Page images
PDF
EPUB

March. It will; for thence will come forth gold; and, oh! my child, you know too well how much we ftand in need of it.

Rofa. I do indeed; and, if I dare advise, out of the little profit that produces, ftore up a part, my father.

March. No; 'tis already all disposed of-all devoted; and to the beft of purpofes-to make you happy, Rola; to place you far above the frowns of fortune. There (giving her a newspaper), read; read that advertisement; 'tis of my inferting.

[ocr errors]

Rofa (reading). "Wanted, as teacher to a young perfon of the age of fixteen, a lady who will inftruct her in mufic and drawing, on "moderate terms. Apply at the Priory, near "Afhdown."-How! this for me, my father?

March. Yes; 'tis for you I have encountered fuch unufual toil. Think not that vanity's my motive: but confider, child, my health's precarious; and when I am gone, what will become of thee?

Rofa. O! ceafe, Sir, cease to talk thus.

March. Nay, we are now prepared: for mistress once of these fine arts, you may infure a livelihood by inftructing others: as tutorefs, you may procure an honeft, ample income; and your father -yes, my Rofa, death will lofe half its terrors at recollection that my child's provided for.

Rofa. Death!-oh! in pity, Sir-I can't exift without you-what, what will money yield me?remember, when I've loft you, I am bereft of all that's dear to me on earth-I have no mother

101

March. Mother!-have a care!-have I not charged you on your life never to breathe that deadly, harrowing word?

Rofa.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Rofa. You have; but the occafion called it forth; and 'tis indeed most hard that I'm to know no more, than that he's in her grave. Oh! let me once again entreat you to impart her hiftory; give me each circumftance; or, if you will not tell me how the lived, inform me how he died.

March. (fternly.) Well then, fhe died of a broken heart.

Rofa. What! fhe was wronged?

March. She was; by a villain, a most abandoned villain.

Rofa. Oh! may Heaven pour down its choiceft vengeance

March. (laying bold of her band.) Hold! his punishment is equal to his crimes-'tis in his head! his heart-it gnaws, it maddens, it confumes him!-Fear not, my girl, I-I can answer for his fufferings; hell knows no torments like them.

Rofa. What! you avenged her wrongs?—noble, virtuous man!

March. Virtuous!-death and fhame!-Hear me, Rofa; hitherto I have commanded filence on this fubject, now I implore it; if you've one fpark of pity for your diftracted father, never, never name your mother.-Virtuous !-oh! my child (weeps and lays his head on her neck).

Rofa. Well, well, compofe yourfelf: from this hour depend upon my filence.

Enter CRAFTLY and JENKINS, from the
Library.

Craft. Come along, Jenkins; come from the crowd in the library, and I'll tell you fuch a fecret. -Heh! that fcribbler Marchmont; what brings him here?

[blocks in formation]

March. Mr. Craftly, may I entreat a word with you? I must inform you, Sir, that hitherto I have maintained myfelf and this unequalled child, by what my publications have produced from men of your profeffion in the capital.

Craft. Well, Sir, and what's this to me? March. You fhall hear, Sir. This day I have completed a new work, which, from the nature and locality of the fubject, I offer firft to you. It is a Satire on Extortioners; and is intended to expose that selfish, ravenous fet, who, pirate-like, plunder each ftranger that frequents our coaft.

Craft. And you want me to buy it?-ha! ha! ha! Do you hear him, Jenkins? he fuppofes I

deal in books.

March. Why, don't you keep a library, Sir!

Craft. To be fure I do; but there's every thing going forward in it but reading. Look, take a peep at them. One half of the company, you fee, are making love, or talking fcandal; and the other buying trinkets, or fhaking the dice-box. Books indeed! why one would be enough for your frequenters of a watering-place; first, because most of them never read at all; fecondly, because I doubt whether many of them can read; and thirdly, because those who do, fo foon forget every line of the author, that one volume is a library to them. March. Nay, Sir, but when you reflect on the tendency of the production

Craft. Pfha; hang the tendency: write a panegyric on the glorious art of raffling, and then perhaps I'll talk to you. See! fee how the flats bite! -all pulling out their cafh, all putting down their names:-that's the manufcript, that's the real productive writing; and I'll bet, I get more by my evening raffles than ever bookfeller got by Milton

[ocr errors]

or

or Shakspeare. Befides, you are alive: if you want your book to fell, you should shoot yourself. An author never lives till he dies. So, to London -fend your works back to London.

March. I will; for there (thank Heaven!) a library is ftill the feat of study and of learning, and never yet was prostituted to gaming and chicanery. -Come, Rofa, let us return to the Priory.

Craft. Take care, Sir; remember that Priory belongs to my ward Gabriel; that the rent is fmall, in confideration of its ruinous state; recollect there are arrears.

March. I know; but he's too liberal

Craft. He! what has he to do with it? don't I turn him round my finger? So be on your guard, Sir; and instead of fatirizing extortioners, extol raffling.

March. Never, Sir; for though my toil's inceffant, and my gains fmall, I will not profit by corrupting morals; and I would rather welcome beggary or famine, than pen a line to injure virtue, or degrade myself. Come, my child; we've been perhaps too fanguine; but we will not despair. [Exit with Rosa.

Craft. Infolent gazetteer!-but I'll humble him; yes, yes, I've already laid a train for him. -And now for the fecret; what new mafter-stroke do you think this clever little octavo (pointing to bis head) has atchieved this morning? Mrs. Decoy, a widow of family and fashion, firft coufin to a baronet of ten thousand a year, has confented to marry Gabriel.

Jenk. What, your ward?

Craft. Aye: Mr. Primitive, his rich uncle in Jamaica, defired me to felect a wife for him, and I've done it: the widow has confented, and Ga

B 3

briel

briel is at this moment paying his firft addreffes to her.

Jenk. Impoffible: a woman of family and expectations marry fuch a ruftic!

Craft. That's it-that's the very reason. She fays fhe is tired of town life, and town lovers; and therefore felects Gabriel for his rural fimplicity. But I don't care about the motive; the's to give me twelve hundred pounds for my confent, and a third of what Mr. Primitive fettles on her into the bargain: now that's what I call a good morning's raffle.

Gabr. (without.) "Come, let us dance and " fing-"

cr

Craft. He comes, the enamoured fwain appears. Now we shall hear how the courtship went on.

Enter GABRIEL, finging.

Gabr." While all the village bells fhall ring." -It's a match, guardy!-the great lady confents: I'm a great man, you're another, and you shall be another, Jenkins.

Craft. Bravo! excellent!-What, and you like the thoughts of matrimony now?

Gabr. Hugely.-I thought at first it would lead to wrangling and quarelling; but-he! he! he!I find that's all a miftake; for the moment we are united, that moment we are divided.

Craft. Divided!

Gabr. Yes: a hufband muftn't fit next to his wife at table, nor hand her out of a room, nor dance with her. In fhort, he mustn't be feen with her:"So," fays fhe, "we can't quarrel if we don't "meet, you know."—" No," fays I; " and, at "that rate, if a man wishes never to see a woman,

"ecod!

« PreviousContinue »