The East Indian: a comedy, in three acts. / Translated from the German of Kotzebue. Indianer in England. English Kotzebue, August von, 1761-1819. Approx. 212 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 89 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI : 2007-01. N28320 N28320 Evans 37748 APY4634 37748 99031786

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Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 37748. (Evans-TCP ; no. N28320) Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 37748) Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 37748) The East Indian: a comedy, in three acts. / Translated from the German of Kotzebue. Indianer in England. English Kotzebue, August von, 1761-1819. Smith, Charles, 1768-1808, tr. Thomson, Alexander, 1763-1803, tr. Tiebout, Cornelius, 1773?-1832, engraver. 88 p., [1] leaf of plates : 1 port. ; 21 cm. (8vo) Printed for Charles Smith and S. Stephens., New-York: : 1800. Translation claimed by Charles Smith but also attributed to Alexander Thomson. Cf. Evans. Also issued as part of: Kotzebue, August von. The dramatic works ... New-York : Printed for Charles Smith and Stephen Stephens, 1800 (Evans 37747). Frontispiece portrait of John Hodgkinson engraved by Cornelius Tiebout.

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eng Hodgkinson, John, ca. 1767-1805 -- Portraits. Plays -- 1800. 2005-11 Assigned for keying and markup 2005-12 Keyed and coded from Readex/Newsbank page images 2006-06 Sampled and proofread 2006-06 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2006-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

THE EAST INDIAN: A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF KOTZEBUE.

NEW-YORK: PRINTED FOR CHARLES SMITH AND S. STEPHENS. 1800.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE. Sir JOHN SMITH, a gouty gentleman, formerly a rich merchant. Lady SMITH, his wife, of German extraction. SAMUEL, a surveyor of the customs, his son. ROBERT, captain of a ship, his son. LIDDY, his daughter. KABERDAR, exiled Nabob of Mysore. GURLI, his daughter. MUSAFFERY, his old companion. FAZIR, a young Indian. A custom-house tidewaiter. JACK, a boatswain. STRUSSEL and STAFF, two notaries. TOM.

The scene lies in Sir JOHN's house, in one of the sea-port towns of England.

THE EAST INDIAN.
ACT I.
SCENE I. A HALL. [The gouty Sir JOHN, upon a chair with wheels—His leg wrapt up, and stretched out before him—LIDDY sitting beside him, and reading the newspaper to him.] S. John.

Ah, woe!

Liddy.

More pains yet?

S. John.

No less than if a nest of serpents were stinging every one of my toes.

Liddy.

Poor father.

S. John.

Good Liddy.

Liddy.

Oh, that any one could relieve you!

S. John.

That very wish is medicine; you are the only one in the house, that takes care of my sick body, and revives my soul with your good wishes.

Liddy.

Not so.

S. John.

Yes indeed, yes indeed. I bear witness before God, you are the only comfort of my infirm old age.

Liddy.

You forget that you have sons.

S. John.

Sons! and what then? Fool that I was, to murmur against Providence, eighteen years ago, for sending me a daughter. I wanted sons. Wild, careless fellows. I thought they would be more easily provided for, and make their way better through the world. Yes, yes, they make their way through it, and leave their poor father in the lurch. There is Samuel—

Liddy.

His many occupations.

S. John.

Fie, fie, gratitude towards father and mother, ought to be the first occupation of a child. Samuel is a sneaking fellow—and as for Robert—

Liddy.

[With much emotion.] But surely Robert, dear father—

S. John.

Your eye glistens whenever he is named. Robert, indeed, is better than his brother; but he is a rattle-scull.

Liddy.

He loves you so tenderly.

S. John.

At the distance of more than a thousand miles, I would not give a fig for his love. There he cruizes upon unknown oceans, from one quarter of the world to another; while the gout is cruizing through all my limbs.

Liddy.

Indeed, it is only for your sake he exposes himself to so many hardships. Perhaps he will now soon be back again. I look every morning how the wind blows; and, should he return with a rich cargo? Should he change our present poverty into opulence? Look only, dear father, this is in the power of a son to do; while the daughter must sit at home, and can do nothing but take care of her sick father.

S. John.

Oh! that is more than if Robert should bring me the luxuries of both Indies. Good Liddy, when the gentle eye converses so tenderly with me; I cannot describe to you, how much it does me good. You will think often that your father slumbers, when I sit upon my chair with my eyes closed! No, Liddy, your father then prays for you.

Liddy.

What a sweet reward is in this moment. [Kisses his hand.] Your blessing, father. [Kneels down before his chair.]

S. John.

[Laying his hand on her.] God bless you, and may nature only spare my life so long •• to see this my paternal blessing, which I give so cordially, completely fulfilled. God bless you.

Liddy.

And my brother Robert.

S. John.

Him too.

Liddy.

And my brother Samuel.

S. John.

I curse him not.

Liddy.

But your blessing.

S. John.

He has his mother's blessing.

Liddy.

Dear father.

S. John.

Well then, well then, I bless him! But not as a father; only as a christian. Stand up.

Liddy.

Unhappy party-spirit, in so small a family.

S. John.

Who is to blame? Is it not your mother? Who torments me from breakfast-time to the hour of supper? Who is it, that throws my unmerited bankruptcy in my teeth, with every scanty morsel that I eat? Who despises my good burgher's blood, and talks so big of her German ancestors? Who is it that suffers me to starve? Who talks our tenants out of their money, and squanders so idly the slender rents which the possession of these houses has still left me? Did you not hear how I petitioned last night for a pipe of tobacco, and a pot of porter? Samuel carried your mother to the play-house; and I was obliged to send my appetite to sleep.

Liddy.

Dear father, you shall want for nothing to-day.

S. John.

Kind Liddy! Would but some brave, opulent fellow, see you, and know you as I know you; would he but make you an offer of his hand; then I would remove along with you, and trust myself to your fostering care till death. [In a softer tone, and pointing to the opposite door.] The foreigner seems to have taken a liking for you.

Liddy.

[Confused.] To me?

S. John.

I think so. Now, he is no longer young, but he is an honest man, and your heart is yet free.

Liddy.

[In confusion.] My heart is free.

S. John.

See, this would be a provision for your old father. Well, we must commit it to time and fortune. Ah woe! there it pulls again, from the sole of my foot, up to my thigh.

Liddy.

Too much conversation may hurt you. [Taking up the newspaper.] Shall I proceed?

S. John.

Do so: perhaps I may be able to catch a nap.

Liddy.

But would it not then be much better to suffer me to carry you to your own chamber? Here there is a continual running about, and a continual knocking at the doors; sometimes people coming to us, and sometimes people coming to the foreigner.

S. John.

No, Liddy, I will stay here in the parlour; for yonder the scolding tongue of your mother would drive all sleep from my eyes; besides, of what consequence is it? Let them run about and knock at the doors as much as they chuse; one may get accustomed to every thing except the voice of a scolding wife.

Liddy.

[Reading.] "Paris, the 16th January."

S. John.

Or, still better, my dear Liddy, set you down to your harpsichord, and play or sing to me. It lulls one so sweetly asleep.

Liddy.

Very willingly. [Sits dozen to the harpsichord, and plays or sings, till she sees that the old man is asleep, then she rises.] He sleeps. Soft be thy repose, and cheerful the moment •• thy awaking. Now, let me be quick. Tom must have 〈◊〉 long upon the watch. [Slips to the window, and beckons 〈◊〉 whistles.] He understands me already. [Comes back, and eeks out of her work-bag a pair of s wed ruffles.] If only my mother does not surprise me; or Samuel, that suspicious, inquisitive fellow. [Giving, a side glance at her father.] Or, if my father should awake. Oh, I should then be in a pretty perplexity.

SCENE II. TOM and Liddy. Liddy.

[Slipping towards him upon tiptoe.] Softly, the old gentleman is asleep.

Tom.

You have made me wait cursedly long, Miss.

Liddy.

Well, well, you shall have some more half-pence for it. There, take this pair of ruffles.

Tom.

For sale again?

Liddy.

Certainly.

Tom.

At what price?

Liddy.

Three crowns at the least—I have wrought five nights on them.

Tom.

That is no business of the purchaser's: if they only look fine in his eyes, whether you have wrought at them five nights, or only five minutes, will be a matter of perfect indifference to him.

Liddy.

Don't chatter so much. The old gentleman may awake.

Tom.

Well, I am going.

Liddy.

Stop—I have something more to say to you; when you have got the ruffles disposed of, go with the money to our neighbor Williams the grocer, and buy a pound of his best tobacco.

Tom.

Well.

Liddy.

Then bring from the tavern below, in the corner, a pot of good porter; and when you have got every thing together, then place yourself again upon the watch, till I beckon to you.

Tom.

I understand you.

Liddy.

Run then.

Tom.

God preserve you pretty Miss.

Liddy.

Good father! thy wishes are so sober and moderate—quick, let me fall to work again. [Takes up her work bag.] It is so sweet to work for a father, and goes so easily through one's fingers.

SCENE III. LIDDY and SAMUEL, with his hat and stick. Liddy.

Good morning brother.

Samuel.

Good morning. [Aside.] Have I remembered to look up every thing? I must see Here is the key of the desk, here is that of the coffer, and here is that of the cupboard: all right. [About to go.]

Liddy.

The key of most consequence, I am afraid, you have forgotten.

Samuel.

Of most consequence! I! What can this be? Your answer.

Liddy.

Your heart, my dear, I have some idea that the young Indian, who stays here, has already filched the key of it from you.

Samuel.

Give yourself no uneasiness.—It is indeed true, that I feel somewhat; but I stand on my guard—I know in every possible case, what precautions ought to be taken.

Liddy.

Precautions against love? Do, let me hear them.

Samuel.

[In a significant tone.] You perhaps find it necessary to make use of them?

Liddy.

[In confusion.] I?

Samuel.

Aye, you—do you think I did not discover you? That young fool of an Indian, whom our brother Robert carries about with him over the seas, and whose fate he so mysteriously conceals—to tell you a secret, that young puppy carried along with him the heart of my sister Liddy.

Liddy.

You call him both a fool and a puppy, and yet suppose that Liddy is enamored with him?

Samuel.

Yes, indeed, she has suffered herself to be blinded by the devil. See only, sister, when one runs twenty times a day to the window, to see if the poor fellow has got a fair wind—

Liddy.

Well, I do so on brother Robert's account.

Sam •••

rother Robert made several voyages before, but sister L ver shewed herself so deeply affected as ſhe last time. But don't interrupt me—when one turns of a scarlet colour, whenever a certain name is mentioned; when one carries about with them in their pocket-book, a certain trinket—then I ask, is this love? answer: yes.

Liddy.

And I ask, when any one without permission, rummages in their sister's pocket-book, is not one a rogue? answer yes.

Samuel.

Who can help it, if other people do not think it necessary to take as much care of their pocket-books as I do of mine.

SCENE IV. LADY SMITH, LIDDY, SAMUEL, and SIR JOHN. L. Smith.

Very noble this truly! Whenever dinner is set upon the table, then they all flock together like as many wasps—but when I take up a prayer-book in the morning, in order to converse a little with my Creator, then one runs off here, and another off there.

Samuel.

The duties of my employment, gracious mamma.

L. Smith.

[To Liddy.] And you?

Liddy.

I have been reading the newspaper to my father.

L. Smith.

Yet I heard you a long while prattling to one another—what was the subject of your discourse?

Liddy.

I was jesting with my brother.

Samuel.

And I was talking very seriously with my sister.

L. Smith.

But about what?

Liddy.

About the wild young girl who has now lodged four months in our house.

Samuel.

About the wild young fellow, who has now wandered for more than a twelvemonth round the world with Robert.

Liddy.

She has caught him, in spite of his caution.

Samuel.

He has fettered her in spite of her levity.

L. Smith.

You seem both to be in the right, for both of you seem to have lost your understandings.

Samuel.

I! I am very well satisfied with mine.

L. Smith.

That very circumstance proves that you have not much of it. Man is content with nothing in the world, except only with his own understanding; the less of it e has, the more is he content—Sans badinage. I will not suppose that either of you are capable of thinking seriously of such a thing; for although on your father's side, you are only of burgher extraction, yet as ancient and honorable blood flows in the veins of your mother— [Looks at Samuel and Liddy alternately, as if she was expecting an answer: both are silent: Liddy sews, and Samuel plays with his era at: Lady Smith raising her voice, and fixing her hands in her sides.] How? what? no reponse? Must I survive the shame of seeing my eldest son Samuel married to the daughter of a vagabond?

Samuel.

Have a care gracious mamma! Have a care! Our tenant the foreigner can hear every word.

L. Smith.

[To Liddy.] And could you so far forget both what you owe to God and to yourself, as to allow your heart to be attached to a heathen, and a plebian heathen too?

Liddy.

[In a tone of intreaty.] Softly, dearest mother; my father is asleep.

L. Smith.

See now! I believe she is attempting to force me to be silent; [Turning to the old man and crying still louder.] he must not sleep: he must awake: he must assist in preventing the follies of his children. Hola, Sir John.

S. John.

[Starting from sleep.] Ah, woe!

L. Smith.

Well, what's the matter?

S. John.

My leg.

L. Smith.

Forget your leg: the question here is about things quite different; things which concern you much nearer.

S. John.

Much nearer? I should like to know what can possibly concern me nearer than my own leg?

L. Smith.

Aye, truly, I thought there were many things in the world, which must interest you much more than your swaddled foot.

S. John.

[Yielding to her.] Well, that may perhaps be the case.

L. Smith.

A leg at best is only a leg; and a gouty leg is of no value.

S. John.

Very true.

L. Smith.

One ought entirely to forget that one has one.

S. John.

One should indeed—ah, woe! ah, woe!

L. Smith.

If you had but a little learning, you would then know that the ancient stoies held pain to be no evil.

S. John.

The devil! They surely never had the gout!

L. Smith.

My good Sir John; it is inexcusable in you, that you should have so little knowledge of life: you had a wife of family, and consequently every opportunity of acquiring it. How often have I told you already, and how often must I yet tell it you, that nothing gives more ennui to a person in health, than an invalid eternally talking of his complaints.

S. John.

Well, let us then for God's sake, talk always of something else.

L. Smith.

That was what I wished long ago to do; but you would never suffer me to begin.—Here stands your son Mr. Samuel Smith, and here is your daughter Miss Liddy Smith.

S. John.

God be praised! I see so.

L. Smith.

They have both lost their senses.

S. John.

Both!

L. Smith.

Your dearest son, on whom I have taken so much pains to bring him up in honorable principles, has taken a fancy to marry a female adventurer, to contaminate his blood with an Indian harlot.

Samuel.

Who said so? Is there then at present any mention of marriage? Indeed if I were asked if I liked the girl, then, the answer would be, yes—but before it actually comes the length of an union, there are a hundred thousand circumstances to consider, a million of obstacles to put out o the way, and an infinite number of trifles to ascertain.

S. John.

Yes, my love, I will be your surety! Samu l will not do any thing rashly.

Samuel.

That indeed I will not.

S. John.

But if he should do it, he will then perform the first prudent action of his life. The girl is most amiable; her flat nose is bewitching, and the naivete of her humor enchanting.

L. Smith.

Very pretty again! Any one to hear you speak, might suppose that your whole understanding was sunk down into your swollen foot. The whole litany which you repeated over to me, is scarcely sufficient for the happiness of a fool. The most important points, the very axle-pins on which the whole moral world turns round, these my wise husband has forgotten.

S. John.

And these are?

L. Smith.

Birth and fortune.

Samuel.

Very true.

S. John.

With regard to fortune, you are, alas! in the right.

Samuel.

Quite right.

S. John.

I hope, however, that in this respect the young Indian will be able to satisfy your demands. Her father keeps every thing very snug, but it looks as if he had something in his coffers. He lives well, and is indebted to nobody; he pays us his weekly rent to the very hour.

Liddy.

He is also very bountiful to the poor.

L. Smith.

Mon Dieu! Give over your nauseous calculations! One may know always from your stile of conversation, that you were once in your life a merchant; who ever esteemed it a symptom of opulence, when one was punctual in paying their debts! The richest people, sir, are in debt to the whole world—yet, passe pour cela, though this point be granted you, the one of most importance still remains undecided.—Or, perhaps you may reckon punctuality in payment, to be likewise the proof of an illustrious descent?

S. John.

No, truly not! but I hold that point superfluous. The girl is born, and well born too; by which I understand that she is sound and healthy, and has all her limbs standing where they should be; a hunch-back girl, had she a hundred ancestors, would always in my opinion be very ill born.

L. Smith.

Mon Fils, have you not a smelling bottle about you?

Samuel.

Oh yes, gracious mamma. [Presents one to her.]

L. Smith.

Support me, Liddy; I shall fall into a swoon.

S. John.

Don't make yourself uneasy, we know what to think of such farces as these.

L. Smith.

It would be no wonder, if the spirits of all my illustrious ancestors should assemble around me with contumelious smiles. It would be but a proper treatment for the German young lady, who degraded herself so far as to become the wife of an English merchant; while her hand was solicited by dukes and lords, to all of whom she preferred a man without education, without savoir vivre, without one noble principle: a bankrupt! a cripple! a beggar!

S. John.

Liddy, carry me to my chamber.

L. Smith.

Do you think I can't follow you thither? Only have a little patience—I will be after you immediately.

S. John.

Well, Liddy, carry me then to my grave.

L. Smith.

But first a few words with you, my son. [Liddy carries off the old man.]

SCENE V. SAMUEL and LADY SMITH. L. Smith.

It is true, that you are now come to that age in which it is proper to be thinking of matrimony.

Samuel.

And so I am thinking of it.

L. Smith.

Very well, my son—very praise-worthy; but you have thought already five years on it, and it never comes any further than thinking.

Samuel.

Prudence is the mother of wisdom.

L. Smith.

Your prudence is an ignis fa •• us, which one day or other will lead you into the mire.

Samuel.

What a simile, gracious mamma! Can prudence ever be an ig is fat ••• answer: no.—Is Gurli a mire? answer: no.—She is rather a flower garden, or a flowery meadow, or a flower enamelled field.

L. Smith.

Ay, ay, there are flowers that grow behind the hedge.

Samuel

But they smell not therefore the less sweetly.

L. Smith.

ie, my son, dishonor not my blood.—A girl of no family; an Indian, and of consequence a heathen; a self-witted, capricious thing; whose father is a poor ape, whom nobody knows, and who probably has not a shilling in his possession.

Samuel.

As for family, gracious mamma, you know well that here in England, we are not accustomed to think it of much importance.

L. Smith.

Alas, no! The carter and the lord enjoy here the very same rights.

Samuel.

As to her being a heathen—

L. Smith.

That indeed is not a matter of so much consequence.

Samuel.

Conceited and capricious—she is still young. A reasonable man, I am very sure will make a reasonable woman of her. Her father an ape—here I ask, is Samuel to marry the father or the daughter? Answer, the daughter— so that does not concern me. But the most important point which my gracious mamma has touched upon, is the cash.— There prudence commands us to go cautiously to work; and, accordingly, I have appointed to their posts, my spies, and lurkers, and my grey-hounds.

L. Smith.

And although you should learn that he had indeed a fortune, could you entertain so ignoble an idea, as to adopt a resolution—

Samuel.

A resolution! Gracious mamma! now indeed you terrify me. I think that though I were persuaded a this moment, that the girl was a princess, and her father a prince, with whole chestfulls of gold in his possession; I would still shudder at the thought, the formidable thought of taking a resolution.

L. Smith.

You are a fool. Exit.

Samuel.

[Alone.] A fool? a fool? [Stepping up to a glass and looking proudly.] Do I look at all like a fool? answer: no.

SCENE VI. GURLI and SAMUEL. Gurli.

[In a negligee, drest after the English taste: her locks without any kind of ornament, hang a little loosely about her shoulder; and her whole dress very clean, but here and there a little negligently put on —she enters talking to somebody behind her.] No, I will not; ha, ha, ha, that is excellent—here have the people, without asking my leave, hung up a clock upon a high tower, and when the thing tinkles so many times, then Gurli must breakfast: But Gurli will not breakfast—Gurli is not hungry.

Samuel.

[Aside, while turning about.] Quite alone! Excellent! The best opportunity to sound her with caution. [Aloud.] Fair Gurli, I wish you a good morning.

Gurli.

Good morning, thou foolish man.

Samuel.

[Confused.] Foolish man! How must I understand that? You are impolite, Miss.

Gurli.

Don't be peevish! Gurli means not to offend thee; but Gurli cannot help laughing when she sees thee.

Samuel.

Laugh at me! Then I must ask wherefore? answer:

Gurli.

That I know not myself; I think it is because thou look'st always as if the welfare of all Bengal rested entirely upon thy shoulders; and because thou mak'st as many preparations before stepping over a small puddl , as if thou had'st the iver Ganges before thee.

Samuel.

I observe that the education in Bengal is yet very much neglected. Children talk of things which they do not understand.

Gurli.

My pretty gentleman, Gurli is no longer a child. Gurli is very soon to be married.

Samuel.

[With surprise.] Married, indeed!

Gurli.

Yes, yes my father says so.

Samuel.

To whom then?

Gurli.

That I don't know.

Samuel.

And so your father has chosen a husband for you?

Gurli.

Not at all: Gurli will chuse one for herself.

Samuel.

Indeed! Is the choice left entirely to you? May I then ask you, fair Miss, have you already cast your eye upon any one? answer.

Gurli.

I turn my eye, indeed, here and there, but my heart rests as little as a quail in its nest.

Samuel.

Admirable! Excellent! May I then ask you, most amiable Gurli, how do you like me? answer.

Gurli.

Thee! Not remarkably.

Samuel.

You are always by far too precipitate: must one tell a man directly to his face, that one sees nothing agreeable in him?

Gurli.

Thou put'st the question to me.

Samuel.

What though I did? And then, that boorish thou of your's: I advise you as a friend, Miss, to give over that custom.

Gurli.

My father has often forbid me to do so; but Gurli must always laugh, if Gurli must talk with a single person, as if there were half a dozen of them.

Samuel.

It is however the custom with us.

Gurli.

Well then, I can call thee likewise you, if thou wilt absolutely have it so.

Samuel.

If, perhaps, sweeter bands should unite us, then it will always be time enough.

Gurli.

Ay, time enough.

Samuel.

[Aside.] I must approach nearer.

Gurli.

[Yawning.] I have not slept enough.

Samuel.

[Aside.] But cautiously, cautiously.

Gurli.

Oh, what a tiresome man!

Samuel.

[Aloud.] Happy! thrice happy! will be the fortunate man who is destined to pluck the fairest flower that ever the breath of the sweet zephyr drew forth from its modest bud.

Gurli.

[Laughing.] My good friend, this language is Sanscrit to me; and is understood only by our Bramins.

Samuel.

[Peevishly.] I spoke in the oriental stile; but I see that one must converse with you so plainly, that it may be felt with the hand.

Gurli.

Ay; Gurli listens then with most pleasure.

Samuel.

It is only a pity that true prudence absolutely forbids the use of such a language.

Gurli.

But prudence does not forbid Gurli to run away from it, and leave thee standing here, for she is now heartily tired of thee. [Going.]

Samuel.

Only a moment, fair Gurli—I would talk quite plainly with you—declare myself more plainly—express myself most plainly—if—if I knew only—whether your father stood in need of support.

Gurli.

Troublesome man! My father is not old: my father walks nimbly without a staff; yes, thou may'st cause the finest palanquin to be placed immediately before his door, and yet he will prefer going on foot.

Samuel.

Not so: that is not what I mean. I meant to say that I wished to help him, if he were any way unfortunate.

Gurli.

[Suddenly and with seriousness.] Unfortunate!

Samuel.

[With great curiosity.] Ay, ay, unfortunate: May I ask how it is with him in that respect? answer.

Gurli.

[Weeping.] Ah! yes: my poor father is unfortunate.

Samuel.

[Aside.] Now we have it.

Gurli.

And it is thy wish to help him For that I must kiss thee. [Kisses him.]

Samuel.

[Much confused.] Yes, I mean to do so, only if it did not exceed my abilities. Such assistance is very good; but one cannot know how soon they may need it themselves.

Gurli.

Ah! Thou can'st not help him, neither can the poor Gurli help him.

Samuel.

[Aside.] Heaven be praised! How soon might I have buckled myself to a beggar? [Aloud.] I hope, however, that matters are not yet so bad with him, but what he will be able to pay, as usual, the house-rent for the month that is past.—Not on my own account—but my father—he is a little too severe.

Gurli.

The house-rent?

Samuel.

Yes, yes, the house-rent.

Gurli.

Art thou dreaming?

Samuel.

I should not think so.

Gurli.

Dost thou know what it is, my good friend? If thou giv'st my father a good word, he will pay thee not only the rent, but the whole house too; and a dozen such fools as thou to the bargain. [Skips off laughing.]

Samuel.

This is already the second time to-day that I have been branded with the title of fool. It was only by female tongues, however, both times, and it would not be seemly for a reasonable man, to take any offence at it.

SCENE VII. SAMUEL and the CUSTOMHOUSE TIDEWAITER. Tidewaiter.

Good, good, that I have found you. I have run till I can scarcely draw my breath—Uph.

Samuel.

Well, my dear Tidewaiter, did you remember my commission? Have you sounded with the necessary prudence and precaution?

Tidewaiter.

To a wish: I have crept about after him, like a reptile—followed him from the coffee-house to the opera, and from the quay to the exchange, and there, in all haste, I have caught a great deal of information.

Samuel.

In the first place, then, in respect to his rank?

Tidewaiter.

Ay, as to that, I know almost nothing. Nobody knows him, nobody wishes to know him. An East-Indian—on that point the voices are unanimous, because they had it from his own mouth: but whether he be from the coast of Malabar, or the coast of Coromandel, or the coast of Orixa, I have not, in all haste, been able to learn. This much is, however, certain, that he did not come over in one of our vessels. He must, in all probability, have travelled hither from Portsmouth by land.

Samuel.

Secondly, as to what concerns his fortune?

Tidewaiter.

There, indeed, I can have the honor to oblige you, as soon as possible, with compleater information. In spite of the plain and simple habit of this man and of all his domestics; in spite of the single dish of meat, which is served up daily at his table; in spite of the clear fountain-water which he drinks; I yet hold him (with your permission) for one of the richest and most opulent persons in this illustrious commercial city.

Samuel.

Query: Wherefore? answer:

Tidewaiter.

Answer: Therefore, because, in all haste, he throws handfuls of his money out at the window.

Samuel.

How so?

Tidewaiter.

Permit me, my 〈…〉 r. Surveyor, to tell you without loss of time. The 〈◊〉 cial house of Brown and Belton was, last week, upon 〈…〉 of failing: it was already talked of openly upon Change; and, as it is customary, the one pitied them; another shrugged up his shoulders; and a third spoke of rain and sunshine. Kaberdar, whom I sneaked after in all haste, went from one merchant to another, and procured full information of the circumstances. He heard every where, that Brown and Belton were men of fine honest characters; who, by means of several unmerited misfortunes, had fallen into this desperate situation. What does he? He sets himself down with the greatest precipitation, and writes immediately to Brown and Belton, a card to the following purpose: "If ten thousand pounds sterling would be sufficient to extricate ye from your present perplexity, ye are welcome to the loan of that sum, without interest for six months."—Brown and Belton, who had never set eyes upon the man in their lives, are almost beside themselves with astonishment and rapture, honor their bills, and carry on their business with all their former promptness and expedition; and venerate an East Indian as much as a saint.

Samuel.

My God! What imprudence! The sooner this man seeks a son-in-law, the better: a rational, prudent, considerate man, who may serve him instead of a curator to his fortune. But go on, mv dear Officer—you have indeed proved to me, that this Kaberdar had once ten thousand pounds in his possession; but you have demonstrated to me at the same time, that the fool has thrown them out of the window. The question is then—

Tidewaiter.

Whether he has still so much remaining, as to excite the attention of a prudent man There too, in all haste, I shall have the honor of satisfying you. You know the fine manor of Rogers-hall, so rich in fish and wild fowl and in field and garden fruits: and which, besides all this, enjoys the advantage of being only two miles from the city, so that one may r 〈◊〉 with the greatest expedition. This pretty piece 〈◊〉 s been squandered away by the heir in dissipatio 〈◊〉 purchased in all haste by our East Indian.

Samuel.

How! Is this certain?

Tidewaiter.

Say, quickly purchased and promptly 〈◊〉

Samuel.

Hem! ay! But still I must see to procure in ••• mation a little more positive and circumstantial. If this agreeable intelligence be confirmed, then Gurli has a dowry to produce, which will throw a veil over the manifold defects of her manners. I will immediately repair to the Exchange. Have you any thing more to impart to me on this subject?

Tidewaiter.

Nothing of consequence—He speaks very little: he chews betel: he has a great veneration for cows; and whenever our town herd is driven out, he receives them with the deepest marks of adoration: he bathes every day: and at the entrance of every new and full moon, he distributes alms to the poor.

Samuel.

Were I but once his son-in-law, the mist of these foolish fancies should soon give place to the sun of reason. I will soon prove to him that a cow has no more claim to his veneration than an ass: I will prove to him, that neither at new nor full moon, neither in the first nor last quarter, is it permitted by prudence to give alms. In short, if the purchase of Rogers-hall be clear, then will my marriage with Gurli be clear also. Farewel, in the mean time, my dear Oificer. Be indefatigable, zealous and active: but above all things be cautious: keep your five senses at all times upon the watch. My grateful disposition is well known to you; and if ever the question should be, Whether I would return your services with pleasure? then would the answer be always, Yes. Makes a gracious obeisance to the Officer, and exit.

SCENE 8 The TIDEWAITER.

If the question were to be, Whether I had an inclination, with the greatest precipitation, to break your neck? then d the answer be always, Yes.—After so much trouble, nd so many exertions, to put me off with a few empty words. Such, however, is the way of the world. There is scarcely one honest man in employment, who has not one over him worse than himself. If any one wishes speedily and quickly to eat their morsel with ease and comfort, he must submit to bow with so much deference to empty heads, and full paunches, as old Kaberdar to cows and oxen,— [Shrugging up his shoulders.] He is my superior—he often winks when I am filling my pockets; and so let us be alert and do him some service. [Creeps to Sir John's door, and lays his ear to the key-hole.] I hear a great noise at a distance, like hail beating upon a decayed roof.—No, no, it is the voice of our mistress.—These damned Canary birds cry so loud, that one cannot make out one Syllable plainly.—Quickly, quickly. [Runs over to Kaberdar's door.] Here all is silent as the grave.—No: Gurli hums a song.—Her singing may be exceedingly good, but it does not satisfy my curiosity. [Runs back to the other door.] Here all is now quiet as a mouse.—Now Miss Liddy begins to speak.—Now the devil has stirred up these damned Canary birds again—I cannot endure the vermin: as soon as she speaks one word aloud, then they all cry along with her. [Runs back to the other side, but has scarcely laid his ear to the key-hole, when Musaffery opens the door; and in coming out almost runs him down]

SCENE IX. MUSAFFERY and the TIDEWAITER. Musaffery.

(Alway 〈…〉 and drily) What dost thou want good friend? 〈…〉 is thy visit? To me?

Tidewaiter.

Not 〈◊〉 y.

Musaffery.

Or to my master?

Tidewaiter.

That too, is what I would not assert.

Musaffery.

Or to my master's daughter?

Tidewaiter.

If I said so, I should tell a lie.

Musaffery.

Then it was to the wooden door: for in this apartment, there are but three persons; my master, my master's daughter, and I.

Tidewaiter.

[Recovering gradually from his confusion.] My real design was to wish you in all haste a good morning.

Musaffery.

Good morrow.

Tidewaiter.

And to inform myself with all precipitation of your welfare.

Musaffery.

Thanks.

Tidewaiter.

Quite well?

Musaffery.

Quite.

Tidewaiter.

Soul and body?

Musaffery.

Soul and body.

Tidewaiter.

Understand me right, my most worthy friend: one may be in perfect health, but what, for example, avails an inclination to sleep, if the care of providing sustenance press upon the heart with the weight of a millstone? What avails the keenest appetite, to the poor devil who has nothing to eat? but neither of these is your case.

Musaffery.

No.

Tidewaiter.

You have more than you require?

Musaffery.

Oh, yes.

Tidewaiter.

Your master is very rich?

Musaffery.

Brama has been very liberal to him.

Tidewaiter.

[With great curiosity.] Brama! Who is that good gentleman? I never remember to have heard him named. Is he so liberal?

Musaffery.

Brama is liberal to all good men.

Tidewaiter.

Indeed! Wh 〈◊〉 does Mr. Brama live? That I may hasten to him with all precipitation.

Musaffery.

He lives on the ban •• of the Ganges.

Tidewaiter.

That is too far for me. Your master is probably a relation of his?

Musaffery.

My master is descended from his shoulder.

Tidewaiter.

A very curious sort of relationship.

SCENE X. KABERDAR, MUSAFFERY, and the OFFICER. Kaberdar.

[To the Officer somewhat roughly.] What is your demand?

Tidewaiter.

Nothing in the world, most venerable sir. I was passing here in haste, and came up with precipitation to inform myself of the welfare of Mr. Musaffery.

Musaffery.

[Very drily.] He had laid his ear close to the door, in order to hear about my welfare.

Kaberdar.

Perhaps you take me, or my daughter, or my old friend Musaffery, for contraband goods?

Tidewaiter.

Good now, most venerable sir, if you would not in all haste take it ill of me, I would say, that it is almost the case: for we know not exactly who you are? what are you? whence you are? why you are here? In short, you possess in a great degree, all the qualities of a contraband commodity.

Kaberdar.

Had I gone to Spain, I should have taken this speech for the speech of one of the ministers of the inquisition! but in England I know my rights.—Pack off to the door.

Tidewaiter.

Ay, ay, most worthy sir! by what right?

Kaberdar.

This apartment I have rented with my own money.

Tidewaiter.

But this 〈…〉 ommon property. I may as often as quickly, and as speedily as I chuse, come hither to meet my most worthy principal, Mr. Samuel Smith, surveyor of the customs; and talk, and speak, and consider, and report, and hear, and ask, and answer, and advise; and no person in the world can hinder me, even were he ten times more nearly related than you are to Mr. Brama.

Kaberdar.

Be gone, if you do not wish to be turned out.

Tidewaiter.

[Retreating gradually to the door.] How! what! turn me out! Me, who am by far the alertest, the busiest, and most active man in the whole city! A man who has sacrificed his restless life to haste and expedition, for the service of old England! and such a man to be turned out! What do you mean by turning out? whether do you mean to turn me, sir?

Kaberdar

Either out at the door, or the window [Pulling his watch out of his pocket.] and that before three minutes are elipsed.

Tidewaiter.

Hem, hem, in the greatest precipitation;— what a pity, that the duties of my occupation, that business of importance, and indispensible avocations, should require my presence in all haste; and prevent me from profiting by your kind offer; else we should see Mr. Brama's relation; else we should see— [Kaberdar going up to him, the Tidewaiter takes to his heels.]

SCENE XI. KABERDAR and MUSAFFERY. Musaffery.

Thou, once the governor over thousands!— Fruitful tree, under whose shadow the tribes of India pitched their tents; what is become of thee? Does a miserable mortal of the race of Schutre venture now to insult thee? alas, alas!

Kaberdar.

Insult me? thou art 〈◊〉 ken, good Musaffery. Dost thou perceive indignation or anger upon my brow?

Musaffery.

Because impotent anger does not become thee. Thou art no longer Nabob of Mysore.—Ah!

Kaberdar.

Always the old tale again. No, I am no longer Nabob of Mysore; nor would I wish to be so again.

Musaffery.

[Astonished.] Thou would'st not?

Kaberdar.

Say, my old faithful servant, didst thou then consider me as happy, when both French and English were soliciting my friendship and alliance? when I was entangled against my will, in their senseless disputes? when I now assisted the one from inclination; and now served the other by constraint? when I was every other moment in want of money, to satisfy the rapacity of my murmuring soldiers? when the court of Delhi was weaving plots against me; and I was obliged, in order to maintain my dignity, to descend with reluctance to mean artifices? armies both of Europeans and Indians were laying waste my flourishing province, and profaning sacrilegiously my holy pagods? when at last the rebellion of my brother broke out against me, and I spent so many sleepless nights, tossing on my anxious and restless couch? say, was I then happy?

Musaffery.

No: but the sweet flower of hope still shed its fragrance around thee: what was lost might have been recovered.

Kaberdar.

And can this no longer be the case?

Musaffery.

No—unless Brama should work a miracle, thou canst never again be the Nabob of Mysore.

Kaberdar.

And does Musaffery think there is no happiness for me, in this extensive and beautiful earth, without the sceptre of Mysore?

Musaffery.

And what is it? art thou able to reanimate with the breath of life, the bodies of thy murdered wives and children?

Kaberdar.

Alas! no.

Musaffery.

Art thou 〈◊〉 able to find their bodies, that thou mightest sacrifice a cow decked with garlands at their graves?

Kaberdar.

Ah, no! woe, woe, upon my brother's head! not one son has he left me;—perhaps he destroys under nameless tortures, all the miserable branches of my race! or still more barbarous than death, deprives my valiant sons of their sight! away, away, let me draw a veil over this horrid picture of my fancy—the sun set on that day; and here I stand waiting its arising.

Musaffery.

For us it will never arise again—

Kaberdar.

Why not? if not on the banks of the Ganges; why not on the banks of the Thames? I have indeed lost much: but still much remains for me to gain.—Repose and contentment, were not the ornaments of the royal turban of Mysore; for these are jewels which the justice of the Gods has not reserved for the race of the Rajahs. I now follow, at your invitation, ye sweet pleasures of unenvied mediocrity: to you I now willingly descend; or to speak more properly, ascend. Am I either old or impotent? May I not still be the father of sons, to constitute the joys of my future days? Faithful Musaffery, I will take a wife; I will purchase more property with the treasures I have saved; and exchange with pleasure, that throne, where ten thousand mutinous slaves paid me homage, for the calm and unenvied lordship over a hundred peaceful Europeans.

Musaffery.

Take a wife? Where wilt thou find in England a wife descended from thy race?

Kaberdar.

Miserable prejudice! my country has renounced me; and I am therefore released from an observation of its customs. Mine eyes have chosen; my heart is in unison, and waits only for the consent of my reason.—Miss Liddy: [With animation.] her glance is a sunbeam, upon which the souls enter into Wischenu's paradise! The mild wisdom of the goddess Sawasuadi rests at all times upon her lips; and virtue created from the right breast of the god of gods, has fixed her dearest throne within 〈◊〉 heart! Oh, Mamnadinn, god of love, creep thou also into it.

Musaffery.

Thou art bewitched! but have a care; thy heart is now turned a boy, and will wantonly run away from thy reason, which creeps after him in the shape of an old man!

Kaberdar.

Right, old friend; we will do nothing rashly. With thy unimpassioned looks will I spy, and with thy cold caution will I prove—but how? If the event should accord with the wishes of my heart, wilt thou then consider me gain as happy?

Musaffery.

[After a pause.] No. Ah! there, where the Ganges serpentises through flourishing fields of rice; there alone dwells happiness. Here, in a foreign land, where I never meet with a single person to whom I can say, "Dost thou still remember, twenty years ago, that day when we were so happy together?" Here, where nobody speaks my language, and nobody worships my gods:—alas! alas!

Kaberdar.

And dost thou know, Musaffery, that thou hast often afflicted me by these unavailing complaints of thine, whose inexhaustible fountain breaks forth continually? Dost thou repent of having shown so much love and fidelity to me? Dost thou repent being the only one who did not abandon his master, when the lightnings of adversity hissed around him? [Seizing his hand.] I cannot indeed recompense thee as I ought—love is the only return for love! In my heart alone thou must seek for thy reward.

Musaffery.

And there I have richly found it.—Pardon, I beseech thee, my indiscreet complaint.—No, I will not part with thee till death.

Kaberdar.

Hush! hush! I hear Gurli coming.

SCENE XII. GURLI, KABERDAR, and MUSAFFERY. Gurli.

[Yawning.] Father, the time hangs heavy on Gurli.

Kaberdar.

Have I not pointed out to thee many ways, by which thou may'st lessen the tediousness of time? sewing— embroidering—reading.

Gurli.

Yes, father, Gurli does these things—but Gurli is so awkward, that she mars every thing. When I sew, my thread cracks; and next minute my needle breaks:—when I embroider, I drop the bodkin; and whenever I read, I fall asleep.

Kaberdar.

Well then, kill the time in prattle.

Gurli.

Prattle! with whom should Gurli prattle? My father is seldom at home: Musaffery is dumb: the old nasty mother yonder is always scolding: Samuel is a fool: and Liddy —

Kaberdar.

[Hastily interrupting her.] Well Liddy—

Gurli.

Ah! I love Liddy, as if she were my sister. She is so good, so very good—she is much better than Gurli— but she dares not talk much with Gurli.

Kaberdar.

Why not?

Gurli.

That nasty woman, the mother, has forbidden her: but though Gurli could be all day beside Liddy—still Gurli would want something.

Kaberdar.

What then?

Gurli.

That Gurli knows not herself.

Kaberdar.

You may describe it at least.

Gurli.

Father, it is not, it cannot be described. I think sometimes I want a parrot or a cat.

Kaberdar.

Thou hast both of them already.

Gurli.

Gurli has indeed both; and yet a longing often seizes me: then I take up first the cat, and then the parrot, and kiss them by turns, and press them to my breast, and am so fond of them—and yet I feel always as if I still wanted something:—my father must purchase another cat for Gurli.

Kaberdar.

[Smiling.] Indeed!

Gurli.

Then I went yesterday to walk in the little wood, which the people call the park; there a bird sung so sweetly, so touchingly—only think, father—Gurli was obliged to weep at it:—I felt so sorrowful, so afflicted: it rose and fell so strangely here; I felt so warm, and looked always around, as if I had been looking for something; and at last—at last, I could not help plucking a rose, and kissing it a thousand, and a thousand times, and wetting it all with my foolish tears. This was very droll, was it not, father?

Kaberdar.

Very.

Gurli.

My father must buy such a bird for his Gurli.

Kaberdar.

Yes, indeed.

Gurli.

Ah! Gurli knows not herself rightly what is the matter with her.

Kaberdar.

Be easy; thy father has more experience: he sees already where this will end:—but let us talk of something else. Hast thou reflected on the proposal which I made to thee lately?

Gurli.

Thou knowest very well, father, that Gurli is not much given to reflection. But, if my father thinks it proper, then Gurli will marry.

Kaberdar.

Yes, Gurli, thy father is of opinion, that the sooner Gurli takes a husband, the better. Hast thou met with nobody, that has pleased thee particularly?

Gurli.

No: There is that Samuel, he is always pratting and chattering about his love; and yet his love is not of my liking. But why then must it be a man? I will marry his sister Liddy—

Kaberdar.

[With astonishment.] Whom? his sister?

Gurli.

Yes.

Kaberdar.

Liddy?

Gurli.

Yes, yes.

Kaberdar.

But she is a woman.

Gurli.

Well, what's the matter!

Kaberdar.

[Smiling.] No, Gurli, that won't do; that is not permitted by Brama.— Thou art a girl, and must marry a man—Liddy is a girl too, and must also marry a man.

Gurli.

Well then, I will marry Musaffery.

Musaffery.

[Who had till now stood sunk in deep, meditation on the subject of his late conversation, comes to himself, and answers in some confusion, but with his accustomed dryness.] Me! fair Gurli! that won't do!

Gurli.

Won't do, again! why not—thou art a man surely?

Musaffery.

I am so.

Gurli.

Well then?

Musaffery.

I am an old man.

Gurli.

What matters that?

Musaffery.

Fair Gurli, an old man must not marry a young girl.

Gurli.

Why not?

Musaffery.

Because that would be most unmerciful, burying a rose bud in the midst of the snow.—

L. Smith.

[Within.] You think, let me tell you, very ignobly.—Because you have been a fishmonger yourself, you would have your children to be so too.

Kaberdar.

God protect us! the dragon approaches—I am so fond of this hall [pointing to the window.] I like the view of the open sea; but this evil spirit always drives me back to my solitary apartments—come away.

Gurli.

Father, Gurli will stay here: Gurli will laugh at the old woman.

Kaberdar.

As thou wilt: but she is inquisitive—Do not discover to her the secret of our rank: I wish neither to be an object of curiosity, nor compassion.

Exit with Musaffery into his apartment. Gurli.

Ah, no! Gurli likes only to hear the old woman; she talks such a deal of stupid stuff.

SCENE XIII. LADY SMITH and GURLI. L. Smith.

[Still roaring to somebody behind while she enters.] What is the gout? A noble spirit scorns the gout, and despises the palsy: though all my ancestors, in their twenty-fifth year, were always sure of having the gout; none of them ever behaved like you.— [Perceiving Gurli.] Ah! Miss Gurli. [Making her a low curtsey, Gurli laughing in her face.] Well, upon my honor, such impertinence I have never me with.

Gurli.

Be not offended, old motherkin.

L. Smith.

Old motherkin! Better and better!

Gurli.

Gurli is very fond of laughing: thou must not take it ill of Gurli.

L. Smith.

Always thou at every word. My God! how, and where can this pauvre creature have had her first education?

Gurli.

Can'st thou not then suffer the thou? Well, then, I will call thee, you.

L. Smith.

Call me whatever you please. A woman of a family such as mine, is beyond the reach of every affront.

Gurli.

Of what family art you then?

L. Smith.

Of the Quirliquitsch Family.

Gurli.

Ay! Gurli never heard it mentioned—it must be a new family.

L. Smith.

[With contempt.] New! my good Miss Gurli. Run oyer whole centuries in your thoughts, and still you will not be at the root of it. I know not indeed, where you could have an opportunity of getting acquainted with old families.

Gurli.

I! I myself am descended from one of the oldest families in the world.

L. Smith.

[With contempt.] You! Ha, ha, ha!

Gurli.

Yes, yes, I.—Gurli is of the family of the Rajahs.

L. Smith.

[Tossing up her nose.] Rajah! Rajah! I will, for my amusement, as soon as I come home, turn over Rupner's book of herald 〈◊〉 and see whether these Lords of Rajah ever have exist —the family is totally unknown to me.

Gurli.

The family of the Rajahs is many thousand years old.

L. Smith.

Many thousand years! Ha, ha, ha! My good child, you have forgotten that the world itself is only 1789 years old.—Ha, ha, ha! I have always thought you a little silly; but I now find that you are perfectly crazy. [Makes her another low, but disdainful curtsey, and then exit by the middle door.]

SCENE XIV. GURLI alone.

Ha, ha, ha! the old foolish Beldame! How she bends and distorts her body, and looks as bold as a Bayadere.— Hold, Gurli must ape her, for a little pastime. [Steps to the glass, and practises curtsies.] Oh! one might die laughing at this. Gurli must let her father see it.

ACT II.
SCENE I. KABERDAR alone.

My feet carry me always involuntarily towards this hall; and when I am here, my eyes fix involuntarily upon that door. I must unload my heart, for the burden oppresses me. But alas! alas! if the experiment should fail. Bethink thyself, Kaberdar, that thou art not in India, where thou could'st 〈…〉 wife up if she ventured to vex thee; and where she durs never, without thy permission, have presumed to swallow her dinner beside thee. Thou art in Europe, where the women are not degraded into puppets; where they are allowed to have a will of their own, and may think for themselves, provided they are able. To this girl, however, has been liberally given by the gods, a body, and by virtue a soul. But hold! I am getting into raptures again. Do I then know her? Have I observed her for a sufficient length of time? Is not her mother one of those women, who are educated by Nivudi, the king of the Devils? And do roses ever grow upon a nettle? Musaffery is in the right. Her mild eye may be deceitful; I must endeavour to get a peep at her heart.

SCENE II. KABERDAR and TOM, with the ruffies in his hand. Tom.

I will run about no longer, to wear the soles off my shoes. This has been an unlucky day. I shall not get quit of these cursed things to-day. [Perceiving Kaberdar.] One trial more. Noble Sir, do you want any ruffles?

Kaberdar.

No.

Tom.

Sewed by fair hands.

Kaberdar.

I don't want them.

Tom.

Very cheap, three crowns a pair.

Kaberdar.

Let me alone: I wear no ruffles.

Tom.

[Throwing down the ruffles reluctantly on the table.] Well then, let any one wear them that chuses. [About to go.] You stay here: give them back to Miss Liddy, when she comes.

Kaberdar.

Miss Liddy! Stop: what has Miss Liddy to do with thy ruffles?

Tom.

They belong to her.

Kaberdar.

[With astonishment.] To her?

Tom.

[Coming back.] Yes, Sir, they are of her making. Look at them only: are they not handsome? Buy them! Cheap, very cheap; only three crowns; and if you will not betray me, then you shall know that the pretty young lady wrought five nights upon them.

Kaberdar.

Why then does she wish to sell them?

Tom.

Ah, noble Sir, you ask strange questions; why, but because she has no money.

Kaberdar.

[Feeling quickly for his pocket.] How dear did'st thou say?

Tom.

Three crowns, noble Sir; for which you shall have a pair of ruffles, such as none but the Prince of Wales can parallel; and, over and above, you shall have a blessing to the bargain.

Kaberdar.

Here are three guineas.

Tom.

Three crowns, noble Sir!

Kaberdar.

Three guineas, I tell you; carry them to Miss Liddy. And here is a crown to thyself upon this condition, that thou shall not blab out the purchaser of the ruffles. If she asks, you may tell her, that you sold them upon Change to a foreign gentleman, whom you saw for the first time in your life.

Tom.

[Looking at the money on both sides with great pleasure.] I understand you, noble Sir, I understand, and thank you.

Kaberdar.

[Aside.] This is noble of the girl, that she is not ashamed to work for her daily bread! this is noble!

Tom.

I never saw so much money at once in my life. Farewel, noble Sir. May God reward you.

Kaberdar.

Whither art thou going?

Tom.

Out.

Kaberdar.

But the money?

Tom.

I have it in my pocket.

Kaberdar.

And will you not carry it to Miss Liddy?

Tom.

No, noble Sir. Miss Liddy commanded me to bring a pound of tobacco from neighbour Williams, and a pot of porter from the nearest tavern.

Kaberdar.

What! does Miss Liddy smoke?

Tom.

Lord! no Sir, I suppose it is for her father. The poor old man wishes sometimes to indulge himself a little; but his wife and son will not give him any thing.

Kaberdar.

[Aside.] Excellent girl! excellent girl! [to Tom.] Go now; go. [exit Tom.] This is decisive. Such a heart must command happiness: were she even not beautiful, filial love would lend her celestial charms. At present she is poor; and yet she grudges not to labour five whole nights for her father. I am determined.

SCENE III. LIDDY and KABERDAR. Kaberdar.

[Perceiving Liddy.] Ah! she herself! Good morning Miss.

Liddy.

[Passing him with a curtsey.] Good morning, Sir. [Goes to the door, looks out, comes back, steps to the window, and seems to look on all sides for something.]

Kaberdar.

Miss Liddy probably expects somebody.

Liddy.

[Turning about.] Yes, Sir, a boy. to whom I had given a small commission. I thought a minute ago, that I saw him come into the house here: I must however have been mistaken. [She suddenly spies her ruffles in Kaberdar's hand, and draws back a little.]

Kaberdar.

[Seeming not to observe it.] There was a boy here; but most probably not the one that Miss Liddy expected. Look, Miss, I have just now bought a pair of ruffles. We men, are commonly cheated in such commodities. What think you of them?

Liddy.

[In confusion.] They are very pretty.

Kaberdar.

What would you value them at?

Liddy.

They will always be worth a couple of crowns.

Kaberdar.

Yes, Miss, they are worth crowns to any one who had them to place upon the head of that excellent young woman. These ruffles, Miss, if the boy tells me true, were wrought by the fingers of an affectionate daughter, at the expense of her nightly rest, to procure some refreshment for her sick father.

Liddy.

[In great confusion.] So!

Kaberdar.

How much do you now think that these ruffles are worth?

Liddy.

As much as the performance of the duty of a child.

Kaberdar.

Miss Liddy [Seizing her hand.] I am an honest man. Will you marry me?

Liddy.

[With great surprise.] Sir! My God!

Kaberdar.

[Letting go her hand, in a gentle tone.] Recover yourself: Why are you terrified? I wished not to terrify you. Perhaps your heart is engaged already. Speak frankly. I shall be sorry for i ; but I shall still be your friend. Indeed, indeed, I will still be your friend.

Liddy.

[Not knowing what to say.] Sir, I have a father and a mother.

Kaberdar.

First with you, and then with your father.— Dear Liddy, I have put you in perplexity; and that was what I did not wish to do. Suppose only, that two friends wished to concert about taking a journey together; the one asks, and the other answers: hast thou room for me too? Art thou neither peevish nor capricious? Art thou not apt to lose thy temper, whenever it happens to rain or thunder Wilt thou not, till the end of our journey, wish for any other companion?—You know me, Miss. You have observed my behaviour and my manners. I am the same today that I was yesterday; and what I was yesterday, I shall be to-morrow.

Liddy.

But I, sir, cannot be so. The few charms, which, perhaps, you may look upon with pleasure to-day, may not improbably be withered by to-morrow.

Kaberdar.

The hand, Miss, that sewed these r ffles, will be still worth kissing, even at the time when it is meagre and wrinkled, and scarcely able to hold a crutch.

Liddy.

You have not yet been long enough acquainted with me; and, permit me to make use of the same frank and honest language with yourself. I, too, have not been long enough acquainted with you.

Kaberdar.

Well, then, put me to the trial; observe me as long and as often as you please; I will not shrink from the observation of virtue.

Liddy.

In the first place, I do not yet know who you are?

Kaberdar.

I thank you, Miss, for deigning to enquire. Such condescension proves at least that your answer to my declaration is yet doubtful, You shall be told immediately who I am. Not a heart in England has yet participated with me in the secret of my rank and sufferings. I was born on the banks of the Ganges, and in the bosom of felicity; brought up by my uncle the sovereign of Mysore, a man of honor, whose throne and whose enemies I fell heir to. I was then scarcely sixteen years of age. They gave me wives, because custom would have it so: and by the time I was twenty, I saw myself already the father of five sons and a daughter. I was happy, for I was beloved by my people, and esteemed both by the French and English; and dreaded by all my enemies and neighbours; peace reigned in my kingdom and in my palace. I was happy then—thanks be to Providence. Man is ever blind to futurity. That I was cherishing serpents in my bosom; that my own brothers were conspiring against my crown and my life; and scattering the seeds of rebellion among my subjects, was never once suspected by my credulous heart. At last the conspiracy broke out; the sceptre of Mysore was torn in one unhappy night from my hand; and also, my wives and my sons became the prey of the sanguinary victor. Only I with my daughter, and an old faithful servant, were so fortunate, after a thousand dangers, to reach at last the sea-coast. There lay two English ships just ready to set sail; one of which received us, weighed anchor, and brought us to Liddy's native land. If Liddy will restore to me what I have lost, then shall this be the last sigh which I will ever send after the happiness that is gone.

Liddy.

[Holding down her head after a pause.] You are not then a Christian?

Kaberdar.

[Starting after a pause.] There is but one path to Heaven, the path of virtue.

Liddy.

But this path leads through the Christian church.

Kaberdar.

Our Bramins say, through the pagods: but be that as it may, when led by your hand, I shall never be in danger of departing from it. Well, Miss, any more objections? I will readily hear them, and as readily answer them.

Liddy.

[Still with maiden bashfulness.] Your wives, you said, became a prey to the conqueror; they are then dead?

Kaberdar.

In all probability.

Liddy.

You have no certain intelligence of it?

Kaberdar.

No.

Liddy.

But should they yet live?

Kaberdar.

If it were so, they are dead to me.

Liddy.

How? they may—

Kaberdar.

Dear Liddy, do not judge of me by the maxims of Europe. My wives were only my slaves, whom I could turn off whenever I had a mind. But even, upon the supposition that I loved them as well—as—I love you—what would my love and fidelity avail them, at the distance of so many thousand miles?—To me, my native country is lost for ever: I shall never again wander in the fertile fields of India.

Liddy.

Do you know, sir, what conclusion I might easily draw from this assertion of your's?

Kaberdar.

Well?

Liddy.

If you should ever leave England, you might again marry some other girl, under the pretence that your love and fidelity could be no longer of advantage to me.

Kaberdar.

You are right, Miss; but you forget one circumstance. I will swear eternal constancy to you; nor will I ever quit England again.

Liddy.

What will hinder you?

Kaberdar.

Love.

Liddy.

Oh! the poor feeble child!

Kaberdar.

In our religion, that child is a god.

Liddy.

You speak well, but you have not convinced me.

Kaberdar.

I could wish you to draw that conviction only from the bottom of my heart.

Liddy.

Can this eye penetrate so far?

Kaberdar.

It swims in every one of my glances.—Well, then, perhaps adventitious circumstances may be more effectual in persuading you to believe, that my resolution to remain in England, is my serious, unalterable intention.— All that I was able, at that unlucky moment, to save out of my royal treasures, were my diamonds—only baubles to a prince; but a considerable treasure to a private man. These I have turned into money, and purchased English estates with it.—Do you know Roger's-hall?

Liddy.

Roger's-hall was one of my favorite rides [With a half sigh.] when we had horses and a carriage.

Kaberdar.

It will only depend upon yourself in future, to stay there as often and as long as you please. You are henceforth unlimited mistress of Roger's-hall; I make it over to you for a jointure-house.

Liddy.

No Sir, I meant it not so.—Provided even that matters between us should go much farther than they have at present; you never should persuade me to do injury to your daughter.

Kaberdar.

Set your mind at ease upon that subject: my daughter will still have a considerable fortune. I am not ignorant of the duties of a father; but I know also what I owe to myself.—Well, Miss, have I now removed all your objections? May I now venture to place before your eyes a picture of the happiness of a private life, with the full enjoyment of every domestic pleasure? In such a charming place as Roger's-hall; by the side of your husband, who, if he cannot look for your love, may at least reckon upon your friendship and attachment; by the side of my good, lively Gurli; [Casting down his eyes.] in the circle of your children; and what you will perhaps value more than all, in the arms of your old father, whom I will take care of; whose latter days you will have the pleasure of sweetening; and who will renew his age at the sight of our happiness.— [Breaks off abruptly, and looks at her steadily.]

Liddy.

[In great emotion: tears stand in her eyes, she turns away from Kaberdar; clasps her hands; looks up to Heaven, and continues some moments in that attitude. Afterwards she turns to him, gives him her hand, and says] Well then—

Kaberdar.

[Seizing her hand with transport, puts his arm about her neck, and kisses her.] Best of daughters! Heaven bless our union! It was concluded with a faithful and honest heart.

Liddy.

It was so, indeed.

Kaberdar.

[Putting his ring on her hand.] Farewel, dear Liddy—soon, very soon, my dear wife—my heart overflows with joy—I must seek out my old comrade Musaffery. He shared with me the burden of affliction; to-day he must drink with me from the cup of joy—farewel—these ruffles I will wear on my wedding day. Exit.

SCENE IV. LIDDY alone.

Thus have I offered myself as a sacrifice upon the altar of filial love: but can I so soon forget poor Fazir? [wiping her eyes.] Yes, Liddy may give one tear to Fazir; let this one, however, be the last. Fie, fie, no romantic weakness—Kaberdar is a generous man—to reject him for the sake of a youth, whose heart I know only from his eyes, would be as absurd, as in the voyage of life, to part with my compass, in exchange for a butterfly.—Among all the follies which a young woman commits, her first love is always one of the greatest.

SCENE V. LIDDY and SAMUEL, returning home. Liddy.

Dear brother, you must wish me joy.

Samuel.

Query: wherefore?

Liddy.

Answer: I am a bride.

Samuel.

Thou!

Liddy.

Yes, yes, I.—If you will not give credit to my words, believe at least your own eyes. [Holds the ring before his face.]

Samuel.

[Seizing her hand with great eagerness.] Deuce take it: let us see—to judge from this ring, your bridegroom must be first lord of the treasury.—The ring, sister, is devilishly pretty: I must absolutely kiss your hand.

Liddy.

Well, it will be the first time in your life—Mark the effect of a pretty ring

Samuel.

But are you perfectly convinced, that your bridegroom did not—that this ring—

Liddy.

You mean, I suppose, that he did not steal it? the ring seems to be nearer your heart; much nearer, than the bridegroom himself—you have not yet once asked his name.

Samuel.

It is impossible that his name can be of so much value as this ring. But I will now ask you what name he goes by? answer.

Liddy.

Kaberdar.

Samuel.

[Eagerly.] Gurli's father!

Liddy.

Answer: yes.

Samuel.

The fool; whose only endeavour should be directed to procure a prudent and rational husband, for his giddy capricious daughter.

Liddy.

In the first place, in the name of my future spouse, I prohibit all such titles of honor; and in the second place, as to what concerns your benevolent anxiety for Gurli, you have only to speak a good word to her step mother, if you should incline to make any advances.

Samuel.

Ah! I shall incline to make no advances, till matters be first fully investigated—

Liddy.

I have no patience with thy eternal precautions; the girl is goo , handsome, and rich: what would you have more?—if you were only worthy of her.

Samuel.

Good? this query at the first, must of necessity remain unanswered.—Handsome? answer: yes.—Rich? there I must naturally ask: how came you to know that? answer.

Liddy.

Troublesome man! I know it from his own confession, and from the generosity of his behaviour to me.— Apropos. Thou art a lover of hunting: next autumn, you may course hares, at my house of Roger's-hall.

Samuel.

At your house of Roger's-hall!

Liddy.

Which, brother, is much at your service. Let this be a proof to you of Kaberdar's riches. He who makes over to his future wife, such an estate for her jointure-house, will not undoubtedly leave his daughter, without giving her something for her portion.

Samuel.

Well, then, now we have it.—I go up and down with the greatest caution; collect every where authentic information, stand perpetually on my guard, endeavour to secure myself on all sides, screen myself here, and screen myself there—come home and find my improvident sister, who exposes herself, like a goose, to the penetration of every one—legal possessor, and lady of Roger's-hall. Now I would naturally ask; tell me, fortune, is this justice?

Liddy.

Oh! thou peevish man. Kaberdar has brought with him such a treasure in diamonds, that Roger's-hall in comparison is only a peeble.

Samuel.

This asseveration, if it be confirmed by a nearer and closer investigation of the matter, may lend Gurli new charms.

Liddy.

Surely brother; we shall be so happy in restoring opulence into the hou e of our poor parents! How will brother Robert rejoice, when he returns from the West-Indies to-day or to-morrow!

Samuel.

Not quite so hasty, sister; we are not yet come so far.

Liddy.

Not you indeed— f Gurli should reject you—

Samuel.

[With scorn.] Reject me! Hum—well might I ask, is Liddy in her senses? answer: scarcely.

Liddy.

Hist; she comes. Now you may venture to make immediately an attack upon her heart—shall I assist you?

Samuel.

I have no occasion for auxiliary troops.

SCENE VI. GURLI, LIDDY, and SAMUEL. Gurli.

My father says that my dear Liddy wishes to speak with Gurli—good morning dear Liddy. [Kisses her.]

Liddy.

Did vour father say nothing else?

Gurli.

Nothing at all.

Liddy.

Nothing about my brother?

Gurli.

About that foolish man there! not a syllable.—Had he told me that your brother was here too, then Gurli would not have come hither.

Samuel.

Ay, ay! query, wherefore? answer.

Gurli.

Let me alone: Gurli wishes to prattle with Liddy.

Liddy.

[To Samuel.] Shall the auxiliary troops be drawn out?

Samuel.

But with caution.

Liddy.

[To Gurli.] Your father says you wish to be married.

Samuel.

My God! You are by far too precipitate.

Gurli.

[Yawning.] Yes, I will marry.

Liddy.

Whom then?

Samuel.

Ay, ay! whom then? answer.

Gurli.

Ah! dear Liddy! that Gurli knows not yet. Believe me, it is a very stupid business—my father thinks yes, and Gurli thinks yes too; but it seems to me, as if Gurli wanted to pluck a pisang fruit; and there grows not a pisang in all England. What then avails the desire of Gurli, or even her father's wishes and commands? Gurli wanted to marry Liddy; but her father says, that will not do— Gurli wanted to marry Musaffery; but Musaffery says, that it will not do.

Liddy.

Musaffery is too old for you.

Gurli.

Yes, yes, he says so himself.

Liddy.

But there are enough of young active fellows in the world. Samuel endeavoring to show himself to the best advantage.

Gurli.

Yes, dear Liddy: there is another awkward circumstance, my father says that when one is married, it is then their duty to stay with their husband. For example, if my husband stays in Bengal, and my father in the Maratta country, then must Gurli stay in Bengal with her husband.

Liddy.

Certainly.

Gurli.

No, that can never do—Gurli loves her father so dearly. [Weeping.] No, Gurli cannot leave her father— Gurli will rather not marry at all.

Liddy.

Charming girl!

Samuel.

But here a question naturally arises; if a prudent, reasonable husband could be found, who would be willing to live with your father, in one town, or in one country?—

Gurli.

Ha, ha, ha! yes, that would be charming.

Samuel.

What think you then, Miss, could you, for example, be persuaded to love and to marry me?

Gurli.

To love you? no.—But I will readily marry you, if it will be doing any pleasure to Liddy.

Liddy.

Wonderful creature! will you then marry without loving?

Gurli.

Why not? is love a necessary ingredient in marriage.

Liddy.

I think, at least, that esteem is.

Gurli.

I must tell thee plainly, dear Liddy, that Gurli does not yet know properly, what sort of a thing marriage is.

Samuel.

That is a matter easily found out I shall afterwards have an opportunity of giving you some information upon that subject. Before hand, every thing depends upon a plain and explicit answer to my question: will you marry me, Miss?

Gurli.

[To Liddy.] Dost thou wish it so?

Liddy.

Why—surely—it is my brother.

Gurli.

Then—I will marry thee, foolish man: but it is only upon this condition, that thou must always stay where my father stays.

Samuel.

[Aside.] Shall I then promise this? why not? before hand one may agree boldly to every condition. [Aloud.] The love, by which thou, charming creature, ar soon to be united to Mr. Samuel Smith, is more powerful than filial tenderness. There remains only one question to be answered: when shall our wedding be, fair Gurli?

Gurli.

When thou wilt— [to Liddy.] Would it please thee if it were to be soon?

Liddy.

I should be very happy.

Gurli.

Well then I will marry thee immediately.

Samuel.

[Astonished.] Immediately! no, for that I am nowise prepared— [to Liddy.] The good girl easily takes fire; but we must go cautiously to work.

Liddy.

I should have thought, brother, that for this time at least, you might have kept your caution to yourself, and taken her at her word, before she had leisure to form another opinion upon the subject.

Samuel.

All that I can possibly do, is as follows: I will go to one notary, and then to another; and appoint them both to come hither this afternoon.

Liddy.

Both! why then must there be two?

Samuel.

One of them might turn sick, or break a leg, or drink too much at dinner, or some other obstacle occur. [Liddy laughs.] Laugh as you please; I have only one question to ask: can such matters be too prudently managed? answer: no. I shall go, and appoint them both, cause them both to draw up a contract, compare them both, correct them both, and chuse with proper caution one from them both. In the mean while, fair bride! I will beg for a kiss.—

Gurli.

Fie!

Samuel.

[Surprised.] How!

Gurli.

[To Liddy.] Must I kiss him?

Liddy.

Surely you must.

Gurli.

Well then. [Kisses him, wipes her mouth, and calls after him.] Remember, I tell thee, if the notaries are handsomer than thee, I will then marry them, and not thee.

Exit Samuel.
SCENE VII. LIDDY and GURLI. Liddy.

Now, dear Gurli, whether would thou like better to be my sister, or my daughter?

Gurli.

Gurli understands thee not.

Liddy.

If you marry my brother, then are we sisters.

Gurli.

Right. Gurli rejoices at it.

Liddy.

But supposing Liddy were to marry thy father, then would Gurli be Liddy's daughter.

Gurli.

[Looking for some moments doubtfully in her face.] Liddy jokes.

Liddy.

Who knows but I might perhaps be in earnest, if I could only find out who your father really is? What think you? You may perhaps be able to give me some light.

Gurli.

Hush—Gurli dare not tell.

Liddy.

Why not? only to me.

Gurli.

Not to my parrot; not to my kitten; not even to the rosebush in my chamber.

Liddy.

But the cause?

Gurli.

My father forbade me.

Liddy.

Do you hold your father's prohibition so sacred?

Gurli.

He never forbade me any thing else in his life— this is the very first time.

Liddy.

[Embracing her with emotion.] Excellent girl!

Gurli.

Foolish Liddy!

Liddy.

Since you are so very mysterious, I must call my guardian angel to my assistance.

Gurli.

[Eagerly.] Thy guardian angel! Hast thou one? Ah, Liddy, I am so vexed.

Liddy.

Be easy; he is the friend of all good men.

Gurli.

Is he so? But is Gurli sufficiently good?

Liddy.

Yes, yes, Gurli is sufficiently good.

Gurli.

Well, what says thy guardian angel?

Liddy.

[Seeming to listen to something.] He says that thy father was once Na ob of Myso e

Gurli.

[Creeping close to Liddy with apparent terror.] Ah, Liddy! he is very right.

Liddy.

[As before.] He says, Gurli will tell me of the rest.

Gurli.

Says he so! Then Gurli must tell it.

Liddy.

But without dread, dear girl.

Gurli.

Send him away, then.

Liddy.

[Making a motion with her hand.] He is gone.

Gurli.

Are you sure?

Liddy.

Quite sure.

Gurli.

But Gurli is a very poor relater; she neither knows how to begin, nor how to end.—My father was Nabob of Mysore: he was just and good: they called him the fountain of justice; for he punished the Derdar, as much as the water-bearer;—with him there was no respect of casts [Weeping.] and yet they have driven him from his native country; and murdered his wives and his children, and me they have suffered to live.

Liddy.

Who drove him out, and for what reason?

Gurli.

See, my father has two brothers, a couple of odious ugly men.—Ha, ha, ha! the one squints, and has a nose so long—and the other a head like a hollowed Kurbis, into which our Jugglers put their snakes—ha, ha, ha! well, his head was full of snakes too. The wicked man!—Liddy, there are sad wicked men in the world. [Clenching her fist, and stamping with her foot.] If I had him here, I would fix these nails firmly enough in his bristly locks.—He wished also to be Nabob of Mysore; and the other with the long nose too. Well, they plotted a sad villainy together, and got all the Nairs upon their side, and in one night they attacked our house. Ah! dear Liddy, what a fright; and a shrieking, and a wailing, and a terrible alarm. Ah! I shudder still when I think of that night. I sprung out of bed, and was quite out of my wits—Ha, ha, ha! my gold necklace I tied about my arm, and wrapt my apron about my head. [Weeping.] My poor father was obliged to fly through thick and thin in the dark night, and Gurli fled with him. Gurli sat in a palanquin; old Musaffery assisted to carry it; [Laughing.] and because it was a labour he had not been used to, he was falling every moment into the mire. At length we came to the sea shore. My father was calm and gloomy, and spoke not a word. [Weeping] Gurli wept sadly for her poor mother, and for her poor brothers and sisters. We went on board an English ship; the Captain was a foolish merry fellow; [Laughing.] he made Gurli laugh very much. We sailed many days through ihe sea, and many weeks after one another; at last Gurli began to tire; and at last, and at last we came hither.—Now I have told you all.

Liddy.

I thank you, and will immediately return your confidence; but you have not yet answered my first question whether you had rather be my sister or my daughter?

Gurli.

Well, Gurli would rather be thy sister.

Liddy.

Why?

Gurli.

Because Gurli had a mother already—a good, good mother! Gurli cannot wish to have a better one. But Gurli never yet had a sister.

Liddy.

Well Gurli, we will live together as sisters. I am to marry your father.

Gurli.

No, Liddy, jest not with Gurli.

Liddy.

I do not jest. He left me just now; and God was the witness of our mutual engagement.

Gurli.

Indeed! ha, ha, ha! [Leaping about, snapping her fingers, and singing to it in a tune of her own.] That is charming! that is charming! how I rejoice! Liddy, I must kiss thee! [Takes hold of her head with both hands, and gives her a ea ty smack.]

Liddy.

Happy girl! teach me to continue a child like thee.

Gurli.

Does then my father know already, that thou art willing to marry him?

Liddy.

[Smiling.] Certainly he knows.

Gurli.

What a pity! I wish he had not yet known it. Gurli would have been so happy to have told him.

Liddy.

But he knows not yet, that you are to marry my brother.

Gurli.

Well, he will know that in time enough.

SCENE VIII. JACK, LIDDY, and GURLI. Liddy.

[As soon as she perceives him, with a cry of surprise and joy.] Ah, Jack! where is your master?

Jack.

[Always in a frank blunt manner.] We have just now anchored in the harbour.

Liddy.

[Beside herself.] Gurli! Gurli! Rejoice with me! Brother Robert is come! Father! Mother! Brother Robert is come! Runs out.

Gurli.

[Jumping about.] Charming! Charming! Brother Robert is come! Hark you! Who is Brother Robert?

Jack.

Mr. Robert and Miss Liddy were both taken from one store-house—he is her brother.

Gurli.

He is her brother! Charming; and Liddy is so very glad! and Gurli so glad too, whenever she sees Liddy glad. Come hither, thou dirty man; I must give thee a kiss for thy good news. [Kisses the astonished Boatswain, turns about, and skips into her own chamber, crying out] Brother Robert is come! Brother Robert is come! Exit.

Jack.

I'll be damn'd, if she is not wrong in the upper works! She seems not to be very deeply laden with understanding. All these smooth female faces, I value as little as a rotten rope. I wish we were at sea again. What the devil are we to do here among these cursed land rats! The old fellow is well enough—only his timbers are a little decayed. God knows how long he may be able to drive before the wind. As for the mother, she is a hurricane; never blows from one quarter, but veers about to every point in the compass.

SCENE IX. Sir JOHN, rolled in upon his Chair by LIDDY and JACK. S. John.

Welcome ashore! old faithful Jack.

Jack.

God bless you, Sir! how goes it?

S. John.

Not very well, dear Jack.

Jack.

Ay, ay, the old Timber begins to crack. Your bowsprit, I see, is the worse for the wear.

S. John.

But for this once, joy has got the better of pain. Where is my son?

Jack.

He is sailing up after me; I think he must be here before one could reckon the cross-beams upon the mainmast.

S. John.

Well, honest fellow, tell me, in the mean while somewhat about your voyage? I will order them afterwards, to bring up for yourself and your comrades, a cask of strong beer.

Jack.

Thank you Sir. We weighed anchor in fine weather, and a fair south south east wind. It shifted about once or twice, and yet (praised be God for it) we never got out of deep water.

S. John.

But you have not defied wind and waves to no purpose? Have you brought home any thing for yourselves? Are your bags well filled?

Jack.

Lord! No: Our bags are so empty, that one might use them instead of pendants.

S. John.

Alas! Alas! And yet you took a fine cargo with you?

Jack.

So I think; a fine cargo! We might easily have made five thoasand pounds of it, but I'll be damn'd if there is a shilling of it in our pockets.

S. John.

Impossible! Could Robert have squandered it all away again, unmindful of the poverty of his old father?

Jack.

Wrong not your son, sir, a nobler fellow never broke biscuit, that I'll maintain. You must know, that as we were on our return, and steering about two hundred leagues to the westward of the Canary Island early one morning, we perceived at a distance somethi •• 〈◊〉 the sea, which we were not able to make out. Soon a 〈◊〉 we heard a couple of guns fired, and saw a piece of sailcloth flying. Holla, cried the Captain, these must certainly be signals of distress; and by my poor soul, so they were. We took in the top ••• , and lay till the thing came nearer. I am but a rough fellow, sir [Wiping his eyes.] but I'll be damn'd if my upper bowsprit is not always wet with spray-water, whenever I think of it. mall rotten boat, and twenty-three famished men in it, who had not, for five whole days, had one morsel of biscuit between their teeth. Their ship had taken fir 〈◊〉 the middle of the sea; they had with much labour and difficulty escaped into the boat, and were now driving at the mercy of the wind. Twenty-four hours longer, and all would have been over with the poor devils. The Captain, a fine fellow of a Dutchman, had lost every thing but his life and the honor of a sailor and at home sat his young wife, and three small children, who had not a morsel to put into their mouths. Whenever he spoke of them, he pumped clear water from both his eyes. This my master could not stand. Comrade, said he to him, I have neither wife nor child, here are five thousand pounds, take the purse, and God bless you; and soon after he put him ashore along with his people at the first port.

S. John.

Did he so? Then, for that, God will bless him: and I am glad that he has brought home nothing, and will willingly divide with him my last morsel.

Liddy.

Oh, my generous, my noble brother! Did I not always tell you, father, that Robert would be the pride of your old age.

S. John.

The pride and joy of my old age!

Liddy.

Ah! Here he is!

SCENE X. ROBERT, Sir JOHN, LIDDY, and JACK. [Liddy flies into his arms.] Robert.

[Pressing her to his breast.] My good Liddy.

S. John.

[Endeavouring to move forward with 〈◊〉 chair.] Damn this gout! Help me Jack. Heyday! Rascal! Your father is here too.

Robert.

[Embracing him rather roughly.] Dearest father.

S. John.

Ah, woe! You Jackanapes, don't you know I have the gout? Now, now, it is over again; come, come, let this kiss, and this squeeze, be the tokens of my joy at your arrival; and this blessing [Laying his hand upon him.] the recompence of your generous action.

Robert.

What action, father?

Liddy.

Oh! we know all already.

Robert.

[Looking displeased at Jack.] Has Jack been letting his tongue loose again, and blabbing old wives stories?

Jack.

My God! Sir, be not offended; my mouth only got a- loat.

S. John.

In with ye! in with ye! jolly dogs. Your mother is within in her chamber, and at prayers. But she will surely look upon you kindly for once. [Moving forward with his chair.] Come, come, help the poor old sinner forwards.

Jack.

I will take post myself in the rear. [He pushes forwards.] Exeunt all there.

SCENE XI. LIDDY alone.

How is it with me? Ah, my resolution is wonderful! I had not the courage to enquire after him. Is he come back or, have they left him in the West-Indies? or, is he sick or, dead? Alas! what matters it to me! What business have I to ask after him? Fate seems desirous to put me to the trial, whether I am truly in earnest, in sacrificing the first attachment of my heart to filial duty, and filial love. It appeared so easy to me; but, alas! it is not so easy as I thought. Well, but the victory is the more glorious. But I may still continue his friend. I may still know what has become of him. The wish surely is not criminal. When Jack comes out I will ask at him.

SCENE XII. FAZIR and LIDDY. Fazir.

[Running to Liddy, and seizing her hand.] Here she is! here she is! Ah! dear Miss! Fazir is here again, and is so happy, so happy; go d, dear Miss, Fazir cannot express 〈…〉 words, nearly so well as he would wish to do. Have 〈◊〉 been always well? have you been always cheerful? have you thought sometimes on poor Fazir?

Liddy.

[In great confusion.] Very often—but not to-day.

Fazir.

Well did my good angel know it, and blew with all his might upon our sails—whizz, whizz! and we were here; and now dear Liddy, you must think upon me. But you are not glad to see me again—you should not be quite so glad as I am, but yet a little, a very little, since I am so fond of you.

Liddy.

[With emotion giving him her hand.] Indeed I am glad.

Fazir.

[Kissing her hand with ardour.] I deserve surely, that you should like me a little; for I have ever and ever thought so much upon you; and thought upon nothing—nothing but you. When the sun arose out of the sea then I stretched out my arms, and prayed—I intended t ray for myself, but I soon found that I was praying for Liddy. When the sea was calm and smooth as glass, then I sought Liddy's image in it—and found it too—for I found it every where that I sought it—ah! and I found it often without seeking for it.

Liddy.

[Turns about, and wipes away a tear from her eyes.] Image of my poor sick father, support me in this hour of trial!

Fazir.

And when at last the coast of England lay in blue prospe t before us—ah! Liddy, had you then seen the foolish Fazir, how happy he was—it was yesterday evening. The whole night I could not do any thing but jump about upon the deck, and when morning dawned, there came a bird, flying from the land, and perched upon our mast; I called to it; I whistled to it, and could have kissed it! perhaps, thought I, Liddy as gone a walking yesterday, and this bird has been singing her a song.

Liddy.

[Aside.] No, I must put n end to this, it grows too much for my poor heart. [With hesitation.] Don't you know, Fazir—that I am a bride.

Fazir.

[In great surprise, answers with a long] So! [A long pause—Liddy holds down her eyes—Fazir str 〈◊〉 out his hand to her very mournful.] Farewel, dear Miss.

Liddy.

Where are you going?

Fazir.

I—I am going—upon the sea—into the sea—farewel, dear Miss— [He holds her hand: she is silent: a pause.] Yes, I will go—but I cannot—indeed I cannot— [Another pause.] Is Miss Liddy really a bride?

Liddy.

Really.

Fazir.

And will the good Liddy be happy?

Liddy.

She hopes so.

Fazir.

Well, Fazir will not be happy; but what matters that, if Liddy be happy? May I ask who is the man that has gained Liddy's heart? No, no, I wish not to know him; I hate no body; he has not done me any harm. Ah! yes, he has done me a great deal of harm.

Liddy.

[Much affected.] Continue my friend.

Fazir.

Yes, dear Miss, Fazir would suffer death for your sake.—Ah! it is only about six weeks ago, that we had a severe storm; I was very vexed at the thoughts of dying; for I wanted to see Liddy again.—I was a fool to be afraid of death; it would have been better if I had not seen Liddy again.

Liddy.

Won't you visit my father and mother?

Fazir.

Oh yes, Miss, if you command it.—I will do every thing that you command.

Liddy.

[Seizing his hand.] Come, come, it is good for neither of us to remain here together, and talk about matters which cannot be altered. [She is about to lead him out.]

SCENE XIII. Lady SMITH, ROBERT, JACK, FAZIR, and LIDDY. L. Smith.

But, my son, this was not pretty of you, after gaining your property so hardly, so want only to squander it away.

Robert.

I ask your pardon, dear mother, it was the prettiest thing I ever did in my life.

L. Smith.

Which way can you now do proper honor to your rank?

Robert.

By my sentiments.

L. Smith.

Right, my son, that phrase was noble: [perceiving Fazir.] Bon jour, Monsieur Fazir; I am charmed to see you in good health: [continuing her speech to Robert] externals, however, must not be neglected; the sun indeed is always the same sun, though he conceals himself behind a veil of clouds; but he then only dazzles the eye with blindness, when he appears decorated with all his b ams. What think you of that allegory?

Robert.

Very pretty, dear mother; but I am no sun, and wish not to blind any body.

L. Smith.

I could have wished at least, that you had condescended to borrow some warmth from his beams. You are not ignorant that this house is now under the dominion of want, and that we waited with anxiety for your fortunate return.

Robert.

[Shrugging up his shoulders.] My God! I am sorry for that; but had I at that moment been master of a million, the last shilling would have escaped my pocket.

Liddy.

Dear mother, our poverty will quickly disappear, if you do not refuse me your consent and your blessing.

L. Smith.

Blessings as many as you will; but my consent —to what? If it is only compatible with honor.

Liddy.

I think it is. Our tenant has solicited my hand.

L. Smith.

[In a lofty satirical tone.] So?

Liddy.

He is a generous man.

L. Smith.

So?

Liddy.

Rich.

L. Smith.

So?

Robert.

[Holding out his hand to Liddy.] I wish you joy with all my heart.

Fazir.

[With a sigh.] And I too, dear Miss.

Jack.

[With a scrape.] May you always have fair weather, and a good wind to your voyage.

L. Smith.

Not so very hastily, I pray you.—Liddy, you. know my sentiments.

Liddy.

I know them; but if I can convince you, dear mother, that his birth is unexceptionable—

L. Smith.

That would give quite another turn to the matter.

Liddy.

You may soon hear it from his own mouth; he promised to pay his respects to you in a few minutes.

L. Smith.

Did he so? Then we must prepare ourselves a little for his reception.—Quick, Liddy, lest he catch us in the anti-chamber—but I tell you this: your mother is a connoisseur—by his mode of conducting himself, in so delicate an affair, I shall immediately distinguish the man of quality. Follow me. Exit with Liddy.

SCENE XIV. ROBERT, FAZIR, and JACK. Robert.

She did not leave me any time to ask my sister the name of her bridegroom.

Jack.

He need not be ashamed of showing his flag.

Fazir.

He must be a good man since he is beloved by Liddy.

Robert.

My brother Samuel too is to venture his cautious neck in the matrimonial noose.—Hem, must I then sail through the world alone? what think you Jack?

Jack.

I think, Sir, you should let marriage alone.—He that casts anchor on a wife, lies on a damn'd bad bottom, and cannot, at last, shift his cable, even although it should cost him his life. Let no man, setting out on the voyage of life, venture to take a wife aboard; else he will founder in ihe first storm.

Robert.

Do you think so too, Fazir?

Fazir.

I think it is best to die.

Robert.

To die! Are you mad?—Jack, what is it that vexes our young comrade?

Jack.

I think, he has taken too heavy a cargo of love aboard.

Robert.

Has he hit it, Fazir?

Fazir.

Good Robert, yes, I am in love.

Robert.

What the devil! we have scarcely been two hours ashore—you catch fire damned quickly.

Fazir.

Oh! I was in love before we sailed.

Robert.

And never told me a syllable about it.

Fazir.

My love was so silent and secret, that you would not have understood me.

Robert.

Hark you, my dear, that was stupid. When frequently in the calm weather, we lay upon the deck in the warm sunshine, and the ship stood as if nailed to one spot; then would have been the time to tell me how the storm raged in your heart. Or how, has not Robert deserved your confidence? Am I not the only person that is acquainted with the secret of your birth? and have I betrayed you?

Fazir.

[Falling upon his neck.] Forgive me, brother: it is not ingratitude: truly it is not: thou hast delivered me from death, and at the risk of thy own life, rescued me from the cruelty of my pursuers. I will never forget it—indeed I am not ungrateful.

Robert.

Very well, very well: it was not my intention to extort acknowledgments from you: the confidence of friendship is all that I require. But who is this girl of your's?

Fazir.

My girl! alas, no! The girl that I love—her name is—Liddy.

Robert.

Liddy! what the devil! my sister?

Fazir.

Yes, it is she.

Robert.

Poor youth: now I understand for what reason you wished to die—you had been transported with the idea of seeing her again, and now you find she is a bride—fie, this is a bad business. I see that the matrimonial wind is not favorable to either of us—let us then cruise about a while longer, and instead of love, take friendship for our compass—you shall be my foremast, and Jack here my mizenmast. I hope yet to weather m a rough blast in your company; but if you were to fo 〈◊〉 me, all my tackle would immediately be useless.

Jack.

If ever I forsake you, may I be keelhauled.

Robert.

[To Fazir.] Courage, brave youth—cleanse your bowsprit from spray-water, and hoist up all your resolution —come, comrades. The weather has turned out stormy here at home; we will dine together at the next tavern, and empty our glasses to Liddy's health.

Fazir.

Yes, yes, to Liddy's health—come.

ACT III.
SCENE I. The two Lawyers, Mr. STRUSSEL and Mr. STAFF, complimenting one another at the door. Strussel.

Unexpected pleasure!

Staff.

Agreeable surprise!

Strussel.

To meet Mr. Staff in my way!

Staff.

To find Mr. Strussel here!

Strussel.

Please to walk in.

Staff.

Cannot do it.

Strussel.

Must do it, must do it.

Staff.

I am not so impolite. I know very well, that the first place among the learned in law belongs to my worthy friend, Mr. Strussel.

Strussel.

Nonsense! nonsense! But wherefore any ceremony between two such cordial friends? Hauls him in v in him.

Staff.

Yes, indeed, cordial friends! [They sha me another's hands, and both aside at the same time say] Devil ••• ch you!

Strussel.

How goes all at home? All well I hop

Staff.

At your service. Whenever I come home, they ask me whether I have not seen my excellent friend, Mr. Strussel? And how goes it with your family? How is Jammey my little godson?

Strussel.

A funney rogue. I am preaching to him daily, that he should form himself entirely after the model of his excellent godfather, Mr. Staff. [Both making bows to each other —Strussel aside.] What an ass!

Staff.

[Aside.] What an ox!

Strussel.

[Aside.] What wants he here?

Staff.

[Aside.] What the devil brings him hither?

Strussel.

My dear colleague has probably business here.

Staff.

Well guessed: and my worthy colleague may perhaps be in the same predicament.

Strussel.

At your service. May one be so bold as to ask what sort of business?

Staff.

A trifle—only a marriage contract.

Strussel.

[Whose choler begins to rise.] So! a marriage contract! ay, ay! a mere trifle! I am here on the same account.

Staff.

Ay, ay! Then there is a blessing fallen on this house: Mr. Samuel Smith, surveyor of the customs, appointed me to come hither.

Strussel.

Ay, ay! the same gentleman sent for me.

Staff.

Ay, ay! curious enough; and scarcely credible.

Strussel.

[In a passion.] Credible or not credible, it is yet true, Mr. Staff.

Staff.

You must be mistaken, Mr. Colleague.

Strussel.

I am never mistaken, Mr. Colleague, and once for all, Mr. Staff, you are a person without conscience, who lays himself out for nothing else but to snatch away the bread from his neighbour's mouth.

Staff.

How, Colleague, have you the boldness?

Strussel.

Yes, Colleague, I have the boldness.

Staff.

You will repent of this, Colleague.

Strussel.

We shall see that just now, Colleague.

Staff.

The best thing you can do, Colleague, is to return to the place from which you came.

Strussel.

And the best thing you can do, is to go to the devil.

Staff.

Now I must insist upon seeing you home.

Strussel.

I shall be ashamed to walk the streets with you.

Staff.

People might indeed wonder to see you once more in honest company—

Strussel.

I am always in honest company, unless when I am in your's.

Staff.

Sir, you grow impertinent—

Strussel.

And you are so already.

Staff.

If you do not quickly talk in a softer tone, I will let you feel the weight of my fist.

Strussel.

So much the better—come away; it is long since I wished for one boxing bout with such a sad dog as you.

Staff.

Excellent! Though it will not be much honor to tread under foot such a hog as you. [Both of them throw off their coats and wigs, and put themselves in the attitude of boxers.]

SCENE II. TIDEWAITER, STRUSSEL, and STAFF. Tidewaiter.

[Running instantly betwixt them.] How! how! what the devil! Gentlemen, I believe you mean, in all haste, to have a little bout at boxing.

Strussel.

[Pointing to Staff.] You are the guardian angel of that fellow.

Staff.

[Pointing to Strussel.] He is obliged to you for his life. [They put on their coats and wigs again.]

Strussel.

But we shall meet again, Mr. Staff.

Staff.

Yes, yes, we shall meet, Mr. Strussel.

Tidewaiter.

Will ye not have the goodness to tell me how it came into your heads here, to fall ſoul of each other with all precipitation?

Strussel.

[Crying as loud as he can bawl.] He asserts, that Mr. Samuel Smith sent for him on account of a marriage contract, which he committed to me alone to make out, with all its necessary points and clauses.

Staff.

[In the same tone.] He is so audacious as to assert, that his unpractised quill was intrusted with a contract, the heads of which, but a few hours ago, Mr. Samuel Smith dictated to me.

Tidewaiter.

[Stopping both his ears.] Have mercy, gentlemen, have mercy upon me: the drum of any ears must infallibly crack.

SCENE III. SAMUEL, STAFF, STRUSSEL, and the TIDEWAITER.

[Both Lawyers rushing upon Samuel.] Here is the contract, sir.

Samuel.

Cautiously, gentlemen! cautiously! you had almost run me down.

Strussel.

Am I not here by your command?

Samuel.

Yes, indeed.

Staff.

Did you not appoint me to come hither?

Samuel.

Yes, indeed.

Strussel.

Did you not order me to make a marriage-contract for you?

Samuel.

Yes, indeed.

Staff.

Was not I to bring a marriage-contract for you?

Samuel.

Yes, indeed.

Strussel.

Well, Mr. Staff.

Staff.

Well, Mr. Strussel.

Strussel.

But, may I ask, Sir, why you have thought proper to trouble two of the most eminent lawyers in a matter, in which, at all events, even half a one would have been sufficient?

Samuel.

Why! might not one of you have met with an accident, which might have prevented his appearing at the time appointed?

Staff.

Rashly done, Sir, rashly done! By this means you had well nigh been the cause of a very bloody combat betwixt me and my worthy colleague, Mr. Strussel.

Strussel.

Very imprudent in you, Sir, thus, for nothing, or less than nothing, to make a couple of old cordial friends fall to logger heads with one another.

Staff.

If we did not love one another so dearly.

Strussel.

And esteem one another so highly. [Both holding out their hands.] Ha, ha, ha! we are the old thing again.

Staff.

Our friendship is as firm as a rock.

Tidewaiter.

Quickly provoked, and speedily reconciled. Such precipitation is praise-worthy.

Samuel.

Where are the contracts?

Both.

Here.

Samuel.

I intreat ye to read slowly and distinctly.

Strussel.

Read, Mr. Staff.

Staff.

I beg you would read, Mr. Strussel.

Strussel.

God forbid. I know my duty.

Staff.

And I know mine.

Strussel.

Wherefore so much ceremony? A couple of eminent men like us, must make out a marriage-contract in the same way, it is then the same thing which of us reads.

Staff.

Quite the same.

Strussel.

Well, if you absolutely command me to do it. [Takes out his spectacles and reads.] "Be it known hereby, to all to whom the knowledge may be necessary."

Staff.

[Consulting his own manuscript.] With your leave, Colleague, it ought to be: "Be it known hereby to all whom it may concern."

Strussel.

[In a rage.] Why so, Colleague?

Staff.

Because it is possible that a case may occur, in which the knowledge may be necessary to many, who yet may not have any concern to know. Nobody, on the contrary, can be concerned to know, to whom that knowledge will not be necessary.

Strussel.

A very nice distinction.

Staff.

[In a passion.] Not indeed for the brain of every one.

Strussel.

You are an ignoramus, Mr. Colleague.

Staff.

How! what! I an ignoramus? If I were to divide my learning among ninety-nine men, they would all be as learned as Mr. Strussel.

Strussel.

Ay, provided they were so before-hand.

Samuel.

Pardon me, Mr. Strussel, I think Mr. Staff is right.

Strussel.

How! Is he right?

Samuel.

Prudence always commands us to chuse those expressions which are the most appropriated.

Strussel.

You are a fool with your prudence.

Staff, Samuel, and the Tidewaiter.

[All at once.] A fool! a fool! You rude fellow—pack off—march clown stairs.— [All three fall upon him together, and push him towards the door.]

Strussel.

[While he is turned out.] And I say it ought to be: "Be it known hereby, to all to whom the knowledge may be necessary."

Samuel.

Well, Mr. Staff, we shall now be in quiet, and may examine the contract with proper caution. Do you read.

Staff.

[Putting on his spectacles and reading.] "Be it known hereby, to all whom it may concern."

Strussel.

[Shewing his head at the door.] "To all to whom the knowledge may be necessary."

Tidewaiter.

[Driving him off.] Begone, begone; off, off, off.

SCENE IV. KABERDAR, SAMUEL, TIDEWAITER, and STAFF. Kaberdar.

No, I cannot endure it any longer. May I ask, Sir, what evil spirits have been amusing themselves before my door.

Tidewaiter.

We have just now turned him out with the greatest precipitation.

Kaberdar.

Whom? the evil spirit!

Staff.

Yes, indeed, an evil spirit! a demon! a cacodemon— a spiritus infernalis—

Samuel.

We are assembled here, Sir, to deliberate together concerning the happiness of your daughter.

Kaberdar.

What concern have you with my daughter's happiness?

Samuel.

Answer: a great deal: Miss Gurli felt that she stood in need of a prudent companion, who weighed his words, and measured his steps, along the slippery path of this life. Her rational, laudable, and unexceptionable choice fell upon me; and now, the only question that remains is, whether Gurli's father has any objection to make to our union? Answer.

Kaberdar.

[Stares at him, shakes his head, then turns about, opens the door of his chamber, and calls] Gurli.

Gurli.

[Within.] Father?

Kaberdar.

Come forth.

SCENE V. GURLI, KABERDAR, SAMUEL, STAFF, and TIDEWAITER. Gurli.

What would'st thou, father? [Perceiving the Lawyer.] Ha, ha, ha!

Kaberdar.

Be serious, Gurli.

Gurli.

[Striking his cheek.] What does my father command?

Kaberdar.

[Pointing to Samuel.] Art Ihou willing to marry that man?

Gurli.

I promised it to Liddy.

Kaberdar.

Dost thou love him?

Gurli.

I love Liddy.

Kaberdar.

But it is he, not Liddy, who it to be thy husband.

Gurli.

But he is Liddy's brother.

Kaberdar.

[Aside.] That is his greatest merit.

Gurli.

And he is always to stay where thou stayest, father —Gurli will never forsake thee—and Liddy is to stay there too. Is it not true, foolish Samuel?

Samuel.

Answer: yes.

Kaberdar.

Thou hop'st then to be happy with him.

Gurli.

Not with him alone, but with him, with thee, and with Liddy.

Kaberdar.

Well, God bless ye! I have nothing to object against it. [He embraces his daughter, and then Samuel, who recieves it with great solemnity.] Sir, you will at once be my son and my brother.

Samuel.

Double honor—double pleasure—double satisfaction.

Kaberdar.

Yes, if it should doubly succeed.

Samuel.

No doubt—Will you please now to hear the contract read over!

Kaberdar.

I am quite indifferent; as there is but one article in which I can have any concern: the article of the dowry.

Staff.

Here we have left room for it. Showing him the paper.

Kaberdar.

So much, indeed, that one might insert in it the title of a large kingdom, with all the provinces, which it either possesses or does not possess. Did you think, Sir, that I was so very rich?

Samuel.

I thought you was very rich, and very generous.

Kaberdar.

Indeed! then I must be a wonderful man; for wealth and generosity I have never yet found together. Every virtue may however degenerate; and so likewise may generosity. You know, Sir, that I am on the eve of taking another wife to myself, and it is not impossible that a dozen of children may hereafter lay claim to my paternal generosity.

Samuel.

[Perplexed.] Ay, ay!

Tidewaiter.

Ay, ay!

Staff.

Umph, umph!

Kaberdar.

How much do you then reckon necessary to enable you and my daughter to live neither in indigence, nor in superfluity: neither penuriously, nor yet with prodigality.

Samuel.

Well then, in such cases, one had better reckon too much than too little.

Kaberdar.

What if we were to strike the medium, and fix upon a sum often thousand pounds?

Samuel.

[In a tone of satisfaction.] Ah, we should not suffer them to rust.

Tidewaiter.

[In a whisper to Samuel.] Get the matter concluded quickly.

Staff.

Let us insert the payment of that sum in this empty space.

Samuel.

Moreover, I flatter myself with a favorable answer to the following query: If Heaven should bless our union with children—

Gurli.

Ha, ha, ha! Hark you, shall we then have children?

Samuel.

I hope so.

Gurli.

Then will Gurli laugh terribly.—Gurli never yet had any children.

Staff.

Hora ruit: that is, the precious time is passing away. May it please you to impart to this contract, by means of the subscription of the contracting parties, the proper formality, steadfastness, and indissolubility?

Samuel.

Well said. Go, my dear Tidewaiter, and summon hither my family—they must all of them be present at this solemnity.— [Exit Tidewaiter.] —Will you have the goodness to answer me one question more: The fruits which may be expected from this union, in what religion are they to be educated? answer.

Kaberdar.

[With some warmth.] Bring you them up to be honest men, and make what else of them you please.

SCENE VI. Sir JOHN, Lady SMITH, LIDDY, KABERDAR, GURLI, SAMUEL, STAFF, and TIDEWAITER. Tidewaiter.

They come! they come!

L. Smith.

[After making a careless curtsey to the company, walks hastily up to her son.] My son, you behold your mother in despair: will you then be so barbarous as to graft crab-apples upon a peach-tree?

Samuel.

[Taking her aside.] No rose without thorns. They begin a secret conversation.

Gurli.

[To Liddy.] Well, sweet sister, art thou satisfied with Gurli?

Liddy.

Gurli is a good girl.

S. John.

[To Kaberdar.] Sir, you have confounded an old man, and made him doubt the philosophy of his whole life. Had any one told me to go out to the highway, where so many thousands pass every day, and that there I should find a treasure, truly I would sooner have believed it, than that I could have found a rich man who generously wishes to be allied to a family in reduced circumstances, without rank or fortune—

Kaberdar.

Alas, Sir, what a country is your Europe, if you mean seriously what you now say! The warm sun with us, hatches no such folly.

S. John.

Your hand, Sir. It is now so long since I have squeezed the hand of an honest man.— You are my physician—you have poured new life and vigour into the veins of an old man.

Kaberdar.

I do nothing gratis— my recompense is a pearl: [Looking tenderly at Liddy.] such as neither Ceylon, nor Arabia Felix, nor the Pearl Islands themselves contain. Talks apart with Liddy.

Tidewaiter.

[To Staff.] All is well hitherto; but matters like these ought to be quickly and speedily concluded.

Staff.

Yes, indeed; but before all, the due formalities ought to be observed.—Love, gratitude, and felicity, and all such nonsense as that, will come of itself, after matters are concluded.

Samuel.

But, dear mother, although you were to cause a ragout to be made of your genealogical tree, we must still go every night hungry to bed.

L. Smith.

Fie, fie, my son, I give thee up; for I see that the noble maternal milk, which I instilled into thee, was lavished in vain.

Gurli.

[Slipping behind them, and pushing her head in betwixt them.] What are you chattering about so secretly together?

L. Smith.

A pretty behaviour! I shall never adventure to carry this creature into a brilliant circle.

Kaberdar.

[With some sensibility.] I hope, Madam, she will hereafter cut a better figure, in the domestic circle of her children.

L. Smith.

[Scornfully.] A good mother of a family has indeed some merit.

S. John.

That she has, and in every station— of which our queen is an illustrious example.

Samuel.

We are prattling away the precious time.

Tidewaiter.

Yes, indeed— yes, indeed.

Gurli.

Well then, be quick.

Staff.

The contract is ready for subscription.

Samuel.

Come then, here is pen and ink: [Laying the paper right.] on this little space Miss Gurli will write her name.

Gurli.

Dost thou think, foolish man, that Gurli has not learned to write? Give it me here— Taking the pen.

Kaberdar.

[With anxiety.] Yet once more, my daughter, bethink thyself well: the happiness of thy whole future life hangs upon one single word. When once thou hast written, thy promise is irrevocable.

Gurli.

Dear father, Gurli will write at all events— see, only, how Liddy looks at me so mournfully, and the old man there seems also to wish it. I like the old man, he looks so honest.

Kaberdar.

In God's name, it is thy free will—thy father's blessing— and, if God will, some good angel be with thee. Gurli about to write.

Samuel.

Stop, fair Gurli, stop one moment. I have turned at once so uneasy.— Is there then nothing omitted? no rule of prudence? no clause of consequence?

Staff.

Nothing, nothing. Mr. Staff has taken care of every thing.

S. John.

My son, the coolness of your behaviour betrays very little tender feeling.

L. Smith.

Perhaps it may be the spirits of your ancestors whispering to you at this decisive moment.

Samuel.

Not so, my dear mother.— [To Kaberdar.] The ten thousand pounds, Sir, which you was so good as to make mention of, will they be paid directly after the wedding?

Kaberdar.

[With great coldness.] On the wedding day, Sir.

Samuel.

[To Gurli.] Well, write now, fair Gurli.— [Gurli about to write.] But yet, hold one moment.— I really find myself in an uncommon situation. One cannot go too cautiously to work.— One question more, Sir: will the ten thousand pounds be paid in bank-notes, or in hard cash? answer.

Kaberdar.

[Displeased.] As you please, Sir; as you chuse yourself.

Samuel.

In hard cash, then, if it is wholly the same to you.

Kaberdar.

Very well.

Samuel.

Now you may write.

Gurli.

[About to write.] Foolish man! thou art so tiresome.

Samuel.

Stop, stop, for one moment.

Liddy.

Brother, you are insufferable.

Kaberdar.

[To Liddy.] You are his guardian angel.

Samuel.

There still remains one reasonable and important question to determine. If the father of my fair Gurli should decease, and leave behind him no other heirs of his body, then—

Kaberdar.

Then Gurli will be the heiress of my whole fortune.

Samuel.

[In a very friendly tone.] Your most obedient, humble servant— all doubts are removed, Mr. Samuel Smith now embraces boldly, and courageously, a hasty resolution —write Gurli.

Gurli.

Well, I will write; but if thou criest "stop," once more, I will throw the pen and ink at your head.

S. John.

And very deservedly.

Samuel.

Write, write. [While Gurli dips her pen into the ink-horn, to sign her name, Enter]

SCENE VII. ROBERT, JACK, SIR JOHN, LADY SMITH, LIDDY, KABERDAR, GURLI, SAMUEL, STAFF, and TIDEWAITER. [Gurli immediately drops the pen, and stands gaping on Robert.] Robert.

The devil and the Dutch! what a large company!

Jack.

And plenty of the sivens— turn about your ship, sir.

Robert.

You fool, I am no woman-hater.

Samuel.

You come, just in time, brother, to sign your name, as witness to my contract of marriage.

Robert.

With all my heart—much happiness to your voyage.

S. John.

Robert, here is an honest man, who will in future make a part of our family.

Robert.

I am glad of it: Sir, I am no man for compliments— your hand, Sir [Shakes Kaberdar by the hand.] I am your servant; and if it be true that you are an honest man, I am your friend.

Kaberdar.

Friendship is the blossom of a moment, but the fruit of time.

Robert.

True! very true! what ripens before its time, is blown down by the first wind.

Gurli.

[To Liddy with eagerness.] Who is that man?

Liddy.

That is brother Robert.

Gurli.

Brother Robert! ay—I like brother Robert.

Robert.

Is this the bride? I am happy of your acquaintance: [going up to her] favor me with a kiss.

Gurli.

Ten, if you will. [Kisses him.]

Samuel.

Now, Miss, I beg you will write.

Staff.

The formalities have been drawn into length.

Samuel.

[Urging Gurli.] Will you be pleased [Gurli shakes her head.]

L. Smith.

[Half aside.] These are the most tedious espousals, that ever I was a witness of.—

Gurli.

[To Liddy.] Hark you, now Liddy, I like brother Robert better than brother Samuel.

Liddy.

Foolish girl.

Kaberdar.

Gurli, thou art childish.

Gurli.

Be not angry, dear father, Gurli has her free will.

Kaberdar.

That she has.

Gurli.

Well, Liddy, is it the same to thee, whether Gurli marries thy brother Samuel, or thy brother Robert?

Liddy.

[Smiling.] The same to me, dear Gurli; but not to Samuel.

Gurli.

Ah! what! the foolish man! who will ask his leave? [Goes up to Robert.] Dear brother Robert, wilt thou be so good as to marry Gurli?

Robert.

[Much astonished.] How! what!

Staff.

An uncommon casus.

L. Smith.

It is unique.

Tiderwaiter.

Inconceivably rapid.

Samuel.

I am petrified.

S. John.

[Smiling to Kaberdar.] One of my sons is the happy man, and it is equal to me which.

Kaberdar.

[Significantly.] To me it is not equal.

Gurli.

Well, thou dost not give me any answer.

Robert.

What the devil can I answer?

Gurli.

Don't you like me?

Robert.

Oh, yes!

Gurli.

Well, I like thee. Thou art such a merry man, that I am fond of looking at thee. Thine eyes speak so well, that one wishes always to answer, although they know not what.—Well?

Robert.

Miss, I am not acquainted with you: I see you to-day for the first time in my life.

Gurli.

Yes, indeed, and I thee too. But Gurli would wish to see thee for ever.

Li .

At my risk, brother.

Robert.

Damn me, if the girl is not charming! but I cannot deceive you, Miss—I am a poor devil, and have nothing but a ship of 1200 tons burden; with which I must scour the wide ocean to-morrow, and perhaps go to the bottom next day.

Gurli.

Thou must not go to sea, thou must stay at home with Gurli.

Robert.

And starve with Gurli.

Kaberdar.

Sir, this incident is singular of its kind; and must naturally surprize you very much. She is my daughter; a good girl; a child of nature; her dowry is ten thousand pounds sterling.—I have nothing farther to say on the subject.

Robert.

Sir, I care as much for ten thousand pounds, as I do for a rotten plank; and I should not be willing to suffer myself to be crammed to death by my wife.

Gurli.

Fool, I will feed thee, and not cram thee.—Marry me, however, and thou shalt not repent it. [Stroking his cheeks.] I will be so fond of thee, so fond—

Robert.

[Smiling.] A foolish business.—Well then, in God's name, I am content.

Gurli.

[Joyfully.] Art thou? Give me a kiss.

Samuel.

Robert, is this done like a brother, to snatch my good fortune from my mouth?

Robert.

Devil take it. No, no, Miss, I cannot marry you.

Gurli.

[Mournfully.] No! why not then?

Robert.

My brother has prior claims upon you.

Gurli.

Thy brother is a fool.

Samuel.

Softly, Miss. Have you not promised a hundred times to marry me? answer.

Gurli.

Whether it was exactly a hundred times, that Gurli does not know; but I have promised it.

Samuel.

Well, were you not upon the point of signing the contract? answer.

Gurli.

Indeed I was; but now I will not.

Samuel.

Brother, you have heard how matters stand.

Robert.

I have so.—No, Miss, it won't do.

Gurli.

But I won't have him—I won't have him—I won't have him.—Thou foolish Samuel! what hast thou to do with Gurli? Gurli will not have thee.

Robert.

It is the same thing to me; you may do as you please; but I am his brother; and, devil take me, if I can marry you.

Gurli.

Tell me truly and sincerely; dost thou like me?

Robert.

By my poor soul, I like you.

Gurli.

Then thou must marry me. Liddy, tell him so.

Liddy.

A sister can only advise and intreat; she cannot command.

Gurli.

Who then can command him? [To Sir John.] Thou art his father; command him.

S. John.

Does not Gurli know, from her own father, that parents usually, in such cases, leave children to their own wills?

Gurli.

Well, then, intreat him. When my father intreats me, I then do every thing he would have me. Yes, yes, papa, intreat him, intreat him. While she is skipping about him, and stroking his cheeks, she stumbles accidentally upon his gouty foot.

S. John.

[Crying out.] Oh, woe! oh woe! my leg! my leg! plague confound—oh, woe! woe!

Gurli.

[Shocked and uneasy.] Be not angry, Gurli did not do it willingly.

S. John.

Help me! Liddy, help me out of this crowd. Here, there are so many people about me; and after all nothing is accomplished.—Off, off.

Kaberdar.

[To Liddy.] Permit me to attend you.

Liddy.

Willingly. [They both carry off the old man.]

SCENE VIII. Lady SMITH, GURLI, ROBERT, SAMUEL, JACK, STAFF, and TIDEWAITER. Gurli.

[Much vexed.] I have trode on the poor old man's sick foot. Indeed Gurli did not do it intentionally.

L. Smith.

Ha, ha, ha! the deno ement of the scene amuses me not a little.

Staff.

I have never yet met with spensalia, any thing like these in the whole course of my practice.

Tidewaiter.

If other methods of thinking and of acting, are not quickly and speedily hit upon—

Robert.

The whole matter will turn to nothing.

Jack.

[To Robert.] You have come across him, and spoilt his voyage.

Samuel.

The blood curdles in my veins. In what a labyrinth have I entangled myself by mere prudence!

Gurli.

[To Robert.] Well, saucebox, hast thou considered whether or not thou wilt marry Gurli?

Robert.

You seem to me to be a good girl. Don't you love Liddy as well as a sister?

Gurli.

Yes, that Gurli does.

Robert.

Then put only the case: that Liddy was desirous of marrying some honest fellow; and you carried off, without rhyme or reason, this man before her very nose—could you do so?

Gurli.

Fie, Gurli could never do that.

Robert.

And yet you would have me to play such another trick to my brother—

Gurli.

Dost thou then love the foolish Samuel as much as I love the good Liddy?

Robert.

[With some hesitation.] He is my loving brother.

Gurli.

Ah, God: that is dismal.—Gurli must cry. Weeps.

Jack.

The weather begins to grow gloomy—the sea is high.

Staff.

From what has happened, I am apt both to conclude and opine, that my office is unnecessary here at present. I hasten hence—

Samuel.

Wait, wait, Mr. Staff.

Staff.

Ay, wherefore? each hour of mine must bring gold into my pockets. To-day's hinderance I shall put down to your account, and in the mean time I have the honor of recommending myself humbly to the whole company. Exit.

L. Smith.

Ha, ha, ha! This is then the end of the song. Th s it happens, when noble sentiments are forgotten.

Exit into her chamber. Samuel.

[After a pause] Now the question naturally occurs: what is to be done? answer: I know not.

Follows his mother. Jack.

The sky grows clear, Sir. [Printing to the Tidewaiter, who had remained from curiosity.] But there still stands a water-spout.

Robert.

Point your guns at it.

Jack.

[To the Tidewaiter.] My good friend, hoist your a •• ling, and sail out of the room.

Tidewaiter.

My good friend, be pleased to hold your tongue: I am here on the duties of my office.

Robert.

Duties of your office! When did my father's house become a customhouse?

Tidewaiter.

Apprehend me right, Sir: it constitutes a part of the duties of my office, to serve and attend my worthy principal, Mr. Samuel Smith, with activity and celerity. As often as I can steal away from the customhouse, for a quarter of an hour, or even for a minute, or if it were only for a second, so often do I hasten hither with all possible precipitation.

Robert.

And now, Sir, I would intreat you to hasten hence with all precipitation.

Tidewaiter.

If I could only learn wherefore?

Jack.

Because, at this very moment, I feel my fists itch and prickle, as if I had on the point of every finger, a wound just about being healed.

Tidewaiter.

Perhaps, then, you will not take it amiss, if I take my leave of you with the greatest celerity and speed.

Robert.

Not at all, Sir; the more speedily, the better.

Exit Tidewaiter.
SCENE IX. GURLI, ROBERT, and JACK. Jack.

What think you, Sir? must old Jack too lie at anchor without, and wait till you give him a signal?

Robert.

No: you may stay. [Gurli during this time had •• ood in a corner and sobbed.] What do you want, Miss.

Gurli.

A husband.

Robert.

Then marry my brother Samuel.

Gurli.

I cannot marry him: I will have thee.

Robert.

Why then only me?

Gurli.

That Gurli knows not herself. Thou art a wicked man: thou makest me weep: and yet I love thee. Look only, brother Robert, for some weeks past I have always felt as if I wanted something; and then my father said, Gurli must take a husband. Well, Gurli was very willing to do so: and then my father asked, what husband I would have? that was all one to Gurli—but since Gurli has seen thee, it is no longer all one to her.

Robert.

And hardly so to me.

Gurli.

Marry me, however—I will love thee more than my parrot and my kitten—I will stroke thee like my kitten, and feed thee like my parrot.

Robert.

To be fed and stroked by you, dear Gurli, is indeed no bad prospect for futurity.

Gurli.

Oh, we will live so happily together! thou and I, my father and my parrot, Liddy and my kitten.

Robert.

Yes, yes, if only—damn it—it seems to me, as if I was not acting honorably—thy sweet prattle has sung my conscience asleep. Hark you, Gurli, can you lie?

Gurli.

Lie! What is that?

Robert.

Speaking otherwise than you think.

Gurli.

Ha, ha, ha! no, that Gurli cannot do: but if it will give thee pleasure, I will learn it.

Robert.

God forbid! tell me sincerely, if brother Robert absolutely refuses to marry you, will you not then take brother Samuel.

Gurli.

Never! never will Gurli marry the foolish Samuel: Gurli can now no longer suffer him.

Robert.

But—but—the devil take it—it is rather knavish to supplant one's brother.—What think you, Jack? may an honest man carry off this prize with a safe conscience?

Jack.

You must know best how much water your frigate draws—but as to your brother, Sir, I would make no more ado with him, than I would with a mouldy biscuit. He struts about on the shore, indeed, with a painted bowsprit, and plenty of palaver; but I would not advise any smart wench ever to suffer him to come aboard.

Robert.

I think so too, Jack; the poor innocent wench would have a very disagreeable voyage.—Come Gurli, I'll marry you.

Gurli.

[Falling about his neck.] Now thou art my dear brother Robert.—Now will Gurli laugh again, and jump and skip and dance again.

Robert.

Stay: now thou art my bride; and I must give you a ring. It is not, indeed, of much value, only of gold; but it signifies as much as the famous Pitt in our King's Trea ury. Here, take it.

Gurli.

What must I make of it?

Robert.

Put it on your finger—so—that is a token, that I love you.

Gurli.

Ha, ha, ha! Thou funny man; I will fetch thee also a ring, and that shall be a token of my love to thee— won't it do? She skips into her chamber.

SCENE X. ROBERT and JACK. Robert.

What think you, Jack? am I upon good anchor ground, or am I got between rocks?

Jack.

To obtain an answer to this question, you must let down the lead into your own heart.

Robert.

But is she not a smart wench? Tell me only, Jack, how the little mermaid has contrived to bring me so soon under her influence?

Jack.

I don't know: I neither stood at the helm, nor yet steered the course of the vessel.

Robert.

I would willingly, however, honest comrade, know the longitude and latitude of your opinion. We Have been in so many holes and corners together, that you know me, both inside and out, as well as your own hammock—you have carried me in your arms before I was able to splice a rope; tell me, then, frankly and freely, what you think of this matter? The wench is handsome and good humoured, and has ten thousand pounds sterling.

Jack.

Yes, yes, she is a neat, well built wench; understands her compass; well rigged above, and good planks below—but—

Robert.

But! What? out with it!

Jack.

Dear heart! the wives are—such as they are—there is no bottom to be found in any of them—if I were in your place, then I would tell her—I see well how the land lies, but I'll be damn'd if I don't clear the point.

Robert.

I cannot, Jack, I have lost my tackle.

Jack.

That's bad.

Robert.

I am almost afraid, that I shall be forced to turn my keel above water.

Jack.

That is very bad—then you must go to the bottom, without one chance for your life.

Robert.

I cannot think so, Jack; I hope still to come into calm, navigable water—see only what a fine wench! She carries her soul in her eyes: and in those eyes there is no deceit. Her very heart flutters on her tongue, and her words are as fine as old wine, and as sweet as the juice of the cocoa-nut.

Jack.

But a wife is as little to be trusted as the most dangerous whirlpool upon the sea. At first it is a life full of jubilee and huzzas—but if you once sail against the stream of her inclinations, the storm immediately begins to roar, from south and north, from east and west. And then, only think, Sir; you now manage your own vessel as you please; you weigh anchor whenever you have a mind; you steer whithersoever you chuse; do you think, when you have taken a wife aboard, that your cable will be as long, and as free, as it has hitherto been?

Robert.

Hold your tongue, honest Jack: I now find that I was not in earnest when I asked your advice; for, in spite of all that you have alledged, I am resolved to tack about, and continue in the track, should I only have six points of the wind.

Jack.

Then I wish you a good voyage.

SCENE XI. FAZIR, ROBERT, and JACK. Robert.

Do we, at last, comrade, behold you once more? Where the devil have you been hid, since we emptied the last mug of porter at dinner together?

Fazir.

I was at the ship—I resolved never to enter this house again, and yet I am now here again, and know not myself how it has happened.

Robert.

At the ship, was you! is our crew well and hearty?

Fazir.

Only too hearty—their mirth drove me out again, for I could not be merry with them.

Robert.

Why not?

Fazir.

How can you ask? See, Robert, it is a folly to tell it.—I went into my cabin, and lay down in my hammock, and looked up to the roof, as I had been accustomed to do during our voyage, every morning when I awaked. There the rope, with which the hammock is fastened to the oof—but you must not laugh at me.

Robert.

No, no—only go on.

Fazir.

Well, the loop of the rope had formed an L; it looks just like an L.

Robert.

Ay, ay! love is able to make the whole alphabet out of it.

Fazir.

Whenever I awaked in the morning, and looked up o this L, then I was delighted; my thoughts ranged farther than my eyes, and this L kept me many an hour in bed.— Alas! to day, for the first time, this L drove me out of it.

Robert.

Poor youth! what think you, Jack? can we not help him?

Jack.

He is deeply laden—he must throw his love over-board, else he will sink.

Fazir.

Dear Robert, will you weigh anchor soon again?

Robert.

You fool! I have not yet unloaded; and then I must first look for another cargo.

Fazir.

How long may all that take?

Robert.

Six weeks at least.

Fazir.

Six weeks! ah! Robert! the poor Fazir will be dead long before that.—Why did no I stay in my own country? I should then have died along with my brothers—here I must die alone. There some good souls would have wept over me—but here nobody will weep for me at all.

Robert.

Young man, you make my heart feeble. If it can comfort you—Liddy, to all appearance, marries a very brave fellow.

Fazir.

That indeed ought to comfort me—but it comforts me not. I am brave too, am I not?

Robert.

But not rich.

Fazir.

Fie, Robert, have I not often heard you say, that honesty is better than riches?

Robert.

To be sure it is; and yet honesty gets nothing but the bones to gnaw, which pampered riches throw under the table.

Fazir.

And what though? It seems to me that I never could have wanted at Liddy's side. Do you recollect the poor negro, as we were once walking together in Jamaica? He was at work upon a sugar plantation; the sweat ran down his forehead; a pitcher of water stood by him, and yet he sang cheerily a Moorish song. My good friend, said you to him, this is a hard piece of work. That it is, gave he for answer, and wiped off the sweat with the palm of his hand. One question produced another. We asked him, how he was able to smile so contentedly at his hard fortune? He then pointed to a thicket a few paces off; under the thicket sat a black woman, with three little, half naked children, the youngest of whom was upon her breast. And while the negro was pointing with his finger, he looked so delighted with himself—no—such another smile never adorned the countenance of a king. Ah! if Liddy had but been willing, Fazir would have laboured like that slave—and smiled like him.

Robert.

[Whose heart is quite melted.] Come, come, we will empty a couple of bottles of wine together.

Fazir.

I cannot.—I can neither eat nor drink—I will starve myself.

SCENE XII. GURLI, FAZIR, ROBERT, and JACK. Gurli.

[With a diamond ring in her hand.] Well, here I am. She perceives Fazir, stands petrified, and looks him in the face without speaking.

Fazir.

Starts back at the sight of her, and in his wild eyes fixed upon her, both terror and astonishment are painted.

Robert.

What! has a thunderbolt transfixed you both?

Gurli.

[Trembling.] Brother Robert, dost thou see any thing yonder?

Robert.

Yes, truly.

Gurli.

Dost thou really see it?

Robert.

Surely I do—I am not blind.

Fazir.

Robert, do you see the spirit?

Robert.

I see a fool, and you are he.

Fazir.

Dear Robert, that body once belonged to my sister Gurli; ask it, will you, what soul has entered into it, since her death.

Robert.

Your sister!

Gurli.

Yes, yes, Robert, that spirit was once called Fazir, and was my brother—ah! my dear brother!

Robert.

I understand.—Children, keep your five senses together! First such a fright, and now such an extacy! ye are not spirits. Children, I beseech you, be not foolish! Embrace one another! Brother Fazir and sister Gurli.

Fazir and Gurli.

[At once.] Not spirits! Approaching to each other with outstretched arms.

Gurli. & Fazir. [At once.]

Do you really live, Gurli?

Dost thou live, my Fazir?

Robert.

[Much affected.] What think you, Jack?

Jack.

[Wiping a tear from his eye.] Land! land!

Robert.

Right, Jack! Never did I feel so, when I unexpectedly beheld land, after a long and dangerous voyage.

Fazir. and Gurli.

[Suddenly passing into extravagant joy.] He lives! she lives! sister Gurli! brother Fazir!

[Here the poet can prescribe nothing to the player: they skip, dance, leap, sing, laugh, and weep alternately.—Joy is always difficult to imitate; but more especially the joy of uncorrupted nature. Robert and Jack stand by, enjoying in silence the delightful spectacle.]
SCENE XIII. MUSAFFERY, GURLI, FAZIR, ROBERT, and JACK. Musaffery.

I hear thy voice, Gurli—but—what—

Fazir.

Musaffery too.

Musaffery.

Fazir! thou livest! [Pressing him passionately to his breast.] How is it with me? where am I? my old brain —yes, yes, he lives!— [Beside himself with rapture.] We will celebrate a pongol! we will boil rice with milk! [Raising his hands aloft, and bowing himself thrice to the ground.] Praised be Brama! praised be Brama! Where is my master? where is Kaberdar? We will paint a cow's horns—we will crown her with a garland of flowers.

Fazir.

Kaberdar! what does he say?—Gurli, does my father too live?

Gurli.

Hale and hearty! hale and hearty! Father! father!

Fazir.

[Beside himself.] Where? where? father! father!

SCENE XIV. Lady SMITH, KABERDAR, Sir JOHN, brought out by SAMUEL: MUSAFFERY, GURLI, FAZIR, ROBERT, and JACK. L. Smith.

[Entering.] Ciel! what a rude plebeian tumult!

Kaberdar.

[Perceiving his son.] Oh God! what is this?

Fazir.

[Embracing his knees.] My father!

Gurli. and Musaffery.

[Skipping around him.] He lives, he lives!

Kaberdar.

[Embracing his son passionately.] Thou livest! Oh, Brama! canst thou forgive all my doubts and murmurs? my first born son lives—I have him in my arms! I have again my son! What is the wealth or the diadem of royalty, in comparison of this moment?

Musaffery.

[Bowing himself almost to the ground.] We thank thee, Brama! we thank thee!

Kaberdar.

[Raising his hands and eyes to Heaven.] Yes, we thank thee in silent prayer.

S. John.

A sweet, delicious moment! A sovereign cordial for disease and pain.

L. Smith.

A romance! a true romance!

Samuel.

So it appears to me too.—I am yet very doubtful of its truth.

Robert.

Give yourself no trouble, brother, I'll vouch for it.

Kaberdar.

Speak, my son! By what miracle didst thou escape from our murderers?

Fazir.

I wandered about a long while, but a good angel conducted my steps. I knew not whither I went, nor what was to become of me. I was pursued every where without knowing it; and, without knowing it, every where I escaped.—Brama preserved me.

Musaffery.

[Bowing himself.] Praised be Brama!

Fazir.

On the tenth day of my flight, when hunger and fatigue had almost overcome me, I mounted a hill with great difficulty, and suddenly the boundless ocean lay before my sight. A foreign vessel had just sailed, and was scarcely a canon-shot from the shore. Ah! thought I, had I only arrived an hour sooner, this ship would have taken me up, and at once delivered me from all danger. I hastily untied my turban, and made the muslin flutter in the air, and beckoned and cried as loud as I could, but in vain: the ship sailed away with a fresh wind. I was almost in despair; and hunger drove me along the untrodden path, where I had hitherto wandered, down to the shore. There I was carelessly looking for cockles, indifferent whether I was discovered or not; when, all of a sudden, with what pleasure I beheld, behind the point of a rock, another ship lying at anchor; whose captain was this generous man [Pointing to Robert.] to whom I owe my deliverance and my life, and my preservation till this moment.

Musaffery.

[Bowing himself.] Praised be Brama!

Gurli.

[Running up to Robert, and falling about his neck.] Oh, thou good man!

Robert.

Pshaw!

Kaberdar.

[Shaking Robert's hand.] Sir, when once you become a father, then will you feel, that for such a benefit, the gratitude of a father has no words.

Robert.

By God, Sir, you make me ashamed. When I took up the young man, I thought neither of gratitude nor reward. I obeyed my heart, and see now, I have preserved a friend to myself.

S. John.

Embrace me, my son! May God bless you.

L. Smith.

]Reaching out her hand to kiss.] Mon Fils, thy noble way of thinking, has, I assure you, quite enchanted me.

Robert.

Dear mother! my way of thinking was, at that moment, so far from noble, that I was even afraid that there ran through it, a stream of envy and jealousy concealed. Three unhappy fugitives had, the evening before, also taken refuge in the ship which lay at anchor beside me; and by my poor soul, I was vexed that chance had carried them aboard of my neighbour.

Kaberdar.

These three fugitives were we. That generous man saved the father, the daughter, and the friend; and this generous man has restored me my son.

Gurli.

Well, father, may not Gurli marry this good, man?

Kaberdar.

If he will have you, with all my heart.

Gurli.

If he will have me! oh! yes, he will—is it not so good Robert?

Robert.

[To Samuel.] Brother, you must not take it amiss of me; my generous resignation would not avail you; for even then she would not take you.

Gurli.

No, no, indeed, foolish Samuel; Gurli will never marry thee.

Samuel.

The question naturally occurs here: what will Mr. Samuel Smith do? answer: hang himself—if prudence would permit him:—who knows but as fair a felicity may yet bloom for him elsewhere Exit.

Kaberdar.

Every thing seems united to prove to me, that I gained nothing when the hand of chance bound a diadem around my brow; and that I lost nothing when it was torn away.—Good children, and tried friends, what is wanting to my felicity? A good wife—and that also I have found.— Madam, your consent is now only wanting: I love your daughter Liddy. I know indeed your principles, and your respect for ancient families; but I hope to satisfy all your demands, when I assure you, that I was once monarch of Mysore, and that my ancestors bore arms with honor at the time when Alexander desolated India.

L. Smith.

I am astonished!—A family so ancient! I shall reckon it a great honor, Sir, to receive you, with open arms, into our's.

Fazir.

Ah! father!

Kaberdar.

Well?

Fazir.

Ah! dear father!

Kaberdar.

What's the matter, my dear son?

Fazir.

You have given me life, and would you now take it from me?

Kaberdar.

I understand you not.

Fazir.

I love Liddy so much—

Kaberdar.

So! and Liddy—

Fazir.

I can neither rest night nor day.

Kaberdar.

Hark you, dear youth, this is a matter which Liddy herself can alone determine.—You indeed are scarce twenty; and the freshness of youth blooms upon your cheek. I, on the other hand, carry the burden of five and thirty years upon my back.—However, so far as I know Liddy, this will scarcely influence her decision. Let us see, we will call her. If her heart declares in your favor, I will then cheerfully submit to my fate.

Robert.

Be stir yourself, Jack, and weigh anchor, and steer towards Liddy's chamber; and tell her, we in treat her to direct her course hither.

Jack.

That I will. Exit.

Gurli.

Father, I will tell thee, which of you two Liddy will marry.

Kaberdar.

Well?

Gurli.

My brother Fazir.

Kaberdar.

How know you that?

Gurli.

He is handsomer than thee.

Kaberdar.

Ah! dear girl! Liddy is not a child like you.

Robert.

I fear, that in regard to this point, women will always continue children.

S. John.

Be it as it will, I shall still, before my death, have the pleasure of seeing two happy pairs.

L. Smith.

Right, my dear: this day has reconciled me again to fortune, and I shall lay myself down softly to slumber with my ancestors. Samuel's fate alone gives me uneasiness.

Gurli.

The poor foolish Samuel: I am sorry for him too. —What thinkest thou, Robert? I will marry him too.

Robert.

Two husbands at once! no Gurli, that I forbid.

Gurli.

Well, as thou wilt: Gurli is very indifferent about it.

SCENE XV. LIDDY, JACK, LADY SMITH, KABERDAR, SIR JOHN, MUSAFFERY GURLI, FAZIR, and ROBERT. Robert.

Hey day, sister! I wish you joy! you are a bride.

Liddy.

[Looking down.] Yes, I am a bride.

Robert.

But with whom? that is still the question.

Liddy.

With whom! with that gentleman.

[Pointing to Kaberdar.] Robert.

Hold, hold! not so hasty.

Kaberdar.

Miss, I now release you from your promise.— Father and son stand here before you.

Liddy.

[In astonishment.] Father and son!

Kaberdar.

Yes, this youth is my son.—He loves you—I love you too.—Make your choice freely.

Gurli.

[To Liddy.] Take the son; he is handsomer than the father.

Kaberdar.

Your heart must pronounce the sentence.

Liddy.

[In great perplexity.] My heart! alas!

Fazir.

[With downcast eyes.] Dear Miss!

Robert.

Well, sister, will you not decide?

Liddy.

How can I? I have already given my promise.

Kaberdar.

If you had not then given your promise, would you not? [Liddy is silent.] I understand you. [Puts her hand into Fazir's.] God bless you, my children!

Fazir.

[Embracing Liddy.] Ah, dear Miss!

Musaffery.

[Bowing to the ground.] Praised be Brama!

Kaberdar.

[Wiping a tear from his eyes.] One single drop of bitterness! quite right: the cup of pleasure was too sweet.

Robert.

Well, Jack, what think you now?

Jack.

I think that I shall now be obliged to cruise about the world by myself, with this old ruinous vessel. All my powder and lead is spent; my provisions are exhausted; and what will become of me?

Robert.

You shall stay with me; and so long as I have a biscuit to myself, I shall always make you welcome to the half of it, till you finish your voyage happily at last, and cast anchor in the latitude of Heaven.

Jack.

I thank you, Sir, I thank you: and I wish all of you, fair wind and weather for your voyage.

FINIS.