id="id00233">Philip. Then, you must pay them to yourself.

Counsellor. But, as I have the honour to be upon terms of strict friendship with your——

Philip. Strict!

Counsellor. Very strict.

Philip. This is the first time I have heard of my brother's strictness.

Counsellor. But, Mr. Brook, you are seldom to be seen; why is this?

Philip. That I may not be seen too often.

Counsellor. But, you lock yourself up like a hermit; 'tis quite inconsistent with your age and station in life.

Philip. You think so?

Counsellor. It does not require much thinking, it is self-evident.

Philip. Indeed?

Counsellor. For instance—you live quite secluded from your friends.

Philip [stepping back]. I distinguish between friends and acquaintance.

Counsellor. And you neglect the favour and protection of the great.

Philip. Do not flatter me to my face.

Counsellor. With your fortune, I wonder you do not buy an office and title.

Philip. Because——but your question answers itself.

Counsellor. How so?

Philip. Because they are to be bought.

Counsellor [with an affected laugh].—A fine reason; an excellent one, indeed! Plain Mr. Brook! it sounds very well [laughing]. Don't you think so, ladies? plain Mr. Brook!

Philip. Yet, in one respect I find that a bought office may be very useful.

Counsellor [laughing]. See, ladies, he yields—he submits.

Philip. A bought office may be of use to a fool, who has no other means of recommending himself.

Counsellor [at a loss]. That is indeed true, very true——

Philip. And a title—you will certainly agree—is often an excellent protection for a knave. Excuse me, Sir!——This dry conversation— [Going.

Counsellor [detaining him]. Bravo, bravo, Mr. Ecclesiasticus!

Philip. Are you acquainted with his book?

Counsellor. Certainly.

Philip. And read it?

Counsellor. Oh, often, very often [laughing]; and I fancy I hear him now.

Philip. Yet, you have forgotten one of his best sayings.

Counsellor. Which?

Philip. A wife man smiles—a fool, a fool, Mr. Counsellor, laughs aloud. [Exit.

Counsellor. It is a pity he is gone; the best part of the jest was to come.

Mrs. D. But the laugh was not entirely on your side.

Counsellor. Why, I kept my best things to the last—but we will certainly christen him Mr. Ecclesiasticus [laughs]. When I tell his brother, he will enjoy it heartily.

Enter Mr. DRAVE.

Mr. D. Good morning, Sir!

Counsellor. Your most obedient, my dear Mr. Drave: I am happy to see you in health; I was much afflicted by your late indisposition.

Mr. D. I am obliged to you. [To Mrs. D.] Will you be so good as to go down awhile with Augusta?

Mrs. D. [aside to Mr. D.] But keep your temper. [Exeunt Mrs. D. and Augusta.

Counsellor [is going after them]. Give me leave, Sir.

Mr. D. I will thank you for a few minutes conversation.

Counsellor. With all my heart. What do you wish?

Mr. D. Sir, you have honoured my family with your visits.

Counsellor. Pray, Sir—too kind—the pleasure of your company——

Mr. D. It is time to come to an explanation: therefore, Sir—without farther preface, my daughter, I think, is the object of your visits?

Counsellor. She is, Sir.

Mr. D. You wish, doubtless, to marry her?

Counsellor. Yes—yes—if—to be sure, for my part—I——

Mr. D. [earnestly]. You certainly can mean nothing else. You will permit me to say, that my daughter cannot comply with your wishes; and therefore, as marriage is out of the question,—[mildly] I must entreat you, Sir, for the sake of her reputation, to forbear your visits for the future.

Counsellor. How? I am astonished! Mr. Drave—

Mr. D. Forgive me, Sir! regard for Augusta forced me to this unpleasant conversation.

Counsellor. But what objection can you have? If a marriage cannot take place, must I for that reason avoid your house?

Mr. D. I fear my daughter might forget the duties of a wife, in listening to the flatteries of a lover.

Counsellor. Vain excuses, Mr. Drave; mere pretexts to palliate your hatred.

Mr. D. I have no hatred against you, Sir.

Counsellor. Oh, but I see very clearly you have: but I warrant you——

Mr. D. You are not to my mind—you see I do not attempt to conceal it.

Counsellor. Well, of my passion for Miss Drave I will speak no more—but I am now obliged in honour to frequent your house.

Mr. D. Say you were tired of our company; I give you my word never to contradict you.

Counsellor. It would be much to the credit of your house, and your daughter.

Mr. D. [smiling]. I know what I venture.

Counsellor. You are insupportable—but take warning; remember, Sir, to whom you speak!

Mr. D. [earnestly]. I remember but too well!

Counsellor. You may repent, Sir—you may repent very soon!

Mr. D. God forbid!

Counsellor. Sir, I give you one hour's time to atone for this insolence, or I can shew you——

Mr. D. [angrily]. And I, Sir, give you one minute to leave my house! or—[recollecting himself, and taking a key out of his socket, which he lays upon a chair] here is the key; when you leave the room, be so good as to lock the door. [Going.

Counsellor. Nay! I go, Sir! I go—but by heavens, Sir, you shall pay for this. [Exit.

Mrs. DRAVE enters hastily.

Mrs. D. Good God! Drave, what have you done? the Counsellor flew down stairs in such a fury——

Mr. D. A fool! I kept my temper long enough.

Mrs. D. [in a tone of reproach]. This is one of your usual passions.

Mr. D. What you call passion in me, is too often necessary to correct the faults you fall into through supineness.

Mrs. D. How? what is my fault here?

Mr. D. Between ourselves, my dear, was not thy maternal pride too much flattered, by seeing a crowd of lovers about your daughter? Had you taken less pleasure in their idle flattery, you would have saved us a great deal of trouble about her.

Mrs. D. And what is the matter now? The girl——

Mr. D. Loves one; why then the rest? Why, by high flown compliments, excite her pride? why, by unmeaning sentiments, corrupt her heart? Speak yourself; is that my fault or