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 The Miller's Maid 
 
 - 

 
 THE MINOR DRAMA. 
 
 &$e actfnfl SEoftfon. 
 No. XCII. 
 
 THE 
 
 MILLER'S MAID; 
 
 A MELO-DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 
 
 FOUNDED ON BLOOMFIELd'S POEM OF THAT NAME, AND THE SONGS 
 PRINCIPALLY SELECTED FKOM HIS WORKS. 
 
 BY JOHN FAUCIT SAVILLE, 
 
 Author of" Justice," a Musical Drama, in three Acts — "Cinderella," 
 
 "Charles the Bold " — "Fair Rosamond " — "(Edipus " — 
 
 "Plutarch Abridged," §c., SfC. 
 
 A description of the Costume— Cast of the Characters— Entrances and Exits — 
 
 Relative Positions of the Performers on the Stage, and the whole of the 
 
 Stage Business. 
 
 AS PERFORMED AT ALL THE 
 
 PRINCIPAL ENGLISH AND AMERICAN THEATRES. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 122 Nassau Street, (Up Stairs.)
 
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 Costume. — (The Miller's Maid.; 
 
 MILLER — Drab coat, red waistcoat, and drab breeches, striped 
 stockings black shoes and buckles. 
 
 GILES — White countryman's jacket, leather breeches, colored stock- 
 ings and shoes. 
 
 GEORGE — White trowsers, check shirt, and blue jacket. 
 
 MATTY MARVELLOUS— Short smock-frock, with charity boy's 
 breeches, stockings, &c. — half miller half charity boy. 
 
 GRANGER — Old soldier's coat, white kerseymere breeches and waist- 
 coat, long black gaiters, shoes and buckles. 
 
 GAMEKEEPER — Corderoy breeches, long leather gaiters, and fus- 
 tian shooting jacket. 
 DAME — Brown stuff gown, flowered petticoat and apron. 
 PHEBE — Chintz gown and white petticoat 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 L. means First Entrance Left. R. First Entrance Right. S. E. L. 
 Second Entrance, Left. S. E. R. Second Entrance, Eight. U. E. L. 
 Upper Entrance, Left. U. E. R. Upper Entrance, Right. C. Centre. 
 L. C. Left Centre. R. C. Right of Centre. T. E. L. Third Entrance 
 Left. T. E. R. Third Entrance, Right. C. D. Centre Door. D. R. 
 Door Right. D. L. Door Left. U. D. L. Upper Door, Left. U. D. R. 
 Upper Door, Right. 
 
 %* The reader is supposed to be on the Stage, facing the Audience*
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — [Half dark.] Opens with the gradual dispersing of the 
 mists of morning twilight, the rising beams of the sun breaking oc- 
 casionally through — on one side of the stage the body of a large 
 Mill, mill stream and flood gates, l. h., the water in places gushing 
 through them, the stream meanders off at the back of the stage, over 
 which in the distance is thrown a 7'ustic stone bridge — on the oppo- 
 site side to the Mill, and nearly on a line with it, the Miller's house, 
 R. h. — the per spective filled up with cornfields, rural and picturesque 
 scenery, <£e. — Music. — One of the shutters, l. n. of the Mill is opened 
 and Giles looks out. 
 
 Giles. So the rain be gone off at last, and it be almost daylight. 
 Phebe be'nt stirring yet. No wonder I be always up first in the vil- 
 lage, for I do scarcely sleep for thinking of her. Ah ! life's a burthen 
 without her, and I'll make up my mind to tell her so at once. 
 
 [As he retires from the shutter, the curtains of a window in the Mil- 
 ler's house, r. h. are withdrawn, the casement opened, and Phebe 
 looks from it, surveys the Mill tvith apparent disappointment, then 
 rectifies her cheek upon her hand — the door of the Mill is now opened 
 and Giles comes out from it, as he approaches the front of the stage, 
 another shutter of the AIM opposite Phebe' s window is opened, and 
 George looks from it — Phebe and George recognise, and express by 
 gestures their love for each other. 
 
 Giles. Yes, my mind be made to it, and Phebe shall declare for 
 
 George or me ; and if for him why But I can't think of him with 
 
 temper. Once she were kind to me, and might have had me, when 
 just in the nick, master brings home tins sailor, George, and ever sin 
 
 that day [Turning towards her window, sees it open.] Ha! she 
 
 be up, and now we are alone, I'll ease my mind at once. [As he ap- 
 proaches to address her, observes George conversing with her, watches 
 them a moment, struggling with his jealousy, which at length appears
 
 THE MILLER S MAID. 5 
 
 to overcome Tim.] Cross'd again ! zounds, the sight of him do always 
 
 set my blood a heating. I never see him but long to He shan't 
 
 have her. I'll die first, and so I shall I'm sure, for it be now too plain 
 that Phebe loves him. [Throws himself on a bench at the cottage door , 
 K. H. George comes from the Mill, and approaches Phebe 's window. 
 Giles, whose jealousy has been working him to an instant decision, 
 starts up as Phebe retires, and George comes forward.] Yes, jes, if 
 I'm to be without her, so shall he — his life or mine. 
 
 Geo. A good morning, Giles. 
 
 Giles. To thee it may be, not to me. Lookee, Geo ge ! long before 
 you came here I saw Phebe, and I loved her. I believe she didn't 
 dislike me, and but for you she might have been mine. I feel I can't 
 live without her, so if you refuse to quit your pretentions to her, why 
 your life or mine. 
 
 [Music. — Seizes him by the collar — they struggle — the Miller enter- 
 ing, r. u., from the house, comes between them, and separates them. 
 
 Mil. Hold thee, Giles ! hold ! I say. Thee bes't an honest lad and 
 a good servant, but passion runs away with thee too oft. George thou 
 art a good lad too, and must forgive him. 
 
 Geo. With all my heart, sir. I have long observed with sorrow his 
 growing animosity to me ; but as I suffer myself from the same pow- 
 erful cause, know how to make excuses for another ; for who can see 
 Phebe and not love her ? 
 
 Giles. [Passionately.] No man shall take her from me while I can 
 defend my right. 
 
 Mil. [Checking him.] What right 1 ! 
 
 Giles. That of loving her first. 
 
 Geo. The greater good fortune yours, who had an opportunity of 
 obtaining, before I had the happiness of seeing her. Had you made 
 her your wife, you had closed the door to future advances, but while 
 she remains free, a virtuous woman is the honorable prize that every 
 honest heart has an equal right to contend for. 
 
 Giles. And thou shalt find I will contend it with thee — I'll not re- 
 sign her tamely. 
 
 Mil. Giles, at the best, thee we'rt always passionate, now thee art 
 in love I fear no good will come of reasoning with thee. Wilt thou 
 listen to me ? 
 
 Giles. Aye, aye, master. 
 
 Mil. Tell me, what dost intend by marrying Phebe 1 
 
 Giles. Intend ! why to be happy with her. 
 
 Geo. [Interrupting him.] Never, not while I 
 
 Mil. [Stojiping him.] Rot it, thou art as hot as he. Be quiet, wilt 
 thee 7 [To Giles.] How could'st hope to be happy if she loved 
 another >. 
 
 Giles. Eh? 
 
 Mil. Suppose thee marry'd Phebe, and she loved George? 
 
 Giles. I'd shoot him. 
 
 Mil. Well ! 
 
 Giles. Well ! [A 2>ause.]
 
 6 THE MltLEIt'S MAID, 
 
 Mil. Would that make thee happier 1 Would that make Phebe love 
 thee, because thou hadst killed the man she did love. [Another pause.} 
 Come, come, leave it to the wench herself, meantime shake hands, 
 lads, and be friends. 
 
 Giles. No, I thank thee. 
 
 Geo. Indeed I had rather 
 
 Mil. [Aside to George] Harkee, thee lovest Phebe — if you thought, 
 she preferred Giles it would make thee miserable. 
 
 Geo. Miserable ! it would make me mad. 
 
 Mil. What do'st think then he must feel who loves her also, amiyet 
 suspects her preference for you. Think ye he mus'nt feel it too 1 
 
 Geo. [After a moments pause.] Giles, there's my hand. [Giles re- 
 fuses it. 
 
 Mil. Take it Giles — how! harkee, this in thine ear, [Aside to him.] 
 the girl has not declared for either yet, therefore thy chance may be 
 as good as his. Be friends, and I will promise this — this day she shall 
 decide for one, and him she do decline, must think no more about her. 
 
 Giles. One can't help thinking, master. 
 
 Mil. Then he may think on some one else that will be kinder to him. 
 I've enough to do to keep these chaps from quarrelling. Come, no 
 more ado, but get to your work, it shall be as I say, and look, the sun 
 be up. To the mill, lads, and to work. 
 
 [The sim by this time has risen and illuminated the whole landscape, 
 which in the front and back ground is now all in motion. Giles 
 and George return to the mill, and opening various shutters, the 
 whole machinery of the mill is seen at ivork through all the nume- 
 rous openings. George perceived employed in one story. Giles in 
 another. The different locks are worked, the water rushes and falls, 
 and various barges work their way up the stream. 
 
 Mil. So. now the bustle of the clay begins, the sun has spread tho 
 signal, and yonder go the village workmen, who celebrate its rising 
 and its setting, opening and closing their employments with contented 
 minds and grateful hearts to him who sanctioned earthly labor with 
 his own. 
 
 [Sits down at door of house to table, with book and accounts. The 
 music runs into the symphony of Puebe's song icho enters, r. h. 
 
 SONG— Phebe. 
 
 How bright with pearl the eastern sky. 
 
 How glorious far and wide, 
 Yon lines of golden clouds that lie, 
 
 So peaceful side by side. 
 
 Green hill that shad'st the valley here. 
 
 Thou bear'st upon thy brow, 
 The only wealth to Peebe dear; 
 
 And all she'll ever know.
 
 TIIE MILLER S MAID. 7 
 
 [At the end the miller doses his accounts and accosts her. 
 
 Mil. Good morning, Phebe. [Com.es k.] Whither art trudging, 
 wench 1 
 
 Phebe. Over to the barn, sir, to seek for new laid eggs. Your 
 good dame complained last night, and eat no supper, therefore per- 
 haps ior breakfast 
 
 Mil. You thought she might be tempted to partake, if she beheld 
 them on the table. Good wench, just so thou hast tricked me oft to 
 eat when my late sickness shut my heart to food. Thou art a good 
 wench, and yet thee makest sad havoc Phebe. 
 
 Phebe. Havoc, sir ! Indeed I'm careful, very careful. Havoc, sir ! 
 in what ] 
 
 Mil. Why, in all our young men's hearts here, and I'm afraid, 
 Phebe, [taking her hand,] thine own lias not escaped scot free. Well, 
 well, I've done, and yet 'tis fit I talk with thee — not now, but soon. 
 There get thee gone — but harkce, keep thine eyes off the mill, or I 
 rlmll get no work done there, [.is she passes the mill George salutes 
 her. J Hot thee! mind thy work do. [Throwing his hat at George.] 
 Oh, this love — this love, it's a main foe to business. [Hurrying music. 
 Dame enters from the house and crosses the stage.] Why, how now, 
 Dame! thee look'st angry sure, and why this haste? 
 
 Unite. Angry, forsooth! look there, [Pointing to one shutter in the 
 mi I Sjf ill closed,} neither his eves or the shutters opened yet. 
 
 Mil. Whose ! 
 
 Dame. Matty's. Aye, thou'st an idle graceless varlet in that lad. 
 
 Mil. Lazy, I fear. But who knows, 'tis scarcely three days since 
 I took the boy from the village workhouse and the parish school, 
 where having but newly learnt to read, (and the only one of his kin 
 that ever did) he now in pride do give his mind to nought but books. 
 
 Dame. And what books 1 Why, children's histories and (airy tales, 
 which all go down for truth. Aye, aye, books in their way be well 
 enough, but if we read not the right sort, they oft do more harm than 
 good 1 fear. 
 
 Mil. That's like enough to be the case here, Dame, for as he were 
 rower told what books were best, he reads none but such as pleases 
 h.m : and so proud that he can read. They have half turned his brain, 
 1 /ear already. 
 
 Dame. Poor simpleton ! and he's not a grain to spare. But I have 
 spoilt his studies for the time to come. 
 
 Mil. Why, what hast done 1 no mischief. 
 
 Dame. Nnjmlv thrown his hoard of books into the fire. 
 
 Mil. What did'st that for, Darnel 
 
 Dame. To teach him he must earn his bread by labor ere he cats it. 
 T >o many I fear, with too little learning and less of sense do waste 
 their time iu reading or in writing books which were far better spent 
 it. honest industry. 
 
 Mil. Well, but thou didn'st burn them alii 
 
 Dame All. Peter Wilkins, Seven Champions, Friar Bacon, Fair 
 1 raamond, Robinson Crusoe, aud half a hundred more.
 
 8 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Mil. Come, thee should have left him one or so. 
 
 Dame. I verily believe the varlet stole one from the flames. But 
 where ishel never at his work. [Calling.] Giles! Giles! step thee, 
 and ope young Matty's window there. [Giles going by the outside 
 railing of the 'mill, forces a shutter nearly at the top, when Matty is 
 seen seated upon some sacks, l. u., so deeply intent on his book, that he 
 is roused by nothing passing around him. The remains of a candle 
 burning on another sack as though he had been up all night.] There! 
 there! husband, dost see 1 Grant me patience, all might have been 
 burnt in their beds. Let me come near, I'll rouse the varlet. 
 
 [Music. — Exit into mill, z. h. 
 
 3Id. Well, well, Dame ; I shall leave thee to manage the scholar, I 
 must look after the mill, else between love and learning the grist may 
 grind itself I fear. 
 
 [The dame arrives at Matty's side before he is apprised of her intent, 
 and with one bloiv knocks him off the sack — he instantly scrambles 
 tip his book and escapes through the shutter, where he is enabled to 
 keep his mistress at bay till she retires — he scrambles down the out- 
 side of the mill and comes to the front of the stage, where she fol- 
 lows him. 
 
 Dame. Give it me — give me that book, I say. How came you by 
 it, sirrah 1 
 
 Mat. Saved it from fire and brimstone, mistress, j'our fury and the 
 kitchen flames, where all my valued library was destroyed. 
 
 Dame. Library, indeed! But what is it you have saved 1 
 
 Mat. [Earnestly.] By the greatest mercy, Philip Squall. 
 
 Dame. I'll make thee squall, varlet, and thou waste's thy time read- 
 ing such nonsense. 
 
 Mat. Nonsense ! Why, mistress, it's all true, it names the very 
 place he lived in. An unknown island. Wonderful man ! he kept 
 
 Dame. He would'st have kept thee. 
 
 Mat. Would'st he indeed ! Why he kept a monkey who made his 
 beds, drank his wine and did all his work, so that he had nothing to 
 do. Wonderful man ! Look here, mistress, here's his picture. [Shoivs 
 frontispiece.] I scrambled it out of the fire just as his legs were burnt 
 oil', but I saved his bare body and his bear-skin breeches. Look, 
 mistress. 
 
 Dame. [Stealing behind and seizing it.] And look, master, for it's 
 the last you'il see of it. 
 
 Mat. [Earnestly and half in tears.] Why, mistress, thou wouldn'st 
 now — now thou wouldn'st burn that too 1 
 
 Dame. Every leaf. 
 
 Mat. [In horror.] What a maker of martyrs ! why, mistress, what 
 can you possibly expect 1 Twas but yesterday you put Christendom 
 in flames, and burnt its seven champions ! ram d the red-hot poker 
 through Peter Wilkins ! fried eggs with Friar Bacon ! frizzled Fair 
 Rosamond! and now, [bursting into tears,] inflammable cruelty! 
 you'd boil the pot with Phillip Squall. Yes, every bit of him will go 
 now ! body and breeches ! wonderful man ! wicked woman !
 
 THE MILLER S MAID. V 
 
 Dame. Mark me sirrah! But no — I'll first try kindness with thee ; 
 be a good lad. Come, read and welcome, when tliy work is done ; and 
 to encourage thee, I'll buy thee books that shall improve thy mind. 
 Nay, if thou'll promise to be diligent I'll not burn this, and it shall be 
 thine again after a good day's work. [He stretches out his hand fur it. 
 
 [Exit Dame into cottage, r. h. 
 
 Mat. Ah! I should be sorry to make such a good day's work, mis- 
 tress, as you did with my library. Poor ignorant woman! calls read- 
 ing wasting time. How often have I heard schoolmaster say — "Read 
 ancient history," and what's more ancient than the history of Philip 
 Squall ? It's so long since he died, that nobody can say whether he 
 lived at all. It's always the case, masters and mistresses don't like 
 their servants to know more than they do themselves. Ah ! merit, 
 merit. One book I read says that merit gets over all difficulties. How 
 shall I get over mine ? I have it ! a great thought ! a proof of merit ! 
 my books are gone, I can't read history, I'll invent ! I'll write one ! 
 I forgot; I ean't write, another difficulty. How will merit get over 
 that? 
 
 Enter George with a letter from mill, l. h. 1st e. 
 
 Geo. Now to get this letter conveyed to Phebe. Ha ! Matty, here ! 
 no one will suspect him. Matty, my good lad, can I trust you? 
 
 Mat. With any thing, with every thing, as Philip Squall did the 
 monkey. 
 
 Geo. You have not been long at the mill, but you know our miller's 
 maid — Phebe the lair. 
 
 Mat. As Fair Rosamond. Oh, what a creature! 
 
 Geo. Isn't she? 
 
 Mat. Oh, how I loved her once ! 
 
 Geo. You loved, indeed ! how dare Phe Who did you say you 
 
 loved ? 
 
 Mat. Why, Fair Rosamond. Ah ! many a night I've laid awake 
 and cried about her, and should to this day, if 1 had not happened to 
 read about Jane Shore. 
 
 Geo. And she rivalled Fair Rosamond in your good graces, eh ? 
 
 Mat. Bless you, then I didn't know which I liked best. Which do 
 you think was prettiest ! 
 
 Geo. Indeed I cannot tell. 
 
 Mat. No ! Do read ancient history. Why, Fair Rosamond. Ah, 
 poor soul ! my heart aches when I think of her, she was used almost 
 as bad as mistress served her t'other day. Queen Elinor pisoned, Mis- 
 tress burnt her ; burn me if I don't christen mistress, Queen Elinor, 
 for her cruelty. Poor Rosamond ! wonderful woman! 
 
 Geo. Aye, and you are a wonderful lad. 
 
 Mat. Yes, I've made up my mind to that. 
 
 Geo. Now listen to me one moment, this letter which I have just 
 written 
 
 Mat. Ah, you can write. What a pity ! [Siahina 
 
 Geo. What? I »—» 
 
 Mat. That I can't. Oh, if I could ! if I could.
 
 10 TOE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Geo. Nay, if it will so materially serve you, and you will deliver 
 this safe for me, I'm sure I'll write any thing for you, you wish. 
 
 Mat. Will you 1 now I see difficulties are nothing to merit — well 
 then, I'll invent and you shall write. 
 
 Geo. What? 
 
 Mat. Histories. 
 
 Geo. Nonsense. 
 
 Mat. Non Get another currier. 
 
 [Indignantly returning the letter, and going up stage. 
 
 Geo. [Aside.] 1 must humor him. Well, well, I'll write any thing 
 you wish. 
 
 Mat. Aye, it he easy enough to write any thing, hut then to invent. 
 Ah ! that requires a head. Now, shall it be a history or a fairy talc ? 
 I've head enough for both. Yes, yes, I think I have a head ; grant 
 me fortune, but a tale. A striking ! horrid ! agonising ! heart-rend- 
 ing 1 Oh, grant me one request ! an interesting tale. [Exit, r. h. 
 
 Geo. Simpleton! But he will be the least suspected, and I hope will 
 find means to deliver my letter unknown to Giles, whose jealousy 
 breaks out into ferocity. But now he left the mill and meditates, I 
 fear, some plan inimical to Phebe's happiness And then the squire, 
 there too I am alarmed. Ah ! this love, it sees so many obstacles to 
 happiness, and where the heart of a worthy girl is its object. Perhaps 
 it's right it should be so, for the more difficulty we have in gaining, 
 the more highly we are apt to estimate its virtues when in possession 
 of it. [Exit, l. h. 
 
 SCENE II. — Copse — rustic pathway, terminated by a gate — distant 
 view of the mill — brook, §~c. 
 
 Enter Gamekeeper, r. h. 
 
 Game. No game comes amiss to my master, the squire. Women 
 are as welcome as woodcocks, though, thank heaven ! not so plentiful, 
 for as I have the care of both, and find the girls most difficult to catch 
 I don't care how seldom they start in view. Now, however, nothing 
 will serve him but the miller's maid. I've laid a plan ; she has two 
 lovers at the mill. Giles, the most jealous, must be persuaded, to run 
 away with her. On the road, my master intercepts and gets her from 
 him. Good ! Giles still has the blame, my master the girl. That's 
 what I call plotting like a statesman. But here she comes, I'll (alk 
 to her a little myself, I shall then be able to judge whether she's 
 worth the trouble she's giving us. [ Gamekeeper retires. 
 
 Enter Phebe, l. h. 
 
 SONG— Phebe. 
 
 What was it roused my soul to love, 
 What made the simple brook so dear 
 
 It glided like the weary dove ; 
 
 And never brook seem'd half so clear
 
 THE UnLERS MAID. 11 
 
 There faint beneath the fervid sun, 
 
 I gazed in ruminating mood, 
 For who can see the current run, 
 
 And snatch no feast of mental food. 
 
 Cool passed the current at my feet. 
 
 Its shelving brink for rest was made, 
 But every charm is incomplete, 
 
 Whene'er it lacks another's shade. 
 
 Game. [Coming forward, n. n.] Very pretty ! oh, the voice will do 
 for us, and so will the person ; but perhaps the girl's a fool after all. 
 I'll try her sense. How d'ye do my dear! Come, come, stay where 
 you are, I'm your friend. 
 
 Phebe. If you are, sir, you'll suffer me to pass. 
 
 Game. Shan't go till you have heard me. 
 
 Phebe. Sir, I have other employment now, than listening to folly. 
 
 Game. Aye, aye, but none so gratifying, girl as hearing your own 
 praise. 
 
 Phebe. Yes, sir — that of having deserved it Leave me. 
 
 [Crosses him, R. 
 
 Game. Upon my word the girl has sense, too much for my master, 
 'twould be thrown away upon him, I shall reserve her for myself. 
 
 [Exit, L. H. 
 Phebe is going on the other side and meets Hatty, r. h., who is must 
 consequentially wrapt up in his oxen cogitations. 
 
 Mat. Once on a time there was a king— no — a prince — no, a giant; 
 no — well, how very surprising that I should be so stupid this morn- 
 ing. Well for the life of it, my head can't hit upon a tale — oh, for 
 an object ! [Striking his head.] Critical moment! There was a king 
 who set out 
 
 Phebe. Hey day ! Where are you going, Matty 1 
 
 Mat. On a journey to the Black mountains. f Nat hearing her. 
 
 Phebe. And pray what may you be going to do there? 
 
 Mat. [Still absorbed.] To combat with a giant with three heads. 
 
 Phebe. [Aside.] Poor lad, if you had one with any sense ill it, it 
 would be better for you. Well, Matty, and what will you do next'* 
 
 Mat. Keep a princess. 
 
 Phebe. Indeed ! and what will you do with her] 
 
 Mat. Treat her cruelly — in 
 
 Phebe. [Pointing to letter.] Tray, what's that you have in your 
 hand 7 
 
 Mat. A brazen castle with forty eaics. 
 
 Phebe. Why, Matty ! He doesn't hear me. Matty, i say. 
 
 {■fogging him. 
 
 Mat. Heigho ! How d'ye do 1 Critical moment. I'm composing 
 Great ! Sublime ! — don't bother. 
 
 Phebe. Nonsense. Who's that letter for, I say 7 
 
 Mat Letter ! Oh, now I remember. Why it's for you.
 
 12 THE MILLER'S JIArD. 
 
 Phebe. And pray wlio docs it come from 1 
 
 Mat. Mum ! a mystery. 
 
 Phebe. Then as I don't deal in them, I shall not take it. From Giles, 
 I suppose ; or, probably, from the stranger who was here just now, 
 either may have suborned this simpleton. And pray, master Matty, 
 have you no better work you could employ yourself upon 1 
 
 Mat. Work! oh, such alone ! I'm about it now. Wonderful work .' 
 But then I want a proper object for my talons to fix upon. 
 
 Phebe. That won't be your mistress's case, the moment she gets 
 sight of you, 1 fancy. 
 
 Mat. Don't tease me about Queen Eleanor, but take the letter. 
 
 Phebe. Indeed I shall not. 
 
 Mai. No ! AVhy it comes from 
 
 Phebe. 1 don't want to hear, Nor wdl I take mysterious letter-} 
 from any one, unless to deliver to your master, that he may know bow 
 you are employed. 
 
 Mat. lie know how I am employed ! nobody knows ! I don't know 
 myself. But come, my time's too precious to waste on you. I want 
 a horrid object. Will you take this letter ] 
 
 Phebe. No, I positively will not. 
 
 Mat. No ] then all my study's thrown away. He was only to write 
 for me in case she took the letter. Ah, genius ! you may hide your 
 head, fur you've lost your tale. Yes, George will never write it now. 
 
 Phebe. George ! Did — did— George write it 1 Did George send that 
 letter, Matty 1 I think I will take it. 
 
 Mat. Yes, I know you will take it, and give it to your master you 
 said. No, I shall destroy it, because George said it was of consequence 
 
 Phebe. How provoking ! but there is but one way of obtaining it 
 "Well, Matty, since you will not give me it, I shall keep to myself the 
 two histories and fairy tales I meant to have purchased for you at 
 
 Mat. Purchase history ! phoo ! I can make 'em. I'm making cne 
 now, that George is to write for me. 
 
 Phebe. On condition you delivered this letter. "Well, give it me, and 
 when he writes one, I promise you to write another. 
 
 Mat. Will you] What two histories 1 Take the letter ; but then 
 I shall want two tales. Let's see, one shall be long ! t'other short ! 
 one interesting ! t'other striking ! one horrid ! t'other captivating ! 
 What a head 1 must have. I'll set about one directly. 
 
 [Matty retires to compose, l. 
 
 Phebe. [After reading the letter.] Ah, George, thy warnings are 
 needless, and I hope thy fears; but I will store thy caution where I 
 
 have already deposited esteem, and ah ! yonder comes Giles, I will 
 
 avoid him, for as our inclinations do not meet, neither should we on- 
 counter ; for when once a female deems it proper to decline the ad- 
 dresses of a lover, to throw herself voluntarily in his way is but exci- 
 ting feelings 'tis a cruelty to protract. Exit, e. h. 
 
 Mat. [Comes forward.] Writing histories an't so easy as I thought. 
 Ah, the day when its finished ! there'll be a day ! Oh, happy the 
 man who first sees the end of his tale.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 13 
 
 SONG— Matty. 
 Written by W. Arnold, Esq. Tune — Young Lobski. 
 
 When little I went to old Whackemwell's school, 
 Who can'd me, and call'd me a dunce and a fool ; 
 But when I grew larger I alter'd things quite, 
 And soon learn'd to read though I never could write. 
 
 I became quite a dab at my spelling d'ye see. 
 But for pothooks and hangers they so bothered me ; 
 So says 1 as for pothooks I'll try one or two, 
 But as to the hangers I'm hang'd if I do. 
 
 Now my studies are ended, I'll try just for fun, 
 
 If I cannot turn author as others have done ; 
 
 For I'm told that to write what a book now contains, 
 
 Requires no wonderful portion of brains. 
 
 Some people now only write books I am told, 
 
 Not that books may be read, but that books may be sold ; 
 
 And as heads have so little to do with the sale, 
 
 I'm determined the world to surprise with my tale. 
 
 {Exit, B. H. 
 
 Re-enter Gamekeeper and Giles, l. h. 
 
 Game. There, you see she avoids you ; George is the lad that car- 
 ries her. 
 
 Giles. He shan't. 
 
 Game. You can only prevent it by the plan I advised. 
 
 Giles. What! run away with herl 
 
 Game. Aye, that's the way to gain her. 
 
 Giles. Her person — but I want her heart. 
 
 Game. Oh, that will soon follow, she will be glad to marry you to 
 save her reputation. Come, no dallying, it must be done to-night, she 
 may declare for George to-morrow, and the following day the old 
 folks give him the mill ; so by delay you arc choused out of your wifo 
 and fortune. 
 
 Giles. P«,ot the fortune ! 
 
 Game. But not the wench, eh! I see you love her, and she will 
 soon return it ; d'ye think she won't pardon a crime her own beauty 
 caused 1 but however, do as you will, two days will see her your wife 
 or his. 
 
 Giles Mine, mine! 
 
 Game. A little decision only makes her so. 
 
 Giles. [Firmly.] I'll do't. 
 
 Game. And here's my hand to assist you. 
 
 Giles. No, I thankee, it's a bad act. I've a reason for being a rogue, 
 bo I suppose has every body, and as I don't know yours, I'd better 
 trust to myself.
 
 14 tiie miller's maid. 
 
 Game. Oh, I've the same reason as yours, a petticoat, and want 
 the same assistance to carry it off that I offer you ; you know Susan 
 Fellows 1 
 
 Giles. You wouldn't carry her off? 
 
 Game. Why not 1 
 
 Giles. Why, because she's a poor blind father who she do support 
 by her work. 
 
 Game. Aye, but she's a pretty girl. 
 
 Giles. Come, come, thee musn't think on't. 
 
 Game. Think on't ! it's all settled — my mind's made up. 
 
 Giles. What ! to steal her from her father, and thee expect me to 
 assist 1 
 
 Game. Certainly. 
 
 Giles. I'd see thee hang'd, shot, drown'd first. 
 
 Game. Why, zounds ! an't I to assist thee 1 
 
 Giles. Don't then — don't. Thee shan't. It's a bad deed, and I'll do 
 it myself. I know its bad, but I love Phebe, and when its done I'll 
 marry her. Lovelier! die to make her happy. But thee — tell thee 
 what ; if thee attempt to rob the poor blind man of his only nurse — 
 his prop — his child ! bans; me, if I wouldn't seize thee by the throat, 
 and jump with thee into the mill-stream ; nor loose my gripe till one 
 or both were drowned. [Crosses to k.] So — there — I ha' told you my 
 mind ; so now do as thee lik'st. [Exit, r. ii. 
 
 Game. What a brute ! rustic prejudices ! living wholly in the coun- 
 try. Well, one of my schemes must be given up, either my girl or my 
 master's. I would very willingly give the squire the preference here, 
 but I see that by serving him I avenge him. Giles must be soothed — 
 I must appear to relent, for Phebe must be carried off and by him. 1 
 must assist in order not to lose sight of her, and when once in our 
 power, Giles may, if he pleases, return and throw himself into the mill- 
 stream ; but were I to accompany him, I fear it would be throwing a 
 damp on my spirits of enterprise for ever after. [Exit, l. h. 
 
 SCEXE III— The Miller's kitchen — a large table set oat for the dinner 
 of the workmen, who are seated around it — George and Giles on 
 either side, both apparently abstracted in thought — a smaller table, 
 at which are seated the Miller and his Wife — Phebe pensively 
 leaning on the Dame's chair. 
 
 Mil. There, thank heaven for a good meal ! and now get thee to 
 labor with merry grateful hearts, and so we'll meet again with hearty 
 appetites. 
 
 [All the work people bow. and retire, d. f. except Giles and George who 
 with Phebe appears lost to every thing around them. 
 
 Mil. Dame! [Rises and dratcs Dame forward.] I say Dame! 
 
 [Pointing aside to them.] More dumplings saved. 
 
 Dame. Alack, alack! poor things ! what can they live uponl 
 
 Mil. Love, Dame, love ; and since it makes folks too lazy to earn 
 
 their victuals, it be right it should take away all appetite to eat 'em.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 15 
 
 Dame. That can't last for ever. 
 
 Mil. What, love- ! It an't accused of that often, it don't stop with 
 the same folks long ; but it does a deal o'mischief in a short time. 
 
 Dame. Mischief, indeed! look at wench. Poor thing, my heart do 
 ache for her 
 
 Mil. Ah ! 'tis high time the girl were cured. I must be her doctor, 
 I see 
 
 Dame. Thee, cure a girl of love ! what do'st thee talk about 1 
 
 Mil. I tell thee, I'll cure her. I'll marry her. 
 
 Dame. Indeed thee won't. 
 
 Mil. Come, come, don't be jealous, dame. Phebe, bring thee hero 
 my great chair. [Phebe absorbed, brings the chair nearest to her.] 
 My great chair, I said — my arm-chair. [Phebe blushes and brings it.] 
 Now thee be quiet, dame. Phebe — I have sad complaints to make. 
 
 Phebe. Of me, sir ! in what have I offended 1 
 
 Geo. [Starting up.] Phebe, guilty, sir ! Of what 1 
 
 Mil. Oh ! thee need'nt be so forward, boy, to take her part, thee art 
 an accomplice with her, and Giles too, for what I know. One of thee 
 has stolen 
 
 GUes. } Stol *n. 
 
 Dame. Stolen 1 why I havn't missed 
 
 Mil. Nor I thy tongue. Dame, be quiet, or I'll send thee out of 
 court. I say one of thee have stolen 
 
 GUes. | What, sir] 
 
 Mil. All poor Phebe's spirits from ner. Her health — appetite — nay, 
 h*<irt is gone. Answer now — which is the thief? 
 
 Dame. [Going to her.] Look how the poor wench colors. Thee art 
 too rough with the girl. 
 
 Mil. And can't I be rough with the girls without thy notice. Dame, 
 thou wilt be meddling. Phebe, 'tis time this sickness should be cured. 
 Cosue, come, speak out boldly, girl, don't be ashamed to name an hon- 
 est man thy choice and make him happy. 
 
 Phebe. Spare me ! I beseech you. 
 
 Dame. Consider the poor girl's delicacy. 
 
 Mil. I do, dame, she's too delicate by half; she'll die with it ere 
 long. 
 
 Dame. It will not he thy case, I warrant. 
 
 Mil. Phebe, 'tis fit you should decide, and circumstances dos't 
 strongly press thee now. Come, come — well, and thee'll not, 1 must 
 e'en do it for thee. I'll find the way, I warrant me, to fix upon the man. 
 [Aside.] Come hither, lads. Giles, thee was first at the mill, and as 
 she must have known thee longest, why, I naturally conclude that 
 thee must be her choice. 
 
 Giles. Me ! what, I ! I master ! 
 
 Phebe. [Interrupting him hastily.] No — no— no — 'tis — 'tis — Oh, 
 Madam ! speak for me. [Throwing herself into her misiress's arms. 
 
 Dame. Gilbert ! Gilbert ! thee art mad.
 
 16 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Mil. "Why, what be the matter now 1 
 
 Dame. Matter ! thee hast decided wrong. 
 
 Mil. Oh, then George he the man after all. 
 
 Giles. [Aside.] Not while I live ! 
 
 Dame. Why, hasn't seen that some time 1 pshaw ! thou a judge of 
 love ! heaven help the man. Come, come, Phebe, it be all over now. 
 
 Geo. Btit will not Phebe by a word, confirm my happiness 1 
 
 Phebe. I am an orphan, George, beholden for all I now enjoy to 
 this worthy pair. Beholden not only for the means of existence, but 
 what is dearer to an honest mind — the precepts of religion and virtus. 
 
 Mil. There, now thee should'st be silent ; thou cans't speak 
 
 Phebe. And will be heard. In you I have beheld the example of 
 benevolence ! from you imbibed the stimulus to active industry ! en- 
 joyed all the blessings of a child ; and now, as would become your 
 daughter, in all that may concern my future welfare, submit myself 
 to your counsel and advice. 
 
 Mil. And thee shall have it, as thou wert indeed my own. Giles, 
 thou art an honest lad, as such we all respect thee; but, thou see'st 
 the wench's mind and — and — and — so thee can'st have her. 
 
 Giles. [Aside, musing.] Hum ! We don't know that yet. 
 
 Phebe. Giles, I ever shall esteem thee as my friend — nay brother. 
 As such, will you not give me your hand] 
 
 Giles. [After a pause.] There, there ! 
 
 Phebe. And George, will you not give it him ] 
 
 Giles. No — I — no. 
 
 Mil. What, man ! can'st refuse the wench 1 Why, should aught hap- 
 pen to break this match, thou bear'st her next good will, and things 
 be far from settled yet. 
 
 Giles. Dost mean that she would marry me, should any thing cross 
 the match with George 1 
 
 Mil. I do. We scarce know aught about him, yet, and when we do 
 perchance, may like him less. 
 
 Giles. Aye, but Phebe. 
 
 Mil. Come hither, girl. It rests with thee to make these rivals, 
 friends ! or keep them enemies. 
 
 Phebe. Does it, sir 1 Say how 1 
 
 Mil. By promising it, thou refuse the one to take the other. 
 
 Phebe. You are my father — speak for me. 
 
 Mil. I will; and in thy name do promise it: so now, Giles, give thy 
 hand, and join with us, lad, to bless our Phebe's husband, whoe'er he 
 be. [Aside to him.] Come, who knows yet what the chances may bo 
 for you. 
 
 Giles. I do, what they shall be. [Aside.] With all my heart I do. I 
 do bless Phebe's husband, whoe'er he be. 
 
 [Having pronounced this emphatically and with double meaning, he 
 2)asses with exultation to his scat. 
 
 Mil. And now, George, before that matters do proceed, 'tis fit that 
 thee and Phebe should know each other; there should be no disguise- 
 ment in the married state, where folks do look for happiness.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 17 
 
 Dame. Phebe, stand forth, my girl, and tell thy honest tale, such 
 as thou told us that night, — that dreadful night ! thou first sought 
 shelter here. Ah, I see thou dost remember it. 
 
 [Phebe with throbbing recollection, seizes, and jiresses the hands of 
 the Miller and his wife. 
 
 Phebe. Remember it! Oh, sir, the impression on the grateful heart 
 being ever newly writ, and newly read, indents so deep a mould, tiiat 
 nought but death can wipe the tablet clear. 
 
 Mil. Come, come, I'll help thee. Listen, George. This girl, though 
 by affection ours, and from that affection, having borne our name, is 
 not by tie of kindred. Five years before we met, I first beheld her — 
 'twas on one summer's eve — and near the hour of rest, a gathering 
 stor ja approached our humble roof, threatening the country round ; 
 nor Dame nor I could think of rest, but anxious sat and listened. 
 
 Dame. [With painful recollection.] Alack! alack, the night ! 
 
 Mil. I never shall forget it, dame : nor thee — rooted in thy elbow 
 chair, with eyes fixed on the hearth ; thy thoughts did wander to 
 those without a roof. Ah ! if ever thy husband read thy honest heart 
 aright, 'twas then. 
 
 Dame. And if e'er thine beat in sympathy, 'twas then. I took thy 
 hand, and looked upon thy face. Thee took thy pipe, thou know'st, 
 and sought to hide it in the smoke. A sigh did blow it off; and then — 
 aye, then ! I saw the tear of sympathy drop ! drop! from the steadfast 
 uplift eye of prayer. [Pause.] The storm beat louder still ! we heard, 
 or thought we heard, the scream of some poor child ! Then thee dashed 
 thy pipe upon the ground, and listed the sound again! it came again, 
 and nearer on our hearing ! As it approached, thee dropp'd upon thy 
 knee, and begged of heaven to guide the sufferer to our door. 
 
 Phehe. It did ! it did ! for that poor child was I ! my feeble feet 
 essayed thy threshold! my fainting voice asked mercy at thy door ! 
 which opened at the sound, for mercy dwelt within, and ever with a 
 willing hand had lift the latch to misery. 
 
 Geo. But, Phebe, say what could have driven thee forth on such a 
 night, alone, and so 
 
 J'lubc. George, the first deep trace my memory wears, pictures a 
 mother's death. [George appears moved, as by a sudden recollection.] 
 My brother and myself, as orphans, felt her loss ; and both had cause, 
 for with her, went our only tie of earthly kindred. Our father, (as I 
 have heard,) a soldier, had long since died abroad. Ah ! we lingered 
 hand in hand about her grave, until the mould we knelt on banked 
 up her humble monument. With swollen eyes and hands still locked 
 in each other's hold, we sought in vain our home. 'Twas sold ! none 
 would receive us — until with sobbing hearts we sought a shelter in 
 the parish workhouse. 
 
 Geo. [Aside.] The workhouse too! 'tis strange. 
 
 Phebe. Soon as my strength allowed it, I was sent to service; when 
 my mistress — but I will not dwell upon her cruelty — yet, still 1 strove 
 to please, but all in vain; and on the morning of that fearful night, 
 (having unknowingly offended) I received a punishment too severe
 
 18 the miller's maid. 
 
 even for the broken spirit of a parish child to bear. Unknown to all 
 I fieri — fled here, unto the threshold of humanity, from whence the 
 orphan's orisons shall never cease to rise for daily blessings on her 
 benefactors, 
 
 Mil They have been heard, my child ; for ever since I became the 
 orphan's friend, heaven has befriended me. 
 
 Geo. [Aside.] Yes, every circumstance accords. Oh ! should it 
 be ! But your brother, Phebe 1 
 
 Phebe. Though elder by a year than me, unable to protect, he left 
 me in the parish house, and went to sea. 
 
 Mil. [As if from sudden thought.] To sea! thou wert but just re- 
 turned from sea, when I did meet thee, George. 
 
 Geo. Not long escaped its fury, as you overtook me retrrning from 
 a fruitless search after an early home and only, much loved sister, 
 sir, who went to service, and who ran away. The only tidings I 
 could learn of my poor Phebe. 
 
 Mil. Phebe ! Did he say Phebe 1 [Aside, in breathless expectation. 
 
 Phebe. [Aside.] Ha! no, no, no. Yet I feel sick at heart. 
 
 Dame. Thou had'st a sister named Phebe 1 [To George. 
 
 Mil. And you a brother, named George 1 
 
 [To Phebe, both addressing them hastily at the same time. 
 
 Phebe. Yes, yes ! but his mother did'nt die when he was young — 
 they did not send him to the parish workhouse 1 
 
 Geo. They did ! they did ! and o'er this arm did Phebe's little form 
 hang lifeless o'er her mother's grave. 
 
 Phebe. Then there let it hang again. But, no — no — [Stopping in 
 breathless agitation.] You — you — don't mean Phebe 1 — not Phebe ? 
 Speak ! — not Phebe [both together.] Granger 1 
 
 [Both pause transfixed. 
 
 Phebe. Oh, God! my brother! 
 
 Geo. ! Tis she ! 'tis my sister ! 
 
 [J.* tliey attempt to reach others each arms, Giles rushes down between 
 them, exclaiming exultingly. 
 
 Giles. Brother and sister! Then she is mine indeed. My wife! 
 my wife ! 
 
 [Music. — Catches her in his arms as she is falling, before she can 
 reach George. 
 
 [The Pirst Act closes on the group, Pliebe remaining senseless in the 
 arms of the exulting Giles — George hanging over her in speechless 
 agony. The Miller and his wife lost in admiration, with eyes and 
 hands vplifi to Providence, on either side, fill up the picture. 
 
 EXD OF ACT I.
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 19 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A rural landscape, with a projecting pathway — Old 
 Granger sings withotii, r. h. , and then enters, dressed as an old 
 soldier — he sings as he looks about him, then comes down pathway 
 to front of stage. 
 
 Gran. Life's like a sea in constant motion. 
 
 Sometimes nigh, and sometimes low; 
 Where every one must brave the ocean, 
 Whatsoever winds may blow. 
 
 Ah, life's a sea of trouble! at least it is to me. I'm always singing, 
 because I'm always sad. Well, 'tis better than swearing — a man must 
 vent his humor some way or other. 
 
 There was a jovial beggar, 
 
 He had a wooden leg ; 
 Time, from his cradle, 
 
 Had forced him to beg. 
 And a begging we will go. 
 
 Aye, faith ! and so must I. Ileigho ! sad work, sad work ! to come 
 home and find wife dead — children gone! and I well, well, think- 
 ing won't make it better. 
 
 A soldier and a sailor, 
 A tinker and a tailor. 
 
 Oh, if I sing a merry song, I know I'm getting sad ; and after all, why 
 should I be sad? I've only three reasons for it — I've lost my wife — 
 lost my children — lost myself! — no, no, only part of myself ; but the.), 
 I've lost the means to support the other part. Damn it, I'm getting 
 sad again. 
 
 The soldier disbanded, and forc"d for to beg, 
 May talk of his wounds and sufferings hard; 
 
 Yet show but his scars and his bald wooden leg, 
 He's sure of his country's love and regard. 
 
 [Sits down on a bank, l. n., whistling and humming to himself. 
 
 Enter Matty, r. u.,much elated. 
 
 Mat. I've got it ! I've got it ! I've got it ! I've got a tale — a won- 
 derful tale! Let file seo! George and Phcbe's mother died — went to 
 workhouse : we'll leave out the workhouse — went to service— went to 
 sea — stormy night— thunder and lightning. Striking tale ! hired by 
 miller — both at mill — fall in love. Sympathetic tale ! fJoing to be 
 married — and find out they are brother and sister. Wonderful talc! 
 I'll print it; but lirst I must write it. Oh, if 1 hadn't left oil' writing 
 before I came to my alphabet, I could have done it myself, and Georgo 
 now would hardly write his own tale. What must I do 1 
 
 Gran. Hallo, my lad ! where about am I 1
 
 20 THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 Mat. Who's that 1 Pho' ! don't tease me now. [Musing.] 
 
 Gran. Whereabouts am 1 1 — what part of the country 'I 
 
 Mat. Why, this part. Why, bless me, an old soldier come from tho 
 wars. Hey, master! could'st tell me some fine tales about battles, I 
 warrant. 
 
 Gran. Oh, that I could, indeed 
 
 Mat. Ah, but what's your tale to mine 1 — no compairson in the beau- 
 ty of the thing. All true — of my own invention. Can you write? 
 
 Gran. [Bluffly.] Yes. 
 
 Mat. Then I'll make your fortune. 
 
 Gran. You 1 [Contemptuously. 
 
 Mai. Aye, you may sneer. Bless you, genius is used to deaf ears 
 and turn up noses. 
 
 Gran. That's true. But how are you to make my fortune 1 
 
 Mat. I'll invent stories, and you shall write them. 
 
 Gran. Pshaw ! I'll father none of your lies. 
 
 Mat. Lies ! bless you, my story's a true one. 
 
 Gran. Of your own inventing. 
 
 A soldier, a sailor, 
 A tinker, a tailor. 
 
 Mat. AVhat a brute ! but I'll try the effect of my story on him, if it 
 interests him, it can't fail on any body else, and then I'll print it as 
 my own. I say, don't go, I'm going to astonish you. I shall make 
 
 the hair stand an end on your head. Once on a time Listen ! there 
 
 was an old man — [neither of them attend to each other,] — no, no, no, — 
 old woman, had a son and daughter. 
 
 Gran. ' A cobbler there was, and he lived in a stall, 
 
 Which served him for parlor, and kitchen, and hall.' 
 
 Mat. Aye, it was an old woman, for the old man was gone away 
 and killed for a soldier. 
 
 Gran. ' No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate, 
 No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate. 
 
 Derry down.' 
 
 Mat. The old woman died when thej were very young. 
 Gran. ' But love, the disturber of high and of low.' 
 Mat. And poor Phebe and George went to the workhouse. 
 Gran. [Stojyping short in his song.] Hey '. Phebe and George ! 
 
 [Looks earnestly at Matty, who with the utmost simplicity, appears tc 
 he Jinishing the story out of his own head — he feels vexed that he 
 has stepped to listen to him, and proceeds tcith his ditty. 
 
 Gran. ■ That shoots at she peasant as well as the beau.' 
 
 Mat. George went to sea, and Phebe to service ; after some years 
 
 miraculously meet, and Phebe's eyes 
 
 Gran. ' Shot the poor cobbler right through the heart.' 
 
 Mat. Her eyes did for George, and they were to be married. I say 
 
 take care of your lame leg, — it struck me here. 
 
 Gran. ' I wish it bad struck some more ignorant part. 
 
 Derry down,'
 
 THE MILLER'S MAID. 21 
 
 Mat. Well, coming to be married — Parson asks their names, and it 
 turns out that George Granger 
 
 Gran. What! 
 
 Mat. Was to he married to Phebe Granger. 
 
 Gran. [In a hurried and wild mariner.] George Granger ! — Phebe 
 Granger ! 
 
 Mat. Brother and sister. Wasn't it surprising! Bless me, why he's 
 struck like a statty. Oh, I say, what you find it interesting to you 1 
 
 Gran. I do, indeed — astonishing ! 
 
 Mat. Well, I'm sure, it's a wonder you confess it, after interrupting 
 me in the impolite way you did, by singing during my composition. 
 
 Gran. [Much agitated.] Your composition — impossible ! it can- 
 not be. 
 
 Mat. There, there — nobody will give me credit for my tale, till they 
 begin to feel the effects of it ; but after this, I think it a'nt to be with- 
 stood with impunity. 
 
 Gran. After so long a search, thus to hear of them — and in such a 
 manner, as almost still to disbelieve my senses. Oh, if not true, I shall 
 indeed go mad. 
 
 Mat. Well, if my first story has such astonishing effects, I don't 
 know what will become of people's senses if I write often : however, 
 now I'm satisfied I have a genius. Wonderful man ! I've a head — 
 I've a tale — I'm an author! [Exit, l. h. 
 
 Gran. Yes, yes, my heart tells me it is true, and I shall see my 
 children once again. Young man, lead me, I entreat you to them. A 
 father begs. [Turning around.] How — gone ! Surely what has passed 
 is not a dream 1 No, no, no ; and yet so strangely told ! My poor old 
 heart must surely wander 1 No it is true. Heaven defend my poor 
 weak brain — I know not what to think. Oh, gracious Power above ! 
 direct me to the spot where I shall find my children, or my ciave. 
 
 [Exit, l. u. 
 
 SCENE II.— A room at the Miller's. 
 
 Enter Phebe, l. h 
 
 Phebe. What can George mean 1 Though fostered beneath one roof, 
 yet not the children of the same parents. Oh, my brother, you havo 
 raised commotions here which it may be wrong to cherish, and yet 
 not right to check. Giles as a husband, I felt I could not love — as a 
 
 brother I can esteem him ; but George, as a brother, as a hus Let 
 
 me proceed no further; if true fortitude consists in bearing every 
 change of fortune with equanimity, and true happiness be the art of 
 considering for the best every occurrence of life, I will instruct my 
 heart this lesson, that it may regain its peace. 
 
 Enter Giles arid Dame, l. h. 
 
 Dame. But why so hasty, Giles 1 
 Giles. I have my reasons for it. 
 Dame. What reasons 1
 
 22 the miller's maid. 
 
 Giles. What "? why t'will set my mind at rest, that's one reason • 
 and with me a strong one. Besides 
 
 Dame. Well, there she be. Go and speak to her. 
 
 Giles. No — do thee, Dame; 'twill be better. 
 
 Dame. What shall I say 1 
 
 Giles. Why, I want to know whether she means to keep her word : 
 and as she can't have George, to marry me. 
 
 Dame. You are too hasty. Well, well, I'll see. Phebe, child, here 
 be Giles come to — to make you — no, he expects you — that is, he 
 hopes Speak, Giles ; what is it you hope for 1 ? 
 
 Giles. Why to be happy, to be sure. 
 
 Phebe. I hope you will, Giles. 
 
 Giles. Thankee ; and so will you, I hope ; and if you are, I know 
 I shall be. 
 
 Dame. So you will both, if you do but love each other. 
 
 Giles. I'm sure I do Phebe, if she loves me. 
 
 Phebe. As a brother, Giles, I hope I always shall. 
 
 Giles. No, no — you have one already. Love George as a brother, 
 me as your husband. 
 
 Phebe. Husband 1 — You? Giles, I will not dissemble with you; I 
 feel I never can 
 
 Giles. How ? dost mean to break thy word ? Both the miller and 
 his dame here, were witness to thy promise. 
 
 Phebe. Promise! Did 1 1 did I? [Flying to her mistress.] No, no, 
 no, you did not hear such promise : nor Giles will not, I am sure, in- 
 sist upon it. 
 
 Giles. Pardon me, Phebe ; but your fulfiling it be the only thing 
 in life to me worth living for. Indeed, I do expect it. 
 
 Phebe. What 1 if I — if I could not love you, Giles 1 
 
 Giles. Oh, but thou wilt in time ; so say at once — when wilt mar- 
 ry me. 
 
 Enter George, l. h., hastily. 
 
 Geo. Never ! 
 
 Giles. Tis false ! she will — she shall — in spite of thee. 
 
 Geo. Phebe, do you assent to this 1 
 
 Phebe. Oh, George, — my brother! [Throwing herself into his arms. 
 
 Geo. Nay, nay, Phebe, he shall not thus distress you. Giles, you 
 have had your answer — she cannot love, and will not marry you. 
 
 Giles. Dost thou hope to hinder her 1 Not though thou be'st her 
 brother, shalt thee make her break her promise — she's mine, my wife ! 
 
 Geo. How ] 
 
 Giles. As good — that is, if her word be worth the having: — as it 
 always were, till you seduced her to break it. 
 
 Geo. [Enraged and threatening.] Seduced ! 
 
 Giles. Aye, I care not for thy looks : and if the girl didn't hang upon 
 thy arm, I warrant thee should feel a heavier weight. 
 
 Geo. Go with thy mistress, Phebe. Good madam, take her hence. 
 
 Phebe. [Recovering herself.] No, no, no. George — Giles, wherefore
 
 the miller's maid. 23 
 
 will ye quarrel thus 1 let mo intrcat. Nay, then — do either of you 
 love me 1 [Firmly, 
 
 (riles. You know. r „ , 7 , ,, 
 
 Geo. Phcbc. [Both together 
 
 Phebe. Then heed me well. You may he both my friends — my 
 brothers — but the man who first strikes the blow of enmity, shall ne- 
 ver be my husband. 
 
 Enter Miller, r. h., and crosses to Phebe. 
 
 Mil. Well said, my girl. If the women do sometimes set the men a 
 quarrelling, they know how to make peace, I see. 
 
 Dame. Thy husband, child ! 'Tis Giles only can be that. 
 
 Mil. As far as we know yet ; but George has been telling mo, he 
 has strong reasons to believe he is not her brother. 
 
 Giles. Because he has stronger wishes to be her husband. Shame 
 upon him. 
 
 Mil. Giles, hear them before thee judgest : but as I would not listen 
 to them but in presence of you all, I now call upon him to produce 
 his proofs. [Crosses to George. 
 
 Geo. I must confess I have no living proofs that I am not what I 
 have been always called — her brother. 
 
 Phebe. No proofs 1 How George — no proofs % Then wherefore sus- 
 pect you were not 1 
 
 Giles. Oh, I suspect the reason, clear enough. 
 
 Mil. I hope not. Proceed, George. 
 
 Phebe. Do, I beseech you. 
 
 Geo. My suspicions rest upon a (lying mother's words. 
 
 Phebe. My mother's dying words 1 Oh, speak them, George. I was 
 too young to note them in my memory, tho' not to mark the wretched 
 change her death brought on us both. Speak — what were they 1 
 
 Geo. ' Do not separate the children at my death,' she cried, — ' they 
 are not both mine, but ' 
 
 Phebe. [In great agitation.} But what 1 but what 1 
 
 Geo. That word, Phebe, was my mother's last. No light, has since 
 my lapse of time, been thrown upon her meaning ; but yet, from this 
 I have a hope that thou art not my sister. 
 
 Mil. And nought but these words to rest on, to deny thy kindred 1 
 ami even thee so young, thee might mistake their import. 
 
 Dame. In truth, George, thy suspicions are but slender founded. 
 
 Giles, Aye, but his hopes be stroug. I tell thee, he would marry her. 
 
 Mil. I don't believe it. 
 
 (riles. He don't deny it. 
 
 Mil. What youal imply, he does — that he has started these objec- 
 tions for a base purpose. No, no, it be too shameful e'en to think upon. 
 Giles, thy jealousy has blinded thee ; but remember, I am free from 
 passion, and can see clearer. Nay, I hope I shall never be so far 
 biass'd by it, as to impute the worst motives to a fellow creature's 
 conduct, till I have full proof they are the true ones. 
 
 Dame. Right, Gilbert — light ! and I have a hope, that Providence 
 will still point out a way to lead us to the truth.
 
 24 tub miller's maid. 
 
 Phebe. It will, it will. Yes, yea, it shall be so my good friends, — 
 as brother and sister — (/or till we have stronger proofs against the tio 
 we will be known as such.) With your permission we will seek our 
 native village, where surely some one will remember us. Some one 
 still exists who can recall ourselves and parents to their recollection, 
 and declare our birth. Oh, yes, I feel assured there does ; I feel con- 
 vinced that Providence — which in our infant orphan state befriended 
 us, and when asunder, protected and restored us to each other — will 
 not now forsake, if but by honest and by patient means we seek the 
 road to happiness. 
 
 Geo. It shall be so — if we have, sir, your leave ; nor will I rest un- 
 til our errand be accomplished. 
 
 Mil. Children, we shall grieve to part with ye — but, in truth, I see 
 no other way ; and Dame and I will never have it said we set our own 
 desires 'twixt thee and happiness. 
 
 Giles. What, wilt suffer them to go together 1 
 
 Mil. Certainly, 'tis necessary to But what ails thee ! 
 
 Giles. Nothing particular; only I were going to say that don't 
 
 you see that this be only a but I won't say what, you'll only call it 
 
 jealousy again. 
 
 Mil. [Aside.] Likely! What do'st mean 1 speak out. 
 
 Giles. I mean, if he once gets away, they wont come back again. 
 
 Mil. Then sin and shame go with them. But no, they dare not — 
 the shame is thine for thinking so. 
 
 Geo. We must set forth this instant — I cannot rest nor live in this 
 anxiety. 
 
 Mil. True, the sooner ended will be the best for all — therefore to- 
 night ye shall set forth. 
 
 Giles. [Aside.] To-night 1 Ha ! upon the road I'll do't— I'll do't. 
 
 [Rushing out, r>. F. 
 
 Dame. Come, Phebe, thee and I must have some chat before thee 
 goest, and thou wilt list, I know, unto a friend's advice. 
 
 Phebe. As unto a parent's ; and be the result of our journey what 
 it may, before you all I pledge myself, if I return not sister, I will not 
 wife. You, sir, have a father's right in the disposal of my hand, it 
 shall never be given but in unison with your wishes. 
 
 [Exit Phebe and Dame, b. h. 
 
 Mil. Bless thee ! bless thee ! Oh, George — this parting with thee 
 and that wench, I feel, deprives me of half my existence. Again I 
 become childless — pshaw ! and a child too myself I find. [ Wiping his 
 eyes.] But it must be so — thy happiness demands that we should sep- 
 arate for a time. I will furnish thy journey for thee ; and in busying 
 myself in preparations for thy welfare, I shall best provide my own. 
 Be that thy precept, lad, through life; and learn that Providence, 
 who do lead by various ways to happiness, do make the power of be- 
 stowing it on our fellow creatures, the supremest point of its enjoy- 
 ment to ourselves. Exit with George, t>. F.
 
 THE miller's maid. 26 
 
 SCENE III. — A rural landscape. 
 
 Enter Matty, l. h. 
 
 Mat. Bless me ! I can't get any body to write this history for me. 
 What a pity it should be lost ! — wonderful the effect it had upon that 
 old soldier. Hey, what's that 1 Why, lauk, if there an't something 
 red rolling about under that hedge. Well, I declare, if it an't him ! 
 If he can be kept from fainting away at all the interesting parts, he 
 shall write the whole tale for me. Poor soul ! how he lies moaning 
 and groaning. There! now he's singing. Well, my tale must cer- 
 tainly be a gift. 
 
 Enter Old Granger, r. h. 
 
 Gran. This lad's strange story runs so wildly in my head, that I al- 
 most doubt wether my imagination, which is always brooding over 
 my children's fate, has not deceived me in every dream. I'll to tho 
 hamlet, and study every female face for a semblance to Phebe's mo- 
 ther. Ha ! the youth again ! then 'twas no dream, 'twas real ! unless, 
 indeed, I am again deceived by unsubstantial vision. Of that I'll soon 
 be satisfied. 
 
 [Comes behind Matty, and grasps him firmly by the arm — he turns 
 around alarmed. 
 
 Mat. What 1 Bless me ! what's that for 1 Dear me, if it isn't the 
 madman. Lord ! how he looks. 
 
 Gran. [Still grasping him.] No, no, 'twas not a dream. 
 
 Mat. Dream ! bless you, you arc wido awake, for you stare most 
 horribly. 
 
 Gran. I grasp a substantial form ! 
 
 Mat. Yes, you do, and a most substantial grasp you keep. — Ho 
 frightens me out of my wits ! 
 
 Gran. Harkee ! not half an hour since, on this spot, you met mo 
 here to-day before. 
 
 Mat. Oh, you remember that interview 1 Poor soul ! 
 
 Gran. Remember it! is has almost driven me mad. 
 
 Mat. You'd say quite if you were in your senses. 
 
 Gran. You told me then 
 
 Mat. What, you want to hear my tale again 1 
 
 Gran. No, but tell me — was it true 1 
 
 Mat. Every word — and all of my own invention. 
 
 Gran. Was it then mere invention "? 
 
 Mat. Mere invention ! could you invent such a one"? [Contemptu- 
 ously.] Mere invention indeed ! I'm an author. 
 
 Gran. Answer me this moment. Was it truth or fiction 1 
 
 Mat. [Aside.] Mustn't say it's true, or I shall lose the credit of it. 
 Bless you ! all my own putting together. But it might have been the 
 truth, you know 1 
 
 Gran. It might — I feel it might. 
 
 Mat, And very natural — wasn't it 1
 
 28 the miller's maid. 
 
 Gran. Very, very. 
 
 Mat. Oh, that's just like me, — I'm very natural myself. I'm a won- 
 derful man ! 
 
 Gran. So much so, that I must doubt your skill to put this tale to- 
 gether without some portion of it drawn from truth. 
 
 Mat. Doubt me, do you 1 Bless you, you don't know my invention. 
 I've just finished it in my own mind; and seeing you have helped me 
 to a good thought Will you hear the finish 1 
 
 Gran. Willingly. 
 
 Mat. Stand further off then, and compose yourself don't be agi- 
 tated. 
 
 Gran. 'Sdeath and fury ! trifie no longer with my feelings, or I'll 
 level you and your invention fiat with the ground you sprung from. 
 
 Mat. Bless me ! he foams at the mouth already. Well, well, I'll go 
 on — but first, where did I leave off? — oh, at the marriage, — where 
 Phebe and George turn out to be brother and sister. 
 
 Gran. [Almost breaifiless.] Arc they married 1 
 
 Mat. [ Very calmly.] Why, I'm considering whether I shall marry 
 them or not, till 
 
 Graii. Damnation ! Are they married or not 1 
 
 Mat. Now really you'll spoil the whole story, if you don't restrain 
 your feelings a little. I pity you, for I know you must be agitated — 
 but contain yourself 
 
 Gran. I can't, a moment longer, unless you instantly proceed. 
 
 Mat. Well, then, we'll say they are married ; it will make the thing 
 appear more horrid, you know. 
 
 Gran. By all that's sacred, if I don't 
 
 Mat. Bless me, he's raving ! Well, well, I'll make a finish, but I 
 must prepare you for a striking scene. 
 
 Gran. [Grasping his cane.] Prepare yourself for one. 
 
 Mat. After they are married and living happy, the old father shall 
 just then come home from the wars 
 
 Gran. Shall he 1 [Aside] Humph ! many a true word spoken in jest. 
 
 Mat. Well, now mark — now you'll be affected — now you'll be deeply 
 agitated. He comes home, and discovers to them they are brother 
 and sister ! The old man goes mad — the husband hangs himself — the 
 wife strangles her child, and throws herself in the river. There ! there 
 now— there's a scene ! there's distress ! [Aside.] This, I think, must 
 kill the old man outright, hey 1 [Turns around to mark the effect of 
 his tale, and finds that Granger has hurst into an immoderate fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 Gran. The old man goes mad. Ha ! ha ! lia ! 
 
 Mat. Poor soul ! Well, if my tale has this effect on the tough heart 
 of a soldier, I don't know what will become of the ladies. I tremble 
 to think of them. 
 
 Gran. And the wife drowns herself. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Mat. I'm shocked ! Well, if this is the consequence of writing af- 
 fecting histories, I'd better give over, before half the world go out of 
 their senses. Really, my tale's enormous ! it frightens folks to fits 
 I'll alter it, shorten it — get another. Yes, I'll go and
 
 the miller's maid. 27 
 
 Gran. [Seizing him by the collar.] Not without me this time. — 
 Come, sir, lead to George aud Phebe. No more deceptions ! 
 
 [Threatening with his foot. 
 
 Mat. [Shrinking.] Oh, my tale ! 
 
 Gran. Curse your tale. If you don't this instant bring me to them 
 I'll — I will. Along, then ! along, I say, or — [Exit, driving him off, e. h. 
 
 SCENE IV. — The same as Scene I., Act I. — Evening — Twilight and 
 Setting Sun, which, giving a different tint to every feature of the 
 landscape, varies materially its former appearance. 
 
 Music- -Enter Gamekeeper and Giles, 2 e. l. h. 
 
 Game. Haste! haste! I tell you, or she will escape us. [Looks 
 through the windoiv of Miller's house.] No, she is now equipping for 
 her journey, and conies this way alone. Heyday, in a brown study. 
 
 Giles. [Not heeding him.] 'Twill break her heart, poor thing. 
 
 Game, [sneeringly] Break her heart. Well, then, break your own, 
 and tamely give her up to George ; because you haven't spirit enough 
 to take h«»f from him. Pho ! pho! conceal yourself until she has 
 passed th t bridge. She comes! away, away ! 
 
 [LTurriee >ff Giles, l. n. u. e., and Phebe, equipped for her journey, 
 comes from the Miller's house, r. h. 
 
 Phcba. I have hastened before George, who still lingers behind with 
 our benefactors, to enjoy one more glance at the most favored scenes of 
 childhood before I quit them. Farewell, my earliest friends ! Fare- 
 «rv>A* ) ye dumb but breathing scenes, whose wafted greetings I have 
 ft'a HJ many an evening's breeze. 
 
 SONG— Phebe. 
 
 Farewell ! loved happy scenes, farewell ! 
 
 Should I no more your freedom share ; 
 Yet long my gratoful heart shall tell, 
 
 What first brought me a stranger here. 
 
 Genius of the forest shades, 
 
 Lend thy power and lend thine ear ; 
 Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades, 
 
 And bring thy peace aud silence here. 
 
 [She exits to symphony of song, aci'oss the bridge, r. and off L. bidding 
 farewell to the house and those within — as she passes it, Gamekeeper 
 comes forward, and observes her, 2d e. l. h. 
 
 Game. Aye, take your leave, damsel, for you'll never see them again 
 nor either of your booby lovers. Now she is far enough, I must has- 
 ten and secure her e'er Giles prevents me. I must lure him to the 
 spot though, that he may bear the blame of her departure. 
 
 [Music. — Beckons Giles, and exit after Fhebe over bridge.
 
 28 the miller's maid. 
 
 Enter Giles, 2d e. l. n. calling after Gamekeeper. 
 
 Giles. Mind ! mind thee don't use her ill, I say ! She shall not slip 
 us, though. No, no, George, Phehe's not for thee — I'll take care of 
 
 that. Dang me first, if I wouldn't no, no, I mustn't use her ill 
 
 [Follows their track over bridge. 
 
 Enter Miller, Dame, and George, r. n. house. 
 
 Mil. George, lad, thy hand. There! [Shakes hand.] I won't say 
 good bye — but — God bless thee, lad ! 
 
 Geo. Farewell ! to both. 
 
 Dame. No, no — not so : I shall only say 
 
 Mat. [Without] Oh, my tale ! 
 
 Gran. [Without, l. h. 1st e.] Where are they, booby 1 Where is my 
 George and Phebe 1 
 
 Enter Granger, l. h. 1st e. dragging in Matty. 
 
 Geo. AVhat do I hearl George and Phebe who 1 
 
 Gran. Granger — my children. Where are they 1 
 
 Mil. Here is George Granger. 
 
 Gran. [Throwing away his crutch, which strikes Matty.] My boy ! 
 
 my boy ! and alter so many years, do I then huzza ! I'm not dead 
 
 you see, though you long thought me so. 
 
 Mat. What a pity ! Oh, he should have died — it spoils the story. 
 Ah, I see how it is— his living so long will shorten my tale. 
 
 Gran. But what the deuce ails you ? you don't seem glad to ■ 
 But where's my other child ! Zounds ! I want to cry for joy ; but I 
 won't till I've found you both. [Hums a tune. 
 
 Dame. [To Miller.] Did he say he was father to them both 1 
 
 Mil. Ask him — I don't like. 
 
 Geo. [Aside.] Now comes the truth — but yet I dread to inquire. 
 
 Gran. But how is this 1 how glum you all look ! Mahap you don't 
 believe me 1 however I'll soon prove — or has any thing happened 1 
 Where's my child I say 1 
 
 Geo. Here, father, to ask your blessing. 
 
 Gran. There ! there ! but I don't mean you — [Grasping his hand.] 
 yet you are— but, zounds and the devil ! where's my real child, Phebe : 
 
 Geo. [Elated.] What, then, am I not your son 1 
 
 Gran. To be sure you are [George hangs his head.] — by adoption. 
 [George again appears elated.] Hey! why what faces ! Oh, aye, aye, 
 I recollect. Set thy heart at rest, my lad, — thou art my sister's son, 
 not mine. 
 
 Geo. Not. Let me hasten to inform Phebe. Perhaps she may not 
 yet have left the mill. [Runs in calling.] Phebe! Phebe! 
 
 Mil. This ends all anxiety. 
 
 Mat. Yes and my tale. 
 
 Gran. But, zounds ! I say where is she 1 where's my girl 1 
 
 [Phebe heard to scream without, L. H. 
 
 Mat. Talk of the devil— that's Phebe ! 
 
 Mil Hark ! what scream was that ? sure not
 
 the miller's maid. 29 
 
 Mat. I'll run and see. A scream ! how lucky ! I hadn't one in the 
 whole story. A loud scream ! charming ! Well, mine will certainly 
 turn out an interesting tale, after all [Ru7is off over bridge, l. h 
 
 Geo. Sure it was Phebe's voice. 
 
 [One of the Miller's men appear at the aperture of the Mill, l. h. 
 
 Man. Master ! yonder I see Giles struggling with another man and — ■ 
 
 Mil. But Phehe 1 
 
 Man. She is with them too. 
 
 Mil. Are they in anger 1 
 
 Man. At downright blows, master. Now, Giles snaps off the branch 
 of a tree, and with it fells the other to the ground — now he seizes 
 Phebe, who is fainting in his arms, and bears her off this way ! 
 
 [Music. — Giles appears upon Bridge, l. h., with PnEBE in his arms, — ■ 
 his clothes in disorder and torn, and brandishing the branch of a 
 tree — presents a ferocious appearance — George rushes from the cot- 
 tage— -he keeps him at bay with his staff, till he reaches the front of 
 the stage, occupying one side in an attitude of defiance— the charac- 
 ters form a picture as the music ceases. 
 
 Geo. Yield her to me, ruffian. She is my wife. 
 
 Gran. To me — to me — she is my child ! 
 
 Giles. Stand off! she's mine. I saved — fought for — will die for her. 
 
 Mil. Giles ! Nay, I fear not thy ferocious looks. See yon aged 
 maimed soldier ! deprived of home — of offspring— for many a year ; 
 
 and now lie's panting to embrace Say can you longer keep a father 
 
 from his child ? [Pheba here appears recovering. 
 
 Gran. Phebe ! my child ! ~\ 
 
 Phebe. Ha ! > In a breath. 
 
 Giles. Her father! ) 
 
 Phebe. No, no, no, — did he — did he say, father 1 
 
 Giles. And George's too ? 
 
 Gran. No, no, she is my child— my only child ! 
 
 Phebe. [Rushing to him.]. Ah, my dear, dear [Restrained by 
 
 Giles.] Why, didn'st hear! it is — it is my father! you will not keep 
 me from him 1 
 
 Geo. He shall not. Villain ! 
 
 Phebe. He is none. He saved, fought for, and delivered me from a 
 villian. Touch him not ; nor you [To Giles, whose arm and staff are 
 raised against George [Giles! Giles! [In a playful manner attempts 
 to divert his anger. She by degrees, as she is conversing with him, 
 draws the weapon from his hold.] Nay, nay, you look'd thus angry 
 when you fought for me ; but now we are amongst friends look kinder. 
 Giles, — come, 'tis Phebe asks this. You'll give it ine — there! [Throw- 
 ing it on the ground, and appealing to George.] Now touch him, if 
 you can ; he has been my shield, and I will now be his. I know his 
 heart is good — and that I'll trust. Come, Giles, as you were my de- 
 liverer, you only shall deliver me to my father's arms. Nay, I'll suf- 
 fer no one else but thee. Come wilt thee not 1
 
 30 the miller's maid. 
 
 Giles. And to thy husband 1 
 
 Phebe. And why not 1 — thy heart is capable even of that. Rouse 
 thee ! we all must struggle to be virtuous ; but every honest heart will 
 conquer at the last — and so will yours. Come, come! [lie hesitates 
 for a moment, then presses her in his arms ; at length turns to George 
 who views him with angry looks. 
 
 Giles. Thee need'st not envy me, 'tis my first ; and must — aye, and 
 shall be my last. [Kisses her.] 'Tis dearly earned — thee need'st not 
 envy me. There ! there ! better I should lose her than a father. Take 
 thy child old man, — there — take her, take her. 
 
 [Puts her in his arms and crosses. 
 
 Phebe. My dear, dear father ! [Embracing. 
 
 Geo. [To Giles whom he has followed.] Giles, will you not give mo 
 your hand 1 
 
 Giles. No, not now — not now. 
 
 Phebe. [Running to him and taking his hand.] Yes, now. What ! 
 yield when half the victory is won 1 be firm, and you will conquer, 
 Giles ; and all who conquer in a cause like this, cannot fail of hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Giles. [Firmly.] At least I wish it thee; for though I've a tough 
 heart, it may break yet. I hope it may. [Sighs. 
 
 Phebe. No, no, no. 
 
 Giles. [Proudly.] And if it do, I can die without envying thee or 
 
 him ; if not — why — I can — I will, live without bitterness to Bless 
 
 you, then— bless you both. 
 
 [Joins their hands, and, rushes out, i. h. 1st e. 
 
 Gran. Amen! a father's amen rest upon it. 
 
 Phebe. George not your son 1 
 
 Mil. No. — But that thou shalt hear anon : meantime, I adopt him 
 mine. Take him, girl ! and with him, accept the mill. In giving it, I 
 become only an instrument in rewarding 
 
 THE VIRTUOUS DAUGHTER, IN THE MILLER'S MAID. 
 
 
 DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS. 
 
 
 R. H. 
 
 
 L. H. 
 
 MILLER. 
 
 GRANGER. PHEBE. GEORGE. 
 
 DAME.
 
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