except my plate, and my pictures, and my houses, and my money? and see his gratitude! You are talking to me from morning to night of regard and attachment; now he has never made half a dozen of those fine professions in his life.

Car. Where is he now?

Old Rand. Rattling all over the town, I suppose, with his friend Mr. Scruple, without a guinea in his pocket; living like other fashionable puppies, on what he has least of, his wits; laughing at every man who has sense enough not to act and dress like himself-and this is ton and fashion now-a-days. Damme, he's hardly fit for any thing. What can I do with him. Carney? Car. Um! Put him in the Guards, Mr. Random.

Old Rand. Well, and what happened then?
Any body inquiring after me? Who is it?
Paul P. Two very inquisitive people.
Old Rand. Oh! custom-house officers, I ima-
gine.

Paul P. But it's so late, your honour. Past ten o'clock.

Zounds; I'll raise the dead, but I'll be at the botbail, why-I'll leave honest Carney here in pawn, tom of all this directly: and if you are shy about

Old Rand. No matter: I'll raise the house.

till I come back.

Car. I had rather keep you company, if you please, Mr. Random.

Paul P. Why, as it appears like a mistake, Sir; and I have known you backwards and forwards so long, and your estate-and

Paul P. No, they came from London-they've asked a vast deal about your honour. Seem re-stairs. You'll accept of his undertaking. joiced to hear your honour's arrived.

Old Rand. Well, trundle these fellows down

Old Rand. Very civil of 'em. I see nothing particular in this, Master Peery.

Paul P. And I believe they have sent for a constable for your honour.

Old Rand. For me, Mr. Peery!
Car. Impossible! For what?
Paul P. Um! Perhaps they think his honour's

a spy.

Car. Mercy on us! We shall be both apprehended for runners.

Bai. We desire no better.

Old Rand. As to this Mr. What's his name? of it to him, till I return; for particular reasons. Mr. Roundfee, who is in the house; not a word

Paul P. Every thing shall be done to your satisfaction, Sir. Come, gentlemen, we'll proceed to the cellar, if you please; the best lock-up

house in Christendom.

Car. Mercy on us; what an escape! Old Rand. An escape! a scoundrel! an abanOld Rand. I apprehend that you are a block-doned-What do you think now of all this, Carhead! runners! Why I can hardly walk, and ney? never spy any thing without spectacles. Why, what's the meaning of all this?

Paul P. I can guess at no other reason they can have for taking up you, who are just come from France-but perhaps your honour may remember some capital crime you have committed I am sure 'Squire Random, a gentleman of six thousand a year, can never want money.

Enter BAILIFF and Follower. Bai. Is your name Random, Sir? Old Rand. Well, Sir, suppose it is? Bai. Then, Sir, you are my prisoner. Old Rand. The devil I am?

Bai. At the suit of Ralph Roundfee, money scrivener of London, for three thousand pounds. Paul P. The 'squire arrested for debt?-it can't be.

Car. I should sooner suspect myself. Bai. And Mr. Scruple here for the same sum. [Slaps CARNEY's shoulder.]

Car. Scruple! Who, I?

Old Rand. Scruple! Dick's crony, by Jupiter! and I and poor Carney arrested for the dog's debts

Car. Think Why, I-What do you think? Old Rand. That you are a blockhead, not to head to behave so; and that I am a greater blocksee the meaning of all this: that my son's a blockhead than any body to suffer it.-Zounds! I can hardly contain myself. I'll never see his face again. Come along, Carney: I'll be with him, and sooner than he suspects, I believe: I'll unkennel him, I warrant you: I'll disclaim him, I'll discard him, I'll undermine him, I'll undo himdamme, I'll unget him,-That's, disinherit him-He shall rot in a jail: rot me, if he shan't; I'll teach him what it is to run in debt in person, and get arrested by proxy. [Exeunt.

SCENE II-A Gallery in Dunder Hall. Four chamber doors at equal distances in the back scene. A chair placed against the farthest door on the right hand; stage dark.

RANDOM opens the second door, on the left.

So! all quiet: not a soul stirring. [Comes forward.] Sir David, good man, thanks to early hours, is snoring away in the next room to me.

I heard him, like a high wind, through the cracks of the old family wainscot. He little dreams of what 's to happen before he wakes. Where can Scruple be all this while? He promised to be on the watch, as soon as every thing was silent; but he's so cursed slow, and backward in this business! If I was not pretty sure that one woman is as much as any one can manage, I should be tempted to take his nymph away without waiting for him. It's so damned dark too, that there's no being certain of his door. The chair was a lucky thought; we should have made some confounded mistake without it, I believe. How the plague now shall I make him hear, without disturbing any one else.

Scru. [Opens the farthest door on the left.] St-St!

Rand. Scruple!

Seru. Random, is it you?

Rand. Yes!-softly!-all's snug. The baronet 's as fast as a church.

Scru. And his wife?Rand. Pickling, I believe, below stairs in the store-room. The old woman's head is so full of this nonsensical match Sir David has told her that she'll be up with the house-keeper, I find, three parts of the night, to make preparations for the wedding.

Seru. 'Sdeath, we shall be discovered: we shall never get out without her hearing us.

Rand. Pooh! never have done with your doubts and objections?

Scru. Surely her being up is an objection of some weight.

Rand. Certainly, she's of great weight in the house-for which reason she's gone quite to the bottom of it. She must have devilish good ears to hear us there; for we shan't come within a mile of her. But have you heard any thing of Tiptoe?

Seru. No: do you expect him.

It's the first time I ever entered into a scheme of this sort; and am now convinced that no man thinks of running away, without being cursedlv frightened.

Tiptoe. [Singing without.]—

So great a man, so great a man, I'll be? Scru. Hark! What's that? Ha! a light. How the devil now am I to find out my room again? It comes nearer and nearer. I must venture. I have three chances to one of doing no mischief; and I dare say my unlucky stars (or rather my want of any stars at all) will direct me to Sir David. So, here's somebody 's chamber; I must in, at all hazards. [Goes into the same chamber he came out of.]

Enter TIPTOE, with a dark lantern, singing, and drunk.

Tip. Here I am at last! What a plaguy parcel of turnings and windings, to get up to this old crazy gallery! umph! It has made me as giddy as a goose. Now for my masters, damn my masters! Scamper! Scamper! Scamper!-Twon't do of,-No; never fit for me. Give me a regular, steady, sober family for my money. If it hadn't been for the lantern I begged of the old boy at the inn-I was forced to treat the drunken scoundrel before he would give it me-I might have tumbled over the bannisters. Mr. Random, now I think on't, ordered me to come in the dark! Umph! Gentlemen think no more of servants' necks nowa-days, they think we've one to spare, like the Swan in Lad-lane, I believe. But softly! softly! No noise. I must go to the chamber to tell him the carriage is ready. Let me see, it's the last door but one, at one end of the gallery; but whether it's to the right, or to the left, curse me if I recollect. Stay-[Turning round, and counting the doors.] One, two, three. Damme, how the doors dance! I shall never find the right, if they take it in their heads to run round so confoundedly. I remember, [ Taking the chair, and drawing it along.] when I lived with old Lady Hobble she always sat still at Ranelagh to find out her company. Now, as these gentlemen here, [Pointing to the doors.] choose to take a Ranelagh round, I think I had better sit quiet in the middle of 'em, till any old acquaintance comes by. [Pulls the chair against the next door, and sits down.] Zounds! how fast somebody sleeps, Sir David, perhaps. I wonder if baronets ever snore. What the devil am I to do now? Get my head broke for not calling my master; and my bones broke, if I should happen to call any body else instead of him. As that is the case, I'll call nobody, egad!-I'll e'en go back to the carriage, and wait till they come for me. So, gently, steady.

Rand. Yes: I sent him to Dover, with orders to bring the carriage and horses to the back gate of the garden. It's turned of eleven too, I take it. Look what's o'clock, will you?

Scru. Look! why it requires the eyes of a cat. It's as dark as a dungeon.

Rand. Odso, I had forgot; but he'll be here presently I have been obliged to let him into the secret: he has procured a key of the back-door, and will slide up to my chamber; which he has had an opportunity of marking, he tells me, in his own way, to give us intelligence.

Seru. Well, if he is but punctual— Rand. Oh! you may depend upon him: but, till he comes, we may as well prepare our fair companions. I'll try and find out the chair, which is against their dressing-room door; where they are in waiting. [Feeling about.] Their bed-chamber is beyond it; so I may enter without infringing the rules of etiquette, you know.

Seru. Had'nt I better go with you? Rand No, no; stay here as an outpost : I shall soon be pack.

Ser a. Gently, no mistakes now.

Rand. Never fear! So, here's the chair. Scru. Remember-caution's the word. Rand. Ay, and expedition too. The house must divide, you know: so the sooner we clear the gallery the better. [Taps; door opens, and he enters into the women's chamber.]

Scru. How awkward I feel in this business!

[Exit, singing.

Scru. [After a pause, opens the door.] Once more every thing is quiet. I can't conceive who it could be so long with a light in the gallery. I had best give Random notice of what has happened; that in case we are watched, he may be upon his guard. Hereabouts the door must be-[Go ing to the door RANDOM entered.] Eh! no chair

sdeath, this is Sir David's! A pretty blunder I should have made! [Goes to the next.] O here it is at last. [Taps at the door.] What a number of accidents this little contrivance has prevented! I had better explain to him what has happened. in the inside of my chamber; for it's dangerous

Rand. Well said, courage! well said Cæsar, | out asking. French leave, if I had not been here egad! 'Sdeath, Madam, if you draw back now, you spoil all. I'll bring you all through, I warrant

you.

Har. I fear I shall never bear up. The step I am taking, the weight on my spirits

Rand. Vapours! vapours, from being in the dark; nothing else, believe me, Madam.

Har. My mother too-what will not she feel?
Seru. Nay, pursue this no further.

Kitty. Mamma will be in a sweet bustle, I warrant. Rattling about Sir David's ears for bringing you into the house.

Sir D. [Behind.] Be quiet; I know it. Kitty. Yes, that's exactly like him for all the world. Gemini, I shall never find my way.

Rand. Stay: take my arm. Come, Madam. Scruple-arm in arm all four, and then for our

march.

Sir D. March! damme, but I'll muster among ye, though[Aside. [SIR DAVID comes forward between them. KITTY takes hold of SIR DAVID'S and RANDOM's arms, HARRIET of SIR DAVID'S and SCRUPLE's; all arm in arm, SIR DAVID in the middle.

Rand. So; thus linked, he must be a cunning and a bold fellow too, that thinks of dividing us. [Going.-A loud ringing at the bell. Seru. Hark! somebody rings at the gate. Har. Oh mercy! we shall be seen. Kitty. Lud! there's a light! hide! hide us, for heaven's sake. It's mamma, as sure as I live.

Sir D. [Aloud.] No, no! stay where you are. Come along, my lady; a light will do us a deal of good.

Enter LADY DUNDER, with a light.

Servant, ladies and gentlemen.

have smuggled my goods in the dark, trotted over the Tweed, and been hammered together by a bare-breeched blacksmith. A fine Scotch union, egad! my two rich roses here tied to a pair of poor pitiful thistles! but zounds! I'll have satisfaction. Lady. For heaven's sake, my dear! cool your choler a little, Sir David.

Sir D. Be quiet. What! have I had a sword bobbing between my legs, at Dover hops, and quiet country meetings, for these twenty years; and now not rub off its rust, in the oily guts of a couple of whale catchers, for what I know to the contrary?

OLD RANDOM and CARNEY, without.

Old Rand. Come along, Carney: late as it is, my gentlemen can't escape now, I believe. [They enter.] Hey-day! the whole family collected!

Rand. My father! a pretty business we have made of it.

Old Rand. I beg pardon for this intrusion,— but if Sir David Dunder is here, and sees the Occasion

Sir D. I know it; see it all already: fine occasion, indeed and you, too, [To OLD RAND.] act as accomplices, do you?-an old fellow-sham! What, you've a wig, now, I warrant, like a young counsellor 's-squeezed over a toupee with a dapper tail peeping out between the ties. Old Rand. How!

Car. My worthy old friend means, SirSir D. Hush-he is an old one, is he? means to run away with my wife, then, I suppose. Lady. I fancy he'd find it a difficult matter to carry me off.

Old Rand. Run away! Not I. I came here after a couple of youngsters, that

Sir D. Did you! There they are. Take 'em away with you: as pretty a pair as any in EngLady. Mercy on me! Sir David! girls' gen- land: you may match 'em against all Europe,

tlemen!

Seru. Confusion!

Rand. Sir David!

Sir D. Yes, here we are-been frisking about like a parcel of rabbits. Our burrows are all empty.

Lady. Why, what's the meaning of

Sir D. Be quiet-meaning? treachery-mean to bamboozle us. Dark night, rope ladders, garden gate, and Gretna Green-that's the meaning of it.

Lady. How! and is this the return for

Sir D. Hush! ay, is this the return for my open, hospitable, generous- -I that put salt in your porridge, bread in your mouth, and steaks in your stomach; crammed every thing into you, but gratitude.

Lady. And come here on purpose, I suppose, with a trumped-up story of

Sir D. Trump! damme, this will be their last trump I take it. And you too! [To the Women.] You [To HARRIET.] you that I intended to link to a lord; to go and give up a peer for a pedlar; a merchant; a fellow that lives like a lobster by salt water; a culler of pepper and spice; a trader in train oil, Greenland blubber, and China pipkins; or a black dealer in devils to sell at American markets.

Scru. 'Sdeath! What is all this?
Rand. If you'll give us leave, Sir, to
Sir D. Give! gad, you'd have taken leave with-

egad.

Old Rand. So, you are two pretty gentlemen; are not you? And how dare you, Sir, look me in the face, after your profligate proceedings? [T RAND.] Not content neither in contracting debts, but you must have me, your poor father, you dog, arrested for 'em.

Car. Yes, and me too.

Rand. I am at a loss how to comprehend,

Sir

Old Rand. But that rascal, that rogue, Roundfee, I think they call him, he can, I believe. Here have I and poor Carney just been taken in custody for you, at Dover; while you have been playing your pranks at large all over the country.

Sir D. Eh! be quiet.-Cursed ungenteel though in you, if you are his father. Zounds! you have used me worse than they! Get yourself locked up for your son here, with a plague to you! that he and his friend may have time to run off with my daughters.

Old Rand. 1! I have withdrawn my countenance long ago, I promise you.

Sir D. Ha! family failing. The son woul have withdrawn his countenance too, if I'd let him.

Old Rand. How! what, attempt to

Sir D. Be quiet.-I am the injured party: les me speak.

Lady. No, Sir David, I'll

Seru. To end all confusion, I'll speak.

Rand. What the deuce can Doubtful say now, after all. [Aside. Seru. It is yourself, Sir David, who have been chiefly to blame.

Rand. He beats me all to nothing. [Aside. Seru. Your unguarded kindness to strangers might have been attended with much more disagreeable consequences. You took our characters from report, I see: characters which we never thought of assuming.

Sir D. Oh, damn Paul!

Lady. Well, I vow the young man-pleads so prettily in his defence, that

Rand. If your ladyship and my father could forget past occurrences, and join with me in my suit to Sir David for a union with his daughterI hope my future conduct

Old Rand. Um!-Why, as things are so, Sir David; and my connexions are pretty considerable-my estate pretty well known

Car. A good six thousand a year. I have known my good friend here some time; and have had his property under my eye for these five

Old Rand. And his friend, I am happy to tell you, is as well connected as he is.

Seru. Our invitation was unsought; and though Mir manner of requiting your favours appears un-years. Justifiable, you may congratulate yourself, that instead of being practised upon by men, unworthy your countenance, you have met with gentlemen. Sir D. Here's two fine fellows! come into my house-going to carry off half on't on their shoulders-and then-I have met with gentlemen.

Seru. Our conduct, Sir David, is not so culpable as you imagine. A chance, like your present invitation, threw us in your daughters' way at Bath, and our continued affection (I think I may answer for my friend) may prove our motives are unguided by interest: as a further proof of it, we disclaim all views of their fortune.-Bestow but their hands, Sir David, and we shall be happy. Sir D. Eh! zounds! something noble in that

too.

Lady. But to think of carrying away our two dear rosy girls here; handsomer than all the pale chits of the county.

Sir D. Hush! handsomer? Ay, and richer too! with pockets full of money: housewives stuffed with bank notes; and work bags crammed with guineas.

Old Rand. Indeed, I begin to think Dick is not such a sad dog as I took him for. Eh! Carney?

Car. I am perfectly of your opinion, Mr. Random.

Lady. And what has the other gentleman to say for himself? [To RANDOM. Kitty. Indeed, mamma, we are not much to blame neither.

Rand. Love, Madam, all-powerful love, must plead my excuse; a passion which may once have influenced your ladyship's delicate susceptible

bosom.

Sir D. Is he?-Well, as matters are-and my lord might find a flaw here, an ugly business, not much to his liking; I think we can but in honour be off-so, to prevent cursed country scandal, gabbling girls, ugly old maids, and all that— I think we may as well, my lady?

Lady. As you think proper, Sir David.-Harriet?

Hur. We are bound now, Madam, both by inclination and duty, to follow your commands. Kitty. Yes, mamma, we are both bound. Sir D. Well, then; there, there! take one another-no words.

Rand. And now, Kitty, I am your prisoner for life.

Old Rand. Remember, Roundfee, though;there you might have been a prisoner not much to your liking.

Sir D. What! a usurer? Damme, let's duck him.

Old Rand. Oh! he and his gentlemen may be settled with at leisure. Their blunders have left them to our mercy, and they merit none, I promise you;-fellows, whose business it is to prey upon the unthinking, extort from the needy, and live upon the distresses of mankind, deserve very little compassion when they are distressed themselves.

Sir D. I know it. But here, however, they shall have no distresses to prey upon, no moping, melancholy looks now. All's well, I hope, at last, as it ought to be-and nothing ought to give any of us, here, so much pleasure as looking, tonight on a set of very merry faces. [Exeunt.