SCENE I.

Here comes Signor Lopez, head man to the Chief Inquiſitor of the province, Don Miguel de Lara. Stand back, ſtand back, and pay your humble obedience to him.

Save you, ſave you.

Ah, that will do; that is quite enough, good peo⯑ple. [2] It is really a tormenting thing to be a man of ſuch conſequence. I don't wonder now, that the Eaſtern monarchs ſuffer themſelves to be ſeen ſo ſeldom; for, in good truth, the homage that attends greatneſs is very troubleſome to men of indolent habits.

I am glad to ſee your Honour look ſo well to-day.

Thank you—thank you.

I hope that your Honour likes theſe parts, and that you be not diſpleaſed with the folk here⯑about.

Why, as to theſe parts, honeſt Diego, they are pleaſant enough. Valencia is a pretty province; but for the neighbourhood, my good fellow, that, you muſt ſuppoſe, is moſt diabolical to a man like me, uſed not only to the ſociety of Madrid, but who have lived in London and Paris. You may well conceive how wretched is my condition, if you conſider that, with all my ta⯑lents and information, I am ſometimes forced, for want of better company, to come and ſit a whole hour with ſuch a bumpkin as you. It is hard, is n't it?

I am ſorry we entertain you ſo badly; but we do our beſt, and always feel your company a vaſt honour.

That I conſider, and therefore put up with all deficiencies. I am reaſonable, and know how to make allowances. Pray have you ſeen the two ſtrangers to-day, that have been in the neigh⯑bourhood the laſt fortnight?

No, Signor Lopez.

Whimſical gentlemen! They make free—ſeem to feel themſelves quite at home.

What countrymen are they?

What countrymen? Oh, Diego, your [3] ignorance of men and manners!—Can any country but one, produce men mad enough to play ſuch wild tricks in his Moſt Catholic Majeſty's ſober dominions, and in full ſight of the habitation of an Inquiſitor? No, no, Diego; Engliſhmen are the only people who never conſider change of place, but are juſt the ſame harum-ſcarum mad⯑caps in all parts of the world as they are at home: quite as ready to make an uproar in the court of the Great Mogul, as to break a lamp within the liberties of Weſtminſter.

I did not underſtand that theſe ſtrangers were both from the ſame country.

You did not underſtand!—My dear Diego, you ſhould only liſten, and let other peo⯑ple underſtand for you! Mark me—You are of the kingdom of Valencia, I of Caſtille—yet we are both Spaniards.—So one of theſe ſtrangers is of England, the other of Ireland; which though dif⯑ferent iſlands, yet the natives of both own one country—one king—and (this in your ear, Diego) will, with one heart, defend their country and king againſt all the reſt of the world.—Here come two miſerable-looking Hidalgos—fellows, that live in dirt and poverty, from the fear of de⯑baſing their noble deſcent, by honeſtly earning a whole coat and a good meal.

Save you, ſave you.

Theſe are precious vermin: the moſt wretched paupers, with the pride of princes.—How ſoon muſt the nation go to ruin where it is reckoned diſhonour⯑able to be induſtrious! They have a different me⯑thod [4] of conſidering matters in the country I was juſt talking of. Inſtead of ſeeing, as we do here, nobility made ridiculous by its entailing on future generations lazineſs and poverty, in England you will find ſome of its moſt ſtately branches raiſed from the ſtock of honeſt induſtry.

What is coming yonder?

Hey!—Oh! it is one of the ſtrangers.

He ſeems hurt or ſick—his ſervants are wheeling him along in a chair.

That is only one of his mad whims. He fancies himſelf in a conſumption, and went to Liſbon for the recovery of his health—there he fell in love, and is now ſearching through Spain for his miſtreſs, whoſe relations ſuddenly conveyed her from Portugal. Diſappointment has increaſed his nervous fancies, and with ſtamina to laſt a cen⯑tury he believes that he ſha'n't exiſt a month. This is the one from Ireland—he is called Sir Sturdy O'Tremor.

Well, Signor Lopez, time preſſes—I muſt look to my work.

That is right.—Farewell, honeſt Diego.

If you don't move me more gently, I'll break every bone in your ſkins, you vagabonds.

There is a voice for a man in a con⯑ſumption!

Gently, gently, you ſcoundrels!—Oh, the Devil fetch you, you have not a ſpark of com⯑paſſion for your poor dying maſter. There! ſtop, ſtop; let me reſt a morſel.—Oh, it is all over with me!—Even this little bit of a motion is too great a fatigue for my worn-out frame. Come hither, [5] Pat.—Now, Pat,—on your conſcience tell me, don't I look like a corpſe?

By my faith, your Honour, it muſt be a corpſe that died of a ſcarlet fever then—for your gills look as roſy as Father O'Flanagan's, when he has toſſed off the fourth bottle.

You unfeeling brute! to make a joke of your maſ⯑ter's infirmities.—I'll ſhake you to atoms, you dog!

By Saint Patrick you have a pretty tight grip for a corpſe.

If that be an Iriſhman in a conſumption, Heaven keep me from the clutches of one in full health and ſtrength!

There is a ſtranger; he can have no intereſt in deceiving me.—Step this way, my good fellow; I ſuppoſe you can read in my looks, that I am not a man long for this world.

I have juſt gained a practical hint for my behaviour; ſo I know how to humour you.—Why, Sir, I am ſorry to ſay I can't flatter you.

You are an honeſt fellow.

Not but I am perfectly aware that ſome perſons might miſtake that ruddy complexion.

Oh, a mere fluſh—a melancholy ſymp⯑tom—a hectic glow.

Yes, that is juſt what I ſuppoſed.

And as for my figure, did you ever ſee ſuch a poor miſerable ſpectre?

Oh Lord!—Oh Lord!

—As you ſay, Sir—your figure—but you know, Sir, on that point I am unable to ſpeak accurately, not having ſeen you otherwiſe.

Why, then it will ſurpriſe you to be told that I was once—a ſtout, able▪bodied man.

I aſſure you, Sir, I am very much in⯑clined to believe it.

Yes, indeed; and inſtead of this little bit of a pipe, I once had a voice like thun⯑der.

That I can readily imagine; for, to ſay the truth, it ſtill conveys no faint idea of that ſound.

Oh, yes—I am all faint, all feeble.

You lazy beggars! I will put a little motion into you; I'll make you active againſt your wills.

Two to one—fair play, you ſpalpeins!

There is a poor feeble dying man!—If I ſtay, I ſhall certainly laugh in his face; ſo I will take myſelf hence while I am ſafe.

Away, Sir!—follow your companion; and learn, that to afford aſſiſtance to females in diſtreſs is an action that, inſtead of being beneath a gentleman, a prince may be proud of.

What occaſioned this encounter?

You ſhall hear.

But firſt let me ſeat myſelf, or I ſhall ſink to the earth.

Ha! ha! While a man can ſink others to the earth with ſuch eaſe, he is not in much danger of ſinking there himſelf.

Ah, my dear Daſhington! you don't know my complaints.

Very true; and, what is ſtill better, you don't know them yourſelf.—But to my ſtory. I ſaw, at a diſtance, moving along at the ſolemn [7] ſtately pace accordant with Spaniſh dignity, an old lumbering vehicle, that looked as if it had been a preſent from the city of London of one of their caſt-off lord-mayor's coaches. The coach⯑man was very comfortably enjoying his ſieſta on the box. Well, on it paced for ſome time, as orderly and ſlowly as if it had been in a proceſ⯑ſion; when, unluckily, a bed of clover on the road-ſide tempting the ſteeds to deviate from the beaten track, down went the carriage into an ugly kind of a hollow: I heard the ſcreams of wo⯑men, and flew to their aſſiſtance. Thoſe fellows were paſſing, whoſe aid I required to raiſe the carriage. The beggarly raſcals, conſidering ſuch employment a degradation, inſolently refuſed. I however effected my purpoſe, without their help, and fortune throwing them again in my way, I was determined to pay them what I thought they deſerved.

Oh the vagabonds! I wiſh I had been with you—not that, in my feeble ſtate, I could have rendered any ſervice.

Yes, I think you could.

No, no—it is all over with me.

Really!

Yes, quite.

What a pity!

No power on earth could enable me to riſe from this chair.

Oh, yes, yes, and I think you might even be brought to take a little walk with me, only for a mile or ſo.

A mile or ſo! Not there paces, if it were to gain me the wealth of both Indies.

Perhaps ſo; I know you are not covet⯑ous; but beauty, angelic beauty, might allure you.

Oh, I am in a pretty ſtate for beauty to have any effect on me!

Then your caſe is hopeleſs, indeed. I am heartily ſorry for it, and I'll tell Jaquelina!

Eh! what did you ſay of Jaquelina?

I ſaid I ſhould tell Jaquelina.

Ah! you mean if you ſhould happen to ſee that dear creature after I am dead.

If I don't ſee her till after you are dead, your conſumption muſt be a galloping one.

Hey!

I only mean that you muſt die in a devil of a hurry, for I am to ſee Jaquelina in a few hours.

What! ſee Jaquelina in a few hours!

Bleſs my ſoul, you are on your legs again! But be compoſed—ſit down, my dear fellow; you'll do yourſelf harm—Good bye—I'll tell you all another time.

What do you mean by another time?

My dear friend, you'll fatigue yourſelf to death. You know you could not walk three paces for the wealth of both Indies.

I'd walk to both Indies to ſee Jaque⯑lina. Where is ſhe, my dear friend?

Here—here, in this very place.

Tol lol.

Don't agitate your feeble frame.

Feeble! I am as ſtout as a lion.

I knew I ſhould work a miracle. Now learn that Jaquelina, who was ſo ſuddenly re⯑moved from your ſight at Liſbon, was in the very [9] carriage which overturned this morning. I had her in my arms.

And let me take you in my arms, my dear friend! for you have raiſed me from the grave.

But calm your ecſtaſy: ſhe is confined by bolts and bars.

Where?

In a convent—and, what is worſe, ſhe fears that ſhe is ſoon to take the veil.

I'll ſet fire firſt to every convent in Spain, in defiance of the Inquiſition.

I think you may obtain her by leſs violent means.

How, how, my dear friend?

That you ſhall know with all expedition. The ladies who were in the carriage with her were ſo terrified at the accident, that they were a long time before they recovered their ſenſes: ſo, while they obligingly continued fainting, we had op⯑portunity to lay plans for her eſcape.

But when?

This very night.

Delightful!

And I am to be a reverend friar for the occaſion. Come along, and you ſhall know all; but, Sir Sturdy, you forget your invalid chair—You won't be ſo raſh as to walk.

Walk! Why, I could fly, if that were the only way to get a ſight of her. Allons, mon cher [...]mi.

SCENE II.

Surely my maſter, Don Miguel de Lara, is the laſt man in the world that I ſhould have ſuſpected of accepting a poſt in the Holy Office. He uſed to be the moſt friendly, good-humoured old fellow in all Spain: what then could induce him to become an Inquiſitor? He is mightily altered, and yet, ſomehow, the change is only ſuperficial. He frowns at every body, and hardly ſpeaks a kind word; but I have reaſon to think his heart is as humane as ever. He has ſent me to ſeek out a melancholy being who, as he underſtands, chooſes to live in this lonely place. A man can't be void of tenderneſs who courts the ſociety of the unfortunate.—This muſt be the perſon I am ſent to—I'll obſerve him a little, before I accoſt him.

Now to my painful taſk, of ſeeking commerce with that hated being man, to pur⯑chaſe means of eking out a life of wretchedneſs. Were I not forced by nature's wants to the de⯑teſted intercourſe, I might be ſheltered in this friendly ſolitude from the ſight my eyes abhor, and my heart ſickens at—a human face.

—Ha! What! hunted to my very den! No beaſt of prey is chaſed by man with ſuch unwearied ardour as he purſues his fellow.

My maſter ſent me, Sir. Good Hea⯑vens! I ſurely know that face. My Lord Al⯑phonſo!

What, my hated name! Have I then fled to this ſecluded ſpot, ſeeking to ſhun the ſight of man; but moſt of all to hide me from their view who knew me in my days of happineſs; and muſt I ſtill meet eyes that in this wretched being trace Alphonſo?—But to your errand: your maſter ſent you; who is he?

Chief of the Inquiſition of Valencia.

What! is that tribunal grown impolitic in cruelty, to ſeek a wretch like me to wreak its vengeance on? Thoſe who delight in human miſery ſhould ſingle out the happy, and force the groan of anguiſh from the heart that ne'er knew aught but rapture: I am ſo pre-eminent in wretch⯑edneſs, that I can look with tranquil eye on all the horrors of the infernal court—miſnamed the Holy! Can its gloomy caverns terrify the man who loaths the ſight of day? can eternal ſilence be a puniſh⯑ment to him to whom all converſe with mankind is hateful? or can the flames which fold around the victim of its wrath, equal the fire which burns within my boſom? No, no; the flames which kin⯑dle at the ſtake, poſſeſs the mercy too to counteract the vengeance that employs them, and ſoon con⯑ſign the ſufferer to eternal peace; while here, here in this tortured heart, a fire more painful rages, and yet will not deſtroy.

I mourn the cauſe of your diſtreſs, my Lord, whatever it be; but I was ſent to you to bear the greetings of my maſter, and expreſs his wiſh for your ſociety:—knowing you only by re⯑port, as one who ſeemed of noble bearing, and unhappy; but when he ſhall find it is the Count Alphonſo—

Peace! peace! that name no more; the ſound is hateful to me. And who are you, that know me thus ſequeſtered and diſguiſed?

My Lord, I was once your ſervant, and honoured by your notice: you may, perhaps, re⯑member Lopez de M [...]el.

Yes, yes, I do remember you; you quit⯑ted me to travel with my brother.

I did, my Lord, juſt before your mar⯑riage.

Silence, tormentor!

My Lord!

What daemon that delights to preſs with horrid touch upon the trem [...]ling nerve moſt ſenſi⯑tive to mortal agony, has ſent thee to perform his functions? Begone, thou agent of a fiend's malig⯑nity!

My Lord, Heaven knows I meant not to offend you.

Why then unfeelingly proclaim the event to which I owe my miſery? But, perhaps, I wrong you; you may ſtill be ignorant of my ſhame.

Your ſhame, my Lord!

Ay, marriage was my ſhame! my tor⯑ment! Oh, Heaven! her lovely face ſeemed to proclaim that every virtue dwelt within her brea [...]; her beauty, while it filled the eye with admiration, enf rced homage from the heart, for it appeared the lovelineſs of goodneſs; I fancied (poor deluded wretch!) that her whole ſoul was mine; that, unworthy as I was, in me ſhe fixed her Heaven of happineſs;—ha, ha, ha! vain, weak man; and falſe, falſe, deceitful woman! A few weeks abſence loſt me this treaſure; and to a ſtran⯑ger, the acquaintance of a day, ſhe gave her heart: [13] but he does not live to triumph in my pangs; no, thank Heaven! vengeance ſtill was left me.

Your cauſe of grief, indeed, my Lord, is weighty; but ſolitude will only cheriſh what the buſineſs and the pleaſures of the world, in time, might diſſipa [...]e.

Talk not thus idly. The world!—ſhe was the world to me, and now ſhe is loſt, the link is ſnapped that bound me to creation: the various paſſions which poſſeſs the human heart, and point to different objects, were in mine directed all to her. Did I court honours? 'twas to laviſh them on Angelina; did wealth ſeem worth poſſeſſing? 't was that Angelina might command whatever wealth could purchaſe; did I ſeek the circles of the gay? it was that ſhe might not know a pauſe from pleaſure; for all to me was irkſome that com⯑pelled one thought or look to be withdrawn from her—Leave me; and by the regard which you profeſs, report me to your maſter, not as Alphonſo, but as a wretched, nameleſs being, to whom man can do no kindneſs but in ſhunning him, as he ſhuns all mankind.

SCENE III.

Upon my ſoul! and you make a good portly reverend-looking kind of a friar.

Yes; and I have put on the habit of a prieſt to perform a prieſt's office, to unite two lovers: nobody can ſay I am out of character.

You can ſcarcely conceive the palpi⯑tation of my heart at this moment.

Yes, I can. When you are ſo near the object of your heart's wiſhes, it is a ſymptom very eaſy to be accounted for.

I declare now, every nerve in my whole frame is in commotion.

Natural enough.

Yes; and I have ſuch a fluttering here!

How my voice trembles!

Very likely.

And with what difficulty I draw my breath!

Plague take your fancies! Becauſe you are agitated with joy from the hope of regaining your miſtreſs, you'd make one believe you are in the agonies of death.

And if I were, ſhe'd bring me to life again. But, my dear friend, confeſs now, is n't it ſtrange to find an effect produced upon every part of me?

What! when the woman you love is going to leap into your arms? You are an odd fellow.

It clearly convinces me that all is not right.

Now it clearly convinces me that all is right. But I'll leave you now, my Herculean invalid; I'll go alone, and reconnoitre the convent. Mind that you follow me with caution.

SCENE IV.

Now, unleſs I ſucceed in managing the Cerberus of a gardener, and get him to open the garden gate, her eſcape is impoſſible; for the walls, you ſee, are inſurmountable.

Upon my ſoul here is a complete for⯑tification: ſee a light at the window yonder.

But her voice muſt give us confirmation that it proceeds from her apartment. Huſh!

I declare I am ready to faint at hearing that ſweet voice again.

If there is to be any fainting, pray leave that to the lady.—Here comes the fellow that I muſt delude. Now, Sir Sturdy, to your ſtation; be vigilant, and, if I ſucceed, make good uſe of your opportunities.

A hard kind of a ſervice this of mine, to be watch▪dog to a convent; and ſpite of all my care, I am afraid, at laſt, I ſhall loſe ſome of my lambkins. I have found many a ſheep ſtealing rogue on the look-out: hitherto I have been too ſharp for them; but what ſignifies the beſt care in the world, when the goods you have to watch are as willing to be ſtolen as the thieves are to ſteal them? Here comes a reverend father! This is [17] the only ſet of men I a'n't afraid of. Not becauſe I think that holineſs alway lies under a hood; but be⯑cauſe theſe father confeſſors being truſted with the ſins of their female acquaintance, why it is fair to imagine, that if they are ever diſpoſed to ſin them⯑ſelves, they need not go out of their own neigh⯑bourhood to indulge their inclinations.

Save you, father!

Benedicite! But tell me, ſon, what are you loitering about here for, at ſo late an hour? I hope you have no ill deſign?

No: I am placed here to prevent other people's ill deſigns.

How am I to be convinced of that?

I don't know that it concerns you.

It does concern me much—My zeal—

Well, well; your zeal ſhall be ſatisfied. Theſe prieſts will pry into every body's buſineſs.

Here, here is the badge of my office—Here is the key of the gardens of the convent.

Are you ſure that is the key?

Am I ſure? Yes I am ſure, and I won't be called to account any more. I am doing no⯑thing but my duty.

A ſulky, ſtubborn raſcal this.

I doubt very much that you are doing your duty. I have ſtrong apprehenſions that you have ſome evil intention, and therefore, to prevent danger, I'll alarm the convent, I'll—

Silence! don't let your zeal frighten my Lady Abbeſs, and the whole nunnery. I never met ſuch a troubleſome fellow in my life.

If you don't inſtantly ſatisfy me, I'll raiſe them all—

Huſh! huſh! A'n't you aſhamed of your⯑ſelf?—What ſhall I do? If he call up my Lady Abbeſs, I ſhall get into a ſcrape. For ſhe is a prieſteſs, and he's a prieſt; and ſo being both parſons, they'll take each other's part to a cer⯑tainty.

—Well, well, I'll convince you—There, there you ſhall find I am no impoſtor—You ſhall ſee it is the right key.

Come then, ſhow me.

Now, are you ſatisfied?

Yes, yes, now it is clear you are an honeſt fellow.

Well, then, let me ſhut it again.

Stay, ſtay; what a refreſhing odour ariſes from the flowers in this garden, and how neatly it is laid out! Ay, he is a ſkilful man, he knows his buſineſs, that has the management of theſe grounds.

Why yes—though I ſay it myſelf, I am as good a gardener as any in all this province.

Ay, or the next to it, or all Spain, you may ſay, if you are the man—I muſt be better ac⯑quainted with you—I know ſomething of your art, and we'll converſe together.

Whenever you pleaſe—but I'll juſt ſhut the gate, for—

Not yet, if you love me. Delightful! exquiſite! Keep it open a little longer, my good friend; and while one ſenſe is ſo charmingly in⯑dulged, we'll try if we can't gratify another—Here, brother floriſt—here is a bottle of choice ſtuff; I never go unprovided.

FINALE.

SCENE I.

AH! Madam, all your thoughts go to one object.

Yes, Viletta, I can't help it—I ſhall love him for ever. Oh my dear handſome Engliſhman, I'll be conſtant to you in ſpite of fate!

How will you manage that, dear Madam? You muſt marry Don Miguel's ſon, as ſoon as he comes from Lima.

No, I never will.

It is impoſſible that you ſhould prevent it. You know your father, at his death, left Don Miguel abſolute power over you as your guardian, beſides expreſsly enjoining that you ſhould marry his ſon Don Philip.

I don't care—the dear Engliſhman I met at Madrid, when I was viſiting my ſiſter, is the only man that ſhall ever have me for his wife.

But, pardon me if I ſay you ſeem to be conſtant without reaſon.

Women, you know, will have their whims. Many are inconſtant without reaſon: my whim is at any rate the moſt harmleſs.

But conſider he failed in his appointment when you had conſented to elope with him. He broke his word.

That was very ſhocking, to be ſure. But as I was the perſon wronged, I conceive I have a right to forgive if I pleaſe: beſides, I will never believe that he intended to deceive me. No; he is of a country too generous to abuſe its conqueſts. The vanquiſhed in war, the Briton treats with humanity; will he then fail in tenderneſs to the heart that love has made his captive?

Ay, ay, a woman in love can always make good excuſes for her paſſion.

That is extremely fortunate, for there are very few diſpoſed to make excuſes for her.—Well, I am determined to cheriſh the dear idea of enjoy⯑ing happineſs with the man of my choice.

Here comes my old ſour▪faced guardian, and yet, to ſay truth of him, he is like the cocoa-nut, a rugged outſide with a milky kernel.

Girls, what do you ſtay here for? don't you ſee I am on buſineſs?

That is no reaſon we ſhould go; for your buſineſs may be our amuſement.

I am going to try a cauſe.

I like to hear a cauſe tried of all things.

But it is about carrying a lady away by force.

Oh! that muſt be very intereſting: I am determined to ſtay now.

There it is: whenever a cauſe comes on where ſomething improper is expected to be brought forward, the crier may bawl out, "Ladies, leave the court," till he croaks like a raven; but the devil a woman will budge from her place.

You are a very ſcandalous man, Guardy; and to ſhow you how unjuſt you are, we'll with⯑draw. Come along, Viletta.

Poor things! they are ſadly balked. Well, let me hear what this proceeding has been: where is the chief evidence?

Evidence, my Lord! We preſumed that every thing of which the Holy Inquiſition took cognizance was enveloped in ſecreſy.

You did, did you? Then let me tell you, that if you come to me for juſtice, you ſhall ſee her in open daylight; for though ſhe is blind her⯑ſelf, ſhe is not aſhamed of being viewed by the whole world; and thoſe who pretend that ſhe likes darkneſs beſt, are deſirous to palm off ſome baſe counterfeit in her place: ſo let the witneſſes ſtand forward, and bring in the accuſed.

Well, and who are you?

Who am I? My friend, you ſeem to have changed places with me: that may be a very proper queſtion from the judge to the priſoner, but I never heard of its being put by the priſoner to the judge. So be ſo kind as to tell me who are you?

Does n't my habit ſpeak for me?

Not very intelligibly: it is one that com⯑mands reſpect from all, when worn by him who himſelf reſpects it; but a ſtain on that habit is more offenſive than on any other: the purer the garment, the fouler do ſpots appear on it.

Very true: but don't look ſo deviliſh ſour; you frown moſt ferociouſly.

Frown moſt ferociouſly! why, if I do, you don't ſeem much terrified at it. But I admit your cenſure; mildneſs alone becomes the ſeat of juſtice: the judge and the executioner ſhould never look alike. But what is the priſoner charged with? Who accuſes him?

I, I, I.

I, I, I! Why, what a volley of I's is poured all at once! You are as eager as a ſhoal of porpoiſes to devour your wounded fellow.

No fellow of ours; we diſclaim him; he is a wolf in ſheep's clothing.

And what are you? If you are one of the flock, I am ſure you are a fierce old ram, and look a great deal more miſchievous than the wolf, as you call him. But who is he, and what has he done?

I'll tell your Lordſhip all.

I'll ſave you the trouble, brother floriſt, and tell his Lordſhip myſelf.—You muſt know then, my Lord, that I have no more pretenſions to this cowl, than I have to the Pope's tiara: I put it on to deceive old Cerberus there (who, by the by, is a very honeſt maſtiff), and contrive to get the garden of the convent opened.

Oh, only to get the garden of the convent opened: a very innocent device, upon my ſoul!

Was n't it? I knew you'd think ſo; you are a liberal man, my Lord, that can make allow⯑ances. Thoſe fellows ſeem to conſider the grounds of a nunnery as their own manor, and want to puniſh as poachers all gentlemen who go there in purſuit of their own game.

A mighty hard caſe, indeed, that a gen⯑tleman can't purſue his own game for you.

Ay, there now, a'n't you aſhamed of your⯑ſelves? But, my Lord, I did not go on ſport of my own, but merely to aid a friend.

There, you ſee the gentleman did not go on his own account, but merely to aſſiſt a friend. Well, ſo you and your friend, between you, have contrived to carry away a few young ladies from the convent?

A few! only one, my Lord, upon my honour.

Only one! how moderate!

And that one was a lady he doated on; a lady whoſe heart was devoted to him, as his to her, and without whom exiſtence would have been worſe than death.

Bleſs my ſoul! and ſo they want to puniſh you merely for ſaving your friend's life? How ſhocking!

Ay, my Lord, you ſee things in a proper light.

Yes, yes, and now—

I ſuppoſe I may go?

No, not yet; I am a little puzzled.

About what, my Lord?

Your caſe. It does not appear quite clear to me.

What! my caſe not appear quite clear?

No; it does not appear quite clear to me, whether the Holy Office will ſentence you for this little friendly tranſaction.

Holy Office, my Lord! ſentence me!

Yes; whether it will ſentence you to be broke on the wheel, or to die at the ſtake.

Broke on the wheel!—die at the ſtake!

Yes; I declare I have not a notion which.

Oh, you are joking: ha, ha, ha! it is deviliſh droll of you. Broke on the wheel! die at the ſtake! ha, ha! how comical!

No, not very: though I am uncertain which, it will be one or the other, I am poſitive.

Lord! you ſhould not mention ſuch hor⯑rible things, even in jeſt: I declare I feel hot and aching all over at the bare idea.

Upon my life I don't wonder at it. Leave your priſoner with me, I'll report him: officers, take charge of him. I declare I am puzzled ex⯑ceedingly; I have not an idea whether it will be the wheel or a bundle of faggots.

My Lord, hear me! For Heaven's ſake don't leave me in this ſtate of perplexity. Oh, what a fever I am in! I ſay, my dear friend,

don't you think this is all a joke?

Oh, you ſulky dog! Pray, Sir,

what is your opinion?

Oh, dear! Oh, Lord! what! muſt nobody ſpeak to me? What had I to do in this infernal country? I muſt be ſeeking adven⯑tures, [27] and be curſed to me! Oh, my ſweet, dear, little England, ſhall I never ſee you again? There the worſt of ſcrapes I could ever get into, would end in paſſing a jolly night in the watch-houſe; a jobation from the Juſtice next morning; and the loſs of a few guineas for ſmaſhed panes of glaſs, and watchmen's broken heads. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! that I ſhould ever be in ſuch a dreadful plight!

SCENE II.

Does the woman we brought home yeſterday ſeem any better reconciled to her new habitation and acquaintance?

Not a bit. Damn it! ſome people can never be contented.

She muſt be curſed hard to pleaſe; for if ſhe were to ſearch all Spain, ſhe would not find a more accompliſhed ſet of adventuring gentle⯑men.

Very true; but you know an ill name goes a great way with prejudiced people; and let a man be as valiant as Caeſar, and as fine a gentle⯑man too, only call him robber inſtead of con⯑queror, and all his good qualities go for nothing.

What you ſay has too much truth in it. But there muſt be ſomething particular about this woman, or ſhe would ſurely know when ſhe was well off. What can you find out from her?

That her name is Angelina, the wife of Count Alphonſo d'Eſparza; and when we plun⯑dered her and brought her to this cavern, ſhe was in purſuit of her huſband.

There you ſee, Vaſquez, the perverſe⯑neſs of the ſex. Now ten to one if the huſband had not run away from her, but ſhe would have run away from him: this accounts for her diſlike to us. If her huſband were of the party, ſhe would ſoon ſhow us the preference.

But to buſineſs: it is fixed that we ſhall plunder the houſe of Don Miguel the Inquiſitor this very night.

I am ready: the more deſperate the buſineſs, the better I like it.

Then this is an undertaking not to your mind; for it will require more caution than enter⯑priſe, as we are certain of eaſy admittance.

How?

We have diſcovered that this cavern communicates by a private entrance with a dun⯑geon of Don Miguel the Inquiſitor's houſe; ſo in the dead of night we can make good our entrance without noiſe. Look, here comes the woman; ſhe is deviliſh handſome: ſtand aſide.

Here come ſome of our party. See the Captain,—ha! and another woman.

Damn it, what a high poliſh our man⯑ners will get! for I am told nothing improves the behaviour ſo much as female ſociety.

Ha! A companion in misfortune!

What dreadful place is this?—Oh reſtore me to liberty, and you ſhall be rewarded to your utmoſt wiſhes. Oh Madam, entreat for me!

I entreat for you and for myſelf, for I, like you, am a wretched captive.

SCENE III.

My dear Guardian, what is this ſhocking thing I hear—

How ſhould I know what ſhocking thing you hear?

Of the young gentleman in the friar's habit?

Well, and what of him?

That he is in danger of being puniſhed.

And ought he not to be puniſhed?

No, I think not.

Indeed! What! not for being concerned in carrying a lady from a convent?

No!—if the lady was willing to go from the convent.

Really?

Yes, really. Force certainly ought to be puniſhed; and therefore, puniſh thoſe, dear Guardy, who placed her there. For ſurely it is a greater crime to put a lady into a convent againſt her con⯑ſent, than to take her away with her conſent.

The young gentleman has a mighty warm [32] advocate in you▪ and I really believe, that if he were to be tried by a jury of ſpinſters, they would not heſitate long in pronouncing him—Not guilty.

And do you now, my dear croſs-looking good-natured Guardy—do you pronounce him—Not guilty. Conſider, ſhe is no nun, that is car⯑ried off. She had not taken the vows; therefore, there is no harm at all in what he has done—Now is there?

A thought has ſtruck me—you ſhall go to him.

Shall I? Oh, thank you, dear Guardy.

Yes; and you ſhall tell him from me, that I ſo much compaſſionate his ſituation—

That is ſo kind, now.—Well, well.

That I will exert all my intereſt—

Ay, do now; there is a dear Guardy.

Yes—that I will exert all my intereſt—to have him—

What?—What?

Only impriſoned ſor life.

Oh, frightful!—Impriſoned for life!—I declare you are quite horrible!

Yes,—impriſoned for life:—ſo far you may ſay from me!

Pſha!

Yes, but you may ſay from yourſelf—from yourſelf—mind, not from me.

Well!—What?

That if he don't like my propoſal, and wiſh at the ſame time to ſave me a great deal of trouble—

Well, well.

That he had better—

Better do what?

Scamper away as faſt as he can.

Oh, you dear good creature!—I'll go to him directly.

No, no, on ſecond thoughts, I'll order him to be brought here, and I'll take meaſures ſo, that nobody ſhall be in the way to prevent his eſcape.

How happy I am that this poor young man will be ſo ſoon freed from his fears!—How de⯑lightful it is to lift off the load of miſery from the boſom ſinking under its preſſure! Ah! where is he who alone can baniſh affliction from my boſom?

What the devil is to be done to me now? I am to endure a little thumb-ſcrewing, mayhap; or they may be going to amuſe themſelves with drawing a row of my teeth; or, leſt confinement ſhould injure my growth, they intend to ſtretch me out half a foot or ſo. Some pleaſant little experi⯑ment is to be tried, no doubt. What!—A woman! My dear, dear Madam, if you have a grain of compaſſion—Hey!—It is ſhe! The lovely creature I met at Madrid.

O Heaven! Is it you? you that I am to ſave?

And can you, indeed, ſave me?—Oh you dear angelic creature!

But I muſt not be too free with my raptures. I remem⯑ber I had a gentle hint once given me that you were another man's property.

What do you mean?—I another's pro⯑perty? Inſulting man! do you meanly attempt to defend your own inconſtancy by falſely accuſing me?

Not I. I don't accuſe you of inconſtancy. I own myſelf greatly honoured by your very flatter⯑ing partiality; but—

But what?

Why, as you know another perſon has a certain claim to you—

That, I conceive, was my conſideration, not yours; and when I offered you my heart, were you mean enough to yield your claims to the frivolous pretenſions of another. Fie, fie! I thought more nobly of you.

There it is now—when a woman has a mind to follow her inclinations, her huſband's claims are mere frivolous pretenſions.

No, no; inconſtancy, not fear, induced you to break your appointment. That penetrable bo⯑ſom was pierced by ſome new object.

My dear Madam, you have hit it ex⯑actly.

And do you confeſs it?

Upon my ſoul there is no denying it.

This audacity is inſufferable.

Patience for one moment, my angel!—Heaven knows, I mean this not in the language of figure, but as mere diſmal matter of fact. My boſom was pierced by an object new to me; but not ſuch an object as your fancy pictures, with a [35] ſmooth ſmiling face; but by one with a pair of frowning brows, and fierce muſtachios.—The wea⯑pon that wounded me, was not a ſparkling eye, but a damned long ſharp toledo; and inſtead of being prevented from obſerving my appointment, by the act of breathing out my ſoul from my lips, it was hurrying very faſt out of my body, from a hole that a friend of yours did me the kindneſs to drill through me.

My torment is then returned, and I am doomed to miſery.

Torment!—Ah, that means huſband all the world over.

But how was he acquainted with our at⯑tachment?

To my ſhame, I own, by my indiſcretion. You remember at our laſt meeting, you kindly fixed the day on which you would explain to me all the particulars of your ſituation, and fly with me from Spain.

Yes, yes—how I repent my weakneſs!

Buſineſs in the mean time called me ſome miles from Madrid.—I however poſted with a lo⯑ver's ſpeed to obſerve the appointment—a violent ſtorm, which though I was diſpoſed to brave, not all my efforts could perſuade my ſteed to encoun⯑ter, obliged me to ſeek ſhelter at an inn. There I found a certain gentleman, likewiſe weather-bound. Obſerving my anxiety to proceed on my journey, he inquired the cauſe.—I fooliſhly revealed it—on which he furiouſly called me villain, beſtowed ſome hearty curſes on you, Ma'am,—ſo to tilting we went—and as it happened, he left me, to all ap⯑pearance, not likely to be any man's rival in future.

'Twas certainly Don Philip. But how could you deſcribe me? for I never had revealed my name to you.

But that I had unluckily diſcovered.

What became of your adverſary?—Was he hurt?

Yes:—I pinked him a little. But ſup⯑poſing me killed, I learned that he was immedi⯑ately removed in a litter, and what became of him I know not.

He is certainly dead.

What, then, you have neither ſeen nor heard of him?

No; and you are now in the houſe of his father.

The devil I am! What, then, the old gentleman, who was a little puzzled whether I ſhould be broke on the wheel, or die at the ſtake, is his father?

Yes.

Oh, then, I dare ſwear he'll ſoon make up his mind.

He had kindly conſented to releaſe you. Fly, fly, while you have the power; for ſhould Don Miguel learn that you are the murderer of his ſon—

What do I hear? The murderer of my ſon! Oh the villain! What a mercy it is that I have you ſtill in my power!—Here, Sancho—Perez—

take this ruffian—put him into a dungeon.—Oh, my poor boy Philip!—Well, though I can't reſtore you to life, I'll be revenged on your murderer.

SCENE IV.

Here is a bleſſed night for a man in a con⯑ſumption! But I ſhould not mind all this ſoaking and pelting, if I only knew what is become of [38] my dear little girl. I thought to find her ſo ſnug and ſo cozey at the village where I ordered my man Pat to conduct her. Sure honeſt Pat has n't turned out a big rogue, and carried her back to the convent! Blood and fury! Why did I leave her in any body's care, without ſtaying myſelf to ſee that they did as I ordered them? I am in a pretty kind of a hobble. I left my miſtreſs, to look after my friend, and now I have loſt both.—

Oh, this devil of a night!

There is your true genuine hollow church⯑yard cough. Yes, yes, I may truſt to this for doing my buſineſs expeditiouſly; otherwiſe, what fine rheumatics and lumbagos this precious drench⯑ing would lay in ſtore for the amuſement of my old age!

Ha! the ſcream of a woman! Perhaps it may be Jaquelina—if not, 't is certainly a woman—and in danger—and when that is the caſe, one is n't to wait to know whether ſhe is one's own woman, or whoſe woman ſhe is—for every man is every woman's natural protector.

SCENE V.

I have at length eſcaped them. Over⯑taken by the ruffians in my flight from their horrid dwelling, I muſt again have been forced thither, but for the generous man who flew to ſuccour me. Bleſſings, bleſſings on him! I am ſadly faint. My ſtrength is gone—quite gone—Should they vanquiſh my deliverer, and again purſue me, I [39] am loſt.

Oh feeble, feeble limbs! will you betray me?—I feel a faintneſs at my heart. Oh, ex⯑hauſted quite—Heaven have mercy on me!—

Ha! ſuch a night as this has charms for me—Now are the elements in uniſon with my perturbed boſom—Methinks I could endure ex⯑iſtence without repining much, would Nature al⯑ways look thus terribly. I love her in this garb of horror—When ſhe is thus arrayed in night's black mantle, adorned with vivid flames—then, then I hail her, for ſhe ſeems as ſhe had not for⯑got there are ſuch wretches as myſelf, to whom her ſmiling looks and robes of gaiety are hate⯑ful, and appear as much the guiſe of mockery, as would the gewgaw dreſs of maſking revelry at the laſt ſolemn rite paid to the dead.—This is a night to ſcare the guilty. The elements are now my miniſters of vengeance—they give to con⯑ſcience tenfold terror. The thunder echoes her reproaches, and the fierce lightning vouches for Heaven's wrath. Now that falſe heart that wrong⯑ed Alphonſo trembles! 'T is juſt, 't is juſt, oh cruel Angelina; for what a wretched being haſt thou made him!—Haſt thou not changed his very nature? He who once felt tenderneſs for all, has now no feeling left for any human being, but abhorrence—

What is that?

The cry of miſery.

Oh Heaven! ſome help, or life forſakes me!

Ha! a woman's voice! She called for help—Well—death beſt adminiſters it.

[40] That's harſh—that's harſh—ſhe never wronged me—ſhe may be ſome poor deſerted being, like myſelf—victim of perfidy. The wretched, how⯑ever they may ſhun the offices of kindneſs to the proud and happy, who diſclaim them, ſhould ſtill relieve the wretched.—Poor creature, though perhaps I do thee wrong to lengthen life, the little aid that I can give, I won't withhold. Come, let me hide thee from the drenching ſtorm be⯑neath this roof, which I ne'er thought would lodge a human being but myſelf—but miſery ſhould be a paſſport every where.

SCENE I.

WELL, here you are, ſafely lodged, and properly habited! You have helped me into a new poſt, for I am appointed one of Don Mi⯑guel's officers; and to ſhow that I am worthy of my truſt, I ſhall look after you pretty ſharply. Now, my friend, you are to obſerve, that ſilence is particularly inſiſted on by the holy and merciful [...]nquiſition, whoſe priſoner you have the happi⯑neſs to be. So—mum—no noiſe, or by virtue of my office, I muſt be under the neceſſity of exer⯑ciſing wholeſome chaſtiſement. Take my hint—make yourſelf comfortable, and don't be clamor⯑ous. Having now ſaid all that is neceſſary, re⯑member our converſation, in future, muſt be in dumb ſhow.

O Lord, O Lord! I have brought my adventures to a pretty cataſtrophe. Oh, what a curſed blockhead have I been, to play ſuch pranks in a country where there is this odious, horrible Inquiſition!—A pretty figure I make, with their curſed jacket of flames and devils!— [42] But I wiſh that were the worſt part of the buſineſs. If they would let me out alive, and with whole bones, I would be contented to do penance in this pretty veſtment, up St. James's Street and Bond Street, for the reſt of my life. Nay, that would be no puniſhment, for I dare ſwear, as ſoon as this queer coat was ſeen there, it would be thought ugly enough to come into faſhion. All my fine women, too, in compliment to me, would dreſs à l' Inquiſition; and for a whole ſeaſon, at leaſt, nothing would be voted ſtyliſh that was not of the devil and bonfire pattern.—But here am I lodged in this black hole, and my only promenade will be to a bundle of faggots, where I and my jacket will be turned into cinders and tin⯑der. Oh, curſe it! how horrible! Never did I expect to make ſuch a flaming exit.

—Hey! what is that noiſe?

—Ah! they are coming for me. They don't keep me long in ſuſpenſe. Oh, curſe it! what a pity that ſuch a fine flouriſhing ſhoot, in full vi⯑gour, ſhould be condemned for fire-wood!

—Ah, they are here; it is all over with me!

Huſh! huſh! tread ſoftly.

Oh, you need not ſtand upon ceremony.

We ſhall ſoon finiſh the buſineſs.

I dare ſay you will—What a curſed hi⯑deous crew!

What is that?

It is a ghoſt.

Not yet, but I ſoon ſhall be. What an effect my miſery muſt have on my viſage, when [43] I even frighten the fellows who come to look for me!

It muſt be a ghoſt.

Ghoſt, you blockhead! It is one of the Inquiſitor's priſoners.—Are you not, fellow?

I am, I am—but I would much rather be a ghoſt of the two, if I could be made one without any preparatory ceremony.

If you are a priſoner, we will ſet you free.

Set me free? What! Set me free?

Yes, on one condition.

Any, any condition, my dear friends; for there is nothing I would not ſooner do than be roaſted.

Follow us, then, to plunder the In⯑quiſitor's houſe.

To plunder the Inquiſitor's houſe!

Yes, but that will not content you; you want to be revenged—Well, you ſhall; we mean to make him and all his family quiet, that they may not tell of this midnight viſit.

Oh, you do!

Yes, I knew you would be pleaſed to find Don Miguel's throat was to be cut.

No, upon my ſoul I am not.

Not by any body but yourſelf, you mean. Well, well, we'll indulge you—There—

You ſhall do that buſineſs.

No, I'll be damned if I do. Look ye, gentlemen, I thought you were come to perform rather an ugly kind of of⯑fice. That you are not, believe me I am truly grateful; but I think that taking the life of ano⯑ther would be an awkward way of ſhowing my joy for the preſervation of my own.

Stay where you are, then, and we'll ſoon diſpatch—

Not ſo faſt—I will neither cut throats my⯑ſelf, nor ſuffer them to be cut by others, without doing all I can to rouſe their owners to look after them. I'll try, therefore, if my windpipe can preſerve other people's.—Holloa!—Murder!—Robbers!—Murder!

Silence, villain!—The houſe will be alarmed!—Seize him! gag him! and bear him with us. We will make you rue this outcry.

What the devil do you make all that bawling about? Did not I tell you to be ſilent?

Make haſte!—Cloſe the entrance, or we are diſcovered and ruined.

Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! What is all this? See, a parcel of devils are flying away with him through the wall—He's a ſorcerer, as ſure as fate—That I ſhould ever ſee ſuch a ſight!—Help, help! Murder! Devils! Help!

What are you making this uproar about? Speak!—What is the fellow ſo frightened at?—Where is your priſoner?

Gone, gone, gone.

Gone! Oh, you villain!

It is no fault of mine—it is no fault of mine.—How can I keep a priſoner if a party of devils chooſe to fly away with him?

What does the raſcal mean?—Confeſs, you dog, confeſs!

I'll confeſs all I know—but I am ſo frightened.

Speak, you villain!

I will, I will, I will. You muſt know, then, my Lord, that I locked the priſoner in this dungeon, as ſure as I ſtand here a living man, and cautioned him, in a friendly way, not to utter a ſyllable, or I ſhould be obliged to come and thump him. Well, my Lord, all was quiet for ſome time, till at laſt I heard a noiſe, which, at firſt, I was fooliſh enough to believe was made by the priſoner—but if I had thought a moment▪ I might have known it was nothing like a human voice, for it was juſt as if all the wild beaſts in the foreſt had been roaring in a thunder-ſtorm.—Well, my Lord, in comes I—and—oh! I ſhall ne⯑ver forget it the longeſt day I have to live—what did I ſee but the whole dungeon in a flame of fire, and a troop of devils flying away with the priſoner through the wall.

You raſcal! you have made a fine ſtory to account for your villany. This won't do with me—ſo I ſhall leave you in his place, and we'll ſee if any of his devil friends will be ſo obliging as to fly away with you.

SCENE II.

'Tis now broad day, and time that I ſhould offer to my poor ſtorm-vanquiſhed gueſt ſuch viands as my humble cot affords. She ſtill is ſleeping—Well, I will not diſturb her ſlumbers, for reſt gives beſt refreſhment.—Soft—ſhe moves.

Alphonſo! my Alphonſo!

My name! 'Tis ſtrange! Pſha! Self, ſelf will ſtill be foremoſt. Are there not more Alphonſos than the wretch whom his falſe wife has driven to miſery? She calls, perhaps, on one, [47] whoſe dear remembrance her faithful boſom che⯑riſhes, while he may have abandoned her, and heape ſuch anguiſh on that heart, as falſehood hath lodged here. Let me behold the face of her whoſe ſorrows I conceive akin to mine. Immortal powers! Has madneſs maſtered my poor tortured brain, and do my eyes act as the vaſſals of diſtem⯑pered fancy? or has juſt Heaven, thus by a mi⯑racle, directed the guilty Angelina to her wronged huſband, to enforce the vengeance due to her crime?

All ſurrounding objects are reflected to my ſenſe with truth's diſtinctneſs.—Can I err only here? No, no! 'Tis ſhe, and ſent, that death, death by his hand ſhe hath wronged, may expiate her perfidy. Why does my heart ſhrink from an act of juſtice? How miſery diſ⯑arms reſentment! Yes, yes; 'tis that unnerves me. Did I behold her in the hall of ſplendour, decked in the robes of gaiety, her eyes ſparkling with bliſs, then ſhould I ruſh eager for vengeance, and exult to lay triumphant guilt in ruin. But here I view a wretched creature whom Heaven's hand hath humbled. Is that pale cheek, where ſufferance is marked with care's ſure traces—is that a ſtimulant to vengeance? Poor ill-fated girl! Thy heart has played thee treacherouſly—it wanted firmneſs to prevent thy falſehood, and yet has not been ſlack to upbraid thee with it. I did not think to have wept for thee, frail Angelina; but thus, thus fallen, even I can pity thee.

Soft—Where am I? My mind is confuſed—Ay, ay, now I remem⯑ber ſinking under fatigue and terror in the laſt night's ſtorm; and ſure ſome friendly hand con⯑veyed me to this ſhelter. Ah!

[48] I truſt I now behold my kind protector.

True, you do indeed behold him who was once your kind protector.

Oh, Heaven! My Alphonſo! Then am I bleſt: here will I cling for ever.

Why do you avoid me? why throw me from you?

Falſe, falſe, perfidious, ſhameleſs woman!

Oh, this I feared! My honour has been wounded by the tongue of ſome baſe wretch.

It has—by his to whom you gave your honour.—Now, now, falſe woman, what will avail your proteſtations? Now call to Heaven to witneſs for your faith, and damn yourſelf more deeply. 'Twas not the breath of doubtful rumour told an abſent huſband that his wife was faithleſs. No—the curſed tongue that lured you to diſhonour, that tongue pronounced the infernal truth, and—be⯑came dumb for ever.

Then juſtly did a villain periſh; for if ever the tongue of mortal could truly charge me with an act, however trivial, or one word or look, that ſpoke my heart wandering from thee, may Heaven withhold from me its mercy, and let the fierceſt pangs that dying ſinners tremble at, be my eternal lot! Oh, my Alphonſo, ſpurn not, as faithleſs, her whoſe deareſt, only joy, has been thy love; her who, if all the world combined to load thee with its hate, would ſtill cling to thee with in⯑creaſing fondneſs; and who, if miſeries preſſed on thy brain too great for reaſon to ſupport, would tend thee in the cell of madneſs, and even there derive more ecſtaſy from one kind look given in the tranſient intervals of ſenſe, than all the un⯑ruffled [49] pleaſures that the world without thee can afford!

Ha! ha! ha! Oh, how finely does woman's glowing fancy picture the charms of con⯑ſtancy, while her warm boſom mocks the ideal bliſs, and burns for each new lover! Angelin—Woman—Woman, I ſay—No arts, no well-ima⯑gined fiction of pure faith—no tears—no, not the genuine drops of true repentance, which atone ſome crimes, can a crime undo. Truth has pro⯑claimed thy perfidy—my ears, which heard the horrid tale, are ſhut to denial and to palliation.—My heart is chilled—heart ſaid I? No, no, that I long ſince gave you—you deſpiſed the worthleſs gift, and threw it from you; but it has ne'er re⯑turned to warm this boſom—No, all here is cold as death.

Cruel Alphonſo! Turn your remembrance to our paſt affection. Think on the days—the years we have lived together—Could love like mine be feigned? Oh, were our dear children here, they would ſurely waken ſome tenderneſs for their poor mother!

Angelina!

Shame on this weakneſs! but think not, though my eyes betray a ſympathy with miſery, that my ſoul can ſympathize with guilt, or that the ſacred compact of affection plighted to purity, ſhall remain firm to falſehood. To chain the living to the dead, is not to nature more repugnant, than to link honour with pollution.

Alphonſo—

No more—Farewell, thou once adored, farewell for ever!

Yet hear me—Stay, Alphonſo—Till death I'll follow thee—till death proteſt my truth.

SCENE III.

How oddly people are thrown at one another in this ſtrange world!—To meet you here—

Is ſurpriſing; and providential too, I hope.

Good ſociety, to be ſure, makes the diſ⯑malleſt place cheerful; but I can't help wiſhing that you and I were chatting together ſomewhere above ground.

Are there no means of eſcape from this horrid place?

None that immediately occur to me.

The Robbers are now on ſome ſcheme of plunder—We are alone in the cavern—try the en⯑trance, it may chance they have neglected to faſten the trap.

There is no hope of that; for you muſt know my ears were on very active duty as they went out, and I heard the door fall with a diſmal bang, and the ruſty wards of the lock move with an infernal grating. No, here are we pretty birds faſt in our cage—we have no opportunity at pre⯑ſent of uſing our wings.

How wretched is our ſituation!

Moſt diabolical.

Perhaps they have not ſecured the private avenue, through which you were conveyed.

Probably not; but I would rather be ex⯑cuſed from making my eſcape that way. Of two evils, I ſhould think it wiſer to ſtay in my own houſe a [...]d be robbed, than avoid a burglary by eſcaping into my neighbour's while it was in flames.

Be confident of Don Miguel's mercy. I know his character for humanity—be aſſured you have much leſs to dread from him than from the ſavages who inhabit here—beſides, the ſervice you rendered in defeating the intentions of the villains, muſt plead for you.

Eh! I have a great mind to try.

Don't heſitate—conſider 'tis our only means of eſcape.

True—well,—do you follow me—but I heartily wiſh I may be lucky enough to find any other hole to creep out at.

SCENE IV.

I believe I am ſafe yet.—Oh that I may conti⯑nue ſo!—May be the devils don't think me worth fetching. I pray heartily they may hold in that mind. Never ſhall I forget the frightful ſight. I have not courage yet to look to the ſide of the dun⯑geon where they vaniſhed.—If I were to ſtay here for a year, I ſhould not take a wink of ſleep, for fear of finding myſelf, when I waked, in a place a great deal too hot for my conſtitution.—What a terrible thing it is to be kept in ſuch a quaking [52] ſtate!—I heard a noiſe—I hear it again—Oh, I am a loſt man!

Well, we have got out of the Robbers' clutches.—Still I wiſh we had eſcaped into a more agreeable place.

Since we are ſafe from thoſe wretches, I feel perfect ſecurity.

But the little account I have to anſwer, I am not at all convinced will be ſettled to my ſatiſ⯑faction.—Who have we here?—Some poor devil!

I am no devil, and I wiſh to have no⯑thing to do with devils—Oh!—Oh!

Look up.

I dare not look at any thing ſo frightful.

Look up, my good fellow.

Don't think to wheedle me, Beelzebub—I defy the devil and all his works.

Now I ſhall ſee if this fellow can't give a better account.—Hey! what's here?—Why, this is ſorcery with a witneſs.—A woman too!—What, Signor Conjuror, you found you did not like ſoli⯑tary confinement, and flew away to fetch yourſelf a companion?

If you will allow me, my Lord, to re⯑move from this place, or at leaſt conduct this lady to a pleaſanter apartment, you may very eaſily be ſatisfied as to what now raiſes your wonder.

Why, Sir, as you clearly have the knack of flying through ſtone walls, I conclude you will [53] be juſt as ſafe in one place as another.—So come with me, and let me know the particulars of this extraordinary tranſaction; and you blockhead,

you may come too. Pray, Sir,

walk before me, that if you do take it into your head to vaniſh again, I may at leaſt have the pleaſure of ſeeing whether you fly or ſink, or go off in a flaſh, or how.

SCENE V.

Oh yes, my dear Madam, I am certain I met the very man you inquire after. He looked ſcared, and yet furious—his eyes ſtarting out of his head; and he ran paſt me, as if he was flying for his life. I declare the ſight of him gave me a queer kind of feel—a ſort of a qualm all over. He ſeemed for all the world as if the rope had ſnapped with him at the gallows, and he was running away, half hanged.

Oh my failing ſtrength!—Could I follow him, I might ſtill convince him of my innocence.

And is it that he doubts?—Oh, what a miſbeliever he muſt be!—Why, the man that can't read innocence in that ſweet face, knows no⯑thing of Heaven's hand-writing.

Ah, my dear friend, have I found you at laſt?

Oh, the ſight of you rejoices my heart. But I have loſt my dear girl.

And I have found your dear girl.

What do you tell me?

Nothing but truth: ſhe is ſafe, and I am ſafe, and all is right; but you brought me into a pretty ſcrape—I was very near getting a niche in the Book of Martyrs, by you.

Hey!

Nay, this is no time to dwell on paſt perils.—Jaquelina impatiently expects you; ſo make haſte to her.

But this lady needs protection.

Mine is devoted to her. There is one of my ſervants; he will conduct you to your miſtreſs, while this lady may command from me whatever ſer⯑vice ſhe requires. So, without ceremony, fly as faſt as your worn-out frame will ſuffer you.

Sir, do not let me tax your kindneſs, nor dull your joy with my misfortunes.

Madam, happineſs never found entrance in that breaſt which was not open to the ſorrows of a lovely woman.

You are truly generous; but indeed it grieves me much to treſpaſs thus. You are bur⯑dened with a being whoſe mind is rent with agony, and whoſe frame is enfeebled with fatigue and anguiſh.

Take comfort, Madam, and hope for hap⯑pineſs; lean on my arm, and let me conduct you to ſafety and repoſe.

I am bound to you for ever.

Horror! 'tis he! Such a ſight would brace the arm of palſied cowardice, and in the breaſt of mercy's ſelf infuſe a tiger's fury. Match⯑leſs extent of woman's perfidy! a few hours paſt, with all the ſeeming of unſhaken conſtancy, wert [55] thou not kneeling at my feet, adjuring Heaven to witneſs for thy innocence? and now my eyes be⯑hold thee in the arms of thy curſed paramour! Villain! I thought my ſword had long ſince paid the debt I owed thee: I'll now make juſtice cer⯑tain—and firſt to deal it here;—falſe woman, die!

I thought this wild-looking gentleman would be falling foul of ſomebody. Sir, if you don't curb your paſſions, you may depend on it they will injure your health.

Heavens! my ſiſter!

My deareſt Leonora!

But whence this fury and diſtraction? How altered are your huſband's looks!

Altered, indeed, my ſiſter! ſome dreadful error has poſſeſſion of his mind.

Error! Oh, ſhameleſs woman! Can it be error now? there ſtands the author and pro⯑claimer of your infamy.

Sir!

Heaven can witneſs for me, that till this hour I ne'er beheld his face.

Give me leave, Sir, to ſay, that you are a moſt incomprehenſible gentleman. I am ready to admit, that on a certain ſtormy day, when you and I were weather-bound, I was more communica⯑tive than I ought to have been to a ſtranger; but may devils fly away with me in reality, if I ever mentioned to you that lady's name (which even yet I have not the honour of knowing); I only named to you the Lady Angelina d'Eſparza.

And who but ſhe is owner of that name?

Why, that lady, is n't ſhe?

Pray, Ma'am, is n't your name Ange⯑lina d'Eſparza?

No; that is my ſiſter's name, the wife of Don Alphonſo.

Whew! here is a buſineſs! Am I really awake, or is this all a dream? Did I, or did I not, ſee you at Madrid?

You did; while I was on a viſit to my ſiſter, during Don Alphonſo's abſence.

And—Lord, I begin to find that I have made a curſed deal of miſchief. The houſe, Ma⯑dam, where you did me the honour to receive me, and allow me to expreſs my paſſion, was—

My ſiſter's; and to my ſhame I own, from apprehenſion that ſhe would diſapprove my con⯑duct, it was without her knowledge I received you.

My dear Ma'am, I beg you a million of pardons; and, my dear Sir, not⯑withſtanding you made a lunge clean through me, I confeſs you have great reaſon to be offended: but you ſee it was all a miſtake.

But whence could this miſtake ariſe? Leonora would never, ſurely, in her ſiſter's name, receive the viſits of a lover!

No, Sir; ſhe admitted my viſits under no name at all, and obliged me too to promiſe not to make inquiries. Her commands I punctually obeyed; but at our laſt interview, as I was quitting the houſe, I heard a paſſer-by exclaim, "There lives the beauteous Angelina d'Eſparza!" I there⯑fore naturally concluded that the beauteous Ange⯑lina was this lady.

What a blunder! and it is moſt ex⯑traordinary, that, though there is an Iriſhman among you, he has had no hand in it.

Alphonſo!

Oh, forgive me, deareſt Angelina!

Although I confeſs myſelf horribly to blame, I muſt ſay, Ma'am,

that huſband of yours is as haſty a gentleman as ever jerked a ſword out of its ſcabbard. The moment I mentioned the name, out came that damned long toledo, and in three ſeconds it was through me. Upon my ſoul the greateſt blame is due to your raſhneſs.

No, to your tattling.

Ah, that is a devil of a fault: never kiſs and tell.

So I have found you out at laſt, and I am happy to tell you, that thoſe deſperate ruffians whom you

hindered from cutting our throats, are all in ſafe cuſtody. But what do you ſtay here ſo long for? There is a deviliſh good dinner ready; ſo come in, and be jolly.

We have diſcovered the error, Sir, which led us to ſuppoſe that this gentleman had encoun⯑tered your ſon.

Why, I was ſure it muſt turn out a miſ⯑take; for I have it under my ſon's own hand that he is at Lima, and intends to remain there; and I am not ſorry to find that he has taken himſelf a wife, ſince you wiſh to take another man for your huſband.

And may I hope, Sir, that you will con⯑ſent to my marriage with your ward?

I conſent, with all my ſoul! She is to be married, not I; and, therefore, I don't ſee that my inclination has any thing to do but to fol⯑low hers.

Ah, my ſweet Jaquelina! if your fa⯑ther would think in this manner, it would be the ſaving of my life.

And of mine too.

Would it? Why, then, I have the ſatiſ⯑faction of telling you that her father is now per⯑fectly diſpoſed to let her pleaſe herſelf. He only placed her in a convent till he had informed him⯑ſelf thoroughly of your character and fortune; with both which he is now perfectly ſatisfied.

Then I am the happieſt man living.

What, with ſuch a catalogue of mala⯑dies!

Love has cured them all, and I feel at this moment that I am as ſtout a man as ever.

If you are not—Hercules muſt have been a ſhrimp to you.

Now, my dear Guardy, I have but one favour to aſk, which is, that you will relinquiſh your office, and ceaſe to be an Inquiſitor.

To that I can't conſent; for I am not ſure that any other perſon holding my office would do ſo little miſchief as myſelf.

Yours is the ſyſtem of true philanthropy—Not to be contented with ſimply doing good, but alſo to labour to prevent the evil deſigns of others—not only to practiſe virtue, but to pre⯑ſerve the helpleſs from virtue's foes.