SCENE I.

GO to bed, Catharine, I [...] you!

The poor old woman must be very cold!—'Tis well that these nocturnal walks will soon be at an end!—I have indeed promised poor Ellfield to see him again to-night, and I dare not go alone. Yet why not?—What need I fear in so short a distance?—What accident can happen to me?—Well, well, in a few days all will be revealed▪ Mrs. Ellfield recovers fast, and by Mor­land's birth-day I hope will be in perfect health.—What pleasure shall I feel in presenting these unfortunate people to him upon that joyful occasion, and saying, ‘Dear husband I have preserved the lives of a worthy pair by the savings of my frugality; I have rescued the husband from want, the wife from sickness,—accept this offering as a birth-day tribute!’ — And must the story be disclosed?—ah, I feel that the enjoyment of a good action is annihilated the moment that action becomes known: if another praise thee,—there is an end of thy reward; [Page 4] but is thy own heart thy sole confidant,—new transport always arises from the recollection!—Morland, therefore, shall know all. Ah, could he foresee that a still more important discovery awaits him!—Thanks to Heaven! I can no longer doubt of the joyful event!—but this happy communication shall also be deferred till his birth day.

SCENE II.

Good-morrow, sister!—of what happy communication were you talking to yourself?

Guess.

That you have a fine br [...] of young goslings hatched this morning?

Sarcastic girl!

Or have you spun up all your flax?

Any one who heard you, would suppose, that my at­tention was solely occupied by geese and spinning▪

Your happiness is so [...]eat, that you cannot have [...] more important objects of so [...]de.

Do you suppose—

Can I never hear the story often enough?—Evening after evening do I sit with you, my brother begins to read, my sister to work; but scarcely has the one read a half dozen sen­tences, or the other set in half a dozen stitches, before a dead stop is made; and the blank in the narrative filled up with a long parenthesis of caresses, and "my dears," and "my loves," till I am tired of the repetition.

Do you not recollect, that G [...]ethe says, ‘to behold two real lovers, is a scene to charm even the gods.’

And, do not you recollect, that Musaeus says, ‘It may be a scene to delight the gods, but to mortals it is ennuyan [...] in the extreme.’

I confess it a scene, in which one would rather be a performer than a spectator.

The one sighs, "Ah, sister I am so happy!"— "Bro­ther I have heard that about a thousand times." The other lisps, "Jenny, my happiness is unbounded!"—Sister, I know all your fine rhapsodies by heart.

Why do you not seek like happiness?

There, again!—dear sister, you know as well as I, that a maiden must not seek, she must only find;—and, good heavens! how rarely can we find what we are not permitted to seek!

Whoever would gather a flower, must at least stretch out a hand.

The roses of lo [...] [...]ow only in summer,—the thorns of wedlock last the whole year round.

Does that reflection arise from observations made in this house?

Heaven [...]o [...]d!—No, a perpetual spring reigns here, as in Mahomet's pa [...]dise.

And in every place [...] love is combined with a taste for domestic life.

But amid this prating, we have wandered from our text. I wanted to know the subject of your communication?

Have you never, in the midst of all our happiness, heard us name one single subject of regret?

Of regret.

And unite in an ardent wish, that heaven would con­secrate our union by a still longer pledge?

Most poetically expressed!—But am I indeed to un­derstand that you are likely to become a mother?

Undoubtedly!—Yet, be silent, dear Jenny!

And my brother is still ignorant of this joyful news?

I feared to deceive you all by illusive hopes.

—Brother, come hither directly! important tidings await you! leave your writing! that may be deferred till another time.

Be silent, I entreat!—I wish the communication to be reserved for his birth-day.

Can joy be too soon imparted?

Henry, will you not come?

Dear Jenny!

SCENE III.

Well, here I am!—Good-morrow, dearest Emilia!— and now, Jenny, what's the matter?

The matter!—only that I am afraid poor Pompey is likely soon to be wholly superseded in your favour.

Truly, an important [...]bject, on which to call me from my writing. But whence this [...]ear?

Because we seldom lavish our affection upon brute animals, but from the want of more interesting objects.—Have you not often made this remark yourself?

What?—how!—Jenny!—E [...]!—Come, come, this is too serious a subject for trifling!

Emilia, [...] believe it?

Yes, dearest Morland.

God! I thank thee that thou hast listened to my most ardent wish!

I meant this to have remained a secret till your birth­day; but that prattler—

Oh, Jenny, how will this news rejoice our father!

To-morrow is post-day; I will write to him.

Then will the good old man drop a tear into the lake of Geneva.

Or hasten to the grave of our mother, where he will feel this transport most deeply.

It is a long time since I wrote to him—beg him to excuse me!—you know that my business—

I make excuses for you!—by no means!—that you have, for a long time, sat in your study whole days together, and lately even slept there, that you might be up earlier in the morn­ing to renew your labours, I well know;—But what you are about—

You cannot tell.

Even so!—Often, when we have questioned you upon this subject, you have answered with the air of an ancient Ro­man; ‘My dear girls, the welfare of the whole state rests upon my shoulders!’ —Well, then, hasten to complete the important task in which you are engaged, that you may be restored to our society.

To accomplish that restoration, I must still work. Never was it more necessary to take example from the watch­ful crane, whose figure crowns the arms over our city gates. On one side, too much [...] required, on the other too much refused!— The prince is di [...]ul, the people presuming, and neither party can enjoy a moment's repose.

But with us, God be thanked, all is quiet!—Aetna sends forth torrents of fire—the earth trembles—and we calmly read the dread tidings in the news-papers.

When the earth shakes in Sicily, a new island is sometimes thrown up in the sea of Iceland. Heaven be prais­ed! we are quiet at present, and my nightly watchings will, I hope, contribute towards increasing our security. It is no light task, to search the archives of a town for a succession of six cen­turies, to separate rights from customs, and claims from laws, and then to compress the result into such a form that the Prince may know enough, without the people knowing too much.

Will not your talk be soon finished? We have en­joyed so little of your company for a month past—

This very day I shall transcribe the last sheet.

Away then! write hard, and do not let us see you any more till you can throw aside that countenance of thought.

This happy news has so distracted my attention, that I know not, whether I shall be able any longer to form a letter.

Or at every word you write, some apostrophe to the future heir of your family will be intruding itself, and whenever the letter P occurs, "he says Papa," will be ready to follow.

Give as free scope to your wit as you please, my good sister; but unless I am much mistaken, the aunt feels no small degree of happiness.

She does not deny the charge.

Well, go to breakfast, my dears—I will be with you presently.

SCENE IV.

What an excellent man!

Not one of the worst of hum [...] [...]ngs, indeed! a true honest Swiss!—his ance [...]ors fought at Morgarten.

How happy is it for me that I obeyed the dictates of my reason, instead of yielding to the ambitious views of my aunt, with her numerous line of ancestors?

'Tis happy, indeed, since all has fallen out so well! yet I must own, dear sister, that I was strongly averse to this match; as it did not, in my opinion, wear an auspicious aspect.

Had you fully known the principles that decided my resolution—

I had earnestly wished the union!—I had shewn that I was not insensible to the value of a woman whose innocence was so lightly estimated by a base aunt, yet who had virtue enough to prefer becoming the wife of a worthy citizen, to being the mistress of a prince.

Silence!—not so loud!

But then, indeed, my expectations would have been [Page 9] raised to such a pitch, that I should not, as now, have seen you, for two years soaring so far above them.

This testimony, dearest sister, is my pride, and my joy; and, believe me, I would, this day, do from enthusiastic af­fection, what was then only the result of reason.

Singular enough for a woman to fall in love with her own husband.

Not singular surely;—and is it not far better than to idolize the lover at the expence of the husband? I would seriously advise you, Jenny, to follow my example, not to wait for the witchery of love, but to be content with reason and friendship.

Again casting a reflection upon my respectable spinster state? any one would suppose me as much surrounded with suit­ors, as formerly the rich princess of Burgundy.

There is the gentleman of the Privy-Chamber—

A Sp [...] zephyr, that plays with every flower—a blighting insect that destroys every leaf he comes near. His tongue levels with the dust every respectable name, as the scythe mows down every blade of grass. I lately, however, very coolly and drily, told him such plain truths, that his hopes must now be entirely at an end.

I know not whether you may have observed the new enemy that seems advancing to the siege from another quarter.

As how?

That our clerk—

The Englishman? you dream!

Women are seldom mistaken in such conjectures.

A true English caprice! and moreover—

I know what you would say—a clerk—

Not so. A clerk wears a coat, to the button-hole of which chance may, some time or other, fasten an order.— But—

He has a good understanding, well cultivated—

But, nothing wherewith to make the pot boil.

I am not so certain of that—I suspect him to be richer than he appears.

Why so?

Do not laugh, and I will tell you a truly feminine observation I have made. He wears very fine linen.

To which I can add another equally curious. Not long since a man came to this town, who gives himself out as an English master of languages. Smith calls him his friend and fellow countryman. But I, one day saw them together upon the stairs, when Smith had his hat on, and the other, with his in his hand was bowing to him very respectfully. This struck me, and I stopped to observe them; but they immediately perceived me, appeared embarrassed, and the tone of equality was instantly resumed, though evidently with some degree of restraint; soon after which they shook hands and parted.

What if this clerk should be a Prince in disguise?

An Arcadian shepherd come to assist me in tending my flocks?

He is certainly no ordinary man.

So my brother says.

SCENE V.

Secretary Allbrand to wait upon you, Madam.

The odious wretch! I will not see him.

Alas! must I be obliged to receive him? Shew him up Thomas.

Oh God! how often in this w [...]rld are we compelled to stoop to dissimulation!

SCENE VI.

Pardon, Madam, my troubling you thus early.

You are my husband's friend. A friend cannot come unseasonably.

Would to heaven that this were spoken as from yourself.

Morland is not yet at leisure; will you condescend to loose a few minutes with a female?

You are sportive, Madam. You know but too well what a gain I consider this loss.

Possibly your business may be urgent? I will call my husband.

Urgent! Ah Madam, I have no business so urgent as to tell you, that in your presence every thing else is forgotten.

The air of the court has infected you.

It has only emboldened me to declare my feelings.

I understand that a new play is to come out at the thea­tre this evening.

At which I would indulge a hope that you may be present.

'Tis possible.

Then I may look forward to spending some hours of transport.

Of that you scarcely can fail, since the piece is Schroeder's.

The theatre is the only place where I may be al­lowed to contemplate those charms, without offending your ri­gid notions. There leaning against a pillar, alone in the midst of a surrounding croud, my eyes remain immovably fixed upon your box;—you see me not, while I see only you;—some­times, indeed, your fan or muff are alone to be seen;—but even to behold them is soothing to me.

Secretary Allbrand, you forget your engagement.— Solely on the condition, that in future I should hear no more such language, did I consent to conceal from my husband, whom you call your friend, a passion, which to view in the most favor­able light, is the height of imprudence.

Could a mind like yours harbor the idea of sow­ing the seeds of discord between two friends, who so long since, even as youths at the university, swore eternal fidelity to each other?

Have you observed your oath?

Can it be perjury towards friendship to admire what my friend has found so lovely? to adore the being who makes him happy?

Think as you please, in silence; b [...] never forget that the wife of Morland can only admit your friendship and esteem; but will steadily reject all pretensions to your admiration or love.

Happy Morland! yet at least permit me to com­plain of the injustice of fate; that I who have never loved but once in my life, whose constancy might be entitled to some re­compence, am compelled in silence to cherish a hopeless passion; while he, who, for years, only roved from flower to flower, is re­paid by an ardor and steadiness of attachment which such levity ill deserves;—that I, to whom innocence was ever sacred, am now scorned, rejected, while he, who at Strasburgh—

No more!—I will not hear you!

Far be from me the malignant wish to derogate from the merits of my worthy friend! particularly to injure him in the esteem of one in whom his whole happiness is centered! If at the time I reproved him severely for deceiving an innocent girl with false promises—

'Tis false!—Morland never deceived any one!

I do not mention this lapse, as a thing wholly un­pardonable. He was young—a perfect Adonis among the wo­men,—was [Page 13] it surprising that such admiration should make him vain? and we all know to what lengths vanity will [...] a man; perhaps the want of opportunity alone, protected me from doing the like. But, what excites my indignation is, that partial fate should give him a reward due only to the purity of a first passion.

Secretary Allbrand, even if this story, in the dis­closure of which you seem to find so much gratification, were true, why relate it to me? how does it concern me? what purpose do you hope to make it answer to yourself? For two years, I have been united to Morland; he has studied incessantly to promote my happiness; I have no wish unsatisfied; and what passed prior to our union, is indifferent to me; If my husband was once wild, I esteem myself the more fortunate that such courses are now entirely abandoned by him. Above all things, I de­test the malignity that would trace back the life of a man even to his cradle, to enumerate how many times in his childhood his mother was constrained to use the rod. In short, Sir, I will hear no more! To preserve domestic harmony, and spare my husband some hours of painful chagrin, I have hitherto been silent; but be assured, the next time that a similar expression shall escape your lips, all shall be revealed, whatever may be the conse­quence.

If you suppose that an unhappy passion is to be repressed by menaces, you know little of the human heart.

To deal with you sincerly, Mr. Secretary, I consider you as ready to grant any passion free ingress into your heart; but I believe none will ever gain a permanent establishment there.

I know not in what way to answer such a compliment.

Do with my compliment, as I have always done with your's—given them to the wind.

Madam—

SCENE VII.

I heard right then!—I thought I re­cognized your voice;

whether upon bu­siness, or as a friend, most welcome!

I come in both relations.

I will not interrupt you, gentlemen.

Sit down, my friend!—Have you breakfasted?

Two hours ago.

I w [...]ited till I had finished my business—I thought that breakfast would then have a better relish.—Has the minister asked—

I came hither upon that account. He expects to see you to-day.

He shall not be disappointed.

The abstract—

Is ready; and I have exceeded in it beyond my hopes. I have endeavoured to be as clear, as a work of such important public utility demands.

The minister expects implicit submission.

Say rather temperate truths; and then his expecta­tions will not be deceived.

Indeed, in taking such ground, you will oppose many courtly ideas. But so much the better;—only be upon your guard; and should he, in consequence, receive you with a haughty coldness, do not shew any resentment.

I never swerve from the strict line of my duty.

He is no friend to the rights of citizens.

They are clearly defined.

Yet I fear, that a decision—

Who can withstand that power?

But I know the mind of a courtier;—only oppose manly steadiness to his ipse dixit.

I say no more than may be said with propriety by a subject, and what I am bound to say as advocate for the citizens.

So much the better!— But indeed the minister has very contracted ideas of what a man ought to say.

The citizens have not reposed their confidence in me, that I should fashion my ideas after those of the minister.

There I recognize the true Swiss manliness.

Honesty is at home every where.

I am delighted with the idea of this audience.

I cannot say that I feel any delight; but I go to it, with perfect composure. The minister would have a hard task indeed to ruffle my temper to-day; for I am so tuned to hap­piness!—Dear Allbrand, participate my transports;—I am likely to become a father.

Indeed!

What, for two years, I have ardently wished, but had almost ceased to hope, is at length granted me. God be thanked for so great a blessing!

You give me a most un­expected pleasure!—Believe me, I take the warmest interest—

Without many words—friendship is not wordy.

It is but right, that Emilia should pay you in one way what she deprives you of in another.

What she deprives me of!—I do not understand you.

I mean that you are an object of hatred to the cour­tiers. You know the old Latin saying, "regis ad exemplum totus componitur orbis."

Because she gave her hand to a citizen.

Not so.—That was the subject of their sneers and [...]arcasms for three days; and then was wholly forgotten.

What then?

My God!—you know very well—

What do I know?

The Prince is young and vain;—he will never par­don you for having superseded him.

The Prince?

Why that question?—as if I told you something new.

New indeed!

You cannot be ignorant, that the prince was formerly a suitor of Emilia's.

The prince a suitor of Emilia's?—What am I to understand by this insinuation?

What is commonly understood, when we talk of a Prince's being a suitor.

Allbrand, I consider this as an affront.

Good God! how can you consider it as an affront, to hear from the mouth of a friend, what has long served as an amusement for all the gossips in town.

That the Prince had made proposals to Emilia?

Very brilliant proposals, and very urgently offered.

And Emilia?—

Did what honour and virtue required of her.

She never mentioned a word of this to me!

I am astonished at that.

It was known to all the gossips in town, yet was to be concealed from me!

Doubtless to avoid giving you uneasiness.

I am made more uneasy by hearing it thus.

I am not surprised at that, and, viewed in this light, Emilia has certainly been wrong in the secrecy she has observed. She ought to have told you the story herself, lest it might perchance reach your ears from some other quarter, when it would be served up, adorned with all the pretty circumstances, with which rumour delights to garnish such dishes.

And are such stories indeed whispered about?— Such stories of my wife?

Heavens! can you be astonished at that? You know the world,—know how much it is the aim of every scoun­drel to run down all merit.

But the particulars of this history?

Why, what would you—

I require them as an act of friendship.

Then I must obey. It is said that your wife—but, pray, excuse me!

No, no—say on! they will make no kind of im­pression upon me.

It is said, that your wife and the Prince were once upon very good terms—extremely good terms.

What mean you?—

It is no wonder if the Prince's fine person and ami­able qualities should, at the first moment, dazzel the immagina­tion of a young girl; but the rest, I have no doubt, are malicious additions.

Most certainly!—yet that people should dare to say such things of Morland's wife.—

The affair is very little talked of, now.

But still sometimes hinted at?

Must I remind a man who knows the world so well, that a good action is often forgotten in twenty-four hours, while a tale of calumny is scarcely ever wholly laid asleep, even when its victim rests in the grave.

In truth, my friend, you have found the means of embittering the happiest hour of my life.

For shame! Why do you suffer such a foolish business to torment you? follow my example and laugh at the tale. It was but yesterday that I absolutely laughed in the face of an old lady, who positively asserted that the intercourse between the Prince and Mrs. Morland still continued.

Still continued!

Had been maintained with intermission for four years. As if a Prince's love could last out an Olympiad! Ha! ha! ha!

Mere malice!

Neither more or less.

Pitiful envy!

And no reasonable man, therefore, would gratify the babblers by suffering the affair to give him the least un­easiness.

Yet I must own myself hurt at Emilia's never men­tioning the subject.

It astonishes me. But the more virtuous the wo­man, the less does she like talking of such conquests.

She had doubtless sufficient reasons for her silence.

Emilia could not act but upon sufficient reasons.— But, it grows late—

Farwell, my friend—we shall meet again at the minister's.

That four years ago the Prince had inten­tions?—You know this for certain?

I cannot say, that I was ever present at an inter­view;—I only give you common report.

At an interview!

And if she did stray a few steps out of the right path; why concern yourself with an affair that happened two years before the commencement of your acquaintance with her. In a very few weeks the error was seen and relinquished—and —ah Morland!—were the women to keep to strict a reckoning with us, what husband would dare to look a wife in the face?

SCENE VIII.

Strange!—what hateful ideas are floating in my brain?—But it cannot be true!—and were it so; is Emilia to be condemned because she is lovely and amiable?—She is certainly guiltless!— She must be, by heaven!—Yet, she should have imparted the circumstance to me!—her concealment of it was not right!—

SCENE IX

Sir, here is the copy.

What copy?—Oh, I recollect!—You have finish­ed it most expeditiously.—But, I forgot to tell you, that, some­where in the paper, an erroneous quotation from Montesquieu, has crept in, which should be corrected.

I perceived, and have corrected it.

Indeed!

Perhaps I have been guilty of impertinence?

On the contrary, you have conferred an obligation. —You are then acquainted with Montesquieu's works?

He is one of my favourite authors.

It seems very extraordinary, that a man so accom­plished as yourself, possessing not only a perfect knowledge of your own language, but also of the French and German, and to whom many other branches of learning are familiar, should be condemned to so low a situation as that of a clerk.

Fate—

Excuse me if I cannot help saying, that I have fre­quently suspected your birth to be above your present circum­stances.

Then why concern yourself with my origin?

If you are following your own caprice, it is mat­ter of indifference to me?—but should misfortune be the cause of your degradation, were I made the confidant of your troubles, I might be enabled to procure you some amendment in your situation.

Have none but the unfortunate, need of confidants? I am not unhappy, yet I might be much happier.

Can I assist you?

Will you?

With the truest pleasure.

Your hand upon it?

Have I obtained your good opinion?

Entirely;—nor will you ever loose it again, if you always remain what you have been for the last two months.

I am always the same.

I consider you as a man of abilities and integrity.

Your wishes are gratified.

Then speak without reserve.

I will.—I love your sister.

Indeed! this was not what I ex­pected to hear.

And what you are not pleased at hearing?

Why do you suppose so?—if—

Let it remain between ourselves alone.

Rely upon that—but there are circumstances—

I am rich.

That is in your favor.

Not much. I am a Lord also; but, that is of still less account.

How?—explain this romance?

Does what I say appear like romance?

What is your name?

Sidney.

And you have assumed this extraordinary disguise?

For your sisters' sake.

But—

To speak in plain terms;—for as you could not pos­sibly unravel this aegnima, yourself, I must, for once, allow my­self to say more than I usually do. In my early years I was a courtier, but the court is not my element; fortunately for me I became acquainted with John Howard, who taught me to be a man. Peace to his ashes! Many an infirmary, many a prison have we examined together; and by this intercourse my mind was gradually strengthened and enlightened. When he quitted England for the laudable purpose of extending his benevolence to the whole race of mankind, I attached myself to his compa­ny. With him I have explored the interior of Africa, and visit­ed Abyssinia, though not, like Bruce, drank to the health of a Prince whose dominions lay somewhere about the source of the Nile. My concern was rather with the sources of good and ill in the heart of man—the sources whence might flow happiness in life, and composure in death.

And you have succeeded?

Thus much I have ascertained—That under the palm-tree of Negroland, as under the oak of Germany, domestic peace, and domestic comforts, are, if not the only, at least the prime sources, of mortal happiness.

And were you obliged to explore the interior of Africa to ascertain that?

What lies direclly before our eyes, is often sought at the greatest distance. Every spreading tree that we behold, in­vites us to enjoy peace and serenity beneath its shade; but we pass it by, and only hope to taste repose beyond the grave.

And the experience you have collected in your travels, you wish to reduce into practice?

You are right. This has long been my wish, and at length I hope the object is attainable. For four years past, I have been in search of a good wife.

So long, and not yet found one? your researches must have been conducted very negligently; many good wives are to be found.

'Tis possible,—but I have seen so much of the world, that I have become suspicious—this is the worst effect of ex­perience. My feelings are like those of a connesseur in paint­ing, who, amid a magnificent groupe of figures, should pass over the most prominent with contempt, and gaze with delight and astonishment at one, which to the eyes of common observers, appeared lost in the superior grandeur of the rest. Believe me, Mr. Morland, it is a true, but melancholly observation, that our sensibilities to the joys of life, evaporate as the transient dew-drops upon the rose.

Then, a prudent man should endeavor the more ar­dently to cherish them, while a last fleeting drop still remains.

Such is my determination. My pilgrimage is at an end; I am arrived at my goal.—Jenny has won my whole soul, she is the single drop I wish to cherish. Her form is lovely— her mind far superior—her understanding is cultivated, while her heart remains true to nature;—She is charitable and benevolent, without knowing it—witty, without intending it. She never concerns herself with the affairs of others, nor scans the fashion of her neighbor's new gown or cap, to turn them into ridicule. She endeavours to exculpate all who are guilty only of weaknes­ses, and never condemns in severe terms even the most palpable criminality. Above all things, she possesses that richest of all treasures, an equanimity of temper which is the same yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, and forever. Oh! what an infinite source of happiness is idcluded in that one quality!

How came you so intimately acquainted with this phoenix?

First at the theatre.

I did not know that you had ever accompanied her into our box.

I was not in your box—I was in the pit.

An opera-glass acqua [...]ntance then?

Nor can there be a better medium for forming an ac­quaintance; provided the mind will use it,—nor merely the eye. I will venture to assest, that a tolerably accurate opinion may always be formed of a woman, only by attentively observing her behaviour at the theatre.

Truly visionary.

I mean, supposing the piece to be such as affords suffici­ent ground for observation. For instance, if a woman be looking around at the company, when Philip is engaged in conversation with Posa, I can immediately measure the extent of her under­standing. If at the lamentations of the mother in Iffland's Forest­ers, or at the story of Just's spaniel,—a woman's eyes remain dry; it gives me an immediate insight into her heart.

And Jenny was accidentally so fortunate—

Accidentally!—Jenny, was still Jenny. She never came to see and be seen, but always sat in the corner of her box absorbed in attention to the piece. Her smiles and tears were not ostentatiously displayed, but lost in her muff; she never clapped, but appeared uneasy when any fine passage was interrupt­ed by the clapping of others. This made me observant—I conti­nued my observations for some months—I found that these were not the mere impulses of the moment, but the settled feelings of her heart; and I resolved to become acquainted with her.— Where, and in what manner to procure an introduction to this fair incognita, then became the question?—Should I seek to dazzle the imagination of my future wife with the prospect of rank and fortune?—No! never! never!—If the humble Edward Smith could not win her affections; I resolved that her hand should never be given to the rich Lord Sidney. I heard that you were in want of a clerk; I offered my services,—my plan suc­ceeded—they were accepted. Under this disguise I have for two [Page 24] months secretly watched every thought, every action, of the be­loved object—I have observed her, under circumstances when even the slightest veil that conceals the feelings of the soul, is thrown aside; and my reason is now satisfied;—it has permitted my heart to speak.

Does my sister know this?

Heaven forbid!—You are her brother, a man of sense and discernment, and stand in the place of her father—have you any thing to say against it?

My lord, how can I—

Pshaw!—Has a single word escaped me that might be supposed to come from the mouth of a lord?—To go farther, I will also own, that I have no less accurately observed you—I am convinced you are an honest man;—I as little throw away my friendship lightly, as my love. Will you be my friend?

With my whole heart!

Enough!—Give me your hand!—no more at present, and let what has passed, remain a profound secret.

But I cannot possibly retain you any longer as my clerk.

I request it as a favor.

The women will observe my embarrassment.

Why should you be embarrassed?

Jenny is a nice observer.

Most certainly.

And a man-hater.

I rejoice to hear it. A reconciled enemy is always the warmest friend.

When will you declare yourself?

I know not.—When courage and opportunity suit.

A man who has traversed Abyssinia cannot want courage.

A fool alone has courage in love—the Abyssinians have as little courage in this respect as ourselves. Have you farther employment for me?

I must go now to the Minister.

In the afternoon I will bring you documents to prove my rank and fortune.

I can trust you.

That would be folly. I may be an adventurer, and deceive you through impudence—never trust any one.

SCENE X.

Never trust any one!—not even a wife!—Alas! is this all that can be learnt by travelling the world over—that no man is to be trusted!—better be sometimes deceived, than live in con­stant suspicion!—I cannot do that—my heart revolts against it! —Emilia, it is well that the Briton has somewhat dissipated my thoughts!—yet they will recur to one fatal subject—Oh All­brand! Allbrand! thou hast placed a worm in my bosom which gnaws my very vitals!—Shall I, without reserve, impart all my torments to Emilia?—that perhaps were best!—A husband or wife cannot guard too cautiously against suffering aught to smo­ther within their bosoms, that may at least burst forth into an unquenchable flame. Yet, to-day, I never can assume sufficient fortitude to mention the subject—at least not now—in the even­ing, perhaps, when all business is over, and the twilight of do­mestic peace may succeed a day of storms—

SCENE XI.

Are you at last alone, dearest Morland?

Yes— I am alone—and—I wish to be alone!—

What can this mean!—

My God! what can this mean!!!

SCENE I.

FOR God's sake, talk, Prunk.

What can I say?

Any thing.

His Excellency has an assembly and card-party, this evening.

I know that already.

His Excellency does not dine at home to-day.

I know that too.

I don't know what to say, then—you know every thing beforehand.—To-day is Monday,

Ha! ha! ha!—Prunk, can you guess why I laugh?—'Tis because you really at last have told me news; for the devil fetch me, if ever I know either the day of the week, or the day of the month.

Except you should chance to write a draft.

Bravo!—well said, Prunk!—you come on—the idea was not bad,—Come, again—

I am quite exhausted.

What?—served so long in the anti-chamber, and not yet learned to talk a great deal about nothing?

My duty is to say nothing about a great deal.

You play very prettily with an antithesis. But, seriously, have you much to keep yourself?

At least, frequenting the court, has taught me to appear as if I had.

You certainly have talents.

That is my misfortune; else I had not remained so long, only valet of the Privy-Chamber.

How so?

Great people love to consider themselves as creators· Now a clever fellow is something ready formed to their hands, and no creation of theirs; a stupid fellow, on the contrary, is a mere block; and if a Prince form him into a Privy-Counsellor the manufacture is all his own.

You think the stupidest fellows, rise the most rapidly?

They do not rise, they are pushed up.

And by whom? by the women. Believe, me Prunk, Court favor is commonly the effect of female caprice.

That cannot be, when your honor has never risen beyond gentleman of the Privy-Chamber.

My own fault. Could I have cringed to the ugly painted creatures about the court I might have been Chamber­lain long ago. But my devotion to the fair sex, has never been a matter of interest—if I see a lovely Madona countenance, I never concern myself with enquiring whether she be a fag-end of quality or not.

Miss Jenny Morland for that.

You mistake—I am quite off with her.

Off! again?

The girl can find no place in the creation good enough for her little pert turned-up nose. She would fain have seduced me into committing the greatest folly of which a man can be guilty, matrimony—or, possibly her prudery was only in­tended as a varnish to conceal the blemishes of her former in­trigues.

Intrigues! she has always been considered as ex­tremely modest and reserved.

Modest! But remember we are not alone.—

Prunk, who is that statue up in the corner?

One captain Ellfield.

What does he want?

A pension, no doubt—that's the cry of all these people.

Send him away.

I have told him, twenty times, already, that his ex­cellency would not be spoken with to day, but he will not stir.

A truly comic figure, faith! he drags one foot like a [...]rane, when it stands stretching out its neck upon some lofty pinacle.

He is lame from a shot in the leg.

He seems good for nothing but to be shot at.— Look at his hand crammed so stiffly into his waistcoat.

He has only a false arm.

False?

His own arm was carried away by a cannon ball.

You excite my curiosity. I'll amuse myself with him for a while.

Will you be seated, Sir?

I thank you.

Pray do not stand at that distance!

I thank you, sincerely.

For what?

For a few civil words. If such were not to be acknowledged, the art of making acknowledgements might soon be forgotten here.

Upon my word, this fellow is not an ab­solute fool!

I am afraid my uncle will not be seen to day.

Then I must be content to do once more, as I have done every day for the last month.

That was?—

Yo come again the next day.

Captain, you must not consider it as a particular affront to you, if amid the croud of supplicants who daily throng around my uncle, he have not always the power of dis­tinguishing between the man of real merit and the mere pre­tender.

Ministers are appointed for the purpose of learning those distinctions.

What have you done for your native country?

My duty.

Then he will perform his.

I trust so.

You have suffered much in the service.

I am an absolute cripple.

And your dismission is the only recompence you have received?

By which I am left without bread.

It it expensive to live where the prince resides.

I am surprised at that.

Why surprised?

Because the population is so thin.

What do you mean?—this city contains fifty thousand inhabitants.

So I have been informed.

And with truth.

I can scarcely believe it. I brought at least twenty recommendations from the army, to people who were said to be resident here; but, not one of them can I find; and if my visits to this house are to be continued in vain for some weeks long­er—

You would swear through thick and thin, that my uncle did not live here?

You are perfectly right.

Ha! ha! ha!—It is very obvious that the court is not your element.

Thank God, it is not!

Three things are indispensably necessary to all who would make their way there;—sound legs, a flexible back, and a smooth tongue.

With not one of which I am blessed.

Then you are on the high road to starvation.

Both my poor sick wife, and myself, have been very near the end of our journey.

Married, too?

Yes▪

Poor man!—And how did you help yourself?

I have no power of helping myself, as you see.

And foreign aid must not be expected within the atmosphere you now breathe.

Philanthropy is to be found, even in the purlieus of a court.

By the help of Diogenes' lantern.

No, there are benevolent beings who can even seek out misery, and unsolicited, afford it consolation, and assistance; —yet nobly keep their names in concealment.

Indeed!—I thought, I was tolerably well ac­quainted with the character of every one near the court; yet I confess myself at a loss to divine who this may be?

She will not be known.

A she too!—Oh hasten, dear Captain, to satisfy my curiosity!

I have told you all that I know myself; perhaps I have been to blame in saying so much—the bare mention of the circumstance may be a transgression against that benevolent crea­ture's wish of secrecy. But, so few happy moments fall to my lot, that I can scarcely command myself, when I think of those she has afforded me.

Humph!—a lady!—Was she young?—hand­some?—

An angel!—Yet I am almost ashamed of applying to to her, a term so often misused by poets and romance-writers.

And this unknown angel?—

By accident learned our distresses, and has ever since, even at midnight, brought consolation to my garret.

At midnight!—

Virtues and crimes, alike, shun day-light;—the form­er from modesty, the latter from fear.

I wish you joy, Captain—a cripple, I perceive, may make conquests.

For shame, Sir.

Female virtue in the streets at midnight!—Ha! ha! ha!—I know what to think of that.

Fool!—why did I give vent to my feelings in such a place?

In the great world, one soon looses all belief in exalted virtue.

Then, for the first time, I feel my poverty a blessing!

SCENE II.

Good morrow, Nephew!

I ordered that nobody should be admitted to day.

The strange gentleman would not take a refusal.—

For a month past I have daily sought access to your Excellency.

Who are you?

Ellfield, of the regiment of Braunstein.

Ellfield! of the regiment of Braunstein! right! right! I recollect your name.

And your excellency will probably also recollect, that I have twice lost my baggage, and am reduced to a cripple in the service.

What do you want?

Bread.

Your opinions are not very consistent with our ne­cessitous situation.

My opinions can ha [...] be known to your Excellency.

Yet—

Yet, granted they were, I should then feel the great­er confidence in my petition's being granted.

What do you mean?

That I suppose principles of strict integrity to be the most powerful recommendation by which any petition can be enforced.

Your colonel was dissatisfied with you.

My colonel! I hope—

You have disseminated principles—

I desirbe to be judged by my actions: my crippled limbs bear ample testimony, that I have fulfilled my duty.— Yet, I would not shrink from an investigation of my principles. May I ask your excellency of what I am accused?

Of making improper remarks upon the war.

Could my colonel be guilty of conduct so dishono­rable as to make a private conversation the subject of an official report?

Recollect, that one indiscreet word will often do more mischief, than a thousand brave arms can repair.

My remarks were such as might be made with the strictest propriety, among a circle of friends over a bottle.

What reliance was to be placed upon that friend­ship?

Experience informs me—alas! too late.

You would have acted more prudently in times like the present, when all the bonds that unite society are re­laxed, not to trust too implicitly to those of friendship. I wish you a good morning, Sir.

Your excellency has at least laid down a doctrine, whence, bitter as it is, I might draw an inference that would furnish me some consolation, amid the agonies of disappointed hope; for when all other bonds are relaxed, why is that to be regarded which would force us to live? and, of what value is [Page 34] life to one bowed to the earth by corporeal and mental suffering? Yes, with my one remaining arm I should certainly discharge a pistol through that head which has been the undersigned cause of my misfortune; did not an unfortunate being, who in my happier days united her fate with mine, look to me alone for so­lace and support.—But I dare not leave a helpless wife, a prey to hunger and despair!—However reluctant I may be therefore to solicit farther; I must still entreat your excellency to grant me some trifling pension, that may preserve us from the extremity of want. Do not suppose this hat, shot through in so many places, is worn from ostentation—believe me, I have no other. My sword, and a heart glowing with love for my native country, is all the wealth fate has left me.

I will take some opportunity of laying your case be­fore the Prince.

When may I hope?—

At present, we are so overpowered with state affairs; and besides, the Prince has not, of late, been in a particularly good humour:—call again, in a few weeks.

In a few weeks!—Good God!—Your Excellency must surely be aware, that every hour is an age to the miserable.

Perhaps it may be sooner—I will send for you.—

These people grow every day more numerous and importunate.

He is not so wrenched as he appears.

Do you know him?

Not much. I only know that the poor afflicted cripple, even now occasions many a sleepless night, to many a kind-hearted lady.

Indeed!—Aye, it will certainly be right to keep a watchful eye over the man. He is a philosopher; and they are always a dangerous set of people—even without arms or legs.

SCENE III.

Your Excellency's orders are obeyed; the letters are ready for signature.

And may I expect soon to receive the elucidations necessary for imposing the new duties?

Morland promised them to-day.

The old book-worm has had a glorious rummage a­mong dusty parchments.

He enters very warmly into the citizens' cause.

A fanatic, who is always talking about his belov­ed Grecians.

Let him take heed to himself.

I have advised him to that effect. We are old friends; but the welfare of the state must supersede all private friendships.

He endeavours to instil his Swiss principles into the people.

It is always dangerous to trust such kind of men in any post.

Woe to him, if his influence over the citizens be misused!

He degrades the dignity of his office—talks with the meanest mechanic, as if he were his brother.

Cannot his wife inspire him with better notions?— She is of a genteel family.

He ridicules all such ideas—he is always yawning in the audience-chamber—and goes into the first circles with a cropped head.

I have known him for eighteen years—even from his childhood, he was rash and headstrong.

Enough. The Prince shall know all; he must be narrowly watched.

I tremble for my friend!—yet, were he my brother, I feel sufficient resolution to become a second Timoleon, for the sake of my country.

Syndicus Morland, Sir.

Shew him in.

SCENE IV

What brings the good Syndicus hither?—

I hope your Excellency will find these representati­ons on the part of the citizens to be just.

Representations!—I only required such information from various old documents, as might assist in establishing the new duties.

It is from those old documents, that the matter con­tained in these representations, is derived;—I have compressed it to the utmost of my power.—

Do you suppose, that the Prince will read all these sheets?

Most certainly;—for I know him to be the up­right Father of his people.

But uprightness cannot ensure a man against fa­tigue.

If the happiness of a nation can be purchased at the expence only of one fatigue to its ruler; it is cheaply obtained.

What do you mean?

That I am confident, a Prince, like ours, will not think any business fatiguing, which may ultimately promote the happiness of his subjects.

And the result of these representations?—

Is an humble hope on the part of the citizens, that the imposition of the intended duties will be relinquished.

The pretext for which hope is?—

Necessity.—Your Excellency well knows, how small is the productive, how great is the consuming trade about a court. Our inland manufactures are little encouraged; they are almost entirely superseded by the English.—A thousand ra­pid streams flow out of this city,—one little rivulet alone flows into it. What is saved by industry, and diligence in trade, is swallowed up by duties on every thing we eat and drink, on our stock, our property—

My God! why this enumeration?—I regret the ci­tizens' distresses as much as you; but the necessities of the State—

I know, must be considered;—nor are the citizens insensible to the convulsion that shakes all Europe; but they know also that we inhabit a happy corner of the earth, which nature, united with the wisdom of its rulers, have preserved from these convulsions; and they hope—

These are things, Mr. Syndicus, of which, those only who preside in the Cabinet, can be proper judges.

I have done my duty.

Less of duty I desire; and more consideration for the State.

He who seeks the people's happiness, manifests the greatest love for the State.

Insolent!—But I warn you Mr. Syndicus, that we live in times, when the banishment of turbulent spirits, is, per­haps, one of the most sacred duties of those who guide the helm of affairs.

SCENE V.

Ha! ha! ha!—You, literati, are always run­ning your heads agaist a post;—you laugh at the courtiers, and call them insignificant beings; but I would venture any wager, that a gentleman of the Privy-Chamber, in your situation would have conducted himself in a very different manner.

I don't doubt it.

This is always the case among people unaccus­tomed to courtly manners. Observe the Pagods that ornament the chimney-piece in the Anti-Chamber;—the Court is the be­nignant region, whence proceeds all genial warmth; but who­ever would share its smiles, must nod their heads, like those Pagods, and be careful not to stand in any body's way.

You forget that the citizens prepare the wood which enables them and their resemblances to nod.

Bravo!—Ha! ha! ha!

Apropos,—how does the lady your wife!

Perfectly well.

Indeed!—Perfectly well!

What do you mean by that sneer?

You know the world.—What indeed could be more natural than that a Swiss girl should wish, for some re­freshing Alpine breezes.—But people about the Court have no idea of such natural wishes.—In short, town prattle is like a bottle of Champagne; and the purest motives are only a cork, which it throws up suddenly into the air.

What such people say or think, is to me, matter of perfect indifference.

Don't plume yourself too highly upon your stoi­cism—the hardest stone may, in time, be worn away, only by [Page 39] the drippings of the rain. Trust the warning of a friend—be a little less zealous in the citizens' cause, and somewhat more at­tentive to your domestic concerns—else it may fare with you as with Cato and Marcus Aurelius.

SCENE VI.

Allbrand, what does he mean?—am I become a com­mon talk to the whole town?—Am I so fallen, that every fool is to jingle his cap and bells in my ears?

The coxcomb serves every body in the same way.

Let him divert himself at my expence, as much as he pleases; but by Heaven, he shall not sport with the characters of my wife and sister!—I will break the rascal's head if he dare—

Dear Morland, how many heads will you break, if—

How!—What!—Name the carrion progeny who are so ready to caw and scratch where they suppose they have discovered a fallen deer!—I will make an example of them!— These right honorable gossips, though related to the Abyssinian monarch himself, shall—

Morland, Morland, you forget yourself.

No!—when my wife's virtue is called in question—

You do not recollect where we are.

I would tear the very priest from the altar, who should dare to cast aspersions on Emilia!

The Minister's displeasure has put you out of temper.

SCENE VII.

I thought, I heard altercation.

Heaven forbid!

Have you any farther business with me, Mr. Syndi [...]s?

None, please your Excellency.

You would do well to govern your hasty temper, in my house.

I acknowledge my fault, and intreat your pardon— there are moments when po [...]rful feeling will overcome good manners.

Probably, important business may await you at home.

To intrude on the great, never was my failing.

Some people have strange ideas of behaviour.

Indeed the air of the audience-chamber, is not salu­tary to the inhabitant of the Alps!—he sickens in it, both in body and mind.

The air of a prison is a sovereign remedy for such diseases.

Such was the opinion of the Austrian governor, four centuries ago. I am your Excellency's most humble servant.

SCENE VIII.

The Austrian governors!—what does he mean?— who were those governors?

An insolent allusion to the history of the Swiss con­federacy.

The pedant assumes it as a certainty, that every body must be as conversant with the history of his rugged countrymen, as himself. But, what was passing here?

Your excellency is irritated; and I would by no means increase your anger. Morland is, or at least was, my friend.

I cannot suffer my questions to be evaded. Whom does this matter concern so much as myself?

Your Excellency is undoubtedly my benefactor, my patron—

And as such I command you to speak.

The whole affair originated in an unmeaning joke made by your excellency's nephew, which occasioned Morland immediately to cast reflections upon all nobility, calling them car­rion progeny.

The tongue is the citizen's favourite weapon.

And, when I admonished him gently, to consider where we were; he scoffed at the reproof, and assured me, he would not spare even the priest at the altar.

The man is ripe for destruction—a little puff of wind, and he falls.

Alas! my poor friend!

You weep?

So wept Brutus, when obliged to condemn his sons.

Friendship must yield to duty. Allbrand, I have great confidence in you; your admirable "Patriotic reflections" are safe in my port-folio; the prince shall see, and will doubtless reward them. In the mean time, an opportunity is presented to you, of acquiring new merit with the State; continue to main­tain an appearance of friendship with Morland—observe him narrowly, a [...]d every evening, impart your observations to me—it is of importance that I should know this man thoroughly.

SCENE IX.

Be it [...]o—you shall find, that you have not mistaken your man Morland hasten [...] fast into the snare which he has himself afforded the means of spreading for his destruction. I could easily, at this very moment, drive him into quitting his post, even into leaving the town, but then Emilia would be the companion of his flight; and I should be no gainer; my only prospect of attain­ing the object to which I aspire, is, by the removal of himself alone. That once accomplished—even if I cannot overcome Emilia's prudery, I shall at least be revenged upon it; and re­venge would be enjoyment, though but of a secondary nature. But first, I must by some means procure the sketch of the "Pa­triotic Reflections"—that must not be left in his hands, as a wit­ne [...]s against me—then will I awaken the distrust of the citizens, and all is ever with the Syndicus.

SCENE X.

Hist! hist!—Mr. Secretary?

Well, what news?

Are we alone?

Quite alone.

I have made a great discovery.

Tell it quickly, then.

Last night, as I was upon duty, patrolling about the streets, I saw a well dressed woman, followed by a maid, with a bundle under her arm, steal softly across the castle square.— She looked anxiously round her, several times, while I thought within myself, who can this be?—when she came to the well, she stopped and hemmed three or four times; and in a few [Page 43] moments the house door, at No. 312, was opened, and she entered. I remained wandering about the square for more than an hour,—to be sure the time seemed a little tedious, but at last the door opened again, and the lady came out;—she was attended to the door by a man, of whom she took leave very kindly, promissing to visit him again the next night.— With that she tripped hastily away; and I stole softly after her, till she reached her own house.—And now, whom do you think she might be?

Some kind-hearted lady, I suppose.

Mrs. Morland, as I live.

You are mad!

Mad! Not a bit of it! I'll consent to live upon bread and water, for a month, if it was any body else. She at­tempted to unlock the garden-door, and as it was dark put aside her veil, to find the key-hole more readily. I took the oppor­tunity of throwing the light of my dark-lantern directly in her face, and saw her too plainly to be mistaken.

And do you know whom she had been visiting?

I fetched the constable immediately, and he says, that the house belongs to an old woman, and up in the garret lives one captain Ellfield, who I suppose was the person that let her in and attended her out.

Impossible!

Nay, very certain; for he is the only man in the house.

Do you know him?

No, but I know that he is very poor.

Are you certain of the truth of this story?

Give me a box on the ear every day, for the rest of my life if I did not last night see Mrs. Morland go to visit captain Ellfield.

But what the devil could she want with him?

That's more than I know.

Humph! I can scarcely [Page 44] suspect any thing amiss here! but no matter! it has that ap­pearance at least; and I can make it of important use in for­warding my plans. It may be employed as an engine for betray­ing the husband into the commission of some rash action, and of intimidating the wife into compliance with my wishes. Yes, it is a most fortunate accident!—

The Captain, you say, is poor?

So the constable asserts.

Very poor?

In want even of bread▪

So much the better!

Have you never seen him?—He has attended daily at his Excellency's, for some weeks past, to solicit a pension.

Ha!—the same!—excellent!—conduct me to him.

Now?—at this instant?

At this very instant.

We have not far to go.—No. 312, in the Castle Square.

SCENE XI.

'Tis too fine, too expensive for my present situation!—Ad­mirable woman!—Now, I am once more out of bed, and clothed again; I could fancy myself in perfect health!—Had I a little more colour, no one would imagine that I had so lately, for ten days together, been on the very brink of the grave. My hands, my strength, are restored; I can walk and stand with­out the assistance of a stick, or supporting myself against the wall!—thanks!—eternal thanks! to my benefactress, and my [Page 45] dear Charles's love, for this restoration!—But my husband does not retutn!

I dressed myself only for him—I know he will rejoice to see me thus!—but—

There was a time, when I was accustomed to a splendid toilette, with a glass in which I could see myself from head to foot!—fye! fye!— I ought not to bestow one thought upon such follies!—My Charles is still spared, and all other losses are scarcely worth a sigh!—He is a cripple, alas!—but his heart beats with equal warmth for me, as in his prosperous days; and my hands shall labour for his support!—When he was borne wounded from the field of battle, and I knelt in despair beside his almost life­less body; had I another wish, or could I breathe another prayer, save for his recovery?—My prayers were heard!—he did recover!—and I am happy!

SCENE XII.

Are you at last returned, my Charles!

My dearest Caroline!

Are you pleased to see me thus?

Let this be my answer! You surely understand it?

My heart is its interpreter.

But have you not ventured up too soon!

No, I feel perfectly recovered.

You look pale still.

I mean to take a short walk, to day—I think, the air will revive me.

Do not run any hazards; a relapse might cost you your life.

Oh, you need not fear a relapse.

Remember that I cannot live without you.

Have you again been disappointed?

I have at length seen the Minister.

Indeed! Well?

Alas!

Speak, I entreat.

May heaven bless you, my Caroline!

I am blessed!

Alas! how?

In your love!

Dearest wife! you understand making even a cripple worthy of envy.

SCENE XIII.

I hope I do not mi [...]ake the house.

Whom seek you, Sir?

Captain Ellfield.

I am that person.

And this lady?—

Is my wife.

You are married then?

You seem surprised at that? May I ask with whom I have the honor of speaking?

As a man can scarcely be allowed at a first visit to assume the name of FRIEND, I beg leave to conceal mine.

This is most extraordinary!—While those on whom I [...]e some claim for friendship forsake me, I am indebted to [...]rangers for consolation and support.

I know your story—I consider your fate as hard— and my situation may enable me to improve it. I enjoy a con­siderable share of the minister's favour.

You will find your patronage not bestowed upon un­grateful hearts.

I will engage to procure you a competent pen­sion—if—

That if, seems to imply some condition. Is it one that I am in a station to fulfil?

Silence and confidence are all that I require.

Both which, are in the power even of a beggar.

You often receive visits from Mrs. Morland.

Mrs. Morland!

Mrs. Morland?

I surely do not mistake?

Is Mrs. Morland, the lady to whom we are so much indebted?

How! Do you not know her?

Till this moment, we only knew her heart.

Yes, she has often, at midnight—

Often, indeed! and, like an angel, has rescu­ed me from death.

Yet never told her name?

Never!

It was like herself!—Her soul is truly noble!

It is indeed!

Most truly so!

And she has promised this night—

To see us again.

And enjoy the fruit of her benevolence.

Would you render this lady an essential service!

I would sacrifice my life for her!

This encourages me to inform you, in confidence that I am so blest as to enjoy her love.

She is then unmarried?

No, she is married, but, alas, unhappily!

Yet, if she be unhappy, to such a woman, her duty must be sacred.

That is the very point. Upon this subject she en­tertains very strong prejudices.

Prejudices, Sir!

Which time would banish, could she be persuad­ed—

Of what?

Permit me to meet her at these nightly visits?— Your lodging is perfectly private—perfectly retired.—If I might see her, here, alone?—Or perhaps you would lend your assist­ance in combating some childish notions—

Oh, Poverty! Po­verty! to what humiliation dost thou reduce a man!

This is too much.

I hope you do not misunderstand me? I pledge my honour that every thing relative to the pension, shall be finished to-morrow! and do not suppose my gratitude shall be confined to that alone—

Be this an earnest—

Sir, I know you not,—I am ignorant of your rank and name; but whatever they may be, unless you quit my room peaceably, this instant, you shall find, that a cripple, when his honour is insulted, has strength sufficient to kick a scoundrel down stairs.

This—to me?

Yes,—though you were next heir to the throne!— Begone, or I shall make use of the rights my own house gives me.

Very well, captain Ellfield—But remember that the pension is forfeited by your own indiscretion; you are your­self alone responsible for whatever consequences may ensue.

Scound [...]el! did he hope to make me his pimp!—me!

Who can the villain be?

Some Courtier, no doubt, who judges of us by himself.

We must conceal this circumstance from our benefactress.

Most certainly. Innocence, like her's, would be shocked at hearing that it was suspected capable of corruption. But I will not suffer her to go home, again, alone.

Charles, we have only potatoes for dinner; yet how much happier are our lots than his!

Our hearts are pure, though our fare is homely.

He would shame poverty.

For the sake of mankind, heaven guard such villains from poverty!—

SCENE I.

IS the Minister at home?

Yes.

I must speak with him directly, upon urgent bu­siness.

He will not see you.

Why not?

He is at cards.

So much the better!—Has he ill-luck?

I believe so.

So much the better again!

So much the worse, I think.

Go and whisper in his ear—

He will bid me go to the devil!

My business is of the utmost importance.

At Court, many things are very important in the morn­ing, that become very insignificant in the evening over the card table.

I must positively—

You will damn your own cause.

With all my heart!

Well, if you chuse to run the hazard!—

If he have lost, he will be so much the wore petulant and ill-tempered—his ears here, his heart at the card-table, eager to retrieve his losses. Then he will not stay long, but say at once,—"you know what had best be done, fol­low your own judgment,"—and thus will my point be completely carried. Summon up all thy confidence, Allbrand!—chance smiles upon thee—thy good genius beckons thee forward!—How fortunate that I should meet young Scharfeneck at such a mo­ment, and learn from him so many cirrumstances, to make my story appear the more probable!—But, Prunk returns—

SCENE II.

He is coming.

In what sort of humour?

So cross and snappish, that I have no desire to be one cf his auditors.

Go, and welcome!—your company is not wanted.

Well, what's the matter?

A melancholy discovery!

Hasten to tell it, then.

Morland is a traitor!

You have fresh proofs against him?

The most undoubted!—He holds a secret inter­course—

With whom?

One Captain Ellfield.

I know the fellow.

They meet at dead of night—

Where?

At the Captain's lodgings.

Are you certain of this?

I know from eye-witnesses that Morland steals by night to the house of this man; though by day he denies any knowledge of him.

Enough to create suspicion!—But what is to be done?

If we could catch him in the very fact—

True!—he might be sent at once to prison.

His papers might also be seized.

And he himself brought to a speedy trial.

If your Excellency would invest me with full pow­ers for such a procedure—

By all means!—but supposing his papers should prove nothing against him?—the Prince, you know, requires the utmost forbearance and circumspection in these matters.

The fact is beyond a doubt.

Well, then—

May I desire a written order? —

Now, directly?

Or if your Excellency would give directions to the police-officer who waits without—

Let him come in.

Pilz!

SCENE III.

I have charged my secretary with an im­portant commission;—follow his directions implicitly.

—Have you any thing else to mention?

Nothing!—Does your Excellency recollect any further orders?

Only a strict injunction to proceed cautiously—I shall expect your report early to-morrow morning.—

All succeeds admirably!—

Come to my apartment; there you shall receive your instructions. No; first seek the Gentleman of the Privy Cham­ber; and say that I request to see him for a few moments—tell him of his Excellency's and Highness's commands!—away!— instantly!—

That was an admirable thought!— [Page 53] Scharfeneck shall seize and seal up the papers. The sketch of the "Patriotic Reflections" I must have!—much depends upon that!—much!—very much!—

SCENE IV.

My brother is very late!—he keeps the dinner waiting a long time.

It must be my fault, if the time appear so very te­dious.

How so?

I do not understand how to talk.

On the contrary, I have often, at table, admired your talents for conversation.

I ought rather to be silent there and talk here.

The reverse is the most natural; since in the compa­ny of a woman only, the subjects for conversation are so much more confined.

But what they loose in variety, they gain in interest.

You have, I perceive, been so far initiated into the mys­teries of the fashionable world, that you are an adept at making compliments.

I never make compliments,—I always speak truth.

Is it long since you left En­gland?

Many months.

And have you never, like a Swiss, experienced the mal-du-pays?

Sometimes.

Why, then, do you not return?—A man of your talents might find employment any where.

Do you wish to get rid of me?

Heaven forbid!

I cannot return, alone, to my native country.

Then why not marry?

'Tis my ardent wish!

Not that it is a step I would recommend.

Why not?

Because, if you suppose all married people to be as my brother and sister, you mistake.

I shall not easily be brought to think so.

Most matches are unhappy.

Of that I very much doubt.

I can plead frequent observations of the fact, in sup­port of my assertion. Two young people fall desperately in love with each other, and think they never can exist asunder;—a head-strong father, or a cross guardian interposes, and thwarts their wishes:—the young people sigh and pine—and pine and sigh—till at length the old people's hearts are melted. Then the lovers fancy they stand upon the highest pinnacle of fortune's temple, and clasped in each other's arms, look down with indif­ference on every object, in the busy world around them; they rush forward into wedlock, as the night-walker to the lowest edge of the sloping roof, when suddenly some one calls, they start, they wake, and down they fall.

A very ingenious simile; but the position on which it is founded, is not fact.

And there lie the poor souls, stretched in the mire of ennui, exchanging looks of discontent with each other. If, in­deed, they be at bottom, people of sense and worth; powerful habit, after a while, will come to their assistance; till at length, [Page 55] they will learn to endure each other's foibles with patience;— and each will jog on contentedly along the paved foot-path, to which his steps must be confined; thankful if no thorns spring up to obstruct and wound him as he proceeds.

But if esteem be the mother of love?—

She is, at best, no more than a step-mother.

Those who can reason upon love, have indeed never loved.

And are to be envied.

To be pitied.

An unknown happiness can have no charms.

A false axiom. Do you suppose that miners, con­demned to grovel at an immense depth under ground, never long to behold the sun?

You have high ideas of love.

And still higher of wedlock.

Love ties two beings together;—wedlock makes them only one. Love drinks down large draughts from the cup of joy;—wedlock sips up the sweets, a drop at a time; nor finish­es them till arrived at the very brink of the grave. Love is a caterpillar, devouring dainties;—wedlock, the same caterpillar, transformed into a butterfly, when it feeds only upon the purer nourishment of the fragrance exhaled by flowers. Years roll on; but a good wife never becomes old;—winter succeeds to sum­mer; but wedded happiness never chills. The kiss of a chaste wife, is the stamp with which nature seals her choicest blessings; —storms roar above; lightning flashes around; but where domestic love dwells, every trouble, every sorrow, is but half felt —every joy, every pleasure, is doubled.

You grow animated.

Woe to that man who would remain cold and insensible, while descanting on female beauty and virtue!—who would drink out of the same cup with him?—Woe to the man who pays no more respect to a good wife, than to his night gown; but because she administers daily, nay hourly, to his comfort, receives her at­tentions without one grateful feeling; and only learns to prize domestic happiness, when lost forever!—Let thy crowns, O Chance! be scattered about like flakes of snow; I would not catch at one;—I only ask thee to bestow upon me, the simple garland of love!

— Should I at length find what I have, so many years sought—find my hopes, my wishes, realized—then farewel, ye petty tyrants of the mind, ambition, thirst of fame, ardour to obtain the palm of wit!—my heart shall have no room for any guest but love. The sweet calm of domestic peace, firm union of souls, a taste for the joys of nature, love for the unempoisoned air of the coun­try, for rural pastimes, for the pleasures of retirement, where we may live remote from envy and calumny—from—

Our finest dreams are seldom realized.

That I love, is no dream;—but that I flatter myself with my love being returned, in equal portion, may perhaps be the mere effect of a presumptuous vision. For the first time in my life, I feel my happiness dependent upon the favour of others; and, for the first time in my life, I tremble. Words are but poor interpreters of our thoughts; let this tremor vouch the truth of my feel­ings?

Smith, whence these emotions?

When a man feels to his inmost soul—feels so that he can scarcely speak;—when his [Page 57] [...]ice faulter—through the tears—that would force a passage— to his eyes—Oh, can his sincerity be doubted!—

Smith! for heaven's sake!

This moment decides the happiness or misery of my future life!—an honest man solicits your hand—an ardent lover solicits your heart.

The agitation that I witness, speaks in a language that cannot be mistaken—but—

My birth indeed is humble.

That was not what I was going to observe.

My possessions are small, but sufficient to satisfy moderate wishes.

I do not intend to sell my heart.

Be it then the reward of honorable love!

Allow me time for consideration, dear Smith!

I thank you sincerely!

What can be more grateful to an honest heart, than the asssurance that it shall be proved?

SCENE V.

Here he is at last, but in a terribly serious humour.

What is the matter, brother?

Nothing! overpowered with business.

You have usually been, at least, cheerful at dinner.

Because I was not oppressed with care—But do not mind me—this will pass away in time.

We have expected you with great anxiety; you were always accustomed to send, when you could not dine at home.

Forgive me—I forgot—the minister—

The minister? what of him?

Excuse [Page 58] me—I am not well—my head aches—I feel, as if I were in­toxicated—let me retire.

What can you have been about, this whole day?

Walking—no, no, only—

First it was business, now it is walking—Oh brother! brother!

Forgive me!—I really know not what I say.

A dark shade in the picture of wedded happiness.

What were light without shade?

Will you go in, dearest Morland? dinner waits.

Yes!—I am ready!

SCENE VI.

Pardon me, that I come thus unexpectedly!—a very unexpected piece of business brings me hither, my friend.

Pshaw! again business?

Go, my love—Go Jenny, sit down to dinner—we will be with you presently.

My dear Henry, I have provided your favorite dish.

Thanks, dearest Emi­lia! go, depend on seeing us in a few minutes.

All is not right! What can have altered him thus!

Smith! Smith! if this example cannot deter!—

No over-hasty judgement, I entreat!

Allbrand, you seem disordered.

Oh, deeply,

New torments for me?

Alas!

Speak out!

At this moment I feel, for the first time in my life, that friendship may impose upon us most painful dutie [...].

Truth is the first.

And most sacred of all duties—I fulfil it with tears in my eyes, with a bleeding heart!—Morland, are you a man? a heavy blow aw [...]ts you—the more: severe as coming from a beloved hand.

From my wifes?

She is unworthy that name.

Prove her so!

She holds nightly meetings with the Prince.

'Tis false!

Who has felt more implicit confidence in her vir­tue than myself? Who has defended her more eagerly against all defamers, than myself? My heart revolted at the idea of finding her guilty of infidelity towards her husband—but

I tell you 'tis false!

So I asserted, as long as possibility of doubt re­mained; but when incontrovertible facts—

By heaven 'tis false! Come to her now, immediately—

Her tears, her denial of guilt, will be no proofs of her innocence. Would you deprive yourself of the power of ascertaining the truth?

And what proofs have you against her?

Emilia has, for some time past quitted your house every night.

Allbrand!

Stolen secretely across the Castle-square—

I ask for proofs!

Into a very notorious house.

But, proofs▪ proofs!

And there met the Prince.

Villian! thou liest!

Any thing may be excused to a friend in your situation.

Once more, I say, your proofs?

Will you believe your own eyes?

And only my eyes!

I will remain with you until midnight: we will go together to the place; and you shall yourself be witness of her shame!

I take you at your word.

But unarmed.

What time is it now?

Just nine o'clock.

Oh, God! so early!—so early!

Employ the interval in endeavoring to recollect yourself; a moment neglected never returns. Emilia's disavow­al of the fact could not remove suspicion from your soul; and without the conviction I offer, you must lead a life of torment with a wife, whom you wish, yet dare not presume to consider, as innocent.

I am recovered.

It were better not to see her again before mid­night; should her suspicion be excited, she will not go.

I swear she will not go!

I wish she may not.

The slanderer shall answer this calumny with his life!

If Emilia be innocent▪

She is innocent.

At least was so once.

Come with me, look her in the face, and be asham­ed!

Lavater cannot decide in such a case.

Name the person who has dared to calumniate her.

She is coming. For heaven's sake do not betray yourself.

SCENE VIII.—

De [...]r Morland, you have been absent from home all day, let the evening be devoted to us!—We could not dine without you, we had no relish for a single morsel! Is not your business yet concluded?—Mr. Secretary, will you partake of our humble fare?

I beg to be excused.

If you will not encrease our little family circle, I hope at least, you will not, by detaining my husband, contract it.

I do it reluctantly.

Of what nature, can be that business which robs my dear Morland of his unaccustomed serenity?—my God, Henry, how you fix your eyes upon me!—dearest husband what can thus oppress you!

Do you wish to know?

'Tis merely an unpleasant circumstance that has occurred in his office—nothing more.

If it be nothing in which I can advise or assist him, yet tender participation in trouble is seldom unwelcome.

Do you interest yourself in my sorrows?

My God!—what a question!

You look at me, so affectionately!

And you look so wildly, at me.

Oh, you have not deserved it!—I know you have not!

Indeed, I have not▪

By heaven, I am sure of it!

You forge [...] our business.

Your behaviour is so extraordinary!

My heart is unchanged!

I hope so.

As your's!

Then I will be content.

You will do better to separate. Repose cannot be enjoyed, till our business be completed. I would advise lock­ing ourselves together into your study for to-night, and then by to-morrow's dawn, all may be finished.

The whole night, did you say?

Are you not pleased at it?

I fear, lest yo [...] health should be injured!—you have slept so little for several [...]eks!

And you wish, that I should sleep?

Oh, most sincerely!

Indeed!

Can you doubt it?

My friend, midnight approaches.

Midnight!—ha!—farewell Emilia!

Shall we not see each other again, this evening?

I hope not.

You hope not?

Forgive me!—I am absent!—Come, Allbrand— good night Emilia!

Not one kiss at parting?

I hope it is not the last!

God forbid!

No, it is not possible!

You will be so obliging, Madam, as to give orders that nobody interrupt us.

SCENE IX.

Something very extraordinary must have occurred; yet he will not impart it to me!—some heavy calamity overpowers him; and he will not let me share it!—What can I have done to offend him?—Why am I, on a sudden, thought unworthy of his confidence?

SCENE X.

Are you alone, dear sister?—where is my brother?

In his study.—Allbrand and he have business toge­ther which will occupy them for the whole night.

You have been weeping?

Alas, yes!

What has happened?

Oh, I do not know!

Has my brother been unkind to you?

Not unkind!—Yet he is so unlike himself, that I scarcely know him.

What can be the matter?

Allbrand says, that it is merely some vexation of bu­siness.

If so, you may be perfectly easy, and may rest assur­ed that all will soon be right again.

I hope so!—I do not doubt it!—yet, 'tis impossible [Page 64] to describe the anxiety I feel!—I would forbear to weep, but it is not in my power!

This is one of the happiest unions I ever witnessed!—yet, these sorrows!—these tears!—

Think you, I would exchange these sorrows, these tears, for your boasted freedom?—No, Jenny!—Shall I have experienced unbounded happiness for two years, and now shrink at the least reverse?—Ah, it is but a momentary reverse, and these tears will soon be wiped away by the hand of love!

SCENE XI.

Dear ladies, am I to dine by myself to-day?

Yes!—for once!

Alas!—I have no appetite for dinner.

Nor I, neither.

And Mr. Morland?

Is occupied with business.

You seem both very uneasy—has any thing unpleasant happened?

Nothing!

Nothing at all!

I will not be intrusive.

Shall I stay and keep you company?

I had rather be alone.

I have no inclination myself for company.—It is true that I have much to say to you; but the present is not a propi­tious moment for the communication. Good-night sister.

Good-night, dear Jenny.

Will my harpsichord disturb you?

Oh, by no means.

Mozart shall drive away the vapours.

SCENE XII.

Music will charm your mind to peace—I will endeavour to soothe mine by benevolence;—at poor Ellfield's I may perhaps forget, what occasions me so much anxiety. And shall I go a­gain without Morland's knowledge?—better at once tell him all! —but then, the pleasure of presenting my patients to him, on his birth day, would be lost!—besides, at the present moment, it might appear obtrusive.—Hist! I thought I heard my name mentioned in the study!—Yet, what concern can my name have with business?—Shall I?—No! shame on the idea!—far be from me the meanness of listening. But now, I dare not at­tempt speaking to my husband, since it will immediately appear as if I had listened. And why should I be so desirous of com­municating the affair at this moment?—I shall not be missed,— and if I am, he knows me!—yet the discovery shall not be de­layed beyond to-morrow!—all secrecy is pernicious; and I blame myself for having given way to it. I must take a short time to recover myself; and then I will go.—Heaven grant, that when I see Morland, to-morrow, he may be more composed!

SCENE I.

MAKE no noise, Corporal! conceal yourself with your people; and when I give the alarm, be ready to come forth.—

Wants only a quarter of twelve—we shan't have long to wait!—For my part, I don't understand this business:—the wife plays false, and the husband is to answer for it—I can't see much justice in that!—Well, well, 'tis no concern of mine; and good order must be preserved!—Hist! I hear somebody coming!

SCENE II.

It must be hereabouts!—My direction is—near the dooor of the Court Apothecary's.

How I totter under the weight of this thick heavy cloak!—or is it the adventure that makes me quake?—I cannot say, I like it much; suspect All­brand to be over-reaching my uncle—and me into the bargain. I have no objection at all to a frolic; but an act of deliberate [Page 67] villainy, goes against my conscience!—For that, however, my employers must be responsible.

I am to con­ceal myself here; but should it be necessary to continue this game at hide and seek, longer than ten minutes, my patience will be exhausted; and I shall take the liberty of returning home, and going quietly to bed.

SCENE III.

This is the place.

And that the house?

Yes, where you see a light in the upper room.

Oh, God! how my heart beats!

'Tis an awful moment to an affectionate husband.

The most awful that ever I experienced!—

The clock strikes.

Each stroke is to me like the knell of death.

Promise me once more to command thyself?

I cannot promise any thing.

Do not forget, that the Prince is at hand.

You pour oil upon the flame.

How easily, in the midst of the confusion, might he accomplish any thing that suggested itself to his tyrannical mind.

Oh! that he would command his guards to dispa [...] me, at the moment!—that were mercy indeed!

Do not speak so loud!

Of what are you afraid?—Do you suppose that Emilia will hear us?—No! no!—Emilia will not come!

Heaven grant, she may not.

Then, to-morrow▪ I throw myself at her feet, and confess all!—No! this very night!—I will hasten to her bedside, awaken her gently, and, with my tears and kisses, call forth a blush into those cheeks which were never flushed by conscious guilt.

Hark! I hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

The steps of a female?

I should think so.—But, for God's sake be more calm!—how your teeth chatter!

Oh! my blood freezes.

SCENE IV.

We have been expecting you for some time, Madam.

How is my good friend above?

I thank you, perfectly well.

Did you see?

Almighty God!—It was she herself.

Are you now convinced?

Scarcely, even now!

Whither will you go?

Can that be made a question?

Yes, break in there!

Stop!—I arrest you in the Prince's name!

How!

Guards come hither!

Do you know, who I am!

The very person we seek.

This is too much!

Follow me.

Whither?

Whither I am ordered to conduct you.

I must go into this house.

Don't compel me to use force!

Oh, God of mercy! annihilate me at this moment!

Infer­nal woman, hear me!—hear me, Emilia!—be thou accursed for ever!—may some heavy judgment overtake thee, even in the arms of thy paramour!—may ye both be accursed, both thou and thy seducer!—O-h-h—

Good heavens! how he raves!—Oh, that Pilz had but sense enough to stop his mouth!— his clamours are sufficient to alarm the whole street!

Allbrand!

I thank you for your punctuality.

I almost repent my engagement!

For what reason?

Who was the woman that stole in here?

Probably one of their associates.

Why are not the whole crew apprehended?

All are not equally ripe for imprisonment.

What occasioned Morland to curse his wife so bitterly?

'Twas temporary phrenzy▪

I wish I were in my bed!—What more is to be done?

We must follow the guards at a distance:—when Morland is delivered into safe custody, Pilz shall accompany you to his house.

And then?

You know what—the papers—

Why not seize them yourself?

Because I cannot be in different places at the same moment: and my presence is more necessary elsewhere. Come along, now—I will give you farther instructions by the way.

SCENE V.

"Chapter the seventh,"—"How Sultan Bajazet was confined by Tamerlane in an iron cage."—It happened in the year one thousand four hundred and two, that a bloody battle"— Why, Eve! you are asleep.

No, no—read on—I hear you.

What was I reading about?

Something or other of the lame and blind.

Right!—Bajazet was blind of one eye, and Tamerlane limped. But you are nodding again.

My eye-lids will fall down.

I can't think, where the prisoner can be!—'Tis now past midnight.

I cannot think who he can be?

Neighbour Pilz was very secret; I could not get a word out of him.

Well, we shall know in time.

Truly, we shall, by virtue of our office.

Do you hear? they must be come!

He has left me alone in the dark. For three whole years, have I now lived in this prison; yet never with my own good will was left so many minutes together, without a light. It has entirely scared away my drowsiness—Hark!—how every step they take, sounds through the long passages!—The great hinges of the gate, creak dismally!—the chains rattle—the gate bangs—terrible music for the poor man they are bringing amongst us!—He certainly must be some great gentleman:— for neighbour Pilz ordered the large room, with the tapestry hangings, to be prepared for him.

SCENE VI.

Heaven defend me, Mr. Syndicus! is it you?

Merciful powers, Mr. Syndicus! who could have thought of this?

Come, come, neighbours; not so many words,

Humph! Humph! I should as soon have expected the skies to fall.

I am so terrified, that I cannot move a limb.

Ah? 'Tis a motely world.

This is not motely neighbour; 'tis as black as a coal. Such a man as the Syndicus, the friend of all the poor in the town.

Who endeavoured to procure every body their rights▪

And always took notice of every child he met.

But it is his Highness' command.

Well to be sure if it is his Highness—

Who knows what lies wicked people may have told of the worthy gentleman.

Neighbour Eve, take care of your tongue.

Why to be sure, God knows the Prince is only a man.

But a man favoured by God.

That's for certain.

Therefore neighbour Kroll, in virtue of your office▪ here is a prisoner, for whom you are answerable.

Locks and bars shall answer for him.

And nobody must be admitted to see him.

Very well.

Good-night, neighbour.

Good-night, Mr. Pilz.

I should like to know, how the good night is to come, when he has shut an honest man up in prison?—For my part I hav'n't had any concern in it,—but what does that signify?—I know for certain, that I shan't close my eyes all night. Poor dear gentleman! how terribly he looks!—Take heart, noble Syndicus, bad weather will overtake those that are going to church as well as them that are running to the alehouse, but where the heart and conscience are warm, the clothes are soon dried.— Alack-a-day! he neither sees nor hears me!—Truly, I am only the simple wife of a poor citizen, and I don't know how to com­fort such a learned gentleman.

Look there, Benjamin,—our prisoner seems to have neither life nor motion,— he stares at the door, as if he saw something.—Certainly no good will happen to us, if we dont look a little after him.

Come, Mr. Syndicus, there's no occasion to take this so much at heart!—many a great gentleman has been kept up here for a long time, and yet come off with honour at last.

We don't behave unkind to any body—they've com­monly enough to bear, before they come to us; and we are glad to comfort them, if we can.

This state prison is not an iron cage.

Ah, Benjamin! 'tis just like talking to the wind!—

Good Mr. Syndicus!

Who are you?—Where am I? —What would you have?

Dear heaven! don't your honour know me?

I know nobody!—I know nobody!—

What!—has your honour forgotten—

Forgotten!

No! no!—I have not forgotten—

Would not a glass of wine be of service to you?— you shall have the best we can get.

Oh, a whole bottle!—a whole bottle!—Yes, yes, wine, good man!—wine!—wine!—happy he who can drown his feelings in wine!—

Leave him alone Benjamin;—he is not in his right mind.

Won't you please to go to rest?—Eve has prepared you a very good bed.

Ha! ha! ha!—Rest!—Ha! ha! ha!—

To be sure, your honour won't rest so well as at home.

At home?

Ah, God!—how will poor Madam grieve!

Woman! do you mean to mock me?

Oh, terrible!—to be sure, he is out of his senses!

Would to God!

More knocking!—who can this be!

Take me with you, husband!—I am afraid of being left alone with him!

Oh, that I could thus easily tear her from my heart!

SCENE VII.

If your Excellency have such an or­der—

I take the responsibility solely upon myself!—leave us alone.

Is this the reward of love and patriotism?

What voice was that!—Allbrand!—you here?— you too in prison?

In the cause of friendship, I even condescended to have recourse to falshood;—I used the minister's name, and the doors were opened to me.

Not a prisoner, then?—But, why should you be confined?—she is not your wife!

Oh, my injured friend!

What seek you here?

To console you.

Is my house burnt down?—my whole property de­stroyed?—A beggar might be capable of receiving consolation —but not a fond and injured husband!

I would give you advice, as a friend.

Give advice to a helpless wretch plunged into a whirlpool!—perhaps throw him a straw at which to catch!

I might afford you some assistance.

Can the ruined honour of a wife be propped up like a mouldering building?—Can faith and truth be re [...]med▪ like an extinguished light?

No!—but the man who has cherished a serpent in his bosom, may throw it away; and then pursue his career with renovated powers.

Even though it had struck its fangs into his heart, and the venom were poisoning the very sources of life!

Shall the infidelity of a perjured wife have power to deprive a Morland of every comfort, every satisfaction?—has not nature endowed you, my friend, with eminent talents for advancing the welfare of your fellow citizens?—Does not the noble mind often recover lost repose in seeking to promote that happiness in others, of which it is itself deprived?—May not dissipation, activity—

In a prison?—in chains?—Ha! ha! ha!

Does the sun shine only upon this little spot?— Shall this soil alone experience the beneficial effects of your ardour and industry?—Will not your native country receive back with transport, into her bosom, a man she herself nourished and cherished?

Oh, why did I ever quit so blessed a spo [...]!

Away then, my friend; and at your pure Alpine springs drink oblivion to all your wrongs. Forget a wife who is unworthy of your love!—forget a country which rep [...]ys your attachment with the basest ingratitude, but forget not a friend who loses all recollection of himself, when he urges you to this separation!

Shall innocence seek its safety in flight▪—in con­cealment?

Was not Socrates, though guiltless, condemned?— and did he not suffer because he refused to shake off his chains.

Oh, my friend! you cherish the wildest visions!— What means are left me for escape?

Be that my care.

Are you sensible, what you hazard?

Yes, I know what hazards I run, and for whom they are incurred.

Allbrand! Allbrand! thou hast twined yet one more bond to fasten me to life!—thou hast almost reconciled me again to the human race!—yet I cannot have recourse to flight, and leave my honour a prey to all the gossips and scan­dalous chronicles in the town. "Morland is absconded" it will be said—"On what charge was he apprehended? and why did he fly? why should he wish to escape from justice?"—Do you suppose a single mouth would be stopped by hearing, that I was guilty of no other crime than having a lovely wife?

Alas! no!—for the colours that are to varnish over this injustice, are already prepared.

Indeed!—

You are accused of being a Jacobin.

Ha! and the proofs?—

Not even your wife, as 'tis reported, could furnish any thing like proofs.

Could not—but would have furnised them willing­ly!

Conceal nothing, Allbrand— one stab more or less is of little consequence.

When I had somewhat recovered from my first astonishment at your apprehension—

Where were you at that moment?

Close by you; and when I saw you borne away, I was about to follow you down the street; but it soon occurred to me, that I might possibly render you more important service, [Page 77] by seeking intelligence at the fountain-head. I was like one thunderstruck:—of the true motives for this proceeding, I could not entertain a doubt; but I had no conception of the pretext that would be urged to sanction it.

Well!—but my wife!—my wife!

I hastened back to the square, where I found the Prince's Valet-de-Chambre wrapped in a large cloak, and in waiting for his master's return—

Oh God!—Oh God!—the honour of my wife placed at the mercy of a Valet-de-Chambre!

We had long known each other—

And he confided to you?—

The whole progress of the affair. Emilia with­stood his solicitations for a long time—

Virtuous woman!

She wept, knelt—

Extremely affecting!

But the Prince is young, handsome, engaging—

Perfectly natural▪

And, perhaps, the idea of rank was too dazzling for the female imagination to resist; since the Prince promised à patent of nobility for you.

He did me great honour.

And promotion at Court.

Indeed!—that certainly was irresistable.

But by your own impetuosity, you have stumbled upon the very threshold.

Oh, I am a headstrong fool!

You have done the Prince's work for him. It was impossible, that he could seriously intend to permit your re­maining so near; he has long watched his opportunity, had his spies about in all parts—

And at last caught me trespassing upon his Prince­ly territories!—damn him!—damn him!—

Nor are his apprehensions yet removed; though a prisoner, he considers you as still a formidable obstacle to his views; and the Valet doubts whether you will be permitted to remain here. A removal to some more secure fortress, upon the frontiers, is talked of.

Ha! ha! ha!—Ha! ha! ha!

Morland! Morland! my heart bleeds for you!— Should his threat be executed, you were lost indeed!—Remote from every friend to console you, unknown, unpitied, branded by the mandate of the Prince himself, as a criminal—without even the possibility of communication by letter, with those who might pour a balm into your wounded mind—

The same God is every where!

No miracle will interpose to thwart the triumph of wickedness. Fly then, while it is yet in your power—my influ­ence, my connections, may be of some service in screening you from pursuit—they can avail nothing, in case of your removal to a distant prison.

I will appeal to the laws!—a hearing cannot be refused me!

To the laws!—Are you the first person who has been buried alive?—whose cries have in vain sought to force their way to the ear of justice?—And what purpose would be an­swered, supposing you could obtain a hearing?—Is it not notori­ous to all the world, that you are innocent, but who will venture to pronounce you so, when the Prince's honour is involved in the establishment of your guilt?—You are a foreigner; you have no relations, no connections, here, to concern themselves in your fate.

Forsaken wretch that I am!—Oh, Emilia!—Emi­lia!—Yes, Allbrand, I can readily conceive that the mind, even of a virtuous woman may be seduced by the allurements of am­bition, by the blandishments of a voluptuary, till her honour be­comes [Page 79] their sacrifice—yet still, she has a heart!—Shame may, for a while, be silenced and put to flight; but, at length, it will return, strew the bed of roses with thorns, and change the smile of passion into convulsive distortions. Then will busy recollection reproach her, that for two years her love had been my all—that my heart, my life, had been devoted to the promotion of her happiness—that I had sacrificed every thing to my love—had known no joy without her—no sorrow when she was by my side! —Oh-h-h!

Morland, you rend my heart.

And can this wife wish my destruction!—

Whatever she may do now, terror must soon com­pel her to wish it!—the dread lest all her misdeeds should become known, and your just vengeance overtake her.

Oh, she was so affectionate!—could she see these cold drops that stand upon my forehead!—

She would hide the blush of shame in the bosom of her seducer.

Ha! For the love of heaven, Allbrand, shake me! rouse me!—that I may be awakened from this terrible dream!

Would to God, it were but a dream!—Did you see his Highness give her his hand at the house-door?

Was it indeed the Prince?

Nay, you must yourself have seen him.

I saw the figure of a man.

Of the Prince?

Damn him?—damn him!

And did you not hear?—

I heard nothing!

Not the flatteries with which he received her—nor the burst of laughter behind the door, when you were arrested?

Laughter!—But it could be only the Prince who laughed!—I swear, by heaven, it could not be Emilia!

I might be mistaken.

No, Allbrand, a beloved wife may be so lost as to become a criminal; she may disgrace the name, and wring the heart of her injured husband: but could I suppose her capable of laughing, when she beheld innocence and virtue trampled under foot—when she saw that injured, deceived husband, thus made the victim.—O God!—O God!—See Allbrand!

fool!— fool!—I have torn my own flesh through indignation.

Horrible, but just wrath!

Could she see these bloody fingers—

Rouse thyself, Morland!—Sue out a bill of divorce against the Syren!

No, death alone shall separate us!—Yes, yes, she is dead!—See there she lies!—I wring my hands over her corpse! —Oh, God! assist me to believe in this illusion!—Emilia dead, I can love her again;—How that thought consoles me!—I can weep again!—

One day will be sufficient to prepare all things for your escape.

Allbrand, bespeak me a suit of mourning.

Hasten to the arms of your aged father!

A mourning suit, Allbrand!

Let your sister be the companion of your flight.

A mourning suit for my deceased Emilia!

Morland, this is unmanly!—Will you waste your­self to a shadow with fruitless sorrow, while the sorceress makes you her sport in the arms of her paramour?

Her sport!—No, Allbrand!—Emilia, though fallen, cannot make me her sport.

Well, well, no matter!—In twenty-four hours, you will be upon the road to Basil—then, and not till then, when the traitress finds that she is not to enjoy her triumph in security, [Page 81] will she be fully unmasked. Write her a letter, Morland—a letter full of coldness and contempt—a mandate of external se­paration.

Do you suppose that the Prince's guards will con­vey a letter from me to Emilia?

I will carry it to her—will give it to her in the presence of the Prince himself—strike her with a look—

Will you, indeed?—

I give you my word of honour.

Well, then!

Without there!

Bring pen and ink.

I did not know that it was permitted—

I will be responsible.

The next room is prepared for the Syndicus; and here you will find all conveniences—

I will be with you again directly.

I have managed it at last, but with infi­nite trouble.

Poor gentleman!—for certain, he must be innocent.

'Tis possible.

May one be allowed to ask what crime he has commit­ted?

That cannot be known for certain, it is a State secret; various reports are circulated.

Heaven will bring his innocence to light.

That might be possible, if heaven and he were up­on better terms.

I don't understand what your honour means.

Strange things are reported of him—I cannot say positively, that they are true; but certain it is, that I never saw him at church.

But still, I am sure he would not—

'Tis impossible to say!—bad company is contagi­ous!—wicked books, and evil examples, have great influence.

Heaven forbid!

Thus far I know from his own mouth, that he does not believe in a devil.

Not believe in a devil!—Eve, what d'ye think now?

And the Prince is extremely pious.

To be sure he is. Well, well, his Highness has done quite right.

You see, my friends, that your compassion is mis­placed.

Compassion, indeed!—I say compassion to a man who does not believe in a devil!

'Tis hard enough, that we are obliged to be under the same roof with him.

Should he attempt to converse with you, I would advise you to be short in your answers.

You need not make yourself uneasy about that.

No one, beside myself, must be allowed to speak with him.

Nobody but Satan. God forgive me the word.

Least of all, his wife. And, do you hear?—I again caution you against throwing yourselves too much in his way—a smooth tongue might conjole you.

He could not shake my faith. But the children, Ben­jamin—he might do them a mischief.—We had best take care and keep the children out of his way.

I will put a padlock upon his door.

No, no, I cannot pity him any longer. I thought he might have committed some offence againt his Highness such as embezzling money entrusted to him, or some such matter; for such things will happen, even to the most pious. But not to believe in a devil!!!—

SCENE VIII.

Take it!

'Tis too wild!— too empassioned!—colder contempt had been better!—this anger will gratify her. However,

what the writer has omitted, the mes­senger will supply.

Allbrand, should we at last be mistaken?—should she be innocent?—she might not survive the receipt of such a letter.

Innocent!

Yes, yes, I am a fool!—I am indeed a fool!— Did we not both see?—Ah, no!—I saw only her.

I saw, and heard, the Prince.

Are you very sure that you were not mistaken?— Our senses will sometimes deceive us—instances have occurred.

I was a cool spectator—

But in the darkness of night, you might be mis­led—

The moon shone bright.

Oh, too true!—too true!—and to attempt to ex­plain away the whole affair by supposing it accident?—

Appears to me perfectly ridiculous.

So it is!—so it is!—Take the letter then!—yet hold!—No! no!—Allbrand, I think Emilia cannot possibly be innocent!

Certainly not.

Might not the Prince by chance?—No, that could scarcely be!—and what then could Emilia want?—to whom [Page 84] could she go?—Oh, she is guilty!—she is guilty▪—every bond between us is broken—Take the letter, Allbrand; take it to her, paint to her my sufferings!—carry her my everlasting curse!— Yet! no! no! no!—for God's sake—she is pregnant!—All­brand, she is pregnant!—give me back the letter!

You astonish me, Morland!—But since you are incapable of acting for yourself, I must think, and act for you— I must, and will save you. Recollect, that for four years past a dishonourable tie has chained Emilia to the Prince!—do you suppose that she would have forsaken the father of her child?

You suggest horrors.

Will you submit to be reputed the father of a child not your own?

Oh God!—you drain the last drop of blood from my heart!

Will you condescend to be made the laughing- [...]ock of the whole country?

Ha!—revenge!—revenge!

Rather shew contempt. It is the part of injured [...]orth to despise,—revenge must be left to conscience.

Do you expect to find a conscience where virtue and [...]ove have been so long dissembled?

It cannot be enveloped in so thick a shell, but that [...] worm of remorse will gnaw through to it at last.

And when that moment shall arrive—when the [...] of voluptuousness shall be exchanged for the bed of death, [...] [...]e criminal shall seek in vain for rest, upon the softest [...] down—when the windows of her chamber must be [...] [...]at no ray of light may strike her languid eyes— [...] [...]e shall be insensible, even to the choicest wines [...] [...]'s cellar—whe [...] [...]o [...]oling medicine shall have [...] the fever burning in her v [...]ins—when hired [...] [...]ng by her bed-side, insensible to her faint [Page 85] groans, to the scene of wretchedness before them!—then shall my form, just visible by the dusky glimmering of the midnight lamp, undraw her curtain—grin horribly at her with a ghastly smile, nod, menace, and vanish!—away!—away, with the letter!

Recover yourself, my friend; I go. The Prince shall hear harsh truths from me!—truth is the severest chastise­ment that can be given to a Prince.

SCENE IX.

He is gone!—and what now am I?—Thus are all bonds that held me to the world, torn asunder, the bond of life alone ex­cepted, and that can only be dissolved by a tedious series of ex­cruciating torments!—yet, why await this lingering process?— down, down, with thee instantly to the grave, Morland, since thou hast no more to hope from man, save a handful of earth to cover thy bones!

SCENE X.

Will the gentleman be so good as to take himself to his chamber—this here is mine.

We have been kept up almost the whole night, entirely upon the gentleman's account.

Pardon me, good people!

Nay, the Lord pardon thee!

And lead every one who is going astray, into the right road!

When only straying out of the right road, it is possible to be rescued; but whe [...] fallen into the [Page 86] abyss, nothing remains but to look down, and drop a tear upon the poor wretch who lies dashed to pieces below. But you don't understand me!—Good night!

Yes, yes, we understand you very well!

Did you hear how he talked about the Abyss?

Of hell, I suppose.

Ah dear heaven!

Come wife, come to bed.

He who does not believe in a devil, most likely does not believe in the good angels!—how can he ever sleep quietly in his bed!

SCENE XI.

Three o'clock!—I don't know what to make of this!—he never used to be out so late!—I am afraid some misfortune has happened!—I would fain have gone with him, he looked so troub­led in mind, but he ordered me to remain here. I am never quite easy at being alone; when two people are left together they can have a little chat, and that passes time away. Our good lady must not be told of this—for she'd fret herself to death; but I think I might wake Miss Jenny; and perhaps she knows more about the matter than I do.—I wonder, whether she would take it amiss?—I watched many a night upon her account, when she had the small-pox; and surely she can't think much of coming for once to comfort poor old Thomas?—Yes, I'll—I'll e'en venture it—and if she should be angry, I must tell her that "necessity has no law."

Madam!—Miss Jenny!—She is young and sleeps sound!—

Miss Jenny!

Who knocks?

Only old Thomas.

What do you want?

I want to know what is become of my master?— Pray, don't be angry Madam, it is now three o'clock, and I could not any longer restrain my uneasiness!

Zounds!—there he comes!—well, thank God!—thank God!—I might as well have let the young lady sleep on quietly.

SCENE XII.

What can this mean?—why was I waked?—is there a fire in the neighbourhood?—The old man first frightened me from my sleep, and then ran away!—What a noise there is upon the stair­case!—Who can be coming hither at this time of night?

SCENE XIII.

Away fool!—you will soon learn what we want!

Fair lady, reluctantly as I under­took a commission which might disturb your rest, yet the sight of you banishes repentance.

I do not understand you, Sir.

By command of his Highness, I come to seize your brother's papers.

You cannot be serious.

The solemn severity of my companion's countenance, must preclude all idea of joking.

My God! what can this mean?

A trifle!—only a little conspiracy!—a snug piece of treason against the State; no feminine concern, for there is not any love in the case. But I forget that my company was always disagreeable to you;—permit me therefore, to proceed with all expedition, in the fulfilment of his Highness's com­mands.

Still, I do not understand you, Sir; and it were better that I awaken my brother.

I should think he can hardly be asleep, since it is he who has awakened us; and a prison does not furnish very propitious quarters for the enjoyment of repose.

What do you mean?—my brother—

Has spent the last hour in the State prison.

My God!

Heavens!—on what charge?

That he wanted to introduce into the State, what is only admissible in love,—liberty—and equality.

Infamous slander!

Then you have the less to apprehend from the examination of his papers. Come, Pilz, to your business.

Sir, I cannot suffer—

I am heartily sorry, Madam, that I must now for the first time in my life, disregard the interdict of a fair lady.

Madam, shall I call the coachman and groom?

Be quiet, Thomas.

Sir, I require a written order.

You know, Madam, that I have the honour of being in the Prince's service; this officer of the police, and the guards below in the hall, must sufficiently prove that I obey the highest commands. How much rather had I come hither with­out this formidable train, only upon an adventure of gallantry?— But your severity—

Matchless impudence!

Impudence indeed!

You were speaking of your servant, I suppose?

He never was impudent.

Fellow!—

Sir, I would have you to know that I am a Swiss, a free man.

Ha! ha! ha!—And so you also are playing that part.

Be silent, Thomas;—Go and call my sister-in-law.

When people break into the house at dead of night, I know in my country—

I have waited too long.—As far as I remember, this is Mr. Morland's study—Pilz, follow me.

For your own justification, Sir—

May I request the key of your brother's desk?

He always carrys that about with him.

Then we must manage without a key.

Sir, I warn you that the Prince, shall know by day-break—

Unfortunate that I am, to be compelled to give the warnings of a fair lady to the wind.

SCENE XIV.

I tremble!—I know not what to do!—How will my poor sister-in-law be shocked and terrified!—What fatal conse­quences may not be apprehended!

New troubles!—new sorrows!—

Good Heavens!—what?—

Our good lady is gone too!

Impossible!

Has never been in bed. Mary stole into her room, just opened her curtains, and called softly, "Madam,"—No answer!—She tapped with her hand upon the bed—all cold!— At last, she fetched the lamp and looked—nothing to be seen!— nothing to be heard!

Oh, God! what can be the meaning of this!

She is most likely with my master.

How can she have learned—

Who knows?—She had perhaps a kind of a mis­giving.—Such things often happen among people that love each other so very dearly.

Then I am left quite alone!

Don't be frightened, Madam,—old Thomas is here, and the good God is here; and if you would but let me call the Coachman and the Groom, we'd soon clear the house.

Go, Thomas, and call Mr. Smith.

Zounds! if I had not forgotten Mr. Smith!—

Proper, or improper, I must send for him;—in times of distress, we concern ourselves little about propriety.

SCENE XV.

My errand is accomplished:—once more I en­treat your pardon, Madam, and heartily wish you pleasant morning slumbers.

Yet another moment, Sir!—My brother's clerk will be here instantly, and I must request of you to tell him what papers—

All, Madam!—every scrap!—I am not fond of selections.

He is a man of business, and will know what should be granted, what refused.

As to what concerns the papers, Madam, there is nothing either to grant, or to refuse; I must take them all. What else the clerk may grant or refuse here, I am too modest to enquire.

At least, I think you might respect misfortune.

I respect the rights of beauty, and should be perfectly inconsolable were a longer interruption of your rest to endanger the making of those lovely cheeks pale.—Come, Pilz, I fear we are intruders here.

Why do I weep?—Why at such a moment, bestow one thought upon an insult that concerns my­self alone?—This is not a time to waste in fruitless lamentations! —My poor brother!—my poor Emilia!—Oh that I were not a woman!—but my sex shall not withhold me!—I will go di­rectly to the Prince.

SCENE XVI.

Thomas tells me strange things.

Give me your advice, your assistance, dear Smith.

Mr. Morland, a prisoner—his papers seized—your sister-in-law not to be found!

'Tis all but too true.

This is a cursed country.

What shall we do?

Go to England, and live in freedom.

But, at present—

We must patiently wait the approach of day.

And then?—

I do not doubt of being able to procure your bro­ther's release.

But how?

Yes, I must speak. —My dearest Madam, many a book may be found in the world▪ which, though shabby to the eye from being uncut and unbound, will by its innate worth attract attention from the man of under­standing, though it may be scorned by the coxcomb on account of its homely garb. Such a book is Honesty in the heart of a citizen, and Innocence in a plain coat; both are the [...]est of the valets in the anti-chamber.

Is that, any source of consolation to me?

By no means—I rather made the observation, to prove that your brother is lost, because, though his virtue is of sterling worth, the buckles in his shoes are not of equal value.—With Courtiers, the case is the very reverse.

Heavens!—Is this a moment for such remarks?

The precise moment for them. You think me, per­haps, cold, unfeeling to your distress—but you mistake—I am only composed through habit—because I have witnessed the like an hundred times. Man possesses the noble faculty of being able to habituate himself to any thing, save excess of happiness.

And whither do these observations tend?

To confessing that I feel myself reduced to the un­pleasant necessity of using baser coin, where nobility of soul will not pass as currency. I will go to the Minister, announce my­self as Lord Sidney—

Smith, are you awake?

I will present him with a letter of recommendation from our Minister; nor do I doubt that the Lord will obtain a hearing, when the humble clerk would be spurned.

Smith, do you speak seriously?

Most seriously, dearest Madam. Influenc [...] by love, the eccentric being you behold, laid aside his rank, till he could fully assure himself, whether a Lord was of more account in your estimation, than an honest man.

I am astonished!

Why astonished?—Love and caprice have frequently wrought changes even more extraordinary.

My Lord—

Oh, no!—My Lord will go to rescue your brother: but Edward Smith will return hither to solicit your hand. I have a fine estate in Warwickshire, a true Swiss country, which wants nothing to render it a complete Paradise, but those delight­ful inhabitants Love and Liberty. What think you, Madam? —I now rejoice, that I am rich; since I have enough for us all—enough to support us all happily together.

I am incapable at present of making any reply to offers so generous.

You will never meet with one whose intentions are more honorable.

Shall necessity grant what love asks?

Nobly urged!—I will therefore be silent, nor solicit you farther. Repentance is every where an evil guest; and if it enter the abode of Love, is too apt to destroy the host.—But the day begins to dawn—I will hasten to the Minister.

And I, to my poor brother's prison.

Allow me to take your hand, Madam!

—I am not accustomed to use many words; but God, who knows my heart, knows that I love you!

I am quite overpowered!—I could weep like a child! Fye! fye! Jenny,—lay aside the woman, and think only of thy brother!—Gold will procure thee access to him, sooner than tears.

SCENE XVII.

I rejoice indeed, Madam, to find you thus. Appetite and sleep, are the most infallible symptoms of returning health; and, thanks be to God, for some days past, you seem to have amended very rapidly;—but you must still be careful.

I urge the same to her every day.

The weather was so fine—

But the air was cool.

Indeed, the walk has been of great service to me. The fresh air, the benign rays of the sun, gave me new life.—I seemed to inhale strength with every breeze.

But you should have gone early to bed.

I would fain have persuaded her to that.

I slept, for some hours, upon the Sopha; and I could not refuse myself the pleasure of receiving my bene­factress.

If I have deserved this name, I am richly repaid. I leave you for the first time, with satisfaction;—it grows late.

I cannot now determine, when we shall meet again.

Will you not allow two grateful hearts to pay their respects to you in your own house?

Then, I must tell you who I am, and where I live.

Is it not cruel, to conceal it from us any longer?

Dear Captain, allow me to follow my own humour. In a week, I will receive you, when I shall introduce another person to your acquaintance.

But how, if the veil of this amiable modesty have no [...] proved sufficiently thick, to conceal you from the penetrating eyes of gratitude?—How, if your name be already known to us?

Our faith has been inviolably observed.

You surely cannot have watched me home?

No, upon my honour.

Then you cannot know my name.

The name of Morland can never be erased from our hearts.

Ha!—indeed you do know me! —Oh, say how has this happened?—by what means have you guessed my secret?

If you will trust to my word of honour, that the information was unsought by us; I would rather bury in obli­vion a hateful circumstance—

You but increase my curiosity; I am certain that my secret is not known to any one in my house.

Are you equally certain that you have never been watched?

How!—

SCENE XVIII.

Ha!—you here again!

Secretary Allbrand!—I am astonished!—What can bring you hither?

Yes, Sir!—I desire to know your errand?

I can scarcely recover breath. Pardon this unsea­sonable visit!—

I must entreat, Madam, for a few minutes, private conversation with you.

With me?

Sir, I conjure you, if you possess the feelings of humanity, to allow me a few minutes alone with this lady.

Not, unless it be her desire.

What can you have to say in private with me?

Oh, for heaven's sake, do not delay a moment!— time is precious.

If I alone am concerned, I have no secrets from these good people.

My business concerns your husband.

Indeed!—Well a lie can avail you little—a few moments, my friends—but do not go far.

We shall remain in the next room.

SCENE XIX.

Now, what is your business?

Alas! that I must be the messenger of ill news!

Ill news!—but go on!—we know each other already! —What is your news?

My friend, your husband—

Do you seek to lead my senses astray through terror?

What mortifying distrust!

Speak out at once!—What has happened to your friend, as you are pleased to call him?

You seem extremely composed, Madam.

My nerves are not weak▪ Mr. Secretary;—I do not faint away, at a spider's crawling about my neck.

Do I deserve to be treated with such scorn?

Ask that question of yourself.

I only entreat you to forget at this moment, the errors of love, and to listen solely to the voice of friendship!

I am all attention.

Your husband is at this moment in close confinement in the State Prison.

Indeed!

He is accused of exciting sedition.

Really!

His papers are seized.

And of what use do you suppose this story can be to you?

You do not then believe it?

I certainly do not.

Would to God that this were the worst part of my information.

The worst part!—What more have you to relate? Let me hear all.

Whether Morland be guiltless or not of the State crimes imputed to him, I shall not now enquire—but—

No enquiry is necessary.

But that he is criminal towards his wife will not admit of a doubt.

Towards me!—well, to what extent?

Must he believe you accessary to his arrest, only because you prudently concealed from him some former trans­actions—

Former transactions!

Could not he who knows you so well, give you cre­dit for the purity of your motives?

Morland knows then—

That you once received certain offers from the Prince—

Well?

And he asserts, that he has positive evidence of this connection.

Sir, there never was any connection between me and the Prince.

Who is more convinced of that than myself?— But Morland—

Has some evil daemon possessed him?

Unworthy of your tender and faithful affection, he even threatens a separation.

A separation!—from me!

He forgets, that the indignation of a virtuous woman, who feels herself injured, burns most fiercely amid the ashes of extinguished love.

Secretary Allbrand, I desire you to forbear breathing forth your poisonous exhalations, and to speak more plainly—for by Heaven, I do not understand you.

He has discovered your nightly visits to this house.

Dishonour light upon the head of him who betrayed them.

And he believes his honour injured—

He knows me!—

He ought to know you!—his suspicions therefore, are the more unpardonable: his determination never to see you again the more horrible.

Hence from my sight, liar!

Would to heaven I were a liar!

Allbrand, if there be any thing in the world that you esteem sacred, swear by it!—

I swear by your virtue.

Villain! dare not thus to profane my virtue!—Fool that I am!—Why do I stand here patiently listening to that [Page 99] baleful tongue, when in a few moments I might be in Morland's arms, and then would this whole scene of villainy be exposed.

Whither would you go, unhappy woman? Mor­land languishes in prison—he cannot see you—and if he could he will not.

Allbrand, what can be your aim in all this?—Do you seek to lead my senses astray by these horrible falsehoods?

What end could I propose in uttering falsehoods which must be detected the moment you entered your own house?

Must I then indeed believe Morland to be a prisoner?

Yet be composed, and do not therefore consider yourself as deserted—A friend still remains to you, one who can forget unmerited humiliations—

And must I also believe that Morland intends to sepa­rate himself from me? Oh God! Oh God!

Insulted Virtue, summon thy elder brother, Pride, to thy supporr!

Man, what hast thou done!

What have I done?

Thou alone wert capable of spinning such an infernal web!—Daemon, what hast thou done?

These injurious suspicions, Madam—

But do not exult too soon! The Prince shall give back a citizen to the state—love shall restore a husband to my arms.

What dependence is to be placed on that love, this letter will inform you.

God of heaven!—my husband's hand!

Have I subdued thy spirit at last!—Oh, sweet, sweet revenge—

SCENE XX.

What is the matter!

Merciful heaven! what do I see?

Our benefactress!

what can have become of the villain?

May I believe my eyes? Can this be possible?— read!—

Is this the result of her be­nevolent visits to us?

That she should incur such a horrible suspi­cion!

That she should be supposed here—

In a house of such a description—

Oh God! my honour!—

Think, dear Charles, on all her kindness; to her alone are we indebted that you have still a wife—hasten, hasten then, to Morland's prison—a single word may develope this scandalous imposition!—No, I will go myself—where is my cloak—

Dearest Caroline, you would not—

Shall we repay her angelic benevolence by re­maining cold spectators of misery endured for our sakes?

But should admittance be refused?—

I will hasten to the minister—his palace shall resound with my cries and lamentations, till they reach his ears; My countenance of anguish will awaken the compassion even of [Page 101] courtiers, my convulsive agonies irresistibly seize their atten­tion. I am certain I shall gain admittance.

But you are ill and weak.

Oh no—never did I feel myself stronger.

Let me go, I entreat.

No, remain here to console her—of that I am incapable.

Dear Caroline, you will be too much agitated—

To see her agonies, when she first recovers, would agitate me still more;—and to bring back a misguided husband into the arms of a faithful wife, would be the most powerful cordial I could experience.

— console our unfortunate friend, my Charles, I shall soon return. Heaven prosper my efforts!

Where will this end!—Oh fate! fate!—in what various ways hast thou strewed my path of life with thorns!

Her senses seem returning—Madam!—

Recover yourself, Ma­dam,—all will soon be well!—

Oh, God, to thee I address my supplications—save.— in mercy save,—our benefactress!

SCENE I.

TO the honour of the Spaniards, two inventions are to be as [...]bed to them, the Inquisition and the Cards;—both power­ful bulwarks, against heresy and languor, and in many respects bearing a strong resemblance to each other. The Inquisition prevents philosophical investigation,—so do Cards.—Cards occa­sion p [...]le cheeks and hollow eyes,—so does the Inquisition.— The Inquisition stifles all the natural affections,—so do Cards.— The [...] for Cards brings many a sacrifice to the gallows,—the Inquisition carries an equal number to the blazing pile. But the [...]nce of Cards is still more extensive than that of the Inquisition—for the latter, only seizes upon Jews and Hereticks, [...] Cards do not spare any sect or age, not even the most [...] female devotees.—Peace to the ashes of him who invented [...]!—may his bones be cut into dice, and his portrait [...] every king of diamonds!

SCENE II.

Your honour's most obedient.—Why so late?—o [...] whither so early?

Is my uncle risen?

He is ill with a head-ach.

Has he any company?

Yes, the Mastiff.

I must speak with him.

I do not know whether—

Pilz, leave the papers here.

Mr. Secretary Allbrand ordered me—

Allbrand ordered you!—What?—

To carry them to his room.

There's no occasion for that.

He charged, me upon my conscience—

Your conscience!—a pretty kind of charge, truly.

But, it seemed to be of great importance to the Secre­tary.

Enough Pilz,—I have my reasons;—and that's more than I can always say.

If you will take upon yourself, to be answerable—

SCENE III.

Prunk, I have struck a grand stroke.

Met with girl?—

No, no,—rendered a service to the State.

To the State?—that means, in this country, to the Prince;—therefore I repeat my question?

Thou art a wise one. No, Prunk, the service is not quite so important; I have only caught a Jacobin.

By name?

Syndicus Morland.

Morland a Jacobin?—No, no, that won't do!—

Why do you doubt it?

He looks every body in the face.

What can be more suspicious? He shows a want of diffidence, very unbecoming in a subject.

And he always says what he thinks.

A sign that he thinks too much.

A new species of crime.

Far from it!—It has always been thought pru­dent to keep fools, and wise-men, coiners, and thinkers, in con­finement.

But, if you have no other proofs—

These papers contain the proofs. Now, my uncle will no longer have reason to complain, that I do not ap­ply to any thing. I have forsaken both a Card-Table and a rendezvous—sacrificed a whole night—

To plunge a worthy man into distress.

An impertinent remark, Prunk.

Truth always sounds to Courtiers, like an ill-tuned violin.

SCENE IV.

I have followed you closely, Sir.

Is the Porter ill?

No, he snarled very properly at me,—but I know these people very well.

Probably, you had a great deal of conversation with each other?

I understand you.—His rank would have been no objection to me,—but his profession—

Indeed!—had he then fortunately been a shoe­maker?

You are right—for then he had probably been an in­dustrious and useful man. But a Porter, and a Gentleman of the Privy-Chamber, are commonly good for nothing.

Fellow, are you mad?

I have rather proved the contrary.

Prunk, lend me your brawny hands to chastise his impertinence.

Do not give yourselves that trouble—I shall not stir from this place, till I have spoken with the minister;—then— you will find me any where.

Prunk!—

No noise must be made here.

This to me in my uncle's house!—

Young man, I pity you from my soul!—It is a great misfortune to you, that your uncle is minister.

Your language—

Was once not unfamiliar to you.

Indeed—it appears to me—as if—

Can we have a little private conversation?

Prunk.

SCENE V.

Now eccentric Sir?

To justify that appellation, I will begin with relating a story. In the course of my rambles, I once came to a small town, the romantic situation of which charmed me, and I re­mained [Page 106] for several weeks fixed to the spot. It was surrounded by a chain of hills, at whose foot meandered a beautiful stream; and these were my daily haunt. One evening I had stayed out very late, and was wandering solitarily homewards, by twilight, along the water-side, when suddenly I saw and heard, among the trees, a female form, wringing her hands violently, and uttering deep sighs and groans, as she staggered backwards and forwards, to the brink of the river. Curiosity induced me to conceal myself that I might observe her farther; and, in a few moments, I saw her plunge into the stream. I am a good swimmer; I sprung in after her, and was fortunate enough so save her life: yet she did not thank me for—What think you, young gentleman, of the privy chamber?—what reason do you suppose she gave for this attempt at self-destruction?

How can I guess?

You tremble.

Well, well, go on.

"I am, said she, the daughter of an humble citizen, and possessed no other wealth, but my honour and innocence. Of these, a young man, a student here, sought to beguile me: but failing in his attempt, he had recourse to a most cruel revenge. He traduced my character in all companies; till at length, wherever I went, the neighbors pointed at me with their fingers; my former friends looked askance at me; and worse than all, my lover, an honest mechanic—oh, terrible to think on! desert­ed me. I could not support myself against such undeserved ig­nominy, I was driven to despair, and I resolved to put an end to my life." You do not seem well, sir?

Sir?

At first I supposed the slandere [...] to be wholly worth­less; but I was mistaken; he was only thoughtless. I went to him with the f [...]rmness of an honest man, painted to him in forci­ble [Page 107] colours, the poor girl's misery, and the disastrous consequen­ces of his chattering vanity: he was shocked at the story; I saw tears of remorse rush into his eyes; the blush of shame suffuse his cheeks.

Edward Smith!

He had sufficient magnanimity instantly to recant his former errors, and to proclaim aloud the maiden's innocence, and his own criminality. Repentance, and assiduous kindness, washed out the stains that calumny had made, and on my bosom he thanked heaven, that I had saved him, before it was too lat [...] to repair his fault.

Edward Smith!

You now recollect my name.

With shame, that I could forget your person. Edward, we then exchanged promises of perpetual friend­ship.

Which you are not ashamed to own?

Do not suppose me sunk quite so low!

I am only Morland's clerk.

I am only a man.

Right! and like that unfortunate girl you have plunged into a rushing stream, whence I may perhaps equally succeed in rescuing you. Young man, that dreadful example ought to have served you as a warning; under its influence you made me a solemn promise to subdue your fatal propensity to calumny: but ask your heart how faith­fully that promise has been kept. Though all who have become sacrifices to your tongue, may not have made like attempts up­on their lives, yet who can tell how many a bitter tear has been shed in secret, of which you only were the cause: how much domestic happiness may have been destroyed by one word alone, perhaps carelessly uttered by you. The ears of mankind are [Page 108] always open for the reception of slander, but are often inflexibly closed against all attempts at its refutation: a hint is easily given, but its effects cannot easily be calculated: a thought­less word trips lightly over the tongue; but it cannot be recal­led by the Almighty himself.

You have a right to reproach me thus: yet at present I do not deserve—

What had Morland done to thee?

He was considered as dangerous.

Calumny!

He espoused the citizens' cause with great warmth.

It was his duty.

He is a thorn in the eyes of some persons.

There is the thing, Allbrand—

Even so!

And can you suffer yourself to be made the tool of such a man?

I consider myself as performing my duty to my uncle.

Young man, your head and heart received from na­ture a proper bias. Ro [...]se yourself then from this unworthy in­toxication: Let an Allbrand cringe as he pleases: but do not suffer yourself to be infected with the poison. You might be splendid by virtue: and you only glitter by rank: You might enlighten from merit, and you only dazzle with wit. Your heart would gain you friends, but they are repulsed by your head: you might attract love, and you only coquet with fear. To slander a worthy man, who is peaceably following his own pursuits, is no less base, than to murder one who sleeps: and to re-establish the character of the undeserved victim of calumny, is a task scarcely less difficult, than to smooth over scars of the small-pox.

Here is my hand: never will I give you cause of complaint in future.

As an earnest of your sincerity, save Morland.

I give you my honour, that whatever is in my power shall be done.

Where are his papers?

Upon this table.

Will you deliver them into your uncle's hands?

No!

What will you say to him?

That they are lost—burnt—

SCENE VI.

Prunk!

Your Excellency.

Now is your time.

What a noise has there been here this morning: 'tis a shameful breach of decorum.

This stranger—

What does he want?

I beg your Excellency's pardon for coming so late.

So late?

Too late for one in whose house justice never slum­bers: too late when the question is to vindicate an innocent man whom calumny has unjustly thrown into prison.

Who are you?

One who will esteem himself most happy, most worthy of envy, should he succeed in rescuing innocence from undeser­ved odium—and in saving your Excellency's fame from incurring the stain of injustice.

You!

So looked the snared lion upon the mouse, till she had gnawed the net in pieces.

In whose behalf do you speak?

In behalf of the worthiest man in the town—Syndi­cus Morland.

Ha! where is he?

In a place of all others the least proper for him—in prison.

And where was the bird caught?

Secretary Allbrand will inform you.

Relate all that you know, but let truth alone guide the narrative: before her, my friend will never blush nor I grow mute.

The truth, young sir!

Mr. Morland stole at midnight—

'Tis false, he never stole.

No interruption, sir!

The Syndicus was going at midnight, to visit the Captain Ellfield, who lives in the Castle Square—

Impossible, he does not know any body of that name.

Yes, the Captain is well known both to the Syndi­cus and ourselves. But, proceed.

When, just as he entered the house he was ar­rested.

At whose comand?

At mine.

Secretary Allbrand immediately dispatched me to seize his papers.

And where are they?

By an unlucky accident—

Well?

Here they lie!—the property of a citizen, under the protection of the first officer of the State.

They must be examined.

By what authority?

Sir!

Justice would not shrink from the question, and [...]e who stands in the Prince's place, ought not to be offended at it.

Once more, who are you?

An Englishman, and at present clerk to Mr. Morland.

Esteem for your nation, could alone induce me to pardon such boldness.

Speak pardon to the criminal!—undisguised truth may not suit t [...] mass of mankind; but from the nobl [...] [...]ded Minister of Justice, it will be received with transport.

The man in whose behalf you speak with such true English licence, lies under strong suspicion of holding dangerous principles.

By whom is he accused?

SCENE VII.

'Tis well that you are come—your prudence keeps you watchful—now complete your work, unmask a suspicious character, and justify measures which appear despotic in the eyes of this Englishman.

This man, his accuser!—My Lord Count, before one word shall pass those impure lips, I entreat you to hear me!— Secretary Allbrand was a daily guest at Morland's, and was con­sidered as his bosom friend. He has shared those moments when wine encreases the circulation of the blood, and when an ardent feeling will often burst out in unguarded wo [...]ds. He was always courteous, always pliant, had always a compla [...]ent nod of the head ready for every opinion which was thrown out, —a smile at command for every sally of wit. Possessing in an eminent degree the faculty of drawing forth whatever he wish­ed [Page 112] to know, he has availed himself of the unreserved moments of social mirth, to ruin the man he pretended to love,—he has watched every turn of conversation at table, and dipping his pen in gall, noted down any innocent piece of humour uttered by his honest host, to make use of it as opportunity should offer for trampling him under foot, and ingratiating himself with the court. Count Scharfeneck surely will not listen to such an accuser.—When a man of honor is called to account, a man of honor alone should be heard against him.

You stir not hence, till you hav [...] pro [...] all your accusations.

Am I to guess at the question before you?

Oh, the innocent hesitation!

Morland is arrested.

Of that I can inform your Excellency.

Declare before this gentleman, why he is arrested.

For arrogant assumptions, indiscreet conversation, and suspicious intercourse.

And where are your proofs?

With respect to his arrogance, I need only remind your Excellency of the manner in which he has defended the rights of the citizens, as he is pleased to term them.

A man who would perform his duty, must speak with firmness.

Of his indiscreet conversation, your Excellency's nephew, the Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, has often been witness.

Is this true?

No.

How, nephew,—have you not yourself—

Yes uncle, I confess it with shame;—but God be my witness, I was then a slanderer; nor reflected upon the consequences!—Thoughtlessness and bad example misled me; but the happiness of a worthy man is concerned, and I am re­called [Page 113] to myself. Morland's house is a school of morals, his table the rendezvous of innocent cheerfulness—his jokes never wound—his serious conversation is full of instruction, and no captious expression ever escapes his lips. Love for the town he inhabits, affection for the Prince, and respect for my uncle, reign in his bosom. As such I know him: and whoever represents him otherwise, were it my uncle himself, I would say that be misrepresents him and deserves correction.

Worthily spoken, young man! Can any thing more be wanting to establish Mr. Morland's innocence, than this un­suspicious testimony?—Oh, Count! let your ears be closed against the voice of calumn▪ The slanderer is the most [...]nge­rous of all the traitors to the state, for he unites all crimes in one. He is a thief who steals into men's houses, and robs them of more precious treasures than gold and silver—he is a murder­er who attacks the inoffensive and unarmed, and deprives them of even more than life. Restore to the State a citizen, to whom his duty was ever sacred, and who has too dearly atoned for his only weakness—placing confidence in this man.

The true declamation of an associate in his crimes.

Base soul!—is that thy last resource?

Justice remains cool!—it is fortunate for me, that my patriotic zeal is fully known to his Excellency.

Why this altercation?—Morland's papers will elucidate the whole affair.

They are in my apartment, and shall be laid before your Excellency this very day.

They are here; they may be examined instantly.

How!—What!—I ordered—

Once more, my Lord Count, let me entreat your forbearance towards these papers!—I am unacquainted with their contents: I never was in Morland's confidence: yet I [Page 114] would venture to pledge my life that they contain nothing im­proper. But Mr. Morland is a philosopher and a poet: and in the course of philosophical investigation, or in the composition of poetry, things are often hastily written, which were never inten­ded for any other eye than the writer's. A random line may condemn a man, only for want of being considered in connexion with the context—the writing-desk is a friend to whom we con­fide every effusion of the heart, or imagination—has any one a right to put this friend to the rack? or if he possessed it, would he avail himself of the right?

These observations may be just: but they only increase my curiosity.

Curiosity is a feeling that a Judge must suppress.

There is such a variety of other business awaiting your Excellency this morning, that I had better previously ex­amine the papers in my own apartment.

They shall remain here.

Indeed, that gentleman is perfectly in the right— Many things may have escaped the pen of a philosopher and poet, never intended to see day-light. I would select only such papers as can in any way interest the state: and thus save your Ex­cellency much trouble, and many precious moments.

This, when you believe—

I beg your Excellency's pardon, but I must now recal my former request, and entreat no less earnestly, that the papers may be opened. The Secretary is embarrassed—he seeks to prevent it—this cannot be without good reasons—Good reasons, my Lord Count—good you know is a relative term.

Sir, you are abusive—I know you not—I have ne­ver offended you: but I will not forget who I am. I refer my­self to his Excellency for satisfaction—for my own part, I find that I had better retire: since not even the presence of the first minister can secure me against affronts.

Hold!—You stir not hence!

Mr. Clerk, your impertinence exceeds even my patience—Prunk call the guards.

My Lord Count, it is with reluctance, that I am obliged to avail myself of a letter of recommendation, which I have reserved only for a case of ex­treme exigence.

You a letter of recommendation to me!

I beg you to break it open.

WILLIAM PITT!

— I—if I do not immediately—if I do not understand— Prunk, a chair!—My Lord, so earnest a recommendation was wholly superfluous for a man who has distinguished himself so nobly—Prunk, why don't you bring a chair!

Your Excellency will excuse me, if I defer to a fu­ture opportunity, of acquainting you with the motives which oc­casioned my appearing thus incognito.

No one has any right to question your Lordship upon that subject.

National humour may perhaps be offered as the principal cause.

—My Lord, the Gentleman of the Privy-Chamber, Von Scharfeneck— Nephew, my Lord Sidney.

We are already known to each other.

Please your Excellency, the guards are ready in the anti-chamber.

Silence!—My Lord, I hope you will give his Highness the pleasure—

This gentleman appears so extremely anxious to escape with these papers, that I must once more request they may be opened in my presence.

They shall be examined instantly. Yet let me assure your Lordship, that you have mistaken my secretary, of whose fidelity and activity I have the most convincing proofs.

Then I pity the honourable man, that nature has be­stowed on him a countenance which seems destined to the gal­lows.

Come Allbrand, unseal the papers! Why this hesitation?

I obey. His Lordship must himself acknowledge the truth of what is alledged: provided nothing be suppressed which may tend to inculpate the accused.

His Excellency has forbidden any preface.

Accounts settled—Acquittances—Letters—

From his father in Switzerland—Phylosophi­cal reflections upon the immortality of the soul—Letters and verses to my wife—Secret benefactions—"In case of my death, my wife is requested to continue this list exactly as they are here noted down.—Ode to spring.—Sketch of a poem for the children of Count von Scharfeneck, for their father's birth-day.

Their young excellency's lately begged that of him very earnestly. Your Excellency's birth-day happens in the course of next week.

Indeed!—Ah, I have made an ill return for this!

Drawings.—A Song, with mu­sic—Actions which appear to be well-grounded—Deduc­tions—

What are you hiding there?

Nothing.

Produce it.

Instantly!

"PATRIOTIC REFLECTIONS thrown together, at the REQUEST of my friend ALLBRAND."—How!—I hope this is not!—

It is so indeed—the very work— verbatim et literatim—Mr. Secretary, this is the treatise which first recommended you to my favour.

I beg your Excellency's pardon—

Oh, shame! shame!—You have pressed all the juice of the ripened fruit, and now would trample the rind into the dust—Misguided wretch that I have been!—But Mor­land's innocence is sufficiently established; hasten, Nephew, to release him from his shameful bondage. Order that my car­riage be made ready; it shall follow you and bring you the Syndicus hither from the prison. I owe a public atonement to the worthy man; and it shall be made in the presence of you all.

I hasten to execute the most glorious commis­sion with which I was ever entrusted.

I see the whole extent of my misfortune—Mor­land's enlargement includes with it my condemnation. Heaven grant that your Excellency may not have proceeded rashly!—I acknowledge that I was indebted to the Syndicus for this trea­tise: but with my principles I could not suffer a private obliga­tion to interfere with my prior duty to my country. I rejoice that nothing suspicious has bpen found in those papers; yet the falsehood of the charges brought against the accused, is by [Page 118] no means proved. Your Excellency will recollect, that a very important circumstance yet remains uninvestigated—the secret intercourse that has long subsisted between Mr. Morland and Captain Ellfield—his stolen visits at midnight—

Is not the serpent's venom yet exhausted?

I must speak with him!

His Excellency cannot spare time.

I will go in.

Go back!—Go back!

See what is the matter.

Some strange lady—

SCENE VIII.

Which is the Minister?

I am he, Madam—Whom do I behold?

The wife of Captain Ellfield.

Come hither, I imagine, to support your husband's petition for a pension.

No, my Lord, want would never have indu­ced me to enter the Chamber of a Prime Minister: I was born in the great world, and well know what kind of reception a beg­gar meets with about a Court.

You seem ill, madam—sit down.

I thank you, sir. Yet you remind me of my illness at an unseasonable moment.

Ha! Villain! You here!

What [...]a [...] you by that, Madam?

Oh, welcome, auxiliary!

I have not the honour of knowing the lady, who accosts me so familiarly.

Explain yourself, Madam!

I will, my Lord: yet not to waste the little strength possessed by one scarcely restored to life, upon a vil­lain, but to save the guiltless, to vindicate the aspersed character of an angel.—How my husband fought for his native country: how he was crippled in her service: and what recompense his valour has received, you already know—The long and painful confinement he underwent, in recovering from his wounds, ex­hausted at once our slender means, and my health: and scarcely was he able to rise from the bed of sickness, when I was seized with a dreadful fever. The delirium attendant upon my disor­der, deprived me for two months of all sense of our sorrows: and I had sunk unknown, unnoticed, into the grave, had not an accident conducted a lady, a total stranger to us, into our garret. To her benevolence alone, am I indebted for my recovery: she attended me with the affection of a sister: her purse, her heart, were ours: yet she kept her name in concealment: nor knew we till yesterday, when a villainous accident revealed it to us.—

that Mrs. Morland was our benefactress.

Excellent woman!

She came to us only by night: and at the ap­proach of morning, returned again! nor was any one, even in her own house, acquainted with her benevolence.

No one, Madam?

Alas, no!—not even her husband; and by this means villainy has succeeded, in transforming a benignant angel, into a daemon of darkness. This man—oh, to what hu­miliation does not poverty subject human nature!—came to us, [Page 120] and with insidious promises and persuasions, endeavored to pur­chase our assistance to his base designs upon her virtue—We spurned his proposals with indignation; but he is no half villain: and last night, as she was administering her usual consolation to our sufferings, he again entered our lodging, and solicited a pri­vate interview with our guest, on pretence of some important business that concerned her husband. This, after some hesita­tion, she granted. I know not the whole of what passed between them: but a probable conjecture may be formed from this letter which had dropped from the hands of the unfortunate woman, as she fell senseless upon the floor.

Ha! fiend!—this is thy work!—confess it!—Oh, what daggers dost thou not plunge into the hearts of the unfortunate!

Sir, you forget yourself!—of what concern can Morland's domestic quarrels be to me?—it is well known, that his wife was formerly in a certain predicament with the Prince— this he has perhaps now first discovered—perhaps he supposes that the connection still continues—for my part, I neither do, nor will, know any thing of the matter.

He himself sought to obtain her favours—and would have influenced our poverty to promote his suit. A pen­sion for my husband was the promised reward of our infamy:— but failing in his attempt, his mean soul was resolved on ven­geance.

I am astonished past expression, at all that I see and hear!—Tell me, sincerely, Madam—has Morland ever had any intercourse with your husband?

He never even saw him.

How is this? My secretary informed me, that suspicious meetings were held at your house, in which Morland was principally concerned.

I may have been deceived by my informer.

Suspicious meetings at our house!—Oh, my Lord! my husband's limbs indeed are crippled, but his heart is sound.

I have been imposed upon most shamefully!— What a man have I taken into my confidence!

My part is over, your's is now to come, my Lord Count.

Prunk, are the guards still in the anti-chamber?

They are, my Lord.

Consign the villain into their custody.

I have so firm a reliance upon your Excellency's justice, that I do not fear being condemned without sufficient proof of guilt. Nothing has hitherto appeared against me but [Page 122] empty words—I have only been talked down: yet I doubt not of my innocence triumphing at last over such malice.

Hypocrite to the end!

May I request permission of your Excellency to hasten instantly, and inform Mr. Morland, whose freedom you have pronounced as a citizen, of what alone can render his enlargement acceptable—the innocence of his beloved wife?

You are right, Madam; and allow me to be your companion; my arm shall support you.

Joy will be my sufficient support.

SCENE IX.

Justice, oh Count! justice for my guiltless husband! Compassion for his disconsolate wife!

Rise, Madam!

Recover yourself!

First pronounce Morland's acquital! Oh! this mis­ery is insupportable! Awakened from a swoon, I learnt that a noble-minded woman was gone to procure my husband's enlarge­ment: but she did not return: my impatience could not be re­strained: anguish lent me wings, and I flew hither!—Oh! I can no more!

Be composed, Madam. Mr. Morland's acquital is already pronounced—we expect him here, every moment— I am convinced both of his and your innocence.

My husband at liberty!—my honour vindicated? Great God!

Your Excellency's carriage is retur­ned.

With my welcome guest! Hasten to conduct him in.

It is Mr. Morland, Madam.

SCENE X.

Morland!

Why am I brought hither?

Unfortunate, misguided man! Oh, cast from thee the poison of unjust suspicion—thy Emilia is innocent—lis­ten to me!

Who are you, Madam? I know you not! by what means can you be concerned in our fate?

I owe my life to Mrs. Morland.

Still I do not understand you, speak more plainly.

I lay upon my death-bed, she visited me, ad­ministered to my wants, sacrificed whole nights to me—

Whole nights!—Oh! repeat that again!

Yes, whole nights—Believe me, your suspi­cions have fallen upon a benevolent angel.

But it was to meet the Prince?

He never entered our garret.

Yet I saw a man receive Emilia at your door.

It was my husband.

But my imprisonment—

Was the work of villainy.

I know it was of Emilia's villainy.

No, of my Secretary's—of Allbrand's.

Of Allbrand's! of my bosom friend's—impossible!

Most true! he loved your wife.

Oh, horrible! but how know you that?

Would that I were not compelled to repeat it once more! he would have purchased our assistance to his base designs!

And this Emilia concealed from me?

Through an unfortunate forbearance.

Have I not repeatedly assured you of that?

And was this his motive for persuading me to escape?

Most assuredly! he wished at any rate to get the husband out of the way.

For this did he persuade me to write her such a letter?

A letter that deprived her of her senses.

We have all been deceived by a villain, who now expiates his crimes in a dungeon.

Great God! What have I done?

Pardon injured innocence!

Yes, I am indeed, innocent!

My wife! my wife!

Edward, I am yours.