ACT I.

Well this is charming! This ſerenading, and theſe raptures and love—I do believe all the young Dons in Madrid are dying for my miſtreſs—Such ſweet muſic, and every night and all night long the ſame—one goes to [...]ep ſo happy, and has ſuch delightful dreams!—

Ah, my ſweet and gentle chambermaid! Of all perſons in the world, you are the very perſon I was the moſt deſirous to ſee.

Why then, my moſt ſpruce and politic ſerving⯑man, you have only to open your eyes—And having ſeen, pray what is the nature of your very preſſing bu⯑ſineſs?

An embaſſy of high import: I am Love's pleni⯑po. Here is a letter from my maſter to your miſtreſs: I don't know the contents; but I am ſure they muſt be delicious. Are not you of my opinion?

Hum! partly.

Oh, Don Fernando writes in a very maſterly ſtile on theſe occaſions.

Pretty well, pretty well; but do you know that I was myſelf coming in ſearch of that ſweet face of your's?

Indeed! and what ſay you to my face?

Hum! I cannot ſay much in its praiſe.

Nor much in its diſpraiſe, I flatter myſelf.

You do indeed—but go, run away with your face as faſt you can, and tell your maſter Don Fernando to wheedle his father into a good humour, and bring him here as quick as poſſible, for that our old Don is at preſent diſpoſed to treat with him concerning this ſaid marriage of their children.

Is he?

He is a good deal alarmed at our nightly concerts, and wiſhes to ſee Zelida ſafely married.

Good!

Overtures have been made by Don Velaſco in behalf of his ſon Don Fabricio; but in conſideration of my miſtreſs's preference of your maſter, of his fa⯑ther's great wealth, and of the ſtill greater pains I have taken to perſuade him in favor of Don Fernando, why—

We ſhall carry the day, hey?

Perhaps—You know the grudge theſe two tetchy old fathers bear one another—they are for ever diſputing, fonder of their opinions than they are of their children, and your maſter has no occaſion to be told how neceſſary caution and expedition will be in this buſineſs.

My dear delicate little dormouſe, your voice is ſweeter than the nightingale's, and your words more re⯑viving than cherry-brandy. This intelligence will be worth a quarter's wages to me at leaſt; but you are a divine little Angel, that's the truth.

Do you think ſo?

I'll ſwear it.—Oh, apropos, my dear Jaque⯑lina, I had almoſt forgot to tell you how deviliſhly I am in love with you.

Are you?

Deſperately! I though to have mentioned it the laſt time I ſaw you, but ſome how or other the thing eſcaped my memory—Indeed, one has ſo many affairs on hand, one cannot think of every thing; I recollected it before I had got a dozen yards from the door, but then it was too late: ſo I tied a knot in my handkerchief, as you ſee, to remind me the next time I met you.

That was extremely kind of you. And really, you are a—tolerably—impudent—agreeable fellow.—Pray—where did you lay in all that large aſ [...]ortment of aſſurance?

By a long intercourſe with people of faſhion.

There I believe you are miſtaken, Mr. Fabio. You footmen have not learnt your agreeable aſſurance by imitating your betters, but your betters have learnt theirs by imitating you.

Upon my honor, my dear, I believe you are right; footmen and kept-miſtreſſes lead the ton.

Well, Mr. Fabio, I muſt be gone and deliver your letter.

You'll remember what I have ſaid to you.

I'll tie a knot in my handkerchief.

Ay, do, do.

Now will I go in ſearch of—who have we here?

My quondam comrade, Pedro!

The ſame.

Still, one of us I ſee.—And how has fortune be⯑haved to thee ſince I ſaw thee laſt?

As ſhe generally behaves to men of merit—very ill.

True—I am a living proof of her injuſtice.—Had ſhe treated me according to my deſerts—

Thou had'ſt been hang'd long ago.

What, ſtill aiming at wit—wilt thou never learn a little common ſenſe? The way to thrive, is, not to perſuade thyſelſ, but others, that they are witty.—What haſt thou got in that brown paper parcel?

My whole eſtate, real and perſonal.

What, all?

All; theſe few reals exepted

with which I am going to purchaſe—

What?

A good lining—

To a bad outſide.

No matter for that.—He that wants me, may find me, any time theſe two hours, at the three Jolly Friars.

What, thou art in want of a place?

Why no; don't I tell thee I have not ſpent all my money?

It's a great pity my maſter has got Don Pimiento's conſent to marry his daughter. Thou haſt an excellent turn for intrigue, and I might have helped thee to em⯑ployment.

Ay, it's a damn'd ſhame fathers ſhould be ſo reaſonable and compliant—But no matter—I deſy Fortune with all her crew of obſtinate relations, called Fates and Deſtinies—When one ſpoke of the wheel is up, another muſt be down—The road of life is very hilly—full of ups and downs.

Be certain, ſir, your com⯑pliance in this particular would enſure my everlaſting gratitude.

But I tell you Don Pimiento is a paſſionate, poſitive, captious—

Nay, but hear me, ſir.

A pretended Philoſopher! A head ſo full, of whims! So tenacious of his opinions—I hate to ſee any man tenacious of his opinions—No, no; I am fully convinced he is a weak, ſilly, wrong-headed old Lord, and I am certain all the arguments in the world will never perſuade me to the contrary.

My dear father, I have juſt received a meſſage from Donna Zelida. She informs me, her father is con⯑ſenting to our union, and wiſhes to ſee both you and me. Surely, ſir, you will not refuſe—

Don Pimiento wiſhes to ſee me, you ſay?

Yes, ſir.

Well; well; that being the caſe, I can have no objection to the daughter.

Return'd ſo ſoon, Jaquelina!

I met Don Fernando's man, Fabio, at the door, madam, he gave me this.

Um—um—Well!—Um—um—um—um—very well!—But did you deliver my meſſage?

Oh, yes, madam, and you need not doubt but Don Fernando will ſoon be here.

I need not queſtion his love and diligence. I am certain of his affection and ſincerity; or, whatever it might coſt me, I would not indulge the ſweet ſenſa⯑tions, the raptures I feel at his remembrance.

Why, to be ſure, madam, love—love is a moſt delicious thing—And tho' theſe men fellows are ſometimes in their airs, and are proud and croſs, and un⯑conſtant; yet they are ſometimes ſo loving, and ſo ſweet, and ſo fond, that one cannot help liking them with all their faults.

This kind compliance of my father, to our union, will make me love him, if poſſible, better than ever.

But why, madam, ſorry or pleas'd, vex'd of glad, do you always ſigh?

A ſigh, Jaquelina, is the conſtant and firſt effuſion of a feeling heart.

Your conſent, ſir, makes me the happieſt of men, and my heart aſſures me I ſhall become the moſt affectionate, the moſt conſtant, the tendereſt of huſbands.

I hope ſo; Zelida deſerves the moſt affec⯑tionate and tendereſt of huſbands.

Deſerves! Oh, yes, ſir, ſhe deſerves more than the world has to give.

Tho' I partly approve your tranſports, young gentleman, you muſt moderate your ecſtacies. Let' philoſophy teach you to govern your paſſions.—I had once as much fire and rhodornontade as you, or any hot⯑brain'd Don in Spain. I was obliged to ſteal my wife, my Zelida's mother. I tried every kind of ſtratagem to get at her, but finding none of them were ſucceſsful, I ſet fire to the houſe, and carried my miſtreſs off thro' the midſt of the flames.

Ay, ſir, that was a lover's philoſophy.

But go and pay your miſtreſs a morning viſit: you have no objection, I ſuppoſe. Your father and I will ſettle preliminaries.

I am ſure, ſir, they will be to our ſatisfacti⯑on.

But, excuſe a lover's fear—Let me beg, let me conjure you, ſir, to avoid every tenden⯑cy to contradiction.

Ay, ay: make yourſelf perfectly eaſy; do not fear my diſcretion.

My father, ſir, has his oddities—apt to laugh, yet every body allows him to poſſeſs noble ſenti⯑ments, and a generous heart—

I am as willing as any man to do juſtice to the good qualities of others—Don Salvador is a gentle⯑man and a Spaniard.

Somewhat too paſſionate, I confeſs—And then—ſir—your temper being—a little—haſty.

Haſty! I haſty!

That is—ſir—having—a little—generous warmth in your temper.

Warmth, young gentleman! What do you mean by warmth? No man has more philoſophy—No man can be more cool, more candid, more open to con⯑viction.

I own it, ſir.

Yes; but he is damn'd loth to own it tho'.—As for your father, his poſitive obſtinacy is be⯑come proverbial.

I allow, ſir, he has a predilection for his own opinions. Let me therefore once more-intreat—

'Pſhaw! Don't I tell you, I am prepared to overlook his improprieties—Theſe modeſt hints, this ad⯑vice, ſo adroitly inſinuated, is all ſuperfluous to me, and ſhould have been beſtowed at home, upon your father.

Well, ſir, I have your promiſe; on that I will depend.

This is likely to be an important day. The mar⯑riage of my daughter, and the termination of my law⯑ſuit with the houſe of Cordova!—If juſtice takes place, I cannot loſe it—And yet I have my fears—The Count has great power at court—Yet, where right is ſo evi⯑dent, they will not dare do wrong.

Good morning, Don Pimiento.

Good morning, good morning, Don Salva⯑dor. I have lately made ſome very curious experiments, by which I find the ponderoſity of light, or, to ſpeak more philoſophically, the levity of light is extreme! All Spain by no means contains a pound.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

What do you laugh at, Don Salvador? I ſay the experiment is a very curious experiment.

Who doubts it? Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Then what do you laugh at, Don Salvador?

Laugh at? To think what a deviliſh dear commodity light is in England!—Well, here you are, like Noah in the ark, ſurrounded by all your birds, beaſts, infects, and reptiles—Ha, ha, ha! Philoſophy muſt be a plaguy expenſive plaything.

Plaything, ſir! Plaything, Don Salvador!—Let me adviſe you as a friend, Don Salvador, when⯑ever you ſpeak of philoſophy, to do it with more re⯑ſpect, leſt you ſhould incur reproof from the learned and the wiſe—Philoſophy, Don Salvador, philoſophy is a Being of a ſuperior and divine nature; whoſe head is among the ſtars, her feet in the bottomleſs deep, and whoſe eye penetrates matter, form, and infinite ſpace, even to darkneſs and nonentity.—

Ha, ha, ha! I always told you it was ſome⯑thing monſtrous.—A divine nature! Philoſophy, Sir, is a diſſector of grubs, a painter of ſhadows—ſhe was born in amazement with her mouth open, has fed upon maggots, and peers, and pores, till ſhe fancies ſhe finds miracles ſtuff'd in the cavity of a mite's cranium, or hid in the hair of a flea's foot.

Permit me to tell you, Don Salvador, philo⯑ſophy is a thing totally beyond your comprehenſion.

Ha, ha ha!—ha, ha! yes, and yours too.—Our preſent buſineſs, Don Pimiento, is the concluſion of our children's marriage. Ha, ha, ha!

It is ſo, it is ſo—and, as I have promiſed your ſon Don Fernando to be cautious, I ſhall take care to avoid all altercation.

Which promiſe, if kept, will redound very much to the honor of your underſtanding, Don Julio Pi⯑miento. Ha, ha, ha!

Do you mean to inſinuate any thing to t [...] diſcredit of my underſtanding, Don Salvador?

Ha, ha, ha! I inſinuate nothing, Don Pimi⯑ento.

Or, that I am not circumſpect in my con⯑duct?

Ha, ha, ha!

Sir, I affirm no man is leſs captious.

You are a very worthy gentleman, Don Pimi⯑ento, but very choleric. Ha, ha, ha!

Choleric! I choleric!

Were you as diſpaſſionate, as ready to liſten to reaſon as I am—

You!—diſpaſſionate!

I.

Tow dipp'd in tar, will not catch fire ſo ſud⯑denly, or blaze out ſo furiouſly.—Oil, brandy, and Phlo⯑giſton are not ſo inflammable.—

Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha!—You are deſcribing yourſelf, Don Pimiento, not me.—My temper, like a deep ſtream, flows on ſmooth and unruffled.

Smooth! You, Don Salvador! Flow!—Pardon me, but yours is an electic fluid, all flame!—How⯑ever, be under no conſtraint; emit your ſparks; diſcharge yourſelf; I am a philoſopher, and do not fear a ſhock.—Be you as captious as you pleaſe; I ſhall be cool! cauti⯑ouſly cook.

Ha, ha, ha! I perceive, Don Pimiento, how remarkably you are diſpoſed to coolneſs and caution.

What do you mean by that, Don Salvador? Am I not cool? Am I not cautious? Is it poſ [...]ible for any man to be more ſo?

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well, well; where are our children?

Am I not cool, Don Salvador?

Exceedingly; as cool as you were the other day, when I laughed becauſe you aſſerted heat was no⯑thing.

Sir, you may laugh again if you pleaſe, and I will aſſert again, and will aſſert in the face of the whole world, that heat is not a thing, but a quality.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! And ſo you ſtill perſiſt in affirming, that the blaze of a faggot, or the light of a candle, is nothing?

Sir, I affirm no ſuch thing.

And that were I to burn my finger, or ſcald my leg, I ſhould feel no pain?

I ſay, ſir, pain is a ſenſation, produced by the reaction—

And if my houſe was burnt to the ground, you would pretend it was ſtill ſtanding.

Sir, the reaction—

Or that the fiery lava of Mount Veſuvius, while it ſweeps away fields, flocks, men, and cities, is totally innocent, has nothing pernicious in its effects.

Sir, the reaction— (very loud, and very angry) Sir, I ſay no ſuch thing.

Then what do you ſay, ſir?

Sir, you won't hear what I ſay, ſir, you can't underſtand what I ſay, ſir.

That is your fault, ſir, for not ſpeaking in⯑telligibly.

Do you mean to call me a fool, ſir?

Sir, I have too much reſpect to good man⯑ners to follow your example.

Do you mean to ſay, ſir, I don't know good manners?

I mean to ſay, ſir, you don't practice 'em.

Sir, your ſon ſhall have no daughter of mine.

Sir, both you and your daughter would be too much honor'd in the alliance.

Too much honor'd! Jaquelina! Diego! Who waits there?—Zelida!—Somebody call my daughter.

My dear father, what's the matter?

Come here, child, come away from that—

What, ſir?

My dear father, what is the occaſion of all this warmth?

I would ſooner marry my daughter to a de⯑ſcendant of the Cyclops, or the great grandſon of Cacus, than to the offspring of ſuch a paſſionate, perverſe,—Bu [...] I deſpiſe—

My dear ſir, pray for Heav'n's ſake forbear.

What can have occaſioned—

Here has he been aſſerting again that fire won't burn, that water can't quench it, that Mahomet's black ram was an Alderney cow, and that the man in the moon wears a Harle⯑quin's jacket.

Sir, I aſſerted no ſuch things; I deſpiſe both buffoonery and buffoons.

Deſpiſe! Do you deſpiſe me, ſir?

Pray ſir, conſder, ſir.

Sir, I deſpiſe ignorance.

For Heaven's ſake, ſir—

Sir, you are,—

Sir, no man ſhall dare deſpiſe—

Be pacified, dear fir.

I'll ſuffer no blockhead—

For Heaven's ſake, dear, dear ſir, be [...]ool.

Cool—I am here with the determination [...] be cool—I have given my promiſe to be cool; never [...] my life was more circumſpect! never! never!

Let me beg you, ſir, to walk this way.

An obſtinate, hot—I'll ſend to Don Ve⯑ [...]ſco, inſtantly! inſtantly!

Pray, ſir—

So, there's an end of that buſineſs, and the lo⯑ [...]rs may get at each other if they can.

Ah, Jaquelina!

Ah, madam! I told you how it would be.

My father is going to ſend for Don Ve⯑laſco; if he comes, I am ruined. Don Pimiento will pledge his word, and no power on earth then will be able to ſhake him.—Run, fly, Jaquelina, intercept the meſ⯑ſage, invent ſome means—

Ah, it's too late, madam, here is Don Velaſco himſelf.

Good morning, Donna Zelida. Is Don Pi⯑miento within?

No, ſir; he is juſt gone out.

Ah!

Don Velaſco, I am happy to ſee you! You are the very perſon I was going to ſend to. Zelida, go to your own chamber, and don't ſtir from thence, nor ſee any perſon whatſoever without my knowledge.

Do you follow your miſtreſs, and ſee that I'm obeyed.

The Devil take philoſophy, I ſay.

You ſeem a little diſturbed, Don Pimiento.

I ſhould have been, Don Velaſco, if I had not more than a common command over my paſſions.—I have been aſſaulted by an Ignoramus, inſulted by a ſneering Idiot, and I am very happy you are come.

Well, Don Pimiento, which way can I—

I believe, Don Velaſco, you recollect you did me the honor to hint that an alliance between our ſa⯑milies would not be diſagreeable to you.

It is what I very ardently deſire, Don Pi⯑miento.

I am happy to hear it.

Your daughter is a young lady of ſuch win⯑ning manners, of ſo mild, ſo amiable, ſo ſweet a diſpoſi⯑tion, that I am fully perſuaded, could my ſon, Don Fabricio, obtain the honor of her hand, it muſt make him [...]he happieſt of men; which is a thing, as you may ſup⯑poſe, I am moſt anxious to ſee accompliſh'd.

Do me the honor to walk into my cabinet. Don Velaſco, we'll conclude the buſineſss in⯑ [...]tantly.—I give you my word of honor, Don Velaſco, your ſon Fabricio ſhall have her.

I'll keep no more company with ſkinkers.

Knaves that pocket their pence, and talk mor-orality—Fellows that never could diſcover a pimple on their noſe.—Raſcals that will ſneak out of the world without ever beholding two o'clock in the morning.

Now muſt I go ſeck that rogue Pedro: he may become a precious implement in the preſent reverſe of our affairs—Ah! who's that? Pedro?

The pennyleſſ.

You are happy, I ſee.

I ſay you cannot ſee: I am only half happy—T'other cup, and then—

What then?

Another—If you have any charity, lend me a ducat.

Not a real.

Then go and hang yourſelf—If you'll give me a bottle you are a prince, if not, you are a vile compound.

A compound?

Ay, of water, abominable water and clay.

Hark thee, Pedro, I have no time to loſe: Don Pimiento reſuſes his daughter to my maſter, and we are come to a determination to carry her off, either by ar⯑tifice, or force of arms, in which thy aſſiſtance may be of ſervice.

Say no more—I'm for you—

I have it—ripe—full of expedient—liquor en⯑lightens my underſtanding, and generates ſtratagem and deep reflection—Give me but another bottle, and I'll find thee out the longitude.

Not a drop

Well, where is this new maſter of mine? or, rather, this new landlord?

Thy landlord?

Yes; my maſter's Palace is my Inn: the only difference is, that, inſtead of his bringing me in a bill, I make him provide for me firſt, and pay afterwards for the trouble I take to eat and drink his dainties—Nature, cer⯑tainly, intended me for a ſtateſman, but Fate took pity on me, and ordained that, inſtead of catering for others, others ſhould cater for me.

Prithee, Pedro, what liquor in the world doſt thou love beſt?

What a ſhallow numſkull of a queſtion is that!—I love'em all beſt—

Is there no meſſage, no note from Don Fabricio?

No, madam.

It's very ſtrange—a mighty attentive lover!

You know, madam, he was not to be here yet this half hour.

What tell ye me of half hours?—But I won't teize myſelf about him—I don't care if he never comes—Who's that?

What, madam?

Did not ſomebody knock?

I heard nobody, madam.

You are very ſparing of your labour—go and ſee.

I know ſhe'll bid him begone the moment he is here; her vanity is never ſatisſied, with him, or without him.

Why don't you go?

Why Lord, madam, I am ſure there is no⯑body.

What an odious colour'd ribband this is! (Unpins her breaſt-knot, and throws it on the table.) What a horrid dull morning!—No—he does not in⯑tend to come; or, if he does, he will expect that, becauſe one feels a partiality in his favor, one ſhould immediately tell him ſo!—In direct terms!—No, indeed!

Go bid the footman order my carriage—No, come back, give me my veil, I'll take a walk.

Lord, madam, why have you taken this off? This breaſt-knot is the very colour I heard Don Fa⯑bricio praiſe ſo much yeſterday.

I am glad you have told me; I'll never wear it any more—Where is my veil?

Here, madam.

And why don't you give me the breaſt-knot?

Did not you ſay, madam?—

I never ſaw ſo ſtupid a creature! (Lau⯑ra gives her the breaſt-knot, and offers to throw the veil over her miſtreſs.) What is the girl about?

Lord, madam, I declare there is no ſuch thing as pleaſing you unce you have been in love. I never knew a perſon ſo altered in my life; you are neither [...]atiſ⯑fied with your lover, nor yourſelf, nor your ſervants, nor any one thing about you. I am ſure, ma'am, for all I am croſs'd in love, if the defect of it was not very different upon me, we ſhould ſoon part; but it makes me all pati⯑ence, meekneſs, and good nature.

Thee! Why, art thou in love?

Why ſhould I not, madam? Do you think I have not a heart in my boſom as well as your ladyſhip?—I am ſure many a ſigh has my fond paſſion coſt me.

Sigh! and fond paſſion!—I ſhall deteſt the words as long as I live.

Humph! Sugar's ſugar, tho' a body be a ſer⯑vant—And a handſome young fellow's company and kiſſes are as ſweet to us as to our betters.

Oh, here comes her lover; now ſhe may vent her croſs, cankerbitten humours upon him.

How the girl ſtands! Why don't you fly to the door?

Lord, madam, the footmen have no⯑thing elſe to do.

My Iſabel! My life!

Where have you been? Why did you not come ſooner? Or, why did you come at all?

Did you wiſh me here ſooner?

Me wiſh you here!—Lord, let go my hand, and don't teize me.

How can you, Iſabel, be ſo perverſe?

Perverſe! Upon my word!—You have a very happy choice of expreſſions.

You know my affection, Iſabel; you are ſenſible of my paſſion.

Indeed I am ſenſible of no ſuch thing.

I declare, Iſabel, there is no ſupporting your injuſtice.

My injuſtice indeed! I find, ſir, you are come, as uſual, only to wrangle with me; but, I aſſure you, it would be much more prudent to ſtay at home, when you find yourſelf in theſe tempers.

To wrangle, Iſabel? Is this to wrangle? No; I came to adore, to die for you, if it would give you pleaſure. Tell me but which way I might contribute to your happineſs, and you ſhall ſee how I will fly to execute your will.

I beg you will riſe; you can't any way con⯑tribute to my happineſs.

This is hardly to be borne! Nothing, Iſabel, but love like mine, could ſupport your treatment.

Treatment! Pray which way have I treated you ill? And if I do, why do you come to me again? Who deſires your company? Have not I told you a thouſand times, I never wiſhed to ſee you more?

Yes, cruel, unjuſt, ungrateful woman, you have; but, take care; perhaps you may tell me ſo once too often.

So, ſo; threats too! A very pretty obe⯑dient lover, to be ſure, you are; and I am a very un⯑juſt, hard-hearted, lady!

Is it in the power of man to bear your ca⯑prices?

My caprices!—Inſolent!

How have I deſerv'd—

Well, well; lord I tell you, again, I wiſh you would not bring your ill humors here.

My ill humors! Did I not come with ſmiles in my face, and joy in my heart? hoping, for once, to have met a ſweet return of thoſe gentle tranſ⯑ports, which I felt glowing ſo ardently in my own bo⯑ſom?

Indeed, Don Fabricio, I muſt once more repeat to you, that if you can come here for no other purpoſe but to find fault with me; to tell me I am un⯑juſt, ungrateful, capricious, and heap every other kind of aſperſion upon me, you can invent; I muſt beg, and inſiſt, you will never come here any more.

Very well, Iſabel, very well, ſince I am ſo totally diſagreeable to you, and ſince your commands are ſo very abſolute, you will find I am not ſo pitifully abject as to be thus repeatedly and everlaſtingly ſcorn'd and repuls'd.—Yes, I will obey theſe your poſitive, your haughty commands, and perhaps with more for⯑titude than you expect, perhaps more than you wiſh.

Wiſh! Indeed! I wiſh!

Yes, more than you wiſh; you cannot ſo diſguiſe your wiſhes, but they will appear in ſpite of that caprice by which they are clouded; nay, had I not been well perſuaded you had a partiality, and a ſtrong one, in my favor, I ſhould not ſo long have endured the injuſtice of your behaviour; but, while I ſaw it, and felt my own paſſion as pure, and, at leaſt, as ardent, as yours, I hoped, vainly, I find, it might be poſſible to conquer that coquettiſh, unworthy, and diſ⯑ſtisfied humor by which you are tormented.

Pray, ſir—How dare you, ſir!—Be gone, ſir! this inſtant be gone! and never preſume to obtrude yourſelf into my preſence again!

Obtrude?—Yes, haughty lady, I will be gone, and obſerve your injunction, punctually, literally.—Good morning.—

Fabricio, this is fortunate! I came pur⯑poſely, hoping to meet you.

But!—You!—What is the matter?

An ungrateful—proud—paſſion⯑ate—

There is no ſupporting his treatment.

They have been quarrelling—He wants to break with her, no doubt, that he may be at liberty to marry Zelida.

I am determined I will be no longer the Dupe of her caprice.

Yes; it is evidently ſo.

You have heard, I preſume, Don Fabricio, of the treaty between your father and Don Pi⯑mento?

Concerning what, Sir?

Your marriage with Donna Zelida.

Yes, Sir, I have.

And pray give me leave to aſk you, Don Fa⯑bricio, what you think of that treaty?

I think it would be a very wiſe treaty for me, Sir.

And—and—and you conſequently think, Zelida—

An Angel! I do upon my ſoul, Sir.

But give me leave to obſerve t'ye, Don Fab⯑ricio, there are prior claims.

Sir?

Claims that will be ins;iſted on, Sir.

I perceive you are growing angry, Don Fer⯑nando; and as I am not very cool, at preſent, I ſhall bid you a good morning.

Before you go, Sir, I demand a categorical anſwer.

And with that menace on your face?

No equivocation, Sir.

Hark ye, Don Fernando, if you ſhould meet any hot, iraſcible young gentleman of your acquaintance, who wants to be taught manners, pray inform him my name is Fabricio, and that I am to be found on the Prado at five.

Sir!—

Perhaps I am to blame—it is evident he and Iſabel have quarrell'd—I will enquire further of her—Yet why did he avoid an explanation?—The charms of my Zelida are irreſiſtable!—She muſt, ſhe ſhall be mine: yes, I will in⯑dulge the flattering idea.

Thou ſeeſt the effects, Fabio, of half an hour's ſleep, a wet napkin, and a razor.—Now am I as freſh as if it were midnight.

Don Fernando bade me follow him hither—Oh, here he comes.

What you tell me gives me a thouſand fears and ſuſpicions. I was accuſing myſelf, while he, perhaps, was artfully exciting me to a quarrel that might ſerve his own purpoſes.

It is but too probable—Fabio—Oh, this, I ſuppoſe, is Pedro?

And your humble ſervant, ſir.

Fabio has given me a high character of thy abilities. Haſt thou conſidered—

The affair, I believe, ſtands thus, ſir: Your fathers have quarrelled, are paſſionate and obſtinate. One of them is a pretended philoſopher, or rather a philoſo⯑phic news-monger.

He is ſo.

Who makes a few nick-nack experiments and liſtens with avidity to the diſcoveries of others, which he publiſhes as his own, in the very teeth of the perſon from whom he received his information.

You have a deal of obſervation, Mr. Pedro?

Obſervation is the eſſence of genius, madam, and genius is not confin'd to rank.—I muſt get in⯑troduced to Don Pimiento, as a philoſopher juſt come from Paris or Piſa, or any other place far enough off—if I could learn what is the philoſophic chit-chat, the wonder of the day—

What I can procure: I have a college ac⯑quaintance.

An expedient muſt next be found to wheedle, or terrify, Don Salvador into compliance.

I can think of none.

Leave that to me, ſir.

But Don Fabricio!

What of him, madam?

Is this lady's lover, and, as we ſear, has been quarrelling with her for the purpoſe of being at li⯑berty to marry Zelida.

Then we muſt have ſome plot for him alſo.

But is thy brain as fertile as thou ſeem'ſt to think?

Time muſt determine, ſir.

Well, I promiſe thee that ſucceſs, in this affair, ſhall make thy fortune.

Ah! ſir,—he that has a heart as merry as mine—why his fortune's made.

Yes—but a little money—

Oh Laud!—Ay, ſir—is an excellent thing!—Money!—money is the father of mirth—and mother too egad.—He that does not want money will never want relations.

We will not be ungrateful, Mr. Pedro.

Lord! ma'am, Don Fabricio's gone hence in a huff!

I met him; he look'd moſt confoundedly gruff!

He ſtar'dl

Cock'd his hat!

Twirl'd his thumbs!

Bit his lips!

And look'd full as glum as—as—as

The moon in eclipſe!

Love's pleaſures, &c.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SO, our ſham philoſopher has got admittance.—I wiſh it were poſſible to ſee Jaquelina; but that, indeed, is not to be hop'd.—Hey! who's this?

By Jupiter, it is ſhe herſelf!

I have eſcaped for a moment, if I could but find that—

Ah, my ſweet gilliflower!—This is lucky; we concluded you and your miſtreſs were cloſe priſoners.

No; we are on parole, at preſent.

And you have taken a liberty natural to your ſex, eſpecially to chambermaids, and ſtrayed beyond your limits.

If ever we do ſtray, you men are the firſt to tempt, and the firſt to reproach us.—But come, come; tell me, what does your maſter intend to do?

Hang himſelf, if he can't marry your miſtreſs.

'Pſhaw! let him marry firſt, he may hang himſelf afterwards.—But there is no time to be loſt.—Has he any plan?—any—

Oh yes, an excellent one!—Deſpairing of meet⯑ing you, my maſter has ſent a letter to your miſtreſs, by a philoſopher.

A philoſopher!

A pretended one, an arch fellow; one Pedro; but, unleſs he ſees you, he may find no means of convey⯑ing his letter.

I muſt be gone then.

No hurry—It may be ſome time, perhaps, beſore we meet again; and you muſt know, Jaquelina, that ever ſince I told you how prodigiouſly I was in love with you, I have thought of nothing elſe.

Then your memory is vaſtly improved.

I really believe, if you give me encouragement, as I have no doubt you will, I ſhall be mad enough to marry.

Don't be too certain, ſir; I aſſure you, I am very difficult to pleaſe.

Are you? why pray tell me what ſort of a huſ⯑band you would wiſh?

I would have him very patient, for I am paſſi⯑onate, and hate contradiction; very induſtrious, for I don't love work, yet ſhould chuſe to have every thing decent about me; very handſome, for I muſt inſiſt on having pretty children—

Ah! that I am afraid won't entirely depend upon me.

Very brave, for I am apt to quarrel, and want a protector; then he ſhould have ſome money, for I love pleaſure, fine cloaths, and good living; a neat perſon, for I hate a ſloven; a genteel appearance, for I ſhould prefer a gentleman-like carriage; beſides which, he muſt have underſtanding enough to commit no follies himſelt, and to overlook all thoſe that I commit.

Well, my dear, the article of money excepted, you may find all theſe perfections united in me.—Indeed, I am perſuaded, fate deſigned us for each other. For my own part, I can ſafely ſay, I am one of the clevereſt fellows, and beſt creatures, breathing.

You are?

I am, upon my honor.—We ſhall be vaſtly happy; as the proverb ſays: we ſhall wear too heads un⯑der one hat.

Two heads under one hat! two heads under one cap, if you pleaſe, ſir.

Nay, as you pleaſe, my dear.

And, if I do marry, I ſhall not chuſe too many children.—Not above a pigeons pair at the very moſt.

Granted.

The boy ſhall be monſtrous clever.

Be it ſo.

But the girl!—The girl ſhall be the greateſt genius, and the fineſt perſon!—That is, ſhe ſhall be the very moral of me.

To be ſure, my dear—I'll take particlar care about that.

She ſhall have a fine neck, an elegant ſhape, a moſt beautiful face, a charming leg and foot; then, as I was a ſaying, ſhe ſhall be a monſtrous great genius—She ſhall dance delightfully, ſing divinely, play on the muſic like an angel, and paint like a goddeſs, without ever being taught.

Without ever being taught!

To be ſure—Don't I tell you ſhe is to be a genius?

Very well, my dear, ſhe ſhall be juſt what you pleaſe.

Yes; I expect everything is to be juſt as I pleaſe.

Well, Fabio, have you any intelligence? Has Pedro got admittance?

Yes, ſir, and I have luckily met Jaquelina, who is now informed of our plan.

That's fortunate! watch hereabouts 'till Pedro comes back, that, in caſe of any accident, you may be at hand: but keep out of ſight.

If this fellow ſhould be detected, what reſource ſhall I find next?—anxious, reſtleſs, hoping, fearing, I am uneaſy and unhappy every where—Oh, Zelida!

Sir, I have correſpondents in all parts of the world. It is the buſineſs of my life to ſeek out men fa⯑mous in philoſophy; and, being at Madrid, could not neglect the opportunity of being known to a philoſopher ſo renown'd as el nobliſſimo, y ſavantiſſimo, y eloquen⯑tiſſimo, y Venerabiliſſimo, Don Julio Pimiento de San⯑dovalo.

Sir, from the profound reſpect you pay to philoſophers, I can make no doubt but you are, yourſelf, a philoſopher of the firſt diſtinction.

Sir, modeſty always imprints her mark upon me⯑rit. I ſhall therefore ſay nothing of my own abilities. I ſhall only hint, ſir, that if you can find on the earth's circumference ſo deep a thinker, ſo juſt a reaſoner, ſo a⯑cute an obſerver, ſo—but, ſir,—modeſty—modeſty for⯑bids me to finiſh my ſentence.

And have you travelled far, ſir?

Far? From the Arctic to the Antarctic: I have viſited all countries, climates, and nations, known and unknown.

Unknown!

U—u—un—known; yes, ſir, unknown—except to myſelf.

Sure, ſir, you—you—

I lie, he means to ſay—Sir, have you ever heard of air balloons?

Somewhat, ſir, but very imperfectly. I—I ſhall—

Sir, I'll explain that mat⯑ter t'ye more fully another time.

You ſay you have correſpondents? Can you inform me how foreign philoſophers are at preſent employed?

Exactly. In Sweden and the North, they are making experiments; in Germany, they are mak⯑ing ſyſtems; in France, they are making fortunes; and in England, they are making parachutes.

Parachutes? Pray, ſir, what are they?

A parachute, ſir, is a—a—mathematical in⯑ſtrument, vulgarly called an umbrella, into which if you put a cat, you may toſs her from the top of a houſe without breaking her neck.

That you might have done before, ſir—But can you toſs a dog?

No, ſir.

Or a ſheep?

Oh no, ſir, a cat is your only animal for a parachute—Pray, ſir, are you a Meſmerite?

A Meſmerite, ſir? what is a meſmerite?

Is it poſſible, ſir, that you ſhould never have heard of Meſmer?

Never, ſir.

Nor Deſlon?

Never.

Nor of that ſublime—ſublimity—animal mag⯑netiſm?

Never, never, ſir—What is it? What is it?

Is it! Sir—It—It is—It—It—Sir—It is ſo—wonderful!—ſo—profound!—ſo—I—I can't tell you what it is.

Then it muſt be profound indeed?

Oh, ſir—It—Do you keep any females in the houſe?

To be ſure, ſir.

I thought, ſir, as a philoſopher you might ex⯑clude them your manſion.

Why they are but troubleſome animals, I own.

Oh, here comes one. Young woman, ſtand ſtill.

What are you about, ſir?

Going to magnetize this young woman.

Magnetize me indeed!

Yes, young woman! Walk round that way.

Do as you are bid, huſſy.

That way, that way; a little more that way.

Um—um—um—um—um—um—What mummery is this?

It is for your miſtreſs Zelida, and ſo directed to avoid detection.

What? What is that? What is that?

This young woman is in ſuch robuſt good health it will require longer time to—

But what letter is that?

Ha! young woman, how came you by this letter?

You juſt now dropped it, ſir.

This letter, Don Pimiento!—Ah! if you knew the contents of this letter!

‘To the moſt famous and renowned maſter of all ſciences, Dr. Don Lilibulero.’ Is it cu⯑rious?

Sir, were you to read it, you would never reco⯑ver from your ſurpriſe!

It would give me vaſt pleaſure! Permit me to—

Pardon me, Don Pimiento, it is impoſſible.

What, it contains philoſophic ſecrets I ſup⯑poſe?

Secrets! Ay, ſir, ſecrets that would make your hair ſtand on end!

If this buſineſs ſucceeds, and it is at preſent in an excellent train, the young ſhall rejoice, and the old ſhall laugh.

Laugh!

Ay, ſir, laugh!—Nay, what is more ſtrange, ſhall be laugh'd at.—And to convince you, Don Pimi⯑ento, of the confidence I place in you, I will venture to inform you, that this whole affair is a ſcheme, to make a fool of a Philoſopher.

Ah!—I conceive—not a—a—a deep—You underſtand me—but ſome ſhallow—dabbler.

The very man.

To convince him of his error, and at the ſame time ſurpriſe the world with a diſcovery.

Sir, if you knew the letter by rote, you could not better divine its purport. Could not you let this pretty maid ſtep and put it into the poſt?

By all means.

But you'll give me your word of honor, Don Pimiento, not to en⯑deavor, directly or indirectly, to come at the contents.

Such a promiſe is needleſs, ſir, but I do give you my word of honor.

Here, young woman, take it inſtantly, and there is ten ducats for your trouble.

Ten ducats! Zounds! he is very liberal! This muſt be ſome rare ſecret indeed, that he is in poſſeſſion of!

Be very careful.

Oh, don't you doubt me.

The jade! How merry the ducats have made her!

I take it for granted you have no children, Don Pimiento.

Pardon me, ſir, I have a daughter.

Indeed!—Is ſhe married?

No, ſir.

Hum!—ſorry for it—A philoſopher ſhould live as undiſturb'd as the ſpiders in his window.

But ſhe will be ſhortly.

The ſooner the better—Girls are ever in love, and then their wits are all ſet to work to deceive—Love letters, rope ladders, and elopements are their continual ſtudy—You are right; marry her—marry her—and to the man ſhe loves—Let her be miſerable her own way.

But I hope to ſee her happy, for which reaſon

Fool that I am! What have I forgot?

What is the matter, ſir?

The moſt neceſſary thing in the whole proceſs!

What ſir? What?

I beg ten million of pardons, Don Pimiento, ten million of pardons; but muſt inſtantly be gone to prepare the ſecond part to my letter. 'Tis of the utmoſt conſeqence! The affair can't wait a moment!

Sir, I would by no means intrude upon time ſo valuable; but, when more at leiſure—

Oh ſir, you will be certain to ſee me again: have not the leaſt doubt, ſir, that I can forget a Philoſo⯑pher ſo renowned as—

I muſt requeſt, Mr. Fabio, you will lay aſide ſome of this familiarity, and put on a little more reſpect and reſerve. Conſider the difference between laqueys, like you, and a perſon of my character and conſequence.

I own, Pedro, thou, like many others, doſt aſſume, and very naturally too, a conſe⯑quence to which thou haſt no pretenſion. But come, my Philoſopher, tell me what ſcheme thou haſt next, in order to ſucceed with Don Salvador, as well as thou haſt done with Don Pimiento?

There are but two keys to the human heart, Hope and Fear, and this obſervation, friend Fabio, if thou wert not naturally very ſhallow, would convince thee, I am really more of a Philoſopher than thou dream'ſt of.—Canſt thou tell me what thing in this world Don Salvador fears the moſt?

The inquiſition.

Ha!

An attempt was once made upon him, for the ſake of his wealth, by thoſe holy fathers, which he got clear of with honor; but which gave him ſo much trou⯑ble, and terror, that ever ſince, he has held the holy office, and all its implements, in utter dread and abhor⯑rence. The very name of an inquiſitor will make him quake like the baſs-ſtring of a harpſichord.

Then I am an inquiſitor.

Thou!

Shut thy mouth, and on with thy obſervations, if thou haſt any thing more to communicate.

The inquiſitors being all eccleſiaſtics, Don Sal⯑vador deteſts, and never fails to take his revenge on, all orders and degrees belonging to the church, whenever he thinks he can do it with ſafety.

Enough, thou haſt uttered volumes.—Philo⯑ſophy, for the preſent, muſt, as it has often done be⯑fore, give place to religion.—Wait a little, and pre⯑pare to wonder.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! the rogue is certainly ſome run⯑away jeſuit.

Where is your maſter, ſirrah, Fabio?

Lord, poor young gentleman! it is impoſſible I ſhould tell, ſir: your folks croſs'd in love never know where they are themſelves, and how ſhould I?

What, is his paſſion very violent?

Oh, ſir, monſtrous!

So much the better; your very violent love never laſts long.

But ſuppoſe he ſhould turn deſperate, ſir, and put an end to himſelf?

Why, then, there will be an end to all his troubles. A dead man has no need of a wife, which ought to be no ſmall comfort to him.

How can you, who are his father, talk ſo?

Becauſe, I, who am his father, know him too well to be under any apprehenſion.

How, now! who let in this friar? What is your buſineſs, ſir?

I am come, ſon—

I am no ſon of your's, friend; I'm too old to be your baſtard.

Tho' not thy carnal, I am thy ghoſtly father, and with all humility—

Prithee, friend, let us have no abuſe of terms. Not ghoſtly, but ghaſtly, thou art: carnal I believe thee to be; and as for humility, that, as well as charity, thou expecteſt from others; friars never keep any them⯑ſelves.—But what do you do here, friend? What is your buſineſs? I want no confeſſor: I have one already, and that is one too many.

I am exceedingly ſorry to find ſin ſo inverterate in a head ſo grey. I come to thee, ſon, in all meek⯑neſs.—

Yes, a wolf in ſheep's cloathing. Who are you?

Thou doſt interrogate with great haughtiness. I am Calificador to the holy office.

Sir! an inquiſitor!

An inquiſitor; and exceedingly grieved to find an aged perſon, whom I believed a true ſon of the church, a hardened ſinner, and a heretic.

Sir, I beg a thouſand pardons, I—

And is it thus you treat our ſacred fraternity? Were not the church over merciful, in long forbearance, no impious reprobate would dare thus to inſult her too patient, ſuffering, ſpirit.

Sir, I do not dare, I never did dare, offend the pious, gentle, mild, lenient, fathers of the holy inquiſi⯑tion. I reſpect, I revere, I adore—

But tho' to ſuccor, and to ſave, be her delight, ſhe has an arm to puniſh.

Pray, moſt reverend father, hear me a moment.

Her mercy is great, but her wrath is dreadful!

I will make any atonement.

Whips, racks!—

A thouſand piſtoles.

Screws, pullies!—

Two thouſand.

Gridirons!—

Three thouſand.

Fires, flames, and faggots!

Four thouſand.

Four thouſand piſtoles?

Four thouſand, and whatever penance your pious hand ſhall pleaſe to inflict.

Four thouſand piſtoles.—Were not the church the kindeſt, beſt, of mothers, her naughty children could not ſo eaſily appeaſe her wrath; but ſhe is aged and poor; ſhe has ſuckled and ſed them, till they are become unruly, rich, and rampant; ſhe—Where are the four thouſand piſtoles?

I'll fetch them inſtantly.

Stop—be not deceived; do not ſuppoſe, that blaſphemy, ſo heinous as you have uttered, can be ſo eaſily pardoned.—But, bring the money; and, then, if I find you an obedient ſon in matters which I will explain to you—why, perhaps.—But, bring the money.

Oh, unfortunate day! Curſt, un⯑lucky adventure!

Ha, ha, ha, ha! thou haſt terriſied the old gentleman half out of his wits! Thou doſt it rare⯑ly! But, hark thee, Pedro—concerning the four thou⯑ſand piſtoles?

What of them?

We ſhare.

Not ſo much as a marvedy.

Oh, yes, we muſt halve' em.

Tho' really thou art an unconſcionable rogue, Pe⯑dro. Four thouſand piſtoles! Why zounds! thou wilt ſet up for a German Prince with thy ſhare!

My ſhare! I have conſcience enough to take care, Mr. Fabio, that you ſhall not touch a doit.

I'll have two thouſand; nay, if thou mak'ſt another word, I'll have three, or blow.—

Stop, ſtop, Mr. Inquiſitor, and take your money.

I'll call another time, Sir.

A mighty fine ſcheme this! and I had like to have been moſt excellently chouſed. That raſcal Fabio in the plot too! Who can the ſcoundrel be?—Oh my poor dear four thouſand piſtoles!—But if I lay hands on him, I'll make him pay for the panic he put me into—This muſt be ſome trick of that ſilly old philoſopher Don Pimiento—Yes, he feels he is ridiculous himſelf, [43]and wiſhes to make others the ſame—Ha, ha, ha!—ha, ha—a fine tale he would have made on't!—He would have told it to all his birds and beaſts—ha, ha, ha,—ha, ha!—He does not perceive that his cellec⯑tion of owls, jack-daws, and jays, baſiliſks, blind worms, bulls, and baboons, are a univerſal ſatire upon himſelf, nay indeed upon the world.

Pray, madam, conſider: do nothing haſtily.

No, Jaquelina, there is but one way of acting; that muſt be purſued, determinedly: to consider were to be loſt.

Only read the letter once again, madam, be⯑fore you fend your anſwer.

It is needleſs; every word is imprinted in my memory. Yes, Fernando, I own thy image is engraven on my heart. To loſe thee were everlaſting wretchedneſs; but deſtiny, alas! is more powerful th [...] love.

Well, Zelida!

Ah!

You—you ſeem a little confuſed, child.

Lord, ſir, you come ſo ſuddenly into young Ladies' rooms—My—my miſtreſs was—ſhe was—was—

She was?

Yes, Sir.

Lord, ſir, let me go, I want—

Lord, ſir, let me go, I want—

Don't be in a hurry, child, I wan't too.

What, Sir?

To ſee your t' other hand, child.

Well, there Sir, what would you ſee?

Really, my dear, you underſtand Hocus Pocus very well; but pray move a little farther that way—a little farther.

Ha, child! Yes, they are here I be⯑lieve—My friend the Philoſopher was very right—Love letters here are—Rope-ladders and elopements will come next, I ſuppoſe—But we ſhall ſee—

How! What! 'To the moſt famous, moſt re⯑nowned Maſter of all Sciences, Dr. Don Lilibulero! 'Indeed!, Deareſt Zelida'—Begins very learnedly!—, 'Tis impoſſible to expreſs the torments I this moment 'ſuffer—I have ſent you this by my Valet, diſguiſed pur⯑poſely 'to deceive your father; hope you will lend him your 'aſſiſtance'—Ah that he need not doubt of—, Conſider, 'Zelida, my life is at ſtake! to outwit thoſe who would 'ſacrifice our happineſs to their own caprice will be me⯑ritorious: 'we cannot better fulfil our duty'—Moſt duti⯑ful 'Sir!—, Life or death will be the conſequence of your 'anſwer, to the hoping, deſpairing, miſerable 'FERNANDO.'

And miſerable may you remain!—So Madam!—So Mr, Philoſopher! Theſe are your ſecrets—And—

you! Mrs. Ten Ducats!—But he is gone to prepare the ſecond part, I ſhall be ſure to ſee him again—So, moſt dutiful Lady! you who are a pattern of virtue, and diſcretion, and meekneſs.

My deareſt father, hear me but for a moment.

You can give countenance to impoſtors, and join in rendering your father ridiculous to the whole world—But this, no doubt, is your anſwer. 'To Don Fer⯑nando.'—Yes, yes;—We ſhall now ſee your dutiful ſen⯑timents diſplayed at full length; I ſhall here find myſelf painted in moſt beautiful colours.

For heaven's ſake, my deareſt father, par⯑don my indiſcretion.

Indiſcretion! A moſt gentle term indeed for conſpiring to diſhonour your family, to diſgrace your fa⯑ther, and to render him the ſubject of a footman's ballad in every twopenny taphouſe—But we ſhall ſee, we ſhall ſee.

, I am aſhamed of 'myſel,—Well you may, indeed!—I am aſhamed 'of myſelf when I find my conduct has been ſuch, 'Fernando, as could authorize your preſent proceed⯑ings, '—How, how!—, I muſt be the moſt unduti⯑ful, 'the worſt of children, could I, any way, wilfully 'contribute to ſee my father ſo indecenty impoſed upon,—

My girl! my child!—When [47]'authorized by my father, I did not ſcruple to confeſs 'my affection for you, nor do I, ſtill, to own that his 'conſent to our union would, perhaps, give me as much 'pleaſure as you; but, without his conſent, I never will 'be your's,—Zelida!—, I cannot pardon myſelf for 'having received your letter without his knowledge; and 'I aſſure you, no power on earth ſhall ever make me 'your's, if, after the receipt of this, you continue to 'impoſe on him by means which, tho' perhaps not ſo 'conſidered by you, are degrading and inſulting.,'

Zelida!—You are a good girl, Zelida! A good girl!—But that damn'd raſcal, that Philoſopher, that footman, that ſcoundrel—Diego—

I feel, ſir, you have been very improperly treated; but let me conjure you to conſider that—

Conſider! I'll be revenged!

But, ſir, if you would but remember a little philoſophy—

Damn philoſophy! I'll be revenged—

. Diego!—Guilermo!—

Get me a blanket, a ſtrong one, a new one, never worn.

Have mercy, ſir, upon the poor fellow; he is but a footman. It will degrade you to—

Will it?—But, if it degrades me, it ſhall elevate him—And tho' you are a good girl, Zelida, you are a little pitiful, and therefore, that neither you nor your ten ducat waiting-woman may convey any intelli⯑gence to the raſcal, I muſt keep you under lock and key a little while.

Let me know but what your will is, ſir, and, whatever violence it may do my own feelings, [...] you my honor it ſhall be obeyed.

I could?truſt you, Zelida—Nay, I will truſt you—but as for you—

Oh lord, ſir, I'll give you my honour too, if you pleaſe.

Sir, I pledge my word ſhe ſhall not ſtir out of my apartment.

Do you, Zelida? Well, I will not doubt hour word; you are a good girl, Zelida, a good girl!

You, perhaps, would like to be magne⯑tized once more—A raſcal! with his meſmerites and parachutes—Where the devil could the fellow pick up all that?—Ha!

As ſure as fate—Don Salvador is at the bottom of this!—It is a ſcheme to make a fool of a philoſopher!—The old are to laugh and be laugh'd at!—It muſt be ſo—I'll ſend him a challenge. Employ his raſcally agents to make a fool of me!—I'll ſend him a challenge—Inſtantly!—A challenge!

Thus then are all my expectations blight⯑ed, and ſuch, and ſo tranſitory, are human joys!

So our philoſopher is in a pretty way! Don Pimiento won't leave him a whole bone.

No; tho' My father is paſſionate, he is na⯑turally merciful, and will rather frighten than hurt him.

'Pſhaw! madam, I am ſure he will half murder him. But you mean to let me go and tell Don Fernando what has happened.

You ſhall not ſtir: I am determin'd to obey my father.

And wilfully make yourſelf and Don Fernando miſerable.

Not wilfully; I have no choice: if it de⯑pended upon me, his happineſs ſhould be the buſineſs and delight of my life.

If? Why lord, madam, it does depend on you, and nobody but you. A pretty thing, indeed—

Silence, Jaquelina: I'll have no improper liberties taken with my father.

Why then, madam, your father ſhould not take improper liberties with you.

I have only to do my duty, and hope for the beſt.

Hope, madam! Why, don't you know your father's temper? And didn't you hear him pledge his word and honour to Don Velaſco?

I did—Alas! there is no hope! Let con⯑ſcious rectitude, then, and reſignation be my ſupport.

ACT III.

YES—yes, yes, I deſerve it—the puniſhment is juſt—I have loſt him for ever, and with him, for ever loſt my tranquillity. Will Laura never return?—By what ſtrange infaturation am I governed?—To be con⯑ſcious of one's folly!—of one's extreme abſurdity, even at the very moment when it is moſt predomi⯑nant!—to feel it ſtrengthen in proportion as one feels its deſtructive tendency!—Can this be?—Yes, it is, it is!—

It not Laura come back yet?

No, madam.

Poſſeſſed by the tormenting ſpirit of ſilly female vanity—of capricious pride—My heart and my tongue in continual contradiction—my underſtanding and ſelf-love at eternal warfare—ever endeavoring to humble, and render the man I loved, abject; yet, cer⯑tain to deſpiſe him, had he become ſo. Where can this girl be?—He'll perceive ſhe is ſent by my orders, and will deſpiſe me for my meanneſs.

Do you hear any thing of Laura yet?

No, madam.

Run, ſee if you can meet her, and tell her to make haſte.

Which way, madam?

Towards Don—heavens! am I going to betray my weaknefs, even to my very footman?

Where, madam?

No where.

Don Fabricio's, madam?

So! my paſſions make me the ſport of my very ſervants!—What do you ſtand for?

Madam?

Go, go, go.

Where, madam?

No where.

Laughed at—deſpis'd—tortured.—

Where have you been all this while?

Lord, madam! I have runn'd myſelf off my legs.

Have you ſeen Fabricio?

Oh yes, madam, I have ſeen him.

Tell me inſtantly what he ſays.

Says, madam?—I never heard a man talk ſo, and look ſo, in my life. He complains, and laughs, and ſighs, and ſwears, and prays, and weeps.

I never ſaw any poor gentleman in ſuch a tak⯑ing. He calls you an angel, and a coquette, and his de⯑light, and his torment, and his dear, and his devil; and vows he ſhall die if you are not his; and ſwears he'll never ſee you more.—He rav'd ſo, I declare he frighted me.

So, he does not talk of coming?

He ſaid, madam, he knew very well, you wanted him to come back.

Sure you did not tell him that I ſent you?

Oh, no, madam; you know how ſtrictly you charged me not.—And ſo he ſwore, he would rather die a thouſand times; and yet, madam, I do believe if he had but thought as how you had ſent me, he would have come directly; for he aſt me, over and over, whether you ſent me, or if you wanted to ſee him; and I vowed, and purteſted, I came of my own head.

Stupid wretch! why did you do that?

Why, lord, madam, did not you bid me?—I did ſlip out a word or two, and then he was going to come all in a hurry, and then I was oblig'd to ſwear, and declare, that you knew nothing of the matter; and then he began (to utter ſuch dreadful oaths! I declare I was ſca⯑rified.

Idiot!

Why, lord, madam, I did not know what to do; I am ſure, I would have told him, with all my heart, what a condition you were in, if I dar'ſt.

Condition!—Oh, pride, pride!—How mean! how abject!

And ſo, madam, he ſaid at laſt, he ſhould go and take a walk on the Prado; and ſo, madam, I do believe, that was as much as to ſay, that, if you wanted him, there you might find him.

Wanted him!—This is inſup⯑portable!

And ſo, madam, if I might adviſe—

Hold your tongue.

Why, madam, I am certain—

Hold your tongue I ſay—My preſent torments are not to be endured—yes, I deſerve every hu⯑miliation that can be inflicted on me.

Well, to be ſure, ſhe is in a ſtrange twittera⯑tion—I know ſhe is in fifty minds now—ſhe does not know whether ſhe ſhould go or ſtay, or be angry of ſorry, or humble, or obſtinate, or what—I can't ſay but I do hope he'll bring her proud ſtomach down. Such ſtrange fancies and fangles, and airs, and flights, and I will, and I won't—but lord, 'tis the way of all theſe fine ladies. Becauſe they have not one ſingle thing on earth to croſs them, they are always racking their brains to torment [53]themſelves—But ſome folks are fortunate, and ſome folks are misfortunate.

Here he is—If I am not miſtaken, love, pride, and obſtinacy are each tormenting him by turns—Now to try whether I cannot incline the balance in favor of love—

Sir! young gentleman! may I crave your ear for a moment?

Well, Sir!

Your name is Don Fabricio, Sir.

And what then?

You muſt underſtand Sir, there has been a evere combat, between my honour and my penchant.

Your—

And as you, Sir, were the ſubject of contention, [...]is for that reaſon I intreat a hearing.

I!

You muſt have obſerved, Sir, there are certain pleaſing countenances that captivate the moment they are ſeen.

Well?

Your phiſiognomy, Sir, has that happy engag⯑ing caſt. I was ſtruck when I beheld it, and could not help inſtantly wiſhing myſelf an appendage to ſo placid, ſo mild, ſo ſweet a nobleman, for noble you certainly are.

I would adviſe you, friend, to go on with your ſtory, or get out of my reach, leſt I ſhould con⯑vince you, I am not quite ſo mild, and ſo placid, as your thetorical flouriſhes pretend.

Ah no, Sir, I am in perfect ſecurity.

Are you?

This is a ſtrange, odd, impudent fellow.

Were you not the amiable perſon I have been deſcribing, I could never reconcile my preſent proceed⯑ing to my conſcience.

Damn your conſcience, and your preſent proceeding! What's your buſineſs?

I knew you had the manners of a nobleman! With what a grace you ſwear! ſo natural—

I do not wonder at Donna Iſabel's paſſion for you, Sir.

Donna Iſabel! What do you know of Donna Iſabel?

My name is Pedro, Sir.

Confound the fellow!

I am ſervant to Don Fernando, Sir.

But Donna Iſabel—

Will ſoon be married to my maſter, Sir, if you don't prevent it.

Married!

In revenge—Miſunderſtandings on all ſides! Donna Iſabel believes you falſe; my maſter ſuppoſes you in love with Donna Zelida; and they have agreed to be married, with a charitable hope you will hang yourſelf for vexation.

Impoſſible.

Now as I knew this would make four true lov⯑ers miſerable, my penchant for you, Sir, has vanquiſhed the obſtacles my honour raiſed to the betraying of my maſter's ſecrets.

Can this be true?

Put me to my oath—Sir—

Ungrateful, falſe, Iſabel!

Nay, Sir, you miſtake the matter. 'Tis exceſs of love, and not inconſtancy. Offer her your hand, ſhe won't refuſe; lead her to church, and thus wipe off your old ſcore of troubles, and begin a new one.

No—I am determined I'll go to the Prado—I will not eternally bend thus to a capricious temper.

Sir.

I am not maſter of myſelf.

Kind Sir—

I know not what to reſolve.

Permit me to inform you, gentle Sir, I feel an⯑other very ſtrong internal ſtruggle, at this very moment, between my poverty and my pride.

What next?

Knowing your generoſity, my poverty would fain perſuade me to accept the purſe you are going to pre⯑ſent me; but my pride, dreading to be thought ſelfiſh, is treating my poor poverty with that contempt with which pride always treats poverty.

Here, ſirrah, here is money for you; but ob⯑ſerve, if I find you have been impoſing upon me—

I underſtand the conditions, Sir, and my ſhoul⯑ders ſhall be forth coming—They are oſtenſible.

Cruel, unjuſt Iſabel!

There he goes—the direct road to her houſe, de⯑termining all the way he won't go near her.—Really, Mr. Cupid, you are a droll little fellow.

Be under no apprehenſion, ſir; love will recon⯑cile Don Fabricio, and Donma Iſabel: we may ſtill find ſome means of gaining Don Salvador's conſent; and as for Don Pimiento, I believe the greateſt Philoſopher liv⯑ing could not have paſſed upon him better.

But is it not ſtrange I have not received any anſwer from Zelida! I begin to be upon the rack.

Jaquelina perhaps could not find any opportu⯑nity to ſlip out, fir.

Here, take this, return to Don Pimiento's, and convey, it as before; but do not come away, if poſſible, without bringing me an anſwer.

Never fear, ſir, you ſhall ſoon receive a good account of me—the old Don will rejoice to ſee me again.

Was there ever ſuch an old fool! He's mad, there's no doubt but he is mad!

What's the matter, ſir?

Matter, ſir! perhaps you can tell me what's the matter, ſir. Do you know any thing of any pre⯑tended Philoſopher?

Sir! Philoſopher!

That old, unaccountable ape, Don Pimiento, ſends me word he'll toſs my Philoſopher in a blanket, and cut my throat.—He has ſent me a challenge, here! in direct terms!

A challenge, Sir!

But I'll cool him, I'll chaſtiſe his inſolence: he ſhall never ſtick pin thro' butterfly more.

Why, ſurely ſir, you won't think of fighting.

What! receive a challenge, and from a tot⯑tering ſkin of parchment, full of inflammable air! but I'll drill him, I'll make it whiz out.

Loſt and undone! Where can this Fabio be?—Don Pimiento will murder Pedro, and I am more certain of loſing Zelida now than ever.

He pretend to ſend a challenge!

But, ſir, tho' he has no more temper and underſtanding, I hope you will not ſo forget your charac⯑ter, ſtation and age.

Sir, I want none of your advice.

For heaven's ſake, my dear father, mode⯑rate your anger!

Sir, I want none of your advice.

Conſider, ſir, that my happineſs depends upon the poſſeſſion of Zelida.

Then it has a very ſlender dependence in⯑deed, for ſhe never ſhall be your's, ſhe never can be your's, I being ſully determined to cut her father's throat. Don't follow me; keep back.

Diſtraction! What is to be done? Fabio!

Sir.

Run, inſtantly, and try to overtake Pedro.

No, no; ſend ſomebody elſe after Pedro, and do you watch my father; he's gone with an intent to fight Don Pimiento. Think, invent ſome means of keeping them aſunder.

Me invent! lord, ſir, I am an animal of in⯑ſtinct, and—

Don't ſtand prating, ſir, fly, follow my fa⯑ther; watch him, and if you can find no other means of preventing this ridiculous duel, raiſe the neighbourhood.—

—Every thing conſpires to overwhelm me with vexation and deſpair. Pedro detected, the breach between our fathers widened, and Fabricio's ir⯑reconcilable quarrel with his miſtreſs.—Obſtacles and miſchieſs accumulate.—Oh, my Zelida! my angel! my life! either I am thine, or I am nothing!

My maſter will be with you immediately, ſir; he deſired me to tell you, he is making preparations for a phi⯑loſophical experiment, but that—Oh, here he comes.—

This quick return, ſir, is exceedingly kind.

Oh, ſir!

I aſſure you, ſir, I am ſuperlatively glad to ſee you; as it will give me infinite pleaſure to treat you as your high merit deſerves.

Pray, ſir—you confound me, ſir.

May I take the liberty to aſk, moſt ſage ſir, whether you have prepared your ſecond letter to the very learned Doctor Don Lilibulero?

Oh, yes, ſir, I have it, here it is.

And as curious, no doubt, as the firſt.

Oh! ſcientific! abſtruſe!

And the philoſopher is by this time half made a fool of?

That, ſir, nature made him.

Humph!

—Well, ſir, ſhall I take this letter and give it to my maid? For, as ſhe delivered the laſt, ſhe will be the leſs liable to make any miſtake.

True, ſir; that is a moſt philoſophic, and juſt remark.

You ſend this without the ducats?

Yes, fir, yes; but I'll take care the young wo⯑man ſhall be fewarded hereafter.

I will be ſtill more generous, ſir; for I will take care that you ſhall be rewarded at preſent.

Sir!—

Don't be impatient; ſtand where you are, young man; you ſhall be magnetiſed;—Here, raſcals! where are you all?

Now, Mr. Philoſopher, tho' you have viſited all regions, known, and unknown—, I'll try how you like the upper regions.

For heaven's ſake, ſir, have ſome mercy; do but liſten to me, and you ſhall hear.—

As many lies as I pleaſe. You, I ſay, ſhall fly—fly—without a balloon.

Pray, gentle⯑men, do you have pity.

No, no.

Conſider, I am a fellow ſervant.

Let' em conſider, if they dare.

Is there no forbearance?

No.

No mitigation?

No.

Come, come; away with him.

Fly! fly! my dear father—ſave yourſelf!

Why, how now! what's the matter?

Archers! Alguazils!—Mercy!—'Tis too late!—

How, now, ſir; who are you?

Who, am I, ſir? My name is Joſepho Ribeiro; and my office is that of his Majeſty's Alguazil.

And, pray, ſir, what buſineſs have you in my houſe?

I come, ſir, by order of the Supreme Council, to inform you, that you have loſt your cauſe with the Count de Cordova; and that you are condemn'd to pay five thouſand piſtoles; which, by order of the ſaid Count, and Court, I am now come to demand immediate payment of, without hindrance, let, or, delay; or, to take your perſon into cuſtody.

Confuſion! Damnation! Five thouſand piſtoles!

It is impoſſible!

Sir, if you won't take my word, here's my autho⯑rity.

Ruin, and diſtraction!

My orders, ſir, are preciſe, and ſtrict. You know the power of the Count.

I have here, indeed, too fatal a proof of it.

Therefore, ſir, either, deliver me the five thou⯑ſand piſtoles, or, deliver your body into the keeping of theſe four worthy gentlemen.

Five thouſand piſtoles is a ſum not to be paid thus inſtantaneouſly.

I have told you what are my orders, ſir.

Surely, ſir, you can de⯑lay a few minutes.

Why, ſir, as you ſeem a gentleman of underſtanding, I will do every thing in my [63]power to oblige you. However ſir, I can aſſure you, my orders are very ſevere.

Ah! Sir, ſtay but till my father's friends can be informed of his misſortune, and, I will for e [...]r bleſs and pray for you.

Don't terrify yourſelf, my child—Tho' my enemy be powerful and proud, he ſhall find I am not to⯑tally deſerted.

I hope not, yet doubt is dreadful.

But it makes certainty more ſweet.

It does! it does!

Oof!—I have eſcaped by miracle!—Oh that damn'd blanket!—Our affairs too, worſe than ever!—And the devil to pay within!—Where is my unfortunate maſter?—I muſt endeavour to find him, and inform him of all his miſeries.

I am a quarter before my time—I warrant I teach you to invite me to put on my ſword and take private walks with you, my teſty philoſopher.

I can ſee by his countenance our old Don is de⯑termin'd to fight—I wiſh I could find, ſome means to—Ha! I've a thought! If I can but ſucceed, it will be a maſter-ſtroke!—I'll venture.

He is willing not to come before his time; but he is right to defer his execution as long as poſſible.

How now, ſir, what is the matter with you, ſir?

Oh my poor maſter! Poor Don Fernando!

What, what of him?

Dead, ſir.

Dead!

Dying—Mortally wounded, ſir—

The ſur-ur-urgeon ſays, ſir, the ſword of Don Fabri-i⯑cio has paſſed in a ri-ight line thro' the left lobe of his lungs, and that it's im-im-im-impoſſible he can live for a quarter of an hour.

Where—where is he?

He li-ies with his handkerchief ſtuff'd in his ſide, and his ha-a-and over his mouth, holding in his breath, that it may-ayn't depart till you have given him your bleſſing.

Ah! where is he? where is he?

This way, ſir, under the walls of the Buen Re⯑tiro Palace.

My heart bleeds to think of the tor-or-ortures he this mo-o-oment endures.

My poor-oor-oor Fernando!

Bleſs me, ſir! What's the matter!

Avaunt, Satan—Take care, ſir,—his ghoſt is come to haunt you.

I'll haunt you, raſcal!

Alguazils and Archers!

Fact, I aſſure you, ſir; they are now in the houſe.

Madneſs and diſtraction! Were there not impediments enough before to my happineſs! Follow me.

I'll teach you to play your tricks upon me—

Harkye, ſir! Fernando!—Fernando, I ſay!—Where the devil are you going, ſirrah?—He won't hear—A headlong!—I'll fetch him out! I'll—

If you will hear what I have to ſay, I am cer⯑tain you will not think of purſuing this quarrel further; at leaſt not at this moment.

Sir, I tell you I am come with a reſolution to cut his throat; and the ſayings of neither you, nor Seneca, nor all the wiſe men that ever exiſted, could make the leaſt impreſſion on me.

What, ſir, would you inſult an enemy in diſtreſs?

In diſtreſs!

Don Pimiento is now, ſir, in the hands of Archers, arreſted at the ſuit of the Count de Cordova, for five thouſand piſtoles.

How, how? Which way could Don Pimiento owe the Count de Cordova five thouſand piſtoles?

By decree of the Supreme Council, he has loſt his cauſe. Juſtice was on the ſide of Don Pimiento, but power on the ſide of his adverſary; and, unfortunate⯑ly for Spain, power is here ſuperior to Juſtice.

For mercy's ſake, ſir, do not hurry my father away thus. Wait till he can ſend for his friends.

We have ſhewn you our orders, madam.

Do you hear, ſir? fly.

Dry your tears, Zelida, you are a good child.

You ſeem in haſte, Mr. Alguazil: Where are you going to take this gentleman?

To priſon, ſir.

Don Salvador! What, ſir, are you come to infult me at ſuch a time as this?

Inſult you, ſir? Pray, ſir, when did you know me inſult any gentleman in diſtreſs?—And pray, Mr. Alguazil, what is your reaſon for taking Don Pimi⯑ento to priſon?

I am ſo commanded, ſir, becauſe he can't pay his debts.

Can't he?—but if he can't, I can, and I command you to let him remain in his own houſe.

Sir?

Don Salvador—What do you mean?

What do I mean!—Are not you a gentle⯑man, and a Spaniard, Don Pimiento?

Yes, I have that honor, ſir.

Then how dare you aſk me, what I mean, when I ſee a perſon of that deſcription oppreſs'd, and [67]have the power to ſuccour him?—What do you think I can mean?—

Don Salvador, you—you are a gentleman—a true Caſtilian—and I revere you—and I am ſorry I quarrell'd with you—but I can't accept your favor.

No! Why then you are a proud—

No, it is not pride; but my honor is pledg's to Don Velaſco, and the union of our children is impoſſible.

I perceive, Don Pimiento, you are determined I ſhall cut your throat. Do you think I come like a Uſurer, with my money in one hand, and my clauſes and conditions in the other, Cent. per Cent. in my own favor?

Oh, ſir! I ſhall love and revere you as long as I live.

Don Salvador, I am ſorry?I quarrell'd with you.

You are the nobleſt, the beſt of men.

Well, but gentlement—

Oh! what your hurry is not over yet?

Sir, the mo⯑ney is below.

Pleaſe to walk down, ſir, with this young gentleman, and he will ſee you ſatisfied.

Now, Don Pi⯑miento, if you think I have injured you, I am ready to give you ſatisfaction.

Don Salvador, I feel the generous and no⯑ble manner of your proceeding. You have reſcued me from the power of a malignant and, mean enemy, and, without drawing your ſword, have vanquiſh'd me.

I believe, Don Pimiento, we have both been to blame. However, for my own part, I'll give you my promiſe never to diſpute about things I don't underſtand any more, nor ever more laugh at philoſophy, eſpecially in your preſence.—He that does a gentleman a pecuniary favor, and afterwards takes improper liberties with him, [68]ſhews he meanly expended his money to purchaſe a ſlave, and not generouſly to acquire a friend.

Joy, joy, my Zelida!—Permit me, Don Pi⯑miento, to introduce my friends.

Give me leave, Donna Zelida, to preſent this lady to you, who is now the better part of myſelf.—

Married!

Yes, ſir. I hope you will excuſe—

Excuſe—ſir, I'll—I'll—Zelida!

This is moſt fortunate!

I will own to you, Donna Zelida, that, half an hour ago, I conſidered you as the moſt dangerous perſon in the world, perhaps as my enemy; I ſhall now be proud of your friendſhip.

Dear madam, you give me life and hap⯑pineis!

Here, Don Fernando, tho' there is not a better girl in all Spain, no, nor in all the univerſe, than my Zelida, I am certain you will deſerve her.

I will at leaſt endeavour to do ſo, ſir.

But, pray, give me leave to aſk, young gentleman, is not that the Philoſopher?

I am ſorry, and aſhamed.—But, indeed, ſir, it was a trick of the ſellow's own invention.

Oh, yes, ſir! don't rob me of the honor of the invention.

Silence, ſir!

Ah! thus are men of genius treated by the Great, when they no longer ſtand in need of their aſſiſtance.

And Don Salvador—

Knew nothing of the matter.

I aſk your pardon.

And the inquiſitor! Ah, raſcal! It's well I happen to be in a very good humor.—But keep out of my way, the firſt time thou ſee'ſt me angry.

The rogue play'd me a trick among the reſt; but he did me a favor; and has ſo ready a wit that he de⯑ſerves to be rewarded, as well as pardoned.

Gentlemen are ſo apt to forget their promiſes—otherwiſe Don Fernando is under a promiſe to make my fortune.

That muſt depend upon your behavior.

Depend, depend.—I obſerve your people in power are always exceedingly anxious to keep a man of talents in a ſtate of dependance. They feel they have robb'd him of his birthright, and even grudge him his poor meſs of potage.

Well, ſir; you ſhall find a gentleman, for once, who will keep his promiſe.—You have merit, and I ſhould ill deſerve the happineſs I now enjoy, were I to let merit languiſh, neglected, and without its reward.