and the hard names he gave me : would it not be a worthy punishment to imprison him for life?

Wea. A moderate correction he well merits; but imprisonment for life would be too severe a punishment.

Pen. I think it would, in such an execrable dungeon as this. How long, sir, might it take to starve a naked man to death in a cold frosty night?

Wea. Truly, sir, the calculation never entered my thoughts.

Pen. I'll tell you then-about as long as it would take to drive me 'mad, were I to be here shut up without the power of an escape. 'Sdeath! can a man that has looked nature in the face, gaze ou these fripperies? Why, sir, my cobwebs, which old Deborah's purblind eyes leave undisturbed, have twenty times the grace of these unnatural festoons. What did Sir George Penruddock mean by thus lampooning me? I'll not wear a fool's cap and bells for any man's humour, not I. Sir, I must ever curse the moment when you broke up my repose in my small unsophisticated cottage.

Enter JENKINS, R.

Jen. Captain Woodville is at the door, and desires to know if there is not a person here he was to call upon.

Pen. Introduce Captain Woodville directly. [Exit Jenkins, R.] Mr. Weazel, you will expedite those matters I instructed you upon, and remember secrecy.

Wea. I shall act faithfully in all things, to the best of my understanding What a mysterious animal it is! "Twould puzzle Edipus to unriddle what he means.

Enter HENRY, R.

[Exit, L.

Henry. Bless me! can this be so? Am I in company with Mr. Penruddock?

Pen. For the second time.-I recollect we met by accident, and had some interesting conversation.

Hen. Then I must throw myself upon your candour, and abide by any measures you may chuse to dictate in consequence of what has passed between us.

Pen. You hardly can expect much candour in a character such as you painted-savage, insensible, lost to all social charities, a gloomy misanthrope.

Hen. I spoke, as men are apt to speak, what I believed upon report. If you mean only to retort the words on me as their retailer, you still leave the original authority in

force; but if you can refute that, you at once vindicate your own character from aspersion, and bring me to shame for my credulity and levity.

Pen. If I remember right, you quoted your own father as the authority on which you rested: of him, therefore, in the first place, I will speak; of myself, in the last. Your father and myself were intimates through all that happy age, when nature wears no mask: our boyish sports, our college studies, our travelling excursions, united us in friendship. This may be tedious talk, and yet I study to be brief, for my own sake as well as yours.

Hen. I'm all attention-pray, proceed.

Pen. On our return from travel, it was my fortune to engage the affections of a lady-whom at this distant period I can't name without emotions that unman and shake my foolish heart-therefore, no more of her. Your father was our mutual confidant, passed and repassed between us on affairs of trust and secrecy, whilst I was busied in providing for our marriage settlement: I struggled against difficulties that tortured my impatience, and at length overcame them. In that interval a villain had belied my character, poisoned her credulous mind, and, by the display of a superior fortune, prevailed upon her parents to revoke their promises to me, and marry her to him. What did this wretch deserve?

Hen. Death from your hands, and infamy from all the world.

Pen. And yet upon his credit you arraign my character; -for that wretch is your own father

Hen. I'm dumb with horror.

Pen. Can you now wonder, if, when armed with power to extinguish this despoiler of my peace, this still inveterate defamer of my character, I issue, as your own words describe me, like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour?

Hen. I'll answer that hereafter; and by the honour of a soldier, I will answer it as truth and justice shall exact of me. But a charge so strong, so serious, so heartrending to a son, who feels himself referred to in a case so touching, demands a strict discussion: I shall immediately seek out my father, whom I have not yet seen.

Pen. If I accuse him falsely, it is not restitution of the debt he owes me, nor all that I possess besides, no, nor my life itself, that can atone for the calumny. If I have spoken truth, confess that though I have the fury of the lion

you compare me to, I have, like him, instinct to justify the ravages I make.

Hen. I close upon those terms: when next we meet, we meet decisively. [Exit Henry, R. Pen. He, that is once deceived, may plead a venial error; but he that gives himself to be a fool twice duped, has nothing but his folly to excuse him. I parted from this strumpet world because she jilted me; protesting never to believe her more, I cast her off; she now approaches me with syren smiles, throws out her lures, and thinks to dazzle me with these vile scraps of tawdry patch-work fineryAway with all such snares! there's whore upon the face of them.

Enter JENKINs, r.

Jen. Is it your pleasure to be at home, sir?
Pen. It shall be before long.

Jen. Do you chuse to see Mr. Sydenham ?

Pen. By all means. [Exit Jenkins, R.] The whole town are welcome to break in and plunder all they find: encumbered with the trappings of folly, the sooner I am stript the better.

Enter SYDENHAM, R.

Sir, I am proud to see you. This is indeed a kindness greater than I looked for, even from you, of whom I had conceived so highly, to visit one that must appear to you in the last stage of human misery.

Syd. How so, sir? What is it you can allude to ?
Pen. These symptoms of insanity. These

Syd. You surprise me, sir: if you advert to the decorations of this ball-room, be assured they are executed to a miracle; conceived, disposed, and finished with great elegance, and in the very last taste.

Pen. Heaven grant it may be the last!

Syd. You have lived long out of the world; your eyes are used to nature; but in these times we never prize what we can enjoy for nothing of course, nature and all her works are out of fashion.

Pen. And may I ask which fashion you are of?

Syd. Sir, I am, as I told you, a mere idler, a roving drone without a hive. To call upon me for an opinion is to expose me to danger, for I am too honest to disguise my sentiments, and my sentiments are too sincere to please the generality of those I keep company with. I am poor,

but still such a plain-spoken fool, that if you were to ask me what I thought of you, I should infallibly give you my opinion to your face.

Pen. Then give it, I conjure you: I have still my own conscience to refer to.

Syd. Perhaps I may not treat you with the civility you require. Your conscience and I may differ in that respect. Pen. Proceed, nevertheless.

Syd. The first predicament I saw you in was a peculiar one-Encountered by a man, a guilty one I own, who confessed to the wrongs he had done you, and threw himself upou your pardon: he was in misery and at your mercya glorious moment was then in your reach; for the honour of human nature, I wished you to have seized it: you seized the pistol, instead, which he tendered you: and when you might have conquered him by generosity, preferred the doubtful chance of revenging yourself in his blood.

Pen. Go on, go on! Cut deep, and never spare me.

Syd. A mediating angel stopt your hand, but still you slunk away in silence, sullen and mysterious: what the contents of Mrs. Woodville's letter were, I know not; but whatever they might be, I understand they are unanswered, for I came this instant from the lady who addressed youHere you are not less wanting in politeness than humanity. Pen. Facts, but not comments, if you please. What next?

Syd. The son of your neglected correspondent is come home; a braver, nobler, more ingenuous youth, his country does not boast: I met him as he parted from your door; what was in his heart I know not, but in his features all was sadness, horror, and despair—I threw my arms about him; he pressed me to his bosom, sighed, and broke away from me without a word.

Pen. If you held no discourse, how can you dive into his thoughts?

Syd. Because I know how deep and keen the pangs of disappointed love.

Pen. Do you know that? I know it too, and rankle with the wounds, that time can never cure: tell me his case; what is the lady's name, and whence his disappointment?

Syd. The mistress of his soul is Emily, the fair and lovely daughter of your neighbour, Mr. Tempest: plunged in his father's ruin, all his hopes are wrecked; honour forbids the match, for Tempest is not rich, and Henry (curse upon that demon, gaming!) is undone meantime, Sir David Daw,

a fellow crammed with money to a surfeit, proposes for
the lady-

Pen. What then, what then? She will not marry him.
Syd. I should suppose she will.

Pen. Infamous prostitution! Is there a second woman to be found so base of soul, so lost to every sense

Syd. Stop! on your life no more': I must not hear the noblest sacrifice, that generosity e'er made to save a sinking family, so grossly treated by the very man, who is himself the source and fountain-head of their calamity ;and now proceed, fulfil your whole design, complete their ruin-tear this devoted victim from the heart of her beloved Henry-drive her into the arms of folly-immolate affection, beauty, innocence, every grace and every virtue, to the luxury of revenge, and when you've done it-fall to your dinner with what appetite you may!

Pen. Stay, sir! I could reply to you, but my heart swells against this tyranny of tongue. The time may come-nay, it shall come-when you'll repent this language.

Syd. Not I, by heaven. I have a sword, that never yet was backward to come forth upon the call, and second what I've said. And now, because I'll give your vengeance its full range, and suffer none that I call friend to skulk behind my shield, I tell you Woodville will be found with me, whenever you think fit to seek him. Your servants know the house, and will direct you to it. [Exit, R. Pen. Here's a bold spirit! These are the loud-tongued moralists, who make benevolence a bully, and mouth as into mercy by the dint of noise and impudence-but I shall lower his tone. Who waits? Tell my attorney I would speak with him. [Exit, L.

END OF ACT III.

1

ACT IV.

SCENE I-An Apartment in Sydenham's House.

Enter Mr. WOODVILLE and Mrs. WoODVILLE, L. Wood. You strive in vain to comfort me; my spirit sinks under a load of guilt, which all your pity and forgiveness cannot lighten.-Is there a gleam of hope to catch at?

Mrs. W. There seems an awful pause in our fate; I dare