Lovers’ Vows

Preface

t would appear like affectation to offer an apology for any cenes or paages omitted or added, in this play, different from the original: its reception has given me confidence to uppose what I have done is right; for Kotzebue’s “Child of Love” in Germany, was never more attractive than “Lovers’ Vows” has been in England.

I could trouble my reader with many pages to diclose the motives which induced me to alter, with the exception of a few common-place entences only, the characters of Count Cael, Amelia, and Verdun the Butler—I could explain why the part of the Count, as in the original, would inevitably have condemned the whole Play,—I could inform my reader why I have pourtrayed the Baron in many particulars different from the German author, and carefully prepared the audience for the grand effect of the lat cene in the fourth act, by totally changing his conduct towards his on as a robber—why I gave entences of a humourous kind to the parts of the two Cottagers—why I was compelled, on many occaions, to compres the matter of a peech of three or four pages into one of three or four lines—and why, in no one intance, I would uffer my repect for Kotzebue to interfere with my profound repect for the judgment of a Britih audience. But I flatter myelf uch a vindication is not requiite to the enlightened reader, who, I trut, on comparing this drama with the original, will at once ee all my motives—and the dull admirer of mere verbal tranlation, it would be vain to endeavour to inpire with tate by intruction.

Wholly unacquainted with the German language, a literal tranlation of the “Child of Love” was given to me by the manager of Covent Garden Theatre to be fitted, as my opinion hould direct, for his tage. This tranlation, tedious and vapid as mot literal tranlations are, had the peculiar diadvantage of having been put into our language by a German—of coure it came to me in broken Englih. It was no light mifortune to have an example of bad grammar, fale metaphors and imilies, with all the uual errors of feminine diction, placed before a female writer. But if, didaining the contruction of entences,—the precie decorum of the cold grammarian,—he has caught the pirit of her author,—if, in every altered cene,—till adhering to the nice propriety of his meaning, and till keeping in view his great catatrophe,—he has agitated her audience with all the various paions he depicted, the rigid criticim of the cloet will be but a lender abatement of the pleaure reulting from the anction of an applauding theatre.

It has not been one of the leat gratifications I have received from the ucces of this play, that the original German, from which it is taken, was printed in the year 1791; and yet, that during all the period which has intervened, no peron of talents or literary knowledge (though there are in this country many of that decription, who profes to earch for German dramas) has thought it worth employment to make a tranlation of the work. I can only account for uch an apparent neglect of Kotzebue’s “Child of Love,” by the conideration of its original unfitnes for an Englih tage, and the difficulty of making it otherwie—a difficulty which once appeared o formidable, that I eriouly thought I mut have declined it even after I had proceeded ome length in the undertaking.

Independently of objections to the character of the Count, the dangerous inignificance of the Butler, in the original, embarraed me much. I found, if he was retained in the Dramatis Peronæ, omething more mut be upplied than the author had aigned him: I uggeted the veres I have introduced; but not being bleed with the Butler’s happy art of rhyming, I am indebted for them, except the eventh and eleventh tanzas in the firt of his poetic tories, to the author of the prologue.

The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my olictude and alteration: the ame ituations which the author gave her remain, but almot all the dialogue of the character I have changed: the forward and unequivocal manner in which he announces her affection to her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an Englih audience: the paion of love, repreented on the tage, is certain to be inipid or diguting, unles it creates miles or tears: Amelia’s love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or adnes: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and ympathy of the audience by whimical ininuations, rather than coare abruptnes—the ame woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the elf-ame entiments, but with manners adapted to the Englih rather than the German tate; and if the favour in which this character is held by the audience, together with every entence and incident which I have preumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion of my kill, I am ufficiently rewarded for the tak I have performed.

In tating the foregoing circumtances relating to this production, I hope not to be upected of arrogating to my own exertions only, the popularity which has attended “The Child of Love,” under the title of “Lovers Vows”—the exertions of every performer engaged in the play deervedly claim a hare in its ucces; and I mot incerely thank them for the high importance of their aid.

Prologue

WRITTENBY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY Mr. MURRAY.

OETS have oft’ declared, in doleful train, That o’er dramatic tracks they beat in vain, Hopeles that novelty will pring to ight; For life and nature are exhauted quite. Though plaints like thee have rung from age to age, Too kind are writers to deert the tage; And if they, fruitles, earch for unknown prey, At leat they dres old game a novel way; But uch lamentings hould be heard no more, For modern tate turns Nature out of door; Who ne’er again her former way will boat, Till, to complete her works, he tarts a ghot. If uch the mode, what can we hope to-night, Who rahly dare approach without a prite? No dreadful cavern, and no midnight cream, No roin flames, nor e’en one flitting gleam. Nought of the charms o potent to invite The montrous charms of terrible delight. Our preent theme the German Mue upplies, But rather aims to often than urprife. Yet, with her woes he trives ome miles to blend, Intent as well to cheer as to amend: On her own native oil he knows the art To charm the fancy, and to touch the heart. If, then, he mirth and pathos can expres, Though les engaging in an Englih dres, Let her from Britih hearts no peril fear, But, as a Stranger, find a welcome here.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN.

Baron Wildenhaim | Mr. Murray.

Count Cassel | Mr. Knight.

Anhalt | Mr. H. Johnlon.

Frederick | Mr. Pope.

Verdun the Butler | Mr. Munden.

Landlord | Mr. Thompon.

Cottager | Mr. Davenport.

Farmer | Mr. Rees.

Countryman | Mr. Dyke.

Huntmen, Servants, &c.

WOMEN.

Agatha Friburg | Mrs. Johnon.

Amelia Wildenhaim | Mrs. H. Johnon.

Cottager’s Wife | Mrs. Davenport.

Country Girl | Mis Lerve.

SCENE, Germany—Time of repreentation one day.

LOVERS’ VOWS.

Act I

SCENE I. A high road, a town at a ditance—A mall inn on one ide the road—A cottage on the other.

The Landlord of the inn leads Agatha by the hand out of his houe.

Landlord.

O, no! no room for you any longer—It is the fair to-day in the next village; as great a fair as any in the German dominions. The country people with their wives and children take up every corner we have.

Agatha.

You will turn a poor ick woman out of doors who has pent her lat farthing in your houe.

Landlord.

For that very reaon; becaue he has pent her lat farthing.

Agatha.

I can work.

Landlord.

You can hardly move your hands.

Agatha.

My trength will come again.

Landlord.

Then you may come again.

Agatha.

What am I to do? Where hall I go?

Landlord.

It is fine weather—you may go any where.

Agatha.

Who will give me a morel of bread to atisfy my hunger?

Landlord.

Sick people eat but little.

Agatha.

Hard, unfeeling man, have pity.

Landlord.

When times are hard, pity is too expenive for a poor man. Ak alms of the different people that go by.

Agatha.

Beg! I would rather tarve.

Landlord.

You may beg, and tarve too. What a fine lady you are! Many an honet woman has been obliged to beg. Why hould not you? [Agatha its down upon a large tone under a tree.] For intance, here comes omebody; and I will teach you how to begin. [A Countryman, with working tools, croes the road.] Good day, neighbour Nicholas.

Countryman.

Good day. [Stops.

Landlord.

Won’t you give a trifle to this poor woman? [Countryman takes no notice, but walks off.] That would not do—the poor man has nothing himelf but what he gets by hard labour. Here comes a rich farmer, perhaps he will give you omething.

Enter Farmer.

Landlord.

Good morning to you, Sir. Under yon tree its a poor woman in ditres, who is in need of your charity.

Farmer..

Is he not ahamed of herelf? Why don’t he work?

Landlord.

She has had a fever.—If you would but pay for one dinner—

Farmer..

The harvet has been but indifferent, and my cattle and heep have uffered by a ditemper.

[Exit.

Landlord.

My fat, miling face was not made for begging: you’ll have more luck with your thin, our one—o, I’ll leave you to yourelf.

[Exit.

[Agatha ries and comes forward.]

Agatha.

Oh Providence! thou hat till this hour protected me, and hat given me fortitude not to depair. Receive my humble thanks, and retore me to health, for the ake of my poor on, the innocent caue of my ufferings, and yet my only comfort. [kneeling] Oh, grant that I may ee him once more! See him improved in trength of mind and body; and that by thy gracious mercy he may never be viited with afflictions great as mine. [After a paue] Protect his father too, merciful Providence, and pardon his crime of perjury to me! Here, in the face of heaven (uppoing my end approaching, and that I can but a few days longer truggle with want and orrow), here, I olemnly forgive my educer for all the ills, the accumulated evils which his allurements, his deceit, and cruelty, have for twenty years pat drawn upon me.

Enter a Country Girl with a baket.

AGATHA [near fainting.]

My dear child, if you could pare me a trifle—

Girl.

I have not a farthing in the world—But I am going to market to ell my eggs, and as I come back I’ll give you three-pence—And I’ll be back as oon as ever I can.

[Exit.

Agatha.

There was a time when I was as happy as this country girl, and as willing to ait the poor in ditres. [Retires to the tree and its down.]

Enter Frederick—He is dreed in a German oldier’s uniform, has a knapack on his houlders, appears in high pirits, and tops at the door of the inn.

Frederick.

Halt! Stand at eae! It is a very hot day—A draught of good wine will not be amis. But firt let me conult my pure. [Takes out a couple of pieces of money, which he turns about in his hand.] This will do for a breakfat the other remains for my dinner; and in the evening I hall be at home. [Calls out] Ha! Halloo! Landlord! [Takes notice of Agatha, who is leaning againt the tree.] Who is that? A poor ick woman! She don’t beg; but her appearance makes me think he is in want. Mut one always wait to give till one is aked? Shall I go without my breakfat now, or loe my dinner? The firt I think is the bet. Ay, I don’t want a breakfat, for dinner time will oon be here. To do good atisfies both hunger and thit. [Going towards her with the money in his hand.] Take this, good woman.

[She tretches her hand for the gift, looks tedfatly at him, and cries out witb aonihment and joy.]

Agatha.

Frederick!

Frederick.

Mother! [Wifth amazement and grief.] Mother! For God’s ake what is this! How is this! And why do I find my mother thus? Speak!

Agatha.

I cannot peak, dear on! [Riing and embracing him.] My dear Frederick! The joy is too great—I was not prepared—

Frederick.

Dear mother, compoe yourelf: [leans her head againt his breat] now, then, be comforted. How he trembles! She is fainting.

Agatha.

I am o weak, and my head o giddy—I had nothing to eat all yeterday.

Frederick.

Good heavens! Here is my little money, take it all! Oh mother! mother! [Runs to the inn] Landlord! Landlord! [knocking violently at the door.]

Landlord.

What is the matter?

Frederick.

A bottle of wine—quick, quick!

Landlord [urprized.]

A bottle of wine ! For who ?

Frederick.

For me. Why do you ak? Why don’t you make hate?

Landlord.

Well, well, Mr. oldier: but can you pay for it?

Frederick.

Here is money—make hate, or I’ll break every window in your houe.

Landlord.

Patience! Patience!

[goes off.

Frederick [to Agatha].

You were hungry yeterday when I at down to a comfortable dinner. You were hungry when I partook of a good upper. Oh! Why is o much bitter mixed with the joy of my return?

Agatha.

Be patient, my dear Frederick. Since I ee you, I am well. But I have been very ill: o ill, that I depaired of ever beholding you again.

Frederick.

Ill, and I was not with you? I will, now, never leave you more. Look, mother, how tall and trong I am grown. Thee arms can now afford you upport. They can, and hall, procure you ubitence.

[Landlord coming out of the houe with a mall pitcher.]

Landlord.

Here is wine—a mot delicious nectar. [Aide.] It is only Rhenih; but it will pas for the bet old Hock.

Frederick [impatiently natching the pitcher].

Give it me.

Landlord.

No, no—the money firt. One hilling and two-pence, if you pleae.

[Frederick gives him money.]

Frederick.

This is all I have.—Here, here, mother.

[While he drinks Landlord counts the money.]

Landlord.

Three halfpence too hort! However, one mut be charitable.

[Exit Landlord.

Agatha.

I thank you, my dear Frederick — Wine revives me — Wine from the hand of my on gives me almot a new life.

Frederick.

Don’t peak too much, mother. — Take your time.

Agatha.

Tell me, dear child, how you have paed the five years ince you left me.

Frederick.

Both good and bad, mother. To day plenty—to-morrow not o much—And ometimes nothing at all.

Agatha.

You have not written to me this long while.

Frederick.

Dear mother, conider the great ditance I was from you! And then, in the time of war, how often letters micarry. — Beides —

Agatha.

No matter now I ee you. But have you obtained your dicharge?

Frederick.

Oh, no, mother—I have leave of abence only for two months; and that for a particular reaon. But I will not quit you o oon, now I find you are in want of my aitance.

Agatha.

No, no, Frederick; your viit will make me o well, that I hall in a very hort time recover trength to work again; and you mut return to your regiment when your furlough is expired. But you told me leave of abence was granted you for a particular reaon.—What reaon ?

Frederick.

When I left you five years ago, you gave me every thing you could afford, and all you thought would be neceary for me. But one trifle you forgot, which was, the certificate of my birth from the church-book.—You know in this country there is nothing to be done without it. At the time of parting from you, I little thought it could be of that conequence to me which I have ince found it would have been. Once I became tired of a oldier’s life, and in the hope I hould obtain my dicharge, offered myelf to a mater to learn a profeion; but his quetion was, “Where is your certificate from the church-book of the parih in which you were born?” It vexed me that I had not it to produce, for my comrades laughed at my diappointment. My captain behaved kinder, for he gave me leave to come home to fetch it—and you ee, mother, here I am.

[During this peech Agatha is confued and agitated.

Agatha.

So you are come for the purpoe of fetching your certificate from the church-book.

Frederick.

Yes, mother.

Agatha.

Oh! oh!

Frederick.

What is the matter? [She burts into tears.] For Heaven’s ake, mother, tell me what’s the matter?

Agatha.

You have no certificate.

Frederick.

No!

Agatha.

No.—The laws of Germany excluded you from being regitered at your birth—for—you are a natural on!

Frederick. [tarts—after a paue].

So!—And who is my father?

Agatha.

Oh Frederick, your wild looks are daggers to my heart. Another time.

Frederick. [endeavouring to conceal his emotion].

No, no—I am till your on and you are till my mother. Only tell me, who is my father?

Agatha.

When we parted five years ago, you were too young to be intruted with a ecret of o much importance. But the time is come when I can, in confidence, open my heart, and unload that burthen with which it has been long oppreed. And yet, to reveal my errors to my child, and ue for his mild judgment on my conduct—

Frederick.

You have nothing to ue for; only explain this mytery.

Agatha.

I will, I will. But—my tongue is locked with remore and hame. You mut not look at me.

Frederick.

Not look at you! Cured be that on who could find his mother guilty, although the world hould call her o.

Agatha.

Then liten to me, and take notice of that village, [pointing] of that catle, and of that church. In that village I was born—in that church I was baptied. My parents were poor, but reputable farmers.—The lady of that catle and etate requeted them to let me live with her, and he would provide for me through life. They reigned me; and at the age of fourteen I went to my patrones. She took pleaure to intruct me in all kinds of female literature and accomplihments, and three happy years had paed under her protection, when her only on, who was an officer in the Saxon ervice, obtained permiion to come home. I had never een him before—he was a handome young man—in my eyes a prodigy; for he talked of love, and promied me marriage. He was the firt man who had ever poken to me on uch a ubject.—His flattery made me vain, and his repeated vows——Don’t look at me, dear Frederick!—I can ay no more. [Frederick with his eyes cat down, takes her hand, and puts it to his heart.] Oh! oh! my on! I was intoxicated by the fervent carees of a young, inexperienced, capricious, man, and did not recover from the delirium till it was too late.

Frederick. [after a paue].

Go on, Let me knew more of my father.

Agatha.

When the time drew near that I could no longer conceal my guilt and hame, my educer prevailed on me not to expoe him to the reentment of his mother. He renewed his former promies of marage at her death;—on which relying, I gave him my word to be ecret—and I have to this hour buried his name deep in my heart.

Frederick.

Proceed, proceed! give me full information——I will have courage to hear it all. [Greatly agitated.]

Agatha.

His leave of abence expired, he returned to his regiment, depending on my promie, and well aured of my eteem. As oon as my ituation became known, I was quetioned, and received many evere reproaches: but I refued to confes who was my undoer; and for that obtinacy was turned from the catle. I went to my parents; but their door was hut againt me. My mother, indeed, wept as he bade me quit her ight for ever; but my father wihed increaed affliction might befall me.

Frederick. [weeping].

Be quick with your narrative, or you'll break my heart.

Agatha.

I now ought protection from the old clergyman of the parih. He received me with compaion. On my knees I begged forgivenes for the candal I had caued to his parihioners; promied amendment; and he aid he did not doubt me. Through his recommendation I went to town; and hid in humble lodgings, procured the means of ubitence by teaching to the neighbouring children what I had learnt under the tuition of my benefactres. To intruft you, my Frederick, was my care and my delight; and in return for your filial love I would not thwart your wihes when they led to a oldier’s life: but I aw you go from me with an aching heart. Soon after, my health declined, I was compelled to give up my employment, and, by degrees, became the object you now ee me. But, let me add, before I cloe my calamitous tory, that—when I left the good old clergyman, taking along with me his kind advice and his bleing, I left him with a firm determination to fulfil the vow I had made of repentance and amendment. I have fulfilled it—and now, Frederick, you may look at me again. [He embraces her.]

Frederick.

But my father all this time? [mournfully] I apprehend he died.

Agatha.

No—he married.

Frederick.

Married!

Agatha.

A woman of virtue——of noble birth and immene fortune. Yet, [weeps] I had written to him many times; had decribed your infant innocence and wants; had glanced obliquely at former promies

Frederick [rapidly].

No anwer to thee letters?

Agatha.

Not a word.—But in the time of war, you know, letters micarry.

Frederick.

Nor did he ever return to this etate?

Agatha.

No—ince the death of his mother this catle has only been inhabited by ervants for he ettled as far off as Alace, upon the etate of his wife.

Frederick.

I will carry you in my arms to Alace. No—why hould I ever know my father, if he is a villain! My heart is atisfied with a mother.—No—I will not go to him. I will not diturb his peace—I leave that tak to his concience. What ay you, mother, can’t we do without him? [Struggling between his tears and his pride.] We don’t want him. I will write directly to my captain. Let the conequence be what it will, leave you again I cannot. Should I be able to get my dicharge, I will work all day at the plough, and all the night with my pen. It will do, mother, it will do! Heaven’s goodnes will aift me—it will proper the endeavours of a dutiful on for the ake of a helples mother.

Agatha. [prees him to her breat].

Where could be found uch another on?

Frederick.

But tell me my father’s name, that I may know how to hun him.

Agatha.

Baron Wildenhaim.

Frederick.

Baron Wildenhaim! I hall never forget it.—Oh! you are near fainting. Your eyes are cat down. What’s the matter? Speak, mother!

Agatha.

Nothing particular.—Only fatigued with talking. I wih to take a little ret.

Frederick.

I did not conider that we have been all this time in the open road. [Goes to the Inn, and knocks at the door.] Here, Landlord!

Landlord re-enters.

Landlord.

Well, what is the matter now?

Frederick.

Make hate, and get a bed ready for this good woman.

Landlord. [with a neer].

A bed for this good woman! ha, ha, ha! She lept lat night in that pent-houe; o he may to-night.

[Exit hutting the door.

Frederick.

You are an infamous—[goes back to his mother] Oh! my poor mother—[runs to the Cottage at a little ditance, and knocks]. Ha! halloo! Who is there?

Enter Cottager.

Cottager.

Good day, young oldier.—What is it you want?

Frederick.

Good friend, look at that poor woman. She is perihing in the public road! It is my mother.—Will you give her a mall corner in your hut? I beg for mercy’s ake—Heaven will reward you.

Cottager.

Can’t you peak quietly? I underland you very well. [Calls at the door of the hut] Wife, hake up our bed—here’s a poor ick woman wants it. [Enter Wife]. Why could not you ay all this in fewer words? Why uch a long preamble? Why for mercy’s ake, and heaven’s reward? Why talk about reward for uch trifles as thee? Come, let us lead her in; and welcome he hall be to a bed, as good as I can give her; and to our homely fare.

Frederick.

Ten thouand thanks, and bleings on you!

Wife.

Thanks and bleings! here’s a piece of work indeed about nothing! Good ick lady, lean on my houlder [To Frederick]. Thanks and reward indeed! Do you think huband and I have lived to thee years, and don’t know our duty? Lean on my houlder.

[Exeunt into the Cottage.

SCENE I. A room in the Cottage

Agatha, Cottager, his Wife, and Frederick dicovered — AGATHA reclined upon a wooden bench, Frederick leaning over her.

Frederick.

OOD people have you nothing to give her? Nothing that’s nourihing.

Wife.

Run, huband, run, and fetch a bottle of wine from the landlord of the inn.

Frederick.

No, no—his wine is as bad as his heart: he has drank ome of it, which I am afraid has turned to poion."

Cottager.

Suppoe, wife, you look for a new-laid egg?

Wife.

Or a drop of brandy, huband—that motly cures me.

Frederick.

Do you hear, mother—will you, mother? [Agatha makes a ign with her hand as if he could not take any thing.] She will not. Is there no doctor in this neighbourhood?

Wife.

At the end of the village there lives a hore-doctor. I have never heard of any-other.

Frederick.

What hall I do? She is dying. My mother is dying—Pray for her, good people!

Agatha.

Make yourelf eay, dear Frederick, I am well, only weak—Some wholeome nourihment—

Frederick.

Yes, mother, directly—directly. [Aide] Oh! where hall I—no money—not a farthing left.

Wife.

Oh, dear me! Had you not paid the rent yeterday, huband—

Cottager.

I then, hould know what to do. But as I hope for mercy, I have not a penny in my houe.

Frederick.

Then I mut—[Apart, coming forward]—Yes, I will go, and beg.—But hould I be refued—I will then—I leave my mother in your care, good people—Do all you can for her, I beeech you! I hall oon be with you again. [Goes off in hate and confuion.]

Cottager.

If he hould go to our paron, I am ure he would give him bmething.

[Agatha having revived by degrees during the cene, ries.]

Agatha.

Is that good old man lill living, who was miniter here ome time ago?

Wife.

No—It pleaed Providence to take that worthy man to heaven two years ago.—We have lot in him both a friend and a father. We hall never get uch another.

Cottager.

Wife, wife, our preent rector is likewie a very good man.

Wife.

Yes! But he is o very young.

Cottager.

Our late paron was once young too.

Wife. [to Agatha.]

This young man being tutor in our Baron’s family, he was very much beloved by them all; and o the Baron gave him this living in conequence.

Cottager.

And well he deerved it, for his pious intructions to our young lady: who is, in conequence, good, and friendly to every body.

Agatha.

What young lady do you mean?

Cottager.

Our Baron’s daughter.

Agatha.

Is he here?

Wife.

Dear me! Don’t you know that? I thought every body had known that. It is almot five weeks ince the Baron and all his family arrived at the catle.

Agatha.

Baron Wildenhaim?

Wife.

Yes, Baron Wildenhaim.

Agatha.

And his lady?

Cottager.

His lady died in France many miles from hence, and her death, I uppoe, was the caue of his coming to this etate—For the Baron has not been here till within thee five weeks ever ince he was married. We regretted his abence much, and his arrival has caued great joy.

Wife [addreing her diconre to Agatha.]

By all accounts the Barones was very haughty; and very whimical.

Cottager.

Wife, wife, never peak ill of the dead. Say what you pleae againt the living, but not a word againt the dead.

Wife.

And yet, huband, I believe the dead care the leat what is aid againt them—And o, if you pleae, I’ll tell my tory. The late Barones was, they ay, haughty and proud; and they do ay, the Baron was not o happy as he might have been; but he, bles him, our good Baron is till the ame as when a boy. Soon after Madam had cloed her eyes, he left France, and came to Wildenhaim, his native country.

Cottager.

Many times has he joined in our village dances. Afterwards, when he became an officer, he was rather wild, as mot young men are.

Wife.

Yes, I remember when he fell in love with poor Agatha, Friburg’s daughter: what a piece of work that was—It did not do him much credit. That was a wicked thing.

Cottager.

Have done—no more of this—It is not well to tir up old grievances.

Wife.

Why, you aid I might peak ill of the living. ’Tis very hard indeed, if one mut not peak ill of one’s neighbours, dead, nor alive.

Cottager.

Who knows whether he was the father of Agatha’s child? She never aid he was.

Wife.

Nobody but him—that I am ure—I would lay a wager—no, no, huband—you mut not take his part—it was very wicked! Who knows what is now become of that poor creature? She has not been heard of this many a year. May be he is tarving for hunger. Her father might have lived longer too, if that misfortune had not happened.