him

No pouting-and with festal chorus crown him— (The Crowd form two ranks beside the chair, and join in the chorus, whilst Midas crowns him with bays. He is then carried round the stage, the dancers leading the way to the Chorus.)

Chorus. See triumphant sits the bard,

Crown'd with bays, his due reward;
Exil'd Pol shall wander far;
Exil'd, twang his faint guitar;
While with echoing shouts of praise,
We the bagpipe's glory raise."

Mid. 'Tis well. What keeps you here, you raga-
muffin?

Go trudge or do you wait for a good cuffing?
Apo. Now all attend-

(Throws off his disguise, and appears as Apollo.)

ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Room in the palace of Harancour.-A whole-length portrait of a Boy hangs in the centre of the room.

Enter DUPRE and PIERRE.

Dup. Don't you be so inquisitive.
Pie. Don't you be so surly.

Dup. I won't be tormented.

Pie. Come, come, Dupré ; fellow-servants should be communicative, and tell one another every thing that passes in the family.

Dup. And, if they did, woe betide some families. Pie. Dupré, what is the meaning of all this mystery?

Dup. Why do you nail your eyes on me thus? I won't be wormed and sifted. What is it you want to pick out of me?

Pie. I want to know the meaning of your private interviews with my master's father: admitted to his closet, doors locked, cautionings-whisperings. Take care, take care; I have my suspicions. Dup. Suspicions! of what?

Pie. Of no good, I promise you.
Dup. Why, what do you suspect?

Pie. To be plain with you, that you are aiding and abetting your old master to make his son, my young master, miserable: in short, you are making a match for him with the first President's daughter, against his will.

Dup. Oh! is that all you know?
Pie. All! and isn't that enough?

Dup. Yes-no; I could almost wish the whole world knew-Ah! (Looking at the portrait.)

Dar. Again this insolence? Remember, villain, that you are my slave.

Dup. I do; and I remember, too, that you are mine accomplices in guilt are, of necessity, the slaves of each other.

Dar. I must contain myself. (Aside.) I see, I see, Dupré, that neither my gifts, nor my promises, have satisfied you; however, I have been thinking of you leave me. You will soon find that you are not forgotten.

Dup. I wish I were; but you and I can never be forgotten; even in the grave we shall be remembered, only to be cursed, despised, and hated. [Exit. Dar. Must I hold wealth, reputation, nay, life itself, perhaps, at the disposal of this dotard? His slave! While he spoke it, audacious as the reptile toad, he dared to fix his brazen eyes upon me. Let him accuse. Am I not Darlemont, possessor of the fortune and the power of Harancour? Where is the man who will venture to support his accusation?

Re-enter PIERRE.

Besides, my son's marriage with the President's daughter, will, I hope-Why are you loitering there? [in. Pie. Sir, I am only waiting till my master comes Dar. What, is he abroad so early? Something disturbs him.

Pie. Yes, sir; indeed, something or other seems to disturb every soul in the house. (Going.)

Dar. What's that you say? Come hither, Pierre; you know the deference due to your master's father; be faithful, and you shall profit by it. I must have no prying-mark me, no babbling; talk not of me, nor my affairs. As for Dupré, at times, you see, he raves; he has lost his senses; he grows old. Pie. In your service, sir.

Dar. And, therefore, what would be punished in another, I overlook in him. Pay no regard to his wanderings, except, observe me, should you think them extraordinary, to inform me of them;-me alone, no other, not even my son. I have my reasons; which are not for you to inquire into. Obey me, and depend on my bounty. [Exit. Pie. Your bounty? Humph! that may be well enough; but the devil take your pride. A few years ago, this grand signior was but a petty merchant; and now

Enter ST. ALME. St. A. Was not that my father?

Pie. Yes, sir; you seem as much ruffled as he

was.

St.A. My soul is on the rack; yet, I am resolved this hated marriage never can, never shall take place. No; never, never will I renounce thee, my lovely Marianne!

Pie. Then, sir, you must renounce your father's favour and fortune.

St. A. Unfeeling prejudice! Is she not the daughter of a man, whose memory is honoured and beloved? The sister of a man of virtue and of talents?-of Franval, the most renowned advocate of Toulouse?

Pie. True, sir; but his talents are the only dependence of her and her mother.!

improper medicines were administered to him, or that his constitution sunk under the efforts for his cure, I know not; but there, in a short time, he died in the arms of Dupré, who accompanied my father on this journey.

Pie. That's the secret; now I no longer wonder, that I so often catch Dupré gazing on that picture of the young Count.

St. A. Do you? 'Tis only natural in him: this youth was the last remaining branch of an illustrious family, which Dupré had long faithfully served. My poor Julio! He once saved my life; how bravely he exposed himself for me! Never, never will his image quit my heart. I see him at the moment of his departure; dumb as he was, his form spoke moving eloquence; every look was so affectionate, every action so expressive! Dear, dear, lamented Julio! he crushed me into his very heart, as if he had foreknown, and would have told me, that that embrace was to be our last. Ah! were he now alive, I should enjoy his tender and endearing friendship; and my father, less opulent, would not then oppose my union with Marianne.

Pie. But you say, sir, you have never yet told this lady that you love her; how, then, do you know what her thoughts of you may be?

St. A. I cannot mistake them: our mutual tremours when we meet; my faultering voice, ber downcast eyes; and other thousand, thousand delicious proofs of sympathizing thoughts.

Pie. You know best, sir; but, for my part, I should wish for more substantial proofs; besides, her mother

St. A. Born of a noble family, is, if possible, more haughty than my father; but her son has a complete empire over her affections: he is my friend; he cannot but have discovered that I love his sister; and, as our intimacy daily strengthens, I must presume that he approves my pretensions. Dom.(Without.) I'll just deliver my message my

self.

Pie. Hush! here comes their gossiping footman, old Dominique. Now, sir, if you wish to know the lady's real sentiments, only let me set his tongue running, and he will tell you, in his own chuckling, talkative way, all that he sees, and hears.

Enter DOMINIQUE.

Ha! Good morning, friend Dominique. What brings you to our house?

Dom. Good day, good day, friend! So, sir! (to St. Alme) you're an early stirrer. Ha, ha, ha, ba! I saw you just now, I saw you; ha, ha, ha! St. A. Saw me?

Dom. Yes, I did; pacing backwards and forwards, under my young lady's window; ha, ha, ha St. A. I was only taking the morning air, I do assure you, Dominique.

Dom. Ha, ha, ha!

Pie. Ha, ha, ha! What do you mean, Dominique?

Pie. Ah! the old servants of the family often talk of the young Count of Harancour; they say, he had the misfortune to be deaf and dumb.

St. A. "Tis true, he had. Poor boy! my father took him to Paris about eight years ago, in hopes that this affliction might be removed; and, whether

dare say, only to dream of the author-ha, ha, ha! St. A. Your frankness and good humour forbid dissimulation; yes, Dominique, I adore your charming mistress.

Pie. Ay, that he does; the more's his misfor

tune.

Dom. Misfortune! and pray, sir, why so? Pie. Because I can see very well, and so do you, too, Dominique, that your young lady does not care a straw for my master.

Dom. You can see it, can you? Lord! what a clear-sighted wiseacre thou art! Ha, ha, ha!

Pie. Let him go on, sir. Well, but let us hear what proofs?

ور

Dom. Proofs! a thousand. Why, when she was recovering from her last illness, and I told her how you had called to inquire after her "Did he come himself, Dominique?" says she-"and did he come often?" "Every minute in the day, ma'am," says I. "And did he look concerned?" "Ma'am," says I," he looked charmingly: his eyes were as red as a ferret's; his cheeks as white as a sheet; he looked like a perfect ghost; a sweet lover-like figure, indeed, ma'am.' "I think I'm better," says she," Dominique: I'm a great deal better: I'm sure I shall soon be well." Ha, ha, ha! true love is your best doctor. Pie. O, Lord! and is this all you know? Dom. No, sir; it is not all I know, nor half I know. She gave me such a scolding about you, [t'other day! Dom. Yes: she was painting away at her little desk, and took no notice of my coming in, to put the room to rights; so I crept softly on tip-toe towards her; and, peeping over her shoulder, (I love to detect the sly rogues,) what should I behold, but the picture of a young gentleman.

St. A. Abont me?

St. A. What young gentleman? Pie. Yes; what young gentleman? Dom. What young gentleman? "How like it is!" says I, pop, at once, without thinking of it. "Like!" says she, starting up—“ Like who? Do you think it is like my brother?" "Your brother! Like a certain person, called Captain St. Alme, to be sure!" "St. Alme?" says she, pouting, and vexed a little" I desire, Dominique,' (you know her "I desire you won't say any such thing; way,)" I beg and desire you won't." And away she went, blushing as red as a rose, but all the while hiding somebody carefully in her bosom; ha, ha, ha! But, Lord, I stand chattering here

St.A. Thank you, thank you, Dominique; you have made me happy beyond measure.

Dom. I knew I should. Doesn't care a straw for my master! Ha, ha, ha! I knew very well I should make you happy: I love to make people happy, and to be happy myself. But I must not forget my errands. (Takes out a paper.) What with my old mistress, and my young mistress, and my master-(Going.) O, Lord! he sent me here to tell you that he wants to speak with you. Now, don't you blab one word of all this, for your life; these girls have such freaks and vagaries! Though they're in love over head and ears, and can't conceal it a moment; yet they expect other folks to be blind, and see nothing at all of the matter. (Going.) St. A. Pray, say, I'll wait on your master, Dominique.

Dom. To be sure; you'll wait on my master, because you expect to see my young mistress. Ha, ha, ha! O, the turnings and twinings of your true lovers! Yes, yes; she hid the picture in her fair bosom; I warrant, as near as she could to her heart! Ha, ha, ha! [Exit. St. A. Now, Pierre, is there any cause for doubt? Pie. I think not, sir.

St. A. And would my father tear me from her? Never! Run to the President's; inquire when I may have the honour of seeing him. [Exit Pierre.] I'll go to Franval's, avow to him my passion for his sister, and openly declare myself to her in her brother's presence. If I obtain their consents, I'll instantly wait on the President, acquaint him with my love for Marianne, make him refuse me his daughter, and thus, strike at once at the very root of my misfortunes.

[Exit.

SCENE II-A Square in the city of Toulouse. On one side the palace of Harancour, on the other the house of Franval, bridge, church, &c.

Enter DE L'EPEE and THEODORE, over the bridge. ·Theodore precedes De l'Epée; and, advancing in great agitation, expresses by signs that he recollects the spot they are in.

De l'E. This warm emotion, this sudden change in all his features, convinces me that he recollects this place. Hadst thou the use of speech! (Theodore, looking round him, observes a church, and gives signs more expressive of his knowing the place.) arrived at the period of my long and painful It is, it must be so: and am I then at length search? (Theodore now sees the palace of Harancour; he starts, rivets his eyes to it, advances a step drops breathless into the arms of De l'Epée.) Ah, or two, points to the statues, utters a shriek, and my poor wronged boy, for such I'm sure you are, that sound goes to my very heart! He soarcely There, there! Come, come! Why was a voice debreathes I never saw him so much agitated. nied to sensibility so eloquent? (Theodore makes palace; that he lived in it when a child; had seen the signs with the utmost rapidity, that he was born in that that house was he born: words could not tell it statues; come through the gate, &c. &c.) Yes; in more plainly. The care of heaven still wakes upon the helpless. (Theodore makes signs of gratitude to De l'Epée, and fervently kisses his hands. De l'Epée explains that it is not to him, but to heaven, that he ought to pay his thanks. Theodore instantly drops on his knee, and expresses a prayer for blessings on his benefactor. De l'Epée, bareheaded, bows, and says,)-O, thou, who guidest at thy will the thoughts of men; thou, by whom I was inspired to this great undertaking; O power omnipotent! deign to acthou hast still protected, and of this speechless orcept the grateful adoration of thy servant, whom phan, to whom thou hast made me a second father! If I have uprightly discharged my duty; if all my love and labours for him may dare to ask a benelorn one, and let his good be all my great rediotion; vouchsafe to shed its dews on this forhim.) We must proceed with caution; and first, ward! (De l'Epée raises Theodore, and embraces to learn who is the owner of this house. (Theodore

is running to knock at the gate; De l'Épée stops him, &c.)

Enter PIERRE.

Pie. Well, that President is the best natured gentleman

De l'E. O, here comes one that may, perhaps, instruct me. (Signs to Theodore to attend.) Pray, sir, can you tell me the name of this square?

Pie. (A side.) Strangers, I perceive. It is called St. George's-square, sir. (Looking at Theodore.) De l'E. Thank you, sir. Another word: do you know this superb mansion?

Pie. (Observing De l'Epée and Theodore more closely.) Know it! I think I ought; I have lived here these five years.

De l'E. That's fortunate. And you call itPie. (Aside.) Plaguy inquisitive. A few years ago it was called the palace of Harancour.

De l'E. Of Harancour?

Pie. But, at present, it belongs to a gentleman of the name of Darlemont. (Observing Theodore.) 'Tis odd! He seems to talk by signs. Is he dumb? (During the above dialogue, Theodore examines the gateway, pillars, arms, &c. of the palace of Harancour, and explains to De l'Epée his recollection of the various objects, &c.)

De l'E. And who is this gentleman of the name of Darlemont? (Theodore now turns his face fairly towards Pierre.)

Pie. 'Gad, how like it is! Sir? Who is he?

De l'E. Yes; I mean, what is his rank, his profession?

Pie. (Still looking at Theodore.) Profession! He has no profession, sir; he's one of the richest men in Toulouse. (Looking at Theodore.) One might almost swear to it. Your servant, sir; I'm wanted. (Aside.) Very odd, all these questions. (Looking at Theodore.) The strongest likeness I ever saw in my life. [Exit Pierre into the palace.

De l'E. Ay, my friend; you little know the motive of my questions. There's not a moment to be lost. This house, that once belonged to so distinguished a family; this Darlemont, the present possessor of it; every circumstance relating to it, must be publicly known in Toulouse. I'll instantly away, seek out some lodging, and then-But, for fear it should escape me-(Writes in a note-book.) Harancour-Darlemont. (Theodore, as De l'Epée writes, runs to him with eager curiosity; De l'Epée presses him in his arms.) Yes, my poor mute Theodore, if you belong to parents who can feel, no doubt, they still lament your loss; and will, with transport, hail your return:-If, as I fear, you are the victim of unnatural foul play, grant me, Providence, to unmask and confound it! So men shall have another proof, that every frand will soon or late be detected, and that no crime escapes eternal justice.

[Exit De l'Epée, over the bridge, leading Theodore, who looks back at the palace of Harancour, &c.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-Franval's Library. A library-table, with books, parchments, vase with flowers, &c.

FRANVAL discovered, reading.

Fran. I shall never be happy, till I have accomplished this task. To reconcile mistaken friends, is an employment as useful to society, as it is honourable to my profession.

Enter MARIANNE, with a basket of flowers in her hand.

Mar. Good morning, brother. Fran. (Rises.) Good morning, Marianne. Mar. Late and early, always at your studies. Fran. The causes which a lawyer is expected to undertake, are frequently so disguised, either by the passions, or the arts of men, that, if he is honest, he cannot consider them too attentively.

Mar. Ah! your's must often be a painful employment.

Fran. 'Tis odious, indeed, to witness villany; but then to justify the innocent, is the noblest and most gratifying duty of man.

Mar. True; it is sweeter to the soul than these flowers to the sense. (She takes the flowers out of the vases, and puts those which she has brought into their places.)

Fran. Every morning fresh odorous flowers, and a kind kiss from my dear sister (He kisses her.) My thoughts must be clear and pure. Ah! Maridelightful as these gifts are to me, I have a young friend to whom they would be still more pre

anne,

eious.

Mar. What do you mean, brother? Fran. Nay, I would not make you blush. (He leads her forward, and looks stedfastly in her face.) Sister!

Mar. (With a downcast look.) Brother! Fran. Your presents are sweet; your affections sweeter; yet both want of their true value, while you deny me your confidence.

Mar. Nay!

Mar. I-I-believe they do.
Fran. I won't speak of his person-
Mar. Which is elegance itself.
Fran. I won't speak of his countenance-
Mar. Which is all comeliness and candour.
Fran. But, for his heart and understanding-
Mar. They are excellent and generous, indeed!
Fran. What woman but must be happy with
such a husband?

Mar. So I have often thought! (Sighing.)
Fran. In a word, Marianne, he loves you.
Mar. Why do you think so?

Fran. Every look declares it.

Mar. Ah! I'm afraid to trust to looks.

Fran. Are you so? At last, Marianne, you're caught. You own, then, that you love him in re

St. A. Cruel parents! You cannot look with our eyes; you cannot feel with our hearts! Are we your children, only to become your victims?

Fran. Be calm, and tell me what has passed. St. A. My father has this morning informed me, that the marriage I have so much dreaded, must take place within these three days. "Three days!" I exclaimed. "No, sir; never, never." This reply, which barst from the very bottom of my wounded heart, roused his displeasure into a rage too violent for all my excuses or prayers to pacify: he insisted on my instantly giving him a reason for my peremptory refusal. Hoping the name of her I adore might disarm his fury, I at once declared, that my affections were irrevocably devoted toFran. To whom? Speak out.

St. A. To your sister.

Mar. Me!

St. A. (Throwing himself at her feet.) Forgive my rashness! Yes, to you; 'tis you alone I love, and ever, ever shall; and, might I hope

Mar. (Much agitated, and raising him.) What said your father?

St. A. Embarrassed at first, and overpowered with confusion, he acknowledged your worth and beauty; but added, that he had disposed of me elsewhere, and enjoined me to forget you. "Sooner forget to live!" At this, his wrath redoubled: he reprobated my audacious disobedience; threatened me with his malediction; and forbad me ever again to enter his presence, but with repentance and submission.

Mar. Alas!

find a refuge in the arms of a friend. Fran. (Embracing him.) Of a friend, my dear