_Chr._ Of course. Dó I ever express an opinion, issue a command, Without an ample reason? (_Exit Sostrata._) ’Twould be strange!—(_To Pam._) Now, sir, Had you not heard of this? _Pam._ No, father. _Chr._ And there you stand, As dull as a fish! Why, what will you think, if this be true, Of finding a sister? _Pam._ Sir, you wished me a happy day: As nothing was more unlooked for, nothing is happier In the world than this. _Chr._ Yet there’s your friend, a perfect stranger. Is far more moved than you. You go to the play, I know: 1121 Fifty per cent. of all our Attic comedies Have this same plot, a daughter stolen in early years, Lost sight of, despaired of, almost forgotten, and then at last, When least expected—although there’s scarce a soul in the house That does not know or guess it beforehand—she reappears. Then are not all eyes wet? Why, that’s the poetic art, Which makes emotion, and sells it to fools at market price. You have pitied the child, have pictured the thousand possible ills She may have encountered, hardships of body and mind, neglect, 1130 The injuries and privations of slavery, wrongs and blows; The lack of all that care, to which, in a mother’s love, The meanest birth is titled, without which even brutes Perish for lack of instinct: the tenderness of sex You have thought of; her innocence, the snares of a merciless world For the unprotected, and then this picture you contrast With the comfortable, gentéel hóme the scene presents. You feel for the parents then—ay, tho’ some ridicule Be fastened upon them; ’tis by such touches of flesh and blood The life comes home to your heart, and while you are made to smile, 1140 You weep. You have paid for the tear, or if your false shame Forbids you to shew your feeling, you’ve bought a lump in the throat. You praise the play, because ’tis a tender situation. Enough to stir the blood of a crocodile like yourself: I catch you weeping—slap! all’s changed. ’Tis not a play: The stage is yóur hóme, the actors your father and mother, Your own sister is found, & where’s your feeling now? I think your heart is made of matting! Your friend, I say, Is far more moved: I see the tears stand in his eyes. _Clin._ ’Tis joy. I wish you joy, sir. I wish your daughter joy. 1150 And, may I say it, your happiness brings happiness to me. _Chr._ I thank you, Clitipho; but now we go too fast: Because I don’t at all suppose this is my daughter. Ho! Gorgo! where’s Gorgo? (_Goes to door._)