has never remembered-of course, not once regretted. Come, sir, I have had one short interview with her; let me introduce you to her. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-The Gardens belonging to the Marquis. Enter MARQUIS ALMANZA, R. S. E., leading AMANTHIS

Mar. Come this way, my dear Amanthis, and do not be thus agitated. Wherefore do you weep? What thus affects you?

Aman. Why will you take me from my retreat? Did not you say I should stay here as long as I was pleased with it, and as long as I loved you? Ah! I expected to stay here for ever.

Mar. Hear me, Amanthis: I have hitherto secluded you from the tumult and dissipation of the world, in order to form your heart and mind; I must now show you to the world; we were born for society, and you will be the ornament and delight of that which you shall make your choice.

Aman. I know not whether I shall give delight, but I am sure I shall not be delighted myself.

Mar. Why not?

Aman. Because I shall not see you so often as I have hitherto done.

Mar. Nay, Amanthis, I shall always be your friend, your father you are among those objects I love.

Aman. And you are the only object I love, the only one I ever can love.

Mar. Do not promise that: when you have seen the world, some other, more deserving

Aman. Oh! do not go on! I cannot bear you should have such unjust suspicions. Do not you see the world? and yet I am sure you prefer me to all the universe besides when I am there: why cannot you, then, confide in me, as I have done in you?

Mar. The circumstance is different; I had seen all, before I beheld you; you have seen none but me.

Aman. Why, then, will you show me others? I had rather like none but you. Let me still stay here. I will do any thing with cheerfulness that you command. But when I am in the world, you will not leave me wholly? I shall sometimes see you? I hope so.

Mar. Leave you, Amanthis! Ah! you little think how hard it would be to leave you.

Aman. Nay, I am convinced you love me-love me

You

dearly. Does not all I possess come from you? have even taught me to think, to speak, and to be happy. Yet, of all your gifts, that, the most dear to my heart, is a sentiment I feel for you, and cannot tell what it is; I have not power to describe either its tenderness or its force: 'tis impossible I should make you comprehend it, for you never felt any thing like it.

Mar. "Tis gratitude she means.-[Aside.]-Among the rest to whom you will be soon introduced, is my uncle, and I regard him as my father.

Aman. Oh! that's a tender name! You have so often told me of mine, his love for me, and his distresses, that I revere the name of father even in a stranger.

Mar. I have sometimes mentioned to you the Marchioness Merida: she is now in this house, and as soon as I have introduced you to her, I desire you will consider her as your friend.

Aman. My friend? that is the name you bid me call you by. No, I cannot promise to call her friend; one friend is enough for me. [Taking his hand.

Mar. You will see here, also, a young man called Count Valantia.

Aman. A young man! Oh! I had forgot to tell you. Mar. What?

Aman. Of a young man I have seen. [Delighted. Mar. How! Tell me immediately; when did he see you? what has he said to you?

Aman. Not much; he said very little: but he sighed heavily, and sent a letter.

Mar. Explain yourself.

Aman. It was only about a week ago, as I was sitting by the little bower near to the garden wall, suddenly I heard an unknown voice call me by my name; it seemed to come from the air. I looked up, and beheld a young man upon the wall. The moment I recovered from the fright, I asked him what he wanted? He said he came to look at me;' but that appeared so strange, I could not think it true; and then he gazed on me so wildly, I ran away and hid myself: on which he drew a letter from his pocket, and threw it after me. I would not take it up till he was gone; then I caught it, and flew to my apartments, pleased beyond expression. Mar. Wherefore?

Aman. That I had escaped him.

Mar. [Aside.] Who could it be ! Ah! I have a suspicion. Where is the letter?

Aman. Here; I do not understand it, perhaps you may. [Gives the letter. Mar. [Reading.] 'Know, beautiful Amanthis, there is no retreat, however hidden, into which love cannot penetrate. The hope of beholding you has made me brave all dangers. If you will but kindly pity a passion, pure as it is ardent, it shall soon inspire me with the means to release you from the tyranny of that barbarian, who keeps you secluded from every joy that's waiting to attend you in a gay world. Conceal this adventure from the jealous tyrant, and reflect, that the most tender lover waits impatiently for the happy moment to prove himself your deliverer.' [Returning the letter.] And what do you think of this letter?

Aman. That the poor man is mad; and yet it is a kind of madness I never heard of before. [Reading part of the letter.] There is no retreat into which love cannot penetrate.' What does he mean by love? he has left out a word; there is love of virtue; love of duty; but love all alone by itself, means nothing at all. Then again-[Reading]- Conceal this adventure from the jealous tyrant.' Who does he mear by tyrant? Mar. He means me.

6

6

He

Aman. You! I never should have supposed it; perhaps you know, also, what he means by a lover.' , says, the most tender lover.' Read, and tell me what he means by a tender lover. Ah! you laugh-you are puzzled; you don't know yourself what a lover' is.

Mar. Indeed, I cannot undertake to be his interpreter. But tell me, Amanthis, if by chance you should see this young man again, do you think you should know him? Aman. Yes, I am sure I should.

Mar. His person, then, made an impression on your mind? I suppose it was agreeable?

Aman. Very agreeable, indeed; and yet there appeared a-a-kind of-[Describing passionate ardour] a wildness in his looks that frightened me.

Mar. But suppose that wildness was removed, how would you like him, then?

Aman. Oh, very much! extremely! What makes you thoughtful, my lord?

Mar. Come, Amanthis, we have been together a long time. Retire into your apartment for a moment; I'll follow you presently.-[Going.]-My agitation is so extreme, nothing can equal it, except my weakness.

[Aside. He looks after her; she turns back.

Aman. You look as if you had something still to say

to me.

Mar. Ah! could I trust my heart! Away! the Marchioness is coming hither by appointment. I hear her, and cannot present you to her yet; I am too much embarrassed.

Aman. I hear no one: but if it is your desire, I will leave you. [Exit. Mar. With what difficulty have I restrained myself from falling at her feet, and unfolding (in a language of which she is ignorant) the secret transports which I hope ever to conceal!

Enter MARCHIONESS MERIDA, L. S. E.

March. I have seen her; I have just had a peep at her; but I see nothing extraordinary. She wants powder, rouge, and a thousand adornments.

Mar. To change one atom, would be to lose a charm. March. That sentence proves the lover.

Mar. Take care what you say; reflect on the difference of our ages; that title would make me both ridiculous and guilty.

March. By no means: I think a girl of seventeen may very well have an affection for a man of forty. Mar. I am not forty, madam.

March. The lover again: one moment lamenting his age, and, when reproached with it, proclaiming himself a youth. The whole matter is, my lord, you are not too old to be in love, nor she too young to understand it. Mar. You wrong her; she is ignorant.

March. So am I, too-I am in love.

Mar. She knows not what it is; never heard of love, as you would explain it, but calls by that name gratitude.

March. Indeed, my dear Marquis, you have no pene tration.

Mar. I see Count Valantia coming this way; you will allow, at least, I have discretion, and that I know when it is politeness to retire.

March. If you should like to be witness to a quarrel, stay where you are.

Mar. A quarrel! A'n't you on the point of marriage? and did he not break the wheels of his carriage? March. Yes; but I begin to suspect that breaking the wheels of his carriage was not upon my account.

Mar. No? On whose account, then? Who has hinted that it was not upon yours? [Alarmed. March. Nay, I protest have not had five minutes' conversation with any creature since I came into this house, but I believe my woman has, with the Count's attendant; and though she could not prevail on him to divulge his master's secret, yet, from his silence, she could perceive I was not the object of his present journey.

Mar. Who then?

March. I am at a loss to guess; that is what I want to have explained.

Mar. The Count is here. Adieu! She has confirmed my apprehensions. [Aside.-Exit.

Enter COUNT VALANTIA, L.

Count. The Marchioness ! Psha!-[Aside.]-- At length I find the lucky moment you are alone, but I positively began to despair of it, for you seem to shun me. March. Do you imagine I came to this house on purpose to meet you?

Count. Why not as likely, as that I should come on purpose to meet you.

March. Just the same likelihood, I believe. [Asidc. Count. And not accident, but design, brought me here. March. The story of the broken chaise was then an artifice?

Count. Only an artifice, to behold the object whom I adore. Can you reproach me for that?

March. How came you to know I was coming? The Marquis only invited me about three hours before we set off.

Count. My lord-I forget his name-told me of it; the Marquis had informed him.

March. My lord who?

Count. My lord—[Hesitating]—You don't know him. March. Do you?

Count. My lord Castile.

March. He is in France, 1 protest.

Count. I know that; I did not mean him; I meant his brother.

March. He has no brothers.

Count. Then it was his sister, or his aunt. No matter; what signifies who told me, as long as I am here? I am here, a'n't I? A'n't I here? And what could bring me here, but you?