Winifred

“She thank’d him, and said, she could very well walk, For should she keep a coach, how the neighbors would talk.”

Heigho! I believe the dismal buz, buzzing
of this wheel gets from my ears to my heart. Perhaps,
after all, ’tis Mrs. Derville’s fault—She is
too good, or, at least, too silent for one to be
comfortable with her. What signifies her good
humour, if she never talks enough to shew it?
Ah! if she was but like my poor dear late mistress,
Mrs. Everclack! to be sure she died of a consumption;
but while she did live, it did one
good to hear her—so lively, such a charming
larum from morning till night. B Enter B1v 2 [Enter Lord Orton (as Mr. Belford.)]
Well, my Lord, I’m glad you’re returned.

Belford.

Hush, hush, good Winifred! You
will certainly forget yourself, and call me by this
title in Mrs. Derville’s presence. But tell me,
how has she been in my absence?

Winif.

Bad enough, I can assure your Lordship
—Mr. Belford, I mean.

Belford.

You make one miserable, Winifred.
What has happened, is she ill? is she unhappy?

Winif.

Oh, worse! there are remedies for bad
health and bad spirits; but that sort of neither
one thing or other like feel, I believe the first
doctors, or the merriest bells in Caernarvonshire,
can’t cure it. Lord, we’ve been as dull as the
black mountains.

Belford.

You surprize me. Why, I thought
Mrs. Derville had been elegant cheerfulness personified;
every smile on her countenance seems
to declare war against melancholly.

Winif.

Mrs. Derville cheerful! Good lack,
good lack, what hypocrites we women are!

Belford.

Surely, Winifred, you cannot mean
Mrs. Derville, she is not—

Winif.

Yes, but I say she is; and no more
like what she seems than I am to Edward the
Black Prince.

Belford.

You distract me—Have you perceived
any thing improper in Mrs. Derville’s conduct?

Winif.

To be sure I have; every moment she
passes alone, she grieves, and pines, and sings
such woe-begone ditties, ’twou’d make a Turk yearn B2r 3
yearn to hear her. Yet, when she leaves her
room, she is as sprightly as the river Dee; smiles
like the vale of Glamorgan—in short, she is just
what your Lordship has been pleased to fall in
love with, and to woo in masquerade.

Belford.

Extraordinary! And has she always
been thus?

Winif.

Always—from the moment I entered
her service on the death of my late mistress at
Leghorn, till this blessed morning, I have never
seen her wear a smile, but as a mere holiday dress
to meet the world in.

Belford.

Incomprehensible woman! Her situation,
her mind, every thing about her, is mysterious.
Yet my heart mocks at the doubts of my
reason, and I have scarcely courage to wish them
satisfied—yet I must know more of her, or endeavour
to forget that I have known her at all.

Winif.

Aye, my Lord, you’re quite rightone
can bear to see one’s friends miserable; but
not to know why, is too much for christian patience.
Dear me, how I stand talking here, and
have forgot to tell your Lordship the news.

Belford.

What news! does it concern me;
does it relate to Mrs. Derville?

Winif.

Why, as to concerning my mistress, I
can’t say; but I’m sure it concerns your Lordship
to know, that since you left the village, your
sister Lady Zephyrine Mutable, Mr. Deputy Gurnet,
her guardian, and a mort of company are
arrived at the Abbey.

Belford.

Arrived at the Abbey! This is, indeed,
unlucky: ’tis impossible, then, I can remain
long undiscovered. Yet hold—You are
certain you never communicated my secret to any
one, and that I am not suspected in the village?

Winif.

Oh, quite sure—I can keep a secret
myself, though I own I do like to know other
people’s. Not a doubt is entertained of your
being any thing more than what I have introduced
you for to my mistress; that is, as Mr. Belford,
a relation of my own, who has met with misfortunes
in trade, and is come here to live cheap, and
to seek employment.

Belford.

I may yet then remain till I can satisfy
my doubts, and come to some explanation with
your charming mistress. My sister, Lady Zephyrine,
was brought up here in Wales, with her grandmother,
and I have been so much abroad, that
we have not met since we were children, and
should now scarcely recollect each other.

Winif.

Yes; but then her guardian, Mr.
Deputy Gurnet.

Belford.

I know he used to transact moneymatters
for my father, but I have never seen him;
and then as for tenants or servants, you know this
estate has lately descended to me, and I have
never seen it but in the assumed character of Mr.
Belford. But tell me, have you observed nothing
which can lead to a discovery of Mrs. Derville’s
real situation?

Winif.

No; nor do I know why you persist in
believing her higher born than she says she is.
I’m sure now, my mistress isn’t half so smart as
farmer Gloom, or farmer Hoard-grain’s daughters.

Belford.

’Tis the simplicity of Mrs. Derville’s
dress and manners which distinguishes her from the
vulgar. Then such active, and yet discriminating
benevolence—such unobtrusive sorrow, such a
love of retirement—all mark at least an elegant
and cultivated mind, if not a noble birth. Unaccountableaccount- B3r 5
woman! Then her aversion to marriage,
her hatred to mankind——

Winif.

Why, to be sure, my Lord, as I tell
her, that’s the most unnatural thing—Indeed, I
know of nothing more so, except your Lordship’s
expecting my mistress to fall in love with you,
under the character of my relation.

Belford.

This reserve and mystery of Mrs. Derville,
and her avowed hatred of men and marriage,
made it impossible to assail her heart in
any way but by interesting her benevolence.
She would have feared and avoided me as Lord
Orton; but to the poor and unfortunate Belford
she listens with kindness.

Winif.

Yes, with kindness enough to satisfy
any reasonable man; and I don’t see why your
Lordship should persist in this project of trying
my mistress’s sentiments—Love and a cottage
against a coach and a coronet. Oh! ’tis too
much for poor woman’s frailty, and I declare
nothing but the gratitude I owe your Lordship
for saving my father’s life would persuade me to
become your accomplice. But I hear my mistress.
Pray retire a minute.

Mrs. Derv.

[as she enters] Yes, Marry—be
as miserable as you please—but I will neither
be accessary to your folly, nor witness to your
repentance. You shall leave me.

Winif.

What can be the matter? You seem
angry, Madam.

Mrs. Derv.

Oh! nothing unusual—only a
pair of idiots conspiring against the peace of their whole B3v 6
whole lives.—There’s Alice says she’s going to
marry.

Winif.

Lord, Ma’am, and if she does why
should that make you angry? I’m sure it’s quite
natural.

Mrs. Derv.

So the vicious will tell you are
their vices; but our reason was given us to correct
them.

Winif.

I’m sure, Ma’am, I never heard that
people’s reason was given them to prevent their
marrying, though it might assist them to repent.

Mrs. Derv.

Once more, I’ll have no marrying
in my house.

Winif.

Was ever any thing so barbarous!

Mrs. Derv.

I’ll not have my rest disturbed by
the eves-dropping of your amorous clowns, who
will swear and deceive you as systematically as a
rake of quality.—But I wonder Belford does not
return—Heigho!

Winif.

I’m glad, ma’am, you make some distinction
in your hatred of the sex, however.

Mrs. Derv.

Belford, you know, is useful to
us; besides, he is your relation, and unfortunate;
and I invent little services as a plea for assisting,
without wounding him. [in a tender melancholly
accent] Poor Belford has every claim—his
manners are superior to his condition; and what is
yet more rare, his mind is superior to adversity.

Well, sir, may I congratulate you? Have you
succeeded in obtaining the employment you went
in search of? or, if you have not found fortune in 1 quitting B4r 7
quitting our village, I hope at least you have found
amusement.

Belford.

I am indebted to you, Ma’am, for
your good wishes; but I return with the unwilling
independence of poverty; and for amusement, surely
it is not a pursuit for the unhappy.

Mrs. Derv.

[gaily] Ah! there, Sir, you mistake.
What fills the haunts of dissipation, routs,
balls, theatres? What crowds auctions with those
who have no money, or exhibitions, with those
who have no taste? What are the overflowing
audiences of speaking puppets, and dumb-show
dramas, what but refugees from the misery of their
own reflections?

Belford.

Yes, Madam; and I believe amusement
is as often furnished by the unhappy, as
sought by them. Lord Cornuto’s last fête, now,
was given only to convince the world, that the
honours of his head did not make his heart ache:
and Mrs. Forestall’s great public breakfast by
moon-light, was merely to ward off the crash of
an unlucky monopoly.—Yes, Ma’am, the great
secret of modern life is appearance—there would
be no living without concealing our miseries more
cautiously than our vices.

Mrs. Derv.

I fear, Sir, your severity is no more
than justice; yet, for a person who has not been
in an elevated station, you are well acquainted
with the follies of one.

Belford.

[recollecting himself] Who so likely,
Madam, to see the follies of the great, as the
tradesman, who makes a fortune by their profusion,
or is ruined by trusting them?—Oh! there is a
great deal of fashionable knowledge to be acquired between B4v 8
between the first humble solicitation for the honour
of giving credit, and putting an execution
in the house to recover the debt. [Enter Glib.]
What a rencontre! By all that’s unlucky, a servant
of my father’s, who must recollect me.

Glib.

Good morning to you, Mrs. Winifred.
[seeing Mrs. Derville] I beg pardon, Ma’am;
but hearing the ladies at the Abbey talk of rambling
this way, I thought you would like to have
notice. Lady Zephyrine, Ma’am, and [seeing
Belford] Lord Orton!!

Mrs. Derv.

I understood his lordship was
abroad.

Glib.

Hem! I thought so too. [to Winifred]
But, if I may believe my eyes, I see——

Winif.

Well, and what do you see? My brother’s
wife’s first cousin, Mr. Belford. Is that any
thing to gape at?

Belford.

And now, I recollect, this is Mr. Glib.
Nothing can be more lucky. Your mother’s brother’s
wife, at her death, left you a trifling legacy,
[giving Glib a purse] which I am very
happy in having the honour to remit to you, Mr.
Glib.

Glib.

Faith, I’m my dead cousin’s very humble
servant, [aside] and my gratitude——

Belford.

Oh, pray let your gratitude be silent.

Winif.

Well; but what company are arrived at
the Abbey? I find there’s to be great doings tomorrow
on Lady Zephyrine’s coming of age.

Glib.

Why, at present, there’s only Mrs. Gurnet;
and the Deputy, come down to enjoy himself,
as he calls it, though he’s more tired of the
country already, than ever he was of ’Change after
dinner-time. Then he fancies, because he’s a
citizen, that every man who lives west of Temple-
Bar has designs on his wife, and that all the morality
in the kingdom centres in the city. ’Twas
but yesterday he quarrelled with Mr. Jargon for
picking up Mrs. Gurnet’s glove.

Winif.

Why, I thought he was an admirer of
Lady Zephyrine’s.

Belford.

[with impatience] Is it possible Lady
Zephyrine can admit such an admirer? Surely
her birth——

Glib.

Her birth!—Lord, Sir, you talk like one
of Queen Elizabeth’s maids of honour! Nobody
minds these distinctions now. Money—money’s
your only master of the ceremonies, your usher of
black rods, and white wands: the Stock Exchange
is the Herald’s office.—A well-timbered estate supercedes
all the genealogical trees in the principality;
and a French cook and a turtle shall bring
together the peer of sixteen quarterings, and his
own shoemaker. It has, however, been reported,
her ladyship’s complaisance in admitting Mr. Jargon’s
visits, arises from her having lost a considerable
sum to him at play.

Belford.

[with suppressed agitation] Distraction!
—that my sister— [aside] and that the necessity
of this fellow’s secrecy should oblige me to
hear his impertinence. [turning to Glib] I thank C you, C1v 10
you, Sir, for your very agreeable communications.
But, pray, don’t let us detain you.

Glib.

Oh! I shall vanish.—Has your lordship
any commands for the Abbey?

Belford.

[aside to Glib] Yes, Sir—Silence, and
a place in my service, or the indulgence of your
tongue, and a tour through the horse pond. You
understand me?

Glib.

[turning to Winifred] Oh dear! yes—I
have the readiest comprehension.—And you, my
fair manufacturer of goat’s whey, have you any
commands?

Winif.

Yes—silence, and my hand at the parish
church; or a box on the ear—You understand
be?

Glib.

Oh, yes—But——

Winif.

What are you debating between then—
my lord’s service and the horse-pond?

Glib.

No, no—certainly not.

Winif.

What, between matrimony and the box
o’ the ear?

Glib.

Well, well—matrimony first, and the rest
will follow of course.—But meet me by and bye at
the next style, and we’ll deliberate on the choice
of evils.

Mrs. Derv.

This man’s freedom seems to distress
you, Mr. Belford.

Belford.

No, Madam; I was only reflecting,
that probably the lady at the Abbey was not very
unjustly pourtrayed by this smart gentleman; for this C2r 11
this is one of the cases, where the manners of the
artist vouch for the likeness of the picture.

Mrs. Derv.

[with gaiety and spirit] Perhaps
not altogether. Lady Zephyrine has beauty, vivacity,
and elegance. Yet a votary to whatever is
fashionable, anxious for the reputation of singularity;
placing her vanity, not in being admired,
but in being stared at; and wanting courage to
avoid the follies herself, which she laughs at in
others. But, with all this, generous and amiable,
when she suffers her natural character to prevail
over her assumed one.

Belford.

She is fortunate, Madam, in an apologist:
would it were possible to render you as favourable
to our sex as you are to your own.

Mrs. Derv.

[seriously, and then assuming an
air of melancholy] Be satisfied, Mr. Belford, that
I do justice to your worth as an individual; but
do not expect me to become the panegyrist of
your whole sex.—Alas! does the wrecked mariner
describe, with a flattering pencil, the rock where
his hopes perished?

Belford.

[with warmth and interest] Wrecked
at the very beginning of life’s voyage!—Oh! Eugenia!
[correcting himself] Madam!—Mrs. Derville!
—would you but deign to confirm your good
opinion of me, by explaining the mystery which
hangs about you, perhaps the friendship that
would participate your sorrows, might alleviate
them.

Mrs. Derv.

’Tis mere vulgar affliction which is
relieved by communication: but you take this too
seriously, [resuming her gaiety]. Come, you
know you promised me to superintend our little
harvest—I am as yet but a novice, and could as
soon navigate a ship as regulate a farm.

Belford.

[with embarrassed earnestness] I wish
my time were of more value, that I might have
more merit in devoting it to your service. Tell
me, may I, in return, ask one hour’s serious conversation?

Mrs. Derv.

An hour!—impossible!—unconscionable!
Have I not too many serious hours already?
—So, call our reapers together—scold the
clowns—and pray, do not take it into your head
that I am some princess tending goats incognita. [Exit. (singing)] “Venus, now, no more behold me.”

Belford.

’Tis thus she ever eludes any discovery
of her real situation; and all I gain by the attempt,
is a confirmation of that mystery which fills
me with doubt and apprehension. I wish Period
were arrived—our strategem will, at least, assure me
of her disinterestedness. Yet, he is so whimsical
with his double profession of lawyer and author,
that I almost fear he may defeat the purpose of his
disguise by his absurdities. Yet, if Mrs. Derville’s
mind is vain, or interested, the temptations of title
and fortune will not be diminished by a little of the
ridicluous in the possessor of them.

Lady Zeph.

’Twas delightful!—scoured the
road, forded a river, took two hedges and a garden-gate,
while all the male animals were left behind,
gaping as though they had seen a centaur.

Gurnet.

Aye, you make my bones ache with
the thoughts on’t. I warrant your ladyship shall
never get me on a hunter again. Lost my wig,
frigtened away my appetite—dogs yelping, puppies
sneering—A plague of such sport, where all
the glory is, who shall break their necks first.

Lady Zeph.

Why, I thought, Mr. Deputy, you
told me you had hunted before.

Gurnet.

So I have; but not o’ horseback. I
have been twice at the Ball-fac’d Stag on Easter
Monday.

Lady Zeph.

What, in a gig, I suppose, crammed
with Mrs. Gurnet, all the children, and a
plentiful provision of cold ham and cheesecakes.

Gurnet.

And very snug too. And, let me tell
your ladyship, much more becoming than your
mettlesome horse, dragoon caps, and rivalship
with your grooms.

Mrs. Gur.

I beg, Mr. Gurnet, you won’t expose
us by your vulgarity. The Bald-fac’d Stag
in Epping Forest indeed! ’Tis a martyrdom to a
person of sentiment to hear you.

Gurnet.

And yet I remember, my dear, when
you used to make one of five, stuffed in a little
old chariot of the shape and dimensions of your
father’s till—and when the hunt was over, you
wou’d squeeze down country-dances at the Mansion-House,
till your face was hardly distinguishable
from your best red sattin gown.

Lady Zeph.

Now really, Mr. Gurnet, you have
the most uncivil memory. Nobody remembers
any thing now, further back than the last year’s
almanack. Nothing makes more confusion in
society than a retrospective head.

Mrs. Gur.

Ah, Lady Zephyrine, my nerves
were very robust then; but poetry, and the Minerva
press, refine the nervous system more than
the whole college. I’m become a mere sensitiveplant
—pure aether.

Gurnet.

Like enough; but if your nerves have
kept pace with your size or years, they’re not
much of the cobweb kind now; and as for
aether—in my mind you partake more of the
Dutch fog.

Mrs. Gur.

Dutch fog!—Heavens! Mr. Gurnet!
will nothing purify the grossness of your
ideas? Was it for this that I addressed my ode to
Ignorance, to you, in one of the morning papers?
And didn’t I strive to correct you, by drawing
your character as a jealous German Baron in my
romance of The Horrid Concavity, or The
Subterraneous Phantoms? But all my refinement
is lost on you, Mr. Gurnet.

Gurnet.

No, no! I wish it was, Mrs. Gurnet, I
shouldn’t care who found it. But I tell you, Mrs.
Gurnet, I’m come here with my ward, to enjoy
the country, and to breathe the fresh air; and its
enough to be awoke in the night with your starting1 ing C4r 15
up to scrawl your ideas, as you call ’em, without
having my head stunn’d with your slights by
day. ’Slife! one might as well be in the Stock
Exchange.

Lady Zeph.

Come, come, you must consider
the sublimity of Mrs. Gurnet’s genius.

Gurnet.

What business have women with any
genius at all? Have I any genius at all? Let her
consider my poor head. I am sure I never argue
with her, but I have a whizzing in my ears for
four and twenty hours after, as though I had been
in the heat of a battle. But now I think on’t,
how came your spark, Mr. Jargon, not to dine
with us to-day?

Lady Zeph.

Oh, fie!—he has, indeed, under
pretext of visiting his uncle, followed me here;
but we don’t ask such people to our tables.

Gurnet.

Not ask one to your dining-table,
whom you admit every night to your card-table?
Gad, that’s comical enough!

Lady Zeph.

If you had ever regarded my instructions,
Mr. Gurnet, you wou’d have known
that persons of fashion play cards with people at
night, they are ashamed to speak to in the morning.

Gurnet.

Then I say they’re people of bad fashion.
In the city, now, we eat with any body,
but we play cards only with our friends.

Lady Zeph.

Oh! mere Bank and Change notions.
People of fine feelings are delicate in their
society; but there’s no society in a card-table:
and the rouleau of his Grace is neither brighter
nor heavier than that of a gambler, or——

Gurnet.

Or a swindler. And let me tell your
ladyship, that your people of fine feelings, are
people of coarse morals. And I hope I shall never win C4v 16
win a guinea that wasn’t honestly got, or elbow a
man round a table, whom I cannot shake by the
hand in the street.

Lady Zeph.

[archly] Why, really then, your
card-parties must be on a small scale—No gambling;
only now and then a snug job in the Alley.
No gambling there, guardian, eh?

Gurnet.

Your ladyship’s a wag—we only speculate;
that’s not gambling, you know.

Jargon.

Ladies, your devoted—I should have
darted in upon you earlier—if I had supposed your
ladyship ventured to encounter the horrors of the
morning’s fun.

Lady Zeph.

Then you must have darted very
soon; for we were out with the hounds before
seven—wer’n’t we, Mr. Gurnet?

Gurnet.

Yes! oh yes! we were out. [to Jargon]
Do you understand any thing of surgery? Can you
set a few limbs?

Jargon.

What, hunter a little too sprightly?
None of your bowling-green work—Faith! your
ladyship’s a wonder. Every thing in every plac.
Why, I have seen you tremble at a bit of a gale
in the Park, and swoon after a walk from the
auction-room in Bond-street to Mrs. Puffabout’s,
your milliners.

Lady Zeph.

Why, you wou’dn’t have one bring
one’s opera-house languishings to Caernarvonshire:
besides, ’tis Gothic to be delicate in the country.
Lady Amazonia Suremark, who wou’d go into
hysterics at the sight of a lame sparrow in Hanover-
square, will kill you a couple of brace of birds before
breakfast in Yorkshire.

Mrs. Gur.

Elegant! What a subject for a sonnet
in the manner of Petrarch!

Jargon.

Gad, I like the idea. We’ll adopt it,
we’ll propagate it. It shall be a system, and we’ll
call it “Localism”.

Lady Zeph.

Do you know, Mr. Jargon, when
you came in, we were discussing two of the most
interesting topics——

Jargon.

Afflict me with stupidity, but they must
be eating or money.

Lady Zeph.

You are very near it. Eating and
cards.

Gurnet.

Yes; and I was saying, that eating’s
the bond of society, and cards the bane of it.

Jargon.

Yes; but does your ladyship know we
begin not to countenance eating—don’t patronize
eating much now—we don’t feed voraciously—’tis
out.

Gurnet.

Here’s a fellow! Eating out!—Pray,
Sir, do you eat in partnership? for I observe you
seem to speak in the firm of the house.

Lady Zeph.

Oh! don’t you know—Mr. Jargon
belongs to the order of ridicules?

Gurnet.

What, is there more of them? Faith, I
thought he’d been the only one of the sort.

Jargon.

No—we’re very numerous—I’ll introduce
you.

Gurnet.

Introduce me to a society where eating’s
out! I’d as soon be a capuchin.

Jargon.

Our business is to push fashions, oaths,
phrases, shrugs, and gestures. Let a mode be ever
so ridiculous, stamp it with the name of one of
our order, and it passes current. Absurdity, absurdity
is the grand secret to which we owe our
success. The first three weeks we sport a thing, D its D1v 18
its laugh’d at; the fourth its abused, and the fifth
becomes general.

Gurnet.

But are you never, now, subject to
little accidents, such as hooting, pelting, and such
sort of familiarities?

Jargon.

Why, they do quiz us now and then;
but assurance does our business. If we were penetrable
only five minutes, we should be scouted.
So, we never trust dashing a new thing to a member
who is not flare-proof. Our propagandists are
all bronzed. Face—face is our motto—its your
only system.

Gurnet.

Aye, and a very proper one too; for,
egad, I believe you’re all face—and have neither
brains, nor hearts. But, odso, Lady Zephyrine,
what’s become of the young man your father used
to praise so? Why, he hasn’t been here yet. Is
he of the order of ridicules too?

Lady Zeph.

You mean Mr. Bewley. [aside,
and sighing] Alas! poor Bewley! That, Sir, has
been over long since. [affecting to recover her
gaiety] Oh! It’s ridiculous enough. You must
know, when I first left Carnarvonshire, at my
grandmother’s death, the gentle swain followed
me to town; and for the first fortnight, we were
the Damon and Pastora of all our acquaintance;
but I grew ashamed of being laugh’d at, and
the gentleman grew angry with me for being
so. And because I happen’d to go two nights in
a week to Lady Rook’s, he scolded, pouted, and
set off for the country, to weave willows, and sigh
to the winds.

Gurnet.

Nay, I don’t wonder he shou’dn’t like
to trust his dove in Lady Rook’s nest.

Jargon.

Sighs and winds—tears and streams—
Gad, ’tis quite new—It won’t take, though. Your 5 great D2r 19
great passions are not the system now. We don’t
patronize the violent passions. [sings] “To the
winds, to the waves”――But we must see this
Damon of your’s—a famous subject for quizzing.

Lady Zeph.

[with a tone of tenderness and
dignity] I doubt, Sir, if Mr. Bewley will renew
his visits here. If he does, perhaps it may be
charity to warn you that he has courage enough
to make his virtues respected, even by those who
are too vicious to appreciate them.

Jargon.

[aside] Whew! what, comedy on the
stilts of sublime sentiments!—All in the wrong
system here.

Lady Zeph.

[to Gurnet] Come, Sir, you know
you were to attend us on a ramble to the pretty
cottagers.

Gurnet.

Aye, perhaps I may just step in, and
take a syllabub.

Mrs. Gurnet.

Well, now I think there’s something
most romantically interesting in a young woman’s
living in a farm here by herself, and nobody
to know who she is, or whence she came. I’m sure
there’s some mystery.

Lady Zeph.

’Tis vulgar to be curious—and I
really know no more, than that she is very young,
very pretty, and very prudent, and doesn’t seem
accustomed to the state she is in.

Jargon.

What, some farm-yard beauty, fresh
from Marybone, come to retrieve. I’ll wait on
you, ladies, though gallantry’s not the existing
system—But I love to scamper the rustics.

Gurnet.

If I had the making of laws, I think I
could twist a system that should scamper you and
your fraternity from Old North Wales to New
South Wales.—Mr. Jargon— [yawns]—Well, ’tis
vastly pretty, and rural here. Rooks cawing, and
lambs bleating— [yawns]—I don’t know how ’tis
though, but the stillness of the night here prevents
me from sleeping. Somehow, when one’s
in London, the rumbling of the late hackneycoaches
and early stages, the jingling of the clocks,
and the bawling of watchmen, does so lull one,
as it were!— [looks up]—Yes, wind’s fair for the
West India fleet——hope sugars won’t fall
though. Bad place for business this too— [looks at
his watch]—But when one’s come into the country
to enjoy one’s self, one shou’dn’t be thinking
of business. No, I’ll have done with Garlic-hill—
I’ll retire, and end my days in the calm delights
of a farm and a dairy— [yawns]—Now, if Alder-
man Credulous would but pop in, and let one
know how things go on in the Alley— [yawns]—
Nothing like rural retirement.

Ap-Grif.

Here’s a pretty spark for you! His
father mortgaged his estate twenty years ago, and
now the law gives me possession, he writes to me
about generosity. Aye, aye, when a man gets
poor, he always talks a great deal about generosity.
But, would generosity have built me this
house? Would generosity have raised me from
sweeping an office to be the master of one? Would generosity D3r 21
generosity have rained a shower of diamonds on
my head?— [takes out a cake of diamonds]—
There, now, was a lucky stroke! Comes an old
fellow from the world’s end, and before a soul
could know who he was, or what was his business,
dies suddenly in my house with these glitterers in
his pocket. Now, if I cou’d get rid of them!—
Were either of my nephews honest, like myself——
But no, Jargon’s a rogue, and will cheat me; and
Tim Period’s an author and a fool, and will let
others cheat him.—Ah! here comes Mr. Generosity.

Bewley.

I have called once more, Sir, to request
I may remain in Bewley Hall a month longer.

Ap-Grif.

It can’t be, Sir—law must have its
course. Zounds! hav’n’t you had time enough?
Hav’n’t you appealed, reply’d, demurred, rebutted?
—Why, you’re the first man that ever
thought a Chancery suit too short.

Bewley.

And you are the first attorney that
ever thought one long enough. But you know
I have for some time been in expectation of hearing
from my uncle in India; and I still hope,
through the kindness of my relations there, to be
able to redeem my estate.

Ap-Grif.

Why, you don’t want to redeem your
estate contrary to law?—Hav’n’t we a decree in
our favour? Besides, one great estate always requires
another to keep it up; and if we hadn’t
foreclosed, possession would have ruin’d you. So,
the law only turns you out a little sooner than
you’d have turn’d out yourself—I’m for the just
thing—Always respect the law.

Bewley.

Hark you, Sir—I’m no more bound
by the law to tolerate your impertinence, than you
are to possess gratitude or humanity—Therefore
——

Ap-Grif.

I’m gone, Sir—off the premises in an
instant, though they’re my own. So, Sir, to avoid
ceremony about precedence, here’s one door for
me, and there’s another for you.

Bewley.

Well said, old Quitam. This fellow,
now, was the son of my father’s coachman, and
used to crop the terriers, catch moles, and scare
the crows off the corn. But, hang him, he’s beneath
contempt. Heigho! what avails wealth to
one who has lost the hope of happiness? Oh,
Zephyrine!—But I lose time: I will at least make
one effort to preserve her, if not for myself. With
her lofty and volatile spirit, expostulation will be
useless. No, I’ll pique her—alarm her pride by
impertinence—excite her jealousy by neglect—
and who knows but she, who abandoned me as a
rational and tender lover, may take a fancy to me
as a rake and a coxcomb?—“Allons! La feinte
par amour.”

Jargon.

Really, now, ’twas atrocious and abominable
in your ladyship to quit Cheltenham so
early.

Lady Zeph.

I can assure you, neither the atrocity
or abomination of quitting Cheltenham [in a
ludicrous tone, in imitation, but not absolutely
mimicking Jargon] is imputable to my inclination.tion. D4r 23
But you know my rich uncle, Sir Caustic
Oldstyle, after a family quarrel of twenty years
standing, has just emerged from his Cornish estate,
and is coming to visit us. My father and Sir
Caustic, though nearly of the same age, had the
difference of a century in their manners. Lord
Orton lived like his contemporaries—my uncle like
his ancestors; and I believe nothing but the death
of Sir Caustic’s only son would ever have reconciled
him to relations, who are so degenerate as
to think and act like other people.

Jargon.

What a loss he has inflicted on the fashionable
world!—Why, your ladyship has scarce
time to systemize the summer costume.

Lady Zeph.

Oh, yes—as soon as the Dog-days
began, I took care to introduce the Kamschatka
robe, the Siberian wrapper, and the Lapland
scratch.

Mrs. Gurnet.

Well, I declare your ladyship has
the most elegant imagination; though it sometimes
a little at variance with our climate.

Jargon.

O, no woman of spirit ever thinks about
climate or seasons—gauzes, muslins, cobwebs, in
winter—furs, gold lace, and velvets, in summer—
’tis the system.

Lady Zeph.

Ha, ha!—don’t you rememeber
how poor old Mrs. Parchment [mimicking the
appearance of a person cold] used to be shivering
through a frosty night, and a thin opera, in a silver
muslin, with her arms squeez’d to her sides, and
the natural crabbedness of her features improved
by angular contractions, till she gave one the idea
of a petrified mummy?

Jargon.

Yes; and when the cold drew tears
from her eyes, she pretended it was the effect of
music on her sensibility.

Lady Zeph.

Then, there was poor Lady Lovemode
got a quinzy by going to see the skaters in
Hyde-Park in an Otaheite chemise.

Jargon.

But where’s this queen of curds and
whey? This is the door, I suppose. Come, let’s
scatter the country folks. I love to make the
hobnails stare. [knocks at Mrs. Derville’s door]
Holloa! here—Cuddy—Bumpkin! Is nobody at
home?

Mrs. Derv.

Lady Zephyrine, I hope nothing’s
the matter—your servant has so alarmed me——

Jargon.

Servant! Faith, that’s queer enough.
Why, what the devil ails me? I hope I’m not such
a quiz as to be ashamed.

Lady Zeph.

You must excuse my friend, Mr.
Jargon, here; he’s a little rude; but its his—
system.

Mrs. Derv.

At least, Madam, ’tis systematic;
for when gentlemen adopt the dress of their grooms,
’tis very natural the manners of the stable should
accompany the wardrobe.

Jargon.

[Aside, while Mrs. Derville talks to
Lady Zephyrine] Severe enough that! Bright
eyes, sarcastic style—just the thing for a Farotable.
Now, if I could but take her to town,
puff her, patronize her, she’ll make me famous
in a week.

Mrs. Gurnet.

[To Mrs. Derville, in a romantic
tone] Well, but really, young woman, I can’t
think you were born for the station you appear in.
I shou’d like to hear your history. Nay, if you
will, I’ll write—four volumes, interspersed with
pieces of poetry—call it translated from the German
—’twill be delightful. I have a moonlight scene, E1r 25
scene, a dungeon, and a jealous husband—all ready
done.

Mrs. Derv.

[gaily] Oh! my history, Madam,
is the history of every body; and for that reason,
nobody wou’d read it. [ironically] ’Tis so common
for men to be base, and the follies of the other,
are subjects for jests and bon-mots rather than
history.

Jargon.

Faith, this girl’s an original. I’ll negociate
with her, take her to town, and bring her
into fashion.

Lady Zeph.

Hush! what young man’s that
crossing the field?

Mrs. Derv.

’Tis Mr. Bewley, Ma’am.

Jargon.

By all that’s queer the weeping lover,
the willow-weaver!—Come, Lady Zephyrine, a
compassionate glance at least. [sings] “Ah well a day, my poor heart!”

Mrs. Gurnet.

I shall like to see him of all
things. I do so doat on a melancholy lover.

Lady Zeph.

Poor Bewley! how shall I sustain
his sighs, his reproachful looks, his despair?—
Would I could avoid him.

Bewley.

“Merrily, merrily shall I live now!”—
[to Mrs. Derville, with an airy volubility; and
an affectation of fashionable ease]—What, my
charming neighbour!—La belle voisine!—Ah!
Lady Zephyrine!—I beg pardon—I didn’t see
you. The sun, you know, is apt to dazzle one’s
vision. I fear I am not en regle. I ought to
have left my card at the Abbey; but the very E morning E1v 26
morning your ladyship arrived, I had promised to
give the Miss Strongbows a lesson on the kettledrum,
and they have kept me at the Lodge ever
since. ’Tis the very palace of Armida, the grotto
of Calypso—no escaping.

Jargon.

[aside] Pha! here’s pining and willowweaving!
Lucky enough though—clenches my
business with her ladyship.

Lady Zeph.

[with an air of pique] I confess,
Sir, the Abbey would have been a gloomy exchange
for an enchantress’s palace.

Bewley.

Nay, ’pon honour now, you wrong me.
I was absolutely dying to leave my name with your
ladyship’s porter; but these country belles, when
they get hold of a man that’s a little follow’d—
[conceitedly]—not that I pretend—they’re quite
unconscionable.

Jargon.

What, you are a favourite here! a
sylvan deity! and all the Welch Daphnes pulling
caps for hur, look you!— [mimicking the Welch
dialect]—This is better than sighing to the winds,
Lady Zephyrine.—Come, Mrs. Gurnet, you doat
upon a melancholy lover—Here’s your man.

Bewley.

Fie! fie! shou’dn’t boast—for its no
sooner known that a couple of dear creatures are
civil to one, than one’s besieged by a whole bevy.
Apropos! did you see my little Marquise at Cheltenham?
I’m a downright inconstant there.—
Lady Zephyrine, you must make my peace for
me. You know, a little inconstancy is but venial
in the code of gallantry.

Lady Zeph.

[apparently mortified] Oh, Sir!
I’m too much a stranger, both to your gallantries,
and yourself, to be a competent mediator.

Bewley.

A stranger! your ladyship’s pleasant.
I thought we had been old acquaintance. Lady E2r 27

Lady Zeph.

[coldly] Sir, you are so unlike the
Mr. Bewley I once knew——

Bewley.

As your ladyship is to your former self.
But you’re quite right—nothing so stupid as the
sameness and constancy of an old-fashioned lover.
Why, there’s more variety in the imagination of
a Dutch poet.

Jargon.

Gad, you’re correct—exactly correct—
we scout it—its quite out.

Bewley.

Yet, here’s Mrs. Derville would tempt
one to forego the doctrine. One might be her
slave till constancy became the mode.

Lady Zeph.

[aside] I can support this no
longer. Mrs. Derville, it grows cool—we’ll bid
you good evening—Mrs. Gurnet, Mr. Jargon, will
you accompany me?

Mrs. Gurnet.

I’ll glide after you in an instant—
I have just finished a sonnet to the screech-owl,
and ’tis the most pathetic thing——

Bewley.

[alone] Thank Heaven, the task is so
far over. But Mrs. Derville is too amiable to be
trifled with. I’ll after her, and explain my conduct.
Oh, Zephyrine! how much has it cost me
to wound even your pride? Yet, if I can, by this
innocent artifice, awaken her to a sense of her own
dignity, and snatch her from the abyss of this
ruinous dissipation, whatever fate awaits myself, I
will meet it without repining.

Mrs. Mirror.

It is very lucky your cousin left
these clothes here, they fit your Ladyship exactly.

Lady Zeph.

You think, then, Mrs. Derville
will not discover me.

Mrs. Mirror.

That she won’t, if your Ladyship
does but talk loud, stare at people, yet pretend
not to see them, and behave rude; there’s
no fear but she’ll take you for a modern fine
gentleman.

Lady Zeph.

Yes, I cannot doubt but this
village wonder, this Mrs. Derville, is some adventurer,
perhaps plac’d here by Mr. Bewley,
at any rate the object of his attention; and under
this disguise, and the assumed title of my brother
Lord Orton, I hope, by professing a passion for
her, at least to ascertain her sentiments with regard
to him.

Mrs. Mirror.

Ah, my Lady! I remember
when poor Mr. Bewley began courting your
Ladyship in the nursery, by teaching your birds
to sing, and though your Ladyship being rich has
a right to be fickle minded, I can’t think that
Mr. Bewley——

Lady Zeph.

Yet his visit last night was plainly
intended for Mrs. Derville—he hung on her looks
while he scarcely deign’d to regard mine.—But
have I not deserv’d this, and is not my present
meanness less excusable than my past folly.—Oh, Bewley! E3r 29
Bewley! how easily might I have avoided the
errors I find it so difficult to retrieve.

Mrs. Derville.

[throwing down the pencil] It
doesn’t signify—’tis in vain to attempt any thing
new—this obstinate pencil of mine is continually
multiplying the same resemblance—profile-—
three-quarter full face—still the same features—
yet ’tis singular—such animation—such sensibility
—a poor relation of Winifred’s too——“Heigho!
—I believe the house is now quiet, and I may
venture to try the effect of my harp in dissipating
a melancholy of which I dare not ask
myself the cause.” [enters the closet]

Belford.

Enchanting woman! Still do I hover
about her; still live but in her presence, who perhaps
beholds me with indifference, or confounds me
with the objects of her hatred. “Yet, no; she
who inspires a passion like mine, cannot herself
be insensible.—Oh, Eugenia! if I am not deceived
—if I am happy enough to have created
an interest in your heart, I swear, whatever
your fate, nothing shall separate it from minemy
hand—my rank—but she comes.”— [to
Mrs. Derville] I have executed your little commission,
Madam, and have brought you the
papers you desired.

Mrs. Derv.

You are very exact, Mr. Belford
— [gives Belford some papers; he appears agitated
]—Shall I trouble you, Sir, to look over
these accounts—I am so ignorant of business—
Heavens! what’s the matter? You seem ill—
You seem disordered!

Belford.

I confess it—I am at this moment so
agitated, that I own I am incapable of obeying you.

Mrs. Derv.

[in an accent of kindness] Nay,
’tis of no consequence—compose yourself, Mr.
Belford, I entreat you—I asked your assistance as
a friend, and surely didn’t mean to impose a task
on you—Speak, Sir, you alarm me!

Belford.

[still agitated]Madam—Eugenia.

Mrs. Derv.

Tell me-what means this agitation?
Have you any thing to impart to me?

Belford.

Oh, I have indeed, if——

Mrs. Derv.

[with eagerness] Speak, then—
am I not—your friend?

Belford.

[aside] How shall I begin?

Mrs. Derv.

[to herself] Oh, my fluttering
heart!

Belford.

[aside] Yet, should I be deceived—
Let me dissemble a moment if it be possible
[recovering himself] I wished, Madam, to consult
you on a subject, which distresses me more
than I can describe.—You have been so kind,
have appeared to take such an interest in my
fate, that I venture to intrude on you a confidence
——

Mrs. Derv.

[anxiously] Go on, I entreat
you.

Belford.

The old relation you have heard me
speak of, and on whom I depend to retrieve my
affairs———

Mrs. Derv.

Well, and——

Belford.

Has persecuted me to marry.

Mrs. Derv.

[tremulously] To marry! You to
marry.

Belford.

Yes, Madam; me.

Mrs. Derv.

[with an air of pique] And so
you are come to consult me about it?

Belford.

Yes, Madam; I thought, perhaps—

Mrs. Derv.

[resentfully, yet affecting indifference
] Oh, Heavens! in these cases, people
have nothing to do but to take their own
counsel. [with volubility and assumed pleasantry]
I dare say now your uncle has discovered you
have a fancy for some farmer’s daughter—very
young, very blooming, very silly, and very credulous,
whom you will adore the first month, neglect
the second, and abandon the third.—’Tis
all in the usual course of things—nothing extraordinary
in it; and I wonder you should come to
consult me about such trifles.

Belford.

Yet hear me.

Mrs. Derv.

[rapidly, with a tone of irritation
] Oh! it seems the very daemon of matrimony
possesses the whole principality—Every body
talks of marrying. Marry, marry then, I beg
you, Sir, and leave me in peace.

Belford.

Reflect a little, Madam, that if I
were so entirely decided, I should not consult
you. Believe me, far from desiring such a marriage,
I have ever opposed it, and my unwillingness
originates in a passion, which is, at once,
the delight and torment of my life—A passion I
have never yet dared to disclose.

Mrs. Derv.

[more composed] That, indeed,
is different—You love, then, my friend?

Belford.

[passionately] Yes, I love, Madam;
ardently love a woman that I do not yet know;
but who, by being known, can only be more
adored. [Mrs. Derville listens with agitation] A
woman, whose sense and sweetness would have
captivated my heart, though it had not already
been subdued by her personal attractions—A
woman, all charming, in whom there is nothing
to regret, but the profound mystery which envelopes
her—A mystery, which might appear suspicious,
did not the circumspection of her conduct
bid defiance to calumny—“did she not
nourish a prejudice against mankind, which,
while it guards her own reputation, is the despair
of those who aspire to touch her heart—
A prejudice, of which I am, myself, the first
and most unfortunate victim.”

Mrs. Derv.

[half gaily] Do you know, Sir,
that you are an orator? absolutely eloquent.

Belford.

Oh! I could speak still better, would
the woman I love but deign to answer me.

Mrs. Derville.

[confused] Perhaps the answers
which reach the ear, are not always the most expressive.

Belford.

[taking her hand] Doubtless not—and
if I dared to believe—to hope——

Mrs. Derv.

[half archly] Come, release my
hand, and tell me—Is this fair one that won’t
answer, rich?

Belford.

She is for me—And it is this consideration
which restrains me—Alas! my ruined
fortunes are unworthy of her.

Mrs. Derv.

[feelingly] You deceive yourself.
Our sex are naturally tender and generous.—And
I know those, to whom a lover sincere and affectionate,
and unhappy, would be more formidable
than the splendid homage of the first prince in the
world—But, alas!

Belford.

Proceed, I conjure you.

Mrs. Derv.

[with an accent of depression] But
where find such a lover, such sincerity? Where
is the man that has not to reproach himself with
the misery of woman? Is there a female who has
not, some time in her life, been the victim of
her sensibility?— [becomes impassioned as she proceeds,
and ends almost in tears.]—“Yet, you
wonder that we become false, dissipated coquettes,
and sometimes worse. Warm, enthusiastic,
we fancy life a path strewed with
roses. We expect to find nothing but happiness
and integrity.”---At an age when our
hearts are tender, and our reason weak, we make
that choice which is to fix our destiny for ever――
and she who, perhaps, might have lived in the
bosom of peace and virtue, had she been fortunate
in her first affections, irritated and degraded by
the conduct of a seducer, devotes herself to all
the vices which his example has taught her— F and F1v 34
and thus revenges her own wretchedness whereever
her charms procure her dupes, or victims.

Belford.

[alarm’d] Oh, misery! is it possible
you can have been exposed to these horrors—

Mrs. Derv.

[with dignity] No, Sir; I have
nothing to reproach myself with. ’Tis this consoling
idea of my own innocence, which has supported,
and still supports me under my misfortunes.
[feelingly] Yet, the deceit, neglect, ingratitude,
I have experienced—Oh, Sir! you
know not what I have suffer’d.

Belford.

Speak then—deposit in the bosom of
friendship this sorrow so inconceivable to all the
world. Never will I——

Mrs. Derv.

I believe you; this dislike to society
—this gay misanthropy, to which, however,
I owe the little repose I have long felt, yields to
the tender interest you have inspired. Learn,
then, I am not what I appear.—I was once——

Belf.

Cursed interruption! at such a moment
too!

Winif.

Dear Ma’am, here is Lord Orton just
arrived from abroad; he’s been strolling about
among the tenants, and desires to see you. [aside
to Belford] It’s your friend, Counsellor Period, I
suppose, in masquerade.

Mrs. Derv.

Surely there’s no necessity for my
admitting him. What can his business be here?
am I ever to be persecuted?

Winif.

Oh, he’s your Landlord, you know,
Ma’am, and Lady Zephyrine’s brother. I must
ask him in.

Mrs. Derv.

Well, well, if I must—— [Exit Winifred.]
But, pray, Mr. Belford, do you entertain his
Lordship while I compose myself a little, our
conversation has so agitated me.

Belf.

[alone] How unlucky that Period shou’d
come at this juncture, and without apprising me
of his arrival. Our stratagem too, now seems
unnecessary, [doubtfully] I am—at least, I think
I am, nay, I ought to be satisfied—Mrs. Derville
—is every [with the air of a man endeavouring
to believe what he wishes] thing I can desire—
Why, then,—Yet, as Period is here, he shall
make this one trial, and then—I bid adieu to
doubt for ever. [Enter Lady Zephyrine, as Lord Orton.]
Confusion! [with a gesture of surprise] Why—
What! this is not Period—’Sdeath! what can it
mean? Oh! I have it—Some friend, I suppose,
whom he thinks will act the part better than
himself. Yes, yes; it must be so. Mrs. Derville,
Sir, will be here in an instant.

Lady Zeph.

[confused] Sir, I—I—

Belf.

I say, Sir, Mrs. Derville will wait on you
immediately. [with a tone of intelligence] But
how is it that Mr. Period has entrusted our
scheme to you? Is he arrived? Is he in the village?

Lady Zeph.

[perplexed] Really, Sir, I don’t
understand you. A scheme—Mr. Period—Upon
my word, I know no such person—I presume
you are informed my name is Orton?

Belford.

Yes, yes; A Peer of my friend Period’s
making. You see I know the whole plot— F2 However, F2v 36
However, I find you can keep a secret; but
there’s no occasion to keep a man’s secrets from
himself. You understand what I mean?

Lady Zeph.

[surprised] How the deuce shou’d
I? What, do you take me for a necromancer, a
conjuror?

Belford.

Why, I tell you, I know the whole
story. You have assumed the title of Lord Orton,
and are come in this disguise to discover
Mrs. Derville’s real character and sentiments—
Now are you satisfied?

Lady Zeph.

[alarm’d and confused] Heavens!
I am discover’d. Well, Sir, as you seem acquainted
with my disguise, you, perhaps, would
not advise me to proceed. Shall I—ought I?

Belford.

By all means—As you’ve gone so far,
make this one trial. But you are sure you have
all the story? Remember, you fell in love with
her at Florence, followed her to Leghorn, surprised
to find her here—Be sure you act your part
well.

Lady Zeph.

Why, the man’s certainly mad—
Either a poet, or a speculator—But I’ll e’en profit
by his instructions. Oh, don’t fear—nothing so
easy to imitate as a modern beau. You know it
requires no talents.

Belford.

Take care tho’ not to shew we have
any intelligence together.

Lady Zeph.

[archly] Certainly—certainly—
She shall not suspect any intelligence between us.
Besides, you may contrive to quarrel with me.

Belford.

Hush! here she comes—Now, don’t
forget Florence, Leghorn, and the little Marquis.

Mrs. Derville.

[with a serious, but easy manner
] To what, my Lord, am I indebted for the
honour of this visit? Has your Lordship any directions
to give concerning the farm?

Lady Zeph.

[affecting surprise] Excuse me,
Madam, this rencontre is so unexpected, so transporting,
so superlatively fortunate; so, so surprising,
that I am unable to explain, but another
time, a more favourable moment——

Mrs. Derv.

[looking attentively at Lady Zephyrine,
discovers her] Yes—the voice, the features
—I can’t be mistaken—This is some trick of
Lady Zephyrine’s—Nay, then, her Ladyship shall
for once in her life, hear a little truth. [turning
to Lady Zephyrine] I can assure your Lordship
I am not a little suprised myself at your sudden
arrival—I believe it was quite unexpected, tho’
long, very long necessary.

Lady Zeph.

How, Madam! I hav’n’t heard of
any accident.

Mrs. Derv.

[seriously] Yes, my Lord, the
worst of accidents. The peace, the reputation of
a sister is in danger.

Lady Zeph.

In danger! I thought the character
of Lady Zephyrine—

Mrs. Derv.

Yes; perhaps the same rank which
renders her imprudence conspicuous, may protect
her reputation; but what shall secure her peace—
A worthy youth deserted—her fortune the prey
of a gambler, or, fatally redeemed by her hand.
Oh! Lord Orton, what have you not to answer
for, in having selfishly sought your own amusement,ment, F3v 38
while destruction has hover’d over those
most dear to you.

Lady Zeph.

Yes; I confess the conduct of
Lady Zephyrine has been culpable—Oh, how
much so! But surely the character of her brother,
Lord Orton, [confused, as forgetting herself]
that—that is, of myself, is without reproach.

Mrs. Derv.

“It is not enough; my Lord, for
the great to be without reproach, they should
deserve praise. Fortune has given the world a
claim on them; and the very virtues of the indolent
are pernicious.”

Lady Zeph.

“You preach so charmingly, that
I believe you’ll make me a convert—And I’ll
engage, that whenever I reform, Lady Zephyrine
will do so too. [gaily] Heaven knows she
needs it.”

Belford.

[comes forward] Of the actions of
Lord Orton, I am not qualified to judge; but
Lady Zephyrine shall not be attack’d by a male
slanderer, tho’ he were her brother.

Lady Zeph.

[aside, as supposing his anger to
be feigned, to promote the deception] Very well
indeed! You act passion admirably.

Belford.

’Sdeath, Sir, I am serious. Another
time your calumnies shall not pass.

Lady Zeph.

[still supposing his passion affected
] When you please, Sir—Sword or pistol—I’m
your man—hit you a side curl at fifty yards.

Belford.

[aside] A few hours hence, and nothing
shall restrain me. [to Lady Zephyrine] Sir,
you shall repent this.

Lady Zeph.

[aside to Belford] Admirable!
never saw passion better acted—Now an oath or
two.

Mrs. Derv.

[with an air of pique]Belford so
zealous a champion for her Ladyship—nay, then,
I’ll punish him—There’s no consistency in man.
[in a coquettish manner] Come, my Lord—I entreat
you, drop the matter. Your Lordship’s
existence is too valuable to be risk’d for or against
trifles.

Belford.

Furies! she’s coquetting with him!
[to Mrs. Derville] I’ll endure this no farther,
[formally] Madam, have you any farther commands?

Mrs. Derv.

No, Sir: and really, his Lordship
is so pleasant——

Belford.

That you wish for no additional society.
I’m gone, Madam. [at the side of the
stage, while going off] Sorceress! But an hour
ago such fascinating tenderness! such angelic candour!
And now coquetting with a coxcomb before
my face. Yes, I rejoice that I did not discover
myself—Oh, Woman! Woman!

Lady Zeph.

[in a romantic tone] Ah, Madam,
you see before you the most miserable of
mankind! the most faithful, the most ardent, the
most sentimental, the most—

Mrs. Derv.

[aside] Ridiculous! how shall I
contain myself?

Lady Zeph.

[kneels] Madam, I have so long
adored you, [aside] bless me, I forgot to ask how
long—Then, hav’n’t I pursued you from— [aside]
(Heavens! I have forgot where) Oh! from Florence
to Leghorn—from Leghorn to England,
and from—

Mrs. Derv.

[agitated]Alas! then I am betray’d!

Lady Zeph.

Oh, no, Ma’am—indeed I’ll never
betray you.

Mrs. Derv.

But, by what means came you acquainted
——?

Lady Zeph.

Oh! I’m acquainted with all—
not forgetting the little Marquis— [archly]

Mrs. Derv.

I conjure you, my Lord, in pity,
tell me who informed you of all this?

Lady Zeph.

[aside] Truly, that’s more than I
know myself. How shall I get off? [turning to
Mrs. Derville] Excuse me—I dare not enter into
explanations at present. I have the most powerful
reasons for avoiding it. But meet me near
the Hermitage about seven, and you shall be
satisfied. In the mean while, tell me, I conjure
you, have I not a rival? Is not Mr. Bewley a
favourite rival?

Mrs. Derv.

[aside] Ah! now the mystery of
her Ladyship’s visit is out. [to Lady Zephyrine]
No, my Lord—Mr. Bewley is, I fear, too, too
firmly attached to one, who, having deserved to
lose his heart by her folly, may, perhaps, expect
to regain it by unworthy artifices, and——

Lady Zeph.

[to Mrs. Derville] I hear voices
at the door—Permit me to escape on this side the
village. I have particular reasons.

Mrs. Derv.

This way, then, my Lord.

Period.

Why, I tell you, Sir, its the luckiest
event of my whole Tour between London and
Carnarvonshire.

Sir Caustic.

Lucky, you verbose coxcomb. [petulantly
] Hav’n’t we been overturn’d; wasn’t I
jamm’d under you and your Port-folio, and your
bag of Briefs, till I can’t feel the difference between
my flesh and my bones? [mimicking] And
now you tell me its lucky—its the very thing you
wish’d.

Period.

And so I did, to be sure. Here I’m
come on a tour from London to North Wales,
and hav’n’t yet met with a single anecdote, not
even one accident; no, not so much as a spoil’d
dinner, or a sprained ankle—Nothing to describe,
but turnpikes and sign-posts—Hav’n’t I a hundred
pages, all as dull as a great dinner? Then,
you know we may indict the road.

Sir Caustic.

No, puppy, we can’t—The road
was good enough—Wasn’t it Molasses the great
West-Indian’s chaise and four overset us, as he
was scow’ring along to bid for the estate that Sir
Plinlimmon Pedigree lost last week at the hazard
table?

Period.

And what signifies? You were only
overturn’d a quarter of a mile on this side the
Abbey, instead of driving up to the door—Then,
’twill make such a figure in my travels back again.
Why, here’s a farm house; nothing ever was so
fortunate—we go in, sit down to dinner—eggs
and bacon—barn-door fowl and greens just ready;
coarse, but clean cloth; sentimental farmer’s
wife; tears of sensibility on our part; curtsies and
sympathy on hers.—Where’s my pencil? Such
language, such style! Thank ye, Mr. Molasses—
’tis the luckiest circumstance for a travelling
author to be overturned.

Sir Caustic.

Here’s a flourishing rascal! There
happened to be but one pair of horses at the last G stage, G1v 42
stage, and finding we were going the same road,
I offer him a place in my chaise without knowing
even his name; and now we’ve nearly got our
necks broke, he tells me ’tis the luckiest circumstance.
Aye, aye; this comes of your modern
improvements—in my time people travelled with
dignity and sobriety—none of your nick-nack
springs and prancing steeds.

Period.

Yes; then the vehicle resembled the
lac’d waistcoat of the owner, large, rich, and
heavy; while the very horses seemed to feel their
importance, and moved like elephants in a procession.
But then there were no tours or tourists,
nothing but poor stupid selfish people, who only
travell’d about their business, instead of being
philanthropists like myself, and travelling to amuse
the whole world.—Ah! yonder’s my friend Belford
—I’ll just speak to him, look to the baggage,
and be with you in an instant. In the mean
while repose yourself at this farm house, and
don’t forget the barn-door fowl, and the sentimental
hostess. Oh! I’ll describe them in such
a style!

Sir Caustic.

[always in a tone of petulance] And
what should they travel for; to write nonsense,
and set other blockheads a gadding after them.—
A plague of your new-fangled notions and refinements!
A fellow, now, that ought to be nail’d
to his compting-house, from one year to another,
like a sheet almanack, jumps into a carriage,
kills horses, and breaks people’s necks, that he
may get in an hour sooner to an opera dancer, or
a gaming table.

Mrs. Derv.

I hope you’re not hurt, Sir—

Sir Caustic.

Why, no; I believe the trunk
and limbs of the old tree have escaped safely,
and I have been weather-beaten about the
world too long to mind a little scratching on
the bark.

Mrs. Derv.

I’m sure, Sir, you must have
been greatly alarm’d, let me prevail on you to
take some refreshment.

Sir Caustic.

[looking at her attentively] I
thank you—I thank you—I hav’n’t had so
much civility without paying for it since I
left Cornwall.

Mrs. Derv.

[with warmth] Then I’m sure,
Sir, you have not before had occasion for it—
Never did misfortune appeal in vain to the
hearts of my countrymen.—If you are rich and
prosperous, perhaps you may have met with
imposition, flattery, or selfishness; but had
you been a poor and friendless stranger, a thousand
hands had open’d to relieve you—a thousand
hearts have given you the tribute of
sympathy and compassion.

Sir Caustic.

Well, I’m glad to hear you say
so; I know in my time we were a generous
nation; but I see such changes, such carving
and gilding, such polish and ornament, that I
hav’nt yet been able to examine whether the
good old oak remains sound at heart.—I’m not,
you see, of the newest cut either inside or
out, and I can only tell you I love kindness,
and not the less for being set off by a pretty G2 “face.—” G2v 44
face.—Surely I think I have seen you before;
were you ever in Cornwall?

Mrs. Derv.

No, Sir.

Sir Caustic.

Then I’m mistaken—for you are
too young even to have been born before I
retir’d there.—May I ask your name, young
gentlewoman?

Mrs Derv.

Derville, Sir.

Sir Caustic.

And your situation.

Mrs. Derv.

Not affluent, Sir; but equal to
my wishes.—I rent this small farm under Lord
Orton.

Sir Caustic.

Why then you can tell me a
little about my niece; is she worth an old
man’s travelling from the land’s end to see?

Winifred.

Lord, Sir, she is——

Mrs. Derv.

Hush!---Lady Zephyrine, Sir,
is young, gay, and elegant---a little lively, but
I’ll answer for the goodness of her heart.

Sir Caustic.

[with warmth and severity] Yes,
but do you mean a good heart, as good
hearts us’d to be fifty years ago---now women
may betray their husbands, abandon their
children---yet have delicate feelings; shrink
from the name of vice, and have the best
hearts in the world.

Mrs. Derv.

You mistake me, Sir—Lady
Zephyrine——

Sir Caustic.

Yes, yes; I know your modern
ethics, your splendid vices—your good hearts
that ruin more tradesmen than all the swindlers
between Hyde Park and Whitechapel—They
won’t do for me, I tell you.

Mrs. Derv.

Do not let your prejudices make
you unjust, Sir—in spite of the gaiety of Lady Zephy- G3r 45
Zephyrine’s manners—her feelings—her sensibility
—

Sir Caustic.

There again—her feelings—her
sensibility—— [in a tone of petulance]—What, I
suppose she sighs over the distresses of a novel—
wipes her eyes while a ghost in an opera comes
out of his tomb to accompany the orchestra;
but is shock’d too much at real misery to suffer
its approach, and avoids sickness and poverty as
though she herself were not human—These fine
feelings won’t do for me—has my niece benevolence
and common sense? I want none of your
foil and tinsel qualities.

Mrs. Derv.

Indeed, Sir, you’ll find her very
amiable.

Sir Caustic.

Nay, I own I have seen a picture
of her, and have left her half my fortune,
merely on the credit of her simple dress and
modest countenance---her grandmother wrote me
word two years ago, that she was the only young
woman in the principality uncorrupted by
modern modes, and London manners.—But
come, I’m now sufficiently recover’d, and if you’ll
let your damsel shew me the way, I can reach
the Abbey—thank you, fair lady, for your kindness,
and if you’ll permit an old man’s visits――

Mrs Derv.

I do not often mix in society,
Sir, but the respect I feel for you—This way,
Sir, let us assist you.

Belford.

And you absolutely know nothing of
this coxcomb, who personated me at Mrs.
Derville’s?

Period.

Not a syllable, my Lord, nor did I
intend any coxcomb but myself should have that
honour. Why, an action will lie at common
law, and I’ll so exhibit the fellow in my tour——

Belford.

A truce with your law and your
literature, and devise what’s to be done. I dare
not think of it, yet is there too great cause for
suspecting that Mrs. Derville is herself in concert
with the impostor, and that he is a favour’d
rival.

Period.

If she has promised you marriage, you
may bring an action against her as soon as the
wedding is over---you may be revenged by a
satire---and in either case, the Court of Common
Pleas, or the Court of Parnassus---I’m your man.

Belford.

Torment and furies! Will you be
serious for a moment?

Period.

Havn’t I been serious my whole tour?
Havn’t I been reduced to transcribe doggrel from
the country church yards, and dates from the
doors of alms houses? and now you tell me I’m
not serious.

Belford.

I wish then your tongue were as barren
of words as your head of ideas. Once more,
can you suggest how we may discover this adventurer,
this pretended Lord Orton?

Period.

Really I can think of no better plan
than for me to personate his Lordship, as we first
proposed. Say that my letters and baggage have
been stolen, and insist upon it that the thief
must be the impostor she received at her house.

Belford.

But what purpose will this answer?

Period.

Why, I shall judge by her manner if
she is really privy to the deception.

Belford.

You are right. Nay, you shall get
yourself installed at the Abbey---pretend a passionsion G4r 47
for her as we originally plann’d, and if she
stands the test, and clears up the mystery of her
conduct, I will offer her my hand, and throw
aside my doubts for ever.

Period.

And I’ll draw up the marriage articles,
and relate the whole history in my travels. For
if you know any little secret history of a friend,
always publish it, nothing sells like private anecdote.

Belford.

O, sell as many anecdotes as you
will; all I desire is, not to be favoured with them
gratis---So, meet me at my lodgings an hour
hence, and I’ll give you farther instructions for
your reception at the Abbey.

Period.

Yes; but will it be possible to impose
on Lady Zephyrine and Sir Caustic?

Belford.

On Lady Zephyrine perhaps not――
but I’ll give you letters, in which, without explaining
my reasons, I shall apprize her of my
return, and engage her for a few hours to favour
the deception. You must, however, take care
to see her alone on your first arrival—As for Sir
Caustic, as I have never seen him, with her
Ladyship’s assistance, it will be very easy to prevent
any suspicion on his part.

Period.

There’s one thing, my Lord, I had
forgot. I’ve an old uncle in the next village,
and if I meet him we shall be discovered.

Belford.

Oh! your peerage will not last so
long as you might be making your maiden speech
—and it’s not likely he will see you at the
Abbey, still less at Mrs. Derville’s. Yet stay,
a thought has just struck me, but ’tis mean,
detestable.—But then does not the mystery, nay,
the conduct of Mrs. Derville justify me.—No
matter—if she loves me, love will plead my pardon;don; G4v 48
if not, even her anger will scarcely add to
my wretchedness. By means of my intelligence
with Winifred, I can get concealed during your
first interview.

Period.

’Tis eaves dropping, my Lord, and
liable to an action. However, as you please, and
I think your Lordship is authorised to take down
the evidence in short hand.

Belford.

Adieu! In an hour I shall expect
you. My doubts and anxiety are worse than
conviction: and I can endure this suspense no
longer.

Period.

And now for my notes—Saw---yes---saw trees by
the road side---whether oaks or apples, not quite
sure.—Saw between—Zounds! ’tis very hard,
when a man travels on purpose to write, that he
can see nothing but what other people have seen
before him! Hold, though— [Ap-Griffin enters
and listens behind]—Saw between Cum-Gumfred
and Aberkilliguen, young goats, an old fox, and
a Welsh ass.

Ap-Grif.

Eh! my nephew Period! How the
devil came you to be ass hunting in Wales, when
you should have been braying yourself at Westminster
Hall. What business have you to be
engrossing here by the road side, when you should
be taking notes at the Old Baily.

Period.

Why, now, don’t be choleric uncle,
don’t irritate the blood of the Ap-Griffins---I’m
only [aside] ’Slife! what shall I say? I’m on the
circuit---I’m on a tour---I’m going to publish
Travels in North Wales, and I thought
(though it isn’t absolutely necessary) I might
just as well take a peep at the country, before I
gave an account of it.

Ap-Grif.

Zooks! hav’n’t you done with your
nonsense yet? Why, when I was in London, your
chambers were beset with printer’s devils, bringing
proof sheets, as you call’d them, of your
Tour to Wandsworth; with Remarks during
a voyage to Battersea. Ads-death! is this the
way to rise at the Bar? to advertise youself running
about on a Tom-fool’s errand, as if nobody
could see mile-stones and church-steeples but
yourself.

Period.

Why, if I have but a name, what
signifies how?

Ap-Grif.

Yes, yes; I see you’r incorrigible――
just as you were when you carried your briefs and
your tours in the same bag to the Old Bailey,
and astonished the court by beginning a flowery
description of Botany Bay, instead of a defence
petty larceny.

Period.

I tell you, a professional man’s nothing
if he he doesn’t write---Don’t all the physicians
who have nothing to do at home, travel abroad,
and write themselves into practice? Don’t the
clergy write themselves into livings? and don’t
the lawyers write plays and pamphlets till they
get briefs?

Ap-Grif.

Eh, Jackanapes! Did Hale ever rise
by scribbling farces and tours, eh?

Period.

Hale! dry---dry; dull as the bon mots of
a news-paper.---Language, Sir—nothing will do
now but style. Only---only let me be Lord
Chancellor, and you shall see Hale, and Bacon,
and Littleton, and Coke, as much out of fashion
as their own wigs and whiskers.

Ap-Grif.

You reprobate, I shall see you hangman
first.

Period.

Oh! I’ll so reform the dissonant language
of the law---then you shall see reports
measured into blank verse---Briefs like the descriptions
of the moon in modern romance, and
chancery suits in the style of Gibbon.

Ap-Grif.

Here’s an unnatural coxcomb!
Here’s a profane rascal! wants to violate the
venerable obscurity of the law.

Period.

Then I’ll have none of your John Does
and Richard Roes---your Nokes and your Styles.
Law shall be a comment on history and poetry.
As thus---Brutus versus Caesar---Pan versus
Apollo---or in a conspiracy, Menelaus and
others versus Paris---I’ll explain the rest another
time. Bye, uncle.

Ap-Grif.

How I could twist the profligate’s
neck! Why, sirrah, you’re not leaving the country
without letting me know how you came, and
where you are going, and―

Period.

An inquisitive old blockhead,
plague of him! If I tell him I’m going to the
Abbey he’ll follow me, and spoil our scheme. I
won’t hear him.

Ap-Grif.

Why, sirrah, I say, how came you
here? Where are you going?

Period.

I havn’t time to tell you now. I’m
in haste. I must be brief---Good bye, uncle,
good bye!

Ap-Grif.

What, you keep me here an hour,
prating with your Pans and your Caesars, and
now you’re in haste---I must be brief, uncle,
[mimicking him] I must be brief---Answer me,
I say, or I’ll crack—No, your skull’s crack’d
already---but I’ll beat you, till you shall be of as
many colours as a mildew’d parchment.

Period.

Psha!---tiresome! You must know,
then, that I came here with an old gentleman that’s
rich enough to buy the principality. I’m now
going to dine with him at the next town, and
then we set off in a chaise and four, for---for――
for the Chester assizes.

Ap-Grif.

Rich, did you say? And do you
know him?

Period.

Oh, yes! We’ve been hand and glove
these three, ay, these seven years. He’s the most
comical old fellow---continually in a passion
through pure benevolence; and is out of humour
with all the world, merely because he thinks it
neither so good nor so happy as it was fifty years
ago.

Ap-Grif.

Gad, a notion is just come into
my head—Now, if I could but trust him, perhaps
this rich stranger would buy the diamonds,
and I do so long to get rid of them. Then, if this
fellow here should cheat me—but no; the whelp’s
honest—A little wrong above [pointing to his
head] but sound enough below [pointing to his
heart] Nay! I’ll e’en trust him. [altering his
tone] Well, Tim, I believe I must forgive thee,
thy tours, and thy whims. I’m sure thee art an
honest lad after all.

Period.

What does the old crocodile mean now?

Ap-Grif.

Dear Tim, its just come into my head
that you can do a little job for me—can you be
secret?

Period.

As a chamber counsel.

Ap-Grif.

Can you be honest?

Period.

Ah! thankye, am I not your nephew?

Ap-Grif.

Hum—Nay, I don’t doubt your
honesty—even a lawyer, you know, shouldn’t cheat
his own flesh and blood. Always do the just
thing, Tim, when its not against the law. Why,
I’ve got some jewels here to dispose of for a
client—mind, they’re not my own—Now, don’t
you think your rich fellow-traveler might purchase
them. Here they are.

Period.

They’re rich enough for the great
Mogul. The gentleman’s old, and, perhaps,
may not care for them; but I’ll try, if you
will——

Ap-Grif.

Do then, my good lad [in a doubtful
wheedling tone] I know, Tim, thou’lt be
honest.

Period.

Oh, if you doubt it!

Ap-Grif.

No, no; I don’t doubt. But I may
as well go along with you to the gentleman.

Period.

’Twill be too far, Sir—Pray don’t
attempt it.

Ap-Grif.

No, no, it won’t—I can walk, Tim—
my, I can walk.

Period.

Zounds! what an old torment.
it is! Indeed, Sir, ’tis too far, so if you can’t trust
me, take the diamonds again.

Ap-Grif.

Why the deuce can’t you let me go
with you. If you won’t, I’ll follow you, and
offer them to the gentleman myself.

Period.

’Sdeath! what shall I do? I must even
tell him partly the truth—only, instead of an
innocent frolic, I’ll say I’m engag’d in a bit of
roguery, and then he’ll be sure to keep my
secret.

Ap-Grif.

What are you muttering? Come,
let’s set out. I thought you were in a hurry.

Period.

So I am; but——

Ap-Grif.

But what?

Period.

Ha, ha! its comical enough too—it
will make you laugh. Why, you must know,
I’m going to the Abbey with the gentleman I
have been telling you of, and I have pass’d myself
upon him for Lord Orton. Nobody here knows
his Lordship’s person; so I’m to marry, in his
name, a great heiress that’s just come down on a
visit. Isn’t it a special project? Isn’t it a good
thing?

Ap-Grif.

Oh, yes; a devilish good
thing. [aside] I wish I had my diamonds again
though, honest Tim.— [to Period] Udso, I had
forgot—give me the case—there’s a ring wanting.