not call it hope; I do not think it warrants us to treat it as despair.

Wood. Have you had any answer from Penruddock?
Mrs. W. None.

Wood. Heartless, unfeeling monster—

Mrs. W. Hush, hush! you should not rail.

Wood. I'll hide myself no longer; I'll go forth and face

his persecution.

Mrs. W. Hold, be not rash. Where's Sydenham ?

Wood. Gone to Penruddock.

Mrs. W. I'm sorry for it; that will blow the flame; their tempers never can accord.

Wood. I saw the danger, and strove to divert him from the undertaking-but you know his zealous temper; no remonstrance stops him.

Mrs. W. I'll go to Penruddock myself.

Wood. Not for the world.

Mrs. W. Why, what should hinder me?

Wood. Cousideration for yourself-and, though I have justly forfeited all right to counsel you, let me add, my earnest dissuasion.

Mrs. W. This is no time for pride-think of your son! Wood. Oh! agony of soul! Oh, monstrous, monstrous villain that I am!-And look! protect me, save me from the sight of him. [Falls on her neck..

Enter HENRY, R. and, after a pause, speaks. Hen. [Crosses, c.] Sir, be a man! You fly too late to that protecting virtue; if it is painful to abide this meeting, why did you risk the pain? What was the good you might have gained, compared with what you have lost?-A wife, a son, the sacred trust of husband, father, all that Heaven committed to your keeping, staked (Oh! disproportioned stake!) against a gambler's coin!

Wood. (L.) Truly, but sternly, urged.-I thank you! It has roused me.

Hen. (c.) I'm glad it has, for it requires some energy to meet the appeal that I am bound to make: Penruddock charges you with acts, long past indeed, but of the blackest treachery. How stands the truth? I'm deeply pledged upon the issue of your answer: If you are falsely charged, I shall do what becomes me as your son. If not, I've done him wrong, and have much to atone for.

Wood. I'll give no answer: I am your father, sir, and will not be thus questioned.

Hen. Alas! you are my father; and my honour, which is all you have not taken from me, is so far engaged that I must have an answer.

Mrs. W. (R.) Take it from me!-"Tis true.

Wood. Ha! Do you turn against me?

Mrs. W. No; but I cannot turn aside from truth; and shrink as you do from confession, when a brave son demands it. Penruddock has been wronged.

Wood. I've cancelled all his wrongs; I've tendered him the satisfaction of a gentleman, and he accepted it; Sydenham was present, and can witness it.

Mrs. W. And what ensued?

Wood. Your letter was produced, and he declined the duel. Mrs. W. Did he? Now Heaven be thanked! I've saved your heart one agony at least.-What would have been your crime, had you destroyed that man!

Wood. Perhaps, I did not mean to put it to the risk. Hen. I hope you did not.-I have now my answer, and must take my leave. [Crosses, R. SYDENHAM runs in, R. and stops him. Syd. One moment, one short moment, my dear lad!For ever on the wing?-I must shoot flying then; for, come what may, I must and will embrace you.

Hen. Measure not my affection, my good friend, by the few moments it can spare you: you have the soul of honour in you, know all its feelings, its refinements, and can trust that nothing but its duties would compel me to break from you thus abruptly-farewell! [Crosses and exit, R.

Syd. (R.) There, there he goes-unfortunate, though brave; the darling of my heart, his country's gallant champion, redeemed from long captivity to encounter sorrows at home, enough to rend his manly heart asunder-Who would not pity him who but must love him? I do, from my soul. Mrs. W. (c.) Aye, Charles, you have a heart.

Syd. I have a heart to honour him, a sword to serve him, and a purse-no, not that-confound it, curse it, for its emptiness!-Hang-dog, I would it were as big and as full as a sack, for his sake-Damn that old crabbed cottager, that book-worm

Mrs. W. Peace!-You have visited Penruddock

Syd. Yes, you may call it visiting-He received me planting himself in the very centre of Sir George's splendid ballroom, like a gloomy night-piece in a gilded frame. He asked me if I did not think him mad?—I civilly said, No;

which was a lie for your sake ;-but presently he led me on to give him his full character, and then the truth came out; I told him my whole mind.

Wood. (L.) What did you tell him? Can you recollect?

Syd. As for you, I told him fairly I had nothing to say in your behalf, but that I thought it would have been a very gallant act to have forgiven you, simply because you had so little title to expect it.

Wood. There was no great flattery in that, methinks.

Syd. Hang it, flattery! no; I was past flattering; for when I came to speak of Henry, and how all hopes of his beloved Emily were blasted by your curst itch of gaming, 'sdeath! I was all on fire, and shot philippics thick and terrible as red-hot balls.

Mrs. W. Why? what provoked you to it?

Syd. What but to think how glorious an opportunity he let slip of rescuing the brave lad from disappointment, and defeating that rich blockhead of a baronet, that dunderheaded Daw, who waits to snap her up? Was'nt that enough to do it? Zooks! had I swallowed Hecla, I could not have fumed more furiously.

Mrs. W. Still you don't answer to my question: Did Mr. Penruddock give you to understand that Henry had nothing to expect from him?

Syd. No; but I understood it well enough without his giving-I saw it in his looks; if you would paint a head of Caius Marius in his prison, he was the very model for it. It chilled benevolence to look upon him; Spitzbergen could not freeze me more effectually than his marble face.

Mrs. W. My friend, my friend! you are too volatile; you only saw the ruggedness of the soil, aad never search'd for the rich ore beneath it.-And now, Woodville, for a short time farewell! [Crosses, R.] To your benevolent friend I recommend you; and, if my auguries don't deceive me, I'll bring you better tidings when next we meet. [Exit, R.

Syd. By Heavens, Woodville, you must have had a most intolerable bad taste, when you could prefer the company of a crew of gamesters to the society of that angelic woman. Wood. Oh! Sydenham, I reflect with horror on that monster gaming; that, with the smiles of a syren to allure, has the talons of a harpy to destroy us. [Exeunt, L.

SCENE II.-An Apartment in Penruddock's House.

Enter PENRUDDOCK, (L.)

Pen. I'm weary, sick, discomfited. This world and I must

part once more.

That it has virtues, I will not deny; but

they lie buried in a tide of vanities, like grains of gold in sand washed down by mountain torrents: I cannot wait the sifting.

Enter HENRY, R.

Hen. They tell me you would see me; if I come unseasonably, appoint some other time.

Pen. The present is your own; command it as you please.

Hen. I have done you flagrant wrong; but as I cannot charge my memory with slandering your good name in any other person's hearing but your own, and that unknowingly, I have no other person to atone to you but yourself.

Pen. You have seen your father, and explained?
Hen. I have; my mother too was present.

Pen. Your mother present? May I request you to describe what passed?

Hen. You shall know all. My father at first sight shrunk from me, conscious and abashed; I urged your charge upon him strongly, perhaps (for I was galled with many griefs) more strongly than became me. My high tone offended him, and he refused to answer; second time I urged the same demand: my mother instantly replied, that your appeal was true-you had been grossly wronged. Her candour drew forth his confession, qualified with this excuse, that he had tendered satisfaction; hinting withal, that had the affair taken place, he would not have returned your fire.

Pen. It is enough, I am satisfied; you know me now to have been an injured man, betrayed by him I trusted, wounded in the tenderest part, and robbed of all I held most dear: if, therefore, I am become savage, insensible, and all that you once thought me, I have some natural plea; and, should you find me a hard creditor to one that was so false a friend, what can you say?

Hen. Less than I wish your own benevolence must be my father's advocate.

Pen. He has undone his family, lost great sums by play, and chiefly, as I find, to Sir George Penruddock, who supplied him also with loans till his estate was mortgaged to its value, his town-house seized, and bond debts hanging over him, that put his person at my mercy. If revenge were my object, these are tempting opportunities for in

dulging it; if avarice were my passion, here are ample means for gratifying it. What have you now to offer on your father's part?

Hen. To justice nothing;-some little plea, perhaps, upon the score of mercy.

Pen. State it.

Hen. I am a soldier, sir; and, were I circumstanced as you are, I could not suffer myself to deprive that man of his liberty, who had tendered me an honourable satisfaction at the peril of his life.

Pen. Well, sir, I love a soldier; and though your arguments are not to be found in law or gospel, yet they have weight, and I will give them full consideration: we shall meet again.

Hen. Have you any further commands?

Pen. A word before we part: you bear a strong resemblance to your mother-will you be troubled with a message to her?

Hen. Most readily.

Pen. I have to apologize for the neglect of an unanswered letter. Say to her, I beseech you, that I am collecting spirits to request an interview with her here, before I finally retire to my cottage. This to your mother,-now to yourself a word in secrecy and pure good will: 1 am told you are attached to a most amiable young lady, daughter of the Honourable Mr. Tempest, my near neighbourby sad experience, I exhort you, trust not to chance and time; make suit without delay, lose not a moment, but repair forthwith to Mr. Tempest.

Hen. Ah! sir, what hope for me?

Pen. A soldier, and despair? For shame! Go, go, announce yourself, and take your chance for a reception: if he admits you, well; if he declines your visit, you have lost your labour, and I have given you mistaken counsel. Come, I'll attend you to the door. [Exeunt, L.

SCENE III-Mr. Tempest's House, a Table and two Chairs.

TEMPEST, L. SIR DAVID DAW, R. discovered sitting. Sir D. With your leave, Governor Tempest, I would fain crave your patience, whilst I open a bit of my mind to you, in a quiet way, and without offence.

Tem. You may open it too without a preface, good Sir David; I am ready to hear you.