ACT THE SECOND.

EnterPounce,andCaptain Clerimontwith his arm in a scarf.

Pounce.You are now well enough instructed both in the aunt and niece to form your behaviour.

Cler.But to talk with her apart is the great matter.

Pounce.The antiquated virgin has a mighty affectation for youth, and is a great lover of men and money—One of these, at least, I am sure I can gratify her in, by turning her pence in the annuities, or the stocks of one of the companies; some way or other I'll find to entertain her, and engage you with the young lady.

Cler.Since that is her ladyship's turn, so busy and fine a gentleman as Mr. Pounce must needs be in her good graces.

Pounce.So shall you too—but you must not be seen with me at first meeting; I'll dog 'em, while you watch at a distance. [Exeunt.

EnterAuntandNiece.

Niece.Was it not my gallant that whistled so charminglyin the parlour before he went out this morning? He's a most accomplished cavalier.

Aunt.Come, niece, come; you don't do well to make sport with your relations, especially with a young gentleman that has so much kindness for you.

Niece.Kindness for me! What a phrase is there to express the darts and flames, the sighs and languishings, of an expecting lover!

Aunt.Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like other people. Your cousin Humphry will be true and hearty in what he says, and that's a great deal better than the talk and compliment of romances.

Niece.Good madam, don't wound my ears with such expressions; do you think I can ever love a man that's true and hearty? What a peasant-like amour do these coarse words import! True and hearty! Pray, aunt, endeavour a little at the embellishment of your style.

Aunt.Alack-a-day, cousin Biddy, these idle romances have quite turned your head.[86]

Niece.How often must I desire you, madam, to lay aside that familiar name, cousin Biddy? I never hear it without blushing—Did you ever meet with a heroine in those idle romances, as you call 'em, that was termed Biddy?

Aunt.Ah! cousin, cousin, these are mere vapours, indeed; nothing but vapours.

Niece.No, the heroine has always something soft and engaging in her name; something that gives us a notion of the sweetness of her beauty and behaviour; a name that glides through half-a-dozen tender syllables, asElismonda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels off the tongue; not hissing through one's teeth, or breaking them with consonants. 'Tis strange rudeness those familiar names they give us, when there is Aurelia, Sacharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition; and Celia, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of lower rank.

Aunt.Look ye, Biddy, this is not to be supported. I know not where you learned this nicety; but I can tell you, forsooth, as much as you despise it, your mother was a Bridget afore you, and an excellent house-wife.

Niece.Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an excellent house-wife.

Aunt.Yes, I say she was; and spent her time in better learning than you ever did—not in reading of fights and battles of dwarfs and giants, but in writing out receipts for broths, possets, caudles, and surfeit-waters, as became a good country gentlewoman.

Niece.My mother, and a Bridget!

Aunt.Yes, niece, I say again, your mother, my sister, was a Bridget! the daughter of her mother Margery, of her mother Sisly, of her mother Alice.

Niece.Have you no mercy? Oh, the barbarous genealogy!

Aunt.Of her mother Winifred, of her mother Joan.

Niece.Since you will run on, then I must needs tell you I am not satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many an infant has been placed in a cottage with obscure parents, till by chance some ancient servant of the family has known it by its marks.

Aunt.Ay, you had best be searched—That's like your calling the winds the fanning gales, before I don't know how much company; and the tree that was blown by it had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it.

Niece.Ignorance!

Aunt.Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon in it.

Niece.What eyes had you, that you could see nothing? For my part I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will happen to me before night.—But you have a gross relish of things. What noble descriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been persons of your goût?

Aunt.I wish the authors had been hanged, and their books burnt, before you had seen 'em.

Niece.Simplicity!

Aunt.A parcel of improbable lies.

Niece.Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse——

Aunt.Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their heads with a thousand foolish dreams of I don't know what.

Niece.Nay, now, madam, you grow extravagant.

Aunt.What I say is not to vex, but advise you for your good.

Niece.What, to burn Philocles, Artaxeres, Oroondates, and the rest of the heroic lovers, and take my country booby, cousin Humphry, for a husband!

Aunt.Oh dear, oh dear, Biddy! Pray, good dear, learn to act and speak like the rest of the world; come, come, you shall marry your cousin and live comfortably.

Niece.Live comfortably! What kind of life is that? A great heiress live comfortably! Pray, aunt, learn to raise your ideas—What is, I wonder, to live comfortably?

Aunt.To live comfortably is to live with prudence and frugality, as we do in Lombard Street.

Niece.As we do! That's a fine life, indeed, with one servant of each sex. Let's see how many things our coachman is good for—He rubs down his horses, lays the cloth, whets the knives, and sometimes makes beds.

Aunt.A good servant should turn his hand to everything in a family.

Niece.Nay, there's not a creature in our family that has not two or three different duties. As John is butler, footman, and coachman, so Mary is cook, laundress, and chamber-maid.

Aunt.Well, and do you laugh at that?

Niece.No, not I; nor at the coach-horses, though one has an easy trot for my uncle's riding, and t'other an easy pace for your side-saddle.

Aunt.And so you jeer at the good management of your relations, do you?

Niece.No, I'm well satisfied that all the house are creatures of business; but, indeed, was in hopes that my poor little lap-dog might have lived with me upon my fortune without an employment; but my uncle threatens every day to make him a turn-spit, that he too, in his sphere, may help us to live comfortably.

Aunt.Hark ye, cousin Biddy.

Niece.I vow I'm out of countenance when our butler, with his careful face, drives us all stowed in a chariot drawn by one horse ambling and t'other trotting, with his provisions behind for the family, from Saturday night till Monday morning, bound for Hackney—then we make a comfortable figure, indeed.

Aunt.So we do, and so will you always, if you marry your cousin Humphry.

Niece.Name not the creature.

Aunt.Creature! What, your own cousin a creature!

Niece.Oh, let's be going. I see yonder another creature that does my uncle's law business, and has, I believe, made ready the deeds—those barbarous deeds!

Aunt.What, Mr. Pounce a creature too! Nay, now I'm sure you're ignorant. You shall stay, and you'll learn more wit from him in an hour, than in a thousand of your foolish books in an age——Your servant, Mr. Pounce.

EnterPounce.

Pounce.Ladies, I hope I don't interrupt any private discourse.

Aunt.Not in the least, sir.

Pounce.I should be loth to be esteemed one of those who think they have a privilege of mixing in all companies, without any business but to bring forth a loud laugh or vain jest.

Niece.He talks with the mien and gravity of a Paladin. [Aside.

Pounce.Madam, I bought the other day at three and a-half, and sold at seven——

Aunt.Then pray sir, sell for me in time. Niece, mind him; he has an infinite deal of wit.

Pounce.This that I speak of was for you. I never neglect such opportunities to serve my friends.

Aunt.Indeed, Mr. Pounce, you are, I protest without flattery, the wittiest man in the world.

Pounce.I assure you, madam, I said last night, before an hundred head of citizens, that Mrs. Barsheba Tipkin was the most ingenious young lady in the Liberties.

Aunt.Well, Mr. Pounce, you are so facetious—But you are always among the great ones; 'tis no wonder you have it.

Niece.Idle! Idle!

Pounce.But, madam, you know Alderman Grey-Goose, he's a notable joking man. Well, says he, here's Mrs. Barsheba's health; she's my mistress.

Aunt.That man makes me split my sides with laughing, he's such a wag.—Mr. Pounce pretends Grey-Goose said all this, but I know 'tis his own wit, for he's in love with me. [Aside.

Pounce.But, madam, there's a certain affair I should communicate to you. [Apart.

Aunt.Ay, 'tis certainly so—he wants to break his mind to me. [Aside.]

[Captain Clerimontpassing.

Pounce.Oh, Mr. Clerimont, Mr. Clerimont——Ladies, pray let me introduce this young gentleman; he's my friend, a youth of great virtue and goodness, for all he's in a red coat.

Aunt.If he's your friend we need not doubt his virtue.

Cler.Ladies, you are taking the cool breath of the morning.

Niece.A pretty phrase. [Aside.

Aunt.That's the pleasantest time this warm weather.

Cler.Oh, 'tis the season of the pearly dews and gentle zephyrs.

Niece.Ay! pray mind that again, aunt. [Aside.

Pounce.Shan't we repose ourselves on yonder seat? I love improving company, and to communicate.

Aunt.'Tis certainly so. He's in love with me, and wants opportunity to tell me so [Aside.]—I don't care if we do—He's a most ingenious man. [Aside.[ExeuntAuntandPounce.

Cler.We enjoy here, madam, all the pretty landscapes of the country without the pains of going thither.

Niece.Art and nature are in a rivalry, or rather a confederacy, to adorn this beauteous park with all the agreeable variety of water, shade, walks, and air. What can be more charming than these flowery lawns?

Cler.Or these gloomy shades——

Niece.Or these embroidered valleys——

Cler.Or that transparent stream——

Niece.Or these bowing branches on the banks of it, that seem to admire their own beauty in the crystal mirror?

Cler.I am surprised, madam, at the delicacy of your phrase. Can such expressions come from Lombard Street?

Niece.Alas, sir! what can be expected from an innocent virgin that has been immured almost one-and-twenty years from the conversation of mankind, under the care of an Urganda[87]of an aunt?

Cler.Bless me, madam, how have you been abused! Many a lady before your age has had an hundred lances broken in her service, and as many dragons cut to pieces in honour of her.

Niece.Oh, the charming man! [Aside.

Cler.Do you believe Pamela was one-and-twenty before she knew Musidorus?[88]

Niece.I could hear him ever. [Aside.

Cler.A lady of your wit and beauty might have given occasion for a whole romance in folio before that age.

Niece.Oh, the powers! Who can he be?—Oh, youth unknown—But let me, in the first place, know whom I talk to, for, sir, I am wholly unacquainted both with your person and your history. You seem, indeed, by your deportment, and the distinguishing mark of your bravery which you bear, to have been in a conflict. May I not know what cruel beauty obliged you to such adventures till she pitied you?

Cler.Oh, the pretty coxcomb! [Aside.]—Oh, Blenheim, Blenheim! Oh, Cordelia, Cordelia!

Niece.You mention the place of battle. I would fain hear an exact description of it. Our public papers are so defective; they don't so much as tell us how the sun rose on that glorious day—Were there not a great many flights of vultures before the battle began?

Cler.Oh, madam, they have eaten up half my acquaintance.

Niece.Certainly never birds of prey were so feasted; by report, they might have lived half-a-year on the very legs and arms our troops left behind 'em.

Cler.Had we not fought near a wood we should never have got legs enough to have come home upon. The joiner of the Foot Guards has made his fortune by it.

Niece.I shall never forgive your General. He has putall my ancient heroes out of countenance; he has pulled down Cyrus and Alexander, as much as Louis-le-Grand—But your own part in that action?

Cler.Only that slight hurt, for the astrologer said at my nativity, nor fire, nor sword, nor pike, nor musket shall destroy this child, let him but avoid fair eyes——But, madam, mayn't I crave the name of her that has so captivated my heart?

Niece.I can't guess whom you mean by that description; but if you ask my name, I must confess you put me upon revealing what I always keep as the greatest secret I have—for would you believe it, they have called me—I don't know how to own it, but they have called me—Bridget.

Cler.Bridget?

Niece.Bridget.

Cler.Bridget?

Niece.Spare my confusion, I beseech you, sir; and if you have occasion to mention me, let it be by Parthenissa,[89]for that's the name I have assumed ever since I came to years of discretion.

Cler.The insupportable tyranny of parents, to fix names on helpless infants which they must blush at all their lives after! I don't think there's a surname in the world to match it.

Niece.No! What do you think of Tipkin?

Cler.Tipkin! Why, I think if I was a young lady that had it I'd part with it immediately.

Niece.Pray, how would you get rid of it?

Cler.I'd change it for another. I could recommend to you three very pretty syllables—What do you think of Clerimont?

Niece.Clerimont! Clerimont! Very well—but what right have I to it?

Cler.If you will give me leave, I'll put you in possession of it. By a very few words I can make it over to you, and your children after you.

Niece.O fie! Whither are you running? You know a lover should sigh in private, and languish whole years before he reveals his passion; he should retire into some solitary grove, and make the woods and wild beasts his confidants. You should have told it to the echo half-a-year before you had discovered it, even to my handmaid. And yet besides—to talk to me of children! Did you ever hear of a heroine with a big belly?

Cler.What can a lover do, madam, now the race of giants is extinct? Had I lived in those days there had not been a mortal six foot high, but should have owned Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or measured his length on the ground——Parthenissa should have been heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight, the echo's burden and the river's murmur.

Niece.That had been a golden age, indeed! But see, my aunt has left her grave companion and is coming toward us——I command you to leave me.

Cler.Thus Oroondates, when Statira[90]dismissed him her presence, threw himself at her feet, and implored permission but to live. [Offering to kneel.

Niece.And thus Statira raised him from the earth, permitting him to live and love. [ExitCler.

EnterAunt.

Aunt.Is not Mr. Pounce's conversation very improving, niece?

Niece.Is not Clerimont a very pretty name, aunt?

Aunt.He has so much prudence.

Niece.He has so much gallantry.

Aunt.So sententious in his expressions.

Niece.So polished in his language.

Aunt.All he says is, methinks, so like a sermon.

Niece.All he speaks savours of romance.

Aunt.Romance, niece? Mr. Pounce! what savours of romance?

Niece.No, I mean his friend, the accomplished Mr. Clerimont.

Aunt.Fie, for one of your years to commend a young fellow!

Niece.One of my years is mightily governed by example! You did not dislike Mr. Pounce.

Aunt.What, censorious too? I find there is no trusting you out of the house—A moment's fresh air does but make you still the more in love with strangers, and despise your own relations.

Niece.I am certainly by the power of an enchantment placed among you, but I hope I, this morning, employed one to seek adventures, and break the charm.

Aunt.Vapours, Biddy, indeed! Nothing but vapours. Cousin Humphry shall break the charm.

Niece.Name him not—Call me still Biddy rather than name that brute. [ExeuntAuntandNiece.

EnterCaptain ClerimontandPounce.

Cler.A perfect Quixote in petticoats! I tell thee, Pounce, she governs herself wholly by romance—it has got into her very blood. She starts by rule, and blushes by example. Could I but have produced one instance of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained her promise on the spot. How am I bound to curse the cold constitutions of the Philocleas and Statiras? I am undone for want of precedents.

Pounce.I am sure I laboured hard to favour your conference, and plied the old woman all the while with something that tickled either her vanity or her covetousness; I considered all the stocks, Old and New Company,her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades, Chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adventures, till she told me I had the repute of the most facetious man that ever came to Garraway's[91]—For you must know public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at yours.

Cler.I pity the drudgery you have gone through; but what's next to be done towards getting my pretty heroine?

Pounce.What should next be done in ordinary method of things? You have seen her; the next regular approach is that you cannot subsist a moment without sending forth musical complaints of your misfortune by way of serenade.

Cler.I can nick you there, sir. I have a scribbling army friend that has writ a triumphant, rare, noisy song in honour of the late victory, that will hit the nymph's fantasque to a hair. I'll get everything ready as fast as possible.

Pounce.While you are playing upon the fort, I'll be within and observe what execution you do, and give you intelligence accordingly.

Cler.You must have an eye upon Mr. Humphry while I feed the vanity of Parthenissa; for I am so experienced in these matters that I know none but coxcombs think to win a woman by any desert of their own—No, it must be done rather by complying with some prevailing humour of your mistress, than exerting any good quality in yourself.

'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field,But to themselves alone the beauteous yield.

EnterMrs. Clerimont, Fainlove(carrying her lap-dog), andJenny.

Jen.Madam, the footman that's recommended to you is below, if your ladyship will please to take him.

Mrs. Cler.O fie; don't believe I'll think on't. It is impossible he should be good for anything—The English are so saucy with their liberty—I'll have all my lower servants French. There cannot be a good footman born out of an absolute monarchy.

Jen.I am beholden to your ladyship for believing so well of the maidservants in England.

Mrs. Cler.Indeed, Jenny, I could wish thou wert really French; for thou art plain English in spite of example. Your arms do but hang on, and you move perfectly upon joints; not with a swim of the whole person—But I am talking to you, and have not adjusted myself to-day: What pretty company a glass is, to have another self! [Kisses the dog.] To converse in soliloquy! To have company that never contradicts or displeases us! The pretty visible echo of our actions! [Kisses the dog.] How easy, too, it is to be disencumbered with stays,where a woman has anything like shape; if no shape, a good air—But I look best when I'm talking. [Kisses the lap-dog inFainlove'sarms.

Jen.You always look well.

Mrs. Cler.For I'm always talking, you mean so; that disquiets thy sullen English temper; but I don't really look so well when I am silent. If I do but offer to speak, then I may say that—Oh, bless me, Jenny, I am so pale, I am afraid of myself—I have not laid on half red enough—What a dough-baked thing was I before I improved myself, and travelled for beauty! However, my face is very prettily designed to-day.

Fain.Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine an hand, that you are younger every day than other.

Mrs. Cler.The ladies abroad used to call me Mademoiselle Titian, I was so famous for my colouring; but prithee, wench, bring me my black eyebrows out of the next room.[92]

Jen.Madam, I have 'em in my hand.

Fain.It would be happy for all that are to see you to-day, if you could change your eyes, too.

Mrs. Cler.Gallant enough—no, hang it, I'll wear these I have on; this mode of visage takes mightily. I had three ladies last week came over to my complexion. I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, till I find I'm aped too much—I believe there are an hundred copies of me already.

Jen.Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let me be of the next countenance you leave off?

Mrs. Cler.You may, Jenny; but I assure you it is a very pretty piece of ill-nature, for a woman that has any genius for beauty to observe the servile imitation of her manner, her motion, her glances, and her smiles.

Fain.Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate the inimitable.

Mrs. Cler.Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French mien is no more to be learned than the language, without going thither. Then, again, to see some poor ladies who have clownish, penurious, English husbands, turn and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and dye 'em into so many colours, to follow me—What say'st, Jenny? What say'st? Not a word?

Jen.Why, madam, all that I can say——

Mrs. Cler.Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to say any more than the rest of thy country-women. The splenatics speak just as the weather lets 'em; they are mere talking barometers. Abroad the people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and entertain. In England discourse is made up of nothing but question and answer. I was t'other day at a visit, where there was a profound silence, for, I believe, the third part of a minute.

Jen.And your ladyship there?

Mrs. Cler.They infected me me with their dulness; who can keep up their good humour at an English visit? Theysit as at a funeral, silent in the midst of many candles. One, perhaps, alarms the room—"'Tis very cold weather"—then all the mutes play their fans till some other question happens, and then the fans go off again.

Boy.Madam, your spinet-master is come.

Mrs. Cler.Bring him in; he's very pretty company.

Fain.His spinet is; he never speaks himself.

Mrs. Cler.Speak, simpleton! What then; he keeps out silence, does not he?—Oh, sir, you must forgive me; I have been very idle. Well, you pardon me. [Master bows.] Did you think I was perfect in the song? [Bows]—but pray let me hear it once more. Let us see it——[Reads.

Song.With studied airs, and practised smiles,Flavia my ravished heart beguiles;The charms we make, are ours alone,Nature's works are not our own;Her skilful hand gives every grace,And shows her fancy in her face.She feeds with art an amourous rage,Nor fears the force of coming age.

You sing it very well; but, I confess, I wish you'd give more in to the French manner—Observe me hum it à-la-Française.

"With studied airs," &c.

The whole person, every limb, every nerve sings. The English way is only being for that time a mere musical instrument, just sending forth a sound without knowing they do so. Now I'll give you a little of it, like an Englishwoman: You are to suppose I've denied you twenty times, looked silly, and all that—then, with hands and face insensible—I have a mighty cold.

"With studied airs" &c.

EnterServant.

Ser.Madam, Captain Clerimont and a very strange gentleman are come to wait on you.

Mrs. Cler.Let him and the very strange gentleman come in.

Fain.Oh! madam, that's the country gentleman I was telling you of.

EnterHumphryandCaptain Clerimont.

Fain.Madam, may I do myself the honour to recommend Mr. Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Harry Gubbin, to your ladyship's notice?

Mrs. Cler.Mr. Gubbin, I am extremely pleased with your suit; 'tis antique, and originally from France.

Hump.It is always locked up, madam, when I'm in the country. My father prizes it mightily.

Mrs. Cler.'Twould make a very pretty dancing suit in a masque. Oh! Captain Clerimont, I have a quarrel with you.

EnterServant.

Ser.Madam, your ladyship's husband desires to know whether you see company to-day or not?

Mrs. Cler.Who, you clown?

Ser.Mr. Clerimont, madam.

Mrs. Cler.He may come in.

EnterClerimont, Sen.

Mrs. Cler.Your very humble servant.

Cler. Sen.I am going to take the air this morning in my coach, and did myself the honour, before I went, to receive your commands, finding you saw company.

Mrs. Cler.At any time when you know I do, you may let me see you. Pray, how did you sleep last night?—If I had not asked him that question they might havethought we lay together. [Aside. HereFainlove,looking through a perspective, bows toClerimont, Sen.]—But captain, I have a quarrel with you—I have utterly forgot those three coupees[93]you promised to come again and show me.

Cler. Sen.Then, madam, you have no commands this morning?

Mrs. Cler.Your humble servant, sir—But, oh! [As she is going to be led by the Captain.] Have you signed that mortgage to pay off my Lady Faddle's winnings at ombre?

Cler. Sen.Yes, madam.

Mrs. Cler.Then all's well; my honour's safe. [ExitClerimont, Sen.] Come, captain, lead me this step, for I'm apt to make a false one; you shall show me.

Cler.I'll show you, madam; 'tis no matter for a fiddle; I'll give you 'em the French way, in a teaching tune. Pray, more quick—Oh, mademoiselle, que faites-vous?—A moi—There again—Now slide, as it were, with and without measure—There you outdid the gipsy; and you have all the smiles of the dance to a tittle.

Mrs. Cler.Why, truly, I think that the greatest part. I have seen an English woman dance a jig with the severity of a vestal virgin.

Hump.If this be French dancing and singing, I fancy I could do it. Haw! haw! [Capers aside.

Mrs. Cler.I protest, Mr. Gubbin, you have almost the step, without any of our country bashfulness. Give me your hand. Haw! haw! So, so; a little quicker. That's right, haw!—Captain, your brother delivered this spark to me, to be diverted here till he calls for him. [ExitClerimont.

Hump.This cutting so high makes one's money jingle confoundedly. I'm resolved I'll never carry above one pocketful hereafter.

Mrs. Cler.You do it very readily; you amaze me.

Hump.Are the gentlemen in France generally so well bred as we are in England? Are they, madam, ha?—But, young gentleman, when shall I see this sister? Haw! haw! haw! Is not the higher one jumps the better?

Fain.She'll be mightily taken with you, I'm sure. One would not think 'twas in you—you're so gay, and dance so very high.

Hump.What should ail me? Did you think I was wind-galled? I can sing, too, if I please; but I won't till I see your sister—This is a mighty pretty house.

Mrs. Cler.Well, do you know that I like this gentleman extremely? I should be glad to inform him—But were you never in France, Mr. Gubbin?

Hump.No; but I'm always thus pleasant, if my father's not by.—[ToFainlove.] I protest I'd advise your sister to have me: I'm for marrying her at once. Why should I stand shilly-shally, like a country bumpkin?

Fain.Mr. Gubbin, I daresay she'll be as forward as you; we'll go in and see her. [Apart.

Mrs. Cler.Then he has not yet seen the lady he is in love with! I protest very new and gallant—Mr. Gubbin, she must needs believe you a frank person—Fainlove, I must see this sister, too, I'm resolved she shall like him.

There needs not time true passion to discover;The most believing is the most a lover.

EnterNiece.

Niece.Oh, Clerimont! Clerimont! To be struck at first sight! I'm ashamed of my weakness; I find in myself all the symptoms of a raging amour. I love solitude, I grow pale, I sigh frequently, I call upon the name of Clerimont when I don't think of it—His person is ever in my eyes, and his voice in my ears—Methinks I long to lose myself in some pensive grove, or to hang over the head of some warbling fountain, with a lute in my hand, softening the murmurs of the water.

EnterAunt.

Aunt.Biddy, Biddy; where's Biddy Tipkin?

Niece.Whom do you inquire for?

Aunt.Come, come; he's just a-coming at the Park door.

Niece.Who is coming?

Aunt.Your cousin Humphry. Who should be coming? Your lover, your husband that is to be—Pray, my dear, look well, and be civil for your credit, and mine too.

Niece.If he answers my idea, I shall rally the rustic to death.

Aunt.Hist—Here he is.

EnterHumphry.

Hump.Aunt, your humble servant. Is that—ha! Aunt?

Aunt.Yes, cousin Humphry, that's your cousin Bridget—Well, I'll leave you together. [ExitAunt.They sit.

Hump.Aunt does as she'd be done by, cousin Bridget, does not she, cousin? Ha! What, are you a Londoner, and not speak to a gentleman? Look ye, cousin, theold folks resolving to marry us, I thought it would be proper to see how I liked you, as not caring to buy a pig in a poke, for I love to look before I leap.

Niece.Sir, your person and address bring to my mind the whole history of Valentine and Orson.[94]What, would they marry me to a wild man? Pray answer me a question or two.

Hump.Ay, ay; as many as you please, cousin Bridget.

Niece.What wood were you taken in? How long have you been caught?

Hump.Caught!

Niece.Where were your haunts?

Hump.My haunts!

Niece.Are not clothes very uneasy to you? Is this strange dress the first you ever wore?

Hump.How?

Niece.Are you not a great admirer of roots, and raw flesh? Let me look upon your nails—Don't you love blackberries, haws, and pig-nuts, mightily?

Hump.How?

Niece.Can'st thou deny that thou wert suckled by a wolf? You have not been so barbarous, I hope, since you came among men, as to hunt your nurse, have you?

Hump.Hunt my nurse? Ay, 'tis so, she's distracted, as sure as a gun. Hark ye, cousin, pray will you let me ask you a question or two?

Niece.If thou hast yet learned the use of language, speak, monster.

Hump.How long have you been thus?

Niece.Thus! What would'st thou say?

Hump.What's the cause of it? Tell me truly, now; did you never love anybody before me?

Niece.Go, go, thou'rt a savage. [Rises.

Hump.They never let you go abroad, I suppose.

Niece.Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee.

Hump.Indeed, cousin, though 'tis a folly to tell thee so—I am afraid thou art a mad woman.

Niece.I'll have thee carried into some forest.

Hump.I'll take thee into a dark room.

Niece.I hate thee.

Hump.I wish you did—There's no hate lost, I assure you, cousin Bridget.

Niece.Cousin Bridget, quoth'a! I'd as soon claim kindred with a mountain bear—I detest thee.

Hump.You never do any harm in these fits, I hope.—But do you hate me in earnest?

Niece.Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester?

Hump.Yes; for I've a reason, look ye. It happens very well if you hate me and are in your senses, for, to tell you truly, I don't much care for you; and there is another fine woman, as I am informed, that is in some hopes of having me.

Niece.This merits my attention. [Aside.

Hump.Look ye, d'ye see—as I said, since I don't care for you, I would not have you set your heart on me; but if you like anybody else let me know it, and I'll find out a way for us to get rid of one another, and deceive the old folks that would couple us.

Niece.This wears the face of an amour.—There is something in that thought which makes thy presence less insupportable.

Hump.Nay, nay, now you're growing fond; if you come with these maid's tricks, to say you hate at first and afterwards like me, you'll spoil the whole design.

Niece.Don't fear it—When I think of consorting with thee, may the wild boar defile the cleanly ermine; may the tiger be wedded to the kid.

Hump.When I of thee, may the pole-cat caterwaul with the civet.

Niece.When I harbour the least thought of thee, may the silver Thames forget its course.

Hump.When I like thee, may I be soused over head and ears in a horsepond—But do you hate me?

EnterAunt.

Niece.For ever; and you me?

Hump.Most heartily.

Aunt.Ha! I like this. They are come to promises and protestations. [Aside.

Hump.I am very glad I have found a way to please you.

Niece.You promise to be constant?

Hump.Till death.

Niece.Thou best of savages!

Hump.Thou best of savages! Poor Biddy.

Aunt.Oh! the pretty couple, joking on one another—Well, how do you like your cousin Humphry now?

Niece.Much better than I thought I should. He's quite another thing than what I took him for—We have both the same passion for one another.

Hump.We wanted only an occasion to open our hearts, aunt.

Aunt.Oh, how this will rejoice my brother and Sir Harry! we'll go to 'em.

Hump.No, I must fetch a walk with a new acquaintance, Mr. Samuel Pounce.

Aunt.An excellent acquaintance for your husband; come, niece, come.

Niece.Farewell, rustic.

Hump.Bye, Biddy.

Aunt.Rustic! Biddy! Ha! ha! pretty creatures. [Exeunt.

EnterCaptain ClerimontandPounce.

Cler.Does she expect me then, at this very instant?

Pounce.I tell you, she ordered me to bring the painter at this very hour, precisely, to draw her niece; for, to make her picture peculiarly charming, she has now that downcast pretty shame, that warm cheek, glowing with the fear and hope of to-day's fate, with the inviting, coy affection of a bride, all in her face at once. Now I know you are a pretender that way.

Cler.Enough, I warrant, to personate the character on such an inspiring occasion.

Pounce.You must have the song I spoke of performed at this window, at the end of which I'll give you a signal. Everything is ready for you; your pencil, your canvas stretched, your——Be sure you play your part in humour. To be a painter for a lady, you're to have the excessive flattery of a lover, the ready invention of a poet, and the easy gesture of a player.

Cler.Come, come, no more instructions, my imagination out-runs all you can say. Be gone, be gone! [ExitPounce.

A Song.I.Why, lovely charmer, tell me why,So very kind, and yet so shy?Why does that cold forbidding airGive damps of sorrow and despair?Or why that smile my soul subdue,And kindle up my flames anew?II.In vain you strive with all your art,By turns to freeze and fire my heart:When I behold a face so fair,So sweet a look, so soft an air,My ravished soul is charmed all o'er,I cannot love thee less nor more.

[After the songPounceappears beckoning theCaptain.]

Pounce.Captain, captain. [ExitCaptain.

EnterAuntandNiece.

Aunt.Indeed, niece, I am as much overjoyed to see your wedding day as if it were my own.

Niece.But why must it be huddled up so?

Aunt.Oh, my dear, a private wedding is much better; your mother had such a bustle at hers, with feasting and fooling. Besides, they did not go to bed till two in the morning.

Niece.Since you understand things so well, I wonder you never married yourself.

Aunt.My dear, I was very cruel thirty years ago, and nobody has asked me since.

Niece.Alas-a-day!

Aunt.Yet, I assure you, there was a great many matches proposed to me: There was Sir Gilbert Jolly, but he, forsooth, could not please; he drank ale and smoked tobacco, and was no fine gentleman, forsooth—But then, again, there was young Mr. Peregrine Shapely, who had travelled, and spoke French, and smiled at all I said; he was a fine gentleman—but then he was consumptive. And yet again, to see how one may be mistaken; Sir Jolly died in half-a-year, and my Lady Shapely has by that thin slip eight children, that should have been mine—but here's the bridegroom.—So, cousin Humphry!

EnterHumphry.

Hump.Your servant, ladies. So, my dear——

Niece.So, my savage—

Aunt.O fie, no more of that to your husband, Biddy.

Hump.No matter, I like it as well as duck or love; I know my cousin loves me as well as I do her.

Aunt.I'll leave you together; I must go and get ready an entertainment for you when you come home. [Exit.

Hump.Well, cousin, are you constant? Do you hate me still?

Niece.As much as ever.

Hump.What an happiness it is, when peoples' inclinations jump! I wish I knew what to do with you. Can you get nobody, d'ye think, to marry you?

Niece.Oh! Clerimont, Clerimont! Where art thou? [Aside.

EnterAuntandCaptain Clerimont,disguised.

Aunt.This, sir, is the lady whom you are to draw. You see, sir, as good flesh and blood as a man would desire to put in colours—I must have her maiden picture.

Hump.Then the painter must make haste. Ha, cousin!

Niece.Hold thy tongue, good savage.

Cler.Madam, I'm generally forced to new-mould every feature, and mend nature's handiwork; but here she has made so finished an original, that I despair of my copies coming up to it.

Aunt.Do you hear that, niece?

Niece.I don't desire you to make graces where you find none.

Cler.To see the difference of the fair sex! I protest to you, madam, my fancy is utterly exhausted with inventing faces for those that sit to me. The first entertainment I generally meet with, are complaints for want of sleep; they never looked so pale in their lives, as when they sit for their pictures. Then so many touches and retouches, when the face is finished. That wrinkle ought not to have been, those eyes are too languid, that colour's too weak, that side-look hides the mole on the left cheek. In short, the whole likeness is struck out—But in you, madam, the highest I can come up to will be but rigid justice.

Hump.A comical dog this!

Aunt.Truly, the gentleman seems to understand his business.

Niece.Sir,[95]if your pencil flatters like your tongue, you are going to draw a picture that won't be at all like me—Sure I have heard that voice somewhere. [Aside.

Cler.Madam, be pleased to place yourself near me; nearer still, madam, here falls the best light. You must know, madam, there are three kinds of airs which the ladies most delight in: There is your haughty, your mild, and your pensive air. The haughty may be expressedwith the head a little more erect than ordinary, and the countenance with a certain disdain in it, so as she may appear almost, but not quite, inexorable. This kind of air is generally heightened with a little knitting of the brows—I gave my lady Scornwell the choice of a dozen frowns before she could find one to her liking.

Niece.But what's the mild air?

Cler.The mild air is composed of a languish, and a smile—But, if I might advise, I'd rather be a pensive beauty; the pensive usually feels her pulse, leans on one arm, or sits ruminating with a book in her hand; which conversation she is supposed to choose rather than the endless importunities of lovers.

Hump.A comical dog!

Aunt.Upon my word he understands his business well; I'll tell you, niece, how your mother was drawn: she had an orange in her hand,[96]and a nosegay in her bosom, but a look so pure and fresh-coloured you'd have taken her for one of the Seasons.

Cler.You seem indeed, madam, most inclined to the pensive. The pensive delights also in the fall of waters, pastoral figures, or any rural view suitable to a fair lady who, with a delicate spleen, has retired from the world, as sick of its flattery and admiration.

Niece.No; since there is room for fancy in a picture, I would be drawn like the amazon Thalestris, with a spear in my hand, and an helmet on a table before me. At a distance behind let there be a dwarf, holding by the bridle a milk-white palfrey.

Cler.Madam, the thought is full of spirit, and if you please, there shall be a Cupid stealing away your helmet, to show that love should have a part in all gallant actions.

Niece.That circumstance may be very picturesque.

Cler.Here, madam, shall be your own picture, here the palfrey, and here the dwarf—The dwarf must be very little, or we shan't have room for him.

Niece.A dwarf cannot be too little.

Cler.I'll make him a blackamoor to distinguish him from the other too powerful dwarf [Sighs]—the Cupid—I'll place that beauteous boy near you, 'twill look very natural—He'll certainly take you for his mother Venus.

Niece.I leave these particulars to your own fancy.

Cler.[97]Please, madam, to uncover your neck a little; a little lower still—a little, little lower.

Niece.I'll be drawn thus, if you please, sir.

Cler.Ladies, have you heard the news of a late marriage between a young lady of great fortune and a younger brother of a good family?

Aunt.Pray, sir, how is it?

Cler.This young gentleman, ladies, is a particular acquaintance of mine, and much about my age and stature (look me full in the face, madam); he accidentally met the young lady, who had in her all the perfections of her sex (hold up your head, madam, that's right); she let him know that his person and discourse were not altogether disagreeable to her. The difficulty was how to gain a second interview (your eyes full upon mine, madam); for never was there such a sigher inall the valleys of Arcadia as that unfortunate youth, during the absence of her he loved.

Aunt.Alack-a-day! poor young gentleman!

Niece.It must be he—what a charming amour is this! [Aside.

Cler.At length, ladies, he bethought himself of an expedient; he dressed himself just as I am now, and came to draw her picture (your eyes full upon mine, pray, madam).

Hump.A subtle dog, I warrant him.

Cler.And by that means found an opportunity of carrying her off, and marrying her.

Aunt.Indeed, your friend was a very vicious young man.

Niece.Yet perhaps the young lady was not displeased at what he had done.

Cler.But, madam, what were the transports of the lover when she made him that confession?

Niece.I daresay she thought herself very happy when she got out of her guardian's hands.

Aunt.'Tis very true, niece; there are abundance of those headstrong young baggages about town.

Cler.The gentleman has often told me, he was strangely struck at first sight, but when she sat to him for her picture, and assumed all those graces that are proper for the occasion, his torment was so exquisite, his passion so violent, that he could not have lived a day, had he not found means to make the charmer of his heart his own.

Hump.'Tis certainly the foolishest thing in the world to stand shilly-shally about a woman, when one has a mind to marry her.

Cler.The young painter turned poet on the subject; I believe I have the words by heart.

Niece.A sonnet! pray repeat it.[98]

I.While gentle Parthenissa walks,And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks,A thousand shafts around her fly,A thousand swains unheeded die.II.If then she labours to be seen,With all her killing air and mien;From so much beauty, so much art,What mortal can secure his heart?

Hump.I fancy if 'twas sung, 'twould make a very pretty catch.

Cler.My servant has a voice; you shall hear it. [Here it is sung.

Aunt.Why this is pretty! I think a painter should never be without a good singer, it brightens the features strangely—I profess I'm mightily pleased. I'll but just step in, and give some orders, and be with you presently. [Exit.

Niece.Was not this adventurous painter called Clerimont?

Cler.It was Clerimont, the servant of Parthenissa; but let me beseech that beauteous maid to resolve, and make the incident I feigned to her a real one. Consider, madam, you are environed by cruel and treacherous guards, which would force you to a disagreeable marriage; your case is exactly the same with the princess of the Leontines inClelia.

Niece.How can we commit such a solecism against all rules? What, in the first leaf of our history to have the marriage? You know it cannot be.

Cler.The pleasantest part of the history will be after marriage.

Niece.No! I never yet read of a knight that enteredtilt or tournament after wedlock; 'tis not to be expected: when the husband begins, the hero ends; all that noble impulse to glory, all the generous passion for adventures, is consumed in the nuptial torch; I don't know how it is, but Mars and Hymen never hit it.

Hump.[Listening.] Consumed in the nuptial torch! Mars and Hymen! What can all this mean? I am very glad I can hardly read. They could never get these foolish fancies into my head, I had always a strong brain [Aside.]—Hark ye, cousin, is not this painter a comical dog?

Niece.I think he's very agreeable company.

Hump.Why then I tell you what: marry him—a painter's a very genteel calling. He's an ingenious fellow, and certainly poor. I fancy he'd be glad on't; I'll keep my aunt out of the room a minute or two, that's all the time you have to consider. [Exit.

Cler.Fortune points out to us this only occasion of our happiness: Love's of celestial origin, and needs no long acquaintance to be manifest. Lovers, like angels, speak by intuition; their souls are in their eyes.

Niece.Then I fear he sees mine. [Aside.]—But I can't think of abridging our amours, and cutting off all farther decoration of disguise, serenade, and adventure.

Cler.Nor would I willingly lose the merit of long services, midnight sighs, and plaintive solitudes, were there not a necessity.

Niece.Then to be seized by stealth!

Cler.Why, madam, you are a great fortune, and should not be married the common way. Indeed, madam, you ought to be stolen, nay, in strictness, I don't know but you ought to be ravished.

Niece.But then our history will be so short.

Cler.I grant it; but you don't consider there's a device in another's leading you instead of this person that's to have you; and, madam, though our amours can't furnishout a romance, they'll make a very pretty novel—Why smiles my fair?

Niece.I am almost of opinion that had Oroondates been as pressing as Clerimont, Cassandra had been but a pocket-book[99]; but it looks so ordinary, to go out at a door to be married. Indeed, I ought to be taken out of a window, and run away with.

EnterHumphryandPounce.

Hump.Well, cousin, the coach is at the door. If you please I'll lead you.

Niece.I put myself into your hands, good savage; but you promise to leave me.

Hump.I tell you plainly, you must not think of having me.

Pounce.[ToCler.] You'll have opportunity enough to carry her off; the old fellows will be busy with me. I'll gain all the time I can, but be bold and prosper.

Niece.Clerimont, you follow us.

Cler.Upon the wings of love.

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