SCENE FIRST — A HALL OF STATE.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE FIRST — A CHURCH.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST — THE CHURCH.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST — THE TENT OF MAHOMET.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE EIGHTH.

SCENE NINTH.

SCENE TENTH.

SCENE ELEVENTH.

SCENE FIRST — THE SULTAN'S TENT.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE EIGHTH.

SCENE NINTH.

SCENE FIRST — The Antichamber to the Queen of Castile's Presence-Chamber, to which it opens by the Scene's dividing.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE FIRST — A ROOM OF STATE.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE SEVENTH.

SCENE FIRST.

SCENE SECOND.

SCENE THIRD.

SCENE FOURTH.

SCENE FIFTH.

SCENE SIXTH.

SCENE FIRST — A GARDEN.

OH, plague take it! Flora is coming this way. Well, I have had the good luck of a clear coast once to day; and so now I must compound for a little vexation and disappointment. —

What is in the wind now? What do you want?

SCENE SECOND.

Mademoiselle Adelinda! I have been looking for you all over the house and gardens, this long while.

Well then, long-looked-for is found at last. —

Lord, Mademoiselle! what can you be always in this garden for?

For? — Fresh air; and the dear comfort of being alone, and in peace and quiet.

You were not formerly so fond of the garden; nor so desirous of being alone. What amusement can you find here, by yourself?

Amusement? — I dance Rigadoons, and study the Stars.

Study the Stars! at high noon day?

Oh yes! I can read enough in them now to tell you your fortune.

I did not know, that amongst your other very rare qualifications, that fortune-telling was to be reckoned.

Oh! I will give you an instant proof of that — Shew me your hand —

you are in love with a man, who is much younger than yourself: — he has slighted all your advances; — but you have still hopes. —

How came this into the little serpent's head? —

Keep your eyes fixed upon mine, Flora! — Let me see — what your face says. — Why you are a great mischief maker; — a plotter; — very curious; — malicious; — and, — as I am alive, given to thieving —

And you, Mademoiselle! are[Page 253] given to be vulgar and rude to every body. You are born to disgrace your birth and high rank, and your noble parents. And I tell you, without the help of the stars, that it will be your fortune, to be sent back once more to your Convent: — and for life too this time. — For I heard my Lord swear by St. Dennis that you should be a Nun. So, Mademoiselle! unless you mend your manners and alter you conduct, your fate will be, to wear the Veil, — eat Soup meager, sleep in a Dormitory, and do Pennance for the remainder of your days. —

Bravo, Flora! — A word in your ear.

The next time my Mother lectures me, you shall be turn'd out neck and heels. — You are by nature sufficiently impertinent without the aid of any of the Marchioness's eloquence. Besides you select only the dregs of it; and you deliver her sermons with as ill a grace as you wear her cast-off gowns.

'T is not what the Marchioness alone says, that I repeat — every body speaks thus of you, and unless —

— You can grow young again, this pretty Youth, on whom you have set your heart, will leave you to hang yourself upon yon willow.

My Lady has waited in her dressing-room this hour for you: — she sent me to look for you. —

Very well! Go you and tell my Mother that I am coming. —

I wait to attend you to her —

But I do not chuse your attendance; so march without me.

No, Mademoiselle! I shall wait your leisure here.

And so you will not go without me?

No, Mademoiselle! I promise you, that I shall not move from this spot, but to follow you.

Well then, Flora! I find, that I must make you my confident.

Ah, Mademoiselle! I suspected that you had other amusements in this garden, besides stargazing and dancing Rigadoons. 'T is well you are willing to tell me; for I was bent upon finding out why you are grown so astonishingly fond of solitude.

I have had a hundred times a mind to trust you, Flora! for I have been in constant fear of your great penetration. — Why you must know then that, through great charity, I keep a whole family here — Father — Mother — Children; and I come every morning, noon, and night, to feed them.

Lord, Mademoiselle! How do these beggars get into the Garden to be fed by you?

They live here constantly, and this is their eldest Child. See

what a fine large black Spider it is.

O pray, Mademoiselle! — Oh, dear! Oh, dear —

Now decamp without me; or I'll fetch the whole family. —

If you do I shall faint — or go into fits —

Faint, ha! ha! ha! —

Indeed, Mademoiselle! I shall faint unless you throw it away.

Then I shall be obliged to let it crawl upon your face, till you have done fainting: for I have no sal volatile, nor eau de luce to recover you. So faint, or go, whichsoever you please instantly.

A perverse little devil! — What mischief is in her wild head now I wonder.

SCENE THIRD.

So I am rid of this Argus. —

But here comes my Mother — Well! out of the frying pan into the fire. — Heigh ho! — I must endure it: I cannot frighten her away.

SCENE FOURTH.

Why, Adelinda! when I sent last night to entreat you to spend this morning in my[Page 256] dressing-room, would you not oblige me? — You may one day perhaps experience the pang which a mother feels, when she begs in vain, for a proof of kindness, and common civility, from her Child.

Lord, Madam! I thought my father would be there; and I was so wearied out, last night, with hearing of my ungrateful, rebellious conduct, of my incorrigible vulgarity, of my want of taste and judgment; and of what a disgrace I am to his name and blood; that I was truly glad to escape from his passionate exclamations, which gall and irritate me so, that I am forced to say things which he does not like. —

Adelinda! you must take care how you provoke your Father: you made him so very angry last night that I trembled for you.

Yes, there was reason to tremble. I expect that he will give me a good beating in one of his passions: for, sure, never was mortal in such a rage, as he was in with me, last night. It is very unfortunate for me, that I have either eyes, understanding, or the use of speech: since I can neither look, think, nor speak, without putting my father into a most horrible pucker.

It was impossible to forbear from being angry with you last night. I assure you, that I should have joined in resenting your behaviour, but your father's severe determination, after he had commanded you from his presence, terrified me to death; and I forgot my own displeasure against you, in my[Page 257] sorrow at the punishment which your father swore to inflict upon you: and, but for my interposition, he would this day have sent you back to your Convent.

What! to make a Nun of me?

I fear so. —

Merciful stars! I did not think that he had been in such a wicked passion as that came to neither. — And all for my telling him an unwelcome truth. I fear and esteem my father; but he has never taught me to love him. He is justice herself, he holds the scales with a steady hand, and wields the sword with unrelenting rigour; — except when he is himself the culprit. But thanks to you, Madam! for interposing, so that he has broken the Oath; 't was rashly made; and not fit to be kept: but in his next passion, he will again swear, and as easily break the vow.

I hope, for your own sake, that you will not make the experiment; for, however willing I may be to sue for your peace, I may lose my influence: for your Mother, Adelinda! could not, last night, obtain your pardon till she knelt for it at your father's feet.

O, my dear Mother! what do I not owe to your patience and your goodness? — But 't is all, all, in vain; for I was born to disgrace and grieve you. Yet do not hate, — do not curse me! —

Horrid thought! — no more of this; we will not awaken humiliating sensations. — Let the future redeem the past. — I have promis'd for[Page 258] you, that you will change your conduct. That you will behave with more duty and attention to your Father; and that you will treat your Cousin more properly.

Oh! that Cousin of mine is as plagueful as a Ghost in a haunted house; I am never at quiet for him: I am always engaged, either in a quarrel with himself; or with my father about him. I wish that the Chaplain would exorcise him for an evil spirit; and confine him to the bottom of the Red Sea for nine hundred and ninety-nine years. I am sure that I would never light the end of candle that should release him.

I am astonished that neither his birth, his rank, nor his accomplishments, procure him respect, or even common civility, from you, and yet you are much indebted to his generous disinterestedness. — Your Father has offered, if you will not change your conduct, to settle his whole fortune upon him: but he most nobly rejected it, declaring that he would never enjoy what he considered as your birthright, unless you shared it with him. He laments, yet always lessens, your imperfections. — And he avers, that notwithstanding your foibles, that both in heart and mind you are capable of great things.

He sticks to his text I find; for he always begins his sermons by telling me what fine things I could do, if I would but give my soul elbow room. Yet I suspect he treats me with the oil of fool, alias flattery, only for the ostentation of displaying[Page 259] his own sagacity, whilst I question his seeing further into a millstone than other people.

Adelinda! be serious, and give me your attention. — If your father's intentions be not altered, by his last night's anger, you will you know be very shortly your Cousin's Wife; even within a few days. Therefore, my dear Child! this is the crisis of your fate; and I am trembling for your future happiness, with all the anxiety of a Mother, who sees the rock, upon which your heedless youth will drive, to its assured destruction.

Alas! Madam, I cannot new make myself, either to shew my gratitude to you, or my obedience to my Lordly Father. He might as well quarrel with his pack of hounds, because they have not flowing manes like his coach-horses, as with me for not being a fine lady. — And when all is said and done, for my share, I do not perceive what there is so outrageously amiss in me, to make all this constant havock about.

That you have good qualities every body allows — But your bluntness, your rudeness of speech, your intractable temper, your churlish manners, your inflexible obstinate humour, disgrace the nobleness of your birth, and disgust every one who lives, or converses, with you. And, indeed, unless you correct your untoward disposition, you cannot expect to live on comfortable and pleasant terms with the Count, when the lover will be lost in the husband. And would you not wish to be considered as your[Page 260] husband's first friend, and favourite companion. Could you like to live neglected, despised, forgotten?

No, faith! I do not say that neither.

Then, for your own sake, determine to polish your manners, and soften the ruggedness of your temper.

There is so much wanting to be done, Madam! to make me what you with, that I shall never have the heart even to begin. I might toil up a high hill, but, alas! I am quite hopeless of walking up the outside of a church steeple; — indeed, Madam! my reformation is a moral impossibility; and you always paint me so much of a Black-a-moor, that I am sure 't is labour in vain to attempt to wash me white.

No, my dear Child! it is not; if you would but once resolve to constrain your temper: — make the effort at least. — Reflect seriously upon the consequence of your first steps in life; they will stamp your character with the world: and have you no wish to be admired?

Oh, no! there is more cost than worship in it; — to gain your sort of admiration, I must be constantly in the pillory — and for what? — why only the hopes of a mouthful of moon-shine.

But, surely, you would at least wish to be esteemed?

Esteemed? yes! I cannot live in any comfort without that: esteem is requisite to be sure; 't is like the air one breathes, a want, but not a pleasure.

But, Adelinda! even esteem is very reluctantly paid, if not refused, to those whose strange humour, and rude, offensive familiarity, disgust and affront every body. And, if you will persist in retaining your churlishness, and inattention, how will you appear in polished society?

O Lord! Madam! like a carp out of water. The society which delights you, is not my element: and I shall never be any thing in it, but a queer fish gaping and floundering about. For the fine folks, and fine manners, of your polished societies, are my hatred and utter aversion; their maxims would suffocate every natural feeling of my heart, and annihilate every useful property of my understanding; for I must love and hate by a factitious rule and measure; and judge and give my voice, by weights which I know to be false; the fastidious drams and scruples, illegally stamped as standard, by the usurped authority of folly, falshood, affectation, and nonsense.

What a sarcastic, ungovernable spirit? We have lost our two Sons, and you, the only Child whom Providence has spared to us, are determind to be the constant source of disquiet and affliction to our minds. — O Adelinda! you have blasted all my comfort; — long, very long, have I looked forward to your present age of reason, and anticipated the treasure, that I hoped to find, in your tender affection as a Child, and your sympathy as a friend. But all these flattering dreams vanish. You[Page 262] have filled my heart with grief and bitter disappointment for the present; and I look forward to the future, with that fearful agony, which makes even the very thoughts of life painful to me.

O, my Mother! —

Can you then feel for me? O! rouse all your affection, all your reason, all your duty. Can you not resolve, my dear Child? will you not promise? —

I can at this moment resolve, if you speak the word — to die — But, O my dear Mother! — I cannot — indeed — I cannot promise what you wish. —

Alas! Adelinda! can you thus partake the anguish of my soul, and have the power, yet want the will, to give me peace? —

I cannot speak the agonizing grief that tears my heart — to think what sorrow I give to yours. I disdain a falsehood — I cannot promise — because I know, too certainly know, the fatal impossibility of keeping my word. Cease to love me, Mother! I am unworthy your affection. Alas! I know I am. —

Yonder your father comes, the Count is with him, Dear Adelinda!

at least in your father's presence, for my sake, constrain your temper. Do not speak, if you cannot speak respectfully. I have passed my word, that you will alter your conduct, else your father will break off this[Page 163] treaty of marriage, and send you back to a Cloister for life. Think of what I suffered, last night, for your sake; and let not such deep humiliation have been in vain. You are silent, my Child! I will yet hope what you dare not promise.

SCENE FIFTH.

Did the distance deceive me, or did I see Adelinda on her knees?

You did, my Lord!

Why, what thunderbolt was strong enough, to bow your stubborn pride?

My Lord! when gentle Angels warn us of impending dangers; there needs no thunderbolt to bow the stubborn will. Their kindness melts the heart, trembling we own their mercy; and kneel, with gratitude and humbleness, to thank that goodness, which we cannot merit.

My charming Cousin!

How came you, Adelinda! to say so gracious, and so proper a thing? Why are you not always thus?

Because, my Lord! I am not like an[Page 264] Italian Greyhound; fawning without friendship, and licking the hand of every stranger as cordially as that of his Master. I prefer the disposition of the honest English Mastiff, who is submissive only to the kind master whom he loves, and who will fight till he dies, for those to whom he is attached.

I presume, Madam! that you have told Adelinda, what you have promised for her — and, that it was only at your intreaty, that I have forgiven her behaviour to me last night?

I have, my Lord! and Adelinda will, I hope, fulfil the promise which I have ventured to make for her; and by becoming as amiable and as complacent in her manners as you can wish, she will not only rejoice my anxious heart, but reward all my care.

Impossible!

This day then, my dear Count! we will sign the Settlements, and to-morrow shall be the day of the celebration of your Nuptials —

To-morrow, my Lord? No! no! no! not, — not, to-morrow, for Heaven's sake! —

Shall it be Thursday, Adelinda?

Oh! no! no!

Let it be Saturday then.

No! I beg not.

Adelinda! there is no obliging you — I will name the day. To-morrow you give your hand to the Count —

or you return to your Convent for life, whichsoever you please. —

My dear Lord! —

Madam! I will not recede — therefore do not request, what I must have the pain of refusing, even to you.

Daughter! I give your hand to this young Lord: but for him my ancient name would be extinct. I am proud that he is my relation and my friend: And he is most deservedly the Son of my choice. As you value my blessing, Adelinda! I exhort you to merit his affection and preserve his esteem.

Most gratefully I thank you, my Lord! for the honour which you confer upon me, and the sacred trust which you repose in me. I will aspire to maintain, in all its lustre, that name which has been for so many ages renowned: and the happiness of your lovely Daughter shall be the constant object of my tenderest attention.

I resign her with full confidence to your care. Count! avoid my errours. Adelinda! let your altered conduct oblige me to forget the past. Imitate your Mother's exalted merit; or become an alien to your father's love.

SCENE SIXTH.

My dear Count! though to call you Son, is the first wish of my heart; yet this is a trying moment, which only a Mother, like me, can feel. — Remember, my dear Adelinda! that your own happiness, and the felicity of your parents, depend upon your conduct —

Heaven bless you, my dear Girl! and may no child of yours ever make you know the anxious care, which at this moment rends my heart —

SCENE SEVENTH.

My fair Adelinda! are my wishes indeed accomplished? Your heart sympathizes with your Mother's feelings; Is it then subdued? are you changed?

O Lord, yes! changed, yes. —

But seriously?

In down-right earnest to be sure.

I know that you are sincere — Therefore tell me — are you now serious?

Oh! I am much too sincere at times, and so as to displease you most mightily.

'T is true. For often your sincerity arises from the peculiarly uncouth ruggedness of your temper, rather than from a scrupulous love of truth. Your sincerity is the squib of peevish petulance, and and not the conscientious award of just judgment.

What a pointed, precise, witty, waspish, wiredrawn, distinction you have made: and your domineering decision amblingly alliterates as agreeably as the clinking cadence of the Church Clock's chimes.

It is but too just a decision: — however let it pass, my fair Cousin! — at this most awful period of our lives, let us rather resolve against all future disputes, than now enter upon new ones. You are my destined Bride; —

Yes. — so it seems.

Seems? why are you not? what do you think of it?

What do I think of it? — Nothing at all. —

A clear explication truly! —

Rightly observed, Cousin! 'T is a most[Page 268] accurate, admirable, excellent explication indeed! — For when despotic authority says, "Daughter, you shall marry that man," — and that very man says, "Mademoiselle! you are destined to make my fortune, and, therefore, I reject you not. " — The girl has nothing to think about: for she is precluded from the privilege of thinking to any purpose, — and I assure you, that I think nothing about marrying you, my Lord!

Still haughty! still intractable!

Hola, Cousin! have a care, that your sincerity be not the squib of peevish petulance: — It was but this moment that you resolved against all disputes; and you begin already. So to war we go, jangling like hammer and tongs, as usual.

That phrase is superlatively elegant!

Then, if you don't like it, mend it. —

How ill does that rustic speech and manner agree with eyes that seem to sparkle with intelligence as well as beauty. Your countenance and disposition are by no means assorted; they correspond so little together, that they would disappoint and disgust good company.

Good Company! What is Good Company?

Ridiculous question! Do you not know what Good Company is?

No. Nor you neither, Cousin! by your[Page 169] not answering my question. But I suppose that your Good Company, like the Monster that I saw the other Day, is a non-descript; and so are your People of fashion; and polite Circles; and the great World: with all the immense farrago of fashionable phrases, that pretend to class folks into tribes, which I hold to be as non-descript, as my Monster from the Moon Mountains in Africa.

You mistake, fair Lady! Good Company is as easily defined as wit, sense, taste, or judgment. Good Company, Adelinda! is the select part of People of Rank and Education, of People of great talents and amiable manners; who, having, from superior understandings, a stronger claim to distinction and respect, than the generality of the World possess, seek out each other; and being assimilated by the attractive chain of real merit, enter into friendship, assort together, and form that elect part of society, which I distinguish by the name of Good Company.

And do you make one in Good Company.

I have that flattering distinction.

Well! if you be Good Company then is Good Company the most wearisome thing upon the face of God Almighty's Earth —

Have you any Snuff, my Lord! for your good Company has vapoured me to death.

I expected not so very enchanting a compliment.

I have told you a hundred times that[Page 270] it is the way of me to speak what I think; if it offend you, you can revenge yourself: the catalogue of my manifold imperfections is so very extensive that you can find more ample faults of mine to descant upon, than I have picked out of yours, of your being tiresome, teasing and thwarting: — I do not beg for quarter. —

Indeed you do not deserve it; but your sacred sex protects you; I am bound to respect it, even though you set at defiance, good breeding, politeness, and even the common regards of decent civility.

And where is the real merit of your good breeding, your politeness, and your regards? flummery and nonsense! you flatter, because you want to be flattered in return. Flattery, I suppose, is the current coin which buys a place in Good Company. — Let people speak as they think, and seem only what they are; just as God made them and Nature formed them. As for me, I cannot stem the impulse of my disposition; it carries me away; the current is too strong for my resistance.

But you should endeavour to exterminate so ungracious a disposition.

Yes, and make myself just as artificial and ridiculous a figure as the Yew trees in the Kitchen Garden, tortured into every possible form that can make them appear outlandish and disagreeable —

What an unbending mind! what a stubborn spirit! What hope is there of softening it?

He is dreaming with his eyes open, and talking Gibberish in his sleep — I'll escape —

Adelinda, stay! — I was lost in thought — Can I by any entreaty win you to render your humour complacent —? Beautiful Adelinda! you might, if you pleased, inspire me with the most ardent passion for you. Your heart, I am sure, is good, though so rugged and discourteous to all around you. And (though I lament its constant misapplication) yet I cannot help admiring the strong powers of your understanding. Why then will you call forth dislike, where you might excite love? Why brave censure, when you might create esteem? Make but a just use of the invaluable gifts, with which nature has endowed you, and you will enslave my very soul.

Cousin! you plead so well, that methinks I am half sorry, that 't is impossible for you to gain your suit —

Say not so, Adelinda! Reflect, that in a few hours you will be my Wife: consider that the happiness of my future life is in your hands; and, if you cannot gain a proper ascendancy over your disposition, that I am doomed to be miserable; and every moment of my existence, I shall have to blush, with shame and grief, at my Wife's misconduct. —

No, my Lord! I will save you from so sad a fate, from this all-dreaded shame; never, I promise you, shall my Husband have to blush at my misconduct. —

How you delight me by this promise: then, my amiable Adelinda! you will correct your failings, and kindly condescend to be guided by the tender advice of the man, who wishes to adore you?

I most devoutly make you a second promise: — and I call Heaven to witness the sincerity of my intentions. — That in no one circumstance of my future life shall the advice of you, my Cousin! the Count D'Olstain, — ever govern me. —

No? — You speak riddles! You promise that I shall never have to blush at your misconduct; and yet you threateningly promise defiance against me, either as your friend or counsellor. — For Heaven's sake! condescend to explain this mystery.

No: I shall give no explanation; I intend to surprise every body. —

How can you take a pride in torturing me? You suffer your strange temper to drown every benevolent feeling of your heart. Have you no kindness for others? no sympathy for their distress? Why should you rejoice in creating misery when you might —

Stop! stop! for the love of charity, do not stun my ears with any more of your tedious preachments. — Know, my Lord! that such as my manners and disposition are, such I would have them to be; and such they shall remain, if I were to live to the age of Methuselah. — Therefore, if you can work no surer miracle than my reformation, you will never be canonized for a Saint — But to shew you,[Page 273] that I can, occasionally, do a civil and polite thing, I rid you of my vulgarity; and leave you to the full enjoyment of your own Good Company.

SCENE EIGHTH.

What a strange, what a perverse Girl! If I marry her, I sacrifice all my future happiness. — If I reject her, the Marquis will oblige her to take the Veil; and make me the unjust possessor of her birth-right.

SCENE FIRST — A SALOON.

YOUR Servant, Monsieur Strasbourg!

Down to the ground, yours, Madam Flora!

Charming fellow! how handsome he is! What a fine figure! What an elegant air! — I'll plague him a little, however. — Why, Strasbourg! for a Steward how magnificently you dress — But you are rich; your father had the management of the old Marquis's fortune, and of his Son's, for forty years. You are his heir and still Steward: — And a most pompous fine gentleman to be sure you are; but they say you can afford it: yet, if I were my Lord —

You would not keep a Steward who looked so much like yourself. Ha! my smart Abigail! but I must decline the felicity of your company just now; for my Lord is coming hither upon business — so permit me to hand you out of the saloon.

Well, Monsieur! I am here upon my Lady's business; I came here to look for Mademoiselle Adelinda. —

Then, as she is not here, by all means pursue your business. —

Suppose, Strasbourg! that to keep your dress in proper countenance, you were to embroider your manners with a slight border of politeness.

Child! if I did, you would mistake my meaning. I think you most enchantingly agreeable, and you treat me in a manner that flatters me most delightfully: and if it were not for the extraordinary esteem and respect, that I have for your Lady, I should encourage your predilection. —

What do you mean? what do you insinuate?

Only, divine perfection of a woman! that your Lady would take it very ill at my hands, if I seduced her favourite Abigail from that path of discretion which her years exact that she should tread in, and the practice of that virtue which she is said, hitherto, to have most religiously observed. —

Impudent Coxcomb! audacious Slanderer! good-for-nothing Story-teller! —

SCENE SECOND.

Thank your stars, Strasbourg! for my timely appearance — Why I believe that Flora was going to beat you.

No! no! I was not, but, but, I wish to Heaven that somebody would give him a good caning for me. —

Why, Strasbourg! what unpardonable offence have you committed to deserve such treatment from Flora? —

I only said, my Lord! that the Marchioness would be displeased with me, if I seduced Flora's virtue: and behold, for this, she calls me a slanderer! and a story-teller!

No! it was not for that, but for supposing, supposing, — indeed, my Lord! I do not deserve, deserve — but I wish that you would not keep such a fop of a Steward — There is no being happy in the house for him — he is so grand and so proud — and he says — and he says — that, that, he looks like your Lordship —

Why truly, Strasbourg! so I think you do — you are more sumptuous to day than usual, I think. I really must follow Flora's advice and dismiss you — for you always appear so splendid, that indeed there is some hazard of your being mistaken for me.

In Christian charity, my Lord! you are bound not to dismiss me; for no other Nobleman in all Europe can afford to retain me in his service.

How so, Strasbourg?

Because your Lordship is the only one possessed of such princely manners, as to afford, without any danger of mistakes, or derogation from[Page 277] your own dignity and consequence, to keep a Steward who has the vanity to aspire, in his dress and and deportment, to look like a gentleman

Now, Flora! if Strasbourg will pay you as curious a compliment, I am sure that you must forgive him.

Pray, my Lord! do not intercede for me; for a quarrel with Flora is the delight of my soul; her arguments are so terse, her wit so elegantly polished, and her elocution so flowing, and so correct, that to be the object of her anger is the most heavenly amusement that I have any idea of. So no pardon, no quarter, sweet Flora!

Hang the fellow, he always has the art to have every one of his side always; he knows how to flatter himself into people's liking, and out of their hatred.

SCENE THIRD.

Poor Flora! — Well, Strasbourg! what is the business?

My Lord! the Widow of your late tenant, Orland, sends me word that she is coming this morning with her rent; and to beg that your Lordship[Page 278] will be pleased to renew the lease of the Olstain Farm to her. I suppose that you have no objection to renewing the lease; but at what rent, my Lord? all your other tenants have had their rents raised; but Dorcas tells me, that she hopes as she nursed my Young Lady that you will favour her. —

Yes: on that consideration; and as she is a Widow, I will renew the lease, for the term of her life, at the same rent. — I suppose the report of Adelinda's marriage brought her hither just at this time, that she might be present at the wedding. Has she brought her pretty Daughter with her?

I do not know, my Lord! — 'tis not certain — perhaps so — I believe she has — I, I, rather think she may — but I cannot be positive —

I begin to think, Strasbourg! that you are in love with that girl: you are always so embarrassed, so shy, and look so very silly, whenever I question you about your visits to that part of the Country. Your confused, mysterious answers, have made me suspect that some love affair was your business at Olstain, and not the barn-building, or seeing after the workmen. — I want to see this girl, this Zella, I have heard so much of her beauty. — But are you seriously in love with her, Strasbourg?

My Lord! Zella, to be sure, is a sweet pretty creature, a sweet pretty creature, indeed, my Lord! to be sure. So genteel, so delicate, so blooming, one must be a statue not to be struck with her. Every body is in love with her. But she rejects[Page 279] every body, and wants her mother to let her be a Nun; but it is pity that she should, as Dorcas can give her a good deal of money whenever she marries.

Are your high notions then so far humbled as to marry a farmer's daughter? What is become of your taste and your pride? But do you really intend to make her your Wife?

Ye — ye — ye — yes, and please your Lo — Lordship!

Ha! ha! ha! you may well hesitate, Stasbourg — you who used to pique yourself upon your consequence and your pretensions — A Brother in the Church, — a good fortune of your own — much respected in your Lord's family — much honoured by his kindness — all this I have heard from you — and are you, indeed, going to make love to a Dairymaid?

Truly, my Lord! I blush at demeaning myself so much — But, my Lord! let love plead my excuse; irresistible love, which, I have been unable to conquer, in spite of every the most powerful reasons for overcoming it. — I love so fervently, that I would rather die, than not win the Woman whom I adore. —

Believe me, my honoured Lord! that the idea of offending you afflicts me much, though even that fear has not been able to subdue my passion! —

You speak as one deeply smitten indeed, Strasbourg! But one thing it behoves me to tell you: Zella, being the daughter of my tenant,[Page 280] and very young, as she has lost her Father, whom I very much respected, I think her intitled to my protection; therefore, know certainly your own mind about this girl, before you lay siege to her heart. Your pride may step in now, but I tell you, that it shall not afterwards. You have had several attachments, so I suspect your constancy in this; and I will allow of no foolery in this affair: you have my consent to court her for your wife; but not to dangle after her for your amusement, and then leave her to wear the willow.

No! to be sure, my Lord! your Lordship is very right, very good —

I own that I did not suppose, that the Daughter of Dorcas would have been your choice. I imagined from your spirit and taste that you would have chosen a fine dashing wife, whom all my tenants would have looked upon as fine lady enough to be the wife of a Lord.

You think my heart lowly. But, alas! my Lord! I fear that it is only too high and too ambitious.

SCENE FOURTH.

Whom do you seek?

My Lord! I came to tell Monsieur Strasbourg,[Page 281] that Dorcas, the widow farmer from Olstain, asks for him.

Is she come alone?

No, my Lord! there is the handsomest young Woman with her, that I ever set my eyes upon.

Shew them into this room.

Now, Strasbourg! I shall see your taste for beauty.

Walk this way, if you please.