[]A DAY IN TURKEY.

SCENE I. A Foreſt.

WHERE—O, where ſhall we fly?

Brother—father—come! We are driven from our cottage; we have no longer a home—let us run ſome where to ſeek another.

Come father lean on me, and let us walk faſter, or we ſhall be pick'd up by ſome of the turban'd gentry. [2] They are out a foraging; and they always conſider chriſtians as uſeful cattle. Let us fly.

Fly! alas, with the load of ſeventy years upon my ſhoulders, how hard a taſk! We ſhall never eſcape them, child—Thou'lt ſee thy father murdered, and worſe luck than that will be thy fate.

Worſe luck than to be murdered! I ſhould be glad to ſee the day—What worſe can happen?

Thou'lt be made a ſlave,—ſlave to a Turk

—I ſhall ſee thee in a vile Turk's ſe⯑raglio, no better, as it were, than the handmaid of a Jew.

Well, I may out-live ſuch a misfortune as that; but I never heard of out-living a throat cut—So, dear father, cheer up, and let us hurry on to the next village. Peter, take care of that bag—for it contains all we have in the world.

Aye; and if it hadn't been for ſome of our own ſoldiers, I had been a loſt man—They were ſo kind as to ſtrip our cottage yeſterday, and left us no more than I can very conveniently move under.

Yes; and more than all that, they took away my very beſt gown, and my new fur cap!

yes; and he who took them ſaid it was in friend⯑ſhip, for that otherwiſe my very beſt gown and cap would certainly fall into the hands of the enemy.

Yes; it was truly a very friendly action, and they perform'd it like gentlemen—No words, but their very looks were oaths, and the black eyebrows of one of them ſpoke louder curſes than I ever heard between fifty Siberian boar-hunters

There—there! d'ye hear? Our friends are coming [3] down upon us; and our enemies are at hand! Come, let us run

—From friends and enemies, holy Michael, defend us!

There it goes—There it goes! Nothing can ſave thee, my gallant maſter—This comes of your reconnoitering—Had you not better have been in your tent, quietly breaking your faſt, than here, breaking the heads of the Turks—So, now he's diſarm'd—Well, nobody bid ye—'tis all your own fault—Now, how comely he looks with his arms folded, and his ſword in the hands of that beetle-brow'd Turk! Pardie! I feel now as great a man as my maſter.

Courageous Ruſſian, thou art ours! Could valour have ſaved thee, captivity and you had never met —Your empreſs, we truſt, has not many ſuch ſoldiers in the neighbouring camp.—Come, droop not, Sir, this is the fortune of war.

Had I been made your priſoner, whilſt on a poſt of duty, I could have borne my lot—A ſoldier can ſupport not only death, but even ſlavery, when a ſenſe of duty gives dignity to his chains; but my chains are baſe ones, for I reconnoiter'd without command, and have loſt my liberty without glory.

Then I have loſt my liberty too without glory, for I attended you without command, and now— Oh, le diable! I am valet de chambre to a ſlave!

Let not that affect thee! The fortune of war, which has wounded your maſter's pride, ought to [4] elate yours, for you are now his equal—both ſlaves alike.

Are we ſo? And has he no farther right to command me, nor threaten me? Kind Sir, tell me but that—tell me but that —!

None, none.

Hum!

Take a pinch, don't be ſhy.

Scoundrel!

Nay, no hard names—let us be civil to each other, as brother ſlaves ought to be—And now I think of it—Hark ye! I ſuppoſe your ſlaves take rank according to their uſefulneſs.

Certainly.

Well then, my maſter—I mean that man there, who was my maſter, can do no earthly thing but fight, whilſt I, on the contrary, am expert at ſeveral.

Your qualifications?

They are innumerable—I can ſing you pretty little French airs, and Italian canzonettas—No man in Paris, Sir—for I have the honor to be a French⯑man—No man in Paris underſtands the ſcience of the powder-puff better than myſelf—I can frize you in a taſte beyond—Oh, what you are all CROPS, I ſee—fore fronts, and back fronts—Oh, thoſe vile turbans, my genius will be loſt amongſt you, and a frizeur will be of no more uſe than an oyſter-woman.—Why, you look as though you had all been ſcalp'd, and cover'd your crowns with your pillows.

Chriſtian, our turbans are too elevated a ſubject for your ſport.

Dear Sir,

drop the ſubject, it will be a proof of national taſte.

Thy ſpeech is licentious and empty; but in a Frenchman we can pardon it—'tis national Taſte— However, if your boaſted qualifications end here, it is probable, you will be a ſlave as little diſtinguiſh'd as your maſter.

Pardonnez moi! I can do things he never thought of—You have heard the ſtory of the baſket-maker amongſt ſavages? I do not deſpair of ſeeing my maſter my ſervant yet—Courage, Monſieur Ie Compte! I'll treat you with great condeſcenſion, de⯑pend on't, and endeavour to make you forget in all things the diſtance between us.

He ſeems too deeply abſorb'd in melan⯑choly, to be rouſed by thy impertinence!

Poor young man! Times are alter'd, to be ſure; and at preſent he's a little down in the mouth; but he's fond of muſic, cheer him with a Turkiſh air— Helas! all the air we have will be Turkiſh now.

Ah no! forbear your muſic, and bring me your chains! Drag me to your dungeons! The in⯑tellectual bitterneſs of this moment cannot be increaſed by outward circumſtance.

Chains and dungeons! Why ſure the ghoſt of our dead baſtille has not found its way hither— Hey, Meſſieurs! Have you lantern poſts too, and hanging Marquiſſes in this country?

Peace!

Peace! That's a bold demand.—Your Empreſs can't find it at the head of a hundred thouſand men, and the moſt ſublime Grand Signior is obliged to put on his night-cap without it, though he has a million of theſe pretty Gentlemen to aſſiſt him—Beſides, Eng⯑land has engroſs'd the commodity.

Come, Sir, let us not loiter here—I would have my fate determined, and my miſery compleat. Alas! is it not already ſo? Yes, my heart has been long the property of ſorrow, and it will never relinquiſh its claims.

I ſhall lead you to the palace of the Baſſa Ibrahim—it is in the neighbourhood of yonder camp which he commands, what your fate may then be, his humour determines.

Then I hope we ſhall catch him in a good humour, and what care I whether a Turk or a Ruffian has the honor to be my maſter? Now you ſee the misfortune of being born a Count! Had he loſt no more than I have, he'd be as careleſs as I am—Come, brother ſlave—no ceremony, no ceremony, I beg.

SCENE II. ROCKS.

Stay, ſtay, young ones! it is but manners to wait for your father—You ſee he is hobbling up as faſt as he can.

Aye, very true—Oh, Peter, how could we run away, and leave our father?

Why, we only took care of number one, and we have a right to do that all the world over. So we are captives now then, and ſlaves in downright arneſt?

Aye.

Look at my poor father! If your hearts were not harder than thoſe very rocks, you could never make a ſlave of him.

O my dear children! Thoſe flints which wound my feet are not ſo ſharp as the wounds which gaſh my heart for you.

There!—Do ye hear? O the miſeries of war! I wonder war is ever the faſhion—Pray, Sir, what made the King of the Turks and our old Empreſs agree to go to war together?

To give brave ſoldiers an opportunity of running away with ſuch pretty girls as you.

O fye on them! I think if they were now to ſee my father and brother Peter, and I in this condition, they'd be both aſham'd of themſelves.

Aſham'd of themſelves! Don't talk ſo ign'r'ntly.—Excuſe her, gentlemen, ſhe knows nothing of the world. She thinks Kings and Empreſſes are made of the ſame ſtuff as other mortals.

Come, Honeſty, cheer up! at the next village there is a waggon, into which you and your family ſhall be put, and carried to the end of your ſhort journey.

Laws! A waggon—whoſe is it?

It ſhall be your own for the preſent.

Our own! that's droll enough; ſo we are made ſlaves in order to ride in our own carriage.

Where is ſhe? Where is ſhe? I don't ſee her here—She's generally leaning on that fountain, looking like the nymph of the ſtream, ſwelling it with her tears.

But I ſay no—do you mark me, I ſay no—

Then I ſay yes, do ye mark me? What a bawling you make—What are you coming here for, hey?

To look for that inſolent female ſlave, that Ruſſian, that I may manage her a little.

You manage her! Your ill humour towards her is never to be ſatisfied—You are as malicious as you are high—Don't I know how to manage an obſtinate female as well as you?

Ha, ha, ha! All the knowledge that nature cou'd contrive to pack into that little carcaſe of thine wou'd be inſufficient for ſuch a purpoſe—Manage an obſtinate female! The greateſt generals in the world, and the greateſt tyrants have been foil'd at it—Leave her to me—I have diſcretion—ſhe ſhall be kept on bread and water.

Mark his diſcretion! Keep a pretty woman on bread and water to make her contented and kind.

'Tis right, I'll maintain it to her teeth—for, firſt, ſhe is a Ruſſian and a bear—

The beautiful Alexina a Ruſſian bear! Well, ſecondly?

She is a chriſtian, and thoſe chriſtians are the moſt unnaturaliſt creatures in the world—Why, man, they betray their friends, and love their enemies, ha, ha!

Do they ſo? Then ſhe's no chriſtian—for as to loving her enemies, I have heard her ſay to thy face, that ſhe hates thee—So, let her be treated like an honeſt Turk.

So ſhe ſhall—an honeſt Turk returns hate for hate, and ſo, d'ye ſee, her feaſt ſhall be a faſt.

Take care of the orders I gave ye—When our maſter arrives, let no one be over buſy to ſpeak of this Ruſſian ſlave—if poſſible, I would have him forget that ſhe is in the Haram.

We ſhall be careful.

Purſue me not, thou inexorable ſlave! You invade my retirement, you drive me from ſolitude, though ſolitude alone can mitigate my ſorrows.

Nonſenſe—Solitude and retirement! they were made for birds of night; owls may rejoice in them, but women ſhould ſeek day-light.

Day-light gives me no joy. Through eleven weeks have I dragg'd on a torpid exiſtence—See!

here is the ſad regiſter of my days of infelicity. My bodkin on its tender rind hath mark'd the return of each unhallow'd SABBATH;—the wounds now but juſt [10] diſcernible will deepen as the tree advances to maturity, and ſpeak in another age, the miſeries of Alexina.

A paper!—poetry! ah, how deſcriptive of my own ſenſations—which of my companions hath thus melo⯑diouſly ſung her ſorrows?

Such a wailing about freedom and liberty! why the chriſtians in one of the northern iſlands have eſtabliſhed a ſlave-trade, and proved by act of parliament that freedom is no bleſſing at all.

No, no, they have only proved that it does not ſuit dark complexions. To ſuch a pretty creature as this, they'd think it a bleſſing to give every freedom— and take every freedom.

Come, come, be gay and happy, like the reſt of the ſlaves. How ſtands your mind to-day towards a [11] handſome Baſſa? Our maſter is returning from the camp—The ceſſation of hoſtilities will give him a ſhort leiſure, which he will certainly devote to pleaſure and his haram.

Muſtapha, do not let that unfeeling ſlave talk to me—thou haſt humanity.

Would I could adminiſter to his diſeaſe, it is a terrible one! the love of talking is in him an abſolute frenzy! To ſilence him is impoſſible—but as I have power over him, I can oblige him to retire—Go!

Go! What, ſhall an inſolent chriſtian?—

Go, go!

She ſhall repent.

Doth your maſter indeed return to-day?

Yes; and all the women of his haram are preparing for his reception—they, half frantic with joy, wonder to behold your tears.

I am not a woman of his haram

But, charming Alexina, can you hope longer to eſcape? To-day he will ſee you.

Oh Muſtapha! behold a lowly ſuppliant.

She is of no vulgar rank who thus kneels to you for protection.

For protection! I am myſelf a ſlave—Riſe, dear lady.

But thou haſt power with thy maſter. Oh! invent ſome excuſe—ſay ſomething to ſave me from the interview.

I will conſider—I—

Nay, if it muſt be ſo, conceal yourſelf at once, for I hear the muſic which announces his approach; and he will pro⯑bably haſten hither.

O miſerable ſpeed! I go—Muſtapha, on thy eloquence depends my breath—The moments of my life are number'd by thy ſucceſs—Preſs fearleſsly the cauſe of virtue, and glow with the ſainted ſubject.

Why, as to chaſtity, and all that, which you make an orthodox article of, ſweet one! we Turks are a ſort of diſſenters—a woman's virtue with us, is to CHARM, and her religion ſhould be LOVE.—Ah, ah! here comes Ibrahim, and his whole haram—His creed is love, and there is not a more orthodox man in the country.

Ah! Muſtapha, the Baſſa is arrived full of triumph, full of wiſhes, panting to behold Alexina— What will become of her? Where is ſhe?

She juſt now run off on that ſide, and I ſhall run off on this—for I have not ſettled what to ſay about her, and BASSAS and TYGERS are animals not made to be trifled with.

Well, let that pretty melancholy ſlave feel as ſhe pleaſes—I, for my part, am half out of my wits, to think how happy we ſhall be now the Baſſa is come back—we ſhall have nothing but whim and entertain⯑ment. [13] —Have you been looking at the new pavilion to⯑day?

No.

O dear! it is almoſt finiſhed.—The hang⯑ings are gold tiſſue, and when our beautiful ſofa, which we have been making for him is ſet up, and the Baſſa ſees it all together, he will be tranſported.—Do you not think ſo? Hark! here he comes with all the enſigns of war at his heels.—O no—they come firſt, I proteſt—I'll ſtand here, and take a view of the whole.

Enough of praiſe, and of triumph! A ſweeter triumph than your ſongs can beſtow, awaits me—Where is the lovely Ruſſian, who, tho' my captive more than two moons, I have not yet beheld?

We rejoice in our lord's return, that her pride may be humbled.—The inſolence of her carriage, and the perverſeneſs of her temper, are intolerable.

Thou haſt ſeen her, Muley, does ſhe juſtify Azim's deſcription?

She is reſerved, my lord, reſerved and melancholy—but ſhe is too gentle to be inſolent.

Muley knows her not—Canſt thou believe it, mighty Baſſa, the idea of ſurrend'ring her charms to thee, and of being raiſed to the honour of thy notice, has never once ſoften'd her ill humour, nor abated her melancholy.

Indeed!

Bring her to me in⯑ſtantly—yes, inſtantly bid her come to my preſence, and tell her—No—hold—I will receive her in my hall of audience, dazzle her with my greatneſs, and aſtoniſh her into love.

Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!

Why that laugh, Lauretta?

Ha, ha, ha! at your new invention of aſto⯑niſhing people into love.—If you can contrive to do that, you will be the moſt aſtoniſhing Baſhaw in all Turkey.

How then?

Grandeur and dignity to inſpire love! Ha, ha, ha! they may inſpire your pretty captive with vene⯑ration and reſpect—but veneration and reſpect is an at⯑moſphere ſo cold, that love ſtarves in it.

What then muſt I do to touch her heart with love?

Affect humility, not greatneſs. You muſt become a ſuppliant, before you can hope to be a victor.

Doſt thou ſpeak truth, my pretty Italian?— Thy country is the country of love, and thou ſhould'ſt be an adept in the ſcience.

Yes; I know the hiſtory of the heart, and do aſſure you, that you muſt become the ſlave of your captive, if you ever mean to taſte the ſublime exceſſes of a mutual paſſion.

Mutual paſſion! Sir, ſhe is your ſlave, command her! Such baſeneſs may befit an Italian, but a muſſulman is more ſenſible to his dignity.

I will hear you both further on the ſubject— The iron labour of the war is for a few weeks ſuſpended —and during that ceſſation, Pleaſure! I am thine. Pre⯑pare your banquets, compoſe new delights, let every hour teem with freſh invented joys, till I forget the toils of the ſanguinary field, and bathe my wounds with roſy-finger'd love.

Well, he's in delightful ſpirits—But how ſtrange it is that the Ruſſian ſlave ſhou'd not have pre⯑ſented herſelf to welcome her maſter, and to give him an impreſſion of her charms.

Stranger if ſhe had, when nothing frightens her ſo much as the idea of inſpiring him with a paſſion —I am intereſted for her, and it is for this reaſon I ſhall endeavour to make Ibrahim purſue a conduct not uſual from a mighty muſſulman to his ſlave.

Hark ye, Azim! What makes your lovely countenance look ſo grim, when we are all ſo gay? I declare your glum face ſuits the day as little as a black patch upon a gold robe—Change it, man, change it! [16] and don't be afraid of loſing any thing by it, for you muſt look carefully to pick up a worſe.

Azim, ſince I ſaw thee laſt, I have trod the paths of glory—I have ſlumbered amidſt the froſts of the night, I have toil'd amidſt the ſtreams of burn⯑ing day; but I return and find thee the ſame.—With me all things have chang'd, but thou art unalter'd.— Thy temper, like the deep ſhadow of the foreſt, is ſome⯑times chequer'd by the dart of the angry lightning, but the ſerene cheerfulneſs of the morning dwells not with thee.

Well, and what then? If you like me not, thwart me not. There's room enough in Turkey for thee and for me.—Let the crow and the vulture reſt on the ſame tree; but may thou and I live as far apart as the ſtreams of Ilyſſus, and the waters of the Boſphorus.

Surely thy evil diſpoſition muſt be a ſcourge to thy ſoul—it muſt be affliction to thee.

SCENE An Apartment in the BASSA's Palace.

SAY, valiant Muley, where are your pri⯑ſoners?

Waiting at your threſhold for admittance.

Are they of rank?

I ſuſpect one of them conceals his rank with the hopes of lowering his ranſom—the other is his ſervant.

Bring them before me.

Who are you?

A ſoldier.

The enemy of our faith.

The enemy of thoſe only who oppoſe the intereſts of my ſovereign—To chaſtize them I this morning bore a ſword which your ſlaves won from me, hardly! Let them conſider it as the nobleſt acquiſition of the day.

Chriſtian, this air of intrepidity, when amidſt the ſoldiers of the Ruſſian camp, might have ſuited thy [18] condition; thou art now a ſlave thyſelf, acquire then that humility which becomes thy ſtate.

Diſhonourable! I demand my liberty.— A truce has been proclaim'd, and—

Not till after thou wert captured; thou art, therefore, by the laws of arms, fairly our priſoner.— Give him the ſlave's habit, and ſet him to labour. Who art thou?

Not a Ruſſian, dear Sir, 'pon my ho⯑nour, nor the enemy of your faith; I believe it's a very genteel faith, and I have all the reſpect in the world for Turkiſh gentlemen.—I never ſaw prettier be⯑hav'd, prettier dreſs'd people in my life—they have as much politeneſs and good breeding as tho' they were my own countrymen.

Of what country are thou?

Oh, Paris, Sir, Paris. I travell'd into Ruſſia to poliſh the brutes a little, and to give them ſome ideas of the general equality of man; but my generoſity has been loſt;—they ſtill continue to believe that a prince is more than a porter, and that a lord is a better gentleman than his ſlave. O, had they but been with me at Verſailles, when I help'd to turn thoſe things topſey turvey there!

Did you find them equally dull in other reſpects?

Yes. Finding they would not learn liberty, I would have taught them dancing, but they ſeem'd as incapable of one bleſſing as the other; ſo, now I am led a dance by this gentleman

into your chains, in which, if I can but dance [19] myſelf into your favour, I ſhall think it the beſt ſtep I ever took.

The freedom of thy ſpeech does not diſpleaſe me.

Dear Sir, I am your moſt obedient humble ſlave, ready to bow my head to your ſandals, and to lick the duſt from your beautiful feet.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ah, ah!—ça ira!—ça ira!

Go, take thy late maſter into thy protection, and ſee if thou canſt inſpire him with thy own good humour; his chains will be the lighter.

Oh Sir, as to chains, I value them not a ruſh; if it is your highneſs's ſweet pleaſure to load me with them, I ſhall be thankful for the honour, and dance to their clink—Bleſs ye, Sir, chains were as na⯑tural t'other day to Frenchmen as mother's milk.

Take them away.

Well, Azim, where is this lovely Ruſſian?

Mighty lord, thy ſervant dares ſcarce pro⯑nounce his errand.—She refuſes to come.

How!

I delivered your commands, I ordered her on pain of death to appear inſtantly before you, yet ſhe ſtill refuſes. She talks of her ſacred honour, and I know not what.

Cold,—unimpaſſion'd,—not to be awed,—and a ſacred regard for her honour—Then, at [20] length, I ſhall taſte the joy of overcoming RESIST⯑ANCE.

What means my lord?

I am ſatiated, I am tired with the dull ac⯑quieſcence of our eaſtern ſlaves, and rejoice that I have at length found one, who will teach me to hope and to deſpair.

Mighty Baſſa, ſhe will have the inſolence to deſpiſe equally your threats and your love—Puniſhment ought to be inflicted.

Beware how thou endeavoureſt to weaken her hauteur! I will abate nothing of her inflexibility, I will be enamour'd of ſcorn, her cruelty ſhall be my triumph.

I ſay then, my Lord.

What! am I to be oppoſed—retire, ſlave!

Why do you not go? have you not leave to depart? Come, try the freſh air, Goodman Whiſkers.

I declare, my Lord, that buſy medling ſlave is not able to conduct an affair of this ſort—but, Sir, if you will follow my advice, I'll engage—

I'll follow no advice—My heart ſpurns at inſtructions, and equally contemns both your leſſons and his—

Upon my word, he's advanc'd a great way in a ſhort time—follow no advice!

There is a tranſport which I have never yet experienc'd, but which my ſoul longs to poſſeſs—Yes, my heart languiſhes to remove the timid veil of coy⯑neſs, to ſoften by ſweet degrees, the ice of chaſtity, [21] and to ſee for once, reſerve ſacrificed at the altar of tenderneſs; theſe, cruel Love! are luxuries thou haſt never yet beſtowed on me.

So, ſo! 'tis dangerous to give ſome people a hint, I find—I thought to have held the maſter-ſpring, and to have managed him like a puppet; but preſto! he's out of ſight before I knew I had loſt him, and leaves his inſtructor groveling behind—I muſt ſeek ſome other field for my talents, I ſee.

Yes, I think, I think that may do—Muley, and the other four, with our little Muſtapha—Yes, yes; with theſe half dozen, I'll weave a webb of amuſement to crack the ſides of a dozen gloomy harems with laughter—Mercy! what a ſleepy life wou'd our valiant Baſſa and his damſels lead, but for my talents at invention.

SCENE The Garden.

All thy malice is not worth that.

That's right, my little Muſtapha,

don't mind him; he's never happy, but when he's plaguing ſomebody—What has the pretty Ruſſian done to you, that you ſhould be ſo ſet on making her wretched?

I tell thee Alexina ſhall not be made miſera⯑ble whilſt I have a hair in my beard.

There, do you hear, Mr. Sour-Chops? I am ſure if all the ſlaves who have the care of us, had your ill-nature, I had rather ſink down into the condition of a water-carrier, than live in a great man's harem.

I tell thee, that ſhould ſhe become the fa⯑vourite ſlave, thou will repent thy blind prejudice—We ſhall then all be in her power—tremble at her revenge.

Tremble thou, whoſe perſecutions will make thee a proper object of her revenge—for me, what will ſhe have to return me but offices of reſpect and kind⯑neſs? Go, go, thy turbulent ſpirit makes thee hateful.

Voice

Fatima! Fatima!

I'll come inſtantly—And you ſhall come with me.

Nay, 'tis in vain to reſiſt, there is a dozen of us in the next walk, and we'll mould you into a better temper'd monſter before we have done with you, I warrant. Selima! Baſca! come and help me.

Begone, I ſay.

O, what you move, do you? The creature is mended already.

So, my Lord Baſſa, that haſty ſtep, and that eager look proclaim thy errand—I know thou wilt catch the bird at laſt; but I will keep the little flutterer from thee as long as I can.

Where is the Ruſſian ſlave? the women tell me ſhe ſpends her hours in my garden, but I cannot ſee her here, though her fragrant breath ſeems to ſalute me from the roſe trees, and her melodious voice from amidſt the buſhes, where the painted ſongſters pour forth their ſtrains. Where is ſhe, Muſtapha?

I ſaw her awhile ago at the right there ſome⯑where, but may be ſhe's at the left by this time— There's no gueſſing.

Azim complains that ſhe is an inſolent and ſcornful beauty, not gentle, nor complaiſant in the leaſt.

I'll follow the lead, and deſtroy every wiſh he may have to behold her.

Yes, yes; as to inſo⯑lence, match me her fellow if you can—Bleſs us, to ſee the difference! Why, my Lord, our Eaſtern beauties are ſo gentle, ſo complying, they ſcarcely give you time to wiſh

Thou ſay'ſt right

Pretty creatures! if a man does but look at them, they drop like a ripe cherry from the bough— No coldneſs, no diſdain; but as to this proud Ruſſian, it would be eaſier to march an army to St. Peterſburgh, and whip the Empreſs through a keyhole into your baggage waggon, than to ſubdue her petulance.

Doſt thou think ſo? Oh, ev'ry word thou uttereſt gives new ardor to my hopes, new impulſes to my deſires—I adore her.

Alack! alack!

Oh, Muſtapha, my imagination paints her her till my heart grows ſick with love! I ſee the beau⯑teous ſcorner dart living lightnings from her eye, and her cheek glow with chaſte diſdain; I weep in anguiſh at her feet, I implore her compaſſion—Melted with my love, yet ſtill rigid and reſerv'd, I behold the bewitching conflict in her ſoul—I triumph in the diſcovery, yet conceal my delight, ſtill implore, ſtill complain, then ſeize ſome happy inſtant, when her whole ſoul is touch'd, and boaſt a victory indeed!

What then—What then, my Lord, you are not diſpleas'd at her haughtineſs?

Diſpleas'd!

So, ſo, ſo! I have been driving on when I thought I had been pulling back; ſpurring a mettled courſer, and neglecting the check rein

Go on to paint her—pencil her in all her faſcinating pride, deck her in the coldneſs which dwells on the polar Alp! My glowing ſoul ſhall burn at the deſcription, and blaze with the fierceneſs of newly taſted love.

Why, as to that—to be ſure as to that, ſhe is as cold as the Alps, and all their ſnow-balls—ſhe per⯑fectly make's one's teeth chatter at her.—But then—

What?

then what?

Why, if truth muſt be ſpoke, there is, after all, ſomething oddiſh about her.

Oddiſh!

Why now, my Lord, look at me—pray look at me—Ay, my Lord Baſſa, examine me well.

To what purpoſe?

Why, the ladies of your harem ſay that this ſame beautiful Ruſſian is exceedingly like me.

Ridiculous!

Particularly about the noſe.

Nay, there are handſome likeneſſes, my Lord—I don't ſay but that ſhe may be rather hand⯑ſomer.

Thou art mad.

Not that ever I ſaw the likeneſs myſelf—ex⯑cept ſomething in the ſhape indeed—But there I have the advantage, for her right ſhoulder, and her right ear, have too right an underſtanding, they are always together. Then her hair, to be ſure it may ſuit ſome people, but according to my fancy, the colour is execrable.

Wretch, wert thou a chriſtian, I ſhou'd be⯑lieve thee intoxicated with wine—But I'll this inſtant ſeek the charmer, and judge how far—

My Lord, a Meſſenger from the Divan.

What ſay'ſt thou?

A meſſage from the Divan with weighty diſpatches.

I wiſh they had been weightier, that his ſpeed might have been leſs—Let him wait and be refreſhed.

He is order'd to hurry your reply, and to return without delay to the Sublime Porte.

Impoſſible! I ſay—I—would the Sublime Porte were ſunk beneath their own lumber.

What is all this? What does the wind carry now?

Whims and oddities of all ſorts and colours—The humours of Baſſas I find it is as impoſſi⯑ble to gueſs at, as at the weight of moonſhine.

See! Alexina is weeping in that arbour.

Bleſs her! And her cheeks through the ſhining tear, look like carnations when they are firſt waſhed in the dew of the morning.—Retire for a mo⯑ment.

O Muſtapha! I have witneſs'd thy kindneſs trembling and grateful—But, alas! what will it avail? The darkneſs of night hangs upon my ſoul—Hope has forſaken me!

Ay, that's becauſe you did not graſp her faſt —Treat Hope as you would a favourite lover, Lady! never loſe ſight of it.

Thou art light!

Even ſo is hope—as light as one of your own country rein-deer—and to carry on the compariſon, it will whiſk you like a rein-deer over all the bitter froſts of life: Buckle hope to your ſledge, and you will travel over the tireſome waſte, diſdaining the blaſt, and ſmiling at the tempeſt.

O that I could ſeize her! But how is it poſſible within theſe walls? Theſe walls, the temple of looſe deſires, the abode of a tyrant and his ſlaves? Muſtapha! could'ſt thou effect my eſcape?

There indeed, hope will give you the ſlip— for I could as eaſily eſcape into the air, and pluck a feather from the flying eagle, as help you in that, and to tell you the truth, my maſter will not much longer be dallied with.

Dreadful words! Thou canſt not gueſs at their weight—a tumbling rock to cruſh this worthleſs frame, would not,—could not give me half the horror.

She frightens me—her eye is wild!

I do ſwear to thee,—THEE! to whom my fruitleſs vows were paid, never to forget that I am thine —never to ſuffer the ſlighteſt violation of our ſacred love.—This

is thy ſurety. To be uſed in that moment, when heav'n itſelf will approve the ſuicide, when applauding angels will nerve my arm to ſtrike the blow! and this vow, I call thee, heav'n, from thy higheſt throne, to witneſs and record!

By my turban, I hardly know where I ſtand. Women of different countries have different ſouls, I believe; and I am ſure this is the firſt time this ſort of ſoul was ever in a harem

Come hither, Selim.

Go to the Janiſſary Heli, he has ſent me no⯑tice, that he has captured ſome ſlaves and other mer⯑chandize.—Tell him I ſhall be directly there, to look at his women and his velvets.

So! then we ſhall have ſome other females, fate willing to plague us. I ſwear of all the merchandize our traders deal in, that of women is the moſt trouble⯑ſome and unprofitable—And our wiſe and puiſſant Baſſa is as much out in his chart of courtſhip, as he would be in that of the moon.—Why, he's as melancholy as a moping Spaniard on the outſide of his miſtreſs's grate.

SCENE A wide Court with ſeveral unfiniſhed Buildings.

Aye, wheel away, comrades—wheel away! Hang me if I do though. I'll wheel no more of their rubbiſh. Let the Baſſa dig his own dirt

Why, the ſun here in Turkey ſeems to mind nothing but how to keep himſelf warm

The poets talk of his being a coachman by trade; but hang me if I don't believe he was a baker, and his oven is always hot.— I wiſh he'd make acquaintance with a north wind now, for half an hour, or a good ſtrong ſouth weſter.—Lud, lud! how I do long for a wind! If I was in Lapland, I'd buy all that the witches of that country have bottled up for ten years to come

How now, you lazy boar! What are you ſeated for, and tuning your pipes in the middle of the day?—To work—to work, ſirrah!

Tuning my pipes! Why, I like to tune my pipes—and I don't like to work, good Mr. Muſſulman—I don't indeed!

Then you ſhall ſmart, good Mr. Chriſtian

What, would you take the trouble to beat me ſuch a day as this? My dear Sir, the fatigue [29] wou'd kill you—I can't be ſo unchriſtian as to ſuffer it

Nay, if you ſtrike,

I ſtand.—Pray, Sir, what may be your office in this place?

To keep you and your fellow-ſlaves to their duty.

And who keeps you to your duty?

Who? why, myſelf to be ſure.

Then I think yourſelf is a very ill-fa⯑vour'd ſcoundrel, to oblige you to perform a duty ſo diſtreſſing to your politeneſs.

You are an odd fiſh!

No, I am one of a pair—I have a twin-brother juſt like me.

The man who was taken with you?

No—he has not ſuch good fortune; he's a Ruſſian count, poor fellow! and was my maſter.— Gad, I could make you laugh about him.

Well!

About two months ago, Mr. Slave-driver, he was married.

Well!

A pretty girl faith, and daughter to one of our great Ruſſian boyards—a boyard ranks as a mar⯑quis did in France, and as a laird ſtill does in Scotland —I love to elucidate.

Well!

So, Sir, a few hours after the ceremony, before the ſun was gone down, and before the moon had thought about dreſſing herſelf for the evening— Whip! his pretty bride was gone.

Where?

That's the very thing he would get at. —Ma'am and he were walking like two doves in the boyard's garden, which garden was border'd by trees, which trees were border'd by the ſea—Out ſprings from the wood forty Turks with forty ſabres, and forty pair of great monſtrous whiſkers, which ſo frighten'd the bride, that, inſtead of running away, ſhe fainted away, and ſtaid there.

Hah, hah! then my countrymen had a prize.

That they had, worth two Jew's eyes. Six of them hurried off with her to a Felucca, which lay at the edge of the wood; and all the reſt employ'd my maſter. I ſuppoſe they would have had him too, but the boyard, with a large party of friends, appearing at the top of a walk, they thought fit to make off with what they had.—Well, my maſter's bridal bed was, that night, the beach, where he ſtaid raving and beat⯑ing himſelf, as tho' he took himſelf for one of the Turk⯑iſh raviſhers.

Ha, ha, ha! thy ſtory is well—ſo, all that night, he walk'd in the garden—Oh, and the night⯑ingales, I warrant, ſung reſponſes to his complaints, and the melancholy wood dove cooed in ſympathetic ſorrow.—It muſt have been very pleaſant.

O, a pleaſant night as could be; but it coſt him a fortnight's lying in bed; for a hiſſing hot fever laid hold of him; and the doctors, with all their rank and file of phials and boluſſes, could hardly drive him out of his veins.

Well, now go to your labour

O, my dear domine, I have not finiſhed yet.—I want to tell you how he join'd the army, to have an opportunity of revenge, and how, in all the ſkirmiſhes we have had, he has drawn more Turkiſh blood than—

Go! you are an idle raſcal, and would ra⯑ther talk an hour than work a minute—Go, or I will draw ſome of thy French blood to balance accounts with your maſter.

Sir, you are extremely polite; the moſt gentleman-like, civil, courtly, well-behav'd ſlave-dri⯑ver I have ever had the felicity to encounter

My ſervice to your Lady, Sir!

The time he mentions, about two months, is about the period when our Felucca landed Alexina, and his account tallies exactly with the account of the ſailors—Aye, it muſt be ſo—Now, would it add to her miſery to know that her huſband is ſo near her? I muſt conſider, and ſhe ſhall either know it, or not, according to the effect which I think it will produce.—I know ſhe hates me, and let her look to it.

My good Lord Count, pray be ſo good as to take this ſpade in your hand—Dig you muſt, and ſhall—I have had the honor to bring down as noble ſpirits as yours to the grindſtone before now.

Inflict your puniſhments! to thoſe I can ſubmit, but not to labour.

Why not? Has Nature made any diſtinc⯑tion between you and the reſt of the ſlaves? Look at [32] yourſelf, Sir!—Your form, your limbs, your habit! are they in aught different from the reſt?

BIRTH has made a diſtinc⯑tion!

That I deny—The plea of birth is of all others the moſt ſhadowy. There, at leaſt, Nature has been ſtrictly impartial: the ſon of an Empreſs receives life on the ſame terms with the ſon of a peaſant.

Pride then, and Fortune, make diſtinc⯑tions.

True; but Fortune has deſerted you, and pray recommend it to your pride to follow her, that you may, without trouble, attend to your buſineſs.—Here! take the ſpade.

There, if you dare again to inſult me, I'll hurl thee there, and tread on thee.

Now, if the Baſſa had not commanded me to be gentle to him, I would have beaten him with thongs till his broken ſpirit brought him to my feet for mercy: but if I can't bend it, I'll torture it.

So, you think to maſter me, do ye?

I think not of thee.

No, I ſuppoſe—Ha, ha!—I ſuppoſe your pretty wife is—

My wife—my wife—Oh, art thou ap⯑priz'd that I had a wife?

Oh! ſpeak to me, tell me if thou know'ſt her—Nay, turn not from me!—All the lineaments of thy face become important— if thou wilt not ſpeak to me, let me gaze on them, and there gather my fate.

Well, gaze and gaze! Can'ſt thou there read her ſtory? Doſt thou know whether ſhe breathes, and where? Doſt thou behold thy lovely wife triumphant in a ſeraglio, or ſubmiſſive in a bathing houſe?

Oh, villain! monſter! neither. By every glittering ſtar in heaven, if ſhe lives, ſhe's chaſte!

Had I gold and jewels, I would pour the treaſure at thy feet, but now have mercy on me—Oh, I beſeech thee, tell me if Alexina lives.

Ha, ha, ha! if Alexina lives!

Nay, thou ſhalt not avoid me—I will purſue thee, kneel at thy feet, perform the moſt menial offices, ſo thou wilt tell me of my Alexina!

Now, where are the diſtinctions of thy birth? Do they prevent thy feeling like the vul⯑gareſt ſon of Nature?

Thou ſhalt chide long, if thou wilt at length ſoften the anguiſh of my ſoul—Oh, hear me, hear me!

SCENE I. The Garden.

COME along, I ſay—Why, what do you ſtand there for?—O the difference of women! This is a ſtubborn one, I warrant her—Though ſhe ſaw me pay down the money for her, ſhe has not the leaſt notion that ſhe's a ſlave—Well, if you won't come, Madam, I'll fetch ye.—

Law! how you hawl one—I tell ye, I don't like to walk here—Let me alone.

Come, come, Madam, none of your airs— You muſt here be obedient and civil—Come along. The Janiſſary of whom I bought you, told me you was a good natured, complaiſant creature.

Yes, but he was not ſo rough as you are; he made me throw away my peaſant weeds, and gave me all theſe fine cloaths. See this tiffany, all ſpotted with ſilver; look at this beautiful turban—He gave it me all!

Why, that was only to ſet off your beauty, that you might fetch a better price; but I bought you for your good humour only. Here is a ſweet woman [35] who pines and ſighs till ſhe puts one in mind of a myrtle bloſſom, all paleneſs and fragrance.

What's that to I? I ſuppoſe I ſhall be pale and flagrant too, if I am to be kept down by you.

Who wants to keep you down? Behave yourſelf prettily, and you may live as merrily here as ſparrows upon a may-buſh. The gentle creature for whom I bought ye, is your countrywoman, and I gueſs'd you might divert her with your ſenſible prattle.

Ah, did you ſo? Why, you gueſs'd as though it was your trade then—for I am the moſt divertingeſt creature in our whole village, and if I could but ſee my father, and brother Peter—

Well, if you behave diſcreetly—I'll buy your father, and brother Peter.

Buy! buy! Why, you talk of buying us, as though we were baſkets of eggs, or bales of cotton.

Yes, it is the mode here—Every country has its fancies, and we are ſo fond of liberty, that we always buy it up as a rarity.

What, did you buy all thoſe ugly men that I ſee at work yonder?

Men! Make no miſtakes, child—It would be death for a man to be ſeen here. None ever ven⯑ture a foot within theſe ſhades.

No! why then do you venture here?

O, as for me, I—I—hold your tongue,

and make no impertinent enquiries.

But I will make enquiries. What do all them there ugly men do here, I ſay?

Why them there ugly men were bought to keep you pretty women in order.

In order! Why what controul have they over us?

Oh, they are guards and ſpies; and are now and then convenient at taking off a lady's head, or ſuiting her neck with a bowſtring, when the whim happens to ſeize a great man, of amuſing his ſeraglio with a tragic gala.

Why, what wicked wretches you all are, then! Get out of my ſight, do! You look ſo ugly I can't bear ye, and if I was a great man, I'd ſtring you all together upon a rope that ſhou'd reach from here to Saint Peterſburgh.

Ah, you have a ſpirit, I ſee—Hark ye, huſ⯑ſey.

O, dear heart, do not look ſo ferocious! I really believe you are a female tyger.

Dread my claws then! See, here is the gentle creature for whom I bought thee—had ſhe had thy impertinence, ſhe might have pined in ſolitude for me.

Nay, but it is—Impoſſible! And yet it is ſo! Art thou not Paulina, the daughter of my father's vaſſal, Petrowitz?—Alas! thou art. Unhappy girl! what—

Goodneſs, goodneſs! If it is not the Lady Alexina, may I be whipt!

Dear Paulina, what dreadful deſtiny brought thee hither?

Deſtiny do you call him?

Why, this place is all full of dreadful deſtinies, I think. Some with black whiſkers, and ſome with grey ones. Was it this little odd deſtiny who bought you too?

Alas! thy queſtion brings back ſuch a ruſh of ſorrows—Oh! thou can'ſt not be ignorant that I was torn from my huſband within the very hour that made me his,

and dragg'd from bliſs to ſlavery.

I did not know that you was here—but I am monſtrous glad to meet you here—It is the luckieſt thing—I have always been in luck!

Yes, that compliment is a proof of it. You are vaſtly lucky there! Well, go on, and amuſe her, child—I ſhall enlarge your party preſently.

The little body is as pert as though it was five feet high—But, for all him, I will ſay, my dear lady, that I would not but have ſeen you here for the beſt gown I have—Not even for this, though it is ſo fine.

Hah, Paulina! I fear that this dreſs is the mark of thy diſhonor—I fear thou art undone!

Undone indeed! I think we are both un⯑done; to be brought into ſuch an odd, out-of-the-way country as this—ha, ha, ha, ha. I have been here but an hour, and it ſeems an hundred—In one place a parcel of copper-colour creatures, without tongues, pop out, glaring with their ſawcer eyes, and if you want to talk and be a little ſociable, ba, ba, ba, is all you can get—I believe they learnt their alphabet of the ſheep—Then in another corner—

Pray reſerve your obſervations —I have queſtions to aſk, which tear my heart-ſtrings to pronounce—Speak to me of Orloff—Oh, my Or⯑loff! Speak to me of my parents.—Did they ſupport the moment which dragg'd me from them?

Truly as bad as you cou'd wiſh.—At laſt 't was ſaid that my Lord, the Count, went into the army, and there he has play'd about him valiantly! I warrant he'll pay the Turks for robbing him of you, though, may be, they won't like his coin.

Oh, preſerve him THOU, in whoſe hand remains the fate of battles!

Here, I have brought ye Lauretta; ſhe is a girl of enterprize, and I have a fancy which her in⯑triguing ſpirit will bring to perfection.

Alas! how can ſhe ſerve me? Can ſhe reſtore me to my country—to my huſband—?

Fear her not—ſhe has as many plots as dimples; ſo I leave ye together.—Stand on one ſide.

Aye, on any ſide but your's, Mr. Deſtiny

—I hope you and I ſhall be always at contrary ſides.

So hope I, Miſs Nimble Tongue! For if you were always beſide me, I ſhould ſoon be beſide my⯑ſelf.

Dear madam, look a little cheerfully—I have a thought in my head—Hark ye, my dear

—you are a Ruſſian, I find—What ſort of lovers do your countrymen make?

How ſhould I know? I never had but three —One was old enough to be my father, ſo, I uſed to kneel down and aſk his bleſſing—So, one day, he gave me a curſe, and walked off.—The next was a ſchool⯑maſter, and he had ſuch a trick of correction, that, had I married him, I ſhould have been in conſtant fear of the birch.—The third was a ſoldier—but as I nei⯑ther liked to follow the camp, nor to live a widow bewitch'd, I made him beat his march.

Brava! you diſpos'd of them all like a girl of ſpirit, and yet, I think, had the caſe been mine, I ſhould have taken a march with the ſoldier—I do love ſoldiers.—A regiment on its march always makes my heart ſhiver to pieces amongſt a thouſand Caeſars and Alexanders,

Has the Baſſa ſeen you yet?

He ſent by Muley to command me to his preſence, but I will firſt ruſh into the arms of death.

Ha, ha, ha! ſuch a reſolution in this coun⯑try! Rather ruſh into the arms of death, than into the arms of a handſome lover! the notion is exotic— it is an ice-plant of the North—and our hot ſun will wither its honours, depend on't.

Are you the friend who was to ſoothe my ſorrows? Alas! where ſhall HONOR be honor'd, if the mouth of WOMAN caſts on it con⯑tempt!

Ah, pardon my levity, for I mean to ſerve you.

In you, the contented inhabitant of a ſe⯑raglio, ſuch profanation may be pardon'd; but alas! in the world, the grace of chaſtity is ſcarcely longer [40] acknowledged! I have heard the wife and the daughter affix ridicule to the name. O virtue! where canſt thou expect worſhip, when the ſpeech of the matron and the virgin unhallows thy ſacred idea?

I am not ſo loſt, but I can feel and thank you for your reproof; and as the firſt fruits of it, I will labour for your eſcape from a ſituation, which, to you, muſt be miſery indeed! But, madam, we muſt confer alone—I intreat you to retire with me.

Alas! ſo miſerable is my ſituation, that I am obliged to accept ſervices from thoſe whom the feelings of my heart wou'd impel me to ſhun.

Ah! not ſo quick, miſs! Do you ſtay here 'till I return—Stir not, I charge you.

Stay here, indeed! There is pretty good care taken that one ſhou'dn't run away. The walls are as high as a cathedral, and ſuch frightful looking oddities prowling about, that a mouſe could not run from one ſhrub to another without obſervation—How they all ſtare at me! So! there's another of them— He looks rather better than the reſt—but I ſhall have nothing to ſay to him.

No more, no more of buſineſs. Let not a thought of public duty here obtrude itſelf—I have al⯑ready ſacrificed thoſe hours to it, due to a dearer cauſe.

And now for my reward! Now will I ſeek the charming obdurate, nor ever leave— [41] Hah! ſhe is there! The lovely fugitive—I have found her—I have found her!

Heigho! what ſhall I do with myſelf! I'll gather flowers for lady Alexina.

Yes, ſhe has a thouſand charms, and my heart is already in her chains.—How dared Muſtapha deceive me? He talked of deformity—her form is ſymmetry itſelf, and her hair which he decried, is fit for the bow-ſtrings of the god of love.

Hang this ſharp thorn, it has made my finger bleed.

But you, charming Ruſſian! ſtill more barbarous, are born to make hearts bleed.

What a true picture they have given me of her ſcorn! Will you not ſpeak to me?

I wonder at ſome people.

What doſt thou ſay? Oh, that mouth is too lovely to be cloſed ſo ſoon.

You are very pretty, and you are very ſweet, but you are not com⯑pleat yet—Good Mr. What-d'ye-call—reach me that flower that grows ſo high.

With tranſport!

Shall I arrange them for you?

Get along, do!

Teach me to do ſomething that may not diſpleaſe you.

Get out of my way, I ſay.

Do you know me?

Not I, nor never deſire to know ye—I wiſh [42] I was out of this wretched place altogether, I know that.

It ſhall be the buſineſs of my life to make you happy in it.

You! ha, ha, ha.

You are ſurely unacquainted with my rank, and my ſituation.

No, no—I know that.—Do hold your non⯑ſenſe.

Your haughtineſs I was prepared to bow to, but I know not how to meet your contempt.

Don't begin to redden at me—I mind ye no more than I do this ſallow leaf—There—ſee—I blow it, and away it flies—go after it—there lies your way.

But not the attraction—You bid me go, whilſt your eyes chain me here.

Then I'll ſhut them—There—now how do you like me?

In vain you ſhut your eyes, unleſs you cou'd likewiſe hide that roſy mouth, thoſe teeth, thoſe fea⯑tures, that form! I could love you though you were blind.

Love! What, can you love? Such a hard⯑hearted—Turkiſh—creature as you love?

Can I? yes, to diſtraction! It is not poſ⯑ſible for me to tell you how I could adore you— Whole days wou'd be loſt in gazing on your charms! I could hang on your breath like the humming-bird on the vapour of the roſe, and I ſhould drink your glances, 'till my ſoul, ſick with exceſs of pleaſure, [43] would leave me ſcarce power to murmur forth my bliſs.

Now, what can he mean by all that? I be⯑lieve a biſhop could not talk finer!

I tell ye what, miſter, you may make grand ſpeeches about this and that; but I hate both you and your love; and if ever you teize me with it any more, I'll make you repent, that I will

Charming ſongſtreſs!—I dare not purſue her.—How well ſhe knows the power of love, to treat with diſdain the man in whoſe hands is her fate! Hah! would I ſuffer her thus to leave me, but that at laſt ſhe muſt be mine! Go then, lovely tyrant, indulge thy ſcorn, and treat me like a humble ſlave— A moment comes when thou ſhalt repay me!

So! he's gone!

Hah! ſee what ſweet flowers I have ga⯑ther'd for you! Why did you ſtay ſo long?

Oh, let me embrace thee!

What, all this for the flowers?

No, for hope—for ſoft returning hope! Paulina, the powerful Baſſa is thy ſlave—He loves thee—I have witneſſed your interview, and bleſs that fortune which has done for me in an inſtant, what, by a train of artifices, we meant to have procured.

Ah, but, you little rogues, 'tis I that have done it, 'tis I that have brought about all this, though like ſome other great actions, more is owing to chance than ſkill.

Why, what have you done to be ſo full of your brags?

What, are you not ſenſible of your happi⯑neſs? To have ſubdued the heart of one of the hand⯑ſomeſt, and moſt powerful men in the empire?

Men!—What are you talking about? Oh then, that handſome man is not one of thoſe odious creatures who bowſtring us? Laws! how could I treat the gentleman ſo? I'll run after him, and make it up.

Stay! or you undo me.

Well then, the next time I ſee him, I'll tell him that I'm aſham'd of myſelf; and I'll try by all due civilities to appeaſe his anger.

Oh, not for worlds—Still you will undo me, my fate is in your hands.

Hark ye, my pretty maid, our Baſſa, like all great men, has his fancies, he does not like too much honey on his bread.

Laws! Ha, ha, ha!

If you wiſh to retain his heart, you muſt plague it—if you are tender you'll loſe him.

Why, that's the way in my country too; as ſoon as our ladies grow fond, their lovers grow cold; for all the world like the little Dutch painted man and woman in the weather box, when one pops out, the other pops in—never in a mind.

Keep the leſſon in your mind, and you may be a great lady—only take care not to begin your pops too ſoon. You ſee ſhe is apt.

O, as a parrot! Come, my good girl, you ſhall go to my chamber, and I will give you the pret⯑tieſt leſſon you ever yet learnt—I'll teach you in half an hour all the arts of a fine lady, and you ſhall be able to play on your lover as you wou'd on an harpſichord. The whole gamut of his mind ſhall be in your poſſeſ⯑ſion, and every note of it obedient to your wiſh.

Be attentive to her leſſons, my dear Pau⯑lina; perhaps my honor, and my felicity, depend on your ſucceſs—O preſerve your own innocence, and be the guardian of mine!

Preſerve my own innocence! Ay, to be ſure I will—for my father has read to me in many a good book, which ſays, that a woman, when ſhe loſes her innocence, loſes her charms, and that, like a faded roſe dropt from the tree, the foot of every paſſenger will tread on her in her decay. O, who would loſe [46] their innocence! My dear lady, why, your eyes look as bright again as they did when I firſt ſaw you.

It is becauſe Hope hath ſhed its luſtre on them.

My heart is full; my veins confeſs a warmer flow, and the bright⯑eſt viſions glide before me. O, nature! thou who haſt made us capable of ſo much bliſs, why is it thy decree that we ſhall ſink in ſorrow? Why muſt our joys be ſo often ſhrivel'd by the cold touch of indu⯑rating DESPAIR!

Selim, was not that the Ruſſian ſlave who departed as we enter'd? Surely it was, and with a look of pleaſure!—

Pleaſure! I am glad to hear it. I am ſure her melancholy has thrown a gloom over the whole harem.

What an odd whim it is in our maſter to grow fond of the mind of a woman! Did ever any body hear of a woman's mind before as an object of paſſion?

I don't underſtand it.

SCENE I.—A Quadrangle—On one Side of the Square is a very high Garden Wall; behind which are heard frequent Burſts of Laughter—A LA GREQUE is ſeen moving from Place to Place, trying to peep through.

DEVIL take the workmen who built the wall! Not a chink or cranny can I find to ſend in the thou⯑ſandth part of an eye-beam

There they go again! Oh, you ſweet tits you! I wiſh I was one amongſt ye.

Hark ye, Mr. Gravity! Is there no getting a peep at theſe jolly girls?

No.

What, are they never ſuffer'd to be ſeen by a handſome Chriſtian young fellow like me?

No.

D'ye think they'd take it amiſs if a man was to venture his neck over the wall, to get at them?

No.

D'ye believe the Baſſa would forgive ſuch an innocent piece of curioſity?

No.

Egad, you manage your words diſ⯑creetly—Are you afraid your ſtock won't laſt the win⯑ter, ſhou'd you ſpend too many theſe ſummer months?

No.

Well done, my boy! Since you are ſo fond of the word, I'll give ye a ſong on the ſubject.

I like your ſong.

I like your praiſe.

And to reward ye, I'll ſhew ye a place, where, by the help of looſe bricks, and good climbing, I ſometimes get a ſquint at the girls;—though if it [51] was known, I ſhould never ſquint on this ſide paradiſe again.

You are an honeſt fellow, and 'tis pity you are a Turk—but it can't be help'd, and 'tis to be hoped a man may travel to heaven at laſt, though he never leaves the country in which he was ſwaddled.— Come along!

SCENE II. The Garden.

Hah! hah! you little merry rogues, you're there, are ye?

What audacity! Preſuming ſlave, do you know the conſequence of your temerity?

Yes, I can gueſs at it, that you are all ſet a longing, and are ready to aſk me to come down amongſt you.

You are impertinent.

Do you hear, young man?—"you are im⯑pertinent"—Yes, you are an inſolent, preſuming, au⯑dacious—ſweet fellow, hang me if he is not.

Ah, you ſweet little ſaucy jade, come under the wall, and blow me a kiſs—You won't! Why get along then, you ill-humour'd baggages—Hah! what, you look back, do you? You'd better think on't, and turn—What, the grapes are ſour, are they? Ah, ah! I underſtand you—this is a fine place for the gypſies, hang me if it is not—Theſe Turks have a life on't—Such fine girls, and ſuch fine gardens— Whu! who comes here? This is another—Yes, yes, I'll turn Turk—There's nothing like it, I ſee.

Hark ye, pretty maid—come this way.

Gracious! where can that voice come from? I ſee nobody.

I ſay, you little rogue, if—Why, how can this be? If my eyes are my own eyes, and if her eyes are hers, it is Paulina, the daughter of old Pe⯑trowitz.

As ſure as that im⯑pudent head was once on the ſhoulders of A la Greque; who ever thought of ſeeing it on the top of a Turkiſh wall? How came you amongſt them? Did they buy you too?

Buy me! No, I was taken fighting in a little ſkirmiſh, where I had only time to diſarm half a dozen Turks, and kill a few Baſſas; and now the cowardly rogues have ſhut me up here, for fear I ſhould do them further miſchief—I believe they think I have a deſign upon the crown.

Law! only think of it.

Didn't you hear that the Grand Turk had offer'd a reward for my head?

Your head!—Why, what could he do with it?

Faith, I had no inclination to enquire, ſo I took to my heels and carried it off.

Then how came it there?

Didn't I tell ye that a whole army ſet upon me and my maſter, and brought us—

Mercy! is your maſter here, count Orloff?

Is he? aye, lock'd up within the brazen gates of this—

Why, if ever I heard the like—Within the ſame gates is locked up lady Alexina, who was ſtole from him by theſe odious Turks.

She here too! Why, this place is like the ſick lion's den, where all the beaſts of the foreſt aſſembled together.

Voices

Help! help! here's a man talk⯑ing to one of the female ſlaves.

I'll prove ye a liar in your teeth

Where is the man to whom you talked?

Man!—Do men grow on the buſhes in your country? There is no other way of a man's finding himſelf in this garden, I fancy.

I heard his voice—Let us drag her before the Baſſa.—Go you and ſearch the gardens.

Take care what ye do— This is the new ſlave whom we were commanded to treat with ſo much reſpect—We ſhall bring miſchief on ourſelves—Her word will go further than ours as long as ſhe's in favour.

I underſtand you—

—I thought I heard the voice of a man,—but ſounds deceive one —it might be a bulifinch perhaps—beg pardon for the miſtake, lady.

A man a bullfinch, ha, ha, ha! Theſe ſtupid creatures might be perſuaded, I dare ſay, that a cat was a green ſ [...]ipper. Well, how oddly things turn out!—Little does lady Alexina think her huſband is ſo near her.—Hiſt! A la Greque! A la Greque!—

—Pſha! he's gone now—Well, I'll run and bleſs her with the news, and then take one more leſſon for my behaviour to the Baſſa.—I ſhall be able, after that, to behave as proudly as though my father were a noble of the land—Let me ſee—How is it to be a fine lady? Firſt, I muſt diſ⯑guiſe all the feelings of my heart—But how can I do ſo without telling fibs? Well, fine ladies don't mind that▪—Second, when he kneels, I muſt turn from [55] him, or hum a tune—thus—

—Did you ſpeak to me, Sir?—And when the charming man—O Lord! I ſhall never do it, as though I were us'd to it— When he attempts to kiſs me, I muſt complain of his inſolence, and walk away in this manner.

SCENE, The Buildings.

Shall we ſtand by each other, brothers? Will you be faithful?

Aye, that we will; we muſt do as you bid us—You are over us. By allowing that, we generally come over him.

Well then, you ſee how the caſe ſtands; ſhe is come wonderfully into favour, and will, with⯑out doubt, be reveng'd on us, for the ſeverities ſhe receiv'd in our lord's abſence. The Baſſa has juſt now threaten'd vengeance to all who diſpleaſe her.

Will it not diſpleaſe her then to be put into a priſon?

'Tis likely it may—but what is that to us? We can, whenever we determine to do ſo, connive at her eſcape; and if we allow her to leave the palace, ſhe'll readily pardon the priſon; ſo, ſhe'll be gratified, and we ſhall be ſkreen'd.

Well, well; let her be locked up as you ſaid, and then perſuade him ſhe has eſcaped.

We can dig down part of an old wall, and drop a ladder at the bottom, and then it won't be doubted.

Yes; and that old tower will be a proper place to confine her in; then, if need be, ſhe can hereafter be produced, for I don't entirely approve of poiſoning her.

No, not at preſent—it may be more con⯑venient hereafter—

—Where ſhall we ſeize her?

She is generally in the garden, and alone— —it will not be difficult if we watch for a moment when Muſtapha is abſent.

Here's ſome one coming.

Then let us diſperſe ſeveral ways. People who have a plot in hand ſhould never be ſeen together —A flight of crows always proclaims a carcaſe.

Purſue me not, thou contemptible wretch! My ſorrows are too profound to be interrupted by re⯑ſentment at thy folly—Oh, moſt inhuman fate! To know that my Alexina lives, to know that ſhe exiſts in this province, and not to know where—My chains are become heavy indeed!—They are inſupportable!

Let me lift them for you, Sir—I can make them jingle lighter.

Begone, I ſay.

Well, I'll go—People often drive their good fortune from them, like you. I ſhall only ſay, as I was ſaying before, that this houſe has a garden, and that this garden has a wall.

Oh, my charming bride! could I but cheer thee by my voice, could I but leſſen thy anguiſh, by ſpeaking to thee my own.

Well, a wall—What is a wall to me?

Could I, each morning, when I greet its rays, behold but thee, I could bear to live even in this wretched ſtate, and every heavy night I could creep to my ſtraw pallet with leſs deſpondency, having firſt receiv'd from thy ſweet eyes, farewell!

To be ſure the wall is a high wall, and a ſtrong wall; but it is but a wall.

If thou dareſt mention the wall again.

Well, I won't then; but was I to tell you, my Lord, what that wall contains, I really believe you'd forgive all my ſaucineſs for ten years to come.

Surely thou haſt a meaning! What would'ſt thou ſay?

A meaning! Aye, ſuch a meaning!

Oh, trifle not!

Why then, in two words, I have climbed the garden wall, and who do you think I ſaw in the garden—Who do you think?

Oh ſpeak!

Speak! my ſoul hangs upon thy words—Could'ſt thou but know what I feel!

Then, my Lord, there, as ſure as you loſt your bride on the day of marriage, there I ſaw the fair Paulina, daughter of old Petrowitz.

Oh!

Mon Dieu! if the joy of that has been too much for him, how would he have borne it, if I had ſeen his wife?

My Lord—my Lord! Why he's as pale as death—I dare not tell him now that Alexina is within a hundred yards of him.

Bitter, bitter diſappointment! it has been a ſtab to my heart—Barbarous wretch!

to raiſe and feed my hopes with ſuch artful cruelty, and then—but why do I talk to thee?

So! what he is diſappointed then! Why if he would but have had patience, I was juſt going to tell him that his wife—but hang patience! 'tis a ſcurvy virtue, and not fit for a gentleman. I have no pa⯑tience to know there are ſo many fine girls caged up here for that greedy DOG the Baſſa. I'll try to pick a bone with him, though;—and if I can once lay hold of one of his pullets, he ſhall find it as difficult to get her out of my fangs, as it would be to make a judge dance, or a biſhop cut capers.

SCENE, The Priſon.

Stop her mouth, and drag her in.

Monſters! if ye are of the human race, deſiſt —O drag me not from day, and from my huſband!

This is your habitation, Madam, make the beſt of it.

At whoſe command is it my habitation? What is my crime? You act without the knowledge of your Lord—and if you do, doubt not his vengeance! O, it is not poſſible that he can authorize this cruelty!

Come, come, Madam, a few weeks ſpent here will quiet you a little—Your ſorrows won't be half ſo violent a fortnight hence as they are now—Let that comfort you.

A fortnight! Oh, it is an eternity! Death is nothing to this. Dragg'd at ſuch a moment from light, and health, and hope!

O, Azim, my HUSBAND is here—my HUSBAND is at hand!

Then let him get ye out, if he can.

O, beſt of men, hear me!

Tell him only that his Alexina is here, that he may walk round my priſon, that I may hear his ſteps through the chinks of theſe diſmal walls, and my ſoul ſhall bleſs thee.

Oh, you are mighty humble now; yet you know what inſolence I have borne from you.

I meant it not—Oh, forgive me, forgive me! Here, take this ring, let it purchaſe my forgive⯑neſs.

It is rich, but not half ſo rich as ſhall be thy reward, if thou wilt be my friend—if thou wilt pity me!

Well, I am ſo far ſoften'd that I permit thee to uſe the apartment next to this—It has more air and light—I'll unlock it—its laſt inhabitant had it fourteen years.

There! you ſhall each day have your allowance of food regularly brought; but whether you are ever releaſed or not, depends on yourſelf—Be patient! That only can ſerve you.

Patient! Oh yes, I'll try to be patient, though much I fear my brain will be diſturbed.

Well, you'll be diſturbed by nothing elſe —Your apartment will be quiet enough, whatever your brain may be—Come, Madam.

There, ſhe's ſafe, and that makes [60] us ſafe.—Now, let us go and fix the rope-ladder, and then ſwear ſhe has eſcaped. Comrades! They talk of countries, where, what we have done, might be puniſhed by the law—but we fear no puniſhment while we can deceive our maſter.

SCENE, A ſpacious Apartment in the Harem.

THE ſweet man follows me ſtill. Hah! Lauretta little thinks the difficulty I have had to behave to him as tho' I hated him—How hard it is when one ſees a great gentleman, and ſo hand⯑ſome withal, ready to die at one's feet, to be forced to be ſnappiſh and ill-natur'd—Laws! he's coming here—Which way ſhall I run next?

Oh, fly me not—yet fly! Even the diſtance you throw me at gives you a thouſand charms, and whilſt it tortures, it bewitches me.

I do like to hear him talk.

You ſmile! Ah, did you know the value of thoſe roſy ſmiles, you would not beſtow on me more than one in a thouſand hours—Each is worth a diadem.

I ſuppoſe you hope by all this to make me forget I am a captive, and a ſlave

You can be neither—It is I who am your ſlave—You hold the chains of my deſtiny—Ha! let me catch your tears!

I tell you once again, that I can never be happy here—I hate the life people lead in harems—All is diſmal, not even a window to the ſtreet! Nothing to look at but trees, and fountains, and great whiſkers, and black ſlaves.

Could I but have the tranſport to touch your heart, all thoſe objects would give you new im⯑preſſions—This hated harem would ſeem transform'd, and would become an enchanted palace of pleaſure.

But I tell you, I will never ſuffer my heart to be touch'd.—It is very hard that I muſt belie my conſcience ſo, my heart leaps every time I look at him.

Who knows what perſevering, conſtant love may do? You may at length be ſoften'd, at length—Oh rapture! confeſs the delicious pain!

I long to confeſs it now, if I might ſpeak out.

Moſt charming creature, deign but to look on me, ſay only that I am not hateful to you.

Aye, that would be the trueſt word I ever ſpoke

But I will ſay that you are hateful to me, and I do declare, if you ever ſpeak to me about love again—I—I don't know what may be the con⯑ſequence—I muſt get away, or all my fine leſſons will be forgot

In that room yonder I ſee ladies ſinging and playing; but don't you come to us now, I charge you—I will not have you come, or if you do come in half an hour, not a word

— No, not one word about love.

Oh, if there is language in eyes, her words are falſe—Her lips forbid my love, but her eye in⯑vites [63] it—Charming ſex! who know how to make re⯑fuſal bliſs; and who can give delight even in denying! Half an hour did ſhe baniſh me—Oh, I'll follow her inſtantly—Every moment ſpent where ſhe is not, is a moment not to be counted in my exiſtence.

Ha! what noiſe is that?

The ſounds of violence in the boſom of my retirement!

Baſe ſlaves, in vain you op⯑poſe me! Were your maſter ſurrounded by inſtru⯑ments of torture, and miniſters of vengeance, I would force my way.

Your way! What, here? Thoſe apartments, chriſtian, are ſacred; and did not I pay ſome regard to your fame as a ſoldier, and your rank in the Imperial army, by Mahomet, your life's quick ſtream ſhould pay me for the inſult.

Talk not of life, diſhonourable man! Reſtore to me my bride—Reſtore—but canſt thou re⯑ſtore her? Oh, canſt thou reſtore to me the SPOT⯑LESS angel, whom heaven's moſt ſacred ordinance made mine?

Wretches! allow a madman to invade my retirement.

Thy retirement! Thy life, baſe Turk! ſhall be invaded. No madman, but an injur'd huſ⯑band ſtands before thee! Reſtore her!—Give her back to me chaſte as that morn, when trembling, bluſhing from the altar, I led her to parental fields—That morn unbleſt.

Slaves! ſpeak, declare whom 'tis he means, or dread my vengeance—A fear hath ſeiz'd my ſoul, that curdles all my blood—Should it be ſo—ſpeak!

Mighty Baſſa! We fear he means the lovely Ruffian, who adorns your harem.

Ah!

Is ſhe his wife? Chriſtian, art thou the huſband of the beauteous ſlave I love?

Love! Dar'ſt thou give birth to ſuch a phraſe? Love! Oh that the words had ſcorpion's teeth to tear the throat which utters them!

And art thou—O curſt diſcovery! It is too true—My heart tells me it is true, and hates thee for the conviction. Tear him from my preſence—I dread the energies of my own temper—tear him away, leſt I ſhou'd ſtain my honor with the blood of her huſband whom I adore.

I will not ſtir—Give way to all your vengeance—Vengeance would now be mercy.

Amidſt the agonies I ſee thee in, thou art my envy! She is thy wife, ſhe ſurely loves thee, and pants to be reſtor'd to thy arms—By what tortures would I not purchaſe with ſuch a bliſs—Bear him off, I command—Yet hurt him not, but drag him from the harem.

At your peril, ſlaves.

And now, oh wretched Ibrahim! what re⯑mains for thee? A moment ſince, the fruit of felicity bent down within thy reach; the branches were loaden with happineſs, and thy joys bloom'd forth in tender bloſſoms; but a hurricane is come, the tree is torn up [65] by the roots, and its fruits are devour'd by diſappoint⯑ment.

Mighty Lord! is not the beauteous ſlave within thy power?

Within my power! No, ſhe is removed from it for ever. As my ſlave, I have undoubted right over her; but as the wife of another, ſhe is ſacred.

Then remove her from your preſence, and give her back to her adoring huſband.

Never! O virtue, in exacting that, thy commands are too rigorous. Never, never can I ſend her from me—I will go this moment, and at her feet —Oh, I dare not—If I ſee her I am loſt—All barriers, human and divine, wou'd ſink before me—Beholding her within my graſp, and the dread of loſing her, would be a conflict in which I ſhou'd be loſt, and ſhe would be undone! I fly from her—I tear myſelf from the ſweet enchantment—Oh wretched huſband, I aſſume voluntarily the miſeries I have beſtow'd on thee!

What! run away from the woman he loves, when ſhe is in his power! She is his, and I would force her to make me happy.

His generous ſpirit would abhor the deed! What, though his paſſions are headſtrong as the mighty north, which ſhakes the pyramid to its baſe, and lifts the rooted foreſt from the embracing earth, yet will REFLECTION like a celeſtial miniſter arrive, and courge from his ſoul each ſpot and ſordid tint, that virtue ought to ſcorn, or manhood bluſh at.

Ah! this room is luckily empty. So, bring in the Baſſa's ſeat—We'll ſet it up here before it goes to the pavilion; that we may judge of it—Come, make haſte.

There, ſet the ſtool juſt there—Now put on the covering—Give me the mattraſs—There, do you ſee how nicely it fits? Now bring the canopy.

Fix it juſt here—There—that will do—Is it not pretty?

It is delightful! How charmed the Baffa will be when he ſees it in his pavilion at ſupper; and he will praiſe both our induſtry and our taſte.

Mercy! what's that noiſe?—Why—here comes that impudent ſlave who was hanging over the garden wall.

My dear pretty little creatures, why do you fly from me at this rate? Grant me one kiſs to ſave my life,—for I am famiſh'd.

That kiſs would coſt thee thy life, ſhould it be known.

Known!

Madam! what do you take me for? Do you think that I, Madam, am a man to betray a lady's favours? I, who have been well receiv'd by ducheſſes and marchioneſſes?

Ducheſſes and Marchio⯑neſſes! What are they?

They were a ſort of female creatures, my dear, who once infeſted Paris.

And where are they now?

Now, my ſweet charmer, there is not one in the country, I mean of native growth; and if the neighbouring nations do not now and then ſend them one for a ſample, a ducheſs will be as rare an animal in France, as a crocodile.—You ſweet fellow!

You bold fellow!

Why you are quite at your eaſe.

I always am;—and I'll ſit down on this pretty ſeat, and be quite comfortable.

You muſt not ſit there—it is a ſeat made on purpoſe for the Baſſa.

Well, can't you fancy me the Baſſa?

Mercy! mercy! What, a man amongſt ye? are ye all bewitched?

No; they have only bewitched me— Ah! you lively little rogue.

—Come here, and ſit down by me, and you ſhall be my Baſſa-eſs. I like you beſt of all.

If you like your own life—Fly ſwifter than the light.

With you any where.

Stranger, this is no place for gallantry, or for jeſting; are you not afraid of death?

Afraid of him? No—Death is an ariſ⯑tocrate! and I am bound, as a Frenchman, to hate him.

Search every where, I ſay—He muſt be hereabout—I ſaw him aſcend.—Come this way.

There! Now your careleſſneſs or your courage will be equally ineffectual. Unhappy ſtranger, you are on the threſhold of death.

We too are loſt!

Not unleſs I am found. What a dozen women without a trick to ſave one man! Ah! I am ſenſible of my imprudence too late.

Oh, ſave me! ſave me!

What ſignifies your kneeling?—yet, it ſhall ſignify—Lower!

Lower ſtill! reſt on your hands—Reach that covering—quick—quick!

Come this way then—here he muſt have entered.

Fly all of ye—hide yourſelves—A man is ſomewhere in the harem.

And what are we to fly for? Is a man a tyger, that we ſhou'd be ſo ſcared? Who is he?

The new French ſlave—Frenchmen, there is no being guarded againſt.—They make free every where.

At leaſt they have made themſelves free AT HOME! and who knows, but, at laſt, the ſpirit they have raiſed may reach even to a Turkiſh harem, and the rights of women be declared, as well as thoſe of men.

Don't talk to me of the rights of women —you would do right to go and conceal yourſelves as I order'd ye—You, Iſmael, and Hafez go and ſearch the inner apartments, I'll wait here, with the reſt, to intercept him, ſhould he eſcape ye.

O, we'll intercept him, never fear—you'd better follow the reſt.

I chooſe to wait here, and I'll ſit down, for I'm horridly tired.

Pardon me, Mr. Azim—I am going to ſit there myſelf.

I ſay I'll ſit there, Madam, ſo get up.

I wonder at your impertinence. Surely we may keep our ſeats, though we have loſt our li⯑berties.

I have been walking ever ſince ſun-riſe.

Then walk till it ſets—Motion is health⯑ful.

I ſay I will ſit down.—Give me the ſeat.

A ſit-down I would give you with all my heart, and ſuch a one as you ſhould never forget; but this ſeat you ſhall not have.

Say you ſo—I'll convince you in a moment.

We have found him—We have found him—There is a door faſten'd on the inſide— He muſt be there.

Hah! follow—follow—Now, we'll ſhew a Frenchman what liberty is in Turkey.

That fellow is certainly deſcended from Cerberus, or an Engliſh maſtiff. My precious burden, how ſhall I thank you! Jupiter, when loaded with Europa on his back, was not half ſo much charmed with her, as I am with you.

Waſte not an inſtant—They are return⯑ing—Begone!

Well, good bye then, and heav'n bleſs ye all, and ſend to each LIBERTY and a HUSBAND!

What a kind man he is! How happy muſt Frenchwomen be to have ſuch lovers for huſ⯑bands.

Yes, my dear, they wou'd be ſo; but un⯑luckily huſbands forget to be lovers—Let us run and appeaſe Azim, you hear he is loud, and his vengeance may fall upon us—Haſte—haſte!

I'll make no haſte about it.

Hang me if I don't try to change a word or two with that agreeable Frenchman—I ſhou'd like to know a little of their cuſtoms—Such an op⯑portunity [71] can't happen above once in one's life—So, Monſieur Azim, ha, ha, ha! What a fool he is now.

SCENE, The Garden.

Alas! my Lord, dare your ſlave offer you conſolation?

I can receive none.

I know that in afflictions like your's, there can be but one ſupport, that is in virtue—there, my Lord—

Yes, I have reſolv'd!—She ſhall be ſacred—her chaſtity for ever inviolate! and perhaps,

perhaps I may hereafter reſtore her to her huſband.

That will be a moment of triumph to yourſelf.—When magnanimity thus conquers affliction, affliction may be envied.—Such a moment is the im⯑primature of heaven on the purified heart—it is the exaltation of virtue.

O VIRTUE! when I can do that, thou may'ſt boaſt a victory indeed! When I can reſolve no more to look on the ſoft radiance of her eyes—When I can reſolve to behold no more the natural and unartful graces that adorn her—When I ſhall ſeek thoſe groves in vain for that dear form; when I ſhall liſten, and hear her voice no more—then, then, O virtue! thou may'ſt boaſt thy triumph.

Leave [72] me, for night and ſolitude beſt ſuit the colour of my mind.

Quick, pri'thee! mount, and give me the rope—O! thou art as ſlow as if this moment were not the moſt precious of my life! As though this gar⯑den did not contain my Alexina.

Conſider, I have but juſt had one eſcape, my Lord, and another eſcape may eſcape me—There; here's the rope, if you will be ſo ventureſome—but don't blame me if they ſhould make you dangle at the end of it.

There! Environ'd with dangers as I am, this moment is dear to me, and the firſt, that for ſucceeding months has given my benighted ſoul one gleam of comfort.

Well, my Lord, I leave ye to your comfort—I am off—The very moon over my head ſeems to ſay, "Sweet Monſieur A la Greque, your maſter is very little better than a lunatic; ſo, take care of yourſelf"—I am off

Ye conſcious walks, which the feet of my Alexina have ſo often preſs'd, ye bending trees, whoſe boughs have given to her beauties your ſoft ſhade; ye fountains, whoſe murmurs have ſometimes lull'd her ſorrows to repoſe, my full ſoul greets ye! Hah! ſurely her voice floated on that paſſing breeze —No—all is ſtill. That paſſing breeze may bear upon it's wings a thouſand notes, but none like hers. O, thou pale moon, thou art not deck'd to-night in half thy glories; ſhine brighter, put on thy moſt ſe⯑ducive [73] rays, to tempt my angel from her ſad retire⯑ment!

Muſic in the gar⯑dens! Near that ſpot then I ſhall not fail to find her —It is an adjuration her ſoul muſt yield to, for her ſoul is harmony.

Where, where can the Baſſa conceal him⯑ſelf? I am tired with ſeeking him—Can he be offend⯑ed with me, that he flies me thus? Alas! I feel I could not bear to offend him—Oh no, I could not!

Ah, Muſtapha, haſt thou ſeen the Baſſa?

Not I—I have been taken up in watching the motions of Azim, who, I am ſure, has ſome plot in hand, though I cannot divine what—Where is the gentle Alexina.

I don't know—I hav'n't ſeen her a great while.

Nor I—I'll go in queſt of her—Should the Baſſa have ſeen her, I would not give a cockle-ſhell for our ſcheme.

But what's the matter? Why, you look as diſmally as a widow at the funeral of her thirteenth huſband.

I can't find the Baſſa—I have been looking for him 'till my eyes ach—He flies me now; he does indeed

Ay, ay, I underſtand it—You would put too much honey on his bread, though I gave ye the caution—You have been too kind to him.

I am ſure I have not.

Pho! pho! I know better—Have you not learnt, child, that fondneſs is the moſt cloying food in the world? Daſh your ſweet ſauce with acid, if you would not have it pall upon the palate.

So I did then—I was as croſs as I could poſſibly be—I never treated a gentleman ſo hard hearted before. To be ſure I muſt ſay, that at leaving him, I told him—I told him he might follow me.

Ay, there's the caſe—You invited him to follow, and he in courſe runs away.

Oh dear!

If I were a woman, wou'd I tell a man to follow me?

This is the away you ſhou'd treat 'em— ‘Keep your diſtance, Sir—how can you be ſo rude? Fie! my Lord, it is quite ſhocking! [Very affected and extravagant with the motions of the fan.] Oh, monſtrous! if you come nearer I ſhall faint! I hate you now, I do indeed —I can't poſſibly bear ye!’ This, you ſee, would be graceful and captivating

Graceful and captivating!

I tell ye, the women are all fools! and if the ſweet rogues knew what they loſt by ſubſtituting rouge for bluſhing, and an undaunted look for modeſt timidity, we ſhould ſoon ſee all their affectations ſwallow'd by one, and that would be the affectation of modeſty.

I hate affectation—For all he thinks he knows ſo much, the next time I'll follow my own way—I am ſure I know as much of the matter as he does.

Remember the hint I gave you—If our maſter ſhou'd ſee your countrywoman, all your hopes are gone in a hurricane. You may as well attempt to catch a huſband with bird-lime as to catch him after that; ſo prevent it.

How can I prevent it? Beſides, Mr. Deſ⯑tiny, I have good reaſon to think, that, as far as the matter of beauty goes, I am not behind hand with ſhe —Alack-a-day! no, no, he has hit upon it!—As ſure as harveſt is yellow, Lady Alexina has certainly ſeen the Baſſa, and he'll now be her ADORER as he calls it—May be they are now together, and he is at her feet ſighing, as he did to-day at mine—Oh, I cannot bear it—The ſight wou'd crack my heart⯑ſtrings! Now I do feel that I dearly, dearly love him—Oh mercy! he is here—he is here!

Oh Paulina, hide thee, hide thee! At ſight of thee every reſolution fades, and the altar of virtue ſeems to blaze no more

Cruel charmer!

Cruel! Oh no, my heart melts to ſee your diſtreſs, and I am ſure you have no occaſion for it.

Why didſt thou not at firſt tell me thou wert another's! Why ſuffer my heart to burn with tumultuous love, to waſte itſelf in glowing flames, whilſt thine beats only for another.

What other?

O thou enchantreſs!

Thou wife of Orloff! thou haſt my ſoul in chains—drag it not to perdition!

Why ſhould you call me wife of Orloff? Oh, forgive me if I ſpeak too plain—My heart, my whole heart is your's. You have awaken'd its firſt tender thought, and you ſhall fill it to the laſt! There can be no other.

Nay then, farewel to every dread! Tho' hell ſhou'd gape beneath my feet, I ſhrink not.—Ruſh on my ſoul, ALMIGHTY LOVE! abſorb each faculty and thought, for I am thine!—

—for I am thine!

Tranſcendent moment! O, bliſs too exquiſite!

Baſe woman! adulterous villain!

Hah!

my life attack'd —Ho! ſlaves!

Twice to-day! Once in the boſom of my harem, and now in the ſacred walks of my garden—Seize him

Thy death ſhall expiate thy double crime.

Doſt think to give me terror?—I wel⯑come death—I welcome it 'midſt tortures!

Chriſtian, thou know'ſt me not! Whilſt left to myſelf, I could command myſelf! My ardent paſſions I could hold in chains, and ſuppreſs that love which honor could not ſanction—But thou ſhalt know when thus oppos'd, I own no law but will—drag him away.

Tyrant, I know that I ſhall die; but the bitterneſs of death is paſt—To live after having ſeen my wife embrace thee, and embrac'd—Oh mad⯑neſs! ſpeed your death, I ruſh to meet it.

SCENE The Priſon.

Surely this is the darkeſt hour of the night! The dim light my ſolitary window afforded has long been paſt, and gloom and ſilence every where prevail. No ſound, no footſtep, no voice of ſoft conſoling love, or weeping friendſhip. Can I be her whom the beamy finger'd morn, till lately, ever rous'd to joy? I, her who not a ſhort hour ſince glow'd with delight—whoſe troubled ſky felicity and freedom began to gild? Oh, the reverſe is too deep, too direful!

Voices

This way—make ſure the outer gate.

Hah! ſlaves and lights! perhaps they come to end my wretched being—Ah! nature ſhrinks at the idea, and whilſt I almoſt dread to live, I fly from death, by impulſe irreſiſtible!

There, Sir! Here you muſt ſtay till our maſter hath determined on the ſort of death you are to die, for we have great variety in this country. This bowſtring is the eaſieſt you can hope for. We'll leave you a lamp though, to ſhew the apartments, and make your laſt hours a little pleaſant—Wiſh your honor a good night.

May this hour of bitterneſs be ſhort! Here, on the flinty earth I'll paſs it, and give to thee— deſpair! the fleeting moments that remain.

What wretch can he be, who, in this dreary place, is the victim of tyranny and deſpotiſm?

By every ſacred power it is my huſband! Orloff—

my Orloff!

Doſt thou diſtruſt thy ſenſes? It is thy Alexina—thy wretched—happy Alexina!

Abandon'd woman! doſt thou follow me to my priſon to inſult my laſt moments? Or doſt thou come to adminiſter the bowl of death?

Heavens! what mean you?

Nay, touch me not—By heav'n, rather than be enfolded in thy adulterous embrace, I'll—

O, my thoughts are deſperate! Avoid me if thou would'ſt live.

Alas! affliction has made him mad.

Oh!

Or if thou art not mad, to threaten death is needleſs. Be witneſs for me, ye celeſtial ſpirits, that I'll not live an inſtant to endure a huſband's hate —All other miſeries I've borne, but this laſt ſubdues me.

Thou accuſeſt me of crimes I ſhudder at—Orloff, an adultreſs would not dare this blow.

Die! Yes, thou ought'ſt to die; but let my fate come firſt—It lingers not—its miniſters are at hand!

O, had I not ſeen thee in his arms, had I not heard thy vows of never-ending love to the tyrant.

My vows! ah, my Orloff, a beam of radiance once more breaks in on my afflicted ſoul. I have never ſeen the Baſſa—Nay, look not thus incredulous—this dungeon proves it— I am a priſoner here as well as you, and was this day brought hither.

Oh fate, ſpare me a moment! Scarcely dare I give way to the overpower⯑ing thought! yet it muſt be ſo! It was not thee, my heaven! whom I beheld in Ibrahim's arms—No, it was another, and Alexina's pure!

As pure as at that ſacred hour, when at the altar you receiv'd my virgin vows; and heaven is wit⯑neſs, that this form has ne'er been preſs'd in any arms but thine.

Then art thou dearer in theſe priſon walls, dearer in this thy faded beauty, than when a blaze of charms o'erpower'd my ſenſes, beneath the haughty dome where firſt I woo'd thee.

How matchleſs is the power of virtuous love! Having thus ſeen thee, having thus once again been preſs'd to thy fond boſom, I am prepar'd for death.

Behold! they mean that we ſhou'd die together—The miniſters of death are entering.

Make faſt the outer gate— bring him along.

I thought we ſhould nick you at laſt. The lime twigs which you have been ſo buſily ſpreading for another, have at length entangled thyſelf.

Yes, my friend Azim; I promis'd you a ſet down, and now I think you will have it. Joy— joy to Alexina!

To Alexina and her lord.

Ah! what mean ye? A tide of bliſs breaks in upon my ſoul, which yet I dare not yield to.

Fear not to truſt it! Our maſter hath heard from Paulina your touching ſtory, and hath ſent us to conduct you to his preſence.

Go, Madam! and make room for your perſecutor Azim;—he ſhall take your place here.

Farewel—farewel, ye dreary walls! We fly to light, to liberty—

To love!

Why you look a little ſtrange; —pray make free, Sir; you are as welcome as though you were at home.

Come, hold up your head, man! and look round your new apartments. Examine the furniture —is it not elegant! Look through its ſpacious win⯑dows—are you not charm'd with the proſpect? Thou monſter! to this dreary abode thou wouldſt have con⯑ſign'd innocence and virtue.

O, that thoſe curſed chains were off!—I to be impriſon'd in a dungeon!

Come, come— ‘a few weeks ſpent here will quiet you a little.’ I have heard every thing from your accomplice there. ‘Your ſorrows won't be half ſo violent a fortnight hence, as they are now—let that comfort ye.’

Dogs!

Be civil, and ‘I'll permit thee to uſe the apartment next to this—its laſt inhabitant had it fourteen years.’ you know.

Nay, it is in vain to ſtruggle, drag him in!

Ah! he's caught at laſt.

Good night, my pretty Azim.

Good night—I'll give ye a friendly call once a month or ſo, for the next ten years.

Farewel—pleaſant fancies hang about your dreams!

SCENE, The Baſſa's Apartment.

O, adored Paulina! what wonderful events are theſe! Thou may'ſt be mine! it is no crime to [82] love thee. I have ſtruggled againſt a paſſion which heaven had determin'd to reward.

It bleſſes my heart to ſee you ſo happy! And ſhall my father and brother be releas'd from ſlavery— ſhall they witneſs my happineſs?

They ſhall partake it. Riches and honour await thoſe ſo dear to thee. Lo! they are here.

O, my dear father! Peter! what a day this has been! Here am I going to be a great lady, and not the handmaid of a Jew, as you told me this morn⯑ing.

My dear child, I cannot ſpeak for joy. Say ſomething for us to the Baſſa—we ſhrink before him.

Haſten!—O, my Orloff, let us haſten to his preſence.

Mighty Ibra⯑him, I no longer tremble to appear before thee;—in the preſence of my huſband, I dare to look upon thee, and to aſk thy mercy.

Mercy! how poor the word! I give ye inſtant liberty, and in giving ye that, I give ALL, for ye love! What then remains to perfect your bliſs!

Heareſt thou, ALEXINA? Ah! what ſounds—they ruſh upon my ſoul in tranſport.

Valiant Ruſſian, I embrace thee! The poniard you directed to my breaſt, had it enter'd there, would have pierc'd a heart, which, amidſt the turbulencies of war, and the infatuations of a court, has yet preſerv'd its OWN RESPECT;—accept its friendſhip!

With earneſtneſs unſpeakable; and I return it with ſuch gratitude and fervor, as becomes a ſoldier and a huſband.

Such charms, I could not have beheld in⯑ſenſibly,

had I known them before Pau⯑lina engroſſed my heart—but now, that heart can beat for her alone. To-morrow you ſhall be eſcorted to your camp, and I, to give that dignity to love, without which it ſinks into loweſt appetite, will make this charmer mine, by ſacred rites.

Illuſtrious Turk! Love has taught thee to revere marriage, and marriage ſhall teach thee to honour love.

Why what ups and downs there are in this world! My lord,

I am once again your moſt duteous ſervant—for fellow ſlaves, I per⯑ceive, we ſhall be no longer—So there goes my dig⯑nity! I'll make a bold puſh for a new one though. Azim, I find—pardon me, my lord,

Azim, I find, is out of place, will your mightineſs beſtow it on me, and make me your principal ſlave⯑driver?

What wouldſt thou do?

Any thing, and every thing. I'd imi⯑tate the ſmack of Azim's whip, and roll my eyes as he does, to frighten your male ſlaves, and transform myſelf into a ſattin ſeat, with a canopy over my head, to amuſe your female ſlaves.

Transform thyſelf into a ſattin ſeat, with a canopy over thy head—thou art bewildered.

Pronounce, Madam, the fate of the pro⯑fligate [84] ſlave, whoſe villainy had nearly brought about ſuch diſaſtrous events—Shall he periſh?

Ah, in this hour of felicity, let nothing periſh but misfortune! Be the benevolent Muſtapha rewarded, and let Azim have frank forgiveneſs.

Charming magnanimity! if it flows from your CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES, ſuch doctrines muſt be RIGHT, and I will cloſely ſtudy them.

And may our errors have frank forgiveneſs too! Beſtow on us your fa⯑vour, and make the DAY IN TURKEY one of the hap⯑pieſt of this happy ſeaſon!