Sir R. So has a duck pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt. He received my arguments with his mouth open, like a poorbox gaping for half-pence, and, good or bad, he swallowed them all without any resistance. We could n't disagree, and so we parted.
Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.
Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant, and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, tallow, linen, and leather; what's the consequence? Thirteen months ago he broke.
Hum. Poor soul, his wife should have followed the business for him. Sir R. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as he broke, and now this madcap, Frederic, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job, now he is in distress, I must not neglect his son.
Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederic.
Enter FREDERIC.
Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.
Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors till
I got up.
Fred. So you did, but I entirely forgot it.
Sir R. And pray, what made you forget it?