Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans provided by Google Books

Source: books.google.com

http://books.google.com/books?pg=PP8&dq=the+nephews&id=tSgHAAAAQAAJ#v=o
nepage&q=&f=false

THE

NEPHEWS:

A PLAY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

* * * * *

FREELY TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS IFFLAND,

BY

HANNIBAL EVANS LLOYD, ESQ.

* * * * *

LONDON:

PRINTED BY W. AND C. SPILSBURY, SNOWHILL;

AND SOLD BY G. G. AND J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER-ROW; CADELL AND DAVIES, STRAND; J. DEBRETT, PICCADILLY; AND J. BELL, OXFORD-STREET.

M.DCC.XCIX.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CHANCELLOR FLEFFEL.

COUNSELLOR FLEFFEL, his Son.

MR. DRAVE, a Merchant, Guardian to the two BROOKS.

LEWIS BROOK, \ > Brothers PHILIP BROOK, /

MR. ROSE, a Banker.

Clerk to the Chancellor.

Old Man.

FREDERICK DRAVE's Servant.

MRS. DRAVE.

AUGUSTA.

THE NEPHEWS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

At the Chancellor's House.

COUNSELLOR FLEFFEL, LEWIS BROOK, at Breakfast.

Enter a Servant.

Counsellor (to the Servant).

Take away. But, no—let it stand; my father may chuse some: is he returned?

Servant. I'll enquire, Sir. [Exit Servant.

Counsellor [rising and viewing himself]. We've made a long breakfast.

Lewis. But you have eaten nothing.

Counsellor. Why, my dear friend, I'm quite uneasy about my growing so fat.

Lewis [ironically]. Oh, certainly; All the affecting graces of a pining love-sick swain will be destroyed: you'll lose all your credit with the ladies.—Apropos of ladies, how do you stand with Miss Drave?

Counsellor. Ill enough. Your worthy guardian and the whole family are so intolerably stiff.

Lewis. Don't say I told you; but you certainly are the happy man.

Counsellor. I?—No indeed; it is rather you.

Lewis. You have nothing to fear from me. You know my passion for your sister. But for that grave, melancholy gentleman, my dear brother, I'd have you beware of him.

Counsellor [laughs] Excellent! As if such a sour misanthrope could please any one, particularly a young girl.

Lewis. Tastes are different; and besides, my serious guardian is his friend.

Counsellor. So much the worse for you.

Lewis. No matter.

Counsellor. How! Believe me, this excellent brother of yours is continually defaming you.

Lewis. I know it very well.

Counsellor. And he is now striving——

Lewis. I know what you would say; to enforce the clause of my father's will.

Counsellor. Tell me, how is this clause worded?

Lewis. If one of his sons should turn out a prodigal, the other is declared his tutor.

Counsellor. It is a shocking clause.

Lewis. It is indeed. Yet, should they attempt it—by heavens!—But to the purpose—your father is still willing to give me your sister?

Counsellor. Certainly.

Lewis. But take care then I have some of the ready with her.

Counsellor. Oh, you may depend upon that.

Lewis. Not any of your father's own; only my share of the fortune of old Crack-brains.

Counsellor. Old Crack-brains! What do you mean?

Lewis. As if you did not know! Why my old uncle, to whom you have prescribed a little wholesome confinement, by way of cure for his pretended madness.

Counsellor. Oh! that old man! So, so.

Lewis. Exactly. You always seem wonderfully at a loss when that point is touch'd.

Counsellor. But—I was going to observe—yes—it might be done, had he not escaped—but now it is uncertain whether he is alive, or what is become of him.

Lewis. I say he is dead.

Counsellor. But we have not heard.

Lewis. He shall be dead.

Counsellor. But——

Lewis. Why a live man is as easily declared to be dead, as a man in his senses to be mad; and if he should make his appearance, you can secure him again.

Counsellor. No! who would do that?

Lewis. Zounds! what a tender conscience! If my uncle could be declared mad, by your good-nature, that you might shew your Christian charity, in managing his estate, I am sure your noble heart would have no scruple to advance a part of the inheritance to the lawful heir.

Counsellor. My dear friend, your expressions are so harsh—so——

Lewis. His madness was not so very clear. The old fellow was reasonable enough at times.

Counsellor. Quite out of his senses, I assure you: mad as a March hare.

Lewis I don't know how—but indeed, I sometimes pity him.

Counsellor. It was the will of God.

Lewis. Oh, I have nothing to do with that: 'tis a subject too deep for me. But beware of my brother: he suspects foul play, and has spies drawn up every where.

Enter CHANCELLOR FLEFFEL.

Counsellor. Good morning, dear father.

Lewis [bowing]. My Lord!

Chancellor. Good morning, my son,—your most obedient, Sir.

Lewis. Engaged so early?

Chancellor. Can I avoid it, my dear Sir?

Lewis. The State is much indebted to you.

Chancellor. Yet my zeal is frequently overlooked—no attention paid. [To his son] No news, Samuel?

Counsellor. No, father.

Chancellor. I feel quite tired.

Counsellor. You have had no breakfast.

Chancellor. No; and the cold marble floor of the Palace has quite chilled me. What have you here? [Seats himself at the breakfast table.] Our most excellent Prince has been heaping new favours upon me. You have heard, no doubt, [to Lewis] of the bustle there has been. An underclerk of the Treasury, a man of no extraction, accused me of a fraud, in executing the late regulations for the distribution of corn to the poor.

Lewis. So I have been informed—and what is our Prince's pleasure?

Chancellor. As the man could bring no evidence whatever, his Serene Highness, for the reparation of my honour, has been graciously pleased to punish him.

Lewis. And in what manner?

Chancellor. The warrant was signed yesterday, [drinks]—To be cashiered and banished.

Lewis. He is pretty well rewarded.

Chancellor. I have supplicated, my dear Sir, for a mitigation of the sentence—but in vain——Samuel, cut me a wing of that fowl——I have sent another letter, on your account, to Mr. Drave.

Lewis. Too kind, my Lord.

Chancellor. I long to see his answer. To my last he sent an absolute refusal.

Lewis. Is it possible? Can he dare?

Chancellor [rising]. He has not gathered roses by it, my dear Sir—No, no, [laughs] L.4000, which I had in his hands, I withdrew instantly.—Your good father was wrong to put such promising sons under this man's guardianship.

Lewis. I agree with you; but some of his best friends advised him.

Chancellor [taking snuff]. Has Drave ever given any account of his guardianship?

Lewis. Not yet.

Chancellor. Note that, Samuel. He shall give it—I have hinted it in Court already—You must not lose your fortune, my dear Sir.

Lewis. I do not think there is any danger.

Chancellor. Well, but have you drawn up a statement of your property, as you promised?

Lewis [gives him a paper]. Here it is.

Chancellor [looking over it]. So, so; a very good fortune! [muttering] L.10,000 in the hands of Rose—Which Rose is that?

Lewis. John Frederick.

Chancellor. Samuel, give me the red ink.—[Writes.] So, so—L.10,000, at John Frederick Rose's.

Lewis. May I ask why that name strikes you so much?

Chancellor. For important reasons.

Lewis. You think——

Chancellor. That your property is not in the best hands, my dear Sir. Rose is rather in a ticklish situation just now.

Lewis. I may lose it then!

Chancellor. Not you exactly, but your worthy tutor might suffer. [Looks at the back of the paper.] Aye, aye; many drawbacks too—you are not the best manager, my good friend.

Lewis. I know it, my Lord.

Chancellor. Overcharged besides by your honest guardian now and then. I am a plain, sincere man. Speak freely—the valuable furniture—the plate—is there any regular inventory?

Lewis. No, my Lord. It was in the will.

Chancellor. You must apply to the Court then.

Lewis. Yes—But—

Chancellor. Only for form sake—you just sign a little paper—a mere form, I assure you. You are too good-natured—give so easily away—must not be.—Come, we will go to my room, and examine your affairs more closely. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Apartment in Drave's House.

Mr. DRAVE writing.—Mrs. DRAVE enters.

Mrs. D. Good morning, my dear—you have not come down.

Mr. D. [gives her his hand, without looking up]. Good morning.

Mrs. D. You are busy.

Mr. D. I shall have done in a moment.

Mrs. D. I'll leave you.

Mr. D. [rising]. It is done now.

Mrs. D. You seem angry.

Mr. D. No wonder—that man——

Mrs. D. Who?

Mr. D. My hopeful ward Lewis—as I am not always ready to pay his debts, he sets the Chancellor upon me.

Mrs. D. Again? Very strange.

Mr. D. I am continually pestered with applications for the payment.

Mrs. D. And you——

Mr. D. With all due respect for these applications, I'll not pay.

Mrs. D. Very well: but——

Mr. D. And now this Chancellor sends me a letter, desiring me to bring him my accounts, as guardian to Lewis this afternoon that he may overlook them. I'll not do it. [Takes a letter off the table, and gives it to Mrs. Drave—walks angrily up and down while she reads it—takes it back]. What do you think of it?

Mrs. D. It is unpleasant—but why send a positive refusal?

Mr. D. And why not?

Mrs. D. The Chancellor is a very powerful man.

Mr. D. I do not fear him.

Mrs. D. He takes every opportunity to injure us; his hatred is implacable. What can you oppose to his base intrigues?

Mr. D. My heart, and plain dealing.

Mrs. D. Do not offend him so sensibly: rather send the accounts.

Mr. D. Never! The very sum he now troubles me for is to pay himself. He lent it to Lewis, through a third person, upon exorbitant interest.

Mrs. D. Base enough. But, I repeat it, he is powerful, and will revenge himself.

            [Mr. D. seals the letter, rings the bell.—Enter
                              a Servant.]

Mrs. D. You will have it so. I wish all may be well.

Mr. D. [giving the letter to the Servant]. To the Chancellor's. [Exit Servant.

Mrs. D. Had you only done it in a better manner—You may remember 'twas for your rashness he withdrew the L.4000.

Mr. D. For my rashness? Oh, no.—To place it out at higher interest somewhere else.—At such an unseasonable time too—there again—thus to undermine good houses, that he may have full scope for his unfair practices.

Mrs. D. It may be so—But in regard to Lewis—I wish your behaviour were different: it may have such unpleasant consequences—for I must inform you, he seems to have an attachment to Augusta.

Mr. D. [surprised]. So?—and Augusta?

Mrs. D. She loves him.

Mr. D. Merciful God!

Mrs. D. What is it you mean?

Mr. D. Too well have I feared—too well have I guessed at such things. Hence it is that Augusta looks always as if oppressed by conscious guilt—hence her reserve towards me.—Has not this unhappy guardianship given me uneasiness enough? Has not my life been sufficiently embittered? Have I not sacrificed enough of my peace? must I also sacrifice my only child?

Mrs. D. I do not see why.

Mr. D. No, no, you do not see—if you did, you would not stand there so calmly.

Mrs. D. And why are you so terrified? That he is lively—sometimes wild? He is young.

Mr. D. Lively? wild? young? No, no.—Immoral, dissolute, hypocritical; that is the character of Lewis Brook.—And shall he the husband of my Augusta? When I quit the world, shall I leave to him the child of my heart? To him? Oh, you have brought me bad news!

Mrs. D. You see every thing in such gloomy colours! I agree he is inconsiderate—very inconsiderate; and certainly while he remains as he is, I shall not think of marriage: but love will bring him back.

Mr. D. What can you hope from such levity?

Mrs. D. More than from the insensibility of his brother.

Mr. D. Do you speak of my good Philip thus? Oh, had you told me that she loved him—whatever I could spare—my whole fortune—yes, she should have had it all—Then we had been the happiest of parents.

Mrs. D. I see no happiness, in our daughter's being shut up with such an eternal grumbler.

Mr. D. Oh! but his heart is noble!

Mrs. D. An inconsiderate mind is better than such sour virtue, if indeed it deserves the name.

Mr. D. I own I am disappointed in both of them.

Mrs. D. I fear, my dear Drave, your mode of education has contributed to make them hate each other.

Mr. D. Hate? Philip hate?—Never.——If Lewis does, I am sorry.

Mrs. D. He cannot love such sour behaviour—he does not hate—but he is cold—they have not spoken to each other these three months.

Mr. D. We must put an end to this. They must see each other, come to an explanation, and all will be well. Lewis esteems you—prevail on him to meet his brother with kindness.

Mrs. D. Willingly.—And now concerning Augusta—what will you do?

Mr. D. [thoughtfully]. Now I see clearly—now I can account for many strange things: it is too true—her passion is too deeply rooted to be overcome. I will never force her inclination—but I must first be certain that Lewis really loves her.

Mrs. D. I hope to satisfy you in that point. His declarations are sufficiently explicit.

Mr. D. Suppose what you tell me to be true, the young Counsellor's visits must be declined.

Mrs. D. Why so?

Mr. D. For a thousand reasons. I must beg you to comply with my wishes in this respect.—The company of a fool can never do any good, though his impertinences may do mischief.—I have now some engagements abroad, and cannot speak to Augusta, till after I return. Prepare her for it—tell her that her happiness is dearer to me than my life—she is still the child of my heart, and her choice shall be mine.—Adieu. [Exeunt on different sides.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

AUGUSTA laying down a book, and wiping her eyes.

Mrs. DRAVE entering.

Mrs. D. At your books, and in tears again, Augusta?

Augusta. No, dear mother.

Mrs. D. Your eyes betray you. You must not be so melancholy. One impediment is remov'd—I have acquainted your father with your attachment.

Augusta. Good God! what have you done!

Mrs. D. What we ought to have done long long ago; he loves you so tenderly.

Augusta. But why should I not try to overcome this unhappy passion, knowing——

Mrs. D. Overcome? Can you do that? I know your heart too well. But be cheerful now—dream not of impediments that will never arise. Your father consents to whatever can tend to make you happy.

Augusta. What! my dear father will permit——

Mrs. D. He will proceed without precipitation; which is what I would advise you to do. If Lewis loves you sincerely, you may trust your father's heart.

Augusta. If? Oh, my dear mother, my doubts about him, occasion me continual uneasiness.—Could he deceive my affection——he seems of no fixed character.

Mrs. D. It must be owned he is unsteady.

Augusta. His way of life, indeed, displays such a character; but his heart is good.

Mrs. D. I believe it.

Augusta. He does a great deal of good in private.

Mrs. D. I know he does.

Augusta. And always with such a good will, without any ostentation.

Mrs. D. That is true.

Augusta. A man cannot be so tender as we are; but he certainly has feeling.——I am sorry he is not upon good terms with his brother.

Mrs. D. There I absolve him. Who can bear his churlish temper?

Augusta. And yet how deeply he was concerned about his brother's last illness! how attentive to make him comfortable! He cannot be bad.

Mrs. D. Very possibly; but think, my Augusta, if he were——

Augusta. If he were not good towards me, then—I am very unhappy! I love him so much, even to his faults, for they arise from unsuspicious goodness of heart.

Enter COUNSELLOR FLEFFEL.

Counsellor. Good day to you, fair ladies; your most obedient servant.

Mrs. D. You honour us with your company sooner than we expected.

Counsellor. I was impatient, absolutely beside myself, upon my honour, till fashion allowed me to fly hither; I am always so happy in your charming company!

PHILIP BROOK entering.

Philip. Good morning to you, Madam [bows to Augusta.] Pray, is Mr. Drave at home? [To the Counsellor] Good morning, Sir.

Mrs. D. No, Sir, he is just gone out. [They converse together. The Counsellor talks to Augusta].

Counsellor. Miss Drave, we will have some sport.

Augusta. How so?

Counsellor. We'll make him look quite silly, by pretending to compliment him.

Augusta. I must decline taking any part, Sir.

Counsellor [to Philip]. Mr. Brook, I have the honour to pay you my best compliments.

Philip [turning quickly towards him]. On what account?

Counsellor. What account? Why—why—on having the happiness to see you.

Philip. Then, you must pay them to yourself.

Counsellor. But, as I have the honour to be upon terms of strict friendship with your——

Philip. Strict!

Counsellor. Very strict.

Philip. This is the first time I have heard of my brother's strictness.

Counsellor. But, Mr. Brook, you are seldom to be seen; why is this?

Philip. That I may not be seen too often.

Counsellor. But, you lock yourself up like a hermit; 'tis quite inconsistent with your age and station in life.

Philip. You think so?

Counsellor. It does not require much thinking, it is self-evident.

Philip. Indeed?

Counsellor. For instance—you live quite secluded from your friends.

Philip [stepping back]. I distinguish between friends and acquaintance.

Counsellor. And you neglect the favour and protection of the great.

Philip. Do not flatter me to my face.

Counsellor. With your fortune, I wonder you do not buy an office and title.

Philip. Because——but your question answers itself.

Counsellor. How so?

Philip. Because they are to be bought.

Counsellor [with an affected laugh].—A fine reason; an excellent one, indeed! Plain Mr. Brook! it sounds very well [laughing]. Don't you think so, ladies? plain Mr. Brook!

Philip. Yet, in one respect I find that a bought office may be very useful.

Counsellor [laughing]. See, ladies, he yields—he submits.

Philip. A bought office may be of use to a fool, who has no other means of recommending himself.

Counsellor [at a loss]. That is indeed true, very true——

Philip. And a title—you will certainly agree—is often an excellent protection for a knave. Excuse me, Sir!——This dry conversation— [Going.

Counsellor [detaining him]. Bravo, bravo, Mr. Ecclesiasticus!

Philip. Are you acquainted with his book?

Counsellor. Certainly.

Philip. And read it?

Counsellor. Oh, often, very often [laughing]; and I fancy I hear him now.

Philip. Yet, you have forgotten one of his best sayings.

Counsellor. Which?

Philip. A wife man smiles—a fool, a fool, Mr. Counsellor, laughs aloud. [Exit.

Counsellor. It is a pity he is gone; the best part of the jest was to come.

Mrs. D. But the laugh was not entirely on your side.

Counsellor. Why, I kept my best things to the last—but we will certainly christen him Mr. Ecclesiasticus [laughs]. When I tell his brother, he will enjoy it heartily.

Enter Mr. DRAVE.

Mr. D. Good morning, Sir!

Counsellor. Your most obedient, my dear Mr. Drave: I am happy to see you in health; I was much afflicted by your late indisposition.

Mr. D. I am obliged to you. [To Mrs. D.] Will you be so good as to go down awhile with Augusta?

Mrs. D. [aside to Mr. D.] But keep your temper. [Exeunt Mrs. D. and Augusta.

Counsellor [is going after them]. Give me leave, Sir.

Mr. D. I will thank you for a few minutes conversation.

Counsellor. With all my heart. What do you wish?

Mr. D. Sir, you have honoured my family with your visits.

Counsellor. Pray, Sir—too kind—the pleasure of your company——

Mr. D. It is time to come to an explanation: therefore, Sir—without farther preface, my daughter, I think, is the object of your visits?

Counsellor. She is, Sir.

Mr. D. You wish, doubtless, to marry her?

Counsellor. Yes—yes—if—to be sure, for my part—I——

Mr. D. [earnestly]. You certainly can mean nothing else. You will permit me to say, that my daughter cannot comply with your wishes; and therefore, as marriage is out of the question,—[mildly] I must entreat you, Sir, for the sake of her reputation, to forbear your visits for the future.

Counsellor. How? I am astonished! Mr. Drave—

Mr. D. Forgive me, Sir! regard for Augusta forced me to this unpleasant conversation.

Counsellor. But what objection can you have? If a marriage cannot take place, must I for that reason avoid your house?

Mr. D. I fear my daughter might forget the duties of a wife, in listening to the flatteries of a lover.

Counsellor. Vain excuses, Mr. Drave; mere pretexts to palliate your hatred.

Mr. D. I have no hatred against you, Sir.

Counsellor. Oh, but I see very clearly you have: but I warrant you——

Mr. D. You are not to my mind—you see I do not attempt to conceal it.

Counsellor. Well, of my passion for Miss Drave I will speak no more—but I am now obliged in honour to frequent your house.

Mr. D. Say you were tired of our company; I give you my word never to contradict you.

Counsellor. It would be much to the credit of your house, and your daughter.

Mr. D. [smiling]. I know what I venture.

Counsellor. You are insupportable—but take warning; remember, Sir, to whom you speak!

Mr. D. [earnestly]. I remember but too well!

Counsellor. You may repent, Sir—you may repent very soon!

Mr. D. God forbid!

Counsellor. Sir, I give you one hour's time to atone for this insolence, or I can shew you——

Mr. D. [angrily]. And I, Sir, give you one minute to leave my house! or—[recollecting himself, and taking a key out of his socket, which he lays upon a chair] here is the key; when you leave the room, be so good as to lock the door. [Going.

Counsellor. Nay! I go, Sir! I go—but by heavens, Sir, you shall pay for this. [Exit.

Mrs. DRAVE enters hastily.

Mrs. D. Good God! Drave, what have you done? the Counsellor flew down stairs in such a fury——

Mr. D. A fool! I kept my temper long enough.

Mrs. D. [in a tone of reproach]. This is one of your usual passions.

Mr. D. What you call passion in me, is too often necessary to correct the faults you fall into through supineness.

Mrs. D. How? what is my fault here?

Mr. D. Between ourselves, my dear, was not thy maternal pride too much flattered, by seeing a crowd of lovers about your daughter? Had you taken less pleasure in their idle flattery, you would have saved us a great deal of trouble about her.

Mrs. D. And what is the matter now? The girl——

Mr. D. Loves one; why then the rest? Why, by high flown compliments, excite her pride? why, by unmeaning sentiments, corrupt her heart? Speak yourself; is that my fault or yours?

Mrs. D. But let me tell you——

Mr. D. Your caprices always cross our best plans; and when all is entangled and lost, who is to assist? who can?—The husband, the father—happy if you still allow him to do that.

Mrs. D. You speak, as if every thing were lost.

Mr. D. Lost enough.—How often have I spoken against the affected sensibility inculcated by what are called sentimental novels! I provided good books, but in vain. You were proud of her refined feelings; delighted with her ecstatic sensibility. I advised, warned, entreated; but was not heard.

Mrs. D. Nature has given her a susceptible heart—will you call its emotions weakness? then—

Mr. D. I distinguish, very well. Nature has given her a generous heart, sensible to the miseries of mankind.—It was enough; but not for you; and so you have suffered the noblest feelings of an excellent disposition to be perverted by the overstrained and effeminate sensibility of frivolous affectation.

Mrs. D. [hastily]. Here you are mistaken—

Mr. D. [much affected]. From me her heart is entirely alienated——

Mrs. D. [sits down]. Oh! you tear my heart with these reproaches!

Mr. D. [taking her hand]. Forgive me, my dear! I am deeply afflicted, I know no more how to speak to her.—Her heart bleeds; advice is unwelcome. With sufficient grounds for real unhappiness, she increases it by imaginary misfortunes. It was my first care to shew her the world as it is; to dispose her mind to bear her part with fortitude. But she dreams of a world, that does not exist; of a husband, as he never will, never dare be——What comfort can she bring to a husband in his misfortunes? What a mother can she be to her children, who meets affliction with tears instead of courage, and who regards the common pleasures of life as scarcely worthy of a smile?

Mrs. D. What shall I answer? I see too well I cannot satisfy you.

Mr. D. No! you cannot.—I see her fade and wither in the bloom of youth; I see her pining after an imaginary happiness, which she cannot attain.—I see myself, her father, once her best friend, avoided, shunned, distrusted. When she shall have wept till she can weep no more, when her grief shall be terminated in untimely death—oh! then, when I mourn over the grave of my only child, what consolation can you give me in my despair?

(Pause——Enter AUGUSTA.)

Mr. D. Come to my arms, Augusta. We have a long account to settle together [they embrace]: closer! as you used to do! from the bottom of your heart: so [he kisses her, and gently lets her go].

Augusta. Oh! my father!

Mr. D. You have behaved to me, Augusta, as if I were a stranger. God knows, it is not my fault. Whether awake, or in my dreams, I never cease to bless you.

Augusta [with a downcast look]. My dearest father, can you forgive me?

Mr. D. You love. Heaven crown your love with happiness! It is not for that I blame you: love is involuntary.

Augusta. But I did not open my heart to you.

Mr. D. Yes, there you hurt me severely.

Augusta. I love nobody as I do yourself and my mother. Speak, dear mother; how often did the confession of my attachment tremble upon my lips!

Mr. D. And why not avow it?

Augusta. I never had a favourable opportunity.

Mr. D. [hastily]. That is the effect of those unhappy books again——

Mrs. D. Be gentle, my dear Drave.

Mr. D. [composed]. You were not always thus: formerly, you thought me worthy of your confidence.

Augusta. I will behave so again.

Mr. D. Do I wait for favourable opportunities to love you? Oh, no! in things the most indifferent, I ask myself, will it give pleasure to my Augusta? I close my eyes with prayers for the happiness of my child; and my first thoughts, when I rise, are on the means of gratifying her wishes; while she, for whose sake only I live, waits for opportunities to be good and sincere!

Augusta [leaning on her mother]. Oh! my mother!

Mrs. D. Cease, I intreat you!

Mr. D. Why turn to your mother? come to this wounded bosom. [She embraces him]. Think no more of what is past; only treat me with sincerity. Believe me, in all your books you will not find a father whose affection for his daughter equals mine.

Augusta. Oh! were I dead! then no suspicion of ingratitude could tear my heart.

Mr. D. No, Augusta! not dead—then I could forgive no more. [He presses her affectionately to his heart]. Now my child is restored to me. What happiness can equal mine? Here I hold the only hope of my life, in my arms.

Mrs. D. Am not I her mother?

Mr. D. Forgive me. What would life be to me, without you? forgive me [takes her hand and kisses it]——Now I will seek your fugitive lover: God grant I may find him worthy of my Augusta! [Exit Drave.

Mrs. D. I wish, Augusta, your future husband may have the heart of your father. He is, indeed, sometimes passionate; and in every family, differences will arise; but they have always ended in rendering us more attached to each other.

Enter PHILIP BROOK.

Philip. Madam—

Mrs. D. Mr. Brook—we——pardon me—why should I deny it?—we were engaged in a conversation—which——

Philip. Which I interrupted? I will, therefore, with your permission, take my leave.

Mrs. D. Stay, Sir!—We are, indeed, unable to continue—my heart is too full——

Philip. Have you had any disappointment, any sorrows I dare not partake?

Mrs. D. Neither, Sir.

Philip. But you have wept. I will stay: every mourner has a claim upon me; and when I see your tears, Augusta——

Augusta. Mr. Brook, the tears you see are tears of joy, shed by a happy daughter, for the tenderness of a father.

Philip. Tears of joy? It is long, my dear Madam, since I have been witness to such. Peace be on him for whom they flow! He will never want an epitaph.

Mrs. D. Do not mention that: you keep us in our melancholy train of thinking.

Philip. Melancholy? I am always cheerful in your company. But Miss Augusta then had a cloud over her eyes.

Augusta. Do you reproach me that?

Philip. I do, and justly. All who are acquainted with you, love and esteem you. You are young and amiable; why then mourn?

Mrs. D. Pardon me, Sir, if I repeat my daughter's words; you should be the last to utter such a reproach.

Philip. Why so?

Mrs. D. Can you ask?

Philip. Yes, Madam; for I cannot believe that you have the same opinion of my character, that is generally entertained.

Mrs. D. Mr. Brook!

Philip. You make no answer. Your opinion is either too favourable, or the contrary.

Mrs. D. Be assured, we esteem you as a man.

Philip. I wished not for a polite turn, but for the true judgment of your heart.

Mrs. D. [at a loss]. If, perhaps, our ideas may be in some respects different——

Philip. Well?

Mrs. D. But, my dear Sir! we have just been conversing on a subject so opposite to this! and this moment——

Philip. I beg you to bestow upon me. I am unable to give an account of myself, at every moment, and to every body; but now, and to you, I feel myself bound to do it.

Mrs. D. But, am I prepared for a cold enquiry?

Philip. It is not a cold enquiry I ask [with warmth]. Let your generous friendly mind, [to Augusta] let your pure soul, Augusta, be the judge.

Augusta. Dear Sir!

Philip. Well—Fashion, ceremony, all that we will lay aside. Have some parts of my behaviour here been such as you cannot approve?—it was by chance only. Nay, there was no one whom I could please, by behaving otherwise.

Mrs. D. We will pass that; though such behaviour takes from the pleasures of society.

Philip [with warmth]. I have high ideas of the pleasures of society.

Mrs. D. And yet you do not contribute your share?

Philip [with agitation]. Ah! there, indeed—

Mrs. D. You take delight in misanthropical retirement.

Philip. Oh, if you knew my feelings! my good will for mankind, as God knows it—I—it is hard to need a defence in this particular—But, I can calmly and truly say, I love mankind. But, if my compassion for their unhappy fate has been ridiculed, and if this abuse of my dearest feelings has made me reserved, does it follow that I am a misanthrope?

Mrs. D. Mr. Brook!

Philip. If my ideas of good company are too refined, too just, too high, to be satisfied in the slandering circles of coquettes, dunces, and gamblers, am I to be called unsociable?

Augusta [quickly]. Oh, no, my good friend.

Philip. If, in any profession, for which my talents might qualify me, the best wishes of my heart would be checked by interested connections—my enthusiasm for suffering mankind, opposed by uncharitable selfishness—can you blame me for remaining as I am?

Augusta. Certainly not.

Philip. And now, my ardent zeal for human happiness being mistaken, the best designs of my heart condemned and overthrown by prejudice and self-conceit; perceiving that the most admired and virtuous outsides were too often only masks for hypocrisy—that impure avarice stalked abroad under the name of philanthrophy—perceiving this, I drew back, and forgot a flattering dream, of successful attention to the welfare of all the unfortunate wanderers upon earth.—Yet soon—in one serious hour, I hope to discharge the debt of a citizen to my native land—in one hour; yes, only one—but the deed will mark it.—Till that hour, I shall proceed in silence; endeavour, if possible, to be calm; and seek my comfort in friendship and a good conscience. The sneers of the superficial, the senseless judgments of a seduced multitude, shall not rob me of a moment's tranquillity.

Mrs. D. Forgive me, Sir! I mistook your character.

Augusta. I feel the truth of your remarks. May domestic happiness afford you the reward which you are refused by the world!

Philip. Do you wish me that, Augusta?

Augusta. Yes, my noble friend! I esteem you, and have still more reason to wish it heartily.

Philip [joyfully]. You have?—[pause]. My desires lie in a narrow compass. My fortune allows me to assist others; I have a friend, with whom I share my joys and my sorrows; and now, all is heightened by the emotions of love.

Mrs. D. You love?

Philip. Yes.

Augusta. And happily?

Philip. I know not yet.—My love may increase, but can never diminish—[he approaches Augusta]—Augusta, I love you.

Augusta. How?

Mrs. D. My daughter?

Philip. Make me happy: 'tis in your power.

Augusta. Oh! good heaven! 'tis too much!

Philip [hastily, but tenderly taking her hand]. Speak! I am serious, in high emotion—be gentle, Augusta.

Augusta [leaning on her mother; without withdrawing her hand]. Oh! mother!

Mrs. D. What shall I say?

Augusta [forcibly]. I love—your brother!

Philip [deeply moved]. In vain! he—[looking at Augusta] while here—[lets go her hand] Be happy! [going.]

Mrs. D. Brook! for God's sake!

Augusta. My noble suffering friend, why on me——

Philip. Let me go!—

Augusta. Leave me not without hopes, that all the affection of a brother, of a sister, may content you.

Philip. I can no more——

Augusta. Do not leave me, till you know how much I value——

Philip. Upon you I had placed my hopes. You would have endeared life to me again.—The dream is fled.—Well—I will hide my sufferings in retirement, and wait with patience for the hour which shall end all my afflictions.

[Exeunt omnes.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

At the Chancellor's.

The CHANCELLOR and a CLERK entering on different sides.

Chancellor. I was looking for you. What news?

Clerk. Every thing goes on very well, Sir.

Chancellor. How so, my friend?

Clerk. I have just spoken to Mr. Drave's clerk, who told me, that his master had given security for young Brook's L.10,000, at Rose's.

Chancellor. Excellent, excellent!

Clerk. He added, that his master must inevitably stop payment, if this sum were demanded immediately.

Chancellor. That shall be my care. I have already given orders to our Jew Broker; he is to join with some other creditors of young Brook, and insist on immediate payment.

Clerk. The man also assured me, that the inventory of old Brook's property was drawn up in a hasty, and rather irregular manner.

Chancellor. Better and better! now we are sure of him.—I prevailed on young Brook to sign a protest against this inventory, as being illegally drawn up—It will soon be all over with them.

Clerk. But, it will make a great noise: nobody dares to speak freely, it is true. But, then there is the Minister—his patriotic fancies——

Chancellor [laughing], are fancies.——

Clerk. Yet our Prince is every day more pleased with him. They are frequently whole hours together.

Chancellor. I am an old servant, and know the Prince well. Fear nothing. Drave shall at length suffer for all his calumnies: when we have once got rid of him, we shall have every thing to ourselves. It will be an additional profit of at least two thousand a year.

Clerk. Certainly it will.

Chancellor. You will therefore draw immediately for the above sum. If he cannot pay, a warrant must be issued, seals put on, and he will be a bankrupt, and ruined at once: but at the same time do not forget to look after the old uncle.

Clerk. I have heard of an old man who, from the description, appears to resemble him exactly.

Chancellor. For God's sake, take care.

Clerk. Rely upon me.—But, I do not at all like the elder Brook.

Chancellor. Oh, fair and softly goes far; only be on your guard.

(Servant entering.) The coach, my Lord!

Chancellor. Come! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

At Mr. Drave's.

Enter Mr. DRAVE and PHILIP BROOK.

Mr. D. Indeed, Brook, I must confess your inactivity vexes me.

Philip. You mistake for inactivity, a mere external forbearance.

Mr. D. It is easier to complain of mankind, than to act for their welfare. The first is the part of a gloomy, discontented mind; the latter, the virtue of a good citizen, and should be yours.

Philip. Now then I will speak. By my affection for my guiltless and injured uncle, it shall be mine. I am bound, as his relation, to rescue him from captivity. The rights of humanity are injured in his person. Though apparently quiet, I am seeking to revenge him; and what you call inactivity shall not prove without advantage to my country.

Mr. D. If this be so, I commend you.

Philip. I have pretended to bear with indifference, that my designs might not be crossed. My plan both to liberate my uncle, and to entangle a villain in his own snares, is nearly ripe. I have long sought for proofs: I now have them, and the hopes of our worthy Minister's support, if they shall appear to him convincing. The most important witness I still expect.

Mr. D. And who is it?

Philip. My uncle himself. I bribed his keeper to let him escape, and sent persons to meet him. They missed him, and he is gone alone, I know not whither. The Chancellor, as well as myself, is seeking him. When once I have found him, the mine shall blow up.

Mr. D. Heaven bless you, my noble friend!

Enter LEWIS BROOK.

Mr. D. But here comes somebody you must speak to [going up to the door—returns and steps between the two brothers]. The last words of your father on his death-bed were, "Live united like brothers." [Exit. Drave.

Lewis [rather at a loss]. I am glad, indeed, I am happily surprised——

Philip. Happily surprised? I thank you, brother.

Lewis [with feigned interest]. Undoubtedly; it is long since we have met each other.

Philip. It is. [A pause]. Do we live like brothers?

Lewis. Indeed, if all is not right, you are in fault; you require too much.

Philip. Require too much? Your own welfare! brotherly affection! is that too much? Our interviews are prepared by strangers. Things are gone far; and perhaps even this meeting may avail nothing.

Lewis [with seeming politeness]. For my part, you may depend upon me: upon my honour——

Philip. Lewis, I spoke with a full heart, and you answer with outward civilities.

Lewis. You mistake me: I am heartily inclined to a reconciliation.

Philip. So! I should think it unnecessary!

Lewis. How you take that again!

Philip. I apprehended your passion, your reproaches, but was not prepared for your coldness. Well; suspect me, mistake me, offend me, my heart will be still the same. We are brothers; they should never want reconciliation.

Lewis. But why all this?

Philip [with warmth]. If the moment should ever arrive when your confidence in mankind shall be lost—if unexpected misfortunes, or discordant interests, should cause those who now call themselves your friends to desert you, at that moment remember me; entrust your cares with confidence to my bosom! this heart, which you now reject, will ever rejoice to receive you with the affection of a brother. [Exit.

Lewis. Excellent, upon my soul! There he goes, and leaves me like a downright sinner. What have I done to him? was ever such insolence heard of? Fine sentiments upon his lips, and malice in his heart. I have borne with all these hypocrites, till I am tired; and now they shall pay for all.

Enter LISETTE.

Lisette. What, are you here, Mr. Brook! I can hardly believe my eyes.

Lewis. Not trust those charming eyes?

Lisette. You're really here at last?

Lewis. And now I am here?——

Lisette. I am glad you have not forgotten us. [Going.

Lewis. Why in such a hurry to run away?

Lisette. I am looking for Mr. Drave; he is wanted at Rose's Bank; Mr. Rose himself called for him. Has not he been here?

Lewis. Yes, a few minutes ago.

Lisette. Then I will go after him.

Lewis. No, no; let the old fellows look for each other, while we are happy at having met here.

Lisette. You have always some obliging turn ready, but you are never in earnest.

(AUGUSTA enters).

Lewis. Not in earnest, my little charmer! [kisses her.]

Lisette. Mr. Brook! Mr. Brook! [she turns him towards Augusta, and leaves the room, making a low curt'sy].

Lewis. So! my fair Augusta [kisses her hand].

Augusta. In truth, I seem to have made my appearance rather mal-apropos.

Lewis [smiling]. Only offerings at the entrance of the temple of Love.

Augusta. It is long since we have seen you.

Lewis. Only five days; truly happy am I, if they have seemed long.

Augusta. I know your talent for compliments,

Lewis. Truth is not a compliment.

Augusta. Truth towards women is perhaps not your fault.

Lewis. How?

Augusta. In general not the most striking feature in the character of your sex.

Lewis. A sad prejudice, indeed, against our sex! [ironically] but you must except me.

Augusta [smiling]. Dare I?

Lewis. Certainly. I am——

Augusta. Sincerity, constancy itself.

Lewis. Certainly.

Augusta [pointing to the door at which Lisette went out]. There went a proof of your unparalleled fidelity!

Lewis [laughing]. Nay, now, you are——

Augusta. Fortunately, I was the only witness; yet think if your favourite lady had seen it!

Lewis. She would excuse me.

Augusta. But if she also loved you?

Lewis. Then she would still more readily overlook such a trifle.

Augusta. Your lightness must grieve her.

Lewis [laughing]. Then hers would be quite an old-fashioned love.

Augusta [surprised]. Old-fashioned! What am I to understand by that?

Lewis. I mean, [with affected seriousness] a love, such as does not now exist; a true, sincere love.

Augusta. Have you any reason to doubt the existence of such a love?

Lewis. Too many.

Augusta. You have been deceived then?

Lewis. Oh, a thousand times—and undoubtedly shall again.

Augusta. You exaggerate.

Lewis. No, no. With the first object of my passion, I was up to the ears in love. My goddess, to reward my cruel sufferings, allowed me only a place by her chair, and the honour of being marked as her most obedient slave; I sighed, languished, complained, despaired: saw at last, what she meant, and was cured—forever, as I presumed; but, alas! I soon trusted another. Well; there I was made use of to excite the jealousy of her inconstant favourite.

Augusta. You misrepresent, Mr. Brook.

Lewis. Another bright angel then delighted to have an attendant to hand her to her carriage, to accompany her wherever she thought proper; there again I was—but I tire you with all these melancholy instances of my delusion.

Augusta. If all this be true, I pity you.

Lewis. Once, indeed, I got a dangerous illness by my folly; but it cured me effectually.

Augusta. And now you chuse the way of retaliation?

Lewis. Why not?

Augusta. But did you ever reflect how many an innocent breast you robbed of its peace?

Lewis. I cannot reproach myself with that.

Augusta. How many you have plunged in sorrow?

Lewis [goodnaturedly]. Not a single one. As for protestations of love, extravagant praises of their beauty, and so forth, they are mere words of course; ladies know that very well from their childhood—a woman of sense never trusts them.

Augusta. Yet how unfortunate must she be, who loves sincerely!

Lewis. Why so?

Augusta. Who loves only one, and, if deceived, can never love another?

Lewis. Why, indeed, true love holds for ever, and is not dependant upon circumstances. A man may be obliged to marry against his inclination, to make his fortune: but this is a cold prudential bargain, with which love has nothing to do. True love is ever the same; and——But what is the matter with you?

Augusta [with difficulty holding herself upright]. Nothing of consequence.

Lewis. But——

Augusta. You put me in mind of one of my friends. She was deceived so, and now——

Lewis. Well?

Augusta. She is unhappy for ever. [Exit Augusta.

Lewis. Bless me! how deeply in love! Such tenderness I have never before met with. When I remember my other coquette sweetheart, I have almost a mind to run after her——but liberty, dear liberty—no, I dare not.

Enter DRAVE.

Mr. D. Good morning, Lewis; I did not expect to meet you, we are so seldom favoured with your visits.

Lewis. I am afraid of interfering with more important concerns.

Mr. D. I am indeed much concerned for you.

Lewis [with politeness]. You have always been so attentive to my interest, I am entirely convinced.

Mr. D. You are not convinced.