SCENE—I. A Room in Sir ROWLAND's Caſtle, APATHY diſcover⯑ed at a Table, Books, &c. lying before him.

WHAT a ſet of fools are philoſophers, who adviſe to ſtudy away life for the benefit of poſterity—that is—die while you live, that you may live after you are dead! theſe (ſhewing the book) may do well enough to garniſh the brains of fools, but this (ſhewing the bottle) This is the true feaſt of reaſon.

As tutor of theſe or⯑phans, I lead a tolerable eaſy life of it—I teach the children idleneſs—that's no difficult matter—I pimp for my patron, their uncle—that's no diffi⯑cult matter—I find Latin enough to puzzle the par⯑ſon of the pariſh—that's no difficult matter—I go into the cellar for an hour or two—that's no diffi⯑cult matter—come out again—that's no—yes, egad that, ſometimes is a very difficult matter.

Oh fye Mr. Apathy! What drinking in a morn⯑ing?

Why—my patron bid me plead his paſſion for you, and ſo I was juſt taking a drop to inſpire me.

I wonder Sir Rowland will continue his impor⯑tunities. what can he have to ſay to a poor girl like me?

So as I—he ſays, he's unhappy, and how a man that has ſuch a cellar as Sir Rowland has, can be un⯑happy, is to me ſomething very amazing—but have you no feeling?

Feeling indeed—don't you remember when poor Walter, the carpenter's houſe was burnt down?

I have a ſhrewd gueſs that Walter has drill'd a hole through your heart.

Don't you remember, I ſay? that inſtead of en⯑quiring after the poor ſufferers by the fire—the firſt queſtion you aſked, was, whether the young ſuck⯑ing pigs were ſafe? was that feeling?

No;—that was philoſophy.

Philoſophy!

Yes, my philoſophy! and this is the ſource from whence it ſprings

By eating we arrive at the higheſt preferments of church and ſtate—how do you arrive at the dignity of Lord [5]Mayor? Why you eat your why to it, and by drink⯑ing we appro [...]h the gods who never walk'd, they ſlid.—

Ha! What do I ſee—my dear Walter!—Mr. Apathy, go to the children—now go.

But what ſhall I ſay to Sir Rowland?

Oh! ſay any thing—what you pleaſe—now go.

My dear Joſephine—

Well, Walter, how do you do?

Very well Joſephine, but I ſay it's deviliſh hard to be ſo poor, I, that every body ſays am ſuch an induſtrious clever fellow—now a coffin—I'd make [6]a coffin with e'er an undertaker in Norfolk, and at a bed—why the carpenters' wives ſay, that at a bed I'm the very thing.

I ſhould not have thought indeed of your mak⯑ing beds for the carpenter's wives.

Ah, Joſephine, I'm making a bed for us, my girl.

I tell you what Joſephine, if you don't conſent to run away from the caſtle, I ſhall believe you liſten to Sir Rowland.

Lord! Walter, don't be a fool now—when my dear Lady Elinor went away to meet her huſband, Lord Alford—Joſephine, ſavs ſhe, "the only comfort I have, is, to know you will take as much care of my dear little innocents as a mother"—and while the poor little orphans are at the caſtle, I am determined not to leave it.

Ah! Heaven reſt their ſouls, we ſhall never ſee them again at the caſtle.—

Ha! Walter here—Walter, what brought you here?

Your honor—why—only a job, Sir.

Yes—A job, Sir.

A job was it—ſeize that fellow there.

Oh Lord! here's a pretty job!

Silence thoſe brats—and prepare them for a viſit, they muſt pay their goſſips.

Silence them I ſay—

Soon, their ſilence ſhall be eternal, my brother being concluded dead, that 'luſtrious orb being ſet in night, ſhall theſe pigmy ſatellites eclipſe me—no—that fellow—

I am ſure of —from his eye, remorſe is baniſhed, and unmaſk'd murder low'rs [8]upon his brow—he ſhall diſpatch them while on this ſeeming viſit—but to ſend him alone may breed diſtruſt, were it not good to ply this Walter? —releaſe from preſent fears—the hopes of Jo⯑ſephine—with with large rewards back'd with tenements and bevy will ſurely ply the conſcience of a hind.

—Oliver I have found you a companion for our purpoſe, he ſhall accompany you.

SCENE—II. Another Apartment in the Caſtle, APATHY diſcoſcovered aſleep with Books at his feet, the Children playing about the Room.

What aſleep, Mr. Apathy?

'Egad I've had a very comfortable nap, what o'clock is it?

Exactly mid-day—the children are going to viſit their godfathers directly.

Is dinner ready yet?

No; it is'nt ordered.

Not order'd! Oh Lord!—the dinner not or⯑dered —talk to me of the children, and nonſenſe, and dinner not ordered!—here cook. cook.

Who goes with us to our godfathers?

Oliver, my dear.

I won't go with Oliver.

Why, my love?

Becauſe of what I heard Walter ſay.

What was that?

Why, that Oliver was a damn'd black-looking raſcal,

Heavens! my dear, I ſhall ſcould Walter for ſaying ſuch words before you.

I know you won't, though you ſay ſo.

Why, my dear?

Becauſe of what I heard you ſay laſt night.—

I don't recollect it—What was it?

Why, you cried out in the middle of your ſleep, Oh Walter how I love you—and I know it's true becauſe you bluſh ſo.

Oh! you little tell-tale—

Have you forgot that ſong I learnt you the other day!

No—I'll try to ſing it, if you will help me.

Have you finiſhed your ſong?

Yes.

I'm glad of it—an't you my darling.

Time way—

[...] run away [...] of him dear [...]

[...].

What—your honor?

Murder the children—that's my reſolve—the re⯑ward.—Joſephine.

Murder innocents—Tempt me in the form of an angel, to do the [...]ct of a devil.

—Damme, I have a great mind to thiottle him

Eh— ſtop—ſuppoſe I only ſeemingly conſent, and then if I can but ſave them—the very thought makes me cry for joy.

What! whimpering, fool!

Conſider your honor—I'm not much uſed to butcher children, its rather out of my line.

What's your determination?

But then to be ſcorned—

Look through the world—where points ſcorn his finger at ermin'd guilt?—no, at houſeleſs merit. It is not levelled at the wealthy cheat, but at rag⯑ged honeſty—be wiſe—be wiſe.

Why, to be ſure, as your honor ſays—but my honor.—

Honor?—that's a tinſel toy—Wiſe men plate it o'er with gold, that gives the worthleſs metal cur⯑rency, and brings wealth to the holder of it— think of that.

Why—indeed that's very true again—very true. —Oh! the Devil damn him—

Well then, your honor, I conſent, and if I don't,—

Huſh! take this ſword—but firſt ſwear.

Oh, your honor, I never ſwear—never ſwear.

No trifling, fool, but ſwear—when next we meet this ſword ſhall be ſheath'd with blood.

Well, for once I will ſwear—By all my hopes of mercy hereafter—it ſhall be ſheathed in blood.

Oliver will accompany you.

Zounds! that blood-thirſty villain.—You had better let me do it myſelf, your honor

Silence—follow.

SCENE—III. Another Apartment in the Castle.

Come, my dears—which of you will have your mama's picture.

I will.

I'm ſure I ought to have it—I'm a very funny little girl, and ought to be made a pet of.

She was an elegant woman.

And every body ſays I'm very much like her.

Ha! Walter in earneſt converſation with Sir Rowland!

Oh Joſephine!—I've ſuch news to tell you, as will make your hair ſtand on end—I am in high favor with Sir Rowland—and am to go with the children to their godfathers.

I'm glad Walter is to go with us.

Aye, and what do you think, Joſephine? Oh! do you know that—Oh!—um—

Well, my little cherubs—what, delighted with your walk?

Oh! yes, uncle.

Why, Walter, you have got on your ſword.

A ſword—have I—

Why yes, it is a bit of a kind of a ſword, as you ſay, to be ſure— but—

Well, take your leave of Joſephine.

Come kiſs us, Joſephine—good bye dear Joſeph⯑ine —don't cry—we'll ſoon come back again— ſhan't we uncle?

Certainly ſweetlings—Farewell! and Heaven take you to its care.

(Amen! ſay I)—come.

Walter following with the children, one in each hand.

I ſhall be glad when they come back again—I can't bear melancholy.

Then, why love to inflict it?

Sir, I wonder you can think of a poor girl like me—beſides were your paſſions ſuch as with ho⯑nor I could liſten to, —I could never love you.

Mark, Joſephine, tho' gratitude is dead in you— fear, I perceive ſtill exiſts, and what has hitherto been entreaty, ſhall now be force.

SCENE—IV. A WOOD, AND CUT WOOD.

I ſay Walter—this place will do delightfully!

Nay! I don't much like this place—let's find ſome other.

I ſay this place will do—and ſhall be the place.

Shall it, —There, little dears, go and play there—while I talk to Oliver a bit.

I ſay, Oliver, you have one failing.

Aye!—what is it?

Why you are too tender hearted.

Am I?

Now I am, you know, ſuch a blood-thirſty raſ⯑cal; that I could murder for amuſement, therefore, I ſay, Oliver, ſuppoſe you leave this job to me.

What, you'll diſpatch them, will you?

Yes, to be ſure on't—ſo my dear fellow—you may go back to the caſtle—get the reward, and leave them to me—go.

Why, muſt not you think me a pretty ſcoundrel?

Why—I do for that matter.

To receive money for doing a bit of work and not compleating it.

I ſay, Oliver, ſuppoſe—

Suppoſe, what?

Why—ſuppoſe—ſuppoſe we were juſt to ſave 'em, Oliver.

Save 'em, eh!

Me ſave 'em—Eh—what you—you will, —eh? Aye, you wiſh it—and I conſent, how pity becomes you, Oliver?

how ſavage he looks!

Why ſhould we ſave 'em?

Why, to be ſure, there are two or three trifling reaſons—firſt, it is'n't very manly to murder inno⯑cents —next, we ſhall be damn'd for it—and—

Why an't you a pretty raſcal?

Well, Oliver, you muſt conſent to ſave e'm! look at 'em poor little dears! Ah! I perceive a tear ſtanding in the corner of your eye

I am determined ſo—

Oh! Walter ſave us!

Stop, Oliver; only two words more.

Well.

Look at them—have you a heart hard enough to kill 'em?

I have.

Why then, have you an arm ſtrong enough to fell me down, you damn'd dog?

Fell you?

Yes, for you muſt do that before you ſhall touch a hair of their heads.

Indeed! we'll try that.

Damme, I did'nt think I had ſo much pluck in me—there he lies—come forth my little tremblers, I am your champion.

Have you kill'd Oliver?

Dead as a door nail!

Go kill him again—ſuch a raſcal as he cannot be too dead.

Walter your hand is all bloody—come I'll kiſe it, and make it well—

Shall we return to our uncle's, Walter?

Alas! poor dears, you have no home—let me conſider what's beſt to be done—I'll return to that raſcal their uncle, get the reward and Joſephine, and ſteal ſomething from the buttery—then we'll go far enough out of the reach of that villain—I ſay, dears, I'll go and bring Joſephine to you, will ſtay here till I come back?

We'll do any thing that Walter bids us.

I'll ſoon come back—ſee here's a nice arbour, and here's my cloak to ſit down upon—and here are victuals—now don't ſtir from this ſpot, I charge you—Good bye, I won't be long.

Look ſiſter what quantities of blackberries and nuts there are in that buſh, let's go, pluck them.

we can ſoon find the place out again, and they are better than the beef and manchets, Walter le [...]t us.

SCENE—I.

TO ſpeak with me! if its Oliver or Walter! Heaven foreſend any ill ſhould come to my children.

I never ſaw this man before, Sir; he ſays his buſineſs is urgent.

Admit him.

who can it be!

Ha! my brother's ſervant—ſhould he be alive.

Gabriel I am glad to ſee you.

The joy is mutual your honor, but your honor looks a little pate, your countenance has'n't that roſy appearance mine has.

Grief, Gabriel.

True, your honor—grief brings on drinking, and then what is man?—O never drink, your honor—never drink!

Now to know my fate—

I ſhall ſoon meet my brother, where grief cannot come.

True you'll meet very ſoon.

All's ſafe I find

where are my brother's ſad remains?

Remains—Oh he remains but a little way off, your honor.

This drunken guiſe, little becomes your mourn⯑ful errand.

Why, you ſee you honor, I was ſent before to get every thing in readineſs, but living on ſalt proviſions at Sea, gave me ſuch a confounded thirſt, that I was forced to ſtop every mile, to moiſten my mouth with a quart of ale; ſo on my ſecond day's journey, my maſter overtakes me—ſo ſays he—ſays he—Gabriel—ſays he,—

Say! who ſay?—

My maſter, your honor—Gabriel, ſays he, I diſ⯑charge you—but my ſweet miſtreſs cried, I might ſtay, for ſays ſhe, if ever we part with Gabriel, we ſhall looſe the only ſober ſervant we have got—ſo my maſter only gave me a kick, and ſet me for⯑wards again.

Idiot!—wretch he's dead.

Dead, is he? I could ſhew you the mark he made with his foot, and if you call that a blow for a dead man to give—why, however, if you won't credit the mark of his ſoot, here's the mark of his hand.

Damnation!

Damnation—A comical way of expreſſing joy— your brother arrived ſays I—damnation ſays he —but I hope your honor has taken care of the children?

Aye, aye—they're taken care of.

If that curſed thirſt had not ſeized me, I would have been here yeſterday.

Oh! had you come but yeſterday—begone, leave me, drunkard.

Yes, your honor, I'll go to the cellar, for I feel a kind of dryneſs on my palate—yet your brother and his lady will ſoon be here your honor—they are not far behind me. I have a notion I did'nt come here quite ſtaight, your honor.

Confuſion! ruin! yet if the hand of Heaven has been ſtretch'd forth to ſave the innocent, if the children live.

It is concluded—where's Oliver?

Gone—Heav'n knows whither—I have fulfilled my oath—juſt mention the reward your honour, the prize of angels, your honor—Joſephine your honor—the—

Wretch! Murderer! avoid me—take my curſes —ſuch ever be the reward of villainy.

So ſay I.

But your honor conſider I kill'd—

Dare but to name the [...]ou [...] act, and by hell thou ſhalt be rewarded—a [...]al [...]r v [...]lain—go from their [26]haunts of men and devour thy heart in miſery and contempt.

I ſhould be a devil of a fool to do that, make a companion of my conſcience, does your honor find your's ſo pleaſant a one?

I cave me fellow—

I go—I'm gone, Sir—Heigo!

What now he'd give to do this—now to [...] ſomething from the buttery—endeavour to find Joſephine—and away again to the children —Oh ſier and fome—They ſay vi [...]ains inflict [...]ery on their fellow creatures—but I think they [...] make none ſo miſerable as they make them⯑ſelves.

Loſt beyond hope—how ſhall I act—How— how! but on—my purpoſe was, my brother's family ſhould [...]t in Heaven, and it ſhall be ac⯑c [...]ſhed—I'll chaunt my coffers, and to ſome t [...]i [...]leſs raſcal. throw down the dazzling ore, and while their ternes are riſled by the damning dear delation. I'll lead them to deſtroy this hated brother—Forture continue dull and blind—now for happineſs or perdition.

SCENE—II. A WOOD.

How do you do, ſiſter:

Very [...] and very hungry—I could eat ſome of [...]he meat Walter left us.

I w [...] we [...] the place—let us try to [...].

[...] I'm ſo ſleepy—and [...] brother. [...] may [...] picture [...], and [27]ſhould ſleep a long while, I ſhould go where my mamma is—ſo ſhe [...]l know us [...] the picture

Are you frighten'd, ſiſter?

No—not much.

Look yonder's a place to hie us—for ſure the thunder can't ſhoot us there.—Come ſiſter.

I can't walk—indeed I can't—I'm ſo ſick— Don't cry, brother.

I don't cry.

do try to walk a I it— there—ſee, I'll help you—very well—very well.

SCENE—III. Another part of the [...]ood.

Zounds, what a peppering ſtorm—ſweet ſouls how glad they'll be to ſee me—The cunning rogues have got under the cloak—and I dare ſay have got faſt aſlcep—

Gone, murder, murder—Oh! they have hid themſelves to frighten me. I ſee you, I ſee you—you may as well come, I ſee you—

—They're gone! I can never ſleep more— Ha! the print of a foot—

What the devil do I ſtand here for? I'll roar myſelf dumb—I'll hollo!—Hollo!

SCENE—IV, A ROAD.

Look out.

The travelers have gain'd the hills, and are diſ⯑mounted.

'Tis well—behind that thicket wait their ap⯑proach —be firm—here's encouragement.

This way—this way.

Thou art weary Helen,

In truth, moſt [...]dly, but let us on.

No—here reſt a while, this place is moſt dear to my r [...]m [...]mbrance, when my good falcon urged on his quarty to this foreſt's ve [...]ge, reclined beneath this aged oak, I first [...]aw thee, my Helen.

Ah! theſe times my Alford, what were then our hopes and fears, the remembrance is ſtrong within me ſtill.

But look my lord, this avenue diſplays your caſtle's ſtubborn turrets. The weſtern tower con⯑tains our lovely children—Oh how ſweetly fancy paſſing the bounds of viſion, picture to me my babes—At great nature's bidding, ſtretching forth their little hands to claſp their mother—the thought's rapture—On—on—my dear lord, you ne⯑ver ſaw the youngeſt—indeed he's moſt like you, the image of my Alford—pardon theſe fooliſh tears, they are a mothers joy.

Maſter—defend yourſelf

What two to one!—

Are you hurt, Sir?

Never heed that—Have you ſucceeded?

No, ſir, the travellers eſcaped in the wood.

Providence, I thank thee!

Shall we purſue them?

No—on your ſouls, forbear—convey me to the caſtle.

Shall I fly for aſſiſtance?

No—I'll none—do as I order'd you.

What the devil does all this mean—where are the people l've been fighting for—or where are the people l've been fighting with—I'm pretty ſure I've drill'd one of them—Damm [...], now my hand's in, I ſhall be killing a man every day, I ſuppoſe— But theſe poor children—I'm almoſt mad—night coming on too—Ha!—Another Ruffian—I'll ſoon do his buſineſs.

SCENE—V. A WOOD.
Moonlight, lamps down, Banks on—and Children diſcover d, ſeeming dead, folded in each others arms, on the Bank, with leaves ſtrew'd over them.

Courage, my Helen.

I'm wonderous faint.

Droop not, my love—we are ſafe—here we'll remain to-night.

'Twas moſt ſtrange—ſpoil was not their aim, but blood—a thouſand fears preſs on me—the vigor'd ruffian had an air me thought of.

Deareſt love, calm thy troubled mind—reſt on that verdant bank.

My ſervants, e'er this have gain'd the caſtle—I'm ſure my brother's anxious care will find us e'er the morning.

She ſleeps—I'll forth, and under covert of the friendly ſhade, de [...]ry if danger be aloft.

Heavenly powers, what's here! two infant's! cold e'en to death! poor wretched babes.—poor wretched pa⯑rents —what pangs muſt rend their hearts—How ſhall I thank thee Heaven, for giving mine, a bro⯑ther's foſtering care.

Cold and breathleſs!

Merciful pow⯑ers! my own children!

My Alford!

My child—my child! my darling boy [...]!

How is my girl?

She will recover.

How came they here? but let's away.

—At the eaſtern exremity of this foreſt, ſtands an humble cottage—there we'll haſten—thy feeble arms cannot ſuſtain.

Away—away—under my own diſaſters I might droop—but a mother's fears have amagozonian ſtrength—away, my lord.

SCENE—VI. Inſide of Walter's houſe, door open.

I thought ſo—well, and ſo—

And ſo, goody, a ſervant came to the caſtle, and Sir Rowland order'd him to be confined in the dark tower, and do you know old King ſays it is a ſer⯑vant of Lord Alford.

I thought ſo—well, and ſ—

Why, then Sir Rowland went out diſguiſed with four men—and in the confuſion I ſtep'd out— but goody—where's Walter?

Oh! Heaven knows whether we ſhall ever ſee the dear boy again.

Oh dear you frighten the—why goody—

Why do you know, I ſaw a ſpider crawl up the fide of the chimney, and the horſe-ſhoe was laſt night taken off the door,

Hallo!

Here is Walter.

I thought ſo.

Why, child, what's the matter?—have you ſeen a ghoſt? Sit croſs leg'd my dear boy.

There—will that pleaſe you?

Ah! Joſephine is it you?

Well, Walter, where did you leave the children?

Under a tree, and told them to ſtay there till I—

Under a tree! Oh! in the Gentleman's garden.

No. no.

Yes, yes, where elſe ſhould I leave them—For a wood where they might be ſtarv'd?

No—that I'm ſure you wou'dn't.

I never was afraid of Goblins—but to night I though [...] every tree a ghoſt—and took old Jowler for the Devil.

Ay, ay, old Tab did not ſcratch under her ear for nothing—a ſure ſign that ſomebody will be hang'd.

Damn old Tab.

Aye, Walter, you have been drinking.

My own tears then.

But come, here's a capon for your ſupper.

Oh, if the dear children had that capon.

Lord! Walter why they have plenty.

Plenty have they!

to be ſure I know that as well as you, Joſephine.

Had I known how cros you would have been, I would not have come.

I beg your pardon. Joſephine—don't cry my girl; I'm almoſt mad

Oh! he's ſpilt the ſalt

And I ſee here's a winding ſheet in the candle.

Damn it mother don't frighten me ſo—Joſeph⯑ine, my dear girl, ſing me a ſong.

I'll ſing you what I bought of the old blind ped⯑lar who paſſed by this morning—Its intitled and call d, the Norfolk tragedy, ſhewing how the ghoſt of a murder'd babe.

No—do—don't ſing that.

Yes, yes, ſing it, Joſephine.

Walter—why do you tremble, are you frighten'd?

Me frighten'd—bleſs your ſoul—nonſenſe.go on.

Mother, mother, mother; don't leave me.

What, alive, Oh Lord! oh lord! oh lord!—

What, my honored lord, and lady too! Oh! 'tis to much.—Joſephine, come here, down on your knees.

The— I know nothing, yes, I know every thing; you ſee, my lord, —your brother, aye, you little rogue to run away, —and ſo ſo my lord, your brother ſent, and I—my lord, —I, —I, cannot tell you not—

I'm very hungry.

Hungry are you!

Laugh! look there.

Eleſs my ſoul! there they are at ſupper; a ca, pon. I declare; vert pretty eating, I could like to pick a bit.—Oh! my lord your brother is dy⯑ing —he has confeſs'd he employed Oliver, and Walter, to murder your children.

True; I kill'd Oliver.

My gallant fellow.

He then plann'd your deſtruction.

A curs'd ambition, wretched brother.

And went out with armed ruffians to attack you.

But heaven, ſent an unknown friend to ſave us. Walter could'ſt thou but find him.

Why, my lady, I could find him, I believe,

Sure that look, —you protected us.

I believe I did.

My preſerver!

My friend!

Dear, my lord, ſweet dear lady! don't kill me with kindneſs, I can't [...]ear it I'm too happy— [...] ill g [...]t [...]en wealth do this?

Name ſome reward.

A treaſure!

If India can produce it, it is yours.

My lord, you need not go ſo far, there's the treaſure I want; give, give me, my little Joſephine, and I am happy.

My deareſt girl—receive from my hand your faithful Walter, and it ſhall be my ſtudy to reward his ſervices.

Madam I'll ſerve you with my lateſt breath! but I truſt the children in the wood will, to night, find better friends than poor Walter the carpenter.