ZOUNDS, 'tis almost seven;—
Aye, a good thought—come, begin.
Hah, my young Hercules!—But how now, in this dress! don't you hunt with us?
Oh, I have only changed liveries,—I used to wear that of Adonis—but now I serve his mistress—Venus.
And a most hazardous service you have chosen—I would rather subject myself to the fate of Ac|teon, than to the caprice and insolence of the handsomest Coquette in England.
Acteon's fate would be less than you'd deserve, if, knowing my Goddess, you should dare profane her with such epithets.
May I never start Puss, if I believe your Goddess to be more than a very Woman—that is, a being whose soul is vanity—taste, voluptuousness—form, deceitful—and manners, unnatural.
Heyday!—turn'd Satyrist on the sex at eight and twenty!—What jilting Blowsalind has work'd this miracle?
Faith, I take my copies from higher schools—Amongst the Blowsalinds there is still Nature and Honesty—but examine our Drawing-rooms, Ope|ras, and Water-drinking places—you'll find the first turn'd fairly out of doors, and the last exchanged for Af|fectation and Hypocrisy—so henceforward
Ha! ha!—and in a short time be fit society for your hounds only. Good morning, Sir.
So, George—Come, you'd better mount—I'll give you a Lecture upon Air, and the advantages of a good Constitution, on our Downs, worth all you cou'd hear in a musty College these fifty years.
I beg, Sir, to be excus'd this morning—to|morrow I'll resume my usual post, and lead where you only will venture to follow me.
Well—we shall put you to the test.
Yes, yes, you're a keen Sportsman—I saw the Game you are in pursuit of, scudding away to the garden—beat the bushes, and I'll warrant you'll start her, and run her down too.
Egad! I started a fine young Puss a few days ago—She seem'd shy, and made her doublings; but I stuck to the scent, and shou'd infallibly have got her, if that sly poaching togue, Drummond, had not laid a springe in her way.
Why, she's the very Puss I mean; he hous'd her here.
Oh, ho! then I suppose he only pointed the game for you—Sweet Sir, your humble—After College commons, a coarser dish than Pheasant, I think, might have gone down.
Your whip, Sir—your bit wants lashing. To talk thus of Mr. Drummond, whom you do know, is not more insolent than your profanation of a Lady whom you do not know.
O! cry you mercy—Plague take me if I quarrel for any wench in England—You are heartily welcome to her, Sir, only I hope another time you'll be honest, and hunt without a stalking-horse.
Barbarian! How critically did Mr. Drummond relieve the lovely Girl—This brute had discovered her, and she would have suffered every indignity that Igno|rance, supported by the pride of Fortune, could have in|flicted. In the garden—that's fortunate beyond my ex|pectations—'midst groves and fountains—the very scene where a lover should tell his tale—and the sweet consci|ousness which beamed in her eyes last night, flatters me that she will not hate me for my tale—I'll go in all the confidence of hope.
What an heavenly morning!—surely'tis in Eng|land that Summer keeps her court—for she's no where else so lovely.—And what a sweet garden this is!—But tell me, my heart—is it the brightness of the morning, the verdure of the garden, the melody of the birds, that gives thee these enchanting sensations?—Ah, no!—it is that thou hast found thy Lord—it is, that I have again seen the Man, who, since I first beheld him, has been the only image in my mind.—How different from the empty, the presuming Baldwin!—yet, I owe him this obligation—if his hateful perseverance had not forced me from London, I might never have seen, but once, the Man who, that once, possess'd himself of my tenderest wishes.—Ha!
Abroad so early, Madam!—the fine Ladies in London are yet in their first sleep.
It would have been impossible to have resisted the chearful call of the Hunters, if the morning had been less enticing.
Oh, do not imagine yourself obliged to the Hunt|ers, Madam, it was my good Genius—I thank her—that inspired them, and did me the favour to lead me here.
If she usually influences you to no better purpose, her claims to your gratitude are but weak.
'Till lately I thought so, and supposed my|self influenced by the worst Genius that ever fell to the lot of a poor mortal—but she has entirely retrieved her|self in my opinion, and by two or three capital strokes has made me forget her unlucky pranks, and believe her one of the best disposed Sylphs in all the regions of Fancy.
You recommend this aërial attend|ant very strongly—Have you any intention to part from her?
I would willingly exchange her—if your Genius would be so obliging to take a fancy to me—I'll accept her with all my heart—and give you mine.
You wou'd lose by the exchange.
Impossible!—for my quondam friend would say a thousand things for me, that I could not for myself—so I should gain your good opinion—and that would be well gained, whatever I might lose to attain it.
Your Genius is, at least, a gallant one, I per|ceive—but
I was on the point of leaving the garden, Sir.—The Ladies, I imagine, are risen by this time.
Indeed they are not, but if they should—these are precious moments, which I must not lose—may I pre|sume to use them in telling you how happy I am, in the event which placed you in my Father's house?—but you have, perhaps, forgot the presumptuous Tancred, who gave such disturbance to the Gentleman honour'd by pro|tecting you, at the Masquerade?
No, Sir, I remember—and, if I don't mistake, you were nearly engaged in a fracas with that Gentleman—I was happy, when I observ'd you stopt by a mask, and seized that moment to leave the room.
A moment, Madam, that I have never ceas'd to regret 'till now—but that which I at present possess, is a felicity so unexpected, and unhop'd for—
You forget, Sir, these gallantries are out of place here—under a mask, a Shepherd may sigh, or an Eastern Prince amuse himself in saying the most extravagant things—but they know there are delicacies to be observed in real life, quite incompatible with the freedoms of a Masquerade.
Whilst you are thus severe on mere gallantries, I will venture to hope that a most tender and respectful passion will be treated more favourably.
I comprehend, Madam, what your delicacy must feel, and will therefore only add, that from the first moment I be|held you, my heart has known no other object. You have been the Mistress of its Wishes—and you are the Mistress of its Fate.
Indeed, Sir, this declaration, at a time when I must appear in so strange a light to your family, hurts me greatly—I can scarcely believe you mean it a compliment—but, surely, my situation here ought—
I acknowledge, Madam, the confession I have dared to make, is premature—it is ill timed—nothing can excuse it, but the peculiarity of our situation.—When I reflect, that in a few moments your Uncle may arrive, that he may snatch you from us, and that such an opportunity never may be mine again—
So, so, my young ones, have I found you? 'tis a most delicious morning—but is it usual with you, Madam, to taste the air so early?
Yes, Sir—in the Country, at least—I seldom mur|der such hours in sleep.
Aye, 'tis to that practice you are indebted for the roses in your cheeks—What, I suppose, you brought the Lady into the garden, George, to read her a iecture on Ve|getation—to explain the nature and cause of Heat—or, perhaps, more abstracted subjects have engaged—
Stop, dear Sir—I assure you I am not abstracted enough to enter on these subjects with such an object before me—I found the Lady here, and had scarcely paid her my morning compliments when you appeared.
For which you do not thank me, I presume—but come, Madam, you are my ward, 'till I have the pleasure of presenting you to your Uncle; and I come to conduct you to breakfast. George, you may follow; but take care you keep your distance.
Distance!—as well might you persuade the shadow to forsake its Sun, or erring mortals give up hopes of mercy. Page 18 —With what sweet confidence she gives her hand to Mr Drummond!—if these are the privileges of Age, I'll be young no longer.
Both in the garden—and in deep conversa|tion!
It appear'd so, my Lady, as I saw them from the window—he looked eagerly in her face; and she blush'd, and seem'd confused.
Confused indeed!—yes, so the Impertinent af|fected to appear last night—tho' it was evident she had neither eyes nor thoughts but for Mr. Hargrave's Son—who paid her those attentions which, from the present habits of life, are paid to every Woman—tho', I think, Mr. George Hargrave should be superior to these modern gallantries.
I dares to say she is some impostor—Husbands in good truth are not so plenty, that a woman need run away to escape one.
I have no doubt of her being a low person—and as to her prettiness, 'tis of the kind one sees in wooden Dolls—cherry-colour cheeks, and eyes, that from the total absence of expression might be taken for glass.
I wonder Mr. Hargrave did not stand by his own opinion, and let her stay where she was; but whatever Mr. Drummond says is law here.
Because Mr. Hargrave imagines he'll make his Son his heir—but if he does, he'll only share with the paupers of the neighbouring villages; for these Mr. Drummond seems to consider his family; and I am mistaken, if he does n't find it a pretty expensive one.
Oh, Ma'am, he believes every melancholy tale that's told him as a proof of his piety—Here's the Bow, my Lady—but as he fancies her prettyness was in danger, he had better have kept her in his own house, and stood guard himself.
Aye—that employment, or any other that would keep him at home, might be useful—Want of rest
Oh, charmingly, my Lady.
'Tis a most provoking circumstance, the colour of my hair should be so soon changed—but Mrs. Gibson's Liquid entirely hides that accident, I believe.
Entirely, my Lady—and then, her Bloom, it is im|possible to distinguish from nature.
You need not speak so loud. In compliance with the custom of modern times, a woman is forced to keep the use of these sort of things as secretly as she would an Ille|gitimate Birth. It was not so among the Antients—The Roman Ladies made a point of excelling in Arts of this kind; and the Empress Poppea was not ashamed to carry in her train five hundred Asses, in whose milk she bathed every morning for the benefit of her complexion.
Five hundred Asses in one Lady's train!—thank Heaven, we have no such engrossing now-a-days—our Toasts have all their full share.
Indeed! Mrs. Susan,
Oh, my Lady, he is the sweetest, smartest Man—I think he is exactly like the picture of your Ladyship's Brother, that died when he was eighteen.
People used to say that Brother, and myself, bore a strong resemblance.
I dare to say you did, my Lady; for there's something in the turn of young Mr. Hargrave's face, vastly like your Ladyship's.
Well, Susan—I believe I may trust you—I think you can be faithful.
Most surely, my Lady—I would rather die than be|tray your Ladyship.
Well, then—I protest I hardly know how to ac|knowledge it—But—
But what, my Lady?—your Ladyship alarms me.
I too am alarm'd—but I know your faith—
Young Mr. Hargrave, Madam!
Yes, Young Mr. Hargrave, Madam—What dost stretch thy eyes so widely at, wench?—Mr. George Hargrave, I say, is to be my Husband—I am to be his Wife—Is it past thy comprehension?
I most humbly beg your Ladyship's pardon—it was my surprise—the whole house concludes your Lady|ship is to marry Old Mr. Hargrave—but, to be sure, the Son is a much more suitable match for your Ladyship.
Old Mr. Hargrave, indeed!—the whole house is very impertinent in its conclusions—Go, and bring the Bergamot hither.
To prepare matters for the writings! a very fine business indeed; and what you'll sorely repent of, my good Lady, take my word for it—All those scented waters, nor any other waters, will be able to keep up your spirits this time twelvemonth—A "never to be dissolved connexion," between fifty and twenty-one, ha! ha! ha!—I shall burst with the ridiculous secret—I must find Jarvis, and give it vent—"never to be dissolved connexion!"—ha, ha, ha!
What transformations this Love can make! You look as grave, George, and speak as sententiously, as an Old-Bailey Fortune-teller.
And is it only to preserve your spirits, Bella, that you keep your heart so cold?
The recipe is certainly not a bad one, if we may judge from the effects of the opposite element on your spirits—but I advise you, whatever you do, not to assume an ap|pearance of gravity—'tis the most dangerous character in the world.
Oh, the advantages you would lose by it are incon-conceivable. While you can sustain that of a giddy, thoughtless, undesigning, great Boy, all the impertinent and foolish things you commit will be excus'd—laugh'd at—nay, if accompanied by a certain manner, they will be applauded—but do the same things with a grave reflecting face, and •n ••por••nt air—and you'll be condemn'd, n•m. con.
Sir Charles Seymour is driving up the avenue, Sir.
Is he?—I am rejoiced—
Sir Charles Seymour, Brother?—I thought you told us yesterday he was on the point of marriage.
Well, my dear Harriet, and what then? Is his being on the point of marriage any reason why he should not be here?—he is even now hastening to pay his devoirs to the Lady—I left him yesterday at a friend's house on the road, and he promised to call on us in his way to-day—but I hear him—
Harriet, you look quite pale—I had no concep|tion that Sir Charles was of serious consequence to you.
My dear Bella—I am ashamed of myself—I'll go with you to your dressing-room—I must not see him while I look so ridiculously—I dread my Brother's raillery.
Come then, hold by me. Deuce take it, what bu|siness have women with hearts?—If I could influence the House, handsome men should be shut out of society, 'till they grew harmless, by becoming Husbands.
Ha! the birds are flown.
Let us pursue 'em then.
Pho—they are not worth pursuing—Bella's a Co|quette, and Harriet's in love.
Harriet in love!
Aye, she's in for't, depend on't—but that's nothing, I have intelligence for the man—my Incognita's found, she's now in the house—my beauteous Wood Nymph!
Miss Hargrave's heart another's!
Miss Hargrave's heart another's—why, my Sister's heart is certainly engaged—but how's all this?
O George! I love—I love your Sister—to distrac|tion, doat on her.
A pretty time, for the mountain to give up its bur|then truly! Why did you not tell me this before? If your heart had been as open to me, as mine has ever been to you—I might have serv'd you; but now—
Oh, reproach me not, but pity me—I love your Sister—long have lov'd her.
And not intrust your love to me!—You distrusted me, Charles, and you'll be properly punish'd.
Severely am I punish'd—fool, fool, that I was, thus to have built a superstructure of happiness for all my life to come, that in one moment dissolves into air! I cannot see your Sister—I must leave you.
Indeed, you shall not leave me, Seymour—On what grounds did you build your hopes, that you seem so greatly disappointed?—Had my Sister accepted your addresses?
No—I never presumed to make her any—my fortune was so small, that I had no hopes of obtaining your Father's consent—and therefore made it a point of honour not to endeavour to gain her affection.
Yes, yes, you took great care.
But my Uncle's death having removed every cause of fear on that head, I flatter'd myself I had nothing else to apprehend.
Courage, my friend, and your difficulties may va|nish. 'Tis your humble distant lovers who have sung thro' every age of their scornful Phillis's—You never knew a bold fellow, who could love Women without mistaking 'em for Angels, whine about their cruelty.
Do you not tell me your Sister's heart is engaged?—Then what have I to struggle for? it was her heart I wish'd to possess. Could Miss Hargrave be indelicate enough, which I am sure she could not, to bestow her hand on me without it, I would reject it.
Bravo!—nobly resolved! keep it up by all means.—Come how, I'll introduce you to one of the finest Girls you ever saw in your life—but remember you are not to suffer your heart to be interested there, for that's my quarry—and death to the man who attempts to rob me of my prize!
Oh, you are very secure, I assure you—my heart is adamant from this moment.
Run and tell my Son I want to speak to him here di•ectly
I am all attention, Sir.
I don't design that you shall return to College any more—I have other views, which I hope will not be disagree|able to you—You—you like Lady Dinah, you say?
I don't know what your notions may be of her age; I could wish her a few years younger, but—
Pardon me, Sir, I think there can be no objection to her age; and the preference her Ladyship gives to our fa|mily, is certainly a high compliment.
Ho, ho, then you are acquainted already with what I was going to communicate to you—I am surprised at that.
Matrimonial negotiations, Sir, are seldom long con|cealed; 'tis a subject on which every body is fond of talking—the young, in hopes that their turn will come;—and those who are older—
By way of giving a fillip to their memories, I suppose you mean, George, ch?—well, I am glad you are so merry; I was a little uneasy about what you might think of this affair—tho' I never mention'd it in my life—but perhaps, Lady Dinah may have hinted it to her woman, and then I should not wonder if the whole parish knew it. However, you have no objection, and that's enough—tho' if you had, I must have had my way, George.
Without doubt, Sir.
Have you spoken to Lady Dinah on the subject?
Spoke—n—o, Sir, I could not think of addressing Lady Dinah on so delicate an affair without your permission.
Well then, my dear Boy—I would have you speak to her now, and, I think, the sooner the better.
To be sure, Sir—I shall obey you—
Well, you have set my heart at rest—I am as happy as a Prince—I never fixt my mind on any thing in my life, so much as I have done on this marriage—and it would have gall'd me sorely if you had been against it—but you are a good Boy, George, a very good Boy, and I'll go in, and prepare Lady Dinah for your visit.
Why, my dear Father, you are quite elated on the prospect of your nuptials—but why must I make speeches to Lady Dinah? I am totally ignorant of the mode that elderly Gentlemen adopt on such occasions.
What, have you been opening your heart to your Father, George?
No, faith—he has been opening his to me—He has been making me the confident of his passion for Lady Dinah.
No! ha, ha, ha—is it possible?—what style does he talk in? is it flames and darts, or esteem and sentiment?
I don't imagine my good Father thinks of either—her fortune, I presume, is his object; and I shall not venture to hint an objection; for contradiction, you know, only lends him fresh ardor. Where is Seymour and Harriet?
Your Sister is in the drawing-room, and Sir Charles I just now saw in the Orange-walk, with his arms folded thus—and his eyes fixt on a shrub, in the most penseroso style you can conceive—Why—he has no appearance of a happy youth on the verge of Bridegroomism.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Why do you laugh?
At the embarrasment I have thrown the simpletons into—ha, ha, ha!
What simpletons?—what embarrasment?
That you cannot guess, my sweet Cousin, with all your penetration.
I shall expire, if you won't let me know it—now do—pray, George—come—be pleas'd to tell it me.
No, no, you look so pretty while you are coaxing, that I must—must see you in that humour a little longer.
That's unkind—come—tell me this secret—tho' I'll be hang'd if I don't guess it.
Nay, then I must tell you; for if you shou'd find it out, I shall lose the pleasure of obliging you.—Seymour and my Sister doat on one another—and I have made each believe, that the other has different engagements.
Oh, I am rejoiced to hear it.
Rejoic'd! I assure you, I am highly offended.
At what? Sir Charles is your friend, and every way an eligible match for your Sister.
Very true—I am happy in their attachment, and therefore offended.—Sir Charles has been as chary of his secret, as if I had not deserv'd his confidence.
I believe he never address'd your Sister.
Aye, so he pretends, he never made love to her—ridiculous subterfuge!—he stole into her heart by the help of those silent tender observances, which are the surest battery when there's time to play 'em off—If any man had thus obtain'd my Sister's heart—left her a prey to disappoint|ment, Page 25 and then said—he meant nothing—my sword should have faught him, that his conduct was not less dishonourable, than if he had knelt at her feet, and sworn a million oaths.
Why, this might be useful—but, mercy upon us! if every girl had such a snap-dragon of a Brother,—no Beaus—and very few pretty fellows would venture to come near her—pray, when did you form this mischievous design?
Oh, Sir Charles has been heaping up the measure of his offences some time—'twould have diverted you to have seen the tricks he play'd to get Harriet's picture—At last he begg'd it, to get the drapery copied for his Sister's; and I know 'tis at this moment in his bosom, tho' he has sworn an hundred times 'tis still at the Painter's.
Ha!—I'll fly and tell her the news—If I don't mistake, she'd rather have her picture there than in the Gal|lery of Beauties at Hampton.
Sdeath!—stop—Why, are not you angry?—shut out by parchment provisoes from all the flutters of Courtship your|self—you had a right to participate in Harriet's.
Very true; this might be sufficient for me—But what pleasure can you have in tormenting two hearts so at|tach'd to each other?
I do mean to plague 'em a little; and it will be the greatest favour we can do them—for they are such sentimental people—you know—that they'll blush, and hesitate, and tor|ment each other, six months before they can come to an ex|planation—But, by alarming their jealousy, they'll betray themselves in as many hours.
Oh, cry your mercy!—So there's not one grain of mischief in all this; and you carry on the plan in downright charity—well, really in that light there is some reason—
Aye, more reason than is necessary to induce you to join in it—even tho' there were mischief—so promise me your assistance with a good grace.
Well, I do promise; for I really think—
Oh, I'll accept of very slight assurances.
A-propos! Here's Harriet—I'm just as angry as you wish me: leave us, and you shall have a good account of her.
Brother! Mr. Drummond, I fancy, wonders at your absence: he's alone with the Lady—
Then he possesses a privilege that half mankind would grudge him.
Have you seen Sir Charles yet?
Indeed I have not—I confess I was so weak, as to retire twice from the drawing-room, because I heard his voice—tho' I was conscious my absence must appear odd, and fearful the cause might be suspected.
Ah!—pray be careful that you give him in particu|lar no reason to guess at that—I advise you to treat him with the greatest coldness.
Most certainly I shall, whatever it costs me—It would be the most cruel mortification, if I thought he would ever suspect my weakness—I wonder, Bella, if the Lady whom he is to marry, is so handsome as George describes her.
Of what consequence is that to you, child?—never think about it; if you suffer your mind to be soften'd with reflections of that sort, you'll never behave with a proper de|gree of scorn to him.
Oh, do not fear it; I assure you, I possess a vast deal of scorn for him.
I am sure you fib,
Is he?—come then, let us go.
Yes, yes, you are quite a Heroine, I perceive—Surely you will not fly to prove your indifference?—Stay and mortify him with an appearance of carelessness and good-humour—For instance: when he appears, look at him with such an unmeaning eye, as one glances over an acquaintance shabbily dress'd at Ranelagh—and when he speaks to you, look another way; and then, suddenly recollecting yourself,—What is that you were saying, Sir Charles? I beg pardon, I really did not attend—then, without minding his answer—Bella, I was thinking of that sweet fellow who open'd the ball with Lady Harriet—Did you ever see such eyes? and then the air with which he danced!—O Lord! I never shall forget him.
You'll find me a bad scholar, I believe—however, I'll go through the interview, if you'll assist me.
Fear me not.
Ladies—this is rather unexpected—I hope I don't intrude.
Sir Charles Seymour can never be an unwelcome in|truder.
Miss Hargrave—I have not had the happiness of paying my respects to you since I arriv'd—I hope you have enjoyed a perfect share of health and spirits, since I left Har|grave-Place.
I never have been better, Sir; and my spirits are seldom so good as they are now.
Your looks indeed, Madam, speak you in pos|session of that happiness I wish you
In general, Sir—I have not wisdom enough to be troubled with reflections to destroy my repose.
Do you imagine it then a proof of wisdom to be unhappy?
One might think so; for wise folks are always grave.
Then I'll never attempt to be wise—henceforward I'll be gaiety itself—I am de•ermined to devote myself to pleasure, and only live to laugh.
Perhaps you may not always find subjects, Cousin, unless you do as I do—laugh at your own absurdities.
Oh, fear not—we need not always look at home; the world abounds with subjects for mirth, and the men will be so obliging as to furnish a sufficient number, when every other resource fails.
Miss Hargrave was not always so severe.
Fye, Sir Charles—do not mistake pleasanty for severity—but exuberant spirits frequently overflow in im|pertinence; therefore I pardon your thinking that mine do.
Impertinence! Surely, Madam, you cannot sup|pose I meant to—
Nay, Bella, I appeal to you; did not Sir Charles intimate some such thing?
Why—a—I don't know—To be sure there was a kind of a distant intimation—tho' perhaps Sir Charles only means that you are aukward—ha! ha!—But consider, Sir, this character of Harriet's is but lately assumed—and new characters, like new stays, never sit till they have been worn.
Very well, Ladies; I will not dispute your right to understand my expressions in what manner you please—but I hope you will allow me the same—and that, when a Lady's eyes speak disdain, I may, without offence, translate it into Love.
'Tis an error that men are apt to fall into; but the eyes talk in an idiom, warm from the heart; and so skilful an observer as Sir Charles will not mistake their language.
Are they alike intelligible to all?
So plain, that nine times out of ten, at least, mis|takes must be wilful.
Then pray examine mine, Madam, and by the ••port you make I shall judge of your proficiency in their dialect.
Oh—I'll examine yours, Sir Charles—I am a better judge than Harriet—let me see—aye—'tis so, in one I per|ceive love and jealousy—in the other, hope and a wedding. Now am I not a Prophetess?
Prove but one in the last article, and I ask no more of Fate—now—will you read? Madam!
You are so intirely satisfied with Bella's translation, Sir, that I will not run the risk of mortifying you with a dif|ferent construction—come, Cousin—let us return to our company.
Do you not find the garden agreeable, Miss Har|grave? I begin to think it charming.
Perfectly agreeable, Sir—but the happy never fly society—I wonder to see you alone. Come, Bella.
Astonishing! What is become of that sweetness—that dove-like softness, which stole into my heart, and deceived me into dreams of bliss? She flies from me, and talks of her company, and returning to her society—Oh Harriet! oh my Harriet! thy society is prized by me beyond that of the whole world; and still to possess it, with the hope that once glowed in my bosom, would be a blessing for which I would sacrifice every other, that Nature or Fortune has bestowed.