The next scene is harrowing in the extreme. The bills describe it as _Mrs. Brownrigg's_ "wash-house, kitchen, and skylight"--the sky-light forming a most impressive object. Poor _Mary Clifford_ is chained to the floor, her face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly hungry. Here the heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy and stentorian eloquence, but is interrupted by _Mr. Clipson_, whose face appears framed and glazed in the broken sky-light. A pathetic dialogue ensues, and the lover swears he will rescue his mistress, or "perish in the attempt," "calling upon Mr. Owen, the parish overseer," to make known her sufferings. The Ship, in Wapping, is next shown; and _Toby Bensling_, alias _Richard Clifford_, enters to inform his hearers that he is the missing father of the injured foundling, and has that moment stepped ashore, after a short voyage, lasting sixteen years! He is on his way to the "Admiralty," to receive some pay--the more particularly, we imagine, as they always pay sailors at Somerset House--and _then_ to look after his wife. But she saves him the trouble by entering with _Mr. William Clipson_. The usual "Whom do I see?"--"Can it be?"--"After so long an absence!" &c. &c., having been duly uttered and begged to, they all go to see after _Mary_, find her in a cupboard in Mrs. B.'s back-parlour, and--the act-drop falls. We must confess we approach a description of the third act with diffidence. Such intense pathos, we feel, demands words of more sombre sound--ink of a darker hue, than we can command. The third scene is, in particular, too extravagantly touching for ordinary nerves to witness. _Mary Clifford_ is in bed--French bedstead (especially selected, perhaps, because such things were not thought of in the days of Mother Brownrigg) stands exactly in the middle of the stage--a chest of drawers is placed behind, and a table on each side, to balance the picture. The lover leans over the head, the mother sits at the foot, the father stands at the side: _Mary Clifford_ is insane, with lucid intervals, and is, moreover, dying. The consequence is, she has all the talk to herself, which consists of a discourse concerning the great "governors," her cruel mistress, and her naughty young master, interlarded with insane ejaculations, always considered stage property, such as, "Ah, she comes!" "Nay, strike me not--I am guiltless!" Again, "Villain! what do you take me for?--unhand me!" and all that. Then the dying part comes, and she sees an angel in the flies, and informs it that she is coming soon (here it is usual for a lady to be removed from the gallery in strong hysterics), and keeps her word by letting her arm fall upon the bed-clothes and shutting her eyes, whereupon somebody says that she is dead, and the prompter whistles for the scene to be changed.