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Sir Art. Name him not—remind me not of one,

who, long the hope, the blessing of my life, is noW

quite hateful to my memory.-:—My friend, when you

well know how he has cut me to the heart, why

. probe a wound, which you can never cure?

Danv. Your pardon—1 forgot; but, as I must suspect

Sir Aft. Well, well; if he again would undermine my hopes, and still oppose, and thwart his father's happiness, Selina's heart's all tenderness and love.

Enter Selina (notseeing Danvers).

Se/. Oh, Sir Arthur, I came to ask a favour of you, do, do persuade t'nat^dear, delightful creature, now in the picture-gallery, to give us more of his company; for he is so odd, and so entertaining—

Sir Art. (Pointing to Danvers.) Mr. Danvers!

Se/. Oh Lord! 'tis all over—(aside) Sir, (with agitation) I am happy to see you at St. Albyn Castle, Sir; but, as I perceive I interrupt private conversation, I'll return to the picture-gallery.

Sir Art. No Selina, 'tis Mr. Danvfers that interrupts private conversation ;—and, as he never has beheld the grounds, and works, of which he's to be chiefly master.—What say you, Sir, will you inspect them now?

Enter Skkvant.

Serv. Sir, Mr. Legis, your solicitor, is without.


Sir Art. That's fortunate !—he knows the nature

of your visit here,—and will conduct you to my su

perintendant. And, hark ye—(Aside to Danvers J

bid him dispatch the necessary deeds.

Danv. I will—(Aside to Sir Arthur) Madam, good morning. ( Bowing significantly to her).

[Exit. * 2 Set

'Sel. The grounds and works of which he's to be* chiefly master! Surely n6t yours, Sir Arthur?

Sir Art. Mine! mine I—And likewise master of what's worth them all. this hand, Selina! (Taking her hand, she turns away). What! tremble, and turn pale! Have a care. —You know my fate is in your hands.

Sel. I do; and knowing well that artful, treacherous friend, I'll save you, if I can.

Sir Art. By heaven! 'tis true—and she prefers abase, discarded son.

Sel. I do, and chiefly love him, for the love he bears his father.

Sir Art. 'Tis false, he is my deadliest foe—and if von dread this union with my friend, blame him, that is the cause; for, who belied me to my brother? Who tortured him in his last dying hours, with selfish, specious tales? and, robbing me of all my just inheritance, became sole heir to his estate? —Who, but that son ?—Who, long in mind, in manner, and in form,—bore such resemblance to his clear loved mother;—that I, at times, forgot her loss, and thought in Algernon she lived again!

&el. You were deceived—he did not, could not —no, on my life ! some villain has defamed him.

Sir Art. The proof is in my brother's hand; his will is evidence why I'm defamed.—And on the day your lover comes of age, he stands, confessed, his father's enemy. {She appeals.) Nay, if my friend, he still might save me from impending ruin—still might he marry with Sir George Montgomery's daughter.; but there again he thwarts and mars my hopes.—And, therefore, could I live with such a foe? No, I call'd forth the energies'of nature, and feeling he no longer was my son, dismissed him ever from paren'al love. >

Sel. And this marriage with Sir George Montgomery's daughter, you also still persist in?

Sit Art* 1 do; I aiu reduced to such necessity—


and your's must instantly take place—for to supply my unexpected loss, I borrowed money of the late Lord Blushdale—and now, observe—the present lord is hostile to my interest; but on the day you marry with his nephew, he will release me from a delt, which, surely you'll be proud to pay.—Since it, in fact, was caus'd by him you are so attached to. { Ironically. ) j

Set. Which surely I'd be proud to pay, for him I owe so much to.—(Leaning on Sir Arthur's shoulder.)—But, when I think the day that gives me to Lord Blushdale's nephew, involves you also in a desperate union, and parts you ever from your muchwrong'd son, I must dismiss past kindness from my mind, and tremblingl$*>ronounce

Sir Art. Peace '.—dare not utter t[æ opprobrL. ous term, lest maddening with accumulated iajuries; I, too, grow desperate, and this instant force you to consent.—Hear me.—Your fortune is dependent on my will—and, marry any but the man 1 name, I'll triumph in your ruin.—Reflect, repent, and mind— when next this topic's urged, you prove the gratitude you so much boast olj or meet the fate ingratitude deserves.


Sel. Then, there is left but one alternative, and Algernon, at all hazards, must avow, what will awhile increase his father's rage, but, in the end, preserve him. We thought that it would come to this, and I will write as he instructed me.—Within there! William !—yes, yes—I'll send express to Bath; and in one line he shall confront his enemy. —Within there! William!

^nter Modern.

Modern. Here, here at your service, Madam— and you needn't have bad the trouble of calling

me; me; for I was so sick of Sir Arthur's old pictures, that I was coming post-haste to take leave of you.

Sel. You! I was calling my servant.

Modern. Then I'm sure you were calling me, Madam.

Sel. Upon my word, vastly gallant! But, pray, Sir, is it possible that you don't admire Sir Arthur's fine classical collection? Why, there is but one modern picture in the whole Gallery.

Modern. I know;—and though the artist be living, I thought the new gentleman look'd pretty formidable—and I don't see why painters and their pictures should be half-mouldered and rotten, before they get into life, Madam —No, I like every thing that's new, and nothh.g old—save friends,— and wine,—and woods,—and women.—

Sol. What! like old women, Mr. Modern!

Modern. Yes, Madam.—Tis a new fashion, and therefore I must follow it.

Sel. 'Tis a very cruel fashion then, and I should like to know how I am to get on for the next long tedious twenty years.

Modem. And, how am I to get on? for I can't make love to you till they are over—and, perhaps, by that time, young women will come into fashion again :—perhaps—Good by w'ye—and if there should be any thing new in the wilds of Ameria.—

Sci. What! are you going to America, Mr. Modern?

(Modern bows assent.) Why!—for what reason?

Mddem. A very old one—I've no money.—-. And as it was in that country my parents breathed their last, I wish to know, why they who loved me, whilst they lived, forgot1 me when they died!

Sel. Forgot you!

Modern. They did,—they did,—But that is past!—that concerns not you! and the ship is

waiting waiting at the neighbouring sea-port ;—and so, though this is only our second, yet being probably our last meeting, allow me thus to press this fair, and lovely—

(Selina holds dozen her head.) Kay, don't blush,—that's old beyond every thing— there, there—(kisses her hand.) And, now, Columbus like, all hope and agitation,—now for a new world!

Set. And, mind, Columbus like, you don't comehome in chains.

Modern. Whati matrimonial ones, you meanNo, Madam,—if I marry, it sha'nt be out of this country,—Nay, if my friend Algernon were here,. I'd say to him—perhaps not out of this county;:— but, as 1 mustn't say that to you, Madam,—farewell.

Set.—Stay, Sir, and so far be my servant, as to wait on me down stairs—Come, and I'd have you think of marriage, the novelty will please you.

Modern. It will; for the wisest of all men didn't say there was nothing new under the sun, till he had tried a hundred wives/—So, at any rate, l'H try one wife.—This way, Madam, (taking her hand.) Oh, if 'tis all like this, a bachelor's a dull, old-fashioned fool!—there is no novelty like matrimony.


SCENE II.—A Room in Solaces house.

1.'0"».!-' Ot

Enter Trusty and Cicely.Trusty has & small Portmanteau, which he puts down.

Trusty. Well, I 'm glad we are come to the end of our journey, and I warrant so are you, Miss Cicely.—Though 1 don't know, you used to be in 6ljch spirits at coming home for the holidays,—and


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