Humph. Sirrah, there is no enduring your extravagance; I'll hear you prate no longer: I wanted to see you, to inquire how things go with your master, as far as you understand them: I suppose he knows he is to be married to-day. Tom. Ay, sir, he knows it, and is dressed as gay as the sun; but between you and I, my dear, he has a very heavy heart under all that gaiety. As soon as he was dressed I retired, but overheard him sigh in the most heavy manner. He walked thoughtfully to and fro in the room, then went into his closet: when he came out, he gave me this for his mistress, whose maid, you know know I love to fret and play with the little wanton Humph. Play with the little wanton! what will this world come to! Tom. I met her this morning in a new gown, not a bit the worse for her lady's wearing, and she has always new thoughts and new airs with new clothes-then she never fails to steal some glance or gesture from every visitant at their house, and is indeed the whole town of coquettes at second hand-But here she comes; in one motion she speaks and describes herself better than all the words in the world can. Humph. Then I hope, dear sir, when your Humph. Is passionately fond of your fine own affair is over, you will be so good as to person. mind your master's with her. Tom. The poor fool is so tender, and loves to hear me talk of the world, and the plays, operas, and masquerades; and lard! says she, you are so wild-but you have a world of humour. Humph. Coxcomb! Well, but why don't you run with your master's letter to Mrs. Lucinda, as he ordered you? Tom. Because Mrs. Lucinda is not so easily come at as you think for. Humph. Not easily come at? why, sir, are not her father and my old master agreed that she and Mr. Bevil are to be one flesh before to-morrow morning? Tom. It's no matter for that: her mother, it seems, Mrs. Sealand, has not agreed to it; and you must know, Mr. Humphrey, that in that family the gray mare is the better horse. Humph. What dost thou mean? Tom. In one word, Mrs. Sealand pretends to have a will of her own, and has provided a relation of hers, a stiff starched philosopher and a wise fool, for her daughter; for which reason, for these ten days past, she has suffered no message nor letter from my master to come near her. Tom. Dear Humphrey! you know my master is my friend, and those are people I never forget Humph. Sauciness itself! but I'll leave you to do your best for him. [Exit. A ROMANTIC YOUNG LADY. (FROM "THE TENDER HUSBAND.") [Aunt, who desires her niece to marry her cousin Humphrey Gubbin; she loves a Captain Clerimont, and determines to cut her cousin.] Enter Aunt and Niece. Niece. Was it not my gallant that whistled so charmingly in the parlour before we went out this morning? He's a most accomplished cavalier! Aunt. Come, niece, come; you don't do well to make sport of 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 Humph. And where had you this intelli- and languishings of an expecting lover! gence? Tom. From a foolish fond soul, that can keep nothing from me-one that will deliver this letter too, if she is rightly managed. Humph. What, her pretty handmaid, Mrs. Phillis? Tom. Even she, sir. This is the very hour, you know, she usually comes hither, under a pretence of a visit to our housekeeper, forsooth, but in reality to have a glance at—— Humph. Your sweet face, I warrant you. Tom. Nothing else in nature. You must Aunt. Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like other people. Your cousin Humphrey 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? 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. 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, as Elismunda, Clidamira, Deidamia, that runs upon vowels of 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, Saccharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition, and Cella, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of lower rank. Aunt. Lookye! Biddy, this is not to be supported; I know not where you have 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 housewife. Niece. Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an excellent housewife. Aunt. Yes, I say, she was; and spent her time in better learning than ever you 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 Cicely, of her mother Alice Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and turn 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, Artaxerxes, Oroondates, and the rest of the heroic lovers; and take my country booby, cousin Humphrey, 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 us see how many things our coachman is good for. He Niece. Have you no mercy? Oh, the bar- rubs down his horses, lays the cloth, whets the barous 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 them had, forsooth, a spirit imprisoned in the trunk of it. Niece. Ignorance! VOL. I. 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 chambermaid. 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 sidesaddle. Aunt. And so you jeer at the good management of your relations, do you? 10 Niece. No, I am well satisfied that all the house are creatures of business; but, indeed, was in hopes that my poor lap-dog might have lived with me upon my fortune without an employment; but my uncle threatens every day to make him a turnspit, that he, too, in his sphere, may help us to live comfortably. Aunt. Harkye! 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 Humphrey. Niece. Name not the creature. a creature! Enter HUMPHREY GUBBIN. Hump. Aunt, your humble servant. Is that he eh, aunt? Aunt. Yes, cousin Humphrey; that's your cousin Bridget. Well, I'll leave you together. [Exit. Hump. Aunt does as she'd be done by, cousin Bridget, doesn't she, eh, cousin? What, are you a Londoner and not speak to a gentleman? Lookye! cousin, the old 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 brings to my mind the whole history of Valentine and Orson. What, would they marry me to a wild man? Pray, answer me a question or two. Niece. Canst thou deny that thou wert suckled by a wolf? You haven't been so barbarous, I hope, since you came amongst men as to hunt your nurse, have you? Hump. Hunt my nurse! Ay, 'tis so; she's distracted, as sure as a gun. (Aside.) Harkye! 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 wouldst 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. Hump. They never let you go abroad, I suppose. Niece. Thou'rt a monster, I tell thee. Hump. Indeed, cousin, though 'tis folly to tell thee so, I am afraid thou art a mad woman. Niece. I'll have thee into some forest. Hump. I wish you did; there's no hate lost, I assure you, cousin Bridget. Niece. Cousin Bridget, quotha! I'd as soon claim kindred with a mountain bear. I detest thee. Hump. You never do any harm in those fits, I hope. But do you hate me in earnest? Niece. Dost thou ask it, ungentle forester? Hump. Yes; for I've a reason, lookye! 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. Hump. Ay, ay; as many as you please, heart on me; but, if you like anybody else, cousin Bridget. let me know it, and I'll find out a way for us Niece. What wood were you taken in? to get rid of one another, and deceive the old How long have you been caught? folks that would couple us. Niece. This wears the face of an amour. (Aside.) 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! Ilump. When I of thee, may the polecat. 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 horse-pond! But do you hate me? Enter AUNT. Niece. For ever; and you me? 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 ? Niece. Thou best of savages! [Humphrey and Niece seated, and Captain Clerimont, disguised as an artist, is introduced by the Aunt to take her niece's portrait. As he proceeds with his sketch he talks as follows:-] Cap. Ladies, have you heard the news of a late marriage between a young lady of a great fortune and a younger brother of a good family? Aunt. Pray, sir, how is it? Cap. 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 sexhold 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 in all 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 him-what a charming amour is this. [Aside. Cap. 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. Cap. 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. Cap. But, madam, what were the transports of the lover when she made him that confession! Niece. I dare say she thought herself very happy when she got out of her guardian's hands. Aunt. "Tis very true, niece; there is abundance of those headstrong young baggages about town. Cap. 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 sensations 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 he had a mind to marry her. Cap. The young painter turned poet on the subject; I believe I have the words by heart. Niece. A sonnet! Pray, repeat it. Cap. When gentle Parthenissa walks, And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks, If, then, she labours to be seen With all her killing air and mien; For so much beauty, so much art, What mortal can secure his heart? Aunt. Why, this is pretty. I think a painter should never be without poetry; 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. [While the Aunt is absent the Captain throws off his disguise and proposes an elopement. Humphrey promises to assist, and the matter is cleverly carried out, while Humphrey's marriage with the lady of his choice reconciles all parties to the marriage of the Niece to Captain Clerimont.] MRS. CONSTANTIA GRIERSON.. BORN 1706- DIED 1733. [Constantia Grierson, a very extraordinary | And with some serious matron gravely talk Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd, In the few years of her married life Mrs. Grierson wrote several graceful poems,and there is no doubt had she lived she would have given to the world something it would not willingly let die. As it is, the majority of her verses are to be found in Mrs. Barber's volume of poems, while several have been lost, and some are only to be discovered after weary search among broadsides, tracts, and ephemeral publications of the period.] With a great crowd, choice meat, and little wit: You write of belles and beaux that there appear, mean, That love, or wit, or softness ever knew; |