ACT I.

A Very pleasant, sociable companion, indeed, Mr. Visorly! can you pore over newspapers at no other time? You compliment me most highly in letting me see that, while you are in my company, you need other entertainment.

My dear, I beg your pardon. One is anxious, you know, for the good of one's country.

You are anxious, Mr. Visorly, for any thing that is to shew disrespect to me.

Lord how you talk—I shew disrespect to you!

There! are you not still inattentive to me and my remonstrances? Ah! I might have known what I had to expect. This is the conse­quence of losing sight of what was due to my birth and rank, and marrying a commoner.

My dear Lady Jemima, why shou'd you urge that so often? I am sensible of the honor, and of my own unworthiness.

Still you pay no attention to what I [Page 2] am complaining of. Any thing, I find, is prefer­able to my conversation.

Never spoke a truer word in her life

My dear, I shall have done in a moment—I am among the deaths.

I wish to the Lord you were.

Oh fie, fie, Lady Jemima!

You would provoke the patience of a saint.

What is the matter?

Tol lol de rol!

The man is mad.

Tol lol de rol!

What frenzy has seized you?

Frenzy, my dear! only the frenzy that arises from good news.

Can't you give utterance to your good news without such absurdity?

Well, well, I will, my dear,

"On Thursday, the 14th of last March, died at an advanced age, at Calcutta in Bengal"—Tol lol de rol!

Oh, mad, mad!

"John Cleveland, Esq.—his immense wealth devolves on his only son, who is shortly expected in England." There is a fortune for our dear son, Leonard!

How do you mean for our Leonard?

Mr. Cleveland, the son and heir of the deceased, is my first cousin—I'm his nearest of kin—The old fellow, who is dead, was such a capricious sort of animal, that he might have left every shilling of it away from his own son; but now it is come into his possession, it is in the fair road to our family.

This, indeed, is welcome news;—and here comes our dear Leonard to partake it.

Ah, my dear boy!

Ah, my dear son!

Good morning—How do you do?

Here is news!

Ah, my boy, we have news for you!

Well, let me have it.

Why then—

No, no, Mr. Visorly—I'll tell it him.

I'll save you the trouble—Old Cleveland is dead at Calcutta—his son inherits all his for­tune—And the good news is, that their bulses and lacks may eventually come to our family.

Ay, my boy!

Yes, Leonard!

I would not give five guineas for the chance of inheritance.

No!

No. I know a little more of the cir­cumstances than you do. Mr. Cleveland has a daughter.

Poh, poh! some—some—you under­stand me.

Mr. Visorly, I am shocked at your indelicate allusions.

I wish they were well grounded; but 'tis a melancholy fact, that the daughter is legitimate, and her mother, Cleveland's wife, is living.

Dear me, dear me!

How do you know all this?

From the most positive information.—Cleveland's own acknowledgement. He has written to me.

Really!

[Page 4]

Yes—Stating that as we were the nearest, and only male relations he had, to us he has taken the liberty of consigning his remittances—with directions how he wishes them to be invested. Understanding that your residence in London was only casual, and also thinking the trouble of business more suited to my time of life, he thought it better to address his letter to me. In it, he ex­plains all the particulars of his marriage; and recommends his wife and daughter to our at­tention.

How—are they not with him?

No. His daughter we may hourly ex­pect—Not being able to settle his affairs immedi­ately on the death of his father, he sent her before him, unwilling to detain her from her mother.

Why, is the mother in England?

Yes;—and has been for several years. His marriage was without the consent of his father, and, for some time, unknown to him—Enraged when he discovered it, he insisted on a separation,—to avoid ruin, which would have been the con­sequence of his father's resentment, he was forced to comply. The child was suffered to remain with him—The wife was doom'd to return to England, where, for these fifteen years she has lived in retirement.

Well, what is to be done?

They are recommended, it seems, to our attention; but, really, I don't well see how I can reconcile to myself, taking notice of, and introducing to my acquaintances, people, one doesn't know who—and that have been living one doesn't know where,

What do you talk of? Are they not the [Page 5] wife and daughter of a nabob? Your high-bred friends will worship you for the introduction. Think what will be the magnificence of their house, the splendour of their equipage, the bril­liancy of their entertainments. Such suppers as theirs will be the fashionable world would scram­ble for a seat at, even if they were given by a personage from a hotter place than Bengal.

Leonard says very truly. We shall get credit by shewing such gold pheasants to our friends.

Certainly: for all will be charmed with the splendour of their plumage—even those who are so little fashionable as not to attempt plucking the feathers.

Well, we must prepare to shew them all possible civility.

Ay, ay, pray let us; for I have something in view that will pay us for our trouble.

What is that, son?

The hope of making the young lady a part of our family.

What an excellent thought! Ah, Leo­nard, Leonard, you are a cunning rogue!

You amaze me, child, that you don't extend your views—My son, the grandson of the earl of Castlegreat, ought to aspire to the proudest heiresses of the noblest peers—not stoop to a thing of mushroom growth.

Consider, mother, this mushroom is the growth of a golden soil.

Well, son, pursue your own inclina­tions; my affection for you will always make me yield to your wishes.

Then this glorious fortune may be mine. Invite them to your house. The mother having [Page 6] long experienced a constrained seclusion from so­ciety, will, doubtless, be gratified with attentions from a woman of your rank—the daughter is young—I don't despair of success with her; and the preference the father has shewn, in the trust con­signed to me, makes me hope every thing from him. So, all seems fair for my success; and half a million at least is the prize. Think of that—think of that.

A person below desires to speak with you, Sir.

What is his name?

He says his own name is immaterial; but he desired me to mention the name of Cleveland.

Shew him up directly.

You are welcome, Sir.

Thank you, Sir; thank you. So, I be got to you at last. You great folks take a plaguy time coming at. Ma'am, your humble servant. Mayhap, I should say your Ladyship—Pray ex­cuse all faults.

Never mind, Lady Jemima doesn't stand on ceremony.

Don't she? Why, then, Lady Jemima is a lady just after my own heart.

Well, Sir—you come concerning Mr. Cleveland.

Why, yes, Sir; yes. You must know, Sir, that I am an old fellow that remember Mrs. Cleveland (Heaven bless her!) when she was not the height of my knee. Often and often is the time that I have danced her o'top of it. Well, that is neither here nor there. When her father [Page 7] died—Ah! I shall never forget it—he has not left a better man behind him—there was not a dry eye in the village except the undertaker's, and folks do say he cried a bit. Well, her father, good soul! had met with so many losses and crosses, that there was little enough left for his daughter to live like a lady on; so she was persuaded by her friends to take a voyage to India with a cousin of her's, who had married, and was going to settle there.

Mr. Cleveland has acquainted me with the rest. There he married her, and from thence, by the severity of his father, he was forced to send her.

Ah, poor dear! home she came again, miserable enough, to be sure. Well, mayhap, all for the best; now she will be as happy as the day is long. But for this many a year she has led but a lonesome sort of a life; for you may think my dame and I, though we love her like a child of our own, can't have been company good enough for her: but she was as kind to us, and made as much of us, as though we had been the best people in the land.

We shall soon, I hope, have the pleasure of receiving her in this house. She must not think of seeing any other habitation.

Oh, certainly not. She must make this her abode.

Oh, to be sure; to be sure.

Why, do you know, now, this is the very thing that came into my head, and that I told her of—Says I, as sure as I am a sinner, if those relations of Mr. Cleveland's have the least bit of kind-heartedness about them, they'll never let you live in any house but their own. Certainly!—How right you were! [Page 8] And I am glad to find such friendly good souls in this great town of London;—for, do you know, I had got a notion of its being but a bad sort of a place. I trust you will find it otherwise. Why. I hope I shall.

When did Mrs. Cleveland arrive?

But last night.

And where is she?

Why, she is at a—at a—What the plague do you call it? It is the like of an inn, only it goes by a finer name.

Oh, an Hotel.

Ay, ay, an Hotel.

But what Hotel?

Od rabbit it, I forget the name of it; but I can ask the man who shewed me the way here; for, as I never was in London before, I can't travel without a guide. He waits below to take me back again—he will tell me

Stay, Sir, he shall direct us both. The carriage is waiting, and I will not lose a mo­ment in paying my respects to Mrs. Cleveland.

Well, now, that is kind of you, indeed, my lady. I will leave the direction below stairs, and go on before.

By no means. Lady Jemima will take you in the carriage with her.

Why, you are joking sure!

My dear Leonard, think if I should meet any of my friends with this Bumpkin for my Cicisbeo.

Oh, mother, to oblige me

My mother is ready to attend you, Sir.

Psha, Psha! no tricks upon travellers. Her ladyship ride with such a lout as me!

[Page 9]

It may well surprize you

—Oh, Sir, I shall be proud of the honour.

The honour! that is a good one. Come, then, my lady. Lord, how my dame would laugh to see me seated in a coach with a Lady Jemima!

Won't you accompany my mother, Sir? I have business which must detain me.

Yes, yes, I will go with you, Lady Jemima

—I say, Leonard, where will her Ladyship wish the rustic if she meets any of her noble relatives? Ha! ha! 'tis a good joke—Ah, Leonard, you are a droll dog!

If my designs succeed, on what a pinnacle of for­tune shall I be placed! The independence be­queathed me by my grandfather I have turned to good account. What, though it has been the means of effecting the ruin of a few thoughtless profligates? There vices were incurable, and they would have been as completely beggared by the skilful operations of others if all my thoughts had been engaged in the exercise of devotion, and my guineas appropriated to charitable donations—Nay, to preserve my estimation with the world, I have raised from the earth those whom others, less mindful of opinion, would have left groveling in misery.—Psha! when I scrutinize my conduct with an eye half inclined to condemnation, I find matter for praise instead of censure. Dupes will be dupes—Knaves will make their prey of them—and lucky is the dupe that becomes the prey of a knave with some conscience, and a great regard for a good reputation. Whom have we here?

Peace be unto this house!

Who is this? With what Hedge Divine have I the honour of an acquaintance?

Thy name is Leonard Visorly.

Well, Sir, what is your business?

To discourse with thee on the state of thy conscience.

I request you will save yourself that trou­ble: my conscience is a charge of which I choose to have the sole guardianship.

But it is my duty to inquire whether thou hast treated that precious charge like unto a faith­ful guardian—Whether thou hast not stained with guilt, that which was consigned to thy care spot­less and pure; and which now goads thee with complainings for thy iniquity. Therefore, I say—

You shall say no more in this house. Out with you directly

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, is this the way you treat an old friend, after so long an absence?

An old friend!—What do you mean? Who are you?

And so, my reverend appearance has con­cealed from your recognition your friend, and brother in iniquity, Jeremy Sharpset!

Sharpset!

The very same.

But what is the meaning of this trans­formation?

The restlessness of my disposition, and inclination for any pursuit in preference to laudable exertion, and honest industry.

You always had a propensity to confess your faults. [Page 11] Yes, but not much propensity to amend them. To be sure I shewed a little dis­position towards it by quitting you. Your most humble servant.

I am afraid you felt the loss of me.

Yes, I confess it—You were very ser­viceable.

Yes, I was. I did the roguery, and you received the profits.

Come, come—You were not ill paid.

Oh, no—I don't complain. How is poor Drooply?

Still the creature of my bounty.

Well, that is kind of you—A generous weakness in your character—You swindled him out of two thousand a year, and are good enough to allow him a hundred. Ah, you are a model of philanthropy.

Come, a truce with your sarcasm.

Ah, bless your honest tender heart! He is as grateful to you as ever, I conclude.

Yes, he esteems me his friend and pre­server.

Poor fellow! "He was wont to set the table in a roar, now quite chop-fallen." I declare I never think of him but with a heart-ache.

Well, well—but what have you been do­ing since we parted?

All sorts of things I ought not to do. To confess the truth, the reason I quitted you, was, I was tired of the work you chalked out for me—You wanted to push me a little farther in roguery than I liked. I am but a petty larceny villain—That ruin of poor Drooply, in which I was the chief engine for you—that hit me hard. I am foolish enough to have qualms. I know you despise me for it; but we all have our weaknesses.

[Page 12]

Well, well; but what became of you?

I'll tell you. I had unluckily, once in my life, dined at a Lord Mayor's feast.—I shall never forget it. Talk of Earls and Dukes en­tertaining!—Psha! a rivulet to the ocean. Ever after I panted for City honours—So, all my honest earnings I was determined to deposit in trade. An opportunity soon offered—I was to become a sleeping partner in a great house. I paid down my cash to the last guinea—A docket was struck against the firm the very next week, so the poor sleeping partner had nothing but the open air for his slumbers; and, instead of being in the road to claim a seat at a Guildhall dinner, I had scarcely enough to purchase one in Porridge Island.

So, all your hopes of a gold chain va­nished?

Yes; and I was in a very likely way to be adorned with an iron one;—but I was resolved to take myself out of the reach of temptation and danger, by leaving London.

In what capacity did you travel?

Still I had a taste for partnership. I en­gaged with a very respectable Gentleman to divide with him the attention and profits of—

Of what?

A collection of wild beasts.

I guess you were not a sleeping partner here.

No; my companions were rather hostile to repose. Not much liking such uncivilized so­ciety, and being a little apprehensive that my fellow-travellers might one time or other make a supper of me, I soon cut this connection; and instead of exhibiting the merits of others, I got a taste for displaying my own.

How, pray?

[Page 13]

I joined a party of strolling players.

Indeed!

I know you must be shocked at my de­scending so damn'd low as to turn actor. But I did not disgrace myself long.

How happened that?

The audience would not let me.

How so?

I came out in Richard the Third. I thought it devilish fine; but the good folks in the front thought otherwise. I ranted—they hooted—However, I out-roared them, and pushed on till I got into Bosworth Field—"A horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" When a drunken, Fox­hunting squire (I shall never lose the sound of his damn'd voice) bawled out of the boxes, that I should have the best horse in his stable, if I would ride away directly, and never come back again.

Ha! ha! ha!

The actor's warn'd me it would not do. I thought it envy in them, and have some reason to think they sent in a party to hiss me. However, by way of comfort, they told me, though I should never act tragedy, they thought I should succeed in low comedy—Low comedy! only think of their impudence! Is this a face for low comedy? No, no, damn it! I could not stoop to that.

Well, your next resource?

Oh, then I got a call, and mounted the habiliments in which you see me; this was lucra­tive; but my conscience would not suffer me any longer to drain from the pockets of the poor, the earnings of their industry: nay, what is worse, em­bitter their innocent minds with groundless terrors, and inspire them with prejudice against their fel­low-creatures.

So then you deign at last to return to me.

[Page 14]

Yes; for I had rather cheat the rich, than delude the poor.

Well, well, I'll endeavour to find you employment.

That I don't doubt, as long as there is a pigeon to be plucked, and as I am disposed to be a rook at your service.

No, I have at present honester objects in view, to attain which I may need your assistance.

Well, I'm glad of that; for, upon my soul, I am tired of being a rogue.

If I reach the point of my present aim, I may, myself, relinquish that character. I shall then have wealth enough to gratify even my ambition. I am no further a knave than as it forwards my grand pursuit, the attainment of wealth. And who would not use any means to gain that, which covers vice with the garb of respect, and without which virtue meets but pity or derision.

Well observed; and never was observa­tion more patly illustrated. You are a glorious instance of the first part of your sentiment, and here comes a proof of the latter.

Ah, Drooply, how do you do?

How do you do, my dear fellow?

Where have you hid yourself? nobody has seen you of late?

I have been striving to follow the example of my acquaintances, and learning to be as shy of them as they are of me.

Why, what an altered being you are! you used to be a merry fellow.

Yes, for I used to be a rich fellow.

[Page 15]

Come, come, cheer up. Good spirits are a man's best friends.

Ay; but like the rest of his friends, when his money leaves him, they leave him too.

Nay, nay; your friends have not all de­serted you.

All but you. There is not another man in the world who would care a straw if the devil had one.

If you are so despondent, I must recom­mend you a spiritual comforter. Can your rever­ence administer consolation to this afflicted being?

No; for I can't return him the money I won of him.

Whom have we here?

What, not remember me! If I had done you a kindness, I might expect to be forgotten▪ but I thought every one remembered an ill-turn.

In this pious pastor you behold a quondam acquaintance, Mr. Sharpset.

What! Sharpset turned Methodist?

Yes; but don't wrong my understanding—Only from necessity.

You might triumph now, if you were dis­posed to indulge spleen; for the man who was the chief gainer by your losses at play, is now as low in the world as yourself.

No, I am so completely without gratifica­tion, I have not even the comfort a malicious dis­position would afford me. It is far from a relief to me, to see another unfortunate.

You are mutually distressed; yet, how differently you bear your misfortunes.

That is easily accounted for. I have a thousand resources—Drooply has none. Born to no other inheritance, I have learned to turn to ac­count [Page 16] what I inherit from nature; so that, tho' my acquisitions have been squandered, I am still in possession of my original patrimony.

Ah, you lucky dog! you have an estate in every corner of your brain, and a pretty income at the end of every finger. Now, the whole pro­duce of my skull would not get me change for sixpence: and as for my hands, curse them! they are fit for nothing but to dangle by my sides, or stuff out my coat-pockets.

Why, I am afraid they will never fill your pockets with any thing but themselves.

Oh I wish I had been a Turk!

A Turk!

Yes, a Turk: they are the only wise peo­ple on earth: they teach all their great men some honest employment.

Do they? I know some great men I wish they would give a lesson to.

Oh if we had that good mussulman custom among us, how many a rich man would be of more use to society when his estate was gone, than while he possessed it! as a good cobler is a more valuable character than a rich man who does not employ his wealth properly.

Why, you are turning moralist!

Yes; the loss of wealth seldom lessens a man's morality. While I am creeping about, such a piece of moving lumber, what respect I feel for every reputable tinker that comes in my way. This very morning how I did envy a merry rogue of a shoeblack! With what glee he put the polish of an artist on the boot he was blacking: how merrily he brushed and sung, and how conceitedly and happily he looked at his work when he had done it! Oh, you jolly dog, thought I, what a happy man had been spoiled, if you had been born [Page 17] to two thousand a year! you would never have enjoyed the luxury of polishing a shoe, or the in­dependent exultation of existing by your own industry.

We must endeavour to dispel your melan­choly. You are a martyr to ennui. I must find you employment.

You must do something beside—find me capacity.

That you don't want. Your talents have been only slumbering.

Hav'n't they? they have had a pretty long nap, and a sound one too. I'm afraid it will be a hard matter to wake them.

I don't despair; especially when I shall set the loud voice of friendship to rouse them.

If they don't wake at that call, you may take your oath their slumber is everlasting. But tho' I am master of this poor tenement, I really am so ignorant of the state of the upper story, as not to know whether the inhabitants have perished by neglect, or are only dozing from want of em­ployment; but this I do know, there is a lively fellow in the first floor

who would dance with joy to do you the slightest ser­vice, and lose every drop of blood to prove his friendship and gratitude.

ACT II.

Yes, I have not been in town above half an hour.

Have you brought with you from the country house the box, which, I told you, con­tains the writings of your property.

Yes—shall I give it to you?

No; I am too busy at present—Only take care of it.

Well, my dear brother, I am so glad we are to have our house full of company—Oh, that is delightful! How I do love a racketting, noisy scene! In a morning the fashionable bustle of Bond­street, the musical thunder of a footman's rap—the dealing out tickets to the whole ton-world—and then at night, driving to twenty different assem­blies—seeing the whole world in the course of an evening—Oh, dear, dear, what a charming age to live in! we see more of life in one day, than our ancestors did in their whole existence.

Yes; but I doubt whether we are the happier for it.

To be sure we are. What is all this but happiness? care can never reach us, for in all this hurry nobody has time to think; and you know it is thinking makes one unhappy.

Well, I'm not Cynic enough to attempt to reason people out of their notions of happiness; for as it exists in imagination, the idea is the [Page 19] reality. But, my dear Caroline, I have told you my wish to be thought well of by this young East Indian. From living in the same house, and being nearly of an age, you will most likely contract a friendship.

Yes; and her taking my brother for her lover, will be the best security for that friendship; for then, we can't be rivals—and nothing is so apt to make young ladies disagree, as being both of the same mind.

This way, Mrs. Cleveland.

Here comes the mother.

Believe me, madam, we experience the greatest pleasure in welcoming you to this house. My daughter, madam—my son, Leonard.

I feel extreme happiness in the event of this moment, which makes me known to you, madam. Suffer me to assure you, that if I can be the humble instrument of rendering you a service, I shall esteem it the greatest bliss of my life.

Sir, I thank you.

I hope, madam, we shall be able to make your residence here, not entirely disagree­able to you: our friends and connections, among whom, I am proud to say, are some of the first rank, will, I am sure, do their possible to second our poor endeavours.

Your kindness, madam, merits my warmest return of gratitude. The endearing at­tentions with which you honour me, will tend to soothe the terrors of a mind anxious for the safety [Page 20] of the dear objects on which all its future happiness depends.

With what sincere joy, madam, I consider how short will be the continuance of your appre­hensions, and how complete the happiness you will so soon possess.

Heaven grant it! I have passed many a tedious year with no other solace than the hope of what now appears so near me. Fifteen years' ab­sence from the husband of my affections, and from my dear child, has been a period, you may well conceive, barren of comfort:—and, even now, I have much to dread—a long and dangerous voyage.—But I will hope the best, and not wrong Provi­dence, by doubting its goodness.

I am out of breath—quite out of breath—And I am almost out of my wits—she is arrived! she is arrived!

My daughter!

Yes—I have seen her, I have seen her!

O good heaven!

I have—Ah, the sweet little dear! and not so little either—She is quite a woman. Ah bless her! I've had a kiss, and I'll have another—I beg pardon gentlefolks—if I'm unmannerly 'tis joy makes me so.

Where is she?

In this very house by this time. Oh here she comes! here she comes!

My child! Oh, my sweet child!

My mother!

[Page 21]

How have I longed for this blest moment! But your dear father, did you leave him well?

Yes—quite well—And eager for the hap­piness which I feel now.

My sweet, sweet Julia! How well am I repaid for my past years of misery! Oh, height of bliss! The mother clasps once more in her fond arms, her long lost, only child.—

Pardon these transports—Joy like mine will keep no limits.

We all participate too much in your feli­city to wish repressed such exquisite emotions.

Yes, madam, we all feel boundless joy. What a pretty little creature it is, Leonard—Oh, you will be a happy rogue!

My Julia, to these generous friends we owe the utmost gratitude; their kindness grants us an asylum while your father shall remain from us.

'Tis for us to be grateful, for your kind compliance with our wishes

Tho' we can't rival the splendour of Calcutta, I hope London will have some charms for you.

Oh yes, I find already it has every charm: for I'm with my mother, and with friends who look as if they loved me.

And who that sets eyes on you, can help loving you, you dear, pretty creature? I beg par­don, gentlefolks.

Who is that good old gentleman? You can't think how glad he was to see me: he kissed me as fondly as if I had been his own daughter.

He is one, my Julia, who has made my comfort for these fifteen years the chief busi­ness of his life.

[Page 22]

What, has he been so kind to my dear mother? Oh then I must kiss him again.

I am too happy—I am too happy!

Tho' my new friends are so kind to me, I must not forget those who have loved me before. Where is Gangica?

Here, my dear mistress.

Mother you must love Gangica for my sake; she has lest her country and all her relations, be­cause she would not part from me: therefore I must love her better than ever, and every body that loves me, must love Gangica.

Her affection for my dear child makes her certain of my love. But I feel ex­hausted with excess of joy. We should not la­ment that there are few incidents in life, which waken such extreme delight; for were they fre­quent, how shortly would our weak frames yield to the tumults of ecstacy!

Let me conduct you, madam, to your apartments.

You are all goodness. Come, my dear child.

I can't tell how it is—I be no whimperer, gentle­men; but somehow, my eyes do nothing but moisten to-day.

I feel the tear of sensibility bedew my [Page 23] cheek. Ah, Leonard, my boy, if you can but get her.—

Hush, sir, hush!

Wha delight, sir, you must feel at the happiness of this family, to whom you have shewn so much attach­ment! What gratitude do they not owe you!

Gratitude to me! That is a great mis­take of yours, and it behoves me to set you right. Mrs. Cleveland's father saved me once from ruin—me and my family from beggary; and I think he must have but a bad notion of the value of a kind­ness done him, who, if he could live long enough, would not strive to repay it down to the fiftieth generation.

What a noble heart!

Noble heart! Psha, psha! sure the world is not so bad that a man need be praised for not being a monster.

I am proud of the happiness of being known to you.

And so am I, most sincerely.

Why to be sure a mighty matter to be proud of, gentlemen, being known to an old stupid country bumpkin. Surely you be jeering a body—but if you be, I can't find in my heart to be angry; for as long as you are so good and so kind to the dear creatures I love, you may flout and jeer at me as much as you please.

You mistake us extremely: it is the farthest from our thoughts to be deficient in any particle of respect.

Oh dear! we never dreamed of such a thing. Well, I suppose I shall be able in time to understand your London speechifying; but in truth your fine civil sayings are so like making [Page 24] game, that, for a little while, I shall be deucedly puzzled.

You never can be at a loss for our mean­ing—We feel the value of such integrity as yours; and be assured we shall always say less of your merits, than we think you deserve.

Always less than you deserve.

Do you know I shall take that very kind of you—for if you are so good as to fancy I have any deserts at all, you must in conscience think they be very little—And if so be you keep your word, and say less than you think, I shall be mighty happy—because then, you will just say no­thing at all. So, gentlemen, as in duty bound, I am your most humble servant.

Poor old fellow—Age begins to make havock—the upper works are giving way. Ah, sir! how few like you, enjoy in advanced life, robustness of form, vigour of in­tellect,—in short, all the advantages of youth, without its inexperience. Very few indeed, Leonard—I am one out of five thousand. Years in you, sir, have only just slack­ened the blazing fire of youth. Yes—slackened—not extinguished it.

This old rustic, sir, appears to stand vastly well with the mother; I must endeavour to gain his good graces; for the sentiments of a man she has known so long, and esteems so highly, must have great weight with her.

Very true—I'll take care to pay him vast attention. I'll do your business with him—I'll cajole the old fool.

Yes, sir; but be cautious lest your partial affection for me should make you too lavish in my panegyric.

[Page 25]

Do you think I don't know how to get round such a silly old bumpkin? leave me to wheedle him—I'll do it cunningly, shrewdly, Leo­nard—wisely, my boy.

Now the game is started, I must set my whole pack full cry for the chace. Here comes my prime agent in knavery, Sharpset. Having used him so essentially in the plunder of Drooply, and that business completed, I could have dis­pensed with his return; for no intercourse is so grating as that which subsists with a confederate in villainy. However, to keep him in my power, I have still contrived to keep him in my debt; so that I need not fear him, and he has talents to render him still useful to me.

I am glad to find you return'd to the laity. I would rather see knavery wear any garb than that of religion.

Your reason for which, is, that then only you are afraid of its being an overmatch for you.

Not so; but that I have not ceased to respect, tho' I have dared to violate.

Heyday! I believe you congratulate me on laying down the trade of preaching, because you mean to take it up. But it tells well for morality, that even some knaves can admire the cause, which honest men are risking their lives to defend. But, a truce to this style, for it sits awkwardly upon us. Your visitors, I find, are arrived.

Yes; and the girl is beautiful as an angel.

Oh, a divinity!

Why, have you seen her?

No.

[Page 26]

Then, whence these raptures?

Did not you tell me she was heiress to half a million?

Oh! your servant—but I assure you her intrinsic worth—

Can be nothing to her sterling worth.

I am convinced I feel something like love.

To be sure you do. I should adore a twentieth part of the sum, if it were in the pocket of the ugliest old harridan that ever was ducked for a witch.

You seem to hold beauty very cheap.

Oh no—I only value money very highly.

But when they are combined—

That is always possible—Whoever has the money, need not be long without the beauty.

In one object I hope to possess the ulti­matum of my wishes in both. It must now be my [...]are to have all around her impressed with esteem for me—my eulogium wafted to her on every breath, cannot fail of infusing a favourable pre­possession. Be you mindful, that on all occasions your report of me may swell the gale of appro­bation. I need not tell you that your interest will be no sufferer by your panegyric.

And I assure you I am so good natur'd a fellow, that, make it equally profitable to me, and I would rather speak in a man's praise than against him—So much am I unlike the greater part of my acquaintance.

The chief personage I wish to enlist in my favour, is an old rustic, much devoted to the family, and ranking high in the mother's esteem. His name is Oakworth.

What?

Oakworth.

[Page 27]

Oak—Oak—worth.—Where does he come from?

With Mrs Cleveland from Warwickshire. What surprises you?

Oh nothing—Only it strikes me, I have heard that name before.

Be earnest to throw yourself in his way▪ and remember by discreetly applied praise, [...]o pave my passage to the esteem I desire. To merit esteem is at best a tedious method of obtaining it—The purchased diploma equally gives the title, and saves the labour of deserving it.

So, I am to throw myself in the way of this old rustic, Oakworth—You little guess, my very worthy friend, what you are directing—To throw myself in the way of no less interesting a personage to me than my identical dad—my own natural father. It is now a long while since I saw the good old boy:—I was but fourteen, I think, when it entered my mad head to scamper away from him—A project well worthy of so experi­enced an age. That frolic has thrown me into many a situation which would be whimsical to re­late—Yes, and many a situation it would not be prudent to relate. I long to have a glimpse of the old buck. I wonder whether he would know me—Whom have we got here? Oh! this is one of the Asiatic importations.

Don't be fright'ned, my dear—I am very tame.

You not hurt me?

Lord love you, not I. I suppose she [Page 28] thought I shou'd dart at her like one of her native tygers. I assure you, my dear, I sha'n't bite.

No, no; but you may do great deal mischief, and not bite.

But I won't do any mischief at all.

Dat's good man. You not wonder I am afraid—I am stranger.

'Tis a sign so by your being afraid; for, were you not a stranger you would know that nobody in this country has the power of wronging another with impunity. Beside, your being a stranger, is a sure title to protection.

O den, dis be very good country. Glad I come here.

And so am I, glad you are come here, my little marigold.

What for you glad I come here?

Because I like the look of you.

Oh, you mock—You not like my cop­per face.

Why not, my dear? In my mind a lady looks better with a face of copper, than of brass—And that is all the fashion.

Oh, if my face were like my dear Miss Julia's! Oh she so pretty! she so good!

And you love her very much?

Ay, dat I do—I would die for her.—Oh, I would do great deal more—I would live to bear pain in my limbs, and sorrow in my heart, to make her happy.

Well said, my little disciple of Brama! If the hallowed waves of the Ganges had any share in infusing this gratitude, I wish its stream lay near enough to be resorted to as a fashionable bathing place. This little sun-burnt favourite may do Leonard service—I'll try to retain her in his cause. [Page 29]

I know who loves your young lady very much.

So do I.

Ay!—who?

Every body.

Yes, yes;—but there is a gentleman here, in this house—a young handsome gentleman.

Yes.

Very handsome.

Yes,—very handsome.

What, you have seen him?

Yes,—I see him now.

Who?

Why, handsome—very handsome gentle­man.

Meaning me—This girl's simplicity has done more than all the bronze of her sex could ever accomplish—wonderful to relate—made me blush.— I had no notion tho' that these natives of Indos­tan had so much taste. But, my dear, I am not the only handsome gentleman in this house—I mean another, who has conceived a great esteem for your young lady; and your good opinion of him will, I know, give him great satisfaction—and so—but I had better have done with talking, and appeal to the rhetoric of all times, and all nations

you must know, my dear, that this gentleman is very generous—and I am sure he will be highly pleased at my making you a present from him of this little purse.

But what for you give me dis.

Why, that—that you may speak well of this young gentleman.

How I speak well of him I not know?

Um—But when you do know him—

Den, if he good man, I speak well of him widout dis—if he bad man, I not speak well [Page 30] of him for whole ship-full of money.

So, so,—my friend Leonard will not be able to buy his diploma here. There is something mighty fascinating in this dusky piece of disinterest­edness. Since I find we are not likely to come to a right understanding as agents, I'll try how we can agree as principals. Pray, my dear, have you left your heart in India?

No—my heart in de right place.

I'll answer for that—'Tis in the right place I am sure. But you have not resolved never to love any body?

No—I love great many.

The deuce you do!

Yes; my young lady I love dearly, dearly. And I love every body dat love her.

Oh, is that all? But all your love seems to belong to your lady. Can't you love a little on your own account?

What you say?

Why, you have not made a vow to die a maid.

I never make vows—it is wicked.

Very well—why then, if I were to be very fond of you.

Yes.

Would you be fond of me?

I not know.

Why not?

Because, tho' your face white and pretty, I not know if your mind so.

Why, that's true, my love—But you may take my word for it.

No, no—not take man's word when he praise himself.

[Page 31]

Well, how are you to know.

Why, in great, long time—if I find you do all good—not one bit of bad.

Oh Lord—Oh Lord—Oh Lord! here is a trial of gallantry! here is a test for a lover!

Well, good bye—I stay too long while with you. My lady want me, may be. I see you again sometime.

Yes, my dear, I hope so.

Good bye, good bye.

I am afraid I stand but a poor chance of success here. It is not very likely that my little Gentoo's system for choosing a lover should come into fashion—But if it should, Lord, Lord, what a different class of beings the favourites of the ladies would be! no—yes—'tis he—my papa, by all that's miraculous! Oh the deuce—what a business here will be!

Whew, whew,—plague take it! I never was so tired with riding a whole day after the Fox, as I am now with half an hours plaguy palaver from this old master of the house. He may be a very good sort of man—which I don't doubt; but he be cursed tiresome. Who be this [...]ine spark? servant, sir.

How do you do—how do you do?

Pretty well; at your service. Poor gen­tleman, he have got the tooth-ach, I believe▪ I am afraid you feel uncomfortable, sir.

I do, upon my soul, sir.

Are you often attacked in this way?

[Page 32]

No, sir, I have not been attacked in this way, for a great many years.

Dear, dear! what, you be quite taken by surprize?

Never more so in my life, sir.

Well, sir, but I hope you will soon get rid of so troublesome a companion.

I hope I shall, sir.

And as you seem to be very uneasy, it will be but kind in me to keep you company a bit.

If you stay with me, how the devil am I to get rid of my troublesome companion?

Oh Lord, Oh Lord!

You seem to be in huge great pain. I would not be plagued in this way. I would get somebody to lug him out.

Oh how I wish somebody would be so kind!

If I could borrow a pair of pinchers, I would do it for you in a moment—I have drawn fifty so in our village.

Oh! I could not think of troubling you.

It will be a pleasure.

No, by no means—I think I am rather better.

Ah! the fear of the tug always makes it leave off aching. But you'd better have him out—he'll plague you again.

I am afraid he will, but I must bear it▪ He doesn't know my voice, and my face and per­son must be still more altered—Hang it, I'll e'en try

I begin to feel easier, sir.

Heartily glad to hear it.

My face is rather enlarged, sir.

[Page 33]

Um! I see no swelling at all—Ah! you were more frightened than hurt.

So it turns out, sir—for he has not the slight­est remembrance of me

Upon my soul, it was very kind of you to offer to operate—and for an entire stranger too.

One should be ready to lend every body a lift.

Yes—and a pretty lift you would have given to my poor grinders.—But how came you to understand drawing teeth?

Oh, in a little village; a man that means to do good to his neighbours, must turn his hand to every thing. Why, I have bled folks afore­now.

That has run in the family. I have bled 'em a little too,

Well, Sir, and I dare say you have a good dame at home who is as ready to assist her neighbours as you are?

Why, yes; my old girl don't grudge stirring her stumps when there is any good to be done.

I'm glad to hear the good old dame is alive. Now, I'll venture to touch on a tender subject

Any—any sons and daughters?

No—no; they be all gone

What—none lest?

No, no—Yes—one, mayhap—one may be alive—one ungracious boy—No, no; it be hardly possible, though there is a chance, a little chance—I have always kept a watch on the Old Bailey Sessions Papers, and the County Assize lists—and to be sure I never found his name down in them; but there is little certainty or comfort in that—for you know, my poor wicked boy may have been hanged, or sent to Botany Bay under some other name.

[Page 34]

Hanged, or sent to Botany Bay!

Ah! sir, it grieves my heart to think it—but he had such little sharping tricks about him when he was but a child, that I were forced to lash, and lash, every day of my life. I dare say, if he be alive, he have got my well-meant marks on his back to this day.

Really! It aches at the recollection.

Yes—you must suppose I had his well doing at heart—and so I never spared him. I did hope, by good advice, and good example, and a good horsewhip, all together, to have made an honest man of him—But the rogue scampered away when he was but a younker, and so got loose into the wide wicked world, with a bad disposition, and necessity to whet it. You must needs think as I do, about what is become of him.

I really think, sir, you judge too severely of your son, Je—What is your son's name, sir?

Jeremy.

O, sir, take comfort—Many a lad with as bad a beginning has turned out a great man.

Ay, a great man, mayhap—but I am afraid nobody with so bad a beginning has turned out a good one.

Upon my soul, you can't think how it shocks me that you should judge so harshly of a child of your own. I dare swear no more harm has happend to Jerry than there has to me.

O dear, O dear! it be quite a different case.

Not at all—not at all—A case very much in point, I assure you.

How be that? Why, were you a bit of a rogue when you were a younker?

[Page 35]

To own the truth to you, my dear sir, (but don't mention it) I was.

Ah! but you never ran away from your home.

I did.

You don't say so?

Honour.

Yes, yes; but you soon saw your error, and went back to your father?

So far from it, my good sir, that it was many years before we met.

Indeed!

And, then, quite by accident.

Really!

Yes; and the best joke was, he did not know me.

Not know you! Oh the old fool!—Beg pardon, sir, for making so free with your father.

No apology. Pray make as free with him as you please. Was it not droll?

Devilish droll—Ha, ha, ha! I can't help laughing. So, you met him, and he did not know you?

No—he did not know me.

Well, and what did he say when he did know you?

Why, that, my dear sir, I must defer tel­ling you till another opportunity.

Well, Sir, whenever you please—I long to hear the rest.

Depend upon it, sir, it won't be con­cealed from you. Good day to you, sir.

Good bye, sir. Ha, ha, ha! only think of your own father's not knowing you, ha, ha▪ ha!

Ha, ha, ha!

ACT III.

But you surely won't stay at home this evening too?

Yes, indeed I had rather.

You have the most unaccountable domestic propensity. Has novelty no pleasure for you?

Yes, 'tis novelty makes me domestic; a dear novelty, the novelty of a mother. Now I have gained her sweet society, should I resign it for frivolous amusements I can command at all times?

Well, you are a dear, good girl.

But where are you going this evening?

That I cannot tell without referring to my engagement list; but as near as I can guess, to about a dozen assemblies, the opera, a concert, and a masqued ball.

My dear Caroline, you'll be fatigued to death.

Oh, no. I am never weary with pleasure.

And do you often make these laborious exertions for your amusement?

Oh, yes, all through the season—And I don't think that half long enough.

Well, to be equal to such efforts, a woman of fashion must be endued with more strength than any creature in the universe.

To be sure. Your elephant is nothing to [Page 37] her; for groveling instinct restrains him from ex­ceeding the paltry limits of mere corporeal ex­ertion; but the elevated spirits, and glowing ima­gination of a woman of fashion make her a being all essence—She is like the wind, light, fleet, and invincible.

And is she not sometimes like the wind in my native country, which now breathes all gentle­ness, yet, in a few hours will whirl a whole fortune to destruction.

Why, yes, I am afraid there have been in­stances of the tornado kind. I really don't know whether many men may not be better pleased with your quiet stay-at-home notions, than with more dash and spirit; but perhaps you never yet ex­amined your inclinations with an eye to how a husband would approve them. Ah, Julia, you blush, my dear; I believe this scrutiny has not been unattended to.

How you talk!

Yes. I talk, and you think; but both on the same subject. My dear girl, have I yet claim enough on your confidence to ask, if the being I allude to has stolen into your dreams, and been admitted into your waking reveries in the form of a beautiful accomplished youth, whose exact like­ness you have never yet realized, or have you already assigned him "A local habitation and a name?"

Heigho!

Oh, then I lay my life Mr. Heigho has a name and place of abode. Am I not right?

Yes.

And in what quarter of the globe does he exist?

Nay, where shou'd he? I have not been [Page 38] long enough in this country to have found him here. I must have met him before.

So, my poor brother, your chance is gone. What is his name?

Henry Melville.

And you expect him here, no doubt.

Oh, yes, in the same vessel with my father.

And does he know your partiality?

Yes, and I know his for me; and my father approves.

Oh, you happy girl! Now, the man I love neither knows my partiality for him; nor do I know whether he cares at all for me—And if we did know that we cared for each other, I am sure my father would let us care on till both our hearts broke, before he would give his consent.

Why so?

Because the poor dear fellow has lost all his fortune; but luckily my father's consent is not essential, as I have a fortune independent of him.

Then you are not in a very hopeless state?

Oh, yes, I am: for my lover (my love I should say) lost all self-importance with his for­tune; and I very much fear I shall never be able to make him comprehend that a young woman with a good estate is ready to let him be master of it.

How strange!

Hints won't do—And if I could bring myself to say to him plainly, "Dear Sir, I adore you!" he would only think I was making a jest of him.

Mr. Drooply to wait on you, Ma'am.

[Page 39]

Lord, how my heart beats; Julia, my dear girl, this is the very man.

Then, my sweet Caroline, you can very well dispense with me.

Oh, no—pray don't go.

You would be very angry if I took you at your word. Adieu!

Will this provoking creature for ever give me the trouble of making love to him without understanding me?

So, sir, you are come.

Yes; but I will go away again if I intrude.

Nay! did not I send for you?

So I understood.

And why do you give me the trouble? You made your visits formerly without being sent for.

Did I? Yes. I dare say I was a very troublesome fellow.

Nay, you found those visits always received with pleasure; therefore, it is strange you need be reminded to continue them.

My visits received with pleasure! Ah, this is the way in which you always used to banter me.

Banter you! Stupidity!

Yes, yes. I know you are at your old tricks. You were always cutting your jokes at me.

I?

Yes, you; and I remember I used to laugh at them; but that was when my pockets were full. Upon my soul, I can't now. No, no, [Page 40] you must excuse me. I defy a man to laugh at a joke when he has lost all his money.

You strange creature! Do you know that I have been thinking of you a great deal lately?

Yes, I don't doubt it—to play me some trick or other.

Silly animal!

I have been even dreaming of you—Do you ever dream of me?

I could not think of taking such a liberty.

Provoking! Oh, I had almost forgot—I knew I had something particular to tell you. It was whispered to me t'other night at Lady Blab's, that you—(now mind, if it is true, I shan't be angry) that you had told some friend in confidence (now mind, I have promised not to be angry) that you were in love.

I told some friend?

Yes; and that delicacy, occasioned by the loss of your fortune had prevented you from de­claring your passion to the object of it.

I never—

Now do stop a moment; but that if you thought it would be favourably received (—now remember I have promised not to be angry—) you would overcome your diffidence, and reveal it.

I assure you that—

A moment's patience pray—At last, by great entreaty, I learnt the lady's name.

And what was it?

Need you be told—it was—Caroline Vi­sorly.

Upon my soul it is a trumped-up story from beginning to end.

Incorrigible stupidity!

Beg pardon—did not know company was here

If you want any thing, you need not run away, child.

Well, sir, I have no more to say—Only don't en­tirely relinquish the society of one, to whom yours ever was, and ever will be, a pleasure. Adieu!

Now who the devil can have told such a cursed pack of lies of me—All done to ruin me in her good opinion. That I, a poor undone dog, with not a sixpence in the world but what I re­ceive from her brother's friendship—I might say his—charity, should presume to cherish hopes of Caroline Visorly. No, no—all my hopes of her va­nished with my fortune. I love her—I do love her; and what a good-natured soul it is not to have flown into a rage at supposing I could be guilty of such vanity—such presumption, such folly—Ay, that—that saved me:—knowing the folly, she pardoned the presumption.

You happy, very happy man.

Oh yes, my dear, very, very—

Bless me—but you not look, you not speak like happy man.

And pray, my little dear, what should make you suppose I am a happy man?

Because pretty lady love you.

[Page 42]

Pretty lady love me! Why, even little [...]awny must cut a joke at me.

Yes; pretty lady dat went out just now love you.

Oh, I am known for a butt by instinct. I have not a doubt but it would be the same all the world over. If I were to land at Otaheite, the natives would begin quizzing me directly in their damn'd gibberish. Why, you are a comical little rogue. So, that lady loves me, does she?

Yes.

You'd find it hard to make me believe that.

And you find it much more great deal harder make me believe she not love you.

Indeed!

Yes; she not make me believe herself if she say she not love you.

No?

No;—because dey tell me dat always tell true.

They? Who are they?

Dese—

Truth not always come from here

always from here

Hey!

You tink, because I stranger, I not un­derstand. Oh, language of love is de same in my country, your country, all country.

Hey! What! No, it can't be. Let me think—Um! Faith, it begins to dawn—now it glares! Oh what a blind dolt have I been! Ha! ha! Huzza, I hear myself laugh again, and think I could cut a caper—Tol lol de rol! Whew! A fine girl loves me, and so. Fortune, go hang.

Is my father at home?

Yes, sir.

Tell him I wish to see him directly

‘Sir, knowing you to have the management of Mr. Cleveland's concerns, I write to inform you that the ship in which he came passenger from India, was wrecked off Portland the 29th ult. and every soul perished.’

Well, my dear boy, what news—what news?

Very important, sir, Cleveland is no more.

Dear me—dear me!

By this I learn that the vessel that brought him from Bengal is wrecked, and he has perished.

Poor man! poor man! alack! he was a good twenty years younger than I am—only to think that I should outlive him! Ah, there is no knowing who is to go to the grave first—mayhap I may outlive you, Leonard.

Oh, sir, don't indulge such melancholy ideas. His death, tho' to be sure very dreadful, and likely to awaken sensibility in the breasts of his relations, yet carries with it to us a kind of consola­tion.

How do you mean, Leonard?

You know my wish to be united to his [Page 4] daughter;—and, perhaps, he might have had in his mind a different alliance for her.

Very true.

Now my attainment of that object is infinitely more secure, the mother and the girl being both under our own roof, and likely now to continue so.

Very true. Lord, what a blockhead was I, to fall a blubbering, and for a man too, who, tho' he was my first cousin, I should not have known from Adam. But I have a very tender heart.

Yes, and a very soft head.

But, now, sir, to break these dismal tidings to his wife and daughter—that must be my mother's business.

Yes, we will go and prepare her to make the melancholy discovery. You have the way, my dear Leonard, of placing things in a right point of view. It is really quite a weakness my being so tender hearted.

My dear, dear Julia, what happiness has heaven allotted me, to compensate for my past wretchedness! To have my lovely child restored to me, adorned with every grace, endowed with each perfection a mother's fondest wishes could desire—Oh, none but a mother can know the happiness I feel.

May increasing joy be ever my dear mo­ther's portion—it must—goodness like her's must be the object of heaven's choicest blessings.

When your dear father, and the happy youth to whom my Julia has assigned her [Page 45] heart have passed the perils of the ocean, and tread secure on English ground, then shall I have no wish on earth ungratified; but till those joyful tidings reach me, my heart will beat with appre­hension.

Nay, do not be alarmed with needless ter­rors. I feel confident of their safety.

Ah, my dear girl, yours is the age of sweet delusion, when Hope, as yet unknown for a deceiver, promises each wish acquaintance with reality.

I have escaped the perils which you dread, and reached your arms in safety. Why not be confident the same good fate attends on them?

Ah, my Julia—but winds and waves are treacherous—besides the Foe—nay, that's a silly terror—The Ocean is our own, and our ex­tended Fleets, rich with the commerce of the world, fail as securely to their native Ports, as if peace universal reigned.

Then, free from apprehension let us await the speedy completion of our happiness.

Oh, Madam! Oh, my young lady! Oh me, unhappy me!

What is the matter?

Oh, I can't speak—I can't tell you what I know cut your dear hearts, and make dem bleed as mine do.

Speak, Child, for heaven's sake!

Tell us, Gangica, tell us all.

You will know—you must know—but spare poor Gangica—don't bid her tell you, for sear you hate her for making you so wretched.

Speak, Gangica, directly.

[Page 46]

Your dear, dear father dead—dead—dead.

Where is my child?

Oh, Julia! Julia!

I find the dismal tidings are already known, madam, be comforted.

Alas!—

This be a woeful day—alack, alack, that ever I lived to see it!

A letter has been just now brought, directed for Miss Cleveland

It may contain something important, and I hope—

Pray, give it me—I grasp at any hope—Julia, 'tis from Henry Melville

‘Snatched by Providence from a wat'ry grave, I haste to acquaint my dearest Julia with my safety—As my situation was infinitely more peri­lous than her dear father's, I rely on his deliver­ance, and conclude he will have embraced his lovely daughter before this reaches her.’ No, no, he has not embraced his lovely daughter—he never will embrace her—

Take comfort, madam. You have now strong reason to hope the best.

[Page 47]

Yes, dearest mother, be assured the same protecting angel has preserved my father too.

Do, do hope it. Heaven will not for­sake the good.

Come, my child—In Heaven I trust.

Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh dear! This world be full of troubles. But a little bit ago we were so happy as nothing was ever like it—And now it is all weeping and misery. Oh those devildom hard blowing gales and cursed craggy rocks, they have brought cruel sorrow to many a family. Poor little Gangica, she takes on as dismally as any on us. It is a tender-hearted little creature. Gan­gica, come, dear, don't you droop, you may see your young lady's father again, alive and well.

No, no, no—I never see him more—He be sunk down—deep down—roaring waves roll over him—I never see him more.

Yes, yes; heaven will let him live to comfort his wife, his child, ay, and to reward your [...]delity.

Oh, if he live—if I see him again▪ [...] be my reward.

Sir, how do you do? Ah, my little dear▪ you here. Why, you have been crying, and you look gloomy too, sir.

Yes, sir; we have neither much cause to look chearfully.

I am sorry for that—I heard indeed that [...]ll news had arrived which concerns the ladies.

[Page 48]

Then, when you know that we belong to those ladies, you can't expect us to be gay when those we love are in affliction.

Very true, sir. But, poor thing

come, do chear up a little—don't be so very dismal,—do let me see you smile again.

Smile when I full of sorrow—Why, you wish my face mock my heart.

Come, sir, leave her as nature made her—don't teach her any of your damn'd fashionable tricks, making the face look one thing while the heart means another. Go, my good girl, and com­fort yourself with the hope that we may soon have reason to smile again.

There is a creature that will make me expect in future to find the fairest mind in a dark coloured case. I hope I may live to see her as happy as she deserves to be. If I had but a son of my own—but what signifies wishing?

Ah, what indeed! for have you not a son of your own, sir?

If I have; I love her too well to wish she had him. No, no,—if I had a son such as I could wish—

I am afraid you are very hard to please, sir.

I should take great pains to get him this girl for a wife.

And I am so much of your way of think­ing, that if you were my father, I should be highly grateful for your kind endeavours.

Would you? then only let me find out that you are worthy of her, and tho' you are a stranger to me, I'll do all I can for you

That is very kind of you indeed, sir.

But, hold, hold;—are you sure your father would approve of it?

[Page 49]

Quite sure, Sir.

How do you know?

He has already signified his approbation.

Indeed! When?

Just now, sir.

Why, has he ever seen the girl?

Oh Lord, yes, sir.

Well, well! but I should like to have a little conversation with the old gentleman.

Ah, sir, you have had a great deal in your time.

What then I know him.

Nobody half so well, sir.

Really! What, an old acquaintance?

A very old one, sir—you knew him long before I did.

Bless my soul! and pray, sir, what is your name?

I am called Sharpset, sir.

Then you must be mistaken, sir—I have no acquaintance of that name.

My dear sir, that is not the family name, that is not my father's name.

Well, what is your father's name?

The very reason, sir, which made me adopt another name still prevents me from just at present avowing my real one; but, depend upon it you shall know, sir.

Well, sir, whenever it is proper to tell me, I shall be glad to know,

but give me your hand for your father's sake.

And I grasp yours with affection—for my father's sake.

That, I find, is the house of Mr. Visorly. There I shall learn my Julia's residence. This is but a sorry garb for a lover to seek his mistress in; but if I know my Julia's heart, her joy at finding me preserved from death, will make her little heed, or scarcely see the poorness of my raiment. Her father's safety, though I little doubt it, I long to be assured of. Now then, to be re­solved on that important point, and meet my Julia.

To find she is in this house is more good fortune than I could hope.

My Julia!

Oh Henry! To behold you again after such danger—But where is my father?

Have you not seen him yet?

Oh, no, no—tell me, does he live?

I hope so, Julia.

Oh, is it only hope?

Be comforted—he may be safe, he surely must. Soon as our vessel bulged on the rock, and the impetuous torrent rushed at the dreadful chasm to o'erwhelm us, the boats were instantly hauled [Page 51] out, and in a moment throng'd. In one, least crowded, was your father; he called to me, and earnestly conjured me to come into it—As I was going to comply, I saw a poor old man kneeling to heaven to save him from the fate his feeble age denied him to contend against. The boat could safely hold but one—I placed him in it, seized on a friendly coop, and with it trusted to the waves.

My generous Henry! But my father—

The sea was very boisterous, and often washed over me; yet, at intervals I snatched a short view, and still saw his boat riding in safety. At length the bursting billows showering so fre­quently their torrents on me, deluged my senses. When I recovered them, I found myself in a small vessel, whose crew had humanely rescued me from death.

Oh my poor father!

Nay, droop not, Julia—This vessel was a sloop of war sailing for the Downs. Before I recovered, it was under weigh, I was therefore forced to remain in it till it gain'd its station.—Landed at Deal, I could of course hear no tidings of your father, whose boat, no doubt, safely reached the nearest shore. His not being yet arrived, argues nothing against his safety.

But, would he not have written to ac­quaint us with it?—News of the wreck could reach us, but no intelligence from him—No, he is gone! My father is gone for ever.

My Julia's grief distracts me—Still let me hope 'tis without cause; but as no moment should be lost to prove it groundless, I will this instant fly to know the truth▪ Farewell, my Julia! When next we meet, I trust all grief will vanish.

ACT IV.

Where have you been? I never wanted your assistance more, and I have been hunting after you of late in vain.

Whew! you seem in a blessed humour. What has produced such an amiable tone of temper?

All my scheme is likely to be ruined. There is a lover, a favoured lover, come to light.

Oh the deuce!

Yes, saved from the wreck—damnation! But there is still one consolation, he brings no tid­ings of the father. The waves have not spared him.

Poor man!

Amiable tenderness!

Mock as you will, I cannot, like you, steel my heart against the common feelings of humanity.

Psha! he's dead—Will your preaching reanimate him? No. Then to the purpose of do­ing service to the living, of aiding your friend.

How?

This girl, now the rightful inheritor of her father's immense fortune, must be mine.

But you tell me of a lover.

Yes, and there is not time for endeavour­ing to undermine his hold on her heart—Measures must be adopted, sudden and forcible.

[Page 53]

How do you mean?

To bear her away. Once in my posses­sion, all may go smoothly: at her age, nay, at any age, a transfer of affection is no uncommon incident.

But the difficulty—See how she is sur­rounded.

Difficulty! every difficulty yields to the enterprising. Her lover is gone, like a true hero of romance, to conjure up the dead. 'Tis easy to get the rest out of the way—First, I'll remove the main obstacle, her rustic protector.

Remove him! how do you mean, remove him?

We must lack invention, indeed, not to effect that—By an hundred stratagems we can keep him out of the way long enough to answer my purpose.

But I have a trifling objection to his being put to the slightest inconvenience.

Objection? what?

He only happens to be my father.

What do you say? your father?

My father!

You astonish me. Well, well, this may turn to account. Then you may have influence to bring him over to my interest.

Not I, nor all the world would be able to influence him to a dishonest action—Beside, friend Leonard, to let you into a secret, I neither like your scheme, nor wish to forward it. After a long absence, I have had the happiness to meet my father, and when I behold in him what a glow of youth an honest heart infuses into an aged face, I am determined to abandon my roguery, and try to make the rosy honours of honesty, hereditary.

You mean, then, to defeat my purposes?

[Page 54]

I certainly mean not to aid them.

But am I to expect your opposition?

I hope, Leonard, your own reflections will render that needless. Could you have fairly gained the girl's affections, I should have rejoiced at your success, and thought the society of an amiable woman the likeliest school for forming an honest man; but force—to use force against a lovely, helpless female, none but a devil could in­spire the thought, and none but devils could be found to execute it.

Bravo! one might judge by your energy that you were a new-made proselyte. Apostates are always the maddest enthusiasts—But, fool! do you think I am to be preached out of my inten­tions?

And do you think I am to be bullied out of mine?

Well, sir, take your course, but be cautious that you do not thwart me—Dare not to breathe a word of my designs, unless your devotion to your new tenets is warm enough to make you welcome a prison in their defence. Mark me, a prison. You may remember there are certain bonds of yours in my possession that give me as entire a power over your person, as tho' you were my purchased slave. Remember this, and act accordingly.

How my blood boils at the villain! too true he has me in his power; but I'll keep him in view—I'll watch his motions. I've deserved a prison before now, and have escaped it; well, then, if I am brought to one at last for a good deed, all's square again, and I begin the world a fresh man.

Why, Drooply—surprising! so sprightly—so gay!

Gay as a lark, my boy.

What, have you found your estate again?

No; but I have found myself again. I've regained my spirits, and they are worth all the estates in the universe.

But what has effected this wonderful change?

What! need you ask? what can breathe animation into a clod of despondency, but woman, dear, lovely, angelic woman.

So, you have gained your spirits by losing your heart.

Yes; and a man hardly knows he has a heart till he loses it. But, huzza! I am in love, and what is more, I am beloved—Damn my estate, and give me your hand, my boy, though you won it.

I won it! yes, and won it fairly too.

Who doubts it? not I, I'm sure.

Why then may be you ought.

You are a comical dog.

I say perhaps you ought to doubt it.

Heyday—the oddest kind of quizzing this! the man who won my estate, wanting to make me believe I was cheated of it. You are a devilish droll dog! but I have something else to do than to mind your waggery▪

[Page 56]

Stay! you are an honest fellow, and have been damn'd unlucky in your acquaintance.

Poh, poh, poh!

Drooply, when a man assures you of his honesty, I'll give you leave to doubt him; but when he insists on his knavery, don't be so stupidly incredulous.

What are you driving at?

Plainly to tell you, you have been duped, cheated—robbed.

By you?

Yes;—but I have been only second in command. Do you remember by whose kindness you were first made happy with my acquaintance?

Hum! yes; by my friend, Leonard Vi­sorly.

He is my commanding officer.

Leonard! my friend! my patron!

Your plunderer—He laid plans which I only executed—he received the booty while I was paid but a subaltern's share.

I am petrified.

But be silent—be prudent! for I've but shewn you your malady, without being able to prescribe a remedy. He has played the politician so well, that his villainy is known only to me—the minor agents were all of my employing—So, remember, don't break out; for you have nothing but my testimony to support an accusation, and he has wound his snares so well, that he has me in his toils. Adieu! be cautious, and trust that the day of retribution will come.

Here is a damper to my gaiety! not even love can support a man's spirits against ingratitude. I lost my fortune; but still I thought I had a friend left. To find that friend my—Oh damn it, I can't bear the thought. I'll go instantly [Page 57] and seek Caroline; but how to tell her of her brother's villainy? I hope I may not meet him—I shou'd not know how to—

Drooply!

How do you do? How do you do?

What, wont you shake hands with me?

Won't I shake hands with you! that is a good joke

Not but I think shaking hands a cursed foolish habit.

Why?

Because in this damn'd hypocritical world one often gives the gripe of friendship to a scoun­drel.

Very true; one is often mistaken.

Yes, miserably.

But when we come to the knowledge of a friend's real worth—

It sometimes teaches us to consider him a friend no longer.

Your gloom, I find, has taken the general course, and led you to misanthropy. When men have been unfortunate they generally grow unjust.

Yes; and for that there is some excuse—But when men are unjust and fortunate too, what black souls they must have.

Very true; but have you had experience of such?

Havn't I lost a fortune?

Yes—by play, not knavery.

Why, play and knavery are so much con­nected, that I can't separate them for the soul of me.

You appear to have suspicions.

[Page 58]

No, no suspicions at all.

You surely talk as if you had doubts.

You mistake—I have not a doubt on the subject. Good bye! I am very miserable, and of course very bad company for you.

When we meet again I shall be glad to see you more chearful.

Why, when we meet again, Leonard—Farewel.

Um! all is not as it should be! Can that villain, Sharpset, have dared reveal to him—I fear it—and if he have betrayed me to him, he will not stop there. His malice then, must have a check—he shall instantly be taken care of. I have the power to secure him. The old rustic, whom he calls his father, I have been forced to entrap somewhat illegally; but he will be safe till my scheme is executed, and then the fellow that I have bribed to swear a debt against him, may, by flight, secure himself from the vengeance of the violated law. All is well arranged, and this very night shall put me securely in possession of my Eastern beauty, and her Eastern riches.

But what right, I say, have you to keep me here against my will?

Lord love your heart, I don't vant to keep any Gemman in my house against his vill.

Then let me out directly.

You may go farther, and fare vorse. Vhere do do you think to go?

Why, home to be sure.

[Page 59]

That is a devilish good one. You are a comical kind of a Gemman; but a great many comical Gemmen wisits me—I sees most of the vits one time or other.

Have done with your nonsense, and let me go home—And dam'me but I'll trounce you and the rascals who brought me here.

Vy, as for your trouncing, I laughs at that. I does nothing but vat I can justify.

What! can you justify kidnapping a man in the streets? I am too old to go for a sol­dier. If I were not, and my country wanted me, I should not need be dragged to my duty.

Vat do you talk about kidnapping for? You knows as vell as I can tell you vy you came here.

I'll be cursed if I do.

Vy, you know if you paid your debts, you could not be brought into trouble.

Pay my debts! I don't owe a farthing to mortal man.

Come, come, do behave a little genteelly. There is nothing unlike a Gemman in not paying your debts; but it's damn'd shabby to deny 'em.

Well, sir, since you insist upon it, pray, whom may I be indebted to?

"To Thomas Tes­tify von hundred pounds."

I never heard of such a man—I am not the person. It is a mistake.

Come, come, old one, that's too bad. I tell you it is all a mistake—Let me out, I say. Yes, yes; to take you to Newgate, if you like.'— (Noise without). [Page 60]

Ay, ay, it is all right. I owe the money—That can't be denied.

Only mind this honest Gemman, he doesn't pretend to humbug people as you do.

What!

You here, sir!

Bless my soul!

Oh, they know von another—Both of a kidney, I varrant. Oh, that old one is a deep one.

How came you here, sir!

Dragged here—dragged by main force.

On what pretence?

Because they want to persuade me I owe a hundred pounds to a Mr. Thomas Testify.

Whom you know nothing of?

No more than the man in the moon.

Sir, there is rank villainy going forward.

Yes, that is pretty clear.

You must send directly for Mrs. Cleve­land—Every thing dear to herself depends on it. Therefore send to her immediately, and tell her not to leave her daughter—

Let me see him instantly; and, Gangica, do you stay under the care of the servants. My good friend, do I find you in a place like this?

And are you so very good as to seek me in a place like this? How came you to know of my being here?

You sent for me, did you not?

No.

Amazing! A messenger came to me, acquainting me with your situation, and di­recting [Page 61] me where to find you—On which you may conclude I lost no time in hastening to you.

Dear, good creature!

But who can have been so kind to inform me where?—

The kindness, madam, was the kindness of the devil, who often puts on the semblance of goodness only to betray. Quit this place, and return home instantly—There is a villainous design against your daughter—Your absence and his, has been artfully caused, to effect her ruin.

Oh, horrible!

Lose not a moment in questioning, or all is lost—Though the debt alledged, be a false one, give your draft for it, and take him with you. Haste, madam, haste; and heaven prosper you.

The evening is as dark as I cou'd wish. The moon has civilly withdrawn her intrusive rays. The mother and Oakworth are admirably disposed of. My own family too conveniently from home; for, though I am not sure they would thwart a de­sign so greatly for my advantage, yet, I had rather be without needless confidants. Simpson! Simp­son!

Sir?

Is the carriage at the garden gate, and every thing in readiness?

Yes, sir▪

[Page 62]

Very well. Wait hereabout, or be at the garden gate.

Now, then, to my young lady.

I wish my mother would return, and bring me news of poor Oakworth. 'Tis hard, that he, so good and friendly to others, should himself expe­rience cruel treatment. Alas! my spirits quite sink under the pressure of misfortune. Oh, my dear father, may I hope ever again to be blessed with thy fond embrace?

Ha! who is there?

I beg your pardon, sir, for my childish alarm. But I am really so weak, that I am agi­tated by the slightest circumstance. Indeed I beg your pardon.

Madam, my situation is a most unfortu­nate one. I hoped by years of attention to your every wish, to have convinced you, that for you alone I cherished existence.

Sir!

But I have the misery to find your hand is not unpromised, nor, I fear, your mind uninflu­enced.

Sir, my hand and heart are both most so­lemnly affianced.

Then all my cherished hopes are vanished. I thought to have convinced you by every action, that my soul was your's before my lips should [Page 63] venture the confession. I indulged the gay dream, that by my tender assiduity you might be won to sympathy, and have heard me breathe the vows of love with looks that spoke a language—Ah! how remote from what they now convey—Yet even those looks, so adverse to my wishes—those eyes, could they dart death, should not impede me from declaring this heart to you devoted, never will forego its claim.

Sir! what mean you?

Listed under Love's banner, never to desert his cause. You must—You shall be mine.

Horrible!

A whole life of tenderness shall atone for what has now the look of violence

Violence! Oh, heaven! help! help! Oh!

She is mine!

Well, I have found no great difficulty in scampering over the garden wall—If any of the family should find me here though, I should be strangely suspected of either an intrigue or a bur­glary—It was an excellent thought of Caroline's to let me know when we should next meet, by leaving a letter for me in a sly corner of the pa­vilion; for, there is no trusting servants—I'll e'en get my dear little packet, and over the wall again

Ha! I hear some­body coming

Oh, you are there, Simpson! here, take the lady in your arms. A fortunate fainting fit has prevented outcry. Place her in the carriage, while I return for an instant, for I have forgot to provide myself with the most material companion for long journies. Here, take one of my pistols, and defend your prize at the hazard of your life.

What the devil shall I do? And what prize have I got here?

My sweet, pretty moon, do enlighten me a little more, that I may see who I am hugging so lo­vingly

Thank you kindly, my dear Lady Luna. What, the young East Indian! Oh, that villain!—She revives! Don't be alarm'd, Madam.

Where am I? Who are you?

No agent of villainy; but one who will protect you.

Oh, where is that wretch; am I in his power?

No, madam, nor ever shall be. Ha! he is coming.

Let me fly from his sight.

There, madam, into that Pavilion.

She is safe, and I have got my dear Caroline's letter—So, now, Mr. Leonard, have at you!

[Page 65]

Drooply! What do you do here?

I am only engaged in a little affair of gal­lantry.

What here! Do you disgrace my father's house with your gallantries?

Do you never disgrace your father's house with your gallantries?

Insolent!

No, no; I must do you the justice to own, you carry your gallantries out of your father's house.

What do you mean?

Mean! Sure you forget Simpson is in the secret.

What of Simpson?

An't I Simpson? You did me the honour to salute me so just now.

Damnation! Well, sir, then there is your charge?

Here, you villain

Drooply, I am in your power—command any thing—do but this instant restore me Julia, and you shall again glitter in gaiety, again be the rich, the courted Drooply.

Yes, to be pillaged again, you conclude, by the well-laid schemes of the friendly Mr. Vi­sorly.

Ha!

Yes, I know your baseness—This heart, which once felt only gratitude and friendship to­wards you, now despises and abhors you—This tongue, once lavish in your praise, and prodigal of thanks, now execrates your infamy.

This is no time to prove my innocence. I am traduced, vilely slandered—All this I can [Page 66] up, and will; but the moments are most precious to me. Where is the lady? restore me Julia, and make your own terms.

What terms do you think wou'd bribe me to restore a lovely innocent to a villain's power? I am poor, I am wretchedly poor. But, would you return my fortune, would you add your own, your father's, nay, all the wealth of this rich city, it should not bribe me to an act of villainy.

Be prudent, and attend to what I say.

I'll attend to one thing you said most strictly. You charged me to defend my prize at the hazard of my life—That I do most willingly.

Drooply, urge me no further—I am desperate—Julia must be mine—Be wise, accept the offers of my friendship—don't risk my ven­geance.

Your vengeance! poh! what! because you found me gentle, nay, humble, to the man I thought my friend and patron, do you think I want spirit to oppose a robber and a ravisher? Leonard, be assured it is a vast pleasure to me to have a pop at you on my own account; but had I no wrongs, sooner than be your accomplice in the ruin of an unprotected woman, dam'me, but I would march up to you if you held a lighted match to the touch-hole of a nine-pounder.

She must have been taken this way.

Give her up, give her up this instant, or I'll throttle you both.

Where is my daughter?

Ay, where is the lady? give her up di­rectly—Curse your pistols, I don't mind your pis­tols—Give her up, I say.

Heavens! is it you? you concerned in this villainy? where is my daughter, sir?

Ask that gentleman—He has conveyed her hence.

You, then, that I have accused, are her defender, I ask your pardon.

May I perish if he isn't making his bow for the mother's civility.

Where is my daughter, sir?

There is one hope left. If he conveyed her to the carriage (and where else could he) they have doubtless driven off with her. Where is the lady, villain?

Dam'me, if his impudence does not pe­trify me.

Ay, where is the lady, villain?

A little patience, you shall know the whole.

No, sir, no fabrications, no fictions—Where is the lady?

Should you be pleased to see her?

Doubtless.

[Page 68]

Oh, I'll do any thing to oblige you.

Now, sir, why don't you appeal to the lady to proclaim your in­nocence? what, dumb! ah, I know your modesty of old. Then I will speak for you. From which of us, madam, have you experienced this outrage?

Oh, from him, from him.

Mrs. CLEVELAND and OAKWORTH express astonishment, and LEONARD rushes out.

That is right, Leonard—move off; but run as fast as you will, the devil must overtake you.

Then to you I owe my daughter's preservation. Oh, sir, accept a mother's thanks.

Offer them, madam, to Providence only, which made me the humble instrument to preserve an angel, and expose a fiend. Where, madam, shall I have the honour of conducting you?

Any where so I avoid that hated habitation.

Let us go, madam, to the hotel where we first arrived.

And where, would to heaven, we had remained. Come, dearest Julia.

ACT V.

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, it is a bad business, a very bad business.

So is every thing unsuccessful, sir. Were I now in possession of the girl and her fortune, you might probably not be condemn­ing the means by which I accomplished it.

Yes, I should—I should condemn such means. Oh fie! against her will.

Seemingly, sir, only seemingly—The man who would deal successfully with the sex must often force them to follow their own inclinations.

I don't know that; but I have found that the man who would deal quietly with the se [...] is always forced to let them follow their own incli­nations.

It was a desperate effort; but the only chance left for obtaining her. That foiled, she is lost most certainly, perhaps her fortune too.

Perhaps! why, to be sure it is. If she is lost, her fortune must be lost—You can't contrive to marry the fortune without marrying the girl, can you?

No, sir: but with your aid the fortune may be ours without the incumbrance.

The fortune ours—Eh, how?

Had Cleveland died unmarried you were his heir.

[Page 70]

Yes—what of that?

Are we sure he did not die unmarried?

We should be pretty sure, I think, when he has left a wife and child behind to con­vince us.

Is she his wife? Can she prove herself such?

Eh!

By his own account the marriage was a private one, a private marriage in the East-Indies! Reflect first on the probability of its being no marriage, and next consider the diffi­culty of proving it, if it were one.

Yes, yes, very true. But you surely do not doubt the marriage therefore to claim a property, because, perhaps, legal proof can't be obtained—

Is, you think, not strictly within the pale of moral rectitude.

I can't say but I am of that opinion.

Oh, sir, despise all abstract refinement, and be assured that you fulfil every moral obligation when your conduct is sanctioned by the laws of your country.

There is something in that; but yet justice, you know, can only be guided by appear­ances, and one's conscience will not always acqui­esce—

My dear sir, when your conscience op­poses a legal decree, you should consider it as act­ing contumaciously, and that it ought to be silenced for contempt of the court.

If I could be satisfied that they were really not married.

There is strong presumption. Would Cleveland's father, think you, have endeavoured to dissolve the sacred ties of marriage? Have in­sisted [Page 71] on his son's abruptly dismissing—a wife? No, no, sir—depend on it, the father, anxious for his son's respectability, demanded only his parting with a favourite mistress.

Very likely—very likely—I always said you had the way of placing things in a right point of view, Oh, my scruples are gone—should I be robbed of my right by a mistress, and a—

Certainly not, sir. Now then you are convinced of the rectitude of your cause, let me urge a strong motive for proceeding with vigour. I have this morning received the unwelcome tidings of the failure of a speculation in which I had embarked the entire amount of my own fortune, so that I am now compelled to become a burthen to you.

O lord, lord, dear me, how sorry I am to hear it; for, my dear boy, to let you into the true state of my affairs—Lady Jemima's cursed fashionable stile of living has made such a miser­able hole in my property, that it is not clear to me, but I may die in a jail.

You amaze me, sir—then, this is our only resource, and at all hazards we must accomplish it.

Mr. Oakworth desires to see both you and my young master directly, sir.

Very well.

I'll keep out of his way. He is a pas­sionate old fellow, and I am sure he would lose his temper with me. Do you see him, sir, and let him [...]e the bearer of your determination.

How is my dear child now?

Better, much better, thanks to your tender care.

Oh the wretch that could alarm my angel thus, and aim by violence to tear my pre­cious treasure from her mother's arms! Heaven's vengeance will await him.

My spirits would, I think, soon recover this rude shock, but for the dread that overpowers me for the fate of my dear father.

Ah, my child, I fear—

Yet, still, my love, there is hope, that hope we will cherish. Come, my child, take comfort—take comfort, dearest Julia.

Oh, what are all the riches we possess with­out my father!

Poor indeed! but we will trust he yet survives to bestow a value on the gifts of for­tune.

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what will this world come too?

What is the matter?

Roguery! Villainy! Infamy!

Where? from what quarter?

From the devil's nest, the house of the Visorlys.

Pray, let me know the worst.

I will—I will—As you desired me, I de­manded that all the property remitted by Mr. Cleve­land should be consigned to you.

[Page 73]

Well, could they refuse it?

They did—they did—I mean the old one did; for the young rascal took care to keep out of my way. He was wise—he was wise there.

But on what plea, on what pretence were you refused?

A wicked pretence, a damnable pretence—a pretence they ought to swing for.

What—what?

That they did not believe—they did not believe—

What?

Must I tell you?

Yes, pray do.

That you were—Mr. Cleveland's wife—

Gracious heaven!

Yes; and he said that he was heir at law, and should not part with a sixpence of what was his right.

Oh, Julia!

Dear mother, can this man's preposterous claim give you a moment's concern?

My child, we are lost—We are ruined.

What do you say?

Never till this moment did I reflect that I have no legal testimony in my possession to prove myself a wife. Married in India, in pri­vate too—my husband dead—my child without a proof of—Oh God, Oh God!

Compose yourself, dear madam.

Hard as my lot is, were I alone con­cerned I might feel resignation; but my dear girl, my lovely Julia—heiress of thousands, is—the child of poverty.

Dear mother, do not let me add to your [Page 74] affliction—With you, with such a mother I can bear poverty, I can indeed.

Poverty—no, no, not so bad as pover­ty.—You know I have a home—'tis but an hum­ble one to be sure, and I am a tough old fellow, I can work like a horse.—Poverty, not so bad as poverty either.

Oh Henry!

Julia—dearest Julia, you are in tears, and you have cause—I hoped to dry them, but, alas—

Then my dear husband is no more.

My cup of misery is full,

sir, you were to have been united to my daughter, her father sanctioned your affections: I am informed he loved your merits, and thought them, tho' uncombined with fortune, sufficient to entitle you to the heiress of his wealth. I now must tell you that wealth is lost to her.

For her sake I lament it, not for my own.—To her generous father's bounty I owe al­most existence,—he found me only grateful, and his goodness called mere gratitude desert; for I fear I have no merit, but an honest heart—yet, while that shall beat within my breast, I'll press my Julia to it, nor would I resign my dear, my des­tined bride to be the husband of an Empress.

Oh, little do the vicious know how precious are the sweets of virtue! that alone can elevate the soul amidst calamity and poverty.

Sir, sir, a word with you, if you please.

What do you want?

This hotel of mine, sir, stands at a very great rent.

So I suppose.

Taxes come very high.

Well.

A great many servants.

So I see—and what the devil is all this to me?

It ought to make people consider.

Don't plague me about what people ought to consider.

To cut the matter short, sir, you know that one of the ladies, as I came into the room, was owning her poverty.

Eh! what?

Yes, sir; and as I can't afford to lose my money, I beg leave to hint that I shall look to you to see my bill fairly discharged.

Impudent scoundrel!

Sir, I shall teach you to use better language to a man in his own house.

Heyday, nothing but bustle and uproar!

I hope you are not hurt, sir.

Not at all; but no thanks for that to the careless dog of a postilion who overturned me. I have been quarrelling with him outside of the house, and I find you are at the same employment within. Get me a coach directly.

Yes, sir.

[Page 76]

Well, what is the matter here?

Only this worthy master of the house insulting his customers.

That is an odd way of recommending him­self.

Away with you, and be careful that you let none of your insolence break out before the ladies, or I'll be the death of you, you dog.

Sir, give me leave to ask, that is, if there be no offence in the question, are the ladies you mention under any pecuniary embarrassment? for it would be a sad thing to have ladies liable to the rudeness of this unfeeling fellow.

No, sir, thank heaven! Even my poor pocket could satisfy his paltry demands. No, no,—tho' they are unfortunate, they are not in the power of such a pitiful scoundrel as that.

I am glad of it; but still you say they are unfortunate.

Yes; misery be the lot of the villians who made them so!

Who are those villians.

Their own relations.

Heav'ns, what depravity! But can't this villiany be in any way redressed?

Only one way, if at all; and there the remedy would be as bad as the disease.

What is the remedy.

Going to law.

If law can give the remedy, redress is certain; in this country the way to justice is not through blind mazes and crooked paths—No, 'tis a public road, open to all, obvious to all.

That is very true; but like other public [Page 77] roads, you would get on a very little way, with­out money to pay the tolls.

The warm interest you take in the cause of your friends convinces me that they are worthy of it. I have a fortune, an ample fortune, and I can no way employ it so satisfactorily as in rescuing the virtuous from the machinations of villainy.

Sir, sir, let me rightly understand you. I beg your pardon; but do you indeed mean to employ your fortune to relieve the distress of strangers, utter strangers to you?

Certainly, or how should I relieve dis­tress at all; for all that belong to me, thank hea­ven, are above the power of fortune's malice.

Bless you! bless you! the widow's blessing—the orphan's—

Nay, nay, good old man, I were blest enough for all that I can do, in seeing how happy I have made you. But a widow—an orphan, say you? Those are sacred names. The husband gone, who is protector to the widow!—Heaven—The parent lost, who is the orphan's father? Hea­ven. The man then, who will not assert their rights, is not uncharitable only; for he is impious.—Good man, why do you tremble thus?

I am old—I feel now, I am an old man; and tho' my nerves, I think, would bear me stoutly up, under adversity, yet, somehow this sudden turn of good fortune has shook me, has shook me a good deal.

Compose yourself—then tell the ladies that I shall see them very soon; for I now must go.

Don't go, don't go yet. Let them hear, sir, from your own lips your goodness.

My business hence is nothing trivial; and only a case of misfortune could have detained me [Page 78] here an instant; therefore assure your friends—But why not debar myself a few moments longer of my own gratification, to convince them of my certain protection

my good old friend, tell the ladies I wait to see them.

Ay, ay, 'twill make but a few minutes difference, and the dear good creatures I so long to behold will forgive me when I tell them that the cause of my delay, was to dry the tear of affliction.

Sir, your goodness—

My father!

My wife! my child! Oh, heavenly powers!

Put the things carefully into a chamber, and be sure take care of that little box.

Yes, sir.

And here we are, my dearest Caroline, with the parson's blessing upon us. I hardly durst raise my hopes to this happiness, even before your worthy brother contrived to make me an estate out of pocket; but my generous girl, when I re­flect that you take a beggar to your arms—

Nay, nay, I am only doing an act of com­mon honesty, in paying the debts of my family; and I am to consider you a very gentle creditor [Page 79] to be satisfied with less than a third of your demand, and to take charge of me into the bargain.

My dearest girl!

But, amidst our happiness, let us not for­get the melancholy situation of the dear Cleve­lands—Let us instantly try to see them.

Here comes the little Gentoo full of glee. Oh, this looks well!

Gangica!

Ah, you here! Oh I glad of dat—I so happy.

What has happened to make you so.

Dis too full of joy to let me talk. I can't tell you—but come—come wid me—you know all—den you be too happy to talk—Come, come.

The villains! ample shall be their punish­ment.

It will be ample, be assured; but do not you wrest vengeance from that Power who best knows how to deal it, that Power which never withholds its succour from the innocent, nor le [...]s the guilty 'scape its awful indignation.

But say, my father, by what miracle are you restored to us? Henry, no doubt, has told you that he saw me in the boat, which his humanity declined a place in—We laboured for the nearest shore▪ [Page 80] but ound that an attempt to land would whelm us in the raging surf—thus were we compelled to trust our little skiff to the wide ocean, and for many hours were driven at random by its fury—At length we gained the land, but far from the coast on which we left our wreck.

But why did you not, the instant that you landed, acquaint us with your safety?

Alas! I had lost the power of doing so. Enfeebled by fatigue, when I reached the shore, I scarce had sense or motion, a fever followed, from which reason and health returned together—So, on the instant I set out to be myself the herald of my safety.

I sought you on the coast near Port­land.

Well might you hear no tidings of me; for we made our landing at the Isle of Wight, to the humanity of whose inhabitants myself and poor companions owe our lives. Think you those wretches, the Visorlys will venture to you?

Convinced that you are no longer living, I have no doubt but the instructions we have given to Oakworth to communicate, will bring them here.

The young one has never seen me, and Old Visorly not since I was quite a child; so it is impossible I should be known.

But promise to preserve your temper.

Depend on me.

This way.

I hear Oakworth's voice. We will retire.

This is the stranger I told you of. I leave you with the gentleman, begging his pardon for introducing him to such damn'd bad company.

We understand that you have volunteered to defend the cause of Mrs. Cleveland. Are we rightly informed, sir?

You are.

I thought the days of chivalry were over.

So did I: but since monsters still exist,—'tis fit that they revive again.

You have begun your career of enter­prize, most illustrious knight, with rather a hope­less adventure.

It may not be found so.

You seem an intelligent man. A little conversation will, I have no doubt, bring us to the same opinion, and all errors will be rectified before we part.

You need not doubt it, sir.

Now, my boy, Leonard, will talk him over in a grand stile. Oh, he is a blessing to my old age.

This woman has the power of influencing persons very much in her favour.

Innocence always has that power.

Innocence! Sir, sir, you are duped, deceived.

How, sir! Nay, sir, if you fly off in this way, you are not the man of sense I take you for. Well, sir, go on. You are led to believe this lady to have been Mr. Cleveland's wife. [Page 82] Yes, sir; I am— Grossly imposed on. We have the most convincing reasons to believe the contrary. Indeed! Sir, sir, what do you think of us? Should we be so lost to the common feelings of human nature as to proceed as we have done, but upon just ground? Oh, I assure you, sir, before I con­sented, Leonard thoroughly convinced me. He did? Yes, and you shall be convinced. Oh, sir, let me appeal to your respectability. You are a man who must, I am certain, rank high in the world's estimation. How would that be in­jured by your present interference! How would the world despise, abhor the man who could sup­port the claims of mere pretenders against a rightful heir! How the world will despise, will abhor such a wretch, will very soon be known.

You, perhaps, are not aware that she has no proofs of her marriage.

Proofs may be found.

In India, you think. Will you go thither for them?

I have been.

What?

I have been.

You knew Cleveland, perhaps?

Yes.

Do you know, then, of his marriage?

I was present at it.

You surprize me.

Will this satisfy you?

A witness may be suborned. The law [Page 83] will scarcely be content with one person's testi­mony.

With mine it clearly will.

You may be mistaken, sir. It will be rash to risk it. I will make an offer, a hand­some offer—We will resign our claim to half the fortune, manage the business with the ladies as you please, you may depend on our secresy. We tender to you, mind, to yourself half the for­tune.

It is a handsome offer.

Very indeed! may be you think a third would be enough.

No, no, far from it; for though the bribe sounds handsomely, it would be want of policy in me to take it.

How?

For this plain reason, that, tho' I admit these ladies to be Cleveland's wife and daughter, still Cleveland's fortune is the right of—

Whom?

Me.

You! by what title?

The clearest in the world—founded on the simple principle, that while a man can prove himself alive, his heirs are not allowed to take possession of his property.

Alive!

Why, gentlemen, you are very hard to be convinced. Surely you should admit a man alive, when he is able himself to tell you so.

Confusion!

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!

And, how do you now feel yourselves, my very worthy cousins?

Come, come in, and thank your kinsmen for all their kindness.

Oh, Leonard, Leonard, did I ever think you would have brought me into such dis­grace!

Sensible rebuke of age to youth! You should have led your son into the path of honesty, not been seduced by him into the road of villainy.

I'll go home, and if I continue in my present mind, I think it very likely I shall hang myself before to-morrow morning. Oh Leonard, Leonard!

With your company, sir,

I cannot dispense, till I receive assurance that my property remitted to you is vested as I directed.

My worthy brother, give me joy.

Your brother!

Even so, sir.

You are well paired. I wish you all the happiness that mutual poverty can give you.

Poverty! nay, we need not starve. My estate is surely sufficient to prevent that.

Your estate! You must first persuade me to resign the writings of it.

Thank you, dear brother; but you hap­pen to forget you have already done that.

I! how—when?

By your direction I brought the box to town with me, which you said, contained the writings.

Yes,—ay—that box—hey! let me see it—I have got the key of it.

The key, my dear fellow! Do you think [Page 85] I do things so cursed mechanically as to want keys? A man just come into possession of an estate, and not break open the box that contained his claim to it.

What, broke open!

Yes, with a kitchen poker. Lord, how alarmed you are! Yes, I broke it open, and found I had killed two birds with one stone; for, instead of only getting the writings of one estate, I found the writings of two—This lady's and my own.

Curses fall on me!

That they will, fast enough never fear. What a shrewd guesser you must be! You had the wisdom to foresee, that some time or other, there would be a junction of the properties, and you therefore commodiously packed up the writ­ings together. Ah, you are a considerate fellow!

Sir, we need your presence here no longer. My property I find is vested as I ap­pointed. Now, sir, depart, loaded not with my reproaches, not with my malediction; for the whole world's contempt, and the heaviest curses of the injured would add but a feather's weight to the mountain of remorse which conscious guilt will heap upon thy wretched bosom. When I reflect on the severity of suffering conscience can inflict, I could almost forget my injuries, and pity thee.

To palliate my guilt I do not seek—yet, in justice, let me declare, the erroneous judgment of the world made me a villian. I beheld the eye of observance and respect ever directed to the wealthy; were he fool or knave, no matter. [Page 86] While all that is truly amiable or great in genius or in virtue, when linked with poverty, was heed­ed with the stare of disavowal, or the scowl of contempt. To be a golden idol for the world's worship was my aim. I have lost my fortune, character, and happiness in the attempt, and now must meet in penury mankind's abhorrence, and feel too, I deserve it.

I grieve to think how much you must be afflicted.

I am indeed; for with all his unworthi­ness, I cannot forget he is my brother.

Such remembrance honours you; for never should the principles of justice absorb the feelings of nature.

Ah, my good friend, you at liberty!

Yes, sir, I found bail.

I am very glad to see you.

Sir, I shall ever feel myself your debtor.

Oh, Madam!

I know a way to repay him, Madam.

How?

By making him rightful possessor of the treasure he holds in his hand.

Gangica, do you consent to—

I do all as you please, ma'am.

I am sure it will please me that you make yourself happy.

Now I have performed my promise, you must renew my acquaintance with your father.

You and my father, sir, have never been asunder.

Hey! What do you mean?

[Page 87]

To restore you a truant son, sir, who, till he had atoned as far as lay in his power for his former errors, could not hope to be acknowledged by such a father.

What, my own boy turned out an ho­nest man?

Yes, sir; and who, now knowing the precious value of that first of titles, will never forfeit it.

Now, then, I can say I am completely happy.

Ever, ever may you remain so!—You will; for benevolence like yours makes the human heart a heaven.

The gratitude I owe to all who have be­friended these dear objects of my love, I hope to shew by something more than words. What a prospect of happiness opens to our view! Blest with friends, proved such in the trying moments of affliction—with fortune to command profusely every luxury, and I trust, with minds to employ it only in pursuit of one—the luxury of doing good.