SCENE I.—On one ſide of the ſtage a flight of ſteps, with a Portico leading to the Temple of the Sun.—In the back⯑ground the ſea. Time, ſun-riſe.

SOUL of the univerſe, who from they glittering throne beameſt immortal ſplendour, as thou haſt permitted the ſtars for their appointed hour to beſpangle the veil of night, now o'erwhelm all manner of glories in the greatneſs of thy efful⯑gence, and be once more welcom'd by thy de⯑voted ſervants to delight and bleſs the world!—Catalpo, conduct hither the virgin deſtined to re⯑ceive a prieſteſs' ſacred office.

Mighty chief!

Riſe, good Solaſco.

I here preſent the darling of my age to be devoted to the ſervice of our god. It will be worſe than parting with my life to loſe the com⯑forts of her dear ſociety—but the bright ſun, our glorious deity, demands ſuch excellence to be conſigned alone to do him honour.—Pardon, my king, an old man's tears; but nature will not al⯑ways, without a ſtruggle, yield to duty.

Thou haſt, indeed, devoted to thy god a precious treaſure; but tell me, Cora, can thy youthful mind freely reſign the livelier joys of ſocial life, and reſt contented in ſecluſion and tranquillity?

My father's will has ever ſway'd my thoughts, from the firſt hour that infant ſenſe cou'd learn obedience:—Should he doom my death, his mandate would be met with equal re⯑ſignation.

Thy pious mind, which knows to yield ſuch duty to a father, will well befit the ſer⯑vice of thy god.—But hear the ſacred tenour of the law which binds a prieſteſs to her duty.— Should the heart, to heaven devoted, become the prey of ſacrilegious love, our law conſigns its prieſteſs, and the accomplice of her guilt, to in⯑ſtant death. Her parents and their offspring are pledges for her faith, and ſhould her flight elude offended juſtice, their forfeit lives muſt expiate her crime.

Now to the altar, and record your vows; then, as our cuſtom is, come forth to ſhine Queen of this feſtive day, [3]the laſt you are to know exempt from ſacred duty.

Great chief, behold what envious clouds obſcure the glories of our god.

Say, Catalpo, what mean theſe bo⯑dings!

And lo!—What monſter's that, whoſe wings bear it buoyant on the angry main?

See!—From its throat thunder and fire burſt forth, ſeeming to brave high heaven.

Be not diſmay'd—ſummon our war⯑riors.

Catalpo, let the prieſts attend.

SCENE II. The Country.

My people, we'll to the ſhore— Should they prove mortal foes, we'll meet their thunders, or if the engines of infernal power, what can virtue fear?—Truſt me, the Deity we ſerve, will re-aſſume his ſplendour, and protect his choſen people.

SCENE III. A View of an Indian Country.

SCENE IV. The Sea Coaſt.

Firſt, to high Heaven, who thus, with never-fading honour, hath crown'd its pooreſt ſervant, let me pour forth a heart o'erwhelm'd with gratitude. And now begin the important work which heaven has delegated to us—Erect the ſacred banner of our faith.

Brave aſſociates! join with me in praiſe of him, who hath atchiev'd what ignorance, with ſapient ſhrug, and ſatisfied, benumbing prudence derided as the chimera of a madman's fancy: falling at his feet, let us be proud in being firſt to pay due homage to ſuch ſurpaſſing excellence.

Riſe, riſe;—rather, my Alonzo, in theſe arms receive my thanks, thou, next to heaven, my firmeſt friend. Ye men of Spain, let what has paſſed admoniſh you in what may be to come—keep in your minds the time when we had gained the courſe which ſhut out the eaſtern world; how you beat your breaſts, op⯑preſſed [5]with fear and ſuperſtition—How, with womaniſh tears, you bade adieu to life, and blub⯑bered out a requiem for your ſouls; then em⯑bracing deſperation inſtead of fortitude, I was to be your ſacrifice; and this body, which has been your conduct to wealth and honour, you would have given to the ſea, and ignorance and cow⯑ardice would have triumphed.

Mighty Sir, forgive us!

Freely, good Valverdo—Let the man ſtand forth, who, at a time ſo fraught with peril, firſt diſcovered land.

It was my good fortune.

Thou art not a Spaniard.

No, your Excellency, I am an Eng⯑liſhman; and tho' we Engliſhmen are an odd, whimſical ſet of fellows, yet we generally con⯑trive (and I truſt ever ſhall) to keep a good look out a-head when our ſuperior is in danger.

Tell me your fortunes.

My name is Harry Herbert; I am de⯑ſcended from as reſpectable and independent an anceſtor as the world can boaſt, — an Engliſh yeo⯑man; but the civil wars leaving my family little, which my imprudence ſoon made leſs, I thought that, altho' King Henry was deprived of the honour of this enterprize, that did not preclude his ſubjects; ſo I ſhipped myſelf off for Caſtille, where I had juſt time and caſh enough to fall a dozen times in love, and into other ſerapes, be⯑fore I had the honour of embarking on board your Excellency's ſquadron.

Herbert, thou doſt honour to thy country.

Then, Sir, I am glad, that for once I [6]am even with it; for I am ſure my country does honour to me.

Behold a crowd of people, many of whom ſeem clad in ſacred veſtments—Their dreſs and ſtandards beſpeak them greatly civilized, and full of wealth.

Strangers, who ſeem to be above the race of mortals, inſtruct us how to honour you—If you be children of the Sun, behold our prieſts, who with perfumes and libations, will welcome you to his holy temple; or, if human, here are fruits to feed you, dwell⯑ings to ſhelter you, and garments to clothe you.

Chief, you behold in us the children of mortality; but the power we ſerve, in his high mercy, has beſtowed upon us ſuperior gifts; thus, thro' unknown ſeas to brave the imperious ſurge, and to conſtruct engines which can ſweep thouſands from the earth—But that Deity com⯑mands us to proclaim his name with peace—The King, our maſter, wiſhes to enrich thee and him⯑ſelf —this hardy metal, uſeful in all the purpoſes of life, he will exchange for thoſe thy country may produce.

'Tis very ſtrange—Thy King much wrongs himſelf—all we have to render is our gold, but that we find ſo yielding, and ſo uſeleſs, it were an injury to offer it—Indulge the curioſity of a ſtranger.

Oft has a tender glance eſcap'd my eye, impell'd by Beauty's power, and from my boſom [7]the ſoft ſigh inſtinctively has ſtolen—Many a fair Caſtilian has enforced this teſt of admiration, but now my every ſenſe ſeems drawn by power magnetic to that lovely ſaint—Permit me, faireſt creature, to expreſs my admiration at the charms which now preſent themſelves—tho' all the won⯑ders of a new diſcovered world diſplay their rival novelties, yet, now that I behold its firſt of won⯑ders, all elſe exacts from me as little notice, as I, I fear, have power or merit to command from you.

Strange you wrong yourſelf, and hold me unſkilful to diſtinguiſh, when you ſuppoſe deſert like yours can paſs unnoticed—Your praiſes of the humble Cora, tho' they have cauſed no vain emotion, yet ever will the mind receive with plea⯑ſure, praiſe e'en unmerited, when 'tis beſtowed by thoſe who claim our admiration.

All that the warmeſt fancy can depict in the bright colours of ideal excellence, can never reach that exquiſite perfection nature ex⯑hibits —how muſt I bleſs my happy fortune, that bore me to a clime which boaſts an or⯑nament like thee.

What new emotion riſes in my breaſt—I fear to aſk my heart from whence it ſprings. Oh, Cora! think of thy ſacred duty— think of the vow which paſs'd thy lips ſo lately.— Stranger, tho' ſacred hoſpitality commanded me to pay this courteſy, yet now a higher duty en⯑joins me to deſiſt from further converſe.

Let me entreat one inſtant—

It muſt not be—my conduct is controlled by rigid laws. Farewell.—Oh Cora, what days of wretchedneſs art thou doom'd to ſuffer!

What cou'd ſhe mean? "Her con⯑duct is controlled by rigid laws"—If ſhe be deſ⯑tined to another, my lot is miſery.

In harmony and peace I rule a free and happy people, and I were unworthy of my kingdom, did I not endeavour to the utmoſt to convert the name of ſtranger into friend.

And ſo, my pretty Indian, you live very happily.

Yes, all the day long.

And have you no monks who pray for you, diſpute with you, and burn you alive when you don't think as they do?

Oh! no.

Poor devils, what a way they muſt be in.

Don't you come from the other world?

What, you ſee ſomething angelic about me, eh!—Yes, my love, I come from a little paradiſe, call'd England.

Is England a world?

A bit of one; but, little as it is, it ſomehow contrives to manage all the reſt.— Shou'd you like to live in England?

O yes; I ſuppoſe Engliſh women, arm'd with ſpears made of that pretty, hard iron, climb the mountains, and deſtroy the wild bull.

Deſtroy the wild bull! No, my dear; our Engliſh women find prettier amuſement in [9]encouraging the breed of horned cattle—the uſe of the pretty, hard iron is confined to the men, and no great favourite there; for I know many flouriſhers of ſpontoons, who have a curſed antipathy to cold iron.—Who is that elegant creature you were converſing with?

Her name is Cora; ſhe was this day ad⯑mitted a prieſteſs of the Sun.—The handſomeſt virgins are always ſelected to ſuſtain that ſacred office.

The handſomeſt! you were then, on that account, not—

Did I ſay the handſomeſt? Oh dear, I mean they ſelect the moſt ſedate—for, from this day ſhe muſt never leave the temple, or converſe with any except the prieſts.

Except the prieſts! Go where you will, you find thoſe gentlemen always contrive to be well taken care of—would you like to be⯑come a prieſteſs?

Laſt night perhaps I ſhould.

Charming ſenſibility! and may I, my ſweet girl, interpret that ſigh in my favour?

Ah, you will not love me.

Not love thee!—By Magna Charta, I'll reſign my life, fortune, and liberty to thee.— beſides, I'll bring thee beads, cloathes, muſic—

Ah, that is not love.—They only try to pleaſe the eye, who find their actions cannot touch the heart.—no preſents or toys could in⯑fluence Nelti.—no, not if you were to give her an iron javelin and a tame tiger.

Indeed!—very delicate preſents for a young lady.

I wiſh I cou'd make him love me— how do women in England gain their lover's hearts?

Generally by uſing them like dogs.— for, when a woman ſtudiouſly avoids looking at [10]a man, abuſes him on all occaſions, and is kind to every one elſe, we naturally conclude they love each other to diſtraction.

I never can find in my heart to uſe him ill—What ugly thing is that?

A doctor of phyſic, who having killed all his patients in the old world, except his wife, who wou'd never take his medicines, has ven⯑tured hither, in purſuit of new patients, new fees, and perhaps a new bed-fellow.

And what's the other?

A lawyer and a coxcomb.

What's a coxcomb?

A reptile, my dear, that is found in abundance in all countries, and yet is not eaſily deſcribed—it is a kind of mongrel, which men drive from them, becauſe they hardly conſider it as belonging to them, and the women won't re⯑ceive, becauſe they think it won't breed.

All ſeems pretty quiet.—I ſay, Bri⯑bon—

What do you ſay, Doctor Dolores?

This ſeems curſed mild, wholeſome, unprofitable air for a phyſician.—But heaven is merciful, wherever I go, patients increaſe.

There ſeems plenty of gold, and plen⯑ty of gold, plenty of law, follows as naturally as a bill of coſts.—I ſay, Doctor, do you ſee that ſweet, pretty, wealthy-looking girl—

I fancy I ſhall have ſome pretty fe⯑male practice here.—I was a great favourite in Spain; for my maxim was, always to ſtick to my friends to the laſt.

Doctor, welcome to the new world.— So, you kept on board till all was quiet.

To be ſure—conſider the importance of my life to you all; but my chief reaſon was, that the famous aſtrologer, Doctor Diego Diab⯑laſco, told me ſomething ill would happen if I were raſh—but there ſeems no danger—that's a very pretty girl, and I love a fine young girl, al⯑moſt as much as I do fine old gold

And have you, Doctor, ſo ſoon forgot your old helpmate in Valladolid?

Ah, poor old Dorothy! But, Lord, I hate conſtancy as much as I hate health

Permit me, ſweeteſt of ſavages, to enquire after the ſtate of your health—how is your pulſe? let me feel how it beats—beats.—

Feel how it beats? Perhaps it beats harder than you think

Then there's the more neceſſity I ſhould feel it, my pretty, pretty—

There, then.

Zounds! a dozen ſuch patients wou'd do for me!

Doctor, I hope to be honoured with the hand of this charming girl.

Oh, with all my heart—I'm ſure I've had enough of it—but you can't marry her.

Why, thou profeſſor of the glorious art of manſlaughter?

Becauſe the Pope allows no religious ceremonies with hereticks—all dealings with them muſt be in the way of plunder and glorious in⯑trigue.

The Pope! pſhaw—I ſhall ſit down here for life, contented with a little—I'll build a neat, convenient houſe, after the faſhion of the country, with a plain ſilver door, and a diamond knocker. The apartments ſhall be merely lined [12]with plates of gold, neatly carved—the ſophas of ſilver tiſſue, and ſtuffed with the down of hum⯑ming-birds —As for freſco-work of emeralds, ru⯑bies, pearls, amethyſts, and ſuch nicknacks, my wife may ornament her dairy and dreſſing-room with them—in ſhort, I'll have every thing in a ſnug, comfortable way, without ſhew or expence

Without ſhew or expence!—Pray, great Sir, —will you allow a poor man to gather up the chips, and now and then take a peep into your golden apartments?

Why, Dolores, by the time I build, I fancy you'll have a ſnug leaden apartment of your own—ſo, go count beads inſtead of ducats, and try not to cheat young Harry out of his miſtreſs, but old Harry out of your ſoul.

Zounds! let's follow; for who knows, but in a minute, theſe ſavages may knock my brains out, with one of your ſhin-bones.

Come along—Oh, I wiſh I had the doctoring of you for a week, you Engliſh maſtiff.

SCENE I.—The Spaniſh Camp.

UNGRATEFUL men, thus, in a moment, to deſtroy my brighteſt hopes.—ſee them cloſely guarded.

Roldan, would thou think it, thoſe wretches (dead to prudence as to honor) have damn'd the name of Spaniard, they have reviled the Indian prieſts, and with unmanly outrage, have torn away the golden ornamen's that decked the love⯑ly breaſts of innocence.—The men, exaſperated, call to the Cacique for vengeance; I, at the ha⯑zard of my life muſt follow, and appeaſe his juſt reſentment.

Shall then a brave Caſtilian be diſ⯑graced with bonds, for ſhewing diſreſpect to vile idolatry?

No, Valverdo.—Soon ſhall this up⯑ſtart Genoeſe, Columbus, feel the juſt vengeance of inſulted Spain

—My brother in ambition, look on this paper.

What's this—the royal ſignature?

Mark me.—When our gracious Queen embraced the fortunes of this foreign Viceroy, [14]even proffered her regal ornaments to equip his fleet, the miniſter, Foneſca, jealous of the fame that might attend this enterpriſe, worked on the fears of the ſuſpicious Ferdinand, to execute this commiſſion of control, which, now Columbus' conduct gives pretence, arrays me with the power of cruſhing his authority, and with diſgrace re⯑turning him to Spain.

Glorious hearing!

Do thou, Valverdo, tamper with the troops, —preſs on their ſuperſtitious minds the in⯑jury our faith will ſuffer by winking at idolatry; tell them, the way to ſudden wealth is eaſy, had they a fit commander—inſinuate—but we waſte words—about it, good Valverdo.

'Twere preſumption to inſtruct a monk in wiles of glozing cozenage.

The fatal wound is given to all my hopes—what years of bliſs had my ſoul fondly pictured as Alon⯑zo's lot—Oh, lovely Cora, muſt then thy beau⯑ties never more beam their bright radiance on me? —Had'ſt thou been doom'd to fill another's arms, I had indeed been curſed, but not ſo deeply; for I might ſtill have gazed upon thy heavenly form —have liſtened to the ſweet melody of thy loved voice, and known delight even in miſery—But all is gloomy horror now before me.

I hope I not untimely interrupt your meditations.

Roldan, the conduct of theſe Indians obſcures our European virtues, and we are come to be inſtructed, not to teach—The good Colum⯑bus has appeaſed their juſt reſentment, and, at the requeſt of Orozimbo, conſents to liberate the priſoners.

'Tis well [ſhews a plan of attack] but as we muſt ſecure a place of ſafety (for it were madneſs to repoſe confidence in ſavages) here have I drawn a plan which muſt render the town an eaſy capture.

The town a capture!

Doſt thou not underſtand me?

I hope I do not.

There is no ſafety but in their deſtruc⯑tion.

Roldan, thou ſurely can'ſt not be ſo damn'd as think it—What, ſtab the fond heart which overflows with love and adoration for thee— trample down ſacred hoſpitality, and erect the throne of treachery and murder—by the great God of juſtice, firſt thro' this body thou muſt force thy way, thou traitor to humanity.

Soft-hearted fool, theſe mawkiſh vir⯑tues have ever been the ſainted garb of cowards.

Coward!

Thanks to the God, this arm receiv'd the ſtroke that wou'd have ſlain thee.

Good youth, thou bleed'ſt—Pray take all care of him

Roldan, if yet thou need'ſt a ſtimulus to virtue, look on that Indian, and in the name of heaven, ſtain not thy honour and thy man⯑hood with treachery and ingratitude.

Fortune permits thee now to ſchool me—but, boy, thou ſhalt feel my power; go to the Viceroy, tell him that Roldan lacketh bro⯑therly affection for the poor Indians, and add (for by the power of vengeance it is true) that Rol⯑dan is his covenanted foe—that he hath given [16]freedom to thoſe Caſtilians he dared diſgrace with bonds, and that, by thee, he greets his Excellency with defiance and contempt.

Perfidious, bloody villain! Oh, my friends, dangers I fear await you—I bluſh to ſay we have among us thoſe whoſe vileneſs your pure nature cannot image. Let us prepare to meet the worſt—ſummon your warriors, while I in⯑ſtruct them how beſt to guard each place of 'van⯑tage—and ſhould this Roldan attempt to execute his villainous intent, depend on the protection of Columbus.

SCENE II. A Retired Place.

All happineſs is mingled with alloy— I've triumphed over every oppoſition malice and folly raiſed to check my glory—I, now, in Eu⯑rope's eye ſhall ſtand arrayed in all the honours which ſucceſs commands— thoſe, who if acci⯑dent had thwarted my reaſon-founded ſchemes would with important ignorance have ſcoffed at the ſilly vague projector—will now, with pane⯑gyric full as thoughtleſs, admire my courage, and applaud my preſcience—yet, when I have at⯑tained the ſummit of my wiſhes, when I ſhou'd give ſome little reſt to my care-worn mind, which long has ſtruggled with adverſity; when I might contemplate with joy, the virtues I have found in this new world, virtues more rare than all the riches it abounds in, —I ſind I have conducted to this hapleſs ſpot, hearts black with diſcontent, and factious jealouſy, thirſting for plunder and for blood! But if determined rigour—virtuous example—

May it pleaſe your Excellency—I beg your excuſe;—but I am ſo choaked with rage, and breathleſs with running, that I have ſcarce power to tell you—your troops have mu⯑tinied.

Mutinied! Explain.

Roldan, Sir, that—but I know a ſol⯑dier's duty too well, to ſpeak ill of a ſuperior officer, or I'd tell your Excellency what a curſed inhuman ſcoundrel I think him—Their villainy and ingratitude is beyond belief—they murmur that you won't give them leave to cut the throats of theſe innocent Indians—They call for Roldan to head them, and I'll do him the juſtice to ſay, he would let them indulge in ſuch pretty, harmleſs diverſion, as long as there was a throat left in the country.

This demands my inſtant preſence— Herbert, in half an hour, attend me at the camp.

Oh, if I had that Roldan in England, I'd hang him up without judge or jury—tho', on recollection, I have fixed on the worſt place in the world for hanging folks up, becauſe a great man like me wills it—but now for vengeance— and yet I don't know how it happens, that al⯑tho' in ſome things I am a tolerably active, in⯑duſtrious fellow, yet when I have to ſeek re⯑venge, I grow ſo infernally lazy I can ſcarce find in my heart to ſet about it.

SCENE III.—The Sea Coaſt—a boat ſtationed.

May I truſt that look propitious—Oh, let thy words confirm it—how haſt thou proſ⯑pered with the ſoldiers?

They more than met my wiſhes, and the daſtard few, whom conſcience kept in doubt, I ſoon won over by the ſtimulus of plun⯑der, ſpiced with our Church's diſpenſation—in a word, they have all ſworn, that on a ſignal given, they will deſert Columbus.

And in an hour, to a fairer promiſer, wou'd they abandon me.—It mads me that I muſt climb the heights of proud ambition on the ſhoulders of ſuch a crew of mongrels.—My de⯑ſign is to ſend Columbus, loaded with chains and accuſation, a priſoner to Spain, and with him, thoſe hen-hearted fools, whoſe ſuperſtitious ſcru⯑ples might prove troubleſome.

With deference to your happier po⯑licy, do you not riſk by this the wrath of Iſabella?

Not a whit. For, unleſs Valverdo, thou haſt made ſome ſaint thy enemy, who, in mere ſpite, may work for them a miracle, they'll not fatigue the royal ear with much complain⯑ing. —To be plain, the veſſel which ſhall convey them hence, is ſo ſtrained, crazy, and unfit for ſervice, ſhe cannot weather out the ſlighteſt ſtorm, therefore, the firſt rude wind that blows, will ſend them to explore another world.—But hark, that trumpet ſpeaks Columbus.—Now, fortune, be my friend.

Roldan, what means this outrage, this treaſon to thy King? Why ſpur on to deſ⯑peration and rebellion, your few miſtaken fol⯑lowers, whom my power, did I not abhor revenge, could in an inſtant ſweep from the earth?

Columbus, on thee let me retort the name of traitor.—I ſtand here, choſen by the general voice, the avenger of their wrongs.— 'Tis thee they charge with treaſon to their King, aſſert thou wink'ſt at hereſy, and haſt made them the ſlaves of ſavages.—How doſt thou anſwer?

Anſwer to thee?—Roldan, preſs not my patience farther.—But to convince thee, trai⯑tor, how falſe are thy aſperſions, and that I reign ſovereign in my people's love—mark me, be this the teſt.

Let all, who do not in their hearts believe I mean them fairly, and judge thee worthier to command them, paſs that jave⯑lin without fear or doubt.—Be that the barrier betwixt my influence and thine.

Much it glads me thou haſt proffered ſo fair a trial; and I ſwear, if they approve thee, I will reſign into thy hand my ſword and life.

Now, my brave ſoldiers, hear my firm intent; I will lead you on to wealth, but not by maſſacre; I'll make you all, the wonders of the world, rich and beloved.—Then, without controul, decide your fate; but, remember, —you have but one ſtep to make from honor to diſ⯑grace.

Be it ſo—men without hearts are not worth regretting.

Great Sir, accept my humble ſervices. —deſpiſe not him, who honours you—pray ex⯑cuſe theſe tears—let me embrace your knees.

My heart! my heart!—Herbert, thy gratitude unmans me,

Now, Columbus, look on that paper; by it thou'lt find thy King diſtruſted thee

And pray you all remember, I ex⯑erted not the high authority of which my ſove⯑reign thought me worthy, 'till he was deſerted, and deſpiſed.

Peace, fiery indignation;—down re⯑bel heart, —and do not choak my utterance.— Well, Viceroy,

where are your racks, —your inſtruments of vengeance?

Oh, do not fear—we mean no torture.

And think'ſt thou, villain, the ſub⯑tileſt inquiſitor, who has out-damn'd his fellows in inventive cruelty, could give a pang like that I feel, in ſeeing thee poſſeſſed of power to make the happy wretched?—Oh my poor Indians, who ſhall now defend you, when this traitor, fit leader of his band of daemons, like the arch-fiend, new lighted on a world of innocence, ſhall diffuſe his deviliſh ſpirit, and extend hell's empire.

Bring forth his chains

—for ſo the King enjoin'd he ſhou'd be ſent to Spain whenever he proved unworthy.

Chains! Hell and fury

Confuſion!

Captain, obſerve that with ſtrict atten⯑tion you obey your orders,

— for that ſtubborn rebel—bear him to torture.

Hold, Roldan—thy vengeance muſt be moſt complete when I deſcend to aſk a favour from thee—let my humility glut thy vin⯑dictive wrath.—Allow that Engliſhman to ſhare my fortunes.

Bear him away.

Roldan, a wretch like thee ſhould have a coward's caution.—Doſt thou not dread, that in his dying moments, when, in defiance of thy tortures, (for I can read his noble ſoul,) he braves thee to the laſt, and glories in a death of honour, doſt thou not fear he may infect this ruffian crew with ſome faint ſparks of honeſty, and make them leſs fit inſtruments for thee?

Bear him to death.

Heaven preſerve your Excellency.— Will you, great Sir, condeſcend to indulge the laſt wiſh of vanity, and, when you have nothing elſe to do, write to England the ſtory of my fate; that when my fortunes ſhall be enquired af⯑ter, my friends, with joy ſparkling thro' a tear, may ſay, Herbert ſtuck to his commander to the laſt, and died as an Engliſhman ought.

My noble fellow, this hand ſhall juſ⯑tify thy fame.

Then I am eaſy.—May your portion of happineſs be equal to your virtues—farewell. —

Perhaps, Sir, you never were at the death of an Engliſh game-cock.—Will you do me the favour of attending my execution?

Take him from my ſight.

Hands off, reptiles!

That you are the moſt infernal ſcoundrel the devil ever made a friend of, all your worthy aſſociates about you will, I dare ſay, allow—but I brand you with the name of fool, for enabling an humble man like me, thus to triumph over you, to defy you— ſcorn you—laugh at you—Hands off, reptiles!

Is then my triumph for a world's diſcovery, and the trophies which I bear to Spain, to tell attending crowds my glory, a body bowed by ignominious fetters?

Pardon me, Sir, if I preſume to beg, that I may ſo far mitigate their rigour, as when on board, to free the noble priſoner from their weight.

You know not what you aſk—wiſh me to forfeit the honours my King has heaped on me—no, theſe are his gracious gifts, and I've not yet learnt to diſobey him—and here I vow before that power who cheers the ſoul of ſuffering virtue, tho' their cankerous rivets corrode my very bones, no hand but Ferdinand's ſhall free me from them— By heaven, my ſoul pants for the moment, when thus accoutered, I may meet his preſence, and aſk him—how I have deſerved theſe favours from him.

All is ready.

Bear him then on board.

Thou guardian of the innocent, to thy ſupreme protection I commend the generous natives of this hapleſs land; aſſiſt them to defend [23]their liberties from the fell graſp of this deteſted crew—To them extend thy mercy; and let me pour my thanks for that celeſtial fortitude which glows within my breaſt—with it I can defy the ſtorms of fortune, ſafe in the approval of a guilt⯑leſs mind, which, not deſerving wrong, can never feel diſgrace.

Great chief, your ſuccours come too late—alas! he's gone! Oh! for vengeance on that traitor, Roldan;—may this arm drive him from the earth, which groans at bearing ſuch a wretch, and hurl him to the infernal gulph, as yet untenanted by any fiend ſo curſed.

Alonzo, doſt thou not bluſh to call theſe wretches, countrymen, who ſpurn at ſacred virtue, and ſeem to court pre-eminence in perdition.

Spain, thou haſt loſt thy glory—pride and fanaticiſm have rear'd their bloody banner, and virtue flies to foreign climes for ſhelter— Orozimbo, to thee and to thy country I dedicate my life—Hark!

The cannon's ireful throat, wont proudly to proclaim defiance, now throws along the wave a ſolemn ſound, as knolling a departed friend.

I have eſcaped the blood-hounds— Zounds! how I ſcampered—I never before knew [24]I was ſo eminently gifted with that faſhionable military accompliſhment, retreating.

What means this ſtrange appearance?

I'll tell you—that cannibal, Roldan, was, I believe, a little inclined to be dainty, and, wiſhing for a choice bit, conſigned me over to Valverdo, who ſtood man-cook on the occaſion— he ordered me to be ſcored like pork, and then to be roaſted; and the humane prieſt remarked, there was not ſo excellent a receipt for inſuring the love of heaven, as taking half a dozen here⯑ticks and broiling them gently over a ſlow fire— Acknowledge Roldan Viceroy, ſays he—I'd ſee you damn'd firſt, ſays I—ſo, watching my op⯑portunity, I gave the prieſt a Corniſh hug, ſhewed his ſcullions a ſpecimen of Engliſh wreſtling, and off I came, truſſed for dreſſing, as you ſee me.

Well, my brave friend, thou then wilt aid our cauſe?

Do you ſuppoſe that I, who had my forefathers chopped to atoms in deciding the pre⯑ference between a red roſe and a white one, will ſtand idle in the cauſe of humanity?—No, give me a ſword, and if I don't, without benefit of clergy, execute that prieſt, Valverdo, whom the devil has ſent hither as his plenipotentiary, make me commander in chief to all the cowards in Europe.

Act in purſuance of the plan I gave, and with a rampart circle in the town, then let but hunger, that harbinger of mu⯑tiny once aſſail them, they, like oppoſing poiſons, will ſoon deſtroy each other, and ſave your darts the labour.

Truſt me, brave people, theſe gods are vulnerable—ſoon ſhall you behold your ja⯑velins burniſhed with their blood—hunger and thirſt is their's as well as our's, and the ſoul of a Spaniard takes its flight from a wound, as ſwiftly as an Indian's—Lead on.

SCENE I.—The Temple of the Sun.

MATCHLESS infamy! how could the vil⯑lain Roldan think ſo poorly of me? the tender of his friendſhip was ſufficient inſult, without the terms on which he offers it. Reſign thee to him! purchaſe by treachery the friend⯑ſhip of a traitor, —and for what? Had he the power to raiſe me above all the glories ambition ever coveted, ſhould I not, after ſuch a crime, ſit pining 'midſt my ſplendour, the victim of ac⯑cuſing conſcience, finding a curſe in every bleſſing.

My heart burns with impatience to lead your valiant troops to juſt revenge—but let vigilance and caution guide us.

My friend, do thou direct us at thy will—[to the prieſts]—prepare the rites, the ſa⯑crifice for war, and let the prieſteſs who was laſt received a ſervant of the Sun, approach the altar with her ſacred preſent.

'Tis ſhe—'tis Cora—ſupport me, heaven—this unexpected ſight o'erpowers me.—

Thou, glorious Sun, accept our hum⯑ble offerings—receive with favour the righteous homage of our grateful hearts—If thy children e'er have broken the laws of hoſpitality, if ever they have failed to greet a ſtranger with a bro⯑ther's love, they nor deſerve, nor dare to hope thy fatherly protection—but if they have not merited the wrongs they ſuffer, preſerve—protect them!

Prieſteſs, bear to our chief this conſe⯑crated weapon, it ſhall defend the Sun's inſulted glory, our ſovereign's, and his people's rights.

Forbear—the proffered kindneſs claims our thanks; but thy unhallowed hand wou'd be a profanation to a prieſteſs' ſacred perſon.

What means this tremor?—What ſhock ſo ſuddenly has ſtruck that lovely frame?

I know not—a momentary weakneſs—

Let all attention wait her—'tis but the effect of apprehenſion from her inexperience in her ſacred office—

She ſeemed much agitated—How ſhall I bear this aggregate of miſery—my agony I fear will ſpeak, what ſhou'd be hid from all.—

Conclude your rites; and may the power ſupreme accept our fervent prayers, and be our humble offerings grateful to him.

SCENE II. An Indian Town.

I tell you, this new world is crammed with wizzards and aſtrologers, that whiz about in the night time, raiſing ſtorms, tempeſts, and miſchief; and can tell the day a man is to die, with as much certainty as—as—

As you can the death of your own pa⯑tients.

And can prolong your life year after year as eaſily—as you can a law-ſuit.

But what curſed luck it is to be cooped up here with a parcel of ſavages, who know as much of litigation, as I do of the war-whoop— here I ſee gold enough to make me a judge; but I can't get a bit big enough to buy a ſcrap of parchment.

Curſe the new world, I ſay—there is not a man in it wants a phyſician but myſelf— If I cou'd but have gone back with Columbus— he muſt by this time be near Spain, and perhaps old Dorothy's dead.

Shall I never ſee my dear En⯑gliſhman [29]again? He pleaſes my heart when pre⯑ſent, but ah, how he plagues it when abſent.

Singular caſe—always plagued my wife when preſent, pleaſed her when abſent.—

Moſt amiable and wealthy ſavage, be⯑hold a lawyer and a chriſtian, who will give you the fee ſimple of his heart, and receive in return, all your love, and

all your money.—Doctor, I wiſh to join iſſue here—I'll employ you as counſel, —ſay ſomething for me.

I will—I will—

My dear, beautiful goldfinch, that fellow is a wicked, cheating lawyer.

I ſee he's doing my buſineſs for me.

Look with an eye of commiſeration on one who loves thee.—Oh, how I long to kiſs thoſe pouting lips.

You ugly creature, if you touch me, I'll cry out.

Cry out, ha, ha!—when a wo⯑man declares ſhe will cry out, and when I ſay I will give a man a ducat to ſave him from ſtarving, I believe we are both apt to be curſedly worſe than our words—come, one buſs—Oh lud, oh lud! how much in love I am!

You old propagator of poiſons, is this the way you plead my cauſe? By heaven, my dear, that old aſſaſſin has killed more than all the bravoes in Spain.

Is a Doctor a bravo?

Yes, my dear, with an univerſity edu⯑cation—why, you old idol of grave-diggers, have not you confounded all diſtinction between a pre⯑ſeription and a death-warrant—had not you a re⯑gular [30]annuity from the undertakers—have not you cheated me out of thouſands, by making people die ſo faſt, I had not time to make their wills?—here's a pretty fellow to make love to a ſweet girl—Why, he's as blind as juſtice, as un⯑feeling as a whipping-poſt, as diſeaſed as a laza⯑retto, and as old as a chancery ſuit.

Oh, you Janus-faced villain—What, traduce my fame?—was not I always a favourite with the women?—when their huſbands were ill, did not the dear creatures always ſend for me? —had not I the honour of receiving a gold medal from the inquiſition for keeping a man alive nine days, during the moſt excruciating torture?— and did not I cure you of a crick in the neck, which you got by ſtanding in the pillory, you one-ear'd raſcal?

Yonder I ſee Herbert, and ſhou'd he find you here—

He, I ſuppoſe, wou'd make his cane join iſſue with my head—I abſcond.

Oh, you cowardly villain! what, run away—egad, I'll be off too.

Now I'm alone, I'll practice ſuch behaviour as, I am told, the women in the other world uſe, that I may win the heart of my dear Engliſhman.—Firſt then, I muſt avoid him— certainly—but that I'll do ſome other time—then I muſt abuſe him—true, but how!—Oh, were it my taſk to praiſe, how prodigal would this heart be in pouring forth its ſtore, which niggard now, will not afford one harſh idea. But I muſt try— ah, yonder he comes—well, I'm quite indifferent [31]whether I ſee him or not—I'll not walk in his way, I'm determined.

It's always my infernal luck to be in a rage—to think that theſe innocent people, who lived as happily before the Spaniard's came, as the people in a village do before an attorney comes among them—ſhould now have gridirons for beds—and what they think worſe—the Spa⯑niards place on their bodies, which were as free as Engliſhmens—an indelible mark of ſlavery.— Oh, I hope nobody will contradict me to day—I wiſh I could ſee Nelti—her ſoothing fondneſs would—

Ah, Nelti, how do you do?

—My love! my love!!

Is it you? I declare I did not obſerve you.

No—what might you be thinking of, my dear?

That ſuperior being, the elegant Alonzo.

You were? and pray what might in⯑duce you?

Heigho!

My ſweet girl, I'll tell you what. I have been in a moſt infernal rage, and I am not ſure it is quite abated—ſo, to prevent miſtakes, kiſs me, —and, if you pleaſe, we'll have no jokes at preſent; for, tho' I love joking pretty well, I love kiſſing a deviliſh deal better.

What a charming effect unkindneſs [32]has—I'll even give him plenty on't—really, Sir, you muſt poſſeſs a conſiderable ſhare of vanity, in ſuppoſing there is no object worthy my regard but you—don't deceive yourſelf—you, —whom Do⯑lores ſays, kicked the women, and were kicked by the men.

He ſaid that, did he? When I have the honour of meeting him, I'll try whether I have forgot my kicking. But—zounds, did not you tell me you adored me?

But then I had ſcarcely ſeen the elegant Alonzo, the ſage Dolores,—beſides, that was ſome time ago.

Whew !!! Oh, there muſt be ſome miſtake—certainly one of the wizards old Do⯑lores talks of muſt have been buſy here—but come, Nelti, have done with folly, and tell me you love me ſincerely.

I wiſh I cou'd—but—

Damn your buts, yon imp of miſ⯑chief, what do you mean?—have you encouraged me one day, to make my mortifications greater the next? have I left the jilts of one world to find the ſame whirligig tricks in another— don't provoke me, or, by St. George and his dragon, I'll—damnation, that a man can't, with honour, beat any woman but his wife.

Oh dear, I have gone too far—Harry, Harry!

Keep out of my way, or by all the heroes in England I ſhall never contain myſelf— don't come near me, talk of me, or think of me— Go to Alonzo, —go to the doctor, or go to the devil; and as long as you are as miſerable as I wiſh you, dam'me if I care where you go—

I find I don't know how to uſe a man ill—I was a fool for trying it—I can't tell how Engliſh women manage—but I am very ſure I was made to uſe men kindly.

SCENE IV.—The Spaniſh Camp. [Night.]

Our commander Roldan, muſt not think of ſharing in this treaſure—damn ſubordi⯑nation—are not we Chriſtians ſuperior beings? and have not we a right to murder as many In⯑dians as we think fit?

Aye, to be ſure; if they won't be⯑come Chriſtians quietly, we muſt broil them till they do.

This is the ſaucieſt Indian we have caught yet—all good words are thrown away upon him, ſo, bring in the rack.

Come, be content to work and become a ſlave, and we'll ſhew you how to live.

No, give me your tortures, and I'll ſhew you how to die.

The hour ſeems big with horror, and the vivid lightning, blazons the murky mantle of the night with awful ſplendour—Moſcoſo, why are you abſent from your guard?—carry that gold to my tent.

I won't—I tell you what, Viceroy, my [34]maxim is this, —always to obey my commander to the laſt drop of my blood, while he lets me have my own way—why, you are not in Spain! by St. Lucifer, I won't part with the gold, ſo, what ſignifies oppoſition, when you know you can't help yourſelf?

Oh, Columbus, how fully art thou now revenged—

—execrable wretch!—but we are friends—the common ſafety requires obe⯑dience, and only to preſerve you all from death, I venture to oppoſe your wills.

Well, well, I am ſatisfied—I am of a ſweet diſpoſition—I have murdered many a man without bearing him the leaſt ill will.

Who is that Indian?

I don't know; but he's a damn'd ſaucy one, and minds no more dying, than we do killing him.

Has the torture extorted no ſecrets from him?

We have not began to pinch him yet.

What means this horrid noiſe? The earth trembles.

Oh, mercy!

Cowards, proceed to extort confeſſion from that reptile.

I won't touch a hair of his head—do you think I am a ſavage? how the ground ſhakes!

This war of elements is aweful, and may make theſe half-formed villains ſqueamiſh.

Could you find in your heart to tor⯑ture [35]a poor fellow-creature? We'll releaſe that Indian.

Well, be it ſo.—

But let not ſouls like yours be daunted; 'tis not the firſt tempeſt you have witneſſed—cheerly, my friends.

I think its quite gone off—bring that raſcally Indian back, we'll—

Oh, mercy! why, this is an earthquake.

Earthquake—aye, a terrible one.

The earth ſeems ready to open and ſwallow us up—let us find the prieſt and get ab⯑ſolution—Oh, mercy! mercy!

SCENE V.—A view of the Temple of the Sun. In the back ground a mountain.

Where'er I turn, 'tis ruin all and death. The wrath of heaven, rouſed at the crimes it views, pours forth its mighty vengeance.— Oh God of juſtice—may thy awful power bury within that earth their ſins incumber, all who for thirſt of gold forget humanity, dare to make thy ſacred name a ſanction for their crimes.—In this hour of horror, how does my anxious heart beat for her fate, who never can be mine—this tem⯑ple's hated walls encircle all that on earth could make me bleſt—but how can I approach her, and [36]to remain uncertain of her ſafety, is worſe than death

—E'en now, perhaps, the earth entombs its richeſt treaſure.

—The dreadful ſhock increaſes.—Spare, ſpare my Cora!

Revive, revive, my angel! let no fears aſſail that ſpotleſs boſom—Turn not from him, who, 'midſt this ſhock of nature, knows no ter⯑ror but for thee.

Whither am I borne? What art thou? Tell me—'tis he, 'tis he—the conſtant object of my thoughts!

Has Cora e'er beſtowed a thought on on her Alonzo."—Oh joy unhoped for.— In this dread hour to ſhare thy fate was all my utmoſt wiſhes could aſpire to—but now to hear thee own a mutual flame, is bliſs which bears my raptured mind almoſt beyond the check of reaſon.

How my heart beats at this unlooked-for meeting.—How little could I hope to be thus bleſs'd a few ſhort minutes ſince, when I expected death at every rude commotion—yet, even then, on thee my thoughts were fixed—thee I im⯑plored to aid me, and my laſt ſigh would have breathed bleſſings on thee.

Oh my Cora, how ſhall I tell thee what I feel at this exceſs of tenderneſs.

[37]Ha! heaven! my joy had baniſhed from my thoughts all fear; and muſt we, muſt we, at a time like this, glut the devouring earth, or drown in floods of fire—let's fly to ſeek for ſafety.

Safety—'tis here

—within thy arms I dread no danger.

My heaven of bliſs, to die in thy em⯑brace, death would have no power to inflict a pang, but thy dear life is all I have to hope of happineſs on earth, and heaven direct me to preſerve it.

SCENE I.—A rich country with an arbour.

MY Cora, methinks I never lived till now— all that has paſſed of life, has been a dull journey to this point of happineſs.

Alonzo—Oh, how that name vibrates thro' every nerve; and makes ſuch ſweet com⯑motion in each pulſe, as tho' they ſwelled to emulate my lips, and ſtrove to utter it.—

How my fancy glows with all the hap⯑pineſs which awaits us—we'll fly together to the dear retreats, where nature reigns with uncon⯑trolled dominion—there, free from every care which dwells with buſy, artificial life, each day ſhall greet us with unclouded joy, and each new hour ſhall bring increaſe of bliſs—there ſhall the dear delights of huſband and of father—

Oh, Alonzo!

Why droops my love?

Father, ſaid'ſt thou?—that word has from my lethargy rouſed me to madneſs—What have I done?—Love has with tyrant power ſub⯑dued my ſoul, and forced from my fond mind each ſenſe of duty and each tie of nature—where [39]ſhall I fly?—where has the earth a place to hide a wretch like me?

Do not diſtract me, Cora—explain theſe terrors—be quick to tell me, that my heart may ſhare in every pang of thine.

Doom'd to the cruell'ſt lot of human mi⯑ſery, hear all the horrors of my fate—when I, with heart which ne'er had felt one ſenſe of paſ⯑ſion which it glows with now, gave up my future days to holy ſolitude, that I by ſuch a ſacrifice, might heap more honours on a father's head than e'en his virtues could procure him—I then (Oh, heaven) ſhould love e'er prove my con⯑queror, conſigned myſelf to death, e'en thee, Alonzo, that raſh oath condemned thee too.

Ceaſe to bewail without a cauſe—a few ſhort hours will bear us from the dread of all the terrors which oppreſs thy fear-ſtruck fancy— then haſte, my love.

Whither, Alonzo?—What, leave my hapleſs father and my ſiſters to expiate my crime —they are ſureties for me—my flight would doom their innocence to bleed for my offence.

What doſt thou utter?—Am I—am I the author of ſuch direful ruin—am I the mur⯑derer of thy guiltleſs race?—did not affection check my ireful arm—did not my love command me to exiſt to ſhare thy doom, whatever fate de⯑cree it, no longer wou'd I ſtruggle with the hor⯑rors that I feel, but part with life and miſery to⯑gether.

Is this the comfort thou canſt give to Cora?—Ah, why talk I of comfort—comfort's the lot of innocence—ſhall guilt like mine—ſhall blind diſtracted paſſion, hope to feel the dear [40]felicity that virtue feels—Leave me, Alonzo, and preſerve thyſelf; then let me fly to meet the worſt of deaths, ſo I may ſpare my honoured fa⯑ther's life, and ſave the offspring which has not diſgraced him.

Oh, ceaſe, in pity ceaſe—let not thy frantic deſperation drive thee to certain ruin.

Alonzo, can'ſt thou counſel parricide— would'ſt thou receive a murderer to thy arms?— Lead me to the temple.—The tumult of the night may have preſerved my flight unknown—then let me haſte.—

Muſt I reſign thee—muſt we part—

Oh, Cora, how hard a fate is ours.

Alonzo, if parting thus with thee, or inſtant death were left me to decide on, how ſhould I ſpurn exiſtence ſo dearly to be purchaſed. —But, oh, my father—my ſiſters—then let deſpairing love prey on my heart—the anguiſh of remorſe ſhall never reach it.

SCENE II.—The outſide of the Temple.

I have beheld no creature, all ſeems as ſtill, as if the late convulſive ſhock of nature had ſpared no beings but ourſelves.

For what a fate Alonzo, are we ſpared: —let me not think, or all my reſolution will for⯑ſake me—Leave me before I well can realize our parting; for if I give ſcope to the dire thought, madneſs or death muſt rob me of all thought.

I will not, cannot ſay farewell; for yet, propitious heaven may bleſs us with each other.

Oh! Alonzo, no more—

SCENE VI. The town.

Forgive thee, my angel—name not the word—I like a woman to be a little whimſical in trifles, as long as ſhe has the ſta⯑mina of affection at bottom—I am for none of your ſtill, quiet, good ſort of women, that make a man's life one continued dead calm— no—no—refreſhing breezes for me—when one is ſure not to be driven by them on the rocks of averſion, they render the voyage of life free from languor and inſipidity—

Reſt aſſured every future breath of mine ſhall ſpeak only affection and eſteem—but, my Herbert, to owe my life to thy protecting arm, is ſuch joy, as makes me, ſpite of its awful hor⯑rors, bleſs laſt night, which thus reſtor'd thee to my aching heart.

My charming girl! Egad, I thought it was all over with us.

Here come thoſe frights, Dolores and Bribon—I ſhou'd like to plague 'em dearly.

Shou'd you, you rogue.—Egad, what you have told me about necromancers, and the ſtrange opinion of your country, that people's lives are joined together, has given me an idea which will plague them confoundedly, for their credulity in aſtrology is equal to their profeſſional ignorance.—This way, and I'll explain.

Very true—as nature here aſſerts her rights, of courſe monkies have privilege to chatter without fear of correction, but to [43]compare your paltry profeſſion with the noble art of healing?

Why, to ſay the truth, Doctors do put people out of their miſery.

Come, that's better than lawyers, who put them into miſery, and leave them there.

Call in a phyſician, he kills, or nature cures.

True; but call in a lawyer, and egad, kill or cure, right or wrong, is equally fatal—

—Zounds! there's Herbert— tuſh, be quiet—let's liſten.

You amaze me! Can it be poſſible that your necromancers are ſo very potent?

True indeed, my love.

This union of lives is very wonder⯑ful, and doubtleſs very true—If old Dolores knew that his life depended on another's fate, how anxious wou'd he be to know whoſe—

I am very anxious.

I'd give half my eſtate to know it.

Lives linked together!—oh! I've heard of it.

So have I—it's a wonderful diſcovery!

To be ſure it is.—Why, it accounts at once for thoſe curſed unprofitable apoplexies, What's that cat-o-nine tails?

Theſe varied coloured braids explain every thing as your books do.

By theſe knotty hieroglyphics, the necromancers expound the decrees of fate—Ob⯑ſerve.

Keep off—I would not touch it for the world—the idea makes me paralytic. I hope my partner for life is one of theſe fine healthy Indians—long life to the worthy crea⯑tures —I love them in my heart, and ſo I ought —are not all mankind a kin to one another?

I'm exceedingly alarmed—wonder who they could find to couple with a lawyer's ſoul.— Sweeteſt of women—if you would condeſcend to enquire.

Oh, if you would obtain from the necromancer one of theſe conjuring things, to inform me who is intereſted in my unhappy lot, I'd pray for you—I'd go to the devil for you— I'd—

And never again teaze me with love?

Never—never.

I'll hate you as long as I live.

Then meet me preſently—you ſee yonder cave.

Yes.

That's the dwelling of the necromancer.

I won't go there—I would not ſee his devilſhip for the fame of AEſculapius.

Nor I, to be the Lycurgus of the new world.

Well then, I'll take care you ſhall not ſee him—ſo, follow me, and I'll get you infor⯑mation will ſet your hearts at eaſe.

I declare, what ſhe has ſaid, has made me ſo ill, I can ſcarce ſtand—Oh, lord, I am afraid my accomplice is going.

Come, Bribon, forget and forgive—

and, as you are ill, there's a pretty, taſteleſs medicine that I'm ſure will do you good, my dear friend—Dam'me, but there's a doſe for you, however.

And does that old fool think I'd enſure death by taking his curſed po⯑tions— ah, Sir, there is no way to deal with doctors.

I beg your pardon, give them fees while you are well, and nothing when you are ill, and they are not the miſchievous animals you think them.

If the necromancer will but ſpeak the truth—

Ha! ha! already I've perform'd a miracle—for there go a phyſician and a lawyer, wiſhing to ſind among men health and ſincerity— This partnerſhip of liver is a whimſical kind of doctrine, and yet, abſurd as it ſeems, I feel it not altogether untrue, for were my Nelti to die, I believe, Herbert, thy life wou'd not be worth many days.

SCENE IV.—The inſide of an Indian houſe.

How anxious I am to know whom my precious life is joined to—Ah! here comes Nelti— Tell me, my dear girl—

Get out of my way—

I tell you what, old Hellebore, I'll— Ah, here ſhe comes—now for it

Sweeteſt meſſenger of fate, tell me the name of him, the chords of whoſe heart are ſo twiſt⯑ed with mine, that one crack will diſſever both.

Now attend—I ſaid to the necromancer, Moſt profound and learned ſage, on whoſe life depends that of old Doctor Dominic Dolores? ſays he, Has he not a decrepid form—withered face—ſunk eyes—pug-noſe—paper lips—leather cheeks—ſtraggling teeth—ſays I, the deſcription ſuits exactly—He then gave me this, which in⯑forms me your life is joined to—

Whom?

I hope ſome raſcal, who will be hang'd in a week.

Very likely, for it is joined to a lawyer's, and his name is—Bribon

when one dies, the other will inevitably expire.

Oh, lud! Oh, lud!

Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

I ſee I've made you quite happy—ſo, good bye.

Oh, cruel fate! that my precious life muſt depend on my mortal enemy—I can't bear it.

To be in the ſame death-warrant with that old ſuperannuated villain—Oh, 'tis too much!

I think it was ridiculous enough in us to quarrel about a ſilly girl, Eh, Bribon?

Very, Doctor; juſt as if there were not unavoidable miſeries enough in life, without mak⯑ing them.

True—how do you do?

You don't look well.

My dear friend, let me feel your pulſe —Oh, lord, 'tis very quick.

Dear Doctor, ſit down.

I ſay, Bribon, you did not, (may be,) happen to ſwallow the contents of the bottle I gave you

Oh, the ſcoundrel!—

—Firſt tell me how you are.

Why, independent of my care for you, I am very well—ſo, you did not take the medicine? Well, its no great matter—I'm not offended with you—perhaps it is well as it is.

What an old villain! If I thought it would not endanger his life, I would plague him [48]heartily

I don't think, my dear Doctor, you look ill.

Ill! I never was better in my life

Egad I will—I'll plague him

and, thank heaven, the cordial you gave me, and which I have juſt ſwallowed—

Why, you did not take it, did you?

Every drop—I dare ſay it will do me infinite good.

Oh, I dare ſay it will—let me feel your pulſe again—perhaps it may give you a bit of a twinge acroſs the ſtomach—but don't mind it.

No—you ſeem frighten'd.

Not at all—don't agitate yourſelf— let me feel your pulſe again—how lucky it is, my dear friend—any thing the matter?—How lucky, I ſay, that the lives of two men ſhould be linked together, who love each other ſo ſincerely— Eh, what's the matter?

Nothing—I felt a little ugly pain, but its gone off—I can't help laughing to think we ſhould quarrel about a girl—Ha, ha! ha, ha!

Ha, ha!—Oh, Lord! Ha, ha, ha! Are you ſure the pain's gone off—Ha, ha!—Oh, Lord! oh, dear!

Oh, there again—they increaſe—they increaſe—Oh! oh!

I am a miſerable old man! What, again, Eh?

Have you any more of the bottle?

Oh, no—I have a notion you have had enough of that.

I'm torn to death—pray preſcribe for me.

Oh, Lord! not for the world—Leave it to nature—ſhe's the beſt phyſician—Do you feel better?—I think you look better.

I feel I am dying—as a proof of my love for you, Doctor, I bequeath you—(Oh!) all my property what⯑ever, and wiſh you a long and happy life.

But, zounds! you forget I ſha'n't out⯑live you a minute

Oh! he's going—help! help!

What's all this bawling?

Can nothing ſave my dear friend?— my life is wound up in his.

Ah, poor Bribon! what, he's going—now, is not it a ſhocking thing, Doctor, that, be⯑cauſe this ſcoundrel is dying, ſome amiable gen⯑tleman won't live half an hour?

O, very ſhocking! and between you and I, Herbert, I am that amiable, miſerable old gentleman.

How will you part with Nelti?

Pooh! ſtuff—Do you think I mind parting with Nelti, or you, or all the world?—No; all my ſtruggles are, how to part with my ſweet ſelf, how to bid adieu to this dear, delicious little body—Oh! he's going—he's going.

Can you do nothing for him?

Bleeding,—bleeding's all that's left—If my hand's ſteady enough, I'll open a vein.

Be ſure you cut deep enough.

I will—I will—but I hav'n't my in⯑ſtruments about me.

Here's my ſword.

Give it me—I'll bleed him—

No, you don't—don't be frightened

bleſs your ſoul, it was all a fetch.

Come to my arms

what are you grinning at?

Ay, what are you—

I'll be revenged on him—I'll trick him out of Nelti yet.

What?

I'll marry Nelti.

What, are you mad? marry a young mettleſome wench that—pooh—nonſenſe—why, arſenic wou'd not ſend you to your grave with more expedition.

True, Bribon—I'll go to Nelti—ſo, farewell, Doctor.

You ſha'n't—you ſha'n't—I demand ſatisfaction—Oh, you cowardly—

SCENE. I.—Outſide of the Temple of the Sun.

STILL muſt I wander near theſe awful walls, uncertain of my fate.—Though days and weeks paſs on, yet nought I gain from lengthened time, but added woe.—Still, ſtill I tremble for her life! And were my mind relieved from that diſtracting fear, what comfort even then could reach me—The treaſure of my ſoul's immured in yon impenetrable ſhrine—buried for ever in that grave of youth and beauty.—Where can I find a thought of ought but wretchedneſs—

Alonzo!

What wou'd'ſt thou?

I come from Cora.

From Cora ſay'ſt thou? I dread—

Dread the worſt.—The hapleſs victim of unholy love ſends to Alonzo her dying bleſſing.

Oh heaven!

Her abſence from the temple was diſ⯑covered.—She was ſeen with thee.—She begged [52]me to conjure thee by her love, to ſave thyſelf from death by inſtant flight—obey her quickly—

Stay, ſtay I charge thee.

I have performed my office; urge not my ſtay, for I have feelings hard to be ſuppreſſed, and which, if not ſuppreſſed, might wound thee.

What can now wound me more?

We thought thee perfect, we adored thee with reverence, fit only for the power whoſe worſhip thou haſt violated.

Forbear old man; ceaſe thy untimely chidings.

My woes may ſurely juſtify my chid⯑ings. — I, who behold a race, in which each virtue heaven could give, all honour human power could beſtow, has bloomed for ages, blaſted with infamy, with infamy by thee.

"Forbear, forbear."—

I, who am doomed to view the deareſt object of my doating fondneſs, whoſe goodneſs oft' has ſteeped theſe aged eyes in tears of joy, to ſee her branded with guilt, devoted to de⯑ſtruction.—Have not I full cauſe, thus loudly to complain, and to upbraid thee, —I, her hapleſs father?—

Father ſay'ſt thou?

Thou, the father of my Cora.— Oh forgive me; yet how can'ſt thou forgive the murderer of thy child? Strike, ſtrike this weapon in my guilty breaſt—Oh give me death; it will at once to thee be vengeance, and to me be mercy.

I ſeek not vengeance; vengeance is for weaker woes.—But tell me, how could'ſt thou heap ſuch anguiſh on a heart that never injured thee?

Oh father, let me call thee ſo— wring not my ſoul thus—I love thy daughter with a flame pure as her virtues; think then what I muſt feel, and even thou may'ſt pity me.

If thou doſt truly love my hapleſs child, e'en in the midſt of all my woes, my bo⯑ſom owns one pang for thee—The torments of my Cora ſoon muſt end.—Thine, alas!—but let me not encreaſe the ſorrows I could wiſh to ſoothe —Farewell—obey my dying child, and grant her all the joy ſhe now can taſte—to know that thou art ſafe.

Think'ſt thou I am baſe enough to live the monument of her deſtruction, and my own diſgrace.—No, if my life cannot alone appeaſe your violated laws, let me at leaſt partake my Cora's doom, and in a fond embrace expiring, I'll bleſs the fate, that e'en in death unites us.

Our law allows no partial mitigation— leave her to meet the doom thou can'ſt not ſave her from; and do thou bear life a little longer, to give unhappy Cora, in her dying pangs, one ray of comfort.

Oh my father!

Farewell, farewell my ſon; and if thou can'ſt be happy, heaven can tell I wiſh thee ſo.

Now then the ſum of horror is com⯑plete.—

Alonzo, thy aid is now our chief reliance—Roldan prepares to attack us; and ſince the good Columbus left our coaſt, thro' many tedious months of care and danger, thy counſel and thy valour, ſtill have been defence and ſafety to us. But, why droops the brave Alonzo?— If any tender ſcruple of ſhedding native blood now check thy wonted ardour, freely avow the generous weakneſs, —On thee depends our fate— yet would I welcome the loſs of empire and of life, rather than ſave them by Alonzo's miſery.

No—With honeſt zeal I draw my ſword againſt the enemies of innocence, tho' the ſame clime hath bred us.—He who regards his coun⯑try's real honour, owns for his countrymen, none but the virtuous.—Yet, Orozimbo, this heart is burſting with its anguiſh.

Thy ſorrows, tho' I am unconſcious of the cauſe, have found their way into my kin⯑dred breaſt.—Tell me thy griefs, that I may ſoothe, perhaps relieve them.

Thou, thou alone haſt power to do it.

Then, by my kingdom, thou ſhalt find relief.

Command that all re⯑main at diſtance.

Retire!

Behold thoſe walls! does thy exalted mind, which owns the nobleſt energies of reaſon, does it approve that ſtructure, reared by miſtaken zeal, to glorify the Deity, by the dire ſacrifice of all his deareſt bleſſings?

Say on.

Does ſhe, who, in the prime of youth, when every fine affection of the ſoul glows with its nobleſt fervour, when all the joys of life ſeem decked with magic ſplendour, does ſhe deſerve the puniſhment of guilt, who, buried in yon' ruthleſs priſon, caſts a fond thought on the de⯑lights ſhe has loſt, dares to condemn the tyranny which binds her, and claims her right to liberty and love?

I would aſpire to reign beyond the limits of weak prejudice; but reflect, Alonzo, how ſacred are a country's cuſtoms.

There, there's the ſource of half the miſery of human kind—cuſtom is the vile con⯑founder of virtue and of vice.—It checks the operation of our godlike reaſon, and makes the greateſt glory of creation, a being void of will— Oh, Orozimbo, ſoar ſuperior to the miſts of error —when thy great ſoul diſplays unmanacled its glo⯑rious attributes—thou'lt ceaſe to think that God delights in cruelty, whoſe bleſt infuſion in the human heart breathes mercy and benevolence.

Oft have I admired thy wiſdom and thy virtue; but, now methinks, in thee I hear the voice of heaven, and it ſhall be obeyed.— But I muſt praiſe thy wonderous goodneſs, which can thus plead for other's miſery.

There I am unworthy of thy praiſe— mine is a ſelfiſh zeal—I've ſued for one whom I adore; nay for myſelf I've ſued.—Oh, Orozimbo, in the repeal of an inhuman law, thou haſt re⯑ſtored my forfeit life—nay more—the life of her I love.

What do I hear?

Great chief, the foe is on their march— your warriors are aſſembled, anxious for your pre⯑ſence to lead them to victory.

On my friends.

One moment ſtay.—Leſt the fell chance of war (which, heaven avert) ſhou'd leave my lovely Cora without the generous friend ſhe has found in thee; firſt let me bear your royal mandate to the temple, ſtrictly commanding, (whatever fate may in the battle wait us) pardon and liberty for her.

I muſt in perſon give the important mandate—Lead on the troops

and I with ſpeed will join you.

I leave you to the conduct of the brave Alonzo.

SCENE III. A Battle.

Alas! our efforts are, I fear, in vain.

We'll fight, my noble chief, 'till we force victory to crown us—our deeds ſhall ſhame her for inclining to our daſtard enemies—Alonzo bears about him like an hungry lion.

Heaven protect and aid him.

What an unlucky dog am I—I was within ſix yards of that deſtroyer of innocents, Roldan, and yet the villain had the good luck to eſcape me—I have not had a bit of fighting ſo long, and this whet has given me ſuch an appe⯑tite—ha, ha! here comes work for me—now, my boy, Herbert, ſtick to them.

Yield directly, you Engliſh de⯑ſerter.

Yes, I am a deſerter; but there alone where an Engliſhman will be one, from villainy and oppreſſion to honour and humanity—Have at you, bloodhounds!

Herbert in danger

Aid me, ye powers!

Alas! his manly breaſt preſents itſelf, and my erring hand may ſlay my love—They overpower him—now, heaven direct me

—he's ſafe—

Saved by a woman's hand!—ſhe faints —the ſpirit which animated her to preſerve me, now ſinks beneath the weight of its own effort— Good heaven! can it be?—'Tis Nelti.

Oh, Herbert, joy has almoſt the ſame effect that terror had, and I am ſcarce able to bear the exceſs of happineſs your ſafety gives me.

My dear angelic girl, I am in ſuch tranſport, I ſcarcely know, whether I am in earth or in heaven.

But let me beſtow you in a place of ſafety, for you hear I am wanted.

Then my buſines is not done—I came here to watch your ſafety, and I'll not leave you; ſo, obey me—you are not the firſt hero who has had a female commander.

Then act, my love, like a commander, and get out of the reach of danger as faſt as you can—See how the Indians fly—Hah! we are ſur⯑prized, and our retreat cut off—This way—this way—

SCENE THE LAST.—A garden of the Temple of the Sun—at the upper end an arch.

Tho' I receiv'd, with all apparent re⯑verence, the mandate of the King, to ſpare the impious prieſteſs, I but diſſembled, to preſerve our ſacred rites inviolate—had I oppoſed the hated order, his power would have reſcued from our graſp, the object of our vengeance.

There can exiſt no doubt—On the [...] which followed that dreadful night, when [...]e dire war of elements diffuſed ſuch general horror, Bleſſco, whoſe truth none yet e'er doubt⯑ed, beheld her conducted to the temple by one of theſe hated ſtrangers, with whom ſhe parted [59]with every mark of fond endearment—Long he concealed this, till at length his conſcience ſore⯑ly wounded by the guilt he ſecreted, he on his oath declared to me this profanation. Inſtant conduct the offender to her doom.

Oh, reverend prieſt, on my devoted head let fall the vengeance of the offended law—the crime was mine; I heeded not the tears which trickled down my Cora's angel-face; I liſtened not to the reproving ſighs, which forced their way from her lament⯑ing boſom; but, deaf to nature's voice, com⯑pelled her to dedicate her youth to ſolitude and miſery.

Hence, nor offer further inſult to of⯑fended heaven, by pleading for a wretch who braves its laws.

Sure heaven will pardon a poor old man, who pleads for mercy to his child—the of⯑fence was mine, then take my forfeit life, but ſave, O ſave my Cora.

Dost thou ſtill with impious ſtubborn⯑neſs, perſiſt to keep concealed the partner of thy guilt? Say, who it was ſeduced thy innocence?

Oh, for mercy, ſpare me ſo dire a thought—Shall I be his accuſer—Oh bleſs, pre⯑ſerve him, Heaven.

This inſtant meet thy fate.

What raſh foot dares, unbidden, to approach the ſacred Temple?

I wiſh my tidings did not juſtify in⯑truſion —Reverend Prieſt, freedom is loſt—the barbarous foe hath conquered.

‘Thou haſt armed the hand of Heaven againſt us—its indignation falls on ourheads in vengeance for thy crime’—Lead to her death.

Hold—doth Alonzo live?

He was too brave for life—With ardour more than human he ſought the fierceſt dangers of the fight, and hurled deſtruction round him; but at length hemmed in by numbers more than mortal arm could force, he muſt have fallen, to ſwell the horrors of this dreadful day.

Then welcome, death

Ha! it muſt be ſo—the ſecret is re⯑vealed.

Lead me to my fate—Your cruelty will now be mercy—My ſoul's impatient to throw off this load of life, eager to join the ſpirit of my lord, and ſoar in union to the realms of bliſs.

Silence this frenzy—or if thou muſt be loud in exclamation, curſe with your dying breath your impious violator.

Peace, monſter, dare not to breathe a ſound reproachful to my Alonzo's memory, leſt I forget the calm ſolemnity this awful moment claims, and pour on thee my curſes.

To death with her, and thou, old man, this inſtant quit the Temple, or behold thy daughter bleed.

Farewell, my child, I'll weep no more. —This burſting heart will ſoon force out a paſ⯑ſage for my ſoul to take its ſlight and follow thee.

My life, my Cora—Could their barba⯑rian hands dare point their vengeance at thy love⯑ly form? And have I then the bliſs to claſp thee once again—Tho' danger, and tho' death on every ſide ſurround us, ſtill to enfold thee thus is extacy.

My loved Alonzo—They told me thou wen't dead, and I was eager to eſcape from life, again to meet thee.

By miracle hath Heaven preſerved me— But ſay, what meant thoſe bloody rites?

Think not thy frenzy ſhall impede our juſtice.

Make faſt the Temple gates—The foe will ſoon be here

Alonzo—doſt thou live, my friend?

The arm of heaven was ſurely ſtretched to ſave me—I forced my way thro' the oppoſing multitude, and ſeeing all was loſt, I came once more to view this precious treaſure, and die de⯑fending it—here I met death in all his direſt hor⯑ror, cloathed in the garb of prieſtly cruelty, not even thy command—their king's decree, could ſtop the torrent of their barbarous zeal.

Thou traitor—hence from my ſight —begone—

—death waits us all— let's meet it as we ought.

Oh! what a moment of diſtraction— muſt I behold thee—[to Cora] ſinking beneath the weight of butchering ſwords, or worſe, leave thee the victim of a brutal conqueror.

Can my Alonzo grudge me the bliſs to die with him—ſouls linked like ours, the call of death ſhould never ſummon ſingly.—The hor⯑rors of captivity, thou need'ſt not dread for me. —This

if the ſabres of the foe ſhrink from ſhedding a woman's blood, this ſhall prevent my lingering in life, when my dear lord has left it.

They come—now then for death.

Fare⯑well—farewell.—

Huzza! victory! victory!

Herbert!

Victory!—juſtice—hap⯑pineſs. —

huzza!

Inſtant eaſe this anxious heart.

Give me breath

huz⯑za! —now for it—in our late overthrow, finding our retreat cut off, Nelti and I ſcampered towards the ſhore, with a troop of the whiſkered blood⯑hounds at our heels.—There, to my ſurprize I beheld a fleet—Spaniſh colours—they were land⯑ing —I hailed the firſt boat—Who's your admiral ſays I—Columbus!—Columbus!

Columbus—

I ſay, Columbus—

Then, Spain, thou haſt retrieved thy name.

Who's your admiral, ſays I—Co⯑lumbus.—

Say on.

He landed, and when I had done crying, I informed him what had happened.— On the inſtant his troops flew to arms.—But Rol⯑dan's crew ſaved us the trouble of fighting—they fell on their coward knees

but here they come, and as they ought—Roldan in chains, and Columbus triumphant.

Hear'ſt thou, my love—let theſe de⯑lightful ſounds diſpel the hideous horrors which oppreſſed thee, and elevate thy ſoul, like mine, to heavenly bliſs.

Bliſs Alonzo! Can happineſs be ours?

For ever.

Receive, Alonzo, receive thy Cora to thy arms, and may the giver of all bliſs ſhower down upon your faithful loves, his choiceſt bleſ⯑ſings.

Oh, my dear country, for I muſt call thee mine, do I again behold thee? This happy hour o'erpays my utmoſt toil.—My friends, much have I to enquire.

Great Columbus, till my heart is made acquainted with thy fortunes, I cannot tell thee of my happineſs—Has Spain redreſſed thy in⯑juries — has Ferdinand —

Alonzo, my wrongs were enviable— captivity was triumph — When amidſt the ap⯑plauding ſhouts of thouſands, I approached the royal preſence, the ſuffering monarch ſhrunk from the fight, and threw his mantle o'er his face, crimſoned with ſhame; then raiſed me to his arms, ſtill my pride ſuſtained me; but when I beheld the beauteous Iſabella, try to force from their dire graſp my galling chains, and on each wound drop a balmy tear, loyalty and love ruthed on my ſoul, I embraced her royal feet, and gave her tears for thanks; then all the pride of pa⯑geantry was decreed, but my ſoul languiſhed for [65]the time, when, Orozimbo, I might thus again enfold thee, and reſtore to thee thy kingdom, freed from the gripe of ruthleſs tyranny.

Greateſt of men, in firmeſt confi⯑dence of thy excelling virtues, I repoſe my peo⯑ple's ſafety.

My noble Engliſhman, receive from my hand this lovely maid, and ſuch benefits as I can beſtow, you may command.

Now, my dear Herbert, you will be⯑come a great man, and live at your eaſe.

A great man, and be at eaſe!—never was ſuch a thing heard of. This is the ſort of being which paſſes for a great man, and I hope you don't call this being at eaſe—

—Ha, ha! No, my love, it requires a curſed deal more hard la⯑bour to impoſe on the world, than ſuits the tran⯑quil indolence of my diſpoſition. And now, that all may this day be happy, Doctor, a word with you.

What do you want, Sir, with my friend?

Aye, what do you want?

Only this, my excellent friends, I have abuſed your credulity.

How?

Your lives are independent of each other, and now you may hate him again as heartily as ever.

Did not the necromancer?

I was the necromancer, old Dominic.

You were—Get out of my way, you—

Ha, ha!

That was indeed a triumph.—See thoſe wretches cloſely guarded—their puniſhment muſt not now damp the joy I feel. Oh, were I ſa⯑tisfied no future Roldans would alarm your peace, I ſhould be bleſt indeed.—Had I earlier known that Englands monarch would have graced my fortunes with his victorious banner, then would your freedom been firmly ſixed.—They only, who themſelves are free, give liberty to others.