CLARIS. (as they are about to approach her) Lucy-come -come. Danger-shame-sin-dwells here, let us-let us fly. (as if searching for some one, her hand meets that of MACDONALD.)

MAC. (with deep feeling) My poor girl. (she sinks back into his arms; all the GUESTS make a movement as if to approach) Back, back sirs. Which of you will dare attempt to wrest her from me? Back! back, I say! Give place. (he pauses before them, goes cautiously round the front of stage, with CLARISSA sustained by his left arm, his sword in the other hand, slowly—LOVELACE remains alone, without making a single motion to stay MACDONALD. When MACDONALD arrives near the door, L. 1 E., he staggers, puts his hand to his forehead, and utters a cry) Ha, my brain! my eyes grow dim-my arm has lost its power-nerveless to sustain her. (she suddenly falls from his arm, into an arm chair, L. c.-he leans upon his sword) I-ha! it is-it must be so. The wine! the accursed wine!-heaven, save her. (he falls, his head resting upon her feet.)

LOVE. (with a reckless and sardonic smile) I told you, Patrick Macdonald, that neither your presence nor your sword, would prove much hindrance to Lovelace.

END OF ACT II.

Tableau, and

ACT III.

SCENE I.-The upper show room of a Mercer's shop, on the first floor -L. a staircase leading down to the ground floor. This is the only entrance to and from without. Door, R. 3 E. A counter extending across the first wing, L., chairs here and there—a table with writing materials on it, R., chair beside it. MR. SMITH is discovered.

SMITH. 'Pon my life, I don't know what to make of all this. I never was in such a fever in my life; here's a poor girl, of whom we know nothing, snugly ensconced in our best bed room, and likely to quit this blessed world, leaving me to bury her. There's the doctor sent for-who the deuce is to pay him, I wonder?

Enter MRS. SMITH, from the R. 3 E.

Well, wife, how is she?

MRS. S. Poor thing! still as silent as ever.

SMITH. A most extraordinary specimen of the softer sex, certainly.

MRS. S. Why so?

SMITH. Won't talk! a silent woman-a wonder in natural history-must be suffering under some malady unheard of among the faculty. What did the doctor say? MRS. S. He shook his head as he went out. SMITH. Poor girl! poor girl! Hark ye, wife, you have a good heart I know it--but if we get into any unpleasant scrape abuot this business mind it's all your fault.

MRS. S. Mr. Smith, husband, I'm really ashamed of you. Would you have the poor thing die, without holding out a hand to relieve her ? Ah, if you had seen her three weeks since, as I did, when I found her fainting and senseless at the step of our door-I am very sure, John, that you would have acted just as I did.

SMITH. Well, well, I daresay I should; but you such a soft heart.

MRS. S. And you have such a soft head.

SMITH. I had rather be celebrated for soft substances about my head, than hard ones, you may depend. I must confess, the poor girl has a winning way with her; but then you know, appearances, wife, are sometimes deceitful. MRS. S. But not with her, my dear, depend upon it.

SMITH. I'm sure I hope not; but when people have done nothing to be ashamed of they generally tell who they are, and where they come from, and what they are going to do-and then you know, this terrible illness, from which there's little hope of her recovery.

MRS. S. Oh, don't say that!

SMITH. Well, but the doctor shook his head, you say, and that's a very bad sign; they generally tell you you are all right, to encourage you on to some more doses, while there's a chance left. Then, you know, she was quite delirious last night. Now, altogether, wife, it makes me quite melancholy to think of it. I haven't had a laugh these three weeks, and you know how fond I am of laughing-why, I am so dying for a laugh, I should even be glad if cousin Patrick were to drop in, and entertain us a bit with one of his droll stories. I should, upon my

word.

MRS. S. What!

SMITH. I should, I give you my honour-I know he's a horrible scamp, and I never could bear to see him enter my door, but the rascal has the knack of making me laugh

in spite of myself, and I'd welcome one of his funny stories, with all the pleasure in life.

MACDONALD. (calls without, down the stairs) Oh, stuff, nonsense! I tell you he's always at home to me.

SMITH. Eh! why, as I live, that's his voice! Talk of the devil, they say-ah! I'm so glad.

MRS. S. But he had better not come up here. (points to R. door, significantly.)

SMITH. Egad, that's true. When he laughs, its like the roar of a mad bull-he would disturb her-but here he is. MRS. S. Don't say a word to him about it.

SMITH. I understand.

Enter MACDONALD, melancholy and very reserved, up the staircase.

Now for a hearty laugh to crack my sides with. Ha, my dear fellow, how do you find yourself, eh? Ha, ha, ha! MAC. (with a continued moody melancholy) Good day, cousin. How do you do, Smith ?

SMITH. (appears rather surprised, but relapses into great merriment) How are you, Patrick? Ha, ha, ha! I'm glad to see you.

MAC. (sighs) Thank you. (seats himself—SMITH looks at him with a long face, and then at his wife.)

MRS. S. What's the matter, cousin. How solemn you look!

SMITH. He's thirsty. Cousin's always thirsty. (goes up to bureau, brings down bottle of brandy and glass) Here's a bottle of brandy, cousin.

MAC. I drink no more.

SMITH. (incredulously) Oh, pooh, pooh, nonsense. Come. drink.

MAC. Do you want to poison me, to? SMITH. (recoiling) Lord bless the man! MAC. Villain! (SMITH starts further) lace!

Lovelace! Love

SMITH. What the deuce does he say? My dear fellow, it isn't poison, its brandy-capital brandy.

MAC. (rising, and striking his fist on the counter) I'll drink no more, I tell you.

SMITH. Very well, very well-don't get into a rage—I only thought

MAC. (reseating himself) Oh, wretch! (SMITH again looks astonished) I'll find you, villain-I'll hunt you down!

SMITH. What, and who, the devil he's talking about? (to his wife.)

MRS. S. Why, cousin Patrick, can this be really you? You, always so gay and joyous ?

SMITH. You who always had so many droll tales, and histories to tell us!

MAC. (forcibly) Histories! Well, I'll recount a story to you. (rises, and in moving his chair, places it heavily upon the ground) I'll recount a story to you, the newest and strangest that London at present furnishes.

SMITH. (seats himself by counter) Ah, that's right; go on, go on. (rubbing his hands) Now I shall have a laugh. Ha, ha, ha! (laughs loudly) I shall have a glorious laugh; I laugh even before I hear it. Go on, go on; ha, ha, ha! (pleased) Its now all ready, go on, go on. (slapping his knees.)

MAC. 'Tis now about three weeks, or a month since, that a plot was laid by one of our London men of fashion, for the ruin of a young girl. By series of deceptions, she was lured to his house in town, and, during a Bacchanalian midnight revel with his friends, the foul act was to have been consummated. Well, this young girl-oh! had you seen her! She was so good, lovely, virtuous-that even I-Patrick Macdonald-I, one of the veriest rascals that this city of giant crime produces-could but pity her. 'Tis true, and though hired as agent in the accursed work, I stood alone her defender against five, and drew my sword in her defence; but what avails woman's virtue man's strength amongst the profligates of the present day, who adopt other and more powerful weapons, to rob their pure victims of all that gives them worth. (rising) Oh, 'tis infamous, fearful and accursed! (SMITH has fallen from laughing, to an attitude of intense attention) MRS. S. Go on. Proceed.

66

or

MAC. I was there, on guard before her door. She descended, overcome and powerless, utterly unable to think or act. She turned to me for support-she called me friend her enemies were hovering round her, and he, the ravenous kite, about to fix his talons on his powerless victim. Nature descended at once into my heart-I drew my sword in her defence-would have borne her from the house, or lost my life in the attempt. When suddenly my senses failed me-my limbs refused their office-drugged as she had been, by some powerful narcotic;_ placed in a glass of wine they had tempted me to drink, I fell senseless to the ground.

MRS. S. Oh, heaven! And the poor girl

MAC. When I recovered, all were gone, the house was empty, but it had been the scene of a most odious crime, a most infamous outrage.

MRS. S. Eh, what?

That poor girl?

MAC. Oh, that I knew what had become of her, that I could but see her once again.

CLARISSA appears at door of chamber, R. 3 E.

CLARIS. I cannot be mistaken, it must be the voice of him who defended me. (raising her hands feebly towards him) My friend, my friend!

MAC. (turns and sees her) Ah! unless I madden, it is she! oh! speak again-say 'tis no phantom I behold, but

CLARIS. Clarissa Harlowe, your unhappy friend.

MAC. (falls on his knees before her) Oh, let me pay my homage here, at the shrine of Virtue and of Honour.

CLARIS. Oh! how my heart bounds to see you once again. Let me-let me bathe your hand with suffering tears of grateful thanks!

SMITH. What! is this the poor young lady of whom you were just talking?

MAC. It is, she stands before you. How did you escape their fiendish hands?

CRARIS. Explain to you-I cannot; delirium had possessed me when, when I recovered my senses, it was to find myself flying madly through the streets of London. Oh! 'twas a dreadful night, and the cold, the wind, the rain! my agitation and fevered mindall I had undergone, utterly took from me each particle of remaining energy. I wandered through the night-sickchill, to death. Oh! what a night of lengthened watching! Day at last did come, I had wandered I knew not whither; I sank fainting at this door-where I must have perished, had it not been for the ministering, charitable hands of this good lady.

MAC. Thanks, cousin! thanks! (shakes MR. and Mrs. SMITH'S hands) For me, when I could gain no tidings of you, I hastened to your father's house, determined to acquaint them with the whole, and infamous plot.

CLARIS. You went ?

MAC. I did.

CLARIS. You saw my mother?

MAC. I did, and she was the only one who shed a single tear.