Barn. I know it is dreadful! I feel the anguish of thy generous soul; but I was born to murder all who love me. (Both weep.)

True. I came not to reproach you; I thought to bring you comfort. O had you trusted me when first the fair seducer tempted you, all might have been prevented.

Barn. Alas! thou knowest not what a wretch I have been! breach of friendship was my first and least offence So far was I lost to goodness; so devoted to the author of my ruin; that had she inisted on my murdering thee, I think I should have done it.

True. Pr'ythee aggravate thy faults no more. Barn. I think I should! thu good and generous as you are, I should have murdered yon!

True. We have not yet embraced, and may be interrupted. Come to my arms.

Barn. Never, never will I taste such joys on earth; never will I so smooth my just remorse. Are those honest arms, and faithful bosom, fit to embrace and to support a murderer? These iron fetters only shall clasp, and flinty pavement bear me; even these are too good for such a bloody monster.

True. Shall fortune sever those whom friendship joined? Thy miseries cannot lay thee so low, but love will find thee. Upon this rugged couch then let us lie, for well it suits our most deplorable condition. Here will we offer to stern calamity, this earth the altar and ourselves the sacrifice. Our mutual groans shall echo to each other through the dreary vault. Our sighs shall number the moments as they pass, and mingling tears communicate such anguish, as words were never made to express.

Barn. Since you propose an intercourse of woe, pour all your griefs into my breast, and in exchange take mine. (Embracing.) Where's now the anguish that you promised? You have taken mine, and made me no return. Sure peace and comfort dwell within these arms, and sorrow cannot reproach me while I am here! This, too, is the work of heaven; who, having before spoke peace and pardon to me, now sends thee to confirm it. O take, take some of the joy that overflows my breast.

Keeper. Sir. True. I come.

Enter Keeper.

[Exit Keeper.

Barn. Must you leave me! Death would soon have parted us for ever.

True. O my Barnwell, there is yet another task behind: again your heart must bleed for others'

woes.

Barn. To meet and part with you, I thought was all I had to do on earth! What is there more for me to do or suffer?

True. I dread to tell thee, yet it must be known! Maria

Barn. Our master's fair and virtuous daughter! True. The same.

Barn. No misfortune, I hope, has reached that lovely maid! Preserve her, heaven, from every ill, to shew mankind that goodness is your care. True. Whatever you and I have felt, and more, if more be possible, she feels for you.

Barn. This is, indeed, the bitterness of death! (Aside.)

True. You must remember, for we all observed it, for some time past, a heavy melancholy weighed

her down. Disconsolate she seemed, and pined and languished from a cause unknown; till hearing of your dreadful fate, the long stifled flame blazed out, and in the transport of her grief, discovered her own lost state, while she lamented yours.

Barn. (Weeping.) Why didn't you let me die and never know it?

True. It was impossible; she makes no secret of her passion for you, and is determined to see you ere you die; she waits for me to introduce her.

[Exit.

Barn Vain busy thoughts be still! What avails it to think on what I might have been? I now am, -what I have made myself.

Enter TRUEMAN and MARIA.

True. Madam, reluctant I lead you to this dismal scene: this is the seat of misery and guilt. Here awful justice reserves her public victims. This is the entrance to shameful death.

Maria. To this sad place then no improper guest, the abandond, lost Maria brings despair; and see the subject and the cause of all this world of woe. Silent and motionless he stands, as if his soul had quitted her abode, and the lifeless form alone was left behind.

Barn. Just heaven, I am your own; do with me what you please.

Maria. Why are your streaming eyes still fixed below? as though thou wouldst give the greedy earth thy sorrows, and rob me of my due? Were happiness within your power, you should bestow it where you please; but in your misery, I must and will partake.

Barn. Oh! say not so, but fly, abhor, and leave me to my fate. Consider what you are: so shall I quickly be to you as though I had never been.

Maria. When I forget you, I must be so indeed. Reason, choice, virtue, all forbid it. Let woman, like Millwood, if there be more such women, smile in prosperity, and in adversity forsake. Be it the pride of virtue to repair, or to partake, the ruin such have made.

True. Lovely, ill-fated maid!

Maria. Yes, fruitless is my love, and unavailing all my sighs and tears. Can they save thee from approaching death? From such a death? O, sorrow insupportable.

Barn. Preserve her, heaven, and restore her peace, nor let her death be added to my crimes. (Bell tolls) I am summoned to my fate.

Enter Keeper.

Keep. The officers attend you, sir. Millwood is already summoned.

[Exit.

Barn. Tell them I am ready. And now, my friend, farewell. (Embracing.) Support and comfort the best you can this mourning fair. No more. Forget not to pray for me; would you, bright excellence, permit me the honour of a chaste embrace, the last happiness this world could give were mine. (They embrace.) Exalted goodness! O turn your eyes from earth and me, to heaven, where virtue, like yours, is ever heard. Pray for the peace of my departing soul. Early my race of wickedness began, and soon has reached the summit. Ere nature has finished her work, and stamped me man, just at the time that others begin to stray, my course

is finished; though short my span of life, and few my days, yet count my crimes for years, and I have lived whole ages. Justice and mercy are in heaven the same; its utmost severity is mercy to the whole, thereby to cure man's folly and presumption, which else would render even infinite mercy vain and ineffectual. Thus justice, in compassion to mankind, cuts off a wretch like me, by one such example to secure thousands from future ruin.

If any youth, like you, in future times,
Shall mourn my fate, though he abhor my crimes;
Or tender maid, like you, my tale shall hear,
And to my sorrows give a pitying tear ·
To each such melting eye, and throbbing heart,
Would gracious heaven this benefit impart,
Never to know my guilt, nor feel my pain,
Then must you own you ought not to complain;
Since you nor weep, nor shall I die in vain.

Breunt

GOR.

Bold Rob Roy, the Southrons say,

Is now upon the border;

Should he meet wi' us the day,

'Tuad breed a sad disorder. Soon the sun, &c.

Hostess. Brawly sung, my maisters, brawly sung! I wish ye a' safe hame, for ye're ain sakes, an' a quick return for mine. Here Tam, gi'e our frien's their stirrup-cup, while I rub down the table. wish you a' gude e'en, frien's.

[Exeunt Travellers. Odd! there are twa mair travellers just alighting. Wha'd hae thought o' mair company at the "Thistle

an' Bagpipes sae late i' the day. But what wi' Whigs and Tories, Jacobites an' Rob Roy, we in the North here drive a bonny trade o't.

Enter ROB ROY, dressed like a north-country grazier -and OWEN, in a plain brown suit, boots, a whip, &c.. shown in by WILLIE.

Willie. Traveller to Glasco', maister.

Rob. Landleddy, let us have your best, and quickly too.

Host. Troth will I, sir; ye'll be for a dram, nae doubt, till we can toss up something het for yer late dinner.

[Exit Hostess. Owen places a small saddle-bag on the table, and sinks into a chair, evidently greatly fatigued.

Owen. Ch, my poor bones! the firm of my constitution has been worse shaken than the great house of Osbaldistone and Co., Crane Alley, London.

Francis loathed the counting-house, worse than Ì loathe a bankruptcy. While his father was making money, he was making poetry; and so his father, leigh should take Mr. Frank's place; for he would sir, being a stern man, said that his nephew Rashnever ask his only child, a second time, to be the partner of his fortunes and affections. Oh dear!

Rob. Well, sir; but what motive could induce this Rashleigh to betray a trust which, for his own interest, one would naturally suppose he would be most faithful to?

Owen I suspect, to aid some political purpose, whereby, at the expense of honour and conscience, he expects to make a larger per centage of worldly profit. He knew that to shake the house of Osbaldistone and Co., Crane Alley, London, was to alarm the government. The cash he took was no hurt; but the assets-the assets, sir; however, I'll not give them up, for I know Rashleigh has come north.

table. Young man, have you sent my message to the hall, hard by. (Rob Roy pours out, and Owen drinks.) Willie. Ay, sir, and the lassie will sune be back wi' the answer,

[Exit. Rob. Well, fellow-traveller, how does our Scotch whisky agree with your English Stomach?

Owen. Thank you, sir, thank you-it cheers the body, but it cannot raise the spirit. I'm quite below par, as we say in the city.

Rob. Try it again, man.

Owen. I hope Mr. Francis Osbaldistone will make haste-yet I have a sad tale to tell him.

Rob. Osbaldistone! I know something of that family, sir, and if there's anything I can serve you in, you may command me.

Owen. You are very kind, sir, but is is far beyond your help.

Rob. Perhaps not. Will you trust me with the matter?

Owen. Surely I will, sir. The affairs of tho great ommercial and banking house of Osbaldistone and Co., Crane Alley, London, are no secret by this time. All public as the Gazette. That I should live to see it and to say it! Oh dear!

Rob. Come, come, there's nought so bad but what it may be mended. Let's hear the business that brings you to the Hall.

Owen. It's a long account, sir; but I'll sum it up by the shortest rules. You must know, sir, my name is Owen. I am head clerk and junior partner of the house of Osbaldistone and Co., Crane Alley, London; and I am now on my way to Glasgow, to recover certain papers which have been takenstolen, I'm afraid, in the absence of the head of the

frm.

Rob. Stolen! by whom!

Owen. By his nephew, Mr. Rashleigh.

Rob. Rashleigh! I know-I remember, the son of Sir Hildebrand, late of the Hall here.

Owen. The same, sir. Sir Hildebrand and the rest of his sons are taken up on suspicion of treasonable practices. It's an awful balance they have to strike.

Rob. But how happened it that this son, this Mr. Francis you talk of, was not left in charge of his father's affairs, rather than the nephew, Rashleigh?

Owen. Ah, sir, there lies all the mischief! Mr.

yet served a good cause.

Owen. You say true, sir, such people are as variable as the course of exchange. But when we reach Glasgow, sir, perhaps you can assist my inquiries.

Rob. I-I'll meet you there, Mr. Owen. I just recollect a small matter of business that I have to do in this neighbourhood. (Aside.) I must go to the Hall: Rashleigh has been there, no doubt; and Sir Frederiek Vernon may wish to speak with me. I'll meet you at Glasgow, Mr. Owen.

Owen. Heaven help me! I shall never live to balance an account there, without a companion or guide. I was never ten miles from Crane Alley before in all my days.

Rob. Pho, man! there is nothing to fear. Where shall I hear of you?

Owen. At Messrs. Macvittie and MacFin's, in the Gallowgate, sir. We have another agent, one Mr. Nicol Jarvie, in the Saltmarket, but I can't depend upon him.

Rob. Fare ye well, Mr. Owen-Rashleigh in the north! then the heather will soon be on fire (Aside, and going up.)

Enter WILLIE.

Willie. Here's the squire to speak wi' ane Mr. Owen.

Enter FRANCIS OSBALDISTONE-after he enters ROB ROY exits hastily, unperceived by him. Francis. Owen, my excellent, kind friend! Owen. O, Mr. Frank! O, Mr. Osbaldistone! such news! (wiping his eyes.) But why did you never answer our letters-mine and your good father's?

Francis Letters! I have never yet received one. I have written repeatedly, and have been astonished at receiving no reply.

Owen. O, Lord! no letters! O, my stars!__no letters! then they have been intercepted. How has your poor father heen deceived! O, Mr. Francis, what have you not to answer for? But that's past now-it's all over!

Francis. Good Heaven! my father, he is illdead?

Owen. No, no, not so bad as that! thank Heaven, his day book is still open, but his affairs are in worse confusion than my poor brain-oh, dear!

Francis. Explain yourself, I beseech you, and in terms less technical.

Owen. Well, well, the sum total is, that your

cousin Rashleigh, taking advantage of my good | master's absence in Holland, has absconded with papers of such consequence to ourselves and the government, that unless we can recover them, or get help from our agents by a certain day, the house of Osbaldistone and Co., Crane-alley, London, is in the bankrupt list as sure as the Gazette!

Francis. Gracious Heaven! my folly and disObedience then have ruined my father! Tell me, how shall I redeem the consequence of my error?

Oren. Oh, Mr. Frank, you raise my heart ten p cent, to hear you talk in that way. Repair to Glasgow, and assist my poor endeavours. Though you understand little, I grieve to say, of debtor and creditor, you thorou.hly understand, I rejoice to tell it, the great fundamental principle of all moral accounting-the great ethic rule of three-let A do to B as he would have B do to him, and the product will give the rule of conduct required.

Francis. It shall, it must be so this very hour I'll bid adieu to the enchantress, who still must rule my destiny, and seek this destroyer, this traitor, Rashleigh! Set forward, Owen, instantly- by the time you have made the necessary inquiries at Glasgow, I shall be with you. Oh, Diana! must we then part?

Owen. Diana! Ah, love, lovo! I thought sonever knew a man open an account with him, but his affairs got into confusion. I never had any dealings with him in all my life. It's more dangercus, Mr. Francis, than meddling with contraband goods: But I've heard of the consignment-to Miss Diana Vernon, best affections! Item, heart! Item, honour! Item-Oh, Mr. Francis, look at the per contra-blank! ruin! Oh, dear!

[Exit. Francis. Yes, for a while we must separate; yet I cannot cease to love cannot live without her.

SONG.-BY BURNS.

Air." Low Down in the Broom."

O my love's like the red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O my lore's like the melody,

That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thon, my bonny luss, $ der in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Tho' a' the seas gang dry.

Til a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And rocks melt tri the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.
But fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee w el awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand milz.

pose on the weak minds of the domestics, his penetration may discover who and what I am before the plans are matured on which my future happiness now entirely rest.

Diana. Rely on my discretion, sir! you may with safety.

-

Martha. (Advancing with a cloak, resembling that of a Catholic priest, and giving it to Sir Frederick.) Indeed, Sir Frederick I beg pardon, father Vaughan, I mean your reverence has nothing to fear, though you are a atholic and Jacobite. There is not a soul in the place, myself excepted, that dare stir a foot towards this part of the house after nightfall.

Sir F. I repeat, it is not from them I fear detection; the character I openly bear, of confessor to Miss Vernon, is a sufficient security; but remember, Diana, Francis Osbaldistone and his father are firm adherents of the present government; and should he discover me, or the purpose which renders my concealment in this part of the country necessary, it might be fatal to the cause of Scotland and ourselves.

Diana. But my cousin is a man of honourable and affectionate feelings; he would never betray you, sir.

Sir F. You mean he would never sacrifice his love in the person of Diana Vernon. Subdue those reflections, my child, for the sake of your future peace of mind-annihilate them, while it is yet in your power-thing that you are devoted to a cloister, or the betrothed bride of Rashleigh Osbaldistone.

[Exit at a tapestry panel. Diana. You may leave now, Martha. When my cousin Francis arrives, say I wish to speak with him here,

[Exit. The bride of Rashleigh! never, never! any lot rather than that-the convent, the jail, the grave! I must act as becomes the descendant of a noble ancestry. Yet how preferable is the lot of these whose birth and situation neither renders them meanly dependent, nor raises then to the dimculties and dangers which too often accompany wealth and grandeur.

(Song introduced.) Enter MARTHA, introducing FRANCIS OSBALDISTONE, and exit.

Francis. Diana, you sent for me.

Diana. Yes, Frank, it was to bid you farewell. Suppress your amazement while I tell you that I an acquainted with the distresses which the treachery of Rashleigh has brought upon your father.

Francis. How, in the name of Heaven! since but within these few minutes I myself was in formed?

Liana. Ask me no questions. I have it not in my power to reply to them. Fate has involved me in such a scries of nets and entanglements, that I dare hardly speak a word, for fear of consequences. You must meet, and obviate the difficulties this

blow has occasioned.

Francis. And how is that possible?

Diana. Everything is possible to him that pcssesses courage and activity.

Francis. What do yon advise?

Diana. Quit this place instantly, and for ever!
Francis. Diana!

Diana. You have only one friend to regret, and she has long been accustomed to sacrifice her