SCENE I.
A Lodge belonging to the Castle.
Dame Ashfield discovered making lace.
Enter Handy, jun.
Handy, jun. A singular situation this my old dad has placed me in; brought me here to marry a woman of fashion and beauty, while I have been professing, and I've a notion feeling, the most ardent love for the pretty Susan Ashfield—Propriety says, take Miss Blandford—Love says, take Susan—Fashion says, take both—but would Susan consent to such an arrangement?—and if she refused, would I consent to part with her?—Oh, time enough to put that question, when the previous one is disposed of—[Seeing Dame.] How do you do? How do you do?—Making lace, I perceive—Is it a common employment, here?
Dame. Oh, no, sir? nobody can make it in these parts but myself!—Mrs. Grundy, indeed, pretends—but, poor woman! she knows no more of it than you do.
Handy, jun. Than I do! that's vastly well;—My dear madam, I passed two months at Mechlin for the express purpose.
Dame. Indeed!
Handy, jun. You don't do it right—now I can do it much better than that. Give me leave, and I'll shew you the true Mechlin method [Turns the cushion round, kneels down, and begins working.] First you see, so—then, so—
Enter Sir Abel, and Miss Blandford.
Sir Abel. I vow, Miss Blandford, fair as I ever thought you, the air of your native land has given additional lustre to your charms!—[Aside.] If my wife looked so—Ah! but where can Bob be?—You must know, miss, my son is a very clever fellow! you won't find him wasting his time in boyish frivolity!—no; you will find him—
[Sees him.
Miss B. Is that your son, sir?
Sir Abel. [Abashed.] Yes, that's Bob!
Miss B. Pray, sir, is he making lace, or is he making love?
Sir Abel. Curse me if I can tell. [Hits him with his stick.] Get up, you dog! don't you see Miss Blandford?
Handy, jun. [Starting up.] Zounds! how unlucky! Ma'am, your most obedient servant. [Endeavours to hide the work.] Curse the cushion!
[Throws it off.
Dame. Oh! he has spoiled my lace!
Handy, jun. Hush! I'll make you a thousand yards another time—You see, ma'am, I was explaining to this good woman—what—what need not be explained again—Admirably handsome, by Heaven!
[Aside.
Sir Abel. Is not she, Bob?
Handy, jun. [To Miss B.] In your journey from the coast, I conclude you took London in your way? Hush!
[To Dame.
Miss B. Oh no, sir, I could not so soon venture into the beau monde; a stranger just arrived from Germany—
Handy, jun. The very reason—the most fashionable introduction possible! but I perceive, sir, you have here imitated other German importations, and only restored to us our native excellence.
Miss B. I assure you, sir, I am eager to seize my birthright, the pure and envied immunities of an English woman!
Handy, jun. Then I trust, madam, you will be patriot enough to agree with me, that as a nation is poor, whose only wealth is importation—that therefore the humble native artist may ever hope to obtain from his countrymen those fostering smiles, without which genius must sicken and industry decay. But it requires no valet de place to conduct you through the purlieus of fashion, for now the way of the world is, for every one to pursue their own way; and following the fashion is differing as much as possible from the rest of your acquaintance.
Miss B. But, surely sir, there is some distinguishing feature, by which the votaries of fashion are known?
Handy, jun. Yes; but that varies extremely—sometimes fashionable celebrity depends on a high waist—sometimes on a low carriage—sometimes on high play, and sometimes on low breeding—last winter it rested solely on green peas!
Miss B. Green peas!
Handy, jun. Green peas—That lady was the most enchanting, who could bring the greatest quantity of green peas to her table at Christmas! the struggle was tremendous! Mrs. Rowley Powley had the best of it by five pecks and a half, but it having been unfortunately proved, that at her ball there was room to dance and eat conveniently—that no lady received a black eye, and no coachman was killed, the thing was voted decent and comfortable, and scouted accordingly.
Miss B. Is comfort then incompatible with fashion?
Handy, jun. Certainly!—Comfort in high life would be as preposterous as a lawyer's bag crammed with truth, or his wig decorated with coquelicot ribbons! No—it is not comfort and selection that is sought, but numbers and confusion! So that a fashionable party resembles Smithfield market,—only a good one when plentifully stocked—and ladies are reckoned by the score, like sheep, and their husbands by droves, like horned cattle!
Miss B. Ha, ha! and the conversation—
Handy, jun. Oh! like the assembly—confused, vapid, and abundant; as "How do, ma'am!—no accident at the door?—he, he!"—"Only my carriage broke to pieces!"—"I hope you had not your pocket picked!"—"Won't you sit down to faro?"—"Have you many to-night?"—"A few, about six hundred!"—"Were you at Lady Overall's?"—"Oh yes; a delicious crowd, and plenty of peas, he, he!"—and thus runs the fashionable race.
Sir Abel. Yes; and a precious run it is—full gallop all the way: first they run on—then their fortune is run through—then bills are run up—then they are run hard—then they've a run of luck—then they run out, and then they run away!—But I'll forgive fashion all its follies in consideration of one of its blessed laws.
Handy, jun. What may that be!
Sir Abel. That husband and wife must never be seen together.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Miss Blandford, your father expects you.
Miss B. I hope I shall find him more composed.
Handy, jun. Is Sir Philip ill?
Miss B. His spirits are extremely depressed, and since we arrived here this morning his dejection has dreadfully increased.
Handy, jun. But I hope we shall be able to laugh away despondency.
Miss B. Sir, if you are pleased to consider my esteem as an object worth your possession, I know no way of obtaining it so certain as by your shewing every attention to my dear father.
[As they are going,
Enter Ashfield.
Ash. Dame! Dame! she be come!
Dame. Who? Susan! our dear Susan?
Ash. Ees—zo—come along—Oh, Sir Abel! Lady Nelly, your spouse, do order you to go to her directly!
Handy, jun. Order! you mistake—
Sir Abel. No, he don't—she generally prefers that word.
Miss B. Adieu! Sir Abel.
[Exeunt Miss Blandford and Handy, jun.
Sir Abel. Oh! if my wife had such a pretty way with her mouth.
Dame. And how does Susan look?
Ash. That's what I do want to know, zoa come along—Woo ye though—Missus, let's behave pratty—Zur if you pleaze, Dame and I will let you walk along wi' us.
Sir Abel. How condescending! Oh, you are a pretty behaved fellow!
[Exeunt.