SCENE I.

WHAT, hoa! house!

(Rubbing his eyes) What hoa! house! (mim­icking) If you don't cease your knocking, you'll soon knock the house about our ears. (Knocking again) A plague o' your manners, I say—to disturb orderly, sober people at this time o' day! I han't slept time enough to recover my senses—The fumes of my, last­night's cup are hardly out of my head yet. I believe the best way to drive them out, will be to pour a fresh cargo in. (Sits up, reaches the bottle and drinks)(Without) (Louder knocking) House! hoa!

(Takes the bottle from his mouth and comes for­ward)) What with your cursed noise, and the confound­ed whizzing in my head, I think I have enough to do to keep my legs. (Staggers) Now, if my master should awake (and the devil himself cou'dn't sleep with such a clattering about his ears) the shower of blows he will rain upon my shoulders w'on't steady me much; so, I'll e'en let you in, whoever, you are, to keep your tongues still, and my bones whole.

This way, your honors, this way; I beg [Page 4] your honor's pardon for keeping you so long at the door, but—

No apology, my good fellow! we dis­turb you early; the darkness made us mistake the road, or we should have arriv'd last night.

Prythee, friend! is honest old Jo­sefo, who kept this house some ten years ago, still alive.

No! he's gone—these shoulders help'd to car­ry him to his grave.

How long has he been dead!

Just eight months after I came here to live; which was—let me see, five years last sheep shearing.

Heaven rest him! He was as worthy, humane, honest—

Sober man as—myself. (Hiccups.)

Well, friend, take our great coats, and dry them; send your present master to us; then unload our chaise, and carry the luggage to an apartment.

I'll go, send my master presently, your honors; he lies a bed pretty late o' mornings, because he crooks his elbow pretty much o' nights (makes signs of drinking) you understand me?

Yes, yes, your meaning's pretty plain.

Plain! why—yes—I am a plain man for cer­tain; but a man might not be a bit the less honest and sober, for all he be plain; my master, as I was telling your honors—Lord! what a blessing 'tis for masters to have honest, industrious, sober servants. (drinks) Why now, if it wasn't for Blanco—but I'll say nothing; I'll about your honor's commands straight.

Ha! ha! ha! straight, indeed!—(turn­ing to Young Latouche who appears pensive) Why, La­touche, your native place doesn't seem to cheer your spirits; why so thoughtful, man?

Excuse me, my Lord; whatever joy I might feel at my return to this much lov'd spot, is damp'd by the reflection of what may have been occasion'd by my own imprudence. I left a rever'd father, a belov'd sister, to fly from the torments of a hopeless passion! Should any misfortune have happened to either of them in my absence, I shall ever look on myself as the cause of it.

But, why regard only the gloomy side of the picture? Figure to yourself, a father enjoying a down till of life, unclouded by sorrow; cheer'd by the attentions of a much lov'd virtuous daughter; and en­liven'd by the hopes of once more clasping in his arms, a son ripen'd to manhood, humaniz'd by a knowledge of the world, and returning to be the prop and com­fort of his last moments. And then—

And then, my Lord, to continue your Iandscape, let me behold all this sunshine prospect, ob­scur'd at once by beholding my Valence (whom ab­sence, so far from erasing has impress'd deeper in my heart) in the arms of another; all her vows of never­ceasing love and truth broken; myself the jest of all my former comrades; and then—

Latouche; but that I have had une­quivocal proofs of your fortitude, I should be almost tempted to doubt it. Is this the man, who so undaunt­edly risk'd his life to defend mine.

My Lord; there is a wide difference between risking one's life in the cause of humanity, and sitting down calmly, the sport of unmerited misfortune. Was it my fault, that I was born of parents inferior, in point of affluence, to my Valence's? Was it I who form'd her father's heart of so flinty materials that he would rather sacrifice his daughter to the embraces of a rich man she detested, than see her happy in the arms of a poor man she lov'd?

All granted; but you may still find your Valence constant; and if riches are the only ob­stacle to your happiness; my possessions are far superi­or to her father's; and those I need not tell you, you may command. Come! come! cheer un wandering during the whole night has depress'd your spirits you must—

Gentlemen, I am your honors most obe­dient—

The master of the house. I presume.

At your honor's service

You're just in time, I was going to pre­scribe [Page 6] to my friend here, who is fatigued, and low spir­ited, a drop of your cordial—

Truly, a most sovereign, prescription! For these fifty years that I have kept an Inn, I never once knew my light-wines fail to cure heavy hearts.

The Malaga, a bottle warm'd with some spice—we'll follow you presently—

Come Latouche, by the time you've got to the bottom of the bottle, you'll—

Excuse me, my Lord; duty is before every other consideration, I must fly to my father.

You wouldn't, surely, be rash enough, after so long an absence; consider how dangerous the surprise may be.

(Pauses) I believe you are right, my Lord; my impatience renders me too precipitate.

Take my advice; dispatch a messen­ger to bring him hither; I shall go to rest for a while; but will be ready to receive him, and break your arri­val; and, as lovers don't stand in need of rest, when near the belov'd object, you go in search of yours.

Oh! my Lord—

Love and Duty now are at even and odd. Do you go settle the one, and leave the other to me—But stay—your change of dress has made an a­greeable amendment in your person—this, perhaps, (giving him a purse) will be no disagreeable addition to your pocket, if not in your mistress's eyes, at least in her father's.

My Lord, you overwhelm me with your bounty—

No more of that!—had not Providence sent you to my rescue, that dross had been useless to me; can I do less than share it with him, who risk'd his ex­istence for me. I don't think of repaying your services—Heaven alone can do that.—So go, see your mistress, and be bless'd.

(solus) Bless'd!—yes, were I assured that my father and sister were alive and well, and my Valence true hearted, I should be the happiest dog in the creation!—I don't know why, something damps my rising joy—

Your honor, the wine and a good fire are ready in the inner room.

(Aside) It may be without reason—I'll try to shake off this groundless fear.—(To Blanco) Hark'ye, honest fellow, do you know Old Latouche, whose house is at the foot of the mountain about five miles hence?

Oh yes—But he has never been in this house since old master's death.

But he lives—?

I'm very sure of that—for if he'd been dead, they couldn't have buried him without my help—noth­ing done in this village without Blanco!

Thank Heav'n! I'm one doubt lighter, I have still a father!—Well, my good Blanco, and his daughter—

I know nothing about her. The old man hasn't been our customer, as I said before, since old Josefo's death—I did hear he was melancholy about a 'scape grace son, that run away and turn'd soldier, and all for love of a woman.

Whew! there's a cut and thrust!—well, Blanco, can you do me a service?

You ought to know whether I can or not.

But will you?

If I can, I will; for look ye, your honor; tho' I love my bottle as well as I love my life, dam'me, but I'd lay down either to serve my fellow creatures!

Would you? give me your hand.—The service I require of you will not be dangerous; 'tis only to go on an errand to Old Latouche's.

I ll do't, your honor—you cou'dn't have found a fitter man in the whole village to send of an errand, only somehow or other, I am main apt to forget it before I'm got half way; but if your honor will put it down in black and white—

I will—follow me, and I'll write the letter instantly—look'ye—here's something for your trouble in going; and, if your return be speedy, I will give you another.

(solus) Hey! what! a Crown (rubbing his eyes) Do I see clear? or does my morning's draught make me see double? No, 'tis as I live; well! I de­clare, what a fine thing it is to go of an errand for such a free hearted gentleman! I do believe, now, that if he were to put such another piece of money in­to my hand, with such a good natured look, and say "good Blanco, go to the Devil"—I should be tempted to go, if I could but find the way.

SCENE II.—Swiss view behind—Sunrise—Peasants dis­covered going to labor.

To work! to work! ye sluggish knaves! was there any shame in ye, the blazing sun would dis­cover [Page 9] it; but no—ye can eat, drink and sing; that's all ye are good for, ye lazy, lubberly, idle, giggling, tittle tattling—

My dear sir, how can you be ever scolding the folks so—they all strive to do their best.

Hold your cursed clack! can't you be con­tent to be ever thwarting and vexing me yourself, but you must encourage my labourers to do the same—(To Labourers) go about your business! to work, I say!

—and now, Miss, a word with you—you know after infinite trouble, I have at length found a husband for you—one of the greatest, dignified Grandees in all Spain!

Lord; Sir, what signifies all his dignity, and grandeur to me, so I can't love him.

But you shall love him; and, if you don't, I'll turn you adrift to perish like a miserable wretch, as old Latouche did his daughter.

How can you, Sir, delight to torture me so; you know she was the friend, the companion of my youth.

Yes; and her hopeful, runaway, sixpence-a­day soldier of a brother! he was she friend and com­panion of your youth too. I know what makes you so attach'd to that name. However, thank fortune! he has not been heard of these ten years; so you may give him up for lost, and if you don't think fit to mar­ry Don Chicano, Estrapada; De Olla Podrida, Gran­dee of Spain, Knight of La Mancha, and Viceroy of Barataria.

Right, Polaco, very right. After the pains I have condescended to take, to instruct you in the names of my titles, honours, and dignities, you have at length, got them pretty perfect; but to what purpose were you reciting them now?

In order, your Highness, to impress on my daughter's mind the highest sense of your dignity, and of the honour you intend her.

Honor, indeed! hem! (aside) if you knew all. Well, Polaco, you may go about your business now; I wish to have some private conference with your daughter;

Well; your Highness, I obey, I go. (aside) 'Egad these Grandees are damn'd insolent fellows! more titles than manners!

What's that you say?

That I hop'd your Highness would excuse any want of manners.

Oh, very well: Retire! Exit POLACO, bowing very respectfully) Well, Valence, have my rank and figure yet made any impression on your heart? (strutting about)

No.—Chap. How so?

Because my heart is not dispos'd to receive them.

Can you be so blind to your own interest as to refuse the offers of a man of my condition?

Yes; of any condition—if—

If what?

If I don't love him.

And don't you love me?

No.—Chap. Why so?

Because, as I have several times before can­didly told you, I love another.

What, that low bred vagabond, young La­touche!

Sir, whatever your condition may be, you don't seem possess'd of either politeness or generosity, or you would scorn to insult an helpless woman, or as­perse an absent man.

Were he of my rank, I should not treat him so! but we, Grandees, think it inconsistent with our dignity to treat such common plebeians like rational creatures.

Then, I am sure, I can't wonder at your treatment of me; so, I shall take my leave of your dignity.

Hold! not so fast! (stopping her) Let me tell you that I have your father's consent, and I think [Page 11] but little of your's. He has authoris'd me to take any steps,—

But those of a gentleman, which, by your be­haviour, appears to be also inconsistent with your dignity.

There is no bearing this insolence! know then, if you will not give your consent, I will have you without. (aside) Her father is gone; nobody near, every thing convenient; it shall be so!—(to VALENCE) Nay what should hinder me from embracing the pres­ent opportunity.

Is it becoming the dignity of a Grandee of Spain, as you call yourself, to assault helpless, unpro­tected innocence?

Our privilege is to do as we please with those of the lower order. So, come! resistance is vain (lays hold of her, she struggles.)

Vallain! abandoned wretch! help! help!

Hands off, Ruffian! I shall find hotter work for you than a female's soft hands can bestow.

(Turns to Young Lat, and falls in his arms) Heavens! Latouche!

Valence! my love! I came pretty seasonably here, I believe.

And who are you, rascal! who dare thus intrude?

No rascal; but a man who dares intrude any where, to defend female innocence from the attacks of a rascal.

Insolent fellow! know you whom you talk to?

No; nor care!—but you are talking to Latouche, who always thinks a villain, even of the highest rank, beneath him; and never fears to tell him so.

I will have satisfaction.

You shall this instant; and I wish every scoundrel, who dares to lay hands of violence on a wo­man, may receive the satisfaction, I hope to give you. Come, Sir, why don't you draw?

A gentleman never draws his sword in the presence of a female.

I understand you. Withdraw a little, Valence, while I revenge the brutal insult offer'd you.

Heaven protect you, my dear Latouche!

Now, Sir—(Chapone besitates and trem­bles) Why don't you draw?

I never fight with one who is not a gentleman. When you can prove your title to the honor of measur­ing swords with a Grandee of Spain, I am your man.

Man! none of that name ever offer'd violence to a woman—Thing! Reptile! Coward!—What, do you still hesitate? Draw, or I shall kick your Grandeeship.

Do with me what you please, I will not fight.

Not fight! How dare you then wear a sword, without courage to use it even in defence of your villainy; give it me. (Takes Chapone's sword from him) Now, Sir, as you don't chuse to use the blade, you shall have what every poltroon deserves, the soabbard. (beats? him with the scabbard)

Help! help! Mercy! Murder! (Falling on his knees.)

Bravo! Don't spare him!

Hey! what! Dignity in a hobble! what's the meaning of all this! Pray young man, who are you? and how dare you use his Highness thus?

(Getting up, and going the other side of Polaco.) Oh, Polaco, I'm glad you're returned:—Scarcely were you gone, when, on my knees, I endeavour'd to per­suade your daughter to consent to our union; when that ruffian there, taking advantage of my defenceless posture, rush'd, on me suddenly from behind, snatch'd away my sword, and I dare say was going to rob, and, perhaps, murder me.

Dear Sir, don't believe a word of it! No sooner had you turn'd your back than he offer'd me vio­lence; and had not my Latouche come to my aid—

Who! Hey—What the devil! 'tis he sure [...]

Your daughter's screams drew me to protect her from the hands of that villain.

And pray who made you her protector?

My duty as a man—and he who wouldn't fly to assist an injur'd woman is not only un­deserving of that name, but deserves to be blotted from the [...] life.

Dam'me; but he's a noble minded fellow! and if his purse was as large as his heart he were worth a million of dignified boobies!(aside) Valence get you home instantly.

Good by'e, my dear Latouche!—

(Sees Young Latouche kissing her hand) Hey—what Miss Impudence don't you hear what I say to you.

Yes, Sir, but gratitude to my Protector will not suffer me to leave him without some trifling acknowl­edgment.

Oh, the devil! I shall have her run away with before my face. Why doesn't your Highness assist me. (calling Valence from Young Latouche, Chapone is ad­vancing, when Young Latouche, quits Valence's hand and holds up the scabbard, Chapone instantly flies back.)

Look'ye, Sir, (to Polach) You, as my Valence's father I respect, and resign her to you; but for that reptile (pointing to Chapone) if ever he comes in my way again, I'll crop his ears as an example for all dignified scoundrels.

Your insult to his Highness will not pass un­noticed, so, Mr Soldier, you had best set out on another campaign, before the law takes you in hand.

The Law, Sir, is made to protect, not to oppress; and an honest man need never fear its rigor. Let such villians as those (pointing to Chapone) tremble. Your threats can't intimidate me, while I am in posses­sion of two of the law's best advocates—a good cause, and a full purse.

The ruffian has, no doubt, stolen that purse and the cloaths on his back.

Like enough; and wants to steal my daughter.

Let me assure you, Sir, that it is not my [Page 14] intention to gain, your daughter in a clandestine man­ner: If you will hear a few words, I hope to convince you that my pretensions to her—

Your pretensions; ha! ha! ha! the savings of a soldier's pay—

Or the booty he has gain'd on the highway.

If you wish to avoid a repetition of this good, wholesome advice (shewing the scabbard) you will retire.

Come, Polaco, let's be going, the fellow may grow desperate.

Only one word more; I shall take pretty good care to keep my daughter out of your way, so good by'e Mr. Six-pence-a-day.

Good by'e, Mr Ruffian!

Scoundrel! (threatens him with the scab­bard, he runs off after POLACO; and YOUNG LATOUCHE, exit on the opposite side.)

SCENE, a room in the Inn.

Conscience, conscience! what a perpetual goad art thou to the breast of an offender! Eight years have e­lapsed since, in making the tour of Europe, I visited this spot; and first beheld the lovely rustic Julietta, whom I most insidiously beguiled of her innocence. Neither time, nor the dissipations of London have been able to drive her from my memory; and the inward monitor has, with never ceasing austerity, whisper'd me, that it was a villainous act, first to seduce and then abandon to the world's scorn, a beauteous girl, whose only fail­ing was an unbounded confidence in my vows. Vows! false as hell.

Your servant, Sir.

Sir, your's.

My name is Latouche; and you, I pre­sume, are the gentlemen to whom I am to apply for tidings of my son, according to the letter I received just now.

You are right, Sir,

Heaven reward you! (weeps) I thought the fountains of my eyes were exhausted; but they flow afresh. Pardon me, Sir, these are the first tears of the kind I have shed for many a year; for they are tears of joy-of joy for my boy's safety!

May you never have occasion to shed any other!

Bless you for that wish! Pray, Sir, hasten to indulge my anxious curiosity to know where my son is—when I may expect to see him.

He will be here soon.

Soon! perhaps soon enough to close his poor old father's eyes.

Soon enough, I hope, to revive his heart, and cheer him for many a year to come.—He is not far off.

How came he by the honor of your ac­quaintance, Sir?

The honor is on my side. The acquain­tance of a brave, worthy man is a blessing seldom ob­tain'd—never enough to be valued! Ours commenced by his risking his life in defence of mine, against a band of assassins who attack'd me in a gloomy forest which I pass'd in my journey; a servant, whom I hir'd in Paris, prov'd to be in league with them; and join'd them at the beginning of the attack. My efforts were exhausted, and I was nearly overpower'd by numbers, when your gallant son, returning to his native place, be­held the unequal conflict, and flew to my aid; the vil­lains were soon put to flight, therefore to him am I in­debted for existence.

My boy is not only alive then, but gener­ous, and brave; merciful Heaven! thou hast heard my prayers. Now grant me to clasp him once more in these worm out arms, and I shall die contented!

Perhaps my good old friend! Heaven in compassion of your past sorrows has restor'd your long loft son, and destined you yet many years of hap­piness.

Happiness! oh! no; a small gleam of that can ever fall to my lot! the presence of my son [Page 16] may, indeed, end'ven the gloom at intervals, but can­not [...] the pressure I feel here. (pointing to his breast and weeping) Excuse me, Sir, I am old and weak. The iron rod of affliction has fallen heavy on me, and bruis'd me forely; I feel the period approach­ing, when the cold, yet friendly, hand of death, will close the woeful account.

Nay, nay, banish every care; your son is arriv'd, he has acquainted me with the cause of his leaving home, I will remove it; to a heart overflowing with gratitude, heaven has added the ability to bestow on the brave youth that qualification so essential in the eyes of the world—Riches! He may now boldly ask his mistress in marriage—I will pay the marriage por­tion, and you may still live bless'd in your children.

My children! distraction! there sticks the barbed point which no human skill can ever extract! there lies the wound which none but the grand physi­cian, Death, can ever heal! My children! oh! oh!—I have but one! may poor daughter!

Your son has often mentioned his sister in the most affectionate terms.—Nothing, I hope, has befallen her!—you do not grieve on her account?

Alas, Sir, she is—dead! and, perhaps, I, her unnatural father, hasten'd the dreadful catastrophe.

Heaven forbid!

How shall I look my poor boy in the face after my unnatural behaviour to his darling sister?

If the circumstances be not too painful to your feelings, pray relate them to me; pour your griefs into mine, as into the bosom of a friend; let me, con­dole with you, and strive to alleviate your distresses.

Your friendship I cannot accept, because I do not deserve it. None but the worthy can be the friends of the worthy. An unnatural parent deserves to be abandoned to the society of his fellow brutes. (sobs violently.)

Nay, nay, be not thus severe—inflict not these deadly wounds—have mercy on yourself.

'Twas more than I had on my poor child, my poor lost, undone Julietta! (pause) Pardon me, sir, [Page 17] 'tis a hard task for a guilty mind to unburthen itself, but I will endeavour to comply with your request. My boy left me in the utmost despair, dreading the dangers which the phrenzy of hopeless love might drive him into. My remaining child sat with me, wept with me, reason'd with me, and lull'd me with hopes into a kind of placid stupor. Near two years elaps'd in this manner, when she became pensive—sigh'd—seem'd to wish to avoid even my company—and when her eyes met mine, I could observe them bedew'd with tears. Supposing grief for her brother's hopeless return to be the cause, I, in my turn; endeavoured to console her, but in vain! Despairing at length of being able to conceal it from me much longer, she related the dread­ful story—she had been seduc'd, and abandon'd by a villain!

God of nature! what do I hear? (after a pause) did she mention who her feducer was?

Inflam'd almost to madness at the dishon­ourable tidings, I could scarcely restrain myself whilst her poor broken heart sobb'd out the circumstances.—He was an Englishman, of distinguished birth, on his travels.

An Englishman did she say?

She did. As an excuse for parting, he told my poor girl that his father was at the point of death, and had commanded his instant appearance at home; but that he would return as soon as his father's death or recovery would permit him, and marry her. And worse, ten thousand times worse than devil, I! to turn her out to the scorn of the world, to want and infamy!

Wretched father! (much affected.)

You are too much affected, Sir, Your spotless soul bleeds at the bare recital of such consum­mate villainy.

O torture! torture! the name, time, place, all agree; and I am the curs'd author of all this misery—but I must, I will be satisfied, (aside.) Go on.

Rather let me bury the sequel in this dark breast, than wound your sensibility any farther.

No, proceed—I entreat you to tell me what became of your unhappy daughter.

Deaf to the cries of nature, her tears, in­treaties and condition, I spurn'd her from me, drove her from the house. Curses, curses on my unnatural inflexi­bility!(pause) she at length gain'd admittance into the family of a worthy Pastor in the neighbourhood, where, as I heard,—she diedin childbed, unbless'd! unforgiven!

Horrid! (sinks into a chair) the child! what became of her helpless child?

Heaven, too merciful to entrust it to my savage care, took it with her!

The child too dead!—Villain! villain! (pause) Did she leave no message for her base seducer in case of his return.

I know not.

But I will know (rising, visiently agitated) I will see the worthy Pastor.

My father! my honour'd father! (kneels to him.)

My son! my son! (embraces him.)

SCENE I.

Well, my friends, now we are private, adieu to distinction! I lay aside my dignity, you your servitude. You know our various coups de main rendered it ne­cessary for us to decamp to this distant spot: if I suc­ceed in marrying Polaco's daughter, you are to retire where you please with five hundred crowns each. The father we have completely gull'd—the daughter still re­sists all my attacks, in consequence of her love for Young Latouche, who, as ill luck will have it, is thrown in our way. He must be removed!

But how?

That is what I want to consult you upon I know, by experience, you are not chicken hearted, conscientious dogs, afraid of spilling a little blood.

Not if can be done with safety.

Right! Polaco has forbidden any rival his house, and all intercourse with his daughter; he will, therefore, naturally endeavour to gain a private inter­view with her; that's what I wish—we must way-lay, and overpower him.

But he is courageous, you say.

And desperate.

True; but policy and numbers will ever prove an over-match for bravery. We must but hark! I hear footsteps I Let us retire, and look out.

Blanco! thou art a lucky dog! little did I think when I crept to my straw-bed last night, that I should rise to such good luck in the morning; well, I was al­ways a man of business, but it never shower'd so thick upon me before; I've mounted from the post of cleaner of mules, and drawer of four wine, to the important of­fice of letter-carrier, a love letter too! I clare swear, for its from a man to a woman, and a handsome price paid for the postage. I don't know how I shall fill my last employment, for as I never ogled, the girls much, I don't know one little, cunning, sly, gypsey in the vil­lage to give me a lift, and I believe one in cursedly at a loss in these affairs without the assistance of a petticoat. Hey! what's that (a noise) By heaven! here's one coming, I've tried the bottle, till I've drown'd bashful­ness, that's one point gain'd; and now I'll try what sort of a hand I can make of wheedling the girls.

Cruel father! can any thing be so inflexibly obdurate as thy heart! Love, they say, is the strongest of pas­sions; but furely Avarice goes beyond it. Friendship, nay Generosity, have, in some instances, triumph'd over Love; but Avarice is unconquerable by either. Paren­tal [Page 20] affection, the strongest of human ties, is totally dis­regarded when in competition with it: and we daily see unnatural father's sacrificing their children's happiness in this world to the sordid and base consideration of wealth! I have stolen out to meet Latouche; why doesn't the spirit who presides over Love tell it him by instinct; or why does he not contrive some means of sending me a letter?

(aside) Egad! here's one devilishly in want of a letter, and I cursedly in want to dispose of one; what a pity but this now (pulling out a letter) could satisfy both our wants.

If his love for me be disinterested enough to disregard Fortune, I'm resolved to have him whether my father likes it or not.

(aside) That's a dutiful child!

Now if I could but meet him—

(advancing) Who, my pretty, sweet, dear?

Heavens! who are you?

Just what you are in search of, a man! and a true man—for he who sticks to his bottle will never de­sert his lass.

What brought you here?

Pretty much the same errand that brought you; you came to look for a man; I, a woman.

Who may she be?

If, as I overheard you say just now, you are in love, I may venture to trust you with the secrets of lovers; and you may, perhaps have fellow-feeling eno' to help their concerns—Read that.

Heavens, 'tis, my dear Latouche's hand-writ­ing!

Faith, that's the gentleman's name.

And directed to me!

To you?

Yes; and your guardian angel has guided your footsteps right. (Reads the letter to herself.)

(while she reads) Well then my guardian an­gel is dev'lish honest fellow. I always carry him in my pocket, (takes out a bottle) and whether my foot­steps [Page 21] are right or not, is just according to the homage I pay him.

(putting up the letter) My good fellow, go back to him straight—

I will, that's if I can.

And tell him I've no opportunity here to write, but if he comes to the little wood at the end of the garden gate about sun-set, I will contrive to meet him; here, take this for thy fidelity and pains.

(Examining the purse) Bless your pretty face I say; who wouldn't be faithful and pains taking for such a sweet, little good natured soul! If I had such a sweet­heart, and didn't do my duty by her, I wish my next drop might be my poison!

"If he comes to the little wood at the end of the [Page 22] garden gate about sun-set, I will contrive to meet him,"—So we will, all, hey, boys?

Ay, ay,

As he will expect to meet only his mistress, he will be sure to come alone; what say you? could we wish a finer opportunity?

There will not be much danger, it seems.

Not the least; he will come prepar'd for love, not war; and we may make as easy a conquest of him, as ever mistress did of a lover. Let us now separate; be it your care (to 1st Ruff.) to watch at the decoy; and, when the game hovers round, do you (to 2d Ruff.) give me notice that I may hasten to close the net.

SCENE.—The Inn.

"She had been seduc'd and abandon'd by a villain. [...]! These were the old man's words; and who is the vil­lain? I would give the universe that the epithet did not attach here!(his breast) but even hope, the wretch's last refuge, flies from me, and dreadful certainty sup­plies its place. Every circumstance concurs; con­science decrees me villain; and executes, itself, its dread­ful punishment; whom have I injur'd▪ an old grey headed man, already sinking beneath misfortune's rude billows; a brave young man, who preserv'd my life with the hazard of his own; a young innocent female, bless'd with the utmost purity of soul, that is—damna­tion! all the devils of hell cannot invent a name black enough for that crime? (stands, hearing some one coming) who's there?

My Lord, pardon my boldness, but, hearing your tone of voice unusually high, I was afraid something had created your displeasure.

Guilt! guilt! what a coward dost thou make me! rather would I meet the poignards of a thou­sand assassins, than the looks of the man I have in­jur'd! (aside.)

My dear Lord!—(advancing nearer)

How would his affectionate stile be chang'd, did he but know he address'd himself to the murderer of his family's peace; oh!

Pardon me, my Lord, if gratitude, and affection—

Why will he still cruelly persist to urge the fatal dart, which already tortures to madness my quiv'ring frame. (aside)

My Lord, (approaches, kneels and takes his hand) my heart bleeds to see you thus disturb'd, can I, or any one related to me, have—

Madness! Madness!—Latouche, (rais­ing him) would I could lay my heart open; you would not then doubt the sincerity of its affection to you. But at present, some past reflexions derange me; to-morrow, perhaps, I'll explain what passes in this tortur'd breast. Farewell!—

(solus) What can this sudden change mean? Instead of the pleasure which used to sparkle in his eye when we met, he now studiously avoids me. My own breast is conscious of no offence. Time and the will of Providence may disclose its mazy paths.

Here I am, your honor.

Well, Blanco, what news!

In the first place, I am so fatigu'd with my morning's work, that my spirits (holding up his empty bot­tle) are quite exhausted.—Young Lat. Psha!

In the next place, I have deliver'd your letter.

Have you? and you have brought a­nother in answer?—Blan. No.

No! stupid ass!

Hold, your honor.

To whom did you deliver mine?

To one, who kiss'd it so! that I believe you would fain have had your lips in its place.

My dear fellow!

Hold again! How transitory are the affairs of this life! not a minute ago you call'd me "stupid ass," now tis, "my dear fellow!"

Don't keep me in suspence, what did she say to you?

Why the only thing of consequence she said to me, was, that "I was a faithful, pains-taking fellow" and gave me this purse as a reward.

The devil! But what did she tell you to say to me?

To you? nothing material, only; that "if you came to the little wood at the end of the garden gate a­bout sun­set, she would contri [...] [...] [...]eet you."

Did she; look ye, Blanco, continue to be as faithful as you have begun; and, when I am married I'll take care you shall never be out of SPIRITS all the rest of your life.

(solus) Sha'n't I? Why then "fidelity's" the watchword! and, dam'me, if I don't think one sip gain'd by that, is worth a whole gallon earn'd by roguery.

SCENE—A room in POLACO's house.

Can this be true? are you certain of your in­formation?

My servants saw her take the letter from Blanco, and heard her make the appointment.

The devil they did! why then there's no time to be lost! what can we do?

Why, lookye Polaco; plot and counterplot! I have a scheme if you will give into it—

I'll give into any thing rather than see the bag­gage run away with a beggar.

Why then leave all to me—Instead of your daughter, he shall meet those who will keep him out of the way till our marriage takes place.

Will you? you have my free consent, and hearty wishes; we'll have the wedding to night, and then the poor Soldier may set out for head quarters to­morrow.

Spoke with spirit! But mind, Polaco! not a word of what has pass'd to your daughter! her in­genuity may communicate our discovery to him, and [Page 25] frustrate our plan, only keep watch; and if she goes out at the garden gate at the time appointed, you will be assur'd of the truth of my information, there will be no danger; I shall take care there will be no one there to meet her but myself.

Excellent contrivance! your highness has only now to sign the mortgage of your estates for the stipulated dowry; it is ready in my closet, and then this night—

Makes you father in law to a Grandee of Spain; he! Polaco.

SCENE.—A Chamber in Pastor's house.

'Tis in vain! nothing can relieve my perturb'd mind. Society! makes me miserable by contrasting the light and airy joys of pure and unfullied minds, with the gloomy sensations of my own contaminated breast. Retirement! gives me up to all the horrors of reflexion upon the fa­tal consequences of my past imprudence. Books! teach me that virtue and prudence are the noblest ornaments of the female sex; and that despair, infamy, and want are the deserv'd portion of those who quit their paths. I'll read no more! (throws away the book) Merciful Heaven! instruct me where my sorrows can find vent—my broken spirits consolation! Thou, too, hapless in­nocent! must partake my guilt! cruel inhumanity! to give misery to, whom we give birth!—And thou! who, by faithless vows of constancy and truth, melted my yielding fancy to love's impression, and blurr'd the native purity of my soul with folly! dos't thou escape remorse's deadly fangs!—Perhaps, even now, thou art revelling in a wanton female's smiles, whilst my de­spair's unthought of, or thy jest!—O death! lend me thine aid, open thy friendly habitation, and entomb a wretch, who is weary of existence! (reclines her head on her hand.)

What! my fair penitent! still mournful! still dubi­ous of the all-working hand of Providence! Let me [Page 26] intreat you not to add to your failings, a distrust of his merciful goodness.

Worthy Sir! to a soul that has never deviated from rectitude and virtue, the cheering beams of hope may be admitted; but to that of a fallen wretch, de­spondency is best suited. What can I hope for who have despis'd the virtuous ends for which I was created, and brought shame on my own, and my hapless off­spring's head?—Tell me, what have I to hope for?

Pardon from him who can alone bestow it! But yielding to despair, is doubting both his power and mercy.—Look up! a life of constant virtue can never be totally eclips'd by one speck of erring nature.

A gentleman, who says he is a stranger, wishes the honour of a private interview.

A stranger! what business can he have with me? no matter—shew him up.—(Exit Servant.) Dear Julietta, leave me for a while—my wife awaits you in my study, where as soon as this stranger is dis­patch'd, I'll join you.

Excuse, Sir, this intrusion from a stranger.—Trusting to report of your humanity and benevolence, I have called to consult you on a business which intimately concerns the peace and happiness, not only of myself, but of others whom you know—

Your confidence does me honour, Sir—pray be seated.—We are in private, and I am all atten­tion to what you shall please to communicate.

You know the Latouche family?

I have reason, Sir.

To his brave son I am indebted for no less than life! the circumstances you will know here­after. He accompanied me this morning.

Indeed, Sir! after so long absence, without any tidings, the whole village suppos'd him dead.

He is return'd adorn'd with every vir­tue that falls to human lot; return'd! eager to solace his aged, honour'd parent! but he finds him over­whelmed [Page 27] with distress—the reasons you are already too well acquainted with.

I am, indeed!

The old man's story affected me beyond what you can guess. His hapless daughter receiv'd, he told me, that asylum from your humanity, which his obdurate heart denied her.

I behaved towards her, as that master, whose religion I profess, taught me it was my duty to do.

He will reward you—Permit me, Sir, (tis not from idle curiosity) to ask the sequel of that unhappy fair one's story.

Her father's pride remaining inflexible, and his door shut against her, I offered her an asylum which she accepted. A long time she waited in anx­ious hopes that her seducer (whom she too well lov'd) would hasten back to clear her fame and honour—but in vain. Perceiving despondency begin to take place, I joined by my wife, endeavoured to keep alive those hopes. For some time we succeeded. At length de­spair, gaining the ascendency, took full possession—her­self and tender infant became the victims.

Gracious heaven! support me. (sobs aloud.)

You seem much mov'd.

I am, indeed! Did you observe whether she ever wore about her, or had in her possession, any pledge, or mark of affection given her by her seducer?

(Hesitatingly) I don't immediately recollect.

Did she not say he was an Englishman of high birth?

He told her so.

Because such token might lead to a dis­covery—I am, myself, an Englishman of some little dis­tinction, and might recognize him by it.

(after a pause of recollection) If I'm not mistak­en, I think I've seen her wear a ring.

A ring! Have you it? Can you shew it me?

I think I can; wait one moment; I'll try to find it.

(solus, rising up) 'Tis so: That ring I gave her at parting, and pledg'd with it my honor—honor! that word from my lips! a villain's lips! Oh! it was honorable to seduce an artless, innocent, lovely girl, and then leave her till she fell a prey to despair and shame? that word "Honor" pronounced by my lips was a hellish falsehood utter'd to deceive and ruin a credulous fair, who lov'd, alas! too well!—Shame! shame!—where can I seek for excuse? Will the fre­quency of the crime serve! No—Murder is murder still how oft soever perpetrated. Is it punishable? No.—Men of the highest rank commit, countenance, nay boast of it? Why then should I be thus agitated? Some­thing will not rest here, (his heart) and tho' the world may not call me villain, makes me know myself to be one.

Here is the ring!

It is, it is, indeed, the ring! (Sinking, the Pastor catches him in his arms and conveys him to a chair.)

What means all this? What disturbs you thus? Do you know the ring?

Oh, Sir! you are already, no doubt, much surpris'd! but you will be more so, when I tell you that that ring was—mine! that the villain who seduced the lovely Julietta, is now—before you!

Before me!

'Tis too true.—I'll endeavour to com­pose myself sufficiently to be able to lay open my guil­ty conscience to your strictest scrutiny.

(aside) Gracious God! how wonderful are thy works!

About eight years since, my father sent me to make the grand tour of Europe. Having a taste for painting, I would not neglect to view the pic­turesque mountains and vallies of Switzerland. I ar­rived at this spot—going one fine morning to view the beauties of nature, heightened by the rising sun I met the lovely Julietta in search of some stray lambs—I ad­mired and accosted her; her answers, full of sweetness and simplicity, enchanted my youthful mind, then of a romantic turn. At parting she told me, that she alone [Page 29] attended an aged parent, who impatiently expected her return. Her filial piety endeared her so much to me, that I could scarce check myself from offering to share that amiable task with her—with difficulty, I obtained her promise to see me again at the same spot. She kept her word—we grew interesting to each other—interview succeeded interview—till firmly persuaded of my truth and honour, she yielded!!—How could her unsuspect­ing mind escape contagion! I pass'd the time as in a dream of happiness; till I was rous'd by the arrival of a courier from my father, with a letter announcing that his dangerous state of health threatened a speedy disso­lution, and commanding me to lose no time in hasten­ing home—I had scarce courage to tell the tidings to Julietta, who receiv'd them as I expected—in an agony of grief—I endeavour'd to soothe her by a promise of returning so soon as my father should recover, or I should have closed his eyes. Obliged to depart—I gave her that ring as a pledge of my honour!—On my arrival in England, I found my father on the recovery, he lingered out some years, while I, in vain, strove to deaden reflection by joining the vortex of fashionable dissipation. After his death, I became Lord Stanton; the settlement of his affairs required my longer stay; I finished with all speed—and sat out, hoping to find my Julietta still alive, and to make her lawful reparation for her injured fame—by marriage.

By marriage, my Lord!—(after a long pause, with a very solemn accent) as Heaven is your witness, was that your intention?

Heaven is my witness, it was.—On the journey my life was preserv'd by her brother, who was then on his return home; hearing this was his na­tive place, I took him with me in my chaise. He told me why he left his home—I lov'd him for his courage, truth and constancy; and, as my fortune is immense, I experienced the most heartfelt joy to think I could not only pay my debt of gratitude to my preserver, by en­abling him to marry the girl he ador'd, but also sur­prize my Julietta with wealth and honour, Judge, then, my feelings, when I found all these glorious pros­pects [Page 30] blighted at once [...] my Julietta's death, and the knowledge that I was [...] murderer of the sister of the man to whom I owed my own existence—(to the Pastor, who appears thoughtful throughout this speech) nay, Sir, do not add to my distresses by doubting my sincerity—by Heaven! I've spoken truth.

(after a pause) Have you, my Lord, ever mentioned this to Old Latouche, or his son?

No—when I heard the old man's mourn­ful story, its resemblance to that of mine and Julietta's instantly struck me. I retired to reflect; and endeav­oured to hope his sorrows were not caused by me—now that hope is banish'd. You have seal'd the fatal certainty.

I'm glad you did not tell them; as what is passed cannot be recalled, the discovery would now on­ly serve to open the sear'd wound, and make it bleed afresh. For your offence to Julietta, penitence must make your peace with Heaven. She has already for­given you!

Oh! oh!

What recompence you ought to make to the living objects, you have injured, I need not dictate to you. If, by your means, Young Latouche may es­pouse Polaco's daughter, you will have done what lies in your power to discharge your debt of gratitude to him; and the old man, having his son's prosperity and happiness daily before his eyes, may be beguil'd of part of his sorrows.—Perhaps, I speak too freely?

Sir, I thank you for giving me, so freely, what I came to ask—your advice. I had design'd to have made a full confession of my guilt so soon as I re­ceived its confirmation from you; to do it now, I agree with you, would be imprudent. For myself—withdrawn from the world, I'll penance out the residue of my life in pray'rs to Heaven and Julietta for for­giveness. My fortune, this paper (gives a folded pa­per to the Pastor) leaves entirely to your disposal. Give of it, what you may think necessary to the happiness of Latouche's injured family. The rest bestow in such charitable uses as your benevolence may dictate.

I cannot now entertain a single doubt of your being a sincere penitent (rising, embraces him) you have done all that now remains in your power to do. As to this paper, your confidence in me will not be misplac'd

I am sure it will not. (pause) I have yet another request to make; if it be proper, I am con­fident, you will not, cannot deny it me.

Certainly not.

'Tis, to be shewn the spot where the re­mains of my much lov'd, much injur'd Julietta, and child are deposited. There let me pay the tribute of my tears, and then withdraw—forever!—

My Lord, as you have given me convincing proofs that your penitence is sincere, you shall approach their tomb. But, since you have agreed to keep the matter secret, you must not go by day; retire to my own apartment, there you'll find books, and no one in­terrupt you. At dark, I'll convey you to the Chapel, which adjoins this house, there I shall leave you to your meditations.

Heaven bless you!

Now, my Lord, give me leave to shew you to my chamber.

SCENE—A Library.

Heavens! what can be the reason of my beat­ing heart sounding these strong alarms? Why this un­easiness! Who can this stranger be? What is he to me? Yet, why did the Rev. Pastor ask me for my ring? Sure, I must have been the subject of their conversa­tion, or he never would have ask'd me for that sacred pledge—and with a look full of meaning? What can ail me?—

Mama, are you ill? Why do you talk to yourself so, and look! I don't know how?

Nothing, dear! I only feel a little faint, go, fetch me a glass of water, I shall soon be well.

I don't like to leave you alone; what would become of you, if you should be taken ill again and no­body near you?

My life! I am better already—go, get me the [Page 32] water, I shall not be alone, I think I hear the Pastor coming—Go, my love!—(kisses the child and leads him to the left side of the stage—listens) 'tis—I know his step! surely this trembling forewarns me of some­thing that I'm nearly concern'd in.

Well, Julietta, how are your spirits? Do you feel more compos'd since our last conversation?

Not much, Sir, (aside) He never before ap­proach'd me with a smile, nor would he now insult a broken heart with untim'd mirth; sure he must bring some comfort.

(taking her hand) Julietta—do not be alarm­ed; you must summon up your utmost fortitude; I've news to tell you which will require it, although it will prove a consolation.

I am sure it cannot be for grief you thus bid me prepare, because your looks are pleasant. After so many trials, methinks, Sir, you need not doubt my for­titude—I am ready.

The stranger has brought news—

(eagerly) Of whom?

Of your brother! he is arriv'd!

(withdrawing her hand, seemingly disappointed and chagrined) Was that—what he had to communicate to you?

It was; I hasten'd to tell you, what I tho't joyful tidings; but they don't seem to give you much satisfaction.

(after a struggle, in which a sense of her own situ­ation predominates over joy for her brother's safe return)—What is it to a wretch like me? wherefore should I joy to hear of a brother's arrival? will he fly to embrace me as a brother would a sister? No—he will shrink from my touch as from a pestilential vapour! on his first enquiry, his ears will be saluted with my ill fame; his poor, lost, degraded sister will rise from the grave to shame him, "with all her faults, by envy twice o'er­told."—No—let me still be suppos'd dead.

You love your brother?

I do, more than life.

He lov'd you?

He did, once—then I was pure and spotless. Should I now approach him?—oh! he would spurn me, dash me from him, trample me under his feet! whilst I, humbly suppliant, in vain implor'd forgiveness of my crime! No, I can never endure it. If I am sup­pos'd dead, my, father and brother may pity—nay, perhaps, forgive, bless and pray for me.

It will, however, be some consolation to you to hear of your brother's success.—He has preserv'd the life of a man, whose gratitude is boundless as his wealth. Polaco's only objection will be easily remov'd, and your brother will very soon enjoy his belov'd Val­ence and affluence.

It is, indeed, a consolation! happy brother! happy, happy Valence! you will soon receive the re­ward of virtuous love!—While I—wretched, despis'd, abandon'd!—oh, horror! I cannot bear—my very soul shudders at the contrast!

Nay, pray be calm.

How would my soul spring out to meet a brother's embrace! but no—it cannot be—

Consider, Julietta, your brother's absence made him long ago thought lost. Providence has pre­served him! Doubt you he can also cause the author of your woes, struck by horrific conscience, to return and make you reparation?

(in an agony of despair) He never will return!—Men despise an easy conquest. Their appetites, pall'd by enjoyment, must be roused by variety! woe­ful's the experience I have bought.—A simple Swiss rustic was not to be the wife of an English man of fash­ion. No; he now flutters through the gay, thoughtless circles of high life, or, perhaps, has long since given to some rich lady that faithless hand which belong'd of right to poor Julietta!—Fool! artless fool, that I was! to stake my all—my reputation, against a man's prom­ises!

Here is your ring again, (gives it her) did you not wonder why I ask'd it of you?

I did, indeed.

Attend! The stranger who came just now, was the person whose life your brother sav'd! He is, by birth, an Englishman.

An Englishman!

Yes, of noble family.

And he too, perhaps, like my undoer, satiated in his own country, comes to these rude vallies in quest of variety—another cormorant in search of prey, to give a new edge to his sickly appetite! O! may my hapless fate prove a warning! may the example of the undone Julietta serve as a beacon to other females!

The stranger anxiously enquired if you had any token of your seducer's—your ring struck me im­mediately; he knew it, he knew your seducer!

Knew him?

Yes; was intimately acquainted with him; nay more—was desir'd to enquire you out!

By whom?

By your husband! for such he acknowledges himself.—He will soon, very soon, be here, in person, to do you that public justice, your injur'd fame demands.

You cannot mean to deceive me! 'tis not in your character of Pastor, nor of a man!—'tis not in your nature!

'Tis not, be assured—compose yourself; soon will the clouds, that have obscur'd your reputation, blow away; and honor's sunshine brighten all the prospect.

O Heavens!

Soon will you receive again the endearing embraces of a tender father—a loving brother—and a—repentant husband!

This is—too much! (sinking.)

(supporting her) Nay, let not your fortitude now forsake you; you have borne up against adversity—learn to support prosperity.

(kneeling) Merciful Providence! why did I ever distrust thy wond'rous workings! why despair, knowing thy power to be over all! pardon! pardon!

(raising her) Now Julietta, how do you feel?

Quite resign'd. If you have any thing more to communicate, fear not—the greatest shock is past.

Perhaps not: tho' what you've heard is won­derful; yet arm yourself for what is—more so!

What can it be?

The stranger handed me this paper—read—

(reads) "As some reparation due to the family of the injur'd Julietta—I hereby give into the disposal of the Pastor of Soleure, all my estate, real and personal, in trust for the Latouche family, and such other charitable uses as his humane heart may dictate. —LORD STANTON."

—Who is Lord Stanton?

That is your husband's name and title, since his father's decease.

Why does he send this paper?

He knows not but you are dead; and this is meant as an atonement to your injur'd family.—Now, once for all, be prepar'd! the stranger, who just now left me, is that Lord Stanton! your husband!

Oh! Heaven's! (sinks into the Pastor's arms.)

SCENE. Garden back of Polaco's house.

How heavily the time passes with a young girl be­tween the appointment and meeting with her lover! Every minute seems an hour! an age! O! Latouche! why should two hearts so united as ours be oblig'd to seek communion by stealth! or why wear any other shackles than their own? Hark! I hear footsteps! that odious Grandee, perhaps—(looking out) no—as I live, 'tis my father! what business can he have at this time? sure he cannot suspect any thing.

Ha! Valence, what brings you here?

The fineness of the evening, Sir, A garden is a charming place for meditation; and I was taking a walk to consider of what you were saying to me to-day.

Well, and what do you think of it?

Why, Sir, 'tis no very easy matter to deter­mine; that I love Young Latouche, you know very well; and that I love you, Sir, you know also. You must make some allowance for the struggle between love and duty.

True, child; and to which side do you now seem to incline?

To duty, certainly, (coaxingly) I did, indeed, hesitate awhile, but when I came to consider, and put wealth and grandeur into the balance, why—love kick'd the beam.

(aside) Deceitful baggage! Well, my dear child, I am glad you have made so prudent a determi­nation, and so kind a return to all my regard and ten­derness. But won't you endanger your health by walk­ing so late in the evening? Come, you had better go in with me.

O no, dear Sir! I wish to be retir'd a little; and, as I have given up my own happiness to consult yours, you wo'n't, I am sure, deny me such a trifle?

Certainly not, my child, I'll leave you to your meditations; good bye; don't stay long, his Highness expects you, bye, my dear, (aside) deceitful hussey! I'd like to have been chous'd here, however I've escap'd, and it shall not be many hours before I have satisfaction.

He's gone, thank Heaven! why will Parents force their children into deceit; but if the glaring ex­amples of unhappiness which they daily bring upon them be not sufficient warning, why they deserve to be deceiv'd. The Sun begins to decline, how strange that his cheering presence should be displeasing to the eyes of lovers.—I think by this time Latouche must be at the place; and if no daemon, envious of true lov­er's happiness, comes across us; this might free me, my dear Papa, from every jurisdiction but that of a husband's!

SCENE. Wood.

Now, lads, the time is near at hand that is to reward us for all our toils. The appointment was at sun set; tis very nigh; he'll soon be here, for lovers always anticipate. The thickness of the wood is as fa­vourable to our pursuits as to their's; once in view, we may steal upon him unperceiv'd; and when you see him in a pensive, defenceless position, then is your time; rush on and secure him. I will be close at hand; and if he makes any struggle, this settles the business.

Well, well, let us alone to seize him; but if he resists, see you strike quick; we don't much like this job; he's damn'd bad customer in our way; better settle a business of this kind with twenty quiet, civil gentlemen, than with one such curs'd resolute, fighting fellow.

But you know we are three to one, with an ambuscade in our favour.

That's true; so hang fear, I say!

Let us now disperse a little on the look out; and when either of us gets a glimpse of him; we come together again.

It is just with an affair of love, as with a point of hon­or, each party is anxious to be on the ground first. I believe I have won the point this time; though I don't doubt but poor Valence is as eager as myself; but, per­haps, she cannot elude the vigilance of her old father! Now, Fortune! be constant to me this night, and veer to whatever point of the compass thou pleasest ever af­ter!—Hark!—didn't I hear some one—No, all's hush—'twas only the wind, or my tip-toe fancy—Perhaps I'm before my time—

Not a minute; we've expected you some time, tho' we knew you were too polite to disappoint us; [Page 38] you're heartily welcome. (to Ruffians) Conduct this gentleman to the place appointed for his reception.

O Fortune! thou cursed jilt! thou hast undone me; and that drunken villain Blanco must have entic'd me into this snare.

Come, Sir, come along. We'll show you a neat snug habitation for the night.

Perdition seize me e're I yield so tame­ly; villains! ruffians!

What three to one! dam'me, that's too bad!

Nay, if you struggle, this settles the business.

Not if I can hinder it, you damn'd villain! (As soon as Chapone's sword is out, Blanco rushes on him from behind, trips up his heels, the sword flies out of his hand—Blanco seizes it, and is going to attack the Ruffi­ans, who run off, Chapone gets up & does the same—Young Latouche turning, sees Blanco in a striking posture.)

What, villain! art thou alone left to finish the infernal deed?

Heavens! his honor! how happy am I that I came in the drawing of a cork to save you!

To save me! why, are you not leagued with these Ruffians? was not the message you brought me to day a falshood to draw me into their power, and do you not now brandish that weapon to complete your villainy?

This weapon fell from the hands of one of the assassins, who was going to plunge it into your breast when I overpowered him—(kneel.) take it! and if you doubt the honesty of my heart—here (opening is breast) 'twere kindness to rip it out.

(Throwing away the sword, and raising him) Confusion! that I should suspect thee! but hav­ing fallen into this snare, I could not but suppose thee false.—How came you here?

Heaven, and our good Pastor sent me!

Then thank heaven, our good Pastor and thee, my brave fellow!

I have had a pretty hard days work on't— [Page 39] and, as your honor, and the sweet lady I gave your let­ter to, this morning, paid me so very liberally, I sat down with a determination to recruit my spirits—so as I was sitting with my bottle before me, thinking that if your honor was so pleased, I would rather run of er­rands for you and your sweet lady, than draw sour wine for our landlord, (who, by the bye, is a damn'd old scoundrel, and not like old Josefo, whom your honor knew)—who should pop in but our Pastor. He asked for you—I told him you were gone out on a little private business—but I would'nt blab; for I remember­ed your charge to be faithful—then says the Pastor, "if you know where he is, go to him; charge him by all his hopes of happiness—by filial duty, and every earthly tie, to hasten to my house—If he neglects, he may have cause to repent it forever."

What could he mean?

I know not; but he spoke so solemnly, that down goes glass, and away goes I—and as I knew from the message I delivered you to day, where to find you, I scamper'd off as fast as I could; and though I lost sight of the Play, came in time for the Entertainment.

In time, indeed! Blanco forgive my sus­picions; give me your hand. From this moment you are my friend.

Oh Lord! no—not that—but if you'll make me your gentleman—your valet—coachman, or—but­ler, I should like best—

Latouche! Latouche!

Hark! I hear a noise.

Perhaps the villains have got a reinforce­ment, and are going to renew the battle.

(without) Latouche!

'Tis my Valence's voice—yonder she comes—now, Blanco, follow us to the Pastor's and name your own reward—

My life! my Valence! (embraces her)

Oh, my dear Latouche, I'm glad I've found you—just as I enter'd the wood, I saw that villain, [Page 40] whom you chastis'd this morning, and two others run­ning towards our house with the utmost speed—I fear'd they had contriv'd some mischief against you—

Aye, and were very near executing it too—but for this brave fellow, we had been separated forever—but come; we have no time to lose; he will bring your father and his servants about us directly—let's away this instant!

Whither?

To the Pastor's—he has sent for me on business of the utmost importance—(she hesitates) nay, my love, don't affect coyness now—one moment's de­lay may be fatal—come—the Pastor will soon settle our differences—Blanco will begin his new employ­ment, and follow us.

That I will to the world's end, ye pretty pair of turtle doves! But first let me secure the spoils of war (picks up the sword which Latouche threw away) this is mine by right of conquest. Well, I have often tried my hand at a bottle—but, dam'me, if I ever knew be­fore that it was good at a tilting match.—I see that a man may live many years before he finds out all his own good qualities.

SCENE. A Chamber in Pastor's house.

Well, do you think you have collected suffi­cient strength to go through with your undertaking?

It will be a most difficult task, though I know the end to be peace, joy, and happiness.—I feel that not­withstanding all the pangs he has caused me, it is not in my nature to give him a moment's uneasiness. Let me intreat you however to be at hand, for I feel my res­olution will quickly vanish.

I shall—I have bespoke the presence of all the other guests, and only wait arrival to instruct them how to play their parts in the last grand scene. Do you go and tutor the child, while I get all else in readiness

(solus) Now, I wish that my visitors were all come. I have much to go thro' to night; but as the [Page 41] peace of so many depend upon my exertions, I hope I shall be able finish with a coup d'eclat.

Eh! my young friend, I'm heartily glad to see you. I call'd at the Inn, but was inform'd you were gone out. Did you receive my message?

Yes, and a most fortunate one it was! This honest fellow who brought it, came just in time to rescue me from the swords of three assassins, who way­laid me.

Fortunate indeed! Do you know who the vil­lains are?

Yes, and I shall pay their bill of ex­change at first sight; but at present, I have more ma­terial business. This Sir, is my intended wife; please Heaven and you to join us.

Heaven bless you both.

Thank you, Sir.

If you are at leisure, Sir, VALENCE and I would have no objection to the ceremony's being per­form'd out of hand, eh! VALENCE? nay, never look down; as we are in for matrimony, we may as well put a good face on't.

I have but one objection to your haste, and that is—

with a number of people are below, Sir; he says he is in pursuit of his daughter, who is run away with by Young Latouche, and that they have been seen to enter this house.

Shew him up, I wish to see him.

O LATOUCHE, we are undone!

Don't be alarm'd, my child! I shall find means to assuage your father's anger, and, perhaps, gain his consent to your happiness.

So, here you are, Miss! this is your prudent determination, after your struggle between love and du­ty, is it? but you see I am pretty close at your heels. (To Pastor) Sir, a man of your character and function will not, I suppose, encourage the disobedience of chil­dren to their parents?

Never, Sir. Your daughter came here a few minutes ago—but entirely unexpected by me. There she is at your disposal.

Then they are not married?

No, nor ever will be by me, without the con­sent of parents on both sides.

Thank heaven! Then, Mrs. Love and Duty! I shall make bold to exert that authority which I still have over you. You shall have a husband to night; but one of my choosing; and that will not be a soldier, I promise you—so come along, (pulling her from Young Latouche.)

Hold, a little. One word with you, if you please.

As many as you please, now I have secur'd my runaway. Words can't get her from me; tho', egad, heels had like to have done it.

Have you any other objection to this young man (pointing to Young Latouche) for a son in law, be­sides his want of fortune?

None. What other objection need I have? Want of fortune is want of—dam'me, what is'n't it want of?

If I understand you right, then—provided he can bid as fair for her, as any other person, you will consent he shall have her?

Why, look'ye, Sir, as I believe my daughter loves him, and he loves my daughter, I'm not so un­reasonable as to oppose their wishes, so their wishes do not oppose my interest. I like the young fellow very well—he's spirited! but that alone won't do for Pola­co! How the devil should he bid for my daughter? I'm sure his father can't furnish the wherewithal?

What signifies, so he has it? what portion do you require?

Twenty Thousand Crowns, his Highness has engaged to give me a mortgage on his estates for that sum, with interest till paid.

The cash, Polaco, is better, is it not?

Put it down, and I shan't haggle for a bargain,

Wait a moment.

(fiercely) How! dare you, Polaco, enter into treaty with another, after your engagement with me? and before my face!

Before faces, your Highness, or behind backs, all's one to Polaco. I may do as I please with my own child, I suppose. Your mortgage may be very good—but the ready is a dev'lish deal better!

Insolent! (walks up the stage in a passion.)

This is the young lady's father (pointing to Polaco.)

Twenty thousand Crowns, you say, will purchase your consent to this couple's happiness?

I said it, and will stand to it—besides I'll double it on the nail; Polaco's no flincher!

Go—give them your blessing—I'll give them the money.

Aye, but who the devil are you?

(coming down) Aye, who the devil are you.?

(Looking at Chapone with surprise) Aye, sure it is—the very villain! (to Chapone) And who the devil are you?

(aside) Hell and furies! my master!

Let that villain be instantly secur'd.

(falling on his knees) Pardon me, my Lord, and I'll do whatever you please.

(aside) My Lord! hey! what the devil's here? (to Chapone) what, your Highness on his knees again! Faith, your Spanish Grandees seem a very devout sort of folks.

That impostor is the villain, who was my servant, and would have robbed and assassinated me but for the interposition of this brave man—let him be taken into custody.

I'll execute that commission with pleasure, (seizing Chapone roughly) your Highness and I scrap'd acquaintance together in the little wood yonder, I be­lieve.

I humbly beg your Lordship's pardon—I was unacquainted—

No apologies, you agree to the match?

That I do, your Lordship—let it be done in­stantly. There (joins Young Lat. and Valence's hands) Heaven bless you.

I've now got a son in law of spirit! (to Chapon: Your Highness! ha! ha! ha! Oh, you damn'd sneaking rascal!

Blanco, do see that villain secur'd?

Yes, Blanco, do attend his Highness. What a damn'd old fool I have been.

Yes. I'll attend his Highness for old acquain­tance sake—come, get up—I believe your Highness' estate is already so deeply mortgaged, that its not worth more than a halter.

Now, my friends, I have to request you to at­tend me on another business, which is, at present, secret; but the end of which I wish you to witness. As you have seen villainy detected, you will now behold virtue rewarded. Who waits?

Your pleasure, Sir?

Is every thing ready, as I directed?

All ready, Sir.

Are all the guests, I mentioned to you, come?

All, Sir.

Then conduct them to the different places I have assigned—My friends, be pleased to follow my servant; he will instruct you in all that is necessary for you to know. I have not time to do it myself. How­ever, let me assure you, that what is passed will be tri­fling to the pleasure that is to come.

(solus) Now, to conduct his Lordship to the Chapel, and then for the catastrophe!—which I have endeavoured to make as striking as possible—and while the events of this day blazon the mercies of the Su­preme Being, may they prove that virtue, however it, may seem depress'd for a while, will rise more bright and unfullied than ever!

SCENE. A Chapel.

This is the vault which contains your Julietta and child. My Lord, I shall now leave you to your reflections.

(Solemn pause. Looks at the tomb—turns away, puts his handkerchief to his eyes, and continues some­time in that posture.) Is it to this dreary mansion, I must come to visit thee, Julietta! Is this the meeting which I promised, when I took leave of thee almost broken hearted!—Poor, suffering saint!—look down and be­hold the anguish of thy wretched murderer! Soon do I hope to join thee; to join did I say? Oh, never! Thy guiltless soul soars where mine, contaminated and o'erloaded with crimes can never mount! (kneels)—Father of mercies! compassionate a repentant, contrite heart! As thou knowest the sincerity of my penitence, let not my sufferings on earth be long! purify me, as thou hast the saint-like Julietta; and let my soul, in u­nison with hers, pay THEE humble adoration. (rises)—(solemn music, as from above) Whence spring those heav­enly sounds? they give new life; already am I lifted from the earth, and become an aerial being—'tis—it must be so! this must be a gracious promise that my prayers are heard—Oh, Julietta, spirit of bliss! when shall we meet again?—(Music again—the folding doors of the tomb are thrown open.—Julietta and Child (in-white robes) come forth—they approach the altar, kneel, continue sometime as in adoration—rise and come forward. She sees Lord Stanton—starts! after a pause, advances, and holds out her hand to him.)

Lovely spirit! I thank thee for this to­ken of thy forgiveness! Yes, tho' I know thine aerial spirit cannot be polluted by my touch;—yet will I try to grasp the beauteous shade! (kneels, and takes her hand) Gracious God! is it possible! Speak! speak! and confirm the wonder!

My husband! (falls on his neck.)

Is not this a delusion? do not my senses, bewilder'd by grief, and by approaching this hallow'd spot, deceive me with imaginary visions? Speak? O, speak again!

I am, indeed—your—living Julietta!

My child, too! (child kneels between them)

Lives to ask your blessing!

O God! O God! how little have I de­serv'd this?

My brother! father too!

My daughter!

My sister!