Cal. For that kind word,

Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth,
Weep on your feet, and bless you for this goodness.
Oh! "tis too much for this offending wretch,
This parricide, that murders with her crimes,
Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off,
Ere little more than half his years be number'd.
Sci. Would it were otherwise! but thou must
die.

Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort;
Death is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth our taking:
Come then,

Thou meagre shade: here let me breathe my last,
Charm'd with my father's pity and forgiveness,
More than if angels tun'd their golden viols,
And sung a requiem to my parting soul.

Sci. I'm summon'd hence; ere this my friends expect me.

There is I know not what of sad presage,
That tells me I shall never see thee more;
If it be so, this is our last farewell,
And these the parting pangs, which nature feels,
When anguish rends the heart-strings.-Oh, my
daughter!
[Exit.
Cal. Now think, thou curs'd Calista, now behold
The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin,
Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around,
That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head;
Yet heav'n, who knows our weak imperfect natures,
How blind with passions, and how prone to evil,
Makes not too strict inquiry for offences,
But is aton'd by penitence and pray'r:
Cheap recompense! here 'twould not be receiv'd;
Nothing but blood can make the expiation,
And cleanse the soul from inbred deep pollution.
And see, another injur'd wretch appears,
To call for justice from my tardy hand.

Enter ALTAMONT.

Alt. Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house of death!

And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades, Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight dark

ness,

And makes it grateful as the dawn of day.
Oh, take me in, a fellow mourner with thee,
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear;
And when the fountain of thy eyes are dry,
Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both.
Cal. I know thee well, thou art the injur'd Alta-
mont;

Thou com'st to urge me with the wrongs I've done thee;

But know I stand upon the brink of life,

And in a moment mean to set me free

From shame and thy upbraiding.

Alt. Falsely, falsely

Dost thou accuse me! O, forbid me not

To mourn thy loss,

To wish some better fate had rul'd our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true.

Cal. Oh, Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine,
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But, oh, behold! my proud, disdainful heart
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,
That, were I not abandon'd to destruction,
With thee I might bave liv'd for ages bless'd,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair! For now the measure of your woes is full. The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment.

Cal. My father!

Alt. That's a deadly stroke indeed.
Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth,
Attended but by few, and those unbidden.

I heard which way he took, and straight pursu'd him;

But found him compass'd by Lothario's faction,
Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.

Too late we brought him aid, and drove them back;
Ere that, his frantic valour had provok'd
The death he seem'd to wish for from their swords.
Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient
earth?

Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight?
And you, ye glitt'ring, heav'nly host of stars,
Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you;
For I am all contagion, death, and rain,
And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world,
This parricide shall be thy plague no more;
Thus, thus I set thee free.
(Stabs herself.)

Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!

Enter SCIOLTO, pale and bloody, supported by Servants.

Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die.
To thee and brave Horatio I bequeath
My fortunes.-Lay me by thy noble father,
And love my memory as thou hast his;

For thou hast been my son.-Oh, gracious heav'n!
Thou that hast endless blessings still in store
For virtue and for filial piety,

Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away;
But multiply thy mercies on his head.
Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with him,
And peace in all his ways.

(Dies.) Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon his

youth,

And bends him, like a drooping flow'r to earth.
By such examples are we taught to prove
The sorrows that attend unlawful love.
Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide
The injur'd bridegroom from his guilty bride.
If you would have the nuptial union last,
Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. [Exeunt.

Count. I do not say, I shall not marry the Marchioness; perhaps I may-yes, I may take her

GRANADA,

Sev. My lord, it was very fortunate the accident happened so near this house. Please to rest yourself in this apartment, while I give the necessary orders about mending your carriage. But I am afraid it cannot be refitted before to-morrow.

Count. No matter; besides, I shall be extremely happy in seeing your lord, the Marquis Almanza. Did not you say, you expected him home some time to-day?

Sev. Yes, we expect him every hour. Has your lordship any further commands?

Count. No; only be so kind as to see to the repairing my chaise.

Sev. I shall.

[Bows, and exit. Count. Well, here I am in the castle of Almanza, and so far success has crowned my adventure.

Gran. And what the design of that adventure can be, I am at a loss to guess. All this stratagem and mystery looks very much like some scheme contrived by love; and, if not directed by love, is something like madness.

Count. I have for many years tried thy fidelity, and will now confide in it. Love is the source of all my schemes.

Gran. Do you then not love your intended bride, the beautiful Marchioness?

Count. The Marchioness Merida is a charming creature, and I loved her passionately!-to distraction! till I found she loved me, and that satiated my desires at once.

my own.

Gran. I have known it for these six years, my lord, ever since I have been in your service.

Count. Yes, I once loved, I doated upon Merida; but the first time she kindly condescended to declare her passion for me, I fell asleep. (Yawns.) Gran. But who can be this new object? Count. Have not you heard of the young orphan Amanthis, of whom so many wonderful conjectures have been formed?

Gran. The young lady, whom the Marquis Almanza has brought up from her infancy, and keeps confined in a part of this castle, and has never suffered any living creature to behold?

Count. The same. But I have beheld her-I have written to her-I have spoken to her.

Gran. And would you, my lord, for a poor orphan, of whose birth and fortune all the world are ignorant, resign the noble and beautiful Marchioness?

Count. Yes; for I tell you she loves me, and it is very troublesome to be beloved. And although curiosity and envy were my sole motives for seeking to behold Amanthis, yet after such a sight, in which perfect beauty and enchanting grace, timid innocence with matchless sensibility, were all united, never can I forego the pleasing contemplation, or the hope, which has allured me to this enterprise.

Gran. But it is by some supposed, that the Marquis, notwithstanding his rank and fortune, means to marry Amanthis. Now, as he is your friend

Count. You mistake, Granada; the Marquis is no friend of mine. He is, to be sure, very obliging and civil when we meet; but no friendship, that should deter a man of gallantry from making him miserable, subsists between us.

Gran. But, my lord, pray satisfy my curiosity, you found means to see her.

how

Count. By mounting that wall, the prodigious height of which attracted your attention as we passed by at a distance. That wall surrounds the garden appropriated to Amanthis.

Gran. But how was it possible for you to ascend it?

Count. Every thing is to be effected by perseverance, and by money; and prove your skill, as I have proved mine. [Exeunt.

Enter DUKE MURCIA and SEVILLE. Duke. Seville, you know, everybody knows, how fond I am of my nephew. Have not I, from his childhood, acted as a father to him? Then why are the secret motives of this wonderful behaviour, which has surprised all the court, all his friends, and all his acquaintance, why not (though concealed from them,) revealed to me?

Sev. I can, my lord, give you but little light upon the subject; everything relative to this young lady has ever been held by the Marquis a most profound secret from every part of his family. I have only intrusted to me the key of a chamber adjoining to her apartments, where I go daily to receive her orders, and take to her all those things she commands, except one, and that the Marquis has positively prohibited.

Duke. And what can that one be? I am all impatience to know.

Sev. Books of every kind.

Duke. Poor thing! Poor thing! Why how, in such solitude, can she pass her time without reading?

Sev. She reads a great deal, sir. The Marquis, while he is in town, sends her books frequently; but they are all of his own hand-writing.

Duke. A man write books to a young woman? Why, you simpleton, they are love-letters.

Sev. No, indeed, my lord; some are on morality, some on divinity, and some history.

Duke. Write history! My nephew write books! And pray, when you wait upon her, what kind of conversation does she hold on the other side of the wainscot?

Sev. I never heard her speak.

Duke. Did not you say, you received her commands?

Sev. In writing. Every morning I find a paper, on which she or the duenna has written her orders. Would you like to see what she has ordered for to-day?

Duke. Very much-certainly- I am much obliged to you.

Sev. (Takes out a paper.) This is written by Amanthis herself.

Duke. And pray, how do you know her hand from the duenna's?

Sev. By the number of letters she writes to my lord, and of which I have the charge. (He gives the paper to the Duke.)

Duke. And what can they be but love letters? Seville, your account is a very suspicious one. (Reads.) Bring me some pens, some paper, and some pencils, for drawing;" and who has taught her to write and to draw?

Sev. Your nephew, I have no doubt, sir; and many other accomplishments besides.

Duke. I am out of all patience! (Reads again.) "Dinner and supper at the usual hours; and coffee at six o'clock." (Returning the paper.) Why, sir, your whole time is employed in fetching and carrying.

Enter Servant.

Serv. My lord is arrived, and now entering the

avenue.

Duke. He is alone? He has brought no company with him, I suppose?

Serv. Yes, sir; there are two ladies in the carriage. [Exit. Sev. Ladies! It is a long time since I have seen a lady in this house.

Duke. He has brought them to shut up, I suppose; inore employment for you, Mr. Seville. (Looks out.) Oh, no! I see who it is, a relation, a distant relation; the Marchioness Merida.

Enter MARQUIS ALMANZA, MARCHIONESS
MERIDA, and a female Attendant.

Duke. So, nephew, you see I have made free in your absence. Did you expect to find me here? Marq. No, sir; but it gives me great pleasure, and regret I did not come sooner on that ac

count.

Duke. My dear Marchioness, by what strange good fortune do I meet you at the castle?

March. By my complying with the request of the Marquis. (To the Marquis.) But, my lord, did not one of your servants acquaint you Count Valantia was here?

Duke. You see what your ladyship's attractions are; he heard you were coming, and so he contrived to be here before you. Came, too, with the pretence of having broken down his carriage! Ha, ha, ha! Very well, Marchioness.

March. Well, this is an instance of romantic gallantry, for which I will forgive him a thousand slights. Ha, ha, ha! it diverts me beyond measure; and he really broke the wheel of his carriage for the purpose?

Sev. So I am told, madam.

Marq. Seville, go immediately to the Count Valantia, and conduct him hither. [Exit Seville.] In the mean time, madam, permit me to shew you to your apartments.

March. No, my lord, that's a ceremony I must decline. I will merely adjust my dress, and be with you in less than an hour.

[Exit, Attendant following. Duke. (Aside.) Now we are by ourselves, I will-yes, I will open my mind to him. Marquis, nephew, I suppose you know who I am?

Marq. Certainly, sir. Did I ever seem to for

get?

Duke. You know, at your father's death, I adopted you.

Marq. I know it, sir.

Duke. And, in your youth, did I suffer you to squander your money? No. Did I ever suffer you to have any? No.

Marq. No.

Duke. Or did I ever comply with any of your foolish wishes? Is there a single indulgence you can lay to my charge?

Marq. No.

Duke. Then, do you not feel for me that respect, that reverence, that fear, and that love, which is due for all my kindness to you?

Marq. Yes, indeed, sir, I do.

Duke. I take your word. I believe you do. Who is that young woman you keep in a separate part of this house? Is she your mistress, or your daughter, or one whom you mean to marry, and by so doing bring disgrace upon your family? Or do you intend

Marq. Dear sir, I have no objection to reveal to you what I mean shortly to declare to all the world. Duke. Why, then, I am under a vast obligation to you for your confidence!

Marq. For these few months past, I have resolved to change my conduct, in regard to the per

son of whom you speak; and for that purpose did | I bring hither the Marchioness Merida, as the most proper person of my family to whom I could introduce Amanthis.

Duke. But not as your wife! Not as your wife, I hope.

Marq. No; as an unfortunate orphan, whom friendship and pity caused me to adopt. For thirteen years, I have been possessed of this precious charge.

Duke. But why precious? Speak coolly; don't put yourself in a passion; speak of her in the same language as when you speak of other women. Marq. I should, did not I see her unlike all others. [she is. Duke. No more raptures. I want to hear who Marq. Among the various friendships of my youth, do you not remember the name of Alberto? Duke. Certainly; was he not obliged to fly his country, on account of some unfortunate duel, and has died in exile?

Marg. So it is believed. From an affluent fortune, I saw him, by unthought-of casualties, reduced to ruin. I saw him follow to the grave a much-loved wife; beheld him returning from that fatal duel, by which his life was forfeited to his country. In this scene of sorrow, I softened, in some sort, his agonizing woes, by taking from his hand, all his poor distracted mind had left to solace in, an infant daughter; swearing to become to her that careful guardian, that tender parent, and that faithful friend, which I have proved.

Duke. Very careful, indeed! But did you promise him to lock her up?

Marg. The mode of her education has been an after-thought entirely. As Amanthis grew up, I saw, with dread, the charge I had undertaken; and the reported death of my friend, increased my apprehensions for my trust. I had vowed to protect, to guard her. To whom could I transfer the oath? and my rank at court would often take me from her.

Duke. And do you think, if she had been an ugly woman, you would have been so thoughtful about your oath?

Marq. Her danger had been then less. Yet I'll not disguise my sentiments; I love Amanthis, doat to distraction; but the difference of our ages, and of our states, (proudly) places an insuperable

bar between us.

Duke. This is the wisest sentence I have heard you speak for a long time.

Marq. To day, I restore Amanthis to that liberty she has never remembered, of course, not once regretted. Come, sir, I have had one short interview with her, let me introduce you to her. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The Gardens belonging to the Marquis. Enter MARQUIS ALMANZA, leading AMANTHIS. Marq. Come this way, my dear Amanthis, and do not be thus agitated. Wherefore do you weep? what thus affects you?

Aman. Why will you take me from my retreat? did not you say I should stay here as long as I was pleased with it? and as long as I loved you? Ah! I expected to stay here for ever.

Marq. Hear me, Amanthis: I have hitherto secluded you from the tumult and dissipation of the world, in order to form your heart and mind; I must now shew you to the world; we were born for society, and you will be the ornament and delight of that, which you shall make your choice. Aman. I know not whether I shall give delight, but I am sure I shall not be delighted myself. Marq. Why not?

Aman. Because I shall not see you so often as I have hitherto done.

Marq. Nay, Amanthis, I shall always be your

Aman. And you are the only object I love, the only one I ever can love.

Marq. Do not promise that; when you have seen the world, some other, more deserving

Aman. Oh! do not go on! I cannot bear you should have such unjust suspicions; do not you see the world? and yet I am sure you prefer me to all the universe besides-when I am there; why cannot you then confide in me, as I have done in you?

Marg. The circumstance is different; I had seen alf, before I beheld you; you have seen none but me.

Aman. Why, then, will you shew me others? I had rather like none but you. Let me still stay here. I will do anything with cheerfulness that you command. But when I am in the world, you will not leave me wholly? I shall sometimes see you? I hope so.

Marq. Leave you, Amanthis? Ah! you little think how hard it would be to leave you.

Aman. Nay, I am convinced you love me-love me dearly; does not all I possess come from you? You have even taught me to think, to speak, and to be happy. Yet, of all your gifts, that, the most dear to my heart, is a sentiment I feel for you, and cannot tell what it is; I have not power to describe either its tenderness or its force, 'tis impossible I should make you comprehend it, for you never felt anything like it.

Marq. 'Tis gratitude she means. (Aside.) Among the rest to whom you will be soon introduced, is my uncle, and I regard him as my father.

Aman. Oh! that's a tender name! you have so often told me of mine, his love for me, and his distresses, that I revere the name of father even in a stranger.

Marq. I have sometimes mentioned to you, the Marchioness Merida; she is now in this house, and as soon as I have introduced you to her, I desire you will consider her as your friend.

Aman. My friend? that is the name you bid me call you by; no, I cannot promise to call her friend; one friend is enough for me. (Taking his hand.)

Marq. You will see here, also, a young man called Count Valantia.

Aman. A young man! Oh! I had forgot to tell you

Marq. What?

Aman. Of a young man I have seen. (Delighted.) Marq. How! Tell me immediately; when did he see you? what has he said to you?

Aman. Not much; he said very little; but he sighed heavily, and sent a letter. Marq. Explain yourself.

Aman. It was only about a week ago, as I was sitting by the little bower near to the garden wall, suddenly I heard an unknown voice call me by my name, it seemed to come from the air. I looked up, and beheld a young man upon the wall. The moment I recovered from the fright, I asked him what he wanted? he said, he came "to look at me;" but that appeared so strange, I could not think it true; and then be gazed on me so wildly, I ran away and hid myself; on which he drew a letter from his pocket, and threw it after me. I would not take it up till he was gone; then I caught it, and flew to my apartments, pleased beyond expression.

Mary. Wherefore?

Aman. That I had escaped him.

Marg. (Aside.) Who could it be! Ah! I have a suspicion. Where is the letter?

Aman. Here; I do not understand it, perhaps you may. (Gives the letter.)

Marq. (Reading.) "Know, beautiful Amanthis,

there is no retreat, however hidden, into which love cannot penetrate. The hope of beholding you has made me brave all dangers. If you will but kindly pity a passion, pure as it is ardent, it shall soon inspire me with the means to release you from the tyranny of that barbarian, who keeps you secluded from every joy that's waiting to attend you in a gay world. Conceal this adventure from the jealous tyrant, and reflect, that the most tender lover waits impatiently for the happy moment to prove himself your deliverer." (Returning the letter.) And what do you think of this letter?

Aman. That the poor man is mad; and yet it is a kind of madness I never heard of before. (Reading part of the letter.) "There is no retreat into which love cannot penetrate." What does he mean by love? he has left out a word; there is love of virtue; love of duty; but love all alone by itself, means nothing at all. Then again, (Reading.) "Conceal this adventure from the jealous tyrant.' Who does he mean by tyrant?

Marq. He means me.

Aman. You! I never should have supposed it; perhaps you know, also, what he means by a "lover." He says, "the most tender lover;" read and tell me what he means by a tender lover. Ah! you laugh, you are puzzled; you don't know yourself what a "lover" is.

Marq. Indeed I cannot undertake to be his interpreter. But tell me, Amanthis, if by chance you should see this young man again, do you think you should know him?

Aman. Yes, I am sure I should. Marq. His person then made an impression on your mind? I suppose it was agreeable?

Aman. Very agreeable indeed; and yet there appeared a-a-kind of (describing passionate ardour) a wildness in his looks that frightened

me.

Marq. But suppose that wildness was removed, how would you like him then?

Aman. Oh, very much! extremely! What makes you thoughtful, my lord?

Marq. Come, Amanthis, we have been together a long time. Retire into your apartment for a moment; I'll follow you presently. (Going.) My agitation is so extreme, nothing can equal it, except my weakness, (Aside. He looks after her; she turns back.)

Aman. You look as if you had something still to say to me.

Marg. Ah! could I trust my heart! Away; the Marchioness is coming hither by appointment. I hear her, and cannot present you to her yet; I am too much embarrassed.

Aman. I hear no one; but if it is your desire, I will leave you. [Exit. Marq. With what difficulty have I restrained myself from falling at her feet, and unfolding (in a language of which she is ignorant) the secret transports which I hope ever to conceal.

Enter MARCHIONESS MERIDA.

March. I have seen her; I have just had a peep at her; but I see nothing extraordinary. She wants powder, rouge, and a thousand adorn

ments.

Marq. To change one atom, would be to lose a charm.

March. That sentence proves the lover. Marq. Take care what you say; reflect on the difference of our ages; that title would make me both ridiculous and guilty.

March. By no means; I think a girl of seventeen, may very well have an affection for a man of forty.

Marq. I am not forty, madam.

March. The lover again; one moment lamenting his age, and, when reproached with it, proclaim

ing himself a youth. The whole matter is, my lord, you are not too old to be in love, nor she too young to understand it.

Marq. You wrong her, she is ignorant.
March. So am I too-I am in love.

Marq. She knows not what it is; never heard. of love, as you would explain it, but calls by that name gratitude.

March. Indeed, my dear Marquis, you have no penetration.

Marq. I see Count Valantia coming this way; you will allow, at least, I have discretion, and that I know when it is politeness to retire.

March. If you should like to be witness to quarrel, stay where you are.

Marq. A quarrel! a'n't you on the point of marriage? and did he not break the wheels of his carriage.

March. Yes; but I begin to suspect, that breaking the wheels of his carriage was not upon my

Marq. Who then?

March. I am at a loss to guess; that is what I want to have explained.

Marq. The Count is here. Adieu! She has confirmed my apprehensions. [Aside. Exit.

Enter COUNT VALANTIA. Count. The Marchioness! Psha! (Aside.) At length, I find the lucky moment you are alone, but I positively began to despair of it, for you seem to shun me.

March. Do you imagine I came to this house on purpose to meet you?

Count. Why not as likely, as that I should come on purpose to meet you?

March. Just the same likelihood, I believe. (Aside.)

Count. And not accident, but design, brought me here.

March. The story of the broken chaise was then an artifice?

Count. Only an artifice, to behold the object whom I adore. Can you reproach me for that?

March. How came you to know I was coming? the Marquis only invited me about three hours before we set off.

Count. My Lord-I forget his name, told me of it; the Marquis had informed him, March. My Lord who?

Count. My Lord—(hesitating)—you don't know him.

March. Do you?

Count. My Lord Castile.

March. He is in France, I protest.

Count. I know that; I did not mean him; I meant his brother.

March. He has no brothers.

Count. Then it was his sister, or his aunt. No matter; what signifies who told me, as long as I am here-I am here, a'n't I? A'n't I here? and what could bring me here, but you?

March. I am wholly ignorant of your designs, but I can perceive from your reserve, embarrassment, your very air and voice, that you are practising deceit with me.

Count. But, my dear Marchioness, will you he so kind as to acquaint me, what this deceit is?

March. You know I can't tell; and it is that which tortures me. If I did but know in what