As it has been thought, by a gentleman professionally conversant on these subjects, that the scene on board of ship is only fitted for a melodrama, and perhaps with justice, I have subjoined what follows, to be substituted in its room by any manager of a theatre, who may be of the same opinion, and who may, at the same time, consider this drama as worthy of representation. The simplest way, no doubt, would have been to have omitted the objectionable part altogether, and to have placed the following scenes in the body of the piece; but as my own opinion on the subject does not entirely coincide with that above mentioned, I have preferred this mode of removing the difficulty. Since our two principal theatres are of such large dimensions, and possess so many capabilities of effect from scenery and from light, I can see no reason why some of the divisions of a regular drama may not occasionally receive the advantage of such powerful auxiliaries. And, indeed, I am scarcely entitled to call this a regular piece, consisting, as it does, of three acts, and written chiefly in prose, that it might be the better adapted to a large theatre, in which blank verse cannot be so readily understood.

⁠Who can it be, making such a noise at this untimely hour? (In a loud voice.) What do you want at this late hour? and who are you? ⁠I am a storm-beaten, benighted traveller, and shelter for the night is what I want, good dame; open your door and receive me. ⁠You travel late for a lone person. (Opens the door.) Come in, then, and I will do the best I can for you. The rain must have fallen in torrents, methinks, to put you in this condition. ⁠Yes, I have had water enough, good dame; let me dry myself by the fire, if there be one still burning in the house. ⁠Preserve me! is the Mermaid gone a wreck? ​ ⁠What sayest thou of the Mermaid? ⁠She sailed from port yesterday morning, and my poor boy is on board. ⁠Where he is still in safety, I doubt not; so make thyself easy, and blow up the embers of thy fire, that I may dry myself. ⁠Lord be gracious to me! Did I not see thee embark with the other passengers?—If that ship be sailing on the sea, what art thou? (He remains silent, and she looks at him still more intently.) In the name of the blessed Saints, depart from me! thou art nothing now that either fire may warm or roof may shelter. Leave me, in the holy name of St. Francis! ⁠Nay, if thou deny me succour, in my present condition, thou wilt make a ghost of me, indeed. Let me pass on to the fire, I beseech thee!

⁠Thank God we are on dry land again, though we be driven back to the same coast. ​ ⁠And ship and cargo safe, too; you may thank me for that. ⁠Thank thee for it! ⁠Ay, marry! had we not lightened our vessel of that unhallowed murderer, she and all she contained would have been, long ere now, at the bottom. ⁠Say no more of that: it makes the blood turn in my veins to think of it. If all the unhallowed part of our living freight had been so disposed of, we should have come to shore most grievously curtailed of our numbers. ⁠By our blessed Lady! there comes my mother. ⁠My dear boy! art thou safe? Thou hast had a sad bout of it on that stormy sea, since I parted with thee yesterday morning. ⁠Good landlady, we are in want of food and a good fire to warm us by; show us the nearest way to thy house, which is not far off, as I guess. ⁠Hold on your way along the shore, and I'll overtake you presently, when I have gathered a few more of these limpets. ​ ⁠May the devil choke them with the first morsel they eat! I wish they would go to any house but thine. ⁠Why dost thou say so, my dear boy? ⁠I'll tell thee a secret, mother; I'll sail with those men no more, if I can effect my escape. ⁠What makes thee say so? ⁠I'll tell thee why, and in few words, too, though it is a story to make one's ears tingle. There was a noble passenger on board, and when the storm raged at its pitch, and we were in jeopardy, some exclamations which fell from his lips made one who stood near him imagine that he must needs be a murderer. ⁠Mercy on us! did he own himself such? remorse wrings strange tales from parched lips in the hour of danger. ⁠He confessed having shed blood, but with no deliberate intention; and I could pawn my life upon it that he spoke the truth. Yet those cowardly devils durst not abide the peril of the storm in his company. ⁠And they cast him overboard! ⁠Nay: the stoutest of them all durst not lay a finger on him. He kept them off with his drawn sword, till he gained ​the prow of the ship, which was driving towards land, and then, raising his arms to heaven (I shall never forget the sight of his noble figure as the passing lightning gave it to our eyes for a moment), threw himself into the deep. ⁠It is, indeed, a fearful tale. But he is no murderer, I'll be sworn to it; and he is safe on shore at this moment, where he would never have been, had he done the deed of blood. He is in my house. ⁠Where those men must not find him. What shall we do? ⁠Run thou, and give him notice of their coming; and conduct him, if he pleases, to——, where he may get on board of some other vessel, and quit the country undiscovered. ⁠So I will, mother, and go to the world's end with him, too, if he will suffer me. ⁠Make haste; and I'll overtake those miscreants, and lead them to the house by any way but the nearest.
⁠[Exeunt severally.