'd, my ſole motive was to ſet you up a glaſs, wherein you might behold a faithful image—As to my ſiſter, I can prevail on her to reſign her right in you—here, exchange bonds, and never preſume to trouble her more.

If I do, may the combined plagues of Egypt be my portion!

It now only remains to ſatisfy that lady.

Which will be eaſily done, my Lord, here, Sir, is your contract, nor ſhou'd any conſide⯑ration unite me to ſo reprehenſible a character.

Ha! ha! ha!

Strike me to the antipodes, Madam, if I am not heartily oblig'd to you!

Ha! ha! ha!—Come, 'tis time to drop the maſk—Siſter, I wiſh you joy of your deliverance! If I divine aright, you can now beſtow your hand up⯑on a more worthy object—Clement, take her, take what that fooliſh puppy had not underſtanding enough to value.

You are very obliging, brother—and ſince 'tis ſo, I own he has deſerv'd me—Here, accept my hand; but, have a care, if you repent, I ſhall not ſo eaſily forego my claim as I did to that gentleman.

When I do, may I, like him, be the deſerving object of ridicule!

I am thunderſtruck!—what's all this?—is not your name Carlino Bentivolio?

No, Sir, my name's Clement, at your ſer⯑vice—Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

Nor yours, Madam Julia Bentivolio?

Lucy Clement, if you pleaſe, Sir—Ha! ha! ha!

I perceive I have been moſt egregiouſly bub⯑bled here!—Ladies and Gentlemen, you have been highly diverted at my expence—I own I deſerve it, and begin to ſee my folly—As a proof, give me leave to withdraw for the preſent, and get perfect in the ca⯑techiſm you was pleaſed to teach me.

Stay, Mr. Epicene—after your confeſſion, it wou'd be ungenerous to torment you farther—What a great pity 'tis my brother can't be made as ſenſible of his errors, and reform too.

Pray, my good ſiſter, what errors wou'd your great wiſdom correct?

Only a few triſling ones, brother—ſuch as that humane delight you take in ſuducing the in⯑nocent and unwary of our ſex, and thoſe harmleſs conſequences generally attending—

Stop, child, this is no time for ſuch lec⯑tures.

The beſt time in the world, brother, our auditors are friends, and they, I am ſure, will excuſe my inability.

Ay, ay, Madam, go on—he never ſpared me.

In ſhort, your licentiouſneſs is grown to ſuch a pitch, that unleſs providence, out of its great [72]goodneſs, timely interpoſes and awakens in you a ſenſe of your guilt, you muſt tremble at its juſt pu⯑niſhments.

Pſhaw! ſtuff!—have done with this ſer⯑monizing.

Patience, brother, I am only beginning.

Bravo! Lady Fanny!—to him, he begins to flinch already.

But as example enforces precept, give me leave to illuſtrate my argument.

What can ſhe mean?

Behold, here is one of the many objects whom you have wantonly plung'd into endleſs miſery.

Miſs Spence! then I am betray'd, and all's over.

What, confus'd!—chear up, here are more friends—

Theſe are the two ladies you entruſted to my care—you ſee I can give a very good account of them—they are come to return you thanks for your friendly invi⯑tation up to town—you may expect the father ſoon on the ſame errand.

Ha! ha! ha!—I believe 'tis my turn to ca⯑techize now—Come, aſk pardon of theſe ladies, and of the whole ſex, for the looſe, profligate ideas you always entertain'd of their virtue.

Epicene, you grow troubleſome.

Ha! ha! ha!—Nay, Promiſe—

—you was always an apt ſcholar—ſay after me—I confeſs—that a libertine—is the moſt wicked—dangerous—remorſeleſs—lawleſs—aban⯑doned being—in the whole creation.

What, brother—not a word?

Yes, ſiſter, many—'tis paſt—the ſtrug⯑gle's over, and I will give way to conſcience—That I have been a profeſs'd libertine I own—before you all I own it, but'tis with the ſincereſt regret—To atone [73]for paſt miſchiefs is impoſſible—a patriarchal life wou'd be too ſhort—I have followed an ignis fatuus, and am bewilder'd in inextricable paths of error—too late the deluſion vaniſh'd—not even an herculean arm can ſave me now from ſinking.

Courage, brother—we muſt not preſume to ſet bounds to infinite mercy.

Of you, ladies, who happily fell not in my ſnares, I entreat forgiveneſs—I beſeech you par⯑don each offence againſt you and virtue—To Miſs Spence, 'tis not in my power to make atonement in any meaſure adequate to the wrongs I have done her—What can, ſhall be done—I know her circumſtances, and ſhe may depend upon being provided for in ſuch a manner, as, for the future, to ſet her above temp⯑tation.

Why, Promiſe, this is noble—theſe are ge⯑nuine fruits of reformation.

Now, gentlemen, you may appear, and I hope all animoſi⯑ty between you will be no more remembered.

More witneſſes of my ſhame!—they are welcome—I deſign'd, gentlemen, to have injur'd you in the tendereſt point, but heaven providential⯑ly interpos'd, and turned, what I intended as the blackeſt crime, into the means of future bleſſings.

Mention it not, my Lord—the original gene⯑rous, tho' miſled heart, when awak'd from its le⯑thargy of vice, oft-times ariſes more bright and active from its late obſcurity.

Where are my children? give me room—I muſt—I will embrace them!—do I once more fold you in my arms!—no force or fraud ſhall ever ſeparate us more!

You need not fear it, Sir—I, who alone was author of your ills, ſhall ſtudy to make your life to come one ſeries of continued happineſs—Thou good old man, can'ſt thou forgive the wrongs I've done thee?

My Lord, I ſhou'd ill deſerve the name you honour me with, if I cou'd not only for⯑give, but bleſs, the worſt of enemies, even as I hope myſelf to be forgiven—and may that power who de⯑lights in acts of mercy, further every good and no⯑ble thought!

May I forfeit all pretenſions to reformation, if the old gentleman's benignity won't make me, un⯑faſhionable as it may appear, viſit the inſide of a church oftener than I have done.

Gentlemen, I am happy in ſeeing you here ſo unexpectedly—to what fortunate accident do I owe this pleaſure?

To the deſire alone, Sir, of ſerving you and theſe ladies—and lucky as we are in meeting with you, give us leave to hope we may participate in the general joy.

If 'tis in my power you may be aſſur'd of it.

We both have lov'd your daughters ſome time—you muſt have obſerv'd the particularity of our behaviour, as we wiſh'd not to conceal it—our families and fortunes are well known to you—ſince we came hither, they have owned we were not in⯑different to them—perhaps a father's authority might—

No, Gentlemen, my children ſhall never be commanded into marriage—'tis my duty to adviſe, but not compel them.

No great compulſion, I'll anſwer, Mr. Lambton—they'd cry their eyes out to be refus'd.

What ſay you, girls?

I own, Sir, Mr. Wilville's good qualities have made an impreſſion on me never to be eraſed, and, authorized by you, I will readily give my hand where my heart is irrevocably engag'd.

That's a good girl—Come, Miſs Lamb⯑ton, don't let your younger ſiſter out-do you.

The dread that my paſt behaviour is inexcuſable, has hitherto kept me ſilent—I am con⯑ſcious of its impropriety, and have nothing to offer in defence, but my ſimplicity and ignorance of the world.

You cannot offer a better plea to the think⯑ing heart.

Well, gentlemen, if you can deſcend to match with girls whoſe virtue is all their portion—

Name it not, Sir—As the beginning of our love was diſintereſted, ſo ſhall be the completion—They want no addition of fortune, and are in them⯑ſelves treaſures beyond what imperial greatneſs cou'd beſtow.

Nobly ſpoken—and now, Mr. Lambton, give me leave to make ſuch a proviſion for you, as ſhall teſtify a proper ſenſe of my paſt conduct, and in which I am certain my father on his return will readily concur.

How deviliſh generous this love and honour makes people.

But yet I miſs a faithful ſervant, who ought to ſhare his maſter's joy.

He well deſerves it—be it my buſineſs to reward him, and for ever diſcard thoſe minions of vice, who too long have prey'd upon me.

Now, brother, you have with a truly no⯑ble Spirit acknowledg'd every failing you have been charged with—can you have conſtancy to perſevere?

I think ſo

Nay, I have a ſevere trial yet to come—a fiery ordeal—but you muſt endure it before you can be perfect.

That I can never be—but in the name of wonder, what new myſtery have you yet to unravel?

Turn your eyes this way, and view the man who once was proud to call you friend.

Major Standfield!—'tis too much!—I cannot, dare not ſtand his preſence.

You can, and muſt, brother—he is not come to hurt your mind with keen reproaches, but rather to pour the healing balm of peace into the corroding wounds of vice, which long have rankled in your breaſt.

No, no, it cannot be—I do not hope for⯑giveneſs—Major, I bare my breaſt—there is no way but this to expiate guilt like mine.

There is, my Lord, a nobler way—a way which earth and heav'n muſt both approve—prepare yourſelf for more wonder.

O, all ye powers! what is it I behold?—Can it be real, or is it the phantom of my Eugenia, riſen from the dead, to ſet my crimes in full array be⯑fore me?—I muſt, I will embrace it!—Ha! it ſinks!—help to ſupport her—look down ye bright celeſtial inhabitants of glory, and reſtore this injur'd ſaint to life!

Oh, my Lord, theſe wild effuſions of a heart overpower'd with love and tenderneſs ſpeak well the unreſtrain'd dictates of its owner—but I muſt curb its tranſports—Look here, another object demands your fondeſt care.

Can it be poſſible ſuch happineſs is in ſtore for me! am I father too?

You are, my Lord, if you'll own the obliga⯑tion.

Own it! ay, prouder of that title than to be hail'd an Indian monarch!—My cherub! my lit⯑tle cherub! receive a father's firſt embraces!—Now, my Eugenia, we are met, never to be ſeparated more.

Hear me, my Lord—That I have lov'd you, nay, that I ſhall continue to do ſo while life keeps her ſeat, is the only excuſe I can offer for my frailty—I have hitherto obey'd my father's will, per⯑mit [77]me now to follow the dictates of my own—Had I my innocence, and was miſtreſs of the untold trea⯑ſures of the eaſt—all that the ſun ſurveys in his di⯑urnal round, you ſhou'd be maſter of it—but cover'd with infamy as I am, tho' you cou'd raiſe me to the utmoſt pinnacle where ſtar-crown'd virtue ought to ſit—a conſcious pride wou'd forbid the exaltation.

Zounds! a charming girl! what a pity 'tis ſhe ſhou'd be loſt to the world.

Is then my dream of bliſs deſtroy'd?—my new-found bleſſing, turn that way, and intercede with your inexorable mother—tell her my peace here and hereafter depends upon her receiving my peni⯑tential vows.

My Lord, the honey-dropping tongue of ſeraphic eloquence cannot move me to change my purpoſe—I have now attain'd my utmoſt wiſhes, to ſee you thoroughly ſenſible of your failings, and wou'd fain retire to that peaceful cottage which this event has drawn me from, there, with my little roſe⯑lipp'd comforter, paſs my future hours in undiſturbed ſolitude.

Preſs her no farther, brother—leave it to time—when ſhe is ſufficiently aſſured of your ſteady perſeverance in the paths of rectitude, the love ſhe acknowledges for you may probably induce her at laſt to reward your conſtancy.

Now, Lady Fanny, with your leave, we'll retire and celebrate the ſurprizing events of this happy day, events which muſt fully manifeſt to every boholder, that however virtue may for a time be oppreſt and held in durance, yet is it always the pe⯑culiar, and never-deſerted favourite, of rewarding Providence.