Dob. I have held you a stout tug at argument, this many a year.

Sir Rob. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now, mind; when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him. Now, I am rich, and hate flattery-Ergo,when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him.

Dob. That's wrong.

Sir Rob. Very well-Negatur-Now prove it.

Dob. Put the case so, then-I am a poor manSir Rob. You lie, you scoundrel! You know you shall never want while I have a shilling. Dob. Bless you!

Sir Rob. Pshaw ! proceed.

Dob. Well, then, I am a poor-I must be a poor man, now, or I shall never get on.

Sir Rob. Well, get on. Be a poor man. Dob. I am a poor man; and I argue with you, and convince you you are wrong-then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: Now, that's no flattery.

Sir Rob. Why, no: but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument; and that puts an end to conversation:-So, I hate him for that. But where's my nephew, Frederick ? Dob. Been out these two hours.

Sir Rob. An undutiful cub!—Only arrived from Russia last night; and, though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields, like a Calmuc Tartar.

Dob. He's a fine fellow.

Sir Rob. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he's a little like me, Humphrey ?

Dob. Bless you, not a bit. You are as ugly an old man as ever I clapt my eyes on.

Sir Rob. Now, that's damn'd impudent! But there's no flattery in it ; and it keeps up the independ

ence of argument. His father, my brother Job, is of as tame a spirit!-Humphrey, you remember my brother Job?

Dob. Yes; you drove him to Russia, five-andtwenty years ago,

Sir Rob. I drove him!

[Angrily. Dob. Yes, you did-You would never let him be at peace, in the way of argument.

Sir Rob. At peace! Zounds! he would never go

to war.

Dob. He had the merit to be calm. Sir Rob. So has a duck-pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water-gruel; a tame rabbit, boil'd to rags, without sauce or salt. He received men's arguments with his mouth open, like a poor'sbox gaping for halfpence; and, good or bad, he swallowed them all, without any resistance. We cou'dn't disagree, and so we parted.

Dob. And the poor meek gentleman went to Russia, for a quiet life.

Sir Rob. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there. Tack'd himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant; and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, pot-ashes, tallow, linen, and leather. And what's the consequence? thirteen months ago, he broke.

Dob. Poor soul! his wife should have follow'd the business for him.

Sir Rob. I fancy she did follow it; for she died just as it went to the devil. And, now, this madcap, Frederick, is sent over to me for protection. Poor Job! now he's in distress, I mustn't neglect his son. [FREDERICK is heard, singing, without. Dob. Here comes his son-That's Mr. Frederick.

Enter FREDERICK.

Fred. Ah, my dear uncle! good morning. Your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir Rob. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in-doors, till I got up.

Fred. Eh? Egad so you did! I had as entirely forgot it, as

Sir Rob. And, pray, what made you forget it?
Fred. The sun.

Sir Rob. The sun! He's mad. You mean the moon, I believe.

Fred. Oh, my dear sir, you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a young fellow just arrived from Russia. The day look'd bright; trees budding; birds singing; the park was gay; so, egad, I took a hop, step, and a jump, out of your old balcony; made your deer fly before me like the wind; and chased them all round the park, to get an appetite, while you were snoring in bed, uncle.

Sir Rob. Ah! so, the effect of English sun, upon a young Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer.

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir Rob. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle; unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy.

Fred. Sir, I hate fat legacies.

Sir Rob. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens of kindness, at least.

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle-They are the posthumous despatches Affection sends to Gratitude to inform us we have lost a generous friend. Sir Rob. How charmingly the dog argues!

Fred. But, I own my spirits ran away with me, this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.

Sir Rob. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell you that?

Fred. Old Rusty there.

Sir Rob. Why, Humphrey, you didn't?

Dob. Yes, but I did, though.

Fred. Yes, he did; and on that score I shall be anxious to show you obedience: for, 'tis as meritorious to attempt sharing in a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.

Sir Rob. [Embracing him.] Jump out of every window I have in my house! Hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow! ay, damn it! this is spunk, and plain speaking! Give me a man, who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrines smack in my teeth.

Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle.

Dob. So do I.

Fred. You! you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you down.

Sir Rob. I'll knock you down if you do. I won't have my servants thump'd into dumb flattery. I won't let you teach 'em to make Silence a toad-eater. Dob. Come, you're ruffled-Let's go to the business of the morning.

Sir Rob. Damn the business of the morning! Don't you see we are engaged in discussion? I hate the business of the morning.

Dob. No, you don't.

Sir Rob. And why not?

Dob. Because 'tis charity.

Sir Rob. Pshaw! damn it!-well-we mustn't neglect business-If there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey.

Dob. [Reading.] Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put into prison.

Sir Rob. Why, 'twas but last week Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him, by law, worth sixty pounds.

Dob. And charged a hundred and ten, for his

1

trouble :-So, seiz'd the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan in jail for the remainder.

Sir Rob. A harpy! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress.

Fred. And I must kick his attorney.

Dob. The Curate's horse is dead.

Sir Rob. Pshaw! there's no distress in that.

Dob. Yes, there is-to a man who must go twenty miles, every Sunday, to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir Rob. Why won't Punmock, the vicar, give him another nag

?

Dob. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.

Sir Rob. What's the name of the black pad I purchased, last Tuesday at Tunbridge?

Dob. Belzebub.

Sir Rob. Send Belzebub to the Curate, and tell him to work him, as long as he lives.

Fred. And if you have a tumble-down`tit, send him to the vicar, to give him a chance of breaking his neck.

Sir Rob. What else?

Dob. Somewhat out of the common. There's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village. He's plaguy poor indeed, it seems: but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud. Fred. That sounds like a noble character!

Sir Rob. And so he sends to me for assistance? Dob. He'd see you hang'd first. Harrowby says, he'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling. There's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal, that has served in the wars with him he keeps them all upon his half pay.

A

Sir Rob. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey. Fred. [Going.] Uncle, good morning!

Sir Rob. Where the devil are you running, now ?