Syd. I wish she may not be mistaken; we must leave the event to time:-And now, my dear Lady, when are we to mount the wedding favours?

Emi. So, you will suppose I am cast for transportation to the enchanted castle?

Syd. Enchanted it will be, when you are in it; but how can I suppose, or even wish, any otherwise, when ruin is attached to the alternative ?

Emi. You strike me upon a motive that may drive me upon wondrous self-denials. If my beloved Mrs. Woodville falls, if my dear gallant Henry is beaten down and crushed by poverty and distress, at any sacrifice I'll raise them up. Syd. Will you? Then, by the powers of goodness, you are an angel!

Emi. But in that wreck of happiness I shall need all the help that friendship can bestow; and you, Charles Sydenham, whom I place ever in the front of those few firm hearts I most prize, and most depend on, must not desert

me.

Syd. Desert you! Damn it, my throat aches so, and my eyes dazzle, that I can neither rightly speak to you, nor see you-but, by the Lord, I'll die for you.

Emi. Not so; but you must come to me in the country: there you and I will tell old stories over a winter's fire, and be as comfortable as two feeling hearts will let us.

Syd. I'll come; I'll come to you-walk, ride, fish, fowl, milk the cows, feed the poultry, nurse the children, laugh, cry, do any thing and every thing you would have me-I will, upon my soul I will!

Emi. Enough said: upon this promise we will part. I shall be called for by my father, and you know his humour. Syd. I know him well for a most absolute and all-to-berespected governor; but if he had as numerous an offspring as Muley Ishmael, and as large an empire as Timur Khan, the proudest title he could boast would be that of being father to such an angel of a daughter. [Exeunt, L.

SCENE II-A Street.

Enter PENRUDDock, L.

Pen. So! I am in London once more.-From solitude and silence how sudden is the transition to crowded streets, where all without is noise, and all within me anarchy and tumult! Thoughts uncollected, jarring resolutions, avarice, revenge, ambition, all the turbid passions arming,

like soldiers roused from sleep, to rush into the battle. Pity-I have none; my heart is changed: I stopped in a bye-place to reconsider Mrs. Woodville's interceding letter; a naked, shivering wretch approached, and begged my charity; she was importunate, and I, with a remorseless frown, bade her begone." Alas!" she cried, "if I had looked you in the face, I might have seen there was no hope for me.' I have the mark of Cain-the stamp of cruelty imprinted on my forehead. She cut me to the heart; I would have called her back and atoned, but sullenness or pride forbade it. How rich was I in my contented poverty! How poor has Fortune made me by these soul-tormenting riches!— Enter WEAZel, r. d.

Well, sir, is Mrs. Woodville in her house? *

Wea. She is not there, nor any body that can tell me where she is the servants are dispersed, the chamberdoors all locked and sealed, save one, in which a solitary guard keeps watch, holding possession in due form of law: I have seen it in its splendour; it is now reverseda melancholy change.

Pen. I'll visit it nevertheless; it will be a wholesome preparative to the scene of luxury which you tell me I am to be saluted with in the stately mansion of Sir George Penruddock. [Exeunt, R. D.

SCENE III.-An unfurnished Room.

Enter an OFFICER, WEAZEL, and PENRUDDOCK, R. Pen. You are here, sir, I presume, in office by authority from the late Sir George Penruddock?

Officer. I am, Sir; and though it is against our rules to admit any stranger, yet as I know Mr. Weazel, and he warrants for you, I make no objection to your coming in.

Pen. Nor to leaving us, I should suppose, within these bare walls; they defy robbery: the scythe of the law cuts close, and those, who follow it, will not be enriched by their gleanings.

Officer. A pleasant gentleman, I should guess, and knows a thing or two.-Mr. Weazel, with your leave, I will speak a word with you.

Wea. By all means, Sir; ever happy to assist, when you want anything in my way. [Exit with Officer, L. Pen. Here, then, was the residence of my once-beloved Arabella; here she reigned, here she revelled, and here, perhaps, in a desponding moment, she wrote that melan

choly appeal, which wrung the weapon from my hand, when raised against her husband's life. I'll read it once again; the scene conspires, a sympathetic gloom comes over me; and solitude, the friend of meditation, prompts me to review it :-" By the death of Sir George Penruddock, you will find us your debtors in no less à sum than all that we possess; if you are extreme, we are undone : my husband, who expects no mercy, flies from me in despair, and in his fate mine is involved;-if, then, you find an orphan in the world, whose parents could not move your pity, you may think revenge has done enough, and take my Henry into your protection."

Enter HENRY WOODVILLE, R.

Hen. Where am I? What has happened? Why is this house so changed in its appearance?

Pen. Whom do you seek?

Hen. A father and mother, who dwelt here: if you have heard the name of Woodville, and can ease my anxious terrors, tell me they survive.

Pen. Be satisfied―They live.

Hen. Devoutly I return Heaven thanks, and bless you for the tidings: long absent, and debarred all correspondence with my family, I came with trembling heart, uncertain of their fate; and, I confess, the ominous appearance of a deserted house struck me with alarm: but I may hope they have some other residence at hand.—If you know where, direct me.

Pen. If I knew where, I would; but

Hen. But what? Why do you pause?

Pen. Because I cannot proceed.

Hen. Why not proceed? You know they live—can you not tell me where?

Pen. I cannot.

Hen. What is your business here?

Pen. None.

Hen. Do you not live in London ?

Pen. No.

Hen. What is your name-occupation? Where do you inhabit ? How comes it to pass you know so well to answer me one question, and are dumb to all the rest? Pen. I am not used to interrogatories, nor quite so patient as may suit with your impetuosity.

Hen. I stand corrected; I am too quick,-You will excuse the feelings of a son.

Pen. Most willingly; only I am sorry to perceive they are so sensitive, because this world abounds in misery.

Hen. Now I am sure you know more than you yet reveal; but having said my parents are alive, you fortify me against lesser evils: I know my father's failings, and can well suppose that his affairs have fallen into decay.

Pen. To utter ruin. Gaming has undone him.

Hen. Oh! execrable vice, fiend of the human soul-that tears the hearts of parent, child, and friend! What crimes, what shame, what complicated misery hast thou brought upon us! This house was swallowed in the general wreck. Pen. With every thing else: Sir George Penruddock had it for a debt, as it is called, of honour.

Hen. A debt of infamy-and may the curse entailed upon such debts descend on him and all that may inherit from him!

Pen. There you out-run discretion: he is dead, and you would not extend your curse to him that now inherits.

Hen. Light where it will, I'll not revoke it. He that is Fortune's minion well deserves it.

Pen. But he that is innocent, does not.

Hen. Can he be innocent, who stains his hands with ore drenched in the gamester's blood; dug from the widow's and the orphan's hearts with tears, and cries, and agonies inutterable? "Tis property accurst: were it a mine as deep as to the centre, I would not touch an atom to preserve myself from starving.

Pen. You speak too strongly, Sir.

Hen. So you may think: I speak as I feel.-Who is the wretched heir?

Pen. Roderick Penruddock.

Hen. What! Roderick the recluse ?

Pen. The same.

Hen. My father knew him well-a gloomy misanthrope, shunning and shunned by all mankind. When such a being, after long seclusion, lost to all social charities, and hardened into savage insensibility, comes forth into the world, armed with power and property, he issues like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour.

Pen. Stop your invective! Know him before you damn him.

Hen. I do not wish to know him; but if you do, and think him wronged by my discourse, convince me of the wrong, and you shall find me ready to atone.

Pen. I would not have you take his character from me;

[ACT III. and yet I think him to be somewhat better than your report of him; however you have put it fairly to the issue, and if your leisure serves to meet me at his house, the late Sir George Penruddock's, within two hours from this, you may perhaps see cause to blush for the severity of your invective in the mean time, I promise to make no report of what you have said, and neither aggravate his mind against you, nor warn him of your coming.

Hen. If I can find my friends within the time you mention, I will not fail to meet you; but I should know your

name.

Pen. You shall know every thing in proper time and place-till then farewell. [Exit Henry, R.] Insolent libeller! he has undone himself, and stabbed the mercy in my bosom, whilst in the very act of rising to embrace him. [Exit, L.

END OF ACT II.

ACT III.

SCENE I-A mean Apartment in the Lodging House of Mrs. Woodville.

Enter HENRY, ushered in by a Maid Servant, L.

Maid. Walk in, sir, pray walk in. Madam Woodville will be quickly at home.

Hen. Are you her servant?

Maid. I do the work of the house, and wait upon the lodgers.

Hen. Has she none else belonging to her?

Maid. No, no, good lady, she has none else but me. If you are Captain Woodville, her son, I hope it will be in your power to comfort her.

Hen. Heaven grant it may !-I am the person; you may leave me.[Exit Maid, L.]-What a sad change is this! My mother in this place-thus lodged, and thus attended! O Nature! let me not forget it was a father that did this, else-but that thought is horror-Hark, she is coming

Enter EMILY TEMPEST, L.

May I believe my eyes? The lovely phantom of my visions realized.