Mrs. Can. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers—’tis an old observation, and a very true one: but what’s to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To- day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that a certain widow, in the next street, had got rid of her dropsy and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And at the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed, that Lord Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary fame; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar provocation. But, Lord, do you think I would report these things! No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers.

Jos. Surf. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good nature!

Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance I own I always love to think the best. By-the-by, I hope ’tis not true that your brother is absolutely ruined?

Jos. Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, ma’am.

Mrs. Can. Ah! I heard so—but you must tell him to keep up his spirits; everybody almost is in the same way: Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit—all up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, he’ll find half his acquaintance ruined too, and that, you know, is a consolation.

Jos. Surf. Doubtless, ma’am—a very great one.

Re-enter Servant.

Ser. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

[Exit.

Lady Sneer. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively you shan’t escape.

Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I don’t believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad, ma’am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet too. Isn’t he, Lady Sneerwell?

Sir Ben. Oh, fie, uncle!

Crab. Nay, egad it’s true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle’s feather catching fire?—Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie’s conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander, and—

Sir Ben. Uncle, now—pr’ythee—

Crab. I’faith, ma’am, ’twould surprise you to hear now ready he is at all these sort of things.

Lady Sneer. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.

Sir Ben. To say truth, ma’am, ’tis very vulgar to print; and, as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with this lady’s smiles, I mean to give the public.

[Pointing to Maria.