To a fellow of your obfervation and turn, I fhould think, now, fuch a fcene a moft delicate treat. YOUNGER. Delicate! Palling, naufeous, to a dreadful degrce. To a lover, indeed, the charms of the niece may palliate the uncle's fulfome formality. BEVER. The uncle! ay, but then you know he is only one of the group. YOUNGER. That's true; but the figures are all finish'd alike:-a maniere, a tiresome fameness throughout. BEVER. There you will excufe me; I am fure there is no want of variety. YOUNGER. No! then let us have a detail. Come, Dick, give us a bill of the play. BEVER. First, you know, there's Juliet's uncle. YOUNGER. What, Sir Thomas Lofty! the modern Midas, or rather (as fifty dedications will tell you) the Pollio, the Atticus, the patron of genius, the protector of arts, the paragon of poets, decider on merit, chief juftice of tafte, and fworn appraiser to Apollo and the tuneful Nine. Ha, ha. Oh, the tedious, infipid, infufferable coxcomb! BEVER. Nay, now, Frank, you are too extravagant. He is univerfally allow'd to have tafte; fharpjudging Adriel, and the mufe's friend, himself a mufe. YOUNGER. Tafte! by who? underling bards, that he feeds; and broken bookfellers, that he bribes. Look ye, Dick, what raptures you please, when Mifs Lofty is your theme; but expect no quarter for the rest of the family. I tell thee, once for all, Lofty is a rank impoftor, the bufo of an illiberal, mercenary tribe; he has neither genius to create, judgment to diftinguish, or generofity to reward; his wealth has gain'd him flattery from the in digent, and the haughty infolence of his pretence, admiration from the ignorant. Voilà le portrait de votre oncle. Now on to the next. BEVER. The ingenious and erudite Mr. Ruft. YOUNGER. What, old Martin, the medal-monger? BEVER. The fame, and my rival in Juliet. YOUNGER. Rival! what, Ruft? why fhe's too modern for him by a couple of centuries. Martin! why he likes no heads but upon coins. Married! the mummy! Why 'tis not above a fortnight ago that I faw him making love to the figure without a nose in Somerset-Gardens: I caught him ftroaking the marble plaits of her gown, and afked him if he was not afhamed to take fuch liberties with ladies in public. BEVER. What an inconftant old fcoundrel it is! YOUNGER. Oh, a Dorimant. But how came this about? what could occafion the change? was it in the power of flesh and blood to feduce this adorer of virtù from his marble and porphyry? BEVER. Juliet has done it; and, what will furprize you, his taste was a bawd to the business. Pr'ythee explain. YOUNGER. BEVER. Juliet met him laft week at her uncle's: he was a little pleafed with the Greek of her profile; but, on on a clofer enquiry, he found the turn-up of her nose to exactly resemble the buft of the princess Popæa. YOUNGER. The chafte moiety of the amiable Nero. The fame. BEVER. YOUNGER. Oh, the deuce! then your business was done in an inftant. BEVER. Immediately. In favour of the tip, he offered carte blanche for the rest of the figure, which (as you may fuppofe) was inftantly caught at. YOUNGER. Doubtlefs. But who have we here? BEVER. This is one of Lofty's companions, a WeftIndian of an over-grown fortune. He faves me the trouble of a portrait. This is Sir Peter Pepperpot. Enter Sir Peter Pepperpot and two blacks. Sir PETER. Careless fcoundrels! harkee, rascals! I'll banish you home, you dogs! you shall back, and broil in the fun. Mr. Bever, your humble; Sir, I am your entirely devoted. BEVER. You seem moved; what has been the matter, Sir Peter? Sir PETER. Matter! why, I am invited to dinner on a barbicu, and the villains have forgot my bottle of cayenne. YOUNGER. Ay, this country has fpoil'd them; this fame chriftening will ruin the colonies.-Well, dear Bever, rare news, boy; our fleet is arrived from the Weft. It is? BEVER. Sir PETER. Ay, lad; and a glorious cargo of turtle. It was lucky I went to Brighthelmstone; I nicked the time to a hair; thin as a lath, and a ftomach as fharp as a fhark's: never was in finer condition for feeding. BEVER. Have you a large importation, Sir Peter? Sir PETER. Nine; but seven in excellent order: the captain affures me they greatly gain'd ground on the voyage. BEVER. How do you difpose of them? Sir PETER. Four to Cornhill, three to Almack's, and the two fickly ones I fhall fend to my borough in Yorkshire. YOUNGER. Ay! what, have the provincials a relish for turtle? Sir PETER. Sir, it is amazing how this country improves in turtle and turnpikes; to which (gives me leave to fay) we, from our part of the world, have not a little contributed. Why, formerly, Sir, a brace of bucks on the mayor's annual day was thought a pretty moderate bleffing. But we, Sir, have polish'd |