ACT I. SCENE I.

HOOT! fellows, haud your honds: pack up your damn'd clarinets, and gang your gait, for a pair of lubberly minstrels, as you are. An you cou'd hondle the bagpipe instead, I wou'd na' say you nay: ah! 'tis an auncient instrument of great melody, and has whastled many a braw lad to his grave; but your holidays horns there are fit only to play to a drunken city-barge on a swan-hopping party up the Thames.

Fedon, Monsieur Colin, for why you have send away the horns? It is very much the ton in this country for the fine gentlemens to have the horns: upon my vord, my Lord this day give grand entertainment to very grand company; tous les maccaroni below stairs, et toute la coterie above. Hark, who vait dere? My Lord ring his bell.—Voi la, Monsieur Colin, dere is all the company going to the tea-room.

Now the de'el burst the weams of you all together, say I, for a pack of locusts; a cow in a clover field has more moderation than the best among you: [Page 2] had my lord Abberville the wealth of Glasgow, you'd swallow it all down before you gee'd over.—Crom, crom.

Vat is dat crom, crom? We do not know in France vat is dat crom, crom. But vat you say to the dinner? Upon my vord Monsieur the cook, make as fine dispositions for the table, as the Grand Condé did for the battle: ma foi, he merit to have his statue raised en crocan, in the center of his own performance.

Rais'd on a gibbet in the center of Hounslow Heath; that's what he merits.

Ah, barbare! Here come my Lord.

Colin, see that covers are laid for four-and-twenty, and supper served at twelve in the great eating-parlour.

Ecod, my Lord, had you ken'd the mess of cakes and sweeties that was honded up amongst 'em just now, you wou'd na' think there cou'd be muckle need of supper this night.

What, fellow, wou'd you have me starve my guests?

Troth, an you don't, they'll go nigh to starve you.

Let me hear no more of this, Colin Macleod; I took you for my servant, not for my adviser.

Right, my Lord, you did; but if by advising I can serve you, where's the breach of duty in that?

What a Highland savage it is.—My father indeed made use of him to pay the servants wages, and post the tradesmen's accounts; as I never do either, I wish somebody else had him that does.

What quoting, Mortimer? and satire too?—I thought you need not go abroad for that.

True; therefore, I'm returning home.—Good night to you.

What, on the wing so soon! With so much company can my philosopher want food to feast his spleen upon?

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Food! I revolt against the name; no Bramin cou'd abominate your fleshly meal more than I do, why Hirtius and Apicius would have blush'd for it: Marc Antony, who roasted eight whole boars for supper, never massacred more at a meal than you have done.

A truce, good cynick: pr'ythee now get thee up stairs, and take my place; the ladies will be glad of you at cards.

Me at cards! me at a quadrille-table; pent in with fuzzing dowagers, gossiping old maids and yellow admirals; 'sdeath, my Lord Abberville, you must excuse me

Out on thee, unconformable being, thou art a traitor to society.

Do you call that society?

Yes, but not my society; none such as you describe will be found here; my circle, Mr. Mortimer, is form'd by people of the first fashion and spirit in this country.

Fashion and spirit! Yes, their country's like to suffer by their fashion more than 'twill ever profit by their spirit.

Come, come, your temper is too sour.

And your's too sweet: a mawkish lump of manna; sugar in the mouth, but physic to the bowels.

Mr. Mortimer, you was my father's executor; I did not know your office extended any further.

No; when I gave a clear estate into your hands, I clear'd myself of an unwelcome office: I was, indeed, your father's executor; the gentlemen of fashion and spirit will be your lordship's.

Pooh! you've been black-ball'd at some paltry port-drinking club; and set up for a man of wit and ridicule.

Not I, believe me: your companions are too dull to laugh at, and too vicious to expose.—There stands a sample of your choice.

Who, Doctor Druid? Where's the harm in him?

Where is the merit?—What one quality does that old piece of pedantry possess to fit him for the liberal office of travelling preceptor to a man of rank? You know, my Lord, I recommended you a friend as fit to form your [Page 4] manners as your morals; but he was a restraint; and, in his stead, you took that Welchman, that buffoon, that antiquarian forsooth, who looks as if you had rak'd him out of the cinders of Mount Vesuvius.

And so I did: but pr'ythee, Mortimer, don't run away; I long to have you meet.

You must excuse me.

Nay, I must have you better friends.—Come hither, Doctor, hark'e—

Another time, at present, I am in no humour to stay the discussion of a cockle-shell, or the dissection of a butterfly [...]s wing.

Putterflies! putterflies in your teeth, Mr. Mortimer. What is the surly-poots prabbling about? Cot give her coot luck; will the man never leave off his flings, and his fleers, and his fegaries; packpiting his petters?—Coot, my Lord, let me call him back, and have a little tisputes and tisputations with him, d'ye see.

Hang him, tedious rogue, let him go.

Tedious! ay, in coot truth is he, as tedious as a Lapland winter, and as melancholy too; his crochets, and his humours damp all mirth and merriment, as a wet blanket does a fire: he is the very night-mare of society.

Nay, he talks well sometimes.

Ay, 'tis pig sound, and little wit; like a loud pell, to a pad dinner.

Patience, good Doctor, patience! another time you shall have your revenge, at present you must lay down your wrath, and take up your attention.

Iv'e done, my Lord, Iv'e done: laugh at my putterflies indeed! if he was as pig and as pold as King Gryffyn, Doctor Druid wou'd make free to whisper an oord or two in his ear.

Peace, cholerick King of the mountains, peace.

Iv'e done, my Lord, I say Iv'e done.

If you have done, let me begin. You must know then, I expect my city madam from Fish-street Hill.

Ay, ay, the rich pig-pellied fellow's daugh­ter, young Madam Pridgemore, my Lady Apperville, that is to be, pless her, and save her, and make her a coot wife, say I.

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Pr'ythee, good Doctor, don't put a man in mind of his misfortunes: I tell you, she is coming here by appointment, with old Bridgemore and her mother; 'tis an execrable groupe, and as I mean to make all things as easy to me as I can, I'm going out to avoid being troubled with their impertinence.

Going out, my Lord, with your house full of company?

Oh! that's no objection, none in the least, fa­shion reconciles all those scruples: to consult your own ease in all things is the very first article in the recipe for good breeding; when every man looks after himself, no one can complain of neglect; but as these maxims may not be orthodox on the eastern side of Temple-bar, you must stand Gentleman Usher in this spot; put your best face upon the matter, and marshal my citizens into the assem­bly room, with as much ceremony, as if they came up with an address from the whole company of Cordwainers.

Out on it, youv'e some tevilish oomans in the wind, for when the tice are rattling above, there's nothing but teath, or the tevil, cou'd keep you below.

Youv'e guest it; such a divine, delicious little devil, lurks in my heart; Glendower himself cou'd not exorcise her: I am possest, and from the hour I saw her by surprize, I have been plotting methods how to meet her; a lucky opening offers, the mine is laid, and Bridge­more's visit is the signal for springing it.

Pridgemore's! how so?

Why, 'tis with him she lives; what else cou'd make it difficult, and what but difficulty, cou'd make me pursue it? They prudently enough wou'd have conceal'd her from me, for who can think of any other, when Miss Aubrey is in sight?—But hark! they're come; I must escape—Now, love and fortune, stand my friends!

Pless us, what hastes and hurries he is in, and all for some young hussey—Ah! he'll never have a proper relish for the venerable antique: I never shall bring down his mercury, to touch the proper freezing point, which that of a true virtuoso ought to stand at: sometimes indeed he will contemplate a beautiful statue, as if it was a ooman; I never cou'd persuade him to look upon a beautiful ooman, as if she was a statue.

Doctor, I kiss your hands; I kiss your hands, good Doctor.—How these nobles live! Zooks, what a swinging chamber!

Why, Mr. Bridgemore, sure you think yourself in Leatherseller's hall.

Pray recollect yourself, Pappa; indeed this is not Fish street Hill.

I wish it was: I'd soon unhouse this trumpery: I'd soon furnish it with better goods: why this profusion, child, will turn your brain.

Law, how you stand and stare at things; stopping in the hall to count the servants, gaping at the lustre there, as if you'd swallow it.—I suppose our daugh­ter, when she's a woman of quality, will behave as other women of quality do.—Lucinda, this is Doctor Druid, Lord Abberville's travelling tutor, a gentleman of a very antient family in North Wales.

So it should seem, if he's the representative of it.

Without flattery, Mrs. Bridgemore, Miss has very much the behaviours of an ooman of quality already.

Come Sir, we'll join the company, Lord Abberville will think us late.

Yes truly, he's impatient for your coming, but you shall find him not at home.

How; not at home?

A mighty proof of his impatience, truly.

Why, 'twas some plaguy business took him out, but we'll dispatch it out of hand, and wait upon you quickly.

Well, business, business must be done.

I thought my Lord had been a man of fashion, not of business.

And so he is; a man of the first fashion; you can­not have a fresher sample: the worst gallant in nature is your maccaroni; with the airs of a coquette you meet the manners of a clown: fear keeps him in some awe be­fore the men, but not one spark of passion has he at heart, to remind him of the ladies.

Well, we must make our curtsies above stairs—our card was from Lady Caroline; I suppose she is not from home, as well as her brother.

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Who waits there? show the ladies up.

Ay, ay, go up, and show your cloaths, I'll chat with Dr. Druid here below.

I love to talk with men that know the world; they tell me, Sir, you've travelled it all over.

Into a pretty many parts of it.

Well, and what say you, Sir? you're glad to be at home; nothing I warrant like old England. Ah I what's France, and Spain, and Burgundy, and Flanders? no, old England for my money; 'tis worth all the world besides.

Your pelly says as much; 'twill fill the pot, but starve the prain; 'tis full of corn, and sheep, and villages, and people: England, to the rest of the oorld, is like a flower-garden to a forest.

Well, but the people, Sir, what say you to the people?

Nothing: I never meddle with the human species; man, living man, is no object of my curiosity, nor ooman neither; at least, Mr. Pridgemore, till she shall be made a mummies of.

I understand you; you speak in the way of trade: money's your object.

Money and trade! I scorn 'em both; the beaten track of commerce I disdain to follow: I've traced the Oxus, and the Ton; traversed the Riphaean Moun­tains, and pierced into the inmost Tesarts of Kalmuc Tartary—follow trade indeed! no; Iv'e followed the ra­vages of Kouli Chan with rapturous delight: there is the land of wonders; finely depopulated; gloriously laid waste; fields without a hoof to tread 'em, fruits without a hand to gather 'em; with such a catalogue of pats, peetles, serpents, scorpions, caterpillars, toads—oh! tis a recreating contemplation, to a philosophic mind!

Out on 'em, filthy vermin, I hope you left 'em where you found 'em.

No, to my honour be it spoken, I have imported above fifty different sorts of mortal poisons into my native country.

Lackaday, there's people enough at home can poison their native country.

So, Ladies, have you finished your visit already?

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We've have made our curtsies and come away.

Marry, the fates and the fortunes forbid that you should go, till my Lord comes back.

Why not? if my Lord treats me already with the freedom of a husband, shoudn't I begin to practise the in­difference of a Wife?

Well, but the supper, Mr. Pridgemore; you a citizen, and leave the supper?

Your fifty mortal poisons have given me my supper: scorpions, and bats, and toads—come let's be gone.

Wou'd, they were in your pelly!

How I am watch'd in this house you well know, Mr. Tyrrel; therefore you must not stay: what you have done and suffer'd for my sake I never can forget; and 'tis with joy I see you now, at last, surmount your difficulties by the recovery of Lord Courtland: may your life never be again exposed on my account!

I glory in protecting you; when he, or any other rake, repeats the like offence, I shall repeat the like cor­rection. I am now going to my uncle Mortimer, who does not know that I am in town. Life is not life without thee; never will I quit his feet, till I've obtain'd his voice for our alliance.

Alas! What hope of that from Mr. Mortimer, whose rugged nature knows no happiness itself, nor feels complacency in that of others?

When you know Mr. Mortimer you'll find how totally the world mistakes him. Farewel, my dear Au­gusta; back'd with thy virtuous wishes, how can I fail to prosper?

All's safe; follow me, my Lord; she is in her bed-chamber.

Where; where?

There; where you see the light through the [Page 9] glass-door. If I thought you had any wicked designs in your head, I wou'dn't have brought you here for the world; I shou'd be murder'd if the family were to know it: for pity's sake, my Lord, never betray me.

Go, get you gone; never talk of treason, my thoughts are full of love.

First I'll secure the door: 'twill not be amiss to bar this retreat.

Ay, there she is!—How pensive is that posture!—Musing on her condition; which, in truth, is melancholy enough; an humble cousin to a vulgar tyrant.—'Sdeath, she cannot chuse but jump at my proposals.—See, she weeps.—I'm glad on't—Grief disposes to compliance—'Tis the very moment to assail her.

Who's there; who's at the door? Ah!—

Hush, hush; your screams will rouse the house.—'Tis I, Miss Aubrey—'tis Lord Abberville.—Give me your hand.—Nay, be composed.—Let me set down the candle: you are safe.

Safe, my Lord! Yes, I'm safe; but you are mistaken; Miss Bridgemore's not at home; or, if she was, this is no place to meet her in.

I'm glad of that; bless'd in Miss Aubrey's company, I wish no interruption from Miss Bridgemore.

I should be loath to think so; an avowal of base­ness to one woman, should never be taken as flattery by another: in short, my Lord, I must intreat you to let the servants show you to some fitter apartment. I am here in a very particular situation, and have the strongest reasons for what I request.

I guess your reasons, but cannot admit them. I love you, Madam; let that declaration be my excuse.

Nay, now your frolick has the air of insult, and I insist upon your leaving me.

Who's within there?

Hark, hark, Miss Bridgemore, as I live.—Come in.

Come in! why you have lock'd the door.

Lock'd! is it lock'd?—for shame, for shame! thus am I sacrific'd to your ungenerous designs:—she must come in.

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Stay, stay; she must not find me here; there's one retreat; your chamber; lock me in there: I may still escape.

What are you about, Miss Au­brey? Let me in.

Where shall I turn myself? You've ruined all: if you're discovered, I shall never gain belief.

Be advised then: we have only this chance left

Miss Aubrey, if you don't let me in immediately, I shall call up my mamma; so pray unlock the door.

I scarce know what I do

There, Madam, you're obeyed.

Why, surely, you affect extraordinary privacy. It seems you've had your Tyrrel in our absence.

Yes, Mr. Tyrrel has been here.

Humph! you're in mighty spirits.

No, Madam; my poor spirits suit my poor con­dition: you, I hope, are rich in every sense.

She's happy I can see, though she attempts to hide it: I can't bear her.—Pray, Miss Aubrey, what are your designs—to ruin this young man?

Madam!—

Can you now in your heart suppose that Mor­timer will let his nephew marry you? Depend upon't (I tell you as your friend) as soon as that old cynic hears of it (which I have taken care he shall) your hopes are crushed at once.

When were they otherwise?

I don't know what to make of her—she seems confus'd—her eyes wander strangely: watching the bed­room door—what is it she looks at?

Where are you going?

Going! Nay, no where—she's alarmed—Miss Aubrey, I have a foolish notion in my head, that Mr. Tyrrel's in this house.

No, on my word—shall I light you to your room?

So ready!—No; your own will serve: I can ad­just my head-dress at your glass—Hey-dey; all's fast—you've locked the door—

Have I, indeed?

Yes, have you, Madam; and, if my suspicion's true, your lover's in it—open it.

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I beg to be excused.

Oh! are you caught at last? Admit me.

You cannot sure be serious—think I've the sanc­tion of a guest.

Ridiculous! I'll raise the house—let me come to the bell.

Hold! hold! you don't know what you do: for your own sake desist: to save your own confusion, more than mine, desist, and seek no farther.

No, Madam; if I spare you, may the shame that waits for you fall on my head.

At your own peril be it then! Look there

Astonishing! Lord Abberville! This is indeed extraordinary; this, of all frolicks modern wit and gal­lantry have given birth to, is in the newest and the boldest stile.

Upon my life, Miss Bridgemore, my visit has been entirely innocent.

Oh, yes! I give you perfect credit for your inno­cence; the hour, the place, your Lordship's character, the Lady's composure, all are innocence itself. Can't you affect a little surprize, Ma'am, at finding a Gentleman in your bed-room, though you placed him there yourself? So excellent an actress might pretend a fit on the occasion: Oh, you have not half your part.

Indeed, Miss Bridgemore, you look upon this in too serious a light.

No, be assured: I'm charmed with your ad­dress; you are a perfect fashionable lover: so agree­able to invite us to your house, so well bred to be from home, and so considerate to visit poor Miss Aubrey in our absence: altogether, I am puzzled which to prefer, your wit, politeness, or your honour.

Miss Bridgemore, 'tis in vain to urge my inno­cence to you; Heaven and my own heart acquit me; I must endure the censure of the world.

O Madam, with Lord Abberville's protection you may set that at nought: to him I recommend you: your company in this house will not be very welcome.

Then, Madam, she shall come to mine; my house, my arms are open to receive [Page 12] her. Fear nothing, set her at defiance; resign yourself to my protection; you shall face your tyrant, out-face her, shine above her, put her down in splendor as in beauty; be no more the servile thing her cruelty has made you; but be the life, the leader of each public pleasure, the envy of all womankind, the mistress of my happiness—

And murderer of my own. No, no, my Lord, I'll perish first: the last surviving orphan of a noble house, I'll not disgrace it: from these mean, unfeeling people, who to the bounty of my ancestors owe all they have, I shall expect no mercy; but you, whom even pride might teach some virtue, you to tempt me, you with unmanly cunning to seduce distress yourself created, sinks you deeper in contempt than Heaven sinks me in poverty and shame.

A very unpromising campaign truly: one lady lost, and the other in no way of being gained. Well, I'll return to my company; there is this merit however in gaming, that it makes all losses appear trivial but its own.

SO! so! another day; another twelve hours round of folly and extravagance: 'pshaw! I'm sick on't. What is it our men of genius are about? Jarring and jangling with each other, while a vast army of vices over-runs the whole country at discretion

Now, Jarvis, what's your news?

My morning budget, Sir; a breakfast of good deeds; the offerings of a full heart and the return of an empty purse. There, Sir, I've done your errand; and wish hereafter you could find another agent for your cha­rities.

Why so, Charles?

Because the task grows heavy; besides, I'm old and foolish, and the sight is too affecting.

Why doesn't do like me then? Sheath a soft heart in a rough case, 'twill wear the longer; fineer thy­self, good Jarvis, as thy master does, and keep a marble outside to the world. Who dreams that I am the lewd fool of pity, and thou my pandar, Jarvis, my provider? You sound out the poor fellow then, the half-pay officer I met last Sunday—

With difficulty; for he obtruded not his sorrows on the world, but in despair had crept into a corner, and, with his wretched family about him, was patiently ex­piring.

Pr'ythee no more on't: you sav'd him; you re­liev'd him; no matter how; you made a fellow creature happy, that's enough.

I did, Sir; but his story's so affecting—

Keep it to thyself, old man, then; why must my heart be wrung? I too am one of Nature's spoilt children, and havn't yet left off the tricks of the nursery.

Sir, Mr. Tyrrel's come to town, and begs to see you.

Let him come in

So, nephew, what bring's you to town? I thought you was a prisoner in the country.

I was; but now Lord Courtland has obtained his liberty, no reason holds why I should not recover mine.

Well, Sir, how have you fill'd up your time? In practising fresh thrusts, or repenting of that which is past? You've drawn your sword to satisfy one man, now think of satisfying the rest of mankind.

You know my story, Sir; I drew my sword in the defence of innocence: to punish and repel the libertine attempts of an ennobled ruffian; every man of honour would have done the same.

Yes, honour: you young men are subtle ar­guers; the cloak of honour covers all your faults, as that of passion all your follies.

Honour is what mankind have made it: and as we hold our lives upon these terms, with our lives it behoves us to defend them.

You have made it reason then it seems, make it religion too, and put it out of fashion with the world at once: of this be sure, I had sooner cast my guineas in the sea, than give 'em to a duellist. But come, Frank, you are one from prejudice, not principle; therefore we'll talk no more on't. Where are you lodged?

At the hotel hard by.

Then move your baggage hither, and keep house with me; you and I, nephew, have such opposite pur­suits that we can never justle; besides, they tell me you're in love; 'twill make a good companion of you; you shall rail at one sex, while I'm employed with t other, and thus we may both gratify our spleen at once.

O, Sir, unless you can consent to hear the praises of my lovely girl, from hour to hour, in endless repetition, never suffer me within your doors.

Thy girl, Frank, is every thing but rich, and that's a main blank in the catalogue of a Lady's per­fections.

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Fill it up then, dear Uncle; a word of your's will do it.

True, boy, a word will do it; but 'tis a long word, 'tis a lasting one; it should be, therefore, a delibe­rate one: but let me see your girl; I'm a sour fellow; so the world thinks of me; but it is against the proud, the rich I war: poverty may be a misfortune to Miss Aubrey; it would be hard to make it an objection.

How generous is that sentiment!—Let me have your consent for my endeavours at obtaining her's, and I shall be most happy.

About it then; my part is soon made ready; your's is the task: you are to find out happiness in mar­riage; I'm only to provide you with a fortune.

Well, Frank, I suspected thou hadst more courage than wit, when I heard of thy engaging in a duel; now thou art for encount'ring a wife, I am convinc'd of it. A wife! 'sdeath, sure some planetary madness reigns amongst our wives; the dogs-star never sets, and the moon's horns are fallen on our heads.

The gude time o'day to you, gude Maister Mortimer.

Well, Colin, what's the news at your house?

Nay, no great spell of news, gude faith; aw things with us gang on after the auld sort. I'm weary of my life amongst 'em; the murrain take 'em all, sike a family of free-booters, Maister Mortimer; an I speak a word to 'em, or preach up a little needful oeconomy, hoot! the whole clan is up in arms. I may speak it in your ear, an' the de'el himsell was to turn house-keeper, he cou'd na' pitch upon a fitter set; fellows of all trades, countries and occupations; a ragamuffin crew; the very refuse of the mob, that canna' count past twa generations without a gibbet in their scutcheon.

Ay, Colin, things are miserably chang'd since your old master died.

Ah, Maister Mortimer, it makes my heart drop blude to think how much gude counsel I ha' cast away up­on my Laird; ifaith I hanna' stinted him o'that; I gee'd him rules and maxims of gude husbandry in plenty; but aw in vain; the dice ha' deafen'd him.

Yes, and destroy'd; his head, heart, happiness, [Page 16] are gone to ruin; the least a gamester loses, is his money.

Ecod and that's no trifle in his case: last night's performances made no small hole in that.

Whence learn you that?

From little Napthali of St. Mary Axe: when a man borrows money of a Jew, 'tis a presumption no Chris­tian can be found to lend him any.

Is your Lord driven to such wretched shifts?

Hoot! know you not that every losing gamester has his Jew? He is your only doctor in a desperate case; when the regulars have brought you to Death's door, the quack is invited to usher you in.

Your Jew, Colin, in the present case, savours more of the lawyer than the doctor; for I take if he makes you sign and seal as long as you have effects.

You've hit the nail o' the hede; my Laird will sign to any thing; there's bonds, and blanks, and bar­gains, and promisary notes, and a damn'd sight of rogue­ries, depend on't. Ecod he had a bundle for his break­fast, as big as little Napthali cou'd carry; I wou'd it had braken his bock; and yet he is na' half the knave of yon fat fellow upon Fish-street Hill.

Bridgemore, you mean.

Ay, ay, he's at the bottom of the plot; this little Hebrew's only his jackall.

I comprehend you; Bridgemore, under cover of this Jew, has been playing the usurer with Lord Abber­ville, and means to pay his daughter's portion in parch­ment; this must be prevented.

You may spare your pains for that; the match is off.

Hey-day, friend Colin, what has put off that?

Troth, Maister Mortimer I canna' satisfy you on that hede; but yesternight the job was done; methought the business never had a kindly aspect from the first.

Well, as my Lord has got rid of Miss, I think he may very well spare her fortune.

Odzooks, but that's no reason he shou'd lose his own.

That, Colin, may be past my power to hinder; yet even that shall be attempted: find out the Jew that Bridgemore has employ'd, and bring him hither, if you can.

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Let me alone for that; there never was a Jew since Samson's time that Colin cou'd na' deal with; an' he hangs bock, and will na' follow kindly, troth, I'll lug him to you by the ears; ay, will I, and his Maister the fat fellow into the bargain.

No, no, leave me to deal with Bridgemore; I'll scare away that cormorant; if the son of my noble friend will be undone, it never shall be said he fell without an effort on my part to save him.

By Heaven you speak that like a noble Gentleman. Ah, Maister Mortimer, in England, he that wants mo­ney, wants every thing; in Scotland now, few have it, but every one can do without it.

But what is all this to me, Doctor? while I have a good house over my head, what care I if the Pyra­mids of Egypt were sunk into the earth? London, thank Heaven, will serve my turn.

Ay, ay, look ye, I never said it was'nt coot enough for them that live in it.

Good enough! why what is like it? where can you live so well?

No where, coot truth, 'tis all cooks shops and putchers shambles; your very streets have savoury names; your Poultry, your Pye-corner, and Pudding-lane, your Bacon-alley, and Fish-street Hill here; o' my oord, the Map of London, would furnish out an admi­rable pill of fare for a Lord-Mayor's dinner.

Well, Doctor, I'm contented with Fish-street Hill; you may go seek for lodgings yonder in the ruins Of Palmyra.

Ruins indeed! what are all your new buildings, up and down yonder, but ruins? Improve your town a little further, and you'll drive every man of sense out of it; pless us, and save us, bye and bye not a monument of antiquity will be left standing from Lon­don-stone to Westminster-hall.

And if the Commissioners of paving would mend the streets with one, and present t'other as a nu­sance, bone setters and lawyers would be the only peo­ple to complain.

[Page 18]

Down with 'em then at once, down with every thing noble and venerable and antient amongst you; turn the Tower of London into a Pantheon, make a new Adelphi of the Savoy, and bid adieu to all ages but your own; you will then be no more in the way of de­riving dignity from your progenitors, than you are of transmitting it to your posterity.

Well, Doctor, well, leave me my opinion and keep your own; you've a veneration for rust and cobwebs, I am for brushing them off wherever I meet them; we are for furnishing our shops and warehouses with good profit­able commodities; you are for storing 'em with all the monsters of the creation: I much doubt if we cou'd serve you with a dried rattlesnake, or a stuft alligator, in all the purlieus of Fish-street Hill.

A stuft alligator! a stuft alderman wou'd be sooner had.

May be so, and let me tell you an antiquarian is as much to seek in the city of London, as an alderman wou'd be in the ruins of Herculaneum: every man after his own way, that's my maxim: you are for the paltry ore; I am for the pure gold; I dare be sworn now, you are as much at home amongst the snakes and serpents at Don Saltero's as I am with the Jews and jobbers at Jonathan's.

Coot truth, Mr. Pridgemore, 'tis hard to say which collection is the most harmless of the two.

I'm out of patience with you, Mr. Bridgemore, to see you stir no brisker in this business; with such a storm about your ears, you stand as idle as a Dutch sailor in a trade wind.

Truly, love, till you come in, I heard nothing of the storm.

Recollect the misadventure of last night, the wickedness of that strumpet you have harboured in your house; that viper, which wou'd never have had strength to sting, hadn't you warm'd it in your bosom.

Faith and truth now, I hav'nt heard better reasoning from an ooman this many a day; you shall know Mr. Pridgemore, the viperous species love warmth; their sting, look ye, is then more venomous; but draw [Page 19] their teeth, and they are harmless reptiles; the conjurors in Persia play a thousand fancies and fagaries with 'em.

But I'm no Persian, Doctor.

No, nor conjuror neither; you wou'd not else have been the dupe thus of a paltry girl.

A girl, indeed! why all the European world are made the dupes of girls; the Asiatics are more wise; saving your presence now, I've seen a Turkish Pacha or a Tartar Chan rule threescore, ay, three hundred wives, with infinite more ease and quiet, than you can manage one.

Manage your butterflies, your bats and beetles, and leave the government of wives to those who have 'em: we stand on British ground as well as our hus­bands; Magna Charta is big enough for us both; our bill of divorce is a full match for their bill of rights at any time: we have our Commons, Doctor, as well as the men, and I believe our privileges are as well manag'd here at St. Paul's, as their's are yonder at St. Stephen's.

Your privileges, Mrs. Pridgemore, are not to be disputed by any in this company; and if Miss is as well instructed in her's, I wish my Lord Abberville joy of his release; that's all.

What did the fellow say? who sent that old mummy hither?

He came upon a qualifying message from Lord Abberville, as I believe; but 'tis such an extravagant old blade, he got amongst the pyramids of Egypt, before he could well bring it out.

I wou'd he was there, and his pupil with him: don't you see what a condition our poor girl is thrown into?

I into a condition! No; they shall never have to say they threw me into a condition: I may be angry, but I scorn to own I'm disappointed.

That's right, child, sure there are more men in the world, besides Lord Abberville.

Law, papa! your ideas are so gross, as if I car'd for any of the sex, if he hadn't singled her out from all women kind; but it was ever thus; she's born to be my [Page 20] evil genius; sure the men are mad—Tyrrel, Lord Abber­ville—one touch'd my heart, the other wounds my pride.

Why, ay, there is a fine estate, a noble title, great connections, powerful interest.

Revenge is worth them all; drive her but out of doors, and marry me to a convent.

But let us keep some shew of justice; this may be all a frolic of Lord Abberville's; the girl, perhaps, is innocent.

How can that be, when I am miserable?

Come, she's been suffer'd in your house too long; had I been mistress, she shou'd have quitted it last night upon the instant: wou'd she had never entred it.

There you make a bad wish, Mrs. Bridgemore; she has proved the best feather in my wing; but call her down; go, daughter, call her down.

I'll send her to you; nothing shall prevail with me to speak to her, or look upon the odious creature more.

What is it you are always hinting at about this girl? she's the best feather in your wing. Explain yourself.

I can't; you must excuse me; 'tis better you shou'd never know it.

Why, where's the fear; what can you have to dread from a destitute girl, without father, and without friend?

But is she really without father? was I once well assured of that—But hush! my daughter's here—Well, where's Miss Aubrey?

The bird is flown.

Hey-day, gone off!

That's flat conviction.

What have you there? a letter?

She found it on her table.

Read it, Lucy.

I beg to be excused, Sir; I don't chuse to touch her nasty scrawl.

Well then, let's see; I'll read it myself.

So! she's elop'd.—

Ay, this is lucky; there's an end of her: this makes it her own act and deed; give me the letter, go, you need not wait.

Madam!

Don't you hear? leave the room.

Pray don't be angry; I beg to speak a word to you.

Go, go, another time; I'm busy.

I've done a wicked thing, and if I don't discharge my heart, 'twill break, it is so full.

What have you done? speak out.

Why I have been the means of ruining an innocent person, for such Miss Aubrey is.

How so? go on.

'Twas I that brought Lord Abberville last night into her chamber, unknown to her; I thought it was a little frolic to surprise her; but when I heard her scream, I was alarmed and ran and listened at the door.

Well, and what then?

Why then I heard her chide him, and desire him to be gone; yes, and but just before you came up stairs, I heard the poor young Lady reproach him bitterly for his baseness in making love to her, when he was engaged to you, Madam: indeed, she is as innocent as the babe unborn.

Go your way for a simpleton, and say no more about the matter.

To be sure I was a simpleton to do as I did; but I shou'd never survive it, if any mischief was to follow.

[Page 22]

What's to be done now?

What's to be done? why let her take her course; guilty or not, what matters it, if every man who offers for your daughter, is to turn aside and follow after her?

True, where's the woman who can pardon that? indeed, had she been really criminal, I cou'd have endur'd her better, for then I had had one qualification, which she had wanted; now she piques me every way.

Lord Abberville, Madam, desires to be admitted to say a word to you.

Who? Lord Abberville?

Oh, by all means admit him; now, Lucy, show yourself a woman of spirit; receive him, meet his in­sulting visit with becoming contempt: Come, Mr. Bridge­more, let us leave them to themselves.

Ahem, now, pride, support me!

Miss Bridgemore, your most obedient; I come, Madam, on a penitential errand, to apologize to you and Miss Aubrey for the ridiculous situtation in which I was surprised last night.

Cool, easy villain!

I dare say you laugh'd most heartily after I was gone.

Most incontinently-incomparable assurance!

Well, I forgive you; 'twas ridiculous enough; a foolish frolick, but absolutely harmless be assur'd: I'm glad to find you no longer serious about it—But where's Miss Aubrey, pray?

You'll find her probably at your own door, she's gone from hence.

Mr. Tyrrel, Madam.

Show him in, pray—My Lord, you've no objec­tion.

None in life; I know him intimately; but if you please, I'll take my leave; you may have business—Curse on't, he is the Lady's lover.

[Page 23]

Nay, I insist upon your staying—Now malice stand my friend!—Good morning to you, Sir, you're wel­come to town.

I thank you—I am wrong I believe; your servant should not have shewn me in here: 'tis with Miss Aubrey I request to speak.

Lord Abberville, you can direct Mr. Tyrrel to Miss Aubrey: she has left this family, Sir.

Madam—My Lord—I beg to know—I don't understand—

Nor I, upon my soul: was ever any thing so malicious?

My Lord, why don't you speak? Mr. Tyrrel may have particular business with Miss Aubrey.

Why do you refer to me? How shou'd I know any thing of Miss Aubrey?

Nay, I ask pardon; perhaps Mr. Tyrrel's was a mere visit of compliment.

Excuse me, Madam; I confess it was an errand of the most serious sort.

Then it's cruel not to tell him where you've plac'd her.

Plac'd her!

Ay, plac'd her indeed? For Heaven's sake, what are you about?

Nay, I have done, my Lord; but after last night's fatal discovery, I conceived you wou'd no longer affect any privacy as to your situation with Miss Aubrey.

What did you discover last night, Madam, tell me; I have an interest in the question.

I'm sorry for't, for then you'll not be pleas'd to hear that she admits Lord Abberville, by night, into her bed­room; locks him up in it, and on detection the next morn­ing, openly avows her guilt, by eloping to her galant.

What do I hear? My Lord, my Lord, if this is true—

What then? what if it is? must I account to you? who makes you my inquisitor?

Justice, humanity, and that controul which virtue gives me over it's opposers: if more you wou'd, with an­guish I confess my heart unhappily was plac'd on her whom you have ruin'd; now you'll not dispute my right.

[Page 24]

This is no place to urge your right; I shall be found at home.

I'll wait upon you there.

Do so—your servant—Miss Bridgemore, I am infinitely your debtor for this agreeable visit; I leave you to the enjoyment of your many amiable virtues, and the pleasing contemplation of what may probably ensue from the interview you have provided for me with Mr. Tyrrel.

Ha, ha, ha! I must be less or more than woman, if I did not relish this retaliation.

AH, Colin, thou'rt a prodigal; a thriftless loon thou'st been, that cou'd na' keep a little pelf to thysall when thou had'st got it; now thou may'st gang in this poor geer to thy live's end, and worse too for aught I can tell; 'faith, mon, 'twas a smeart little bysack of money thou hadst scrap'd together, an the best part of it had na' been laft amongst thy kinsfolk, in the Isles of Skey and Mull; muckle gude may it do the weams of them that ha' it! There was Jamie Mac Gregor and Sawney Mac Nab, and the twa braw lads of Kinruddin, with old Charley Mac Dou­gall, my mother's first husband's second cousin: by my sol I cou'd na' see such near relations, and gentlemen of fich auncient families gang upon bare feet, while I rode a horseback: I had been na true Scot, an I cou'd na' ge'en a countryman a gude laft upon occasion

That house is Mr. Mortimer's; and yet I can't resolve to go to it: to appeal to Tyrrel is a dangerous step; it plunges him again in my unprosperous concerns, and puts his life a second time in danger; still, still I know not how to let him think me guilty: wretched, un­friended creature that I am, what shall I do?

Haud a bit, lassie, you that are bewailing; what's your malady?

Sir! Did you speak to me?

Troth, did I; I were loth to let affliction pass beside me and not ask it what it ail'd.

Do you know me then?

What need have I to know you? An you can put me in the way to help you, isn't that enough?

[Page 26]

I thank you: if I have your pity, that is all my case admits of.

Wha' can tell that? I may be better than I seem: as sorry a figure as I cut, I have as gude blude in my veins, and as free of it too, as any Breton in the londe; troth, an you be of my country, Madam, you may have heard as much.

I do not question it; but I am not of Scotland.

Well, well, an' if you had the de'il a bit the worse shou'd I ha lik'd you for it; but it was not your lot; we did na' make oursalls; Paradise itsal wou'd na' hald all mankind, nor Scotland neither; and let me tell you there's na braver or more auncient people underneath Heaven's canopy; no, nor a nation of the terrestrial globe wha have more love and charity for one another.

Well, Sir, you seem to wish to do me service: I've a letter here; I cannot well deliver it myself; if you are of this neighbourhood, perhaps you know the house of Mr. Mortimer.

Hoot! hoot! I ken him well; I came fra' thence but now.

Will you take charge of this, and give it as di­rected? The Gentleman will be found at Mr. Mortimer's.

To Francis Tyrrel, Esquire—Ah! an 'tis thereabouts you point, gadzooks, your labour's lost; you may ev'n wear the willow as they say, for by my troth he'll play the loon wi' you.

Is that his character?

No; but he canna' well be true to twa at the same time.

His heart's engag'd it seems: what is the Lady's name?

Woe worth her name! I canna' recollect it now; an it had been a Scottish name, I shou'd na let it slip so; but I've no mighty memory for your English callings; they do na dwell upon my tongue: out on't! 'tis with a grete fat lubber yonder in the city that she dwells; a fel­low with a paunch below his gullet, like the poke of a pelican; and now I call to mind, 'tis Aubrey is her name; ay, ay, 'tis Aubrey; she's the happy woman.

Is she the happy woman? Well, Sir, if you'll deliver that letter into Mr. Tyrrel's hands; there is no [Page 27] treason in it against Miss Aubrey; she herself is privy to the contents.

You need na' doubt but I shall honde it to him; I were a sorry child an I cou'd grudge you that: where shall I bring his answer?

It requires none.

But an he craves to know your house, where mun I say you dwell?

I have no house, no home, no father, friend, or refuge, in this world; nor do I at this moment, fainting as I am with affliction and fatigue, know where to find a hospitable door.

Come with me then, and I will show you one; ah! woe is me, we hanna' all cold hearts, that occupy cold climates: I were a graceless loon indeed, when Pro­vidence ha' done so much for me, an' I cou'd not pay bock a little to a fellow creature.

Who you may be I know not, but that senti­ment perswades me I may trust you; know, in this wretched person you behold her whom you think the en­vied, the belov'd Miss Aubrey.

Miss Aubrey! you Miss Aubrey! His presence be about us! And has that grete fat fellow in the city turn'd his bock upon you? Out on him, ugly hound, his stomach be his grave! I cou'd find in my heart to stick my dirk into his weam.

Have patience; 'tis not he, Lord Abberville's the source of my misfortunes.

Ah, woe the while the more's his shame, I'd rather hear that he were dead.

Do not mistake affliction for disgrace; I'm inno­cent.

I see it in your face: wou'd I cou'd say as much of him.

You know him then.

Ay, and his father afore him: Colin Macleod's my name.

Colin Macleod!

What do you start at? Troth, there's no shame upon't; 'tis nought a bit the worse for my wear; honesty was aw my patrimony, and by my sol I hanna spent it: I serve Lord Abberville, but not his vices.

I readily believe you; and to convince you of it, put me, I beseech you, into some present shelter, till the [Page 28] labour of my hands can keep me, and hold me up but for a breathing sp [...]ce, till I can rally my exhausted spirits and learn to struggle with the world.

Ay, will I by my sol, so Heaven gives life, and woe betide the child that does you wrong! I be na smuthly spoken, but you shall find me true.—And look, the first door that I cast my ey'n upon, I ken the name of Macintosh; troth, 'tis a gudely omen and prognostic: the Macintoshes and Macleods are aw of the same blood fra' long antiquity: had we search'd aw the town we cou'd na' find a better.

Odzooks, fear nothing, damsel, an she be a true Macintosh, you need na' doubt a welcome.

Gude day to you, Madam, is your name Macintosh pray you?

It is; what are your commands?

Nay, hau'd a bit, gude child, we command nought; but being, d'ye see, a Scottish kinsman of your's, Colin Macleod by name, I crave a lodgment in your house for this poor lassie.—Gude troth you need na squant at her so closely; there's nought to be suspected; and tho' she may na' boast so long a pedigree as you and I do, yet for an English family, she's of no despicable house; and as for reputation, gude faith the lamb is not more innocent: respecting mine own fall I will na' vaunt, but an' you've any doubts, you need na' gang a mighty length to satisfy 'em; I'm no impostor.

I see enough to satisfy me; she is a perfect beauty:—pray, young Lady, walk in; pray walk up stairs, you are heartily welcome; lackaday, you seem piteously fatigu'd.

Indeed I want repose.

Rest you awhile; I'll deliver your letter and call on you anon.

I thank you.

Heavens, what a lovely girl!

Haud you a bit, you've done this kindly, cousin Macintosh, but were na' come a bagging, d'ye see; here, take this money in your honde and let her want for nought.

You may depend upon my care.

Ay, ay, I ken'd you for a Macintosh at once; I am na' apt to be mistaken in any of your clan; and 'tis a comely presence that you have; troth 'tis the case with aw of you; the Macintoshes are a very personable people.

[Page 29]

Another of my Scottish cousins—Oh, this new name of mine is a most thriving invention; a rare device to hook in customers; when I was plain Nan Rawlins of St. Martin's parish, scarce a yard of ferret cou'd I fell to club a prentice's hair on a Sunday morning; now there's not a Knight of the Thistle that does not wear my green paduasoy across his shoulder, nor a Mac passes my shop who does not buy snuff and black ribband of his kins­woman; of such consequence is it to have a good name in this world.

You are a most unreasonable set of gentry truly; I have but one Scotchman in my family, and you are every one of you, cook, valet, butler, up in arms to drive him out of it.

And with reason, my Lord; Monsieur Colin is a grand financier; but he has a little of what we call la maladie du päys; he is too oeconomique; it is not for the credit of mi Lord Anglois to be too oeconomique.

I think, La Jeunesse, I have been at some pains to put that out of dispute; but get you gone all together, and send the fellow to me; I begin to be as tir'd of him as you are.—

—His honesty is my re­proach; these rascals flatter while they rob me: it angers me that one, who has no stake, no interest in my fortune, should husband it more frugally than I who am the owner and the sufferer: in short, he is the glass in which I see myself, and the reflection tortures me; my vices have de­form'd me; gaming has made a monster of me.

Well, is the savage coming?

He is only turning his cravat, my Lord, and will be here immediately.

Leave me.

Come hither, Colin; what is this I hear of you?

Saving your presence I shou'd guess a pratty many [Page 30] lies; 'twill mostly be the case when companions in office give characters one of another.

But what is he, whom nobody speaks well of? You are given up on all hands.

And so must truth itsall, when the de'el turns historian.

You've been applauded for your bluntness; 'tis no recommendation to me, Macleod; nor shall I part from all my family to accommodate your spleen: from the stable-boy to my own valet, there's not a domestic in this house gives you a good word.

Nor ever will, till I prefer their interest to your's; hungry curs will bark; but an' your Lordship wou'd have us regale our friends below stairs, while you are feasting your's above, gadzooks, I have a pratty many countrymen in town, with batter appetites than purses, will applaud the regulation.

'Tis for such purses and such appetites you would be a fit provider; 'tis for the latitude of the High­lands, not for the meridian of London, your narrow scale of oeconomy is laid down.

Oeconomy is no disgrace; 'tis batter living on a little, than outliving a grate deal.

Well, Sir, you may be honest, but you are troublesome; my family are one and all in arms against you; and you must know, Colin Macleod, I've great ob­jection to a rebellion either in a family or state, whatever you and your countrymen may think of the matter.

My Lord, my Lord; whan you have shad the blude of the offenders, it is na' generous to revive the offence: as for mine awn particular, Heaven be my judge, the realm of England does na' haud a heart more loyal than the one I strike my honde upon.

So, Doctor, what's the news with you?—Well, Colin, let me hear no more of these complaints; don't be so considerate of me—and hark'e, if you was not quite so parsimonious to yourself, your appearance would be all the better.

Troth, I'd be better habited, but I canna' afford it.

[Page 31]

Afford it, sirrah? don't I know you have money enough, if you had but spirit to make use of it?

True; but I fain wou'd keep a little together, d'ye see, lest you shou'd not.

Plessing upon us, how the man prates and prattles! 'Twas but this morning he was differing and disputing truly about pedigrees and antiquities, tho' I can count forty and four generations from the grandmother of Saint Winifred, as regularly as a Monk can tell his beads.

Leave your generations to the worms, Doctor, and tell me if you carried my message to Bridgemore—But why do I ask that? when I myself am come from put­ting the finishing hand to that treaty: and really if young women will keep companions, who are handsomer than themselves, they mustn't wonder if their lovers go astray.

Ah my Lord Apperville, my Lord Apper­ville, you've something there to answer for.

Preach not, good sixty-five, thy cold conti­nence to twenty-three; the stars are in my debt one lucky throw at least; let them bestow Miss Aubrey, and I'll cancel all that's past.

what have we here?—from Tyrrel I suppose—no, 'tis from a more peaceable quarter; my commodious Mrs. Macin­tosh.

‘"Chance has thrown in my way a girl, that quite eclipses your Miss Somers: come to me with­out loss of time, lest the bird should be on the wing."—’What shall I do? I have but little stomach to the business. Aubrey is my goddess, and 'tis downright heresy to fol­low any other.

My Lord, a person without says he comes with a recommendation from Sir Harry Gamble.

What sort of a person?

A little ugly fellow; I believe he's a Jew.

That's right, I had forgot: my Jew is fairly jaded; Sir Harry's probably is better trained; so let me see him: who is in the antichamber?

There are several persons waiting to speak with your Lordship; they have called a great many times.

Ay, ay, they come for money, he alone comes with it; therefore conduct that little ugly fellow as you call him to my closet, and bid those other people call again.

Doctor, if any of my particulars [Page 32] are importunate to see me, don't let 'em interrupt me here; tell 'em I'm gone to Mrs. Mackintosh's; they'll know the place, and my business in it.

They may guess that without the gift of divination truly: Ah! this passion is the prejudice of education! he may thank France and Italy for this: I would have carried him through Ingria, Esthonia, and Livonia; through Moldavia, Bessarabia, Bulgaria, Thrace; from the Gulph of Finland to the Streights of the Dardanelles. 'Tis a chance if he had seen a human creature in the whole course of his travels.

Doctor, forgive me this intrusion; where is Lord Abberville? his servants deny him to me, and I've business with him of a pressing sort.

Business indeed!

Yes, business, Sir: I beg you to inform me where to find him.

I take it, Mr. Tyrrel, you are one of his particulars, therefore I tell you he is gone to Mrs. Mac­intosh's; a commodious sort of a pody, who follows one trade in her shop, and another in her parlour.

Yes, yes, I know her well, and know his busi­ness there.

Pleasure is all his business; I take for granted he finds some gratification in his visits there.

Yes, the gratification of a devil, the pleasure of defacing beauty and despoiling innocence, of planting everlasting misery in the human heart for one licentious transitory joy: 'tis there he holds his riots, thither he is gone to repeat his triumphs over my unhappy Aubrey, and confirm her in her shame.

Ay, I suppose Miss Aubrey is the reigning passion now.

Curs'd be his passions, wither'd be his powers! Oh, Sir, she was an angel once: such was the graceful modesty of her deportment, it seemed as if the chastity, which now so many of her sex throw from them, cen­tered all with her.

I've told too much; this lad's as mad as he—well, Mr. Tyrrel, I can say but little in the case; [Page 33] women and politics I never deal in; in other words I abhor cuckoldom, and have no passion for the pillory.

Gang your gait for an old smoak-dried piece of goat's-flesh

Now we're alone, young Gen­tleman, there's something for your private reading.

What do I see? Miss Aubrey's hand! Why does she write to me? Distraction, how this racks my heart!

Ay, and mine too—ecod, it gave it sike a pull, I canna for the sol of me, get it bock into it's place again: gude truth, you'll find it but a melancholy tale.

‘"I am the martyr of an accident, which never will find credit; under this stroke I can't conceal a wish that Mr. Tyrrel would not give me up; but as his single opposition to the world's reproach might be as dangerous to him, as it must be Ineffectual to me, I earnestly advise him to forget the unfortunate Au­gusta."—’What am I to conclude? The paper looks like innocence, the words as soft as modesty cou'd utter.—The martyr of an accident! She calls it accident; why that's no crime. Alas! it might be accident, which threw temptation in her way, but voluntary guilt, which yielded to the tempter: of him she makes no mention. Pray, Sir, inform me; you have seen this Lady—

I have.

Discours'd with her—

I have.

In that discourse do you recollect if she named Lord Abberville?

I recollect she said he was the source of her mis­fortunes.

Ay, did she say so much? That's guilty beyond doubt.

You're right; it carries a damn'd guilty look: I wou'd na take his fortune to father his faults.

Why you then give him up. Oh! 'tis too pal­pable! But, pray, did she herself give you this letter for me?

With her own hondes; gude faith, the heart [Page 34] within you wou'd ha malted to have seen the manner of it.

That aggravates my torture! Where was it you left her? In what wretched habitation?

Hoot! no disparagement upon her habitation; there's nought of wretchedness about it: odzooks! she's with a Lady of as gude a family!—But you mun be as close as wax, d'ye see, you munna mang the secret to my Laird.

Well, well, the place—

Nay, 'tis hard by; a cousin's of mine own; a comely courteous woman as you'd wish to commune with; one Mrs. Macintosh.

'Sdeath! that confirms it! There, Sir, bring me no more letters: whether you're dupe or pandar in this business, I desire never to be troubled more.

Hoot! what the fiend possesses you? What time o' the moon is this? The lad's an errant bedlamite. There's mischief in the wind; and this same Laird of mine is at the bottom of it: gadzooks, there goes Maister Mor­timer; I'll tell him aw the case, and take his counsel on the whole.

Well, Mr. Tyrrel, if you must and will be heard, you must; but pray be short, my time is pre­cious.

So is my peace of mind: you've got a Lady in your house has taken that from me I never shall recover.

What is't you mean? What Lady have I in my house?

Miss Aubrey.

Miss Aubrey! You mistake; I never heard the name.

Come, you and I have long been friends: answer me truly, does not Lord Abberville visit a Lady here?

Well, if he does, what then?

Why then that Lady has undone me; she has broke my heart.

[Page 35]

Yes; but her name's not Aubrey; my Lord calls her Somers.

Let my Lord call her what he will, coin what new name he pleases to elude my search, still I must see her.

Why you're mad sure to think of such a thing; I thought you knew me better: violate a trust? No, no, young man, that's not my principle; you see no Lady here. Why, sure, I've not maintained an honour­able character in the world till now, to make away with it at last.

If you suspect me, stay and be present at our con­ference.

Yes, and so have my Lord come in and catch us, and a tilting bout ensue betwixt you; no, Mr. Tyrrel, mine's a sober well conducted family: I'll have no coroner's inquest come within my doors—Hush, as I live, here comes my Lord: dear Tyrrel, be advised, come along with me, and betake yourself out of his way.

No; I'll not seek a quarrel with Lord Abberville, but I cannot fly from him: go, go, and leave us to each other.

Tyrrel!—What brings you here? This is no place of meeting; if you've any explanation to require upon Miss Aubrey's account, come to my house: I an­swer nothing here.

My Lord, when I'm assured Miss Aubrey is in this house, and see you her visitor, I can interpret for myself.

Miss Aubrey in this house! You rave.

Come, 'tis in vain; your Scotchman told me so; your Mrs. Macintosh herself confessed it.

Humph! after all, 'twou'd be a lucky hit, should this be true: it may be so

If you require more witnesses to what I say, here comes an indisputable one, Miss Aubrey herself.

Oh, Mr. Tyrrel, this is generous indeed! Lord Abberville here too;—'tis what I dreaded. You have [Page 36] mischief in your minds; but, I beseech you, leave me to my misfortunes, nor cast away one thought upon a wretch like me.

Give me your answer first to these demands. Have you been wrong'd? Have you an accusation to prefer against this Lord, or do you acquit him, and submit with patience to your situation?

I accuse no one; I submit with patience; I am content to be the only sufferer in this business, and ear­nestly intreat you to desist from any altercation with Lord Abberville on my account.

I'm satisfied; and shall religiously obey you: Lord Abberville, I ask your pardon for this interruption; I never shall repeat it more.

But are you going?

For ever. Dangerous to behold you are; there­fore, before my fond my foolish heart relapses into love, I'll seize the resolution of the moment, and bid farewell to you for ever.

Astonishing!

There, Madam, you perceive the love, the honour of that Gentleman.

Cou'd I have thought this of him? Now I'm truly wretched.

No, Madam, if my purse, my person, my assiduous ardent love can fill the vacancy his falsehood makes, you've had no loss: dry up your tears, you've yet a friend; smile only on my wishes.

No, my Lord, no; you've made me wretched, guilty you shall never make me.

Inexorable girl, will nothing move? Then I've no longer any terms to keep: call to mind where you are; in a house where I am master; surrounded by crea­tures whom I command; your champion gives you up; resistance is in vain; if you refuse my favours, Madam, you shall feel my force.

What is't you mean, my Lord?—Stand off!

Ay, what is it you mean, my Lord?

Mortimer! 'sdeath, what evil genius con­ducted you hither?

[Page 37]

Nay, my good friend, come in.

This honest man was my conductor: while you, Lord Abberville, in a distinguish'd rank are openly assaulting innocence, he, in his humble post is secretly supporting it.—If you come under that de­scription, Madam, I am your defender; if not, I have no further business here.

Why shou'd I urge my innocence? I am unfor­tunate, I'm poor: your nephew, Sir, will tell you that is cause sufficient for abandoning me.

This grows too serious; I scorn to steal that from you half my fortune could not purchase. I believe you are as innocent as Heaven first form'd you; and to con­vince the world in what esteem I hold your virtues, here, before Mortimer, I offer you my hand, and lay my title, rank and fortune, at your feet.

No, there may be a legal prostitute as well as a licentious one; had you a world to give, after your base experiment, you cannot offer any thing that I shall take. You may find others less exceptious; but in a noble fa­mily, though stripp'd of fortune, there will still be pride.

I see my fate; I see a prepossession in your heart too strong for me to shake: I plainly perceive that Mr. Tyrrel can offend with more impunity than I can; however, Mortimer, you are a man of honour; I resign Miss Aubrey into your hands for the present, and shall expect you will avail yourself of no unfair advantages over me.—Macleod, I find Miss Aubrey is to thank you for this seasonable visit of Mr. Mortimer's.

Come, Madam, you are now my ward; Bridge­more must struggle hard to get you back again.

Sir!—Mr. Mortimer! You'll pardon me, but must I think you serious? If what you now propose is meant in kindness to me, I must say the world has not done justice to your character: I have been taught to look upon you as no friend to our sex in particular.

Nor am I; your sex have broke treaty with us, pass'd the bounds betwixt us, forc'd into our very taverns, and from being once the glory of my country are become it's shame.

But all have not done this—

[Page 38]

Nor am I then at enmity with all; a virtuous individual is of no sex, no country.

No country? Hoot! A true North Briton will give up his virtue afore his country at any time.

Yes and I think it was a partiality to your country rather than to virtue, which determin'd you to put me into this house.

De'il take me now and all may kindred with me, if I knew ought about the house, more than the name of Macintosh upon the door.

Time will clear all things up: a general mis­conception is gone forth; my nephew I perceive has fallen under it. As for poor Colin, his design in bringing you hither was more than innocent, depend upon it, it was noble; I have heard his story and at my request he brings me here: commit yourself therefore to my protection and rely upon my justice.

How shall I answer you? Your generosity o'er­whelms me.

I generous! No, I am a meer voluptuary; I study luxury by principle, and am as sensual on the side of virtue, as Abberville, or any other fashionable rake, on that of vice.—Colin, you'll settle matters with your countrywoman and come to us at my house.

My countrywoman! The fiend a bit! I never will believe she has a drop of Scottish blude in aw her composition; as I shall answer I never blush'd before for any of the name: there must be something spurious in her genealogy: I'll have a little serious talk with her on that; I've got the pedigree of the Macintoshes at my fingers ends, and if there's e'er a flaw in her descent 'twixt this and Noah, gadzooks, I'll wager a hundred pounds I prove her an impostor.

IF Bridgemore has'nt shifted his abode, that is the house; 'twas there that eighteen years ago I lost a wife, and left an infant daughter. All-disposing Providence, who hast ordain'd me to this hour, and thro' innumerable toils and dangers led me back to this affecting spot, can it be wonder'd at, if I approach it with an anxious aching heart, uncertain as I am if I have still a child or not? What shall I do? If my Augusta's lost, 'twere better I should never enter those ill-omen'd doors; if she survives, how shall I disclose my­self, and tell her she has still a father? Oh, that unknown and unperceiv'd, I cou'd but catch a sight of her, gaze till I'd gratified my longing, and till this throbbing might abate! I'll watch the door till somebody comes out, that I may speak to.

The murrain light upon this Fish-street Hill, wherever it may be: I wou'd it had na got it's name for nought, that I might fairly small it out, for I am clear bewalder'd. Johnny Grout's house wou'd as soon be found, as this same Bradgemore's. One cries turn o' this honde, one o' that, and t'other stares and grins for­sooth because I hanna got the modern gabble on my tongue, but speak the language in it's auncient purity. Hoot! this mon seems of a batter sort, and peradventure wou'd concede an answer. Speed you, Gentleman, I pray you whuch way leads to Fish-street Hill?

You are there already; this is Fish-street Hill.

[Page 40]

Gadzooks! and that's the reason I cou'd find it na' where alse. Ken you one Bradgemore's may I ask?

He had us'd to live in yonder house with the great gates; but it is many years since I have been in England.

I'faith, you need na' tell me that; I apprehend as much from your civility.

Give me leave now in my turn to ask you a few questions.

With aw my heart; you have gude right; you may interrogate me freely.

You are acquainted with this Bridgemore.—

I am.

And with his family—

I am.

And what does it consist of?

Troth, of a spouse and daughter.

Are they all?

Ay, and enow in aw gude reason; the de'il, Sir, in his vengeance need na' add a third.

But to be serious, tell me I beseech you, do you know of no one else in Mr. Bridgemore's family?

Of none.

What do I hear? Pray recollect yourself: you don't seem to know his house; perhaps you are not well acquainted with his family.

Aw that he owns I know; what base begotten brats he may haue sculking up and down in holes and cor­ners, troth, I can't pretend to say.—These city cattle sometimes will break pasture.

You misconceive me, honest friend; has no young Lady of the name of Aubrey come within your knowledge?

Ay, ay, poor lassie, she once liv'd with Bradge­more; the worse luck her's, but that is over; she has got her liberty; she's now releas'd.

I understand you—She is dead.—

Dead! Heaven forefend! An you would give me time I wou'd ha told you she's released from yon fat fellow's tyranny; na more: out on him, filthy porpoise, aw the bowels in his belly, tho' he has got gude store, dunna contain one grain of pity; troth, with his gude will she might ha' starv'd and perish'd in the streets.

What is't you tell me? In the same breath you [Page 41] bring my hopes to life and murder them again.—Starv'd in the streets? I thought she had an affluent fortune.

In virtue, Sir, nought else, and that will not pass current for a dinner. Zooks, an I mysall, by Heaven's gude providence, had na' stapt in upon the very nick of time, my life upon't she had been lost.

Come to my arms then, whosoe'er thou art, and wonder not, for thou hast sav'd my daughter.

Daughter! Gadzooks, you make my heart jump to my laps for joy. Are you Miss Aubrey's father?

I am her father.

An if I'd found mine awn I cou'd na' been more happy. Wall, wall, I hope you'll merit your gude for­tune; by my sol you've got an angel of a child—But where have you been buried aw the while? for we be­liev'd you dead.

You shall hear all my story, but this is no fit place to tell it in: satisfy me first if my poor child is safe.

Fear nought, she's safe with Maister Mortimer; I last her but this moment.

Who is Mr. Mortimer?

Why, Maister Mortimer is one who does a thou­sand noble acts without the credit of one; his tongue wounds and his heart makes whole; he must be known and not describ'd: an' you will bait a-while in yonder tavern till I come from Bradgemore's, I'll accompany you to where your daughter is.

Agreed! I fear I've been mistaken in this Bridge­more; three years ago I consign'd to him a cargo of great value from Scanderoon; if he has robb'd me—but till I've seen my daughter, I'll suspend enquiry. Step with me into yonder tavern, there we'll concert the means of bringing Bridgemore to an interview at Mr. Mortimer's. Come, my good benefactor, how fortunate was this meet­ing! I long to know to whom I owe this happiness.

And so, friend Napthali, Lord Abberville has had another tumble.

[Page 42]

A damn one.

I'm glad on't; this will wring his fine high hamper'd carcase to the quick.

I'fait, he flings and winces so, I tremble to come near; he look as dark as India-stock upon a settling day.

Ay, ay, the dice are little weapons, but they make deep wounds: what between those that win and us that lend, he bleeds at both arms. These are the bonds.

Take 'em: this is a memorandum of the pre­mium on five tousand, and this the private contract for extraordinary interest.

Good, good, friend Napthali! The bonds give legal interest, and this doubles it. There, there, lye by and breed

but hark'e-me! Hast brought the abstract of the sale of the Neptune's cargo?

Aubrey's consignment you mean.

The same; but mum! That's between you and me: close, close, my little Napthali.

A broker and betray his principal! That's not my vay; there is no senses in that. Here I have make out your account; 'tis var coot bargain I have make con­sidering diamond is a drug.

Why this tells well; it mounts; the raw silk was old gold; the carpetting and cottons not amiss; and whuh! the rhubarb!

Ah, Sir, but vat is that?—Look at the coffee!

Politics account for that; while news-papers bear price, coffee will hold its own. This rupture with the Russians was in our favour here.

Ay, ay, a charming stroke: war is a var coot thing; and then the plague; a blessed circumstance, tank Heaven; a blessed circumstance, coot 7 per cent.

Let me see; altogether 'tis a thumping sum: It netted forty thousand: where's the conscience, Nap­thali, that woudn't strain a point for forty thousand pounds?

Oh, 'tis all fair in the vay of trade; you cou'd not strike a jury out of Jonathan's that woudn't acquit you. Well, Mr. Bridgemore, any thing more in my vay?

Nothing at present. Did you call at Lloyd's?

Odso! well recollected! The Sea-horse is ar­rived [Page 43] from Scanderoon, she that had such high insurances upon her.

What d'ye hear? What passengers come in her? Is she at Stangate Creek?

No, in the pool; she brought clean bills of health from Leghorn.

Go, go; you have given me an ague-fit; the name of Scanderoon sets all my teeth a chattering.

Well, would it had been possible to have kept my secret from that fellow—The Sea-horse come at last!—Why be it so.—What ails me; what possesses me? If she brings news of Aubrey's death, I'm a whole man; ay, and a warm one too.—How now; who's there?

Cawdie Macleod, a ragged Highlander, so please you, a wratched gaelly under savour of your raverence, na better.

I recollect you now for one of my Lord Abber­ville's retinue—Well, you have some enquiries to make about Miss Aubrey.

Ecod, you are close upon the mark.

I guest as much; but she is gone from hence, and you may follow.

Out on thee, ragamuffin; an I were not bound to secrecy, I'd gee thee sic a pill shou'd lead that weam of thine the de'il a dance

No, Master Colin, your Scotch policy will stand you in no stead this turn.

Then I'll forswear my country—Well, you wull na' have my message then, I mun gang bock to Maister Mortimer, and tell the Turkish trader you'll na' see him.

Hold, hold, what trader do you speak of?

Of one that's com'd a passanger from Scande­roon, aboard the what d'ye call the vessel—the Sea-horse I take it.

What, who? It is not Aubrey.

Gude faith, I wou'd it was—the mon is dead.

Which man is dead; the passenger or Aubrey?

Hoot! can't you think 'tis Aubrey?—By your [Page 44] leave, truth, awhile; you will na' take it much to heart, an I make use of falshood, to detect itsall

I'll go to Mr. Mortimer's; I'll go with all my heart. Give me your hand; I ask your pardon heartily, my honest friend—and so he is dead you say—you're sure he is dead—pray, what distemper did he die of?

When a mon's in his grave, what matters whuch distemper laid him there?

That's true, that's true enough. Pray you sit down; I'll just run up and tell my wife and daughter—Zooks! suppose I brought them with me; will they meet a welcome think you?

Ay, sic a one as you don't look for, take my word.

I'm a new man; I walk upon the air.

Ecod, the project takes; I drew for the cock bird, and have taken the whole covey.

Odds my life, Mr. Bridgemore, I forgot—Who's there?—that devil Scotchman.

Hold, hold, friend Napthali; you and I munna part. you must keep pace wi' me to Maister Mortimer's.

To Mr. Mortimer's? Impossible: why I must be at Bank, Sir, I must be at Jonathan's: I've forty bargains to settle. I shall have half the Coffee-House on my back. Wou'd you make me a lame duck?

Duck, or no duck, ecod, Sir, you must travel.

Heyday! I never saw the like before; I can't think what ossesses my father; he's intoxicated; quite beside himself with this confirmation of Mr. Aubrey's death; for my part, I derive no particular gratification from it; so that Augusta had but one lover less, I care not if she had forty fathers living: Tyrrel's the man of her heart, and in truth he is an object worthy any woman's prefer­ence; if I cou'd draw him from her 'twou'd be full retalia­tion for Lord Abberville—I'll go to Mortimer's; 'tis an untoward visit; but I'll go there.

Come, bustle, daughter, bustle; get your cloak on, the coach will be here immediately: but where's my Scotchman? I forgot to ask the stranger's name.

Where have you hid yourself, my dear? Come, are you ready? Your father's frantic with im­patience.

I follow you—Now, Aubrey, 'tis my turn.

Never tell me, you've acted like a giddy hot young man; put a few hear-say circumstances together, shook 'em in an empty noddle, and so produced a com­pound of nonsense and suspicion.

I plainly see I've judg'd too hastily.

Judg'd! pooh, I wou'd not give a rush for such a judge: a magpye in a cage, that chatters out whore to every woman that goes by, will be as often right as you, and judge as wisely: never talk to me of judging others, till you've condemn'd yourself.

I do condemn myself; and if Miss Aubrey does not sign my pardon, I am disposed not only to condemn, but execute.

Away then, and throw yourself upon the mercy of the court; it is the fate of bunglers to be asking pardon.

Bless you, gude Maister Mortimer, I hanna slept in your commission: yon fat fellow upon Fish-Street Hill is on his march with bag and baggage.

[Page 46]

What mean you? Does he bring his wife with him?

Troth does he, and his daughter too; the plot is thick'ning you mun know apace, and yon same buzzard canna spy it out.

What plot is thick'ning?

Zooks, mon, you shall behold as pretty a disco­very, come the time, as ever your eyes look'd upon; but aw things in their course; I mun gang home the whilst, but I'll be quickly bock again, d'ye see.

Do so, my friend; and hark'e, tell your Lord I beg half an hour's conversation with him, when and where he pleases.

I shall do that; but you mun know, while I was on my way, I cross'd upon a Gentleman of no vulgar pre­sence, and considering he has sojourned for a pretty many years with none but such as we denominate barbarians, as courteous in his manners as your heart cou'd wish.

Why that accounts for it. Well, what of him?

With your leave, Maister Mortimer, he'll tell you his own errand: troth, he wull'd me introduce him to you: he's without.

Admit him.

Gude faith, he has done that for himsall; he's not habituated to our ceremonies. Maister Mortimer, I pray Heaven take you to its holy keeping till I see you again.

Sir, your most humble servant. Can you forgive the intrusion of a stranger?

A stranger, Sir, is welcome: I cannot always say as much to an acquaintance.

I plainly see your experience of mankind by the value you put upon them.

True, Sir; I've visited the world from arctic to ecliptic, as a surgeon does a hospital, and find all men sick of some distemper: the impertinent part of mankind are so busy, the busy so impertinent, and both so incurably ad­dicted to lying, cheating and betraying, that their case is desperate: no corrosive can eat deep enough to bottom the corruption.

[Page 47]

Well, Sir, with such good store of mental pro­vision about you, you may stand out a siege against society; your books are companions you never can be tir'd of.

Why truly their company is more tolerable, than that of their authors wou'd be; I can bear them on my shelves, tho' I shou'd be sorry to see the impertinent puppies, who wrote them: however, Sir, I can quarrel with my books too, when they offend my virtue or my reason.—But I'm taking up your time; the honest Scotch­man, who announc'd you, told me you had something of importance to communicate to me.

I have: I'm told I am your debtor, and I came with a design to pay you down such thanks as your bene­volence well merits; but I perceive already you are one, whom great professions wou'd annoy, whose principle is virtue, and whose retribution rises from within.

Pray, Sir, no more of this; if you have any thing to request, propose it: I'd rather much be told what I may do for you, than reminded of what I may have done.

I readily believe you, and according to your hu­mour will address you: I own you may confer a benefit upon me; 'tis in your power, Mr. Mortimer, to make me happiest of all mankind.

Give me your hand; why now you speak good sense; I like this well: let us do good, Sir, and not talk about it: show me but how I may give happiness to you, with innocence to myself, and I shall be the person under obligation.

This then it is; you have a young person under your protection, a Lady of the name of Aubrey—

I have.

Resign her to my care.

Sir!

Put her into my hands: I am rich, Sir, I can support her.

You're insolent, or grossly ignorant, to think I wou'd betray a trust, a sacred trust: she is a ward of vir­tue; 'tis from want, 'tis from oppression I protect Miss Aubrey—who are you, that think to make a traitor of me?

Your zeal does honour to you; yet if you persist in it, and spite of my protest hold out, your constancy will be no virtue; it must take another name.

[Page 48]

What other name, and why? Throw off your mystery, and tell me why.

Because—

Ay, let us hear your cause.

Because I am her father.

Do I live?

Yes, in my heart, while I have life or memory; that dear injur'd girl, whom you so honourably protect, is my daughter. The overflowings of a father's heart bless and reward you! You whom I know not, and that poor Highlander, out of his small pittance, have under Provi­dence prerserv'd my child; whilst Bridgemore, whom I rais'd from penury, and trusted with the earnings of my travel, has abandoned and defrauded her.

O mother Nature, thou'lt compel me to for­swear thee.

Ah, Sir, you feel the villainy of man in every vein; I am more practised, and behold it only with a sigh: Colin and I have laid a little plot to draw this Bridgemore hither; he believes me dead, and thinks he is to meet a person at your house, who can relate particulars of my death, in which case it is clear he means to sink a capital consign­ment I sent him about three years since, and turn my daughter on the world.

Well, let him come; next to the satisfaction I receive in the prosperity of an honest man, I am best pleased with the confusion of a rascal.

Dear uncle, on my knees—what am I doing?

You thought I was alone.

I did.

And what had you to tell me in such haste?

I had a petition to prefer, on which my happiness in life depends.

I beg I may retire: I interrupt you.

By no means: I desire you will not stir; let him make his request; if it is not fit for you to hear, it is not fit for me to grant. Speak out: nay, never hesitate.

What can I ask of you but to confirm my hopes, and make Miss Aubrey mine?

Was ever the like heard? Pray whence do you [Page 49] derive pretensions to Miss Aubrey? Tell me in presence of this Gentleman.

Not from my own deservings I confess; yet if an ardent, firm, disinterested passion, sanctified withal by her consent, can recommend me, I am not without some title.

Look you there now: this fellow you shall know, Sir, is my nephew; my sister's son; a child of fortune.—Hark'e, with what face do you talk of love, who are not worth a groat?

You have allow'd me, Sir, to talk of love; openly, beneath your eye I have solicited Miss Aubrey's consent and gain'd it; as for my poverty, in that I glory, for therein I resemble her whom I adore; and I shou'd hope, tho' for­tune has not favour'd us, we have not lost our title to the rights of nature.

Pooh! the rights of nature! While you enjoy it's rights, how will you both provide against its wants?

Your bounty hitherto has let me feel no wants; and shou'd it be your pleasure to withdraw it, thanks to Pro­vidence, the world is not so scantily provided but it can give to honest industry a daily dinner.

Fine words! But I'll appeal to this good Gen­tleman; let him decide betwixt us.

In truth, young gentleman, your uncle has good reason on his side; and was I he, I never wou'd consent to your alliance [...]ith Miss Aubrey, till she brought a fortune large enough to keep you both.

These are your maxims I've no doubt; they only prove to me that you love money more than beauty, gene­rosity or honour.

But is your Lady in possession of all these? Let me be made acquainted with her, and perhaps I may come over to your sentiments.

Ay, Frank, go, fetch your girl, and let my friend here see her; I'm in earnest. Upon my honour, nephew, till you've gain'd this Gentleman's consent, you never can have mine; so go your ways and let us see if you have interest enough to bring her hither.

Oh! if my fate depends upon her looks, they must be iron hearts that can withstand 'em.

The manly and disinterested passion of this youth, while it possesses me strongly in his favour, gives an assurance [Page 50] of a virtuous conduct in my child; indeed, Sir, I am greatly taken with your nephew.

Thank Heaven, the boy as yet has never made me blush; and if he holds his course, he may take one half of my fortune now, and t'other at my death—But, see, Sir, here your daughter comes.

You are obeyed: you see the Lady, and you've nothing now to wonder at, but my presumption.

To wonder at! I do behold a wonder! 'Tis her mother's image! Gracious Providence, this is too much!

You will alarm her; your disorder is too visible.

I cannot speak to her; I pray you let me hear her voice.

Why am I sent for? is your uncle angry? how have I offended?—

Hush, hush, she speaks; 'tis she herself, it is my long-lost wife restor'd and rais'd again.

Pooh! what had I to do to meddle with these mat­ters?

Why does that Gentleman regard me so atten­tively? His eyes oppress me; ask him if he knows me?

Sir, if you know this Lady, if you've any tidings to communicate that touch her happiness, oh! that I cou'd inspire you with my feelings!

I knew your father, and am a witness to the hard necessity, which tore him from an infant child, and held him eighteen tedious years in exile from his native land.

What do I hear? You was my father's friend?—The prayer and intercession of an orphan draw Heaven's righteous benediction down upon you!

Prepare yourself, be constant. I have news to tell you of your father.

I can't stand this; I wish I was any where else.

Courage, my dear Augusta; my life upon it, there is happiness in store for thee.

Go on, go on.

You are in an error, you are not an orphan; you have a father, whom, thro' toil and peril, thro' sickness and thro' sorrow, Heaven has graciously preserv'd and blest at length his unremitting labours with abundance.

[Page 51]

Did I not tell you this? Bear up.

Yes, virtuous Augusta, all your sufferings termi­nate this moment; you may now give way to love and hap­piness; you have a father living who approves your passion, who will crown it with a liberal fortune, who now looks upon you, speaks to you, embraces you.

There, there; I'm glad 'tis over. Joy befall you both!

See how her colour flies—She'll faint.

What have I done? Dear innocent, look up.

Oh, yes, to Heaven with gratitude for these divine vouchsafements—I have a father then at last—Pardon my tears; I'm little us'd to happiness, and have not learn'd to bear it.

May all your days to come be nothing else! But look, she changes again—Help me to lead her into the air.

I believe a little air will not be much amiss for any of us. Look at that girl; 'tis thus mortality encounters happiness; 'tis thus the inhabitant of earth meets that of heaven, with tears, with faintings, with surprize: let others call this the weakness of our nature; to me it proves the unworthiness; for had we merits to entitle us to hap­piness, the means wou'd not be wanting to enjoy it.

'SDEATH, Sir, am I or you the master of this house? who made you judge what company is fit for me to keep? the gentlemen you excluded came by my special in­vitation and appointment.

Gentlemen!

Ay, gentlemen. Were they not such?

Under favour, I took 'em to be sharpers; I know your Lordship always loses, and I've notic'd that they always win.

Impertinence! I had debts of honour to adjust with every one of them.

Hang 'em, base vermin, pay them debts; pay your poor tradesmen; those are debts of honour.

What is't you mutter? It was you too, I sup­pose, that drove away my Jew, that came with money to discharge those debts.

That's true enow, gude faith, I promised him a beating, and I kept my word.

Rascal, thou'rt born to be my plague.

Rascal! Your father never used that word.

On your life, name not him: my heart is torn with vultures, and you feed them: shall I keep a servant in my house to drive away my guests, to curb my pleasures, my pursuits, and be a spy upon my very thoughts; to set that cynic Mortimer upon me, and expose me in the moments of my weakness to that snarling humourist? I want no monitors to reproach me, my own thoughts can do that.

Well, well! 'tis vary well! A rascal! Let it pass—Zooks, I'm the first Macleod that ever heard that word and [Page 53] kept my dirk within my girdle—Let it pass—I've seen the world, serv'd a spendthrift, heard myself called rascal, and I'll now jog bock again across the Tweed, and lay my bones amongst my kindred in the Isle of Skey; they're all that will be left of me by then I reach the place.

Ah! dere he stand, le pauvre Colin in disgrace! Ha! ha! ha! quelle spectacle! Ma foi, I must have one little vord wid him at parting—Monsieur le Fi­nancier, courage; I am inform my Lord have sign your lettre de cachet: vat of dat? The air of Scotland will be for your healt; England is not a country for les beaux esprits; de pure air of de Highlands will give you de grande appetit for de bonny-clabber.

Take your jest, Master Frenchman, at my coun­trymen an' welcome; the de'il a jest they made of you last war.

Yes, you are all adroit enough at war, but none of you know how to be at peace.

And these are all the money dealings you have had with Lord Abberville?

That is the amount of his debt; the bonds and contracts are in Bridgemore's hands.

You see your money has not slept in Bridgemore's keeping; your consignment, Mr. Aubrey, is put to pretty good interest

Aubrey! Is your name Aubrey may I ask?

It is.

Have you had any dealings with Mr. Bridge­more?

To my cost.

Did you consign him merchandize from Scan­deroon?

I am the person who was guilty of that folly.

Bridgemore I believe thought you was dead.

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I take for granted he would gladly have me so—But do you know any thing of that consignment?

Heh! Do I know of it? I had better make a friend of him; 'tis up with Bridgemore fait; there is no senses in serving him any longer

Why you shall know, Sir, I was Bridgemore's broker for your merchan­dize: here is the abstract of the net proceeds

That's lucky as I live; I see an honest man ne­ver can want weapons to defeat a knave—And pray, Sir, what might be your profit on this sale; double commission for a breach of trust, that is the rule of the trade I think.

I work as others; I do nothing below market-price.

You're right, Sir; 'twou'd be starving many an honest family, if you made roguery too cheap—But get you gone together to my library; I observe a person coming who will interrupt you.—Hark'e, Mr. Aubrey, have an eye to our Jew.

Trust him to me: I'm pretty well accustom'd to their dealings.

Save you Sir, save you; is it true I pray you that a learned Gentleman, a traveller but just arrived, is now with you?

There is a person under that description in my house.

May he be seen, good now? may he be talk'd with? what has he brought home? is he well stor'd with oriental curiosities?

Faith, Sir, indifferent well; he has brought a con­siderable parcel of sun-dried bricks from the ruins of an­tient Babylon; a heavy collection of ores from the mines of Siberia, and a pretty large cargo of common salt from the banks of the Caspian.

Inestimable!

Oh, Sir, mere ballast.

Ballast indeed, and what discoveries does he draw from all these?

Why he has discover'd that the bricks are not [Page 55] fit for building; the mines not worth the working, and the salt not good for preserving: in short, Doctor, he has no taste for these trifles; he has made the human heart his study; he loves his own species, and does not care if the whole race of butterflies was extinct.

Yes, putterflies—'tis in my mind, d'ye see, what you have said about my putterflies: 'tis upon my memory; but no matter—your studies Mr. Mortimer, and mine, are wide asunder.—But go on—reform the world, you'll find it a tough task; I am content to take it as I find it.

While the sun shines, you'll carry a candle; how will that light them, who travel in the night? Away with such philosophers, here comes an honest man, and that's a character worth ten on't.—

So, Colin, what's the news with you? If I'm to augur from your countenance, something goes wrong at your house.

Troth, Sir, no mighty matter; only Laird Ab­berville has turn'd away a troublesome fellow, who bore your honour grete gude will.

What is't you tell me? is my Lord determined upon ruin, that he puts away the only honest man be­longing to him?

By this coot light, and that is well remem­ber'd; look'e, I've got your wages: come, hold out your hand.

Axcuse me, I'll ha' none on't.

No wages? why 'tis all coot money; 'tis in full. What, man, think better on't; you'll want it when you get to Scotland, ten to one else.

Like enow, but by my sol I'll touch na filler; he has geen a title to me, which I hanna merited, Heav'n knows, nor ever shall.

What title has he given you?

Saving your presence it ha' pleas'd my Laird to say, I am a rascall; but I'll na wear a rascall's wages in a scottish pouch: de'il o' my soul, I'd sooner eat my stroud for famine.

I think thou woud'st, but wait a while with pa­tience; this rash young man's affairs press to a crisis; I have yet one effort more to make, which if it fails I sha [...] take leave of him as well as you.

Lord Abberville, Sir, desires to speak with you.

That's well. Colin, go you with honest Jarvis. Doctor, for once let us unite our studies in this cause, come you with me; if my advice can rescue your unhappy pupil from a course of guilty occupations, your philosophy may furnish harmless ones to fill their place: make haste; make haste, here come the Bridgemores.

Please to walk in here; my master will wait upon you immediately.

Nobody here!—Hark'e, friend, I expected to meet a stranger; a gentleman just landed from Scanderoon. Know you of such a one?

He is now in the house.

And Mr. Tyrrel, Sir, is he at home?

He is; they both will wait upon you presently.

That's well, that's well; as for old furly-boots we cou'd well spare his company; 'tis a strange dogged fellow, and execrated by all mankind.

Thank Heaven, he is a man one seldom meets; I little thought of ever setting foot in his house: I hope the savage won't grow ceremonious and return the visit.

Unless he brings his nephew in his hand.

Ladies, you do me honour. Mr. Bridgemore, you come here upon a mechancholy errand—

True, Sir, but death you know is common to all men; I look'd to meet a gentleman here—this is all lost time.

True: therefore before he comes, let us fill it up with something more material: I have a business to propose to you, which I consider as my own. You must know, Sir, I've a nephew.—

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Mr. Tyrrel I suppose?

The same.

Mind that, Lucy, he is opening his com­mission.

Law, Ma'am, you put me into such a flutter.

There is a certain Lady, Mr. Bridgemore, whom, on this occasion, you must father.

How tedious he is! Coudn't he as well have nam'd my daughter?—Well, Sir, what are your expecta­tions from that Lady?

Nay, nothing but what you can readily supply: I know no good thing she stands in want of, but a for­tune.

Well, and who doubts but on a proper occa­sion I shall give her one? Ay, and a tolerable fortune too, Mr. Mortimer, as times go.

The fortune you was to have given my ward, Lord Abberville, will just suffice: I think the sum was forty thousand pounds.

Why you speak out at once.

'That ever been my custom; I abominate long sleepy processes; life don't allow of 'em.

But I hear nothing on your part; Mr. Tyrrel, as I take it, is wholly dependant on your bounty—besides, affairs, as I conceive, are yet scarce ripe.

Indeed, pappa, you're very much mistaken.

Why really, Mr. Mortimer, the parties shou'd at least be suffer'd to consult each other's inclina­tions.

By all means; let 'em speak for themselves: 'tis their own cause, and they will plead it best: hark'e, come in, Sir, these are the parties.

Ah!

What ails you; have you trod upon a thorn?

Astonishing assurance! Augusta here?

Yes: Francis Tyrrel and Augusta Aubrey. Do the names offend you? Look at the parties, are they not well match'd? Examine them, they'll tell you they're agreed. Who shall forbid their union?

Who cares about it? If Mr. Tyrrel and the Lady [Page 68] are agreed, that's enough: I suppose it is not necessary for us to be present at the ceremony.

Ay, Sir, I pray you, where's the occasion for us to be call'd in, because your nephew chuses to take up with an unworthy girl, that I once harbour'd upon charity?

Hold your audacious tongue: let conscience keep you silent.

Hush, hush! you frighten me; pray be compos'd; and let me own that no injustice, no severity can wholly cancel what I owe to Mr. Bridgemore for his past pro­tection, and that share of education he allow'd me; but when he puts this to the account of charity, he takes a virtue foreign to his heart, and only aggravates the shame that's falling on him.

Is the man thunder-struck; why don't you answer?

Charity keeps him silent.

Come, let's begone: her words have daggers in 'em, and her looks are poison.

Before you go, Miss Bridgemore, suffer me to ask, when you related Lord Abberville's adventure to Mr. Tyr­rel, why you suppress'd the evidence of your own maid, who conducted him into my chamber?

Miss Aubrey, if it ever is your fate to have a rival, you will find an answer to that question.

Hold, you and I, Sir, must not part.

Well, Sir, your pleasure?

I suffer for him; this is a scene I wish not to be present at.

Well, Mr. Bridgemore, you that harbour'd my Augusta upon charity, I shall leave my uncle to discharge my obligations to you on that score, together with his own.

Well, Sir, we're now alone; and if it needs must be that one of us shall come to shame, 'tis well we are so. It is thought I am a hard unfeeling man; let it be so: you shall have justice notwithstanding: innocence requires no more. You are accus'd; defend yourself.

Accus'd of what; and who is my accuser?

A man; and you shall face him like a man. Who waits?

Desire the stranger to [Page 59] come hither

Fear nothing; we're enough to try this question; where the human heart is present, and the appeal is made to Heaven, no jury need be sum­moned. Here is a stranger has the confidence to say that your pretensions to charity are false; nay, he arraigns your honesty; a charge injurious to any man, but mortal to a trader, and levell'd at the vital root of his profession.

Ay, 'tis the Turky merchant I suppose; let him come in; I know upon what ground I stand, and am afraid of no man living.

We shall try that. Do you know this Gentleman?

Aubrey!

Thou wretch!

He lives!

To thy confusion—Rais'd by the bounty of my family, is this your gratitude? When in the bitterness of my distress I put an infant daughter in your hands, the last weak scyon of a noble stock, was it to rob me you received her? To plunder and defraud an helpless orphan, as you thought her, and rise upon the ruins of your benefactor's fortune?

Oh! I am trepann'd! How shall I look my wife and daughter in the face

Where have you lodg'd the money I deposited with you at parting? I find my daughter destitute: what have you done with the remittances I sent from time to time? But above all, where is the produce of the Nep­tune's cargo? Villain, look here, I have the proofs; this is the abstract of the sale; if you dispute it, I am here provided with a witness, your Jew broker, ready at hand to attest it to your face.

Expose me not; I will refund to the last far­thing: I dispute nothing; call him not in.

There's no occasion for witnesses when a man pleads guilty.

Dear Sir, upon my knees I do beseech you miti­gate your severity; it is my first petition; he's detected, let his conscience add the rest.

Rise, my beloved child, it shall be so. There, Sir, your pardon be your punishment; it was my money only you attempted, my choicest treasure you have left untouch'd: now go and profit by this meeting: I will not expose you: learn of your fraternity a more honour­able practice; and let integrity for ever remain the inse­parable characteristic of an English merchant.

Stay; I've another point to settle with you; you're a creditor of Lord Abberville's: I find you've put Miss Aubrey's money to extraordinary interest: Jarvis, shew this Gentleman into my library, you'll find a lawyer there will settle your accounts.

I think you've pretty well done that already—A fine visit truly I have made on't; and a fine reception I shall meet at home.

So! This uneasy business past, let us now turn to happiness: where is your Nephew?

Conferring with Lord Abberville.

Lord Abberville? You frighten me.

Fear nothing; you will find him a new man; a deep incision has let out the disorder; and I hope a healthy regimen in time will heal the wound; in short I can't be idle; and now Frank is off my hands, I've once more un­dertaken to set this ricketty babe of quality upon his legs—Oh, here he comes; why this is as it should be; now you look like friends.

May we be ever so! O, Mortimer, I blush to look upon that Lady; your reproofs I bore with some com­posure; but methinks was she to chide me, I should sink with shame.

You've nothing, my Lord Abberville, to appre­hend from me: I should be loth to give an interruption to your happiness in the height of my own.

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Give me thy hand, Augusta—In the hope that I was labouring for thy sake, and in thy person that I shou'd restore the prostrate fortunes of an ancient house, I have toiled on through eighteen years of wearisome ad­venture: crown'd with success, I now at length return, and find my daughter all my fondest hope could represent; but past experience makes me provident; I would secure my treasure; I would bestow it now in faithful hands—What say you, Sir, will you accept the charge?

Yes, and will bear it ever in my sight, watch over it with unremitting love, and guard it with my life.

What says my child, my dear Augusta? But I read her looks—Blest be you both!

Amen, say I. Live an example to the age; and when I read the list of marriages, as I do that of burials, with a sigh, let me have this to say, that there was one example of felicity.

O, Frank, 'tis hard to speak the word, but you deserve her; yours is the road to happiness; I have been lost in error, but I shall trace your steps and press to overtake you.

Why that's well said; there spoke your father from within you: now begone; fly to the altars of your country lares; visit that nurse of contemplation, solitude; and while you range your groves, that shook at every rattle of the dice, ask of your reason, why you was a gamester.

I've been a madman; I have lost an humble faithful friend, whose services wou'd be invaluable.

Why ay, your Highlander, your poor Macleod; our plan must stop without his help; I'm but a projector, he must execute—but there likewise I can serve you.

O Mortimer, how much have I mistaken thee!

Come, come, I have my faults; I'm an un­toward fellow, and stand as much in need of a reform as any of you all.

Tutor me truly—talk to me! Pray, Gen­tlemens, bear witness: is Master Colins here a proper teacher of the dialects, d'ye see, and pronunciations of the English tongue?

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Why not? Is there not Duncan Ross of Aberdeen that lactures twice a week in oratory at the Seven Dials? and does not Sawney Ferguson, a cousin of mine awn, administer the English language in it's utmost elegance at Amsterdam?

Bear witness, that is all I say, bear wit­ness.

We do; there is not one amongst us, Doctor, but can witness to some noble act of Colin's; and we wou'd not wound his harmless vanity, for any bribe that you can offer.

Colin, I've done you wrong; but I was not myself; be you no worse a servant than you have been, and you shall find henceforward I will be a better master.

I'm satisfied; an you'll neglect yoursall na more than I shall do, things will gang well enow.

I must apologize to Colin too; like my Lord Ab­berville, I was not myself when I rebuff'd you on the business of Miss Aubrey's letter.

Say no more, Maister Tyrrel; 'tis not for a mon to resent the pertness of a child, or the petulance of a lover.

But what shall I say to him? where shall I find words to thank him as I ought?

I father all your obligations; 'twas not you but me his bounty sav'd.

Hold, Sir, in point of obligation I stand first. By how much there is more disgrace in doing than in suffering a violence, by so much I am more his debtor than you all.

Ecod and that is true enow; Heaven sends mis­fortune, but the De'il sends mischief.

Well, Master Colins, all is past and over; you have got your place again, and all is well. Coot now, let me admonish you for the future to be quiet and hear reason; moderate your choler and your passions and your partialities: it is not for a clown like you to prattle and dispute with me; in fait you shou'd know better.

Come, come, 'tis you that shou'd know better; in this poor Higlander the force of prejudice has some plea, because he is a clown; but you, a citizen that shou'd be of the world, whose heart philosophy and travel might [Page 63] have open'd, shou'd know better than to join the cry with those, whose charity, like the limitation of a brief, stops short at Berwick, and never circulates beyond the Tweed. By Heaven, I'd rather weed out one such unmanly pre­judice from the hearts of my countrymen, than add another Indies to their empire.