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Dur. My lord
Again, or Garcia, as you choose to speak,
Addressing me.

Gar. "Tis bold, sir,-nay, methinks
You look but slightingly upon your patron.

Dur. My patron!
Gar. I was so this morning.

Dur. True-
But see, 'tis mid-day now. Thinkest thou yon orb,
Who, on his glorious round, keeps half our earth
For ever in his beam, beholds no changes
In this diurnal planet, but the lapse
Of growing hours and seasons ?—think again;
Trust me, there are more strange vicissitudes
Than one man standing by another's side,
Who never was above him, but in fortune.

Gar. I would keep down this swelling of my heart To reason calmly with your haughtiness.

Dur. My haughtiness!

Gar. Ay, haughtiness; what else
Could breed this lofty tone? Those trappings, too,
But ill become the state of yesterday.

Dur. By your favor, sir,
'Tis sometimes prudent to adorn our limbs,
That fools, who look no deeper, thence may see
We mean to be respected.

Gar. But to change,
As you have done, in dress, in manner, word,
And action, from the lowly thing you have been,
So suddenly, as if the flash of fortune
Had set your soul and body in a flame,
Is matter more for mirth than deference.

Dur. Indeed !
Gar. The world will laugh.

Dur. Advise the world
It laugh not out too loud.

Gar. You would not make
So huge a sacrifice as all mankind
To your voracious anger.

Dur. I might chance
To know some voices in the jubilee,
And make amusement danger to the sharers.
Erewhile my pride was like an idle blade
That rusted in the scabbard ; now 'tis drawn,
And flourished o'er your heads-beware of it.

Gar. Have you not crawled your way to this?

Dur. 'Twas fate
Ordained it so; but I have broke her spells,
And here stand up for my prerogative,
Enlarged, and free to act. What I have done
And suffered was necessity : what more
I do, shall be from choice, and speak the mind
Within me noble.
So, having won my place, I will assume
Its usage, honors, titles, and respects,
And in the teeth of scorn be dignified.

Gar. Yet hear me patiently.—Your tale this morning
Hath wrought a purpose useful to the state.
Provoke not inquisition, by the spurns
You cast on others, lest yourself be found

than you should, and what you've done Be, by your rashness, undone.

Dür. Have you aught
To urge

Gar. But to apply the rule.
Let no vindictive spirit against Benducar
Betray your passion to an act of rash
Revenge.—Bethink you, I have passed my word
That in due time he shall submit to you:
Bethink,--and pause.
Dur. Oh! as the insult fell

I know how calmly you can bear it;
Nor have I yet forgot, how light you made
This morning of the blow; as if it were
A gnat that stung my flesh.—The hand which strikes
Down from the clouds, may execute unquestioned
The purposes of its omnipotence:
But that whose force a mortal shoulder wields,
Strikes at its peril, and is answerable
To God and man.

Gar. I came not here to listen to this rudeness.

Dur. Nay, I've some notion of the cause that brought you. Was it to try the terror of your frown?

Gar. Did I not raise you—make you what you are ?
Dur. With the king's help.
Gar. You sneer, but it was so.

Dur. Went your intention with it, when you knew not
My object, nor my claim ?

Gar. No matter now; 'Tis now enough to wonder at your fortunes.

On me,

Dur. You see in what a changeful world we live :
The beggar of to-day is rich to-morrow;
The rich man poor-despised.

Gar. I'll hear no more.
Dur. Go home, and ponder on't.



Penruddock. Here then was the residence of my once loved Arabella ; here then she reigned and reveled; a sympathetic gloom comes over me. Woodville is in my power.

(Enter Henry.) Henry. Where am I! What has happened? Why is this house so changed in its appearance ?

Pen. Whom do you seek?

Henry. A father and a mother who dwelt here. If you have heard the name of Woodville and can ease my anxious mind, tell me they survive.

Pen. Be satisfied—they live.

Henry. Devoutly I return heaven thanks, and bless you for the tidings. Long absent and debarred all correspondence with my family, I came with trembling heart, uncertain of their fate, and I confess the ominous appearance of a deserted house struck me with alarm ; but I may hope they have some other residence at hand. If

you know where, direct me.
Pen. If I knew where, I would; but-
Henry. But what? Why do you pause?
Pen. Because I can't proceed.

Henry. Why not proceed? You know they live, can you not tell me where ?

Pen. I cannot.
Henry. What is your business here?
Pen. None.
Henry. Do


not live in London? Pen. No. Henry. What is your name, occupation? Where do you inhabit? How comes it to pass that you know so well to answer me one question, and are dumb to all the rest ?

Pen. I am not used to interrogatories, nor quite so patient as may suit with your impetuosity.

Henry. I stand corrected; I am too quick. You will excuse the feelings of a son.

Pen. Most willingly; only I'm sorry to perceive they are so sensitive, because this world abounds in misery.

Henry. Now I am sure you know more than you yet reveal; but having said my parents are still alive, you fortify me against lesser evils. I know


father's failings, and can well suppose that his affairs have fallen into decay.

Pen. To utter ruin. Gaming has undone him.

Henry. Oh! execrable vice, fiend of the human soul, that tears the heart of parent, child, and friend! What crimes, what shame, what complicated misery hast thou brought upon us! Rash, desperate, wretched man! This house was swallowed in the general wreck ?

Pen. With every thing else : Sir George Penruddock had it for a debt, as it is called, of honor.

Henry. A debt of infamy-and may the curse entailed upon such debts descend on him and all that may inherit from him!

Pen. There you outrun discretion : he is dead, and you would not extend your curse to him that now inherits.

Henry. Light where it will, I'll not revoke it. He that is fortune's minion, well deserves it.

Pen. But he that's innocent does not.

Henry. Can he be innocent, who stains his hands with ore drenched in the gamester's blood, dug from the widow's, and the orphan's hearts, with tears, and cries, and agonies unutterable? 'Tis property accurst; were it a mine as deep as to the centre, I would not touch an atom to preserve myself from starving

Pen. You speak too strongly, sir.

Henry. So you may think : I speak as I feel. Who is the wretched heir ?

Pen. Roderick Penruddock.
Henry. What! Roderick the recluse ?
Pen. The same.

Henry. My father knew him well—a gloomy misanthrope, shunning and shunned by all mankind. When such a being, after long seclusion, lost to all social charities, and hardened into savage insensibility, comes forth into the world, armed with power and property, he issues like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour.

Pen. Stop your invective! Know him before you condemn him.-He stands before you.

Henry. Indeed! and I am then in company with Mr. Penruddock?

Pen. You are,

Henry. Then I must throw myself upon your mercy; I have spoken rashly, and abide by any measures you may choose to dictate.

Pen. You can hardly expect much candor in a character such as you have painted-savage, insensible, lost to all social charities, a gloomy misanthrope.

Henry. I have spoken, as men are apt to speak, upon report. If you mean only to retort the words on me as their retailer, you still leave the original authority in force; but if you can refute that, you at once vindicate your own character from aspersion, and bring me to shame for my credulity and levity.

Pen. You have quoted your own father as the authority on which you rest: very well—of him, then, in the first place, I will speak;, of myself in the last. (Puts chairs.) Sit down. (They sit.) Your father and myself were intimates through all that happy age, when nature wears no mask; our boyish sports, our college studies, our traveling excursions, united us in friendship.—This may be tedious talk; and yet I study to be brief for my own sake as well as yours.

Henry. I'm all attention-pray proceed.

On our return from travel, it was my fortune to gain the affections of a lady—whom, at this distant period, I cannot name without emotions which unman and shake my foolish heart—therefore, no more of her. Your father was our mutual confident, passed and repassed between us on affairs of trust and secrecy, while I was busied in providing for our marriage settlement: I struggled against difficulties that tortured my impatience, and at length overcame them. In that interval a villain had traduced my character, poisoned her credulous mind, and by the display of a superior fortune, prevailed upon her parents to revoke their promises to me, and marry her to him. -What did this wretch deserve ?

Henry. Death from your hands, and infamy from all the world.

Pen. And yet upon his credit you arraign my character:for that wretch (Rises) is your own father.

Henry. I am dumb with horror.

Pen. Now can you wonder, if, when armed with power to extinguish this despoiler of my peace, this still inveterate defamer of my character, I issue, as your own words describe me, like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour ?

Henry. I'll answer that hereafter; and, by the honor of a soldier, I will answer it as truth and justice shall exact of me. But a charge so strong, so serious, so heart-rending to a son, who feels himself referred to in a case so touching, demands

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