tion, I here, before you both, acquit her of the least suspicion raised against the honour of my bed. Therefore, when abroad her conduct may be questioned, do her fame that justice.

Lady T. Oh, sister! (Weeping.)

Lord T. When I am spoken of, where, without favour, this action may be canvassed, relate but ha f my provocations, and give me up to censure. Lady T. Support me-save me-hide me from the world!

Lord T. (Returning.) I had forgot. (To Lady Gace.) You have no share in my resentment, therefore, as you have lived in friendship with her, your parting may admit of gentler terms than suit the honour of an injured husband. (Offers to go.)

Man. (Interposing.) My lord, you must not, shall not leave her thus! One moment's stay can do your cause no wrong. If looks can speak the anguish of her heart, I'll answer, with my life, there's something labouring in her mind, that, would you bear the hearing, might deserve it.

Lord T. Consider-since we no more can meet, press not my staying to insult her.

Lady T. Yet stay, my lord-the little I would say will not deserve an insult; and, undeserved, I know your nature gives it not. But as you've called in friends to witness your resentment, let them be equal hearers of my last reply.

80.

Lord T. I shan't refuse you that, madam-be it

Lady T. My lord, you ever have complained I wanted love; but as you kindly have allowed I never gave it to another, so, when you hear the story of my heart, though you may still complain, you would not wonder at my coldness.

Lord T. Proceed, I am attentive.

Lady T. Before I was your bride, my lord, the flattering world had talked me into beauty; which, at my glass, my youthful vanity confirmed. Wild with that fame, I thought mankind my slaves - I triumphed over hearts, while all my pleasure was their pain: yet was my own so equally insensible to all, that, when a father's firm commands enjoined me to make choice of one, I even there declined the liberty he gave, and to his own election yielded up my youth: his tender care, my lord, directed him to you. Our hands were joined, but still my heart was wedded to its folly. My only joy was power, command, society, profuseness, and to lead in pleasures. The husband's right to rule I thought a vulgar law, I knew no directors but my passions, no master but my will. Even you, my lord, sometimes o'ercome by love, were pleased with my delight: nor then foresaw this sad misuse of your indulgence. And though I call myself ungrateful while I own it, yet as a truth it cannot be denied, that kind indulgence has undone me; it added strength to my habitual failings; and, in a heart thus warmed in wild, unthinking life, no wonder if the gentler sense of love was lost.

Lord T. Oh, Manly! where has this creature's heart been buried? (Apart to Man.) Man. If yet recoverable, how vast the treasure! (Apart to Lord T.)

Lady T. What I have said, my lord, is not my excuse, hut my confession; my errors (give them, if you please, a harder name,) cannot be defended. No, what's in its nature wrong, no words can palliate-no plea can alter! What then remains in my conditions, but resignation to your pleasure? Time only can convince you of my future conduct: therefore, till I have lived an object of forgiveness, I dare not hope for pardon. The penance of a lonely, contrite life, were little to the innocent; but to have deserved this separation, will strew perpetual thorns upon my pillow. Sister, farewell! (Kisses her.) Your virtue needs no warning from the shame that falls on me; but when you think I have atoned my follies past, persuade your injured brother to forgive them.

Lord T. No, madam; your errors, thus renounced this instant are forgotten! So deep, so due a sense of them has made you what my utmost wishes formed, and all my heart has sighed for. Long parted friends, that pass through easy voyages of life, receive but common gladness in their meeting; but, from a shipwreck saved, we mingle tears with our embraces.

(Embraces Lady Townly.)

Lady T. What words-what love-what duty can repay such obligations?

Lord Preserve but this desire to please, your power is endless.

Lady T. Oh! till this moment, never did I know, my lord, I had a heart to give you!

Lord T. By heaven! this yielding hand, when first it gave you to my wishes, presented not a treasure more desirable! Oh, Manly! sister! as you have often shared in my disquiet, partake of my felicity-my new-born joy! See here the bride of my desires! This may be called my weddingday.

Lady G. Sister, (for now methinks that name is dearer to my heart than ever,) let me congratulate the happiness that opens to you.

Man. Long, long, and mutual, may it flow! Lord T. To make our happiness complete, my dear, join here with me to give a hand, that amply will repay the obligation.

Lady T. Sister, a day like thisLady G. Admits of no excuse against the general joy. (Gives her hand to Manly.) Man. A joy like mine. - despairs of words to speak it.

Lord T. Oh, Manly, how the name of friend endears the brother! (Embracing him.) Man. Your words, my lord, will warm me to deserve them.

Lady T. Sister, to your unerring virtue I now commit the guidance of my future days

Never the paths of pleasure more to tread,
But where your guarded innocence shall lead.
For in the married state the world must own
Divided happiness was never known :
To make it mutual, nature points the way;
Let husbands govern, gentle wives obey.

Bona. You certainly know more concerning this man?

Fiam. Since it must be told, I do.
Bona. Then speak.

Fiam. It is quite a tragedy!

Bona. Indeed! Let us hear.

Fiam. It is now seven or eight years ago, when you having sent me to Chambery, I was coming hon e. It was almost dark; every thing was still; I was winding along the dale, and the rocks were all as it were turning black. Of a sudden, I heard cries! A man was murdering! I shook from head to foot! Presently, the cries died away; and I beheld two bloody men, with their daggers in their hands, stealing off under the crags at the foot of the mill. I stood like a stone; for I was frightened out of my wits! So I thought I heard groans; and, afeared as I was, I had the sense to think they must come from the poor murdered creature. So

Sel. I shudder when I recollect the selfishness of his views, and the violence of his character. Step. Add, the wickedness of his heart.

(Music, to express chattering contention.) Enter BONAMO and FIAMETTA. Fiam. I tell you again, sir, it is uncharitable, it is cruel; it is hard-hearted in you, to give any such orders.

Bona. And I tell you they shall be obeyed. Have not I a right to do as I please in my own house?

Fiam. No, sir; you have no right to do wrong anywhere.

Steph. What is the dispute, sir?

Fiam. He has ordered me to turn the poor Francisco out of doors; because, forsooth, the house is not large enough to hold this Count Romaldi.

Sel. Think, my dear uncle, how grateful and kind is his heart!

Steph. And that he is a man of misfortune.

Bona. Folly and misfortune are twins; nobody can tell one from the other. He has got footing here; and you seem all determined he shall keep

it.

saw this very manSel. Francisco?

Fiam. Weltering in his blood! To be sure I I do by myself? So presently my cries were heard; screamed and called loud enough: for what could and honest Michelli, the miller, with his man, came running.

Bona. I now remember the tale. The poor man recovered; and every body praised Michelli.

Fiam. So they ought; he is an honest, good soul! What then, sir, can you suppose I thought, when, about a week ago, I again saw Francisco's apparition standing before me; making signs that he was famished with hunger and thirst? I knew him at once; and he soon bethought himself of me. If you had seen his clasped hands, and his thankful looks, and his dumb notes, and his signs of joy, at having found me! While I have a morsel, he shall never want. I'll hire him a cottage; I'll wait upon him; I'll work for him: so turn him out of doors, if you have the heart.

Steph. Fiametta, you wrong my father.
Bona. I'll hear his story from himself.
Fiam. He can't speak.

Bora. But he can write.

Fiam. I warrant him. I'm sure he's a gentle

man.

Bona. Bring him here: if he prove himself an honest man, I am bis friend.

Fiam. I know that, or you shall be no master of mine.

[Exit.

St ph. His kind attentions to Selina are singular. with fresh gathered flowers, which he offers with Sel. Every morning, I find him waiting for me such modest yet affectionate looks!

FIAMETTA returns with FRANCISCO; the latter, poor in appearance, but clean; with a reserved, placid, and dignified air.

Bona. Come near, friend. You understand his gestures, Fiametta; so stay where you are. Fiam. I intend it.

Bona. (To himself.) He has a manly form! a benevolent eye! (Aloud.) Sit down, sir. Leave us, my children. (Francisco suddenly rises, as Stephano and Selina offer to go; brings them back, and entreats they may remain.) Since he desires it, stay. There is pen, ink, and paper; when you cannot answer by signs, write; but be strict to the truth.

Fran. (With dignity points to heaven and his

Bona. Who are you? (Francisco writes; and Ste.

Bona. Of which, I own, there is danger. Rom. (Seizing the letter which Bonamo carelessly holds.) Then let me guard you against it.

Sel. (After continually watching and suspecting Romaldi, snatches the letter back; while he, remarking her suspicions, is confused) This letter, my lord, was given in charge to me: I promised to bring an answer; and I respectfully entreat my uncle will read it.

mand.

[Exit with looks of suspicion. Music of doubt and terror.

Rom. What am I to think? How act? The arm of Providence seems raised to strike! Am I become a coward? Shall I betray, rather than defend myself! I am not yet an idiot. (Threatening music.)

serves his master.

Music ceases.

Rom. Why not? He owns the peace of your family may be disturbed.

Bona Fly, Selina, tell him I require, I request, him to sleep here to-night, that I may speak with him to-morrow.

Rom. (Aside.) That must not be.

Sel. Thanks, my dear uncle! you have made me happy.

[Exit in haste. Confused music.

Enter PIERO.

Rom. What now, Piero ?

Pier. Signor Montano is below.

Rom. (Alarmed and aside.) Montano!

Bona. I'm very glad of it, for I wanted his advice. (To Romaldi.) The best of men! Pier. Please to come up, sir.

Rom. With your permission, I will retire.

Enter MONTANO.

(Music plays alarmingly, but piano when he enters, and while he sings.)

Mon. I beg pardon, good sir, but-(Music loud and discordant at the moment the eye of Montano carches the figure of Romaldi; at which Montano starts with terror and indignation. He then assumes the eye and attitude of menace, which Romaldi returns. The music ceases.) Can it be possible?

Rom. (Returning his threatening looks.) Sir!
Mon. You here?

Rom. Not having the honour of your acquaintance, I know not why my presence should please or displease you.

Mon. (After a look of stern contempt at Romaldi, and addressing Bonamo.) Good night, my friend, I will see you to-morrow.

[Exit suddenly.

(Hurrying music, but half piano.)

Signor

Bona. (Calling.) Nay, but, signor! Montano! Are the people all mad? Fiametta! Fiam. (Without.) Sir! Bona. Run, overtake him; and say, I must speak with him. (Music ceases.) Excuse me for going.

(To Romaldi.) Rom. Why in such haste? I have heard of this Montano: a credulous person; a relator of strange stories.

Bona. Signor Montano credulous! There is not in all Savoy a man of sounder understanding. Good night, my lord; I will send your servant: that door leads to your bed-room. Call for

Mal. Your lordship seems disturbed? Rom. Francisco is here.

Mal. I saw him.

· Rom. And did not your blood freeze? Mal. I was sorry.

Rom. For what?

Mal. (Looking toward the folding-doors.) He's coming.

Rom. Let us retire and concert-
Mal. Then, at midnight-
Rom. When he sleeps-
Mal. He'll wake no more!

[Exeunt to the chamber of the Count. pain and alarm; then the successive feelings of the (The stage dark: soft music, but expressing first scene. Fiametta enters, with Francisco, and a lamp, which she places on the table. She regards him with compassion, points to his bed-room, then curtsies with kindness and respect, and retires; he returning her kindness. He seats himself as if to write, rises, takes the lamp, looks round with apprehension, goes to the chamber-door of Romaldi, starts away with horror, recovers himself, again places the lamp on the table, and sits down to write. The door of Romaldi opens: Malvoglio half appears, watching Francisco; but, as he turns, again retires.)

Enter, SELINA, who gently pulls the sleeve of Francisco: he starts: but, seeing her, his countenance expands with pleasure.

(Music pauses on a half close.) Sel. (In a low voice.) Dare not to sleep! I will be on the watch! your life is in danger!

[Exit. (Music continues tremendous.)