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THE 
 
 38rotl)er in Eato. 
 
 A COMEDY. J 
 
 Les vertus se perdent dans I'int^r^t, comme les fleuves se perdent 
 dans la mer. 
 
 Rochefoucauld. 
 
 -^J^^&^*•'3i^^^J^w»^»■.^,/^ 
 
 KENT: 
 
 ^^rintet! at t]&e ptibate H^xtm of %tz i^tiotg ; 
 
 BY JOHN WARWICK. 
 I8I7. 
 
ai0F1Em®3IS1Ei«1£K®. 
 
 THE following Play, written more than six years 
 ago, is the production of a Gentleman who is known 
 not only by the graver pursuits in literature to which 
 he has directed his talents, but by the distinguished 
 manner in which he has performed the duties of a 
 sacred profession, since taken upon himself; and who 
 would therefore unwillingly consider this publication 
 as any thing more than a trifle befitting the earlier 
 period of life at which it was composed. But iVs ele- 
 gance, iVs simplicity, and the moral cast of sentiment 
 that pervades it, will, I trust, secure for it the interest 
 and praise of the cultivated and intelligent reader, who 
 will not think it an unbecoming prelude to the higher 
 and severer acquirements and tasks to which the author 
 has since aspired. 
 
 It is hoped that the Collectors of the Drama, con- 
 sidering that this work comes from a private Press, of 
 which the Copies are very limited, and whence nothing 
 can be reprinted, will deem it a desirable addition to 
 their treasures. 
 
 S. E. B. 
 
 Jan. 25, 1817. 
 
TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
 
 EARL OF BMSTOJL9 
 
 Sfc. Sfc. 8fc. 
 
 \ NAME 
 
 WHICH IS ILLUSTRATED BY SO MANY SPLENDID 
 ACTS OF BENEFICENCE, 
 
 %W W^v 
 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY HIS MOST OBEDIENT AND OBLIGED SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
,/ ' 
 

 It is solely for the purpose of shewing that this Press has not 
 been occupied in reprinting mere works of idle curiosity, that 
 the following List is given. The intrinsic merits of Raleigh, 
 Breton, Davison, Drayton, W. Browne, and Wither, as Poets, 
 can only be questioned by stupidity or ignorance. Greene's 
 Tract is very interesting; and Lord Brook's Life of Sydney is of 
 primary value to the Historian and Biographer. Scarce one of 
 these (unless Sydney) was before accessible to any but the rich 
 and fortunate Collector. And, after all, they will not be much 
 longer accessible to future purchasers in their present shape. 
 The Printer has no copies remaining of some of these works : 
 and of the major part of the rest a very small number are in his 
 possession. 
 
 The endeavour to give these works literary interest has been 
 the prime object of the Editor. But the beauty of the typogra- 
 phy, and of the wood-ornaments willy it is hoped, add greatly to 
 their attraction. 
 
 Leb Priory, 
 
 Feb.S, 1817. 
 
1. SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S POEMS. 4to. 
 
 2. NICHOLAS BRETON'S LONGING OF A BLESSED HEART. 4to. 
 3 MELANCHOLIKE HUMOURS. 4to. 
 
 4. WILLIAM BROWNE'S ORIGINAL POEMS. 4to. 
 
 5. F. DAVISON'S POETICAL RHAPSODY. 8VO. 
 
 6. M. DRAYTON'S NYMPH IDIA. rvo. 
 
 7. R. BRATHWAYTE'S ODES. Small 8vo. 
 
 8. G. WITHER'S SELECT LYRICAL PIECES. l6mo. 
 
 9. EXCERPTA TUDORIANA. Bvo. 
 
 10. R. GREENE'S GROATSWORTH OF WIT. 4to. 
 
 11. SPEECHES DELIVERED TO Q. ELIZABETH AT SUDELEY. 4to. 
 
 12. LORD BROOK'S LIFE OF SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 2 vols. Bvo. 
 
 13. LIFE OF MARGARET CAVENDISH DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 
 
 BY HERSELF. 8vo. 
 
 14. SIR H. WOTTON'S CHARACTERS OF ROBERT EARL OF ESSEX, 
 
 AND GEORGE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 8vo. 
 
 15. N. BRETON'S PRAISE OF VIRTUOUS LADIES. Small 8vo. 
 
 iWotJcrn original Sltotfe^* 
 
 16. SELECT POEMS, BY SIR E. BRYDGES. 4to. 
 
 17. OCCASIONAL POEMS, by the same. 4to. 
 
 18. DUNCLUCE CASTLE, BY E. QUILLINAN, ESQ. 
 19- STANZAS, by the same. 4to. 
 
 20. BERTRAM, A POEM IN FOUR CANTOS, BY SIR E. BRYDGES. 8vo. 
 
 21. SYLVAN WANDERER, (PROSE ESSAYS,) by the same. 2vols. 8vo. 
 
 22. DESULTORIA, by the same. Small 8vo. 
 
 23. THE BROTHER IN LAW, A COMEDY. Small 8vo. 
 
iiramatts l^ersonee. 
 
 SIR REGINALD CASTLEWYN. 
 
 HONOURABLE GEORGE TRANSIT. 
 
 MR. OPTIME. 
 
 REV. MR. TEMPLE. 
 
 HORACE STRANGE. 
 
 EDGAR TEMPLE. 
 
 CAPTAIN BELTON. 
 
 MR. FLINTLY. 
 
 TWIST. 
 
 LADY CASTLEWYN. 
 
 ELLEN DE RIVERS. 
 
 LADY GEORGINA ROSEGROVE. 
 
 CLARA OPTIME. 
 
 MRS. FLAMINIA OPTIME. 
 
 Servants, &c. &c. 
 
 Scene .... Part of Worcestershire, 
 
5i: 
 
 M 
 
THE 
 
 3$m<©w^3^ ^"^ E^aa* 
 
 act tijt :ffit^t 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Jpartment in the Rev. Mr. Templets Parsonage. 
 
 Enter Rev. Mr. Temple* 
 
 Temple. I shall begin to think that the best of 
 all medicines for my weak nerves and body, is an 
 errand of benevolence5 since I feel not the least weary 
 with my long walk. . . The benevolent interest which 
 Lady Georgina takes in the good of these poor cot- 
 tagers, exhibits traces of a heart the most esti- 
 mable and amiable. There is indeed something in 
 her whole character which pleases me exceedingly. 
 With the innocent vivacity of a child of Nature, she 
 unites the graces and accomplishments, the dignity 
 and spirit that ought to be the true distinction of a 
 woman of rank. . But who comes hither. . . . Yes. . . . 
 It is ! [Enter Horace Strange.'] Welcome, always 
 welcome, Horace, to the Parsonage. 
 
 Horace. My dear Sir, I rejoice to see you. . And 
 how are you, and all my old acquaintance? Is 
 Optime as stout and hale as ever ? ., 
 
4 'Ef)t 3^rot5et in Sato» 
 
 Temple. Yes . . he enjoys his usual health and 
 spirits, and continues as fond of his house, grounds, 
 and garden, as ... . 
 
 Horace. His sister is of old times, old fashions, 
 and old manners. 
 
 Temple. Why, I believe that in general, our pre- 
 possessions and our prejudices are not found to be- 
 come weaker as we advance further into the vale of 
 years. 
 
 Horace. And does your other neighbour. Sir 
 Reginald Castlewyn, still make use of his universal 
 charity for a cloak, I am afraid, to his insensibility ? 
 
 Temple. Horace . . this is to rail . . not to speak 
 the truth. 
 
 Horace. Well, perhaps it is. . . But I have no 
 patience with those whining sentimentalists who can 
 mourn over an earthquake in China, or a massacre 
 at Otaheite, and yet let all considerations of kindred, 
 friends, and relations, drop from their minds, as 
 things in which they have no concern. 
 
 Temple. Surely you don't mean to insinuate that 
 Sir Reginald is this sort of character. 
 
 Horace. Not exactly soj for it is as difficult, in 
 my opinion^ to give a clear and certain notion of his 
 character, as to define the figure of the fleeting air. 
 
 Temple. Come, come, I must have you think 
 better of Sir Reginald, than I perceive you are dis- 
 
15tot Jet in Eato 5 
 
 Act I. 
 
 posed to do. For though he does not, like Lady 
 Georgina Rosegrove, make me the ahnoner of his 
 charities, yet, woe be to us, if we were from that to 
 pronounce him insensible to the finest of human 
 affections. 
 
 Horace. Such a verdict, I grant, would be an 
 unjust one . . But, speaking of Lady Georgina Rose- 
 grove, allow me to ask how long she has been at the 
 Abbey. 
 
 Temple. What, then, you are acquainted with 
 
 her Ah, Horace, if the fashionable world were 
 
 composed of such beings as yourself and her, we 
 should have no pretence to declaim in our pulpits 
 against the vices and follies of the great. 
 
 Horace. Surely, you do not think that all vices, 
 any more than all virtues, centre in the great. There 
 are those I know, who make such a disadvantageous 
 portraiture of them, that nothing pleasing or hand- 
 some, no lines of rectitude or candour appear. But 
 you will not conclude, because they make little ap- 
 proach in their lives to those of angels, they there- 
 fore make an approach to those of demons ? 
 
 Temple. No . . far be such a conclusion But 
 
 tell me, can you see and converse with Lady Geor- 
 gina, and still wish to remain a bachelor ? 
 
 Horace. She is a jewel, I confess, that would 
 tempt a man to become a thief. Yet what chance 
 
6 .... mje nxotl)tx in Eafe. 
 
 Kl^ Scene ] 
 
 can I have of gaining the affections of a Lady, who 
 has, T dare say, as many dependents on her favour, 
 as a Prime Minister. 
 
 Temple. Well, for my part, from what I have 
 seen of her, I can't help having a sort of presenti- 
 ment, that she entertains a much higher opinion of 
 your merits, than you yourself have of them. 
 
 Horace. Would you were a true prophet? For 
 know, as it is in some countries the practice for the 
 confessor to be the match -maker, that among the 
 principal inducements for paying my long promised 
 visit at this time, was the hope of meeting with her 
 Ladyship at the Abbey. A few weeks in the country 
 would help me better to discover her real character, 
 than a whole winter in London, as, there, every one 
 may be said to be in masquerade. 
 
 Enter a Servant, [Gives Mr. Temple a letter.'] 
 
 Temple. [Reads to himself?^ Bid the person wait 
 for an answer. [Exit servant^ I'll just step into 
 my library for a few minutes, Horace, and then re- 
 turn to you. [Exit. 
 
 Horace. My friend, I perceive, still carries with 
 him that heart-touching look of patience, which 
 bends in mute submission to the will of heaven ; yet 
 with it, that fixed air of sadness which a severe 
 struggle with unhappiness, seldom fails to rivet on 
 
 1 
 
Act I. 
 
 the human countenance . . Well he may. . . His are no 
 ordinary sorrows . . How I long, yet scarcely know 
 how, to open to him the tidings I have received 
 about his son. . . Let me consider .... \^Sits down. 
 
 Enter Mr. Temple unperceived. 
 
 Temple. What musing, Horace, on our late dis- 
 course ? 
 
 Horace. No, Sir.. my thoughts had taken an- 
 other, but a very natural, turn. I never think of 
 Matrimony, but the wretched situation of your 
 lovely ward is before my eyes. Does she still con- 
 tinue in her harmless distemper ? 
 
 Temple. There, you have struck a chord, that 
 vibrates to the inmost core of my bosom. Alas ! 
 she eats and sleeps of late, less than ever 5 and 
 whatever she utters, is connected with the name of 
 my poor Edgar. Whole days, however, she does 
 not exchange a syllable with her sister, but sighs 
 and moans, as if inward grief would choke up her 
 vital spirits. Oh, could I have seen her the wife 
 of my Edgar, I had then been happy as mortal could 
 have been . . Now there is nothing left for me but 
 resignation. Where can I seek or find consolation 
 for the loss of an only son, and such a son as my 
 Edgar was, but in the hope of meeting him in that 
 final state, where tears and sorrows shall be no more. 
 
8 mjc Brot]&^r in Safe. 
 
 Scene '. 
 
 Horace. You will recollect, my dear Sir, that 
 Edgar's death was never officially confirmed from 
 India. Who can say then, that a father's prayers 
 for his life have been unheard. 
 
 Temple. Could I believe that a doubt still exist- 
 ed of his being dead, how soon would despair give 
 place to hope. 
 
 Horace. \_Aside.'] Now I think is the time. 
 [Turning to Tewp/e.] . . Mine, I trust, is an active, 
 and not a verbal friendship. . . On the arrival of the 
 East India fleet in the river, I boarded every ship in 
 the expectation of finding some person who had 
 escaped, or been liberated from the fortress of Ally 
 Ghur . . the place you know most likely for your 
 son's confinement, as near to it the action was 
 fought, in which he was returned among the miss- 
 ing. 
 
 Temple. Pray proceed. 
 
 Horace. At length, I met with one, who had 
 been a prisoner there so late as nine months ago. . . 
 I described to him your son's person, and added that 
 his name was Temple. . . He instantly recollected, 
 that there had been a young man in the same prison 
 with himself, exactly answering to my description, 
 who had escaped some time before his own release, 
 and that his name was .... 
 
 Temple. What? 
 
^]&e ^xoif)et in Safe 9 
 
 Horace. Edgar ' 
 
 Temple. Ruler of Heaven and Earth, can this 
 be true ? . . May I hope once more to embrace my 
 child ! . . [^Clasping Horace's hands with affectionate 
 warmth.'] . . You are a most kind friend . . But I will 
 not thank you . . for to a heart constituted as your's 
 is, to have been thus employed, is itself a happiness. 
 
 Horace. A happiness indeed . . 
 
 Temple. The natural bias of the mind, in afflic- 
 tion's school, is to look only to the worst: and I have 
 been so long trained in it, that this unexpected 
 news seems too much for me. . . Give me your arm. 
 [Exeunt. Temple leaning on the arm 
 of Horace. 
 
 A dressing room in Mr. Optime's house. The Hon. George Transit at a tables 
 toith a book in his hand, and his servant Twist adjusting his hair. 
 
 Transit. So Lady Georgina arrived last week. 
 
 Twist. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Transit. Well, Twist, as thou art the manu- 
 script of my secrets, learn, that I have come down 
 to the Abbey to woo, win, and wed her fascinating 
 Ladyship. It will be plaguy hard, if I don't suc- 
 ceed in this affair, for if I don't strike her as a man 
 
10 ^f)e 33rot]&cr in Eato» 
 
 Act I. <•> Scene II. 
 
 of fashion, of which there is little doubt, she surely 
 can't withstand me as an Author, especially after my 
 discovery about ears. 
 
 Twist. \_Aside.'} It should have been ton^e for 
 a woman. 
 
 Transit. Women, however, are but a sort of 
 errata with us authors. I must therefore understand 
 her Ladyship's temper thoroughly, lest I should 
 make shipwreck of my literary reputation upon the 
 rock of matrimony. 
 
 Twist. \_Aside.'] Which may be put into a nut- 
 shell. . . Aye Sir, it will be a joyful day to me, when 
 you exchange the name of author for that of hus- 
 band. 
 
 Transit. [Rising from his chair in a great passion.'] 
 Why you drivelling dolt, you scum of ignorance, 
 you lumber of a man of letters, do you dare to 
 insinuate I have employed my pen to no purpose? 
 Don't you know, that for all the good things, the 
 superlatively good things I enjoy, I'm chiefly in- 
 debted to my pen? It is that alone, you blockhead, 
 which makes me so much noticed and caressed in 
 every house I enter . . Before I was noted in cata- 
 logues, as an author, the Honorable George Transit 
 was as much overlooked as if he had been only the 
 sign of a man . . But the moment my propitious stars 
 inspired me with the idea of writing a book, the case 
 
t!r]&ci3rot]&ct in Sato 11 
 
 was altered j . . now, if I'm dull, I'm only said to be 
 thoughtful, and what was before called folly in me, 
 is styled literary eccentricity. If you regard your 
 Master then, you dog, as you profess to do, you will 
 celebrate the day he turned author as the happiest 
 event of his life. 
 
 Twist. I'm sure Sir, I was only going to say. . . . 
 
 Transit. Let me have no more of your sayings. . 
 And do you hear, make the best of your way to 
 Worcester. See, if my fame as an author, has 
 spread into this County. . . Tell the booksellers, I'm 
 the town-talk . . I must be stared at by all the visit- 
 able people here, and have my name buzzed about, 
 or else I shall appear in my mistress's eyes, as a fel- 
 low who walks like a shadow, and leaves no print of 
 him behind. 
 
 Twist. And yet. Sir, you have a deal of honor- 
 able blood in your veins. 
 
 Transit. Honorable blood . . i' faith . . Yes, I 
 have blood. 
 
 Twist. Certainly, Sir. 
 
 Transit. Blood may be well enough to keep 
 such stupid beings as Mr. Optime and his Sister 
 agape, but I prefer living merits to the renown of 
 ancestry. My book is above all pedigree . . Begone 
 then to Worcester. 
 
12 '^\)t ^xoif)tx in Eato, 
 
 Twist. You may depend upon it. Sir, I'll make 
 you known there. 
 
 Transit. Well, I must confess, your exertions 
 might prove highly serviceable to an author whose 
 works began to lie heavy on the shelves of his book- 
 seller. 
 
 Twist. True, Sir . . Take the following instance 
 as a specimen of my address . . You remember Sir, 
 having promised me twenty pounds, if your book 
 came to a second edition before we left town. 
 
 Transit. And did I not keep my promise? 
 
 Twist. Certainly, Sir. 
 
 Transit. What does the fellow mean then? 
 
 Twist. I only mean to tell you Sir, by what 
 contrivance of mine it came to a second edition. 
 
 Transit. Your contrivance. 
 
 Twist. Yes, Sir, by my contrivance. 
 
 Transit. Oh, pray let's have it. 
 
 Twist. Why, Sir, the morning you made that 
 promise, I called on two acquaintances, sharp fel- 
 lows like myself, and before eight in the evening, 
 we had visited separately every booksellers shop of 
 respectability in the town . . In I went, turned over 
 the catalogues, looked at the title pages, admired 
 the bindings, then asked for your book . . Not got it 
 Sir . . You surprise me . . I want six copies of it . . 
 get it me to-morrow . . or I'll leave your shop . . for 
 
^Je l^xoiitx in Ealv 13 
 
 the next shop. Sir, I meant to visit. . . The very next 
 day after this circuit, I recollect your publisher made 
 you a handsome offer for the second edition. . . Thus, 
 Sir, I humbly conceive that though I can't write 
 books, yet I have as ingenious an invention for dis- 
 posing of them, as any hoaxer in the town. 
 
 Transit. lAside.'] A pleasant discovery this . . 
 So then it is owing to this expedient, that I see my 
 book stuck up almost in every shop between Tem- 
 ple-bar and Piccadilly. 
 
 Twist. [Jside.'] Where, I'll be bound it re- 
 mains, till it finds it's way to the pastry-cook or 
 trunk-maker. 
 
 A knock without. 
 
 Transit. See who's there. 
 
 Twist. [Returning,'] Mr. Optime, Sir. 
 
 Transit. Then do you begone. [Exit Twist. 
 
 EiUer Mr. Optime. 
 
 Optime. Ah, my dear George, how is it with 
 you. I'm vastly glad to see you once more among 
 us. 'Tis an age since you have paid us a visit. 
 
 Transit. I'm happy to perceive, Sir, by your 
 looks, that all enquiries after your health are super- 
 fluous. . . I hope too that Mrs. Flaminia, and Miss 
 Optime, are both well. 
 
14 ^Je ^xoil}tx itt Sahj. 
 
 Optime. How should they be otherwise, when 
 Hygeia has here fixed her favourite seat. 
 
 Transit. \_Aside.'] So, my old ^ardian has got 
 upon his hobby horse already. But I'll let him ride 
 it, as a good word from him may be of service to 
 me with Lady Georgina. ITurning to Optime.'] 
 Very true, this is the spot to enjoy good health . . 
 Here I shall take no other physic than wholesome 
 walks . . Here too 1 shall find harmless plenty, in- 
 stead of guilty luxury. 
 
 Optime. Why, foreigners may talk as much as 
 they like about Tuscan or Turin veal, the hams of 
 Mentz and Bayonne, the red-leg partridges of the 
 Genoa hills, and the fat liver of a Venetian goose, 
 but I think we can match these rare delicacies at the 
 Abbey. Hey, George, can't we? 
 
 Transit. Certainly, Sir. But every thing about 
 your estate shews excellence and taste. The very 
 water seems as clear and wholesome, as if it darted 
 from the breasts of a marble nymph, or the urn of a 
 river God. 
 
 Optime. Yes, George, all that you see here of 
 design, art, or taste, is the work of the owner him- 
 self. Your travelled gentlemen, forsooth, are for 
 crying up the gardens of France and Italy. But do 
 you ever see there such openings, such transitions, 
 as in the grounds of the Abbey. No . . all is stiff 
 
^j^c 13totl)cr in Sato 15 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 
 and unnatural. In France, for instance, a garden is 
 disposed like the human bodvj alleys, like legs and 
 arms, answering each other, and the great walk in 
 the middle represents the trunk. Now in my gar- 
 dens, nature reigns in a kind of wild simplicity. . 
 zig-zag walks, picturesque lanes, rough rocks, al- 
 pine bridges, dark caverns, trees ill-formed, and 
 seemingly rent by tempests, or blasted by lightning. . 
 Hey George } But to change the subject, for you 
 know I'm always shy of speaking about these things, 
 is it true that you are the humble slave of our fair 
 relative and visitor Lady Georgina Rosegrove. 
 
 Transit. General report says so, and general 
 report does not lie in this instance. 
 
 Optime. Well, my boy, if you hope to become a 
 thriving wooer, you must think of studying the Belle, 
 instead of the belles lettres. Do you take me, 
 George ? 
 
 Transit. Perfectly. . . We flatter ourselves, how- 
 ever, that our person is as interesting in the drawing 
 room, as our writings have rendered us in the library. 
 Besides, there is a certain goddess called Confidence, 
 who carries a main stroke in a gentleman's prefer- 
 ment. Now this aforesaid Divinity, at whose beck 
 Cupid is, and upon whom Fortune waits, is not apt 
 to desert me, when most I stand in need of her. 
 
 Optime. [^Aside.'] So, I perceive my friend 
 
16 mjt ^totijtv in Sato* 
 
 <•> Scene 11. 
 
 George and Modesty are still utter strangers to each 
 other. . . Wellj you have my best wishes for your 
 success . . But, apropos, talking of success, are you 
 and the town of the same opinion with respect to the 
 merits of your book on Ears. . . By the bye, this sys- 
 tem of telling what people are by the form of their 
 ears would be mighty convenient, if it could be 
 always depended on 3 . . where did you pick it up, or 
 is it all your own fertile invention, as every thing 
 about the Abbey is mine. 
 
 Transit. Why, Sir, 111 let you into my secret, 
 as I see clearly from the shape of your ears, you'll 
 not reveal it. You are to know then, in my last trip 
 to Paris, I had the great good fortune to meet with 
 a Jesuit there who had been four years among the 
 Hurons, a most sagacious race of demi-savages in 
 North America. From him I learnt, that all their 
 chiefs were elected by the shape of their ears; I 
 therefore got this learned man to shew me drawings, 
 taken on the spot, of these ears under their various 
 forms, and by comparing them with those of my 
 acquaintances, whose dispositions and* characters I 
 previously had studied, I thus learnt to build a sys- 
 tem, which, I have no doubt, when it comes to be 
 well understood, will completely supersede that of 
 Lavater, so that, instead of having to look at 
 people's faces to discover their minds, a peep at the 
 
^fte moif)tt in Eaft) 17 
 
 ears will at once do the business. . . That my book 
 is already thought to discover great marks of ori- 
 ginal genius is best proved from it's being in a 
 second edition. 
 
 Optime. Come, I'm glad to hear of this, as my 
 Review says .... 
 
 Transit. Why, my dear Sir, I hope you don't 
 attend to what a Review says .... 
 
 Optime. My Review says . . some books are to 
 be swallowed, others digested, and some only to be 
 tasted, but that yours was so ... . 
 
 Transit. lAside.'] A pest on your memory. . . 
 I understand you, it was sheer nonsense . . trite de- 
 clamation . . sand without lime . . and so forth. . . 
 
 Optime. But George, by your looks, one would 
 think that you feared these Reviews as much as 
 guilty persons do a magistrate. 
 
 Transit. lAside.'] Confound your simile. . . 
 Upon honor. Sir, you were never more mistaken in 
 your life . . I fear a Review . . Ha, ha, ha . . I beg 
 your pardon for laughing, but really the, the, the . . 
 [Aside] Would the fellow had never existed who 
 first invented a Review. 
 
 Optime. Well, perhaps I may be wrong, not 
 understanding much of these things 3 but if I were 
 a moneyed author like yourself, I should see if my 
 money could not buy me some praise j for though 
 
18 Z\)t^xoi\)ttinn&ix). 
 
 you may have arrived at that happy pitch of philo- 
 sophy, as to care not a bulrush for their abuse, yet 
 as the Reviewers do somehow manage to guide the 
 taste of the town .... 
 
 Transit. Because so few people will be at the 
 trouble of judging for themselves. 
 
 Optime. a bribe well employed . . You take 
 me. 
 
 Transit. Yes . . But they won't take me, or else 
 I should have bought their impartiality. \_Aside.'] 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Servant. [^Speaking to Transit?^ Sir, my mis- 
 tress bids me tell you, she will be happy to receive 
 you in the drawing-room. 
 Transit. Say, 111 wait upon her. \_Exit servant. 
 
 Optime. And quickly too, George, after this 
 summons. For my good old Sister, whom I don't 
 like the less for being something primeval, is as 
 great a stickler about forms, as if she walked the 
 circle as Empress of Russia. No one understands 
 better than she, when the nod, the half-smile, the 
 whole smile should be given. Fly then, to make 
 your appearance before the presence, or else you may 
 happen to get nothing more than the positive nod. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
-Srjc ISrotl&cr in Sato 19 
 
 Transit. And a precious appearance I should 
 make, if your fine Ladies ever looked into these 
 detestable Reviews. \_Exit. 
 
 ^ 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 jin apartment in Mr. Optime's house. 
 Enter Mrs. Flaminia Optime and Clara Optime. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. All this. Miss Optime, pro- 
 ceeds from not being educated under my eye. Had 
 that been the case, I should have made you sensible 
 of the folly of imbibing these hasty prejudices. 
 
 Glara. But I have a reaison. Aunt. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Yes, and so has the man who 
 robs a church a reeison for what he does. But pray 
 let's hear this reason. 
 
 Clara. Why then. Madam, I have grounds for 
 believing that Mr. Flintly is one of those men, to 
 whom religion, honor, conscience are but words, 
 and no more. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Fie, fie. Miss Optime..! 
 know Mr. Flintly, esteem him, and will do him jus- 
 tice. Can you seriously believe, that if he were the 
 character you represent him, either your Father or 
 I should receive such a visitor? But good simple 
 soul, he never speaks ill of any one. 
 
20 ^l)£ 25rot]&^r in Eato, 
 
 Act I. <:':- Scene III. 
 
 Clara. Whom does he speak well of? 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. I fancy. Miss Optime, I should 
 have none of these sort of insinuations thrown out 
 against my favourite, if you were not in expectation 
 of a certain Captain coming to lay his person and 
 fortune at your feet. But if you are wise, child, 
 you'll give your hand to Mr. Flintly. His heart is 
 an excellent one 3 and as to manners, look round 
 the world, and tell me where you can find his equal 
 in the refined breeding of old times . . Even though 
 we are on the most intimate footing with each other, 
 he never forgets to address me by the title of 
 Madam. Take that now as an instance of the po- 
 liteness of his style, and of the delicacy of his atten- 
 tions .... But I see Lady Georgina coming this way; 
 another time I shall renew this subject, when I 
 hope to find you more disposed to listen to my 
 advice. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Lady Georgina Kosegrove. .^.jmch} 
 Clara. Why, my dear Georgina, where have 
 you been rambling all this morning? You seem so 
 fond of the beauties of Nature, that 'tis pity you 
 were ever i.ut of sight of them. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Oh yes . . the moment I 
 breathe the country air, I feel myself elastic, and 
 ready at sunrise to worship the genius of the hills 
 
Zit i3rot|&cr in Eabj 21 
 
 Act I. <•> Scene III. 
 
 and dales. Nature every where presents objects of 
 delight, after a long imprisonment in town. The 
 sweet chirpings of birds in woods and fields, the soft 
 rippling of streams have inexpressible charms ; 
 while the rude winds whistle in a tune not unpleasant, 
 and even the dewy earth yields a scent most whole- 
 some and medicinal. But what's the matter . . why 
 do you look so ruffled } 
 
 Clara. My aunt has been here, teazing me about 
 that odious wretch Flintly, though the sensitive 
 plant shrinks not more instinctively at the touch 
 than I do at his name. Yet for all I have been tell- 
 ing her he is the greatest of hypocrites, she still per- 
 sists in importuning me to receive his addresses. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Your Aunt is a very kind and 
 a very provident Aunt. She is willing to procure 
 you a husband at any price before she kneels in 
 brass or marble, and you are an ungrateful girl not 
 to acknowledge her kindness. - 
 
 Clara. Psha . . you are almost as provoking as 
 she is. 
 
 Lady Georgina. But is there no other cause for 
 your aversion to this match of your Aunt's ? 
 
 Clara. Why there is . . You'll laugh though, if 
 I tell you, and then .... 
 
 Lady Georgina. Come, I'll cut the gordian 
 knot at once . . You are in love with another man. 
 
22 '^Tj&c 33tot5et in Safe* 
 
 That's as it should be. Now for the details. I 
 hope the story is a romantic one . . That's the mood 
 I'm in at present . . the last six months, I was in the 
 dissipated. We fine Ladies, my pretty recluse, vary 
 our humours, as often as we do our dresses. But 
 to the story. . This favoured lover you first met. . . . 
 
 Clara. At Malvern Wells. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Where soon he vowed your 
 lips were coral, your eyes jewels, and your cheeks 
 white and red roses. 
 
 Clara. Something to this purpose, I believe he 
 said. 
 
 Lady Georgina. And the name of this inamorato 
 is ... . 
 
 Clara. Captain Belton. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Why ! to the best of my recol- 
 lection, just such pretty things did this same Captain 
 say to me about a year ago. 
 
 Clara. Lady Georgina! .... 
 
 Lady Georgina. Miss Optime! .... 
 
 Clara. You surprise me ! 
 
 Lady Georgina. And you amaze me! 
 
 Clara. Adieu to happiness, if Captain Belton be 
 the man of your choice. None knows so well as 
 your Ladyship how to maintain ascendancy over the 
 heart. Your eyes are well disciplined troops 3 they 
 know how to attack and to conquer. May I ask 
 
^f^z 35rot]&er in Safe 23 
 
 when you are to be united to this false ungrateful 
 man? 
 
 Lady Georgina. When noblemen and their 
 wives are seen to take the air in the same coaches -, 
 when physicians grow religious, and country squires 
 fond of books. 
 
 Clara. And have you been in jest all this while? 
 
 Lady Georgina. Why, you love-sick simpleton, 
 can't you understand a little innocent raillery? 
 
 Clara. But you know Captain Belton ? 
 
 Lady Georgina. Yes, he was one of my dan- 
 glers. But I soon struck him off my list. Let me 
 see . . for his duUnes ? no, that was not the crime. 
 For his impudence ? no, nor for that neither. For 
 his self-conceit? yes, that was the unpardonable of- 
 fence. 
 
 Clara. Are you in jest now ? 
 
 Lady Georgina. Come, come, don't be alarmed 
 again. Your Aunt will add difficulties enough to 
 your attachment, without my increasing the number 
 of them. In sober seriousness, this said Captain is 
 worth some pains. He is a gentleman by birth, 
 fortune, and education 3 and should it be no longer 
 fashionable in the next winter for our young men to 
 be coxcombs, your Captain, both in head and heart, 
 will then be a valuable man. 
 
24 Zie ^xotin hi Eato- 
 
 Act I. <•> Scene III. 
 
 Enter Servant* 
 
 Servant. Mr. Strange to wait upon you. 
 Madam. 
 
 Clara. Show him into the next room. Now, 
 Lady Georgina, I'll introduce you to one, of whom 
 any woman may be proud to make a conquest. He 
 would be worth a thousand such admirers as your 
 Mr. Transit. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Not a word will I hear against 
 Transit. For really, my dear, after listening an 
 hour to your father about his house, lawns, streams, 
 statues, and temples, and to your Aunt about Ger- 
 man etiquette, and pommade divine, I find the con- 
 versation of the literary Mr. Transit quite refresh- 
 ing. But of this Mr. Strange, whom you seem to 
 be quite in the vein to eulogize, observe, it will not 
 be the first time of our meeting. 
 
 Clara. Then I am sure you will not think of 
 comparing Mr. Transit to him. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Why, child, I believe I can 
 contrive to distinguish between gems and pebbles. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
^Je ^xoif}tv in Eafo 25 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A library in Sir Reginald Castlewyti's house; Sir Reginald discovered reading. 
 
 Sir Reginald. ^Putting down the book.'] I can 
 read no more j every line is bitter gall to my con- 
 science. How weary am I of this lingering* life! 
 Had I lived obscure in humbleness, nay, in poverty, 
 I had been supremely happy, compared with what I 
 now am . . Oh Ellen, whose form haunts me by day 
 and by night, gladly would I now surrender up my 
 whole fortune to see thee once more restored to thy 
 senses .... x\las ! . . thy disease is beyond hope, be- 
 yond cure. . . Damned thirst of wealth I that dried up 
 the soft springs of pity in my heart, and taught my 
 tongue to frame the execrable lie which drove thee 
 into madness. . . Well may she loathe my presence, 
 and start and tremble at my name. . . But justly has 
 offended Heaven visited that act of mine. To have 
 heirs to my large estate was my daily prayer. . . They 
 came, and when I began to see my face in their open- 
 ing looks, and to hear the first accents of their lisping 
 tongues, they one by one were snatched from me. 
 My wife, my beloved wife too must soon sink under 
 this accumulated weight of wretchedness . . Curst be 
 the hour I was born. . . Here comes one, however. 
 
 J 
 
Zije ^xotitx in Sato. 
 
 Act II. <•> Scene I. 
 
 with a heart that cannot feel, a face that cannot 
 blush. 
 
 Enter Mr. Flintly. 
 
 Flintly. So early at your books. Sir Reginald } 
 
 Sir Reginald. They are my best companions, 
 except when I'm favoured by a visit from a friend 
 like you. Any news this morning? 
 
 Flintly. Yes, I have news that would try the pa- 
 tience of a Stoic. 
 
 Sir Reginald. ILooks alarmed.'] What is it, 
 pray? 
 
 Flintly. Why, after having ingratiated myself 
 with Optime by the most lavish praises of every 
 thing animate and inanimate about his estate, and 
 gained his Sister by humouring all her ridiculous 
 antiquated absurdities, I'm in a fair way of losing 
 Her for whose sake I have willingly let these old 
 people rob me of my time and temper. 
 
 Sir Reginald. How so? 
 
 Flintly. By the hourly expected arrival of Cap- 
 tain Belton. 
 
 Sir Reginald. But if the affections of Miss 
 Optime be your's, I can't see why the visit of that 
 gentleman should be a matter of this disturbance 
 to you. 
 
 Flintly. Nor would it, were I secure of her 
 
^Je 5^rot5)cr in Sato 27 
 
 Act II. <•> Scene I. 
 
 aiFections. It however so happens, that this Cap- 
 tain Belton was a great favourite with Clara, when 
 they met at Malvern last summer j and Optime, I 
 understand, has given him an invitation to pass the 
 race week at his house. Confound the young fellow 
 for thus darkening the bright prospect in view. My 
 way before was smooth and easy . . now it will re- 
 quire the most wary walking . . unless by our ma- 
 noeuvres .... 
 
 Sir Reginald. Our manoeuvres, Mr. Flintly ! 
 
 Flintly. 'Twas my word. Sir Reginald. 
 
 Sir Reginald. I trust my friend believes 1 ex- 
 ceedingly regret this appearance of a Rival, but . . 
 but .... 
 
 Flintly. Look ye. Sir Reginald, I want some- 
 thing more from you than that poor comfort of dis- 
 appointment, pity. I must have your aid, your .... 
 
 Sir Reginald. Then let me tell you, Mr. Flint- 
 ly, you presume too much on my friendship, if you 
 suppose that I will be an agent in any of your clan- 
 destine schemes against Miss Optime. 
 
 Flintly. What miracle may we next expect, 
 when Sir Reginald Castlewyn turns scrupulous ! 1 
 should have thought, when he got me to suppr^fes 
 certain letters of Edgar to his father and Ellen, and 
 to do my utmost to blast the young man's fair fame 
 forever, he had from that time laid aside the rags 
 
28 Zl)t 13rotJcr in Hato, 
 
 of conscience fit only to keep such Churchmen warm 
 as old Temple. 
 
 Sir Reginald. You are pleasant Sir: pray pro- 
 ceed. . . IJside] Down, down the swellings of my 
 tortured heart. 
 
 Flintly. I am scarcely able to comply with your 
 request^ so amazed do I feel, that he, whose con- 
 scious thoughts must be so full of guilt as to shake 
 with horror to have them sifted, should now pre- 
 tend to have his sharp compunctions, and to raise a 
 bugbear shadow of difficulty where there should be 
 no difficulty . . {^Advancing to Sir Reginald with a 
 taunting air."] Because you are not exposed, do you 
 therefore think yourself secure ? {^Speaking again in 
 an impressive voice.'] Who was it. Sir Reginald, 
 drove Ellen De Rivers mad, by telling her, without 
 the smallest preparation, and at a moment when she 
 expected to have heard of his return, that her Edgar 
 was dead? . . Who was it, 1 say, bribed me to con- 
 ceal .... 
 
 Sir Reginald. Peace, peace.. your words are 
 daggers to me. Oh bring to my mind no recollec- 
 tion of the past, lest I should .... 
 
 Flintly. Hush . . some one approaches. 
 
 Sir Reginald. 'Tis my wife . . Forget what I 
 have just now uttered, and command my services . . 
 But now 1 beg you to withdraw. 
 
Zf)e i^rot^cr in Sato 29 
 
 Flintly. I know no pleasure so great, as that of 
 obliging my dear friend. Sir Reginald Castlewyn. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lady Castlewyn. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Well, my love, what kind of 
 night has our poor Ellen passed ? 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. It will be long before I bring 
 you good tidings from that quarter. She spent the 
 night in melancholy musings. Still over past scenes 
 her memory delights to brood, and time but makes 
 the impression stronger. I'll spare your feeling 
 heart further particulars, as none can more deeply 
 compassionate her state than yourself. For often in 
 your sleep you talk most wildly about her and the 
 lost Edgar, and sometimes, strange to add, in such 
 bitter accents as if you were in dreadful enmity 
 against them. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Indeed ! Wake me for the future 
 I intreat you, when you find me thus disturbed. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. I will. But cannot this fine 
 morning tempt you abroad ? I am sure it will be of 
 service to your health. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Perhaps it may., my spirits 
 have been much depressed this morning. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. I have generally observed 
 after the visits of Mr, Flintly, a deeper melancholy 
 
30 mje ^toiijtx in 2lafe« 
 
 Act II. <:> Scene I. 
 
 than usual seizes you. But he is your friend, and 
 that endows him in my eyes with every good. 
 
 Sir Reginald. '[Jside.'] Oh, insupportable ! 
 
 Lady Castle wyn. I must leave you now for 
 the present, as this is the time for my again visiting 
 the poor sufferer : when that sad duty is performed, 
 I'll follow you to the terrace. 
 
 lExit. Lady Castlewyn. 
 
 Sir Reginald. If she had remained a moment 
 longer, I must have betrayed myself. And then, 
 when she saw my acts, naked as they must one day 
 be seen, how justly would the name of best be 
 changed into the worst of mankind! Surely, if I 
 had not found such an instrument of villany in Flint- 
 ly, 1 could not have plunged myself in such utter 
 misery, merely to die overwhelmed with riches . . 
 I once had humanity, and was pleased to tread in the 
 paths of virtue. . . Oh love of gold ! thou fiend that 
 I have made the god of my idolatry, how fatally 
 have 1 Vjeen deceived when I thought that he who 
 was possessed of thee could command honor, re- 
 spect, nay, happiness itself! [Exit. 
 
tlTj&e ISrotSer ftt Sato 31 
 
 Act II. 
 
 An apartment in Sir Reginald CastlevDyn*8 houses a door at the bottom qfthe room, 
 leading to a garden . . . Ellen De Rivers discovered sleeping on a sqfa. 
 
 Enter Lady Castlewyn. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. [Looking pensively at her 
 Sister."] How calm she now appears : her sleep 
 seems like the rest of infants. After this kind of 
 slumber^ I have generally the satisfaction of perceiv- 
 ing her mind more tranquil, and her lucid intervals 
 longer than at any other period. . . Dear suffering 
 girl, hard is thy fate for one so young and good . . 
 She stirs . . Good heaven^, what a sudden change of 
 countenance there now is . . [Taking her hand eagerly.] 
 Ah, what a pang shot there, which like some 
 hideous dream writhes her to and fro . . She wakes . . 
 \_Ellen rises and looks around her with a disturbed 
 air?^ . . How does my beloved Ellen ? Why this un- 
 usual agitation^ this violent grasp ? It is your Sister 
 speaks . . Come, a little air may revive you . . Look 
 what a pleasant day it is. 
 
 Ellen. AIeis, my sister, what is day to me. 
 Morning follows morning, and year will follow year, 
 if I live so long, quite unheeded, amid this sameness 
 of miseryj since hope, who visits every wretch be- 
 sides, never comes to me. 
 
32 '2:]&c liJrot Jet in Eato. 
 
 Lady Castle wyn. Will you hear music r Shall 
 I touch your Harp ? 
 
 Ellen. No., no., no. The sound of music is 
 now hateful to my ears, unless you can tune the 
 notes in harmony to my soul's sadness . . Even your 
 darling children were unwelcome here^ though I 
 need not fear their intrusion, for, of late, they have 
 quite shunned me. . . How long is it. Sister, since I 
 have beheld the pretty prattlers ? . . This dizziness 
 which attacks my brain makes sad havoc with my 
 memory. Are they all well ? 
 
 Lady Castle wyn. Yes . . well . . all very well. 
 lAside] Her words are agony. But why do you 
 thus anxiously examine your dress ? . . Have you lost 
 any thing of value belonging to it ? 
 
 Ellen. [^Clasping her hands together, and looking 
 at her Sister with mingled consternation and grief.'] 
 Lost any thing of value, did you say ? . . Oh yes . . I 
 have lost my talisman . . the object of my dearest care 
 and love . . that from which I vowed with life alone to 
 part. Now it is gone, feel what an icy coldness 
 sits about my heart . . it seems as if no heat could 
 thaw it. . . Sister, methought last night, when drow- 
 siness had locked up every sense, 1 beheld a form 
 advancing with a look so grim, that had I been a 
 statue of stone, it would have daunted me. Quickly 
 it plucked the treasure from my bosom, and disap- 
 
^6e i^rotj&cr m Hah) 33 
 
 <;> Scene II. 
 
 peared beneath a caverned cliff, where the flap- 
 ping bat is heard, where creeps the poisonous toad, 
 and where the worm spins its shroud of death. . . 
 Come, Sister, let us descend in quest of it. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. iJside.'] All yesterday she 
 talked in this btrain. I'll try to draw her out of it, 
 by speaking of Mr. Temple. 
 
 Ellen. Come, dearest Sister, are you ready to 
 be gone ? 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. No . . nor will you, Ellen, 
 when I tell you, that I expect a visit every minute 
 from our old favourite, Mr. Temple. 
 
 Ellen. Temple . . the father of my Edgar! . . 
 [^She strikes her forehead with frantic violence^ Ah . . 
 ah . . what shootings do I feel through my lyain, 
 and what a mountain's weight presses on my heart . . 
 Oh Sister, if ever you loved me, if ever my life was 
 precious to your sight, if my woes did ever wet your 
 cheeks . . give, give me back my Edgar .... Vain re- 
 quest . . Would the whirlwinds at this moment bear 
 me through the air, their force were welcome. .... 
 Oh Death, thou angel of the wretched, come to my 
 relief. [Throws herself into Lady Castlewyn' s arms.'] 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Father of Mercies, look down 
 upon her sufferings . . Try to compose yourself, my 
 love. 
 
 Ellen. In vain are all attempts. Ever does my 
 
34 Zijt Umitx in Safe, 
 
 Act II. <:> Scene II. 
 
 
 restless mind bring back the form of Edgar. I am 
 transfused indeed into the object of my love, and my 
 memory is of no further use than to reflect the 
 images of what he said and did. . . Oh, dear departed 
 shade, I see thee now in fancy's eye, fair as the 
 dawn of light, and mild as the breath of spring. 
 Can I e'er forget too the day when we met to utter 
 that dreadful word. Farewell. Oh, 'twas a day that 
 sent into the heart a secret feeling of our future 
 wretchedness. The stormy wind howled through the 
 plantation as I passed along it to our place of meet- 
 ing j all green was vanished, save of pine and yew 3 
 no bird of night was heard but the moping owl, or 
 mournful rook, and every sound and sight besides 
 presented to the ear and eye nought but of accordant 
 gloominess. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Would I could soothe the 
 sorrows of thy wretched state. 
 
 Ellen. You too, who have your senses free, for 
 mine at times, I fear, sadly wander, can surely well 
 remember that hour, that awful hour, when our 
 Mother, sitting on the bed from which she never 
 rose, called Edgar and me to her, and lifting up her 
 closing eyes to Heaven, joined our hands, and died . . 
 Fit omen this, for loves like our's, that were never 
 to be blest, till we join each other in that place. 
 
"Eit Mxotijtt in Safe 35 
 
 <:> 
 
 where all blessed union is secure. . . But hark, I hear 
 footsteps. 
 
 Lady Castle wyn. {^Looking towards the garden.'] 
 'Tis only Sir Reginald, taking his lonely walk on the 
 terrace. Shall I call him to us? 
 
 Ellen. Oh, no, no. His voice is thunder, his 
 looks are lightning. Let me begone, let me begone. 
 The trembling dove, when she hears the serpent 
 gliding to devour her, is not more scared, than I am 
 at his presence. \^Exit Ellen in haste. 
 
 Lady Castle wyn. Had I not been told it w^as 
 no unusual thing for such as are afflicted with this 
 piteous malady, to express the deepest aversion to 
 those whom they before loved and esteemed the 
 most, I should be led to think there was something 
 strange, even to a fearful mystery, in her terror^ 
 whenever she sees, hears, or speaks of my dear Sir 
 Reginald. [Exit. 
 
36 'Ef)t HJrotjb^r in Sato. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 att tlje 'Eiitti. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A saloon in Mr. OpHm^s home. 
 
 Enter Transit. 
 
 Transit. Wit, like friendship, I find, is most out 
 of the way when one has the greatest need of it . . 
 Here now have I been as dumb during the whole of 
 dinner as Westminster Hall in the long vacation j 
 while that fellow Strange was solely engrossing the 
 attention of Lady Georgina. To have heard how 
 confidently he talked, any one would have imagined 
 that he, and not I, was the author. His language 
 to be sure now and then strongly relished of the 
 Critic, and there is something very suspicious in the 
 name of Horace. If 1 could only get a good view of 
 the tip of his ear, I should know at once what con- 
 clusions to make Lavater! how imperfect is his 
 
 boasted system to mine! , . The faculties of the mind 
 any fool could discern from the features of the visage, 
 but it was for me alone to catch them in the ear. 
 Well indeed may the beaver, the fox, and the race- 
 horse be proverbial for sagacity, for, in truth, their 
 ears but little exceed mine in size. Here comes the 
 gentleman, and, by all that's vexatious. Lady Geor- 
 gina with him. 
 
mjtnxotf)etinna^ 37 
 
 JS7iter Horace, Lady Georgina, and Clara. 
 
 Lady Georgina. And so the poor Lady ever 
 after that chanted her own encomiums. 
 
 Horace. Invariably. 
 
 Lady Georgina. She did perfectly right. Don't 
 you think, Mr. Transit, that, when fame has lost her 
 voice, we ought to be our own trumpets ? 
 
 Transit. Certainly, for if we don't then sing a 
 panegyric upon ourselves, who else will? 
 
 Horace. To be sure the affectation of modesty is 
 the greatest impudence, but poor must be the merits 
 of him who is obliged to be the herald of his own 
 praises. 
 
 Transit. lAside."] Confound the fellow, does he 
 mean that as a hit at me ! 
 
 Lady Georgina. Well, but let me ask, who does 
 not like flattery ? 
 
 Horace. Dear Lady Georgina, pardon me if I 
 speak a little freely 3 but I own that, of all the ill 
 weeds which the teeming soil of fashion shoots up, 
 none is so nauseous to me as flattery. 
 
 Lady Georgina. But surely there is some good 
 in flattery. This, for instance, that, by hearing what 
 we are not, we are instructed what w^e ought to be. 
 
 Clara. Are the men then all hypocrites, when 
 they praise our charms. 
 
38 mj€ l3tot!)et; in aafo* 
 
 Act III. <:> Scene I. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Yes, my dear, they are all 
 hypocrites when they have to do with our sex. 
 When they use the word Angel to us, they mean 
 only ten thousand pounds, and Goddess in their lan- 
 guage is an hundred thousand. 
 
 Transit. Fy, fy. Lady Georgina, to traduce us 
 in this manner : when you know that we men, au- 
 thors in particular, never think we can speak or 
 write properly of your sex, unless we are like the 
 pilgrim's dog in the fable, from whose paw, when- 
 ever he shook it, out flew a pearl. 
 
 Horace. Your Ladyship's satire, I must say, 
 is somewhat severe, though I can't help allowing 
 there is a monstrous abuse of words in our compli- 
 ments. Vassal and slave, the humblest tenders of 
 life and soul, no professions short of devotion and 
 admiration, are changes for ever ringing in the ears 
 of the Ladies j so that, when we really wish to con- 
 vince them of our esteem and love, we must either 
 want proper words to express them, or explore new 
 regions of nonsense in search of those terms which 
 shall beyond all dispute entitle us to merit of ori- 
 ginality in folly. 
 
 Lady Georgina. I admit this, but sincerity, I 
 am afraid, you would find a very dangerous virtue on 
 these occasions. 
 
 Horace. 'Tis pity, however, it is not more in 
 
^Jel^rotjcrittaato 39 
 
 vogue, since the practical effect of it would be to 
 prevent many persons from exposing themselves to 
 public ridicule. For instance, I dare say the w^riter 
 of the anonymous book you had in your hand before 
 dinner thinks his performance to be of the first-rate 
 merit, v^hen .... 
 
 Transit. Well Sir, and can you be of a different 
 opinion ! 
 
 Horace. Indeed I can. Wit and w^isdom were 
 formerly synonimous terms in English, but I think 
 this Author has clearly proved that they signify quite 
 opposite things 3 and that to be witty now, we are 
 to be ridiculous. 
 
 Transit. [Aside.'] Ears forsooth .. The Pig.. 
 ^Lifting up his hands to his head.'] Wimt danglers! . . 
 those monstrous cartilages hang only from an addle- 
 pate. ^Looking at Horace. 
 
 Lady Ge org in a. [Aside.] Now am I ill-natured 
 enough to wish to see Transit's vanity a little more 
 mortified. Sure Horace must know whose book he 
 is speaking of. 
 
 Transit. Well to be sure there is this advantage 
 in plain speaking, that it gives me the liberty of tell- 
 ing you without offence, that I think that smart 
 speech of yours very dull indeed. But have you any 
 thing more to say against the book of my friend ? 
 
 Horace. Your friend! 
 
40 mje l^rottcr m 2ato» 
 
 Transit. Yes. The author is a gentleman for 
 whom I entertain a most particular regard. 
 
 Horace. That declaration has closed my lips: 
 else I should have said .... 
 
 Transit, llnterrupting.'] Oh^ I beg to know 
 what you would have said. 
 
 Horace. Nay, if you are so desirous to know, 
 I'm no longer tongue-tied . . In one point of view 
 then, I must confess the Author is likely to be ser- 
 viceable to himself. 
 
 Transit. Oh, now you mean to flatter. 
 
 Jf'ORACE. No, upon my word I don't 3 for he 
 need never be at the trouble of opening his mouth 
 again to let the world know what he is, as the length 
 of his own ears, will make him sufficiently notorious 
 . . lAside] for an ass. ITurning to Transit.'] Though 
 I could advise him .... 
 
 Transit. What? 
 
 Horace. To write a libel, and then perhaps he 
 may have a chance of getting them cropped, in such 
 a way as to give them the appearance of belonging 
 to a man of reasonable understanding. 
 
 Transit. lAside.'] By all that's tormenting, a 
 Critic : and, from the tip of his ear being so much 
 disengaged, it is even betting that he belongs to the 
 infernal northern fraternity. [U^alking up and down 
 the room in a great heat."] 
 
^5e 33totJer itt Hato 41 
 
 Enter Optime. 
 
 Optime. Oh, Clara, your Aunt has been enquir- 
 ing for you. Go to her, my dear. {Exit Clara.'] 
 Hark ye, Horace, how came you to be so queer to 
 Sir Reginald? Your speeches made him sit quite 
 uneasy in his chair . . He has a delicate sense of repu- 
 tation, and touching it is like pricking a nerve, 
 quickly felt and painfully irritative. 
 
 Horace. 'Tis perhaps the fault of education, or 
 of my nature, or my nurse, who was a Welch- 
 woman, that whatever I think, I utter. 
 
 Transit. ^Aside.'] Plague on your plain speakers. 
 
 Horace. But the sight of Sir Reginald remind- 
 ed me of One, who, I must believe, has been the vic- 
 tim of his duplicity. You knew, Sir, the high sense 
 of honor in Edgar Temple, and the peculiar nature 
 of his attachment to Miss De Rivers ? 
 
 Optime. Yes, yes, I know that from children 
 they were fond of each other j and that this instinct 
 of infancy became a sentiment between them, as 
 their reason ripened. 
 
 Horace. But did you know who drove him from 
 that form of which in his eyes there ^^^was not the 
 equal ? 
 
 Optime. No, nor can I guess. 
 
 Horace. Why, this Sir Reginald. .. Too nicely 
 
4^ ^Je ^^rotjer in Sato. 
 
 Act III. <:> Scene I. 
 
 scrupulous, Mr.Temple insisted upon his son's absent- 
 ing himself from Miss De Rivers, until she came of 
 age, and, for that purpose, sought to procure him an 
 ensigncy. Apprized of this intention. Sir Reginald 
 obtained Edgar a commission in a corps, which he 
 had been privately informed was under immediate 
 orders for India : and thus his cruel kindness pro- 
 duced all the effect it was designed to have . . the 
 separation of the lovers. 
 
 Optime. Old Temple was wrong, under such 
 circumstances, to let his son go abroad. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Unhappy Ellen ! 
 
 Horace. Could my respected friend have anti- 
 cipated the lamentable result of that separation, 
 there exists not the power which could have extorted 
 his consent to it. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Is it true no letter has been 
 received by Mr. Temple from his son since his arri- 
 val in India? 
 
 Horace. As true, but from what cause time 
 alone must discover, as that he has been equally 
 silent to Miss De Rivers and myself. 
 
 Optime. If Sir Reginald has thus conducted 
 himself, ecod. Strange, I'm not sorry you did hit him 
 so hard. . . It does not surprise me now, that he had 
 no relish for my turtle, venison, and delicious ruffs 
 and rees. 
 
"SrSe 33tot]&er in Eato 43 
 
 Horace. There is no accounting, Mr. Optime, 
 for the taste of our ancestors in these things -, now, 
 no one who has the savoir vivre ever thinks of re- 
 galing his guests first with oysters and brawn, if he 
 means afterwards to give them turtle, venison, and 
 delicious ruffs and rees. 
 
 Optime. \_Aside.~\ Well, this free speaking may 
 be very fashionable, but it is vastly impertinent. 
 
 Enter Clara Optime. 
 
 Clara. Here's etiquette ! . . here attention to good 
 breeding! My Aunt has been waiting for your 
 Ladyship and the rest of you for this half hour in the 
 music room . . Well ! and why don't you obey her 
 summons ? 
 
 Optime. It should seem, my dear, from what I 
 have just heard, we are such novices in the fashion- 
 able world, that, for aught we can tell, it may be 
 quite genteel to keep your Aunt still waiting . . Hey, 
 Mr. Strange ? 
 
 Horace. That you are there too in error. Sir, 
 
 I'll convince you immediately Miss Optime, 
 
 may I beg the honor of your hand. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Transit. [To Lady Georgina.'] Allow me the 
 same happiness. 
 
 Lady Georgina. On condition you promise to 
 
44 t\)z 33rotJct in Safo* 
 
 be as good company as you were before Mr. Strange 
 abused your book. 
 
 Transit. Sheer envy, believe me; the poor in 
 merit always seek to depreciate that excellence which 
 they can't surpass. Otherwise, you would hear 
 such lines as these applied to so unique a perform- 
 ance: 
 
 Errors like straws upon the surface flow. 
 
 Those who would seek for gems must dive below. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 Optime. When I was a young man, it would 
 have been just as impudent for a visitor to tell his 
 host plump to his face that his dinner did not please 
 him, as to have brought his cook with him to dress 
 it. The puppies of my days used to cringe like , 
 setters, but those of the present times are of the 
 species of the lurcher^ which catches and snarls 
 whilst feasting. [Exit. 
 
 ?:f»<:>«.^ 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 An anti-room in Mr. Optime's house. 
 
 Enter Sib Reginald and Flintly. 
 
 Sir Reginald. I tell you, Flintly, happen what 
 
 may, my soul is bent on knowing before I quit this 
 
 house, if the affront passed on me by Mr. Strange 
 
'Z\)t 15rot]&ct in Sato 45 
 
 was intentional. . . And see, to my wish, he comes. 
 Do you withdraw, and leave us together. 
 
 Flintly. Well, for my part, Sir Reginald, I 
 thought you had been wiser than to seek a quarrel 
 with a young fellow, who may perhaps take it into 
 his head that Honor is something more than a 
 phantom to scare fools. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Fear not my caution. 
 
 lExit Flintly. 
 
 Enter Horace. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Sir, your most obedient. I 
 began to despair of being honored with this inter- 
 view. 
 
 Horace. If you have any thing, Sir Reginald, 
 to address to me, pray proceed at once to the sub- 
 ject. Few words are best, in my opinion, with 
 friends, and still fewer with enemies. 
 
 Sir Reginald. To the point then . . What were 
 your views in those particular observations which 
 you made after dinner? 
 
 Horace. Repeat them, and you shall know. 
 
 Sir Reginald. That wealth, where humanity 
 was wanting, appeared in your eyes any thing but 
 a blessing to it's possessor. 
 
 Horace. Do you deny the justice of this senti- 
 ment ? 
 
46 .... Zit ^xotitx in aafo. 
 
 Sir Reginald. No, Sir, but why did you directly 
 look towards me when you had uttered it ? 
 
 Horace. Any thing more, Sir Reginald ? 
 
 Sir Reginald. Yes, you further observed, when 
 I had said charity was not confined to the slen- 
 der interests of one person, but extended to the con- 
 cerns of all men, that no sight was now more com- 
 mon than for the most artful and selfish to assume 
 the garb of philanthropy j and then, Sir, your eyes 
 were so pointedly fixed on me, that the whole com- 
 pany saw instantly at whom this speech was levelled. 
 Now what is your explanation of this insult ? 
 
 Horace. This, and this only: that I know a 
 villain when I see him do the deeds of a villain. 
 
 Sir Reginald. A villain .... \_Aside] Oh guilt, 
 guilt ! to what art thou subject ! Sir, this is not the 
 proper place to settle this affair . . You shall soon 
 hear from me, and depend upon it, you shall find 
 that my resentment is equal to the punishment of 
 your audacity. lExit. 
 
 Horace. If my free speech is to bring me into 
 this sort of scrapes, I shall begin to call it, with 
 Lady Georgina, a dangerous virtue. Yet I cannot 
 control it without forfeiting my own esteem ; so it 
 must e'en stick to me, with all it's unlucky con- 
 sequences, until I can learn to think one thing and 
 to utter another; and that is as likely to happen, as 
 
^it l^rotf)et in Salo 47 
 
 Transit to be the greatest genius of the age. . . But 
 novv to lejoin her Ladyship . . What mind she shews 
 in every look ! Happy, transcendantly happy will he 
 be whose fate is linked with her's. lExit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Pleasure-ground adjoining Mr. Optime's house, 
 
 Ejvter Captain Belton. 
 
 Capt. Belton. So, at last I have been able to 
 make my retreat . . The company are now all engaged 
 one way or another, and Clara has promised to meet 
 me here in a few minutes. What a lovely creature 
 she is, and almost as unconscious of it as the wild 
 rose ! She will rank in the first file of the beautiful 
 in London. My fortune will be sufHcient for us, and 
 I would rather lose hers, than submit my manly 
 reason to the whims and prejudices of the Father 
 and Aunt . . I must shew therefore beforehand I have 
 a will of my own, to prevent us from quarrelling 
 like contrary elements the rest of our lives, which 1 
 should be sorry to do for my dear Clara's sake. But 
 gently, good tongue . . 1 hear a rustling among the 
 leaves. By all that's vexatious . . the old folks. 
 
48 mjt l^rot^ct in Sato* 
 
 Enter Optime and Mrs. Flaminia Optime. 
 
 Optime. What, Captain, admiring this pretty 
 spot? Come, now tell me, are you not of my 
 opinion, that the country is infinitely preferable to 
 the noise, dust, and smoke of London? 
 
 Capt. Belton. Prodigiously sorry to differ from 
 you, my dear Mr. Optime, but, 'pon honor, it would 
 be quite gothic to say so of a Capital, where every 
 thing pleases . . of a world where everything engages, 
 which presents so many seducing objects, so many 
 different pleasures. Egad, Sir, were I to acquiesce 
 in your opinion, T should be as much shunned by 
 my friends at Boodle's, as if 1 were followed thither 
 by a certain equipage of people called Duns. 
 
 Optime. lAside.'] Very likely, and the Town 
 and yourself may be exactly suited. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. For my part, to dwell in a 
 circle of dissipation, intrigues, and impositions of all 
 kinds, to find each step I took impeded by flatterers, 
 knaves, and back-biters, to partake of dinners and 
 suppers without friendship or mirth, and to live 
 with an appearance of being happy, when in reality 
 you are not less weary of these scenes of deception 
 and folly than the most wearied are, would be the 
 greatest of all punishments. 
 
 Optime. Right, Sister, in such an assemblage 
 
•^rje tSrot^cr in Eafe 49 
 
 of empty heads, aching hearts, and false fiices, we 
 two should droop like hops without poles. Now% 
 Captain, I'll submit it to your reason. 
 
 Capt. Belton. Oh, Sir, it would be a bad world, 
 with most of us, if reason were always to rule . . But 
 to wave the subject . . Pray, Sir, do you know where 
 the young Ladies have strolled ? The unhappiness 
 of the bourgeois is, he has too much to do, while our 
 misery is, without company we know not what to 
 do. \_Goes to the end of the walk to look for them. 
 
 Optime. [_Apart to his Sister."] Here is an impu- 
 dent puppy for you . . complains he wants company, 
 while we are close at his elbow ! lAside.] But the 
 fellow can have no brains, or else before this, I 
 should have heard how much he admired my house 
 and gardens. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Brother, the impertinence of 
 the young men of the age is quite intolerable. Oh, 
 they are nothing to be compared to those of my days. 
 
 Optime. \_Advances to Capt. Belton.'] 'Tis pity. 
 Captain, when you find time to hang thus heavy on 
 your hands, you were not obliged to go through 
 the manual. 
 
 Capt. Belton. That would never do, my good 
 Sir, for what's a gentleman but his pleasure? 
 
 Optime. If a gentleman be nothing else, he is 
 the most wretched creature in the world. If it be 
 
50 '^ij^ Wxoif)ex in Sato, 
 
 his privilege to do nothing, it is his privilege to be 
 without worth or use, and then he can have no title 
 to real happiness. 
 
 Capt. Belton. True, Sir, very true. iJside.] 
 Where can his charming daughter be all this while ? 
 I must contrive to get away. ... I think, Mr.Optime, 
 you talked at dinner about some particularly large 
 carp you had. As I passed here, 1 saw a pond full 
 of them. I'll just step to it, and return to you pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Optime. Hey. . what, you are curious that way? 
 Come then, I'll point you out some in a stew just 
 by, which are the finest that can be seen. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Nonsense, brother, to talk of 
 their being the finest which can be seen. Was not 
 there a carp sent from Strasburg to Rheims on the 
 coronation of a Bourbon, which weighed fifty 
 pounds ! and fish of thirty pounds are as common at 
 the tables of the great at Vienna, as those of three 
 at ours. 
 
 Capt. Belton. Oh, don't mention Vienna, if 
 you love me. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. And why not. Sir? 
 
 Capt. Belton. Because it is the most dull of all 
 dull cities. Both sexes there are the idolatrous lovers 
 of ancient usages, and the decided foes of all novel- 
 ties. Beings, I do assure you, Mr. Optime, of an- 
 
'E\)€ 5^votJ)er m Sato 51 
 
 Act 111. <:> Scene III. 
 
 other age, who follow for their ton, an old etiquette 
 . . for their law, an old taste. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. lAside.'] The empty fop! 
 
 Optime. Ridiculous indeed .. But come along 
 with me, and I'll shew you some lampreys, which 
 my sister herself shall allow are not to be matched 
 at Vienna. \_Exit Mr. Optime, leading off his Sister. 
 
 Capt. Belton. Confound all fish-ponds^ say I. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Enter Mr. Flintly. 
 Elintly. So, there they go, and from their seem- 
 ing to be so gracious together, I am afraid the Cap- 
 tain has not yet shewed his town-conceit. If I can 
 only hit upon some plan to make him display it be- 
 fore the old man in it's full colours, I ensure his 
 dismissal at once. Help me^ Invention, help me at 
 this critical pinch of my fortune .... They come this 
 way. 
 
 Re-enter Mr. and Mrs. F. Optime and Capt. Belton. 
 
 Flintly. I'm afpaid I interrupt an agreeable 
 conversation. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Your presence is always wel- 
 come, Mr. Flintly. 
 
 Optime. [Apart to Mr. Flintly.'] Could not have 
 popped here more luckily. 
 
52 . . . . CJc Mxoi\)tt in ilaiu, 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Flintly. I suppose. Sir, you have been show- 
 ing Captain Belton your grounds. What do you 
 think of them ? \_Aside.'] Now pertness dictate his 
 answer. 
 
 Optime. ITo Flintly.'] He does not seem to 
 think much about them. Come, Captain, tell us 
 what you think, in the first place, of the style of the 
 house. You admire that. Hey, don't you? 
 
 Capt. Belton. lAside.] My intended father-in- 
 law shall now see how little I'll humour him: 
 though it half pains me to say a rude thing to him. 
 . .\_Turning to Optime.] Point du tout.. In plain 
 English, not at all. I should not however venture 
 to say so, if you were like some men that I have met 
 with, who, enraptured with the mansion of which 
 they are the architects, regulate their regard for you 
 according to the degree of approbation which you 
 bestow on their petit domaine. 
 
 Optime. No. . with all my foibles, for where is the 
 man without some, I'm quite free from that species 
 of absurdity. I never bore any one about my house, 
 garden, park, and trees j do I, Flintly? Nor if they 
 don't admire every thing they see, set them down as 
 prejudiced, envious, or little better than ideotic, do 
 I, Sister. . . But can you. Sir, suggest in taste any 
 plan for the improvement of my house ! 
 
'^l)cl3rot6crtnaato 53 
 
 Capt. Belton. Oh no, it would be useless to 
 adjust or embellish .... 
 
 Flintly. [Apart to Mr. Optime.'] He talks some- 
 thing like reason now. 
 
 Capt. Belton. What nothing could improve. 
 
 \_Retires to the end of the walk. 
 
 Optime. Zounds ! Is this said of a house for the 
 sake of which I have sometimes wished myself im- 
 mortal ! . . Why you . . But I'll be calm . .I'll not put 
 myself into a passion . . Really, Flintly, this is quite 
 comical. Now if it were not downright vulgar to 
 laugh, for every body can laugh, I should be ready 
 to expire with laughter at this unexpected piece of 
 drollery. . . . What nothing could improve .... The 
 common saying is certainly true, that there is no 
 disputing about taste . . And it is possible, possible 
 did I say, it is certain, after what he has said, this 
 fellow would prefer the Saracen's head upon a sign- 
 post to the transfiguration of Raphael. Why, Sister, 
 he must be either blind or mad ! 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Blind he may be, but mad he 
 can't be 3 for he that is so, has lost his wits, and I 
 am sure the Captain never had any to lose. 
 
 Capt. Belton. [^Advancing towards them ^ Yon- 
 der, Mr. Optime, I see your fair daughter and Lady 
 Georgina, who, as they are neither nuns nor witches, 
 two beings which are said to delight in solitude. 
 
54 . . . . tirje 33rot5er in Sato, 
 
 Act HI. <:> Scene III, ^^^ 
 
 will, I dare say, have no objection to my joining 
 them. Au-revoir . . au-revoir. [^Exit. 
 
 Flintly. lAside.l Fortune, I thank thee, for 
 this fittest of all moments to make my proposals. . . 
 [Turning to Optime.'] I need not now point out to 
 you. Sir, that Captain Belton is not the man to ren- 
 der your daughter happy, though I were her aver- 
 sion. Allow me then to declare before Mrs. Fla- 
 minia Optime, that if you would accept me for a 
 son-in-law, I should never presume to interfere with 
 any of your little peculiarities ; and as to your house 
 and gardens, which reflect such lustre on their owner 
 for the unrivalled taste and elegance displayed in 
 them, I promise you, on the honor of a Gentleman, 
 it should be all my care to keep them up exactly in 
 their present state, whenever you repose with your 
 ancestors. 
 
 Optime. lAside.'] Repose with my ancestors . . 
 Vastly genteel and significant . . Now I'll give hiin 
 a touch of the new school . . for I don't want my 
 friend George's knowledge of ears to determine 
 whether this Gentleman is one of those who are only 
 for letting the lawyer be the priest who marries him. 
 .... Mr. Flintly, I owe you a thousand thanks for 
 your singularly liberal proposal 3 and though I'm in 
 no ways disposed to put you to the test, yet I don't 
 
^J)c l^rotjcr ttt Eal» 55 
 
 doubt in the least that you would be any thing but 
 magnificent in promise, and poor in performance. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime.. Oh^ Mr. Flintly, brother, is 
 the very quintessence of honor and liberality. 
 
 Flintly. Madam, you flatter me highly. 
 
 Optime. [Aside.'] She does indeed. . . Well then, 
 Mr. Flintly, as you mean I suppose from all this to 
 request that I should give you a legal claim to an 
 estate of four thousand a year, allow me to ask at 
 once, as plain sense is best understood from being 
 short, what are your pretensions to my daughter's 
 liand ? 
 
 Flintly. My pretensions . . I confess. Sir, I 
 don't understand you. 
 
 Optime. Oh, I perceive you are but a novice in 
 the new school. Come then, I'll put the question 
 to you in the old way . . What is your rent-roll? 
 
 Flintly. Rent-roll did you say? 
 
 Optime, Yes . . rent-roll. For though you may 
 deem that a secondary consideration, yet it is a pri- 
 mary one with me, when a man attempts to gain the 
 father's consent, before he has the daughter's. 
 
 Flintly. My property, Mr. Optime, is in the 
 funds. 
 
 Optime. What, no lands, no mansion, no woods, 
 no ponds ? 
 
56 Zf)t 25rot]&cr in Sato* 
 
 Act 111. <:> Scene III. 
 
 Flintly. I expect soon to be in possession of 
 them all. 
 
 Optime. IJside.'] As soon as 1 repose with my 
 ancestors . . Now for another specimen of the new 
 school, and then to make my bow to this very honor- 
 able Gentleman My obligations are inexpress- 
 ible, Mr. Flintly, for your wishing: to take my 
 daughter off my hands j but it is one of my little 
 peculiarities to think, that your rapid funded for- 
 tunes are not acquired without getting rid of too 
 great a portion of morality and feeling . . And, in an- 
 other respect, I accord with my Sister's old-fashioned 
 notions, that he ought to have some ancestors who 
 aspires to the heiress of an ancient family. There- 
 fore, as this conversation has been something in the 
 parliamentary style, I will, with your leave, close it 
 in that way, by proposing an adjournment on this 
 question sine die. And so I have the honor to wish 
 you a very good evening. . . [Aside.'] No proficient in 
 the new school could have managed this affair more 
 adroitly. [Exit. 
 
 Flintly. This conduct. Madam, of your brother 
 is down right affrontery, and as a man of honor, I 
 can't overlook it. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. My brother, to be sure, has been 
 somewhat unceremonious in his expressions, but 
 you must make it first appear, Mr. Flintly, that you 
 
^Je i^rotj&cr in Sato 57 
 
 are a Gentleman, before I can second your interest. 
 Unless you can produce your certificate from the 
 Heralds, I must consider the negociation as entirely 
 broken off. . . Your humble servant, Mr. Flintly. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Flintly. In the name of all the demons of dis- 
 appointment, am I at last gulled by a brainless do- 
 tard, and a precise ridiculous piece of maiden anti- 
 quity ! . . However, I have yet Sir Reginald in my 
 power, and if these old fools won't conduct my bark 
 into the port of wealtli, I'll take care that he shall be 
 my pilot to that desired haven. lExit. 
 
b8 .... Zijt 13rotT;ct in Saiu, 
 
 act tje :ffo\xxt% 
 
 A parlour in the Par$onage- House qf Mr. Temple. 
 Enter Mr. Temple and Horace. 
 
 Temple. No, Horace, I can't acknowledge the 
 force of what you say. *Twas wrong, believe me, 
 to make this attack upon Sir Reginald, on mere pre- 
 sumptive grounds. You must therefore apologize 
 for this conduct, since a good man bears a con- 
 tumely worse than an injury. 
 
 Horace. But, my dear Sir, what will you say if 
 I should plead this in further vindication of my beha- 
 viour . . That Sir Reginald had certain intelligence of 
 the regiment in which he procured Edgar's commis- 
 sion being under immediate orders for India. 
 
 Temple. Can this be possible! 
 
 Horace. As possible, as it is true. This letter 
 from my Agent, w^ill confirm the fact. 
 
 Temple. [Takes the letter and reads it.'] How 
 have 1 been deceived in Sir Reginald. His early 
 youth promised much, and I have ever since taken 
 him to be One whose most private thoughts might 
 challenge calumny itself. Yet shall I confess to 
 you, that the discovery of his baseness afflicts me 
 not half so much as the dreadful suspicion which 
 
€Se 3f rotScr in 3£ato 59 
 
 occasionally comes across my mind, that Edgar has 
 yielded himself up by degrees to the worst excesses 
 of dissipation, till he has at last been brought to 
 look with apathy upon all those connexions which 
 ought to be most dear to him . . Else why this inex- 
 plicable silence ? 
 
 Horace. This is to wrong your son, as much as 
 Sir Reginald has wronged yourself. 
 
 Temple. Pray Heaven it may. But the dark 
 mysterious hints thrown out to me by Mr. Flintly, 
 with whom Edgar lived in habits of intimacy pre- 
 viously to his expedition to Ally Ghur, and that 
 gentleman's evident reluctance to enter into any 
 detail of these irregularities, leave my mind a prey 
 to the most gloomy forebodings. 
 
 Horace. On my life, this Flintly is some tool of 
 Sir Reginald . . Away then with these gloomy fore- 
 bodings, and remember. Sir, how often you have 
 told me that virtue is not a mushroom which springs 
 up of itself in a night and may be plucked up in an 
 instant, but is a plant of gradual and hardy growth^ 
 and not to be rooted out by any storms or tempests 
 of the world. Depend upon it, Edgar has not so 
 disgraced your lessons as to bend to every gale of 
 temptation that may assail him. 
 
 Temple. All his deeds had once a just corres- 
 pondence with his professions. His heart was like 
 
60 'STj&c l^rotjbct in Sato* 
 
 your own, transparent, where every one may see 
 what is passing within it. Yet had he not turned 
 aside to that road which leads to folly and to vice, 
 to you he would have made himself poor of secrets ; 
 left not a thing untold which he had said or done. 
 But neither friend, nor father, nor Ellen has he ever 
 oijce addressed. The news however of a ship of 
 war from India arriving in the Hamoaze will, in all 
 probability, be the means of relieving my mind from 
 those doubts and despondencies which ever mingle 
 themselves with affliction. 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Servant. \_Speaking to Mr. Temple^ Sir, a gen- 
 tleman wants to see you. 
 
 Temple. What is his name? 
 
 Servant. He did not tell me. Sir. but if he 
 had not spoken English, I should have thought. Sir, 
 from his looks and dress, he belonged to those 
 foreigners who passed through our village last week. 
 
 Temple. Shew this stranger in. 
 
 Servant. He is here. Sir. [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 Temple. Can this be ! Dare I believe my senses I 
 Yes . . it is my long-lost Edgar ! . . All-merciful God, 
 who canst in a moment lift up mortality from the 
 
y 
 
 ^Je ^x(iif)tx itt Sah) 61 » 
 
 Act IV. <;> Scene ] 
 
 deepest sorrow to unutterable joy, accept my fervent 
 thanks! [Embracing Edgar, and they weeping on 
 each other's necks. 
 
 Edgar. My ever honoured Parent, and most 
 valued friend, this is a happiness which I have long 
 despaired of tasting. 
 
 Temple. Oh welcome to me, as an only son can 
 be to a fond doating Parent. 
 
 Horace. And to me, as day after a night of 
 storm. 
 
 Temple. But now, my Edgar, I'm all impatience 
 to hear your story. 
 
 Edgar. The outline of it may be soon given, the 
 details we will reserve for another time. Not long 
 after I had thrown off my chains at Ally Ghur, 
 chance brought me where there was a homeward- 
 bound ship, in which I got my passage. And scarcely 
 had I stept on English ground, when I was accosted 
 by our old friend Brown. By his kindness I was 
 supplied with money, which enabled me to cross the 
 country from Plymouth, and so to reach the Parson- 
 age before you could receive any other account of 
 my landing. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. [Speaking to Horace."] Sir, Captain 
 Belton to call upon you. 
 
Scene I. 
 
 Horace. \_Aside.'] He comes most opportunely. 
 I shall now escape a scene, which above every thing 
 I could wish to avoid. . . Tell Captain Bel ton Til 
 wait upon him directly. 
 
 Servant. Yes, Sir. [Exit. 
 
 Horace. I shall now leave you, Edgar, as my 
 presence can well be spared. [Exit. 
 
 Edgar. Now, my father, let me entreat you to 
 ease my troubled heart at once about my Ellen . . 
 By the many questions I put to Brown 1 could only 
 gather from him, that her attachment to me was, if 
 possible, stronger than ever, but that you would tell 
 the rest. 
 
 Temple. Would I could speak words of comfort 
 to you here. Alas, my son, I have a tale to tell 
 which will require all your strength to bear the 
 shock .... Hardly had Ellen recovered your un- 
 looked-for departure, when the news came to Sir 
 Reginald that you were dead. This was too mucli 
 for her . . From that period, one vast tide of melan- 
 choly poured upon her, till at last 
 
 Edgar. Ill know no more . . You need not expa- 
 tiate . . My fancy catches more than you can describe, 
 and, at a single view, I see her bereft at once of hap- 
 piness and reason. Now am I wretched, past all 
 relief. 
 
 Temple. Thus to despair, my Edgar, is to ante- 
 
l^rot^tr in Sato 63 
 
 <•> Scene I. 
 
 date the miseries that are before us. Rather strive 
 to think that there is a Father in nature who can 
 relieve all the sufferings of the human heart, and 
 w^ho permits the affliction of the innocent, only to 
 visit them afterwards with greater joy. 
 
 Edgar. Oh, that I could bring my mind to this 
 pious state of confidence ! . . But your words, my fa- 
 ther, are only such a cordial as recalls the spirits of 
 wretches h^lf dead, to lengthen out tiieir torture 
 and make the sense of death more painful . . Come 
 however what will, I'll instantly see my Ellen. But 
 ah, how altered shall I behold that form, since we 
 parted . . Those eyes, from which her soul beamed 
 forth in every look, now vacant, changeless . . that 
 cheek, which glowed with the bloom of health, pale 
 and shrunk . . that hand, which I have pressed so 
 often with rapturous delight, cold as the touch of 
 death, and feverish with passions fierce or uncontrol- 
 able . . and oh, more than all, that mind^ once so 
 fraught with intelligence, now quite overclouded, 
 and in dim eclipse. Was it to witness such a deso- 
 lating storm of all that's good and lovely, I escaped 
 dungeons, chains, and burning climes ?.. Better 
 had I perished in my first years, or nobly fallen 
 contending in the battles of my country .... If I 
 reflect much longer on my desperate fate, my 
 brain like her's will grow distracted .... Eternal 
 
64 ^f^t IStotfier m Sato. 
 
 Justice, how have I sinned, to have so much called 
 down thy vengeance ? 
 
 Temple. My son, my dearest son, remember 
 that to feel as you ought on this dire calamity, is to 
 feel as becomes a Christian, who is forbidden to mur- 
 mur at the will of Providence, but at the same 
 time encouraged to hope that the prayer for assist- 
 ance will ever be heard. Let me conduct you then 
 to your chamber, and, when you are more master of 
 your feelings, I'll see you on your way to Ellen, for 
 there is something tells me, beyond all doubtful con- 
 jectures, that this interview will produce a happy 
 alteration in her malady. No, no . . the same Pro- 
 vidence which has hitherto stretched out it's arm to 
 preserve you will not abandon you when most you 
 need it's help. 
 
 Edgar. I'll try to believe so, my best of Fa- 
 thers. [Exeunt. 
 
 A dressing -room in Mr. Optime^s hoiuie. 
 
 Enter Transit. 
 
 Transit. Confound that fellow Strange! for of a 
 
 certainty he seems born to mar my prospects with 
 
 Lady Georgina. I wonder what she can see in him 
 
® Je ^xoif)tt itt Eato 65 
 
 to be so fond of his company. There would be some 
 reason for her liking him, had he ever written any 
 thing, as I have done, for time to glory in. . . I begin 
 to suspect that one great cause of an Author's failure 
 of success as a lover is the dread which women 
 feel of our superior intellects . . This at least is cer- 
 tain, learned Ladies never get married . . even we 
 Authors are afraid to choose them for our better 
 halves .... Well, Twist, have you seen her Lady- 
 ship's woman ? 
 
 Eiiter Twist. 
 
 Twist. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Transit. Well, and what's the news? 
 
 Twist. The very news. Sir, you wish. My 
 Lady is just gone alone to the Chinese Island, and in 
 such charming spirits as she was never seen in 
 before. 
 
 Transit. Enough .... Now, Phoebus, inspire 
 thy votary with eloquence to touch the icy heart of 
 Georginal \_Exit. 
 
 Twist. If you had my person and address, your 
 wishes would be gratified at once. [^Exit. 
 
66 .... 'Eijt ^xotijex in 2ato. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A small Chinese Island in the front, and a bridge in the back ground. 
 Enter Lady^Georgina. 
 
 Lady Georgina. What heartfelt joy sparkled in 
 Horace's eyes, when he last accosted mej and how 
 delicate was the warmth of his expressions as we 
 returned from the Abbey. If I remember rightly, I 
 got into such a compassionate mood on parting, that 
 I promised to meet him at this place to hear a secret 
 which my tell-tale eyes and faltering voice too 
 plainly, I am afraid, confessed was my wish to have 
 disclosed. Hush . . he comes . . T must pretend not 
 to see him, lest he should perceive the flutter 
 into which his presence throws me . . How different 
 would be my sensations had Transit requested this 
 meeting. ^She steps some paces hack, and busies her- 
 self in gathering flowers. 
 
 JEnter Transit in haste, pauses a movnent, and looks at 
 Lady Georghia. 
 
 Transit. There she stands . . What an elegant 
 creature it is ! . . But I have no time to lose in dumb 
 admiration, as such another opportunity may not 
 again occur. [Advances towards her^ Fly not, 
 frown not, fair paragon of excellence, while you 
 hear the language of an enamoured heart. 
 
^]&e 35rot!)cr in Safo 67 
 
 <:> Scene HI. 
 
 Lady Georgina. [Turning round.'] Was there 
 ever such a disappointment! laside.] To make the 
 climax of your rhapsody complete^ Mr. Transit, you 
 had better call me queen or goddess, and vow that 
 no constellation in the Heaven outshines me. 
 
 Transit. 'Tis not rhapsody, 'tis real unfeigned 
 love which dictates these expressions . . I now court 
 those bonds as blessings, which, till I knew you, I 
 looked upon as galling fetters. 
 
 Lady Georgina. So then, because I preferred 
 your company to that of Mr. Optime and his Sister, 
 and occasionally permitted you to dangle by my side 
 for the want of a more agreeable Beau, you have 
 chosen to take it into your wise head that I'm despe- 
 rately in love with you. Really, Mr. Transit, you 
 learned gentlemen often commit monstrous mis- 
 takes. 
 
 Transit. Nay, now I am sure this reserve, this 
 coyness is affected . . Thus let me enforce my suit, 
 
 [^Kneels and kisses her hand. Horace at that 
 moment appears on the bridge j but retires al- 
 most immediately in great agitation. 
 
 Lady Georgina. [^Catches a glimpse of Horace, 
 and snatches her hand away angrily from Transit.'] 
 I wonder. Sir, at your presumption ! . . Let me tell 
 you, Mr. Transit, that such another forgetfulness 
 will not be pardoned [_Aside.] Oh, my unlucky 
 
68 1\)t Mxoifjtx in ilalo. 
 
 stars ! The man whom I could wish to have seen in 
 this situation must now be persuaded that this fop- 
 ling has an interest in my heart. 
 
 Transit. \_Aside.'] Egad, I must here try a 
 ruse de gutrre, to hide my mortification. Turns round 
 to Lady Georgina, and bursts into a loud laugh] . . Ha, 
 ha, ha. . . And so you thought I was in earnest all 
 this while, and that I did not perceive Strange on 
 the bridge, when 1 so romantically popped down on 
 my knee to you?. . Ha, ha, ha. . Why, I must have 
 played my part to perfection, to impose upon one so 
 adroit in the art of Love. Ha, ha, ha .... I think 1 
 I am even with him now. Lady Georgina, for his 
 abuse of my book. 
 
 Lady Georgina. [Haughtily?^ I desire. Sir, 
 that for the future you will abstain from making 
 me the medium of your pitiful retaliation upon that 
 gentleman. 
 
 Transit. Nay, nay, there's no reason to be so 
 fretted about a trifle. I durst say now, the bird will 
 soon be glad to return to his cage . . Only sing the 
 words, '' Come little foolish fluttering thing," and 
 lie*ll obey his mistress's call directly . . What, you 
 are ashamed to follow my advice .. well, w^ell, I'll 
 take compassion upon you, and seek him out my- 
 self; for really you look triste enough to make even 
 a broker charitable. [^Going. 
 
'Eijt il^rctjcr in 2ai» 69 
 
 Lady Georgina. {^Earnestly.'] I beg. .1 insist^ 
 Sir, that you will not interfere where your inter- 
 ference is perfectly unnecessary. 
 
 Transit. Yes, yes, I'm too good an actor not to 
 understand all this . . I mean of too sympathizing a 
 nature long to separate faithful lovers, when they 
 are on the point of exchanging hearts with each 
 other. Now then is your opportunity; for a woman 
 may as well think to secure her lover when her 
 beauty's gone, as a man his friend when his estate 
 
 is spent {_Aside.'] I think by this manoeuvre J 
 
 have escaped the double mortification of attempting 
 a foolish thing, and not succeeding in it . . This it is 
 now to have some wit in our anger. lExit. 
 
 Lady Georgina. 1 declare that the unexpected 
 turn which this coxcomb has given to my refusal of 
 him is ten times more annoying than his silly pro- 
 fessions of attachment. 
 
 Ent€7' Clara Optime in haste. 
 
 Clara. Oh, Georgina, I come to you in the 
 greatest distress imaginable. . I'm reduced to a 
 dilemma in which it is scarcely possible to reconcile 
 my feelings with my duty. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Why, what's the matter? 
 
 Clara. Mv father seems resolved I shall not 
 
70 Zit ^toiijn in 2afo* 
 
 have Belton, and I seem no less resolved to have 
 him. How peculiarly embarrassing is my situation! 
 
 Lady Georgina. [J/i a thoughtful mood.'] And 
 so is mine. That he should come at so unlooked 
 and unwished for a moment ! 
 
 Clara. Cornel . . whom do you mean ? I thought 
 a visit from Mr. Strange was at no time unwelcome. 
 You give me how^ever a strong proof of affection. 
 
 Lady Georgina. How, my dear? For I can't 
 well perceive in what manner my disappointment is 
 to be construed into a proof of affection for you. 
 
 Clara. Why didn't you understand I was about 
 to speak of Belton ? Your not w ishing Mr. Strange 
 to interrupt our conversation ought surely to be re- 
 garded by me as a mark of the sincerest friendship. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Oh, we are at cross purposes, 
 I perceive .... No, you quite mistake the cause of 
 my uneasiness. I was ruminating on the disappoint- 
 ment of receiving a declaration from one person, 
 when I expected it from another 5 and it w as that 
 which led me to make such inconsistent answers. 
 You comprehend me now ? 
 
 Clara. Yes, yes^ you are quite intelUgible . . And 
 I must add, that your explanation is as little like a 
 compliment as any thing I ever heard in my life . . 
 But here is some one coming. 
 
Zf)t l$xoif)tx in Sato 71 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 JEnter Horace. 
 
 Horace. Shall I be an intruder if I join your 
 walk? 
 
 Clara. Bless me, Mr. Strange, why do you ask 
 such a question? You never can intrude. 
 
 Horace. Of your politeness. Miss Optime, I'm 
 truly sensible . . But the Lady with you may not be 
 of the same opinion. 
 
 Clara. Indeed . . And pray why should she not? 
 Though, upon second thoughts, you may be right, 
 and I also may be an intruder j for she has been in 
 the oddest humour possible ever since Transit left 
 her. 
 
 Horace. Don't you know. Miss Optime, it is 
 the peculiar characteristic of the fine Lady never to 
 be two days in the same humour ? 
 
 Lady Georgina. Right, our liberty's gone, our 
 charter's reversed, if we are made servants to con- 
 sistency. But I hate the word fine Lady in the 
 country . . It is fit only to proceed from the mouth of 
 a Bourgeois Gentilhomme, and not from one who 
 piques himself on the nice choice of his epithets . . 
 Yet pray go on amusing yourselves at my expence. 
 Come, Sir, another fanciful eflFusion . . Though before 
 you run to any great lengths in this pleasing vein, 
 give me leave to ask you, if inattention to his en- 
 
72 mjt l^xoiijn in Sato, 
 
 Act IV. <;> Scene HI. 
 
 gagements is not to be placed in the catalogue of the 
 fine Gentleman's characteristics ? 
 
 Horace. No more than making an appointment 
 with one person and keeping it with another is to 
 act with kindness, courtesy, or propriety. 
 
 Clara. Well, good folks, I suppose you perfectly 
 understand each other, though all this to me is hie- 
 roglyphics . . My only guess can be, that you have 
 been quarrelling with each other; and, after a little 
 more pouting, I suppose the eclaircissement will 
 take place. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Oh, you forget, child. Love 
 has gall in it as well as honey, and so compounded, 
 that whoever will taste the sweets must likewise 
 partake of the bitters. Now, Mr. Strange, my dear, 
 seems determined to have his full share of the latter; 
 as he will consider against all probability that to be 
 designed which was purely accidental. 
 
 Horace. But how does your Ladyship account 
 for the tender adoration of Mr. Transit? Was his 
 kneeling accidental? 
 
 Lady Georgina. Women, T believe, Sir, you'll 
 find are like the Arts, open to all, and unprized, if 
 unsought after. And like them too we have our 
 favorites . . But to suppose Mr. Transit is my favorite, 
 is to pay a compliment to my susceptibility at the 
 
•^5^ i3tot]&et in Sa&j 73 
 
 expence of my understanding that I must beg leave 
 to decline. 
 
 Horace. Take not this then, dearest Lady Geor- 
 gina, for a compliment, when I say, that all which 
 my heart beats for beneath the Sun, 'tis yours to give. 
 
 Lady Georgina. I am afraid I should here make 
 a very silly reply, if I were not prevented by the 
 timely approach of Mrs. Flaminia Optime. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Flaminia Optime in haste. 
 
 Lady Georgina. {^Advances towards /ler.] You 
 seem a little discomposed, my dear Madam. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Not a little. Lady Georgina. . 
 I have missed my beautiful Muscovy ducks, which 1 
 value in the same degree as my brother does his 
 carp and lampreys. 
 
 Horace. What, I suppose, Ma'am, the honest 
 folks make somewhat free with your poultry during 
 the assize and race weeks. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Free enough, on my conscience. 
 Why, do you know. Sir, that my poultry-yard and 
 fish-pond were tithed one night, and put before my 
 brother the next day when he dined with the Judge. 
 Mr. Optime however contrived at last to find out the 
 rogues. 
 
 Horace. And pray what did he do with them ? 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Oh, he took a very singular. 
 
74 '^^t ISrotftcv in Sato^ 
 
 but perhaps necessary course: He forgave them, 
 as his property had been so well disposed of, and 
 now employs them to protect his rights whenever 
 these guardians of the laws come down among us . . 
 But as I have not long missed my Muscovies, let us 
 divide in parties round the Island in search of them, 
 and meet again at the bridge. . . Clara, we'll take this 
 direction. [Exeunt. 
 
 Horace. \_Aside.'] A lucky proposition this for 
 me. . . Will you venture. Lady Georgina, to commit 
 yourself to my protection ? 
 
 Lady Georgina. How can I refuse, when even 
 Mrs. Flaminia Optima approves it? [Exeunt. 
 
mjt moi])n in Sato 75 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Ellen'' s Dressing-room. 
 
 Enter Lady Castlewyn and Edgar. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. The surprise of your return^, 
 Edgar, is a happiness which I so little expected to 
 receive, that I scarcely know how to express it. Sir 
 Reginald too, I need not add, will share, when he 
 returns home, in the same feeling. 
 
 Edgar. Ah, my dear Madam, my past sufferings 
 would have appeared as a dream, if my poor Ellen 
 had only 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Your father then has told 
 you her sad story. 
 
 Edgar. Yes, he has shewn me that I am heir to 
 a wretchedness which will not quit me in this life. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Let us not think that either. 
 For who can tell what a wonderful effect the sight of 
 you may produce upon my Sister? Who can say 
 but she may regain her reason as suddenly as she 
 lost it? 
 
 Edgar. Suddenly did you say ? 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Yes . . Many, as you may 
 suppose, were the tears she shed after your depar- 
 ture : but ever since intelligence was brought that 
 
re 'E\)t 33tot]&cr in 3lai»» 
 
 you were no more, images the most wild and inco- 
 herent have possessed her mind. 
 
 Edgar. Flow I long but dread to hear her voice. 
 May I not soon behold her } 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. You shall 3 yet let me cau- 
 tion you to command your feelings . . the very crisis 
 of her disorder hangs upon this interview .... I hear 
 footsteps .... 'Tis she. Look, yonder Ellen comes. 
 Now collect yourself. 
 
 \_Edgar retires to the side of the room. Ellen 
 enters in haste, followed by her servant, and 
 looking round earnestly, as if in search of 
 something. 
 
 Ellen. Can no one tell me where my treasure 
 is hid ? 
 
 Edgar. Oh, horror, horror I . . Of all the mourn- 
 ful sights these eyes have witnessed, none ever 
 rent my heart like this. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. I conjure you to remember 
 that the future color of your life . . your all . . depends 
 upon this eventful hour. Try then to be composed, 
 and see what eflFect your voice will produce upon her. 
 
 Edgar. Tears, ye choke my utterance. What 
 can I say ? . . . . Will not Ellen smile upon her forlorn 
 Adventurer } 
 
 Ellen. [^Starts back much agitated.'] That sound 
 again ! Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet warble 
 
^Jei^rotjctmaato 77 
 
 of the lute. Never did but one voice send forth such 
 music . . it was like the dear thought of happiness 
 once possessed, pleasant and sad to the soul. Oh, 
 speak to my misery, tell me what thou art. 
 
 Edgar. Can Ellen have forgot her Edgar? 
 
 Ellen. Bear record, thou spirit of truth, that 
 he is enshrined here. [Placing her hand upon her 
 hear't.'] And never shall the dear remembrance fade 
 
 away while aught of life remains Forget my 
 
 Edgar ! . . . . No, he will ever be present to my eyes, 
 his words will ever echo in my ears. Ours was not 
 like earthly love. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Look up then, my Sister . . 
 Your Edgar comes through toils and perils to dispel 
 your sorrows. 
 
 Ellen. Vain words ! Well 1 know that the lord 
 of my bosom's love is slain .... I see now his last 
 convulsive pangs, and catch his dying groans, and 
 hear him whisper he'll not be happy till I am with 
 him. . . Oh, my Sister, for ever silent is the heart 
 that gave itself to me . . would mine were as still. 
 
 Edgar. Oh God, oh God, I cannot bear this 
 struggle longer . . Say, rather, thou drooping loveli- 
 ness, that Edgar is sent to speak peace and comfort 
 to thy distracted thoughts. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Raise your eyes, my Ellen, 
 and turn them to him who now stands before you. 
 
78 'E\)t 53rot]&er in Sato* 
 
 Ellen. I dare not^ lest the delightful illusion 
 which now plays around my^enses should vanish. 
 
 Edgar. 'Tis no illusion . . Behold, dearest suf- 
 ferer, thy Edgar lives, speaks, and kneels at thy feet. 
 Ellen. \_Looking up towards Edgar, while her 
 eyes gaze on him with earnestness and delight.'] Art 
 thou the phantom of a blessed dream ! . . No, it is he! 
 . . Almighty God . . 'tis he himself. . . . Yes . . it is 
 my Edgar! 
 
 [She rushes forward to his extended arms, 
 
 but before she reaches them she stops, 
 
 and with a wild shriek falls back into 
 
 her attendant's arm. 
 
 Edgar. Father of Mercies ! Is it thy righteous 
 
 will to make me her murderer ? 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Heaven has not so decreed it. 
 . . See, she breathes again . . Help me to support her 
 to her chamber. 
 
 [^Exeunt. Ellen leaning upon the shoulder of 
 Edgar: Lady Castlewyn and Servant fol- 
 lowing. 
 
mjt MxQiitt in Sato 79 
 
 Act V. ?;•> Scene II. 
 
 SWINE II. 
 
 J Wood. 
 
 Enter Horace and Captain Belton. 
 
 Horace. We are on the ground first . . If I do 
 not greatly mistake, the man I have to deal with 
 comes to this business with a heavy heart . . It would 
 be somewhat lightened, if he knew of the arrival of 
 Edgar, but that satisfaction is denied him, as he 
 meets us, you say, from Worcester. 
 
 Capt. Belton. So I understood from Flintly . . 
 Did you not tell me that if Miss De Rivers dies 
 unmarried^ Sir Reginald, or, what is the same, his 
 Wife, inherits her fortune ? 
 
 Horace. Yes, the two Sisters were coheiresses 3 
 and Sir Reginald and Mr. Temple guardians to them 
 both . . But see, here comes the Baronet and Mr. 
 Flintly. 
 
 Enter Sir Reginald and Flintly. 
 
 Flintly. Gentlemen, your most obedient. 
 
 Sir Reginald. I hope we are punctual to our 
 engagement. 
 
 Flintly. IStepping forward to Capt. Belton.'] I 
 presume. Sir, you are here as the friend of Mr. 
 Strange ? 
 
so . . . . ^]&e ^xotitx in Sato. 
 
 Capt. Belton. That question. Sir, I think need 
 scarcely have been asked, after what has passed be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Flintly. On the part of Sir Reginald, I must 
 declare that this business cannot be brought to an 
 accommodation without the most ample apology 
 from Mr. Strange for the language he employed to- 
 wards him at Mr. Optime's table. Thefts, Sir, may 
 be restored, and wounds may be healed 5 but for an 
 injured reputation there is no remedy, except 
 
 Capt. Belton. I beg pardon, Mr. Flintly, for 
 interrupting you, but I must remind you that this is 
 not the place for declamation. 
 
 Horace. \_Aside to Capt. Belton.'] If you don't 
 mean to tire my patience, pray finish directly with 
 this swaggerer, who thinks to carry his point by 
 big words. 
 
 Flintly. Perhaps, Captain Belton, your friend 
 may have something to say which will wind up this 
 affair more to your satisfaction. 
 
 Horace. A great deal of time may be saved, if 
 you will allow me to shew Sir Reginald the hinge 
 upon which this business turns. 
 
 Flintly. Then, Sir, you have my permission. 
 
 Horace. The charge I have to make against 
 you. Sir Reginald, is of a plain, but heavy nature, 
 and if it can be proved untrue, I shall deem no repa- 
 
^f)t Wxoiijtx in 2alu 81 
 
 ration too great for the licence of my tongue. Brief- 
 ly, Sir Reginald, I assert , that you inveigled Edgar 
 Temple into a regiment which you had private inti- 
 mation was destined to immediate service in the 
 East Indies : And, by this perfidious act, you bereft 
 Ellen Pe Rivers of her reason, and plunged the 
 father of my friend into that affliction which has 
 nearly brought him to the grave. If in this I have 
 wronged you 
 
 Sir Reginald. Sir, you have wronged me at 
 least in supposing that I have brought with me here 
 any other thought but of revenge. Take your 
 ground. Sir, and learn only this . . what I have dared 
 to do I have the spirit to defend. [Aside.'} Better 
 to die at once, than bear this load of infamy. 
 
 Flintly. Stop, we are interrupted, some one 
 has just leaped the stile. 
 
 Elder Edgar in haste. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Do I behold?. .Amazement! . . 
 Edgar here ! 
 
 Edgar. Is it thus I meet my friends ? 
 
 Sir Reginald. Even in this situation, your pre- 
 sence so unexpected, so impossible to thought, fills 
 me with such a tumult of delight, that I can scarcely 
 articulate it.. Yet there is one . . Oh Ellen! how 
 doubly wretched is now thy fate. 
 
Scene II. 
 
 Edgar. Her fate . . Think not you dream, Sir 
 Reginald, when you are told that Ellen is recovered. 
 Well may you cast upon me that look of doubt . . 
 But it is no dream . . Ellen, I repeat, is recovered, 
 and Lady Castlewyn impatient te communicate to 
 you the particulars. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Jn the joy of this blessed mo- 
 ment, I will bury all the griefs of the past. . . [Jside.'] 
 For the injuries I have done are no longer aggravated 
 by the reflection that they cannot be repaired. 
 
 Horace. Sir Reginald, with your leave, we will 
 settle at another time the object of our meeting. 
 
 Sir Reginald. 1 close with your proposal. 
 
 Capt. Belton. Come, Horace, I am glad to see 
 this business in a train of being amicably adjusted ; 
 for, sacred as Honour is, it is ever best preserved 
 without bloodshed. . [^Exeunt. 
 
 Sir Reginald. lApai^t to Edgar.'] 1 have much 
 to unfold to your private ear . . But I will not now 
 detain you from your father, further than to express 
 a wish of seeing you again as soon as possible. 
 
 Edgar. Fear not my delay. [^Exit. 
 
 Sir Reginald. These extraordinary occurrences, 
 Flintly, totally unfit me for conversation of any sort. 
 When I am more at ease I shall be glad of your 
 company. lExit. 
 
 Flintly. This unlooked-for return of Edgar, 
 
'^rje i^rotfeer in Sato 83 
 
 and dawning of repentance in Sir Reginald leave 
 me only one desperate expedient to repair my broken 
 fortunes, and, if that fail, I'm sunk as low in igno- 
 miny as the friends of justice and virtue could wish. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 ji Library in Sir Reginald Castlewyn^s House, 
 Enter Lady Castle wyn. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Not yet returned . . and ab- 
 sent from home ever since he parted from me to 
 visit Mr. Optime! . . His note says he was suddenly 
 called to Worcester to meet his Lawyer upon impor- 
 tant business. This explanation ought perhaps in 
 reason to take away from me all ground of disturb- 
 ance. But the strange variations I have of late ob- 
 served in him give me constant alarm, and some 
 cause to suspect that other griefs, besides those for 
 our dear lost children and for poor Ellen, prey upon 
 his mind, and cut at his heart-strings. Ah, Sir Regi- 
 nald, w hy will you not permit me to know your sor- 
 rows, for you little think I suffer more by not par- 
 taking of them. 
 
84 €f)e^mf}nin%B\x). 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Madam^ Sir Reginald has just come 
 into the Hall, and is enquiring after your Ladyship. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Haste then, William, to in- 
 form him I am in the Library. 
 
 Servant. Madam, my Master is here. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Sir Reginald. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Joy, joy, joy, my dearest Sir 
 Reginald. 
 
 Sir Reginald. In those words, my love, I read 
 the return of Edgar, and the recovery of Ellen. But 
 tell me some particulars of the last blessed events 
 for though 1 had the assurance from Edgar himself 
 of her recovery, yet so marvellous does it still ap- 
 pear to me, that I want to have it confirmed by your 
 own lips. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Hardly could I have ventur- 
 ed on the step which has produced this quick restor- 
 ation, if I had not been often told by Dr. Seymour, 
 that the sight of Edgar was the most likely of all 
 means to effect it. Accordingly, I brought him to 
 her apartment. His voice instantly made an impres- 
 sion, and when she recognized his person, she fell 
 into a swoon, from which she awoke with her intel- 
 
^Je 13rotJ)er in Eato 85 
 
 lects evidently returned. She is now quiet and com- 
 posed, and the Doctor, who most fortunately came 
 soon after this happy change, has assured me of her 
 permanent recovery. 
 
 Sir Reginald. These indeed are tidings that 
 convey to my heart a happines to which it has long 
 been a stranger. But retire, my dearest wife, and 
 prepare her for a visit from Edgar, whom I expect 
 every moment here. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. And for your visit also. Sir 
 Reginald, since she has enquired after you with all 
 imaginable affection. \_Exit Lady Castlewyn. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Sweet injured excellence!.... 
 Enquire after me., me., the cruel author of all 
 your sufferings! Oh., how doubly bitter is the 
 agony of self-reproach, when it is thus punished! . . 
 Yet I will make this atonement to virtue, that Edgar 
 shall know my extremest guilt, although I must be 
 ever after the object of his execration . . But he comes. 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 Sir Reginald. You look disturbed. 
 
 Edgar. And not without some cause . . On pass- 
 ing through the wood which adjoins your house, I 
 was fired at. Luckily, my foot at that instant struck 
 against a treej I fell, and escaped being shot. 
 
86 ^Je 13rot]&cr in Sato* 
 
 Sir Reginald. The county is overrun with 
 poachers. 
 
 Edgar. Poachers use only shot for their pur- 
 poses ; but my marksman was supplied with better 
 materials for his game. . . T heard the ball distinctly 
 whistle over my head as I lay on the ground 3 yet 
 no one approached me, nor could I discover into 
 what path he turned, as the noise of the waterfall 
 prevented me from hearing any footsteps. 
 
 Sir Reginald. This circumstance is not more 
 alarming than unaccountable . . But now I have a 
 most painful and humiliating communication to 
 make. 
 
 Edgar. And at your leisure. Sir Reginald, 1 have 
 to acquaint you with a few details of one whom you 
 too much honor by admitting to your closest inti- 
 macy. 
 
 Sir Reginald. lAside.'] 'Tis as I thought . . he 
 suspects Flintly. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Flintly, Sir Reginald, to wait 
 upon you. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Flintly. 
 
 Sir Reginald. [Aside.'] So the hour of retri- 
 bution is at last come. [Flintly endeavours to look 
 
IZrje^^rotlbcrittllato 87 
 
 unconcerned, hut cannot cover his agitation in the pre- 
 sence of Edgar.'] What ails you, Mr. Flintly, are you 
 unwell ? 
 
 Flintly. A film came across my eyes as 1 en- 
 tered the room . . I'm subject to it whenever I walk 
 
 fast . . It is gone [Aside.'] Now courage, my 
 
 heart [Turning to Edgar.] I'm rejoiced. Tem- 
 ple, to bid you welcome again to your native land. 
 You must have suffered much since last we parted. 
 
 Edgar. Yes, a long imprisonment, and repeated 
 vicissitudes of heat and cold will affect the stoutest 
 constitutions : but for the greatest of my sufferings, 
 I'm indebted to the man who calls himself my friend. 
 
 Flintly. Indeed !.. Tell me his name, that I 
 may shun him as I would a pestilence. 
 
 Edgar. Flintly .... Within this hour I have 
 learned the uses to which you have turned my friend- 
 ship. Say, what could tempt you thus to abuse it? 
 
 Flintly. [After a pause.] Poverty has undone 
 the proudest virtue. And there is he whose gold has 
 made me what I am. 
 
 Edgar. [Turning to Sir Reginald.] Surely I am 
 in some frightful dream! 
 
 Sir Reginald. It is, Edgar, with shame and 
 contrition that I acknowledge his charge to be true. 
 Yet, Heaven be praised, there is time enough to re- 
 pair 
 
88 .... ®J)^3^rotj)w in Safo- 
 
 Flintly. What? Your own reputation, or the 
 injuries you have done him ? If the latter, who sent 
 him to India ? If the former, what was the incen- 
 tive? 
 
 Edgar. This then explains the reason why those 
 letters which I committed to your care when you 
 sailed for England never reached the persons to 
 whom they were addressed. 
 
 Sir Reginald. [Eagerly.'] What letters? But 
 I'm confounded every way. Why, he painted you 
 to me as one so led away by an insatiable appetite 
 for dissipation and extravagance, as to have neither 
 time nor inclination to bestow a thought upon your 
 dearest connexions, while, to remove all doubt of the 
 truth of what he said, he extorted from me a large 
 sum, alleged to have been advanced by him for the 
 express purpose of enabling you to join the expe- 
 dition again t Ally Ghur. 
 
 Edgar. Matchless villain ! . . Where are the thou- 
 sand pagodas, gathered, I confess, from the gaming 
 table, which I had visited for the first and only time 
 in my life in the midst of feelings and irritation 
 brought on by your suppression of my letters ? Con- 
 fess, you who administer excitements to gaming . . 
 you who love but to seduce the innocent, betray the 
 unwary, and initiate the thoughtless in the ways of 
 guilt, whether, resolved to benefit myself with no 
 
tirje ^ml)ex in llato 89 
 
 part of my ill-gotten wealth, I did not commission 
 you to deliver it into my father's hands for charitable 
 purposes. Answer then, satisfactorily if you can, 
 why that money was not so delivered. 
 
 Flintly. For this very good reason, that I 
 never received it. 
 
 Edgar. Never received it?. . Good Heaven, grant 
 me patience, lest my overboiling rage should do a 
 deed which should debase me down to this disgrace 
 of manhood ! 
 
 Flintly. Where are your proofs^ your witnesses 
 of the fact? 
 
 Edgar. So, you would wish to have it believed 
 that nothing can be true but what is proved in a 
 court of justice. Look at this memorandum, [tak- 
 ing a paper from his pocket-book.'] which, in the con- 
 fused number of your misdeeds, providentially seems 
 not to have been remembered, attesting in your own 
 hand- writing the truth of my allegation . . What 
 subterfuge will now remain ? 
 
 Flintly. [Covering his face with his hands, and 
 remaining some time without speaking.] None . . I am 
 a villain, and if you taunt me with what is past, I'll 
 give you no other answer . . I detained the letters . . 
 I stole the locket from Miss De Rivers . . I attempted 
 your life . . and, in one short word, my villainy is 
 beyond example. 
 
00 .. .. Zijt IStotJcr in 2lato. 
 
 Act V. <:> Scene 111. 
 
 Edgar. It is enough^ your pardon be your pu- 
 nishment. The money you have withheld is your's; 
 but on condition tliat you abandon this country for 
 ever. 
 
 Flintly. Be it so. [Exit. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Now earth bears not a more self- 
 condemned wretch than I . . O Edgar, much as you 
 have learned from your father and Mr. Strange, of- 
 fended virtue yet requires you should know that my 
 conduct is tinged with the deepest die of criminality 
 and guilt. 
 
 Edgar. Take courage, Sir 3 I have not the tem- 
 per to feel pleasure in unforgiveness. 
 
 Sir Reginald. It cannot be unknown to you, 
 that, by the Will of Ellen's father, if either of the 
 Sisters died without issue her share of the property 
 was to devolve to the other . . That Will undid me. 
 It silenced all my honorable and generous feelings. . 
 for I once had them, Edgar . . It put me on the de- 
 testable contrivance of separating you and Ellen . . 
 And oh, shame on my own vile nature, it turned me 
 into so complete a barbarian, as to tell your Ellen, 
 without even a moment's preparation, that her Edgar 
 was dead . . Now, don't you think Nature must abhor 
 and drive me out of the commerce and society of 
 my fellow-creatures ? Speak, can you stretch forth 
 the hand of forgiveness ? 
 
'Ef)^ l^xoil)n in Saiw 91 
 
 Act V. <•> Scene IV. 
 
 Edgar. To savages we should leave. Sir Regi- 
 nald, the savage luxury of returning evil for evil, 
 cruelty for cruelty^ but indulgence to others, with 
 severity to himself, is, after all, the truest charac- 
 teristic of a Christian. I'll shew you that I am one 
 not in name only, but in practice . . There's my hand, 
 and with it receive the assurance that your confession 
 shall never escape these lips. Indeed, if I in the 
 least understand your character, the remembrance 
 of what you have done must be punishment suffi- 
 cient, did 1 wish for the most ample vengeance. 
 
 Sir Reginald. It is indeed. Excellent young 
 man ! I scarcely know how to sustain the generosity 
 that thus forgives me, when scorn and execration 
 were all I dared to expect. Blessed then with the 
 sight of Ellen's recovery, and your union, 1 shall no 
 longer dread to look upon her^ while my repentance 
 may, I hope, in time bring with it a consolation more 
 valuable than all the enjoyments of former days. 
 
 lExeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Saloon in Sir Reginald Castlewyn^s House. 
 
 Enter Ellen and Lady Castlewyn, speaking as they enter. 
 
 Ellen. Have you any more afflictions to dis- 
 close ? Tell me them all. Sister, while nature tits me 
 
92 ^\jt 23rotl)ct in Eato, 
 
 Act V. 
 
 to receive a check to the happiness which is in store 
 for me. Lost and ever dear children, little did I 
 think when last I saw them, that they would have 
 dropped off like violets full of the morning dew . . 
 But where is the partner of your sorrows, where is 
 Sir Reginald? After I have seen him, and shed 
 some tears on the bosom of the best of monitors, my 
 Edgar's father, I shall perhaps be able to receive the 
 rest of my friends. 
 
 Lady Castlewyn. Look, my Ellen, here comes 
 your Edgar. 
 
 Enter Edgar. 
 
 Edgar. lEmhracing Ellen.'] Once more I clasp 
 my Ellen to my heart . . Tears different far from 
 those which mourners shed bedew thy cheeks and 
 mine . . Oh, dearest object of my chosen affection, 
 how shall I repay thy matchless constancy, tender- 
 ness, and love. 
 
 Ellen. In that embrace they are more than all 
 repaid. 
 
 Enter Sir Reginald. 
 
 Sir Reginald. Innocence, like your's, my Ellen, 
 can form no conception of the sensations which pain 
 yet delight me, as I thus enfold you in my arms . . 
 
I 
 
 ^5e ^totijtx in Eato 93 
 
 Act V. <:> Scene IV. 
 
 But from this day forward, your joy shall be my 
 felicity. 
 
 Etiter Mr. Temple. 
 
 Temple. Oh, ectasy and transport, to see life 
 once more a blessing to you. 
 
 Ellen. Let my tears thank you . . words are in- 
 adequate to the expression of my feelings. 
 
 Edgar. See too, my Ellen, here are those whose 
 looks bespeak the real joy with which they come to 
 offer you their congratulations. 
 
 Etiter Mr. and Mrs. F. Optime, Lady Georgina, Clara, 
 Capt. Belton, Strange, and Transit. 
 
 Optime. Ay, this appears like Sir Reginald's 
 house again ; for in every part of it I meet with 
 gladsome faces. ^Advancing to Ellen.'] My dear 
 young Lady, suffer an old friend to take you by the 
 hand, and to wish you, in the name of us all, a long 
 career of health and happiness. Say, Horace, does 
 not all this make you wish to ask yonder Lady the 
 lover's last necessary question ? 
 
 Horace. So much, that I must request your in- 
 fluence with her, [bows and comes to Lady Georgina."] 
 to induce her acceptance of my hand, my heart. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Oh, there is a difficulty to be 
 overcome, greater than you can easily imagine, be- 
 
Scene IV. 
 
 fore that's answered. ]^Looking archly at Miss Op- 
 time.'] In a thoughtless moment, for so I now must 
 deem it, I made a vow I would never marry while 
 a dear friend of mine remained a Spinster. 
 
 Horace. Nay, I entreat you, do not choose this 
 moment to trifle with my passion. 
 
 Lady Georgina. \_With an affected hesitation^ 
 Why, to be sure, there is a way of removing this dif- 
 ficulty, but I doubt much if you'd like to try it. 
 
 Horace. If it be within the verge of possibility, 
 doubt not of my attempting it. 
 
 Optime. Well said, Strange 3 and I promise you 
 my aid, if wanted. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Why, Horace, you must either 
 poison Miss Optime, or prevail on her father to 
 release me from my singular, I had almost said mor- 
 tifying predicament, by consenting to her union 
 with Captain Belton. 
 
 Optime. These rash vows are mighty silly things. 
 What, for instance, would have been your embar- 
 rassment, if I had vowed, out of compliment to my 
 Sister's love of precedence, not to marry my daughter 
 till I had first got Her oflF my hands. 
 
 Clara. [^Aside to Lady Georgina?^ There, Geor- 
 gina, we don't allow precedence. 
 
 Transit. Oh, Sir, in that case, I should have 
 stepped forth as a canditate for your Sister's favor. 
 
Zf)t li3rot]&ct in %ub) 95 
 
 But you know. Lady Georgina, I'm indissolubly 
 wedded to the Muses. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Give my compliments to the 
 Ladies^ and tell them that the next time you and 
 they strain out a work together, we'll all take five 
 copies a-piece, elephant size, and so save you the 
 trouble of a circular visit to the Booksellers . . You 
 understand me. 
 
 Capt. Belton. Pray, Mr. Transit, what is to be 
 the subject of your next work? 
 
 Transit. Coxcombs. 
 
 Mrs. F. Optime. Mr. Transit, a Lady upwards 
 of forty cannot be insensible to your compliment 3 
 but you, brother, may enjoy your joke, as you have 
 long known my preference to a life of celibacy. 
 However, to shew you I am no enemy to Matri- 
 mony, let me request you to crown the happiness of 
 your daughter by giving her the man of her choice. 
 
 Lady Georgina. Pray do, my dear Sir, if it be 
 only to release me from the severity of my condition. 
 
 Optime. Your proposals. Captain, have been 
 certainly of that honorable kind, that few would 
 accuse me of want of prudence in accepting them 3 
 therefore, I don't think I should withhold my con- 
 sent, if 
 
 Sir Reginald. You had a good example to fol- 
 low. Let me then set you an excellent one, by pre- 
 
96 mjt ^toiitx in Eahj^ 
 
 senting the hand of Ellen De Rivers to him whose 
 love^ strengthened by absence and distress, and firm 
 in distant climes, has indeed been altogether of that 
 noble generous nature which leaves all language of 
 praise too weak for it's desert. 
 
 Temple. lAdvancing between Ellen and Edgar. 1 
 Take my paternal blessing, dearest objects of my 
 affection, and with it the prediction of your future 
 happiness. 
 
 €m^ ^i<^m. 
 
 Printed by John Warwick, 
 At the Private Press of LEE PRIORY, Kent. 
 
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