My pretty one, here is an ornament
Set with a diamond of the clearest water.
Nay, don't refuse it.

Inference. (pulling Moonshine by the sleeve) Hold,
Mr. Moonshine-have you lost your reason?
Moonshine. (apart to Inference) Hush, it is only
brass-an article

That passes current with the female sex-
Only observe how much it sparkles, miss.
It cost me twenty guineas.

Hebe. Twenty guineas!

Moonshine. So you must not refuse it, positivelyFor my sake you must not.

Hebe. (aside) For your sake, Robert,

I will not.

Moonshine. Take it, fair nymph:

'Twill from a necklace grace that ivory bosom. Hebe. I thank you, sir, I thank you!

Moonshine. "Tis a trifle.

Don't mention it-But (significantly) tell me, miss, your larder,

Your larder, is it empty now?

Hebe. Yes, sir, it is!

Inference. Oh no, you mean that it soon will be, ma'am,

After we've gain'd admittance.

Hebe. Sir, indeed

It is at present.

Moonshine. Empty, empty! what?

I'll not believe it, no, child.

Inference. Nor will I

(aside) That I may feast on my imagination.

Moonshine. For shame! have you forgotten my rich boon?

Hebe. Ah no, sir, I address my prayers above For your requital in a future state.

Inference. Which, 'tis conclusive, will erelong arrive;

If you do not supply our present wants.

Hebe. I wish I could!- -You do, alas! appear In need of sustenance-yet, gentlemen,

After this bounty you cannot be poor.

Moonshine. No, no, not poor; but our misfortune is, That each of us since yester eve has been

In galling durance to a horse's back:

So have you aught or naught within your larder? Hebe. Ah, why suspect me when I tell a truth That strikes me with reproach-The only cottage. In all the country round reduc'd to want

Is ours.

Moonshine. (with importance) How, child?
Inference. (to Hebe) Don't weep, don't,
Hebe. Of this want

My own imprudence only is the cause!
But, gentlemen, there is upon the hill
A house where lives one Ambert-he-
Moonshine. One Ambert?

Then tell me-curse it-without more ado,
Whether his temper's easy or morose.

Inference. (reproving him with irony) General, that question is impertinent :

It presupposes you devoid of wit

To mitigate an acrid disposition

With the mild, milky flow of your own temper.

Moonshine. If the man's crabbed let him be so stiil:

I like not crusty nature in a smile:

'Tis like a lemon, it becomes insipid

As soon as it grows sweet- -(to Hebe) However, girl, He's rich, say you?

Hebe. Yes, very rich, I'm told~But, sir——— Moonshine. (going) Come, Mr. Scholium, it is time

we walk.

Hebe. But how shall I discharge my obligations?
Return a few weeks hence; and Robert,
Yes, Robert will repay you.

[exit Moonshine without deigning an answer Inference. Consequently, maʼam

D

-(aside) The mercenary wretch

Would have the start of me

Ho, general, ho

Hebe. This gift!

name!

-Ho, general, ho! [exit

[goes out of the cottage

Great Providence, I thank thee-in my brother's

SCENE II.-An apartment in AMBERT's house.

Enter AMBERT, followed by a servant.

Amb. Has Loobin, the old cottager, yet come?
Serv. He has, sir.

Amb. Send him hither.

[exit servant, and in a few moments

Enter LOOBIN.

Loobin, take this, (handing him a purse) give it to Frederic Worlace,

The English youth addressing Courland's daughter. Loobin. And if, sir, if he ask me whence it cameAmb, As you dread my resentment do not tell him. Loobin. Well, well, sir.

Amb. Loobin.

Loobin. Do you fear me, sir?

Amb. Ha! who approaches?

-leave me.

[exit Loobin at one door, and a few moments after, at the opposite end of the stage,

Enter servant showing in FREDERIC WORLACE.

Fred. Worl. May I hope

You'll pardon this intrusion from a stranger

When, sir, you know I come to plead the cause
Of suffering humanity.

(Ambert returns Frederic's bow with some reserve, and beckons the servant to leave the room)

Not long since

The secret sway of an o'erruling power

Led me along an unfrequented road-
I left my path, as I conceiv'd, to chance;
Pleas'd with the play of melancholy, that
Form'd every utterance of instinctive life
Into a moan of sorrow, and devis'd

A thousand groups of correspondent gloom
Out of a breaking cloud that just had shed
A deluge over the surrounding scene.

I watch'd it long at length my eyes, depress'd
With sympathy for the imagin'd woe,

Sought respite on the earth-but there were startled
In shuddering pity at a sight as real

As it was wretched! 'Twas, sir, an old woman:
Scatter'd around her were her outward garments,
Drench'd with the rain-

Her wither'd arms lay lifeless on the ground
As she reclin❜d against the riven trunk

Of an old blasted tree-To her bare head

A few white straggling hairs with moisture cleav'd, Over her deadly visage lingering drops

Rested in wrinkles furrowed by the hand

Of fourscore years at least- Her eyes were rais'd,
But pallid ghastliness o'erspread them too,
And all the token of remaining life
Was a convulsive ague on her lips.

My mind was lost in horror-when her voice
Waken'd my palsied faculties to action,
And with the assistance of a passing neighbour
I bore her feeble body to his house.

He ask'd her place of residence, and she
With the faint accents of expiring age

Reply'd she had no home, nor knew how to

Procure one.

Amb. (in a contemptuous manner) You, of course, believ'd her.

Fred. Worl. As firmly as I had the voice of inspi ration!

She nam'd a neighbouring cottage, and declar'd
That half her life she had resided there,

But that

Amb. (unable to suppress his resentment) But what,

sir?

Fred Worl. That not many hours before
A new, unfeeling, avaricious landlord
Had clos'd its doors upon her helpless state.
Amb. This monster then-—

Fred. Worl. May be perhaps conjectur❜d.

Amb. Have you done, sir?

Fred. Worl. If I've awaken'd the remorse of guilt I have perform'd my wish.

Amb. But, sir, not mine!

I would awaken the remorse of shame!
Why not speak boldly out, and like a man

Accuse me? It is I you mean- then tell me so!
And if you wish not to condemn unheard,
Hear what I have to say, and blush to know
That on a feeble, frail, and crazy charge
You'd wreck the credit of an honest man!

Fred. Worl. If wrong, sir, I am open to conviction.
Amb. You've seen the outside only of the hag

On whose foul lips my crime has been created.
She seem'd in want- -'twas fiction all.

Fred. Worl. When forc'd

Amb. Listen, rash youth, ere you insult me further This woman has but to expend a breath

And solve a doubt with which my soul's afflicted;
Yet e'en a breath she thinks too merciful!

If absolutely sinking to the grave

Would she not start at conscience, not disclose

A truth which, told, would save her from perdition? The secret wasting in her perjur'd soul

Is one on which my peace-my life depends:

Nature, and love, and gratitude, and duty,

Command her to reveal it

Fred. Worl. How?

-Yet she will not!

Amb. No persuasion can entice it from her;

And I would wring it now!

Fred. Worl. Should it die with her?