SCENE I. A Parlour at Sir Luke Tremor's.

I TELL you, Madam, you are two and thirty.

I tell you, Sir, you are miſtaken.

Why, did not you come over from England exactly ſixteen years ago?

Not ſo long.

Have not we been married the tenth of next April ſixteen years?

Not ſo long.—

Did you not come over the year of the great Eclipſe? anſwer me that.

I don't remember it.

But I do—and ſhall remember it as long as I live—the firſt time I ſaw you, was in the garden of the Dutch Envoy; you were looking through a glaſs at the ſun—I immediately began to make love to you, and the whole affair was [2]ſettled while the eclipſe laſted—juſt one hour eleven minutes, and three ſeconds.

But what is all this to my age?

Becauſe I know you were at that time near ſeventeen—and without one qualification except your youth—and not being a Mullatto.

Sir Luke, Sir Luke, this is not to be borne—

Oh! yes—I forgot—you had two letters of recommendation, from two great fa⯑milies in England.

Letters of recommendation!

Yes; your character—that, you know, is all the fortune we poor Engliſhmen, ſitu⯑ated in India, expect with a wife who croſſes the ſea at the hazard of her life, to make us happy.

And what but our characters would you have us bring? Do you ſuppoſe any lady ever came to India, who brought along with her, friends, or fortune?

No, my dear—and what is worſe—ſhe ſeldom leaves them behind, either.

No matter, Sir Luke—but if I delivered to you a good character—

Yes, my dear you did—and if you were to aſk me for it again, I can't ſay I could give it you.

How uncivil! how unlike are your manners to the manners of my Lord Flint.

Ay—you are never ſo happy as when you have an opportunity of expreſſing your ad⯑miration of him—a diſagreeable, nay, a very dangerous man—one is never ſure of one's ſelf in his preſence—he carries every thing he hears to the miniſters of our ſuſpicious Sultan—and I feel my head ſhake whenever I am in his company.

How different does his Lordſhip appear to me—to me he is all politeſſe.

Politeſſe! how ſhou'd you under⯑derſtand what is real politeſſe? You know your education was very much confined.—

And if it was confined——I beg, Sir Luke, you will one time or other ceaſe theſe re⯑flections—you know they are what I can't bear!

pray, does not his Lord⯑ſhip continually aſſure me, I might be taken for a Counteſs, were it not for a certain little groveling toſs I have caught with my head—and a certain little confined hitch in my walk? both which I learnt of you—learnt by looking ſo much at you.—

And now if you don't take care, by looking ſo much at his Lordſhip, you may catch ſome of his defects.

I know of very few he has.

I know of many—beſides thoſe he aſſumes.—

Aſſumes!!——

Yes; do you ſuppoſe he is as forget⯑ful as he pretends to be? no, no—but becauſe he is a favourite with the Sultan, and all our great men at court, he thinks it genteel or convenient to have no memory—and yet I'll anſwer for it, he has one of the beſt in the univerſe.

I don't believe your charge.

Why, though he forgets his ap⯑pointments with his tradeſmen, did you ever hear of his forgetting to go to court when a place was to be diſpoſed of? Did he ever make a blunder, and ſend a bribe to a man out of power? Did he ever forget to kneel before the Prince of this Iſland—or to look in his highneſs's preſence like the ſta⯑tue of Patient-reſignation in humble expectation?—

Dear, Sir Luke——

Sent from his own country in his very infancy, and brought up in the different [4]courts of petty, arbitrary Princes here in Aſia; he is the ſlave of every great man, and the tyrant of every poor one.—

"Petty Princes!"—'tis well his high⯑neſs our Sultan does not hear you.

'Tis well he does not—don't you repeat what I ſay—but you know how all this fine country is harraſſed and laid waſte by a ſet of Princes, Sultans, as they ſtyle themſelves, and I know not what—who are for ever calling out to each other "that's mine," and "that's mine;"—and "you have no buſineſs here"—and "you have no buſineſs there"—and "I have buſineſs every where;"

then "give me this,"—and "give me that;" and "take this, and take that."

A very elegant deſcription truly.

Why, you know 'tis all matter of fact—and Lord Flint, brought up from his youth amongſt theſe people, has not one trait of an Eng⯑liſhman about him—he has imbibed all this coun⯑try's cruelty, and I dare ſay wou'd mind no more ſeeing me hung up by my thumbs—or made to dance upon a red-hot gridiron——

That is one of the tortures I never heard of!—O! I ſhou'd like to ſee that of all things!

Yes—by keeping this man's com⯑pany, you'll ſoon be as cruel as he is—he will teach you every vice—a conſequential—grave—dull—and yet with that degree of levity, that dares to pay his addreſſes to a woman, even before her huſband's face.

Did not you ſay, this minute, his Lord⯑ſhip had not a trait of his own country about him?—

Well, well—as you ſay, that laſt is a trait of his own country.

Lord Flint.—

My Lord, I am extremely glad to ſee you—we were juſt mentioning your name.—

Were you, indeed, Madam? You do me great honour.

No, my Lord—no great honour.

Pardon me, Sir Luke.

But, I aſſure you, my Lord, what I ſaid, did myſelf a great deal of honour.

Yes, my Lord, and I'll acquaint your Lordſhip what it was.

Why, you wou'd not inform againſt me ſure! Do you know what would be the conſequence? My head muſt anſwer it.

Nay, Sir Luke, I inſiſt upon knowing.

Huſh—huſh——no, my Lord, pray excuſe me—your Lordſhip perhaps may think what I ſaid did not come trom my heart; and I aſſure you, upon my honour, it did.

O, yes—that I am ſure it did.

I am extremely obliged to you.

O, no, my Lord, not at all—not at all.—

I'll be extremely obliged to you, if you will hold your tongue—Pray, my Lord, are you engaged out to dinner to-day? for her Ladyſhip and I dine out.

Yes, my Lord, and we ſhould be happy to find your Lordſhip of the party.

"Engaged out to dinner"?—egad very likely—very likely—but if I am—I have poſitively forgotten where.

We are going to—

No—I think (now you put me in mind [6]of it) I think I have company to dine with me—I am either going out to dinner, or have company to dine with me; but I really can't tell which—however, my people know——but I can't call to mind.—

Perhaps your Lordſhip has dined; can you recollect that?

No, no—I have not dined——what's o'clock?

Perhaps, my Lord, you have not break⯑faſted.

O, yes, I've breakfaſted—I think ſo—but upon my word theſe things are very hard to remember.

They are indeed, my Lord—and I wiſh all my family wou'd entirely forget them.

What did your Ladyſhip ſay was o'clock?

Exactly twelve, my Lord.

Bleſs me! I ought to have been ſome where elſe then—an abſolute engagement.—I have broke my word—a poſitive appointment.

Shall I ſend a ſervant?

No, no, no, no—by no means—it can't be helped now—and they know my unfortunate failing—beſides, I'll beg their pardon, and I truſt that will be ample ſatistaction.

You are very good, my Lord, not to leave us.

I cou'd not think of leaving you ſo ſoon, Madam—the happineſs I enjoy here is ſuch—

And very likely were your Lordſhip to go away now, you might never recollect to come again.

A Gentleman, Sir, juſt come from on board an Engliſh veſſel, ſays, he has letters to pre⯑ſent to you.

Shew him in—

He has brought his character too, I ſuppoſe—and left it behind, too, I ſuppoſe.

Sir Luke, I have the honour of preſent⯑ing to you,

one from my Lord Cleland—one from Sir Thomas Shoeſtring—one from Colonel Fril.

Who in the name of wonder have my friends recommended?—

No—as I live, he is a gentleman, and the ſon of a Lord—

My dear, that is a gentleman, notwithſtanding his appearance—don't laugh—but let me introduce you to him.

A gentleman! certainly—I did not look at him before—but now I can perceive it.

Mr. Twineall, give me leave to intro⯑duce Lady Tremor to you, and my Lord Flint—this, my Lord, is the Honourable Mr. Twineall from England, who will do me the favour to re⯑main in my houſe, till he is ſettled to his mind in ſome poſt here.

I beg your pardon, Sir, for the ſomewhat cool reception Lady Tremor and I gave you at firſt—but I dare ſay her Ladyſhip was under the ſame miſtake as myſelf—and I muſt own I took you at firſt fight for ſomething very dif⯑ferent from the perſon you prove to be—for really no Engliſh ſhips have arrived in this harbour for [8]theſe five years paſt, and the dreſs of us Engliſh gentlemen is ſo much altered fince that time—

But, I hope, Sir Luke, if it is, the alter⯑ation meets with your approbation.

O! to be ſure—it is extremely elegant and becoming.

Yes, my dear, I don't doubt but you think ſo; for I remember you uſed to make your favourite monkey wear juſt ſuch a jacket, when he went out a viſiting.

Was he your favourite, Madam?—Sir, you are very obliging.

My Lord, if it were poſſible for your Lordſhip to call to your remembrance ſuch a trifle—

Dear Sir Luke—

Egad, I believe I do call to my remem⯑brance—

—Not, I aſſure you, Sir, that I perceive any great reſemblance—or, if it was ſo—I dare ſay it is merely in the dreſs——which I muſt own ſtrikes me as moſt ridiculous—very ridiculous indeed.——

My Lord!

I beg pardon, if I have ſaid any thing that——Lady Tremor, what did I ſay?——make my apology, if I have ſaid any thing im⯑proper—you know my unhappy failing.

Sir, his Lordſhip has made a miſtake in the word "ridiculous," which I am ſure he did not mean to ſay—but he is apt to make uſe of one word for another—his Lordſhip has been ſo long out of England, that he may be ſaid in ſome meaſure to have forgotten his native language.

And you have perfectly explained, Ma⯑dam—indeed I ought to have been convinced, [9]without your explanation, that if his Lordſhip made uſe of the word ridiculous (even intention⯑ally) that the word had now changed its former ſenſe, and was become a mode to expreſs ſatisfac⯑tion—or his Lordſhip wou'd not have made uſe of it in the very forcible manner he did, to a per⯑fect ſtranger.

What, Mr. Twineall, have you new modes, new faſhions for words too in England, as well as for dreſſes?—and are you equally ex⯑travagant in their adoption?

I never heard, Sir Luke, but that the faſhion of words varied, as well as the faſhion of every thing elſe.

But what is moſt extraordinary—we have now a faſhion in England, of ſpeaking without any words at all.

Pray, Sir, how is that?

Ay, do, Mr. Twineall, teach my wife, and I ſhall be very much obliged to you—it will be a great accompliſhment. Even you, my Lord, ought to be attentive to this faſhion.

Why, Madam, for inſtance, when a gen⯑tleman is aſked a queſtion which is either trouble⯑ſome or improper to anſwer, you don't ſay you won't anſwer it, even though you ſpeak to an infe⯑rior——but you ſay——"really it appears to me e-e-e-e-e—

—that is—mo-mo-mo-mo-mo—

—if you ſee the thing—for my part——te-te-te-te——and that's all I can tell about it at perſent.

And you have told nothing!

Nothing upon earth.

But mayn't one gueſs what you mean?

O, yes—perfectly at liberty to gueſs.

Well, I'll be ſhot if I could gueſs.

And again—when an impertinent pedant [10]aſks you a queſtion that you know nothing about, and it may not be convenient to ſay ſo—you anſwer boldly, "why really, Sir, my opinion is, that the Greek poet—he-he-he-he—

—we-we-we-we—you ſee—if his idea was—and if the Latin tranſlator—mis-mis-mis-mis—

——that I ſhou'd think—in my humble opinion—but the Doctor may know better than I."——

The Doctor muſt know very little elſe.

Or in caſe of a duel, where one does not care to ſay who was right, or who was wrong—you anſwer—"This, Sir, is the ſtate of the mat⯑ter—Mr. F—came firſt—te-te-te-te—on that—be-be-be-be—if the other—in ſhort—

—whis-whis-whis-whis"—

What?

There, now you have it—there 'tis—but don't ſay a word about it—or, if you do—don't ſay it come from me."—

Why, you have not told a word of the ſtory!

But that your auditor muſt not ſay to you—that's not the faſhion—he never tells you that——he may ſay—"You have not made yourſelf perfectly clear;"—or he may ſay—" He muſt have the matter more particularly pointed out ſomewhere elſe;"—but that is all the auditor can ſay with good breeding.

A very pretty method indeed to ſatisfy one's curioſity!

Mr. Haſwell.

This is a countryman of ours, Mr. Twineall, and a very good man I aſſure you.

Mr. Haſwell, how do you do?

Sir Luke, I am glad to ſee you.——Lady Tremor, how do you do?

O, Mr. Haſwell, I am extremely glad you are come—here is a young adventurer juſt ar⯑rived from England, who has been giving us ſuch a ſtrange account of all that's going on there.

Sir, you are welcome to India.

Indeed!—his ſon.

Do, Mr. Haſwell, talk to him—he can give you great information.

I am glad of it—I ſhall then hear many things I am impatient to become acquainted with.

Mr. Twineall, I have the honour of knowing his Lordſhip, your father, ex⯑tremely well—he holds his ſeat in Parliament ſtill, I preſume?

He does, Sir.

And your uncle, Sir Charles?

Both, Sir—both in Parliament ſtill.

Pray, Sir, has any act in behalf of the poor clergy taken place yet?

In behalf of the poor clergy, Sir?—I'll tell you—l'll tell you, Sir.——As to that act—concerning—

—em-em-em-em—the Committee—em-em—ways and means—hee-hee—I aſſure you, Sir—te-te-te—

My father and my uncle both think ſo, I aſſure you.

Think how, Sir?

Nay, that's not good breeding—you muſt aſk no more queſtions.

Why not?

Becauſe—we-we-we-we—

—he knows nothing about it.

What, Sir—not know?

Yes, Sir, perfectly acquainted with every thing that paſſes in the houſe—but I aſſure you, that when they come to be reported——but, Sir Luke, now permit me, in my turn, to make a few inquiries concerning the ſtate of this country.

Why, one does not like to ſpeak much about the country one lives in—but, Mr. Haſwell, you have been viſiting our encampments; you may tell us what is going on there.

Pray, Mr. Haſwell, is it true that the Sultan cut off the head of one of his wives the other day becauſe ſhe ſaid "I won't?"

Do, my dear, be ſilent.

I won't.

O, that the Sultan had you inſtead of me!

And with my head off, I ſuppoſe?

No, my dear; in that ſtate, I ſhou'd have no objection to you myſelf.

Now, I'll frighten you ten times more.—But, Mr. Haſwell, I am told there are many perſons ſuſpected of diſaffec⯑tion to the preſent Sultan, who have been lately, by his orders, arreſted, and ſold to ſlavery, not⯑withſtanding there was no proof againſt them pro⯑duced.

Proof!——in a State ſuch as this, the charge is quite ſufficient.

Well, my Lord, and how does your Lordſhip find yourſelf this afternoon?—this morning, I mean—Bleſs my ſoul! why I begin to be as forgetful as your Lordſhip.

How I pity the poor creatures!

Take care what you ſay before that tool of ſtate—look at him, and tremble for your head.

Look at him, and tremble for yours—and ſo, Mr. Haſwell, all this is true?—and ſome people, of conſequence too, I am told, dragged from their homes, and ſent to ſlavery merely on ſuſpicion?

Yet, leſs do I pity thoſe, than ſome, whom priſons and dungeons crammed before, are yet prepared to receive.

Mr. Haſwell, ſuch is the Sultan's plea⯑ſure.

Will your Lordſhip take a turn in the garden? it looks from this door very pleaſant;—does not it?

But pray, Mr. Haſwell, has not the Sul⯑tan ſent for you to attend at his palace this morn⯑ing?

He has, Madam.

There! I heard he had, but Sir Luke ſaid not.—I am told he thinks himſelf under the greateſt obligations to you.

The report has flattered me—but if his highneſs ſhou'd think himſelf under obligations, I can readily point a way, by which he may acquit himſelf of them.

In the mean time, I am ſure, you feel for thoſe poor ſufferers.

Sir Luke, good morning to you—I call'd upon ſome trifling buſineſs, but I have out-ſtaid my time, and there⯑fore [14]fore I'll call again in a couple of hours—Lady Tremor, good morning—my Lord—Mr. Twine-all—

Sir Luke, your garden does look ſo di⯑vinely beautiful—

Come, my Lord, will you take a turn in it? Come Mr. Twineall—come my dear—

I can't think what buſineſs Mr. Haſwell has to ſpeak to me upon—for my part, I am quite a plain man—and buſy myſelf about no one's affairs, except my own—but I dare ſay your Lordſhip has forgot all we have been talking about.

If you permit me, Sir Luke, I'll hand the Lady.

Certainly, my Lord, if you pleaſe—come, Mr. Twineall, and I'll conduct you.

SCENE I. An Apartment at Sir Luke Tremor's.

MY dear friend, after ſo long a ſepara⯑tion, how gland I am to meet you!—but how de⯑viliſh unlucky that you ſhou'd, on the very day of my arrival, be going to ſet ſail for another part of the world! yet before you go, I muſt beg a fa⯑vour of you—you know Sir Luke and his family perfectly well, I dare ſay?

I think ſo—I have been in his houſe near ſix years.

The very perſon on earth I wanted!—Sir Luke has power here, I ſuppoſe?—a word from him might do a man ſome ſervice perhaps?

Why, yes; I don't know a man that has more influence at a certain place.

And her Ladyſhip ſeems a very clever gentlewoman?

Very.

And I have a notion they think me very clever.

I dare ſay they do.

Yes—but I mean very clever.

No doubt!

But, my dear friend, you muſt help me to make them think better of me ſtill—and when [16] my fortune is made, I'll make yours—for when I once become acquainted with people's diſpoſitions, their little weakneſſes, foibles and faults, I can wind, twiſt, twine, and get into the corner of every one's heart, and lie ſo ſnug, they can't know I'm there, till they want to pull me out, and find 'tis impoſſible.

Excellent talent!

Is not it? and now, my dear friend, do you inform me of the ſecret diſpoſitions, and propenſities of every one in this family, and of all their connections.—What Lady values herſelf upon one qualification, and what Lady upon ano⯑ther?—What Gentleman will like to be told of his accompliſhments? or his daughter's?—or of his horſes? or of his dogs?—now, my dear Ned, ac⯑quaint me with all this—and within a fortnight I will become the moſt neceſſary raſcal——not a creature ſhall know how to exiſt without me.

Why ſuch a man as you ought to have made your fortune in England.

No—my father, and my three uncles monopolized all the great men themſelves; and wou'd never introduce me where I was likely to be⯑come their rival—This—this is the very ſpot for me to diſplay my genius—But then I muſt penetrate the people firſt—and you will kindly ſave me that trouble.—Come, give me all their characters—all ſhort, all I am to praiſe—and all I am to avoid praiſing,—in order to endear myſelf to them.

Come—begin with Sir Luke.

Sir Luke—values himſelf more upon perſonal bravery, than upon any thing elſe.

Thank you, my dear friend—thank you.

Was he ever in the army?

Oh yes—beſieged a capital fortreſs, a few years ago—and now, the very name of a bat⯑tle or a great general tickles his vanity, and he takes all the praiſes you can laviſh upon the ſub⯑ject as compliments to himſelf.

Thank you—thank you a thouſand times—

I'll mention a battle very ſoon.

Not directly.

O, no—let me alone for time and place—go on, my friend—go on—her Ladyſhip—

Deſcended from the ancient kings of Scotland.

You don't ſay ſo!

And though ſhe is ſo nicely ſcrupulous as never to mention the word genealogy, yet I have ſeen her agitation ſo great, when the advan⯑tages of high birth have been extoll'd, ſhe could ſcarcely withhold her ſentiments of triumph; which in order to diſguiſe, ſhe has aſſumed a diſ⯑dain for all "vain titles—empty ſounds—and idle pomp."

Thank you—thank you—this is a moſt excellent trait of the Lady's—

"Pedigree of the kings of Scotland?" O, I have her at once.

Yet do it nicely—oblique touches, ra⯑ther than open explanations.

Let me alone for that.

She has, I know, in her poſſeſſion—but I dare ſay ſhe wou'd not ſhow it you, nay, on the contrary, would even affect to be highly of⯑fended, if you were to mention it—and yet it certainly would flatter her, to know you were ac⯑quainted with her having it.

What—what—what is it?

A large old-faſhioned wig—which Mal⯑colm [18]the third or fourth, her great anceſtor, wore when he was crowned at Scone, in the year——

I'll mention it.

Take care.

O, let me alone for the manner

She'll pretend to be angry.

That I am prepared for.—Pray who is my Lord Flint?

A deep man—and a great favourite at court.

Indeed!—how am I to pleaſe him?

By inſinuations againſt the preſent Sultan.

How!

With all his pretended attachment, his heart——

Are you ſure of it?

Sure:—he blinds Sir Luke, (who by the bye is no great politician) but I know his Lord⯑ſhip—and if he thought he was ſure of his ground—(and he thinks he ſhall be ſure of it ſoon)—then—

I'll inſinuate myſelf and join his party—but, in the mean time, preſerve good terms with Sir Luke, in caſe any thing ſhou'd fall in my way there.—Who is Mr. Haſwell?

He pretends to be a man of principle and ſentiment—flatter him on that.

The eaſieft thing in the world—no peo⯑ple like flattery better than ſuch as he.—They will bear even to hear their vices praiſed.—I will myſelf undertake to praiſe the vices of a man of ſentiment till he ſhall think them ſo many virtues.—You have mentioned no Ladies, but the Lady of the houſe yet.

There is no other Lady, except a pretty girl who came over from England, about two years ago, for a huſband, and not ſucceeding in another [19]part of the country, is now recommended to this houſe—and has been here three or four months.

Let me alone, to pleaſe her.

Let me alone, to pleaſe her.

Yes—I believe you are ſkilled.

For the art of flattery, no one more.

But damn it—it is not a liberal art.

It is a great ſcience, notwithſtanding—and ſtudied, at preſent, by all the connoiſſeurs.—Zounds! I have ſtaid a long time—I can't attend to any more characters at preſent—Sir Luke and his Lady will think me inattentive, if I don't join them—Shall I ſee you again?—if not—I wiſh you a pleaſant voyage—I'll make the moſt of what you have told me—you'll hear I'm a great man—God bleſs you!—good bye!—you'll hear I'm a great man.

And, if I am not miſtaken, I ſhall hear you are turned out of the houſe before to-morrow morning. O, Twineall! exactly the reverſe of every character have you now before you—the greateſt misfortune in the [...]ife of Sir Luke has been, flying from his army in the midſt of an en⯑gagement, and a moſt humiliating degradation in conſequence, which makes him ſo feelingly alive on the ſubject of a battle, that nothing but his want of courage can ſecure my friend Twineall's life for venturing to name the ſubject—then Lord Flint, firmly attached to the intereſt of the Sultan, will be all on fire, when he hears of open diſaf⯑fection—but moſt of all her Ladyſhip! whoſe fa⯑ther was a grocer, and uncle, a noted advertiſing "Periwig-maker on a new conſtruction." She will run mad to hear of births, titles, and long pedigrees.—Poor Twineall! little doſt thou think what is prepared for thee.—There is Mr. Haſwell too—but to him have I ſent you to be reclaimed—to him,—who, free from faults, or even foibles, [20]of his own, has yet more potently the bleſſing given, of tenderneſs for ours.

SCENE II. The inſide of a Priſon.

This way, Sir—the priſons this way are more extenſive ſtill—you ſeem to feel for theſe un⯑thinking men—but they are a ſet of unruly peo⯑ple, whom no ſeverity can make ſuch as they ought to be.

And wou'd not gentleneſs, or mercy, do you think, reclaim them?

That I can't ſay—we never try thoſe means in this part of the world—that man yonder, ſuſpected of diſaffection, is ſentenced to be here for life, unleſs his friends can lay down a large ſum by way of penalty, which he finds they cannot do, and he is turned melancholy.

Who is that?

He has been try'd for heading an inſur⯑rection, and acquitted.

What keeps him here?

Fees due to the Court—a debt contracted while he proved his innocence.

Lead on, my friend—let us go to ſome other part.

In this ward, we are going to, are the priſoners, who by ſome ſmall reſerve—ſome little ſecreted ſtock when they arrived—or by the bounty of ſome friend who viſit them——or ſuch-like fortunate circumſtance, are in a leſs diſmal place.

Lead on.

But ſtop—put on this cloak, for, before we arrive at the place I mention, we muſt paſs a damp vault, which to thoſe who are not uſed to it—

—or will you poſt⯑pone your viſit?

No—go on.

Alas! who wou'd ſuppoſe you had been uſed to ſee ſuch places!—you look concerned—vext to ſee the people ſuffer—I wonder you ſhou'd come, when you ſeem to think ſo much about them.

Oh! that, that is the very reaſon.

Who is this man?

From Britain—I have ſeen him once before.

He looks pale—he has no heart.

I believe, a pretty large one.

Brother, a word with you.

as the ſtranger and our keeper paſſed by the paſſage, a noxious vapour put out the light, and as they groped along I pur⯑loined this from the ſtranger—

ſee it contains two notes will pay our ranſom.

A treaſure—our certain ranſom!

Liberty! our wives, our children, and our friends, will theſe papers purchaſe.

What a bribe! our keeper may re⯑joice too.

And then the pleaſure it will be to hear the ſtranger fret, and complain for his loſs!—O, how my heart loves to ſee forrow!—Miſery ſuch as I have known, on men who ſpurn me—who treat me as if (in my own Iſland) I had no friends that loved me—no ſervants that paid me honour—no children that revered me—who forget I am a huſband—a father—nay, a man.—

Conceal your thoughts—conceal your treature too—or the Briton's complaint—

Will be in vain—our keeper will conclude the bribe muſt come to him, at laft—and therefore make no great ſearch for it—here, in the corner of my belt

twill be ſecure—Come this way, and let us indulge our pleaſant proſpect.

SCENE III. Another part of the Priſon.

That young man, you ſee there, watch⯑ing his aged father as he ſleeps, by the help of fees gains his admiſſion—and he never quits the place, except to go and purchaſe cordials for the old man, who, (though healthy and ſtrong when he firſt became a priſoner) is now become ill and languid.

Are they from Europe?

No—but deſcended from Europeans—ſee how the youth holds his father's hand!—I have ſometimes caught him bathing it with tears.

I'll ſpeak to the young man.

He will ſpeak as ſoon as he ſees me—he has ſent a petition to the Sultan about his father, [23]and never fails to inquire if a reply is come.

Sir, do you come from the Court? has the Sultan received my humble ſup⯑plication? Can you tell?—ſoftly—let not my fa⯑ther hear you ſpeak.

I come but as a ſtranger, to ſee the priſoh.

No anſwer yet, keeper?

No—I told you it was in vain to write—they never read petitions ſent from priſons—their hearts are hardened to ſuch worn-out tales of ſor⯑row.

Pardon me, Sir—but what is the requeſt you are thus denied?

Behold my father! but three months has he been confined here; and yet—unleſs he breathes a purer air—O, if you have influence at Court, Sir, pray repreſent what paſſes in this dreary priſon—what paſſes in my heart.——My ſupplica⯑tion is to remain a priſoner here, while my father, releaſed, ſhall be permitted to retire to humble life; and never more take arms in a cauſe the Sultan may ſuſpect—which engagement broken, my life ſhall be the forfeit.—Or if the Sultan wou'd allow me to ſerve him as a ſoldier.—

You would fight againſt the party your father fought for?

No—but in the foreſts—or on the deſert ſands—amongſt thoſe ſlaves who are ſent to battle with the wild Indians—there I wou'd go—and earn the boon I aſk——or in the mines—

Give me your name—I will, at leaſt, pre⯑ſent your ſuit—and, perhaps—

Sir! do you think it is likely? Joyful hearing!

Nay, be not too haſty in your hopes—I [24]cannot anſwer for my ſucceſs

‘Your father humbly implores to be releaſed from priſon—and, in his ſtead, you take his chains—or, for the Sultan's ſervice, fight as a ſlave, or dig in his mines?’

Exactly, Sir—that is the petition—I thank you, Sir.

You don't know, young man, what it is to dig in mines—or fight againſt foes, who make their priſoners die by unheard-of tortures.

You do not know, Sir, what it is—to ſee a parent ſuffer.

Your name, Sir?

Elvirus Caſimir.—

Your father's?

The ſame—one who followed agriculture in the fields of Symria—but, induced by the call of freedom—

How? have a care.

No—his ſon, by the call of nature, ſup⯑plicates his freedom.

The rebel, you find, breaks out.

Silence—ſilence! he forgives it—don't remind him of it—don't undo my hopes.

I will ſerve you if I can.

And I will merit it—indeed I will—you ſhall not complain of me—I will be—

Retire—I truſt you.

Yonder cell contains a female priſoner.

A female priſoner!

Without a friend or comforter, ſhe has exiſted there theſe many years—nearly fifteen.

Is it poſſible!

Wou'd you wiſh to ſee her?

If it won't give her pain.

At leaſt, ſhe'll not reſent it—for ſhe ſeldom complains, except in moans to herſelf—

Lady, here is one come to viſt all the priſoners—pleaſe to appear before him.

I thank you—you ſpeak with reverence and reſpect to her.

She has been of ſome note, though now ſo totally unfriended—at leaſt, we think ſhe has, from her gentle manners; and our governor is in the daily expectation of ſome liberal ranſom for her, which makes her impriſonment without a hope of releaſe, till that day arrives—

—Lend me your hand—you are weak.

I fear you are not in health, Lady?

Speak—Madam, ſpeak.

No—not very well.

Where are your friends? When do you expect your ranſom?

Never.

She perſiſts to ſay ſo; thinking by that declaration, we ſhall releaſe her without a ranſom.

Is that your motive?

I know no motive for a falſehood.

I was to blame—pardon me.

Your anſwers are ſomewhat prouder than uſual.

They are.—

Forgive me—I am mild with all of theſe—but from a counte⯑nance like yours—I could not bear reproach.

You flatter me.

Alas! Sir, and what have I to hope from ſuch a meaneſs?—You do not come to ran⯑ſom me.

Perhaps I do.

Oh! do not ſay ſo—unleſs—unleſs—I am not to be deceived—pardon in your turn this ſuſpicion—but when I have ſo much to hope for—when the ſun, the air, fields, woods, and all that wonderous world, wherein I have been ſo happy, is in proſpect; forgive me, if the vaſt hope makes me fear.

Unleſs your ranſom is fixed at ſomething beyond my power to give, I will releaſe you.

Releaſe me! Benevolent!

How ſhall I mark you down in my peti⯑tion?

what name?

'Tis almoſt blotted from my memory.

It is of little note—a female priſoner, taken with the rebel party, and in theſe cells con⯑fined for fiſteen years.

Daring which time I have demeaned myſelf with all humility to my governors—neither have I diſtracted my fellow priſoners with a com⯑plaint that might recall to their memory their own unhappy fate—I have been obedient, patient; and cheriſhed hope to chear me with vain dreams, while deſpair poſſeſs'd my reaſon.

Retire—I will preſent the picture you have given.

Succeed too—or, never let me ſee you more—

You never ſhall.

Or, if you ſhou'd miſcarry in your views [for who forms plans that do not ſometimes ſail?] I will not reproach you even to myſelf——no—nor will I ſuffer much from the diſ⯑appointment—merely that you may not have, what I ſuffer, to account for.

Excellent mind!

In this cell—

No—take me away—I have enough to do—I dare not ſee more at preſent.—

SCENE IV. The former Priſon Scene.

They are coming—I'll ſtand here in his ſight, that, ſhou'd he miſs what I have taken, he'll not ſuſpect me, but ſuppoſe it is one who has hid himſelf.

What makes you here?—ſtill moping by yourſelf, and lamenting for your fa⯑mily?—

that man, the moſt feroci⯑ous I ever met with—laments, ſometimes even with tears, the ſeparation from his wife and chil⯑dren.

I am ſorry for you, friend;

I pity you.

Yes—he had a pleaſant hamlet on the neighbouring iſland—plenty of fruits—clear ſprings—and wholeſome roots—and now com⯑plains bitterly of his repaſts—ſour rice, and muddy water.

Poor man! bear your ſorrows nobly—and as we are alone—no miſerable eye to grudge the favour—

take this trifle—

it will at leaſt make your meals bet⯑ter for a few ſhort weeks—till Heaven may pleaſe to favour you with a leſs ſharp remembrance of the happineſs you have loſt—Farewell.

What's this?

I meant to gain my liberty with it—but I will not vex you.

How came you by it?

Stole it—and wou'd have ſtabb'd you too, had you been alone—but I am glad I did not—Oh! I am glad I did not.

You like me then?

'Tis ſomething that I never felt before—it makes me like not only you, but all the world beſides—the love of my family was confined to them alone; but this makes me feel I could love even my enemies.

Oh, nature! grateful! mild! gentle! and forgiving!—worſt of tyrants they who, by hard uſage, drive you to be cruel!

The lights are ready, Sir, through the dark paſſage—

Go to your fellows.

Farewell—we will meet again.

SCENE I. An Apartment at Sir Luke Tremor's.

WHY, then Aurelia, (though I never men⯑tion'd it to my Lady Tremor) my friend wrote me word, he had reaſon to ſuppoſe your affections were improperly fixed upon a young gentleman in that neighbourhood; and this was his reaſon for wiſhing you to leave that place to come hither—and this continual dejection convinces me my friend was not miſtaken—anſwer me—can you ſay he was?

Why, then, Sir Luke, candidly to con⯑feſs—

Nay, no tears—why in tears? for a huſband? be comforted—we'll get you one ere long, I warrant.

Dear, Sir Luke, how can you imagine I am in tears becauſe I have not a huſband, while you ſee Lady Tremor every day in tears for the very oppoſite cauſe?

No matter—women like a huſband through pride—and I have known a woman marry from that very motive, even a man ſhe has been aſhamed of.

Why, then I dare ſay, poor Lady Tre⯑mor married from pride.

Yes;—and I'll let her know pride is painful.

But, Sir, her Ladyſhip's philoſophy—

She has no philoſophy.

Where is his Lordſhip? What have you done with him?

He's ſpeaking a word to Mr. Meanright about his paſſport to England.—Did you mean me, Sir Luke, that had no philoſophy? I proteſt, I have a great deal.

When? where did you ſhew it?

Why, when the ſervant at my Lady Griſſei's threw a whole urn of boiling water upon your legs, did I give any proofs of female weak⯑neſs? did I faint, ſcream, or even ſhed a tear?

No—no—very true—and while I lay ſprawling on the carnet, I could ſee you fanning and holding the ſmelling bottle to the Lady of the houſe, begging her not to make herſelf uneaſy, ‘for that the accident was of no manner of con⯑ſequence.’

Dear Sir, don't be angry;—I am ſure her Ladyſhip ſpoke as ſhe thought.

I ſuppoſe ſhe did, Miſs.

I mean—ſhe thought the accident might be eaſily got the better of—She thought you might be eaſily recovered.

No, indeed, I did not—but I thought Sir Luke had frequently charged me with the want of patience; and that moment, the very thing in the world I cou'd have wiſhed, happened—on purpoſe to give me an opportunity to prove his accuſation falſe.

Very well, Madam—but did not the [31]whole company cry ſhame on your behaviour? did not they ſay, it was not the conduct of a wife?

Only our particular acquaintance cou'd ſay ſo—for the reſt of the company, I am ſure, did not take me to be your wife—thank Heaven, our appearances never betray that ſecret—do you think we look like the ſame fleſh and blood?

That day, in particular, we did not—for I remember you had been no leſs than three hours at your toilet.

And, indeed, Sir Luke, if you were to uſe milk of roſes, and ſeveral other little things of that kind, you can't think how much more like a fine gentleman you wou'd look.—Such things as thoſe make, almoſt, all the difference there is between you and ſuch a gentleman as Mr. Twineall.

No, pardon me, Madam—a face like mine may uſe thoſe things—but in Sir Luke's, they wou'd entirely deſtroy that fine martial appearance—

which women as well as men admire—for, as valour is the firſt orna⯑ment of our ſex—

What are you ſaying, Mr. Twineall?

I'll keep him on this ſubject if I can.

I was going to obſerve, Madam—that the reputation of a General—which puts me in mind, Sir Luke, of an account I read of a battle—

Well, Sir—go on—go on—you were going to introduce—

A battle, Madam—but, Sir Luke is gone!

Never mind that, Sir—he generally runs away on theſe occaſions.

What were you ſay⯑ing, Aurelia, about a huſband?

She did not ſpeak.

To be ſure, Ladies in India do get huſbands very quick.

Not always—I am told, Sir Luke—Women of family,

indeed, may ſoon enter into the matri⯑monial ſtate—but the rich men in India, we are told in England, are grown lately very particular with whom they marry, and there is not a man of any repute that will now look upon a woman as a wife, unleſs ſhe is deſcended from a good family.

I am very ſorry—very ſorry to ſay, Mr. Twineall, that has not been always the caſe.

Then I am very ſorry too, Sir Luke; for it is as much impoſſible that a woman, who is not born of a good family, can be—

That is juſt what I ſay—they cannot be—

Sir Luke, let me tell you—

It does not ſignify telling, my dear,—you have proved it.

Sir, let me tell you—

O! O! my dear Madam, 'tis all in vain—there is no ſuch thing—it can't be—there is no pleading againſt conviction—a perſon of low birth muſt, in every particular, be a terrible creature.

A terrible creature! a terrible creature!

Here comes my Lord Flint—I'll appeal to him.

My Lord, I was ſay⯑ing, as proof that our great Sultan, who now fills this throne, is no impoſtor, (as the rebel party wou'd inſinuate) no low born man, but of the Royal Stock; his conduct palpably evinces—for, had he not been nobly born, we ſhou'd have be⯑held the Plebeian burſting forth upon all occaſions

and then, Heaven help all thoſe who had had any dealings with him!

Provoking!

Sir Luke, is there a doubt of the Em⯑peror's birth and title? he is the real Sultan, de⯑pend upon it—it ſurpriſes me to hear you talk with the ſmalleſt uncertainty.

O, Sir Luke, I wonder at it too,

and yet, damn me, my Lord, if I have not my doubts.

I, my Lord? far be it from me! I was only ſaying what other people ſaid; for my part I never harboured a doubt of the kind.—

My head begins to nod, only for that word—pray Heaven, I may die with it on!—I ſhou'd not like to loſe my head—nor ſhou'd I like to die by a bullet—nor by a ſmall ſword—and a cannon ball wou'd be as diſagreeable, as any thing, I know—it is very odd—but I never yet could make up my mind, in what manner I ſhou'd. like to go out of the world.

Your temerity aſtoniſhes me!

I muſt own, my Lord, I feel ſomewhat aukward in ſaying it to your Lordſhip—but my own heart—my own conſcience—my own ſenti⯑ments—they are my own—and they are dear to [34]me.—And ſo it is—the Sultan does not appear to be

that great man ſome peo⯑ple think him.

Sir, you aſtoniſh me—pray what is your name? I have forgotten it.

Twineall, my Lord—the honourable Henry Twineall—your Lordſhip does me great honour to aſk—arrived this morning from England, as your Lordſhip may remember—in the ſhip Mercury, my Lord—and all the officers on board ſpeaking with the higheſt admiration and warm⯑eſt terms of your Lordſhip's official character.

Why, then, Mr. Twineall, I am very ſorry—

And ſo am I, my Lord, that your ſenti⯑ments and mine ſhou'd ſo far diſagree, as I know they do.—I am not unacquainted with your firm adherence to the Emperor—but I am unuſed to diſguiſe my thoughts—I cou'd not, if I wou'd—I have no little views—no ſiniſter motives—no plots—no intrigues—no ſchemes of preferment,—and I verily believe that if a large ſcymitar was now directed at my head—or a large penſion di⯑rected to my pocket—(in the firſt caſe at leaſt) I ſhou'd ſpeak my mind.

A dangerous young man this! and I may make ſomething of the diſcovery.

It tickles him to the ſoul, I find.—My Lord, now I begin to be warm on the ſub⯑ject, I feel myſelf quite agitated—and, from the intelligence which I have heard, even when I was in England,—there is every reaſon to ſuppoſe——exm—exm—exm——

What, Sir? what?

You underſtand me.

No, Sir—explain.

Why, then, there is every reaſon to ſup⯑poſe—ſome people are not what they ſhou'd be—pardon my thoughts, if they are wrong.

I do pardon your thoughts, with all my heart—but your words, young man, muſt be anſwer'd for

Lady Tremor, good morning.

He is going to ruminate on my ſentiments, I dare ſay.

Shall we have your Lordſhip's company towards the evening? Mr. Haſwell will be here; if your Lordſhip has no objection?

How do you know Mr. Haſwell will be here?

Becauſe he has juſt called, in his way to the Palace, and ſaid ſo—and he has been telling us ſome very intereſting ſtories too.

Of his moring viſits, I ſuppoſe—I heard Meanright ſay he ſaw him very buſy.

Sir Luke and I dine out, my Lord; but we ſhall return early in the evening.

I will be here, without fail.—Sir Luke, aword with you if you pleaſe—

Mr. Twineall has taken ſome very improper li⯑berties with the Sultan's name, and I muſt inſiſt on making him anſwer for it.

My Lord, you are extremely welcome

to do whatever your Lordſhip pleaſes with any one belonging to me, or to my houſe—but I hope your Lordſhip will pay ſome regard to the maſter of it.

O! great regard to the maſter—and to the miſtreſs alſo.—But for that gentleman—

Do what your Lordſhip pleaſes.

I will—and I will make him—

If your Lordſhip does not forget it.

I ſhan't forget it, Sir Luke—I have a very good memory, when I pleaſe.

I don't, in the leaſt, doubt it, my Lord—I never did doubt it.

And I can be very ſevere too, Sir Luke, when I pleaſe.

I don't, in the leaſt, doubt it, my Lord—I never did doubt it.

You may depend upon ſeeing me here in the evening—and then you ſhall find I have not threatened more than I mean to perform—good morning!

Good morning, my Lord—I don't in the leaſt doubt it.

For Heaven's ſake, Mr. Twineall, what has birth to do with—

It has to do with every thing, Madam—even with beauty—and I wiſh I may ſuffer death, if a woman, with all the mental and perſonal ac⯑compliſhments of the fineſt creature in Europe, wou'd to me be of that value,

if lowly born.

And I ſincerely wiſh every man who viſits me was of the ſame opinion.

For ſhame, Mr. Twineall! perſons of mean birth ought not to be deſpiſed for what it was not in their power to prevent—and if it is a misfor⯑tune, you ſhou'd conſider them only as objects of pity.

And ſo I do pity them—and ſo I do—moſt ſincerely—poor creatures.

Aye, now he has mended it finely.

Mr. Twineall, let me tell you—

My dear—Lady Tremor—

let him alone—let him go on—there is ſomething preparing for him he little expects—ſo let the poor man ſay and do what he pleaſes, for the preſent—it won't laſt long—for he has offended [37]my Lord Flint, and, I dare ſay his Lordſhip will be able, upon ſome account or another, to get him impriſoned for life.

Impriſoned! Why not take off his head at once?

Well, my dear—I am ſure I have no objection—and I dare ſay my Lord will have it done, to oblige you.—Egad, I muſt make friends with her to keep mine ſafe.

Do you mean to take him out to dinner with us?

Yes, my dear, if you approve of it—not elſe.

You are grown extremely polite.

Yes, my dear, his Lordſhip has taught me how to be polite.—Mr. Twineall, Lady Tre⯑mor and I are going to prepare for our viſit, and I will ſend a ſervant to ſhew you to your apart⯑ment, in order to dreſs, for you will favour us with your company, I hope?

Certainly, Sir Luke, I ſhall do myſelf the honour.

Come this way, Aurelia, I can't bear to look at him.

Nor I to think of him.

If I have not ſettled my buſineſs in this family, I am miſtaken—they ſeem to have but one mind about me.—Deviliſh clever fellow, egad!—I am the man to ſend into the world—ſuch a vo⯑latile, good-looking ſcoundrel too! No one ſuſ⯑pects me——to be ſure I am under ſome few obli⯑gations to my friend for letting me into the dif⯑ferent characters of the family—and yet I don't know whether I am obliged to him or not—for if he had not made me acquainted with them—I ſhou'd ſoon have had the ſkill to find them out myſhelf.—No; I will not think myſhelf under any [38]obligation to him—it is deviliſh inconvenient for a gentleman to be under an obligation.

SCENE II. The Place. The Sultan diſcovered with guards and officers attending.

Sir you are ſummoned to receive our thanks, for the troops reſtored to health by your kind pre⯑ſcriptions.—Aſk a reward adequate to your ſervi⯑ces.

Sultan—the reward I aſk, is to preſerve more of your people ſtill.

How more? my ſubjects are in health—no contagion reigns amongſt them.

The priſoner is your ſubject—there miſery—more contagious than diſeaſe, preys on the lives of hundreds—ſentenced but to confinement, their doom is death.—Immured in damp and dreary vaults, they daily periſh—and who can tell but that amongſt the many hapleſs ſufferers, there may be hearts, bent down with penitence to Heaven and you, for every ſlight offence—there may be ſome amongſt the wretched multitude, even inno⯑cent victims.—Let me ſeek them out—let me ſave them, and you.

Amazement! retract your application—curb this weak pity; and receive our thanks.

Curb my pity?—and what can I receive in recompence for that ſoft bond, which links me to the wretched?—and while it ſooths their ſorrow repays me more, than all the gifts or homage of an empire.——But if repugnant to your plan of government—not in the name of pity—but of juſt⯑tice.

Juſtice!——

The juſtice which forbids all but the worſt of criminals to be denied that wholeſome air the very brute creation freely takes; at leaſt allow them that.

Conſider, Sir, for whom you plead—for men, (if not baſe culprits) yet ſo miſled, ſo de⯑praved, they are offenſive to our ſtate, and de⯑ſerve none of its bleſſings.

If not upon the undeſerving,—if not upon the hapleſs wanderer from the paths of rectitude,—where ſhall the ſun diffuſe his light, or the clouds diſtil their dew? Where ſhall ſpring breathe fragrance, or autumn pour its plenty?

Sir, your ſentiments, but much more your character, excite my curioſity. They tell me, in our camps, you viſited each ſick man's bed,—adminiſtered yourſelf the healing draught,—en⯑couraged our ſavages with the hope of life, or pointed out their better hope in death.—The wi⯑dow ſpeaks your charities—the orphan liſps your bounties—and the rough Indian melts in tears to bleſs you.—I wiſh to aſk why you have done all this?—What is it prompts you thus to befriend the wretched and forlorn?

In vain for me to explain—the time it wou'd take to tell you why I act thus—

Send it in writing then.

Nay, if you will read, I'll ſend a book, in which is already written why I act thus.

What book?—What is it called?

"The Chriſtian Doctrine."

There you will find all I have done was but my duty.

Retire, and leave me alone with the ſtranger.

Your words recall reflections that diſtract [40]me; nor can I bear the preſſure on my mind without confeſſing—I am a Chriſtian.

A Chriſtian!—What makes you thus aſ⯑ſume the apoſtate?

Miſery, and deſpair.

What made you a Chriſtian?

My Arabella,—a lovely European, ſent hi⯑ther in her youth, by her mercenary parents, to ſell herſelf to the prince of all theſe territories. But 'twas my happy lot, in humble life, to win her love, ſnatch her from his expecting arms, and bear her far away—where, in peaceful ſoli⯑tude we lived, till, in the heat of the rebellion againſt the late Sultan, I was forced from my happy home to bear a part.—I choſe the imputed rebels ſide, and fought for the young aſpirer.—An arrow, in the midſt of the engagement, pierced his heart; and his officers, alarmed at the terror this ſtroke of fate might cauſe amongſt their troops, urged me (as I bore his likeneſs) to coun⯑terfeit it farther, and ſhew myſelf to the ſoldiers as their king recovered. I yielded to their ſuit, becauſe it gave me ample power to avenge the loſs of my Arabella, who had been taken from her home by the mercileſs foe, and barbarouſly murdered.

Murdered!

I learnt ſo—and my fruitleſs ſearch to find her ſince has conſirmed the intelligence.—Frantic for her loſs, I joyfully embraced a ſcheme which promiſed vengeance on the enemy—it proſpered,—and I revenged my wrongs and her's, with ſuch unſparing juſtice on the foe, that even the men who made me what I was, trembled to reveal their impoſition; and they find it ſtill their intereſt to continue it.

Amazement!

Nay, they fill my priſons every day with wretches, that dare whiſper I am not the real Sul⯑tan, but a ſtranger. The ſecret, therefore, I myſelf ſafely relate in private: the danger is to him who ſpeaks it again; and, with this caution, I truſt, it is ſafe with you.

It was, without that caution.—Now hear me.—Involved in deeds, in cruelties, which your better thoughts revolt at, the meaneſt wretch your camps or priſons hold, claims not half the compaſſion you have excited. Permit me, then, to be your comforter, as I have been theirs.

Impoſſible!

In the moſt fatal ſymptoms I have under⯑taken the body's cure. The mind's diſeaſe, per⯑haps, I'm not leſs a ſtranger to—Oh! truſt the noble patient to my care.

How will you begin?

Lead you to behold the wretched in their miſery, and then ſhew you yourſelf in their delive⯑rer.—I have your promiſe for a boon—'tis this.—Give me the liberty of fix that I ſhall name, now in confinement, and be yourſelf a witneſs of their enlargement.—See joy lighted in the countenance where ſorrow ſtill has left its rough remains.—Behold the tear of rapture chaſe away that of anguiſh—hear the faultering voice, long uſed to lamentation, in broken accents, utter thanks and bleſſings.—Behold this ſcene, and if you find the medicine ineffectual, diſhonour your phyſician.

I will behold it.

Come, then, to the governor's houſe this very night—into that council room ſo often per⯑verted to the uſe of the torture; and there, un⯑known to them as their king, you ſhall be witneſs [40]me; nor can I bear the preſſure on my mind without confeſſing—I am a Chriſtian.

A Chriſtian!—What makes you thus aſ⯑ſume the apoſtate?

Miſery, and deſpair.

What made you a Chriſtian?

My Arabella,—a lovely European, ſent hi⯑ther in her youth, by her mercenary parents, to ſell herſelf to the prince of all theſe territories. But 'twas my happy lot, in humble life, to win her love, ſnatch her from his expecting arms, and bear her far away—where, in peaceful ſoli⯑tude we lived, till, in the heat of the rebellion againſt the late Sultan, I was forced from my happy home to bear a part.—I choſe the imputed rebels ſide, and fought for the young aſpirer.—An arrow, in the midſt of the engagement, pierced his heart; and his officers, alarmed at the terror this ſtroke of fate might cauſe amongſt their troops, urged me (as I bore his likeneſs) to coun⯑terfeit it farther, and ſhew myſelf to the ſoldiers as their king recovered. I yielded to their ſuit, becauſe it gave me ample power to avenge the loſs of my Arabella, who had been taken from her home by the mercileſs foe, and barbarouſly murdered.

Murdered!

I learnt ſo—and my fruitleſs ſearch to find her ſince has confirmed the intelligence.—Frantic for her loſs, I joyfully embraced a ſcheme which promiſed vengeance on the enemy—it proſpered,—and I revenged my wrongs and her's, with ſuch unſparing juſtice on the foe, that even the men who made me what I was, trembled to reveal their impoſition; and they find it ſtill their intereſt to continue it.

Amazement!

Nay, they fill my priſons every day with wretches, that dare whiſper I am not the real Sul⯑tan, but a ſtranger. The ſecret, therefore, I myſelf ſafely relate in private: the danger is to him who ſpeaks it again; and, with this caution, I truſt, it is ſafe with you.

It was, without that caution.—Now hear me.—Involved in deeds, in cruelties, which your better thoughts revolt at, the meaneſt wretch your camps or priſons hold, claims not half the compaſſion you have excited. Permit me, then, to be your comforter, as I have been theirs.

Impoſſible!

In the moſt fatal ſymptoms I have under⯑taken the body's cure. The mind's diſeaſe, per⯑haps, I'm not leſs a ſtranger to—Oh! truſt the noble patient to my care.

How will you begin?

Lead you to behold the wretched in their miſery, and then ſhew you yourſelf in their delive⯑rer.—I have your promiſe for a boon—'tis this.—Give me the liberty of ſix that I ſhall name, now in confinement, and be yourſelf a witneſs of their enlargement.—See joy lighted in the countenance where ſorrow ſtill has left its rough remains.—Behold the tear of rapture chaſe away that of anguiſh—hear the faultering voice, long uſed to lamentation, in broken accents, utter thanks and bleſſings.—Behold this ſcene, and if you find the medicine ineffectual, diſhonour your phyſician.

I will behold it.

Come, then, to the governor's houſe this very night—into that council room ſo often per⯑verted to the uſe of the torture; and there, un⯑known to them as their king, you ſhall be witneſs [42]to all the grateful heart can dictate, and enjoy all that benevolence can taſte.

I will meet you there.

In the evening?

At ten preciſely.—Guards, conduct the ſtranger from the palace.

Thus far advanced, what changes may not be hoped for?

SCENE I. An Apartment at Sir Luke's:

OH my Aurelia! ſince the time I firſt ſaw you—ſince you left the pleaſant ſpot, where I firſt beheld you; what diſtreſs, what anguiſh have we known?

Your family?

Yes—and that cauſed the ſilence which I hope you have lamented.—I could not wound you with the recital of our misfortunes—and now, only with the ſad idea that I ſhall never ſee you more, I am come to take my leave.

Is there a chance that we may never meet again?

There is—and I hope it too—ſincerely hope and requeſt it—to ſee you again, wou'd be again to behold my father pining in miſery.

Explain—

that is, Sir Luke, and Lady Tremor—what ſhall I ſay, ſhou'd they come hither? they ſuſpect I cor⯑reſpond with ſome perſon in the country—who ſhall I ſay you are? upon what buſineſs can I ſay you are come?

To avoid all ſuſpicion of my real ſituation, and to be ſure to gain admittance, I put on this habit, and told the ſervant, when I inquired for you, I was juſt arrived from England—

nay, it was but neceſſary I ſhould conceal who I [44]was in this ſuſpicious place, or I might plunge a whoſe family in the imputed guilt of mine.

Good Heaven!

I feared, beſides, there was no other means; no likelihood to gain admiſſion—and what, what wou'd I not have ſacrificed, rather than left you for ever without a laſt farewell? think on theſe weighty cauſes, and pardon the deception.

But if they ſhould aſk me—

Say, as I have done—my ſtay muſt be ſo ſhort, it is impoſſible they ſhou'd detect me—for I muſt be back—

Where?

No matter where—I muſt be back before the evening—and would almoſt wiſh never to ſee you more—I love you, Aurelia—O, how truly! and yet there is a love more dear, more ſacred ſtill.

You torture me with ſuſpenſe—Sir Luke is coming this way—what name ſhall I ſay, if he aſks me?

Glanmore—I announced that name to the servant.

You tremble.

The impoſition hurts me—and I feel as if I dreaded a detection, though 'tis ſcarce poſſible—Sorrows have made a coward of me—even the ſervant, I thought, looked at me with ſuſpicion—and I was both confounded and enraged.

Go into this apartment; I'll follow you—there we may be ſafe—and do not hide the ſmalleſt circumſtance which I may have to apprehend.

Abominable! provokin [...] ▪ impertinent! not to be borne!

Thank Heaven, Sir Luke is ſo perplexed with ſome affairs of his own, he may not think of mine.—

I am out of all patience—and all temper—did you ever hear of ſuch a compleat impertinent coxcomb? Talk, talk, talk, coutinu⯑ally! and referring to me on all occaſions! ‘Such a man was a brave General—another a great Admiral,’ and then he muſt tell a long ſtory about a ſiege, and aſk me if it did not make my boſom glow!

It had not that effect upon your face, for you were as white as aſhes.

Aye, you did not ſee yourſelf, while he was talking of grandfathers and great grand⯑fathers—if you had—

I was not white, I proteſt.

No—but you were as red as ſcarlet.

And you ought to have reſented the in⯑ſult, if you ſaw me affected by it—Oh! ſome men wou'd have given him ſuch a dreſſing—

Yes, my dear, if your uncle the friſ⯑ſeur had been alive, he wou'd have given him a dreſſing, I dare ſay.

Sir Luke, none of your impertinence; you know I can't nor won't bear it—neither will I wait for Lord Flint's reſentment on Mr. Twineall—No, I deſire you will tell him to quit this roof immediately.

No, my dear—no, no—you muſt ex⯑cuſe me—I can't think of quarrelling with a gen⯑tleman in my own houſe.

Was it your own houſe to day at dinner when he inſulted us? and would quarrel then?

No—that was a friend's houſe—and I make it a rule never to quarrel in my own houſe—a friend's houſe—in a tavern—or in the ſtreets.

Well, then, I would quarrel in my own [46]houſe—a friend's houſe—a tavern—or in the ſtreets—if any one offended me.

O, my dear, I have no doubt of it—no doubt, in the leaſt.

But, at preſent, it ſhall be in my own houſe,—and I will tell the gentleman to quit it immediately.

Very well, my dear—pray do.

I ſuppoſe, however, I may tell him I have your authority to bid him go?

Tell him I have no authority—none in the world over you—but that you will do as you like.

I can't tell him ſo—he won't believe it.

Why not? you often tell me ſo, and make me believe it too.

Here the gentleman comes—go away for a moment.

With all my heart, my dear.

I'll give him a few hints, that he muſt either change his mode of behaviour, or leave us.

That's right—but don't be too warm—or if he ſhould be very impertinent, or inſo⯑lent—(i hear Aurelia's voice in the next room) call her, and I dare ſay ſhe'll come and take your part.

I poſitively could paſs a whole day upon that ſtair-caſe—thoſe reverend faces!—I preſume they are the portraits of ſome of your Ladyſhip's illuſtrious anceſtors.

Sir! Mr. Twineall—give me leave to tell you—

The word illuſtrious, I find, diſpleaſes you—pardon me—I did not mean to make uſe of ſo forcible an epithet—I know the delicacy of ſentiment, which cannot bear the reflection that a few centuries only ſhou'd reduce from royalty, one, whoſe dignified deportment ſeems to have been formed for that reſplendent ſtation.

The man is certainly mad!——Mr. Twineall—

Pardon me, Madam—I own I am an en⯑thuſiaſt on theſe occaſions—the dignity of blood—

You have too much, I am ſure—do, have a little taken from you.

Gladly wou'd I loſe every drop that fills theſe plebeian veins, to be enobled by the ſmall⯑eſt——

Pray, Sir, take up your abode in ſome other place.

Madam!

Your behaviour, Sir—

If my friend had not given me the hint, damn me if I ſhou'd not think her down right angry.

I can ſcarce contain my rage at being ſo laugh'd at.

Perhaps you may reſent it, Madam—but there is a favour—

A favour, Sir! is this a time to aſk a favour?

To an admirer of antiquity, as I am.

Antiquity again!

I beg pardon——but——a wig, Ma'am—

A what?

A wig.

Oh! oh! oh!

this is not to be borne—this is too much—ah! ah!

a direct, plain, palpable, and unequivocal attack upon my family—without evaſion or palliative.—I can't bear it any longer.—Oh! oh!—

Bleſs my ſoul, what ſhall I do? what's the matter?

Maids! maids! go to your miſtreſs—that good-for-nothing fellow is doing her a miſchief.

Dear Madam, what is the matter?

Oh! oh!

How do you do now, my dear?

Upon my word, Sir Luke—

O, Sir, no apology—it does not ſig⯑nify—never mind it—I beg you won't put yourſelf to the trouble of an apology—it is of no kind of conſequence.

What do you mean, Sir Luke?

To ſhew proper philoſophy, my dear, under the affliction I feel for your diſtreſs.

Take Twineall out of the room.

Mr. Twineall, her Ladyſhip begs you'll leave the room, till ſhe is a little recovered.

Certainly

I thought what you wou'd get by quarrelling—fits—and tears.

And you know, Sir Luke, if you had quarrelled, you wou'd have been in the ſame ſitu⯑ation.

But, Sir Luke, my [49]dear, Sir Luke, ſhow yourſelf a man of courage but on this occaſion.—

My dear, I wou'd do as much for you as I wou'd for my own life—but damn me if I think I could fight to ſave that.

Lady Tremor, did the ſervant ſay you were very well, or very ill?

Oh, my Lord, that inſolent coxcomb, the honourable Mr. Twineall—

Oh, I am very glad you put me in mind of it—I dare ſay I ſhou'd have forgot it elſe, not⯑withſtanding I came on purpoſe.

Forgot what?

A little piece of paper here,

but it will do a great deal—has he offended you?

Beyond bearing.

I am glad of it, becauſe it gives double pleaſure to my vengeance—he is a diſaffected per⯑ſon, Madam—boldly told me he doubted the Sul⯑tan's right to the throne—I have informed againſt him, and his puniſhment is at my option—I may have him impriſoned; ſhot; ſent to the gallies; or his head cut off—but which does your Ladyſhip chuſe?—Which ever you pleaſe is at your ſervice.

O, they are all alike to me; which ever you pleaſe, my Lord.

What a deal of ceremony!—how cool they are about it.

And why not cool, Sir; why not cool?

O, very true—I am ſure it has froze me.

I will go inſtantly, for fear it ſhou'd [80]ſlip my memory, and put this paper into the hands of proper officers—in the mean time, Sir Luke, if you can talk with your viſitor, Mr. Twineall, do—inquire his opinion of the Sultan's rights—aſk his thoughts, as if you were commiſſioned by me—and, while he is revealing them to you, the officers ſhall be in ambuſh, ſurpriſe him in the midſt of his ſentiments, and bear him away to—

May I preſume to inquire how your Lady⯑ſhip does?

O, yes—and pray walk in—I am quite recovered.

Lady Tremor, I bid you good day for the preſent.

Your Lord⯑ſhip won't forget?

No—depend upon it, I ſhall remember.

Yes—and make ſome other people re⯑member too.

Is his Lordſhip gone? I am very ſorry.

No—don't be uneaſy, he'll ſoon be back.

Mr. Haſwell, I am glad to ſee you?

I told her Ladyſhip I would call in the evening, Sir Luke; and ſo I have kept my word—I wanted too to ſpeak with my Lord Flint, but he was in ſuch a hurry as he paſſed me, he wou'd hardly let me aſk him how he did.—I hope your Ladyſhip is well this afternoon.

Pardon me, Mr. Haſwell, but I almoſt ſuſpect you heard of her Ladyſhip's indiſpoſition, [51]and therefore paid this viſit; for I am not to learn your care and attention to all under affliction.

Has your Ladyſhip been indiſpoſed then?

A little—but I am much better.

Surely, of all virtues, charity is the firſt! it ſo protects our neighbour!

Do not you think, Sir, patience frequent⯑ly protects him as much?

Dear Sir—pity for the poor miſerable—

Is oftener excited than the poor and miſe⯑rable are aware of.

Nay, Sir, I beg you will walk into this apartment—Aurelia, introduce the gentleman to Lady Tremor.

Who has ſhe with her?

Aurelia!—O! I have not ſeen her I know not when—and beſides my acquaintance with her relations in England, there is a frank ſimplicity about her that—

You ſhou'd have introduced the gen⯑tleman before—I aſſure you, Sir,

I did not know, nor ſhou'd I have known, if I had not accidently come into the room.

A relation of Au⯑relia's—a Mr. Glanmore, my dear, juſt arrived from England; who call'd to paſs a few minutes with us, before he ſets off to the part of India he is to reſide in.

I hope, Sir, your ſtay with us will not be ſo ſhort as Sir Luke has mentioned?

Pardon me, Madam, it muſt—the cara⯑van, with which I travel, goes off this evening, and I muſt accompany it.

I doubted before; but the voice confirms me.

Why, you only arrived this morning, did you, Mr. Glanmore? you came paſſenger in the ſame ſhip, then, with Mr. Twineall?

No, Madam—Sir, I am very ſorry we had not the pleaſure of your company on board of us.

You had:—Mr. Glanmore came over in the Mercury—did not you tell me ſo, Sir?

Bleſs my ſoul, Sir! I beg your pardon—but ſurely that cannot be—I got acquainted with every ſoul on board of us—every creature—all their connections—and I can ſcarcely ſuppoſe you were of the number.

How impertinent he is to this gentleman too! O! that I had but courage to knock him down.

Perhaps, Sir—

Yes, I dare ſay, that was the caſe.

What was the caſe, Madam?

Wha—wha—wha—

that is not good breeding.

Why do you bluſh, Aurelia?

Becauſe

this gentleman——came over in the ſame ſhip with Mr. Twineall.

And I cant't ſay I wonder at your biuſhing.

Why then poſitively, Sir, I thought I had known every paſſenger—and ſurely—

Mr. Twineall, your behaviour puts me out of all patience—did you not hear the gentle⯑man [53]man ſay he came in the ſame veſſel; and is not that ſufficient?

Perfectly, Madam—perfectly—but I thought there might be ſome miſtake.

And there is, Sir—you find you are miſ⯑taken.

I thought ſo,——

And you did come in the ſame veſſel?

Sir, do you doubt it?

Doubt it?

Dare not doubt it.—

Dare not?

No, Sir, dare not.

Oh, heavens!

Come, my dear, you and I will get out of the way.

O, dear!—for heaven's ſake!—Mr. Twineall, this is your doing.

Me, Madam!——

I beg the company's pardon—but

a ſingle word with you, Sir, if you pleaſe.

Dear Mr. Haſwell——

Truſt my prudence and forbearance, Ma⯑dam—I will but ſpeak a word in private to this gentleman.—

Are you, or are you not, an impoſtor?

I am—I am—but do not you repeat my words—Do not you ſay it.

What am I to fear?

Fear me—I cannot lie with fortitude; but I can——Beware of me.

I will beware of you, and ſo ſhall all my friends.

Inſolent, inſulting man.—

Come, come, gentlemen, I hope you are now perfectly ſatisfied about this little non⯑ſenſe.—Let us change the ſubject.—Mr. Haſwell, have you been ſucceſsful before the Sultan for any of thoſe poor priſoners you viſited this morning?

Ave; Meanright told me he ſaw you coming from them with your long cloak; and ſaid he ſhou'd not have known you, if ſomebody had not ſaid it was you.

But what ſucceſs with the Sultan?

He has granted me the pardon and free⯑dom of any ſix I ſhall preſent as objects of his mercy.

I ſincerely rejoice.—Then the youth and his father, whom you felt ſo much for, I am ſure, will be in the number of thoſe who ſhare your clemency.

Sir—Mr. Haſwell—O, heavens!

Come, Mr. Haſwell, this young man ſeems ſorry he has offended you—forgive him.

Aye, do, Mr. Haſwell—are you ſorry, Sir?

O! wounded to the heart—and, without his pardon, ſee nothing but deſpair.

Good heavens!

Sir Luke, my Lord Flint told me he was coming back directly—pray inform him I had buſineſs elſewhere, and cou'd wait no longer.

O! I'm undone.

Follow him, if you have any thing to ſay?

I dare not—I feel the terror of his juſt re⯑proach.

Did you know him in England?

Dear Madam, will you ſuffer me to ſpeak a few words——

Aye; leave her and her relation toge⯑ther, and let us take a turn in the garden with Mr. Twineall.—I'm afraid his Lordſhip will be back before we have drawn him to ſay more on the ſubject, for which he will be arreſted.

You are right.

Mr. Twineall, will you walk this way?—That young lady and gentleman wiſh to have a little converſation.

O, certainly, Sir Luke, by all means.

I am extremely ſorry, Sir, you kept your bed during the voyage: I ſhou'd elſe have been moſt prodigiouſly happy in ſuch good company.

Why are you thus agitated? It was wrong to be ſo impetuous—but ſuch regret as this——

Hear the ſecret I refuſed before—my fa⯑ther is a priſoner for life.

Oh, heavens! then Mr. Haſwell was the only man——

And he had promiſed me—promiſed me, with benevolence, his patronage—but the diſguiſe he wore when I firſt ſaw him, led me to miſtake him now—made me expoſe my falſehood, my infamy, and treat his honour'd perſon with abuſe.

Aye; let his virtues make you thus re⯑pent; [56]but let them alſo make you hope forgive⯑neſs.

Nay, he is juſt, as well as compaſſionate—and for detected falſehood—

You make me tremble.

Yet he ſhall hear my ſtory—I'll follow him, and obtain his pity, if not his pardon.

Nay, ſupplicate for that too—and you need not bluſh, or feel yourſelf degraded, to kneel to HIM, for he wou'd ſcorn the pride that tri⯑umphs over the humbled.

SCENE II. The Garden.

Why, really, Sir Luke, as my Lord has given you charge to ſound my prineiples, I muſt own they are juſt ſuch as I delivered to him.

Well, Mr. Twineall, I only wiſh you to be a little more clear—we will ſuppoſe the pre⯑ſent Sultan no impoſtor—yet what pretenſions do you think the other family—

That I'll make clear to you at once—or if my reaſons are not very clear, they are at leaſt very poſitive, and that you know is the ſame thing.—This family—no—that family—the fa⯑mily that reigned before this—this came after that—they came before. Now every one agrees that this family was always—ſo and ſo—

—and that the other was always—ſo and ſo—

—in ſhort, every body knows that one of them had always a very ſuſpicious—you know what——

No, I don't.

Pſhaw—pſhaw—every body conjectures what—and though it was never ſaid in ſo many [57]words, yet it was always ſuppoſed—and though there never has been any proof, yet there have been things much more ſtrong—and for that very reaſon, Sir William—(Sir Luke, I mean—I beg your pardon)—for that very reaſon—(I can't think what made me call you Sir William)—for that very reaſon—(Oh, I was thinking of Sir William Tiffany)—for that very reaſon, ſay peo⯑ple what they will—that, that muſt be their opi⯑nion—but then where is the man who will ſpeak his thoughts freely as I have done?

Bleſs my ſoul, gentlemen, you made my heart jump to my very lips.

Sir, you are our pri⯑ſoner, and muſt go with us.

Gentlemen, you are miſtaken—I had all my clothes made in England, and 'tis impoſſible the bill can have followed me already.

Your charge, is ſomething againſt the ſtate.

Againſt the ſtate?—You are miſtaken—it cannot be me.

No—there is no miſtake.—

—You are here called Henry Twineall.

But if they have left out honourable, it can't be me——I am the Honourable Henry Twineall.

Aye, that you are to prove before your judges.

Yes, Sir—and we are witneſſes of the long ſpeech you have juſt now been making.

And pray, gentlemen, did you know what I meant by it?

Certainly.

Why, then, upon my ſoul, it was more than I did—I wiſh I may be ſacrificed——

Well, well, you are going to be ſacri⯑ficed—Don't be impatient.

But, gentlemen—Sir Luke!

Dear Mr. Twineall, I am afraid you will have occaſion for the dignity of all my anceſtors to ſupport you under this trial.

And have occaſion for all my courage too.

But, Sir—but, gentlemen——

Oh! I wou'd not be in your coat, faſhionable as it is, for all the Sultan's dominions.

SCENE I. The Priſon.

RATHER remain in this loathſome priſon!—refuſe the bleſſing offered you!—the bleſſing your pleaſed fancy formed ſo precious you durſt not even truſt its reality!

No—while my pleaſed fancy only ſaw the proſpect, I own it was delightful; but now rea⯑ſon beholds it within my reach, the view is changed—and what, in the gay dream of fond de⯑lirium, ſeemed a bleſſing, in my waking hours of ſad reflection would prove the moſt ſevere of pu⯑niſhments.

Explain—what is the cauſe that makes you think thus?

A cauſe that has alone for fourteen years made me reſigned to a fate like this.—When you firſt mentioned my releaſe from this drear place, my wild ideas included, with the light, all that had ever made the light a bleſſing—'twas not the ſun I ſaw in my mad tranſport, but a loſt huſband filled my roving fancy—'twas his idea that gave the colours of the world their beauty, and made me fondly hope to graſp its ſweets.

A huſband!

But the world that I was wont to enjoy [60]with him—to ſee again without him—every well⯑known object would wound my mind with dear re⯑membrances for ever loſt, and make my freedom torture.

But yet—

Oh! on my knees a thouſand times I have thanked Heaven that he partook not of this dire abode—that he ſhared not with me my hard uſage!—a greater bleſſing I poſſeſs'd from that, than all his loved ſociety cou'd have given—but in a happy world, where ſmiling nature pours her boundleſs gifts!—oh! there his loſs wou'd be un⯑ſufferable.

Do you lament him dead?

Yes—or, like me, a priſoner—elſe he wou'd have ſought me out—have ſought his Ara⯑bella!—

—Why do you ſtart?

Are you a Chriſtian?—an European?

I am.

The name made me ſuppoſe it.—I am ſhocked that—the Chriſtian's ſufferings—

—but were you made a priſoner in the preſent Sultan's reign?

Yes, or I had been ſet free on his aſcent to the throne; for he gave pardon to all the ene⯑mies of the ſlain monarch: but I was taken in a veſſel, where I was hurried in the heat of the battle with a party of the late Emperor's friends—and all the priſoners were by the officers of the preſent Sultan ſent to ſlavery, or confined, as I have been, in hopes of ranſom from their friends.

And did never intelligence or inquiry reach you from your huſband?

Never.

Never?

I once was informed of a large reward for the diſcovery of a female Chriſtian, and, with [61]boundleſs hopes, aſked an interview with the meſ⯑ſenger; but found, on inquiry, I could not an⯑ſwer his deſcription, as he ſecretly informed me it was the Sultan who made the ſearch for one he himſelf had known and dearly loved.

Good Heaven!—

—You then con⯑clude your huſband dead?

I do;—or, like me, by ſome miſchance, taken with the other party, and having no friend to plead his cauſe before the Emperor, whom he ſerved—

I'll plead it—ſhould I ever chance to find him—but, ere we can hope for other kindneſs, you muſt appear before the Sultan—thank him for the favour which you now decline, and tell the cauſe why you cannot accept it.

Alas! almoſt worn out with ſorrow—an object of affliction as I am—in pity, excuſe me—preſent my thanks—my humble gratitude—but pardon my attendance.

Nay, you muſt go—it is neceſſary—I will accompany you to him.—Retire a moment; but when I ſend, be ready.

I ſhall obey

Nay, reproach me—I can bear your an⯑ger, but do not let me meet your eye—Oh! it is more awful, now I know who you are, than if you had kingdoms to diſperſe, or could deal in⯑ſtant death.—

—I do not plead for my father now.—Since what has paſſed, I only aſk forgiveneſs.

Do you forgive yourſelf?

I never will.

One of our priſoners, who, in his cell, makes the moſt pitious moans, has ſent to entreat that Mr. Haſwell will not leave this place till he has heard his complaints and ſupplications.

Bring me to him.

Nay, leave me not thus—perhaps never to ſee you more!—

You ſhall ſee me again—in the mean time, reflect on what you merit.

And what is that?—Confuſion!—and yet, he ſays, I am to ſee him again—ſpeak with him.—Oh! there's a bleſſing to the moſt abandoned, a divine propenfity (they know not why) to com⯑mune with the virtuous!

SCENE II. The firſt Priſon Scene.

Where is the poor unfortunate?

Here, Sir.

Am I to behold greater miſery ſtill?—a ſtill greater object of compaſſion?

What have we here?

Don't you know me, Mr. Haſwell?

I beg your pardon, Sir—I beg your par⯑don—but is it?—is it?—

Why, Mr. Haſwell—if you don't know me, or won't know me, I ſhall certainly loſe my ſenſes.

O, I know you—know you very well.

What, notwithſtanding the alteration in my dreſs?—there was a hard thing!

O, I'll procure you that again—and, for all things elſe, I'm ſure you will have patience.

O, no, I can't—upon my ſoul I can't.—I want a little lavender water—My hair is in ſuch a trim too!—No powder—no bruſhes—

I will provide you with them all.

But who will you provide to look at me, when I am dreſs'd?

I'll bring all your acquaintance.

I had rather you wou'd take me to ſee them.

Pardon me.

Dear Mr. Haſwell!—Dear Sir!—Dear friend!—What ſhall I call you?—Only ſay what title you like beſt, and I'll call you by it directly—I always did love to pleaſe every body—and I am ſure at this time I ſtand more in need of a friend than ever I did in my life.

What has brought you here?

Typing to get a place.

A place?

Yes; and you ſee I have got one—and a poor place it is!—in ſhort, Sir, my crime is ſaid to be an offence againſt the ſtate; and they tell me no friend on earth but you can get that re⯑mitted.

Upon my word, the pardons I have ob⯑tained are for ſo few perſons—and thoſe already promiſed—

O, I know I am no favourite of yours—you think me an impertinent, ſilly, troubleſome fellow, and that my conduct in life will be nei⯑ther of uſe to my country nor of benefit to ſo⯑ciety.

You miſtake me, Sir—I think ſuch gla⯑ring imperfections as yours are, will not be of ſo much diſadvantage to ſociety as thoſe of a leſs⯑faulty man.—In beholding your conduct, thou⯑ſands ſhall turn from the paths of folly, to which faſhion, cuſtom, nature, (or call it what you will) impels them;—therefore, Mr. Twineall, if not pity for your faults, yet a concern for the good effect they may have upon the world (ſhou'd you be admitted there again) will urge me to ſolicit your return to it.

Sir, you have ſuch powers of oratory—what a prodigious capital quality!—and I doubt not but you are admired by the world equally for that—

Sir, the Sultan is arrived in the council chamber, and has ſent me.

I come.—Mr. Twineall, farewell for the preſent.

Now, what was that whiſper about?—Oh, heavens! perhaps my death in agitation.—I have brought myſelf into a fine ſituation!—done it by wheedling too!

Come, your buſineſs with Mr. Haſ⯑well being ended, return to your cell.

Certainly, Sir—certainly!—O, yes!—How happy is this priſon in having ſuch a keeper as you!—ſo mild, ſo gentle—there is ſomething about you,—I ſaid, and I thought the moment I had the happineſs of meeting you here,—Dear me!—what wou'd one give for ſuch a gentleman as him in England!—You wou'd be of infinite ſervice to ſome of our young bucks, Sir.

Go to your cell—go to your cell.

This world wou'd be nothing without ele⯑gant manners, and elegant people in all ſtations of life.—

—Another whiſper!

No; come this way.—The judge is now ſtting in the hall, and you muſt come before him.

Before the judge, Sir—O, dear Sir!—what, in this deſhabille?—in this coat?—Dear me!—but to be ſure one muſt conform to cuſtoms—to the cuſtom of the country where one is.—

—I beg your pardon, Sir—wou'd not you chufe to go firſt?

No.

O!

SCENE III. The Council Chamber.

Sultan, I have out-run your bountry in my promiſes; and one poor, unhappy female——

No—you named yourſelf the number to releaſe, and it is fixed—I'll not increaſe it.

A poor, miſerable female——

Am I leſs miſerable than ſhe is?—And who ſhall releaſe me from my ſorrows?

Then let me tell you, Sultan, ſhe is above your power to oblige, or to puniſh.—Ten years, nay more, confinement in a drear cell has been no greater puniſhment to her, than had ſhe lived in a pleaſant world without the man ſhe loved.

Hah!

And freedom offered ſhe rejects with ſcorn, becauſe he is not included in the bleſſing.

You talk of prodigies!—

—and yet I once knew a heart equal to this deſcription.

Nay, will you ſee her?—Witneſs yourſelf the fact?

Why do I tremble?—My buſy fancy pre⯑ſents an image——

Yes, tremble, indeed!

Hah! have a care—what tortures are you preparing for me?—My mind ſhrinks at the idea.

Your wife you will behold—whom you have kept in want, in wretchedneſs, in a damp dungeon, for theſe fourteen years, becauſe you wou'd not liſten to the voice of piry.——Dread her look—her frown—not for herſelf alone, but for hundreds of her fellow ſufferers—and while your ſelfiſh fancy was ſearching, with wild anxiety, for her you loved, unpitying, you forgot others might love like you.

O! do not bring me to a trial which I have not courage to ſupport.

She attends without—I ſent for her to thank you for the favour ſhe declines.—Nay, be compoſed—ſhe knows you not—cannot, thus diſ⯑guiſed as the Sultan.

Oh! my Arabella! could I have thought that your approach wou'd ever impreſs my mind with horror!—or that, inſtead of flying to your arms with all the love I bear you, terror and dread ſhou'd fix me a ſtatue of remorſe.

Here kneel, and return your thanks.

My Arabella! worn with grief and an⯑guiſh!

Sultan, the fa⯑vour [67]you wou'd beſtow, I own, and humbly thank you for.

Gracious Heaven!

But as I am now accuſtomed to con⯑finement, and the idea of all the world can give, cannot inſpire a wiſh that warms my heart to the enjoyment—I ſupplicate permiſſion to transfer the bleſſing you have offered, to one of thoſe who may have friends to welcome their return from bon⯑dage, and ſo make freedom precious.—I have none to rejoice at my releaſe—none to lament my deſtiny while a priſoner.—And were I free, in this vaſt world (forlorn and friendleſs) 'tis but a pri⯑ſon ſtill.

What have I done?—

Speak to him again.—He repents of the ſeverity with which he has cauſed his fellow crea⯑tures to be uſed.—Tell him you forgive him.

Believe me, Emperor, I forgive all who have ever wronged me—all who have ever cauſed my ſufferings.—Pardon you!—Alas! I have pardoned even thoſe who tore me from my huſband!—Oh, Sultan! all the tortures you have made me ſuffer, compared to ſuch a pang as that—did I ſay I had forgiven it?—Oh! I am afraid—afraid I have not yet.

Forgive it now, then, for he is reſtored.—

—Behold him in the Sultan, and once more ſeal his pardon.—

—Nay, pronounce it quickly, or my remorſe for what you have undergone, will make my preſent tortures greater than any my cruelties have ever yet inflicted.

Is this the light you pro⯑miſed?—

—Dear precious light!—Is this my freedom? to which I bind myſelf a [68]flave for ever.—

—Was I your captive?—Sweet captivity!—more precious than an age of liberty!

Oh, my Arabella! through the amazing changes of my fate, (which I will ſoon diſcloſe) think not but I have ſearched for thee with uncea⯑ſing care; but the bleſſing to behold you once again was left for my kind monitor alone to be⯑ſtow.——Oh, Haſwell! had I, like you, made others' miſeries my concern, like you ſought out the wretched, how many days of ſorrow had I ſpared myſelf as well as others—for I long ſince had found my Arabella.

Oh, Heaven! that weigheſt our ſufferings with our joys, and as our lives decline ſeeſt in the balance thy bleſſings far more ponderous than thy judgements—be witneſs, I complain no more of what I have endured, but find an ample recom⯑pence this moment.

I told you, Sir, how you might be happy.

—Take your reward—(to a heart like yours, more valuable than treaſure from my cof⯑fers)—this ſignet, with power to redreſs the wrongs of all who ſuffer.

Valuable indeed!——

Oh, virtuous man!—to re⯑ward thee are we made happy—to give thy pitying boſom the joy to ſee us ſo, has Heaven remitted its intended puniſhment of continued ſeparation.

Come, my beloved wife!—come to my palace—there, equally, my deareſt bleſſing, as when the cottage gave its fewer joys—and in him

we not only find our preſent happi⯑neſs, but dwell ſecurely on our future hopes—for here, I vow, before he leaves our ſhores, I will adopt every meaſure he ſhall point out—and that period of my life whereon he ſhall lay his cenſure, [69]that will I fix apart for penitence.—

An Engliſh priſoner, juſt now condemned to loſe his head, one Henry Twineall, humbly begs permiſſion to ſpeak a few ſhort ſentences, his laſt dying words, to Mr. Haſwell.

Condemned to loſe his head?—Lead me to him.

O, Sir, you need not hurry yourſelf—it is off by this time, I dare ſay.

Off?

Yes, Sir—we don't ſtand long about theſe things in this country—I dare ſay it is off.

Lead me to him inſtantly.

O! 'tis of conſequence, is it, Sir?—if that is the caſe——

SCENE IV. An arch-way at the top of the ſtage, through which ſeveral Guards enter—Twineall in the middle, dreſſed for execution, with a large book in his hand.

One more verſe, gentlemen, if you pleaſe.

The time is expired.

One more, gentlemen, if you pleaſe.

The time is expired.

Oh! my dear Mr. Haſwell!

What, in tears at parting with me?—This is a compliment indeed!

I hope you take it as ſuch—I am ſure I mean it as ſuch.—It kills me to leave you—it breaks my heart;—and I once flattered myſelf ſuch a charitable, good, feeling, humane heart as you poſſeſs—

Hold! Hold!—This, Mr. Twineall, is the vice which has driven you to the fatal precipice whereon you are—and in death will you not relin⯑quiſh it?

What vice, Sir, do you mean?

Flattery!—a vice that renders you not only deſpicable, but odious.

But how has flattery been the cauſe?

Your Engliſh friend, before he left the iſland, told me what information you had aſked from him, and that he had given you the direct oppoſite of every perſon's character, as a juſt pu⯑niſhment for your mean premeditation and de⯑ſigns.

I never imagined that amiable friend had ſenſe enough to impoſe upon any body!

Yet I preſume, he could not ſuppoſe fate would have carried their reſentment to a length like this.

Oh! cou'd fate be arreſted in its courſe!

You wou'd reform your conduct?

I wou'd—I wou'd never ſay another civil thing to any body—never—never make myſelf agreeable again.

Releaſe him—here is the Sultan's ſig⯑net.

Oh! my dear Mr. Haſwell! never was compaſſion!—never benevolence!—never ſuch a heart as yours!—

Sieze him—he bas broken his contract already.

No, Sir—No, Sir—I proteſt you are an illnatured, ſurly, crabbed fellow. I always thought ſo, upon my word, whatever I have ſaid.

And, I'll forgive that meaning, ſooner than the other—utter any thing but flattery—Oh! never let the honeſt, plain, blunt Engliſh name, become a proverb for ſo baſe a vice.—

Where is the poor crea⯑ture?

Oh! if his head is off, pray let me look at it?—

No, Madam, it is on—and I am very happy to be able to tell you ſo.—

Dear Heaven!—I expected to have ſeen it off!—but no matter—as it is on—I am come that it may be kept on—and have brought my Lord Flint, and Sir Luke, as witneſſes.

Well, Madam, and what have they to ſay?

Who are we to tell our ſtory to?—There does not ſeem to be any one ſitting in judge⯑ment.—

Tell it to me, Sir—I will report it.

Why then, Mr. Haſwell, as Ghoſts ſometimes walk—and as one's conſcience is ſome⯑times troubleſome—I think Mr. Twineall has done nothing to merit death, and the charge which his Lordſhip ſent in againſt him, we begin to think too ſevere—but, if there was any falſe ſtatement—

It was the fault of my not charging my [72]memory—any error I have been guilty of, muſt be laid to the fault of my total want of memory.

And what do you hope from this confeſ⯑fion?

To remit the priſoner's puniſhment of death to ſomething leſs, if the Sultan will pleaſe to annul the ſentence

Yes—and grant ten or twelve years im⯑priſonment—or the Gallies for fourteen years—or—

Ay, ay, ſomething in that way.

For ſhame—for ſhame—Gentlement!—the extreme rigour you ſhew in puniſhing a diſ⯑ſenſion from your opinion, or a ſatire upon your folly, proves to conviction, what reward you had beſtowed upon the ſkilful flatterer.

Gentlemen and Ladies, pray why wou'd you wiſh me requited with ſuch extreme ſeverity, merely for my humble endeavours to make my⯑ſelf agreeable?—Lady Tremor, upon my ho⯑nour I was credibly informed, your anceſtors were Kings of Scotland.

Impoſſible!—you might as well ſay that you heard Sir Luke had diſtinguiſhed himſelf at the battle of—

And, I did hear ſo

And he did diſtinguiſh himſelf; for he was the only one that ran away.

Cou'd it happen?

Yes, Sir, it did happen.

And go you, Mr. Twineall, into a field of battle, and I think it is very likely to hap⯑pen again.

If Mr. Haſwell has obtained your par⯑don, Sir, it is all very well—but let me adviſe you to keep your ſentiments on politics to your⯑ſelf, [73]for the future—as you value that pretty head of yours.

I thank you, Sir—I do value it.

Aurelia, in this letter to me, has explained your ſtory with ſo much com⯑paſſion, that, for her ſake, I muſt pity it too.—With freedom to your father, and youſelf, the Sultan reſtores his forfeited lands—and might I plead, Sir Luke, for your intereſt with Aureila's friends, this young man's filial love, ſhou'd be repaid by conjugal affection.

As for that, Mr. Haſwell, you have ſo much intereſt at court, that your taking the young man under you protection—beſides, as Aurelia was ſent hither merely to get a huſband—I don't ſee—

True, Sir Luke—and I am afraid my fa⯑ther and mother will begin to be uneaſy that I have not got one yet—and I ſhou'd be very ſorry to diſobligethem.

No—ſay rather, ſorry to make me wretch⯑ed.—

My Indian friend, have you received your freedom?

Yes—and come to bid you farewell—which I wou'd never do, had I not a family in wretchedneſs till my return—for you ſhou'd be my maſter, and I wou'd be your ſlave.—

I thank you—may you meet at home eve⯑ry comfort!

May you—may you—what ſhall I ſay? [74]—May you once in your life be a priſoner—then releaſed—to feel ſuch joy, as I feel now!—

I thank you for a wiſh, that tells me moſt emphatically, how much you think I have ſerved you.

And, my dear Lord, I ſincerely wiſh you may once in your life, have your head chopped off—juſt to know what I ſhou'd have felt, in that fituation.—

Are all his country⯑men as good as he?

No-no no-no—not all—but the worſt of them are good enough to admire him.

Pray Mr. Haſwell, will you ſuffer all theſe encomiums?

He muſt ſuffer them—there are virtues, which praiſe cannot taint—ſuch are Mr. Haſwell's—for they are the offspring of a mind, ſuperior even to the love of fame—neither can they, through malice, ſuffer by applauſe, ſince they are too ſacred to incite envy, and muſt conciliate the reſpect, the love, and the admiration of all.