SCENE I. Apartment at the Dey's.

WELL, it's all vastly pretty, the gardens, the house and these fine cloaths, I like them ve­ry well, but I don't like to be confined.

Yet, surely, you have no reason to complain; chosen favourite of the Dey, what can you wish for more.

O, a great many things—In the first place, I wish for liberty. Why do you talk of my being a favou­rite; is the poor bird that is confined in a cage (be­cause a favourite with its enslaver) consoled for the loss of freedom. No! tho' its prison is of golden wire, its food delicious, and it is overwhelm'd with caresses, its little heart still pants for liberty: gladly [Page 6] would it seek the fields of air, and even perched up­on a naked bough, exulting, carrol forth its song, nor once regret the splendid house of bondage.

Ah! but then our master loves you.

What of that, I don't love him.

Not love him?

No—he is old and ugly, then he wears such tre­menduous whiskers; and when he makes love, he looks so grave and stately, that I declare, if it was not for fear of his huge scymetar, I shou'd burst out a laugh­ing in his face.

Take care you don't provoke him too far.

I don't care how I provoke him, if I can but make him keep his distance. You know I was brought here only a few days since—well, yesterday, as I was amusing myself, looking at the fine things I saw every where about me, who should bolt into the room, but that great, ugly thing Mustapha. What do you want, said I?—Most beautiful Fetnah, said he, bowing till the tip of his long, hooked nose almost ouched the toe of his slipper—most beautiful Fetnah, our power­ful and gracious master, Muley Moloc, sends me, the humblest of his slaves, to tell you, he will condescend to sup in your apartment to night, and commands you to receive the high honour with proper humility.

[Page]

Well—and what answer did you return.

Lord, I was so frightened, and so provoked, I hard­ly know what I said, but finding the horrid looking creature didn't move, at last I told him, that if the Dey was determined to come, I supposed he must, for I could not hinder him.

And did he come?

No—but he made me go to him, and when I went trembling into the room, he twisted his whiskers and knit his great beetle brows. Fetnah said, he you abuse my goodness, I have condescended to request you to love me. And then he gave me such a fierce look, as if he would say, and if you don't love me, I'll cut your head off.

I dare say you were finely frightened.

Frightened! I was provoked beyond all patience, and thinking he would certainly kill me one day or other, I thought I might as well speak my mind, and be dispatched out of the way at once.

You make me tremble.

So, mustering up as much courage as I could; great and powerful Muley, said I—I am sensible I am your [Page 8] slave; you took me from an humble state, placed me in this fine palace, and gave me these rich cloaths; you bought my person of my parents, who loved gold bet­ter than they did their child; but my affections you could not buy. I can't love you.—How! cried he, starting from his seat: how, can't love me?—and he laid his hand upon his scymetar.

Oh dear! Fetnah.

When I saw the scymetar half drawn, I caught hold of his arm.—Oh! good my lord, said I, pray do not kill a poor little girl like me, send me home again, and be­stow your favour on some other, who may think splendor a compensation for the loss of liberty.—Take her away, said he, she is beneath my anger

But, how is it Fetnah, that you have covceived such an aversion to the manners of a country where you were born.

You are mistaken.—I was not born in Algiers, I drew my first breath in England; my father, Ben Has­san, as he is now called, was a Jew. I can scarcely re­member our arrival here, and have been educated in the Moorish religion, tho' I always had a natural an­tipathy to their manners,

Perhaps imbibed from your mother.

No; she has no objection to any of their customs, except that of their having a great many wives at [Page 9] a time. But some few months since, my father, (who sends out many corsairs,) brought home a female cap­tive, to whom I became greatly attached; it was she, who nourished in my mind the love of liberty, and taught me, woman was never formed to be the abject slave of man. Nature made us equal with them, and gave us the power to render ourselves superior.

Of what nation was she?

She came from that land, where virtue in either sex is the only mark of superiority.—She was an Ameri­can.

Where is she now?

She is still at my father's, waiting the arrival of her ransom, for she is a woman of fortune. And tho' I can no longer listen to her instructions, her precepts are engraven on my heart, I feel that I was born free, and while I have life, I will struggle to remain so.

SCENE II. Ben Hassan's House.

Oh! blessed hope, I feel within myself, that spark of intellectual heavenly fire, that bids me soar above this mortal world, and all its pains or pleasures—its plea­sures! Oh!—long—long since I have been dead to all that bear the name.—In early youth—torn from the husband of my heart's election—the first only object of my love—bereft of friends cast on an unfeeling world, with only one poor stay, on which to rest the hope of future joy.—I have a son—my child! my dear Au­gustus—where are you now?—in slavery.—Grant me patience Heaven! must a boy born in Columbia, claiming liberty as his birth-right, pass all his days in slavery.—How often have I gazed upon his face, and fancied I could trace his father's features; how often [Page 11] have I listen'd to his voice, and thought his father's spirit spoke within him. Oh! my adored boy! must I no more behold his eyes beaming with youthful ar­dour, when I have told him, how his brave country­men purchased their freedom with their blood.— Alas! I see him now but seldom; and when we meet to think that we are slaves, poor, wretched slaves each serving different masters, my eyes o'erflow with tears.—I have but time to press him to my heart, en­treat just Heaven, to protect his life, and at some fu­ture day restore his liberty.

How do you do, Mrs. Rebecca?

Well, in health, Hassan, but depressed in spirit.

Ah! dat be very bad—come, come, cheer up, I vants to talk vid you, you must not be so melancholy, I be your very good friend.

Thank you, Hassan, but if you are in reality the friend you profess to be, leave me to indulge my grief in solitude, your intention is kind, but I would rather be alone.

You likes mightily to be by yourself, but I must talk to you a little; I vantsh to know ven you think your ransom vil come, 'tis a long time, Mrs. Rebecca, and you knows.—

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Oh yes, I know, I am under many obligations to you, but I shall soon be able to repay them.

That may be, but 'tis a very long time, since you wrote to your friends, 'tis above eight months; I am afraid you have deceived me.

Alas! perhaps I have deceived myself.

Vat, den you have no friends— you are not a vo­man's of fortune?

Yes, yes, I have both friends and ability—but I am afraid my letters have miscarried.

Oh! dat ish very likely, you may be here dish two or three years longer; perhaps all your life times.

Alas! I am very wretched.

Come, now don't cry so; you must consider I never suffered you to be exposed in the slave market,

But, my son.—Oh! Hassan; why did you suffer them to sell my child?

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I could not help it, I did all I could—but you knows I would not let you be sent to the Dey, I have kept you in my own house, at mine own expence,

for which I have been more than doubly paid.

That is indeed true, but I cannot at present return your kindness.

Ah! you be very sly rogue—you pretend not to know how I loves you.

What means the wretch.

You shou'd forget your Christian friends, for I dare say they have forgot you.—I vill make you my vife, I vill give you von, two, tree slaves to vait on you.

Make me your wife! why, are you not already mar­ried?

Ish, but our law gives us great many vives.—our law gives liberty in love; you are an American and you must love liberty.

Hold, Hassan; prostitute not the sacred word by applying it to licentiousness; the sons and daughters of liberty, take justice, truth, and mercy, for their leaders, when they list under her glorious banners.

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Your friends will never ransom you.

How readily does the sordid mind judge of others by its own contracted feelings; you, who much I fear, worship no deity but gold, who could sacrifice friend­ship, nay, even the ties of nature at the shrine of your idolatry, think other hearts as selfish as your own;— but there are souls to whom the afflicted never cry in vain, who, to dry the widow's tear, or free the captive, would share their last possession.—Blest spirits of phi­lanthropy, who inhabit my native land, never will I doubt your friendship, for sure I am, you never will neglect the wretched.

If you are not ransomed soon, I must send you to the Dey.

E'en as you please, I cannot be more wretched than I am; but of this be assured; however depressed in for­tune, however sunk in adversity, the soul secure in its own integrity will rise superior to its enemies, and scorn the venal wretch, who barters truth for gold.

'Tis a very strange voman, very strange indeed; she does not know I got her pocket-book, with bills of exchange in it; she thinks I keep her in my house out of charity, and yet she talks about freedom and superi­ority, as if she was in her own country. 'Tis dev'lish hard indeed, when masters may not do what they please with their slaves. Her ransom arrived yesterday, but den she don't know it—Yesh, here is the letter; ran­som for Rebecca Constant, and six other Christian slaves; vell I vill make her write for more, she is my [Page 15] slave, I must get all I can by her. Oh, here comes that wild young Christian, Frederic, who ransom'd himself a few days since.

Well, my little Israelite, what are you muttering about; have you thought on my proposals, will you purchase the vessel and assist us?

Vat did you say you wou'd give me?

We can amongst us, muster up two thousand sequins, 'tis all we have in the world.

You are sure you can get no more?

Not a farthing more.

Den I vill be satisfied with dat, it will in some mea­sure reward me—

for betraying you.

And you will purchase the vessel.

I will do every thing that is necessary—

for my own interest.

[Page 16]

You have convey'd provision to the cavern by the sea side, where I am to conceal the captives, to wait the arrival of the vessel.

Most shartingly, I have provided for them as—

as secure a prison as any in Algiers.

But, are you not a most extortionate old rogue, to require so much, before you will assist a parcel of poor devils to obtain their liberty.

Oh! Mr. Frederic, if I vash not your very good friend, I could not do it for so little; the Moors are such uncharitable dogs, they never think they can get enough for their slaves, but I have a vasht deal of compassion; I feels very mush for the poor Christians; I should be very glad

to have a hundred or two of them my prisoners.

You would be glad to serve us?

Shartingly.

Ven I can serve myself at the same time.

Prithee, honest Hassan, how came you to put on the turban?

I'll tell you.

And so to complete the whole, you turn'd Maho­metan.

Oh 'twas the safest way.

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But Hassan, as you are so fond of cheating the Gen­tiles, perhaps you may cheat us.

Oh no! I swear by Mahomet.

No swearing, old Trimmer, if you are true to us, you will be amply rewarded, should you betray us,

by heaven you shall not live an hour after.— Go, look for a vessel, make every necessary prepara­tion; and remember, instant death shall await the least appearance of treachery.

But I have not got monies.

Go, you are a hypocrite; you are rich enough to purchase an hundred vessels, and if the Dey knew of your wealth—

Oh! dear Mr. Frederic, indeed I am very poor, but I vill do all you desire, and you vill pay me after­wards.

—Oh, I wish I could get you well paid with the bastinado.

I will trust this fellow no farther, I am afraid he will play us false—but should he, we have yet one resource, we can but die; and to die in a struggle for freedom, is better far than to live in ignominious bondage.

SCENE III. Another Apartment at the Dey's.

Alas! it was pitiful, pray proceed.

My father's ill health obliging him to visit Lisbon, we embarked for that place, leaving my betrothed lover to follow us—but e'er we reached our destined port, we were captured by an Algerine corsair, and I was immediately sent to the Dey, your father.

I was then in the country, but I was told he be­came enamoured of you.

Unfortunately he did; but my being a Christian has hitherto preserved me from improper solicitations, tho' I am frequently pressed to abjure my religion.

Were you not once near making your escape.

We were; my father, by means of some jewels which he had concealed in his cloaths, bribed one of the guards to procure false keys to the apartments, but on the very night when we meant to put our plan in execution, the Dey, coming suddenly into the room, suprized my father in my arms.

[Page 20]

Was not his anger dreadful?

Past description; my dear father was torn from me and loaded with chains, thrown into a dungeon▪ where he still remains, secluded from the cheering light of heaven; no resting place but on the cold, damp ground; the daily portion of his food so poor and scanty, it hardly serves to eke out an existence▪ lingering as it is forlorn.

And where are the false keys?

I have them still, for I was not known to possess them.

Then banish all your sorrow; if you have still the keys, to-morrow night shall set us all at liberty.

Madam!

Be not alarmed sweet Olivia, I am a Christian in my heart, and I love a Christian slave, to whom I have conveyed money and jewels, sufficient to ransom himself and several others; I will appoint him to be in the garden this evening, you shall go with me and speak to him.

But how can we release my father.

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Every method shall be tried to gain admittance to his prison; the Christian has many friends, and if all other means fail, they can force the door.

Oh! heavens, could I but see him once more at li­berty, how gladly would I sacrifice my own life to se­cure his.

The keys you have, will let us out of the house when all are lock'd in the embraces of sleep; our Christian friends will be ready to recieve us, and be­fore morning we shall be in a place of safety; in the mean time, let hope support your sinking spirits.

SCENE IV. A garden—Outside of a house, with small high lattices.

Fearing the old fellow would pocket our cash and betray us afterwards, I changed my plan, and have [Page 22] entrusted the money with a Spaniard, who will make the best bargain he can for us: have you tried our friends, will they be staunch?

To a man; the hope of liberty, like an electric spark, ran instantly through every heart, kindling a flame of patriotic ardour. Nay, even those whom interest or fear have hitherto kept silent, now openly avowed their hatred of the Dey, and swore to assist our pur­pose.

Those whose freedom we have already purchas­ed, have concerted proper measures for liberating many others, and by twelve o'clock to morrow night, we shall have a party large enough to surround the palace of the Dey, and convey from thence in safety the fair Zoriana.

Soft;—behold the signal of love and peace.

I'll catch it as it falls.

'Tis not design'd for you, stand aside.

'Tis a wealthy fall, and worth receiving.

What says the fair Mahometan?

Can I believe my eyes; here are English charac­ters; and, but I think 'tis impossible, I should say, this was my Olivia's writing.

[Page 23]

This is always the way with you happy fellows, who are favourites with the women; you [...] the willing fair one, and doat on those who are only to be obtained with difficulty.

I wish the lovely Moor had fixed her affections on you instead of me.

I wish she had with all my soul—Moor or Christian, slave or free woman, 'tis no matter; if she was but young, and in love with me, I'd kneel down and wor­ship her. But I'm a poor miserable dog, the women never say civil things to me.

But, do you think it can be possible that my adora­ble Olivia is a captive here?

Prithee man, don't stand musing and wondering, but remember this is the time for action. If chance has made your Oliva a captive, why, we must make a bold attempt to set her at liberty, and then I suppose you will turn over the fair Moriscan to me. But what says the letter.

"As you have now the means of freedom in your power, be at the north garden gate at ten o'clock, and when you hear me sing, you will be sure all is safe, and that you may enter without danger; do not fail to come, I have some pleasant intelligence to [Page 24] communicate." Yes, I will go and acquaint her with the real state of my heart.

And so make her our enemy.

It would be barbarous to impose on her generous nature.—What?—avail myself of her liberality to ob­tain my own freedom; take her from her country and friends, and then sacrifice her a victim to ingratitude, and disappointed love.

Tush, man, women's hearts are not so easily bro­ken, we may, perhaps, give them a slight wound now and then, but they are seldom or never incurable.

I see our master coming this way; begone to our friends; encourage them to go through with our en­terprize: the moment I am released I will join you.

'Till when adieu.

SCENE I. Moonlight.—A Garden.

Sweet Olivia, chide me not; for tho' I'm fixed to leave this place, and embrace Christianity, I cannot [Page 25] but weep when I think what my poor father will suf­fer. Methinks I should stay to console him for the loss of you.

He will soon forget me; has he not already a number of beautiful slaves, who have been purchased, to banish me from his remembrance.

True, but he slights them all; you only, are the mistress of his heart.

Hark, did you not hear a footstep?

Perhaps it is the young Christian, he waits the ap­pointed signal; I think all is safe, he may approach.

Lovely and benevolent lady, permit me thus hum­bly to thank you for my freedom.

Oh Heavens, that voice!

Gentle Christian, perhaps I have over-stepped the bounds prescribed my sex. I was early taught a love of Christianity, but I must now confess, my actions are impelled by a tenderer passion.

That passion which you have so generously avow­ed, has excited my utmost gratitude, and I only wish for power to convince you, how much you have bound me to your service.

Oh!

What ails my friend, help me to support her; she is an amiable creature, and will accompany us in our flight.

She revives; how are you?—Speak; my Olivia.

Olivia, did you say?

Yes; Henry, your forsaken Olivia.

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Oh my beloved! is it possible that I see you here in bondage; where is your father?

In bondage too—but, Henry, you had forgot me; you could renounce your vows and wed another.

Oh no; never for one moment has my thoughts strayed from my Olivia—I never regretted slavery, but as it deprived me of your sweet converse, nor wished for freedom, but to ratify my vows to you.

How? mutual lovers! my disappointed heart beats high with resentment, but in vain; I wish to be a Christian, and I will, tho' my heart breaks, perform a Christian's duty.

Pardon, beauteous lady, an involuntary error. I have long loved this Christian maid; we are betrothed to each other. This evening I obey'd your summons, to inform you, that grateful thanks and fervent pray­ers, were all the return I could make for the unmerit­ed kindness you have shewn me.

Generous Zoriana, blame not my Henry.

Think not so meanly of me, as to suppose I live but for myself—that I loved your Henry, I can without a blush avow, but, 'twas a love so pure, that to see him happy, will gratify my utmost wish; I still rejoice that [Page 28] I've procured his liberty, you, shall with him, em­brace the opportunity, and be henceforth as blest—

as I am wretched.

You will go with us,

Perhaps I may—but let us now separate;—to mor­row, from the lattice, you shall receive instructions how to proceed: in the mean time here is more gold and jewels. I never knew their value, till I found they could ransom you from slavery.

Words are poor.

Leave us, my heart's oppress'd, I wish to be alone; doubt not the safety of your Olivia; she must be safe with me, for she is dear to you.

Olivia!

Madam!

Why are you silent, do you doubt my sincerity!

Oh no—but I was thinking, if we should fail in out attempt; if we should be taken.

Gracious heaven forbid!

[Page 29]

Who then could deprecate your father's wrath. Yourself, my Henry, and my dearest father, all, all, would fall a sacrifice.

These are groundless fears.

Perhaps they are; but yet, I am resolved to stay be­hind,

Do not think of it.

Forgive me; I am determined, and that so firmly, it will be in vain to oppose me.—If you escape—the Power who protects you, will also give to me the means of following; should you be taken, I may per­haps move the Dey to forgive you▪ and even should my prayers and tears have no effect, my life shall pay the forfeiture of yours.

I will not go.

Yes, gentle lady, yes; you must go with them; perhaps you think it will be a painful [...] to meet your father's anger; but indeed it will not; the thought of standing forth the preserver of the dear author of my being, of the man who loves me next to heaven, of the friend who could sacrifice her own happiness to mine, would fill my soul with such delight, that even death, in its most horrid shape, could not disturb its tranquility,

[Page 30]

But, can you suppose your father, and your lover,

You must assist my design, you must tell them I am already at liberty, and in a place of safety; when they discover the deception, be it your task, my gentle Zo­riana, to wipe the tear of sorrow from their eyes. Be a daughter to my poor father, comfort his age, be kind and tender to him, let him not feel the loss of his Olivia. Be to my Henry, (Oh! my bursting heart) a friend, to sooth him in his deep affliction; pour con­solation on his wounded mind, and love him if you can, as I have done.

SCENE II. Dawn of day—another part of the garden—with an al­cove.

What a poor unfortunate dog I am; last night I slip­ped into the garden behind Henry, in hopes I should find some distressed damsel, who wanted a knight-er­rant, to deliver her from captivity; and here have I wandered through windings, turnings, alleys, and la­byrinths, till the Devil himself could not find the way out again: some one approaches—by all that's lovely 'tis a woman—young, and handsome too, health glows upon her cheek, and good humour spar­kles in her eye;—I'll conceal myself, that I may not alarm her.

What a sweet morning, I could not sleep, so the moment the doors were open, I came out to try and amuse myself.—'Tis a delightful garden, but I be­lieve I should hate the finest place in the world, if I was obliged to stay in it, wether I would or no. If I am forced to remain here much longer, I shall fret my­self as old and as ugly as Mustapha. That's no mat­ter, there's nobody here to look at one, but great, black, goggle-ey'd creatures, that are posted here and there to watch us. And when one speaks to them, they shake their frightful heads, and make such a hor­rid noise—lord, I wish I could run away, but that's im­possible; there is no getting over these nasty high walls. I do wish, some dear, sweet, Christian man, would fall in love with me, break open the garden gates, and car­ry me off.

Say you so my charmer, then I'm your man.

And take me to that charming place, where there are no bolts and bars; no mutes and guards; no bow-strings [Page 32] and scymetars.—Oh! it must be a dear delight­ful country, where women do just what they please.

I'm sure you are a dear, delightful creature.

Hush, my sweet little infidel, or we shall be disco­vered.

Why, who are you; and how came you here?

I am a poor forlorn fellow, beautiful creature, over head and ears in love with you, and I came here, to tell you how much I adore you.

Oh dear! what a charming man. I do wish he would run away with me.

Perhaps this is the lady who wrote to Henry, she looks like a woman of quality, if I may judge from her dress. I'll ask her.—You wish to leave this coun­try, lovely Moor?

Lord, I'm not a Moriscan; I hate 'em all, there is nothing I wish so much as to get away from them.

Your letters said so.

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Letters!

Yes, the letters you dropped from the window up­on the terrace.

He takes me for some other, I'll not un­deceive him, and may be, he'll carty off.—Yes, sir; yes, I did write to you.

To me!

To be sure; did you think it was to any body else?

Why, there has been a small mistake.

And there's like to be a greater if you knew all.

And, do you indeed love me?

Yes, I do, better than any body I ever saw in my life.

And if I can get you out of the palace, you will go away with me?

To be sure I will, that's the very thing I wish.

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Oh! thou sweet, bewitching, little—

Tell him, Fetnah shall be sent home to him im­mediately.

Oh lord! what will become of us? that's my lord the Dey—you'll certainly be taken.

Yes, I feel the bow-string round my neck already; what shall I do—where shall I hide.

Stay, don't be frightened—I'll bring you off; catch me in your arms again.

I tell thee, Mustapha, I cannot banish the beauti­ful Christian one moment from my thoughts. The women seem all determined to perplex me; I was pleased with the beauty of Fetnah, but her childish caprice.—

Behold, my lord, the fair slave you mention, in the arms of a stranger.

Now, good-bye to poor Pil-garlick.

[Page 35]

Are they gone, and am I safe.—Oh! courteous stranger, when the Dey my master knows—

What's the matter Fetnah; who is this slave?

Oh mighty prince, this stranger has preserved me from the greatest outrage.

What outrage?

Now, do not look angry at your poor little slave, who knowing she had offended you, could not rest, and came early into the garden, to lament her folly.

Well said, woman.

Rise, Fetnah; we have forgot your rashness—pro­ceed.

So, as I was sitting, melancholy and sad, in the al­cove, I heard a great noise, and presently, four or five Turks leap'd over the wall, and began to plunder the garden; I screamed; did not you hear me, Mustapha

Well said, again.

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But, the moment they saw me, they seized me, and would have forced me away, had not this gallant stranger run to my assistance—they, thinking they were pursued by many, relinquished their hold, and left me fainting in the stranger's arms.

'Tis well.

But, gracious sir, how came the stranger here?

Oh! confound your inquisitive tongue.

Aye, Chrstian; how came you in this garden?

He came from my father. did not you say my fa­ther sent you here?

—Now, who the devil is her father?

He came to beg leave to gather some herbs for a sallad, while they were still fresh with morning dew.

Heaven bless her invention!

Go to your apartment.

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Oh dear! if he should ask him any questions when I am gone, what will become of him.

Christian, gather the herbs you came for, and de­part in peace.—Mustapha, go to my daughter Zoria­na; tell her I'll visit her some two hours hence, 'till when, I'll walk in the refreshing morning air.

Thanks to dear little infidel's ready wit; I breath again—Good Mr. Whiskers I am obliged by your dis­mission of me—I will depart as fast as I can; and yet I cannot but regret leaving my lovely little Moor behind—who comes here—the apostate Hassan.— Now could I swear some mischief was a foot.—I'll keep out of sight and try to learn his business.

Indeed, I am vashtly sorry that my daughter has offended my good lord the Dey; but if he will ad­mit me to his sublime presence, I can give him intel­ligence of so important a nature, as I makes no doubt, will incline him to pardon her, for my sake.

I will tell him you wait his leisure.

The traitor is on the point of betraying us.—I must if possible prevent his seeing the Dey.

Oh! my dear friend Hassan, for heaven's sake what brought you here; don't you know the Dey is so highly offended with you, that he vows to have you impaled alive.

Oh dear! Mr. Frederic, how did you know.

It was by the luckiest chance in the world; I hap­pened to be in this garden, when I overheard a slave of yours informing the Dey, that you had not only amassed immense riches, which you intended to car­ry out of his territories; but, that you had many valuable slaves, which you kept concealed from him, that you might reap the benefit of their ransom.

Oh, what will become of me!—but, come, come; Mr. Frederic, you only say this to frighten me.

Well, you'll see that; for I heard him command his guards to be ready to seize you, when he gave the signal, as he expected you here every moment.

Oh! what shall I do?

If you stay here, you will certainly be bastinadoed— impaled—burnt.

Oh dear! Oh dear!

[Page 39]

Make haste my dear friend; run home as fast as possible; hide your treasure, and keep out of the way.

Oh dear! I wish I was safe in Dukes place.

Let me but get you once safe into your own house, and I'll prevent your betraying us I'll warrant.

Now will you pretend to say, you are happy here, and that you love the Dey.

I have been here many years; the Dey has been very good to me, and my chief employment has been to wait on his daughter, Zoriana, till I was appoint­ed to attend you, to you perhaps, he may be an ob­ject of disgust; but looking up to him, as a kind and generous master, to me he appears amiable.

Oh! to be sure, he is a most amiable creature; I think I see him now, seated on his cushion, a bowl of sherbet by his side, and a long pipe in his mouth. Oh! how charmingly the tobacco must perfume his whis­kers—here, Mustapha, says he, "Go, bid the slave Selima come to me" —well it does not signify, that word slave does so stick in my throat—I wonder how any woman of spirit can gulp it down.

[Page 40]

We are accustomed to it.

The more's the pity: for how sadly depressed must the soul be, to whom custom has rendered bondage supportable.

Then, if opportunity offered, you would leave Al­giers.

That I would, most chearfully.

And perhaps, bestow your affections on some young Christian.

That you may be sure of; for say what you will, I am sure the woman must be blind and stupid, who would not prefer a young, handsome, good humoured Christian, to an old, ugly, ill natured Turk.

Well, what's your business?

I—I—I—I'm afraid I'm wrong.

Who sent you here?

[Page 41]

I was told to take these to our master's son, young Soliman. But some how, in the turnings and wind­ings in this great house, I believe I have lost myself.

You have mistaken—

Mistaken—no, he is very right; here give me the cloaths, I'll take care of them,

there, there, go about your business, its all very well.—

Now, Selima, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll put these on—go to the Dey, and see if he will know me.

He'll be angry.

Pshaw! your'e so fearful of his anger, if you let the men see you are afraid of them, they'll hector and domineer finely, no, no, let them think you don't care whether they are pleased or no, and then they'll be as condescending and humble.—Go, go—take the cloaths into the next apartment.

Now, if by means of these cloaths, I can get out of the palace, I'll seek the charming young Christian I saw this morning, we'll get my dear instructress from my fathers, and fly together, from this land of capti­vity to the regions of Peace and Liberty.

SCENE I. A kind of Grotto.

Now, if you had trusted me, at first, I'll answer for it, I had got you all safe out; aye, and that dear, sweet creature, madam Zoriana too—what a pity it is she's Mahometan, your true bred Mahometans ne­ver drink any wine—now, for my part, I like a drop of good liquor, it makes a body feel so comfortable, so— so, I don't know howish, as if they were friends with all the world—I always keep a friend or two hid here,

mum, don't be afraid, they are no tell tales—only when they are trusted too far.

Well, Sebastian, don't be too unguarded in trusting these very good friends to night.

Never fear me; did not I tell you I'd shew you a place of safety;—well, havn't I perform'd my pro­mise:—When I first discovered this cave, or cavern, or grotto, or cell, or whatever your fine spoken folks may call it; this, said I, would be a good place to hide people in;—so I never told my master.

This fellow will do some mischief, with his non-sensical prate.

I don't fear him, he has an honest heart, hid under an appearance of ignorance, it grows duskish, Sebas­tian, [Page 43] have we good centinals placed at the entrance of the cell?

Good centinals! why do you suuppose I would trust any with that post but those I could depend on?

Two hours past midnight we must invest the gar­den of the Dey; I have here a letter from Zoriana, which says, she will, at that time be ready to join us —and lead us to the prison of my Olivia's father; Olivia is by some means already at liberty.

You must not not pass.

No—but I must, I have business.

What, what, what's all this?

Nay, for pity's sake, don't kill me.

No, no, we wont kill you, we'll only make you a slave, and you know that's nothing.

There is my dear Christian, but I won't discover myself, till I try if he will know me.

[Page 44]

Who are you, young man▪ and for what purpose were you loitering about this place.

I am Soliman, son to the Dey, and I heard by chance, that a band of slaves had laid a plot to invest the palace, and so I traced some of them to this cell, and was just going—

To betray us.

Let us dispatch him, and instantly disperse till the appointed hour.

Aye, let us kill him.

Hold; why should we harm this innocent youth.

He would be the means of our suffering most cru­el tortures.

True, but he is now in our power; young, inno­cent, and unprotected. Oh my friends! let us not, on this auspicious night, when we hope to emancipate ourselves from slavery, tinge the bright standard of liberty with blood.

'Tis necessary; our safety demands it.

[Page 45]

Save me, dear Christian! its only poor little Fet­nah.

Save you my sweet little Infidel—why, I'll impale the wretch, who should move but a finger against you.

Oh! Oh! a mighty pretty boy to be sure.

But tell me—how got you out of the palace, and how did you discover us.

I have not time now, but this I will assure you, I came with a full intention to go with you, if you will take me, the whole world over.

Can you doubt—

Doubt, no to be sure I don't, but you must comply with one request, before we depart.

Name it.

I have a dear friend, who is a captive at my fa­ther's; she must be released, or Fetnah cannot be hap­py, even with the man she loves.

[Page 46]

Well, here am I, Sebastian; who have been a slave, two years, six months, a fortnight and three days, and have, all that time worked in the garden of the Alcaide, who has twelve wives, thirty concu­binus, and two pretty daughters; and yet not one of the insensible husseys ever took a fancy to me.—'Tis dev'lish hard—that when I go home, I can't say to my honoured father, the barber, and to my rever­end mother, the laundress—this is the beautiful prin­cess, who fell in love with me; jumped over the gar­den-wall of his serene holiness her father, and ran away with your dutiful son, Sebastian—then, falling on my knees—thus.

What's the matter, Sebastian? There is no danger, don't be afraid, man.

Sebastian, you must take a party of our friends, go to the house of Ben Hassan, and bring from thence an American lady. I have good reason to think you will meet with no opposition; she may be at first unwilling to come, but, tell her—friends and countrymen await her here.

Tell her, her own Fetnah expects her.

Treat her with all imaginable respect:—Go, my good Sebastian; be diligent, silent, and expeditious. You, my dear Fetnah, I will place in an inner part of the grotto, where you will be safe, while we effect the escape of Olivia's father.

[Page 47]

What, shut me up!—Do you take me for a cow­ard?

We respect you as a woman, and would shield you from danger.

A woman!—Why, so I am; but in the cause of love or friendship, a woman can face danger with as much spirit, and as little fear, as the bravest man amongst you.—Do you lead the way, I'll follow to the end.

Bravo! Excellent! Bravissimo!—Why, 'tis a little body; but ecod, she's a devil of a spirit.—It's a fine thing to meet with a woman that has a little fire in her composition. I never much liked your milk-and-water ladies; to be sure, they are easily managed— but your spirited lasses require taming; they make a man look about him—dear, sweet, angry creatures, here's their health. This is the summum-bonum of all good:—If they are kind, this, this, makes them appear angels and goddesses:—If they are saucy, why then, here, here, in this we'll drown the re­membrance of the bewitching, froward, little devils —in all kind of difficulties and vexations, nothing helps the invention, or cheers the courage, like a drop from the jorum.

SCENE II. Ben Hassan's House.

Dear mother, don't look so sorrowful; my mas­ter is not very hard with me. Do pray be happy.

Alas! My dear Augustus, can I be happy while you are a slave? my own bondage is nothing—but you, my child.

Nay, mother, don't mind it; I am but a boy you know.—If I was a man—

What would you do my love?

I'd stamp beneath my feet, the wretch that would enslave my mother.

There burst forth the sacred flame which heaven itself fixed in the human mind; Oh! my brave boy,

ever may you preserve that indepen­dent spirit, that dares assert the rights of the oppress­ed, by power unawed, unchecked by servile fear.

Fear, mother, what should I be afraid of? an't I an American, and I am sure you have often told me, [Page 50] in a right cause, the Americans did not fear any thing.

So, here's a piece of vork; I'se be like to have fine deal of troubles on your account. Oh! that ever I should run the risque of my life by keeping you concealed from the Dey.

If I am a trouble to you, if my being here endan­gers your life, why do you not send me away?

There be no ships here, for you to go in; besides, who will pay me?

Indeed, if you will send me to my native land, I will faithfully remit to you my ransom; aye, double what you have required.

If I thought I could depend—

Sir, your house is is surrounded by arm'd men.

What, Turks?

Slaves, Sir; many of whom I have seen in the train of the Dey.

[Page 51]

Vhat do they vant?

One of my companions asked them, and received for answer, they would shew us presently.

Stand away, fellow; I will search the house.

Oh heavens! what will become of me?

What will become of me? Oh! I shall be impal­ed, burnt, bastinadoed, murdered, where shall I hide, how shall I escape them.—

This way, friends; this way.

Oh, my child, we are lost!

Don't be frightened, mother, thro' this door is a way into the garden; If I had but a sword,, boy as I am, I'd fight for you till I died.

I thought I hear'd voices this way; now my friends, the lady we seek, is a most lovely, amiable creature, [Page 52] whom we must accost with respect, and convey hence in safety—she is a woman of family and fortune, and is highly pleased with my person and abillities; let us therefore, search every cranny of the house till we find her; she may not recollect me directly, but ne­ver mind, we will carry her away first, and assure her of her safety afterwards; go search the rooms in that wing, I will myself, investigate the apartments on this side.

Well I have made these com­rades of mine, believe I am a favoured lover, in pur­suit of a kind mistress, that's something for them to talk of; and I believe many a fine gentleman is talk­ed of for love affairs, that has as little foundation; and so one is but talked of, as a brave or gallant man, what signifies whether there is any foundation for it or no;—and yet, hang it, who knows but I may prove it a reality, if I release this lady from captivity, she may cast an eye of affection,—may—why I dare say she will.—I am but poor Sebastian, the barber of Cor­dova's son, 'tis true; but I am well made, very well made; my leg is not amiss,—then I can make a graceful bow; and as to polite compliments, let me but find her, and I'll shew them what it is to have a pretty person, a graceful air▪ and a smooth tongue.— But I must search this apartment.

SCENE III. Another apartment.

I think now, they vill hardly know me, in my vife's cloaths; I could not find a turban, but this head dress of Rebecca's vill do better, because it vill hide my face—but, how shall I hide my monies: [Page 53] I've got a vast deal, in bills of exchange, and all kinds of paper; if I can but get safe off with this book in my pocket. I shall have enough to keep me easy as long as I live.

Oh! this is a judgment fallen upon me for betraying the Christians.

Oh lord! here they come.

There she is, I thought I traced the sweep of her train this way, don't mind her struggles or entreaties, but bring her away.—Don't be alarmed, madam, you will meet with every attention, you will be treated with the greatest respect, and let me whisper to you there is more happiness in store for you, than you can possibly imagine. Friends convey her gently to the appointed place.

Oh!—o—o—o!

See, my dear mother, there is no one here, they are all gone; it was not you, they came to take away.

It is for you, I fear, more than for myself, I do not think you are safe with me, go, my beloved, re­turn to your master.—

[Page 54]

What, go and leave my mother, without a pro­tector?

Alas? my love, you are not able to protect your­self—and your staying here, only adds to my distress; leave me for the present; I hope the period is not far off, when we shall never be separated.

Mother! dear mother!—my heart is so big it al­most choaks me.—Oh! how I wish I was a man.

Heaven guard my precious child—I cannot think him quite safe any where—but with me, his danger would be imminent; the emotions of his heart hang on his tongue; and the least outrage, offered to his mother, he would resent at peril of his life.—My spirits are oppressed—I have a thousand fears for him, and for myself—the house appears deserted—all is si­lent—what's this,

Oh! hea­ven! is it possible! bills, to the amount of my own ransom and many others—transporting thought— my son—my darling boy, this would soon emanci­pate you—here's a letter address'd to me—the money is my own—Oh joy beyond expression! my child will soon be free. I have also the means of cheering many children of affliction, with the blest sound of liberty. Hassan, you have dealt unjustly by me, but I for­give you—for, while my own heart o'erflows with gratitude for this unexpected blessing, I will wish every human being as happy as I am this moment.

SCENE IV. Dey's Garden.

How vain are the resolves, how treacherous the heart of a woman in love; but a few hours since, I thought I could have chearfully relinquished the hope of having my tenderness returned; and found a re­lief from my own sorrow, in reflecting on the happi­ness of Henry and Olivia.—Then why does this sel­fish heart beat with transport, at the thought of their separation? Poor Olivia—how deep must be her af­fliction.— Ye silent shades, scenes of content and peace, how sad would you appear to the poor wretch, who wander'd here, the victim of despair—but the fond heart, glowing with all the joys of mutual love, delighted views the beauties scattered round, thinks every flower is sweet, and every prospect gay.

Be not alarmed madam. I have ventured here ear­lier than I intended, to enquire how my Olivia effected her escape.

This letter will inform you—but early as it is, the palace is wrapp'd in silence, my father is retired to rest—follow me, and I will conduct you to the old man's prison.

Have you the keys?

I have;—follow in silence, the least alarm would be fatal to our purpose.

SCENE V. The Grotto again.

Beautiful creature, don't be uneasy, I have risked my life to procure your liberty, and will at the ut­most hazard, convey you to your desired home: but, Oh! most amiable—most divine—most delicate lady, suffer me thus humbly on my knees to confess my adoration of you; to solicit your pity, and—

I pray tell me why you brought me from the house of the good Ben Hassan, and where you design to take me.

[Page 57]

Oh! thou adorable, be not offended at my presump­tion, but having an opportunity of leaving this place of captivity, I was determined to take you with me, and prevent your falling into the power of the Dey, who would no doubt, be in raptures, should he behold your exquisite beauty.—Sweet innocent charmer▪ per­mit your slave to remove the envious curtain that shades your enchanting visage.

Oh no! not for the world; I have in consideration of many past offences, resolved to take the veil and hide myself from mankind for ever.

That my dear, sweet creature, would be the high­est offence you could commit.—Women were never made, with all their prettiness and softness, and be­witching ways, to be hid from us men, who came in­to the world for no other purpose, than to see, ad­mire, love and protect them.—Come, I must have a peep under that curtain; I long to see your dear little sparkling eyes, your lovely blooming cheeks—and I am resolved to taste your cherry lips.

Why, what in the devil's name, have we here?

Only a poor old woman—who has been in captivi­ty—

These fifty years at least, by the length of your beard.

[Page 58]

Sebastian—bring the lady to the water side, and wait till we join you.

I wish I was in any safe place.

Oh ma'am you are in no danger any where—come make haste.

But give me my veil again, if any one saw my face it would shock me.

And damme, but I think it would shock them— here, take your curtain, tho' I think to be perfectly safe, you had best go barefaced.

If you hurry me I shall faint, consider the delicacy of my nerves.

Come along, there's no time for fainting now.

The respect due—

To old age—I consider it all—you are very re­spectable.—Oh! Sebastian what a cursed ninny you were to make so much fuss about a woman old enough to be your grand-mother.

SCENE VI. Inside of the Palace.

Fetnah gone, Zoriana gone, and the fair slave Oli­via?

All, dread sir.

Send instantly to the prison of the slave Constant, 'tis he who has again plotted to rob me of Olivia,

my daughter too he has seduced from her duty; but he shall not escape my vengeance.

Some of the figutives are overtaken, and wait in chains without.

Is Zoriana taken?

Your daughter is safe; the old man too is taken; but Fetnah and Olivia have escaped.

Bring in the wretches.—

—Rash old man—how have you dared to tempt your fate again▪ do you not know the torments that await the Christian, who at­tempts to rob the haram of a Musselman?

[Page 60]

I know you have the power to end my being—but that's a period I more wish than fear.

Where is Olivia?

Safe I hope, beyond your power. Oh! gracious heaven, protect my darling from this tyrant; and let my life pay the dear purchase of her freedom.

Bear them to the torture: who and what am I, that a vile slave dares brave me to my face?

Hold off—we know that we must die, and we are prepared to meet our fate, like men: impotent vain boaster, call us not slaves;—you are a slave indeed, to rude ungoverned passion; to pride, to avarice and lawless love;—exhaust your cruelty in finding tor­tures for us, and we will smiling tell you, the blow that ends our lives, strikes off our chains, and sets our souls at liberty.

Hence take them from my sight;—

—devise each means of torture; let them ling­er—months, years, ages, in their misery.

Stay, Muley, stay—recall your cruel sentence.

[Page 61]

Olivia here; is it possible?

I have never left the palace; those men are inno­cent, so is your daughter. It is I alone deserve your anger—then on me only let it fall; it was I procured false keys to the apartments; it was I seduced your daughter to our interest; I brib'd the gaurds, and with entreaty won the young Christian to attempt to free my father; then since I was the cause of their of­fences, it is fit my life should pay the forfeiture of theirs.

Why did you not accompany them?

Fearing what has happened, I remained, in hopes, by tears and supplications, to move you to forgive my father, Oh! Muley, save his life, save all his friends; and if you must have blood, to appease your vengeance, let me alone be the sacrifice.

—(How her softness melts me.)—Rise Oli­via—you may on easier terms give them both life and freedom.

No—here I kneel till you recall your orders; haste, or it may be too late.

Mustapha, go bid them delay the execution.

[Page 62]

Now teach me to secure their lives and freedom, and my last breath shall bless you.

Renounce your faith—consent to be my wife.— Nay, if you hesitate—

I do not—give me but an hour to think.

Not a moment, determine instantly; your answer gives them liberty or death.

Then I am resolved. Swear to me, by Mahomet, an oath I know you Musselmen never violate—that the moment I become your wife, my father and his friends are free.

By Mahomet I swear, not only to give them life and freedom, but safe conveyance to their desired home.

I am satisfied;—now leave me to myself a few short moments, that I my calm my agitated spirits, and prepare to meet you in the mosque.

Henceforth I live, but to obey you.

On what a fearful precipice I stand; to go forward is ruin, shame and infamy; to recede is to pronounce [Page 63] sentence of death upon my father, and my adored Henry. Oh insupportable!—there is one way, and only one, by which I can fulfiill my promise to the Dey, preserve my friends and not abjure my faith.— Source of my being, thou can'st read the heart which thou hast been pleased to try in the school of adversity, pardon the weakness of an erring mortal—if rather than behold a father perish;—if, rather than devote his friends to death, I cut the thread of my existence, and rush unbidden to thy presence.—Yes, I will to the mosque, perform my promise, preserve the valu­ed lives of those I love; then sink at once into the silent grave, and bury all my sorrows in oblivion.

SCENE VII. Another apartment.

Yes on my life they are free, in a few moments they will be here.

Spare me the trial; for the whole world I would not see them now, nor would I have them know at what a price I have secured their freedom.

My child.—

My love—

My Henry—O my dear father?—pray excuse these tears.

Great sir, the mosque is prepared, and the priest waits your pleasure.

Come, my Olivia.

The mosque—the priest—what dreadful sacrifice is then intended.

Be not alarmed—I must needs attend a solemn rite which gratitude requires—go my dear father—dearest Henry leave me; and be assured, when next you see Olivia, she will be wholly free.

Hold for a moment.

What means this bold intrusion?

Muley, you see before you a woman unused to forms of state, despising titles: I come to offer ran­some for six Christian slaves. Waiting your leisure, I was informed a Christian maid, to save her father's life, meant to devote herself a sacrifice to your embra­ces. I have the means—make your demand of ran­som, and set the maid, with those she loves, at liberty.

Her friends are free already;—but for herself she voluntarily remains with me.

[Page 65]

Can you unmoved, behold her anguish;—release her Muley—name but the sum that will pay her ran­som, 'tis yours.

Woman, the wealth of Golconda could not pay her ransom;—can you imagine that I, whose slave she is; I, who could force her obedience to my will, and yet gave life and freedom to those Christians, to purchase her compliance, would now relinquish her for paltry gold; contemptible idea.—Olivia, I spare you some few moments to your father; take leave of him, and as you part remember his life and liberty depends on you.

Poor girl—what can I do to mitigate your suffer­ings?

Nothing—my fate alas! is fixed; but, generous la­dy—by what name shall we remember you—what nation are you of?

I am an American—but while I only claim kin­dred with the afflicted, it is of little consequence where I first drew my breath.

An American—from what state?

New-York is my native place; there did I spend the dear delightful days of childhood, and there alas, I drain'd the cup of deep affliction, to the very dregs.

[Page 66]

My heart is strangely interested—dearest lady will you impart to us your tale of sorrow, that we may mourn with one who feels so much for us.

Early in life, while my brave countrymen were struggling for their freedom, it was my fate, to love and be beloved by a young British officer, to whom, tho' strictly forbid by my father, I was privately married.

Married! say you?

My father soon discovered our union; enraged, he spurned me from him, discarded, cursed me, and for four years I followed my husbands fortune, at length my father relented; on a sick bed he sent for me to attend him; I went taking with me an infant son, leav­ing my husband, and a lovely girl, then scarcely three years old▪—Oh heavens! what sorrows have I known from that unhappy hour. During my absence the the armies met—my husband fell—my daughter was torn from me; what then avail'd the wealth my dying father had bequeathed me;—long—long did I lose all sense of my misery, and returning reason shewed me the world only one universal blank. The voice of my darling boy first call'd me to myself, for him I strove to mitigate my sorrow; for his dear sake I have en­dured life.

Pray proceed.

About a year since I heard a rumour that my hus­band was still alive; full of the fond hope of again be­holding [Page 67] him, I, with my son embarked for England; but before we reached the coast we were captured by an Algerine.

Do you think you should recollect your husband.

I think I shuold—but fourteen years of deep afflic­tion has impaired my memory and may have changed his features.

What was his name?—Oh! speak it quickly.

His name was Constant—but wherefore —

It was—it was—Rebecca, don't you know me?

Alas—how you are altered.—Oh! Constant, why have you forsaken me so long?

In the battle you mention, I was indeed severely wounded, nay, left for dead in the field; there, my faithful servant found me, when some remaining signs of life encourag'd him to attempt my recovery, and by his unremitting care I was at length restored; my first returning thought was fixed on my Rebecca, but after repeated enquiries all I could hear was that your father was dead and yourself and child removed far­ther from the seat of war. Soon after, I was told you had fallen a martyr to grief for my supposed loss.— But see my love, our daughter, our dear Olivia; hea­ven preserved her to be my comfertor.

[Page 68]

My mother, blessed word; Oh! do I live to say I have a mother.

Bless you my child, my charming duteous girl; but tell me, by what sad chance you became captives?

After peace was proclaimed with America, my du­ty called me to India, from whence I returned with a ruined constitution. Being advised to try the air of Lisbon, we sailed for that place, but Heaven ordained that here in the land of captivity, I should recover a blessing which will amply repay me for all my past sufferings.

Christians you trifle with me—accept your freedom go in peace, and leave Olivia to perform her pro­mise—for should she waver or draw back—on you I will wreak my vengeance.

Then let your vengeance fall—we will die toge­ther; for never shall Olivia, a daughter of Columbia, and a Christian, tarnish her name by apostacy, or live the slave of a despotic tyrant.

Then take your wish—who's there?

Arm, mighty sir—the slaves throughout Algiers have mutinied—they bear down all before them—this [Page 69] way they come—they say, if all the Christian slaves are not immediately released, they'll raze the city.

Now! bounteous heaven, protect my darling boy, and aid the cause of freedom.

Bear them to instant death.

Dread sir—consider.

Vile abject slave obey me and be silent—what have I power over these Christian dogs, and shall I not ex­ert it. Dispatch I say

—Why am I not obeyed?

Where is my mother? save, Oh! save, my mother.

Shut up the palace gates, secure the guards, and at your peril suffer none to pass.

Oh! mother are you safe.

Bounteous heaven! and am I then restored to more—much more than life—my Rebecca! my chil­dren!—Oh! this joy is more than I can bear.

Great and mighty Otttoman, suffer my friends to shew you what pretty bracelets these are.—Oh, you old dog, we'll give you the bastinado presently.

Forbear Sebastian.—Muley Moloc, though your power over us is at end, we neither mean to en­slave your person, or put a period to your existence— we are freemen, and while we assert the rights of men, we dare not infringe the privileges of a fellow-crea­ture.

By the law of retaliation, he should be a slave.

By the Christian law, no man should be a slave; it is a word so abject, that, but to speak it dyes the cheek with crimson. Let us assert our own preroga­tive, be free ourselves, but let us not throw on ano­ther's neck, the chains we scorn to wear.

But what must we do with this old gentlewoman?

Oh, pray send me home to Duke's place.

Ben Hassan, your avarice, treachery and cruelty should be severely punished; for, if any one deserves slavery, it is he who could raise his own fortune on the miseries of others.

[Page 71]

Oh! that I was but crying old cloaths, in the dir­tiest alley in London.

So, you'll leave that poor old man behind?

Yes, we leave him to learn humanity.

Very well, good bye Frederic—good bye dear Re­becca: while my father was rich and had friends, I did not much think about my duty; but now he is poor and forsaken, I know it too well to leave him alone in his affliction.

Stay, Fetnah—Hassan stay.—I fear from following the steps of my ancestors, I have greatly erred: teach me then, you who so well know how to practice what is right, how to amend my faults.

Open your prison doors; give freedom to your peo­ple; sink the name of subject in the endearing epithet of fellow-citizen;—then you will be loved and rever­enced—then will you find, in promoting the happi­ness of others, you have secured your own.

Henceforward, then, I will reject all power but such as my united friends shall think me incapable of abus­ing. Hassan, you are free—to you my generous con­querors what can I say?

[Page 72]

Nothing, but let your future conduct prove how much you value the welfare of your fellow-creatures-to-morrow, we shall leave your capital, and return to our native land, where liberty has established her court—where the warlike Eagle extends his glittering pinions in the sunshine of prosperity.

Long, long, may that prosperity continue—may Freedom spread her benign influence thro' every na­tion, till the bright Eagle, united with the dove and olive-branch, waves high, the acknowledged standard of the world.