Scene a Room in the House of SEMBLANCE.

AND you positively go to-morrow: quit town for ever.

This evening.

Well, well; you will have it so.

Why, Mr. Semblance, the dissolution of our partnership, and my consequent absence from your society, must be pleas­ing circumstances to you.

Why, my dear Whitley, why should you say so?

Because I know so.

Ah! there it is: if it was not for that cursed trick of telling all you know, and speaking all you think, we should have gone along together over the rough roads of life as smoothly as a pair of velvet shoes.

[Page 6]

Sir, it is now five years since you, supposing me a fit in­strument for your purposes, relieved me and a suffering family from poverty, and gave me a share in your business by way of securing my services.

"Instrument," "purposes," "services!"—and why, Sir, is not that action to be ascribed to generosity? to benevo­lence? to humanity? to—

Because, I know you.

Ah! there it is again.

That business with which you intrusted me, (certainly, in the present situation of society, a business of the utmost im­portance) the care of explaining and giving force to the laws of our country, I executed with anxious attention—

Pardon me there—I cannot say that you were so attentive to business as I expected—You disappointed me very much in that particular.

How, Sir!

Have not I known of your refusing large fees, and turn­ing fat clients from the office?—

When I knew their complaints groundless or their purposes knavish.

What was that to you, Sir?—you are not the judge.—And did not you lose one of our best customers, by defending the cause of a black whom he held in slavery?

[Page 7]

I did, Sir; and would have lost my life before I would de­sert the cause of humanity. The profession of a lawyer may be exercised in the fullest conformity to the rules of universal justice and expansive benevolence, as we know by the exam­ples of many around us: it is such as you who bring upon it the vulgar sarcasms of the undiscriminating and thoughtless. For myself, soon disgusted with your manner of living, and your manner of practice, I should have thrown off the lucra­tive connexion, but for the persuasions of a beloved wife, who, having felt the rude and 'numbing grasp of poverty, anxiously sought to guard our children from it. For her and them I labour'd—that is past—for she and they—are—dead— (struggling to repress his feelings)—Pshaw—this is weak­ness.

Yes, they are dead, Mr. Whitely; and I can sympathize with you. My poor Beckky too—I, too, have had my af­flictions; I, too, have lost a wife; torn from me, and from my daughter—

She was a loss—but a loss had not virtue to feel. Tell not me of your affliction: you rejoiced in her death; nor do I believe it ever gave you pain, except, perhaps, a momentary pang, from the remembrance of your conduct towards her.

Ah! this is telling the truth again.

She was, indeed, a loss to her daughter. Poor girl! denied the advantages of that wealth which you accumulate but to misuse, you keep her, though now a woman, at an obscure country boarding-school, that her presence may not check the secret indulgences of those sensual pleasures, in which you seek for happiness.

[Page 8]

Really, Sir, this is—curse him—he quite bewilders the—indeed, Sir, I am very far from being happy.

Happy! no: for happiness is only known to virtue.

Ah! there it is again. And I am not virtuous?

Indeed you are not. Let not the truth offend you, for I will speak from pure benevolence. Bred in the school of pre­judice, your wishes all centering in self, your life is wasted in the anxious pursuit of riches, for the sole purpose of [...] vicious propensities, which [...] through habit, are continually hurrying you into every species of meanness and dishonesty.—

Dishonesty!—Robert Semblance dishonest—

Hear me with patience; tis, perhaps, the last time we shall meet; perhaps, the last effort I shall be enabled to make for your happiness.

Happiness!—destroy my reputation—torture me with your damn'd truth—put me on the rack, and call it happiness!

He is supreme among the wretched, who dares not listen to sincerity. You are a wretch, whose every moment of se­curity depends upon the strength of the cob-web veil woven by your own hypocrisy. You start from the eye of inquiry. You tremble at the breath of truth. Detection, a phantom, painted by your own fears, is for ever before your eyes. You redouble your arts of deceit, and daily become more con­temptible and more miserable.

[Page 9]

I know I am not happy. I never was happy. I don't be­lieve I ever shall be happy in this miserable world.

The being who has it in his power to do good to a fellow being, has happiness within his reach, though he do the deed in hell, such as poets have painted it. I will point out the road which will lead you to felicity. Quit your business; fly the usual haunts of your vices; and thus weaken your evil habits and give strength to your growing reason.—

Growing reason!—at sixty-three—growing reason!

Yes—your attention to me is a proof of your growing reason. Make your daughter and young Holton your clerk happy, by their union and his establishment in business.

Why, you are mad! Damn me, but you are stark mad! Tom Holton—wild as a bedlamite—a young profligate—why, he is worse than—than myself.

Ha, ha! no, pardon me there. Tom is wild—is often enticed or hurried into scenes of vicious dissipation; but he has no prejudices; no fixed habits; his mind is not encum­bered with one cloud which may intercept a single ray of science. And what I love the dear lad for most, is, that during the five years I have known him I do not believe that a falshood has passed his lips. And that is rather an extra­ordinary circumstance, considering his connection with us, brother Semblance.

If I had not known you I should have said it was impos­sible.

[Page 10]

His present extravagances I can trace to his disrelish for the study and practice of the law, as taught by you, his master and guardian; and the very bad example you set him.

No, no, no, pardon me there; for 'though you have a way of looking through people, I am certain Tom must, and does, look upon me as a pattern of regularity, prudence and morality. Don't he see me regularly at church—that is, he might if he had the grace to go there. Don't he see a model of oeconomy and frugality in my family?

He feels your frugality, and that drives him to the tavern to make up for the deficiencies at home.

Don't he see order and frugality in every thing I do?

Do not continue to deceive yourself—I am pretty certain that Tom knows you, for what you are—a hypocrite. What should prevent him, or some of his youthful compa­nions, from finding out, that, though under the mask of order you lock up your house and retire to your chamber at nine, a private door lets you out at ten, to meet—

For heaven's sake Mr. Whitely—my dear friend—do not let your love of truth lead you to mention these things, even to myself.—Oh dear!—I believe I have been wrong—I am a miserable old man! My dear partner!—

Be not alarm'd. For although every particle of know­ledge possessed by me is due to the world, I have so far power over it, that I need not discharge the debt until I see the moment when the greatest sum of good will be produced by the payment. I shall never do any thing to injure you— [Page 11] the contrary is my wish. I will see you again before I go. Are you not a man, and shall I not wish you happy? Think of what I have said.

"Think!" yes, you have a curst way of making me think, whether I will or no. He, now, is happy; yet enjoys none of the sweets of life as I do. Heigh ho! He is younger than I am by ten years, has not a twentieth part of my fortune, and yet he schools me as if I was a boy, and I stand like a boy, trembling before him. I thought the private door had been unknown even to him—I'll not believe that Tom knows it. Whitely was up when I came in this morning; the moon shone; might he not have seen me? Heigh ho! I cannot help loving him, tho' I almost tremble at the sight of him. (Looks at his watch.) Six o'clock—I will see if his favourite Tom has opened my office yet—it will be somewhat extraordinary if he has, for half an hour ago he had not got home. Out all night—a profligate! give him my daughter!—

Scene the Office.

Susan, hist, hist, Susan.

Ah, is it you?

Is Mr. Semblance up?

Aye, long ago.

[Page 12]

Has he asked for me?

Five or six times.

That's bad.

He's in a terrible taking about it.

He knows, then, that I was out all night.

To be sure he does.

Now, that's all your fault, Susan.

How, pray?

Why, I came to the door about three o'clock, and it was bolted; so that my key was of no use. What devil put it into your stupid head to bolt the door?

I did not think of your being out.

When did you ever know me stay at home? Ah, Susan, there would be no putting up with you, if you was not pretty. However, you threw me into the way of fortune, my girl! for, knowing my companions had broke up, I took refuge at a gaming-house; and finding a foolish young fellow there surrounded by sharpers, I, from pure kindness, got him out of their hands and stript him of all his money—See what treasures!—I am as rich as Croesus.

Ah, you'll find a way to get rid of it.

[Page 13]

I have hit upon a scheme already.

What is it?

To return it to its right owner in such a manner as not to hurt his feelings, and thus purchase the privilege of advising him never to engage in such infernal business again. Hah! what think you of my scheme? Give me a kiss, you hussy—

Fye, Sir!

One kiss, by the gods!

They see him, and stand confused for some time.

Very well, Sir; very pretty amusement before breakfast.

My old master, by the goddesses! I must brazen it out. You see, Sir, I am taking the business of the office off your hands. Begin the duties of the day betimes; hey, Sir?

What are you doing here, Susan?

I, Sir; I, I, I,—Mr. Holton—

Aye, Sir, we were brushing off the spiders' webs; hey, Susy?

Well; we live and learn. But I should never have looked for a spider's web over the lips of a pretty chamber-maid.

[Page 14]

Indeed, Sir, it was in spite of my very teeth—

Yes, you seemed to threaten him hard—you may retire, Susan, you may retire.

Yes, Sir. ( Aside to Tom) O, you devil!

Are not you ashamed, Sir?

Ashamed, Sir! why, what have I done?

I admire the modesty of that question. "What have I done?" Where have you come from, Sir?

Where have I come from?

Yes, Sir; where have you come from at this time in the morning; and where did you pass the night?

Among my friends—no not—absolutely friends—

Among your friends!

Among my brethren, Sir: mankind are all brothers, you know, Sir. The fact is, I came home late, and finding the door bolted, I would not knock, for fear of disturbing you. Hey, Sir? considerate. For you might not have been long in bed yourself, you know.

Ahem!

So, Sir, I went off again, and joined—my brethren, once more.

[Page 15]

Very well, Sir; and you may now go again and take up your abode with the family.

Sir!

You may go and pass the day where you passed the night.

Why, Sir you do not mean—

I mean, Sir, to insist on your doing me the favour to pack up your alls and leave my house immediately.

But, Sir—

You understand me now, Sir, I trust. I speak clearly.

Very luminously, Sir. A brazen head could not have spoken more oracularly. But, as I am young, Sir; as I am an orphan and your ward; as I have need of experienced wisdom to counsel me, and upright virtue to be constantly before my eyes for an example; I trust you will not, with­out weighty reasons, turn me adrift upon life's stormy sea, without ballast or provisions, and in my present shattered trim.

Reasons, Sir! well, you shall have them. First, it is my will: you understand me, Sir. You would not stay in my house in spite of my teeth, as well as kiss my servant in spite of her's? Secondly, you are a libertine.

O my dear guardy!

An unprincipled libertine, whom good counsel and good [Page 16] example cannot reclaim, and whose sins are outdone by no­thing but his impudence!—

I am a miserable sinner, guardy; but what are the-faults you have, principally, to reproach me with?

Wine, gaming, women,

Wine! did you ever know me guilty of excess?

Sir, a clerk ought to drink nothing but water. Do you ever see any thing else at my table?

No, Sir; nor did you ever see me drink any thing else at your table. But, when among my friends, would you have me refuse a glass or two, when offered by the hand of hospi­tality? Who can make a crime of a trifling point of gaiety like this?

"Gaiety!" It is from gaiety, too, that you play cards, I suppose?

I play sometimes to please my friends, and sometimes from a weak wish to stifle thought and drown the remembrance of my disagreeable situation in your service, and your injurious treatment of your amiable daughter.

So, so, he is going to take up the business of truth-telling too.

And when I do play, I make a point of playing well; for I never allow myself to be outdone in any thing.

And it is out of regard to my daughter, that you have a smile, bow, nosegay, or sonnet, for every girl in the parish.

[Page 17]

I do not know that it is a crime to admire beauty, or to cultivate a talent for expressing my thoughts with elegance and truth.

Truth in a sonnet! talent! admiration of beauty! Sir, Sir, you will get more by engrossing one plea, than by all the sonnets that ever dribbled from the brains of love-sick boys, or fame-sick ladies, since the time of Petrarch and Laura. I admire your talents, Sir; I acknowledge your superabundant merit; so, Sir, please to walk out of my house.

What, Sir, after having promised repeatedly that I should be your successor in business!

Strike that out from your memorandum-book, and put down this in its stead; "I will never have for my successor a gentleman of spirit, who drinks from innocent gaiety; games from his love to my daughter; and kisses all the girls in the neighbourhood in spite of their teeth, by way of cultivating his talents."

But, Sir, remember that you have been young yourself.

And what then, Sir?

When you have seen a fine woman—

When I have seen a fine woman, I have said to myself, to-morrow those cheeks will be wrinkled; those sparkling eyes extinguished; those lilies and roses faded; and, certainly, this frail head shall not be able to turn mine.

Do you never play at cards, Sir?

[Page 18]

Never, Sir, never. What can be the pleasure of a game­ster? Has his soul one moment of calm or self-enjoyment? If he gains, his gain is always below desire; if he loses, rage and despair take possession of his soul. The feelings of hu­manity are banished from the gamester's heart; he thirsts for the ruin of his nominal friend, who equally burns with de­sire to ruin him.

How impressive is truth, even from the lips of falshood! Well, Sir, but at least the table has its pleasures for you?

Rather say its poisons. When I am tempted by good cheer, sparkling wine, seducing society, I represent to my­self the consequences of excess, an aching head, disordered stomach, clouded reason, loss of time—this saves me—I eat just enough to support my strength; my health is always equal; my ideas always pure and luminous. But all this is so easy, Sir, that there is even no merit in the practice.

I acknowledge, Sir, the truth of your observations; nor shall you find me backward in the practice. You are now, Sir, old; you know me capable of business; you know my pretensions to your daughter; give me her hand and put me into your practice, and you shall see in my conduct a pattern to all husbands and all attornies.

And this is your proposal?

Is it not reasonable, Sir?

Modest, truly! Give up my business and marry you to my daughter! I do admire you, Tom; I do, indeed. Give you my daughter, and give up my business! Would not your modesty wish to employ me as a clerk in your office?

[Page 19]

Ha, ha!—no, thankee, guardy; I think I can do better in that respect. I believe I should very soon discharge you.

Why, you incorrigible, impudent—But I will not be in a passion.—Sir, you have heard my intentions; will you do me the pleasure to get out of my house directly?

This is your last word, then.

Yes, Sir, it is my last word; do me the honour to let me see your back.

Ha, ha, ha! Enough. We shall see—we shall see.

How, Sir! We shall see!

Yes, Ha, ha, ha! We shall see, Ha, ha, ha!

What does he mean? "We shall see." Why, the un­principled villain will not expose me! "We shall see."—Expose me!—why, what can he say of me?—Oh dear—I'm afraid—Heigh ho! If I was not ashamed I would call him back again.—No, no—the dog would so laugh at me—I'm a wretched man. Susy!

Scene the Street.

I will send some porters for my cloaths and books, which I know you will deliver in good order. So, my good girl, [Page 20] good bye; take this bank bill—you may receive it from me, Susan, because you know me to be above taking advantage of the gratitude which an innocent heart feels on receiving a favour. Why don't you take it? Is the girl blind?

Yes, with crying. My tears blind me.

Take it for my sake.

May I not give it to my mother, Sir?

To any body that wants it more than you do—that's the golden rule, Susan.

Then, I am afraid—don't be angry—but you may want it yourself more than I do.

That's a very impertinent thought of your's. To reduce a young fellow, like me, full of health and animation, beneath the level of a whining spinster, like you, deprived by educa­tion of your natural vigour, and by the laws of society of your natural rights. Go in; wipe your eyes; be a good girl, and defy the devil: I'm your friend.

Bless you, for a dear good soul!

Now for my scheme—Mr. Whitely—Shall I tell him?

Good morning, Mr. Holton.

Have I offended you, Sir?

[Page 21]

Offended me! surely no. Why the question?

You are used to call me Tom, Sir.

Was that it! I will still call you Tom—my dear and amiable Tom.

Then I am happy. To the man who enjoys self-appro­bation, there wants but the concurring esteem of the wise and virtuous crown his felicity. Well, Sir, I can't but lament for my old master Semblance.

How so?

Why, Sir, he has turned me out of doors. That is a loss he might perhaps survive, if you staid with him; but with neither you or I to keep him straight, he must inevitably go to ruin.

Turn'd you out of doors!

He certainly has, Sir, and upon a charge of committing those individual vices to which he is himself a slave: but I have a scheme in view, by which I hope I shall unmask the hypocrite, and force him to be honest by a thorough convic­tion that it is the only good policy.

But how is this revolution to be effected?

By a disguise, Sir, which—

Disguise! What, shall the preacher of sincerity put on disguise to persuade hypocrisy to unmask herself? Shall the [Page 22] pupil of truth have recourse to deceit to accomplish the pur­poses of virtue?

Forgive me, Sir—the interest of my heart is at stake—do not leave town suddenly.

I will not until to-morrow.

Call at Mr. Semblance's two hours hence. You then shall know why I deviate from what I know to be right.—Will you come, Sir?

I will.

Till then, craft be my inmate.

And if thou dost not curse thy companion, thou wilt be a singular exception to that general rule, on which the moral universe depends.

Scene SEMBLANCE'S Office—table and chairs.

MY daughter pretending to complain that I find her gen­teel boarding and lodging at a country school. My ward, Tom, launching into every vice, and undertaking to be a critic, politician, and reformer. Lord! Lord! how times have changed since I was young! A young clerk then was contented to give up pleasure to his master, and work his way to it, by regular degrees, as the master had done before him; but, now, dam'me! they are like Virgil's harpies—they seize on every dish before us, and not only feast them­selves, but unfit the banquet for those that follow. Formerly a clerk would sit all the week at his desk, and scarcely allow himself time for a walk on Sunday: but, now they are men of spirit, wits, judges of authors, and critics at the Theater; and we shall have a stripling of four-and-twenty tell you that the basis of the English law is violence and injustice, and ad­vise you to read Godwin. I have no patience!—Susan!—I am not sorry Tom's out of her way—Susan!—

Sir!

Is it thee, Susan? Come hither, child.

[Page 24]

I was coming, Sir, to ask you to have the goodness to reckon up last week's expences.

Certainly, Susan: give me the book.

There, Sir.

Let me see, let me see, ( puts on his spectacles) it is eight days since we settled.

Yes, Sir.

I gave you three dollars.

They are down, Sir—you put them down yourself.

Aye, aye, right—three dollars—eight days—and how much have you left?

Three shillings and two penny bills.

No more! How money goes! Give me the remainder. How money goes!

Every thing is so dear, Sir.

Ah! you don't market well—now, I warrant me, when the market-women ask you a shilling for a thing, you offer them six-pence?

Well, Sir.

I don't wonder your accounts run so high—never offer [Page 25] more than a fourth of what's demanded. When they ask a shilling, three-pence is the mark.

Why, they would beat me, Sir.

Well, so much the better—then I sue for damages, and we might support the family a year upon a good beating—But come, let us see if thy accounts are right.

O! I am sure of that, Sir.

How so?

Mr. Holton reckoned them up for me.

Ah, damn that fellow, he would be doing all the family bu­siness. But he's gone! he's gone!

Sir!

Susan, he was kissing thee this morning when I came in.

I could'n't help it, Sir.

Are you sure, Susan?

Indeed, Sir!

You did not take any pleasure in his rudeness!

Pleasure, indeed! to be pull'd, and haul'd, and scratch'd!

He, he—I never do so, Susan?

Oh no, Sir!

[Page 26]

Good girl, good girl.—Well, let us see— (looks alter­nately at the book and at her.) Good girl. Six and nine make fifteen—three and carry one—Handsome hussey. One and two make three, and four are seven, and ten are seven­teen, and eight are twenty-five—how pretty!—Six and carry two—two and four—so modest!—are thirteen—and—I'm out—nought and go one—charming shit!—It's all right, Su­san, very right—and there are four dollars more. But be prudent, Susan.

I'm sure no one can say I am not prudent.

Long be so, Susan. Beware of young men: There is nei­ther faith, truth, or honesty, in youth.

I'm sure I don't like them.

You are sure, Susan?

Indeed, Sir! For my part I like old gentlemen best of all things, except old women, my poor old mother and you, Sir.

Hem, hem!—But I'm not an old woman, Susan—not an old woman neither.

No, Sir; but I love you as well as if you was.

Well, well, continue to love me, Susan, but not as an old woman; as an elderly gentleman, but not as an old man nei­ther. Never suffer any of the servants in the neighbourhood to take liberties with you.

Fye, Sir, how could you think of such a thing?

[Page 27]

Good girl. Give me thy hand, then, Susan. (Takes her hand.) Pretty little taper puppets.

Lord, Sir, you make me laugh!

Here, I have something for you—here—take this ring for my sake, Susan.

O, Sir!

It's all gold, pure gold—it was my poor dear dead wife's—She was a fine woman, Susan, and loved me like the apple of her eye: and if—if—Susan—if— you could really love me—

Lord, Sir, don't make game of me!

I'm in earnest, Susan; I love you, I adore you.

I'm a poor girl, and your servant, Sir,

You are my queen, my goddess, my—

Just in the nick.

Cruel, cruel Susan—On my knees—

Fye, Sir, don't you see the gentleman?

[Page 28]

Oh, don't let me interrupt you, grand-father.

What's that?—who—

A tight little tender and well rigg'd. Sweetheart, where's the old one? Where's the lawyer?

That's my master, Sir.

The devil it is! kneeling at your feet!

Why, truly, Sir—I—I—I—

Never blush, old gentleman, that you should wish to kiss such a girl as that. If she had wish'd to kiss you, there would have been somewhat to blush at, on her part. I don't care if I take a buss myself.

You may go, Susy.

So far well. I'm not known.

Old fudge!

Will you do me the favour to let me know what has pro­cured me the honour of this visit?

Aye, old boy. You are lawyer Semblance?

At your service.

As honest an attorney—

I think I may boast—

[Page 29]

As ever ruin'd one party, and left t'other in jail, starving.

You are an odd fish!

You are right, old one: if I understand you we are both rare preserves—but I'm pickled and you are dried.

You are an impudent fellow.

I want your assistance.

I'll have nothing to do with you.

Yes you will. (Throwing a purse on the table) There's twenty guineas to begin with, for any expences in the off-set.

O, I did'n't understand you, Sir,—a cause.

If that's not enough, I have five hundred of the same little gold-fish rather than lose the wind.

Sir, you may command me. What a pleasure it would be to practise, Sir, if all clients had your mild, engaging man­ners and sweetness of speech.

Damn your palaver! give us none of your jaw, but bring too. ( Takes a chair and sits down.)

What a brute!—Sir, the pleasure—

Cast out an anchor abaft: keep your how steady, and shut your forecastle-hatchway. Why, damn me, you stand gap­ing as if I did'n't talk plain English; sit down, and shut your mouth.

[Page 30]

Give a lawyer twenty guineas and ask him to hold his tongue—not a new case either, now I think on't. I was only going to say, that in general we found it no easy matter to draw the chink from our clients—I must humour this follow.

For my part I'd thank you to take all my money into your own keeping, and manage it for me—ha!

I'll take that trouble off your hands with the greatest pleasure. Your cause is of great importance no doubt.

It is.

An estate depending.

More than any estate.

Your life, mayhap?

What's life to a fellow that lives on salt water, and is shot at for hire at so much per month?

What then?

My honour.

He, he!—the honour of a fellow that's shot at for so much per month! (To him) Aye, aye, I understand; in a moment of weakness or distraction—it happens every day to very honest folks. But when they know how to manage matters by aid of an honest lawyer, all goes well. Well, well, explain—let us know the fact.

[Page 31]

Avast there—It's warm—I am dry. What, are you deaf? Its my way to talk with my glass in my hand.

I must humour him. Susan! ( Calling.)

You keep good wine, I dare swear.

Why, I have a corner in the cellar.—Susy!

Did you call, Sir?

Yes, child. Go down into the cellar, Susan, and on the right hand, in the second closet—this is the key—in the second closet—No, pies on't, now I think on't I'll go myself—You shall have some of the old sort, captain—I'll go myself.

Ah! Susan, Susan!

Lord a mercy!—Do you know me, Sir?

Don't you know me, Susan?

Is, is, is it you, Mr. Holton? Well, I'll never believe my eyes or ears again.

And I hardly know how to credit mine. After all my preaching to you to find you playing at pull-cap with that old sheet of dry'd parchment, Semblance!

Indeed, Sir, I could'n't help it.

[Page 32]

Aye, in spite of your [...] too!

He never attempted any such liberties before, or I should have quitted his service; and as this was the first, so shall it be the last time that he shall insult a poor and unprotected orphan.

Ha! tears! I beg your pardon, Susan—on my soul I do.

Oh Mr. Holton! I shall always love you, and only wish you could marry Miss Nancy. But I'll not stay another night under the same roof with this wicked old wretch, tho' I am alone and helpless in the world, and a mother depend­ing upon me.

Alone! it's false! Every honest heart is with you, and mine among the formost, my good girl.

He is coming.

Here it is. A bottle apiece. Right old stuff. What, are you here yet? Bring in glasses, Susan. Now, captain, I'll draw a cork, and then—

I am at home to nobody, Susan.

Had I not better say you are busy, Sir? the other's a lie, you know.

[Page 33]

O, it's understood that the master's engaged, when the servant says he's not at home.

Then, Sir, there can be no harm in saying so. I am your servant, Sir; but I am not bound to steal or to lie for you.

Truth again! Damn me but my family have been bit!

A girl of ten thousand! Come, old boy, she shall be our first toast.

Well, well, she's a good girl.

Here's a young husband to her: and may she never be teaz'd by the importunities of an old fool!

Ahem!—Here's a good husband to her!

A forfeit! a forfeit! ( Fills a bumper.) A bumper, old one, for altering my toast. Come, damn me, no wry faces, for the Madeira is good. Say after me. Here's a young husband to Susan.

Here's a young husband to Susan.

And may she never be teazed—

And may she never be teazed—

By the importunities of an old fool.

By the importunities of a fool.

[Page 34]

Old—

Old—

Fool.

Fool. There, it's down.

Now then to business. I am an Englishman, d'y'see, and my name's George Grapple. I was born and bred to the sea; and have serv'd on board man of war or frigate from the time I knew a cabouse from a compass. I was appointed to the command of the Pretty Betsey, of 26 guns, and order'd to cruize off your coast, where I had not been two days, when I fell in with a French frigate of 34 guns, whom I 'spied by day-break bearing down upon us, with a crowd of canvass; we bore up to meet her with merry hearts, prepar­ing for action; and we were soon at it, yard-arm and yard­arm. All my masts were shot by the board, and I had no­thing left for it but grappling. I order'd it, and was an­swer'd by shouts; when a volley of hand-granades set fire to my forecastle, and in a minute we were all in flames. I got out my long-boat to save my men, and the gallant French­men, as soon as they saw our distress, ceas'd firing, and came to our assistance in their's. I saw my brave men safe from the fire; but for myself, I remain'd on my quarter-deck, with my eye fixed on the colours of my country, resolv'd to go to the bottom with my own Pretty Betsey.

What a devil! he's put me in a cold sweat.

In the mean time, a young French officer who had quitted his ship to come to our succour, seeing my resolution, threw [Page 35] his pistols and cutlass into the sea, and, leaping on board my vessel, advanced towards me through fire and smoke, with a white handkerchief waving in his hand, beseeching me to save myself. I had scarcely time to notice the young devil, when, seizing me in his arms, he leaped with me into the sea, and, before we 'rose to the water's surface again, my ship blew up and disappeared for ever. Here's a health to the young Sansculotte.

With all my heart. (Drinks.) Truly, captain, that was a hotter action than ever I was engaged in; though I have made many a defendant sweat.

Hotter, but not more destructive, old boy. Those who are born to be hung are in no danger of drowning. Myself and the Frenchman pop'd up again among the damnedest dashing and splashing of water that ever I saw, occasioned by the ship's explosion. However, we both swam like Mo­ther Carey's chickens, and were soon safe on board the French frigate, who brought us to-day into your harbour, and I am come in the same trim in which I fought my ship, to lay my complaints before you. You see I did'n't fight in my fair­weather suit.

From which we may conclude that it was not the lace on your coat which induced the young Frenchman to save you.

No, dam'me, he's a man. But to go on with my story. As good luck would have it, I brought off with me my pocket-book well lined; and learning that my deliverer was a mere volunteer, and of no fortune, I wanted to share with him: but no, he will not take a guinea. From the time of our meeting we have never parted. We love one another entirely. He is the best lad that ever step'd between the [Page 36] stem and the stem of a vessel; and 'tis him I am determined to prosecute.

Excellent reasons truly!

The sea is my element. When I'm ashore I'm a mere lubber. Idleness, they say, is the mother of all vices; and I have three cruel propensities.

To what?

Wine, gaming, and women.

O, dear Sir, these are your propensities?

I must confess it.

Ha, ha, ha! They are, in a gentleman, marks of spirit, and will recommend you to the friendship of the well-born and well-bred.

Indeed!

For my part, I esteem your character both for spirit and taste. As for wine—here's to our better acquaintance.

The old fellow warms. With all my heart, with all my heart! Your's is a charming morality.

The only crue philosophy, captain.

Do you practise as well as teach?

[Page 37]

Certainly; you would not have me say one thing and do another?

By no means. But what shall we say of beauty? it is at best but a fleeting flower.

And therefore we should hasten to gather it—He, he!—Love is the soul of the universe, as the poet says.

But what excuse for wine, drinking, the table?

Wine, captain! what pleasure so true? It heightens the joys of youth; and when the winter of age chills every vein, 'tis the table alone that thaws us.

Come, let us add fuel to the fire.

Bravo!

But gaming—

When not carried to excess, surely it is the most rational of all amusements: it introduces or furnishes conversation to the most hum-drum and gloomy assemblies.

Yet these are the propensities I would overcome.

Bravo! But to return to my affair.

Adso! we must not neglect business.

[Page 38]

As I said, this Frenchman and myself were inseparable. Yesterday he proposed a game at piquet; I accepted—and now I come to my cause of complaint—I played with such success that I won five-and-twenty louis.

A great cause of complaint truly!—O ho! and he would not pay you?

We play'd, cash on the table. Well, Sir, in rising from the game, we perceived a card under the table. I insisted, that, in consequence, the game was false, and he had not lost. He maintained the contrary, and would not receive the money again. We grow warm. I threw the money out at the cabin windows, and he the cards. I could have fought him, but that he sav'd my life: so there's no way to attack him but by law; and damn me but I'll throw away ten thousand guineas but he shall take the five-and-twenty.

And this is your cause?

Do you not find it just?

Excellent!

And we shall force him to take the money?

Put it in my hands, and it shall never trouble you more.

You mean what you say?

May this be my last glass of Madeira if I do not! Have you witnesses?

NO.

[Page 39]

Never mind—I'll find them.

That's all settled. Do you ever play?

Sometimes.

But rarely?

O yes, whenever opportunity offers. It is necessary to us students.

Come, then; let us pass away an hour.

Never in better time! I'm in tip-top spirits! And you are a capital fellow. What game shall we have? Cribbage?

That's so cursed long. Have you a pair of dice in the house?

Aye, here in my back-gammon board.

Then let us rattle.

It's music to me. Come, a hundred dollars on the throw.

Guineas, guineas!

Guineas be it. (They throw.) Mine. Again?

Double, if you please?

Certainly.

Your's.

[Page 40]

That's three hundred.

I'll throw for five hundred.

A thousand, if you please.

Done. A thousand. (Throw.) Mine.

I owe you seven hundred.

Double or quit?

Another thousand!

Done. (Throw.) That makes one thousand seven hun­dred.

Seventeen hundred guineas!!!

A trifle.

For you, captain: but for me who only live by my attor­ney's business—

Dam'me, I'll stake the seventeen hundred against your bu­siness. If you lose, put me in your office: if you win, you owe me nothing.

You joke, captain!

Will you accept the conditions?

He! he! Yes.

[Page 41]

Done. (They throw.) Huzza! damn me I'm an at­torney!

Why—captain—

Well, old boy?

Will you not play more?

O no—too much of a good thing, you know—Besides, I'm in luck, and should be sorry to ruin you.

I am ruin'd by all the devils!

To-morrow I will give you another chance. In the mean time put me in possession of my post.

Ha, ha!—But you are joking, captain.

The devil a bit, old boy. But come, I'll make a proposal, They tell me you have a daughter; give her to me for a wife, and settle me in business, and I will give up my win­nings.

A sailor turn attorney!

Love does miracles—As a proof, see before you an attor­ney turn'd sailor.

Confusion! Tom!

Even so, guardy. You have seen me in disguise; I have seen you, for once, in your true colours.

[Page 42]

And the battle—the hand-granades—the French frigate, and the Pretty Betsey?

Poetic fiction.

By way of cultivating your talents!—O, that I could be revenged of the dog!—I shall be exposed—I'll deny all.

I have only had your confession, Sir, to what I knew be­fore. Come, let us bury all in oblivion; forgive my tricks, and give me my Nancy.

You!

Yes, Sir; settle she in life, and give me your attorney's practice.

Give my daughter and my business to a fellow that tells lies faster than he can utter words! Why, Sir, you would bring dishonour on the profession. Get out of my house!

You'll pay me my money.

You're a sharper. You have no witnesses.

I can procure them, you know. Do me justice, or I'll expose you.

Who'll believe you when I deny it! You are a rascal! Get out of my house!

O, Sir, here's Miss Nancy!

"Miss Nancy who?—What?"

My old partner, he not surprized at this intrusion.

No, damn me, I intend never to be surprized again.

I was resolv'd, before I quitted the town and you for ever, to make one great effort for your happiness: I sent a friend for your amiable daughter, who now waits in the next room, while I prefer an earnest solicitation, that you will restore her to her rights, and bestow her on a worthy man, whose character, for sincerity and abhorrence of disguise, gives an earnest of every virtue.

And that abhorrer of disguise is—

Thomas Holton.

A fellow that has told more lies in the last half hour than all the attornies in town in a month. I thank you, my good friend, from my soul, and will be, for the future, a better fa­ther, and, I hope, a better man: but until Mr. Holton and I have some further explanations, I beg leave to defer his con­nexion in my family. Thomas Holton, come into court!

[Page 44]

Here! Convicted of duplicity. I feel, my worthy moni­tor, (to Whitely) the justice of your observations when last I saw you, and acknowledge the justice of Mr. Semblance's decision. Was I to moralize on the transactions of the day, I should sum up all in the old adage, "Honesty is the best policy," and advise all within hearing, in the words of Hot­spur, to "tell truth and shame the devil—ever, while you live, guardy, tell the truth and shame the devil."

"SUSAN advances—Curtain drops.