822 
 
 EyG2h 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY! 
 
 A COMEDY, 
 
 OF FIVE ACTS, 
 
 NOW PERFORMING WITH GREAT APPLAUSE, 
 
 AT THE 
 
 THEATRE ROYAL, HAY-MARKET. 
 
 BY V 
 
 EDMUND JOHN EURE, 
 
 FORMERLY OF PEMBROKE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR W. H. WYATT, PICKET STREET, 
 TEMPLE-BAR; 
 
 II Y B. r/I c MILLAN, BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 1810. 
 
 [Price Two Shillings and Sixpence .] 
 
/ 
 
TO 
 
 GEORGE COLMAN, tESQ. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 Ip I thought that the offspring of my muse 
 was so deformed, or so- void of intellect as some 
 critics have pronounced it to be, I would not ask 
 you, Sir, to protect the bantling. A father’s 
 vanity may cause him to over-rate the natural, or 
 acquired, merits of his child, and thus influenced 
 by a blind partiality, I may overlook the faults of 
 mine. But though it may not be free from 
 many, and gcpat defects, I cannot perceive any 
 of those hideous features which mark a lusus na¬ 
 ture, and for which a few were desirous to have 
 it strangled at the birth. Scarce had the infant 
 seen the light, than it was unmercifully assailed 
 with random blows, and left for dead. The kind¬ 
 ness of the public, however, revived it, and it now 
 lives to thank both them and you. 
 
 Believe me. Sir, I regard your approbation as 
 the highest recompense an author can receive ; 
 and the greatest honor to which he can aspire, is 
 the privilege to deposit his imperfect drawings in 
 the same Temple of the Muses, where so many 
 noble pictures, the works o t your consummate ge~ 
 
 a 2 
 
iv 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 nius, are annually exhibited. Accept, Sir, my 
 sincere thanks for one of the best Epilogues you 
 ever wrote; an Epilogue which breathes the true 
 spirit of poesy, of loyalty, ahd of patriotism. 
 
 That you may long live to embellish the Drama 
 with your writings, to enliven society with your 
 wit, and to continue the patron of unfriended 
 authors, is the cordial wish of. 
 
 Sib, 
 
 Your most obliged, 
 
 and humble servant, 
 
 EDMUND JOHN EYRE. 
 
 Hampden*Street, ~l 
 Somers' Town . J 
 
TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 The following Letter having appeared in the The¬ 
 atrical Examiner of Sunday, the 5th of August, I shall 
 print it here, with some of Mr. Lee Hunt’s observ¬ 
 ations bn my conduct as an Actor, and an Author. 
 u I was preparing,” says that Gentleman, u my cri- 
 <c tical knife for a decent analysis of Mr. Eyre’s peri- 
 u cranium, when the following Letter, directed per- 
 “ sonally to me, was sent to the Examiner Office.” 
 
 <c Saturday Night . 
 
 €C SIR, 
 
 <c As the Examiner generally takes a particular notice of 
 €< Theatricals, I wish, through the medium of your Paper, to 
 “ contradict a report generally circulated, and hitherto tacitly 
 “ acquiesced in by myself, that the Comedy of High Life in 
 €e the City, is written by me. The fact is, only two of its 
 “ Characters, viz. those acted by Messrs. Mathews and Lis- 
 <c ton , proceeded from my pen $ the Plot, Dialogue, See . of 
 “ the Piece, belong entirely to a Lady, who requested me to 
 4C superintend its production, and make what alterations seem- 
 “ ed necessary for stage effect . The Lady’s original motives 
 €e for concealment have now ceased, and I am authorized to 
 “ state to the Public unequivocally, that Mrs. Cavendish 
 fC Bradshaw is the real Parent of the Play now acting at the 
 “ Hay-market Theatre.—I am. Sir, yours, &c. 
 
 " C. J. EYRE. 
 
 “ 31 , Hampden Street, 
 
 Somers Toivn 
 
 After some severe comments on the Play, Mr. Hunt 
 concludes his remarks in the following words : 66 I used 
 44 to be willing to respect Mr. Eyre for his decent ap- 
 “ pearance on the Stage, his attention to what was 
 a going forward, and a manner, which though decla- 
 u raatory, seems indicative of a respectable under- 
 standing. But it is perfectly obnoxious to see him 
 * 6 coming forward in a Piece partly written by himself, 
 as he did the other day in one that was entirely his 
 
vi 
 
 cc own composition. It is so direct and awkward an 
 u appeal to the forbearance of the audience, that were 
 “ Ins productions twenty times better, it would still be 
 “ disgusting* If Mr. Eyre wishes to give the Town a 
 “ proof of his good sense, he will either write no more 
 u Plays, or never appear in them himself: if he wishes 
 <c to give them a still greater, he will avoid both.’ 5. 
 
 It has been my practice, never to reply to any 
 newspaper criticism; but, as the Letter which was 
 subscribed with my name, was a gross and impudent 
 forgery, I penn’d a hasty Letter to the Editor of the 
 Examiner, of which the following, I believe, is nearly 
 a correct copy : 
 
 iC Sunday , Two o'Clock< 
 
 U SIR, 
 
 “ Your Paper has just reached me ; and I beg leave to 
 ** assure you, on the word of Truth, that the Letter you have 
 * f inserted with my Signature, is a forgery, contrived by some 
 secret enemy to injure me. I have not the horfour of know- 
 ing (nomine tantum ) Mrs. Cavendish Bradshaw, and am 
 (< shocked that her name should have been made the sport of 
 u criticism. The Play, with all its numerous faults, is mine, 
 “ Delicacy to the Lady’s feelings, and your own regard to jus- 
 “ tice, will suggest to you the propriety of immediately unde- 
 ,f ceiving the Public. 
 
 As you can have no personal enmity towards me, I ana 
 willing to suppose that your Remarks. on my Play were the 
 “ result of unprejudiced judgment. They have excited my 
 regret, not my anger. An humble Author, such as 1 am, 
 “ must bend, like the reed, beneath each gust of wind that 
 “ blows against it. 
 
 “ You are greatly mistaken. Sir, if you imagine that I vo~ 
 luntarily appeared in my own Pieces. Necessity alone urged 
 “ me to it. Engaged for a particular line of acting, I was. 
 compelled, most reluctantly, to fulfil the duties of my sta- 
 tion; and the mental torments I endured as an Actor, on 
 those occasions, were even greater than the lacerated feel- 
 “ ings of a condemned Author. 
 
 “ With regard to the charge of presumption, in daring to 
 tg commence Dramatist, T might in justification quote a pas.-- 
 u sage from the Roman Satyrist: 
 
 “ Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique, 
 te Vatibus occurras, peritune parcere chartas.” 
 
 €< But, Sir, I have better motives—-Finding that my income 
 
vii 
 
 * € was inadequate to the demands of an increasing family, I 
 */ dedicated my leisure hours to writing for the Stage, but the 
 fruits of my honest industry have been all destroyed. 
 t( You, Sir, cannot possibly think more humbly of my 
 t€ abilities, as an Actor, than / do ; and happy should I be if 
 ‘ £ my circumstances would allow me, to indulge your wishes, 
 “ by relinquishing a profession, in which even the brighest 
 “ talents are exposed to slander. 
 
 “ This communication. Sir, is not penn’d in order to extort 
 €t your compassion 3 for, bred up under the habits and education 
 “ of a Gentleman, I scorn to sue for pity. 
 
 “ I shall call at your Office to-morrow, to request a sight of 
 “ the Letter which bears my name, and endeavour, if possible, 
 fc to discover the infamous author of it. 
 
 I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Yours, &c. 
 
 " E. J. EYRE.” 
 
 Having by this public declaration avowed myself as 
 the real parent of the following Comedy, Mr. Lee Hunt 
 is at liberty to take up the critical knife against me, 
 and after having murdered the child, to resume his 
 favourite and humane amusement of scalping the father. 
 
 31, Hampden Street , 
 
 Somgr’s Town„ 
 
 * 
 
 *■ 
 
 •* T 
 
The Author of the following performance, can¬ 
 not commit it to the press, without acknowledging the 
 very great obligations which he has to Mr. Win¬ 
 ston. Every attention which he could give to the 
 interest of the following Play, he has bestowed with 
 the most generous alacrity; and the Author is happy 
 in an opportunity of thus publicly thanking him for 
 his conduct as a manager, and a gentleman. 
 
 It has been remarked with great justice, that few 
 new Pieces were ever better performed than “ High 
 Life in the City. 59 
 
 Mr. Jones, though he appeared in a new walk of 
 the Drama, did not lose his way ; for, by his excellent 
 assumption of the Irishman, he increased his profes¬ 
 sional celebrity, and convinced the audience, that, in 
 the attempt, he had committed no blunder. 
 
 Mr. Liston, that highly deserving favourite of the 
 town, more than equalled the Author’s expectations ; 
 and Mr. Mathews, from his manner of supporting 
 Crastinus , compelled the Author to regret, that the 
 part was so much beneath his merited reputation. 
 
 Mrs. Glover, was truly excellent; her playful 
 levity—her force—her tenderness—her pathos, were 
 the genuine effusions of genius, and prov’d that she had 
 no superior, where cheerfulness is to be pourtrayed, or 
 domestic feelings are to be excited. 
 
 The vivacity, the critical nicety, with which Mrs. 
 Gibbs performed her character, can only be guessed at 
 by those who are familiar with the performance of that 
 admirable actress. 
 
 It would be ungrateful in the highest degree, to close 
 this Preface, without confessing how much praise is 
 due to Messrs. Grove, Holland, and indeed to every 
 Performer , who kindly laboured for the success of the 
 Comedy. 
 
dramatis persons. 
 
 Mr. Crastinus ....... Mr. Mathews, 
 
 Mr. Connaiigfit ...... Mr. Jones. 
 
 Mr. Pimenta. Mr. Eyre. 
 
 Henry Mortimer. Mr. Holland. 
 
 Duplex . .. Mr. Grove. 
 
 John WouhJs. Mr. Liston. 
 
 Capt. Fraser . Mr. Carr. 
 
 Mr. Juvenile. Mr. Ray. 
 
 Readv.. Mr. Menage. 
 
 Postman ......... Mr. Atkins. 
 
 Constable. Mr. Truman. 
 
 First Waiter ....... Mr. Treby. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Norris. 
 
 Lady Pimenta . Mrs. Glover. 
 
 Emily Danvers. Mrs. Eyre. 
 
 Miss Duplex. Mrs. Gibbs. 
 
 Jenny . Miss DeCamp. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 WHITTEN BY T. HILL, ESQ, 
 SPOKEN BY MR. STANLEY. 
 
 When freighted ships approach an unknown shore. 
 To sound the coast, a pilot goes before $ 
 
 He heaves the lead—the fathoms then he tells. 
 
 At which the owner’s bosom droops or swells. 
 
 So am I sdnt, to sound the devious way. 
 
 Or speak the Prologue to our embryo Play 5 
 To slightly hint our Author’s hopes and fears. 
 
 And strive to obviate the Critic’s sneers. 
 
 But wherefore send me ? Why indulge a fear. 
 
 That hidden rocks will wreck his Vessel here ? 
 
 No beacons, falsely glitt’ring on the way. 
 
 Will shine upon his course, but to betray. 
 
 Beacons of beauty here, as sun-beams bright. 
 
 Around us cluster to our wish each night. 
 
 E’en now, with angel-lustre while they shine. 
 Exhibiting in mortals, forms divine—- 
 Methinks I view the ardent wish’d-for goal. 
 
 In friendly glances from each gen’rous soul. 
 
 But should this welkin angry clouds deform. 
 
 And should the Critic’s groans portend a storm. 
 
 How shall his bark, when launch’d upon the sea. 
 Escape tie mighty shock of their decree ? 
 
 But, sav’d from tempests and such awful thunder. 
 
 We humbly hope, the vessel may not founder. 
 
HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Act I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A 1 Tavern and Coffee-house on Ludgate-hill; at 
 the top, the Bar —Waiters cross the Stage, some 
 ■With covered Dishes, others with Wine and Fruit , 
 and place them on the Tables of different Boxes ; 
 where are seated, separately, Mr. Duplex and 
 Mr. Connaught — At other Tables, different 
 Parties are discovered at Dinner. 
 
 Mr. Duplex rises, and comes fonvard with the First 
 Waiter. 
 
 Dup. (reading the hill). “ Soles, 5s. ; butter 
 and fish-sauce. Is. 6d. ; beef-steaks, 2s. 6d .; 
 oyster-sauce, 2s. ; potatoes, 6d. ; bread, Ad.; 
 port-wine, 6s.; total, 17s. 10c/.”—You have not 
 charg’d for the salt, I see. 
 
 lsi Waiter. We never tax that article, Sir. 
 Dup. Did not Mr. Crastinus leave word, that 
 he expected a Mr. Duplex to dine with him to¬ 
 day ? 
 
 ls£ Waiter. No, Sir. 
 
 Dup. That’s very strange; very rude too, to 
 keep me waiting for him two whole hours, and 
 then, at last, oblige me to sit down to table by my¬ 
 self. 
 
 Is* Waiter. Mr. Crastinus, Sir, is a gentle- 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 man, noted for patting off ev’ry thing till to-mor¬ 
 row ; is very absent and flighty, and never punc¬ 
 tual to his engagements. Sometimes, after in¬ 
 viting a whole party to dinner, he will come in, 
 just time enough to wish them all good night. 
 He has a very bad memory; 
 
 Dup. Indeed! Perhaps, then, he sometimes 
 leaves town, and forgets to pay his bill here ? 
 
 Is* Waiter. Very often, Sir. But so many gen¬ 
 tlemen do the same, we are not surpris’d at that. 
 He always pays very handsomely at last. 
 
 Dup. Well, then, put down the amount of my 
 bill to his account ; for since he invited me, it 
 would be an unpardonable affront to his hospi¬ 
 tality, to pay for my dinner. 
 
 Is/ Waiter. Sir, we have had no orders to— 
 
 Dup. Why, now, do you suppose a plain citi¬ 
 zen, as I am, would have order’d such a sump¬ 
 tuous entertainment ? Bless you! I am a very 
 moderate man. Mine is no fashionable appetite; 
 a few mutton-chops, and a single pint of porter, 
 satisfy me. 
 
 1 st Waiter. But the dishes you had, Sir, were 
 of your own ordering. 
 
 Dup. True; but then, I thought another was 
 to have paid for them. 
 
 Waiter. Well, Sir, as I know you, I will do 
 as you desire, till 1 see Mr. Crastinus. 
 
 Dup. Know me! why, I never frequent this 
 tavern; ’cis too expensive for me. 
 
 1st Waiter. I know you for all that. I have 
 one of your cards in my pocket. 
 
 Dup. My cards! 
 
 IsJ Waiter. Yes, here it is! (pulling out a du¬ 
 plicate from his pocket). 
 
 Dup. A duplicate! (aside). 
 
 l st Waiter. Yes, yes, we all know Duplex, of 
 the three golden balls! 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 3 
 
 Dup. Hush! hush! 
 
 Guests. Waiter! waiter! 
 
 Waiter. Coming, Sir, coming! (retires up 
 the Stage). 
 
 Dup. I shan’t wait here till Mr. Crastinus ar¬ 
 rives to wish me a good night; no, I shall now 
 return home. Let me see—to-morrow, the Lot¬ 
 tery begins drawing. That’s a busy time with 
 us pawnbrokers. [Exit. 
 
 Mr. Connaught and the 1st Waiter come down. 
 
 Conn. Pooh, nonsense, man ! don't bother me 
 — I say that your cook should be sent to the 
 University of Dublin, and then he would soon 
 learn how to boil a potatoe. 
 
 UJ Waiter. You are the only gentleman, Sir, 
 that ever complain’d. 
 
 Conn. Och, then may be, the blame lies in the 
 potatoes—Ireland is the only country for the 
 growth of that beautiful plant. There’s not an 
 orchard, corn-field, or flower-garden there, that 
 is not covered all over with potatoes. 
 
 l$f Waiter. My master, Sir, with his respects, 
 order’d me to give you your bill. 
 
 Conn. Do you take me for some paltry ple¬ 
 beian, that I should examine the price of every 
 article ? Don’t I know, that gentlemen of fashion 
 never look into their accounts ? 
 
 1st Waiter. Well, Sir, if you will pay me the 
 amount for seven days’ board and lodging, I will 
 thank you. 
 
 Conn. Pay !—pay, did you say ? Certainly. 
 — Oh, Mother of Moses !— (putting his hand 
 into his pockety and pulling out an empty 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 purse) —I forgot — the devil a guinea’s at home.— 
 (Aside). What will I do now ? I’ll bother this 
 fellow, and keep him in good humour, till I get 
 my remittance.—Pay !—you are not in earnest, 
 sure ? You see, now, I have not doubted your 
 master’s honesty ; why then should he suspect 
 ' mine ? 
 
 1st Waiter. He does not. Sir; but ’tis a cus¬ 
 tom at this house, for all strangers to settle their 
 bills weekly. 
 
 Conn. My dear fellow, if I lodge here for a 
 length of time, as I intend to do, I shall be no 
 stranger. 
 
 1st Waiter. I am sorry to say, Sir, that my 
 master wishes you to remove, as your bed-cham¬ 
 ber is engaged to another gentleman. 
 
 Conn. Oh, certainly. I’ll accommodate you 
 with pleasure—you can put my things into ano¬ 
 ther room.—Its all equal to me where I sleep, so 
 that I have a good bed, and every other comfort. 
 
 1st Waiter. You misconceive me, Sir—you can 
 stay no longer here. 
 
 Conn. No ! then by the powers, I’ll put a law¬ 
 suit on your master’s back, for daring to turn me 
 out of lodgings, after I had taken them upon a 
 long lease ! 
 
 1st Waiter. A lease. Sir ? 
 
 Conn. Yes’—Did not I say, when I step’d out 
 of the coach, and engag’d my bed-room, that I 
 might stay in London the rest of my life; and 
 that if I found myself comfortable, and well 
 treated, I should never think of quitting this ho¬ 
 tel ? 
 
 1st Waiter. But you did not take a lease of 
 breakfasts, dinners, and suppers, Sir. 
 
 Conn. Faith I did. Sir!—Sure you don’t think 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 I meant to starve all the time I was living in a 
 tavern ?—No, I always eat and drink for the 
 good of the house. 
 
 Is* Waiter. No benefit to us, Sir, if you don’t 
 pay for what you have. 
 
 Conn. Pay !—There, again !—you are so vul¬ 
 gar. 
 
 ls£ Waiter. I beg pardon, Sir ; but unless you 
 discharge the present demand— 
 
 Conn. Hark you, my hero—joking apart, only 
 ask your master to wait another week, till I re¬ 
 ceive a remittance of fifty pounds, which I expect 
 from Dublin, and I’ll be indebted to you for ever. 
 
 Is* Waiter. I daresay you will— (aside). —But 
 my master says, unless you pay me by to-morrow 
 morning—- 
 
 Enter a Postman. 
 
 Post. A letter for Patrick Connaught, Esq. 
 
 Conn. Good news ! Aye, here it is—the Dub¬ 
 lin post-mark—double postage too! Och, ’tis 
 the remittance come at last—’tis from my friend 
 and school-fellow, Dennis.—Here, waiter ! lend 
 me Is. 2d. to pay His Majesty’s letter-carrier; 
 and keep 7s. for yourself, which I intend to give 
 you. 
 
 1st Waiter. Oh, oh, the money arriv’d! (Aside, 
 and pays the Postman, who goes out). 
 
 Conn, (breaking the seal, and taking out a Note 
 from the Letter). Change for fifty pounds ! 
 
 Waiter. Yes, Sir, directly. [ Goes to the Bar. 
 
 Conn. Well, Dennis, you are a real friend in¬ 
 deed. Let me see —(opening the letter) what a 
 beautiful hand he writes.—“ Enclosed, I send you 
 a note of an Hundred Pounds, which you left 
 with me to get cash’d, but as you are not on 
 
6 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 terms with your Father, and no one can tell when 
 you mean to return, I can’t persuade a soul to 
 discount it.”—Now, upon my honour, that’s very 
 amazing! not discount my note! But, here is 
 more of his vile scrawl—writes the worst hand I 
 ever saw—Faith ’tis so illegible, it pains me to 
 decypher it—“ since you left me, I’ve been con¬ 
 fin’d”—confin’d! “confin’d in prison, at the 
 suit of my wine-merchant.”—Oh, Dennis, Den¬ 
 nis, why the Devil did you order more wine than 
 you were able to pay for ? 
 
 Enter id Waiter. 
 
 id Waiter. Did you call, Sir ? 
 
 Conn. Call, Sir! yes, Sir. Fetch me a bottle 
 of Claret— [Exit Waiter.] Och, Dennis, Den¬ 
 nis, why did you order more wine than you could 
 pay for ? (reading again). —“ Wishing you every 
 success in your matrimonial speculations, I am, 
 your sincere, captive friend, Dennis O’Brian.” 
 
 Waiter. Here are Fifty Pounds in Bank-notes, 
 Sir. (Giving them to him). 
 
 Conn. And here’s a note for One Hundred— 
 pay yourself my bill, and give me the balance 
 another time. 
 
 Waiter (looking at it , and reading). — “ Two 
 Months after Date, I promise to pay to Dennis 
 O’Brian, Esq. or order, the sum of One Hundred 
 Pounds, value received. Patrick Connaught.”-— 
 Why, Sir, this is not a banker’s cheque, but your 
 own promissory Note ! 
 
 Conn. To be sure it is.—I know it. Do you 
 suppose I am a rogue, and would give you any 
 other person’s—no—that note is my own, and I 
 have a right to dispose of it, as I please. 
 
 Waiter. Why, Sir, ’tis not worth a farthing ! 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 7 
 
 Conn. I’ll tell you what, you impudent dish- 
 carrier, since I have been so ill-treated, I’ll in¬ 
 stantly remove from your house—you shall lose 
 my custom for ever— I’m going to pack up my 
 things ;—when I come down, I shall expect my 
 money—or if you don’t give me the balance of 
 the note, which will be paid when it becomes 
 due, upon my honour, I’ll arrest you.—Pretty 
 treatment for a gentleman, indeed ! [Exit up a 
 flight of stairs at the hack of the Stage , lead¬ 
 ing to the Lodging-rooms. 
 
 Waiter. John! (Enter another Waiter). Run 
 over the way and fetch a constable ; bring him in 
 at the private door, and lead him up the back 
 stairs to No. 7, where you will find me. 
 
 [ Exit John. 
 
 (Mr. Crastinus without). Here,waiter! Boots! 
 where are you all 1 (Enters down the stairs , with 
 
 a morning-gown' and slippers on). Frank, send 
 Boots to me—I’ve been waiting for him this half 
 hour—brush my coat—bring my shoes—air my 
 shirt, and call a coach—quick 1—I’m in haste— 
 must dress for a party—dinner on table at six, and 
 ’tis now half after — where’s the hair-dresser ? 
 
 Waiter. You never mention’d to me a hair-* 
 dresser, Sir ; you only call’d for Boots. 
 
 Crcist. Send them both to me. \_Exit Waiter. 
 —Never was so hurried—never so late—Boots ! 
 where the plague is the fellow ?—Six parties to 
 visit to-night—well, I shall just pop in, and say— 
 Boots 1 
 
 Enter Boors, with a boot-jack. 
 
 Boots. Here, your Honour. 
 
 Crast. ( sitting down). A pretty time you have 
 kept me waiting for you. Why do you stand 
 
8 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 there, doing nothing ! Don’t you see I’m in a 
 hurry ? Zounds, why don’t you pul! off my boots ? 
 
 Boots. La, your Honour’s joking—you’ve got 
 ’em off. 
 
 Crast. Hey ! what! so I have I’m sure, I 
 had them on before—I feel asleep —aye, you’re a 
 wag—you took them off yourself. (Rising). 
 Bring my coat. (Exit Boots.— Enter ls£ Waiter). 
 —Any body enquir’d for me ? 
 
 Waiter. Mr. Duplex, the rich pawn-broker, 
 has been here. 
 
 Crast. Faith, now I remember, I invited him 
 to dinner, to fix the day of marriage with his 
 daughter—no matter—to-morrow will do as well 
 —did he leave any message ? 
 
 Waiter. No, Sir—only left you his dinner-bill 
 to pay. 
 
 Crast. His bill to pay ! That’s mighty cool—' 
 I ask’d him to dine with me, not to eat by him¬ 
 self. 
 
 Waiter. He waited dinner for you, Sir, more 
 than two hours. 
 
 Crast. Two hours ! why couldn’t he have come 
 again to-morrow ? Well, no matter, I’ll pay for 
 his chops. 
 
 Enter a Hair-dresser. 
 
 Waiter. Sir, the hair-dresser attehds you. 
 
 Crast. Hair-dresser ! what does he come for ? 
 —-I can’t have him now—I’m going out to dinner 
 —come and dress my head to-morrow. '[Exeunt 
 Waiter and Hair-dresser.] Surely, I was to have 
 drank tea with Old Duplex’s daughter, and to 
 have accompanied her to the Opera to-night—»no 
 matter—I’ll go to-morrow.—That won’t do 
 either—only twice a week. 
 
/ 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 s 
 
 Enter Mr. Juvenile. 
 
 -“'Ah, Jack Juvenile! your hand ! When do you 
 leave town ? How is your wife ? When am I to 
 see her ? Come, I’ll walk home with you now, 
 and you shall introduce me. 
 
 Juv. Mrs. Juvenile, Sir, does not see company 
 at present. 
 
 Crast. No! well, no matter. I’m going; to see 
 the wild beasts to-morrow, so will take your wife 
 in my way. What ails you, Jack ? You seem dull. 
 
 Juv. I can’t easily forget, that the last time I 
 paid you a visit, Mr. Crastinus, in this very 
 house, at your own particular and most pressing 
 invitation, that you never came to the appoint¬ 
 ment. 
 
 Crast. My dear fellow, don’t resent the un¬ 
 avoidable consequences of a bad memory, and 
 numerous engagements. On that very day I had 
 promis’d to meet a dozen gentlemen, at twelve 
 different parts of the town, and all at twelve 
 o’clock. 
 
 Juv. Ay, always behind your time—always too 
 late. 
 
 Crast. You must blame my mother—not me. 
 
 Juv. Your mother! 
 
 Crast. Yes, I was the younger of twins—my 
 brother pop’d into the world before me, and I was 
 too late, by half an hour, for securing the family 
 estate. 
 
 Juv. Unlucky indeed ! 
 
 Crast. When at school, I was notic’d for a 
 quick study ; and the facility with which I got my 
 lessons, encourag’d me to put off learning them 
 till the last moment; so that, notwithstanding 
 the quickness of my parts, I was generally flog’a 
 twice a week. 
 
 c 
 
10 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Juv. A smart rebuke! 
 
 Crast. When I came from school for the holi¬ 
 days, letters of complaint were preferr’d against 
 me from the master. My father, whilst he affect¬ 
 ed to scold me, flatter’d my indolence i« the most 
 dangerous manner, by adding (aside) to some 
 friend, “ George is a harum-scarum fellow—can 
 do any thing he pleases ; all his tutors say so— 
 but he is a sad idle dog; all your men of genius 
 are so—puts off business always to the last mo¬ 
 ment ; but all you men of genius do the same.” 
 Thus my negligence became rooted; and from 
 that period, the best intentions of my life have 
 been often frustrated by an unfortunate habit of 
 deferring the business of the day till to-morrow. 
 But, Jack, tell us something of your wife—a 
 beautiful creature, hey ? 
 
 Juv. She’s rich. 
 
 Crast. Well, that's beautiful. Very young ? 
 
 Juv. Humph ! she’s arriv’d at years of discre¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Crast. Lucky rogue ! A rich handsome wife ! 
 A fine painting in a golden frame. 
 
 Juv. Gaming, and fashionable dissipation, had 
 so wasted my substance— 
 
 Crast. That your estate. Jack, was in a gallop¬ 
 ping consumption. 
 
 Juv. Mere skin and bones ; but I married, and 
 grew plump. 
 
 Crast. Ay, ay, a rich heiress is a solid matri¬ 
 monial pillar, and serves to prop many a falling 
 house. Let’s see a paper (Goes to a box with 
 Juvenile, and sits down and reads). “ This even¬ 
 ing will be acted a new comedy.”—Can’t go to¬ 
 night—engag’d-—if it succeeds, I’ll see it to¬ 
 morrow. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 11 
 
 Enter, down the Stairs, Mr. Connaught in cus¬ 
 tody of the Constable, followed by the Waiter. 
 
 Conn. By what authority do you dare to seize 
 upon me, and threaten, if I resist, to knock, me 
 down with that painted sprig of shillelah ? 
 
 Const. By the authority of my office. Come, 
 come, you must go before the sitting Alderman 
 at Guildhall. 
 
 Conn. Pooh, nonsense, man, you’re joking— 
 I have not the honour of his acquaintance, and it 
 would be ungentlemanly to intrude myself into 
 his company without an invitation. 
 
 Const. I didn’t come here to talk, but to bring 
 you before his worship the Justice. 
 
 Conn. His worship! that’s a bull, for Justice is 
 an old tvoman. 
 
 Const. An old woman! 
 
 Conn. Yes—the Romans always represented her 
 as a lady; therefore, by this time, she must be a 
 plaguy ould one. 
 
 Const. She’s nimble enough though, to over¬ 
 take such chaps as you (laying hold of him). 
 
 Conn. Hands off—you are too familiar by half! 
 
 (Mr. Crastinus and Juvenile come forward.) 
 
 Crast. I know that Gentleman’s voice ! what, 
 our old college acquaintance, Patrick Connaught, 
 in the hands of a tip-staff! 
 
 Conn. Ah ! my dear friends, you are both 
 come most opportunely, to rescue me from the 
 big fist of this wooden limb of the law. 
 
 Const. Wooden limb! I’ll tell you what, my 
 master, if you don’t come along and be civil. I’ll 
 knock you down with this wooden limb ! (holding 
 up the staff in a threatening attitude). 
 
 Conn. Here’s a pretty fellow ! a Peace- officer, 
 and wants to breed a riot! 
 
IS HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, - 
 
 Juv. What is the cause of his detention ?- 
 Waiter Why, Sir, you must know that— 
 
 Conn Hould your tongue, and don’t be after 
 forcing your paltry conversation upon gentlemen. 
 The fact is this— 1 did the landlord of this hotel 
 the honour to take up n y residence here ; and to 
 shew him that I was no mean lodger, I order’d 
 the best dinners, the best suppers, and the best 
 wines (to the Waiter). 
 
 Waiter. But jou never— 
 
 Conn. You are right, I never found fault with 
 any thing. Well, gentlemen, I had been here 
 but one week, when he demanded payment of 
 his bill. I had not the cash about me, becase I 
 had spent it; but I gave him a good note at two 
 months, for 100/. upon a gentleman of credit. 
 
 Crast. Oh, I understand Waiter, return the 
 note to Mr. Connaught, and I’ll settle the affair. 
 You see (to the Constable) we are busy now. 
 Can’t yi.u come again to-morrow? 
 
 Const. I must do my duty now. Sir. 
 
 Crast. Well, give me the bill; (Waiter gives 
 it). l et me see- ]?/. 105. 3 \d. You shall have 
 it directly. No—I’ve not so much about me. 
 No matter-—you’ll trust me till to-morrow. 
 
 Walter. Most readily, Sir. 
 
 Conn. A thousand thanks, my dear friend. 
 Here, Sir, here is your money : though my neces¬ 
 sities urg’d me, at the moment, to take a tempo¬ 
 rary advantage of you. yet I most heartily rejoice 
 in the present opportunity of restoring both my 
 honour and the notes. (Gives the notes to the 
 li alter, who retires). For, thoughtless as I may 
 have been, 1 would never deliberately be guilty 
 of a deed which might c. use my dear mother, 
 Ireland, to disown me for her son. You may 
 abscond, my friend! (To the Constable). 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 IS 
 
 Constable. I will, but beware how you come 
 under my clutches again ; for I shan’t easily for¬ 
 get, that you call’d Justice an old woman, and 
 said that I was her wooden leg. [Exit. 
 
 Juv (to Mr. Connaught). But what brought 
 you to England ? 
 
 Conn. I had so many people inquiring after me 
 in Dublin, that their visits became very trouble¬ 
 some and expensive ; so to avoid their company, 
 I came to London, where I intend shortly to be 
 married. 
 
 Crast. Married 1—to whom ? 
 
 Conn. I have not as yet decided that; but, I 
 think, amongst such a number of beatiful females 
 that I see in this town, an Irishman cannot be 
 at a loss where to choose. 
 
 Crast. Can you suppose that such a little figure 
 as you— 
 
 Conn. My little figure! There it is, now. 
 Upon my honour, I believe the people of this 
 country expect every Irishman to be six or seven 
 feet high. Yet, although I want the tow’ring 
 stature of many of my countrymen, still I conceive 
 that when I appear in public, the smartness of 
 my figure, and the gentility of my manners, will 
 make a favourable impression. 
 
 Crast. Ay; we’ll call you the Irish miniature. 
 
 Conn. With all my heart! for miniatures, you 
 know', are always hung round the necks of the 
 ladies.—But come, let us three spend the even-f- 
 ing together. 
 
 Crast. Agreed. 
 
 Enter the Waiter. 
 
 Waiter. Sir, the coach is at the door. 
 
 Crast. I’ll come directly. (Going). 
 
U HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Conn. What, in your gown and slippers ? 
 
 Crast. Zounds, I forgot!—Waiter! bring my 
 coat, my shirt—my—am engag’d to a dinner 
 party—then to the Opera—then to a rout—then 
 —no matter—I’ll sit up with you all the night, 
 then I shall be ready for my engagements to¬ 
 morrow. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE II. — Mr. PimkntaIs. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pimenta and Henry. 
 
 Pimen. I tell you, Mr. Mortimer, that Lady 
 Janet grows every day more unreasonable—she 
 not only ridicules my city manners, but turns my 
 house into the Temple of Folly. 
 
 Henry. I am very sorry to hear it, Sir. 
 
 Pimen. The care and education of her children 
 are now neglected for the company of Mr. Sym¬ 
 pathy, the poet, who frequents different parties, 
 to amuse them by his recitations of plays, novels, 
 and verses of his own composition : whole morn¬ 
 ings are consum’d in listening to the distresses of 
 some heroine of romance. 
 
 Henry. Pray, Sir, do not you expect your 
 ward. Miss Danvers, in town to-night ? 
 
 Pimen. Yes ; she comes to London to receive 
 the fortune left her by her father. For these ten 
 years past she has liv’d, you know, buried in the 
 country, with an old uncle, who is lately dead.—- 
 If report speak truth, your visits to the uncle 
 gain’d the niece, and you, they say, are to be the 
 master of her hand and wealth. 
 
 Henry. I hope that she will find a more deserv¬ 
 ing man ; one who is better able to protect such 
 matchless virtue. 
 
 Pimen. That’s a fib, young man j for with all 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 15 
 
 your demure looks, and modest declaration, you 
 would fight like a lion, rather than resign her 
 to another.— (A loud knocking). —Hark ! she’s 
 arriv’d !—Shall /, or you , go to receive her ? 
 
 Henry. I will not give you that trouble , Sir. 
 
 Pimen. Nor deprive yourself of the pleasure. 
 
 [Exit Henry. 
 
 —What a contrast will Emily be to Lady Janet ! 
 The one is all simplicity, truth, and feeling; the 
 other all levity, pride, and art. Perhaps her in¬ 
 nocent society may wean my wife from the fri¬ 
 volous connexions she has made. Heaven grant 
 it may be so !—Here she comes. 
 
 Enter Miss Emily Danvers, followed by Henky. 
 
 My dear Miss Danvers, you are welcome to my 
 house and heart! ( Embracing her). 
 
 Emily. My good Sir, I thank you for your 
 cordial, kind reception of the orphan Emily ! 
 Guardian, give me your hand—yours too, Mr. 
 Mortimer. I rejoice to see you both. I am 
 oveijoy’d at this meeting. I have lost my only 
 relative—my poor old uncle—but I now press the 
 hands of two dear, dear friends, and I—I— (bursts 
 into tears). —Pardon these tears—they are mes¬ 
 sengers of joy, the bursting heart sends forth to 
 speak its gratitude. 
 
 Pimen. I hope you had a pleasant journey from 
 the North ? 
 
 Emily. Why, tho’ 1 travell’d, my thoughts 
 were fix’d upon the peaceful village where I had 
 pass’d my infant years, and I wept to leave be¬ 
 hind me those, that I once most dearly lov’d. 
 
 Henry. The gaieties of London, Miss Danvers, 
 will soon obliterate those rural scenes. 
 
 Emily. I hope not, Mr, Mortimer; for there 
 
16 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 the tenderest attachments of my heart were 
 form’d. 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 Well, John, have you seen that all the things 
 are taken out of the chaise ? 
 
 John. Yees, Miss. The Lunnuners be vary 
 civil sort o’bodies; for you mun knowa, that a 
 vary smart gentleman wouldn’t suffer I to lug 
 your heavy box fra behind chaise, for he zaid as 
 how, that I mun be deadly sore a’ter so weari¬ 
 some a journey, and zo I be. Well, if he didn’t 
 clap box upon his awn head—now wain’t that 
 moartal koind o’ him S 
 
 Pimen. Where did he put it ? 
 
 John. Int’ house, 1 do suppose ; for I didn’t 
 loike to order him about as thof he’d been a zar- 
 vant, because he wor a gentleman. 
 
 Henry. A gentleman ! a sharper !—Let us pur¬ 
 sue him. 
 
 John. A sharper!—by gum, I thought there 
 were nane sharper than I’ll Yorkshiremon.—Ize 
 a’ter him. [Running out after Henry. 
 
 Emily. I hope, my dear Sir, that Mr. Morti¬ 
 mer’s fears are groundless, for the trunk contain’d 
 my clothes, and other articles of value. 
 
 Pimen. I will go, and instantly lodge an infor¬ 
 mation at all the public offices. 
 
 Enter Henky and John Woulds. 
 
 Henry. Your trunk is safe, Miss Danvers—a 
 passer by, observ’d the whole affair, pursued the 
 scoundrel, and sav’d your property. 
 
 Emily. I thank you, Sir. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 17 
 
 Pimen. John, you must be more upon your 
 guard in future. 
 
 John. I will —T will indeed.—For fra this toime 
 I vveill take ev’ry gentlemon for a sharper. 
 
 Pimen. You are come to a dangerous town, 
 John, beware of evil company. 
 
 John. Oh, bless your heart, I shall keep na 
 company but young mistress here. 
 
 Emily. I was in hopes to have been welcom’d 
 by Lady Janet; but I suppose she’s in the nur¬ 
 sery. 
 
 Pimen. No, my dear, she’s just gone out to 
 dinner. 
 
 Emily. To dinner ! why ’tis seven o’clock ! 
 
 John. You mistake ; zupper the gentlemon do 
 mean. 
 
 Emily. Hush, John.' 
 
 Pimen. ’Tis the fashionable hour of dining, at 
 the West End of the Town. 
 
 John. I do hoap, Zur, owr house bean’t at 
 West end o’ town, or I shall be quite famish’d— 
 Ize like to get a lunch afore dinner, else my poor 
 stomach will be mortal squeamish. 
 
 Emily. John, you forget yourself: you must 
 not talk in company. 
 
 John. Why then Miss, I must never speak at 
 all, for I never talk to mysen. 
 
 Emily. You’ll excuse him, Mr. Pimenta; he 
 has a simple, but an honest heart. 
 
 Pimen. No apologies. Miss Danvers : I think 
 him highly amusing. 
 
 Emily. Go down, John, and join the rest of 
 the servants. 
 
 John. I dan’t loike. Miss, to gang among 
 strange folks, wi’out somebody do show I t’way, 
 —Ize bashful loike, afore company, for you know 
 Ize but a Yorkshiremon. 
 
 D 
 
IS HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Pimen. Come, John, I will shew you into the 
 servants’ hall. 
 
 John. Will you, Zur ? that be maine good o’ 
 you. Pray, Zur, may 1 be zo bold as to ax, if 
 thic be assizes or race week, that there be such a 
 bonny sight oi folk i’ th' town ? 
 
 Pimen. Neither, John. 
 
 John. No ! why only to think, Miss, that all 
 t’ neighbours should flock together, to zee you 
 and I coin’d up to Lunnun. They ha’ paid us 
 great respect loike, for t’ bells wor ringing in 
 zorne of the churches, and all the streets be lu- 
 minated. \_Exeunt Pimenta and John, 
 
 Emily. Henry, why so thoughtful ? your looks 
 are not so cheerful as when I saw you last; nor 
 did you welcome me (at least 1 fancied so), with 
 all that warmth of joy, long parted friends receive 
 on meeting. 
 
 Henry. You wrong me, Emily! there’s not 
 that being in the world, so precious to my sight 
 as you—I only wish you had continued in the 
 North. * 
 
 Emily. What, you fear that a rude unpo¬ 
 lish’d country girl, as 1 am, will disgrace your 
 choice ? 
 
 Henry. Disgrace 1 My dear Miss Danvers, your 
 person, drest in all the modest graces of uncon¬ 
 scious excellence, will shame the studied beauties 
 of the town ; whilst the superior virtues of your 
 mind will make grey wisdom fall in love. 
 
 Emily. Wiiy, what a havoc shall I make then, 
 with the hearts of young and old ! But to let you 
 see that I think my person wants improvement 
 after the fatigues of this day’s journey, I shall, at 
 this early hour, retire to rest, and in the morn¬ 
 ing, rise with renovated strength, and with addi¬ 
 tional bloom; then, Lud o’mercy on the hearts of 
 
A COMEDY. 19 
 
 all the black, brown, and grey-headed gentlemen 
 in London ! Henry, good night! 
 
 Henry. Heaven bless you, Emily, and angels 
 watch your slumbers ! 
 
 \_Exeunt separately. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
20 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Act II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment at Mr. Pjmenta’s. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pimenta and Henry. 
 
 Henry. Believe me. Sir, the credit of our house 
 is shaken. 
 
 Pimen. Shaken!—your fears, Henry, magnify 
 the danger. 
 
 Henry. No, Sir, the produce of your planta¬ 
 tion is unsold, and tradesmen’s bills have been so 
 long unpaid, that creditors grow clamorous and 
 rude. 
 
 Pimen. What’s to be done ? 
 
 Henry. I could, but fear, to counsel you. 
 
 Pimen. Speak without reserve. 
 
 Henry. Retrench your gay expences. 
 
 Pimen. How! 
 
 Henry. Dismiss that useless crowd of servants, 
 who, like locusts, swallow up the fruits of indus¬ 
 try. Banish from your house those visitors, who, 
 whilst they banquet at your board, would hear 
 your ruin with indifference. 
 
 Pimen. Without we follow the example of our 
 wealthy neighbours, how 7 can we live respected by 
 the world ? 
 
 Henry. That man supports his character the 
 best, who lives within his income. ’Tis the false 
 pride of equalling the great, that swells the cata¬ 
 logue of bankrupt citizens. 
 
 Pimen. Remember too, ’tis the generous emu- 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 21 
 
 lation to be great, that swells the catalogue of 
 British Heroes. 
 
 Henry. When I behold our citizens, free and 
 independent, watch with a jealous eye their char¬ 
 ter’d liberties ; when I behold them aid with pa¬ 
 triotic gifts the cause of struggling freedom, or see 
 them rigidly discharge their trusts, as faithful 
 guardians of our public charities ; then I exclaim 
 with pride,—These are indeed our English Mer¬ 
 chants ! But when I view the Sons of Commerce, 
 desert the City for the brilliant squares, and imi¬ 
 tate the follies and the vices of the great, then 
 with a sigh, I oft compare them to the setting 
 sun, which rises in the East, to lose its brightness 
 in the West! 
 
 Pimen. That observation cannot glance to me. 
 The mansion which my father left me in the City, 
 is still the residence of my family in town. 
 
 Henry. But where’s the ample fortune which 
 your father left you ? 
 
 Pimen. That question, Sir, from you! Can no 
 remembrance of my bounty— 
 
 Henry. Oh, Sir, u ; rong not my speech so far, 
 as to suppose my heart forgets your kindness. 
 From other lips than yours, I have been told the 
 story of my life—left by unfeeling parents at your 
 door, your hospitable roof receiv’d me. 
 
 Pimen. Henry, forbear ! I did not mean to— 
 
 Henry. With a parent’s tender care, you placed 
 me where poor and orphan children receive the 
 best instruction and support. Bless’d Hospital! the 
 noblest monument of Edward’s deeds. Long may 
 thy walls remain the refuge of the young and 
 helpless ! May never imposition wrong the royal 
 founder’s gift, nor sordid avarice abuse the cha¬ 
 rity ! Then shall many a son of poverty, like 
 me, with grateful bosom bless his benefactor’s 
 name (kneeling). 
 
22 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Pimen. (affected, and raising him). Henry, 
 I’ve been to blame ! Pardon the hasty words a 
 ruffled mind pronounced—you owe me nothing. 
 
 Henry. Owe you nothing ! Have you not 
 raised me from an abject state, to be the partner 
 of your house ; and w hen I see it tottering to 
 decay, shall I not strive to prevent its fall ? - 
 
 Lady Janet sings without. 
 
 u What can a young lassie, 
 
 * € What sh^ll a young lasse, • 
 
 “ What can a voung lassie 
 “ Do wi’ an auld man ?” 
 
 Pimen. There’s Lady Janet! Whenever she 
 wishes to provoke me, she plagues me with her • 
 Scotch dialect. 
 
 Enter Lady Janet with a. Book, singing. 
 
 “ Bad luck on the pennie 
 tc That tempted my rhinnie 
 “ To sell her poor Jenny, 
 is For siller and lau !” 
 
 Lady Janet. Sweetest of bards! thy wild notes 
 charm me. My husband here !—he has vex’d 
 me this morning, so I’ll teaze him (aside): Oh ! 
 Henry, how do you do ? Are you an admirer, 
 Mr. Mortimer, of my favourite poet. Burns ? 
 
 Henry. I am indeed, Lady Janet. He was a 
 northern light of poesy. 
 
 Lady J. A northern light indeed ! for his 
 genius shone through the long and dreary night of 
 poverty. Are you fond of the Poets, Mr. Morti- 
 .mer ? Do you ever court the Muses ? 
 
 Henry. Sometimes, Madam; but those ladies, 
 unlike our modern belles, do not smile on all who 
 woo them. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 23 
 
 Lady J. They are as imprudent though, for 
 they often run away with a young fellow without 
 a penny— (To Mr. Pimen.) Ah ! I ken ye non, 
 mv gude moil gi’us a wag o’ your loof — (To 
 Henry), I was observing that these high-minded 
 ladies bestowing their favours upon men of genius 
 -—(To Mr. Pimen.) How’s a’wi’ you, this bonny 
 day ? 
 
 Pimen. Ill enough, Lady Janet. 
 
 Lady J. I am vary sorry—vary sorry indeed— 
 you mun tak advice. 
 
 Pimen. I wish you would (aside). 
 
 Lady J. (to, Henry). These very accomplish’d 
 maidens, the Muses— (To Mr. Pimen ,) You luck, 
 unco monrnfu 1 —(To Henry), Are often starving 
 in the highest floor in the house. 
 
 Henry. Shame upon the wealthy, who can 
 suffer them to languish in such obscurity. 
 
 Lady J. Very true—but these ladies, you know, 
 happen to be old maids, and no man of taste or 
 fashion would select such antiquated objects for 
 their mistresses— (To Mr. Pimen,) You did nae 
 yearn for sic a wife, my Joe John ? 
 
 Pimen. If men, Madam, would but consider 
 how much the virtues of the mind are preferable 
 to the artificial graces of the form-— 
 
 Lady J. That’s a vary sensible remark, and I 
 I boo to you for the elegant compliment (curtsies) 
 —(To Henry), Well, I vow I v/ill never suffer 
 that delightful fellow, Sympathy, to read to me 
 any more— [To Mr. Pimen.) You mun ken he 
 has made me sae dolefu’. Oh 1 he does recite a 
 tragedy sae pathetically—I wish you had heard 
 him. 
 
 Pimen. A tragedy ! the scenes of real woe—of 
 sharp domestic grief—affect me most. 
 
 Lady J. Ye hae nae true sensibility then ; but 
 
24- 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 you are mistaken if you think the fable was nae 
 truth— (To Henry), It was a play called The 
 Widow of Malabar, where a young and beautiful 
 woman burns herself on the funeral pile of her 
 deceased husband. 
 
 Pimen. Indeed ! there are few modern in¬ 
 stances of such conjugal affection. 
 
 Lady J. (To Mr. Pimen.) Oh! ’twas avvfu’; 
 and the worst of a’, her husband was an anld 
 mon—I’m muckle glad I was nae born on that 
 horrid coast. Mr. Mortimer, you’ll attend my 
 rout to-morrow—I have issued two hundred 
 cards of invitation. 
 
 Henry. Two hundred ! how can you possibly 
 receive so many guests ? 
 
 Lady J. There’s not an apartment in the house 
 but what has been fitted up at great expence and 
 taste —even the counting-house is to be trans¬ 
 formed into an Egyptian catacomb, and the gar¬ 
 rets to a temple of the Muses. 
 
 Henry. Very emblematical indeed, Madam. 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 John. Odz heart, Measter Mortimer, I’se be 
 vary glad to find you. I went to counting-house 
 ater you; but they be a gutting it out, as they 
 did tell I, to make a gypsey—a gypsey cats- 
 combe ;—aye, that be t’name o’t, so I corn’d into 
 this room to lookfor you. 
 
 Henry. What’s the matter, honest JohnWoulds? 
 
 John. Why, you mun knaw that young mis¬ 
 tress and I went to morning a shopping together, 
 i’t’carriage, only shu rode at inside and I rode at 
 out. We bought a mortal sight o’ fine things to 
 be zure ; but a driving whoam at corner o’ t’ next 
 street, the coach wur overturn’d, and I vvur flung 
 souce in t’ed mud. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 Henry. The carriage overtun’d! Heavens! was 
 my dear Emily hurt ? 
 
 John. No, no, dan’t ye be frightened; shu 
 ben’t dead ; shu’s no but speechless. 
 
 Henry. Speechless! oh, let me hasten to her 
 assistance. John, shew me the way. 
 
 John. To be sure I will. 
 
 [Fxeunt Henry and John. 
 
 Pimen. Lady Janet, did you not hear ? Emily 
 my ward’s in danger. Will you not go with me 
 to give your help ? 
 
 Lady f. I hae nae sal-volatile about me. 
 
 Pimen. No, Madam, nor any feeling id your 
 heart, to stand thus unconcern’d. 
 
 Lady J. Mercy on me, how you storm ! I’m 
 ganging ; you need nae be so unco fashious — I’m 
 ganging. [Exit. 
 
 Pimen. Her thoughtless levity at this moment 
 is doubly cruel! ’Tis more than I can bear. Yet 
 let me do her justice; she knows not of my danger, 
 but thinks my means are equal to her wishes. I 
 must awake her from this dream of happiness ; 
 my duty urges me to undeceive her, and yet the 
 fondness of a husband trembles at the task. 
 
 Enter Lady Janet and Emily, supported by 
 
 Henry and Mr. Connaught, Mr. Crastinus 
 
 following. 
 
 Emily. I thank you, gentlemen* for your kind 
 attention. 
 
 Conn, (leading Emily to a chair). Don’t be 
 afraid, my dear, of leaning too hard upon me, for 
 I’m never so happy as when I’m walking arm in 
 arm with a beautiful woman. 
 
 Crast. (pushing Connaught aivay). My friend, 
 Madam, is an excellent walking-stick* 
 
26 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Conn. I am, Madam, and I ? ll keep offall pup¬ 
 pies that dare approach you (resuming his situa¬ 
 tion ). 
 
 Pimen. Gentlemen, I consider myself highly 
 indebted to your humanity for the care you have 
 taken of my ward. 
 
 Lady j. I must also add my thanks on the 
 same occasion. 
 
 Crast. (bowing). Oh! Madam, don’t trouble 
 yourself now—to-morrow will do as well— (To 
 Mr. Pimenta), Your daughter, I presume — 
 
 Pimen. (sighing). No, Sir, my wife. 
 
 Lady J. (sighing). Yes, I am his wife. 
 
 Crast. Yes, yes, l know—that is, I see by both 
 your looks, you must be man and wife. 
 
 Conn. Plow do you find yourself, Madam ? (to 
 Emily). 
 
 Emily. Perfectly recover’d, Sir. Pm a sad cow- 
 
 *y ^ j J 
 
 ard ; every little accident affects my spirits—Pm 
 only sorry for the trouble the alarm has occasion’d 
 to you, gentlemen. 
 
 Crast. It has generally been my unlucky fate 
 to be too late to do any good, either to myself or 
 to others: but, in the present instance, I rejoice, 
 Madam, that I came lime enough to render ser¬ 
 vice to a lovely and accomplished lady. 
 
 Conn. Don’t mention the word trouble, my 
 sweet creature ; for I declare upon my honour and 
 conscience, that I felt the greatest pleasure in see¬ 
 ing the carriage overturn’d, becase it gave me 
 a fine opportunity of raising a fallen angel. 
 
 Emily. Pm afraid, Sir, as you express it, that 
 I am a fallen angel; for I have been driven out of 
 paradise. 
 
 Lady J. You surely don’t call the village where 
 you lived. Miss Danvers, the seat of paradise ? 
 
 Emily. Indeed I do, Lady Janet, for there dwelt 
 Peace and innocence. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 27 
 
 Lady J. Yes, and like paradise, your uncle 
 and yourself were the only two rational beings 
 who ever liv’d there ; the rest were all brutes, 
 
 Pimen. You forget, Lady Janet, that l was 
 born and educated there. 
 
 Lady/ ). Weei I voo, Mr. Pimenta, I’m vary 
 sorry for the remark—I did nae remember—my 
 foolish head is a’way bringing disgrace upon ma 
 heart. 
 
 Conn. Upon my honour, but that Lady has two 
 tongues—she shoots with a double barrel gun. 
 
 ( Aside.') 
 
 Pimen. Miss Danvers, I rejoice, my dearest 
 girl, at your safety—-gentlemen, you will excuse 
 my absence—1 must attend Change ! (Exit. 
 
 Crast. Change ! well I’ll go there too, for I 
 want to speak to my broker about buying in—no, 
 selling out. 
 
 Conn. But Mr Crastinus, you bade me remind 
 you that you were to meet your solicitor to-day, 
 upon most particular business. 
 
 Crast. Egad! so I was—I must be gone di¬ 
 rectly—twelve was the hour of appointment—but 
 — (looks at his watch) ’tis now past two—no mat¬ 
 ter— let him wait. 
 
 Conn. Av, ay —let the attorney wait—gentle¬ 
 men of the law are used to delays. 
 
 LadyJ. Gentlemen —if you are not engaged, 
 
 I shall be happy in your companies at my rout 
 to-morrow night. 
 
 Crast To-morrow ! Oh yes, Madam, I will do » 
 myself that honour. 
 
 Conn. Why zounds, man, don’t you remem¬ 
 ber that you are engaged to another rout—that 
 you are to be married to-morrow. 
 
 Crast. Faith—so I am - well, but I can put it 
 off till the next day, you know. 
 
 e 3 
 
28 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Conn. So you can—say that you forgot it. 
 
 Henry. What, Sir ! treat your mistress with 
 contempt—and consent to postpone your own 
 happiness? 
 
 Crast Happiness ! I thought I told you I was 
 going to be married. 
 
 Henry. Is it not the greatest happiness, to be 
 united to the woman of your affections ? 
 
 Crast• Affection! that is a word seldom used 
 in modern courtship; now, for instance—the 
 Lady I am about to marry, was not my choice. 
 
 Henry. No, Sir ! 
 
 i rast No, Sir — a friend made up the match—- 
 its quite the fashion, saves courtship, and waste 
 of time. 
 
 Emily. And do you not love her, then ? 
 
 Crast. Love her !—Never saw her but twice, 
 and then I was in such a hurry, I scarcely saw her 
 face. 
 
 Lmily. i'nd can you, Sir, thus sacrifice the no¬ 
 blest passion of the human mind, to paltry gold ? 
 
 Laay J. Why would not you, Miss Lmily, 
 marry for fortune or a title ? 
 
 Emily. No, Madam; if I were a cottage-maid, 
 I’d place my heart upon some lowly swain, no bet¬ 
 ter than myself, that no upbraidings of degraded 
 pnde, should e’er remind me of my humble birth. 
 
 Lady J. Oh, you romantic girl! and who do 
 you (nean, in your present situation, to honour 
 wall your hand ? 
 
 Emily. Him who has got my heart (looking 
 at Hemy .) 
 
 Lady J. A fair confession—you own-yourself 
 in Ipve. 
 
 Emily. Yes, Lady Janet- I’m not asham’dto 
 pwr it, because the object is deserving of esteem. 
 
 Conn. By St. Patrick, but she means me—for 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 "29 
 
 she glanced her eyes this way, and shone upon 
 me like a beautiful rainbow. (Aside). 
 
 (rust. Some man of fashion, I suppose? 
 
 Emily. Of the old fashion, Sir, for he’s rich i Pi- 
 honour, constancy and truth—in every thing but 
 wealth. 
 
 Conn. That’s me! she’s drawn my likeness to 
 a hair I’ll take the first opportunity of calling 
 upon her alone—run away with her, and make 
 her Mrs. Connaught. (Aside). 
 
 Crust. I must pen a short note of apology to 
 the bride, and acquaint her that I am particularly 
 engaged to-morrow, and therefore must delay our 
 marriage, till the next morning—-If it were not 
 too much trouble. I wou’d ask the favor of you, 
 Connaught, to deliver it to the Lady. 
 
 Conn. Och! you may command my service to 
 the ladies on ali occasions.—I’m not asham’d of 
 being Cupid’s postman. 
 
 Lady J. Pray, Sir, don’t suffer your politeness 
 to me, to interfere with your more weighty con¬ 
 cerns. 
 
 Crust. You are right, Madam, marriage is a 
 weighty matter. 
 
 Conn. If men will be always complaining of 
 the weight of marriage, and become careless of 
 the load, ’tis no great wonder that so many hus¬ 
 bands have their goods destroy’d, or stolen from 
 their hands. 
 
 Crast. Come, Connaught, accompany me to 
 the coffee-house, and I ll write the letter directly 
 -—Ladies, your most obedient—I’ll see you again 
 in the evening at the rout. 
 
 Conn. You forget! Lady Janet named to¬ 
 morrow night. 
 
 Crust. But I’m sure I’m engaged somewhere 
 to-night. 
 
so 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Conn. You promised to meet your creditors 
 this evening. 
 
 Crast. Did I ? Well, I don’t wonder at my 
 forgetting that—I can’t keep my word, tho’ ; for 
 now I recollect, I am obliged to attend the Beef¬ 
 steak Club—I’m a member, and can introduce a 
 friend ; and if either of you Ladies wish to go — 
 W r hat am I talking of ?—I torgot no females are 
 admitted. — Ladies, adieu till to-morrow. [Exit. 
 
 Conn. Lady Janet, your most obedient—Sir, 
 (to Henry), good morning.—That young gentle¬ 
 man may be a man of information, but he’s as 
 silent as a milestone (aside).— Miss Emily, I am 
 really yours—that affair’s settled. — Och, Con¬ 
 naught, Connaught, you are the very devil among 
 the women ! (aside). [Exit. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! how I pity the fate of the un¬ 
 happy girl, doom’d to become the neglected wife 
 of Mr. Crastinus. 
 
 Lady J. My dear girl, if you compassionate 
 the state of all the neglected wives in London, I 
 shall never see you smile in my company (sighs). 
 
 Henry. And don’t you think, Lady Janet, that 
 neglected husbands— 
 
 Lady J. That’s very true, w hat you were about 
 to say. But we’ll drop the dull discourse of ma¬ 
 trimony, and speak of the more pleasing theme 
 of love.—So, my Lady fair, your heart is touch’d 
 and—( going to Henry) —are not you, too, a 
 dying swain ? 
 
 Henry. Really, Lady Janet, I—I —I— 
 
 Lady J. I—I—I—Poor man, how he blushes! 
 Ha! ha ! ha! let me look at you —No, you are 
 not deeply in love—your complexion is too florid, 
 and there never was a true lover with such rosy- 
 colour’d cheeks. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 31 
 
 Emily. You wrong him, Lady Janet—my 
 Henry— 
 
 Lady J. My Henry 1—Oh, oh ! —very well. 
 Miss Danvers—so the secret’s out!—What, cou’d 
 you not let the young man speak for himself ? 
 How mute he stands !—Is that the way you make 
 love ? Come, sing with me the verse of an old 
 Scotch ballad. (Sings). 
 
 “ My heart is sate, I dae nae tell ; 
 
 “ My heart is sare for somebody $ 
 
 “ I cou’d range the world around, 
 
 “ For the sake of somebody.” 
 
 | Exit. 
 
 Emily. I’m afraid, Henry, as Lady Janet ob¬ 
 serves, that you are not stricken to the heart. 
 
 l< Could you range the world around, 
 
 “ For the sake of somebody ?” 
 
 Henry. My dearest Emily, let me not trifle 
 with a liberal mind—a cloud hangs o’er my fate, 
 which soon may burst, and overwhelm me in the 
 torrent. If I should happily escape the threatened 
 storm, with transport I will claim you as my bride. 
 But never, with the coward feelings of a drown¬ 
 ing wretch, will I, to save myself from sinking, 
 basely cling to you, and draw you to that whirl¬ 
 pool, where we both must perish. [Exit. 
 
 Emily. What does he mean ? what are the 
 dangers which he so much fears ? Perhaps he has 
 been unfortunate in trade—then why not tell me 
 so ?—why not draw upon me for any money that 
 he wants ? The greatest pleasure we derive from 
 riches, is the power that Forfune give.s us to be¬ 
 stow them on the worthy. 
 
$2 
 
 •HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 Well, John, what brought you here ? 
 
 John. Oh, Miss ! what do you think ? 
 
 Emily. Why that melancholy face and tone T 
 
 John. Wi’ submission) I be coin’d to talk vvi* 
 you a bit. 
 
 Emily. Talk with me \ 
 
 John. Ees.—From what I ha* heard and seen 
 sin I been corn’d here, I’se afraid we be got into a 
 bad house, 
 
 Emily. A bad house !—explain yourself. 
 
 John. Why I don’t think that this house be 
 safe few us to bide in. 
 
 Emily. Why it’s not going to fall down, is it, 
 John ? 
 
 John. Ees, it be fast tumbling to the ground— 
 that is, the owners on’t, I mean—They be in a 
 queerish sort o’ way, I’se cartain sure. 
 
 Emily. Indeed ! Who told you this ? 
 
 John. Why’t be all shew and no brass here.— 
 Bless your heart, none o’ them fine things that 
 you do see i’t’ rooms here, be their own. 
 
 Emily. No 1 
 
 John. No.—For would you believe it—not a 
 stick of them moveables be paid for. 
 
 Emily. Well, but John—that’s a very common 
 case—it is customary for tradesmen to give some 
 credit. 
 
 John. Ees, and a plaguy long credit they do 
 give here—for they don’t get paid at all.—In my 
 mind, we had better take ourselves and trunks 
 out on’t—and that will be the wisest thing you 
 and I can do, 
 
 Emily. Why, surely, John, you don’t suspect 
 that any in this house — 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 33 
 
 John. J don’t knaw—but gentlefolks as do run 
 in debt, and won’t pay their tradesmen’s noates, 
 in my mind, can’t be vary honest people. 
 
 Emily, Why, who has been denied their mo¬ 
 ney ? 
 
 John. Every body that do ax for it to-day, be 
 tould to call again to-morrow—but you do know. 
 Miss, that be all fudge —for to-morrow is a ghaist 
 that appears auver night, but do vanish i’ t’ morn¬ 
 ing.—There’s a sweet little body in the hall, sob¬ 
 bing away as thof her poor heart wor’ bursten.— 
 Lady Janet has ow’d her a bill of 150/. this three 
 years, and shu can’t get yane ha’penny, thof 
 shn do say, if shu be not paid to-day, she mun 
 tumble to pieces in t’ morning. 
 
 Emily. A tradeswoman in distress '■ denied the 
 well-earn’d wages of honest industry ?—Here, 
 John, take this note (’tis all my wealth at pre¬ 
 sent), and give it to her. 
 
 John. I will, Miss.—Lord love your kind 
 heart! what a sweet creature she is!— (aside). 
 You are just like me —for [ do love to dry up the 
 tears of a pratty lass. (Going). 
 
 Emily. Stop, John !•—He may make some mis¬ 
 take (aside). —Return that note—I’ll give it 
 to the young woman myself; for a kindness is 
 doubly soothing to the afflicted, when pity mo¬ 
 destly bestows the offering of compassion. (Exit. 
 
 Jo/m. This be a comical sort of a house that 
 Mistress and I be got into, sure enough—in my 
 mind, I, and Miss Emily, and Mr, Mortimer, be 
 the only sensible folks that be in it - all the rest, 
 I do believe, are mad, or fouels, or knaves.—I’ll 
 be hanged if I didn’t see my Lady’s maid, rub her 
 own face all auver wt’some ruddle and a silly chap 
 of a footman ax’d I, if I didn’t keep a mistress ? I 
 said, no, you fool, that mistress do keep I.—-He 
 
 p 
 
3 * HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY. 
 
 then ax’d if I didn’t mean to keep a girl, now I 
 was corn’d up to Lunnun ? I said, yees, that I 
 should maintain ' sister—at which the fellow 
 grinn’d, and call’d I a quiz, a Yorkshire oaf.— 
 Dang it—if I mun keep a woman, it shall be my 
 auld mother, Margery—or if a girl, my little sister 
 Dolly. , [Exit. 
 
 END OP ACT IT. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 
 Act ILL 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Mr. Duplex’s. 
 
 Enter Miss Duplex and Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. Do you think. Miss, that my master, 
 Mr. Duplex, will be elected ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Yes Jenny, for pa’ has serv’d the 
 offices of High-constable, Overseer, and Church¬ 
 warden, with great renown. Not a vestry was 
 called but my pa’ was always there, and the 
 longest and the loudest speaker. If the parish 
 has any spirit, if the city has any discernment, 
 they will elect my pa’ to be Deputy of Candlewick 
 Ward. 
 
 Jenny. And won’t master be a Halderman 
 too ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Certainly, Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. And the great Lord Mayor of Lunnun, 
 Miss ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Yes, Jenny, with pride I look for¬ 
 ward to the day when my pa’ will be the Chief Ma¬ 
 gistrate of the biggest city in the world. Then, 
 Jenny, I shall be the Lady Mayoress, and do the 
 honours of Guildhall—I shall open the ball with 
 some great man—the papers, next day, will de¬ 
 scribe my dress, my elegance, my affability, and 
 the toasts that were drank by the noble Lords. 
 
 Jenny. What, Miss, will Lords visit my master ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Yes, Jenny, whenever he gives a 
 great dinner. 
 
 p 2 
 
 I 
 
36 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Mr. Dup. (without). Where’s Sukey, my 
 daughter ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Here’s pa’ come home—get you 
 down, Jenny. [. Exit Jenny. 
 
 Enter Mr. Duplex. 
 
 Well, pa’, shall I give you joy ? shall I salute 
 you by the name of Mr. Deputy Duplex ? 
 
 Dup. Yes, Sukey, but I had nearly lost it. 
 
 Miss Dup. Lost it! how ? 
 
 Dup. You shall hear. To ensure my success, 
 I thought I would, like our candidates at the last 
 general election, address the voters in a set speech. 
 I rose from my seat—smil’d—bow’d—put my 
 hand to my heart, thus, and harangued them in 
 the following manner :—“ Gentlemen, Liverymen 
 of the City of London, if I shall be so happy as to 
 be deem’d worthy of the honor I aspire to, I pledge 
 my word-—I pctivn my faith—” at that moment, Mr. 
 Patty, the confectioner, bawl’d out, “ Flummery, 
 Master Duplex 1”—I was so confounded, that in¬ 
 stead of concluding my speech, as I intended, 
 with promising to defend the rights and privi¬ 
 leges of my fellow citizens—hang me if I didn’t 
 stammer out, “ that I would sell them all, in 
 twelve months, as so many unredeem’d pledges.” 
 
 Miss Dup. La, what a blunder—I hope, pa’, 
 they won’t publish your speech in the news¬ 
 papers. 
 
 Dup. No, not the one I spohe, but another, 
 which I copied from an old magazine, and sent 
 to all the different editors an hour before I went 
 to the Hall. 
 
 Miss Dup. I wish you joy, pa’—and now when 
 am I to give a supper and a ball in honour of your 
 new dignity ? 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 si 
 
 Dup. A supper and a ball ! .who ever thinks of 
 such things after the election is over ? No, no—a 
 cup of tea, and a turn-out. 
 
 Miss Dup. Why, pa’, there’s not a tradesman 
 in the City but gives a rout three or four times a 
 year— I am sure I read their names, every week, 
 in the Sunday-papers. 
 
 Dup. Yes, so do I—amongst the list of bank¬ 
 rupts. But, Sukey, has Mr. Crastinus, your in¬ 
 tended husband— 
 
 Miss Dup. Husband ! I’m not likely to have 
 one soon —for Mr. Crastinus pays me no atten¬ 
 tion-—never comes near me. He wrote me word, 
 indeed, that he would attend me to the Opera, 
 last night— yet, though I waited at home the 
 whole evening to receive him, he never call’d. 
 
 Dup. No matter—I am anxious for the match 
 —for tho’, as the younger of duplicates, 
 twins I mean, he lost the family estate, yet the 
 will of an uncle bequeath’d him one of equal 
 value, which his extravagance now obliges hirn 
 to pawn—no, hang that word—to mortgage to 
 me. Now, I have propos’d to advance the mo¬ 
 ney necessary to pay all his debts, provided he 
 marries you, and settles the whole estate on you 
 and on your children. 
 
 Miss Dup. Do you think, pa’, he’ll consent to 
 the conditions ? 
 
 Dup* His necessities will compel him.—Hard 
 as the alternative may be, a man would rather 
 have a wife than a bailiff at his heels—in short, 
 we have fix’d to-morrow for the wedding. 
 
 Miss Dup. To-morrow! so soon! dear pa’, you 
 don’t say so ?—But as Mr. Crastinus has so bad a 
 memory, perhaps he may forget he ever married 
 me. 
 
 Dup. No, no! a man never can forget the 
 
38 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITt, 
 
 day he married ; for most wives take excellent 
 care to remind their husbands of it. 
 
 Enter Ready. 
 
 Well, Ready, any valuable pledges to shew me? 
 Ready. No, master. 
 
 Miss Dup. Master ! Is that your manners ? 
 Mr. Deputy Duplex, you blockhead. 
 
 Ready. Oh then he has got it! hey ! oh ! very 
 well Miss. Here’s a letter for Mr. Deputy Du¬ 
 plex. \ Exit. 
 
 Dup. (looking over it). Read it, Sukey, for I’ve 
 left my spectacles in my black velvets. 
 
 Miss Dup. (reading) . “ The Lord Mayor”— 
 bless me, a letter from the Lord Mayor—“ con¬ 
 gratulates Mr. Deputy Duplex, and the City, on 
 their election this day, and requests the honour 
 of the Deputy’s, arid his Daughter’s company at 
 the Mansion-house, on Monday evening, to a 
 dinner and a ball.” 
 
 Dup. There’s an honour, Sukey! a dinner and 
 a ball! 
 
 Miss Dup. A ball! But what will you do, pa’ ? 
 Is it necessary for every Deputy to dance ? 
 
 Dup. No, Suk’; we are only expected to eat. 
 Miss Dup. That you can do very well. Hadn’t 
 I, pa’, better take a few lessons at Mr. Hopkins’s 
 dancing academy for grown people ? for, as I was 
 never taught, I may be awkward, and put my 
 partner out. 
 
 Dup. Yes, yes, take a few guineas’ worth of 
 hops. I don’t grudge, on the present occasion,, 
 to have your feet instructed in all the politest jigs 
 
 and hornpipes. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 39 
 
 Enter Ready. 
 
 Ready. There’s some people want you in the 
 shop, Mr. Deputy Duplex. 
 
 Dup. I’ll come. Sukey, do you know, that 
 both Pimenta and Henry opposed my election, in 
 favour of my rival ? but I will be reveng’d ; for I 
 have a bill and bond on the house, and if it be not 
 paid, disgrace and ruin shall attend the firm. 
 
 [FrzY Duplex. 
 
 Ready. Miss Duplex, next Monday my time is 
 out; so some apprentices and I mean to give a 
 genteel hop that night, at Pewterers’-hall—now if 
 y ou would condescend to come— 
 
 Miss Dup. Stop, fellow ! Know your distance. 
 Tt does not become the daughter of Mr. Deputy 
 Duplex to keep company with City apprentices. 
 Pewterers’-hall, indeed! The Mansion-house— 
 the Lord Mayor—the Egyptian hall 1 \_Exit. 
 
 Ready. There’s a pawnbroker's daughter! 
 What a change ! Sukey Duplex, who many a win¬ 
 ter’s night would come down and play at romps, 
 and eat broil’d sprats in the kitchen, now turns 
 up her nose at Lunnun ’prentices! the smartest, 
 the most dashing, the most useful members of the 
 City ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Mr. Pimenta’s. 
 
 Enter Mr. Pimenta and Henry. 
 
 IJenry. What is it you tell me, Sir, that Du¬ 
 plex threatens to strike a docket, unless t he draft 
 and bond we gave him, are paid to-morrow ? 
 
40 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Pirn. ’Tis too true, Henry. In this hour of 
 danger and disgrace, ’tis you alone can save us! 
 
 Henry. Name but the means, and be it link’d 
 to honour, I will hazard life, to save my bene¬ 
 factor ! 
 
 Pimen. You shall not buy my safety at so dear 
 a price. Preserve your life for one who loves 
 you —marry my ward. 
 
 Henry. Sir ! 
 
 Pimen. Her fortune will restore our house’s 
 credit. 
 
 Henry. And ruin mine. 
 
 Pimen. Young man, this is the nonsense of 
 romance. 
 
 Henry. No, Sir, ’tis the sense of honour! 
 What, on the very eve of bankruptcy, shall I dis¬ 
 honourably wed, seize on the orphan’s dow’r, 
 and give the fruits of honest industry a father 
 left, to feed the appetite of greedy creditors ? 
 
 Pimen. You are too warm, young man. 
 
 Henry. Too warm ! Oh, Sir, can you, who 
 in the principles of virtue have so often lesson’d 
 my youthful mind—say, can you, her guardian, 
 her protector, counsel such a scheme ? A plan, 
 that would reduce to beggary the generous girl 
 that gave me all! 
 
 Pimen. Henry, there was a time when my sen¬ 
 timents of justice were as pure as yours ; but now, 
 the clamorous voice of creditors has scar’d away 
 the nicer feelings of the soul. 
 
 Henry. Reason will call the wanderers home 
 again. 
 
 Pimen. Consult your safety—leave my house- 
 —and whilst the vultures of the law prey on my 
 mangled substance, seek out some distant, hap¬ 
 pier shelter. 
 
 Henry. No, Sir, let me be left to face the 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 41 
 
 storm. No father will bewail my loss, no mo¬ 
 ther weep for me. A wife and children cling to 
 you ; and if the tree should fall, the branches 
 must decay. 
 
 Pimen. Generous man! My weak forbearance 
 of a wife's extravagance, has undone us all; and 
 I deserve no pity from the good. 
 
 Henry. Come, Sir, rouse your spirits—Remove 
 hence, until the danger’s past—I will endeavour 
 to ward off the blow ; or, should it strike me to 
 the earth, stiH will I not despair, but trust to that 
 benignant Power, whose mercy saved the found¬ 
 ling, to support the man! [Exit. 
 
 Pimen. Soon, Lady Janet, will the phantom. 
 Pleasure, disappear ; soon will your gay associates 
 leave you to lament their broken friendships! 
 
 Enter Lady Janet, 
 
 Lady J. Are you there, my dear ? I’m glad to 
 see you, for I want some money. 
 
 Pimen. I’ve none to give you, Madam. 
 
 Lady J. I’ll teaze him for that refusal (aside). 
 Oh, stocks are doon, I see, to day 1 Weel, weel. 
 I’ll borrow a few punds of your ward (going). 
 
 Pimen. Stay, Madam. 
 
 Lady J. No, I dunna like your company, when 
 you are so unco fashious. 
 
 Pimen. Madam, Madam, you shall stay. I wish 
 to talk seriously with you. 
 
 Lady J. That is, you want to lecture me aboot 
 prudence, economy, and ither sic like unfashion¬ 
 able topics. But I ha’ heard those lessons sae 
 often dinn’d into rna lugs, that I am quite per¬ 
 fect, and can repeat them a’ by heait. 
 
 Pimen. Practice them by heart, and then you 
 might indeed be perfect, 
 
 G 
 
42 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Lady y. I would, but I ha’ nae leisure on my 
 haunds. 
 
 Pimen. In one word, Madam, I must request 
 that you will be less lavish of your time and mo¬ 
 ney, and more attentive to the duties of a wife and 
 mother. 
 
 Lady J. Hoot awa! You would ha’ me sit at 
 harne wi’ my deary, darn stockings, mak’ pud¬ 
 dings, and nurse my bairns ? 
 
 Pimen. No, Madam, but I would have you 
 think a wife’s best friend to be her husband, 
 and that a mother’s safest company is the infant- 
 prattle of her children. 
 
 Lady J. Vary weel, vary weel, Mr. Pimenta. 
 I ken your meaning, Sir ; you would ha’ me close 
 my doors to a’ the fashionable world ; but, let 
 me tell you, mon of trade— 
 
 Pimen. Madam, Madam, if reason cannot 
 check your pride, nor stop your mad career— 
 
 Lady y. Mercy on me, how you froon ! how 
 frightfu’ you look! You are as awfu’ as the 
 wooden giants of Guildha’! 
 
 Pimen. And you as senseless; for, like those, 
 you never mark the fleeting hours, or listen to 
 the warning voice of time. Lady Janet, if folly 
 has not choak’d up ev’ry passage of the heart, 
 I will assail it’s feelings ! Your waste and dissi¬ 
 pation will undo me. Reform your habits, or 
 destruction— 
 
 Enter Miss Danvers, Mr. Crastinus, and Mr. 
 
 Juvenile. 
 
 Crast. I have to beg your pardon, Lady r Janet, 
 for being so late. 
 
 Lady y. So late, why, my good Sir, I did not 
 expect you here at all. However, we are happy 
 in the unlook’d-for pleasure. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 43 
 
 Crast. I thought I had promis’d to dine with 
 you to-day. Oh, now I remember—’twas at the 
 west end of the town.—No matter-—to-morrow 
 will do as well. 
 
 Emily. Give me leave to introduce my cousin, 
 Mr. Juvenile, who is lately married. 
 
 Pirn. Indeed ! Poor man ! [aside.) 
 
 Juv. Yes, Sir, I have that happiness— 
 
 Pim. I’m glad, Sir, that youfind it a happiness. 
 
 Lady J. I dar’ say, Mr. Pimenta, that the 
 gentleman is a very kind, and indulgent husband. 
 
 Crast. She must be some prodigy, for he is so 
 careful df her, that he never suffers her to stir 
 from home, but locks her up, like old china, for 
 fear she should be broken. 
 
 Emily. My cousin, probably, prefers seeing a 
 few select friends at his own house. 
 
 Crast. No, not a soul has he invited to see her, 
 lest that this treasure should be stolen from the 
 corner cupboard, I suppose. 
 
 Juv. Mrs. Juvenile, tho’ in London, loves her 
 husband, and'retirement. 
 
 Crast. Ay, I said she was a prodigy ! 
 
 Pim. I should be very glad to see such a won¬ 
 der at my house. Sir. 
 
 Lady J. I shall be proud, Sir, to have the 
 honor of your company, and that of Mrs. Juve¬ 
 nile’s, at my rout, to-morrow night. We shall 
 be all mirth and gaiety. I have engag’d three of 
 the most celebrated singers in London, on the 
 occasion, and hir’d Mr. Broad-grin, the famous 
 mimic, who has promis’d to make us laugh the 
 whole night long. 
 
 Emily. What, hire a person to make you 
 laugh ? 
 
 Crast. Yes, Miss Danvers ; wits like these 
 are the very spirit of an entertainment; without 
 g 2 
 
44- 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 such aid, the company, for want of conversation, 
 would frequently fall fast asleep. 
 
 Emily. Really ! 
 
 Crast. ’Tis an old custom ; our ancestors, you 
 know, always kept their fools to entertain their 
 guests. 
 
 Lady J. You are a merry jester, Sir. But say 
 what you please, I doat upon all crowded assem¬ 
 blies. I was at Lady Betty Brilliant’s, last week. 
 Oh, the most delightful rout that had been given 
 this season. Nothing but noise, and confusion—- 
 A true, fashionable mob ! It was full two hours 
 before my carriage could draw up to the door, 
 which was surrounded by an army of constables. 
 
 Emily. Constables ! 
 
 Crast. Yes, to caution all who enter, to take 
 care of their pockets. 
 
 Lady J. When I got into the hall, there was 
 a violent scramble for refreshments; all were as 
 greedy as so many starv’d citizens of a besieg’d 
 town. The heat was so excessive, that all the 
 jellies and the ices were dissolv’d, and stream’d 
 along the floor as tho’ there had been a general 
 thaw ! There was no possibility of advancing 
 further than the top of the stairs, where I remain’d 
 the whole night, like a general of an army, sta¬ 
 tion’d on an eminence, looking down upon the 
 combatants below! 
 
 Juv. Thank you, Lady Janet, for the descrip¬ 
 tion. Pray, Miss Emily, do you not long to wit¬ 
 ness such a lively scene of London manners ? 
 
 Emily. No, Sir ; the simple festival of harvest- 
 home, in which I have often mingled, was a more, 
 pleasing picture of content and happiness. 
 
 Lady J. An harvest-home ! Come, my dear, 
 you must own, that you had plenty of fools in 
 that party. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 45 
 
 Emily. No, Lady Janet, we had no hireling- 
 wit engag’d to make us laugh. The ripen’d 
 corn, gather’d and hous’d, the reapers met to 
 celebrate their annual toil; ’twas Nature's Jubilee, 
 for every creature’s face beam’d with the smiles 
 of gratitude to that Power, who had bestow’d the 
 golden treasures of the year ! 
 
 Lady J. And to conclude this pastoral scene, 
 these rural swains of innocence, sup’d off the sub¬ 
 stantial fare of hot roast beef, and smoking plumb- 
 puddings ! 
 
 Pimen. And long may those blessings of Old 
 English hospitality, comfort the labours of the 
 toiling swain. 
 
 Crust. That was my sentiment the other night 
 when I went to bed supperless.—The strangest 
 accident—I was invited to a grand party—the 
 evening was fine, so I walk’d—I wasfull of thought 
 ■—thinking on what I was to do on the morrow— 
 when I follow’d a crowd into a house—at the door 
 stood a man, collecting money—I thought it odd 
 —but as I knew it was the custom with some peo¬ 
 ple of fashion, to make their guests pa) for their 
 cards, I concluded that the man who held the 
 plate, was empower’d by the Lady of the Dwelling, 
 to receive the tax, so I drop’d my money, and 
 mov’d on with the crowd, when I was suddenly 
 rous’d by a voice that roar’d out, (i Be-elzebub 
 will have you all, you sinful sinners!”—I started 
 — look’d up, and discover’d, that instead of a 
 drawing-room, I had got into a tabernacle. 
 
 Pimen. A whimsical mistake! 
 
 Crast. I hurried out of the meeting, got to the 
 right house—join’d the circle—chatted with my' 
 friends—play’d at cards—when supper was an¬ 
 nounced, I elbow’d my way down stairs—squeez’d 
 thro’ the passages—seated myself at the table. 
 
46 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 and was preparing to enjoy a most excellent re¬ 
 past, when the mistress of the house came up, 
 and said, “Mr. Crastinus, we really have no room 
 for you—Supper was not mention’d on your card 
 — you are not invited—good night,” and coolly 
 curtsied me out of the house. Now this may be 
 politeness in high life, but, hang me, if it would 
 not be thought rude behaviour amongst any 
 other class of society. 
 
 Pimen. You were not the only exception, I 
 suppose ? 
 
 Crast. No, Sir ; but as I had lost all my money at 
 the card-table, I thought I had paid extravagantly 
 dear for my supper, and had a right to partake of 
 the entertainment.—But bless my soul, I had 
 quite forgot that I was subpoena’d, as a witness 
 on a trial, this very day, in Westminster-hall. 
 The cause was to have come on at ten, and ’tis 
 now near five o’clock—well, I am but a few hours 
 behind my time—I’ll go directly (going). 
 
 Jnv. You will be too late. 
 
 Crast. I’m afraid I shall (returning). Per¬ 
 haps, as I was absent, they have put it off till to¬ 
 morrow. 
 
 Lady J. Will you take your dinner with us, 
 Gentlemen ? 
 
 Juv. Madam, I will do myself that pleasure. 
 
 Crast Unluckily, I have a prior engagement 
 •—however, I cannot' resist so powerful a temp¬ 
 tation, and will accept of your polite offer. 
 
 Lady J. This way, Gentlemen—Mr. Pimenta, 
 you will hand down the Arcadian Shepherdess— 
 roast-beef and plumb-puddings for supper in the 
 dog-days !—Ha, ha, ha. 
 
 (Exeunt Lady Janet, Juvenile, Emily and 
 Pimenta. . 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 47 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. Is your name, Sir, Mr. Crastinus ? (to 
 Mr. Crastinus, who is following the Party). 
 
 Crast. It is. , 
 
 Serv. A porter from the coffee-house, Sir, has 
 brought this letter, and waits for an answer. 
 
 Crast. How the deuce did he know that I was 
 here ? 
 
 Serv. Saw you come in, Sir, 
 
 Crast. (reading). “ As President of the Beef¬ 
 steak Club, your immediate attendance is neces¬ 
 sary—the dinner has been waiting a full hour, 
 and the chair vacant.”—Bless me, I must begone 
 directly—but I’ve engag’d myself here—send 
 word to the Club, that I’ll wait upon them to¬ 
 morrow. 
 
 Serv. The Club meet but once a month, Sir. 
 
 Crast. That’s true—well, I’ll go (going). 
 
 Enter the ‘id W aiter from the Coffee house. 
 
 ‘id Waiter. I was desired, Sir, to give this 
 letter into your own hands, directly. 
 
 Crast. (reading). “ My dear Geofge, accord¬ 
 ing to your appointment, I was at the turnpike 
 in Shoreditch, by three o’clock, where I have 
 been waiting ever since, in the chaise, which is 
 to convey us to Newmarket.”—-What a head mine 
 is ! promis’d to go to the races.—Run to the 
 turnpike—go to the Beef-steak Club—tell my 
 friend to stay in the chaise till I come to him—• 
 to-morrow—Tell the Gentlemen of the Club that 
 I'll be at Newmarket in ten minutes—in the 
 chair —at dinner—on the race-smnmd—tell ’em 
 
 o 
 
 —zounds, tell ’em all, that I’m engag’d, and 
 can’t see them ’till to-morrow. 
 
 [Exit after Pimentab Party. 
 
48 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Mr. DuplexV. 
 
 Enter Miss Duplex and Jenny. 
 
 Miss Dup. Is not the dancing-master come, 
 Jenny ? 
 
 “Jenny. No, Miss. 
 
 Miss Dup. What message did he send ? 
 
 Jenny. That he vould come, as soon as he had 
 larnt your Cousin, Mrs. Vaddle, the Halderman’s 
 vife, a Garman valtz. 
 
 Miss Dup. And did you call upon the French 
 teacher ? 
 
 Jenny. Yes, Miss ; he had thirty ladies to wisit 
 in the course of the afternoon ; but promis’d to 
 be vith you, the wery moment he had done. 
 
 Enter Ready. 
 
 Ready. A strange gentleman below wants to' 
 see you. Miss Deputy Duplex. 
 
 Miss Dup. Desire the gentleman to walk up. 
 
 Ready. I will—Miss Deputy Duplex. [Exit. 
 
 Miss Dup. I dare say ’tis the dancing-master— 
 you must go down. Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. Pray, Ma’am, let me stay : for vile he’s 
 teaching you, I may larn a few of the steps. 
 
 Miss Dup. No, no, Jenny ; you shall see me 
 practise when he’s gone.—I hear him coming— 
 away! [ Exit Jenny. 
 
 Enter Mr. Connaught. 
 
 Conn. I presume, that I have the honour of 
 addressing the amiable Miss Duplex ? 
 
A COMEDY. 48 
 
 Mist Dup. What a charming man ! (aside ).—- 
 Yes, Sir, I am she—my pa’s elected Deputy of 
 Candlewick Ward, and will spare no gxpence to 
 have me made a tip-top lady of fashion. 
 
 Conn. Oh, Miss, Nature has done that.—I re¬ 
 joice, Miss, in this interview ; for to spake the 
 truth, I have had a pretty long dance to seek 
 you. 
 
 Miss Dup . Yes, 'tis Mr, Hopkins, the dancing- 
 master (aside). 
 
 Conn Give me leave, Miss Duplex, tho’ a 
 stranger— 
 
 Miss Dup. A stranger! Ha! ha! ha! - No, 
 no—tho* I never saw you before, I have heard of 
 your character. 
 
 Conn. My character 1 
 
 Miss Dup. Your fame is up in London. 
 
 Conn. Och, but they have heard of my wild 
 pranks in Dublin ! (aside). 
 
 Mitt Dup. You have brought your kit with 
 you, I suppose ? 
 
 Conn. My Kit, my Kit! that was the name of 
 the little darling , that was under my protection 
 in Ireland (aside). —No, Madam, you see I’m 
 come alone—nobody’s with me but myself! 
 
 Miss Dup. Pray, Sir, how is Mrs. Waddle ? 
 
 Conn. Upon my word, Miss, I never saw 
 Mrs. Waddle in all my life. 
 
 Miss Dup. Why, Sir, don’t you give her pri¬ 
 vate lessons ? 
 
 Conn. Not that I remember, ' * 
 
 Miss Dup. Then, perhaps, your name is not 
 Mr. Hopkins ? 
 
 Conn. Not that I know of; unless it has been 
 chang’d since I came to England, for an estate 
 that I never got. 
 
 H 
 
50 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Miss Dup. Then you are not a dancings master ? 
 
 Conn. A what!—Fire and furies ! do I look 
 like a tutor of legs and feet ? 
 
 Miss Dup. La, what a blunder I have made ! 
 
 I see it now—you are the French Mounseer, 
 come to teach me to parlez-vous. 
 
 Conn. To parlez-vous!—a Frenchman?— 
 worse and worse ! —No, Miss, I am proud to say 
 that I am a Briton ; and you must have a bad ear 
 for sounds, not to discarn that I was an English¬ 
 man, by my tongue. 
 
 Miss Dup. Well, Sir, I’m quite tir’d of guess¬ 
 ing who you are. Will you inform me of your 
 name and business ? 
 
 Conn. I was christen’d Patrick Connaught, 
 Esquire—that’s my name.—The business which 
 led me here, I am almost asham’d to mention. 
 
 Miss Dup. I guess it, tho’. 
 
 Conn. A friend of mine has commission’d me, 
 in the difficulties of his situation —in the distress 
 of the moment—to—to — 
 
 Miss Dup. You need say no more—I perfectly 
 understand you—we have many such visitors— 
 you want money —pa’s not at home, but his 
 ’prentice, Ready, will assist you in the shop. 
 
 Conn. Shop! Zounds, does she suppose that I 
 came hither to pawn anything! [aside). —Miss 
 Duplex, without further preface, I came from 
 Mr. Crastinns. 
 
 Miss Dup. Mr. Crastinus! I hope, Sir, he has 
 not forgot his engagements to me, and gone and 
 married another Lady ? 
 
 Conn. That letter from him, Madam, will ex^ 
 plain the reason of my present visit. — He wrote 
 it in a great hurry, Miss, for he had a dozen 
 others to answer by the post-—but the elegance 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 51 
 
 of the style, and the respectful expressions of his 
 regard, will, I hope, apologize for the subject.— 
 (Giving the Letter). 
 
 Miss Dup. A copy of verses, I dare say, on our 
 approaching nuptials to-morrow. (Aside—reading). 
 
 Conn. I do not wish to boast, Miss; but I 
 gave it the polish, and rounded the periods. 
 
 Miss Dup. Did you, Sir? then thus I reward 
 your pains— (throwing the Letter at his feet). 
 
 Conn. What the devil does she mean? (Pick¬ 
 ing up the Letter). “ To Miss Duplex.” — And 
 is it thus she treats my elegant— {opening it) — 
 Hey! what have we here? — (Reads) You 
 
 were last night nominated and chosen a member 
 of the Catamarans.”-— -Here’s a pretty love-letter! 
 a sweet billet-doux to a young Lady !—Will you 
 allow me, Miss, to clear the mistake ? 
 
 Miss Dup. If you please, Sir. 
 
 Conn. In his haste, my friend has directed to 
 you a letter intended for another. The one he 
 had written to you was to inform you, in the 
 most respectful terms, that he could not possibly 
 marry you—• 
 
 Miss Dup. How! not marry me ?—Perfidious 
 man !—Very well, Sir—’tis excessively rude, tbo’ 
 —but I don’t care—’tis a matter perfectly indiffe¬ 
 rent to me. He may think I am in a hurry to 
 be married—but he’s mistaken — If he treats me, 
 continually, with—such—neglect—and scorn— 
 he shall find, that the daughter of Deputy Duplex 
 can exert the spirit to—to—to—Oh J—oh 1—oh! 
 (Cries). 
 
 Conn. Dry up your tears, Miss—my friend 
 means honourably. But the fact is, he is en¬ 
 gag’d to-morrow to a party of pleasure ,• there¬ 
 fore, must postpone his marriage till the follow¬ 
 ing day. 
 
S% HIGH LIFE IN THE CITT, 
 
 Miss Dup. (drying up her tears). Oh, Sir, if 
 that is all, I have no objection to wait, with great 
 patience, one day longer. I hope. Sir, you will 
 forgive the mistakes I committed, when I took 
 you for Mr. Hopkins—and suppos’d you had no 
 fnoney in your pocket. 
 
 Conn. Faith, that vas no mistake (aside ).— 
 Pray don’t be after mentioning the subject, Miss. 
 —I can easily forget an affront, that was never 
 in ended.—Yours was a very common error, be- 
 case ’tis very hard, in the*e days, to tell who is a 
 real gentleman ; for every sarvant-maid dresses like 
 her mistress, and men of fashion and fortune as¬ 
 sume the habits and the manners of their grooms 
 and coachmen. Miss Duplex, I leave you, with a 
 sincere wish that Mr. Crastinus may prove as 
 good a husband, as your beauty and your merits 
 desarve. [Exit. 
 
 A iss J)up. That’s a very sensible, well-bred 
 man, for he does not forget the respect due to 
 the dignity of a Deputy’s daughter '—Let me see 
 — on Wednesday, i shall be married —on the 
 Monday following, I shall be inti duc’d at the 
 Mansion House—sup with the Lord Mayor—the 
 next day, go to Mr. Stilton’s stylish christening, 
 in the Old Bailey., —Oh, how delightful it will be, 
 to become a dashing woman of fashion ! [Exit* 
 
 £ND OF act in. 
 
A COMEDY, 
 
 33 
 
 Act IV 
 
 SCENE I, 
 
 Mr. Pxmenta’*, 
 
 Enter Lady Janet and Miss Danvers, 
 
 Lady J. Miss Danvers, I wish you would ac¬ 
 commodate me with the loan of fifty pounds, till 
 such time as my surly Lord chooses to advance 
 me that sum. 
 
 Emily. I would willingly, Lady Janet; but I 
 parted with my last shilling yesterday, and I must 
 ask my guardian for a fresh supply, and then X 
 will oblige you. 
 
 Lady J. I hope he will come home before the 
 company assemble. I have not a guinea in the 
 world ; and what I shall do when 1 set down to 
 whist, I know not. A general might as well open 
 the campaign without artillery, as a gamester 
 commence his operations without the aid of ten, 
 and twenty-pounders. 
 
 Emily. Can’t you play for love, as we do in the 
 country ? 
 
 Lady J. For lov£ ! ha ! ha ! ha 1 Do nations 
 go to war for love, my dear ? 
 
 Emily. You don’t compare a card-table. Lady 
 Janet, to a field of battle ? 
 
 Lady J. Indeed I do The contending parties 
 are as eager there for victory and the spoils, as 
 soldiers in a battle. In the mimic game of war, 
 kings are the coinmanders-in-chief; queens ate 
 
5i 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 generals in petticoats; and knaves the army con¬ 
 tractors. Then follow the undisciplin’d recruits, 
 arm’d with spades and clubs. Station’d round the 
 table, the hostile armies face each other, and be¬ 
 gin the fight, resolv’d to conquer, or to fall. The 
 bravest hearts are taken in the conflict. Kings 
 and queens lie prostrate on the ground, or are led 
 away captives to the enemy’s camp, and such a 
 ransom is demanded for their freedom, as drains 
 the coffers of the vanquish’d party. 
 
 Emily. But instead of being thus beaten, why 
 not retreat ? 
 
 Lady J. So we do, my dear, when our am¬ 
 munition is all wasted. You shall play at cards 
 to-night—I will enlist you in my company. 
 
 Emily. After your description, Lady Janet, I 
 shall never have courage to enter into the army. 
 
 Lady J. Yes, you will—you shall be inspecting 
 general of the forces at my grand review to-night. 
 See, they assemble! Now must I go and welcome 
 many a visitor, whose face I never saw before, nor 
 ever desire to see again. \_Exit. 
 
 Emily. If such are the ways of London, give 
 me the rough simplicity of the country, where 
 the tongue speaks what the heart dictates; where 
 friendship calls at every neighbour’s house, and 
 finds sincerity at home. 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 Well, John, why that dismal shake of the head 
 again ? 
 
 John t Why, Miss, one do see such wonders in 
 Lunnun, that it makes a body’s head turn quite 
 round. I’m sure, sin I be corn’d up here, that 
 my poor head be not in the right place. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 55 
 
 Emily. Indeed, I think not, John ; for you 
 have no business in the drawing room. 
 
 John. Yees, I have tho’, for poor Mr. Henry 
 
 Mortimer — 
 
 Emily. Ah, Mr. Mortimer! What of him ? 
 Speak ! 
 
 John. He be as poor as I be, for sarvants do 
 say that bum-baileys be after him. 
 
 Emily. Heavens! What do I hear ! What, 
 what can I do to save him ? 
 
 John. I’ll tell you, Miss. As I were saunt’ring 
 ’bout streets, I saw, written on a door close by, 
 “ money lent”—Now, I’ll gang and borrow a few 
 pounds, and tell him'I wull pay it when I do re¬ 
 ceive my quarter’s wages. 
 
 Emily. How can I procure the money to¬ 
 night ? Mr. Pimenta is from home, and Lady 
 Janet has no money. Ah, this gold watch, chain, 
 and seals, shall be sold ! Here, John, take this, 
 and sell it instantly, but be sure you do not men¬ 
 tion my name to any one. 
 
 John. Miss, John Woulds be no blab. 
 
 Emily. Away, make all the haste you can. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 John. If ever a woman wor an angel, she be 
 one, I’ze eartain sure. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Pawnbroker s Shop — Ready closing the Window- 
 shutters. 
 
 Enter Duplex. 
 
 Dup. So, Mrs. Pimenta gives her grand rout to¬ 
 night, and has never invited me or Sukey to be of 
 the party. Well, well—their pride shall be low¬ 
 ered—I have ordered my ferrets to arrest Pimenta 
 and his partner Henry, before the whole company. 
 
56 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY* 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 Dup. Who are you ? 
 
 John. Why, I be first-born son of Margery 
 Woulds. 
 
 Dup. Where did you come from ? 
 
 John. Fra’ Yorkshire, Sin 
 
 Dup. But where last ? 
 
 John. Out of streets. 
 
 Dup. Who sent you here ? 
 
 John. Mistress, Sir. 
 
 Dup. What’s her name ? 
 
 John. Miss Emily, Sir. 
 
 Dup. Her sirname > 
 
 John. She be no Sir —she be a lady. 
 
 Dup. Tell me your business. 
 
 John. I do want some brass, Sir; so I be corn’d 
 to you for it. 
 
 Dup. In want of brass! You seem to have a 
 plentiful stock of it. 
 
 John. No, Sir, if I had I shouldn’t be poor— 
 I do understand that you be a kinde-hearted soul, 
 that do lend your money to such folks as do want 
 it, so I be corn’d to borrow twenty or thirty 
 pounds o’ you directly. 
 
 Dup. What pledge can you give me for the 
 sum ? 
 
 John. Why, I wull pledge my word and honour 
 that you shall be paid in four or foive years, out 
 o’ my wages. 
 
 Dup. Do you suppose that I am a fool, to lend 
 my money on such terms ? No; unless you have 
 something better than your word to offer, you 
 will get no money from me. 
 
 John. I have a gould watch here, if so be as you 
 will buy it. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 57 
 
 Dup. Let me see it. 
 
 John. Here it be, Sir. (Gives Dup. the watch , 
 tvho opens and examines it). Ay, you be welcome 
 to look at it—it be no false, hollow-hearted thing 
 —it be better than some people that I do knawa, 
 for it goes right, and tells no lies. 
 
 Dup. How came you by this watch ? 
 
 John. Why, ’twere given I. 
 
 Dup. By whom ? 
 
 John. Why, by—the—the owner, to be sure. 
 Sir. 
 
 Dup. Indeed! and pray who might that be ? 
 
 John. Axing your pardon. Sir, that ben’t a 
 question I can answer. 
 
 Dup. This fellow is more knave than fool, and 
 has certainly robb’d his mistress of the watch 
 (aside). Wait here a few moments, and I will 
 bring you what you want. [Exit. 
 
 John. I’ll put the money in this bag, which 
 moother gave I for a keep-sake. (Pulling out a 
 large canvas hag). I do hope that he wuil gi* it 
 me all in golden guineas; for I do love to hear 
 ’em chink, for cartain. I’ve often wonder’d how 
 they contriv’d to squeeze one-and-twenty shillings 
 into a guinea !—but that’s a secret that it be not 
 lawful to foind out, for many a man be hung’d 
 up for coining. 
 
 Enter Duplex, with a Constable. 
 
 Dup. There! that’s the man ; take him into 
 your custody ! 
 
 John. Bless your heart, tho’ I shall ha’ so much 
 money about’n, I be no afeard to walk hoame all 
 alone by mysen. 
 
 Dup. Your pretended ignorance, sirrah, cannot 
 hide your roguery. Take him, I say, into custo- 
 
 i 
 
58 HIGH LIFE IN THE CiTY, 
 
 dy ; for I strongly suspect that he stole the watch 
 he offered me to sell. 
 
 John. You do wrong me, Sir. I become of 
 poor, but vartuous, parents, and you ought to be 
 ashamed ofyoursen, so you do, to call I a thief— 
 I’m sure you be the greater of the two. 
 
 Dup. What do you mean, you scoundrel ? 
 
 John. Yees—you be a wicked ould man, to rob 
 a poor country lad of all he be worth in the world 
 —his good naame! (Cries.) 
 
 Constable. Come, I must take you to the watch- 
 house to-night, and in the morning you will be 
 committed to Newgate. 
 
 John (crying). No—dan’t ye, for the love of 
 mercy, tak’ I to prison ; for if I come not hoame 
 to-night, there be a sweet, pratty young lady, will 
 break her heart for me. 
 
 Dup. Ha ! ha! ha ! you are a lovely youth, 
 indeed, to make any young lady die of love. 
 Only tell me the name of the person of whom 
 you had the watch ; and if, upon inquiry, your 
 story should be true, you shall instantly be re¬ 
 leas’d. 
 
 John (withfirmness). No, Sir, I’d rather be 
 hung’d than tell. 
 
 Dup. And that you will, if you do not, depend 
 upon it. Take him away ! (Exit. 
 
 John. Oh dear! oh dear! that ever I should 
 have corn’d up to this wicked place, Lunnun! 
 
 (Exeunt John and the Constable, 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 59 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Mr. Pimenta’s —An elegant Ball-Room, lighted 
 
 up. 
 
 Enter Miss Danvers. 
 
 HovV painful to an anxious mind, is the noisy 
 mirth that revels in this house. Heigho ! My 
 fears for Henry’s safety too, forbid me to enjoy 
 those scenes, which, from their novelty, perhaps, 
 might please. 
 
 Enter Mr. Juvenile, and Mr. Connaught. 
 
 Juv. Ah, cousin Emily, how do you ? What! 
 sad and sorrowful in the midst of gaiety ? 
 
 • Emily. I am indispos’d with a slight head-ach. 
 
 Conn. The heart-ach, she means : has fretted 
 herself ill, poor thing, for fear I should not come 
 to night. (Aside.) 
 
 Emily. 1 thought we were to be favor’d with 
 Mrs. Juvenile’s company this evening. 
 
 Juv. Her nerves are at present so weak, she 
 dreads the fatigue of coming out. 
 
 Conn. She’s quite a sun-flow'r of awife, for no 
 sooner does the God of Day retire to rest, but she 
 hides her beautiful charms from the eyes of the 
 world. 
 
 Juv. If it were not fo’- a twang of the brogue, 
 you would be a good orator. 
 
 Conn. The brogue ! Before I left Dublin, I had 
 no idea that my tongue had the least twist of it, 
 but, on my arrival in England, I suspected that I 
 might have a small taste of the brogue clinging 
 to my lips, altho’ I could never believe it myself. 
 
60 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Emily. How so, Sir ? 
 
 Conn. Why, the moment I enter’d the coffee¬ 
 house on my landing, “ Waiter,” says I, “ Beef¬ 
 steaks for one, claret for two, and potatoes for 
 three !”—“ John,” cry’d the master of the tavern, 
 “ lay the cloth for that Irish Gentleman .” You 
 see he soon found out I was an Irishman, tho’ I 
 cou’d hardly persuade myself it was by the brogue. 
 
 Juv. Come, Connaught, you must allow that 
 all your countrymen have the brogue. 
 
 Conn. A bog trotter may, but not a gentleman. 
 For instance, the former would exclaim, “ Arrah 
 now, thunder and turf, it isn’t darsant to behave 
 so.”—Now, a gentleman, and a man of education, 
 would speak thus—“ Upon my honour and con¬ 
 science it is not descent. 
 
 Juv. But we should say decent. 
 
 Conn. That’s exactly what we call it in Dublin, 
 descent , and without any brogue at all. 
 
 Emily and Juv. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Conn. You may laugh, but if we in Ireland 
 have one slight dialect, you in England have 
 twenty stronger brogues. 
 
 Emily. Twenty ! 
 
 Conn. Yes, you have the Cockney, the Somer¬ 
 setshire, the Lancashire, the Yorkshire, the 
 Scotch, and the devil knows how many more 
 brogues. 
 
 Juv. Come, let us go and pay our compliments 
 to the lively hostess. 
 
 Conn. Go, I’ll follow you directly. 
 
 \_Exit Mr. Juv. 
 
 Miss Danvers, I have something to communi¬ 
 cate c tne utmost consequence to your future 
 peace anti happiness. 
 
 Emily. Something of consequence connected 
 with my future peace ! What can he mean ? 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 61 
 
 Tidings of my Henry, who is now, perhaps, the 
 victim of unfeeling creditors. 
 
 Conn. Now, Cupid, Venus, and all the little 
 Graces, assist me to subdue my national timidity, 
 and teach me Ovid’s Lessons in the Art of Love. 
 We are like two statues at a gate, looking on each 
 other, without exchanging a single word. (Aside.) 
 
 Emily. I think you said just now, Sir, that 
 you had something of importance to impart ? 
 
 Conn. Miss Danvers, the first time I ever saw 
 you, I notic’d the beams of love darting from 
 those sparkling orbs, and shining on a person 
 whom I need not mention. 
 
 Emily. And that very person is now the object 
 of all my anxious doubts and fears. 
 
 Conn. There can be no mistake — I am the ob¬ 
 ject of her anxious doubts and fears! Patrick 
 Connaught, you are an excellent marksman, for, 
 at the first fire from Cupid’s battery, pop, you 
 bring down your game. (Aside.) 
 
 Emily. Oh, Sir, speak ; tell me, have I any 
 thing to hope ? 
 
 Conn. Hope every thing, Miss Danvers, for the 
 man that you have honor’d with your regard 
 adores you, and nothing but- his situation forbids 
 him to claim possession of your hand and heart. 
 
 Emily. I am no stranger to the delicacy of his 
 motives, and I wish to remove his scruples, and 
 to free him from his present difficulties. 
 
 Conn. How can one so poor repay your kind¬ 
 ness ? 
 
 Emily. Poor! Is he not rich in modesty and 
 worth ? 
 
 Conn. Oh, Miss Danvers! (bowing). And 
 now, my angel, tell me when will you condescend 
 to name the joyful day ? 
 
 Emily. I shall not. Sir, with coy delay, sport 
 
m 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 with an honorable passion, nor thro’ caprice post¬ 
 pone our mutual happiness. 
 
 Conn. Generous crature! Thus with Cupid’s 
 seal I stamp the marriage contract! (Offering to 
 salute her). 
 
 Emily. Sir, this is a rudeness which— 
 
 Conn. Rudeness ! Faith, but she fancies herself 
 already married, and is beginning to shew the airs 
 and authority of a wife ! {Aside). 
 
 Enter Lady Janet. 
 
 Lady J. Oh, Miss Emily, I am so astonish’d— 
 so asham’d—and—so—so—alarm’d! 
 
 Emily. What has happen’d. Madam ? 
 
 Lady J. Oh, my dear, there are three bailiffs 
 in the house! 
 
 Conn. Three bailiffsNo wonder then that 
 your Ladyship was alarm’d. The sight of one ter¬ 
 rifies me. (Aside). 
 
 Lady J. I mistook them for foreign officers, 
 and introduc’d them as such into the drawing¬ 
 room, which I had no sooner done, than many 
 of the company hurried out of the room, and left 
 the house. 
 
 Conn. I always run away myself upon such oc¬ 
 casions. {Aside). 
 
 Lady J. Well, my dear, I went into the saloon, 
 where Mr. Sympathy had just began to recite a 
 beautiful Ode upon Liberty ; but no sooner did 
 those birds of prey espy him, than one of the 
 three furious hawks pounc’d upon the dear little 
 poet, caught him by the arm, and is now lead¬ 
 ing him to a spunging-house. 
 
 Emily. Oh, Lady Janet, I fear the other two 
 are waiting to arrest your husband, and the man 
 upon whose safety all my future peace depends. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 G3 
 
 Conn. Arrest me ! How the devil shall I escape 
 the snares of these poaching rascals ? ( Aside ). 
 
 Lady J. What, Mr. Pimepta, and your lover, 
 Mr. Mortimer, two of the most eminent mer¬ 
 chants of the city, in danger of a prison ? Im¬ 
 possible ! 
 
 Conn, Mr. Mortimer her lover ! Why, what a 
 near-sighted ass have I been ! making love for the 
 silent gentleman all the time. (Aside). 
 
 Emily ( aside to Lady J.) You deceive your¬ 
 self—your husband is on the brink of ruin. 
 
 Lady j. Her earnestness alarms me. Should 
 the danger she predicts be real—I dare not for a 
 moment think, it—I’ll go and learn the truth of 
 her report directly. [Aside, and Exit. 
 
 Emily. Mr. Connaught, you now can serve 
 your friend. Yonder I see my Henry enter 
 the drawing-room— I will go there, whilst you 
 shall visit the saloon, and try to bribe the bailiffs 
 to depart. 
 
 Conn. What a penance! To send me to the 
 mouths of Cerberus without a gilded cake in my 
 pocket to appease his hungry stomach! (Aside). 
 Miss Danvers, I would willingly obey your re¬ 
 quest, but, tho’ I have often try’d, I never vet 
 could soften the heart of a bailiff. 
 
 Emily. What, Sir, will you abandon your friend 
 in danger? 
 
 Conn. Miss Emily, if my purse were as big and 
 as full as my heart, I should rejoice in the opportu¬ 
 nity of performing the offices of humanity ; but, 
 since I want the power, I must abruptly take my 
 leave. These two legs, twin-brothers, the con¬ 
 stant and faithful companions of my life, have 
 often baif me on similar emergencies, and to 
 their active sarvice I now confide the safety of 
 my body. ( Aside., and runs out). 
 
64. 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY. 
 
 Emily, Where can my servant have loiter’d all 
 this time ? I’ll go myself to these harpies of the 
 law - If they refuse to hearken to a woman’s 
 voice, they cannot have the hearts of men 1 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Mr. Duplex’.?. 
 
 Enter Duplex. 
 
 Dnp. I wonder Nab has not been here to tell 
 me of his success—I’ll sit up one hour longer— 
 (a loud knocking). Oh, here comes the bailiff, I 
 dare say. Nab has the keenest scent of any law- 
 hound in town, for he never suffers his game to 
 escape him. 
 
 Enter Captain Fraser, in a Military Great Coat, 
 and Ready. 
 
 Ready. There’s my master. [Exit. 
 
 Dup. Have you any private business with me. 
 Sir ? 
 
 Capt. Fr. I have, Sir. 
 
 Dup. ’Tis past the hour of business. 
 
 Copt. Fr. No matter—I am come, after an ab¬ 
 sence of three and twenty years, to redeem a most 
 precious pledge. 
 
 Dup. You don’t expect me to return it now ? 
 But tell me your name, and produce the dupli¬ 
 cate. 
 
 Capt. Fr. Have you forgot the name of Fraser? 
 
 Dup. (starting). Fra—.Fra—I—I—really can¬ 
 not find such a name upon my memory. 
 
 Capt. Fr. Because ingratitude keeps no ac- 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 65 
 
 count. Three and twenty years ago, I and my 
 wife were lodgers in your house, where she be¬ 
 came the mother of a lovely boy. Incens’d at 
 my marriage with a girl whose only dower was 
 beauty, and the graces of a virtuous mind, my 
 father clos’d his heart and doors against us. The 
 little money we possess’d was soon expended, and 
 my debts increas’d, when, to avoid the horrors of a 
 jail, I left the tender partner of my cares (too ill 
 to be remov'd), and went abroad. 
 
 Dup. And are now return’d with a noble for¬ 
 tune ? 
 
 Copt. Fr. No, Sir, wounds, and a broken con¬ 
 stitution, are all I have to shew for years of ser¬ 
 vice. But to resume my story :—The cruel sepa¬ 
 ration prey’d upon my wife —she sunk, and died, 
 but left behind her, in your charge, our helpless 
 little one.—Say, does he live ? 
 
 Dup. I—I believe so—that is—I—I can’t tell. 
 
 Capt. Fr. No! what was his fate ? Answer me, 
 I conjure you. 
 
 Dup. The child—now don’t be shock’d—oh! he 
 was—oh, he was such a pretty boy—I was so fond 
 of him — he was the very image of you— 
 
 Capt. Fr. You trifle with my feelings—vvith^ 
 out prevarication or delay— 
 
 Dup. Bless us, you are so hasty-—He—he—» 
 was lost—stolen from the door— 
 
 Capt. Fr. Stolen ! what was his age when this 
 event occurr’d? 
 
 Dup. His age 1 You question me. Sir, as 
 though I were overseer of the parish. 
 
 Capt. Fr. I question you with the anxious voice 
 of Nature. I demand your reasons for withhold¬ 
 ing from a father’s knowledge, the fatal secret, 
 and for your fraudulent detentions of the sums 
 which I sent expressly for the infant’s use? 
 
 Dup. I kept the money—in hopes—that—that 
 
66 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 —the sweet boy might one day be found. If I 
 delay’d bom year to year, to mention the disas¬ 
 trous accident, I did it in compassion to your 
 feelings, Sir. Besides, ? tis now five years since 
 I read your name in the Gazette, amongst the 
 slain. 
 
 Ca.pt. Fr. A prisoner, and missing, it was sup¬ 
 pos’d that I had fallen in the fight. Happy if I 
 had, for ’twould have spar’d my heart this bitter 
 pang of disappointment. The hope of one day 
 clasping to my breast an only son, the legacy of 
 Love, supported me through every danger, and 
 cheer’d the hours of harsh captivity. Early to¬ 
 morrow morning I shall visit you again. Be 
 ready with your accounts. 
 
 Dup. (aside). What shall I do ? I have it—his 
 principal creditor 'lives close by——I’ll go to him in 
 the morning, buy up the debt for a trifle, and cage 
 this Bengal tyger (going). 
 
 Capt. Fr. And mark me, if you have dar’d to 
 cheat me with a tale of falshood, or have basely 
 wrong’d the orphan trusted to your care, tremble 
 at a father’s vengeance. [_Exeunt separately. 
 
 2ND OF ACT IV. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 67 
 
 Act v. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Mr. Pimenta’.?. 
 
 Emily and Lady Janet discovered seated. 
 
 Lady J. Ob, Emily, my follies have occasion’d 
 this disgrace, this total wreck of happiness ! No 
 wish denied me by a fond and doating husband, I 
 thought his fortune boundless as his love. My 
 house, my heart, were open to a crowd of flatter¬ 
 ers, who in the hour of need forsake me. 
 
 Emily., Ah! Lady Janet, the buzzing insects 
 that, in summer, swarm around the gaudy flow¬ 
 ers, and live upon the honied treasures, will, when 
 the blossoms fade, and all their sweets are gone, 
 leave them to perish in the winter’s blast. 
 
 Lady J. No tidings yet of my husband, or of 
 Henry ? 
 
 Emily. Not any. Madam. 
 
 Lady J. Oh ! 
 
 Emily. Your mind and body are worn out by 
 watching—compose yourself—retire to rest. 
 
 Lady J. To rest ! The throbbings of this 
 breaking heart will startle sleep, and banish slum¬ 
 ber from my pillow. 
 
 Emily. Nay, dearest Madam, dry up your tears 
 '—all may yet be well. 
 
 Lady J. ’Tis not my fallen pride that weeps — 
 these are the tears of deep remorse. Ah! Emily, 
 le^ my example teach you, that pleasure is the 
 
68 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 dazzling meteor of an hour; but prudence only, 
 is the polar star of lasting happiness. 
 
 Emily. Reflectiops such as these, will tend, in 
 future, to restore the blessings you have lost. 
 
 Lady J. Ah, no! Has not iny wild extrava¬ 
 gance 'banish’d a husband from his home, and 
 sent a faithful friend to prison ? Has not my 
 folly—agonizing thought! —reduc’d to beggary 
 my helpless children ? 
 
 Emily. To beggary, Lady Janet ? Never, 
 whilst I can aid them. I ll pay your husband’s 
 debts, restore him to his wife and family, and 
 think my fortune well bestow’d, that has obtain’d 
 a father’s freedom, and a mother’s peace ! 
 
 V v 
 
 % 
 
 Enter John Woulds. 
 
 John. Oh, Miss, I be zo glad to see you—I 
 dare to say your poor heart has griev’d sorely 
 ’bout I. 
 
 Emily — (rising and coming forward, Lady Ja¬ 
 net remaining on the sofa) —How came you to stay 
 from home last night ? You met, I fear, with 
 improper company. 
 
 John. Yees, Miss, I did meet wi’ very bad 
 company, that’s zure enough. Bless your heart! 
 they took I to watch-house, where I wor cramm’d 
 into a dark hole, wi’ drunken bucks, pickpock¬ 
 ets, and naughty, fye-fye women. 
 
 Emily . What had you done ? 
 
 John. Nothing —but when I offer’d to sell your 
 —noa, my watch —the money-lender swore that 
 I had stolen it ; and because I wouldn’t tell from 
 whom I had it, they dragged I along as thof I’d 
 been a thief, and said I should be bang’d. 
 
 Emily. Faithful fellow ! what dangers have you 
 undergone for me! 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 69 
 
 John. Nay, I shouldn’t have minded losing my 
 life in your sarvice; but I cried and sobb’d most 
 bitterly all night long, to think how poor moother 
 would grieve, when she wur tould of my untimely 
 end ; for she did alway say that I wur the hopes 
 o’ the family. 
 
 Emily. Why not let me know your peril ? 
 
 John. They wur so hard hearted, that thof I 
 begg’d of’em to let me out, only for ten minutes, 
 and promis’d to come back and spend the night 
 wi’ 'em, they only laugh’d, and swore I was an old 
 one, though you do knowa, Miss, that I be but 
 twenty next Lammas. 
 
 Emily. True, John, you are young indeed. 
 
 John. In the morning they carried I before his 
 worship, the Justice. 
 
 Emily. What did he say ? 
 
 John. He spoke very civil, and said he wur 
 sorry to see a lad of my simple countenance 
 brought before him.—I tould him I wur as sorry 
 as he could be, and that I wur willing to gang 
 home. —Well, as navvbody appeared ’gainst I, he 
 monished I ’bout honesty, and dismissed I very 
 genteelly. 
 
 Emily. Well, John, go down now—Lady Janet 
 is indispos’d. 
 
 John. I beg pardon, Madam—I’m sure I didn’t 
 see you-—Ize very sorry ye are so badly. If you’ll 
 mak’ up your mind to be happy, you’ll soon be 
 well again —but mayhap Lunnun don’t agree wi’ 
 you, Ma’am; I’m zure it doesn’t agree wi’ me, 
 for they clapt I in jail last night. 
 
 Emily. Hush, John l 
 
 John. I tell you what. Ma’am, yrnu’d better go 
 wi’ us to Yorkshire, eh !—There every thing’s 
 as bonny as out—lads, lasses, pigs, cows, 
 dogs, and horses do ail thrive there, and you'd 
 
70 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 thrive there—I’m sure you would—so do go. 
 Ma’am. 
 
 Emily. Go, John, talking disturbs her. 
 
 John . I do ax pardon, Miss; but I meant 
 nought but dutiful love and kindness to her La¬ 
 dyship. 
 
 Emily. I know it; and be assured, your fide¬ 
 lity to me, John, shall not pass unrewarded. 
 
 John. I do thank you kindly, Miss; but I’d 
 rather not have any thing—a deal of brass is very 
 apt to mak’ a body proud, and I might then lose, 
 mayhap, the pleasure I do now feel, in having 
 done my duty as an honest lad. [Exit. 
 
 Emily. I fear the bluntness of my servant’s 
 character— 
 
 Lady J. (rising). No, Emily; his frankness 
 pleas’d me. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. A letter for Lady Janet. [ Exit. 
 
 Lady J. ’Tis from Mr. Pimenta. Oh what a 
 coward guilt has made me, when I tremble to un¬ 
 fold a husband’s letter! (Reads.) “ Two o’clock 
 in the morning.—Mad with the loss of fortune, 
 fame, and character, I cannot face the world.— 
 Another, and a distant country, can only hide my 
 shame. In a father’s name, kiss and bless for me, 
 our helpless little ones.—Be a kind mother to 
 them when lam gone, and pity and pray for your 
 distracted husband.”— (Sinks into Emily’s arms). 
 
 Emily Dearest Madam, be compos’d. 
 
 Lady y. Compos’d ! what, when my husband 
 meditates a deed of horror ! 
 
 Emily. You surely misconceive. 
 
 Lady y. No—no—here—here are the fatal 
 words—“ Be a kind mother when I am gone!”—» 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 71 
 
 When I am gone! mark that!—Self-destruction! 
 —The horrid crime was mine !—’Twas my con¬ 
 duct drove a husband to despair—bereav’d my 
 children of their father! 
 
 Emily. You alarm me, Madam! It cannot be! 
 
 Lady J. When 1 am gone ! —Where can a 
 guilty wife and mother hide her crimes? Not 
 even in the grave—for in another world my hus¬ 
 band will accuse me !— (Sinks exhausted on the 
 sofa , and the Scene closes). 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Mr. Duplex’.?. 
 
 Enter Miss Duplex, dressed for the Wedding , 
 followed by Jenny. 
 
 Miss Dup. Jenny, do I look tolerably well ? 
 
 Jenny. Divinely, Miss 1 enough to captivate 
 a Prince—what a charming gown ! I loves white 
 .—it is so innocent. 
 
 Miss Dup. Marriage, Jenny, is a very awful 
 affair. I am really alarm’d as the moment ap¬ 
 proaches—when I must yield up my virgin hand. 
 If my husband should ever neglect me, or refuse 
 to let me have my own way, Jenny, I do think 
 that my poor, tender heart, would break! (weeps). 
 
 Jenny (weeping). Oh ! oh ! my dear Mistress ! 
 
 Miss Dup. (still iveeping). It’s —a—very—seri¬ 
 ous thought ! (drying up her tears). I wish he 
 was come tho’, for I hate to be kept waiting so 
 long. 
 
 Jenny. I hopes, Miss, that you will take me 
 down with you in the country, to w-ait upon you. 
 
 Miss Dup. Yes, Jenny, you shall be my maid 
 of the bed-chamber, to dress, and undress me. 
 
72 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Jenny. To undress you, Miss ! why, won’t you 
 have the use of your hands when you are a real 
 Lady ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Women of fashion, I am told, 
 Jenny, never wait upon themselves. 
 
 Jenny. No, Miss ! Why what helpless crea¬ 
 tures they must be then. 
 
 Miss Dup. The only exertion of a fine Lady, 
 consists in ringing the bell-—in walking from the 
 drawing-room to the carriage—and 'from the car¬ 
 riage to the drawing-room. 
 
 Jenny. That’s the reason I suppose, Miss, 
 that one sees so many fat dowagers. 
 
 Miss Dup. Remember, Jenny, when we go 
 down to my country-house, that you never tel! 
 any of the bumpkins that my pa’ is a pawn¬ 
 broker. 
 
 Jenny. No, Ma’am, I’ll swear that old Master 
 was born a Lord Mayor—that you was the mo*t 
 tip-toppest Lady in Lunnun — and that 1 was a 
 Maid of Honor'—I doesn’t mind a few vite lies. 
 
 Miss Dup. 1 wonder that Mr. Crastinus is not 
 here yet. 
 
 Jenny. La,.Miss, I hopes he vont forget. 
 
 Miss Dtp. No, Jenny, I took an excellent 
 method to remind him ; for last night I sent an 
 account of the wedding to all the newspapers. 
 Give me that paper of to-day which is lying on 
 the table. (Jenny gives it to her). Read that 
 paragraph, Jenny (giving the paper). 
 
 Jenny. I begs pardon, Miss, but I was larnt 
 every thing at school but my letters. 
 
 Miss Dup. Listen then, (reading), “ This 
 morning was married, by licence, at Bow-church 
 Cheapside, by the Rev. Dr. Snorum, the young 
 and beautiful Miss Duplex, only daughter of the 
 worthy Deputy of that name, to George Cras- 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 75 
 
 tinus, Esq. of Drcnvsy-hall, Bedfordshire. After 
 the ceremony, the happy couple set off, in a 
 chaise and four, for their country seat, where they 
 intend to pass their honey moon.” 
 
 Enter Mr. Duplex. 
 
 Dup. Ah, Sukey, let me look at you ! why 
 you are as fine as a show-glass, and as full of 
 trinkets as my shop window. 
 
 Miss Dup. Go Jenny and bring me word the 
 very moment that the bride-grootn and his friend 
 arrive. 
 
 Jenny. Yes, Miss ; I’ll stand at the shop door, 
 and if I see them coming along, I’ll beckon them 
 to make haste. [Exit. 
 
 Dup. Well, Sukey, to-day you leave the pro¬ 
 tection of a father, for a youthful husband. You’ll 
 not forget the old man I hope, but come and 
 spend your Christmasses with him. 
 
 Miss Dup. I shall always be happy, pa’, to 
 welcome you at my town and country house, but 
 you’ll excuse my visits to the city, as the air is 
 too close, and the nasty fogs may affect my lungs. 
 
 Dup. The city air ! why what the plague’s the 
 matter With that ? both you and I have liv’d upon 
 it all our lives. ’Tis the wholesomest air in 
 London, or so many of our citizens wouldn’t 
 thrive so much upon it. It’s the west end of the 
 town, and the squares, where people are destroy’d 
 by galloping consumptions. 
 
 Enter Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. La, Ma’am, he’s come ! he’s come ! 
 he’s come ! (Goes up to Miss Duplex.) 
 
 Miss Dup. Dear Heart, Jenny, how you have 
 fluster’d me ! (Goes up the Stage.) 
 
 L 
 
74 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Enter Mr. Cra.stjnus, and Mr. Connaught* 
 
 Crast. (Going up to Jenny.) I beg ten thousand 
 pardons, Madam, for being so late, but now I’m 
 ready to attend yon to the church. 
 
 Conn. Ha ! ha ! ha ! why that’s not the bride 
 •—that’s not Miss Duplex. 
 
 ‘Jenny. Veil, only to think that T should be 
 taken for a lady! But it’s no vonder—Birth is 
 nothing—Manners and edication is all. \ txit. 
 
 Conn. Give me leave. Miss Duplex, to present 
 Mr Crastinus to your better acquaintance 
 
 Crast. Tbo’ I have been so hurried, Madam, 
 as not to pay the usual attentions of a lover, yet 
 I assure you I am not insensible to the merits of 
 Miss Duplex, nor ungrateful of the honor she 
 confers upon me by faking the name of Crast nus» 
 
 Dup. Well, Gentlemen, suppose you go and 
 join the company in the best parlour, and take a 
 snack before you enter the church. You'll excuse 
 my attendance there, as 1 have urgent business at 
 Mr. pimenta’s, wheie I shall expect you after the 
 ceremony is over. 
 
 Crast. Bless me, how could I be so thought¬ 
 less 1 what shall I do ? 
 
 Dup. What’s the matter ? 
 
 Crast. I’ve come without the licence. 
 
 Miss Dup. Without the licence ! 
 
 Crast. Yes ; but no matter — to-morrow will do 
 as weil. 
 
 Miss Dup. To-morrow ! I expect to be mar¬ 
 ried to-dav. Sir. 
 
 . ( rast To-day— to- morrow—I beg pardon—I 
 did not think on what I was saying—I meant that 
 v.e m ht be married to-day, and 1 could get the 
 licence to-morrow—no—not that—-! mean, that 
 I'll step to the Commons directly. 
 
A COMEDY 
 
 75 
 
 Miss Dup. Now do, Sir, make all the haste you 
 can, for you know we can’t be married after 
 twelve o’clock. 
 
 Crast. Madam, I’llflv—I’ll borrow the wine? of 
 Love. I’ll be back before to morrow. [Exit. 
 
 Conn. Wings of Love ! you had much better 
 go in the hackney coach. Mr. Crastinus, Ma¬ 
 dam, is a warm friend, but a very absent lover. 
 Now we never neglect the ladies in Dublin — never. 
 
 * iss Pup. What a charming place that must 
 be, to be married in. 
 
 Conn. Och, Ireland, Miss, is the cradle of love, 
 and the nursery of friendship! for there the wives 
 are so happy, and the husbands so-attentive— 
 
 Miss Dup. I wish that I had lived there. 
 
 Conn. Now if this had been my wedding day, 
 and the bride, the accomplished Miss Duplex—■ 
 
 Miss Dup. Oh, Sir—you—you ! 
 
 Conn. I never would have forgotten the licence: 
 and as for the ring, Madam, I always carry one on 
 my finger, to guard against accidents.— Give me 
 leave, Miss Duplex, to hand you down into the 
 parlour. 
 
 Miss Dup. La' Sir, you are vastly polite.— I 
 hope, Sir, that I shall often have the pleasure of 
 seeing you at my country-house. 
 
 [Exeunt with great ceremony. 
 
 Dup. Whilst the young couple are gone, I’ll 
 pay a visit to the Merchant’s, and take possession 
 of his house and furniture. 
 
 Re-enter Mr. Crastinus. 
 
 What has brought you back so soon ? 
 
 Crast. I’ve forgot my purse—not a shilling m 
 my pocket.—Lend me twenty guineas, to pay for 
 the licence, the parson, the clerk, the sexton, pew* 
 opener, coach, and the ringers. 
 
 L 2 
 
76 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Dup. There—there— (giving the money) —get 
 you gone. 
 
 Crast. I’ll give you a draft upon my banker for 
 the money. 
 
 Dup. Do so. 
 
 Crast. Well, here—take it— (pulling out his 
 pocket hook)— but I’m in haste now—no matter— 
 (putting up the pocket hook) —you shall have it 
 to-morrow. [ Exit. 
 
 Dup. What a day of triumph this is to me ! 
 Pimenta and his Partner are both arrested;—Cap¬ 
 tain Fraser, too, and his saucy demands, are silenced 
 —Nab has locked him up, and released me from 
 every fear of being worried by him again. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Mr. Pimenta’s. 
 
 Enter John Woulds, with a largt Trunk on his 
 shoulder, and a Bundle in one hand. 
 
 John (running about the Stage). Where be Miss 
 Emily ? ( calling) Miss Danvers ! Miss Emily ! 
 For the love of mercy do come to me.—Dan’t be 
 afraid—’tis only I, your faithful sarvant, John 
 Woulds, that do call ye! Miss Emily 1 Miss Dan¬ 
 vers ! 
 
 Enter Emily. 
 
 Emily. John ! why what is the matter ? 
 
 John. Oh Miss ! ( crying ) I be so frightful i 
 
 Emily. Why are you thus loaded ? 
 
 John. It ben’t the load at myl^ack, but the 
 big, thumping one at my heart, that do mak’ me 
 cry so. 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 77 
 
 Emily. Explain. 
 
 John. This be your trunk, and in the bundle 
 I’ze eramm’d my best clothes and linen ! Oh 
 dear, oh dear ! I be scar’d out of my poor wits! 
 
 ( Crying). 
 
 Emily. What are you going to do with those 
 things ? 
 
 John. I’ze going to put ’em into Bull’s Mouth. 
 
 Emily. What! 
 
 John. Into waggon, that sets off from the 
 Bull’s Mouth, and do fly down to our town. 
 
 Emily. What is the meaning of— 
 
 John. Hush! not so loud! They’ll overhear 
 us—for house be full of officers. 
 
 Emily. Officers! 
 
 John. Yees—bum-baileys — Every thing here be 
 gone to wrack and ruin, and baileys be corn’d to 
 tske away all they can clap their ugly claws on. 
 
 Emily. Poor Lady Janet! (Aside). 
 
 John. Well, no sooner did I see ’em lay hold 
 of the moveables, but away I scamper’d up to 
 room, and got your trunk., and my best Sunday¬ 
 going things away ; and by gum, they mun fight 
 hard that do try to catch ’em from me. ( Lays 
 down the trunk, and seats himself on it). 
 
 Enter Lady Janet. 
 
 Lady J. The harpies of the law are come to 
 plunder and devour us. This roof no longer can 
 afford a shelter—We must be gone. 
 
 Emily. But whither will you go ? 
 
 Lady J. I know not! Without a husband, 
 home, or friend, what door will open to receive 
 me ? 
 
 John ( rising ). Why, moother’s will; go but into 
 Yorkshire, Ma’am, and shu and sister Dolly will 
 be very happy to see us all. 
 
HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 7S 
 
 (Duplex, without.) 
 
 Dup. Let nothing be remov’d without my or¬ 
 ders. This house, and all that it contains, belong 
 to me. 
 
 John. He shan’t ha’ your trunk tho’. ( Seating 
 himself again on it). 
 
 Enter Duplex. 
 
 Why, that be the wicked, ugly, ould chap, that 
 sent I to jail. 
 
 Dup. Ladies, I will thank you to withdraw— 
 this house is mine. 
 
 Emily. Yours ! 
 
 Dup. Yes, mine. 
 
 Lady J. I shall—not—Sir—dispute your claim 
 -—I will but collect my little treasure, the only or¬ 
 naments I have left, and then — 
 
 Dup. Hold, Madam ! Every thing of value, in 
 this place, is mine by law. 
 
 Lady J. Not so ; the jewels I request to have, 
 are— 
 
 Dup. The presents of your husband—the gifts 
 of pride! 
 
 Lady J. They are, indeed, a mother’s pride— 
 a wife’s best ornaments— my children ! 
 
 Dup. Chil—Children—yes, yes, you may take 
 them with you—I haveno wish to be father-in-law 
 to them. 
 
 Emily. My dear Sir, have pity on Lady Janet, 
 and release her husband. Do, I beseech you ! 
 
 John. Now, do Sir, do—be kind-hearted for once. 
 
 Dup. In one word, ladies, I must insist on your 
 removal from this house. 
 
A COMEDY. V» 
 
 Enter Captain Fraser. 
 
 Capt. Fr. And I insist that they remain ! 
 
 Dup. Captain Fraser ! 
 
 Cabt. Fr. (crossing over to the Ladies). Pardon, 
 lad its, the aFrupt entrance of a stranger ; I come 
 not to insult your sorrows, but, if practicable, to 
 relieve them. 
 
 Lad/ y. The visit of friendship, Sir, is always 
 welcome. You are acquainted, I presume, with 
 our unhappy story ? 
 
 Capt. Fr. I am, Madam, and have deeply la¬ 
 mented your misfortunes. 
 
 Lada J. Perhaps, then, you bring me tidings 
 of try husband— 
 
 Emily. And of Mr. Mortimer. 
 
 Capt. Fr, They are both well. 
 
 Lady f. Heaven be prais’d ! For since my hus¬ 
 band lives, I’ll bear my lighter griefs without a 
 murmur. 
 
 Emily. Say, Sir, shall we not see them soon ? 
 
 Capt. / r. That question. Madam, I cannot an¬ 
 swer yet. 
 
 Lady J. Alas! the coldness of that reply has 
 kill’d my hop°s. 
 
 Capt. i r. Patience, and the Christian’s confi¬ 
 dence. Madam, will revue them. Allow me now 
 to address a few words to that ungrateful man 
 (pointing to Duplex, who, during the latter part 
 of this Scene, has retir'd up the Stage) Mr. Du¬ 
 plex ! 
 
 Du.p. Sir—I—Sir— 
 
 Capt. hr. V\ hat language can be strong enough 
 to describe the baseness of your conduct to me ? 
 But 1 need not use reproaches, for detected guilt, 
 I see, has mark’d your features with the stamp of 
 shame. 
 
so 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Dup. Who made you a judge of faces ? 
 
 Capt. Fr. Silence, wretch, and hear me ! 
 
 Dup. Wretch, indeed ! A Deputy of the City 
 tnight command a little more respect. 
 
 Capt. Fr. Not if the man degrades the title. 
 The humblest citizen, who, by industry and me¬ 
 rit, rises to civic honours, claims the regard of 
 ev’ry virtuous mind ; but the robe of dignity which 
 gracefully adorns the patriot, flows with mock 
 grandeur from the back of knaves and fools ! 
 
 Dup. Captain Fraser, I am not inclin’d to listen 
 to your flourishing speeches. 
 
 Capt. Fr. I shall not long detain you, Sir.— 
 In the same house, where the agents of your ava¬ 
 rice and fraud this day confin’d me, I found two 
 other victims of your cruelty. 
 
 Lady J. Who ? Mr. Pimenta, and his Part¬ 
 ner ? 
 
 Capt. Fr. The same, Madam. I listen’d to 
 the recital of their distresses; and having pur¬ 
 chas’d my own liberty, I hasten’d here to offer 
 consolation, by restoring a husband to his wife 
 and home. 
 
 (Lady Janet, Emily, and the Captain, retire 
 up the Stage in Conversation). 
 
 John. What, be young master and old master 
 free ? Dang it, I wor’ never so pleas’d in all my 
 born days afore.— (Going up to Duplex). I’ll 
 thank, you for the watch you stole from me last 
 night. 
 
 Dup. I have it safe at home, and will restore 
 it to the right owner. 
 
 John. See, now, that you do, or by gum, you 
 shall be sent to jail.—Ladies (mimicking Duplex), 
 you must go—this house be mine. Ha! ha! 
 how glum you look now—quite sheepish loike. 
 — Sin things be turn’d out well. I’ll carry trunk 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 8i 
 
 T 
 
 la 
 
 up stairs again (placing the Trunk on his shouU 
 der). —How ugly and sinful you be!—I’ll tell you 
 what, mun—only try to be honest a bit, and 
 ou’d walk as upright as I do, and you’d then 
 augh,—Ha! ha! and be as pretty as I am, 
 Ha! ha ! (Exit. 
 
 Capt. Fr. (coming down with the Ladies). In 
 the path of war, Madam, I sought for fame, not 
 riches; and return’d to England, poor as when I 
 left it—but found, on my arrival, that a relenting 
 father had bequeath’d me, on his death, his large 
 estates. 
 
 Dup. Is it so! I must endeavour to make 
 friends with him, then (aside). —Captain Fraser, 
 let my wish to atone for former errors, lessen 
 your resentment. Let me disclose a secret to you, 
 which has long prey’d upon my conscience—your 
 son yet lives! 
 
 Capt. Fr. Lives ! 
 
 Dup. Yes; for Mr. Mortimer, whom your 
 kindness this day releas’d from prison, is your 
 own son. 
 
 Capt. Fr. My son ! Oh, let me hasten, and 
 greet him with a father’s blessing! (Exit. 
 
 Dup. I don’t know what ails me, but I feel 
 quite low and depress’d (going). —Zounds ! here 
 come my son and daughter! 
 
 Enter Miss Duplex, and Mr. Connaught. 
 
 Miss Dup. La, what a nice room—I should 
 like to stay here. 
 
 Dup. No, no—we must retire to my house—* 
 Where’s your husband, Sukey ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Close at hand, pa’. 
 
 M 
 
82 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 Enter Mr. Cuastinus, hastily. 
 
 Crast. Beg ten thousand pardons for being so 
 late ! never ran so fast in ail rny life-—Wheugh ! 
 
 Dup. Well, Son in-law, I give you joy! 
 
 Crast. Give me some more money, lor I have 
 lost that you lent me. 
 
 Dup. Lost it! How ? 
 
 Crast. I was walking with the greatest speed 
 to Doctors’ Commons — 
 
 Dup. Walking! Why didn’t you take the 
 coach, that waited for you at the door ? 
 
 Crast. I forgot that—Well, I was walking witfT 
 the greatest speed, when I met Dick Tongues, 
 the famous pedestrian. He betted me all the cash 
 I had in my pocket, that he would give me fifty 
 yards, and yet outwalk me. I accepted the chal¬ 
 lenge—away we started—I took long strides—he 
 follow’d with his spindle shanks, like Death after 
 a plethora, reach’d the place before me, and won 
 the wager. 
 
 Dup. Hey ! what •' Answer me. Sir—are you 
 married, or not ? 
 
 Crast. I am not, for I had no money to get 
 the Licence—call’d at Juvenile’s, to borrow some; 
 but he was from home— however, I chatted some 
 time with his extraordinary wife. 
 
 Conn. What, when you had a Lady waiting 
 for you, expecting to be made your own ? 
 
 Crast. I quite forgot that. Besides, ’tis the fa¬ 
 shion to prefer other men’s wives to our own. 
 Miss Duplex, I am sorry for the delay—but no 
 matter—nothing shall prevent our being married 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Miss Dup. You are vastly kind, Sir, but the 
 
A CQMEDY. 83 
 
 law does not allow us the privilege of two hus¬ 
 bands at a time. 
 
 Dup. Why, Sukey, you—you are not really 
 married ? 
 
 Miss Dup. Indeed I am, pa’. 
 
 Dup. And who the devil is your husband? 
 What’s his name ? 
 
 Miss Dup. His name is—what’s your name, 
 my dear? 
 
 Conn. Connaught, my darling! 
 
 Miss Dup. I am, pa’, the darling of this gen¬ 
 tleman ! 
 
 Dup. Indeed ! 
 
 Conn. Why, Sir, when Mr. Crastinus forgot 
 to return with the licence, the poor soul was so 
 unhappy, that out of compassion I offer’d her my¬ 
 self.—The dear crature dry’d up her eyes, and 
 as I had not receiv’d the remittance from Ireland, 
 she generously proffer’d me her purse—I borrow’d 
 the contents—she jump’d -into my arms—then 
 into a coach—drove furiously to Doctors' Com¬ 
 mons—pass’d our walking friend, here—got the 
 licence, and were married immediately. 
 
 Crast. Married ! is this your friendship to me, 
 Mr. Connaught ? 
 
 Conn. Faith, and it is! J heard you call matri¬ 
 mony a burthen, so I humanely took the load 
 from off your shoulders, and clap’d it on my 
 own. 
 
 Crast. Sir, I demand the satisfaction of a gen¬ 
 tleman instantly—No, I’ll not disturb your wed¬ 
 ding joys to-day, but will certainly call you out 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Conn. To-morrow is too soon ; but should my 
 father-in law not relent, call upon me a few 
 months hence, and perhaps I may be glad to join 
 you in a shooting party. 
 
 m2 
 
HIGH LIFE IN THE CITY, 
 
 S4t 
 
 Enter Captain Fraser, Henry, and Mr. 
 
 Pimenta. 
 
 Lady J. My husband ! 
 
 Emily . Henry ! 
 
 Lady J. Say, can you pardon the follies of a 
 thoughtless wife ? 
 
 Pimen. Lady Janet, continue this reform, and 
 you shall have my confidence, my love. 
 
 Lady J. And if I forfeit them, may scorn and 
 misery be my lot. 
 
 Crast. Connaught, give me your hand—I for¬ 
 give you—’twas my own fault—but, no matter— 
 for had I married to-day, perhaps I might have 
 repented of it to-morrow. 
 
 Capt. Fr. Mr. Pimenta, words are but feeble 
 thanks for such benevolence as yours—you found 
 the slender branch torn from its parent tree, and 
 kindly planted, nourish’d, and reviv’d the droop¬ 
 ing stem. 
 
 Pimen. Captain Fraser, the tree producing 
 grateful fruit, repays with tenfold recompense, 
 the care that rear’d it. Here’s a lady, I believe, 
 that would gladly take shelter under it. 
 
 Capt. Fr. With a father’s sanction, then, I 
 thus ratify the union virtue form’d (giving Emily 
 to Henry). 
 
 Henry. I receive her, as the greatest blessing 
 Heaven can give me! 
 
 M:ss Dup. I hope, husband, that you will con¬ 
 sider me as your greatest blessing. 
 
 Conn. Certainly, my love—I took you for bet¬ 
 ter or for worse. 
 
 Lady J. And so did my good man take me.— 
 Well, since marriage is a journey which must last 
 
A COMEDY. 
 
 8S 
 
 for life, how foolish ’tis to quarrel with our 
 guides, and wander from the path that leads to 
 happiness. 
 
 Crast. Captain Fraser, I hope I am not too 
 late in offering my sincere congratulations on the 
 joyful events of the morning. Let me add too, 
 before I may forget it, that I wish all happiness 
 and success to the day, and that no accident may 
 intervene, to cloud the prospect of—to-morrow, 
 
 END OP THE DAST ACT. 
 
ss 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 WRITTEN BY G. COLMAN, 'ESQ. 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. GLOVER. 
 
 The reptile Vice, essaying to deceive. 
 
 From Adam slunk, and fawn’d on frailer Eve \ 
 Smoothly the glozing serpent told his tale. 
 
 And sooth’d the softer sex to damn the male; 
 For, when the devil himself can’t conquer man, 
 He knows ’tis ten to one a woman can. 
 
 Thus Vice obtain’d \ —and, still ’tis Vice’s art 
 For ever to attack the weaker part. 
 
 What, now, of weakness is the ruling passion ? 
 Apeing the great, and following the Fashion : 
 
 Is Fashion Vice, then ?—that ’twere rash to say \ 
 No—’tis a finger-post on Taste’s highway. 
 
 Which blunderers mis-read, and go astray. 
 
 Observe the genuine fashion of our nation. 
 
 That trace the ills of barb’rous imitation. 
 
 Exalted rank should point to Virtue’s springs. 
 Where’s an example ?—See our lest of Kings: 
 So mild, yet firm, tho* war has mark’d his reign. 
 The King-dove perches on the Lion’s mane. 
 
 And, oh, revere his age !—Support his throne ! 
 Feel, as he feels, your welfare is his own. 
 
 To rival such a Monarch who shall try ? 
 
 Up springs a Corsican, and cries—“ ’Tis I!” 
 Who, chance first throwing armies in his way. 
 Work’d from a subaltern to sovereign sway $ 
 Who piofited by military strides. 
 
 Till he was crown’d the King of flegicides $ 
 
87 
 
 Who, when a state was frantic, seiz’d the reins. 
 
 With all of Cromwell’s luck, and half his brains ; 
 
 And having grasp'd the power of doing good. 
 
 Wantonly deluges the world with blood. 
 
 Is this true kingly fashion P —Death and shame ! 
 
 While reason sways, what voice will not exclaim 
 (At least, while British voices can be heard), 
 
 “ Down with all Upstarts!—Bless King George the Third!’* 
 In following Fashion, through her various scenes. 
 
 Fools only ape the rich, beyond their means : 
 
 The Frog who emulates the Ox’s size. 
 
 Swells vainly, till he bursts, and bursting dies. 
 
 Because my Lord, well stor’d with cash and land. 
 
 Mounts the barouche, and drives his four-in-hand. 
 
 Must mimick tailors into tandems climb. 
 
 And journeymen become hang up and prime ? 
 
 Oh ! let them think (and shun the millions' scoff). 
 Tradesmen, thus primed, must very soon go off. 
 
 If Lady Bab boast graceful music’s power. 
 
 Heiress, and Saint Cecilia of the hour. 
 
 Must we be bored by fifty dowdy dolls, 
 
 sc ’Cause the Miss Fussocks plays the Hapsicholls P” 
 
 If—but more instances !— you cannot need them, 
 
 I leave it, then, to “ the mind’s eye” to read them j 
 Obvious that the best fashion of a nation 
 Lies in the manners which become our station. 
 
 And if our modest author of to-night. 
 
 Have labour’d in the present taste to write. 
 
 Let not his betters fly into a passion, 
 
 For humlle are his hopes to be in fashion. 
 
 THE END, 
 
 Printed by £>. M^VIilian, / 
 Street* CoventCaiden, ^ 
 
This Day is published , Price Two Shillings and 
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 The DOUBTFUL SON, or SECRETS OF A PALACE; 
 a Play, in Five Acts, as acted at the Theatre Royal in the Hay- 
 market, with general Applause. 
 
 By WILLIAM DIMOND, Esq. 
 
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