SCENE I. _Mr._ Hardy'_s_.

_Enter_ Letitia _and Mrs._ Racket.

_Mrs._ Racket.

Come, prepare, prepare; your Lover is coming.

_Letit._ My Lover!--Confess now that my absence at dinner was a severe mortification to him.

_Mrs. Rack._ I can't absolutely swear it spoilt his appetite; he eat as if he was hungry, and drank his wine as though he liked it.

_Letit._ What was the apology?

_Mrs. Rack._ That you were ill;--but I gave him a hint, that your extreme bashfulness could not support his eye.

_Letit._ If I comprehend him, aukwardness and bashfulness are the last faults he can pardon in a woman; so expect to see me transform'd into the veriest maukin.

_Mrs. Rack._ You persevere then?

_Letit._ Certainly. I know the design is a rash one, and the event important;--it either makes Doricourt mine by all the tenderest ties of passion, or deprives me of him for ever; and never to be his wife will afflict me less, than to be his wife and not be belov'd.

_Mrs. Rack._ So you wo'n't trust to the good old maxim--"Marry first, and love will follow?"

_Letit._ As readily as I would venture my last guinea, that good fortune might follow. The woman that has not touch'd the heart of a man before he leads her to the altar, has scarcely a chance to charm it when possession and security turn their powerful arms against her.--But here he comes.--I'll disappear for a moment.--Don't spare me. [_Exit_ Letitia.

_Enter_ Doricourt (_not seeing Mrs._ Racket.)

_Doric._ So! [_Looking at a Picture._] this is my mistress, I presume.--_Ma foi!_ the painter has hit her off.--The downcast eye--the blushing cheek--timid--apprehensive--bashful.--A tear and a prayer-book would have made her _La Bella Magdalena_.--

Give _me_ a woman in whose touching mien A mind, a soul, a polish'd art is seen; Whose motion speaks, whose poignant air can move. Such are the darts to wound with endless love.

_Mrs. Rack._ Is that an impromptu? [_Touching him on the shoulder with her fan._]

_Doric._ (_starting._) Madam!--[_Aside._] Finely caught!--Not absolutely--it struck me during the dessert, as a motto for your picture.

_Mrs. Rack._ Gallantly turn'd! I perceive, however, Miss Hardy's charms have made no violent impression on you.--And who can wonder?--the poor girl's defects are so obvious.

_Doric._ Defects!

_Mrs. Rack._ Merely those of education.--Her father's indulgence ruin'd her.--_Mauvaise honte_--conceit and ignorance--all unite in the Lady you are to marry.

_Doric._ Marry!--I marry such a woman!--Your picture, I hope, is overcharged.--I marry _mauvaise honte_, pertness and ignorance!

_Mrs. Rack._ Thank your stars, that ugliness and ill temper are not added to the list.--You must think her handsome?

_Doric._ Half her personal beauty would content me; but could the Medicean Venus be animated for me, and endowed with a vulgar soul, _I_ should become the statue, and my heart transformed to marble.

_Mrs. Rack._ Bless us!--We are in a hopeful way then!

_Doric._ (_Aside._) There must be some envy in this!--I see she is a coquette. Ha, ha, ha! And you imagine I am persuaded of the truth of your character? ha, ha, ha! Miss Hardy, I have been assur'd, Madam, is elegant and accomplished:----but one must allow for a Lady's painting.

_Mrs. Rack._ (_Aside._) I'll be even with him for that. Ha! ha! ha! and so you have found me out!--Well, I protest I meant no harm; 'twas only to increase the _éclat_ of her appearance, that I threw a veil over her charms.----Here comes the Lady;--her elegance and accomplishments will announce themselves.

_Enter_ Letitia, _running_.

_Let._ La! Cousin, do you know that our John----oh, dear heart!--I didn't see you, Sir. (_Hanging down her head, and dropping behind Mrs._ Racket.)

_Mrs. Rack._ Fye, Letitia! Mr. Doricourt thinks you a woman of elegant manners. Stand forward, and confirm his opinion.

_Let._ No, no; keep before me.----He's my Sweetheart; and 'tis impudent to look one's Sweetheart in the face, you know.

_Mrs. Rack._ You'll allow in future for a Lady's painting, Sir. Ha! ha! ha!

_Doric._ I am astonish'd!

_Let._ Well, hang it, I'll take heart.--Why, he is but a Man, you know, Cousin;--and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a Wood to be scar'd by an Owl. [_Half apart; advances, and looks at him through her fingers._] He! he! he! [_Goes up to him, and makes a very stiff formal curtesy._]--[_He bows._]--You have been a great Traveller, Sir, I hear?

_Dor._ Yes, Madam.

_Let._ Then I wish you'd tell us about the fine sights you saw when you went over-sea.--I have read in a book, that there are some countries where the Men and Women are all Horses.--Did you see any of them?

_Mrs. Rack._ Mr. Doricourt is not prepared, my dear, for these enquiries; he is reflecting on the importance of the question, and will answer you----when he can.

_Let._ When he can! Why, he's as slow in speech, as Aunt Margery, when she's reading Thomas Aquinas;--and stands gaping like mum-chance.

_Mrs. Rack._ Have a little discretion.

_Let._ Hold your tongue!--Sure I may say what I please before I am married, if I can't afterwards.--D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to a Sweetheart. He is not the first I have had.

_Dor._ Indeed!

_Let._ Oh, Lud! He speaks!--Why, if you must know--there was the Curate at home:--when Papa was a-hunting, he used to come a suitoring, and make speeches to me out of books.--No body knows what a _mort_ of fine things he used to say to me;--and call me Venis, and Jubah, and Dinah!

_Dor._ And pray, fair Lady, how did you answer him?

_Let._ Why, I used to say, Look you, Mr. Curate, don't think to come over me with your flim-flams; for a better Man than ever trod in your shoes, is coming over-sea to marry me;--but, ifags! I begin to think I was out.--Parson Dobbins was the sprightfuller man of the two.

_Dor._ Surely this cannot be Miss Hardy!

_Let._ Laws! why, don't you know me! You saw me to-day--but I was daunted before my Father, and the Lawyer, and all them, and did not care to speak out:--so, may be, you thought I couldn't;--but I can talk as fast as any body, when I know folks a little:--and now I have shewn my parts, I hope you'll like me better.

_Enter_ Hardy.

_Har._ I foresee this won't do!--Mr. Doricourt, may be you take my Daughter for a Fool; but you are mistaken: she's a sensible Girl, as any in England.

_Dor._ I am convinced she has a very uncommon understanding, Sir. [_Aside._] I did not think he had been such an Ass.

_Let._ My Father will undo the whole.--Laws! Papa, how can you think he can take me for a fool! when every body knows I beat the Potecary at Conundrums last Christmas-time? and didn't I make a string of names, all in riddles, for the Lady's Diary?--There was a little River, and a great House; that was Newcastle.--There was what a Lamb says, and three Letters; that was _Ba_, and _k-e-r_, ker, Baker.--There was--

_Hardy._ Don't stand ba-a-ing there. You'll make me mad in a moment!--I tell you, Sir, that for all that, she's dev'lish sensible.

_Doric._ Sir, I give all possible credit to your assertions.

_Letit._ Laws! Papa, do come along. If you stand watching, how can my Sweetheart break his mind, and tell me how he admires me?

_Doric._ That would be difficult, indeed, Madam.

_Hardy._ I tell you, Letty, I'll have no more of this.----I see well enough----

_Letit._ Laws! don't snub me before my Husband--that is to be.--You'll teach him to snub me too,--and I believe, by his looks, he'd like to begin now.--So, let us go, Cousin; you may tell the Gentleman what a genus I have--how I can cut Watch-papers, and work Cat-gut; make Quadrille-baskets with Pins, and take Profiles in Shade; ay, as well as the Lady at No. 62, South Moulton-street, Grosvenor-square. [_Exit_ Hardy _and_ Letitia.

_Mrs. Rack._ What think you of my painting, now?

_Doric._ Oh, mere water-colours, Madam! The Lady has caricatured your picture.

_Mrs. Rack._ And how does she strike you on the whole?

_Doric._ Like a good Design, spoiled by the incapacity of the Artist. Her faults are evidently the result of her Father's weak indulgence. I observed an expression in her eye, that seemed to satyrise the folly of her lips.

_Mrs. Rack._ But at her age, when Education is fixed, and Manner becomes Nature--hopes of improvement--

_Doric._ Would be as rational, as hopes of Gold from a Jugler's Crucible.--Doricourt's Wife must be incapable of improvement; but it must be because she's got beyond it.

_Mrs. Rack._ I am pleased your misfortune sits no heavier.

_Doric._ Your pardon, Madam; so mercurial was the hour in which I was born, that misfortunes always go plump to the bottom of my heart, like a pebble in water, and leave the surface unruffled.--I shall certainly set off for Bath, or the other world, to-night;--but whether I shall use a chaise with four swift coursers, or go off in a tangent--from the aperture of a pistol, deserves consideration; so I make my _adieus_. (_Going._)

_Mrs. Rack._ Oh, but I intreat you, postpone your journey 'till to-morrow; determine on which you will--you must be this night at the Masquerade.

_Doric._ Masquerade!

_Mrs. Rack._ Why not?--If you resolve to visit the other world, you may as well take one night's pleasure first in this, you know.

_Doric._ Faith, that's very true; Ladies are the best Philosophers, after all. Expect me at the Masquerade. [_Exit_ Doricourt.

_Mrs. Rack._ He's a charming Fellow!--I think Letitia sha'n't have him. (_Going._)

_Enter_ Hardy.

_Hardy._ What's he gone?

_Mrs. Rack._ Yes; and I am glad he is. You would have ruined us!--Now, I beg, Mr. Hardy, you won't interfere in this business; it is a little out of your way. [_Exit Mrs._ Racket.

_Hardy._ Hang me, if I don't though. I foresee very clearly what will be the end of it, if I leave ye to yourselves; so, I'll e'en follow him to the Masquerade, and tell him all about it: Let me see.--What shall my dress be? A Great Mogul? No.--A Grenadier? No;--no, that, I foresee, would make a laugh. Hang me, if I don't send to my favourite little Quick, and borrow his Jew Isaac's dress:--I know the Dog likes a glass of good wine; so I'll give him a bottle of my Forty-eight, and he shall teach me. Aye, that's it--I'll be Cunning Little Isaac! If they complain of my want of wit, I'll tell 'em the cursed Duenna wears the breeches, and has spoilt my parts. [_Exit_ Hardy.