SCENE II.

A Hall.-Servants cross the Stage with Portmanteaus,

Enter ST FRANC and VALCOUR.

Val. Now, major, confess; are we not in high for tune, to fall so snugly under the roof of a handsome widow, whose daughter is an angel; you shall attack the widow, chevalier;-methinks I already overhear you in a charming tête-à-tête, relating the most interesting passages of your youth; I am told she's a charming woman, and I give you my honour, if (by the description) her daughter were not ten times more to my taste, I should not so easily consign her over to you.

St F. Valcour, in the pleasure of triumphing over women, you seem to forget that the enemy remains unconquered.

Val. Far from it, my dear major; 'tis love alone can make a hero of me :-it amuses, it inflames me; I must be active, and till our duty calls us to the field, how can my busy restless mind find sweeter employment?-this divine creature once subdued, I'll prove a thunderbolt of war.

St F. And can you then thus coolly meditateVal. Coolly, say you? I'm all on fire; my heart's in a blaze.

St F. So it has been in every different town we've entered; yours is a most uncommon heart, my friend; the fire so many times experienced must have reduced it almost to a cinder.

Val. True, major; but, phoenix-like, it rises from the ashes, replete with tenfold vigour.

St F. But consider, Valcour, we are under the roof of a respectable woman, whose daughter is both beautiful and virtuous; think then how disastrous may be the consequences of your irregular and wild desires!

Val. Disastrous! ha! ha! ha!

St F. Even to yourself, young man! Think you so lightly, then, of bringing misery upon a lovely, innocent young creature, whose own simplicity and natural goodness inspire a confidence in all around her? think you that remorse, more bitter than the tears you cause to flow, will cease to sting and goad the heart which, for a passing momentary joy, embitters all the future hours of a life, which else had flown away in peace and virtue? Never believe it :-a widow's cries to the offended Deity, for vengeance on her child's seducer, shall fall in thunder on the wretch who basely wronged her noble hospitality, and robbed her of the stay and comfort of her age.

Val. Bravo, major! By my honour, the chaplain of the regiment would find it difficult to produce so good a sermon.

St F. (With great reserve.) If you please, sir, we will chuse another subject.

Val. Content, say I; for in spite of all this giddiness, this folly, my heart assures me you are in the right.

St F. The council appears much irritated at the late desertions.

Val. And not without reason, I think; in three days seven and twenty from one company!-I fear they will make some terrible example, to stop the further progress of the evil.

St F. And yet, however necessary may be the example, is it not terrible to turn the arms, which oft have gained them victories, against the hearts of those who bore them? Valcour, I am filled with horror at this bloody preparation; the bare mention of a de

serter chills my very soul: think, then, how dreadful is the charge allotted me, to give the fatal signal for their deaths---to see their straining eyes fixed eagerly on mine, to the last moment hoping a reprieve-oh! 'tis too horrible. Their judges should, like me, have risen by length of service from the common ranks— like me have felt the ills which private soldiers feelthen might the life of many a wretch be spared to fight his country's battles still, and call down blessings on them for their mercy.

Val. Why do they not send them home to cultivate their native peaceful vales, and for us reserve the dangers and the glory of the fight? then would desertion be unknown among us as prompt as terrible, we should fly to victory; and the intrepid band might fall in slaughtered heaps upon the bloody plain, but never would desert it. Ah! here comes our charming hostess: Allons, chevalier, I'll introduce you.

Enter MRS MELFORT.

Chance, dear madam, often disposes of us much better than we could of ourselves; and we are infinitely her debtors for having thrown us on your hospitable shore; she has conducted us to the abode of beauty, knowing that we had eyes to distinguish, and hearts disposed to do it homage.

Mrs M. I know not how to answer to such highflown compliment-the apartments I have ordered to be prepared are ready for your reception; shall I attend you to them?

Val. You are a most adorable creature; and whereever your apartment may chance to be, if you are but our neighbour, we shall be delighted with it. To tell you the truth, I can't bear solitude; it makes me hypochondriacal; and you Germans are so fond of lodging one at the end of corridors a mile in length, that I have sometimes, in my melancholy fit, supposed myself the plague, thrust into a remote corner of

the house to prevent my being caught. With a little humouring I'm as gentle as a lamb; but fierce, implacable, if provoked. But where, madam, is your enchanting daughter, in whose praise no tongue is silent, the power of whose charms all hearts have felt? Why, major! are you making game of us?

St F. What extravagance! what folly!

Val. Ah! madam, you do not know the meaning of those impatient shrugs. The mere description of your daughter has bewitched him. Why is she not with you? Why does Love's offspring shun its mother? Have you commanded her absence? I hope not; for if you have, he'll be outrageous: he has been breathing nothing but flames and darts. There, there-don't you see how much he's agitated? Don't think of concealing her from him, for his vehemence is excessive; and, if once enraged, he becomes a madman.

St F. From what you have just uttered, the lady might fairly infer that you were one already.-I flatter myself, however, madam, that while we have the pleasure of remaining under your roof you will have no cause to complain of the conduct of your guests.

Mrs M. We shall be friends, I make no doubt; and, to show you that I have no fears on my daughter's account, I will immediately introduce her to you. -Who waits?

Enter Servant.

Tell my daughter I wish to speak with her. (Exit Servant.) Though I assure you I am loth to interrupt her, for 'tis a busy time; to-morrow is to be her wedding-day.

Val. To-morrow! oh, don't think of it; you are too precipitate. Believe me, 'twill be time enough to celebrate the nuptials when we are gone.

St F. Lose not a moment, madam, in securing her future happiness. The object of her choice and your approbation must needs be worthy of her.

Val. Take care-take care, I tell you! You are

con

too precipitate. I'll venture to assert she does not prodigiously love her intended spouse.-Come, now, fess, Mrs Melfort, she is not over head and ears in love with him.

Mrs M. You'll pardon me-I think she loves him most sincerely.

Val. No-I tell you no; she may, indeed, imagine that she loves him, but I assure you it is no such thing. A husband, you know, my dear ma'am, is a very convenient kind of being: but her love for him is no more to be compared with that some lovely creatures have felt for me-It was transport-madness-In short, I can't tell you what it was.

'Mrs M. And when your ingratitude brought them again to reason, most bitterly did they lament their folly, did they not, sir?

Val. Why, as to that

Enter BERTHA:

But here, if I mistake not, comes your daughter. What blooming beauty!-See, major, what a lovely blush overspreads her cheek! We are happy, madam, in-How soft is this fair hand!

Bertha. Reserve for others, I beseech you, sir, these violent expressions of esteem.

St F. Valcour! for heaven's sake, consider

Val. I have done, I have done—I have done, major; yet to ravish so innocent a favour, cannot surely, be a crime.

St F. Let us retire to our apartments: we have no time to lose.

Val. True-you say true. I may be killed tomorrow; so I'll e'en make the most of to-day.-They tell me, my angel, you are going to be married, but, if I may be thought worthy to advise, you will defer

St F. I have business with you, and you must come, Every moment now is precious.