Sir E. Good morning, good old heart! [Rising.] This

honest soul

Would fain look cheery in my house's gloom,

And, like a gay and sturdy evergreen,

Smiles in the midst of blast and desolation,

Where all around him withers. Well, well-wither!
Perish this frail and fickle frame! this clay,
That, in its dross-like compound, doth contain
The mind's pure ore and essence! Oh! that mind,

That mind of man! that godlike spring of action!

That source whence learning, virtue, honour, flow!
Which lifts us to the stars-which carries us
O'er the swoll'n waters of the angry deep,

As swallows skim the air!—that fame's sole fountain,
That doth transmit a fair and spotless name,
When the vile trunk is rotten!-Give me that!
Oh! give me but to live in after-age,

Remembered and unsullied! Heaven and earth!
Let my pure flame of honour shine in story,
When I am cold in death, and the slow fire

That wears my vitals now will no more move me,
Than 'twould a corpse within a monument!

[A knock at the door, R. F.

How now!-Who's there?-Come in.

Enter WILFORD, k. d. f.

Wilford, is't you ? You were not wont to knock.
Wil. I feared I might surprise you, sir.

Sir E. Surprise me !

Wil. I mean, disturb you, sir; yes, at your studies. Disturb you at your studies.

Sir E. Very strange!

You were not used to be so cautious.

Wil. No,

I never used; but I-hum!-I have learned-
Sir E. Learned!

Wil. Better manners, sir. I was quite raw
When, in your bounty, you first sheltered me;
But, thanks to your great goodness, and the lessons
Of Mr. Winterton, I still improve,

And pick up something daily.

Sir E. Ay, indeed!

Winterton!-[Aside.] No, he dare not! [Stepping up to Wilford.] Hark you, sir!

Wil. Sir!

Sir E. [Retreating from him, L.] What am I about? Oh, Honour! Honour!

Thy pile should be so uniform, displace

One atom of thee, and the slightest breath
Of a rude peasant makes thy owner tremble
For his whole building! Reach me from the shelf
The volume I was busied in last night.
Wil. Last night, sir?

Sir E. Ay; it treats of Alexander.
Wil. Oh, I remember, sir-of Macedon.
I made some extracts by your order.

Sir E. Books

[Goes to the book-case, R. c.

(My only commerce now,) will sometimes rouse me
Beyond my nature. I have been so warmed,
So heated by a well-turned rhapsody,

That I have seemed the hero of the tale,
So glowingly described. Draw me a man
Struggling for fame, attaining, keeping it,
Dead ages since, and the historian

Decking his memory, in polished phrase,
And I can follow him through every turn,
Grow wild in his exploits, myself himself,
Until the thick pulsation of my heart

Wakes me, to ponder on the thing I am! [Crosses to R.
Wil. [Coming down, L., and giving him the book.] To
my poor thinking, sir, this Alexander
Would scarcely rouse a man to follow him.

Sir E. Indeed-Why so, lad? He is reckoned brave,
Wise, generous, learned, by older heads than thine.
Wil. I cannot tell, sir; I have but a gleaning.
He conquered all the world, but left unconquered
A world of his own passions; and they led him
(It seems so there), on petty provocation,
Even to murder.

[Mortimer starts-Wilford and he exchange looksboth confused.

[Aside.] I have touched the string! 'Twas unawares-I cannot help it.

Sir E. [Attempting to recover himself.] Wilford,— Wilford, 1-You mistake the character.

I-mark you-he-Death and eternal tortures!

[Dashes the book on the floor, and seizes Wilford.

Slave! I will crush thee! pulverise thy frame,
That no vile particle of prying nature

May-Laughing hysterically.] Ha! ha! ha! I will not harm thee, boy!

Oh, agony !

[Exit, R. D. F. Wil. Is this the high-flown honour, and delicate feeling, old Winterton talked of, that cannot bear a glance at the trial? This may be guilt. If so- -Well, what have I to do with the knowledge on't?-What could I do?-Cut off my benefactor, who gives me bread,-who is respected for his virtues, pitied for his misfortunes, loved by his family, blessed by the poor! Pooh! he is innocent. This is his pride and shame. He was acquitted: thousands witnessed it-thousands rejoiced at it-thousands-Eh! the key left in the iron chest! Circumstance and mystery tempt me at every turn. Ought I? No matter: these are no common incitements, and I submit to the impulse. I heard him stride down the stairs. It opens with a spring, I see. I tremble in every joint!

[Goes to the chest, L. C.

Re-enter SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, R. D. F.

Sir E. I had forgot the key, and-[Seeing Wilford as the chest. Ha! by hell!

[Snatches a pistol from the table, L., runs up to him, and holds it to his head-Wilford, on his knees, claps down the lid of the trunk, which he has just opened--after an apparent struggle of mind, Mortimer throws the pistol from him.

Begone! Wilford crosses to R.] Come back-come hither

to me!

Mark me,-I see thou dost at every turn,

And I have noted thee, too. Thou hast found
(I know not how) some clue to my disgrace-
Ay, my disgrace!-We must not mince it now.
Public dishonour! trod on! buffeted!

Then tried, as the foul demon who had foiled

My manly means of vengeance! Anguish gnaws me;
Mountains of shame are piled upon me,-me,
Who have made fame my idol! 'Twas enough,
But something must be superadded. You-
A worm, a viper I have warmed, must plant,
In venomed sport, your sting into my wounds,
Too tender e'en for tenderness to touch,

And work me into madness! Thou wouldst question
My very-(slave!)-my very innocence,
Ne'er doubted yet by judges nor arraigners.

Wretch! you have wrung this from me; be content:
I am sunk low enough.

Wil. [Returning the key.] Oh! sir! I ever
Honoured and loved you; but I merit all:
My passions hurried me, I know not whither.

[Retires up.

[Kneels.

Do with me as you please, my kind, wronged master!
Discard me- -thrust me forth-nay, kill me!

Sir E. Kill you!

Wil. I know not what I say; I know but this, That I would die to serve you!

Gre. Sir, your

Enter GREGORY, R. D. F.

brother

Is just alighted at the gate.

Sir E. My brother!

He could not time it worse. Wilford, remember!
Come, show me to him.

[Exit, R. D. F., followed by Gregory. Wil. Remember!-I shall never, while I live, forget it; nay, I shall never, while I live, forgive myself! My knees knock together still, and the cold drops stand on my forehead, like rain-water on a pent-house.

Enter BARBARA, L.

Bar. Oh, dear! what would any of the servants say if they should see me? Wilford!

Wil. Eh! Barbara!-How camest thou here?

Bar. With my father, who waits below to see Sir Edward.

Wil. He he is busied; he cannot see him now; he is with his brother.

Bar. Troth, I am sorry for it. My poor father's heart is bursting with gratitude, and he would fain ease it, by pouring out his thanks to his benefactor. Oh, Wilford! yours is a happy lot, to have such a master as Sir Edward!

Wil. Happy? Oh, yes-I-I am very happy.
Bar. Mercy! has any ill befallen you?

Wil. No, nothing.

Bar. Nay, I'm sure there's more in this. Bless me! you look pale. I couldn't bear to see you ill or uneasy, Wilford.

Wil. Couldn't you, Barbara? Well, well, I shall be better presently; 'tis nothing of import.

Bar. Trust me, I hope not.

Wil. Well, question me no more on't now, I beseech you, Barbara.

Bar. Believe me, I would not question you but to console you, Wilford. I would scorn to pry into any one's grief, much more yours, Wilford, to satisfy a busy curiosity; though I am told there are such in the world who would.

Wil. I-I am afraid there are, Barbara. But come, no more of this; 'tis a passing cloud on my spirits, and will soon blow over.

Bar. Ah! could I govern your fortunes, foul weather should ne'er harm you.

Wil. Should not it, sweet? Kiss me. [Kissing her.] The lips of a woman are a sovereign cordial for melancholy.

DUETT.--WILFORD and BARBARA.

Wil. Sweet little Barbara, when you are advancing,
Sweet little Barbara, my cares you remove.

Bar. Poor little Barbara can feel her heart dancing,
When little Barbara is met by her love.

Wil. When I am grieved, love, oh! what would you say?
Tattle to you, love,

Bar.

And prattle to you, love,

And laugh your grief and care away.

Wil. Sweet little Barbara, &c.

Bar. Poor little Barbara, &c.

Wil. Yet, dearest Barbara, look all through the nation,

Care, soon or late, my love, is every man's lot.

Ber. Sorrow and melancholy, grief and vexation,
When we are young and jolly, soon is forgot