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VOL-. III
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THE CRi'itc; or, a to Y- tarq1 if
GEDY rehearsed
BERTRAM
THE FOTNDLINa
I G 0\ ANN! JN UA HON
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THE * U'-S OPERA
the c astli - and ylusia the three black si'. yls
TANCRKD & SlClSAillNDA
JOHN BULL
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EMORY UNIVERSITY
THE
BRITISH DRAMA
ILLUSTRATED.
VOL. III.
PUBLISHED BY
JOHN DIOKS,
313, STRAND.
CONTENTS.
Plats. Sc.
Edward thb Blacy Princb
Thb Csjtic ; or, A Tragedy Rehearsed .
Bertram .....
The Foundling .
The Castle op Andalusia . .
Tancred and Sigismunda . .
John Pull
Cymon
Werner , . .
Paul and Virginia .
Brutus; or the Fall op Tarquin
Giovanni in London .
Damon and Pythias
The Beggar's Opera .
The Three Black Seals
The Mourning Bride
The Thieves op Paris ..
Beaganza .
The Lily op the Desert
A Trip to Scarborough . . •
Author
Pace.
William Shirley .
639
Richard B. Sheridan
. . . . . 657
Rev. Charles Maturin
671
Edward Moore .
685
John C'Keefe. .
703
James Thomson .
720
George Colman
735
David Garrick .
757
Lord Byron . .
767
James Cobb
, 790
John H. Payne .
799,
W. 7i Moncrieff .
815
John Banim .
831
John Gay . .
849
Edward Stirling
863
William Congreve
879
Edward Stirling
895
Robert Jephson. .
910
Edwara Stirling
» . v-/7
R. B. Sheridan .
. v 943
EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE,
OR, tHE BATTLE OF POICTIEES.
AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY WILLIAM SHIRLEY,
K. John.—" Thou, Charney, hast escap'd."—Act v, sceue 4.
persons JSlegreseniek
Edward, Prince i
Wares.
Earl of Warkwick.
Earl of Salisccey.
Lord Aublet.
Lord Chandos.
Arnold,
John, Kino of France.
Dauphin.
Cardinal Perigort.
Archbishop op Sens.
Duke op Tourain.
Duke op Athena
Lord ribemot^
Lord Charney.
Mariana.
Louisa.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—The Prince of Wales's Tent.
PRINCE EDWARD discovered, stated; EARL OF
WARWICK, EARL OF SALISBURY, LORD
AUDLEY, LORD CHANDOS, and others, stand¬
ing.
P. Edw. My lords, 1 summon *d ye in baste to
council.
Intelligence is brought me that our foes
Have levied, to oppose us, such a strength
As almost staggers credibility.
What's to he done ? To tarry longer here,
And brave their fury in the heart of France,
Would be a rashness that may hazard all.
Consider, therefore, well, my fellow-warriors,
And aid my judgment with your good advice;
Speak, Warwick, your opinion.
War. Royal sir,
It is for marching back, with speed, to Bordeaux.
•>Dur Little army harass'd with fatigue,
And heavy-laden with the spoils of war,
Should, like the careful bees, ere storm o'ertalie
us,
Secure our treasures, and prepare for nest..
Havock has wanton'd in our hard campaign,
And manly daring won increase of glo^r:
Then let not now presumption madly risk
Reprisals from- such force-. Be timely prudent:
The voice of wisdom urges our retreat,
Obey it and be happy.
And. Shameful thought!
What, spirit dastards, by inglorious flight?
No-; never let it, mighty prince, be said,
That we who, two succeeding summers, chas'd
From shore to shore of their extensive realm
Collected armies, doubling each, our own.
Should here, at length, discover abject fear,
And skulk for coward safety. What are num¬
bers ?
Let all their kingdom's millions arm at once,
And crowding, clust'riug, cram tho field of llgMl
640 EDWARD, THE
Such timid throngs, with multiply'd dismay,
Would make confusion do the task of valour,
And work out their destruction.
Sal. Audley's thoughts
Accord with mine: while Salisbury has breath.
His tongue shall hurl defiance at their force.
Remember, princely Edward, Cressy's field :
Remember ev'ry battle we have fought,
How much out-counted, yet how greatly victors I
Loud were the calls that broke our sleep of peace,
And bade us rouse and buckle on our arms:
A throne usurp'd, your royal father's right;
A violated truce, a vile attempt
To filch away the fruits of painful conquest,
By basely bribing servants from their duty.
Assaults so infamous, such rank dishonour.
At last awoke our monarch's high resentment;
Oh! give it glorions scope. Unhinge, destroy
Their very pow'r of .doing future wrongs:
So shall the rescu'd world pour forth its blessings,
And kings and kingdoms thank our arm for
safety.
Chati. If Cliandos gives his voice for our retreat,
'Tie not from coward motives : all can witness
I have met danger with as firm a spirit
As any in our host. But as success
Hath crown'd our arms with ample spoils and
glory,
"Why, when the season is so far advanc'd,
(Hopeless of profit,) should we longer stay,
By soothing pride, to brave adversity?
Consider, gracious prince, and you, my lords,
What difficulties clog a winter march
In hostile countries; parties harrassing,
And want of all convenience and supplies.
1 do confess, the wrongs that urg'd us hither
Were such aB merited severe revenge:
And vengeance we have had. Their burning towns
Have lighted us on many a midnight march,
While shrieks and groans, and veilings eo'no'd
round.
Fear and confusion were our harbingers,
And death and desolation our attendants.
Such have their suff'rings been through two cam¬
paigns,
And that a third may rise with added horrors,
And carry indignation to his goal,
Now homeward let us look; and wisely there
Recruit, in time, our vigour and our numbers;
Thence, with the cheerful spring, to issue forth,
Again to labour in the field of fame.
P. Edw. True wisdom, Chandos, dictates to your
tongue,
And modest, manly eloquence adorns it.
My lords of Salisbury and Audley, you,
Who cherish truth and candour in your minds,
Must yield to arguments so clear and strong.
Believe me, friends and brothers of the war,
A momentary ruin may involve us:
Such mighty hosts are rais'd, and now in motion,
As well will task our utmost skill to 'scape.
Upon the plains of Poictiers are encamp'd,
Th' extensive plains that our retreat must skirt,
An army double ours.
And. And shall we pass?
Go tamely by ? And give 'em cause for vaunting,
That Englishmen avoided once a battle?
No; never let us merit such a stain;
But boldly seek 'em, daro their double numbers,
And drive 'em, if a combat they decline,
To skip and wanton at a safer distance.
Sal. Give us, my prince, the pleasure but to
spring
This gaudy flight of prating popinjays,
BLACK PRINCE.
And we'll retire contented.
Chan. There my voice
Shall join ye, lords: to force them from their
home
At such a juncture will be doubly glorious!
Or should they venture battle, their discomfit
Will render our retreat to Bordeaux safe,
And end our labours with a noble triumph.
P. Edw. Then be it so: for Poictiers we'll pre.
pare. (H'ting.)
Give instant orders, good my lords, for marching:
To-morrow's sun shall see us face our foes.
There, if they wait our coming, we once more
Will dress contention in her Gorgon horrors:
Drive fear and slaughter through their shudd'ring
ranks,
Stalk o'er their mangled heaps, and, bath d in
blood,
Seize with red hands the wreath of victory.
Here break we off; go each where duty calls.
[Exeunt Lord't.
Now for an office is most grateful to me.
Who waits ? Let Arnold know that I expect him.
(A Gentleman, appear and retire* again.)
How poor the pomps and trophies of the field,
The blaze of splendour, or that bubble praise,
Compar'd with what the sympathizing heart
F eels from a gen'rous action 1
Enter ARNOLD.
Welcome, Arnold.
I ne'er behold thy face, but pleasure springs
With the remembrance of those sprightly days,
Which led through early youth our happy friend¬
ship.
Thou wert my brother then; familiar ease
Season'd our sports, and doubled each delight
Thither my soul, from ceremonious pomp,
And all the heavy toils of high command.
Oft backward looks, with wishes to renew
Those livelv transports, unallay'd by care.
Our boundless happiness, our bursts ot joy.
i Am. So honour'd, gracious prince, as I hare
been,
From humble fortune rais'd to envy'd greatness,
And still with ev'ry grace each gift made precious,
Oh 1 what are words in payment of such blessings ?
What, ev'n my life ? were life itself laid down
In gratitude for such transcendent goodness.
P. Edw. If there's a transport tow'ring to divine;
If, in atonement for its load of cares,
One vast enjoyment is the gift of greatness,
'Tis that we can bestowlwhere merit claims,
And with our favours cheer or charm the soul.
Thine is the vacant military post,
By Mountford's death reverted to my gift;
And keep thy office in my household still:
I must not lose the servant in the soldier.
Be henceforth both, and, what is more, my friend
Am. How shall I praise—
P. Edw. Arnold, I merit none.
If thou hast kindness done thee, I have pleasure
There is no joy a gen'rous mind can know,
Like that of giving virtue its reward;
Nor ought such payment be esteem'd a bounty*
For to deserve and give is equal favour.
But let me ask thee of thy beauteous charge;
How has the noble Mariana borne
(Japtive calamity?
Arn. With resignation
Worthy her birth and dignity of spirit
Forgetting her misfortunes, all her talk
Turns on the topic of your kind protection.
P. Edw. Let it extend to all that can relieve
The mind from harsh reflections on bcr state.
EDWARD, THE
We're now preparing for the plains of Poictiers:
Accommodate her on the wearying way
With thy best care. Remember, i request it
[Exit.
Am. Reljr, my royal master, on my duty.
Needless injunction: Mariana's charms
Have given her here such absolute command,
My very soul, my ev'ry pow'r, is hers.
But the cold maid, whene'er I plead my passion,
Chills me with sighs, and stifles all my flame
Of love with streaming tears. Benignant heav'n 1
Bless'd as I am with royal Edward's favour,
And Mariana's charms: and all beyond
Let mad ambition grapple for and gain. [Exit.
SCENE IL—Tht French Camp.
Enter LORD GHARNEY and the ARCHBISHOP
OF SENS.
Char. My lord of Sens, I gladly give your grace
A joyful welcome to the plains of Poictiers.
You come the happy harbinger of comfort,
Returning to old Charney's woe-worn mind.
The king's approach revives my drooping spirits,
It feeds the dying lamp of life with hope
That I shall live to riot in revenge.
Those English locusts, who devour our wealth,
Who 6poil and slaughter with so wild a fury—
Grant, ye good pow'rsl these eyes may Bee de-
stroy'd,
And I shall die contented.
Se"s. Ev'ry tongue
JoinB that petition: your misfortunes, lord,
Most nearly touch the king.
Char. Oh! they are great:
The pride of ancient lineage treasur'd up,
Trophies of war and ornaments of pomp,
These won by valour, those with honour worn;
Favours of nionarchs, and the giftB of heaven;
The relics of a glorious ancestry,
Are, with the mansion of my great forefathers,
A heap of ashes now; a wide-spread ruin.
My age's blessing, too, an only daughter,
Torn from her home to hard captivity,
The prey, the victim of a fell revenge.
Oh, matchless misery! Oh, Mariana!
Sens. Your sorrows have been wept by ev'ry
eye;
And all have wonder'd what should mark you out
For such peculiar vengeance.
Chdr. Nothing but
The service done our master, when I brib'd
Their governor to give up Calais to us:
Who, like a villain, broke his plighted faith,
And 8acritlc'd the gallant troops I led
To Edward's fury: Blaughter'd all or taken,
I was amongst the train who grac d tiis triumph.
There the proud king insulted me with taunts;
He call'd our undertaking vile and base:
With low'ring brow and bitterness of speech,
Adding, he hop'd the fortune of his arms
Would give him to reward my treachery.
The father's wishes hath the son accomplish'd:
For which, may all the rage of ev'ry curse,
Flames, famines, pestilences, slaughters, join
To root from nature the detested race.
Sens. Grant it, good heav'n! But see, the Duke
of Athens.
Enter DUKE OF ATHENS.
Char. Lord constable, most welcome to my arms,
Ath. I thank yoti, noble Charney.
Char. Are the train
Of royal warriors, sir, arriv'd ?
Ath. They are.
Char. Oh! joyful tidings ! Sir, another hour
BLACK PRINCE. ai
Shall speak, at large, my pleasures to behold you:
The present claims my duty to the king. lE.nt.
Ath. My lord of Sens, these secret marches made
From different parts by our divided host,
May steal us on our unprepared foes,
And give our arms, at length, an ample vengeance.
Sens. I greatly hope it As I think, to-morrow,
Or I mistook the king, they'll all be here?
Ath. With early day, the instant we airiv'd,
A numerous party, led by Ribemont,
Came up and join'd us. Those the dauphin brings,
Our last division are to march by night;
We may expect them with to-morrow's dawn.
Sens. See Ribemont is here.
Enter LORD RIBEMONT.
Rib. Why, this looks well!
Here's bustle, expedition! Once again
We shine in arms, and wear a face of war.
Sens. Oh! may they never be again laid down
Till England is repaid with all ,the plagues
Her sons have brought on France. My eager
soul,
As does the fever'd lips for moisture, longs
To see destruction overwhelm that people.
Rib. Indulge no guilty hatred, rev'rend lord;
For fair report, and let me add, experience,
Picture them lovely to impartial judgment.
The world allows they're valiant, gen'rous, wise;
Endow'd with all that dignifies our nature:
While for their monarch, we'll appeal to facts,
And, sure, they speak him wonderful indeed 1
Did not Germania's ermin'd princes meet,
And, as the most renown'd, the first of men,
Elect great Edward to imperial sway ?
While he, sublime in ever-conscious glory,
Disdaining rule but on his native throne,
Saw sovereigns offer vassalage in vain.
Then, to his court, from ev'ry peopled realm,
Ev'n from our own, did not the fam'd in arms,
The harness'd knights repair to fill his lists ?
To take his judgment in all martial strife ?
Submitting int'rest, honour, all was precious,
And ev'n beyond appeal: owning his voice,
Like that of heav'n, incapable of erroi.
Sens. It grates my soul to hear a Frenchman
talk
Of greater glories than he finds at home.
Is not this monarch you would make a god,
Our master's enemy, our country's foe 2
Rib. A foe he is, but he's a noble foe.
I know his worth, and therefore will I speak it.
At our attack of Calais, 'twas my fortune
To meet in fight this third king Edward's sword
1 found him all that heathens held their gods.
Artful and mighty; (pardon the proud vaunt)
Too much for me to conquer. Long we stood
Buckler to buckler, clashing steel to steel,
Till by superior soldiersnip o'ercome,
I yielded to a monarch ; but so well,
With hardy vigour, I sustain'd the combat.
That freedom, ransomless, was my reward.
The royal victor, when he bade me go,
Took from his brow this string of orient wealth,
Around my templeB twin'di the glittering wreath,
And cry'd, " Shine there, my token of applause."
-Oh! if his valour wing'd amazement high,
Where was its flight, when his heroic soul,
Forgetting that my sword had aim'd his slaughter,
O'erlook'd all low regards, all partial ties.
And gave a vanquish'd enemy renown.
Sens. Detested boast! Ambition's taint, my lord,
So warps, 60 biases the soldier's judgment—
Rib. Ah! biases! I tell thee, priest, ambition—
When was it wanted m a churchman's eouI ?
«4-2 EDWARD, THE
Wore odious there, and more pernicious far.
Than when it fires the warrior'B breast to glory.
But, down my rage: your office should be peaceful;
Your habit's sacred—let your speech be suited.
Sens. Reproving sir, you think you rail secure,
And so secure remain—howe'er your cause
Might bring ev'n your allegiance into question.
Kih. Said'st thou allegiance ? what a vile resort 1
And would thy jaundie'd malice stain my fame ?
But loyalty, long prov'd, dares bid defiance
To all the base perversion of thy tongue.
1 praise my foes, because they merit praise:
J'II praise them to the king—and after fight 'em.
My soul disdains such narrow-hearted spleen,
As owns no excellence beyond a tribe.
Or hates, from envy, all superior merit,
Ath. Forbear, my lord, consider you're enrag'd
With one whose function does forbid revenge.
Rib. Why does the meddling priest provoke re¬
sentment ?
Let him obey that function: preach repentance
To money-scraping misers, sordid slaves,
The cringing minions of corrupted courts,
The dregs of stews and tyrants of the gown.
There let his zeal be vehement and loud,
But not come here to sap the soldier's honour,
And teach inglorious lessons in a camp. [Exit.
Ath. Forgive him, good my lord; brave Ribe-
mont
Is all the warrior, bold above restraint,
Of nature noble, but unpolish'd manners.
Sens. I do forgive him. Yet a time may come—
(Aside.)
Ath. Sir, go we to the presence ?
Sens. I attend you.
Ath. There grant, ye pow'rs! our counsels may
procure
The kingdom's safety, and its peace ensure;
in one brave action may our arms succeed,
And in their turn the daring English bleed.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—The English Camp.
Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and LORD CHAN-
DOS, meeting.
Chan. Good-morrow, Salisbury; yon rising sun,
As was your wish, beholds us here eneamp'd
Upon the plains of Poictiers.
Sal. Noble Chandos,
It was my wish; a wish for England's honour.
To Frenchmen, whom so much we've aw'd and
humbled,
Metbirks I would Dot give the least pretence
For arrogance and boasting.
Entei- EARL OF WARWICK.
"War. Valiant lords,
Wild consternation reigns! Our scouts have
brought
Intelligence the enemy surrounds us.
By sudden, secret marches, they have drawn
Their troops from ev'ry fertile province hither,
And cut off our retreat.
Sal. Why, then, we'll fight them.
War. Most fatal was our yesterday's advice ;
But 'tis his highness' will we straight to council:
Haste, good my lords, for on a single hour,
Perhaps a minute, now our fate depends.
Sal. I'll not believe the French will dare attack
us,
How great soe'er their numbers. But with words
We will not waste the tinje that may be precious;
Ties to the prince's tent, my lords, away. [Exeunt. ,
BLACK PRI-'CL.
SCENE II.—A prirafe Tent.
Enter ARNOLD, leasing MAIMaNA
Arn. Now, lovely captiTe, wilt thou Jcubly
triumph:
The happier cause of France at length prevails,
And we are all undone.
Mar. What mean > ou, Arnold ?
Arn. Encircled here by thy whole country's
force,
Unable to sustain their fierce assault,
And all retreat cut off, we have no prospect
But that of total slaughter.
Mar. Hear me, heav'n,
Who oft bast witness d to the silent tears, *
Stream'd down in gratitude forgen'rous treatment
Now witness (spite of all my country suffers),
That these descend in pity for my foes.
Arn. The fatal accident again restores the«
To liberty, and safety, while from me
It cuts away all hopes of happiness.
I wish not to outlive the bloody hour
Must give thee to thy father, whose abhorrenoe
Of all that's English, soon will interpose,
And plunge my soul for ever in despair.
Let then thy fancy image what I feel 1
Grief chokes the very passages of vent,
And I want utterance for—
Mar. There is no need.
I know thy heart, know all its tender feelings,
Know what sad tumults doubts and fears create,
Whose mingling agonies, in wounded minds,
Sharpen a torture poignant ev'n to madness.
If to thy eloquence of words and looks,
My virgin modesty and captive state
Have hitherto forbid my tongue to answer.
Yet sure my eyes have told my heart was thine.
But now, away with fears and' forms; distress
Bears me above restraint, and I will own
To heav'n, to earth, to thee, my father, country,
That Arnold is most dear, most precious to me.
Arn. Hold, my transported heart! Thou heav'nly
maid!
What raptureB rush at that enchanting sound 1
Happy as I am now, destruction, come,
O'erwhelm me in this moment of my bliss;
Ne'er let me pine in hopeless anguish more,
But die thus clasp'd in Mariana's arms.
Mar. And will our fate—will cruel fate divide us ?
Arn. Oh! do not name it: with the very thought
Frenzy assaults me. No. we must not, cannot,
Will not be parted. No—
Mar. Alas 1 I fear
The choice will not be ours. A father's pow'r.
If France prevails, for ever tears thee from me.
And must they conquer? Oh! I find, I feel
I've lost already all regard for France:
England's my country; any country's mine,
That gives me but my safety and my love.
Inform me, tell me, is there no escaping?
Am. Thou wilt need none. For me and for the
rest,
We have, alas! no prospect but of—
Mar. Stop!
Nor dare inflame a wild imagination,
Lest madness follow: 'midst relentless foes,
Methinks I see thee fall! Behold 'em strike!
I hear thy groans 1 I see thy gushing blood!
Thy writhing body trampled in the dust!
Oh! save me from the horror. Let us fly;
Let us away this moment: Let us—
Arn. Whither?
Where can we fly ? All hope Of flight is lost;
There is no possibility—
Alar. There Uk
EDWARD, THE
let ub, while yet occasion will puciait,
Fly to my tether.
Am. Father 1
Mar. He'll protect up.
Am. Protect us! Dire protection! at the thought
My blood runs chill, and horror quite unmans me.
Mar. Think on the dangers that you brave by
staying.
Am. Think, rather, on the hell that I should
merit
By such desertion—dire and damning guilt!
How dreadfully it shakes me?
Mar. Dost thou tremble ?
Tnen what should I. a helpless woman, do?
Imagine that, and if thou art a man,
Feel for what I may suffer.
Am. Suffer! Thou?
Mar. Yes, Arnold, 11 The woes that I may suffer.
Amongst the deadly dealings of the field.
Some well-aim'd weapon, through a bleediug wound,
May set thy soul at liberty for ever;
While I, (of mortals though the most undone)
Wanting all means of honourable death.
Must suffer woes beyond descript on dreadful.
What are my friends, my father, or my country ?
Cold are the comforts that they all can give,
W hen thou, dear darling of my heart, art lost.
Pleasure, and hope, and peace will perish with thee,
Ami tliis forlorn, this joyous bosom, then
Become the dreary mansion of despair.
Shall not I rave, blaspheme, and rend my locks?
Devote the hour that gave me birth ? and curse
The sun and time, the world, myself, and thee ?
Till frenzy prompting, 'gainst some dungeon wall
1 dash my burning brains to finish torture.
Am. Do not awake, thou lovely pleader, do not,
Such tumult-working thoughts within a mind
On madness verging.
Mar. Let us, then, away.
Am. Oh! not for worlds! Not worlds should bribe
me to it.
Mar And wilt thou urge thou lov'st me ?
Am. More than life !
Mar. By heav'n, 'tis false! The spirit that's
within thee
Is not of worth to hazard aught so noble.
Am. Will daring ev'n to die convince thee ?
Mar. No:
Death is a coward's refuge. Dare to live;
Dare wretchedness, reproach-
Am. No more, no more;
Tempt me no more in vain.
Mar. Art thou so fix'd ?
Am. As fate.
Mar. I'vo done.
Am. Then, why that angry look ?
Mar. It is a curse entail d upon the sex,
To have our counsel scorn'd, our love dcspis'd.
Go to thy ruin; to my ruin go:
I give thee up—and all my hopes for ever.
Am. Why wilt thou blast me with that baleful
dew?
Each tender tear that falls in sorrow from thee
(Like melted ore fast dropping on my heart)
Drives life before it with excess of pain.
Come, friendly slaughter, now my only hope,
Free me from sufferings not to be endur'd.
Mar. What, in the hour of trial wouldst thou
shrink?
Steal to the Bhelter of a timeless grave.
And leave me on the rack of dire despair 7
Is this a proof of that superior spirit
Asserted by the lordly boaster, man?
Oh ! shame upon thee!
BLACK PRINCE. MS
Am. Hear me—
Mar. Not the winds,
That hang the cnriing billows in the clouds,
Are more impetuous than the rage of scorn
That rises in my bosom.
Am. Let but reason
Weigh the dire consequence of such a flight.
Mar. The consequence 1 Why, what do you for¬
sake
But certain slaughter?
Am. Horrid, damning thought!
Mar. I hop'd my risking wretchedness for love
Would have provok'd some emulation—
Am. Oh!
Mar. But thou art poor, the hero of pretence;
And, therefore, thus for ever—
Am. Take me, lead—
No, stop; it surely was some syren's voice
Would litre me to destruction. Off! standoff:
Thou, thou art she that would ensnare my soul,
Kuin my peace, and sacrifice my fame.
But timely be advis'd; forbear to urge
A deed that all the earth would scorn me for,
All hell want plagues to punish.
Mar. Ke undone—
Am. Undone I am, whatever course I take.
Dreadful alternative! despair, or death,
Or everlasting shame.
Mar. I did not pause;
I cnoose for Arnold's love to hazard all:
To suffer, if misfortune were our lot,
And never once reproach him or repine.
But he rejects such truth, such tenderness.
Am. Oh! hear me, help me, save me, sacred
powers!
Mar. Deserts a woman in adversity!
And seeks, in death, a rescue from the woes
Her fortitude encounters!
Am. 'Tis too much—
It tears my brain—my bosom 1 oh!
Mar. Thou'rtpale!
Am. Dizzy and sick—the objects swim before
me;
Beach out thy hand to save me ere I sink:
Oh! what a deprivation of all pow'rs 1
Lead me to my tent, I beg thee, lead.
Mar. I will.
Lean fearless on my arm, it can sustain thee. 1
Am. Oh! boasted manhood, (bow I feel thy
weakness 1 [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A magnificent Pavilion, in tehirh KING
JOHN appears seated in slate. On stools, below
him, sit the DAUPHIN, DUKES OF BERRY, AN-
JOU, TOURAIN, ORLEANS, and ATHENS,
ARCHBISHOP OF SENS, LORDS RIBEMONT,
and CHARNEY, attendants and Guards all stand¬
ing. !
K. John. At length, we've caught these lions in
our toils,
These English spoilers, who through all our
realm
Have mark d their way with rapine, flames, and
slaughter:
Now, by my sacred diadem, I swear,
Beyond a conqueror's joy my pleasure swells,
For that my foes have wrought their own con¬
fusion,
And found misfortunes where they meant to deal
'em.
What say you, lords, must soft'ning pity Bway ?
Or shall we glut our vengeance wjththeir blood ?
Char. Heav'n gives them up the victims of your
wrath;
JU EDWARD, THE
Tndulpo it, then, to their destruction. Mercy
Would mark your majesty the foe of France.
Y our bleeding country cries for retribution:
I join it, with a voice by woes enfeebled;
Hear, feel, and strike in such a moving cause,
The cause oPwrongs, ofwounds, of weeping age.
The widow'd bride, the childless father calls:
The helpless, parentless, unshelter'd babe!
Matrons, bewailing their whole race cut off;
And virgins panting from the recent rapel
Oh ! hear, redress, revenge us, royal sir,
For vengeance now is in your pow'r to grant.
Rib. Anger and hatred are disgraceful motives;
Calm dignity should ever counsel kings,
And govern all their actions. When they strike,
It ne'er should he to gratify resentment,
But, like the arm omnipotent of heav'u,
To further justice; to create an awe
May terrify from evil, better minds,
And benefit society,
Ath. The nuncio,
Who follow'd fast your majesty to Poictiers,
Hath Sent to claim an audience in behalf
Of yon endanger'd English,
Sens. Do not hear him.
K. John. Say, lord archbishop, wherefore should
we not?
Sent. Knowing your godlike and forgiving nature,
1 fear 'twill rob you of much martial glory :
Else might your fame inarms, for this day's action,
Rival the boasts of Macedon or Rome.
And sure your valiant soldiers will repine,
To have the laurels, now so near their grasp,
Snatch'd from their hopes for ever.
Rib. Abject minion 1
How shameful to that habit are such flatteries.
(Aside.)
K.John. Yes. I well know my soldiers pant, im-
pat;ent
To seize this feeble quarry. But our foes,
I must remind you. are so close beset,
That famine soon will throw 'em on our mercy.
Princes and lords, what cause have we to fight?
Why should we waste a drop of Gallic blood,
When conquest may be ours on cheaper terms?
Dauph. But will it suit the glory of your arms
To wait their inclination to surrender ?
Or ev'n to grant such parley, as might plume
Their saucy pride t' expect capitulation ?
Oh, no, my royal father, rush at once,
O'erwbelm 'em, crush 'em, finish them by slaughter.
Rib. Think not, prince Dauphin, they'll e'er
stoop for terms:
Believe me, we have rather cause to expect
A fierce attack, to cut their passage through,
Or perish in the attempt. I know them well.
In many a field have tried their stubborn spirit;
Have won some honour, by their king, though van-
quish'd;
And when I ponder their int' epid courage.
Bow much they dare to suffer and attempt,
I'm lost in wonder; and no Cressy need
To make me tremble to provoke their fury.
JJavph. Your tongue, the herald of your vanity,
Methinks, is loud in what were better lost
To all remembrance- a disgraceful tale.
To boast of honours from a victor's bounty,
Is stooping low; is taking abject fame.
If you have valour, give it manly sway,
Busy your sword; 'but let yourtongue be silent.
Rib. My talent never 'twas to idly vaunt—
K. John. No more of this, presumptuous Ribe-
mont.
My lords;-we win determiue yet on nothing.
BLACK PRINCE.
I've sent a spy, of known abilities
To find out the condition of our foes;
From whose report, in council, we'll resolve
On measures that may promise most sucess.
Meantime, do you inform the nuncio, Athens,
His audience shall be granted. Lords, lead on:
We'll make our morning's progress through the
camp. [Exeunt all but Athens and Rib.
Rib. What boasts made I ?
I told the truth, and wherefore, then, this taunt ?
Shame on such modesty 1 The king, just now,
Nice as he seems in breeding and in forms.
With patience heard a supple, fawning priest,
Strip all the shrines of fam'd antiquity,
Ev'n made great Caesar and the son of Philip
Resign their laurels to his nobler claim :
Nay, thought him sparing, doubtless, that he left
Great Hercules and Jove unspoil'd to grace him.
By my good sword, an oath with soldiers sacred,
I swear 'twould make an honest stomach heave
To see a throat, so squeamish for another,
Open and gulp a potion down, enough
To poison half mankind.
Ath. Brave Ribemont,
The king's distaste was that you prais'd his foes.
To talk of Cressy and of Edward's feats,
Was to remind him of our crown's disgrace:
'Twas to proclaim what we should wish forgotten.
Our slaughter'd armies, and our monarch s flight.
Rib. What, are our ears too delicate for truth ?
If English valour has disgrae'd our arms,
Instead of mean forgetting, we should stamp
The hated image stronger on our minds;
For ever murmur and for ever rage,
Till thence eras'd by nobler feats of arms.
Such are my thoughts, and such my resolution:
I share our country's scandal, and would join
My sword, my blood, to purge away the stain.
Ath, Here, then, occasion meets that patriot-wish.
Here you may help to blanch our sully'd glory.
Rib. I differ, Athens, widely in opinion;
The harvest is too thin, the field too bare,
To yield the reapers honour. On my soul,
I pity the brave handful we encircle,
And almost wish myself an Englishmaa
To share a fate so noble.
Ath. Gallant spirit!
Rib. Would our exulting king acquire renown,
Let him reduce his numbers down to theirs.
Then sword to sword, and shield to shield, oppose.
In equal strife, these wondrouB sons of war.
There conquest would be glorious I but, as now,
With all our thousands and ten thousands join'd
By heav'n! 'tis most infamous to fight
Ath. I must away ; my duty calls me hence.
I must applaud this generous regard
For a brave people that have done you honour;
Convinc'd, whene'er you face these fearless foes,
You'll fight 'em warmly as you've prais'd.
Rib. Farewell. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—The English Camp.
Enter LORD AUDLEY and LORD CHANDOS.
meeting.
Aud. You're well encounter'd, Chandos; where's
the prince ?
Chan. Directing the entrenchments: ev'ry duty
His active ardour leads him to engross.
Such heav'nly fortitude inflomeB his soul,
That all beholders catch new courage from it,
And still e with astonishment their fears.
From cool unruffled thoughts his orders issue,
While with the meanest soldier he partakes
In ev'ry toil; Inspiring, by ox.an pie
EDWARD, THE BLACK PRINCE.
A glorious zeal and spirit through the camp.
Aud. Yet feels he, as the father of our host,
For ey'ry man's misfortune, but his own.
Thrice have I seen him in successive rounds,
Kindle new courage in each drooping heart,
And drive all fear, all diffidence away.
Yet on the task would tendernesB intrude,
As dangers stole and imag'd on his mind :
When, pausing, be would turn his head aside.
Heave a sad sigh, and drop a tender tear.
Enter EARL OF SALISBURY.
Chan. Well, what says Salisbury ?
Sal. Why, faith 1 but little:
It is yon Frenchmen's place to talk at present
Aud. How stand the troops ?
Sal. Believe me, not so firm.
But our light-footed enemies, if dezt'rous,
May trip up all their heels.
Chan. True to his humour:
My good Lord Salisbury will have his gibe,
Howe'er affliction wrings.
Sal. And wherefore not?
Will burial faces buy us our escape?
I wiBh they would; then no Hibernian hag,
Whose trade is sorrow, should out-sadden me.
But, as the business stands, to weep or laugh,
Alike is bootless: here is our dependance.
(Touching his sword.)
Autl. What are their numbers ?
Chan. Full a hundred thousand.
Sal. Ours but some eight; great odds, my friends;
no matter;
The more will be our glory when we've beat them.
Aud. What swells their host so mightily's (I'm
told,/
The Earls ef Neydo, Saltsburg, and Nassau,
Have join'd their troops. The Karl of Douglas, too,
Assist them with three thousand hardy Scots,
Their old and sure allies.
Chan. I hear the same.
Sal. What! Scotchmen here? whose monarch is
our pris'ner.
Aud. Ta'en by a priest and .'woman; at the head
Of such raw numbers as their baste could gather,
When all our vet'ran warriors, with their king,
Were winning laurels on the fields of France.
Chan. And hither now, perhaps, his subjects come
To light for captives to exchange against him.
Sal. For captives! This poor carcass they may get,
When 'tis fit booty for their kites and crows:
But while this tongue can speak, I'd root it out
Ere Scot or Frenchman it should own my master.
Chan. The prince approaches, lords.
Enter PRINCE EDWARD, EARL OF WARWICK,
and attendants.'
P. Edw. Ah! saidst thou, Warwick,
Arnold gone over to the foe ?
War. He is.
A trusty spy brought the intelligence,
Who saw him enter in the adverse camp,
Leading his captive charge.
P Edu Impossible!
War. I've sen rch'd his quarters since, myself, and
there
Nor he or Mariana can be found.
P. Edw. W hat has a prince that can attract or bind
The faith of friends, the gratitude of servants ?
Blush, greatness, blush! Thy pow'r is all but poor,
Too impotent to nind one bosom to thee 1
A blow like this I was not arm'd te meet;
It pierces to my soul.
Sal. AU-righteouB heav'n,
Reward the villain's guilt! Believe not, prince,.
Throughout our host, another can be found
61*
That worlds would buy to such a base revolt
P. Edw. I hope it, will believe it, Salisbury;
Yet must lament that one'has prov'd so worthless.
I lov'd him too: but since he has forgot
The ties of duty, gratitude, and honour,
Let us forget an Englishman could break 'em,
And, losing his remembrance, lose the shame.
My lords, I have despatches in my hand,
Advising that the nuncio cardinal,
Good Perigort, is now arriv'd at Poictiers,
And means to interpose in our behalf. -
Aud. His interposing is a gen'rous office;
And I applaud it; but, believe me, prince,
Our foes will rate their mercy much.too high.
I'd hope as soon a tiger, tasting blood,
Can feel compassion, and release his prey,
As that a Frenchman will forego advantage.
P. Edw. I've by the messenger that brought my
letters,
Sent him the terms on which I warrant treating.
The sum is, my consent to render back
The castles, towns, and plunder we have takeD,
Since marching out of Bordeaux; and to plight
My faith, that I, for sev'u succeeding years,
Will yield no hostile sword against their crown.
Sal. It is too much, iny prince, it is too much.
Give o'er such traffic for inglorious safety.
Or let us die or conquer.
P. Edw. Salisbury,
Rely upon a prince and soldier's promise,
That caution sha'n't betray us into meanneEs.
Heav'n knows, for me, I value life so little,
That I would spend it as an idle breath,
To 6erve my king, my country, nay, my friend.
To calls like these our honour bids us answer,
Where every hazard challenges renown.
But sure the voice of heav'n, and cry of nature,
Are loud against the sacrifice of'thousands
To giddy rashness. Oh! reflect my friends,
I have a double delegated trust,
And must account to heaven and to my father.
For lives ignobly sav'd, or madly lost.
Till Perigort shall, therefore, bring their terms,
Suspend we all resolves; but those receiv'd,
Determination must be expeditious:
For, know, our stock of stores will barely reach
To furnish out the present day's subsistence.
A ud. If so, necessity, the last sad guide
Of all misfortune's children, will command.
Chan. We must submit to what wise heav'n de¬
crees.
P. Edw. Letthat great duty but "direct the mind,
And men will all be happily resign'd :
Accept whate'er th' Almighty.deigns to give,
And die contented, or contented live;
Embrace the lot his Providence ordains,
If deck'd with laurels, or depress'd with chains,
Inur'd to labour, or indulg'd with rest,
And think each movement he decrees the best,
(Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—The French Camp.
Enter DUKE of ATHENS and LORD RIBEM 'NT.
Rib. Lord constable, I was not in the presence
When Perigort had audience with the king:
Inform me, for I wish to know, does peace
Her olive-gariand weave ? or must the sword
Be kept unsheathed, and Wood-fed vengeance live ?
Ath. The king expecting me. I cannot tarry
To let your lordship know particulars;
But the good father, who ev'n now set forward,
Carridb such terms as, from my soul. 1 wish
Youug Edward may accept: for 'tis resolv'd.
646 EmVAItD, THE
If they're rejeoted, instant to attack 'em.
Yonder'a the fugitive, I see, advancing,
"Who left their camp this morning. If we fight,
And you have there a friend you wish to save,
1 his man may point you to his post. Farewell.
[Exit.
Rib. This man—by heav'n, there's treason in his
aspect!
That cheerless gloom, those eves that pore on earth,
That bended body, and those folded arms,
Are indications of a tortur'd mind,
And blazon equal villany and shame.
In what a dire condition is the wretch,
"Who, in the mirror of reflection, sees
1 he hideous stains of a polluted soul!
To corners, then, as doth the loa thsome toad.
He crawls in silence*, there, sequester'd, chews
The foamy ferment of hispois'nous gall,
Hating himself, and fearing fellowship.
Enter ARNOLD. miming
Arn. What ha vo I done? And where is my reward?
Charney withholds his daughter from my arms,
My flatter'd recompense lor—Hold, my brain!
Thought that, by timely coming, might have sav'd
me,
Is now too late, when all its office serves
But to awaken horror. (Atide.)
Rib. I'll accost him.
Are you an Englishman?
Arn. I had that name,
(Oh! killing question 1) but have lost It now.
Rib. Lost it, indeed 1
Arn. Illustrious nibemontl
(For was your person less revev'd and known
By ev'ry son of Britain, on your brow
That splendid token of renown you wear,
Would be your nerald,) pity if you can,
A wtetch, the most undone of all mankind.
Rib, I much mistake your visage, or I've seen you
In uear attendance on the Prince of Wales.
Arn. I was, indeed; (oh! scandal to confess it!)
I was his follower, was his humble friend;
He favour'd, cherish'd, lov'd me—heav'nly pow'rs!
How shall I give my guilty story utterance ?
Level your fiery bolts, transfix me here,
Or hurl me howling to the hell I merit.
Rib. Invoke no pow'r; a conscience suoh as thine
Is hell enough for mortal to endure.
But let me ask thee, for my woDder prompts me,
What bait affords the world, that could induce thee
To wrong so godlike and so good a master ?
Arn. True, he i»all; is godlike, and is good.
Edward, my. royal master, is. indeed,
A prince beyond example. Yet your heart,
If it has ever felt the power of beauty,
Must mitigate the crimes of raging love.
Rib, Love! Thou lost wretch! And could so frail
a fire
Consume whate'er was great and manly in thee ?
Blot virtue out, and root each nobler passion
Forth from thy mind ? The thirst of bright renown ?
A patriot fond affection for thy country ?
Zea!.for thy monarch's glory ? And the tie
Of sacred friendship, by thy prince ennobled ?
Begone, and hide thy ignominious head.
Where hitman eye may never penetrate;
Avoid society, for all mankind
Will fly the fellowship of one like thee.
Am. Heav'n! wherefore saidst thou that wo
must not err.
And yet made woman?
Rib. Why accuse yon heav'n ?
Curse your Inglorious heart for wanting fire,
The fire that ninmates tbenoWy brave'/
BLACK PRINCE.
The fire that has renown'd the English nWB^
And made it such as ev'ry age to come
Shall strive to emulate, but never reach.
There thou wert mingled in a blaze of glory,
Great—to amazement great 1 But now how fall n!
Ev'n to the vilest of all vassal vileness,
The despicable state of female thraldom.
Am. From letter'd story single out a man,
However great in council or in fight.
Who ne'er was vanquish'd by a woman's charms
Rib. Let none stand forth, there is no cause they
should;
Beauty's a blessing to reward the brave;
We take its transports in relief from toil.
Allow its hour, and languish in its bonds :
But that once ended, dignity asserts
Its right in manhood, and our reason reigns
Aru. Untouch'd by passion, all may talk it well;
In speculation who was e'er unwise ?
But appetites assault like furious storms.
. O'erbearing all that should resist their rage,
Till vigour is worn down; and then succeeds
A gloomy calm, in which reflection arms
Her scorpion brood - remorse, despair, and horror.
Rib. But could contrition ever yet restore
To radiant lustre a polluted fame ?
Or man, however merciful, forget
That justice brandB offenders for his scorn ?
Truth, the great touchstone of all human actions,
The fair foundation of applause or blame,
Bas ting'd thy honour with too foul a stain,
For all repentant tears to wash away.
All eyes 'twill urge to dart their keen reproaches,
Each tongue to hiss, and ev'ry heart to heave
With indignation at thee. >
Arn. All the pride,
That here should kindle into high resentment,
I find is gone. My spirit's sunk, debaB'd;
My guilt unmans me, and I'm grown a coward.
(Aside.)
Rib. The trumpets may awake, the clariens swell,
That noble ardour thou nc more canst feel,
DiSiirac'd from soldier to a renegade.
Anon, while o'er the dreadful field we drive,
Or dealing deaths, or daring slaught'ring swords.
Do thou at distance, like the dastard hare,
All trembling, seek thy safety. Thence away,
As fortune, or thy genins may direct.
Thy conscience thy companion. But be sure,
Whatever land you burden with your weight.
Whatever people you hereafter join,
Tell but your tale, and they will all, like me.
Pronounce you abject, infamous, and hateful.
[Exit
Ar«. Abject and hateful! Infamous! I'm allt
The world has not another monster like me:
Nor hell, in all its store of horrid evils,
Beyond wliat I deserve. Already here
I feel the shafts, they rankle in my bosom;
And active thought anticipates damnation.
Enter MARIANA and LOUISA.
Mar. He's here 1 I've found my heart's compan¬
ion out.
Rejoice, my Arnold, for my father softens;
He half forgets his hatred to thy country,
And hears with temper while I praise thy virtues;
We soon shall conquer. Ahl what mean those tears?
Why art thou thus?
Arn And canst thou ask that question?
Thou soft seducer, thou enchanting mischief.
Thou blaster of my virtue. But, begone!
By heav'n, the poison looks so tempting yot,
I fear to gaze myself in love with ruin.
Away, away! enjoy thy ill-got freedom
EDWARD, THE BLACK PRINCE.
And leave a wretch devoted to destruction.
Mar. Destruction! bow the image strikes my sonl,
As would the shaft of death, with chilling horror!
Hear me—but hear me! 'tis the cause of love!
1c our iViariana pleads. For Arnold's peace,
l'or mine, for both—nay, do not turn away,
And with unkindness dash the rising hope.
That strives for birth, and struggles with despair.
.1rn. Oh! yes, despair; it is most tit you should,
As I must ever do.
Mar. Wherefore? Why?
How are you alter'd, or myself how chang'd.
That all our blessings are transform'd to curses?
Have you not sworn (you did. and 1 believ'd you)
My flatter'si beauties and my faithful love,
Were al! that Arnold wish'd to make him happy?
Arn. Curs'd be your love, and blasted all your
beauties.
For they have robb'd me of my peace and honour.
Looks not my form as hideous as my soul.
Begrim'd like hell, and blacken'd to a fiend?
Go, get thee hence, thou blaster of my fame.
Bear thy bewitching eyes where I no more
May gaze my—but I've nothing now to lose,
Nought but a hated life, which any hand
Would be most merciful to rid me of
Mar. If I am guilty, 'tis the guilt of love,
Aud love should pardon what himself iuspir'd.
Oh! smooth the horrors of that anguish'd brow,
Thy tortur'd visage fills me with affright.
Look on me kindly, look as you were wont;
Or ease •> y bursting heart, or strike me dead.
Arn. Give me again my innocence of soul,
Give me my forfeit honour blanch'd anew,
Cancel my treasons to my royal master,
Restore me to my country's lost esteem,
To the sweet hope of mercy from above,
And the calm comforts of a virtuous heart.
Mar. Mure kindness should not construe into guilt
My fond endeavours to preserve thee mine :
Life, love, and freedom are before you all,
Embrace the blessings, and we yet are happy.
Arn. What! with a conscience sore and gall'd
like mine?
To stand the glanceof scorn from ev'ry eye?
From ev'ry finger the indignant point?
In ev'ry whisper hear my spreading shame ?
And groan and grovel, a detested outcast ?
'A taunting Frenchman, with opprobrious tongue,
Pronounc'd me abject, infamous, and hateful,
And#yet I live J And you yet couusel life.
Tbe daran'd beneath might find or fancy ease,
And feat to lose existence Boon as 1!
No, die I must—I will—but how—how—how—
Nay, loose my arm, you strive in vain to hold me.
Mar. Upon my knees—see, Bee these speaking
tears—
Arn. Be yet advis'd, nor urge me to an outrage:
Thy pow'ris lost; unhand me! then,'tis thus,
Thus i renounce thy beauties; thus thy guilt;
Life, loye, and treason I renounce for ever. [Exit.
Mar. Then welcome death, distraction, ev'ry
curse! [ders!
Blast me, ye lightnings! strike me, roaring thuu-
Or let me tear, with my outrageous hands,
The peaceful bosom of the earth, and find
A refuge from my woes and life together,
(Flinging herself on the ground.)
Stand off! away! I will not be withheld;
I will indulge my frenzy. Loss of reason
Is now but loss of torment Cruel Arnold!
Enter LORD CHARNEY.
Char. Whence is this voice of woe? This frantic
posture?
64T
Why is my child, my Mariana thus ?
Mar. Thy flinty heart can best resolve the ques¬
tion: (lliitllj.)
Thou that relentless saw'st my tears deseen'l.
And, urg'd by stubborn hasghtlness and hatred.
Hast given me up to endless agonies.
The man that merited thy best regard,
The man I lov'd, thy cruelty has made
Alike implacable. He's gone, he's lost
Arnold is lost, and my repose for ever.
Char. Why, let him go, and may th' impending
ruins,
The hov'ring mischiefs that await their arms,
Him, them, and all of their detested race,
Involve in one destruction.
Mar. N o, let ruin
O'ertake the proud, severe, and unforgiving;
Crimes that are strangers to an English nature.
They are all gentle; He was mild as mercy,
Soft as the smiles that mark a mother's joy.
Clasping her new-born infant. Sbieldhim. hclv'nl
Protect him, comfort him. Thou cruel father.
Thou cause of all my sufferings, all my woes;
Give him me back, restore him to my arms,
My life, my lord, my Arnold! Give him to me,
Or I will curse my country, thee, myself,
And die the victim of despairing love. [Exit.
Char. Follow her, watch her, guard her from
her fury. [Exit Louisa:
Oh! dire misfortune! this unhappy stroke
Surpasses all the sorrows I have felt,
And manes me wretched to the last extreme.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—The PRINCE of WALES discovered,
seated in state in his tent; at the entrance to which
his standard stands displayed: the device, three
ostrich feathers, with the motto of '• Jch Dim:"
EaRLS OF WARWICK and SALISBURY,
LORDS AUDLEY and CHANDOS, Nobles,
Officers, and Guards standing.
P. Edw. I've seut my Lords of Oxford, Suffolk,
Cobham,
To meet the nuncio, and conduct him hither:
From whom we may expect to hear the terms
On which the French will deign to give us safety.
(Trumpe s.)
Chan. Those trumpets speak the cardinal's ar¬
rival :
And see, the lords conduct him to your presence.
(Trumpets.)
Enter three English Lords, preceding cardinal.
PERIGORT and his ritirme. On the Nuncio's
bowing, the Prince advances from his seat and em¬
braces mm.
P. Edw. Lord cardinal, most welcome to my arms:
I greet you thus, as England's kindest friend,
Misfortune's refuge, and affliction's hope.
It is an office worthy oi yoar goodness,
To step betwixt our danger and destruction,1
Striving to ward from threatened thousands here
The blow of fate.
Per. Grant; gracious heaven, I may t
For from my soul, great prince, I wish you rescue;
And have conditions from your foes to offer,
Which, if accepted, save ye.
P. Edw. We attend. (Takes his seat.)
Per. No art for mild persuasion in your cause
Have I omitted: but imperious France,
Too fond of vengeance, and too vain of numbers,
lusists on terms, which only could be hop'd
From such a scanty unprovided host;
And prudence will direct from many evils
To choose the lightest. Their conditions are,
" That, to the castles, towns, and plunder taken,
648 EDWARD, THE
And offer'd now by you to be restor'd,
Your royal person with an hundred knights,
Are to be added pris'ners at discretion "
P. Edw. Ah! pris'ners!
And. 01>! insolent, dptested terms!
Sal An hundred thousand first of Frenchmen fall,
And carrion taint the air! I cannot hold. (Aside.)
P. Edw. (After a pause.) My good lord cardinal,
what act of mine
Could ever usher to their minds a thought,
That I would so submit?
Per. Could I prescribe,
You should yourself be umpire of the terms;
For well I know your noble nature such,
That iut'rest would be made the slave of honour.
But to whate'er I urg d, the king reply'd,
Remember Cressy's fight! to us as fatal,
As that of Cann® to the Roman state.
There fell two mighty kings, three sovereign
princes,
Full thirty thousand valiant men of arms,
With all the flower of French nobility,
And of their firm allies; for which (he cried)
What can redeem the glory of my crown,
But to behold those victors in our chains I
It is a bitter potion; but reflect,
That royal John is noble, and will treat
Such foes with dignity; while fortune pays
Less than the stock of fame his father lost.
P. Edw. Yes, Philip lost the battle with the odds
Of three to one. In this, if they obtain it,
They have our numbers more than twelve times told,
If we can trust report. And yet, my lord.
We 11 face these numbers, fight 'em. bravely fall,
Ere stoop to linger loathsome life away
In infamy and bondage. Sir, I thank you—
I thank you from my soul, for these, for me,
That we have met your wish to do us kindness:
But for the terms our foes demand, we scorn
Such vile conditions, and defy their swords.
Tell 'em, my lord, their hope's too proudly plum'd;
We will be conquer'd ere they call us captives.
Per. Famine or slaughter—
P. Edw. Let them both advance
In all their horrid, most tremendous forms;
They'll meet, in us, with men who'll starve, bleed, die,
Ere wrong their country, or their own renown.
Sound there to arms I My pious friend, farewell
Disperse my lords, and spirit up the troops;
Divide the last remains of our provision,
We shall require no more; for who survives
The fury of this day will either find
Enough from booty or a slave's allowance.
Per. How much at once I'm melted and amaz'd!
Stop, my lords, and give a soul of meekne as scope,
In minutes of such peril By the host
That circles heav'n's high throne, my bleeding heart
Is touch'd with so much tenderness and pity,
I cannot yield to the dire decision.
Let me, once more, with ev'ry moving art,
Each soft persuasion, try the Gallic king;
Perhaps he may relent Permit the trial:
I would preserve such worth, heavn knows I would
If hazard, labour, life, could buy your safety.
P. Edw. Lord cardinal, your kindness quite un¬
mans me,
My mind was arm'd for ev'ry rough encounter;
But such compassion saps my fortitude,
And forces tears. They flow not for myself,
But these endanger'd followers of my fortunes:
Whom I behold as fathers, brothers, friends,
Here link'd together by the graceful bonds
Of amity and honour: all to me
For tver faithful, and for ever dear.
BLACK PRINCE.
The worth that rooted while my fortuhe smil'd,
You see not ev'n adversity can shake:
Think it not weakness, then, that I lament them.
Per. It is the loveliest mark of royal virtue,
'Tis what demands our most exalted praise,
Is worthy of yourself, and must endear
The best of princes to the best of people.
Till my return be hope your comforter:
If 'tis within the scope of human meanB,
I'll ward the blow.
P. Edw. Gcod heav'n repay you, sir:
Though acts of kindness bear such blessings with
them
As are their full reward. My lord, farewell.
[Exit Perigort, attended as he came in.
Aud. Well, sir, how fare you now ?
P. Edw. Oh, never better:
If 1 have frailty in me, heav'n can tell,
It is not for myself, but for my friends.
I've run no mean inglorious race, and now,
If it must end, 'tiB no unlucky time.
As yon great planet, through its radiant course,
Shoots, at his parting, the most pleasing rays;
So to high characters a gallant death
Lends the best lustre, and ennobles all.
Aud. Why, there, my prince, you reach even
virtue's summit:
For this I love you with a fonder flame,
Than proud prosperity could e'er inspire.
'Tis triumph, this, o'er death.
P. Edw. And what is death,
That dreadful evil to a guilty mind,
And awe of coward .natures? 'Tis hut rest:
Rest that should follow every arduous toil;
Relieve the valiant, and reward the good:
Nor find we aught in life to wish it longer,
When fame is once establish'd.
War. That secure,
Our foes, who wail its loss, can ne'er recover
The glory ravish'd from 'em.
P. Edw. Who can tell ?
Has fortune been so badly entertain'd,
That she should leave us? No, my noble friends;
Her smiles and favours never were abus'd ;
Then, what we merit we may yet maintain.
Chan. An hundred of us, with your royal person,
Deliver'd up their pris'ners at discretion!
The French have surely lost all modesty,
Or the remembrance of themselves and us.
Aud. But here, in my mind's tablet, there remains
A memorandum, that might make 'em start
In this career of their presumptuous hope.
Nine times the seasons scarce have dane'd their
rounds,
Since the vain father of their present king,
Philip, who styl'd himself his country's fortune,
Gaudy and garnish'd, with a numerous host,
Met our great Edward in the field of fight.
I was one knight in that illustrious service,
And urge I may (for 'tis a modest truth)
We made the Frenchmen tremble to behold us:
Their king himself turn'd pale at our appearance.
And thought his own trim troops, compar'd with
ours,
Effeminated cowards. Such they prov'd; «
And since that day, what change in them or us
Can ground security on wondrous odds ?
The same undaunted spirits dare the combat;
The same tough sinews and well-temper'd blades,
Again shall mow them down, like autumn corn.
Another harvest of renown and glory.
Chan. There the brave,monarch of Bohemia strove,
In vain, to kindle valour in their hearts:
He fought, he fell; when our victorious prince
EDWARD, THE BLACK PRINCE.
Seiz'd his gay banner with yon boast, " I serve," '
(Pointing to tht Prince s etandurd.) 1
Which now more suited to his princely charge, '
Triumphantly, as conqueror, he wears ; '
And in his honour England's eldest hope 1
Shall ever wear it, to the end of time.
Sal. Now, as I live, I wish we were at work,
And almost fear the nuncio may succeed.
Mothinks we should not lose the blest occasion,
Or for surpassing ev'ry former conquest, i
Or gaining glorious death, immortal fame.
P. Edic. Then set we here ill fortune at defiance,
Secure, at least, of never-fading honour.
(T/tei/ all embrace.J '
Oh ! my brave leaders, in this warm embrace,
Let us infuse that fortitude of soul,
To all but England's daring sons unknown;
Firm as the stately oak, our island's boast,
Which fiercest hurricanes assault in vain.
We'll stand the driving tempest of their fury.
And who shall shake our martial glories from us?
Yon puny-Gauls ! They ne'er have done it yet,
Nor shall they now. Oh, never will we wrong
So far ourselves, and our renown'd forefathers.
Here part we, lords; attend your sev'ral duties.
Audley, distribute through the camp provisions;
Keep ev'ry soldier's spirits in a glow.
Till from the French this final message comes;
Then if their pride denies us terms of honour,
We'll rush outrageous on their vaunting numbers;
And teach them that with souls resolv'd like ours,
Ev'n desperation points the way to conquest.
When (in defiance of superior might)
Plung'd in the dreadful storm of bloody fight,
Shall ev'ry Briton do his country right [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE L—The French Camp.
Enter LORD RIBEMONT.
Rib. The troops array'd, stand ready to advance.
And this short pause, this silent interval,
With awful horror strikes upon my soul;
I know not whence it comes, but till this moment,
Ne'er did I feel such heaviness of hear..
Fear! thou.art still a stranger here; and death
Have I not seen in ev'ry form he wears ?
Defy'd him, fac'd him, never fled him yet:
Nor has my conscience since contracted guilt,
The parent of dismay: then whence is this?
Perhaps 'tis pity for yon hopeless host.
Pity! for what? the brave despise our pity;
For death, encounter'd in a noble cause,
Comes, like the gracious lord of toiling hinds,
To end all labours and bestow reward.
Then let me shake this lethargy away.
By heav'n, it wo'not off! The sweat of death
Js on me 1 a cold tremour shakes my joints!
My feet seem rivetted! my blood congeals!
Almighty pow'rs 1 Thou ever awful form!
Why art thou present? Wherefore—what, a sigh 1
Ob, smile of sweet relief 1 if aught from heav'n
A mortal ear be worthy to—again
That piteous action, that dejected air!
Speak out the cause; I beg thee speak—'tis gone 1
Yet would I gaze, by such enchantment bound—
Thou pleasing, dreadful vision! Oh, return.
Unfold thy errand, though I die with hearing.
Enter DUKE OF ATHENS
Ath. You're well encounter'd, Ribemont; the king,
Ere this, has Edward's answer; as I past
The boundaries of our camp on yonder side,
In this my progress to equip the field,
) saw the nuncio posting like the wind ;
He and his train, on horses white with foam,
G43
Their course directed to our monarch's tent
What means this, Bibemont ? cuou'rt lost in thought
Hib. Athens, I am unsoldier'd, I'm uumann'd!
Wonder you may, my noble friend, for see,
I shake, I tremble.
Ath, Say at what ?
Rib. Why nothing.
Ath. Should the vast host that here are rang d
for battle,
(Warm with impatience, eager for the fray,)
Behold that Ribe.nont alone has fear,
What wonder would it cause! for tnou, of all,
Art sure deservingly the most renown'd.
Come, be thyself—for shame 1
Rib. Believe me, Athens,
I am not stricken with a coward's feelings:
Not all yon army to this sword oppos'd.
Should damp my vigour, or depress my heart:
Tis not the soldier trembles, but the sou.
Just now a melancholy seiz'd my soul,
A sinking whence I knew not, till, at length,
My father's image to my sight appear'd
And struck me motionless.
Ath. 'Twas only fancy.
Rib. Oh 1 no, my Athens, plainly I beheld
My father in the habit that he wore,
When, with paternal smiles, he hung this weapon
Upon my youthlal thigh, bidding me use it
With honour—only in my country's cause.
Within my mind I treasur'd up the charge,
And sacred to the soldier's public call
Have worn it ever. Wherefore, then, this visit ?
Why in that garb in which he flx'd my fortune,
And charg'd me to repay his care with glory ?
If 'tis an omen of impending guilt,
Oh 1 soul of him I honour, once again
Come from thy heav'n, and tell me what it is,
Lest erring ignorance undo my frame.
Ath. Nought but a waking dream—a vapom 'd
brain,
Rib. Once his pale visage scem'd to v, ear a smile
A look of approbation, not reproof.
But the next moment with uplifted hands
And heaving bosom, sadly on the earth
He turn'd his eyes, and sorely seein'd to weep!
I heard, or fancy'd that I heard a groan.
As from the ground his look was rais'd to me;
Then, shaking with a mournful glance his head.
He melted into air.
Ath. Pr'ythee, no more;
You talk'd of melancholy, that wai all;
Some sickness of the mind: occasion'd, oft,
Ev'n by the fumes of indigested meals.
To-morrow we will laugh at this delusion.
Rib. To-morrow I Oh! that mention of to mop-
row—
There are opinions, Athens, that our friends
Can pass the boundaries of nature back.
To warn us when the hour of death is nigh.
If that thy business was, thou awful shade,
I thank thee, and this interval of life,
However short, which heaven vouchsafes me yet,
I will endeavour as I ought ta spend.
Ath. See, through yon clouds of dust, with how-
much speed
The nuncio hastens to the English campl
Perhaps the terms for safety are agreed.
Then Where's a meaning f&r thy fancy'd vision ?
Rib. No matter where, my spirits are grown light;
Returning vigour braces up again
My nerves and sinews to their wonted toDe.
My heart beats freely, and, in nimble rounds,
The streams of life pursue their ready course:
Lead On; our duty calls us to the king. [Exeunt.
EDWARD, THE BLACK PRINCE
e.ro
SCENE 11.—The Prince of Waifs'x Tex t. 5
Enter PRINCE EDWARD. LORD CHANDOS, and
attendants, meeting LORD AUDLEY.
P. Eda>. Well, Audley, are the soldiers all re¬
fresh'd ?
Ami. All: and although, perchance, their last of
meals,
If peem'd so cheerful as surpass'd my hope;
Still joining hands, as off they drain'd the bowl,
Success to England s arms was all the cry.
At length a hoary vet ran rais'd his voice,
And thus address'd his fellows: "Courage, bro¬
thers !
The French have never beat us, nor shall now.
Our great third Edward's fortune waits our arms;
And his brave son, whose formidable helmet
Nods terror to our foeo, directs the fight;
In his black armour, we will soon behold him
Piercing their throng'd battalions. Shall not we,
At humble distance, emulate his ardour,
And gather laurels to adorn his triumph ?"
Then did they smile again, shake hands, and shout,
While, quite transported at the pleasing sigut,
I wept, insensibly, with love and joy.
P. Edus. I too could weep! Oh! Audley. Chandos,
there,
There rest I all my hope. My honest soldiers,
I know, will do their duty.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Royal sir,
A person muffled in a close disguise,
Arriv'd, this instant, from the adverse camp,
As he reports, solicits to receive
An audience of your highness, and alone.
P. Edw. Retire, my lord. Conduct him straight¬
way in. [Exit Gentleman.
Chan. Your highness will not trust yourself un¬
guarded:
It may be dangerous. Consider, sir.
P. Edw. Caution is now my slave, and fear I scorn:
This is no hour for idle apprehensions.
[Exeunt Lords, dc.
Enter ARNOLD in a disguise, which he throws off.
Your business, sir, with—Arnold 1 Get thee hence.
Am. Behold a wretch laid prostrate at your l'eet,
His guilty neck e'en humbled to the earth;
Tread on it, sir; it is most fit you should.
I am unworthy life, nor hope compassion,
But could not die till here I stream'd my tears,
In token of contrition, pain, and shame.
P. Edw. Up, and this in t int from my sight remove,
Lie indignation urges me to pay
Thy horrid treasons with a traitor's fate.
Am. Death if I'd fear'd I hod not ventur'd hither;
Conscious I merit all you can inflict:
But doom'd to torture, as by guilt I am,
1 hop'd some ease in begging here to die;
That I might manifest where most I ought,
My own abhorrence of my hated crime.
Thus, on my kness, lay I my life before yon;
Nor ask remission of the heavy sentence,
Your justice must pronounce. Y et, royal sir,
One little favour let me humbly hope:
(And may the blessing of high heaven repay it.)
'Tis, when you shall report my crime and suffering,
Only to add he gave himself to death,
The voluntary victim of remorse.!
P. Edw. I shall disgrace my soldiership, and melt
To woman's weakness, at a villain's sorrow.
Oh 1 justice, with thy fillet seal my eyes;
Shut out at once, his tears, and hide my own.
(Aside.)
Arn. Am I rejected in my low petition
For such a boon? Nor can I yet complaint
Your royal favours follow approbation.
And I of all mankind have least pretence
To hope the bounty of a word to ease me.
P. Edw. Rise, Arnold. Thou wert long my chosen
servant;
An infant fondness was our early tie;
But with our years (companions as we liv'd)
Affection rooted, and esteem grew love.
Nor was my soul a niggard to thy wishes :
There set no sun but saw my bounty flow,
No hour scarce pass'd unmark'd by favour from me.
The prince and master yet 1 set apart.
And singly here arraign thee in the friend.
Was it for thee, in fortune's first assault.
Amidst those thousands, all by far less favour'd,
To be the first, the only to forsake me?
Was It for thee, for thee to seek my foe,
And take thy safety from the means that sunk
The man of all the world that lov'd thee most ?
In spite of me my eyes will overflow,
And I must weep the wrongs 1 should revenge.
Arn Tears for such guilt as mine! Oh! blast¬
ing sight!
Cover me, mountains! hide me and my shame!
A traitor's fate would here be kind relief
From the excessive anguish I endure
P. Edw. Having thus fairly stated our account.
IHow great's the balance that appears against thee;
And what remains? I will not more reproach thecj
Love thee I must not, and 'twere guilt to pity.
All that with honour I can grant is this :
Live—but remove for ever from my sight.
If I escape the dangers that surround me,
I must forget that Arnold e'er had being:
I must forget in pity to mankind
(Lest it should freeze affection in my heart),
That e'er such fr endship met with such return.
Am. Oh ! mercy more afflicting than oven rage 1
That I could answer to with tears and pray'rs;
But conscious shame, with kindness, strikes me
mute.
Great sir, (forgive intrusion on your goodness,)
My boon you have mistaken, life I ask'd not;
'Twas but to witness to the deep remorse,
That with a harpy's talons tears my bosom.
Love, the pernicious pois'ner of my honour,
In poor atonement's sacrific'd olready;
And life, devoted as the all I've left,
I'm ready now and resolute to pay.
But as my miseries have touch'd your soul,
And gain'd remission of a traitor's fate,
Oh I add ono favour, and complete my wishes.
To the dear country that must scorn my name,
(Though 1 still love it as I honour you,)
Permit my sword to lend its little aid,
To pay a dying tribute. Grant but that,
And I will weep my gratitude with blood.
P. Edw. stain'd and polluted as my eyes behold
thee.
Honour no longer «an endure thy sight.
If 'tis in valour to accomplish it,
Redeem thy reputation; but if not,
To fall in fight will be thy happiest hopo.
Away, nor more reply.
Arn. Exalted goodness! [Exit.
P. Edw. If passions conquered are oar noblest
boasts,
Misruling anger, ever mad revenge.
And thou, too partial biaser, affection;
Confess I once have acted as I ought. (Trumpets.)
Ah! by those trumpets, sure, the nuncio's come!
(A Gentleman appears and retires.)
Who's there? Acquaint the lords I wish to seo 'osa.
Nu w Uocb the medley war begin to work:
EDWARD, THE BUCK PR NCR.
A thousand hopes and fears all crowd upon me!
Enter EARLS OP WARWICK and SALISBURY.
LORDS AUDLEY, CHANDOS, and others, and
A ft> 111 units.
Ob! welcome, friends! But see, the cardinal.
(Trumpets.)
Enter CARDINAL PERIGORT, attended.
Well geu'rous advocate, we wait our doom.
Per. Prepare, prepare, for an immediate battle:
Iullrxible is France in her demands,
Aud all uiy pray'rs and tears have prov'd in vain.
P. Edw. Lord Cardinal, may righteous heav'n
reward
The pious charity of soul you've shewn.
It Frai.ce insists so higb, it shall be try'd;
The des'p'rate chance of battle shall be try'd.
Tue fates attend, the balance is prepar'd;
And whosoe'er shall bnvo the lot to mount,
May heav'n stretch wide its everlasting doors,
Anil give them happy entrance all.
Per. Amen!
Illustrious priuce, and you his noble followers.
Remains there aught that I can do to serve ye ?
My function suits i ot with a field of slaughter;
In Poictiers, therefore, must I se-'k my safety.
There, while the battle rages rouud and round
My beads shall drop to pray'rs. that ev'ry saint
Will succour and support the English arms.
But should the fortune of your foes prevail.
And leave ye victims to immortal honour,
The pious offices I'll make my own,
O'er cv'ry grave to breathe a thousand blessings,
And water all your ashes with my t are.
P. Edw. My gnntle friend, such goodness wilT
renown you.
Per. Take from my hand, my heart, my very soul,
My amplest bened ction to you all. ( They bote.)
I now can stifle in my tears no longer—
Oh! gal'ant prince, farewell. Farewell to all.
Heav'n guard your lives, and give your arms suc¬
cess !
[Exit, icith his attendants. On the Cardinal's
going out, the Prince and Lords continue for
some time fixed and mu'e.
Aud. You loiter, sir; our enemies advance,
And we're in no array.
P. Edw. Away, despatch;
Marshal the army by the plan I gave;
Then march it straight to yonder eminence;
Whence I'll endeavour to inflame their zeal,
And tit them for the toils this day demands.
[Exeunt.
SCENE 1IL—Another part of the English Camp.
Enter MARIANA and LOUISA.
Eou. Thus, madam, has obedience prov'd my duty:
The hurry and confusion of the field
Diving us opportunity to 'scape,
We've reach'd the English camp. But whither now I
Where would you bend your course ? Behold,
around.
How the arm'd soldiers, as they form in ranks,
Dart from impassion'd looks ten thousand terrors 1
Tne scene is dreadful!
Mar. Then it suits my mind,
The seat of horrors terrible to bear.
On—let us And him.
Eou. Dearest lady, think;
Nor follow one that rudely spurn'd you from him.
Mar. It was not Arnold spurn'd me. 'was his guilt,
The guilt I plung'd him in. Louisa, thou
Hast ne'er experiene'd passions in extremes.
Or tbou wouidst know thatlove, and hate, and scorn,
AU opposites together meet, and bleud
In the a nd whirl of a distracted soul.
Ml .
Eou. Behold, he comes!
Alar. Support me, gracious pow'rsl
Enter ARNOLD.
Arn. Ab 1 Mariana! When will torture end ?
( sid:.)
Mar. How shall I stand the shock of his re¬
proaches? (Aside.)
Arn. Why art thou here? Oh I why, unhappy
maid ?
Afar. Since my too fatal rashness wrought thy
ruin,
'Tis fit, at least, that I should.share it witli thee.
Therefore my friends, my father, aud my country,
I have forsook for ever; and am come
To claim a portion here in ull you suffer.
Arn. Return again, I beg thee; I conjure thee,
By all the wondrous love that flr'd our hearts,
And wrought—but let not that be more remeut-
ber'd.
If thou hast wish for happiness or peace.
Go to thy father back, and think no more
Of a lost wretch who hastens to oblivion.
Mar. Request it not; I never will forsake thee:
One fortune shall conduct, one fate involvo us:
I'll shew the world that my unhappy crime
Was neither child of treachery or fear,
But love, love only! aud the guilt it caus'd,
As I inspir'd, I'll share its punishment.
Arn. You cannot, nay, you must not think of it:
You broke no faith; I only was to blame:
And. to engage thee to secure thy safety.
Know the dire state of my determin'd soul: —
Heav'n and my prince permitting, I have sworn
To brave all dangers in the coming fight;
And when my sword has done its best for England,
To lay my load of misery and shame
Together down for ever; death I'll hunt
So very closely that he sha'n't escape nte.
Bo timely, then, in thy retreat; and heav'n
And all good angels guard thee! On thy lips
I'll seal my fervent pray'rs for blessings on thee.
(Kisses her.)
Oh! what a treasure does my soul give up
A sacrifice to honour! (doing.)
Mar. Stop a moment:
One single moment, Arnold: let me gather
A little strength to bear this dreadful parting.
And mast it be—hold, hold, my heart—forever?
Oh! bitter potion: kind physician, pour
One drop of hope to sweeten it a lit tJe.
\Aru. Hope ev'ry thing: hope all that earth can give,
Or heav'n bestow on virtue such as thine.
(Trumpit.)
That trumpet summons me: I must away!
Oh! measure by thy own the-pangs I feel. [Exit.
Mar. Then they are mighty; not to be express d,
Not to be home, nor ever to be cur'd.
My head runs round! my bursting brain divides!
Oh! for an ocean to engulph me quick;
Or flames capacious as all hell's extent!
That I might plunge, and stifle torture there.
Eou. Hence, my dear lady; for your peace, go
hence.
Mar. I'll dig these eyes out; these pernicious
eyes,
Enslaving Arnold, have undone him.—Ah!
(Trumpit.)
That raven trumpet sounds the knell of death!
Behold, the dreadful, bloody work begins!
What ghastly wounds! what piteous, piercing
shrieks!
Oh! stop that fatal falchion! if it fall,
It kills my Arnold!—Save him, save him, save ■
[Exit, running; Louisa follows.
m EDWARD, THE
SCENE IV.—A nival Eminence, with the distant
prospect of a camp.
Enter PRINCE EDWARD.
P. Edw. The hour advances, the decisive hour,
That lifts me to the summit of renown,
Or leaves me on the earth a lifeless corse.
The buz and bustle of the field before me,
The twang of bow-strings, and the clash of spears,
With ev'ry circumstance of preparation,
Strike a tremendous awe 1 —Hark I Shouts are
echo'd
To drown dismay, and blow up resolution
Ev'n to its utmost swell! From hearts so firm,
Whom dangers fortify, and toils inspire,
What haR a leader not to hope! And yet
The weight of apprehension weighs me down.
Oh 1 Soul of nature 1 great eternal Cause!
(Kneels.)
Who gave and govern'st all that's here below;
'i'is by the aid of thy Almighty arm
The weak exist, the virtuous are secure.
If to your sacred laws obedient ever,
My sword, my soul, have own'd no other guide;
0! if your honour, if the rights of men,
My country's happiness, my king's renown,
Were motives worthy of a warrior's zeal ;
Crown your poor servant with success this day.
And be the praise and glory all thy own. (liises.)
Enter LORD AUDLEY.
And. Now, royal Edward, is the hour at hand,
That shall, beyond the boast of ancient story,
Ennoble English arms; forgive, my hero,
That I presume so far, but I have sworn
To rise your rival in the common fight.
We'll start together for the goal of glory,
And work such wonders that our fear-struck foes
Shall call us more than mortals! A s of old,
Where matchless vigour mark'd victorious chiefs!
The baffl'd host, to cover their disgrace,
Crv'd out the gods assum'd commanders' forms,
And partial heav'n had fought the field against
them!
P. EdwfAodley, thy soul is noble : then together
(Safe from the prying eye of observation)
Let us unmask our hearts. Alas ! my friend,
To such a dreadful precipice we're got,
It giddies to look down. No hold, no hope,
But in the succour of Almighty Pow'r 1
For nothing but a miracle can save us.
Aud. I stifle apprehensions as they rise.
Nor e'er allow myself to weigh our danger.
P. Edw. "Tis wisely done: aud we'll at least en¬
deavour
(Like the brave handful at Thermopylae)
To make such gallant sacrifice"of life
As shall confound our enemies. Oh, think
On the great glory of devoted heroes,
And let us emulate the god-like flame,
That dignify'd the chiefs of Greece and Rome!
Souls greatly rais'd, above all partial bonds,
Who knew no tie, no happiness distinct,
But made the general weal thelronly care :
That was their aim, their hope, their pride: the end
For which they labour'd, suffer d, conquer'd, bled!
Aud. Exalted, great excitement!
P. Edw. What may happen,
Since none can say, prepare we fpr the worst.
Then as a man whom I have lov dand honour'd,
Come to my arms, and take a kind farewell:
l They embrace.)
If we survive, we will again embrace,
And greet each other's everlasting fame;
If not, with him whose justice never en%
Remains our fit reward.
BLACK PRINCE.
A ml. You melt me, sir!
I thought my nature was above such weakness;
But tears will out,
P. Edw. They're no reproach to manhood:
But we've not leisure now for their indulgence.
Aud. True, glorious leader; to more active duties
The scv'ral functions of our souls are summou'd.
Safety and. honour, liberty, renown!
Hope's precious prospect, and possession's bliss!
All that are great and lovely; urg'd together.
The arm of valour in their dear defence.
P. Edw. And valour well shall answer the de¬
mand;
Our foes to wear the trophies of the day.
Must wade through blood to win 'em. Heaven can
tell
How many souls may pay the fatal price,
Or whose may be the lot: if mine be one,
Sa\, Audley, to my father, to my country,—
Living, they had my service; at my death.
My pray'rs and wishes for eternal welfare.
Aud. Request not that which, if the day be lost,
I ne'er shall execute.—I have to ask
A favour, which I hope you'll not refuse.
P. Edw. Nothing that suits my Audley to solicit.
Aud. It is that I may be the first to charge:
I think I can rely upon my courage
To set a good example.
P. Edw. Be it thine.—
And see, the troops approach t (Trumpets.)
Aud. Each upright form
Darting doflance, as they move, to France!
Where is the pow'r can cope with souls like thesef
Resolv'd on conquest or a glorious fate!
Unmovable as rocks, they'll stand the torrent
Of rushing fury, and disdain to shrink:
But let yon panting wasps discharge their stings,
And then in clusters crush 'em. (Trump ts.)
Enter EARLS of WARWICK and SALISBURY,
LORD CHAN DOS, and other Commanders. Pun
ties of Soldiers appear between all the side scenes, with
Officers leading them, to seeming as if the whole of
the army was drawn up.
P. Edw. Countrymen,
We're here assembled tor the toughest fight
That ever strain'd the force of EDglish arms:
See yon field with glittering numbers gay.
Vain of their strength, they challenge us for slavey
And bid us yield their pris'ners at discretion.
If there's an Englishman amongst ye all,
Whose soul can basely truckle to such bondage.
Let him depart. For me, I swear by heav'n,
By my great father's soul, and by my fame,
My country ne'er shall pay a ransom for me,
Nor will I stoop to drag out life in bondage,
And take my pittance from a Frenchman's hands"
This I resolve, and hope, brave countrymen,
Ye all resolve the same.
Soidiers. All, all resolve it
Sal. Conquest or death is ev'ry Briton's choice.
P. Edw. Uh ! glorious choice 1 And know, my
gallant soldiers,
That valour is superior far to numbers,
There are no odds against the truly brave:
Let us resolve on conquest, and tis ours.
But should the worst that can befall us—death,
'Twill be a fate to envy more than pity.
And we have fathers, brothers, sons, or frien Js,
That will revenge our slaughter.
Soldiers. On, lead on.
P. Edw. I see the gen'rons indignation rise.
That soon will shake the boasted pow'r of E'rasce
Their monarch trembles midst his gaudy train.
To think the troops he now prepares to meet,
EDWARD, THE
Are such asnever fainted yet with toil
They're such as yet no pow'r on earth could awe,
No army baffle, and no town withstand,
tieav'ns! with what pleasure, with what love I
gaze,
In ev'ry face to view his father's greatness 1
Those fathers, those undaunted fathers, who
In Qallic blood have dy'd their swords.
Those fathers who in Cyprus wrought such feats,
Who taught the Syrucusians to submit,
Tam'd the Galabrians, the fierce Saracens,
And have subdu'd. in many a stubborn fight,
The Palestinean warriors. Scotland's fields,
That have so oft been drench'd with native gore,
Bear noble record ; and the fertile isle.
Of fair Hibernia, by their swords subjected,
An ample tribute and obedience pays.
On her high mountains Wales receiv'd their laws,
And the whole world has witness'd to their glory.
A ad. Lead us to action, and each Briton here
Will prove himself the son of those brave fathers.
P. Edw. View all yon g itt'ring grandeur as your
spoils,
The sure reward of this day's victory.
Strain ev'ry faculty, and let your ininds,
Your hopes, your ardours, reach their utmost
bounds.
Follow your standards with a fearless spirit;
Follow the great examples of your sires;
Follow the noble genius that inspires ye;
Follow this train of wise and valiant leaders,
Follow, in me, your brother, prince, and friend.
Draw, fellow soldiers; catch th' inspiring name
We fight for England, liberty, and fatnel
[ They drain their swords and go out. Trumpets
sounding.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—An extensive Plain, with the distant view
of a Town.
Enter PRINCE EDWARD, EARL of WARWICK,
LORD CHANDOS, and Attendants.
P. Edw. Haste to my Lord of Oxford, and request
He ply his archers with redoubled vigour:
[An Attendant bows, and goes out.
I see already they've confus'd the foe;
Their ranks are broken, and Beem to doubt
If they should stand or fly !•
Chan. Then now's the timet
To press 'em with the weight of all our force;
For Frenchmen, if they're once dismay'd, are lost
War. Excess of fury marks the battle yonder 1
Lord Salisbury there sustains a heavy charge.
P. Edw. Warwick, away and reinforce his party,
Or numbers may o'erbearhim. Fly this instant.
[Exit Warwick.
Oh! for an arm of iron, but to answer
The mighty ardour that inflames my soul! [Exeunt.
Enter ARNOLD, bleeding.
Am. Yet more of Gallic blood, I must have more,
To wash my stains of infamy away.
What, are the multitudes o'erthrown already ?
Greater must down to gratify my rage,
A nd in my country's vengeance crown my own.
Ab! what! retreating!—Cowards—Follow me—
[Hejoins an English forty who were gietng
way and, they beat the French off.
SCENE IL—Another Part of the Field.
En'er KING JOHN, DUKE OF TOURAIN, DUKE
OF ATHENS, and attendants.
K. John. By heav'n! a panic seizeB all my troopa
Inform me, Athens, what's the cause of this i
BLACK PRINCE. €63
Ath. Some parties that the Prince of Wales de-
tach'd
Round yonder mountain have attack'd our rear;
And the division which the DSuphin led,
Dispersing in confusion; they have pierc'd
With fury to the centre of our host I
K. John. Fly, Athens, to my Bon, with my com¬
mand,
That he collect again his scatter'd men,
And lead them to our succour. Shameful sight
[Exit Athens.
That such a handful should confound us thus.
Enter ARCHBISHOP OF SENS, with a drawn
sword.
Sens. Confusion seize! but there's no need to
wish it,
Too much it rages in our host already.
I got this weapon from a feather'd wretch,
Who cast it down, and skipp'd like auy deer!
I wish the villain had it in his heart.
Howe'er, I took the keen incumbrance up,
And us'd it better than his master oou'd ;
For with this arm unpractis'd in the office,
I clove a brawny Britou to the chine!
Tour. Heav'ns! how we're prcss'd. No party but
gives way!
K. John. Perdition seize the cowards!—Come, my
boy.
We'll do our duty, tho' they all desert us. [Exeunt
SCENE Uh—Enter ARNOLD.
Am. My arm begins to weary with the fight;
Death, I have cramm'd thy rav'nous jaws with
offal;
Now, turn, my friend and give me timely rescua
Enter RIBEMONT,
Rib. Thou double traitor! must I stain my sword
With the foul streams that circle in thy veins,
Who art so base, so branded? Infamous!
By heav'n, it almost is a guilt to fight thee!
Am. Here I can answer, for my cause is good:
It iB my country's! And thou, haughty lord,
Tt)ink not thou e'er again shalt awe my soul,
Of, unchastis'd, reproach me with a crime
I loathe, and here am come to expiate.
The earth I've crimson'd with thy country's
blood:
And if the pow'rs, to what is shed already,
Will add but Ribemout's I ask no more:
The foe I next may meet to mine is welcome.
Rib. Can a ught in valour purge thy iEthiop soul,
Expunge thy blots, and rank thee with the brave r'
Dar'st thou assert the cause thou has betray'd't
Or hope a second guilt atones the first?
No; the joint vengeance of wrong'd France and
England
I send in this! (Arnold falls.) There's something
of thy due:
To infamy, and hell, Ileave the rest. [Exit.
Am. Death have I cau6ht—his shaft is in my
heart-
It tugs at nature-When shall I get free?
Enter PRINCE EDWARD, LORD CHANDOS, and
Attend <nts.
P. Edw. Slaughter hath wantpn'd here! What
strea u of blood!
What heaps of mangled bodies strew the ground*
Death hath had'able ministers at work;
A pompous tribute they have paid, indeed!
Arnold, hast thou done this 1
Ann. Offended prince,
You find my fluttering soul upon the wing:
All a poor, desp'rate, and despairing wretch
Could do, this arm has wruught
654 EDWARD, THE
P. Erla. Thr.ee have 1 mark'd
Thy valour wonderful!
Am. All worthless quite:
That I could pay a hiradred thousand lives
In gratitude to you, and love for England;
But feeble nature fail'd my better wish,
So here I render up a loathsome life—
P. E<iw. As heav'n may pardon me, thy crime's
forgot.
Am. Then I am happy. Hear it, sacred pow'rs!
And give him glory great, as is his goodue'ss.
I go. Methinks the gloomy way before me
Is stripp'd of half its horrors. Friendly death.
Receive a parting—pitv'd—pardon'd—Oh 1 (Pies.)
Chan. He dies!—Is gone!
/'. Eilw. Proving, my noble friend,
His soul was genuine English; and could tow'r
O'er all calamities but eouscious guilt.
Chan. Heav'u's pardon greet himt Mighty
prince, behold
Where gallant Audley, like a tempest, pours
Destruction through the thickest ranks of foes!
/'. Eihe. Oh! Chandos. with astonishment, my'eye
Hath mark'd his valiant wonder-working sword!
Come, let us kindle at the great example,
And emulate the ardour we admire! [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Ent'r KINO JOHN, DUKE OP TOURAIN, and
At'intiaws.
K. John. (Turning back.) Rally our men, my
valiant lord of Ewe,
Or we are all undone. Oh, gracious heav'n,
How has a kingdom crumbled from my grasp!
Tour. Let us preserve ourselves by timely flight,
Our broken army is dispersing. See! —
Behold the dastards how they run in thousands,
Oh. sharue! almost before a single foe.
K. John. My dear Tourain,'to what have I re-
due'd thee?
A ruin now of pomp. A royal wretch!
For thee I could weep blooa; for thee I fear
To lose a life no longer worth my care,
Stripp'd as I am of dignity and fame.
Tour. I ask of heav'n but to partake your for¬
tune :
is >r wasting on myself a single care,
I mend out all attendant on my king.
A". John. Tears will have way. Oh, majesty,
give place,
For nature governs now. Almighty Pow'rs!
Must childien an t must kingdoms suffer thus.
Tccause my pride to reason shut my ears,
When dazzled with the gilded phantom, glory ?
1 scorn'd the terms that might have bless'd ns all!
Too late—It is the curse of giddy mortals
To see their errors, and repent too late.
Enter ARCHBISHOP OF SENS.
Sens. The Dauphin, Dukes of Anjou, Berry, Or¬
leans,
Have led the way In flight! Earl Douglas follows,
Fainting with many wounds, and all his Scots
Have, like our French and the auxiliar troops,
Forsook their posts. For safety, sir, away.
A'. John. Dare not to urge itl 1 disdain the
thought
Go, like my coward sons and brother, got
Though ali desert me, singly will I stand
And (ace my foes, till, cover'd o'er with wounds,
1 gam a fate hecomiug of a king.
Enter LORD CHAltNEY, bleeding and faint.
Char. Embrace this moment as your last for
flight:
The field is lost! I have not breath for more.
BLACK PRINCE.
This honest wound came timely to my rescue,
Or I'd been curs'd to wail the dregs of life
Away in anguish. Parent earth, receive m t
(Lies dcn.it.)
This is the goal to which all nature runs,
Aud I rejoice to reach it All is lost!
My country, monarch, daughter, life, and—oh!—
CD-.es. J
K. John. Thou, Charney, hast escap'd—(A shout.)
What noise is that?
Tour. The sound of triumph. Now there is no
retreating,
For, see! they have beset us all around.
A". John. Come, then, thou darling of thy father's
soul,
We'll link our wretched fortunes here together
And if a king's example can inspire
The few yet faithful in my lost condition,
Oust fear behind, and daringly come on,
Determin'd still to conquer or to die. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—A full Prospect of the field.
Enter LORD RIBEMONT.
Rib. Ill-fated Athens, thou hast breatb'd thy
last—
But wherefore call'd I thee ill-fated? since
Death but prevented thee the curse of seeing
Our arms dishonour'd, and our country lost.
Now, sacred soul of him who gave me life,
The purpose of thy visit is explain'd.
No private evil, not a fate like mine—
That were a trivial call for thee to earth:
It was to warn me of a heavier loss—
Our diadem and fame. Ah!—I'm alone
Amidst a field of foes. Let me collect
A decent vigour, like the hunted lion,
With an assault to dignify my fall,
And not shrink, tamely, to a vulgar fate.
Enter LORD AUDLEY.
And. For England?
Rib. France—By heav'n! the gallant Audley.
Now, fortune. I forgive thy partial dealing-
For, next to victory, my wish has been
To fall by so renown'd an arm as Audlev's.
And. Brave Ribemont, I will return thy praise,
And own tliee noblest of my country's foes.
Had we been natives of one happy land.
The gen'rous semblance of our bouIb had Iinlc'd us
In friendship's dearest bonds.
Rib. But here we stand,
Determin'd champions in opposing lists,
Each in his cduntry's cause, the other's foe.
Come, for I long to try this season'd blade
Upon true metal If I conquer thee.
I take do portion of the foul disgrace
Which heav'n this day has thrown upon our arms.
But should my fortune, (as perhaps it may,!
Like my poor country's, bow the head to England,
Then, Audley, wilt thou add to thy renown,
By doing what thy king has only ddne —
Baffle the warrior he pronoune'd a brave one'
Now for determination.
Aud. Hold a moment:
Look on the field, brave Ribemont; behold
Thou hast no passage for escape left open I
Me should'st thou vanquish, from the thousands
rou-d tbee,
Captivity or death must be thy lot.
Then make not havoc of great qualities,
Nor to thy kingdom lose, through desperation,
The bravest arm and noblest heart it boasts.
Give my fond wish the power but to protect thea
Resign thy sword; I'll prove no conqueror.
EDWARD, THE
But clasp thee with a warmth of gen'rous friend¬
ship.
Rit Vudley, I thank thee; but my hour is come.
vonbul me look upon the Held; look thou.
And see the glory of my country blasted!
To lose a day like this, and to survive it,
Would be a wretchedness I'll ne'er endure.
Iso: in a nation's fate be mine involv'd:
To fall with France is now the only means
To satisfy uiy soul, and save my fame.
Aud. Oh! yet—
Rib. I'm flx'd!
Aud. Why, then, for England this.
Aid. And this for France. (They fight)
Aud. What! neither get the better?
'Tis a tough task. Again (They fight again.)
Rib. Why, valiant lord.
The balance still nods doubtful; as the pow'ra
Were undetermin'd which must yield the day.
Are our fates grown of such high consequence.
That heav'n should pause upon the great decision ?
let ns no longer worry one another,
Where can the vulnerable spot be found ?
Aud. Why there.
(They fight. Ribemont falls, and Audley is
tcoundtd.)
Rib. No, there.
Aud. We are companions still.
Rib. Inward I bleed: the streams of life run fast,
And ail-that did invigorate deserts me.
Audley, the palm of victory is thine:
1 yield, I die—but glory in my fall:
It is beneath the noblest English arm.
And that secures my fame: thy bosom now
May harbour him that is thy foe no more.
(Audley kneels, and takes him in his arms.)
Why. this it kind! thus lock'd in thy embrace,
To let a rival warrior breathe his last.
Report me truly as thy sword has found—
I know thou wilt—and, in the long hereafter,
If we can meet -I'll thank thee for't.—Farewell!
(Dies.)
Aud. Farewell, brave Ribemont; thou fearless
soldier!
Peace to thy ashes, to thy soul reward,
And honour crown thy name! A foe could weep,
■ Rut pity would disgrace a death like thine.
(Trumpets.)
... Enter PRINCE EDWARD, LORD CIIANDOS,
and At endants.
P. Edit. (Turning back.) Give instant orders to
retail our parties:
I will not hazard, by a rash pursuit,
So vast a victory! And let mv standard
Re hoisted on the highest neighb'ring tree
l'o guide our troops returning from the chase.
r.'Engiand, my Chandos, triumphs! Tor our arms
Have won the noblest field that e'er was fought!
:LAh! Audley bleeding! then must conquest mourn,
And I lament, amidst my spoils and trophies,
Lbe best of nobles, warriors aud of friends.
Aud. Faint with the loss of blood, I hope uojmore.
P. Edw. Summon assistance; all that wealth can
roach
To him who gives me but his life's assurance.
[Exit an Attendant.
^Advance that banner o'er us, Long, oh! long
lay'st thou survive to wear this well-won honour.
(He knights and embraces Audley.)
Jy bravest knight, my moBt belov'd of men,
,ead him away; repose him in his tent,
ioon as the hurr» of the field is o'er.
& 11 come in person and attcud his cura.
BLACK PRINCE. 655
Aud. There lifeless lies the arm that gave the
wound:
A braver soldier never press'd the earth.
On his remains let due distinction wait.
To dignify the dust that once was noble.
(He is led off.)
P. Edw. The valiant Ribemont t Take hence his
corpse,
And see that every solemn rite be paid;
With honours suited to his high renown,
Conduct the body to its peaceful grave.
(Ribemont is carried off.)
Chan. The field is thinn'dl And now, far off re-
mov'd,
The dying voice of tumult faintly sounds.
Like the hoarse thunder in a distant sky;
Or hollow roarings of subsiding waves,
After their couflict with a furious storm.
P. Edw. An awful horrorl The sad scene before
us.
Pompons with desolation t as declines
The glow and ardour of our martial flame,
Softens the mind to mournful meditation.
How many souls have ta'en eternal flight,
Who, hut this very moming, on the wing
Of expectation, look'd through years to come I
So have the bubbles of their hopes been broke;
So may it fare with us—And such is life!
Enter LOUISA, and fails on her knees.
Lou. Oh! mighty prince, whose matchless virtues
charm
The many realms your victories have aw'd.
Lend yonr compassion, your protection '.end
To wretched, bleeding, dying penitence.
P. Edw. What wouldst thou say?
Lou. Unhappy Mariana,
At once the victim of distressful love;
And deep remorse for treachery—,
P. Edw. Go db.
Lou. Frantic and weeping, ran o'er all the field,
Till chance directed her to Arnold's corpse.
That welt'ring lay in blood. She kiss'd it «ft,
Bath'd it with tears, tore her dishevell'd locks,
Smote her poor bosom, sobb'd, and sadly groaa'd,
Till snatching from his clay-cold hand nk sword,
She plung'd it sudden in her side 1 sunk down.
And call'd on death to lock their last embraee:
I (but too late to save hen interpos'd,
And crv'd for help—alas 1 in vain. But now,
Fluck'd by some passing soldiers from the body,
They force her, raving and reluctant, hither.
P. Edw. Oh! Chandos, what a moving sight is
here!
Enter Soldiers, forcing in MARIANA, distrac.ed
and ble ding.
Man. Off, let me go! I will not be torn from him :
Relentless monsters! Let us mingle blood,
And die together. What do I behold!
Oh! hide me. friendly earth! for ever hide me
From that offended face. (Sinks down.)
P. Edw. Look up, fair mourner.
(Kneeling by her.)
Mar. Comfort from thee? Thou injur'd godlike
hero,
Load me with curses! Stab me with reproaches—
Thy sweetness cannot! but the hand of heav'n.
That strikes for injur'd virtue, heavy falls,
And crushes me beneath it.
P. Edw. Weep not thus.
Mar. What art thou made of, heart, to bear all
this?
That grov'ling in the dust—abandon'd—
P. Edw. Nay,
Do not be so wilful—And—
^ EnWARD, THE
Mar. Indeed, great prince.
The dear departed Arnold was ensnar'd,
Seduc'd, betray'd by me. But heav'n can witness.
My only motive was bis preservation.
Danger, despair, provok'd the guilty deed,
Which horror, death, and infamy reward.
Forgive the breathless soldier that rever'd,
And servant that ador'd you, sir! On me
Heap all your indignation: scorn, detest,
Despise, and hate my memory for ever.
P. Edw. No , both have my compassion, my for¬
giveness.
Mar. Forgiveness, Baid you ? Oh! celestial sound!
Catch it, ye angels, hov'ring on the wing.
To waft me to the bar ot heav'n's high justice!
Offended virtue pities and forgives 1
Chant it aloud, and cheer with this foretaste
Of goodness infinite—my drooping—Oh I- (Dies.)
Chan. She's breathless!
P. Edw<. Heav'n, I hope, will think their ciime
Enough was punish'd by affliction here.
Lay them together.—Well my Lord of Warwick -
Enter EARL OF WARWICK.
War. I've view'd the adverse camp, as you com¬
manded :
Where all the wealth of France was sure collected,
To grace the ruin of that wretched people:
Each tent profuse! like those of Fompey's host
When on Pharsalia's plain he fought great Oresar,
And lost the world, his life, and Rome her freedom.
i'. Ldw. All-righteous heav'n 1 thy hand is here
conspicuous:
Pride and presumption finish thus their shame.
(Shout.)
Chan. 'Tis a train of pris'ners; bring hither.
Eater EARL OF SALISBURY, with Officers and
Soldiers, conducting KING JOHN, the DUKE OF
TOUitAIN, ARCHBISHOP OF SENS, andseveral
French Noblemen, prisoners.
P. Edw. Brave Salisbury, you're welcome to my
arms.
The field is ouib
Sal. And nobly was it fought!
Behold, my noble prince, how well we have ac¬
quitted
BLACK PRINCE.
The claims our adversaries made on us.
Your veteran swordsman, Sir John Pclham, sends
This royal trophy to adorn your triumph.
/-*. Edw. Most wise and valiant of all Christian
kings,
Rever'd for virtues, and renown'd in arms!
That I behold you thus, dissolves my In art
With tender feeling; while I bend the knee
In humble praise of that good Providence,
Which gives so greata victory to En eland!
For you, great monarch! let your godlike soul
Strive with adversity, and still preserve.
As well you may, your royal mind uncoDquer'd.
Fortune is partial in her distributions:
Could merit always challenge its reward.
In other lights we might this hour have stood.
Perhaps the victor you, and the captive :
Hut fear no wrong, the good should never fear it
This land, from whence my ancestors have sprung,
By me shall not be injur'd: for jourseif.
And this illustrious train of noble pris'ners,
My care shall be to treat yon as i onglit.
K. John. My gracious conqueror, and kindest
cousin,
This goodness more thaD victory renowDS you'
That I'm unfortunate is no broach,
I brav'd all dangers as became a ki%
Till by my coward subjects left and lost
P. Edw. Lead to my lent; when we are there ar-
riv'd,
Prepare a banquet with all princely pomp,
At which I'll wait, and serve my royal guests
My coble lords, and brave companions all.
I leave your praise for the wide world to sound:
Nor can the voice of fame, however leuri,
Out-speak the merit of your matchless deeds
Oh, may Britannia's sons, through every age,
As they shall read of this so great achievement,
Feel the recorded victory inspire
An emulation of our martial tire,
When future wrongs their ardour shall esrlte,
And future princes lead them forth to fight;
Till, by repeated conquests, they obtain
i A power toawo the earth, and rule the main;
I Each tyrant- fetter gloriously unbind,
And give tLe.r liberty to all mankind.
fftofi/nl.
THE CRITIC, OR, A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.
A DRAMATIC PIECE—BY RICHARD BEINSLEY SHERIDAN.
Whisk.—" Oh, hateful, liberty, if thus in vain," &c.—Act ii, scene L
Puff.
Dangle.
Lord Burleigh.
Governor of Tilbury Fort.
Earl of i eicestkr.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
persons Jl^resenfeil
Sneer.
Sir Fretful Plagiary.
CHARACTERS IN THE TRAGEDY.
Sir Christopher Hatto*.
Master of the Horse.
Beef-Eater.
Don Fekolo Wiiiskf.randos.
Prompter, Ac.
Mrs. Dangle.
Tilburina.
The Two Nieces-
Confidante.
Guards, Soldiers, &<t
ACT I,
SCENE I. MR. and MBS. DANGLE at breakfast,
and reading nmspapirs.- Dangle reading.
' Brutas to Lord North.'—' Letter the Second on
'the State of the Army.'—Psha! 'To the first L
' dash D of the A dash Y.'—' Genuine Extract of a
.'Letter from St. Kitt's.'—'Coxbeatliintelligence.'—
'It is now confidently asserted that Sir Charles
'Hardy.—Psha I—Nothing hut about, the fleet and
the nation!—and I hate all politics but theatrical—
Where's the Morning ChroP'cie?
Mrs. D. Yes, that's your Gazette.
Dun. So, here we have it.—' 7heatricalintelligence
' extraordinary.—We hear there is a new tragedy in
' rehearsal at Drury-lane theatre, called the Spanish
' Armada, said to be written by Mr. Puff, a gentle-
'man well known to the theatrical world. If we
'may allow ourselves to give credit to the report of
' the performers, who, truth to say, are in general
' but indifferent judges, this piece abounds with the
' most striking and received beauties of modern
' composition.'—So, I am very glad my friend Puff's
tragedy is in such forwardness, Mrs. Dangle, uiy
658
the critic; on. a tragedy reitearsfd.
dear, you wEl be very glt-U to hear that Puff's
tragedy—
Mrs. D. Lord! Mr. Dangle, why will you plague
me qbout such nonsense? Now the plays are
bsgan, I shall have no peace. Isn't it sufficient to
make yourself ridiculous by your passion for the
theatre, without continually teasing me to join
you? Why can't you ride your hobby horse, with¬
out desiring to place me on a pillion behind you,
Mr. Dangle ?
ban. Nay, my dear; I vis only going to read—
Mrs. D. No, no; you will never read anything
that's worth listening to: you hute to hear about
your country; there are letiers every day with
Roman signatures, demonstrating the certainty of
an invasion, and proving that the nation is utterly
undone. But you never will read unything to en¬
tertain one.
Dan. What has a woman to do with politics,
Mra Dangle?
Mrs. D. And what have you to do with the
theatre, Mr. Dangle? Why should you affect the
character of a critic ? I have no patience with
you! Haven't yon made yourself the jest of all
your acquaintance by your interference in matters
where you have no business? Are you not called
a theatrical quidnunc, and a mock Mwcenas to
secondhand authors ?
bun. True; my power with the managers is
protty notorious; but is it no credit to have appli¬
cations from all quarters for my interest ? Frunt
lords to recommend tiddlers, from ladies to get
boxes, from authors to get answers, and from
actors to get engagements?
Mrs. b. Yes, uuiy; you have contrived to get a
share in all the plague and trouble of theatrical
property, without the proilt, or men the credit of
the abuse that attends it.
Dan, I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser
by it, however; you have all the advantages of it:
mightn t you, last winter, have bad the reading of
the new pantomime a fortnight previous to its per¬
formance? And doesn't Mr. Spring let you take
places for a pluy beforo it is advertised, aud set
you down for a box for every new piece through
the season ? And didn't my friend, Mr Smatter,
dedicate his last farce to you at my particular re¬
quest, Mrs. Dangle ?
Mrs. D. Yes; but wasn't the farce damn'd, Mr
Dangle? And to be sure, it is extremely pleasant
to have one's house made the motley rendezvous
of all the lucqueys of literature : the very high
'change of trading authors and jobbing critics!
Yes, my drawing room is on absolute register-
office for candidate actors, and poets without
character. Then to be continually alarmed with
misses and ma'ams piping hysteric changes on
Juliets and Dorindas, Pollys and Ophelias; and
the very, furniture trembling at the probationary
•tarts and unprovoked rants of would-be Richards
and Hamlets! And what is worse than all, now
that the managers have monopoliz'd the opera-
bouse, haven't we the Signors and the Signoras call¬
ing here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and
gargling glib divisions in their outlandish throats;
with foreign emissaries and French spies, for
tmght I know, disguised like tiddlers and ilgure
dancers!
ban. Mercy! Mrs. Dangle!
Mrs. b. And to employ yourself so idly at such
an alarming crisis as this too, when, if you had
the least spirit, you would have been at tlio head ol
one of the Westminster ns ociations; or trailing a
volunteer ptke iu the Artillery Ground. But you—
o' my conscience, 1 believe if the French were
landed to-morrow, your first inquiry won'd be.
whether they had brought a theatrical troop with
them.
ban. Mrs. Dangle, it does not signify. I nay the
stage is'the mii'ror of nature,' and the actors are
•the abstract and brief chronicles of the time;'—
and pray what can a man of sense study better?
Besides, you will not easily persuade me tliut there
is no et euit or importance in being at the head of a
band of critics, who take upon them to decide for
the whole town, whose opinion aud patronage all
writers solicit, and whoso recommendation uo
manager dares refuse!
Mrs. b. Ridiculous! Both managers and authors
of the least merit laugh at your pretensions The
public is their critic, without whose fair approba¬
tion they know no play can rest on the s age, anil
with whose applause they welcome such attacks
as yours, and laugh at the malice of them, where
tk. y can't at the wit.
ban. Very well, madam ; very well.
Enter Servant.
Sen-. Mr. Sneer, sir, to wait on you.
- bun. O! sliew Mr. Sneer up. [Exit Servant]
ringue on't, now we must appear loving aud alitc-
tiouate, or Sneer will hitch us into a story.
Mrs. b. Witn all my heart; you can't be more
ridiculous than you are.
ban. You are enough to provoke—
Enter SNEER.
Ha! my dear Sneer, I am vastly glad to see you
My dear, here's Mr. Sneer.
Mrs. b. Good morning to yon, sir.
t)an. Mrs. Dangle and I have been diverting
ourselves with the papers. Pray. Sneer, won't you
go to Drury-lane theatre the Brst night of Pull'*
tragedy.
Sneer. Yes; but I suppose one shan't be able to
get in; for on the first night of a new piece the;
always till the house with orders to support it
But here, Dangle. 1 have brought you two pieces,
one of which you must exert yourself to make the
managers accept; 1 can tell .sou that; for 'tis
written by a person of consequence.
Dan. So; now my plagues are beginning.
Snter. Ay! I am glad of it, for now you'll bo
happy. Why, my dear Dangle, it is a pleasure to
see how you enjoy your volunteer fatigue, and
your solicited solicitations.
Dan. It's a great trouble;—yet, egad! it's plea¬
sant too. Why, sometimes of a morning, I have
n dozen people call on me at breakfast time, whose
faces 1 never saw before, nor ever desire to see
again.
Sneer. That must be very pleasant indeed!
Dan. And not a week but i receive fifty letters,
and not a line in them about any business of my
own.
S»ftr. An amusing correspondence!
Dan. (reading.). ' Bursts into tears, and exit.
What is this ? a tragedy ?
Sneer. No, that's a genteel comedy; not a trans-
laiion. only taken from the French; it is written
In a style which tin y have lately tried to run
down; the true sentimental, and nothing ridicn-
lous in ft from the liegiuning to end.
M s. D. Well, if they had kept to that. I should
not have tjeen such an enemy to the stage : then
was some edification to be got from those pieced
Mr. Mirer
Sum . 1 um quite of your opinion, Mr*. Dangle,
THE CRITIC: OB, A
tbe theatre, hi proper bands, might certainly l>e
made tbe school of morality; but now, I am sori-y
tu say it, people seem to go there principally tor
th< ir entertainment.
Mi s. b. Jt would have been more to the credit
of the managers to have kept it in the other line.
Sneer. Undoubtedly, madam; and hereafter,
perhaps, to have it recorded, that in the midst of
a luxurious and dissipated age, they preserved two
houses in the capital, where the corivei sution was
alw ys moral, at least, if not entertaining!
ban. Now, egad! t think the worst alteration
Is iu the nicety of the audience. No double en¬
tendre, no smart inuendo, admitted, even Vanbrugh
and Congreve obliged to undergo & bungling re¬
formation !
Sneer. Yes; and our prudery in this respect is
just on a par with the artificial bashfulneas of a
courtezan, who increases the blush upon her cheek
iu an exact proportion to the diminution of her
modesty.
ban. Sneer can't even give the public a good word 1
—Hut what have we here ? This seems very
odd—
Sneer. O! that's a comedy, on a very new plan ;
replete with wit and mirth, yet of a most serious
moral! You see it is called " the Reformed House¬
breaker;" where, by the mere force of humour,
housebreaking is put into so ridiculous a light,
that if the piece has its proper run, I have no doubt
but that bolts and bars will be entirely useless by
the end of the season.
ban. tgad! this is new indeed 1
Sneer. Yes; it is written by a particular friend of
mine, who has discovered that tbe follies and
fo hies of society are subjects unworthy the notice
of the comic muse, who should be taught to stoop
only at the greater vices and blacker Crimes of
humanity;—gibbeting capital offences in five acts,
and pillorying petty larcenies in two. In short,
his idea is to dramatize the penal laws, aud make
the stage a court of ease to the Old liailey.
Dan. It is truly moral
Enter Servant.
Serv. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir.
Dan. Beg him. to walk op. [Exit. Servant.] Now,
Mrs. Dangle, Sir Fretful Plagiary is an author to
your own taste.
ilrt. D. I confess he is a favourite pf mine, be¬
cause every body else abuses him.
Sneer. Very muoh to the credit of your charity,
madam, if not of your judgment.
ban. But egad! he allows no merit to any author
hut himself; that's the truth ou't;—though he's my
friend.
Sneer. Never. He is as envious as an old maid
verging on the desperation of six-and-thirty: and
then the insidious humility, with which he seduces
you to give a free opinion on any of his works, can
be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with
which he is sure to reject your observations.
ban. Very true, egad—!—though he's my friend.
Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all news¬
paper strictures; though, at the same time, he
is the sorest man alive, and shrinks like scorched
parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism;
yet he is so covetous of popularity, that he had
rather he abased than not mentioned at all.
ban. There's no denying it; - though he is my
friend. ...
Sneir. You have read the tragedy he has just
finished, havn't you?
Dan. o yes' He seu* K *o me yesterday.
RAGF.DY REHEARSE©, 65#
Sneer. Well, aud you think it execrable, don't
you V
Dan. Why, between ourselves, egad 11 most own
—though he's my fr end—that it is onu oi tne
most—lie's here 1—(Aside)—finished and admi¬
rable perform—
Sir F. t Without.) Mr. Sneer with him, did you
sa> ?
Enter SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Dan. Ah, my dear friend 1—Egad! we were just
speaking of your tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful,
admirable 1
Sneer. You neTer did anything beyond it, Sir
Fretful,—never in your life.
Sir F. You make rue extremely happy; for, with¬
out a compliment, my dear Sueer, there is'nt a man
in the world whose judgment I value as I do yours;
—and Mr. Dangle's.
Mrs. D. They are only laughing at you, Sir Fret¬
ful ; for it was but just now that—
Dan. Mrs. Dangle!—Ah! Sir Fretful, you know
Mrs. Dangle. N. friend Sneer was rallying just
now. He knows how she admires you, and—
Sir F. O Lord 1 I am sure Mr. Sneer has more
taste and sincerity then to—Ad—d double-faced
fellow! . (Aside.)
Dan. Yes, yes,—Sneer will jest, but a better
huinour'd—
Sir F. Oil know.'
Dan. He has a ready turn for ridicule, his wit
Costs him nothing.
Sir F. No, egad! or I should wonder how he came
by it. (A ide.i
Mrs D. Because his jest is always at the expense
of his friend.
Dan. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to
the managers yet V or can I be of any service to
you?
Sir F. No, no, I thank you; I believe the piece
had sufficient recommendation with it. I thauk
you, though—I sent it to the manager of Covent
Garden theatre this morning.
Snter. I should have thought now, that it might
have been cast fas the actors call it) better at Drury
Lane.
Sir. F. O lud! no-never send a play there while
I live. Hark ye !
(Whispers Sneer.)
Sneer. Writes himself! I know he does—
Si F. I say nothing; I take away from no man's
merit—am hurt at no mans good fortune. 1 say
nothing—but this I will say - through all my know¬
ledge of life, I have observed—that there is hot
a passion so strongly rooted in the humuu heart as
envy!
Sneer. I believe you have reasons for what you
say, indeed.
Sir F. Besides, I can tell you it is not always so
safe to leave a play in the hands of those who
write themselves.
Sneer. What 1 they may steal from them, eh ?
my dear Plagiary ?
Sir F. Steal! to be sure theyjmay; and egad!
serve yonr best thoughts as gipsies do stolen chil¬
dren, disfigure them to make 'em pass for tbeir
own.
Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to
Melpomene; and he, you know, never—
Sir F. That's no security. A dext'rous pla¬
giarist may .do anything. Why, sir, for aught
L know, he might take out some of the best
tilings in my tragedy, and put thetn into his own
comedy.
6GO THE CRITIC): OB, A '
Sneer. That might he done, I dare be sworn.
Sir F. And then, if such a person gives you the
least hint or assis tanee, he is deviliBh apt to take
the merit of the whole.
Dan. If it succeeds.
Sir F. Ay! but with regard to this piece, I think
i can hit that gentleman, for I can safely swear
he never read it.
Sneer. I'll tell you how you may hurt him more.
Sir F. How?
Sneer. Swear he wrote it.
Sir F. Plague on't now. Sneer; I shall take it
ill. I be'ieve you want to take away my character
as an author.
Sneer. Then I am sure you ought to he very much
obliged to me.
Sir F. Eh !—sir!
Hon. O! you know he never means what he
says.
Sir F. Sincerely then, do you Pike the piece ?
Sneer. Wonderfully!
Sir F. Hut come now, there must he something
that you think might be mended, eh ? Mr. Dangle,
has nothing struck you ?
Dan. Why faith, it is but an ungracious thing for
the most part to—
Sir F. With most authors it is just so indeed;
they t re in general strangely tenacious ; but, for
my part, I am never so well pleased as when a ju¬
dicious critic points out any defect to me; for what
is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if
you don't mean to profit by his opinion ?
Sneer. Very true. Why then, though I seriously
admire the piece upon the whole, yet there 1b one
small objection, which, if you'll give me leave, I'll
mention.
Sir F. Sir. you can't oblige me more.
Sneer, l think it wants incident.
Sir F. Good God!—you surprise me! —wants in¬
cident!
Sneer. Tes; I own I think the incidents are
loo few.
Sir F. Good God! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there
is no person for whose judgment I have a more im¬
plicit deference, but I protest to you, Mr. Sneer,
I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too
crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike
you?
Dan. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer.
I think the plot quite sufficient; and the our first
acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw
in my life. If I might venture to suggest any¬
thing, it is that the interest rather falls off in the
fifth.
Sir F. Rises, I bdieve you mean, sir.
Dan. No; I don't, upon my woid.
Sir F. Yes, yes. you do, upon my soul; it cer¬
tainly don't fall off, I assure you ; no, no, it don't
fall off.
Dan. Now, Mis. Dangle, didn't you say it struck
you in the same light ?
Mrs. D. No, iud. ed. I did not: I did not see a
fault in any part of the play, from the beginning to
the end.
Sir F. Upon my soul, the women are the best
judges after all.
Mrs. D. Or if I made any objection, I am sure it
was to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it
was, on the whole, a little too long.
Sir F Pray, madam, do you speak as to a dura¬
tion of time; or do you mean that the story is te¬
diously spun our?
Mrs. D. O lud! no. I speak only with reference
to the usual length of acting plays.
•RAGEDY REHEARSED.
Sir F. Then I am very happy,—very happy In¬
deed,—because the play is a short play, a remark¬
able short play: I should not venture to differ
with a lady on a point of taste; but, on these occa¬
sions, the watch, you know, is the cri ic.
Mrs. D. Then, I suppose, it must have beeh
Mr. Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to
me.
Sir F. 01 if Mr. Dangle read it! that's quite
another affa'r; but I assure you, Mrs. Dangle,
the first evening you can spare me three hours
and a half, I'll undertake to read you the Whole
from beginning to end. with the prologue and
epilogue, and allow time for the music between the
acts.
Mrs. D. I hope to see it on the stage next.
[Exit.
Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able
to get rid .■ is easily of the newspaper criticisms as
you do of ours.
Sir F. The newspapers'.—sir, they are the most
villarious—licentious—abominable — infernal—not
that I ever read them—no; I make it a rule never
to look into a newspaper.
Dan. You are quite right; for it certainly must
hurt an author of delicate feelings to see the liber¬
ties they take.
Sir F. No; quite the contrary : their abuse is, in
fact, the beet panegyric; I like it of all things. An
author's reputation is only in danger from their
support.
Sn-er. Why, that's true; and that attack now on
you the other day—
Sir F. What? where?
Dan. Ay ! you mean in a paper of Thursday; it
was completely ill-natured, to be sure.
Sir F. O! so much the better; ha! ha! ha!—I
wou'dn't have it otherwise.
Dan. Certainly it is only to belanghed at; for—
Sir F. You don't happen to recollect whatthl
febow said, do you ?
Sneer. Pray.- Dangle: Sir Fretiul seemB a little
anxious—
Sir F. O lud, no! anxious,—not I, - not the least
—I—but one may as well hear, you know.
Dan. Sneer, do you recollect? Make out some¬
thing. (Aside.)
Sneer. I will. (7b Dangle. Yes, yes, I remember
perfectly.
Sir F. Well, and pray now; not that it signifies;
what might the gentleman say?
Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not
the slightest invention, or original genius whatever;
though you are the greatest traducer of all other
authors living.
Sir F. Ha, ha, hal very good!
Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea
of your own. he believes, even in your common¬
place book, where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms
are kept with as much method as the ledger of the
lost and stolen office.
Sir F. Ha, ha, ha! very pleasant!
Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to
have the skill even to steal with taste:—but that
you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes,
where more judicious plagiarists have been before
you; so that the body of your work is a composi¬
tion of dregs and sediments, like a bad tavern's
worst wine.
SirF. Ha, ha!
Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your
bombast would be less intolerable, if the thoughts
were ever suited to the expression; but the home¬
liness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic
THE CRITIC; OR, A
incumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in
one of tlie new uniforms.
Sir F Ha, ha!
Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers
suit the general coarseness of your style, as tambour
6prigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey; while
your imitations of Shakspere resemble the mimicry
of Falstuff's page, and are about as near the stan¬
dard of the original
Sir F. Ha!
Sn.er. In short, that even the finest passages you
steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of
your own language prevents their assimilating; so
that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a
barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their
power to fertilize.
Sir F. (After great agitaHon.) Now, another
person would be vex'd at this.
Sneer. Oh! but I would'n't have told you, only to
divert you.
Sir F. I know it I am diverted; ha, ha, ha!—
ha! - not the least invention! ho, ha, ha! very good
— very good!
Sneer. Y es,—no genius! ha! ha! ha 1
Dan. A severe rogue! ha! ha; ha! but you
are quite right,' Sir Fretful never to read such
nonsense.
Sir F. To be sure;—for if there is anything to
one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at
it; and if it is abuse,—why one is always sure to
hear of it from some d—d good-natured friend or
other!
Enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Puff, sir, has sent word that the last
rehearsal is to be this morning, and he'll call on
you presently.
Dan. That's true: I shall certainly be at home.
[Exit Servant.] Now, Sir Fretful, if you have a mind
to have j ustice done you in the way of answer, egad!
Mr Puff's your man.
Sir F. Psha! sir, why should I wish to have it
answered, when I tell you I am pleased at it ?
Dan. True, 1 had forgotten that. But I hope you
are not fretted at what Mr. Sneer—.
Sir F. Zounds ! no, Mr. Dangle ; don't I tell you
these things never fret me in the least?
Dan. Nay, I only thought—
Sir F. And let me tell you, Mr. Dangle, 'tis
d—'d affronting in you to suppose that 1 am hurt,
when I tell you I am not.
Sneer. But why so warm, Sir Fretful ?
Sir F. Gadslife ! Mr. Sneer, you are as absurd
as Dangle; how often must I repeat it to you, that
nothing can vex me but your supposing it possible
for me to mind the damn'd nonseuse you have been
repeating to me:—and let me tell you, if you con¬
tinue to believe this, you must mean to insult me,
gentlemen; and then your disrespect will affect me
no more than the newspaper criticisms; and I
shall treat it—with exactly the same calm indiffer¬
ence and philosophic contempt;—and so, your
servant. (Exit.
Sneer. Ha, ha, ha! poor sir Fretful! Now will
be go and vent his philosophy in anonymous abuse
of all modern critics and authors. But, Dangle,
you must get your friend Puff to take me to the re¬
hearsal of his tragedy.
Dan. I'll answer for't, he'll thank yon for desir¬
ing it.
Smer. I am at yonr disposal the whole morning.
Dan. I'faith, Sneer, though, I am afraid we were
a little too severe on Sir FreUul; though he is my
friend.
fRAGEDT REHEARSED. Ml
Sneer. Why, 'tis certain, that unnecessarily to
mortify the vanity of any writer, is a cruelty which
mere dulness never can deserve; but where a base
and personal malignity usurps the place of literary
emulation, the aggressor deserves neither quarter
nor pity.
Dan. That's true, egadt though he's my friend
Re-enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Puff, sir. [Exit.
Dan. My dear Puff!
Enter PUFF.
Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you?
Dan. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr.
Puff to you.
Puff. Mr. Sneer is this ? Sir, be is a gentleman
whom I have long panted for the honour of know¬
ing; a gentleman whose critical talents and trans¬
cendent judgment—
Sneer. Dear sir —
Dan. Nay, don't be modest. Sneer; my friend
Puff only talks to you in the style of his profes¬
sion.
Sneer. His profession!
Puff. Yes, sir; I make no secret of the trade I
follow, among friends aud brother authors.
Dangle knows I love to be frank on the subject,
and to advertise myself viva vwe. 1 am, sir, a prac¬
titioner in panegyric; or, to speak more plainly, a
professor of the art of puffing, at your service, or
anybody else's.
Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging. I believe, Mr.
Puff, I have often admired your talents in the daily
prints.
Puff. Yes, sir; I flatter myself I do as much
business in that way, as any six of the fraternity in
town. Devilish hard work all the summer, friend
Dangle! Never worked harder! But, harkye!—
the winter managers were a little sore, I believe.
Dan. No: I believe they took it all in good part.
Puff. Ay!—then that must have been affecta¬
tion in them; for, egad! there were some of the
attacks which there was no laughing at!
Sneer. Ay! the humorous ones; but I should
th ink, Mr. Puff, that authors would in general be
able to do this sort of work for themselves.
Puff. Why, yes; but in a clumsy way. Besides,
we look on that as an encroachment, and so take
the opposite side. 1 dare say, now, you conceive
half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements
you see, to be written by the parties concerned, or
their friends? No such thing: nine out of ten,
manufactured by me in the way of busiuess.
Sneer. Indeed!
Puff. Even the auctioneers now—the auctioneers,
I say, though the rogues have lately got some cre¬
dit for their language—not an article of the merit
theirs! Take them out of their pulpits, and they
are as dull aB catalogues! No, sir; 'twas 1 first
enriched their style; 'twas I first taught them to
crowd their advertisements with panegyrical su¬
perlatives, each epithet rising above the other—
like the bidders in their own auction-rooms I From
me they learned to inlay their phraseology with
variegated chips of exotic metaphor:—by me, too,
their inventive faculties were called forth. Yes,
sir, by me they were instructed to clothe ideal walls
with gratuitous fruits; to insinuate obsequious
rivulets into visionary groves; to teach courteous
shrubs to nod their approbation of the grateful soil;
or, on emergencies, to raise upstart oaks, where
there never had been an acorn; to create a delight¬
ful vicinage without the assistance oi a neighbour;
86-' THE CRITIC; OB, A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.
cr Ox tho temple of Hygeia in the fens of Lincoln- , and your confession, if published, mi?ht <^r»nirly
Shire! I serve the cause of true charity, by re^W.tlie
in. I am sure yon have done them infinite ; most useful channels of appeal to hene
ice; for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he j the cant of imposition. _ Bnt sure y, • ■
"s house with some credit. there is no great mystery tu your p P
ice! If they had any gratitude, they | sion? •„ ,.v.™nn metam
a statue to him; they would figure i Puff. Mystery! Sir, I „JLated. nor re'
- - - ■ I the matter was never scientifically t tea tea, nor re-
duced te rule before.
' Sneer. Reduced to rule ?
ban.
service
parts with his house with some credit
Sneer. Service
would erect
him as a presiding Mercury, the god of traffic and
fiction, with a hammer in his hand instead of a
caducous. But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you
on exercising your talents in this way ?
Puff. Egad! sir, sheer necessity — the proper
pareut of an art so nearly allied to invention. You
must know, Mr. Sneer, that from the first time I
tried mv hand at an advertisement my success was
such, that for some time after, I led a most ex¬
traordinary life indeed!
Sneer. How, pray?
Puff. Sir. I supported myself two years entirely
by mv misfortunes.
Sneer. By > our misfortunes?
Puff Yes, sir; assisted by a long sickness, and
other occasional disorders; and a very comfortable
living I had of it
practised as a doctor and attorney at once ?
Puff. Ho, egad! both maladieB and miseries were
my own.
Sneer. Eh! what the plague!
ban. 'Tis true, i'faith.
Puff. Harltye! — By advertisements —' To the
•charitable and humane!' and 'To those whom
' Providence hath blessed with affluence!'
Sneer. Oh 1 I understand you.
Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got; for I
suppose never man went through such a series
of calamities in the same space of time 1 Sir, I was
five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a
state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable mis¬
fortunes'. Then, sir, though a very industrious
tradesman, I was twice burnt out, and lost my
little all, both times! I lived upon those fires a
month. I soon after was confined by a most ex¬
cruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs!
That told very well; for I had the case strongly
attested, and went about to collect tbe subscriptions
inyself.
bun. Egad! I believe that was when you first
ealled on me—
Puff, in November last? Ono! I was at that
time a close prisoner in Che Ma-rshalsea. for a debt
benevolently contracted to serve a frind. 1 was
afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which de¬
cline! into a very profitable consumption. 1 was
then reduced to—O no i then became a widow
with six help! ss children.—after having bad eleven
husbands pressed, and being left every time eight
months gone with child, eud without mouey to get
nie into an hospital.
Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make no
doubt ?
Puff. Why, yes, though I made some occasional
attempts at/Wo de se; but as I did not tiud those
rash actions answer, ITeft off killing myself very
soon. Weil, sir, at last, what with bankruptcies,
fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other
valuable calamities, having got together a pretty
J'uff 't> lud, sir! you are very ignorant. I am
'raid Yes, sir; puffing is of various sorts: the
principal are, the puff direct—the puff preliminary
afraid. Yes, sir;
incipal are, the . .
the puff collateral—the puff collusive, and the
puff oblique, or puff by implication. These all
assume, as circumstances require, the various
forms of 'let'er to the editor'—'occasional tin- c-
dote'-'impartial critiqueobservation from a
correspondent' — or ' advertisement from the
partv.'
Sneer. The puff direct I can conceive—
puff. O yes. that's simple euotvJi. For instance;
a new comedy or farce is to be produced at one of
, the theatres, tthough by-the-by they don't briug
Sneer. From sickness and misfortunes! Yon 1 out half what tliey ought to do.) The author sup-
' pose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper, or any particular
friend of miDe. Very well! the day before it is to
be performed, I write an account of the manner in
which it was received. I have the plot from the 1
author, and only add—-Characters strongly drawn—
highly coloured—hand of a master - fund of genuine
humour-mine of invention—neat dialogue—attic
salt! Then for the performance—Mr. Llodd was
astonishingly great in the character of Sir Harry;
that universal and judicious actor, Mr. Palmer,
perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in
the Colonel; but it is not in the power of language
to do justice to Mr. King; indeed, be more than
merited those repeated bursts of applause which
he drew from a most brilliant and judicious audi¬
ence! As to the scenery— the niiracuiouB powers
of Mr. De Loutherbourg's pencil are universally
acknowledged. In short, we are at a Iobs which
to admire the most,—the unrivalled genius of the
author, the great attention and liberality of the
managers, the wonderful abilities of the painter,
or the incredible exertions of all the perfor¬
mers:'
Sneer. That's pretty well, indeed, sir.
Puff. O cool—quite cool—to what I sometimes
do.
Sneer. And do yon think there are any who are
influenced by this ?
Puff, u, lud! yes, sir;—the number of those who
undergo the fatigue of judging for themselves is
very small indeed!
Sne-r. Well, sir,—the puff preliminary ?
Puff. O thai sir, does well in the form of a cau¬
tion. In a matter of gallantry now: Sir Flimsy
Gossamer wishes to bo well with Lady Fanny
Fete. He applies to me: I open trenches^for him
with a paragraph in the Morning Post. ' it is re¬
commended to the beautiful and accomplished Lady
F. four stars F dash E, to be on her guard agsius*
that dangerous character, Sir F dash G; who
however pleasing and insinuating his manners
may be, is certainly not remarkable for the con-
handsome sum, I determined to quit a business 1 Man y of his attachments!'—in italics Here you
which had always gone rather against my con- sec, Sir Flimsy Gossamer is introduced to the twr-
science, and in amore liberal waystill to indulge my tieular notice of Lady Fanny; who perhaDs never
talents for fiction and embellishment, through my thought of him before: - she finds herself mibliclv
favourable channels of diurnal communication ; and cautioned to avoid him, which naturally makes
ao, sir, you have my history. her desirous of seeing him; the observation of
&nt»r. Moat obligingly communicative indeed; their acquaintance causes a ptetty kind of mutual
THE Crime $ OB, A TRAGEDY BEHEABSEt).
embarrassment, this produces ft sort of sympathy
of interest; which, if Sir Flimsy is unable to im¬
prove effectually, he at least gains the credit of
having their names mentioned together, by a par-
t culor set, and in a particular way; which, nine
times out of ten, is the full accomplishment of
modern gallantry.
Man. Egad! Sneer, you will be quite an adept in
the business.
i'aff. Now, sir, the puff collateral is much used
as an appendage to advertisements, and may take
the form of anecdote, 'yesterday, as the cele¬
brated George Bon-Mot was sauntering down St
James's Street, he met the lively tody Mary
Myrtle, coming out of the Park. ' Good God 1
'Laily Mary! I am surprised to meet you in ft
' white jacket; for I expected never to have seen
' you, but in a full trimmed uniform, and a light
'horseman's cap!' 'Heavens! George, where
could you have learned that ?' ' Why,' replied the
wit' I just saw a print of you, in a new publica-
' lion, Called the Camp Magusiue, which, by-the-by,
• is a devilish clever tning; and is soldat No. 3, on
•the right hand of the way, two doors from the
• printing-office, the comer of ivy Lane, Paternoster
•liow, price only one shilling.'
.Sneer. Very ingenious indeed.
p.iff. But the puff collusive is the newest of any;
for it acts in the disguise of determined hostility.
It is much used by bold booksellers and enterpris¬
ing poets. ' An indignant correspondent observes,
that the new poem, called Beelzebub's Cotillion, or
Proserpine's Fete Chanipetre, is one of the most
unju8titiable performances he ever read- The se¬
verity with which certain characters are bandied,
is quite shocking; and as there are many descrip¬
tions in it too warmly coloured for female delicacy,
tlie shameful avidity with which this piece is bought
by all people of fashion, is a reproach on the taste
of the times, and a disgrace to the delicacy of the
age !' Here you see the two strongest inducements
are held forthfirst, that nobody ought to read it;
and secondly, that every body buys it; on the
etl ength of which, the pnblisher boldly prints the
tenth edition, before he had sold ten of the first;
Bud then establishes it by threatening himself with
the pillory, or absolutely indicting himself for icon,
mag. I
Man. Ha, ha, hft!—'gad I know it is so.
Puff. As to the puff qblique, or puff by implica¬
tion, it is too various and extensive to be illustrated
by an instance; it attracts in titles and presumes
in patents; it lurks in the limitation of a subscrip¬
tion, and invites in the assurance of crowd and in-
couimodation at public places; it delights to draw
forth concealed merit, with a most disinterested
assiduity: and sometimes wears a countenance of
emiliDg censure and tender reproach, it has a
wonderful memory for pariiamentry debates, and
will often give the whole speech of a favoured
member with the most flattering accuracy. But,
above all, it is a great dealer in reports and suppo¬
sitions. It has the earliest intelligence of intended
preferments that wiii reflect honour on the patrons;
and embryo promotions of modest ge tlemen,—
who know nothing of the matter themselves. It
can hint a riband for implied services, in the air
of ft common report; and with the carelessness of
a casual paragraph, suggest officers into commands,
—to which they have no pretension but their
wishes. This, sir, is the last, principal class of the
art of puffing,—an art, which I hope you will now
agree with me, is of the highest dignity;- yielding
a tablature of benevolence and public spirit; be-
668
friending, equally, trade, gallantry, criticism, and
politics; the applause of geniuB; the register of
charity; the triumph of heroism; the self-defence
of contractors; the fame of orators: and the
gazette of ministers.
Sneer. Sir, 1 am completely a convert both to
the importance and ingenuity of your profession ;
and now. air, there is but one thing which can
posaibly increase my respect for you, and that ia,
your permitting me to be present this morning at
the rehearsal of yoy new trage—
Puff. Hush ! for heaven's sake. My tragedy!
Egad! Dangle, I take this very ill; you know
how apprehensive I am of being known to be the
anther.
Dan. I'faithl I would not have told; but it's in
the papers, and your name at length,—in the Morn¬
ing Chronicle.
Puff. Ah! those d—d editors never can keep a
secret!—Well, Mr. Sneer, no doubt you will do me
great honour—I shall be infinitely happy;—highly
flattered.
Dan. I believe it must be near tho timeshall
we go together?
Puff. No: it will not be yet this hour, for they
are always late at that theatre: besides, I must
meet you there, for I have some little matters here
to send to the papers, and a few paragraphs to
scribble before I go. (Looking at memorandums.)
Here is ' a conscientuous baker, on the subject of
' the army bread;' and ' a detester of visible brick-
' work, in favour of the new invented stucco;
both in the style of Junius, and promised for to¬
morrow. The Thames navigation too is at a stand.
Miso mud or Anti-shoal must go to work again di¬
rectly. Here, too, are some political memorandums
I see; ay, to take Paul Jones, and get the India-
men out of the Shannon-reinforce Byron—eompel
the Dutch to—so!—I must do that in the evening
papers, or reserve it for the Morning Herald; for I
know that I have undertaken to-morrow, besides/
to establish the unanimity of the fleet in the Public
Advertiser, and to shoot Charles Fox in the
Morning Post — So, egadl I ha'n't a moment to
lose!
Dan. Well 1—we'll meet in the green-room.
(Exeunt.
ACT IL
SCENE L—The Theatre. Enter DANGLE, PUFF,
and SN EEIt, as before the curtain.
Puff. No, no, sir; what Shakspere says of actors
may bo better applied to the purpose of piuys
they ought to ' be the abstract and brief chronicles
of the times.' Therefore, when history, and par¬
ticularly the history of our own country, furnishes
anything like a case in point, to the time in which
an author writes, if he knowB his own interest, ho
will take advantage of it; so, sir, I call my tragedy
' The Spanish Armada;' and have laid the scene
before Tilbury Fort.
Sneer. A most happy thought, certainly.
Dan. Egad! it was;—I told you so. But pray
now—I don't understand how you have contrived
to introduce any love into it
Puff. Lovel Oh! nothing so easy: for it is a
received point among poets, that where history
gives you a good heroic outline for a play, you may
till up with a little love at your own discretion: in
doing which, nine times out of ten, you only make
uji a deficiency in the private history of the times.
Now I rather think I have done this with some
success.
6^4 THE CRITIC; OR. A 1
Sneer. No scandal aboat Queen Elizabeth, I
tope ?
Puff O lud! no no. I only suppose the govern-
nor of Tilbury Fort's daughter to be in love with
the son of the Spanish admiral.
Sneer. Oh 1 is that all ?
Dan. Excellent, i'faith! I see it at once. But
won't this appear rather improbable?
Duff. To be sure it will. But what the plaguel
a play is hot to shew occurrences that happen every
dey, "but things just so strange, that though they
never did. they might happen.
Sneer. Certainly, nothing is unnatural that is not
physically impossible,
Puff. Very true; and for that matter, Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos—for that's the lover's name -might
have been over hpre in the train of the Spanish
ambassador: or Tilburina,—for that is the lady's
name-mi ht have been in love with him, from
having heard his character, or seen his picture;
or from knowing that be was the last man in the
world, she ought to be in love with or for any
ether good female reason. However, sir, the fact
is. that though she is but a knight's daughter, egadl
she is in love like any princess!
Dan. Poot voung lady; I feel for her already!
for 1 can conceive how great the conflict must be
between her passion and her duty; her love for
her country, and her love for Don Ferolo Whis¬
kerandos!
Puff. O amazing! Her poor susceptible heart
is swayed to and fro by contending passions,
like—
Enter Under Prompter.
Under P. Sir, the scene is set, and every thing is
ready to begin, if you please.
Puff. Egad! then we'll lose no time.
Under P. Though I believe, sir, you will find it-
very short, for all the performers have profited by
the kind permission you granted them.
Puff. Eh! what!
Ui'u/er P. You know, sir, you gave them leave
to out out or omit whatever they found heavy or
unnecessary to the plot: and I must own they have
taken very 1 berai advantage of your indulgence.
Puff. Well, well. They are in general very good
judges; and I know I am luxuriant. Now, Mr.
Ho) kins, as soon as you please.
Under P. (To the music.) Gentlemen, will you
play a few bars of something, just to
Puff. Ay, that's right:—for we have the scenes
and dresses, egad! we'll go to't, as if it was the
flvst nieht's performance; but you need not mind
stopping between the acta [Exit Under Promptor.
Orchestra plays.—Then the bell rings.} So! stand
clear, gentlemen. Now you know there will be a
cry of down! down!—hats off!—silence!—Then
up curtain, and let us see what our painters have
done for us. (The curtain rises, and discovers Tilbury
Fort.—Two sentinels asleep.)
Dan. Tilbury Fort! Very fine indeed I
Puff. Now, what do you think I open with?
Sneer. Fait.h! I can't guess.
Puff. A clock. Hark! (Clockstrikes.) I open with
a clock striking, to beget an awtul attention in the
audience; it also marks the time, which is four
o'clock in the morning, and saves a description of
the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the
eastern hemisphere.
Dan. But pray, are the sentinels to he asleep ?
Puff. Fast as watchmen.
Sneer. Isn't that odd, though, at each an alarm¬
ing crisis? (
RAGEDY REHEARSED.
Puff. To be sure it is; but smaller things must
give way to a striking scene at tbe opening; that's
a rule. And the case is, that two great men are
coming to this very spot to begin the piece; now,
it is not to be supposed they would open their lip^
if these fellows were watching.them; so, egad! [
must either have them sent off their posts, or set
them asleep.
Sneer. O. that accounts for it! But tell us, who
arc these coming ?
Puff. These are they,—Sir Walter Raleigh. and
Sir Christopher Hatton. You'll know Sir Christo¬
pher, by his turning ont his toes; famous, you
know, for his dancing. I like to preserve all the
little traits of character. Now attend. (Dauyle and
Sn,erseat (hemseDes.)
Enter SIR WALTER RALEIGH and SIB CHRIS-
TOPHER HATTON.
'SirC. True, gallant Raleigh!'—
Dan. What! they bad been talking before?
Puff. O, yes; all the way as they came alot g —I
beg pardon, gentlemen, (to the Actors,) but ntese
are particular friends of mine, whose remarks may
be of great service to us. Don't mind interrupting
them whenever anything strikes you. (To Sneir
and Dangle.)
' Sir C. True, gallant Raleigh!
' But O, thou champion ot thy country's fame,
' There is a quest'on which I vet must ask;
' A question, which I never ask'd before;—
'What mean these mighty armaments?
'This general muster? And this throng of chiefs?'
Sneer Pray, Mr. Puff, how came Sir Christopher
Hatton never to ask that question before ?
Puff. What, before the play began? How tits
plague could he ?
Dan. That's true, i'faith!
Puff. But you will hear what be thinks of 'he
matter.
'SirC. Alas! my noble friend; wben I behold
' You teuteu plains in martial symmetry
'Array'd; when I count o'er yon glittering lines
•Of crested warriors, where the proud steoas
neigh,
' And valour-breathing trumpet's shrill appeal
' Responsive vibrates on my list'ning ear;
' When virgin majesty herself I view,
'Like her protecting Pallas veil'd in steel,
' With graceful confidence exhort to arms;
'When, briefly, all I hear or see bears stamp
'Of martial vigilance, and stern defence,
' I cannot but surmise—Forgive, my friend,
' Jf the conjecture's rash:—I cannot but
' turmise. tbe state some danger apprehends!'
Sneer. A very cautious conjecture that.
Puff, Yes, that's his character; not to give as
opinion, but on secure grounds; now then.
'Sir IF. O, most accomplished Christopher!'
Puff. He calls him by his christian name, to shew
that they are on the most familiar terms.
' Sir W. O most accomplisb'd Christopher, I find
'Thy staunch sagacity still tracks the future,
' In the fresh print of the o'ertaken past'
Puff. Figurative!
' Sir IF. Thy fears are just
•Sir C. But where,—whence, —when.—end what
•The clanger is,—methinks, 1 fain would learn.
'Sir 11'. You know, my friend, scarce two re-
' vol ving suns,
'And three revolving moons, bave clos'd their
'course,
'Since haughty Philip, in despite of peace.
THE CRITIC; OR, A
With hostile hand hath struck at England's trade.
' Sir C. I know it well,
' Sir If. Philip, you know, is proud Iberia's king!
'■Sir C. He is.
' Sir If. His subjects in base bigotry
'And Catholic oppression held,—while we,
'You know, the Protestant persuasion hold,
' Sir C. We do.
' Sir If. You know beside,—his boasted arma-
• ment,
• The fam'd Armada,—by the Pope baptiz'd,
• With purpose to invade these realms—
• Sir C. Is failed;
Our last advices so report
' Sir If. While the Iberian admiral's chief hope,
' His darling son—
' Sir C. Ferolo Whislterandos hight—
'Sir IF. The same;—by chance a pris'ner hath
' been ta'en,
'And in this fort of Tilbury—
' Sir C. Is now
•Confln'd—'tis true, and oft from
• top
'I've mark'd the youthful Spaniard's naughty
'mien
• Unconquer'd, tho' in chains.
' Sir If. You also know—
Dan. Mr. Puff, as he knows all this, why does
Sir Walter go on telling him?
Puff. But the audience are not supposed to know
anything of the matter, are they ?
Sneer. True; but I think you manage ill: for
there certainly appears no reason why Sir Walter
should be so communicative.
Puff. Fore gad! now, this is one of the most un¬
grateful observations I ever heard; for the less in¬
ducement he has to tell all this, the more I think
you ought to be obliged to him; for I am sure you'd
1 know nothing of the matter without it
Dan. That's very true, upon my word.
Puff. But you will find he was not going on.
' 'Sir C. Enough, enough,—'tis plain,—and I no
4 more
Am in amazement lost!'
Puff. Here, now, you see, Sir Christopher did
Snot, in fact, ask any one question for his own infor-
snaation.
Sneer. No, indeed: his has been m- most disin-
»to rested curiosity.
Dan. Really, I find, we are very much obliged to
them both.
Puff. To be sure you are. Now, then, for the
sommander-in-chief, the Earl of Leicester; who,
i| you know, was no favourite but of the queen's.
We left off—4 in amazement lost! —
i Sir C. Am in amazement lost.—
But, see where noble Leicester comes 1 supreme
r;' In honours and command,
' Sir If, And yet, methinks,
)j!t At such a time, so perilous, so fear'd,
. That staff might well become an abler grasp.
% 'Sir C .And so by heav'n 1 think I; but
j/J- sot:
He's here!
■yis Ay! they envy him.
g. Surer. But who are those with him ?
Puff. O! very valiant knights; one is the go
remor of the fort, the other the master of the
torse. ^Lnd now I think yon shall hear some
.[fetter language: I was obliged to be plain and
suit atelligible in the first scene, because there was so
jinouch matter-of-fact in it; but now i'faith! you
ave trope, figure, and metaphor, as plentiful as
d fsoun-substantivea.
'RAGEDY REHEARSED. 665
Enter EARL OF LEICESTER, Governor, and
others.
'Leic. How's this, my friends! is't thus your new-
' fledg'd zeal
' And plumed valour moulds in roosted sloth ?
' Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame,
' Whose redd'ning blaze by patriot spirit fed,
' Should be the beacon of a kindling realm 1
4 Can the quick current of a patriot heart,
' Thus stagnate in a cold and weedy converse,
'Or freezb in tideless inactivity?
' No! rather let the fountain of your valour
' Spring thro' each stream of enterprise,
' Each petty channel of conducive daring,
' Till the full toraent of your foaming wrath
' O'erwhelm the flats of sunk hostility!'
Puff. There it is,—follow'd up 1
'Sir If, No morel The fresh'ning breath of thy
' rebuke
' Hath flU'd the swelling canvas of our souls!
' And thus, tho' fate Bhould cut the cable of
{All take hands.)
'Our topmost hopes, in friendship's closing line
' We'll grapple with despair, and if we fall,
'We'll fall in glory's wake!
' Leic. There spoke Old England's genius 1
'Then, are we all reeolv'd?
'All. We are;—all resolv'd—
• Leic. To conquer,—or be free I
• All. To conquer,—or be free.
'Leic. All?
'All. All!'
Dan. Hem. con. egad!
Puff. O yes, where they do agree on the stage,
their unanimity is wonderful!
' Leic. Then, let's embrace;—and
'Now'—
Sneer. What the plague! is he going to pray ?
Puff. Yes, hush!—in great emergencies, there is
nothing like a prayer.
'Leic. O mighty Mars!' (Eneelsj
Dan. But why should he pray to Man ?
Puff. Hush!
' Lcic. If in thy homage bred,
'Each point of discipline I've still observ'd;
'Nor but by due promotion, and the right
' Of service, to the rank of major-general
' Have ris'n; assist thy votary now 1
' Go>\ Yet do not rise, hear me! 1
' Mas. of H. And me 1 (
'Knight. And me! > (They all kneel.)
' Sir If. And me J j
' Sir C. And me!' J
Puff. Now, pray altogether.
'AH. Behold thy votaries submissive beg,
' That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask;
* Assist them to accomplish all their ends,
' And sanctify whatever means they use
'Togain them!'
Sneer. A very orthodox quintefto t r
Puff. Vastly well, gentlemen. Is that well
managed or not ? Have you such a prayer as that
on the stage ?
Sneer. Not exactly.
Leic. (To Puff.) But sir, you hav'n't settled how
we are to get off here.
Puff. You could not go off kneeling, conld you?
Sir If. (To Puff.) O no, sir! impossible!
Puff. It would have a good effect i'faith, if you
could! 'Exeunt praying!' Yes, and would vary
the established mode of springing off with a glance
at the pit
THE CELTIC; OR, A. TRAGEDY REHEARSED
61 >
Saeer. O never mind, bo as you get them off, I'll
answer for it the uudiecce won't care how.
Puff. Well then, repeat the last line standing,
anil go off the old way.
•A.L And sanctify whatever means they use to
gain them.' |Exeunt.
Van. Bravo! a fine exit.
Sneer. Well, really, Mr. Puff—
1'uff. Stay a moment (The Sentinel* get up.)
' la', ten. All tnis shall to Lord Burleigh's ear."
' '2nd. t'en. 'Tig meet it should.
f Exeunt Sentinels,
ban. Eh!—why, I thought these fellows had
been asleep?
I'uff. Only a pretence: there's the art of it. They
were spieB of Lord Burleigh's.
Sneer. But isn't it odd, they were never taken
notiee of, not even by the commander-in-chief ?
Puff. 0 lud! sir, if people who want to listen,
or overhear, were not always conniv'd at in a
tragedy, there would be no carrying on any plot in
the world.
Van. That's certain.
Puff. But take care, my dear DaDgle. the morn¬
ing gun is going to fire. (Cannon fires.)
Van. Well, that will have a fine effect.
Puff. I think so, and helps to realize the scene.
(Cannon twice.)—What the plague! three morning
guns! There never is but one. Ay! this is always
the way at the theatre. Give these fellows a good
thing, and they never know when to have done
with it. Yon have no more cannon to fire?
Prom. (Fr en withm.) No, sir.
Puff. Now ;hen, for soft music.
Sneer. Pray what's that for?
Puff. It shews that Tilburina is coming; nothing
introduces you a heroine like soft music. Here
she comes.
Van. And her confidante, I suppose ?
Puff. To be sure: here they are;—inconsolable,
to the minuet in Ariadne! (Soft music.)
Enter TILBURINA and Confidante.
'Til. Now has the whispering breath of gentle
morn
•Bad nature's voice, and nature's beauty rise;
' While orient Phoebus with unborrow'd hu.-s,
'Clothes the wak'd loveliness which all night
slept,
'In heav'nly drapery! Darkness is fled.
•Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun.
' And blushing, kiss the beam he sends to wake
them,
' The strip'd carnation, and the guarded rose,
' The vulgar wullflow'r, and smart gilly flower,
' The polyanthus mean,—the dapper daisy,
'Sweet william and sweet marjoram,—and all
' The tribe of single and of double pinks!
'Now, too, the feather'd warblers tune tueii
notes
'Around to charm the list'niug grove The
lark!
'The linnet! chaffinch! bullfinch! goldfinch!
greenfinch!
' —But, O to me, no joy can they afford !
'Nor rose, nor wullflow'r, nor smart gilly¬
flower,
'Nor polyanthus mean, nor dapper daisy,
' Nor william sweet, nor u arjorani,—nor Inrk,
•Linnet, uur all the' finches of the grove !'
Puff. Your white handkerchief, madam.—
Til. I thought, sir, 1 wasn' to use that'iid 'heart¬
-rending woe." I
Puff'. O .vs. madam. At 'the tlnchee of the
grove,' if you pusaow )
' Til. N or lark,
Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove I'
(Werpi.)
Puff. Vastly well, madam!
Van. Vastly well, indeed 1
'Til, For, O too eure, heart-rending woe it
now
'The lot of wretched Tilburinaf
Van. O!—'tis too much.
Sneer. Oh! It is, indeed.
'Con. Be comforted, sweet lady, tor who
knows
'But beav'n has yet some milk-white day >n
store?
'Til. Alas! my gentle Nora.
' Thy tender youth as yet hath never mourn'd
'Love's fatal dart. Liso would'st thou know, thai
when
The soul is sunk in comfortless despair,
It cannot taste of merriment.'
Van. That's certain.
' Con. But see where yosr stern father comes;
' It is not meet that he should find you thus.'
Puff. Eh! what the plague! - what a cut is here!
Why, what is become of the description of her first
meeting with Don Whiskeraudos ? His gallant
behaviour in the sea-fight, and the smile of ilie
canary bird ?
Til. Indeed, sir, you'll find they will not be
miss'd.
Puff. Very well—Very well!
Til. The cue, ma'am, if you please.
'Con. It is not meet that he should find you
thus.
' Til. Thou counsell'st right, but 'tis no easy
task,
• For bare-faced grief to wear a mask of joy.
Enier Governor.
'Gov. How's this? In tears? O Tilburw
shame!
' Is this a time for maudlin tenderness,
' And Cupid's baby woes? Hast thou not heard
' That haughty Spain's Pope-consecrated fleet
'Advances to our shores, while England's fate,
'Like a clipp'd guinea, trembles in the scale!
' Til. Then, is the crisis of my fate at hand!
'I see the fleet's approach!—i see— '
Puff Now, pray, gentlemen, mind. This is ona
of the most useful figures we tragedy writers have,
by which a hero or heroine, in consideration of
their being often obliged to overlook things thai
are on the stage, is allow'd to hear and see a num¬
ber of things that are not.
Sneer. Yes; a kind of poetical second-sight
Puff. Yes. Now then, madam.
' Til. I see their decks
'Are clear'd!—I see the signal made!
'The line is form'd!—a cable's length asunder!
' I see the frigates statiou'd in the rear;
' And now, I hear the thunder of the guns!
'I hear the victor's shouts;—I also hear
' The vanquish'd groan!—and now 'tis smoke:—sad
now
' I see the loose sails shiver in the wind!
' I see—I see—what soon you'll sre—
' Gov. Hold, daughter! peace! thk love hall
' turn'd thy brain:
'The Spanish llrct thou canst not see—because
• —It is not yet in sirht!'
Dan. Egad! though, the governor Moua t
make mo allowance for ibis poeiicul figure youaS
at.
THE ORIPV; OR. A T
Puff. No, a plain matter-of-fact man;—that's
bis cuaructer.
' Tit. Hat will you then refuse his offer?
' Guv. I must -1 will t can —I ought -1 dot
' HI. Think what a noble price.
' Go . No more; - yon urge in vain.
' Til. His liberty is all he asks.'
.Wee. All who asks, Mr. i'uff? Who is—
Puff. Egad, sir, I can't tell! Here has beeusueh
cutting and slashing, 1 don t know where they have
got to myself.
Til. indeed, sir, you will Und it will connect very
well.
* —And your reward secure."
Puff. O,—if tney hadn't been so devilish free
with their cutting here, you would have found that
Don Whiskerandos has been tampering for his
liberty, and has persuaded Tilhurina to make tiiis
proposal to her father;—and now, pray observe
the conciseness with which the argument is con¬
ducted. Egad! the pro and con goes as smart as
hits in a feue ng match. t is, indeed, a sort of
small-sword logic, which we have borrowed from
the French.
' Til. A retreat in spuin'
* Gov. t in tin wry here 1
' Til. Your daughter's prayer!
Go-. Your father s oath 1
Til. My lover!
'(<'or. My country!
'Til. Tilburina!
'Gov. England 1
' Til. A title ;
'6'or. Honour!
' TIL A pension!
'Gov. Conscience 1
' Til. A thousand pounds!
'Gov. Ha! thou hast touched me nearly!
I'uff. There, you see: she threw in Tilhurina,
quick, parry carte with Euglaud!—Hah! thrust in
tierce a title parried by honour.—Hah ! a pension
over the arm!—put by consc ence. Then flank-
ouade with a thousand pounds — and a palpable
hit, egad!
' Til. Canst thou—
'Reject the suppliant, and the daughter too?
'Gov. No more; i would not hear thee plead in
vain:
'The father softens, but the governor
'la llxdl'
[Exit.
Don. Ay, that antithesis of persons is a most
established figure,
' Til. 'Tis well,—hence then, fond hopes,
' fond passion, hence;
'Duty, behold, I am all over thine—
' Wnisk. (Without.) Where is my l»ve—my—
'TV.'Ha!
piter DON WHISKERANDOS. q
' Whist. My beauteous enemy!—'
I'uff. 0, dear ma'am, you must start a, great
dettl more than that; consider, yon had just de¬
termined in favour of duty,—when, in a moment,
the sound of his voice revives your passion,—
overthrows your resolution destroys your obodi-
ence. if you don't express all that in your start,
you do nothing at all.
TV. Well, we'll try again!
{They repeat.)
Dan Speaking from within has always a hue
effect.
Snt.r Very.
RAG EOT REHEARSED. 657
' WVitii. My conquering Tilburina I Bowl is';
thus
'We meet? Why are thy looks averse! What
' means
'That falling tear, -that frown of boding woe?
' Ha! now iudeed I am a prisoner 1
'Yes, now 1 feel the galling weight of these
' Disgraceful chains, —which, cruel Tilburina!
' Thy douting captive gloiied in before.
' Hut thou art false, and Whiskerandos is Undone'.
' TiL O no; how little dost thou know thy Til-
' burina!
' Whisk. Art thou then tru9? Begone, cares,
'doubts and fears; —
' I make you all a present to the winds;
' And if the winds reject you, try the waves.'
Puff. The wind, you know, is the established
receiver of all stolen sighs, and cast-off griefs and
apprehensions.
'Til. let must we part?—Stern duty seals our
' doom:
'Though here 1 call yon conBciouB clouds to wit-
' ness,
' Could I pursue the bias of my soul,
* All friends, all right of parents, I'd disclaim,
' And thou, my Whiskerandos, should'st be father,
- And mother, brother, cousin, uncle, aunt,
' And friend tome!
' Whisk. O matchless excellence!—and must vt
' part ?
' Well, if—we must - we must-and in that case
' The less is said the better.'
Puff. Hey day! here's a cut! What, are all the
mutual protestatious out?
Til. Now, pray, sir, don't interrupt us just here;
you ruin our feeiings.
Puff. Your feelings!—but, zounds! my feelings,
ma'am!
Sue r. No; pray don't interrupt them.
' whisk. One last embrace—
' Til. Now,—farewell for ever.
' Whisk. For ever ?
' Til. Ay, for ever.' (Gain//.)
Puff. 'Sdeath und furyt—Gadslife! sir! madam!
it you go out without the parting look, you migut
as well dunce out. Here, here!
Con. But pray, sir, how am / to got off here ?
Puff, l'oa, pshaw! what the devil signilles how
you get off! edge away at the top, or where yen
will. (Pushes the Confidante out.) Now, ma'am, yuu
see
Til. We understand yon, sir.
'Ay. for ever.
'Doth. Oh! —
[Turning back. Exeunt Til. and JKAEi.
Drop Scene.
Enter Under Prompter.
Under P. Sir, the carpenter says it is impossible
you can go to the park scene yet
Puff. Tue park scene! No; I mean the descrip¬
tion scone here, in the wood.
1/iuier P. Sir, the performerB have cut it out
Puff. Cut it out?
Un or P. Yes, sir.
Puff'. What! the whole account of queen Eliza¬
beth
Under P. Yes, sir.
Puff. And the description of her horse and side¬
saddle ?
Under P. Yes, sir.
Puff. So, so; this is very fine indeed! Mr. Hop¬
kins, how the plague could you suffer this?
Prompter. {Prom xcilhin.) Sir, mueed the pruning
knife —
668 THE CRITIC; OR, A :
Puff. The pruning knife? Zounds! the axe!
Why, here has heen such lopping and topping, I
Bha'n't have the bare trunk of my play left pre¬
sently. Very well, sir; the performers must do
as they please; but upon my soul, I'll print it every
word
Sneer. That I would, indeed.
Puff. Very well, sir! then we must go on.
Zounds! I would not have parted with the des¬
cription of the horse?—Welt sir, go on. Sir, it
was one of the finest and most laboured things,
fery well, sir, let them go on;—there you had him
aud his accoutrements from the bit to the crupper.
Very well, sir, we must go to the park scene.
Under P. Sir, there is the point;—the carpenters
say, that unless there is some business put in here
before the drop, they sha'n't have time to clear
away the fort, or sink Gravesend and the river.
Pitff. So! there is a pretty dilemma, truly! Gen¬
tlemen, you must excuse me; these fellows will
never be ready, unless 1 go and look after them
myself.
Sneer. O dear sir; these little things will happen.
I'uff. To cut out this scene! But I'll print it;
egad! I'll print it every word!
Enter a Beef-eater.
' Beef. Perdition catch my soul! but / do love
thee.'
sneer. Haven't I heard that line before?
Puff. No, I fancy not. Where, pray ?
Ban. Yes, I think there is something like it in
Othello.
Puff. Gad 1 Now you put me in mind on't I be¬
lieve there is:—but that's of no consequence ;—all
that can be said is, that two people happened to hit
on the same thought,—and Shakspere made age of
it first, that's all.
Sneer. Very true.
Puff. Now, sir, your soliloquy;—but speak more
to the pit, if you please;—the soliloquy always to
the pit; that's a rule.
'Beef. Tho' hopeless love finds comfort in de¬
spair,
' It never can endure a rival's bliss 1
•But soft—lam observ'd.' [Exit.
Dan. That's a very short soliloquy.
Puff. Yes,—but it would have been a great deal
longer if he had not been observed.
Sneer. A most sentimental Beef-eater that, Mr.
Puff.
Puff. Harkye!—I would not have you be too
sure that he t* a Beef-eater.
Sneer. What, a hero in disguise?
Puff. No matter ;—I only give you a hint. But
Bow for my principal character. B ere he comes:
Lord Burleigh in person! Pray, gentlemen, step
this way; - softly—I only hope the Lord High
Treasurer is perfect—If he is but perfect—
Enter BURLEIGH, goes slowly to a chair and sits.
Sneer. Mr. Puff!
Puff. Hush 1 vastly well, sir 1 vastly well; a most
interesting gravity!
Dan. What, isn't he to speak at all ?
Puff. Egad! I thought you'd ask me that;—yes,
it is a very likely thing,—that a minister in his
situation, with the whole affairs of the nation on
bis head, should have time to talk;—but hush! or
you'll put him out.
Sneer. Put him out! how the plague can that be,
if he's not going to say anything?
Puff There's a reason 1 Why his part is to think,
HAGEDY REHEARSED.
and how the plague do you imagine be can think if
you keep talking ?
Dan. That's very true, upon my word !
[Burleigh comes froveard, shakes his head, and
emit.]
Sneer. He is very perfect, indeed. Now pray what
did he mean by that ?
Piff. You don't take it?
Sneer. No; I don't upon my soul.
Puff. Why, by that shake of the head, he gave
you to understand, that even though they had more
justice in their cause, and wisdom in their mea¬
sures, yet, if there was not a greater spirit shewn
on the part of the people, the country would at last
fall a sacrifice to the hostile ambition of the Spanish
monarchy.
Sneer. The devil! Did he mean all that by shak¬
ing his head ?
Puff. Every word of it;—if he shook his head as
I taught him.
Dan. Ah! there certainly is a vast deal to be
done on the stage by dumb shew, and expression of
face; and a judicious author knows how much he
may trust to it.
Sneer. O! here are some of our old acquaintance.
Enter SIR C. HATTON and RALEIGH.
' Sir C. My niece, and your niece too!
' By heav'n ! there's witchcraft in't He could not
else
•Have gain'd their hearts. But see where they ap¬
proach ;
'Some horrid purpose low'ring on their brows!
' Sir IF. Let us withdraw and mark them.'
(They withdraw to the side.)
Sneer. What is all this?
Puff. Ah! here has been more pruning! Buttbe
fact is, these two young ladies are also in love with
Don Whiskerandos. Now, gentlemen, this scene
goes entirely for what we call situation and stage
effect, by which the greatest applause may he ob¬
tained, without the assistance of language, senti¬
ment, or character: pray mark !—
Enter the two Nieces.
' 1st Niece. Ellena here 1
• She is his scorn as much as Ithat is
'Some comfort still!'
Puff. O dear madam, you are not to say that to
her face!—Aside, ma'am, aside.—The whole scene
is to be aside.
' 1st Niece. She is his scorn as much as I; - that is
' Some comfort still! (Aside.)
' Id Niece. I know he prizes not Pollina's love,
' But Tilburina lords it o'er his heart. (Aside.)
'1st Niece. But see the proud destroyer of my
peace.
' Reyenge is all the good I've left (Aside.)
' 2d Niece. He comes, the false disturber of my
quiet
'Now, vengeance, do thy worst. (Aside.)
Enter WHISKERANDOS.
' Whisk. O, hateful liberty,—if thus in vain
'I seek my Tilburina!
' Both Nieces. And ever shalt!
(Sir Christopher and Sir Walter come forward.)
' Both. Hold! we will avenge you.
• Whisk. Hold you; or see your nieoes bleed!'
(The two nieces draw their two daggers to strike
Whiskerandos; the. two uncles at the instant, with then
the oniric. on a i
too swords drawn, catch their two Nieces' arms, and
tu-n the points of their swords to Whiskerando>, Who
im ediate'y draws two daggers, and holds them to the
two Nieces' bosoms,)
P"ff. There's situation for you! there's an he¬
roic ({roup!—You see the ladies can't stab Whisker-
autlos;—he durst not strike them for fear of their
unclesthe unc es durst not kill him, because of
th -ir nieces —1 have them all at a dead lock!—for
every one of them is afraid to let go Li est.
Sneer.. Why, then, they must stand there forever.
I'nff. So they would, if I hadn't a very line con¬
trivance for't. Now mind—
Enter Beef-eater with his halbert.
'Bef. In the queen's name! I charge you all to
' drop—
• Your swords aid daggers!'
(They drop their swords and da.g. rs.)
Sneer. This is a contrivance, indeed.
I'nff. Ay: in the queen's name.
'Sir C. Come, t iece!
' Sir W. Come, niece!
[Exeunt with the two Nieces.
' Whisk. What's he, who bids us thus renou ee
• our guard't
■ Beef. Thou mustdo more;—renounce thy lovel
' Whisk. thou liest;—base Beefeater!
' Be f. Ha! hell! the lie!
•By heav'n, thou'st rous'd the lion in my heart 1
'Off! yeomaD's habit!—base disguise! off! off!
(Discoveis himself, by throwing off his upper dre t;
and appearing in a very fine waistcoat.)
' Am I a Beefeater now?
'Or beams my crest as terrible as when
'In Biscay's bay I took thy captive sloop!'
Puff. There, egad! he comes out to be the cap-
tan, of the privateer who hud taken Whiskerandos
priso er;—and was himself an old lover of Tilbu-
rina'u.
Dan. Admirably manag'd, indeed.
Puff Now. stand out of their way.
' Whisk. I thank thee, Fortuue! that hast thus
' bestow'd
'A weapon to euastise this insolent
(fakes up one of the swords.)
'Beef. I take thy challenge, Spaniard, and I
' thank
'Thee, Fortune, tool'
(Takes up the, other sword.)
Dan. That's exce'lently contrived! it seems as if
the two uncles had left their swords on purpose
for them.
Puff. No, egad! they could not help leaving
them.
' Whisk. Vengeance and Tilburinal
' Beef. Exactly so.
(They tight, and after the usual number of wounds
give , W iskerandos falls.)
' Whisk. O eursed parry 1—that last thrust in
' tierce
' Was fatal. Captain, thou hast- fenced well!
'And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene
'For all eter—(Dies.)
• Saf. —nity—He would have added, but stern
1 death
'Out short his being, and the Doun at once 1'
RAHEDY REHEARSED. 669
Puff. O, my dear sir, you are too slow.—Now
mind me.—Sir, shall I trouble you to die again ?
(Whisk, r ses.)
Whisk. And Whiskerandos quits this bustling
scene
' For all eter—
' Beef, —nity—He would have added—
Puff. No, sir, that's not it. Once more, if yon
pleaBe—
Whisk. I wish, sir, you would practise this with¬
out me: I can't stay dying here all night.
Puff. Very well, we'll go over it by-and-by;—I
must humour this gentleman.
[Exit Whisk.
'Beef. Farewell, brave Spaniard! and when
next—'
Puff. Dear sir, you needn't speak that speech, as
the b)dy has walked off.
Beef. That's true, sir; then I'll join the fleet
Puff. If you please. [Exit B efeater.] Now,
who comes on ? Tilburina, stark mad, in white
sati'i.
Sneer. Why. in white satin ?
Puff. O Lord! sir.—when a heroine goeB mad.
she always goes. it.to white satin; do .'t she
Dannie ?
Dan. Always; it's a rule.
Puff. Yes: here it is, (Looking at the book.)
' Enter Tilburina stark mad, in white satin, and her
Confidante stark mad, in white linen.'
Enter TILBURINA and her Confidante stark mad, ac¬
cording .o costume.
Sneer. But what the deuse! is the confidante to
be mad too ?
Puff. To he sure she is. The confidante is al¬
ways to do whatever her mistsess does; weep
when she weeps, smile when sne smiles, go mad
when she goes mad. Now madam confidante, but
keep your madness in the back ground, if you
please
' Til. The wind whistleB—the moon rises—see,
' They have kill'd my squirrel in his cage!
'Is this a grasshopper?—Ha! no, it is my
' Whiskerandos—you shall not keep him—
' I know you have him in your pocket—
' An oyster may be cross'd in love!—Who says
'A whale's a bird?—Ha! did you calL, my love t
' —He's here > He's there!—He's every where!
' Ah me 1 He's no where.'
[Exeunt Tilburina and Confidante-
Puff. There! do you ever desire to see any body
madder than that ?
Sneer. Never while 1 live!
Puff. You observed how she mangled the metre!
Dan. Yes,—Egad! it was the first thing made me
suspect she was out of her senses.
Sneer. And pray what becomes of her?
Puff. She is gone to throw herself into the sea
to be sure;—and that brings us at once to the scene
of action, and so to my catastrophe,—my sea-fight,
I mean.
Sneer, What, yon bring that in at last ?
Puff. Yes, yes. You know my play is called the
Spanish Armada, otherwise, egad! I have no oc¬
casion for the battle at alL Now then for my
magnificence!-my battle!—my noise 1— and my
procession! -You are ail ready ?
Prom. (Within.) Yes, sir.
Puff. Is the Thames divst?
WO
THE CRITIC; OB, A TRAGEDY REHEARSED.
En'er THAMES with two attendants.
Thames. Here I am, sir.
Puff. Very well indeed. See, gentlemen, there's
a river for you!—This is blending a little of the
masque with my tragedy;—a new fancy, you know,
and very useful in my case; for as there must be
a procession, I suppose Thames and all his tributary
rivers to compliment Britannia with a fete in
honour of the victory.
Sneer. But pray, who are those gentlemen in
green with him ?
Puff. Those. Those are his banks.
fin er. His banks?
Puff. Yes, one crown'd with alders, and the
other with a villa!—you take the allusions? But
eh 1 what the plague! you have got both your
backs on one side. Here, sir, come round. Ever
While yoa live, Thames, go between your banks<
(Bell rings.) There, sot now for'tt Stand aside
my dear friends! Away, Thames!
[Exit Thames between hes banks,
(Flourish of drums—trumpets—cannon,
ice. fii-ene changes to the >ea - the fleets en¬
gage—the music plays ' Britons strike lumte.'
—Spanish fleet destroyed by fire-ships, <tc.—
English fleet advances music plays • Eule
Britannia.' — Die procession of all Hit
English rivers and their tributaries tcith
their emblems, die., begins with Uaudtli
voter music, en is with a chorus, to tin
march in Judas itaccabieus,—During tins
scene, Puff directs and applauds ecg.j
thing—(hen:)
Puff. Weil, pretty well;—but not quite perfect;
so, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, we'll re.
hearse true piece again to-morrow. [Exeunt
BERTRAM.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY REV. C. MATURIN.
Child.—" Mother !"—Act ii, scene 3.
|?ersans ^eg«8£nt&
St. Aidobeand.
Bertram
Prior.
First Monk.
Second Monk.
Third Monk.
Fourth Monk.
First Bobber.
ACT L
3CENE L—Night. A Gallery »» the Convent of St.
Ahselm. Thunder, lightning, rain and wind.
Enter FIRST and SECOND MONKS, in terror.
1 Monk. Heaven for its mercy'.—what a night is
lere! Ob, didst thou hear that peal ?
2 Monk. The dead must hear it.
(A pause—thunder.)
Speak | speak, and let me hear a human voice?
1 Monk. While the dark terror hurled distantly,
Apt iu the Bkirts of the advancing clouds,
cowered with head full low upon my pallot,
'ill the strong light
Second Bobber.
Third Bobber.
Page.
Child.
Ihooinr.
Clotildb.
Teresa.
Did, clear as noonday, show each objeet round
me
Belie, and rosary, and crucifix.
Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare-
Then forth I rushed, in agony of fear.
2 Monk. Among the tombed tenants of the
cloister,
I walked and told my beads;
But, by the momently gleams of sheeted blue;
Did the pale marbles glare so sternly on me,
I almost deemed they lived, and fied in horror!
1 Monk. There is much comfort in a holy man
In such an hour as this. (Knocking.) Ho! wake
thee, Prior!
2 Monk. Oh! come forth, boly Prior, and prav
for us!
Mo. 22.—Dicks' British Drama.
BERTRAM.
672
Enter the PRIOR,
Prior. All peace be with you!—'Tia ft fearful
hour.
1 Mem};. Hath memory a parallel to this?
2 Monk. How hast thou fared in this most awful
time?"
Prior. (Crossing.) I bowed me at the cross for
those whose heads
Are naked to the visiting blasts of heaven,
In this, its hour of wrath—
For the lone traveller on the hill of storms,
For the tossed shipman on the perilous deep;
'Till the last peal, that thundered o'er mine head,
Did force a cry of—mercy for myself!
1 Jtout. Ohl holy Prior, this is no earthly storm.
The strife of Sends is on the battling clouds!
Prior. Peace, peace—thou rash and unadvised
man!
The hand of heaven, not man, is dealing with us,
And thoughts like thine do make it deal thus
Bternly.
Enter THIRD MONK, pate and breathless.
(Crossing to Third Monk.) Speak 1 thou hast some¬
thing seen ?
S Monk. A fearful sight!
Prior. What hast thou seen!
3 Monk. A piteous, fearful sight!
A noble vessel, labouring with the storm,
Hath struck upon the rocks beneath our walls;
Her deck is crowded with despairing souls,
And, in the hollow pauses of the blast,
We heard their perishing cries.
Prior. Now haste ye forth—haste all!
3 Monk. It cannot be - it is too late;
One hour will hush their cries, and by the morn
Thou wilt behold the ruin —wreck and corse,
Float on the weltering wave!
Prior. Wave high your torches on each crag and
cliff-
Let many lights blaze on our battlements-
Shout to them in the pauses .of the storm,
And tell them there is hope i—
And let our deep-toned hell its loudest peal
Send cheerily o'er the deep;
Twill be a comfort to the wretched sonls
la their extremity. All things are possible;
Fresh hope may give them strength, and strength
deliverance 1
I'll hie me forth with you. (Crosses.)
3 Monk. Wilt thou go forth ?
Hardly the vigorous step of daring youth
May hold its footing on those wave-washed crags;
And how wilt thou abide!
1 Monk. 'Tis tempting heaven I
Prior. To succour man, not to tempt heaven, 1
gol
Beaven will protect its servantl [Exeunt.
SCENE IL—The Sea Shore. The Convent illuminated
in the background. A storm—thunder and lightning.
The bell tolls at intervals. A ship sinking. A group
of Monks discovered, on the rocks with torches.
Enter the PRIOR and FIRST MONK.
Prior. (Clasping his hands.) Holy St, Anselml
what a sight is here!
1 Monk. Pray for their souls—their earthly part
is doomed 1
Prior. Oh, that a prayer could hush the elements!
Hold 1 I do espy a hope, a blessed hope —
That wave hath heaved her from the rock she
struck on,
And every arm on board i« plied for safety I
1 Monk. Do! the recoiling surge drives flerc6ly
o'er her!
In, holy Prior, or ere their drowning shriek
Do rive the sense—in, in, and tell thy beads
Prior. I will not in, while to that hopeless wrecrt
One arm doth cling—while o'er the roaring waste
One voice be raised for help—I will not hence!
Monk. (On the rocks.) She sinks—she sinks! Oh,
hour of woe and horror I
(The Prior falls tnto the arms of the First
Monk.)
SCENE III.— 77te Gallery.
Enter FIRST MONK and the PRIOR.
1 Monk. Now rest you, holy Prior, you are much
moved—
Prior. (Not heeding him.) All— all did perish.
1 Monk. Change those drenched weeds -
Prior. I wist not of them—Every soul did perish.
Enter THIRD MONK, hastily.
3 Monk. No 1 there was one did battle with tha
storm
With careless, desperate force; full many times
His life was won and lost, as though be recited
not—
No hand did aid him, and he aided none-
Alone he breasted the broad wave, alone
That man was saved.
Prior. Where is he ? lead him hither.
Enter two MONKS, leading in the STRANGER.
Praise to St. Anselm, thou redeemed soul,
Raise high thy living voice in prayer and praise I
For wondrous hath his mercy been to thee.
2 Monk. He hath not spoken yet.
Stran. Who are those around me ? where am I?
Prior. On the shore of Sicily.
The Convent of St. Anselm this is called!
Near is the Castle of Lord Aldobrand.
(The St'anger makis an effort to break Jrom
the Monks, but falls, through weakness, into
their arms.)
A name far known, if as thy speech imports,
ThouTt of Italian birth. Tell us thy name.
Stran. A man of woe.
Prior. What is thy woe, that Christian love may
heal it?
Hast thou upon the pitiless water lost
Brother, or sire, or son ?- Did she thou lovest
Sink in thy straining sight?—
Or have the hoardings of thy worldly thrift
Been lost with yonder wreck ?
(To these questions the Stranger gives signs of
dissent.)
Why dost thou, then, despond ?
Stran. Because I live!
Prior. Look not so wild. Can we do aught tor
thee ?
Stran. Tesl plunge me in the waves from which
ye snatched mel
Prior. I'll question not with him, his brain ia
wrecked ?
For ever in the pauses of his speech
His lip doth work with inward mutterings,
And his fixed eye is riveted fearfully
On something that no other sight can spy.
Food and rest will restore him: lead him in.
[The Monks attempt to lead him towards IKi
Gothic door.
Stran. (Dashing them away) Off 1 ye are men !—
there's poison in your touch I—
But I must yield for this hath left me strengthleea
He sinks, exhauste', into the arms of the
Monks, and is borne off, fainting, the Prior
following.
SGENF, IV.—A Hall in the Castle of St. Aldobrand.
Enter P1ETR0, and TERESA, meeting.
Pit. Ha! Teresa waking! Was ever snoh a
- tempest?
Per. The lady Imogen will watch all night,
And I have tended on her. What hath roused
thee?
Pie. Tell we what would give me sleep in such a
night. I know of but one remedy for fear and
wakefulness; that is a flagon of wine. I hoped the
thunder would have waked old Hugo to open the
cellaf-door for me.
Ter. He hath left his bed. E'en now I passed
him
Measuring the banquet-hall with restless steps,
, And moody, fretful gestures. He approaches.
Enter HUGO.
Pie. Hugo, well met Does e'en thy age bear
memory of so terrible a storm?
! Hugo. They have been frequent lately,
s Pie. They are ever so in Sicily.
Hugo. So it is said. But Btorms, when I was
young,
Would still pass o'er like Nature's fitful fevers,
And rendered all more wholesome.
Ttr. Heaven grant its wrath visit not my kind
i ladyl
Hugo. Still may she be as happy in these halls,
a As when she tripped the green a rural maid,
s Ere her good father's ruin—
Or our lord saw and loved her!
sb Pie. (Looking off.) See, if Madam Clotilda be not
roused.
Ter. I'm glad, for she's our lady's loved com¬
panion
a And chosen attendant [Crosses.
& Enter CLOTILDA.
Clo. Ib your lady risen?
F'She hath not rested through the night,
s Long ere the storm arose, her restless gestures
Forbade all hope to see her blessed with sleep.
!).'< Clo. Since her lord's absence it is ever thus.
But soon he will return to his loved home,
And the gay knightsand noble wassailers
Banish her lonely melancholy.
[A horn heard uithoui.
it Monk. (Without.) What, ho!
Hugo. There's one at the gate.
rft-My fears presage unwelcome messengers
At such untimely hours.
Clo. Attend the summons, Hugo.
[ seek the lady Imogine. if 'tis aught
Concerns her or our lord, follow me thither.
[Exeunt, Clotilda and Teresa, Hugo, and Pietro.
iCENE V.—A Gothic apartment in the Castle of Bt•
, vj;j Aldobrand-a table, candles, chairs, books, Ac.
MOGINE discovtd, sittng at the table, looking at a
picture..
jj$ 11ms. JTeB,
'he limner's art may trace the absent feature,
jjj;, md give the eye of distant weeping faith
bjssii 'o view the form of its idolatry: [Rises.
# latitat, oh! the scenes 'mid which they met and
parted—
,(Kjihe thoughts, the recollections sweet and bitter—
h' Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved—
j5»[(t/ho shall restore them ?
MI thou could'st speak,
^ Ut/>umb witness of the eecret soul of Imogine,
* bovi tnight'st acquit the faith of womankind:
ince thou wast on my midnight pillow laid,
RAM. #78
Friend hath forsaken friend, the brotherly tie
Been lightly loosed, the parted coldly met,
Tea, mothers have with desperate hands wrought
harm
To little lives from their own bosom lent,
But woman still hath loved, if that indeed
Woman e'er loved like me.
Enter CLOTILDA.
Clo. The storm seems hushed: wilt thon to rest,
lady?
Jmo. I feel no lack of rest
Clo. Then let us stay,
And watch the last peal murmuring on the blast;
I will sit by the while, so thou wilt tell
Some moving story to beguile the time.
Imo. I am not in the mood.
Clo. I praythee, tell me of some shadowy thing
Crossing the traveller on his path of fear
On such a night as this.
Imo. Thon simple maid,
Thus to enslave thy heart to foolish fears.
Clo. Far less I deem of peril is in such,
Than in those tales woman most like to list to,
The tales of love—for they are all untrue.
Imo. Lightly thon say'st that woman's love is
false,
The thought is falser far—
For some of them are true as martyr's legends,
As full of suffering faith, of burning love,
Of high devotion, worthier heaven than earth!
Oh! I do know a tale—
Clo. Of knight or lady?
Jmo. Of one who loved. She was of humble
birth,
Yet dared to love a proud and noble youth.
His sovereign's smile was on him, glory blazed
Around his path, yet did he smile on her.
Oh 1 then, what visions were that blessed one's!
His sovereign's frown came next
An exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject,
He fled for life, and scarce by flight did save it
No hoary beadsman bid his parting step,
God speed! no faithful vassal followed him ;
For fear had withered every heart hut here,
Who, amid shame or ruin, loved him better.
Clo. Did she partake his lot?
Imo. She burned to do it,
But 'twas forbidden.
Clo. How proved she, then, her love ?
Imo. Was it not love to pine her youth away?
In her lone bower Bhe Bat all day to hearken
For tales of him, and—soon came tales of woe.
High glory loBt, he reck'd not what was saved;
With desperate men in desperate wayB he dealt;
A change came o'er his nature and his heart,
Till she that bore him had recoiled from him,
Nor knew the alien visage of her child I
Yet still she loved, yea, still lived hopeless on I
(Croats.'.
Clo. Hapless ladyl What hath befallen her!
Imo. Full many a miserable yei^r hath passed—
She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead;
And many a change her varied life hath known,
But her heart none.
In the lone hour of tempest and of terror,
Her soul was on the dark hill's side with Ber¬
tram—
Yea, when the launched bolt did sear her sense,
Her soul's deep orisons were breathed for hta-
Was this not love ? yea, thus doth woman love t
Wrossee.)
Clo. Hast thou e'er seen the dame? I prey thee,
, paint her
67*
BERTRAM.
Imo. They said her cheek of yootb was beau¬
tiful,
Till withering sorrow blanched the white rose
there;
And I have heard men ewear her form was
fair;
But grief did lay its icy finger on it,
And chilled it to a cold and joyless statue,
Clo. X would I might behold that 'wretched
lady
Id all her sad and waning loveliness.
Into. Thou would'6t not deem her wretched; out¬
ward eyes
Would hail her happy.
They've decked her form in purple and in pall;
"When she goes forth, the thronging vassals
kneel,
And bending pages bear her footcloth Well;
No eye beholds that lady in her bower,—
That is her hour of joy, for then she weeps,
Nor does her husband bear.
Clo. Sayest thou her husband ?
Eow could she wed, she who did love so well ?
J mo. How could she wed? "What could I do but
wed?
Hast Been the sinking fortunes of thine house ?—
Hast felt the gripe of bitter, shameful want?—
Hast seen a father on the'cold, cold earth ?—
Hast red his*eye of sileDt agony,
That asked relief, but would not look reproach
Upon his child unkind?
I would have wed disease, deformity,
Yea, griped death's grisly form, to 'scape from
it;—
And yet some sorcery was wrought on me,
For earlier things do seem as yesterday,
But I've no recollection of the hour
They gave my hand to Aldobrand.
C o. Blessed saints!
And was it thou indeed ?
Jmo. I am that wretch ?—
The wife of a most noble, honoured lord—
The mother of a babe, whose smiles do stab me 1
[Crowes.
Clo. Hath time no power upon thy hopeless
love ?
Imo. Yea, time hath power, and what a power
I'll tell thee :
A power to change the pulses of the heart
To one dull throb of ceaseless agony—
To hush the sigh on the resigned Hp,
And lock it in theheart—freeze the hot tear,
And bid it on the eyelid hang for ever !—
Such power hath time o'er me. [Crosses.
Clo. And has not, then,
A husband's kindness—
Imo. Mark me, Clotilda ?
And mark me well ? I am no desperate wretch,
"Who borrows an excuse from shameful psssion,
To make its shame more vile
X am a wretched, but a spotless wife:
I've been a daughter, but too dutiful.
But, Oh! the writhings of a generous soul,
Stabbed by a confidence it can't return,
To whom a kind blow is a word on the heart-
It cannot paint my wretchedness ?
Clo. Nay, nay, [Bursts into tears.
Dry up your tears; soon will your lord return;
Let him not see you thus by pasBion Bhaken.
Imo. Oh t wretchpd is the dame, to whom the
sound,
" Your lord will soon return," no pleasure brings!
Clo. Some step approaches, {looking off.) 'Tia St
Anselm's Monk.
Imo. Remember!
Enter FIRST MONK.
Now, what wouldst thou, reverend father?
1 Monk.—St. Anselm's benison on you, gracious
dame!
Our holy Prior by me commands him on you.
The wreck that struck our rocks i' th' storm,
Hath thrown some wretched souls upon his care,
(For many have been saved since morning
dawned);
"Wherefore, he prays the wonted hospitality
That the free noble usage of your castle
Doth grant to shipwrecked and distressed men.
Imo. Bear back my greetings to your holy Prior;
Tell him, the lady of St. Aldobrand
Holds it no sin, although her lord be absent,
To ope her gates to wave-tossed mariners.
Now Heaven forefend your narrow cells wers
cumbered,
While these free halls stood empty! Tell your
Prior,
We hold the custom of our castie still.
[Exeunt, Imogine and Clotilda, First Monk
ACT II.
SCENE L—An apartment in the Convent—a couch.
The STRANGER discovered sleeping on the couch and
the PRIOR watching htm.
Prior. He sleeps—if it be sleep; this starting
trance,
Whose feverish tossings and deep-mutter'd groans
Do prove the soul shares not the body's rest.
(Hanging over him.)
How the lip works! how the bare teeth do grind,
And beaded drops course down his writhen brow!
I will wake him from this horrid trance;
This is no natural sleep. Hoi wake thee,
stranger!
Stran. What would'st thou have ? my life is in
thy power.
Prior. Most wretched man, whose fears alone
betray thee—
What art thon ? Speak ?
Stran. Thou say'st I am a wretch,
And thou sayest true—these weeds do witness it—
These wave-worn weeds—these bare and bruised
limbs—
What would'st thou more? I shrink not from the
question.
I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness;
'Tis the sole earthly thing that cleaves to me.
Prior. Lightly I deem of outward wretched¬
ness;
For that hath been the lot of blessed saints;
But, in their dire extreme of outward wretched¬
ness,—
Full calm they slept in dungeons and in darknesi
Such hath not been thy sleep.
Stran. Didst watch my sleep?
But thou couldst gain no secret from my ravinga
Prior. Thy secretB 1 wretched man, I reck not of
them;
But I adjure thee, by the church's power,
(A power to search man's secret heart of sin,)
Show me thy wound of aoul.
Weep'st thou the ties of nature or of passion,
Torn by the hand of Heaven ?
Oh, not full well I deemed no gentler feeling
Woke the dark lightning of tby withering eye
What fiercer spirit is it tears thee thus ?
Bhow me the horrid tenant of thy heart!
Or wrath, or hatred, or revenge, is there—
[The Stranger suddenly starts from the couch,
raises his clasped hands, and come* for¬
ward.
Stran. I would consort with mine eternal
enemy,
To he revenged on him!
Trior. Art thou a man, or fiend, who speakest
thus?
Stran. 1 was a man; I know not what I am—
Wha<. others' crimes and injuries have made me—
Look on me! What am 1 ? (Advances.)
Prior. (Re'reating to a corner.) I know not.
Stran. I marvel that thou say'st it,
For lowly men full oft remember those
In changed estate, whom equals have forgotten.
A passing beggar hath remembered me,
When with strange eyeB my kinsmen looked on
me.
1 wore no sullied weeds on that proud day.
When thou, a bare-foot monk, didst bow full
low
For alms, my heedless hand hath flung to thee.
Thou dost not know me! (Approaching him.)
Prior. Mine eyes are dim with age—but many
thoughts
Do stir within me at thy voice.
Stran. List to me, monk. It is thy trade to
talk,
' As reverend men do use in saintly wise,
Of life's vicissitudes and vanities.
Hear one plain tale thot doth surpass all saws-
Hear it from me — Count Bertram! — ay, Count
Bertram!
The darling of his liege and of his land,
The army's idol, and the council's head—
Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was
law-
Doth bow him to the Prior of St Anselm
For water to refresh his parched lip,
And this hard-matted couch to fling his limbs on 1
Prior. Good Heaven and all its saints!
Per. Wilt thou betray me ?
Prior. Lives there the wretch beneath these walls
to do it ?
Sorrow enough hath bowed thy head already,
Thou man of many woes.—
Far more I fear lest thou betray thyself.
Hard by do stand the halls of Aldobrand,
(Thy mortal enemy and cause of fall,)
Where ancient custom doth invite each stranger,
Cast on thiB Bhore, to sojourn certain days,
And taste the bounty of the castle's lord,
If thou goest not, suspicion Will arise;
And if thou dost, (all changed as thou art,)
Some desperate burst of passion will betray
thee,
And end in mortal scathe— (A pause.)
What dost thou gaze on with such fixed eyes ?
Per. What sayest thou?
I dreamed I stood before Lord Aldobrand,
Impenetrable to his searching eyes—
And I did feel the horrid joy men feel
Measuring the serpent's coil, whose fangs have
stung them;
Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock,.
From which they leapt and live by miracle;—
To see that horrid Bpectre of my thoughts
In all-the stern reality of life—
"To mark the living lineaments of hatred,
And say, this is the man whose sight should blast
me;
1AM. 67$
Yet, in calm, dreadful triumph, still gaze on,—
It is a horrid joy. [Crosses.
Prior. Nay, rave not thus,
Thou wilt not meet him; many a day must pass,
Till from Palermo's walls ho wend him homeward,
Where now he tarries with St. Anselm's knights.
His dame doth dwell in solitary wise,
Few are the followers in his lonely halls-
Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise ?
Per. (Repeating) His dame doth dwell alone!
Perchance his child—
Oh! no, no, no,! it was a damned thought.
Prior. I do but indistinctly hear thy words,
But feel they have some fearful meaning in them.
Per. Oh, that I could but mate him in his might'.
Oh, that we were on the dark wave together,
[Crosse*.
With but one plank between ns and destruction,
That I might grasp him in these desperate arms,
And plunge with him amid the weltering billows,
And view him gasp for life!—and—
Ha! ha!—I see him struggling 1—
1 see him !— ha! ha 1 ha 1 [A frantic laugh.
Prior. Oh,horrible!
Help!—Help to hold him, for my strength doth
fail?
Enter two MONKS, they support Pertram.
Enter FIRST MONK.
1 Monk. The lady of St Aldobrand sendB greet,
ing—
Prior. Oh, art thou come; this is no time for
greeting-
Help—bear him off—thou see'st his fearful state.
[Exeunt, bearing off Pertram,
SCENE II.—A Hall in the Castle of St. Aldobrand.
Enter HUGO, showing in Pen-tram's comrades.
Hugo. This way, friends, this way, good cheer
awaits you.
1 Sail. Well, then, good cheer was never jet
bestowed
On those who need it more.
Hugo. To what point bound
Did this fell storm o'ertake you ?
1 Sail. No matter,
So we find here a comfortable haven,
Hugo. Whence came you ?
I Sail. Psha 1 I cannot answer fasting.
Hugo. Houghness, the proverb says,, speak*
honesty;
I hope the adage true.
Come, come, the feast's prepared within; this
way. [Exd.
1 Sail. Now, comrades, we will honour our
host's bounty
With jovial hearts, and gay forgetfulness-
Of perils past and coming.
GLEE.—SAILOBi
We be men escaped from dangers;
Sweet to think of o'er our. bowls;
Wilds have ne'er known harder ranger*,
Hall shall ne'er see blither souls. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Terraced Rampart of the Castle of
S'. Aldobrand—apart of the Castle is seen, the rest
concealed by Woods.—Moonlight.
IMOGEN, discovered—she gazes at the Moon for, torn*
time, and then slowly advances.
Imo. Mine own loved light.
That every soft and solemn spirit worships,
i That lovers love bo well—Btrange joy ia thine,
BERTRAM.
«7«
Whose influence o'er all tides of soul hath power,
Who lend'st thy light to rapture and despair 1—
Bertram—Bertram I
How sweet it is to tell the listening night
The name beloved—it is a spell of power
To wake the buried slumbers of the heart,
Where memory lingers o'er the grave of passion,
W atching its tranced sleep t
Enter CLOTILDA.
Clo. Why dost thou wander by this mournful
light,
Feeding sick fancy with the thought that poisons ?
lino. I will but weep beneath the moon awhile.
Now do not chide my heart for this sad respite.
Clo. Nay, come with me, and view those storm-
'scaped men
A feasting in thy hall; 'twill cheer thy heart.
Of perils 'scaped by flood and fire they tell,
And many an antique legend wild they know,
And many a lay they sing —
(Chorus and laughter without.)
Hark! their deep voices
Come faintly on the wind.
Imo. Their wild and vulgar mirth doth startle
me.
But as I passed the latticed gallery
One stood alone.—I marked him where he stood.
His face was veiled; faintly a light fell on him;
But through soiled weedB hiB muffled form did
show
A wild and terrible grandeur.
Clo. I marked him, too. He mixed not with the
rest,
But o'er his wild mates held a stern control;
Their rudest burst of riotous merriment
Beneath his dark eye's stilling energy
Was hushed to silence.
Imo. He never spoke ?
Clo. No, he did nought but sigh.
Imo. Call him hither.
There is a mystery of woe about him
That strongly moves my fancy.
Clo. Wilt thou confer alone, at night, with one
Who bears Bueh fearful form?
Imo. Why, therefore send him—
All things of fear have lost their power o'er me.
{Exit Clotilda.—Imogine appears to be debat¬
ing with herself how to receive him.
If he do bear, like me, a withered heart,
I will not mock him with a sound of comfort.
Enter BERTRAM, slowly, his arms folded, and his
eyes fixed an the earth.—Imogine does not recognise
him.
A form like that hath broken on my dreams
So darkly wild, so proudly stern.
Doth it rise on me waking ?
IBertram comes forward, and stands without,
looking at her.
Stranger, I sent for thee, for that I deemed
Some wound was thine, that yon free band might
chafe,—
Perchance thy worldly wealth sunk with yon
wreck—
Such wound my gold can heal—the castle's al-
almoner—
Ber. The wealth of worlds were heaped on me
in vain.
Imo. Oh, then, I read thy loss. Thy heart is
sunk
In the dark waters pitiless; some dear friend,
Or brother, loved as thine own soul, lies there.
Cold I can give, but can no comfort give.
For I am comfortless.
Ber. (Striking his breast) No dews give freshness
to this blasted soil!
Imo. Strange is thy form, but more thy words
are strange.
Fearful it seems to hold this parley with thee,
Tell me thy race and country.
Ber. What avails it?
The wretched have no country; that dear name
Comprises home, kind kindred, fostering friends,
Protecting laws,
But none of these are mine; I have no country—
And for my race, the last dread trump shall wake
The sheeted relics of mine ancestry,
Ere tramp of herald to the armed lists
In the bright blazon of their stainless coat
Calls their lost child again.
Imo. (Aside.) t shake to hear him!—
There is an awful thrilling in his voice!
(Aloud.) If nor my bounty nor my tears can aid
thee.
Stranger, farewell; and 'mid thy misery
Pray, when thou tell'st thy beads, for one more
wretched.
Ber. Stay, gentle lady, I would somewhat with
thee. [Imagine retreats ti rrified.
Tb ou shalt not go. [ Detains her.
Imo. Shalt not? Who art thou? Speak!
Ber. And must I speak ?
There was a voice which all the world but thee
Might have forgotten, and had been forgiven.
Imo. My senses blaze! Between the dead and
living
I stand in fear! Oh, Heaven! It cannot he!
Those thick black locks—those wild and sun-burnt
features,
He looked not thus; hut then that voice—
[ Tottering towards him.
It cannot be! for he would know my name.
Ber. Imogine!
[SA< shrieks andfalls into his arms,
Imo. Imogine!—yes.
Thus pale, cold, dying, thus thou art most fit
To he enfolded to this most desolate heart— .
A blighted lily on an icy bed-
Nay, look not up, 'tis thus I would behold thee.
That pale cheek looks like truth; I'll gaze no
more;
That fair, that pale, dear cheek, these helpless
arms—
If I look longer, they will make me human.
Imo. (Starting from him.) Fly—fly I the vassals ot
thy enemy wait
To do thee dead.
Ber. Then let them wield the thunder!
Fell is their dint, who're mailed in despair.
Let mortal might serve the grasp of Bertram!
[Seizes her.
Imo. Release met (Aside.) I must break from
him; he knows not—
Oh!
Ber. (Releasing her.) Imogine, madness seizes
me!
Why do I find thee in mine enemy's walls?
What dost thou in the halls of Aldobrand?
Infernal light doth shoot athwart my mind;
Swear thou art a dependant on his bounty,
That chance, or force, or sorcery brought thee
hither.
Thou canst hot be; my throat is swoll'n with
agony!
Hell hath no plague—Oh, no, thou couldat not do it
Imo. (Kneeling.) Mercy!
Ber. Thou hast it not, or thou wouldst speak.
Speak—speak! [Withfrantic violence
BERTRAM.
Imo. I am the wife of Aldobrand,
To save a famishing father did I wed.
Ber. I will not curse her; but the hoarded ven¬
geance—
Imo. Ay; curse, and consummate the horrid
spell,
For broken-hearted, in despairing hour,
With every omen dark and dire. I wedded;
Some minist'ring demon mocked the robed
priest;
With some dark spell, not holy vow, they bound
me,
Full were the rites of horror and despair.
They wanted but—the seal of Bertram's curse.
Ber. (Not heeding her.) Talk of her father I Oould
a father love thee
As I have loved ? In want, and war, and peril,
Things that would thrill the hearer's blood to tell
of,
My heart grew human when I thought of thee!
Imogine would have shuddered for my danger,—
Imogine would have bound my leechless wounds—
Imogine would have sought my nameless corse,
And known it well, and she was wedded!—
wedded 1
Was there no name in hell's dark catalogue
To brand thee with, but mine immortal foe's?
And did I 'scape from war, and want, and famine,
To perish by the falsehood of a woman f
[Crosses.
Imo. Oh, spare me, Bertram! oh, preserve thy¬
self !
Ber. A despot's vengeance, a false country's
curses,
The spurn of menials whom this hand had fed,
In my heart's steeled pride I shook them off,
As the bayed lion from hiB hurtless hide
Shakes his pursuer's darts ;
One dart alone took aim, thy hand did barb it!
[Crosses.
Imo. He did not hear my father's cry. Oh,
heaven1
Nor food, nor fire, nor raiment; and his child
Knelt madly to the hungry walls for succour,
Ere her wrought brain could bear the horrid
thought,
Or wed with him—or—see thy father perish.
Ber. Thou tremblest lest I curse thee; tremble
not.
Though thou hast made me, woman, very
wretched.
Though thou hast made me—But I will not curse
thee.
Hear the last prayer of Bertram's broken heart
That heart which thou hast broken, not his foes!
Of thy rank wishes the full scope be on thee;
May pomp and pride shine in thine addered path,
•' Till thou shalt feel and sicken at their hollowness;
i May he thou'st wed be kind and generous to thee,
Till thy wrung heart, stabbed by his noble
fondnesB, *
9 Writhe in detesting consciousness of falsehood; [
May thy babe's smile speak daggers to that
mother
Who cannot love the fatheT of her child,
And in the bright blaze of the festal hall,
When vassals kneel, and kindred smile around
9 thee,
May ruin'd Bertram's pledge hiss in thine ear—
[■log to the proud dame of St Aldobrand—
While bis cold come doth bleach beneath her
!■' towers! [Going.
Imo. (Detaining him.) Stay!
- Ber. Ma
!«
€77
Imo. Thou hast a dagger.
Ber. Not for woman.—
Imo. It t was my prayer to die in Bertram's
presence,
But not by words like these.— [Falls.
Ber. (Turning back.) On the cold earth!—
I do forgive thee from my inmost soul!—
The CHILD of IMOGINE rushes in, and clings to her
Child. Mother!
[Bertram eagerly snatches up the child.—A pause.
Ber. God bless thee, child!—Bertram hath kissed
thy child! [Rushes off.
Imo. Bertram—Bertram!
[The Child clings to her, and the Curtain falls.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—A Wood.
Enter ST. ALDOBRAND with a PAGE, speaking.
Aid Hold thou my good steed, page; the moon
is down;
We've far outstript the knights, but slacker
speed
Hath found a surer road. Where, think'st thou,
are we?
Vainly I listen through the night so still
For bell that tells of holy convent near;
All is dark, still, and lorn. Where deem'st thou,
are we ?
Page. Oh, we aie nigh a fell and fearful spot,
For, by the last gloams of the sunken moon,
I saw the towers—
Aid What towers are these, boy?
Page. The ruined towers that 'tis said are
haunted.
Aid Then, not four leagues divide me from mine
home.—
Mine home—it iB a pleasant sound,—there bide
My dame and child—all pleasant thoughts dwell
there. [A bell tolls.
Hark! 'tis the convent bell, forego thy tale—
The blessed thoughts of home are in that sound
That near my castle's gallant walls doth float—
[A Chorus of knights heard faintly from the Forest,
What voices swell upon the midnight air ?
Page. St Anselm's knights.
Aid Tes, 'tis their pious wont,
When journeying near the sound of convent bell,
'Mid flood or Are, to raise the holy hymn
That chants the praise of their protecting saint.
List to the solemn harmony,
Guided by that we may rejoin their compauy.
Exeunt.—The Chorus is heard again, and
continues drawing nearer as the scene
changes.
SCENE II.—The Convent.
The PRIOR discovered reading, and BERTRAM,
viewing him with the attention of one who envies him.
Ber. How many hours have paBaed since matin-
bell?
Prior. I know not, till it sound again to vespers.
Time passes o'er us with a noiseless lapse:
Our hours are marked alone by prayer and study,
And know no change but by their mute succession.
Ber. Yea; thus they live, if this may life may be
called,
Where moving shadows mock the parts of men:
Prayer follows study, study yields to prayer,
Bell echoes bell, till, wearied with the summons,
The ear doth ache for that last welcome peal
That tolls an end to listless vacancy.
(They rise and come forward)
878
BERTRAM.
The storm for Bertram! and it hath been with
me,
Dealt with me branch and bole, bared me to th'
roots,
And where the next wave bears my periBhed
trunk,
In its dread lapse, I neither know, nor reck <Jf.
Prior. Thou desperate man, whom mercy woos
in vain,
Although with miracles she pleads—
Forbear, I say, to taint these holy echoes
With the fell sounds of thy profane despair.
Per. Good monk, I am beholden to your pa¬
tience.
Take this from one whose lips do mock at praise:
Thou art a man, whose mild and reverend func¬
tions
Slight bid my better angel half return.
But—'tis impossible—I will not trouble thee—
The wayward Bertram and his moody mates
Are tenants all unmeet for cloistered walls :—
Wre will find fitter home.
Prior. Whither wilt thou resort?
Ber. Is there no forest
Whose shades are dark enough to shelter ns ?
Or cavern rifted by the perilous lightning,
Where we must grapple with the tenanting wolf
To earn our bloody lair? there let us bide,
Nor hear the voice of man, nor call of heaven.
Prior. Wend not, I charge thee, with those
desperate men.
Full well I wot who are thy fearful mates.
In their stern strife with the incensed deep,
That dashed them bruised and breathless on our
shores,
When their drenched hold forsook both gold and
geer,
They griped their daggers with a murderer's in¬
stinct.
—I read thee for the leader of a band
Whose trade is blood—
Ber. Well, then, thou knowept the worst—
I am their leader,
And let the worst be known!
Prior. Mark what I read; renounce that horrid
league,
Flee to the Castle of St. Aldobrand:
His power may give thee safety, and his dame
May plead for thee against the law's stern pur¬
pose—
All as thou art unknown—
Ber. His dame plead for me!
When my cold corse, torn from some felon
wheel,
Or dug from lightless depth of stony dungeon,
Welters in the cold gaze of pitiless strangers,
Then fling it at his gate, whose cursed stones
My living foot treads never, yet beware
Lest the corse burst itB cearments stark, and curse
thee!
(Crosses.)
Prior. Hush, hush these horrid sounds. Where
wilt thou bide ?
Near ub nor kmght nor baron holds his keep,
For far and wide thy foeman's land extends.
Ber. The world hath ample realms beyond his
power.
The frozen mountain, or the burning sand,
.Would be more wholesome than the fertile
1 realm
That's lorded o'er by Aldobrand. [Exit.
Prior. Wild admiration thrills me to behold
An evil strength, so above earthly pitch,
Descending angels only could reclaim thee.
Enter SECOND MONK.
2. Monk. The lady of St. Aldobrand in haste
Craves swift admittance to your sacred cell.
Prior. She is a gracious and a pious dame,
And doth our cell much honour by her presence,
[Exit Second Monk.
Enter IMOGINE, she kneels to the PRIOR.
Prior. The blessings of these sainted walls be on
thee!
Why art thou thus disturbed! What moves thee,
daughter ?
Jmo. Nay, do not raise me with those reverend
hands.
I am a wretched, soul-struck, guilty woman.
Prior. Thou dost amaze me; by mine holy
order,
I deemed no legends of our cloistered saints
Held holier records of pure sanctity,
Than the clear answer of thy stainless life
To shrift's most piercing search—
Jmo. (Rising.) Oh, holy Prior! I am a wretch!
I've nursed a slumbering serpent till it stung me,
And from my heart's true guardian hid its foul¬
ness.
Prior. Thou'st done an evil deed—
For sin is of the soul, and thine is tainted :
But most 1 blame thee, that from thy soul's guar¬
dian
Thou hiddest thy secret guilt.
Jmo. I knew it not.
Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret:—
The moon went down, its sinking rays shut out
The parting form of one beloved too welL
With naught that loved me, and with naught to
love,
I stood upon the desert earth alone—
I stood and wondered at my desolation—
And in that deep and utter agony,
Though then, than ever most unlit to die,
I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death.
Prior. Art thou a wife and mother, and can!
speak
Of life rejected by thy desperate passion -
These bursting tears, wrung hands, and burning
words,
Are these the signs of penitence or passion ?
" Thou comest to me, for to my ear alone
" May the deep secret of thy heart be told,
" And fancy riot in the luscious poison—
" Fond of the misery we paint so well,
" Proud of the sacrifice of broken hearts,
"We pour on heav'n's dread ear, what man's
" would shrink from—
" Yea, make a merit of the impious insult,
" And wrest the functions of mine holy office
" To the foul ministry of earthly passion."
/mo. Why came I here I I had despair at
home-
Where shall the wretch resort whom heaven for¬
sakes ?
Prior. Thou hast forsaken heaven.
Speed to thy castle, shut thy chamber door,
Bind fast thy sotil by every solemn vow
Never to hold communion with that object—
If still thy heart's responses yield no harmony-
Weary thy saints with agonies of prayer;
On the cold marble quench thy burning breast;
Number with every bead a tear of soul;
PresB to tby heart the cross, and bid it banish
The form that would usurp its image there.
Jmo. (Kneeling.) One parting word—
Prior. No, not one parting look—
(Turns airay, and crosses.)
One parting thought—I charge thee on thy soul
Tmo. (Turning away.) He never loved.
(Seizes his robes.J
Prtor. Why clingest thou to my raiment?
Thy grasp of grief is strongest on my heart—
Enter FIRST MONK and PAGE.
1 Monk. Hail, holy Prior, and hail, thou noble
dame 1
With joyful heart 1 break upon your privacy.
(Prior crosses.)
St Aldobrand before his own good gates
Doth rein his war-steed's pride; the warder's
horn
Full merrily rings his peal of welcome home.
I hied me onward with the joyful tidings
To greet his happy dame.
Prior. Now, by my beads, the newa is wond'rous
welcome (To Page )
Hath thy brave lord in safety reached his home ?
(Apart to Imogine.)
Clear thy dimmed brow, for shame! hie to thy
lord,
And show a dame's true duty in hiB welcome.
(To Page.)
Came with thy lord the knights of good St. An-
selm,
Bearing the banner of their guardian saint
Safe from the infidel scathe ?
Page. They come with speed-
Though lated in the forest's wildering maze:
Last night their shelter was the broad brown
oak.
Prior. High praise be given 1 Haste! summon
all our brethren. [Exit First Monk.
Th' occasion, noble dame, doth call me from
thee—
So, Benedicite. [Exeunt Prior and Page.
I mo. That word should mean—
A blessing rest on me,—I am not blest—
Would I were seared in guilt, or strong in inno¬
cence 1
I dare not search my heart; some iron vow
Shall bind me down in passive wretchedness,
And mock the force of my rebellious heart.
As she kneels, enter BERTRAM.
Ha! art thou there ?
Come kneel with me, and witness to the vow
T offer to renounce thee, and to die.
Ber. Nay, it i8 meet that we renounce each
other.
Have we not been a miserable pair ?
Hath not our fatal passion cursed, not blessed us?
Had we not loved, how different were our fates.
For thou hadst been a happy, honoured dame,
And I had slept the sleep of those that dream
not—
But life was dear, while Imogine did love.
Imo. Witness my vow, while I have breath to
speak it.
Ber. Then make it thus—why dost thou shrink
from me ?
Despair hath its embrace as well as passion.
May I not hold thee in these folded arms?
May I not clasp thee to this blasted heart?
When the rich soil teemed with youth's generous
flowers,
I felt thee, sunshine: now thy rayless light
Falls like a cold moon on the blasted heath,
Mocking its desolation.—Speak thy vow—
I will not chide thee, if the words should kill
me.
Imo (Sinking into his arms.) I cannot utter it.
Ber. Have we not loved, as none have ever
loved.
[1AM. 670
And must we part as none have ever parted ?
I know thy lord is near; I know his towers
Must Bhut thee from my sight—the cnrfew-hour
Will send me on a far and fearful journey,
Oive me one hour, nor think thou givest too
much,
When grief is all the boon.
Imo. One hour to thee*
Ber. When the cold moon gleams on thy castle
walls,
Wilt thou not seek the spot where last we met?
That be our parting spot Oh 1 Imogine,
Heaven, that denies the luxury of bliss,
Shall yield at least the luxury of anguish,'
And teach us the stern pride of wretchedness—
That hour shall light my parting step of dark¬
ness—
Imogine's form did gleam on my last glance,
Imogine's breath did mix with my last sigh,
Imogine's tear doth linger on my cheek,
But ne'er must dew my grave.
Imo. I am desperate
To say I'll meet thee, but I will, will meet thee:
No future hour can rend my heart like this,
Save that which breakB it.
The CHILD runs in, and clings to Imogine.
Child. Dear mother, my father is returned, and
kissed and blessed me.
Imo. (Falling on the Childs neck.) What have I
done?
My child! forgive thy mother.
Ber. (Surveying Imogine with stern contempt.)
Woman! oh, woman! and an urchin's kiss
Rends from thy heart the love of many years.
Go, virtuouB dame, to thy most unhappy lord,
And Bertram's image taint your kiss with poi¬
son. [Exit.
Imo. 'Tis but the last—and I have sworn to meet
him.
My boy, my boy, thy image will protect me!
[£Ae kneels and Kisses her Child, as the Act
Drop falls.
ACT IV.
SCENE L — Beneath the Castle Walls. — Night,
dark.
BERTRAM appears in'the utmost agitation—he, ex¬
tends his arms towards the spot where the Moon has
just disappeared.
Ber. Thou hidest away thy face, and wilt not
view me;
All the bright lights of heaven are dark above
me.
Beneath the black cope of this starless night
There lurks no darker soul.
My fiend-like glory hath departed from me—
Bertram hath naught above the meanest losel—
I should have bearded him in halls of pride—
I should have mated him in fields of death—
Not stol'n upon his secret bower of peace,
And breathed a serpent's venom on his flower.
[Looks up at the casement of the Tower
at which a light appears—he gazes
at it.
She is there!
She weeps—no husband wipes her tears away—
She weeps-no babe doth cheer the guilty mother
Aldobrand—No! I never will forgive thee,
For I am sunk beneath thee.
Enter two ROBBERS, of Bertram's Band.
Who art thou ?
I Rob. Why dost thou wander in the woods
alone,
BERTRAM.
SHO
Leaving thy mates to play with idle hilts,
Or dream with monks o'er rosary and relic ?
2 Rob. Give us a deed to do.
Ber. (Crossing.) Ho' hear ye, villains,
I know ye both—ye are slaves, that for a ducat
Would rend the screaming infant from the breast
To plunge it in the flames;
Yea, draw your keen knives 'cross a father's
throat
And carve with them the bloody meal ye earned.
Villains rejoice 1 your leader's crimes have purged
you;
You punished guilt—I preyed on innocence—
Ye have beheld me fallen—Begone! begone!
1 Rob. Why, then, Heaven's benison be with |
you!
Thou'lt need it if thou tarriest longer here.
Ber. How, slave, what fear you?
2 Rob. Fly 1 this broad land hath not one spot
to hide thee.
Danger and death await thee in those walls.
Ber. They'd fell a blasted tree—well—let it fall—
But, though the perished trunk feel not the wound,
Woe to the smiting hand—its fall may crush him.
1 Rob. Lord Aldobrand
Holds high commission from his sovereign liege
To hunt thy outlawed life through Sicily.
Ber. (Wildly.) Who? what? [Crosses.
2 Rob. We mingled with the men at arms
As journeying home. Their talk was of Count
Bertram,
Whose vessel had from Manfredonia's coast
Been traced towards this realm
1 Rob. And if on earth his living form were
found,
I.ord Aldobrand had power to seal his doom.
Ber. (Bursting into ferocity.) Villain I abhorred
villain.
Hath he not pushed me to extremity?
Are these wild weeds, these scarred and scathed
limbs,
This wasted frame, a mark for human malice?
There have been those, who, from the high bark's
side
Have whelmed their enemy in the flashing deep;
But who hath watched to see his struggling hands,
To hear the sob of death? Fool!—idiot! idiot!—
'Twas but even now, I would have knelt to him
With the prostration of a conscious villain—
I would have crouched beneath his spurning feet—
I would have felt their trampling tread, and blessed
it—
For I had injured him. and mutual injury
Had freed my withered heart Villain! I thank
thee.
1 Rob. Wilt thou fly?
Ber. Never! On this spot I stand
The champion of despair—this arm my brand—
This breast my panoply—and for my gage—
(Oh, thou hast reft from me all knightly pledge!)
Take these black hairs, torn from a head that hates
thee—
Deep be their dye, before that pledge is ransomed,
In thine heart's blood or mine! (Wild with passion.)
Why strivest thou with me ?
Lord Aldobrand, I brave thee in thy halls!
Wrecked, famished, wrung in heart, and worn in
limb!
For bread of- thine this lip has never stained—
I bid thee to the conflict]—Ay, come on!
Coward! hast armed thy vassals?— Come, then,
all-
Follow I ye shall have work enough.—Follow!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IL—Imogine'e Apartment—a door—a laile,
with a lamp burning on it.
Enter IMOGINE, she walks for some time fn great
agitation.
lino. Away! thou glarest on me—thy light is
hateful!
Oh! that a mountain's weight were cast upon me;
Oh! that the wild, wide ocean heaved o'er me;
Oh! that I could into the earthly centre
Sink, and be nothing.—
" Sense, memory, feeling, life, extinct and swal¬
lowed,
"With things that are not, or have never been,
"Lie down and sleep the everlasting sleep."
If I run mad some wild word will betray me.
Nay, let me think; what am I ?—no, what was If
[A long pause.
I was the honoured wife of Aldobrand;
I am the scorned minion of a ruffian.
Enter CLOTILDA
Who art thou that thuB comest on me in dark¬
ness ?
Clo. The taper's blaze doth make it bright as
noon.
Imo. I saw thee not, till thou wert close to me;
So steal the steps of those who watch the guilty
How darest thou gaze thus earnestly upon me?
; What seest thou in my face ?
Clo. Despair.
Imo. See'st thou despair alone?
Nay, mock me not, for thou hast read more
i deeply.
Else why that piercing look ?
Clo. I meant it not
But since thy lonely walk upon the rampart.
Strange hath been thy demeanour; all thy maidens
Do speak in busy whispers of its wildness.
i Imo. Oh ! hang me shuddering on the baseless
crag—
The vampire's wing, the wild-worm's sting be on
i me;
But hide me, mountains, from the man I've in¬
jured.
Clo. Whom hast thou injured ?
Imo. Whom doth woman injure?
Another daughter dries a father's tears:
Another sister claims a brother's love ?
> An injured husband hath no other wife,
I Save her who wrought him shame.
Clo. I will not hear thee.
Imo. We met in madness, and in guilt we
parted.
Oh! I see horror rushing to thy face I
Do not betray me, I am penitent!
Do not betray me, it will kill my lord!
Do not betray me, it will kill my boy,
My little one that loves me. [Kneels.
Clo. W retched woman,
i Whom guilt hath flung at a dependent's feet,
Rise, rise ! How canst thou keep thy fatal
secret?
Those fixed and bloodshot eyes, those wringing
hands
Imo. And were I featureless, inert, and marble,
the accuser here would speak.
Clo. Wilt thou seek comfort from the holy
Prior ?
Imo. When I was innocent, I sought it of him;
Now that my heart condemns me, what avails
The pardon of my earthly, erring judge ?
(CrotM*
What fearful sound is that?
Bertram.
esi
CTo. AJas! a teller trial doth abide thee;
I hear thy lord's approach.
Madness is in thy looks; he'll know it all.
Imo. "Why, I am mad with horror and remorse.
He comes, he comes, in ali that murderous kind¬
ness
Oh 1 Bertram's corse is on me.
St. Aldobrand. (Without.) Take my hemlet, boy
Enter ST. ALDOBRAND.
How tares my dame? Give me thy white hand,
love. [Ex-it Clotilda.
Well may man toil tor such an hour as this.
Imo. (Standing timidly rear him.)
Yea, happier they, who on the bloody field
Stretch when their tod is done.
AW. What means my love ?
Imo. Is there not rest among the quiet dead ?
But, iB there surely rest in mortal dwellings?
Aid. Deep loneliness hath wrought this mood in
thee.
For, like a cloistered votaress, thou hast kept,
Thy damsels tell me, this lone turret's bound;
Not thine to parley at the latticed casement
With wandering wooer, or
Imo. (Wildly.) For mercy's sake, forbear 1
Aid. How farest thou ?
Imo. (Recovering.) Well, well; a sudden pain o'
th' heart
Aid. Enowest thou the cause detained me hence
so long ?
Imo. (Trying to recollect herself.) Was it not
war?
Aid. Ay, and the worst war, love,
When our fell foes are our own countrymen.
Thou knowes' the banished Bertram. His mad
ambition
Strove with the crown itself for sovereignty;
The craven monarch was his subject's slave ;
In that dread hour my country's guard I stood,
From the state's vitals tore the coiled serpent,
First hung him writhing up to public scorn,
Then flung him forth to rum.
Imo. Thou need'st not. tell it
Aid. Late from Taranto's gulf his bark was
traced
Right to these shores.
Imo. Think'st thou he harbours l}pre!
Aid. Why art thou thus, my Imogine, my love ?
Why is this ?
Imo. I am dying, Aldobrand; a malady
Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach.
When I am cold, when my pale sheeted corse
Sleeps the dark sleep no venomed tongue can
wake,
List not to evil thoughts of her whose lipB
Have then no voice to plead.
Take to thine arms some honourable dame.
And - if be dies not on his mother's grave-
Still love my boy as if that mother lived.
Aid, Banish such gloomy dreams;
Tis solitude that makes thee speak thus sadly,
No longer sbalt thou pine ijx lonely halls;
Come to thy conch, my love—
Imo. Stand off!—unhand me!
I have a vow—a solemn vow'is on me—
If I ascend the bed of peace and honour
Till that—
Aid. Till what?
Imo. My penance is accomplished.
Aid. Nay, heav'h forefend I should disturb thy
orisons—
The reverend Prior were fittest counsellor.
Farewell [Crosses.
Imo. (With a sudden impulse, falling on her knees.)
Yet, ere thou goest, forgive me, ohl my husband!
Aid. Forgive thee! What?
Imo. Oh! we do, all offend.
Aid. i well may pardon what i ne'er have felt
[Imogine follows him on her knees, and kisses
his hand.
Farewell! farewell! [Exit.
Imo. There Is no human heart can 'bide this
conflict-
All dark and horrible. Bertram—
But, oh! within these walls, before mine eyes,
Who would have died fur him, while life had
value,
He shall not die!
Ha! I dear a step—
It hath the speech-like thrilling of his tread :
It is himself.
Enter BERTRAM.
Why comest thou thus? what is thy fearful busi¬
ness?
Ber. Guess it, and spare me.
(A long pause, during which she gazes at him.
Canst thou not read it in my face'!
[Throwing his dagger on the ground.
Speak thou for me.
Show me the chamber where thy husband lies.
The morning must not see us both alive.
Imo. (Screaming and struggling with him.)
Ah! horror! horror.
Have pity on me, I'have had much wrong.
[Falls at Ms feet.
Ber. (Lo king on her with pity for a moment.)
Thou fairest flower!
Why didst thou fling thyself across my path ?
My tiger, spring muBt crush thee in its way,
But cannot pause to pity thee. [Crosses.
Imo. Thou must; I ne'er reproached thee—
Kind, gentle Bertram—my beloved Bertram—
For thou wert gentle once, and onee beloved—
Have mercy on me!—Oh! thou couldst not think
it—
[Looking up and seeing no relenting in hit
face, she starts up wildly.
By heaven, he shall not pexishl
Ber. He shall not live 1
Thou Calient in vain—
The armeii vassals are all far from succour.
My band of blood are darkening in their halls—
He shall fall nobly, by my hand shall fall I
Enter BANDITTL
Ha! those felon slaves are come—
[Snatching up the dagger.
He shall not perish by their ruffian hands! [Exit.
Imo. (Gazing around her, and slowly recovering re¬
collection, repeats his lust words.) "He shall
not perish!"
Oh! it was all a dream !
[Rushes towards the banditti, who advance
and point their swords to resist her. A
clashing of swords without.
Enter CLOTILDA.
St. Aldobrand. (Without.) Off, villain! off!
Ber. (Without.) Villain, to thy soul!—for I am
Bertram!
Enter ST. ALDOBRAND, retreating before BER¬
TRAM, he rushes forward and falls at the feet of
Imogine.
Aid. Oh ! save my boy!
[Bits, fmogine faints, Bertram stands over
the body of St. Aldobrand, holding the dag¬
ger, with his eyes intently fixed on it, and
the Banditti range at tht back, as the Act
Drop Falls.
ago BERJ
ACTV.
SCENE I. — The Chapel in the Convent of St.
Anselm, the shrine splendidly illuminated and de¬
corated. The Prior disccvered rising from before
the Altar.
Enter MONKS and KNIGHTS in procession, the
Monks march forward and range, the Knights come
forward with banners, and range — Music. The
Knigh ts and Monks advance in procession, the Prior
bearing the banner, which he has receiied from the
principal Knight.
HYMN.
Guardian of the good and brave.
Their banner o'er thy shrine we ware :
Monk, who counts the midnight bead,
Knight, who spurs the battle st ed.
He, who dies 'mid clarion's swelling,
He, who dies 'mid requiem's knelling—
Alike thy care, whose grace is shed
On cowled scalp and helmet head—
Thy temple of the rock and flood
For ages 'mid their wrath has stood—
Thy midnight bell, through storm and calm.
Hath shed on listening ear its balm.
The THIRD MONK rushes in distractedly.
8 Monk. Forbear! forbear!
Prior. Why comest thou thus with voice of
desperate fear,
Breaking upon our solemn ceremony?
3 Monk. Despair is round our walls, a wailing
spirit—
" Yea, the mixed wailings of the infernal host
" Burst deafeningly amid the shuddering blast "—
No earthly lip might utterance give 10 such.
Prior. Thou'rt wild with watching;
'Twas but the night wind's hollow sweep.
Mocking the sounds of human lamentation.
(A scream heard.)
3 Monk. Hush—look—it comes again!
(The scream again heard.)
Prior. Defend ns, heaven!
Twas horiible indeed, 'tis in our walls.
Ha! through the cloister there doth something
glide.
Enter IMOGINE, hurriedly, she rushes forward with
her CHILD, her hair dishevelled, her dress stained
with blood,
Jmo. Save me! save me!
Prior. Save thee from what?
Imo. From earth, and heaven, and hell.
All, all are armed, and rushing in pursuit!
[The Prior, Monks, and Knights gather
round, and converse together.
All. Who — what—what hath befallen thee ?
Speak!
Imo. Oh! wait not here to speak, but fly to save
him,
For he lies low upon the bloody ground.
1 Monk. She speaks in madness; ask the
frighted boy,
Hath aught befallen his father ?
Imo. Ask him not,
He bath no father, we have murdered him;
TraitresB and murderer we have murdered him!
They'll not believe me for mine agony;
Is not his very blood upon my raiment?
Reeks not the charnel stream of murder from me?
Prior. < Vehemently.) Impossible!
Imo. Ay, heaven and earth do cry, impossible 1
The shuddering angels shriek, impossible 1
But Bends do know it true.
Prior. (Solemnly.) Spirits of madness do possess
this woman!
Who did the deed?
[Imogine sinks gradually from his fixed rye,
till, hiding her face, she sinks on the ground
in silence.
1 Monk. I do believe it, horrid as it seems.
Prior. I'd not believe her words, I do her silence.
Now, draw your swords, brave knights—avenge!
pursue!
Exeunt, tumultously, knights, monks, and
attendants; the Prior is following, when
Imogine, who is still kneeling, grasps htm
by the robe.
Prior. (With mixed emotion, turning to her.)
Tbou art a wretch! I did so love and honour thee—
Thou'st broke mine aged heart—That look again—
Woman, let go thy withering hold !
Imo. I dare not; -
I have no hold but upon Heaven and thee.
Prior. (Tearing himself from her.)
Hear thou, and—hope not—if by word or deed,
Yea, by invisible thought, unuttered wish,
Thou hast been ministrant to this horrid act,—
With full collected force of malediction,
I do pronounce unto thy soul - despair! [Exit.
Imo. (Looking round on the Chapel after a long
pause.
They've left me—all things leave me—all things
human—
Follower and friend—last went the holy man—
The last—but yet he went—
To leave the guilty in their guiltiness.
Child. Dear mother, take me home.
Imo. Thou hast no home !
She, whom thou callest mother, left thee none—
We're hunted from mankind.
What form is that ? Why have they laid him there ?
[Recoils.
The cold blue wound whence blood hath ceased
to flow,
The stormy clenching of the bared teeth—
I see them all! [Shrieks.
It moves !—it moves!—it rises—it comes to me!—
'Twill break the eternal silence of the grave—
'Twill wind me in its creaking, marrowless arms!
Hold up thy hands to it—it was thy father!—
Ha! It would have thee too!—Off!—save me:—
off! [Rushes off with the child.
SCENE II.—A Hall in the Castle of St. Aldobrand—
a door.
Enter PRIOR
Prior. His halls are desolate; the lonely walls
Echo my single tread through the long galleries;
The hurrying knights can trace nor friend nor foe;
The murderer hath escaped.
Enter KNIGHTS, MONKS, Ac., supporting
CLOTILDA.
Knight. We found this trembling maid, alone,
concealed.
Prtor. Speak! Tell of Bertram—of thy lord—
the vassals—
Clo Oh! give me breath, for I am weak with
fear.
So short was the bloody conflict of the night,
The bandits, loaded with the castle's spoil.
Are gone; I saw them issue from the walls,
But yet I dared not venture forth; while
Bertram—
Prior. Go on, go onl
Clo. He bore the murdered body
Alone into yon chamber. [Points
»tR1RA5i
There hath he sat In dfoad society;
The corse and murderer are there together.
[The Knights draw their swords and rush to•
wards the door.
Prior. (Interposing.) Hold! champions, hold!
The arm of flesh were powerless od him uow.
Mark how the faltering voice of feeble age
Shall bow him to his bidding. (Striking the door.)
Ho! come forth.
Thou man of blood come forth! thy doom awaits
thee! [.4 noise of bolts heard.
(BERTRAM opens the door, and slowly ad¬
vances his dress is stained with bh<od—he
grasps the hilt of a dagger, and his look is
so marked and grand, that the Knights and
Monks make way for him, as he comes fore-
ward. Exit Clotilda.)
Eer I am the murderer!—wherefore are ye
come ?—
Wist ye whence I come ?
The tomb—where dwelt the dead—and I dwelt
with him
Till sense of life dissolved away with me.
(Looking ghastly round.)
I am amazed to see ye living men;
1 deemed that when I struck the final blow,
Mankind expired, and we were left alone,
The corse and I were left alone together
The only tenants of a blasted world.
" Dispeopled for my punishment, and changed
" Into a penal orb of desolation."
Prior. Advance, and seize him, ere his voice of
blasphemy
Shall pile the roof in ruins o'er ourheads!
(Knights advance.)
Ber. Advance, and seize me, ye who smile at
blood,
For every drop of mine a life shall pay!
I'm naked, famished, faint, my brand is broken—
Rush, mailed companions, on the helpless Ber¬
tram ! (They sink back.)
Now prove what fell resistance I shall make
(Throwing down the dagger.)
There! Bind mine arms, if ye do list to bind
them;
I came to yield, but not to be subdued.
Prior. Oh, thou, who o'er thy stormy grandeur
flingest
A struggling beam that dazzles, awes, and va¬
nishes—
Thou, who dost blend our wonder with our
curses,—
Why did'st thou this ?
Ber. He wronged me, and I slew him ! —
To man but thee I ne'er had said even this,
how speed ye swift from questioning to death.
(They surround him.)
One prayer, my executioners, not conquerors :
Be most ingenious in your cruelty—
Let rack and pincer do their work on me—
'Twill rouse me from that dread, unnatural eleep
In which my soul hath dreamt its dreams of
agony—
This is my prayer, ye'll not refuse it tp me.
(As the Knights are leading him off, the Prior
lays hold of him.)
Pnor. Yet bend thy steeled einewB, bend and
pray:
The corse of him thou'st murdered lies within.
(A longpause.)
Ber. I have offended heaven, but will not mock
it:
Give me your racks and tortures, spare me words.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A dark VTood-a Cavern—Rocks and
Precipices above.
IMOGTNE discoveredreclining against the Cavern.
lmo. (Sighing heavily after a long pause.)
Or night or morning is it ?
I wist not which, a dull and dismal twilight
Pervading all things, and confounding all things,
Doth hover o'er my senses and my soul.
(Comes forward shuddering.)
The moon shines on me, but it doth not light
me ;
The surge glides past me, but it breathes not on
me.
My child! my child! where art thou? come to
me!
I know thou hidest thyself for sport, to mock
me—
Yet come, for I am scared with loneliness.
I'll call thee no more. Lo 1 there he glides—
And there, and there—he flies from me—he
laughs!—
I'll sing thee songs the churchyard spirits taught
me—
I'll sit all night on the grey tombs with thee, —
So thou wilt turn to me. He's gone ! he's gone t
Enter CLOTILDA, the PRIOR, and two MONKS,.
with torches.
Clo. She's here—she's here! And is it thus I see
her?
Prior. All-pitying heaven, release her from this
misery!
Imo. Away! unhand me! ye are executioners—
I know your horrible errand 1 Who hath sent
you?
This is false Bertram's doing—
How I did love—and how am I requited.
Well, well, accuse me of what crime you will.
I ne'er was guilty of not loving thee
(The Prior takes hold of her.)
Oh, spare the torture, and I will confess-
Nay, now, there needs it not—his look's enough—
That smile hath keener edge than many daggers.
(Sinks in Clotilda's arms.)
Clo. How could this wasted form sustain the
toils,
Bearing her helpless child.
Imo. (Starting up.) I was ft mother—'twas my
child I bore;
The murderer hung upon my flying steps.
Oh! how we laughed to see the baffled flend
Stamp, on the shore, and grind his iron teeth,
While safe and far, I braved the wave triumphant,
And shook my dripping locks like tropbied ban¬
ner.—
I was a mother then.
Prior. Where is thy child ?
Clo. Oh! he lies cold within the forest glen.
Why dost thou urge her with the horrid theme ?
Prior. It was to wake one living chord o' the
heart;
And I will try, though mine own breaks at it.
Where is thy child?
Imo. (With a frantic laugh.) The forest flend hath
snatched him ?
Prior. Hopeless and dark—ewn the last spark
extinct.
Enter THIRD MONK, hastily.
3 Monk. Bertram—the prisoner Bertram—
Prior. Hush 1 thou'lt kill her.
Haste thee, Clotilda.—Holy brethren, baste;
Remove her hence; (Pointing to Cavern.) ay, even
to that sad shelter. (Looking off)
884
I see the approaching torches of the guard
Flash their red light athwart the forest shade.
Bear her away, uh 1 my weak eye doth fail
Amid these horrors.
[.Imagine is borne to the Cavern, and Prior fol¬
lows.—A gleam of torch-light falls on the
Rocks.—Be tram. Knights, and Monks are
seen winding down the precipices, the lank
of Bertram's chains the only sound heard.
Enter BERTRAM, KNIGHTS, and MONKS. Ber¬
tram b (ween two Monks, who bear torches.
1 Monk. Leave him with us, and seek tho Prior,
I pray you.
Knight. (Apartto 1st. Monk.) He may yet try to
escape.
"W e'll watch concealed.
[Exeunt all but Bertram, and 1st. and 2nd-
Monks.
1 Monk. Brief rest is here allowed thee—mur¬
derer, pause.
How fearful was our footing on those cliffs,
Where time had worn those steep and rocky
steps;
I counted them to thee as we descended.
But thou, for pride, was dumb.
Ber. I heard thee not
2 Monk. Look round thee, murderer! drear thy
resting place—
This is thy latest stage—survey it welL
Dare thine eye scan that spectred vacancy?
Ber. I do not mark the things thou tell'st
me o'.
1 Monk. Wretch! if thy fear no spectred inmate
shapes -
Ber. (Starting from his trance.)
Cease, triflersWould you have me feel remorse ?
Leave me alone — nor cell, nor chain, nor dun¬
geon
Speaks to the murderer with the voice of soli¬
tude.
1 Monk. Be it so.
In cruelty of mercy will we leave thee.
[Exeunt Monks into the Cavern.
Ber. If they worship in truth — but what
avails it?
[Meditates in gloomy reflection for some mi¬
nutes, and his countenance slowly relaxes
from its stern expression.
Enter PRIOR, unobserved, from the Cavern—he stands
opposite B rtram m an attitude of supplication, who,
seeing the Prior, assumes his former sternness.
Ber. Why art thou here ? There was a hovering
angel
} ust lighting on my heart, and thou hast scared it
Prior. Yea, rather with my prayers I'll woo it
baek.
In every pity of thy soul I come.
To weep upon that heart I oannot soften.
(A long pause.)
Oh I thou art on the verge of awful death,
Think of the moment when the veiling scarf
That binds thine eyes, shall shut out earth for
ever;
When in thy dizzy ear hurtles the groan
Of those who see the smiting hand upreared,
Thou canst but feel, that moment comes apace.
(Bertram smiles.)
But terrors move in thee a horrid joy,
And thou art hardened by habitual danger
Beyond the sense of aught but pride in death.
(Bertram turns away.)
Con 1 not move thee by one power in nature ?
There have been those whom Heaven have railefl
to move,
Yet moved they were by tears of kneeliug age.
(Kneels.)
I waive all pride of ghostly power o'er thee,
I lift no cross, 1 count no bead before thee,
By the locked agony of these withered hands,
By th se white hairs, such as thy father bore,
(Whom thou could'st ne'er see prostrate in the
dust,)
With toil to Beek thee here my limbs do fail;
Send me not broken-hearted back again;
Yield, and relent, Bertram, my son! my son!
(Weeping, then looking up eagerly.)
Did not a gracious tear bedew thine eye ?
Ber. Perchance a tear had fallen, hadst thou not
marked it?
Prior. (Rising with dignity.)
Obdurate soul 1 then perish in thy pride t
Hear in my voice thy parting angel speak,
Itepent—and be forgiven 1
(Crosses.)
B< rtram turns towards him with strong emo¬
tion, when a shriek is heard from the
Cavern, Bertram stand* fixed in hor¬
ror.
Prior. (3'retching out his hands towards the
Cavern.)
Plead thou for me! thou! whose wild voice of
horror
Ha3 pierced the heart my prayers had failed to
touch.
Ber. (Wilily.) What voiee was that? yet do not
dare to tell me—
Name not her name, I charge thee I
Prior. Imogine—
A maniac through these shuddering woods she
wanders,
But in her madness never cursed thy name.
[A shriek is heard from the Cavern. Ber¬
tram attempts to rush towards it, but
stands stupefied. Imagine rushes from it in
distraction, bursting from the arms of
Clotilda, they are followed by Motds and
Knights, who remain at the back.
Imo Away — away — away 1 — no wife — no
mother 1
[Rushes forward till she meets Bertram, who
stands in speechless horror.
Give me my husband—give me baok my by child—
Nay, give me back myself!
They say I'm mad, but yet I know thee well.
Look on me: they would bind these wasted
limbs—
I ask but death — death from thy hand — that
hand
Can deal with death well, and yet thou wilt not
give it.
Ber. (Casing at her for a momen', then rushing to
the Prior, and sinking at his feet.)
Who hath done this? Where are the racks I
hoped for ?
Am I not weak ? am I not humbled now
[Grovelling at the Prior's feet, and then turn¬
ing to the Knights.
Hast thou no curse to blast—no curse for me?
Ib there no hand to pierce a soldier's heart ?
Is there no foot to crush a felon's neck ?
Imo. (Raising herself at the sound (if his voice,)
Bertram I
Ber. Imogine 1 Imoginet Imogine!
rIIerushts towards her, and repeats " Imo¬
gine " feebly; as he approaches, he utters
her name again, passionately; he draws
nearer, and seeing her look of madness and
desperation, repeats it once more in despair,
hut dares not approach her, till, perceiving
her falling into Clotilda's arms, he catches
her in his.
Imo. Have I deserved this of thee!
£<Ste dies slowly, with her eyes fixed on Ber¬
tram, who continues to gaze on her, un¬
conscious of her homing expired.
Prior. 'Tie past (To the Monks.) Brethren, remove
the corse.
[77ie Knights and Monks advance. Bertram
waves them off, still supporting the
body.
Ber. (Starting up.) She is not dead;
She must not, shall not die, till she forgives me!
[Kneeling to the corse.
[Turning to the Monks
Speak, speak to me 1
EtAM. 635
Yes, she willsp ak with me anon.
[A long pause; he drops on the corse.
She speaks no more. Why do you gaze on me ?
I loveid her; yea, I love, in death I love her;
I killed her, but I loved her.
Whatarm shall loose the grasp of love and death ?
[The Knights and monks surround, and attempt
to tear Bertram from the body; he snatches
a sword from one of the Knights, who re¬
treats in terror, as it is pointed at him; Ber¬
tram, resuming all his former sternness,
bursts into a disdainful laugh.
Thee! against thee! Oh, thou art safe, thou
worm!
Bertram hath but one fatal foe on earth,
And he is here 1 [.Stafts himself
Prior. (Rushing forieard.) He dies, he dies!
Ber. (Struggling with the agonies of death.)
I know thee, holy Prior; I know ye, brethren t
Lift up your holy hands in charity.
[IPttft a burst of wi'd exultation.
I died no felon's death;
A warrior's weapon freed a warrior's Boul.
[Dies.
THE FOUNDLING.
A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY EDWARD MOORE.
Ros.—" No tbifung, sir. Do you know this handwriting ?"—Act iii, scene 1.
Sib Robert Belmont.
Sir Charles Raymond.
Colonel Raymond.
ACT I.
persons ^epreseulei).
Yocno Belmont.
Villiard.
Faddle.
SCENE L—An Apartment in Sir Robert Belmont's
house.
tinter YOUNG BELMONT and COLONEL RAY¬
MOND.
Young B. My dear Colonel, you are as unlettered
In love as I am in war. What! a woman, a fine
woman, a coquette, and my sister,—and to be won
by whining) Mercy on us! that a well-built fellow,
with common sense, should take pains to unman
himself, to tempt a warm girl of two-and-twenty
to coma to bed with him! I say, again and again,
Colonel, my sister's a woman.
Col. R. And the very individual woman that I
want, Charles,
Rosktta.
Fidelia.
Servants.
Young B. And, of all women in the world, the
least fit for thee. An April day is less changeable
than her humour. She laughs behind her fan at
what she should not understand; calls hnmility
meanness, and blushing, the want of education.
In all affairs with a man, she goes by contraries; if
you tell her a merry story, she sighs; if a serious
one, she laughs; for yes, she says no, and for no,
yes; and is mistress of such obedient features, that
her looks are always ready to confirm what her
tongue uttera
Col. R. Fine painting, upon my word, and no
flattery!
Young B. This is the lady. Now for the lover
A fellow made up credulity and suspicion; believ¬
ing where he should doubt, and doubting where he
THE FO
abould believe; jealous without cause, and satisfied
without proof. A great boy, that has lost his way,
and blubbering through every rood, but the right,
to find his home again. Ha, ha, hat
Col. R. Mighty florid, indeed, sir 1
Young B. Come, come, Colonel; love, that can
exalt the brute to a man, has set you upon all-fours.
Women are, indeed, delicious creatures; but not
what you think them. The first wish of every mo¬
ther's daughter is power; the second, mischief: the
way to her heart is by indifference, or abuse; for
whoever owns her beauty, will feel her tyranny;
but if he call her ugly, or a fool, she'll set her cap
at him, and take pains for his good opinion.
Col. R. And so, submission and flattery are out
of your system ?
Young B. For submission and flattery I substitute
impudence and contradiction; these two, well
managed, will do more with beauty in an hour,
than fine speeches in a year. Your fine woman
expects adoration, and receives it as common
incense, which every fool offers; while the rude
fellow, who tells her truth, claims all attention.
Difficulty endears conquest. To him only she
appears what she should be to all; and, while she
labours with her natural charms to secure him,
she's lost herself.
Col. R. Why, faith 1 Charles, there may be some
music in these wild notes; but I am so far gone in
the old ballad, that I can sing no other words to
any tune.
Young B. Ha, ha! Thou poor mournful nightin¬
gale in a cage, sing on then ; and I '11 whistle an
upper part with thee, to give a little life to the
measura
Col. R. That will be kind; for, heaven knows, I
have need of assistance. Pr'ythee, tell me, dost
think Rosetta wants understanding ?
Young B. No, faith 1 I think not.
Col. R. Good humour?
Young B. Hum! She's generally pleased.
Col. R. What, then, can reconcile her behaviour
to me, and her fondness for such a reptile as
Faddle ? A fellow made up of knavery and noise,
with scandal for wit, and impudence for raillery;
and so needy, that the very devil might buy him
for a single guinea. I say, Charles, what can
tempt her even to an acquaintance with this
fellow ?
Young B. Why, the very understanding and
good humour you speak of. A woman's under¬
standing is design, and her good humour mischief.
Her advances to one fool are made only to tease
another.
Col. R. Sir, your most humble servant.
Young B. And her good humour is kept alive by
the success of her plots.
Col. R. But why so constant to her fbol ?
Young B. Because her fool's the Attest to her
purpose. He has more tricks than her monkey,
more prate than her parrot, more servility than
her lap-dog, more lies than her woman, and more
wit than her—Colonel. And, 'faith! all these
things considered, I can't blame my sister for her
constancy.
Col. R. Thou art a wild fellow, and in earnest
about nothing but thy own pleasures; and so,
we'll change the Bnbject. What says Fidelia ?
Young B. Why, there, now! That a man can't
instruct another, but he must be told, by way of
thanks, how iqueh he stands in need of assistance
himself.
Col. R. Any new difficulties ?
Young B. Mountains, Colonel, a tew mountains
TNDLING. 637
in my way. But, if T want faith to remove them, I
hope I shall have strength to climb them, and that
will do my business.
Col. R. She's a woman, Charles.
Young B. By her outside, one would guesB so;
but look a little farther, and, except the stubborn¬
ness of her temper, she lias nothing feminine about
her. She has wit without pertness, beauty without
consciousness, pride without insolence, and desire
without wantonness. In short, she has every¬
thing—
Col. R. That you would wish to ruin in her.
Why, what a devil are you, Charles, to speak so
feelingly of virtues, which you only admire to
destroy!
Young B. A very pretty comforter, truly 1
Col, R. Come, come, Charles; if she is as well
born as you pretend, what hinders you from che¬
rishing these qualities in a wife, which you would
ruin in a mistress ? Marry her, marry her.
Young. B. And hang myself in her garters the
next morning, to give her virtues the reward of
widowhood. Faith 1 I must read Pamela twice
over first. But suppose her not born as I pretend,
but the outcast of a beggar, and obliged to chance
for a little education ?
Col. R. Why, then, her mind is dignified by her
obscurity; and you will have the merit of raising
her to a rank which she was meant to adorn.
And where's the mighty matter in all this ? You
want no addition to your fortune, and have only to
sacrifice a little unnecessary pride to necessary
happiness.
Young B. Very heroical, upon my word! And
so, my dear Colonel, one way or other, I must be
married, it seems.
Col. R. If Fidelia can be honest, my life on't,
you are of my mind within this fortnight. But
pr'ythee, since I am not to believe your former
account of her, who is this delicious girl, that must
and will get the better of your pride ?
Young B. A sister of the graces, without mortal
father or mother; she dropped from the clouds in
her cradle, was lulled by the winds, christened by
the rains, fostered by a hag, sold for a whore, sen¬
tenced to a rape, and rescued by a rogue—to be
ravished by her own consent. There's mystery
and hieroglyphic for youl and every syllable a
truth, beyond apocrypha.
Col. R. And what am I to understaud by all
this?
Young B. 'Faith! just as much as your under¬
standing can carry. A man in love is not to bo
trusted with a secret
Col. R. And, pray, most discreet sir, is Rosetta
acquainted with her real history ?
Young B. Not a circumstance. She has been
amused like you, and still believes her to be the
sister of a dead friend of mine, at college, be¬
queathed to my guardianship. But the devil. I
find, owes me a grudge for former virtues; for
this sister of mine, who dotes upon Fidelia, and
believes everything I have told her of her family
and fortune, has very fairly turned the tables upon
me. She talks of equality of birth, forsooth: of
virtue, prudence, and good sense; and bid9 me
bless my stars, for throwing in my way the only
woman in the world that has good qualities enough
to redeem my bad ones, and make me, what she
says every man ought to be — a good husband.
Col. R. Was ever poor innocent fellow in such
distress I But what says the old gentleman, your
father?
Young B. Why, 'faith! the certainty of a little
THE FOUNDLING.
money would set him at work the same way. Bat
I'll have one trial of skill with them yet. As I
brought hei in by one lie, I'll take her out by Mo¬
ther. I'll swear she's a whore, that I may get ah
s pportunity to make her one.
Col. R. Most religiously resolved, upon my word!
Young B. Between you and me, Colonel, has not
your old gentleman, Sir Charles, a liquorish look¬
out for Fidelia himself ?
Col. R. No, upon my honour. I believe his assi¬
duities there, are more to prevent the designs of
another, than to forward any of his own.
Young B. As who should say, because I have no
teeth for a crust, I'll muzzle the young dog that
has. A plague of everything that's old, but a
woman! for'tis but varying her vocation a little,
and you may make her as useful at flfty-flve as
fifteen. But what say you to a little chat with the
girls this morning? I believe we shall find them
iu the next room.
Col R. Not immediately: I have an appointment
at White's.
Young B. For half-an-hour I am your man there,
too. D'ye return so soon ?
Col. R. Sooner, if you will.
Young B. With all my heart Allans! [Exeunt.
SCENE IL—Another Apartment
Enter ROSETTA and FIDELIA, meeting.
Ros. Oh! my dear, I was just coming to see if
you were dressed. You look as if you had plea¬
sant dreams last night
Fid. Whatever my dreams were, they can't dis¬
turb the morning's happiness, of meeting my dear
Rosetta so gay and charming.
Ros. My sweet creature ? But what were your
dreams ?
Fid. Oh! nothing. A confusion of gay castles,
built by hope, and thrown down by disappoint¬
ment
Ros. Oh, barbarous! Well, for my part I never
built a castle in my sleep that would not last till
doomsday. Give me a dream, and I am mistress
of the creation. I can do what I will with every
man in it; and power, power, my dear, sleeping or
waking, is a charming thing.
Fid. Now, in my opinion, a woman has no busi¬
ness with power. Power admits no equal, and
dismisses friendship for flattery. Besides, it keeps
the men at a distance, and that is not always what
we wish.
Ros. But then, my dear, they'll come when we
c^U them, anit do what we bid them, and go when
w Bend them There's something pretty in that,
sure. And for flattery, take my word for't, 'tis the
hi hest proof of a man's esteem. 'Tis only allow-
in' what one has not, because the fellow admires
what one has. And she that can keep that, need
n t be afraid of believing she has more.
Fid. Ay, if she can keep that But the danger
Is in giving up the substance for the shadow.
Oome, come, my dear, we are weak by nature; and
'tis but knowing that we are so, to be always upon
our guard. Fear may make a woman strong, but
confidence undoes her.
Ros. Ha, ha! How different circumstances direct
different opinions! You are in love with a rake of
a fellow, who makes you afraid of yourself; and I
hold in chains a mighty Colonel, who's afraid of
me. And so, my dear, we both go upon right
principles. Your weakness keeps you upon your
guard, and my power leaves me without danger.
F.d. And yet, you must forgive me, it I tell you,
that you love this ColoneL
Ros. Who told you so, my dear creature t
Fid. I know it by the pains you take to vex him.
Besides, I've seen you look as if yon did.
Ros. Look, child! Why, don't I look like other
people ?
Fid. Ay, like other people in love Oh! my dear,
I have seen just such looks lu the glass, when my
heart has beat at my very lips.
Ros. Thou art the most provoking creature —
Fid. You must pardon me, Rosetta; I have a
heart but little inclined to gaiety; and am rather
wondering, that when happiness is in a woman'B
power, she should neglect it for trifles; or how it
should ever enter her thoughts, that the rigour of a
mistress can endear the submission of a wife.
Ros. As certain, my dear, as the repentance of a
sinner outweighs in opinion the life of a saint But,
to come to serious confession, I have, besides a
woman's inclination to mischief, another reason for
keeping off a little: I am afraid of being thought
mercenary.
Fid. Heyday I Why, are you not his equal every
way?
Ros. That's not it. I have told you, that before
his father's return from exile—you know his un¬
happy attachments to a successless party—this
Colonel (brought up in our family, and favoured
by Sir Robert and my brother,) laid violent siege
to me for a whole year. Now. though I own I
never disliked him, in all that time, either through
pride, folly, or a little mischief, I never gave him
the least hint, by which he could guess at my in¬
clinations.
Fid. Right woman, upon my word 1
Ros. 'Tis now about three months since the king,
in his goodness, recalled Sir Cbarles; and, by re¬
storing the estate, made the Colonel heir to a for¬
tune more than equal to my expectations. And
now, to confess all, the airs that folly gave me he-
fore, reason bids me continue; for to surrender my
heart at once to this new-made commander, would
look as if the poor Colonel had wanted a bribe for
the governor. Besides, he has affronted my pride,
in daring to imagine I could descend so low aB to
be fond of that creature, Faddle; a fellow, formed
only to make one laugh; a cordial for the spleen to
be bought by everybody; and just as necessary in
a family as a monkey. For whieh insolenee, I must
and will be revenged.
Fid. Well, I confess, this looks a little like
reason. But, are you sure, all this while, the Co¬
lonel, in despair, won't raise the seige, and draw off
his forces to another place?
Ros. Psha I I have a better opinion of the men,
child. Do but ply them with ill-usage, and they are
the gentlest creatures in the world. Like other
beasts of prey, you must tame them by hunger, but
if once you feed them high, they are apt to run wild,
and forget their keepers.
Fid. And are all men so, Rosetta?
Ros. By the gravity of that question, I'll be
whipped now if you don't expect me to say some¬
thing civil of my brother. Take care of him, Fidelia,
for hunger can't tame him, nor fulness make him
wilder. To leave you to bis guardianship was set¬
ting the fox to keep the chicken.
Fid. Wild as he is, my heart ean never beat to
another. And then, I have obligations that would
amaze you.
Ros. Obligations! Let me die, it I would not
marry my Colonel's papa, and put it out of his
power to oblige or disoblige me.
Fid. Still you banter me with Sir Charles. Upon
my life, be has no more designs upon me than yon
THE FOUND LINO.
^*y®- ^ know no reason for his friendship but his
general humanity, or, peihaps, the singularity of
my circumstances.
Ros. Why, as you say, youth and beauty are
particular circumstances to move humanity. Ho,
ha, ha 1 Oh' my dear, time's a great tell-tale, and
will discover all. What a sweet mama shall I
have, when I marry the Colonel 1
Enter YOUNG BELMONT and COLONEL RAY¬
MOND.
Young B. When yon marry the colonel, sister!
A match, a match, child! Here be is, just in the
nick; and, 'faith 1 as men go, very excellent stuff for
a husband.
Col. B. Those were lncky words, madam.
Bos. Perhaps not so lucky, if you knew all, sir.
Now, or never, for a little lying, Fidelia, if you
love me. (Apart to Fidelia.)
Fid. I'll warrant you, my dear. You must know,
sir. (To Young Belmont.) that your sister has taken
it into her head that the Colonel's father is my
lover.
Bos. What is she going to say now? (Aside.)
Ftd. And as she looks upon herself to be as good
as married to the Colonel—
Bos. Who, I? I—
Fid. She has been settling some family affairs
with her new mama here: and, upon my word,
she's a sweet contriver.
Bos. And you think I won't be even with you for
this, Fidelia ?
Young B. Sister!
Col. B. And was it so, madam? And may I
hope?
Bos. Was it so, madam! And may I hope!
(Mocking him.) No, sir, it was not so, and you may
not hope. Do you call this wit, Fidelia?
Fid. My dear creature, you must allow me to
laugh a little. Ha, ha. ha!
Bos. 'Tis mighty well, madam'. Oh 1 for a little
devil at my elbow now, to help out invention!
(Aside.)
YoungB. Ha, ha, ha! Won't it come, sister ?
Bos. As soon as your manners, brother. You
and your grave friend there have been genteelly
employed, indeed, in listening at the door of a lady's
chamber; and then, because you heard nothing tor
your purpose, to turn my own words to a meaning,
I should hate myself for dreaming of.
Young B. Why, indeed, child, we might have
perplexed you a little, if Fidelia had not so artfully
brought you on.
Bos. Greatly obliged to her, really. (Walking in
disorder.)
Col B. 1 never knew till now, Rosetta, that I could
find a pleasure in your uneasiness.
Bos. And you think, sir, that I shall easily for¬
give this insolence ? But you may be mistaken,
sir.
Young B. Poor thing, how it pants! Come, it
shall have a husband. We must about it imme¬
diately, Colonel, for she's all over in a flame.
Bos. You grow impertinent, brother. Is there no
relief? (Aside.)
Young B. Shall I lift up the sash for a little air,
child?
Enter Servant.
Rot. So! John, you have delivered the card I
gay©yon? , ,
Serv. Yes, madam; and Mr. Faddle desires his
compliments to your ladyship, and madam Fidelia.
Bos. Mr. Faddle, John? Where did you see
him?
Serv. Ha met me In the street, madam, and made
me step into a coffee-house with him, till he wrote
this, madam. (Delivers a letter, and exit.
Bos. Oh 1 the kind creature! Here's a letter
from Mr. Faddle, Fidelial Fortune, 1 thank thee
for this little respite 1 (Aside, andreading the letter.)
Col. B. Does she suffer the fool to write to her,
too?
Fid. What, pining, Colonel, in the midst of vic¬
tory?
Col R. To receive his letters, madam! I shall
run mad.
Young B. So! away pop, and down scaffold I All's
over, I see.
Ilos. Ohl Fidelia, you shall hear it. You shall
all hear it And there's something in't about the
Colonel, too.
Col. R. About me, madam? (Peevishly.)
Bos. Nay, Colonel, I am not at all angry now.
Methinks, this letter hath made me quite another
creature. To be sure, Mr. Faddle has the most
gallant way of writing! But his own words will
speak best for him. (Beads.) "Bear creature, —
Since I saw you yesterday time has hung upon me like
a winter in the country; and unless you appear at re¬
hearsal of the new opera this morning, my sun will be
in total eclipse for two hours. Lady Fanny maae us
laugh last night, at What's my Thought like, by com¬
paring your Colonel to a great box o' the ear; because
it was very rude, she said, and what nobody cared
for. I have a thousand things to say, but the clamour
of a coffee-house is an interruption to the sentiments of
love and veneration with which 1 am,—Madam, most
unspeakably yours, WILLIAM FADDLE." Is it
not very polite, Colonel ?
Col. B. Extremely, madam. Only a little out as
to the box o' the ear: for you shall see him take it,
madam, as carelessly as a pinch of snuff.
Bos. Fiel Colonel, you would not quarrel before
a lady, I hope. Fidelia, you must oblige me with
your company to the rehearsal. I'll go put on my
capuchin, and step into the coach, this moment.
Fid. I am no friend to public places; but I'll at¬
tend you, madam,
Bos. You'll come, Colonel?
Col R. To be sure, madam.
Young B. Sister 1 Ohl you're a good creature!
[Exit Rosetta, laughing affectedly.
Fid. Shall we have your company, sir? (To
Young B.)
Young B. We could find a way to employ time
better, child: but I am your shadow and must
move with you everywhere. [Exit Fidelia.] Ha,
ha, hal How like a beaten general dost thou look
now 1 while the enemy is upon the march, to pro¬
claim Te Deum for a complete victory.
Col. R. I am but a man, Charles, and find myself
no match for the devil and a woman.
Young B. Courage, boy 1 and the flesh and the
devil may be subdued. Ha, ha, hal Such a
Colonel 1 [Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE L—Sir Robert Belmont's house.
Enter SIR ROBERT BELMONT and SIR
CHARLES RAYMOND.
Sir R. A voracious young dog I Must I feed or¬
tolans to pamper his gluttony?
Sir C. Be under no apprehension, Sir Robert:
Mr. Belmont's excesses are mitigated by the levity
of youth, and a too early indulgence. In his mo¬
ments of thinking, I know him generous and noble.
Ana tor Fidelia, I think I can be answerable for
690
THE FOUNDLING.
her conduct, both in regard to what she owes her¬
self and you.
Sir ft. Why, look you, Sir Charles, the girl's a
eweet girl, and a good girl, and beauty's a fine
thing, and virtue's a fine thing; but, as for mar¬
riage, why, a man may buy fine things too dear. A
little money, Sir Charles, would set off her beauty,
and find her virtue employment. But the young
rogue does not say a word of that of late. _
Sir C. Nor of marriage, I am sure. His love of
liberty will prevent your fears one way, and, I
hope, Fidelia's honour, another.
Sir R. Must not have her ruined though.
Sir C. Fear it not, Sir Robert. And when next
you see your son, be a little particular in your en¬
quiries about her family and circumstances. If she
is what her behaviour bespeaks her, and he pre¬
tends, a lady of birth and fortune, why, secrets aro
unnecessary: If he declines an explanation, look
upon the whole as a contrivance to cover purposes
which we must guard against
Sir R. What, you don't think the rogue has had
her, eh, Sir Charles?
Sir C. No, upon my honour 1 I hold her inno¬
cence to be without stain. But, to deal freely with
my friend, 1 look upon her story as strange and
improbable. An orphan of beauty, family, and
fortune, committed by a dying brother, to the sole
care of a licentious young fellow! You must par¬
don me, Sir Robert
Sir R. Pray, go on, sir.
Sir C. Brought in at midnight, tool And then,
a young creature so educated, and so irresistibly
amiable, to be, in all appearance, without alliance,
friend, or acquaintance, in the wide world 1 a link,
torn off from the general chain 1 I say, Sir Robert;
this is strange.
Sir R. By my troth, and so it is!
Sir C. I know not why I am so interested in this
lady's concerns; but, yesterday, I indulged my
curiosity with her, perhaps, beyond the bounds of
good-manners: I gave a loose to my suspicion, and
added oaths of secrecy to my inquiries. But her
answers only served to multiply my doubts; and,
still as I persisted, I saw her cheeks covered with
blushes, and her eyes swimming in tears. But, my
life upon it, they were the blushes and the tears of
innocence.
Sir R. We must and will be satisfied, Sir
Charles.
Sir C. For who knows, while we are delaying,
but some unhappy mother, perhaps, of rank, too,
may be wringing her hands, in bitterness of misery,
for this lost daughter. Girls who have kept their
virtue, Sir Robert, have done mad things for a man
they love.
Sir R. And so, indeed, they have. I remember,
when I was a young fellow myself—but is not that
my Charles coming through the hall yonder?
Sir C. Ay, Sir Robert. Attack him now: but
let your inquiries have more the show of accidental
chat, then design; for too much earnestness may
beget suspicion. And so, sir, I leave you to your
discretion. [Exit.
Sir R. You shall see me again before dinner. A
plague of these young, rakehelly rogues! a girl's
worth twenty of them—if one could but manage
her.
Enter YOUNG BELMONT, repeating.
" No warning of tk' approaching flame,
Swiftly, like sudden death, it came;
Like mariners, by lightniny kiil'd,
i burnt the moment—
My dear sir, 1 have not seen you to-day be-
f°Sir R. What, studying poetry, boy, to help out
the year's allowance? -
Young B. 'Faith t sir, times are hard, and unless
you come down with a fresh hundred now and
then, I may go near to disgrace your family, and
tU™r^ R. And so want friends all thy life after I
But now we talk of money. Charles, what art thou
doing with Fidelia's money ? I am thinking, that
a round sum thrown into the stocks now might
turn to a pretty tolerable account.
Young B. The stocks, sir?
Sir R. Ay, boy. My broker will be here after
dinner, and he shall have a little chat with thee
about laying out a few of her thousands.
Young B. I hope he'll tell us where we shall get
thesethousands. (Aside.)
Sir R. Thou dost not answer me, Charles. Art
dumb, boy ?
Young B. Why, to be sure, sir, as to that—Fidelia
—I can't say, but that she may—however, that is,
you know, sir — if, as to possibility—will your
broker be here after dinner, sir ?
Sir R. Take a little time, Charles: for at pre¬
sent, thou dost not make thyself so clearly under¬
stood.
Young B. Quite right, to be sure, sir. Nothing
could, beyond all doubt, be more judicious, or more
advantageous. Her interest, sir—why, as to that
—a pretty fortune; but, did you know her brother,
sir?
S''r R. Why, L child? No.
Young B. 'Faith! nor I, neither. (Aside.) Not
know Jack, sir? The rogue would have made you
laugh. Did I never read you any of his epigrams ?
But then, he had such an itch for playf Why, he
would set you a whole fortune at a cast. And such
a mimic, too! but no economy in the world. Why,
it cost him a cool six thousand to stand for member
once. Ohl I could tell you such stories of that
election, sir—
Sir R. Pr'ythee, what borough did he stand for ?
Young B. Lord ! sir, he was flung all to nothing.
My Lord What-d'ye-call-um's son carried it, fifteen
to one, at half the expense. In short, sir, by his
extravagance, affairs are so perplexed, so very in¬
tricate, that, upon my word, sir, I declare it, I
don't know what to think of them. A plague of
these questions! (Aside.)
Sir ft. But she has friends and relations, Charles;
I fancy, if I knew who they were, something might
be done.
Young B. Yes, yes, sir, she has friends and rela¬
tions, I see, sir, you know nothing of her affairs,
such a string of them I The only wise thing her
brother ever did was making me her guardian, to
take her out of the reach of those wretches; I shall
never forget his last words : " Whatever you do,
my dear Charles," says he, taking me by the hand,
"keep that girl from her relations." Why, I would
not, for a thousand pounds, sir, that any of them
should know where she is.
Sir R. Why, we have been a little cautious,
Charles. But where does the estate lie ?
Young B. Lord! sir, an estate and no estate. I
wonder a man of your knowledge should ask the
question. An earthquake may swallow it for any¬
thing I care.
Sir ft. But where does it lie, Charles? In what
county, I say?
J°ung B. And then, there's the six thousand
pounds that her father left her-a
THE FOUNDLING.
Sir R. What! that gone,'too, Charles?
Young B. Just as good, I believe. Every shilling
on't in a lawyer's hands.
Sir R. But she is not afraid to see him, too,
Charles ? Where does he live ?
Young B. Live, sir! Do you think such a fellow
ought to live ? Why, he has trumped up a contract
of marriage with this girl, sir, under the penalty of
her whole fortune. There's a piece of work for
yout
Sir R. But has he no name, Charles ? What is
he called, I say?
Young B. You can't call him by any name that's
too bad for him. But, if I don't draw his gown
over his ears, why, say I am a bad guardian, sir,
that's all.
Sir R. If this should be apocryphal, now t
Young B. Sir?
ir R. A fetch, a fib, Charles, to conceal some
honest man's daughter, that you have stolen,
child.
Young B. And brought into a sober family, to
have the entire possession of, without let or
molestation! Why, what a deal of money have
you lavished away, sir, upon the education of a
fool!
Sir R. There is but that one circumstance to
bring thee off. For, to be sure, her affairs might
have been as well settled in private lodgings. And,
besides, Charles, a world of troublesome questions
and lying answers might have been saved. But
take care, boy, for I may be in the secret before
thou art aware on't. A great rogue, Charles!
[Exit.
Young B. So! the mine's sprung, I see, and
Fidelia has betrayed me. And yet, upon cooler
thoughts, she durst not break her word with me;
for, though she's a woman, the devil has no part in
her. Now will I be hanged, if my loving sister is
not at the bottom of all this: but if I don't out-plot
her—let me see-ay, Faddle shall be called in; for
the fool loves mischief, like an old maid, and will
outlie an attorney.
Enter ROSETTA.
Rot. What, musing, brother 1 Now would I fain
know which, of all the virtues, has been the subject
of your contemplations.
Young B. Patience, patience, child; for he that
has connection with a woman, let her be wife, mis¬
tress, or sister, must have patience.
Rot. The most useful thing in the world, bro¬
ther; and Fidelia shall be your tutoress. I'll hold
six to four that she leads you into the practice on't,
with more dexterity than the best philosopher in
England. She shall teach it, and yet keep the heart
without hope, brother.
Young B. Why, that's a contrary method to
yours, sister: for you give hope where you mean to
try patience most, aDd, I take it, you are the abler
mistress in the art. Why, every coxcomb in town
has been your scholar, child.
Rot. Not to learn patience; there's your mistake
now; for it has been my constant practice to put
my scholars out of all patience. What are you
thinking of, brother 1
Young B. Why, I was thinking, child, that 'twould
be a question to puzzle a conjurer, what a coquette
was made for.
Bos. Am I one, brother?
YonngB. Oh, fie, sister!
Rot. Lord 1 I, that am no conjurer, can tell you
that A coquette! oh! why, a coquette is a sort of
beautiful dessert in wax-work, that tempts the fool
an entertainment, merely to baulk his appetite
601
And will any one tell me that nature has no hand
in themaking a coquette, when she answers such
wise and necessary purposes ? Now, pray, sir, tell
me what a rake was made for ?
Young B. Am I one, sister ?
Rot. Oh, fie, brother!
Young B. Nay, child, if a coquette be so useful in
the system of morals, a rake must be the most
horrid thing in nature. He was born for her de¬
struction, child; she loses her being at the very
Bight of him, and drops plump into his arms,
like a charmed bird into the mouth of a rattle¬
snake.
Bos. Bless us all! What a mercy it is that we are
brother and sister!
Young B. Be thankful for't night and morning,
upon your knees, hussy; for I should certainly
have been the ruin of you. But come, Rosetta,
'tis allowed, then, that we are rake and coquette:
and now, do you know, that the essential diffeience
between us lies only in two words—petticoat and
breeches.
Rot. Ay! make that out, and you'll do some¬
thing.
Young B. Pleasure, child, is the business of both;
and the same principles that make me a rake, would
make you—no better than you should be, were it
not for that tax upon the petticoat, called scandal.
Your wishes are restrained by fear; mine autho¬
rised by custom; and, while you are forced to sit
down with the starved comfort of making men
fools, I am upon the wing to make girls—women,
child.
Rot. Now, as I hope to be married, I would not
be a rake for the whole world, unless I were a man;
and then, I do verily believe, I should turn out just
such another.
Young B. That's my dear sister! Give me your
hand, child. Why, now, thou art the honestest girl
in St James's parish; and I'll trust thee for the
future with all my secrets: I am going to Fidelia,
child.
Rot. What a pity 'tis, brother, that she is not such
a coquette as I am!
Young B. Not so, neither, my sweet sister ; for,
'faith! the conquest will be too easy to keep a man
constant.
Rot. Civil creature!
Young B. But here comes the Colonel! Now to
our several vocations; you to fooling, and I to bu¬
siness. At dinner we'll meet and compare notes,
child.
Rot. For a pot of coffee, I succeed best
Young B. 'Faith! I'm afraid so. [Fxfl.
Enter COLONEL RAYMOND.
Col. R. To meet you alone, madam, is a happi¬
ness—
Ros. Pray, Colonel, are you a rake ? Methinks,
I would fain have you a rake.
Col. R. Why so, madam ? 'Tis a character I never
was fond of.
Ros. Because I am tired of being a coquette; and
my brother says that a rake can transform one in
the flirt of a fan.
Col. R. I would be anything, madam, to be better
in your opinion.
Rot. If you were a rake, now, what would you
say to me?
Col, R, Nothing, madam. I would—
CSnatches her hand and kisses it.)
Ros. Bless me! is the man mad? I only asked
what would you say to me.
R. I would say, madam, that you are my life
692
THE FOUNDLING.
my soul, my angel! That all my hopes of happi- Fid. And was he angry with you, Faddle?
- - - Fad. To a degree, my dear: but I bare ror-
ness are built upon your kindness.
Ros. Very well! keep it up.
Col. R, That your smiles are brighter than vir¬
tue. and your chains sweeter than liberty.
Ros Upon my word!
Col. R. Oh 1 Kosetta, how can you trifle with a
heart that loves you ?
Ros. Very well! pathetic, too!
Col. R. Psha! this is not in your nature.
Ros. Suspicion ! Pretty enough !
Col. R. You know I have not deserved this.
Ro'. ADger, too ! Go on !
Col. R No. madam; Faddle can divert you this
way at an easier price.
Ros. And jealousy! All the vicissitudes of love!
Incomparable!
Col. R. You will force me to tell you, madam,
that I can bear to be your jest no longer.
Ros. Or thus:
" Am 1 the jest of her 1 lovet
Forbid it all the gocls above."
It may be rendered either way; but I am for the
rhyme: I love poetry vastly. Don't you love poe¬
try, Colonel ?
Col. R. This is beyond all patience, madam. (Very
angrily.)
Ros. Bless me! Why, you have not been in
earnest, Colonel? Lord, lord! how a silly woman
may be mistaken!
Col. R. Shall I ask yon one serious question,
madam ?
Ros. Why, I find myself somewhat whimsical
this morning, and I don't care if I do take a little
, stuff; but don't let it be bitter.
Col. R. Am I to be your fool always, madam, or,
like other fools, be made a husband of when my
time s out?
Ros. Lord! yon men-creatnres do ask the
strangest questions! Woy, how can I possibly
eay now, what I ^ball do ten years hence?
Col. R. I am answered, madam.
(Walking in disorder.)
Enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Faddle, madam. [Exit.
Enter FADDLE.
Fad. Ah, my dear, soft toad! And the Colonel,
by all that's scarlet! Now, plague catch me, if
nature ever formed so complete a couple, since the
first pair in Paradise!
Ros. 'Tis well you are come, Faddle; give me
something to laugh at, or I shall die with the
spleen.
Col. R. Ay, sir, make the lady laugh this mo¬
ment, or I shall break your bones^ rascal.
Fad. Lord ! Colonel—what—what eh ?
Col. R. Make her laugh this instant, I say, or I'll
make you cry. Not make her jaugh when she bids
you ! Why, sirrah, I have made her laugh this
half-hour without bidding.
Ros. Ha, ha, ha!
Fad Why there, there, there, Colonel! she does,
she does!
Enter YOUNG BELMONT and FIDELIA.
Young B. Why, how now, Faddle! What has
been the matter, pr'ythee ?
Col. R. A rascal! Not make a lady laugh!
Fad. What, Charles, and my little Fiddy, too!
Stand by me a little; for this robust Colonel haB
relaxed my very sinews, and quite tremulated my
whole system. I could not have collected myself
without your presence.
got it; I bear no malice to any one in the world,
child. _. ,
Ros. Do yen know, Faddle, that I have a quarrfll
with you, too ? „ ^ ,
Fad. You, child! He, he! What, I am incott-
stant, I suppose; and have been the ruin of a few
families this winter, eh, child? Murder will out,
though it's done in the centre. But, come, vivacet
let the storm loose; and you shall see me weather
it, like the osier in the fable-it may bend, but not
break me.
Ros. Nay, it shall come in a breeze: I'll whisper
it. (WMspi rs Faddle.)
Young B. Colonel!
Col. R. Now I could cut my throat for being
vexed at this puppy; and yet the devil, jealousy,
will have it so. (Apart to Young B.
Fad. Oh! what a creature have you named, child.
He, he, he! May grace renounce me, and darkness
seal my eye-lids, if 1 would not as soon make love
to a milliner's dolll
Young B. Pr'ythee, what mistrMS has she found
out for thee, Faddle ?
Fad. By all that's odious, Charles, Miss Gargle,
the 'pothecary's daughter 1 the toad is fond of me,
that's positive; but such a mess of water-gruel 1
Ugh 1 To all purposes of joy, she's an armful of
dry shavings! and then, she's so jea'ous of one 1
"Lord!" says she, "Mr. Faddle, you are eternally
at Sir Robert's; one can't set eyes upon yon in a
whole da\." He, he] And then, the tears do so
trickle down those white-wash cheeks of her's, that,
if she could but warn me to the least fit of the
heart-burn, I believe I should be tempted to take
her, by the way of chalk and water. He, he,
he!
Young B., Ros. and Fid. Ha, ha, ha!
Ros. Isn't he a pleasant creature, Colonel?
Col. R. Certainly, madam, of infinite wit, with
abundance of modesty.
Fad. Pooh! plague of modesty, Colonel! But do
you know, you slim toad, you! (to Ros.) what a
battle I had last night, in a certain company, about
you, and that ugly gipsy there?
Fid. Meaning me, sir ?
Fad. Pert and pretty 1 You must know, there
was Jack Taffaty, Billy Cruel, Lord Harry Gymp,
and I, at Jack's lodgings, all in tip-top spirits, over
a pint of Burgundy a pox of all drinking though!
I shall never get it out of my head. Well, we were
toasting a round of beauties, you must know : " The
girl of your heart, Faddle," says my lord. "Ro-
setta Belmont, my lord," says I: and, 'faith ! down
you went, you delicate little devil you, in almost
half a glass. " Rot your toast," says my lord, " I
was fond of her last winder." " She's a wit," says
Jack. "And a scold, by all that's noisy!" says
Billy. " Isn't she a little freckled ?" says my lord.
"D ly padded," says Jack; "and painted like*
Dutch doll, by Jupiter!" says Billy. "She's
very unsusceptible," says my lord. " No more
warmth than a snow-ball," says Jack. "A mere
cold bath to a lover, curse catch me!" says Billy.
"Be, he, he!" says I, "that's because yon want
heart to warm her, my dears; to me, now, she's all
over combustibles; 1 can electrify her by a look:
touch but her lip, and snap she goes off. in a flash
of fire!" *
Ros. Oh, the wretch 1 whata picture has he drawn
ofmel
Fid. You mast be curious, my dear.
(To Fidelia.)
THE FO
Young B. Ila, ha ! But you forgot Fidelia,
Faddle.
Fad. Oh 5 "And there's the new face," says
Billy, "Fidelia, I think they call her," "If she
were an appurtenance of mine," says my lord,
"I'd hang her upon a peg in my wardrobe, amongst
my cast clothes." " With those demure looks of
her's," says Jack, " I'd Bend her to my ai.nt in Wor¬
cestershire, to Bet her face by, when she went to
church." "Or, what think you," says Billy, "of
keeping her in a shew-glass, by way of—gentlemen
and ladies, walk in, and see the curiosity of curios¬
ities, the perfect Pamela in high life 1 Observe,
gentlemen, the blushing of her cheeks, the turning
up of her eyes, and her tongue, that says nothing
butfle,flel Ha, ha, ha 1" 'Incomparable!" said
all three. "Pooh! pox!""says I, "not so bad as
that, neither: the little toad has not seen much of
town, indeed, but she'll do iit time; and a glass of
preniac may serve one's turn, you know, when
champagne is not to be had." (Bowing to Rosetta.)
AU. Ha, ha, ha 1
Young B. Why, thou didst give it them, 'faith,
bully I
Enter Servant, and whispers to Rosetta.
Ros. Come, gentlemen, dinner waits. We shall
have all your companies, I hope?
Young B. You know, you dine with me, at the
King's Arms, Faddle? (Aj art to Faddle.)
Fad. Do I? Iam sorry, my dear creature, that
a particular appointment robs me of the honour.
(To Rosetta.)
Ros. Psha! you are always engaged, I think.
Come, Fidelia. [Exit with Fidelia.
Col. R. W hy, then, thank heaven, there's some
respite. [Exit.
Young B. Hark you, Faddle! I hope you are
not in the least ignorant, that, upon particluar oc¬
casions, you pan be a great rascal ?
Fad. Who I, Charles? Pooh, plague! is this
the dinner I am to have?
Young B. Courage, boy! And, because I think
so well of thee, there, (gives htm a purse) 'twill buy
thee a new laeed coat and a feather.
Fad. Why, ay, this is something, Charles. But
what am I to do, eh? I won't fight, upon my soul,
1 won't fight
Young B. Thou canBt lie a little ?
Fad. A great deal. Charles, or I have spent my
time among women of quality to little purpose.
Young B. I'll tell thee, then. This sweet girl, this
angel, this stubborn Fidelia, sticks so at my heart,
that I must either get the better of her, or run
mad
Fad. And so, thou wonldst have me aiding and
abetting, eh, Charles ? Must not be tucked up for
rape, neither.
Young B. Peace, fool! About three months ago,
by a very extraordinary adventure, this lady
dropped into my arms. It happened, that our
hearts took fire at first sight: but, as the devil
would have it, in the hurry of my first thoughts,
not knowing where to place her, I was tempted,
for security, to bring her to this haunted house
here; where, between the jealousy of Sir Charles,
the gravity of the Colonel, the curiosity of a sister,
and the awkward care of a father, she must be¬
come a vestal, or I a husband.
Fad. And so, by way of a little simple fornica¬
tion, you want to remove her to private lodgings,
eh, Charles ?
Young B. But how, how. how, thou dear rascal ?
Fad. Let me see. Hum! And so, yon are not
her guardian, Charles ?
'KDL1NO. 638
Young B. Nor she the woman she pretends, boy!
I tell thee, Bhe was mine by fortune; I tilted for
her at midnight: but the devil tempted me, I say,
to bring ber hither. The family was in bed, which
gave me time for contrivance; I prevailed upon
her to call me guardian, that, by pretending au¬
thority over her, I might remove her at pleasure;
but here, too, I was deceived: mv sister's fondness
for her has rendered every plot of mine to part
them impracticable; and, without thy wicked as¬
sistance, we must both die in our virginity.
Fad. Hum I That would be a pity, Charles. But
let me see—ay, I have it. Within these three
hours, we'll contrive to set the house in such a
flame, that the devil himself may take her, if be
stand at the street door. To dinner, to dinner, boy 1
'Tis here, here, here. Charles!
Young B. If thou dost—
Fad. And if I don't, why, no more purses,
Charlea I tell thee, 'tis here, here, here, boy! To
dinner, to dinner. [Exeunt.
ACT IIL
SCENE I.—Alt Apartment in Sir Robert Belmont's
House.
Enter ROSETTA and FIDELIA.
Fid. 'Tis all your own doing, my dear. You first
tease him into madness, and then wonder to hear
his chains rattle.
Ros. And yet, bow one of my heavenly smiles
Bobered him again!
Fid. If I were a man, you should use me so but
once, Rosetta.
Ros. Psha! If yon were a man, you would do as
men do, child. Ha, ha, ha! They are creatures of
robust constitutions, and will bear a great deal.
Besides, for my part, I can't see what a reasonable
fellow ought to expect before marriage, but ill-
usage. You can't imagine, my dear, how it
sweetens kindness afterwards; for, take my word
for't, there's no charm like cruelty to keep the meu
constant; nor no deformity like kindness, to make
them loath you.
Enter Servant.
Serv. A letter for your ladyship, madam [Exit.
Ros. Forme? I don't remember the hand,
(Opens and reads the letter to herself.)
Fid. You seem strangely concerned, madam : I
hope no ill news?
Ros. The worst in the world, Fidelia, if it be
true.
Fid. Pray heaven it be false, then! But must it
be a secret? I hope my dear Rosetta knows, that
whatever affects her quiet, can't leave mine undis¬
turbed.
Ros. Who s there ?
Enter Servant.
How did you receive this letter?
Serv. From a porter, madam.
Ros. Is he without ?
Serv. No, madam; he said he required no an¬
swer.
Ros. Had you any knowledge of him ?
Serv. Not that I remember, madam.
Ros. Should you know him again ?
Serv. Certainly, madam.
Ros. Where did my brother say he dined to¬
day?
Serv, At the King's Arms, madam.
Ros. And Mr. Faddle with him ?
Serv. They went out together, madam.
Ros. Run this moment, and say i desire to speak
694 THE F01
with both of them immediately, upon an extraor¬
dinary affair.
Sere. Y es, madam. (Exit.
Fid. What can this mean, Bosetta ? Am 1 unlit
to be trusted ?
Ros. Tell me, Fidelia—but no matter: why should
I disturb you ? I have been too grave.
Fid. Still more and more perplexing! But my
inquiries are at an end : I shall learn to be lesB
troublesome, as you are less kind, Bosetta,
Ros. Pr'ythee, don t talk so, Fidelia; I can never
be less kind.
Fid. Indeed, I won't deserve you should.
Ros. I kuow it, Fidelia. But, tell me, then, is
there a circumstance in your life, that would call a
blush to your cheeks, if 'twero laid as open to the
world's knowledge as to your own ?
Fid. If from the letter you ask me that strange
question, madam, surely I should see it
Ros. I think not, Fidelia; for, upon second
thoughts, 'tis a trifle not worth your notice.
Fid Why were you so much alarmed then?
Ros. I confess it startled me at first; but 'tis a
lying letter, and should not trouble you.
Fid. Then it relates to me, madam?
Ros. No matter, Fidelia,
Fid. I have lost my friend, then. I begged, at
first, to be a sharer in Rosetta's griefs ; but now, I
find, they are all my own, and she denies my right
to them.
Ros. This is too much, Fidelia, And now, to
keep you longer in suspense would be cruelty. But
the writer of this scroll has a mind darker than
night. You shall join with me in wondering that
there is such a monster in the world. (Reads.)
" To Miss Rosetta Belmont. Madam,—As I write
without a name, I am alike indifferent to your thanlcs
or resentment. Fidelia is not what she seems. She has
deceived you, and may your brother, to his ruin. Wo¬
men of the town know how to wear the face of inno¬
cence, when it serves the purposes of guilt. Faddle, if
he pleases, can inform you further. But, be assured,
I have my intelligence from more sufficient mutho
rity.
"P. S. There needs no further address in this matter
than a plain question to Fidelia:—Is she the sister of
Mr. Belmont's friend f"
Fid. Then I am lost! (Aside.)
Ros. What, in tears, Fidelia? Nay, I meant
to raise your contempt only. Pr'ythee, look up,
and let us laugh at the malice of this nameless
libeller.
Fid. No, Rosetta: the mind must be wrapped in
its own innocence, that can stand against the storms
of malice : I fear I have not that mind.
Ros. What mind, Fidelia ? #
Fid. And yet that letter is a false one.
Ros. Upon my life, it is 1 for you are innocence
itself.
Fid. Oh, Rosetta! No sister of Mr. Belmont's
friond kneels to you for pardon; but a poor,
wretched outcast of fortune, that, with an artful
tale, has imposed upon your nature, and won you
to a friendship for a helpless stranger, that never
knew herself.
Ros. Rise, Fidelia; but, take care! for, if you
have deceived me, honesty is nothing but a
name.
Fid. Think hot too hardly of me, neither; for,
though 1 am not what I seem, I would not be
what that letter calls me, to be mistress of the
world,
Ros. I have no words, Fidelia; speak on: but,
Siethinks, you Bhoald not weep so.
Fid. Nay, now, Rosetta. you compel me; for this
geutleness is too much for me : 1 have deceived
j ou. and you are kind. If you would dry up my
tears, call forth your resentment: anger might turn
me into stone, but compassion melts me.
Ros. 1 have no anger, Fidelia. Pray, go on.
Fid. When my tears will let me. I have played
a foolish game, Rosetta; and yet my utmost fault
has been consenting to deceive you. What I am, I
know not: that I am not what I seem, I know.
But why I have seemed otherwise than I am, aguiu
I know not 'Tis a riddle that your brother only
can explain. He knows the story of my life,
and will, in honour, reveal it Would he were
here 1
Ros. Would he were, Fidelia! for I am upon
the rack. Pr'ythee, go on, and inform me far¬
ther.
Fid. There's my grief, Rosetta ; for I am bound
by such promises to silence, that, to clear my inno¬
cence, would be to wound it All I have left to say
is, that my condition of life only has been assumed
my virtue never.
Enter Servant.
Ros. Well, sir!
Sere. Mr. Belmont, madam, was just gone; but
Mr. Faddle will wait upon your ladyship imme¬
diately.
Ros. Did they Bay where my brother went?
Serv. They did not know. Mr. Faddle is here,
madam.
Enter FADDLE, humming a tune.
Fad. In obedience to your extraordinary com¬
mands, madam—but you should have been alone,
child.
Res. No trifling, sir. Do you know this hand¬
writing? (Gives him the letter.)
Fad. Hum! Not I, as I hope to he saved! Nor
you neither, I believe. (Aside.) Is it fob my perusal,
madam ?
Fid. And your answering, too, sir.
Fad. Mighty well, madam! (Reads.) Hum!
"Fidelia—women of the town—innocence—guilt—
Fadd e inform you farther." Why, what a plague
am I brought in for? "Intelligence—question—
Fidelia—sister of Mr. Belmont's friend." (Stares and
whistles.)
Ros. Well, sir! (Takes the letter.)
Fad Oh! I am to guess at the writer ? Can't,
upon my soul! Upon my soul, I can't, child! 'Tis
a woman, I believe, though by the d—d blabbing
that's in't
Fid. The letter says, sir, that you can inform this
lady farther concerning me. Now, sir, whatever
you happen to know, or to have heard, of me, de¬
liver it freely, and without disguise. I entreat it
as an act of friendship, that will for ever oblige
me.
Fad. Let me see. No, it can't be her, neither:
she is a woman of too much honour - and yet, I
don't remember vo have opened my lips about it
to any soul but her.
Fid. You know me, then, sir?
Ros. Speak out, sir.
Fad. Methinks, if these letter-writers were a
little more communicative of their own names, and
less so of their neighbours', there would be more
honesty in them. Why am I introduced here?
Truly, forsooth, because a certain person in the
world is overburthened with the secrets of her own
slips, and for a little vent chooses to blab those of
another. Faddle inform you farther J Faddle Will
be d d as soon,
Ros, Hark you! sir, if you intend to enter the.e
THE FOUNDLING.
695
doors again, tell me all yon know, for I will have
It You have owned your telling it elsewhere, sir.
Fid. What is it you told, sir ?
Fad. What I sha'n't tell here, madam. Her
angry ladyship must excuse me, 'faith 1
Fid. Indeed, Rosetta, he knows nothing.
Fad. Nothing in the world, madam, as I hope
to be saved. Mine is all hearsay. And, curse upon
them I the whole town may be in a lie, for anything
I know. So they said of Lady Bridget, that she
went off with herfootuian; but 'twas all slander,
for 'twas a horse-grenadier that she bought a com¬
mission for last week.
Bos. What has Lady Bridget, or the town, to do
with Fidelia, sir?
Fad. So I said, madam; the very words. Says
I, "A woman of the town? Does a slip or two
with particulars make a lady a woman of the
town? Or, if it did," says I, "many a one has
taken up, and lived honestly afterwards. A woman
of the town, indeed!"
Fid. Hold your licentious tongue, sir! Upon my
Mfe, Rosetta, 'tis all malice. 'Tis his own contri-
tance. I dare him to produce another villain that's
Base enough to say this of me.
Fad. Right, madam; stick to that, and, egad!
I'll be of your side. (Aloud in her ear.)
Fid. Insolence! (Strikes him.) Oh! I am hurt be¬
yond all bearing!
Bos. And L lost in perplexity. If thou art linked
with any wretch base enough to contrive this pa¬
per, or art thyself the contriver, may poverty and
a bad heart be thy companions: but if thou art
privy to anything that concerns the honour of this
family, give it breath, and I'll ensure thee both
protection and reward.
Fid. I dare him to discovery.
Fad. Ladies, I have had the honour of a blow
conforred on me by one of you, and am favoured
with the offer of protection and reward from the
other; now, to convince both, that, in spite of in¬
dignities or obligations, I can keep a secret, if ever
I open my lips upon this matter, may plague,
famine, and the horned devil, consume and seize
me. And so, ladies, I take my leava
[Exit, singtng.
Bos. What can this fellow mean, Fidelia ? Has
he not abused you ?
Fid. Is it a doubt, then? Would I had leave to
speak!
Bos. And why not, Fidelia? Promises unjustly
extorted have no right to observance. You have
deceived me by your own acknowledgment; and,
methinks, at such a time, matters of punctilio
should give place to reason and necessity.
Fid. I dare not, Rosetta. "Twould be a crime
to your brother, and I owe him more than all the
world.
Bos. And what are those obligations, Fidelia ?
Fid. Not for me to mention. Indeedt, I dare not,
Rosetta.
Bos. 'Tis well, madam! And when you are
inclined to admit me to your confidence, I shall,
perhaps, know better how to conduct myself.
(Going.)
Enter YOUNG BELMONT.
Oh! are you come, brother? Your friend's sister,
your ward there, has wanted you, sir.
Young B. What is it, Fidelia?
Fid. I have no breath to speak it. Your sister,
■ir, can better inform you.
Bos. Read that, sir.
(Gives him the letter, which he reads to himself.)
Fid. Now, Rosetta, all shall be set right Your
brother will do me justice, and account for his own
conduct.
Bos. I expect eo, Fidelia.
Young B. Impertinent 1 (Gives hack the letter.) 1
met Faddle as I came in; and, I suppose, in pure
love of mischief, he has made my believing sister
here a convert to the villany of that letter. But
I'll make the rascal unsay everything he has said,
or his bones shall ache for't. (Goin<o)
Fid. Stay, sir, I entreat you. That I am a coun¬
terfeit, in part, I have already confessed.
Young B. You have done wrong, ther.
Fid. But am I a creature of the town, sir ? Your
sister must learn that from you. You have been
once my deliverer, be so now. Tell her, I am poor
and miserable, but not dishonest: that I have only
consented to deceive her, not desired it. Tell her,
I deserve her pity, not her anger. 'Tis my only
request; can you deny it me ?
Young B. You have said too much, Fidelia. And,
for your own sake, I shall forbear to mention what
I know of your story. How far your own honour
is bound, you are the best judge. But a breach of
the most solemn promises, let me tell you, madam,
will be a wretched vindication of the innocence you
contend you,
Fid. And is this all, sir?
Young B. For my own part, I must have better
authority than Faddle, or a nameless writer, to
believe anything to your dishonour. And for you,
sister, I must not have this lady ill treated. While
I am satisfied of her innocence, your suspicions
are impertinent. Nor will I consent to her re¬
moval, madam, mark that, whatever you, in your
great wisdom, may have privately determined.
[Exit.
Bos. You are a villain, brother.
Fid. Now I have lost you, Rosetta.
Bos. When you incline to be a friend to your¬
self, Fidelia, you may find one in me. But while
explanations are avoided, I must be allowed to act
from my own opinion, and agreeably to the charac¬
ter 1 am to support [Exit.
* Fid. Then I am wretched 1 But that's no novelty.
I have wandered from my cradle, the very child of
misfortune. To retire and weep must now be my
only indulgence. (Exit
Enter YOUNG BELMONT.
Young B. Why, what a rogue am 11 Here have
I thrown a whole family, and that my own, too,
into perplexities, that innocence can't oppose, nor
cunning guard against And all for what? Why, a
woman! Take away that excuse, and the devil
himself would be a saint to me; for all the rest is
sinning without temptation. In my commerce with
the world, I am guarded against the mercenary
vices. I think I have honour above lying, courage
above cruelty, pride above meanness, and honesty
above deceit; and yet, throw but coy beauty in my
way, and all the vices, by turns, take possession of
me. Fortune, fortune, give me success this once,
and I'll build churches!
Enter FADDLE.
Fad. What, Charles I Is the coast clear, and the
finishing Btroke given to my embassy, eh?
Young B. Thou hast been a most excellent raB-
cal, and, 'faith! matters seem to be in a promising
condition ; for I have flung that in Rosotta'B way,
which, if she keeps her womanhood, will do the
business.
Fad. Pr'ythee, what's that, Charles ?
Young B. Why, I have bid her not think of part¬
ing with Fidelia.
Fad. Nay, then, tip she goes headlong out at
666
THE FOUNDLING
window. Bat hast thou no bowels, CharleB ? for,
melhinks, I begin to feel some twitches of com¬
punction about me.
Young B. X understand you, sir; but I have no
more purses.
Fad. Why, look you, Charles, we must find a
way to lull this conscience of mine; here will be
the devil to do else. That's a very pretty ring,
Charles.
Young B. Is it so, sir? Hark you! Mr. Dog, if
you demur one moment to fetching and carrying in
this business, as I bid you, you shall find my hand
a little heavy upon you.
Fad. Pooh, pox! Charles, can't a body speak?
People may be in good humour when they want
people to do things for people, methinks.
Young B. Troop this moment, with your rascally
conscience, to the King's Arms, and wait there till
I come, sir.
Fad. Why, so I will, Charles A plague of the
swaggering son of a —. Not so big, neither, if one
had but a little courage. (Aside, and going.)
Yo.ng B. Hark you! Faddle: now I think on't,
there is a way vet for thee to make another purse
out of this business.
Fad. Why, one wou'dnot be a rogue for nothing,
methinks.
Young B. I saw Sir Charles going into Fidelia's
chamber; thou may'st steal upon them unob¬
served ; they'll have their plots too, I suppose.
Fad. And where am I to come and tell thee,
eh?
Young B. At the King's Arms, boy.
Fad. But you'll remember the purse, Charles?
Young B. Softly, rascal 1 [Exit Fad He.) Why,
there it is again, now! I am a fellow of principle 1
and so i will be, some time or other. But these
appetites are the devil, a„d, at present, I am under
their direction. [Exit.
SCENE TL—Another Apartment.
«IR CHARLES RAYMOND and FIDELIA dis¬
covered sitting.
Sir C. He durst not say, directly, you were thah
creature the letter called 1
Fid. Not in terms, sir; but his concealments
struck deeper than the sharpest accusations.
Sir C. And could Mr. Belmont be silent to all
this ?
Fid. He said he had his reasons, sir, and it was
my part to submit. I had no heart to disoblige
him.
Sir C. You are too nice, madam. Rosotta loves
you, and should be trusted.
Fid. Alas, sir! if it concerned me only, I should
have no concealment.
Si C. It concerns you most, madam, I must
deal plainly with you. You have deceived your
fr end; ami, though I belie e it not, a severer re¬
proach rests upon you. And shall an idle promise,
an extorted ouo too, and that from a man who
solicits your undoing, forbid your vindication? You
must think better of it.
Fid. 'Tis not an extorted promise, sir, that seals
my lips but I love him and though he pursues
irvto my ruin, I will obey him in this, whatever
attppens. He may desert me, but never shall have
reason to upbraid me.
Sir C. 'Tis your own cause, madam, and you
must act in it as you think proper. Yet still, if I
might advise,—
Fid. Leave it to time, Sir Charles; and if you be¬
lieve me innocent, your friendly thoughts of me,
and my conscience, shall keep me cheerful
Enter FADDLE. listening.
Fad. Oh! plague, is it bo? Now Tor a secret
worth twenty pieces!
Sir C. Has it ever appeared to yon, madam, that
Faddle was a confident of Mr. Belmont's?
Fid Never, sir. On the contrary, a wretch most
heartily despised by him.
Fad If she should be a little mistaken noff !—
(Aside.)
Sir C. Can you guess at any other means of his
coming to a knowledge of you ?
Fid. None that I know of, sir.
Fad. 'Faith, I believe her. (Aside.)
Sir C. One question more, madam, and I have
done. Diu Mr. Belmont ever solicit your removing
from this house ?
Fid. Never directly, sir. He has often, whan we
have been alone, quarrelled with himself for bring¬
ing me into it.
Sir C. I thank you, madam. And if my enquiries
have been at any time too importunate, allow them
to the warmth of an honest friendship: for I have
a heart that feels for your distresses, and beats to
relieve them.
Fid. I have no words, Sir CharleB; let my tears
thank you.
Sir C. Be composed, my child ; and If Rosetta's
suspicions grow violent, t have apartments ready
to receive you, with sucu welcome, as virtue should
find with one who loves it.
Fid. Still, Sir Charles, my tears are all that I can
thank you with—for this goodness is too much for
me.
Fad. And bo she's a bit for the old gentleman at
last! Rare news for Charles 1 or, with a little ad¬
dition I shall make it so. But I must decamp, to
avoid danger. (Aside, and exit.)
Sir C. Dry up your tears, Fidelia. For, if my
conjectures are well grounded, before night, per¬
haps, something may be done to serve you. And
so I leave you to your best thoughts. [Exit.
Fid. Then I have one friend left. How long I
am to hold him, heaven knows! 'Tis a fickle
world, and nothing in it is lasting, but misfortune
—yet I'll have patience:
That sweet relief, the healing hand ofheav'n
Alone to suff'ring innocence has giv'n;
Come, friend of virtue, balm of every care,
Dwell in my bosom, and forbid despair.
t Exit.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—An Apartment.
Enter COLONEL RAYMOND and ROSETTA.
Bos. I tell you, I will not be talked to.
Col R. 'Tis my unhappiness, madam, to raise no
passion in you, but anger.
Ros. You are mistaken, Colonel. I am not
angry, though 1 answer so. My gaiety has been
disturbed to-day; and gravity always sits upon me
like ill humour. Fidelia has engrossed me, and you
are talking of yourself. What would you have me
to say ?
Col. R. That your neglect of me has been dis¬
sembled, and that I have leave to love you, and to
hope for you.
Ros. This is very strange, now! Why, 'tis not in
your power to avoid loving me, whether you have
leave to hope or not. -And to my dissembling, 1
know nothing of that—all I know is, that I'm a
woman; and women, I suppose, dissemble some¬
times—I don't pretend to be a bit better than a
woman.
the foundling.
Col. A. Be a kind one. and you're an angel.
Ros. But If I were inclined to listen, what have
you to say in favour of matrimony ?
Col. R. 'Tis happiness, or misery, as minds are
differently disposed. The necessary requisites are,
love, good sense, and good breeding, The first to
unite, the second to advise, and the third to comply.
If you add to these, neatness and competency,
beauty will always please, and family cares become
agreeable amusements.
Ros. Do you know, now, that you never pleased
me so much in all your life ?
Col. R. If so, Rosetta, one question, and then to
apply.
Ros. How if I should not answer your question ?
Col. R. 'Tis a fair one, upon my word. Don't
you think, that you and I could muster up these
requisities between us '<
Ros. Let me consider a little—Who must have
love, pray?
Col. R. Both of us.
Ros. No, I have no mind to have anything to do
with love. Do you take that, and give understand¬
ing to advise. So then you choose, and have all
the good breeding, for compliance; then I neat¬
ness ; and last of all, competency shall be divided
between us.
Col. R. A match, madam, upon your own terms.
But if you should ever take it into your head to
dispute love with me, what other requisite are you
willing to give np for it ?
Ros. Why, neatness, I think; 'tis of little use to
a married woman, you know.
Col. R. A trifle, madam. Bnt when are we to
come together ?
Ros. As soon as we can give proof that these in¬
gredients are between us. In a few years, per¬
haps.
Col. R. If our virtues should starve in that
time?
Ros. Psba! You know nothing of the matter.
Sense will improve every day, and love and good
breeding live an age, if we don't marry them. But
we'll have done with these matters; for I can keep
the ball up no longer. You did not say Fidelia up¬
braided me ?
Col. R. The very reverse. 'Twas her only
afilection, she said, that you had reason to think
hardly of her.
Ros. Poor girl! If you would make love to me
with success, Colonel, clear up these perplexities.
Suppose I were to dismiss my pride a little, and
make her a visit ?
Col. k. 'Twould be a kind one.
Ros. Lead me, then! for, in spite of my resent¬
ments, I have no heart to keep from her. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Another Apartment.
Enter\OXJNG BELMONT a.,d FADDLE.
Young B. If this should be invention, Faddle ?
Fad. I tell thee I was behind the screen, and
heard every syllable of it. Why, I'll say it to his
face, pr'ythee.
•Young B. What, that he proposed to take her
into keeping, and that she consented?
Fad. Not in those words, man. No, no ; Sir
Cbar|es is a gentleman of politer elocution.—
"Pray, child, (says he,) did young Belmont ever
propose.your removing from this house?"—"No,
sir; (says she;) but he has cursed bimselt to d n
for bringing me into it'' (Mimicking Sir C. and
Fidelia.) "Well, child, (Bays he,) the thing may
be done to-night; apartments are ready for yon."
And then, in a lower voice, he said something
607
about virtue, that i could not very well hear! but
I saw it set the girl a-crying. And, presently, in
answer to a whisper of bis, I heard her say, in a
very pretty manner, that she thougnt it was too
much for her. But what his proposals were, the
devil a By liable could I hear.
Young B. Ha, ha, ha! Yonder he is, Faddle; and
coming this way. We must not be seen together.
Fad. For a little sport, Charles, suppose I fling
myself in his way, and make interest to be com¬
mode to him, eh?
Young B. And get thy nose twisted for thy
pains ?
Fad. Why, i can run, if i can't fight.
Young B. 'Faith, I never doubted thee that way.
i'll too my room, then, and wait for thee.
Fad. But leave the door open, Charles.
Young B. Ha, ha, ha!—You'll not be tedious,
sir. {Exit.
Enter SIR CHARLES RAYMOND.
Fad. If the old gentleman should be in his airB,
though. Servant, servant, Sir Charles.
Sir C. Oh 1 sir, you are the man I was looking
for.
Fad. If I can be of any service, Sir Charles—
What, and so—had—'Faith! you're a sly ona—
But you old poachers have such a way with you ?
Why here has Charles been racking his brains for
ways and means, any time these three months;
and, just in the nick, souse comes me down the
old kite—and, alack-a-day, poor chick I—the busi¬
ness is done.
Sir C. Make yourself a little intelligible, sir.
Fad. And so, I don't speak plain, eh ? Oh! the
little rogue! There's more beauty in the veins
of her neck, than in a landscape of Claude; and
more music in the smack of her lips than in all
Handel!
Sir C. Let me understand you, sir.
Fad. Methinks 'twas very laconic, though.—
If Rosetta's suspicions grow violent, I have apart¬
ments ready to receive you. {Mimicking Sir C.)
But a word in your ear, old gentleman — those
apartment's won't do.
Sir C. Oh 1 Sir, I begin to be a little in the
secret.
Fad. Mighty quick of apprehension, 'faith!—
And the little innocent!—"Still, Sir Charies, my
tears are all £ can thank you with; for this good¬
ness is too much for me." (Mimicking Fidelia.)
TTpon my soul, you have a great deal of goodness.
Sir Charles; a great deal of goodness, upon my
soul!
Sir S. Why, now I understand you, sir. And
as these matters may require time, for the sake of
privacy, we'll shut the door. (Shuts the door.)
Fad. Any other time, Sir Charles. But I am
really so hurried at present, that —Ohl Lord!—
(Aside.)
S'r C. Why, what does the wretch tremble at?
Broken bones are to be set again; and thou mayest
yet die in thy bed. (Takes hold of him.) You have
beeu a listener, sir.
Fad. Lord, sir! — indeed, sir '.—Not T, sirl
Sir C. No denial, sir. (Shakes him.)
Fad. Oh! Sir, I'll confess! I did listen, sir; i
did indeed, sir.
Sir C. Does your memory furnish you with any
other villany of yours, that may save me the
trouble of an explanation ?
Fad. I'll think, sir.—What the devil shall I say
now ? (Aside.)
SirC. Take care; for every lie thou tellest me,
shall be Bcored ten-fold upon thy flesh. Answer
THE FOUNDLING.
699
me: how come Mr. Belmont's sister by that ano¬
nymous letter ?
Fad. Letter, sir?
Sir C. Whence came it, I say?
Fad. Is there no remission, sir ?
Sir C. None that thon can'st deserve; for honesty
1b not in thy nature.
Fad. If I confess ?
Sir C. Do so, then, and trust me.
Fad. Yes, and so be beat to a mummy by Charles.
If you won't tell him, sir—
Sir C. I'll think of it.
Fad.. Why, then, sir—But he'll certainly be the
death of me—It was by his contrivance I wrote the
letter, and sent it from the King's Arms.
Sir C. Very well, sir. And did you know to what
purpose it was sent ?
Fad. Yes, sir; it was to alarm the family against
Fidelia, that Charles might get her into private
lodgings. That was all, as i hope to be saved,
sir.
Sir C. Was it, sir? And upon what principles
were you an accomplice in this villany ?
Fad. I was out of money, sir, and not over-va¬
liant; and Charles promised and threatened. 'Twas
either a small purse, or a great cudgel; and so I
took the one, to avoid the other, sir.
Sir C, And what dost thou deserve for this ?
Fad. Pray, sir, consider my honest confession,
and think me paid already, if you please, sir.
Sir C. For that thou art safe. If thou wouldst
continue so, avoid me. Begone, I say!
Fad. Yes, sir,—and well off, too, 'faith. (Aside
and. going.)
Sir C. Yet, stay 1 If thou art open to any sense of
shame, hear me.
Fad. I will, sir.
Sir C. Thy life is a disgrace to humanity. A
foolish prodigality makes thee needy: need makes
thee vicious, and both make thee comtemptible.
Thy wit is prostituted to slander and buffoonery;
And thy judgment, if thou hast any, to meanness
and villany. Thy betters, that laugh with thee,
laugh at thee. And who are they? The fools of
quality at court, and those who ape them in the
city. The varieties of thy life are pitiful rewards
and painful abuses; for the same trick that gets
thee a guinea to-day, shall get thee beaten out of
doors to-morrow. Those who caress thee are ene¬
mies to themselves; and when they know it, will
be so to thee : in thy distresses they'll desert thee,
and leave thee, at last, to sink in thy poverty, un¬
regarded and unpitied. If thou canst be wise,
think of me, and be honest [Exit.
Fad. I'll endeavour it sir. A most excellent
discourse, 'faith; and mighty well there was not a
larger congregation. So, so! I must be witty,
with a vengeance! What the deuse shall I say to
Charles, now? And here he comes, like poverty
and the plague, to destroy me at once. Let me
see—Ay, as truth has saved me with one, I'll try
what a little lying will do with t'other.
Enter YOUNG BELMONT.
Ha, ha, ha 1 Oh, the rarest sport, Chariest
Bel. What sport, pr'ythee ?
Fad. 1 shall burst! Ha, ha, ha! The old gen¬
tleman has let me into all his secrets 1
Young B. And, like a faithful confidant, you are
goiug to reveal them.
Fad. Not a breath, Charles—only that I am in
commission, my dear, that's all.
Young B. So I suppose, indeed.
Fad. A ay, Charles, if I tell thee a lie, cut my j
throat The short of the matter is, the old poacher,
finding me in the secret thought it the wisest way
to make a confidant of me; and this very moment;
my dear, I am upon the wing to provide lodginga
for the occasion.
Young B. If this should be apocryphal, as my
father sayB—
Fad. Gospel, every syllable, as I hope to -be
saved. Why, what in the devil's name have I to
do, to be inventing lies for thee ? But here comes
the old gentleman again, 'faith. Oh, the devil!—
(Aside.) Pr'ythee, stroke him down a little, Charles,
if 'tis only to see how awkward he takes it. I
must about the lodgings, ha, ha, hat—But if ever
I set foot in this house again, may a horse-pond be
my portion 1 [Aside and exit.
Enter SIR CHARLES RAYMOND, with a letter is
his hand, speaking to a Servant.
Sir C. Bid him wait a little, and I'll attend him.
[Ex<t Servant.] What can this mean ? Let me
read it again. (.Reads,) " If the interests of Sir
Charles Raymonds family be dear to him, he will
follow the bearer with the same haste that he would
shun ruin." That he would shun ruinl This is
strange! But, be it as it will, I have another con¬
cern that must take place first
Young B. Sir Charles, your servant Any news,
sir?
Sir C. Not much, sir; only, that a young gentle¬
man of honour and condition has introduced a
virtuous lady to his family; and, when a worthless
feliow defamed her innocence, and robbed her of
her quiet, he, who might have dried her tears, and
vindicated her virtue, forsook her in her injuries,
to debauch his mind with the assassin of her re¬
putation.
Young B. If your tale ends there, sir, you have
learned but half of it; for my advices add, that a
certain elderly gentleman, of title and fortune,
pitying the forlorn circumstances of the lady, has
offered her terms of friendship and accommoda¬
tion ; and this night she bids farewell to maiden¬
hood, and a female bed-fellow, in private apart¬
ments.
Sir C. You treat me lightly, Mr. Belmont.
Young B. You use me roughly, Sir Charles.
Sir C. How, sir!
Young B. In the person of Fidelia.
Sir C. Make it appear and you shall find me a
very boy in my submissions.
Young B. 'Twould be time lost; and I can em¬
ploy it to advantage. But remember, Bir, that this
house is another's, not yours; that Fidelia iB under
my direction, not your's; and that my will mast
determine her removal, not yours.
/Sir C. Is she your slave, sir, to bear the burden
of your iusults without complaining, or the right of
choosing another master?
loung B. And who shall be that master? You,
sir! The poor bird, that would escape the kite, is
like to find warm protection from the fox!
Sir C. Pr'ythee, think me a man, and treat me
as such.
Young B. As the man I have found you, Sir
Charles. Your grave deportment and honesty of
heart are covers only for wantonness and de¬
sign : you preach up temperance and sobriety to
youth, to monopolize, in age, the vices yon are unfit
for.
Sir C. Harkye! young man, you must curb this
impetuous spirit of yours, or I shall be tempted to
teach you manners, in a method disagreeable to
you.
THE FOUNDLING.
699
Young Jt. Learn thetn first yourself, sir. You
aay Fidelia is insulted by me; how is it made out ?
Why, truly, I would possess her without marriage!
I would so. Marriage is the thing I would avoid:
'tis the trick of priests to make men miserable, and
women insolent. I have dealt plainly, and told
her so. Hove you said as much? No; you wear
the face of honesty, to quiet her fears; that, when
your blood boils, and security has stolen away her
guard, you may rush at midnight upon her beau¬
ties, and do the ravage you have sworn to protect
her from.
Sir C. Hold, sir! You have driven me beyond
the limits of my patience: and I must tell you,
young man, that the obligations I owe your father,
demand no returns t at manhood must blush to
make: therefore, hold, I say; for I have a sword
to do me justice, though i: should leave my dearest
friend childless.
Young B. I fear it nob
Sir C. Better tempt it not; for your fears may
come too late. You have dealt openly with Fidelia,
you say; deal so for once with me, and tell me,
whence came that v le scroll to Rosetta this after¬
noon.
Young B. It seems, then, I wrote it? You dare
not think so.
Sir C. I dare speak, as well as think, where
honour directs me.
Yo ,ng B. You are my accuser, then ?
Sir V. When I become so, I sh 11 take care,
Mr. Belmont, that the proof waits upon the accu¬
sation.
Young B. I disdain the thought
Sir 0. Better have disdaiued the deed.
Young B. I do both; and him that suspects me.
Sir C. Away, you fear him that suspec s you;
and have disdained neither the thought nor the
deed.
Young B. How, sir ? (Draining his sword.)
Sir C. Put up your sword, young man. and use
it in a better cause; this is a vile one. And now
you shall be as still through shame, as you have
been loud through pride. You should have known,
that cowards are unfit for secrets.
Young B. And if I had, sir?
Sir C. Why, then, sir, you had not employed
such a wretch as Faddle, to write that letter to
Bosetta.
Young B. (Aside.) The villain has betrayed
me! But I'll be sure of it. He durst not say I
did?
Sir C. You should rather have built your inno¬
cence upon the probability of his unsaying it; for
the Bame fear that made him confess to me, may
make him deny every syllable to you.
Young B. What has he confessed, sir.
Sir C. That, to-day, at dinner, you prompted
the letter that he wrote: that your design was, by
vilifying Fidelia, to get her dismissed, and the
dismission to prepare her ruin in private lodgings.
Was this your open behaviour, sir?
Young B. Go on with your upbraidings, sir.
Speak to me as you will, and think of me as you
will. I have deserved shame, and am taught pa¬
tience.
Sir C. Was this well done ? Did her innocence,
and her undlssembled love, deserve this treat¬
ment?
Young B. Proceed, sir.
Sir C. No, sir; I have done. If you have sense
of your past conduct, you wan not humanity
to heal the wounds it has given. Something must
be done, and speedily.
Young B. What reparation can I make her T
Sir C. Dry up her tears, by an immediate a»
knowledgment of her wrongs.
Young B. I would do more.
Sir C Bid her farewell, then; and consent to
her removal.
Young B. I cannot, sir.
Sir C. Her peace demands it: but we'll talk of
that hereafter. If you have honour, go and do her
justice, and undeceive your abused sister. Who
waits there? Indeed, you have been to blame, Mr
Belmont
Enter a Servant.
Shew me the bearer of this letter.
[Exit with the Servant.
Young B. Why, what a thing am I! But it is
the trick of vice, to pay her votaries with shame :
and I am rewarded amply. To be a fool's fool,
too! to link myself in villany with a wretch below
the notice of a man! and to be outwitted by him!
So, so! I may bave abused Sir Charles, too. Let
me think a little —I'll to Fidelia instantly, and tell
her what a rogue I have been. But will that be
reparation! I know but of one way; and there
my pride stops me—And then I lose her-Worse
and worse!—I'll think no more of it; but away to
her chamber, and bid her think for me. [Exit.
ACT V
SCENE I.—An Apartment in Sir Robert Belmont's
house.
Enter SIB ROBERT BELMONT, with a letter in
his hand, followed by a Servant.
Sir R. Very fine doings, indeed 1 But I'll teach
the dog to play his tricks upon his father. A man
had better let a lion loose upon his family, than a
town-rake. Where is Sir Charles, I say ?
Serv. This moment come in, sir.
Sir R. And why did not you say so, blockhead ?
Tell him I must speak with him this moment.
Serv. The servant says he waits for an answer to
that letter, sir.
Sir R. Do as I bid you, rascal, and let him wait.
Fly, I say! (Exit Serv.] The riotous, young dog,
to bring his harlots home with him! But I'll out¬
wit ihe baggage.
Enter SIR CHARLES RAYMOND.
Oh! Sir Charles, 'tis every word as we said this
morning. The boy has stolen her, and 1 am te be
ruined by a law-suit.
Sir C. A law-suit! with whom, sir?
Sir R. Read, read, read! (Gives the letter.)
Sir C. (Reads.) "I am guardian to that Fidelia,
whom your son has stolen from me, and you unjustly
detain. If you deny her to me, the law shall right
me. I icait your answer by the bear, r, to assert my
claim in the person of—GEORGE VILLIaRD."—
Why, then, my doubts are at an end. But I must
conceal my transports, and wear a face of coolness
while my heart overflows with passion. (Aside.)
S*r li. What, not a word, Sir Charles? There's
a piece of work for you! And so I ain to be
ruined!
Sir C. Do you know this Villiard, Sir Robert?
Sir R. Whether I do or not, sir, the slut shall go
to him this moment.
Sir C. Hold a little I ThiB gentleman must be
heard, sir; and, if his claim be good, the lady re¬
stored.
Sir R. Why, e'en let her go as it is, Sir Charles.
Sir C. That would be too hasty. Go in witli me,
sir, and we'll consider how to write to him
-7e THE FOl
Sir R. Well, well, well—I wish she were gone,
though. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Another Apartment.
Enter YOUNG BELMONT and FIDELIA.
Young B. Ask me not why I did it, but forgive
me.
Fid. No, eir; 'tis impossible. I have a mind,
Mr. Belmont, above the wretchedness of my for¬
tune; and, helpless as I am, I can feel in this
breast a sense of injuries, and spirit to resist
them.
Young B. Nay, but hear me, Fidelia.
Fid. Was it not enough to desert me in my dis¬
tresses, to deny me the poor request I made you,
but must you own yourself the contriver of that
letter'/ 'Tis insupportable! If I consented to as¬
sume a rank that belonged not to me, my heart
went not with the deceit. You would have it so,
and I complied. 'Twas shame enough that I had
deceived your sister; it needed not that I should
bring a pros itute to her friendship. This was too
much, too much, Mr. Belmont.
Young B. Yet hear me, I say.
Fid. And, then, to leave me to the malice of that
wretch; to have my supposed infamy the tavern
jest of his licentious companions 1 I never flat¬
tered myself, Mr. Belmont, with your love; but
knew not, till now, that I have been the object of
your hatred.
Young B. My hatred! But I have deserved your
thoughts of me. And yet believe me, Fidelia, when
1 used you worst, 1 loved you most.
Fid. Call it ny another name; for love delights
in acts of kindness: were yours such, sir? And
yet, must I forget all? for I owe you more than in¬
juries can cancel, or gratitude repay.
Young B. Generous creature ! This is to be ami¬
able, indeed! But must we part, Fidelia?
Fid. I have reBolved it, sir; and you must yield
to it.
Young B. Never, my sweet obstinate.
Fid. That I have loved you, 'tis my pride to ac¬
knowledge; but that must be forgotten: and the
hard task remains, to drive the passion from my
breast, while I cherish the memory of your humane
offices. This day, then, shall be the last of our
meeting. Painful though it may be, yet your own,
mine, and the. family's peace, require it. Heaven
in my d stresses has not left me destitute of a
friend; or, if it had, I can Undone in my innocence,
to make even poverty supportable.
Young B. You have touched me, Fidelia; and
my heart yields to your virtues. Here, then, let
my follies have an end; and thus let me receive
you as the everlasting partner of my heart and for¬
tune. (Offers to embrace her.)
Fid. No. sir; the conduct that has hitherto se¬
cured my own honour, shall protect yours. I have
been the imiocent disturber of your family; but
never will consent to load it with disgrace.
Young B. Nor cau it be disgraced. I mean to
honour it, Fidelia: you must comply.
Fid. And repay generosity with ruin! No, Mr.
Belmont; I can forego happiness, but never can
consent to make another miserable.
Young B. When i repent, Fidelia. But, see,
where my sister comes, to be an advocate for my
wishes!
Ent. r ROSETTA.
Ros. Oh! sir, you are found! You have done
nobly, indeed! But your thefts are discovered,
nit. This lady's guardian has a word or two for
yen.
Yung B. Her guardian! Upon my life
Fidelia, Villiard! He comes as I could wish,
him.
Ros. Say so when you have answered him, bro¬
ther. Am i to lose you at laBt, then, Fidelia?
And yet my hopes flatter me, that this too, as well
as the letter, is a deceit; may I think so, Fi¬
delia ?
Fid. As truly as of your goodness, Eosetta.
Your brother will tell you all. Oh! he has made
me miserable by his generosity.
Young B. This pretended guardian, sister, is a
villain, and Fidelia, the most abused of women!
Bounteous he has been, indeed; but to his vices,
not his virtues, she stands indebted for the best of
educations. The story will amaze you. At twelve
years old—
Ros. He's here, brother, and with him, my
papa, Sir Charles, and the Colonel. Now,
Fidelia.
Enter SIR ROBERT BELMONT, S;R CHARLES
RAYMOND, COLONEL RAYMOND, and VIL-
LiARD.
Sir C. If that be the lady, Mr. Villiard, and your
claim as you pretend, Sir Robert has told you, she
shall be restored, sir.
Sir It. Yes, sir; and your claim as you pre¬
tend.
Vil. <Going to Fidelia.) This, gentlemen, is the
lady; and this the robber who stole her from me.
(Pointing to Belmont.) By violence, and at mid¬
night, he stole her.
Young B. Stole her, sir.
Vd. By violence and at midnight, I say.
Young B. You shall be heard, sir.
Vil. Ay, sir, and satisfied. I stand here, gentle¬
men, to demand my ward.
Sir C. Give us proofs, sir, and you shall have
justice.
Vil. Demand them there, sir. (Pointing to Bel¬
mont and Fidelia.) 1 have told you I am robbed: if
you deny me justice, the law shall force it.
Sir C. A little patience, sir. (To Villiard.) Do you
know this gentleman, Fidelia ?
Vil. Too well, sir.
Sir 0. By what means, sir, did you become her
guardian? (To Villiard.)
Vil. By the will of her who bore her, sir.
Sir C. How will you reply to this, Fidelia?
Fid. With truth and honesty, sir.
Young B. Let him proceed, madam.
Vil. Av, sir, to your part of the story; though
both are"practised in a d—d falsehood to confront
me.
Young B. Falsehood! But I am cool, sir. Pro¬
ceed.
Vil. My doors were broken open at midnight by
this gentleman; (pointing to young B.) myself
wounded, and Fidelia ravished from me. He ran
off with her in his arms; nor, till this morning, in
a coach which brought her hither, have my eyes
ever beheld her.
Sir H. A very fine business, truly, young man!
(To Young B.)
Fid. He has abused you, sir Mr. Belmont is
noble —
Young B. No matter, Fidelia. Well, sir, you have
been lobbed, you say ? (To Villiard.)
Vil. And will have justice, sir.
Young B. Take it from this hand, then. (Drawing
his swurd.)
Sir C. Hold, sir! This is adding insult to in¬
juries. Fidelia must be restoied, sir.
THE F0UNDL1N3.
Sir R. Ay, Bir, Fidelia must be restored.
Fid. But not to him. Hear but my storj; and,
H I deceive you. let your friendship forsake me.
He bought me, gentleman, for the worst of pur¬
poses; he bought me of the worst of women. A
thousand times has he confessed it, and as often
pleaded his right of purchase to undo me. Whole
years have I endured bis brutal solicitations; till,
tired with entreaties, he had recourse to violence.
This scene was laid, and I had been ruined beyond
redress, had not my cries brought the generous Mr.
Belmont to my relief. He was accidentally pass-
ingby: and alarmed, at midnight, by a woman's
shrieks, he forced open the door, he saved me from
destruction.
Sir 0. How;will yon answei this, sir? (To Vil¬
liard.)
Pit. Tis false, sir! That woman was her nurse;
these hands delivered her to her care.
Fid. Alas! gentlemen, she found me a helpless
infant at her door! so she has always told me:
and, at twelve years old, betrayed me to that mon¬
ster. "Search out the woman, if she he alive, and
let me be confronted.
Sir R. If this be true, Sir Charles, I shall bless
myBdlf ub long as I live, for getting my boy.
(Weeps.)
Vil. 'Tis false, I say! a d—d contrivance to aa-
cape me. I stand here, sir, to demand my ward.
(To Sir Robert.) Deny her to me, at your peril.
young B. He shall have my life as Boon.
Vii. Hark you, sir! (to Sir Robert) there are
things called laws, to do right to the injured: my
appeal shall be to them.
Sir G. That woman must be produced, sir. (To
Villiard.)
Vil. And shall, sir, in a court of justice. Our
next meeting shall be there; till then, madam, yon
are secure. {To Fidelia.)
Young B. Take care that you are so, sir, when
we have occasion to call upon you. You shall have
justice.
Vil. And will, sir, in defiance of you.
[Exit.
Sir C. Fear not, Fidelia; we believe, and will
protect you.
Ros. My sweet girl!—But whence came the let¬
ter this afternoon ?
Young B. 'Twas I that wrote it.
Ros Oh, monstrous 1 And could you be that
wretch, brother ?
Young B. And will atone for it by the on'y re¬
compense that's left me.
Sir R. And what recompense will you make her,
eh ? rogue ?
Young B. I have injured, her, sir, and must do
ber justice. If you would retrive my honour, or
promote my happiness, give me you consent, sir,
to make her your daughter.
Ros. Why, that's my brother! Now I am sure
she's innocent; and so you will, papa.
Sir R. But, positively, I will not, child. Marry
her, indeed! Whatl without a shilling, and be
ruined by Villiard into the bargain ? If your story
be true, Fidelia, you shall be provided for: but no
marrying, d'ye hear, child ?
Fid. You need not doubt me, sir.
Sir R. Why, that's well, said, Fidelia 1
Ros. And deserves reward, sir. Pray, Sir
Charles, let us have your thoughts upon this
matter.
Sir C. Your brother's proposal, madam, and
Fidelia's denial, are as generous as your father's
determination is just.
Young B. I expected as mncn, sir.
Sir C. My opinion was asked, sir
Young B. And you have given it: I thank yon,
sir.
Sir 0. Think of Villiard, Mr. Belmont; big
claim may be renewed, sir.
Young B. Fidelia has deceived you, then ? Yon
think otherwise, Sir Charles.
Col. B. My life upon her innocence! And where
the fortune on one side is more than sufficient, how
light is all addition to it, compared to the possession
of her one loves! Let me, sir, be happy in Ro-
setta, (to Sir Robert,) and give her fortune to Fi¬
delia, to make an object worthy of your son.
Ros. There's a colonel for you 1 What says my
sweet Fidelia?
Fid. I intended to be silent, madam; but it'B
now my duty to speak. You have been my de¬
liverer, sir, from the worst of evils; (to Young B.)
and now would nobly augment the first obligation
by a generosity too mighty for acknowledgment.
If I had the wealth of worlds, it would be too little
to bestow; hut, poor and friendless as I am, my
heart may break, but never shall consent to make
my benefactor a penitent to his virtues.
Sir G. 'Tis nobly said, Fidelia! And now, Mr.
Belmont, our disputes will soon be at an end. You
have this day,'sir, reproached me often; it remains
now, that you should know me as I am.
Young B. If I have erred, sir—
Sir C. Interrupt me not, but hear me. I have
watched your follies with concern; and it is with
equal pleasure I congratulate your return to ho¬
nour. if I have opposed your generous inclina¬
tions, it was only to give them strength: I am now
a suppliant to your father for the happiness you
desirek
Young B. This is noble, Sir Charles.
Sir C. And to make Fidelia worthy of his son, a
fortune shall be added equal to his warmest ex¬
pectations.
Sir R. Why, ay, Sir Charles, let that be made
out, and I shall have no objection.
Fid. What mean you, sir? (To Sir C)
Sir G. A minute more, and my sweet girl shall
be instructed. You have often tol I me, sir, (to
Young B.) that I had an interest in this lovely
creature. I have an interest I an interest which
you shall allow me. My heart dotes upon her 1—
Oh! I can hold no longer—My daughter, my
daughter! (Embraces Fidelia.)
Fid. Your daughter, sir!
Sir C. Oh! my sweet child! Sir Robert—Mr.
BelmoDt—my son!—These tears, these tears!—Fi¬
delia is my daughter!
Col. R. Is it possible!
Sir C. Let not excess of wonder overpower you.
Fidelia; for I have a tale to tell that will exceed
belief.
Fid. Oh, sir!
Sir C. Upbraid me not that I have kept it a rro
ment from your knowledge: 'twas a hard trial,
and while my tongue was taught dissimulation, my
heart bled for a child's distresses.
Young B. Torture us not, sir, but explain this
wonder.
Sir C. My tears must have their way first.—Ohl
my child, my child 1 (Turning to Sir Robert and the
rest.) Know, then, that wicked woman, so often
mentioned, was my Fidelia's governante: when
my mistaken zeal drove me into banishment, I left
her, an infant, to her care: to secure some jewels
of value I had lodged with her, she became the
woman you have heard. My child was taught to
THE FOUNDLING.
7(» '1
believe she was a foundling, fier name of Harriet
changed to Fidelia; and, to lessen my solicitude
for the theft, a letter was despatched to me, in
France, that my infant had no longer a being: thus
was the father robbed of his child, and the brother
taught to believe he had no Bister.
Fid. Am I that sister and that daughter ? Oh,
heavens! {Kneels.)
Young B. (Running to her, and raising her.) Be
composed, my life! a moment's attention more,
and your transports shall have a loose. Proceed,
sir.
Sir C. Where she withdrew herself I could
never learn. At twelve years old, she sold her, as
you have heard; and never, till yesterday, made
inquiry about her. Twas then that a sudden fit
of sickness brought her to repentance: she sent for
Villiard, who told her minutely what had happened.
The knowledge of her deliverance gave her some
consolation. But more was to be done yet: she
had information of my pardon and return; and, ig¬
norant of my child's deliverer, or the place of her
conveyance, she at last determined to unburden
herself to me. A letter was brought to me this
afternoon, conjuring me to follow the bearer with
the same haste that I would shun ruin. I did fol¬
low him, and received from this wretched woman
the story I have told you.
Fid. Oh, my heart 1 My father, (kneels) have I
at last found you ? And were all my sorrows past
meant only to endear the present transport ? 'Tis
too much for me!
Sir C. Rise, my child! To find thee thus vir¬
tuous in the midst of temptations, and thus lovely
in the midst of poverty and distress, after an ab¬
sence of eighteen melancholy years, wheij ima¬
ginary death had torn thee from my hopes; to find
tbee thus unexpectedly, and thus amiable, is happi¬
ness that the uninterrupted enjoyments of the
t'airest life never equalled!
Fid. What must be mine, then ? Have I a bro¬
ther, too? (Turning to Got- R) Oh, my kind for¬
tune.
Col. R. My sitter! (Embracing her.)
Fid. Still there is a dearer claim than all, and
now I can acknowledge it—My deliverer!
Young B. And husband, Fidelia! Let me re--
ceive you as the richest gift of fortune! (Catching
her in his arms.)
Ros. My generous girl! The pride of your alli¬
ance is my utmost boast, as it is my brother's hap¬
piness !
Sir R. I have a right in her, too; for now you
are my daughter, Fidelia. (Kisses her.)
Fid. I had forgotten, sir: if you will leceive me
as such, you shall find my gratitude in my oho-
dience.
Sir C. Take her, Mr. Belmont, and protect the
virtue you have tried. (Joining their hands.)
Young B. The study of my life, sir, shall be to
deserve her.
Fid Oh! Bosetta, yet it still remains with you to
make this day'B happiness complete—I have a
brother that loves you.
Ros. I would be Fidelia's sister every way: so
take me while I am warm, Colonel. (Giving him
her hand.)
Col. R. And when we repent, Bosetta, let tho
next minute end us.
Ros. With all my heart!
Fid. Now, Bosetta, we are doubly sisterB!
Sir C. And may your liveB and your affections
know an end together.
Young B. (Taking Fidelia by the hand.) And now,
Fidelia, what you have made me, take me, a con¬
vert to honour. I have at last learnt, that custom
can be no authority for vice; and, however the
mistaken world may judge, he who solicits plea¬
sure at the expense of innocence, is the vilest of
betrayers.
Yet savage man, the wildest beast of prey,
Assumes the face oj kindness to betray;
Bis giant strength against the weak employs,
And woman, whom he should protect, destroys.
Exeunt
THE CASTLE OE ANDALUSIA.
\ COMIC OPERA, IK THREE ACTS.—BY JOHN O'KEEFE.
$>pa.—" Captain, did I say ?"—Act ii, scene i.
remits
Don Alphonso.
Dos Scipio.
Don Fernando.
Don J daw.
PEDltlUO.
Spado.
Don C;f,sah (Captain
Ramirez).
Sangdino.
Calykttis.
Ktl'INO.
V asque&
Philippo.
Victoria.
Oatalina.
Donna Isarkt.ia,
Donna lobio>sia.
Danditti.
s*#\"anim, a'ii
ACT L
£02NE l.—A Cavern, with winding Hairs, and re¬
cesses cut in the reck—a large lamp hoaying—u table
seme, fruits, Ate., in disorder.
DON OASSAR discovered sitting at the, head of the
table—SPADO and SANOUiNO, LATINO, and
Otheri of the Banditti.
CHORUS.
Pert we sons of freedom (Reel!,
In ota-friendly rocl-hmmi e, il;
I'leamre'.s dicudes toe obey.—
Ifalurepoints us out the wag,
Boer social, great, and frees
Valour guards our liberty
A IE.—DON O.TtiAR.
Of severe and partial laws
Venal fudges, akmazils.
Dreary dungeons' iron taws.
Oar and gibbet, whips or u7v»h
lei's n- ver think.
While thus we drink
Sweet muscadine,—
Oh, life divine I
Chorus. Here we sons of freedom dwell. <£..
Don C. Come, cavaliers, our carbines are loadeA,
OS r hearts we light: charge your glosses-^ILec).
gives iho woril. ami a voliey ni iltM iw uamviriai as
the rosy goo. JiTrol
No. 23.—Dicks' British. Drama.
704 THE CASTLE <
.Spa. Ay, captain, tin's is noble firing. Oh, I love
a volley of grape-shot! (Looking at Sanguino'!
glass i Are we to have any Bkylight in our cave ?
Dan C. Oh, no—a brimmer round. Come, ft good
booty to us to-night 1
(All drink.)
Spa. Booty! Oh, I love to rob a fat priest!
Stand ! says I; then I knock him down.
Sun. My nose bleeds. {Looks at his handkerchief.)
I wonder what colour is a coward's blood.
Spa. Don't you see it's red?
San. (Rising in fury.) Ha! call me coward,
sirrah! Captain—cavaliers! But this scar on my
forehead contradicts the miscreant.
Spa. Scar on your forehead! Ay, you look be¬
hind you when you run away.
Sun. (Drawing a stiletto.) I'll stab the villain—I
will, by heaven!
Don C. Pooh, Sanguino! You know, when a
jest offers, Spado regards neither time, place, nor
person.
All. (Interposing.) Don'thurt little Spado.
Spa. (Hiding behind.) No, don't hurt iittle Spado.
San. Run away! Armies have confessed my
valour. The time has been But no matter.
(Sits.)
Dsn C. Come, away with reflection on the past,
or care for the future: the present is the golden
moment of possession—let us enjoy it.
All. Ay, ay, let us enjoy it.
Don C. You know, cavaliers, when I entered into
this noble fraternity, I boasted only of a little
courage, sharpened by necessity, the result of my
youthful follies, a father's seventy, and the malice
of a good-natured dame.
All. Captain, here's a speedy walk-off to old
women.
All. (Drinking and laughing.) Ha, ha, ha!
Don C. When you did me the honour to elect me
your captain, two conditions I stipulated : though
at war with the world abroad, unity and social
mirth should preside over our little commonwealth
at home.
Spa. Yes, but Sanguino's for no head : he'll have
ours a commonwealth of fists and elbows.
Don C. The other, unless to preserve you own
lives, never commit a murder.
<5<pa. I murdered since that—a bishop's coach-
horse.
All. (Laughing) Ha, ha, ha!
Don C. Hand me that red wine.
AIR—DON C2ESAR.
Flow, thou regal purple stream,
Ttndur'd by the solar beam ;
In my goblet sparkling rise,
Cheer my h>art and glad my eyes.
My brain ascend on fancy's wing,—
Woint me, wine, a jovial king.
While 1 live I'll lave my clay;
When I'm dead and gone away,
Let my thirsty subjects say,
A month he rtiyrtd, but that was May.
(Thunder heard.)
Don C. Hark, how distinct we hear the thunder
through this vast body of earth and rock! Rapiuo,
is Calvette above, upon his post ?
Rap. Yes.
Don C. SpRdo, 'tis your business to relieve the
sentinel.
Spa. Relieve !—What's the matter with him t
IK ANDALUSIA.
Don C. Come, come—no jesting with doty—'Hi
your watch.
Spa. Let the wolves watch for cue—nf/ witiy is
to get supper ready. (Thunder.) Go up 1 Odd's
fire! do you think I am a salamander ? D'ye
hear?
San. No sport, I fear.
Don C. Then call Calvette, lock down the trap¬
door, and get us some more wine from the cistern.
Spa. Wine! Ay, captain; and, this being a
night of peace, we'll have dishes of olives.
San. No peace: we'll up and scour the forest
presently. But, well thought on: a rich old fellow,
one Don Scipio, who has lately come to reside in
the castle on the skirts of the forest What say
you to plunder there ?
Don C. Not to-night: T know my time—I have
my reason—I shall give command on that busi¬
ness. But where's the stranger we brought in at
our last excursion ?
Rap. He reposeB in yonder recess.
Spa. Ay, egad! there he lies, with a face as in¬
nocent—(Aside.)—It my fellow rooks would but
fly off, I'd have the pigeon here within all to my¬
self.
Enter CALVETTE at the top of the winding stairs,
with a lantern.
Cal. A booty!
San. Good news, cavaliers—here comes JaL
vette.
Cal. A booty 1
San. What! where?
Cal. Soft—but one man.
Sun. But one man! Is he alone?
Cal. Quite.
Spa. One man, and alone-that's oddt
Cal. He seems in years, but his habit, as well as
I could distinguish, speaks him noble.
(Descends.)
Don C. Then he'll flght. My arms!
Spa. Oh, he'll flght; Get 'my arms—(Aside.)—
no, my legs will do for me.
San. Come, my carbine-quick!
Don C. To the attack of one man? Paltry!
Only you, Calvette, Sanguino, Rapino, and Spado,
•go: the rest prepare for our general excursion.
Spa. Captain, don't send me—indeed, I'm too
rash.
Don C. Come, come, leave buffoonery, and to
your duty.
(Exeunt Calvitte and Ropinoupthe opening
—the rest go in at several recesses—Spado,
the last, ascends slowly.
EMer DON ALPHONSO.
Don A. I find myself somewhat refreshed by my
slumber. At such a time to fall into the hands of
these ruffians—how unlucky! I'm pent up here:
my rival, Fernando, once my friend, reaches Don
bcipio's castle, weds my charming Victoria, and I
lose her for ever. But if I could secure an inter¬
view, love should plead my causa
AIR.—DON ALPHONSO.
The hardy sailor braves the o ean,
Fearless of the roaring wind;
Yet his heart, with soft emotion.
Throbs to leave his love behind.
To dread of foreign foes a stranger,
Though the youth can dauntless roa m,
Alarming fears paint every danger
In a rival left at home.
THE CASTLE 6F ANDALUSIA.
Re-eater SPADO down the stairs.
Spa. (Aside.) Now for some talk with ourpri-
ecner here. Stay—are they all out of ear-shot?
How the poor bird Binge in its cage! I know more
of his affairs than he thinks of, by overhearing his
conversation at the inn at Lorca.
Don A. {Aside.) How shall 1 eeaape from these
rascals ? Oh, here is one of the gentlemen. Pray,
eir, may I take the liberty—
Spa. No liberty for you; yet, npon certain con¬
ditions, indeed Suppose you become one of ua.
You'd make a devilish good thief.
Don A. Oh, sir!
Spa. Nay, I don't flatter you : and, by good luck,
we have a vacancy, having lately lost one of our
troop, a flne bold youth: he now hangs upon a
gibbet, and you shall take his post.
Don A. Ay—upon a gibbet?
Spa. No—that's a very high post; though I don't
doubt but in time that your merit and ingenuity
may exalt you. Give me your hand.
Don A. {Aside.) Impudent scoundrel!
Spa. Signor, I wish to serve you, and serve you
I will; but I must know the channel before 1 make
for the coast; therefore, to examine you with the
pious severity of a holy inquisitor, who the devil
are you?
Don A. {Aside.) A pious adjuration, truly! Sir,
my name is Alpbonso, and I am the son of a banker
at Madrid.
Spa. (Aside.) Banker! Oh, I thought he sung
like a young goldtlnch!
Don A. {Aside.) Perhaps, by trusting this fellow,
I may make my escape.
Spa. (4-side.) I'll convince him I know his secrets,
and then I hold his purse strings.
Bon A. You won't betray me ?
Spa. Honour among thieves.
Don A. Then you must know, when your gang
attacked me yesterday evening—
Spa. You were posting full gallop to Don Scipio's
castle, on the confines of the forest here.
Don A. Hey! Then, perhaps, you know my
passion for
Spa. Donna Victoria, his daughter.
Don A. Then you know that she's contracted——
Spa. To your friend, Don Fernando de Zelva,
who is now on his journey to the castle, and, to the
destruction of your hopes, weds the lady on his
arrival.
Don A. True, while I am pent up in this cursed
cavern L But how you got my story, I
Spa. No matter; I could let you out of this
cursed cavern.
Don A. And you will ?
Spa. Ah! our trap-door above requires a golden
key.
Don A. Your comrades have not left me a
piastre.
Spa. 'Will you give me an order on your father's
bank for fifty pieces, and I'll let you out?
Don A. You shall have it.
Spa. A bargain. I'll secure your escape.
Enter DON CiESAIt, behind.
Don C. How's this ?
Spa. (Aside.) Zounds! the Captain Eamirez! Ay,
you dog! I'll secure you from an escape! Do you
think I'd set you at liberty without the captain's
orders? (In a seeming rage.) Betray my trust for
a bribe ? What the devil do ysu take me for ? Oh,
captain, I didn't see you.
706
6on C. What's the matter?
Spa. Nothing; only our prisoner here
taken in his man, that's alL Let you escape, in¬
deed!
Don A. Here's a rascal!
Spa. Rascal! D'ye hear him? He has been
abusing me this half hour, because 1 would not
convey him out without your knowledge. Oh,
what offers did he make me! But my integrity is
proof against Gallions, Escurials, Perus, and Mexi-
cos.
Don C. Begone instantly to your comrades. (Spado
ascends.) Signor, no occasion to tamper with my
companions: you shall owe your liberty to none
but me. I'll convey you to the cottages of vines,
belonging to the peasant Philippo, not far from
Don Scipio's castle; there you may rest in safety
to-night, and
DonA. Ah, captain! no rest for me!
Don C. Look ye, signor: I am a ruffian, perhaps
worse, but venture to trust me, A picklock may
be used to get at a treasure: don't wish to know
more of me than I now choose to tell you; but if
your mistress loves you as well as you seem to km
her, to-morrow night she's yours.
Don A. My good friend 1
Don C. Now for Philippo. I don't suppose you
wish to see any of our work above (Laughing.) ha,
ha, ha! Well, well, I was once a lover, tut
now——
AIR.—DON C.ESAR.
On by the spur of valour goaded,
Pistols primed and carbines loaded,
Courage strikes on hearts of steel;
While each spark.
Through the dark
Oloom'of night,
Lends a clear and cheering light,
Who a fear of doubt can feel t
Like serpents now, through thickrts creeping
Then on our prey, like lions, leaping.
Calvette to the onset leads us.
Let the wandering trav'Uer dread us;
Struck with terror and amaze,
While our swords with lightning blaze.
(Short thunder.)
Thunder to our carbines roaring.
Bursting clouds in torrents pouring.
Each a free and roving blade,
Ours a free and roving trade,
To the onset, let's away.
Valour calls, and we obey.
[Exeunt into the inner cave.
SCENE II.—A Forest. A stormy night. Tliunder.
Lamps down.
Enter DON FERNANDO.
Don F. (Calling.) Pedrillo! What a dreadful
night, and horrid place to be benighted! Pedrillo!
I fear I've lest my servant; but, by the pace I
rode since I left Ecceija, Don Scipio' castle can't
be very far distant This was to have been my
wedding night, if I arrived there. (Calhng.) a-
drillo! Pedrillo!
Fed. (Without.) Sir!
Don F. Where are you, sirrah t
Fed. Quite aBtray, sir.
Don i\ This way.
7C6
THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Enter PEDF.ILLO, groping his tcay.
Ped. Anybody's way, for I've lost my own. Do
you see me, sir?
Don F. No, indeed, Pedrillo!
(Lightning.)
Ped. You saw me than, sir. (Thunder.) Ah, this
must frighten the mules; they'll break their
bridles; I tied the poor beasts to a tree.
Don F. Well, we may find them in the morning,
if ;key escape the banditti, which I am told infests
this forest.
I'ed. Banditti! (A shot without.) Ah, we are dead
men!
Don F. Somebody in trouble.
Ped. No, somebody's troubles are over.
Don F. Draw, and follow me, Pedrillo.
Fed. Loid, sir! ha'n't we troubles enough of our
own ?
Don F. Follow! Who can deny assistance to his
fellow-creature in distress ?
[Draws.—Exit.
Ped. What fine creatures these gentlemen are!
But for me, I am a poor, mean, rascally servant;
so I'll e'en take my chance with the mules.
AIR.—PEDRILLO.
A master 1 have, and I am. his man,
Gat'oping, dreary, dun,
And he'll get a wife as fast as he can.
With a haily, gaily, gambo raily,
Giggling, niggling,
Galloping galloway, draggle tail, dreary, dun.
J saddled his steed so fine and so gay,
Galloping, dreary, dun;
1 mounted my mule, and we rode away,
With our haily, dx.
We canter'd along until it grew dark,
Galloping, dreary, dun.
The nightingale sung instead of the lark,
With hen, etc.
We met with a friar and ask'd him our way,
Galloping, dreary, dun;
By the Lord, says the friar, you're both gone
astray,
With your, dec.
Our journey, I fear, will do us no good;
Galloping, dreary, dun,
We wander a one, like the babes in the wood,
With our, dec.
(Pistol fired.)
My master is fighting, and I'll take a peep,
Galloping, dreary, dun,
(Lnd now I think better, I'd better go sleep,
With my, Ac,
[Exit.
CEXE III.—A thicker part of the Forest. Large
Tree and Stone Cross. Lamps down.
Enter DON SCIPIO, attacked bv SANGUINO,
RAPINO, and CALVE TTE,
San. Now, Rapino, lop off his sword arm,
Don S. Forbear 1 There's my purse, you
rascals!
(Throws it down.)
San. Fire!
spado, (.Peeping from the large tree.) No, don't
fire 1
San. I am wounded—hew him to pieces!
(Don Scipio is neariy overpowered.)
Enter DON FERNANDO.
Don F. Ha, what murderous ruffians!
(He engages the banditti, and beats them of.)
Don S. Oh! I bsv'nt fought so much these twenty
years.
Spa. Eh, we have lost the field—cursed dark—
though I think I could perceive but one man come
to the relief of our old Don here.
Don S. But where are you, signor ? Approach,
my brave deliverer!
Spa. So, here's a victory, and nobody to claim itl
I think I'll go down and pick up the laurel. (De¬
scends from the tree.) I'll take the merit of this ex¬
ploit—I may get something by it.
Don S. I long to thank, embrace, worship this
generous stranger, as my guardian angel 1
Spa. (Aside.) I may pass for this angel in the
dark, so here goes. Hem! Villains! Scoundrels!
Robbers! to attack an old gentleman on the king's
highway 1 But I made the dogs scamper 1
(Vapouring about.)
Don S. Oh, dear! this is my preserver!
Spa. Who's there? Oh, you are the worthy
old gentleman I rescued from these rascally ban¬
ditti.
DonS. Noble, valiant stranger—I—
Spa. No thanks, signor, I have saved your life,
and a good action rewards itself.
Don S. A gallant fellow, 'faith! Eh, as well as I
could distinguish in the dark, you looked much
taller just now.
(Looking close at him.)
Spa. When I was fighting? True, anger rises
me; 1 always appear six foot in a passion—besides,
my hat and plume added to my height.
Don S. (By accident treading on the purse.) Hey,
the rogues have run off without my purse, too.
Spa. (Aside.) 0, ho! What, I have saved your
purse as well as your precious life! Well, of a poor
fellow, I am the luckiest dog in all Spain.
Don S. Poor! Good iriend, accept this purse, aa
a small token of my gratitude.
A, a. Nay, dear sir.
Do a S. You shall take it!
Spa. Lord! I am so awkward at taking a
purse.
(Takes it)
Don S. Hey, if I could find my cane, too—I drop¬
ped it somewhere here about when I drew to de¬
fend myself.
(Looking about.)
Spa. (4side.) Zounds! I fancy here comes the
real conqueror—no matter—I've got the spoils of
the field.
(C.inks the purse, and retires.)
Don S. Ay, my amber-headed eaue:
(Still looking about.)
Re-enter DON FERNANDO.
Don F. The villains 1
Don S. Ay. you made them fly like pigeons, my
little game cock.
Don F. Oh, I fancy this is the gentleman that
was attacked. Not hurt, I hope, sir.
DonS. No, I'm a tough old blade. Oh, gadeo;
well thought on; feel if there's a ring on tha
purse; it's a relic of my deceased lady—it'a with
some regret I ask you to return it.
Don F. Return what, air ?
THE CASTLE (
Don S. A ring you'll find on the purse.
Don F. Ring and purse 1 Really, sir, I don't un¬
derstand you.
Dan S. Well, well, no matter. (AsideJ A mer-
cenery fellow!
Don F. (Aside.) The old gentleman has been
robbed, and is willing that I should reimburse his
losses.
Don S. It grows lighter; I think I can distin¬
guish the path I lost. Follow me, my hero, and —
(As going, suddenly turns, and looks s'eadfastly at
Don Fernando.) Zounds, signor, I hope you are not
in a passion—but I think you look six feet high
again!
Don F. (Aside.) A strange, mad old fellow
this.
Don S. These raseals may rally, so come along
to my castle, and my daughter Victoria shall wel¬
come the preserver of her father.
Don F. Your daughter, Victoria! Then, per¬
haps, sir, you are Don Scipio, my intended father-
in-law.
Don A Eh? Why, zounds, is it possible that you
can be my expected son, Fernando ?
Don F. The same, sir; and was on my journey
to your castle when benighted in the forest
here.
Don S. (Embraces him.) Oh, my dear boy 1 (Aside.)
Damned mean of him to take my purse, though.
Ah, Fernando, you were resolved to touch some of
your wife's fortune beforehand.
Don F. Sir I—
Don S. Hush, you have the money, and keep
it—ay, and the ring too; I'm glad it's not gone
out of the family. Hey, it grows lighter —.
Come
Don F. My rascal, Pedrillo, is fallen asleep
somewhere.
Don S. No, we are not safe here. Come, then,
my dear, brave, valiant—(Aside.) Cursed paltry
to take my purse, though.
[Exeunt.
Spa. (Who had been listening advances.) So, then,
our old gentleman is father to Victoria, my young
banker Alphonso's mistress; and the other is-
Fernando, his dreaded rival—this is the first time
they ever saw. each other, too. He has a servant,,
too, and his name Pedrillo., A thought strikes me
—if I can but get to the castle before them,. ''11
raise a most delicious commotion.. This- ring will,
gain me a good, reception, and. I'll provide a whim¬
sical reception for Don Scipio'B son-in-law. In
troubled waters I throw my fishing-hook. They
are inviting me to supper. (Whistle without.) Ex¬
cuse me, gentlemen, I'm engaged.
[Exit. A distant whistle, heard without.
SCENE IV. — An Apartment in. Don Scipios
Castle.
Enter- VICTORIA and CATALINA.
Gat. Nay, dear madam, do not submit to go into
the nunnery.
Vic. Yes, Catalina, my father desires I shall take
the veil; and a parent's voice is the call of
Heaven 1
' Cat. Heaven! Well, though the fellows swear
I'm an angel, this world is good enough for me.
Dear ma'am, I wish I could but once see you in
love.
Vic. Heighol Catalina, I wonder what sort of
IF ANDALUSIA,. W
gentleman this Don Fernando is, who Is contract/ i
to me, and hourly expected at the castle!
Cat. A beautiful man, I warrant 1 lint, ma am,
yon're not to have him. Hush! Dame Isabel, not.
content with making your brother, by Blights and'
ill-usages, force your poor brother, Don Ceesar,
to run about the world, in the Lord knows
what wild courses, but she now has persuaded the
old gentleman to pass her daughter on Don Fer¬
nando for you. There, yonder she is, flaunting,
so be-jewelled, and be-plumedl Well, if I was
you, they might take my birthright; but my hus¬
band—take my man—the deuce shall take them
first! Ah, no 1 if I ever do go to heaven, I'll have
a smart lad in my company. Send you to a nun¬
nery !
Vic. Was my fond mother alive! Catalina, my
father will certainly marry thiB Dame Isabel, I'm
now an alien to his affections; bereft of every
joy and every hope, I shall quit the wot Id without a
sigh I
AIR-VICTORIA.
Ah, solitude, take my distress,
My griefs I'll unbosom to thee;
Each sigh thou canst gently repress,
Thy silence is music to me.
let peace from my sonnet may spring.
For peace let me fly the gay throng;
To soften my sorrows I sing,
Yet sorrow's the theme of my song.
[Exit Victorias-
Cat. I quit this castle as soon-as ever Donna
Victoria eaters a nunnery. Shall I go with her?
No, I was never made for a nun. Ay, I'll back to.
the vineyard, and if my sweetheart, Philippo, is-
as fond as ever, who knows—I was his queen of'
all the girls, though the charming youth was tbe>
guitar, flute, fiddle, and. hautboy of our village.
AIR—CATALINA
Dike my dear swain, no. youth you'd see,
So blithe, so gay, so full of glee;
In.all our, village, who but he
To-foot it up so featly—
His lute, to hear,
From far and near
Each female came,
Both girl and dame, .
And all'his boon
For every tune,
To kiss 'em round so sweetly.
While round him m the jocund ring
We nimbly danced, h 'd play or sing,
Of May the youth was chosen king,
Heicaught our ears so neatly.
Such'-music rare
In his guitar ;
But touch his flute,
The crowd was mute;
His only boon
For every tune
To kiss us round-so sweetly.
[Exits
Enter VASQUEZ; introducing SPADO.
Vas. Who shall! say, sir?
Spa. Say. that I am here.
Vas. What name, sir?
&pa..Say that I am here.
w
Vu
Don Fernando?
Spa. Oi'ly aay that I am here.
I'as. Very woll; I'll inform Dame Isabel, sir.
Fiease to wait a moment
r Exit.
Spa. Sir! This dame Isabel is, it seems, supreme
directress over his family, and, I am told, rules the
roast here in the castle. Yes, yes, she's my mark.
Hem 1 hey 1 why this is the same widow lady that
ran away with my old master in Italy. I can re¬
member some anecdotes of her that do more credit
to my memory than her reputation. I hope she
won't recollect my face. Now for my story; but
my scheme is up if I tell her a single truth. Ah,
no fear of that. Oh, this way she moves.
Re-enter VASQUEZ and DAME ISABEL.
ha: Don Scipio not returned! A foolish old
man, rambling about at this time of night 1 Stay,
Vasquez; where's this strange, ugly little fellow,
you said wanted to speak with me ?
fas. {Confused.) Madam, I did not say
Spa. No matter, young man—hem !
[Exit Vasquez.
Isa. Well, sir, pray who are you ?
Spa. (Bowing obsequiously.) Madam, I have the
honour to be confidential servant and secretary to
Don Juan, father to Don Fernando de Zelva.
Isa. Don Fernando! Heavens ! is he arrived ?
{Catling.) Here, Vasquez! Lopez! Diego!
Spa. Hold, madam—he's not arrived. Most
sagacious lady, please to lend your attention for a
few moments to an affair of the highest importance
to Don Scipie's family. My young master is com¬
ing
Jsa. Well, sir.
Spa. Incog.
Isa. Incog 1
Spa, Madam, yon shall hear. (Aside.) Now for
a lie worth twenty pistoles. The morning before
his departure, Don Fernando calls me into his
closet, and, shutting the door, "Spado," says he,
" you know this obstinate father of mine has en¬
gaged me to marry a lady i have never seen; and
to-morrow, by his order, I set out for Don Scipio,
her father's castle, for that purpose. But," says he,
striking his breast with one hand, twisting his mous¬
taches with the other, and turning up his eyes,
" if, when I see her, she don't hit my fancy, I'll
not marry her, by the " I sha'n't mention his
oath before you, madam.
Jsa. No, pray don't, sir.
Spa. "Therefore," says he, "I design to dress
Pedrillo, my arch dog of a valet, in a suit of my
clothes, and he shall personate me at Don Scipio s
castle, while I, in a livery, pass for him. If 1 like
the lady, I resume my own character, and take
her hand; if not, the deceit continues, and Pedrillo
weds Donna Victoria, just to warn parental tyranny
how it dares to clap up marriage without consulting
our inclinations."
Isa. (Aside.) Here's a discovery! So, then, it's
my poor child that must have fallen into this
snare! (To Spado.) Well, good sir.
Spa. "And," continued he, "Spado, I appoint
you my trusty spy in this Don Scipio's family. To
cover our designs, let it be a secret that you belong
to me, and i sha'n't seem even to know you. You'll
easily get a footing in the family (says he), by im¬
posing some lie or other upon a foolish woman,
who, I'm told, is in the castle—Dame Isabel, I
think they call her."
THE OASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Isa. He shall find I am not so easily Imposed
"To. I said so, madam: says I, a lady of Dame
ohAl'a wiRrinm must 800U flntl mO OUt WAS 1 10
Isabel's wisdom must soon find me
tell her a lie.
Jsa. Ay, that I should, sir.
Re-enter VASQUEZ.
Fa,«. Oh, madam! my master is returned, and
Don Fernando de Zelva with him.
[Exit.
Isa. Don Fernando! Oh, then, this is the ras¬
cally valet; but I'll give him a- welcome with a
vengeance!
Spa. Hold, madam. Suppose, for a little sport,
you seem to humour the deceit, only to see how
the fellow acts his part: he'll play the gentle¬
man very well, I'll warrant; the dog is an excellent
mimic ; for you must know, ma'am, this Pedrillo's
mother was a gipsy, his father a merry-andrew to
a mountebank, and he himself live years trumpeter
to a company of strolLng players.
Isa. So, I was likely to have a hopeful son-in-
law ! Good sir, we are eternally indebted to you
for this timely notice of the imposition.
Spa. Madam, I've done the common duties of an
honest man: I have been long in the family, and
can't see my master making such a fool of himself,
without endeavouring to prevent any mischance in
consequence.
Isa. Dear sir, I beseech you, he at home under
this roof; pray be free, and want for nothing the
house affords.
Spa. (Boicing.) Good madam ! (Aside.) I'll want
for nothing I can lay ray Angers on! [Exit.
Isa. Heavens! what an honest soul it is! What
a lucky discovery I Oh, here comes my darling
girl!
Enter LORENZA, magnificently dressed.
Lor. Oh, cara madre! see—behold! Can f fail
of captivating Don Fernando ? Don't I look charm¬
ing?
Isa. Why, Lorenza, I must say the toilet has
done its duty. I'm glad to see you in such spirits,
my dear child.
Lor. Spirits ! Ever gay, ever sprightly, cheerful
as a lark! But how suall I forget my Florence
lover, my dear Ramirez ?
Isa. I request, my dear, you'll not think of this
Ramirez: even from your own account of him, he
must be a person of most dissolute principles.
Fortunately, he knows you only by your name of
Lorenza ; I hope he won't And you out here.
Lor. Then farewell, beloved Ramirez! In obedi¬
ence to your commands, madam, 1 shall accept
of this Don Fernando, and, as a husband, I will
love him if I can.
AIR.—LORENZA.
Lover—gay illusion !
Pleasing d. lusionl
With sweet intrusion.
Possesses the mind.
Love with love meettng
Passion is fleeting;
Vows in repeat ing
We trust to the wind.
Faith to faith plighted,
Love may be blighted;
Hearts often slighted
Will cease to be kind.
THE OASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Re-enter VASQUEZ.
Vat. Madam, my master and Don Fernanda
Jsa. Has Don Fernando a servant with him ?
Vat. No, madam.
Jsa. Oh, when he comes, take notice of him.
[Exit Va.-qutz.
Enter DON SCIPIO and DON FERNANDO.
Don S. Oh, my darling dame, and my delicate
daughter! Bless your stars that you see poor old
Scipio alive again! Behold my son-in-law and the
preserver of my life. Don Fernando, there's your
spouse, and this is Donna Isabella, a lady of vast
merit, of which my heart is sensible.
Don F. (Saluting her.) Madam 1
Jsa. (Aside.) What an impudent fellow!
Dun S. Dear Fernando, you are as welcome to
this castle as flattery to a lady. But there she is -
bill and coo—embraee, caress her.
(Fernando salut-s Lorenzo.)
Lor. (Aside.) If I had never seen Ilamirez, I
should think the man tolerable enough.
Don S. (Laughing.) Hal ha! This shall be the
happy night—eh, Dame Isabel? By our agree¬
ment, before the lark sings, I take possession of
this noble tenement
DonF. Don Scipio, I hoped to have the honour of
seeing your son.
Don S. My son! Who—Caesar? Oh, lord! he's—
he was a—turned out a profligate—sent him to
Italy—got into bad company—don't know what's
become of him. My dear friend, if you would not
offend me, never mention Don Caesar in my hear¬
ing.. (Aside to Isabel.) Egad! eh, my dainty dame,
is not Don Fernando a fine fellow ?
Da. Yes, he's well enough for a Trumpeter.
Don S. (With surprise.) Trumpeter! What the
devil do you mean by that ? Oh, because I sound
his praise. But, madam, he's a cavalier of noble
birth, title, fortune, and valour.
Jsa. Don Scipio, a word, if you please.
(Tabes him aside.)
Lor. (To Don Fernando.) Si—signor, our castle
here iB rather a gloomy mansion, when compared
to the beautiful cassinos on the banks of the Arno.
Don F. Arno! True : Don Scipio said in his
letter that his daughter had been bred in Florence.
Lor. You have had an unpleasant journey,
signor.
Don F. I have encountered some difficulties by
the way, it is true, madam ; but am amply repaid
by the honour and happiness 1 now enjoy.
(Bows.)
Lor. Sir! (Aside.) I swear he's a polite cavalier !
Won't you please to sit, sir? I fancy you must be
somewhat weary.
(They sit.)
Don S. (Coming forward.) What the devil! Eu,
sure! What, this fellow only Don Feraando's foot¬
man! How? It can't be!
Jsa. A fact; and presently you'll see Don Fer¬
nando himself in livery.
Don S. nook at the impudent son of a gipsy!
Sat himself down! Zuunds, I'll
Jsa. Hold ! Let him play off his airs.
Don S. A footman! Ay, this accounts for his
behaviour in the forest: Don Fernando would
ncvor have accepted my purse. (Crosses, and taps
Fernando on the shoulder.) Hey! what have you
got there ?
Don F. (Rising.) Will you please to sit, sir ?
Don S. (Aside.) Yes, he looks like a trumpeter I
?0»
(With contempt.) You may sit down, friend.
Don F. (Aside.) A strange old gentleman!
Enter VASQUEZ.
Fas. Sir, your servant Pedrillo is arrived.
[Exit
Jsa. Servant Pedrillo! (Aside, joyfully to Scipio.)
Ay, this is Fernando himself.
Don F. Oh, then, the fellow has found his way at
last. Don Scipio—ladies—excuse me for a moment.
[Exit.
Lor. What a charming fellow!
Don S. What an impudent rascal I
Fed. (Without.) Is my master this way?
Don S. Master—Ay, this is Fernando.
Enter PEDRILLO, with a portmanteau.
Fed. Oh, dear 1 I've got among the gentlefolks.
I ask pardon.
Jsa. How well he does look and act the servant!
Don S. Admirable; yet I perceive the grandee
under the livery.
Jsa. (With great respect.) Please to sit, sir.
Lor. A livery-servant sit down by mel
Don S. (Ceremoniously.) Pray sit down, sir.
Fed. (Sits.) Sit down; (Aside.) Oh, these must he
the upper servants of the family : her ladyship
here is the housekeeper, I suppose; the young
tawdi-y tit, lady's-maid (hey I her mistress throws
off good clothes 1) j and old Whiskers, Don Scipio'g
butler.
Enter DON FERNANDO.
DonF. Pedrillo! How I Seated! What means
this disrespect?
Fed. (Rising to Vim.) Sir, old Whiskers, the butler,
there, asked me to sit down by Signora, the wait¬
ing-maid here.
Don F. Sirrah!
Fed. 5fes, sir.
Don S. (Aside.) Sir and sirrah! How rarely they
act their parts! I'll give them an item, though
that I understand the plot of their comedy.
QUINTETTO.
Don S. Signor,
(To Ped.) Your wits must be keener.
Our prudence to elude;
Your fine plot,
Though so pat,
Will do you little good.
Ped. My fine plot!
I'm a sot,
If I know what
These gentlefolks are at I
Don F. Past the perils of the night.
Tempests, darkness, rude alarms;
Phoebus rises clear and bright
In the lustre of your charms.
Lor. Oh! charming, I declare I
So polite a cavalier !
lie understands the duty
And homage due to beauty J
Pon S. Bravo t 0 brdvissimot
Lor. Caro t 0 carissimo.'
Ho w sweet his honey words!
How noble is his mien I
Don S. Fine feathers make fine birds -
Th • footman's to be sei n.
But both deserve a lest.ng.
710
Ped.
Don S.
Ped.
Don S.
Ped.
Don S.
Ped.
Don F.
Ped.
Don S.
Ped.
I. or.
Don F.
Don S.
Don F.
Ped,
:F-}
Since morning roe been fasting
Tet 1 could laugh for anger.
Oh, I could cry for hunger I
J could laugh.
J could cry.
I cou'd quaff.
So could I.
Ha! ha! ha! Tin in a fit.
Oh ! I cou'd pick a little bit.
Ha! ha! ha!
Oh ! oh ! oh!
A very pleasant party t
A whimsical reception!
A whimsical deception!
But master and man, accept a welcome
hearty.
Accept our thanks sincere, for such a wel¬
come hearty.
AOT II.
SCENE I.—An Antique Apartment in the Castle.
Enter DON CiESAR, with precaution.
Bon C. Thus far I've got into the castle unper-
ceivod. I'm certain Sanguino means the old
gentleman a mischief, which nature bids me en
deavour to prevent. I saw the rascal slip in at
the postern below; but where can he have got
to ?
(A sliding panel opens in the wainscot.)
Enter SANGUINO, at the panel.
Yes, yonder he issues, like a rat or a Bpider. How
now, Sanguino?
San. Captain Ramirez.
Don C. On enterprise without my knowledge 1
What's your business here ?
San. Revenge 1 Look. (Shows a stiletto.) If I
meet Don Scipio
Don C. A stiletto! I command you to quit your
purpose.
San. What, no satisfaction for my wound last
night, and lose my booty, too ?
Don C. Your wound was chance. Put up. We
shall have noble booty here, and that's our busi¬
ness. But you seem to know your ground here,
Sanguino.
San. I was formerly Master of the Horse to
Count D'Olivi, the last resident here, so am well
acquainted with the galleries, lobb.es, windings,
turnings, and every secret lurking-place in the
castle.
Don C. I missed Spado at the muster this morn¬
ing; did he quit the cave With you ?
Spa. {Without.) As sure as I'm alive it's fact,
Don C. Isn't that Spado's voice ?
San, Impossible!
Dan C. Hush!
(They retire, Don Csesar and Sanguino.)
Enter DON SCIPIO and SPADO.
Don S. Yes, I've heard of such places; but you
say you've been in the cave where these ruffian
banditti live?
THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Spa, Most certainly, sir; tor after having robbed
me of live hundred doubloons, the wicked rogues
barbarously robbed, and tied me nock ana net is,
threw me across a mule, like a saek of corn, ana
led me blindfolded to their cursed cavern.
Don S. Ah, poor fellow!
Spa. There, sir, in this skulking hole, the villains
live, and dart out upon the innocent traveller like
beasts of prey.
Don S. Oh, the tigers! Jnst so they fastened
upon me last night, but your sham Fernando and I
made them run like hares; I gave him my purse
for his troubla
Spa. And he took it! What a mean fellow!
You ought not to h ve ventured out unarmed. I
always take a blunderbuss when I go upon the
road, the rascal banditti are most infernal
cowards.
Don S. What a glorious thing to deliver those re¬
probates into the hands of justice!
Spa. Ah, Bir, 'twould be a blessed affair. Oh, I'd
hang them up, like mad dogs!
Don S. Well, you say you know the cave ?
Spa. Ye9, yes, I slipped the handkerchief from
my eyes, and took a peep—made particular obser¬
vations of the spot; so get a strong guard, and I'll
lead you to the very trap-door of their den.
Don S. Egad, then we'll surprise them; and
you'll have the prayers of the whole eountry, my
honest friend.
Spa. Heav'n knows, sir, 1 have no motives for
this discovery but the public good, so I expert the
country will order me a hundred pistoles, as a re¬
ward for my honesty.
Don C. {Apart, to Don Sanguino.) Here's a pretty
dog.
San. (Apart to Don Ctesar.) Ay, ay, he han't long
to live.
Don S. An hundred pistoles!
Spa. Sir, I have an eye upon their captain, as
they call him; he's the most abandoned, impudent,
profligate — (Suddenly turns, sees Don Csesar, who
shows a pistol.) Captain, did I say? (Terrife t.)
Oh. no, the captain's a very worthy, good-natiui .1
fellow 1 I meant a scoundrel, who thinks he ought
to be captain; one Sanguino, the most daring,
wicked, and bloody villaiu that—(Turning the other
way, perceives Sanguino with a pistol,)—but, indeed,
I fo. nd Sanguino an honest, good-natured fellow,
too —
(With increased terror.)
Don S. Hey, a bloody, wicked, honest, good-
natured fellow! What is all this ?
Spa. Yes, then, sir, I thought I saw these two
gentlemen, and at that instant, I thought they
looked so terrible, that with the fright I awoke!
Don S. Awoke! what the devil, then, is all this
but a dream you have been telling me ?
Spa. Ay, sir, and the most frightened dream 1
ever had in my life. I'm at this instant frightened
out of my wits.
Don S. You do look frightful, indeed, poor
man ! I thought this cave was
Spa. Don't mention cave, or I faint 1 Heigho 1
Enter VASQUEZ.
Far. Dame Isabel wants to speak
sir.
Don S. (Crossing.) I'll wait on her.
Spa. Yes, I'll wait on her.
with you,
[Exit.
{doing hastily >
THE CASTLE OK ANDALUSIA.
711
Don 8. Yon, she don't want you.
Spa. Dear sir, she can't do without me at this
time. [Exit Don Sctpio.J I come. ,
(Goirig.)
Don C- (Put* him bad.) No, you stay.
Spa. (Affecting surprise and joy.) Ay, my dear
captain! What, my little Sanguino, too 1 Who
could have thought of your finding me out
here ?
Don C. (Significantly.) Yes, you are found
out.
Spa. Such discoveries as I have made in the
castle 1
Don C. You're to make discoveries in the forest,
too.
San. Our cave!
Spa. Oh, you overheard that! Didn't I hum the
old fellow finely? {Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha!
San, And for your reward, traitor, take this to
your heart! (Offers to stab him.)
Don G. Hold, Sanguino!
Spa. Nay, my dear Sanguino, stay! What the
devil so, here I can't run a jest upon a silly old
man, hut I must he run through with a sti¬
letto !
Don C. Come, Spado, confess what really brought
you here.
Spa. Business, my dear sir, business ; all in our
own way, too; for I designed to let every man of
you into the castle this very night, when all the
family are in bed—and plunder's the word ! Oh,
such a delicious booty 1 Pyramids of plate, bags
of gold, and little chests of diamonds i
San. Indeed!
Spa. Sanguino, look at that closet
San. Well 1
Spa. A glorious prize!
San. Indeed 1
Spa. Six chests of massy plate! Look, only
look into that closet; wait here a moment, and I'll
fetch a master-key that shall open every one of
them.
Don C. Hey! Let's see those chests.
San. Massy plate! Quick, quick! the master-
key.
Spa. I'll fetch it
San. Do; but make haste, Spado.
Spa. I will, my dear boy. [Exeunt Sanguino an<f
Don Caesar.] My good, honest—(Aside.) Oh, you*
two thieves! [Exit.
Enter DON SCIPIO.
Don S. Now, Spado, I—Hey, where is my little
dreamer ? But why is this door open ? This closet
contains many valuables. Why will they leave it
open ? Let's see—
(Goes into the ciosel.)
Re-enter SPADO with a portmanteau.
Spa. (Entering.) I have no key. However, I
have stolen Don Fernando's portmanteau as a
peace-offering for these two rascals! Are you
there? What a pity the coming of my fellow-
rogues! I should have had the whole castle to
myself. Oh, what a charming seat of work for a
man of my industry. (Speaking at the closet door.)
You find the chests there - you may convey them
out at night: and as for cutting Don Scipio's throat,
that I leave to
Re-enter DON SCIPIO, from the closet.
Don S. Cut my throat! What, are you at your
dreams again ?
Spa. (Aside.) Oh, zounds! Yes, sir, sb I was tel¬
ling you.
Don S. Of a little fellow, you have the worst
dreams I ever heard.
Spa. Shocking, sir! Then I thought—
Don S. Hold, hold! Let me hear no more of
your cursed dreams.
Spa. (Asi'le.) I've got off, thanks to his credulity.
Don S. What portmanteau's that ?
Spa. (Aside.) 'Sdeath, I'm on again!
Don S. Fernando's, I think.
Spa. (Affecting surprise.) What, my master's!
Egad, so it is. But I wondor who could have
brought it here! Ay, ay, my fellow-servant,
Pedrillo, is now too grand to mind his business;
and my master, I find, though he has taken the
habit, scorns the office of a servant. So I must
look after the things myself.
Don S. Ay, ay, take care of tliem.
Spa. Yes, sir, I'll take care of them.
Don S. (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha! what a strange,
whimsical fellow this master of yours—with his
plots and disguises. Think to impose upon me,
too. But I think I'm far from a fool.
Spa. (Looking archly at him.) That's more than I
am.
Don S. So, he pretends not to know you, though
he has sent you here as a spy, to see what you can
pick up ?
Spa. (Takes up the portmanteau.) Yes, sir, I cam*
to see what I can pick up.
Don S. What an honest servant! He has an eye
to everything!
[Exit Don Scioio.
Spa. But before I turn honest, I must get some¬
what to keep me so.
AIR.—SPADO.
In the forest here hard by,
A bold robber late was I,
Sword and blunderbus in hand.
When I bid a traveller stand;
Eounds, deliver up your cash,
Or straight r11 pop and slash,—
All amongst the leaves so green, 01
Damme, sir,
If you stir,
Sluice your veins,
Blow your brains,
Hey down,
Ho down,
Derry, derry down,
All amongst the leaves so green, 01
Soon Til quit the roving trade,
Wnen a gentleman I'm made;
Then so spruce and debonnaire,
'Gad, I'll court a lady fair 1
How Til prattle, tattle, chat.
How I'll kiss her, and all that—
All among the leaves so green, 01
How d'ye do ?
How are you f
Why so coy,
Let us toy ;
Hey down,
Ho down,
Derry, derry down,
AH amongst the leaves so green, Of
But ere old, and gray my pate,
I'll scrape up a snug esiutes
THE CASTLB OP ANDALUSIA.
71*
With my nimbkness of thumbs,
I'll soon butter all my crumbs;
When rm.,justice of the peace.
Then I'll master many a Uase,
All amon/jst the leaves so green, 01
Wig profound,
Belly round,
Sit at ease,
Snach the fees;
Hey down,
Ho down,
Derry, demy down.
All amongst the leaves so green, 01 [Exit.
SCENE IL—An Apartment in the Castle—Table and
two Chairs.
Enter DON FERNANDO.
Don F. A wild scheme of my father's, to think of
an alliance with this mad family; yes, Don Scipio's
brain iB certainly touched beyond cure. His
daughter, my cara sposa of Italy, don't suit my idea
ofwbatawife should be. No. the lovely novice,
this poor relative of Dame Isabel, has caught my
heart. I'm told, to-morrow she's to be immured
in a convent! What if I ask Dame Isabel if—but
she, and, indeed, Don Scipio, carry themselves very
strangely towards me—I can't imagine what's be¬
come of my rascal, Pedrillo. [Ooes up.
Enter PEDRILLO, in an elegant morning-gown, cap,
and slippers.
Ped. Strange, the respect I meet in this family.
1 hope we don't take horse after my master's
wedding. I should like to marry here myself—be¬
fore I unrobe, I'll attack one of the maids!—Faith,
a very modish dress to go courting in,—hide my
livory, and I am quite gallant.
Don F. Oh, here's a gentleman I han't seen be¬
fore!
Ped, Tol de roll
Don F. Pray, sir, may I—Pedrillo! [Surpris'd.
where have you-hey! what, ha! ha! ha! what's
the matter with you ?
Fed. Matter!—Why, sir, I don't know how it was,
but somehow or other, last night, I happened to
sit down to a supper of only twelve covers, cracked
two bottles of choice wine, slept in an embroidered
bed, wbere I sunk in down, and lay till this morn¬
ing like a diamond in cotton. So, indeed, sir, I
don't know what's the matter with me.
Don F. I can't imagine how, or what, it all
means.
Ped. Why, sir, Don Scipio, being a gentleman of
discernment, perceives my worth, and values it.
Don F. Then, sir, you are a gentleman of such
prodigious merit, be so obliging, with submission
to your cap and gown, as to—pull off my boots.
Enter YASQUEZ.
Vas. (To Pedrillo, with great respect.) Sir, the la¬
dies wait breakfast for you.
Don F. My respects, I attend them.
Vas. You! I mean his honour here.
Ped. Oh, you mean my honour here.
Don F. Well, but perhaps, my good friend, I-may
like a dish of chocolate as well as his honour here.
1'u.s. (Ii'i(/i a sneer.) Chocolate, (Laughing.) ha,
ha, ha!
Ped. (Laughing.) Chocolate, ha, ha ha!
Don F. (Laughing.) I'll teach you to laugh, sirrah 1
[Beats Pedrillo )
Ped. Teach me to laugh! you may be a good
master, but you're a very bad method. But, he
for chocolate and the ladies.
[Exeunt Pedri'to and Vasqutz.
Don F. Don Scipio shall render me an account for
this treatment; bear his contempt, and become the
butt for the jests of his insolent servants! As 1
don't like his daughter, I have now a fair excuse,
and indeed a just cause to break my contract, and
quit his castle ; but then I leave behind the mistress
of my soul. Suppose I make her a tender of my
heart—hut that might offend, as she must know
my hand is engaged to another. When I looked,
she turned her lovely eyes averted.—Doom'd to a
nunnery 1
AIR.—DON FERNANDO.
My fair one, like the blushing rose,
Can sweets >o every sense disclose:
Those sweets I'd gather, but her scores
Then wounds me like the sharpest thorn.
With sighs each grace and eharm I see
Thus doom'd to wither on the tree,
Till age shall chide the thoughtless maid,
When all those blooming beauties fade.
Hey, who comes here? this is the smart little girl
who seems so much attached to the beautiful novice;
no harm to speak with her—
Enter CATALINA.
So, my pretty primrose!
Cat. How do you do, Mr.—(Pert and familiar.)
I don't know your name.
Don F. Not know my name! You must know
who I am, though, and my business here, child ?
Cat. Lord, man, what signifies your going about
to sift me, when the whole family knows you're
Don Fernando's footman.
Don F. Am I, faith? (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha! —
(Aside.) I'll humour this. Well, then, my dear, you
know that I am only Don Fernando's footman ?
Cat. Yes, yes, we know that, notwithstanding
your fine clothea
Don F. But where's my master?
Cat. Don Fernando! he's parading the gallery
yonder, in his sham livery and morning-gown.
Don F. Oh, this accounts for twelve covers at
supper, and the embroider'd bed: but who conld
"have set sueh a jest going? I'll carry it on,
though. (Aside.) So then, after all, I am known
here?
Cat. Ay, and if all the impostors in the castle
were as well known, we should have no wedding
to-morrow night.
Don F. (Aside.) Something else will'out I'll seem
to be in the secret, and perhaps may come at it.—
Ay, ay, that piece of deceit is worse than ours.
Cat. That! what then you know that this Italian
lady is not 'Don Scipio's daughter, but Dame
Isabel's, aDd her true name Loronza?
Don F. (Aside.) Here's a discovery. O yes, I
know that.
Cat. You do? Perhaps, you know, too, that the
youyg lady you saw me speak with just now is the
real Donna Victoria ?
Don F. (Aside.) Is it possible! Here's a piece of
villany! Charming! let me kiss you, my dear girl.
(Kisses lar.)
Cat. Lord! he is a delightful man 1
Don F. My little angel, a thousand thanks for
this precious dicovery.
Cat. Discovery 1—Well, if you do not know it b».
THE CASTLE OP ANDALUSIA.
fore, marry taangyonr assurance, I say—but I must
about my business, can't play the lady as you
played the gentleman ; I've something else to do;
so I desire you won't keep kissing me here all day.
[Exit.
Don P. Why, what a villain is this Don Scipio ;
ungrateful, too—but I scorn to think of the services
I rendered him last night in the forest, a false
friend to my father, an unnatural parent to his
amiable daughter! here my charmer comes.
[Retire*.
Enter VICTORIA.
Tic. Yes, Catalina must be mistaken, it is impos¬
sible he can be the servant,—no, no; that dignity
of deportment, and native elegance of manner, can
never be assumed : yonder he walks, and my flut¬
tering heart tells me, this is really the amiable
Fernando, that I must resign to Dame Isabel's
daughter.
Don P. (Coming fortcard) Stay, lovely Victoria!
Kic. Did you call me, sir?—Heavens, what have
I said! (Confused..) I mean, signor, would you
wish to speak with Donna Victoria? I'll inform
her, sir. (Going.)
Don F. Oh, I could speak to her for ever, for
ever gaze upon her charms, thus transfixed with
wonder and delight.
Vic. Pray, signor, suffer me to withdraw.
Don F. For worlds I would not offend; but think
not, lady, 'tis the knowledge of your quality that at¬
tracts my admiration.
He. Nay, signor.
Don F. I know you to be Don Scipio s daughter,
the innocent victim of injustice and oppression;
therefore I acknowledge to you, and you alone
that, whatever you may have heard to the con.
trury, I really am Fernando de Zelva.
Vic. Signor, how you became acquainted with the
secret of my birth I know not; but from an ac¬
quaintance so recent, your compliment I receive as
a mode of polite gallantry without a purpose.
Don F. What your modesty regards as cold com¬
pliments. are sentiments warm with the dearest
purpose: I eame hither to ratify a contract with
Don Scipio's daughter; you are she, the beautiful
Victoria, destined for the happy Fernando.
Vic. Pray rise, signor;—my father, perhaps, even
to himself cannot justify his conduct to me; but to
censure that, or to pervert his intentions, would, in
me, be a breach of filial duty.
AIR.—VICTORIA.
By woes thus surrounded, how vain the gay smile
Of the blind little archer, those woes to beguile I
Though skilful, he misses, his aim it is cross'd,
His quiver exhausted, his arrows are lost.
Four love though sincere, on the object you lose
(Aside.) How sweet is the passion I Ah, must I re¬
fuse f
If filial affection that passion should sway,
then loves gentle dictates 1 cannot obey.
Don F. And do you, can you, wish me to espouse
Donna Lorenza, Isabella's daughter?—Say you do
not, do but satisfy me so far.
Vic. Signor, do not despise me if I own, that,
before 1 saw in you the husband of Don Scipio's
daughter, I did not once regret that I had lost that
title.
Don F. A thousand thanks for this generous, this
amiable condescension. Oh, my Victoria 1 if for-
713
tune but favours my design, you shall yet triumph
over the malice of your enemies.
Vic. Yonder is dame Isabel; if she sees you
speaking to me, she'll be early to frustrate what¬
ever you may purpose for my advantage. Signor,
farewell!
Don F. My life, my love, adieu.
DUET.—VICTORIA and FERNANDO.
Don F. So faithful to my fair I'll prove,
Vic. So kind and constant to my love,
Don F rd never range,
Vic. I'd never change,
Both. Nor time, nor chance, my faith shall move.
Vic. No ruby clusters grace the vine,
Don F. Fe sparkling stars forget to shine,
Vic. Sweet flowers to spring,
Don F. Gay birds to sing,
Both. Those hearts than part that love shall join.
[Exit Victoria.
Don F. This is fortunate; the whole family, ex¬
cept Victoria, are firmly possessed with the idea,
that I am but the servant. Well, since they will
have me an impostor, they shall find me one; in
Heaven's name, let them continue in their mistake,
and bestow their mock Victoria upon my sham
Fernando. I shall have a pleasant and just re¬
venge for their perfidy; an#, perhaps, obtain Don
Scipio's real, lovely daughter, the sum of my
wishes. Here comes Don Scipio. Now to begin
my operations.
Enter DON SCIPIO.
Don F. (As wishing Don Scipio to overhear him.)
I'm weary of playing the gentleman—I long to get
into my livery again.
DonS. (Aside.) Get into his livery!
Don F. These clothes fall to my share, however;
my master will never wear them after me.
DonS. (Aside.) His master 1 ay, ay.
Don F. I wish he'd own himself, for I'm certain
Don Scipio suspects who I am.
Don S. (Advancing to him.) Suspect I 1 know who
you are, so get into your livery again as fast as
you can.
Don F. Ha, my dear friend, Don Scipio, I was—
Don S. Friend 1 you impudent rascal 1 I'll break
your head, if you make so free with me. None of
your swaggering, sirrah. How the fellow acts! it
wasn't for nothing he was among the strolling
players; but, hark ye, my lad, -be quiet, for you're
blown here, without the help of your trumpet.
Don F. Lord, your honour, how came you to know
that I am Pedrillo?
Don S. Why, I was told of it by your fellow—
(Aside.) hold, I must not betray my little dreamer,
though—No matter who told me; I—but here
conies your master.
Don F. (Aside.) Pedrillo! The fellow will spoil
all; I wish I had given bim his lesson before I
began wiih Don Scipio.
DonS. I hope he'll now have done with his gam¬
bols.
Don F. Sir, my master is such an obstinate gen¬
tleman, as sure as you stand here, he'll still deny
1 himself to be Don Fernando.
THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
7 H
Don S. Will he? then I'll write his father an
account of his vagaries.
Enter PEDRILLO
Peel. Master, shall I shave you this morning?
Don S. Shave! Oh, my dear sir, 'tis time to give
over your tricks and fancies.
Ped. (Surprised) My tricks and fanciest
Don F Yes, sir, you are found out.
Ped. I am found out!
Don S. So you may as well confess.
Ped. "What the devil shall I confess?
Don S. He still persists! Hark ye, young gentle¬
man, I'll send your father an account of your
pranks, and he'll trim your jacket for you.
Ped. Nay, sir, for the matter of that, my father
could trim your jacket for you.
Don S. Trim my jacket, young gentleman 1
Ped. Why, he's the best tailor in Cordova 1
Don S. His father's a tailor in Cordova!
Don F. (Aside.) Ay, he'll ruin all. Let me speak
to him. (Apart to Pedrillo.) Tell Don Scipio you
are the master.
Ped. I will, sir. Don Scipio, you are the master.
Don S What!
Don F. (Apart to Pedrillo.) Stupid dog! Say you
are Fernando, and lam Pedrillo.
Ped. I will. Sir, you are Fernando, and I am
Pedrillo.
Don F. (Aside.) Dull rogue! (Apart to Don Scipio.)
I told you, sir, he'd persist in it.
Don S. Yes. I see it; but I tell you what, Don
Fernando. (Lorenza sings without.) My daughter.
Zounds! don't let your mistress see you any more
in this cursed livery. Look at the gentleman, hold
up your head—egad, Pedrillo's acting was better
than your natural manner.
Don F. Ay, sir, if you were to see your master
dressed—the livery makes such an alteration.
Don S. True; curse the livery.
Ped. It's bad enough; hut my master gives new
liveries on his marriage.
Don F. (Aside.) An insensible scoundrel.
Enter LORENZA.
Lor. Oh, caro signor, everybody says that you
are (To Don Fernando.) not Don Fernando.
Don S. (To Pedrillo.) Everybody's right, for here
he stands, like a young tailor of Cordova.
Lor. (To Don Fernando.) Oh, what! then this is
Pedrillo?
Don F. (Bowing.) At your service, madam.
Ped. That Pedrillo! then, who the devil am I ?
Don F. (Apart to Pedrillo.) Here, rogue, this purse
is yours—say you are Don Fernando.
Ped. Oh, sir—now I understand you. True, Don
Scipio, I am all that he says.
Don S. Hey! Now that's right and sensible,
and like yourself; but I'll go bustle about our busi¬
ness, for we'll have all our love affairs settled this
evening. [Exeunt Don Scipio and Don Fernando.
Lor. So then, you're to be my husband, (Laughing.)
ha, ha, ha!
Fed. Eh!
Lor. Well, if not, I can be as cold as you are in¬
different.
AIR.-LORENZA.
If I my heart surrender,
lie ever fond and tender,
And sweet connubial joys shall crown
Each soft rosy hour :
In pure delight each heart shall own
Love's triumphant poic'r
See brilliant belles adm'ring,
S e splend'd beau c desiring,
All for a smile expiring,
Where'er Lorenza moves.
To balls and routes resorting,
0 bliss surpreme, transporting!
Yet ogling, flirting, courting,
'Xis you alone, that loves.
If I my heart surrender, Ac.
[Exeunt Pedrillo, Lorenza.
ACT III.
SCENE L—A grand Saloon.
Enter DON SCIPIO and VASQUEZ.
Don S, D'ye hear, Vasquez, run to Father Benedict,
tell him to wipe his chin, go to the chapel, put oa
his spectacles, open his breviary; find out matri¬
mony, and wait till we come to him. (Exit Vasquez.]
Then, hey, for a brace of weddings!
AIR.—DON SCIPIO.
Then hey for alass and a bottle to cheer,
And a thumping bantling every year I
With skin at white as snow,
And hair as brown as a berry I
With eyes as black as a sloe.
And lips a» red as a cherry;
Sing rory, tory.
Dancing, prancing;
Laugh and lie down is the play,
We'll fondle together.
In spite of the weather.
And kiss the cold winter away.
Laugh while you live;
For, as life is a jest,
TV'Ao laughs the most
Is sure to live best.
When I was not so old,
1 frolick'd among the misses;
And when they thought me too bold,
I stopped their mouths with kisses.
Sing rory, tory, Ac.
I wonder is Don Fernando dressed ? Oh, here
comes the servant in his proper habiliments.
•Enter DON FERNANDO, in a livery.
Ay, now, my lad, you look something like.
Don F. Yes, your honour, I was quite sick of my
grandeur. (Aside.) My passing so well in this dis¬
guise gives me a very humble opinion of myself.
Don S.But, Pedrillo, is your master equipped?
Faith, I long to see him in his proper garb.
Don F. Why, no, sir; we're a little behindhand
with our finery, on account of a portmanteau of
clothes that's mislaid somewhere or other.
Don S. Portmanteau! Oh 1 It's safe enough: your
fellow servant has it.
Don F. Fellow servant!
Don S. Ay, the little spy has taken it in charge.
Oh, here comes the very beagle.
Enter SPADO.
Well, my little dreamer, look: Pedrillo has got
into his own clothes again.
Spa. (Surprised, and aside.) Don Fernando in
livery! Or is this really a servant? Zounds!
sure I han't been telling truth all this while? We
must face it though. (ToDon Fernando.) Ah, my dear
old friend 1 Glad to see you yourself again. (Shakes
hands J
THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Don F. My dear boy, I thank yon! (Aside.) So
here's an old friend I never saw before!
Don S. (To Spado.) Tell Pedrillo where you have
left your master's portmanteau, while I go lead him
In triumph to his bride. [Crowes and exit.
Don F. Pray, my good, new, old friend, where
has your care deposited this portmanteau ?
Spa. (Looking after Don Scipio.) Gone.
Don F. The portmanteau gone!
Spa. Ay, his senses are quite gone.
Don F. Where's the portmanteau that Don Scipio
says you took charge of ?
Spa. Portmanteau!—Ah, the dear gentleman!—
Portmanteau did he say?—Yes, yi'B—all's over
with his poor brain. Yesterday his head run upon
purses, and trumpeters, and the lord knows what;
and to-day he talks of dreamers, spies, and port¬
manteaus. Yes, ybs, his wits are going!
Don F. It must be so: he talked to me last night
and to-day of I know not what, in a strange in¬
coherent style.
Spa. Grief—all grief!
Don F. If so, this whim of my being Pedrillo is,
perhaps, the creation of his own brain. But then,
how could it have run through the whole family ?
This is the first time I ever heard Don Scipio was
disordered in his mind.
Spa. Ay, we'd all wish to conceal it frem your
Blaster, lest it might induce him to break ofT the
match; for I don't suppose he'd be very ready to
marry into a mad family.
Don F. And, pray, what are you, sir, in this mad
family?
Spa* Don Scipio's own gentleman, these ten
years; yet you heard him just now call me your
fellow-servant How you did stare when I accosted
you aB an old acquaintance! But we always hu¬
mour him: 1 should not have contradicted him if
be said I was the pope's nuncio.
Don F. (Aside.) Oh, then, I don't wonder at Dame
Isabel taking advantage of his weakness.
Spa. Another new whim of his—he has taken a
fancy that everybody has got a ring from him,
which he imagines belonged to his deceased lady.
Don F. True; he asked me something about a
ring.
Don Scipio. (Without.) I'll wait on you presently.
Re-enter DON SCIPIO.
Don S. Ha, Pedrillo, now your disguises are over,
return me the ring.
Spa. (Aside to Don Fernando.) You see he's at the
ring again.
Don S. Come, let me have it, lad; I'll give you a
better thing; but that ring belonged to my deceased
lady.
Spa. (Aside to Don Fernando.) His deceased l&dy
—ay, there's the touch!
.Don F (Aside.) Poor gentleman!
Don S. Do let me have it. Zounds! here's five
pistoles, and the gold of the ring is not worth a
dollar.
Spa. (Aside to Don Fernando, giving him a ring.)
We always humour him. Give him this ring, and
take the money.
Don F. (Presenting the ring to Don Scipio.) There,
sir.
Don S. (Giving money.) And there, sir. (Aside.)
Oh, you mercenary rascal!
Spa. (Aside to Don Fernando, taking the money from
him.) Give me the cash—I must account for his
pocket-money.
715
Pedrillo. (Without.) Pedrillo! Pedrillo! sirrahs
Don S. Run—don't you hear youfc master, you
brace of rascals ? Fly! [Exit Spado.—Don Scipio
looks off ) What an alteration!
Enter PEDRILLO, richly dressed.
Ped. (With great authority, to Don Fernando.)
How now,- sirrah! loitering liere, and leave me to
dress myself, hey ?
Don F. (With humility.) Sir, I was —
Ped. Was! and are, and will be, a lounging
rascal! But you fancy you are still iu your finery,
you idle vagabond!
Don S. (Aside.) Bless me! Don Fernando is very
passionate, just like his father!
Don F. (Aside.) The fellow, I see, will play his
part to the top.
Fed. Well, Don Scipio—a hey!—ain't I the man
for the ladies? (Strutting.) I am, for I have
studied Ovid's Art of Love.
Don S. Yes, and Ovid's Metamorphoses, too.
(Laughing.) ha, ha, ha!
Ped. {Aside, laughing) He, he, he! What a
sneaking figure my poor master cuts! Egad!
I'll pay him back all his domineering over me.
Pedrillo!
Don F. Your honour.
Ped. (Giving a box.) Fill this box with Naqua-
toch.
DonF. Yes, sir. (Going.)
Ped. Pedrillo.
DonF. Sir.
Ptd. Perfume my handkerchief.
Don F. Yes, sir. (Going.)
Ped. Pedrillo.
Don F. Sir.
Ped. Give me a toothpick.
Don F. Yes, sir. (Going.)
Ped. Pedrillo.
Don F. (Aside.) What an impudent dog. Sir.
Ped. Nothing—abscond.
Don F. (Aside.) If this be my picture, I blush for
the original.
Fed (Aside to Don Fernando.) Master, to be like
you, do let me give you one kick.
Don F. What ?
Ped. Why, I won't hurt you much.
Don F. I'll break your bones, you villain!
Ped. Ahem! Tol de rol!
Don S. Pedrillo!
Ptd. (Forgetting himself.) Sir.
Don. (Aside to Pedrillo.) What are you at, you
rascal?
Ptd. Ay, what are you at, you rascal ? Avoid!
Don F. I'm gone, sir.
(Exit.
Fed. (Aside,) Cursed ill-natured of him not to let
me give him one kick!
Don S. Don Fernando, I like you vastly.
Ped. So you ought. Tol de roll (Aside.) Who
could now suspect me to be the son of a tailor,
and that, four years ago, I was a footman? Tol
de rol!
Don S. Son-in-law, you're a flaming beau! Egad!
you have a princely person!
Ped. All the young girlB, whenever I got behind
—inside of a coach—all the ladies of distinction,
whether they were making their beds, or dressing
the—dressing themselves at the toilette, would
run to the windows, peep through their fingers—
their fans, I mean, simper behind their handker¬
chiefs, and lisp out in the softest, sweetest tones,
Tie THE CASTLE <
"Oh, dear met upon my honour and reputation,
there is not such a beautiful gentleman in the world
as this same Don Pedril—Fernando I"
Son S. {Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha! Can't forget
Pedrillo 1 But come, ha' done with your Pedrillos
now—be yourself, son-in-law.
1'ed. Fes, I will be yourself, son-in-law—yon are
sure of that honour, Don Scipio. But, pray, what
fortune am I to have with your daughter 1 Tou
are a grey-headed old fellow, Don Scipio, and,
by the course of nature, you know, you cannot live
long.
Don S. Pardon me, sir, I don't know any such
thing.
Da1. So, when we put a stone upon your
head
Son S. Put a stone upon my head!
Ped. Yes, when you are settled—screwed down,
I shall have your daughter to maintain, you
know.
Son S. (Atide.) A narrow-minded spark!
Ped. Net that I would think much of that, X am
so generous.
Son S. (Aside.) Yes, generous as a Dutch
usurer!
Ped. The truth is, Don Scipio, I was always a
smart young gentleman. (Dances and sings.)
D'ye hear, Don Scipio, let us ha\e a plentiful
feast,
Don S. Was ever such a conceited, empty, impu¬
dent
[Exit.
Ped. Yes, I'm a capital fellow. (Laughing.) Ha.
ha! So, my fool of a master sets his wits to work
after a poor girl, that, I am told, they are packing
into a convent, and he dresses me up as himself, to
carry the rich Italian heiress, Donna Vic oria.
Well, I'm not a capital fellow, but 1 was made for
a gentleman! I'm the neat pattern for a lord. I
have a little honour about me—a bit of love, too—
ay, a scrap of courage, perhaps. Hem I I wish
I'd a rival to try it, though I Odd! I think I
could fight at any weapon, from a needle to a
hatchet!
Enter PHILLIPPO, with a letter and basket.
Phil. Signor, you are Don Fernando de Zelva?
Ped. Yes, boy.
Phil. Here's a letter for you, sir, from Don
Alphonso.
Ped. I don't know any Don Alphonso, boy'
What's the letter about ?
Phil. I think, sir, 'tis to invite you to a feast
Ped. A feastl—Oh, I recollect now — Don Al¬
phonso, what I my old acquaintance ! give it me,
boy.
Phil. But, are you sure, sir, you're Don Fer¬
nando?
Ped. Sure, you dog! don't you think I know my¬
self ?—let's see, let's see - [Opens the letter and reads.]
" Signor, though you seem ready to fall op to a love
feast, I hope a small repast in the fields won't spoil your
stomach"—Oh, this is only a snack "before supper—
" J shall be, at six o'clock this evening" - You dog, it's
past six now—" in the meadow, near the eotiage of the
vines, where I expect you'll meet me"—Oh. dear, I shall
be too late!—"As you aspire to Donna Victoria, your
sword must be long enough to rea h my heart, Alphonso."
My sword long enough! [Frightened.] Oh, the
devil!—Feastl Zounds, this is a downright chal¬
lenge!
Phtl. I beg your pardon, signor, but if I hadn't
•F ANDALUSIA,
met my sweetheart, Catalina, you would have had
that leter two hours ago.
Ped. Oh, you have given it time enough, my brava
boy.
Phil Well, sir, you'll come?
Ped. Eh 1 Yes, 1 dare say he'll come.
Phil. He!
Ped. Yes, I'll give it him, my brave boy.
Phil. Him! Sir, didn't you say you were
Ped. Never fear, child, Don Fernando shaD
have it.
Phil, Why, sir, an't you Don Fernando?
Ped. Mel not I, child—no, no, I'm not Fernando;
but, my boy I would go to the feast, but you have
delayed the letter so long, that I have quite lost my
stomach. Go, my fine boy.
Phi'. Sir, I
Ped Go along, child, go! (Puts Phillippo off.) how¬
ever, Don Fernando shall attend you—but here
comes my sposa—
Enter LOEENZA, reading a Utter.
"Dearest Lorenza, — Bu accident I heard of your
being in the Castle.—If you don't wish to be the instru¬
ment of your mother's imposition, an impending b ow,
which means you no harm, this night shall discover an
important secret, relative to him, who desires to resign
even life itself, if not your Bamirf.z."—My love!
(Kisses the letter.) I wish to be nothing if not your
Lorenza; this foolish Fernando! (Looking at Ped¬
rillo J but, ha! ha! ha! I'll amuse myself with him
— looks tolerably now he's dressed—not so agree¬
able as my lover Bamirez, though. (Aside.)
Ped. I'll accost her with elegance. How do you
do, sigDora ?
Lor. Yery well, sir, at your service.—Dresses
exactly like Prince Badifocani.
Ped. Now I'll pay her a fine compliment. —
Signora, you're a clever little body. Will you Bit
down, signora ?
(Hands a chair.)
Lor. So polite, too!
Ped. (Sits.) Oh, I admire politeness.
Lor. This would not be good manners in Florence,
though.
Ped. (Rising.) Oh 1 I beg pardon. Well, sit in
that chair; I assure you, Donna Victoria, I don't
grudge a little trouble for the sake of good man¬
ners.
(Places ancthtr chair.)
Lor. (Curtesies.) Vio cette motto gentile.
Ped. (Aside.) Yes, I sit on my seat genteelly. I
find I understand a good deal of Italian. Now to
court her, hem! hem! what shall I say ? Hang it,
I wish master had gone through the whole busi¬
ness, to the very drawing of the curtain.—I believe
I ought to kneel, though—(Kneels.) Oh, you most
beautiful goddess; you angelic angel 1
(Repeats.)
For you, my fair, Fd be a rose,
To ttloom beneath that comely nose,
Or, you the flower, and 1 the bee.
My sweets Pd sip from none but thee.
Was I a pen, you paper white.
Ye gods, what billet-doux I'd write I
My lips the seal, what am'rous smacks
I d print on yours, if sealing wax.
A'o more I'll say, you stop my breath,
My only life, you'll be my death.
(Sites.)
Well said, little Pedrillo I
(Wipes his knees.)
fHE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA.
Lor. There Ib something in Don .Fernando's pas¬
sion extremely tender, though romantic and ex¬
travagant.
Fed. Oh, for some sweet, sounds, signora! if
you'll sing me a song, I Stay and hear it, I'm so
civil.
Lor. With pleasure, Sir.
AIK,—LORENZA.
Heart beating,
Repeating,
Votes in palpitation,
Sweetly answering each fond hope;
Fr'ythee leave me,
You'll deceive me.
After other beauties running.
Smiles so roguish, eyes so cunning,
Show where points the inclination.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IT.—A View of the outside of the Castle, with
Moat and Drawbridge.
Enter DON C.ESAR and SPADO.
Don C. You gave my lelter to the lady?
Spa. Yes, I did, Captain Ramirez.
Don C. (Aside.) Lucky she knows me only by
that name.
Spa. A love affair, hey ? Oh, sly!
Don C. Hush ! Mind you let us all in by the little
wicket in the east rampart
Spa. I'll let yon in, captain; and a banditti is
like a cat—where the head can get in, the body will
follow.
Don C. Softl Letting down the drawbridge for
me may attract observation. (Looking out.) Yonder
I can get across the moat.
(Going.)
Spa. (Calling.) But, captain! my dear captain I if
you fall into the water, you may take cold, my dear
sir! {Aside.) I wish you were at the bottom, with
a stone about your neck 1
[Exit.
AIR.—DON C2ESAR.
At the peaceful midnight hour,
Ev'ry sense and eu'r. power
F, tter'd lies in downy sleep;
Then our careful watch we keep.
While the wolf, in nightly prowl,
■ Bays the moon with hideous howt,
Gates are barr'd—a vain resistance t
Females shriek, but no assistance.
Silence! or you meet your fate!
Your keys, your jewels, cash, and plate!
Locks, bolts, bars, soon fly asunder;
Then to nfle, rob, and plunder!
[Exit.
SCENE III.—A Hall tn the CastU.
Enter SPADO.
Spa. I'm in love with this castle: I've got my
comrades out at last. Old Don Juan has arrived,
I hear. Can anything be made of him, I wonder?
I've only got a portmanteau, some cash, and some
plate, such as candlesticks, spoons, and tops of
pepper-castors. I don't know how it is, but there
isn't half the bustle I expected. I'm for a fine con¬
fusion—that's the time to pick up the loose articles.
I hear old Don Juan is very passionate; if I could
717
but set him and Don Scipio by the ears—I have
it Here he cornea
Enter DON JUAN, in a travelling-dress.
Don J. Egad'. my coming will surprise my sou
Fernando, and Don Seipio, too. Tell him I'm here:
I hope I'm time enough for the wedding.
Spa. (SWy.) A grim-looking old gentleman.
(Bows obsequiously.)
Don J. Who's dog are you ?
Spa. How do you do, signor ?
Don J. Why, are you a physician?
Spa. Me a physician! Alack-a-day! no, your
honour - I am poor Spado.
Don J. Were's Don Scipio ? What the devil ?
is this his hospitality ? He has heard that 1 am
here ?
Spa. He hear I Ah, poor gentleman! hear!
His misfortune!
Don J, Misfortune! What, he's married again ?
Spa. At the brink.
Don J. Marry, and near threescore 1 What, has
he lost his senses?
Spa. He has nearly lost one, sir.
Don J. But where is he ? I want to ask him about
it
Spa. Ask! Then you must speak very loud, sir.
Don J. Why, what, is he deaf?
Spa. Almost, sir; the dear gentleman can scarce
bear a word.
Don J. Ah, poor fellow 1 Hey! isn't yonder my
son?
(Walks up.)
Spa. Now, if I could bring the old ones together,
I shouldn't doubt of a quarrel.
Enter DON SCIPlO.
Don S. Ah, here's my friend, Don J uan 1 Spado
I hope he han't heard of his son's pranks.
Spa. Hear ! Ah! poor Don Juan s hearing 1 I've
been roaring to him these five minutes.
Don S. Roaring to him.
Spa. He's almost deaf.
Don S. Bless me!
Spa. You must bellow to him like a speaking-
trumpet [Exit
Don S. (Speaking very loud) Don Juan, you are.
welcome.
Don J. (Starting.) Hey! (Aside.) Strange that
your deaf people always speak loud. (Speaking
very loud.) I'm very glad to see you, Don Scipio.
Don S. (Aside.) When people are deaf themselves,
they think everybody else is, too. (Bawling.) How
long have you been this way ?
Don J. (Bawling in his ear.) Just arrived.
Don S. (Ftry loud.) I mean aB to the hearing.
Don J. (Bawling.) Ay, I find it's very bad with
you. (Aside.) Zounds! I shall roar myself as
hoarse as a raven.
Don S. (Aside.) Ah, my lungs can't hold out a
conversation—I must speak by signs.
(Motions to drink)
Don J. What now, are you dumb, too ?
Enter VASQUEZ and whi'pers DON SCIPIO.
Don 3. Oh, you may speak out, nobody can hear
but me.
Don J. (To Vasquez.) Pray, is this crazy fool, your
master here, going to be married ?
Don S. (Surprised.) What ?
Few. (To Scipio.) Don Fernando would speak to
you, sir. [Exit
r;8 THE CASTLE (
Don S. I wish he'd come here, and speuK to this
old blockhead, his father. {Takes his hand ) Don
Juan, you are welcome to my house—but I wish
you had stayed at home.
jDon J. 1 am much obliged to you.
Don S. You'll soon see your son—as great an ass
as yourself!
Don J. An ass! You shall find me a tiger, you
old whelp!
Don S. Why, zounds! you are not deaf.
Don J. A mad, ridiculous
Knt r DON FERNANDO and VICTORIA.
Fernando! Hey, boy! what the devil dress is
this?
Don F My father—sir—I—I——-
Don S. ( To Victoria.) What are you doing with
that fellow ?
17c. Your pardon, dearest father, when I own
that he is now my husband.
Don S. Eh, eh! By this ruin, this eternal dis¬
grace upon my house, am I punished for my unjust
severity to my poor son, Don Coesar—married to
that rascal!
Don J. Call my son a rascal!
Don S. Zounds, man! who's thinking of your
son ? But this fellow to marry the girl, and dis¬
grace my family.
Don J. Disgrace! He has honoured your family,
you crack-brained old fool!
Don S. A footman honour my family, you super¬
annuated, deaf old idiot!
Enter DAME ISABELLA.
Oh, Dame, fine doings! Pedrillo here has married
my daughter.
Don J. But why this disguise—what is all this
about? Tell me, Fernando.
Jsa. What, is this really Don Fernando f
Don S. Do you say so, Don Juan?
Don J. To be sure.
Don S. Hey! Then, Dame, your daughter la left
to the valet—no fault of mine, though.
Jsa. What a vile contrivance!
Don F. No, madam, yours was the contrivance,
which love and accident have counteracted, in jus¬
tice to this injured lady.
Jsa. Oh, that villain, Spado.
Don J. Spado 1 Why, that's the villain told me
you were deaf.
Don S. Why, he made me believe you could not
hear a word.
Jsa. And led me into this unlucky error
[Exit Isabella.
Don J. Oh, what a lying scoundrel!
Enter SPADO, behind.
Spa. I wonder how my work goes on here! (Roars
in on Juan's ear.) I give you joy, sir.
Don. J. (Beating him.) I'll give you sorrow, you
rascal!
Don S. I'll have you hanged, you villain!
Spa. Hanged! dear sir, 'twould be the death of
me.
. Fed. (Without.) Come along, my caja sposa—
tol-de-rol—
Enter PEDRILLO.
How do you do, boys and girls? Zounds! my old
master!
Don J. Pedrillo! Hey-day, here's finery!
J'ed. I must brazen it out. Ah, Don Juan, my
worthy dad!
iF ANDALUSIA.
Don J. Why, what in the name of hut I'll beat
you to a mummy, sirrah!
Fed. Don't do that; I'm going to be married to
an heiress, so mustn't be beat to _ a mummy.
Stand before me, spouse. (Oets behind Victoria.)
Don J. Let me come at him!
Spa. Stay where you are, he don't want you.
Don. F. Dear Bir 1
Don S. Patience, Don Juan; your son has got my
daughter; so our contract's fulfilled.
Don J. Yes, sir; but who's to satisfy me for your
intended affront, hey?
Don S. How shall I get out of this ? (To Spado.)
I'll revenge all upon you, you little rascal! To prison
you go. Here, a brace of alguazils, and a pair of
handcuffs.
Spa. For me—the best friend you have in the
world!
Don S. Friend, you villain! that shan't save your
neck!
Spa. Why, I've saved your throat.
Don S. How, Sirrah ?
Spa. Only two of the banditti here in the castle,
this morning.
DonS. Oh, dear met
Spa. But I got them out
Don S. How, how ?
Spa. I told them they shonld come and murder
you this evening.
Don S. Much obliged to you. (A crash and tumult¬
uous noise without.) Oh, lord!
Enter SANGUINO and BANDITTI rushing forward
armed, with DON C2ESAR af their head. Don
Fernando draws, and stands before Victoria.
Ban. This way!
DonS. Oh, ruin! I'm a miserable man! Where's
now my son, Don Cesar? If I hadn't banished
him, I should now have a protector in my child.
Don C. Then you shalL (To the Banditti.) ' Hold!
My father! (Ktieels to DonJScipio.)
Don S. How! My son, Don Cesar!
Don C. Yes, sir; drove to desperation by—my
follies were my own—but my vices-
Don S. Were the consequence of my rigour. My
child! let these tears wash away the remem¬
brance.
Don C. My father! I am unworthy of this good-
nca»-
san. uaptain, we didn't come here to talk. Give
the word for plunder.
Ban. (Very tumultuous) Ay, plunder!
Don C. Hold!
Spa. (Cocking his pistol.) Ay, Captain, let's have a
choice rummaging.
Don C. Stop! hold! I command you.
Don S. Oh, heavens! then is Ramirez the terrible
captain of .the cut-throats—the grand tiger of the
cave! My life is yours.
Don C. And I'il preserve it as my own. Retire,
and wait your orders. [Exeunt all the Banditti but
Spado.)
Don S. What then, you won't let me be murdered ?
My dear boy! my darling! forgive me!—I—I—I
pardon all.
Don C. Then, sir, I shall first beg it for my com¬
panions, if, reclaimed by the example of their
leader, their future lives shew them worthy of
mercy; if not, with mine let them be forfeit to the
hand of justice.
Don S. Some, I believe, may go up—eh! little
pado, could you dance upon nothing ?
THE CASTLE (
Spa. (Boiring Wj Yes, sir; but our captain,your
son, must lead up the ball.
. Don S. (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha 1 Well, you know,
though ill bestowed, I must try my interest at
Madrid. Children, I ask your pardon; forgive me,
Victoria, and take my blessing in return.
Etc. And do you, sir, acknowledge me for your
child?
Don S. I do, I do; and my future kindness shall
make amends for my past cruelty.
Fed. Ha, here comes my sposa.
Enter LORENZA and DON ALPHONSO.
Don C. My beloved Lorenza!
Lor. My dearest!
[They embrace.
Don. My good captain! as I knew this lady only
by the name of Victoria, you little imagined, in
your friendly promises to me, you were giving away
your Lorenza; but, had I then known we both
loved the same mistress, I should, ere now, have
relinquished my pretensions.
Lor. My good-natured Alphonsot Accept my
gratitude, my esteem ; but my love is, and ever
was, in the possession of—
Don C. Dear father, this is the individual lady
whose beauty, grace, and angelic voice, captivated
my soul at Florence; if she can abase her spotless
mind, to think upon a wretch stained with crimes,
accompany her pardon with your approbation.
Don S. Isabel has been too good, and I too bad a
parent! (Laughing.) Ha, hr, ha! then fate hai
V ND.\ LUSIA. 71*
decreed you are to be my daughter, some way or
other.
Fed. Yes; but has fate decreed that my sposa
is to be another man's wife ?
Spa. (To Don Scipio.) And, sir, if fate has de¬
creed that your son is not to be hanged, let the
indulgence extend to the humblest of his fol¬
lowers.
[Boies low.
Don S. (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha! Well, though I
believe you a great, little rogue, yet it seems you
have been the instrument of bringing about things
Just as they should be.
Don J. They are not as they should be, and I tell
you again, Don Scipio, I will have—
Don S. Well, and shall have a bottle of the best
wine in Andalusia, sparkling Muscadel, as bright as
Victoria's eye, and sweet as Lorenza's lip: hey,
now for our brace of weddings; where are the
violins, lutes, and cymbals ? I say, let us be merry
in future, and past faults our good-humoured
friends will forget and forgive.
GLEE.—FINALE.
So •ial powers at pleasure's call
Welcome here to Hymen's hall;
Bacchus, Ceres, bless the feast,
Momus lend the sprightly jest.
Songs of joy elate the soul,
Hebe fill the rosy bowl.
Ecu y chaste and dear delight.
Crown withjoy this happy night.
TANCEED AND SIGISMUNDA.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BT JAMES THOMPSON.
Tan.—''Mr life! my Sigismunda!"—Act iv, scene 1
persons Tit presents.
Tancbf.d.
Siffbedi.
Osmond.
Eodolpho.
Skismcnda.
La uk a.
ACT L
SCENE I.—The Palace.
Enter SIGISMUNDA and LAURA.
Sig. Ah! fatal day to Sicily 1 the king
Touches his last moments.
Lau. So 'tis fear'd.
Sig. Laura, 'tis said, the heart is sometimes
charg'd
With a prophetic sadness: such, methinks,
Now hangs on mine. The king'B approaching death
Suggests a thousand fears. What troubles theuoe
May throw the state once more into confusion;
What tuddea changes in my father's house
May rise, and part me from my dearest Tancted,
Alarm my thoughts.
Lau. The fears of love-sick fancyj
Perversely busy to torment itself.
But be assur'd your father's steady friendship,
Join'd to a certain genius, that commands,
Not kneels to fortune, will support and cherish.
Here in the public eye of Sicily,
This, 1 may call him, his adopted son,
The noble Tancred, form'd to all his virtues.
Sty. Ah 1 form'd to charm his daughter. This
fair morn
Has tempted fax the chase. Is he not yet
Beturn'd ?
TANCItED AND SIGISMUNDA.
m
Zau. No. When your fattier to the king,
Who now expiring lieB, was call'd in haste.
Be sent each way hie messengers to flu i him;
With such a look of ardour and impatience,
As if this near event was to Count Tancred
Of more importance than I comprehend.
Suf. There lies, my Laura, o'er my Tancred's
birth,
A cloud I cannot pierce. With princely accost,
Nay, with respect, which oft I have observ'd,
Stealing at times submissive o'er liis features,
In Belmont's woods my father rear'd this youth.
Ahl woods, for ever dear! where first my artless
bosom leara'd
The sighs of love. He gives him out the son
Of an old friend, a baron of Apulia,
Who in the late crusade bravely fell;
But then, 'tis strange; is all his family,
As well as father, dead ? and all their friends,
Except my sire, the gen'rous, good Siffredi ?
Had he a mother, sister, brother left,
The last remain of kindred, with what pride,
What rapture, might they fly o'er earth and sea,
To claim this rising honour of their blood!
This bright unknown! this all-accomplish'd
youth!
Who charms too much the heart of Sigismunda,
What says Rodolpho ? Does he duly credit
The story of his birth ?
Zau. Be has sometimes,
Like you, his doubts; yet, when maturely weigh'd,
Believes it true. As for lord Tancred's self,
He never entertain'd the slightest thought
That verg'd to doubt; but oft laments his state,
By cruel fortune so ill pair'd to yours.
Big. Merit like hie, the fortune of the mind,
Beggars all wealth. Then, to your brother, Laura,
He talks of me?
Lau. Of nothing else. Howe'er
The talk begin, it ends with Sigismunda;
Their morning, noon-tide, and their ev'ning walks,
Are full of you; and all the woods of Belmont
Enamour'd with your name-
Sis'. Away, my friend;
You flatter: yet the dear delusion charms.
Lau. No, Sigismunda; 'tis the strictest truth,
Nor half the truth, I tell you. Ev'n with fondness
My brother talks for ever of the passion
That fires young Tancreo'a breast. So much it
strikes him
Be praises love as if he were a lover.
Heaven, he says,
la lavish bounty form'd the heart for .love;
In love included all the finer seeds
Of honour, virtue, friendship, purest bliss—
Sig. Virtuous Bodolpho 1
Lau. Then his pleasing theme
He varies to the praises of your lover.
Sig. And what, my Laura, says he on the sub¬
ject?
Lau. Ho says that though he was not nobly
born,
Nature has form'd him noble, gen'rous, brave.
Chietiy one charm
He in "hie graceful character observes;
That though his passions burn with high imp*'
tience,
And sometimes, from a noble heart of nature,
Are ready to fly off; yet die least check
Of ruling reason brings them back to temper,
And gentle softness.
True I oh I true, Rodolpho!
Blest be thy kindred worth for loving his!
He iB all warmth, all amiable fire.
All quick, heroic ardour! temper'd soft
With gentleness of heart, and manly reason t
If virtue were to wear a human form,
To light it with her dignity and flame,
Then soft'ning mix her smiles and tender graces;
Oh I she would choose tho person of my Tancred.
Go on, my friend; go on, and ever praise him;
The subject knows no bounds, nor cau I tire,
While m.v breast trembles to that sweetest musio.
The heart of woman tastes no truer joy.
Is never flatter'd with such dear enchantment,
As when she hears the praises of the man she
loves.
Lau. Madam, your father comes.
Enter SIFFREDL
Sif. (To an Attendant as he enters.) Lord Tancred
is found?
At ten. My lord, he quickly will be here.
Sif. 'Tis well; retire. You, too, my daughter,
leave me.
Sig. I go, my father. But how fares tho king ?
Sif. He is no more. Gone to that awful state.
Where kings the crown wear only 9f their virtues
Sig. How bright/ must then bp his. This stroke
is sudden;
He was this morning well, when to the chase
Lord Tancred went.
Sif. 'Tis true. But at his years
Death gives short notice. Drooping nature then,
Without a gust of pain to shake it, falls.
His death, my daughter, was that bappy period -
Which few attain. The duties of his day
Were all discharg'd; calm as evening skies
Was his pure mind, and lighted up with hopes
That open heaven; when for his last long sleep
Timely prepar'd, a lassitude of life,
A pleasing weariness of mortal joy,
Fell on his soul, and down he sunk to rest
Oh! may my death be such! He but one wish
Left unfulflll'd, which was to see Count Tancred.
Sig. To see Count Tancred! Pardon me, ray
lord—
Sif. For what, my daughter? But with such
emotion,
Why did you start at mention of Count Tancred?
Sig. Nothing—I only hop d the dying king
Might mean to make some generous, just provi¬
sion
For this your worthy charge, this noble orphan.
Sif. And he has done it largely. Leave me now;
I want some private conference with Lord Tancred.
[Exeunt Sigismunda and Laura.
My doubts are but too true. If these old eyes
Can trace the marks of love, a mutual passion
Has seiz'd, I fear, my daughter, and this prince,
My sovereign now. Should it be so ? Ah! thera,
There lurks a brooding tempeBt, that may shake
My long concerted scheme, to settle firm
The public peace and welfare, which the king
Has made the prudent basis of bis will.
Away, unworthy views, you shall not tempt me!
Nor interest, nor ambition shall seduce
My fix'd resolve. Perish the selfish thought,
Which our own good prefers to that of millions!
He comes, my king, unconscious of his fortune,
Enter TANCRED.
Tan. My Lord Siffredi, in your looks I read,
722 TANCHED AND
Conflrm'd, the mournful news that fly abroad
From tongue to tongue: we, then, at last, hare
lost
The good old king.
Sif. Yes, we have lost a falher;
The greatest blessing heaven bestows on mortals—
A good, a worthy king I Hear mo, my Tancred,
And I will tell thee, in a few plain words.
How he deserv'd that best, that glorious title.
He lov'd his people, deem'd them all his children;
The good exalted, and depress'd the bad.
He sought alone the good of those for whom
He was entrusted with the sovereign power:
Well knowing that a people in their rights
And industry protected, living safe
Beneath the sacred shelter of the laws,
Are ne'er ungrateful. With unsparing hand
They will for him provide: their filial love
And confidence are his unfailing treasure,
And every honest man his faithful guard.
Tan. A general face of grief o'erspreads the city
I mark'd the people, as I hither came,
In crowds assembled, struck with silent sorrow,
And pouring forth the noblest praise of tears.
A mingled murmur ran
Along the streets; and from a lonely court
Of him who can no more assist their fortunes,
I saw the courtier-fry, with eager haste,
All hurrying to Constantia.
Si/. Noble youth!
I joy to hear from thee these just reflections,
Worthy of riper years. But if they seek
Constantia, trust me, they mistake their course.
Tan. How! Is she not, my lord, the late king's
sister 1
Heir to the crown of Sicily 7 the last
Of our fam'd Norman line, and now our queen 7
Sif. Tancred, 'tis true, she is the late king's
sister,
The sole surviving offspring of that tyrant,
William the Bad; born some months
After the tyrant's death, but not next heir.
Tan. You much surprise me. May I, then, pre¬
sume
To ask who is ?
Si/. Come nearer, noble Tancred,
Son of my care. I must, on this occasion,
Consult thy generous heart, which, when con¬
ducted
By rectitude of mind and honest virtues,
Gives better counsel than the hoary head.
Then know, there lives a prince, here in Palermo,
The lineal offspring of our famous hero,
And rightful heir of Sicily.
Tan. Great heav'n! How far remov'd
From that our mighty founder.
Si/. His great grandson:
Sprung from his eldest son, who died untimely,
Before his father.
Tan. Ha ! the prince you mean,
Is he not Manfred's son ? The generous, brave,
Cnhappy Manfred! whom the tyrant William,
You just now mention'd, not content to spoil
Of his paternal crown, threw into fetters,
And infamously murder'd?
S\f. Yes, the same.
Tan. But this prince,
Where has he lain conceal'd f
Sif. The late good king,
By noble pity mov'd, contriv'd to save him
From his dire father's unrelenting rage,
And had him roar'd in private, as became
SIGISMUNDA.
His birth and hopes, with high and princely Bur*
ture.
Till now, too young to rule a troubled state;
By civil broils most miserably torn,
He in his safe retreat has lain conceal'd.
His birth and fortune to himself unknown
But when the dying king to me intrusted,
As to the chancellor of the realm, his will,
He nam'd him his successor.
Tan. Happy youth!
He then will triumph o'er his father's foes,
O'er haughty Osmond, and the tyrant's daughter.
Sif. Ay, that is what I dread—the heat of youth;
There lurks, I fear, perdition to the state;
I dread the horrors of rekindled war.
Though dead the tyrant still is to be fear'd;
His daughter's party still is strong and numerous
Her friend, earl Osmond, constable of Sicily,
Fxperienc'd, brave, high-born, of mighty interest.
Better the prince and princess should by marriage
Unite their friends, their interest, and their claims,,
Then will the peace and welfare of the land
On a firm basis rise.
Tan, My lord Siffredi,
If by myself I of this prince may judge,
That scheme will scarce succeed. Your prudent
age
In vain will counsel, if the heart forbid it
But wherefore fear ? The right is clearly his;
All Sicily will rouse, all faithful hearts,
Will range themselves around prince Manfred's
son.
For me, I here devote me to the service
Of this young prince; I every drop of blood
Will lose with joy, with transport, in his cause.—
Pardon my warmth—hut that, my lord, will never
To this decision come. Then find the prince :
Lose not a moment to awaken in him
The royal soul. Perhaps he, now desponding,
Pines in a corner, and laments his fortune,
That in the narrow bounds of private life
He must confine his aims, those swelling virtues
Which, from his noble father, he inherits.
Sif. Perhaps, regardless in the common bane
Of youth he melts, in vanity and love.
But if the seeds of virtue glow within him,
I will awake a higher sense, a love
That grasps the love and happiness of millions.
Tan. Why that surmise? Or should he love,
Siffredi,
I doubt not, it is nobly, which will raise
And animate his virtues. Oh, permit me
To plead the cause of youth: their virtue oft,
In pleasure's soft enchantment lull'd awhile,
Forgets itself; it sleeps and gaily dreams,
Till great occasion rouse it; then, all flame,
It walks abroad, with heigbten'd soul and vigour,
And by the change astonishes the world.
Sif. Hear him, immortal shades of his great
fathers!
Forgive me, sir, this trial of your heart
Thou, thou art he 1
Tan. Siffredi!
Sif. Tancred, thou 1
Thou art the man, of alltbe many thousands
That toil upon the bosom of this isle,
By heaven elected to command the rest,
To rule, protect them, and to make them happy.
Tan. Manfred, my father! I the last support
Of the fam'd Norman line, that awes the world ?
I, who, this morning, wander'd forth an orphan,
Outcast of all but thee, my second father 1
TANCRED AND SIGISMUNDA
723
Thus call'd to glory! to the first great lot
Of humankind I Oh, wonder-working hand,
That in majestic silence sways at will
'J he mightymovements of unbounded nature!
Oh, grant me, heaven, the virtues to sustain
This awful burden of so many heroes 1
Let me not be exalted into shame ;
Set up the worthless pageant of vain grandeur.
Meantime, I thank the justice of the king,
Who has my right bequeath'd me. Thee, Siffredi,
I thank thee! Oh, I ne'er enough can thank thee.
Yes, thou hast been—thou art—shalt be my father!
Thou shalt direct my inexperiene'd years;
Shalt be the ruling head, and 1 the hand.
sif. It is enough for me to see my sov'reign
Assert his virtues, and maintain his honour.
Tan. I think, my lord, you said the king com¬
mitted
To you his will ? I hope it is not clqgg'd
With any base conditions, any clause,
To tyrannise my heart, and to Constantia
Enslave my hand devoted to another.
The hint you just now gave of that alliance,
You must imagine, wakes my fear. But know,
In this alone 1 will not bear dispute,
Not ev'n from thee, Siffredi. Let the council
Be straight assembled, and the will there open'd:
Thence issue speedy orders to convene,
This day, ere noon, the senate, where those barons,
Who now are in Palermo, will attend,
To pay their ready homage to the king.
Sif. I go, my liege. But once again permit me
To tell you, now is the trying crisis
That must determine of your future reign.
Oh! with heroic rigour watch your heart;
And to the sovereign duties of the king,
Tb' unequall'd pleasures of a god on earth.
Submit the common joys, the common passions,
Nay, even the virtues of the private man.
Tan. Of that no more. They not oppose, but aid,
Invigorate, cherish, and reward eaeh other.
[Exit Sif.
Now, generous Sigismunda, comes my turn,
To shew my love was not of thine unworthy.
When fortune bade me blush to look to thee.
Hut what is fortune to the wish of love ?
A miserable bankrupt!
Quick, let me find her; taste that highest joy,
Th' exulted heart can know, the mix'd effusion
Of gratitude and love! Behold, she comes 1
Re-enter SIG SMUNDA.
My flutt'ring soul was on the wing to find thee,
My love, my Sigismunda!
Sig. Oh! my Tancred,
Tell me what means this mystery and gloom,
That lowers around? Just now involv'd in thought,
My father shot athwart ine—You, my lord,
Seem strangely mov'd—I fear, some dark event
From the king's death, to trouble our repose;
That tender calm we in the woods of Belmont
So happily enjoy'd. Explain this hurry;
What means it? say.
Tan. It means that we are happy!
Beyond our most romantic wishes happy!
Sig. You but perplex me more.
Tan. It meanB, my fairest,
That thou art queen of Sicily; and I
The happiest of mankind!
Because with thee, I can adorn my throne.
Manfred, who fell by tyrant William's rage.
Was my father. (Ranting.)
You droop, my love; dejected on a sudden;
You seem to mourn my fortune. The soft tear
Springs in thy eye: oh! let me kiss it off.
WI15 this, my Sigismunda?
Sig. Koyal Tancred,
None at your glorious fortune can like me
Rejeice; yet me alone, of all Sicilians,
It makes unhappy.
Tan. I should hate it, then!
Should throw, with scorn, the splendid ruin from
me.
No, Sigismunda, 'tis my hope with thee
To share it, whence it draws its richest value.
Sig. You are my sov'reign; I at humble dis¬
tance—
Tan. Thou art my queen! the sovereign of my
soul!
The dear, the tender, gen'rous Sigismunda!
Sig. Your heart, I know, disdains the little
thought
Of changing with the vain, external change
Of circumstance and fortune.
But, ah! the hearts of kings are not their own
Some high descended princess, who will bring
New power and interest to your throne, demands
Your royal hand; perhaps, Constantia—
Tan. She!
Oh! name her not: were I this moment free
And disengag'd as he who never sigh'd
For matchless worth like thine, I should abhor
All thoughts of that alliance. Her fell father
Most basely murder'd mine;
And canst thou deem me, then, so poorly tame,
So cool a traitor to my father's blood,
As from the prudent cowardice of state
E'er to submit to such a base proposal;
They whom just heaven has to a throne exalted,
To guard the rights and liberties of others,
What duty binds them to betray their own ?
Or if, indeed, my choice must be directed
By views of public good, whom shall I choose
So fit to grace, to dignify a crown,
And beam sweet mercy on a happy people,
As thee, my love ? Whom place upon my throne
But thee, descended from the good Siffredi ?
Sig. Cease, cease to raise my hopes above my
duty;
Charm me no more, my Tancred! Oh 1 that we
In those blest woods, where first you won my soul,
Had pass'd our gentle days; far from the toil
And pomp of courts! Such is the wish of love:
'Tis all in vain; you cannot hush a voice
That murmurs here—I must not be persuaded.
Tan. (Kneeling.) Hear me, thou soul of all my
hopes and wishes!
And witness, heaven,prime source of love and joy!
Not a whole warring world combin'd against me,
Shall ever shake my faith to Sigismunda!
(Trumpets and acclamations heard.)
But, hark! the public voice to duties calls me,
Which with unwearied zeal I will discharge;
And thou, yes, thou shalt be my bright reward.
Yet, ere I go, to hush thy lovely fears,
Thy delicate objections, (writes his name) take this
blink,
Sign'd with my name, and give it to thy father:
l ell him 'tis my command it be flll'd up
With a most strict and solemn marriage contract
How dear each tie 1 how charming to my soul!
That more unites me to my Sigismunda.
For thee, and for my people's good to live,
Is all the bliss which sov'reign power can give.
[&reum
724 TANCRED AN
ACT n.
SCENE L—A grand Saloon.
Enter SIFFREDI.
Sif. So far 'tis well The late king's will pro-
Upon the plan I counsell'd; that prince Tancred
Shall make Constantia partner of his throne.
Oh 1 great, oh ! wish'd event!
But how this mighty obstacle surmount,
Which love has thrown betwixt? My daughter
owns
Her passion for the king; she trembling own'd it,
With prayers, and tears, and tender supplications,
That almost shook my firmness. And this blank,
Which his rash fondness gave her, shews how
much,
To what a wild extravagance he loves.
1 see no means—it foils my deepest thought
How to control this madness of the king,
That wears the face of virtue, and will thence
Disdain restraint. The crowding barons
Here summon'd to tho palace, meet already,
To pay their homage, and confirm the wilL
On a few moments hangs the public fate.
On a few hasty moments—Ha! there shone
A gleam of hope. Yes, with this very paper
I yet will save him. Here is the royal hand;
I will beneath it write a perfect, full.
And absolute agreement to the will;
Which read before the nobles of the realm
Assembled, in the sacred face of Sicily,
Constantia present, every heart and eye
Fix'd on their monarch, every tongue applauding,
He must submit; his dream of love must vanish.
It shall be done. To me. I know, 'tis ruin;
But safety to the public, to the king.
I will not reason more. No; 'tis fix'd I
I here devote me for my prince and country;
Let them be safe, and let me nobly perish!
Behold, earl Osmond comes, without whose aid
My schemes are all in vain.
Enter OSMOND.
Osm. My lord Siffredi,
I from the council hasten'd to Constantia,
And have accomplish'd what we there propos'd,
The princess to the will submits her claims.
She with her presence means to grace the senate,
And of your royal charge, young Tancred's hand,
Accept. Methought, besides,
I could discern, that not from prudence merely
She to her choice submitted.
Sif. Noble Osmond,
You have in this done to the public great
And signal service. Yes, I must avow it;
This frank and ready instance of your zeal,
In such a trying crisis of the state,
Upbraids the rashness of my former judgment
Osm. Seffredi, no. To you belongs the praise;
'Tis you, my lord, to whom tie many thousands,
That by the barbarous sword of civil war
Hod fallen inglorious, owe their lives.
I blush to think
I have so long oppos'd the best good man
In Sicily:
To yours I join my hand; with you will own
No int'rest and no party but my country.
Nor is your friendship only my ambition:
There is a dearer name, the name of father,
By which I should rejoice to eaU Siffredi.
) SIG1SMUNDA.
Your daughter's hand would to the public weal
Unite my private happiness
Sif. My lord.
You have my glad consent. To be allien
To your distinguish'd family and merit
I shall esteem an honour. From my »?ul
I here embrace earl Osmond as my friend
And son.
Osm. You make him happy.
1 from this moment vow myself the friend
And zealous servant of Siffredi's house.
Enter an Officer belonging to the Court.
Offi. (To Siffredi.) The king, my lord, demands
your speedy presence.
Sif. I will attend him straight Farewell, my
lord;
The senate meets: there, a few moments hence,
I will rejoin you.
Osm. There, my noble lord,
We will complete this salutary work;
Will there begin anew, auspicious era.
[Exeunt Siffredi and Officer.
Siffredi gives his daughterto my wishes,
But does she give herself ? Gay, young, and flat-
ter'd,
PerhapB, engag'd, will Bhe her youthful heart
Yield to my harsher, uncomplying years ?
I am not form'd, by flattery and praise,
By sighs and tears, and all tho whining trade
Of love, to feed a fair one's vanity;
To charm at once and spoil her. These soft arts
Nor suit my years nor temper; these be left
To boys and doting age. A prudent father, #
By nature charged to guard and rule her choice,
Resigns his daughter to a husband's power,
Who with superior dignity, with reason,
And manly tenderness will ever love her;
Not first a kneeling slave, and then a tyrant
[Exit.
Enter BODOLPHO from the Senate.
Rod. This will perplexes all. No, Tancred never
Can stoop to these conditions, which at once
Attack his rights, his honour, and his love.
Th' unjust, the base conditions of the will!
Uncertain, toss'd in cruei agitation,
He oft, methought, address'd himself to speak,
And interrupt Siffredi, who appear'd,
With conscious haste to dread that interruption,
And hurry'd on—But, harki I hear a noise,
As if the assembly rose.
(Sigismunda and Attendants pass through the
back scene.)
Enter LAURA.
Lau. Your high prais'd friend, the king,
Is false, most vilely false. The meanest slave
Had shewn a nobler heart.
He Manfred's son 1 away! it cannot be!
The son of that brave prince could never sacrifice
All faith, all honourj gratitude, and love,
All in a moment. And for what? why, truly,
For kind permission, gracious leave, to sit
On his own throne with tyrant William's daughter!
Rod. I stand amaz'd. You surely wrong him,
Laura;
There must be some mistake.
Lau. There can be none:
Siffredi read his full and free consent^
Before th' applauding senate. True, indeed
A small remain of shame, a timorous weakness,
TANCRED ANI
Even dastardly In falsehood, made him blush
To act this scene in Sigismunda's eye,
Who sunk beneath his perfidy and baseness.
Hence, till to-morrow he adjourn'd the senate;
To-morrow fix'd, with infamy to crown him;
Then, leading off his gay, triumphant princess,
He left the poor unhappy Slgismunda
To bend her trembling step to that sad home
Hi3 faithless vows will render hateful to her.
He comes. Farewell. I cannot bear his pre¬
sence. [&ril.
Enter TANCRED and SIFFREDI.
Tan. Avoid me, hoary traitor I Go, Rodolpho,
Give orders that all passages this way
Be shut Defend me from the hateful world,
The bane of peace and honour; then retnrn.
[Exit Rodolpho.
What! dost thon haunt me still ? Oh, monstrous
insult
Unparallel'd indignity. Just heaven!
Was ever king, was ever man so treated?
Bo trstfepled into baseness?
Si/. Here, my liege,
Here strike. I nor deserve, nor ask for mercy.
Tan. All, all but this I could have borne: but
thisl •
Th:s daring insolence beyond example!
This murd'rous stroke, tbat stabs my peace for
ever!
That wounds me there—there, where the human
heart
Most exquisitely feels—
Sif. Oh I bear it not,
My royal lord; appease oh me your vengeance.
Tan. Did ever tyrant image ought so cruel ?
The lowest slave that crawls upon the earth,
Robb'd of each comfort heav'n bestows on mortals,
On the bare ground has still his virtue left,
The sacred treasure of an honest heart,
Which thou hast dar'd, with rash, audacious
hand,
And impious fraud, in me to violate—
Sif. Behold, my lord, that rash, audacious
hand,
Which not repents its crime. Oh, glorious,
happy!
If by my ruin I can save yonr honour.
7'an. Such honour X renounce; with sovereign
scorn
Greatly detest it, and its mean adv ser.
Hast thou not dar'd beneath my name to shelter,
Beneath thy sovereign's name, basely presum'd
To shield a lie—a lie, in public utter'd,
To all deluded Sicily? But know,
This poor contrivance is as weak as base.
What, marry her! Constantia! her! the daughter
Of the fell tyrant who destroy'd my father!
The very thought is madness I Ere thou sees.t
The torch of Hymen light these hated nuptials,
Thou shalt behold Sicilia wrapp'd in flames.
Her cities raz'd, her valleys dreneh'd with
slaughter.
Love set aside, my pride assumes the quarnel;
My honour now is up; in spite of thee,
A world combin'd against me, I will give
This scatter'd will in fragments to the winds,
Assert my rights, the freedom of my heart,
Crush all who dare oppose me to the dust,
And heap perdition on thee !
Si/. Sir, 'tis just.
Exbanst on me thy rage; I claim it all,
SIGISMUNDA. ?26
But for these public threats thy passion utters,
Tis what thou canst not do.
Tan. I cannot! ha!
Who shall arrest my vengeance ? Who ?
Si/. Thyself.
Tan. Away! Dare not to justify thy crime!
That, that alone can aggravate its horror;
Add insolence to insolence; perhaps,
May make my rage forget—
Si/. Oh! let it burst
On this grey head, devoted to thy service!
But when the storm has vented all its fury,
Thou then must bear; nay, more, I know thou
wilt;
Wilt hear the calm, yet stronger voice of reason.
Thou must reflect that there are other duties;
Yes, thou must
In calmer hour divest thee of thy love,
These common passions of the vulgar breast,
This boiling heat of youth, and be a king,
The lover of thy people!
Tan. Yes, I will be a king, and not a slave:
In this will be a king; m this my people
Shall learn to judge how I will guard their
rights,
When they behold me vindicate my own.
But have I, say, been treated like a king ?
Heavn's 1 could I stoop to such outrageous usage,
[ were a mean, a shameless wretch, unworthy
To wield a sceptre in a land of slaves;
A soil abhor'd of virtue ; should belie
My father's blood! belie those very maxims,
At other times you taught my youth, Siffredi.
Si/. Behold, my prince, thy poor old servant,
Whose darling care, these twenty years, has
been
To nurse thee up to virtue ; behold him here,
Bent on his feeble knees, to beg, conjure thee,
With tears to beg thee, to control thy passion,
And save thyself, thy honour, and thy people.
Kneeling with me, behold the many thousands
To thy protection trusted; fathers, motherB,
The sacred front of venerable age,
The tender virgin, and the helpless infant;
See them all
Here at thy feet conjuring thee to save them
From misery and war, from crimes and rapine!
Turn not away: oh! is there not some part
In thy great heart sensible to kindness,
And generous warmth, some nobler part, to feel
The prayers and tears of these, the mingled
voice
Of heaven and earth ?
Tan. There is, and thon hast touched it.
Rise, rise, Siffredi. Oh, thou host undone me 1
Unkind old man! Oh, ill-treated Tancred I
Which way soe'er I turn, dishonour rears
Her hideous front, and misery and ruin.
Why have yon rais'd this miserable conflict
Betwixt the duties of the king and man ?
Set virtue against virtue ? But, hold, my souL
Thy steady purpose; toss'd by various pasBiona
To this eternal anchor keep: there is,
Can be no pnblio without private virtue.
Then, mark me well, observe what I command;
To-morrow, when the Benate meets again,
Unfold the whole; unravel the deceit:
Start not, my lord; this must and shall be done.
Or hereour friendship endB. Howe'er disguis'd,
Whatever thy pretence, thou art a traitor.
Sif. I should, indeed, deserve the name of
traitor,
726
TANCUED AND
SIGISMUNDA.
And ev'n a traitor's fate, had I bo slightly,
Groin principles so weak, done what 1 did,
As e'er to disavow it.
Tan. Ha!
Sif. My liege,
Expect not this : though practis'd long in courts,
I have not so far learn'd their subtle trade,
To veer obedient with each gust of passion.
I honour thee, I venerate thy orders,
But honour more my duty. Nought on earth
Shall ever shake me from that solid rock,
Nor smiles, nor frowns
Tan. Youwillnot, then?
Sif. I cannot.
Tan. Away ! begone ! Oh 1 my Rodolpho, come,
And save me from this traitor, Hence, I say !
No reply! Away! [Exit Siffredi.
Re-enter RODOLPHO.
Rod. What can incense my prince so highly
Against his friend Siffredi?
Tan. Friend, Rodolpho
When I have told thee what this friend has
done,
How play'd me like a boy, a base-born wretch,
Who had nor heart nor spirit, thou wilt stand
Amaz'd, and wonder at my stupid patience.
Rod. N othing so mean
As weak, insulted power, that dares not punish.
And how would that have suited with your love;
His daughter present, too ? Trust me, your con¬
duct,
Howe'er abhorrent to a heart like yours,
Was fortunate and wise. Not that I mean
E'er to advise submission —
Tan. Heavn's! submission!
Could I descend to bear it, ev'n in thought,
Despise me, you, the world, and Sigismunda;
SubmissBion! No! To-morrow's glorious light
Shall flash discovery on the scene of baseness.
Whatever be the risk, by heavn's 1 to-morrow
I will o'erturn the dirty, lie-built schemes
Of these old men, and shew my faithful senate
That Manfred's son knows to assert and wear,
With undiminish'd dignity, that crown
This unexpected day has placed upon him.
But this, my friend, these stormy gusts of pride
Are foreign to my lova Till Sigismunda
Be disabus'd, my breast is tumult all,
And can obey no settled course of reason.
I see her still, I feel her pow'rful image,
That look, where with reproach complaint was
mix'd.
Big with soft woe, and gentle indignation,
W hich seem'd at once to pity and to scorn me.
Oh. let me find her! I too long have left
My Sigismunda to converse with tears,
A prey to thoughts that picture me a villain.
But ah! how, clogg'd with this accursed state,
A tedious world, shall I now find access?
Iler father, too; ten thousand horrors crowd
Into the wild, fantastic eye of love;
W..0 knows what he may do? Come, then my
friend,
And by thy sister's hand, oh! let me steal
A letter to her bosom. I no longer
Can bear her absence, by the just contempt
She now must brand me with, inflam'd to mad¬
ness.
Fly, my Rodolpho, fly! engage thy sister
To aid my letter. And this very evening
Set ure an interview. I would not bear
This rack another day, not for my kingdom.
Till then, deep plung'd in solitude and shades,
I will not see the hated face of man.
Thought drives on thought, on passions passions
roll;
Her smiles alone can calm my raging soul.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE L—A Chamber.
SIGISMUNDA discovered.
Sig. Ah! tyrant prince 1 ah! more than faithless
Tancred!
Ungen'rous and inhuman in thy falsehood!
Hadst thou this morning, when my hopeless
heart,
Submissive to my fortune and my duty,
And so much spirit to be left, as to he willing
To give thee back thy vows; ah! hadst thou
then
Confess'd the sad necessity thy state
Impos'd upon thee, and with gentle friendship,
Since we must part at last, our parting soften'd;
I should, indeed— I should have been unhappy,
But not to this extreme.
Is there, kind heav'n, no constancy in man ?
No steadfast truth, no gen'rous, flx'd affection,
That can bear up against a selfish world ?
No, there is none; ev'n Tancred is inconstant 1
Hence, let me fly this scene! Whate'er I see,
These roofs, these walls, each object that surrounds
me,
Are tainted with his vows. But whither fly?
The groves are worse, the soft retreat of Bel¬
mont,
It's deep'ning glooms, gay lawns, and airy sum¬
mits,
Will wound my busy memory to tortmSe,
And all its shades will whisper—Faithless Tan¬
cred!
My father comes. How, sunk in this disorder,
Shall I sustain his presence ?
Enter SIFFREDL
Sif. Sigismunda,
My dearest child! I grieve to And thee thus
A prey to tears.
Awake to reason from this dream of love,
And shew the world thou art Siffredi's daughter.
Sig. Alas 1 I am unworthy of that name.
Sif. Thou art, indeed, to blame; thou hast too
rashly
Engag'd thy heart, without a father's sanction
But this I can forgive; and if thy heart
Will now resume its pride, assert itself,
And greatly rise superiur to this trial,
I to my warmest confide ce again
Will take thee, and esteem thee more my
daughter.
Sig. Oh, you are gentler far than I deserve.
It is, it ever was. my darling pride,
To bend my soul to your supreme commands,
Your wisest will; and though by love betruy'd,
(Alas! and puuish'd, too,) I have transgress'd
The nicest bounds of duty, yet I feel
A sentiment of tenderness, a source
Of filial nature springing in my breast,
That, should it kill me, shall control this passion,
And make me all submission and obedience
To you, my honour'd lord, the best of fathers.
TANCRED AND SIGTSMUNDA.
727
Sif. Come to my arms, thou comfort of my
age,
Thou only joy and hope of these grey hairs.
Come, let me take thee to a parent's heart;
There, with the kindly aid of my advice,
Ev'n with the dew of these paternal tears,
Revive and nourish this becoming spirit.
Then thou dost promise me, my higismunda—
Thy father stoops to make it his request—
Thou wilt resign thy fond, presumptuous hopes,
And henceforth never more indulge one thought
That in the light of love regards the king.
Sit/. Hopes I have none. Those by this fatal
day
Are blasted all. But from my soul to banish,
While weeping mem'ry there retains her seat,
Thoughts which the purest bosom might have che-
rish'd,
Once my delight, now ev'n in anguish charming,
Is more, my lord, than I can promise.
Sif. Absence and time, the soft'ner of our pas¬
sions.
Will conquer this. Meantime, I hope from thee
A great, a gen'rous effort, that thou wilt now
Exert thy utmost force, nor languish thus
Beneath the vain extravagance of love.
Let not thy father blush to hear it said,
His daughter was so weak e'er to admit
A thought so void of reason, that a king
Should to his rank, his honour, and his glory,
The high, important duties of a throne,
Ev'n to his throne itself, madly prefer
A wild, romantic passion, the fond child
Of youthful dreaming thought and vacant hours;
That he should quit his heav'n-appointed sta¬
tion,
Desert his awful charge, the care of alL
What! must for thee,
To make thee blest, Sicilia be unhappy ?
Rouse thee, for shame! and if a spark of virtue
Lies elumb'ring in thy soul, bid it blaze forth;
Nor sink unequal to the glorious lesson,
This day, thy lover gave thee frsm his throne.
Sig. Ah 1 that was not from virtue. Had, my
father,
That been his aim, T yield to what you say.
Why did you drag me to a sight so cruel ?
Sif. It was a scene to lire thy emulation.
Sig. It was a scene of perfidy! But know,
I wiil do more than imitate the king;
For he is false: I, though sincerely pierc'd
With the best, truest passion, ever touch'd
A virgin's breast, here vow to heav'n and you,
Though from my heart I cannot, from my copes
To cast this prince. What would you more, my
father f
Sif. Yes, one thing more; thy father then is
happy:
This worll from thee, my honour, and thy own.
Demands one step; a step, by which, convmc'd,
The king may see thy heart disdains to wear
A chain which his has greatly thrown aside.
But above all, thou must root out for ever
From the king's breast the least remain of hope,
And henceforth make his mentiou'd love dis¬
honour.
These things, my daughter, that must needB be
done,
Can but this way be done—by the safe refuge,
The sacred shelter of a husband's arms.
And there is one -
&g. Goodheav'ns! what means my lord? j
Sif. One of illustrious family, high rank,
Yet still of higher dignity and merit,
Who can and will protect thee; one to awe
The king himself—nay, hear me, Sigismunda—
The noble Osmond courts thee for his bride,
And has my plighted word. This day—
Sig. (Knee's.) My father!
Let me with trembling arms embrace thy knees.
Oh 1 if you ever wish to see me happy ;
If e'er in infant years I gave you joy,
When, as I prattling twin'd around your neck,
You snatch'd me to your bosom, kiss'd my eyes,
And melting said you saw my mother there;
Oh! save me from that worst severity
Of fate! Oh 1 outrage not my breaking heart
To that degree! I cannot—'tis impossible—
So soon withdraw it, give it to another—
Or I shall die; shall, by the sudden change,
Be to distraction shock'd. Let me wear out
My hapless days in solitude and silence,
Far from the malice of a prying world;
At least—you cannot, sure, refuse me this—
Give me a little time; I will do all,
All I can do to please you.
Sif. My daughter 1 you abuse
The softness of my nature—
Sig. Here, my father,
Till you relent, here will I grow for ever!
Sif. Rise, Sigismunda. Though you touch my
heart,
Nothing can shake the inexorable dictates
Of honour, duty, and determin'd reason.
Then by the holy ties of filial love,
Resolve, I charge thee, to receive Earl Osmond,
As suits the man who is thy father's choice,
And worthy of thy hand—I go to bring him—
Sig. Spare me, my dearest father 1
Sif. I must rush
From her soft grasp, or nature will betray me!
(Aside.)
Quit me, my child!
Sig. You cannot, oh, my father!
You cannot leave me thusl
Sif. Come hither, Laura,
Come to thy friend. Now show thyself a friend.
Combat her weakness, dissipate her tears,
Cherish, and reconcile her to her duty. [Exit.
Enter" LAURA.
Sig. Oh, woe on woe! distress'd by love and
duty!
Oh, every way unhappy Sigismunda 1
Lsw. Forgive me, madam, if I blame your grief.
How can you waste your tears on one so false ?
Unworthy of your tenderness; to whom
Nought but contempt is due, and indignation?
Sig. You know not half the horrors of my fate!
I might, perhaps, have learn'd to scorn his false¬
hood:
Nay, when the first sad burst of tears was past,
I might have rous'd my pride, and scorn'd him¬
self—
But, 'tis too much, this greatest, last misfortune—
Oh, whither shall I fly ? Where hide me, Laura,
From the dire scene my father now prepares ?
Lau, What thus alarms you, madam ?
Sig. Can it be ?
Can 1—ah, no !—at once give to another
My violated heart? in one wild moment!
He brings Earl Osmond to receive my vows.
Oh, dreadful change! for Tancred, haughty Os¬
mond
728 TANCRED AND
Lau Now. on my soul, 'tis what an outrag'd
heart
Like yours should wish! I should, by heav'na,
esteem it
Most exquisite revenge!
Sig. Revenge! on whom?
On my own heart, already, hut too wretched!
Lau. Oh him! This Tancredl who has basely
sold,
For the dull form of despicable grandeur,
Eisfaith! his love! At once a slave and tyrant!
Sig. Oh, rail at me, at my believing folly,
Mv vain, ill-founded hopes, but spare him, Laura.
'Lau. yfho raised these hopes? Who triumphs
o'er that weakness ?
Pardon the word. You greatly merit him ;
Better than him, with all his giddy pomp:
You raised him by your smiles when he was
nothing.
Where is your woman's pride, that guardian spirit
Giv'n us to dash the perfidy of man?
Ye pow'rs! I cannot bear the thought with pa¬
tience—
Before the public thus, before your father,
By an irrevocable, solemn deed,
With such inhuman scorn, to throw you from him:
To give his faithless hand, yet warm from thine,
With complicated meanness, to Constantia.
And to complete his crime, when thy weak limbs
Could scarce support thee, then, of thee regardless,
To lead her off!
Sig. That was indeed a sight
Topcison love; to turn it into rage
And keen contempt What means this stupid weak¬
ness
That hangs upon me ? Hence, unworthy tears ?
Disgrace my cheek no more! No more, my heart,
For one so coolly false or meanly fickle,
Dare to suggest
The least excuse! Yes, traitor, I will wring
Thy pride, will turn thy triumph to confusion.
Sicilia's daughters
Shall wond'ring see in me a great example
Of one who punished an ill-judging heart,
Who made it bow to what it most abhorr'd,
Crush'd it to misery, for having thus
So lightly listen'd to-a worthless lover.
Lau. At last it mounts, the kindling pride of
virtue;
Trust me, thy marriage will embitter his.
Sig. Oh, may the furies light his nuptial torch!
Be it accurs'd as mine! For the fair peace,
The tender joys of hymeneal love,
May jealousy awak'd, and fell remorse,
Pour all their fiercest venom through their breast I
Where the fates lead, and blind revenge, I follow—
Let me not think.—By injured love, I vow,
Thou shalt, base prince! perfidious and inhuman I
Thou shait behold me in another's arms;
In his thou hatest, Osmond's,
Lau. Ay, that will sting
Bis soul to madness.
Your cooler thought besides will of the ehange
Approve, and think it happy.
Sig. Talk not of Osmond, but perfidious Tancred!
Kail at him, rail; invent new names of scorn.
Assist me, Laura, lend myhage fresh fuel;
Support my stagg'ring purpose, which already
Begins to fail me.—Ah, my vaunts, how vain!
How have I lied to my own heart. Alas,
My tears return, the mighty flood o'erwhelms
SIGISMT7NDA.
Lau. It tby own peace and honour cannot seep
Thy resolution fix'd, yet, Sigismunda,
Oh, think how deeply, how beyond retreat,
Thy father is engag'd.
Sig. Ah wretched weakness I
That thus enthrals my soul;
And have I then no tears for thee, my fatner?
Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years,
Thy tenderness for me ? Shall I for these
Repay thy stooping, venerable age,
With shame, disquiet, anguish, and dishonour ?
It must not be—Tnou first of angels, come,
Sweet filial piety, and firm my breast
Yes, let one daughter to her fate submit;
Be nobly wretched; but her father happy.
Laura,—they come. Oh, heav'ns, I cannot stand
The horrid trial! Open, open, earth,
And hide me from their view.
Lau. Madam.
Re-enter SIFFREDI and OSMOND
Sif. My daughter,
Behold my noble friend who courts thy hand.
And whom to call my son I shall be proud.
Osm. Think not I presume,
Madam, on this, yonr father's kind consent
To make me blest Hove you from a heart
That seeks your good superior to my own;
And will by ev'ry art of tender friendship,
ConBultyour dearest welfare. May I hepe,
Yours does not disavow your father's choice ?
Sig. I am a daughter, sir, and have no pow'r
O'er my own heart-I die—Support me, Laura.
(Fa inh j
Sif. Help. Bear her off. She breathes, my
daughter I
Sig. Oh!
Forgive my weakness, soft, my Laura, lead me—
To my apartment. [Exeui.t Sig. and Lau,
Sif. Pardon me, my lord,
If by this sudden accident alarm'd,
I leave you for a moment [Exit.
Osm. Let me think;
What can this mean ? Is it to me aversion?
Or is it as I fear'd, she loves another ?
Ah! yes; perhaps the kiDg, the young Coud!
Tancred,
They were bred up together. Surely that.
That cannot be. Has he not giv'n his hand
In the most solemn manner, to Constantia?
Does not his crown depend upon the deed?
What is it then ? I care not what it be.
My honour now, my dignity demands,
That my propos'd alliance, by her father,
And ev'n herself accepted, be not scorn'd.
I love her, too. I never knew till now
To what a pitch I love hen. Oh, she shot
Ijen thousand charms into my inmost soul.
She loolt'd bo mild, so amiably gentle,
She bow'd her head, she glow'd with such confu¬
sion,
Such loveliness of modesty. She is,
In gracious mind, in manners, and in person,
The perfect model of all female beauty!
She must be mine. She is. If yet her heart
Consents not to my happiness, her duty,
Join'd to my tender cares, will gain so much
Upon her gen'rous nature. That will follow.
The man of tense, who acts a prudent part,
Not fiaU'rinq steals, but forms himself the heart.
[Exit.
TANORED AND SIGISMUNDA.
ACT IV.
SCENE L—The Garden belonging to Siffredi's house.
Litter SIGISMUNDA and LAURA. Sigismunda
with a Utter in her hand.
Sig. 'Tia done I—I am a Blave! Tlie fatal vow
lias pass'd my lips 1 Me thought in those sad mo¬
ments,
The tombs around, the saints, the darken'd altar,
And all the trembling shrineB with horror shook.
But here is still new matter of distress.
Oh, Tanered, cease to persecute me morel
'ill, grudge me not some calmer state of woe;
Some quiet gloom to shade my hopeless days,
Where : may never hear of love and thee!
H is Laura, too, conspir d against my peace ?
Why did you take this letter? Bear it buck—
I will not court new pain.
(Gives her the Utter.)
Liv. Madam, Bodolpho
Urg'd me so much, nay, ev'n with tears conjur'd
me,
But this once more to serve the unhappy king —
For such he said he was that though enrag'd,
Equal with thee, at his inhuman falsehood,
I could not to my brother's fervent pray'r
Reiuse this office—Head it—His excuses
Will only more expose his falsehood.
Sig. No:
It suits not Osmond's wife to read one line
From i hat contagious hand—she knows too well!
Lau. He paints him ont distieas'd beyond ex¬
pression,
Ev'n cm the point of madnesB.
He dies to see you, and to clear his faith.
Sig, Save me from that! That would be worse
than all!
Lau. I but report my brother's words; who
then
Began to talk of some dark imposition
That had deeeiv'd us all; when interrupted,
We heard your father and Earr Osmond near,
As summon'd to (Jonstantia's court they went
Sig. Ha! imposition ? Well, if I am doom'd
To be, o'er all my sex, the wretch of love,
In vain I would resist—Give me the letter-
To know the worst is some relief—Alas!
It waB not thus, with such dire palpi ations,
That Tanered, once I us'd to read thy letters.
(Attempts to read the Utter, but gives it to Laura.)
Ah, fond remembrance blinds me! Head it,
Laura.
Lau. (Reads.) "Deliver me, Sigismunda, from that
most exquisite misery which a faithful heart can suffer
—o be thought base by her, from whose esteem even
virtue borrows new charms. When 1 submitted to my
cruel situation, it was not falseho d you beheld, but an
excess oflo e. Rather than etulanger that, I for awhile
gace up my honour. Every rnoii.ent till J see you, stabs
me with severer pangs than real guilt Its-If can feel.
Let me then conjure yens to meet me in the garden, to¬
wards the close of the day, when 1 shall explain the
mystery. We have been most inhumanly abused: and
that by means of the very paper which 1 gave you,
Tiom the warmest sincerity of love, to ensure you the
heart and hand of
"Takcred."
Sig. There, Laura, there, the dreadful secret
sprung 1
That paper! ah, that paper 1 it suggests
A thousand other thoughts—1 to ruy father
729
Gave it 1 and he perhaps—I dare not cast
A look that way—If yet indeed you love me,
Oh, blast me not, kind Tanered, with the trurh!
Oh, p tying keep me ignorant for ever.
What strange, peculiar misery iB mine!
Reduc'd to wish the man I love were falsel
Lau. Madam,
Behold he comes—the king—
Sig. Heav'ns I how escape ?
No—I will stay—This one last meeting—Leave
me. [Exit Laura.
Enter TANCRED
Tan. And are these long, long hours of torture
past?
My life I my Sigismunda!
(Throws himself at her fe t.)
Sig. Rise, my lord.
To see my sov'reign thus no more becomes me.
Tan. Oh, let me kiss the ground on which you
tread!
Let me exhale my soul in softest transport!
Since I again behold my Sigismunda 1
(Rises.)
Unkind! how couldst thou ever deem me false ?
How thus dishonour love ? After the vows,
The fervent truth, the tender protestations,
Which mine has often pour'd, to let thy breast,
Whate'er th' appearance was, admit suspicion ?
Sig. How 1 when I heard myself your full con¬
sent
To the late king's so just and prudent will?
Heard it before you read in solemn senate ?
When I beheld you give your royal hand,
To her, whose birth and dignity of right
Demands that high alliance ? Yes, my lord,
You have done well The man wnom heav'n ap¬
points
To govern others, should himself first learn
To bend his passions to the sway of reason.
In all, you have done well; but when you bid
My humbled hopes look up to you again,
And sooth'd with wanton cruelty, my weakness—
That too was well- My vanity deserv'd
The sharp rebuke.
Tan. Chide on, chide on. Thy soft reproaches
now,
Instead of wounding, only sooth my fondness.
No, no, thou charming consort of my soull
I never lov'd thee witn such faithful ardour,
As in that cruel, miserable moment
You thought me false.
It was thy barb'rous father, Sigismunda,
Who caught me in the toil. He turn'd that paper,
Meant for the assuring bond of nuptial love,
To ruin it for ever; he, he wrote
That forg'd consent, you heard, beneath my
name,
Had he not been thy father—hat my love!
You tremble, you grow pale!
Sig. Oh, leave me, Tanered!
Tan. No!—Leave thee!—Never! never till yon
set
My heart at peace, till these dear lips again
Pronounce thee mine! Without thee, I renounce
Myself, my friends, the world — Here on this
hand—
Sig. My lord, forget that hand, which never
now
Can be to thee united—
Tan. Sigismunda !
What dost thou meauf
730
TANCRED
Sig. Inquire no more—I never can be thine.
Tan. What, who 6hall interpose? Who dares
attempt
To brave the fury of an injur'd king,
Who, ere he sees thee ravish'd from his hopes,
Will wrap all blazing Sicily in flames?
Sig. In vain your pow'r, my lord — 'Tis fatal
error,
Join'd to my father's unrelenting will,
Has plac'd an everlasting bar betwixt us—
1 am—Earl Osmond's—wife.
Tan. Earl Osmond's wife!
(After a long pause, during which they look
at one another with the highest agitation,
and most tender distress A
Heav'ns! did I hear thee right? What! marry'd?
marry'd!
Lost to thy faithful Tancred ? lost for ever!
Couldst thou then doom me to such matchless
woe,
Without so much as hearing me? Distraction 1
Alasl what hast thou done ? Ah, Sigismundal
Thy rash credulity has done a deed.
Which, of two happiest lovers that e'er felt
The blisful pow'r, has made two flnish'd wretches!
But — madness! — Sure thou know'st it can¬
not be!
This hand is mine! a thousand vows—
Enter OSMOND.
Osm. (Snatches her hand from, the Icing.) Madam,
this hand, by the most solemn rites,
A little hour ago, was giv'n to me,
And did not sov'reign honour now command me,
Never but with my life to quit my claim,
1 would renounce it - thus!
Tan. Ha, who art thou?
Presumptuous man!
Sig. (Aside.) Where is my father? Heav'ns!
[Exit.
Osm. One thou shouldst better know—Yes—view
me, one
Who can and will maintain his rights and honour,
Against a faithless prince, an upstart king,
Whose first base deed is what a harden'd tyrant
Would blush to act.
Tan. Insolent Osmond! know,
This upstart king will hurl confusion on thee,
And all who shall invade his sacred rights,
Prior to thine—thine, founded on compulsion,
On infamous deceit!—I will annul,
By the high pow'r with which the laws invest me,
Those guilty forms in which they have entrapp'd,
My queen betroth'd, who has my heart, my hand,
And.shall partake my throne - if, haughty lord,
If this thou didst not know, then know it now;
And know, besides, as I have told thee this,
Shouldst thou but think to urge thy treason fur¬
ther—
Thy life shall answer for it
Osm. Ha! my life!—
It moves my scorn to hear thy empty threats.
When was it that a Norman baron's life
Became so vile, as on the frown of kings
To bantr? Of that, my lord, the law must judge;
Or, if the law be weak, my guardian sword—
Tan. Dare not to touch it, traitor, lest my rage
Break loose, and do a deed that misbecomes me.
Enter SIFFBEDr.
Sif. My gracious lord, what is it I behold ?
My Bov'reign in contention with his subject f
Surely this house deserves from royal Tancred
A little more regard, than to be made
A scene of trouble, and unseemly jars.
Heavens 1 can your highness
From your exalted character descend,
Unkindly thus disturb the sweet reposo,
The secret peace of families, for which
Alone the free-born race of man to laws
And government submitted?
Tan. My lord Siffredi,
Spare thy rebuke. The duties of my station
Are not to me unknown. But thou, old man,
Dost thou not blush to talk of rights invaded;
And of our best our dearest bliss disturb'd ?
Thou, who with more than barbarous perildy
Hast trampled all allegiance, justice, truth,
Humanity Itself, beneath thy feet?
Thou know'st thou hast—I could, to thy confusion,
Return thy hard reproaches; but I spare tbee
Before this lord, for whose ill-sorted friendship
Thou hast most basely saeriflc'd thy daughter.
Farewell, my lord. For thee, lord constable,
Who dost presume to lift thy surly eye
To my soft love, my gentle Sigismunda,
I once again command thee on thy life—
Yes, chew thy rage, but mark me, on thy life,
No further urge thy arrogant pretensions 1
[Exit.
Osm. Hal Arrogant pretensions 1 Heaven and
earth 1
What! arrogant pretensions to my wife ?
My wedded wife! Where are we ? in a land
Of civil rule, of liberty and laws ?
Not, on my life, pursue them ? Giddy ptince!
My life disdains thy nod. It is the gift
Of parent heaven, who gave me to an arm,
A spirit to defend it against tyrants.
Mine is a common cause. My arm shall guard,
Mix'd with my own, the rights of each Sicilian;
Ere to thy tyrant rage they fall a prey,
I shall find means to shake thy tottering throne,
And crush thee in the ruins 1
Constant!a is my queen I
Sif. Lord constable,
Let us be stedfast in the right; bnt let us
Act with cool prudence, and with manly temper,
As well as manly flrmnesB. Remember that my
house
Protects my daughter still; and ere I saw her
Thus ravish'd from us by the arm of power,
This hand should act the Roman father's part.
Fear not: be temperate; all will yet be weiL
I know the kingt Trust me, to reason
He will return.
Osm. He will! By heavens, he shall!
You know the king—I wish, my Lord Siffredi,
That you had deigu'd to tell me all you knew—
And would you have me wait, with duteous pa¬
tience,
Till he return to reason? Ye juBt powers!
When he has planted on our necks his foot,
And trod us into slaves; when bis vain pride
Is cloy'd with our submission.
No, no, my lord; there is a nobler way,
To teach the blind oppressive fury reason:
Oft has the lustre of avenging steel
Unseal'dtha stupid eyes—The sword is reason!
Enter RODOLPHO, with Guards.
Rod. My lord high constable of Sicily.
In the king's name, and by hie special order,
I here arrest you prisoner of state.
TANCRE© Am
Otm. What king ? I know no king of Sicily.
Unless he be the husband of Constantia.
Hod. Then know him now—behold his royal
orders
To bear you to the castle of Palermo.
Sif. Let the big torrent foam its madness off.
Submit, my lord—No castle long can hold
Our wrongs. This, more than friendship or alli¬
ance,
Confirms me thine; this binds me to thy fortunes,
By the strong tie of common injury,
Which nothing can dissolve. I grieve, Rodolpho,
To see the reign in such unhappy sort
Begin.
Osm. The reign! the usurpation call itl
This meteor king may blaze awhile, but soon
Must spend his idle terrors—sir, lead on—
Farewell, my lord—more than my life and for¬
tune,
Remember well, is in your hands—my honour 1
Si/. Our honour is the same. My son, farewell—
We shall not long be parted. On these eyes
Sleep shall not shed his balm, till I behold thee
Bistor'd to freedom, or pffctake thy bonds.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—A Chamber.
Enter 3IFFREDL
Si/. The prospect lowers around. I found the
king,
Though calhi'd a little, with subsiding tempest,
As suits his generous nature, yet in love
Abated nought, most ardent in his purpose;
Inexorably fix'd, whate'er the risk,
To claim my daughter, and dissolve this mar¬
riage—
I have embark'd, upon a perilous sea,
A mighty treasure.
Bear witness, heaven I thou mind-inspecting eye 1
My breast is pure. I have prefer'd my duty,
The good and safety of my fellow-subjects,
To all those views that fire the selfish race
Of mortal men, and mix them in eternal broils.
Enter an Officer belonging to Siffredi.
Offi. My lord, a man of noble port, his face
Wrapt in disguise, is earnest for admission.
Sif. Go, bid him enter—
[Exit Officer.
Ha, wrap'd in disguise 1
And at this late unseasonable hour I
Whocau it be?
Enter OSMOND, discovering himself.
Sif. Earl Osmond? Welcome, once more,
To this glad roof. But why in this disguise ?
Would I could hope the king exceeds his promise !
I have his faith, soon as to-morrow's sun
tshall gild Sieilia's cliffs, you shall be free—
Has some good angel turn'd his heart to jus¬
tice ?
Osm, It is not by the favour of Count Tan-
cred
That I am here. As much I scorn his favour,
As I defy his tyranny and threats—
Our friend Goffredo, who commands the castle,
On ray parole, ere dawn to render back
My person, has permitted me this freedom.
Know then, the faithless outrage of to-day
By him committed waom you call the king,
SIGISMUNDA. 731
Has rons'd Constantia's court. Our friendB, the
friends
Of virtue, justice, and of public faith,
Kipe, for revolt, are in high ferment all.
I thence of you, as guardian of the laws,
As guardian of this will, to you entrusted,
Desire, nay more, demand your instant aid,
To see it put in vig'rous execution.
Si/. You cannot doubt, my lord, of my concur¬
rence.
Who, more than I, have labour'd this great
point ?
'Tis my own plan; and if I drop it now,
I should be justly branded with the shame
Of rash advice, or despicable weakness.
But lot us not precipitate the matter.
Constantia's friends are numerous and strong;
Yet Tancred's, trust me, are of equal force:
E'er since the secret of his birth was known
The people all are in a tumult hurl'd,
Of boundless joy. Oh 1 if our prattling virtue
Dwells not in words alone—Oh, let us join,
My generous Osmond, to avert these woes,
And yet sustain our tott'ring Norman kingdom!
Osm. But how, Siffredi, how ? If by soft
means
We can maintain our rights, and save our coun^
try,
May his unnatural blood first stain the sword,
Who with unpitying fury first shall draw it!
Si/. I have a thought—The glorious work be
thine.
Suppose my daughter, to her God devoted,
Were plac'd within some convent's sacred verge,
Beneath the dread protection of the altar—
Osm. Ere then, by heavens 1 I would
Turn whining monk myself,
And pray incessant for the tyrant^) safety.
What 1 how 1 because an insolent invader,
A sacrilegious tyrant, demands my wife;
What! shall I tamely yield her up,
Even in the manner you propose? Oh, then
I were supremely vile! degraded! sham'd!
The scorn of manhood! and abhorr'd of honour 1
Si/. There is, my lord, an honour, the calm
child
Of reason, of humanity, and mercy,
Superior far to this punctilious demon.
That singly minds itself, and oft embroils
With proud barbarian niceties the world.
Osm. My lord, my lord, I cannot brook your pru¬
dence;
It holds a pulse unequal to my blood—
Unblemish'd honour is the flower of viriue!
The verifying soul! and he who slights it,
Will leave the other dull and lifeless dross.
Si/. No more, you are too warm.
Osm. You are too cool.
Si/. Too cool, my lord ? I were indeed tot»
cool,
Not to resent this language, and to tell thee—
I wish Earl Osmond were as cool as I
To his own selfish bliss—ay, and as warm
To that of others—But of this no more—
My daughter is thy wife—I gave her to thee.
And will against all force, maintain her thine.
But think not I will catch thy headlong passions,
Whirl'd in a blaze of madness o'er the land;
Or, till the last extremity compell'd me,
Bisk the dire means of war—The king, to-mor¬
row,
Will set you free; and, if by gentle means
739
fANCRED AITTT
SIGISMUNDA
tie does not yield my daughter to your arms,
And wed Constantia, as the will requires,
Why then expect me on the side of justice—
Let that suffice.
Osm. It does—Forgive my heat,
My rankled mind, by injuries inBam'd,
May be too prompt to take and give offence.
Si/. 'Tis past. Your wrongs, I own, may well
transport
The wisest mind. But henceforth, noble Osmond,
Do me more justice, honour more my truth,
Nor mark me with an eye of squint suspicion—
Beturn, my son, and from your friend Goffredo
Belease your word. There try, by soft repose,
To calm your breast.
Osm. Bid the vex'd ocean sleep,
Swept by the pinions of the raging north—
But your frail age, by care and toil exhausted,
Demands the balm of all repairing rest.
Si/. Soon as to-morrow's dawn shall streak the
skies,
J, with my friends in Bolemn state assembled,
Will to the palace, and demand your freedom.
Then by calm reason, or by higher means,
The king shall quit his claim, and in the face
Of Sicily, my daughter shall be yours.
Farewell.
Osm. My lord, good night.
[Exit Sig.
(.4fter a long pause.) I like him not—
Yes, I have mighty matter of suspicion.
My honour is not sale, while here my wife
Bemains. Who knows but he this very night
May bear her to some convent, as he mention'd.
The king, too, though I smother'd up my rage,
I mark'd it well—will set me free to-morrow.
Why not to night ? He has some dark design-
By heav'ns he hgs! I'm abus'd most grossly;
Made the vile tool of this old statesman's schemes;
I will not wait his crawling timid motions,
1 will convince him that Earl Osmond never
Was form'd to be his dupe - I will bear her off
This night, and lodge her in a place of safety:
I have a trusty band that waits not far,
Hence, let me lose no time. One rapid moment
Should ardent form, at once, ana execute
A bold design.— Tis flx'd.—The mine is laid,
And only wants my kindling torch to spring.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—Sigismunda's Apartment.
Thunder. SIGISMUNDA and LAURA discovered.
Lou. Heavens! 'tis a fearful night
Pig. Ah ! the black rage
Of midnight tempest, or 'th assuring smiles
Of radiant morn, are equal all to me.
Nought now has charms or terror to my breast
The seat of stupid woe! Leave me, my Laura.
Kind rest, perhaps, may hush my woes a little.
Oh, for that quiet sleep that knows no morning 1
Lau. Madam, indeed 1 know not how to go.
Indulge my fondness - Let me watch awhile
By your sad bed, 'till these dread hours shall
paBs.
Sig. Alas, what is the toil of elements,
[Thunder.)
This idle perturbation of the sky,
To what I feel within ? Oh, that the flres
Of pity ng heaven would point their fury here!
Good night, my deare&t Laura.
Lau. Oh, I know set
What this oppression means. But 'tis with pain,
With tears, I can persuade myself to leave
you—
Well then—Good night, my dearest Sigismunda^
[Exit
Sig. And am I then alone? The most undone,
Most wretched being now beneath the cope
Of this affrighting gloom that wraps the world.—
I said I did not fear—Ah, me, I feel
A sliiv'ring horror run through all my powers!
Oh, I am nought bat tumult^ fears, and weak¬
ness!
And yet how idle fear, when hope is gone.
Gone, gone for everl Oh, thou gentle scene
(Looking towards her bed.)
Of sweet repose, where, by the oblivious draught
Of each sad toilsome day, to peace restor'd,
Unhappy mortals lose their woes awhile,
Thou hast no peace for me. What shall I do?
How pass this dreadful night, so big with terror?
Here with the midnight shade, here will I sit,
(Sitting down.)
A prey to dire despair, ^id ceaseless weep
The hours away—Bless me—I heard a noise—
(Starting up.)
No, I mistook; nothing but silence reigns,
And awful midnight round. Again 1 Oh, heav'r.s!
My lord the king 1
Enter TANCRED.
Tan. Be not alarm'd, my love!
Sig. My royal lord, why, at this midnight hour-
How came you hither ? •
Tan. By that secret way
My love contriv'd, when we, In happier days,
Us'd to devote these hours, so much in vain,
To vows of love, and everlasting friendship.
Sig. Why will you thus persist to add new
stings
To her distress, who never can be thine ?
Oh, fly me! fly I you know—
Tan. I know too much.
Oh, how I could reproach thee, Sigismunda!
Four out my injur'd soul in just complaints!
But now the time permits not; these swift mo¬
ments—
I told thee how thy father's artifice
Forc'd me to seem perfidious in thy eyes.
Ever since - a dreadful interval of care!
My thoughts have been employ'd, not without
hope.
How to defeat Siffredi's barb'rous purpose.
But thy credulity has ruin'd all,
Thy rash, thy wild—I know not what to name it—
Oh, !t has prov'd the giddy hopes of man
To be delusion all, and sick'ning folly!
Sig. Ah, gen'rous Tancred; ah, thy truth de¬
stroys mel
Yes, yes, 'tis I, 'tis I alone am false 1
My hasty rage, join'd to my tame submission,
More than the most exalted filial doty
Could e'er demand, has dash'd oar cup of fate
With bitterness unequal'd. Bat, alas!
What are thy woes to mine!—to mine! just
heaven!
Now is thy turn of vengeance—hate, renounce
me!
Oh, leave me to the fate 1 well deserve,
To sink in hopeless misery! At least,
Try to forget the worthless Sigismunda!
Tan. Forget thee! No! Thou art my soulitself t
I have no thought, no hope, no wish but thee 1
TANCRED AND SIGISMUNDA.
Ah, how forget thee! Much mnst-be forgot,
Ere Tailored can forget his Sigismunda!
Sit/. But you, my lord, must make that great
effort.
Tan. Can Sigismunda make it?
Sir/. Ah, I know not
With what success—But all that feeble woman
And love-entangl'd reason can perform,
I to the utmost will exert to it.
Tan. Oh, barbarous Sigismunda!
And canst thou talk thus steadily; thus treat me
With such unpitying, unrelenting rigour?
Poor is the love, that rather than give up
A little pride, a little formal pride,
The breath of vanity can bear to see
The man, whose heart was once so dear to thine,
By many a tender vow so mix'd together,
A prey to anguish, fury, and distraction !
Thou canst net surely make me such a wretch,
Thou canst not, Sigismunda I Yet relent.
Oh, save us yet! ltodolpho, with my guards,
Waits in the garden—Let us seize the moments
We ne'er may have again. With more thanpower
1 will assert thee mine, with fairest honour.
The world Bhall ev'n approve; each honest bosom
Swell'd with a kindred joy to see us happy.
Sig. The world approve 1 what is the world to
me?
The conscious mind is its awn awful world—
And mine is flx'd—Distress me, then, no more;
Not all the heart can plead (and ii alasl
Pleads too much)
Shall ever shake th' unalterable dictates
That tyrannize my breast
Tan, 'Tis well—no more:
I yield to my fate. Yes, yes, inhuman!
Since thy barbarian heart is steel'd by pride,
Shut up to love and pity, here behold me
Cast on the ground, a vile and abj'ect wretch!
Lost to all cares, all dignities, all duties !
Here will I grow, breathe out my faithful soul,
Here at thy feet Death, death alone shall part
us!
Sig. Have you then vow'd to drive *me to
perdition ?
What can I more ? Yes, Tancred! once again
I will forget the dignity my station
Commands me to sustain; for the last time
Will tell thee, that, I fear no ties, no duty.
Can ever root thee from my hapless bosom,
Ob, leave me! fly me 1 were it but in pity I
To see what once we tenderly have loved.
Cut off from every hope—cut off for ever!
Is pain tby generosity should spare me,
Then rise, my lord; and if you truly love me,
If you respect my honour, nay, my peace,
.Retire! for though th' emotions of my heart
Can ne'er alarm my virtue ; yet, alas!
They tear it so, they pierce it with such anguish.
Oh, 'tis too much! I cannot bear the conflict.
Enter OSMOND.
Osm. Turn, tyrant, turn! and answer to my
honour,
For this thy base insufferable outrage!
Tan. Insolent traitor! Think not to escape
Thyself my vengeance!
(Th^tt fight, Osm. falls.)
Sig. Help, here,help! Oh, heavens!
{Throwing her elf down by him.)
A^as, my lord, what meant your headlong rage ?
That fainb, which 1 this day upon the altar,
733
To you devoted, is nnblemish'd, pure
As vestal truth; was resolutely yours,
Beyond the power of aught on earth to Bhake it
Osm. Perlidious woman 1 die! .(Shortening hit
sword, he plunges it into her breast.) and
to the grave
Attend a husband, yet but half aveng'dl
Tan. Oh, horror 1 horror! execrable villain!
Osm. And, tyrant 1 thou!—thou shalt not o'er my
tomb
Exult—'Tis well—'Tis great 1—I die contentl
CDiesJ
Enter RODOLPHO and LAURA.
Tan. (Throwing himself down by Sig.) Quick!
here! bring aid! Ah, that gentle bosom
Pours fast the streams of life.
Sig. All aid is vain,
I feel the powerful hand of death upon me—
But, oh! it sheds a sweetness through my fate
That I am thine again; and without blamo
May in my Tancred's arms resign my soul!
Tan. Oh, death is in that voice so gently mild,
So sadly sweet, as mixes even with mine
The tears of hovering angels 1 Mine again!
And is it thus the cruel fates have j'oin'd us?
Are these the horrid nuptials they prepare
For love like ours? Yes, death shall soon unite
us.
Sig- Live, live, my Tancred! Let my death
suffice
To expiate all that may have been amiss.
1 May it appease the fates, avert their fury
From thy propitious reign I
Enter SIFFREDI, fixed in astonishment and grief.
My father! Oh, how shall I lift my eyes
To thee, my sinking father ?
Sif. Awful heaven!
I am chastis'd—My dearest child t
Sig. Where am I ?
A fearful darkness closes all around—
My friends. We needs must part—I must obey
lh' impetuous call. Farewell, my Laura.
Oh, my dear father, bow'd beneath the weight
Of age and grief—the victim even of virtue,
Receive my last adieu! Where art thou, Tan¬
cred?
Give me thy hand—But, ah—it cannot save me
From the dire king of terrors, whose cold pow'r
Creeps o'er my heart—Oh!
Tan. How these pangs distract me 1
Oh, lift thy gracious eyes;—Thou leav'st me
then I
Thou leav'st me, Sigismunda.
Sig. Yes, but thy love and tenderness for me,
Sure make it needless.—Harbour no resentment
Against my father, venerate his zeal,
That acted from a principle of goodness,
From faithful love to thee. Live and maintain
My innocence embalm'd with holiest care—
Preserve my spotless memory! Oh—I die—
Eternal Mercy take my trembling soul!
Oh, 'tis the only sting of death to part
From those we love — from thee—farewell, my
Tancred.
(.Dies.)
Tan. Thus then!
(Flirs to his sword, is held by Rcxlolpho.)
Rod. Hold, hold, my lord! Have you forgot
Your Sigismunda's last request already ?
734 TANCRED AND
Tan, Off, set me free! Think not to bind me
down,
With barb'rous friendship, to the rack of life.
What hand can shut the thousand thousand gates
Which death still opens to the woes of mortals't
I shall find means. No pow'r In earth or heav'n
Can force me to endure the hateful light,
Thus robb'd of all that lent it joy and sweetness.
Off, traitors, off! or my distracted soul
Will burst indignant from the gaol of nature,
To where she beckons yonder. No, mild seraph,
Point not to life—1 cannot linger here,
Cut off from thee, the miserable pity,
The scorn of humankind. A trampled king!
Who let his mean, poor-hearted love, one mo¬
ment,
To coward prudence stoop! who made it not
The first undoubting action of his reign,
To snatch thee to his throne, and there to shield
Thy helpless bosom from a ruffian's fury.
Oh, shame 1 Oh, agony 1 Oh, the fell stings
Of late, of vain repentance. Ha, my brain
Is all on fire, a wild abyss of thought!
Th' infernal world discloses 1 See! Behold him!
Lo! with fierce smiles he shakes the bloody steel.
And mocks my feeble tears. Hence, quickly
hence!
Spurn his vile carcass! g ve it to the dogs!
Expose it to the winds and screaming ravens!
SIGISMTJNDA.
Or hurl it down that fiery steep to hell,
There with his soul to toss in fiaxnes for ever.
Ah, impotence of rage I
Rod. Preserve him, heaven!
Tan. What am I ? Where 1
Sad, silent, all ? The forms of dumb despair,
Around some mournful tomb. What do I see ?
This soft abode of innocence and love
Turn'd to the house of death! a place of horror!
Ah, that poor eorse, pale, pale; deform'd with
murder!
Is that my Sigismunda ?
(Throw himself down by her.)
Sif. (After a pathetic pause, looking on the scene be¬
fore him.) Have I liv'd
To these enfeebled years, by heav'n reserv'd
To be a dreadful monument of justice ?
Taught hence, ye parents, who from nature
stray,
And the great ties of social life betray;
Ne'er with your children act a tyrant's part;
'Tis yours to guide, not violate the heart.
Ye vainly wise, who o'er mankind preside.
Behold my righteous woes, and drop your
pride;
Keep virtue's simple path before your eyes,
Nor think from evil good can ever rise.
[Exeunt.
JOHN HULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE
A COMEPY, IN THREE ACTS.-BY GEORGE COMAN. '
/Vs.—Dbjist, young man, in time."—Act ii, scene 2.
PRKEGRINTS.
sl'l smw itochpaik.
FlUKK
W
Leha Fr,y-Ui.'AAM.
IIo»oirsAB« l\«n Jncriut'iOy.
ACT I.
^fosans gepresenkb.
Joe Thornbeiiry.
John Bur.
Dennis Brulgruddery.
Dan.
MR. Pennvman.
John.
Seme.—Cornwall.
Robert.
Simon
Lady Caroline Braymore.
Mrs. BRulgri:oi>r.ky.
Mar* Thornheru*
SCENE L—A Public House on a Heath—over the
door the sign of "The Red Goto," and the name of
" Dennis Brulgruddcry "—a Jingo-post.
Enter DENNIS BRTTLGU UDDERY and DAN,/rom
the house—DAN opens the outirard shutters of the
house.
Dermis. A pretty bluatratious night we have had;
and the Bun peeps thro' tho fog this morning, like
the copper pot in my kitchen. Devil a traveller do
I see coming oo the lied Cow.
Dan. No, master; nowt do pass by here, I do
think, but the carrion crovvs.l
Demts. Dan; think you I will be ruined ?
Dan. Eos, past all condemption. We be the un-
tkmtstest family in all Cornwall. Your ale he as
dead as my grandmother; mistress do set by the
Are and sputter like an apple a-roasting; thejvgs
ha' gotten the measlss: I he grown thinner titan an
old sixpence; and thee hast drunk up aii the upinuy
liquors.
I Dennis. By my soul. I believe my setting up 'to
"Red Cow," a week ago, was a bit of a Jbull!— but
I that's no odds. Haven't I been married these
, three months? and who did 1 marry ?
Dan. Why, a waddling woman, tvi'a mulbjrr/
I feace.
! Dennis. Have done with vow blarney. Mister
; Dan. Think of the high blood in her Teins, you
. bogtrotter!
Dan. Ees, I always do, whon I do k>ok at her
nose.
I Dennis. Never you mind, Mrs. Brnlgruddoiy'a
| nose. Wasn't she fat widow to Mr. Skiucygauge,
: the lean exciseman of Lestwithiel? and didn't her
uncle, who is Qfteenth cousin to a Cornish baronet,
»av he'd leave her no money, if he ever happeued
, to have any because she had disgraced her pa.
Wo. 34.—Dicks' British Drams.
73d JOHN BULL: OB, THE 1
rrDtago by marrying herself to a taimn ? Batber-
rham, man, and don't you think he'll help us out of
the mud, now her second husband U an Irioli
gintli-man, bred and born.
Dan. (Laughing.) He, hel Thee be'st a rum
gentleman.
Dennis. Troth, and myself, Mr. Dennis Brul¬
gruddery, was brought up to the church.
Dan. Why, zure 1
Dennis. You may say that. I opened the pew
doors in Belfast.
Dan. And what made em to turn thee out o' the
treade?
Dennis. I snored in sermon time. Dr. Snuffle-
bags, the preacher, said I woke the rest of the con¬
gregation. (Looking off.) Arrah, Dan, don't I see a
tall cusiomer stretching out his arms in the fog ?
Dan. Na; that be the road-post
Dennis. Faith, and so it is. Och! when I was
turned out of my snug berth in Belfast, the tears
ran down my eighteen-year-old cheeks, like butter¬
milk.
Dan. Pshaw, man! nonsense! Thee'dst never
get another livelihood by crying.
Dennis. Yes, 1 did; I cried oysters. Then I
plucked up. (Pointing.) What's that—a customer?
Dan. (Looking out.) Na, a donkey.
Dennis. Well, then I plucked up a parcel of my
courage, and carried arms.
Dan. Waunds ! what a musket?
Dennis. No, a reaping hook. 1 cut my way half
through England, till a German lamed me physic,
at a fair, in Devonshire.
Dan. What poticary's stuff ?
Dennis. I Btudied it in Doctor Yon Quolchigronck's
booth atPlympton. He cured the yellow glanders,
and restored proliflcation to families who wanted
an heir. I was of mighty use to him as an assis¬
tant.
Dan. Were you, indeed?
Dennis. But, Romehow, the doctor and I had a
quarrel; so I gave him something, and parted.
Dan. And what did'st thee give him, pray?
Dennis. [ gave him a black eye, and set up for
myself at Lestwithiel; where Mr. Skinnygauge,
exciseman, was in his honeymoon. Poor soul! he
was my patient, and died oue day.; but his widow
had such a neat notion of my subscriptions, that,
in three weeks, she was Mrs. Brulgruddery.
Dan. (laughing.) He, he! so you jumped into the
eld man's money ?
Dennis. Only a dirty hundred pounds. Then her
brother-in-law, bad luck to him! kept the "Red
Cow," upon Muckslush Heath, till his teeth
chattered him out of the world, in an ague.
Dan. Why, ihat be this very house.
Dennis, uld Nick fly away with the roof Of it I
I took the remainder of the lease, per advice of my
bride, Mrs. Brulgruddery; laid out her good-looking
hundred pound for the furniture and the goodwill,
bought three pigs that are going into a consump¬
tion, took a sarving o an that—
Dan. That's X. I be going into a consumption, too,
Bin you hired me.
Dennis. And devil a soul has darkened my
doors for a pot of beer since I have been a publi¬
can.
Dan. (looking off.) See! see, mun see! yon's
a traveller, - "sure as eggs 1 and a coming this
rosd.
Dennis. Och, hubbaboo 1 a customer at lost! St
Patrick send he may be a pure dry one. Be alive,
Dan, be alive; run and tell him there's elegant re¬
freshment at the " Red Cow."
■N (IRISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Dan. I with Oh, dang it, £ doesn't mind a bit of
a lie
Dennii. And. hark ye; say there's an accom¬
plished landlord.
Dan. Ees, and a genteel waiter; but he'll see
that.
Dennis. And, Dan,—sink that little bit of a
thunder storm that has Boured all the beer, you
know.
Dan. What, dost take me for an oaf ? Dang me,
if he ha'n't been used to drink vinegar, he'll find
it out fast enow of himsel, I warrant un.
[Exit.
Dennis, (calling.) Wife! I must tell her the joy¬
ful news. Mrs. Brulgruddery 1 my dear! Devil
choke my dear! she's as deaf as a trunkmaker.
Mrs. Brulgruddery:
Enter MRS. BRULGRUDDERY, from the house.
Mrs. B. And what do you want, now, with Mrs.
Brulgruddery? What's to become of us? tell me
that! How are we going on, I should like to
know ?
Dennis. Mighty like a mile-stone standing still
at this present writing.
Mrs. B. A pretty situation we are in, truly 1
Dennis. Yes, upon Muckslush Heath, and be
damned to it
Mrs. B And where is the fortune I brought
you?
Dennis. All swallowed up by the " Bed Cow."
Mrs. B. Ah! had you followed my advice, we.
should never have been in such a quandary.
Dennis. Tunder and Turf 1 didn't yourself advise
me to take this public-house?
Mrs. B. No matter for that I had a relation who
always kept it. But who advised you to drink out
all the brandy ?
Dennis. No matter for that; I had a relation who
always drank it.
Mrs. B. (crying.) Ah 1 my poor dear Mr. Skinny-
gauge never brought tears into my eyes as you
do.
Dennis. I know that; I saw you at his funeral.
Mrs. B. (crossing.) You're a monster.
Dennis. Am I; keep it to yourself, then, my lamb¬
kin,
Mrs. B. You'll be the death of me; you know you
will.
Dennis. Look up, my sweet Mrs. Brulgrud¬
dery, while I give you a small morsel of conso¬
lation.
Mrs. B. Consolation, indeed I
Dennis. Yes; there's a customer coming.
Mrs. B. (brightening.) What!
Dennis A customer. Turn your neat jolly face
over the heath yonder. Look at Dan, towing him
along, as snug as a cock-salmon into a llsb
basket
Mrs. B. (looking out.) Jimminy! and so there
is! Oh, my dear Dennis 1 But I knew how it
would be if you had but a little patience Re¬
member, it was all by my advice you took the " Red
Cow."
Dennis. Och bo 1 It was, was it?
Mrs. B. I'll run and spruce myself up a bit
(crossing.) Aye, aye, I havn't prophesied a cus¬
tomer to-day for nothing. [&rtf into house.
Dennis. Troth, and it's prophesying on the sure
side, to foretel a thing when it has happened.
Re-enter DAN, conducting PEREGRINE, toho carries
a small trunk strapped round his shoulder,
Pert. I am indifferent aboot accommodatiqtaa.
Dan. Our'n be a comfortable parlonr, zur: you'll
JOHN BULL; OR, THE I
find it clean, fori washed un down mysen, wring¬
ing wet, five minutes ago.
Pert. You hayo told me so, twenty times.
Situ. This be the Red Cow, zur, as you may see
by the pictur; and here be measter—he'll treat ye
in an hospital manner, zur, and show you a deal o'
contention.
Dennis. I'll be bound, sir, you'll get good enter¬
tainment, whether you are a man or a horse.
Pert. You may lodge me as either, friend. I can
sleep as well in a stable as a bedchamber, for
travel has seasoned me. (Half aside, and pointing
t' the trunk under hi' arm.) Since I have preserved
this, I can lay my head upon it with tranquility,
and repose anywhere.
Dennis. Faith, it seems a mighty decent hard
bolster. What is it stuffed with, I wonder ?
Pere. That which keepB the miser awake—
money,
Dan. (Corner.) Wauns! all that money!
Dennis. I'd be proud, sir, to know your unphol-
sterer—he should make me a feather bed gratis of
the same pretty materials. If this was all my own,
I'd sleep like a pig, though I'm married to Mrs.
Brulgruddery.
Pert. I shall sleop better, because it is not my
own.
Dennis. Your own'sina snugger place, then?—
Safe from the sharks of this dirty world, and be
hanged to 'em!
Pere. Except the purse in my pocket; 'tis now,
I fancy, in a place most frequented by the sharks
of this world.
Dennis. London, I suppose ?
Pere. The bottom of the sea.
Dennis. By my soul, that's a watering place; and
you'll find sharks there, sure enough, in all con¬
science.
Re-enter MRS. BRULGRUDDERY, from the house.
Mrs. B. What would you choose to take, sir,
after your walk this raw morning ?—We have any¬
thing you desire.
Dennis. Yes, sir, we have anything. (Aside.) Any-
thing's nothing, they say.
Mrs. B. Dan, bustle about, and see the room
ready, and all tidy, do you hear?
Dan. I wulL (Crosses.)
Mrs. B. What would you like to drink, sir ?
Pere. Oh, mine is an accommodating palate, hos¬
tess. I have swallowed Burgundy with the French,
Hollands with the Dutch, Sherbet with the Turk,
Sloe-juice with an Englishman, and water with a
simple Gentoo.
. Dun. (Going.) Dang me, but he's a rum cus¬
tomer ! It's my opinion he'll take a fancy to our
sour beer.
[Exit into the houst.
Pere. Is your house far from the sea-shore ?
Mrs. B. About thee miles, sir.
Pere. So!—And I have wandered upon the heath
four hours, before daybreak.
Mrs. B. Lack-a-day 1 has anything happened to
you, sir ?
Pere. Shipwreck—that's all.
Mrs. B. Mercy on us! cast away I
Pere. On your coast here.
Dennis. Then, compliment apart, sir, you take a
ducking as if you had been used to it.
Peri. Life's a lottery, friend; and man should
make up his mind to the blanks. On what part of
Cornwall am 1 thrown?
Mrs. B. We are two miles from Penzance, sir.
ere. Ha ! from Penzance ! that's lucky!
NOLISHMAN'8 FIRESIDE. 73T
Mrs. B. Lucky! (Apart to Dennis.) Then he'll go
on, without drink at our house.
Dennis. Ahem!—Sir, there has been a great big
thunder storm at Penzance, and all the beer in the
town's as thick as mustard.
Pere. I feel chilled-get me a glass of brandy.
Dennis. (Aside.) Oh, the devil! (Aloud to his wife.)
Bring the brandy bottle for the gintleman, my
jewel.
Mrs. B. (Apart to Dennis.) Don't you know you've
emptied it, you sot, you ?
Dennis. (Apart.) Draw a mug of beer I'll pa¬
laver him.
Mrs. B. (Apart, and going.) Ah, if you would but
follow my advice 1
[Exit into the house.
Dennis. You see that woman that's gone, sir—
she's my wife, poor soul! She has got but one
misfortune, and that's a whopper.
Pere. What's that ?
Dennis. We had as neat a big bottle of brandy a
week ago, and devil the drop's left. But I say no¬
thing—she's my wife, poor creature, and she can
tell you who drank it. Wouldn't you like a sup of
sour—I mean—of our strong beer ?
Pere. Pshal no matter what. Tell me, is a
person of the name of Thornberry still living in
Penzance ?
Dennis. Is it one Mr. Thornberry you are asking
after ?
Pere. Yes. When I first saw him (indeed, it was
the first time and the last), he had just begun to
adventure humbly in trade. His stock was very
slender, but his neighbours accounted him a kindly
man, and I know they spoke the truth. Thirty
years ago, after half an hour's intercourse, which
proved to me his benevolent nature, I squeezed b;-a
hand, and parted.
Dennis. Thirty years! Faith, after half an hour's
dish of talk, that's a reasonable time to remem¬
ber.
Pere. Not at all, for he did me a genuine service;
and Gratitude writes her record in the heart, that,
till it oeases to beat, they may live in the memory.
Re-enter MRS. BRULGRUDDERY, with a mug of
beer, from the house.
Mrs. B. (Apart to Dennis.) What have you said
about the brandy bottle ?
Dennis. (Apart.) I told him you broke it, one
day.
Mrs. B. (Apart.) Ah, I am always the shelter for
your sins!
Dennis. Hush! (To Peregrine.) You. know, sir, I
— hem! I mentioned to you poor Mrs. Brulgrud-
dery's misfortune.
Pere. Ha, ha! you did indeed, friend.
Mrs. B. I am very sorry, sir, but
Dennis. Be asy, my lambkin! the gentleman ex¬
cuses it. You are not the first that has cracked a
bottle, you knOw. (Taking the beer from his wife.)
My jewel, the gintleman was asking after one Mr.
Thornberry. fDelaying to give the beer.)
Mrs. B. What, old Job Thornberry, of Penzance,
sir ?
Pere. The very same. You know him, then?
Mrs. B. Very well, by hearsay, sir. He has lived
there upwards of thirty yeare. (7"o Dennis.) A
very thriving man now, and well to do in the
world, as others might be, too, if they would br t
follow my advice.
Pere. 1 rejoice to hear it. - Give me the
landlord; I'll drink his health la humble .
then hasten to visit him
m JOHN BULL; OR, TBE Z
Dennis. (Ariae ) By St, Patrick, then, you'll make
■w ry faces on tli e road.
(Givts the mug to Peregrine, as he is abouito
drink, a shriek is heard at a small dis¬
tance.)
Pert. Ha! the voice of a female in distress 1
Then 'tis a man's business to fly to her protec¬
tion.
(Throws the mug off, and exit.)
ifrs. B. Wheughl what a whirligig! Why,
Dennis, the man a mad!
Dermis. I think that thing.
Mrs. B. He has thrown down all the beer, before
ho tasted a drop.
Dennis. That's it: if he had chucked it away
afterwards, I shouldn't have wondered.
Mrs. B. Here he comes aga'n; and, I declare,
with a young woman leauing on his shoulder.
Dennis. (Crossing.) A young woman! let me have
a bit of a peep. (Looking out.) Och, the crater 1
ocb, the—
Mrs. B. Heyday! I shouldn't have thought of
your peeping after a young woman, indeed!
Dennis. Be aisy, Mrs. Brulgruddery! it's a way
we have in Ireland. There's a face!
Mrs. B. Well, and haven't I a face, pray?
Dennis. That you have, my lambkin! You have
had one these fifty years, I'll be bound for you.
Mrs. B. Fifty years! you are the greatest brute
that ever dug potatoes.
Re-enter PEREGRINE, supporting HARY THORN-
BERRY.
Pere. ThfBway. Cheer your spirits. The ruffian
with whom I saw you struggling has fled across
the heatn ; but his speed prevented my saving
your property. Was your money, too, in the
parcel with your clothes?
Mary. All I possessed in the world,sir; and he
has so frightened me. Indeed I thank you, sir;
indeed I do!
Pere- Come, come; compose yourself. Whither
are you going, pretty one
Mary. I must not tell, sir.
Pere. Then whither do you come from?
Mary. Nobody must know, sir.
Pert. Umph!—Tben your proceedings, child, are
a secret?
Mary. Yes, sir.
Pere. Yet you appear to need a friend to direct
them.—A heath is a rare place to find one. In the
absence of a better, contide in me.
Mary. You forget tuat you are a stranger, sir.
Pet e. I always do, when the defenceless want
my assistance.
Mary. But perhaps you might betray me, sir.
Pere. Never, by the honour of a man !
Mary. Pray don't swear by that, sir; for then,
you'll beiray me, I'm certain.
Pere. Have you ever suffered from treachery,
then, poor innocence ?
Mary. Yes, sir.
Pere. And may not one of yonr own sex have
been treacherous to you 1
Mary. No, sir, I'm very sure he was a man.
DeratiHi Oh, the blackguard.
Mrs. B. Hold your tongue, do!
Pert. Listen to me, child. I would proffer yon
friendship for your own sake—for the sake of bene¬
volence. —When ages, indeed, are nearly equal,
taUire is prone to breathe so warmly on the bloa-
ipms of a friendship between the sexes, that the
t ■;£ ic Desire; but Time, fair one. is scattering
en .7 my ten,pies, while liebs waves her
tf'.U.lSHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
freshest ringlets over yours. Rely, then. oe one
who has numbered years sufficient to oonect his
passions; who has encountered difficultieseneu-.-h
to teach him sympathy; and who would stretch
forth his band to a wandering female, and shelter
her like a father.
Mary. (weeping) Oh, sir I I do want protection
sadly, indeed; I am very miserable!
Pere. Come, do not droop. The cause of your
distress, perhaps, is trifling: but light gales of ad¬
versity will make women weep. A woman's tear
falls like the dew that zephyrs shake from roses.
Nay, confide in me.
Mary. I will, sir; (looking round) but
Pere. (turning to Dennis) Leave us a little while,
honest friends.
Dennis. Ahem!—Come Mrs. Bulgruddery; let
you and I pair off, my lamhkin 1
Mrs. B. (going.) Ah! she's no better than she
should be, I'll warrant her.
Dennis. By the powers I she's well enough, though,
for all that I
[Exeunt Dennis and Mrs. Brulgruddery into house.
Pere. Now, sweet oue, your name?
Mary. Mary, sir.
Pere. What else ?
Mary. Don't ask me that, sir; my poor father
might be sorry it was mentioned now. ^.
Pere. Have you quitted your father, then?
Mary. I left his house at daybreak this morning,
sir.
Pere. What is he.
Mary. A tradesman in the neighbouring town,
sir.
Pere. Is he aware of your departure?
Mary. No, sir.
Pere And your mother?
Mary. I was very little When she died, sir.
' Pere, Has your father, since her death, treated
you with cruelty? '
Mary. He I — Oh, bless him; no 1—He is the
kindest father that ever breathed, sir.
{'ere. How must such a father be agonised by the
loss of his child I
Mary. Pray, sir. don't talk of that!
Pert. Why did you fly from him?
Mary. Sir, I—1 But that's my story, air.
Pere. Relate it, then.
Mary. Yes, sir. You must know, then, sir, that
there was a young gentleman in this neighbourhood
that Oh, dear, sir! I'm quite ashamed!
Pere. Come, child, I will relieve you from th»
embarrassment of narration, and sum up your his¬
tory in one word—love.
Mary. That's the beginning of it, sir; but a great
deal happened afterwards.
Pere. And who is the hero of your story, my poor
girl?
Mary. The hero of—? Oh, I understand—he is
much above me in fortune, sir, To be sure I should
have thought of that before he got such power
over my heart, to make me so wretched, now be
has deserted me.
Pere. He would have thought of that, had his
own been generous.
Mary. He is reckoned very generous, air; he can
afford to be so. When the old gentleman dies, he
will have all the great family estate. I am going
to the house now, sir.
Pere. For what purpose ?
Mary. To try if I can see him for the last time,
sir; to tell him 1 shall always pray for his happi¬
ness, when I am far away from a place which be
has made it misery for me to abide in; and t#
JOHN BULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
beg him to give me a little supply of money, now
1 am penuyless and from home, to help me to
London, where I may get into service, and nobody
will know me.
Fere. And what are his reasons, child, for thus
deserting you?
.vry. lie sent me his reasons by letter yester-
%y, uir. He is to be married next week to a lady
of high fortune; his father, he says, insists upon it
I know I am born below him; but, after the oaths
we Righted, heaven knows the news was a sad
—siuti shock to me 1 I did not close my eyes last
night,, my poor brain was burning; and, as soon
as day broke, I left the house of my dear father,
whom I should tremble to look at, when he dis¬
covered my stoi j - Which I could not long conceal
from him.
(Weeps.)
Pere. Poor, lovelp, Jjeart-brmised wanderer! Oh,
wealthy despoilers cj ' rnuble innocence! splendid
murderers of virtue! »bo make your vice your
boast, and fancy femi> ruin a feather in your caps
of vanity, single out a rVtim you have abandoned,
and in your hours of do»?ih, contemplate: hear her
tale of sorrows, fraught* fijth her remorse—her
want — a hard world's scoffs — her parents'
anguish; then, if ye dare, look inward upon your
own bosoms, and if they be not conscience-proof,
what must be your ccmpune<3una 1 Who is his
father, child?
Mary. Sir Simon Rochdalo, sir, of the manor-
house hard by.
Pere. (Surprised.) Indeed!
Mary. Perhaps you know him, sir.
Pere. I have heard of him and on your account,
shall visit him.
Mary. Oh, pray, sir, take care what you do!
If you Bhould bring his son into trouble by men¬
tioning me, I should never — never forgive my¬
self!
Pere. Trust to my caution. Promise only to re¬
main at this house, till I return from a business
which calls me immediately two miles hence; I
will hurry back to pursue measures for your wel¬
fare, with more hope of success than your own
weak means, poor simplicity, are likely to effect.
What say you ?
Mary. 1 hardly know what to say, sir; yon seem
good, and I am little able to help myself.
Pere. You consent, then?
Mary. Yes, sir.
Pere. (Calling.) Landlord 1
Re-enter DENNIS from the house, followed by MRS.
BRULGRUDDERY.
Dermis. Did you call, sir? Arrah, now, Mrs.
Brulgruddery, you are peeping after the young wo¬
man yourself.
Mrs. B. L choose it.
Pere. Prepare your room, good folks, and get
the best accommodation you can for this young
person.
Dennis. That I will, with all my heart and soul,
sir.
Mrs. B. (Sulkily.) I don't know that we have any
room at all, for my part
Dennis. Whew, she's in her tantrums.
(Crosses.)
Mrs. B. People of repute can't let in young
women — found upon a heath, forsooth—without
knowing who's who. I have learned the ways of
the world, sir. .
Pere. So it seems; which too often teach yon to
over-rate the little gooS you can do in it, and to
739
shut the door when the distressed entreat you to
throw it open. But I have learnt the ways of the
world, too, (taking out his purse) I shall return ih
a few hours. Provide all the comforts you can;
and here are a couple of guineas, (giving money) to
send for any refreshments you have not in the
house.
Dennis. Mighty pretty handsel for the Red Cow
my lambkin 1
Mrs.B. A couple of guineas! Lord, sir 1 if I
thought you had been such a gentleman! Pray,
miss, walk in; your poor dear little feet must be
quite wet with our nasty roads. I beg pardon, sir;
but character's every thing in our business; I never
lose sight of my own credit.
Dennis. That you don't, till you Bee other people'b
ready money.
Pere. Go in, child. I shall soon be with you again.
Mary. You will return, then, sir?
Pere. Speedily; rely on me.
Mary. I shall, sir; I am sure I may. Heaven
bless you, sir!
Mrs. B. (Courtesying.) This way, miss—this way.
[Exeunt Mrs. Brulgruddery and Mary into the house.
Dtnnis. Long life to your honour, for protecting
the petticoats! Sweet creatures 1 I'd like to pro¬
tect them myself, by bushels!
Pere. Can you get me a guide, friend, to conduct
me to Penzance ?
Dennis. Get you a guide? There's Dan, my
servant, shall skip before you over the bogs like a
grasshopper. Oh, by the powers 1 my heart'B full to
Bee your generosity, and I owe you a favour in re¬
turn: (Whispers.) never you call for any of my beer,
till I get a fresh tap. [Exit into the house.
Pere. Now for my friend Thornberry; then
hither again to interest myself in the cause of this
unfortunate; for which many would call me
Quixotic—many would cant out "Shame!" But I
care not for the stoics, nor the puritans. Genuine
nature and unsophisticated morality, that turn dis¬
gusted from the rooted adepts in vice, have ever a
reclaiming tear to shed on the children of error.
Then, let the sterner virtues, that allow no plea
for human frailty, stalk on to Paradise without me.
The mild associates of my journey thither shall be
Charity; and my pilgrimage to the sbrind of mercy
will not, I trust, he worse performed for having
aided the weak on my way who have stumbled in
their progress.
Be-enter DAN, from the house.
Dan. I be ready, zur.
Pere. For what; friend ?
Dan. Measter says you be a going to Penzance;
if you be agreeable, I'll keep you company.
Pere. Oh, the guide. You belong to the bouse ?
Dan. Ees, zur! l'so enow to do; I be head waiter
and hostler, only we never have no horses, nor
customers.
Pere. The path, I fancy, is difficult to find. Do
you never deviate?
Dan. No, zur; I always whistles.
Pere. Come on, friend. It seems a dreary route;
but how cheerly the eye glances over a sterile
tract, when the habitation of a benefactor, whom
we are approaching to requite, lies in the perspec¬
tive ! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Library in the Mouse of Sir tine*
Rochdale—two chairs brought on.
Enter the HONOURABLE TOM SHUFFLETOi?
Shuffle. Nobody up yet ? I thought so.
Enter JOHN.
Ah, John, Is it you 1 How d'ye do, John?
<*0 JOHN BULL; OB, THE I
John. Thank your honour, I—
Shu fie. Yes, you look so. Sir Simon Rochdale in
bed; Mr. Rochdale not risen? Well, no matter:
I have travelled all night, though, to be with them.
How are they ?
John. Sir, they are both—
Shuffle. I'm glad to hear it Pay the postboy for
me.
John. (Crossing.) Yes, sir. I beg pardon, sir, but
when your honour last 13ft us—
Shuffle. Owed you three pound five. I remember
—have you down in my memorandums—Honour¬
able Tom S'nuflleton, debtor to—what's your name?
John. My christian name, sir, is—
Shuffle. Muggins — I recollect. Pay the post¬
boy, Muggins. And. harkye, take particular care of
the chaise; I borrowed it of my friend, Bobby
Fungus, who sprang up a peer in the last bundle of
barons: if e single knot is knocked out of his new
coronets, he'll make me a sharper speech than
ever he'll produce in Parliament And, John—
John. Sirl
Shuffle. What was I going to say?
John. Indeed, sir, I can't tell.
Shuffle. No more can I. 'Tis the fashion
to be absent ; that's the way I forgot your
bill. There, run along. (Exit John.) I've the
whirl of Bobby's chaise in my head still. Cursed
fatiguing, posting all night through Cornish
roads, to obey the summons of friendship. Con¬
venient in some respects, for all that. If all
loungers, of slender revenues, like mine, could
command a "constant succession of invitations
from men of estates in the country, how amaz¬
ingly it would tend to the thinning of Bond
Street 1
Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE.
Sir Simon. Ah, my dear Tom Shuffieton 1
Shuffle. Baronet, how are you ?
" Sir Simon. Such expedition is kind, now. You
got my letter at Bath, and
Shuffle. Saw it was pressing; here I am. Cut all
my engagements for you, and came off like a
shot.
Sir Simon. Thank you; thank you, heartily 1
Shuffle. Left everything at sixes and sevens.
Sir Simon. Gad, I'm sorry if
Shuffle. Don't apologiso; nobody does now. Left
all my bills in the place unpaid.
Sir Simon. Bless me! I've made it monstrous in¬
convenient
Shuffle. Not a bit; I give you my honour. I
didn't find it inconvenient at all. How is Frank
Rochdale ?
Sir Simon. Why, my sob isn't up yet: and, be¬
fore he's stirring, do let me talk to yqu, my dear
Tom Shuffieton 1 I have something near my heart,
that
Shuffle. Don't talk about your heart, baronet;
feeling's quite out of fashion.
Sir Simon. Weil, rhe.u i"m interested in—
Shuffle. Aye, svk-.k to that. We make a joke of
the heart now-«-days; but when a man mentions
his interest, we know he's in earnest
Sir Simon. Zounds! I am in earnest. Let me
speak, and call my motives what you wilL
Shuffle. Speak, but don't be in a passion. We
a>e always cool at tke clubs: the constant habit
af mining one another teaches us temper. Ex-
n.
Sir S'Titon. Well, I will You know, my dear
Tcm how much I admire your proficiency in the
>"ew Schuoi of breeding; you are what I call one
ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
of the highest finished fellows of the present
day.
Shuffle. Psha! baronet, you flatter.
Sir Simon. No, I don't; only in extolling the
merits of the newest fashioned manners and morals,
I am sometimes puzzled by the plain geiidflM,--'
who listen to me, here in the country, mod cv.*-
sumedly.
Shuffle. I don't doubt it
Sir Simon. Why, 'twas but t'other morning I
was haranguing old Sir Noah Starchington, .'c ,\iy
library, and explaining tobim the shining qbi:fba
of a dasher, of the year eighteen bundled and
three; and what do you think he did ?
Shuffle. Fell fast asleep.
Sir Simon. No; he pulled \r an English dic¬
tionary, when, if you'll believe me, he found my
definition of stylish living. uiTkjr ihe word "insol¬
vency," and modern gallantry, " adultery and se¬
duction."
Shuffle. Noah Starchingtou Is a stupid old twad¬
dler. But the fact is, barOojt, we improve. We
have voted many qualities he virtues now, that
they never thought of calling virtues formerly.
The rising generation wants a new dictionary de¬
cidedly.
Sir Simon. Deplorably, indeed ! You can't think,
my dear Tom, what fi scurvy figure you, and the
dashiDg fellows of your kidney, make in the old
ones. But come, sit down, sit down. (They take
chairs.) You have great influence over my son
Frank, and I want you to exert it. You are his in¬
timate; you come here, and pass two or three
months at a time, you know.
Shuffle. Yes; this is a pleasant house.
Sir Simon. You ride his horses as if they were
your own.
Shuffle. Yea ; he keeps a good stable.
Sir Simon. You drink our claret with him, till his
head aches.
Shuffle. Yours is famous claret, baronet.
Sir Simon. You worm out his secrets; you win
his money : you—in short you are—
Shuffle. His friend, according to the new dic¬
tionary. That's what you mean, Sir Simon ?
Sir Simon. Exactly But let me explain. Frank,
if he doesn't play the fool and spoil all, is going to
he married.
Shuffle. To how much ?
Sir Simon. Ah! now how like a modern man of
the world that is!— formerly they would have asked
"to who."
Shuffle. We never do now; fortune's everything.
We say "a good match," at the west end of the
town as they say " a good man," in the city; the
phrase refers merely to money. Is she rich?
A r Simon. Four thousand a year.
Shuffle. Whata devilish desirable woman! Frank's
a happy dog!
Sir Simon. He's a miserable puppy. He has no
more notion, my dear Tom, of a modern "good
match." than Eve had of pin money.
Shuffle. What are his objections to it?
Sir simon. 1 have smoked him, but he doesn't
know that;—a silly sly amour in another quarter.
Shuffle. An amour I That'B a very unfashionable
reason for declining matrimony.
Sir Simon. You know his romantic flights. The
blockhead, I believe, is so attached, I shouldn't
wonder if he flew off at a tangent, and married.the
girl that has bewitched him.
Shuffle. Who is she ?
Sir Simon: She—hem I—she lives with her father
in Penzance.
JOHN BULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
741
Shuffle. And who is hef
Sir Simon." He? Upon my soul I am ashamed to
tell you.
Shuffle. Don't be ashamed; we never blush at
anything in the New School.
Sir Simon. Hang me, my dear Tom, if he isn't a
brazier.
Shuffle. The devil!
Sir Simon. A dealer in kitchen candlesticks, coal
scuttles, coppers, and cauldrons.
Shuffle And is the girl pretty ?
S r Simon. So they tell me; a plump little devil,
as round as a tea kettle.
Shuffle. (.Rising.) I'll be after the brazier's daughter
to-morrow.
Sir Simon. But you have weight with him. Talk
to him, my dear Tom—reason with him; try your
power, Tom, do 1
Shuffle. I don't much like plotting with the father
against the son—that's reversing the New School,
baronet.
Sir Simon. But it will serve Frank; it will serve
me, who wish to serve you. And to prove that I do
wish it, I have been keeping something in embryo
for you, my dear Tom Shuffleton, against your
arrival.
Shuffle. For me ?
Sir Simon. When you were last leaving us, if you
recollect, you mentioned, in a kind of a way, a—a
sort of an intention of a loan, of an odd five hundred
pounds.
Shuffle. Did I ? I believe I might. When I
intend to raise money, I always give my friends
the preference.
Sir Simon. I told you I was out of cash then, I
remember.
Shuffle. Yes; that's just what I told you, I re¬
member.
Sir Simon. I have the sum floating by me now,
and much at your service. (Presenting it.)
Shuffle. (Taking it.) Why, as it's lyingidle, baronet,
I—I don't much care if I employ it.
Sir Simon. Use your interest with Frank, now.
Shuffle. (Crossing.) Rely on me. Shall I give you
my note ?
Sir Simon. No, my dear Tom; that's an unneces¬
sary trouble.
Shuffle. Why, that's true, with one who knows
me so well as you.
Sir Simon. Your verbal promise to pay, is quite
as good.
Shuffle. (Going.) I'll see if Frank's stirring,
Sir Simon. (Going.) And I must talk, to my ste¬
ward.
Shuffle. Baronet t
rir Simon. (Returning.) Eh?
Shuffle. Pray, do you employ the phrase,, "verbal
promise to pay," according to the reading of old
dictionaries, or as it's the fashion to use it at
present?
Sir Simon. Oh! choose your own reading, and;
I'm content.
{Exit Sir Simon.
Shuffle. Hbon, confound me if I ever pay you at
all!
[Exit Shuffleton.
SCENE.HL—d; Dressing Room; table andchairs.
.FRANK. ROCHDALE discovered sitting at the table
writing.
Frank,. Must I marry this woman whom my
father has chosen for me, whom I expect hero to¬
morrow ? And must I, then be told 'tis criminal to-
love ray poor, deserted Mary because our heart?
are illicitly attached ? Illicit for the heart! fine
phraseology! Nature disowns the restriction! I
cannot smother her dictates, and fall in or out of
love, as the law directs.
Enter DENNIS BRULGRUDDERY.
Well, friend, who do you come from ?
Dennis. I come from the Red Cow, sir.
Frank. The Red Cow ?
Dennis. Yes, sir, upon Muckslush Heath—hard
by your honour's father's house. I'll be proud of
your custom, sir, and all the good-looking family's.
Frank. (Impatiently.) Well, well, your business?
Dennis. That's what the porter ax'd me. " Tell
me your business, honest man," says he; " I'll Bee
you sir," says I; "I'll tell it your betters, sir,"
says I, " and that's Mr. Francis Rochdale, Es¬
quire."
Frank. Zounds! then why don't you tell it? I
am Mr. Francis Rochdale. Who the devil sent you
here?
, Dennis. Troth, sir, it was good-nature whispered
me to come to your honour; but I believe I've dis¬
membered her directions; for divil the bit do you
seem acquainted with her.
Frank. Well, my good friend, I don't mean to be
violent, only be so good as to explain your busi¬
ness.
Dennis. Oh, with a'll the pleasure in life. Give
me good words, and I'm as aisy as an ould glove;
but bite my nose off with mustard, and have at ycu
with pepper, that's my way, There's a little crea¬
ture at my house—she's crying her eyes out-and
she won't get such another pair at the Red Cow,
for I've left nobody with her hut Mrs. Brulgrud-
dery.
Frank. With her! with who? who are you talk¬
ing of ?
Dennis. I'd like to know her name myself, sir;
but I have heard but half of it, and that's Mary.
; Frank. Mary! can it be she? Wandering on a
' heath! seeking refuge in a wretched hovel.!•
Dennis. A hovel! oh, fle for shame of; yourself to
misbecall a genteel tavern! I'd have you to know
my parlour is clean sanded once a week.
Frank. Tell me directly—what brought her to
your house ?-
Dennis.. By my soul 1 it was Adam'p own carriage
!—a ten-toed machine the haymakers keep in Ire-
;land.
Frank. Psha, fellow!' don't trifle; but tell your
: story, and, if you can, intelligibly.
Dennis. Don't be bothering my brains, then, or
you'll get it as clear as mud. Sure the young crea¬
ture can't fly away from the Red Cow, while I'm
explaining to. you the rights on't. Didn't she pro¬
mise the gentleman to stay till he came back ?
Frank. Promised a gentleman 1 Who—who is
the gentleman.?
Dennis. Arrahnow, where didiyou lam manners?
Would'you ax a customer his birth, parentage, and'
education ? " Heaven bless you, sir, you'll come-
hack- again?" says she; "That's what I' will, be¬
fore you can say parsnips, my darling," says he.
Frank. Confusian!' what does-this mean? explain
your errand clearly, you scoundrel, or——
Dennis. Scoundrel! don't be after affronting a>
housekeeper. Haven't I a sign, at my, door,, three;
pigs; a wife, and' a man-sarvant?
Frank. Well, go on.,
Dennis. Divil the word'more will* I tell you^
Frank. Why, you-inferna!—
Dennis. Oh, be aisy ! see what you-get,.no» £>$-
141 JOHN BULL; OR, THE E
affronting Mr. Dennis Brulgruddery! (Searching
his pockets.) I'd have talked for an hour, if you
kept a'civil tongue in your head; but now you
may read the letter. (Giving it.)
frank. A letter I stupid booby! why didn't you
give it to me at first ? Yes, it is her band. (Opens
iiu: letter.)
Dennis. Stupid! if you're so fond of letters, you
miuht larn to behave yourself to the postman.
frank. (Reading and agitated.) " Not going to up¬
braid you—couldn't rest at my father's—trifling as¬
sistance." Oh, heaven: does she, then, want assist¬
ance? " The gentleman who has befriended me "
Distraction! the gentleman! "Youruuhappy Mary."
Scoundrel that I am ; what is she suffering ? But
who, who is this gentleman? No matter she is
distressed, heart breaking! and I, who have been
the cause;—I. who—Here—(running to a writing
table, opining a drawer, and taking out a purse) Run,
fly. dispatch!
Dennis. He's mad!
frank. Say, I will be at your house myself—re¬
member— positively come or send in the course
of the day. In the meantime take this, and
give it to the person who sent you. (Gives the
purse.)
Dent-is. A purse! faith, and I'll take it Do you
know how much is in the inside ?
frank. Pshaw. No—no matter.
Dennis. Troth, now, if I'd trusted a great big
purse to a stranger, they'd have called it a bit of
a bull. (Pouring the money on the table.) But let
you and I count it between us, for devil squeeze
him, say I, who'd cheat a poor girl in distress,
of the value of a rap! fCounting.) One, two,
three, &c.
frank. Worthy, honest fellow.
Dennis. (Counting.) Eleven, twelve, thirteen—
Frank. I'll he the making of your house, my good
feilow.
Dennis. Never heed the Red Cow, sir! you put
me out. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Nine¬
teen fat yellow boys, and a Beven shilling
piece. Tell 'em yourself, sir, then chalk 'em up
over the chimney-piece, or else you'll forget, you
know.
Frank. Oh, friend, when honesty, so palpably
natural as yours, keeps the account, I care not for
my arithmetic. Fly, now! bid the servants give
you any refreshment you choose; then hasten to
execute your commission.
Dennis. Thank your honour! gOod luck to yon I
I'll taste the beer; but, by my soul, if the butler
comes the Red Cow over me, I'll tell him I know
sweet from sour.
[Exit.
Frank. Let me read her letter once more.
(Reads) " I am not going to upbraid you, but after
I got your letter, I could not rest at my father's,
where I once knew happiness and innocence. I
wished to have taken a last leave of you, and to
beg a trifling assistance; but the gentleman who
has befriended me in my wanderings, would not
suffer me to do so; yet I could not help writing,
to tell you I am quitting this neighbourhood for
ever. That you may never know a moment's sor¬
row, will always be the prayer of your unhappy
Mary." My mind is hell tome! Love, sorrow,
remorse, and—yes—jealousy, all distract me; and
no counsellor to advise with—no friend to whom I
may—
Enter TOM SHUFFLETON.
Frank. Tom Shuffleton 1 yon never arrived more
*j>n>po8 in your life l
NGLtSHMANS FIRESIDE.
Shuffle. That's what the women alwavB say to
me. I've rumbled on the road all night, Fraplc.
My bones ache, head's muzzy — and we'll drink
two bottles of claret a-piece after dinner, to enliven
UB.
Frank. You seem in spirits, Tom, I think, now.
Shuffle. Yes; I have had a windfall-five hun¬
dred younds.
Frank. A legacy?
Shuffle. No. The patient survives who was sick
of his money. 'Tie a loan from a friend.
Ftank. 'Twould be a pity, then, Tom, if the pa¬
tient receives improper treatment.
Shuffle. "Why, that's true; but his case is so rare,
that it isn't well understood, I believe. Curse me,
my dear Frank, if the disease of lending is epi¬
demic.
Frank. But the disease of trying to borrow, my
dear Tom, I am afraid is.
Shuffle. Very prevalent indeed, at the west end
Of the town.
Frank. And as dangerous, Tom, as the small-pox*
They should inoculate for it
Shuffle. That wouldn't be a had scheme; but I
took it naturally. Psha! don't shake your head.
Mine's but a mere facon de parler— just as we talk
to one another about our coats; we never say
" Who's your tailor ?" we always ask, " Who suf¬
fers?" Your father tells me you are going to ha
married; I give you joy.
Frank. Joy! I have known nothing but torment
and misery since this cursed marriage has been in
agitation.
Shuffle. Umph! Marriage was a weighty affair
formerly, so was a family coach; but domestic
duties now are like town chariots, they must he
made light to be fashionable.
Frank. Oh, do not trifle! By acceding to this
match, in obedience to my father, I leave ali the
pangs of remorse, and disappointed love, a help¬
less, humble girl, and rend the fibres of a generous,
but too credulous heart, by cancelling, like a
villain, the oaths with which I won it.
Sh -ffle. I understand — a snug thing in the
country. Yonr wife, they tell me, will have four
thousand a year.
Frank. What has that to do with sentiment ?
Shuffle. I don't know what you may think, but,
it a man said to me plump, " Sir, I am very fond
of four thousand a year," I should say, "Sir, I ap¬
plaud your sentiment very highly."
Frank. But how does he act, who offers his hand
to one woman, at the very moment his heart is en¬
gaged to another?
Shuffle. He offers a peat sacrifice.
Frank. And where is the reparation to the un¬
fortunate he has deserted ?
Shuffle. An annuity. A great many unfortunates
sport a stylish carriage up and down St. James's
Street, upon such a provision.
Frank. An annuity flowing from the fortune, I
suppose, of the woman I marry 1 Is that "deli¬
cate ?
Shuffle. 'Tis convenient We liquidate debts of
play and usury from the same resources.
Frank. And call a crowd of Jews and gentlemen
gamesters together, to be settled with during the
debtor's honeymoon!
Shuffle. Not exactly, it wouldn't be fair to jumble
the Jews into the same room with our gaming ac¬
quaintance.
Frank. Why so?
Shuffle. Because, twenty to one the first half et
the creditors would begin dunning the other.
JOHN BULL; OB, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Prank. Nay. for onee in your life be serious. Read
this, wliich has wrung my heart—and repose it, as
a secret, in your own. (Giving the letter.)
Shuffle. (Glancing over it.) A pretty little crowquili
kind of a hand.—"Happiness innocence—trilling
assistance — gentleman befriended me — unhappy
Mary." Yes, I sec—(returning it) She wants money,
but has trot a new friend. The style's neat, but the
subject isn't original.
frank. Will you serve me at this crisis?
Shuffle. Certainly.
Frank. I wish you to see my poor Mary in the
course of the day. Will you talk to her?
Shuffle. Oh, yes, I'll talk to her. Where is she to
be seen ?
Frank. She writes, you see, that she abruptly
left her father; and I learn by the messenger, that
she is now in a miserable, retired house, on the I
neighbouring heath. That mustn't deter you from i
going.
Shuffle. Me! oh, dear, no! I'm used to it. I don't
care how retired the house is.
Frank. (Crosses.) Come down to my father, to
breakfast. will tell you afterwards all I wish you
to execute. Oh, Tom 1 this business has unhinged
me for society. Rigid morality, after all, is the
best .'oat of mail for the conscience.
Shuffle. Our ancestors, who wore mail, admired
it amazingly; but to mix in the gay world with
their rigid morality, would be as singular as stalk¬
ing into a drawing-room in their armour; for dis¬
sipation is now the fashionable habit with whicn,
like a black coat, a man goes into company, to avoid
being stared at
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—An Apartment in Job Thornberry's
House.
Enter JOB THORNBERRY, in a dressing gown, fol¬
lowed by JOHN BUR.
Bur. Don't take on so—don't you, now t Pray,
listen to reason.
Job. I won't!
Bur. Pray do!
Job. I won't! Reason bid me love my child and
help my friend:—what's the consequence? My
friend has run one way, and broke up my trade;
my daughter lias run another, and broke my—N o!
she shall never have it to say she broke my heart
If I hang myself for grief, she shan't know Bhe
made me.
Bur. Well, but, master—
Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop,
when the fat churchwardens starved you at the
workhouse—hang them for their want of feeling!
and you were thumped about, a poor, unoffending,
ragged-rumped boy as you were!—I wonder you
haven't run away from me, too!
Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever
said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-
twenty years, and never missed a morning.
Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods;
you won't have the trouble any longer.
Bur. Trouble 1 — Look ye, old Job Thorn-
berry
Job. Well! what are you going to be saucy to me,
now I'm ruined?
Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another,
You have been as Doted, all round our town, for
being a kind man, as being a blunt one.
Job. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them
look at my ledger—they'll find it right. I began
upon a little; I make that little great, by industry;
I never cringed to a customer to get him into my
743
books, that I might hamper him with an over¬
charged bill, for long credit; I earned my fair pro¬
fits : I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery
of a friend, and my first dividend shall be thirteen
shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman
in England may clap his hand on his heart and say
as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his cer¬
tificate.
Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger all the time.
Job. I know you did.
Bur. From the time that you took me out of tho
workhouse.
Job. Pslia! Rot the workhouse!
Bur. You never mentioned it to me yourself till
to-day.
Job. I said it in a hurry.
Bur. And I've always remembered it at leisure.
I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been faithful.
It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the work¬
house boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him
your man of trust for two-and-twenty years, that
you wonder he don't run away from you now you're
in trouble.
Job. (Affected.) John, I beg your pardon.
(Stretching out his hand.)
Bur. (Taking his hand.) Don't say a word more
about it.
Job. I
Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more.
Conie, be a man; get on your things, and face the
bailiffs that are rumaging the goods.
Job. I can't, John—I can't; my heart's heavier
than all tho iron aud brass in my shop.
Bur. Nay, consider—what confusion 1 Pluck up
a courage —do, now.
Job. Well, I'll try,
Bur. Ay, that's right; here's your clothes. (Taking
them from the back of a chair.) They'll play the devil
with all the pots and pans, if you arn't by. Why,
I'll warrant you'll do! bless you, What should ail
you ?
Job. Ail me? Do you go and get a daughter,
John Bur; then let her run away from you—and
you'll know what ails me. (Crosses.)
Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat (Going
to help him on with his clothes.) This is the waistcoat
young mistress worked with her own hands, for
your birth-day, five years ago; come, get into it as
quick aB you can.
Job. (Throwing it on the floor violently.) I'd as lievo
go into my coffin! —she'll have me there soon.
Psha! rot it—I'm going to snivel 1 Bur, go and get
me another.
Bur. Are you sure you won't put it on ?
Job. No, I won't. (Bur pauses.) No, I tell you.
(Exit Bur.) How proud I was of that waistcoat five
years ago; I little thought what would happen now,
when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my
neighbours to celebrate the day. There was Collop
on one side of me, and his wife on the other and my
daughter Mary sat at the further end, smiling so
sweetly like an artful, good-for-nothing I
shouldn't like to throw away the waistcoat, neither
—I may as well put it on; yes, it would be poor
spite not to put it on. (Putting his arms into it.) She's
breaking my heart! but I'll wear it, I'll wear it!
(Buttoning it as he speaks and crying involuntarily.)
It's my child's—she's undutiful, ungrateful, barba
rous—but she's my child, and she'll never work
me another.
Re-enter JOHN BUB.
Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by
so long, I think it's damp.
JOHN BULL; OB. THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
744
Job. I was thinking bo myself, Bur; and so—
Bur. Eh! what! you've got on the old one?
Well, now, I declare, I'm glad of that. Here's
your coat, (putting it on him.) 'Sbobs 1 this waist¬
coat feels a little damp about the top of the
bosom.
Job. (confused.) Never mind, Bur, nevermind. A
little water has dropped on it, but it won't give
me cold, I believe.
(A noise without.)
Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry
below 1 I'll run and see what's the matter. Make
haste after me—do now. [Exit.
Job. I don't care for the bankruptcy now; I can
face my creditors like an honest man ; and I can
crawl to my grave afterwards, as poor as a church
mouse. What does it signify? Job Thornberry
lias no reason now to wish himself worth a groat;
the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody to
hoard his money for now. I was only saving for
my daughter, and she has run away from her
d outing, foolish father, and struck down my heart
flat—flat!
Enter PEREGRINE.
Well; who are you ?
Pere. A frieDd.
Job. Then, I'm Borry to see you. I have just been
ruined by a friend, and never wish to have another
friend again, as long as I live; no, nor any un¬
grateful, undutiful - poh! I don't recollect your
face.
Pere. Climate and years have been at work on
It. While Europeans are scorching under an In¬
dian sun, Time is doubly busy in fanning their
features with his wings. But do you remember no
trace of me?
Job. No, I tell you. If you have anything to say,
say it. I have something to settle below with my
daughter; I mean, with the people in the shop;
they are impatient; and the morning has half run
away, before she. knew I should be up; I mean,
before I had time to get on my coat and waistcoat,
she gave me—I mean-I mean, if you have any
business, tell it at once.
Pere. I will tell it at once. You seem agitated.
The harpies, whom I passed in your shop, informed
me of your sudden misfortune; but do not despair
yet.
Job. Aye, I'm going 'to be a bankrupt; but that
don't signify. Goon; it isn't that - they'll find all
fair, hut go on.
Pere. I wilL 'Tie just thirty years since I left
England.
Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the
hardware business.
Pere. About that time a lad of fifteen years en¬
tered your shop; he had the appearance of a gentle-
man'sson, and told you he had heard by accident,
as he was wandering through the streets of Pen¬
zance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thorn-
berry's goodness to persons in distress.
Job. I believe he told a lie there.
Pere. Not in that instance, though he did in
another.
Job. I remember him. He was a fine, bluff boy.
Pere. He had lost his parents, he said; and, des¬
titute of friends, money, and food, was making his
way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel
that would take him on board, that he might work
his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.
Job. Yes, yes, he did. I remember it
Pere. You may remember, too, when the Tjoy had
finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in
his hand. They were the first eu-nings of your
trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to
better advantage than in relieving a helpless or¬
phan ; and, giving him a letter of recommendation
to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good
spirits and prosperity. He left you with a promise
that if fortune ever smiled upon him, you should
one day, hear news of Peregrine.
Job. Ah, poor fellow I poor Peregrine! he was
a pretty boy 1 I should like to bear news of him, 1
own.
Pere. I am that Peregrine!
Job. Eh? what! you are-no I let me look at you
again. Are you the pretty boy that—Bless us
how you are altered! (Shak shis hand warmly.)
Pere. I have endured many hardships since I saw
you, many turns of fortune: but I deceived you (it
was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I
had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the
growth of boyish brains, I had fixed my fancy on
being a sailor, and had run away from mv father.
Job. With great emotion.) Run away from your
father! If I had know that, I'd have horse-whipped
you within an inch of your life!
Pere. Had you known it, you had dons right,
perhaps.
Job. Right! Ah: you don't know what it a for a
child to run away from a father! Rot me 1 if I
wouldn't have sent you back to him, tied neck and
heels, in the basket of a stage-coach 1
Pere. I have had my compunctions—have ex¬
pressed them by letter to my father: but I fear my
penitence had no effect
Job. Served you right.
Pere. Having no answers from him, he died, I
fear, without forgiving me. (Sighs.)
Job. (Starting.) What! died without forgiving his
child 1 Come, that's too much! I couldn't have done
that, neither. But, go on hope you've been
prosperous. But you shouldn't have quitted your
father.
Pere. I acknowledge it; yet I have seen pros¬
perity, though I traversed many countries on my
' outset, in pain and poverty. Chance, at length,
raised me a friend in India, by whose interest and
my own industry I amassed considerable wealth in
the factory at Calcutta.
Job. And have just landed it, I suppose, in Eng¬
land?
Peat. I landed one hundred pounds last night in
my purse, as 1 swam from the Jndiaman, which was
splitting on a rock, half a league from the neigh-
bouring shore. As for the rest of my property-
bills, bonds, cash, jewels—the whole amount of my
toil and application, are, by this time, I doubt not,
gone to the bottom; and Peregrine is returned
after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost as
poor as he left you.
Job. I won't touch a penny of your hundred
pounds—not a penny!
Pere. I do not desire you: I only1 desire you to
take your own.
Job. My own?
Pere. Yes; I plunged with this box, last night,
into the waves. You see, it has your name on it.
Job. "Job Thornberry," sure enough! And
what's in it?
Pere. The harvest of a kind man's charity; the
produce of your bounty to on^ whom you thought
an orphan. I have traded these twenty years on ten
guineas (which from the first I had set apart as
yours,; iill they have become ten thousand; take it
— it could not, I find, come more opportunely.
(Giving him tht box.) Your honest heart gratified it-
JOHN BULL; OR, THE E
self in administering to my need; and I experience
that burst of pleasure, a grateful man onjoys, in re¬
lieving my reliever.
Job. (Squeezing Peregrine's hand, returning the box,
and seeming almost, unable to utter.) Take it again.
Pert. Why do you reject it?
Job. I'll tell you as soon as I'm able. T'other day
I had a friend—pshat rot it! I'm an old fool!
(Wiping his eyes.) I lent a friend t'other day the
whole profits of my trade, to save him from sinking.
He walked off with them, and made me a bankrupt,
Don't you think he is a rascal?
Pert. Decidedly so.
Job. And what should I be, if I took all you
have saved in the world, and left you to shift for
yourself?
Pere. But the case is different. This money is,
in fact, your own. 1 am inured to hardships;
better ab:e to bear them, and am younger than you.
Perhaps, too. I shall have prospects of—
Job. I won't take it. I'm as thankful to you, as
if I left you to starve: but I won't take it.
Pere. Remember, too, you have claims upon you
which I have not. My guide, as I came hither,
said you had married in my absence: 'ti3 true, he
told me you were a widower: but, it seems, you
have a daughter to provide for.
Job. I have no daughter to provide for now.
Pere. Then he misinformed me.
Job. No, he didn't; I had one last night, but she's
gone.
Pere. Gone!
Job. Yes; gone to sea, for what 1 know, as you
did. Run from a good father, as you did. This
is a morning to remember; my daughter has run
out, and the bailiffs have run in; I shan't soon
forget the day of the month.
Pere. This morning, did you say ?
Job. Aye, before daybreak; a hard-hearted,
base—
Pere. And could she leave you, during the de¬
rangement of your affairs ?
Job She didn't know what was going to happen,
poor soul! I wish she had now. I don't think my
Mary would have left her old father in the midst of
his misfortunes.
Pere. (Aside.) Mary! it must be she 1 What is
the amount of the demands upon you ?
Job. Six thousand; but 1 don't mind that; the
goods can nearly cover it—let'em take 'em; rot
the gridirons and warming-pans! I could begin
again—but, now my Mary's gone, I haven't the
heart; but I shall hit upon something,
Pere. Let me make a proposal to you, my old
friend. Permit me to settle with the officers, and
to clear all demands on you. Make it a debt, if you
please. I will have a hold, if it must be so, on
your future profits in trade; but do this, and I pro¬
mise to restore your daughter to you.
Job. What! bring back my child! Do you know
where she is ? Is she safe ? Is she far off ? Is—
Pere. Will you receive the money?
Job. Yes, yes, on those terms—on those condi¬
tions—but where is Mary ?
Pere. Patience—I must not tell you yet; but in
four-and-twenty hours I pledge myself to bring
her back to you.
Job. What, here?—to her father's house, and
safe? ' Oh,'sbud I when 1 see her safe, what a
thundering passion I'd be in with her! But you
are not deceiving me? You know the first time
you came into my shop, what a bouncer you told
me, when you were a boy.
Pere. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now.
NGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE. 745
Come, come down to your shop, that we may rid
it of its present visitants.
Job. I believe you dropped frem the clouds, all
on a sudden, to comfort an old, broken-hearted
brazier.
Pere. I rejoice, my friend, that I arrived at so
critical a juncture; and, if the hand of Providence
be in it, 'tis because heaven ordaius that benevo¬
lent actions, like yours, sooner or later, must ever
meet their recompense.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE L—Sir Simon Rochdale's Library.
Enter LADY CAROLINE BRAYMORE.
Lady C. I shall die of ennui, in this moping
manor-house! Shall I read to-day? No, I'll walk ;
—no, I'll—Yes,, I'll read first, and walk afterwards.
(Sitting at the table, takmgup a book, and ringing the
bell.) Pope! Come, as there are no novels, this may
be tolerable. This is the most trvste house I ever
saw. (Sitting and reading.)
"In these deep solitudes and awfulcetis.
Where heavenly-pensive——"
Enter ROBERT.
Robert. Did you ring, my lady ?
Lady C. "Contemplation dwells." Sir? Oh, yes;
I should like to walk, Is it damp under foot, sir ?
" And ever musing—
Rob rt. There has been a good deal of rain to¬
day, my lady.
Lady G. " Melancholy reigns."
Robert. My lady ?
Lady C. Pray, sir, look out, and bring me word if
it is clean or dirty.
Robert. Yes, my lady.
[Exit.
Lady 0. This settling a marriage is a strange
business. " What means this tumult in a vestal's
veins ?"
Shuffl ton. (Without.) Bid the groom lead the
horse into the avenue, and I'll come to him.
Lady C. Company in the house. Some Cornish
'squire, I suppose. (Resumes her reading.)
Enter the HONOURABLE TOM SHUFFLETON,
followed by JOHN.
Lady O. (Still reading and seated with her back to
Shuffleton.) " Soon as thy letters trembling, 1 un¬
close "—
John. What horse will you have saddled,
sir?
Shuffle. Slyboots.
[Exit John.
Lady O. " That well-known name awakens all my
woes."
Shuffle. Lady Caroline Braymore!
Lady G. Mr. Shuffleton. Lard, what can bring
you into Cornwall ?
(Rises.)
Shuffle. Sympathy; which has generally brought
me near your ladyship, in London at least, for
' these three winters.
Lady C. Psha! But, seriously ?
Shuffle. I was summoned by friendship. I
am consulted on all essential points in this
family; and Frank Rochdale is going tso be mar¬
ried.
Lady C Then you know to whom?
Shuffle. No; not thinking that an essential point,
I forgot to ask. He kneels at the pedestal of a rich
JOHN BULL; OB, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
T4«
shrine, and I didn't inquire about the statue. But,
dear Lady Caroline, what has brought you into
Cornwall?
Lady C. Me ? I'm the statue.
Shu fie. You?
Lady C. Yes; I've walked off my pedestal, to be
worshipped at the Land's End.
Shuffle. You to be married to Frank Rochdale!
Oh, Lady Caroline 1 what then is to become of
ine ?
Lady C. Oh, Mr. ShuffletonI not thinking that
an essential point, I forgot to ask.
Shuffle. Psha! now you're laughing at me. But,
upon my soul I shall turn traitor; take advantage
of the confidence ropos d in me by my friend, and
endeavour to supplant him.
Louly C. What do you think the world would cull
such duplicity of conduct?
Re-enter ROBERT.
Robert. Very dirty, indeed, my lady.
[Exit.
Shuffle. That infernal footman ha3 been listen¬
ing. [Crosses.) I'll kick him round his master's
park.
Lady C. 'Tis lucky then you are booted; for, you
hear, he says it is very dirty there.
Shuffle. Was that the meaning of—Pooh! But
you see the—the surprise—the—the agitation, has
made me ridiculous.
Lady C. I see something has made you
ridiculous; but you never told me what it was be¬
fore.
Shuffle. Lady Caroline, this is a crisis that —
my attentions—that is, the—In short, the world
you know, my dear Lady Caroline, has given me to
you.
Lady C. Why, what a shabby world it is.
Shuffle. How so ?
Lady C. To make me a present of something it
sets no value on itself.
Shuffle. I flattered myself I might not be alto¬
gether valueless to your ladyship.
Lady C. Tome? Now I can't conceive any use I
can make of you. No, positively, you are neither
useful nor ornamental.
Shuffle. Yet you were never at an opera without
me at your elbow; never in Kensington Gardens,
that my horse—the crop, by-the-bye, given me by
Lord Collarbone—wasn't constantly in leading at
the gate. Haven't you danced with me at every
ball? — and haven't I. unkind, forgetful Lady
Caroline, even cut the Newmarket Meetings when
you were in London.
Lady C. Bless me! these charges are brought
in like a bill. "To attending your ladyship
at such a time; to dancing down twenty couple
with your ladyship at another" — And pray to
what do they all amount?
Shuffle. The fullest declaration.
Lady C. Lard, Mr. Shuffleton! Why, it has to
be sure looked a—a—a little foolish; but you—
you never spoke anything to—that is—to justify
such a—
Shuffle, [aside) That's as much as to say, speak
now [aloud). To be plain, Lady Caroline, my
friend does not know your value. He has an ex¬
cellent heart: but that heart is—(coughing) Curse
the word, it's so out of fashion, it chokes me [aloud) -
is irrevocably given to another: But mine—by this
sweet hand I swear
\Kneeling and hissing her hand.)
Re-enter JOHN.
W ell, sir t [Rising hastily.)
John. Slyboots, sir, has been down on his knees:
and the groom says he can't go out
Shuffle. Let him saddle another.
John. What horse, sir, will you——
Shuffle. Psha t any. What do you call Mr. Rooh-
dale's favourite now?
John. Traitor, sir.
Shuffle. When Traitor's in the avenue, I shall be
there.
[Exit John.
Lady C. Answer me one question candidly, and
perhaps I may entrust you with a secret. Is Mr.
Rochdale seriously attached?
Scuffle. Very seriously.
Lady C. Then I won't marry him.
Shuffle. That's spirited. Now, your secret.
Lady C. Why—perhaps you may have heard,
that my father, Lord Fitz-Baloam, is somehow, so
much in debt, that but no matter.
Shuffle. Oh, not at all; the case is fashionable,
with both lords and commoners.
Lady C. But an old maiden aunt, whom—rest her
soul!—I never saw, for family pride sake, be¬
queathed me an independence. To obviate his
lordship's difficulty, I mean to—to marry into this
humdrum Cornish family.
Shuffle I see -a sacrifice! filial piety, and all
that—to disembarrass his lordship. But hadn't
your ladyship better—
Lady C. Marry, to disembarrass you.
Shuffle. By my honour, I'm disinterested.
Lady C. By my honour, I am monstrously
piqued;—and so vexed, that I can't read this morn¬
ing—nor talk—nor—I'll walk.
Shuffle. Shall I attend you ?
Lady C. No; don't fidget at my elbow as you do
at the Opera. But you shall tell me more of this
by-and-bye.
Shuffle, [taking her hand) When? where?
Lady C. Don't torment me. This evening—or to¬
morrow. perhaps; in the park, or—psha! we shall
meet at dinner! Do let me go, now, for 1 shall be
very bad company.
Shuffle, [kissing her hand.) Adieu, Lady Carol no!
Laay C. Adieu! [Exit.
Shuffle. My friend Frank, here, I think, is very
much obliged to me! I am putting matters pretty
well en train to disencumber him of a wife: and
now I'll canter over the heath, and see what J can
do for him with the brazier's daughter.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—A mean Parlour at the Red Cous. A
window in flat, a cupboard, a dock, a door, a tire-
place!, with plaster parrots on the mantel; chairs
and table, pen, ink, and paper on it.
MARY and MRS. BBULGRUDDERY discovered.
Mrs. B. Aye, he might have been there and back,
over and over again; but my husband's slow
enough in his motions, as I'll tell him, 'till I'm tired
on't.
Mary. I hope he'll be here soon.
Mrs. B. Oils, my little heart! Miss, why so im¬
patient? Haven't you as genteel a parlour as any
lady in the land could wish to sit down in ? The
bed's turned up in a chest of drawers that's stained
to look like mahogany; there's two poets, and a
poll-parrot, the best images the Jew had on his
bead, over the mantel-piece; and, waB I to leave
you all alone by yourself, isn't there an eight-day
clock in the corner, that, when one's waiting, lone-
some-like for any body, keeps going tick tack, and
is quite company
JOHN BOH.; OB, THE I
Vary, indeed, I did not mean to complain,
Mrs. B. Complaint no, I think not, Indeed!—
When, besides having a handsome houRe over your
head, the strange gentleman has left two guineas
— though one seems light, and t'other looks a little
Bruinmish—to be laid out for you, as I see occa¬
sion. I don't say it for the lucre of anything I'm
to make out of the money, hut I'm sure you can't
want to eat yet,
Mary. Not if it gives any trouble; but I was up
before sunrise, and have tasted nothing to-day.
Mrs. B. Eh?—Why, bless me, young woman!
ar'n't you well?
Mary. I feel very faint
Mrs. B. Aye. this is a faintish time o'year; but I
must give you a little something, I suppose.—I'll
open the window and give you a little air.
Dennis. (Singing without.)
They handed the whisky about,
'Tilt it smoked through the jaws of a piper;
The bride got a fine copper snout.
And the clergyman's pimples grew riper.
Whack doodlety bob,
Sing pip.
(He pops his head in at the window.)
Mary. There's your hnsband 1
Mrs. B. There's a hog; for he's as drunk as one,
I know, by his beastly bawling.
Enter DENNIS BRULGRUDDERY.
Dennis. (S'nging.) Whack dootlety bob, sing pip.
Mrs. B. "Sing pip," indeed! Sing sot! and
that's to your old tune.
Mary. Hav'n't you got an answer?
Mrs. B. Hav'n't you got drunk ?
Dennis. Be aisy, and you'll see what I've got in a
minute. (Pulls a bottle from hispocket.)
Mrs. B. What's that?
Dennis. Good Madeira it was when the butler at
the big house gave it me. It jolted so over the
heath, that if I hadn't held it to my mouth, I'd
have wasted half. (Putting it on the table.) There,
miss, 1 brought it for you; and I'll get a glass from
the cupboard, and a plate for this paper of sweet
cakes, the gintlefolks eat after dinner, in the de¬
sert
Mary. But, tell me if—
Dennis. (Runniny to the cupboard.) Eat and drink,
my jewel; and my discourse shall serve for the
seasoning. (Filling a glass.) Drink now, my pretty
one! for you have had nothing. I'll be bound.
Och, by the powers! I know the ways of old Mother
Brulgruddery! (Mary drinks.)
Mrs. B. Old Mother Brulgruddery!
Dennis. Don't mind ber; take your prog; she'd
starve a saint
Mrs. B. I starve a saint?
Dennis. Lethim stop at the Red Cow, na plump
as a porker, and you'd send him away iu a week
like a weasel. (Offering the plate to Mary.) Bite a
maccaroony, my darliDg.
Mary. I thank you.
Dennis. 'Faith, no merit of mine; 'twas the butler
that stole it. Take some. (Letting the plate fall.)
Slips, by St. Patrick!
Mrs. B. (Screaming.) Our best china plate broke
all to shivers! .
Dennis. Delf, you deceiver, delfl The cats
dining dish, nine times rivetted.
Mary. Pray, now, let me hear your news.
Dermis That I will. Mrs. Brulgruddery, I take
the small liberty of begging you to get cut, my
lambskin.
NGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE. 747
Mrs. B. I sha'n't hudge an inch. She needn't be
ashamed of anything's that's to be told, if she's
what she should be.
Mary. (Rising.) I know what I should be, if I
were in your place.
Mrs. B. Marry come up! And what should you
be then ?
Mary. More compassionate to one of my own
sex, or any one in misfortune. Had you come to
me, almost broken-hearted, and not looking like
one qu te abandoned to wickedness, I should have
thought on your misery, and forgot that it might
have been brought on by your faults.
Dennis. At her, my little crature 1 By my soul!
she'll bother the ould one! Faith, the Madeira
has done her a deal of service !
Mrs. B. What's to be said, is said before me, and
that's flat
Mary. (To Dennis.) Do tell it, then; but, for
others' sakes, don't mention names. I wish to
hide nothing now, on my own account: though the
money that was put down for me, before you would
afford me shelter, I thought might have given me a
little more title to hear a private message.
Mrs. B. I've a character for virtue to lose, young
woman!
Dennis. When that's gone, you'll get another—
that's of a damned impertinent landlady! Sure,
she has aright to her parlour; and hav'n't I brought
her cash enough to swallow the Red Cow's rent for
these two years?
Mrs. B. Have you ? Well, though the young lady
misunderstands me, it's always my endeavour to be
respectful to gentlefolks.
Dennis. Och! botheration to the respect that's
bought by knocking one shilling against another at
an inn! Let the heart keep open house, I say; and
if Charity is not seated inside of it, like a beautiful
barmaid, it's all a humbug to stick up the sign of
the Christian.
Mrs. B. I'm sure, miss shall have anything she
likes, poor dear thing! There's one chicken—
Dennis. A chicken! fie on your double barbarity!
Would you murder the tough dunghill cock to choke
a customer? (To Mary.) A certain person, that
shall be nameless, will come to you in the course of
this day either by himself, or by friend, or by
handwriting.
Mary. And not one word—not one, by letter,
now ?
Dennis. Be aisy; won't he be here soon ? In the
meantime, here's nineteen guineas and a seven-
shilling piece, as a bit of a postscript.
Mrs. B. Nineteen guineas anu—
Dennis. Hold your tongue, woman! Count them,
darling!
(He puts the money on the table; Mary counts
it.)
Mrs. B. (Drawing Dennis aside.) What have you
done with the test?
Dennis. The rest?
Mrs. B. Why, have you given her all?
Dennis. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Brulgruddery; it's
my notion, in summoning up your laBt accounts
that, when you begin to dot, ould Nick will carry
one; and that's yourself, my lambkin!
Shuffleton. (Without.) Hollo! Red Cowl
Dennis. You are called, Mrs. Brulgruddery.
Mrs. B. L you Irish bear! Go, and—(looking
towards the window.) Jimminy 1 a traveller on horse¬
back, and the handsomest gentleman I ever saw in
my life!
[Rtmi out
Mary. Ob, then, it must be he I
748 JOHN BUIL: OB, THE 1
Dennis. No, faith, it isn't the young squire.
Mary. (Mournfully.) No! (Seats herself at the
tahle.)
Dennis. There—he's got off the outside of his
horse: it's that flashy spark X saw crossing the
court-yard, at the big house. Here he is.
Enter TOM SHUFFLETON.
Shuffle. (Aside, looking at Mary.) Devilish good-
looking girl, upon my soul 1 (Seeing Dennis.) Who's
that fellow?
Dermis. Welcome to Mucltslush Heath, sir.
Shuffle. Pray, sir, have you any business here?
Dennis. Very little this last week, your honour.
Shuffle. Oh,"the landlord! Get out!
Dermis (Aside.) Manners! but he's my customer.
If he don't behave himself to the young creature,
I'll bounce in, and thump him blue.
[ Exit.
Shuffle. (Looking at Mary.) Shy, but stylish—much
elegance, and no brass; the most extraordinary
article that ever belonged to a brazier. Don't be
alarmed, my dear. Perhaps you didn't expect a
stranger?
Mary. No, sir.
Shuffle. But you expected somebody, I believe,
didn't you?
Mary. Yes, sir.
Shuffle. I come from him; here are my creden¬
tials. (Giving her a letter.) Read that, my dear
little girl, and you shall see how far I am autho¬
rised.
Mary. (Kissing the superscription.) 'Tis his hand 1
Shuffle. (As she is opening the letter.) Fine blue
eyes, t'abh, and very like my Fanny's. Yes, I see
how it will end—she'll be the fifteenth Mrs. Shuffle-
ton.
Mary. (Reading.) " When the conflicts of my
mind have subsided, and opportunity will permit,
I will write to you fully. My friend is instructed
from me to make every arrangement for your wel¬
fare. With heartfelt grief I add, family circum¬
stances have torn me from you for ever." (Drops
the letter, and is falling.)
Shuffle. (Supporting her.) Ha, this looks like
earnest! They do it very differently in London.
Mary. (Recovering.) I beg pardon, sir; I expected
Cijis ; but I—I—(Bursting mto tears.)
Shuffle. (Aside.) Oh, come, we are getting into
the j!u train; after the shower, it will clear My
cF>ar gisl, don't flurry yourself; these are things of
course, you know. To be sure, you must feel a
little resHUtaentat first, but—
Mary. Resentment! when I am never, never to
see him again 1 Morning and night my voice will
be raised to heaven, in anguish, for his prosperity!
And tell him—pray, sir, tell him, I think the many
—many bitter tears 1 shall shed, will atone for my
faults; then you know, as it isn't himself, but his
station, that sunders news should reach him
that I have died, it can't "-c'ug any trouble to his
conscience.
Shuffle. Mr. Rochdale, ffly lOFfc you'll find will be
very handsome.
Mary. I always found him Rfi. sir.
Shuffle. (Giving her a note.) Ho ilc,:- sent you a
hundred pound note till matters can C: arranged,
just to set you a going.
Mary, t was going, sir - ont of thi, Y?UH;^v, for
ever. Sure, he couldn't think it recess 2, SjHt *end
me this, for fear I should trouble him.
Shuffle P8ha! my love, you mistake: tu. ' .mic¬
tion is to give you a settlement.
Mary. I intended to get one for myself, sir.
NGLIflHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Shuffle. Did you ? ,
Mavy. Yes, sir; in London. I shall take a pl&ot
in the coach to-morrow morning; and I hope the
people of the inn where it puts up at the end of
the journey, will have the charity to recommend
me to an honest service.
Shuffle. Service? Nonsense! You—yon must
think differently. I'll put you into a situation ill
town.
Mary. Will you he so humane, sir?
Shuffle. Should you like Marylebone parish, mj
love ?
Mary. All parishes are the same to me, now I
must quit my own, sir.
Shuffle. I'll write a line for you to a lady in that
quarter, and—Oh, here's pen and ink. (Writing
and talking as he is writing.) I shall be in London
myself in about ten days, and then I'll visit you, to
see liow you go on.
Mary. Oh, sir, you are, indeed, a friend.
Shuffle. I mean to be your friend, my love. There.
(Giving her the letter.) Mrs. Brown, Ho wland Street;
an old acquaintance of mine; a very good-natured,
discreet, elderly lady, 1 assure you.
Mary. You are very good, Bir; hut I shall be
ashamed to look such a discreet person in the
face, if she hears my story
Shuffle. No, you needn't; she has a large stock
of charity for the indiscretions of others, believe
me.
Mary. I don't know how to thank you, sir. The
unfortunate must look up to such a lady, sure, as a
mother.
Shuffle. She has acquired the appellation. You'll
be very comfortable; and when I arrive in town.
I'll—
Enter PEREGRINE.
(Aside.) Who have we here ? Oh!—Ha, ha! This
must be the gentleman she mentioned to Frank in
her letter. Rather an ancient ami.
Pere. (Aside.) Sol I suspected this might he the
case. (Aloud.) You are Mr. Rochdale, I presume,
sir?
Shuffle. Yes, sir, you do presume; but I am not
Mr. Rochdale.
Pere. I beg your pardon, sir, for mistaking you
for so bad a person.
Shuffle. Mr. Rochdale, sir, is my intimate friend.
If you mean to recommend yourself in this
quarter, (pointing to Mary) good breeding will sug¬
gest to you, that it mustn't be done by abusing him,
before me.
Pere. I have not acquired that sort of good breed¬
ing, sir, which isn't founded on good sense; and
when I call the betrayer of female innocence a
bad character, the term, I think, is too true to he
abusive.
Shuffle. 'Tis a pity then, you haven't been taught
a little better what is due to polished society.
Pere T am always willing to improve.
Shuffle. I hope, sir, you won't urge me to become
your instructor.
P<re. You are unequal to the task. If you
quarrel with me in the cause of a seducer, yon are
unfit to teach me the duties of a oitizeu.
Shuffle. You may make, sir, a very good citizen;
but curse me I if you'll do for the west end of the
town.
P<re. I moke no distinctions in the ends of town,
sir; the ends of integrity are always uniform; and
'tis only where those ends are most promoted, that
the inh abitants of a town, let them live east or west,
•'-post preponderate in rational estimation.
JOHN BULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Shuffle. Pray, sir, are you a Methodist preacher
In want of a congregation ?
Pere. Perhaps I'm a quack doctor in want of a
Jack Pudding. Will you engage with me ?
Shuffle. This is not to he borne. Sir, the correc¬
tion i must give you will
Pere. (With coolness.) Desist, young man, in time,
or you may repent your?stulance.
Mary. (Coming between them.) Oh, gentlemen!
pray, pray don't! I am so frightened! (To Peregrine.)
Indeed, sir, you mistake I This gentleman has been
so good to me 1
Pere. Prove it, child, and I shall honour him.
Alary. Indeed, indeed he has 1 Pray, pray don't
quarrel! When two such generous people meet, it
would be a sad pity. (To Peregrine.) - ee, sir, he has
recommended me to a place in London—here's the
letter to the good lady—an elderly lady, in Maryle-
bone parish; and so kind, sir, everybody that
knows her calls her mother.
Pere. ;Looking at the superscription.) Infamous!
Sit down, and compose yourself, my love; the gen¬
tleman and I shall come to an understanding.
(Mary retires up, and sits.) One word, sir. I have
lived long in India; but the flies, who gad thither
buzz in our ears, till we leant what they have blown
upon in England. I have heard of the wretch
iu whose house you meant to place that unfor¬
tunate.
Shuffle. Well! and you meant to place her in
snugger lodgings, I suppose ?
Pere. I mean to place her where—
Shuffle. No, my dear fellow, you don't unless yon
answer it to me.
Pere. I understand you. In an hour, then, I shall
be at the Manor-house, whence, I suppose, you
come. Here we are both unharmed; and there
is one at the door, who, perhaps, might inter¬
rupt us.
Shuffle. Who is he ?
Pere. Her father—her agonised father—to whose
entreaties I have yielded, and brought him here
prematurely. He is a tradesman — beneath your
notice—a vulgar brazier; but he has some sort of
feeling for his child, whom, now your friend has
lured her to the precipice of despair, you would
hurry down the gulf of infamy. For your own con¬
venience, sir, I would advise you to avoid him.
Shuffle. (Crossing.) Your advice, now, begins to
be a little sensible; and, if you turn out a gentle¬
man, though I suspect you to be one of the brazier's
company. I shall talk to you at Sir Simon's.
(Exit.
Mary. Is the gentleman gene, sir?
Ptrc. Let him go, child; and be thankful that
you have escaped from a villain.
Mary. A villain, sir ?
Pere. The basest; for nothing can be baser than
manly strength, in the specious form of protection,
injuring an unhappy woman. When we should be
props to the lily in the storm, 'tis damnable to
spring up like vigorous weeds, and twine about the
drooping flower till we destroy it.
Mary. Then where are friends to be found, sir?
He seemed honest—so do you; but, perhaps, you
may be as bad. , , . , .
Pere. Do not trust me. I have brought you a
friend, child, in whom Nature tells us we ever
should confide.
Alary. What! here, sir? t
— ptr° yes. When he hurts you, he must wound
himself ■ and bo suspicious is the human heart be¬
come from the treachery of society, that it wants
that security. I will send him to you. lExit.
713
Mary. Who can he mean? I know nibodybui
Mr. Rochdale that I think would come to me; for
my poor dear father, when he knows all my crime,
will abandon me as I deserve.
Enter JOB THORNBERRY, hastily.
Job. Mary! (She shrieks aiul falls into her father's
arms.) My dear Mary ; speak to me !
Mary. (Recovering.) Don't look kindly on me, my
dear fatherl Leave met llefl you; but! was almost
mad.
Job. I'll never leave you till I drop down dead by
your side! How could you run away from me.
Mary ? (She shudders.) Come, come; kiss me, and
we'll talk of that another time.
Alary. You haven't heard half the story, or I'm
sure you'd never forgive me.
Job. Never mind the story now, Mary; tis a true
story that you're my child, and that's enough for
the present. I hear you have met with a rascal; I
haven't been told who yet Some folks don't
always forgive—braziers do. Kiss me again, and
we'll talk on't by-and-bye. But, why would you run
away. Mary ?
Mary. I couldn't stay and he deceitful; and it has
often cut me to the heart to see you show me that
affection, which f knew I didn't deserve.
Job. Ah, you jade! I ought to be angry but I can't.
Look here—don't you remember this waistcoat?
you worked it for me you know.
Mary. (Kissing him.) I know I did.
Job. 1 had a hard struggle to put it on this
morning; but I squeezed myself into it, a few
hours after you ran away. If I could do that, you
might have told me the worst, without much fear
of anger. How have they behaved to you, Mary ?
Mary. The landlord is very humane; but the
*andlady—
Job. Cruel to you? I'll blow her up like gun¬
powder in a copper 1 AVe must stay here to-night;
for there's Peregrine, that king of good fellows—
we must stay here till he comes back, from a little
way off, he says.
Mary. He that brought you here ?
Job. Aye, he. I don't know what he intends,
hut I trust all to him; and when he returns, we'll
have such a merry-making, (calling.) Hollo! —
house! Oh, zounds. I'll be good to the landlord,
hut I'll play the devil with his wife! Come with me,
and let us call about us a bit. Hilloa! house!
Come, Mary. Odsbobs! I'm so happy to have you
again. House. Come, Mary.
[Exeunt.
ACT IIL
SCENE I.—The outside of " The Red Cow."
Enter DENNIS BRULORUDDERY from the
hoflse.
Dennis. I've stretched my neck half a yard
longer, looking out after that rapscallion, Dan.
Och 1 and is it yourself I see at last ? There he
comes, in a snail's trot, with a basket behind him,
like a stage coach.
Enter DAN, with a basket at his back.
Dan, you divil! ar'n't you a beast of a waiter?
Dan. What for ?
Dennis. To stay out so the first day of com
pany.
Dan. Come, that be a good un. I ha' waited for
the company a week, and I defy you to say I ever
left the house till they corned.
Dennis. Well, and that's trua Pacify me with a
good reason, and you'll find me a dutiful master.
760 JOHN BULL, OB, THE 1
Airah, Dan, what's that hump grown out of your
back on the road ?
Dam. Plenty o' meat and drink. (Putting the basket
en the ground) I haven't had sue a lump o' late at
my stomach.
Dermis. And who harnessed you, Dan, with all
that kitchen stuff?
Dan. He as were racked, and took I wi' un to
Penzance for a companion. He ordered I, as I
eaid things ware a little famished like here, to buy
this for the young woman and the old man he
ha' brought back wi' un.
Dennu. Then you have been gabbling your ill-
looking stories about my larder, you stone-eater.
Dan. Larder. I told un you had three live pigs
as ware dying.
Dennis. Oh, fle! Think you, won't any master
discharge a man-servant that shames him ? Thank
your luck, I can't blush. But is the old fellow our
customer has brought his intimate friend, he never
saw but once, thirty * ears ago ?
Dan. Ees; that be old Job Thornberry, the
brazier; and, as sure as you stand there, when we
got to his shop they were a going to make him a
banker.
Dennis. A banker. 1 never saw one made. How
do they do it?
Dan. Why, the bum-baileys do come into his
house, and claw away all his goods and furni¬
ture.
Denni>. By the powers, but that's one way of set¬
ting a man going in business.
Dan. When we got into the shop, there they
were, as grum as thunder. Y ou ha' seen a bum-
bailey ?
Dennis. I'm not curious that way. I might have
seen one once or twice; but I was walking mighty
fast, and had no time to look behind me.
Dan. My companion — our customer- he went
up-stairs, and I bided below; and then they began
knocking about the goods and chapels. That ware
no business of mine.
Dennis. Sure it was not.
Dan. Na, for Bartin; so I ax'd 'em what they
were a doing; and they told L wi' a broad grin,
taking an invention of the misfortunate man's de¬
fects.
Dennis. Choke their grinning. The law of the
land's a good doctor, but bad luck to those who
gorge upon its poor patients!
Dan. They corned downstair— our customer and
the brazier; and the head bailyhe began a bullock-
ing at the old man, in my mind, just as one
Christian shouldn't do to another. I had nothing to
do wi' that.
Dennis. Divil the bit.
Dan. No, nothing at all* and so my blood be¬
gan to rise. He made the poor old man almost fit
to cry.
Dennis. That wasn't your concern, you know.
Dan. Bless you, mum, 'twould ha' looked busy
like in me to say a word; so I took up a warming-
pan, and I banged bum-bailoy wi' the broad end
on't, tell be fell o' the floor as flat as two¬
pence.
Dennis. Oh, hubbaboo!—lodge in my heart, and
I'll never ax you for rent 1—you're a friend in need.
Bemember, I've a warming-pan—you know where
it hangs, and that's enough.
Dan. They ha liked to ha' warmed I finely,
I know. I ware nigh being hauled to prison;
cause, as well as I could make out their cant,
it do seem I bad rescued myself end broke a
statue.
INGLISHM AN'S FIRESIDE.
Dennis. Och, the Philistines!
Dan. But our traveller, I do think he be the devilt
He settled all in a jiffy; for he paid the old man's
debts, and the bailey's broken head were chucked
into the bargain.
Dennis. And what did he pay f
Dan. Guess, now.
Dennis. A hundred pounds.
Dan. Six thousand, by gumt
Dennis. What, on the nail ?
Dan. No; on the counter.
Dennis. Whew! six thousand pon—Oh, by the
powers, this man must be the philosopher's stone 1
Dan
Dan. Hush, here he be.
Enter PEREGRINE from the house.
Pert. (To Dan.) So, friend you have brought
provision, I perceive.
Dan. Ees, sir; three boiled fowls, three roast, two
chicken pies, and a capon.
Pere. You have considered abundance more than
variety. And the wine ?
Dan. A dozen o' capital red port, sir: I axed for
the newest they had i' the cellar.
Dennis. (Abstractedly.) Six thousand pounds upou
a counter.
Pi re. (to Dan) Carry the hamper in doors; then
return to me instantly. You must accompany me
in another excursion.
Dan. What, now ?
Pere. Yes; to Sir Simon Rochdale's. You are
not tired, my honest fellow?
Dan. Na, not a walking wi' you; but, dang me 1
when you die, if all the shoemakers shouldn't go
into mourning!
(He tales the hamper into the house)
Dennis. (ruminating) Six thousand pounds! By
St. Patrick, it's a sum!
Pere. How many miles from here to the manor-
house 1
Dennis. Six thousand! -
Pere. Six thousand! Yards, you mean, I sup¬
pose, friend
Dennis. Sir!—eh? Yes, sir, I—I mean yards—all
upon a counter!
Pere. Six thousand yards upon a counter! Mine
host, here, seems a little bewildered; but he has
been anxious, I find, for poor Mary, and 'tis natural
in him to blend eccentricity with kindness. John
Bull exhibits a plain, undecorated dish of Bolid
benevolence,'but Pat has a garnish of whim around
his good nature; and if. now and then, 'tis
sprinkled in a little confusion, they must have
vitiated stomachs who are not pleased with embel¬
lishment.
Re-enter DAN, boated, from the house.
Dan. Now, sir, you and I'll stump it
Pere. Is the way we are to go, now, so much
worse, that you have cased yourself in those
boots ?
Dan. Quito clean; that's why I put 'em on: I
should ha' dirtied 'em in t'other job.
Pere. Set forward, then.
Dan. No, sir, axing yourpardon; I be but the
guide, and 'tisn't for I to gofirst
Pere. Ha! ha! Then we must march abreast,
boy, like lusty soldiers, and I shall be side by side
with honesty; 'tis the best way of travelling through
life's journey, and why not over a heath ? Come,
my lad.
Dan. Cheek by jowl, by gum.
[Exeunt Peregrine and Dan.
JOHN BULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Dennis. That walking philosopher—perhaps, he'll
give me a big bag of money. Then, to be sure, I
won't lay out some of it to make me easy for life;
for I'll settle a separate maintenance upon ould
Mother Brulgruddery.
Job Thornberry. (peeping out of the door of the
public-house, and calling) Landlord 1
Dennis. Coming, your honour?
Job. (coming forward.) Hush! don't bawl! Mary
bas fallen asleep. You have behaved like an Em¬
peror to her, she says. Give me your hand, land¬
lord.
Dennis. Behaved! (refusing his hand.) Arrah, now,
get away with your blarney!
Job. Well, let it alone. I'm an old fool, perhaps;
but, as you comforted my poor girl in her trouble,
I thought a squeeze from her father's hand—as
much as to say, " thank you for my child,"—might
not have come amiss to you.
Dennis. And is it yourself who are that crature's
father?
Job. Her mother said so, and I always believed
her. You have heard somewhat of what has hap¬
pened, I suppose? It's all over our town, I take it,
by this time. Scandal is an ugly, trumpeting devil.
Let 'em talk; a man loses little by parting with a
herd of neighbours, who are busiest in publishing
his family misfortunes; for they are just the sort
of cattle who would never stir over the threshold
to prevent 'em.
Dennis. Troth, and that's true; and some will
only sarve you, because you're convenient to 'em
for the time present; just as my customers come
to the Red Cow.
Job. I'll come to the Red Cow, hail, rain, or shine,
to help the house, as long as you are landlord,
though I must say that your wife—
Dennis, (putting his hand before Job's mouth) De¬
cency ! Remember your own honour and my feel¬
ings. I mustn't hear any thing bad, you know, of
Mr9. Brulgruddery; and 'you'll say nothing good
of her without telling the devil's own lies; so be
aisy!
Job. Well, I've done; but we musn't be speaking
ill of all the world, neither; there are always
some souBd hearts to be found among the hollow
ones. Now he that has just gone over the
heath
Dennis. What, the walking philosopher?
Job. I don't know anything of his philosophy,
but, if I live these thousand years, I shall never
forget his goodness. Then; there's another: I was
thinking just now, if I had tried him, I might have
found a friend in my need this morning.
Dennis. Who is he?
Job. A monstrous good young man; and as
modest and affable as if he had been bred up a
'prentice, instead of a gentleman.
Dennis. And what's his name ?
Job. Oh, everybody knows him in this neighbour¬
hood; he lives hard by—Mr. Francis Rochdale,
the young squire, at the manor-house.
Dennis. Mr. Francis Rochdale!
Job. Yes; he's as condescending! and took quite
a friendship for me and mine. He told me, t other
day, he'd recommend me in trade to all the l^eat
families twenty miles round; and said he d do, I
don't know what all, for my Mary.
Dennis. Hi did. Well,'faith, you mayn t know
what, but, by my soul, he has kept his word!
twenty tmileflsrtro^d"thaV won't say it was Mr.
751
Francis Rochdale recommended him to your shop,
to buy his brass trumpet.
Job. Eh! What? no!—Yes —I see it at once I—
Young Rochdale's a rascal. (Bawling.) Mary!
Dennis. Hush! you will wake her, you know.
Job. I intend it; I'll A glossy, oily, smooth
rascal! warming me in his favour, like an unwhole¬
some February sun! shining upon my poor cottage;
and drawing forth my child, my tender blossom,
to suffer blight and mildew [ Mary! I'll go
directly to the manor-house; his father's in the
commission. I mayn't find justice, but I shall find
a justice of peace.
Dennis. Fie, now' and can't you listen to reason?
Job. Reason! Tell a reason why a father
shouldn't be almost mad, when his patron has
ruined hiB child ? Damn his protection! Tell me
reason why a man of birth's seducing my
daughter, doesn't almost double the rascality? yes,
double it;—for my fine gentleman, at the very time
he is laying his plans to make her infamous,
would think himself disgraced in making her the
honest reparation she might find from one of her
equals.
Dennis. Arrah ! be aisy, now, Mr. Thornberry.
Job. And this' spark, forsooth, is now canvassing
the county; but if I don'r give him his own at the
hustings. How dare a man set himself up for a
guardian of his neighbour's rights, who has robbed
his neighbour of his dearest comforts ? How dare
a seducer come into freeholders' bouses, and have
the impudence to say, send me up to London as
your representative? (Calling.) Maryl
Enter MARY, from the house.
Mary Did you call, my dear father ?
Job. (Passionately.) Yes, I did call
Dennis. Don't you frighten that poor young era-
ture.
Mary. Oh, dear; what has happened? You are
angry; very angry. I hope it isn't with me ? If
it is, I have no reason to complain.
Job. (Softened, and folding her in his arms.) My
poor dear child, I forgive you twenty times more
than I did before.
Mary. Do you, my dear father ?
Job. Yes: for there's twenty times more excuse
for you, when rank and education have helped a
scoundrel to dazzle you. (Taking her hand.) Come.
Mary. Come ? where ?
Job. (Crossing impatiently.) To the Manor-house
with me, directly.
Mary. To the Manor-house ? Oh, my' dear
father, think of what you are doing—think of me.
Job. Of you? I think of nothing else. I'll see
you righted. Don't be terrified, child—you know I
doat on you; but we are all equals in the eye of
the law; and hang me, if I won't make a baronet's
son shake in his shoes, for betraying a brazier's
daughter 1 Come, love, come.
[Exeunt Job and Mary.
Dennis. There'll be big botheration at the Manor-
house. My customers are all gone, that I was to
entertain; nobody's left but my lambkin, who don't
entertain me. Sir Simon's butler gives good
Madeira; so I'm off after the rest; and the Red Cow
and Mother Brulgruddery may take care of one
another. [Exit.
SCENE n.—A Hall at Sir Simon Rochdale's.
Enter LADY CAROLINE BRAYMORE, from the
park, followed by TOM SHUFFLETON.
Shuffle. " The time is come for fphigene to find
The miracle she wrought upon my mind."
Lady C. Don't talk to me.
JOHN BOLL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
m
Shuffle. " For now, by loot, by Jorct, she shall be
mine.
Or death, if force should fad, shall finish
my design."
Lady C. I wish you would finish your nonsense.
Shuffle. Nonsense! 'tis poetry; somebody told
me 'twas written by Dryden.
Lady C. Perhaps, so ; but all poetry iB nonsense.
Shuffle. Hear me, then, in prose.
Lady C. Psha! that's worse.
Shuffle. Then I must express my meaning in pan¬
tomime. Shall I ogle you?
Lady C. You are a teazing wretch. I have sub¬
jected myself, I find, to very ill treatment in this
pretty family; and begin to perceive I am a very
weak woman.
Shnffle. (Aside.) Pretty well for that matter.
Lady C. To find myself absolutely avoided by the
gentleman I meant to honour with my hand! so
pointedly neglected!
Shuffle. I must confess it looks a little like a com¬
plete cut.
Lady C. And what you told me of the low attach¬
ment that —
Shuffle. Nay, my dear Lady Caroline, don't say
that 1 told you more than—
Lady C. I won't have it denied; and I'm sure
tis all true. See here—here's an odious parchment
Lord Fitz-Ealaam put into my hand in the park.
A marriage license, I think he calls it; but if I don't
scatter it in a thousand pieces—
Shuffle. (Preventing her.) Softly, my dear Lady
Caroline. That's a license of marriage, you know;
the names are inserted, of course. Some of them
may be rubbed a little in the carriage; but they
may be filled up at pleasure, you know. Frank's
my friend; and if he has been negligent, I say
nothing; but the parson of the parish is as blind
as a beetle.
Lady C. Now don't you think, Mr. Shuffleton, 1
am a very ill-used person ?
Shuffle. I feel inwardly for you, Lady Caroline;
but my friend makes the subject delicate. Let us
change it. Did you observe the steeple upon the
hill, at the end of the park pales ?
Lady C. Psha! no.
Shuffle. It belongs to one of the prettiest little
village churches you ever saw in your life. Let me
show you the inside of the church, Lady Caroline.
Ladg C. I am almost afraid, for, if I make a
rash vow there, what is to become of my Lord
Fitz-Balaam ?
Shuffle. Oh, that's true—I had forgot his lordship;
but, as the exigences of the times demand it, let us
hurry the question through the Commons, and,
when it has passed, with strong independent in¬
terest on our sides, it will hardly be thrown out by
the peerage.
[Exeunt.
(Voices are heard without.)
Job. (Without.) I will see Sir Simon.
Simon. (Without) You can't see Sir Simon.
• Enter JOB THORNBEBBY, MARY, and SIMON-
Job. Don't tell ma I come upon justice busi¬
ness!
Simon. Sir Simon be a gentleman justice.
Job. If the justice allows all his servants to be
as saucy as you, I can't say much for the gentle¬
man.
Simon. But these ben't his hours.
Job. Hours for justice! I thought one of the
blessingB of an Englishman was to find justice at
any time.
Mary. Pray don't be so—
Job. Hold your tongue, child? What are his
hours?
Simon. Why from twelve to two. ^
Job. Two hours out of four-and-twenty? I hope
all that belong to law are a little quicker than his
worship; if not, when a case wants immediate
remedy, it's just eleven to one against us. Don't
you know me ?
Simon. Na.
Job. I'm sure I have seen you at Penzance.
Simon. My wife ha' got a chandler's shop there.
Job. Haven't you heard we've a fire engine ia
the church ?
Simon. What o' that ?
Jox Suppose your wife's shop was in flames, and
all her bacon and farthing candles frying ?
Simon. And what then ?
Job. Why, then, while the house was burning,
you'd run to the church for the engine. Shouldn't
you think it plaguy hard if the sexton said, "Call for
it to-morrow, between twelve and two?'
Simon. That be neither here nor there.
Job. Isn't it (Menacing.) Then, do you see this
stick ?
Simon. Psha! you be a foolish old fellow!
Job, Why, that's true. Every now and then a
jack-in-oflice, like you, provokes a man to forget
his years. The cudgel is a stout one, and some'at
like 3'our master's justice—'tis a good weapon in
weak hands; and that's the way many a rogue es¬
capes a good dressing. What 1 you are laughing
at it ?
Simon. Ees.
Job. Eesl you Cornish baboon, in a laced livery!
— Here's something to make you grin more.
(Holding up a half-crown between his finger and
thumb.) Here's a half-a-crown.
Simon. (Laughing.) He, he!
Job. He, he!—Confound your Land's End chops!
'Tis to get me to your master; hut before you have
it, though he keeps a gentleman-justice-shop, I
shall make free to ring it on his counter. (Throwing
it on the floor.) There, pick it up! (Simon picks up
the money.) I am afraid you are not the first un¬
derling that has stooped to pocket a bribe, before
he'd do his duty. Now, tell the gentleman-justice
1 want to see him.
Simon. I'll try what I can do for you.
[Exit Simon.
Job. What makes you tremble so, Mary ?
Mary. I can't help it; I wish I could persuade
you to go back again.
Job. I'll stay till the roof falls, but I'll see some
of 'em!
Mary. Indeed, you don't know how you terrify
me! But if you go to Sir Simon, you 11 leave me
here in the hall; you won't make me go with you,
father ?
Job. Not take you with me ? — I'll go with my
wrongs in my hand, and make him blush for his
son.
Mary. I hope yon'U think better of it
Job. Why?
Mary. Because, when you came to talk, I should
Bink with shame, if he said anything to you that
might—that
Job. Might what?
Mary. (Sighing and hanging down her head.) Make
you blush tor your daughter.
Job. I won't have you waiting, like a petitioner,
in this hall, when yon come to be righted—no, no!
Mary. You wouldn't have refused me anything
once; but I know 1 have lost your esteem, now.
JOHN BULL; OR, THE ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
753
Job. Lost!—Forgive is forgive, all the world over.
You know, Mary, , have forgiven you; and mak.ng
it up by halves, is making myself a brass tea-kettle,
warm one minute, cold the next; smooth without,
and hollow within.
Mary. Then pray don't deny me!—I'm sure you
wouldn't if you knew half I am suffering.
Job. Do as yuu like, Mary; only never tell me
again you have lost my esteem; it looks like sus¬
picion on both sides. Never say that, and 1 can
deny you nothing in reason, or perhaps, a little
beyond it.
Re-enter SIMON.
Well, will the justice do a man the favour to do his
duty ? Will he see me ?
Simon. Come into the room next bis library. A
stranger, who's with young master, ha' been
waiting for un longer nor you; but I'll got you in
first.
Job. I don't know that that's quite fair to the
Other!
Simon. Eesitbe; for t'other didn't gi' I half-a-
erown.
Job. Then stay till I come back, Mary; I see, my
man, when you take a bribe, you are scrupulous
enough to do your work for it; for which, I hope,
somebody may duck you with one hand, and rub
you dry with the other.
[Exeunt Job and Mary, following Simon.
SCENE IIL—The Library in the Manor House.
SIR SIMON ROCHDALE ond MR. PENNYMAN,
his steward, discovered at the table, JOB THORN-
BERRY standing at a little distancejrom them.
Sir Simon. Remember, the money must be ready
to-morrow, Mr. Pennyman.
Mr. J'. (Going.) It shall, Mr. Simon.
Sir Simon. (To Job.) So, friend, your business,
you say, is And, Mr. Pennyman—(he returns)
give Robin Ruddy notice to quit his cottage di¬
rectly.
Mr. P. I am afraid, Sir Simon, if he's turned out,
it will be his ruin.
Sir S. He should have recollected that before he
ruined his neighbour's daughter.
Job. (Starling.) Hal
sir Simon. What's the matter with the man?
(7V> Pennyman.) His offence is attended with
great aggravation. Why doesn't he marry her ?
Job. (Emphatically.) Aye!
Sir Simon. Pray, friend, be quiet
Mr. P. He says it would make her more unfor¬
tunate still; he's too necessitous to provide even
for the living consequence of his indiscretion.
Sir Simon. That doubles his crime to the girl He
must quit. I'm a magistrate, you know, Mr. Penny-
man, and 'tis my duty to discourage all such im¬
morality.
Mr. P. Your orders must be obeyed, Sir
Simon.
[Exit.
Sir Simon. Now, yours is justice business, you
say. You come at an irregu ar time, and I have
somebody else waiting lor me; so be quick. What
brings you hei e ?
Job. My daughters seduction, Sir Simon; and
it has done my heart good to hear your worship
say, 'tis your duty to discourage all such immo¬
rality. .
Sir Simon. To be sure it is; but men like you
shouldn't be too apt to lay hold of every sentiment
justice drops. lest you misapply it. 'Tis like an
officious footman snatching up his mistress peri¬
wig, and clapping it on again, hind part before.
What are you ?
Job, A tradesman, Sir Simon. I have beei a free¬
holder in this district for many a-year.
Sir Simon. A freeholder! (.Isit/e.) Zounds, one
of Frank's voters, perhaps, acd of consequence at
his election. (Aloud.) Won't you, my good friend,
take a chair ?
Job. Thank you, Sir Simon; I know my proper
place. 1 don't come her9 to sit down with Sir
Simon Rochdale, because ' am a freeholder; I
came to demand my i*ght, because you are a jus¬
tice.
Sir Simon. A man of respectability, a tradesman,
and a freeholder, in Buch a case as yotiiB, had bet¬
ter have recourse to a court of law.
Job. I am not rich now, Sir Simon, whatever I
may have been.
Sir Simon. A magistrate, honest friend, can't give
you damages; you must fee counsel.
Job. 1 can't afford au expensive law suit, Sir
Simon; and begging your pardou, I think the law
never intended that an injured man, in middling
circumstances, should either go without redress, or
starve himself to obtain it.
Sir Simon. Whatever advice I can give you,
you shall have it for nothing; but I can't jump
over, justice's hedges and ditches. Courts of law
are broad high roads, made for national conveni¬
ence: if your way lie through them, 'tis but fair
you should pay the turnpikes. Who is the of¬
fender ?
Job. He lives upon your estate, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Oh, ho! a tenant. Then I may
carry you through your journey by a short
cut. Let him marry your daughter, my honest
friend.
Job. He won't.
Sir Simon. Why not ?
Job. He's going to marry another.
Sir Simon. Then he turns out; the rascal sha'n't
disgrace my estate four-and-twenty hours longer 1
Injure a reputable tradesman, my neighbour—a
freeholder 1—and refuse to—Did you say he was
poor?
Job. No, Sir Simon; and, by-ai d-bye, if you don't
stand in his way, he may be very rich.
Sir Simon. Rich, eh? Why, zounds 1 is he a
gentleman ?
Job. I have answered that question already, Sir
Simon.
Sir Simon. Not that I remember.
Job. I thought I had been telling you his be¬
haviour.
Sir Simon. Umph!
Job. I reckon many of my neighbours honest
men, though I can't call them gentlemen; but
I reckon no man a gentleman, that I can't call
honest.
Sir Simon. Hark ye, neighbour; if he's a gentle¬
man (and I have several giddy young tenants with
more money than thought), let him give you a good
round sum, and there's an end.
Job. A go d round sum! (Aside.) Zounds! I shall
choke. (Aloud.) A ruffian, with a crape, puts a pistol
to my breast, and robs me of forty shillings; a
scoundrel, with a smiling face, creeps to my fire¬
side, and robs my daughter of her innocence; the
judge can't allow restitution to spare the highway¬
man : then pray, Sir Simon—I wish to speak humbty
—pray don't insult the father, by calling money a
reparation from the seducer!
Sir Simon. (Aside.) This fellow must be dealt
with quietly, I see. (Aloud.) Justice, my honest
704 JOHN BULL,: OH, THE ]
frier.d, is Is justice. As a magistrate, I make no
dis'inction of persons. Seduction is a heinous of¬
feree ; and whatever is in my power, I—
Job. The offender is in your power, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Well, well, don't be hasty, and IT1
take cognizance of him. We must do things in
form; but you mustn't be passionate, (doing to the
table, and taking vp a pen.) Come, give me his
Christian and surname, and I'll see what's to be
done for you. Now, what name shall I write ?
Job. (Emphatically.) Francis Rochdale!
Sir Simon, (dropping the pen, looting at Job, and
itart. ng np.) Damn me, if it isn't the brazier!
Job. Justice is justice, Sir Simon. I am a re¬
spectable tradesman, your neighbour, and a free¬
holder. Seduction is a heinous offence; a magis¬
trate knows no distinction of persons; and a rascal
musn't disgrace your estate four-and-twenty hours
longer.
Sir Simon. {Sheepishly.) I believe your name is
Thornberry?
Job. It is, Sir Simon. I never blushed at my
name, till your son made me blush for yours.
Sir Simon. Mr. Thornberry, I—I heard some¬
thing of my son's — a — little indiscretion some
mornings ago.
Job. Did you, Sir Simon? You never sent to
me about it; so, I suppose, the news reached
you at one of the hours you don't set apart for jus¬
tice.
Sir Simon. This iB a—a very awkward business.
Mr. Thornberry; something like a hump back —
we can never set it quite straight; so we must
bolster it.
Job. How do you mean, Sir Simon?
Sir Simon. Why—'tis a—disagreeable affair, and
—we must hush it up.
Job. Hush it up, a justice compound with a father
to wink at his child's injuries! If you and I hush
it up so, Sir Simon, how shall we hush it up here ?
{Striking hit breast.) In one word, will your son
marry my daughter ?
Sir Simon. What, my son marry the daughter of
a brazier ?
Job. He has ruined the daughter of a brazier. If
the best lord in the land degrades himself by a
crime, you can't call his atonement for it a conde¬
scension.
Sir Simon. Honest friend—I don't know in what
quantities you may sell brass at your shop, but
when you come abroad, and ask a baronet to marry
his son to your daughter, damn me, if you arn't a
wholesale dealer!
Job. An I can't tell, Sir Simon, how you may
please to retail justice, but when a customer comes
to deal largely with you, damn me if you don't shut
up the shop windows!
Sir Simon. You are growing saucy. Leave the
room, or I shall commit you!
Job. Commit me! You will please to observe,
Sir Simon,I remembered my duty till you forgot
yours. You asked me at first to sit down in your
presence—I knew better than to do so, before a
baronet and a justice of the peace. But I lose my
respect for my superior in rank when he's so much
below my equals in fair dealings; aud since the
magistrate has left the chair, (slamminy the chain
into the middle of the room,) 111 sit down on it.
(Sitting down.) There! 'tis fit it should be filled by
somebody; and, hang me! if I leave the house tin
you redress my daughter, or I shame you all over
the country.
Sir Simon. Why, you impudent mechanic ! I
shouldn't wonder if the scoundrel called for my
INGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE,
clerk, and signed my mittimus, (Rings bell.) Fel¬
low. get out of that chair.
Job. I Bban't stir. If you want to sit down, take
another. This is the choir of justice : it's the most
uneasy for you of any in the room.
Enter SIMON.
Sir Simon. Tell Mr. Rochdale to come to me di¬
rectly.
Simon. Ees. Sir Simon. (Seeing Job ) He, be!
Sir Simon. Don't stand grinning, you booby, but
go.
Simon. Ees, Sir Simon. He, he !
[Exd Simon, laughing.
Job. (Reaching a book from the table.) "Burns'
Justice!"
Sir Simon. And how dare you take it up ?
Job. Because you have laid it down. Read it a
little better, and then I may respect you more.
(Thromng it on the floor.) There it is.
Re-enter FRAN K ROCHDALE, followed by PER&
URINE.
Sir Simon. So, sir, prettily I am insulted on your
account
fYank. Good heaven, sir, what iB the matter ?
Sir Simon. The matter! (Pointing to Job.) Lug
that old bundle of brass out of my chair directly.
(Prank casts his eyes on Thornberry, then on
the ground, and stands abashed.)
Job. He dare as soon jump into one of your tin
mines. Brass! There is no baser metal than hy¬
pocrisy. He came with that false coin to my shop,
and it passed; but see how conscience nails him tt
the spot now.
Frank. (To Sir Simon.) Sir, 1 came to explain all
Sir Simon. Sir, you must be aware that all is ex¬
plained already. Yon provoke a brazier almapt to
knock me down, and brink me news of it. when
he is fixed as tight in my study as a copper in my
kitchen.
Frank. (Advancing to Job.) Mr. Thornberry, T—
Job. Keep your distance. I am an old fellow,
but if my daughter's seducer comes near me, I'll
beat him as flat as a Btewpan!
Frank. (Still advancing.) Suffer me to speak,
and—
Job. (Rising from his chair, and holding up his
cane.) Come an inch nearer, and I'll be as good as
my word!
Ft re. (Advancing between them.) Hold!
Job. Eh! you here ? Then I have some chance,
perhaps, of being righted at last.
Pert. Do not permit passion to weaken that
chance.
Job. Oh, plague! you don't know;—I wasn't
violent till—
Pere. Nay, nay; cease to grasp that cane. While
we are blessed with laws to chastise a culprit, the
mace of justice is the enly proper weapon for the
injured. Let me talk with you.
(Pereijrine and Thornberry retire up.)
Sir Simon. (To Prank.) Well, sir, who may this
last person he, whom you have thought proper
should visit me ?
Frank. A stranger in this country, sir, and—
Sir Simon. And a friend, I perceive, of that old
ruffian.
Frank. I have a reason to think, sir, he u a friend
to Mr. Thornberry.
Sir Simon. I am very much obliged to you. You
send a brazier to challenge me, and now, I suppose,
you have brought a travelling tinker for his second.
Where does he come from?
JOHN BULL: OR, THE I
Frank. India, sir. He leaped from the vessel
that was foundering on the rocks this morning, and
swam to shore.
Sir Simon. Did he ? I wish he had taken the
jump with the brazier tied to his neck.
(Perigrine and Thornberry come forward.)
Pert. (Apart to Job.) I can discuss it better in
your absence. Be near with Mary: should the
issue be favourable, I will call you.
Job. (Apart to Perigrine.) Well, well, I will; you
have a better head at it than I. Justice! Oh. if I
was Lord Chancellor, I'd knock all the family down
with the mace in a minute!
[Exit Job.
Pere. Suffer me to say a few werds, Sir Simon
Rochdale, in behalf of that unhappy man.
(Frank retires tip.)
Sir Simon. And pray, sir, what privilege have
you to interfere in my domestic concerns ?
Pere. None, as it appears abstractedly. Old
Thornberry has just deputed me to accommodate
hit domestic concerns with you : I would not wil¬
lingly touch upon yours.
Sir Simon. Pooh, pooh! You can't touch upon
one, without being impertinent about the other.
Pere. Have the candour to suppose, Sir Simon,
that I mean no disrespect to your house. Although
I may stickle lustily with you in the cause of an
aggrieved man, believe me, early habits have
taught me to be anxious for the prosperity of the
Itochdales.
Sir Simon. Early habits i
Pere. i happened to be born on your estate, Sir
Simon, and have obligations to some part of your
family.
Sir Simon. Then, upon my soul, you have chosen
a pretty way to repay them.
Pere. I know no bet'er way of repaying them
than by consulting your family honour. In my
boyhood, it seemed as if nature had dropped me
a kind of infant-subject on your father's. Cornish
territory; and the whole pedigree of your house
is familiar to me.
Sir Simon. Is it? Aside.) Confound him! he bos
hoard of the miller. (Aloud.) Sir, you may talk
this tolerably well; but'tis my hope—my opinion,
I mean - you can't tell who was my grandfather.
Pere Whisper the secret to yourself, Sir Simon;
and let reason also whisper to you, that when
honest industry raises a family to opulence and
honours, its very original lowness Bheds lustre on
its elevation; but all its glory fades when it has
given a wound, and denies a balsam, to a man as
humble, and as honest, as your own ancestor!
Sir Simon. But I haveu't giv. n the wound. (To
Frank.) And why, good sir, won't you be pleased
to speak your sentiments V
Frank. (Advancing.) The first are, obedience to
my father, sir-; and, if I must proceed, I own that
nothing in my mind, but the amplest atonement
can extinguish true remorse for a cruelty.
Sir Simon. Ha I In other words, you can't clap
an extinguisher upon your feelings, without a
father-in-iaw who can sell you one. But Lady
Caroline Braymore is your wile, or I am no longer
your father!
Enter TOM SHUFFLETON and LADY CAROLINE
BRAYMORE.
Shuffle. How d'ye do. good folks ? how d'ye do ?
Sir Simon. Ha, Lady Caroline 1 Tom, I have
had a little business. The last dinner-bell has
rung, Lady Caroline; l»ut I'U attend you directly.
NGLISHMAIUS FIRESIDE. 751
Shuffle. Baronet, I'm afraid we sha'n't be able to
dine with you to-day.
Sir Simon. Not dine with me ?
Lady C. No: we are just married.
Sir Simon. The devil! Married!
Shuffle. Yes; we are married, and can't come.
Pere. (Aside.) Then 'tis time to speak to old
Thornberry. (Fecit.
Sir Simon. Lady Caroline!
Lady C. I lost my appetite in your family thia
morning, Sir Simon; and have no relish for any¬
thing you can have the goodness to offer me. (Goes
up.)
Shuffle. Don't press us, baronet: that's quite out
in the New School.
Sir Simon. Confound the Now School! Who will
explain all this mystery ?
Frank. Mr. Shuffleton shall explain it, sir, and
other mysteries too.
Shuffle. My dear Frank, I—I have had a devilish
deal of troublo in getting this business off your
haffds;—but, you see, I have done my best for
you.
Frank. For yourself, you mean.
Shuffle. Come, my good fellow, don't be ungrate¬
ful to a friend.
Frank. Take back this letter of recommendation
you wrote for Mary as ft friend! When you assume
that name with me, Mr. Shuffleton, for myself 1
laugh; for you I blush ; but for sacred friendship's
profanation I grieve!
(Turns ft om him.)
Shuffle. That all happens from living so much out
of town.
(Goes up to Lady Caroline.)
Re-enter PEREGRINE, JOB THORNBERRY and
MARY.
Pere. Now. Sir Simon, as accident seems to have
thwarted a design which probity could never ap¬
plaud, you may, perhaps, be iuclined to do justice
here.
Job. Justice is all I come for; hang their favours.
Cheer up, Mary!
Sir Simon. (To Peregrine.) I was in hopes I had
got rid of you. You are an orator from the sea¬
shore; but you must put more pebbles in your
mouth, before you harangue me into a tea-kettle
connexion!
(Retires up.)
Shuffle. (Quizzing Peregrine.) That's my new
friend at the Red Cow' lie is the new-old ehere
ami to the honest tea-kewie's daughter.
Frank. Your insinuation is false, sir!
Shuffle. (Advancing towards Frank.) False!
LadyC. (Rising, and coming between them.) Hush!
don't quarrel: we are only married to-day 1
Shuffle. That's true: I won't do anything to make
you unhappy for these three weeks, So, adieu, Sir
Simon!
[Exeunt Shuffleton and Lady Caroline.
Pere. Sir Simon Rochdale, if my oratory fail,
and which, indeed, is weak, may interest prevail
with you ?
Sir Simon. No: rather than consent, I'd give up
every acre of my estate!
Pere. Yeur conduct proveB you unworthy of your
estate: and, unluckily for you, you have roused
the indignation of an elder brother, who now stands
before you, and claims it!
Sir Simon. Eh?-Zounds!—Peregrine!
Pere. I can make my title too good, in an instant,
for you to dispute it. My agent in London has long
had documents ou the secret he has kept; and
?56 JOHN BOLL; OR, THE 1
feveral old inhabitants here, 1 know, are prepared
to Identify me.
Sir Simon. 1 had a run-away brother—a boy that
everybody thought dead: how came he not to claim
till now ?
Pert. Because, knowiDg he had given deep cause
of offence, he never would have esserted his aban¬
doned right, had he not found a brother neglecting,
what no Englishman should neglect—justice and
humanity to his inferiors. (Goes.)
Enter DENNIS BRULGRUDDERY.
Dennis. Stand aisy, all of you; for I've big news
for my half-drowned customer. (Seeing Peregrine.)
Och! bless your mug 1 and is it there you are?
Sir Simon. What's the matter now?
Dennis. Hold your tongue, you little man I There's
a great post just come to your manor-house, and
the Indiaman's worked into port
(Sir Simon goes up.)
Job. (To Peregrine.) What, the vessel with all
your property ?
Dennis. By all that's amazing, they say you have
• hundred thousand pounds in that ship!
Pere. My losses might have been somewhat more
without this recovery. (To Job.) I have entered into
a sort of partnership with you, my friend, this
morning; how can wo dissolve it ?
Job. You are an honest man—so am I; so settle
that account as you like.
NGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE.
Pert. (Handing Mary forward.) Come forth, then,
injured simplicity!—Of your own cause you shall
be now the arbitressl
Maty. Do not make me speak, sir! I am so hum¬
bled—so abashed
Job. Nonsense!—We are sticking up for right.
Pere. Will you, then, speak, Mr. Rochdale ?
Frank. My father is bereft of a fortune, sir; but I
must hesitate till his flat is obtained, as much as if
he possessed it.
Sir Simon. Nay, nay; follow your own inclina¬
tions now.
Frank. May L sir? Oh! then, let the libertine
now make reparation, and claim a wife.
(Embracing Mary.)
Dennis. His wife 1 Och I what a big dinner we'll
have at the Red Cow 1
Pere. (To Sir Simon.) What am I to say, sir?
Sir Simon. Oh! you are to say what you
please,.
Pere. (To Frank, and Mary.) Then bless you both!
—And, though I have passed so much of my life
abroad, English equity, brother, is dear to my heart
Respect the rights of honest John Bull, and our
family concerns may be easily arranged.
Job. That's upright! (To Frank.) I forgive you,
young fnau, for what has passed; but no one de¬
serves forgiveness, who refuses to make amende
when iie has disturbed the happiness,of an English¬
man's fireside!
cnra n.
A DRAMATIC ROMANCE, IN THREE ACTS.—BY D. GARRICK.
gyl.—" And you shall take this to remember it."—Act ii, scene 1.
persons gl^resentek
Merlin.
Cymon.
Dorps.
Lingo.
Damon.
Dokilas.
H ym en.
Cupid.
Knights.
Shicph kds.
urg-.nda.
Sylvia.
Fatima.
Dorcas.
Shepherdesses.
ACT I.
SCENE "L—Urganda's Palace.
Enter MERLIN and TJRGANDA.
Urg. But hear me, Merlin; I beseech you, hear
me.
Mer. Hear you I I have heard you; for years
have heard your vows, your protestations. Have
you not allured my affections by every female art?
and when I thought that my unalterable passion was
to be rewarded tor its constancy, what have you
done ? Why, like mere mortal woman, in the true
spirit of frailty, have given up me and my hopes—
lor what? a boy! an idiot
Urg. Even this I can bear from Merlin.
Her. You have injured me, and must bear more.
Urg. I'll repair that injury.
Her. Then send back your fLvonrite Cymon to
the disconsolate 1 rienda.
Urg. How can you imagine that such a poor
ignorant object as Cymon is, can have any charms
for me.
Her. Ignorance, no more than profligacy is ex¬
cluded from female favour; of this the success of
rakes and fools is proof sufficient.
Urg. Y ou mistake me, Merlin; pity for Cymon's
state of mind, and friendship for his father, have
induced me to endeavour at his cure.
Her. False, prevaricating Urganda! love was
your inducement Have you not stolen the prince
from his royal father, and detained him here by
your power, while a hundred knights are in search
after him ? Does not everything about you prove
the consequence of your want of honour and faith
to me ? Y ou were placed on this happy spot, to be
Ithc guardian of its peace and innocence; but, now,
at last, by your example, the once happy lives of
the Arcadians are embittered with envy, pa ' ~
T58
CYMON.
vanity, selfishness, and inconstancy: and whom
are they to curse for this change ? Urganda; the
lost Urganda.
Urg. I beseech you, Merlin, spare me.
bier. Yes; I'll converse with you no more, be¬
cause I will he no more deceived. I cannot hate
you, though I shun you; yet in my misery, I have
this consolation, that the pangs of my jealousy are
at least equalled by the torments of your fruitless
passion.
Still wish and sigh, and wish again;
Love is dethron'd; revenge shall reign!
Still shall my pow'r your vile arts confound,
And Cymon's cure shaH be Urganda's wound.
[Exit.
Urg. " And Cymon's cure shall be Urganda's
wound!" What mystery is couched in these
words ? What can he mean ?
Enter FATIMA, looking after Merlin.
Fat. I'll tell yon, madam, when he is out of bearw
ing. He means mischief, and terrible mischief,
too; no less, I believe, than ravishing you, and
cutting my tongue out. I wish we were out of his
clutches.
Urg. Don't fear, Fatima.
Fat. 1 can't help it; he has great power, and is
mischievously angry.
Urg. Here is your protection. (Shews her trand.)
My power is at least equal to his. (Muses.) " And
Cymon's cure shall be Urganda's wound 1"
Fat. Don't trouble your head with these odd ends
of verses, which were spoken in a passion; or,
perhaps, for the rhyme's sake. Think a little to
clear us from this old mischief-making conjurer.
What will you do, madam ?
Urg. What can 1 do, Fatima?
Fat. You might very easily settle matters with
him, if you could as easily settle them with your¬
self.
Urg. Tell me how ?
Fat. Marry Merlin, and send away the young
fellow. (Urganda shakes her head.) I thought so:
but before matters grow worse, give me leave to
reason a little with you, madam.
Urg. I am in love, Fatima. (Sighs.)
Fat. And poor reason may stay at home: me
exactly! Ay, ay, we are all alike; but with this
difference, madam, your passion is surely a strange
one; you have stolen away this young man, who,
bating his youth and figure, has not one circum¬
stance to create affection about bim. He is half an
idiot, madam, which is no great compliment to
your wisdom, your beauty, or your power.
Urg. I despise them all; for they can neither re¬
lieve my passu n, nor awaken his.
Fat. Cymon is incapable of being touched with
anything; nothing gives him pleasure, but tw'rling
liis cap, and bunting butterflies: he'll make a sad
lover, indeed, madam.
Urg. I can wait with patience for the recovery
of his understanding; it begins to dawn already.
Fat. Where, pray?
Urg. In his eyes.
Fat. Eyes! Ha, ha, ha; Love has none, madam;
the heart only sees, on these occasions. Cymon
was born a fool, and his eyes will never look as
you would have them, take my word for it.
Urg. Don't make me despair, Fatima.
Fat. Don't lose your time, then; 'tis the business
of beauty to make fools and not cure them. Even
1, poor I, could have made twenty fools of wise
nun, in half the time that you have been endea¬
vouring to make your fool sensible. Oh 1 'tie a sad
way of spending one's time.
Urg. Silence, Fatima 1 my passion is too serious
to be jested with.
Fat. Far gone, indeed, madam; and yonder goes
the precious object of it.
Urg. He seems melancholy: what's the matter
with him ?
Fat. He's a fool, or he might make himself very
merry among us. I'll leave you to make the most
of him. (doing.)
Urg. Stay, Fatima, and help me to divert him.
Fat. A sad time, when a lady must call in help
to divert her gallant! but I'm at your service.
Enter CYMON, melancholy.
Cymon. Heigho! (Sighs.)
Fat. What's the maiter, young gentleman ?
Cymon. Heigho!
Urg. Are you not well, Cymon ?
Cymon. Yes, I am very well.
Urg. Why do you sigh, then ?
Cymon. Eh! (Looksfoolish.)
Fat. Do you Bee it in his eyes now, madam ?
Urg. Pr'ythee, be quiet. What is it you want?
tell me, Cymon; tell me your wishes, and you shall
have them.
Cynwn. Shall I ?
Urg. Yes, indeed, Cymon.
Fat. Now for it
Cymon. I wish—heigho!
Urg. These sighs must mean something. (Aside
to Fatima,)
Fat. I wish you joy, then; find it out, madam.
(Apart.)
Urg. What do you sigh for? (To Cymon.)
Cymon. I want—(Sighs.)
Urg. What, what, my sweet creature ? (Eagerly.)
Cymon. To go away.
Fat. Oh, la! the meaning's out
Urg. Where would you go ?
Cymon. Anywhere.
Urg. Had you rather go anywhere, than stay
with me ?
Cymon I had rather go anywhere than stay with
anybody.
Urg. Will you love me if I let you go ?
Cymon. Anything, if you'll let me go; pray, let
me go.
Fa'. I'm out of all patience! what the deuse
would you have, young gentleman? Had you one
grain of understanding, or a spark of sensibility in
you, you would know and feel yourself to be the
happiest of mortals.
Cymon. I had rather go, for all that
Fat. The picture of the whole sex! Oh! ma¬
dam, fondness will never do: a little coquetry is
the thing: 1 bait my hook with nothing else; and
I always catch fish. (Aside to Urg.)
Urg. I will shew him my power, and captivate
his heart through his senses.
Fat. You'll throw away your powder and shot
INCANTATION.—UBGANDA.
Hither, spirits, that aid me, hither!
Whither stays my lo t! ah! whither 9
Alas ! this heart must faithful prove.
Though s ill he flies Urganda's love.
[Urganda waves her wand, and the scene changes
to a magnificent Garden. Cupid and the Loves
descend. Ballet by Loves and Zephyrs. During
the dance, Cymon stares vacantly, grows inat-
I ttdive, and at last, falls asleep.]
Urg, Look, Fatima, nothing can affect his insen¬
sibility; and yet, when a beautirnl simplicity!
Eat. Turn him > ut among the sheep, madam,
and think of him no more; tis all labour in vain,
as the song says, I assure you.
Urg. Cymon, Cymon! what, are you dead to
these entertainments ?
Cymon. Dead! I hope not. (Star's.)
Urg. How can you be so unmoved ?
Cymon. They tired me so, that I wished them a
good night, and went to sleep. But where are
they?
Urg. They are gone, Cymon.
Cymon. Then let me go too. (Gets up.)
Fat. The old story ?
Urg. Whither would you go? Tell me, and I'll
go with you, my sweet youth.
Cymon. No, I'll go by myself.
U> g. And so you shall; but where ?
Cymon. Into the fields.
Urg. But is not this garden pleasanter than the
fields, my palace than cottages, and my company
more agreeable to you than the shepuerds ?
Ctmon. Why, how can I tell till I try ? you won't
let me choose.
AIR.—CYMON.
You gave me, last week, a young linnet,
Shut up in a fine golden cage;
Yet how sad the poor thing was within it,
Oh! how it did flutter and rage !
Then he mop'd, and he pin d,
That his wings were confin'd.
Till I operCd the door of his den;
Then so merry was he.
And because he was free,
He came to his cage back again.
And so should I, too, if you would let me go.
Urg. And would you return to me again ?
Cymon. Yes, I would; I've no where else to go
to.
Fat. Let him have his humour; when he is not
confined, and is seemingly disregarded, you may
have him, and mould him as you please, 'lis a
receipt for the whole sex.
Urg. 1*11 follow your advice. [Exit Fatima.']
Well, Cymon, you shall go wherever you please,
and for as long as you please.
Cymon. And shall 1 let my linnet out, too ?
Urg. And take this, Cymon, wear it for my sake,
and don't forget me. (Gres him a nosegay.) Go,
Cymon, take your companion, and be happier than
I can make you.
AIR.-URG AND A.
One adteu before you leave me.
One sigh, although that sigh deceive me;
Oh! let me think you true!
Cruel! thus Urganda flying;
Cruel! this tond heart denying;
One sigh, vne last adieu.
Though my ardent rows be slighted,
Though my lore be unrequited.
Oh ! hide it from my view I
Let. me feel not fm forsaken;
Bather let me die mistaken,
Than breathe one last adieu. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A rural Prospect.
Enter PHCEBE and DAPHNE.
Phcebt What, to be left and forsaken!' and
Me the' false fellow make the same vows to
ION. »59
another, almost before my face! I can't bear it,
and I won't Oh! that I had the power of our en¬
chantress yonder. I would play the devil with them
all.
Daph. And yet, to do justice to Sylvia, who
makes all this disturbance among you, she does
not in the least encourage the shepherds, and she
can't help their falling in love with her,
Phoebe. May be bo; nor can I help hating and
detesting her, because they do fall in love with
her.
Unco. (Singing without.) " Care flies from the lad
that is merry."
Daph. Here comes the merry Linco, who never
knew care, or felt sorrow. If you can bear his
laughing at your griefs, or singing away his own,
you may get some information from him.
Enter LINCO, singing.
Linco. What, my girls of ten thousand! I was
this moment defying love and all his mischief, and
you are sent in the nick by him, to try my courage;
but I'm above temptation, or below it; I duck
down, and all his arrows fly over me.
AIR.—LINCO.
Care flies from the lad that is merry.
Whose heart is as sound
And cheeks are as round,
As round and as red as a cherry.
Phoebe. What are you always thus ?
Lwco. Ay, or heaven help me! What, would
you have me do as you do ? walking with your arms
across thus—heighoing by the brook-side among
the willows. Oh! fie for shame, lasses ! young and
handsome, and sighing after one fellow a-piece,
when you should have a hundred in a drove, fol¬
lowing you like-like—you shall have the simile
another time.
Daph. No; pr'ythee, Linco, give it us now.
Linco. You shall have it; or what s better, I'll tell
you what you are not like: you are not like our
shepherdess, Sylvia, she's so cold, and so coy, that
she flies from her lovers, but is never without a
score of them; you are always running after the
fellows, and yet are always alone; a very great
difference, let me tell you; frost and lire, that's
all.
Daph. Don't imagine that I am in the pining con¬
dition my poor sister is. 1 am as happy as she is
miserable,
Linco. Good lack ! I'm sorry for it.
Daph. What, sorry that I am happy?
Linco. Oh, no, prodigious glad!
Phoebe. That I am miserable ?
Linco. No, no; prodigious sorry for that, and
prodigious glad of the other.
Phoebe. Pr'ythee, be serious a little.
Linco. No; heaven forbid! If I am serious, 'tis
all over with me. I must laugh at something; shall
I be merry with you ?
Daph. Tne happy shepherdess can bear to be
laughed at.
Linco. Then Sylvia might take your shepherd
without a sigh.
Daph. My shepherd! what does the fool mean ?
Phoebe. Her shepherd! Pray, tell us, Liuco.
(Eagerly.)
Linco. Tis no secret, I suppose. I only met her
Damou and Sylvia together just now, walking
to
Daph What, my Damon!
Unco Your Damon that was. and that would be
Sylvia's Damon, if she would put up with him.
CYMON.
780
Daph. Her Damon! I'll make her to know, a
wicked slut! a vile fellow! Come, sister, I'm
ready to go with you; we'll be revenged. If our
old governor continues to cast a sheep's eye at me,
I'll have her turned out of Arcadia, I warrant you;
a base, mischievous — [Exit.
Phoebe. This is some comfort, however; ha, ha,
ha! in seeing one's sister aa miserable as one's self.
Exit.
Linco. Ha, ha, ha! Oh ! how the pretty, sweet-
tempered creatures are ruffled.
AIR.—LINCO.
This lore puts 'em all in commotion;
For preach what you will,
They cannot be still,
No more than the wind or the ocean. [Exit.
ACT IL
SCENE L—A rural Prospect.
SYLVIA discovered lying upon a bank.
Enter MERLIN.
tier. My art succeeds, which hither has convey'd,
To catch the eye of Cymon, this sweet maid.
Her charms shall clear the mists which cloud his
mind,
And make him warm, and sensible and kind;
Her yet cold heart, with passion's sighs shall move,
Melt as he melts, and give him love for love.
This magic touch shall to these flowers impart
(Towhes a nosegay in her hand.)
A power when beauty gains, to fix the heart
[Exit.
Enter CYMON, with his bird.
Cymon. Away, prisoner, and make yourself
merry. (Birdflies.) Ay, ay, I knew how it would
be with you; much good may it do you, Bob.
What a sweet place this isl Hills and greens, and
rocks, and trees, aud water, and sun, and birds!
Dear me! 'tis just as if I had never seen it before.
(Whistles about till he sees Sylvia, then stops and sinks
his whistling by degrees, with a look and attitude of
astonishment.) Oh, la! what's here? 'Tis something
dropped from the heavens, sure; and yet, 'tis
like a woman, too! Bless me! is it alive ? (Sighs.) It
can't be dead, for its cheek is as red as a rose, and it
moves about the heart of it. I don't know what's
the matter with me. I wish it would wake, that I
might see its eyes. If it should look gentle, and
smile upon me I should be glad to play with it.
Ay, ay, there s something now in my breast that
they told me of. It feels oddly to me; and yet I
don't dislike it.
AIR—CYMON.
All amaze!
Wonder, praise i
Here for e er could I gate I
A little nearer to—
What is't I dot
Fie. for shame.' I am possess'd;
Something creeping in my breast
Wi/l not let me stay or go.
S all I wake it T No, no, not
r am glad I came abroad! I have not been so
pleased ever since I can remember. But, perhaps,
ft may be angry with me. I can't help it, if it is. I
had rather see her angry with me than Urganda
smile upon me. Stay, stay! (Sylvia stirs.) La! what
a pretty foot it has! (Retires. Sylvia raises herself
*rom the bank.)
AIR.—SYLVIA.
Yet awhile, sweet sleep, deceive m4f
Fold me in thy downy arms,
Let not care awake to grieve me,
Lull it with thy potent charms,
I, a turtle, doom'd to stray,
Quitting young the parent's ne*t,
Find each bird a bird of prey;
Sorrow knows not where to rest.
(Sylvia sees Cymon with emotion, while he
gazes strongly on her, and retires, pulling
off his cap.)
8y\ Who's that? (Speaks gently and confused.)
Cymon. 'Tis I. (Bows and hesitates.)
Syl. What's your name?
Cymon. Cymon.
Syl. What do you want, young man?
Cymon. Nothing, young woman.
Syl. What are you doing there ?
Cy mon. Looking at you there. What eyes it hasl
Aside.)
Syl. You'don't intend me any harm ?
Cymon. Not I, Indeed! I wish you don't do me
some. Art thou a fairy, pray ?
Syl. No ; i am a poor harmless shepherdess.
Cymon. I don't know that: you have bewitched
me, I believe. I wish you'd speak to me, and look
at me, as Urganda does.
Syl. What, the enchantress ? Do you belong to
her?
Cimon. I had rather belong to you ; I would not
desire to go abroad, if I did.
Syl. Does Urganda love you 1
Cymon. So she says. If 1 were to stay here always,
I should not he called the simple Cymon.
Syl. Nor I the beard-hearted Sylvia.
Cymon. Sylvia, Sylvia 1 What a sweet name 1 I
could sound it for ever!
Syl, I shall never see you again. I wish I had
not seen you now.
Cymon. If yon did but wish as I do, all the en¬
chantresses in the world could not hinder us from
seeing one another. (Kneels and kisses her hand.)
Syl. We shall be seen, and separated for ever, I
must go.
Cymon. When shall I see you again ? In half an
hour ?
Syl. Half an honr 1 that will be too soon. No,
no; it must be three quarters of an hour.
Cymon. And where, my sweet Sylvia ?
Syl. Anywhere, my sweet Cymon I
Cymon. In the grove, by the river there.
Syl. And you shall take this to remember it
(dives him the nosegay encnanhd by Merlin.) I'wish it
were a kingdom, I would give it you, and a queen
along with it.
Cymon. And here is one for you, too; which is of
no value to me, unless you will receive it; take it,
my sweet Sylvia 1 »
(Gives her hrganda's nosegay.)
DUET—SYLVIA and CYMON.
Syl. Take this nosey ay, .entle youth !
Cymon. And you, sweet maid, take mine:
Syl. Unlike these flowers be thy fair truth;
Cymon.. Unlike these flowers be thint
These changing soon,
Will soon decay,
Be sweet till noon.
Then pass away.
Fair, for a time, their transient charm* appear;
But truth, unchang'd, shall bloom for ever here. *
[Each pressing their heart*. Exeunt,
SCENE II.—Before Urganda's Palace.
Enter URGANDA.
Urg. With what anxiety I watch his return ? And
how mean is that anxiety for an object so insen¬
sible ! Oh, love 1 is it not enough to make thy
votaries despicable in others' eyes 1 Must we also
despise ourselves ?
Enter FATIMA.
Well, Fatima, is he returned ?
Fat. He has no feelings but those of hunger;
when that pinches him he'll return to be fed, like
other animals.
Urg. Indeed, Fatima, his insensibility and in-
gratitade astonish and distract me. Yet am I only
a greater slave to my weakness, and more in-
Capable of relief.
Fat. Why, than, I may as well hold my tongue;
but before I would waste all the prime of my
womanhood in playing such a losing game, 1 would
—but I see you don't mind me, madam; and, there¬
fore, I'll say no more. 1 know the consequence,
and must submit
Urg. What can I do in my situation ? But see
where Cymon approaches! he seems transported.
Look, look, Fatima! he is kissing and embracing
my nosegay; it has had the desired effect, and I am
happy : we'll be invisible, that t may observe his
transports. {Waves her wand, and retires with
Fatima.)
Enter CYMON, hugging a nosegay.
Cymon. Oh, my dear, sweet, charming nosegay 1
To see. thee, to smell thee, and to taste thee, (kisses
it.) will make Urgandaand her garden delightful
to me. (Kisses it.)
Fat. What does he say ? (Apart.)
Urg. Hush, hush! all transport, and about ma
What a change is this! (Apart.)
Cymon. With this I can want for nothing. I pos¬
sess everything with this. Oh, the dear, dear nose¬
gay 1 and the dear, dear giver of it!
Org. The dear, dear giver! Mind that, Fatima!
What heavenly eloquence! Here's a change of
heart and mind! Heigho 1
(Apart.)
Fat. I'm all amazement! in a dream! But is that
your nosegay? (Apart.)
Urg. Mine! How can you doubt it?
(Apart.)
Fat. Nay, I'm near-sighted. (Apart.)
Cymon. She has not a beauty that is not brought
to mind by these flowers. Oh, I shall lose my wits
with pleasure!
Fat. 'Tis pity to lose them the moment you have
found them. (Apart.)
■ Cymon. Oh, Fatima ! I never was proud of my
power till this transporting moment 1
(Apart.)
Cymon. Where shall I put it ? Where shall I con¬
ceal it from everybody ? I'll keep it in my bosom,
next my heart, all the day ; and at night, I will put
it upon my pillow, and talk to it, and sigh to it, and
swear to it, and sleep by it, and kiss it for ever and
ever.
AIR.—CYMON.
What exquisite pleasure I
This sweet treasure.
From me they shall never
Sever.
In thee, in thee.
My charmer 1 tee;
ION. 761
rtl Ugh, and carets thee,
rtl kiss thee, and press thee
Thus, thus, to my bosom for ever and ever.
[ Urganda and Fatima come forward. Cymon
puts the nosegay in his bosom, and looks con¬
fused and astonished.
Urg. Pray, what is that yoti would kiss and
press to your bosom for ever and ever ?
(Smiles.)
Cymon. Nothing but—but—nothing.
Urg. What were you talking to ?
Cymon. Myself, to be sure; I had nothing else to
talk to.
Urg. Yes, but you have, Cymon. There is some¬
thing in your bosom, next your heart.
Cymon Yes, so there is.
Urg. What is it, Cymon? (Smiles.)
Fat. Now his modesty is giving way; we shall
have it at last. (Aside.)
Cymon. Nothing but a nosegay.
Urg. That which I gave you ? Let me see it.
Cymon. What, give a thing, and take it away
again ?
Urg. I would not take it away for the world.
Cymon. Nor would I give it you for a hundred
worlds.
Fat. See it, by all means, madam. I have my
reasons. (Aside to Urganda.)
Urg. I must see it, Cymon; and, therefore, no
delay. I will see it, or shut you up for ever.
Cymnn. What a stir is here about nothing! Now
are you satisfied ? (Holds the nosegay at a distance-
Urganda and Fatima look at one another with sur¬
prise.)
Fat. I was right
Urg. And I am miserable!
Cymon. Have you seen it enough ?
Urg. That is not mine, Cymon.
Cymon. No; 'tis mine.
Urg. Who gave it you ?
Cymon. A person.
Urg. What person male or female?
Cymon. La! how can I tell ?
Fat. Finely improved, indeed! a genius 1
(Aside.)
Urg. I must dissemble. (Aside.) Lookye, Cymon,
I did but spor with you; the nosegay was your
own, and you had a right to give it away, or throw
it away.
Cymon. Indeed, but I did not, I only gave it for
this; which, as it is so much finer and sweeter, I
thought would not vex you.
Urg. Heighol (Aside.)
Fat. Vex her I Oh! not in the least But yon
shouid not have given away her present to a vulgar
creature.
Cymon. How dare you talk to me so ? I would
have you to know she is neither ugly nor vulgar.
No, she is—
Fat. Oh! she! your humble servant, young
Simplicity! La! how can you tell whether it is
male or female ?
(Cymon appears confused.)
Urg. Don't mind her impertinence, Cymon: I
give you leave to follow your own inclinations. I'll
have him watched; this office be yours, my faith¬
ful Fatima. (Apart to Fatima.)
[Exit Fatima.
Cymon. Then I am happy, indeed.
Urg. Cymon, I would that you could love with
constancy like mine; but this you never can
Cymon. Oh! yes, I can love.
(Exeunt,
7<t CY1
SCENE III.—Dorcas's Cottage.
SYLVIA at the door, with Cymoris nosegay in her
hand.
Syl. The more I look upon this nosegay. the
more I feel Cymon in my heart and mind. Ever
since I have seen him, I wander without knowing
where, I speak without knowing to whom, and I
look without knowing at what. Now I dread to
lose him, and how again I think him mine for
ever I
AIB.—SYLVIA.
Oh ! why should we sorrow, who never knew sin t
Let smiles of content shew our rapture within:
This love has so rais'd me I now tread in air !
He's sure sent from heav'n to lighten my care !
Each sheph rdess views me with scorn and disdain;
Each shepherd pursues me, but all is in vain:
No more will I sorrow, no longer despair,
He's sure sent from heaven to light, n my care !
(Linco is seen listening.)
Enter LINCO.
Ltnco. If you were as wicked, shepherdess, as
you are innocent, that voice of yours would cor¬
rupt justice herself, unless she were deaf, as well
as blind.
Syl. I hope you did not overhear me, Linco?
Linco. Oh! but I did, though; and, notwithstand¬
ing I come as the deputy of a deputy governor, to
bring you before my principal, for some complaints
made against you by a certain shepherdess, I will
stand your friend, though I lose my place for it:
there are not many such friends, shepherdess.
Syl. What have I done to the shepherdesses, that
they persecute me so ?
Linco. You are much too handsome, which is a
crime the best of 'em can't forgive you.
Syl. I'll trust myself with you, and face my
enemies.
(^s they are going, Dorcas calls from the
cottage.)
Dor. Where are yon going, child ? "Who is that
with you, Sylvia?
Linco. Now shall we be stopped by this good old
woman, who will know all, and can scarce hear
anything.
Dor. I'll see who you have with you.
Ent'r DORCAS, from the house.
Lin. 'Tis L dame; your k;nsman, Linco. (Speaks
loud in her ear.)
Dor. Oh! is it you, honest Linco? (Takes his
hand.) Well, what's to do now?
Lin. The governor desTes to speak with Sylvia;
a friemlly inquiry, that's alb (Loud )
Dor. For what? for what? Tell me that. I
have nothing to do with his desires, nor she nei¬
ther. He is grown very inquisitive of late about
shepherdesses. Fine doings, indeed! No such
doings when I was young. If he wants to examine
anybody why don't he examine me! I'll give him
:in answer, for him to be as inquisitive as he
pleases.
Linco. But I am your kinsman, dame; and you
dare trust me, sure.
(Speaks loud in her ear.)
Dor. Thou art the best of em, that I'll say for
thee; but the best of you are bad when a young
woman is in the case. I have gone through great
difficulties myself, I can assure you in better times
than these. Why must not I go too ?
Linco. We shall return t» yeu ay^ic—before you
can get there. (Loud.)
i vs.
Sul. You may trust us, mother; my own inno¬
cence, and Linco's goodness, will he guard enough
for me.
Dor. Eh! what?
Linco. She says you may trust her with her inno¬
cence. (Loud.)
Dor. Well, well, I will then. Thou art a sweet
creature, and I love thee better than even I did my
own child. (Kisses Sylvia.) When thou art fetched
away by him that brought thee, 'twill be a woe¬
ful day for me. Well, well, go thy ways with
Linco. I dare trust thee any where. I'll prepare
thy dinner at thy return; and bring my honest
kinsman along with you.
Linco. We will be with you before you can make
the pot boil.
Dor. Before what?
Linco. We will be with you before you can make
the pot boil.
(Speaks very loud and goes off with Sylvia.)
Dor. Heaven shield thee, for the sweetest, best
creature that ever blessed old age! What a com¬
fort she is to me 1 All I have to wish for in this
world, is to know who thou art, who brought thee
to me, and then to see thee as happy as thou baBt
made poor Dorcas. What can the governor want
with her ? I wish I had gone too. I'd have talked
to him, and to the purpose. We had no such
doings when I was a young woman; they never
made such a fuss with ine.
AIR.—DORCAS.
When I was young, though now I'm old,
The men were kind ami true;
But now they're grown up so false and bold,
What i an a woman do ?
Now what can a woman do t
For men are truly
So unruly,
I tremble at seventy-two!
When I were fair, though now so so,
No hearis were given to rove ;
Our pulses beat nor fast nor slow,
But all was faith an t love.
Now what can a woman do t
For men are truly,
So unruly,
I tremble at seventy-two.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.—The Magistrates Routt.
Enter DORUS and DAPHNE.
Dorus. This way, this way. damsel. Now we
are alone, I can hear your grievances; and will re¬
dress them, that I will. You have my good liking,
damsel, and favour follows of course.
Daph. I want words, your honour and worship,
to thank you fitly.
Dorus. Smile upon me, damsel; smile and com¬
mand me. Your hand is whiter than ever, I pro¬
test You must indulge me with a chaste salute.
(Kisses her hand.)
Daph. La! your honour.
(Courttsiii.)
Dorus. You have charmed me, damsel, and I can
deny you nothing. Another chaste salute; 'tis a
perfect cordial. (Kiss's her hand.' Well, what
shall I do with this Sylvia, this stranger, this bag¬
gage, that has affronted thee ? I'll send her where
she shall never vex thee again — an impudent,
wicked—(Kisses her hand.) I'll send her packing
CYMON.
763
this very day; this hand, this lily hand, has signed
her fate, (kisses it.)
Enter LINCO.
Linco. No bribery and corruption, I beg of your
aonour.
Dorus. You aro too bold, Linco. Do your duty,
and know your distance. Where is this vagrant,
this Sylvia ?
Linco. In the justice-chamber, waiting for your
honour's commands.
Dorus. Why did not you tell me so ?
Linco. I thought yo ir honour better engaged,
and that it was too much for you to try two female
causes at one time.
Dorus. You thought! I won't have you think,
but obey. Deputies must not think for their
superiors.
Linco. Must not they ? What will become of our
poor country ?
(Going.)
Dorus. No more impertinence, but bring the cul¬
prit hither.
Linco. In the twinkling of your honour's eye.
[Exit.
Daph. I leaye my griefs in your worship's
hands.
Dorus. You leave 'em in my heart, damsel; they
soon shall be changed into pleasures. Wait for me
in the next room. Smile, damsel, smile upon me,
and edge the sword of justiee.
Re-enter LINGO, with SYLVIA.
Daph. Here she comes. See how like an inno¬
cent she looks. But I'll begone. I trust in your
worship. 1 hate the sight of her; I could tear her
eyes out.
[Aside, and exit.
Dorus. (Gates at Sylvia.) Hem, hem! I am to'd,
young woman—hem, hem! that—She does not look
so mischievous as I expected.
(Aside, and turning from, her.)
Linco. Bear up, sweet shepherdess! your beauty
and innocence will put injustice out of countenance.
(Apart to Sylvia.)
Syl. The shame of being suspected confounds
me, and I can't speak.
(Apart.)
Dorus. Where is the old woman, Dorcas, they
told me of ? Did not I order you to bring her before
me?
Linco. The good old woman is so deaf, and your
reverence a little thick of hearing, I thought the
business would be sooner and better done by the
young woman.
Dorus. What, at your thinking again! Young
shepherdess, I hear—I hear—aem! Her modesty
pleases me. (Aside.) What is the reason, I say—
po! that—that 1 hear - She has very fine features
I protest she disarms my anger.
(Aside, and turning from her.)
Linco. Now is your time; speak to his rever¬
ence.
(Apart to Sylvia.)
Dorus. Don't whisper the prisoner.
Syl. Prisoner! Am I a prisoner, then?
Dorus. No, not absolutely a prisoner; but you
are charged, damsel—hem, hem ! ch rged, damsel
—I don't know what to say to her.
(Aside.)
Syl. With what, your honour?
Linco. If he begins to damsel us, we have him
sure. (Aside.)
Sid. What Is mycrime?
Luico. A lade too handsome that's &1L
Dorus. Hold your peace. Why don't you look
up in my face, if you are innocent? (Sylvia loots at
Dorus with great modesty.) I can't stand it; she
has turned my anger, my justice, and my whole
scheme, topsy-turvy. (Aside.) Beach me a choir,
Linco.
Linco. One sweet song, Sylvia, before his rever¬
ence gives sentence.
(Reaches a chair for Dorus.
AIB.-SYLVIA.
From duty if the shepherd stray,
And leave his flocks to feed,
The wolf will seize tht harmless prey,
And innocence will bleed.
(Kneels.)
Dorus. I'll guard thee, and fold thee, too, my
lambk;n; and they sha'n't hurt thee. This is a
meltiDg ditty, indeed I Bise, rise, my Sly via.
(Embraces her.)
Re-enter DAPHNE. Dorus and she start at seeing
each other.
Daph. Is your reverence taking leave of her be¬
fore you drive her out of the country?
Dorus. How now! What presumption is this,
to break in upon us so, and interrupt the course of
justice?
Daph. May I be permitted—
Dorus. No, you may not be permitted. I'll come
to you presently. •
Daph. I knew the wheedling slut would spoil
all. rAside, and exit.
Dorus. I'm glad she's gone. Linco, you must
send her away; I won't see her now.
Linco. And shall I take Sylvia to prison ?
Dorus. No, no, no; to prison! mercy forbid!
What a sin should I have committed to please that
envious, jealous-pated shepherdess! Linco, com¬
fort the damsel. Dry your eyes, Sylvia. I will
call upon you myself, and examine Dorcas myself,
and protect you myself, and do everything myself.
I profess she has bewitched me—1 am all agitation.
(Aside.) I'll call upon you to-morrow, perhaps to¬
night, perhaps in half-an-hour. Take care of her,
Linco. She has bewitched me; and I shall lose
my wits, if I look on her any longer. Oh! the
sweet, lovely, delightful creature!
[Aside, and exit
Linco. Don't whimper now, my sweet Sylvia
Justice has taken up the sword and scales again
and your rivals shall cry their eyes out The day'#
our own, so come along.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—Another part of the Country.
Enter FATIMA.
Fat. Truly, a very pretty, mischievous errand I
am sent upon. T am to follow this foolish young
fellow all about to find out his haunts: not so fool-
ish neither, for he is so much improved of late,
we shrewdly suspect that he must have some fe¬
male to sharpen his intellects; for love, among
many other strange things, can make fools of wits,
and wits of fools. I saw our young partridge run
before me, and take cover hereabouts; I must
make no noise, for fear of alarming him; besides
I hate to disturb the poor things in pairing time
(Looks through the. bushes.)
Enter MEBLiN, unperceived-
Mcr. I shall spoil your peeping, thou evil cotu»
TM CYJ
seller of a faithless mistress. I must torment her
a tittle for her good. (Aside.)
Fat. There they are; our fool has made no bad
choice. Upon my word, a very pretty couple, and
will make my poor lady's heart ache.
Mer. I shall twinge yours a little before we part
(Aside.)
Fat. Well said, Cymon! upon your knees to her 1
Now for my pocket-book, that I may exactly des¬
cribe this rival of ours; she is much too handsome
to live long; she will be either burnt alive, thrown
to wild beasts, or shut up in the black tower; the
greatest mercy she can have will be to let her take
her choice. (Takes out a pocket-book.)
Mer. May be so; but we will prevent the pro¬
phecy if we can. (Aside.)
Fat. (Writes.) '■'She is of a good height, about my
size, a fine shape, delicate features, charming hair,
heavenly eyes, not unlike my own; with such a sweet
smile!" She must be burnt alive I yes, yes, she
must be burnt alive. (Merlin taps her upon the
shoulder with his wand.) Who's there? bless me!
nobody. I protest it startled me. I must finish
my picture. (Writs, and Mei tin waves h'S wand over
her head.) Now let me see what I have written.
Bless me, what's here ? all the letters are as red as
blood my eyes fail me! sure I am bewitched.
(Reads and trembles.) " Urganaa has a shameful pasr-
sion for Cymon; Cymon a most virtuous one for
Sylvia: as for Fatima, wild beasts, the black tower,
and burning alive, are too good for her I" - (Drops the
book.) I have not power to stir a step. I knew
what would come of affronting that devil, Merlin!
(Merlin becomes visible to her.)
Mer. True, Fatima, and 1 am here at your call.
Fat. Oh, most magnanimous Merlin! don't set
your wit to a poor, foolish, weak woman.
Mer. Why then will a foolish weak woman set
her wit to me ? but we will be better friends for the
future. Mark me, Fatima—
(Holds up his wand.)
Fat. No conjuration, I beseech your worship, and
you shall do anything with me.
Mer. I want nothing of you but to hold your
tongue.
Fat. Will nothing else content your fury ?
Mer. Silence, babbler!
Fat. (Finds great difficulty in speaking at first.) I
am your own for ever, most merciful Merlin! 1 am
your own for ever. Oh! my poor tongue, I thought
I never should have wagged thee again. What a
dreadful thing it is to be dumb.
Mer. You see it is not in the power of Urganda
to protect you, or to injure Cymon and Sylvia. I
wiil be their protector against all her arts, though
she has leagued hers1*'; with the demons of re¬
venge: we have no pewer but what results from
Our virtue.
Fat. I had rather lose anything than my speech.
Mer. As you profess yourself my friend (for,
with all my art, I cannot see into a woman's mind,)
1 will shew my gratitude, and my power, by giving
your tongue an additional accomplishment.
Fat. What, shall I talk more than ever?
Mer. (Smiles.) That would be no accomplishment,
Fatima: no, I mean that you should talk less.
Wiien you return to Urganda, she will be inqui¬
sitive, and you very ready to tell her all you
know.
Fat. And may I, without offence to your wor¬
ship.
Mer. Silence, and mark me well — observe me
truly and punctually. Every answer you give to
Urganda a questions must be confined to two words.
yes and no. I have done yon ft great favour, and
you don't perceive it.
Fat. Not very clearly, indeed.
(Aside.)
Mer. Beware of encroaching a single monosyl¬
lable upon my injunction; the moment another
word escapes you, you are dumb for ever.
Fat. Heaven preserve me 1 what will become ol
me ?
Mer. Remember what I eay; as you obey or neg¬
lect me, you will be punished or rewarded. Pare-
well. (Bows.) Remember me, Fatima.
[Exit.
Fat. What a polite devil it is; and what a woeful
plight am I in! this confining my tongue to two
words is much worse than being quite dumb ; I had
rather be stinted in anything than in my speech.
Heigho! there never sure was a tax upon the tongue
before.
[Exit.
SCENE IL
Enter CYMON.
Cymon. Shall I rejoice or grieve at the change
my heart feels? thou hast given me eyes, ears, and
understanding; and till they forsake me, I must be
Sylvia's. Are the new pains, or the strange delights
that agitate me, the greater ? Oh 1 love, it is thy
work;
Enter SYLVIA.
She is here; but pensive! Oh! my Sylvia, why this
drooping mien ? Has not Merlin discovered all that
was unknown to us ? Has he not promised us his
protection? What more can Sylvia want, when
Cymon is completely blessed ?
Syl. Thy wishes are fulfilled then; take my hand,
and with it a heart which, till you had touched,
never knew, nor could even imagine, what was
love.
Cymon. Transporting maid I
(Kisses her hand.
AIR.—SYLVIA.
This cold flinty heart it is you who havetearm'd;
You waken'd my passions, my senses have charm'd;
In vain against merit and Cymon I strove ;
What's life without passion—sweet parsion of love f
The spring should be warm, the young season be gay,
Her birds and her flowrets make blithsome sweet May;
Loie blesses the cottage, an t sings through the grove.
What's life with ,ut passion—sweet passion of low I
Cymon. Thus then I sieze my treasure, will pro¬
tect it with my life, and will never resign it but to
heaven, who gave it to me.
(Embraces her.)
Enter DAMON and DORILAS on one side, art
DORUS and his followers on the other, who sttm
at seeing CYMON and SYLVIA.
Damon. Here they are!
Syl. Ha! bless me I
(Starts.)
Dorus. Fine doings, indeed!
(Cymon and Sylvia stand amazed and ashamed.)
Deril. Your humble servant, modest madam Syl¬
via.
Damon. You are much improved by your new
tutor.
Dorus. But I'll send her and her tutor when
they shall learn better. I am confounded at theii
assurance! Why don't you speak, culprits?
Cymon. We may be ashamed without guilt
ashamed for those who have watched and surprised
us.
Dorus. Did you ever hear or see such an impu¬
dent vaylet?
Dttmoh. Shall we seize them, your worship, and
drag 'em to Urganda?
Dorus. Let me first speak with that damsel.
(/IJ he approaches, Cymon puts her behind him.)
Cymon. That damsel is not to be spoken with.
Dorus. Here's impudence in perfection! Do you
know who I am, stripling ?
Cymon. I know you to be one stationed by the
laws to cherish innocence: but having passions
that disgrace both your age and place, you neither
observe the one. nor protect the other.
Dorus. I am astonished! What, are you the
foolish young fellow I have heard so much of?
Cymon. As sure as you are the wicked old fellow
I have heard so much of.
Dorus. Seize them both this instant
Cymon. That is sooner said than done, governor.
(As they approach on both sides to separate
them, he snatches a staff from one of the
Shepherds, and beats them back.)
Dorus. Fall on him, but don't kill him; for I
must make an example of him.
Cymon. In this cause I am myself an army; see
how the wretches stare, and cannot stir.
AIR.—CYMON.
Come on, come on,
A thousand to one;
I dare you to come on.
Though unpractised and young,
Love has made me stout and strong,
Has given me a charm,
Will not suffer me to fall;
Has steel'd my heart, and nerv'd my arm.
To guard my precious all.
{Looks at Sylvia.)
Come on, come on, fee.
{Cymon drives off the party of She oherds on
one side. Dorus and his party surround
Sylvia.)
Dorus. Away with her, away with her !
Syl. Protect me, Merlin! Cymon 1 Cymon! where
art thou, Cymon ?
Dorus. Your fool Cymon is too fond of fighting
to mind his mistress; away with her to Urganda,
away with her.
{They hurry her off.)
Enter Shepherds, running across, disordered and
beaten by him.
Damon. Tis the devil of a fellow 1 how he has
laid about him.
[Looking back. Exit.
Doril. There is no way but this to avoid him.
[Exit.
Re-enter CYMON, in confusion, and out of breath.
Cymon. I have conquered, my Sylvia! Where
art thou ? my life, my love, my valour, my all ?
What, gone ? torn from me ? then I am conquered,
indeed! , .
{He runs off, and returns several times during
the symphony of the following song.)
AIR—CYMON.
Torn from me, torn from me; which way did they take
hert
To death they shall bear me,
To pieces shall tear me,
Before f 11 forsake her I
[ON. 76ft
Though fast bound in a spell,
Bu Urganda and hell,
Til burst through their charms,
Seise my fair in my arms;
Then my valour shall prove,
No magic like virtue, like virtue and lovet
SCENE III.—A Palace.
Enter URGANDA and FATIMA.
Vrg. Yes! No! Forbear this mockery. What
can it mean ? I will no: bear this trifling with my
passion! Why don't you speak? {Fatima shakes
her head.) Won't you speak?
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Go on then.
Fat. No.
Urg. Will you say nothing but noP
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Distracting, treacherous Fatima! Have yon
seen my rival ?
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Thanks, dear Fatima! Well, now go on
Fat. No.
Urg. This is not to be borne. Was Cymon witn
her?
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Are they in love with each other ?
Fat. Yes.
(Sighs.)
Urg. Where did you see my rival ? {Fatima shakes
herhead.) Are you afraid of anybody ?
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Are you not afraid of me too ?
Fat. No.
Urg. Insolence ? Is my rival handsome ? tell me
that.
Fat. Yes.
Urg. Very handsome?
Fat. Yes, yes.
Urg. How handsome? handsomer than I, or
you?
Fat. Yes—No—
{Hesitating.)
Urg. I shall go distraoted! Leave me.
Fat. Yes.
[Courtesies and exit,
Urg. She has a spell upon her, or she could not
do thus. Merlin's power has prevailed—he has
enchanted her, and my love and my revenge are
equally disappointed. This is the completion of
my misery! Bravura, Urganda 1 Despair and
shame confound me.
Enter DORUS.
Dorus. May I presume to intrude upon my sove¬
reign's contemplations ?
Urg. Dare not to approach my misery, or thou
shalt share it.
Dorus. I am gone; and Sylvia shall go too.
{Going.)
Urg. Sylvia, said you ? where is Bhe ? where is
she ? Speak, speak; and give me life or death.
Dorus. She is without, and waits your mighty
will.
Urg. Then I am a queen again! Forgive me,
Dorus, I knew not what I said; but now I am raised
again I Sylvia is safe?
Dorus. Yes, and I am safe, too; which is no
small comfort to me, considering where I have
been.
Urg. And Cymon—has he escaped ?
Dorus. Yes, he has escaped from us; and, what
is better, we have escaped from him.
ra CIMON.
Urg. Where is he*
Dorm. Breaking tho bones of every shepherd he
meets.
Urg. Well, no matter; I am in possession of the
present object of my passion, and I will indulge it
to the height of luxury. Let 'em prepare my vie*
tim instantly for death.
Dorus. For death 1 Is not that going too far ?
Urg. Nothing is too far; she makes me suffer
ten thousand death, and nothing but hers can ap¬
pease me. (Dorus going.) Stay, Dorus—I have a
richer revenge: she shall he shut up in the black
tower till her beauties are destroyed, and then I
will present her to this ungrateful Cymon. Let
her be brought before me, and I will feast my eyes,
and ease my heart, with this devoted Sylvia. No
reply'. but obey.
Doru*. It is done. This is going too far. (Aside.)
[Exit, shru. 'ging up his shoulders.
Re-enter DOItUS, with SYLVIA.
Urg. Are you the wretch, the unhappy maid,
who has dared to be the rival of Urganda ?
Syl. I am the happy maid who possesses the af¬
fections of Cymon.
Urg. Thou vain rash creature 1 I will make thee
fear my power and hope for my mercy.
(Waves her wand, and the Scene changes to the
Block Rocks.)
Syl. I am stil lunmoved.
(Smiles.)
Urg. Thou art on the very brink of perdition,
and in a moment will be closed in a tower, where
thou shalt Dever see Cymon, or any human being
more.
Syl. While I have Cymon in my heart, I bear a
charm about me, to scorn your power, or whatb
more your ct uelty.
(Music. Urganda waves hor wand, ana Us
Black Tower appears.
Urg. Open the gates and inclose her insolenct
for ever.
Furies enter, who seize Sylvia, and put her in tin
Tower.
Now let Merlin release you if he csd.
(It thunders; the Tower sinks, and Merlin ap¬
pears in the place where the Tower sunk.
All shriek, and run off, except Urganda, who
is struck with terror.)
Mer. " Still shall my power your arts con¬
found,
And Cymon's cure shall be Urganda's wound."
(Urganda waves her wand.)
Wretched Urganda 1 your power is gone.
Urg. In vain I wave this wand, I fesl my power
is gone. Thus 1 destroy the small remains of my
sovereignty.
Forgive my errors, arul forget-my name;
Oh ! drive me hen- e with penitence and shame;
From Mer: in, Cymon, Sylvia, let me fly.
Beholding tnem, my shame can never die.
[Exeunt
SCENE V.—A splendid Amphitheatre.
A grand entree of the Knights of different Orders of
Chivalry.
CHOBUS.
Happy Arcadia still shall be,
Ever happy, while virtuous and free.
[Zxtmk
WEENEE.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY LORD BYRON.
Sieg.—"Liar and fiend ! rut you shall not be slain."—Act v, scene 1.
persons Jepresenteft,
Werner.
TTlric.
Stralenheim.
Idensxein.
Gabor.
Fritz.
Hknuics.
Eric.
Arnheim.
Meister.
Rodolph.
Ludwig.
Servants, &c.
Herman.
OTKK
Josephine,
Ida Stralenheim.
ACT L
SCENE I.—The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small
Town on the Frontier of Silesia. A tempestuous night.
WERNER and JOSEPHINE, his Wife, discovered.
Jos. (Seated.) My love, be calmer.
Wer. I am calm.
Jos. To me—
Yes, but not to thyself: (Stonm.)
Wer. 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through
The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen.
Jos. Ah, no!
I would
Have it a faithful current.
Wer. Let it flow
Until 'tis spilt or checked—how soon I care not
Jos. And canst thou wish for thai which must
break my heart?
IFer. (Approaching her slowly.) The storm of the
night,
Perhaps, affects me ; I'm a thing of feelings,
And have of late been sickly, as alas!
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my
love!
In watching me.
Jos. To see thee well is much—
To see thee happy—
h>;\ VV uere hast '.hot seen me such *
3fo, 25.—Dicks' British Br*ma.
I>et me be wretched with the reet!
(Storm.)
Something beyond oar ontward sufferings (though
These were enough to gnaw into our outward
souls;
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, new.
When, but tor this untoward sickness, which
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and
Hath wasted, not alonemy strength, but means,
And leaves - no I this is beyond me 1—but
For this I had been happy—thou been happy—
The splendour of my rank sustained—my name—
My father's name—been still upheld; and, more
U han those—
Jos. (Abruptly.) My son—our son—our Hlric,
Been clasped again in those long-empty arms,
And all a mother's hunger satisfied,
Twelve years! he was but eight then
MyUlricl my adored 1
(Rises and goes to Werner.)
Take comfort,—we shall find our boy.
(Storm ceases.)
Wer. Wo were in sight of him, of everything
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow—
And to he baffled thus I
(Rises and paces stage.)
Jos. We are not baffled.
Wer. Are we not pennyless?
Jus We ne'er were wealthy.
Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and
power;
And forfeited them by my father's wrath,
In my o'erfervent youth; his death hadnow
Left the path open, but
This cold and creeping kinsman, the Stralenheim,
who so long
Kept his eye on me, hath ere this time outstepped
me,
Become the master of my rights, and lord
Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain. (Crosses.)
Jos. Who knows ? our son
May have returned back to his grandsire, and
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ?
Wer. 'Tis hopeless.
Since his strange disappearance from my father's,
Enta'ling, as it were, my sins upon
Himself, no tidings have revealed his course.
1 parted with him to his grandsire, on
The promise that his anger would stop short
Of the third generation : but heaven seems
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my hoy his father's faults and follies.
Jos. 1 must hope better still,—at least we have
yet
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim.
Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal
sickness. (Crosses.)
What chance, what hope, were left us, if again
Within the snares of this avaricious fiend?—
And how do I know he hath not tracked us here ?
Jos. He does not know thy person; and his
spies,
Who 60 long watehed thee, have been left at Ham¬
burg.
Our unexpected journey, and this change
Of name leaves all discovery far behind :
None hold us here for aught save what we seem!
iter. Save what we seeoil save what we ore—
sick beggars,
Even to our very hopes. Ha, hal
Jos. Alas!
That bitter laugh!
Jt'cr, Who would read in this form
The high soul of the sonof a long line r
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely fanasr
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride
Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek.
And famine-hollowed brow, the lord of halls
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ?
Jos. Hal this has been a canker in
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this,
We had not felt our poverty, but as
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully;
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers,
Thou might'bt have earned thy bread, ab thousands
earn it 1
IF«r. (Ironically,) And been an Hanseatic burg¬
her? Excellent! (Crosses.)
Jos. Whate'er thou might'st have been, to m«
thou art,
What no state, high or low, can ever change,
My heart's first choice:—which chose thee, know¬
ing neither
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; naught, eave thy
sorrows:
While they last, let me comfort or divide them;
When they end, let mine end with t.iem, or thee!
Wer. My better angel! such I nave ever found
thee;
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper,
Ne'er raised -a thought to injure thee or thine.
Trust me, when in my two-and-twenfieth spring
My father barred me from my father's house,
It hurt me less
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother
Excluded in their innocence from what
My faults deserved, exclusion.
(A knocking heard*
Jos. Hark!
Wer. (Putting his hand to his bosom.) A knocking!
[Huts his hand to his bosom, cu if in search
for some weapon.
Jos. Oh, do not look bo. I
Will to the door; itcannot be of import
In this lone spot of wintry desolation.
(Goes to the door and unoottt it.)
Enter IDENSTEIN.
Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess,
And worthy—what iB your name, my friend ?
You have been a guest this month
Here in the prince's palace—(to be sure,
His highness had resigned it to the ghosts
And rats these twelve years—but 'tiB still a
palace)—
I say, you have been our lodger, and as yet
We do not know your name.
Wer. My name is Werner.
hlen. Hum!
A goodly name, a very worthy name
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board;
I have a cousin in the lazaretto
Of Hamburg, who has got a wife, who bore
The same. He is an officer of trust,
Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon),
And has done miracles i' the way of business,
Perhaps you are related to my relative ?
Wer. To yours?
Jos. Oh, yes; we are, but distantly.
(Aside to Werner.) Cannot you humour the dull gos¬
sip till
W# learn his purpose I
WERNEB.
TFer Well, to your easiness T
What brings you here ?
Jos. {Aside.) Patience, dear Werner;
l ien. You don't know what has happened, then ?
Jo-. How should we?
Jden. The river has o'erflowed.
Jos. Alas! we have known
That to our Borrow, for these five days; since
It keeps us here.
Jden. But what you don't know is,
That a great personage, who fain would cross
Against the stream, and three postilions' wishes,
Is drowned below the ford, with five post-horses,
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet.
Joe. Poor creatures 1 are you sure ?
Jden. Yes, of the monkey,
And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
We know not if his excellency's dead
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown,
As it is fit that men in office should be;
But, what is certain is, that he has swallowed
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants;
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller,
Who, at their proper peril, snatched him from
The whirling river, have sent on to crave
A lodging, or a grave, according as
It may turn out with the live or dead body.
Jos And where will you receive him? here, I
hope,
If we can be of service - say the word.
Jden. Here? here? no; but in the prince's own
apartment,
As fits a noble guest; 'tis damp, no doubt.
Not having been inhabited these twelve years:
But then he comes from a much damper place,
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be
Stillliable to cold - and if not, why,
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'erthele6»
I have ordered fire and all appliances
To be got ready for the worst—that is,
In case he should survive.
Jos. Poor gentleman!
1 hope he will, with all my heart.
Wer. Intendant, (Crosses to Idemtein.)
Have you not learned his name ? (Aside to Jos.) My
Josephine.
Be tire, I'll sift this fool.
[Exit Josephine.
Did his attendant mention his
Name or title?
Jden. His name? oh, Lord!
Who knows if he hath now a name or no.
Enter GABOB.
Gabor. (Looking in.) If I intrude, I crave—
Jden. Oh, no intrusion!
( Gabor advances.)
This is the palace; this a stranger like
Yourself; I pray you, make yourself at home :
(Werner retires.)
But where's his excellency, and how fares he ?
Gabor. Wet and wearily, but out of peril;
He paused to change his garments in a cottage,
(Where I doffed mine for these, and came on
hither),
And has almost recovered from his drenching.
He will be here anon.
Jden. What, ho, there! bustle!
Without, there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad!
(Gives directions to six S rvants, who enter)
A nobleman sleeps here to-night—see that
769
A ll is order in the damask chamber—
Keep up the stove—I will myself tc the cellar—
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger }
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel;
Go, you varletsl
[Exit Servants.
But are you sure
His excellency - but his name, what is it?
Gab jr. I do not know.
Jden. And yet you saved his life.
Gabor. I helped my friend to do so.
Men. Well, that's strange,
To save a man's life whom you do not know.
Gabor. Not so; for there are some I know so
well
I scarce should give myself the trouble
Jden. Pray,
Good friend, and who may you he?
Gabor. By my family,
Hungarian.
Jden. Which is called ?
Gabor. No matter what.
Jden. (Aside.) I think that all the world are grown
anonymous,
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ?
Gabor. Sufficient.
Jden. How many?
Gabor. I did not count them.
We came up by mere accident, and just
In time to drag him through his carriage window.
Jden. Well, what would I give to save a great
man!
No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recom¬
pense.
Gabor. Perhaps.
Jden. Now, how much do you reckon on?
Gabor. I have not yet put up myself to sale:
In the meantime, my best reward would be
A glass of your Hockeimer,
For which I promise you, in case you e'er
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,)
I'll pull you out for nothing.
Jden (Aside, going up.) I don't much like this
fellow—close and dry
He seems, two things which suit me not; however,
Wine he shall have: if that unlocks him not,
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. [Exit.
Gabor. (To Werner.) This master of the ceremonies
is
The intendaDt of the palace, I presume:
'Tis a fine building, but decayed.
Wer. The apartment
Designed for him you rescued will be found
In fitter ofder for a sickly guest
Gabor. I wonder, thee, you occupied it not,
For you seem delicate in health.
Wer. (Quickly.) Sir!
Gabor. Pray
Excuse me: have I said ought to offend you ?
Wer. Nothing: but we are strangers to each
other.
Gabor. Pardon me:
I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt
In bearing.
Wer. I have also served, and can
Requite a soldier's greeting.
Gabor. In what service?
The Imperial ?
Wer. (Quickly, then interrupting himself.) I com¬
manded—no—I mean,
I served, but it is many years ago,
770 WEB
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst
Tbe Austrian.
Gabor. Well, that's over, now, and peace
Eas turned some thousand gallant hearts adrift
To lire as they beBt may ; and, to say troth,
Some take the shortest.
Wer. What is that?
Gabor. Whate'er
They lay their hands on. All Silesia and
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands
Of the late troops, who lfrvy on the country
Their maintenance. The longest sword now makes
The surest title to the heaviest purse.
My comfort is that, wander where I may,
I've little left to lose now.
11 'er. And I—nothing.
Gabor. That's harder still. You say you were a
soldier?
H>r. I was.
Gabor. Y ou look one still. All soldiers are
Or should be comrades, even though enemies.
You are poor and sickly—I am not rich, hut
healthy.
I want for nothing which I cannot want;
Y ou seem devoid of this—wilt share it ?
[Pwils out his purse and offers it to him.
Wer. Who
Told you I was a beggar ?
Gain r. You yourself,
In saying you were a soldier during peace-time!
li e/', iLooking at him with suspicion.) lou know
me not?
Gabor. I know no man, not even
Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er
Beheld till half an hour since !
11 'er. Sir, I thank you.
Your offer's noble, were it to a friend,
Ami not unkind as to an unknown stranger,
Though scarcely prudent; but no less, I thank
you.
I am a beggar in all save his trade,
And when I beg of any one, it shall be
Cf him who has the first to offer what
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me.
[Exit.
Gabor. (Solus.) A goodly fellow, by his looks,
though worn,
As most goodly fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
Which tear the life out of us before our time :
1 scarce know which most quickly; but he
6eems
To have seen better days, as who has not
Who lias seen yesterday?
Jden. (Without.) Well, that will do.
Gabor. But here approaches
Our sage intendant, with the wine; however,
For the cup's sake, I'll bear the cup-bearer.
Enter IDENSTEIN, with salver, bottle, and Uco green
glasses.
I den. (Down.) 'Tis herel tbo supernaculum 1
twenty years
Of age, if 'tis a day.
Gabor. Which epoch ipakes
Young women and old wine, and 'tis great pity
Of two such excellent things, increase of years,
Which still improves the one, should spoil tbe
other.
Fill full; here's to our hostess—your fair wife.
[Takes the glass and drinks,
lien. Fair! Weil, 1 trust your tasto in wine is
equal
To thai, you show for beauty; but I pledge yen
Nevertheless. [Prinfcl.
Gab rr. Is not the lovely woman
I met in the adjacent hall your Bpouse ?
Jden. Ah! ha! I would she we<t< i
But you're mistaken, that's the stranger's wife.
Gabor. And by her aspect she might be •
prince's:
Though time hath touched her, too, she still re¬
tains
Much beauty, and more majesty.
Jden. And that
Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein,
At least in beauty.
Gabor. But who [Drmki.
May he be, this stranger? how came he here ?
Jden. In a most miserable old caleche,
About a month since, and immediately
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have
died.
Gabor. Tender and true! but why ?
[Drinks.
Jden. Why, what is life
Without a living ? He has not a stiver.
Gabor. In that case. I much wonder that a per¬
son
Of your apparent prudence should admit
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion.
Ideh. That's true; but pity, as you know, does
make
One's heart commit these follies; and besides,
I hey had some valuables left at that time,
Which paid their way up to the present hour,
And so I gave them
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms.
They served to air them, at the least, as long
As they could pay for firewood. [I'tinis.
Gabor. Poor souls I
Jden. Ay,
Exceeding poor.
Gabor, Aud yet unused to poverty,
If I mistake not. Whither were they going?
Jden. Oh, heaven knows where, unless to heaven
itse.lf! /
Some days ago that looked the likeliest journey
For Werner. v
Gabor. Werner! I have heard the name,
But it may be a feigned one.
Jden. Like enough!
But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and
A blaze of torches from without. As sure
As deBtiny, his excellency's come.
I must be at my post: will you not join me,
To help him from his carriage, and present
Your humble duty at the door ?
Gabor. I dragged him
From out that carriage, when he would have given
His barony or county to repel
The rushing river from his gurgling throat.
For duty, (as you call it,) I did mine then,
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him
herel
Jden. I cringe!—but I shall lose the opportu¬
nity-
Plague take it! he'll be here, and I not there:
[Exit hastily.
Re-enter WEKNER.
Wer. (To himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and
voices. How
All sounds now jar me!
(Eercetcmg Gabor.) Still herel la he no>t
A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer
So suddenly, and to a stranger wore
The aspect of a secret enemy:
For friends are slow at euch. [Crosses.
Gabor. (Rises.) Sir, you seem rapt,
And yet the time is not a kin to thought
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron,
Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drowned noble
May bej for whom this desolate village, and
Its lone inhabitants, show more respect
Than did the elements, is come. [Down.
Iden. (Without.) This way—
This way, your excellency: have a care, .
The staircase is a little gloomy, and
Somewhat decayed: but if we had expected
So high a guest—pray take my arm, my lord!
Enter six Servants of the Place with torches, and
range on each side of ihe Stage—IDENSTEIN
officiously bowing and scraping to BARON
STRALENHEIM. Six Servants of the Baron
follow and range in double file across the back.
Enter FRITZ.
Stra. I'll rest me here a moment
Iden. Ho! a chair I
Instantly, knaves!
(Fritz places a chair, and Stralenheim sits-
Wer. (Aside.) 'Tis he 1 I'm lost 1
Stra. I'm better now.
Viho are these strangers?
Iden. Please you, my good lord,
One says he is no stranger.
Wer. (Aloud and hastily.) UTio says that?
[.Th y look at him with surprise.
Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you! -but
Here's one his excellency may be pleased
To recognise. (Pointing to Gabor.)
Gabor. I seek not to disturb
His noble memory.
Stra. I apprehend
This is one of the strangers to whose aid
1 owe my rescue. Is not that the other?
fPointing to Werner.
Iden. He'.—no, my lord! he rather wants for
rescue
Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man.
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed.
From whence he never dreamed to rise.
Stra. Metbought
That there were two.
Gabor. There were, in company;
But in the service rendered to your lordship,
I needs must say but one, and he is absent.
The chief part of whatever aid was rendered
Was his; I was but a glad second
Unto a nobler principal.
Stra. Where is he ?
Fritz. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where
Tour excellency rested for an hour,
And said he would be here to-morrow, CRetires.}
Stra. Till
That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks,
And then—
Gabor. I seek no more, and scarce deserve
So much. My comrade may speak for himself.
Stra. (Fixing his eyes upon Werner, then aside.)
It cannot be! and yet it must be looked to.
Tis twenty years since I beheld him with
These eyes. Why did I leave
At Hamburg those who wuuld have made assur¬
ance
STER. 771
If this be he or no ? this sudden flood
May keep me prisoner here till —
[Pauses and looks at Werner, then resumes.
This man must
Be watched. If it is he, he is so changed,
His father, rising from his grave again,
Would pass by him unknown. I must be wary ;
An error would spoil all.
Iden. (Coming forward.) Your lordship seems
Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ?
Stra. Yes, 1 will to rest.
[Rises—Fritz draws bark the chair.
Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all
The very furniture of the prince used when
Last here in its full splendour. (Aside.) Somewhat
tattered,
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight.
(Dismisses his own Servants, who give their
torches to Stralenheim s Attendants, and
then exeunt.—/tfe stein directs Stralenheim's
Servants off.
Stra. Good night, good people I (Turning to
Gabor.)
Sir, I trust to-morrow
Will find me apter to requite your service,
in the mean time, I crave your company
A moment in my chamber.
Gabor. I attend you.
Stra. (After a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner.)
Friend 1
Wer. Sir!
Iden. (Running to Werner.) Sir I Lord—oh, Lord!
Why don't you say
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray,
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding:
He hath nor been accustomed to admission
To such a presence.
S'ra. Peace, Intendant 1
Iden. Oh 1
I am dumb!
Stra. (Advances to Werner.) Have you been long
here?
Tiler. LODg?
Stra. I sought
An answer, not an echo.
Wer. You may seek
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer
Those whom I know not.
Stra. Indeed! Nevertheless,
You might reply with courtesy, to what
Is asked in kindness.
Wer. When I know it such,
I will requite—that is reply - in unison
Siva. The intendant said, you had been detained
by sickness—
If I could aid you - journeying the same way!
Tl'er. (Quickly.) I am not journeying the seme
way!
Stra. How know ye
That, ere you know my route?
Wer. Because there is
But one way that the rich and poor must tread
Together. You diverged from that dread path
SomebourB ago, and I some days; henceforth
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend
All to one home.
Stra. Your language is above
Your station.
Wer (Bitterly.) Is it ?
Stra. Or, at least, beyond
Y our garb.
Wer. 'Tis well that it ia not beneath it>.
WERNER.
772
Ab sometimes happens to the better ciad.
But, la a word, what would you with me ?
Stra. (Startled.) I?
Wer. Yes—you! You know me not, and question
me,
And wonder that I answer not—not knowing
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have,
And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me.
Stra. I knew not that you had reasons for re¬
serve
IVer. Many have such:—Have you none?
Stra. None which can
Interest a mere stranger.
Wer. Then forgive
The same unknown and humble stranger, if
He wishes to remain so to the man
Who can have nought in common with him.
Stra. Sir,
I will not baulk your humour, though untoward :
I only meant your service—but, goodnight!
Intendent, show the way!
{To Gabor. Sir, you will with me?
IIden. takes the torch from Fitz.
[.Exeunt Stralenheim, preceded by Idenstein,
and followed by Gabor and Fritz.
Wer. (Solus.) 'Tis he! I am taken in the toils. Be¬
fore
I quitted Hamburg, Giulio, his late steward,
Informed me that he had obtained an order
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore,)
when
I came upon the frontier; the free city
Alone preserved my freedom, till I left
Its walls—fool that I was to quit them ! But
I deemed this humble garb, and route obscure
Had baffled the Blow hounds in their pursuit.
What's to.be done? He knows me not by per¬
son ;
Nor could aught save the eye of apprehension,
Have recognised him, after twenty years,
We met so rarely and so coldly in
Our youth. But those about him 1 Now I can
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who,
No doubt, is a mere tool and spy of Stralen-
heim's,
To sound and to secure me. Without means!
Sick, poor, begirt, too, with the flooding rivers.
How can I hope! Another day,
And I'm detected, - on the very even
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance,
When a few drops of gold might save me still
In favouring an escape.
[Throws himself in a chair.
Enter IDENSTEIN and FRITZ, with a torch and
packet.
Fritz. Immediately.
Iden. I tell you, 'tis impossible.
Fritz. It must
Be tried, however; and if one express
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant.
[Giving packets.
Iden. I will do what I can.
Fritz. And recollect
To spare no trouble; you will be repaid
Tenfold.
Iden. The Baron is retired to rest;
He hath thrown himself into an easy chair
Beside the Are, and slumbers; and has ordered
He may not be disturbed until eleven,
When he will take himself to bed.
Iden. Before , .
An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him.
Fritz. Remember! [oTlfc
Iden. The devil take these great men! they
Think all things made for them. Now here must I
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own expe¬
rience
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling:
But no, " it must," and there's an end. How now ?
Are you there,Mynheer Werner?
Wer. You have left
Your noble guest right quickly.
Idea. Yes; he's dozing,
And seems to like that none should sleep besides
Here is a packet for the commandant
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses:
But I must not lose time : good night! [Frit.
Wer. "To Frankfort!" [Jiiset.
So, so, it thickens! Ay, " the commandant"
This tallies well with all the prior steps
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks
Between me and my father's house. Detested
Coward, he goadsme into madness! No doubt
He writes for a detachment to convey me
Into some secret fortress.—Sooner than
This—
[Looks around, and snatches up a kniji
lying on a table.
Now I am master of myself at least.
Hark, - footsteps 1 How do I know that Stralen¬
heim
Will wait for even the show of state authority?
All that is dear in life, e'en life itself,
Hangs on a moment!
That he suspect me's certain. I'm alone:
He with a numerous train. I weak: he strong
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. Hark! nearer
still!
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates
With the—No I all is silent—'twas my fancy j—
Still the breathless interval between
The flash and thunder;—I must hush my soul
Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire,
To see if still be unexplored the passage
I wot of: it will serve me as a den
Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst
[Draws a panel and exit, closing it after him.
Enter OABOR with a torch, and JOSEPHINE, with
lamps.
Gabor. Where is your huBhand ?
[Looking round.
Jos. Here, I thought: I left him
Net long since in his chamber. But these rooms
Have many outlets, and he may be gone
To accompany the Intendant
[Putt the lamps on table
Gabor. (Approaching her.) Baron StralcBheim
Put many questions to the Intendant on
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain,
I have my doubts it means well.
Jos. Alas!
What can there be in common with the prond
And wealthy Baron and the unknown Werner 1
Gabor. That you know best
Jos. Or, if it were so, how
Come yon to stir yourself in his behalf,
Bather than that of him whose life yon saved ?
Gabor. I helped to save him, as in peril; but
I did not pledge myself to serve him in
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor.
I have proved them; and my spirit boils up when
I fiDd them practising against the weak:—
This is my only motiveu
Jos. It would be
Not easy to persuade my husband of
Tour good intentions.
Gabor. Is he so suspicious ?
Jos. (Sighing.) He was not once; but time and
troubles have
Made him what you beheld.
Gabor. I'm sorry for it [Going.
Suspicion is a heavy armour, and
With its own weight impedes more than it pro¬
tects.
Good night I truBt to meet with him at day¬
break.
[Exit.—Josephine retires up the Sail.
Jos. And 'tis to be amongst these sovereigns
My husband pants! and such his pride of birth—
Whilst I, born nobly also, from my father's
Kindness was taught a different lesson. Ulric 1 my
Bonl
What's that?
Enter WEKNEE hastily with the knife in his hand,
by the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly after
him.
Thou, Werner can it be ? and thus.
Wer. (Sot at first recognising her.) Discovered!
then 111 stab— (Recognising her.) Ah!
Josephine,
Why art thou not at rest?
Jos. What rest ? Great heaven 1
What doth this mean ?
Wer. (Showing a parte.) Here's gold—gold, Jo¬
sephine,
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon.
Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour.
Wer. Dishonour 1
Jos. I have said it.
Wer. Let us hence :
Let us to our chamber.
Jos. Yet one question—
What hast thou done f
Wer. (Fiercely.) Left one thing undone, which
Had made all well; let me not think of it I
Away!
[Exeunt.
ACT IL
SCENE I—A Sail in the same Palace.
Enter IDENSTEIN, FBITZ, and four Servants.—
Idenstein paces in a great hurry up and down.
Iden. Fine doings! goodly doings! honeBt
doings!
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace 1
Oh! that I e'er should live to see this day!
The honour of our city's gone for ever.
(Crosses.)
Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent;
The baron is determined not to lose
This sum without a search.
NEB. 773
Idea■ And so am L
Fritz. But whom do yoa suspect?
Iden. Suspect all people
Without — within — above — below—Heaven help
mei
(CTOMM.)
Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the cham¬
ber?
Iden. None whatsoever.
Fritz. The man called Werner's poor •
Iden. Poor as a miser,
But lodged so far off, in the other wing;
That it can't be he.
Fritz. There's another,
The stranger—
Iden. The Hungarian ?
Fritz. He who helped
To fish the Baron from the Oder?
Now, the only question is—Who else could have
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself?
Iden. You don't mean me?
Fritz. No, sir; I honour more
Your talents
Iden. And my principles, I hope.
Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's to be
done?
Iden. Um—why,
Nothing—but there's a good deal to be said.
We'll offer a reward; move heaven and earth,
And the police, (though there's none nearer than
Frankfort); post notices in manuscript,
(For we've no printer); and set by my clerk
To read them (for few can, save he and I).
We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and
Search empty pockets; also, to arrest
All gipsies, and ill-elothed and sallow people.
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit;
And there's some comfort
For your lord's losses.
Fritz. He hath found a better.
Iden. Where?
Fritz. In a most immense inheritance.
The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman,
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord
Is on his way to take possession.
Iden. Was there
No heir?
Fritz. Oh, yes; hut he has disappeared
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world.
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban
For the last twenty years;
'Tis true, there is a grandson, but then
His birth is doubtfui
Iden. How so ?
Fritz. His prodigal father made
A hasty love, imprudent sort of marriage,
Witii an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter;
The grandsire never since could be induced
To see the parents, though he took the son.
But the strangest is, that he, too, disappeared
Some months ago.
Iden. The devil he did!
WaB there no cause assigned?
Fritz. Plenty, no doubt,
And none perhaps the true one. Some
Charitably have surmised,
As there was something strange and mystic in
him,
That in the wild exuberance of his nature.
He had joined the black bands who lay waste Ln-
satUk
774 WE:
Iden. That cannot be.
A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury—
Fritz. Heaven knows best.
But there are human natures so allied
TTnto the savage love of enterprise,
That they will seek for peril as a pleasurei
Here comes
The Baron and the Saxon stranger, who
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape,
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder
Until this morning. [They retire.
Enter ULRIC and STRALENHEIM.
Stra. But
Can I not serve you?
I owe my life to you, and you refuse
The acquittance of the interest of the debt,
To heap more obligations on me, till
I bow beneath them.
Ulric. You shall say so when
I claim the payment.
Stra. Well, sir, since you will not—
You are nobly born?
Ulric. I've heard my kinsmen say so.
Stra. Your actions show it Might I ask your
name?
Ulric. Ulric.
Stra. Your house's?
Ulric. When I'm worthy of it
I'll answer you. [Retires.
Stra. {Aside.) Most probably an Austrian,
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers.
[To Fritz and Idenstein, who come down.
So, sirsl how have ye sped in your researches?
Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency.
Stra. Then
I am to deem the plunderer is caught?
Iden. Humph!—not exaetly.
Stra. Or, at least, suspected ?
Iden. Oh! for that matter, very much suspected.
Stra. Who may he be?
Iden. Why, don't you know, my lord ?
Stra. How should I ? I was fast asleep,
Iden. And so
'Fas I, and that's the cause I know no more
then does your excellency.
Stra. Doit!
Iden. Why, if
Your lordship, being robbed, don't recognise
The rogue, how Bhould I, not being robbed, iden¬
tify
The thief among so many? In the crowd,
May it please your excellency, your thief looks
Exactly like the rest, or rather better.
Stra. i To Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me
W hat hath been done to trace the fellow ?
Fritz. Faith,
My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture.
Stra. Besides the loss (which, I must own, af¬
fects me
Just now materially), I needs would find
The villain out of public motives.
Ulric. What is all this ?
Stra. You joined us but this morning,
And have not heard that I was robbed last night.
Ulric. Some rumour of it reached me as I passed
The outer chambers of the palace, but
I know no further.
Stra. It is a strange business:
The Intendant can inform yon of the facta.
iden. Most willingly. You see—
Stra. (Impatiently.) Defer your tale
Till certain of the hearer's patience.
Iden. That
Can only be approved by proofs. Yousee—
Stra. (Again interrupting him, ana addressing
Ulric.)
In short, I was asleep upon a chair,
My cabinet before me, with my purse
Upon it, (containing more than I much like to
lose,)
Well, some ingenious person
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants,
Besides those of the palace, and bore away with
A hundred golden ducats, which to find
I would be fain, and there's an end; perhaps
You (as 1 still am rather faint,) would add
To yesterday's great obligation, this,
Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? _
Ulric. Most willingly, and without loss of time—
(To Idenstein.) Come hither, Mynheer:
Iden. But so much haste bodes
Right little speed, and—
Ulric. Standing motionless
None; so let's march, we'll talk as we go on.
Iden. But—
Ulric. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you.
Fritz. (Coming down.) I will, sir, with his excel¬
lency's leave.
Stra. Do so, and take yon old ass with you.
Fritz. Forward, and quickly.
Ulric. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle!
[Exit with Idenstein anil Fritz.
Stra. A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling,
And with a brow of thought beyond his years
I wish I could engage him :
I have need of some such spirits near me now,
For this inheritance is worth a struggle.
The boy, they say's a bold one;
But he hath played the truant, leaving fortune to
Champion his claims: that's well. The father,
whom
For years I've tracked, as does the bloodhound,
never
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me
To fault, but here I have him, and that's better.
It must be he! All circumstance proclaims it;
Yes! the man, his bearing, and the mystery
Of his arrival, and the time.
All, all confirm it! In a few hours,
The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters
Rise not the higher, (and the weather favours
Their quick abatement,) and I'll have him safe
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch
His real estate and name; and there's no harm
done,
Should he prove other than I deem.
Enter GABOR.
Friend how fare you?
Oabor. As those who fare well everywhere, whon
they
Have supped and slumbered, no great matter
how—
I came here to seek you.
Your couriers are turned back—I have outstripped
them
In my return.
Stra. You! Why?
Oabor. I went at daybreak
To watch for the abatement of the river,
As being anxious to resume my journey
Your messengers were all checked like myself;
And seeing the cane hopeless,await
The current's pleasure.
Stra. Would the dogs were in it!
Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ?
I ordered this at all risks. 1 must see to it:
(Crosses.)
The knaves! the slaves!—but they shall smart for
this. [Exit.
Gabor. There goes my noble, feudal, self-willed
baron!
Yesterday he would have given
His lands, (if he hod anyj for as much fresh air
As would have filled a bladder.
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches.
Because they love their lives, too! Yet, he's
right:
"Tis strange they should, when such as he may put
them
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world!
Thou art, indeed, a melancholy jestl
[Exit.
SCENE II.—The Apartment of Werner in the Palace-
Table and Chair.
JOSEPHINE and ULRIC discovered.
Jos. (Rises.) Stand back, and let me look on thee
again!
My Ulric!—my beloved!—can it be-
After twelve years ?
Ulric. My dearest mother!
Jos. Yes!
My dream is realized—how beautiful-
How more than all I sighed for! Heaven receive
A mother's thanks!—a mother's tears of joy!
This is indeed thy work! At such an horn:, too,
He comes not only as a son, but saviour.
Ulric. If such a joy await me, it must double
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart
A part of the long debt of duty, not
Of love, (for that was ne'er withheld)—forgive me!
This long delay was not my fault.
Jos. I know it,
But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt
If I e'er felt it.
My son!
(Seeing Werner, crosses to him.)
Enter WERNER.
Wer. What have we here, more strangers ?
Jos. No!
Look upon him! What do you see ?
Wer. A stripling,
For the first time—
(Crosses to him.)
Ulric. (Kneeling.) For twelve long years, my
father!
IFier. Oh!
(Falls—Ulric catches him in his arms, and
assists Josephine to place him in a chair,
which she has rapidly moved down to
him.)
Jos. He faints!
Wer. No—I am better now—
tJlric! (Embraces him.)
Ulric. My father, Siegendorf!
Wer. (Starting up.) Hush! boy—
The walls may hear that name!
Ulric. What then?
,NER. 775
Wer. Why, then—
But we will talk of that anon. Remember,
I must be known here but as Werner. Cornel
Come to my arms again 1 Josephinol
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me;
But had I seen that form amid ten thousand
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have
chosen
This for my son 1
(Josephine crosses behind Ulric.)
Are you aware my father is no more?
Ulric. Oh, heavens! I left him in a green old
age.
'Twas scarce three months since.
Wtr. Why did you leave him ?
Jos. (Embracing Ulric.) Can yon ask that ques¬
tion ?
Is he not here t
Wer. True; he hath sought his parents,
And found them; but, oh! how, and in what
state!
Ulric. All shall be bettered. What we have to
do
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights.
Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ?
Ulric. I saved
His life but yesterday: he's here.
Wer. You saved
The serpent who will sting us all)
Ulric. You speak
Riddles: what is this Stralenheim to us?
Wer. Everything. One who claims our father's
lands:
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe.
Ulric. I never heard his name till now—and what
then?
Wer. Ay, if at Prague:
But here he is all powerful; and has spread
Snares for thy father.
Ulric. Doth he personally know you ?
Wer. No: but he guesses shrewdly at my per¬
son,
As he betrayed last night: and I, perhaps,
But owe my temporary liberty
To his uncertainty.
Ulric. I think you wrong him,
(Excuse me for the pbrase;) but Stralenheim
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so,
He owes me something both for past and pre¬
sent:
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me;
He hath been plundered, too, since he came
hither;
Ts sick; a stranger; and as such not now
Able to trace the villain who hath robbed him:
I have pledged myself to do so; and the business
Which brought me here was chiefly that: but 1
Have found, in searching for another's dross,
My own whole treasure—you, my parents!
Wer. (Agitatedly.) Who taught you thus to brand
an unknown being
With the name of villain ?
Ulric. My own feelings
Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds.
Wer. Who taught you, long sought, and ill-found
boy! that
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ?
Ulric. I named a villain. What is there in com¬
mon
With such a being and my father?
Wer. Everything!
That ruffian is thy father?
776
WEBNEB.
Jcs. (Rushing up to Werner.) Ch, my eon!
Believe him cot—and yell—
[Her voice falters,and she bursts into tears as
she passes behind.
Ulric, (Starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then
says slowly.) And you avow it?
Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father,
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young,
Bash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap,
Is it for you to measure passion's .force,
Or misery's temptation? Wait—not long.
It cometh like the night, and quickly—Wait —
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted—till
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin;
Famine and poverty your guests at table;
Despair your bed-fellow—then rise, but not
From sleep, and judge! Should the day e'er
arrive—
Should you see then the serpent who hath coiled
Bimself around all that Is dear and noble
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path,
With but his folds between your steps and happi¬
ness
When he, who lives but to tear from your name,
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with
Chance your conductor; midnight for your mantle;
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep,
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere
Inviting death by looking like it, while
His death alone can save you:—Thank your God 1
If, then, like me, content with petty plunder,
You turn aside—I did so. [Drops into a chair.
Ulric. But—
Wer. {Abruptly.) Hear me 1
I will not brook a human voice—scarce dare
Listen to my own, if that be human still—
Hear me 1 you do not know this man. I do.
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave: but learn
None are Becure from desperation, few
From subtlety. He was within my power:
I'm now in his: are you not so ?
Who tells you that he knowB you not t Who says
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon?
[1'auses.
Ulric. Proceed, proceed!
Wer. Me he hath ever known,
And hunted through each change of time, name,
fortune;
And why not you t Are yon more versed in men ?
He wound snares round me; flung along my path
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurned
Even from my presence; but, in Bpurning now,
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be
More patient ? Poverty, insult, chains!
My birthright seized 1 While my despairing
Wife—could you endure all this ?
Ulric 1—Ulric—there are crimes
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations
Which nature cannot master or forbear.
[Crosses, and back.
Ulric. (Looks first at htm, and then at Josephine.)
My mother!
Wer. Ay! 1 thought so: yon have now
Only one parent 1 have lost alike
Father and son, and stand alone.
[AtuA« out of the chamber.
Ulric. (Following.) But stay.
Jos. Follow him not, until this storm of passion
Abates. Think'st thou that were it well for him
I had not followed t
Ulric. I obey you, mother,
Although reluctantly My first act shall not
Be cne ef disobedience.
Jos. Oh, he is good!
Condemn him not from his own mouth, bur trust
To me, who have borne so much with him, and for
him,
That this is but the surface of his soul.
And that the depth is rich in better things.
Alas! long years of grief
Have made him sometimes thuB.
Ulric. Explain to me
More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim,
That, when I see the subject in its bearings,
I may prepare to face him, or at least,
To extricate you from your present perils.
I pledge myself to accomplish this—but would
I had arrived a few hours sooner 1
Jos. Had'st thou but done so 1
Enter GABOB and IDENSTE1N, with six Attest"
dants.
Oabor. (To Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade.,
So this is my reward.
Ulric. What do you mean?
Gabor 'Sdeath! have I lived to these years, nnd
for this ! (To Idenstein.)
But for your age and folly, I would
Iden. (comer.) Help!
Hands off! Touch an intendant!
Ulric. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or
Gabor. At once, then,
The baron has been robbed, and upon me
This worthy personage has deigned to fix
His kind suspicions—me 1 whom he ne'er saw
Till yester' evening.
You bound of malice ! [Seizes Idenstein
Ulric. (Interfering.) Nay, no violence.
He's old, unarmed; be temperate, Gabor.
Gabor. (Letting go Idenstein.) True:
I am a fool to lose myself because
Fools deem me knave: it is their homage.
Ulric (To Idenstein, touching his shoulder.) How
Fare you ?
Iden. Help!
Ulric. 1 have helped you.
Iden. Eill him, then!
I'll say so.
Gabor. Iam calm—live onl
Iden. That's more
Than you Bhall do, if there be judge or judg<
ment
In Germany. The baron shall decide!
Gabor. Does he abet you in your accusation ?
Iden. Does he not?
Gabor. Then, next time let him go sink,
Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning.
But here he comes.
Enter STBALENHEIM.
(Goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm here,
Stra. Well, sir?
Gabor. Have you aught with me ?
Stra. What should I
Have with you ?
Gabor. You know best, if yesterday's
Flood has not washed away your memory;
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused.
In phrases not equivocal, by yon
Intendant, of the pillage of your person,
Or chamber—is the charge your own, at Utl
Stra. 1 accuse no man.
Qabor Then you acquit me, bar >n *
Stra. I know not whom to accuse, or to acq ait,
Or scarcely to suspect
Gabor. But you, at least,
Should know whom not to suspect I am in¬
sulted;
I demand of you
J ustice upon your unjust servants, and
From your own lips a disavowal of
All sanction of their insolence.
Stra, (HTfA contemptuous indifference.) You
Are hot, sir. [Crosses.
Gabor. Must I turn an icicle
Before the breath u menials and their master?
Stra. Ulric 1 Yju know .this man; I found him
in
Your company.
Gabor. We found you in the Oder,
Would we had left you there I
Stra. 1 give you thankB, sir.
Ulric, you know this man?
Gabor. No more than you do,
If he avouches net my honour.
Ulric. I
Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my
Own brief connexion led me, honour.
Stra. Then,
I'm satisfied.
Gabor. (Ironically.) Right easily, methinks
What is the spell in his asseveration
More than in mine ?
Stra. I merely said that I
Was satisfied—not that you were absolved.
If general suspicion be against you,
Is the fault mine?
Gabor. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage,
A vile equivocation: you well know
Y our doubts are certainties to all around you;
Your looks a voice; your frowns a sentence; you
Are practising your power on me; because
Y ou have it; but beware, you know not whom
You strive to tread on.
Stra. Threat'st thou ?
Gabor. Not so much
Ab you accuse. You hint the basest injury,
And I retort it with an open warning.
Stra. As you have said, 'tis true, I owe you some¬
thing,
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself.
Gabor. Not with your gold.
Stra. With bootless insolence.
(To his Attendants and Jdenstein.) You need not
further to molest this man,
But let him go his way. Ulric, good-morrow!
rExit Stralenheirn, Idenstein and Attendants.
Gabor. (Following.) I'll after him, and—
Ulric. (Stopping him.) Not a step.
Gabor. Who shall
Oppose me ?
Ulric. Your own reason, with a moment b
Thought
Gabor. Must I bear to be deemed a thief ? If
'twere
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it—
There's something daring in it—but to steal
Tke moneys of a slumbering man !—
Ulric. It seems, then,
You are not guilty.
Gabor. Do 1 hear aright ?
You too! .
Ulric. I merely asked a simple question
Qabor. If the judge asked me—I would answer
NER, 777
" No "—
To you I answer thus. [Drams and rushes on him.
Ulric. Drawing. With all my heart!
Jos. Without, there 1 ha! help,help!—Oh, here's
murder 1
[Qaber and Ulric fight.—Gabor is disarmed
and thrown into corner.
Re-enter STRALENHEIM, IDENSTEIN, and At¬
tendants.
Jos. (Sinking down.) Oh! glorious Heaven! He's
safe!
Stra. (To Josephine.) WTio'r safe ?
Jos. Ay—
Uric.iJnterrupting her with a stern look, and turning
afterwards to Stralenheirn.) Both !
Here's no great harm done. Jos. retires back.
Stra. What hath caused all this?
Ulric. You, Baron, I believe: but as the effect
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. Gabor!
There is your Bword; and when you bare it next,
Let it not be against your friends!
(Pronounces the last words slowly and emphati¬
cally in a low voice to Gabor.)
Gabor. (Taking sword.) i thank you,
Less for my life than for year counsel.
Stra. Very imperiously.) These
Brawls must end here.
Gabor. (Sheathing his sword.) They shall. You have
wronged me, Ulric.
More with your unkind thoughts than sword;
I could have borne yon noble's
Absurd insinuations—
But I may fit him yet:—you have vanquished me.
We may meet by and by,
However—but in friendship. [Extl.
Stra. (Crosses.) I will brook
No more 1 This outrage following up his insults—
intendantl lake your measures to secure
Yon fellow; I revoke my former lenity.
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort
The instant that the waters have abated.
/den. Secure him! he hath got his sword again,
And seems to know the use on't; 'tis his trade
Belike: I'm a civilian.
Stra. Fool 1 are not
Yon herd of vassals dogging at your heels
Enough to seize a dozen such ? H erne 1 after him'
Utric. Baron. I do beseech you!
Stra. I must be
Obeyed I No words!
[Slralenkeim and Ulric retire up.
Iden. Well, if it must be so—
March vassals! I'm your leader - and will bring
The rear up, a wise general never should
Expose his precious life - on which all rests.
1 like that article of war.
[Exit Idenstein and Attendants.
Stra. (Looking cautiously round, sees Josephine,)
Come hither,
Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh! now
I recognize her, 'tis the stranger's wifs
Whom they name " Werner."
Ulric. 'Tis his name,
Stra. Tndeed!
Is not your husband visible, fair dame?
Jos. Who seeks him ?
Stra. (Half aside.) No one — for the present
but
I would fain parley, Ulric, with yourself
Alone.
Ulric. I will retire with you.
778
WERNER.
Jot. Not so.
You are the latest stranger, and command
All places here.
iAttde to Ulric as she goes out.) Oh 1 Ulric, have a
care—
Remember what depends on a rash word!
Ulrtc. Fear not 1
[Exit Josephine.
Stra. Ulric, I think that I may trust you ?
You saved my life - and acts like these beget
Unbounded confidence.
Ulric. Say on.
Stra. This " Werner"—
With the false name and habit,
If he be the man I deem,
Must be made secure ere twelve hours further.
Ulric. And what have I to do with this ?
S'ra. I have sent
To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend-
Is. have the authority to do so by
An order of the house of Brandenburg,)
For a fit escort—but this cursed flood
Bars all access; and may do so for some hours.
Ulric. It is abating.
Stra. That is well.
Ulric. But how
I concerned ?
Stra. As one who did so much
For me, you cannot be indifferent to
That which is of more import to me than
The life you rescued—keep your eye on him}
The man avoids me, knows that I now know
him—
Watch him I—as you would watch the wild boar
when
He makes against you in the hunter's gap,
Like him, he must be speared.
Ulric. Why so ?
Stra. He stands
Between me and a brave inheritance!
Oh, could you see it! But you shalL
Ulric. I hope so.
Stra. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia 1
Unscathed by scorching war.
Ay — could you see it, you would say so —
but,
As I have said, you shall.
Ulric. I accept the omen.
Stra. Then claim a recompense from it and
me.
Ulric. And this sole, sick, and miserable
wretch—
This way-worn stranger — stands between you
and
This Paradise 1 (Aside.) As Adam did be-
ween
The devil and his.—
Stra. He doth.
Ulric. Hath he no right ?
Stra. Bight! none! A disinherited prodigal,
Who for these twenty years disgraced his line¬
age
In all his acts—but chiefly by his marriage.
Ulric. They are childless, then ?
Stra. There is or was a bastard,
Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old
Age
Is ever doating) took to warm his bosom,
As it went chilly downward to the grave:
But the imp stands not in my path — he has
fled,
No one knows whither; and, if he had not,
His claims alone were too contemptible
To stand. Why do you smile?
Ulric. At your vain fears:
A poor man almost in his grasp-a child
Of doubtful birth—can startle a grandee!
Stra. All's to be fear'd where an s to be gain a.
Ulric. True; and ought done to save or to explain
it
Stra. You have harp'd the very string next to my
heart!
I may depend upon yon ?
Ulric. 'Twere too late
To doubt it
Stra. Let no foolish pity shake
Your bosom, (for the appearance of the man
is pitiful)—
Be sure you'll keep an eye on this man.
And let me know his slightest movements towards
Concealment or escape!
Ulric. You may be sure
You yourself could not watch him more than I
Will be his sentinel.
Stra. By this you make me
Yours and forever.
Ulric. Such is my intentioiL [Exeunt,
ACT ILL
SCENE L—A Hall in the same Palace, from whence
the Secret Passage leads.
Enter WERNER, followed by GABOR in great agita.
tion.
Gabor. (Looking anxiously.) Sir, I have told my
tale; will it now please you
To give me refuge for a few hours.
Wer. How
Can I, so wretched, give to misery
A shelter?—wanting such myself as much
As e'er the haunted deer a covert—
Gabor. Or
The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks
You rather look like one would turn at bay,
And rip the hunter's entrails.
Wer. Ah I
Gabor. I care not
If it be so, being much disposed to do
The same myself; but will you shelter me?
I am oppress'd like you—and poor like you- -
Disgraced—
Wer. (Abruptly.) Who told you that I was dis¬
graced?
Gabor. No one; nor did I say you were so: with
Your poverty my likeness ended; but
I said I was so—and would add, with truth,
As undeservedly as you.
Wer. Again
As I!
Gabor. Or any other honest man.
What the devil would you have? You don't be¬
lieve me
Guilty of this base theft ?
IFer. No, no, I cannot
Gabor. It is but a night's lodging which I crave;
To-morrow I will try the waters,
Trusting that they have abated.
Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ?
Gabor. There was
At noontide.
Wer. Then we may be safe.
Gabor. Are you
In peril?
Wer. Poverty is ever bo.
Oabor. That I know by long practice.
/L noise heard without.) But hark! they come!
{Rushes up and bolts the door.)
Wer. Who come ?
Gabor. The intendant and hie man hounds after
me:
I'd face them—but it were in vain to expect
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go?
But show me any place. I do assure you.
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless. Think,
oh!
Think if it were your own case!
Wer. Oh, heaven!
Thy hell is not hereafter!
Gabor. I see you're moved, and it shews well in
you:
I may live to requite it
Wer. Are you not
A spy of Stralenheim's?
Gabor. I am his deadliest foe.
Wer. You?
Gabor. After such
A treatment for the service which in part
I rendered him—1 am his enemy.
Iden. {Without.) Search every corner !
Gabor. Hark! they near me. Man—man.
If you are not his friend you will assist me.
Wer. I will.
Gabor. But how ?
Wer. There is a secret spring;
Remember, I discovered it by chance,
And used it but for safety,
It leadB through winding walls, to—to
I know not whither; you must not advancel
Give me your word.
Gabor. It is unnecessary:
Bow should I make my way in darkness,
Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may
lead?
I know not—(mark youbut who knows it might
not
Lead even into the very chambers of your foe ?
You must not advance
Beyond the two first windings; if you do
(Albeit I never pass'd them,) I'll not answer
For what you may be led to.
Gabor. But I will.
A thousand thanks!
Jdtn. (Without.) He must be in the hall! Follow!
follow!
Wer. (Opening the door.) You'll find the spring
more obvious
On the other side; and, when you would return,
It yields to the least touch.
Gabor. (Rushes in.) Thanks! thanks!—farewell!
[Goes in by the secret panel.
Wer. What have I done ? Alas! what had 1 done
Before to make this fearful? Let it be
Still some atonement that I save the man,
Whose sacrifice have saved perhaps my own—
They come! to seek elsewhere what is before
them!
(Unbolts the door.)
Enter IDENSTEIN and Attendants.
Iden. Here we have the robber—here he is-
Is be not here?—He must have vanished thenl
He's gone, however.
Wer. Whom do you seek?
SER. 770
Iden. A villain!
Wer. Why need yon come sc far, then ?
Iden. la the search
Of him who robbed the-baron.
We traced him
Up to this hall: are you accomplices?
It may be I have a question or two for yourself
Hereafter; but we must continue now
Our search for t'other.
Wer. you had best begin
Your inquisition now: I may not be
So patient always.
Iden. 1 should like to know,
In good sooth, if you really are the man
That Stralenheim's in quest of ?
Wer. Insolent;
Said you not that he was not here ?
Iden. Yes, one;
But there's another whom he tracks more keenly,
Bustle, my boys 1 we are at fault.
[Exit Idenstein and Attendant.
Wer. In what
A maze hath my dim destiny involved me!
And one base sin hath done me less ill than
The leaving undone one far greater. Down,.
Thou busy devil rising in my heart!
Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with blood.
Enter ULRIC.—He looks cautiously round.
Ulric. I sought you, father
Wer. Is't not dangerous ?
Ulric. No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all
Or any of the ties between us: more—
He sends me here a spy upon your actions,
Deeming me wholly his.
Wer. I cannot think it:
'Tis but a snare he winds about us both,
To swoop the son and sire at once.
Ulric. I cannot
Pause in each petty fear;
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so;
We'll overfly, or rend them.
Wer. Show me how.
Ulric. Can you not guess?
Wer. I cannot
Ulric. (Pauses, points to the Baron's room, looks
intently at Werner, then speaks.) That is
strange!
Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night t
Wer. I understand you not
Ulric. Then we Bhall never
More understand each other. But if I err not
I see the subject now more clearly, anl
Our general situation in its bearings.
The waters are abating; a few hours
Will bring his summoned myrmidons from Frank¬
fort
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse,
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice
Of this same baron to make way for him.
Wer. And all I thought to escape,—rescuing my
wife aqjl child
By means of this accursed gold, but now
I dare not use it show it scarce look on it
Ulric. You must net use it at least now; but
take
This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel
Wer. A gem! it was my father's I
Ulric. And
As such is now your own. With this you must
Bribe the intendant for his old calecke
780
WERNER.
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise
Together with my mother.
Wer. And what becomes of you?
My only one, can I leave you!
So lately found, in peril, too?
Ulric. Fear nothing 1
The only fear were, if we fled together;
I'll wait a day or two with Stralenheim :
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father.
When you gain
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond
The frontier, and you're safe.
Wer. My noble boy 1
What were my life if purchased
By your loss ?
Ulric. Bush! hush! no transports; we'll indulge
in them
In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold :
Show Idenstein the gem: it will answer thus
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold—
Ao jewel: therefore it could not be his.
Wer. My boy 1
My friend—my only child, and Bole preserver I
Oh, do not hate me 1
Ulric. Hate my father ?
Wer. Ay,
My father hated ma Why not my son ?
Ulric. Your father knew you not as I do
Wer. Scorpions
Are in thy words! Thou knew me ? in this guise
Thou canst not know me; I am not myself,
Yet (hate me not), I will be soon.
Ulric. I'll wait I But let us talk
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever,
Not now.
All we have now to think of, is to baffle
Him. Seek Idenstein. Farewell 1 [Going, stops.
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia
Disiurb your right, or mine, if once we were
Admitted to our lands ?
Wer. Assuredly,
Situate as we are now, although the flrBt
Possessors might, as usual, prove the strongest
Especially the next in blood.
Ulric. Blood! 'tis
A word of many meanings; in the veins
And out of them, it is a different thing—
Wer. I do not apprehend you.
Ulric. That may be
And should, perhaps,—and yet—but get ye ready;
You and my mother must away to-night.
Here comes the Intendant; sound him with the
gem.
Farewell! I scarce have time, but yet your hand,
My father!
Wer. Let me embrace thee 1
Ulric. We may be observed:
Keep off from me as from your foel
Here is the Intendant
Enter IDENSTEIN.
Master Idenstein,
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught
The rogue 1
Iden. No, faith!
Ulric. Well there are plenty more;
You may have better luck another chase.
Where is the baron?
Iden. 1 left him going to his chamber:
And, now I think on'h asking after you
With a nobly-born impatience.
Ulric. Your great men
Muot be answered on the instant, eo I muet take
leave.
Intendant, ,,, s .
Your servant! Werner (To Wer. slightly), if that
be your name,
Yours. lExit Vlric.
Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man I
And prettily behaved 1 He knows his station;
You see, sir, how he gave to each his due
Precedence?
Wer. I perceived it, and applaud
His just discernment, and your own.
Iden. That's well—
That's very well. You also know your place, too,
And yet I don't know that I know your place.
Wer. (Showing the ring.) Would this assist your
knowledge ?
Iden. How ?—What?—Eh!
A jewel!
Wer. 'Tis your own on one condition.
Iden. Mine!—Name it 1
IVer. That hereafter you permit me
At thrice its value to redeem it; 'tis
A family ring.
Iden. A family I yours! a gem!
I'm breathless 1
Wer. You must also furnish me
An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit
This place.
Iden. But is it real ? let me look on it:
Diamond, by all that's glorious 1
Wer, Come, I'll trust you:
I have important reasons
For wishing to continue privily
My journey hence.
Iden. So then you are the man
Whom Stralenheim's in quest of ?
Wer. No 1
Iden. Well, well, be you the man or no, 'tis not
my business;
Besides, I never should obtain the half
From this proud, niggardly noble:
But this ! another look!
Wer. Gaze on it freely;
At day-dawn it is yours.
Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler!
Thou more than stone of the philosopher!
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself!
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already
A little king, a lucky alchemist!—
But come, Werner, or what else?
Wer. Call me Werner still:
You may yet know me by a loftier title.
Iden. I do believe in thee! thou shalt be as free
As air, despite the waters.—Oh, thou jewel!
Thou shalt be furnished, Werner, with such means
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds
Should overtake thee.—Let me gaze again 1
I have a foster-brother in the mart
Of Hamburg:, skilled in precious stones—how many
Carats may it weigh ?—Come, Werner, I will wing
thee. [Exeunt.
Enter STRALENHEIM and FRITZ, with alamp.
Stra. What is the hour?
Frits. Fast making towards midnight, I think,
my lord.
Stra. In six hours, then, the guard will be ap-
proaching. Call me betimes.
Here, take my cloak and sabre. Light me to my
chamber.
Fritz I trust to-morrow will restore your lord¬
ship to health and spirits
Stra. I trust so, too, for I have need of therm
To-morrow will restore me, for with its dawn
The escort comes, and with it confidence
And peace. The interval of fate is all
That's left to Siegendorf. The key that locks
Bis dungeon grate on him, opens for me
The portals of a palace. Poor wretch 1
Lead on. [Exeonf.
SCENE YL—Tht Secret Passage.
GABOR discovered.
Gabor. Four—
Five—six hours have I counted, like a guard
Of outposts on the never-merry clock:
I'm cold—
I'm dark—I've blown my fingers—numbered o'er
And o'er my steps—and knocked my head against
Some fifty buttresses—and roused theratB
And bats in general insurrection, till
Their cursed pattering feet and whirring wing
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound.
A light! It is at a distance, (if I can
Measure in darkness distance:) but it blinkB
As though a crevice or a key-hole, in
The inhabited direction; I must on,
Nevertheless from curioBity.
Pray heaven it lead me
To nothing that may tempt met Else, heaven aid
me
To obtain, or to escape it 1 Shining still!
Were it the star of Lucifer himself,
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could
Contain no longer. Softly 1 Let me pause
Suppose it leads
Into some greater danger than that which
I have escaped—no matter; I will on,
And be it where it may, I have my dagger,
Which may protect me at a pinch. Burn still,
Thou little light Thou art my ignis faluusl
So, so!
Be hears my invocation, and fails not
Ha, 'tis gone 1
No, 'tis there 1 'tis there again. [Exit
SCENE IIL—A Garden.—Palace teen.—A practicable
Terrace projecting from it.—River and distant coun.
try.
Enter WERNER.
Wer. I could not sleep, and now the hoar's at
hand;
All'B ready. Idenstein has kept his word:
And, for the laBt time, I
Look on those horrible walls. Oh, never, never
Shall I forget them. Bere i came most poor.
But not dishonoured : and 1 leave them with
A stain, if not upon my name, yet in
My heart A never-dying canker-worm,
Whicb all the coming splendour of the lands,
And all rights and sovereignty of Siegendorf,
Can scarcely lull a moment:
The madnesB of misery led to this
Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it:
Yet he would grasp all of mine;
T.aniia, freedom, life: he sleeps t as soundly,
Perhaps, as infancy. Waist within.)
park t what noise is that ? Again I
fEB. 781
The branches shake ; and some loose stones have
fallen
From yonder terrace,
OLEIC leaps down from the Terrace.
Ulric! ever welcome;
Thrice welcome now! this filial—
Ulric. Stop! before
We approach, tell me
Wer. Why look you so
Ulric. Do I
Behold my father, or—
Wer. What?
U Iric. - A n assassin ?
Reply, sir, as
You prize your life, or mine!
Wer. To what must I
Answer?
Ulric. Are you or are you not the assassin
Of Stralenheim?
Wer. What mean you ?
Ulric. Did you not this night 'as the night before}
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not
Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and
(Ulric pauses.)
Wer. Proceed.
Ulric. Died he not by your hand?
Wer. Great heavent
Ulric. You ate innocent, then t my father's inno¬
cent 1
Embrace met Yes, your tone—your look—yea.
yes-
Yet say so!
Wer. If e'er, in heart or mind,
Conceived deliberately such a thought,
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes.
As from mine eyes.
Ulric. But Stralenheim is dead.
Wer. 'Tis horrible!
Ulric. No bolt
Is forced; no violence can be detected,
Save on his body. Part of his household
Have been alarmed ; but as the Intendant is
Absent, I took upon myself the care
Of mustering the police. Bis chamber has,
Past doubt, been entered secretly. Excuse m>,
If nature
Wer. Oh, my boy! what unknown woe
Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering
Above our house. Oh, Stralenheim 1 now ' feel I
never shall escape you.
Ulric. My father, I acquit you.
But will the world do so? Will even the judge,
If—but yon most away this instant
Wer. No
I'll face it Who shall dare suspect me ?
Ulric. Yet
You had no guests, no visitors, no life
Breathing around you, save my mother's?
Wer. Ah!
The Hungarian t
Ulric. Be is gone! he disappeared
Ere sunset
Wer. No; I hid him in that very
Concealed and fatal gallery.
Ulric. There I'll find him. fUlrie it going up.)
Wer. It is too late: he had left the palace ere
I quitted it 1 found the secret panel
Open; and the doors which led from that hall
Which masks it: I but thought he had snatched the
silent
7S2
WERNER.
And favourable moment to escape
The mymidons of 'denstein.
Ulric. You re-closed
The panel?
Wer. Yes.
Ulric. You are sure you closed it?
Wer. Certain.
Ulric. That's well: but had been better If
You ne'er had shelter gives to this man.
Wer. Could t shun it?
A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced
For my own crime; a victim to my Bafety,
Imploring a few hours' concealment from
The very wretch who was the cause he needed
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, 1 could not
Have, in such circumstances, thrust him forth.
Ulric. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But
It is too late to ponder this: you must
Set out ere dawn. Idenstein
Will, for his own sake, and his jewel's, hold
His peace—he also is a partner in
Your flight—moreover—
Tier. Fiy! and leave my name
Linked with the Hungarian's, or preferred as
poorest,
To bear the brand of bloodshed ?
Ulric. Pshaw 1 leave anything
Except our father's sovereignty and castles
What name* You have no name, since that you
bear
Is feigned.
HVr. Most true; but still I would not have it
Engraved in crimson in men's memories;
Besides, the search—
Ulric. I will provide against
Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here
As heir of Siegendorf.
Stralenheim, although noble is unheeded
Here, save as such—without lands, influence,
Save what hath perished with him:
If /discover
The assassin, 'twill be well—if not, believe me
None else will
Tl'er. Oh, could the power and wealth
Of Siegendorf recall him from the grave 1
Ulric. And if it could? but this is worse than
idle.
In two short hours the military guard
Must come from Frankfort, perhaps, even while we
speak,
The bloodhounds gaze upon those scenes.
Wer. My son I
Ulric. Hence, hence! I must not hear your an¬
swer—look!
The stars are almost faded, and the grey
Begins to grizzle the black bair of night
You shall not answer. Pardon me, that I
Am peremptory, 'tis your son that speaks,
Your long-lost late-found son. Let's call my mo¬
ther;
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest
To me.
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf—once more
Our banners shall be glorious 1 Think of that
Alone, and leave all the other thoughts to me.
Hence!
And may your age be happy. I will kiss
My mother once more, then heaven's speed be with
you.
Wer. This counsel's safe—but is not honourable?
Ulric. To save a father is a child's chief honour.
I Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—A Gothic Ball in the Castle of Siegeni
dorf, near Prague.
Enter ERIC and HENRICK, Retainers of the Count,
Eric. So better times are come at last; to these
Old walls new masters and high wassail, both
A long desideratum.
Ilen. Met: inks the old Count Siegendorf main¬
tained
His feudal hospitality as high
As e'er another prince of the empire.
Eric. Why,
For the mere cup and trencher, we, no doubt,
Fared passing well.
Hen- The old count loved not
The roar of revel: are you sure this does?
Eric, as you say, he hath been courteous as he's
bounteous,
And we all love him.
Hen. His reign is as yet
Hardly a year o'erpast its honeymoon,
And the first year of sovereigns is a bridal;
Anon we shall perceive his real sway
And moods of mind.
Eric. Why doubt the present!
Then his brave son, Count Ulric—there's a knight!
Pity the wars are o'er 1
Hen. If war be long in coming, he is of that
kind
Will make it for himself, if he hath not
Already done as much.
Eric. What do,you mean?
Hen. You can't deny his train of followers
Are such a sort of knaves as—(Pauses.)
Eric. What?
Hen. The wars (you love so much) leave living
Eric. But Count U lric—
What has all this to do with him f
Hen. You say he's fond of war,
Why makes he it not on those marauders?
Enter ULRIC and RODOLPH.
Good morrow, Count!
Ulric. Good morrow, worthy Henrlck. Eric Is
All ready for the chase ?
Eric. Yes, my lord, the dogs are ordered?
What courser will you please to mount ?
Ulric. The dun,
Walstein.
Eric. He shall be strait caparisoned. How many
Of your immediate retainers Bhall
Escort you ?
Ulric. L leave that to Weilburgh, our
Master of the horse. (Exit Erie.
Kodolph!
Rod. My lord!
Ulric. The news
Is awkward from the—(Rodolph points to Hcnrick.)
How now, Henrick, why
Loiter you here ?
Hen. For your commands, my lord.
Ulric. (Pausing.) Go to my father, and present
my duty,
And learn if he would aught with me before
I mount [Exit Hatrick.
Rodolph, ourrriends have had a check
Upon the frontiers of Francoaia:
I must join them soon.
Rod. It will be difficult
To excuse your absence to the count, vonr fathar.
Vtrie. Tea, but the unsettled state of our domain
In High Silesia will permit and cover
My journey. In the meantime! when we are
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men
"Whom Wolffe leads—keep the forests on your
route:
And when you have joined, give Rosenberg this
letter. (Gives a letter.)
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition
To our force, with you and Wolffe, as herald of
My coming, though I could but spare them ill
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries,
Are rung out with itB peal of nuptial nonsensek
Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ?
Ulric. Why,
I do so—but I have not the time to pause
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. {Crosses.) Great
things
We have to do ere long. Speed, speed! good Ro¬
dolph.
Rod. On my return, however, I shall find
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf.
Ulric. Perhaps.
Rod. Adieu!
Ulric. Yet hold—we had better keep together
Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off,
And do as I have said.
Rod. Ah, here's the lady Ida.
Enter IDA STRALENHEIM.
Ulric. You are early, my sweet cousin.
Ida. Not too early,
Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you.
Why do you call me " Cousin ?"
Ulric. (Smiling.) Are we not so ?
Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name; methinks,
It sounds so cold.
Ulric. Nay, then, I'll call you sister.
Ida. I like that name still worse—would we had
ne'er
Been aught of kindred!
Ulric. (Gloomily.) Would we never had
Ida. Oh, heaven! and can you wish that t
Ulric. Dearest Ida,
Did I not echo your own wish ?
Ida. Ay, call me Ida,
Your Ida, for I would be yours, nono else's—
Indeed, I have none else left, since my poor father—
(She pauses.)
They say he died of fever.
Ulric. Say!
It was so.
Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise
See him as I see you.
Ulric. Wheret
Ida. In my dreams, Ulric. I see him lie,
Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife
Beside him. Is it not fearful to wake from dreams
like this ?
Ulric. (Agitatedly.) It is!—it is!
Ida. (Looking at him.) You are not well, dear
Ulric!
Ulric. Not well?
Ida. The signs of health are fading from your
Ulric. (Agitatedly.) Ida, this is mere childishness.
(Bugle sounds.)
Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle!
Ida. (Peevishly, to Rodolph.) Why need you tell
him that ?
Can he not hear it without your echo T
Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness!
NER, 783
Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it
By aiding me in my dissuasion of
Count Ulric from the chase to-day.
Come, dear Ulric! yield to me
In this, for this one day ; the day looks heavy,
And you are turned so pale and ill.
Ulric. Youjesv.
Ida. Indeed I do not;—ask of Rodolph.
Rod. Truly,
My lord, within this quarter of an hour
You have changed more than e'er I saw you
change
In years.
Ulric. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air
Would soon restore me. I'm the true cameleon,
And live but on the atmosphere; your feasts
in castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not
My spirit—I'm a forester and breather
Of the steep mountain tops, where I love alL
The eagle loves."
Enter WERNER as COUNT SIEGENDORF,
attended.
My father, I salute you, and it grieves me
With such brief greeting. You have heard our
bugle:
The vasBals wait.
Sieg. So let them. You forget
The 6acred festival in Prague for peace restored.
Your place to-day is in the marshalled ranks of all
our country's nobles.
Ulric. You, count,
Will well supply the place of both—I am not
A lover of these pageantries.
Sieg. No, Ulric:
It were not well that you aloue of all
Our young nobility—
Ida. And far the noblest
In aspect and demeanour.
Sieg. (To Ida.) True, dear child,
Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel.
But, Ulric, recollect too our position,
So lately reinstated in our honours.
Believe me, 'twould be marked in any house,
But most in ours, that one should be found wanting
At such a time and place. Besides, the heaven
Which gave ub back our own, in the same mo¬
ment
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims
On us for thanksgiving; first, for our country,
And next, that we are here to share its blessings.
Ulric. (Aside.) Devout, tool Well, sir, I obey at
once. (To Henrick.)
Henrick, dismiss the train without!
[Exit Henrick.
Sieg. Ida,
The countess waits you in her chamber. She com¬
plains
That you are a, sad truant to your muBic.
Ida. (Crosses.) Then, good morrow, my kind ivies-
men !
Ulric, you'll come and hear me?
Ulric. By and by.
Ida. But come quickly;
Your mother will be impatient till she sees you.
[Exit Ida.
Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone.
Ulric. My time's your vassal.
(Aside to Rodolph ) Rodolph, hence! and do
- As I directed; and by his best speed
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply.
794
WERNER.
Rod. Count Siegendorf,
I take my leave. [Exit
Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is
One of those strange companions, whom X fain
W ould reason with you on.
Ulric. My lord, he is
Noble by birth, of one of the first houses
In Saxony.
Sieg. I talk not of his birth.
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him.
Ulric. So they will do of most men.
Sieg. If must be plain,
The world speaks more than lightly of this Ro-
dolph;
They say he is leagued with the " black bands,"
who still
Ravage the frontier.
Ulric. And will you believe
The world ?
Sieg. In this case—yes,
Ulric. In any case,
I thought you knew it better than to take
An accusation for a sentence.
Sieg. Son!
I understand you: you refer to—but
My destiny has so involved about me
Her spider web, that I can only flutter
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed,
Ulric: you have seen to what the passions led
me;
Twenty long years of misery and famine
Quenched them not—twenty thousand more, per¬
chance,
Hereafter, (or even here in moments which
Might date for years, did anguish make the dial,)
May not obliterate or expiate
The madness and dishonour of an instant
Ulric, be warned by a father!—I was not
By mine, and you behold me !—
Ulric. I behold
The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf.
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honoured
By those he rules, and those be rankB with.
Sieg. Ah!
Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear
For thee 1 Beloved, when thou lovest me not!
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me—
But if my son's is cold!
XJlric. Who dare say that ?
Sieg. None else but I, who see it—feel it—
keener
Than would your adversary, who dared say so,
Your sabre in his heart!
Let's change the theme. I wish you to con¬
sider
That these young violent nobles of high name,
But dark deed, (ay, the darkest, if all rumour
Reports be true,) with whom thou consorteBt
Will lead thee—
Ulric. (Impatiently.) I'll be led by no man.
Sieg. Nor
Be leader of such, I would hope: at once
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida—more,
As thou appearest to love her.
Ulric. I have said
I will obey your orders, were they to
Unite with Hecate—can a son say more ?
Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is
not
The nature of Urine age, nor of thy blood,
Nor of thy temperament, tc talk bo coolly,
Or act so carelessly, in that which is
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness.
Some strong bias,
Some master-fiend is in thy service to
Misrule thee: . ,
And makes his every thought subservient: else
Thoud'Bt say at once, "I love young Ida, and
Will wed her," or, " I love her not, and all
The powers of earth shall never mak# me." So
Would I have answered.
Ulric. Did you not warn ma
Against your own example ?
Sieg. Boyish sophist I
In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ?
Ulric. What matters it, if I am ready to
Obey you in espousing her ?
Sieg. As far
As you feel, nothing—but all life tor her.
She's young—all beautiful-adores you—is
Endowed with qualities to give happiness,
Such as round common life into a dream
Of something which your poets cannot paint,
And if it were not wisdom to love virtue)
For which philosophy might barter wisdom;
And giving so much happiness, deserves
A little in return. I Would not have her
Break her heart for a man who has nonj t«
break.
She is—
Ulric. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your
foe:
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless; though, to say truth
Just now I am not violently transported
In favour of such unions.
Sieg. But she loves you.
Ulric. And I love her, and therefore Would thine
twice.
Sieg. Alas! Love never did so.
But you consent ?
Ulric. I did and do.
Sieg. Then fix the day.
Ulric. 'Tis usual,
And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady.
Sieg. I will engage for her.
Ulric. So will not I
For any woman; and as what I fix
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives
Her answer, I'll give mine.
Sieg. But 'tis your office
To woo.
Ulr ic. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making
So be it of your wooing; but to please you,
I will now pay my duty to my mother,
With whom, you itnow, the lady Ida is—
What would you have? You have forbid my
stirring
For manly sports beyond the castle walls,
And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer,
To pick up gloves and fans, and knitting-needles,
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles,
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into
The eyes of mincing girls, as though they were
The stars receding early to our wish
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle—
What can a son or man do more ?
[Exit Ulric.
Sieg. Too mnch !—
Too mnch of duty and too little love!
Doth my father's enrse descend
Even to my child? or—oh! if it should be!
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walx these wolfafc
To wither me and mine f
Thy death was not our crime;
And to atone the wrong 1 did thee, 1 have
Ta'en thy child, and cherished her
E'en as my own.
Tet still thou seem'st to haunt me. Still to scare
Peace from my thoughts, and slumber from my
pillow:
Some mysterious power has linked our fate to¬
gether,
And e'er both the grave must close,
Ere memory can snap die fatal chain
That binds us.
[Exit.
AGT V.
SCENE L—A large dnd magnificent Gothic Hall in
the Castle of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Ban¬
ners, and Arms of that Family.
Enter the COUNTESS JOSEPHINE SIEGEN¬
DORF and IDA STRALENHEIM.
Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over!
Ida. How can you say so? Never have I
dreamt
Of aught so beautiful The flowers, the boughs,
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights.
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces,
And the celestial hymns,
Which seemed as if they rather came from
heaven,
Than mounted there. The world
At peace! and all at peace with one another I
Oh, my sweet mother!
[Embracing Josephine.
Jos. My beloved child!
For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly.
Ida. Oh!
I am so already. Feel how my heart beats!
Jos. It does, my love; and never may it throb
With aught more bitter!
Ida. Never shall it do so!
How should it? What should make us grieve ? I
hate
To hear of sorrow; how can we be sad,
Who love each other so entirely ? You,
The Count, and Ulric, and your daughter, Ida.
Jos. Poor child!
Ida. Do you pity me ?
Jos. No; but I envy!
And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense.
Ida. I'll not hear
A word against a worid which still contains
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see
Aught like him ? How he towered amongst them
all!
How all eyes followed him! The flowers fell
faster—
Rained from each lattice at his feet, methought,
Than before all the rest.
Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer,
If he sbonld hear you. Come, come.
Let us retire; they will be he here anon.
Expectant of the banquet.
Ida. Dear mother, I am with you. . [Exeunt.
Enter COUNT SIEGENDORF, in full dress from the
solemnity, and LUD WIG.
6ieg. [SitsJ Is he not found?
NER. 785
Lud Strict search is making everywhere; and if
The man be in Prague, be sure he will he found.
Sieg. Where's Ulric?
Lud. He rode round the other way
With some young nobles; but he left them soon;
And, if I err not, not a minute since
I heard his excellency, with hi3 train,
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge.
Enter ULRIO, splendidly dressed.
Sieg. (To Ludwig.J See they cease not.
Their quest of him I have described, [Exit Ludwig.
Oh! Ulric, bow I have longed for thee !
Ulric. Your wish is granted—
Sieg. (Rising.) 1 have seen the murderer,
Ulric. Whom? Where?
Sieg. The Hungarian who slew Stralenheim,
Ulric. You dream.
Sieg. I live; and, as I live, I saw him—
Heard him 1 He dared to utter even my name.
Ulric. What name ?
Sieg. Werner! 'twas mine I
Ulric. It must be so
No more: forget it,
Sieg. Never, never! all
My destinies were woven in that name:
It will not be engraved upon my tomb,
But it may lead me there.
Ulric. To the point—the Hungarian
Sieg. Listen;—the church was thronged; tho
hymn was raised;
•' Te Deum " pealed from nations, rather than
From choirs, in one great cry of "Heaven be
praised,"
For one day's peace, after thrice ten years of war!
I arose,
With all the nobles, and as I looked down
Along the lines of lifted faces, —from
Our bannered and escutcheoned gallery, I
Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw
A moment, and no more,) what struck me sightless
To all else; the Hungarian's face; I grew
Sick; and when I recovered from the mist
Which curled about my senses, and again
Looked down, I saw him not The thanksgiving
W&b over, and we marched back in procession.
Ulric. You saw him
No more, then?
Sieg. I looked tor this man:
But still I saw him not; but in his stead—
Ulric. What in his stead ?
Sieg. My eye for ever fell
Upon your dancing crest: the loftiest,
As on the loftiest and loveliest head
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes,
Which overflowed the glittering streets of Prague.
Ulric. What's this to the Hungarian?
Sieg. Much; for I
Had almost then forgot him in my son,
When just aB the artillery ceased, and paused,
The music, and the crowd embraced, in lieu
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice,
Distinct, and keener far upon my ear
Than the late cannon's volume, this word—
" Werner." "
Ulric. Uttered by—
Sieg. Him I I turned—and saw—and fell
(Brings chair, and Sits.)
Ulric. And wherefore? Were you seen?
Sieg. The officious care
Of thoBe around me dragged me from the Bpot,
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause;
WERNER.
7?6
You, too, were too remote in the procession
iThe old nobles being divided from their children)
'o aid me.
Ulric. Bnt I'll aid you now
Sieg. In what?
Ulric. In searching for this man, or—when he's
found,
What shall we do with him ?
Sieg. I know not that
Ulric. Then wherefore seek ?
Sicg. Because I cannot rCBt
Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenbeim's,
And ours, seem intertwisted; nor can be
Unravelled, till—
Enter ERIC.
Uric. A stranger, to wait on
Your excellency.
Sieg. Who?
Eric. He gave no name.
Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless.
Enter GABOR, preceded by ERIC.
[Exit Eric
Ahl
Gabor. 'Tis, then, Werner 1
Sieg. (Haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by
that name ; and you t
Gabor, (Looking round.) I recognise you both :
father and son,
It seems. Count, I have heard that you or yours
Have lately been in search of me : I am here.
Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you: you
are charged,
(Your own heart may inform you why,) with such
A crime as— {liepauses.)
Gabor. give it utterance, and then
I'll meet the consequences.
Sieg. You shall do so—
Unless—
Gabor. First, who accuses me ?
Sieg. All things,
If not all men : the universal rumour—
My own presence on the spot—the place—the
times—
And every speck of circumstance unite
To fix the blot on you.
Gabor. And on me only t
Pause ere you answer: Is no other name,
Save mine, stained in this business ?
Sieg. Trifling villain 1
Who play'st with thine own guilt 1 Of all that
v breathe
Thou best dost know the innocence of him
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody
slander.
But I will talk no further with the wretch,
Further than Justice asks. Answer at onoe,
And without quibbling, to my charge.
Gabor. 'Tis false!
Sieg. And how disprove it ?
Gabor. By
The presence of the mffrderer.
Sieg. Name him 1
Gabor. He
May have more names than one. Your lordship
had so
Once upon a time.
Sieg. If you mean me, I dare
Your utmost
Gabor. You may do so, and in safety;
I know the assassin.
Sieg. Where is be ?
Gabor. (Pointing to Ulric.) Beside you!
(Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor; Sitgti»•
dorf interposes.)
Sieg. Liar and fiend 1 but you shall not bo slain |
These walls are mine, and you are safe within
them.
[He turns to Ulric.
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I
Will do. I avow, it is a growth so monstrous,
I could not deem it earth-born: but be calm;
It will refute itself- But touch him not.
[Ulric endeavours to compose himself.
Gabor. Look at him, count, and then hear me.
Sieg. (First to Gabor, and then looking to Ulric.) I
hear thee.
Great heaven 1 you look—•
Ulric. How?
Sieg. As on that night
When we met in the garden.
Ulric. (Composes himself.) It is nothing.
Gabor. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came
hither ^
Not seeking you. but sought
Sieg. Go on, sir.
Gabor. Ere I do so,
Allow me to inquire who profited
By Stralenheim's death? Was't I?—as poor as
ever?
And poorer by suspicion on my name,
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because
I know you innocent, and deem you just.
But ere I can proceed: —Dare you protect me ?
Dare you command me?
[Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian and
then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre,
and is drawing lines with it on the floor—
still in its sheath.
Uric. (Looks at his father, and says)— Let the man
go on!
Gabor. I am unarmed, count—bid your eon lay
down
His sabre.
Ulric. (Casts the sabre from him with contempt.) It
—or some
Such other weapon, in my hands—spared yours
Once.
Gabor. You spared me for
Your own especial purpose—to sustain
An ignominy not my own.
Ulric. Proceed:
The tale is doubtless worthy the relator.
(To Siegendorf.) But is ic of my father to heal
further?
Sieg. (Takes Ulric by the hand.) My son! I know
my own innocence—and doubt not
Of yours—but I have promised this man patience;
Let him eontinue.
Gabor. At Frankfort on the Oder, it was my
chance
To hear related a strange circumstance
In February last. A martial force,
Sent by the state, had, after a strong resistance.
Secured a band of desperate men.—banditti,
Whom either accident or enterprise
Hod carried from their usual haunt—the forests
Which skirt Bohemia,
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction
Of the free town of Frankfort.
Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ?
Gabor. Amongst them there was said to be oni
man
Of wonderful endowments; birth and fortune,
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman,
And courage as unrivalled.
Ulric. {Smiling.) The tale sounds well
Gabor. And may sound better.
My soul was roused with various feelings to seek
out this prodigy.
It was his intention
To leave the city privately—we left it
Together—and together we arrived
In the poor town where Werner was concealed,
And Stralenheim was succoured—now we are on
The verge—dare you hear further ?
Sieg. I must do so—
Or I have heard too much.
Gabor. When pursued by Stralenheim's atten¬
dants
On the false charge of robbery, you concealed me,
In secret passages known to yourself,
You said, and to none else. At dead of night,
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious
Of tracing back my way—I saw a glimmer,
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light
I followed it, and reached a door—a secret
Portal—which opened to the chamber, where,
With cautious hand and slow, having first un¬
done
As much as made a crevice of the fastening,
I looked through, and beheld a purple bed,
And on it Stralenheim!
Sieg. Asleep ! And yet
You slew him—wretch ?
Gabor. He was already slain,
And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own
Blood became ice!
Sieg. But he was all alone ?
You saw no one else? You did not see the—
[He pauses from agitation.
Gabor. No;
He, whom you dare not name; nor even I
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in
The chamber.
Sieg {To Ulric.) Then, my boy! thou art guiltless
still—
Thou bad'st me say I was so once. Oh! now
Do thou as much!
Gabor. Be patient! I can not
Recede now, though it shake the very walls
Which frown above us. T ou remember, or
If not, your son does, - that the locks were
changed
Beneath his chief inspection; on the morn
Which led to this same night: how he had en¬
tered,
He best knows; but within an antechamber,
The door of which was half ajar, I saw
A man, who washed his bloody hands, and oft
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon
The bleeding body; but it moved no more
Sieg. This is so -
Gabor. I beheld his features
As I see yours—behold them in Count Ulrie's ?
Sieg. Oh, God of fathers!
Gabor. I turned, and fled i' the dark: chance
rather than
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall.
Well! I fled and hid me—
Chance led me here after so many moons.
And showed me Werner in Count Siegendorf!
You sought me, and have found me; now you
know
My secret, and may weigh its worth.
Sieg. {After apause.) Are you a fathei ?
INKR. 707
Gabor. No.
Sieg. Ah! then yon cannot feel for misery like
mine. [Sits.
Gabor. Mark me.
When you were poor, and I, though poor,
Rich enough to relievo such poverty
As might have envied mine, I offered you
My purse; you would not share it: I'll be franker
With you ; you are wealthy, noble, trusted by
The Imperial powers. You understand me ?
Sieg. Dam you await the event of a few mi¬
nutes'
Deliberation ?
Gabor. {Casts Ms eyes on Ulric, who is leaning
against apillar.) If I should do so ?
Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw
into
This tower. [Opens a turret-door. -
Gabor. I did not enter Prague alone—and
should I
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf.
Be brief in your decision!
Sieg. "I 'will be so.
My word is sacred and irrevocable
Within these walls, but it extends no further.
Gabor. I'll take it for so much.
Sieg. {Points to Writ's sabre, still upon the ground)
Take also that.
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him
Distrustfully.
Gabor. {Takes up the sabre.) I will; and so pro¬
vide
To sell my life—not cheaply.
[Gabor goes into the turret, which Sie¬
gendorf closes.
Sieg. (Advances to Wric.) Now, Count Ulric!
For son I dure not call thee—what say st thou ?
Ulric. His tale is true.
Sieg. True, monster!
Ulric. Most true, father;
And you did well to listen to it: what
We know, we can provide against. He must
Be silenced.
Sieg. How ?
Ulric. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull
As never to have hit on this before V
When we met in the garden, what exeept
Discovery in the act could make me know
His death? Or had the prince's household been
Then summoned, would the cry for the police
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should 1
Have loitered on the way ? Or could you,
Werner,
The object of the Baron's hate and fears.
Have fled unless by many an hour before
Suspicion woke? 1 sought :iu>! fathomed you—
Doubting if you were false or feeble; I
Perceived you were the latter, and yet, so
Confiding have 1 found you, that 1 doubted
At limes your weakness.
Sieg. Farricide! no less
Than common stabber! What deed of my
life,
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me
fit
For your accomplice ?
Ulric. This is mere insanity!
Sieg Perhaps so — but who hath made me
mud ?
1 Ulric. Be culm 1 becalm!
788
WERNER.
Stiff. Calm! Oh, tbou eternal power! can'st
thou
Continue so wit? itch a world?
t'Hc. Father, do not rise
T le devil von cannot lay, between us.
is time for union and for action, not
For family disputes.
Sieg. Ohl my dead father's curse!
now.
Ulrie. Let it work on! the grave
down!
Ashes are feeble foes: it is more easy
To baffle such, than countermine a mole,
Which winds its blind but living path beneath
you.
Yet hear me stilL If you condemn me, yet
.Remember who hath taught me once too often
To liBten to him! Who proclaimed to me
That there were crimes made venial by the occa¬
sion ?
That passion was our nature ? that the goods
Of heaven waited on the goods of fortune?
Who deprived me of
All power to vindicate myself and race
In open day ? By his disgrace which stamped
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on
Himself a.felon's brand!
We have done
With right and wrong; and now must only
ponder
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim,
Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown,
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I
slew,
Known aB our foe — but not from vengeance.
He
Was a rock in our way which I cut through.
He, you, and I, stood o'er a gulf, wherein
I have plunged your enemy. You kindled first
The torch—you showed the path; now trace me
that
Or safety—or let me 1
Sieff. I have done with life!
Ulrie. Let us have done with that which cankers
life-
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations
Of things which cannot be undone. We have
No more to learn or hide: I know no fear.
And have within these very walls men whom
(Although you know them not) dare venture all
things.
You stand high with the state; what passes
here
Will not excite her too great curiosity:
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye,
Stir not, and speak not; leave the rest to me :
We must have no third babblers thrust between
us.
[E.rit Ulrie.
Sieg. Am I awake? are these my father's
halls?
And you—my son? My son! mineI who have
ever
Abhorred both mystery and blood, and yet
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both!
My heart is broke! Its last, its dearest hope,
The bou I doated on, a man of blood!
I must be speedy, or more will be shed—
The Hungarian's - Ulrie—he hath partisans.
It seems; I might have guessed as much Oh,
fool!
Now then! or once more
To be the father of fresh crimes no less
Than of the criminal 1 Hoi Gabor! Gabor!
Enter GABOR.
Oabor. Who calls ?
Sit-y. t—Siegendorfl Take these, and fly!
Lose not a moment!
(Tears off a diamond star and other jewels,
and thrusts them into Oabor's hand.
Oabor. What am 1 to do
With these?
Sieg. Whate'er you will: sell them, or hoard.
And prosper; but delay not—or you are lost!
Oabor. You pledged your honour for my.safety.
Siej. And
Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not master,
it seems, of my own castle—of my own
ISetainers—nay, even of these very walls,
Or I would bid them fall and crush me! Fly!
Or you will be Blain by—
Gabor. Is it even so ?
Farewell, then! Recollect, however, count,
You sought this fatal interviewl
Sieg. I did:
Let it not be more fatal still!—Begone!
Gabor„ By the same path I entered?
Sieg. No—by the postern; that's safe still:
But loiter not in Prague; you do not know
With whom you have to deal.
Gabor. I know too well—
Unhappy sire!
Sieg. Speak not!—Begone 1
[Exit Oabor.
(Listening.) He hath cleared the staircase. Ah! I
hear
The door sound loud behind him! He is safe!
Safe!—Oh. my father's spirit!—I am faint.—
(He leans down vpon a stone sea', near tht
wall of the tower, in a drooping posture.
Enter ULRIC, with others armed, and with weapons
drawn.
Ulrie. Despatch!—he's there!
Lnd. The count, my lord!
Ulrie. (Recognising Sieg.) You here, sir!
Sieg. Yes; if you want another victim, Strike!
Ulrie. (Seeing him stripped of his jewels.) Where i*
the ruffian who has plundered you?
Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see
'Twas as I said—the wretch has shipped my
father
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom!
Away! I'll followyou forthwith.
\_Exemt all but Siegendorf and Ulrit.
What's th's ?
Where is the villain?
Sieg. There are two, sir; which
Are you in quest of?
'Jlrie. Let us hoar ne more
Or this? he must be found.
Did he escape with your connivance t
Si-g. With
My fullest, freest aid.
Ulrie. Then fare you well!
(Ulrie is going.)
Sieg. Stop! I command—entreat—implore! Ohl
Ulrie!
Will yea then leave me ?
Ulrir.. What! remain to be
Denounced—dragged, it maybe, in chains; and
all
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity,
This
'tis working
will keep it
Selfish remorse, end temporising pity,
That sacrifices your whole race to save
A wretch to profit by oar ruin t No, count,
Henceforth you have no son!
Sitg. I never had one;
And would you ne'er had borne the useless name!
Where will you go? I would not send you forth
Without protection.
Ulvic. Leave that unto me.
I am not alone; nor merely the vain heir
Of your domains; a thousand, ay, ten thousand
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine.
Sieg, The foresters
With whom the Hungarian found you first at
Frankfort ?
Ulrie. Yes—men—who are worthy of the name!
Sieg. Now open wide, my sire, thy gravel thy
. curse
Hath dug it deeper for thy son in mine!
Enter JOSEPHINE and IDA.
Jot. What is't we hear ? My Siegenderf ?
Thank heaven, I see you safe!
Ida. Dear father I
Sieg. No, no; I have no children: never more
Call me by that worst name of parent.
tER. 789
Jot. What
Means my good lord ?
Sieg. That you have given birth
To a demon!
Ida. (Taking Ulric's hand.) Who shall dare say
this of Ulrio'.
Sieg. Ida, beware! theres blood upon thai
hand!
Ulric. Away! It is your father's!
(Rushing out J
Enter GABOR and OFFICERS.
Qabor. Officers, behold the assassin! Seize
him 1
(Ida faVt senseless—Josephine stands speech¬
less with horror.)
Sieg. The race of Siegendorf is past!
My Josephine, 'tis death that sinks me down!
Jqs. No! no !
Sieg. 'Tis death! and from the son I loved!
Pray for him 1 for our son! pray for him I
Oh, that my dying voice might. Help me
To kneel! Forgive!—Oh, Ulrio! Ulric! j
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
A MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT, IN TWO ACTS.—BY J. COBB.
Diego.—" There, sir, I told you so."—Act i, scene 3.
Vir.
persons J&ejjrcsenteii.
Captain Teopic.
Paul.
Diego.
ACT I
SCENE I .—A Wood and Cottage.
Enter PAUL.
AIR.
Bet. from the ocean rising,
Bright flames the orb of day;
Yon grove's gay songs shall slumbers
Fr om Virginia chase away.
VIRGINIA appears at the cottage window.
DUET.
Though from the ocean rising,
Bright flames the orb of day,
Alas: the hour of meeting
Awhile we. must delay.
Yot awhile re.iri. g—hence, away I
An'TOXIO.
Domi.iiquk.
Alajiujia.
I PauL
Virginia.
Jacintha.
Mart.
My absence if desiring, I obey.
\ [Virginia disappears,
Paul. 'When will the tedious hour arrive, destined
to explain my doom 1
Enter J AOINTHA from the cottagt.
Ja-. Paul, Paul!
Paul. Well, Jacintha, what tidings?
Jac. Virginia requests you to depart tor the pre¬
sent Dominique will be punctual to the appointed
hour; but it is not yet arrired. Pray, retire. See
the young women and the children of the island ap¬
proach. to oiler congratulations to Virginia on her
birth-day.
[Emit PauL
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
791
.Enter MART, and several young women with garlandt
of flowers,
CHORUS
Baste, my companions here to pay
Our debt of gratitude to worth,
With song and dance to hail the day,
That gave the fair Virginia birth.
Sweet flow'rets, while you shed perfume,
And while, each wreathher goodness tells;
Hers, like her chetks, where roses bloom.
Shall beauty mark where virtue dwells.
Enter DIEGO.
Diego. Heyday! what mumming is here? What
fool's holiday is this?
Mary. Fool's holyday, indeed! it ought to be a
holyday throughout the island. It is the birthday of
Virginia; the amiable, the excellent Virginia!
Every heart acknowledges her goodness, every
tongue proclaims it.
Diego. Ay, I have heard of her, though I have
never seen her.
Women. Then you must have heard that deeds of
charity are her delight.
Diego. Charity, indeed! ha, ha, ha! An orphan,
poor and friendless, to boast of charity.
Women. You may deem her poor, because she
subsists on the gain of her modesty: but friendlres
she can never be while gratitude lives in the hearts
of all around her.
Diego. But if the girl have no money, whence
comes her charity?
Mary. From a rich treasury—her own beneficent
heart. Her kindness smooths the brow of age, and
lightens the burthen of calamity; her example en¬
courages every one to be content with their own
lot.
Diego. Well, I shall soon be better acquainted
With her; for I must search her dwelling.
Mary. Search the cottage of Virginia ?
Diego. Yes; for a runaway slave, named Alam-
bra, a young rogue who belonged to my master,
the English planter, Captain Tropic.
Mary. Oh! do not let a rude footstep intrude on
the abode of innocence.
Diego. And so, you repay your obligation with a
few trumpery flowers: a cheap way of shewing
your gratitude. Ha, ha, ha! I will go in.
TRIO and CHORUS.
Women. Bold intruder, hence away,
Let no rude act projant this day:
'Tis Virginia's natal day.
Diego. Hence, ye tdlepack, away !
Instead of hard and healthy labour,
Jigging to the pipe and tabor,
Serenading—masquerading—
Go home, go home, and work, I say.
Women. Against decorum—'tis a sin—
Diego. Let me pass—7 will go in.
Women. TTtfA these flowery wreaths to-day
Our debts of gratitude we pay ;
Tour flinty heart can nothing fetl—
Piega You pay your debts with what vou steal.
Enter DOMINIQUE, from ike house.
Dom. Ah, my pretty lasses, here you are : come,
according to annual custom, to congratulate my
dear young mistress on her birthday. You all look
remarkably handsome this morning: but I don't
wonJer at it. Beauty shines with redoubled lustre
when lighted up by a kind and benevolent heart.
1 must salute you all round: I promised to do se
lust year: it is our duty to perform a promise, and
I always endeavour to do my duty. (Salutes the
women.) And see, Virginia appears at the window
to invite her kind visitors. *
(Virginia opens a window, and makes signs to
the Women to enter the cottage; they go in,
and Diego is following them, when Domi¬
nique stops him.)
Whither are you going, friend?
Diego. Into that house.
Dom. Upon whose invitation ?
Diego. I am in search of a slave, who has run
away from my master, and who may, perhaps, be
concealed there.
Dom. That cottage belongs to Virginia; her cha¬
racter should silence your suspicions. Be assured
the slave you seek is not there.
Diego. Stand aside, and let me pass.
Dom. Lookye, friend, I always do my duty; I am
naturally a merry fellow, and tolerably good-
natured, but if you persist, I must knock you down,
I must, indeed; I must do my duty.
Diego. Your duty!
Dom. Yes; Virginia has no parents, no relations
to protect her. I lived as a servant with Virginia's
father when she was born. He died when she was
an infant: her mother, when she was on her death¬
bed, bequeathed this her oniy daughter to my pro¬
tection ; and I will protect her while this arm can
do its duty.
Diego. Do you mean to strike me ?
Dom. Not I, indeed, except you oblige me to do
so. My hand, at any time, would rather greet a
friend than conquer an enemy. As I told you be¬
fore, I am naturally a merry fellow : a song or
dance will make me skip as if my nerves were
fiddle-strings. My heels are light, for my heart is
light, 'tis not encumbered with a bad conscience;
and when I lay my band on it, and say I have
always endeavoured to do my duty, it won't con¬
tradict me.
Diego. Ha, ha, ha! Virginia is fortunate in having
such a slave.
Dom. A slave! No, no; lam, indeed, her ser¬
vant ; nay, I will be bold enough to say, her friend ;
but I am no slave, for I have British blood in my
veins.
Diego. Indeed!
Dom. Yes; lam told my father was an English
sailor, who, being above vulgar prejudices, admired
a black beauty. I was horn in this islarfd, and the
sun gave a gentle tinge to my complexion to mark
me as a favourite; so good morning to you.
[£.rit Diego.
The whole island, blacks and whites, will rejoice
in the happiness Of the lovers: every negro, aa
he passes them, will |shew his whitej teeth, and
nod in salutation. Ackee O! Ackee O! ay, and the
negroeB will remember them in their songs when
they dance by moonlight, like so many black
fairies.
792
PAUL AND
SON G.—DOMINIQUE.
When the moon shines o'er the deep,
AckeeOl AckeeOl
And whisker'd done are fcut asleep,
Snoring, fast asleep,
From their huts the negroes run,
Ackee 01 Ackee 01
Full of frolic, full of fun,
Holiday to keep.
Till morn they dance the merry round,
To the fife and cymbal.
See, so brisk,
How they frisk,
Airy, gay, and nimble !
With gestures antic,
Joyous, frantic.
They dance the merry round,
Ackee 01 Ackee 0!
To the cymbal's sound.
Black lad. whispers to black lass,
Ackee 0! Ackee 0!
Glances sly between them pass.
Of beating hearts to tell.
Tho' no blush canpaint her cheek,
Ackee 01 Ackee 01
Still her eyes the language speak
Of passion quite as well.
Till mom, dec.
Enter PAUL.
Paul. Well, Dominique, here I am, all curiosity,
all expectation. You know I am yet ignorant of
Virginia's history and my own. Yon have promised
to satisfy my curiosity.
Donu Now it becomes my duty. Know, then,
that Virginia's mother was of a noble family of
Spain.
Enter MARY from the cottage.
Mary. Dominique!
Dom. Unlucky! there is my wife; she knows the
story by this time, and envies me the pleasure of
telling it. (To Mary.) Leave us to ourselves but one
minute, I entreat you.
Paul. Oh! Dominique, my anxiety—
Dom. Shall be gratified. Virginia's mother was,
as I told you, of a noble family in Spain, who cast
her off from their protection on her marrying my
master, a young merchant of inferior birth. De¬
serted by their friends, he retired to a small plan¬
tation in this island; but one misfortune succeeded
another, and he soon died of a broken heart, leav¬
ing his wife and infant in poverty and distress.
Paul. Without a protector, without a friend!
Dom. Without a friend! No, young man, I hope
I knew my duty better.
Paul. Forgive my impatience, I was in the
wrong.
Mary. (Coming forward.) Not at ali in the wrong;
■v'ho can keep their patience to hear him talk so
slow?
Dom. That is a reproach, Mary, which I cannot
retort upon you. Paul, hitherto you have believed
Virginia to be your sister; but she is not your
Bister.
Paul. Indeed! were not Virginia's parents mine ?
Dom. and Mary. N o.
Paul. To whom, then, do I owe my birth ?
Mary. To poor Margaret.
Dom. Who was a faithful domestic to my mis¬
tress.
Mary And passed for your nurse.
VIRGINIA.
Dom. (To Mary.) Now your story is at an end;
you know no more.
Paul. And my father ? , .
Dom. Really 1 cannot tell who he was, for I
never heard mysolf; but console yourself; if ysnr
ignorance in that respect is a misfortune, you are
not single in it.
Mary. (To Dom.) And now your story is at an
end.
Dom. Not yet. .
Paul Virginia no longer my sister! A thousand
emotions rise in my bosom—hut, why was the bs-
cret of my birth kept for fifteen years, and why
disclosed on this day ?
Dom. ( To Mary.) You can't answer that—I can.
You must know that my poor mistress, on her
deathbed, conjured me to sanction the deceit until
Virginia should attain her fifteenth year.
Mary. Well, and she's fifteen this day.
Dom. If, at that period, no news from her family
in Spain should arrive—
Mary. And no news from Spain has arrived.
Dom. I was at liberty to explain the secret of
your birth, and to add the blessings of Virginia's
mother to your union.
Paul. Kind Dominique! invaluable friend 1 let
me fly to Virginia.
Dom. I have already acquainted her with the
whole story.
Ewer from the cottage, the young women with VIR¬
GINIA; all go off except Paul and Virginia.
Paul Why that averted look, my dear Virginia?
do you not share in my joy, my transport, at this
discovery ?
Vir. Indeed I do: and affection for you com¬
menced with my life, and can only end with it The
first word my infant lips pronounced was your be¬
loved name ; and when my eyes opened to the light
of heaven, my heart opened to love.
Paul. Oh! Virginia, my happiness seems too
great to be real.
SONG.—PAUL.
Vast is the swelling tide of joy,
Too mighty bliss abounding ;
Do not, ye p wers, with sweets destroy—
Each yielding sense confounding.
Thus, from the dunueon's gloom restoFd,
The captive courts the sudden light;
Shrinks fr mi the blessing he wtor'd.
A nd hides in shades his dazzled sight.
Enter ALAMBRA from behind the cottage.
Alam. Pity, pity the miserable Alambra! Ohl
compassionate a wretched creature forced by ill
usage to escape from a neighbouring plantation.
Paul. How! a runaway negro !
Alam. For several days the neighbouring forest
has sheltered me from my pursuers; but, alas! I
dared not venuire from my hiding-place to implore
charity, till famine rendered me desperate—I faint
with hunger.
Paul. Poor wretch! thou hast, indeed, Buffered
for thy errors,
Fir. We must forget his errors in his misery.
Let us thank heaven, my dear Paul, for having
again afforded us the satisfaction of relieving a
fellow-creature in distress.
Paul. Unfortunate victim of avarice! Alas! yon
know the strict laws of this island will not allow ns
to afford you shelter in our abode. Wljat misfor¬
tune tempted you to the rashness of deserting your
mas'er's service!
pall and
Alam. Oppression, cruel oppression; not exerted
on my own person, but on my helpless sister. Our
parents died on board the ship which tore vs from
our native country; we were left helpless and do-
sertea orphans.
Vir. Paul, do you mark this 1 We are orphans,
and know how to pity.
Alam. I thought myself too happy that our lot
was to serve the same master. We were purchased
for a planter named Tropic.
Paul. His principal servant, Diego, was in search
of you this morning.
Alam. It is of his cruel servant I complain. For
some time my strength and activity enabled me
not only to perform my own task with cheerful¬
ness, but to assist in that portion of labour allotted
to my sister. This was discovered by Diego, and
he chastised me with stripes.
Vtr. How wretched must be the reflections of
that bad man!
Alam. I bore my punishment with fortitude; but
the next hour, alas!—hearts like yours will scarcely
give credit to the tale—the next hour, I saw my
gentle sister sink under the lash of my tormentor.
Madness seized my brain. I struck the cruel Diego
to the ground.
Paul. Heaven stamped that energy in your heart,
which raised your avenging arm.
Vir. (To Paul.) Cannot we intercede with this
poor slave's master to forgive him 1 What, though
he may be a man of high rank, and we cannot
speak to him eloquently, surely no eloquence is re¬
quired to plead the cause of nature.
Paul Virginia, we feel the impulse of a guardian
power: let us obey it.
Alam. (Falling on his knees.) He who implanted
mercy in your breasts will thank you for me.
Paul. Take some refreshment in this cottage,
and then lead the way to your plantation.
Alam. Across that mountain 1 es our path ; it is
rugged and difficult.
Vir. Fear not for me. Sure, endeavours to re¬
lieve this poor slave will be our best acknowledg¬
ment of the debt we owe to heaven.
[Exeunt into the cottage, all but Jaciniha.
Jac. Innocent and happy pair! love reigns in
their hearts, aud prepares them to enjoy every
blessing around them.
SONG.— JACINTHA.
Glorious the ray glancing over the ocean,
That bids hill and valley display each uay hue ;
Graceful the orange-grove waves in slots motion.
With joy, as it hails the fresh morning in view.
Yet vainly her beauties shall nature impart,
But for love's cheering sunshine that reigns in the heart.
All is delight if kind love lend his aid;
And all is despair if fond hopes be betray'd.
Sweet is the breeze that awakens the morning;
Or murmurs at eve with the nightingale's song;
Bright is the moonbeam, the streamlet adorning.
While o'er the smooth pebbles it wanders along.
Yet vainly her beauties, etc.
SCENE IL—A Room in Tropic's house.
Ewer TROPIC and DIEGO.
Diego. Well, sir, you are mastr r, to be sure, and
must be obeyed; but still I sat you are wrong,
TeiV(£L0nWbat. haven't I authorit «er my own
VIRGINIA. 798
plantaticn? Haven't I absolute power over my
slaves? Yes, I have; and I choose to shew that
powjr by rendering them as happy as I can. It is
a fancy of mine, and no one shall control me in it.
Diego. And so, they are to have another holyday f
Tropic. Yes, and a proper allowance of grog to
make them happy; 1 love grog myself, it often
makes me happy.
Diego. Ah, sir, the plantation was differently
managed before yon had it. Hut, really, I am sorry
to 6ay, you Englishmen do not understand how to
deal with slaves; your own country affords you no
practice th- t way.
Tropic. No, Diego, it is the boast of Britons, that
from the moment a slave imprints his footstep on
our shore the moment that he breathes the air of
the land of freedom—he becomes free.
Diego. Ay, there'B the pity; so that makes yon
spoil your slaves here in the West Indies.
Tropic. No, I do not spoil them.
Diego. You consider them—
Tropic. As men. And I will say, for the credit
of mankind, whether black or white, I bave seldom
found a heart so perverse as to be insensible of the
treatment of humanity and kindness; but your dis¬
cipline is so rigid, Diego, I am not satisfied as to
the Btory of Alambra.
Diego. Alambra is an impudent, good for-nothing
rogue.
Tropic. Well, well, but —
Diego. And a runaway, a deserter, eloped from
your service.
Trop c, A deserter 1 true, so he is; he ought to he
punished.
Diego. And shall, if I catch him ; he ran away
because he would not work.
Tropic. That's bad; every one who eats his allow¬
ance ought to work for it. I am an old seaman,
and I hate a skulker. Mankind are brother sailors
through the voyage of life, 'tis our duty to assist
each other : 'tis true, we have different stations ;
some on the quarter-deck, and others before the
mast; or else how could the vessel sail ? But the
cause of society is a common cause, and he that
won't lend a hand to keep the vessel in sailing
trim, hea-ve him overboard to the sharks, I say.
Diego. You are a true sailor, i'faith!
Tropic. Y es, my native country is my ship, and
I am proud to call her Great Britain. Long may
she ride like a peerless flrst-rate, the queen of the
ocean, with a gallant crew and a beloved com¬
mander.
SONG—TROPIC.
Our country is our ship, dye see,
A gallant vessel, too ;
And of his fortune proud is he.
Who's of the Albion's crew.
Each man, whate'er his station be,
When duty's call commands.
Should take his stand,
And lend a hand.
As the common cause demands.
Among ourselves, inpeac-, 'tis true,
We quarrel—make a rout;
And having nothing else to do,
We fairly scold it out.
But once the enemy in view.
Shake hands, we soun are friends ;
On the deck.
Till a wreck.
Each the common cause defends. [Exeunt.
191 PAUL AND
SCENE III.—Thl outside Of Tropic's house, with a
view of a sugar plantation. Some Slaver appear tc
have just left work.
Enter PAUL, VIRGINIA, and ALAMBRA.
Alam. At length we are arrived at my master
Tropic's plantation ; and see, my young friends,
there he is at a distance. Now, kind Virginia, plead
for me.
Vi'r. I will, if—if—I can find spirits to perform
he task; but my courage fails me just when I most
want it.
Alam. Oh! do not forsake me in this extremity.
Retire a moment and collect yourself. (They retire.
Paul likewise retires, and converses with some of the
slaves.)
Enter TROPIC and DIEGO.
Di go. There, sir, I told you so; now you own
eyes will convince you. There is Alambra; who
has the assurance to come into your presence with
eom vagabond companions.
Tropic. Bring him hither. (Diego going to seize
Alambra.)
Alam. Oh! spare me. (Paul rushes forward and
draws his sword to defend Alambra against Diego, who
desists.)
Tropic. Bold youth, what means this presump¬
tion ?
AIR.—PAUL
Boldly I come, to plead the cause
Of nature and cf truth,
Oh ! let your hearts own nature's laws :
R edress this injured youth.
Die. Don't credit what they say. Don't listen to
that girl; she'll make you believe anything she
pleases.
Tropic. I am resolute.
Die. I wish ycu would turn your eyes this way.
Vou should not trust yourself even to look upon
Virginia.
Tropic. Is this Virginia ?
AIR.—VIRGINIA.
Ah! could my J alt'ring tongue impart
The tale of woe that pains my heart,
Then in vain I should not crave
Your pity for a wretched slave.
The injui'd ne'er in vain address'd,
Jn plaints of woe, a Bi itons breast;
Compassion ever marks the brave:
Oh! pity, then, your wretched slave.
Ah .'could, <bc.
(bal ing the air, Tropic, converses with Paul;
Jhego watches his countenance anxiously;
Tropic lookt fiercely at Diego: when I ir-
gtnta has finished her song, she goes to AU
ambra, who is kneeling, and takes him by
the hand.)
Tropic. Alambra, you have been wronged; but
you shall have ample justice. Diego!
Paul. (To Tropic.) Mark his countenance: how
timid is gui t! [Diego sneaks off.
Tropic. The knave shall answer for this. What
do 1 owe to you, children of truth ? Simple nature
epoke forcibly to your hearts. Distress of a feilow-
cirature was a claim too powerful to be resisted.
Regardless of every personal danger, you boldly
VIRGINIA.
preferred a complaint against a wretch, at whose
power of revenge you might have trembled. And
I—I, who had been made an innocent accomplice
of this man's guilt, might have still wandered iuths
piths of oppression and injustice, had I not beea
rescued by the courageous virtue of these poor
children.
CHORUS OF NEGROES.
Oh! bless'd for ever be this day,
When chardy asserts her sway:
When beauty, generous as fair.
Deems not the. slave beneath her cart;
And bids the beams of mercy smile
Upon the suffering sons of toil!
[The Slaves, who. from the moment Alambra
was pardoned, have te t fied their joy and
gratitude, have now prepared a chair com¬
posed of bamboos and branches of trees, in
which they seat Virginia, and curry heron
their shoulders. Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE L—A Room in Virginia's cottage-
Enter DOMINIQUE and ALAMBRA.
Alam. Paul and Virginia bade me say, that in s
few hours you will see them. My master, the En¬
glish planter, overwhelms them with kindness, and
insists upon escorting them part of the way home.
Dom. Hark! what noise is that! (Firing of guns
heard. He goes out and returns.) A ship is arrived,
and from Spain. (Looking out.) A sailor comeS on
shore with letters. We may have some news.
Enter a Sailor.
Welcome on shore, my lad; any letter for Viiv
ginia?
Sailor. Virginia? No.
Dom. Well, they are not much to be expected.
As for Paul, I imagine there can be none for him.
Sailor. No.
Dom. He is as much unknown in Europe as I
am.
Sailor. But here's a letter for one Dom—Domi-
Dom. For whom ?
Aiam. Dominiqne?
Sailor. Ay, Domiuique. Perhaps you are the
man.
Dom. I am the mau. [Takes the letter. Exit
Sailor.] But, a letter forme! Who would write to
me? I am unknown in Europe. I know nobody:
nobody knows me. (Reads the superscription.) Ad¬
dressed to the faithful Dominique. (Opens the letter.)
From Donna Leonora de Guzman, Virginia's sunt
(Reads.) " Faithful Dominique, your character for
honesty and fidelity are not unknown to me. Tell Vir¬
ginia that I now acknowledge her as my niece; that the
errors of her family are forgotten, and that she issolt
heiress of my wealth."
Alam. Virginia rich! How many people she will
make happy!
Dom. Do I dream ? Do I really read this under
the hand of Donna Leonora ?
Alam. Oh! don't talk, but read the letter.
Dom. Ay, here is a postscript, sure enough.
(Reads.) " Prepare Virgin.a to receive this sudden
good news, and to receive Den Antonio de Ouardes, my
particular friend, who comes a passenger in this ship.
tA will deliver my lette, s to my n'eee, and explain t/d
whole oj my favourable intentions towards Iter.9
PAUL AND
Atom. Oh, Jcyi Oh, delightt Happy will Paul
and Virginia be.
Bom. See they are bringing presents for her. I
suppose the Don will be here himself soon.
Alam. I'll run back to Virginia immediately,and
tell her
Bom. What will you tell her ?
Alam. Why, that there is fine news arrived; and
a tine gentleman is arrived; and has brought fine
presents: and
Bom. Take care you don't blunder in the busi¬
ness. In the first place, you give Virginia this let¬
ter—now mind my instructions, and tell her
DUET.—DOMINIQUE and ALAMBRA
Dom. Bon Antonio's come,
Ju,t arriv'dfrom Spain;
And soon, in a devil of a hurry, it should seem,
Will he go home ayain.
Alam. What pleasure, what delight,
To see this charming sight!
Fal, lal, de ral I
Such gold and jewels bright!
Dom. IKTiy, the plague won't you learn your lesson t
Now attend to what I say—
Alam. All the rest leave me to guess on;
Give me the letter, pray.
Dom. Listen to me, pray
Alam. No more you need to say.
I im. Hear but what I say—
W. m. Adieu I I must away
Alam. Come, good Dominique,
I'll now Virginia seek,
The letter give, attd your commands I will re¬
ceive;
Fm all attention—speak.
Dom. I know my time to talk,
That's over - you may walk ;
And so, with your fal, de rait
You now may go your way.
Alam. Will you, then, withhold the letter t
Come now—good now— don't refuse.
Dom. On second thoughts, I think I'd better
Tell her myself the ne ws.
Alam. Listen to me, pray
Dom. You may now go your way,
IKit/i your fal, lal I
Alam. Adieu! I must away.
Dom. Hear but what I say.
[In the course of the duet, Alambra snatches
the letter, and exit.
Enter DON ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
Dom. This must be Don Antonio.
Ant. Sebastian, send my message to the go¬
vernor. I must pay my respects to him imme¬
diately, or not at all. 1 shall be on board to-mor¬
row morning.
Dom. (Aside.) On board to-morrow morning!
Ant. On my arrival here to-day, I find a ship
bound for spain to-morrow; and, as I bate to lose
time, I shall take the opportuni', returning.
VIRGINIA. 79|
Virginia can have no objection. She will be over¬
joyed at going to Spain ?
Dom. My lord, did I hear you aright? Virginia
to go to Spain?
Am. Yes, to be sure. Virginia returnato Spain
with me, who am her lover to-day, and her hus¬
band to-morow, as her aunt's letter will explain to
her.
Dom. Don Antonio, what you propose is impos¬
sible.
Ant. Ay. ay; why so?
Born. Virginia's affections are engaged to an¬
other.
Ant. Another! Ha, ha, ha I You are a person
of interest in this family, and I must purchase your
friendship.
Do ", it is not to be bought in such a cause as
your's ?
Ant. Insolent slave!
Bom. You will permit me to withdraw?
Ant. No.
Dom. You insult an inferior. I am sorry you do
not remember what is due to your station. Were I
equally forgetful of mine •
Ant. And this impertinence you mistake for inde¬
pendence of mind ?
Dom. I hope I do not mistake it. He who is idle
or dissipated must ever be dependent; for his folly
renders him the slave of others. Independence is
not confined to any situation; it is the reward
granted by heaven to industry and frugality.
Ant. 'Sdeath I am I to be braved thus ?
(Offers to strike him.)
Dom. Hold, my lord ; beware of a blow. All
distinctions of rank and stations sink before a
blow. Remember, it is an appeal to manhood, that
would at once proclaim us to be equals. My sinews
are strengthened by toil; and although I wish to
decline the contest, believe me, I do not fear it.
[Air if.
Seb. My, lord, your impatience will ruin every¬
thing. Dominique will apprise the lovers of your
intentions, and you will have to dare all the fury of
a jealous rival.
Ant. Be it so. I cannot help to dissemble.
Seb. Nor is it necessary. You shall dissemble by
deputy. I will take that task upon myself, and wid
persuade Dominique that all you have said was to
prove his fidelity; and that your errand to this
island is to unite Paul and Virginia, with the con¬
sent of her aunt. Donna Leonora.
Ant. But to what purpose 'ose all this time ?
Seb. To lull suspicion to sleep, and enable you to
carry off Virginia this night.
Ant. My dear Sebastian !
Seb. The governor has sent an answer to vout
message, and is now expecting you.
Ant. Well?
Seb. Let the governor see the letters written to
Virginia by her aunt, they will shew your authority
for earrviug her to Spain.
Ant. f have the letters here:
Seb. And request assistance from the governor's
guards to convey heron board of ship, and to se¬
cure Paul from obstructing our scheme.
Ant. Admirablj planned!
Seb. Then leave me to manage our friend Domi¬
nique.
Ant. While I obtain the audience of the governor.
[Exeunt-
796 P A FT, AND
SCENE IL—A pleasant country, with Tropic''planta¬
tion.
Enter PAUL, JAOINTHA, ALAMBRA, and VIE-
GINIA, who is supported in a seat on the shoulders
of the Negroes as before. The Negroes place the seat
on the ground, while Alambra, in dumb shew, seems
to explain to Paul and Virginia the news, Ac. of
Antonio's arrival. A dance of Negroes.
Paul. Thanks to my generoua friends,
[Exit Negroes.
Vir. Return to my cottage, Alambra, and let the
best of our Bimple fare be prepared to greet the
noble stranger. [Exit Alambra,
Paul And is the wealthy Virginia still resolved
to unite herself with a lover so poor, so humble ?
Ft'r. Can Paul venture to offend Virginia with
such a question ?
Jac. Reserve your love speeches for some other
situation. The echoes hereabouts are very com¬
municative, and may, perhaps, tell more than you
intend shall be known.
TRIO.—PAUL, VIRGINIA, and JACINTHA.
When tell-tale echoes whisper around.
The lover with prudence arming,
Then timid love retires from the sound,
Each whisper his caution alarming :
But when a lover echoes your sigh,
That's not amiss if no stranger is nigh.
The sweet response of lo e—the sigh !
Ohthat's the echo most charming !
The sic, st response of love, At. [Exeunt.
SCENE III—A Room t» Virginia's Cottage.
DOMINIQUE and SEBASTIAN discovered.
Bom. Why, you don't say so f
Seb. I assure you of the fact. My master, Don
Antonio, was resolved to try whether you merited
the character given you by Donna Leonora.
Bom. And he did try me pretty effectually, to be
sure.
Seb. He admires your strength of mind.
Bom,. I 'faith I he had bo very nearly experienced
my strength of body; for never in my life did I find
my hands so inclined to mutiny. Oh 1 my dear
Paul,
Enter PAUL,
let me never hear that fortune is blind; if she were
so formerly, she has recovered her sight at last,
and rewarded virtue.
Paul. My faithful Dominique 1
SONG.—PAUL.
A blessing unknown to ambition and pride,
That fortune can never abate;
To wealth and to splendour tho' often denied,
Yet on poverty deigns to await.
That b'essing, ye powers, still be it my lot.
The choicest of gifts from above;
Be»p fixed in my heart, it shall ne'er be forgot.
That the wealth of ihe cottage is love.
Whate'er my condition why should 1 repine t
By poverty never distressed;
Exulting 1 feel what a treasure is mine;
A treasure cnshrin'd in my breast.
That blessing, Ac.
Enter DON ANTONIO. Paul brings in VIRGINIA
and JACINTHA.
Ftr. My lord, I do not apologise for this humble
VIRGINIA.
abode; peacs and virtue have dwelt here; and, by
superior minds, like yours, honoured will be the
roof that has given shelter to such guests.
Ant. Charming Virginia! how would Donna
Leonora be delighted in beholding you add grace
to the ornaments which her fondness presents to
you.
Vir. Ah ! my lord, how shall I express my gra¬
titude for her affection! In this cottage, fifteen
years ago, my exiled mother gave me birth. Ia
this cottage, to-day, you announce to me the pa
rental fondness, the cherished blessings, of a second
mother.
Ant. This girl is an angel. (Aside to Sib.)
Seb (Aside to Ant.) Granted: but it maybe not
quite so convenient to inform Paul that you think
her so.
Ant. (Aside to Seb) I have seen the governor, and
shewn him Donna Leonora's letters; he consents to
my plan, and I expect a guard presently to enforce
his orders in consequence.
Vir. Aid me, my dear Paul, to express all the
thanks we ought to offer.
Ant. Virginia, you have not yet told me the
whole of your history.
Vir. Ah! my lord, our history is soon told: hap¬
piness in humble life offers but few circumstances
to claim attention.
TRIO—PAUL, VIRGINIA, and ALAMBRA
Paul. > Lowly, humble was our lot,
& Vir.) Fortune's frowns seem'd endless,
Yet, by kind heaven are never forgot
Orphans poor and friendless.
Hope, from the skies descenaing,
Still her bless'd influence lending,
Labour o'er, we dance and play;
Hearts free from guile are ever gay,
ChoruB. Hearts free, Ac.
Alam. Lowly, humble though your lot,
Goodness in you was endless;
Ne'er shall that goodness be forgot.
1, too, was poor and friendless.
Oh! may, from heaven descending,
Hope, her bless d influence lending.
Crown with joy each happy day!
Hearts free from guile are ever gay.
Chorus. Hearts free from guile, Ac.
Paul. > Blissful though our future lot,
& Vir.) Fortune's smiles, though endless.
Amidst our joys shall ne'er be forgot
We once were poor and friendless.
Humble content most prizing,
Ourjbys though the proud are desp'sing,
S'ill this truth we may display,
Hearts free from guile are ever gay.
Chorus. Hearts free from guile, Ac.
Enter an Officer.
Offi. Don Antonio de Guardes 7
Ant. The same, good signor.
Offi. An order from the governor.
(Gives a papa.)
Ant. The governor's order shall be obeyed: w
are all ready. [Exit Officer.\ Virginia, thus lit 1
have listened to your story; now, in your turn, at¬
tend : it is reserved for me to complete your event*
ful drama.
Paul. What means Antonio7
Ant. Hark: my actors approach. ^
PAUL AND
QUARTETTO and CHORUS.
Paul. What sounds strike my ear t
Jac. The guards art passing by.
Dom. But why approach so near t
Aiotu. The truth let me descry. [Exit.
(The march still continues to be heard Al•
ambra^ re-enters in consternation. The go¬
vernor's guards then eider, commanded by an
Officer, who speaks apart to Bon An'onio.)
Ant. Come, sir, despatch; your order see ohey'd.
Otfi. 'Tis from the governor.
Paul- Thus meanly betray'd!
Hi' name by this order y u degrade :
Stand forth, base dece'ver. and say.
Of what art we accus'd, our crime display.
Antonio, Officer, and Chorus of Guards.
Be silent; the order you ■< ust obey.
Paul, Virginia, and the rest.
pZir\ crime d>sP!ay-
Cho. The order of the governor you must obey.
iThe guards carry off Virginia and P ml on
opposite sides. The march is heard as they
retire.
SCENE IV. — Another Room in the Cottage.
Enter MARY, meeting DOMINIQUE.
Mary. Oh! Dominique, this is a miserable hour.
Bom. (Agitated.) Yes, it isn't an hour of the hap¬
piest sort to be sure.
Mary. That wicked Don Antonio!
uom. Antonio! Curses on his name? But chil¬
dren vent their complaints in scolding; it is for
men to bear misfortunes.
Mary. Where is Virginia ?
Bom. Carried on board a ship.
Mary. And where is Paul ?
Bom. By this time he is no longer a prisoner.
Mary. Who obtained his release ?
Bom. Why, the gallant Englishman, whom Paul
visited to-day; that man has, indeed, a heart in his
bosom.
Mary. See, Dominique, here he is.
Enter TROPIC.
Oh! sir, you surely bring us good news.
Tropic. I wish it were so.
Bom. Why, then, for bad news. Let us hear It
sir. I can bear it.
Tropic. I had explained to the governor the in¬
justice which he had been betrayed into by the
artifice of Don Antonio—
Bom. And the governor ordered Paul to he re¬
leased ?
Tropic. Yes; and indignant at Don Antonio's
conduct, he directed the ship to be detained, and
Virginia to be brought before him.
Born. Then Virginia is on shore ?
Tropic. No: before the governor's order could
reach the port, the ship was under Bail, and Virginia
a prisoner on hoard.
Mary. Then Virginia is lost to ns for ever.
(Weeping.)
Bom. Be silent, be silent: tears do no good.
(Turn' aside and weeps.)
Tropic. Already had we made signals fiom the
lighthouse for the vessel to put back —
Bom. Ay, and—
Tropic. And the signals were obeyed. With joy
I saw the ship returning towards the harbour,
when—
VIRGINIA. m
Bom. What, sir f—what t Speak out—never
mind, sir—we'll bear misfortune; 'tis our duty.
Tropic. The elements light against us. Suddenly
there arose one of those hurricanes which are the
scourge of our climate. Hark 1 how the tempest
howls 1
Bom. But the ship has gained the harbour ?
Tropic. Alas! no. i fear she iB in a perilous
situation. I immediately despatched Alambra to
tne shore: he knowB the coast perfectly. His
long stay forbodes no pood news.
Bom. Here is Alambra.
Enter ALAMBRA
What news of the ship ?
Alam. In the greatest danger: flriDg gnns and
making signals of distress, which are answered
from the shore, but, I fear, to little purpose
Tropic. Has she weathered the reef of rocks ?
Alam. No; there will be her ruin.
Mary. Can no assistance be rendered to them ?
Alam. The swell of the sea is tremendous. No
boat can venture to leave the shore.
Tropic. Indeed! We'll have one trial, however.
I think I know two or three good follows who will
take their chance to sink or swhn in the cause of
humanity; and, to the extent of my purse, they
shall claim their reward. [Exit.
Alam. Come, Dominique, let us endeavour to
render assistance, although I have but little hope.
Bom. Don't despair; the weather is improving.
Alam. Improving! Why, the wind is louder.
Bom. Ay, just at this moment; but it will be
lower presently; and see, the sky is lighter.
Alam. Yes, because the flashes of lightning are
incessant
Bom Well, but I hear no thunder
Alam. That is because the wind is so high.
Bom. Not merely so. I am confident the weather
is growing better. I have not heard the thunder
these Ave minutes. [Thunder. Exeunt.
SCENE V.—A rocky coast; the sea violently agitated
Thunder and lightning at intervals.
Enter TROPIC, MARY, a number of Soldiers, Sailors,
and fegroes, some of whom ho'd lights from the ends
of long poles, white others seem preparing a boat to
be put to sea.
Cho. Hour of terror t scene of woet
Lost Virgima ! hapless maul I
Fate, avert th' impending blow;
Powers of mercy lend your aidt
(The ship comes in siyht, and runs on a rock
stern foremost.)
Tro. From yonder cliff let signal fires ascend;
Once more, my gallant hearts, your efforts lend.
(dome Sailors get into the boat and shove her
off.)
Cha Save the helpless maid t
(The ship appears on fire.)
Jac. Behold, who is yonder
How wild is his air I
If hither he wander,
Ah t soothe his despair.
Cho. How wild his despairI
798
Paul.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
Enter PAUL. ALAMBRA brings VIRGINIA on shore. Pawl re.
coverts by degrees, and, after embracing each other,
they fall on their knees, and stretch their arms to
heaven in token of gratitude.
Ctao. From the cruel reaves.
Fate, the fair Virginia saves.
Paul and Virginia come forward and receive the con.
gratulations of all present.
Then is she lost* 'tis madness all t
A mid the gloom,
Virginia.' cm thee I ealU
Thee I come to save, or share thy doom,
fPaul breaks from the Women, who endeavour
to detain him, runs up the cliff', and disap¬
pears.)
Alam. Of winds and waves Til brave the strife;
' Tis honour ca Is, fearless 1 go.
What, though 1 risk my ransom'd life,
The debt I to Virginia ore*.
Cho. Haste, generous youth, Virginia save.
(Alambra jumps into a boat with two Negroes,
and shoves off.)
Tro. Unhappy lovers ! all is vain :
See, breathless he is cast on shore,
(The boat returns to shore with Paul ap¬
parently breathless.)
GfH. Yet shall a spark of hope remain,
Virginia may be ours once more.
While sinking tn the foaming wave,
Alambra. generous as brave,
Heseu'd the fav'rite of the skies.
To shore he brings his lovely prize.
FINALE.
PAUL VIRGINIA. MARY. JACINTH A, &c.
Strains of joy
We'll now employ.
And dance a mirthful measure;
From above,
Fate smiles on love,
Of life, the choicest treasure.
Fa), lal. la.
Let's dance a mirthful measure.
Alain. Sing away,
In strains so gay,
The praise oflo> e and beauty;
Like Dominique,
No praise I seek,
1 only did my duty.
I Oborua. Strains of joy, Ac. [Exmrt.
BRUTUS; OR, THE FALL OF TARQUIN.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY J. H. PAYNE
Titus.—1' On, Brutus, Brutus, must I call you father?"—Act v, seme 3,
^Persons JEegrcsenfeif,
Brutus,
Titus.
Sextcs Tarqcin.
Aruns.
Claudius.
Collatings.
Valerius.
Lucretius.
HoR ,tius.
Celius.
FlaVIUS corcnna.
Centurion.
ACT L
SCENE I.—A S'reet in Rome.
Enter VALERIUS and LUCRETIUS.
Val. Words are too feeble 10 express the horror
With which my soul revolts against this Tarquin.
By poison he obtained his brother's wife,
Then, by a baser murder, grasped the crown!
These eyes beheld that aged monarch, thrown
Down from the senate-house—his feeble limbs •
Bruised by the pavement — his time-honoured
locks,—
Which from the very robber would have gained
Respect and veneration bathed in blood!
With difficulty raised, and tottering homeward.
The murderers followed—struck him—and ho
rllVr!'
First Plebeian.
Second Pl* beian.
Third Plebeian.
Fourth Plebeian.
Fifth Plebeian.
Tullia.
Tarquinia.
Lucketia.
Lavinia.
Priestess.
Luc. Inexpiable crime 1
Val. High in her regal chariot, Tullia came—
The corpse lay in the street. The charioteer
Turned back the reins in horror. 'On, slave,
on!
' Shall dead men stop my passage to a throne ?'
Exclaimed the parricide. The gore was dashed
From the hot wheels up to her diadem!
Luc. And Heaven's avenging lightnings were
withheld 1
Here ruleB this Tullia, while the king, her hus¬
band,
Wastes our best blood in giddy, guilty war!
Spirit of Marcus Junius! Would the gods
Deign to diffuse thy daring through the land,
Rome from ber trance with giant spirit would
etarL
Ho. 26.—Dicks' British Drama.
801 BRUTUS: OB, THE
Dash off her fetters, and amaze the world
Val. Junius, didst sayl Olil tyranny long
since
Had sunk—chained—buried in its native hell—
But Tarquin, trembling at his virtues, murdered
Him and his elder son. The younger, Lucius,
Then on his travels, 'scaped the tyrant's sword,
But lost his reason at their fearful fall.
Luc. Ay, the same Lucius, who now dwells with
Tarquin,
The jest, the fool, the laughing stock o' th'
court,
Whom the young princes always carry with
'em
To be the but of their unfeeling mirth.
Val. Hold'. I hear steps. Great things may yet
be done,
If we are men, and faithful to our country.
[Exeunt.
SCENE 11.—The Camp before Ardea.
Enter CLAUDIUS and ABUNS, laughing.
Aruns. There is no doctor for the spleen like
Lucius.
What precious scenes of folly did he act
When, lately through the glorious scenes of
Greece,
He went with us to Delphi! But, behold,
Where, full of business, his wise worship comes.
Enter LUCIUS JUNIUS.
Claud. Whither so fast, good Junius, tell us
whither?
Luc. To Borne, to Borne, the queen demands my
presence.
The state needs aid, and I am called to court.
(They laugh.)
Am I a fool ? If so, you cannot say
I'm the first fool graced by a monarch's favour.
Aruns. Why, Junius, travel has improved thy
wit:
Thou speakest shrewdly.
Luc. Do I so, my lord ?
I'm always glad when you and I agree :
You have just such a wit as I should choose.
Would I could purchase such! though it might
split
Aly head, as confined air does—water bubbles!
Claud. How say you ? Purchase ? Prithee, what
would'st give ?
Luc. What would I give? ten acres of my
laDd.
Aruns. Thy land! Where lies it?
Luc. Ask the king, my cousin :
fie knows full well. I thank him, he's my
steward,
And takes the trouble off my hands.
Claud. Who told thee so?
Luc, The king himself. Now twenty years are
past.
Or more, since he sent for me from my farm.
'Kinsman,' said he, with a kind, gracious smile,
•For the black crime of treason which was charged
• Against thy father apd thy elder brother,
• Their lives have paid: for thee, as I love mercy,
• Live and be happy: simple is thy mind'—
Aruns. True, kinsman, true; i'faith, 'tis wondrous
simple.
hue. ' And that simplicity will be a pledgo
4That thou wilt never piot against thy sovereign.'
FAIL OF TABQUIN.
Claud. Indeed, for that I'll be your boncunaM,
Junius.' . ,
Luc. 'Live in my house, oompanion of my child¬
ren.
' As for thy land, to ease thee of all care,
•I'll take it for thy use; all that I ask
' Of thee, is gratitude.'
Aruns. And art thou not
Grateful for goodness so unmerited ?
Luc. Am I not ? Never, by the holy gods,
Will I forget it! 'Tis my constant pray'r
To Heaven, that I may one day have the pow'r
To pay the debt I owe him. But stay, stay—
I brought a message to you from the king.
Aruns. Thank the gods, then, for thy good
memory, fool!
Luc. The King, your father, sends for you to
council,
Where he debates how best to conquer Ardea,
Shall I before, and tell him ye are coming ?
Claud, Ay, or behind, or with us, or stay here-,
▲s thy wits prompt—as suits thy lofty pleasure.
[Exeunt Aruns and Claudius laughing
Luc. (Alone.) Yet,'tis not that which ruffles me
— the gibes
And scornful mockeries of til-governed youth;
Or flouts of dastard sycophants and jesters;
Reptiles, who lay their bellies on the dust
Before the frown of majesty! All this
I but expect, nor grudge to bear; the face
I carry, courts it! Son of Marcus Junius!
When will the tedious gods permit thy soul
To walk abroad in her own majesty,
And throw this vizor of thy madness from thee,
To avenge my father's and my brother's murder ?
(And sweet, I must confess, would be the draught!)
Had this been all, a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow; and my own life
I had not valued as a rush. But still,
There's something nobler to be done! My boo],
Enjoy the strong conception I Oh I 'tis glorious
To free a groaning country—
To see Revenge
Spring like a lion from the den, and tear
These hunters of mankind! Grant but the time;
Grant but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this idiot-feigned life
To late old age, and may posterity
Ne'er hear of Junius but as Tarquin's fool 1 [E.nt,
SCENE IIL— Rome. A State Apartment in tk
Palace ofTullia.
Enter TULLIA, preced d by GUARDS, BANNER
BEARERS, LADIES, and followed by VALE¬
RIUS. She appears perturbed, and speaks apart.
Tul. (Apart.) Why should the steady mind to
shadows yield?
And yet this vision shakes my frame with horror!
I thought his spirit thundered in my ear,
' Remember when, with wild ambition's frenzy,
' And all Rome's empire in your view, you drove
' Your.chariot-wheels o'er your dead father's body,
' Up to the shouting Forum 1' Why, my soul,
Dost thou not shun the remembrance of that hour?
'Twas but the cause—the cause—For this base clay;
How differs it from the dull earth we tread on,
When the life's gone? But, next, the Sibyl camO;
Whose mystic hook at such a price we bought.
And cried, 'The race of Tarquin shall be kinga
' Till a fool drive them hence, i nd set Rome free!'
BRUTTM; OB, TUB-
ftrattge prophecy ! What fool ? It cannot be
i'hc.r poor dolt, the companion of my sons!
H.-rk thee, Valerius; Know'st thou that same fool
Sow iu the camp ?
Val. I know him well. A man
Who, when he had a name, was Lucius Junius:
A braver citizen Rome never boasted,
And wise and learned, withal; now changed, alas!
A spectacle which humbles me to look on!
Tut. But is he harmless in his moody humours?
Val, Tame as my horse, which, though devoid of
reason,
Shall turn, shall stop, and, at my angry bidding,
Shall kneel till tarn throned on his back!
And this shall Junius: the like instinct stirs
Junius and him—no more.
7'u>. (Apari.) Hence, idle fears!—
Yet. when he went to Delphi, 'tis given out
The oracle addressed him with strange portents,
And each night since, my dreams have been dis¬
turbed
By a wild form, too much resembling his,
Leading our soldiers forth with sword and flame,
Bevolters from the camp, to storm the palace.
But he is sent from thence, aDd shall be watched.
Enter HOKAT1US.
Hor. Your orders are obeyed: Lucius awaits.
Tul Set him before us. \Exit Horatius.
(To Volenti/.) Tell me, will he answer
If we do question him?
V I. 1 think he will:
Yet sometimes, when the moody fit doth take him,
He will not speak for days; yea, rather starve
Than utter nature's cravings; then, anon
He'll prattle shrewdly, with such witty folly
As almost betters reason.
HOBATIUS return* with LUCIUS JUNIUS.
Tul. Hark thee, fellow,
How art thou called?
Luc. A fool.
Tul. Fool, for thy nature:
Thou answerest well,—but I demand thy name.
Luc. Nothing but fooi.
Tul. His faculties are brutish
Brutus shall be thy name.
Lru. Thanks to your grace!
Jlor. Dost like thy new name, gentle brute ?
Bru. So well,
Who will may take the fooL I care not who—
Your highness, an' it like you.
I/or. I the fool!
Sirrah, good words, or T will have thee beaten.
Bru. A fool thou wilt not beat—a brute thou
dar'st not,
For the dull ass will kick against his striker,
If struck too harshly.
Tul. Let me hear no more;
There's mischief in hiB folly. Send him hence.
(Brutus going.
But stay—T'll search him farther. Hark thee, Bru¬
tus:
Thou wast at Delphi, with our sons the princes.
Tell me—what questions put they to Apollo ?
Bru. Your sons did ask who should be chief in
Borne.
Tul. Ha ! What replied the 01 acle to that ?
Bru. With pains and strugglings, the prophetic
dame
This destiny reported from her god:
'Great and most glorious shall that Roman be,
' Who first shall greet his mother with a kiss.'
■AiL OF TARQUIN. 801
Tul. That is fulfilled by Sextus.
Hor. Ay, he straight
Hastened from thence and kissed the queen his
mother.
Bru. Woe for me, I have no mother!
And yet I kissed her first.
Tul. Thou kissed her? Thou?
Bru. Yea, madam ; for just then nty foot did slip
In the fresh blood of a new-slaughtered victim,
And, falling, I did kiss my mother— earth.
Tul. Oh, that the earth had swallowed thee out¬
right,
Till thou hadst kissed the centre! I perceive
The gods are leagued with folly to destroy us.
My very blood chills at my heart. Away!
[Exit Tullia, Guard's, and Ladiet
Hor. Hark thee, thou Brutus:—I in part suspect
Thou ap'st this folly; if I find thee trifling
Or juggling with the Pythia for predictions.
By all the gods I'll have thee flayed, thy skin
Striped into thongs to strangle thee withal.
Dissembling varletl
(Crosses, and strikes Brutus, who seizes him.
Val. Shame, my lord! forbear!
TUreat'ning a fool, you do but wrong yourself.
Hor. But that the princes Jove his son, brave
Titus,
My dagger should have pierced his throat ere new,
And sent him to his mother earth for ever!
He shall be watched.—Come, come with me, Vale¬
rius. [ Exit.
Val. The gods restore thee to thyself,
And us to thee! [Exit.
Bru. (Alone.) A little longer,
A little longer yet support me, patience!
The day draws on : it presses to the birth—
I see it in the forming womb of time—
The embryo liberty.—Ha!—'tis my son-
Down, rebel nature, down!—
Enter TITUS.
Tit. Welcome to Rome 1
Would I might welcome thee to reason, too!
Bru. Give me thy hand—nay, give it me—
Tit. What would'st thou ?
Speak to thy son.
Bru. I had a thing to say,
But I have lost it Let it pass -no matter.
Tit. Look not upon me with those eyes, but
speak.
What is it that annoys thee? tell thy friend-
How can I serve thee? What dost lack ?
Bru. Preferment.
Thou canst do much at court.
Tit. Ah, this is nothing 1
Bru. So much the fitter for a fool's petition,
And a court promise.
'fit. Oh, this trilling racks me.
Bru. Lend me thine ear : t'll tell a secret to thee
Worth a whole city's ransom. This it iB:
Nay, ponder it, and lock it in thy heart-
There are more fools, my son, in this wise world.
Than the gods ever made.
Tit. Say'st thou, my father?
Expound this riddle. If thy mind doth harbour
Aught that imports a son like me to know,
Or, knowing, to achieve, declare it.
Bru. Now, my son,
Should the great gods, who made me what thou
see'st,
Repent, and in their vengeance cast upon me
802
The "burden of my senses back again—
What wouldst thou say ?
Tit. Oh, my lamented father,
Would the kind gods restore thee to thy reason—
Bru. Then, Titus, then I should be mad with
reason.
Had I the sense to know myself a Roman,
This hand should tear this heart from out my ribs,
Ere it should own allegiance to a tyrant.
If, therefore, thou dost love me, pray the gods
To keep me what I am. Where all are slaves,
None but the fool is happy.
Tit. We are Romans—
Bru. Not slaves? Why, what art thou?
Tit. Thy son.
Dost thou not know me ?
Bru. You abuse my folly.
I know thee not—Wert thou my son, ye gods,
Thou wouldst tear off this sycophantic robe,
Tuck up thy tunic, trim these curled locks
To the short warrior-cut, vault on thy steed;
Then, scouring through the city, call to arms,
And shout for liberty!
Tit. (Starts.) Defend me, gods 1
Bru. Ha! does it stagger thee?
Tit. For liberty ?
Saidst thou for liberty? - It cannot bei.
Bru. Indeed I—'tis well—no more.
Tit. What would my father ?
Bru. Begone! you trouble me. [Crowes,
Tit. Nay, do not scorn me.
Bru. Said I for liberty ? I said it not:
The awful word, breathed in a coward's ear,
Were sacrilege to utter. Hence, begone!
Said I, you were my son? —'Tis false: I'm foolish;
My brain is weak, and wanders; you abuse it
Tit. Ah, do not leave me; not in anger leave me.
Bru. Anger? What's that? I am content with
folly :
Anger is madness, and above my aim!
(Music heard.
Hark 1 here is music for thee,—food for love,
And beauty to serve in the rich repast.
Tarquinia comes. Go, worship the bright sun,
And let poor Brutus wither in the shade. [Exit.
Tit. Oh, truly said! bright as the golden sun
Tarquinia's beauty beams, and I adore!
(Soft Music.)
TARQUINIA enters, preceded by Damsels bearing a
Crown of Gold, some with Censors, &c., proper for the
ceremonials of a dedication to Fortune.
What dedication, or what holy service,
Doth the fair client of the gods provide?
In the celestial synod is there one
Who will not listen to Tarquinia s prayer?
Tar. I go to Fortune's temple, to suspend
Upon the votive shrine this golden crown.
While incense fills the fane, and holy hymns
Are chaunted for my brother's safe return,
What shall I ask for Titus?
Tit. Though the goddess,
In her blind bounty, should unthrone the world,
To build me one vast empire, my ambition,
If by thy love unblest, would slight the gift:
Therefore of Fortune I have naught to ask
She hath no interest in Tarquinia's heart
Nature, not Fortune, muBt befriend me there
Tar. Thy gentle haanners, Titus, have endeared
thee.
Although a subject Roman, to Tarquinia.
BRUTUS; OR, THE FALL OF TARQUIN.
My brother Sextus wears thee next his heart;
The queen herself, of all our courtly youth,
First in her favour holds the noble Titus,
And though my royal father well may keep
A jealous eye upon thy JuDian race,
A race unfriendly to the name of king, ^
Yet thee he cherishes; with generous joy
The monarch sees thy early virtue shoot,
And with a parent's fondness rears its growth.
Tit. Oh! neither name, nor nature, nor ths
voice
Of my lost father, could he wake to reason,
Not all the wrongs that tyranny could pile
On my afflicted head, not all the praise
That patriot gratitude, could shower upon me,
Can shake the faithful purpose of my soul,
To sever it from love and my Tarquinia.
Tar. Approve that firmness in the shock ot
trial,
And if my love can recompense thy virtue,
Nor tortures, nor temptations, nor the wreck
Of Borne and empire, shall divide me from thee.
To this I pledge my hand. Now to the temple!
[Exeunt emtio.
ACT IL
SCENE I.—The Tent of Sextus in the Camp before
A' Jea. A magnificent Banquet.
SEXTUS, COLLATINUS, CLAUDIUS, and
ARUNS discovered, drinking.
Sex. Come, then, here's to the fairest Evnrmli in
Italy;
And she's in Rome.
Aruns. Here's to the fairest nymph in Italy>
And she is not in Rome.
Sex. Where is she, then ?
Aruns. Ask Collatine; he'll swear she's at Col-
latia.
Sex. His wife!
Aruns. Even so.
[They rise and come forward.
Claud. Is it so, Collatine ?
Well, 'tis praiseworthy, in this vicious age,
To see a young man true to his own spouse.
Oh, 'tis a vicious age! When I behold
One who is bold enough to steer against
The wind of tide and custom, I behold him
With veneration; 'tis a vicious age!
Col. Laugh on, though I'm the subject! If to
love
My wife's ridiculous, I'll join the laugh;
Though I'll not say if ■ laugh at or with you!
Aruns. (Ironically.) The conscious wood was wit¬
ness to his sighs,
The conscious Di-yads wiped their watery eyes,
For they beheld the wight forlorn, to-day,
And so did I; but I shall not betray.
Here now he is, however, thanks to me
That is, his semblance, for his soul dwells hence.
How was it when you parted? (Mimicking.) She—
'My love,
' Fear not, good sooth, I'll very constant prove.'
Me.—'And so will 1,—for wheresoe'erl steer,
' 'Tis but my mortal clay; my soul is here.'
(All laugh.)
Sex. And pr'ythce, Collatine, in what array
Did the god Hymen come to thee ? IIow dressed,
And Bow equipped ? I feiir me much, lie left
BRUTUS; OK, THE :
His torch behind, so that thou couldst not see
A fault in thy beloved: or was that blaze
So burning bright, that thy bedazzled eyes
Have since refused their office ?
Col And doth Sextus
Judge by his own experience, then, of others f
To him, I make no doubt, hath Hymen's torch
Discovered faults enough! what pity'twas
He had not likewise brought i' th' other hand,
A mirror, where the prince might read himself.
Sex. I like thee now: thou'rt gay, and I'll be
grave.
As to thoBe dear, delicious creatures, women,
Hear what my own experience has taught me
I've ever found 'em fickle, artful, amorous,
Fruitful in schemes to please their changeful fan¬
cies.
And fruitful in resources when discovered.
They love unceasingly—never change—
Oh, never I—nol - excepting in the object!
Love of new faces is their first great passion;
Then love of riches, grandeur, and attention!
Knowing all this. I seek not constancy,
But, to anticipate their wishes, rove,
Humour the ir darling passion, and am blessed!
Cel. This is the common cant—the stale, gross,
idle,
Unmeaning jargon, of all those, who, conscious
Of their own littleness of soul, avoid
With timid eye the face of modest virtue;
Who, mingling only with the base, and flushed
With triumphs over those they dare attack,
The weak, the forward, or depraved, declare
(And fain would make their shallow notions cur¬
rent,)
That womankind are all alike, and hoot
At virtue, whereso'er she passes by them.
I have seen sparks like these—and I have seen
A little worthless village cur, all night
Bay with incessant noise the silver moon,
While she, serene, throned in her pearled car,
Sailed in full state along—But Sextus' judgment
Owns not his words,—and the resemblance glances
On others, not on him.
Sex. Let it glance where and upon whom it will,
Sextus is mighty careless of the matter.
Now hear what I have seen. I've seen young men,
Who. having fancied they have found perfection—
Col. Sextus, no more—lest I forget myself,
And thee. I tell thee, prince—
Aruns. Nay, hold!
Sextus, you go too far.
Sex. Why, pray, good sir, may I not praise the
wife
Of this same testy, froward husband here.
But on his cheek offence must quivering sit ?
And dreamed of insult!—the abortive child
Of misconstruction, whose near-sighted eye
Discerns not jest for real.
Col. I heed you not—jest on; I'll aid your humour
Let Aruns use me for his princely laughter,
Let Claudius deck me with ironic praise ;
But when you touch a nearer, dearer subject,
Perish the man, nay, may he doubly perish,
Who can Bit still, and hear, with skulking coolness,
The least abuse, or shadow of a slight,
Cast on the woman whom he loves! though here
Tour praise or blame are pointless equally,
Nor really add the least, nor take away
From her irue value, more than they could add
To th' holy gods.
Aruns. If that a man might dare to ope his lips
'ALL OF TARQUIN. 803
When Collatinus frownB, I would presume
To say one word in praise of my own wife;
And I will say, could my eyes stretch to Borne,
In spite of the perfections of Lucretia,
My wife, who loves her fire-side, and hates gadding,
Would prove far otherwise employed—and better,
Ay, better, as a woman, than the deity
Residing at Collaiia.
Sex. (Aside.) Well timed;—I'll seize th' occasion:
View this Lucretia ere i sleep, and satisfy
My senses whether fame has told the truth.
(Aloud) I'H stake my life on't. Let us mount our
horses,
And post away this instant towards Rome,
That we shall find thy wife, and his, and hie,
Making the most of this, their liberty.
Why, 'tis the sex: enjoying to the full
The swing of licence which their husbands' ab¬
sence
Affords. I'll stake my life that this is true:
And that my own—ill as I may deserve it-
Knows her state best, keeps best within the hounds
Her matron duties claim; that she's at home,
While yours are feasting at their neighbours'
houses.
What say'st thou, Collatine,
On rioting at home 1
Col. Had I two lives, I'd stake them on the trial,
Nor fear to live both out.
Sex. Let us away, then.
Come, come, my Collatinus; droop not thus—
Be gay.
Col. I am not sad—
Sex. But fearful for th' event.
Col. Not in the least.
Sex. A little.
Col. Not a whit;
You do not know Lucretia.
Sex. But we shall.
Let's lose no time. Come, brothers! Let's awav t
[Exeunt.
SCENE IL—Rome.—An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter BRUTUS.
Bru. (Alone.) Oh, that some light would beam
from heav'n to teach me
When to burst forth, and how to gain my purpose.
For Rome I would resign all other bonds,
And tear each private tie from my fixed heart
Ha! Some one comes ! It is my son! Beseems
Wrapt in Elysium, and elate with joy 1 [Retires.
Enter TITUS.
Tit. 'Tis done! 'tis done 1 auspicious are the fates ;
Tarquinia's word is pledged, and all is brightness!
Bru. (Coining down.) That exclamation was too
lofty, hoy;
Such raptures ill become the troubled times—
Of such, no more.
Tit. Oh ! at an hour like this,
Who could repress the thrill of grateful joy!
Bru. (Eagerly.) What dost thou mean ?
Tit. Tarquinia.
Bru. What of her ?
Tit. Her vows are pledged.
And heaven'B propitious smile will make her mine.
Bru. Thine? What! Thine? Heaven make
Tarquinia thine ?
Away! away ! Heav'n spurns the race the springs
from I
804 BRUTUS; OR, THE
Tit. How!—Father, wert thou to thyself restored,
Thou would'st exult to see thy son thus blest.
Our tows are past. They cannot be recalled.
And soon the nuptial altar will behold her
My own for ever.
Bru. No, Titus, not for ever!
If thou art mine, thou canst not be Tarquinia's.
Renounce thy father, ot renounce thy love.
Tit. Nay, loose me father; this is frenzy all.
E'en hadst thou spoken the dictates of thy soul,
(For sure thou canst not know what thou re-
qufr'st,)
I must not, would not, could not, yield Tarquinia.
N ay ; let me go, or my racked heart will break.
Bru. Leave me. Retire. Thine is no Roman
heart
Ere long the moon will change—the moon—my
goddess,
And then thou may'st behold a change in Brutus.
Tit. 'Tis as I thought; folly resumes its reign.
Look on him, oh, ye gods 1
Grant him once more the treasure now withheld,
And to his son restore a long lost father! [Exit.
Bru. (Alone.) I was too sudden. I should have
delayed,
A nd watched a surer moment for my purpose,
lie must be frighted from this dream of love.
"What, shall the son of Junius wed a Tarquin !
As yet I have been no father to my sou ;
1 could be none : but, through the cloud that wraps
me
I've watched his mind with all a parent's fond¬
ness.
And hailed, with joy, the Junian glory there.
Could I once burst the chains which now enthral
him,
My Bon would prove the pillar of his country-
Dear to her freedom as he is to me.
The time may come when heaven will heal our
wrongs—
To your hands, mighty powers, I yield myself—
I will not doubt heaven's goodness or Rome's
virtue—
Then, hence, Despair 1 Still thou and I are twain;
[Exit.
SCENE III.—The Bouse of Collatinus, at Collatia.—
An Apartment lighted up.
LUCRETIA discovered, surrounded by her Maids, all
employed in embroidery, and other female occupa¬
tions.
Luc. How long is it, Lavinia, since my lord
Hath changed his peaceful mansion for the camp
And restless scenes of war ?
Lav. Why, in my simple estimation, madam,
'Tis some ten days, or thereabout, for time
Runs as it should with me—in yours, it may be
Perhaps ten years.
Luc. I do not understand thee.
Say'st thou, with me time runs not as it should ?
Explain thy meaning.—What should make thee
think so ?
Lav. All that I mean is, that if I were married,
And that my husband were called forth to th' wars,
I should not stray through the grove next my house,
Invoke the pensive solitude, and woo
The dull and silent melancholy—brood
O'er my own thoughts alone, or keep myself
Within my house mewed up, a prisoner.
'Tis for philosophers
'ALL OF TARQUIN
To love retirement; women were not made
To stand cooped up like statues in a niche,
Or feed on their own Becret contemplations.
Luc. Go to; thou know'st not what thou say'a^
Lavinia.
I thank the gods, who taught me that the mind,
Possessed of conscious virtue, is more rich
Than all the sunless hoards which Plutus boasU;
And that the chiefest glory of a woman
Is in retirement—that her highest comfort
Results from home-born and domestic joys,—
Her noblest treasure, a deserving husband!
—Who, not a prisoner to the eye alone,
A fair complexion or melodious voice,
Shall read her deeper - nor shall time, which palli
The rage of passion, shake his ardent love,
Increasing by possession. This, (again I thank
The gracious gods)—this husband, too, is mine!
(Cross ps.)
—Soft—I hear footsteps! Hour of rapture 1 Loukl
My life, my love, my Collatinus comes!
Enter COLLATINUS, CLAUDIUS, ARUNS, and
Si'.XTUS, Lucretia rushes into the arms of Colla¬
tinus.
My lord, most welcome!
Col. Welcome these, my friends,
Lucretia!—our right royal master's sons ;
Passing this way, I have prevailed with them
To grace our humble mansion.
Luc. Welcome yourself!
And doubly welcome, that you bring such friends.
Haste, maidens, haste ; make ready for our guest* I
[Exeunt Attendants,
My heart is full of joy I
A runs. Rather, fair lady,
You should be angry, that unseasonably,
And with abrupt intrusion, we've thus broke
Upon your privacy.
Luc. No, my good lord;
Those to whom love and my respect are due,
Can ne'er intrude upon me; had I known
This visit, you, perhaps, might have been treated
With better cheer, not a more kind reception.
This evening, little did I think my house
Would have possessed such lodgers.
Claud,. Rather, lady,
Such birds of passage; we must hence to-night. .
Luc. To-night? Doth not my lord say no to
that 1
Col. I would, Lucretia; but it cannot he.
If aught the house affords, my dearest love,
To set before your guests, I pray, prepare it:
We must be at the camp ere morning dawn.
An hour or two will be the utmost limit
Allowed us here.
Luc. With all the speed I can, (Crossei.)
I'll play the caterer; though I am tempted,
Would that delay your journey, to be tardy,
And prove a sluggish housewife. [Exit.
Sex. This is indeed a wife! Here the dispute
Must end;
And, Collatinus, we must yield to thee!
Arum. I willl not envy thee; but 'tis a wife
Of wives; a precious diamond, picked
From out the common pebbles. To have found her
At work among her maids at this late hour,
And not displeased at our rude interruption;
Not to squeeze out a quaint apology,
An. 'I am quite ashamed ; so unprepared!
'Who could have thought! Would I had knows
of 'ti'
BRUTUS; OR, THE
And such like tacit hints, to tell her guests
She wishes them away—thou'rt happy, Collatine.
Col. Enough, enough!
The gods forbid I should affect indifference,
A nd say you flatter me. I am moBt happy.
But SextuB heeds us not. He seems quite lost.
Sex. Pray pardon me :
My mind was in the camp. How wine could heat us
To such a mad exploit, at such a time,
Is shameful to reflect on: let us mount
This instant, and return.
Col. Now we are here_,
We shall encroach but little on our time
If we partake the slender fare together
Which will by this await us. Pray, my lords,
This way. [Exit.
Sex. Along—I'll follow straight.
[Exeunt Arum and Claudius.
{Apart.) Had she staid here till now, I should have
done
Nothing but gaze. Nymphs, goddesses,
Are fables; nothing can, in heaven or earth,
Be half so fair! But there's no hope! Her face,
Her look, her eye, her manners, speak a heart
Unknowing of deceit; a soul of honour,
Where frozen chastity, has fixed her throne,
And unpolluted nuptial sanctity.
—Peace, undigested thoughts! Down, down! till,
ripened
By further time ye bloom 1 [Exit.
ACT IIL
SCENE I.—Rome. The Capitol. Equestrian Statue
of Tarquinius Superbus. Fight. Thunder and
Ughtning.
Enter BRUTUS.
Bru. {Alone.) Slumber forsakes mo, and I court
the horrors
Which night and tempest swell on every side.
Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove !
Put fire into the languid'souls of men;
Let loose thy ministers of wrath amongst them,
And crush the vile oppressor! Strike him down,
Y e lightnings! Lay his trophies in the dust!
[Storm increases.
Ha! this is well! flash, ye blue-forked fires!
Loud-bursting thunders roar! and tremble, earth!
[A violent crash of thunder, and the Statue of
Targuin, struck by a flash, is shattered to
pieces.
What! fallen at last, proud idol! struck to earth!
1 thank you, gods, I thank you! When you point
Your shafts at human pride, it is not chance,
'Tis wisdom levels the commissioned blow.
But I—a thing of no account, a slave;
I to your forked lightnings bare my bosom
In vain; for what's a slave, a dastard slave ?
A fool, a Brutus ? (Storm increases.) Hark! the storm
rides on!
The scolding winds drive through the clattering rain.
And loudly screamB the haggard witch of night.
Strange hopes possess my soul. My thoughts grow
wild.
Engender with the scene, and pant for action.
With your leave, majesty, I'll sit beside you,
And ruminate awhile.
(Sits on a fragmtnt of the statue.)
Oh, for a canse! A cause, ye mighty gods 1
Soft, what stir is this?
I-ALL OF TARQUIN. 805
Enter VALERIUS, followed by a Messenger.
Val. What! Collatinus sent for, didst thou say ?
Mes. Ay, Collatinus, thou, and all her kinsmen!
To come upon the instant to Collatia;
She will take no denial. Time is precious,
And 1 must hasten forth to bring her huBband.
(Crosses behind, and exit.)
Bru. (Apart.) Ha! Collatinus and Lucretia's kins¬
men !
There's something sure in this—ValeriuB, too,
Well met—Now will I put him to the test—
Valerius—Hoa!
Val. Who calls me?
Bru. Brutus.
Val. Go,
Get thee to bed! (Valerius is departing )
Bru. Valerius!
Val. Peace,
Thou foolish thing! Why dost thou call so loud?
Bru. Because 1 will be beard! The time may
come
When thou may'st want a fool.
Val. Pr'ythee, begone!
I have no time to hear thy prattle now,
Bru. By Hercule6. but you must hear.
(Seizing his wrm.)
Val. You'll anger me.
Bru. Waste not your noble anger on a fool—
'Twere a brave passion in a better cause.
Val. Thy folly's cause enough.
Bru. Rail not at folly—
There's but one wise,
And him the gods have killed!
Val. Killed? Whom?
Bru. Behold!
Oh, sight of pity! Majesty in ruins 1
Down on your knees—down to your kingly idol 1
Val. Let slaves and sycophants do that: not L
Bru. Wilt thou not kneel ?
Val. Begone;
Valerius kneelB not to the living Tarquin.
Bru. Indeed! Belike you wish him laid as low ?
Val. What if I do ?
Bru. Jove tells thee what to do-
Strike 1 Oh, the difference 'twixt Jove's wrath and
thine!
He, at the crowned tyrant aims his shaft:
Thou, mighty man, would'st frown a fool to silence,
And spurn poor Brutus from thee.
Val. What is this ?
Let me look nearer at thee. Is th" mind,
That long-lost jewel, found ?—and Lucius Junius,
Dear to my heart, restored 2 Or art thou Brutus*
The scoff and jest of Rome, and this a fit
Of intermittent reason 2
Bru. I am Brutus!
Folly, be thou my goddess. I am Brutus,
If thou wilt use me so. If not, farewell,
Why dost thou pause? Look on me I I have
Parts and proportions, shoulders strong to bear.
And bands not slow to strike 1 What more can
Brutus
Could Lucius Junius do ?
Val. A cause like ours
Asks both the strength of BrutuB, and the wiedom
Of Lucius Junius.
Bru. No more—we're interrupted.
Val. Farewell. Hereafter we'll discourse.
And may the gods confirm the hope you ve raised !
[AJ st.
80* BRUTUS; OR, THE ]
Bru. (Atone.) My soul expands 1 my spirit swells
within me,
As if the glorious moment were at hand!
Sure this is Sextus—why has he left the camp ?
Alone—and muffled!
Enter SEXTUS, wrapped in a mantle.
Welcome, gentle prince 1
Sex, Ha! Brutus here! Unhoused amid the
storm 9
Bru. Whence com'st thou, prince? from battle?
from the camp ?
Sex. Not from the camp, good Brutus—from Col-
latia—
The camp of Venus, not of Mars, good Brutus.
Bru. Ha!
Sex. Why dost thou start?—thy kinswoman, Lu-
cretia—
Bru. (Eagerly.) Well, what of her? speak!
Sex. Ay, X will speak,
And I'll speak that shall fill thee with more won¬
der,
Than all the lying oracle declared.
Bru. Nay, prince, not so; you cannot do a doed
To make me wonder.
Sex. Indeed! Dost think it ?
Then let me tell thee, Brutus,- wild with passion
For this famed matron, though we met but once,
Last night I stole in secret from the camp,
Where, in security, I left her husband.
She was alone. I said affairs of consequence
Had brought me to Collatia. She received me
As the king's son, and as her husband's friend.
Bru. (Apart.) Patience, oh, heart! a moment
longer, patience!
Sex. When midnight came, I crept into her cham¬
ber-
Bra. (Apart.) Inhuman monster 1
Sex. Alarmed and frantic,
She shrieked out, ' Collatinus! Husband! Help V*
A slave rushed in—I sprang upon the caitiff,
And drove my dagger through his clamorous
throat;
Then, turning to Lucretia, now half dead
With terror, swore, by all the gods, at once,
If she resisted, to the heart I'd stab her;
Yoke her fair body to the dying slave,
And fix pollution to her name lor ever!
Bru. And—and the matron ?
Sex. Was mine!
Bru. (With a hurst of frenzy.) The furies curse
you, then! Lash you with snakes!
When forth you walk, may the red flaming sun
Strike you with livid plagues!
Vipers, that die not slowly, gnaw your heart!
May earth be to you but one wilderness!
May you hate yourself—
For death pray hourly, yet be in tortures,
Millions of years expiring 1
Sex. Amazement! What can mean this sudden
frenzy!
Bru. What? Violation! Do we dwell in dens,
In caverned rocks, or amongst men in Rome ?
(Thunder and lightning become very violent.)
Hear the loud curse of Heaven! 'Tis not for no¬
thing
The thunderer keeps this coil above your head 1
(Points to the fragments of the statue.)
Look on that ruin! See your father's statue
Unhorsed and headless! Tremble at the omen!
Sex. This is not madness. Ha! my dagger iost!
'ALL OF TARQUIN.
Wretch! thou shalt not escape me. Ho! a guard'
The rack shall punish thee I A guard, I say 1
(Exit,
Bru. (Alone.) The blow is struck, the anxious
messages
To Collatinus and his friends, explained:
And now, Rome's liberty or loss is certain!
I'll hasten to Collatia—join my kinsmen—
To the moon, folly! Vengeance, I embrace thee!
[Exit.
SCENE II An Apartment in the House of Collatinus,
COLLATINUS enters wildly, a bloody dagger in his
hand, followed by VALERIUS and LUCRETIUS.
Col. *She's dead! Lucretia's dead! I plucked
this Bteel
From my Lucretia's heart 1 This is her blood!
Howl, howl, ye men of Romel Look! there she
lies,
That waB your wonder 1
Ye mighty gods, where are your thunders now?
Ye men and warriors, have you human hearts?
But who shall dare to mourn her loss like me ?
Enter BRUTUS.
Bru. I dare,—and so dare every honest Roman.
Luc. Whence comes this mad intrusion ? Hence,
begone 1
Bru. The noble spirit fled 1 How died Lucretia!
Val. By her own hand she died.
Bru. Heroic matron!
Now, now the hour is come. By this one blow
Her name's immortal, and her country saved!
[Crosses.
Hail 1 dawn of glory 1 (Snatching the dagger.) flail,
thou sacred weapon 1
Virtue's deliverer, hail!
Hear, Romans, hear I did not the Sibyl tell you,
A fool should set Rome free ? I am that fool:
Brutus bids Rome be free! (Crotm,
Val. What can this mean ?
Bru. It means that Lucius Junius has thrown oil
The mask of madness, and his soul rides forth
On the destroying whirlwind, to avenge
The wrongs of that bright excellence and Roma
Luc. Can this be Lucius Junius ?
Val. Ha! The voice
Of inspiration speaks!
Col. Oh, glorious Brutus,
Let me in tears adore the bounteous gods
Who have restored thee to redress my woes;
And, in my woes, my country!
Bru. No more of this.
Stand not in wonder. Every instant now
Is precious to your cause. Rise! Snatch yonr
arms 1 [Kneels.
Hear me, great Jove 1 and thou, paternal Mars,
And spotless Vesta 1 To the death, I swear
My burning vengeance shall pursue these Tarquina
Ne'er shall my limbs know rest till they are swept
From off the earth, which groans beneath their in¬
famy !
This, from the bottom of my soul, I swear; [Ruts.
Valerius, Collatine, Lucretius, - all—
* The scene which was omitted after the first
representation, and for which this introductory
speech of Collatinus is substituted, will be touadin
a note at the end of the play.
BRUTUS; OR, THE
Here, I adjure ye by this fatal dagger,
^11 stained and reeking with her sacred blood,
Be partners in my oath; revenge her fall I
All. We swear I
Bru. Well have ye said: and, oh, methinks I see
The hovering spirit of the murdered matron
Look down and bow her airy head to bless you!
Summon your slaves, and bear the body hence
High in the view, through all the streets of Rome,
Up to the Forum ! On! The least delay
May draw down ruin, and defeat our glory.
On, Romans, on t The fool shall set you free 1
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE IIL—77ie Palace of Tullia.
Enter FLAVIUS CORUNNA, in haste, meeting
HORATIUS.
Cor. My lord, my lord! Quick, tell me, where is
Tullia ?
Hot. Whence this alarm ? what would'st thou ?
Cor. Rebellion rages—
Hot. Rebellion?
Cor. Lucretia,
The wife of Collatinus, is no more.
The furious multitude have borne her body
With shouts of vengeance through the streets of
Rome,
And 'Sextus Tarquin,' is the general cry.
JJor. Where are thy troops ? why dost thou dally
here,
When thou shouldst pay their insolence with death ?
Cor. The soldiers join the throng—the gates are
closed,
And the mad crowd exclaim,' We banish Tarquin.'
Brutus is at their head, and leads them on.
Hot. What miracle is this? How say'st thou,
Brutus ?
Cor. Ay, the fool, Brutus. Now before the
rostrum
The body of Lucretia is exposed,
And Brutus there harangues assembled Rome.
He waves aloft
The bloody dagger; all the people hear him
With wildest admiration and applause;
He speaks as if he held the souls of men
In his own hand, and moulded them at pleasure.
They look on him as they would view a god,
Who, from a darkness which invested him,
Springs forth, and knitting his stern brow in frowns,
Proclaims the vengeful will of angry Jove.
Hot. Fly through the city; gather all the force
You can assemble, and straight hasten hither.
I'll to the queen. Lose not a moment Hence I
I tremble for Rome's safety 1 haste! begone 1
[Exeunt Huratius and Corunna.
SCENE IV.—The Forum.
The Populace fill the Stage. Brutus is discovered upon
the Forum. The dead body of Lucretia is on a bier
beneath. COLLATINUS, LUCRETIUS, and the
Female Attendants of Lucretia stand around her
Corpse. VALERIUS and others are seen.
Bru. Thus, thuB, my friends, fast as our breaking
hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story;
And now to say one word of the imposture,
The mask necessity has made me wear.
When the ferocious malice of your king,—
Ring do I call him ?—When the monster, Tarquin,
FALL OF TARQUIN. 807
Slew, as you moBt of you may well remember,
My father Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long ?
1 Bom. Most wonderful 1
2 Bom. Silence 1 he speaks again.
Bru. Would you know why I summoned you to¬
gether?
Ask ye what brings me here ? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse 1
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death 1
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was formed,
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue 1
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy when ILe blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on Are!
The worthiest of the worthy 1 Not the nyuiph
Who met oldNuma in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine
Can I conceive beyond her; the young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her, 'Tis wonderful,
Amid the darnal, hemlock, and base weeds
Which now spring rife from the luxurious com¬
post
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,
How from the shade of those ill neighbouring
plants
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine,
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! Oh, my countrymen 1
You all can witness when that she went forth:
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch, labour its task, all ran;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
'There, there's Lucretia!' Now, look ye, where she
lies!
That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence—gone I gone! gone!
All. Sextus shall die 1 (Shout.)
Bru. But then, the king, his father—
1 Bom. What shall be done with him ?
2 Bom. Speak, Brutus 1
3 Bom. Tell us 1 Tell us 1
Bru. Say, would you seek instruction ? would ye
ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
ABk yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge 1
Go to the tomb where lies hiB murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewiDg heavens,
The gods themselves shall justify the cry.
And swell the general sound, Revenge 1 Revenge 1
All. Revenge 1 Revenge!
Bru. And we will be revenged, my countrymen 1
Brutus shall lead 5rou on; Brutus, a name
Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to
him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
(Shouts.)
8« BRUTUS; OB, TUE :
1 Rom. Live, Brutus!
1 Ron. Valiant Brutus!
8 Rom. Down with Tarquin 1
2 Rom. We'll have no Tarquin* 1
1 Rom We will have a Brutus!
3 Rom. Let's to the Capitol, and shout for
Brutus!
Bru. I your king f
Brutus your king?-No, fellow citizonst
If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one—
By ail the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart
Val. Then lam with thee, noble, noble Brutus 1
Brutus, the new restored! Brutus, by Sibyl,
By Pythian prophetess foretold, shall lead us!
Bru. Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in the blazing conflagration, rear
A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads
youl {Exeunt the Mob shouting.
ACT IV.
SCENE L—A Court belonging to Tarquin's Palace.
In the front, a Grand Entrance, with Folding Gates
closed.
Enter TULLIA.
Tut. (Alone.) Gods, whither shall a frantic mother
fly?
Accursed siege of Ardea! Tarquin, Tarquin,
Where art thou ? Save thy wife, thy son, thy city I
Enter TITUS.
Tit. Where is the prince ? where's Sextus ?
Tul Where ? Oh, heavens 1
His madness hath undone us 1 Where is Sextus?
Perhaps ev'n nowthe barbarous rufflans hurl him
Alive into the flames, or, piece-meal, drag
Along the rebel streets his mangled trunk—
Tit. No moie! I'll save him, or avenge—
(Going, Horatius meets and stops him.)
Hor. Turn, noble Roman, turn;
Set not your life upon a desperate stake 1 (Shout.)
Hark! they are at thy gates I (Shout.)
Tul. Does my son live!
Hor. Furious he sprang upon the rebel throng,
And hewed his desperate passage: but the time
Admits no further question. Save yourself!
Tul. Who leads them on?
Hor. Your new-named fooL your Brutus.
Tit. Death! my father?
Tul. Brutus in arms!
Oh, Sibyl! Oh, my fatel farewell to greatness 1
I've heard my doom.
Tit. Earth, earth enclose me 1
Tul. Hark! it bursts upon us 1
(Shouts are heard.)
Hor. Ha, nearer yet! Now be propitious. Mars 1
Now nerve my arm with more than mortal fury,
Till the dissembler sink beneath its vengeance.
I Exit.
Tul. Fly, save my child—save my—save your
Tarquinia!
Tit. Or die defending. [Exit.
(T> e shouts and tumults become very violent,
and the battering at the gate and wall com¬
mences.)
Tul. Ah! if amidst my legions I might fall,
•all of tarquin.
Death were not then inglorious; but to perish
By the vile scum of Rome—hunted by dogs —
Baited to death by brawling, base mechanics-
Shame insupportable 1
(Shouts h<ard,the Gate and Walls are shat¬
tered down, the Palaces behind are in flames,
the Soldiers and Populace rush over the
Ruins, Brutus appears in the midst ofthtm,
and advances to the front.)
Bru. Seize the parricide!
(They advance and surround her.)
Tul. Avauntt I am your queen.
Bru. Tarquins! we cast you from us.
Tul. Give me a sword, and let me fall like Tullia,
Bru. No, we reserve onr swords for nobler uses
Than to make war with women: to the Tarquins,
To your adulterous son, we leave that shame.
Tul. If then 'twill better sate thy cruelty,
Precipitate me ^uick into those flames,
And with the wreck of empire mix my ashes.
Bru. Take her to Rhea's temple; take her hence,
And lodge her with her ancestors!
Tul. Ye gods!
My father's sepulchre! I'll not approach it!
Bru. 'Twill furnish wholesome recollection.
Hence 1
Tul. Not to that fatal place! Send me not
thither!
Bru. 'Tis fixed.
Tul. Choose the moBt loathsome dungeon—tbere
confine me,
Or give me death instead. My heart recoils
Against that temple.
Bru. There, and only there,
By your dead father's tomb, you must abide
The judgment of the state.
Tul. Then, by the gods,
Whom, for the last time, I invoke,
If no means else
Of ready death present themselves,
No particle of food shall pass these lips,
Till, in the void of nature, hungry madness,
With blank oblivion entering, shall confound
And cancel all perception. [Exit Tullia, guarded.
Enter TITUS, who meets Brutus as he is going off.
Tit. Turn, oh, my father,
And look upon thy son!
Bru. What would'st thou? speak.
Tit. If thou hast reason, oh, have mercy, also!
But if in madness thou hast done this deed—
Bru. I am not mad, hut as the lion is.
When he breakB down the toils that tyrant craft
Hath spread to catch him, think not he will suffer
Thege monsters to profane the air of Heaven
Shall Titus, then, oppose our great design?
Shall Brutus meet a recreant in his son ?
Banish this folly! Have a care I I know thee;
There is a lurking passion at thy heart,
Which leaves but half a soul for Rome and me!
2Vf. You wrong me. Like a Roman I exult
To see Lucretia's murder thus avenged:
And like a son glory in such a father !
Yet hear me through. Nay, do not frown, but hear
me.
Bru. Go on I confess thy weakness, and dismiss it
Tit. 'Twas in the sleep of my dear father's reason
When Tarquin f reed-man, in a saucy mood,
Vented vile jests at thy unhappy weakness;
Stung to the quick, I snatched a weapon uu
And foiled him to my foot.
BRUTUS; OB, THE
Bru. Why, 'twas well done
he knave was saucy, and you slew him. On 1
Tit. 'Twas on this very spot Tarquinia stood,
And when the wrathful father had denounced
Immediate death on this my filial act.
She with the tongue of interceding pity,
And tears that streamed in concert with her suit,
Implored, prevailed, and gave me life, and love.
Bru. 'Tis well. Behold I give her life for life:
Rome may he free, although Tarquinia lives.
'ihis I concede; but more if thou attempteBt—
By all the gods 1 Nay, if thon dost not take
Her image, though with smiling Cupids decked,
And pluck it from thy heart there to receive
Rome and her glories in without a rival,
Thou art no son of mine, thou art no Roman 1
{Exit
Enter TARQUINIA.
Tar. Save, save me, Titus! oh, amid the crash
Of falling palaces, preserve Tarquinia.
Or, do I meet in thee a double rebel,
Traitor alike to me and to your king ?
Speak, I conjure thee. Will the son of Brutus
Now take me to his pity and protection,
Or stab with perfidy the heart that loves him ?
Tit. Cruel suspicion 1 Oh, adored Tarquinia,
I live but to preserve you. You are free :
I have my father's sanction for your safety.
Tar. I scorn a life that is preserved by Brutus'
I scorn to outlive parents, brothers, friends 1
I'll die with those
Whom this dire night halh murdered!
Tit. Who are murdered 1
Whom hath the sword of Brutus slain ? Not one
Of all thy kindred—
Tar. Say'st thou? Lives my mother?
Tit. She lives—and Sextus,—even he escapes
The storm which he has raised, and flies to Ardea.
Tar. Speed him, ye gods, with eagle swiftness
thither!
And may those thunders which now shake the walls
Of tottering Ardea, like a whirlwind burst
On this devoted city, 'whelm its towers,
And crush the traitorous hive beneath their ruins.
(Crosses.)
Now, Titus, where is now thy promised faith ?
Didst theu not swear no dangers should divide
us?
Tit. I did; and, constant to my oath, behold
me
Thy faithful guardian in this night of horrors.
Tar. Be still my guardian; snatch me from these
terrors,
Bear me to Ardea, be the friend of nature,
And give the rescued daughter to the arms
Of her protecting parent; thus you gain
The praise of men, the blessings of the gods,
And all that honour, all that love can grant.
Tit. Despair! Distraction 1 Whither shall I
turn me ?
Tar. Why do you waver ? Cast away this weak¬
ness;
Be glorious in your cruelty, and leave me.
By all the demons who prepare the heart
To rush upon the self-destroying steel,
The same dire moment which gives thee to
Brutus,
Gives me to death 1
Tit. Horror! Tarquinia, hold 1
Tar. Lo! I am armed. Farewell 1 {.Grouts.) How
I have loved you,
FALL OF TARQUIN 809
My death shall witness-how you have deceived
me,
Let your own conscience tell. Now to yonr
father!
Now go, and mingle with the murderers;
Go, teach those fiends what perjury can do,
And show your hands bathed in Tarquinia's blood.
The filial deed shall welcome yon to Brutus,
And fill his gloomy soul with savage joy.
Tit. Take, take me hence for evert Let me
lose,
In these dear arms, the very name of son,
All claims of nature, every sense but love!
Tar. The gods that guard the majesty of Rome,
And that sweet power, whose influence turns thy
heart
To pity and compliance, shall reward
And bless thee for the deed!
Tit. Can he be blest.
On whom a father's direful curse shall fall?
Tar. A madman's imprecation is no curse.
Be a man.
Tit. Oh, while thy love upholds me, 1 can
stand
Against the world's contempt; remember, only,
For whose dear sake I am undone; remember,
My heart was honour's once—
Tar. And shall be ever!
Come, I will show thee where bright honour
grows,
Where thou shalt pluck it from the topmost
branch,
And wear it in its freshest, fairest bloom.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IL—A Street in Rome.
Enter HORATIUS and CELIUS.
Hot. Brutus and Collatinus are appointed
To sovereign sway, as consuls for the year.
Their self-elected senate meets to-morrow,
Though some remain, too honest for their views,
These for security exact conditions—
They ask a chief, whose well-establish'd fame
May win the hearts of this inconstant people;
A chief so brave, that, should we prove victorious,
He may compel the king to keep his faith;
Or, if we fall, boldly revenge our deaths—
And such a chief I've found.
Cel. Indeed! In whom ?
Hot. The consul's son — his muoh-loved Bon—
young Titus.
Cel. What, to rebel against his father's power ?
//or. Ay, he is ours. This Very night, Tar¬
quinia
Will lead him forth to the Quirinal gate,
Whence they straight hasten to the camp at
Ardea.
Impetuous youth is wrought upon with ease.
Though 'tis his father's frown upon his love,
And early vows pledged to the fair Tarquinia,
Alone which prompt him thus to lead our band:
Once in our power, we'll mould him to our ends
His very name will prove a tower of strength,
And Rome, once more, shall be restored to Tar-
quin.
Cel. Bravely resolved! But tell me, where ia
Tullia!
Hor. A captive, and confined in Rhea's temple;
Watched by the vestals, who there guard the
flame
810 BRUTUS; OR. THE
Upon the tomb where lies her murdered father.
Unhappy Tullial our swords shall soon release
thee.
Oome t Hence at once I The hour draws near—
away!
Ere two days pass these reptiles shall be crushed,
And humbled Rome sue for its monarch's pardon.
[Exeunt Horatius and Celius.
Enter LUCRETIUS and VALERIUS.
Val. That was Horatius 'parted, was it not?
Luc. The same.
Val. Am I deceived? Methinks I heard
Something like discontent and treason muttered.
Luc. I fear all is not safe. Assembled groups
Of Tarquin's friends have been close in conference
Muttering his name aloud. Ay, and some base,
Degenerate Romans, called for a surrender.
Vat. Horatius' arts may justly wake suspicion:
And Rome, we know is still disgraced by many
Too base, too sordid, to be bravely free.
Let us go forth and double all the guards,
See their steps watched, and intercept their malice.
Luc. Nay, there's a safer course than that; arrest
them!
Put. The laws and rights we've sworn to guard
forbid it!
Let them be watched. We must not venture farther.
To arrest a Roman upon bare surmise,
Would be at once to imitate the tyrant
Whom we renounce, and from hia throne have
driven 1 [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Rome. A little dark. The Temple of
Rhea, with a large central door leading to the tomb
of Servius Tullius, late King of Rome. On one side
af the stage a Statue of Rhea, and on the other a
Statue of Vesta, with altars, and incense burning be¬
fore each.
PRIESTESS of Rhea. VIRGINS of the Temple.
Pr. Daughters of Rhea, since the lords of Rome
Have to your holy hands consigned the charge
Of their now captive Queen, inform the Priestess
How your sad prisoner abides her durance.
Is her proud soul yet humbled, or, indignant,
Doth it still breathe defiance and contempt?
Vir. Sullen and silent, she resolves on death:
She will not taste of nourishment. She comes.
Enter TULLIA.
Pr. I pray you, royal lady, be entreated—
Tul. I tell you, no!
Pr. Think what a train of weary hours have
passed
Since you had taste of food.
Tul. 'Tis well!
The fewer are to come.
Pr. How can you live to meet your royal hus¬
band,
To fold your children in your arms again,
If you resist support ?
Tul. Ha, well remembered!
What news from Ardea? Will he march for Rome?
Hark! Do you hear his trumpet ? Is he coming ?
Ay, this is hope, and worth the feeding.
'Tis well—'tis well!
But, tell me—doth the king know of this kindness?
Pr. What king!
Tul. What king?
Brutus, the king of Rome,—knows he of this ?
'ALL OF TARQUIN.
Pr. He does.
Tul. And would he I should live?
Pr. He would.
Tul. Merciful villain t
Yes, he would have me live to page his triumphs:
I know the utmost of his mercy —
Subtle traitor!
I'll not taste food, though immortality
Were grafted to each atom—Hark! What's that?
Heard you that groan ?
Pr. It is your fancy's coinage.
Tul. Again! 'Tis deep and hollow:
It issues from the vault—Set the door open
Open, I say.
Pr. It is your father's sepulchre.
Tul. My father! righteous gods! I killed my
father!
Horrible retribution 1
Pr. Wretched daughter,
If thou hast done this deed, prepare thy spirit,
By wholesome meditation, for atonement;
And let no passion interrupt the task
Of penitence and prayer.
Tul. I'll pray no more.
There is no mercy in the skies for murder,
Therefore no praying, none.
I have a plea for my impenitence,
Madness!
These groans have made me mad; all the night
through
They howled distraction to my sleepless brain I
You've shut me up with furies to torment me,
And starved me into madness. Hark 1 again,
Unbar the door! Unbar it! By the gods,
The voice is more than human, which I hearl
I'll enter there—I will be satisfied,
Although the confirmation should present
His awful form—
[Shi rushes forward. The Priestess and Vestals
in confusion and alarm, spring to the bar,
which, falling with a crash, the door flies
open, and discovers a monumental figure of
Servius Tullius, with lamps burning on each
tide of it. Tullia recoils, shrieks, falls, and
expires. The others gi oup around htr, and
the Curtain falls to soft music
ACT V.
SCENE L—A Street in Rome, with the Temple of Man
in view.
Enter BRUTUS and COLLATINUS, as Consult
with LICTORS, VALERIUS, LUCRETIUS, and
numerous followers.
Bru. You judge me rightly, friends. The purpled
robe,
The curule chair, the lictors' keen-edged axe,
Rejoice not Brutus; 'tis his country's freedom:
When once that freedom shall be firmly rooted,
Then, with redoubled pleasure, will your consul
Exchange the splendid miseries of power
For the calm comforts of a happy home.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. All health to Rome, her Senate, and her
consuls.
Bru. Speak on—What message hast thou to im«
part?
Mes. I bring intelligence of Sextus Tarquin,
BRUTUS; OR, THE
Who on arriv'ng at a neighbouring village,
Was known, and by the people stoned to death.
[Exit.
Bru. Now, Lucretia,
Thy ghost may cease to wander o'er the earth,
And rest in peace!
Luc. Heaven's ways are just!
Col. Yet I regret the villain should be slain
By any hand but mine 1
Enter a CENTURION.
Cent. Health to Brutus I
Shame and confusion to the foes of Rome!
Bru. Now, without preface to your business.
Cent. As I kept watch at the Quirinal gate, -
Ere break of day, an armed company
Burst on the sudden through the barrier guard,
Pushing their course for Ardea. Straight alarmed,
I wheeled my cohort round, and charged 'em home;
Sharp was the conflict for a while, and doubtful,
Till, on the seizure of Tarquinia's person,
A young Patrician——
Bru. Ha! Patrician?
Cent. Such
His dress bespoke him, though to me unknown.
Bru. Proceed 1 What more?
Cent. The lady being taken,
This youth, the life and leader of the band,
His sword high waving in the act to strike,
Dropped his uplifted weapon, and at ones
Yielded himself my prisoner. Oh, Valerius,
What have I said, that thus the consul changes ?
Bru. Why do you pause ? Go on.
Cent. Their leader seized,
The rest surrendered. Him, a settled gloom
Possesses wholly, nor, as I believe,
Hath a word passed his lips, to all my questions
Still obstinately shut.
Bru. Bring him before us
[Exit Centurion.
Vol. Oh, my brave friend, horror invades my
heart
Bru. Silence! be calm.
Val. I know thy soul
A compound of all excellence, and pray
The mighty gods to put thee to no trial
Beyond a mortal bearing.
Bru. No, they will not—
Nay, be secure, they cannot Pr'ythee, friend,
Look out, and if the worst that can befall me
Bo verified, turn back, and give some sign
What thou hast seen. Thou can'st excuse this
weakness,
Being thyself a father.
(Valerius gives the sign.)
Ha! enough:
I understand thee. Since it muBt be so,
Do your great pleasure, gods' Now, now it
comes!
TITUS and TARQUINIA are brought in, guarded.
Titus advances, Tarquinia remains in the back¬
ground.
Tit. My father! Give me present death, ye
powers 1
Cent. What have I done 1 Art thou the son of
Brutus ?
Tit. No, Brutus scorns to father such a sonl
Oh, venerable judge, wilt thou not speak ?
Turn not away; hither direct thine eyes,
And look upon this sorrow-stricken form,
'Then to thine own great heart remit my plea,
And doom as nature dictates,
FALL OF TARQUIN. 811
Val. Peace, you'll anger him,
Be silent, and await! Oh, suffering mercy,
Plead in a father's heart, and speak for nature 1
(Bru'us turns away from his son, waves his
hand to the Centurion to remove him to a
farther distance, and then walks forward
and calls Collatinus down to him.
Bru. Come hither, Collatinus. The deep wound
You suffered in the loss of your Lucretia
Demanded more than fortitude to bear;
I saw your agony, I felt your woe-
Cot You more than felt it, you revenged it, too.
Bru. But, ah! my brother consul, your Lucretia
Fell nobly, as a Roman spirit should—
She fell, a model of transcendant virtue.
Col. My mind misgives. What dost thou aim at,
Brutus ?
Bru. (Almost overpowered.) That youth — my
Titus—was my age's hope—
I loved him more than language can express—
I thought him born to dignify the world.
Col. My heart bleeds for you. He may yet be
saved.
Bru. [Firmly.) Consul, for Rome I live, not for
myslf:
I dare not trust my firmness in this crisis,
Warring 'gainst everything my soul holds dear!
Therefore return without me to the Senate,
Haply my presence might restrain their justice.
Look that these traitors meet their trial straight,
And then despatch a messenger to tell me
How the wise fathers have disposed of. Go 1
(Collatinus goes out, attended, and as Brutus
is departing, Tarquinia rushes forward.)
Tar. Stop, turn and hear the daughter of your
king!
I speak for justice—mercy, thou hast none,
For him, your son:
By gratitude and love I drew him off,
I preserved his life!
Who shall condetnn.him for protecting mine ?
Bru. We try the crime; the motive, heaven will
judge.
My honour he bath stabbed, I pardon that.
He hath done more, he hath betrayed his country.
That is a crime which every honest heart
That beats for freedom, every Roman feels,
And the full stream of justice must have way.
Tar. Because thy soul was never swayed by love,
Canst thou not credit what his bosom felt ?
Bru. I can believe that beauty such as thine
May urge a thousand fascinating snares
To lure the wavering and confound the week ;
But what is honour, which a sigh can shake ?
What is his virtue, whom a tear can melt?
Truth, valour, justice, constancy of soul,
These are the attributes of manly natures:—
Be woman e'er so beauteous, man was made
For nobler uses than to be her slave.
Tar. Hard, unrelenting man! Are these the
fruit?
Of filial piety,—and hath thy son
Wearied the gods with pray're, till they restored
A mind, and gave thee reason? Would to heaven
They'd given thee mercy, too 1 'twould more be¬
come thee
Than these new ensigns, Brutus: more than all
Thy lictore, haughty consul,—or thy robes
Dipped in the blood,—oh, horror 1-of a son—
Bru. No more—By the gods, I'll hear no more!
812 BRUTUS; OK, THE
Tit. A word, for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
(To Brutus.)
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels—
Love is my plea: a father is my judge;
Nature my advocate 1 I can no more :
If these will not appease a parent's heart,
Strike through them all, and lodge thy vengeance
here.
Bru. Break off. I will not, cannot hear thee fur¬
ther.
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,
Brutus will suffer as he may. Enough
That we enlarge Tarquinia. Go, be free.
Centurion, give her conduct out of Borne.
Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes.
To the Senate—On! [Exeunt Brutus and Guards.
Cent. Come, lady, you must part.
Tar. Part l Must we part ?
You must not tear him from me; I will die
Embracing the sad ruin I have made.
Cent. You've heard the consul.
Tar. Thou hast heard the king,
Fought for him while he led you on to conquest.
Thou art a soldier, and should'st spurn an of-ice
Which malefactors, though condemned for murder,
Would rather die by torture than perform.
Tit. If thou dost wish
That I should scape the peril of my fate,
I conjure thee to accord
To Brutus, and accept his promised safeguard.
Your words, your looks, your beauty, feed his
wrath;
In that fair face he reads my guilty love,
And pity flies his heart. Let passion pause;
Leave me to solitude, to silence leave me;
Then nature's gentlest whispers may be heard.
Tar. Say'st thou ? Conduct me to the dreariest
waste
That ever melancholy madness trod,
And let my swelling heart in silence burst;
Plunge me in darkness, shroud this fatal form
In everlasting night, I am content.
Lo! I obey, i his is the test of love:
This is the sacrificeI part to save thee.
(Officers advance.)
Tit. See, I am warned. Farewell, my life's last
joy!
When my eyes lose thy image, they may look
On death without dismay. To those blessed powers
Who gave thee every virtue, every grace
That can ensure perfection, I commit thee.
(They embrace, and are torn asunder. Titus
is carried off by the Lictors, and Tarquinia
faints, and is borne off by the Centurion and
guards,
SCENE II.—Borne. An Apartment in the Uovse of
Brutus.
Enter BRUTTJS.
Bru. (Alone.) Like a lost guilty wretch, I look
around
And start at every footstep, lest it bring
The fatal news of my poor son's conviction!
On, Rome, thou little know'st—No more—It comes
Enter VALERIUS.
Val. My friend, the Senate have to thee trans¬
ferred
The right of judgment on thy son's offence, I
FALL OF TABQUIN.
Bru. To me 1
Val. To thee alone.
Bru. What of the rest ?
Val. Their senteuce is already passed.
E'en now, perhaps, the lictor s dreaded hand
Cuts off their forfeit lives.
Bi u. Say'st thou, that the Senate have to ine re
ferred
The fate of Titus ?
Val. Such is their sovereign will.
They think you merit this distinguished honour.
A father's grief deserves to be revered:
Rome will approve whatever you decree.
Bru. And is his guilt established beyond doubt?
Val. Too c .early.
Bru. (With a burst of tears.) Oh, ye gods I ye gods 1
(Collecting himself.) Valerius 1
Val. W hat would'st thou, noble Roman ?
Bru. 'Tis said thou hast pulled down thiue
house, Valerius,
The stately pile that with such cost was reared.
Val. I have; but what doth Brutus thou infer ?
Bru. it was a goodly structure : I remember
How fondly you surveyed its rising grandeur—
With what a—fatherly—delight you summoned
Each grace and ornament, that might eurich
The—child—of your creation,—till it swelled
To an imperial size, and overpeered
The petty citizens, that humbly dwelt
Under its lofty walls, in huts and hovels,
Like emmets at the foot of tow'ring iEtua:
Then, noble Roman, then with patriot zeal,
Dear as it was, and valued, you condemned
And :eveiled the proud pile; and, in return,
W ere by your grateful countrymen surname^
And shall to all posterity descend,—
Foplicola.
Val. Yes, Brutus, I conceive
The awful aim and drift of tliy discourse—
But I conjure thee, pause. Thou art a lather.
Bru. I am a Roman consul. What my friend,
Shall no one but Valerius love his country
Dearer than house, or property, or children ?
Now, follow me; and, in the face of heaven,
I'll mount the judgment-seat: there s.e if Brutus
Feel not for Rome as warmly as Poplicola.
1Exeunt,
SCENE III.—Exterior of the Temple of Mars. Eat a-
tors. Citizens, COLLATINUS, and LUCRE'! 1 lS,
discovered. A Tribunal, with a Consular Chair up^n
it.
BRUTUS enters, followed by VALERIUS—he bo us as
lie passes, and ascends the Tr ibunal.
Bru. Romans, the blood which hath been shed
this day
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire
Against mature societies, may urge
Their acts as bold and daring; and though villainy
Yet they are manly villains—But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done,—
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of smuggling child-birth, and direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat,—is a deed so black,
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name.
(A pause.}
There is one criminal still left for judgment—
Let him approach,
(Tit s is brought in by the Lictors, with their
awes turned edgeways towards him.)
BRUT OS j OR, THE :
friB—on—er—
(The voice of Brutus falters, and is choked, and
he exclaims, with violent emotion.)
Romans, forgive this agony of grief—
My heart is bursting—Mature must have way—
I will perform all that a Roman should—
I cannot feel less than a father ought1
(He becomes mere calm. Gives a signal to the
Licto-s to fait back, and advances from the
Judgment-seat to the front of the stage, on a
line with his son.)
Well, Titus, speak—how is it with thee now?
Tell me, my eon, art thou prepared to die ?
Tit. Father, I call the powers of heaven to wit¬
ness
TituB dares die if so you have decreed.
The gods will have it so ?
Bru. They will, my Titus :
Nor heav'n, nor earth, can have it otherwise.
It seems as if thy late were pre-ordained
To fix the reeling spirits of the people,
And settle the loose liberty of Rome.
'Tis fixed; - oh, therefore, let no fancy cheat thee :
So fixed thy death, that 'tis not in the power
Of mortal man to save thee from the axe.
Tit. The axe! Oh, heaven 1 Then must I fall Bo
basely?
What, shall I perish like a common felon ?
Bru. How else do traitors suffer? Nay, Titus,
more—
I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal
And there behold thee meet this Bhame of death,
With all thy hopes, and all thy youth upon thee,
Bee thy head taken by the common axe,—
All, if the gods can hold me to my purpose,—
Without one groan, without one pitying tear.
(Turns up, as if in agony.)
Tit. Die like a felon? Ha! a common felon!
But I deserve it all:—yet here I fail:—
This ignominy quite unmans me!
Oh, Brutus, Brutus 1 Must I call you father,
(Kneels.)
Yet have no token of your tenderness,
No sign of mercy ? Not even leave to fall
As noble Romans fall, by my own sword ?
Father, why should you make my heart suspect
That all your late compassion was dissembled ?
How can I think that you did ever love me?
Bru. Think that I love thee by my present
passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
These sighs that strain the very strings of life,
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Tit. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty : (Rite*.)
I now submit with calmness to my fate.
Come forth, ye executioners of justice—
Come, take my life, and give it to my country 1
Bru. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods
Arm thee with patience in this awful hour.
The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome
Condemns
A crime, thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go - meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell 1 Eternally farewell!
T't. Oh, Brutus! Oh, my father!
Bru. What would'st thou say, my sou ?
Tit. Wilt thou forgive mo ?
When I shall be no more, forget not my Tarquinia.
IX OF TARQUIN. 818
Bru. Leave her to my care.
Til. Farewell, for ever 1
Bru. Forever! (Re-ascends the Tribunal.)
Lictors. attend! conduct your pris nor forth!
Val. (llapidly and anxtously.) Whither ?
(All the characters bend forward in great
anxiety.)
Bru. To death I (All start.) When you do
reach the spot,
My hand shall wave your signal for the act,
Then let the trumpets' sound proclaim it done!
(Titu* is conducted out by the Lictors. A dead
march, which gradually dies away as u be¬
comes more distant. Brutus remains seated
in a melancholy posture on the Tribunal.)
Poor youth 1 Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now
Demands her victim 1 A little moment,
And I am childless. One effort, and 'tis past!
(He rises and waves his hand, convulsed with
agitation, then drops in his seat, and sh> oitds
his face with his toga. Three sounds of the
trumpet are heard instantly. Alt the
characters assume attitudes of deep misery.
Brutus starts up wildly, descends to the
front in extreme agitation, looks out on the
tide by which Titus departed, for an in¬
stant, then, with an hysterical burst, tx-
tlaims.
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free!
(Brutus falls. The characters group around him.)
NOTE.
The following scene in the Third Act was omitted after
the first representation, in compliance with, the wishes
of many who thought it injurious to the gem ral effect
of the Play. As, however, there was some difference
of opinion upon this point, the Scene is here inserted
as it originally stood. LU CRETIA is supposed to
be surrounded by her relations, COLLATINUS and
LUCRETIUS by her side, her hair dishevelled, wld
in her attire, and all the other characters in attitudes
Of deep grief.
Luc. Bear witness, then, Lucretia's mind ia
guiltless—
Yet never can Lucretiasmile again!
Lost to herself, her husband, and her child,
Lost to the world, her country, and her friends.
The arms of love can pillow her no more,
And the sweet smile of her dear innocent babe
Would but awaken her to deeper anguish!
And shall she live, bereft of all life's treasures,
The spectre of the past for ever rising
To fright her into madness? Think not, country¬
men,
Indignant Virtue can survive pollution 1
By her own band a Roman wife can fall.
(Stabs her elf.)
'Tis to the heart! Tarquln, the blow was thine!
(Falls.)
Col. Beloved, unhappy wife! What hast thou
done?
Luc. A deed of glory. Now, my husband, now—
With transport can I press thee to my bosom.
8H BRUTUS; OR, THE
Father and kinsmen, ye can own me now !
My pure soul springs from its detested prison!
Virtue exults I The gods applaud my daring !
And to our dear, loved babe, I can bequeath
A mother's noblest gift—a rootless name! (Bits.)
Luc. Staff of my age! Gone, gone, for ever
gone!
A wretched father's last and only joy!
Come, death, strike here ! Your shaft were wel¬
come now!
Snatch me from earth to my poor, lost, loved
child!
FALL OF TARQUIH.
Col. My wife! my wife! Dear, dear, wronged,
murdered wife!
Let me be rooted here in endless sorrow—
Who, who shall dare to mourn her loss like
me ?
Enter BRUTUS.
Brit. I dare, and so dare every honest Roman.
The scene then proceeds as printed in the preceding
GIOVANNI IN LONDON.
AN OPERATIC EXTRAVAGANZA. IN TWO ACT8.—BT W. T. MONCRIEFF.
Giov—" You are drunk, rogue."—Act i, scene 3.
persons Jvegresenteb.
Don Giovanni.
Deputy English.
Leporello.
Finikin.
Popduay.
Drainemory.
Porous.
Simpkins.
Mercury.
Pluto.
Charon.
Demons.
Proserpine.
Mrs. English.
Mrs. Leporello.
Mrs. Drainemdry.
Mrs. Porous.
Mrs. Simpkins.
Const antia.
Squalling Fanny.
ACT L
SCENE 1—Infernal regions by fire and torch-light,
DON GIOVANNI lying on the ground, in the centre
of the stage, FIRE DRAKE standing over him,
flashing his torch.
DUET and CHORUS. FIREDRAKE, GIO¬
VANNI, and Demons.
Air—"Fly not yet."
Fire. Come alona, 'tis just V e hour,
When Demons have the greatest potter
To feed the libertine's desires,
And make him burn with real fires.
So bring your flambeaux near.
Enter Demons with torches, and female Furies with
wands twined with serpents.
Giov. Oh pray! oh stay!
No log am I your flames restrain•
Burn not yet, for oh! 'tis pain;
Then take your links away.
Dem. Nay! nay! Nay! nay!
We are like earth's gas-lights here,
We alwdys burn when night is near,
Make light of it, we pray.
816 GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OB,
CHORUS. FIREDRAKE and Demon*.
Air—" Round about the May-pole."
Hound about the tinner, let vs trot,
Scot,
Lot,
Hissing hot t
Turning,
Burning,
Torching,
Scorching,
Perplexing, vexing, and what not.
Round about the sinner, Ac.
(During this Chorus, the female Furies danct
round Giovanni. Demons flash their
torches.)
SONG. GIOVANNL
Air—"Pray Goody."
Pray, Demons, please to moderate the fury of your
fire.
Nor flash those sparks of sulphur from each link;
Remember, Fm but flesh and blood, so kindly cheek
your ire,
And, 'pan my soul, ril treat you all to drink.
Ply me,
Try me,
Prone me, ere you fry me;
Do not roast me
Pray, but toast me,
I'll soon find the chink:
Pray, Demons, please, dec.
Fire. Zounds, Don! you sing so sweetly, and
speak so civilly, that you'd wheedle the devil
himself, much more his impa But you should ap¬
prove this warm reception of ours; you know
when you was above, you always burnt for women,
and surely you should not refuse to burn for them
now you are below: however, to oblige you, Don,
we'll be off. Good-b'ye; come on, lads, we've
plenty more to burn; you'll treat us with a glass
when we come back ?
(To Giovanni.)
Giov. Honour! you shall each of you have a flash
of lightning. [Exeunt Furies and Demons.] Thanks
to Old Mick, they're gone; I save my skin this
time, at all events; not but I'm singed, ay! like a
Michaelmas goose, by these—I may spare my exe¬
cration ; and yet, I've a little lightened my situa¬
tion by making love to all the Devil-esses here;
yes, love ever stands my friend; and see, to wile the
sultry hours away, by all my hopes, a Fury comes:
1 can't say that I'm much enamoured of Furies:
n'importe, I'm a man; she wears a petticoat, so
here goes!
Enter SUCCUBUS. (Advances towards Giovanni<
who makes love to her.)
SONG. GIOVANNL
Air—Germen Melody, by Kunzen, from " Die
Wetplese,"
Gentle Fury, see me languish.
find in pity quench my flame;
Lovely Brimstone ease my anguish;
Mo tongue my warmth can name.
CHE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
/ burn, I burn,
Gentle Fury, yes!
Burn with a flame, I must not express.
Pretty devil,
Oh be civil I
I am scorching with love I
Fm on fire,
With desire,
Then a match let it prow.
She's won! the Fury's won! I must be civil to
her. (Aside.) Give me a kiss, you pretty little devil,
do. (Kisses Succubus.) Oh ! the deuce 1 to spoil my
recreation, here comes a little Tartar I have been
amusing myself with; there'll be a precious row
between them both 1 What in the old gentleman's
name am I to do ?
(Aside.)
Enter TARTARUS, sees Succubus and becomes jea¬
lous; advances towards Giovanni, and nproaches
him. Succubus becoming jealous in turn, does the
same; they alternately pull him towards each
other.
Sweet Brimstone! (To Succubus, aside.) Charming
Tartar 1 (To Tartarus, aside.1 Flour of the one,
and, oh! cream of the other! (They turn away
angrily.) Out of the frying-pan into the flre, faith 1
(Aside.) What the plague shall I do to soothe them,
and make up matters?
SONG. GIOVANNL
Air—" I've kiss'd and I've prattled."
I've kissed and Pee prattled with fifty She-dcils,
And changed them sans ceremonie;
But of all the sweet furies that e'er drove man mad,
Flour of Brimstone's the Fury for me.
(Aside to Succubus.)
Of all the sweet Furies that e'er drove man mad,
Cream of Tartar's the Fury for me.
(Aside to Tartarus.)
(Furies appear inclined to Mollify.)
Enter PROSERPINE, enraged.
Pro. And can Giovanni he so base, so mean-
spirited, as to leave the infernal queen, the to i-ous-
ceptiblo, too-trusting Proserpine, for such petty
furies as these? I'll be revenged! What, ho! My
faithful slaves, appear! (Calling) Tear these vile
furies in ten thousand pieces t
Enter all the Fiends, flashing torches at each ,other.
PLUTO descends on a fiery Dragon, and comes for-
ward. Dragon ascends. Infernal uproar.
Pluto. Zounds! here's a row! confound your
tricks, be quiet, can't jou? all by the earsl who
has dared to raise this rumpus?
All the Fiends. 'Twas that base, perjured villain,
Don Giovanni 1
Pluto. Plague take that fellow; he's one too
many for us; but when he first came amongst us,
we were warned that he'd soon make the place too
hot to hold us! Oh! he's by far too wicked to stay
here; he'd very soon corrupt us all, there's no
doubt of thatl He has seduced my furies, nay,
my better half; fatal confession for a tender hus¬
band, I actually caught the scoundrel kissing my
Proserpine I What's to be done? I have it! to
spite mankind, egad, I'll send him back to earth
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR, THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Again,- yes! So, Giovanni, to the rightabout; turn
out from our infernal regions, Don; or, egad, we'll
turn you out, ay, neck and crop!
penny this moruiug, and faith, I think my lilo's as
good as any one's. (Voice* of all the Denton* ItearU
without.)
CHORDS. DEMONS.
Air—"Turn Out"
From our regions infernal, turn out, turn outt
From our regions infernal, turn outt
Since first here you came.
You've set hell in a flame,
So now, Don Giovanni, turn out, turn outt
So now, Don Giovanni, turn out I
A match for the Devil, turn out, turn out I
A match for the Devil, turn out I
For us, Don Giovanni,
You've proved one too many ;
So, as quid as you can, Don, turn out, turn out J
As quick as you can, Don, turn outt
(Pluto, Demons, Furies, Ac., turn Giovanni
out, amidst a variety of combustible mat'
ter.)
SCENE IL—The river Styx, by twilight. Entrance
to the Infernal regions, emitting fiames, on one side.
River Styx in the buck ground. MERCURY enters;
calls CHARON, signs him to ferry over condemned
souls; Charon exits in his boat. Mercury watches
till the boat re-appears. Charon re-enters in boat
with a well-known lawyer from Finsbury Square,
(not Florence,) and a Methodist from over the water.
GLEE CONDEMNED SOULS.
Air—"Canadian BoatS ng."
[Sung behind the scenes.]
Ply the oar, Charon, and speed the boat.
While o'er Styx' dusky waves we float,
Erebus tide t the trembling moon
Will see us in Purgatory soon.
But ere our souls from hence shall fly.
We'll raise our parting stave on high;
Row, Charon, row, the Styx runs fast.
The Devil is near, and the daylight's past.
Cha. Before you land, my souls, tip me my fare,
and then I'll commit you to Mercury, who is such
an obliging gentleman, he'll hand you in a twink¬
ling to the Devil. (Lawyer and Methodist give Charon
money, and land.) Here, Merkyl
Enter MERCURY.
Mer. Well, Cary, what fresh sport now ? another
cargo of souls from earth, eh ? the more the mer¬
rier ! stop, sir, (to Lawyer) be good enough to tell
me, what your honest soul was sent below for?
■ Law. 1 am a lawyer, from Finsbury Square.
Mer. That will do; of lawyers we have always
plus quam suff. Not a term passes but plenty of
your tribe are sent here to practice in our courts
below. Walk in, walk in, we've lots of room for
you; and you, my methodical genius, (to Methodist,)
Erebus will always find room for one of your
cloth.
[.Mercury and Charon drive Lawyer and
Methodist in; Mercury exits with them.
Cha. A good day's work; I've made a pretty
" From our regions infernal, turn out, turn out.
From our regions infernal, turn out."
(Choron to MERCURY, whore-enters.) Hey 1 Merky,
what means that infernal shout ?
Enter GIOVANNI, in double quick time, as if driven
out by Furies.
Giovanni 1 yes, 'tis he, sure enough I pray, my good
friend, what's all that row about ?
Giov. Old Chary, how d'ye ye do ? Merky, my lad,
upon my soul, I'm very glad to see you: they've
turned me out, 'tis fact, upon my honour; but, in a
stave, I'll tell you all about it. (During symphony of
the following air, Mercury takes off his heelwtngs, and
leaves them on a bank.)
SONG—GIOVANNI.
Air.—" Love among the Rosea."
Stern Pluto sought th' infernal b w'rs.
With Proserpine to pass the hours,
'Midst pitch and tar, and fire and smoke,
The brilliant gas, and pleasant coke.
The Devils were at play, it sure is.
And found Giovanni 'mongst the Furies.
Oh, happy day 1 oh, joyous hour!
They kick'd Giovanni from their bower—
. Mer. Well?
Giov. Well, that's all; I'm not deceiving you;
they ve kicked me out, my boy, and here I am.
Pray which is the nearest way to London, for I sup
there to night; therefore, must wish you good day.
Old Chary, turn your boat and ply your oar, and
whisk me over to the other side, my lad.
Cha. With all my heart; but pay me my fare
first, if you please: lug out your brass, you know
I never give credit.
Giov. Plague on t, I've none—treating the flend3
to drink, with hot and hot, has swallowed all my
rhino.
Cha. Then here you stay. (Mesdames DRAINEM-
DRY, POROUS, and SIMPKINS, three condemn, d
souls, call without "Cary! Caryl Cary!"J
Cha. Heyday I another fare 1 three females 1
[Charon gets in boat and exits. Mercury
looks out.
Giov. Yes, a pretty fair they are too. What's to
be done? I cannot pay this fellow; no matter, I
must get away somehow. Here are Merky's wings;
as I'm about to fly, 111 pocket them; they may be
useful to me. (Aside.)
CHARON and the Ladies enter in a boat. Charon
gets out.
Cha. My fare before you land. (They give mon.y ;
Charon and Mercury come forward. The Ladies beckon
Giovanni to take boat with them.)
Cha. (Looks at money.) A sovereign! that's a
novelty: the first I've seen here. Merky, give me
change.
M-r. (Looks at money.) Stay; let me see if it is
a good one: there's a deal of smashing about, you
know.
Giov. (After taking Mercury's wings, jumps into the
boat and pushes it off.) Huzza 1 we're off 1
818
GIOVANNI IN LONDON: Oil, THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Cha. Heyday! that felloe's got into my boat
Stop, stop!
{Charon and Mercury run up the stage.
Sctne doses on the confusion.
SCENE III.—A street in the Borough: exterior of
the Magpie and Punch-bowl public-house, by day¬
light.
Enter MRS. DRAINEMDRY, MRS. POROUS, and
MRS. S1MPKINS, with GIOVANNI.
Oiov. So, here, my lovely souls, we are at last
Thanks to Merky's wings, we've travelled briskly
enough; we've left the mail and steam-boat far
behind us: and this is London ? (Loots about.)
Mrs. D. Yes, dear Don; and this Is my house,
the Magpie and punch-bowl—you see the sign—my
husband's face and mine are painted on it: he's
famed for drinking punch, and I for chatiering; so
they call him the punch-bowl, and me the magpie.
Order the best, yon may command every thing
here.
Giov. Thanks. (Kisses her) I'll repay you, love:
you understand.
Mrs D. Fie!
Giov. I'faith! you've had a rare escape, you
rogues! What were you condemned for ? Come,
confess the cape.
Mrs. D. Why, dearest Don, between you and me,
I was sent down because I was a shrew.
Giov. And you? (To Mrs. Porous.)
Mrs. P. 'Faith 1 I was sent for scolding, as well
as she.
Giov. And, pray, what were you sent to old Nick
for, my love? (To Mrs. Simpkins.)
Mrs. S. If I must tell you - though, really, it
makes me blush—I was sent below for a slight faux
pas, Don.
Giov. Oh, fle 1 you rogue.
Mrs. S. Nav. you should make some allowance
for me, my husband is a tailor.
Giov. Oh! that's a different thing; a tailor, eh ?
I'll deal with him; lean pay his wife here. (As.de.
Laughing heard inside the public-house.) Eh ! some
one comes.
Mrs. D. My spouse, as I live. (Peeping in at the
door.)
Mrs. P. And mine. (Peeping also.)
Mrs. S. Mine, too. (Preping also.)
Mrs. D. Let's stand Aside, and watch them;
they'll finely stare to see us here again; and will
be rarely rejoiced, no doubt.
Giov. Don't be too sure of that. (Giovanni, Mrs.
Drainemdry, Mrs. Porous, and Mrs. Simpk ns stand
aside, the wives occasionally peeping at the proceedings
of their husbands.)
Enter DRAINEMDRY, POROUS, and SIMPKINS,
with ajug, from the house.
GLEE.—DRAINEMDRY, POROUS, and SIMP-
KINS.
Am.—" Deadly Lively."
We are three jolly widowers,
That have just lost our wives:
And ne'er, since we were bachelors,
So blest have been our lives.
They lie in yonder church-yard,
And there we'll let them be ;
Peace to their souls' they're n-.w at rest,
And so, for once, are we.
Eol, dot, lol, eke.
Mrs. P. Mrs. P. and Mrs. S. (Peeping from behind.)
Oh! the vile fellows! but they shall dearly pay for
this. (Leporello sings within.)
Giov. (Peeping.) Here comes another ! who s this
fellow, eh ?
Enter LEPORELLO, from public-house.
STAVE—LEPORELLO.
Air—"Galloping Dreary Dun'"
A master I had, a wicked and sly,
Amorous, fighting Don;
He's gone to the de> il, and so won't I;
No, I'll take care of number one.
Giov. (Peeping.) Eh! do I dream? surely T know
that face—why, zounds! it is my rascal. Leporello.
Lepo. (To Drainemdry, Ac.) I must be off—
Simp. Don't leave us.
Lepo. I must go: my wife is Bitting up for ma
besides, she'll read me a curtain lecture, if I don't
Simp. Veil, and that's natral, if you neglects her
Lepo. Hum! you've no wife at home ?
Porous. No, thank heaven 1 mine died last week;
rest her soul.
Drain. So did mine.
Simp. And mine.
Porous. Well, then, let's have another pot of good
brown stout to keep our spirits up. Come, here's
old England and liberty! (Drinks.)
Drain. Old England and liberty! (Drinks)
Simp. Old England and liberty! (Drinks.1
Lepo. Old England! you'll excuse the liberty: my
wife's not dead, you know.
Porous. Leporello, you have often, my prince of
fellows, promised to tell us all about your master,
Don Giovanni
Lepo. Have I? well, then. aB I'm in a merry
humour, I'll he as good as my word for once.
Porous. I knew you'd not refuse us. I've oft heard
of this devil of a Don.
Giov. (Aside.) Now for my character; I refused to
give him one.
Lepo. I shall be liberal with him.
SONG—LEPORELLO.
Air—" Heigho! says Rowley."
There liv'd in Spain, as stories tell, oh I
One Dun Giovanni,
Among the girls a deuce of a fellow-.
And he had a s-rvan' they called Leporello,
With his primo, buffo, canto, basso ;
Heigho ! said Don Giovanni.
He serenaded Donna Anna,
Did Don Giovanni;
He swore she was more sweet than manna;
Then into her window h- stole to trepan her,
With his wheedle, ttoeedle, lango, dillo;
Oh I wicked Don Giovanni.
The Commandant her guardian true,
Caught Don Giovanni;
Says he, " You're a blackguard—run, sir, do •»
" 1 will," says Giovey, and run him through^
With his cart o, tierce-o, thrust-o, pierce-o;
When away run Don Giovanni.
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
A bidding he met, and the bride 'ganto woo:
Fie! Don Giovanni!
" I am running away, will you run away, too f''
Said he: " Fes," says she, " / don't care if I do,
With my helter, skelter, questo, presto;"
What a devil was Don Giovanni I
To tt church-yard he came, being once at a loss;
Lost Don Giovanni !
Where the Commandant's statue sat on a stone horse,
Like King Charles's statue that's at Charing-Cross,
With his saddle, bridle, filchon, truncheon.
" Will you give me a call t" said Giovanni,
To tall on Gio~x*n*, l/te siuiue wasn't slow .
VvixDon Giovanni!
Wilt you sup, Mr. Statue t" said he: it cry'd, " Ho;
For you must sup with me in the regior.s below,
Of my brimstone, sulphur, coke-on, awl smoke, oh I"
"I'll be d—d if I do I" cry'd Qiovawti.
Vet he was condemned; for, in spite of all he could
Bay, they took him to old Nick, and there he's
frying.
Giov. {Comingforward.) The deuce I am!
[Drainemdry, die. retreat, alarmed.
L>po. The deuce are you.? Oh, lord! talk of the
deuBe, you see, and he'll appear.—Who the plague's
this ? Why, surely, it can't be—Pray, sir, may I re¬
quest you'll be so kind as just to say, if you're man,
ghost, or devil? {To GiovanniJ
Giov. You are drunk, rogue.
Lepo. Oh! no, sir; you've sobered me.
Giov. Then, sir, acknowledge me this instant.
Lepo. To be sure it is he! no place can hold him,
that's clear; but I'll not know him, or I shall pay
dearly for it. (Aside.)—Acknowledge you, sir! I
know you not; never saw you, sir. {Advancing.)
Giov. Not know me, rascal? {Caning him.) Do
you know me now ?
Lepo. Oh! yes, sir; these are striking proofs.
Get him away; he intends some mischief, dear
friends to a certainty. (To Drain, Porous, and
Simp.) But can you really be my worthy master?
yTo Giovanni.)
Giov. I am; acknowledge it; or I'll beat it into
you, or beat it out of you, one of the two.
Lepo. Why, sir, he went to—yes, sir—legions of
fiends took him post-haste to the infernal regions.
Giov. Well, what of that, scoundrel? And I'm
come post from the infernal regions back again.
Dram. Come from the infernal regions! Oh! it's
very clear he's an impostor; but we'll soon expose
him. Here, neighbours! watch! (Ca.ling.)
Giov. Stay, sir. (To Drain.) You had a wife ?
Drain. Yes, sir, I had; but, (rest her 1) she's de¬
parted this life, sir.
TRIO.—DRAINEMDRY, POROUS, and SIMP-
KINS.
Air From " Midas.''
Oh ! what pleasure doth abound
Now my wife is under ground I
Green turfs cover her, I'll dance over her.
Tol, lot, lot.
(:They dance round while singing.)
Giov. I am sorry, messieurs, to disturb your
mirth; but know, your darlings are not in the
wtrld below; as witnesses that I was really there,
IHE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED 819
I've brought them with me here; and there they
are, gentlemen. (Points to, and turns up staae, when
the wives rush forward; each seizes her respective hus¬
band.)
SESTETTO.—Messrs. and Mesdames DRAINEM¬
DRY, POROUS, and SIMPKINS.
Aia.—" Deadly Lively."
Mesdames Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins.—
You cruel perjured villains t
Messrs. Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins.—
Oh, zounds, let go our hair I
Mesdames Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins.—
Disown your lawful wives, now, you scoundrels, if you
dare!
Messrs. Drainembry, Porous, and Simpkins.—
Our wives! a pretty joke—it is some hoax, that's clear.
Their bodies in the church-yard lie—
Mesdames Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins.—
Yes, but our souls are here.
AIL Tol, lol, lot, de rol, <kc.
(The Men dolef ully, the Women with great
glee.)
Drain. Brought back our wives 1 he must be the
devil himself, then. (Calling.) Neighbours, neigh¬
bours ! Watch, watch!
Enter Neighbours.
CHORUS OF NEIGHBOURS.
Air.—" Oh! dear, what can the Matter be."
Here, here, what can the matter be t
Dear, dear, what can the matter bet
Oh dear, what can the matter be 1
What's all this hubbub, we pray }
TRIO.—MESSRS. DRAINEMDRY, POROUS, and
SIMPKINS.
Same Air.
This fellow has come from the regions infernal,
And brought back our wives, who as dead were as door-
nail:
Disturbing our quiet with click-clack eternal;
To the round-house pray bear him away !
CHORUS OF NEIGHBOURS.
Same Air.
Eh! what 1 brought back yonr wives to you t
Why not, mayn't he bring ours back toot
We'd not have with him aught to do ;
Let those meddle with him that may.
[Exeunt Neighbours, hastily.
Mrs. Drain. (To Mr. D. ice.) Now, sirs, I hope you'll
own we are your wives; the rulers of the roast,
yourselves and houses; you all acknowledge us to
be yonr better halves.
Drain. O, yes, ducky— (Embrace.) needs must
when the devil drives. (Aside.)
Giov. (To Leporello, who implore* pardon.) I pardon
820 GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OH,
you, sir; anc) as a proof of it, t&ke you into my
•ervice once more.
Mrs. Drain. To drink our hero's health, we'll tap
a barrel, and have a jig and stave—hang fighting
and quarrelling.
GLEE.—OMNES.
Air—"Away with Melancholy."
Away with Jlghi and quarrel.
Black eyes, crack'd heads, thai bring;
Let us attack the barrel,
And jollily, jollily sing.—Tol, lot.
Let's drink, like hearty fellows
Our country and our king;
Burn old King Rose's bellows,
And jollily dance and sing.—To!, lot.
[Exeunt. The Ladies marching Giovanni off
in triumph.
SCENE IV.—St. Giles'* by gaslight—Watchman
crosses stage, crying, " Past ten o'clock."
Enter MRS. LEPORELLO, with infant, from a house.
Mrs. Lepo. Past tent where is my husband? as
usual, getting drunk. Oh, drat the fellow 1 Ah,
false Giovanni! to what have you brought Anna,
who once you swore was sweeter far than honey?
(Childcries.) "Oh, rest thee, babe!" True love is
sure a fable—" Oh, rest thee, rest thee." What can
make my babe ill?
SONG.—MRS. LEPORELLO.
Air—" Oh 1 rest thee, Babe."
Oh I hush thee, my darling, the hour will soon come,
When thy sire from the ale-house, half drunk will reel
home.
Oh ! rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may,
For when he comes, there'll be the devil to pay.
(Goes into the house.)
Enter GIOVANNI and LEPORELLO.
Gtov. Now that you're sober, tell me, Leporello,
When last I disappeared, what became of all my
wives and ladies! Did they die in despair, or run
away?
Lepo. Why, when you went, sir, to—
'Sdeath! (Angrily.)
Lepo. I beg pardon.
Giov. Did I not tell you, sir, to be on your guard
upon that subject?
Lepo. Well, sir; when you went—down stairs,
their pretty eyes, of course, were filled with tears:
and so I brought them all to England, as poor
Donna Anna had waited so long, I took pity upon
her myself, and married her; and we have a family
—enire nous, sir, it was a devilish lucky miss lor
you.
Giov. But where's the charming bride I ran away
with? She's one I should dearly love to toy and
sport for half an hour with.
Lepo. The bride 1 Ohl the young love! The
pretty creature 1 I'll tell you, sir; I'll just clear my
voice first.
THE LIBERTINE" RECLAIMED.
TRIO.—LEPORELLO, GIOVANNI, and SQUAL
LING FANNY.
AIR.—" Young Love."
Lepo. Your love she lives in yon humble shed,
Where turnips selling.
And " greens, oh I" yelling,
She gets a daily bit of bread.
And wild and sweet is the life she ltd•
Her stall has flourish'd.
Her barrow's nourish'd
The nativeswith savoys andb ans:
For working folks must still be fed;
And pickled pork eats best with greens.
Fetches SQUALLING FANNY from her stall
Giov. Zounds I what poor wretch is this I spy,
Who has come hither
Her sweets to wither ;
Her beauty now is all my eye;
Plague on't I don't let the witch come nigh.
Fan, Dear Don Giovanni,
Don't scorn poor Fanny:
All day my greens for you'll I cry.
Giov. My once lov'd Fanny, cry away,
But not for me—no, faith—good b'ye I
DUET.—SQUALLING FANNY and LEPORELLO-
AIR.—" Wapping Old Stairs."
Fanny. Your Fanny has never been fain she de¬
clares,
Since the man on the horse came and took
you—
Lepo. Down stairs. (Stopping her.
Fanny. When you vow'd that you still wou'd con¬
tinue the same.
And you gave me the reticule work'd with
your name.
Then be constant and true, nor your Fanny
forsake;
Still your cossacks I'll wash, and your negus
I'll make.
S. Fanny. Nay, though I do cry my greens
through Covent Garden, don't steel your heart
against poor Squalling Fanny; but lei's live o'er
those charming days, my love, that once I passed
with you in native Spain.
DUET—FANNY and GIOVANNL
AIR.—" Guaracha."
Fan Oh! remember the time in La Mancha'i
plains,
J had just been to church to be wed,
When you swore that my bridegroom wasn't
burthen'd with brains;
And clapp'd two huge horns on his head,
Giov. Oh! yes then you were sweet as the breath of
the south,
And I thought you were truly a prize:
But now crying greens. Fan, has widen'd your
mouth.
Crack'd your voice, ay, and dimm'd your bright
eyes.
(Leporello waltzes
GIOVANNI IN LONDON: OB,
lepo. I have waltzed her off, sir I You should
not be surprised, Dou, at the dears; consider, you
have been—down stairs some time; and time, you
know, makes wondrous alterations.
Giov. So it appears!
Lepo. It is vexatious enough—
Giov. And ludicrous, too; but, n'importe; where
are the wives of the fishermen I shot?
Lepo. They're here, and still in the fish line, sir;
one lives at Billingsgate, and t'other at Fish-street
Hill. (ilrs. Leporello sings within.)
Lepo. That's Mra L.'s voice; she's nursing my
little one; instilling into his infant mind the virtues
of his father.
Mra L. Oh, rest thee, my baby, the hour will soon
come,
When thy sire, from the ale-house, blind drunk
will come home.
Master Lepo. {Within.) Papa, papal
Lepo. I am coming, Giovey. (Brings Master Lepo¬
rello out.) Now isn't he a charming little fellow ? He
is such an anointed one; and has so many tricks,
that we have called him after you, sir,—" Giovanni,"
Come here, Giovey—the pretty creature! Now
isn't he the image of his pa, sir? Giovey, tell your
ma to come here, love—say, that she'll meet an
old acquaintance, dear.
Master Lepo. It's no use, pa, taking messages to
tha, she can't come—she's busy, frying sausages.
[Exit Master Lepo. into the house.
Giov. Never mind; is there no ball, no play, I
can go to, to pass away the time, and get a sweet¬
heart, Leporello, eh ?
Lepo. Where would you go, sir, with that queer
dress on; people would think we were both in
masquerade:—egad! there is a masquerade to¬
night—but, if you'd be a beau, take a lesson from
me; -
SONG.—LEPORELLO.
Am.—" Quite Politely."
If in London town you'd live,
Quite politely, quite politely,
Let me, sir, this lesson give.
And be, complete, a beau, sir.
Cossacks you like sacks must wear,
In a Brutus cock your hair,
A f'l wear of Wellingtons a pair,
To shine from top to toe, sir !
Tol de rol, etc.
Ton must get a pair of stays.
Like the ladies, like the ladies;
Through an eye-glass still must gaze,
And stare at all youmeet,sir!
D'i'A sham collar hide your nose,
W< ar false calves like other beaux,
And still a brazen front disclose,
With brass heels on your feet, sir.
Tol de rol, ttc.
To the Opera you must go,
Bon Giovanni, Bon Giovanni,
And talk as fashionables do.
Most loudly while they're singing,
You must go to ball and play,
Brink, game, swear, and lie all day,
Protect some graceless chere amis,
Yourself to ruin bringing.
Tol de rol, Ac.
THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED. 821
You must visit race, and fight,
Betting on, sir, two to one, sir;
Four in hand to drive delight.
Like groom and jockey clever.
With your tailor debts contract,
In the Bench for three months pack'd,
Get out by the white-washing act,
And be as clean us ever.
Tol de rol, Ac.
[Exeunt Giovanni and Leporello, dancing
SCENE V.—Leicester Square by a variegated light.
Masguerade.—Characters enter from different
entrances.
CONSTANTIA and FINIKIN come forward.
Con. 'Tis no use teasing, Mr. Finikin.
Fin, Why, miss, are you not shortly to be mine ?
Con. Never.
Fin. Your pa, miss, vows and swears you shall.
Con. I vow and swear 1 won't—Pa's own girl to a
T.
Fin. But, my dear creature, I love-
Con. I know,—my thirty thousand pounds: but
I'll have a man for my money.
Fin. Confusion!
DUET.—CONSTANTIA and FINIKIN.
Am—"Oh l thou wert born to please me."
Con. Oh, thou wert born to tease met
Fin. Nay, don't say so, my love.
Con. Fm sure you'll never please me.
Fin. I'll sure your pleasure prot.
Con. Oh! never, never!
Fin. Fie, miss.
Con. You cannot!
Fin. Pr'ythee, try, miss t
Con. 'Twould be to little purpose, you namby pamly
thing !
Fin. Oh, cruel! from my testor I very soon sha&
swing.
(Constantia and Finikin retire up the stage.
Pantomime business; at the end of which,
Leporello comes forward.)
Lepo. An heiress! he'll be a catch for my master
Her cash will put everything to rights again.
{Brings forward Giovanni, and points to Con¬
stantia.)
SONG.—LEPORELLO to GIOVANNL
Am—"See that pretty Creature there."
See that prety creaivre there.
Oh, how charming ! oh, how fair *
Mug her, kiss her, sir, for zounds I
She's got thirty thousand pounds.
(L'porello, as if by accident, treads on Beputy
England's gouty toes, who, just at that
moment, enters with Mrs. English in search
of his ward Constantia; Leporello is beaten
Off by Beputy English, followed by Finikin
and Mrs. English; Giovanni advances to¬
wards Constantia, makes love to her, and,
takes her up the stage, Giovanni and Conn
starttia come forward)
822 GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
DOET.—GIOVANNI and CONSTANTIA.
Air—" Voulez vous dansez.''
Giov. Will you dance with me, dear ma'am'sellt,
Cheer my heart, nor
Slight your partner *
I can quadrille and waltz as weV,
La poule et la finale.
In the tcaltz our forms we'll twine,
Thine to mine, and mine to thine i
And all as sweet
Our hearts shall meet,
Should we in love's circle join.
Con. Willingly, sir, with you I'll dance,
Cheer your heart, nor
Slight my partner.
For ah! who could refuse to prance.
Requested so genteellyt
(,Finikin advances to interrupt Giovanni, and
begins setting to Constaniia; Leporello
seizes the tail of his coat, and dances him
off the other way.)
Con. But may I believe you, sir?
Giov. Believe me 1
AIR.—GIOVANNI.
Air—" Gramachree Molly."*
Had I a heart for falsehood giv'n,
To you I should be true:
I sooner could be false to h'av'n
Than to those eyes of blue.
(Giovanni and Constantia going, Leporello
calls him aside.)
Lepo. (Coming from the crowd.) Oh, master
master! pray, sir leave her alone 1 Why, I have
found she's a ward in Chancery; and you know,
sir, if we treat the Court of Chancery wiih con¬
tempt, they'll clap us in the Fleet Ay, for life, sir:
getting into prison is worse than^eing down
below, sir. You're married, too; and if you marry
her, they'll transport you for Polly Bigamy—But
stay, you've four wives, that will save your bacon;
they'll think that quite punishment enough for any¬
thing.
Giov. I'll brave the Fleet, and Botany Bay into
the bargain, to live for ever dear Constantia's
slave. Follow me, Leporello. (Retire up stage.)
Lepo. (Sees Mrs. L.) First, let me try whether this
Spanish girl will follow me 1
En'er MRS. LEPORELLO, in a Spanish dress.
Mrs. L. There is my husband at his tricks, as
usual. Now to entrap the rogue.
(Follows him, and mixes with crowd. Lepo¬
rello brings her from the crowd, makes love;
falls on his knees; she takes off her mask,
slaps his face, all the characters laugh.
Enter FINIKIN.
DUET.—LEPORELLO and FINIKIN.
Air—"Blue Bells of Scotland."
Fin. Oh! where and ohI where is my own dear
maiden gone 1
Lepo. She's gone with Don Giovanni, and won't a
maid return.
Fin. Then it's heigho! my heart, for she's left me .
all forlorn.
[•HE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Torn from me 1 torn from me 1 Whieh way did
they take her ?
Lepo. They've gone to Long Acre, along with a
baker.
[Exit Finikin, Giovanni, and Constantia ad¬
vance trom crowd, and are going off, but
met by Deputy and Mrs. English, with
Watchman; Giovanni and Constantia try
to escape on opposite side, but are met by
Finikin and Watchman; Giovanni and Con¬
stantia are parted; great bustle, 'and great
noise; ail the Masks in motion, Curtair
falls on the confusion.
ACT IL
SCENE I .—Chalk Farm, Primrose Hill, &e. by day¬
light; a clump of trees at the back of the stage.
Enter GIOVANNI and LEPORELLO, in modern
dresses, the one as a dashing young man ofjashion,
of the present day; the other, a genteel servant.
Leporello carries a pair of pistols with him.
Giov. First on the ground, I see; that's ae it
should be.
Lepo. Dear sir, let'me entreat you not to fight.
Giov. (Hot attending to him.) I made a pretty job of
it the other evening. I loBt my girl, got looked up
in the watch-house, and now am challenged here to
fight her spark!
Lepo. Dear me; they must have very little brains,
methinks, who take such pains to lose what few
they have. (Aside.)
Giov. This challenge is the very thing I was
wishing for. Below so long, I famously stand fire!
'Twas lucky I brought back that tailor's wife frdrii
Styx: for, in my Spanish dress, 'tis very plain, 1
could not have come here; hut, now—
Lepo. You're just the thing, sir; rare luck to get
this fig out without dust; for we had neither
money, faith, nor credit.
Giov. Porous to-day sends home my horse and
chaise.
Lepo. What, Porous trust you ? Well, I am as¬
tonished ! But, hold! you brought his wife, fir,
from—(Giovanni chicks him.)—down 6tairs. The
devil; it was nearly out again.
(Aside)
Giov. They're to be paid by bill, at three
months.
Lepo. (Aside.) Yes, yes; three months will pay
for them, no doubt.
Giov. I've taken a house of Drainemdry, too, who
will supply my wine and spirits.
Lepo. But should you fall to-day 1
Giov. I shall be in the spirit line myself, and uot
stand in need of his assistance
DUET—GIOVANNI and LEPORELLO,
Air—"The Legacy."
Giov. If in death I should chance recline,
A patent coffin get me, do;
Or, else the resurrection men—~
Lepo. Will cheat the devil of his due.
Giov. Bid all my sweethearts banish sorrow
And get fresh lovers as scon as they tf'A
And try if you ten pt/unds can borrow
To pay the undertaker's bill.
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
Should it so happen, I am done o'er ;
Take the goods I have bought on trust,
Carry them to some broker's door,
And raise on them a little dust—
^willfor my funeral sermon pay;
Then for your services so civi',
Here, Leporello, hear me say,
I'll give you—give you—to the devi'.
Lepo. Thanks, sir: I'd give you to him if he'd
have you. But no!—
Giov. Be quiet, sirrah, if you value your hones.
Where is my rival? I begin to fear he will not
come.
Lepo. Don't fear, sir: he is here.
Enter FINIKIN and POPINJAY.
Fin. (Aside to Popinjay.) You're sure that you sent
for the officers?
Pop. Oh, yes 1 I went to Bow-street myself after
them.
Giov. (To Finikin.) Your servant, sir; you're
late!
Fin (Aside.) Latel I think, too soon. Dear,
dear! I wish I were in Pimlico; anywhere but
here.
Giov. I've waited, sir—but we'll to business at
once, and make up for lost time.
Fin. Oh, sir! I can wait; I'm in no sort of hurry,
I can assure you. Where are these officers ?
(Aside.)
Giov. Here, Leporello, measure the ground, eight
paces. D'ye hear, sir?
Lepo. Only eight paces ?
Giov. No, sir; they are plenty.
Lepo. If I was going to fight, I'd have eleven-and-
forty. (Aside.) Then, sir, you've quite made up your
mind to have a pop at him ?
Giov. Ay, sir; and at you, too, if you don't bestir
yourself.
Lepo. Oh, lord!
Giov. (To Finikin.) Your second, sir, will help to
measure the ground.
Fin. Oh! sir, assuredly; with a deal of pleasure.
Where are these runners ? Are there no means of
escaping ? (Aside.)
Pop. Measure the ground; I'd rather be measur¬
ing tape, a good deal. (AsicF To Leporello.) Young
man, as you appear to have a good understanding,
pray step out as much as you possibly can.
Lepo. Don't young man me. One, two, three,
four, jump; (Jumps.) five, six, seven, eight, jump.
(Measuring ground.)
Pop. (To Leporello.) 1 beg your pardon, but really
you've miscounted.
Lepo. Upon my honour, no: I've given full mea¬
sure, you may depend on't.
Pop. Eh, your honour! I'm satisfied.
Giov. (To Finikin.) Now, sir, we wait for you.
Fin. You sha'n't wait long, sir; I'll attend you
instantly.
Pop. This is a very awful moment!
Giov. (To Finikin.) Take your ground, sir.
Pop. Dear me! I'm terribly afraid that I'm about
to swound ? Sir Fin, have you any hartshorn about
you.
Fin. I have no hartshorn, but here's a little rose-
(Giving him a large bottle out of his pocket.)
Pop. That will do quite as well. You like per¬
fumes; which are you most partial to?
Fin. Just now, I think I should prefer—Lavender.
(Calling aloud.)
THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED, 829
Giov. (To Finikin.) Here are pistols, Bir.
Fin. I'm extremely obliged to you; but if it
makes no difference, we'll use mine. They're
loaded with blank cartridge.
(Aside.)
Giov. As you please, sir.
Pop. (To Giovanni.) You couldn't allow me to go
home for a few minutes, or so, could you, sir ?
Giov. Go home! when you're a second?
Pop. Oh, true! I'd forgot that.
Giov. (To Finikin, who has got behind a tree.) You've
taken the wrong ground, sir.
Fin. Have I ?
Lepo. This is your place. (To Finikin.) You can
hit him here, sir, can't (0k 1
(To Giovanni.)
Giov. (To Leporello.) To a nicety. Throw the dead
body into the Begent's Canal. I've ordered coffee
for the survivor 1
Pop. (To Giovanni.) I beg your pardon, sir; but
will you have the goodness to wait till I get behind
this bush: balls are apt to fly, you know.
(Hides behind bush.)
Giov. (To Finikin.) Now, sir, it seems we're all
prepared; therefore, I'll try if I can give you satis¬
faction.
SON(J.—GIOVANNI.
Air.—"The BlaekJoke."
Our ground tee have taken, our pistols we have,
We have nothing to do but the signal to give
Of one, two, three—fire away I
So, dear sir, your best Fd advise you to do.
For if you don't wing me, faith, 1 shall wing you.
Now ready, sir, stand, take your pistol in hand,
For I'm going to sing out the word of command—
Hip—one, two, three—fire away!
(Giovanni and Finikin exchange shots. Finikin,
Leporello, and Popinjay, all fall as if
wounded.)
Giov. I'm safe 1 my rival has it, though, I think.
Three at one shot; Eh! what the plague is this ?
Zounds 1 what has killed you, sir—a ball, or fear?
(To Leporello.)
Lepo. A ball, I fear, sir; it passed through you,
and, as I stood behind you, entered me. You're
winged, sir, a'n't you ?
G'ov. Winged! NotI,faith.
Fin. I wish that I were winged, that I might fly.
(Aside.) You're not hurt, Poppy ?
(To Popinjay.)
Pop. No, but I am excruciatingly alarmed.
Fin. Then help me up.
Pop. (Helping Finikin up.) Why, you're as heavy
as if you had a bullet in you.
Giov. Now, sir, we'll try with my pops.
Fin. With a deal of pleasure, sir; but I—
Pop. And I—
Lepo. And I—
Fin. We're satisfied.
Giov. If you are satisfied, sir, I can't say I am;
but challenge you to have another shot.
Fin. Won't an apology do instead ?
Giov. N o, sir; apologies won't do sir; you, in
writing, must give ntiss up.
Fin. With pleasure.
Pop. (To Finikin.) Can you write, sir?
Fin. A running hand.
Giov. Then it will be all right Sere, Leporello,
bring the pen and ink.
824 GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
Lepo. (Atide.) Yes, and I'll get a drop ot some¬
thing to drink, at the same time.
Otov. Stay, now I think of it, our coffee must he
ready by this time ? so you can give up the lady
over that. This way.
Fin. Sir, T attend you. After you, sir.
[Exeunt Giovanni and Finikin into Chalk
Farm.)
Lepo. (Following. To Popinjay.) This way.
Pop. No, this is mine.
(Running off the opposite side.)
Lepo. Stop, that won't do, my fine fellow.
(Runs after him, pulls him back by the tail of
his coat; PwtnMu falls; Leporello cocks a
pistol at him; ne\ides his face under his
neckcloth, and is led into house.)
Enter DEPUTY ENGLISH and MRS. ENGLISH-
Deputy. Ah! here, indeed, we breathe the
country air; a very rural spot, upon my life!
Here's every thing one can desire. So, here I'll en¬
joy myself.
SONG—MR. DEPUTY ENGLISH.
Ant-"Oh! the roast Beef of Old England."
Til get me a pipe, and Til get me a pot.
And in that rura box there, I'lljit and I'll sot,
And I'll not budge a foot till my dinner I've got
Off the roast beef of Old England,
Off the Old English Roast beef.
Enter GIOVANNI from the house.
Giov. Hum I Finikin's got rid of—sick of fighting.
He's given up all his right and claim to my dear
Con, the sweetest girl in life. Eh! who is this ?
(Seeing Mrs. English.) Zounds, what a lovely
creature 1—your daughter.
(To Deputy.)
Deputy. No, my wife!
Giov. Sir, I beg pardon, a sweeter wench I ne'er
set eyes on. Wife to that old man! that can never
suit: she must have a younger, she must have me.
(Aside.)
Deputy. Well, wife, I'm going; you can look
all about you. Do just what you like ; I can do
without you at present [Exit into farm.
Giov. (Aside.) So can I without you, but not with¬
out her; a very Venus. (Advancing towards ilrs.
English.) 'Tis charming weather, charming pros¬
pects here, all charming; but especially you. All's
right. Come, that's well put; she smiles, I see.
Mad.im, I'm young and fond; your husband's old.
The sequel I desire needs scarce be named.
(Aside.)
Mrs. E. I married, sir, for money, not for love.
That tender passion I have yet to feel. But if it is
wh at I have heard some say it is, I had much rather
it would keep away.
RONDEAU—MRS. ENGLISH.
Air—"Love's soft Illusion."
Love's first intrusion,
With false delusion,
A sad confusion
Makes in the heart.
Maids for love sighing,
Pray send love flying;
Or for man dying.
From rest you part.
Giov. Nay, by this kiss
(Kisses Mrs. English J
CHE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Enter the DEPUTY, andperceivts him.
Her huband here, confusion 1
Deputy. Kissing my wife 1 Now that's what 1
call civil. Your servant, sir: we must become ac¬
quainted: my name is English; I am well knows
on 'change. They say you're Don Giovanni; is it
true ? a foreigner and a very charming singer. I've
often heard of you, though I never thought much
of you till this introduction. I like music and
foreigners, though I don't understand either of
them ; yet, still on both I freely spend my cash. I
like your servant, too, the funny dog; and while
you're resident in England, Don, my services you
freely may command.
Giov. Ten thousand thanks, sir I How shall I
ever repay you ? Perhaps, sir, you could lend me
fifty pounds.
De-uty, w ith all my heart; give me your note of
hand.
(Shakes hands with him and gives him notes.)
Lepo. Sir, master, Don, perhaps he'll stand my
friend, and lend me two pounds. (Aside to Giov.)
Giov. Silence, sirrah!
Deputy. Now, then, let's off.
Mrs. E. Nay, ere we go, we'll hail Giovanni hero
of our day.
DUO and CHORUS—GIOVANNI and MBS.
ENGLISH.
Air—" The Tyrolese song to Liberty."
Giov. Merrily every bosom boundeth,
Merrily oh I merrily oh !
Now Giovanni's freedom soundeth,
Merrily oh I merrily oh !
Mere the pistol's balls fly more fleetly,
Here the syllabubs < at more sweetly,
Every joy Chalk Farm surroundeth,
Metrily oh ! merrily oh!
Cho. Merrily, merrily, oh I dec.
Mrs. E. Cheerily now from HampsfeatTs valley,
Ch'eri y oh I cheerily oh!
Over Primrose-hill we'll sally.
Cheerily oh, cheerily oh!
If a charming girl won by bravery,
Sweeter be, than one kept by knavery,
Round Giovanni's pistol rally,
Cheerily oh, cheerily oh I
Cho. Cheerily, cheerily, oh ! dec.
[Deputy English and Mrs. English deport,
followed by Finikin, who has previously
paid his respects to them. Giovanni gives
Leporello a lett.r to give Mrs. English
they follow cautiously.
SCENE II.—Outside of Deputy Fnglisls's House. It is
getting dark.
Enter the DEPUTY and MRS. ENGLISH. Deputy
sees her into the house, and then departs, telling hef
he's going to the club to smoke his pipe.
Enter CONSTANT I A.
Con. So, Don Giovanni's fought for me, I hear,
that is a sign he bears me still in mind: and though
he is flirting with Mrs. English, that he is fond of
me, I think I'm sure. I've heard an 9ld proverb,
which says, a reformed rake always makes a good
husband. and to refonn him, I've a scheme with
M rs. E of which he'll little dream. But be is here;
I'll stand aside and watch him. We've laid our
snares so well, we must succeed.
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
Enter .GIOVANNI.
Giov. Ifes, here's the house; I've found it; though
it is in the dark. He certainly may be called a
spark who lights himself. Old English has gone
out to spend the evening, left his wife for his club,
so that's all right. Hist, hist! (Calling at the
Deputy's door.) But then, Constantia, what a pang
thrills through my heart Could I but gain her
hand! She's young and rich! She shall, she must
be mine! But what am I about? I'll think of
lovely Con. some other time. Now for the signal.
NOTTURNO.—GIOVANNI.
Air.—Copenhagen Waltz.
Pretty star of my soul! heaven's stars all outshining;
Sweet dream of my slumbers! ah! love, pray you
rise!
Enchantress ! all hearts in your fetters entwining.
To my anguish you are balm, to my pleasure you are
bliss,
To my touch you are joy, there's the world in your
kiss;
Day is not day with me, if your presence I miss,
Ah! no, 'tis a night cold and moon'ess as this.
MRS. ENGLISH appears at the door of the house-
Mrs. E. Giovanni
Giov. Yes.
Mrs. E. Come in, and make no noise.
Giov. I will, my love! Now for ten thousand
raptures. [Enters the house with Mrs. E.
Enter LEPORELLO, with lanthorn and ladder.
SONG.—LEPORELLO.
Air.—" Hey, randy dandy, 01"
Otovanm is leading his usual life;
Hey, randy dandy, 0!
He's come here to make love to another man's wife,
With his galloping randy dandy, O !
Three bottles he drank at a tavern to-day,
Hey, randy dandy, 0!
So it's odds, but there'll soon be the devil to pay,
With his galloping randy dandy, 0 !
Pre brought him a laddor; and brought him a lamp,
Hey, randy dandy, 0!
For a notion I have, when he means to detamp,
That he'll find them devilish handy, 01
J don't know how it is, but 1 feel to-night,
Hey, randy dandy, 01
So. I'll go to the whiskey-shop down by the right, j
And get a few quarterns of brandy, O !
[Exit Leporello
Enter CONSTANTIA.
Con. He's caught; we have him 1 Oh, man, man,
how weak you prove in love when woman tempts!
But let me give the warning we agreed on. We
plot for virtue and we must succeed.
SONG.—CONSTANTIA.
Ant—" He loves and he rides away "
At Deputy English's door was seen
A libertine so gay,
The Deputy's lady let him in,
So winning was his lay.
THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED. 825
Oh ! gentle lady, list to one
Who knows he can betray:
Beware, beware of this false young Don,
Who loves, and then runs away.
[Knocks loudly at Mrs. English's door, and
calls, "Giovanni, Giovanni!" then exits
hastily. GIOVANNI opens the door and
comes forward, Mrs. English shuts the
door on him unperceived.
Giov. Who's there? no one: it was Corn's voices
I'm sure. I came, 'faith! devilish n ot-apropos. Well,
I'll go back. (Finds the door shut.) Zounds 1 why, the
door is fast Halloa! hist, hist! plague on't, shut
out at such a moment Eh 1 where's the lanthorn ?
where is Leporello ? and where's the ladder? Devil
take the scoundrel! I've drunk too much; but,
'faith! could not refuse the glass offered by such a
hand. The charming wench, she'll bless my love, no
question. 'Twas cruel of her, though, to shut me
out. Oh, here my rascal comes without his light.
Enter DEPUTY ENGLISH.
Oome here, you dog. I've had such luck this
evening. (Mistaking him for Leporello.)
Deputy. (Aside.) Oh 1 who is this, the Don? the
funny rogue! He takes me for his servant, Le¬
porello. I'll listen to him; he seems very fresh.
Giov. I've been with such a charmer, and ao
kind!
Deputy. Who?
Giov. English's wife.
Deputy. My wife! death and the devil 1 Bat I'll
hear more. (Asirfe.)
Giov. I've had such kisBes! Listen.
Deputy. I mean it. (Aside.)
Giov. Envy me my transports.
DUET.—GIOVANNI and MR. DEPUTY EN
GLISH.
Air.—" Chanson d'Amour.'
Giov. I gave her kisses one,
Half afraid;
I gave her kisses one,
She frown'd and cried, " Have done !"
But, " Go on," her pretty blue eyes plaudf
said,
I gave her kisses two,
Bolder grown;
I gave her kisses four.—
Dep. Oh, zounds! FIX hear no morex
I've heard too much already, Mr. Don.
Giov. Why, who is this? Would there was ft
light! Oh! here comes one: this will soon settle it
Enter LEPORELLO, wi'h ladder and lanthorn.
Lepo. (Singing.) Like master's my spirits are now
wondrous prime :
Hegl randy, dandy, 0 !
So the ladder and lanthorn will come just in lime.
And he'll find them both devilish handy, 0!
Giov. What do I see? my villain, Leporello!
Bring the light near, sirrah! Who is this other
rascal? (Leporello holds a lanthorn to Deputy's face;
finds out who he is, and runs away.) My friend, the
Deputy, by all that's mischievous!
Deputy. Yes, Don; who thanks you for himself
and wife.
Giov. Sir, I'm extremely sorry for the thing: ami
.shall be glad to give you satisfaction.
826
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR, THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Deputy. Zounds! sir, what satisfaction can you
name?
Giov. Ohalk-farm and pistols, sir, at half-past
six.
Deputy. Chalk-farm and pistols, Don Giovanni!
Psha! A crim. con. action and ten thousand
pounds. For only suppose now I pot killed in
this affair, where, let me ask, would be the satis¬
faction? I'll go a safer way to work; John Doe
shall make you dearly pay for this/aua>p«».
Giov. (Singing and laughing.)
/ gave her kisses five,
Bolder grown ;
I gave her kisses five,
'Tis as true as Fm alive—(Laughs heartily.)
Dep. 'Twere much better you had left her, Don, alone!
[Exit Deputy into the house, greatly enraged-
Exit Giovanni, laughing.
SCENE IIL—Outside of Westminster-hall, in a new
light.
Enter LEPORELLO and CONSTANTIA in coun¬
sellors' gowns and bands: Leporello with a wig and
green bag.
Lepo. But tell me, miss, why are we disguised
thUB?
Con. Oh! 'tis a little bit of roguery.
Lepo. Of course; or else we need not be lawyers,
Con. As we mean to reform Giovanni thoroughly,
It must be our endeavour to plunder and distress
him all we can.
Lepo. Ay, like true lawyers; I'm quite of your
opinion. But stop, my learned sister, where's my
fee?
Con, You shall be well rewarded, never fear.
We have persuaded him the Deputy has brought
an action against him for crim. con. And we are
to defend him. Poor Giovanni! But here he
comes; thinking his cause is to be tried to-day.
Let's stand aside. (They retire.)
Enter GIOVANNI.
Giov. In love, in law! I'm in a pretty hobble!
My awkward trial, too, comes on to-day: there'll
be the devil to pay!
Lepo. (Aside to Con.) He means us. (Coming for¬
ward.) Your servant, Don!
Giov. My lawyer ?
Lepo. With your leave, as cause comes on to-day,
we've come for fees.
TRIO.-CONSTANTIA, LEPORELLO, and GIO¬
VANNI.
Air.—"Soldier gave me one Pound."
Lep. Giovanni, give me one pound.
Con. Giovanni, give me two.
Lep. Trial it comes on to-day;
Con. And nothing we can do—
Lep. Unless you give a fee
Both to me—
Con. And me.
Both. For, oh ! the law's a mill that without grist will
never go.
Lep. Giovanni, give me one pound.
Con. Giovanni, give me two.
Both. For, oh! a brief without a fee will never newer
do.
Con. Don't you know, the law—
Lep. Has clapped on you its claw f
Both. And, oh ! the law's a mill that without grist wit
never go.
Giov. Lawyer, there is one pound, (Gives jAp. money)
Lawyer, there are two. (Gives Con. money)
And now 1 am without a pound,
Thanks to the law and you !
For, oh! I f el the law
Has clapp'd on me its claw;
And, oh ! the law's a mill that without grist
will never go.
Lepo. Now then, my learned brother, to the hall.
English against Giovanni: it comes on first. I, a
rare philippic shall speak, sir. We lawyers like to
talk about crim. con. We've bled him nicely!
(Aside.) Come, my learned brother. Coke upon
Littleton — Budge versus Fudge. Law'em and
Claw'em ad big wig pretendum. Fee fo fum
omnibus endless disputandem.
[Exit with Constantia as to the court
SONG.—GIOVANNI
Air.—"The Woodpecker."
1 know by their wigs, that so gracefully curl'd
Adown their lank chops, that they wanted aft*;
And I said, if I had but a pound in the world,
These devils of lawyers would take it from me.
All was still in the court, not a sound did J fear,
But the bailiff quick tapping my shoulder, oh, dear.
Enter LEPORELLO and CONSTANTIA, at from
court.
Giov. Have you a verdict?
Lepo. Yes, sir.
Giov. Name it: quick.
Lepo. Guilty: the damages ten thousand pounds.
Giov. Ten thousand pounds for nothing but a
kiss! I think your English laws are somewhat
strict. What would they say to such a thing in
Spain ?
Lepo. 'Twould have been twice aB much but for
my skill It was in vain their counsel I over¬
hauled. They went so far, Don, as to prove the
fact,
Giov. 'Tis false!
Lepo. I cross-examined the chambermaid; but
she swore positively, and to the point. We'll leave
our bill of costs for the defence, and call for the
amount when next we're at the hall. Good day!
My learned brother, shall we trudge it? As I said
in that cause of Fudge and Budge: "Botherum
gatherum client Simpletoni, distressem pluckem
executioni" &c. [Exit with Constantia.
Giov. Ten thousand pounds, and I'm not worth
a shilling! In debt, in love, in law! undone Gio¬
vanni ! I've only now to get in wine to be com¬
pletely ruined.
Enter NOKES and STYLES. (Watching Giovanni)
Nokes. This is our man, let me make the caption.
Styles. I will; but m nd you take care of the fee.
Giov. A ruined wretch! ah! whither shall I wan¬
der ? Who will provide Giovanni now a home?
Nokes. I will.
Giov. Kind friend!
Nokes. A snug one, in the Bench; where yen
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
may still enjoy your glass and girl. I'm glad I've
found you.
Giov. So am I.
Nokes. You know, of course, that you're my
prisoner: so hand us out our fee.
Giov. Your prisoner, fellow!
Aukes. Ay, Don, unless you pay ten thousand
pounds.
Giov. Ten thousand pounds, dog! Iqan't pay one
farthing.
A'okes. Oh! oh! Then you must go over the
water, Mr. Giovanni.
DDET.—NOKES and STYLES.
Air.—" Over the Water to Charley."
Nokes. Over the water and over the bridtje,
And into the King's Bench, Giovanni;
And over the water we now must trudge,
Or get in a coach, Giovanni.
Giovanni, you love ale and wine;
Giovanni, you love brandy;
Giovanni, you love a pretty girl,
Giov. As sweet as sugar-candy.
Nukes. Then, sure, to pay you will not grudge;
You kiss'd the wench, Giovanni;
So over the water and over the bridge,
And into the Bench, Giovanni.
[Exit Giovanni with Nokes and Styles_
En'er LEPORELLO and CONSTANTIA, watching
them.
Lepo. They've got him, madam: well, he cannot
grumble; having, like true lawyers, plucked him
of his all, we leave our client to the bailiff. It is
good practice for the court below.
, Con. You must directly to the Bench. Go as hiB
lawyer; proffer him advice; in my own dress, I'll
follow by-and-by. [Exit.
Lep. (Calling after her.) But, sir - ma'am—madam
—miss, learned brother—sister; I go as his law¬
yer! what am I to say? Oh! no matter. Ecod!
since I have had on this gown and wig, I begin to
feel as legal as can be ; at all events, like most of
the profession, I'm sure I can say a great deal
about nothing. " My lud and gemmen of the jury,
—May it please your ludship, I am of counsel for
the defendant in this case; and, my lud," &c.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.—Interior of the King's Bench, in its
true light. SHIRK, SPUNGE, and other Debtors
discovered; some walking about, others playing at
rackets, Jcc.
CHORUS OF DEBTORS.
Aib—"Peggy of Derby, ohl"
Oh! laugh at the hour.
When, m John Doe's power,
We debtors to the Surrey College came.
Let's hasten to our play ;
Three months soon will pass away.
What is life, after all, but a racket game 1
Then, debtors, get gour jackets,
And let us go to rackets:
Like a ball, we're up and down at fortune's smile—
the wench !
Like our balls we here remain,
But, one day, to ease our pain,
Like a bat, the Act wilt soundly knock us out of the
Bench.
PHE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED. 827
Shirk. Ay, ay, my boys, let's haston to our play
and leave work to our creditors.
a 11. Bravo 1 (Loud cries outside.) " Giovanni,
Giovanni 1")
Enter GIOVANNI, conducted in by NOKES, and
STYLES.
Spunge. Giovanni, welcome to this sacred spot,
where lawyers, bailiffs, duns daren't shew their
faces! What, downcast! psha! my dear Don,
pour a glass of spirits down to keep your spirits
up.
Giov. Spirits! why they're forbidden.
Spunge. Well, then, tape. We find a way to
evade the law, Don: rum Charley helps us : every
morning a gallon of rum walks in within his wooden
leg. You'll pay your entrance, of course: 'tis usual,
sir.
Giov. This place is well called college, since it
supplies so much and various learning. But
zounds! I've not a note to treat these brothers.
En er Turnkey with a letter.
Turn. Here's a note for you, sir.
[Exit.
G'ov. Psha: I want some of Henry Hase. What's
this? Cons tan tia's hand! (Reads.) "Though you
forsook me, I can't forsake you in the hour of want."
jAhl a friend, indeed. •'I hwe enclosed you a re¬
taining fee; with this brief counsel, remember me."
Dear girl: ten pounds! this I never can forget:
now, now I feel I am indeed a debtor. Here, you
rogues; here, here is my entrance-money.
(Gives money: Debtors shout)
Spunge. You'll find here, Don, the best of com¬
pany: all the great wits and authors are here.
We have some players too, of no mean note; and
as for gentlemen, we're full of them. We're not
confined in living, neither; though prisoners, we
feed like princes here.
Giov- Well, for poor debtors that is very odd.
Spunge. But I say, Don, as you're a stranger, I
must talk to you about your chum.
Giov. My chum ?
Spunge. Your bedfellow that is to be: but stop,
you'd better leave it to my care.
Giov. Nay, if you please, I'll see to that my¬
self. I have a little damsel in my eye, will come
and
Spunge. Oh, my dear Don, for shame 1 An easy
blade this, I must try and bubble him: he's got
some money, 'twill be little trouble. (Aside.) My
dear Don, let me put you on your guard while you
are here; I speak quite disinterestedly: some of our
brothers, I am sorry to say, are very apt to borrow
and not return. I give you just a hint: it's not my
way; I like to do as I'd be done by. You couldn't
lend me a pound-note, could you ?
Giov. With pleasure.
(Gives money.)
Spunge. Zounds! I wish I'd asked for two.
(As de.) Depend on't, it shall be punctually repaid.
Some day or other I may assist you : just now I
happen to be rather short. You couldn't lend ms
a few shillings more?
Giov. Oh, yes.
(Gives money.)
Spunge. I'm very much obliged; I am, indeed.
Perhaps you'd like to read the newspaper? I'll go
and fetch it. I must bleed him again. (Aside.) It
must have come down from the upper rooms by,
this time; so you can see what's going on in
town. [Exit.
S& GIOVANNI IN LONDON: OR, '
(ho". Alas' what is the town or world to me ?
lu love, in limbo! when shall I get released?
CV.nstautia, love, now do I think upon thy
oharms ?
AIR—GIOVANNI.
Are—" Robin Adair."
What's the gay town to me,
In the King's Bench t
Oh! when I get free
From the King's B rich 1
Ah! still to joy and. mirth.
Freedom it is gives birth ;
Confinement's hell on earth,
In the King's Bench.
tExit.
Enter SHIRK, SPUNGE, and D btors.
Sh h-k. Pull up, pull up! a lawyer's at the gate:
the fool's not aware, 1 dare say, how we serve
p-utlemen of hiB calling. We'll give it to the dog:
hut mind be steady, lads; go some of you and get
the pump and blanket ready.
1 Exeunt Debtors.
Enter LEPORELLO, in a counsellor's dress, with a
blue bag.
Lepo. I come from twelve and thirteen, Cle¬
ment's Inn; I'm a lawyer! Is Giovanni, pray,
within? But there's no fear of his being at home
here: you gentlemen are not much given to
ramble.
Shirk. Yes he's at home; but before you can see
him, we must bestow the lawyer's fee on you.
Lepo. Oh, eertainly! give me my fee; I'll take
anything.
Shirk. By rights, you should have six-and-
eightpence; but two half-crowns are all the fee we
give.
Lepo. Well, two half-crowns. What a pack of
fools!
Shirk. Now your crown must be erack'd, ere
you've two halves: So, crewe cool your courage
with the pump, we'll try how high your ambition
will carry you: send you on a visit to the man in
the moon. Bring the blanket, boys!
Lepo. ADlanket! zounds! they mean to murder
ine! Help, help, here 1 I'll indict you all for as¬
sault and battery!
(Shirk, Spunge. and Debtors, bring a blanket,
and toss Leporello; he exc aiming all the
time—"I'm no lawyeT i" &c. They then
hurry him off, crying—"To the pump!"
Enter GIOVANNL
Ghv. No one arrived; not even Leporello to get
me bail! ungrateful villain!
SONG—GIOVANNL
Are—" Nel cor pui mL"
Hope told a flattering tale.
That 1 should soon get outf
But no one will give bail.
And of leg-bail I doubt.
The walls they are so high,
The keepers are so strict.
So here three months Til lie,
Then get out by the act.
If my cleat Cocstantia would but visit me; but can
1 hope it—
'HE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
Enter POROUS, DRAINEMDRY, SIMPKINS, H
creditors of Giovanni
Bless me! who are these? Zounds, all my era
ditors. Whither shall I fly ?
Drain. We ve called to know, Don. what you
mean to propose, and when you think it's likely
you can pay?
Giov. Pay 1
Simp, yes, you've surely something yoa can
give us; I've no objection to take back my
clothes.
Porous. Let us have a part, Don, if you can't pay
us all, and give us security for the remainder.
Giov. Zounds, how shall I get rid of these liendif
Ah, my Constantia!
Enter CONSTANTIA.
This makes amends for everything,
BRAVURA—CONSTANTIA TO CREDITORS,
Air—" Cease your funning."
Cease your dunning,
Serjeant Running-
—ton shall set Giovanni fret!
Then how soothing,
Owing nothing.
What a happy man he'll bet
Leaving roving,
True to loving,
True, he'll to Constantia be.
(Shirk, Spunge, and Debtors rush in avdhutllt
off Drainemdry, Forous, Simpkins, and
Creditors.)
Giov. How kind to visit a poor wretch like me.
Con. Alas! Giovanni, I m as poor as yon are; or
else, believe me, I had paid your debts.
Giov. Dear, generous, constant, fascinating
girl!
Con. But where in fortnne's name is Leporello all
this time! Pray, have you seen any lawyer? (To
Shirk, who re-enters.)
Shirk. There was a fellow, ma'am, who called
himself a lawyer, here just now, to whom, accord¬
ing to custom, we administered the discipline of {he
blanket: he is now undergoing the puriflcation of
the pump: I must go and see it duly performed.
[Exit.
Con. Poor Leporello! But it can't be helped.
(Aside) Keep up your spirits, dear Giovanni; al¬
though you do owe so much, ami have no money,
there's a kind act, they say, will free you.
Giov. Anything, for love and liberty.
(Exeunt,
SCENE V— Exterior t 'the D solvent Court.
Enter DRAINEMDRY, POROUS, SIMPKINS,
Cobbler, and other Creditors of Giovanni.
Drain. What, take the act, and cheat me of my
money ? a pretty swindler this Don Giovanni, upon
my word.
Cob. He'll he my ruin! nothing can redeem me,
upon my soul, unless he pays my bill.
Forous. Why, how much is it ?
Cob. Fourteen and sevenpence, welting hoots and
mending—
Simp. Psha! that's a trifle; he oweB me fifty
pounds.
Drain. Pooh! he owes me fourscore Oh! hert
he is. (Enter GIOVANNI CONSTANTIA, vd
Bailiffs.) You rogue!
Forous. You swindler/
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OR,
Simp. You cheat!
Drain, but you sha'n't escape us, we will all op-
pose you.
Giov. Be patient, I am willing to pay you all; but
I am now reduced to my last shilling.
GIOVANNI'S ADDRESS TO HIS OPPOSING
CREDITORS.
Air.—"Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled."
Duns, that give Giovanni trust.
Duns, dow t not I shall be just,
But take the benefit / must.
For 'tis for liberty!
How's the day, and now's the hour.
See th 1} tiliff grimly lour.
See approach the Sheriff's power,
liVirs and slavery.
Who would be a debtor, eh f
Who in the King's Bench would stay t
Who would be con find all day t
Let him prisoner be!
Who for the Insolvent Laws
Freedom's schedule frevy draws,
Freeman stands in freedom's cause,
On to Court with me.
[Exit with Bailiffs.
Drain. Come, friends, we'll all oppose him.
Simp. Ay, every man of us.
Cob. Oh, my poor bill 1
[Exeunt Drainemdry, Porous, Simpkim, and
Creditors.
Enter LEPORELLO.
Lepo. I'll not oppose him though he is in my
debt; no doubt I shall get my wages some time or
another; that's if the plot don't fail, which now
we're trying. His long confinement must have
tamed his roving by this time, and made him
steady, or the devil's in itl If so, all will be well;
if not, poor Miss Constantial—I wonder if they'll
grant him his discharge, (Noise without, and cries
of "huzza!" and "shame, shame!") Odsflesh!
what means that clamoui ? zounds, they've cleared
him. Ob, my dear master!
Enter GIOVANNI, CONSTANTIA, and
Creditors.
Drain. Shame, shame: you swindler I
Simp. Give me back my clothes.
Porous, I wonder that you dare to shew your
facet
[Exit Drainemdry, Porous, and Simpkins.
The Cobbler overcome by the immensity and
utter hopelessness of his loss, makes several
ineffectual attempts to express his feelings ;
but finding himself unequal to the task, re¬
tires plunged in grief.
Giov. I'll now make up for my temperance, in
the Bench; I'll revel, dance, sing, drink, game,
swear, everything,—zounds! I don't know what I
wont do.
TKIO.—GIOVANNL CONSTANTIA, and LEPO
RELLO.
Air.—"John of Paris."
Cliov. Three months in durance vile 1 pin'i,
By cruel creditors confin'd;
But hence with pain,
Pm free again,
Tts, free as is the wandering wind,
THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
| I'll love, I'll drink, rtlgame, Til fight,
J I'll pass in bliss each coming night ;
And taste whole ages of delight,
To make amends for fortune's spiff,.
Con. Giovanni welcome, once more free,
I'll leave you to your liberty;
But sfr uld you e'er
Again know care.
Perhaps you' I cast a thought on me.
Lepo. Giovanni now is free again ;
Away with care away wiihpainl
He still will rove,
He still will love,
And make amends for slavery's chain.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.~Charing-cross, by a blue light. Eque»•
trian statue of King Charles.
Enter LEPORELLO.
Lepo. Giovanni free, proves he is still Giovanni:
he's ranging everywhere in search of petticoats.
Oh, if we could but reclaim this libertine, it would
immortalize us—but how? ah! there's the rub.
He is to meet me in Cockspur Street soon, by ap¬
pointment; be must pass by this statue, so like the
commandant upon his horse. I have it—in this
blue light 'twill answer certainly: just so he looked
who asked the Don to sup where he was supped
on I'll try it; there can be no harm in trying: the
coast is clear; no one has observed me; so up I
mount Yes, royal Charles, you and I must, for
once in our lives, ride and tie, as the saying is.
A footstep—some one comes:—that air and gait 1
Shine bright, ye lamps! it is Giovanni, past all
doubt, Mum! all good spirits aid me 1 Giovanni
once reformed, my fortune's made.
A Female crosses the stage hastily: enter GIOVANNI
in pursuit.
Giov. That was a lovely girl I met just now; she's
set me all on fire. Confound the wench 1 she went
this way; I'll after her at once.
(Going.)
Lepo. (In a gruff voice.) Hold I
Giov. What the devil's that?
Lepo. Bold man, 'tis L
BALLAD.—LEPORELLO. (Very ghostily.)
Air—" Barney, leave the Girls alone."
Giovanni, leave the girls alone;
Giovanni, leave the girls alone;
For oh.' your tricks mote stock and stone;
Then qui> t let them be.
Pluto, put the kettle on ;
Pluto, put the kettle on;
To supper once I asked the Don,
I ask him now to tea.
Giov. Odsblood! what's this? the commandant
here! How the devil has the fellow found his way
from Spain? Yes, there's the stony-hearted dog,
striding that stony-hearted beast, bis niarbie
horse. Instead of raking, I'd best go to praying,
or he may alight, and take me—
Lepo. (In a hollow voice.) Down stairs.
Giov. Oh, lord! good Mr. Statue, I'll amend.
Thoughts of old times have made me devilish
warm. Should I go down below again, I fear it
! would be long enough ere I got back again. Y e»
GIOVANNI IN LONDON; OH, THE LIBERTINE RECLAIMED.
830
Til reform for dear Constantia'e sake. Good b'ye,
Old Stony! Morning will soon beam, so you'd
better take yourself and your horse off.
[Exit.
lepo. (Descends from the statue.) Ha, ha, ha
''Pluto, put the kettle on; Pluto, put the kettle on
Prossy, take it off again, Giovanni's run away."
I've frightened him a bit, I think. Why, hang it!
he must have been in liquor; yet this blue moon¬
light shining on the horBe, I must say, is monstrous
Striking. Eh 1 here again!
Re-enter GIOVANN L
Giov. It must have been delusion: but that I'll
soon find out: no, hcreV the man and horse. (Sees
Leporello.) Ah, Leporello, speak, what are you
alarmed at, sirrah ?
Lepo. (Pretending to be dreadfully frightened.) Oh,
sir, the man from that stone horse nan spoken. It
has, upon my word, spoken to me, and said, that
he waB sent up-stairs to fetch you—down again, if
you didn't immediately reform. Look, sir, how
firm he sits! be warned in time, sir, and list to
reason.
Giov. I will, I will.
Lrpo. You know, you're very poor; now, sir,
hard by, lives an old maid who rolls in riches, and
who wants a husband; what do you say, sir, to a
good estate? you will not have a chicken for your
bride, but what of that, sir, you'll be rich for life.
Giov. It shall be so; lead on; my mind's made
up. I'll marry the rich old maid and repent at
once.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VIL—Grand Saloon, by a fanlight.
Enter MRS. LEPORELLO, disguised as an old maid.
Mrs. L. I think this dress will do; this air and
manner will serve, at least, somebody to entrap.
Should the Don come, I'll try if I can't win him;
if he resists me now the deuse is in it.
SONG.—MRS. LEPORELLO.
Air—"Nobody coming to marry ma"
A maid at sixty-six.
Must not refuse a man ;
But ah I not. a soul can I fix,
Though, I'm sure I do all that lean.
Oh, dear 1 what will become of me t
Dear, dear ! what shall I dot
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo.
Enter LEPORELLO conducting G'OVANNI.
Lepo. There she is, sir; see what a valuable
concern! Why, there's a thousand pounds in every
feature. Her nose is worth five hundred, and her
eyes—why, they are Jew's eyes, sir. Attack her,
then, at once.
Giov. I will; and yet I shrink: but why should I
think on poor Constantia new? Now, for the first
time, to make love for money. What a change for
Giovanni is this ?
(Music. Giovanni makes love to Mrs. Lepo¬
rello in dumb shew; she coyly yields to hint;
he has fallen on one knee; she sits upon it)
Mrs. L. Oh, Don, you're too polite, you are, in¬
deed; and then you plead in such a tender way, I
can't refuse you ; no, dear Don, I can't. There is
my hand, make me at once your wife.
Lepo. Take her at once: our fortune's made,
Why, zounds, sir, how you standi
{Aside to Giov.)
Giov. Shall I, then, for the withered arms of
age, leave the blooming charms of my young, my
kind Constantia, because at fortune's frown, like
me, she's poor? Perish the thought! No, if Gio¬
vanni must a husband be, still, as of old, it shall
be " All for Love."
CONSTANTIA, DEPUTY ENGLISH, and MRS.
ENGLISH, appear in the back-ground, watching.
I'll seek Constantia out; reform, repent: and make
that charming, faithful girl my wife.
Con. (Coming foncard.) My own, my tfied Gio-
vanni 1 know, to reward your love and constancy,
Constantia still is rich and worthy of you. This
lady, with her formal dress and air, was onoe your
favourite.
Giov. Eh, Donna Anna?
Lepo. Not Donna Anna—Mrs. Leporello. (Ms.
L. throws off the old maids dress, and appears as her¬
self; Giovanni salutes Iter.) Kissing my wife! I
shall wear yellow stockings.
Deputy. Welcome. Giovanni
Giov. The Deputy!
Deputy. Yes.
Giov. The trial—
Deputy. Was a hoar, played to try you; yon
must pardon all our tricks now that they're over,
and join us in wishing the support of our kind
friends to a Libertine Reclaimed.
FINALE.
Am •"Here's a Health to all good Lasses."
Deputy. Here's success to Don Giovanni I
Fin. & Con. Here's success to Don GiovanniI
AIL All success to Don Giovanni!
Though his follies hare been many,
Here he makes amends at last
Ladies. Worthy patrons,
Gentlemen. Kindly shield him;
Ladies. Do not blame him,
Gentlemen. Pardon yield him.
AIL Hire's success to Don Giovanni!
Though his follies have been many,
Overlook his errors past.
[Exeunt
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
A PLAT. IN FIVE ACTS.—BY JOHN BANIM.
Damon.—' I'll teak thee into pieces."—Act iv, seme 2.
Damon.
Pythias.
Dionysics.
Damocles.
Procler
PhILISTIUS.
Lucullus.
First Senator.
Second Senator.
Third Senator.
ACT L
persons gle$resettfe&.
SCENE I—A Street in Syracuse, with an Arch.
DIONYSIUS and PROCLES discovered, as expeiing
tidings.
Dion. Ere this, the Benate should have closed its
councils,
And chosen the new year's president I pant
To know their meeting's issue.
Proc. Good my lord,
There's but light doubt, a great majority
Of easy purchased voices will be found
For your fast friend Philistius.
Dion. On bis choice
Hangs the long chain of complicated purpose
Has ta'en such time in linking. Plague upon
Hbruion.
Arria.
Senators, Guards, Of.
ficers, soldiebb, &c.
&c.
Fourth Senator.
Firrn Senator.
■ Servant to Pythias
Child of Damon.
Calanthe.
Tbe law, that from the senate-house excludes
All soldiers, like ourBelveB, or we should soon
Outvote all difficulty:
0Senators cross the stage, through arch.)
Ha! methinks
Tbe assembly hath dissolved.
By Jupiter,
Philistius' self doth hasten to us here,
And with him Damocles! How, now, my friend?
Enter PHILISTIUS and DAMOCLES, through
the arch.
Art thou the president 1
Phil. I am, my lord.
Chosen by a large majority to take
The honourable office in the which
Ho. 27.—Dioks" British Drama.
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
IA2
1 may. at least requite the benefits
Which yon have heaped upou me.
Dam. Yes, my lord,
V e have at last attained the 'vantage ground,
Whence your broad view may take a boundless
prospect.
Dion. 'Tis a bold step upon the mountain-path,
Whe rein I have been toiling. I no longer
Doubt of the senate's inclination.
( 7b /'/ odes.) What say the soldiers? Thou hast
hinted to them
That we confided to thee ?
Proc. i es, my lord;
And they a> e ready for it
Dion. Go thou hence,
(Crosses to Procles.)
And speak to them again; disperse more gold;
'Twill give a relish to thine eloquence;
(Prodes is going.)
And, hark ye, lead them this way: I shall here
Await thy coming. Hal behold, in air.
(Lobl. ing off.)
Where a majestic eagle floats above
The northern turrets of the citadel;
And, as the sun breaks through yon rifted cloud,
His plumage shines, embathed in burning gold,
And sets off his regality in heaven!
Thou knowest how readily the multitude
Are won by such bright augury-make use
Of divination—haste thee.
[Exit Procles.
Pliilistius, give me your hand. I thank you.
Things look in smiles upon me. it was otherwise
Eut a year since, when I impeached the magis¬
trates
For treasonable dealing with the foe,
And the senate hurled me from my topmost height
Of popularity.
Dam. Degraded you
From power, and office.
Dion. Ayl at the appeal
Of that stale pedant, the Pathagorean,
Who hangs out his austerity for sale,
In frowns, closed lips, and pithy sentences.
Dam. Thou speakest of Damon ?
Dion. Ay, my enemy,
The patriot, and philosophic knave.
Who hath been busy with my purposes,
And one day shall not smile at it. He came
Into the senate-house, with a fierce crew
Of his associates in philosophy,
Silent and frowning, at his back; he railed,
And had bis triumph. Times have altered since:
And, to the mould and fashion of my will,
Shall yet take stranger shape, when Damocles,
These long-trained law-givers, these austere sages,
Khali find I can remember.
" Dam. Let them feel it.
" Dion. In all that biting bitterness of heart
•' Which clings, and gnaws, by inches, to its ob¬
ject,
" More keen, because a first essay hath failed,
"In shame and suffering, failed, thus have I sped
" M.- work, in silence, on. It did become
•' A thought Inwoven with my inmost being."
Dam. The steps
Which since most visibly you have ascended,
Must have required much effort?
Dion. Yes! to have flung
Into the shadoof public disrepute,
The very men wh' se voices were most loud
lu working out my ruin; after that,
To gain the army's suffrage;—to be chosen
Its head and general, that was another;
To have won that very senate,—
Phil. Yet pause, my lord :
Howe'er complying you have hitherto
Found that assembly, and though most of them
Are plunged into our debt, bejond all means
Of their tedemption, yet may there be still
Some sudden reluetation to the last
And mightiest of all hopes.
Dion. The garrison
Is not a bad ally, methinks 1
Phil. The war
Hath ta'en the flower of all the troops from Syra¬
cuse ;
And Damon, heading the vile populace—
Dion. I came from Agrigentum, to entreat
Arms, corn, and money, from the senators,
While I myself have purposely delayed
The grant ng them : meantime, the city is filled
With many thousands of my followers.
Plul. But are they not unweaponed ?
Dion. This city of Syracuse-
It hath a citadel ?
Phif. True, sir: it hath.
Dion. And therein, as I deem, its national stock
Of corn, and arms, and gold, is treasured ?
Phil. True.
Dion. The citadel is not impregnable-;
And when it is manned and ordered to my will,
What of these frothy speech-makers? (Shouts.)
Phil. My lord,
The soldiers shout for you.
Dion. Procles, I see.
Is at his work. Good Damocles, Philistine,
As you are senators, retire you hence:
It were not meet that you should look to have
been
Parties to any act, which afterwards
May grow into discussion. And, Philistine,
One effort more among our city friends:
I will forewarn thee of the time to call
The senators together. Yet, 1 mean not
Exclusively to trust them, good Philistius ;—
Sure means, sure ends. I'll have a friend or two
Within my call, to help them. If their councils
Become too knotty for unravelling,
A sharp sword may be useful. Fare you well.
[Exeunt Philistius and Damocles through arch.
(Voices without.) Ay, to the citadel—the citadel!
Enter PROCLES and SOLDIERS.
Dion. Who talks of moving to the citadel?
Proc. It is himself - huzza!
All. Huzza! our general!
Dion. Good friends, I thank ye. Procles, ait
thou here ?
Hast thou distributed to these much-wronged mee
The trifling bounty which I charged thee withi'
Pro -. They have it, noble general.
Dion. My friends,
'Twas a poor offering, and beneath your taking;
But, as yourselves do know, my private purse
Ts light as that of any other veteran,
Within the walls of Syracuse. - Speak, Procles,
Who talks of moving to the citadel?
Proc. We, Dionysius, we. Yes, these brave
spirits;
Indignant at the senate's heedlessness
Of you, and them, and of the general honour.—
Dion. Give me not cause, my friends, to deem
myself
DAMON A>>
Dishonoured and endangered In your love;
For, as 1 am a soldier and a mau,
Could I believe that any other thought
Engaged you to possess the citadel,
Save your anxiety for the soldier's weal,
And the state's safety, I would raise my'hand
In supplication 'gainst your enterprise;—
But, as the time now urges, and cries out
For sudden muster and organization
Of the brave thousands who but wait for swords,
To join your ranks, and rush with you to glory;—
And yet the senate—
t'roc. Speak not of the senate :
We do renounce its service, and despise it,
Dwn. It was my thought to say, if they object,
We may submit it as a needful step;
Claiming allowance in the exigency
Of the occasion.
Proc. They shall not control it
We seek not for their judgment of our act
On, general, on!
Dion. When did ye call.
That I replied not with my word and deed,
My heart and hand ? Even as you say it, on 1
On, fellow-soldiers, to the citadel! [Dram.
And let your swords be out more in the show
Of what ye are, soldiers and fighting men,
Than with a harmful purpose. Let us on!
All. On to the citadel! the citadel!
[Exeunt with cries, and brandishing theto
swords, through arch.
Enter DAMON.
Damon. Philistius, then, is president at last
A ad Dionysius has o'erswayed it ? Well,
It is what I expected: There is now
No public virtue left in Syracuse.
What should be hoped from a degenerate,
Corrupted, and voluptuous populace,
When highly-born and meanly-minded nob'es
Would barter freedom for a great man's feast
And sell their country for a smile ? The stream
With a more sure eternal tendency
Seeks not the ocean, than a sensual race
Their own devouring slavery. I am sick,
At my inmost heart of everything I see
And hear! Oh, Syracuse, I am, at last
Forced to despair of thee 1 And yet thou art
My land of birth—thou art my country still;
And like an unkind mother, thou hast left
The claims of holiest nature in my heart,
And I must sorrow for, not hate thee! (Shouts.)
Ha!
What shouts are these? 'Tis from the citadel
The uproar is descending.
Enter LUCULLUS.
Speak, Lucullus,
What has befallen?
Luc. Have you not heard the news ?
Damon. What news?
Luc. As through the streets I passed, the people
Said that the citadel was in the hands
Of Dionysius.
Damon. The ci adel
In Dionysius' hands ? What dost thou tell me .
flow—wherefore — when 1 :n Dionjsius' hands?
The traitor Dionysius?- Speak, Lucullus,
And quickly
uuc. It was said, that by rude force.
Heading a troop of soldiers, he hud ta'en
Possession of the citadel, uud seized
) PYTHIAS, 833
The arms and treasure in't.
[Crossesbehind and ent.
Damon. I am thunder-stricken 1
The citadel assaulted, and the armoury
In that fierce soldier's power 1 (Shouts.) Again!
By all
The gods on high Olympus, I behold
His standard waving o'er it—and they come,
HijLmost n torious satellites, high heaped
W ith arms and plunder 1 Parricidal slaves!
What have ye done?
[Shouts
Enter PROCLES, OFFICERS, and SOLDIERS,
with plunder.
Proc. <k Sol. For Dionysius 1 Ho 1
For Dionysius !
Damon. Silence! obstreperous traitors 1
Your throats offend the quiet of the city;
And thou, who standest foremost of these knave^
Stand back, and answer me—a senator,
What have you done?
Proc. But that I know 'twill gall theo,
Thou poor and talking pedant of the school
Of dull Pythagoras, I'd let thee make
Conjecture from thy senses; But, in hope
'Twill stir your solemn anger, learn from me,
We have ta'en possession of the citadel,
And—
Damon. Patience, ye good gods 1 a moment's pa¬
tience
That these too ready hands may not enforce
The desperate precept of my rising heart—
Thou most contemptible and meanest tool
That ever tyrant used 1
Proc. Do you hear him, soldiers ?
First, for thy coward railings at myself,
And since thou hast called our Dionysius tyrant,
Here, in the open streets of Syracuse,
I brand thee for a liar, and a traitor.
Damon. Audacious slave!
Proc. Upon him, soldiers!
Hew him to pieces!
Soldiers. On him!
[They advance, shouting.
Enter PYTHIAS, as they rush upon Damon.
Pyth. Back, on your lives!
Cowards, damned, treacherous, cowards, back, I
say!
Do you know me ? Look upon me: do you know
This honest sword I brandish ? You have seen it
Among the ranks of Carthage: would you now
Taste Us shrewd coldness in your quaking selves ?
[Officers and Silditrs advance.
Back! backl I say. He hath his armour on—
I am his sword, shield, helm: I but enclose
Myself, and my own heart, and heart's blood,
when
I stand before him thus,
Damon. False-hearted cravenB!
We are but two—my Pythias, my halved ilea rt !—
My Pythias, and myself! but dare coma on,
Ye hirelings of a tyrant! dare advance
A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a brow,
And ye shall learn what two such arms can do
Amongst a thousand of ye.
[Soldiers advance.
Pyth. Off!
Off, villains, off!- Each for the other thua,
And in that other, for his dearer self!
^ „y, i'rocles, art thou not ashamed—for I
834
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
Have seen thee do good work in battle time-
Art not ashamed, here on a single man,
To rusn in coward numbers ? Fie upon thee!
I took thee for a soldier.
Proc. For thy sake,
"Who ait a warrior like ourselves, we spare him.
'Twas a good star of his that led thee hither
From Agrigentum, to lift up thine arm
In tho defence of that long robe of peace
"Wherein he wraps his stern philosophy.
Come, teach him better manners. Soldiers, onl
Let us to Dionysius.
[Exeunt Erodes, Officers and Soldiers, shouting.
Pyth. Art thou safe
From these infuriate stabbers?
Damon. Thanks to thee,
I am safe, my gallant soldier, and fast friend:
My better genius sent thee to my side,
"When I did think thee far from Syracuse.
Pyth. I have won leave to spend Bome interval
From the fierce war, and come to Syracuse,
"With purpose to espouse the fair Calanthe.—
The gods have sent me hither, since I come
In time to rescue thee.
How grew this rude broil up ?
Damon. Things go on here
Most execrably, Pythias. But you are come
To be a husband, are you not ?
Pyth. To-morrow
I call my soft Calanthe wife.
Damon. Then, Pythias,
I will not shade the prospect of your joys
With any griefs of mine. I cry you mercy—
These are experiments too over nice
For one that has a mistress, and would wed
her
With an uncut throat I have oft wished, my¬
self,
That to the blest retreats of private life
My lot had been awarded; every hour
Make? one more sick and weary with the sense
Qf this same hopeless service of a state.
Where there is not enough of virtue left
To feed the flarings of our liberty.
But, my soldier,
I will not make thee a participant
In my most sad forebodings—Pythias,
I say, 'twere better be the Persian's slave,
And let him tread upon thee, when he would
Ascend his horse's back, than —yet, not so ;
I am too much galled and fretted to pronounce
A sober judgment, and the very mask
Of freedom is yet better than the bold
Uncovered front of tyranny. Farewell 1
(Crosses.)
Pyth. Nay, I must fiollow thee, and find the
cause
That so perturbs thy spirit.
Damon. How, sir! You
Have a mistress here in Syracuse, and, look.
Herself oomes forth to meet you. (Looking.)
Pyth. Where ? Calanthe ! (Lookingj
Nay, I behold her not—you mock me, Damon.
Damon. (Pointing to a different side of the stage.)
Look this way, sir.
Pyth. It is herself, indeed,
My own, my fond, betrothed one.
(Runt to meet her)
Enter CALANTHE.
Col. Mv dear,
Sut most neglecting Pythias i
Puth. By the birth
Of Venus, when she rose out of tl.e sea,
And with her smile did fill the Grecian isles
With everlasting verdure, she was not,
Fresh from the soft creation of the wave,
More beautiful than thoul
Cal. Thou fondly thickest
To hide thy false oblivion of the maid
That, with a panting heart, awaited thee.
Now, Pythias, I do take it most unkind,
That thou to friendship hast made sacrifice
Of the first moment of thy coming here.
Pyth. Nay, chide me not, for I was speeding to
thee.
Cal. Soon as I heard thou wert in Syracuse,
I ran at once to hail thee with a smile,
Although my mother would have staid me.
(Pythias kisses her hand.)
Damon. (Lost in thought.) Yes,
My wife and child—
They must at least be safe.
Pyth. And how, Calanthe,
Fares thy dear mother?
Cal. Happy in the thought,
If she must needs (as she must) part with me,
It is at least to thee.
Py'h. And my poor father?
Cal. Time has almost shut up his faculties;
And he can scarce distinguish any voice
That is addressed to him. The day is passed
Upon his couch; at evening, in a chair,
He is carried to the terrace walk before
The threshold of hie mansion, where the wind,
Fresh from the sea, plays with his locks of gray,
'Till, pleased at last, he smiles. That gentls
smile,
As 'tis the first denotement of a thought
In speechless infancy, 'tis the last sign
Of the expiring mind.
Pyth. My soft Calanthe
Must be a tender on infirmity
Before her time. But where's my silent friend?
Damon. (Aside and lost in thought.) One brave
blow
And it were done 1 By all the gods, one blow,
And Syracuse were free!
Pyth. (Touching him on the shoulder.) Why, Damon
what's the matter?
Damon. Pythias, is't you ?
(Crosses to Calanthe.) I cry your mercy, fair onel
Pythias,
You are to be married. Haste thee, Pythias,—
Love, and fight on. Thine arm to Mars, thy heart
Give to his paramour. Take thou no care
Of the politician's study—'twill turn pale
Thy face, make thoe grow sick at nature's loveli¬
ness,
And find in her pure beauty but one blank
Of dismal, colourless sterility.
Calanthe, look to it; let him not play
The statesman's sorry part.
Py'h. Damon, you let
The commonwealth o'erfret you. I was about
To pray you to our wedding.
Daman. I intended,
Unbidden, to be there.
Py'h. From friendship's eyes
I'll win addition to my happiness.
Calanthe, came. (Crosses to Calanthe.) I should Id
half in fear,
To seem thus loving of thee, in the eight
Of this Philosopher.
DAMON AN!
Col. Nay, he pretends
To be half more rugged and more wise,
Than he hath any right to: I have seen him,
(Have I not, Damon ?) looking at his wife,
(Crosses to Damon.)
When he imagined none was there to mark
The proud Pythagorean, wit:i an eye
Filled up with tenderness: his young boy, too,
That seems Aurora's child, with his fine face,
Stirred his Btern visage to complacency.
Come, come, we'll be revenged upon you both:
(Crosses.)
I swear, his wife, and I will he accounted
Tour rivals in the godlike quality
Your lordly sex would arrogate its own
Peculiar privilege, and show the world
Th' unseen, and yet unrumoured prodigy—
The friendship of a woman.
[Exeunt Calanthe and Pythias.
Enter LUCULLUS.
Damon. Hark thee, Lucullus:
My wife and child must instantly depart
From Syracuse; -you must attend them hence,
Unto my villa, on the mountain side
L-tc. Alas, my lord:
Damon. Why dost thou droop?
Luc. My lord,
1 was your slave 1 you gave me liberty.
And when I see you perilled—
D mon. Nay, Lucullus,
Where is the warrant for thy fear?
Luc. I read
You are engaged in some dread enterprise,
Else you would not deny them to your sight:
You fear the leaning ruin may fall down
Upon their dearer heads.
Damon. I charge you, sir,
No prying into my purposes. Take eare
You speak not to my wife of anything
May stir her apprehensions—see, she cemos—
Beware—thy looks betray thee.
(Crosses. Lucullus retires.)
Enter HERMION.
Per. Art thou safe,
Damon, art safe ?
Damon. You are not a widow yet.
Ber. For shame to talk of such a thing. I have
heard
Of thy rude quarrelling with that same fierce
And overbearing soldier. But thou art safe.
Proud men! how reckless of the faithful hearts
That doat on you—that hang their weakness on
ye!
How reckless of us in your hustling hours
Of occupation and despatch, ye are 1
Ah, then you think not of the pining mate,
Left in her solitude, with naught to do.
But weep for your return, ami chide the gods,
That make your minds so stern and enterprising.
Damon. Hermion, I think the city's fultome air
Likes not our boy;—the colour in his cheek
Hath lost its rich, and healthful purity.
Ber. Nay, you are wrong there; — 'tis like a young
peach.
Or yet more fresh and blooming,
Damon.. Hermion,
I have resolved that you and he shall go.
Unto my Yilla, near to Syracuse.
Ber. But you will come with us?
Damon. Hermion, you know
My occupation, forbids that wish.
PYTHIAS. 835
Luc. My lord— (Advancing. )■
Damon. Forbear, bit—(Lucullus retires.) yet I
cannot go—
I mean, I cannot go immediately—
The state affairs lay hold upon me. You
Must hence before me thither.
Her. Damon-
Damon. Come,
Look not thus sadly
Her. I have learned too well
The usage of obedience, to Inquire
Into your purposes.
Damon. Hermion, I'll take
Occasion oft to visit you—to-morrow—
If possible, to-morrow.
Ber. Will you so?
Nay, will you truly promise it ?
Damon. I do.
Hermion, you must be sudden; you must despatch.
Come—but I'll see my boy before you go.
Hermion, he is our only one. That child
Is made of thy own heart and mine. I charge
thee,
Have thou a care, in all vicissitudes
Of private or of public incident,
To form in him what will out-top the height
Of the best laurel-tree in all the groves
Of the Academy—an honest man. [ExzurA.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Chamber in Arria's Bouse.
Enter PYTHIAS and CALANTHE.
Pyth. So my Calanthe, you would waste the
moon
Of Hymen in this lonely spot ?
Cat. In sooth,
I would, for 'tis the fairest place in Sicily:
A dell, made of green beauty; with its shrubs
Of aromatic sweetness, growing up
The rugged mountain's sides, as cunningly
As the nice structure of a little nest,
Built by two loving nightingales. " The wind
" That comes there, full of rudeness from, the eea
"Is lulled into a balmy breath of peace,
" The moment that it enters; and 'tis said-
" By our Sicilian shepherds, that their songs
" Have in this place a wilder melody.
" The mountains all about it are the haunts
" Of many a fine romantic memory 1
" High towers old iEtna, with his feet deep clad:
"In the green sandals of the freshful spring;
" His sides arrayed, in winter, and his front
"Shooting aloft the everlasting flame
" On the right hand is that great cave, in which-
" Huge Polyphemus dwelt, between whose vast
" Colossal limbs the artful Grecian stole.
" On the other side,
" Is Galatea's dainty dressing-room,
" Wrought in the living marble; and within
" Is seen the fountain where she used to twine
"The ringlets on her neck; that did ensnare
"The melancholy Cyclop."—But what care yen,
A soldier, for such fantasies ? I know
A way that better shall persuade you to
That place for our sweet marriage residence •—
There Damon hath his villa—Ha 1 you seem
Determined by the fast proximity
Of suc h a friendship, more than all my love..
Pyth. Does Damon dwell there t
L Cat. No; his Hermion
S36 DAMON AN
And his young boy—Oh, 'tis a beauteous child!—
Are sent there from the city's noxious air;
And he doth visit them, -whene'er the state
Gives him brief respite. Tell me, Pythias,
.Shall we not see the Hymeneal moon
Glide through the blue heavens there ?
Pylh. My own adored one!
If thou should'st bid me sail away with thee
To seek the isles of the Hesperides,
I would, with such a pilot, spread my sail
Beyond the trophies of great Hercules,
Making thine eyes my Cynosure!
Enter LUCDLLUS, hastily
How now, Lucullus ? (Crosses to him.)
Luc Where is my lord ' I was Informed
That I should And him here—a senator
Bade me require him instantly.
Pyth. He waits here,
To attend us to the temple, and if things
Of weight demand his ear, you'll find him yonder
In the pale cypress-grove. [Exit Lucullus.
Nothing, I hope,
Has happened to withdraw him from the rite
That makes thee mine.
Cat. I hope not. Who is this
That seeks him out so earnestly ?
Pyth. He is
A brave Italian, whom the Carthage pirates
Seized on his native coast, and sold a slave.
Damon hath given him back his liberty,
But yet, of his free will, he tends him still;
And more than very freedom doth he hold
The right to serve a man that is fine touched
With a most merciful spirit.
Cat. Nay, my Pythias,
Make not your friend's high qualities for aye
The burthen of your eloquence. In suoth,
1 should be almost jealous of % steed
I saw you pat with a too liberal hand;
And—ha! he comes.
Damon. Pythias- (Aside.) I must not let
Calanthe read my purpose. Calanthe,
The blessing and the bounty of the gods
Be with you, over you, and all around you,
Thou gentle girl! (Crosses.) Pythias, a word with
you. (Aside to Pythias.)
What heard I, think you, Pythias, even now ?
Cal. There has been Pythias, all this forenoon,
Would speak to me of nothing but the esteem
In which he held thee. Damon.
Dan.on. What! no word
Touching the quality of that foolish love
He bears the fair Calanthe ? (Aside to Pythias.) We
are undone,
We, and our wretched city, Pythias!
Pyth. (Aside to Damon.) What dost thou mean ?
Cal. No, not a single word—
Thou, thou alone made up his eulogy.
Damon. What think'st thou, Pythias? A king'
(Aside.)
Pyth. (Aside to Damon.) What! who?
Damon. (To Calanthe.) Heed not
His silken praises of me. (Aside to Pythias.) Diony-
sius
Is to be crowned in the senate-hsuse.
Pyth. Can it be possible ?
Damon. I say tl.ee,yea—
His soldiers line the streets.
Pyth. But will the senate—
The coward senate, sanction it? Will none
Oppose him in it ?
I PYTHIAS.
Damon. Oppose him! (Aloud.) All gods
So help or strike me, as I will oppose him
Let .ffitna vomit fire upon his side.
And I alone, — (Crosses, and searching about htm,
Hal I forgot my dagger,
Cal. How now, my Pythias?
Pyth. He is moved, Calanthe,
By some most urgent matter of the state:
Nay, heed him not!
Damon. Pythias, as I intended
To be a witness to thy wedding-rite.
I did not bear a weapon—give me thy poniard.
Pyth. Speak, to what end ?
Damon. No matter, give it me.
Cal. Ha! What does he intend? Now by my
love.
Pythias, I do adjure thee—
Pyth. Whither, Damon.
Where would'st thou go?
Damon. Unto the senate-houea
Pyth. Then I will with you, too.
Cal. He shall notl
Damon. No! (Crosses to her.)
Thou say'st aright,—he shall not! Pair Calanthe,
This is no hour to leave thee 1 What, Calanthe,
Should bridegrooms give the law, and 'gin to rule
Even on their wedding day? I charge thee,
sweet,
Assert thy brief dominion whilst thou canst:
'Twill speedily be bis. turn. (Aside to Pythias.)
't shall not be! It is against the law
For any soldier iD the senate-house
To lift his helm of war, and what : vail
Were thy companionship ? Calanthe, take him,
Take him away, and heaven be o'er you both!
Pyth. But thou wilt promise me, upon the faith
Of an old friendship, that thy sudden hand
Will not attempt a rashness ?
Damon. (Crosses.) Be thou satisfied,
I will do naught in passion. Come, Calanthe,
[Aside.
Assert thy right in him, and take liim hence
Unto the garden-walk, and tell bim o'er
The names of all thy favourite plants: I pray thee,
Keep him in buBy trifles, till the hour
For the sweet rite be come— [Joins their hands.}-
That's well, my girl;
There, take him by the arm 1
Cal. Come, Pythias, come!
I thank thee, Damon, for thy tender counsel
Pyth. Nay, Damon—nay, Calanthe—
Cal. Nay me no nays;
I say it shall be so.
Damon. May the gods pour
Their blessings o'er your heads!—Farewell! fare
well!
I have no time to bide here, but my heart
Shall be beside you at the altar place.
Perhaps it is an idle fear, compels me
Bence from your sight: I will, if possible,
.Return and see you wedded. Fare you well!
[Exeunt Pythias and Calanthe
Now, Syracuse, for thee.'—And may the fates
So bless, or curse me, as I act in this! [Exit
SCENE XL—The Senate House of Syracuse
SENATORS assembled—PHILISTIUS at their head.
—DIONYSIUS stands in the front of the stage.-'
DAMOCLES ft s ated.
Dam. So soon warned back again 1
Dion. So soon, good fathers.
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
My last despatches here set forth, that scarce
1 had amassed and formed our gallant legions,
When, as by magic, word of the precaution
Was spirited to their camp - and on the word,
These Carthagenians took their second thought,
And so fell back.
Phil. I do submit to you,
f hat out of this happy consequence
Of Dionysius' movement on the citadel,
Not only is his pardon for the act
Sf-eely drawn forth, but we are called upon
Our thanks most manifestly to express
For such a noble service.
Dion. Good Philistius,
I am a soldier; yours and the state's servant;
And claim no notice for my duty done
Beyond the do ng it—and the best thanks
I merit, or can have, lie in the. issue
Which has most happily resulted.
Dam. 'Rises.) Nay,
It rests in us to say so.
Phil. Dionysius,
The work which of this enterprise thou hast made,
(Damocles sits.)
Proves that our citadel and its resources
Have been misused; and never so controlled
And ordered for out good, as by thyself;
Therefore retain it, govern and direct it.
Would the whole state were like he citadell
In hot and angry times like these, we want
Even such a man.
Dam. (Rues.) I, from my heart, assent to
And second this proposal.
Dion. Most reverend fathers—
Dun. We pray thee, silence, noble Dionysiust
All here do know what your great modesty
Will urge you to submit; but I will raise
This envious veil wherein you shroud > ourself.
It is the time to speak : our country's danger
Calls loudly for some measure at our hands,
Prompt and decisive.
Damon. (Without.) Thou most lowly minion I
I'll have thoe whipped for it, and by the head
Made less even than thou art!
(Senators rise.)
Enter DAMON.
Phil. Who breaks so rude and clamorously in
To scare our grave deliberations ?
Damon. A senator! First let mo ask you
whv,
Upon my way here to sit down with you,
I have encountc red in the open streets,
Nay, at the very threshold of your doors.
Soldiers and satellites arrayed and marshalled
With their swords out? Why have I been ob¬
structed
By an armed banditti in my peaceful walk here,
To take my rightful seat in the senate house ?
Why has a ruffian soldier privilege
To hold his weapon to my throat ? A tainted,
Disgraced, and abject traitor, Procles! Who
Dared place the soldiers round the senate-house ?
Phil. I pray you, fathers, let not this rash
man
Disturb the grave and full consideration
Of the important matter, touching which
We spoke ere he rushed in. (Senators sit J
Dam. (To the Senators.) I did require
To know from you. without a hand or head,
Such as to us hath been our Dionysius,
What now were our most likely fate ?
837
Damon. The fate
Of freemen; in the full free exercise
Of all the noble rights that freemen love t
Free in our streets to walk; free in our coun¬
cils
To speak and act—
Phil. I do entreat you, senators,
Protect me from this scolding demagogue.
Damon. Demagogue, Philistius!
Who was the demagogue, when at my chal¬
lenge
He was denounced and Bilenced by the senate,
And your scant oratory spent itself
In fume and vapour?
Dam. Silence, Damon, silence!
And let the council use its privilege.
Damon. Who bids me silence? Damocles, the
soft
And pliant willow, Damocles! But come,
What do you dare propose ? Come, I'll be
silent-
Go on. (Sits.)
Phil. Resolve you, then, is Dionysius
This head indeed to us ? Acting for us—
Yea, governing, that long have proved we can¬
not,
Although we feign it, govern for ourselves 1
Dam. Then who so fit, in such extremity,
To be the single pillar, on whose strength
All power should rest ?
Phil. Ay, and what needs the state
Our crowded and contentious councils here ?
And therefore, senators—countrymen, rather,
That we may he wiser and better ruled
Than by ourselves we are; that the state's danger
May be confronted boldly, and that he
May have but his just meed, I do submit
That forthwith we dissolve ourselves, and choose
A king in Dionysius.
Damon. (Crosses to Senators.) King! A King!
1 Sen. I do approve it.
2 Sen. Ay, and L
(All the Senators rise.)
Dam. And all! All are content!
Damon. And all! are all content ?
A nation's right betrayed,
And all content! (Senators sit.) Oh, slaves! oh
parricides!
Oh, by the brightest hope a just man has,
I blush to look around and call you men!
What! with your own free willing hands yield up
The ancient fabric of your constitution,
To be a garrison, a common barrack,
And common guard-bouse, and for common cut¬
throats !
What, will ye all combine to tie a stone
Each to each other's neck, and drown like dogs.
Within the tide of time, and never float
To after ages, or at best, but float
A buoyant pestilence ? Can ye but dig
Your own dark graves, creep intathem, and die?
3 Sen. I have not sanctioned it. "i
4 Sen. Nor f. > (Senators rise J
5 Sen. Nor I. )
Damon. Oh! thanks for these few voices: but,
alas!
How lonely do they Bound. (Senators sit.) Do you
not all
Start,up at once, and cry out liberty ?
Are you so bound in fetters of the mind,
That there you sit, as if you were yourselves
Incorporate with the marble? Syracusans!
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
83<t
But no : I will not rail, nor chide, nor cnrse ye:
I will implore you, fellow-countrymen,
With blinded eyes, and weak and broken speech,
I will implore you—Oh! I am weak in words,
But I could bring such advocates before you:
Your father's sacred images; old men,
That have been grandsires; women with their
children,
Caught up in fear and hurry, in their arms—
And those old men should lift their shivering
voices
And palsied hands, and those affrighted mothers
Should hold their innocent infants forth, and ask,
C'ould you make slaves of them f
Phil. I dissolve the senate
At its own vote and instance.
(Leaves his seat. All the Senators, that have
voted, rise.)
Darn. And all hail 1
Hail, Dionysius, King of Syracuse!
Dion. Is this the vote ?
Damon. There is no vote. Philistius,
Hold you your seat: keep in your places, senators.
Dion. I ask, is this the vote?
Phil. It is the vote,
My gracious liege and sovereign!
Damon. I say, nay:
You have not voted, Naxillus, nor Petus—
Nor you, nor you, nor you—
Phil. In my capacity
As head and organ of the city council,
I do asseverate it is the vote!
All hail, then, Dionysius.
(They all kneel to Dionysius except Damon and
the Senators uho have voted in the ne¬
gative.
Dion. I thank you, friends and countrymen, I
thank ye.
(Goes up to the chair which Philistius has left.)
Damon. Oh! all the gods, my country, oh, my
country!
Dion, And that we may have leisure to put on
With fitting dignity our garb of power,
We do now, first assuming our own right,
Command from this, that was the senate-house,
Those rash, tumultuous men, who still would
tempt
The city's peace with wild vociferation,
And vain contentious rivalry.
(Comes doum opposite Damon.)
Away!
Damon. I stand,
A senator, within the senate-house;
Dion. Traitor! and dost thou dare me to my
face?
Damon. Traitor! to whom? to thee!—Oh! Syra¬
cuse
Is this thy registered doom? To have no meaning
For the proud names of liberty and virtue,
But as some regal braggart sets it down
In bis vocabulary? And the sense,
The broad, bright sense that Nature hath assigned
them
In her infallible volume, interdicted
For ever from thy knowledge: or seen,
And known, and put in use, denounced as treason¬
able,
And treated thus?—No, Dionysius, no!
I am no traitor! But in mine allegiance
To my lost country, I proclaim thee one!
Dion. My guards, there! Hoi
(Crosses to corner.)
Damon. What 1 hast thou, then, Invoked
Thy satellites already?
Enter PROCLES and SOLDIERS.
Dion. Seize him!
Damon. (Rushes on Dionysius and attempts to stal
him.) First,
Receive a freeman's legacy! (Tie is intercepted by
Guards and Prucles.) Dionysius,
Thy Genius is triumphant, and old Syracuse
Bows her to the dust at last I 'Tis doue; 'tis o'er,
And we are slaves for everl (Cmaes.l
Dion. We reserve
This proud assassinating demagogue,
Who whets bis dagger on philosophy,
For—an example to his cut-throat school!
The axe, and not the sword. Out of his blood
We'll mix a cement to our monarchy:
Here do we doom him to a public death.
Damon. Death's the best gift to one that nelver yet
Wished to survive his country. Here are men
Fit for the life a tyrant can bestow.
Let such as these live on.
Dion. Hold thou there 1
Lest, having stirred our vengeance into wrath,
It reach unto those dearer than thyself;
Thy wife and child.
Ha! have I touched thee, Damon ? Is there a way
To level thee unto the feebleness
Of universal nature ? What, no word ?
Come, use thy time, my brave philosopher.
Thou hast few moments left.
Damon. I know thee well;
Thou art wont to use thy tortures on the hearty
Watching its agonizing throbs, and making
A science of that fell ana ony.
These are thy bloody metaphysics—this
Thy barbarous philosophy! I own
Thou hast struck thy venomed sting into my soul,
But while I'm wounded, I despise thee stilL
My wife! my child! Oh, Dionysius,
Thou should'at have spared me that! Procles, lead
on.
(Procles precedes Damon, who goes out,—the
Guards follow. Diongsius goes up to chair,
—the senators surround him—and distant
shouts heard, as the scene closes.)
SCENE IIL—A Chamber in Arria's House. Shouts
heard without.
Enter PYTHIAS.
Pyth. What shouts rend the wide city? Thereto
a wide roar
Deep as the murmuring of JStna. Gods!
I tremble for his safety! What, ho, there!
Enter SERVANT.
Hast thou, sirrab,
Heard no intelligence how matters speed
Up at the senate-house ?
Ser. My lord, no word.
Pyth. And those time-cheating knaves I sent to
know—
' They have not yet returned ?
Ser. Not yet, my lord,
Pyth. Run hither, then; despatch, for tbou'rt
light-limbed;
Regard Lord Damon well; note how he seems,
And what he says—On, on,
Ser. My lord, I will. (Crones.;
Pyth. And, hark!
DAMON AN
Observe of all If any words of wrath
Fall between him and Dionysius—
Begone 1 (Exit Servant,
He is hotly mettled,
And not life's autumn, nor the discipline
Of cold Pythagoras' school, has tamed it yet
Enter SERVANT.
Ser. My lord—
Pyth. Now, sir, what from the senate house?
Str. My lord, I know not of the senate-house.
Pyth. Not, sir! I sent thee thither, did I not ?
Ser. Another, sir. I am despatched to say,
That all the guests and witnesses are come;
And that with them the bride Calanthe waits
To have thy company to the temple.
Pyth. How!
Is it the hour?
Str. The hour, my lord, is past. [Exit.
Pyth. Did ever man upon his wedding-day
Feel so impatient of the hour arrived
That is to bless him ? But 1 dare not stir
Till I have tidings of my friend: —he is
Exposed to deadly loss, and may have need
Of Pythias' sword By Heaven, I do him wrong,
In tarrying from his presence at an hour
So full of peril, and perhaps of death.
Death, did I say ? I must—
Enter ARRIA.
Arria. Now, Pythias, Pythias,
Why is it that we wait so long for thee ?
Fie! thou a bridegroom! absent now!
Pyth. Gods! if that Dionysius
Should level at his life!—I pr'ythee, Arria,
How soon might one with active and light foot
Run to the senate-house, and back again,
From hence ?
Arria. Is tbe man crazed and lunatic ?
Is it your pleasure that we wait a season,
I, sir, Calanthe, and our guests and kinsmen,
For your best humour to get wedded in?
Pyth. Good Arria, pardon me; take not amiss
This absent seeming—but I am not well,
I know not how, but so you see it is —
Give me half an hour—nay, the half—the tithe
Of such a time!
Arria. Pythias, indeed art ill ?
Pyth. I'faith, I am—sick in the head and heart!
Bear with me, Arria; go among our guestB,
And cheat their notice of this accident;
I shall be better quickly—well, quite well.
Arria. The gods forefend, it shall fall other¬
wise! [Exit.
Pyth. Oh, how these leaden-footed limping
minutes
Do lag and creep beneath my lashing wish!
When fiery expectation mounts the time,
Time is a spiritless and jaded steed,
That staggers 'neath his rider. Gracious gods!
Will none of them come to relieve this weight
From my o'erloaded heart!—What shall I do ?
Calanthe!
Enter CALANTHE.
Cat. My dear Pythias!
Pyih. Calanthe!
vol. My mother whispered me you were hot
well;
And here, even as you see me, though you should
not
Have Been me in my bridal garments thus
> PYTHIAS. m
Till we were wedded—yet even thus, I come
To speak with you, and comfort you, my Pythias.
Pyth. Beshrew her heart, now, though she be thy
mother,
For such ill-timed and womanish whispering.
I am as well, as I am happy, love.
Cat. She said, too, but I heed it not—
Pyth. What said she ?
Cal She prayed the gods your sickness might be
free
From surfeit sickness; but I heed it not:
You know I heed it not; I cannot think
Your heart is such a bad one, Pythias.
Pyth. Tears, my Calanthe I Ah, my own fair
girl,
The maiden pulse beating upon thy brow,
Is not so faithful to its sister pulse,
Which throbs within this little heart of thine.
As 1 have been, and am!— Ha! dost theu smile?
Now, by the gods! I cannot see thee smile,
And tarry longer from the property
Of this dear band I grasp. [Crosses.] Come, my
Calanthe,
They tarry for us, do they not ?
Cal. They do.
Pyth. Nay, do not bend thy head, but let me
gaze
Upon thee as we go, that those fine looks,
So full of life and joy, may banish from me
The ghastly thought of death 1
Cal. Death!
Pyth. Nay, forgive me;
I know not what I say.—Ye bounteous gods,
Who guard the good, because yourselves are good,
Wave your protecting arm around him 1 Come —
Oh, Friendship! thou must yield it for a time
To the torch-bearer, when be lights his flreB
From two such eyes as these are 1 (Going.) Come,
Calanthe.
(As they are going, Lucullus enters hastily.
Pythias lets fall Calanthe's hand and rushes
to him.)
(To Lucullus.) Where, sirrah, where ? Where shall
I speak with him ?
Luc. He did desire, my lord, that I should lead
you.
Pyth. And not say where ?
Luc. It was his charge, my lord.
Pyth. In one word, say the hour and plaas-of
this,
Or—ah! I see it in thine eye—his life,
His life is forfeit—he is doomed to death!
Luc. Alas 1 my lord.
Pyth. Oh, by the gods, it is so!
And, like a selfish coward, did I stand
And saw him rush and singly front himself
Against a host, when it was evident,
As is the universal light of day,
He must have perished in it—Coward! coward 1
(Crosses.) He wouldsnot thus have done!
Luc. My lord,—
Pyth. Speak not— (Crosses.)
I know thon would'st admonish me to speed,
Or see him dead.
Cal. Pythias! Pythias! (Grasps his arm.)
Pyth. Now let me go—away, I say 1
Cal. Pythias!
Pyth. I say, unloose me, or by all—
Thou art as guilty, with thy blandishments,
That did provoke this ruin, as I am
For being tempted by thee 1 Woman, away!
(Throws her off.)
&w
Cat Unkind one J
Pyth. Ha, thou weepe9t! Oh, Calanthe
Forgive me, pity me—I am desperate!
I know not what to do—but - (Embraces her.) — Oh,
Calanthe,
There's a horrid fate fate that tears me hence.
Now, sirrah, lead me on! Away, away!
Cal. Pythias! Pythias!
(Clings to Pythias as he rushes out, preceded
by Lucullus.)
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
To thee and thy Calanthe! -And my Hermion,
Mv fond, poor Hermion, and my boy-
Good Procles,— (Pro les comet down.
Let me not stand here talking idly thus—
1 am quite ready—on, sir! 1 attend you!
(Exeunt, Procles first, then Damon, thin the
Guards.
SCENE IV.—A Dungeon.
DAMON discovered at a table, writing.
Damon. Existence! what is that 1 a name for no¬
thing !
It is a cloudy sky chased by the winds,—
Its tickle form no sooner chosen than changed!
It is the whirling of the mountain flood,
Whieb, as we look upon it, keeps its shape,
Though what composed that shape, and what com¬
poses,
Hath passed—will pass—nay, and is passing on,
Even while we think to hold it in our eyes,
And deem it there. Fie, fle! a feverish vision,
A crude and crowded dream, unwilled, unbidden,
By the weak wretch that dreams it
(No ise of chains and bolts.)
Enter PROCLES and two Guards. Procles goes
down.
Proc. Damon, thine hour is come.
Damon. Past, sir, say past—to come, argues a
stay
Upon the coming. He has refused me, then—
Your general, Dionysius! - the king-
He has refused me even this little respite
I asked of him 1
Proc. All! he refuses all.
Damon. Did'st teii him why I asked it ? Did'st
explain
It was to have my wife warned here to Syracuse,
From her near dwelling on iEtna's side,
To see me ere I die?
Proc. I said it, sir.
Damon. And he refused it?
Proc. Ay, sir ; he refused.
Damon. Upon the instant?
Proc. Yes, upon the instant
Damon, Is he not wedded?
Proc. Yes.
Damon. A father, too?
Proc. He is a father, too.
Damon. And he refused it!
I will attend you, and I pray you pardon—
This is no time to play the catechist
One little boon I have to beg of thee;
It is the last; I would not fain be irksome;
It is the last I shall prefer on earth
Unto my fellow-men. This is my testament:
I pray thee give it to a friend of mine,
Who may enquire about me: he will hold it,
And use it for my wife.
Proc. His name ?
Damon. It is—
I did not wish to trust my coward tongue
With utterance of that name; I feared it would
Pluck up all manhood by the roots; but, sir,
This now is childish; Pythias, sir.
(Procles retires and talks with the Guards.
Alas!
To-day will prove a woful wedding-day
ACT IIL
SCENE L—A Street.
Enter Four Guards, then PROCLES with DAMON
in chains, followed by four more Guards.
Damon. A moment's pause here, Procles.
(Procles motions the Guards to hall.
We discoursed together
Of an old friend of mine, who in all likelihood
Would question thee concerning my last thoughts
While leaving this vain world; I do entreat thee '
When thou shalt see that man, commend me to
him,
And say, a certainty of how true a friend
And father he will be unto my wife
And child—
Pyth. (Without.) Holdback! it is impossible
That ye can butcher him, till we speak together!
Enter PYTHIAS, preceded by Soldiers, who obstruct
his way.
I am his nearest friend 1 I should receive
His dying words—hold back!
(Breaks through them.
Oh! Damon,Damon!
Damon. I wished for this, hut feared it, PythiasI
Tush! - we are men, my Pythias; we are men,
And tears do not become us.
Pyth. Doom and death
In the same moment! Is there no hope, Damon?
Is everything impossible ?
Damon. For me,
With Dionysius, everything—I craved
But six hours' respite, that my wife may come,
And see me—
Pyth. And he would not?
Damon. Not an hour-
Yet to have kissed her, and my little boy-
Just to have kissed her—
Pyth. The cold villain!
Damon. Well,
All that is o'er now, and this talk superfluooa
Ere you came up, my friend, I was about
To leave a greeting for you with the officer :
I bade him say, too—for, despite of rules
Well conned and understood, in such a time
As this—so sudden, hopeless, and unlooked for,—
The eye will water, and the heart grow cowardly,
At thoughts of home, and things we love at home;
And something like a sorrow, or a fear,
For what may happen them, will stick in the
throat,
To choke our words, and make them weak and
womanish.
Pyth. Tears have a quality of manhood in them,
When shed for what we love.
Damon. I bade him say,
That half my fear for her, and my young boy,
As to their future fate, was banished,
In the full certainty I felt of all
The care and kindness thou wilt have of then
Pyth. That was a true thought, Damon-
Damon. Pythias, I know it
DAMON AN
And when the shock of this hath passed away,
And thou art happy with ihy sweet Calanthe—
Pyth. Damon!
Damon. Well, Pythias?
Pyth. Didst thou not say
It was thy last desire to look upon
Thy wife and child, before—
Damon. I would give up,—
Were my life meted out by destiny
Into a thousand years of happiness,—
All that long measure of felicity,
But for a single moment, in the which
I might compress them to my heart.
Pyth. Good Procles,
Lead me at once to Dionysius—
I mean, unto the king—that's his new name,
Lead me unto the king. {Trumpet.) Ha 1 here he
comes I
Enter DIONYSIUS and DAMOCLES.
Benold me. Dionysius, at thy feet! (Kneels.)
As thou dost love thy wife, and thy sweet child¬
ren;
As thou'rt a husband and a father, hear me 1
Let Damon go and see his wife and child
Before he dies—for four hours respite him,—
Put me in chains: plunge me into his dungeon,
As pledge for his return; do this—but this—
And may the gods themselves build up thy great¬
ness
As high as their own heaven. (Rises.)
Dion. What wonder's this ?
Is be thy brother't
Pyth. No, not quite my brother,
Not—yes, he is—he is my brother!
Dion. Damon, is this a quibble of thy school?
Damon. No quibble, for he is not so in kin,
Not in the fashion that the world puts on,
But brother in the heart!
Dion. (To Damon.) Did'at urge him o*
To this? <
Pyth. By the gods, no!
Dion. And should I grant
Thy friend's request, leaving thee free to go,
Unwatched, unguarded, thou mak'st naught of it,
Quite sure that thou wilt come and ransom him,
At the imminent time 1
Damon. Sure of it ? Hearest thou, Heaven ?
The emptiest things reverberate most sound,
And hollow hearts have words of boisterous pro¬
mise.
I can 6ay only—I am sure!
Dion. 'Tis granted.
(Two officers take the chains off Damon, and
place ihem on Pythias.)
How far abides thy wife from hence?
Damon. Four leagues.
Dion. For six hours we defer thy death. 'Tis
now
The noon exactly; and at the sixth hour
See that thou standst not far from him; away!
Conduct that man to prison.
Damon. Farewell, Pythias!
Pyth. And farewell, Damon! Not a word upon
it!
Speed thee. What, tears? Forbear.
Damon. I did not think " v
To shed one tear; but friendship like to thine-
Pyth. Farewell! Come, officer.
Damon. I pray thee, Procles,
Bive me the testament thou had st of me.
(Procles gives it to htm.)
> PYTHIAS. Ml
Pythias, thy hand again: Pythias, farewell!
Pyth. Farewell!
[Exeunt Damon, Pythias, Procles, a <:d
guards.
Dion. Oh, by the wide world, Damocles,
I did not think the heart of man was moulded
To such a purpose.
Daw» It is wondrous.
Dion. Wondrous!
Sir, it doth win from the old imaginers
Their wit and novelty 1
I'll visit Pythias in bis dungeon : get me
A deep disguise. We'li use such artifice
As the time, and our own counsel, may sug¬
gest.
If they should triumph, crowns are nothing¬
ness—
Glory is sound—and grandeur, poverty! [Exeunt.
SCENE IL—Another Street.
Enter DAMON, and LUCULLUS.
Due. Oh, my dear lord, my master, and my
friend,
The sight of you thus safe—
Damon. Safe!
Luc. For at least
A respite, my kind lord.
Damon. No more, Lucullus.
Is my horse ready ?
Luc. Yes, the gallant grey,
Of Anaxagoras, you lately purchased. [Exit,
Enter CALANTHE.
Cat. Hold, s'r I—is what they tell me, true 1
Damon. Calanthe,
At any time save this, thy voice would have
The power to stay me—Pr'ythee, let me pass—
Nor yet abridge me of that fleeting space
Given to my heart.
Cal. Speak 1 have they said the truth ?
Have you consented to put in the pledge
Of Pythias' life for your return ?
Damon. 'Tis better
That I should say to her—'Hermion, I die!'
Than that another should hereafter tell,
'Damon is dead!'
Cal. No! you would say to ber,
' Pythias has died for me'—even now the citizens
Cried in mine ear, ' Calanthe, look to it!'
Damon. And do you think I would betray him ?
Cal. Think of it'!
I give not thought upon it. Possibility,
Though it should weigh but the least part of a
chance,
Is quite enough—Damon may let him die;
Ay, meanly live himself, and let him die!
Damon. Calanthe, I'll not swear. When men lift
up
Their hands unto the gods, it is to give
Assurance to a doubt: But to confirm,
By any attestation, the return
Of Damon unto Pythias, would profane
The sanctity of friendship! Farewell-
Nay, cling not to me. [Crosses, she clings to him.
Cal. So will Hermoin cling—
But Damon will not so reject her.
She will implore thee back to life again,
And her loud cries will pierce thy inmost breast,
And Pythias will be murdered 1
Damon. I must unloose thy grasping.
Cal. Mercy, Damon!
su
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
Damon. Unwillingly I stay thy struggling hands;
Forgive me for't.
Cat. Damon, have mercy on me!
Damon. May the gods bless thee! [Exit.
Cat. Damon, mercy, Damon!
He flies I—and there's a voice that from my heart,
As from the grave, cries out, that never more
He will return to Pythias.—Hermion —his ch id;
And his own seliish instinct—or some accident
May fall, and stay him back, and that will be
The axe to Pythias!—Oh, I will follow him—
PU tell him that; and, like a drowning wretch,
Fasten about his neck, and cling to him!
But, ah!—he flies—his steed is on the wind!
My evil demon wings him, and he tramps
Already the wide distance!—Pythias,
The flowers in bridal mockery on my brow,
Thus I rend off, and keep them for the grave 1
Enter DIONYSIUS, disguised
Dion. Thy name's Calanthe, and thou art the
bride
Of Pythias—is't not thus?
Cal. What dost thou come
To say to me of Pythias?
Dion. Art thou not
His bride?
Cal. The marriage-temple was prepared,
Tire virgins' voices were sent up to Heaven,
When death did all at once
Bise up, and all that pomp did disappear,
And for the altar, I behold the tomb i—
He never will return 1
Dion. He will not,
Cal. Ha!
Dost thou confirm my apprehensions ?
They were black enough already and thy smile —
It is the gloss upon the raven's plumes—
Thy smile is horrible!
Dion. Calanthe, hear me •
The tyrant, Dionysius, has resolved
To inter ept this Damon, and prevent
His coming back to Syracuse.
Cal. Oh, gods!
Dion. I am an inmate in the tyrants house,
And learned his fell decree!
Cal. Then speed thee hence :
Mount thou the fleetest steed in Syracuse-
Pursue the unhappy Damon—tell him this:
I know he has a brave and generous nature,
Will not betray his friend ! Go after him,
And save my husband!
Dion. I have found a way
To rescue him already : thou and Pythias
Shall fly from Syracuse.
Cal. What! shall he'scape
The tyrant's fangs ?
Dion. For ever! But thou must
Follow my precept.
Cal. I will obey you, sir,
And bless you!
Dion. Then to Pythias—come with me. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A terrace attached to the prison, with
the sea oMdretched before it. A portal on one side, on
the other side, the dungeon-door of Pythias, barred
and chained.
Enter DIONYSIUS, preceded by PKOCLES, who
points to the dungeon.
Dion. Is this the dungeon ? Unbar the door.
(Procles undraws the bolts and lets fall the
chains.)
I'll probe him deeply.
Now observe well the orders that I gave thee I
(Motions him away, and opens the door, ExU
Procles.)
My lord Pythias 1
Eyth. (Within.) How now! who calls me?
Dion. A friend, Pythias :—the time ia precious
haste,
And follow me.
Enter PYTHIAS, from dungeon.
Eyth. Where do you lead me?
D on. I come
To serve and succour thee.
Eyth. And who art thou ?
And how can'st succour me?
Dion. I dwell beneath
The tyrant's roof, and learned by accident
This fell determination—he hath resolved—
Eyth My life!
Dion. Thy life!
Ere this, he hath despatched some twenty men
To intercept thy friend, on his approach
To meet and ransom thee.
Eyth. Almighty heaven!
D on. He not arriving at the appointed hour.
Thy life is forfeited.
Eyth. We try the depth together; I had hoped
That one or other of us could have lived
For thy poor Hermion's, or Calanthe'a sake.
No matter.
Dion, Pythias, I came to save thee.
Eyth. What dost thou mean ?
Dion. Urged by my pity for such noble friends,
So trusting and betrayed—anxious, besides,
To leave the tyrant's court,
Hither I bribed my way. Thy fair Calanthe
Shall be the partner of thy flight Thy father—
Eyth. Sir!
Dion. Yes, thy father, too—thy time-struck father,
Who, till this day, for many circling years
Hath not held human intercourse,
Was visited by me- he hath upraised him
From his lonely bed.
Eyth. Thon speak'st of miracles!
Dion. And ere I came, with all despatch and se«
cresy,
I have provided in the port of Syracuse
A good, quick-sailing ship - yonder she Ilea,
Her sails already spread before the breeze,
And thou and thy Calanthe - she comes—
Haste, lady, haste to thy betrothed lord!
Eyth. Wide-working Heaven, Calanthe'
Enter CALANTHE.
Cal. Pythias 1
Though when thou should'st have cherished, thou
did'st spurn me,
Though, in the holy place where we had met
To vow ourselves away unto each other,—
Though there, when I was kneeling at thy feet,
Thou did'st forswear and mock at me—yet here
I do forgive thee all—and I will love thee
As never woman loved her young heart's idol,
So thou but speed'st to Bafetyl
Eyth. Hold, Calanthe.
If mothers love the babe upon the breast,
When it looks up with laughter in his eyes,
Making them weep for joy—if they can love,
I loved, and do love thee, my own Calanthe:
But wert thou magnified above thyself,
As much in fascination as thou art
Above all creatures else-by all the gods,
DAMON- AN
In awful reverence sworn, I would not cheat
My honour!
C'al. How ?
Dion. Madman what dost intend ?
Pylh. Dost thou not know the tyrant spared his
life,
On the security I gave for him ?
Stand I not here his pledge ?
Dion. (Aside.) 'Tis wonderful!
His brow is fixed: his eye is resolute.
Cal. Pythias, mine idolized and tender Pythias,
Am I then scorned ?
Dion. The tyrant doth break faith with thee.
Pyth. 'Tis said so.
Cat And Damon cannot come to be thy ransom.
Pylh. I have heard it, my Calanthe.
Cat. And that thou—
That thou—Oh. gods!— must die when he comes
not!
Pylh. And that 1 know, Calanthe.
Cal. If thou knowest it,
What is thy heart, then, that it can still be obsti¬
nate?
Pylh. I should not have heard it; or, having
heard it,
I still may hold it false. This busy world
Is but made up of slight contingencies —
There are a thousand that may alter this,
Or leave it where it was; there is not one,
Should push us a mere point from any pledge
Of manliness and honour!
Yet would I live!
Live to possess my own Calanthe here,
Who recommends existence with a smile
So sad and beautiful! Y et would I live-
But not dishonoured 1 Still, Calanthe, he may re¬
turn:
May! may! That word ends all! Death looks
but grimly,
And the deep grave is cheerless—yet I do—
I do prefer the certainty of death
Unto the possibility of dishonour!
Dion. Behold 1 Behold!
(Pointing to the side of the stage.)
The good ship hath her streaming signal outl
The canvas swells up to the wooing wind!
The boat puts off—now, now, or never!
Cal. See (Crosses.)
How swiftly, in her gallant liberty,
She comes through the calm sea! Oh, hark! the
oars
How rapidly they plash in harmony:
Oh, look at Freedom, Pythias, look at it,
How beautiful it is upon the seal
Pythias, my PythiaB—Oh! how we shall laugh
While bounding o'er the blessed wave that bears
us
From doom and death, to some fair Grecian isle.
Dion. See, they approach! dost hesitate ?
Cal. Pythias!—my husband, Pythias!
Pyth. No, no! so help me heaven!—'Tishard!
It plucks my heart up—but, no, no 1
Cat. Oh, god!
(Pythias rushes in the dungeon — Calanthe
falls into the arms of Dionysius.
ACT IV.
SCENE I .—A Garden.—A table with fruit laid out.
HEHMION discovered arranging a little feast.—Her
CHILD beside her, with a basket of flowers.
Child. Will he come soon home, mother ?
Her. I pray the gods
> PYTHIAS. 843
He may, my child.
Child. It see i'S so long a time
Since he has ta'en me on his knee, and kissed me.
Her. Hark thee, my boy!
This is the hour wherein LucuIIub said,
Thy father would arrive to visit us.
Go, see if he be coming; he'll be glad
To greet the rosy fruit upon thy cheeks.
Even as he enters our sweet garden here.
Hie thee, and bear me word if he approaches—
The first kiss shalr be thine. [Exit Child.
Thou unkind Damon!
To send me here to woman's loneliness,
A prey to all the sickening hopes and fears
I must have of thee, in these blustering times.
Enter DAMON, wuh the CHILD in his arms.
Child. See, I have found him for you, mother.
Her. Ha!
Damon. Hermion! my treasure, Hermion!
Her. My dear lord!
I had prepared this little feast for you,
But hope at last grew sick within my heart,
And I could hardly force it to a thought
That yet thou would'st arrive. Oft I looked out
Upon the weary way thou should'st have journeyed,
* nd oft the hills' dim vapour rose like Damon,
Till the sun came to Bhape it, and to show me
That yet thou wert away.
Damon, And are ye, then,
Are ye so helpless in our absence, Hermion ?
Her. Come, now—you know it. Oh my dear,
dear husband!
If I should tell thee of my quaking heart,
While thou art bustling there in Syracuse-
Why wilt thou start ? 'twould cheat thee of thjr
tears,
And make thee womanish; and, for I know
Thou lov'st thy own poor Hermion: thou should'st
swear
Never again to leave her.
Damon. Nerve me, Heaven!
Her. Indeed thou shouldst; and look thee here,
my Damon,
But for this little boy, here, and his talk.
His childish prattle on my knee, of what
He would achieve and be. Come, sir, rehearse
Thesematters over, say, what would'st thou be?
Damon. What would'st thou be, my boy ?
Child. A soldier, father.
Damon. Come, come, now, not a soldier.
Child. Nay, but I'd choose, sir,
To be what Pythias is.
Damon. (Much moved.) Thou'rt a brave boy!
Go, pluck a flower from yonder gay recess,
At the other end of the garden. Wreathe me now
The fairest garland for my welcome—there;
A brave, brave boy. [Exit Child.
(Aside.) Now, gods!
Her. Dost thou not think
He grows apace?
Damon. Have I ill all my life
Given thee an angry look, or word, or been
Ever an unkind mate, my Hermion ?
Her. Never, the gods know, never!
Damon. From thy heart
Thou sayest this?
Her. Yea, from my inmost heart!
Damon. I am glad of it; for thou wilt think of
this
When I am dead, my Hermion: and 'twill make
thee
B14
The kindest mother to our boy t
Her. Oh gods!
Why dost thou talk of death! Damon, thy cheek,
Thy lip is quivering; art sick, or grieved
With some discomfiture? Oh, these w'ld wars
And bickerings of the state, how have they robbed
thee
t)f thy soul's quiet
Damon. Tell me, tell me, Hermion,—
Suppose I should impart the heaviest news
That could possess thine ear; how would st thou
bear it ?
Her. Laugh at it!—mock at it, to make thee
smile.
And teach thee to be happy in despite
Of any turn of fortune. What dost thou mean ?
What heavy news? I know the part thou takest
jn the state's service. Hath the tyrant risen ?
Damon. He hath; but that's not it.
Her. The Carthagenians
Have sacked the city?
Damon. No!
Her. Why, then, thy friend,
So well beloved of thee—Pythias!—'tis he!
Damon. No, thank the gods, not he !
Her. What is it, then?—
The heaviest news that could possess mine ear!—
Ha! 'tis thyself—some danger hath befallen thee,
Or threatens thee. Speak, my dear Damon, speak.
Or I shall die of thoughts that come to kill me 1
Damon. When I wooed thee, Hermion,
'Twas not the fashion of thy face or form—
Though from the hand of Heaven thou earnest so
rich
In all external loveliness—it was not
Such excellence that riveted my heart,
And made me thine; but I said to myself,
Thus:—Here is one, who, haply were I wrecked
Or, were I to-morrow, or a later day,
Struck down by fortune—
Her. Wert thou made as low
From what thou art as earth's foundation-stone
Is from the top of JEtna—did men scorn thee—
Damon. Nay, thus I said, my Hermion:—Did the
blow
Fall deadly as it might—here is a woman
Who hath such firm devotion in her love,
She would not rend my heart, but for my sake,—
And, should we have a child, for his sake, too—
Bear firmly up, though death itself—
H.r. Death! Death!
Damon. (Giving the Testament.) Take this—read
this—'twill speak what I cannot!
I thought 1 could, and by the gods I cannot!
[Cro'ses.
Her. Ha! here's ft poisoning adder in this scroll—
It eats into my heart!—Die ! Damon! Death!
When ? how ? I cannot understand it—Die 1
Where ? what offence ?
Damon. I have been doomed to death by Diony-
sius.
Her. But thou hast'scaped the sentence; thou
art here
Alone! unguarded! It is but to fly
To Greece, or Italy, or anywhere
From this.
Damon. From this to Syracuse.—I'll tell thee :
Ere now I had been dead—
Her. No! no!
Damon. Ere this
I had been dead, but that my friend, my Pythias, i
By putting on my fetters—giving up |
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
Himself as hostage for my sure return^—
Wrought on the tyrant to bestow me time
To see thee here.
Her. By the wide world, thou Bhalt not!
I hold thee here—these arms encompass thee
As doth thy heart its life-spring!
Damon. Not!
Her. Tbou shalt not!
Damon. Not! not rethrn!—Not go to take my
, friend
Out of the fetters I have bung upon him?
Her. Life ! to save that, the wrong becomes ths
right.
The gods that made us have so quickened us,
Nature so prompts us, and all men forgive it,
Because all men would do it. By the love
(If thou hast any,) of thy wife and child-
Ay, frown—
[Kneels.
Enter CHILD, with flowers.
Do, Damon, frown, and kill me, too,
Or live for us!
[Sees the Child, who is approaching her.
Ha! the blessed gods have sent thee
With thy sweet helplessness—Kneel down, my
child,
Hold up thy little hands with mine, and pray
Not to be made an orphan—not so soon,
So very soon!—Kind Damon, look upon us!
Husband, look on us, we are at thy feet!
Damon. Ye are!—I see it, and my heart bleed*
for ye I
Nay, I must turn my eyes away from you
While you are urging me to my dishonour,
And bid me murder him that I may live I
Hermion, farewell!
{Turning round and embracing her.)
Her. (In agony.) Live, Damon! live! live!
live!
(Swoons in his arms.)
Damon. Hermion, my life, look up! awake, my
Hermion!
The hour is past! I trifle with necessity!
Hermion! I now indeed must part from thee,
All pale, and cold, and death-like as thou art:
Thus may I part from thee, to go and be
Myself full soon as cold!
{Places Hermion on the garden lench)
Ah! let me hold thee from the earth, and say
With what a broken-hearted love I press thee
For the last time! {Kissing her.) Farewell, farewell,
for ever!
Once more!
Child. Father, father !
Damon. My child, too! Oh, this is too much I
My little orphan! my dear boy! the gods,
The gods will take care of thee, my child!
{Places Child near Hermion, and rushes out.)
SCENE 1L—The Exterior of Damon's Villa.
Enter LUCULLUS,
Luc. It is accomplished! I have slain his
horse!
Never shall he return! This hand has cast
An intercept between him and the block!
Perchance he'll kill me; but I heed not that:
The time shall be, when, at Lucullus' name,
He will lift up his hands, and weep for me.
Ah! while i speak, he comes! In desperate
haste,
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
815
He rushes from the garden! Shall I ny
From the swift fury will await upon
The terrible revealment ? 'Tis too late!
Enter DAMON.
Damon. 'Tis o'er, lmcullus : hnug thou forth my
hol'se;
I have staid too long, Lucutius, and my speed
Must leave the winds behind me. By the godA
The sun is rushing down the west!
Luc. My lord —
Damon. Why dost thou tremble? Fetch the
colour back
Into thy cheek, man, nor let thy weak knees
Knock on each other in their cowardiee!
Time flies, be brief, go, bring my horse to me 1
Be thou as swift as speech, or as my heart is!
Luc. My lord I
Damon. Why slave, dost hear me ?
My horse, I say! The hour is past already,
Whereon I bade old Neucles summon me.
Luc. My generous master, do not slay me I
Damon. Slave 1
Art mad? or dost thou mock me in the last
And fearfullest extremity ? Yet you speak not!
Lite. You were ever kind aud merciful, nor
yet
Commended me onto the cruel whip,
And I did love you for it!
Damon. Where's my horse ?
Luc. When 1 beheld the means of saving you,
I could not hold my hand—my heart was in it,
And in my heart, the hope of giving life
And liberty to Damon; and—
Damon. Go on!
I am listening to thee!
L c. And, in hope to save yon,
I slew your steed 1
Damon. Almighty Heavens!
Luc. Forgive me! (Kneels.)
Damon, l am standing here to see if the great
gods
Will with their lightning execute my prayer
Upon thee! But thy punishment be mine!
I'll tear thee into pieces 1
(Seises him.)
Luc. Spare me! Spare me!
I saved thy life. Oh, do not thou take mine!
Damon. My friend! my friend! Oh, that the
word would kill theel
Pythias is slain! his blood is on my soul!
He cries, where art thou, Damon ? Damon, where
art thou ?
And Damon's here! The axe is o'er his nock,
And in his blood I'm deluged!
Luc. Spare me 1 spare me!
Damon. A spirit cries, 'Bevenge and Sacrifice 1'
I'll do it—I'll do it. Come—
Luc. Where should I go ?
Damon. To the eternal river of the dead!
Hie way is shorter than to Syracuse -
'Tis only far as yonder yawning gulf—
I'll throw thee with one swing to Tartarus.
And follow after thee! (Throws him round.) Nay,
slave, no struggling!
PythiaB is grown impatient 1 His red ghost
Starts from the ground, and, with a bloody hand,
Waves to the precipice!
Luc. Have mercy 1
Damon. Call
For mercy on the Furies— not on me!
[L'xit, dragging Luculhcs-
ACT V.
SCENE I.—A public place in Syracuse. A Scaffold,
with steps ascending to it, upon the right hand. In
the back of the stage the gates of a prison. Extcu~
tioner with an axe, and Guards discovered.
DAMOCLES and PBOCLES, discovered.
Proc. It is a marvellous phantasy, thou speakest
of
In Dionysius.
Dam. Yes, his mind is made
Of strange materials, they are almost cast
In contrariety to one another,
i he school and camp, in his ambition, make
A strange div:sion: " with the trumpet's call
•' He blends the languor of the poet's lyre 1
" The fierce, intrepid captain of the field
" Hath often, on the great Athenian stage,
"Coped with the mightiest monarch of the Muse;
"And, in mine apprehension, he doth prize
" The applauses of that polished populace,
"More than the rising shout of victory.
Proc. " And, over all, that science, which doth
hold,
" Touching the soul and its affections,
" Its high discoursing, hath attracted him.''
It is his creed, that, in this flesh of ours,
Self ever entertains predominance;
And, to all friendship, he hath ever been
A persevering infidel. For this,
Belike, be tries a strange experiment
What sayest thou? Will Damon come again f
Dam. " Our love of life is in the vc. y instinct
" Of mere material action, when we do
" Even so slight a thing, as wink an eye
"Against the wind. Place me a soulless dog
"Upon the bare edge of a height, and he
" Shall shudder and shrink back, though none have
proved
"To his capacity, that the fall were dangerous."
I hold the thing impossible.
Proc. He 11 not!
Dam. What, when he feels his pent-up soul
abroad
His limbs unfettered, "and the mountain breeze
"Of liberty all around him, and bis life
"Or death upon his own free choice dependent?"
'Tis visionary!
Proc. But is there no hope
Of Dionysius' mercy?
Dam. He'll not give
A second's hundreth part to take a chance in.
"His indignation swells at such a rashness,
" That, in its fling of proud philosophy,
" Can make him feel so much out-soured and hum¬
bled."
What a vast multitude upon the hills
Str. tch their long blackening outline in the round
Of the blue heavens!
Proc. They wait the great event.
"Mute expectation spreads its anxiouB hush
"O'er the wide city, that as silent stands
"As its reflection in the quiet sea."
Behold, upon the roof what thousands gaze
Toward the distant road that leads to Syracuse
An hour ago a noise was heard afar.
Like to the pulses of the restless surge:
But as the time approaches, all grows ^till
As the wide dead of midnight!
Cat. (Without.) There's no power
846
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
Shall stay me back! I must behold him die,
Then follow him!
Enttr CALANTHE, followed by ABBIA.
Arria. My child I
C'al. I cannot hear thee.
Ti e shrieking of the Furies drowns thy cries 1
Arria. This is no place for thee—no place, Olo-
lanthe,
For such a one as thou.
Cal. No other place
Is fit for such a wretch. I am his wife
Betrothed, though not married. There's no place
For me but at his side: in life or death
There is no other.
There is the scaffold with the block on it!
There is the—Oh, good gods!
Arria. Come back, my child.
"Good Damocles, give me your aid to bear
"This wretched woman hence.
Cal. " Oh, mother, mother,
"I'll not be grudged that horrible delight
" I'll take one long and maddening look of him,
"■Whom in the morn I thought I should have
waited,
" Blushing within the chamber of a bride,
" And with a heart all full of love and fear.
" Now I await him in a different place,
"And with a cheek that ne'er shall blush again ;
" Whose marble may be spotted o'er with blood,
" But not with modesty; love yet remains,
" But fear, its old companion's fled away,
" And made room for despair.
Enter DIONYSIUS, still in disguise.
Ha! are you come ?
'Twas you that told me so,
And froze the running currents in my bosom,
To one deep cake of ice. You said too well
That Damon would not come. The selfish traitor!
The traitor Damon!
Dion. Hark thee, Calanthe,
It was an idle tale I told to thee.
Cal. Hal
Dion. A mere coinage, an invention.
Cal. I do not ask thee why that tale was
framed—
Framed in thy cold deliberate cruelty—
But only this - one question: May he yet—
May Damon yet return ?
Dion. He may—he is
As free to come, or stay, as are the winds.
Cal. And Dionysius withholds him not?
Dion. He does not.
Cal. Whatsoe'er thou art, the gods,
For that one word, be unto thee and thine
Guardians for ever! Oh, that ray of hope
That breaks upon my soul, is worth a flood
Of the sweet daylight of Elysium.
Damon may yet return. But, powers of Heaven!
Death is prepared already. What is the time 1
Dion. Thou may'st perceive by yonder dial-plate
Against the temple, six poor minutes only
Are left for bis return.
Cal. And yet he comes not!
Oh, but that temple, where the shade of time
Moves unrelentingly, is dedicate
To the great Goddess of Fidelity—
She will not, in the face of her high fane,
Let such a profanation hurl for ever
The altars of her worship to the ground ^
For who will offer incense to her name
If Damon's false to Pythias? (Sound of chains and
bolts behindJ Ha! they unbar
The ponderous gates! There is a clank of chains!
They are leading him to death!
Dam. Bring forth the prisoner!
The gates of the prison are flung open, and PYTHIAS
is discovered. lie advances to the scaffold.
Cal. Pythias!
Pyth. Calanthe here! (She rushes in his arms.)
My poor, fond girl:
Thou art the first to meet me at the block,
Thou'lt be the last to leave me at the grave :
How strangely things go on in this bad world.
This was my wedding day; but for the bride,
I did not think of such a one as death!
I deemed I should have gone to sleep to-night,
This very night—not on the earth's cold lap-
But, with as soft a bosom for my pillow,
And with as true and fond a heart-throb in it
To lull me to my slumber, as e'er yet
Couched the repose of love. It was, indeed,
A blissful sleep to wish fori
Cal. Oh, my PythiaB,
He yet may come!
Pyth. Calanthe, no. Bemember,
That Dionysius hath prevented it.
Cal, That was an idle tale of this old maa,
And he may yet return.
Pyth. May yet return!
Speak! how is this? return! Oh, life, how strong
Thy love is in the hearts of dying men!
fTo Dionysius.) Thou'rt he, did'st say the tyrant
would prevent
His coming back to Syracuse ?
Dion. I wronged him. (Goes up.)
Pyth. Ha! were it possible: may he yet come?
Cal. Into the sinews of the horse that bears
him
Put swiftness, gods!—let him outrace and shame
The galloping of clouds upon the storm ;
Blow breezes with him; lend every feeble aid
Unto his motion: and thou, thrice solid earth,
Forget thy immutable fixedness, become
Under his feet like flowing water, and
Hither flow with him!
Pyth. I have taken in
All the horizon's vast circumference
That, in the glory of the setting sun,
Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see
No signal of his coming.—Nay, 'tis likely—
Oh, no, he could not. It is impossible!
Cal. I say, he is false! he is a murderer!
He will not come; the traitor doth prefer
Life, ignominous, dastard life! Thou minister
Of light, and measurer of eternity.
In this great purpose, stay thy going down,
Great sun, behind the confines of the world;
On yonder purple mountains make thy stand.
For while thine eye is open on mankind,
Hope will abide within thy blessed beams,
They dare not do the murder in thy presence I
Alas! all heedless of my frantic cry,
He plunges down the precipice of Heaven.
Pythias—Oh, Pythias!
Pyth. I could have borne to die,
Unmoved, by Dionysius—but to be torn
Green from existance by the friend I loved.
Thus from the blossoming and beauteous tree
Eent by the treachery of him 1 trusted!
No, no! I wrong thee, Damon, by that half
thought.
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
Shttme on the foul suspicion! he hath a wife,
And child, who cannot live on earth without him,
And heaven has flung somo obstacle in his way
To keep him back, and lets me die, who am
Less worthy, and the fitter.
Proc. Pythias, advance 1
Cal No, no! why should he yet? It is not yet—
By all the gods, there are two minutes only.
Proc. Take a last farewell of your mistress, sir,
And look your last upon the setting sun—
And do both quickly, for your hour comes on!
Pyth. Come here, Calanthe; closer to me yet
(Embraces her.)
Ah! what a cold transition it will be
From this warm touch, all full of life and beaut} .
(Jnto the clammy mould of the deep grave:
I pr'ythee, my Calanthe, when I am gone,
If thou should'st e'er behold my hapless friend.
Do not upbraid him.! This, my lovely one,
Is my last wish—Remember it!
Cat (Who, during this speech, has been looking
wildly towards the side of the stage.)
Hush! Hush!
(Crosses.}
Stand back there I
Pyth. Take her, you eternal gods,
Out of my arms into your own. Befriend her,
And let her life glide on in gentleness,
For she is gentle, and doth merit it.
Cal. I think, I see it—
Proc. Lead her from the scaffold.
Pyth. Arria, receive her — yet one kiss—fare¬
well.
Thrice—thrice farewell. I am ready, sir.
Cal. Forbear 1
There is a minute left: look there, look there!
But 'tis so far off, and the evening shades
Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes
But mine can catch it Yet, 'tis there. I see
it—
A shape as yet so vague and questionable,
'Tis nothing, just about to change and take
The faintest form of something.
Pyth. Sweetest love.
Dam. Your duty, officer.
(Officer approaches her.)
Cat I will not quit him
Until ye prove I see it not! no force
Till then shall separate us.
Dam. Tear them asunder!
Arria, conduct your daughter to her home.
Cal. Oh, send me not away — Pythias, thine
arms —
Stretch out thine arms, and keep me — see, it
comes!
Barbarians. Murderers. Oh, yet a moment—
Yet but one pulse — one heave of breath. Oh,
heavens!
(Swoons, and is carried away by Arria and
Officers.)
Pyth. (To the executioner.) There is no pang in
thy deep wedge of steel
After that parting. Nay, sir, you may spare
Yourself the pains to fit me for the block.
(Drawing the lining of his tunic lower.)
Damon, I do forgive thee. I but ask
Some tears unto my ashes.
(A distant shout is heard, Pythias leaps up on
the scaffold.)
By the gods,
A horse and horseman. Far upon the hill,
Yhey wave their hats, and he returns it—yet
m
| I know him not—his horse is at the stretch.
| (A shout.)
Why should they shout as he comes on ? It is—
No—that was not unlike—but here, now—there.
Oh, life, I scarcely dare to wish for thee;
And yet—that jutting rock has hid bim from me—
No—let it not be Damon—he has a wife
And child—gods—keep him back!
(Shou's.,
Damon. (Without.) Where is he?
DAMON tvshes in, and stands for a moment, looking
round
Ha1
He is alive, untouched. Ha, ha, ha!
(Falls with an hysterical laugh upon the stage
Three loud shouts without.)
Pyth. The gods do know I could have died for
him!
And yet I dared to doubt I dared to breathe
The half-uttered blasphemy.
<Damon is raised up.)
He faints. How thick
This wreath of burning moisture on his brow.
His face is black with toil, his swelling bulk
Heaves with swift pantings. Damon, my dear
friend.
Damon. Where ami? Havel fallen from my
horse,
That I am stunned, and 011 my head I feel
A weight of thickening blood. What has befallen
me?
The horrible confusion of a dream
Is yet upon my sight. For mercy's sake,
Stay me not back -he is about to die!
Pythias, my friend. Unloose me, villains, or
You'll find the might of madness in mine arm
(Sees Pythias.) Speak to me, let me hear thy voice
Pyth. My friend.
Datum. It pierced my brain, and rushed into my
heart.
There's lightning in It That's the scaffold —
there
The block—the axe—the executioner!
And here he lives. I have him in my souL
IEmbraces Pythias.) Ha, ha, ha!
Pyth. Damon.
Damon. Ha, ha I
1 can but laugh. I cannot speak to thee.
I can but play the maniac, and laugh!
Thy hand. Oh, let me grasp thy manly hand!
It is an honest one, and so is mine,
They are fit to clasp each other! Ha, ha, ha!
Pyth. Wou d that my death could have preserved
thee!
Damon. Pythias,
Even in the very crisis to have come,—
To have hit the very forehead of old time!
By heavens! had I arrived an hour before,
I should not feel this agony of joy—
This triumph over Dionyeius!
Ha! ha!—But did'st thou doubt me? Come, thou
did'st—
Own it, and I'll forgive thee.
Pyth. For a moment
Damon. Oh, that false slave!- Pythias, he slew
my horse,
In the base thought to save me! I would have
killed bim,
And to a precipice was dragging him.
When, from the very brink of the abyss,
I did behold a traveller afar.
DAMON AND PYTHIAS.
84S
Bestriding a good steed—I rushed upon him,
Choking with desperation, and yet loud
Iu shrieking anguish, I commanded him
Down from his saddle: he denied me—but
Would I then be denied? as hungry tigers
Clutch their poor prey, I sprang upon his throat:
Thus, thus, I had him, Pythias! Come, your horse
Your horse, your horse, I cried. Ha! ha! ha!
Dion. (Advancing and speaking in a loud tone.)
Damon!
Damon. (Jumping on the scaffold.) I am here upon
the scaffold! look at me:
I am standing on my throne; as proud a one
As yon illumined mountain, where the sun
Makes his last stand; let him look on me too;
He never did behold a spectacle
More full of natural glory. Death is—(Shouts.) Ha 1
All Syracuse starts up upon her hills,
And lifts her hundred thousand hands. (Shouts.)
She shouts, (Shouts.)
Hark, how she shouts! (Shouts.) Oh, Dionysius!
When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal
Of hearts and hands like that one ? Shout again!
(Shouts.)
Again! (Shouts.) until the mountains echo you,
And the great sea joins in that mighty voico,
And old EuceladuB, the Son of Earth,
Stirs in his mighty caverns. iThree shouts.) Tel]
me, slaves,
Whore is your tyrant ? Let me see him now;
Why stands he hence aloof? Where is your
master?
What is become of Dionysius ?
I would behold, and laugh at him!
(Dionysius advances between Damon and Py.
thias—Damon being on tht Scaffoui~miu
t rotes off his disguise.
Dion. Behold me.
D"tnon <& Pyth. How?
Dion. Stay your admiration for awhile,
Till I have spoken my commandment here.
Go, Damocles, and bid a herald cry
Wide through the city, from the eastern gate
Unto the most remote extremity,
t'hat Dionysius, tyrant as he is,
Gives back his life to Damon. IExit Damo. ks.
Pyth. How, Dionysius?
Sneak that again!
Dion. I pardon him.
Pyth. Oh, gods!
You give his life to Damon?
Dion. Life and freedom!
[Shou's, drums.—Damon staggers from tfo
stsffold into tht arms of Pythias.
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
AN OPERA, IN THREE ACTS—BY JOHN GAY.
Macheath —" How happt could I be with either,"—Act ii, scene 2.
Captain Macheath.
Filch.
Peachum.
Lockit.
Mat-o'-Thb Mint.
Ben Bodge.
persons represented.
Crook-Fingeb'd Jack.
Jemmy Twitcher.
Wat Dreary.
Nimming Nf.d.
Harry Paddington.
Robin ok Bagshot.
) Drawer.
M rs. Peachum.
Polly.
Lucy.
Mrs. Coaxer.
Dolly Trull.
Mrs. Vixen.
Bktty Doxey.
Jf.nny Diver.
Mrs. Slammerkin.
SuKEY Tawdrey.
Molly Brazen.
ACT L
SCENE L—Peachum't House.
PEACHUM silting at a table, with a large book of
accounts before him.
AIR—PEACHUM.
Through all the employments of life.
Each neighbour abuses his brother;
Whore and rogue they call husband and wife;
All professions be-rogue one another.
The priest calls the lawyer a cheat;
The lawyer be-knaves the divine;
And the s'atesman, because he's so great,
Thinks his trade is as honest as mine.
A lawyer's is an honest emp'oynvent; so is mine.
Like me, too, he aets in a double capacity; both
against rogues, and lor them: for 'tis but fitting, '■
that we should protect and encourage cheats, since
we live by them. 1
Enter FILCH.
Filch. Sir, Black Moll has sent word, her trial
comes on in the afternoon, and she hopes you will
order matters so as to bring her off.
Peach. Why, as the weueh is very active and
industrious, you may satisfy her that I'llsoften the
evidence.
Filch. Tom Gag, sir, is found guilty.
Peach. A lazy dog! When I took him, the time
before, I told him what he would come to, if he
did not mend his hand. This is death without
reprieve. I may venture to book him (writes); for
Tom Gag, forty pounds. Let Betty Sly know, that
I'll save her from transportation, for I can get more
by her staying in England.
Filch. Betty hath brought moregoods to our lock
this year, than any five of the gang; and 1 u truth,
'tis pity to lose so good a customer.
J'each. If none of the gang takes her off, ehe may,
in the common course of business, live a twelve*
850 TflE BEGGAI
month longer. I lore to let women 'scape. A good i
sportsman always lets the hen partridges fly, he- 1
cause the breed of the game depends upon them. I
Besides, here the law allows us no reward: there I
Is nothing to be got by the death of women—except I
our wives. I
Filch. Without dispute, she is a fine woman!
'Twas to her I was obliged for my education. To
say a bold word, she has trained up more young fel¬
lows to the business than the gaming-table.
Peach. Truly, Filch, thy observation is right We
and the surgeons are more beholden to women, than
all the professions besides.
AIIl.—FILCH.
'Tis woman that seduces all mankind!
By her we first were taught the wheedling arts;
Her very eyes can cheat; when most she is kind,
She tricks us of our money, with our hearts.
For her, like wolves by night, we roam for prey,
And practise every fraud to bribe her charms;
For suits of love, like law, are won by pay,
And beauty must be fee'd into our arms.
Peach. But make haste to Newgate, boy, and let
my friends know what I intend; for I love to make
them easy, one way or another.
Filch. When a gentleman is long kept in suspense,
penitence may break his spirit ever after. Besides,
certainty gives a man a good air upon his trial, and
makes bim risk another, without fear and scruple.
But I'll away, for 'tis a pleasure to be a messenger
of comfort to friends in affliction. [Exit.
Peach. But it is now high time to look about me
f«r a decent execution against next sessions. I
hate a lazy rogue, by whom one can get nothing
till he is hanged. A register of the gang. (Reading.)
Crook-finger'd Jack, a year and a half in the service—
let me see how much the stock owes to his industry:
one, two, three, four, fine gold watches, and seven
silver ones. A mighty clean-handed fellow! Sixteen
snuff-boxes, five of them true gold; six dozen hand¬
kerchiefs, four silver-hilted swords, half-a-dozen of
shirts, three tie periwigs, and a piece of broad¬
cloth. Considering these are only the fruits of hie
leisure hours, I don't know a prettier fellow; for
no man alive hath a more engaging presence of
mind upon the road.— Wat Dreary, alias Brown
Will—an irregular dog, who hath an underhand way
of disposing of his goods; I'll try him only for a
sessions or two longer, upon his good behaviour.—
Harry Paddington—a, poor, petty-larceny rascal,
without the least genius! That fellow, though he
were to live these six months, will never come to
the gallows with any credit.—Slippery Sam—he
goes off the next sessions; for the villain hath the
impudence to have views of following his trade as
a tailor, which he calls an honest employment,—
AJat-o'the-Mint— listed not above a month ago; a
promising, sturdy fellow, and diligent in his way;
somewhat too bold and hasty, and may raise good
contributions on the public, if he does not cut him¬
self short by murder.— Tom Tipple—a guzzling
soaking sot, who is aways too drunk to stand him¬
self, or to make others stand; a cart is absolutely
necessary for him.—Robin of Bagshot, alias Gordon,
alias Bluff Bob, alias Carbuncle, alias Bob Booty—
Antrr MRS. PEAHUM.
Afrs. P. What of Bob Booty, husband? I hope no¬
thing bad hath betided him. You know, my dear,
he's a favourite customer of mine—'twas he made
me a present of this ring.
,'S OPERA.
Peach. 1 have set his name down in the Blacklist1
that's all, my dear; he spends bis life among wo¬
men, and as soon as his money is gone, one or
other of the ladies will hang him for the reward,
and there's forty pounds lost to us for ever 1
Afrs. P. You know, my dear, I never meddle in
matters of death; I always leave those affairs to
you. Women, indeed, are bitter bad judges in
these caseR; for they are so partial to the brave,
that they think every man handsome who is going
to the'camp or the gallows. But really, husband,
you should not be too hard-hearted, for you never
bad a finer, braver Bet of men than at present. We
have not bad a murder among them all these seven
months; and truly, my dear, that is a great
blessing.
Peach. What a dickens is the woman always
whimpering about murder for! No gentleman is
ever looked upon the worse for killing a man in his
own defence; and if business cannot be carried on
without it, what would you have a gentleman do?
So, my dear, have done upon this subject Was
Captain Macheath here, this morning, for the bank¬
notes he left with you last week?
Airs. P. Yes, my dear; and though the bonkhath
stopped payment; he was so cheerful, andso agree¬
able! -Sure, there is not a finer gentleman upon
the road than the Captain! If he comeB from Bag-
shot at any reasonable hour, be hath promised to
make one this evening, with Polly, me, and Bob
Booty, at a party at quadrille Pray, my dear, istbe
Captain rich ?
Peach. The Captain keeps too good company
ever to grow rich. Marybone and the chocolate-
bouses are his undoing. The man that purposes to
get money by play, should have the education of a
fine gentleman, and be trained up to it from his
youth.
Mrs. P. Really, I am sorry, upon Polly's account,
the Captain hath not more discretion. What
business hath he to keep company with lords and
gentlemen? he should leave them to prey upon one
another.
Peach. Upon Polly's account! what a plague dotb
the woman mean? Upon Polly's account!
Mrs. P. Captain Macheath is very fond of the
girl.
Peach. And what then?
Mrs. P. If I have any skill in the ways oi wo¬
men, I am sure Polly thinks him a very pretty
man.
Peach. And what then? you would not be so
mad as to have the wench marry him! Gamesters
and highwaymen are, generally, very good to their
mistresses, but they are the very devils to their
wives.
Mrs. P. But if Polly should be in love, how should
we help her, or how can she help herself? Poor
girl 1 I'm in the utmost concern abput ber.
Peach. Lookye, wife, a handsome wenob, in our
way of business, is as profitable as at the bar of a
Templo coffee-house, who looks upon it as her
livelihood, to grant every liberty but one. My
daughter to me should be like a court lady to a
minister of state, a key to the whole gang. Mar¬
ried ! if the affair is not already done, I'll terrify her
from it, by the example of our neighbours.
Mrs. P. Mayhap, my dear, you may injure the
poor girl: she loves to imitate the fine ladies, and
she may only allow the Captain liberties, in the
view of interest
Peach. But, 'tis your duty, my dear, to warn the
THE BEGGi
girl against her rain; and to instruct her how to
make the most of her beauty. I'll go to her this
moment, and sift her. In the meantime, wife, rip
out the coronets and marks of these dozen of cam¬
bric handkerchiefs; for I can dispose of them, this
afternoon to a chap in the city. [Exit.
Mrs. P. Never was a man more out of the way
in an argument than my husband. Why must our
Polly, forsooth, differ from her sex, and love only
her husband? and why must Polly's marriage, con¬
trary to all observation, make her the less followed
by other men ? All men are thieves in love, and
like a woman the better for being another's pro¬
perty.
Enter FILCH.
Mrs. P. Come hither. Filch: I am as fond of this
child, as though my mind misgave me he were my
own. He hath as fine a hand at picking a pocket
as a woman, and is as nimble fingered as a juggler.
If an unlucky session does not cut the rope of thy
life, I pronounce, boy, thou wilt be a great man
in history. Where was your pest, last night, my
boy?
Filch. I plied at the opera, madam; and, consi¬
dering 'twas neither dark nor rainy, so that there
was no great hurry in getting chairs and coaches,
made a tolerable hand on't. These seven handker¬
chiefs, madam. (Taking themfrom different parts of
his dress.)
Mrs. P. Coloured ones, I see. They are of sure
sale from our warehouse at Redriff, among the sea-
mem
Filch. And this snuff-box.
Mrs. P. Set in gold! A pretty encouragement this
to a young beginner!
Filch. I had a fair tug at a charming gold watch.
Plague take the tailors, for making the fobs so deep
and narrow! it struck by the way, and I was forced
to make my escape under a coach. Really, madam,
I fear I shall be cut off in the flower of my youth,
so that every now and then, since I was pumped, I
have thoughts of taking up and going to sea.
Mrs. P. You should go to Hockley-in-the-Hole,
and to Marybone, child, to learn valour; these are
the schools that have bred so many brave men. I
thought, boy, by this time, thou hadst lost fear as
well as shame. Poor lad! how little does he know
yet of the Old Bailey! For the first fact, IT1 insure
thee from being hanged: and going to sea, Filch,
will come time enough upon a sentence of trans¬
portation, But, hark you, my lad,—don't tell me a
lie; for you know I hate a liar:—do you know of
any thing that bath passed between Captain Mac-
heath and our Polly ?
Filch. I beg you, madam, don't ask me; for I
must eithe. tell a lie to you, or to Miss Polly; for
I promised her I would not tell.
Mrs. P. But, when the honour of our family is
con erned—
Filch. I shall lead a sad life with Miss Polly, if
ever she comes to know I told you. Besides, I
would not willingly forfeit my own honour, by be¬
traying anybody.
Mrs. P. Yonder comes my busband and Polly.
Come, Filch, you shall go with me into my own
room, and tell me the whole story. I'll give thee
ft glass of a most delicious cordial, that I keep for
my own drinking. [Exeunt.
Enter PEACHUM and POLLY.
Polly. I know as well as any of the fine ladies
how to make the most of myself, and of my man,
R'S OPERA. SM
too. A woman knows how to be mercenary, though
she hath never been in a court, or at an assembly
We have it in our natures, papa. If I allow Captain
Macheath some trifling liberties, I have this watch,
and other visible marks of his favour, to show for
it. A girl who cannot grant some things, and re¬
fuse what is most material, will make but a poor
band of her beauty, and soon be thrown upon the
common.
AIR—POLLY.
Virgins are lite the fair flow'r in its lustre,
Which in the gardens enamels the ground;
Near it the bees in play flutter and cluster,
And gaudy butterflies frolic around:
But when once pluck'd 'tis no longer alluring,
To Covent-garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet),
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring.
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet.
Peach. You know, Polly, I am not against your
toying and trifling with a customer, in the way of
business, or to get out a secret or so; but if I find
out that you have played the fool, and are married,
you jade you! I'll cut your throat, hussy. Now,
you know my mind.
Enter MRS. PEACHUM, m a very great passion.
AIR—MRS. PEACHUM.
Our Polly is a sad slut l nor heeds what we have taught
her,
/ wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter !
For she must have both hoods and gowns, and hoops, to
swell her pride,
With scarves and stays, and gloves and lace, and she
will have men beside;
And when she's dress'd with care and cost, all tempting,
flne, and gay.
As men should serve a cucumber, she flings herself
away.
You baggage! you hussy! you inconsiderate jade 1
had you been hanged, it would not have vexed me;
for that might have been your misfortune'; but to
do such a mad thing for choice! The wench is
married, husband.
Peach. Married! the Captain is a bold man, and
will risk anything for money: to be sure, be believes
her a fortune. Do you think your mother and I
should have lived comfortably so long together, if
ever we had been married, baggage ?
Mrs. P. I knew she was always a proud slut
and now the wench hath played the fool and mar¬
ried; because, forsooth, Bhe would do like the
gentry! Can you support the expense of a hus¬
band, hussy, in gaming and drinking ? Have you
money enough to carry on the daily quarrels of
man and wife about who shall squander most ? if
you must be married, could you introduce nobody
into our family but a highwayman? Why, you
foolish jade! thou wilt be as ill-used, and as much
neglected, as if thou badst married a lord!
Peach. Let not your anger, my dear, break
through the rules of decency; for the Captain
looks upon himself, in the military capacity, as a
gentleman by his profession. Besides what be
bath already, I know be is in a fair way of getting
or of dying; and both these ways, let me tell you,
are most excellent chances for a wife. Tell m^
bussy! are you ruined or no?
Mrs. P With Polly's fortune, she might very
SS2
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
well have gone off to a person of distinction: yes,
that you might, you pouting slut!
Peach. What! is the wench dumb! Speak, or
I'll make you plead by squeezing out an answer
from you. Are you really bound wife to him, cr
are you only upon liking ? (Pinches her.)
Pttliy. Oh! (Screaming.)
Mrs. P. How the mother is to be pitied who
bath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and
lectures of morality, are nothing to them : they
break through them all; they have as much plea¬
sure in cheating a father and mother, as in cheating
at cards.
Peach. Why. Polly, I shall soon know if you are
married, by Macheath's keeping from our house.
AIR—POLLY.
Can love he controlTd hy advice t
Will Cupid our mothers obeyt
Though my heart were as frozen as ice,
At hisflame 'twould have melted away.
When he kiss'd me, so sweetly he press'd,
'Twos so sweet, that I must have complied,
So I thought it both safest and best,
To marry, for fear you should chide.
Mrs. P. Then all the hopes of our family are
gone for ever and ever!
Peach. And Macheath may hang his father and
mother-lu-law, in hopes to get into their daughter's
fortune.
Polly. I did not marry him (as 'tis the fashion),
coolly and deliberately, for honour or money—but
I love him.
Mrs P. Love him! worse and worse! I thought
the girl had been better bred. Oh, husband! hus¬
band! her folly makes me mad! My head swims!
I'm distracted! I can't support myself—Oht—
(Faints in a chair.)
Peach. See, wench, to what a condition you have
reduced your poor mother! A glass of cordial
this instant! How the poor woman takes it to
heart! (Polly goes out and returns. - She gives the
bottle and glass to Peach, who hands a glass of it to
Mrs. P.) Ah, hussy! now this is the only comfort
your mother has left.
Polly. Give her another glass, sir; my mamma
drinks double the quantity whenever she is in this
way. J'his, you 6ee, fetches her. (lie fills the
glass.)
Mrs. P. The girl shows such readiness, and so
much concern, that I almost could find in my heart
to forgive her. {Brinks again.)
DUET.—MRS. PEACHUM and POLLY.
Mrs. P. 0 Polly, you might have toy'd and kiss'd;
By keeping men off, you keep them on.
Polly. But he so teazed me,
And he so pleased me,
What I did, you must have done.
Mrs. P. Not with a highwayman, you sorry slut.
Peach. A word with you, wife. 'Tis no new
thing for a wench to take a man without consent
Of parents. You know 'tis the frailty of woman,
my dear.
Mrs. P. Yes, indeed, the sex is frail; but the
first time a woman is frail, she should be some¬
what nice merthinks, for then or never is the time
to make her fortune: after that she hath nothing
to do but to guard herself from being found out,
and she may do what she pleases.
Peach. Make yourself a little easy; I bare a
thought shall soon set all matters again to righta
Why so melancholy, Polly? since what is done
cannot be undone, we must endeavour to make the
best of it.
Mrs. P. Well, Polly, as far as one woman can
forgive another, I forgive thee.—Your father ie too
fond of you, hussy.
Polly. Then all my sorrows are at an end.
Mrs. P. A mighty likely speech, in troth, for a
wench who is just married 1
AIR—POLLY.
I like a ship in storms was toss'd,
Vet afraid to put into land.
For seiz'd in the port, the vessel's lost
Whose treasure is contraband.
The waves are laid,
My duty's paid;
0 joy beyond expressionI
Thus safe ashore,
J ask no more;
My all's in my possession.
Peaeh. I hear customers in t'other room. Go
talk with them, Polly; but come again as soon as
they are gone.—But harkye, child! if 'tis the
gentleman who was here yesterday about the re¬
peating watch, say you can't get intelligence of it
till to-morrow, for I lent it to Sukey Straddle to
make a figure with to-night at the tavern in Drury-
lane. If t'other gentleman calls for the silver-
hilted sword, yeu know Beetle-browed Jemmy hath
it on, and he doth not come from Tunbri ige till
Tuesday night, so that it cannot be had till then.—
[Exit Polly.)—Dear wife, be a little pacified; don't
let your passion run away with your Benses: Polly,
I grant you, hath done a rash thing.
Mrs,. P. If she had had only an intrigue with the
fellow, why the very beBt families have excused
and huddled up a frailty of that sort. 'Tis mar¬
riage, husband, that makes it a blemish
Peach. But money, wife, is the true fuller's-earth
for reputations; there is not a spot or stain but
what it can take out I tell you, wife, I can make
tli's match turn to our advantage.
Mrs. P. I am very sensible, buBband, that Cap¬
tain Macheath is worth money, hut I am in doubt
whether h; hath not two or three wives already;
and then, if he should die in a session or two,
Polly s dower would come into dispute.
Peach. That, indeed, is a point which ought to be
considered. The lawyers are bitter eneu ies to
those in our way; they don't care that anybody
should get a clandestine livelihood but them-
solves.
Enter POLLY.
Polly. 'Twas only Nimming Ned: he brought in
a damask window-curtain, a hoop-petticoat, a pair
of silver candlesticks, a perriwig; and one silk
stocking, from the fire that happened last night.
Peach. There is not a fellow that is cleverer ill
his way, and saves more goods out of the fire, than
Ned. But now, Polly, to your affair; formatters
must not be as they are. You are married, then, it
seems ?
Polly. Yes, sir.
Peach. And how do you propose to live, child?
Polly. Like other women, sir, upon the industry
of my husband.
Mrs. P. What! is the wench turned fool! A
THE begg;
highwayman s wife, like a soldier's, liath as lietle
Of his pay as of his company.
P> ach. And had not you the common views of a
gentlewoman in your marriage, Polly?
Polly. 1 don't know what you mean, sir.
Peach. Of a jointure, and of being a widow.
Polly. But I love him, sir: how then could 1 have
thoughts of parting with him ?
Peach. Parting with him! why that is the whole
.scheme and intention of all marriage articles. The
oomfortable state of a widowhood is the only hope
that keeps up a wife's spirits. Where is the wo¬
man who would scruple to be a wife, if she had it
in her power to be a widow whenever she pleased?
If you have any views of this sort, Polly, I shall
think the match not so very unreasonable.
Polly. How I dread to bear your advice! yet I
must beg you to explain yourself.
Peach. Secure what he hath got; have him
'peached the next sessions, and then at once you
are made a rich widow
Polly. Whatl murder the man I love! the blood
runs cold at my heart at the very thought of it!
Peach. Fie, Polly! what hath murder to do in
the affair ? Since the thing sooner or later must
happen, I dare say that the Captain himself would
like that we should get the reward for his death
sooner than a stranger. Why, Polly, the Captain
knows that 'tis bis employment to rob, so 'tis
ours to take robbers. Every man in his business:
so that there is no malice in the case.
Mrs. B. To have him 'peached is the only thing
could ever make me forgive her.
AIB.—POLLY
Oh, ponder well! be not severe;
So save a wre/chi d wife:
For on the rope that hangs my dear,
Depends pour Polly's life.
Mrs. P. But your duty to your parents, hussy,
obliges you to hang him. What would many a wife
give for such an opportunity!
Polly. What is a jointure, what is widowhood, to
me? I know my heart; I cannot survive him.
Thus, sir, it will happen to your poor Polly.
Mrs. P. What! is the fool in love in earnest then ?
I hate thee for being particular. Why, wench, tliou
art a shame to thy very sex.
Polly. But hear me, mother—if you ever loved—
Mrs. P. Those cursed play-books she reads have
been her ruin 1 One word more, bussy, and I shall
knock your brains out, if you have any.
Peach. Keep out of the way. Polly, for fear of
mischief; and consider of what is proposed to you.
>rs. P. Away, hussy! Hang your husband, and
be dutiful [Exit Polly.] The thing, husband, must
and shall be done. If she will not know her duty,
tve know ours.
Peach. But really, my dear, if grieves one's
heart to take off a great man. When I consider
his personal bravery, his fine stratagems, how
much we have already got by him. and how much
more we may get, methinks I can't find in my heart
to have a hand in his death: 1 wish you could have
made Polly undertake it
Mrs. P, But in case of necessity—our own lives
are in danger. ,
Peach. Then, indeed, we must comply with the
customs of the world, and make gratitude give way
to interest: he shall be taken off.
Mrs. P. I'll undertake to manage Polly.
r's opera. 843
Pcndi. And I'll prepare matters for the Old
Bailey. [Exeunt Peachum and Mrs. P.
Enter POLLY.
Polly. Now I'm a wretch, indeed!—Methinks I
see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely
than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd
extolling his resolution and intrepidity!—I see him
at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! What
then will become of Polly? As yet I may inform
him of their designs, and aid him in his escape
It shall be so.—But then he flies, absents himself,
and I bar myself from his dear, dear conversation!
that too will distract me. If he keeps out of the
way, my papa and mamma may in time relent, and
we may be happy. If he stays he is hanged, and
then he is lost for ever 1 He intended to lie con¬
cealed in my room till the dusk of the evening.
If they arc abroad, I'll this instant let him out, lest
some accident should prevent him. (Knocks.)
Enter MACHEATH.
DUET.—MACHEATH and POLLY,
Mac. Pretty Polly, say,
When I was away,
Did your fancy never stray,
To some newer lover t
Polly. Without disguise,
Heaving sighs,
Doaiing eyes,
My constant heart discover
Fondly let me loll!
Mac. 0pretty,pretty Poll!
Polly. And are you as fond of me as ever, my
dear?
Mac. Suspect my honour, my courage, suspect
anything but my love. May my pistols miss lire,
and my mare slip hor Bhoulder, while I am pursued,
if ever I forsake thee!
Polly. Nay, my dear, I have no reason to doubt
you; for I find, in the romance you lent me, none
of the great heroes were false in love.
AIR.—MACHEATH.
My heart teas so free,
It rov'd like the bee.
Till Polly my passion requited;
1 sipp'd each power,
I chany'd ev'ry hour.
But here ev'ry flow'r is united.
Pulli. Were you sentenced to transportation,
sure, my dear, you could not leave me behind you
—could you?
Mac. Is there any power, any force, that could
tear me from thee ? You might sooner tear a pen¬
sion out of the hands of a courtier, a fee from a
lawyer, a pretty woman from a looking-glass, or
any woman from quadrille—but to tear me from
thee is impossible 1
DUET.—MACHEATH and POLLY.
Mac. Were I laid on Greenland's coast,
And m my arms embrae'd my lass,
Warm amidst eternal frost,
Too soon the half-year's night would past.
Polly. Were Isold on Indian soil,
Soon as the burning day was clos'd,
J could mock the sultry toil,
, When on ny charmer's breast repos'd.
654 THE BEGG1.
Mae. Ana J would love yo-i all the day,
Polly. Every night would kite and play;
Mac. If with me you'd fondly stray
Polly. Over the hills andfar away.
Polly. Yes, I would go with thee. But oh! how
shall 1 speak it ? I must be torn from thee ! We
must part!
Mac. How! part?
Polly. We must, we must! My papa and momma
are set against thy life. They now, even now, are
in search after thee: they ore preparing evidence
against thee; thy life depends upon a momeid!
Mac. My hand, my heart, my dear, are so Jivrtod
to thine, that I cannot unloose my hold!
Polly. But my papa may intercept thee, and then
I should lose the very glimmering of hope. A
few weeks, perhaps, may reconcile us all. Shall
thy Polly hear from thee ?
Mac. Must I then go ?
Polly. And will not absence change your love ?
Mac. If you doubt it, let me stay, and be
hanged.
Polly. Oh, how I fear! how I tremble! Go;
but, when safety will give you leave, you will be
sure to see me again ; for, till then, Polly is
wretched.
DUET.—MACHEATH and POLLY.
Mac. The miser thus a shilling sees,
Which he's oblig'd to pay ;
With sighs resigns it by degrees,
And fears 'tis gone for aye.
Polly. The boy thus, when his sparrow's flown,
The bird in silence eyes;
But as soon as out of sight 'tis gone,
Whines, whimpers, sobs, and cries.
[Exeunt.
ACT IL
SCENE L—A Tavern near Newgate.
JEMMY TWITCHER, CROOK-FINGEREDJACR,
WAT DREARY, ROBIN OP BAGSHOT, NIM-
MING NED, HARRY PADDINGTON, MAT-
O'-THE MINT, BEN BUDGE, and the rest of the
Gang, discovered at a table, with wine, brandy, and
tobacco.
Ben. But pr'ythee, Mat, what is become of thy
brother Tom ! I have not seen him since my return
from transportation.
Mat. Poor brother Tom had an accident, this
time twelvemonth, and so clever a made fellow as
he was, I could not save him from those stealing
rascals, the surgeons; and now, poor man, he
is among the otamies at Surgeon's-hall.
Ban. So, it seems, his time was come.
Jemmy. But the present time is ours, and nobody
alive hath more. Why are the laws levelled at us ?
Are we more dishonest than the rest of mankind ?
What we win, gentlemen, is our own, by the law of
arms, and the right of conquest.
Jack. Where shall we find such another set of
practical philosophers; who, to a man, are above
the fear of death ?
Wat. Sound men and true!
Robin, Of tried courage, and indefatigable indus¬
try.
Xed. Who is there here that would not die for hie
friend ?
R'S OPERA.
Harry. Who la there here that would betray him
for his interest ?
Mat. Show me a gang of courtiers that can say
as much.
(All laugh.)
Ben. We are for a just partition of the world;
for every man has a right to enjoy life.
Mat. We retrench the superfluities of mankind.
The world is avaricious, and I hate avarice. A
covetous fellow, like a jackdaw^ steals what he
was never made to enjoy, for the sake of hiding it.
These are the robbers of mankind; for money was
made for the free-hearted and generous: and where
is the injury of taking from another what he hath
not the heart to make use of ?
(All laugh.)
Jemmy. Our several stations for the day are
fixed. Good luck attend us all i Fill the
glasses.
AIR.—MAT.
FiU ev'ry glass for wine inspires us,
And fires us,
With courage, love, and joy.
Women and wine should life emp loy;
Is there aught els: on earth desirous t
Chorus. Fill ev'ry glass, <be.
Enter MACHEATH.
Mac. Gentlemen, well met: my heart hath been
with you this hour, but an unexpected affair hath
detained me. No ceremony, I beg you.
Mat. We were just breaking up, to go upon duty.
Am I to have the honour of taking the air with
you, sir, this evening upon the heath ? I drink a
dram, now and then, with the stage-coachmen, in
the way of friendship and intelligence; and I know
that, about this time, there will be passengers
upon the western road, who are worth speaking
with.
Mac. I was to have been of that party
but——
Mat. But what, sir?
Mac. Is there any one that suspects my
courage ?
Mat. We have all been witnesses of it
Mac. My honour and truth to the gang?
Mat. I'll be answerable for it
Mac. In the division of our booty, have I ever
shewn the least marks of avarice or injustice ?
Mat. By these questions, something seemB to
have ruffled you ? Are any of ub suspected ?
Mac. I have a fixed confidence, gentlemen, in
you all, as men of honour, and as such, I value and
respect you. Peachum is a man that is useful to
us.
Mat. Is he about to show us any foul play ? I'll
shoot him through the head.
All And I.
Mac. I beg yon, gentlemen, act with conduct and
discretion. A pistol is your last resort.
Mat. He knows nothing of this meeting.
Mac. Business cannot go on without him : he is
a man who knows the world, and is a necessary
agent to us. We have had a slight difference:
and, till it is accommodated, I shall be obliged to
keep out of his way. Any private dispute of mina
shall be of no ill consequence to my friends. You
must continue to act under his direction; for the
moment we break loose from him, our gang is
ruined.
Mat. He is, to us, of great convenience.
THE BEGGARS OPERA.
855
Mac. Make him believe I have quitted the
gang.
All. Bow ?
Mac Which I can never do but with life. At our
private quarters I will continue to meet you. A
week, or so, will probably reconcile us.
Mat. Your instructions shall be observed. 'Tis
now high time for us to repair to our several duties;
so, till the evening, at our quarters, in Moorllelds,
we bid you farewell.
Mac. 1 shall wish myself with you. Success at¬
tend you.
(Sits down melancholy at a table.)
AIR and CHORUS.
MAT-O'-THE-MINT and Gang.
Let tit take the road;
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The hour of attack approaches,
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold !
Let the chemists toil like asses,
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns all our lead to gold.
(The Gang ranged in front of the stage, load
their pistols, and stick them under their gir¬
dles; then go off, singing the first part in
chorus.)
Mac. What a fool is a fond wench; Polly is
most confoundedly bit. I love the sex; and a man
who loves money might as well be contented with
one guinea, as I with one woman. The town, per¬
haps, hath been as much obliged to me for recruit¬
ing it with free-hearted ladies, as to any recruit¬
ing officer in the army. If it were not for us, and
the other gentlemen of the sword, Drury-lane would
be uninhabited.
AIR.—MACHEATH.
If the heart of a man is depress'd with cares,
The mi t is dispell'<1 when a wom-m appears;
Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweet.y, sweetly,
Raises the spirits, and charms our ears.
Ruses and lilies her cheeks disclose.
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.
Press her,
Caress her,
With blisses,
Her kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure and soft repose.
I must have women; there is nothing unbends the
mind like them: money is not so strong a cordial
for the time. Drawer!
Enter Drawer.
Is the porter gone for all the ladies, according to
my directions ?
Drawer. I expect him back every minute: but
you know, sir, you sent him as far as Hockley-in-
the-hole for three of the ladies; for one in Vine¬
gar-yard, and for the rest of them, somewhere
about Lewkner's-Iane. Sure some of them are
below, for I hear the bar bell. As they come, I will
shew them up. Coming I coming! [Exit,
En'er MRS. COAXER, DOLLY TRULL, MRS.
VIXEN BETTY DOXY, JENNY DIVER, MRS.
SLAMMERKIN, SUKEY TAWDRY, and
MOLLY BRAZEN.
Mac. (Saluting them.) Dear Mrs. Coaxer, you
are welcome; you look charmingly to-day: 1 hope
you don't want the repairs of quality, and lay on
paint Dolly Trull, kiss me, you slut; you are
always so taken up with stealing hearts, that you
don't allow yourself time to steal anything'else.
Ah, Dolly 1 thou wilt ever be a coquette. Mrs.
Vixen, I'm yours ; I always loved a woman of
wit and spirit; they make charming mistresses,
but plaguy wives. Betty Doxy, come hither,
hussy; do you drink as hard as ever? You had
better stick to good wholesome beer; for, in troth,
Betty, strong waters will, in time, ruin your con¬
stitution ; you should leave those to your betters.
What, and my pretty Jenny Diver, too, as prim
and demure as ever: there is not any prude,
though ever so hi^h bred, hath a more sanctified
look, with a more mischievous heart. Ah, thou
art a dear, artful hypocrite. Mrs. Slammerkin, as
eareless and genteel as ever. All you fine iadies,
who know your own beauty, affect an undress.
But see, here's Sukey Tawdry come to contradict
what I was saying. Molly Brazen! (She kisses him.)
That's well done! I love a free-hearted wench:
thou hast a most agreeable assurance, girl, and art
as willing as a turtle.
AIR AND CHORUS.
MACHEATH and Ladies.
Youth's the season made for joys,
Love is then our duty;
She alone who that employs,
Well deserves her beauty.
Let's be gay,
While we may.
Beauty's a flower despis'd in decay.
Youth's the season, Ac.
Chorus.
Let us drink and sport to-day,
Our's is not to-morrow;
Love with youth flies swift away,
Age is nought but sorrow.
Dance and sing.
Time's on the wing,
Lfe never knows the return of spring.
Chorus. Let us drink, Ac.
Mac. Now, pray ladies, take your places. Here,
Drawer, bring us more wine. If any of the ladies
choose gin, I hope they will be so free as to call for
it
Jenny. You look as if you meant me. Wine is
strong enough for me. Indeed, sir, I never drink
strong waters but when I have the cholic.
Mac. Just the excuse of the fine ladies: why a
lady of quality is never without the cholic. I hope,
Mrs. Coaxer, you have had good success of late in
your visits among the mercers.
Mrs. C. We have so many interlopers; yet, with
industry, one may still have a little picking. If any
woman hath more art than another, to be sure 'tis
Jenny Diver.
Mac. Have done with your compliments, ladies,
and drink about You are not so fond of me, Jenny,
as you used to be.
Jenny. 'Tis not convenient, sir, to shew my fond¬
ness among so many rivals. 'Tis your own choice,
and not the warmth of my inclination, that will de¬
termine you. But, to be sure, sir, with so much
good fortune as you have had upon the road, yon
must be grown immensely rich.
Mac. The road, indeed, hath done me justice
but the gaming-table hath been my ruin.
8M THE BEGGM
Jenny. A man of conrage should never put any¬
thing to the risk but his life. These are the tools
of a man of honour; (putting his pistols on the table)
cards and dice are only fit for cowardly cheats,
who prey upon their frends. (She takes up one of
his pistols, Sukey Tawdry the other.i
Sukey. This, sir, is fitter for your hand. Besides
your loss of money, 'tis a loss to the ladies. How
fond could I be of you; but, before company, 'tis
Ill-bred.
Mac. Wanton hussies!
Jenny. I must, and will, have a kiss to give my
wine a zest. (They take him about the neck, and
make sions to Peachum and Constables, who rush in
upon him.)
Peach. I seize you, sir, as my prisoner.
Mac. Was this well done, Jenny? Women are
decoy ducks. Who can trust them? Jades, jilts,
furies!
Peach. Your case, Mr. Macbeath, is not parti¬
cular. The greatest heroes have been ruined by
women.—But to do them justice, I must own they
are a pretty sort of creatures, if we could trust
them. You must now, sir, take your leave of the
ladies: and if they have a mind to make you a
visit, they will be sure to find you at home. This
gentleman, ladies, lodges in Newgate. Constables,
wait upon the Captain to his lodgings.
AIR—MACHEATH.
At the tree 1 shall suffer with pleasure,
At the tree I shall suff>r with p.easure;
Let me go where I will,
In all kinds of ill,
I shall find no such furies as these are.
[Exit, guarded by Peachum and Constables-
Mrs. V. Lookye, Mrs. Jenny; though Mr.
Peachum may have made a private bargain with
you and Sukey Tawdry, for betraying the Captain,
as we were all assisting, we ought to share alike.
Jenny. As far as a bowl of punch, or a treat, I be¬
lieve, Mrs. Sukey will join me; as for anything
else, ladies, you cannot, in conscience, expect it.
Mrs. S. Dear madam 1 (Offering to pass to Mrs.
Vixen.)
Mrs. V. I wouldn't for the world.
Mrs. S. Nay, then I muststay here all night.
Mrs. V. Since you command me—
Mrs. S. (After having given way to Mrs. Vixen, pushes
her from the door. Let your betters go before you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Newgate.
Enter LOCKlT, MACHEATH, and Constables.
Lockit. Noble Captain, you are welcome! You
have not been a lodger of mine this year and a half.
You know the custom, sir: garnish, Captain, gar¬
nish. Hand me down those fetters there. (Noise of
chains behind.)
Mac. Those, Mr. Lockit, seem to be the heaviest
of the whole set. With your leave, I should like
the further pair better.
Lockit. Lookye, Captain, we know what is fittest
for our prisoners. W ben a gentleman uses me with
civility, I always do the best I can to please him.
Hand them down, I say! We have them ©fall
prices, from one guinea to ten; and'tis fitting every
gentleman should please himself.
Mac. I understand you, sir. (Gives money.) The
fees here are 60 many, and so exorbitant, that few
H'S OPERA
fortunes can bear the expense of getting off hand*
eomely, or of dying like a gentleman.
Lockit. Those, I see, will fit tho Captain better.
Take down the further pair.
Enter Turnkey with the chains.
Do but examine them, sir. Never was better
work; how genteelly they are made! They will sit
as easy as a glove, and the nicest man in Eng:and
might not be ashamed to wear them. (lie puts on
the chains.) If I had the best gentleman in the land
in my custody, I could not equip him more hand¬
somely. And so, sir, I now leave you to your pri¬
vate meditations. [Exeunt Lockit and Turnkey.
AIR—MACHEATH.
Man may escape from rope and gun.
Nay, some have outliv'd the doctoi-'spill-.
Woo takes a woman must be undone,
That basilisk is sure to kill.
The fly, that sips treacle, is lost in the sweets,
So he that tastes woman, wo - an, woman,
He that tastes woman, ruin meets.
To what a woeful plight have I brought myself!
Here must I (all day long, till I am hanged,) be con¬
fined to hear the reproaches of a wench who lays
her ruin at my door. 1 am in the custody of her
father; and to be sure, if he knows of the matter,
I shall have a fine time on't betwixt this and my
execution. But I promised the wench marriage.
What signifies a promise to a woman? Does not
man. in marriage itself, promise a hundred things
that he never means to perform ? Do all we can,
women will believe us ; for they look upon a pro¬
mise as an excuse for following their own inclina¬
tions. But here comes Lucy, and I cannotget from
her; 'would I were deaf!
Enter LUCY, through the arch.
Lucy. You base man, you!, how can you look me
in the face, after what hath passed between us! Oh.
Macheath! thou hast robbed me of my quiet To
see thee tortured would give me pleasure.
AIR.—LUCY.
Thus, when a good housewife sees a rat,
In her trap, in the morning taken.
With pleasure her heart goespii-a-pat,
In revenge for her loss of bacon.
Then she throws him
To the dog or cat.
To be worried, crush'd, and shaken.
Mac. Have you no tenderness, my dear Lucy!
to see your husband in these circumstances?
Lucy. A husband!
Mac. In eveiy respect but the form; and that,
my dear, may be said over us at any time. Friends
should not insist upon ceremonies. From a man of
honour, his word is as good as his bond.
Lucy, it is the pleasure of all you fine men to in¬
sult the women you have ruined.
Mac. The very first opportunity, my dear (but
have patience), you shall be my wife in whatever
manner you please.
Lucy, insinuating monster! And so you think 1
know nothing of the affair of Miss Polly Peachum ?
1 could tear thy eyes out.
Mac. Sure, Lucy, you can't be such a fool as to be
jealous of Polly ?
Lu.y. Are you not married to her, you brute;
you?
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
85»
Mac. Married! very good. The wench gives it
out only to vex thee, and to ruin me in thy good
opinion. 'Tis true I go to the house, I chat with
tho girl, I say a thousand things to her as all gen¬
tlemen do), that mean nothing, to divert myBelf;
and now the silly jade has set it about that 1 am
married to her. indeed, my dear Lucy, those violent
passions may be of ill consequence to a woman in
your condition.
Lucy. Come, come, Captain, for all your assur¬
ance, you know that Miss Polly hath put it nut of
your power to do me the justice you promised me.
Mae. A jealous woman believes everything her
passion suggests. To convince you of my sincerity,
If we can ilnd the'ordinary, I shall have no scruples
of making you my wife ; and I know the conse¬
quence of having two at a time.
Lucy. That you are only to be hanged, and so get
rid of them both.
Mac. I am ready, my dear Lucy, to give you sa¬
tisfaction ; if you think there is any in marriage.
What can a man of honour say more ?
Lucy. So then, it seems ? you are not married to
Miss Polly?
Mac. You know, Lucy, the girl is prodigiously
conceited: no man can say a civil thing to her, but
(like other fine ladies) her vanity makes her think
he's her own forever and ever.
AIR. —MACHE ATH.
The first lime at the looking-glass
The mother sets her daughter,
The image strikes the smiling lass
With self-lore ever after.
Each time she looks, she fonder grown,
Thinks every charm grows stronger;
But. alas, vain maul. 1 all eyes but your own
Can see you are not younger.
When women consider their own beauties, they are
all alike unreasonable in their demands; for they
expect their lovers should like them as long as they
like themselves.
Lucy. Yonder is my father; perhaps, this way
we may light upon the ordinary, who shall try if
you will be as good as your word; for I long to be
made an honest woman.
[Exeunt.
Enter PEACHUM, and LOCKIT with cm account
book.
Lockit. In this last affair, brother Pcachum, we
are agreed. Ycu have consented to go halves in
Macheath.
Peach. We shall never fail out about an execu¬
tion. But as to that article, pray how stands your
last year's account ?
Lockit. If you will run your eye over it, you'll
fin 1 'tis fairly and clearly stated.
/'each. This lohg arrear of the government is
very hard upon us. Can it be expected that we
should hang our acquaintances for nothing, when
our betters will hardly save theirs without being
paid for it ? Unless the people in employment pay
better, I. promise them for the future I shall let
other rogues live beside their own.
Lockit. Perhaps, brother, they are afraid those
matters may be carried too far. We are treated,
too, by them with contempt, as if our profession
were not reputable.
Peach. In one respect, indeed, our employment
may be reckoned dishonest; because, like great
statesmen, we encourage those who betray their
friends.
Lockit. Such language, brother, anywhere else,
might turn to your prejudice. Learn to be more
guarded, I beg you
AIR.—LOCKIT
When you censure the age,
Be cautious and sage,
Lest the courtiers offended should be;
If you mention vice or bribe,
"Pis so pat 10 all the tribe.
Each cries—That was levell'dat me.
Peach. Here's poor Ned Clincher's name, I see.
Sure, brother Lockit, there was a little unfair pro¬
ceeding in Ned's case; for he told me, in tho con¬
demned hold, that, for value received, you had
promised him a session or two longer without mo¬
lestation.
Lockit. Mr. Peachum, this is the first time my
honour was ever called in question.
Peach. Business is at an end, if once we act dis¬
honourably
Lockit. Who accuses me ?
Peach. You are warm, brother.
Lockit. He that attacks my honour, attacks my
livelihood; and this usage—sir—is not to be borne.
Peach. Since you provoke me to speak, 1 must
tell you, too, that Mrs. Coaxer charges you with de¬
frauding her of her information-money for the ap¬
prehending of curl-pated Hugh. Indeed, indeed,
brother, we must punctually pay our spies, or we
shall have no information.
Lockit. Is this language to me, Birrah! who have
saved you from the gallows, sirrah \ •.Collaringeach
other.)
Peach. If I am hanged, it shall be for ridding the
wovld of an arrant rascal.
Lockit. This hand shall do the office of the halter
you deserve, and throttle you—you dog!
Peach. Brother, brother; we are both in the
wrong; we shall be both losers in the dispute; for
you know we have it in our power to hang each
other. You should not be so passionate.
Lockit. Nor you so provoking.
Peach. 'Tis our mutual interest; 'tis for the in¬
terest of the world, we should agree. If I said
any tiling, brother to the prejudice of your charac¬
ter, 1 ask pardon.
Lockit. Brother Peachum, I can forgive as well
as resent. Give me your hand. Suspicion does not
become a friend.
Peach. I only meant to give you occasion to jus-
tifly yourself. But I must now step home, for I
expect the gentleman about this snuff-box that
Filch mmmed two nights ago in the park. I ap¬
pointed him at this hour. [Exit.
Enter LUCY.
Lockit. Whence come you, hussy?
Lucy. My tears might answer that question.
Lockit. You have been whimperirij; and fondling,
like a spaniel, over the fellow that hath abused
you.
Lucy. One can't help love; one can't cure it 'Tis
not in my power to obey you and hate him.
Lockit. Learn to bear your husband's death like
a reasonable woman. 'Tis not the fashion uow-a-
dnys so much as to affect sorrow upon these occa¬
sions. Act like a woman of spirit, hussy, and thank
your father for what he is doing.
g5g saju
AIR—LUCY.
U then, his fate decreed, sir t
Such a man can J think of quitting t
When first we met, so moves me yet.
Oh, see how my heart is splitting 1
Lockit. Lookye, Lucy, there is no saviDg him; so
I think you must even do like other widows, buy
yourself weeds, aud be cheerful.
AIR—LOCKIT.
Tou'll think, ere many days ensue,
This sentence not severe;
I hang your husband, child, 'tis true,
But with him hung your care.
Twang dillo dee.
[Exit.
Enter MACHEATH.
Lucy. Though the ordinary was out of the way
to-day, I hope, my dear, you will, upon the first op¬
portunity, quiet my scruples. Oh, sir! my father's
hard heart is not to be softened, and I am in the
utmost despair.
Mac. But if I could raise a small sum—would not
twenty guineas, think you, move him ? Of all the
arguments in the way of business, the perquisite is
the most prevailing. Money, well-timed, and
properly applied, will do anything.
Lucy. What love or money can do shall be done:
for all my comfort depends upon your safety
Enter POLLY.
Polly. Where is my dear husband ? Was a rope
ever intended for this neck? Why dost thou turn
away from me ? 'tis thy Polly; 'tis thy wife.
Hoc. Was ever such an unfortunate rascal as I
am!
Lucy. Was there ever such another villain 1
Polly. Oh, Macheath! was it for this we parted?
Taken I imprisoned! tried ! hanged! Cruel reflec¬
tion! I'll stay with thee till death: no force shall
tear thy dear wife from thee now. What means my
love? Not one kind word! not one kiud look!
Think what thy Polly suffers to see thee in this
condition!
Mar. I must disown her. (Aside.) The wench is
distracted !
Lucy. Am I then bilked of my virtue? Can I have
no reparation ? Sure mm were born to lie, and
women to believe them! Ob, villain ! villain!
Polly. Am I not thy wiie? Thy neglect of me,
thy aversion to me, too severely proves it. .Look on
me. Tell me, am I not thy wife ?
Lucu. Perfidious wretch!
Polly. Barbarous husband!
Lucy. Hadst thou been hanged five months ago
I had been happy.
Polly. If you had been kind to me till death, it
would not ha ve vexed me.
Lucy. Art thou, then, married to another? Hast
thou two wives, monster?
Mac. If woman's tongue can cease for an answer;
hear me.
Lucy. I won't Flesh and blood can't bear my
usage.
Potty. Shall not I claim my own? Justice bibs,
arc speak.
It s UPJSKA.
AIR -MACHEATH.
, Bow happy could I he with either,
Were t'other dear charmer aiccrjt
But while ye thus teaze me together,
To neither a word will I say;
But toll de rot, dec.
(Throws himself carelessly on the table.)
Polly. Sure, my dear, there ought to be some
preference shewn, to a wife; at least, she may
claim the appearance of it. He must be distracted
with misfortunes, or he could not use me thus.
(Aside.)
Lucy. O villain ! villain! thou hast deceived me:
I could even inform against thee with pleasure.
Not a prude wishes more heartily to have facts
against her intimate acquaintance, than 1 now wish
to have facts against thee. I would have her sa¬
tisfaction, and they should all out
DUET.—POLLY and LUCE.
Polly. Im buhbied.
Lucy. Pm bubbled.
Polly. Oh, how Tm troubled/
Lucy. Bamboozled and bit.
Polly. My distresses are doubled.
Lucy. When you come to the tree, should the hang¬
man refuse,
These fingers with pleasure could fasten the
noose.
Polly. Tm bubbled, dec.
Mac. Be pacified, my dear Lucy; this is all a
fetch of Polly's, to make me desperate with you, in
case I get off. If I am hanged, she would fain have
the credit of being thought my widow. Beally,
Polly, this is no time for a dispute of this sort; for
whenever you are talking of marriage, I am
thinking of hanging.
Polly. And hast thou the heart to persist in dis¬
owning me ?
Mac. And hast thou the heart to persist in per¬
suading me that I am married ? Why, Polly, dost
thou seek to aggravate my misfortunes?
Lucy. Really, Miss Peachum, you do but expose
yourself: besides, 'tis barbarous in you to worry
a gentleman in his circumstances, Miss Polly.
AIR.—POLLY
Cease your funning:
Force or cunning
Eever shall my heart lrepan\
All these sit lies
Are but malice.
To seduce my constant man..
'Tis most certain,
By their flirting.
Women oft have envy shewn t
Pleased to ruin
Others' wooing,
Necer happy in theer own.
Decency, madam, methinns. might teach you to
behave youi self with some reserve to the husband,
while his wife is present.
Mac. Put, seriously, Polly, this is carrying the
joke a little too far.
Lucy. If you are determined, madam, to raise a
disturbance in the prison, 1 ahull be obliged to
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
859
send for the turnkey, to shew you the door. I
am sorry, madam, you force me to be so ill-bred,
madam.
Polly. Give me leave to tell you, madam, these
forward airs don't become you in the least, madam;
and my duty, madam; obliges me to stay with my
husband, madam.
DUET—LUCY and POLLY.
Lucy. Why, how now madam Flirt t
If you thus must chatter,
And are for flinging dirt.
Let's try who best can spatter.
Madam Flirt t
Polly Why, how now, saucy jade t
Sure the wench is tipsy I
How can you see me made (To him.)
The scoff of such a gipsy t
Saucy Jade!
(To her.)
Enter PEACHUM.
Peach. Where's my wench? Ah, hussy, hussy 1
Come home, you slutl and when your fellow is
hanged, hang yourself, to make your family some
amends.
Polly. Dear, dear father! do not tear me from
him. I must speak; I have more to say to him,
Oh I twist thy fetters about me, that he may not
haul me from thee.
Peach. Sure, all women are alike; if ever they
commit one folly, they are sure to commit another,
by exposing themselves. Away 1 not a word more.
You are my prisoner, now, hussy.
AIR.—POLLY.
No pow'r on earth can e'er divide
The knot that sacred love hath tied;
When parents draw against our mind.
The truelove's knot they faster bind.
Oh, oh, ray, oh, Amborah. Oh, oh, ice.
(Holding Macheath, Peachum pulling her.
[.Exeunt Peach, and Polly. Lucy seats
herself.
Mac. I am naturally compassionate, wife, so that
could not use the wench as she deserved, which
made you, at first, suspect there was something in
what she said.
Lucy. Indeed, my dear, I wbb strangely puzzled.
Mac. If that had been the case, her father would
never have brought me into this circumstance.
No, Lucy, I had rather die than be false to
thee.
Lucy. How happy am I, if you say this from
your heart; for I love thee so, that I could sooner
bear to see thee hanged, than in the arms of
another.
Mac. But couldst tbou bear to see me hanged ?
Lucy. Oh, Macheath 1 I could never live to see
that day.
Mac. You see, Lucy, in the account of love, you
are in my debt. Make me, if possible, love thee
more; and let me owe my life to thee. If yon
refuse to assist me, Peachum and your father' will
immediately put me beyond all means of es¬
cape,
Lucy. My father, I know, hath been drinking
bard with the prisoners, and I fancy be is now
taking his nap in his own room; if I can procure
the keys, shall I go off with thee, my dear?
Mac. If we are together, 'twill be impossible to
lie concealed. As soon as the search begins to be a
little cool, I. will send to thee; till then, my heart is
thy prisoner.
Lucy. Come then, my dear husband, owe thy life
to me ; apd though you love me not, be grateful.
But that Polly runs in my head strangely.
Mac. A moment of time may make us unhappy
for ever.
AIR—LUCY
I like the fox shall grieve,
Whose mate hath left her side;
Whom hounds from mom to eve,
Chase o'er the country wide.
Where can my lover hide f
Where cheat the weary pack!
If love be not his guide.
He never will come back,
[Sjctmi.
ACT in.
SCENE L—Newgate.
Enter LUCY and LOCKIT.
Lockit. To be sure, wench, you must have been
aiding and abetting to help him to this escape;
Lucy. Sir, here hath been Peachum, and his
daughter Polly; and, to be sure, they know the
ways of Newgate aB well as if they had been born
and bred in the place all their lives. Why must all
your suspicions light upon me ?
Lockit. Lucy, Lucy, I will have none of these
shuffling answers.
Lucy. Well then, if I know anything of him, I
wish I may be burned. '
Lockit. Keep your temper, Lucy, or I shall pro¬
nounce you guilty.
Lucy. Keep yours, sir; I do wish I may be
burned, 1 do; and what can I say more to convince
you?
Lockit. Did he tip handsomely? How much did
he come ddwn with? Come, hussy, don't cheat your
father, and I shall not be angry with you. Perhaps
you have made a better bargain with him than I
could have done. How much, my good girl ?
Lucy. You know, sir, I am fond of him, and
would have given money to have kept him with
me.
Lockit. Ah, Lucy! thy education might have put
thee more upon thy guard: for a girl, in the bar of
an alehouse, is always besieged.
Lucy. If you can forgive me, sir, I will make a
fair confession; for, to be sure, he hath been a most
barbarous villain to me.
Lockit. And so you have let him escape, husBy,
have you?
Lucy. WheD a woman loves, a kind look, a tender
word, can persuade her to anything, and I could ask
no other bribe. Notwithstanding all he swore, I am
now fully convinced that Polly Peachum is actually
his wife. Did I let him escape, fool that I was, to
go to her? Polly will wheedle herself into his
money; and then Peachum will hang him, and cheats
us both.
Lockit. So I am to be ruined, because, forsooth,
you must be in love! A very pretty excuse
Lucy. I gave him his life, and that creature en-
joys the sweets of it. Ungrateful Macheathl
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
MO
AIR-LUCY.
My love is all madness and folly;
Alone I lie,
Toss, tumble, and cry, •
What a happy creature is Pdly t
Was e'er such a icretch as IT
With rage I redden like scarlet,
That my dear inconstant varlet.
Stark b ind to my charms,
Is lost in the arms
Of that jilt, thot inveigling harlotI
Stark blind to my charms.
Is lost in the arms ,
Of that jilt, that inveigling karlotl
This, this my resentment alarms.
Lockit. And so, after all this mischief, I must stay
here to be entertained with your caterwauling,
Mistress Puss! Out of my sight, wanton strumpet!
You shall fast and mortify yourself into reason,
with, now and then, a little handsome discipline, to
bring you to your senses. Gol [Exit Iyucy.l,
Peachum, then, intends to outwit me in this affair,
but I'll be even with him. The dog is leaky in his
liquor, so I'll ply him that way. get; the secret from
him. and turn this affair to my own advantage,
Lucy I
Enter LUCY.
Are there any of Peachum's people now in the
house?
Lucy. Filch, sir, is drinking a quartern of strong
waters, in the next room, with Black Moll.
Lockit. Bid him come to me.
[Exit Lucy-
Enter FILCH.
Why, boy, thou lookest as if thou wert half starved,
like a shotten herring. But, boy, canst thou tell me
where thy master is to be found?
Eilch. At his lock, sir, at the Crooked Billet
Lockit. Very well, I have nothing more with you.
[Exit Filch.] I'll go to him there, for I have many
important affairs to settle with him, and in the way
of those transactions, I'll artfully get into his
secret; so that Macheath shall not remain a day
longer out of my clutches.
[Exit.
Enter LUCY.
Lucy. Jealousy, rage, love, and fear, are at once
tearing me to pieces. How am I weather-beaten
and shattered with distress 1
AIR.—LUCY.
1 am like a skiff on the ocean tost,
k'ow high, now low, with each billow borne,
With lur rudder broke and her anchor lost,
Deserted and all forlorn.
While thus I lie lolling and tossing all night,
That Polly lies sporting on seas of delight I
Revenge, revenge, revenge.
Shall appease my restless sprite.
I have the ratsbane ready. But say I were to be
hanged, I never could be hanged for anything that
would give me greater comfort than the poisoning
that slut.
Enter FILCH.
Filch. Madam, here's Miss Polly come to wait
upon you.
Lucy, s>hew her in.
[Exit Filch.
Enter POLLY.
Dear madam, your servant. I hope you will par.
don my passion when I was so happy to see you
last. I was so overrun with the spleen, that I
was perfectly out of myself; and really, when one
hath the spleen, everything is to be excused by a
friend.
AIR—LUCY
When a Wife's in the pout,
(As she's sometimes, no doubt,)
The good husband, as nvek as a lamb,
Her vapours to still,
First grants her her will,
And the quieting draught is a dram;
Poor man I and the quieting draught is a dram,
I wish all our quarrels might have so comfortable
a reconciliation.
Polly. I have no excuse for my own behaviour,
madam, but my misfortuues; and really, madam,
I suffer, too, upon your account.
Lucy. But, Miss Polly; in the way of friendship,
will you give me leave to propose a glass of cordial
to you?
Potty. Strong waters are apt to give me tho head
ache. I hope, madam, you will excuse me.
Lucy. Not the greatest lady in the land could
have better in her closet for her own private drink¬
ing. You seem mighty low in Bpirits, my dear.
Polly. I am sorry, madam, my health will not
allow me to accept of your offer: I should not have
left you in the rude manner I did, when we met
last, madam, had not my papa hauled me away so
unexpectedly. I was, indeed, somewhat provoked,
and perhaps might use some expressions that were
disrespectful; hut really, madam, the Captaiu
treated me with so much contempt and cruelty,
that I deserved your pity rather than your resent¬
ment.
Lucy. But since his escape* no doubt, all matters
are made up again. Ah! Polly, Polly! 'tis I am
the unhappy wife, and he loveB you as if you were
only his mistress.
Polly. Sure, madam, you cannot think me so
happy as to be the object of your jealousy. A
mau is always afraid of a women who loves him
too well. so that I must expect to he neglected
and avoided.
Lucy. Then our cases, my dear Polly, are ex¬
actly alike: both of us, indeed, have been, too
fond. Indeed, my dear Polly, we are both of us a
cup too low; let me prevail upon you to accept of
my offer.
AIR—LUCY.
Come, sweet lass,
Let's banish sorroto
Till to-morrow;
Come, sweet lass.
Let's take a chirping glass.
Wine can clear
The vapours of despair,
And make us light as air;
Then drink and banish care,
I can't hear, child, to see you in such low spirits!
and I must persuade you to what I know will do
you good,
(Exit.
Polly. All this wheedling of Lacy can't be lot
nothing—at. this time, too, when I know she hates
THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.
961
me. The dlssemoitug of women is always the fore¬
runner of mischief. By pouring strong.waters
down my throat, she thinks to pump some secrets
out of me: 1'' be upon my guard, and won't tasto
a drop of h liquor, I'm resolved.
Re-enter LUCY, with strong waters.
Lucy. Come, Miss Polly.
Polly Indeed, child, you have given yourself
trouble to no purpose; you must, my dear, excuse
me.
Lucy. Really, Miss Polly, you are as squeam¬
ishly affected about taking a cup of strong waters
as a lady before company.
Polly. What do I see? Macheath again in cus¬
tody! Now every glimmering of happiness is
lost!
, (Drops the glass of liquor on the ground.)
Enter LOCKIT, MACHEATH, PEACHDM, and
Constables.
Lockit. Set your heart at rest, Captain: you have
neither the chance of love or money for another
escape, for you are ordered to be called down upon
your trial immediately.
Peach. Away, husBies! This is not a time for a
man to be hampered with his wives; you see the
gentleman is in chains already.
Lucy, Oh, husband, husband! njy heart longed
to see thee; but to see thee thus distracts ine!
Polly. Will not my dear husband look upon his
Polly ? why hadst thou not flown to me for protec¬
tion? With me thou hadst been safe.
DUET.-POLLY and LUCY.
Polly. Hither, dear husband, turn your eyes t
Lucy.
Polly.
Lucy. Oh ! shun me not, but hear met
Polly. 'Tis Polly sues.
Lucy, 'Tis Lucy speaks.
Polly. Is thus true love requited!
Lucy. My heart is bursting I
Polly, Mine too, breaks !
Lucy. Mud 1
Polly. Must I be slighted1
Mac. What would you have me say, ladies ? You
Bee the affair will soon be at an end, without my
disobliging either of you.
Peach. But the settling of this point, Captain,
might prevent a lawsuit between your two ladies.
AIR.—MACHEATH.
IVhich way shall I turn me T how can 1 decide t
Wives, the day of your death, are as fond as a bride.
One wife's too much for most husbands to hear.
But two at a time, there's no mortal can bear !
Th.s way, and that way, andwhich way 1 will,
What would comfort the one, t'other wife would take
ill!
Polly. But if his own misfortunes,.have made him
insensible to mine, a father, sure will be more com¬
passionate. Dear, dear sir! sink the material evi¬
dence, and bring him off at his trial. Polly, upon
her knees, begs it of you.
AIR.—POLLY.
When my hero in court appears.
And stands arraign'd for his life,
. Then think of poor Polly's tears,
For ah ! poor Polly's his wife.
Like the sailor, he holds up his hand,
Distress'd on the dashing wave;
To die a dry death at land
Is as bad as a watery grave.
And alas, poor Polly!
Alack, and well-a-day !
Before I was in love,
Oh, ev'ry month was May !
Peach. Set your heart at rest, Polly; your bus
band is to die to-day; therefore, if you are not al¬
ready provided 'tis high time to look about for an¬
other. There's comfort for you, you slut!
Lockit. W e are ready, sir, to conduct you to the
Old Bailey.
AIR.—MACHEATH.
The charge is prepared, the lawyers are met,
The judges all ranged; a terrible show;
J go undismayed, for death is a debt—
A debt on demand, so take what I owe.
Then, farewell, my love; dear charmers, adieu I
Contented I die; 'tis the better for you.
Here ends all dispute, for the rest of our lives,
For this way at once, I please all my wives.
Now, gentlemen, I am ready to attend you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Another part of the Prison.
Dance of Prisoners in fetters.
MEDLEY.
Oh, cruel, cruel, cruel case I
Must I suffer this d.sgrace I
Of all the friends in time of grief,
When threat'ning death looks grimmer,
Not one so sure can bring relief,
As this best friend, a brimmer. (Drinks.)
Since I must swing, 1 scorn, — I scorn to wince or
whine: (Rises.)
But now again my spirits sink,
I'll raise them high with wine. (Drinks.)
But valour the stronger grows,
Th" stronger liquor were drinking;
And how can we feel our woes,
When we've lost the trouble of thinking !
(Drinks.)
If thus a man can die.
Much bolder with brandy.
(Pours out a bumper of brandy j
So I drink off this bumper! and now I can stand the
test.
And my comrades shall see that I die as brave a; Vie
best (Drinks.)
But can I leare my pretty hussies
Wi'hout one tear or tender sigh !
Tue-ir eyes, their lips, their busses.
Recall my love:—Ah! must J diet
Since laws were made for every degree,
To curb vice in others, as well as in me,
I wonder we ha'n'l better company
Upon Tyburn tree.
Bestow one glance to cheer me !
Think, with that look, thy Polly diet.
SCENE III.—The condemned hold.
MACHEATH in a melancholy posture.
862 THE BEGG./
But gold from law eon take out the sting;
And if rich men, like us, were <o swing,
'Ticould thin the land, such numbers to string
Upon Tyburn tree.
Enter Gaoler.
Gaoler. Some friends of yours, Captain, desire
to be admitted: I leave you together.
Enter BEN BUDGE, and MAT-O'-THE-MINT; the
Gaoler searches them, and exit.
Mac. For having broke prison, you see, gentle-
meu, I am ordered for immediate execution. The
sheriff's officers, I believe, are now at the door.
That Jemmy Twitcher should 'peach me, I own,
surprised me. 'Tis a plain proof that the world is
all alike, and that even our gang can no more
trust one another than other people; therefore, 1
beg yon, gentlemen, to look well to yourselves;
for, in all probability, you may live some months
longer.
Mat. We are all heartily sorry, Captain, for
your misfortune; but'tis what we must all come
to.
Mac. Peachum and Lockit, you know, are infa¬
mous scoundrels; their lives are as much in your
power, as yours are in theirs. Remember your
dying friend: 'tis my last request: bring those
villains to the gallows before you, and I am satis¬
fied.
Mat. We'll do it
Enter Gaoler.
Gaoler. Miss Polly and Miss Lucy entreat a word
with you. [Exit.
Mac. Gentlemen, adiou!
[Exeunt Ben Budge and Mat-o'-lhe-Mint.
Enter LUCY and POLLY.
Mac. My dear Lucy, my dear Polly, whatsoever
natb passed between us is now at an end.
t*S OPERA.
TBIO.—LUCY, POLLY, and MACHEATH,
Lucy. Would I might be hang'it
Polly. And / would so too I
• Lucy. To be hang'd with you.
Polly. My dear with you.
Mac. Oh, leave me, thought! 1 fear—/ doubt!
I trenMe—I droop I See my courage is out.
(Turns up the empty bottle)
Lucy. No token of love t
Polly. Adieu!
Lucy. Farewell!
Mac. But hark ! I hear the tott of the bell.
Re-enter Gaoler.
Gaoler. Four women more, Captain, with a child
a-piece. «
Mac. Tell the sheriffs' officers I am ready.
[Exeunt.
Mob. (Within.) A reprieve, a reprieve!'
Pe-enter MACHEATH, POLLY, LUCY, Ac.
Mac. Look you, ladies, we will have no contro¬
versy now; and ladies, I hope you will give me
leave to present a partner to each of you; and, for
this time, I take Polly for mine; and for life, you
dot, for we are really married.
FINALE.
Thus I stand like the Turk, with his doxies around,
From all sides their glances his passion confound;
For black, brown, and fair, his inconstancy burns,
And the different beauties subdue him by turns:
Each calls forth her charms, to provoke his desires,
Tleough willing to all, with but one he retires;
But think of this maxim, and put off all sorrow,
The wretch of to-day may be happy to-morrow.
CHORUS.
Then think of this maxim, and cast away sorrow.
The wretch of to-day may be happy to-morrow.
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
AN HISTORICAL DRAMA, IN FOUR ACTS.—BY EDWARD STIRLING.
Chevalier 8t. P.—* Two shots, and two of you fall."—Act iii, scene
^persons ite^reseniefr.
Bernard Arthur. Marguerite.
Faubeet. Mabsal. Sylvie de Notes,
Count Hugo d'Iglese. Maiiy de Medicis. Madame de Notes.
Hcquet. Anne of Austria. Courtiers, Pages,
La Venne. Marchioness de Guards, &c.
Valais. Verniul.
Eirst performed at Astley's Theatre, London, May 2,1S64. Licensed.
[The copyright of this drama is exclusively the property of the author, to whom all communications
tuustbe made relative to its being performed.J
Louis the Thirteenth.
Harley.
Marshal d'Ancre.
Chevalier St. Pierre.
Duke d'Epernon.
fcileuk Saubert.
ACT J.
SCENE I.—Gardens of the Tuileries, with Terrace. A
large cage, with birds. At the back, a rampart, be¬
yond which Paris is seen. DE SAUBEltT, and
ARTH U K enter from the quay, Saubert is leading
Arthur.
Arthur. look—look, papa! Oh, what a line
place!
Sieur Sa,u. Do hold your tongue, hoy. Anything
in Paris must be fine—especially the residence of
the king. I wish your brother Bernard had arrived.
This is the spot he wrote for us to meet him at—
Hear the quay stairs. It was fortunate that kind
3To 28.—Dicks' British Drama.
lady came to our rescue in the tumult, or the Mar¬
shal's guard would have carried us off.
A.rthur. llow lovely she was: so gentle, too.
What caresses she gaveme-in her arms—as she
bore me through the crowd. I can never forget
her.
(Bernard enters during this from the quay,
with Faubcrt.)
Fan. Let me have the rare hirds, and make both
our fortunes.
Bern. I can only spare fifty; the remaining fifty
are for my bride.
tArthur, seeing Bernard, runs to him.)
Brother! (Embraces. Kissing him.)
Father!
2 e
864
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
Sieur Sau. (Embracing him.) To hold you in my
arms is a blessing, indeed, my boy.
Bern. Dear father, I never expected it. Six thou¬
sand miles distant. I arrived at Havre safely.
No adventure till I reached the forest of St. Ger-
mains.
Sieur Sau. An adventure ?
Bern. And a very unpleasant one. I was travel¬
ling—half asleep on my horse—the cart and the
birds in advance, when suddenly my horse
stopped: I awoke with a •"v> t close to my ear.
A man, masked, held the bridle, a second held tlie
musket, a third a sword, with a sharp point, too.
Sieur Sau. Robbers ?
Bern. No; one of them gave me a packet with
three seals, making me swear not to open it till I
reached Pans; and I was to deliver the contents
to the address, an hour after my arrival, on pain of
death.
Sieur Sau. You promised this?
Bern. I swore. Now you know the reason I wrote
to you to meet me in the Royal Gardens.
Sieur Sau. This is strange.
Bern. Father, you must know Faubert; he is one
of my best friends (introducing Faubert), and holds
an appointment in the Palace.
Fad>. My office is falconer. Seeing a number
of beautiful birds enter Paris, I inquired wno the
owner was, wishing to purchase them for the
king. Judge my surprise, when I found they were
my friend's.
Sieur Sau. My son's friends are mine.
(Takes his hand.)
Bern. This is the packet of mystery. (Takes
packet from his vest.) Three black seals.
Arthur. Open it; do, do.
Bern. (Breaks seal.) One—(Breaks another.)—Two
—(Breaks the third.)—Three! (Three letters fall out;
Arthur picks them up.)
Arthur. (Reads.) "To M. de Conde, or the Duke
de Vendome."
Bern. (Reading one.) "To the Queen Regent."
Arthur. Oh, myl
Faub. (Reading one.) The—the king—the devil!
This becomes serious. 1 don't like politics. These
cachet des lettres. (Music heard. Trumpets.) Hush !
take your letters, and follow me. The Grand Pre¬
sident is coming. We must not be seen here. We'll
take counsel together. The Pi esident! Fortunate.
(Aside.) [They descend the slairs to the quay.
HARLEY, the. Grand President, enters from the
Palace, with pages and officers.
Bar. (To officers.) Lodge the authors of the revolt
In the Bastile.inthe name of France and the king,
rAll Exit..) Let the titled assassins beware. I hold
feeir destinies in my hand.
(Pierre, clad as a traveller, stealt from a
temple.)
Pierre. And mine—
Barley. Saint Pierre!
Pierre. Has the time arrived ?
Barley. Why did you quit Grenoble, without my
recall ?
Pierre. I came to Paris to witness the wedding of
my nephew. I heard nothing but cries and mur¬
murs of vengeance against the Marshal in the
streets. Their wishes found an echo in my heart.
I want vengeance; I am dying to obtain it! Don't
you require me ? (Touches sword.)
Barley. Not yet
Pierre. When, when? Why defer the blow?
Strike now, my lord,—strike, and deeply! The
people crushed, the nation reduced to slavery and
shame, cry aloud to you for deliverance in their
misery! Is not the king fettered? abuBed, treated
as a child, by thiB accursed faction ? Where is the
heritage of our great king, Henry the Fourth?
Why, in the hands of traitors—Italian brigands!
This Concini, D'Epernon, Iglesias, and tneir crew
of foreign intriguants! All liberty ded down. Their
infamous hands grasp at the Crown itself, encou¬
raged by the Queen Mother's smiles. T, en, why
hesitate to denounce .those murderers, my lord;
you have the proofs of their crime? One word, a
look, a gesture, and their heads roll on die scaffold,
and France is free!
Barley. The testimony that I hold is so terrible,
and touches those so high, that I draw back with
fear and trembling, lest we fail.
Pierre. Fail! we won't fail, my lord. I have but
a life - that 1 stake on it I It is time to save the suf¬
fering, oppressed people. No, no; the axe—the
sword, must rid our country of these vultures.
Hurley. All justice shall be done. They have this
day dared to trample and scoff at the law. ■ hold
truth in one hand, a scourge in the other. I shall
offer them the choice: the scourge or toe scaffold,
They will choose the first, and depart, humbled,
trembling, crawling from our fair land, these
Italian locusts—beggars, as they came!
Pierre. You dream, my lord. It is too late for
them to recede. Power, place, treasure, all lie
before them in France. The stake is worth playing
for. Why, they would destroy you, rather than
quit their game.
Barley. Possibly. Should that be, you are the in¬
strument of their destruction. Leave Paris imme¬
diately ; return not till you receive a message to
come, or that 1 am dead!
Pierre. Heaven guard you from that.
Barley. Away! Someone is coming from the
quay. We must not be seen together. Adieu! Go
by the caverns of Saint Chapelle.
Pierre. (Exits through temple.) Once more con¬
demned to live,
(Saubert is seen ascending from the quay)
Harley. The other witness is needful, before I
strike the blow.
Sieur Sau. (Looking round cautiously.) Alone!
Barley. (Starting.) That voice! This is heaven'•
messenger. Kindness! (iakes his hand.) Our old
friend the advocate, Saubert.
Sieur Sau. Do you deign to recall my name?
Harley. Every honest name is worth recalling.
What brought you to Paris ?
Sieur Sau. ivi y son Bernard, he returned from the
Indies. On his way to Paris, he was stopped by
masked men at Saint Germain's. They made him
swear, on the penalty of death, to deliver three
letters to their addresses. (Gives them to Hark'/.)
Harley. This is serious. (Reading.) Very
Sieur Sau. A friend, to whom Bernard has given
some rare birds for his Majesty, promises to intro¬
duce him to the royal presence, with one of the
letters.
Harley. He has given birds; he requires no fur.
thur interest whatever; Louis is passionately fond
of birds.
Sieur Sau. Very like. But these are fearful
times. Our travellers to be stopped by armed men,
made to take terrible oaths. If I were you——
Harley. What would you do ?
Sieur Sau. Rid society of such rascals.
Barley. You have courage.
Sieur Sau, I had when 1 made that deposition to
vox
THE THREE ]
Barley. Which t would hot receive; though I
Wrote it at your dictation. (Takes paper from a port¬
folio in vest.) There it is. (Places it in Saubert's
hand.)
Sieur San. Yes, yes; word for word; letters of
blood. (Reads.) "The arrival of the assassin Ra-
vaillac at the Marchioness de Verniul's, and con¬
sultation with D'Epernon and Iglese, the night
before Henry the Fourth was killed by Ravaillac's
dagger." All true, every word. The assasins!
Barley. It wants your signature.
Sieur San. (Taking pen from a small bottle, and sign¬
ing paper on a pedestal of stairs.)
Barley. (Snatching paper from Mm.) You are an
honest, good man, and I will not suffer you to sign
until the day comes when 'tis absolutely necessary.
Till then, you shall not compromise yourself use¬
lessly.
Sieur Sau. When the day arrives, I will be ready
to sacrifice life for the truth.
Barley. In the name of heaven and our country,
I thank you. Farewell! I hope I may never call
upon you for the act. [Exits into Palace.
Sieur Sau. (Bowing.) I fear nothing, now Bernard
has returned. Arthur would not be left, if I per¬
ished, unprotected.
(Descends steps to quay. Ladies enter, preced¬
ing Anne of Austria, the young Queen Anne,
pages, and Marie from garden. All exit
but Marie.)
Anne of A. Where is Marguerite?
Marg. (Running on from quay stairs.) Madam!
Anne of A. Watch, Marie; warn us of intruders.
(Marie places herself on terrace.) You are pale, you
are agitated.
Marg. I have been followed, dear madam. With
terror, I fled, and entered the gardens from the
quay. Here I am, safe.
Anne of A. What do you fear, Marguerite?
Marg. The tumults in the streets, crowds assem¬
bling, shouting for vengeance on the Marshal, ter¬
rified me beyond expression.
Anne of A. The people in revolt ?
Mary. They bear the colours of Vendome and
Conde in their caps, and loudly call for the king to
rule.
Anne of A. They do? And your ambuscade in
the Forest of St. Germains—was that successful?
Marg. Beyond our wishes. Disguised in the
page's dress, we placed your letters in good hands,
madame; those of a young man journeying to
Paris from Havre. He possessed a loyal and
honest face. I observed him well from the con¬
cealment I had chosen. When the lacqueys stopped
him, his birds appeared of more consequence to
him than his life. He swore to deliver the three
letters as directed.
Anne of A. Pray heaven he may. We must bo
decisive. Should the king resist, evil be the hour
I first trod on French ground.
Marg. Our fates are united, madame. Married
the same day, born the same hour. (Sighs.) Your
husband is a king—mine—
Anne of A. A creature of the Marshal's. Poor
girl ! I pity you; forced into such a union by the
Queen Mother. Droop not. If our plot succeeds,
you shall share my triumph.
Marie. (On the Terrace.) The king approaches,
madame.
Anne of A. Follow me, quickly! We must not be
observed.
Enter LOUIS, Officers, and Pages.
Louis. Whore are these rare birds; I am anxious
ILACK SEALS. 865
to see them. (Sees cttge.) How beautiful! what rare
plumage.
ANNE, advancing.
Anne of A. Let me admire your favourites,
Louis.
Faub. She hates birds.
Louis. They are superb. I will requite Faubert's
zeal for these.
Faub. (Advancing.) The owner of the birds, sire?
Louis. Good. Pay him, pay him!
Faub. He does not require payment, sire.
Louis. Not——What then?
Faub. He has something to give.
Louis. Give a king ? not take from him. Let me
see this wonder of a man. [Faubert exits.
Anne of A. Our plan succeeds. (Aside.) Will you
attend the council ?
Louis.- Our good mother relieves us from all State
fatigues. (Faubert re-enters, introducing Bernard.
Be kneels.) Rise, sir. You are more than welcome.
What new surprise have you for us. Speak 1
Bern. (Presenting letter.) This letter, sire, that
some unknown in a forest forced upon me to de-
liver, on pain of death.
Louis. Kill you?
Bern. Within two hours, if I refused.
Anne of A. Marguerite's messenger. (Aside.)
Poor fellow!
Louis. And this for a single letter. How
strange.
Bern. Three, sire, if you please.
Louis. Three for me ?
Bern. One for the Queen Regent, the other for
Vendome or Conde.
Louis. Why did you come to me first?
Bern. Simply, because I acknowledge my king as
lord and master, above all.
Louis. A sensible young man this. (To Anne.)
Anne of A. Very much so.
Louis. Give me my letter. (Takes letter.)
Anne of A. At last, I triumph over our enemies.
Louis. Read, Anne; come, read. Let us hear
the contents of the mysterious epistle.
Anne of A. (Reads.) "Sire, you are twenty-
seven—"
Louis. Am I? Yes. Go on.
Anne of A. " And a man capable of ruling the
people heaven has given you to watch over "
Louis. That's true.
Anne of A. "Then why waste you time in idle
pursuits, toying with birds and dogs, where a king¬
dom is misgoverned ? "
Louis. A severe truth. Proceed.
Anne of A. " A kingdom, conquered for you by a
hero, your father; (Rises his hatj and yet, day by
day, cowards and foreign traitors shelter them¬
selves under your name."
Louis. More truths.
Anne of A. " You have friends ready to arm in
your quarrel. Cast off this lethargy. Strike for
France, ere it be too late!"
Louis. How ? when ? (Sighs.)
Anne of A. "Your people cry to ycra for help."
Louis. We must learn the truth. (To Bernard.)
Advance, sir. You are not aware of the contents of
these letters, or can you tell from whence tkey
came?
Bern.. I swear not!
Louis. 'Tis well. Do by my mother exactly as
you have done by me. Faubert will conduct you.
Go.
Anne of A. The council breaks up; the Regent
comes this way. Await her here, young man.
THB THREE BLACK SEALS
SCO
Louis. I have no desire to meet. Let the dukes
come to me, when they arrive.
[Exits through gardens, with Anne, i
Anne of A. (Aside.) Now, I shall bo queen in
reality.
Eaub. Lucky do?. See smiled upon you.
Bern. I shall be lucky, when I am released from
these confounded black seals—two queenB and a
kiD? in one day. Why, it reigns sovereigns.
Faub. Step aside. Music.)
Enter MARY DE MEDICIS, MARSHAL
D'ANCRE, COUNT HUGO D'lGLESE, DUKE
D'EPERNON, guards, nobles, pages, MAR¬
GUERITE, and ladies.
Mary de Med. Not to-day, I repeat It iB un¬
lucky.
Count II. dtl. Imperative circumstances demand
it, your Highness. The two princes have entered
Paris. If a check is not at once promptly given,
we are lost.
Mary de Med. To-morrow—not to-day. Urge me
no farther, I command. (Retires up.)
Count H. d'l. (To Marguerite.) Madam, a word.
You have been roaming this morning, contrary to
my orders, on horseback.
Marg. (Trembling.) Discovered. (Aside.) If it dis¬
pleases you, in future, I will go on foot.
Count H. d'l. Walk out?
Marg. Unless you forbid it. I will retire from
Court, if you obtain permission.
Count II. d'l. That would not suit my views.
Marshal. (ToQ. Regent.) The princes are entering
the palace, madame.
Count 11. d'l. If they reach the king, we are
ruined.
FAUBERT and BERNARD advance.
Faub. A messenger from the king, madame.
Mary de Med. From my son ? You are welcome,
sir. What is your will ?
Bern. (Kneeling.) This letter, madame.
(Gives letter.)
Mary de Med. Rise.
Faub. (Aside.) I smell a storm. Discretion's the
best part of valour. (Steals off.)
Bern. (Aside.) Suppose she asks me how I came
by it ? Confound the black seals!
Mary de Me.d. (Crushing the letter.) Insolent
menace! How dared you bring this to me, sirrah?
Marg. (Aside.) He is lost.
Mary de Med. You are a bold man. Read, count,
read. (Passes letter to Iglese.)
Count II. d'l. (Reading.) " Give up the regency.
Banish your favourites from France, and restore
your son, the king, to liberty."—Fellow, do you
know the contents of this letter. (To Bernard.)
Bern. Not I. There were three, all with black
seals. One for the king, another for the princes.
(Shews it.)
Count II. d'l. rSnatching it. Reads.) Treason's
afoot. (Gives letter to the Queen.) Will you hesitate
now? Arrwst them, and save ourselves. They ap¬
proach. (Dukes Vendome and Ccnde and suite enter on
the Terrace.) A few moments, they see the king,
and we are lost.
Mary deMed. Do as you please with the traitors.
Count II. d'l. The day is our own. Long live the
Regent—down with the traitors!
(Nobles and, guards rush up the Terrace steps.
A conflict ensues. Shots firtd. Soldiers enter
Jroni quay. Pages and ladies group round
*'■<? UeaorJ,, iF.pntsfJ stands aetoxnded.
music.)
Bern. What does all this mdanV
Count II. d'l. (To soldiers.) Sieze that dog! (PoiiiU
to Bernard.) and convey him to the Bastile.
Bern. For what ? The letters were given to ma
by
Marg. (Whispers.) Silence! Behind you, in that
iirbour, is a secret door, leading to the river. (Un¬
locks it.) Fly! fly, for your life!
(Bernard exits through arbour rapidly.
Shouts "Long live the Regent!"
The Princes are arrested. Grand tableau.
ACT 11.
SCENE I.—Saubert's House at For,tainbkau. Stair¬
case with a turret leading to the first floor. A
gallery facing the audience. In the centre of the gal¬
lery a door and window of a room in which Saubert
conceals Marguerite. Soft Music. SAUBERT dis¬
covered sealed at the door. ARTHUR picking a
flower near him. BERNARD descending the terrace
from the Park Quay.
Sieur Sau. Well, Bernard, don't you think that I
have improved the park?
Bern. Greatly. (Sighs.)
Sieur Sau. Why do you speak so sad, my son?
Still thinking of that little door at the Tuileries that
gave you freedom. You never told me who opened
it for you.
Bern. I know not, I was so alarmed,
Sieur Sau. I am always calm in difficulty. How
about your wife, Bernard, is she very pretty ?
Bern. Yes. (Indifferently.)
Sieur Sau. Of good family?
Bern. Nobility of the sword—on the male side;
of the robe.
Arthur. On the female. [Exit laughing.
Sieur Sau. And her brother?
Bern. Is an officer in the army. The dowry
ample. At four years of age she was placed in a
convent; and, at eighteen, last year, the superior
sent her away.
Sieur Sau. Having nothing more to learn. And
you are going to marry at once. Have you no re¬
grets, be candid?
Bern. Father, you ask too much. (Smiling.)
Would you ask a soldier — marching to certain
1 death, at a cannon's mouth—if he regretted the
good wine drank the day before, and remem¬
brances that were left behind. Don't talk of re¬
grets. Desperate remedies are often the best.
Sylvie will be here shortly with her aunt, to pay
her respects to you.
Sieur Sau. We are ready to sign the contract*
when your uncle St. Pierre arrives.
Bern. You think he will come, then?
Sieur Sau. I wrote to him on the project a month
since, he will come—I have received no answer.
Bern. I have not seen'him for twelve years
Since he was appointed King's Lieutenant at
Grenoble. (A loud laugh over the terrace.) At his
tricks as usual.
Arthur. (Without.) Uncle come! Papa, papa*
Bern. (Running to terrace.) Welcome!
Enter .CHEVALIER ST. PIERRE over terrace, with
Arthur.)
Sieur Sau. Dear brother! (Takes his hand.)
Chsv. St. P. Rejoiced to see you. (To Bernard,
So all is to be settled to-day, boy—eh, this wed*
ding affair ?
lisrn. Yes, uncle. .
(Arthur lain off Pierre'* «Ww
The threE :
Sieur Sait. Did you tiotice the improvement in
the property as you came through the park,
brother?
Ghev. St. P. I noticed that which is no novelty
any where — a young girl receiving a billet-
doux.
SieurSau. Not here, wo have notfour girls in the
village above childhood.
Chev. St. P. it was one of the four, thsn.
Bern. Where was it you saw her, uncle ?
Chev. St. P. In the wood. My horse loitered.
I was dreaming of the past, my boyish days spent
here, when I saw a girl stealthily approach, and
take a letter from the hand of a cavalier.
Bern. What appearance had she ?
Chev. St. P. Like them all.
Bern. Pretty?
Chev St. P. More or less.
Bern. And dress'd like a—
Chev.St. E. Lady; but why these questions?
Enter MADAME DE NOYES and SYLVIE from
terrace.
SieurSau. The ladies.
(Bernard hastens to meet Syivie.)
Mad. de N. What a delightful dwelling, Monsieur,
a little paradise.
Sieur Sau. Enriched by your presence, dear
Madame. Allow me to introduce my brother, the
Chevalier St. Pierre, Lieutenani. to his Majesty at
Grenoble.
Mad. de. N. (Courtesying, Pierre bows.) To whom
I have the pleasure of presenting my neice, Madlle
Syivie de Noyes ?
(Pierre starts bade astonished.)
Chev. St. P. Again!
Bern. Is she not charming? (Aside.)
Chev. St. P. Very
(Syivie, Madame de Noyes, Bernard and
Arthur, go up the stage in conversation.)
Sieur Sau. What is the matter ?
Chev. St. P. Nothing.
Sieur Sau. There is, tell me the truth.
Chev. St. P. Are you the man to hear the truth ?
SieurSau. You know Syivie. I saw the recogni¬
tion.
Chev. St. P. I do. Don't enquire where. (Aside.)
It was this girl that received tue letter in the wood,
and tore it into a thousand pieces.
SieurSau. Very good, all is arranged for signing
the contract.
Mad. de. N. You will find all our family papers
as I promised. (Giving them.)
Sieur Sau. Thank you (bows); now to table.
Bernard, present your hand to Madame, I will
usurp the bride.
Arthur. Uncle, I will take yours.
(They are going, when FAUBERT runs over
the terrace.)
Bern. Faubert!
Eaub. Am I in time ?
Bern. What for?
Faub. Good news! The king—the king was de¬
lighted when he heard how you escaped from
danger, and has granted you his protection; and,
in return for your birds, sends this wedding pre¬
sent. (Gives a small case of jewels to Bernard.)
Bern. What splendour. (Opens it.) A clasp of
diamonds.
Faub. I was fearful of losing them on the
road, for soldiers are scouring the country round
Paris.
Skur Sau. Why ?
SLACK SEALS; 881
Fanb. Don't yoti know? to take the Duke de
Vendome.
Chev. St. P. Has he escaped, then ?
Faub, Yes.
Chev. St. P. How was it managed ?
Faub. No one can tell that, some fairy openou
his cage, and he fled.
Chev. St. P. Bravo!
Faub. The guards arc searching everywhere for
him, even private dwellings. They'll catch him
alive or dead.
Sieur Sau. Let's catch our dinner. Pass on,
lad'es and gentlemen, I must first look up these
papers. [All exeunt but Saubei t.
Enter MARGUERITE, disguised in a large cloak,
over the terrace, cautiously enters the house, and
touches Saubert on the arm. Music.
Marg. Hush, don't be alarmed. T once saved
your child's lifo in the streets of Paris.
Sieur Sau. Our preserver
Marg. Now seeks in her turn protection for her
lifo and honour.
Sieur Sau. You shall have it, lady, if I die for it.
But who threatens you?
Marg. Those who are seeking the Duke de Ven¬
dome. I saved him last night.
SieurSau, You
Marg. Yes, and I guided him from prison. We
lost our way in the forest, remembering a house
near the park, I sought it, and find it you-s. But
let not your hospitality prove your destruction. If
they should search, my discovery would entail ruin
on all.
Arthur. (Without.) Papa, dinner waits.
Sieur Sau, I am resolved, follow me quickly,
1/ftdy.
(Ascends the staircase with MarguerPe, rapidly.)
Enter ARTHUR.
Arthur. Are you coming, father ?
Sier Sac. (To Marguerite.) Do not move.
(On the gallery.)
Arthur-. We are waiting you, we are so hungry,
(Exit.
Sieur Sau. (Opening a door on the first landing.)
Enter this room, madam—my poor wife's while
living, no one intrudes heie—it is kept sacred.
Marg. (Pressing his hand.) Heaven bless you. sir,
for this kindness. I will rest a few hours, and at
night, away again. I fear this will trouble
you.
Sieur Sau. No, no. But it is rather unfortunate
that my timo is occupied so much. My son marries
to-day. Bernard, that was exposed to so much
danger in Paris.
Marg. Married! (Agitated.)
Sieur Sau. Repose yourself, madam, no one will
interrupt you, unless I want to enter my room.
(Descends the stairs, and exits into the. house.)
Marg. The air that surrounds me breathes purity
and peace. Blue skies, flowers—this solitude, oh,
how delightful to me, contrasted to the scenes I
have been compelled to move in. (Sits at the tab e.)
What a coincidence! to meet that young man here
—who's liberty, perhaps life, I imperilled and saved
—he knows me not even by name. (A laugh within,
Syivie shrieks — "No, no, Bernard, I protest!"
Marguerite starts.) That voice, I know it. (Listens.)
If I could observe without being seen—behind this
pillar, perhaps, the leaves might shelter me.
Re-enter FAUBERT and BERNARD, below.
Who is that? Ahl Faubert! I must he guarded.
863 'mm THEED iiXAOS SiiALs.
Faub. A splendid future awaits you. Such a
wife, those eyes, dimples and feet. Oh, oh! those
feet.
Bern. I did not notice them. (Coldly.)
Faub. Not notice, you are a singular lover,
Bernard.
Bern. Who told you I loved ?
Faub. Men usually love when they marry, don't
they?
Bern. I marry because reason dictates it, not
love. My brain is agitated by vain, silly thoughts.
I marry to escape them.
Marg. (Bending over to listen.) He does not love
her.
Faub. You are dreaming, surely.
Bern. Dreams impossible to realize.
Faub. Did you lose your heart at the Tuileries?
Bern. Perhaps not far distant.
Marg. (Quickly.) Oh!
Faub. I see, you rascal, and your love remains
there still.
Bern. Yes, yes, if you only knew how those eyes
pursue me, sleeping, waking, ever present, des¬
troying my peace, agitating my heart. You know
now why I sold my lands, and took service in the
palace. To live near her, to listen to the melody
of her voice, my ravished ears hung on those ac¬
cents, more precious to me than all the riches of
the East I could gaze on that beauteous face for
eternity, and barter a thousand lives, for the gentle
pressure of that soft hand once more.
Marg. (Staggers back.) I—1 am loved.
(Saubert appears at door in Marguerite's room.)
Sieur Sau. Don't fear, 'tis I-^-dear me, how pale ;
you are feverish. (Takes her hand.)
Marg. I—I wanted air—so I went on
Sieur Sau. The balcony, quite right. Take some
refreshment, it will do you good.
Marg. It is very kind of you to think of me, sir.
Sieur Sau. Had I not better inform my son,
Bernard, of your coming here ?
Marg. Pray do not, till after my departure.
(A knock at the door.)
Arthur. Father, some one wants you below.
(Without.)
Sieur Sau. Very well, rogue. I will return as
soon as all the people are out of the way, and con¬
duct you to a boat on the river, with a trusty ser¬
vant to attend you. Be careful, that door is Ber¬
nard's room. (Descends.)
Marg. Destiny sports with me. Compelled to live
on, unloved by my husband. I know my exis¬
tence is hateful to him. He sighs to possess the
riches of Madame Verniul. Surrounded by these
generous hearts. If it had been my fate io have
been so blessed. Saubert my father, the fair child
my child; and, oh, blissful thought, Bernard my
husband. (Weeps.)
Enter SAUBERT, FATTBEET, ABTHUB, and
BERNARD, from door below.
Saub. Svlvie's brother has arrived. Put on your
coat, Bernard, let us sign the contract at once.
Faub. (Writing.) Stop, his wife wishes to speak
to him first.
Marg. His wife!
Faub. She is a divinity.
Marg. Let me see this divinity—this wife.
Re-enter SYLVIE DE NOYES, goes to Bernard,
smiling.
Marg. Sylvie de Noyes, my convent companion
—th-iB—this his wife. That girl—no, no, itmust no't
be. I will not allow the ruin of Bernard. Shame
and disgrace shall not fall upon him—his natrie**
this house that shelters me. (Sylvie de Noyes is pre¬
sented to guests that arrive.) How can I warn tbem ?
What shall I do ? (Bernard ascends stairs.) Heavens,
Bernard is coming. If he signs the contract, all
will be lost!
(Rapidly tears a leaf from her tablets; writes,
then places it under Bernard's room, door ;
retires, and closes herself in Saubert's
Room. During this, Bernard has ascended the
stairs Chevalier St. Pierre, Madame de
Noyes, and Notary, have entered )
Sieur Sau. (To Notary.) I shall give the young
couple this house and grounds.
Faub. (To Sylvie.) Don't you miss your lover?
Sylvie de N. (Laughing.) What if I do not, eh ?
Faub. Is it a doubt ?
Sylvie de N. You ask too much for me to con
fess. (Bernard rushes down the stairs to Saubert.)
Bern. Father, read this! ^(Agitated, gives paper.)
Sieur Sau. (Reads.) " In the name of your mother's
memory, wed not Sylvie de Noyes, without show¬
ing this to your father!" Where did this come
from?
Bern. T found it lying on the floor of my room.
Sylvie de N. (To Saubert.) My attentive lover seems
agitated.
Chev. St. P. (Aside.) Mischief in the wind, I smelt
it.
Sieur Sau. It must be her. Stay, delay the guests
for a moment—this mystery must be cleared up—
not a word, wait for me.
[Exit Saubert, and ascends stairs, affecting to sing,
Chev. St. P. Better and better, my brother can¬
not conceal his agitation—we shall have something
by and by. (Aside.) Wait, wait!
(Madame de Noyes introducing Huquet.)
Mad. de V. My nephew, Baron de Noyes.
Arthur. (Running to Pierre.) The man that struck
me in the streets of Paris.
Chev. St. P. Ah!
Huqu. (Aside.) The child that insulted the
Marshal, confusion!
Chev. St. P. Sir, I hear it was you that so cowardly
raised your hand against a child.
Sylvie de N. My brother is incapable of such an
act.
Huqu. It is false, an idle remark, (laughs) ri¬
diculous !
Re-enter SIEUB SAUBERT from Balcony.
Sieur Sau. How shall I act in this matter ? (Sees
Huquet.) The officer that struck Arthur. (To Pierre.)
Brother, I have something important to inform
you. (As de.) The marriage cannot take place.
Chev. St. P. I thought as much. Tell them so at
once. Saubert shakes his head.) No, then I will.'
Friends, neighbours—a word—you have assembled
here to honour a wedding ceremony, that wedding
cannot take place. (Great confusion.)
Omnes. Not take place ?
Hvqu. I demand why. The honour of my family
is at stake. (Touches sword.)
Chev. St. P. Guard your honour well, valiant
soldier, it may be required. Grasp your sword,
man, firmly, never toy with it.
Sylvie de N. Bernard, do you insult me thus ?
Mad de N. Silence, child, and follow me!
[Ail exit.
Huqu. (Going.) This shall be well explained.
Cleared up to our satisfaction!
Chev. St. P. Eight! it shall! remain to hear it,
and be satisfied! Bernard, a few moments, folio#
our friends. Pray, no words, go—go—-I insist I
THE THREE ]
Ber n. Do I dream ? [Exit.
lluqn. Ami to und Sretand you wish to rescind
this contract ?
Cher,. St. P. I do t
Sieur Sau. Yes, yes. Your sister was in a con¬
tent, a novice.
Huqu. True.
Sieur Sau. That girl disappeared for three days
from the convent, without leave of the superior.
Chev. St. P. What became of her?
Sieur Sau. Ask the Count d'^lese that question,
he can answer it
Huqu. 'Tis false. I will prove
Chev. St. P. Nothing—a still tongue makes a wise
head. Young man, be quiet!
Uugu. The honour of my sister shall not go
unavenged.
Chev. St. P. Right, I am a soldier. Worts are
idle, pass eagerly from lip to lip. If you desire
satisfaction, appeal to the sword, nor waste your
breath in threats.
Huqu. (Alarmed.) You, sir, are you the Chevalier
St Pierre 1
Chev. St. P. I have ths- honour, (bows,) and enemy
to your master. (Throws down his glove.) There is
my gage, here my sword, both at your service, if
you possess the courage to raise the one, or employ
the other. You hesitate, draw back. Perhaps
'tis wisely done, young man; a safe retreat is better
than a doubtful encounter. Return to your sister.
The secret shall not pass our lips, unless you choose
to divulgg the scandal. The marriage is at an end;
explain our reasons as you will—with us, the cause
is sacred.
Sieur Sau. Yes, even to my son.
Huqu. Give me the name of her denouncer,
Chev. St. P. That remainB our secret—go and ar¬
range the little family matter with your best wit.
fExit Huquet.] Be prudent as you are valiant.
Where did you gain this intelligence ?
Sieur Sau. (Pointing to Gallery.) There!
Chev. St. P. There—from whom ?
Sieur Sau. A companion of Sylvie's in the con¬
vent. The Countess d'lglese.
Chev. St. P. She here ?
S/errSau. Yes, concealed in my chamber.
Chev. St. P. Why, she is principal attendant on
the Queen Regent. If it is discovered that you
shelter her, or connive at the Duke de Vendome's
escape, you are a dead man. I dare not remain
here a moment longer, let the pursuers come up,
the house be searched. My destiny is reserved for
great events, I cannot afford to sacrifice it in a
brawl. Brother, he watchful, evil days are coming.
The Knight of the Sword will reign in France, and
the tyrants that occupy places be cast down. My
band is for the oppressed people, the back bone
and strength of our land. Down with the titled
popinjays, who nutter their plumage during this
distress, and pass their idle, useless existence, fat¬
tening on the sweat of honest industry.
Re-enter BERNARD, rapidly.
Bern. Sylvie de Noyes and all the guests are
leaving the house.
Che-. S>. P. You go with them, you are free.
Bern. Free?
Chev. St. P. Yes, to take another wife, the one
te'ected won't suit (smiles); try another.
Bern. But what does it mean?
Chev. St. P. Mischief's the meaning, an ingredient
of the feminine composition.
(Marguerite opens door and enters Balcony.
Bernard ascends stairs at bad.)
LACK SEALS. 86#
Marg. All have departed, I saw them from the
window. Poor girl, yet, could I hesitate ? (sighs.)
I am destined to bring confusion and distress
into this house.
(Bernard opens door in Marguerite's room.)
Bern. (Onthreshold.) A woman here?
Marg. (Turning rapidly.) Oh! 'tis he?
Bern. Let me apologii e for my intrusion, I was
ignorant of your presence, lady. (Bows.)
Marg. Remain so, sir, your silence is all that I re¬
quire.
Bern. It is eternal, madam. (Aside.) Oh, what
joy to look upon those features, to hear that
voice. [Exit rapidly. Marguerite closes door.)
Marg. Support me, heaven, (Bits at table, weeping.)
in this trial!
(Saubert advancing with Pierre and Arthur.)
Sieur Sau. You are determined to go, then,
brother ?
Chev. St. P. Instantly.
Arthur. (Calls loud.) Bernard i brother, come
quickly, our uncle is going!
Re-enter BERNARD, at back.
Bern. Going so soon ?
Chev. St. P. Yes, urgent dispatches have reached
me here. I must return to Grenoble without de¬
lay.
Sieur Sau. (Aside to Pierre.) Take Bernard with
you through the park gates. I want to assist the
lady without notice.
Chev. P. Bernard, you can walk with me to
the gates, my horses wait there.
Sieur Sau You remain here, Arthur; it is too cold
for you in the evening air.
Arthur. Just as you like, pa.
Chev. St. P. Farewell, brother, keep a good
heart. (Takes his hand.)
Sieur Sau. Good bye, my heart is heavy in part-
ting with you, Pierre, very, a sad depression fills
my mind.
Chev. St. P. Courage, I shall return speedily;
kiss me, boy. (Kisses Arthur.)
Arthur. Good bye, dear uncle.
[Exeunt through the Park.
Sieur Sau. I cannot shake off this depression,
like a dark cloud it hangs over me, obscuring my
very senses.
Enter MARSAL, followed by Bailiff.
Marsal. That's Monsieur Saubert, sir.
Sieur Sau. The Bailiff of the palace ?
Bailiff. Yes.
Sieur Sau. Marsal, take Arthur to his chamber.
[Exit with Arthur.] Go, my dear. Now, sir, your
business with me ?
Bailiff (Taking a paper from the lining of his hat,
gives it to Saubert.) This from the President Harley.
Sieur Sau. (Reads.) " My friend, the hour has ar¬
rived. I claim your promise—the signature t£»
your testimony. The sad proof must now be used. '
I will come this moment with you.
Bailiff. We could not pass unnoticed together.
The country is too well guarded for that. You
will come to Pa™s.
[Exit Bailiff. Moon appears on a house
Saubert lights lamp at fire.)
Sieur Sau. (Looking at the paper.) Yes, when
Bernard and Faubert return, I will go. (Burns the
letter in the fire.) This letter must not remain in my
hands, my children's welfare demands that I should
be careful of my safety. My Arthur will soon
return, his brother will guard him till my return.
The Countess must be released before my depar¬
ture. (A noise heard-without of arms rattling.) What s
S70
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
that noise. It comes from the ■window od the stairs
leading to the garden.
(A torch-light seen at the window, it is opened
by a hand passing across it. Saubert blows
out his light, and ascends the stairs rapidly.
Men enter through the window, armed, led
by a man in a barred helmet. Saubert
stands before the door, previous to the en¬
trance of the men. Attracted by the noise,
Marguerite peeps from the room.)
Marg. Discovered — merciful providence, what
noise is that? I'll save the child!
(A r. hur is asleep in a chair in the chamber
open to audience. Marguerite seizes him
by the hand, and drags him into the room,
closing the door quickly.)
Sieur Sau. {Whispering at the door.) Fly, fly to the
upper story!
Count H. dl. Secure every outlet.
Sieur Sau. "What would you in my house?
Count H. (LI. We come in the name of the king,
to search for the Duke de Vendome.
Sieur Sau. He is not here.
(Unknown signs to men to retire.)
Count H. d'l. Where is the man who was here
iust now? He brought you aletterfrom the Presi¬
dent.
Sieur Sau. I know not.
Count H. d'l. Don't, eh ? be careful, where is he ?
Sieur Sau. Who are you that questions me ?
Count II. d'l. One that will be answered—one
that will not suffer you to proceed to Paris, to give
your evidence against the Marshal.
Sieur Sau. If 1 will do this ?
Count II. d'l. You die—obey me—and you are
well rewarded.
Marg. (Screams within.) Die!
Count II. d'l. Some one is lurking in that room,
who is it?
Sieur Sau. My son, a child.
Count H. d'l. Let me see him.
Simr Sau. (Opens the door, Count Hugo d'lglese
enters.) She has fled to the upper chamber.
(Aside.)
Count II. <TI. (Re-entering.) No one there; hut
who was it that I saw run up the stairs—a female ?
Some accomplice. (Calls.) Oh! traitors are in the
house—look to it, men, kill all who resist, without
mercy. (Soldiers enter every part of the house with
torches.) t
Sieur Sau. In the name of heaven, you would not
slay a child of six years and a woman!
Count H. d'l. Do you persist in going to Paris?
Yes or no ? (Levels a pistol at his head.)
Sieur Sau. Coward! assassin!
Count II. d'l. Answer quickly!
Sieur Sau. I have sworn to go, and will keep my
word!
Count H. <TI. (Firing at him.) Fool, take your
death! (Saubert falls.) Set fire to the traitor's
house.
(Marguerite is seen above at window in upper
story. Makes a cord with the window cur¬
tains. Arthur is attached to her body. She is
seen to descend. The house is now in flames.
ACT IIL
SCENE L—A Gallery m the Louvre. Richly decorated
state chairs, and foot stools.
Enter FAUBERT conducting BERNARD, who looks
pale and weak.
Faub. You are now in the inner gallery of the
Palace, my friend. The king will enter there.
(Points to arch.) We must be careful, and watch
the opportunity. It was fortunate that I discovered
the house of the baths, whore I carried you the day
after that terrible night at Fontainbleau.
Bern. When my poor father was murdered—my
brother lost to me.
Faub. I saved your life by a miracle from the
devouring flames and falling house. Your would-
be wife, Sylvie, behaved feelingly and well at the
bath house—her new husband's dwelling. It was
from her I learnt Count d'lglese was your deadly
enemy,
Bern. She proved my better angel.
Faub. I gave out that you were wounded in a
duel, when I took you to La Yenne's house for
shelter
Bern. Is La Venne, Sylvie's husband?
Faub. Yes; her brother, to preserve the family
honour from scandal, married her within a week
of your rejecting her hand.
Bern. Poor girl!
Faub. Since that event I have learnt her betrayer
was that notorious Italian, Count d'lglese, your
enemy.
Bern. The villain! You have forwarded my let¬
ter to the President concerning my father's death,
and our family misfortunes ?
Faub. I delivered it with my own hand. "Bid
your friend pause yet a little,** said the President;
"he shall be terribly avenged! I have a great
work to execute;" and by his directions I brought
you to the Louvre to-day to meet him. You spoke
of a woman hid in your father's house that night—
who was she?
Bern. I cannot answer you.
Faub. Why not?
Bern. Because I promised silence to her. She
protected me in my flight from the Queen Regent,
you recollect.
Faub. What could a court lady be doing there at
such a time, with assassins lurking to destroy?
She must have been an accomplice.
Bern. Accuse her! No, no! She perished in the
flames with my brother.
Faub. I am not quite so sure of that. Should
you know that woman again if you saw her.
Bern. Know her!—from a thousand!
Faub. Good. You will see, shortly, the ladies in
attendance. I will place you in a situation that
you may observe all that passes, unnoticed; but, as
you value our lives, remain motionless until the
President gives the signal to appear.
Bern. Fear not!
Faub. (Unlocks secret door.) In this secret cabinet
ensconce yourself, and keep your ears and eyes
open. (Places Bernard in closet and closes the door )
The key-hole will suffice. I will to my place by
the king. Adieu! Be cautious!
Bern. I will, dear friend. [Fxit Faubert.] Every
step I take is fraught with mystery—not of my own
seeking! Why is this? For wha t am I ever made
the sport of fortune ?
[Voices. Bernard closes door
Enter DUKE D'EPF.RNON, COUNT BUGO
D'IGLESE, and MARCHIONESS DE VER-
NIUL
Duke cLEp. (Shoicing papers.) By my reports the
son of that old plotter Saubert escaped from the
house on the night of the attack.
Bern. (Peeping.) Ah!
Count H. d'l. I hear that same Bernard is con¬
cealed by his friend Faubert, at La Venne's bath¬
house.
THE THREE J
Bern. My every movement known! (Aside.)
An Officer whispers to Count Hugo d'Iglese.
Count H. dI, Better news than all; the President
has sent the young man a letter, telling him to
wait for justice. (Smiles.) He'll wait long enough.
The young Queen, accompanied by a woman,
secretly visited the President to-day.
Duke d'Ep. "Who was this woman?
Count H. dl. Be careful; walls, in palaces, have
cars—they brook no listeners.
Bernard shows himself.
Bern. (Aside.) One!
Duke d'Ep. Why does he seek this Bernard?
Count H. dl. I suspect for his father, the old
advocate's sake. We must observe.
Enter USHER.
Usher. My lord, the President comes.
• Count H. d'l. Entering the Palace in disobedience
to orders!
Usher. He passed the guards in silent contempt.
Enter PRESIDENT HARLEY, followed by Officers
in robes.
Harley. I remain within this chamber till the king
passes.
Count H. d'l Impossible, my lord! This saloon
is reserved for his majesty. (To Officer, aside.) In¬
form the queen. [Exit Officer.
Harley. I remain here, Count!
Count H. d'l. I regret to see the first magistrate
of the kingdom disobeying orders.
Harley. And I regret to find the chief magistrate
treated like a menial.
Enter LOUIS XIII, MARY DE MEDICIS, ANNE
OP AUSTRIA, Lords, Ladies, Pages. All bow.
Louis. (To President.) Lord President, you wished
to speak to me; I have your request. (Shoios letter.)
Mary de Med. Can I speak for your majesty ?
Louis. Thank you, no; I prefer speaking for my¬
self, madame.
Count II. d'l. (To Marchioness.) You hear that!
Louis. (To President.) What is your desire ?
Harley. It is now a month since a man, suspected
of having assisted in the escape of the Duke de
Vendome, was assassinated — cruelly — treache¬
rously; together with his son, a child, and servant.
The house given to the flames, in your name, and
destroyed!
Louis. In my name ?
Harley. And by people surrounding your person.
Louis. My people dared to commit this outrage!
Mary de Med. They had to defend themselves
from traitors.
Harley. That must be proved, madame.
Louis. It shall, by my head—and truly; or—
Count H. <TI. It has been proved, sire, to the
Council, fully.
Harley. By the assassins themselves—fitting wit¬
nesses for such a deed.
Count H. d'l. He applies the name of assassins to
your Majesty's soldiers.
Harley. King's officers were on the order, but none
were there. The whole was under a man masked
in a vizor. Here is the deposition of the soldiers.
Who was the masked assassin ?
Mary de Med. (Snatching papers.) This pretended
victim was in league with the traitor Vendome.
Count H. dL. There is no proof to the contrary.
Harley. There is—a living one !
Count H. d'l. You were a friend of the rebel,
Saubert, sir;
LACK SEALS. 871
Harley. I was, and will defend his memory. Here
is the evidence of the Duke de Vendome himself,
of whom he was accused of assisting to escape.
(Reads.) " I swear before Heaven and the king,
I never saw or knew the advocate, Saubert."
Louis. I believe the word of the son of Henry the
Fourth.
Harley. Then is the death of my friend a crime—a
massacre!" I have done my duty as judge; it re¬
mains for you to do yours as king. [Exit.
Anne of A. (Aside to Louis.) Not yet. Let us go.
[Exit Louis, after President.
Mary de Med. I will give orders for a rigid in¬
quiry. Come, d'Epernon. (Aside.) Arrest the man,
Bernard, and bring him to my apartment.
[Exeunt with suites.
Count d'l. Who is this mysterious woman that
continually crosses my path—in the palace, and at
Fontainbleau ? All our secrets are revealed to
her! [Exit.
Enter PAUBERT—goes to secret door—BERNARD
appears*
Bern. I have heard all.
Faub. You will hear more yet. Keep your eyes
open. The court will shortly return to descend to
the water by this gallery
Bern. Tell me—who is this Iglese? Point him
out to me, I pray, that I may know my enemy.
Faub. He was here not a moment since. (Cour¬
tiers, ladies, pages, re-enter in groups.) There!
(Points to Count H. d'Iglese, who is seen crossing at
the back with a lady.) He is now handing the
Marchioness of Verniul's daughter—a rich heiress,
they say he would marry, if free. You can mix
with the crowd now unobserved.
Enter MARY DE MEDICIS, DUKE D'EPERNON,
COUNT H. D'IGLESE, and MARGUERITE,
followed by ladies.
Bern. (Seizing Faubert's hand.) That is her! Her
face is pale! Those eyes, bathed in tears! She
looks upon that man with disgust! No, it is im¬
possible—it cannot be the same.
Faub. Compose yourself. Remember your pro¬
mise. (Retires.)
COUNT H. D'IGLESE and MARGUERITE
advance.
Count H. d'l. Why do you wear this funeral face,
madame ?
Marg. (Passes before him.) Wretch! you well
know the cause.
Count H. d'l. Pardon; at home you may speak or
not, as you please; but, when we are in public, it
is necessary, for appearances, that you should talk
and smile. Do so, and quickly, or—
Marg. 1—I obey—sir!—
(Trembling and smiling.)
Count II. dIglese kisses her hand, and passes
up the stage.
Count II. dI. 'Tiswell! (Aside.)
Bern. She smiles on him! They whisper! Am
I deceived ? Speak to her I will!
[Rushes forward, held by Faubert.
Faub. Are you mad ? Remain quiet.
Bern. Madame, a word—lire and death hang on
it!
Marg. Ah! Bernard! (Starts back.)
Bern. Where is my brother? Tell me!
Marg. Silence! Leave me—retire—or we are
lost I
(Count H. d'Iglese approaches as she is talking
to Bernard.)
The three black seals.
Count II. d'l. (Seizes her by the hand.) Who is this
man you are talking to'!
Marg. I do not know him.
Bern. Not know me? You were in my father's
house concealed.
Count H. d'l. His father's I Who are you?
Bern. Not an assassin, like yourself!
Count H. d'l. I will know who you are, dead or
alive! [Voices without, "The Queen!" Faubert
drags Bernard back.) This is well, madame! An
accomplice! (To Marguerite.) Beware! (Touches
his dagger.) I know how to avenge my honour.
Enter ANNE OF AUSTRIA, and suite.
Marg. (Rushing to the Queen as she enters, falls at
her feet.) Save him, madame! have pity! (Points to
Bernard.) It is Bernard Saubert! His life is in
peril from my husband.
Anne of A. The son of the murdered man—who's
property has been bestowed on your husband ? He
is, indeed, to be pitied! I will protect him.
[ Whispers to an Officer, who takes Bernard
off.
Marg. Humbly I thank your majesty!
[Anne passes behind Arch, followed by Faubert
and Bernard.
Count II. d'l. I am no longer a dupe to you,
ingrate! The mask is torn from your treachery.
Marg. I dare you to the worst. One victim is
spared. I am ready to take his place.
Count H. <VI. Defied?
Marg. Defied and scorned! i.Folds her arms.)
Count II. d'l. You were the mysterious agent—
ever crossing, thwarting my plans! An ally of
rebels! The protectress of traitors!—befitting em-
,.oyment for my wife! You have proclaimed
ivar! Be it so. Look well to it. To-morrow—I
give you that time—then, no more secrets!
Marg. To-morrow, coward—unrelenting coward
— to-morrow you may be crawling at my feet,
humbled to the dust! The property that you have
basely robbed that young man of will be returned
by you-nay, I heed not your looks! Dure but
to harm a single hair of that man's head, and I
denoui.ee you to the king—the court the world—
as an assassin—a cowardly, midnight assas. in!
Count II. (TI. You were in that house!
Marg. I was, and heard all—recognized your
hated voice, in spite of the vizor that concealed
your features!
Count II. d'l. 'Tiswell! Think of to-morrow!
(Bows, and retires.)
Marg. (Overcome with feeling.) To-night he will
kill me—to-morrow I shall never see!
Anne of A. (To Mary de Med.) Grant me the re¬
quest I ask!
Mary de Med. Readily. Choose from my j'ewels,
the rarest is yours.
Anne, of A (Taking Marguerite's hand.) I choose
the most precious one—wife of Count d'lglese.
She shall never leave me—her home is mine!
Marg. (With great emotion, kissing the queen's hand.)
Bless you—bless you! I am saved!
Count H. d'l. (Watching.) We shall see what the
promised morrow brings in spite of this protec¬
tion and favour. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Chamber in the Louvre.
Enter BERNARD, and Officer.
Bern. I am your prisoner, arrested in the queen's
presence. Where do you take me ? What is to be
my fate?
Offi. Wait! [Exit.
Bern. I am doomed to death—a victim to dread¬
ful intrigue! That base woman still persecutes
me. I rejoice that I denounced her to her proud
husband.
Enter MARGUERITE.
Bern. Again 1
Marg. To rescue you, it was I that caused you to
be brought here. Madman! you think me your
enemy. Did not my pallid looks, trembling limbs,
supplicate for mercy? You scorned my tears-
disbelieved the agony I endured! The triumphant
gaze of my husband, your deadly foe, was unnoticed
in your blind rage! Did you not wantonl y trample
on my heart—I, that you styled your guardian
angel ? Could you imagine a woman with a heart,
so suddenly converted into a demon—and acting
towards you as I was accused of doing? I that
saved you from death—saved you from dishonour!
Is this the ardent love I heard you vow for me?
Enough! my delusive dream has vanished. Take
this, (gives paper) an act from the king, restoring
your property, unjustly seized by my husband.
The child you accused me of slaying is here!
Enter ARTHUR, who runs to his brother; his arm
is in a sling.
Bern. Living! (Kissing him.)
Arthur. Yes, yes, dear brother! and so happy to
kiss you once more more. Our father-
Bern. Wounded?
Arthur. I was shot like poor papa.
Bern. Who rescued you from the flames?
Arthur. The lady that was in our mother's
chamber. She tied the curtains together, made a
rope, and from the turret we descended together.
Her hands were awfully cut!
Bern. (Groans.) I see—I see how much I have
wronged her!
Arthur. A ball struck my si^e—Ifell—she carried
me, pursued by the soldiers to the river. A boat
was there—we escaped. Wnen I awoke, my pre¬
server was watching over me.
B-rn. And I accused her of treachery! (Weeps.)
Life is now un^arable! Let me die! (Going.)
Marg. You are going?
Bern, To deliver you from the presence of a
wretch!
Marg. Stay—when I saw you kiss that child my
heart forgave your injustice!
Bei-c How can I ever forgive myself? I that
adore ou so much! All I beg is your pity and
forgetfuiness.
Marg. (Takes his hand.) Not SO. I am happy in
having repaid your father for his hospitality. The
time may come, when I may claim your devotion
and assistance against your implacable enemy.
Bern. And yours ? Let me meet him!
Marg. Force will not serve us against that man.
Caution and Patience are the weapons to use! A
decisive struggle is imminent In the darkness of
night go to the President's house; there wait the
issue. Your brother must not remain here. By a
miracle I've found a friend of mine—or yours—
Sylvie. She knows all—her tears have mingled
with mine. She will take Arthur with her; his
safety will be assured.
Enter FAUBERT.
Faub. Her Majesty approaches—conceal your*
self!
Marg. There! (Points.) Faubert will take you to
the President
[Exit Bernard, Furbert and Arthur.
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
873
Enter LOUIS XIII, MARY DE MEDICIS, and
ANNE OF AUSTRIA.
i.Marguerite is retiring.)
Mary <ie Med. Stop, madame! 1 wish to speak
to my daughter in your presence. Jglese's wife,
madame ? (To Anne of A.)
Anne of A. Your gift.
Mary de Med. Which I reclaim. The state is
endanger'd by plots, sanctioned by yourself, and
aided by this woman! She opened the prison
door to d'Vendome; she conspired with Saubert
and you, Anne of Austria, against the king, your
husband's honour, and crown!
Louis. She, my wife, conspire!
Mary de Med. I aver it, Louis!
Anne of A. Your wife is insulted, sire?
Mary de Med. Choose — between mother and
wife.
Louis. The accusation must be submitted to the
council and the president
Mary de Med. Always the President! Why. con¬
sult him ?
Louis. The wisest and best adviser I possess.
Enter FAUBERT.
Faub. He no longer lives, sire! An hour since
he was struck with palsy and died!
Louis. Dead! Who shall advise me now ?
Anne of A. I am lost! (Aside.)
Mary de Med. Leave all, my son, to me, and
peace shall be restored to France. Your wife must
quit Paris for a time; exile may inspire her with
better thoughts. Her protege and Bernard, to the
Bastile. The lady I will be indulgent to—she shall
return to her husband's protection. [Exit.
Marg. To death! (Shudders.) Oh, the demon!
Anne of A. My lord—husband—do you suffer this
outrage to me ? Defend your right!
Louis. Not against my mother! Prove your in¬
nocence—show me your fidelity—prove it beyond
all doubt or suspicion,—then I will judge between
you.
Faub. The President spoke ere he died; with his
faltering hand he traced a name, ere the pen fell
powerless from his grasp.
Louis. A name? what name? (Faubert gives
paper.) St Pierre!
Anne of A. Governor of Grenoble! A faithful
soldier of your father's. Send without delay—let
them fly to him!—despatch couriers, and let them
ride for their lives to Grenoble—
Enter an Officer.
Offi. The Chevalier St. Pierre, your Majesty!
Louis. How fortunate! Admit him!
[Exit Officer.
Anne of A. Heaven favours us!
Marg. (Runs to door.) \es, yes, 'tis him! I know
him I This way, sir!
Enter CHEVALIER ST. PIERRE.
Louis. From whence do you come ?
C'hev. St. P. Ramboivilles, where I have been
waiting lor the President's orders. He is dead,
and I am here without orders.
Louis. Your purpose in coming here?
Chev. St. P. To say what he would have said had
he lived. My brother has been slain; one son
Wounded, the other imprisoned 1
Marg. Imprisoned?
Chev. St. P. I saw him arrested as I entered the
Palace; but I will tell your Majesty why the good
honest advocate was killed,
Louis. Why? why?
Chev. St. P. Simply, beoause he possessed the
knowledge of a great crime which his assassins
wished to be kept secret; therefore, they slew
him!
Louis. You afErm this?
Vnev. St. P. With my head! my sword!—and,
sooner or later, the villains shall feel my sword!
Louis. Who are the guilty ones?
Chev. St. P. Ask me first—what was the crime ?
Louis. Name it
Chev. St. P. The murder of a king—your father!
(All agitated.)
Louis. Oh, the assassin suffered death for it
Chev. St. P. Only one—there are more living!
Louis. Living!
Chev. St. P. Those I have come to accuse, and
bring to justice. Great lords, rich, powerful, high
in office of the state, favourites of royalty; yet I'll
tear down their grandeur, and bring their treache¬
rous heads low on the scaffold!
Louis. Fail to prove,- or truly answer me—giv¬
ing one by one their murderous names—your head
shall fall too..
Chev. St. P. That's a bargain; but if you falter,
or fail to punish them, my life is gone.
Louis. I swear, their guilty heads shall suffer!
Anne of A. Louis—husband—king! (Embraces.)
You are now yourself, and France will be free!
Chev. St. P. Do you fear to follow me alone, un¬
guarded, in darkness to a place that I will conduct
you, ere this secret can be disclosed ?
Louis. Why alone?
Chev. St. P. To hear that which no ears but yours
must hear—to witness a scene of appalling sin and
crime. Your nerves must be firm, your heart of
stone, to see and listen! Dare you trust yourself?
Louis. I dare! At what hour?
Chev. St. P. This—no delay!
Louis. The place of meeting?
Chev. St. P. Pont-neuf, on the right
Louis. Good 1 I will follow you.
Chev. St. P. At the third arch I'll wait your ma¬
jesty. (Bows. Aside.) Vengeance has come!
[Exit.
Anno of A. (Embracing Louis.) My own dear hus¬
band, you will not send me from you now ?
Louis. Never! [Kisses her and exit.
Marg. You will reign! The dominion of France
is torn from the cruel faction that has so long op¬
pressed her! [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A grand saloon in the house of the
Marchioness of VerniuVs; with a window at the
back, and balcony overhanging the scene; two
marble steps lead to a recess in which is a secret
passage, concealed by a statue or pillar, that turns
round by a spring; the window has curtains; the
furniture is very rich. Servants are preparing a
table for supper. Candelabras, plate. A table
placed near window.
Serv. Covers for four—the Marchioness, Duke
d'Epernon, Count Iglese, and the Marshal d'Ancre,
to-night. [Exit Servants.
[A pause. The statue slowly turns round, and
Chev. St. Pierre's head is seen ascending.
Chev. St. P. Good! (Rises very cautiously, bearing
a pistol in his hand.) This would have silenced
opposition. (Gazes round room.) Hum! a petit
souper in the Marchioness's usual style. It may
chance, digestion is interrupted to-night, though!
(Returns to recess.) This way, sire; y#u are free 19
eater* '
874 THE THREE :
LOUIS ascends.
Louis. (Looking round.) Where are we ?
Chev. St. P. In the house of the Marchioness de
Verniul.
Louis. And we came—
Chev. St. P. Under the streets, hy a subterraneous
passage communicating with the Louvre. That
statue conceals the entrance. Before we speak —
(Crosses to door and locks them.) Your majesty, on
the day of the king's, your father's, death, where
was the queen, your mother ?
Louis. "Writing in her chamber
Chev. St. P. Pardon, sire,—to whom ?
Louis. Her brother, the Grand Duke of Tuscany.
Chev. St. P. And that letter?
Louis. Unfinished, disappeared in the disorder
caused by my father's dreadful death. The queen,
my mother, was struck by its disappearance, as no
one had entered her apartments.
Chev. St. P. Yes, one. (Gives letter.) Here is that
unfinished letter, sire, dated the 14th of May, 1410,
to her dear brother.
Louis. How came it in your hands ?
Chev. St. P. That you shall learn by placing
yourself in that recess, and burying your ears in
the wall. Yes, you shall hear our voices, and one
that lives but to avenge his master. You are the
judge; I am about dragging great criminals to
your judgment-seat—these steps ; tearing aside
their masks of hypocrisy, and unveiling their
crimes. Remain silent as the grave, until all is
disclosed - suffer not the pulsation of your heart to
be heard; our lives and fortunes are at stake!
(Voices heard.) They approach! To your conceal¬
ment! (Louis re-enters passage.) Stand close;
through the hand of the statue, you can see and
hear.
[Chev. St. Pierre unlocks doors, retires to
window, and enters balcony behind curtains.
Servants re-enter with dishes, followed by MAR¬
CHIONESS DE VERNIUL, 'and COUNT HUGO
D'IGLESE.
Count H. d'l. You have done well to appoint this
meeting, madame.
Mar. de. Ver. I never sent to you.
Count H. d'l. No! The President dead, the queen
exiled, and my wife compelled to return to me—to
her home.
Mar. de Ver. To die!
Count H. a'l. Life is always insecure.
Enter DUKE D'EPERNON, rapidly, with the
MARSHAL D'ANCRE. .
Duke dEp. Pardon, if we have delayed you!.
(They remove their swords and place them on
the table by window. Servants re-enter.
Count II. d'l. Dismiss your attendants.
(To Marchioness.)
Mar. de Ver. We will dispense with attendance.
[Servants bow and exit. All sit at table.
Count II. d'l. Now, gentlemen, we are free to
speak. Our secret cypher, known only to us, must
have been revealed.
Mar. de. Ver. By whom ?
Count II. d'l. I have long suspected the bath-
keeper, La Venne. Call him before us.
Enter CHEVALIER ST. PIERRE, by window;
seizes Iheir swords, and stands with pistols levelled at
them. They all start vp in astonishment. Pierre
locks doors, taking out keys.
Count II. d'l. Who are you ?
Chev. St P No friend of yours, as we shall find
quickly.
ILACiv SEALS.
Duke <TEp. Where did you come from ?
Cher. St. P. The river or tho tk-jvil, as you please.
I am here—that's sufficient.
Mar. de Ver. La Venne! (Calls.) Varlets!
Chev. St. P. (Levelling pistol.) A word, and it is
your fine ladyship's last in this troublesome world
—nay, I'm in earnest! (Holds vp keys.) My little
arrangements are all made; though uninvited, I
come to sup with you! (Laughs.)
Count II. d'l Cut the rascal down!
[All move towards table.
Chev. St. P. What with these—(Shows swords.)
Pray be seated! Dare to move or speak before I
require it, and I'll blow all your brains out! (Casts
swords into river.) That settles the cutting down
question. Take your supper, the dishes cool!
Mar. de Ver. It is St. Pierre, of Grenoble!
Count II. d'l. We are duped.
Chev. St. P. You are, by myself. I sent you the
invitation to this meeting, wishing to see and talk
to my good lords the Duke d'Epernon, Marshal
d'Ancre, her ladyship, our hostess,—(bows.)—and
your estimable self. You know now; therefore,
introduction is useless. I am a soldier of twenty-
five years service, so poor, that my government at
Grenoble scarcely gives soldier's pay. When I re¬
monstrated this morning at the palace, I was told
the last money in the king's treasury was given to
yourselves.
Count H. d'l. To us?
Chev. St. P. To you; and you are rich, and I
poor. I thought that share and share alike would
be but fair between us.
Count H. d'l. Then you came here on speculation,
my friend?
Chev. St. P. Precisely so.
Count H. d'l. Suppose we refuse ?
Chev. St. P. I kill you all, and that ends the
speculation.
Count H. <TI. Bold words.
Chev. St. P. And befitting bold deeds. There
are other reasons why we should share this money
that you have stolen from the treasury — don't
move, I said stolen!
Count H. d'l. What are your reasons ?
Chev. St. P. First—because the money belonged
to your master, Henry Fourth: and you know, if
he were living, not a sou would you touch.
Second, because you, Duke d'Epernon, Governor
• of Guienne, you armed and kept the assassin
Ravaiilac in Paris to kill the king.
Duke dEp. I ? (Starts.)
Chev.. St. P. You! But sit still! (Levels pistol)
You sat in the carriage with your poor master,
occupying his attention, whilst Ravaiilac struck the
fatal blow. (The stcaue in recess is seen to move. All
rise rapidly. Pierre levels pistols.) Two shots, and
two of you fall! I can accommodate the third with
my sword. Gallantry forbids my attacking a
lady ; the river shall serve for her. Be prudent
and silent; we will then proceed.
Mar. de Ver. Villain! demon!
Chev. St. P. I should be sorry to say all I know of
you, madame ; don'tput me to it, I beg. Remember
you how fond you were of Ravaiilac; the money
you gave him; and the good suppers, in this
chamber; that meeting in the garden with him
and the Duke d'Epernon, where the murder was
arranged.
Mar. de Ver. He knows all! (Terrified.)
Chev. St. P. All.
CountH. d'l. Impostor!
Chev. St. I'. Ah! I see, Count, you think your
turn is coming, rightly divined. Monster of au*
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
875
dacity sad ingratitude, fawning and bowing with
that eternal smile, you Knew v.'hcre to direct
Ravaillac's arm—to the heart of the king- (Statue
moves.) It was you, on the 14th, that day disguised
as a carter—oh, you know my meaning, noble
count—a driver with a load of hay in a narrow
street, that your king's carriage must pass, the cart
accidentally (of course) overturned, the way was
stopped; and, behind the load of hay, you saw the
assassin, Ravaillac, mount the royal carriage wheels,
and strike the accursed blow, even to the heart of
the king, your master. (Count Hugo d'Iglese rushes
at him. Pierre places pistol to his heart.) My
fingers are on the lock, a second, and you are under
^iy feet.
(Count Hugo d'Igkse draws back.)
Mar. Of what am I accused ?
Clitv. St. P. Treason to France. Secreting your¬
self, on that 14th of May, in the queen's bed¬
chamber—even when her husband went forth to
die—it was at your dictation she wrote a letter,
treasonable to France. Her hand trembled, she
was agitated, feverish — four o'clock struck, her
pen dropped — four o'clock, the hour at which
Ravaillac struck; then did your hearts beat high,
the crown, the kingdom were yours, to rob and
dispoil; that four o'clock, when you, Duke d'Ep-
ernon, wag talking to the king to direct his atten¬
tion; that four o'clock, Count d'Epernon, you
witnessed the evil deed; mori? speedily than a
bird could fly, a man rushed into the queen's
apartment; and, in a voice of terror, pointing to
the clock, exclaimed—he is assassinated.
Count H. <TI. Liar! I did not! 'tis false!
Chev. St. P. Oh, you accuse yourself, do you ? I
did not name the man.
(The statue opens partially, and thihing it seen
on the ground, weeping.)
Louis. (Aside.) My father! my father!
Chev. St. P. At this terrible announcement, the
queen flew to the doors; a person on duty seeing a
letter on the table; and, I presume, thinking it
might prove serviceable, hid it in his breast. That
guard was myself.
Omnes. Tou ?
Chev. St. P. I. The letter of the 14th, detailing
.the death of the King before he was slain,—and in
the handwriting of the queen—to her brother; and
in which you are all named. Now, what is that
letter worth, with such precious testimony ? The
ten thousand golden crowns that you stole from
the treasury. (They look at each other.) Give me
the money; to-morrow I quit France, and you
have the document. I'll wait, at eight, on the
bridge near the Louvre for him that brings the
sum, and all vsill be finished. But if the bell
strike# the hour of eight, and I see no one, I cross
the bridge, enter the Palace, and in the King's
hands place this letter. (They bend their heads, con¬
sulting.) (Pierre, aside to Louis.) My cause is
gained! (Count II. d'l. advances.) Not too close,
my lord! (Levels pistol.)
Count H. d'l. That letter absolutely proves no¬
thing, my friend; but falling into unscrupulous
hands, might compromise our illustrious mistress;
therefore, we agree—to-morrow you shall receive
the ten thousand crowns.
Chess. St. P. A bargain—that's done! Gentlemen,
•hank you for your polite attention!
(Bows.)
II. d'l. It is indispensable that you come
the bridge.
Chev. St. P. Quito alone! Adieu!
[Rod's towards recess, followed gradually by
the others. Suddenly Pierre bounds to the
secret passage—still levelling pistols, and
the statue closes on him.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—The Red Chamber. A room richly and
heavily decorated. A barred window. A large closet,
with glass doors—door leading to a corridor, in which
is a fire-place. Carpet on the stage, enclosed on all
sides. Moon seen through the window. Music.
SYLViE DE NOYES slowly unlocks the door and
peeps in.
Sylvie de N. (A pause.) May I venture in? Cu¬
riosity once excited in a woman, nothing remains
but to gratify it. (Enter.) What a strange placo,
not a vestige of furniture. Barred windows, large
closets with double glass doors! My husband tells
me that the Marchioness and her friend the Count
spend much of their time here. Great ladies pos¬
sess extraordinary tastes. What reason could La
Venne have for not letting me see this room, i
wonder ? He refused; I insisted; and on the first
opportunity borrow'd the keys-and here I am.
(Peeps in closet.) Rich furs and cloaks sufficient for
twenty ladies. Well, there's nothing more to look
at; I'll steal quietly back, and replace the keys.
(La Venne enters on tip-toe.)
La Venne. You will. (She falls on her knees.)
Sylvie de N. If you please, it is not me!
La Venne. Silly little wife, look up. (ibises her.)
Sylvie de N. I'm ashamed.
La Venne. What brought you here ?
Sylvie de N. A laudable curiosity.
La Venne. To see—
Sylvie de N. Nothing.
La Venne. How did you obtain the key?
Sylvie de N. Easily, when you dozed—here it is;
nothing very procious to lock up, I'm sure.
La Venne. That is your opinion, Madame Wis¬
dom, is it 1 (Laughs.)
Sylvie de If. Now, husband, dear—if there is a
secret, tell me: I'll never divulge it.
fa Venev I dare not, a terrible oath binds me.
Sylvie de H. There ought to be no secrets between
a man and his wife, sir; I am very angry indeed.
La Venne. Long before I possess'd my reason,
the Marchioness forced this secret on me. I was
compelled to obey or expose myself to her revenge.
All powerful as she was, mistress of the king, my
existence was in her hands.
Sylvie de N. Forgive my perversity, I will never
ask for anything that you withhold again.
La Venne. Now I have rare news for you.
Sylvie de N. What is it, I love new3!
An Venne. It came from court.
Sylvie de N. Good or evil ?
La Venne. Good for the nation, evil for my bu¬
siness.
Sylvie de V. Explain yourself!
La Venne. Great doings at the palace—lords,
dukes, and marshal, court favourites, arrested ; all
struck down at one blow.
Sylvie de H. All killed 7
La Venne. Except one or two. Your brother is at
the palace, waiting for further news. Let us go be¬
low, lest the Marchioness should return and find us
here.
Sylvie de N. Why is the fire kept in ?
La Venne. She wishes one, summer and winter,
None of the servants saw you outer, did they?
876 THE THREE
Sylvie de N. No, I was very careful of that. (Noise
of a door closing.) What is that ?
La Venne. (Entering a corridor. A door opens on
the corridor, a lady enters masked.) Gracious pro¬
vidence we are lost, it is the Marchioness.
Sylvie de N. Put me anywhere, don't stand so
helpless. This closet will do, no one can see me,
hid behind these furs. (Enters closet.) There.
(Marchioness heard without. " The door's open.",)
Enter MARCHIONESS DE VERNUIL.
Mar. de Ver. How is this, La Yenne? Why are
you in this apartment.
La Ven/ne. The Are, madame, wanted looking to.
Mar. d> Ver. You are not always so attentive!
L i Venne. Does your ladyship require anything?
Mar. de Ver. No, good night?
La. Venne. (Bows.) My poor wife—
Mar. de Ver. Well, why do you not go?
La Venne. Ah 1 (Retires slowly.) My nerves.
Mar. de Ver. Order my carriage to be ready near
the river.
La Venne. Yes, your ladyBhip!
Mar. de Ver. I will close this door, leave the key.
La Venne. (Gives key.) She's lost {Exit.
Mar. de Ver. Does that idiot seek to pry into my
secrets ? No time for surmise, moments are ages.
And now I will secure the jewels and gold; cross
the frontiers - in Spain 1 am secure. (Locks the door.)
That prevents La Venne's intrusion. (Si/lvie
watches the Marchioness open the closet. Sylvie crouches
down. A large box is opened, and jewels and. bags of gold
tak^n out by the Marchioness.—Music.) The night is
chilly. (Takes down a cloak, Sylvie is behind. Sylvie
passes quickly before it. The Marchioness takes the
box and exits, leaving the key in the door.) Fate, I can
defy your worst now. [Exit.
Sylvie de N. (Re-enters from the closet.) Oh! I'm
very bad, La Venne. (Calls in a whisper.) The
secret was in the box. What money and jewels.
La Venne. (Running on.) Are you alive ?
Sylvie de N. I can't tell yet—I ve seen all.
La Venne. All what?
Sylvie de N. Her treasure, heaps of gold.
La Venne. Listen, dear, Marshal d'Anere has been
shot, and he's one of my best customers 1
Sylvie de N. How dreadful.
Enter HUQUET.
Huqu. All the favourites are killed!
La Venne. Then my ruin's complete, they were all
In my debt; all dead.
Huqu. But one—Count Iglese! he escaped with
life.
La Venne. His life is not worth taking. The
Marchioness must have known this. She has just
removed her money, and jewels from this closet
Huqu. That's awkward. An edict is just pub¬
lished that all the property of the rebels must be
given up to the king, on pain of death.
La Venne. Come with me for hammers. I know
of another hiding-place for her ladyship's secret
hoards. We'll secure that, prove our loyalty, and
protect ourselves.
(Trumpets heard and shouts, Sylvie runs to
windoid.)
Sylvie de N. Soldiers are surrounding the house.
La Venne. Soldiers, I'm ruined; it is well-known
that the Marshal was my patron. Good-bye, wife.
(Kisses her.) Take my keys; in the caverns under
the house, you will find my earthly savings, live—
live—happy, and forget me.
Huqu. Brother, do not despair.
La Venne. Not despair, when the soldiers are in
the house. Won't they carry off everything ? To-
BLACK SEALS
morrow you will not find a mouse-trap or
paring on the premises. Catch the military sp k
anything like plunder. No, no—I was in the y
once myself, and know their tricks. Beside , y
head is loose on my shoulders. Not despair,
Sylvie de N. Pray, husband, be composed.
La Venne. In my tomb I will.
Enter Officer and Soldiers.
Officer. Surrender, you are our prisoners.
La Venne. We submit, sir, we submit—what is
our crime ?
Officer. You are suspected. _
La Venne. Good, what man's above suspicion. I
am a citizen, tax-payer, husband, and hope to be a
father. •
Officer. We have orders to convey you to the Bas¬
tille.
Enter MARGUERITE, quickly.
Marg. Not so, those orders are countermanded
by his majesty. (Gives order.) The Bafety of all
within this house is to be guarded.
[Exit Officer and Soldiers.
La Venne. Do your duty, sir, and guard me.
Sylvie de N. (To Countess.) To you we are in¬
debted ?
Marg. Your devotion to Bernard, and protection
to his brother, deserve a recompense 1 I obtained
that order, fearing lest your interests might suffer
in this confusion. A terrible struggle has arrived;
ten years of shame and degradation of the king
expiated in ten minutes. All the faction destroyed;
even now the populace drag the dead body of the
Marshal thro' the streets in triumph.
La Venne. And my bad debts tied to them.
[Aside.
Marg. (To La Venne.) You will be required to
give up the Marchioness's treasure, as she is ac¬
cused of treason.
La Venne. It's gone; no not all of it. I know the
trap where the old fox concealed most of it, we'll
get it out. Long live the king and ourselves.
[Exit with Huquet.
Sylvie de N. Are all the rebel party slain ?
Marg. A few escaped by miracle.
Sylvie de H. Your husband?
Marg. Was one who's life was saved.
Sylvie de N. Who caused the outbreak ?
Marg. That is a secret—even to the queen. We
were watching, waiting the king's return; at a late
hour he entered the palace, without a word or mark
of recognition; with palpitating hearts we listened
to his rapid footsteps and sighs as he paced to and
fro. A little time and a bell sounded. This was an¬
swered by the entrance of a party of armed men.
We saw them through a crevice in the wall: nobles,
soldiers. The king in feverish haste and with
pallid features, addressed them thus, "Destroy;
kill without mercy the Marshal and his faction;
spare none as you love me, of the serpent's brood."
They rose and stealthily quitted the palace. The
bell of St Germains struck eight We rushed to
the window. On the bridge stood a solitary man,
the Chevalier St Pierre.
Sylvie de N. Uncle to Bernard!
Marg. Galloping towards the bridge in furious
haste, rode the Marshal, my husband and his party
with angry menaces and flashing swords. They ap¬
proached St Pierre, cries fill the air, " Strike tb'
traitor down, long live the regent." '
Sylvie de N. The Chevalier ? (Noise of doorM^f
Marg. Stood, undismayed by their threat"*
weapons were raised to strike, when a
musketry drove them back, and as if b
THE THREE BLACK SEALS.
877
bridge was filled with soldiers. Death-dealing blows,
and curses loud and deep filled the air, as the as¬
sailants closed with each other. D'Epernon fell
disabled. The Marshal slain, my husband, despera¬
tely wounded, fought wildly for his life. Followed
by the archers, he retreated to the ruined tower
on the bridge. His pursuers close upon him; life
hangs upon a breath; a ball strikes the tottering
ruin ; it falls, and all are engulphed in the waters of
the Seine.
Sulvie de TV. Merciful Providence.
Marg. Fainting, I sank into the arms of the
Queen. The fearful scene is still before me, I can¬
not fly from it.
Sylvie de N. Speak not thus, dear madam, hap¬
piness will yet be yours.
Marg. Happiness, I have none to seek, life is lost
—embittered. A convent's walls alone offer peace
and repose, denied me here.
Sylvie de N. There are those who love you de¬
votedly, dear lady, and would die to serve you.
Marg. (Taking her hand.) Believe me, I am grate¬
ful to you. Learn to forget my misfortunes and live
happily. For me there is no hope!
Sylvie de IV. Yes, yes, in one—he loves you, Ber¬
nard.
Marg. Hush! I dare not think of him. (Noise
heard of a door dosing.) What noise is that, did
you hear ?
Sylvie de If. It's my husband or brother return¬
ing. Pray do not give way, dear lady, to this me¬
lancholy.
Marg. I cannot escape from it, it is here in my
heart. I Voise heard of dragging footsteps ascending
the tairs There again, .ootsteps are ascending to¬
wards that passo ge. (Music, points.' You see, you see.
(Catches Sylvie's hand, and crouching down a shadow
passes very slowly behind the closet doors.) Is that your
brother ?
Sylvie de N. No, no !
Marg. Who can it be ?—we are alone, let us seek
your husband. (They go to the door, Marguerite
starting back.) We cannot pass, the man is entering
the corridor, dragging himself forward. Fainting,
desperately wounded, supporting himself by his
sword, evidently suffering great pain; look, he ap¬
proaches the fire, tries to revive the dying embers,
I cannot discern his features. Ah! he moves to¬
wards the door. Oh! heavens, it is my husband,
Sylvie. (Rushing back.)
Sylvie de N. If he discerns you, madam—
Marg. I am lost. (A red light from the room.) Shall
I call for help?
Sylvie de N. A word, a breath, and our lives are ;
gone. What aid couid reach us, the window
barred, and he there. (Points.) No, no, calmness
and courage is all that is left to us in this periL
(Retires gradually to closet.) We may conceal our-
fnlves here, do not tremble so, there, lean on me.
(Music.—They enter the closet. Music.—Closing the
doors as IGLSE enters the room wet, covered with
dirt, hair dishevelled. He appears to be in great pain,
and leans upon his sword. The moon-beams from the
window fall full on his figure. Marguerite and Sylvie
teen at the closet doors.)
Count H. <TI. My strength is failing me.
Marg. He is dying.
Count H. d'l. My very blood congealing, cold
rid, there is no life in me. (Fans fire with his scarf,'
\alow on his features.) The rascals cut deeply, yet
wVs to my good steel, I am living; the odds
inw'arfully against me, twenty swords to one,
tttWSgerly pressing for my life. The falling
the river saved me from' the blood¬
hounds. The water revived me. I swam to the
quay. La Venne's doors were open; unobserved I
crawled in for shelter. A glass of good wine would
restore my failing spirits, but I dare not ask for it,
lest the fellow might betray me. A little rest and
on. Beyond the walls of Paris, after this night's
work. It is no hiding-place for me. The gibbets of
Montfau?on would be speedily decorated with my
carcase, an honour 1 do not seek, (Laughs.)
Marg, Relentless monster.
Count H. d'l. The concealed treasure of my es¬
timable friend the Marchioness must be mine. She
will never return to dispute the right The golden
prize in my possession; life is renewed once more.
Darkness will favour my flight. The open country
gained, horses can easily be obtained; then on for
the frontiers and revenge. My one thought, hopo,
purpose, shall be to exterminate all.
(Sylvie. {Groans.) 0—hi
Marg. Hush, I implore.
Count H. d'l. Marguerite, curses on her, she
brought ruin on my head; for her I'll live; every
movement shall be watched until the moment
comes to strike the blow. She must have plotted
with St Pierre, and prepared the attack on tho
bridge. Her minion, Bernard, too, he shall feel the
weight of my resentment Gold will sharpen Italian
daggers for his heart.
Marg. (Groans.) Oh! heavens!
Count H. dl. I feel stronger now. (Looks round the
room.) The spring is near that closet. (Points and
turns round. A light is seen through closet-doors, and
HXJQJJET passes with a lamp.)
Count II. d'l. Disturbed! I must be guarded.
(Locks the door, and takes the key out.)
Sylvie de N. (At closet door.) My brother, call him.
Marg. Not for worlds; he has locked the door!
Huqu. (At the door.) Sylvie"
Count H. dl. (Starting.) Syivie.
Huqu. Why have you locked yourself in ? (Shakes
the door.) I have a message for the Countess Iglese.
Count H. d'l. (Wildly.) Here, the traitress here,
within my grasp. This repays me for all. Where,
where does the viper conceal herself? That closjt ?
Ah! give me strength to crash her. (Music. —A
ecream heard in the closet.) Yes, yes, she's there;
vengeance is mine. (As he rushes to the doors tfuy are
closed quickly, he vainly endeavours to force them open.)
Hell conspires to fail me. (Knocking heard at the
door.)
Huqu. Why don't yon open the door ?
Count H. dl. She will escape me. (Breaks the glass
in the closet door with the hilt of his sword, Marguerite
puts her arm through the broken pane and seizes his
sword, drawing it through his hand, he groans in agony
and falls.) Curses on her. Hell defeats me.
La Venne. (Without.) Wife—Sylvie! (Heavy blows
heard on the door.)
Count H. de'I. My treasure, my gold, the hiding-
place, the ceiling, once more fate I defy your worst.
The secret spring is here. (Touches a small bu ton,
laughs wildly.) Now I triumph over all. (Music
of a peculiar character, and tne heavy corniced ceiling
is seen to gradually descend.) I can easily wrench a
bar from yonder window, and descend unseen
(Looks up, by this time the ceiling is Tuff down.)
Horror, horror, what have I done; the ceiiing falls
down on me, I shall be crushed to death. (Rum to
window, tries bars.) No, no, I have not the strength ;
the key! (Feels for it.) That door—lost. Ah! misery.
(Runs to closet.) Closer, closer, it comes on me.
Wife, Marguerite, for the love of mercy spare nie !
Open! open! I will not harm you. The accursed
secret kiln- me. Give me life, I am not fit to dis*
THE Tkaee- Bfc.ACii tskALS.
87s
(Ceilingpress?.* hail down, he endeavours to keep it up
with his hands ruiscd up, forced on his knees bi/ the
pressure.) Mercy, not yet,'give a moment. (Fails on
his back.) I will not die? (The ceiling crushes him,
and takes the place of a carpet on the stage, another
ceiling exactly like the one that descends is discovered
when the action takes place. When the ceiling is on the
stage, the closet door flies open and Marguerite falls out
fainting. Sylvie bends over her. The door is forced
open and La Venne, and Huquet rush in.)
La Venne. Wife, wife. (Huquet raising Marguerite.)
Huquet. She is fainting—iook up lady! (Music.)
Enter LOUIS, ANNE OF AUSTRIA, CHEVALIER
ST. PIERRE,- BERNARD, ARTHUR, FAU-
BERT, and all the court; guards, bearing torches.)
Louis. Where is the traitor d'lglese? He has been
traced to this house.
Marg. (Points down.) There, there, oh! horrible,
crushed by the fallen ceiling.
La Venne. Merciful providence, it was his own
wicked invention; known only to himself and the
Marchioness, to conceal in the false ceiling her
money and jewels.
St. Pierre. The fox caught ill his own trap at
last, cheating the hangman of his dues.
Anne of A. Dear Marguerite, lookup, you are safe
now. (Takes her hand.)
Louis. Well, honest soldier, have I done my
duty ?
St. Pierre. Yes, and I'll now do mine, return
home, and attend to my own business. I escaped
from the attac-k on the bridge by a miracle.
Louis. The baton of a marshal of France is yours.
St. Pierre. (Kneels.) I am not deserving of such
an honour, sir.
Anne of A. These orphans shall be my care.
(Points to Bernard and Arthur.)
Louis. And nearest our heart remains the
Countess d'lglese.
Anne of A. We mustgivc her abetter name. Ber¬
nard. (Place.. Bernard's hand in Marguerite's.)
St. Pierre. Heaven speed your fortunes! I have
avenged the murder of my master, the great king!
His assassins lie low, now t can dio in peace. Bless
you, boy; live happy, prosperously. There's success
and fortune under the Three Black Seals.
(Grand flourish.)
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY WILLIAM CONGKEVE.
Almeria.—" He, he is my husband !"—Act iv, scene l.
The King.
OSJO K.
(tONSACEZ.
Garcia.
jttms 3Sepsmfe&.
Alonzo.
Perez.
heli.
Selije
Auieeia.
Zara.
Leoxoka.
Attexdants
ACT I.
SCENE 1.—A Room of Stale.
The curtain rises slowly to so ft music. ALMERIA, in
mourning, and LEONORA, discovered. Almeria
rises, and comes forward.
Almeria. Music has charms to soothe a savage
breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read that things inanimate have mov'd.
And, as with living souls, have been inform'd
By magie number and persuasive sound.
What then am I ? Am I more senseless grown
Than trees or flint? Oh, force of constant woe!
'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs.
Anselmo sleeps,, and is at peace: last night
The silent tomb receiv'i the good old king;.
He and his sorrows r-.'jw are safely lodg'tl
Within its cold, but hospitable bosom.
Why am I not at peace?
Leonora. Dear madam, cease,
Or moderate your grief. There is no cause—
Almeria. No cause! Peace, peace! there is eter»
nal cause,
And misery eternal will succeed.
Thou canst not tell; thou hast, indeed, no cause.
Leonora. Believe me, madam, 1 lament An¬
selmo,
And always did compassionate his fortime;
Have often wept, to see how cruelly
Your father kept in chains his fellow king :
And oft at night, when all have been retired,
Have stol'n from hod, and to his prison crept,
880
THE MOURNING- BRIDE.
"Where, while his gaoler slept, I, through the i
grate,
Have softly whisper'd, and inquir'd his health;
•sent in my sighs and pray'rs for his deliv'rance:
For sighs and pray'rs were all that I could offer.
Almeria. Indeed, thou hast a soft and gentle na¬
ture.
That thus could melt to see a stranger's wrongs.
Oh, Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo,
How would thy heart have bled to see his sufff-
rings!
Thou hadst no cause but general compassion.
Leonora. Love of my royal mistress gave me
cause!
My love of you begot my grief for him;
For I had beard, that when the chance of war
Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory,
And the rich spoil of all the field, and you.
The glory of the whole, were made the prey
Of his success,
He did endear himself to your affection,
Uy all the worthy and indulgent ways
B is most industrious goodness could invent:
Proposing, by a match between Alphonso,
His son, the brave Yalencian prince, and you,
To end the long discussion, and unite
The jarring crowns.
Almeria. Why was I carried to Anselmo's
court ?
Or there, why was I us'd so tenderly ?
Why not ill-treated like an enemy ?
For, so my father would have us'd his child.
Oh, Alphonso, Alphonso 1
Devouring seas have wash'd thee from mv sight;
No time shall rase thee from my memory;
No, I will live to be thy monument:
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb:
But, in my heart, thou art interr'd: there, there,
Thy dear resemblance is for ever flx'd;
Hy love, my lord, my husband still, though lost!
Leonora. Husband! Oh, heav'ns!
Almeria. Alas! what have I said ?
My grief has hurried me beyond all thought:
I would have kept that secret; though I know
Thy love and faith to me deserve all confidence.
Leonora. Witness these tears!
The memory of that brave prince stands fair
In all report;
And I have heard, imperfectly, his loss;
But, fearful to renew your troubles past,
I never did presume to ask the story.
Almeria. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell
thee:—
I was a welcome captive in Valencia,
Ev'n on the day when Manuel, my father,
Led on his conqu'ring troops, high as the gates
Of king Anselmo's palace; which, in rage,
And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fir'd.
The good king, flying to avoid the flames.
Started amidst his foes, and made captivity
His fatal refuge. Would that I had fall'n
Amidst those flames! but, 'twas not so decreed.
Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty,
Had borne the queen and me on board a sh"4?
Ready to sail; and, when this news was kvought,
We put to sea; but, being betray'd by some
Who knew our flight, we closely were pursu'd,
And almost taken; when a sudden storm
Drove us, and those that follow'd, on the coast
Of Afric; there our vessel struck the shore,
And, bulging 'gainst a rock, was dash'd in pieces 1
But, heav'n spar'd me for yet much more affliction!
Conducting them who follow'd us, to shun
The shoal, and save me floating on the waves,
While the good queen and my Alphonso p0"
rished.
Leonora. Alas! were you, then, wedded to Al¬
phonso?
Almeria. That day, that fatal day, ou. hauds
were join'd!
For, when my lord beheld the ship pursuing,
And. saw her rate so far exceeding ours.
Be came to me, and begg'd me, by my lovo,
I would consent the priest should make us one;
That, whether death or victory ensu'd,
I might be his, beyond the pow'r of fate .
The queen, too, did assist his suit; I granted;
And, in one day, was wedded and a widow.
Leonora. Indeed, 'twas mournful.
Almeria. 'Twas as I have told thee;
For which I mourn, and will for ever mourn;
Nor will I change these black and dismal robes,
Or ever dry these swoll'n and wat'ry eyes;
Or ever taste content, or peace of beart,
While I have life and thought of my Alphonso.
{Loud shouts.)
Leonora. Hark!
The distant shouts proclaim your father's triumph.
(Shouts at a distance.)
Oh, cease—for heav'n's sake, assuage a little
This torrent of your grief; for, much, I fear,
'Twill urge his wrath to see you drown'd in
tears,
When joy appears in ev'ry other face.
Almeria. And joy he brings to ev ry other heart,
But double, double weight of woe to mine;
For, with him Q-arcia comes; Garcia, to whom
I must be sacriflc'd, and all the vows
I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken.
No, it shall never be, for I will die
First,—die ten thousand deaths! Look dowc look
down,
Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make;
(Kneels.)
And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arriv'd,
Through all impediments of purging fire.
To that bright heav'n where my Alphonso reigns,
Behold thou, also, and attest my vow:—
If ever I do yield, or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another lord,—may, then, just heav'n )vv'r
down
Unheard-of curses on me, greater far
(If such there be in angry heav'n's vengeance)
Than any I have yet endur'd. And now
(Rises.)
My heart has some relief; having so well
Discharg'd this debt, incumbent on my love.
Yet, one thing more, I would engage from theo.
Leonora. My heart, my life, and will, are only
yours.
Almeria. I thank thee. 'Tis but this:—anon,
when all
Are wrapp'd and busied in the general joy,
Thou wilt withdraw, and privately with me
Steal forth to visit good Anselmo's tomb.
Leonora. Alas! I fear some fatal resolution.
Almeria. No, on my life, my faith, I meftn no ill.
Nor violence! I feel myself more light,
And more at large, since I have made this vow.
Perhaps I would repeat it there more solemnly.
'Tis that, or some such melancholy thought;
Upon my word, no more.
Leonora. I will attend you.
Enter ALONZO.
Alonzo. The lord Gonsalez comes to tell your
highness
The king is just arriv'd.
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
881
Alneria. Conduct him in. [Exit Alonzo.
That'B his pretence: his errand is, I know,
To fill my ears with Garcia's valiant deeds,
And gild and magnify his son's exploits.
But I am arm'd with ice around my heart,
Not to he warm'd with words or idle eloquence.
Enter GONSALEZ.
Gonsalez. Be ev'ry day of your long life like
this!
The sun, bright conquest, and your brighter eyes,
Have allconspir'd to blaze promiscuous light,
And bless this day with most unequal lustre.
Your royal father, my victorious lord,
Laden with spoils, and ever-living laurel,
Is ent'ring now, in martial pomp, the palace.
Five hundred mules precede his solemn march,
Which groan beneath the weight of Moorish
wealth;
Chariots of war, adorn'd with glitt'ring gems,
Succeed; and next, a hundred neighing steeds,
White as the fleecy rain on Alpine hills,
That bound and foam, and champ the golden bit,
As they disdain'd the victory they grace.
Prisoners of war, in shining fetters, follow;
And captains of the noblest blood of Afric
Sweat by his chariot-wheels;
The swarming populace spread every wall;
While you alone retire, and Bhun this sight;
This sight, which is indeed not seen (though
twice
The multitude should gaze) in absence of your
eyes.
Almeria. My lord, mine eyes ungratefully be¬
hold
The gilded trophies of exterior honours;
Nor will my ears be charm'd with sounding words,
Or pompous phrase, —the pageantry of souls;
But that my father is return'd in safety,
I bend to heav'n with thanks.
Gonsalez. Excellent princess!
But, 'tis a task unfit for my weak age,
With dying words to offer at your praise:
Garcia, my son, your beauty's lowest slave,
Has better done, in proving with his sword
The force and influence of your matchless charms.
Almeria. I doubt not of the worth of Garcia's
deeds,
Which had been brave, though I had ne'er been
borp.
Leonora. Madam, the king.
Symphony of warlike music. Enter the KING, at¬
tended by GARCIA and several Officers. Files of
Prisoners in chains, and Guards. Almeria meets
the King, and kneels; afterwards, Gonsalez kneels
and kisses the King's hand, while Garcia does the
same to Almeria.
King. Almeria, rise: my best Gonsalez, rise.—
What, tears, my good old friend!
Gonsalez. But, tears of joy.
Believe me, sir, to see you thus, has flll'd
Mine eyes with more delight than they can hold.
King. By heav'n, thou lov'st me! and I am
pleas'd thou dost.
Take it for thanks, old man, that I rejoice
To see thee weep on this occasion: some
Here are, who seem to mourn at our success.
Why is't, Almeria, that you meet our eyes,
Upon this solemn day, in these sad weeds ?
In opposition to my brightness, you
And yours are all like daughters of affliction.
Almeria. Forgive me, sir, if I in this offend:
The year, which I have vow'd to pay to heav'n,
In mourning and strict life for my deliv'rance
From wreck and death, wants yet to be expir'd.
King. Your zeal to heav'n is great, so is your
debt;
Yet, something, too, is due to me who gave
That life which heav'n preserv'd. A day bestow'd
In filial duty, had aton'd and given
A dispensation to your vow No more;
'Twas weak and wilful, and a woman's error.
Yet, upon thought, it doubly wounds my sight,
To see the sable worn upon the day
Succeeding that in which our deadliest foe,
Hated Anselmo! was interr'd. By heav'n!
It looks as thou didst mourn for him. Just so
Thy senseless vow appear'd to bear its date,
Not from that hour wherein thou wert preserv'd,
But that wherein the curs'd Alphonso perish'd.
Ha! What, thou dost not weep to think of that?
Gonsalez. Have patience, royal sir: the princess
weeps
To have offended you. If fate decreed,
One pointed hour should be Alphonso's loss
And her deliverance, is she to blame ?
King. I tell thee she's to blame, not to have
feasted
When my first foe was lain in earth; such en¬
mity,
Such detestation bears my blood to his,
My daughter should have revell'd at his death;
She should have made these palace walls to shake,
And all this high and ample roof to ring
With her rejoicings. What, to mourn and weep!
Then, then to weep, and pray, and grieve 1 By
heav'n,
There's not a slave, a shackled slave of mine,
But should have smiled that hour, through all his
care,
And shook his chains in transport and rude har¬
mony !
Gonsalez. What she has done was in excess of
Betray'd by too much piety, to seem
As if she had offended. Sure, no more.
King. To seem is to commit, at this conjunc¬
ture.
I wo' not have a seeming sorrow seen
To-day. Retire, divest yourself with speed
Of that offensive black; on me be all
The violation of your vow; for you,
It shall be your excuse that I command it.
Garcia. (Kneeling.) Your pardon, sir, if I presume
so far,
As to remind you of your gracious promise.
King. Rise, Garcia; I forgot Yet stay, Al¬
meria.
Almeria. My boding heart!—What is your plea¬
sure, sir?
King. Draw near, and give your hand; and,
Garcia, yours:
Receive this lord, as one whom I have found
Worthy to be your husband and my son.
Garcia. Thus let me kneel to take—oh 1 not to
take
But to devote and yield myself for ever
The slave and creature of my royal mistress.
Gonsalez. Oh! let me, prostrate, pay my worth¬
less thanks—
King. No more: my promise long since pass'd,
thy services,
And Garcia's well try'd valour, all oblige me.
This day we triumph: but to-morrow's sun,
Garcia, shall shine to greet thy nuptials.
Almeria. Oh! (Faints.)
Garcia. She faints! help to support her.
832
EE MOURNING BRIDE.
Gonsahi. She recovers.
King. A fit of bridal fear. How is't, Almeria. ?
Almeria. A sudden chillness seizes on my spirits.
Your leave, sir, to retire.
King. Garcia, conduct her.
(Garcia leads Almeria to the door, and re-
tarns.)
This idle vow hangs on her woman's fears.
"'11 have a priest shall preach her from her faith,
And make it sin not to renounce that now
"Which I have broken Now, what would Alonzo ?
Enter ALONZO and Attendants.
AJonzc. Your beauteous captive, Zara is arriv'd,
And with a train as if she still were wife
Tc Albucacim, and the Moor had conquer'd.
King. It is our will she should be so attended.
c.t hence these prisoners. Garcia, which is he,
Of whose mute valour you relate such wonders '!
(Prisoners l*d off.)
Garcia. Osmyn, who led the Moorish horse; but
he,
Groat sir, at her request, attends on Zara.
King. Ho is your prisoner; as you please, dis¬
pose him.
Garcia. I would oblige, vim, but he shuns my
kindness;
And with a haughty mein, and stern civility,
Dumbly declines all offers: if he speak,
"Tis scarce above a word; ss he were born
Alone to do, and did disdain to talk;
At least to talk where he must not command.
King. Such sullenness, and in a man so brave,
Must have some other cause than his captivity.
Did Zara, then, request he might attend her?
Garcia. My lord, she did.
King. That, join'd with his behaviour.
Begets a doubt. I'd have 'em watch'd; perhaps,
Her chains hang heavier on him than his own.
Enter ZARA, and OSMYN, in chains, condwled by
PEREZ and a Guard, attended by SELIM, and
several Mutes.
King. What welcome and what honours, beau¬
teous Zara,
A king and conqueror can give, are yours:
A conqueror, indeed, where you are won ;
Who with such lustre strike admiring eyes,
That had our pomp, been with your presence
grac'd,
The expecting crowd had been received; and
seen
The monarch enter, not triumphant, but
In pleasingdriumph led, your beauty's slave.
Zara. If I on any terms could condescend
To like captivity, or think those houourn
Which conquerors, in courtesy, bestow,
Of equal value with unborrow'd rule
And native right, to arbitrary sway,
I might be pleas'd, when I behold this train
With usual homage wait: but when I feel
These bonds, I look with loathing on myself;
And scorn vile slavery, though doubly hid
Beneath mock praises and dissembled state.
King. Those bonds! 'Xwas my command you
should be free.
How durst you, Perez, disobey ?
Perez. Great sir,
Your order was she should not wait your triumph;
But, at some distance follow, thus attended,
King. 'Tis false 1 'twas more! I bid she should
be free.
If not in words, I bid it by my eyes.
Her eyes did more than bid. Free her and hers
With speed — Yet, 6tay! ray hands alone can
make
Fit restitution here. Thus I release you,
And, by releasing you, enslave myself.
Zara. Such favours, so conferred, though when
unsought,
Deserve acknowledgment from noble minds.
Such thanks, as one hating to be oblig'd,
Yet, hating more ingratitude, can pay,
I offer.
King. Born to excel and to command:
As, by transcendent beauty to attract
All eyes, so by pre-eminence of soul
To rule all hearts.
Garcia, what's he, who, with contracted brow
(Beholding Osmyn, as they unbind him-
And sullen port, glooms downwards with hia
eyes;
At once regardless of his chains or liberty?
Garcia. That, sir, is he of whom I spoke; that's
Osmyn.
King. He answers well the character you gave
bith.
Whence comes it, valiant Osmyn, that a maa
So great in arms as thou art said to be,
So hardly can endure captivity,
The common chance of war?
Osmyn. Because captivity
Has robbed me of a dear and just revenge.
King. I understand not that.
Osmyn. I would not have you.
Zara. That gallant Moor in battle lost a friend,
Whom more than life he lov'd; and the regret
Of not revenging on his foes that loss,
Has caus'd this melancholy and despair.
King. She does excuse him: 'tis as I suspected.
(Apart to Gon.iale;.>
Gonsalez. That friend may be herself. Seem not
to heed
His arrogant reply. She looks concern'd.
(Apart to the King /
King. I'll have inquiry made: perhaps his frieml
Yet lives, and is a prisoner. His name ?
Zara. Heli.
King. Garcia, that search shall be your care:
It shall be mine to pay devotion here;
At this fair shrine to lay my laurels down,
And raise love's altar on the spoils of war.
Conquest and triumph now are mine no mere,
Nor will I victory in camps adore:
Fickle in fields, unsteadily she flies,
But rules with settled sway in Zara's eyes.
[Ext-srn.
ACT II
SCENE I.—The Aisle of a Temple.
Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA.
Almeria. It was a fancied noise, for all is hush' i.
Leonora. It bore the accent of a human voice.
Almeria. It was thy fear, or else some transient
wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle.
We'll listen.
Leonora. Hark!
Almeria. No; all is hush'd, and still as death
'Tis dreadful!
How rev'rend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch and pond'rous roof,
By its own weight made stedfast a*id immov¬
able,
Looking tranquility. It strikes an awe
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
883
And terror on my aching sight: the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart
Give mo thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice; my own affrights me with its echoes.
Leonora. Let us return; the horror of this
place,
And silence, will increase your melancholy
Almeria. It may my fears, but cannot add to
that
No, I will on. Shew me Anselmo's tomb;
Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering
earth
Of human bodies, for I'll mix with them ;
Or. wind me in the shroud of some pale corse
Yet green in earth, rather, than be the bride
Of Garcia'smore detested bed; that thought
Exerts my spirit; and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then shew mc,
Lead me, for I'm bolder grown; lead on,
"Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again
To him, to heav'n, and my A '.phonso's soul.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.— A place of Tonibs. A monumcxi
fronting the view.
Enter HELI.
Eeli. I wander through this maze of monu¬
ments,
Yet cannot find him. Hark! sure,'tis the voice
Of one complaining. There it sounds; I'll follow
it. [Exit.
En'er ALMERIA and LEONORA.
Leonora. Behold the sacred vaulf, within whose
tomb
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fi'esh and unconsum'd by time or worms.
What do I see? Oh, heav'n! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclos'd; the iron gates, that lead to death _
Beneath, are Still wide-stretch'd upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves.
Almeria. Sure, 'tis the friendly yawn of deatn
for me;
And that dumb mouth, significant in shew,
Invites me to the bed, where I alone
Shall rest; shews me the grave, where nature,
weary
And long oppress'd with woes and bending
caves. .
May lay the burden down, and sink m slumbers
Of peace eternal. My father, then,
"Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia, too.
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul, enlarg'd from its vile bonds, will
mount,
And range the starry orbs andmilky ways
To my Alphonso's soul. Oh! joy too great 1
Oh, ecstacy of thought! Help me, Anselmo !
Help me, Alphonso! take me, reach thy hand,
To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso!
-h'AlJhonso!^osMyN/),om
Osmyn. "Who calls that wretched thing that was
Almeria^Kug^ind. all the host of heaven, sup-
Osmvn. "Whence' is that voice, whose shrillness
from the grave, _
» nd r-vowing to his father » Maraud, roots up
Alphonso ?
Almeria. Mercy! Providence! Oh, speak!
Speak to it quickly, quickly! speak to me.
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, liida
me,
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light,
And from my eyes.
Osmyn. Amazement and illusion !
Rivet and nail me where "I stand, ye pow'rs!
(Coining forwardA
That motionless I may be still deceiv'd:
Let me not stir or breathe, lest 1 dissolve
That tender, lovely form of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls!
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she! 'tis she herself!
Nor dead, nor shade, but breathing and alive!
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife!
Re-enter HELI.
Leonora. Alas! She stirs not yet, not lifts licr
eyes
He, too, is fainting. Hold me, help mo, stranger,
Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raiso
These bodies.
Ileli. Ha! 'tis he, and .with Almeria!
Oh ! miracle of happiness! oh! joy
Unhop'd for! Does Almeria live ?
Osmyn. Where is she ?
Let me behold and touch her, and be sure
'Tis she.
Look up, Almeria, bless me with thy eyes :
Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband.
Almeria. I've sworn I'll not wed Garcia: why
d'ye force me ?
Is this a father?
Osmyn. Look on thy Alphonso.
Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia:
Nor am I what 1 seem, but Alphonso.
Am I so alter'd, or art thou so chang'd,
That seeing my disguise, thou seest not mc ?
Almeria. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face.
His voice; I know him now, 1 know him all.
Oh! how hast thou return'd ? how h ast thou charm'd
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this;
That, thus relenting, they have giv'n tliee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me ?
Osmyn. Oh! I'll notask, noranswerhow, or why,
We both have backward trod the paths of fate
To meet again, in life; to know I have thee,
Is knowing more than any circumstance
Or means by which I have thee.
To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips,
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy,
I have no lesiure to reflect or know.
Or trifle time in thinking.
Almeria. Stay awhile.
Let me look on thee yet a little more.
Osmyn. And why? what dost thou mean? why
dost thou gaze so ?
Almeria. I know not; 'tis to see thy face, I
think—
It is too much ; too much to hear, and live!
To see him thus again in such profusion
Of joy, of bliss—I cannot bear—I must
Be mad; I cannot be transported thus!
Osmyn. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heav'n of
love!
Almeria. Where hast thou been? and how art thou
alive ?
Sure, from thy father's tomb thou didst arise!
Osmyn. I did: and thou, my love, didst call mo!
thou!
Almeria. True. But how caro'st thou there ? wcrt
thou alone f
884
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
Osmyn. I was, and lying on my father's lead,
When broken echoes of a distant voice
Itisturb'd the sacred silence of the vault,
In murmurs round my head. I rose, and listen'd;
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso;
And thought I saw thee, too; but, oh! I thought
not
That I, indeed, should be so bless'd to see thee—
Almeria. But, still how cam'st thou hither ? how
thus ?—Ha!
What's he who, like thyself, is started here,
lire seen?
Osmyn. Where? Ha! what do I see? Antonio!
I'm fortunate indeed,—my friend, too, safe!
Heli. Most happily in finding you thus bless'd.
Almeria. More miracles! Antonio, too, escap'd!
Osmyn, And twice escap'd, both from the rage of
seas
And war; for. in the fight I saw him fall.
Heli. But fall unhurt, a pris'ner as yourself,
And as yourself made free. Hither I came
Impatiently to seek you, where I knew
Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo,
Osmyn. What means the bounty of all-gracious
heav'n,
That, persevering still, with open hand
It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy?
Where will this end ? But, heav'n is infinite
In all, and can continue to bestow,
When scanty number shall be spent in telling.
Leonora. Or I'm deceiv'd, or I beheld the glimpse
Of two in shining habits, cross the aisle!
Who, by their pointing, seem'd to mark this
place.
Almeria. Sure, I have dreamt, if we must part so
soon.
Osmyn. I wish, at least, our parting were a
dream,
Or we could sleep till we again were met.
Heli. Zara with Selim, sir; I saw and know 'em;
You must be quick, for love will lend her wings.
Almeria. What love ? who is she ? why are yon
alarm'd?
Osmyn. She's the reverse of thee; she's my un-
Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace;
I'll think how we may meet
To part no more. My friend will tell thee all 1
How I am escap'd, how 1 am here and thus;
How I'm not call'd Alphonso now, but Osmyn,
And he Heli. All, all he will unfold,
Ere next we meet.
Almeria. Sure, we shall meet again.
Osmyn. We shall I we part not but to meet again.
Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love
Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence.
[Exeunt all but Osmyn.
Yet I behold her—yet—and now no more.
Turn your light inwards, eyes, and view my
thought,
So shall you sail behold her.
Enter ZARA and SELIM.
Zara. See where »he stands, folded and flx'd to
earth,
Stilf'ning in thought, a statue among statues!
Why, cruel Osmyn, dost thou fly me thus ?
Am 1 more loathsome to thee than the grave,
That thou dost seek to shield thee there, and shun
My love? But, to the grave I'll follow thee.
He looks not, minds not, hears notl Barb'rous
man,.
Am I neglected thus? am I despis'd?
Not heard? ungrateful Osmyn!
Osmyn. Ha! 'tis Zara!
Zara. Yes, traitor! Zara, lost, abandon'd Zara,
Is a regardless suppliant now to Osmyn.
The slave, the wretch that she redeem'd from death,
Disdains to listen now, or Look on Zara.
Osmyn. Far be the guilt of such reproaches from
me;
Lost in myself, and blinded by my thoughts,
I saw you not till now.
Zara. Now, then, you see me:
But, with such dumb and thankless eyes'you look,
Better I was unseen, than Been thus coldly.
Osmyn. What would you from a wretch who
came to mourn,
And only for his sorrows chose this solitude?
Look round, joy is not here, nor cheerfulness.
You hav e pursu'd misfortune to its dwelling,
Yet look for gaiety and gladness there.
Zara. Inhuman! why, why dost thou rack mo
thns
And, with perverseness, from the purpose, an
swer?
What is't to me this house of misery ?
What joy do I require? If thou dost mourn,
I come to mourn with thee, to share thy griefs,
And give thee for 'em, in exchange, my love.
Osmyn. Oh, that's the greatest grief; I am so
poor,
I have not wherewithal to give again.
Zara. Thou hast a heart, though 'tis a savage
one:
Give it me as it is; I ask no more
For all I've done, and all I have endured:
For saving thee, when I beheld thee first,
Driven by the tide upon my country's coast,
Pale and expiring, drench'd in briny waves,
Thou and thy friend, till my compassion found
thee.
Compassion ! searce will own that name; so
soon,
So quickly was it love; for thou wert godlike
Ev'n then. Kneeling on earth, I loos'd my hair,
And with it dried those wat'ry cheeks, then
chaf'd
Thy temples, till reviving blood arose,
And, like the morn, vermillion'd o'er thy face.
Oh, heaven ! how did my heart rejoice and
ache,
When I beheld the day-break of thy eyes,
And felt the balm of thy respiring lips.
Oh, why do I relate what I have done ?
What did I not ? Was't not for you this war
Commenced ? Not knowing who you were, nor
why
You hated Manuel, I urg'dmy husband
To this invasion, where he late was lost.
Where all is lost, and 1 am made a slave.
Look on me now, from empire fall'n to slavery;
Think on my suff'rings first, then look on me;
Think on the cause of all, then view thyself :
Reflect on Osmyn, and then look on Zara.
The fall'n, the lost, and now the captive Zara;
And now abandon'd—say, what then is Osmyn ?
Osmyn. A.fatal wretch—a huge stupendous ruin,
That, tumbling on its prop, crushed all beneath,
And bore contiguous palaces to earth.
Zara. Yet thus, thus fall'n, thus levell'd with the
vilest,
If I have gain'd thy love, 'tis glorious ruin;
Ruin! 'tis still to reign, and to be more
A queen; for what are riches, empire pow'r,
But larger means to gratify the will ?
The steps on which we tread, to rise and reach
Our wish; and that obtain'd, down with (be
scaffolding
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
885
Of sceptres, eroWtiS, afld thrones; they have serv'd
their end,
And are, like lumber, to be left and scorn'd.
Osmyn. Why was I made the instrument to
throw
In bonds the frame of this exalted mind?
Zara. We may be free : the conqueror is
mine!
In chains, unseen, I hold him by the heart,
And can unwind and strain him as I please.
Give me thy love, I'll give thee liberty.
Osmyn. In vain you offer, and in vain require
" What neither can bestow. Set free yourself,
And leave a slave the wretch that would be so.
Zara. Thou canst not mean so poorly as thou
talk'st
Osmyn. Alas ! you know me not,
Zara. Not who thou art:
But what this last ingratitude declares,
This grov'ling baseness. Thou say'st true, I
know
Thee not, for what thou art yet wants a name:
But something so unworthy and so vile,
That to have lov'd thee makes me yet more
lost,
Than all the malice of my other fate.
Traitor, monster, cold and perfidious slave 1
A slave, not daring to be free! nor dares
To love above him, for 'tis dangerous:
There, there's the dreadful sound, the king's thy
rival!
Selim. Madam, the king is here, and ent'ring
now.
Zara. As I could wish; by heav'n I'll be re-
veng'd.
Enter the KING, PEREZ, and Attendants.
King. Why does the fairest of her kind with¬
draw
Her shining from the day, to gild this scene
Of death and night ? Ha! what disorder's this ?
Somewhat i heard of king and rival mention d.
What's he that dares be rival to the king,
Or lift his eyes to like where I adore ?
Zara. There! he, your pris'ner, and that was my
slave.
King. How! better than my hopes! does she
accuse him? (Aside.)
Zara. Am I become so low by my captivity,
And do your arms so lessen what they conquer,
That Zara must be made the sport of slaves ?
And shall the wretch, whom yester sun beheld
Waiting my nod, the creature of my pow'r,
Presume to-day to plead audacious love
And build bold hopes on my dejected Jafce ?
King. Better for him t„' tempt the rage of
heav'n.
And wrench the bolt, red-hissing from the hand
Of him that thunders, than but to think that inso¬
lence.
'Tis daring for a god. Hence to the wheel
With that Ixion, who aspires to hold
Divinity embrae'd; to whips and prisons
Drag him with speed, and rid me of his face.
(Guards seize Osmyn.)
Zara. Compassion led me to bemoan his state,
Whose former faith had merited much more:
And through my hopes in you, I undertook
He should be set at large: then sprung his inso¬
lence ;
And what was charity he constru'd love.
King. Enough: his punishment bo what you
please.
But let me lead you from this place of sorrow,
To one where young delights attend;
Where ev ry hour shall roll in circling joys,
And love shall wing the tedious-wasting day.
Life without Jove is load, and time stands still:
What we refuse to him, to death we give;
And then, then only, when we love, we live.
[Exeunt-
ACT III.
SCENE I.—A Prison.
OSMYN discovered alone, with a pa ter.
Osmyn. But now, and I was closed within the
tomb
That holds my father's ashes; and but now
Where he was pris'ner, I am, too, imprisou'd.
Sure tis the hand of heav'n that leads me thus,
And for some purpose points out these remem¬
brances.
In a dark corner of my cell I found
This paper; what it is, this light will shew.
(Reads.) " If my Atphonso" Ha!
" If my Alphonso live, restore him, heav'n!
Give me more weight, crush my declining years
With bolts, with chains, imprisonment, and want;
But bless my son! visit not him for me!"
(It is his hand! this was his pray'r;—yet more):
" Let ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots
Tears from my hoary and devoted head,
Be doubled in thy mercies to my son !
Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious
'Tis wanting what should follow—Heav'n should
follow,
But 'tis torn off! Why should that word alone
Be torn from this petition ? 'Twas to heav'n,
But heav'n was deaf; heav'n heard him not: but
thus.
Thus as the name of heav'n from this is torn,
So did it tear the ears of mercy from
His voice, shutting the gates of pray'r against
him!
If piety be thus debarr'd access
On high, and of good men the very best
Ib singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge,
What is reward ? or what is punishment?
But who shall dare to tax eternal Justice ?
Yet I may think—I may, I must: for thought
Precedes the will to think, and error lives
Ere reason can be born.
What noise! Who's there? My friend! howcam'st
thou hither ?
Enter HELI.
Heli. The time's too precious to be spent in tell¬
ing.
The captain, influene'd by Almeria's pow'r,
Gave order to the guards for my admittance.
Osmyn. How does Almeria? But I know sins
is
As I am. Tell me, may I hope to see her?
Heli. You may: anon, at midnight, when the
king
Is gone to rest, and Garcia is retir'd
(Who takes the privilege to visit late,
Presuming on a bridegroom's right), she']' come.
Osmyn. She'll come! 'tis what I wish, yet wluu
I fear.
She'll come; but whither, and to whom? Oh,
heav'n!
To a vile prison, and a captive wretch;
To one, whom had she never known, she had
Been happy. Why, why was that heav'nly crea¬
ture
83S
THE MOURNING BRIDE
Abandon'd o'er to love what heav'n forsakes ? I
Why does she follow, with unwearied steps, I
One who has tir'd misfortune with pursuing?
Heli. Have hopes, and hear the voice of better
fate.
I've learn'd there are disorders ripe for mutiny
Among the troops, who thought to share the
plunder,
Which Manuel to his own use and avarice
Converts. The news has reach'd Valencia's fron¬
tiers ;
Where many of your subjects, long oppress'd
With tyranny and grievous impositions,
Are ris'n in arms, and call for chiefs to head
And lead them to regain their rights and liberty.
Osmyn. By heav'n, thou'st rous'd me from my
lethargy.
The spirit, which was deaf to my own wrongs,
And the loud cries of my dead father's blood—
Oh, my Antonio, I am all on fire!
My soul is up in arms, ready to charge
And bear amidst the foe with conqu'ring troops.
I hear 'em call to lead 'em on to liberty,
To victory; their shouts and clamours rend
My ears, and reach the heav'ns! Where is the
king?
Where is Alphonso? Ha! where, where indeed?
Oh! I could tear and burst the strings of life,
To break these chains 1 Off! off! ye stains of
royalty!
Off, slavery! Oh, curse! that X alone
Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I
Would soar, and stoop at victory beneath.
Heli. Zara, the cause of your restraint, may be
The means of liberty restor'd. That gain'd,
Oceasion will not fail to point out ways
For your escape: meantime, I've thought already
With speed and safety to convey myself,
Where not far off some malcontents hold council
Nightly, who hate this tyrant; some, who love
Anselmo's memory, and will, for certain,
When they shall know who live, assist your
cause.
Osmyn. My friend and counsellor, as thou think'st
fit,
So do. I will with patience wait my fortune.
Heli. When Zara comes, abate of your aversion.
Osmyn. X hate her not, nor can dissemble
love:
But as I may, I'll do. Farewell,
My friend, the good thou dost deserve attend thee.
rExit Heli.
I've been to blame, and question'd with impiety
The care of heav'n. Not so my father bore
More anxious grief. This should have better
taught me;
This his last legacy to me; which here
I'll treasure as more worth than diadems,
Or all extended rule of regal pow'r.
Enter ZARA, veiled.
What brightness breaks upon me thus through
shades,
And promises a day to this dark dwelling ?
Is it my love?—
Zara. Oh! that thy heart had taught
(Lifting her veil.)
Thy tongue that saying!
Osmyn. Zara! I am betray'd by my surprise 1
(Aside.)
Zara. What, does my face displease thee ?
That having seen it thou dost turn thy eyes
Away, as front deformity and horror!
If so, this sable curtain shall again
Be drawn, and I will stand before thee, seeing
And unseen. ' Is It my love?' Ask again
That question: speak again in that soft voice}
And look again with wishes in thy eyes.
Oh, no, thou canst not; for thou seest mc now,
As she whose savage breast hath been the causa
Of these thy wrongs; as she whose barb'rori
rage
Has loaded thee with chains and galling irons.
Osmyn. You wrong me, beauteous Zara, to be«
lieve
I bear my fortunes with so low a mind.
But destiny and inauspicious stars
Have cast me down to this low being: or
Granting you had, from you I have deserv'd it.
Zara. Canst thou forgive me, then? wilt thou
believe
So kindly of my fault, to call it madness?
Oh, give that madness yet a milder name,
And call it passion; then be still more kind,
And call that passion love.
Osmyn. Give it a name,
Or being as you please, such I will think it.
Zara. Oh, thou dost wound me more with this
thy goodness,
Than e'er thou couldst with bitterest reproaches;
Thy anger could not pierce thus to my heart.
Osmyn. Yet X could wish—
Zara. Haste me to know it: what?
Osmyn. That at this time I had not been this
thing.
Zara. What thing ?
Osmyn. This slave.
Zara. Oh, heaven! my fears interpret
This thy silence; somewhat of high concern,
Long fashioning within thy lab'ring mind,
And now just ripe for birth, my rage has ruin'd,
Have I done this ? Tell me, am I so curs'd ?
Osmyn. Time may still have one fated hour to
come, 4
Which, wing'd with liberty, might overtake
Occasions past.
Zara. Swift as occasion, I
Myself will fly; and earlier than the morn
Wake thee to freedom.
Osmyn. I have not merited this grace;
Nor, should my secret purpose take effect,
Can I repay, as you require, such benefits.
Zara. Thou canst not owe me more, nor have I
more
To give than I've already lost. But now,
So does the form of our engagements rest,
Thou hast the wrong till I redeem thee hence;
That done, I leave thy justice to return
My love. Adieu! [Exit.
Osmyn. This woman has a soul
Of godlike mould, intrepid and commanding,
And challenges, in spite of me, my best
Esteem.
But she has passions which outstrip the wind,
And tear her virtues up, as tempests root
The sea. I fear, when she shall know the truth,
Some swift and dire event of her blind rage
Will make all fatal. But behold, she comes,
For whom 1 fear, to shield me from my fears,
The cause and comfort of my boding heart.
Enter ALMERIA.
My life, my health, my liberty, my all!
How shall I welcome thee to this sad place ?
How speak to thee the words of joy and trans¬
port?
How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters ?
Or take thee into mine, while I am thus mana¬
cled
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
And pinion'd like a thier or murderer ?
Rhall I not hurt or bruise thy tender body,
And stain thy bosom with the rust of these
Rude irons ? Must I meet thee thus, Almeria ?
Almeria. Thus, thus; we parted, thus to meet
again.
Thou told'st me thou would'st think how we might
meet
To part no more—now we will part no more;
For these thy chains, or death, shall join us ever.
Osmyn. Oh, oh—
Almeria. Give me that sigh.
Why dost thou heave, and stifle in thy griefs?
Thy heart will hurst, thy eyes look red and start;
Give thy soul way, and tell me thy dark thought.
Osmyn. For this world's rule, I would not wound
thy breast
With such a dagger as then struck my heart.
Almeria. Why ? why ? To know it, cannot wound
me more,
Than knowing thou hast felt it. Tell it me—
Thou giv'st me pain with too much tenderness.
Osmyn. And thy excessive love distracts my
sense.
Oh, wouldst thou he less killing, soft, or kind,
Grief could not double thus his darts against me.
Almeria. Thou dost me wrong, and grief, too,
robs my heart,
If here he shoot not ev'ry other shaft:
Thy second self should feel each other wound,
And woe shall be in equal portions dealt
I am thy wife—
Osmyn. Oh, thou hast searched too deep!
There, there I bleed; there pull the cruel cords,
That strain my cracking nerves; engines and
wheels,
That piecemeal grind, are beds of down and
balm
To that soul-racking thought.
Almeria. Then I am curs'd
Indeed, if that be so; if I'm thy torment,
Kill me, then kill me, dash me with thy chains,
Tread on me:
Am I, am I of all thy woes the worst ?
Osmyn. My all of bliss, my everlasting life,
Soul of my soul, and end of all my wishes,
Why dost thou thus unman me with thy words,
And melt me down to mingle with thy weep¬
ings ?
Why dost thou ask? Why dost thou talk thus
piercingly ?
Thy sorrows have disturb'd thy peace of mind,
And thou dost speak of miseries impossible.
Almeria. Didst not thou say that racks and w#.eels
were balm,
And beds of ease, to thinking me thy wife ?
Osmyn. No, no; nor should the subtlest pains
that hell,
Or hell-born malice can invent, extort
A wish or thought from me to have thee other.
But wilt thou know what harrows up my heart?
Thou art my wife—nay, thou art yet my bride;
The sacred union of connubial love
Yet unaccomplish'd.
Is this dark cell a temple for that god?
Or this vile earth an altar for such off'rings?
This den for slaves, this dungeon damp'd with
woes;
Is this to call thee mine? Oh! hold my heart!
To call thee mine! Yes: thus, e'en thus to call
Thee mine, were comfort, joy, extremest ecstasy.
But, oh 1 thou art not mine, not e'en in misery;
And 'tis deny'd to me to be so bless'd,
As to be wretched with thee.
867
Almeria. No, not that
Th' extremest malice of our fate can hinder:
That still is left us, and on that we'll feed,
As on the leavings of calamity.
There we will feast and smile on past distress,
And hug, in scorn of it, our mutual ruin.
Osmyn. Oh 1 thou dost talk, my love, as one rc-
solv'd,
Becausehot knowing danger. But look forward,
Think of to-morrow, when thou shalt bo torn
From these weak, struggling, unextended arms:
Think how my heart will heave, and eyes will
strain,
To grasp and reach what is deny'd my hands:
Think how I am, when thou shalt wed with Garcia!
Then will I smear these walls with blood, d.s-
flgure
And dash my face, and rive my clotted hair ;
Break on this flinty floor my throbbing breast,
And grovel with gash'd hands to scratch a grave;
And bury me alive.
Almeria. Heart-breaking horror!
Osmyn. Then Garcia shall lie panting on thy
bosom,
Luxurious, revelling amidst thy charms-
Hell, hell! have I not cause to rage and rave?
What are all racks, and wheels, and whips to
this?
Oh, my Almeria!
What do the damn'd endure, but to despair;
But knowing heav'n, to know it lost for ever ?
Almeria. Oh! I am struck; thy words are bolts
of ice,
Which, shot into my breast, now melt and chili
me.
Enter ZARA, PEREZ, and SELIM.
Zara. Somewhat of weight to me requires his
freedom.
Dare you dispute the king's command ? Behold
The royal signet (Aside to Perez.)
Perez. I obey; yet beg
Your majesty one moment to defer
Your ent'ring, till the princess is return'd
From visiting the noble prisoner.
(Aside to Zara.)
Zara. Ha!
What say'st thou ? (Aside to Perez.)
Osmyn. We are lost, undone, discover'd!
Speak of compassion, let her hear you speak
Of interceding for me with the king;
Say something quickly to conceal our loves,
If possible. (Aside to Almeria.)
Almeria. I cannot speak. (Aside to Osmyn.)
Osmyn. Let me
Conduct you forth, as not perceiving her,
But till she's gone; then bless me thus again.
(Aside to AlmeriaA
Zara. Trembling and weeping as he leads her
forth!
Confusion in his face, and grief in hers!
'Tis plain I've been abus'd.
Perdition catch 'em both, and ruin part 'em!
(Aside.)
Osmyn. This charity to one unknown, and thus
(Aloud to Almeria, as she is going.)
Distress'd, heav'n will repay: all thanks are poor.
[Exit Almeria.
Zara. Damn'd, damn'd dissembler! Yet I will
be calm,
Choke in my rage, and know the utmost depth
Of this deceiver. (Aside.) You seem much sur-
pris'cL
Osmyn. At your return so soon and unexpected.
Zara. And eo unwish'd, unwanted, too, it seemr
83S
THE MOURNING- BRIDE.
Confusion! Yet I will contain myself.
You're grown a favourite since last we parted:
Perhaps I'm saucy and intruding.
Osmyn. Madam!
Zara. I did not know the princess' favourite:
Your pardon, sir—mistake me not; you think
I'm angry; you're deceiv'd, I came to set
You free: but shall return much better pleas'd
To find you have an interest superior.
Osmyn. You do not come to mock my mi¬
series ?
Zara. I dft
Osmyn. I could at th'.s time spare your mirth.
Zara. I know thou could'st; but I'm not often
pleas'd,
And will indulge it now. What miseries ?
Who would not be thus happily cunfln'd
To be the care of weeping majesty?
To have contending queens, at dead of night.
Forsake their down, and wake with wat'ry eyes,
And watch, like tapers, o'er your hour of rest?
Ob, curse! 1 cannot hold.
Osmyn. Come, 'tis too much.
Zara. Villain!
Osmyn. How, madam?
Zara. Thou sha.lt die.
Osmyn. I thank you.
Zara. Thou liest, for now I know for whom
thou'dst live.
0smyn. Then you may know for whom I'd die.
Zara. Hell, hell!
Yet I'll be calm, Dark and unknown betrayer!
But now the dawn begins, and the slow hand
1 f fate is stretch'd to draw the veil, and leave
Thee bare, the naked mark of public view.
Osmyn. You may be still deceiv'd; 'tis in my
power,
Chain'd as I am, to fly from all my wrongs,
And free myself at once from misery,
And you of me.
Zara. Ha, say'st thou? But I'll prevent it
Who waits there ? As you will answer it, look this
slave
(To the Guard.)
Attempt no means to make himself away.
I've been deceiv'd. The public safety now
Requires he should be more confln'd, and none,
No, not the princess, suffered, or to see
Or speak with him: I'll quit you to the king.
Vile and ingrate ; too late thou shalt repent
The base injustice thou hast done my love;
V es, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress,
llnd all those ills, which thou so long hast
mourn'd,
Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—A Room of State.
Enter ZARA and SELIM.
Zara. Thou hast already rackd me with thy
stay;
Therefore, require me not to ask thee twice:
Reply at once to all. What is concluded?
Selim. Your accusation highly has incens'd
The king, and were alone enough to urge
The fate of Osmyn; but to that, fresh news
Has since arriv'd, of more revolted troops.
'Tis certain Heli, too, is fled, and with him
(Which breeds amazement and distraction! some
Who bore high offices of weight and trust,
Both in the state and army. This confirms
I he king in full belief of all you told him
Concerning Osmyn, and his correspondence
With them who first began the mutiny.
Wherefore, a warrant for his death is sign'd.
And order given for public execution,
Zara. Ha! haste thee 1 fly, prevent his fate and
mine;
Find out the king, tell him I have a weight
Moi e than his crown t'impart, ere Osmyn die.
Selim. It needs not, for the king will straight ba
here;
And as to your revenge, not his own ult'rest,
Pretend to sacrifice the life of Osmyn.
Zara. What shall I say? Invent, contrive
advise
Somewhat to blind the king, and save his life
In whom I live. Devise the means to shun it,
Quick: or, by heaven, this dagger drinks thy
blood.
Selim. My life is yours, nor wish I to preserve^
But to serve you, I have already thought.
Zara. Forgive my rage; I know thy love and
truth.
But say, what's to be done ? or when, or how
Shall I prevent or ecop the approaching danger?
Selim. You must still seem most resolute and
flx'd
On Osmyn's death; too quick a change of mercy
Might breed suspicion of the cause. Advise
That execution may be done in private.
Zara. On what pretence ?
Selim. Your own request's enough.
However, for a colour, tell him you
Have causes to fear his guards may be corruptfid,
And some of them bought off to Osmyn's inte¬
rest,
Who, at the place of execution, will
Attempt to force his way for an escape
The state of things will countenance all suspicions.
Then offer to the king to have him strangled
In secret by your mutes: and get an order,
That none but mutes may have admittance to him.
I can no more, the king is here. Obtain
This grant, and I'll acquaint you with the rest.
[Exit
Enter KING, GONSALEZ, and PEREZ.
King. Bear to the dungeon those rebellious
slaves:
But for their leaders, Sancho and Ramirez,
Let 'em be led away to present death.
Perez, see it perform'd.
Gonsalez. Might t presume,
Their execution better were deferr'd,
Till Osmyn die. Meantime, we may learn more
Of this conspiracy.
King. Then be it so.
Stay, soldier; they shall suffer with the Moor.
Are none return'd of those that follow'd Heii?
Gonsalez. None, sir. Some papers have been
since discover'd
In Roderigo's house, who fled with him,
Which seemed to intimate as if Alphonzo
Were still alive, and arming in Valencia:
Which wears, indeed, this colour of a truth,
They who have fled have that way bent thcit
course.
Of the same nature divers notes have been
Dispers'd t' amuse the people; whereupon
Some ready of belief, have rais'd this rumour.
That being sav'd upon the coast of Afric,
He there disclos'd himself to Albucazim,
Axd by a secret compact made with bim.
tEE MOURNING feRIDE.
Open'd and urg'd the way to this invasion;
While he himself, returning to Valencia
In private, undertook to raise this tumult.
Zara. Ha! hear'st thou that? Is Osmyn, then,
Alphonso ?
Oh! certain death for him, as sure despair
For me, if it be known. If not, what hope
Have I ? Yet 'twere the lowest baseness, now
To yield him up. No, I will still conceal him,
And try the force of yet more obligations.
(Aside.)
Gonsalez, 'Tis not impossible. Yet it may be
That some impostor has usurp'd his name.
Your beauteous captive, Zara, can inform
If such an one, so 'scaping, was receiv'd
At any time in Albucazim's court
King. Pardon, fair excellence, this long neg¬
lect:
An unforseen, unwelcome hour of business,
Has thrust between us and our while of love;
But wearing now apace with ebbing sand,
Will quickly waste and give again the day.
Zara. You're too secure: the danger is more im¬
minent
Than your high courage suffers you to see:
While Osmyn dves, you are not safe.
King. His doom
Is pass'd: if you revoke it not, he dies.
Zava. 'Tis welL By what I heard upon your en¬
trance,
I find I can unfold what yet concerns
You more. One who did call himself Alphonso
Was cast upon my coast, as is reported,
And oft had private conference with the king;
To what effect I knew not then: but he,
Alphonso, secretly departed, just
About the time our arms embark'd for Spain.
What I know more is, that a triple league
Of strictest friendship was profess'd between
Alphonso, Heli, and the traitor Osmyn.
King. Public report is ratified in this.
Zara. And Osmyn's death requir'd of strong
necessity.
King. Give order straight that all the pris'ners
die.
Zara. Forbear a moment, somewhat more I
have
Worthy your private ear, and this your minister.
King. Let all, except Gonsalez, leave the room. |
[Exeunt Perez, dec.
Zara. I am your captive, and you've us'd me
nobly;
And in return of that, though otherwise
Your enemy,
I think it fit to tell you, that your guards
Are tainted: some among 'em have resolv'd
To rescue Osmyn at the place of death.
King. Is treason, then, so near us as our
guards ?
Zara. Most certain; though my knowledge is not
yet
So ripe, to point at the particular men.
King. What's to be done?
Zara. That, too, I will advise.
I have remaining in my train some mutes,
A present once from the sultana queen,
In the grand seignior's court. These from their in¬
fancy
Are practised in the trade of death; and shall,
(As there the custom is,) in private, Btrangle
Osmyn.
Gonsalez. My lord, the queen advises welL
King. What off ring, or what recompense re¬
in urns
S89
In me, that can be worthy so great services ?
To cast beneath your feet the crown you've
sav'd,
Though on the head that wears it, were too
little.
Zara. Of that hereafter; but, meantime, 'tis
fit
You give strict charge that none may be ad¬
mitted
To see the pris'ner, but such mutes as they
Shall send.
King. Who waits there?
Enter PEREZ.
On your life take heed
That only Zara's mutes, or sucn wno oring
Her warrant, have admittance to the Moor.
Zara. They and no other, not the princess'
self.
Perez. Your majesty shall be obey'd.
King. Retire, [Exit Perez.
Gonsalez. That interdiction so particular,
Pronounc'd with vehemence against the princess,
Should have more meaning than appears bare-
fac'd.
The king is blinded by his love, and heeds
It not. (Aside.) Your majesty, sure, might have
spar'd
The last restraint; you hardly can suspect
The princess is confed'rate with the Moor.
Zara. I've heard her charity did once extend
So far as to visit him, at his request
Gonsalez. Ha!
King. How ? She visit Osmyn! What, my
daughter ?
Selim. Madam, take heed; or you have ruin'd
all. (Aside to Zara.)
Zara. And after did solicit you on his
Behalf.
King. Never. You have been misinform'd.
Zara. Indeed! Then 'twas a whisper spread by
some
Who wish'd it so; a common art in courts.
I will retire, and instantly prepare
Ins ructions for my ministers of death.
[Exit with Selim.
Gonsalez. There's somewhat yet of mystery in
this:
Her words and actions are obscure and doublo,
Sometimes concur, and sometimes disagree:
I like it not. (Aside. J
King. What dost thou think, Gonsalez;
Are we not much indebted to this fair one ?
Gonsalez. I am a little show of credit, sir,
In the sincerity of women's actions.
Methinks this lady's hatred to the Moor
Disquiets her too much; which makes it seem
As if she'd rather that she did not hate him.
I wish her mutes are meant to be employ 'd
As she pretends—I doubt it now—Your guards
Corrupted! how? by whom ? who told her so ?
I' th' evening, Osmyn was to die ; at midnight,
She begg'd the royal signet to release him,
I' th' morning, he must die again; ere noon,
Her mutes alone must strangle him, or he'll
Escape. This put together, suits not well.
King. Yet, that there's truth in what she has dis-
cover'd,
Is manifest from every circumstance.
This tumult, and the lords who fled with Heli,
Are confirmation; that Alphonso lives,
Agrees expressly, too, with her report.
Gonsalez. I grant it, sir; and doubt not, but la
rage
I'ilE mOueninct bride.
.',00
Of jealousy, she has discover'd what
She now repents. It may be I'm deceiv'd:
Eut why that needless caution of the princess?
What if she had seen Osmyn? though 'twere
strange;
Eut if she had, what was't to her? unless
She fear'd her stronger charms might causo the
Moor's
Affection to revolt.
King. I thank thee, friend;
There's reason in thy doubt, and I am warn'd.
But think's'c thou that my daughter saw this
Moor?
Gonsaiez. If Osmyn ne, as Zara has related,
Alphonso's friend, 'tis not impossible
But she might wish on his account to see him.
King. Say'st thou? By heaven, thou hast rous'd
a thought,
That like a sudden earthquake shakes my frame.
Confusion! then my daughter's an accomplice,
And plots in private with this hellish Moor.
Gonsaiez. That were too hard a thought: but, see,
she comes.
'Twere not amiss to question her a little,
And try, howe er, if I've divin'd aright.
If what I fear be true, she'll be concern'd
For Osmyn's death, as he's Alphonso's friend:
Urge that, to try if she'll solicit for him.
Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA,
King. Your coming has prevented me, Al-
meria;
I had determin'd to have sent for you.
Let your attendant be dismiss'd; I have
(Leonora retires.)
To talk with you. Come near; why dost thou
shake ?
What mean those swol'n and red-fleck'd eyes, that
look
As they had wept in blood, and worn the night
In waking anguish? "Why this, on the day
'Which was design'd to celebrate thy nuptials;
But that the beams of light are to be stain'd
With reeking gore from traitors on the rack ?
Wherefore I have deferr'd the marriage-rites;
Nor shall the guilty horrors of this day
Profane that jubilee.
Almeria. All days to me
Henceforth are equal: this the day of death,
To-morrow, and the next; and each that follows,
Will undistinguish'd roll, and but prolong
One hated line of more extended woe.
King. Whence is thy grief ? Give me to know the
cause,
And look thou answer me with truth; tor, know,
1 am not unacquainted with thy falsehood.
Why art thou mute? ba3e and degenerate maid!
Gonsaiez. Dear madam, speak, or you'll incense
the king.
Almeria. What is't to speak? or wherefore should
I speak?
What mean these tears, but grief unutterable ?
King. They are the dumb confessions of thy
mind:
They mean thy guilt; and say thou wert con-
fed'rate
With damn'd conspirators to take my life.
Oh, impious parricide ! now canst thou speak ?
Almeria. Oh, earth, behold I kneel upon thy
bosom,
And bend my flowing eyes, to stream upon
Thy face, imploring thee that thou wilt yield-.
Open thy bowels of compassion, take
Into thy womb the last and most forlora
Of all thy race. Ileaf mG, thou Co<w7flcm pafont «
I have uo parent else—bo thou a mother,
And step between me and the curse of him
Who was—who was, but is no more a father;
But brands my innocence with horrid crimes.
And for the tender names of child and daughter,
Now calls me murderer and parricido.
King. Rise, I command thee; and, if thou
would'st
Acquit thyself of those detested names,
Swear thou hast never seen that foreign dog,
Now doom'd to die, that most accursed Osmyn.
Almeria. Never, but as with innocence I might,
And free of all bad purposes: so heav'n's
My witness.
King. Yile, equivocating wretch !
With innocence! Ob, patience, hear: she owns
it!
Confesses it! By heav'n, I'll have him rack'd,
Torn, mangl'd, flay'd, impal'd; all pains and tor¬
tures
That wit of man and dire revenge can think,
Shall he, accumulated, under-bear.
Almeria. Oh, I am lost; there fate begins to
wound.
King. Hear me; then, if thou canst, reply: know,
traitoress,
I'm not to learn thatcurs'd Alphonso lives;
Nor am I ignorant what Osmyn is.
Almeria. Then all is ended, and we both must
die.
Since thou'rt reveal'd, alone thou shalt not die:
And yet alone would I have died, heav'n knows,
Repeated deaths, rather than have reveal'd thee.
King. Hell, hell! do I hear this, and yet endurof
What, dar'stthouto my face avow thy guilt?
Hence, ere I curse; fly my just rage with speed;
Lest I forget us both and spurn thee from me.
Almeria. And yet a father 1 think, I am your
child.
Turn not your eyes away : look on me kneeling;
Now curse me if you can; now spurn me off.
Did ever father curse his kneeling child ?
Never; for always blessings crown that posture.
Oh, hear me, then, thus crawling on the earth—
King. Be thou advis'd, and let mc go, while
yet
The light impression thou hast made rem a ins.
Almeria. No, never will I rise nor loose this
hold,
Till you are mov'd, and grant that he may live.
King. Ha 1 who may live ? take heed, no mure of
that:
For on my soul he dies, though thou and I
And all should follow to partake his (loom.
Away, off, let me go. Call her attendants.
Re-enter LEONORA ami Wonon.
Almeria. Drag me, harrow the earth with my
bare bosom,
I'll not let go till you have spar'd my husband.
King. Ha! husband! Which? who?
Almeria. He, he is my husband.
King. Who?
Almeria. 0— (Faints.)
Let mo go, let me fall, sink deep—I'll Jig,
I'll dig a grave, and tear up death : I will;
Yes, I will strip off life, and we will cba-ge:
I will be death; the*, though you kill my hus¬
band,
He shall be mine still, and for ever min?.
King. What husband ? whom dost thou mean ?
Gonsaiez. She raves 1
Aima ia. Oh! that I did! Osmyo, he is my
husband,
Tilt MOt)III
King. Osmyn!
Almeria. Not Osmyn, but Alphonso is my dear
And wedded husband. Heav'n, and air, and
seas,
Ye winds and waves, I call ye all to witness!
King. Wilder than winds or waves, thyself ctosft
rave.
Bhould I hear more, I, too, should catch thy mad¬
ness.
Watch her returning sense, and bring me word:
Andlook that she attempt not on her life. [ Gxu
Almeria. Oh! stay, yet stay; hear me, I am not
mad.
• would to heaven I were!—he's gone.
Gonsalez. Have comfort.
Almeria. Curs'd be that rogue that bids me be of
comfort!
Curs'd my own tongue, that could not move his
pity!
Curs'd these weak hands, that could not hold him
here!
For he is gone to doom Alphonso's death.
Gonsalez. Your too excessive grief works on your
fancy,
And deludes your sense. Alphonso, if living,
Is far from hence, beyond your father's power.
Almeria. Hence, thou detested, ill-tim'd flat¬
terer!
Source of my woes! thou and thy race be curs'd!
But doubly thou, who couldst alone have policy
/>nd fraud to find the fatal secret out,
And know that Osmyn was Alphonso!
Gonsalez. Ha!
Almeria. Why dost thou start ? what dost thou
see or hear?
Is it the doleful bell, tolling for death?
Or dying groans from my Alphonso's breast ?
See, see; look yonder, where a grizzled, pale,
And ghastly head glares by, all smear'd with
blood,
Gasping as it would speak; and after, see,
Behold a damp dead hand has dropp'd a dagger:
I'll catch it—Hark ! a voice cries murder! ah!
My father's voice! hollow it sounds, and eal.s
Me from the tomb—I'll follow it; for there
I shall again behold my dear Alphonso.
[.Exit with Leowra.
Gonsalez. She's greatly griev'd; nor am I less
surpris d.
Osmyn Alphonso ! no; she over-rates
My policy: 1 ne'er suspected it:
Nor now had known it, but from her mistake.
Her husband, too. Ha ! where is Garcia, then?
And where the crown that should descend on
him,
To grace the line of my posterity?
Hold, let me think: if I should tell the k'ng,
Things come to this extremity; his daughter
Wedded already—what if he should yield ?
Knowing no remedy for what is past;
And urg'd by nature pleading for his child,
With which he seems to be already shaken.
And though I know he hates, beyond the grave,
Anselmo's race; yet, if—that if concludes me.
To doubt, when I maybe assur'd, is folly.
But how prevent the captive queen, who means
To set him free ? Ay, now 'tis plain: oh! well
Invented tale He was Alphonso's friend.
This subtle woman will amuse tfec king,
If I delay—'twill do—or better so.
One to my wish. Alonzo, thou art welcome.
Enter ALONZC.
Alonzo. The king expects your lordship.
ING fiRiDE. 801
Gonsalez. 'Tis no mactel ;
I'm not i' th' way at pres« nt, good AlonZO.
Alonzo. If't please your lordship, I'll return and
say
I have not seen you.
Gonsalez. Do, my best Alonzo.
Yet stay; I would—but go; anon will serve;
Yet I have that requires thy speedy help.
I think thou wouldst not stop to do me service.
Alonzo. I am your creature.
Gonsalez. Say thou art my friend.
I've seen thy sword do noble execution.
Alonzo. All that it can your lordship shall c rm-
mand.
Gonsalez. Thanks; andl take thee at thy word.
Thou'st seen,
Among the foll'wers of the captive queen,
Dumb men, who make their meaning known by
signs.
Alonzo. I have, my lord.
Gonsalez. Couldst thou procure, with speed
And privacy, the wearing garb of one
Of those, though purchas'd by his death, I'd
give
Thee such reward as should exceed thy wish.
Alonzo. Conclude it done. Where snail I wait
your lordship ?
Gonsalez. At my apartment Use thy utmost dili¬
gence;
And say I've not been -sen: haste, good Alonzo.
lEiii Alonzo.
So, this can hardly fa'.. Alphonso slain,
The greatest obstacle is then remov'd.
Almeriawidow'd, yet again may wed;
And I yet fix the crown on Garcia's head.
„ vit.
ACT V
SCENE I.—A Room of State,
Enter KING, PEREZ, and ALONZO.
King. Not to be found ? In an ill hour he's
absent.
None, say you? none ? what, not the fav'rite
enuch ?
Nor she herself, nor any of her mutes,
Have yet requir'd admittance ?
Perez. None, my lord.
King. Is Osmyn so dispos'd as I commanded ?
Perez. Fast bound in double chains, and at full
length
He lies supine on earth : with as much ease
She might remove tine centre of this earth,
As loose the rivets of his bonds.
King. 'Tis well.
(A mute appears, and seeing the King, retires.)
Ha! stop and seize that mute; Alonzo, follow
him,
Ent'ring he met my eyes, and started back
Frighted, and fumbling one band in his bosom,
As to conceal ui' importance of his errand.
(Alonzo follows him, and returns wi'h a paper.)
Alonzo. A bloody proof of obstinate fidelity!
King. What dost thou mean ?
Alonzo. Soon as I seiz'd the man.
He snatch'd from out his bosom this; and
strove
With rash and greedy haste at once to cram
The morsel down his throat. I caught his arm,
And hardly wrench'd his hand to wring it iron
him;
Which done, he drew a poniard from his sido,
And on the instant plung'd it in his breast.
THE mourning bride.
352
King. Remove the body thence, ere Zara see it
Alonzo. I'll be so bold to borrow his attire;
Twill quit me from my promise to Gonsalez.
[Aside and exit.
King. How's this? my mortal foe beneath my
roof! (Having read the letter.)
Oh, give me patience, all ye pow'rs! no, rather
Give me now rage, implacable revenge,
And trebled fury. Ea! who's there?
Perez. My lord ?
King. Hence, slave. how dar'st thou hide, to
watch and pry
Into how poor a thing a king descends:
How like thyself, when passion treads him down!
Ha! stir not, on thy life, for thou wert flx'd
And planted here to see me gorge this bait,
And lash against the hook. By heav'n, you're
all
Rank traitors; thou art with the rest combin'd:
Thou knewest that Osmyn was Alphonso,
knew'st
My daughter privately with him conferr'd,
And wert the spy and pander to their meeting.
Perez. By all that's holy, I'm amaz'd—
King. Thou ly'st,
Thou art accomplice, too, with Zara: here,
"Where she sets down—(Reads.) " Still will 1 set thee
free —"
That somewhere is repeated. (Reads.) " I have
pow'r
O'er them that are thy guards." Mark that, thou
traitor.
Perez. It was your majesty's command, I
should
Obey her order.
King. (Reads.) " And still will I set
Thee free, Alphonso." Hell, curs'd, curs'd, Al¬
phonso 1
False and perfidious Zara. Strumpet daughter!
Away, begone, thou feeble boy, fond love,
All nature, softness, pity, and compassion;
This hour I throw ye off, and entertain
Fell hate within my breast, revenge and gall.
By heav'n, I'll meet and counterwork this trea¬
chery.
Hark thee, villain, traitor, answer me, slave.
Perez. My service has not merited those titles.
King. Dar'st thou reply ? Take that. Thy service,
thine! (Strikes him.)
What's thy wnole life, thy soul, thy all, to my
One moment's ease? Hear my command; and
look
That thou obey, or horror on thy head : |
Drench me thy dagger in Alphonso's heart.
Why dost thou start? Resolve, or—
Perez. Sir, ( will.
King. 'Tis well: that when she comes to set him
free,
His teeth may grin and mock at her remorse.
(Perez going.)
Stay thee—I've further thought—I'll add to this,
And give her eyes yet greater disappointment:
When thou hast ended him, bring me bis robe;
And let the cell where she'll expect to see him
Be darken'd, so as to amuse the sight.
I'll be conducted thither—mark me well-
There with his turban, and his robe array'd,
And laid along, as he now lies, supine,
I shall convict her, to her face, of falsehood.
When for Alphonso's she shall take my hand,
And breathe her sighs upon my lips for his ;
Sudden I'll start, and dash her with her guilt.
But see, she comas! I'll shun th' encounter:
thou
Follow me, and give heed to my direction.
Enter ZARA and SELIM.
Zara. Ha! 'twas the king!
The king that passed hence, frowning he went:
Dost think he saw me ?
Selim, Yes: but then, as if he thought
His eyes had err'd, he hastily recall'd
Th' imperfect look, and sternly turn'd away.
Zara. Shun me when seen. I fear thou hast un¬
done me.
Selim. Avert it, heav'n, that you should ever suf¬
fer
For my defect; or that the means which I
Devis'd to serve, should ruin your design!
Prescience is heav'n's alone, not giv'n to man.
If I have fail'd in what, as being man
I needs must fail, impute not as a crime
My nature's want, but punish nature in me;
I plead not for a pardon and to live,
But to be punish'd and forgiv'n. Here, strike;
I bare my breast to meet your just revenge.
Zara. I have not leisure now to take so poor
A forfeit as thy life: somewhat of high
And more important fate requires my thought
Regard me well, and dare not to reply
To what I give in charge ; for I'm resolv'd.
Give order that the two remaining mutes
Attend me instantly, with each a bowl
Of such ingredients mix'd, as will with speed
Benumb the living faculties, and give
Most easy and inevitable death.
Yes, Osmyn, yes; be Osmyn or Alphonso,
I'll give thee freedom, if thou dar'st be free:
Such liberty as I embrace myself,
Thou shalt partake. Since fates no more afford,
I can but die with thee to keep my word. [Exeunt.
SCENE IL—A Prison.
Enter GONSALEZ, disguised like a Mute, with a
dagger.
Gonsalez. Nor sentinel, nor guard! the doors un-
barr'd!
And all as still as at the noon of night!
Sure, death already has been busy her 3.
There lies my way; that door, too, unlock'd!
(Looks in.)
Ha! sure, he sleeps; all's dark within, save
what
A lamp, that feebly lifts ft sickly flame,
IBy fits reveals—his face seems turn'd to favour
Th' attempt; I'll steal and do it unperceiv'd.
What noise? somebody coming? hist, Alonzo!
Nobody. Sure, he'll wait without. I would
'Twere done ! I'll crawl and sting him to the
heart;
Then cast my skin, and leave it there to answer it.
[Goes in.
Enter GARCIA and ALONZO.
Garcia. Where, where, Alonzo, where's my
father? where
The king ? Confusion! all is on the rout!
All's lost; all ruined by surprise and treachery!
Where, where is he? Why dost thou mislead
me ?
Alonzo. My lord, he enter'd but a moment since,
And could not pass me unperceiv'd. What, ho!
My lord, my lord! what, ho ! my lord Gonsalez..
Re-enter GONSALEZ, bloody.
Gonsalez. Perdition ehoke your clamours! whono
this rudeness ?
Garcia!
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
Garcia. Perdition, slavery, and death,
Are ent'ring now our doors! Where is the
king?
What means this blood ? and why this face of
horror ?
Gonsalez. No matter: give me first to know the
cause
Of these your rash and ill-tim'd exclamations.
Garcia. The eastern gate is to the foe be-
tray'd,
Who, but for heaps of slain that choke the pas¬
sage,
Had enter'd long ere now, and borne down all
Before 'em to the palace walls. Unless
The king in person animate our men.
Granada's lost; and to confirm this fear,
The traitor Perez, and the captive Moor
Are through a postern fled, and join the foe.
Gonsalez. Would all were false as that! for whom
you call
The Moor is dead. That Osmyn was Alphonso;
In whose heart's blood this poniard yet is warm.
Garcia. Impossible ! for Osmyn was, while
flying,
Pronoune'd aloud by Perez for Alphonso.
Gonsalez. Enter that chamber, and convince your
eyes.
How much report has wrong'd your easy faith.
T Garcia goes in.
Alonzo. My lord, for certain truth Perez Is fled;
And has declar'd the cause of his revolt
Was to revenge a blow the king had giv'n him.
Re-enter GARCIA.
Garcia. Ruin and horror 1 Oh! heart-wounding
sight!
Gonsalez. What says my son? what ruin! ha!
wnat horror?
Garcia. Blasted be my eyes, and speechless be
my tongue,
Rather than to see, or to relate
This deed. Oh, dire mistake! Oh, fatal blow!
The king—
Gonsalez and Alonzo. The king!
Garcia. Dead, welt'ring, drown'd in blood !
See, see, attir'd like Osmyn, where he lies.
(They loolc in.)
Oh! whence, or how, or wherefore was this done ?
But what imports the manner or the cause ?
N othing remains to do, or to require,
But that we all should turn our swords against
Ourselves, and expiate, with our own, his blood,
Gonsalez. Oh, wretch! oh, curs'd and rash de¬
luded fool!
On me, on me turn your avenging swords!
I, who have spilt my royal master's blood,
Should make atonement by a death as horrid,
And fall beneath the hand of my own son.
Garcia. Ha! what? atone this murder with a
greater!
The horror of that thought has damp'd my rage.
Gonsalez Oh, my son: from the blind dotage
Of a father's fondness these ills arose :
For thee I've been ambitious, base, and bloody;
For thee I've plung'd into the sea of sin;
Stemming the tide with only one weak hand,
While t'other bore the crown (to wreathe thy
brow,)
Whoae weight has sunk me ere I reached the
shore.
Garcia. Fatal ambition! Hark! the foe is en¬
ter'd !
The shrillness of that shout sneaks 'em at hand.
(Shout.)
SOS
Alonzo. My lord, I've thought how to conceal tha
body:
Require me not to tell the meat™, till done,
Lest you forbid what you then may approve.
(Goes in.)
Gonsalez. They shout again! Whate'er he means
to do,
'Twere fit the soldiers were amused with hopes •
And in the meantime fed with expectation
To see the king in person at their head.
Garcia. Were it a truth, I fear 'tis now too
late:
But I'll omit no care or haste; and try
Or to repel their force, or bravely die. [EriK
Re-enter ALONZO.
Gonsalez. What hast thou done Alonzo ?
Alonzo. Such a deed,
As but an hour ago I'd not have done,
Though for the crown of universal empire.
But what are kings redue'd to common clav?
Or who can wound the dead ? I've from the body
Sever'd the head, and in an obscure corner
Dispos'dit, muffled in the mute's attire,
Leaving to view of them who enter next,
Alone the undistinguishable trunk;
Which may be still mistaken by the guards
For Osmyn, if in seeking for the king
They chance to find it.
Gonsalez. 'Twas an act of horror,
And of a piece with this day's dire misdeeds,
But 'tis no time to ponder or repent.
Haste thee, Alonzo, haste thee hence with speed
To save my son. I'll follow with the last
Reserve, to reinforce his arms; at least
I shall make good and shelter his retreat, fExeim .
Enter ZARA, followed hy SELIM, and two Mute3
bearing th ■ bowls.
Znra. Silence and solitude are everywhere!
Through all the gloomy ways and iron doors
That hither lead, nor human face nor voice
Is seen or heard.
Let 'em set down the 'jowls, and warn Alphonso
That I am here—so. (Mutes ao in.) You return, aod
find
The king; tell him what he requir'd I've done,
And wait his coming to approve the deed.
[Exit Selim-
Re-enter Mutes.
What have you seen? Ha! wherefore stare you
thus
With haggard eyes ? Why are your arms across ?
Your heavy and desponding heads hung down ?
Why is't you more than speak in these sad
signs?
Give me more ample knowledge of this mourning
(They go to the scene, which opening, she
perceives the body.)
Ha! prostrate! bloody! headless! Oh ! I'm lost!
Oh, Osmyn! Oh, Alphonso! Cruel fate!
Cruel, cruel, oh! more than killing object!
I came prepar'd to die, and see thee die:
Nay, came prepar d myself to give thee death—
But cannot bear to find thee thus, my Osmyn
Oh! this aeeurs d, this base, this treach'roas
king!
Re-enter SELIM.
Selim. I've sought in vain: for no where can the
king
Be found—
Zara. Get thee to hell, and seek him there!
(Stays him.
His hellish rage had wanted means to act,
But for thy fatal and pernicious counseL
851
THE MOURNING BRIDE.
Selim. You thought it betto1" then—but I'm re¬
warded.
The mute you sent, by some mischance was
seen,
And forced to yield your letter with his life:
I found the dead and bloody body stripp'd—
My tongue falters, and my voice fails—1 sink—
Drink not the poison - for Alphonso is— (Dies.)
Zara. As thou art now—and I shall quickly
be.
"Tis not that he is dead; for 'twas decreed
Wc both should die. Nor is't that I survive;
I have a certain remedy for that.
He knew I lov'd, but knew not to what height;
Nor that I meant to fall before his eyes,
A martyr and a victim to my vows;
Insensib'o of this last proof he's gone:
Then wherefore do I pause? Give me the bowl.
(A Mute kneels and gives one of the bowls.)
Hover a moment yet, thou gentle spirit,
ilor.l of my soul, and I will wait thy flight.
This to our mutual bliss, when join'd above.
(Drinks.)
Oh! friendly draught! already in my heart
Cold, cold! my veins are icicles and frost
I'll creep into his bosom, lay me there;
Cover us close—or I shall chill his breast,
And fr.riht him from my arms. See, see! he
slides
Still further from me ; look, he hides his face!
I cannot feel it—quite beyond my reach.
Oh! now he's gone, and all is dark—
(Dies. Mutes kneel and mourn over her.)
Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA.
Almeria. Oh! let me seek him in this horrid
cell;
For in the tomb, or prison, I alone
Must hope to find him.
Leonora. Heaven's! what dismal scene
Of death is this ?
Almeria. Shew me, for I am come in search of
death,
But want a guide, for tears have dimm'd my
sight.
Leonora. Alas! a little further, and behold
Zara all pale and. dead; two frightful men,
Who seem the murderers, kneel weeping by;
Feeling remorse too late for what they've done.
But oh! forbear—lift up your eyes no more,
But haste away, fly from this fatal place,
Where miseries are multiply'd ; return,
Return, and look not on, for there's a dagger
Ready to stab the sight, and make your eyes
Rain blood—
Almeria. Oh! I foreknow, forsee that object.
Is it at last then so ? Is he then dead ?
I do not weep; the springs of tears are dry'd,
And of a sudden I am calm, as if
All things were well; and yet my husband's mur-
der'd!
Yes, yes, I know to mourn! I'll sluice this heart,
The source of woe, and ict the torrent loose,
Tim e men have left to weep; they look on
me!
I hope they murder all on whom they look.
Behold me well; your bloody hands have err'd,
And wrongfully have slain those innocents:
I am the sacrifice design'd to bleed,
And come prepar'd to yield my throat. They bow
their heads, in sign of grief and innocence,
(They [joint at the bo el on the ground.)
And point—what mean they? Ha! a cup! oh I
well
I understand what med'eine has hecn here.
Oh! noble thirst! yet greedy, to drink all—
Oh! for another draught of "death!
(They point to the other cup.)
Thanks to the lih'ral hand that fill'd thee thus;
I'll drink my glad acknowledgment—
Leonora. Oh! hold
For mercy's sake; upon my knee I beg—
Almeria. With thee the kneeling world should
beg in vain.
Seest thou not there ? Behold who prostrate lien,
And pleads against thee; who shall then prevail*
Yet 1 will take a cold and parting leave,
From his pale lips; I'll kiss him ere I drink,
Lest the rank juice should blister on my mouth,
And stain the colour of my last adieu.
Horror; a headless trunk 1 nor lips nor face,
(Coming near the body, starts and lets fall
the cup.)
But spouting veins and mangled flesh! Oh, oh!
Enter ALPHONSO, HELI, PEREZ, Guards, and
Attendants; with GARCIA, prisoner.
Alphonso. Away, stand off 1 where is she? let me
fly,
Save her from death, and snatch her to my heart.
Almeria. Ob!
Alphonso. Forbear! my arms alone shall hold
her up,
Warm her to life, and wake her into gladness.
Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes,
Then double on the day reflected light.
Almeria. Where am I ? Heav'n! what does this
dream intend?
Alphonso. Oh! mayst thou never dream of less
delight,
Nor ever wake to less substantial joys!
Almeria Giv'n me again from death! Oh! all
ye pow'rs,
Confirm this miracle! Can I believe
My sight?
This is my lord, my life, my only husband:
1 have him now, and we no more will part.
My father, too, shall have compassion
Alphonso. Oh! my heart's comfort! 'tis not giv'n
to this
Frail life to he entirely bless'd. E'en now,
In this extremest joy my soul can taste,
Yet I am dash'dto think that thou must weep:
Thy father fell, where he design'd my death.
Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds
Expiring, have with their last breath confess'd
The just decrees of heav'n which on themselves
Has turn'd their own most bloody purposes.
Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should he thus—
(She weeps)
Ill-fated Zara! Ha! a cup! alas!
Thy error, then, is plain; but I were flint
Not to o'erfiowin tribute to thy memory.
Oh, Garcia!
Whose virtue has renounced thy father's crimes,
Seest thou bow just the hand of heav'n has been?'
Let us, who through our innocence survive,
Still in the paths of honour persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair:
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late a sure reward succeeds.
[A'uturtl
THE THIEVES OE PARIS.
A DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.—BY EDWARD STIRLING.
Celestine.—" There is a gentleman within."—Act iii, scene 1.
persons c$ejpsenteir.
Monsieur Roland, alias
Marengo.
Julius Ddfresne.
POLYDORE AliEDDSE.
Bastien.
Trapaud.
Canejour.
Lilli BoNCfflUR.
St. Gebvant.
Chambert.
Sergeant de Ville.
Madame Dabvillieba
Celestine.
Madame Bobillard.
Euphrasie.
Spies, Brigands, Ser¬
vants, &c.
Scene.—Paris.
First performed at the Surrey Theatre, London, 1856. (Licensed.)
[The copyright ef this drama is exclusively the property of the author, to whom all communications
must he made relative to its being performed.]
ACT L
SCENE I.—A handsomely furnished drawing room in
the house of Julius. POLYDORE discovered on a
sofa, smoking a cigar, MADAM IS BOBILLARD
dusting the chairs. BASTIEN (disguised) is em¬
ployed polishing the floors. Music.
Mad. B. Come, come, do move your arms, you
work like a snail. Madame'sbell has already rang
for breakfast. Most certainly, if I had known your
tardy habits, not an hour's work should you have
had in this house. (Bastien slyly pockets an ornament,
tinging and scrubbing.) Do you hear, fellow?
Bastien. (Affecting deafness.) Beer f no thank you,
madams, I always drink wine, I am ordered to do
so by our family physician. (Astde.) The prison
doctor, ha. ha, ha!
Mad. B Fool!
Bastien. Is madame speaking to herself ?
. Mad. B. The man's head is affected with hi#
deafness.
Bastien. Did you speak ?
Mad. B. (Loud.) Ugh, you silly idiot!
Bolydore. (Slowly.) Pray don't elevate your
seraphic voice to such a height, sweet, considerate^
Madame Bobillard. Can't you perceive the miser¬
able individual is deaf, poor wretch?
Bastien. ((Aside.) Not quite so deaf as you sup¬
pose, Monsieur Butterfly.
866
THE THIEVES OF PARia
Mad. B. Allow me to know best, Monsieur.
Bastien. Eh, what, rest t no thank you, I'm not
tired; besides, I've just polished the oak;
and
Mad. B. Broken the head of Julius Caesar, the
gi eat Boman, with your broom. Get away; there's
five sous for destroying master's property. (Gives
money,) Come on Thursday, early.
Bastien. To-morrow, very well, madame. (Aside.)
To-night, it's there, (points to door,) all snug, eh,
he? Good morning.
[Botes and exit"stealing Madame Bobillartfs
handkerchief.
Polydore. I don't greatly admire that fellow's
countenance, it reminds one of galleys, robberies,
and peculations.
Mad. B. Nonsense. I wish you would smoke your
cigars in the garden, poisoning all the nice cur¬
tains. Ugh, I hate Buch habits, converting mouths
into chimneys.
Poludore. Hate the Virginian weed 1 I pity your
depraved taste, ancient relic of a bygone age. To
emoke is to live—the world is all smoke (smokes)
and puff.
Mad. B. Madame will be down to breakfast di¬
rectly, do go.
Polydote. I obey. Madame Bobillard, your af¬
fectionate consideration is most grateful to my
understanding. Apoor Gascon, justarrived in Paris,
to improve my manners and morals, to add a little
polish to liberal education — the Boulevards,
Chateau Rouge, and the Cafes have done some¬
thing towards it, and I hope it will do a little mora
Dress does much, manners much more; mous¬
taches, bon-bons, and flirting with grisettes, add
finish to one's style. I met such a divinity under
the variegated lamps last fete day. We danced and
loved, loved and danced, till she danced off with
my purse, leaving me the supper bill to pay, and
lio cash.
Mad. B. Such low practices ?
Polydore. Low ? The usual appendages of high
life. I am made for love tsighs) and jollity.
Mad. B Don't tilk such nonsense. Your atten¬
tions to Mademoiselle Celestine are not unnoticed;
be careful.
Polydore. Of what?
Mad. B. Mademoiselle Celestine's reputation.
She is virtue's self.
Polydore. I adore virtue, it's such a rare com¬
modity.
Mad. B. Monsieur Julius, your cousin—
Polydore. Admires it also, especially in pretty
Mademoiselle Celestine. Fortunate man, the gods
favour law and lawyers 11 wish my heart had been
bound up in red tape.
Mad. B. My lady loves her; I love her; everybody
loves her.
Polydore. Fortunate individual, to be so be¬
loved.
Mad. B. Don't let your cousin suspect.
Polydore. Suspect what ?
Mad. B. That your attentions are directed towards
Celestine.
Polydot e. Can I help the fury of my passion ? It
will display itself. I see, I hear nothing but
CeleBtine. She is my morning thought, evening
devotion, and nightly dream. Madame Bobillard,
vftf-e you ever a victim to the tender passion and
Cupid's darts?
Mad. B. Not I, indeed; I've no time for such
luxuries.
olodore. Then you can't sympathize with me, ]
or pity my lacerated heart 1 live a monument of
despair, a tree withered by lightning, a ruined
stump.
f doing.)
Mad. B. Where are you going? That's Made¬
moiselle Celestine's room.
Polydore. Abode of bliss. I was absent.
Mad. B. I wish you were. Why notbecomeuse«
tul; assist your cousin; study the law ?
Polydore. I'm studying mischief enough without
that. I'll smoke a cigar over the musty parchments,
and read the last will and testament of some un¬
fortunate lover.
[Exit.
Mad. B. My decided impression is, that that
young man is mad.
Enter MADAME DARVILLIERS.
Mad. D. Is my brother in his study ?
Mad. B. He is, Madame.
Mad. D. Where is Celestine ?
Enter CELESTINE.
Mad. B. Mademoiselle is here, madame.
[Exit.
Mad. Z>. Good morning, love. I was delighted to
hear the cheerful notes on your piano. Did they
express the happiness you feel ?
Ctlestine. Oh, yes, dear madame. Could I feel
otherwise than happy, surrounded by such enjoy¬
ments, honoured by your friendship?
Mad. D. (Taking her hand.) I have something
important to communicate, dear girl. Come to my
room after breakfast. There is a being you have
inspired with an ardent passion—nay, don't blush-
there are no fears for the future; everything de¬
pends on yourself to make it fortunate, and secure
happiness, such as your virtue and conduct entitle
you to enjoy. (Kisses her.) You'll not forget after
breakfast, love. [Exit.
Celestine. What did she say? That I had in¬
spired some one with an ardent passion ? Who is
it ? Julius ? no, he is so prudent, so reserved. Sur¬
rounded by wealth and luxury, honoured with
royal favour, can he bestow a thought on me ? I
that am unknown; (presses her forehead,) nameless,
my sole inheritance obscurity and abandonment
My very existence, education, support, I owe to
Denevoience. To be the chosen of o,ne 60. far re¬
moved, so good, so distinguished; no, no, I dare
not even think of it; all thoughts must be shut
out; Julius, I love you, but must not hope,
Re-enter POLYDORE, hastily.
Polydore. Pardon my intrusion; but (aside) I'm
electrified, touched, deeply tpuched.
(Sighs.)
Celestine. Do you want madame, monsieur?
Polydore. I want you, mademoiselle; this note is
for you.
(Gives it.)
Celestine. A note for me 1
Polydore. Don't agitate yourself, fair creature; I
did not indite it. My words of fire Would have
scorched the paper; it's from your late school¬
mistress.
Celestine. From her I
(Takes the note and reaps.)
Polydore From her, delivered by him. No thanks
or notice taken of my adoration. I'll drown mi-
self- no I won't—111 6moko another cigar, and
think about it.
(Retires up)
Celestine. (Reads.) " My dear pupil—yipn.ieur
THE THIEVE
Bohnd, your guardian, is in Paris—he has just
left me. I explained to him that Madame Dar-
villiers, a lady of the first respectability, having
seen yon. had conceived a great fr endship for
you, and that you were now on a visit to her. I
have given him your address; he will see you in
the course of the day. Adieu, dear child, and re¬
member my home and heart are ever open to you."
(Speaks.) Kind, considerate creature.
Polydore. Is she speaking of me? (Add.) Made¬
moiselle, you were speaking about
Celestine. Apologising for my apparent rude¬
ness.
Polydore. Apologize to me, heaven forbid! Dear
mademoiselle, I adore you; expire for you. Behold
me at your feet. I would say more, if my timidity
did not prevent it.
(Kneels.)
Celestine. Monsieur, this language to me?
Polydore. To you, goddess. My brain whirls; I am
delirious—love me, pray do ?
Celestine. Sir, the roof of your relative onght at
least to protect me from insult.
Polydore. I insult you? not for worlds! Angel,
listen, and compassionate my vows. For you, I'll
become steady, abandon grisettes, and give up
smoking.
(Takes her hand.)
Celestine. Desist, sir! I entreat! I command!
Polydore. Never! never! I swear I am—
(Be struggles tcith Celestine.)
Enter ROLAND, hastily, seizes his hand, and throws
him aside.
Roland. A scoundrel!
Potydore. (On the floor.) A what?
Roland. A scoundrel, to treat a lady with in¬
dignity.
Polydore. Call civility indignity. Pray, who are
you, sir?
Roland. A man, the title to which name you have
forfeited, by subjecting a woman to insult. My
name is Roland, at ycur service.
(Celestine runs to him.)
Polydore. Delighted to make your agreeable ac¬
quaintance, Monsieur Roland. Mademoiselle always
6peaks of you with admiration.
Roland. You know me?
Polydore. By report; and allow me to say, your
personal appearance answers the description.
(Aside.) Ugly dog 1
Roland. (To Celestine) You spoke well Of me ?
Celestine. Could I do otherwise?
Polydore. Assuredly not of such a fascinating
man. In the mercantile line, I presume.
Roland. I am engaged in commerce, sir.
Polydore. Profitable employment. Ingots ahd
bullion, cargoes and ships. Do you deal in cigars ?
I'd buy a box.
Roland. I do not, sir. My love, I have matters of
importance to communicate, alone.
Polydore. Alone: I'll evaporate. (Aside.) Unculti¬
vated brute. I'll swear he's an importer of Russian
tallow and grizzly bears.
[Bows and exit.
Roland. Celestine, I
Re-enter POLYDORE.
Polydore. Beg pardon, but have yon seen my
, cigar ? In our little ren eontre, I fear it evaporated in
•Its own smoke, a peculiarly mild flavour. (Roland
frowns.) Oh, 'tis of no consequence; but made-
3 OF PARIS m
moiselle that is (Roland points to doer.) Thi
door. (Aside.) He is a bear.
(Erit.
Roland. (Fastens door, and places chairs, aside.) I
am with her I love dearer than life, ten thousand
lives,with—yet dare not name, or claim her love.
(Sits.) Celestine!
Celestine. Sir?
Roland. Sir! that cold, formal word, sir! The
time is not long past when you addressed me by a
warmer, dearer name. Do you remember when
you called me friend f
Celestine. Can I ever cease to remember it, my
good and dear friend, my benefactor?
(Kisses his hand.)
Roland. Your hand used not to tremble thus,
what agitates you, eh, tell me ?
Celestine. You tremble, too.
Roland. I—l—(agitated) it is in imagination, or
perhaps the heat affects me. I scarcely know how
to make known my wishes, my inclinations, or ex¬
plain my feelings towards you. Many times you
have asked me of your parents; do you still wish
to learn?
Celestine. (Rapidly ) Oh, yes, yes—speak to me of
them, first of my mother. You knew her; she loft
me to your care. Is she well, living, or am I mother¬
less ? Speak, I beseech; tell me all.
Roland. First, explain why I find you in thif
house without consulting me ? leaving a situation
where you might have been happy and respected,
and where you knew it was my wish you should
remain?
Celestine. I yielded to representations made to me
by friends, and which I thought wise—abandoned
as I am by parents, I have little choice of
means.
Rolvnd. Abandoned, this is ungrateful. (Rising.)
Have you ever wanted ? What neglect have you
to complain of? Nourishment, clothes, education,
and tehder care, or never ceasing watchfulness to
direct and guide your young thoughts towards
purity and virtue. My child, my child, beware of
ingratitude, it is most sinful in the eyes of heaven
and man 1
Celestine. Pardon me, dear friend, I feel nothing
hut the most lively gratitude and reverence towards
you, the protector of my helpless infancy, the guide
of my youth, and guardian of my maturer years-
yet, spite this deep debt owed to you, I can but
yearn towards my parents—my very heart grows
sick when I think upon my isolated condition, no
home, no one to call by the endearing name of
mother, or cling to as a father I
Roland. (Much agitated.) Of your mother, suffice it
to know she was unhappy, wretched. When young
like yourself, she wa!S innocent, trusting—alas, too
trusting. Brought up in seclusion, with more than
common tenderness, she grew in loveliness and
virtue. A cloud came over her sunny dream of
happiness; her young ear was filled with insidious
sophistry; her good and pious resolves were one by
one undermined; her resolution sapped to its foun¬
dation by the treacherous arguments of a villain.
She fell a victim to his hellish arts; her young
affections withered and corroded by a monster
that the world, in its mild justice, calls a
man!
Celestine. (Rapidly.) He of whom you speak ?
Roland. Is your father. Your mother's gentle
spirit sank beneath the heavy burden of affliction.
She died, forgiving and imploring blessings on the
head of her destroyer. Angel, self-Bacrifloing
woman, ever ready to pardon injuries, and latum
893 THE THIEVT
good for evil — whilst our cruel, selfish natures
exult in the desolation, casting aside the bruised
flower our sinful passions thus cruelly wither and
destroy.
Celestine. Stop, stop, spare him; remember he is
my father !
Roland. Your guilty father. Did you know the
extent of his guilt
Celestine. Let me not listen to it. I am too happy
to know that he lives. Let me see him, speak to
him, and, by gentle means, lead him to repen¬
tance.
Roland. (Embracing her.) No, dear one, it cannot
be.
Cilestine. Cannot? Who shall keep a child from
her parents' arms? Is he in Paris?
Roland. He is. (Aside.)
('destine. Why does he not see me? claim me?
oall me his own? or does he hate me?
Roland. Hate you! it is beyond the force of
language to convey the affection with which he re¬
gards you—to think of and watch over your desti¬
nies is the one pleasure of his troubled life, the link
that binds him to earth!
Ce estine. Why not see me, then ?
Roland. Impossible — though ever near, he re¬
mains unseen; shrouded by guilt; his every hope is
in his child; his every effort to repair h<r mother's
wrongs, nd find pardon in the happiness of the
child. He has devised a project, to carry out which
successfully depends on you.
('■ lesline. On me ?
Roland. Your father, after many years of priva¬
tion and industry, has amassed a sum of ,£f.O.OOO;
with this sum, he pur, oses settling in some foreign
land, whore your talents and industry would secure
you an honourable position in society. There, far
away from France, a new life might open to him;
inspire fresh ideas, where, the past, separated from
the future, would oppose no barrier to happiness—
where, guided by your gentle influences, a home, a
hearth, again would be his.
Celestine. Let us fly to him at once. Your words
have awakened hopes, desires, feelings in my heart,
that can and will not know rest. Paris, France
becomes hateful to me, so impatient am I to reach
this home, to feel myself loved, to hold a place in
my father's heart.
Roland. (Aside ) I cannot endure this. (Aloud.)
Be calm, let us speak of Monsieur Julius Dufresne
the master of this house—he loves you—nay, st rt
not, the secret is betrayed. He is rich, you are poor;
his family are distinguished, yours
Cdestine. Nameless, Monsieur Julius love me?
impossible!
Roland. Is there anything so impossible in a young
man loving a deserving girl? Love levels all dis¬
tinctions of rank, it equalizes and raises. Your
late schoolmistress informed me of bis attachment.
The sister of Julius, Madame Darvilliers, disclosed
the secret.
Celestine. Madame Darvilliers said this? then it
is true, and I am happy.
Roland. You love him, then?
Celestine. Who does not? So good and generous;
his whole existence is devoted to the exercise of
virtue and benevolence.
Roland. Kare qualities in the breast of a lawyer,
wordy deeds and legal bonds more frequently warp
and stifle those precious feelings;—but I bear he is
a good man and an honest one.
Celestine. His probity and honour are beyond all
doubt. Did you but know him as I do.
Roland. Or knew him through the same favour-
S OF PARIS.
able medium, a lover's eyes, eh, fond one ? (Play¬
fully.) Well, well, we shall see ; but it is fit you
dispel all illusions. Can you become the wife of
this young man, having no fortune, no family, or
name of ancestral pride to boast? Your father
and natural protector not daring to reveal him¬
self.
Celestine. My mysterious fate is not unknown to
JuliuBandhi6 sister. All imputation is discarded
from their minds, and they are willing to give me
their name, their love.
Re-en'er POLYDORE.
Polydore. So ami, sweethourie, celestial divinity.
(Sees Roland.) Hem, pardon me, I was repeating a
speech from the last new play, I supposed myself
the disconsolate lever in an interesting situation.
I merely came to say that my cousin Julius re¬
quested me to
Enter JULIUS and MADAME DARVILLIERS.
Let him say it himself. (Aside.) I'm not partial to
zoological axquaintancea.
[Exit.
Mad. D. My dear, we are waiting breakfast,
What detains you?
Celestine. Monsieur Roland, my guardian, is here,
madame.
Julius. We are delighted to make your acquain¬
tance. Mademoiselle tells us you rarely visit Paris;
when you do so, permit me to place my house at
your disposal. A friend of Celestine's will always
be a welcome guest.
Roland. (Rowing.) You are too kind.
Mad. D. It is fortunate your visit occurs to-day;
for we have a matter of importance to discuss,
that greatly affects the happiness of your
ward.
Celestine. Speaking of me ?
(Retiring.)
Mad. D. Yes, love, of you. Remain; you must
hear all Julius has to say.
Julius- A few words will explain my intentions.
Monsieur, I love Celestine; have long loved her
with a fervent devotion! not with the wild delusion
of the senses, but with the strong will, and honest
intention of the heart, with the Arm resolution to
make her a faithful husband, to become the sharer
of her joys and sorrows, her friend and companion
for life. Before this moment, never have I breathed
my secret to her, or sought to press my suit. She
is here to answer for my integrity.
Roland Your proposal docs her honour, sir; hut
are you aware that she is friendless, without for¬
tune or name?
Julius. I am acquainted with all. Her position op-
puses no barrier to our happiness. Her worth,
the qualities of her mind, are more estimable than
the accumulated rent-rolls of a century. What are
riches and wordly distinctions weighed in the scale
'gainst virtue and affection ? True love is not to be
tested by the alembic t old.
Mad. D. These are my sentiments. Celestine is
already a sister in heart.
(Takes hir hand.)
Celestine. You overwhelm me with goodness. I,
a nameless girL
Mad. D. My love, what folly is this? Will you
not have our name ? My brother's is an honour¬
able one.
Julm*. Yet scarce worthy your acceptance, dear
ODs; such virtues would shed lustre on a coronet;
and reflect its brilliancy in the most exalted sta¬
tion.
THE THIEV1
Celestine. Ton flatter, Jttliua!
Julius. No, on my soul. I feel the immeasur¬
able distance between my desires and their ob¬
ject.
Roland. (After a pause.) Tou appear well suited
for each other, and I can offer no useless inter¬
ference. My sole object is, to establish her in life,
so as to secure her happiness, to place her in a
position deserving a name. This, my child, I may
call you so?
Celestine. (Coming towards Roland.) Oh, yes,
yes, always your child, father — your dutiful lov¬
ing child. Can I forget the unceasing care be¬
stowed on me ? At all seasons, 'mid sickness or
health, there were you ever by my side, soothing
or cheering; whatever my wayward temper re¬
quired, your gentle love, or mild reproof, oh! how
mild!-led me back to reason, guiding my young
fancy ia its proper course, instilling lessons
of wisdom in my eager ears. Oh, Julius! how
have I hung on the accents of that tongue that to
me was all in all—father! brother! friend!
(Falls on his neck.
Roland. (Hastily pressing his hand over his eyes.)
"We shall talk of other things now; our feelings
must not banish prudence. The bride's for¬
tune.
Julius. Is in her mind. Let me entreat you
not to name or think of money. I am more
than repaid by her hand. I am wealthy enough
for both.
Mad. D. And if not, my mite Bhall be added to
their store.
Roland. I fully appreciate your generous sym¬
pathy, but cannot suffer her to enter your family
quite dowerless. She is
Mad. B. (Without.) A lazy hound, go away, do
Enter MADAME BOBILLARD, followed by BAS-
TIEN, rubbing his eyes, and yawning.
How dare you stay so long ?
Bastien. Give you a song ? Can't Bing, madame,
no voice.
Julius. What is the matter, Madame Bobil-
lard?
Mad. B. Why, this deaf idiot, instead of going
home after he had done his work, must needs fall
asleep close to your study, Monsieur.
Julius. To my study ?
(Retires up.)
Mad. B. On the door mat, pretending he was
overcome with hard work. (Loud.) Go!
Bastien. (Laughs.) Ha, ha! madame is so good,
she awoke me with a refreshing pail of water.
Mad. B. (Loud.) Go!
Bastien. Did madame speak?
Mad. B. I shall go mad, he is so deaf 1 Do kick
him out. Monsieur, pray do.
Julius. (Comes down, to Madame Darvilliers, aside.)
I have property to a considerable amount in that
study.
Roland. (Retires down stage with CelesHne.) All
shall be yours. (Encounters Bastien's eye, and starts.)
He here 1
(Turns away rapidly)
Bastien. Phewl (Aside.) Eh? no I it w the Cap¬
tain ! (Loud.) Well, I never!
(Whistles.)
Mad. B. What's that you're mnttering about?
Bastien. Did you please to speak, madame ?
Mad. B. (Pointing.) You are not wanted. (Loud.)
Coupe votre baton!
Bastien. Keep my hat onl Hot before ladies 1 I
18 OP PARIS. go®
know what good breeding is too well tor that,
madame. Ladies and gentlemen, I am your jaost
obedient, (bows,) and wish you a respectful good
morning. (Aside.) It is the noble Captain.
[Exit, followed by Madame Robillard, pushing
him out.)
Celestine. (Aside to Roland.) You tremble.
Roland, 'Tis nothing, nothing. You shall have
a dowry fit for the highest and noblest in the land.
My child shall proudly raise her head with the
wealthiest in France. Adieu, adieu I
(Going.)
Mad. D. Surely, Monsieur will honour ns with his
company to dinner. Your engagements must not
interfere, we will wait your time.
Roland. I cannot accept your kind attention,
having business which presses urgently. To-mor¬
row morning I will be with you to arrange the pre-
liminaites, the settlements.
Julius. Leave them to me, my dear sir.
Roland. I will do so, they cannot possibly be in
more honourable hands than his majesty's advo¬
cate-general's.
Re-enter POLYDORE, with three Police, all dressed
in grey.
Polydore. Cousin, such a contre-coups. You are
wanted immediately at the Palais de Justice.
These three agreeable gentlemen have secret orders
to which you are to affix an official signature,
for the imprisonment of some unfortunate devil
for life, to suspend his animation, or condemn him
to the galleys.
(Julius goes to table with the spies.)
Roland. (Starts wildly.) The galleys, never! a
thousand deaths, rather! My pistols! Where's
the gang ? (Suddenly recovering himself.) My head,
my brain is fevered—air 1 air!
Polydore. (Pause.) So I should guess, another dose
of the grizzly hear.
Celestine. My dear friend, a glass of wine will re¬
store you.
Roland. No, no—water!
(Celestine gives water.)
Mad. D. Is he ill ?
Polydore. It's my beTef the gentleman's growing
delirious. I don't wonder at it, for those fellows
astonish'd my nerves, and they're not weak—don't
be alarmed, these agreeable grey coated rats are
members of the secret police, the Brigade of Safety.
(Roland starts.) Devilish useful, though not orna¬
mental—in fact, the business of the state could not
go on without their aid—they're thief-hunting just
now.
(Touching his arm )
Roland. (Starts up.) Thief-hunting ?
Polydore. Yes, capital sport for the hunters, eh i
Roland. (Affecting a laugh.) Yes, yes, and for the
hunUd to be run down and worried by these blood¬
hounds. Oh, if
(Checking htmself.)
Polydore. (Touching his head, aside.) He's certainly
touched in the os frontis.
Julius. (To spy.) You think you are upon bin
track?
1. Spy. We are sure of It, Monsieur.
Julius. It is the famous Charles Marengo.
Roland. (Suddenly convulsed, drops the glass.) 'Tie
false! Save—save her!
Polydore. Save her ? save the pieces I Perhaps,
900
THE THIEVES OP PARIS.
you don't happen to know who this malefactor,
Charles Marengo, is ?
Roland. Do yon ?
(Calmly.}
Polydore. It Come, that's an excellent joke. I
know a thief, the head of a gang, plundering and
fleecing all Paris. (Offers him snuff.) One might as
well suspect you knew him.
Roland. (Takes snuff from Palydore's box.)
Quite 1
Julius. (Giving paper.) There, I trust your per¬
severance will be rewarded—be careful, his resis¬
tance will be violent.
I. Spy. I think we shall trap the fox this
time.
Roland. (Returning box.) I think not I
Polydore. Think noti what?
Roland. That the snuff is of the best quality,
sir.
Julius. You rarely miss your game when on the
right seent.
1. Spy. Very rarely, Monsieur. We're pretty
sure.
(Spies advance.)
Julius. Allow me to offer you a seat in my car¬
riage, Monsieur, I am going to the Palais de
3 ustice.
Roland turns round, and thus is brought face
to face with the three spies. All appear
astonished, and the spies make one move¬
ment with their fingers towards him. The
family shake hands with him. This ap¬
pears to disconcert the spies, they remain
fixed.
had. D. Farewell, sir, till to-morrow.
Celes'ine. To morrow early, friend, father, we
shall expect you.
Roland. (Going.) To-morrow. (Aside.) If living.
(Going up with Julius )
1. Spy. Well, there are some very remarkable
likenesses in the world, eh ?
.To his companions, pointing to Marengo, and
following.)
ACT It
SCENE I.—A low drinkmg-room in a wine shop.
The entrance to the room is by steps. TRAPAUD,
CANEJOUR, and aparty of Bohemians playing at
billiards—others dancing—all smoking. LILLI
BONCCEUR watching a bowl of punch. Music.
Omnes. (Laughing.) Ha, ha, ha!
Euphrasie. Now, my tender game chicks, another
bowl of the fiery nectar, and then to business. Cus¬
tomers are waiting your kind attentions on the
Canal St. Martin, the Morgue, or the Seine. Ha!
ha! Paris furnishes a rich purse for bold hands,
ready and willing to help themselves—eh, mon
petit ?
(Pats Lilli on the head. All laugh.)
Trapaud. (Watching the game.) Too fine, Pierre.
You'll never hit it! Nine to seven—the game's
nine - (Calls.) Diable!
Lilli. Yes, papa.
Trapaud. a glass to clear my eyesight
Lilli. With pleasure,
CBands empty glass) |
Trapaud. Why, it's empty, imp I
Lilli. You did not ask for it full, papa-
(Trapaud throws glass at him. Be laughs,
and runs under the table.)
Trapaud. All drank 1 The imp! I'll—
(Raises cue.)
Euphrasie. Stay, man; is he not yonr own child?
Trapaud. I've a right to strike him if I think
proper.
Euphrasie. Not in my hotel. I'm a mother my¬
self, and won't see it done. Strike him, and you U
strike me; try it, and I'll twist your neck as I
would a pullet's! (Threatens.)
Trapaud. My charming, captivating madame —
Euphrasie. Don't try to coax mel There's no
goodness in me, or I should never allow such
people as you to enter the doors of the "Red Cat."
But if I have lost my character, I have still a heart
left, and that's more than your ugly carcase ever
contained 1
Canejour. Bravo! Encore! Go it!
Euphrasie. Encore—for your pleasure—eh, bull-
calf? Look to yourself. Did you encore to Go¬
vernor's whip, when you received it daily at the
galleys—eh, rascal ?
(All laugh.)
Canijour. Sacre! (Rises with bottle.) Jezabel!
Euphrasie. Jezabel? Brigand 1 Pay your wine
score, or I'll let tne police know of your, moonlight
tricks!
Canejour. Hag! I'll——
(A low whistle heard.)
Omnes. Marengo' Marengo! (All listen.)
Enter MARENGO, hastily, shabbily dressed in a
blouse.
Marengo. Why did you not answer my signal?
Trapaud. A loving dispute, Captain, prevented
our hearing it
Marengo. Your ears and eyes should always be
on the watch.
Canejour. Hear! hear! the noble Captain's right,
Mother Red Cat, and hold your clapper 1
Euphrasie. Bah! I never kiss carrion.
Trapaud. Let us respect ourselves; if we don't,
how can we expect to be respected? Be friends.
Marengo. Our safety is threatened.
(All start.)
Canejour. By whom? (All advance.)
Marengo. The police! Their secret agents are
on my track. Are there traitors among us?
Trapaud. I should like to find 'em, eh?
Marengo. After to-night, we must separate tor
ever.
Euphrasie. For ever? Oh, no, noble Captain,
not for ever. What's to become of my nice dain¬
ties, and little pickings, silver spoonfc, cambric
handkerchiefs, and lace collars? Part! (Weeps.)
I can't afford to do it I
(Goes up, and returns.)
Trapaud. Comfort her tender heart with a pair
of earrings, Canejour.
Canejour. Madame, permit me—
Euphrasie. Fool, I hate you! Yon never pay
your score. There's six bottles down to you now.
Marengo. Before we break up, I must have a
large sum of money. You are all men of courage
and enterpnze.
Omnes. All of us.
Canejour. To the backbone.
Marengo. I have a plan to gain profit and glory.
Trapaud. Hurrah! We're ' always ready for
both.
THIEVES OF PARIS,
Marengo. It in not without risk.
Canejour. We'll risk our necks.
Marengo. In tf street, which I will point out wlfen
the time arrives, lives a man who never has less
than a million of francs in bis house. The money
is not his own, but merely collected by him as an
agent for others.
Candour. For us!
Marengo. We'll share it.
Trapaud. By all means; that's the right way.
Marengo. Agreed. To-night the prize shall be
ours; but without violence—no arms, mind.
Trapaud. Not use armst Then, if attacked, we
must depend on our legs.
(Whistle heard.)
Euphrasie. Hush! (Low whistle heard.)
Trapaud. {Listens.) It's Bastien. I can te 1 his
skulking tread in the longest street in Paris. He's
like a cat, and quite as vicious.
Enter BASTIEN.
Trapaud. Well, what's the game ?
Bastien. Money—bank notes 1 You're all fond of
'em—eh, noble Captain? I've something to tell
you. You remember the house I had the honour
of meeting you in this morning ?
Marengo. The King's advocate! (Aside.) Hush!
Bastien. The same. There's a rare prize in that
very house—£30,000!
Marengo. You would not dare—
Bastien. Wouldn't I? Lads, I have hit upon a
echeme; that is, if we are not betrayed.
Ornnes. Who would betray us ?
(All threaten.)
Bastien. Gently—gently, gentlemen's sons. When
the pear is ripe, you shall eat it.
Marengo. For a. traitor to our interests, there
shall be no consideration or pity.
Bastien. If you knew him, what would you do ?
Marengo. Dp ? Our poniards should seal his fate,
and an inscription be fixed on his breast— "A warn¬
ing to all traitors!" Be ready to join me in an en¬
terprise that will make us all rich for life. Little
preparation is required—I will make it. Have you
hearts for it ?
Trapaud. And hands.
Bastien. (Aside.) And legs, if wanted, to run
•way.
Marengo. We must meet here in an hour. Have
the disguises ready. The utmost firmness and cau¬
tion will be requisite to carry out our scheme.
(Going down trap.) But mind, no violence or cruelty.
The man that dares break my orders (touches
pistoli—you know my way of arranging these
matters. Be vigilant. Use the courage of the lion
with the cunning of the fox.
[Exits down trap. Bastien immediately places
tattle over it with great rapidity, then calls
them all round.
Bastien, The fox is trapped. Now, boys, who do
you think the traitor ? The Judas hinted at is
Trapaud. Can't guess.
Bastien. Why, himself—Marengo!
Omnes. Marengo?
Bastien. The same. This morning I saw him,
dressed as a gentleman, in close conversation with
a lawyer, the King's Advocate-General, in his own
house.
Tropavd. A lawyer? The devil!
Bastien He'll play the devil with us, if we are
caught.
Euphrasie. The Captain's a sweet fellow. You
j»ust be mistaken, surely.
901
Bastien. Mistaken, madame 1 Have I eyes, ears
or observation ? Do 1 know silver from pewter ?
or a full purse from an empty one ? It was hat
there, to sell—to betray us 1
Trapaud. This accounts for his sudden humanity.
" No violence—go without arms!" The rascal!
Candour. That we might be the eaBier taken.
Canaille 1
Euphrasie. Yes, he. He wished to lead my poor,
innocent lambs into the wolf's mouth. (Drinks.)
What a sinful world this is!
Trapaud. What's to be done ?
Caneiour. Eevenge ourselves speedily 1
All. At once! (Rushing towards trap.)
Bastien. Gently. Never forget that you are gen¬
tlemen. I have something to propose—safe, easy,
and profitable.
Trapaud. That's itl Give me ease and profit—
eh, my charmer ?
(Kisses Euphrasie.)
Euphrasie. (Fondly.) Coaxer, go !
Bastien. In a house near the Luxembourg is a
good store of gold and notes. The house is soli¬
tary—stands alone—Burrounded by gardens. I
know every room and passage of it. In this very
place I met the Captain this morning.
Euphrasie. That will be the rat snapping the cat's
nose off.
Bastien. To-night the family will be absent at a
ball; only an hoary woman and a young girl left
in the bouse. So, you see, it's not quite so difficult
as taking the Bastile, or carrying the Bank.
POLYDOBE heard without, singing,
Malbrook s'en va (en guerre,
Malbrook s'en va (en guerre,
Malbrook s'en va t'en guerre ;
11 vertviendra plus.
Polydore. (Without.) Bed Cat!
Trapaud. Hush I He's calling you,
(Bastim peeps through window)
Bastien. Morbleul Another fish for our hook.
This new customer is the country cousin of the
lawyer I spoke of. He must not recognize me.
Use him tenderly. He's a poor, silly goose. Ladies,
don't ruffle his feathers.
(Bastien skulks off.)
Trapaud. (Opens door.) What does Monsieur re¬
quire ?
Enter POLYDOBE, rather elevated.
Polydore. The Bed Cat!
Euphrasie. I am the landlady, monsieur.
Polydore. Oh, you're the Bed Cat, eh? (Smiles.)
a full-grown tabby ? Give me a cigar, ma ehire,
and a bottle of the best grown vintage. These
polite-looking gentlemen will not refuse to drink
your health.
Trapaud. Willingly, monsieur. You honour us.
Polydore. Oh, there's always honour among thieves !
(All start up.) Beg pardon—trust I have not
wounded your sensitive feelings. (Madame Euphrasie
places wine and gives cigars. All drink.) Who'll join
me on the light fantastic toe ? Ladies, oblige me.
I was born dancing.
(Dances round with Euphrasie, and sings.)
Trapaud. All right! (Aside) The pigeon's worta
plucking. (Aloud.) A dance for monsieur, ladies
(Dance of lively character introduced.)
Polydore. Thie is jolly 1 I like freedom of man¬
ners. Nothing like knowing our fellow men. Life'p
902 THE TH1EV1
short—my maxim is to make it as long as you can,
by seeing and hearing everything.
Trapaud. Monsieur is right. Life is short.
Canejour. 'Specially when a fellow's cut off.
Euphrasie. Does monsieur play?
(Points to billiards.)
Polydore. Don't I? Why I'm considered the best
player in Gasconyl (Seizes cue, and plays.) There—
there's a cannon. I'll play you for—
Omnes. What?
Polydore. Nothing! (All smile.)
Canejour. He's awake. (Aside.)
Trapaud. (Aside.) We must put him to sleep.
(Aloud.) Will monsieur pb,y .or a franc?
Polydore. A hundred. M.ake your game. (Plays.)
There's ten at one go! Hurrah for the Red Cat!
Kiss me. you devil! (Kisses Eupirasie.)
EuP'irasie. Monsieur!
'Irapaud. (Striking Poll dore's hat over his eyes.)
Manners, master. That lady's engaged to be mar¬
ried.
Polydore. Scoundrel, ho v dare you strike me?
Trapaud. Monsieur is mistaken. I struck his
hat.
Polydore. Strike a gentleman ?
Trapaud. Why not, if a gentleman forgets him¬
self?
Euphrasie. La Trapaud, why make such a fuss
about kissing? You knofa I like it.
Polydore. An old cat! (Going.) I'll play no more.
Bonjuur, madame.
Trapaud. Excuse me, you're not fit to be trusted
alone; the coaches might run over you.
(All surround him.)
Polydore. What do yon mean ?
Trapaud. To take care of you—put you to bed.
Polydore. (Trembling.) With a spade! Sweet
madame, agreeable-looking gentlemen, you won't
behave ill; you can't do it. Those frank, open
countenances, beaming with honesty and good
nature, speak for you.
(Canejour opens trap.)
Trapaud. Down with him!
Polydore. Not while I can stand up to strike a
blow for liberty! Eases,Is 1 Brigands!
(They struggle. Pie jumps on billiard table,
calling for help. Distant march heard.)
Canejour. The guard!
Polydore, Huzza! You're all trapped. Ha, hal
The old cat's bagged, too!
Euphrasie. Is she ?
(He is seized, and forced down sfairs.)
Canejour. The gendarmes are coming!
Bastien. (Returning.) We're lost, if taken ! Se¬
cure the doors, and out with the lights ! (All this
is done.) Let every man look to himself! Join me
on the Pont Neuf. (Knocking h-ard )
' Exeunt.
Officer. Open—open, in the king's name!
Bast'en. Betrayed! Set fire to the old rookery!
Euphrasie. Destroy my Red Cat ? Villains!
Help! help! (Runs to door. Canejour stops her.)
Bastien. We must escape by the river!—swim
for it!
(The house is fired; red gleams of light seen.
The door is forced open. Gendarmes ap¬
pear. All the thieves fall on the ground
as gendarmes fire; then rush off at various
entrances. Iht three spies art with the
soldie.s.)
9 OP PARIS.
Bastien. (Bosemg very low.) Fire away, gentlemen
and better the next time! [Laughs, and exit.
(Gendurmes rush in.)
SCENE II.—The vaults under the Rouge Chateax
Enter POLYDORE, feeling his way.
Polydore. This is a pretty termination to a plea¬
sant day. I'm buried alive in this infernal hole.
Those rascals have no more heart or feeling than
stones. What is to become of me? There's no
living without eating or drinking. Damp bricks
and mouldy walls are not very digestive ariiclea
for a weak stomach. It's too clear I'm doomed—
the light of my existence put out' What a warn¬
ing for posterity and young men from the country.
Three weeks of life and gaiety ; then comes death
in a cellar! Oh, Gaseony, Gascony, shall I never
behold your sunny plains again? Thank heaven,
my mother will remain ignorant of my fate 1 It
would bring grief to her good heart to know how
her early lessons were requited. No, no; if I must
die, let the secret of my folly perish with me!
Enter MARENGO, with a dark lantern.
Marengo. Who speaks of dying?
Polydore. One already dead and buried.
Marengo. What are you ?
Polydore. A victim to the Red Cat, taken in and
done for ! (Aside.) Is this the undertaker, I won¬
der?
(Marengo throws light on Polydore. They in¬
stantly recognise each other.)
Marengo. (Quickly.) You are—
Polydore. Bo are you.
Marengo. You recognise me?
Polydore. No—yes no—I believe—no, I don't
believe—1 am beyond belief!
Marengo. We have met before.
Pohjdor-. Have we? My memory's treacherous
Marengo. My features strike you.
Polydore. They are rather striking features.
Marenyo. What brings you to this place?
Polydore. A roving fancy. I entered the wine
shop above, treated the rascals, and they ill-treated
me in return, by tumbling me unceremoniously
into this cellar. Were you trapped like me, Mon¬
sieur Roland ?
Marengo. Don't repeat that name here. I am
not what I seem
Polydon e. Happy to hear it.
Marengo. Do you not suspect?
Polydore. I suspect everybody.
Marengo. Concealment from you is now useless.
Since design or chance has brought you here, our
habit must be revealed. I am a brigand—a Bohe¬
mian.
Polydore. A what?
Marengo. A Bohemian—a man without home,
friends, or occupation- an outcast in society I
Polydore. I perceive. A perambulating vaga¬
bond!
Marengo, Our existence is a problem—our for¬
tunes a mystery; we have no resting-place.
Wealth to-day, penniless to-morrow. Often dying
with hunger amidst luxury, or dissipating in fri¬
volity the bread of thousands. The vices of our
fellow men create and sustain us. We prey, vul¬
ture-like, on their purseB—sacrificing industry,
honesty, happiness, for gold!
Polydore. Not a very enviable social position;
THE THIEVES OF PARIS.
but we are all rather fond of the piecious metals. I
have a passion for tin!
Marengo. It is the world's great curse, this yearn¬
ing for gold; it comes with our birth, and leaves
us in the grave.
Polydore. (Aside.) Or rather, we leave it, mon¬
sieur.
Marengo. Night and day, for years, I toiled
honestly to gain a name, a home. Without interest
or friends, the task proved hopeless. I found no
kindly hand extended to help me on the rugged
way—no encouraging words to cheer my flagging
spirits—all was cold, repulsive. I was poor. Mis¬
fortune came, and in its train, sickness. Deprived
of strength, I was deprived of bread. I might have
starved, whilst so many thousands of my fellow-men
were revelling in this city of palaces. This maddened
me. The power of the mighty talisman—gold—
passed before my eyes. I knew the great lever
that moved society was money; noted it in my heart,
and sworej if renewed strength ever became mine,
to gain it I did so. The friendless, spirit-stricken
man became respected, his presence courted, and
those that once withheld their bread, were ready
to eat dust beneath his feet. What was the cause
of this wonderful change, think ye?- Compassion?
charity? No, no. Gold—shining, glittering gold—
the absorbing idol men worship, sacriflcing life,
happiness, and affections at its gilded shrine!
Polydore. No one can deny the painful fact, mon¬
sieur Roland—I beg pardon, what's your name?
Marengo. My associates are men of desperate
character—reckless and daring; our deeds became
the terror of Paris, our lives a mystery. We defied
all detection. No enterprize was too difficult. Our
lives, our safeties were readily hazarded to gain
this coveted treasure, and we are—
Polydore. Robbers!
Marengo. You must swear.
Polydore. Only let me out, and I'll swear any¬
thing.
Marengo. Recognition must never take place, or
word of what I have stated be revealed.
Polydore. Dumb as an oyster.
Marenyo. You swear this, on the word of a man?
Polydore. I do, on the word of a very foolish
man.
Marengo. Attempt to deceive me, and your life is
forfeited! (Madame Euphrasie rushes in.)
Polydore. The old Red Cat again!
Euphrasie. We're lost I The house destroyed,
band dispersed; gendames, money, goods, wine,
Red Cat, bad debts, all swept away I They're com¬
ing! (Drums heard.) The secret passage is dis¬
covered !
Polydore. Huzza 1 I'm saved 1
Marengo. You can swim?
Polydore. Like a duck.
Marengo. This vault has an outlet to the Seine.
We ean escape readily. Not a moment must be
wasted. Courage, and you are saved!
Euphrasie. Take me with you, noble Captain.
Don't leave your Euphey.
Polydore. Let Euphey stay to console the police.
They're all gallants, and love to attend to the fair
•jsx. Adieu, Madame Red Cat.
(Running out.)
Euphrasie. Monster! to desert a lone widow?
Why did Gaubois die and leave me ?
Enter Guards and Spies.
1 Spy. Seize that hag! (They surround her.)
Where are your accomplices? where is Marengo?
Euphrasie. Among the fishes in the Seine. That
903
way! Shoot him 1 kill him 1—he deserves it!
(They hurry out.) That's off my conscience; and
I've hid my spoons. Take me—a willing martyr!
(They drag her off.)
SCENE lit—77i« house of Julius. MADAME BO-
BILLARD and CELESTINE discovered sleeping
in chairs. Music.
Enter BASTIEN, from window, cautiously.
Dastien. All snug! The spoons and perquisites
Were mine before. 1 am rather sorry to disturb the
ladies; but necessity has no law.
(Stumbles over a chair. Madame Bobillard
starts up in her sleep. He conceals himself
under >ab'e.)
Madame B. Thieves! Fire! Murder 1 Spare us,
and take my keys! (Runs dozen.)
Celesiine. (Waking.) Did you speak?
(Rising.)
Madame B. Didn't I ? I was asleep, and fancied
myself turned into a bathing machine!
Celestine. (Sits.) It must be very late. I have had
a happy, peaceful dream of country life, quietude,
and innocence, far removed from the busy scenes
of crowded cities, where men are so often born but
to struggle and die, their time and strength en¬
grossed in that se'f-oonsuming passion—gain;
where love and friendship shrink unheeded—
abashed, unless upheld by wealth, place, or pride
of birth; where a man's riches are prized far above
his heart, and woman's charms are centred in her
father's bank, and her value charged in gold. Oh,
how I long to escape from this unnatural atmos¬
phere, and live surrounded by those whose honesty
and humble wishes allow them to be sincere, cast¬
ing aside the trammels of society, to think and
breathe like human beings—free, unshackled in act
or thought!
Madame B. All very romantic and pretty at nine¬
teen. Wait till you're fifty, and have the rheuma¬
tism ; then natural rest and feather beds will be
more acceptable. (Yawns.) Plague take the-balls!
Why can't people dance at home ? (Yawns.)
Celestine. Go to bed. I'll sit up alone.
Bastien. Not exactly alone. (Aside. Laughs.)
Madame B. Sit up in this great house by your¬
self ?
Bastien. Not by herself. (Aside.)
Celestine. Why not? Nothing will harm us.
Bastien. (Aside.) Confiding creature 1
Madame B. Lor bless me; if I'm a moment in
the dark, I'm all pins and needles t
Celes ine. I have no fears.
Madame B. Take your light, and go to bed.
Madame will be so angry, if she finds you up on
her return.
Celestine. I would much rather remain up with
you.
Bastien. (Aside. Peeping.) I'll do that. Poor dear!
Madame B■ Nonsense, child ; go to rest. Late
hours spoil the roses on young Cheeks. We should
have Monsieur Juiius nervous and fldgetty about
your appearance. There, good night!
Celesiine. Sinee you will have it so, good night.
Call me'early. (Exit.
Madame B. Yes, yes; I must do something to
keep myself awake. Plague take the balls and
parties. (Yawns.) A bottle of wine's not a bad com¬
panion. [Exit.
, Bastien. (Slowly crawls out.) A book; that's not in
THE THIEVES OP PARIS.
904
my way. A sensible woman that. Pon my honour
as a gentleman, I'm rather sorry to disturb the
repose of these ladies; but business is imperative.
(Inspecting the room.) This candlestick will do for
my old brother in the country. This clock goes
rather fast. Very nice and comfortable, and some
good taste. (Pockets candlestick.) I wish the pattern
had been of the present fashion. (A low whistle.)
My impatient companion!
Canejour. (Appearing at window.) Bastien!
Bastien. Hush! You'll alarm the ladies.
Canejour. What of it ? (Enters.)
Bastien. What of it! Where's your breeding?
Canejour. In my pocket. Get as much as you
can, is the school in which I studied. The Cap¬
tain's outside.
Bastien. The devil 1 Who liberated him ?
Canejour. Himself. When the old den was Bred,
he escaped by the vaults, swam the Seine, landed,
and was caught on his way here by our lads. To
keep our eyes on the gentleman, we brought him
with us.
Bastien. His eyes will be opened.
Canejour. Not exactly; we've blindfolded'em. He
wished for it, to prove his honesty by assisting
us.
Bastien. You never told him?
Canejour. Catch a weasel asleep. No, no; he's
still in the dark! Softly! (Music. Marengo ap¬
pears blindfolded at window, surrounded by Bohe¬
mians, with pistols.) Gently. Help him down. (They
do so.)
Marengo. Comrades, 1 am ready to prove your
suspicions were unjust. Command, and test my
actions.
Bastien. Fine words mean nothing. (Takes ban¬
dage from his eyes.) We'll soon find out if there's
any truth in you.
Marengo. Here! (Looking around with wonder.)
Bastien. Here! (Aside.) He knows the place
again.
Marengo. Are we in the house of Julius Dufresne,
the king's advocate ?
Bastien. The same. How glad he'll be to see you,
(Smiles.) eh, Monsieur Roland ? Ha, ha 1
Marengo. To what am I doomed ? (Aside.) Rob
my own child! Inscrutable fate 1
Trapaud. What are we waiting for ? (Going.) To
work!
Marengo. No, no! (Starting) Friends, brothers,
do not ask me to join in this deed. Retire from the
house, and I will readily give up all 1 possess to be
shared among yon.
Bastien. Who's the traitor, now, gentlemen ?
Marengo. Villain, your hardened heart" cannot
feel for me. Neither cowardice nor treachery
prompts me to this act, but a motive in which none
but those who possess human feelings can partici¬
pate. You seek money; you shall have it; far
more than this night's robbery can give you. Com¬
rades, listen to my proposal.
Bastien. Oh, yes, listen to him; of course you
will, gentlemen—for what? Only to be sold by him
—strung up like onions on a rope. Take my advice.
Don't trust him, or touch a franc of his money.
My way is a short way. Vengeance is ours. Charles
Marengo's lifeless body must be left for his friend,
the king's advocate's, Inspection, with this inscrip¬
tion fixed with a dagger to his heart—" The reward
of a traitor and a spy."
Omnes. (Murmuring) Yes, yes; he shall die!
Marengo. (Agitatedi The body of Roland—ah!—
once recognised, would eternally disgrace my poor
child.
Bastien. Do you act with us? Yes or no t Life
or death hangs on your reply.
Marengo. (After a struggle.) Yes,—(.isWe.)—the
seeds of crime that I have sown are fully reaped.
Trapaud. Glad you've come to your senses, Cap¬
tain. Now to business. Pierre, I'll go with you and
Clande: Lillibone shall attend to the ladies, he's
such a gallant.
Bastien. And I'll attend upon the Captain.
Marengo. Miserable fatal
<Two remain concealed at the side; one at the
window)
Re-enter CELESTINE, from her chamber.
Celestine. I heard voices. (Perceives man at vim.
dow.) A strange man at tbis hour. The window
open. The intention is too clear. Help, help
Madame Bobillard I
(Bastien, Trapaud, and all the others rush on.)
Bastien. That cry!
Trapaud. A fool of a woman 1 We'll soon stop
hor crying.
(Breaks open Celestine's door, and enters with
gang.)
Bastien. I've done a little business on my own
account. (Shows a candlestick and teapot•> These
little delicacies I'll send to my blessed mother.
Celestine. (Within) Save me—save me 1
(Drum.)
Trapaud. (Peeping.) It's all over; the alarm's
given! I can hear the devil's tattoo!
Bastien. I smell powder. I'm off !
(Jumps from window.)
Enter CELESTINE, rapidly, followed by thieves. She
sinks on the stage. They surround her.
Celestine. Mercy! mercy!
Marengo. (Rushes on.) Celestine!
Celestine. (Recognising him.) Save me! (Faints.)
Marengo. Villains, desist! Is she not a womflji ?
Trapaud. Our lives are in her hands. She must
die!
Marengo. You must first cut your way through
my body. If you would save your lives, fly at once!
The house is surrounded by police 1 I am prepared
for the worst. Leave me to encounter the danger.
Trapaud. To oblige you, Captain, we'll take your
advice, and wish you a pleasant night and happy
dreams.
(All exeunt by window.
Marengo. (Recites her.) Speak to me—a word.
She breathes! Thank heaven! If I remain here,
discovery muBt ensue, and her name become dis¬
honoured, her father proclaimed an outcast of
society — a robber! Oh, how fearfully is my guilty
life atoned! (Brum heard.) The danger increases!
I fly, dear one, not„for my own safety, but lor
thine!
(Kisses her hastily. Escapes by window.)
Celestine. (Recovering slowly.) W here—where is lie ?
Those features, his anxiety to save me from the
assassins I Monsieur Roland 1 (Calls.) He linked
with brigands? he, so good, so honest? What
thoughts are these that crowd upon me 7
Enter JULIUS and MADAME DARVILLIERS, with
two footmen, accompanied by MADAME BOBlL-
LARD.
Julius. (Hastening to Celestine.) My love, to what
dangers have you been exposed?
Madame B. And I, monsieur? I might b*re
THE THIEVES OF PARIS.
been murdered In my sleep, without the pleasure
of knowing it,
Julius. The police are pursuing the villains 1
Poly:ore. (Peeps in at window.) Hurrah! hurrah J
One big-whiskered fellow's trapped, and they're
after another!
Madame D. (To him.) You come from—
Polydore. The bright and shining river. I've had
a duck, a dive, and a swim for that most valuable
commodity, my life! (Drum without.) Ah, bravo;
Here's a brace of rogues caught in their own trap!
This way—bring them this way I We'll hang them
at onee 1
Enter Soldiers and Spies, guarding MARENGO and
TRAPAUD; Marengo endeavouring to conceal his
face.
1 Spy. We arrested these men in the act of scal¬
ing yon garden wall.
Trapaud. .Crying.) All a mistake, gentlemen. I
assure you I was only looking for wallflowers, my
poor wife's so fond of them!
1 Spy. (Removing Marengo's hand from his face.)
This man—-
Celestine. (Rapidly interrupting him.) You are
Marengo. (Coolly.) A man; not a wild beast,
woman, to be gazed and stared at! If I be criminal,
Monsieur, I demand to be dealt with according to
law, and let hoodwinked justice do the rest!
(Music. He breaks suddenly from Soldiers,
and rushes towards centre door. Soldiers
raise their arms to fire. Celestine rapidly
throws herself before them.)
Celestine. Spare him ! spare him <
(Julius runs to her, as Marengo escapes)
ACT in.
SCENE I The study of Monsieur Julius, enclosed,
scene with doors leading to various apartments.
Centre folding doors.
Enter MADAME BOBILLARD, drying her tears.
Mad. B. Dear me, the world's getting worse and
worse every day. Rob a lawyer! wby, formerly a
thief would quite as soon think of turning honest.
I shall never sleep in peace again in this house.
(Sighs.) There's only one resource left for a lone wo¬
man—matrimony, and the remedy is almost as bad
as the disease. (Adjusts books.)
BASTIEN creeps in cautiously, disguised.
Bastien. Nobody about, its rather daring to show
my face here after our little affair of last night;
but there's no rising in life without proper con¬
fidence. Eh? the old tabby I I'm deaf, hem!
Mad. B. (Start".) Mercy! spare my age. Ch, it's
j, idiot I fancied the robbers had returned.
Bastien (Bows.) Good morning, Madame. Do
you want me to-day?
Mad. B. We're in such confusion, I scarcely
know what we want.
Bastien. Did you speak ?
Mad. B. The house has been robbed—
Bastien. Happy to hear it, Madame, hope it will
often be so!
Mad. B. What! Bless me, I forgot the poor
fellow was deaf—there, set to work, scrub away.
Bastien. This is the last day I shall have the plea-
005
, sure of polishing your mahogany. I'm retiring
from business to nurse my venerable old mother.
Mad. B. (Laughs.) A floor scrubber retiring from
business!
Bastien. To settle in the bosom of my blessed
family. I've saved a little by hard labour, and now
intend enjoying it
Enter JULIUS.
Julius. Don't move any of the things, Madame,
the magistrate will be here immediately, to inves¬
tigate the apartment, in connection with the rob¬
bery of last night.
Bastien. (Aside.) A magistrate! I'm getting un¬
comfortable. He may investigate me.
Julius. Is Celestine in the breakfast-room?
Mad. B. I have not seen her yet, Monsieur.
Julius. Take that person away, I want to he
alone.
Bastien. Monsieur is very good. You're' to give
me a bone.
Mad. B. Silly creature, he wishes to he alone.
Come.
(Going.)
Bastien. Ha, ha, Ah! ah! Two hones, thank
ye. Yes—yes, you're a worthy lady, so liberal.
Your hones are always worth picking.
T Exeunt.
Julius. (Alone.) Every thing must he in the p-e-
cise situation left by the rascals.
Enter MADAME DARVILLIERS.
Mad. D. Julius, what made you go out before
breakfast. Any fresh cause for alarm?
Julius. No; I merely made a call on Monsieur St
Gervant, the magistrate, requesting him to examine
the house.
Mad. D. I hope this sad occurrence will not oc¬
casion yon to change your plans.
Julius. Why so! Listen—two of the depredators
are taken, the loss, though great is not altogether
ruinous. (Seats himself at table.) Our duty will be to
economize. Extravagance is not among your faults ;
and much may be done where there is a will.
Luckily, Celestine's ideas coincide with ours. Com¬
fort and simplicity must,rule our household until
we have retrieved our fortune. (Celestine en.ers
slowly, very pale.) Dear girl (goes to her), have you
recovered the terrible shock the events of last
night produced ?
Celestine. (Sighs.) Not entirely.
Mad. D. You must endeavour to rally for your
own, for our sake, dear one. Selfish sorrow will
destroy our house and happiness; besides, in a few
days you will have to exercise the sacred duties of
a wife.
Celestine. Wife! (Shudders.)
Julius. Yes, my wife, love—the chosen, valued
wife of my heart.
Celestine. Julius, that honoured name I can nevei
bear!
Julius. Never bear? Wh—what have I done to
merit this change ?
Celestine. My thoughts can never change towards
you.
Julius. Then why torment me thus ? Are you not
mice already? Your word is pledged; the marriage
aettlements made. To-day Monsieur Roland
comes.
Celestine. (Alarmed.) No, no—not here!
Julius. Why not? He is your friend, and comes
to consult your happiness, love.
Celestine. My happiness. (Aside.) I dare not re¬
veal my suspicions. I—I cannot see him.
906
THE THIEVES OF PAH1&
Julius. Celestine, why is this alarm? What
causes this sudden revulsion of feeling towards a
man you so much esteemed ?
Celestine. Pray do not ask me, he will not come
here, he dares not; he is -
Mad. B. (Enters.) Monsieur Boland I
MABENGO follows immediately, dressed as in the
first act. Celes.ine stands transfixed with astonish¬
ment.
Celestine. The same features, manner, appear¬
ance. He, a—no, no, these cruel doubts wrong
him. My friend, my benefactor, guardian, it is in¬
deed himself. (Runs to him.) You all see it is my
honest, upright friend, Monsieur Boland, and I
said he would not come. (Laughs wildly.) What
folly, madness, to indulge in such weakness, my
more than father. (Throws her arms round his neck.)
Forgive me.
Marengo. (Aside.) Could Bhe have recognised
me?
Julius. Your arrival is most apropos. We need
your counsel and advice, Celestine is wavering.
Celestine. No, I shall blush for my momentary
folly, do not recall it. I shall be your wife, it is not
the amount, or loss of riches that can divide hearts
like ours ; my attention and economy 6hall, in time,
more than compensate—
Marengo. (Coolly.) May I venture to enquire what
this loss is?
Julius. Willingly. Last night the house was en¬
tered by a party of thieves, and they succeeded in
carrying off a large sum in gold and notes.
Marengo. (Coolly.) Bobbed—
Julius. Of £30.000; forming a considerable por¬
tion of my immediate resources.
Marengo. I shall feel too happy in repairing the
loss. (Takes out pocket-book.) The marriage portion
of Celestine is £30,000.
(Gives notes.)
Celestine. I, the inheritor of this vast sum. I, a
friendless orphan, oh, what happiness! Dear, dear
Julius, it is all yours; now I feel, indeed, that lam
worthy to be your wife, my heart is too full to
speak; bless you, bless you!
\Exit kissing Marengo's hand-
Mad. D. Dear child!
[Exit after Celestine.
Marengo. (Gazing after Celestine.) Let me press
you to my aching heart; cast aside this mask of
hypocrisy, and claim all your tender love as mine;
(Shvdaers,) and brand your spotless name with
crime—a mark for the world to scoff at, the pru¬
dent to shun as a blight, a pestilence ; and stiff-
necked pride, self-exalted in seeming virtue, to
crush with freezing charity and compassion!
Julius. You are moved, sir.
Marengo. Nothing, nothing, merely a passing
thought. (Recovering.) Celestine's fortune.
Enter MADAME BOBILLABD, and CHAMBEBT.
Mad, D. The magistrate will he here in a few
minutes; this is his clerk.
(Chambert sits at table to arrange papers.)
Marengo. (Aside.) I must not remain.
Chambert. Monsieur St. Gervant also desired me
to submit this marriage contract for your approval
or alteration.
(Hands a parchment A
Marenyu (Aside to Julius.) Beceive this money.
I have business of importance that calls me awv. ,
Julius. Not before witnessing the contract
Marengo. I regret the necessity, but go I must.
Re-enter CELESTINE. Julius goes to table with
contract. Marengo speaks to Julius.
Mad. B. Would you believe it, Mademoiselle, the
silly police have suffered the captain of the rob¬
bers to slip through their fingers!
Celestine. (Takes Marengo's hand.) What is Julius
doing ?
Marengo. Take care, love, you hurt me!
Celestine. Your hand is wounded.
Marengo. 'Tis nothing; yes, a mere scratch.
Mad. B. And what is very odd, they've discovered
his hand was wounded in forcing open the money
chest.
(Clelestine drops Marengo's hand.)
Marengo. (Thrusts his hand into his bosom, laughs.)
A very important discovery, truly.
(Celestine starts.)
Mad. B. And the prisoners have confessed half
the stolen property was given up to the captain; a
clear half their booty.
Julius. (To Chambert.) You will observe the cor¬
rections. I wish the bride's fortune to be entirely
settled on herself.
chambert. Your instructions shall be attended to,
sir.
Marengo. Beceive this money, I must go.
(Places books endpapers on table.)
Celestine. (To herself.) One escaped! Clear half
the booty; wounded. (Looking at Marengo.) 'Tig
he!
Julius. You will return for the ceiemony ?
Marengo. Yes, at the earliest moment. Adieu,
my child!
Celestine. (Placing her hand on his arm, aside.; I
must speak with you alone.
Julius. (To Chambert.) Oblige me by affixing the
seal to the contract in my study.
Takes money and papers, exeunt Julius and
Chambert into study.
Mad. B. I'll see if there be any more news about
the scoundrel brigands.
[Exit
Marengo. What is it you desire of me.
Celestine. The truth!
Marengo. Girl—
Celestine. Yes, the truth! you are acquainted
with all that occurred here last night.
Marengo. I—
Celestine. Do not deny it One of the robbers saved
my life from his associates' fury. He threw himself
between their weapons and my heart, and in doing
this received a wound upon his hand, (tmatches his
hand.) 'Tis here I
Marengo. (Confused.) 'Tis the mere effect of ac¬
cident. My name connected with robbers! What
folly is this—be silent, nor seek to penetrate mys¬
teries that cannot concern your peace or happi¬
ness, be prudent!
Celestme. Will prudence silence that still small
voice that ever seeks to be heard from the bottom
ot the heart—conscience?—a voice that destroys
all peace or rest: who shall silence that terrible
monitor?
Marengo. You seek—
Celestine. A father! I have found him. (Embraces
Aim.) For my welfare, my happiness, you have sac¬
rificed honour. Is it not so ? Tell me not for your
self, but for me, you sinned. This fortune, M
guiltily obtained, 1 neither can nor will touch. Let
THE THIEVES OF PARIS.
007
cm leave Paris together, and aB you said yesterday,
in some remote foreign land^seek forgetfulness of
the past, atonemeot in the future. We will strive by
honest industry to deserve content. The world may
oondemn, but from my lips nothing but love and
respect shall ever pass.
Marengo. Beloved and devoted girl, (Noise with¬
out; runs to window.) The officers of justice! I am
lost i
Cei stine. (Rushing towards door.) Through my
rashness! This is my room—in, I beseech you.
They shall not enter. To me you are but Monsieur
Roland, my kind guardian. Have no fears my
weakness may betray you. A high and holy inspi¬
ration, the love and duty of a child, will guide me
in this hour of trial.
Marengo. Remember, everything now depends
on self-possession.
Celestine. My father, in—
(Hurries him in. Bastien runs on alarmed,
as Celestine closes door.)
Bastien. Magistrates, gendarmes, prisoners 1
What will become of me? I'm selected for the
galleys, or Cayenne, I'm peppered ! {Sees Celestine, as-,
sum.es deafness.) Madamoiselle!
Celestine. What do you desire ?
Bastien. No, I am not come to light the fire,
but—
Re-enter MADAME BOBELLARD.
Mad. B. Oh 1 you are here, are you, sir ? What,
In the name of wonder, set you scampering the
momem. ihe police entered the house ?
Bastien Did you please to speak, Madame ? Shall
I dust and scrub this room ?
(Goes towards door.)
Celestine. (Stands before door.) No, you cannot
enter here.
Bastien. (Trying to get in.) I'll polish the oak, Ma¬
damoiselle. (Aside.) if I'm caught, the police will
invite me to stay with them a year or two.
Mad. B. Dolt! you are not to go in. (Pulls him
bad.) Remain here till the magistrate leaves.
Bastien sigh\ ST. GERVANT enters, ac¬
companied by spies, offic rs. At the same
time Julius and Chambert re-enter from
study. Bastien stands behind Madame
Bobillard, and is stealing out.
St. Gervant. Let no one quit the room I
Bastien. (Aside.) I'm booked and paid for!
St. Gervant. (Sits.) Monsieur Julius, I believe
your study waB the apartment that was principally
plundered.
Julius. Yee hut my bed-chamber and drawing-
room were also pillaged.
Bastien. (Aside.) My little pickings came from
the bed-room.
St. Gervant. We will inspect them after. Where
does that door lead.
(Pointing.)
Julius. To my sister's apartments.
St. Gervant. (Points.) And that?
Julius. To Celestine's room, through a small
library.
St. Gervant Have the kindness to open it.
Celestine. (To Julius.) No, no; do not allow them
to enter that apartment
Julius. Why, love, it is thought necessary; and
orders must be obeyed.
Celestine. But if the gentleman does not insist ?
St. Gervant. If you wish it, it shall be willingly
waived; bnt it is opposed to the regularity of our
proceeding.
Julius. Pray enter then.
Celestine. (Places herself befort door.) There.is a
gentleman within. (Aside.) Meroiful Providence,
protect him.
Julius. A gentleman!
(Opens door.)
Celestine. Yes, our friend, Monsieur Ruland. ^ee,
he is there reading, his back towards us. You
must not disturb him.
Julius. (To St. Geivant.) I will answer for this
gentleman, Monsieur; and must request your indul¬
gence, if not absolutely necessary.
St. Gervant. A look shall suffice. (Sp akmg at
door.) I beg you will not disturb yourself, Monsieur,
I am quite satisfied.
(Returns to table.)
Bastien. (Aside.) I wish I was. (Attempting to steel
out is prevented by police.) I must go, my mother
wants me at home; she's ill in bed, and there's no
ODe to make her gruel.
Enter TRAPAUD, and Officers, full in view.
St. Gervant. Bring the prisoners forward.
(Trapaud'advancesA
Bastien. I wish they'd hang him without trial.
St. Gervant. Is this the apartment you robbed
last night—answer, fellow!
Trapaud. To condemn myself ? I know nothing,
you know everything; put the two together, and
divide the rest.
St Gervant. Where were you arrested ?
Trapaud. Can't telL
Bastien. CanitaL
(Aside.)
St. Gervant. You were found on these premises,
where a robbery had been committed. How oame
you here?
Trapaud. I'm troubled with a giddiness in my
head, and when that comes on, I don't know where
I wander.
Bastien. (Laughs aside.) Oh! that's good.
St. Gervant. You had accomplices. If you would
save yourself from the galleys, gain mercy by a
full confession.
Bastien. (Aside.) The rascal will betray us all!
Celestine. (Aside.) I tremble for his safety.
St. Gervant. It is known that your leader was the
notorious Marengo!
Trapaud. You are trying to squeeze other men's
blood through my teeth. If I tell, will you give me
my liberty, and a little something to live on ?
Bastien. A rope, give him a rope, and a long one.
St. Gervant. I can promise nothing.
Trapau :. Then I Jell nothing.
Celestine. (Aside.) I breathe again!
Julius. Dearest, retire; you are too much agitated
Celestine. 'Tis only a momentary feeling. I take
deep interest in all that is passing ; suffer me to
remain with you, Julius.
St. Gen-ant. Then you refuse to confess, fellow ?
Trapaud. Idol
Bastien. (Advancing.) I don't. Hear me, Mon¬
sieur.
Mad. B. Bless you, sir; he's a poor, silly, deaf
creature that runs of errands.
(Pulling him back.)
Trapaud. (Aside.) Bastien!
St. Gervant. (To Bastien.) Have you any infor¬
mation to give ?
B istien. Much, if I'm paid for it
Mud. B. It's all nonseuse. He can know nothing;
he's half a fool and deaf.
THE THIEVE8 OF PARIS.
MS
Bastten. Not dumb, Madame. Sir, you hove stated
tbat to the man who came voluntarily to confess,
the law would grant his liberty.
St Gereant. If he reveal his accomplices, and as¬
sist hi their apprehension.
Bastien. This I agiee to—
trapaud. Rascal!
St. Qervant. Were you connected with this rob¬
bery.
Bastien. With sorrow I acknowledge it. Against
my inclination, I was led into error, having a weak¬
ness for silver spoons.
Trapaud. It's false, Monsieur; he led us into it,
told us where the monay was kept, in fact, did
all!
Bastten. Unhappy individual, your understanding
wanders.
St. Qervant. Silence! are you willing to reveal
the place where Charles Marengo is concealed.
Bastien. Ready and willing.
Trapaud. Rascal!
St. Qervant. You will also give up all your ac¬
complices ?
Bastien. Without a solitary exception.
St. Qervant Conduct us at once to the rendez¬
vous.
Celestine. (Aside.) He will escape now.
Trapaud. You call this justice, do you ! to suffer
that rogue to escape.
(Exit with guards.)
Bastien. Monsieur Trapaud it grieves me t o hnng
you, bu t necessity requires the sacrifice. [All extent.)
Go you must.
Re-enter MADAME DARVILLIERS.
Mad B. The notary and witness to the contract
are all waiting in my room, will you come.
Julius. I'll attend to tbem instantly.
[Exit with Madame Barvilliers.
Celestine. (Sapporting herself by a chair.) What is
to become of him?—to remain is hazardous, to
leave the house, certain destruction. Who can as¬
sist me in this terrible emergency ?
(Marengo appears at doer.)
Marengo. I can assist myself 1
Celestine. And the Becret of my birth.
Marengo. Is in this paper.
(Gives paper.)
Celestine. And you?
Marengo. Go to give you the last proof of my af¬
fection, my child. It is imperative for your honour
that we—we never meet mom
Celestine. Never see you more!
Marengo. Never!—the word rends my heart. I
am condemned to hear your innocent voice pro¬
nounce that fatal word "farewell!"—yet, say you
will not forget me quite. That in your happier
days, a thought will find a place in your memory
for a wretched criminal. ■
Celestine. Forget you, my father. Oh! no, no. j
(Falls on his shoulder weeping)
Marengo. Closer, nearer my heart (Embraces
her.) 'Tis for the last time. Farewell, my child!
(Kisses her.) When you remember your father,
pray tor me—pray for me.
Rushes out overwhelmed, with grief, (destine
stands helpless with paper.
Celestine, He Is gone, and I am left to misery and
doubt This paper, the record of guilt, is all that
reminds me of a parent (Reads.) " Destroy this the
moment you have read it. I am, .indeed, your
father and a brigand; the £30.000 paid in your name
to Julius is the money stolen from him. It is but
just to restore it Farewell for ever." And this is
my inheritance of dishonour; this ie to brand au
honest man, to taint his name by uniting it with
mine—never ?
Re-enter JULIUS.
Julius. AH is completed, love; the contracts set¬
tled, and our friends waiting to be introduced to
my wife. Your precious signature, and we are
one?
Celestine. Julius, this marriage must not go on!
Julius. Not go on! What, in the name of reason
iB to hinder it now ?
Celestine. My determination; read this paper,
then tell me if it be capricious fancy, or would you
have me bring infamy on your name and root.
(Qives paper. Julius reads.) Now, you Bee the cause,
the depth of misery into which I am plunged; you
feel and think as I do, that I am unfit to become
your wife; that my very presence is a disgrace. Fid
me go—nay, no look or word of sympathy; Bpare
my feelings, and pity a broken-hearted girl.
(Going.)
Julius. (Burning the paper at a candle which is on
the table.) Thus let the fatal scrawl perish for ever,
and its contents he blotted from our memories,
Part with you, send you helpless, unprotected, into
a cold, uncharitable world, to become the finger¬
mark of reproach and scorn. N o, Celestine, you
can little know the heart you have trusted. I could
renounce honour, name, ambition, nay—life itself
hut to renounce you would he impossible; you are
the life, the soul, the essence of my being; shall I,
for the faults of another, abandon happiness; no,
my treasure, my honoured, trusted wife.
(Kisses her.)
Enter MADAME DARVILLIERS with guests,
elegantly attired. Notary carrying contract.
Mad. D. Our impatience would not allow us to
wait any longer; sign the contract here, love.
Julius. Let me implore. (Shouts heard withoutJ
"This way—this way—fire—"
POLYDORE dashes through curtains in flat,
discovering a large folding window across
stage, through which is seen the court-yard
Of the mansion. A large stair-case descends
into it. Galleries are on the opposite side of
the court-yard.
Polydore. There's excitement, couRln; lame jus¬
tice running down a criminal. That deaf scamp
has recognised Marengo; and they're all f dl cry
after the cunning fox; capital sport, eh? Yoicks i
tally-ho 1 this way I
Oflicers appear on galleries with torches, and
BASTIEN t» the court-yard.
Bastien. (Ascending stairs.) I'll escape quietly in
the bustle.
Shouts outside. Marengo, Marengo!
Celestine. (Wildly.) You hear—you hear.
MARENGO rushes into court-yard, wounded,
hair dishevelled and bleeding, followed by
oflicers of police.
Bastien. Marengo I—there's the captain; secure
him.
Marengo. Traitor?
Fires. Bastien falls. All the gendarmes and
police level at Marengo. Celestine rushes to
window.
THE THIEVES OP PARISL
909
Celestine. No, no! Mercy, mercy I
Jul us. Spare him, I command!
Marengo. (Staggering up staircase.) Too late, too
late! I am death-struck.
(Falls on stage.)
Celestine. (Runs to window.) Fath
Marengo. (Wildly.) Hush, hush! preserve your
honour; and I—I die content Tie a just re¬
ward for crimes like mine.
(Dies.)
Celestine. (Kneeling over him.) A word, one word.
Julius. Eet me pronounce that word, dearest
wife, honoured, beloved wife.
(She throws herself into his arms. TableauJ
beaganza.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.—BY ROBERT JEPHSON.
Velasquez.—"Look here, and tremble."—Act iii, scene 1.
persons ^epresenteff.
Dure of Braoanza.
Velasquez.
Ai.mada.
Ribiro.
Mendgza.
Antonio.
Mello.
Rodkric.
Ferdinand.
Lemos.
Cokea.
Pizarro.
Ramirez.
Citizens
Officer.
Attendants.
Duchess of Braganza.
Ines.
ACT I.
SCENE I—A Piazza.
Enter RIBIRO meeting a Spani'h Officer, conducting
two Citizens bound. LEMOS and COREAfollowing
Ribiro at a little distance.
Ribiro. Hold, officer! What means this spec¬
tacle ?
Why lead you thus in fetters thro' the streets
These aged citizens ?
Officer. Behold this order. (Shews a paper.)
Ribiro. I know the character. 'Tis signed Ve¬
lasquez.
1 Citizen. We have not mines of unexhausted
gold
To feed rapacious Spain and stern Valasquez t
And wrung by hard exactions for the state—
Officer. No more; I must not suffer it
Ribiro. (Pointing to the prisoners.) Pray, sir,
See these white hairs, these shackles: misery
May sure complain. You are a soldier, sir,
Your mien bespeaks a brave one—
Officer. I will vjalk by.
Detain them not too long. 'Tis a harsh sentence.
(Withdraws.)
2 Citizen. Oh, good Ribiro, what have we de-
serv'd,
That these rude chains should gall us ?
Ribiro. What deserv'd 1
1 Citizen. The little all our industry had earn'd.
BRAGANZA.
911
To Bmooth the bed of sickness, nurse old age,
And give a decent grave to our old ashes,
Spain's hungry minions have already seiz'd.
Ribiro. I know the rest. Dry up these scalding
tears:
"he hour of your deliv'rance is at hand:
arm more strong than shuts your prison
doors,
Slall burst them soon and give you ample ven¬
geance.
Ci'iiens. May we, indeed, expect—
Ribro. Most sure : hut, hush 1
Reftine the semblance of this transient shame,
And hile your hope in sadness. Brave Castilian,
Thanks for this courtesy.
(To the officer, who returns.)
Citiiens. Lead on. Farewell!
I Exeunt Guard and Citiiens. Lemos and
\ Corea come forward to Ribro.
Ribiro. Was that a sight for Lisbon?
Lemos. Oh,shame, shame!
What crime could they commit? Old, helpless,
pluhder'd—
Ribiro. Even thoughts are crimes in this distem-
per'd state.
They once had wealth as you have : Spain thought
meet
To seize it: they (rash men I) have dar'd to
murmur.
Valasquez here, our scourge, king Philip's idol.
Whom Portugal must bow to, mildly dooms them
But to perpetual bondage for this treason.
Lemos. We must be patient: 'tis a cureless evil.
Ribiro. Is patience, then, the only virtue left
us?
Come, come, there is a remedy more mamy.
Corea. Would it were in our reach!
Ribiro. Look here. I grasp it.
(Laying his hand on his sword.)
What, turn'd to statues 1 Hence, enfranchisement,
If the quick Are that lately warmed your breasts,
Already wastes to embers ! Am I rash ?
We touch'd this theme before; you felt it then.
Would I could put a tongue in every ingot
That now lies pil'd within your massy stores!
Your gold, perhaps might move you. Spain will
seize it;
Then bid you mourn the loss in the next dungeon,
Or dig her mines for more. Is't not enough ?
Instruct me, Lemos; you, good Corea, teach me
This meekness so convenient to our foes,
Or pierce this swelling bosom.
Lemos. Who can teach it ?
'Tis not in art, Ribiro. Know us better.
The canker discontent consumes within,
And mocks our smooth exterior.
Corea. Hear me for both :
For all th' indignant hearts in Portugal;
If curses sped like plagues and pestilence,
Thus would I strike them at the towers of Spain.
May her swol'n pride burst like an empty bubble !
Distraction rend her councils! rout and shame
Pursue her flying squadrons ! Tempests scatter,
And whirlpools swallow up her full mann'd
navies!
Bold insurrection spread through all her states
Shaking like pent-up winds their loose allegiance!
All Europe arm, and every frowning king,
Point at one foe, and let that foe be Spain!
Ribiro. Oh, be that curse prophetic 1 Here 'tis
dangerous,
Nor will the time allow to tell you all;
But thus far rest assur'd—I speak not rashly—
A project is on foot, and now just rip'ning,
Will give our indignation nobler scope
Than tears or curses, (Priests and women's wea¬
pons !)
All that secures the event of great designs,
Sage heads. Arm hearts, and executing arms,
J In formidable union league with us,
And chain capricious fortune to our standard.
Lemos. Say, can our aid promote this glorious,
cause ?
Ribiro. All private virtue is the public fund;
As that abounds, the state decays or thrives :
Each should contribute to the general stock,
And who lends most is most his country's friend.
Lemos. Oh, would Braganza meet the people's
wish !
Ribiro. He is not yet resolv'd, but may be won.
Could I assure him men like you but wisli'd it,
(For well he knows and loves you,) trust me,
Lemos,
It would do more to knit him to this cause
Than legions of our hot nobility.
Corea. We love his virtue, will support his
rights—
Ribiro. Then shew it by your deeds. Your ar-
tizans
Are prompt, bold, hardy, fond of violence.
Alarm their slumb'ring courage, rouse their rage,
Wake their dull senses to the shame and scorn
That hisses in the ears of willing bondmen;
If they will hazard one bold stroke for freedom,
A leader shall be found, a brave a just one.
Anon expect me where the ivy'd arch
Rears the bold image of our late Braganza,
(In sullen discontent he seems to frown,
As if still hostile to the foes of Lisbon,)
There we'll discourse at large. Almada comes
Lemos. Is he a friend ?
Ribiro. A firm one. No dishonour
E'er bow'd that rev'rend head. That mighty spirit,
When first the oppressor, like a flood, o'erwhelmed
us,
Rear'd high his country's standard, and defied
him.
He comes to seek me. Lose no time: remember.
[Exeunt Lemos and Corea.
I should detest my zeal, could it be stirr'd
Against the wholesome rigour of restraint
Licentiousness made needful. But, good heaven!
Foul murders unprovok'd, delib'rate cruelty I
The God within us must rise up against it.
Enter ALMADA.
Almada. Well met, Ribiro: what new proso-
lytes:
Thy ardour every hour or finds or makes them.
Ribiro. No; thank the Spaniards for our pro¬
selytes :
Scarce half an hour ago, two citizens,
(My blood still boils,) by fell Velasquez' order,
Were dragg'd to prison—
Almada. Spare mv soul, Ribiro,
Superfluous detestation of that villain.
Ribiro. Knowing this way they were to pass, I
brought
Lemos and Corea, (whom last night I soundedj
That their own eyes might see the outrages,
Men of their order must expect to meet
From power that knows no bounds, and owns no
law.
Almada. 'Twas wisely done; for minds of coarse
alloy
But bluntly feel the touch of otbere' wrongs,
The' deep the impression of their own.
S12
BRAGANZA.
Ilibiro. By heav'n, their fury bore a nobler
stamp;
Their honest rage glow'd on their kindling cheeks
Broke through the cold restraints of coward cau¬
tion,
And swell'd even to an eloquence of anger.
Almada. 'Tis welL But are they yet inform'd
how near
Th' approaching hour, decisive of our fate,
That gives us death or freedom—that the dawn —
Ribiro Not yet They still believe the Duke, at
noon,
But visits Lisbon to command the march
Of our new levies to the Spanish bounds:
Himself to follow straight Ere then I mean
Again to see them, and still more to whet
The keenness of their hate against our tyrants.
At least a thousand follow where they lead.
Almada. Their boldness, well directed, may do
much.
Ribiro. That care be mine: I've studied, and I
know them;
Inconstant, sanguine, easily inflam'd,
But, like the nitrous powder uncompress'd,
Consuming by the blaze nought but itself.
'Tis ours to charge the mine with deadly skill,
And bury usurpation in the ruin.
Almada. I think we cannot fail; our friends are
firm
Honour will bind the noble, hope the weak,
And common interest alL The insulting Spaniard
Broods over embyro mischiefs, nor suspects
The wretched worm conceals a mortal sting
To pierce the haughty heel that tramples him.
Ribiro. How great will be our triumph, Spain's
disgrace,
When ev'ry mischief that perfidious court
Has fram'd against Braganza's precious life
Recoils on the contriver!
Almada. Urge that home;
Urge how the duke's affection to his country,
His right unquestionable to her crown,
First mark'd him for the victim of false Spain:
That his commission as high admiral,
His general's staff, and all the lofty pomp
Of his high-sounding titles, were but meant
As gilded snares to invite him to his death.
Ribiro. These truths, shameful to Philip, must
be told;
They will endear Don Juan to the people,
Will keep them waking, restless, and dispos'd
To aid the glorious tumult of to-morrow.
Almada. My heart expands, and with a prophet's
fire,
Seizes the bright reversion of our hopes.
I see the genius of our realm restor'd,
And smiling lead him to his rightful throne.
No wild ambition, like a pamper'd steed,
O'erleaps the boundaries of law and reason,
And tramples every seed of social virtue;
But o'er the temp'rate current of his blood
The gentlest passions brush their breezy wings,
To animate, but not disturb the stream.
Such is his temper: the approaching hour
Demands, perhaps, a sterner.
Ribiro. Heaven, still kind,
Has in his consort's breast struck deep the root
Of each aspiring virtue. Bright Louisa,
To all the softness of her tender sex,
Unites the noblest qualities of man;
A genius to embrace the amplest scheme
That ever swell'd the labouring statesman's breast;
Judgment most sound, persuasive eloquence I
To charm the froward and convince the wise; |
Pure piety without religion's dross;
And fortitude that shrinks at no disaster.
Almada. She is, indeed, a wonder. Oh, Ribiro, ■"
That woman was the spring that moved us all.
She canvass'd all our strength, urg'd all our
wrongs,
Combin'd our force, and methodiz'd our ven¬
geance ;
Taught us that ends which seem impossible
Are lost, or compass'd only by the means;
That fortune is a false divinity,
But folly worships what the wise man makes.
She turn'd our cold dejection to device,
And rous'd despondency to active valour.
My age delights to dwell on her perfections—
Ribiro. And I could ever hear them. Virtue's
praise
To honest ears is music. But no more
A noise comes this way, and that hurrying throng
Proclaims the upBtart minister's approach.
This is the hour, with saucy pageantry,
Thro' our thinn'd streets he takes his wonted
round;
Like the dire clapping of the harpy's wing,
To choke the frugal meal with bitter tears,
And scare content from every humble board.
I will avoid him. But I go, proud man,
When next we meet to make my presence dread¬
ful. [Exit.
Alma. Honest Ribiro 1 To this hour my soul
Has kept her purpose; my firm foot has ne'er
Swerv'd from its path in Lisbon, nor shall now
Give way to insolence. Tour country's dregs!
(Looking towards the train of Velasgiui.)
Te supple sycophants! ay, cringe and beg
That he will tread upon your prostrate necks,
Or ride you like his mules. Authority!
Thy worshipp'd symbols round a villain's trunk
Provoke men's mockery, not their reverence.
Enter Officer.
Officer. Make way, there ; room, room for the
minister.
Enow you the lord Velasquez comes this way f
Pray, sir, give place.
Almada. Officious varlet, off 1
Let not thy servile touch pollute my robe.
Can hirelings frown 1
Enter VELASQUEZ and PIZARRO. The magis¬
trates of Lisbon with their insignia, Guards and
Attendants preceding.
Velasq. How 1 am I, then, despised ?
(Looking sternly at Almada.)
A tumult in my presence ? Good, my lord,
It better would become your gravity
To set the fair example of obedience
To trust and office, than instruct the rahble
In what they are the most prone to, feuds and
faction.
Almada. Most reverend admonition! Hold, my
spieen!
Te golden coronets and ermin'd robes,
Bend from your stools, behold this wondrous
man,
This Lusitanian censor, this sage Cato,
This consul, with his lictors, rods, and axes,
Reprove the boy, Almada, for his lightness!
Pizarro. Regard not his wild words, he's old and
choleric.
Velasq. (To his train.) Attend me at the citadel;
move on.
[Exeunt Attendants,
I know not whether to accuse my fortune
BRAGANZA.
Or blame my own demerits, brave Almada,
, That ever when we meet, thy angry brow
\Eebukes me with its frown, or keen reproach
'Darts from thy tongue, and checks the forward
\ wish
mat fain would court thy friendship and esteem.
Almada. Friendship with thee 1 Is it so slight a
boon?
if tach deserve the name, go seek for friends
Amidst the desp'rate crew, whose only bond
Is the black conscience of confederate crimes;
Nor ih prepost'rous union think to join
Integrity with guilt, and shame with honour.
Know rae for what I am—thy foe profess'd.
Fall on ihy knee, solicit heaven for mercy,
And tell that seat of pride, thy obdurate heart,
Its last, its only virtue, is remorse.
[Exit.
Velasq. Go, hoary fool, preach to the whistling
winds;
I scorn thy council, and defy thy hate.
'Tis time enough for lagging penitence,
When age, like thine, has quench'd ambition'B
flame;
Now nobler thoughts possess my active soul.
This haughty province first shall feel my weight,
And since it scorns my love, through fear obey
me.
Pizarro. Already all the power of Spain is thine,
The vice-queen, Marg'ret, though of Austrian
blood.
Discreet, firm, virtuous, complains in vain,
Yon leave her but a regent's empty title,
While power is only yours; and happier still,
Braganza summon'd to attend the king,
Will soon cut off his country's only hope,
And leave no rival to obscure thy lustre.
'Bate but the shew and name of royalty,
Thou art already king.
Valesq. The shew, the name,
All that gives grace and awe to majesty
Shall soon be mine, Pizarro. Olivarez,
Whose counsels rule the Escurial, to my hand
Has long resign'd the reins of Portugal,
And dreams not (unsuspicious of my faith)
The delegate, the creature of his breath,
Anon will bid defiance to his power,
And rank himself with monarchs.
Pizarro. Oh! take heed;
Consider, sir, that power still awes the world—
Velasq. My towering fortune rises on a rock,
And firm as Atlas will defy the storm.
The purple cement of a prince's blood
Shall strengthen its foundation.
Pizarro. Hal
Velasq. Braganza's.
The precious mischief swells my exulting breast,
And soon shall burst its prison.
Pizzaro. Can it be ?
I know thy dauntless temper mocks at fear,
And prudence guides thy daring; but a prince
Follow'd by faithful guards, encompass'd round
With troops of gallant friends, the people's idol —
Velasq. Is mortal, like the meanest of his train,
And dies before to-morrow. Cease to wonder:
But when this mighty ruin shakes the realm, I
Prepare like me, with well-dissembled grief
To hide our real joy, and blind suspicion.
[Flourish of trumpets.
These trumpets speak his ontrauee; never more
Such sprightly notes, nor shout of joyful friends,
Ptean or choral song shall usher him;
But sad solemnity of funeral pomp,
Mute soriow, mournful dirges, ghastly rites,
113
Marshall'd by'death, in comfortless array,
Wait his cold relics to their sepulchre.
[Exeunt
ACT II
SCENE I.—An Antechamber in the Duke Of Braganza's
Palace.
BIBIRO and MENDOZA discovered.
Ribiro. A moment's pause, Mendoza: here ap¬
pointed
By promise to the Duke at noon to-wait him,
I could not mingle with his followers^
So saw it but in part.
Mendoza. The air still rings
With loudest acclamations.
Ribiro. Yes, Mendoza;
With joy I heard them; heard the vaulted sky
Echo Braganza. 'Twas no hireling noise,
No faction's roar of mercenary joy,
Sound without transport, but the heartfelt cry
Of a whole nation's welcome. Hear it, Spain 1
Proud usurpation, hear it!
Mendoza. The whole way
Was cover'd thiek with panting multitudes,
That scarce left passage for their chariot-wheew,
The trees were bent with people; ev'ry roof,
Dome, temple, portico, so closely flll'd.
The gazers made the wonder. Here and there
A discontented Spaniard stalk'd along,
Should'ring the crowd: and, with indignant scorn,
Turn'd up his sallow cheek in mockery.
Ribiro. We shall retort their scorn. Mark'd you
the Duke ?
His mind is ever letter'd in his face.
Mendoza. Pleasure was mingled with anxiety,
Both visible at once. But, oh ! what words
Can paint the angel form that grac'd his side,
His bright Louisa ? Like th' Olympian queen,
When o'er her fragrant bosom Venus bound
Th' enchanting cestus, from her lucid eyes
Stream'd the pure beams of soft benevolence,
And glories more than mortal shone around her.
Harmonious sounds of dulcet instruments,
Swell'd by the breath, or swept from tuneful wire,
Floated in air, while yellow Tagus burn'd
With prows of flaming gold; their painted flags,
In gaudy frolic fluttering to the breeze.
On to their palace thus the triumph came :
Alighted at the gate, the princely pair
Express'd their thankBin silent dignity
Of gesture, far more eloquent than words;
Then turn'd them from the throng—
Ribiro. Why, this looks well.
The Duke will sure be rous'd to resolution
By this bright passage of his coming glory.
Mendoza. With grief I learn he still is undeter-
min d.
His fears prevail against the public wish ;
And thus the ill-pois'd scale of our fair hopes,
Mounts light and unsubstantial.
Ribiro. Oh, you wrong him.
I know bis noble nature : Juan's heart
Pants not with selfish fear. His wife, his friends,
An intant family, a kingdom's fate,
More than his own, besiege his struggling soul;
He must be more than man, who will not hear
Such powerful calls, and less, who can despise
them.
Mendoza. Indeed, I cannot wondor he's dls-
turb'd ■
914
BRAGANZA.
But doubts are treason in a cause like this.
Hibiro. Dismiss these fears; Louisa's gentle
sway
Will fix him to our purpose. Night's chaste orb
Rules not the heavings of the restless tide
More sure than she with mild ascendancy
Can govern all his ebbs and flows of passion.
But come, by this time the fond multitude
Have gaz'd away their longing, and retire.
Our greeting will be seasonable now.
[Exeunt.
SCENE £L—A magnificent Chamber in the Duke of
Brayanza's Palace.
DUKE OF BRAGANZA discovered, speaking to
LEMOS and COREA; other Citizens at a little dis¬
tance.
Duke. No more, kind countrymen; this goodness
melts me
What oan I render back for all these honours?
This wondrous prodigality of praise ?
What but my life, whene'er your welfare asks it.
Lemos. Heav'n guard that precious life for Por¬
tugal !
To you, as to a tutelary god,
This sinking country lifts her suppliant hands,
And certain of your strength, implores your arm
To raise her prostrate genius from the dust
Duke. A private man, a subject, like your¬
selves,
Bankrupt of power, though rich in gratitude,
The sense of what you suffer wrings my soul,
Nor makes your sorrows less.
Enter DUCHESS OF BRAGANZA.
Duchess. Much injur'd men,
Whom love, not fear, should govern, from this
hour,
Know, we espouse your cause. We have not
hearts
Of aliens, to behold with passing glance
And cold indifference the ruthless spoiler
Smile o'er the ravage of your fertile plains.
We feel the fetters that disgrace your limbs;
We mourn the vigour of your minds depress'd;
With horror we behold your gen'rous blood
Drain'd by the insatiate thirst of ravening wolves.
If we have nature, we must feel your wrongs,
If we have power, rodress them.
Corea. Matchless lady!
There spoke our rightful queen, our better angel!
In us behold your servants, subjects, soldiers ;
Though yet unpractis'd in the trade of war,
Our swords will find au edge at your command.
Duke. We neither doubt your courage nor your
love,
And both, perhaps, ere long may meet the trial:
I would detain you, but our conference
Might now be dangerous. Rank me with your
friends,
And know I have a heart for Portugal.
[Exeunt Lemos, Corea, At.
Duchess. Why wears my Juan's brow that
thoughtful cloud?
Why thus with downcast look and folded arm,
When ev'ry other bosom swells with hope?
When expectation, like a flery steed,
Anticipates the course, and pants to hear
The sprightly signal start him for the goal.
Think that the people from their leader's eye i
Catch the sure omens of their future fate:
With his their courage falls, their spirits rise;
For confidence is conquest's harbinger.
Duke. Light of thy Juan's life t my soul's belt
joy!
Swifter than meteors glide, or wings of wind,
My nimble thoughts shoot through their whirling
round:
A thousand cares distract this anxious breast
To recompense the dark uncertainty
Of this dread interval, 'twixt now and more,
Would aBk whole years of happiness to come.
Now thou art mine, these faithful arms enfold
thee;
But oh 1 to-morrow may behold thee torn
By barbarous ruffians from their fond embrace;
The flowing honours of that beauteous head,
May sweep a scaffold's dust, and iron death
Close in eternal sleep those radiant eyes
That beam with love and joy unutterable.
Duchess. Oh! make me not your curse, as sure I
must be,
The stain, the blot of your immortal fame,
If one soft passion, like a languid spell,
Dissolve thy manly fortitude of soul,
And melt the prince and patriot in the husband.
Duke. That tender union is the healing balm,
The cordial of my soul; our destinies
Are twin'd together. Were my single life
The only forfeit of this perilous chance.
I'd throw it, like a heedless prodigal,
And wanton with my fortune; but, alas;
More than the wealth ot worlds is now at stake.
And can I hazard this dear precious pledge,
Venture my all of bliss on one bold cast,
Nor feel the conflict that now rends my heart?
Duchess. Why do you tremble? These cold strug«
gling drops
Duke. They fall for thee, Louisa; my quell'd
spirit
Avows its weakness there.
Duchess. 'Tis cruel fondness;
It wounds me deeply, J uan
Duke. Witness, honour,
Thy martial call ne'6r found Braganza's ear
Cold till this bitter moment. I have met,
Nay, courted death, in the steel'd files of war,
When squadrons wither'd as the giant trod;
Nor shrunk ev'n when the hardiest in the field
Have paus'd upon the danger. Here, I own,
My agonizing nerves degrade the soldier,
Ev'n to a coward's frailty : should the sword
Which black destruction soon may wave o'er all,
(Avert it, heav'nj strike at thy precious life,
Should but one drop, forc'd by rude violence,
Stain that dear bosom, I were so accurs'd,
The outstretch'd arm of mercy would not save ma
Duchess. X have a woman's form, a woman's
fears;
I shrink from pain and start at dissolution;
To shun them is great nature's prime command;
Yet summon'd as we are, your honour pledg'd.
Your own just rights engag'd, your country's fate;
Let threat'niug death assume his direst form,
Let dangers multiply, still would I on,
Still urge, exhort, confirm thy constancy,
And though we perish'd in the bold attempt.
With my last breath I'd blesB the glorious cause,
And think it happiness to die so nobly.
Duke. Oh 1 thou hast rous'd me. From this hour
I banish
Each fond solicitude that hover'd round thee:
Thy voice, thy looks, thy soul are heav'n's own
fire.
BRA G A NZ A.
i 15
Twere impious but to doubt that pow'r ordain'd
thee
To guide me to this glorious enterprize.
Duchess. Thou shalt be chronicled to latest
time,
Hetv'n's chosen instrument to punish tyrants,
The great restorer of a nation's freedom!
Thou shalt complete what Brutus but attempted.
Nor withering age, nor cold oblivion's shade,
Nor envy's cank'rous tooth shall blast thy
wreaths:
But every friend to virtue shall inscribe
To Juan's name eternal monuments.
But, see, our friends approach; while I leave
thee;
Remember still, thou must be king or nothing.
[Exit.
Duke. I will suppress th' emotions of my heart;
Quite to subdue them is impossible.
Enter RIBIRO and MENDOZA.
Welcome, ye wakeful guardians of your country 1
Had we in all the people's mighty mass
But twenty spirits match'd with you in virtue,
How might we bid defiance to proud Spain,
How scorn the close disguise of secret councils,
And challenge their full force in open combat.
Ribiro. Led by Don Juau, can we doubt th'
event ?
All things conspire; antipathy to Spain
Is here hereditary; 'tis nature's instinct;
'Tis principle, religion, vital heat;
Old men to iist'ning sons with their last breath
Bequeath it as a dying legacy:
Infants imbibe it at the mother's breast;
It circles with their blood, spreads with their
frame,
Its fountain is the heart, and till that fails
The stream it fed can never cease to flow.
Mendoza. That furious impulse gives the spleen
of fiends
To softest tempers, the unpractis'd arm
Sinews wi ti lion's strength, and drives us on
Resistless as the sweeping whirlwind's force.
Duke. All is propitious; every post is fill'd
With officers devoted to our service :
Already in their hearts they own my title,
.And wait but for our orders to proclaim it.
Enter ALMADA.
Come to my breast, my sage admonisherl
The tutor and example of my arms!
The proud Iberian soon shall feel their force.
And learn from Juan's sword to venerate
The fame of brave Almada.
Almada. Thus, my prince,
Thus did I hope to find thee. Hence no more
Shall hard exactions grind the prostrate people,
Our gentry, to their provinces conrtn'd,
Languish no more in shameful ci cumseription;
No more our ancient noblemen be stripp'd
Or' all but empty titles, tinsel names,
Like tarnish'd gold on rags to mock the wearer;
Our posts of eminence no more be filled
With upstart strangers, or the sordid lees
Of base plebeian natives.
Duke. My impatient breast,
Full of the expected joy, like a young bride¬
groom,
Upbraids the lazy hours that lag between
My wishes and enjoyment. The onset is—
Almada. When St. Lazar beats five; at that
hour
We'll welcome the sun's rising with an offering
More glorious than the Persian hecatomb.
Ribiro. At night your friends assemble with
Almada
In dreadful secrecy: then with rais'd arm
We rush to cancel our loug debt to vengeance,
And glut our thirsty blades with Spanish gore.
Almada. If we suspend the blow beyond to-mor¬
row
All may be lost. Three thousand veterans
Lie canton'd on the river's southern side;
Should our design be known, they will be call'd
To reinforce the posts, and guard the city.
Adieu, then, to our dream of liberty!
We rivet closer chains on Portugal,
And drag the doom of traitors on ourselves.
Enter DUCHESS OF BRAGANZA.
Duchess. Suspend your consultations for a mo¬
ment;
Within the minister of Spain attends :
Forgive th' officious love of your Louisa:
No stranger to his arts, she warns her Juan—
Duke. I know he comes, in solemn mockery,
To make a hollow tender of his service
With most obsequious falsehood.
Duchess. My best lord,
Hold strictest watch on all your words and mo¬
tions ;
Guard every look, with that discerning villain ;
Subtle, insidious, false, and plausible;
He can, with ease, assume all outward forms,
Seem the most honest, plain, sincere, good man,
And keep his own designs lock'd close within,
While with the lynx's beam he penetrates
The deep reserve of every other breast.
Duke. I, too, will wear my vizor in the scene;
And play the dupe I am not Friend, farewell
Perhaps ere morning we may meet again.
The hour is flx'd, Louisa; all prepar'd.
Duchess. Then this is our last night of slavery;
A brighter era rises with the dawn.
[Exit Duke.
If we may dare, without impiety,
To challenge heavenly aid, and swell the breast
With confidence of more than u.ortai vigour,
Can heaven stand neuter in a cause like this ?
Or favour fraud, oppression, cruelty ?
Now, gentle friends, I am a suitress to you.
Almada You are our sovereign, madam! 'tis
your right
Not to solicit but command our duty.
Duchess. Think me not light, capricious, vari¬
able,
If I, who urg'd ye to this bold attempt,
And ever whan your anger seem'd to cool,
Pour'd oil to wake the ttame and feed its blaze,
Now supplicate with milder earnestness,
And strive to allay its fury.
Almada Speak your pleasure ;
The obedience of our hearts will follow it.
Duchess. 1 know the measure of your wrongs
would license,
Nay, justify the wild excess of vengeance ;
Yet in the headlong rage of execution,
Think rather what your mercy may permit
Than what their crimes deserve who feel your jus¬
tice.
Oh ! follow not the example we abhor,
Nor let those weapons justice consecrates
Be dy'd with drops drawn from the bleeding
breast
Of reverend age, or helpless innocence,
Wilt thou take heed, Almactal
916
ERAGANZA.
Almada. Fear not, madam;
All mercy not injurious to our cause,
Ev'n Spaniards, as they are men, from men may
challenge.
For Indus' wealth I would not stain this sword,
Sacred to honour, in the guiltless blood
Of unoffending wretches: rest secure;
A prostrate and defenceless enemy
Has stronger guards against a brave man's wrath,
Then tenfold brass, or shields of adamant.
Duchess. Gen'rous Almada 1 well dost thou in¬
struct;
Soft pity is not more akin to lore
Than tu true fortitude. Thy soft youth, Men¬
doza,
Need not be tutor'd to humanity.
Mendoza. Heav'n and my conscious soul bear
witness for me,
That not to satiate any private malice,
But for the general good, I stand engag'd
In this great compact 'Twere a coward's ven¬
geance
To turn a sacrifice to massacre,
And practice while I punish cruelty.
Ribiro. Till fortune give one victim to my rage,
Compassion and this bosom must be strangers;
N o sanctuary, nor interceding prayers,
Nor wings of angels stretch'd to cover him,
Shall save that monster from the doom he merits.
Duchess. You mean the minister of Spain, Velas¬
quez?
Ribiro. I mean the minister of hell, Velasquez,
That cool, deliberate executioner;
If he escape, may this good arm rot off,
All worthy thoughts forsake, and soorn pursue
me:
Write boaster on my forehead; let my name
Blister the tongue that speaks it. Infamy
Be here my portion, endless pains hereafter.
Duchess. Oh! would that sacrifice might ex¬
piate!
Ribiro. Pardon the rash effusion of my zeal i
It deals too much in words.
Duchess. Not so, Ribiro;
Thy anger has a license; and thy zeal;
We know, is generous, not sanguinary.
Almada. Madam, we take our leave: good angels
guard you!
We go to prove our duty in your service.
The homage of our hearts has long been yours,
And soon you shall receive it from our knees.
Duchess. Believe mo, friends, your loves are
written here,
In characters no time can e'er efface.
[Exeunt Almada, Ribiro, and Mendoza.
And may the mighty spirits of past times,
Eais'd by desert to blight immortal thrones,
Suspend awhile their task of heav'nly praise
In ministry unseen to hover round them!
Protect aspiring virtue like their own,
And in their bosoms breathe resistless ardour!
[Exit.
ACT IIL
6CENE.I- The Apartments of Valasquez, in the Palace
of the Vice-Queen.
VELASQUEZ and PIZARRO discovered.
Pizarro. You seem disturb'd.
Velasq. With reason. Dull Braganza
Must have been tutor'd: at our interview
I practis'd every supple artifice
That glides into man's bosom; the return
Was blank reserve, ambiguous complimenv,
And hatred thinly veiled by ceremony.
Paearro. Might I presume—
Velasq. Pizarro, I am stung:
His father Theodosius, that proud prince.
Who durst avow his enmity to Philip,
And menac'd thunders at my deslin'd head,
With all his empty turbulence of rage
Could never move me like the calm disdain
Of this cold-blooded Juan,
Pizarro. Then, my lord,
Your purpose holds ?
Velasq. It does: I will despatch
This tow'ring Duke, who keeps the cheek of Spam
Pale with Perpetual danger.
Pizarro. For what end?
Unconscious of his fate, he blindly speeds
To find a grave in Spain. Why, then, resolve
To spill that blood, which elsewhere will be shed
Without your crime or peril ?
Velasq. That's the question.
Were I assur'd they meant his death, 'twert
needless:
But when they draw him once from Portugal,
Where only he is dangerous, then, perhaps,
Their fears or lenity may let him live;
And while he lives, my fiery course is check'd,
My sun climbs slowly, never can ascend
To its meridian brightness.
Pizarro. Still, my lord,
My short lin'd wisdom cannot Bound your depth.
Velasq. I mean to tell thee all, for thou may at aid
me.
And thy tried faith deserves my confidence.
Pizarro. I am your own for ever; your kicd
hand,
Bounteous beyond my merit, planted here
Favours innumerable.
Velasq. Think them little;
An earnest, not the acquittal of my love.
The enormous wealth of Juan's royal house,
His large domains, extended influence,
His numerous vassals so have swell'd his state,
That were his means but push'd to one great end,
How easy might he wrest this realm from Spain,
And brave King Philip's rage!
Pizarro. Good, careless prince 1
Mild and uxorious! No ambitious dream
Disturbs his tranquil slumber.
Velasq. Just his nature:
On household wing, he flutters round the roof,
That with the princely eagle might have soar'd
And met the dazzling sun. Now, by his death,
(My engine cannot fail, this night he meets it,)
His wealth, his mightness, his followets,
Become Louisa's dower. What thinkest thou now?
Could I but win her to accept my hand,
(And much my heart will move, and more my
power,)
Might not our union, like the impetuous course
Of blending torrents, break all feeble mounds
Spain could oppose to bar me from the crowit?
That once obtain'd, let Olivarez rail,
Let his inglorious master call me traitor
I'll scorn their idle fury.
Pizarro. Still 1 fear
Louisa's heart, cold and impenetrable
To all but Juan's love, will own no second,
Tbo' big ambition swells her female breast
Beyond the sex's softness.
Velasq. My hope rests
Even on that favourite passion: grief, at first,
Will drive her far from love- a second flame
BBAGANZA.
917
Perhaps may ne'er rekindle In her heart;
Yet, give her momentary frenzy scope,
It wastes itself; ambition than regains
Its wonted force, and winds her to my lure.
But come, I must not lose these precious mo¬
ments;
The fates are busy now: what's yet untold,
There place thyself and learn. Take heed you
move not.
(Pizarro retires.)
Without there! hoi
Enter an Officer.
Officer. What is your lordship's pleasure 7
Velasq. Attends the monk, Bamirez?
Officer. He does, my lord.
Velasq. Conduct him in and leave us.
[Exit Officer.
Enter BAMIREZ.
You are welcome,
Most welcome, reverend father! Pray, draw
near:
We have a business for your privacy.
Of an especial nature; the circling air
Should not partake it, nor the babbling winds,
Lest their invisible wings disperse one breath
Of that main secret, which thy faithful bosom
Is only flt to treasure.
Ramirez. Good my lord,
I am no common talker.
Velasq. Well I know it,
And therefore chose thee from the brotherhood,
Not one of whom but would lay by all thoughts
Of earth and heaven, and fly to execute
What I, the voice of Spain, commission'd him.
Ramirez. Vouchsafe directly to unfold your
will,
My deeds, and not my words, must prove my
duty.
Velasq. Nay, trust me, could they but divine my
purpose,
The holiest he, that wastes the midnight lamp
In prayers and penance, would prevent my
tongue
And hear me thank the deed, but not persuade it.
Therefore, good friend, 'tis not necessity,
That sometimes forces any present means.
And chequers chance with wisdom, but free will,
The election of my judgment and my love,
That gives thy aptness this pre-eminence. '
Ramirez. The Btate, I know, has store of instru¬
ments,
Like well-rang'd arms in ready order plac'd,
Each for its several use.'
Velasq. Observe me well;
Think not I mean to snatch a thankless office;
Y\'ho serves the state, while I direct her helm,
Commands my friendship, and his own reward. '
Say, can you be content in these poor weeds,
To know no earthly hopes beyond a cloister?
But stretch'd on musty mats in noisome caves, (
To rouse at midnight bells, and mutter prayers '
For souls beyond their reach, to senseless saints ?
To wage perpetual war with nature's bounty 1 '
To blacken sick men's chambers, and be num- '
ber'd
With the loath'd leavings of mortality,
The watch-light, hour-glass, aud the nauseous 1
phial 1 " j
Are these the ends of life ? Was this fine frame,
Nerves exquisitely textur'd, soft desires,
Aspiring thoughts, this comprehensive soul,
With all her train of god-like faculties,
Given to be sunk in this vile drudgery?
Ramirez. These are the hard conditions at out
state.
■ We sow our humble seeds with toil on earth,
To reap the harvest of our hopes in heaven.
Velasq. Yet wiser they who trust no future
i chance,
But make this earth a heaven. Baise thy eyes
Up to the temporal splendours of our church;
Behold our priors, prelates, cardinals;
Survey their large revenues, princely state,
Their palaces of marble, beds of down,
Their statues, pictures, baths, luxurious tables,
That shame the fabled banquets of the gods.
See how they weary art, and ransack nature,
To leave no taste, no wish ungratifled.
Now, if thy spirit shrink not, I can raise thee
To all this pomp and greatness. Pledge thy
faith,
Swear thou wilt do this thing, whate'er I urge,
And Lisbon's envied crozier shall be thine.
Ramirez. This goodness, so transcending all my
hopes,
Confounds my astonish'd sense. Whate'er it be
Within the compass of man's power to act,
I here devote me to the execution.
Velasq. I must not hear of conscience and nice
scruples,
Tares that abound in none but meagre soils,
To choke the aspiring seeds of manly daring:
Those puny instincts which, in feeble minds,
Unfit for great exploits, are miscall'd virtue.
Ramirez. Still am I lost in dark uncertainty;
And must for ever wander, till thy breath
Deign to dispel the impenetrable mist,
Fooling my sight that strives in vain to pierce it.
Velasq. You are the Duke of Braganza's con¬
fessor,
And fame reports him an exact observer
Of all our church's holy ceremonies.
He still is wont, whene'er he visits Lisbon,
Ere grateful slumber seal his pious lids,
With all due reverence, from some priestly hand
To take the mystic symbol of our faith.
Ramirez. It ever was his custom, and this night
I am commanded to attend his leisure
With preparation for the solemn act.
Velasq. I know it. Take thou this: (Gives him a
box) it holds a wafer.
Of sovereign virtue to enfranchise souls,
Too righteous for this world, from mortal cares.
A monk of Milan mix'd the deadly drug,
Drawn from the quintessence of noxious plants,
Minerals and poisonous creatures, whose dull
bane
Arrests the nimble current of life's tide,
And kills without a pang.
Ramirez. I knew him well,
The Carmelite Castruccio, was it not ?
Velasq. The same; he first approv'd it on a
wretch
Condemn'd for murder to the ling'ring wheel,
This night commit it to Braganza's lips.
Had he a heart of iron, giant strength,
The antidotes of Pontus, all were vain,
To struggle with the venom's potency.
Ramirez. This night, my lord ?
Velasq. This very night; nay, shrink not,
Unless thou inean'st to take the lead in death
And pull thy own destruction on thy head.
Ramirez. Give me a moment's pause. A deed
like this—
Velasq. Should be at once resolv'd and executed.
BRAGANZA.
SIS
Think'st thou I am a raw, unpractis'd novice,
To make thy breast a partner to the trust,
And not thy hand accomplice of the crime ?
Why, 'tis the bond for my security.
Look not amaz'd, but mark me heedfully:
Thou hast thy choice—dispatch mine enemy,
(The means are in thy hand,) be safe and great!
Or instantly prepare thee for a death
Which nothing but compliance can avert.
Ramirez. Numbers, I know, even thus have
tasted death,
But, sure, imagination scarce can form
A way so horrid, impious!
Veiasq. How's this, how's this ?
Hear me, pale miscreant, my rage oncerous'd,
That hell thou dread'st this moment shall receive
thee.
Look here, and tremble!
(Draws a dagger and seizes Mm.)
Ramirez. My lord, be not so rash ;
Your fury's deaf, Will you not hear me speak ?
By ev'ry hope that cheers, all vows that bind,
Whatever horror waits upon the act,
Your will shall make it justice: I'm resolv'd.
Veiasq. No trifling, Monk; take heed, for should'st
thou fail—
Ramirez. Then be my life the forfeit. My obe¬
dience
Not only follows from your high command,
But that my bosom swells against this Duke
With the full sense of my own injuries.
Veiasq. Enough: I thank thee. Let me know
betimes
How we have prosper'd. Hence, retire with
caution;
Deserve my favour, and then meet me boldly.
[Exit Ramirez,
'Tis done! His doom is seal'd. Come forth
Pizarro. {Pizarro comes forward.)
Is't not a subtle mischief ?
Pizarro. Past all praise;
The holy tool had qualms.
Veiasq. But this dispe.l'd them,
{Pointing to Ms dagger.)
And fortified the coward by his fears.
His work perform'd, I mean to end him too.
Say, is my barge prepar'd as I commanded ?
Pizarro. All is prepar'd, my lord.
Veiasq. The friends of Juan,
(I'll tell thee as we pass) they shall not long
Survive to lift their crests so high in Lisbon.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—The Castle of Almada.
Enter ALMADA and an Attendant.
Almada. Good Perez, see that none to-night nave
entrance
But such whose names are written in that roll.
And bid your fellows from the northern tower,
Choose each a faulchiov, and prepare to follow
Where I at dawn will lead.
Attendant. I will, my lord.
Almada. Wait near the gate thyself, nor stir from
thence
Without my summons.
Attendant. Trust my vigilance. [Exit.
Almada. Now rayless midnight flings her sable
pall
Athwart the horizon, end with pond'rous mace.
In dead repose weighs down o'er-labour'd nature!
While we, the busy instruments of fate,
Unmindful of her season, wake I 'te ghost*,
To add new horrors to the shado i y scene.
Enter ANTONIO.
Antonio. Health to Almada!
Almada. Thus to meet Antonio.
Is the best health, the souudness of the mind.
Better at this dark hour to embrace in arms
Thus girt for manly execution, fnend,
Thau in the mazes of the wanton dance,
Or revelling o'er bowls in frantic mirth,
To keep inglorious vigils.
Antonio. Ti'ue, my lord.
Enter RIBIRO with LEMOS and COREA
Almada. Oh ! soul of honour 1 ever, ever con>
stant!
{To Ribiro.)
These are the worthy citizens, our friends—
Ribiro. And such as laurell'd Rome might well
have own'd
{Presenting L"mos and Corea.)
Worthy to fill her magisterial chairs,
When reverence bow'd to virtue tho' untitled.
Almada. As such I take their hands; nay, more,
as such
Their grateful country will rejoice to own them.
Are we all met ?
Antonio. Mendoza is not here.
Nor Roderic; and Mello, too, is absent.
Almada. They were not wont to be thus waited
for
Ribiro. Anon they will be here; meantime, pre*
ceed.
They know their place already.
Almada. Why we meet,
Is not to canvass our opprobrious wrongs,
But to redress them Yet as trumpets sound
To rouse the soldiei s ardour, so the breath
Of our calamities will wake our fires,
And fan them to spread wide the flame of ven¬
geance.
'Tis not my gift to play the drator,
But in plain words to lay our s. ate before you.
Our tyrant's grandsire, whose ambition claim'd,
And first usurp'd Braganza's royal rights,
By blood estabiish'd his detested sway.
Old Tagus blush'd with many a crimson tide,
Sluic'd from the noblest veins of Portugal.
The exterminating sword knew no distinction.
Princes and prelates, venerable age,
Matrons, and helpless virgins fell together,
Till cloy'd and sick of slaughter, the tir'd soldier,
With grim content, flung down his reekint steel,
And glutted rage gave truce to massacre.
Ribiro. Nor pass'd the iron rod to milder hands
T)i rough two succeeding reigns. With cruel zeal
The barbarous offspring emulate their sire,
And track his bloody footsteps in our ruin.
Almada. Now mark how happily the time eon-
spires
To give our great achievement permanence;
Spain is not what she was when hurope bow'd
To the fifth Charles, and his degenerate son;
When, like a torrent swell'd by mountain floods,
She swept the neighbouring nations with hef
arms,
And threaten'd those remote; contracted now
Within an humble bed, the thrifty urn
Of her exhausted greatness scarce can pour
A lazy tide through her own mould'ring states.
Ribiro. Yes, the Colcssus totters, every blast
Shakes the stupendous mass and threats its down
fall.
BBAGANZA.
Enter MENDOZA.
Mendoza. Break off, break off; the fatal snare is
spread,
And death's pale hand assists to close the toil.
Almada. Whence this dread greeting ? Ha! thy
alter'd eheek
Wears not the ensign of this glowing hour.
Mendoza. The scream of night owls, or the raven's
eroak
Would better Buit the baleful news I bring
Than the known accents of a friendly voice.
We are undone, betray'd ?
Almada. Bay'st thou, betray'd ?
Mendoza. Our tower is sapp'd; the high rais'd
fabric falls
To crush us with the ruin. What avails
The full maturity of all our hopes ?
This glorious league? the justice of our cause?
High heaven might idly thunder on our side,
If traitors to ourselves—
Almada. Ourselves! Oh, shams!
Til not believe it. What perfidious slaves—
Mendoza. Two whom we thought the sinews of
our strength,
Don Roderic, and Mello.
Ribiro. Lightnings blast them'.
Hay infamy record their dastard nameB,
And vulgar villains shun their fellowship!
These hot, loud brawlers—
Mendozct. Are the slaves of Spain,
And bargain for the prize of perfidy.
' >n to the wharf, with quick, impatient step,
I saw Velasquez press, and in his train
These lurking traitors. Now, even now, they
cross
The ebbing Tagus in the tyrant'B barge,
And hasten to the fort. The troops of Spain,
Even while we speak, are summoned to the
. charge,
And mark us for their prey.
Almada. Nay, then, 'tis past
Malignant fortune, when the cup was rais'd
Close to our lipB, has dash'd it to the ground.
Ribiro. This unexpected bolt strikes flat our
hopes,
And leaves one dreary desolation round us.
I see their hangmen muster; wolf-eyed cruelty,
Grimly sedate, glares o'er her iron hoard
Of racks, wheels, engines, feels her axe s edge,
Licks her fell jaws, and with a monster's thirst,
Already drinks her b.ood.
Mendoza. There's not a pang
That rends the fibres of man's feeling frame,
No vile disgrace, that even in thought o'erspreads
The cheek with burning crimson, but her hate,
Ingenious to devise and sure to inflict, -
In keenest agony will make us suffer.
Almada. Would that were all! Our dismal scene
must close;
Nature o'erpower'd, at length will leave her
load.
And baffle persecution: but, oh, Portugal,
Alas 1 unhappy country, where's the bourn
Can mark the extent of thy calamities.
Like winter's icy hand our luckless end
Will freeze the source of future enterprize:
Oppression, then, o'er the devoted realm,
Erect and bold, will stalk with tenfold ravage.
There, there alone, this bre st is vulnerable:
These are the wheels that wrench, the racks that
tear me.
Antonio. But are there left no means to elude
the danger?
why do we linger here? Why not resolve
919
To save ourselves by flight?
Mendoza. Impossible!
The guards, no doubt, are Bet; the port is
barr'd.
Almada. Fly, Lemos, to the people, and re¬
strain
Their generous ardour. It would now break
forth
Useless to us, and fatal to themselves,
[Exit Lemos.
You to the Duke, Ribiro. In our names,
(Perhaps our last request,) by our lost fortunes,
By all our former friendship, oh, conjure him
To save our richest treasure from the wreck,
Nor hazard, in a desperate enterprise,
His country's last, best hope, his valu'd life
Ribiro. Support him, heaven, and arm his
piety
To bear this sad vicissitude with patience.
[Exit
Almada. And yet we will not meet in vain, brave
friends;
We came with better hopes, resolv'd like men
To struggle for our freedom. What remains?
A greater power than mortals can arraign,
Has otherwise decreed it. Speak, my brothers,
Now doubly dear in stern adversity;
Say, shall we glut the spoiler with our blood,
Submit to tl e vile insults of their law,
To have our honest dust by ruffian bands
Given to the winds ? is this the doom that waits
us ?
Mendoza. Alas, what better doom? To ask for
mercy
Were ignominious, to expect it bootless.
Almada. To ask for mercy. Could Spain stretch
my life
To years beyond the telling, for one tear.
One word, in sign of sorrow, I'd disdain it.
Death still is in our pow'r, and we'll die nobly,
As soldiers should do, red with well-earn'd
wounds,
And stretch'd on heaps of slaughter'd enemies.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I .—A Cliambt-r in the Duke of Braganza's
Palace.
DUCHESS OF BRAGANZA discovered.
Duchess. Oh, thou Supreme Disposer of the
world!
If from my childhood to this awful now,
I've bent with meek submission to thy will,
Send to this feeling bosom one bless'd beam
Of that bright emanation, which inspires
True confidence in thee, to calm the throbs
Tbat heave this bosom for my husband's safety,
And with immortal spirit to exalt
Above all partial ties our country's love.
Enter RIBIRO, hastily.
Ribiro. Where is the Duke ? Oh, pardon, gracious
madam.
Duchess. What means this haste and these dis
tracted looks ?
Ribiro. Detain me not; but lead me to my
lord:
His life, perhaps—nay your—
Duchess. His life! Oh, heavens!
Tell me, Ribiro—speak.
920
BBAGANZA.
Ribiro. Too soon, alas,
You'll hear it. Ask not now, dear lady,
■What I've scarce breath to utter. Where's the
Duke?
Duchess. This moment, with his confessor re-
tir'd,
I left him in his closet.
Ribiro. 'Tis no time
All must give place to this dire urgency.
Even while we speak—A moment's precious
now—
He must he interrupted—Guide me to him.
Duchess. Suspense is ling'ring death. Come on,
I'll lead you.
[Exeunt.
Enter BAM1BEZ.
Ramirez. Oh! welcome interruption. Pitying
heaven,
Awhile at least, arrests the murd'rous deed.
And gives a moment's respite from damnation.
Is there a hell beyond this war of conscience?
My blood runs backward, and my tottering kneeB
Befuse to bear their sacrilegious load.
Methought the statues of his ancestors,
As I pass'd by them, shook their marble heads;
His father's picture seem'd to frown in wrath,
And its eye pierce me, while I trembling stood
Assassin-like before it.—Hush! I'm summon'd.
Re-enter DUCHESS OP BBAGANZA.
Duchess. Get you to rest, good father. Fare you
well 1
Some unexpected business of the state
Demands my lord's attention. For this night
Your holy function must be unperform'd
Till more convenient season.
Ramirez. Holy function 1
(Aside.)
I humbly take my leave, and will not fail
To recommend you in my prayers to heaven.
[Exit.
Duchess. The heavens, I fear, are shut, and will
not hear them.
Now gush my tears; now break at once my heart!
While in my Juan's presence, I suppress'd
The bursting grief; but here give nature way!
Is there a hope ? Oh, no! All horrible.
My children, too—their little lives — My hus¬
band—
I conquer'd his reluctance; I persuaded
By every power his boundless passion gave me:
I thought it virtue, too. Mysterious heaven!
Then J, and only I, have work'd his ruin.
Enter DUKE OP BBAGANZA.
Duke. Alas! my love, why must thy Juan seek
thee ?
Why dost thou shun me at this awful moment?
The few sad hours our destiny permits,
Should sure be spent together.
Duchess. Must we part, then ?
Duke. I fear we must for ever in this world,
Till that great power who fashion'd us in life,
Unties us once again no more to sever;
In those bless'd regions of eternal peace,
Where sorrow never enters; where thy truth,
Thy unexampled fortitude and sweetness,
Will meet their full reward.
Duchess. Where is the friend
Who ruug our dismal knell ?
Duke. Good, generous man ;
Assar'd of death, yet careless of his life,
And anxious but for us, he is return'd,
To know what our grave leaders will determine:
Yet what can they determine but to die ?
Our numbers poorly arm'd, undisciplin'd,
May fight and fall with desperate obBtinacy,
For valour can no more ; but, oh 1 Louisa,
Friends, country, life itself, seem little :
One, sharp, devouring grief consumes the reefy
And makeB thee all its object.
Duchess. My dear husband!
These soft endearments, this excess of fondness,
Strike deeper to my soul than all the pangB
The subtlest vengeance could contrive to woun;
me.
Oh! fly me, hate me, call me murderess!
'Tis I have driven thee to thiB precipice;
I urge the ruffian hand of law to seize thee;
I drag thee to the block; I lift the axe,
(Oh agony!) Louisa dooms thee dead!
Duke. 'Tis anguish insupportable to hear the*
Add self-upbraidings to our misery.
Thou my destroyer! No, my best Louisa;
Thou art my guardian angeL At this hour,
This dreadful hour, 'tis safety to be near thee.
Those dastards who betray'd our brave design,
(That baseness which no caution could prevent,
Nor wisdom could foresee,) 'twas that undid n&
I will not curse them: yet I swear by honour,
Thus hunted to the utmost verge of fate,
Without one ray of hope to cheer the danger,
I would not barter this dire certainty,
For that ignoble life those bad men purchase
By perfidy and vileness.
Duchess. Oh, two such—
But indignation want6 a tongue to name them,
How was their fury thunder'd on our side!
Their youthful veins full of patrician blood
Insulted by Velasquez; stripp'd by Spain
Of all the ancient honours of their house;
Sworn at the altar to assert this cause
By holiest adjurations: yet these two
To turn apostates. Can this fleeting breath,
This transitory, frail, uncertain being,
Be worth so vast a ransom ?
Duke. Yes: to cowards,
Such ever be the proselytes of Spain:
Leave them to scorn. Fain would I turn my
thoughts
From this bad world; shake off the clogs of
earth,"
And for that great tribunal arm my soul,
Where heaven, not Spain, must judge me. Butin
vain;
My soften'd mind still hangs on those bless'd
days;
Those years of sweet tranquility and peace,
When smiling morn but wak'd us to new joys,
And love at night shed blessings on our pillow.
Duchess. Those hours are fled, and never can n<
turn:
'Tis heaven's high will, and be that will obeyed:
The retrospect ofpast felicity
Plucks not the barbed arrow from the wound,
But makes it rankle deeper. Come, my Juan,
Here bid adieu to this infectious grief; *
Let's knit our constancy to meet the trial.
Shall we be bold in words, mere moral talkersf
Declaim with pedant tongue in virtue's praise,
Yet And no comfort, no support within,
From her bright energy? It comes, it comes!
1 feel my breast dilate. The phantom, death,
Shrinks at the radiant vision; bright-ey'd hope ''
Bids us aspire, and points the shining throne.
Spain I defy thee 1
Duke. Oh, would she hew the elm,
BRAOANZA.
921
And spare the tender vine, this stubborn trunk
should brave her fury. Here Is royal blood,
Hod blood long thirsted for. They cannot dare,
Insatiate as they are, remorseless, Bavage,
With sacrilegious hands to violate
This beauteous sanctuary. Let me not think,
distraction! horror! Oh, it splits my brain,
Rends every vital string, and tears my heart.
Mercy can grant no more, nor I petition,
Than to fall dead this instant, and forget it.
1 look towards heaven in vain. Gape wide, oh,
earth,
And bury, bury deep this load of anguish.
Duchess. Be not so lost Hear, oh, hear me,
Juan,
My lord, my life, my love! Wilt thou not speak ?
He heeds me not What shall I say to move
him ?
For pity's sake look np! Oh, think, Braganza,
torrid Spain behold thee thus—
Duke. Oh, no, Louisa;
No eye shall see me melt I will be calm,
Still, silent, motionless ! Oh! tough, tough heart,
'Would I could weep to ease thee!
! Duchess. Here, weep here;
Tour the warm stream into this faithful breast;
Thy sorrows here shall find a kindred source,
Which flows for every tear with drops of blood.
Now summon all thy soul. Behold, he comes
'To thunder our irrevocable doom.
Enter RIBIRO.
Ribiro. Oh! for an angel's organ to proclaim
Such gratulations as no tongue can speak,
iNor mortal breast conceive—joy, boundless joy 1
Duke. Am I awake? Thou canst not mean to
mock me.
Ribiro. I shall go wild with transport. On my
knee,
I beg you to forgive the cruel shock
This tongue (heaven knows with what severe re¬
luctance!)
So lately gave to all your dearest hopes.
Duke. No; let me take that posture: for I swear,
Though yet I know not why, my lighten'd heart
Beats freer, and seems eaB'd of half its burthen.
:Forgive my strong impatience—quickly tell me.
Ribiro. Still ignorant of our intended vengeance,
.Palesquez is return'd. Our gallant friends
Were wrong'd by rash suspicion.
Duke. Hear I right ?
S)r is't illusion all ? (Embracing him) Thus let me
thank thee.
Louisa, then, is safe. Fountain of mercy!
These late despairing arms again enfold her,—
Hy queen, my love, my wife!
j Duchess. Flow, flow my tears;
p"ake, bounteous lord of all! this melting tribute ;
ly heart can give no more for all tby goodness.
'Duke. And now disclose this wonder.
3 Ribiro. Thus, my lord,
When, at the appointed time, our two brave
; friends
jWere hast'nintr to Almada, near the square,
.Telasquez and bis followers cross'd their steps,
.'heir course seemed towards the river; struck
, with fear,
,ind ignorant what cause, at that late hour,
iould draw him from the palace, straight they
chang'd
'heir first intent of joining our assembly,
)nd, unobserv'd, pursu'd the attending train.
'hink what these brave men suffer'd when tbey
' saw
The tyrant climb his barge, and push from shore.
Their swords were half unsheath'd, both but half
solv'd
To rush at once, and pierce him to the heart;
But prudence, or our fortune, check'd their bands.
Luke. It had been certain ruin. But go on.
Ribiro. An instant pass'd in thought, tbey seiz'd
a boat,
And, following, anxious hung on all his motions:
Mendoza saw them thus ; then hurrying back,
Fill'd us with consternation at the tidings.
Duchess. Nor was it strange; it wore a dreadful
aspect;
But fear interprets all things to it's danger.
Ribiro. He cross'd the river where Tago's fort
Commands the narrowing stream. The governor
Attended at the gate; a while there pass'd
In short but earnest converse; they took leave;
With hasty strides Velasquez reimbark'd;
The vessel, to the shore she left, return'd,
And her proud master sought again the palace.
Duchess. Could not our valiant friends discover
aught
That might reveal his purpose ?
Ribiro. Madam, no.
To have enquir'd too near were dangerous;
besides, their haste to reassure our hopes,
Press'd their return. But thus we may resolve:
He apprehends some danger imminent.
He sees above his head the gathering aloud.
But knows not when 'twill burst in thnnder on
him.
Duke. Thanks, gentle friend. Alas! I tremble
still:
As just escap'd from shipwreck, I look round;
And, tho' I tread on earth,—firm, solid earth,—
See with broad eye the threat'ning surge far off:
Scarce can I credit my conflicting sense,
Or trust our preservation.
Duchess. Thy glad tale
Has rais'd me from the gulph of black despair,
Even to the topmost pinnacle of joy.
Yes, we shall conquer! All these dangers past
Will serve but to enrich the future story:
Our children's children shall recount each fear,
And, from the mingled texture of our lives,
Learn to revere that sacred Providence,
That guides the strife of virtue.
Duke. Oh! Louisa,
I thought I knew the extent of all my fondness;
That long acquaintance with thy wondrous virtue
Had given thee such dominion o'er my soul,
Time could not add to my transcendant passion i
But when the danger came, it wak'd new fires I
Presented thee in softer loveliness,
And twin'd thee closer here.
Ribiro. My lord, ere thiB,
Our friends expect me.
Duke. Let us fly to meet them :
I iong to pour into their generous breasts
My cordial greeting.
Duchess. Go, my dearest Juan;
To them and all commend me. Such rare zeal
Merits more recompense than our poor thanki
Can, at the best, requite: for souls like theirs
ill brook the indignity of foul surmise;
And virtue wrong'd demands a double homage.
[Esrit.
Duke. If the good augury of my breast deceive
not,
No more such terrors will appal our souls;
But guilt alone shall tremble. Come, Ribiro.
[Exeunti
922
braganza.
SCENE IL—The Cattle of Almada..
ALMADA and several Conspirators, as before, with
MELLO and RODERIC.
Almada. AgaiD our hopes revive: the unloaded
stem
Shakes the wet tempest from its vigorous-head,
And rears the swelling harvest to our sight.
Mendoza. After the chillings of this anguish fear,
Methinks I breathe more free; the vital stream,
In sprightlier tides, flowB through its wonted
course,
Warms my whole frame, and doubly mans my
heart.
Almada. And may the generous ardour spread
to all.
Observe me, friends: our mime's must divide
Into four equal bands, all to attack.
At the bell's signal, the four palace gates.
So, every passage barr'd, the foe in vain
May strive to unite, and overwhelm our force.
Myself, with the brave few who have sworn to
follow,
Will rush impetuous on the German guard,
Who, at the northern entr<nce, hold their station.
The fort be Boderio and Hello's care,
With Ferdinand, Henrquoz, and Antonio.
Mendoza, Carlos, and their gallant trnop,
Must seize the regent Margaret,and secure
The counsellors of Spain as hostages
For the surrender of the citadel.
Mendoza. Letters to every province are dispers'd,
Importing this great change, and all are ready
To shake to earth the intolerable yoke.
Nay, distant India, in her sultry mines,
Shall hear the cheerful sound of liberty;
Again fair commerce, welcom'd to our shore,
Shall loose her swelling canvas to the winds,
And golden Tagus heave once more to meet her.
But see, the Duke.
Enter DUKE OF BRAGANZA.
Almada. Your unexpected presence,
Like a propitious omen, cheers the niu'ht.
AdJ gives a royal sanction to this meeting.
Duke. My wish surpass'd my speed. A call like
this
Might imp the tardiness of feeble age.
The general perseverance in our cause
Transcends all gratitude; but these wrong'd vir¬
tues—
(To Mello and Roueric.)
Mello. Pray, forbear,
The painful error brought its punishment.
Ribiro bore our duties to your grace ?
Duke. He did, and soon will join us. On our
way.
He left me with design once more to view
The posture of the guards; for still we fear
Some dark, impending mischief from Velasquez.
Almada. Whatever fortune waits upon our
swords.
Your highness must not share the common
hazard;
Lest, in the tumult, some inglorious chance
Deprive your country of its last best bulwark.
Luke. And should I merit to be call'd her bul¬
wark,
Or rank with men like you, could I submit
To hear, and not partake the glorious danger?
Almoila. Pray, be advis'd; in this i must com¬
mand.
Duke. Then be it so: bat yet should aught be¬
tide
To claim the interest of thy prince's arm,
I cannot wrong our friendship to suspect
You will forbear my summons to the Held.
Almaaa. Trust your Almada. Lo 1 the night
wears fast;
Nor are our scatter'd numbers yet return'd.
Enter RIBIRO.
Duke. Welcome, Ribiro! What intelligence?
Ribiro. The worst, if we delay. Oh, had your
eyes
Beheld the sight that blasted mine—
Duke, What sight?
Ribiro. Lemos is seiz'd this moment; and Pi-
zarro,
The ready tool of fell Velasquez' crimes,
Leads him to prison.
l uke. Soon we'll wrench the gates,
And from their gloomy caverns draw to light
All that remains of those unhappy men,
Whom, uuarraign'd, unheard, the tyrant's nod
Consign'd to horrors nature shakes to think of.
Almada. His triumph will be short. The subtle
fiend
May league with hell to thwart ns; hut in vain:
His fate or ours will quickly he decided.
Ribiro. Even now it seems his demon whispers
him
His audit -s at hand, and scares his soul.
Anxious at this late hour, he walks his chamber,
Nor seeks the season's rest; and still more
strange,
The palace guards, stretch'd by their glimmering
fires,
Their arms cast by, lie wrapp'd in thoughtless
sleep.
Duke. Anon, we'll rouse them with so lond a
peal,
That death's dull far shall hear it.
Almada. Corea!
Soon as our work begins, your hardy tribes
Must thro' the streets proclaim Don Juan king.
Press towards the palace; should our friends give
ground,
Sustain their faintiDg strength.
Corea. We will not fail.
Almada. The general suffrage to thy sword, Hi-
biro,
Commits our master work; a deed so envied
That ev'ry trenchant steel of Portugal
(Did not tby gallant zeal demand it tirstj
Would strike to share the glory.
Ribiro. This shall thank you;
(Pointing to his sword.)
And if it reek not with his hated blood,
Exchange it for a distaff.
Almada. Friends, I mean not,
By gloomy presage, to allay your ardour.
We must nut look to fortune in this cause;
But on ourselves rely for sure success:
The least disorder in our hold approach,
The least repulse, may drive our engine back.
One brave man's rashness, or one coward's fear,
Turns all our fairest hopes to shame and ruin.
Duke. Now to our stations. Yet, ere we de¬
part,
This honest pledge, the soldier's short embrace:
The sweet remembrance, if we fall for freedom,
Will more than soften half the pains of dying;
But if we meet, in stronger clasps reuew'd,
Will double all the joys of victory.
[Exeunt.
BRAGANZA.
023
ACT V.
SCENE L—The Apartment of Velasquez in the Royal
Palace.
VELASQUEZ dissevered.
Velasq. Why am I hunted by these phantom
fears ?
It cannot be my fate. 'Tis nature's weakness.
The spirits rais'd too high, like billows puff'd
By sudden storms, lift up our little bark,
Then slipping from their burthen, sink as fast,
And leave it wreck'd and found ling.
Enter PIZARKO.
Have you, as I commanded, question'd Lemos ?
Pizarro. Just now I left him.
Velasq. Has the slave confess'd ?
Pizarro. With sullen calmness he defies your
power,
Or answers but with scorn.
Velasq. Wc'il find the means
To make him speak more plainly; to briDg down
Tli'S daring spirit. He is dangerous;
And, under the fair mask of public viitue,
Combines with proud Almada and the rest
In dark confed'racy against my state.
Pizarro. He is, my lord, the master spring that
moves
The factious populace.
Velasq. 1 know it well;
But I have ta'en such care, as shall unhinge
Their ill-contriv'd designs. Ere noon, to-morrow,
Don Garcia, with the Spanish veterans
From Saint Iago's fortress, shall pour in,
And bend those stubborn necks to due obedience.
How will their disappointed fury rave,
To find their royal demagogue, Braganza-,
(The idol their vain worship rais'd so high !)
Low levell'd with tae earth.—1 wonder much
Ramirez not returns : night's latest watch
Will soon be told.
Pizarro. Perhaps he but delays
(For better welcome) to behold the effect
Of the dire venom, and to glad your ears
By telling how your enemy expir'd.
Velasq. It may fie so. I cannot doubt the effect:
Poison administer'd will do its work,
And that most speedily: 'tis swift perdition.
Yet, tho' this hour cuts off my greatest foe,
If my firm soul were capable of fear,
I might distrust the promise of my fortunes.
Pharro. Wherefore, my lord I
Velasq. I almost blush to tell it:—
Tir'd with the travail of this auxiuus night,
I threw me on my couch, and try'd to rest;
I try'd in vain; my vex'd lids scarcely clos'd;
Or when a momentary slumber seal'd them,
Strange visions swam before their twilight sense.
But why retrace the hideous phantasy't
Yet still it hovers round me, still remains
A fearful reverence of the past illusion.
Pizarro. Such reverence but degrades a noble
mind,
And sinks its vigour to an infant's weakness.
Beldams and priests infuse these idle fears,
And turn the milk of nature to its bane.
(A'oise at a distance.)
Velasq. Heard you that noise ? Didst thou not
mark, Pizar o ?
The monk has kept his word—'tis Juan's knell;
His followers, who shouted him at noon,
Now wail his death. My genius now has room;
Their sorrows are my triumph, and proclaim
Assur'd success to my aspiring soul.
Pizarro. Sure, 'tis the din of clashing arms—
Again!—
It comes this way.
Enter an Officer, with his sword drawn.
Velasq. Ha! bleeding 1 Speak:
Know you the cause ? Speak; instant speak.
Officer. Too well.
The raging multitude have forc'd their way;
Their cry is: " Where's the tyrant ? where's Ve¬
lasquez ?"
Don Juan's at their head, and guides the storm.
Velasq. Juan alive 1 Eternal silence seize theel
Impossible!
Officer. These eyes, my lord, beheld hira;
Saw his rais'd arm
Velasq. Ha! am I thenbetray'd?
Perdition catch Ramirez 1 You, Pizarro,
Collect my scatter'd train—I'll forth, and meet
The rebel's sword.
Pizarro. Be not so rash,
Nor venture singly.
[Exit Velasquez.
Officer. He rushes on his death.
Two of my soldiers are already slain,
Striving to bar the outward palace gates;
Where, like a tide, the frantic people press,
Bearinz down all before them.
Pizarro. Hence; begone!
The uproar's louder —Wake the sleeping grooms;
Bid them bring arms—alarm the magistrates,
Send to the guard, and draw them to the square.
[Exit Officer.
Re-enter VELASQUEZ.
Velasq. Ruin'd 1 undone I all's lost 1 The streets
are throng'd
With raging citizens. A furious band
Of armed Portuguese just now are mounting,
Fate's bloody book is open'd, and I read
My dreadful doom. Yet, I'll not tamely yield;
But grapple to the last with destiny.
Pizarro. All is not lost; perhaps some means are
left.
Velasq. Just at the gate I met the dastard monk
Struggling for entrance: scarce his breath sulhe'd
To tell me that our purpose had miscarried,
And Juan lives, I stabb'd him to the heart;
The best reward for unperforming fear.
Pizarro. Think not of him; hut save yourself by
flight.
Velasq. Where can I fly ? I am beset, de¬
voted—
Our foes, like famish'd bloodhounds, are abroad,
And have us in the wind.
Pizarro. Resolve at once.
The postern's yet unforc'd; that way escape
Disguise yourself, and fly to Juan's palace;
'Tis but the terrace length; implore his mercy:
It is the foolish weakness of his nature
To spare where he may punish.
Velasq. Ask my life 1
No, rather let me perish. Hold! his wife—
Perhaps alone, unguarded. If I fall,
I'll leave a scorpion in the traitor's breast,
Shall make him curse the hour he rous'd my fury.
[E.rP.
Pizarro. Now let the tempest rise, Oh, fickle
fortune!
This moment mounted to thy giddy top,
Nowwhirl'dto earth, and grov'ling, Harkl they
oonie.
924
BRAGANZA.
Enter R1BIR0, with other Conspirators.
Bibiro. Search all the chambers. If the villain
'scape.
Our work's but half accomplish'd.
Piza ''0. Pass no fur her.
Ribiro. This is the tyrant's counsellor.
Where is thy master, Spaniard?
Pizarro. Safe, I hope,
From lawless rage like thine; and still will live
To punish this outrageous violence.
Bibiro. Insolent Blavel and yet I like thy cou¬
rage.
Tis vain to strive, deliver up thy sword.
I will not force thee to betray thy master,
Perlldious as he is : even in a foe,
I can discern a virtue, and esteem it.
Gousalez, guard him safe ; the rest disperse,
And leave no place unsearch'd. He must be
found;
But by your loves, I charge you kill him not:
Rob not my sword, but leave that stroke for mo.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IL—The Duke of Braganza's Palace.
Enter DUCHESS OF BRAGANZA; on Attendant
following.
Duchess. No, Ines, no; I love my husband
much,
But more his honour. Could I press his stay
.in tame inaction here to wait the event,
.Vhile almost in his sight, his crown and glory
Hung on the doubtful fate of others' swords ?
W ould he have heard me ? No, I knew him
better.
Soon as Almada's danger reach'd his car,
Who twice repuls'd could scarce renew the
charge,
Swift as a jav'lin cuts the whistling air.
He snatch'd his sword, and breaking from my
arms,
Rusb'd to the fight, and join'd the warring throng.
Ines. That favouring power, which has so oft
preserv'd,
Will not forsake him now.
D chess. Oh, grant it, heaven!
Go. Ines, to the terrace, and observe
If any friend (for, sure, I may expect It)
Bring tidings from my husband.
[Exit Ines.
Woui 1 this arm,
This feeble arm, had strength to second him 1
The conflict here is worse. Hy restless heart,
Swell'd with eventful expectation, throbs
i nd feels its bounds too narrow. Fear on fear,
Like light reflected from the dancing wave,
Visits ail places, but can rest in none.
The distant shouts that break the morning sky,
Lift up awhile my mounting thoughts to heaven.
Then, sinking, leave them to fall down as low,
In boding apprehension. Welcome, welcome!
Enter MENDOZA.
What of my lord?
Mendozo. He bade me fly to greet you:
Himself awhile detain'd to stop the rage
Of cruelty and carnage.
Duchess. Be returns,
Unhurt, victorious, to these happy arms? I
Mendoza. All, all your fondest wish could form I
he brings— |
Or wn, conquest, all. Oppression is no more; I
P.erc'd by a thousand wounds, the giant diet'- |
While free-born men, with fearless gaze, walk
round,
And view the monster's bulk.
Duchess. I would know more :
W as it a dear-bought triumph ? Must we moum
The fall of many friends ?
Mendoza. Scarce one of note
But lives to share our joy. The regent seiz'd,
Gave order's for the citadel's surrender,
To save the threaten'd lives of the whole council,
Wh >m sleeping we secur'd. Poorly content
To obey her mandate, though he knew it forc'd,
The dastard governor resign'd his charge,
And struck the Austrian banner. Such the
power
Of Juan's royal name and conquering arm.
_T:ie rest himself will tell. I must return.
Abroad, the wild commotion rages still:
The king may want my service. Angels guard
you. [Exit.
Duchess. Oh 1 fly, begone! lose not a thought on
me.
Now to thy rest, my soul, thy pray'rs are heard.
From this white hour, the bright, revolving sun.
With kinder beams, shall view this smiling land:
A grateful people, by my Juan's arm,
Rescu'd irom shameful bonds, shall bless his
name,
And own him their preserver.
Enter INES.
From my lord?
Ints. Madam, not yet A stranger at the gate,
Disguis'd, and almost breathless with his fears,
With earne-t importunity, entreats
He may have leave to cast him at your feet.
His accents mov'd me much; he seems afllietea
Duchess. Some wretch escap'd from the pursuer's
rage,
And flies for shelter here. Yes, let him come.
[Exit Ines.
Would I could save them all! My woman's soul,
Forc'd from her place in this tumultuous scene,
But ill supports the assum'd severity,
And finds her native seat in soft compassion.
Enter VELASQUEZ, disguised.
Whoe'er thou art, be safe. The greedy sword
Will have enough of death, and well may spare
One fugitive, who shuns its cruel edge
To wait the stroke of nature. Trust thy safety.
Why do thy doubtful eyes so oft look round?
Here are no enemies. My word is paBS'd,
Inviolable as recorded oaths.
Methinks I have seen that face. Say, art thou
not
Velasq. The man you most should fear, most
hate.
Duchess. Velasquez?
Velasq. Yes, that devoted wretch, the lost Velas¬
quez!
From the high top of proud prosperity,
Sunk to this ignominy.
Duchess. Presumptuous man!
If mercy could know bounds, thy monstrous crimes
Almost exceed them. Speak, then, what could
urge thee
To seek the shelter of this hostile roof,
4nd trust a virtue to thy soul a stranger ?
Velasq. Fate left no second choice. Close at my
heels.
Revenge and death insatiably pursu'd;
Fear lent me speed, and this way wing'd my flight
W hy flash those eyes with anger ? Royal lady, -
BRAGANZA.
fortune has gtripp'd pie of tbepower to injure:
A stingless serpent, a poor fang-drawn lion,
Fitter for scorn than terror.
Duchess. Thou art fallen!
Yet, let me not insult thy alter'd sate,
By pitying or upbraiding. If thy life
Be worth the acceptance, take it; and, hereafter,
Wash out the foulness of thy former deeds,
By penitence and better purposes.
(Shouts within.)
Those joyful sounds proclaim my Juan near.
Betire awhile till 1 prepare my lord
(To Velasquez.)
To shield thee from the angry nobles' rage.
All were combin'd to take thy forfeit life.
Duke. (Without.) Throw wide the palace gates;
let all have entrance.
Duchess. His well-known voice. 'Tis he, 'tis he
himself!
Duke. (Without.) Where is my queen ?
Duchess. Quick, let me fly to meet him 1
Fly to my hero's breast!
(Velasquez seizes her, and draws a dagger.)
Velasq. Hold, madam, hold!
Thus I arrest your transports.
Duchess. Barbarian! monster!
Enter DUKE OF BRAGANZA.
Duke. What sounds are these ? Horror! Inhuman
slave!
Turn thy fell poniard here.
Velasq. Approach not, stir not;
Or, by the blackest furies hell e'er loos'd,
This dagger drinks her blood.
Duke. See, I obey;
I breathe not, stir not, I am rooted here:
Here will I grow for ages.
Duchess. Oh, my Juan!
Duke. Oh, horrible! Does Juan live for this ?
Curs'd be the fatal Are that led my stops
To follow false ambition, while I left
To lurking robbers an unguarded prize;
This gem more worth than crowns or worlds can
ransom.
Velasq. Take back a name more foul, thou dark
usurper!
Was it for this, thy unsuspecting prince,
With lavish bounty, to thy faithless hand
Trusted his royal functions ? Thus to arm
'Gainst his own breast, thy black ingratitude.
Duke. Must I endure it?
Duchess. Out, false hypocrite!
Thy tyrant's snares were found; bis flimsy nets,
To catch that precious life, long since unravell'd:
Thy conscious cheek avows it.
Velasq. Be it so.
Duchess. Coward! perfidious coward! is it thus,
Thus you requite -
Velasq. Thy foolish pity—thus—
Hear me, thou rebel, is this woman dear ?
Duke. Oh, heavens!
Velasq. Thy straining eyes, thy agonizing heart,
Thy life's inglorious dotage all proclaim it.
Duchess. Peace, devil, peace, nor wound his
generous soul
By taunts that fiends might blush at.
Duke. Speak thy purpose.
Velasq. Then briefly thus : call off thy traitorous
guards,
The fruits of thy foul treason, every post,
Seiz'd by thy midnight plots, thy rebel arms
Restore again to Spain; back to the palace
Give me safe conduct—to thy oaths I trust not,
It must be done this instant - leave my power
To intercede with Spain for thy full pardon,
Hit
And grace to all, whom thy ill-starr'd ambition
Led to this base revolt; else, by my rage,
The boiling rage that works my soul to frenzy.
Thou shalt behold this beauteous bosom gor'd,
All over gash'd and mangled.
Duchess. Strike this instant.
Duke. Hold, ruffian, hold!
Duchess. Give me a thousand deaths;
Here let me fall a glorious sacrifice,
Bather than buy my life by such dishonour.
If thy fond love accept these shameful terms,
(To the Duke.)
That moment is my last; these hands shall end
me.
Blood-thirsty tiger, glut thy fury here.
(To Velasquez.
Velasq. Her courage blasts my purpose.
(Aside.)
Dost thou brave me ?
Duchess. Defy thee; yes; feel, do I shrink or
tremble.
Serene, undaunted will I meet the blow;
But ev'ry drop that stains thy reeking hands,
In thy last pangs shall cry for vengeance on thee.
Furies shall seize thee, shake their scorpion whips,
And in thy deafen'd ears still holloa murder!
Velasq. No more! Resolve; (to the Duke) not
heaven itself can save her—
Enter RAMIREZ, wounded.
Ha! darkness cover me! he still alive!
Fate, thou hast caught me. Every hope is lost.
Enter ALMADA, RIBIRO, MENDOZA, and others.
(The Duke and Duchess run to each other's arms.
Velasquez is seized.)
Duke. I have thee once again, my heart's best
treasure,
Sav'd from the vulture's talons. Oh! dire fiend!
Velasq. Unhand me. No; though earth and hell
conspire —
Duchess. Blasphemer, down, and own a power
above thee.
Ribiro. Secure this monster. Read this paper,
madam.
Returning from the charge we found that wre'tch
Stretch'd in our way and welt'ring in his blood;
Earnest he begg'd we should commit to note
These few short words, and bear them to the
Duke:
That done, he dragg'd his bleeding body on,
And came to die before him.
Duke. Oh! Ramirez,
Ev'n in this day of joy my heart runs o'er
With sorrow for thy fate. What cruel hand—
Ramirez. A villain's hand, yet heaven directed
it.
I have not strength to publish all my shame,
That roll contains it. This wide gaping wound.
My deep remorse, may expiate my crime;
But, oh I that tempter—
Duke. Ha! he faints; support him.
Thy crime! what crime?
Ramirez. Thy happier star prevail'd,
Else hadst thou died even by the pious act
That seals our peace above.
Duke. Merciful powers.
Ramirez. Yet ere I sink, speak comfort to my
soul,
And bless me with forgiveness.
Duke. Take it freely.
Ramirez. Enough; I die contented.
[lie tVes.
Duchess. Oh I my Juan,
Peruse that tale and wonder. Impious wretch,
426
BRAGANZA.
Well might my heart stand still, my blood ran
coM,
And struggling nature murmur strong reluctance
Against my foolish pity, while I meant
To step between thee and the brandish'd bolt,
To rescue from the stroke of righteous justice
The foul suborner of my husband's murder.
Ve'utsq. Curse on the coward's fears prevented
it!
Wither these sinews that relax'd their hold,
And left thy feeble wing to soar above me.
Duke. Hence with that villain; drag him from
my sight.
Till awful justice doom his forfeit life,
Let heaviest chains secure him. Hence, begone!
Velasq. Yes, in your gloomiest dungeons plunge
me down.
"Welcome, congenial darkness! horrors hail!
No more these loathing eyes shall view that sun,
Whose irksome beams light up thy pageant tri¬
umph.
(Led off by Ribiro and others.
Duke. Thon ever present, all protecting power!
Through what dark clouds of thick revolving
danger
Thy watchful providence has led my steps!
The imagin'd woes that sunk me in despair,
Thou mad'st the wondrous instruments to save
me.
Duchess. I feel, I own the high supremacy;
Yet have I much to ask—thy victory-^—
Duke. For that our thanks to this brave man are
due.
He chose the post of danger, and expos'd
His dauntless breast against the stubborn force
bf steady northern courage.
Almada. Twice was I down,
And twice my prince's valour rescu'd me.
Duke. For ever hallow'd be the well pois'd blade
That sav'd that reverend head.
Duchess. Fortune was kind, Almada, to commit
Your safety to the arm you taught to conquer.
Almada. Henceforth I more shall prize that trifle
life,
Since now I owe it to my sovereign's valour.
Enter EIBIRO.
Ribiro. Vengeance, thy debt is paid. The tyrant's
dead.
Duke. Say'st thou? Velasquez?
Ribiro. Ay; what was Velasquez,
Dispers'd and mangled by the people's rage,
In bloody fragments stains a thousand hands;
Like ravenous wolves, by eager famine pinch'd,
With worrying fangs they dragg'd him from my
grasp,
And in my sight tore out his reeking entrails.
Duke. His blood be on his head; and may hia
end,
Provok'd by crimes beyond the reach of pardon,
Strike terror to the souls of impious men,
Who owr no God, but from his pow'r to punish.
[Exeunt.
THE LILY OF THE TOP,EST.
A ROMANTIC DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS.—BY EDWARD STIRLING.
Baila—" Great heaven, what ! Great heaven, speak !"— Act iii, scene 2.
General Bonfoire.
Lieutenant Camille Desmou-
lin3.
Lieutenant Victor.
Monsieur Henri Lassere.
persons
Serjeant Franc.
Corporal St. Louis.
Septimus Spinks.
Dismal Dumps.
Ibrahah Pasha
Djezza.
Batla—the Lily.
Cecile.
Mrs. Spinks.
Scene, Algeria.—Time, 1846.
First performed at the Surrey Theatre, Loudon, 1859. (Licensed.)
[The copyright of this drama is exclusively the property of the author, to whom all communications
must he made relative to its heing performed.]
ACT I.
SCENE L—A room in the house of General Bonfoire
on the banks of the , in Algeria. Large latticed
windows. Through windows a view of the surround¬
ing country.
GENERAL BONFOIRE and OECILE discovered
seated at table.
General B. Hem! (A pause.) Hem! For the third
time, Hem! (Loud.)
No. 30.—Diclrs* British Drama.
Cecile. Monsieur?
General B. Oh, then, you are not altogether
dumb, child; only a little sulky.
Cecile. Oh, fle ! I was just thinking
General B. Of Paris and the fe'es. I ought not to
blame you, child, for doing so. There, doubtless, at
this season of the year, they are turning night into
day. Splendour, pleasure, gaiety—every attraction
that can captivate your age and sex-is spread in
gaudy profusion to enhance the happiness of the
passing hour;—here—
G 2
9-28
THE LILT OF
THE DESEET.
Ceciie. Oh, monsieur, do not attempt compari¬
sons!
General B. Which in this would, I am aware, be
odious indeed. And yet I, ypur selttsh, cruel old
father, have withdrawn you from all this to be the
companion of my uncertain, rambling life—the
sharer of a soldier's perils.
Ceciie. Nay, I am net repining. The frivolities of
a Parisian season would afford me but a poor equi¬
valent for the loss of my dear papa's society.
(Rising and caressing him.)
General B. There, go away, child. (She returns to
her chair.) Some thirty-flve years ago, when the
Emperor carried his victorious arms into Egypt,
my-sister—my only one—accompanied me. Poor
girl 1 then in her sixteenth year. She, rather than
separate from her brother, chose to share his for¬
tunes and his perilB. Our enemies were unable to
daunt the courage of the soldiers of France, but a
terrible general declared himself their ally. The
plague then broke out in our camp, and thousands
of my brave countrymen fell victims to the pesti¬
lence. I, fearful for her safety, caused her to em¬
bark for France, which she never reached.
Ceciie. Indeed!
General B. Though much grieved at her loss, I
at length began to revive from the shock it at first
caused me, when, from one of the crew who had
escaped, I learned, to my horror, that the vessel
had been taken by one of those scourges of the sea,
an Algerine corsair, and my poor sister sold to
slavery.
Ceciie. What a miserable fate.
General B. For many long years we sought, but
in vain, to discover what had. become of her. At
length, this war broke out, and the thought that I
might, perhaps, learn something of her, roused the
martial ardour of an old soldier. I sought employ¬
ment, obtained it, and here I am. (Drums heard
without.) The muster-roll! My sword, child,—my
sword!
(iCeciie goes into an inner room, and returns
with the General's hat and sword.)
Ceciie. There, papa.
(Gives hat.)
General B. Always remember you are a soldier's
child. Fasten my belt. (C cite arranges sword-belt.)
Come, confess you are ashamed of me, are you
not?
Ceciie. I am proud of the kind-hearted, elderly
gentleman who allows me to call him papa. See!
two officers have left the parade, and and are com¬
ing here—Monsieur Camille and Victor.
Enter CAMILLE and VICTOR.
General B. The report, gentlemen. (Camille hands
him papers.) Thank you.
(Retires, and reads report.)
Ceciie. Camille, has our young cadet made any
progress in his studies yet?
Camille. To which do you refer, mademoiselle?
those of Venus or Mars ?
Ceciie. What, does the stern soldier march under
two banners ?
Camdle. The wish to serve with credit under both
never Paves him. But for the fascinations of Love,
Ambition would find it difficult to urge him onward
to glory.
Ceciie. You libel the service. Monsieur Larouse, I
look to you to contradict Lieutenant Camille.
Victor. Remember, mademoiselle, I am but a
cadet it the army, serving in the hopes of a com¬
mission. in the other department, I have as yet no
hope—I had almost said, no desire to serve.
Ceciie. Then I fear you will acquire but little dis¬
tinction.
Camille. He is not candid. One magic word that
I could utter, would convict him of utter deceit.
Ceciie. Oh, let me hear it.
Camille. Baila I
Victor. Baila ? Nay, let me explain.
Ceciie. It's quite useless. The dark eyes of the
Arab beauty have done their work, and in the first
week of his career, too.
Victor. I assure you that
General B. (Advances hastily.) There is treachery
somewhere. The projects we entertain are under¬
stood by the enemy as well as by ourselves. It is
unaccountable. No one but ourselves was present
when the determination was taken. Yes, made¬
moiselle Baila was with Ceciie, but she is almost
French.
Victor. And devoted to our cause.
Ceciie. Quite. It is said, general, that she intends
shewing her adherence to it in a remarkable man¬
ner.
General B. How ?
Ceciie. By espousing a gallant young officer—one
Monsieur Larouse.
Victor. General Bonfoire is happily well aw
quainted with mademoiselle's love of raillery, or 1
might suffer in his estimation.
General B. This affair is serious, and we must
meet it seriously. Come, gentlemen, hasten to your
quarters. Every effort to discover the spy must be
made.
[Exeunt.
Ceciie. Attention! Eyes light!
General B. Ceciie, when I tell you that our safety
is compromised, you will cease your merriment.
Come.
Ceciie. Nay, papa, I am no longer a trifler. Let
me go with you. (Music.) Eight shoulders forwardl
March 1
(Salutes, and marches off.)
SCENE II.—A Plain in the vicinity of the French station.
A clump of trees. A rude tent form ed with old counter¬
pane. Large telescope on stand. The words, " Spinks,
Civil Engineer, Railways Constrrcled on the shortest
notice," written on a board outside tent. '
DUMPS, holding a flag, discovered. Several flags
fixed.
Spinks. (Without.) Raise the flag; incline to the
right. That's it. What a pretty prospect! All
level sands and sand banks. (Runs andlooks through
telescope.) It's first rate. Come, Dumpy, and take
another sight.
Dumps. I can't; the sand gets in my eyes.
Spinks. (Looks through.) Beautiful I There's a
bore! Inclined plain, dead level, and a lovely cut¬
ting. I wish I could cut away!
Dumps. (Aside.) I'd give anything to cut away.
Spinks. Grand—immense! What a rail it would
make. 1 wish I was on the Stock Exchange with
this spec. Here's a country for the stags. This is
aoy office, my country-seat, box, &e., &c., and a auug
THE LILY OF THE DESERT.
929
retreat it is. I am not ungrateful, and must say,
that your genius assisted me greatly in the building
of that princely mansion.
Dumps Do you like it? Honour? No tricks?
Spinks. Rather! It's a little paradise—a very
little one.
Dumps. Then you have to thank my tutor and
old master for it.
Spinks. Who was he ? I shall ever venerate his
name.
Dumps. The late departed showman, Richardson.
I came into the world in his company, at Barking.
Spinks. Indeed! Twins ?—in the puppy line ?
Dumps. No, no; my mother was his principal
columbine.
. Spinks. His columbine, and his principal one, too.
Why, he must have been worse than Solomon,
who had I don't know how many columbine-:.
Dumps. Them were porcupines ! My mother was
head dancer in Richardson's show, rest her soul.
(Wipes his eyes.)
Spinks. There wasn't much rest for her soles
there, if she was a dancer. You ought to be very
glad that I rescued you from that way of life, taught
you practical engineering, and made a gentleman
of you. Yours has been a varied career, my
Dumpy, and I sympathise with you. I believe you
never heard my story.
Dumps. I've heard a good many of them. But do
you mean the tale of your life ?
Spmks. I mean the heads of it. At an early age,
my old boy, with a notion that he was putting me
to a genteel occupation, placed me with an attorney,
where, being a clever fellow, I gradually rose,
until, in the summer of last year, I was in the re¬
ceipt of an enormous weekly.
Dumps. La! how much ?
Spmks. Fifteen shillings and a joey. But it was
not the salary 1 cared about. Ambition whispered
me, I was intended for great things. I was always
wool-gathering. Dreams of the Chancellorship
floated before me. Blunder followed blunder; and,
at length, I obtained from an indulgent master
what I had so long aspired to.
Dumps. What?
Spinks. The sack! Saturday night came, and I
was thrust forth on the wide world, with the sum
of two shillings and sixpence. I had anticipated my
salary by twelve and a tizzy. I was ruined, lost,
desperate! In a moment my resolution was taken.
Madness seized me. The railway mania was all the
go. i speculated; yes, with half-a-6«W I became a
bear! My applications for scrip were successful. I
referred to my uncle. P.M. the Duke of Wellington,
and my cousin, Sir Robert Peel. I sold out quickly,
took six easy lessons in surveying—and very easy
they were—leamt how to get 'em in a line. (Calls.)
Betsy—Mrs. Spinks, here's a prospect; look at it!
Come and take a sight, dear Mrs. Spinks—come!
(He goes to the tent, withdraws the curtain. Mrs.
Spinks discovered, washing in a calabash, bonnet and
leathers, decayed finery, on.) I'm surprised at you, my
love, converting my drawing-room into a laundry
at this advanced period of the day! Is dinner
ready? Are the roots and birds' eggs done brown?
Mrs.S. (Ill-temperedly.) No, brute! (Do 'em your¬
self!
Spinks. Thank you, my dear! I trust you are
washing with soda!
Mrs. S. Why, six?
0pinks. Because, in that case, the infusion of your
own tartaric acid in that tub will procure us a re¬
freshing and effervescing summer beverage.
Mrs. S. Haven't I cause to be in a passion ? Look
at me! Where is the respectable boarding-school
from which you tempted me to elope, with your
false promises ?
Spinks. All true—all true! I was chairman of a
first-rate Chopwood Pavement Company, which
would have done remarkably well, but the share¬
holders all cut their.stick. At last, our bubble burst,
a panic seized the gullible public, inquiries became
so pressing, we were compelled to bid our native
land good morning. I chose Algeria as a new field
for science, and to make a rail to Paris from the
moon.
Mrs. S. Your cruel deception has wrung my
bosom. (Wringing and shaking out a false front. >
Spinks. Well, you need not retaliate by wringing
mine to pieces. Look what you've done; there's a
hole! (Shewing the front.) It's all dicky! (Very
much torn.) Really, if you are not careful, I shall
be obl ged to do this branch of domestic economy
myself!
Mrs. S. (Shaking out a shirt, which is covered with
figures ef ballet dancers.) I wish you would. If my
poor pa knew I had to wash your rags
Spinks. Bags! What my own Grisi ? my Car-
lot ta Corazza? You are enough to aggravate a
saint! Remember, there are no divorce courts
out here; so be careful, or I'll leave you.
(DJEZZA and another Arab appear between
the clump of trees. They come down cau¬
tiously.)
Mrs. S. I don't care what you do, sir. I'll go
back! I won't stay!
Dumps. (Looking round, and perceiving the Arabs.)
Oh, oh! We're all dead men! (Falls on his knees.)
Look! look!
Spinks. Stop, stop! They're foreign directors!
I'll get 'em in a line! I'll talk Greek to-'em!
Alpha - Beter — gammon— Delta—hi—cock-a—
corurn—jig! /Rises. Violent gestures to the Arabs
They rush on to them.) Betty, stand to your guns!
Make ready I Present! Fire! Blaze away! Hurra
for the rifle!
Djeiza. Kill the dogs 1
(They are about to attack Spinks and Dumps,
when Mrs. Spinks runs to the telescope.)
Mrs. S. Stand out of the way, and I'll Are 1
(Spinks and Dumps put up an umbrella, and
luy down. She points the gloss to th~ A rabs.
They appear alarmed and run round the
stage, Mrs. Spinks keeping the glass pointed
at them. Spinks unci Dumps calling out,
" Shoot the villains!" At length the Arabs
run off.)
Spinks. 'Waves flag.) Huzza! Victory! We've
fought and conquered! Kiss me, you little devil!
/.Embraces Mrs. Spinks. Scene closes rapidly )
SCENE HI.—A Palm Grove. Cut wood.
Enter CAMILLE, CORPORAL ST. LOUTS, an
VICTOR, at the head of a file of Soldiers.
Camdle. Search the wood thoroughly, and if you
meet with any of tho rascals, bring them here
930
THE LILY OF
THE DESERT.
[Corporal salutes, and exits with men.] Well, what
think you now of a soldier's life ?
Victor. A week's experience is not much under
any circumstances; but this predatory style of
warfare is, I confess, scarcely the description of
thing f had been taught to expect.
Camille. Patience, comrade. Give us a few hours
without pronouncing against the profession, and if
you have not enough fighting, you must indeed be
a fire-eater. So Africa possesses no attraction in
your eyes?
Victor. Did I say so? Why you yourself this
riorning bantered me about that fair daughter of
the desert, Baila.
Camille. <Aside.) I was not mistaken. He loves
her! [Loud.) Ah, Vietor, it was not to be won¬
dered at, if her bright eyes have made an inroad
there! (Pointing to Victor's breast.) Well, I shall
expect the earliest report of your success.
Victor. Success, Lieutenant Camille! The only
feeling I at present entertain for Mademoiselle
Baila is esteem.
Camille. Yes, yes; at present!
Victor. If ever that sentiment is replaced by an¬
other, it will be by love.
Camille. Nothing more natural; and as. na¬
turally, success will follow. I give you my sacred
promise not to interfere, though I have a partiality
myself in the same quarter.
Victor. Do not misunderstand me. By love, I
mean true love, not the vile counterfeit of a liber¬
tine. Baila is not only a stranger, but an orphan.
Camille. An advantage I never for a moment
overlooked. No peevish Virginius of a father to
call upon you to account - no bullying brother to
wipe the stain off the family reputation—no family
reputation to be stained. Oh, you lucky dog!
Victor, i Warmly. > If your insinuations tend to
injure Mademoiselle Baila, remember she is de¬
fenceless. To one in her position, only a villain
would offer insult—only a coward attempt slander!
Camille. And which do you consider me, my hero
of the Boulevards ? (Ironically.)
Victor. You may be one or both ! I care not.
Camil.e I must try and make you.
(BAILA appears behind trees. She stops short.)
Victor. Make me ? How?
Camille. Thus!
(Striding him.)
Victor. Villain, you shall repent this!
(They draw, and are preparing to attack each
other, when Baila comes suddenly between
them.)
Baila. Ha! would you attack me, gentlemen?
Put up your swords; they terrify me ! Pray sheath
them instantly! (Victor makes a gesture to obey her;
Camille, however, menaces him.) What, will you not,
Lieutenant ?
(She laughs hysterically, then totters, and. ap¬
pears to be fainting. Camille drops his
sword, and runs to support her. She, how¬
ever, laughingly recovers herself, and run¬
ning to the sword which he has let fall, takes
possession of it.)
Camille. Duped!
r.aila. Yes, monsieur; but console yourself. You
are not the first who has been duped by a woman.
You have lost your sword, and can only regain it
by promising strict obedience to your conqueror.
Will you do so ?
Camifle. (Endeavouring to conceal his chagrin.) Pro¬
pose your terms, mademoiselle. I must perforce
submit. (Aside to Victor.)
Baila. You must at once be reconciled to Mon¬
sieur Larouse.
Camille. Never!
Baila. Then never again will you possess this
weapon. What! would you tarnish the brightness
of your sword with a comrade's blood? Fie, fie!
Monsieur Larouse, you are not so implacable.
Offer your hand to the lieutenant.
Victor. Willingly. It was a foolish difference.
Let it be forgotten.
(Offers his hand to Camille. Be takes it.)
Camille. At your command, lady! (Aside to Victor.)
Avoid me—I am your enemy!
Victor. As you please.
Baila. (Looking.) Your men approach. Resume
your command, Lieutenant Camille. For your
friend, i must retain for the present a prisoner. (To
Camille.) To you I consider myself pledged.
Re-enter CORPORAL ST. LOUIS.
Corporal. We have been unable to discover any
one in the wood, lieutenant.
Camille. Order the men to fall in, then. Until
the evening, mademoiselle!
(They salute, and Camille and Corporal exit.
Baila watches them steadfastly, whilst Victor
appears lost in thought.)
Victor. 'Tis strange, he accused me of love for
Baila. Would to heaven I could deny the charge.
A girl of at least uncertain origin. No, I must con¬
quer this passion at once and for ever! Mademoi¬
selle, do you walk towards our quarters?
Baila. Yes. (Aside. Looking anxiously about.) No
trace of Ibraham. 'Tis past the time. Hark!
Was that the signal? No. (Loud.) I am returning,
monsieur.
Victor. Will you accept my escort?
Baila. With thauks.
Victor. The effort shall be made. (Loud.) I am
at your service.
[Exit.
Enter IBRAHAM. He unsheathshis dagger.
Ibraham. Fury! She is walking with that dog of
a christian! Would that I could at once sheath
my dagger in his heart! Has not his hated race
robbed me of my country—my people? andBhall
they also deprive me of her? No! Stay; the
signal! (Claps his hands thrice.) Rather than lose
her, would I rush on the invaders' bayonets and
perish! She has heard me—they stop—she leaves
them, and turns this way! Yes, her mother's blood
impels her to the foe that is ravaging the country,
from which her father sprang. She shall no longer
remain with the dogs, who would enslave her!
Re-enter BAILA. ,
Girl—false daughter of the prophet—I have dis¬
covered your treachery!
Baila. Accuse me of treachery! With whom?
Ibraham.. With whom? The child of a great
chief has forgotten and betrayed the country that
gave lier birth, and plays the wanton with a de-
THE LILY OF THE DESERT
981
tested Frenchman! Beware! You know I love
you. Enough! I see your shallow-heartedness
and deceit!
Bai a. Deceit! Did I seek the occupation of a
spy?—no, it was forced upon me! When the
French first came here, you yourself urged me to
undertake an office which I abhorred!
Ibraham. Your mother was French, and had
taught you the language and love of her country.
We deemed you might assist the holy cause for
which we fight, but you have deserted it.
Baila. You had another motive. If I remained
with the tribe, I should ere now have become its
mistress. You knew this, and therefore imposed
on me the task of a spy, that you might securely
estrange the affections of my people.
Ibrctham. 'Tis false!
Baila. False! Dare not speak that word, or,
woman as I am, I'll slay you ! You were nothing
before the arrival of these Frenchmen. By your
persuasion, I remained behind when our tribe was
driven from yonder town. The daughter of a lady
of their country, I pretended I had been detained
by the Arabs against my will, and rewarded the
hospitality shewn me by basely betraying their
designs to their enemies.
Ibraham. Words are idle. At once return with
me to our tribe. Complete the contract made
by your sire - that we should wed; and then, if
you will, rejoin these people, until we can bid them
defiance.
Baila. You doubt me, then ?
Ibraham. I do.
Baila. Yet to me only do you owe your elevation
and your power. Listen! Their general gives a
feast to his soldiers. I shall be there! Frown if
you wilL I shall be there!
Ibraham. You dare not! Your life is in my
hands!
Baila. (Coldly.1 I laugh your threats to scorn. I,
too, wear a knife, and have a ready hand to use it
Molest me not. Your jealous fears, though ground¬
less, shall not sway me, nor your threats deter me
from my purpose.
Ibraham. I'll rouse the tribe, and though the
Christians outnumber us, we will tear you from
their dwelling.
Baila. I defy you! Take heed. The blood of
two nations flow equally through my veins. Ty¬
ranny may determine me to join your invaders—to
adopt their country as my own. Again I say, be
cautious! I do not dread your power.
[Exit.
Ibraham. Beware! beware! I will be revenged!
Another struggle shall be made, and if defeated
and pursued by these blood-hunters, we will leave
the plain, and seek a home in the deserts, where
they cannot, dare not, follow us I
[Exit
SCENE IV.—A fete in the gardens of General Bon-
foire's house. A flight of steps leading to a balcony
of oriental construction, and richly ornamented in
gold. Sounds of music and merriment heard. Balm,
orange, and sycamore trees, hung with amps. At the
back, a wall, with gate. Groups dancing, promenad¬
ing, dec. All move off, DUMPS is seen looking over
the wall.
Dumps. Oh, master, such a plummy place! All
lamps and gold, like a 'lumination night on Lord
Mayor's day!
Spinks. (Without.) Get over and open the daor
That's the ticket!
Dumps. 'Spose I'm cotched ? Oh, crikey!
Spinks. 'Spose you are ? (Pushes him over. He falls,
and opens door in the wall.)
Spinks. (Walking in with Mrs S.) Rather spicy,
ain't it, my dear ? A foreign Cremorne Gardens or
Vauxhall. (Tastes wine.) Not bad for gooseberry.
(Eats.) Too sweet. Have a bite? (Eats.)
Mrs. S. Don't ask me. We shall be sent to prison
for this intrusion.
Spinks. Nonsense; it's business. I'm up to a
dodge. 1,000 per cent, at least.
Mrs. S. We're trespassers. Who knows hut
what steel guns are on the premises ? N ot another
inch do I step.
Spinks. >Gives card to Dumps.) Take that card tr
the general. Say your master arrived by express
tra n from—no—London!
Dumps. (Points.) Up them steps? (Laughs.)
Spinks. Yes, don't be ashamed.
Dumps. I'm ashamed of nothing.
[Exit up steps.
Mrs. S. Well, it's deliciouB! Better than the
Casino or Jullien's concerts. (Sighs.) I wish it was
all mine. Oh, my!
Spinks. Wait till I'm appointed Surveyor-general
to the French or Arabs, and you shall have an il¬
lumination of your own, though you scarcely want
one, as you have a blaze of triumph already, my
sweet. (Kisses her.)
Mrs. S. Where, pi;ay, sir ?
Spinks. In your eyes. There's fire enough there
to set the world in a blaze (Kisses her), or set up a
lueifer match manufactory.
Mrs.S. Spinks, don't be silly.
Spinks. (Places his arm round her waist.) Truth,
honour bright! you are a serenader?
Mrs. S. Oh! {Sighs.) Poetry has been written
upon them. (Music heard. The polka in the distance.
Mrs. S. starts.) They're polking. Oh, how heavenly!
(Dances.)
Spinks. Stop, stop! Let's start fair.
Mrs.S. I can't—I can't! It's my passion; I was
inoculated with it. (Dances.)
Spinks. Then off we go to Turkey! (Dances with
her,) I took to it naturally. Hurrah!
(They polk off through the gardens. Dancers
enter at all entrances; after a short dance
disappear.)
Enter VICTOR. lie leans against a tree, and gazes
pensively into the window.
Victor. Still—still with him. As each figure of
the dance reveals her form encircled by Camilla's
arm. The sight strikes a pang here! (Touching his
breast.) which none but a lover could feel. I
struggle against it in vain. Prudence, honour, in¬
terest commands me to resist this fatal passion,
but they are all borne away before its influence
like feathers on a stream.
(Retires up.)
Enter OECXLE from house, splendidly dressed in ball
costume.
Cecile. Monsieur Victor, can you spare a forlorn
creature a few moments ?
Victor. Gladly. I have wished for this meeting,
that I might assure you of the entire devotion of
my poor friend Lassere—the most faithful of
lovers.
932
THE LILT OF THE DESERT.
Cecile. And are you sure he still thinks of me ?
Victor. Had you heard the ardent expressions of
attachment he uttered when we parted at Mar¬
seilles, you would no longer doubt his love.
Cecile. I did not; but my father never suspected
the feeling that existed between us, and I feared to
tell him, lest he should insist on my remaining be¬
hind. I could not endure a separation from him.
Victor. But why did General Bonfoire leave
France at his advanced age?
[Exeunt•
Enter GENERAL BONFOIRE, angrily.
General B. Peste! It cannot be borne. Our coun¬
sels betrayed to these inSdels. The mystery shall
be unravelled, and woe to the traitor detected in
the infamous scheme, for it must be from one of
our people they obtain the information. I shall be
disgraced! Who can confide in the dotard who
suffers the system of espionage to remain undis¬
covered and unpunished?
(iGoes to gat", opens it, stands a moment, in an
attitude of indecision, then leaves it half
open and returns. A noise of confused
voices. " Scoundrel!" " Out with him!"
"Perfide Albion!" SPINKS and MRS.
SPINKS thrust from gardens by servants
arid, nuests. DUMPS runs out, and kneels
by him.)
Spinks. Touch me, and I'll bring an action
against France, mind that, now 1 I'm a walking
Act of Parliament-
Mrs. S. Spare us! We couldn't help it!
General B. Who is this?
Spinks. A British lion, and this is my unicorn.
General B. Why did you come here ?
Spinks. Oh speculation, and rather a bad spec at
present. I came to see the General, and take in the
natives.
General B. I am that person.
Spinks. Devilish glad of it. (Bows.) How are you,
my jolly cock? r am Septimus Spinks, civil engi¬
neer and contractor to any government that'll trust
me—tunnel, arch, and bridge you.
General B. Your intentions are—
Spinks. Scheming, generally. (Whispers.) Can't
we do a little dodge together? Your name would
do as chairman. Let's get up a rail. We can do it
a11 ourselves. My man'll take the levels, my wife
r e fiats, and I'll take the money—(winks)—when
we can catch it.
General B. Will you explain yourself, sir, intelli¬
gibly?
Spinks. Ab del Kader. Don't be afraid. Set me
to catch him. I've got the salt ready. Up to a thing
or two! Catcli 'em alive 0! - alive 01
General B. Are you serious ?
Spinks. I believe you. Catching him would be no
joke! Pay in advance, and I'll do it, governor.
Down with the dust- the rowdy!
General B. Is this man mad?
Mrs. S. Yes, sir, as a March hare.
Spinks. Will have her joke? Mrs. S,—fine wo¬
man—doats on the French—speaks li ire a native,
and lives on French rolls. Iciparle Francaise.
(Introducing her.)
General B. This intrusion is unpardonable. The
ball interrupted.
Spinks. Let it begin again, then; and give me a
double ticket, supper included, like a trump 1
General B. A what, sir?
Spinks. A brick. Say, Spinks, my boy, there's
bed and breakfast, a latch key, and no questions
asked. We do it all in London for a guinea a
week.
General B. Let these people be conducted beyond
the limits of the town. Their impertinence de¬
serves punishment. Pray resume the dance.
(Guests separate with General.)
Spinks. This is foreign politeness, is it? (Servants
point to gate.) We. we! If you touch me you touch
the British constitution. Mind what you're at.
Come, Betsy. Dumpy, keep close. Allons on
avant la port, tout sweet, gargon. Then, coups
votre baton. John Bull—damme!
lExeunt servants, bowing and lathing.
Re-enter SPINKS.
Spinks. I beg pardon. Will you lend me a crown?
I'll send it back in heads. (Runs out.)
Re-enter CECILE, with VICTOR, foVowed by OA-
MILLE and BAILA.
Cecile. I am sorry to disturb you, dear papa.
We are going to stroll through the gardens, un¬
less—
General B. I apologize. To you gentlemen, who
know the cause of my disquietude, none is neces¬
sary.
(Music. Ibrahim steals in through gate,
which he closes cautiously, and conceals him¬
self behind a tree, menacing with a pistol.)
Camill". No one can feel more keenly than my¬
self the disgrace we incur by allowing this spy.
(Chord. Baila suddenly leaves the arm ofCdr
rnille, and appears unable to support her¬
self. She leans against a tree. ■
Baila. (Aside.) If my perfidy's discovered, where
shall I fly for shelter? Alas! my own people will
turn from me, and my act has renounced the friend¬
ship of those who would have offered kindness.
Unhappy Baila ! (Weeps.)
Ibraham. (Appearing behind a tree. Touches her
arm.) Follow me!
(Baila screams.)
Camille. You appear fatigued—alarmed.
Bailu. No, no! (Trem'ding and looking round
alarmed.) It is nothing. The heat—excitement of
the dance. Leave me, monsieur. (Camille. retires.
Lost, lost!
General B. (To Victor, who, together with the rest,
have regarded her with surprise.) Lead her away,
poor girl. Perhaps she fears to fall again into
the hands of the barbarians from whom we rescued
her.
Cecile. (To Victor. Aside.) Cadet, assure her Of
her safety, and of what, 1 know, will be more wel¬
come to her still. The garden will restore your
spirits. Pray, take my arm.
(She takes the arm of Victor in silence. Exeunt,
Ibraham leaves his hiding-place, and follows
them.)
General B. Cecile, you had better rejoin the cow
THE LILY OF THE DESERT.
933
pany. Our guests will shortly disperse, and then,
lieutenant, let mo see you. Something must he
done to end the intolerable annoyance
{Music. As they are going, a shriek is heard,
and BAILA rushes on, followed by VIC-
TOE. He supports her on his breast.)
Baila. Save me 1 save me!
Victor. Baila! love! speak! No one shall harm
you. Why this alarm ?
Baila. He is there ! I am detected — I am at
length discovered! (Points.)
Ibraham. (Rushing on.) Away, false girl!
(Opens gate. Several Arabs appear at back.
Ibraham seizes Baila by the arm, and is
forcibly dragging her towards the gate.
The guests enter from house, and farm on
stage, the ladies clinging to the officers, who
threaten the Arabs.)
General B. Treachery t Betrayed!
(Officers draw swords.)
Omnes. The spy! Death! death!
(Music. General Bonfoire holds up his hand-
Ibraham places himself before Baila.
Arabs level spears. Drums beat to arms.
Tableaux.)
ACT IL
SCENE L—Exterior of the Canteen. Door, windows,
benches, and tables arranged under the. palm trees.
HENRI and VICTOR discovered seated at table.
Several groups drinking and playing cards, chess, etc.;
"they gradually leave the scene. JONQUIL attending
upon Victor and Henri.
Henri. So the change surprises you, my dear
boy. You are astonished at my leaving Paris,
purchasing land here, and turning farmer,
eh?
Victor. Do you regret the purchase of the land in
Algeria?
Henri. The opportunity it afforded me of again
pressing my suit to Cecile was worth twenty times
the amount. The purchase money exhausted my
remaining funds, and now necessity compels me
to make the most of my bargain; it is all I possess
in the world.
Victor. You amaze me; surely you have not run
through the noble property inherited only four
years ago.
Henri. I have.
Victor. How can you have done so?
Henri. I sought a fevered delight amongst the
midnight rendezvous of Paris.
Victor. The Hells ?
Henri. Right again. 1 do not know why they
have been christened "Hells;" but I found them
bottomless pitB, into which whatever I cast, never
turned up again; however, there is one advantage i
in coming here, there is no fear of gambling.
Ft'cfor. We are not wholly free from the vice;—
Lieutenant Camille—
Henri. Is he stationed near here ?
Victor. He is quartered with mo. I trust, Henri,
you will not allow him to tempt you; he is a con¬
firmed gamester. (
Enter CAMILLE.
1 Camille. (Shaking hands.) This is an unexpected
meeting. I am delighted to see you. When did you
leave France ?
Henri. Five days since. Have you done much in
this way lately ?
(Pretending to use dice box.)
Camille. No, I never gamble now.
Henri. Ha, ha! then you are sadly belied.
Camille. By whom ?
Henri. By our quiet young friend, for one.
Victor. (Coming down.) Let me explain. I merely
said
Camille. (Coldly.) From you I require no explana¬
tion, sir. The General requires your attendance at
the guard room to receive orders. He has selected
you for a most important duty, that of guarding
the advanced post at the cataract falls. The safety
of the whole detachment, nay, of the army itself,
depends on your vigilance. The penalty of neglect
is death.
Victor. I am honoured by the trust, allow me to
explain Henri's words. (Warmly.) Yesterday, you
told me wo were no longer friends; had we been
bo, I should not offer explanation now; but an
enemy shall never accuse me of the cowardice of
maligning him in his absence, without my laying
the real facts before him; I appeal to our mutual
friend Lassere, whether
Henri. He meant nothing. I was joking,
Camille. Why, you soldiers are such a fiery set of
fellows, one scarcely knows what to say to
you.
Camille. As your superior officer, I order you to
the guard room ; you are on duty, sir, go!
Victor. Adieu, Henri. (Shaking his hand.) Paltry
malice.
(Going.)
Camille. Stop, sir. (Victor pauses.) I expect when
you receive an order from me, you will acknow¬
ledge my rank with the respect due to it. The
salute.
Victor. Lieutenant Camille—
Camille. (Interrupting him.) If you would avoid
a court martial, you will salute.
Henri. What a martinet! you don't surely mean
it?
Victor. I raise my cap to Lieutenant Camille. I
respect the rank you hold in the army of France,
and am sorry you prevent me extending it to the
man.
(Exit,
Henri. And this is what they call becoming a
hero. Come, come, you ought not to treat an old
friend in this manner; in his last letter to me, he
set you down as the best fellow living.
Camille, Curse him ; but let it pass, the oppor¬
tunity will one day arrive to repay him; and I can
bide my time. By-the-by, when we last met, on
which of us did the fickle goddess smile ? I forget
You are going to the General's, so am I; but you
must give me the chance of making matters straight
between us. Who would have thought the dashing
Lassere a miser ?
Henri. A miser! When do you return ? I must
submit.
Camille. To-morrow, I hold you to your word.
(L-I '•».) Ho is safe, the estate will soon change
hands.
[Exeunt.
034 THE LILY OP
SCENE II.— An Arab Enc imvrnent. Tents ar¬
ranged in a semi-circle. At the centre back a splendid
ient opened in front. Lamps suspended over a couch,
en which BAILA, superbly dressed in Arab costume,
is lying asleep. The scene, is partly illumina'ed by
lights in tents. LBKAH1M discocered standing by
the opening ofBaila's tent.
Ibrahim. She sleeps, the Lily of the Desert; and
in her native garb appears to me as of old, when
my heart bounded while I watched her agile form,
treading the mountain's side as one of their own
swift deer; yet how changed is she in all save
form, since then. From her own lips will I now
learn if she will fulfil her father's promise: if she
re J u so.
{Touches dagger. Made. lie ent rs tent, and
p aces his hand on her shoulder. She
starts.
Baila. (Looks wildly round.) You here! (Rising
proudly.) Where are the slaves, that they did not
guard me from the intrusion of one I abhor and
dread ?
Ibrahim. By my command they are away. You
have rested long; bethink yourself. The maidens
will soon be here with presents to you, on your
return. I have sought you, to learn whether you
will obey your father's will; for, before the assem¬
bling of the tribe I must know; the penalty of
disobedience is horrible.
I\n ila. Would it were death; I should estoem it a
blessing.
Ibrunam. Will you endure the hopeless slavery
to which, should you refuse to be mine, the indig¬
nation of our people will reduce you ?
Baila. I would not endure it.
Ibraham. Ha, ha! you miscalculated your power;
already you are looked on by the tribe as an un¬
believer, whose wicked heart has wandered from
the true faith. No aid but mine can protect you
from the consequences of their wrath; you cannot
escape it.
Bulla. I can.
Ibraham. How?
Baila. By this. (Unsheathing her knife.) Think
you I wear it only as a toy? I have warned you.
Do not tempt me to cast away a thing so lightly
prized as my wretched life must henceforth be.
Ibraham. But why wretched? Because he, the
hated Frenchman, to whom you have given your
false heart, despises the gift; laughs at the girl,
who, listening to his honeyed words, believed his
soft tale of flattery and deceit? The dogs have
pitched their tents to night by the cataracts of the
rocks. Seek them, and learn to what they would
doom her, who for their hollow friendship, forgot
her country and her faith.
Baila. (Aside.) Heavens, he may be there! I must
dissemble. (Aloud.) Enough, enough! I am be¬
wildered. Leave me ; to-morrow you shall know
my determination—go, go!
(Waves her hand.)
Ibraham. 'Tis well, reflect. Let not the tribe see
the traces of passion on your cheeks.
Baila. If I feel sorrow, agony, despair, they shall
not detect it, they shall think me happy; but pray
leave me.
Ibraham. I obeyyou. (Aside.) She ismiue, mine!
(Exit.
Baila. Yes, I will practise falsehood on those
Who tutored me, in all its depths. Victor swore
THE DESERT.
eternal love for me. I will seek him, and If he b8
really true to his vows, for ever will I bid adieu lo
these scenes, to these people. The tribe come lo
welcome mo amongst them once agaiu. Welcome!
My face must be wreathed with smiles, while my
heart is breaking.
(Retires to tent. Music. A number of Arab
maidens dance on. They are fancifully
attired, wearing small mirrors round their
necks, and bearing palm leaves, which they
wave while dancing. Arabs enter from the
tents, they join in the dance. At the end of
ballet, the girls strew palm leaves at the en¬
trance of Baila's tent. She rises, puts on a
collar and bracelets, to which small bells are
app■ nded, leaves her tent, and kneels. The
maidens form a Cunopy o>er her wth
the remaining palm leaves. Tableau. Dis¬
tant cunnonading and t.oise of lonjliet
heard, The girls all crouch down from year.
Baila stands erect, her hand on her dag¬
ger. Ibraham and Djezza rush on with
Arabs.)
Ibraham. Quick', quick! Strike the tents. The,
infidels are attacking our encampment! Fear not
girl, I will protect you!
(The Arabs strike tents and exit,
Baila. (Laughs.) Fear, I know not that word.
Look to yourself, your place should bo before the
foe, not herding with women; it is you that fear.
Follow me, girls, the Prophet will protect us.
(Noise increases.) You hear, the Christian warriors
dare the Arabs to the fight. How readily the
valiant Ibrahim accepts the challenge, wasting his
time in the tents of women! Shame, shame upon
the coward 1 To the fight, girls, the fight!
[Laughs, and exit with girls.
Ibrahim. (Enraged.) Eeviled! scoffed at; these
Frenchmen have enchanted her, changed her very
nature.
Mrs. S. (Without.) Oh, oh ! Heavenly gracious!
the shots! the cannon! (Screams.) Tell 'em to
stop!
Ibrahim. Christian dogs! my yataghan thirsts
for their blood!
(Runs up stage.)
Djezza. Hold! 'tis the man I encountered yester¬
day with his family; he comes from that island
whose people are the only race these French dogs
do not oppress. He has wonderful weapons with
him, and may assist us. The Prophet is just.
Ibrahim Tempt him to join us ; spare no pro¬
mises ! Should he resist, a signal will bring tho
tribe to your assistance. I will back to the camp.
(Exit.
(Music. Djezza retires, observing with Telescope
MRS. SPIN ICS runs on much, atarnied,
and falls on her knees, stopping her ears
with her fingers. DUMPS is dragged on
fainting by SPINES, he throws him down
with tent.)
Spinks. This is a precious go. I've smelt powder
at last; can't say its flavour agrees with me. The
French and Arabs are fighting like Kilkenny cata
My troops have suffered considerably, onemort&lly
frightened. I was obliged to carry 'em from the
field of glory, and a heavy load it was. (K'tfa
Dumps.) Get up, General Dumps.
THE LILY OF
Dumps. (Groans.) I want my mother.
(Rises.)
Spinks. (Laughs. To Mrs. S.) Be a Briton.
Mrs. S. I can't, it's no use. Oh, those guns, I
shall die; dear pa and ma, good-bye.
Spinks. We're 6afo now beyond their reach.
They're not the long range sort, they only shoot
flying-
Mrs. S. It's all your fault; you wanted them to
shoot me, so that you might come in for my little
property (cries) in tbo consols.
Spinks. Silly girl, could I help the French attach.
Let's pitch our tent. Here will wo lie to-night.
Never despair; we'll increase our national defences,
fortify our position, and fight it out. Britons never
will be slaves !
(They place tent on ground.)
Mrs. S. (Sitting on ground.) Why did I leave
school, where 1 might still have been a happy
parlour border, working Berlin wool, and writing
notes to the Italian master, Signer Wogoski? Oh,
he was such a professor of moral philosophy.
Spinks. I am afraid he was only a professor.
Another word of grumbling, and I'll divide my
affections. I'll have a seraglio, turn Turk, become
a pasha, and give you a taste of the bow-string.
Mahshallah. it is good.
Mrs. S. Monsieur, if you de, I'll indict you.
Spinks. Silence, woman, I'll join the Arabs ; and
then
Re-enter DJEZZA. Spinks snatches up hag of salt,
sprinkles it, throws some at him, making grotesque
signs.
Spinks. All right, governor, eat a bit of salt, it'll
make us friends; a dose won't hurt you ; it is not
Epsom.
Mrs. S. (Alarmed.) What are you doing ?
Spinks. Hush, it's business. I'm mesmerising him.
In England, they use salt to pickle pork — in
Arabia, among the Whity Browns, it preserves
friendship.
Ujezza, I come in peace.
Spinks. Let's have plenty of it, then.
Djezza. You are my friend.
Spinks. Am I? Well, that's kind. How's all at
home, Mrs. and the little Whity Browns ?
(Shakes hands.)
Djezza. Cone, dwell with me.
Spinks. And be your love ? Mrs. Spinks, would
you like to live with this clear-complexioned
gentleman, and be his love ?
Mrs. S. I'd die first—a martyrdom.
Dumps. And I'd die second, missus; I hates
niggers.
Djezza. Come to the tents of our tribe ; come to
the Badjoutes; our camels are swift.
Spinks. They're a little humpbacked though,
master, and not pleasant in the saddle riding, are
they, governor.
Djezza. We have beautiful sabres, yataghans, and
much powder—very much powder.
Mrs. S. We don't wear powder, sir.
Spmks. Or use it. I am the Napoleon of
peace. Or do we want a nice piece of land, we're
not proud.
Djezza. Amongst our tribe, a bold man obtains all
he desires of annexation.
Spinks. The devil he doesl I'll desire enough,
then. Money heaps—jewels—slaves—stones.
Djezza. lteposes on rich carpets, possesses beauti¬
ful women.
THE DESERT. 935
Mrs. S. (Screams.) You reprobate.
Spinks. All right, say no more. Here's my wife,
up to snuff, very jealous. (Winks.) Not a word
about the girls.
Djezza. Come, the women call you.
Spinks. What, singing out forme? you're going
it! Come, come, are they so very fond of me ?
(Laughs, and shakes head.)
Djezza. The horse awaits you; the arms are hung
on the pillows of the tent; you will be great, you
will fire numerous shots.
Spinks. Hallo, you keep a shooting gallery, then ?
(To Mrs. Spink-.) Pon my soul he's very polite, in
spite of his whiskers. What a head for a hair¬
dresser's window in Regent Street. I think we'll
lodgeVith him.
Airs. S. Oh, no! no, never!
Dumps. Oh, no 1 no, not never! I wants to lodge
on Tower Hill.
Spinks. Silence 1 Mr.—I don't know your Chris-
Ban name. If I consent, what title will you give
me?
Djezza. Any you like.
Spinks. That's liberal. I'll have a House of Lords
to myself.
Djezza. You will be made a great Bey.
Spinks. That's it, make mo Heme Bey; and this
young gentleman one of my piers.
Djezza. He shall become a Scheriffe.
Dumps. A Sheriff. Oh, crikey, with gold lace and
footmen?
Spinks. No, no, I object to that. He's my fol¬
lower, and I've had the sheriff's followers after
me too long already—Middlesex to wit. Richard
Roe and John Doe.
Djezza. He is Scheriffe of the Green Turban.
Spinks. Green's a very appropriate colour for him.
He is a verdantyouth.
Dumps. I ain't; I'm a red coat charity boy.
Mrs. S. I wont turn Turk for anybody.
Spinks. You're Tartar enough already, my dear;
don't be a fool. Your many accomplishments will
enable you to set up a genteel school, a foreign
Do-the-girls Hall. (Dmnps picks up the sticks.) And
take the Browns in : and do for them.
Djezza. {Trying to take the Telescope.) I'll take this
weapon.
Spinks. Thank you, I'll take it myself.
Djezza. Will it shoot far?
Spinks. Rather; you wouldn't believe it, but with
this very identical weapou, I once shot
Djezza. What?
Spinks. The moon—just before quarter day, as
the landlord of Eliza Villa well knows.
Djrzza. Wonderful.
Spinks. Very. Now, my pet, we shall be haprv,
tawny Moors. You shall be my Sultana, ba^o
slaves, and smoke a hookah.
Dumps. (Aside.) Hookey Walker!
Mrs. S. I'll go bask to ma; you shan't make a
Mussulman of me; it's against my feelings.
Spinks. Mussulman, nonsense! (stamps.) Wo¬
man, slave! obey your bey 1 I suppose, mister, you'll
do what I tell you ?
Djezza. In all things, great chief.
Spinks. Very good; then seize thoso miserable
varlets ; give 'em a taste of the bow-string. If my
friend the Green Sheriff objects, strangle him.
Djezza. (Seizes them.) Mashallah, it is good.
Airs. S. Let me go, I'll scream myself into a
fit.
936 THIS LILY OF
Dumps. Murder! police!
Spinks. Away with them to the tents, the tents!
hence, hence! Let the dogs eat dirt 1 huzza! Go it,
Sally.
Music. Djezza forces them of, struggling.
Spinks following, flourishing the teles¬
cope.
SCENE III.—The Post on the Fall. A practicable
ascent from centre, behind which is the face of a rock,
a small cascade falls over it; above is table land.
The bank of the river on the eminence, overhung
with trees. The sound of falling water is faintly
heard. Moonlight. VICTOR discovered leaning on
his musket. Music.
Victor. How tranquil is this spot; the murmur of
the cataract is the only sound that breaks the still¬
ness. I had better reconnoitre the neighbourhood
of my post—all is secure. (Goes up eminence, looks
round.) "What a beautiful scene, as it appears be¬
neath the rising moon. The river seems gathered
to this spot, only to lave the roots of the over¬
hanging trees. How different its glassy bosom
hore to its other arm, which, rushing down the
slope, leaps madly over the precipice, and goes
boiling and foaming through the ravine at my feet
I need fear no surprise in that quarter; my only
apprehension is, that these trees may conceal an
enemy. (Looking amongst the shrubs.) It is char¬
mingly romantic, and more than reconciles me to
the watch. (Descends.) Now I can give up my
whole soul to the full tide of love that gushes in
my breast. Baila! oh, could they estimate the
sacrifice she made of her true nature, performing
the office of a spy; they would, instead of con¬
demning, applaud the resolution that nerved her
to her loathsome task. Is not something moving
on the stream? Yes, a figure approaches in one
of/the fantastic boats of the country—my musket.
(Looks to lock of his musket.) 'Tis a female, surely!
Yes, by heaven, 'tis Baila!
A slight boat—a catamaran—appears on the
stream. BAILA is seen standing upright in
the boat, and propelling it with a long
paddle, which she rapidly dips in the water,
each side alternately. The boat gradually
advances.
What errand is she on at this hour of night?
perhaps conveying the papers I am placed to
intercept. 1 must perform my duty. Honour! no,
no, I could not do it! She comes to this very spot;
what can it mean ?
Baila arrives at the trees on the eminence,
she fastens her boat, leaves, and as she de¬
scends, looking anxiously around, pro¬
nounces his name, "Victor!"' he does not
reply until she reaches the stage.
Victor. Baila, why have you sought me here ?
Baila. Why, did you not a few hours since swear
to love me till death; and you ask this? In the
moment you told me of your affection, I ceased to
live for anything but love. The bright sun
that shines over my land, infuses with its warmth
a glow of passion, that, finding an object to bestow
itself upon, rages with overwhelming force; and
such is my love.
Victor. Do you know the danger yon incur com¬
ing here?
THE DESERT.
Baila. Do yon love me ?
Victor. Fondly, ah, too fondly !
Baila. Then I heed no danger. Did I Beek to
betray your people ? no. They came and drove us
from our dwellings, from the houses our ancestors
had lived, and gloried in; the ruins which are spread
over the bosom of our once happy land are terrible
witnesses that I speak truth. They drove us to
seek refuge in the snow-clad mountains, or amidst
the burning and unshaded sands. I saw my
country suffering, my people oppressed. Conquest,
not friendship, was his aim, and. my intercessions
were unheeded or worse. Then the spirit of my
nation taught me to deceive and thwart them—I
did so ; and, though it should lose me every bles¬
sing that I covet—yes, even—even your love—I
should glory in the deed.
Victor. Mistaken girl. Had you not done so, the
misery of this moment would have been spared us
both. I, who adore you, might have led you forth
a bride; now
Baila. You may still do so. Leave these people
who seek to enslave a free and happy race; fly
with me over the broad plains which lie beyond
those mountains. There, in some verdant oasis,
we may live only for each other.
Victor. Nay, I must not listen to this. Wait pa¬
tiently, Baila, we may yet be each other's, and with
honour.
Baila. How ? Speak, Victor, your meaning.
Victor. Resign the savage horde amongst whom
you have lived. Join us—your mother was of our
country, and you are naturally more French than
Arab. Do this, and I swear
Baila. Forget my country in its hour of desolation
and suffering, never 1 Amongst my tribe there
is one whom I loathe, detest—though he loves me.
But rather than abandon my people, while I could
serve them, I would consent to be his wife, and
dwell for ever away from him on whom my every
thought must rest.
Victor. This is folly, and I must no longer listen
to it. Speak differently, or leave me. There is a
claim on me far mightier than love. Honour,
duty to my country. I must hear no more.
Baila. Has Victor a mightier passion than love?
What mockery is this ? win a true heart, only to
betray it! Yet thine would I have rather been
than queen of all the bright lands you have wrested
from us. Do not bid me to leave you, when 1,
thus kneeling, beseech you to requite me. "Will
you make my woman's love a reproach to
you.
Victor. I must, I will act according to the dictates
of honour.
Baila. (Starting up fiercely.) You call it honour,
pervert a holy word to a base purpose. Nay, give
not your lips the trouble of speech. I know what
you would say, and I know its worth. Oh, mad,
mad was I to trust to the faith of man. Your eyes
are like false diamonds, they shine, but not truth.
Through the waste of life, farewell — may your
bosom never feel the fire of shame which now
rages in my heart
(Waves her hand, and is going.)
Victor. You dream, Baila. Leave me not thus, i
am irresolute how to act. Will you say fare¬
well?
Baila, Forever. Come not near me; remain to
guard your boasted honour. No words, I despise,
■corn them- You have rejected a true heart's ef*
tfiE tlLY OF
fectiod. All Is past, changed. Farewell for
ever.
She rapidly ascends the acclivity. Victor
follows and snatches her hand and kisses it
rapturously. She gets into the boat and
paddles fiercely away, then plating the end
of the paddle, leans her head on it, and ap¬
pears to be giving way to a passion of
grief.
Victor. (Coming down.) She is gone, lost to me for
ever. Should she continue thus, there is no telling
to what mad act her infatuation may impel her.
She gives way to tears, thank heaven! Had it
lasted much longer something fatal must have
ensued. I dared not listen to her passionate ap¬
peal.
The boat, no longer guided by Saila, gets into
the eddy, slowly turns, and appears drifting
down diagonally towards the right. Baila
looks up, and seeing her danger, uses her
paddle with great energy.
Victor. Power of mercy, the eddy has caught the
frail boat, and is drifting her to the precipice! She
perceives her periL (Calls.) Baila, Baila! bravely,
bravely! courage, dearest, another effort, and you
are safe.
Her efforts seem useless, she seems paralyzed
with fear, drops her paddle, and stands in an
attitude of despair.
Victor. No, no, her strength fails! The tide is
too powerful, I daren't quit my post. The guard
will be here in a moment, and the penalty is death.
Must she perish before my eyes without an effort
to rescue her ? no, no ! by heaven it shall not be!
Perish the thought! Duty, honour, discipline, all
are vain! (The boat disappears, Baila utters alow
shriek.) Courage, dearest girl, 1 come to save
you I
Ee throws down his gun, partly ascends the
eminence, then quickly disappears down its
side clinging to the shrubs that are growing
on it. Another shriek heard. CAMILLE
and soldiers enter.
Camille. "What noise was that ? It sounded like
the shriek of a woman. Larouse gone! the post
deserted! The opportunity I sought so soon ar¬
rived ; I'll not neglect it. Corporal, raise the de¬
tachment instantly; place the men under arms,
and let them fall in here. This post, the most im¬
portant of the whole picquet, is deserted. Away,
seek the fugitive, and bring him before us.
[Corporal and men exeunt in different directions.
Now I triumph, no'hing can avert the punishment;
for such an offence, death will expiate. (Looking
down the side of the precipice.) A human form ascends
thecrags.it emerges from the shadows, 'tis he;
and bearing the fainting form of a woman. The
Arab girl, Baila.
(Retires.)
Re-enter VICTOR, carrying BAILA, he reaches the
stage, and placing her head on his knee, takes canteen
from his back, and places it to her lips.
Victor. For mercy's sake, look up; she is dead.
No, she sighs, she breathes! Lives, lives!
(She recovers partially, and gazes wildly
around.)
YHE DESERT. HI
Baila. Where am I ? Ah, I remember, he scorned
me; and, oh! no, no, he is here—your own, your
own, am I not ?
Victor. (Embracing her.) Mine dearest, for ever,
mine.
CAMILLE advances. Soldiers enter hurriedly,
bearing arms and toiches. Some are seen
on the eminence. Camille points to Vic¬
tor, they group around. Tableau.
ACT IIL
SCENE I.—A Hall in General Bonfoire's House, Al¬
giers. Boor in flat. A bust on pedestal. Window.
Music.
Enter GENERAL BONFOIRE, CECILE, and
HENRI.
General B. A hurried meal, my boy, but ease and
etiquette must give place to duty. (Trumpet at a dis¬
tance.) The troops are assembling, adieu.
Cecile. Oh, papa, here is the portrait I told you
had been given me by Baila.
General B. I am too busy now to look at it. (Puts
it in his pocket, and is going, when an orderly enters, sa¬
lutes, and gives him a letter. CeHle and Henri go up.)
Wait: (Reads letter.) Good heavens; the post va¬
cant; Larouse afterwards found in the company
of the Arab girl, Baila; now under arrest for deser¬
tion. Deserted! There is no one to he trusted. Again
that girl, Baila, at the bottom of our misfortunes.
She is the very incarnaticn of treachery and de¬
ceit. Tell the officer on parade to keep the men
under arms. I shall shortly be with him. (Orderly
lalules and ex its.) I will at once instruct the Lieu¬
tenant to send his prisoner here; a pretty dilemma
1 am in.
[Exit.
Henri. Can you ever regard a penniless prodigal,
like myself?
Cecile. My father loves me fervently; still you
must give him an earnest by your conduct that you
are really reformed.
Henri. Dearest, you have again inspired me with
hope. Yes, I will strive-; I will not give way to des¬
pair.
Cecile. Promise me one thing!
Henri. Any thing.
Cecile. That you never again will be tempted to
game.
Henri. (Taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.)
(GENERAL BONFOIRE comes out at door
suddenly, appears surprised.)
General B. Recover arms; hem! what's all this.
Monsieur Lassere, I may shortly have a message
for you. Cecile, retire; go into my room.
(She exits without speaking.)
Enter CAMILLE, salutes.
Camille. Pardon my intrusion, General, I have
news of importance.
General B. Some fresh mishap?
Camille. You have received my despatch contain¬
ing the report. (General Bonfoire nods angrily and
affirmatively.) I have lodged the prisoner as safely
as circumstances admitted; but this morning we
93* THE LILY OF
were suddenly attacked by a body of Arabs of im- 1
mense force, in the confusion Larouse disappeared,
and I believe he is killed or a prisoner.
General B. This must be enquiredinto, andlhope
your conduct in the affair will bear the scrutiny.
Camille. With all respect, General, I can venture
to say it will.
(Bates)
General B. Let it appear so. Join me on parade,
Lieutenant Camille. (Aside.) 1 detest his cringing
smiles.
[Exit.
Camille. The General's out of temper. Who's the
martinet now; eh, my boy! this will be a capital
opportunity for settling our little engagement.
(Producing dice box.) Should 1 fall you would lose
your promised revenge ; we must prevent that con¬
tingency.
Henri. No, I shall not claim my privilege.
Camille. Come, I have extemporized a table. (Dis¬
mounting bust from pedestal.) One throw does it, and
you are five thousand francs richer. (Rattling dice.)
Listen, boy, to the delicious music; coma- come!
Henri. I will not ?
Camille. Ha, ha 1 a votary of the blind god 'ess—
and afraid of risking a cast of the dice. (Taunt¬
ingly.) Adieu! with your word slighted, your
honour forfeited. I shall no longer press. Adieu.
Henri. Stay, stay; give me the box.
Cecile appears at door, uttperce red bg them■
Henri takes the box and goes to pedestal,
ra'tling dice, Camille anxiously watching
him.
Camille. (Aside.) Fairly snared! an enemy dead,
a rival ruined, this is one of my fortunate days.
Music. As Henri raises his hand to throw,
Cecile. who for a moment t as appealed stu¬
pefied with surprise, sudden y comes down
and seiz's it. hr relinquishes the box, and as
well as Camille is seized with consternation.
Cecile. Is this your faithful promise. Henri ?
Camille. Perdition ; should they discover that the
dice are loaded ! Madamoiselle objects to a little
gentlemanly amusement. (Trumpet heard without.)
The recall!
Cecile. You no longer need amusement. Lieute¬
nant Camile. I believe you are called.
Camille. My dice—
Cecile. I shall retainuntil my father's instructions
are taken, sir. (Trumpet sound.) You are again
snmmoned.
Camille. I obey it, madam. (Aside.) Foiled, foiled.
Damnation.
[.Exi
Cecile. What am I to say to you, Henri! Is this
fair or honourable to me. You have again de¬
ceived, cruelly deceived me. Farewell!
(Exit sorrowfully into room.
Henri. Nay, hear me, Cecile. I implore you, hear
me.
[Exit following her.
SCENE II.—A t lain, near the Arab encampment. A
brook with sloping banks on each side. A large ar¬
tificial palm. Music.
Enter IBRAHAM and DJEZZA.
Djezza. Why have you tarried ?
Jbraham. We were forced to retreat and leave
the field to the christians.
THE DESERT.
Djezza. Did not your yataghan search the heart
of your enemy.
Ibraham. No, I could not reach him; on the first
alarm, his bonds were cut, and I saw him foremost
amongst those who sought to repel us. Many times
I tried to break their ranks, but in vain. At length,
weared by my attempts, I sought my pistol—fired,
and he fell.
Djezza. Dead!
Jbraham. Mahomet grant it.
Djezza. Will you disclose his death toBaila?
Ibraham. Not for the sovereignty of the Sahara
would I forego the chance of humbling her proud
spirit.
Djezza. (Points off.) The maiden comes.
Ibraham. Leave us, we must speak alone.
Djezza. Her brow is black as night.
Ibraham. It speaks of a troubled heart. Will it
be more tranquil when she learns his fate? No!
rather let it break than that he possess it.
Ibraham and Djezza retire up. Music, enter
Baila thoughtful'y, Djezza quietly exit. She
pauses, appears much dejected.
Baila. The tribe have returned. Yet I can hear
nothing of Victor. Should he have fallen; Idaie
not think. No, no, no; he has not-pray heaven,
he has not. (Ibraham comes down.) You have seen
him, speak; have you brought him to the camp;
tell me all!
Ibraham. Our tribe led by me, attacked the in¬
vader ; deadly was the struggle, but you desired it,
and your wish is ever my law. The French, after
the first surprise, proved too strong for us and we
(cursed be the word), retreated.
Baila. And he—you have returned without him?
Ibraham. We have.
Ba.la. This is your boasted-your vaunted
courage, promises only given to delude me. When
they had di agged him away after he had saved my
life, why did you not leave him there to die.
(Weeps.)
Ibraham. You know me not, or how much my
love would make me venture to save—to preserve
you!
(Advances to her.)
Baila. I know enough, had you not been a spy
upon my actions, my meeting with him had re¬
mained a secret.
Ibraham. You wrong me, by the Prophet.
Baila. It was so, how else could you have found
that 1 was absent from the Donar. My tent is se¬
cret to the tribe.
Ioraham. Ask the moon, why it watches
through the night, why its bright beams dispel the
darkness of the midnight hour. My love is not like
that of the Christian slaves, sleeping save when
you are by. No, when the camp is ns still as the
silent stars above it, my heart is throbbing for her
in whose breast no echo of it wakens, and I wander
fortb beneath the blue sky or the storm-changed
cloud, vainly striving to subdue its fury. In such a
mood I had last night left our tents, when a party
of the French, leading away a prisoner, passed the
grove in which I had concealed myself. By the
moonlight I saw it was he, instantly the thought
struck me you were concerned with his misfortune.
I searched near the cataract and found you lying
senseless and alone. I bore you back to Donar,
and on your recovery received for my reward—
Baila. Curses, heart-felt curses.
Ibraham. I was prepared for this ingratitude, and
THE LILY OP
found it. You entreated the tribe to rescue him. I—
1, who of all others have cause to be his enemy, un¬
dertook the enterprize. Hand to hand I fought with
those who guarded him, but in vain; we were
driven back, repulsed, and he—
Baila. Great heaven, what! Great heaven, speak 1
(Wildly seising his hand.)
Ibraham. Fell.
Baila. Fell! {Standsmotionless.) Dead?
Ibraham. A shot pierced his breast, and he fell
dead upon the plain.
Baila. 'Tis false! by yonder sun'tis false! Treach¬
erous villain it was your hand murdered, cruelly
murdered him. (Weeps.) And yet you calmly stand
before me with words of comfort. Away, away 1
Ibraham. Dare you accuse—
Baila. (Fiercely.) Dare, I know it, and you come
to me red with his blood to urge your claim to my
affection. Fool that I was to trust thee.
Ibraham. Already are you deeply purjured and
transient as breath upon a mirror. Why accuse
me of this vile deed? By your order I sought the
redoubt. You sent me; nay, let not your eyes
flash so wildly on me.
Baila. Would that they possessed the power of
the charmed emerald to strike thee, viper, blind;
never let them rest again upon thy hated form.
The spirit of my father prompts me even now to
revenge his death upon his cowardly slayer. Ib¬
raham, follow me not, avoid me or beware, I can¬
not always conquer the strong impulse to re¬
venge.
[Exit frantically.
Ibraham. To be thwarted by an accursed dog.
Mine shall she be, or by the tribe's judgment a slave
forever.
0Music—exit.)
Enter several Arabs icith cushions. Slaves, DUMPS,
SPINES, and MRS. SPINES. SPINES dressed in
a robe and turban.
Bpiriks. You shall be purveyor to the pope. It's a
light, genteel occupation; you will merely have to
apply a cravat peculiar to this country to those
refractory females who incur discipline. We are de¬
termined to give the baggages the sack. Bring
forth the captive. [Exit Dumps.] They woc't work,
and are not ornamental; we will dispose of them,
knock them down by auction; I won't disappoint
you, ladies and gentlemen. I'll begin with my be¬
loved wife, I'll sell her a bargain to any specula¬
tor.
Mrs. S. Sell me! oh, Spinks I Spinks! Where's
your heart ?
Spinks. Under my waistcoat. On second thoughts
I'll dispose of you myself; forget and forgive. The
sale's over, away with you. Come to my arms, be¬
loved Betsy. You Bhall still be bone of my bone,
"Publico."
(Embraces and carries her off. All laughing,
exit after him. Music.
Enter a Party of Soldiers, followed by GENERAL
BONFOIRE and CECILE.
General B. (To Sergeant.) Prepare to bivouac in
the hollow yonder, and mind you take such pre¬
cautions- as will prevent the possibility of surprise.
(Sergeant salutes, soldiers form and march out.)
Cecile. Was it the act of a friend to disclose the
circumstance of Monsieur Victor's desertion
General B. It was his imperative duty. Camille j
THE DESERT. A39
would have been equally culpable fohave concealed
it.
Cecile. Pardon me, the officer who is so careful
that another performs his duty, should strisi.y per¬
form his own, should he not?
General B. Surely.
Cecile. Amongst those interesting entries made
by me in your order book, I believe there is one
against gambling.
General B. It is most strictly prohibited.
Cecile. Any one disregarding the prohibition,
gaming for instance, dicing instead of attending
to a call to arms, would deserve severe punish¬
ment.
General B. Do you reflect on the Lieutenant ?
Speak, where are the proofs ?
Cecile. Here!
(Shewing dice and box.)
General B. Do these belong to Camille ?
(Taking them.)
Cecile. I took them from him. (Smilingly.) It was
my bounden duty, you know. I should have been
equally culpable to have concealedit, should I not?
that, would have been a much greater crime,
would'ut it?
General B. Hum! (Weighing them in his hand.)
He guilty of this. (Examines them.) Thcso dice are
loaded! the scoundrel doubtless has auother set,
differently managed for his especial use. You are
a brave girl. A court-martial awaits him. I will
order his arrest the moment he returns, cowardly,
deceitful villain.
[Exit.
Cecile. And to such persons as these has Henri
been a victim.
[Exit yiickly.
Enter HENRI.
Henri. Cecile—
(She stops.)
Cecile. Why have you followed me ?
Henri. I cannot exist under your displeasure.
Cecile. If I again forgive you, Henri; you would
again deceive me.
Henri. Never! I call heaven to witness. Never
again while I live shall a dice box be touched by
me.
Cecile. Can I believe you sincere?
Henri. I am, indeed, I am. I deserve to be
doubted. Your love has been turned to aversion.
Cecile. Aversion for you; you little know the ad¬
vocate you have here.
(Placing her hand on her breast.)
Henri. Generous girl, I will; believe me, I will
deserve your kindness.
Cecile. We are reconciled. (Offering her hc.:v!, he
takes it and kisses it.) Camille! Retire Henri I
would not have you meet him—pray retire, only
an instant, if you love me.
Henri. You are obeyed, dearest.
[Bet if es.
Enter CAMILLE, hastily.
Camille. Your servant, Madamoiselle. (Bowing.)
This meeting is lucky.
(Aside.)
Cecile. (Bowing.) Yours, sir.
Camille. I have the honour to renew a request
preferred to you this morning, the return of my
dice.
Cecile. And I have the honour to refuse you. I
have placed them in the hands of General Eon.
foire.
910
THE LILY OF THE DESERT.
Camille. (Half apart.) The devil! should he sus¬
pect!
Cecile. He does not suspect, Monsieur.
Camille. (Confused.) What, Madame?
Cecile. No, he knows the dice are loaded: I think
that is the term!
Camille. Exposed! what are the General's inten¬
tions.
Ceci'e. To place you under arrest.
Camille. (Aside.) 'Tis well I am so well fledged.
Not a moment is to be lost. (Loud.) When you see
the General, Madame, present my compliments,
and say that I look forward to the pleasure of
meeting him in his next engagement with my
friends the Arabs to whom I am now going.
Cecile. (Warmly.) I hope he will then reward so
much merit.
Camille. (Ironically.) Till then I have the honour.
(Bowing.)
Cecile. It is mutual.
(Bowing.)
(Exit Camille, Cecile leans against wing.)
Re-enter GENERAL BONFOIRE with HENRI.
General B. Why did you not follow me? (She
comes down.) So pensive, too! why is this, are you
not well?
Cecile. A slight fainting; I am better now.
General B. The troops have all returned, but their
jf.lcsr has not accompanied them.
Henri. He was here a few minutes since.
General B. Here, have you seen him.
(To Cecile.)
Cecile. I have warned him of his danger.
General B. And he has fled!
Cecil . He has, Monsieur.
General B. You have done wrong, Cecile. Henri,
carry a note for me to the sergeant; he must
fellow him. I have a piece of paper in my pocket.
Feels in his pocket, takes out miniature, opens
and looks at it, at first mechanically then
intensely. Henri and Cecile are attracted
by his manner.
General B. Gracious powers! can it be?
Cecde. What is the matter, dear papa.
General B. You received this portrait from the
Arab girl, Baila!
Cecil. (Anxiously.) Yes.
General B. (Breathlessly.) And she told you it was
of—
Cecile. Her mother!
General B. Heaven pardon me, I have hunted for
her as if she were a wild beast.
Whom?
General B. My niece, my orphan sister's child.
(Overcome by his emotions he falls on the
shoulder of Henri.)
Cecile. Lead him away, Henri. Dearest papa, I
entreat you do not despair: pray do not, we will
find her.
Henri. Calm yourself, General.
General II. She is lost, lost to me! wretch that I
am.
(He raises his head, they lead him off quietly.
Music.)
SCENE III. -A wild mountainous region; in the
centre a deep ravine, over which is stretched a
natural bridge of rock, from bridge a path dawn
the mountain-side to stage. The mouth of o cavern,
and mar it a piece of rock. Stunted trees and creep¬
ing plants scattered about. The sun is seen setting
behind the bridge. Music.
Enter BAILA above, supporting VICTOR, who ap¬
pears exhausted and powerless.
Victor. I can go no further; my strength fails, let
me rest here.
Baila. No—no, not here! rouse what little
strength you have; a short distance more, dear
Victor, and we are safe, safe; let that nerve you,
inspire you. Come, lean on me.
Victor. I cannot move; the loss of blood saps my
energy, hut for you, I will strive.
Baila. Courage, dearest; there lean on me; fear
not
Music. They approach the brink of the pre¬
cipice, he holds back. The sun beams fall
strong upon them.
Victor. 'Tis vain! I grow dizzy: I am unequal to
the task. I cannot cross this fearful chasm;
leave me to die.
Baila. We must—we must, Victor; do not hesi¬
tate, I will guide your trembling steps safely over.
Make an effort for my sake, for my sake. It leads
to liberty, happiness, and love.
Victor. I will, 1 will; let us go forward.
Baila. There! close your eyes, do not look down,
bravely; step firmly—grasp my hand, do not think
of danger, see how easily 'tis done. Another step,
and we are safe. (She supports him and they commence
crossing bridge.) Be steady,—there.
(Music. They reach centre of bridge, he tot¬
ters and sinks on one knee. She grasps him
tightly, they regard each other with conster¬
nation.)
Victor. 'Tis impossible; let me go, do not hold
me. One or both of us must sink into the yawning
gnlph; do not grasp me so, or you will he lost.
Leave to my fate.
Baila. No, no, I will never leave you. If you
tremble thus, I cannot sustain you; for my sake be
calm.
Victor. Release me, Baila; do not add to the
terror of this moment. The thought that you must
perish with me.
Baila. Together will we live or die. One more at¬
tempt, and if we fail, its rugged depths shall re¬
ceive us both in death.
(Music. By a mutual effort they rise and
proceed slowly and staggering but without a
word, across bridge. On reaching the
front of the stage by a simultaneous impulse
they kneel.)
JVictor (" Preserved! preserved!
Baila. Now, now you will not despair; you do
not weary me, lean heavier on me. Gome, we
shall soon reach a spot known to few besides my¬
self, where we can rest. You bear up bravely,
nobly. There, rest a moment
(During this speech, they have readied stage,
and Baila has seated Victor on a piece of
rock.)
THE LILY OP THE DESERT.
941
Victor. How can I ever repay your fond devoted-
ness. Ah! the dizziness returns I Water, water.
(She removes his hat and cloak, places them on
a hank.)
Baila. A few steps down the mountain, a brook
taaes its course. (Assists him to rise.) Come, only
a few paces, love.
(Music. They exit, Baila soothing and en¬
couraging him. The sun sinks, and the
scene becomes gradually darker.)
Enter CAMILLE, hurriedly over the bridge.
Camille. My good genius has deserted me at last
»-a fugitive, but Vive la bagatelle! I am well pro¬
vided. (Takes ou< pocket-book, inspects notes.) 'f the
dice have at last betrayed me, 'twas not until suc¬
cess had made me indifferent to exposure. Lassere,
my friend, this little pocket-book contains a good
amount of your worthy father's savings. (Sees cloak.)
Ah! what are these regimentals ? Victor's uniform!
Some of the rascally camp-followers have stripped
his body and left them here. Little did my deceased
comrade think who would be his legatee. (Laughs,
puts them on.) A better disguise I could not have
had.
(Tbrdham appears above, sees Camille crouches
down stealthily.)
lbraham. The companion of her flight there!
Beached at last. (Menacing with knife.) By Allah,
he perishes.
Camille. If aided by this friendly girl, I can bnt
reach the sea-side, I shall easily obtain a passage
to La belle France, and then riot and dissipation
will soon efface the recollection of this mischance.
(Music. lbraham steals across bridge and is
descending. Camille hears him and looks
round. lbraham orouches behind a low
tree.)
Camille. I must not be discovered. (Looking
round.) I thought I heard footsteps. This cavern
will conceal me for a time, and in case of attack,
this may be of use.
(Takes pistol out, cocks it. Enters -avern. lb¬
raham watches and descends cautiously.)
lbraham. The Christian dog cannot escape me
now. (Looking off.) He has sought refuge in the cave.
Vengeance is at hand. Yes, yes, he dies.
(Music. He brandishes knife, and exits into
cave. sPTNKS, MRS. SPINES and
DUMPS run on. Spinks carrying a bundle.)
Mrs. S. Stop, stop, I'm out of breath; I can't run
any further, it's all up hill.
Spinks. It'll soon be all down hill, my dear, down
among the dead men; for what with the French¬
men, and what with the Arabs, blazing away at
each other, the place is to hot to hold us. Oh!
for a penny steamer, or a rail to carry us safe out
of it.
Dumps. We shall all be shot!
Spinks. Don't you be at all alarmed, Ali Ben
Hookey. No bullet will ever be billeted on your
ugly carcase; you are reserved for a higher destiny
at home.
Dumps. What do you mean ?
Spinks. Some fine morning, you'll be starting
from the Old Bailey Terminus of the Great Trunk
Extension Neckor Nothing line, by the eight o'clock
down train, without a return ticket.
Dumps. I never heard of tha' concern. Who's the
Managing Director of the line I
Spinks. John Ketch, Esq.
Mrs. S. When shall we ever see St. Paul's again ?
My poor father.
Spinks. Hold your tongue. You should never re-
memberpoor relations, they always remember you.
I intend starting at once ; this little memento has
revived my slumbering patriotism. (Holding up
bundle, which is tied in the Union Jack handkerchief.)
Oan a Briton look at this precious relic without
thinking of his country and her taxes ? Never, oh
no. never.
Mrs. S. I wish I could see it floating over Green¬
wich Hospital. How are we ever to get back to
England ?
Spinks. We'll trust to the sweet little cberub up
aloft. I'm a stag at bay; so I shall make a hold
dash for Portugal Street. Bamboozle the commis¬
sioners ; and as I'm completely floored, let them
serve me as they do the ceilings.
Mrs. S. How is that ?
Spinks. Whitewash me, to be sure.
(Pistol heard.)
Mrs. S. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall we do.
(Clinging to Spinks.) There's guupowder going off
again.
Dumps. We shall be riddled like cullenders.
Spinks. We must toddle, my angel, as fast aa we
can. {Noise without.) The enemy! it won't do to
get into their claws: make haste, run into this
cave, we have no choice. Open sesame. Run for
it.
(They run into the cave, Spinks last. Music-
Enter Soldiers headed by Sergeant.
Sergeant. The Arab entered this cavern, if he re¬
fuses to surrender, we must Are. (Calls out.) Sur¬
render. (A pause.) No reply—make ready—pre¬
sent—
(A scream. Spinks holding up the Union Jack
handkerchief.)
Spinks. Stop, stop; spare your powder 1 we sur¬
render ; don't insult my flag, this is it—that braved
the battle and the breeze for a thousand years.
(Shakes it.) Damage a rag of it, and you'll have the
House of Commons—Lords—Horse Guards and
Admiralty down upon your tibby.
Dumps. Hooray!
Sergeant. W here is the Arab chief ?
Spinks. In that cave, fighting like a devil with
a French officer. (Soldiers and Sergeant enter cave
with Spinks. Music, Baila re-enters with Victor.)
Lead on, I'll follow.
Baila. Cling to me, love—
Victor. Your gentle attention, and yon cooling
Btream has partially restored me.
Baila. Sit, sit. (Places him.) 'Twas here we left
your cloak.
(Baila searches for cloak and becomes
alarmed. Soldiers re-enter from cave with
sergeant, they summon Victor and Baila.)
Sergeant. The escaped prisoner!
Baila. In mercy's name do not stay us. Let us
fly, come.
(Drags him forward.)^
Sergeant, Attempt to escape, and the men shal
Are.
Baila. (Throwing herself before Victor.) Do notfear,
dear Victor, away; they would not—could not tire
on a helpless woman. Fly, live, live for me; and in
after times think of the poor Arab girl, who by her
942
THE LILY OP
THE DESERT.
death proved how dearly you were loved. Do not
hesitate, my bosom shall receive their bullets it they
dare fire.
(.Forcing him off.)
Victor. My life 1 Never, never!
Baila. You shall, you shall; deathhaB no terrors
for me; back—back. As the tigress of the desert, I
will protect him. (Then raise their guns.) Let this be
your mark, this bursting heart (Raises her hand,
pointing to her breast, with the other forces Victor
back, he sinks on the rock.) Fi-fti C dare you.
Sergeant. Another moment.
Music rapid.
Enter GENERAL EONFOIRE, HENRI, and CE-
CILE, Soldiers with torches.
General B. Recover arms!
(Baila wildly runs to General Bonfoire, and
falls at his feet.)
Baila. Pardon, pardon; I only am to blame—I
to whom you were once so good, so kind. I who
basely repaid that kindness with treachery. 'Twas
I that lured him from his duty, tempted him to de¬
sert his post.
Victor. (Timidly.) Baila, I beseech you—
Baila. I will speak—'twas to Rave my life, to
en-itch me from the torrent he for an instant
quitted his post to save me; call you this d usertion,
you must—you will—
(Seizing his hand.)
General B. Girl, tell me in heaveu's name! This
portrait. (Shewspicture.) From waom did you re¬
ceive it!
Baiia. From my mother. She was of your country,
taken as a slave; my father, the chief, loved and
wedded her. That was her father's picture.
General B. Her name—her name!
Baila. Adrienne, I know no other.
General B. (Embracing her.) My sister's orphan
Child.
Baila. And Victor?
General B. Is saved!
Baila. You bear—you hear, dearest. (Takes Vic-
tor's hand.) Joy is yet in store for us, happiness and
peace.
(Embraces, a shout heard in the cave.)
Spinlcs. (Callingwithin cave.) Help! manslaughter!
wilful murder! (Rushes on with Mrs. S.) One gen¬
tleman shot another gentleman, and frightened this
gentleman out of his wits.
General B. My English friends again.
(Smiles.)
Spinlcs. Sir, you're a gentleman! Blessings on
your old cocked hat! Do the handsome thiDg, and
send us home; once there, catch ns travelling
again that's all—can you lend me five shillings ? (Ge¬
neral Bonfoire offers his hand, Spinks takes it.) This
is at it should be—two great nations hand in hand,
French wines and British brandy.
Bumps. Hooray.
(Music. Camille staggers on, his clothes torn,
hair dishevelled, pale and bleeding.)
Omnes. Camille!
Camille. Dying. (Laughs.) Ha! ha! do not pity
me; the Arab dog paid with his life; he stabbed me,
a coward, in the back. Lassere, Victor, all have
good cause to hate me. Can you pardon ?
Baila. We forgive.
Camille. General, they love each other! Henri is
poor, by my means he shall become rich. (Offers
pocket-book.) This contains all I robbed you of;
take it, pardon a dying wretch, let my last act be
an act of justice.
(Falls dead, all regard him with pity. Music.)
Baila. The sun of our happiness shines un¬
clouded, the wandering Arab spy lives to be yours,
loved and honoured as the Christian's friend and
wife
(Tableau,)
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
A COilEDT, IN THREE ACTS.—BY R. B. SHERIDAN.
Miss H.—u Pray, one word with you."— Act iii, scone 1.
hmns ^egresmlefo.
Loud Foppington.
Sir Tunbf.lly Clumsy.
Colonel Townly.
Young Fashion.
Loveless.
Probe.
Lory.
La Varole.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Room in an Inn.
Enter YOUNG FASHION, LORY, and Postilion.
Young F. Lory, pay the post-boy, ahd take the
portmanteau.
Lory. 'Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy
take the portmanteau, and pay himself.
Young F. Why, sure there's something left in it.
Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir—
, Young F. Why, 'sdeath! it appears full.
Lory Yes, sir; I made bold to stuff it with hay,
to save appearances, and look like baggage.
Tradesmen.
Postilion.
Amanda.
Berintiiia.
Mrs. Coupler.
Miss Hoyden.
Nurse.
Sempstress.
Young F. What the devil shall I do ? Harkye.
boy, what's the chaise ?
Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour.
Young F. Can you give me change for a guinea ?
Post. O yes, sir!
Lory. So, what will he do now ? Lord, sir, you
had better let the boy be paid below.
Young F. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will
he as well.
Lory. Yes, yes; I'll tell them to discharge you
below, honest friend.
Post. Please, your honour, there are the turn¬
pikes, too.
Young F. Ay, ay, the turnpikes, by all mean0.
914
A TEIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
Post. I hope your honour -will order me some¬
thing.
Young F. To be sure; bid them give you a
crown.
Lory. Yes, yes, my master doesn't care what you
charge them, so get along, you
Post. And there's the ostler, your honour.
Lory. Psha! damn the ostler I Would you im¬
pose on the gentleman's generosity ?
[Exit Postilion.
Lory. Well, sir, you have arrived at Scarborough
not worth a guinea: I hope you'll own yourself a
happy man - you have outlived all your cares.
Young F. How so, sir?
Lory. Why, you have nothing left to take care
of. But now, sir, for my Lord Foppington, your
elder brother.
Young F. D—n my eldest brother.
Lory. With all my heart; but get him to redeem
your annuity, however. Look you, sir
Young F. Look you, sir, are you so impenetrable
a blockhead as to Believe he'll help me with a
farthing ?
Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en has, as you
used to do.
Young F. Why, how would'st have me treat
him?
Lory. Like a trout, tickle him.
Young F. 1 can't flatter.
Lory. Can you starve?
Young F. Yes.
Lory. I can't. Good-by t'ye, sir.
Young F. Stay, thou'lt distract me. But who
comes here ? My old friend, Colonel Townly.
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
My dear Colonel. I am rejoiced to meet you here.
Col. T. Dear Tom, this is an unexpected plea¬
sure ; what, are you come to Scarborough to be
present at your brother's wedding ?
Lory. An, sir, if it had been his funeral, we
should have come with pleasure.
Col. T. What, Lory, are you with your master
still ?
Lory. Yes, sir, I have been starving with him
ever since I saw your honour last.
Young F. Go, go, sir, and take care of the bag¬
gage.
Lory. Yes, sir. The baggage! OLord! I sup¬
pose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very
particular where he stows it?
Young F. Get along, you rascal! [Exit Lory.'] But,
Colonel, are you acquainted with my proposed
sister-in-law ?
Col. T. Only by character; her father, Sir Tun-
belly Clumsy, lives within a quarter of a mile of
this place, in a lonely old house, which nobody
comes near. She never goes abroad, nor sees
company at home ; in short, nobody has free ad¬
mission there but our old acquaintance, Mother
Coupler, who has procured your brother this match,
and is, I believe, a distant relation of Sir Tun-
belly's.
Young F. But is her fortune so considerable ?
Col. T. Three thousand a year, and a good sum
of money, independent of her father, beside.
Young F. 'Sdeath! that my old acquaintance,
Dame Coupler, could not have thought of me, as
well as my brother, for such a prize.
Col. T. Egad, f wouldn't swear that you are too
late; his lordship, I know, hasn't yet seen the lady,
and, I believe has quarrelled with his patroness.
Young F. My dear Colonel, what an idea have
you started!
Col. T. l'ursue it if you can, and you shall have
my assistance; for, beside my natural contempt
for his lordship, I have at present the enmity of a
rival towards him.
Young F. Has he been addressing your old flame,
the widow Berinthia?
Col. T. Faith, Tom, I am at present most whim¬
sically circumstanced. I came here a month ago
to meet the lady you mention ; but she failing iu
her promise, I, partly from pique, and partly from
idleness, have been diverting my chagrin by offer¬
ing up incense to the beauties of Amanda, our
friend Loveless's wife.
Young F. And Berinthia has never appeared ?
Col. T. Oh, there's the perplexity; for just as I
began not to care whether I ever saw her again or
not, last night she arrived: not condescending to
give me any serious reasons for having fooled me
for a month, I left her in a huff.
Young F. Well, well, I'll answer for it she'll soon
resume her power; but my coxcomb of a brother
is an admirer of Amanda's too, is he ?
Col. T. Yes, and I believe is most heartily de¬
spised by her; but come with me, and you shall
see her and your old friend Loveless.
Young F. I must pay my respects to his lordship:
perhaps you can direct me to his lodgings.
Col. T. Come with me; I shall pass by it.
Young F. I wish you could pay this visit for me,
or could tell me what I should say to him.
Col. T. Say nothing to him; apply yourself to his
bag, his sword, his feather, his snuff-box! and
when you are well with them, desire him to lend
you a thousand pounds, and I'll engage you pros¬
per.
Young F. 'Sdeath and furies! .why was that cox¬
comb thrust into the world before me ? O Fortune,
Fortune, thou art a jilt, by gad!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Dressing Room,.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTON and LA VAROLE.
Lord F. Well, 'tis an unspeakable pleasure to be
a man of quality; strike me dumb; even the boors
of this northern spa have learned the respect duo
to a title. (Aside.) La Varole !
La Var. Mi lor—
Lord F. You han't yet been at Muddymoat-hall,
to announce my arrival, have you?
La Var. Not yet, mi lor.
Lord F. Then you need not go till Saturday.
[Exit La Varole.] As I am in no particular haste to
view my intended sposa, I shall sacrifice a day or
two more to the pursuit of my friend Loveless's
wife. Amanda is a charming creature, strike mo
ugly: and if I have any discernment in the world,
she thinks no less of my Lord Foppington.
Re-enter LA VAROLE.
La Var. Mi lor, de shoemaker, de tailor, de
hosier, de sempstress, de peru, be all ready, if your
lordship please to dress.
Lord F. "Pis well; admit them.
La Var. Hey, messieurs, entrez.
Enter Tailor, Shoemaker, and Servants.
Lord F. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all taken
pains to shew yourselves masters in your profes¬
sions.
A TRIP TO S
Tax. I think I may presume, sir
La Var. Mi lor, you clown you.
Tai. My lord, 1 ask your lordship's pardon, my
lord. I hope, my lord, your lordship will be
pleased to own I have brought your lordship as ac¬
complished a suit of clothes as ever peer of Eng¬
land wore; will your lordship please to view 'em
now?
Lord F. Ay; but let my people dispose the
glasses so that I may see myself before and be¬
hind ; for I love to see myself all round.
Enter YOUNG- FASHION and LORY.
Young F. Heyday! what the devil have we here ?
Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at Court,
he has got so many people at his levee.
{Apart.)
Lory, Sir, these people come in order to make
him a favourite at Court; they are to establish him
with the ladies. (Apart.)
Young F. Good heaven 1 to what an ebb of taste
are women fallen, that it should be in the power of
a lace coat to recommend a gallant to them.
(Apart.)
Lory. Sir, tailors and hairdressers debauch all
the women. (Apart.)
Young F. Thou say'st true. But' now for my re¬
ception. (Apart.)
Lord F. (To Tailor.) Death and eternal tortures,
sir! I say the coat is too wide here by a foot 1
Tai. My lord, if it had been tighter, 'twould
neither have hooked nor buttoned.
Lord F. Rat the hooks and buttons, sir! Can any¬
thing be worse than this? As Gad shall jedge
me, it hangs on my shoulders like a chairman's
surtout.
Tai. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's
fancy.
Lory. There, sir, observe what respect does.
Young F. Respect 1 D—n him for a coxcomb;
but let's accost him. (Apart.) Brother, I'm your
humble servant.
Lord F. O Lard, Tam, I did not expect you in
England. Brother, I'm glad to see you; but what
has brought you to Scarborough, Tam ? Look you,
sir, (To Tailor.) I shall never be reconciled to this
nauseous wrapping-gown, therefore pray get me
another suit with all possible expedition; for this
is my eternal aversion. [Exit Tailor.] Well, but,
Tam, you don't tell me what has driven you to
Scarborough. Mrs. Calico, are you not of my
mind?
Semp. Directly, my lord. I hope your lordship
is pleased with your ruffles?
LordF. In love with them, stab my vitals 1 Bring
me your bill, you shall be paid to-morrow.
Semp- I humbly thank your lordship.
[Exit,
Lord F. Hark thee, shoemaker, these shoes a'nt
ugly, but they don't fit me.
Shoe. My lord, I think they fit you very well.
LordF. They hurt me just below the instep.
Shoe. No, my lord, they don't hurt you there.
Lord F. 1 tell thee they pinch me execrably.
Shoe. Why, then, my lord, if those shoes pinch
you, I'll be d——
Lord F. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade
me I cannot feel ?
Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you
thick fit, but that shoe does not hurt you; I think
I understand my trade.
Lord F. Now, by all that's good and powerful,
CARBOROUGH, 94S
thou art an incomprehensive coxcomb, but thou
makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee.
Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people
of quality in this town these twenty years, and 'tis
very hard 1 shouldn't know when a shoe hurts, and
when it don't.
Lord F. Well, pr'ythee, begone about thy busi¬
ness. [Exit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, the calves
of these stockings are thicken'd a little too much:
they make my legs look like a porter's.
Mend. My lord, methinks they look mighty well.
Lord F. Ay, but you are not so good a judge of
those things as I am, I have studied them all my
life ; therefore, pray let the next be the thickness
of a crown piece less.
Mend. My lord, they are the same kind I had the
honour to serve your lordship with in town.
Lord F. Very possibly, Mr. Mendlegs, but that
was in the beginning of the winter, and you should
always remember, that if you make a nobleman's
spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you
cummit a manstrous impropriety, and make no al¬
lowance for the fatigues of the winter.
(Exit Hosier.
Jewel. I hope, my lord, those buckles have had
the unspeakable satisfaction of being honoured
with your lordship's approbation?
Lord F. Why, they are of a pretty fancy; but
don't you think them rather of the smallest?
Jewel. My lord, they could not well be larger, to
keep on your lordship's shoe.
Lord F~. My good sir, you forget that these mat¬
ters ai e not as they used to be : formerly, indeed,
the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to keep
on the shoe; but the case is now quite reversed,
and the shoe is of no earthly use, but to keep on
the buckle. Now give me my watches, (to Serv.)
my chapeau,—my handkerchief, — my snaff bax:
there, now the business of the morning is pretty
well over.
[Exit Jeweller.
Young. F. Well, Lory, what dost think on't! a
very friendly reception from a brother, after three
years' absence!
(Apart.)
Lory. Why, sir, 'tis your own fault, here you
have stood ever since you came in, and have not
commended one thing that belongs to him.
(Apart.)
Young F. iServants all go off.) Nor ever shall
while they belong to a coxcomb. (Apart.) Now
your people of business are gone, brother, I hope
I may obtain a quarter of an hour's audience of
you.
Lord F. Faith, Tam, I must beg you'll excuse
me at this time, for I have an engagement which
I would not break for the, salvation of mankind.
Eh, is my carriage at the door? Excuse me,
brother.
Young F. Shall you be back to dinner?
Lord F. As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell;
for it is passible I may dine with some friends at
Donner's.
Young F. Shall I meet you there? for I must
needs talk with you.
Lord F. That, I'm afraid, mayn't be quite so pra-
per; for those I commonly eat with are a people
of nice conversation; and you know, Tam, your
education has been a little at large; but there ara
other ordinaries in town, very good beef ordina¬
ries. I suppose, Tam, you can eat beef? How-
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
946
ever, dear Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England,
stup my vitals!
[Exit.
Young F. 'Sdeath! Is this to be borne? Bat
'tis enough; I will now shew you the excess of my
passion, by being very calm. Come, Lory, lay
your loggerhead to mine, and, in cold blood, let us
contrive his destruction.
Lory. Here comes a head, sir, would contrive it
better than both our loggerheads, if she would but
join in the confederacy.
young F. By this light, Madam Coupler! she
seems dissatisfied at something: let us observe
her. (Retire.)
Enter MRS. COUPLER.
Mrs. C. So! I am likely to be well rewarded for
my services, truly; my suspicions, I find, were but
too just. What! refuse to advance me a petty
sum, when I am upon the point of making him
master of a galleon! But let him look to the con¬
sequences, an ungrateful, narrow-minded cox¬
comb.
Young F. (Comes forward.) So he is, upon my
soul, old lady; it must be my brother you speak
of.
Mrs. C. Ha! stripling, how came you here?
What, hast spent all, eh ? And art thou come to
dun his lordship for assistance?
loung F. No, I want somebody's assistance to
cut his lordship's throat, without the risk of being
hang'd for him.
Mrs. C. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to do him
almost as good a turn, without the danger of being
burn'd in the hand for't.
Young F. How, how, old Mischief?
Mrs. C. Why, you must know 1 have done you
the kindness to make up a match for your
brother.
Young F. I'm very mueh beholden to you,
truly.
Mrs. C. You may before the wedding day: for
your brother's a knave.
Young F. Good.
Mrs. C. He has given me a bond of a thousand
pounds for helping him to this lady, and has pro¬
mised me as much more in ready money, upon the
day of the marriage; which, I understand by a
friend, he never designs to pay me; and his just
now refusing to pay me a part is a proof of it If,
therefore, you will be a generous young rogue, and
secure me five thousand pounds, I'll help you to the
lady.
Young F. And how the devil wilt thou do that?
Mrs. G. Without his aid, I warrant thee. Thy
brother's face not one of the family ever saw; the
whole business has been arranged by me, and all
his letters go through my hands. Sir Tunbelly
Clumsy, my relation, is .apprised of his lordship's
being down here, and expects him to-morrow to
receive his daughter's hand ; but the peer, I find,
means to bait here a few days longer to recover the
fatigue of his journey. Now shall you go toMud-
dymoat-hall in his place. I'll give you a letter of
introduction : and if you don't marry the girl
before sun-set, you deserve to be hanged before
morning.
Young F. Agreed, agreed; and for thy reward—
Mrs. C. Well, well; though I warrant thou hast
not a farthing of money in thy pocket now
Young F. N ot a souse by Jupiter.
Mrs. C. Must I advance, then? Well, be at my
lodging, next door, this evening, and I'll see what
may be done, we'll Bign and seal, and when I have
given thee some further instructions, thou shalt
hoist sail, and begone. [Exit.
Young F. So, Lory, Fortune, thou seest, at last
takes care of merit. .
Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't Btep between the
cup and the lip, as he used to do.
Young B. Why, faith, he has played me many a
sad trick; and, egad, I am almost afraid he's at
work about it again now ; but if I should tell thee
how, thoud'st wonder at me.
Lory. Indeed, sir, I have wondered at you so
often, I can wonder at you no more.
Young F. What would'st thou say if a qualm of
conscience should spoil my designs ?
Lory. 1 would eat my words, and wonder more-
than ever.
Young F. Why faith, Lory, though I have played
many a roguish trick, this is so full grown a cheat,
I find I have scruples.
Lory. They are strong symptoms of death. If
you find them increase, sir, pray make your
will.
Young F. No, my conscience shan't starve me,
neither; but before I execute this project, I'll try
my brother to the bottom. If he has yet so much
humanity about him to assist me, though with a
moderate aid, I'll drop my project at his feet, and
shew him how I can do for him much more thaD
what I'd ask he'd do for me. This one conclusive
trial of him I resolve to make.
Succeed or fail, still vict'ry is my lot;
If I subdue his heart, 'tis well,—if not,
I will subdue my conscience to my plot.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IIL—A Room.
Enter AMANDA and LOVELESS.
Aman. I am satisfied with every thing that
pleases you, else I had not come to Scarborough at
all.
Love. Oh! a little of the noise and folly of this
place will sweeten the pleasures of our retreat.
Aman. That pleasing prospect will be my chiefcst
entertainment, whilst, much against my will, I en¬
gage in those empty pleasures which 'tis so much
the fashion to be fond of.
Love, I own most of them are, indeed, but
empty; yet there are delights which may divert
an honest man, and be a harmless entertainment
to a virtuous woman: good music is one: and
truly (with some small allowance) the plays, I
think, may be esteemed another.
Aman. Plays, I confess, have some small
charms. What do you think of that you saw last
night ?
Love. To say truth, I did not mind it much; my
attention was for some time taken off to admire
the workmanship of nature, in the face of a young
lady who sat some distance from me, she was jo
exquisitely handsome.
Aman. So exquisitely handsome!
Love. What, alarmed, Amanda?
Aman. It is my duty to be so when you are in
danger.
Love. You are too quick in apprehending for me.
I viewed her with a world of admiration, but not
1 one glanco of love.
A TRIP TO E
Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice dis¬
tinctions. But where your eyes the only things
that were inquisitive ? who was she, pray?
Love. Indeed I cannot tell.
Aman. You will not tell.
Love. Upon my honour, then, I did not ask.
Aman. Do you know what company was with
her?
Love. I do not. But why are you so earnest
Aman. I thought I had cause.
Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda ; for turn
die case, and let it be your story,—
Enter a Servant,
Serv. Madam, there is a lady at the door in a
chair desires to know whether your ladyship sees
company ? her name is Berinthia.
Aman. Oh dear! 'tis a relation I have not seen
these five years, pray her to walk in. (Exit
Servant.) Here's another beauty for you; she
was, when I saw her last, reckoned extremely
handsome.
Love. Don't be jealous now; for I shall gaze upon
her too.
Enter BERINTHIA.
if a! by Heavens, the very woman 1
(Aside.)
her. Dear Amanda, I did not expect to meet you
in Scarborough.
Aman. Sweet cousin, I'm overjoyed to see you.
Mr. Loveless, here's a relation and a friend of mine,
I desire you'll be better acquainted with.
Love. If my wife never desires a harder thing,
madam, her request will be easily granted.
Re-enter a servant.
Serv. Sir, my Lord Foppington presents his hum¬
ble service to you, and it be not inconvenient to
you, he'll come and wait upon you.
Love. Give my compliments to his lordship, and
I shall be glad to see him. (Exit Servant). If you
are not acquainted with his lordship, madam, you
will be entertained with his character.
Aman. Now it moves my pity more than my
mirth to see a man, whom nature has made no
fool, be so very industrious to pass for an ass.
Love. Nay, Amanda; pity those whom nature
abuses, never those who abuse nature.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTON.
Lord F. Dear Loveless, I am your most humble
servant,
Love. My lord, I'm yours.
Lord F. Madam, your ladyship's very obedient
slave.
Love. My lord; this lady is a relation of my
wife's.
Lord F. (Kisses her hand.) The beautifullest race
of people upon earth, rat me 1 Dear Loveless, I am
overjoyed that you think of continuing here. I am,
stap my vitals ; For gad's sake, madam, how has
your ladyship been able to subsist thus long,
under the fatigue of a country life ?
(To Amanda.)
Aman. My life has been very far from that, my
lord ; it has been a very quiet one.
Lord F. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, ma¬
dam ; for 'tis impossible to be quiet, without
thin&ing; now thinking is to me the greatest fa¬
tigue in the world.
DARBOROUGH. 017
Aman. Does not your lordship love reading,
then't
Lord F. Oh, passionately, madam; but I never
think of what I read.
her. Why, can your lordship read without
thinking.
LordF. Oh, lud! can your ladyship pray with¬
out devotion? But, to say the truth, madam, let a
man love reading never so well, when once he
comes to know the towD, he finds so many tetter
ways of passing away the four-and-twenty liouiv,
that 'twere ten thousand pities he should consume
his time in that: for example, madam, my life is a
perpetual stream of pleasure, that glides through
with such a variety of entertainments, I believe toe
wisest of our ancestors never had the least concep¬
tion of any of 'em. I rise, madam, when in tawu,
abaut twelve o'clock. I don't rise sooner, because
it is the worst thing in the world for the com¬
plexion : nat that I pretend to be a beau; but a
man must endeavour to look decent, lest he nmke
so odious a figure in the side-bax, the ladies should
be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play. So,
at twelve o'clock, I say, I rise, haw, if I find it is
a good day, I resalve to take the exercise of riding;
so, drink .my chocolate, and diaw on my boots, by
two. On my return, 1 dress; and after dinner,
lounge, perhaps, to the opera.
her. Your lordship, I suppose, is fond of music ?
LordF. Oh. passionately! on Tuesdays and Sa¬
turdays ; for then there is always the best company,
and one is expected to undergo the fatigue of
listening.
Aman. Does your lordship think that the case at
the opera ?
Lord F. Most certainly, madam. There is my
Lady Tattle, my Lady Prate, my Lady Titter, my
Lady Sneer, my Lady Giggle, and my Lady Grin;
these have boxes in the front, and, while any
favourite air is singing, are the prettiest company
in the waurld, stap my vitals! Mayn't we hope
for the honour to see you added to our society,
madam ?
Aman. Alas! I am the worst company in the
world at a concert; I'm so apt to attend to the
music.
Lord F. Why, madam, that is very pardonable
in the country or at church, but a monstrous inat¬
tention in a polite assembly. I am afraid I tire the
company.
Love. Not at all. Pray go on.
Lord F. Why, then, ladies, there only remains
to add, that I generally conclude the evening at
one or other of the clubs: nat that I ever play
deep; indeed, I have been for some time tied up
from losing above five thousand pounds at a sit¬
ting.
Love. But isn't your lordship sometimes obliged
to attend the weighty affairs of the nation ?
Lord F. Sir, as to weighty affairs, I leave them
to weighty heads; I never intend mine shall be a
burden to my body.
her. Nay, my lord, but you are a pillar of the
state.
Lord F. An ornamental pillar, madam; for
sooner than undergo any part of the fatigue, rat
me, but the whole building should fall plump to
the ground.
Aman. But, my lord, a fiDe gentleman spends a
great deal of his time in his intrigues; you have
given us no account of them yet.
Lord F. So! She would inquire into my amours!
948
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
that's jealousy, poor soul! I see she's in love with
me. (Aside.) O lord, madam! I had like to forgot a
secret I must needs tell your ladyship. Ned, you
must not he so jealous, now, as to listen.
Love. Not I, my lord; I am too fashionable a
husband to pry into the secrets of my wife.
Lord. F. 1 am in love with you, to desperation,
strike me speechless 1
{Apart.)
Aman. (Strikes him.) Then thus I return your
passion, an impudent fool!
Lord F. Gad's curse, madam! I am a peer of the
realm.
Love. Eh! what, the devil, do you affront my
wife, sir ? nay, then—
(Draws; they fight.)
Aman. What has my folly done? Help, mur¬
der 1 help! Part them, for heaven's sake!
Lord F. Ah! quite through the body, stap my
vitals 1
Enter Servant.
Love. (Runs to Lord Foppington,) I hope I ha'n't
killed the fool, however. Bear him up; call a sur¬
geon there!
(A Servant crosses, and goes off.)
Lord F. Ay, pray make haste.
Love. This mischief you may thank yourself
for.
Lord F. I may so; love's the devil, indeed,
Ned!
Enter PROBE and Servant.
Serv. Mr. Probe, sir, was just going by the
door.
Lord F. He's the welcomest man alive.
Probe. Stand by, stand by, stand by; pray, gen¬
tlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us, did
you never see a man run through the body before ?
Pray, stand by.
Lord F. Ah, Mr. Probe, I'm a dead man!
Probe. A dead man, and I by 1 I should laugh to
Bee that, egad !
Love. Pr'ythee, don't stand prating, but look upon
his wound.
Probe. Why, what if I won't look upon his wound
this hour, sir ?
Love, Why, then he'll bleed to death, sir.
Probe. Why, then, I'll fetch him to life again,
sir.
Love. 'Slife! he's run through the body, I tell
thee.
Probe I wish he was run through the heart, and
I should get the more credit by his cure. Now, I
hope, you are satisfied. Come, now let me come
at him; uow let me come at him. (Viewing his
wound.) Oons! what a gash is here! Why, sir, a
man may drive a coach and six horses into your
body.
Lord F. Oh!
Probe. Why, what the devil! have you run the
gentlemen through with a scythe ? A little scratch
between the skin and the ribs, that's all.
(Aside.)
Love. Let me see his wound.
Probe. Then you shall dress it, sir; for if any
body looks upon it I won't.
Love. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever
saw.
Probe. Sir, I am not master of my trade for
nothing.
Lord F. Surgeon 1
Probe. Sir.
Lord F. Are there any hopes ?
Probe. I can't tell. What are you willing to gftfl
for a cure 1
Lord F. Five hundred paunds, with pleasure.
Probe. Why, then, perhaps, there may be hopes;
but we must avoid a further delay. Here, help the
gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house
presently; that's the properest place—to hubble
him out of his money. (Aside.) Come, come! there,
in with him.
Lord F. Dear Loveless, adieu! if I die, I forgive
thee; and, if I live, I hope thou wilt do as much
by me. I am sorry you and I should quarrel, but
I hope here's an end on't; for, if you are satisfied, I
am.
Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prosecuting
any further, so you may be at rest. sir.
Lord F. Thou art a generous fellow, strike me
dumb! but thou hast an impertinent wife, stap my
vitals! (Aside.)
Probe. So; carry him off, carry him off; wa
shall have him prate himself into a fever by-and-
by; carry him off. [Exeunt, with Lord Foppington.
Love. Nay, I saw his wound; 'tis nothing.
Enter COLONEL TOWNLT.
Col. T. So, so; I am glad to find you alive, and
that you have corrected him without further mis¬
chief, or you might have deprived me of the
pleasure of executing a plot against his lordship,
which I have been contriving with an old acquaint¬
ance of yours.
Love. Explain.
Col. T. His brother, Tom Fashion, is come down
here, and we have it in contemplation to save him
the trouble of his intended wedding; but we want
your assistance instantly. Tom would have called,
but he is preparing for his enterprise, so I promised
to bring you to him; so, if these ladies can spare
you—
Love. I'll go with you, with all my heart;—
(Aside.) ;though I could wish—how engaging she
is! but what have I to do with beauty ? I have al¬
ready had my portion, and must not covet more.
Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you
before you go.
Love. What would my dear ?
Aman. Only a woman's foolish question, how do
you like my cousin here ?
Love. Why, I confess she's handsome: but you
must not think I slight your kinswoman, if I own
to you, of all the women who may claim that cha¬
racter, she is the last that would triumph in my
heart.
Aman. I am satisfied.
Love. Now, tell me why you asked.
Aman. At night I will. Adieu.
Love. I'm yours.
[.Exeunt Love, and Col. T.
Aman. I'm glad to find he does not like her, fori
have a great mind to persuade her to come and
live with me. (Aside.)
Ber. So! I find my colonel continues in his airs.
(Aside.)
Aman. For heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me what
way I shall take to persuade you to come and live
with me.
Ber. Why, one way in the world there is, and but
one.
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
949
Aman. And pray what is that?
Ber. It is to assure me I shall be very welcome.
Aman. It that be all, you shall e'en sleep here to¬
night.
Ber. To-night! Why, the people where I lodge
will think me mad.
A man. Let 'em think what they please.
Ber. Say you so, Amanda? Why, then, they
shall think what they please; for I'm a young
widow, and I care not what anybody thinks. Ah,
Amanda! it's a delicious thing to be a young
widow.
Aman. You'll hardly make me think so.
Ber. Because you are in love with your hus¬
band.
Aman. Pray, 'tis with a world of innocence I
would inquire, what is ycrur opinion of Colonel
Townly ?
Ber. Why, I can assure you, there's not a man
in town who has a better interest with the women
that are worth having an interest with.
Aman. He answers the opinion I had ever of
him. I must acquaint you with a secret: 'tis not
that fool Foppington alone has talked to me of love,
Townly has been tampering too.
Ber. So, so! here the mystery comes out. (Aside.)
Colonel Townly! impossible, my dear.
Aman. 'Tis true, indeed; though he has done it
in vaiD; nor do I think that all the merit of man¬
kind combined, could shake the tender love I bear
my husband: yet I will own to you, Berinthia, I
did not start at his addresses, as when they came
from one whom I contemned.
Ber. Oh ! this is better and better! (Aside.) Well
said, innocence! And you really think, my dear,
that nothing could abate your constancy and at¬
tachment to your husband ?
Aman. Nothing, I am convinced.
Ber. What if you found he lov'd another woman
better?
Aman. Well?
Ber. Well I why, were I that thing they call a
slighted wife, somebody should run the risk of
being that thing they call, a husband. Don't I talk
madly?
Aman. Madly, indeed!
Ber. Yet I'm very innocent.
Aman. That, I dare swear you are. I know how
to make allowances for your humour: but you re¬
solve, then, never to marry again ?
Ber. Oh, no 1 I resolve I will.
Aman. How so ?
Ber. That I never may.
Aman. You banter me.
Ber. Indeed, I don't; but a—heavens! I have
business at home, and am half an hour too
late!
Aman. As you are to return with me, I'll just give
some orders, and walk with you.
Ber. Well, make haste, and we'll finish this sub¬
ject as we go. (Exit Amanda.) Well, this discovery
is lucky! Base Townly! at once, false to me, and
treacherous to his friends! and my innocent and
demure cousin, too! I have it in my power to be
revenged on her, however. Her husband, if I have
any skill in countenance, would be as happy in my
smiles, as Townly can hope to be in hers. I'll
make the experiment, come what will on it. The
woman who can forgive the being robbed of a fa¬
voured lover, must be either an idiot or something
worse,
[Exit.
ACT IT.
SCENE L-rA Boom.
Enter LORD FOPPINGTON and LA YAROLE.
Lord F. Fellow, let my vis-a-vis come to the
door.
La Var. Will your lordship venture so soon to
expose yourself to the weather ?
Lord F. Sir, I will venture as soon as I can to
expose myself to the ladies.
La Var. I wish your lordship would please to
keep house a little longer; I'm afraid your honour
does not well consider your wound.
Lord F. My wound! I would not be in eclipse
another day, though I had as many wounds in
my body as I have had in my heart. So, mind,
Varole, let these cards be left as directed; for this
evening f shall wait on my future father-in-law,
Sir Tunbelly, and I mean to commence my devoirs
to the lady, by giving an entertainment at her
father's expense; and hark thee, tell Mr. Love¬
less I request he and his company will honour me
with their presence, or I shall think we are not
friends.
La Var. I will be sure, mi lor.
[Exit.
Enter YOUNG FASHION.
Young F. Brother, your servant: how do you
find yourself to-day ?
Lord F. So well, that I have ardered my coach
to the door; so there's no danger of death this baut,
Tam.
Young F. I'm very glad of it.
Lord F. That I believe's a lie 1 (Aside) Pr'ythee,
Tam, tell me one thing; did not your heart cut a
caper up to your mauth, when you heard I was run
through the bady ?
Young F. Why do you think it should ?
Lord F. Because I remember mine did so, when
I heard my uncle was shot through the head.
Young F. It then did very ill.
Lord F. Pr ythee, why so ?
Young F. Because he used you very well.
Lord F. Well! Naw strike me dumb, he starv'd
me; he has let me want a thousand women, for
want of a thousand paund.
Young F. Then he hindered you from making a
great many ill bargains; for I think no woman
worth money that will take money.
Lord F. If I were a younger brother I should
think so too.
Young F. Then you are seldom much in love ?
Lord F. Never, stap my vitals!
Young F. Why did you make all this bustle about
Amanda ?
Lord F. Because she's a woman of insolent vir¬
tue, and I thought myself piqued, in honour, to
attack her.
Young F. Very well. But now for business.
(Aside.) Brother, though I know to talk of any busi¬
ness (especially of money,) is a theme not quite so
entertaining to you as that of the ladies, my ne¬
cessities are such, I hope you'll have patience to
hear me.
LordF. The greatness of your necessities, Tam,
is the waurst argument in the waurld for your being
patiently heard. 1 do believe you are going to make
a very good speech, but, strike me dumb! it has
the worst beginning of any speech I have heard
this twelvemonth.
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
es 0
Young F. I'm sorry you think you.
Lord F. I do believe thou art; but come, let's
know the affair quickly.
ioung F. Why. then, my case in a word is this:
the necessary expenses of my travels have so much
exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, that
I have been forced to mortgage it for live hundred
pounds, which is spent. So, unless you are so kind
as to assist me in redeeming it, I know no remedy
but to take a purse.
Lord F. Why, 'faith, Tam, to give you my sense
of the thing, I do think taking a purse the best re¬
medy in the waurld; for, if you succeed, you are
relieved that way; if you are taken, (Drawing his
hand round his neck.) you are relieved t'other.
Young F. I'm glad to see you are in so pleasant
a humour; I hope I shall find the effects on't.
LordF. Do you really think it a reasonable thing,
that I should give you five hundred pawnds?
Young F. I do not ask it as a due, brother; I am
willing to receive it as a favour.
Lord F. Then thou art willing to receive it any
how, strike me speechless! But these are d—d
times to give money in: taxes are so great, repairs,
so exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and bouquets
so dear, that the devil take me, I am reduced to
that extremity in my cash, 1 have been forced to re¬
trench in that one article of sweet pawder, till 1
have brought it down to five guineas a maunth;
now judge, Tam, whether I can sparo you five hun¬
dred pawnds.
Young F. If you can't, I must starve, that's all.
D—n him!
(Aside.)
Lord F. All I can say is you should have beon a
better husband.
Young F. Ouns ! If you can't live upon ten thou¬
sand a-year, how do you think I should do't upon
two hundred?
Lord F. Don't he in a passion, Tam, for passion
is the most unbecoming thing in the waurld, to the
face. Rook you, 1 don't love to say any thing to
you to make you melancholy, but, upon this occa¬
sion, I must take leave to put you in mind, that a
running horse does require more attendance than a
coach horse. Nature has made some difference
'twixt you and me.
Young F. Yes: she has made you older. Plague
take her! (Aside.)
Lord F. That is not all, Tam.
Young F. Why, what is there else ?
Lord F. Ask the ladies.
Young F. Why, thou essence-bottle, thou musk-
cat! dost thou then think thou hast any advantage
over me, but what fortune has given thee?
Lord F. I do, stap my vitals!
Young F. Now, by all that's great and powerful,
thou art the prince of coxcombs!
Lnrd F. Sir, I am proud of being at the head of
so prevailing a party.
Young F. Will nothing provoke thee? Draw,
coward.
Lord F. Look you, Tam. you know I have always
taken you for a mighty dull fellow, and here is one
of the foolishest plats broke out that I have seen a
langtime. Your poverty makes life so burdensome
to you, you would provoke me to a quarrel, in
hopes, either to slip through my lungs into my
estate, or to get yourself run through the guts, to
put an end to your pain, but I will disappoint you
in both your designs; far, with the temper of a phi-
lasapher, and the discretion oi a statesman, I shall
leave the room with my sword in the scabbard.
[Exit.
Young F. So! farewell brother! and now, con¬
science, I defy thee.
Enter LORY.
Lor ;?!
Lory. Sir.
Young F. Here is rare news, Lory; his lordship
has given me a pill which has purged off allmv
scruples. So run away to the inn, get the chaise
ready quickly, and bring it to Dame Coupler's with¬
out a moment's delay. «
Lory. Then, sir, you are going straight about the
fortune.
Young F. Iam: away! fly, Lory 1
Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon the
wing already: now, I shall get my wages.
[.Exeunt
SCENE II—A Garden.
Enter LOVELESS and Servant.
Love. Is my wife within ?
S<rv. No. sir; she has gone out this half hour.
Lore. Well, leave me. [Exit Servant.] How
strangely does my mind run on this widow! that my
wife should pick out her, of all womankind, to be
her playfel ow. But what fate does, let fate answer
for; i sought it not—so! by heavens! here she
comes.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir? I
hope you are not ill.
Love. 1 was debating, madam, whether I was or
not.
Ber. Allow me to be your physician.
Love. Nay, I'll allow you to be so yet further;
for I have reason to believe, should I put myself
info your hands, you would increase my dis¬
temper.
Ber. How ?
Love. Oh ! you might betray me to my wife.
Ber. And so lose all my practice.
Love. Will you, then, keep my secret?
Ber. I will.
Love. Well, but swear it.
Ber. I swear, by woman!
Love. Nay, that's swearing by my deity; swear by
your own, and I shall believe you.
Ber. Well, then, I swear by man!
Lore. I'm satisfied. Now, hear my symptons,
and give me your advice. The first were those :—
When I saw you at the play, a random glance you
threw, at first alarmed me. I could not turn my
eyes from whence the danger came; I gazed upon
you till my heart began to pant; nay, even now, on
your approaching me, my illness is so increased,
that, if you do not help me, I shall, whilst you look
on. consume to ashes.
Ber. O lord, let me go; 'tis the plague, and we
shall bo infected.
(Breaking from him.)
Love. Then we'll die together, my charming
angel.
Ber. 0 'gad! the devil's in you. Lord! let me
go; here's somebody coming.
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
951
Enter a Servant. r
Scrv. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to
speak with you.
Love. Tell her I'm coming. [Exit Servant.'] But
before I go, one glass of nectar to drink her health.
(To Berinthia.)
Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by heavons!
L«ve. In matters of love, a woman's oath is no
more to be minded than a man's.
{Kisses her. Exit.
Ber. Uml
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. T. So! what's here? Berinthia and Love¬
less—and in such close conversation! I cannot now
wonder at her indifference in excusing herself to
me. O, rare woman! Well, then, let Loveless look
to his wife ; it will be but the retort courteous, on
both sides. Your servant, madam; I need not ask
you how you do, you have got so good a colour.
Ber. I have been walking.
Col. T. Is that all? Pray was it Mr. Loveless
went from here just now ?
Ber. O, yes! he has been walking with me.
Cot. T. He has!
Ber. Upon my word I think he is a very agree¬
able man; and there is certainly something parti¬
cularly insinuating in his address.
Col. T. So, so! she has'n't even the modesty to
dissemble. (Aside.) Pray, madam, did I not come
to this place at your express desire, and for no
purpose but the honour of meeting you ? and after
waiting a month in disappointment, have you con¬
descended to explain, or in the slightest way apo¬
logize, for your conduct ?
Ber. O heavens! Apologize for my conduct!
apologize to you! Oh, you barbarian! But pray
now, my good serious Colonel, have you anything
more to add?
Col. T. Nothing, madam, but that, after such be¬
haviour, it is not very wonderful that the woman
who can trifle with the delicate addresses of an ho¬
nourable lover, should be found coquetting with
the husband of her friend.
Ber. Very true: no more wonderful than it was
for this honourable lover to divert himself in the
absence of this coquette, with endeavouring to se¬
duce his friend's wife! O, Colonel, Colonel! don't
talk of honour or your friend, for heaven's sake !
Col. T. 'Sdeath! how came she to suspect this?
(Aside.) Really, madam, I don't understand you.
Ber. Nay, nay; you saw I did not pretend to
misunderstand you. But here comes the lady:
perhaps you would be glad to be left with her for
an explanation.
Col. T. Oh! madam, this recrimination is a poor
resource; and to convince you how much you are
mistaken, I beg leave to decline the happiness you
propose me. Madam, your servant.
Enter AMANDA, Colonel Townly whispers Amanda,
and exit.
Ber. He carries it off well, however; upon my
word, very well! how tenderly they part! (Aside.)
So, cousin, I hope you have not been chiding your
admirer for being with me; I assure you, we have
been talking of you.
Aman. Fie, Berinthia! my admirer! Will you
never learn to talk in earnest of anything ?
Ber. Why, this shall be in earnest, if you please;
tor my part, I only tell you the matter of fact.
Aman. I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest
in what you say to me on this subject, I scarce
know how to take it. I have just parted with Mr.
Loveless—perhaps it is fancy, but I think there is
an alteration in his manner which alarms me.
Ber. Indeed, I think so too.
Aman. Do you, then, really think he's false to
me ? for I did not suspect him.
Berr. Think so ! I am sure of it.
Aman. You are sure on't?
Ber. Positively! He fell in love at the play.
Aman. Right! the very same: but who could
have told you this ?
Ben. Um 1—Oh !—Townly! I suppose your hus¬
band has made him his confidant.
Aman. Oh, base Loveless! And what did Townly
say on't?
Ber. So, so! Why should she ask that? (Aside.)
Say! why, he abused Loveless extremely, and g:.id
all the tender things of you in the world.
Aman. Did he ? Oh, my heart! I'm very ill—dear
Berinthia, don't leave me a moment.
{Exeunt.
SCENE III.— Outside of Sir Tunbelly's house.
Enter YOUNG FASHION and LORY.
Young F. So; here's our inheritance, Lory, if
we can but get into possession; but, methinks, the
seat of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the
chief part on't were designed for the fowls ol' the
air and the beasts of the field.
Lory. Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon the
orders of building here: get but the heiress, let
the devil take the house.
Young F. Get but the house! let the devil take
the heiress, I say: but, come, we have no time to
squander, knock at that door. (Knocking.) What,
the devil; have they got no ears in this house.
Lory. 'Egad! sir, this will prove some enchanted
castle : we shall have the giant come out, by-and-
by, with his club, and beat our brains out.
(Knocking.)
Young F. Hush ! they come.
Semi. (Within.) Who is there ?
Lory. Open the door and see; is that your coun¬
try breeding.
Serv. Ay, but two words to that bargain—Tum-
mas, is the blunderbuss primed ?
Young F. Ouns! give 'em good words, Lory, or
we shall be shot here a fortune-catching.
Lory. Egad, sir! I think you're in the right on't.
Ho! Mr. What-d'ye-call-'um, will you please to
let us in? or are we to be left to grow like willows
by your moat-side ?
(Servant looks over the wail with a blunderbuss
in his hand.)
Serv. Well, naw, what's ya're business ?
Young F. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon Sir Tun-
belly, with your leave.
Serv. To wait upon Sir Tunbelly ? Why, you'll
find that's just as Sir Tunbelly pleases.
Young F. But will you do me the favour, sir, t«
know whether Sir Tunbelly pleases or not?
Serv. Why, look you, d'yo see, with good words
much may be done. Ralph, go thy ways, and ask
Sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited upon; and,
dost hear? call to nurse, that she may lock up Miss
Hoyden before the gates open.
Young e. D'ye hear that, Lory?
(Gates open)
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
952
Enter SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY, with servants
armed.
Lory. C h! (Runs behind his master.) O lord, 0
lord! we are both dead men!
Young F. Fool 1 thy fear will ruin us,
(Apart.)
Lory. My fear, sir? 'Sdeath, sir! I fear nothing.
(Apart.) Would I were well up to the chin in a
horse-pond!
(Aside.)
Sir T. Who is it here hath any business with
me?
Young F. Sir, 'tis L if your name be Sir Tunbelly
CI umsy.
Sir T. Sir, my name is Sir Tunbelly Clumsy,
whether you have any business with me or not. I
am not ashamed of my name, nor my face either.
Young r. Sir, you have no cause, that I know
of.
Sir T. Sir, if you have no cause either, I desire
to know who you are ; for, till I know your name.
I sha'n't ask you to come into my house; and when
I do know your name, 'tis six to four I don't ask
you then.
Young F. Sir. I hope you'll find this letter an au¬
thentic passport.
(Gives him a Utter.)
Sir T. God's my life! from Mrs. Coupler! I ask
your lordship's pardon ten thousand times. (To
his Servant.) Here, run in a-doors quickly; get a
Scotch-coal Are in the parlour, set all the Turkey-
work chairs in their places, get the brass candle¬
sticks out, and be sure stick the socket full of
laurel, run. (Turns to Young F.) My lord, I ask your
lordship's pardon. (To the Servant.) And, do you
hear, run away to nurse, bid her let Miss Hoyden
loose again. [Exit Serv.] I hope your honour will
excuse the disorder of my family. We are not
used to receive men of your lordship's great qua¬
lity every day. Pray, where are your coaches and
servants, my lord ?
Young F. Sir, that I might give you and your
daughter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer
a-kin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and
came away post with only one servant.
Sir T. Your lordship does me too much honour:
it was exposing your person to too much fatigue
and danger, 1 protest it was; but my daughter
shall endeavour to make you what amends she
can ; and though I say it, that should not say it,
Hoyden has charms.
Young F. Sir, I am not a stranger to them,
though I am to her: common fame has done her
justice.
Sir T. My lord, I am common fame's very grate¬
ful, humble servant. My lord, my girl's young:
Hoyden is young, my lord; but this 1 must say for
her, what she wants in art, she has in breeding:
and what's wanting in her age, is made good in her
constitution. So, pray, my lord, walk in; pray, my
lord, walk in.
Young F. Sir, I wait upon you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. — An Apartment in Sir Tunbelly's
house.
A^erMlSS HOYDEN.
Miss 11. Sure, nobody was ever used as I am. I
know well enough what other girls do, for all they
think to make a fool o'me. It's well 1 have a hus¬
band a-coming, of, i'cod! Pd marry the baker, I
would so. Nobody can knock at the gate, but pre¬
sently I must be locked up; and here's the young
greyhound can run loose about the house all the
day long, so she can. 'Tis very well—
Nurse. (Without.) Miss Hoyden 1 Miss, Miss
Hoyden 1
Enter Nurse.
Miss H. Well, what do you make such a noiBe
for, ha ? Why d<? you din a body's ears for? Can't
one be at quiet for you ?
Nurse. What do I din your ears for? Here's one
come will din your ears for you.
Miss II. What care I who's come? I care not a
flg who comes, or who goes, as long as 1 must be
locked up like the ale-cellar.
Nurse. That, Miss, is for fear you should be drank
before you are ripe.
Miss H. Oh, don't trouble your head about that;
I'm as ripe as vou, though not so mellow.
Nurse. Very well. Now I have a good mind to
lock you up again, and not let you see my lord to¬
night.
Miss II. My lord! Why, is my husband come?
Nurse. Yes, marry, is he! and a goodly person,
too.
Miss II. Oh, my dear nurse, forgive me this once,
and I'll never misuse you again; no, if I do, you
shall give me three thumps on the back, and a
great pinch by the cheek.
Nurse. Ah! the poor thing! see, now, it melts;
it's as full of good nature as an egg's full of
meat.
Miss II. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now: is
he come, by your troth ?
Nursf. Yes, by my truly, is he.
Miss H. 0 lord ? Ill go and put on my laced
tucker, though I'm lock'd. up for a month for't.
[Exeu nt
ACT IIL
SCENE I.—An Apartment at Sir Tunbelly Clumsy'a
Enter MISS HOYDEN and NuKe.
Nurse. Well, Miss, how do you like your hus¬
band that is to be ?
Miss II. 0 lord! Nurse, I'm so overjoyed I can
scarce contain myself.
Nurse. Oh! but you must have a care of being
too fond; for men, now-a-days, hate a woman that
loves 'em.
Miss II. Love him! Why, do you think I love
him, nurse? Ecod! I would not care if he was
hanged, so I were but' once married to him. No,
that which pleases me is, to think what work I'll
make when I get to London. Ay, and I shall have
money enough to do so too, nurse.
Nurse. Ah! there's no knowing that, miss; for
though these lords have a power of wealth indeed,
yet, as I have heard say, they give it all to their
sluts, who joggle it about in their coaches, with a
murrain to 'em! whilst poor madam sits sighing
and wishing, and has not a spare half-crown to buy
her a "Practice of Piety."
Miss H. Oh! but for that, don't deceive your¬
self, nurse; for this I must say of my lord, he 8 as
free as an open house at Christmas; for this very
morning be told me I should have six hundred a
year to buy pinB. Now, if he gives me six hundred
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
a year to tray pins, what do yon think he'll give me
to buy petticoats ?
Nurse. Ah! my dearest, he deceives thee foully;
and he's no better than a rogue for his pains.
These Londoners have got a gibberish with 'em
would confound a gipsey. That which they call
pin-money, is to buy everything in the versal world,
down to their very shoe-knots. But look, look, if
his honour be not coming to you! Now, if I were
sure you would behave yourself handsomely, and
not disgrace me that have brought you up, I'd leave
you alone together.
Miss H. That's my best nurse, do as you'd be
done by. Trust us together this once, and if I
don't shew my breeding, I wish I may never be
married.
Nurse. Well, this once I'll venture you. But if
you disparage me—
■ Miss H. Never fear.
fExit Nurse.
Enter YOUNG FASHION.
7oung F. Your servant, madam, I'm glad to find
you alone, for I have something of importance to
speak to you about.
Miss H. Sir, (my lord, I meant,) you may speak
to me about what you please, I shall give you a
civil answer.
Young F. You give so obliging one, it encou¬
rages me to tell you your father has resolved to
make me happy in being your husband; and I
hope I may obtain your consent to perform what
he desires.
Miss H. Sir, I never disobey my father in any
thing but eating green gooseberries.
Young F. So good a daughter must needs be an
admirable wife. I am, therefore, impatient till you
are mine, and hope you will so far consider the
violence of my love, that you won't have the
cruelty to defer my happiness so long as your
father designs it.
Miss II. My lord, how long is that?
Young F. Madam, a thousand years!—a whole
week.
Miss H. Why, I thought it was to be to-morrow
morning, as soon as I was up. I'm sure, nurse
told me so.
Young F. And it shall be to-morrow morning, if
you'll consent.
Miss H. Jf I'll consent? Why, I thought I was
to obey you as my husband ?
Young F. That's when we are married. Till
then, I'm to obey you.
Miss H. Why, then, if we are to take it by turns,
it's the same thing I'll obey you now, and when
we are married, you shall obey me.
Young F. With all my heart. But I doubt we
must get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly pre¬
vail with the chaplain.
Miss H. No more we sha'n't, indeed: for he
loves her better than he loves his pulpit, and would
always be a preaching to her by his good will.
Young F. Why, then, my dear, if you call her
hither, we'll persuade her presently.
Miss H. O lud! I'll tell you a way how to per¬
suade her to anything.
Young F. How's that ?
Miss H. Why, tell her she's a handsome, comely
woman, and give her half-a-crown. |
Young F. Nay, if that will do, sbe shall have half I
ft Bcore of them. J
953
Miss II. O gemini! for half that she'd marry you
herself. I'll run and call her.
[Exit.
Young F. So! matters go on swimmingly. This
is a rare girl, i' faith! I shall have a fine time on'
with her at London. [Enter LORY, with a letter.] So,
Lory, what's the matter ?
Lory. Here, sir; an intercepted packet from the
enemy; your brother's postilion brought it. I
knew the livery, pretended to be a servant of Sir
Tunbelly's, and so got possession of the letter.
Young F. (Looks at the letter.) Ouns! he tells Sir
Tunbelly here that he will be with him this even¬
ing, with a large party to supper. Egad! I must
man y the girl directly.
Lory. Oh, zounds, sir! Directly, to be sure! Here
she comes. [Exit.
Young F. And the old Jezabel with her .
Re-enter MISS HOYDEN and Nurse.
How do you do, good Mrs. Nurse? I desired your
young lady would give me leave to see you, that I
might thank you for your extraordinary care, and
kind conduct in her education; pray accept of
this small acknowledgment for it at present, and
depend upon my further kindness, when I shall be
that happy thing, her husband.
(Gives her money.)
Nurse. Gold, by the maakins! (Aside. I Your
honour's goodness is too great. Alas! all I can
boast of is, I nursed her well, and so your honour
would have said, and you had seen how the poor
thing thrived; and how it would look up in my
face, and crow and laugh, it would.
Miss H. (To Nurse.) Pray, one word with you.
Pr'ythee, nurse, don't stand ripping up old stories
to make one ashamed before one's love. Do you
think such a fine proper gentleman as he is, cares
for a fiddle-come tale of a child? If you have a
mind to make him have a good opinion of a wo¬
man, don't tell him what one did then, tell bim
what one can do now. (Goes to Fash.) I hope your
honour will excuse my mismanners to whisper be¬
fore you; it was only to give some orders about the
family.
Young F. Oh, everything, madam, is to give way
to business; besides, good housewifery is a very
commendable quality in a young lady.
Miss H. Pray, sir, are young ladies good house¬
wives in London-town ? Do they darn their ow
linen?
Young F. Oh, no; they study how to spen
money, not to save.
Miss II. Eeod! I don't know but that may be
better sport, ha, nurse ?
Young F. Well, you shall have your choice, when
you come there.
Miss H. Shall I? then , by my troth, I'll getther
as fast as I can. His honour desires you'll be so
kind as to let us be married to-morrow.
(To Nurse.
Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam?
Young F. Ay, faith ! nurse, you may well be sur.
prised at miss's wanting to put it off so long. To¬
morrow ! no, no; 'tis now, this very hour, I would
have the ceremony performed.
Miss II. Ecod! wi h all my heart
Nurse. Oh, mercy! worse and worse !
Young F. Yes, nurse, now and privately; for all
things being signed and sealed, why should Sir
Tunbelly make us stay a week for a wedding
dinner?
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
Nurse. But if you should he married now, what
will you do when Sir Tunbelly calls for you to be
married?
Miss 11. Why, then, we will he married again.
Nurse. What, twice, my child ?
Miss II. h'cod! I don't care how often I am mar¬
ried, not I.
Nurse. Well, I'm such a tender-hearted fool, I
find I can refuse you nothing. So you shall e'en
follow your own inventions.
Mis II. Shall I? Oh Lord! I could leap over
the moon.
Young. F. Dear nurso, this goodness of yours
shall he still more rewarded. But now you
must employ your power with the chaplain, that
he may do his friendly office too, and then we shall
he all happy. Do you think you can prevail with
him? Let him know I have several fat livings in
my gift, and that the first that falls shall he in your
disposal.
Nurse. Nay, then, I'll make him marry more
folks than one, I'll promise him.
Miss H. Faith! do, nurse, make him marry you,
too; I'm sure he'll do't for a fat living.
Young F. Well, nurse, while you go and settle
matters with him, your lady and I will go and take
a walk in the garden. [Exit Nurse.] Come, madam,
dare you venture yourself alone with me?
Miss II. Oh, dear, yes, sir; I don't think you'll
do anything I need be afraid on.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II—A Garden. Moonlight.
Enter LOVELESS.
Love. Now, does Berinthia mean to make a fool
ef me, or not ? I sha'n't wait much longer, for my
wife will soon be inquiring for me to set out on our
supping-party. Suspense is at all times the devil!
hut of all modes of suspense, the watching for a
loitering mistress is the worst. But let me accuse
her no longer; she approaches with one smile, to
o'erpay the anxieties of a year.
Erder BERINTHIA.
Oh, Berinthia! what a world of kindness are you
in my debt! had you staid five minutes longer—
Her. You would have gone, I suppose?
Love. Egad! she's right enough.
(Aside.)
Ber. And, I assure you, 'twas ten to one that I
came at all. In short, I begin to think you are too
dangerous a being to trifle with; and as I shall,
probably, only make a fool of you at last, I believe
we had better let matters rest as they are.
Love. You cannot mean it, sure ?
Ber. What more would you have me give to a
married man?
Love. How doubly cruel to remind me of my mis¬
fortunes !
Ber. A misfortune to be married to so charming
a woman as Amanda ?
Love. I grant all her merit, but—'Sdeath! now
see what you ha ve done by talking of her; she's
here, by all that's unlucky.
Ber. O Ged, we had better get out of the way;
tor I should feel as awkward to meet her as you.
Love. Ay, if l mistake not, I see Townly com¬
ing this way also. I must see a little into this
matter.
(Steps aside.)
Ber. Oh, if that's your intontion, I am no woman'
if I suffer myself to be outdone in curiosity.
Enter AMANDA.
Aman. Mr. Loveless come home, and walking on
the lawn! I will not suffer him to walk so late,
though, perhaps, it is to shew his neglect of me. Mr.
Loveless, t must speak with you. Ha! Townly
again! How I am persecuted!
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. T. Madam, you seem disturbed.
Aman. Sir, I have reasons.
Col. T. Whatever be the cause, I would to hea-.
ven it were in my power to bear the pain, or to re¬
move the malady.
Aman. Your interference can only add to my dis¬
tress.
Col. T. Ah, madam, if it be the sting of unre¬
quited love you suffer from, seek for your remedy
in revenge : weigh well the strength and beauty of
your charms, and rouse up that spirit a woman
ought to bear. Disdain the false embraces of a
husband. See at your feet a real lover; his zeal
may give him title to your pity, although his merit
cannot claim your love.
Love. So, so, very fine, i'faith.
(Aside.)
Aman. Why do you presume to talk to me thus?
If this is your friendship to Mr. Loveless? I per¬
ceive you will compel me at last to acquaint him
with your treachery.
Col. T. He could not upbraid me if you were—he
deserves it from me; for he has not been more
false to you, than faithless to me.
Aman. To you?
Col. T. Yes, madam ; the lady for whom he now
deserts those charms which he was never worthy
of, was mine by right; and I imagined, too, by in¬
clination. Yes, madam, Berinthia, who now—
Aman. Berinthia! Impossible!
Col. T. 'Tis true, or may I never merit your at¬
tention. She is the deceitful sorceress who now
holds your husband's heart in bondage.
Aman. I will not believe it
Col. T. By the faith of a true lover, I speak from
conviction. This very day I saw them together,
and overheard —
Aman. Peace, sir, I will not even listen to such
slander; this is a poor device to work on my re¬
sentment, to listen to your insidious addresses.
No, sir, though Mr. Loveless may be capable of
error, I am convinced I cannot be deceived so
grossly in him, as to believe what you now report;
and for Berinthia, you should have fixed on some
more probable person for my rival, than she who
is my relation and my friend; for while I am my¬
self free from guilt, I will never believe that love
can beget injury, or confidence create ingratitude.
Col. T. If I do not prove to you—
Aman. You never shall have an opportunity.
From the artful manner in which you first shewed
yourself to me, I might have been led, as far as
virtue permitted, to have thought you less criminal
than unhappy; but this last unmanly artifice merits
at once my resentment and contempt.
[Exit.
Col. T. Sure there's divinity about her; and she
has dispensed some portion of honour's light to
me; yet can I bear to lose Berinthia without re¬
venge or compensation? Perhaps she is not so
culpable as I thought her. I was mistaken when
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH
I began to think lightly of Amanda's virtue, and
may be in my censure of my Berinthia. Surely I
love her still, for I feel I should be happy to find
myself in the wrong.
[Exit.
Re-enter LOVELESS and BERINTHIA.
Ber. Your servant, Mr. Loveless.
Love. Your servant, madam.
Ber. Pray what do you think of this ?
Lave. Truly, I don't know what to say.
Ber.,Don't you think we steal forth, two contempt¬
ible creatures ?
Love. Why, tolerably so, I must confess.
Ber. And do you conceive it possible for you
ever to give Amanda the least uneasiness again ?
Love. No, I think we never should, indeed.
Ber. We! why, monster, you don't pretend that
I ever entertained a thought ?
Love. Why, then, sincerely and honestly, Be¬
rinthia, there is something in my wife's conduct
which strikes me so forcibly, that if it were not for
shame, and the fear of hurting you in her opinion,
I swear I would follow her, confess my error, and
trust to her generosity for forgiveness.
Ber. Nay, pr'ythee, don't let your respect for me
prevent you; for as my object in trifling with you
was nothing more than to pique Townly, and as I
perceive he has been actuated by a similar motive,
you may depend on't I shall make no mystery of
the matter to him.
Love. By no means inform him; for though I
may choose to pass by his conduct without resent¬
ment, how will he presume to look me in the face
again ?
Ber. How will you presume to look him in the
face again ?
Love. He, who has dared to attempt the honour
of my wife 1 .
Ber. You, who have dared attempt the honour
of his mistress! Come, come, be ruled by me,
who affect more levity than I have, and don't think
of anger in this cause. A readiness to resent in-
D juries is a virtue only in those who are slow to
injure.
Love. Then T will be ruled by you; and when
you shall think proper to undeceive Townly, may
your good qualities make as sincere a convert of
him, as Amanda's have of me. When truth's ex¬
torted from us, then we own the robe of virtue is a
sacred habit.
Could woman but our secret counsels scan;
Could they but reach the deep reverse of man.
To keep our love they'd rate their virtue high,
They live together, and together die.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Sir Tunbelly Clumsy's House.
Enter MISS HOYDEN, Nurse, and YOUNG FAS¬
HION.
Young F. This quick despatch of the chaplain's
I take so kinkly, it shall give him claim to my fa¬
vour as long as I live, I assure you.
Hiss H. And to mine, too, I promise you.
Nurse. I most humbly thank your honours; and
may your children swarm about you like bees
about a honeycomb.
Miss H. Ecod, with all my heart; the more the
merrier, I say—ha, Nurse?
955
En'er LORY.
Lory. One word with you, for heaven's sakel
(Taking Young P. hastily aside.)
Young F. What the devil's the matter?
Lory. Sir, your fortune's ruined, if you are not
married. Yonder's your brother arrived, with two
coaches and six horses, twenty footmen, and a coat
worth fourscore pounds; so judge what will be¬
come of your lady's heart.
Yonng F. Is he in the house yet ?
Lory. No, they are capitulating with him at the
gate. Sir Tunbelly luckily takes him for an im¬
postor ; and I havo told him that we had heard of
this plot before.
Young F. That's right. (Turning to Miss Hoyden.)
My dear, here's a troublesome business my man
tells me of; but don't be frightened, we shall be
too hard for the rogue. Here's an impudent fellow
at the gate (not knowing I was come hither incog¬
nito) has taken my name upon him, in hopes to run
away with you.
Miss H. Oh, the varlet! It's well we are married,
or maybe we might never have been so.
Young F. 'Egad, like enough. (Aside.) Pr'ythee,
nurse, run to Sir Tunbelly, and stop him from go¬
ing to the gate before I speak with him.
Purse. An't please your honour, my lady and I
had best lock ourselves up till all the danger be
over.
Young F. Do so, if you please.
Miss H. Not so fast; I won't be locked up any
more, now I'm married.
Young F. Yes, pray, my dear, do, till we have
seized this rascal.
Miss H. Nay, if you'll pray me, I'll do anything.
[Exit Miss H. and Nurse.
Young F. (To Lory.) Hark you, sirrah, things are
better than you imagine. The wedding's over.
Lory. The devil it is, sir 1 (Capers about.)
Young F. Not a word—all's safe; but Sir Tun¬
belly don't know it, nor must not yet. So I am re¬
solved to brazen the brunt of the business out, and
having the pleasure of turning the impostor upon
his lordship, which I believe may be easily done.
Enter SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an under¬
taking ?
Sir T. Never, by the mass; but we'll tickle him,
I'll warrant you.
Young F. They tell me, sir, he has a great many
people with him, disguised like servants.
Sir T. Ay, ay, rogues anew, but we have mas¬
tered them. vVe only fired a few shot over their
heads, and the regiment scoured in an instant.
Here, Tummus, bring in your prisoner,
Young F. If you please, Sir Tunbelly, it will be
best for me not to confront the fellow yet, till you
have heard how far his impudence will carry him.
Sir T. 'Egad, your lordship is an ingenious per¬
son. Your lordship then will please to step aside.
Lory. 'Fore heaven, I applaud my master's mo¬
desty. [Exit with Young F.
Enter Servants, with LORD FOPPINGTON,
disarmed.
Sir T. Come, bring him along—bring him along.
Lord F. What do you mean, gentlemen ? Is it
fair time, that you are all drunk before supper?
Sir T. Drunk, sirrah 1 Here's an impudent rogue
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH,
s;s
for you, now. Drunk or sober, bully, I'm a justice
o' the peace, and know how to deal with strollers.
Lord F. Strollers!
Sir T. Ay. strollers. Come, give an account of
yourself. What's your name ? where do you live ?
do you pay scot and lot? Come, are you a free¬
holder or a copyholder?
Lord F. A nd why dost thou ask me so many im¬
pertinent questions ?
Sir T. Because I'll make you answer 'em, before
I have done with you, you rascal you.
Lord F. Hefore Gad, all tbe answers I can make
to them is, that you are a very extraordinary old
fellow, stap my vitals!
Sir T. Nay, if thou art joking deputy lieu¬
tenants, we know how to deal with you. Here,
draw a warrant for him immediately.
Lord. F. A warrant! What the devil is't thou
would'st be at, old gentleman ?
Sir T. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands
were not tied as a magistrate), and with these two
double lists beat your teeth down your throat, you
dog you'
(Driving him.)
Lord F. And why wouldst thou spoil my face at
that rate ?
Sir r. For vour design to rob me of my daughter,
villa.n!
Lord t. Rab thee of thy daughter! Pr'ythee,
old father, wilt thou give me leave to ask thee one
question ?
Sir T. I can't tell whether I will or not, till I
know what it is.
Lord F. Why then, it is, whether thou didst not
write to my Lord Foppington, to come down and
marry thy daughter?
Sir T. Yes, marry, did I, and my Lord Fopping¬
ton is come down, and shall marry my daughter
before she's a day older.
Lord F. Now, give me thy hand, old dad; I
thought we should understand one another at last.
Sir T. The fellow's mad; here bind him hand and
foot.
(They bind him.)
Lord F. Nay, pr'ythee, knight, leave fooling; thy
jest begins to grow dull.
Sir T.' Bind him, I say; he's mad; bread and
water, a dark room, and a whip, may bring him to
his senses again.
Lord F. Pr'ythee, Sir Tunbelly, why should you
take Such an aversion to the freedom of my ad¬
dress, as to suffer the rascals thus to skewer down
my arms like a rabbit ?
Re-enter MISS HOYDEN and Nurse.
Miss LI. (Going up to him.) Is this he that would
have run—Fough, how he stinks of sweets! Pray
father, let him be dragged through the horse-pond.
Lord F. This must be my wife, by her natural in¬
clination to her husband. (Aside.)
Miss H. Pray, father, what do you intend to do
with him—hang him ?
Sir T. That at least, child!
Nurse. Ay. and it's e'en too good for him, too!
Lord. F. Madame la gouvernante, 1 presume;
hitherto this appears to me to be one of the most
extraordinary families that ever man of quality
marched into. (Aside.)
Sir T. What's become of my lord, daughter?
Miss H. He's just coming, sir.
Lord F. My lord; what does he mean by that,
now? (Aside.)
Re-enter YOUNG FASHION and LORY.
Stap my vitals, Tam, now the dream's out.
Young F. Is this the fellow, sir, that designed to
trick me of your daughter ?
Sir T. This is he, my lord; how do you like him ?
Is not he a pretty fellow to get a fortune ?
Young F. I find by his dress, he thought your
daughter might be taken with a beau.
Miss II. Oh, gemini! is this a beau? Let me see
him again. (Surveys him.) Ha! I find a beau is no
such ugly thing, neither.
Young F. 'Egad, she 11 be in love with him pre¬
sently; I'll e'en have him sent away to gaol. {Aside.)
Sir, though your undertaking shews you a person
of no extraordinary modesty, I suppose you ha'n't
confidence enough to expect much favour from
me?
(To Lord F.)
Lord F. Strike me dumb, Tam, thou art an impu¬
dent fellow.
Nurse. Look, if the varlet has not the effrontery
to call his lordship plain Thomas I
Lord F. My Lord Foppington, shall I beg one
word with your lordship ?
Nurse. Ho, ho, it's my lord with him now. See
how afflictions will humble folks.
Miss II. Pray, my lord, (To Young F.) don't let
him whisper too close, lest he bite your ear off.
Lord F. I am not altogether so hungry as your
ladyship is pleased to imagine. Look you, Tain, I
am sensible; I have not been so kind to you as I
ought, but I hope you'll forgive what's past, and
accept of the five thousand pounds I offer; thou
may'st live in extreme splendour with it, stap my
vitals 1
(Apart to Young F.)
Young F. It's a much easier matter to prevent a
disease than to cure it. A quarter of that sum
would have secured your mistress, twice as much
cannot redeem her.
(Apart.)
Sir T. Well, what says he?
Young F. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to
let him go.
Sir T. Ay, he shall go, with a plague to him;
lead on, constable.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Sir, here is muster Loveless, and muster
Colonel Townly, and some ladies to wait on you.
(To Young F)
Lory. So, sir, what will you do now ?
(Asid«.)
Young F. Be quiet; they are in the plot. (Aside,
to Lory.) Only a few friends, Sir Tunbelly, whom
I wished to introduce to you.
Lord F. Thou art the most impudent fellow,
Tam, that ever nature yet brought into the world
Sir Tunbelly, strike me speechless, but these are
my friends and acquaintances, anil my guests, and
they will soon inform thee whether I am the true
Lord Foppington or not.
Enter LOVELESS. COLONEL TOWNLY, AMAN¬
DA, and BERINTHIA. Lord Foppington accosts
them, but none answer him.
Young F. So, gentlemen, this is friendly; I re¬
joice to see you.
Cot T. My lord, we are fortunate to be the wit¬
nesses of your lordship's happiness.
Love. But your lordship will do us the honour tq
introduce us to Sir Tunbelly Cluiqsy ?
A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.
987
Amin. And us to your lady.
Lord F. Gad take me but they are all iu a story.
Sir T. Gentlemen, you <10 me much honour; my
Lord Foppington's friends will ever be welcome to
me and mine.
Young F. My love, let me introduce you to these
ladies..
Mist ff. By goles, they look so fine and so stiff,
I am almost ashamed to come nigh 'em.
Aman. A most engaging lady, indeed!
Miss H. Thank ye, ma'am.
Ber. And I doubt not, will soon distinguish her¬
self in the beau monde.
, Miss H. Where is that ?
Young F. You'll soon learn, my dear.
Love. But, Lord Foppington—
L<rrdF. Sir!
Lovk Sir! I was not addressing myself to you,
sir 1 Pray who is this gentleman f He seems ra¬
ther in a singular predicament
Col. T. For so well-dressed a person, a little
oddly circumstanced, indeed.
Sir T. Ha, ha, ha! So, these are your friends
and your guests, ha, my adventurer ?
. lard F. I am struck dumb with their impudence,
and cannot positively say whether I shall ever
speak again or not
Sir T. Why, sir, this modest gentleman wanted
to pass himself upon me as Lord Foppington, and
carry off my daughter.
Love. A likely plot to succeed, truly, ha, ha!
Lord F. As Gad shall judge me, Loveless, I did
not expect this from thee. Come, pr'ythee confess
the joke, tell Sir Tunbelly that I am the real Lord
Foppington, who yesterday made love to thy wife;
was honoured by her with a slap on the face, and
afterwards pinked through the body by thee.
Sir T. A likely story, that a peer would behave
thus?
Love. A pretty fellow, indeed, that would scan¬
dalize the character he wants to assume ; but what
will you do with him, Sir Tunbelly ?
Sir T. Commit him, certainly, unless the bride
and bridegroom choose to pardon him.
Lord F. Bride and Bridegroom! For Gad's
sake, Sir Tunbelly, 'tis tarture to hear you call 'em
so.
Miss H. Why, you ugly thing, what, would you
have him call us, dog and cat?
Lord F. By no means, Miss ; for that sounds ten
times more like man and wife than t'other.
Sir T. A precious rogue this to come a wooing.
Re-enter a Servant.
Sen. There are some gentlefolks below to wait
upon Lord Foppington.
Col T. 'Sdeath, Tom, what will you do now ?
(Apart to Young F.)
lord F. Now, Sir Tunbelly, here are witnesses,
wt»o I believe are not corrupted.
Sir T. Peace, fellow! Would your lordship
choose to have your guests shewn here, or shall
they wait till we come to 'em ?
Young F. I believe, Sir Tunbelly, we had better
not have these visitors here yet Egad, all must
out.
(Aside.)
Love. Confess, confess, we'll stand by you.
(Apart to Young. F.)
Lord F. Nay, Sir Tunbelly, I insist on your call¬
ing evidence on both sides; and if I do not prove
that fellow an impostor—
Young F. Brother, I will save you the trouble,
by now confessing that I am not what I have
passed myself for. Sir Tunbelly, I am a gentle¬
man, and t flatter myself a man of character; but
'tis with great pride I assure you I am not Lord
Foppington.
Sir T. Ouns! what this? an impostor? a cheat?
fire and faggots, sir, if you are not Lord Fopping¬
ton, who the devil are you ?
Young F. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am
your son-in-law; and the worst of it is, I am bro¬
ther to that noble peer.
Lord F. Impudent to the last, Gad dem me.
Sir T. My son-in-law! Not yet I hope.
Young F. Pardon me, sir; thanks, to the good¬
ness of your chaplain, and the kind offices of this
old gentlewoman.
Lory. 'Tis true, indeed, sir; I gave the daughter
away, and Mrs. Nurse here was clerk.
Sir T. Knock that rascal down! But speak, Jez-
abel, how's this?
Nurse. Alas! your honour, forgive me! I have
been overreached in this business as well as you.
Your worship knows, if the wedding-dinner had
been ready, you would have given her away with
your own hands.
Sir T. But how durst you do this, without ac¬
quainting me ?
Nurse. Alas! if your worship had seen how the
poor thing begged and prayed, and clung and
twined about me like ivy round an old wall, you
would say, I, who had nursed it, and reared it,
must have had a heart like stone to refuse it.
Sir T. Ouns! I shall go mad 1 Unloose my lord,
there, you scoundrels.
Lord F. Why, when these gentlemen are at lei¬
sure, I should be glad to congratulate you on your
son-in-law, with a little more freedom of address.
Miss H. 'Egad, though, I don't see which is to be
my husband, after all.
Love. Come, come, Sir Tunbelly, a man of your
understanding must perceive, that an affair of this
kind is not to be mended by anger and re¬
proaches.
Col. T. Take my word for it, Sir Tunbelly, you
are only tricked into a son-in-law you may be proud
of; my friend, Tom Fashion, is as honest a fellow
as ever breathed.
Love. That he is, depend on't; and will hunt or
drink with you most affectionately ; be generous
old boy, and forgive them.
Sir F. Never. The hussy! when I had set my
heart on getting her a title.
Loid F. Now, Sir Tunbelly, that I am untrussed,
give me leave to thank thee for the very extraor¬
dinary reception I have met with in thy d—d exe¬
crable mansion; and at the same time to assure
you, that of all the bumpkins and blockheads I
have had the misfortune to meet with, thou art the
most obstinate and egregious, strike me ugly!
Sir T. What's this ? I believe you are both rogues
alike.
Lord F. No, Sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find, to thy
unspeakable mortification, that I am the real Lord
Foppington, who was to have disgraced myself by
an alliance with the clod; and that thou hast
matched thy girl to a beggarly young brother of
mine, whose title deeds might be contained in my
tobacco-box.
Sir T. Puppy! puppy! I might prevent their
being beggars, if I chose it; for I could give 'em
as good a rent-roll as your lordship.
95S a xiujf TO I
Lord F. Ay, old fellow, but you will not do that,
for that would be acting like a Christian, and thou
art a barbarian, stap my vitals.
Sir T. Udzookers! Now six such words more,
and I'll forgive them directly.
Love. 'Slife, Sir Tunbelly, you should do it, and
bless yourself. Ladies, what say you ?
Aman. Good Sir Tunbelly, you must consent.
Ber. You've been young yourself, Sir Tunbelly.
Sir T. Well, then, if I must, I must; but turn,
turn that sneering lord out, however, and let me
be revenged on somebody. But first look whether
I am a barbarian or not; there, children, I join
your hands; and when I'm in a better humour, I'll
give you my blessing.
Love. Nobly done, Sir Tunbelly; and we shall see
you dance at a grandson's christening yet.
Miss II. By goyles, though, I don't understand
this. What! a'n't I to be a lady, after all?—only
plain Mrs.—What's my husband's name, Nurse?
Nurse. Squire Fashion.
Miss II. Squire, is he? Well, that's better than
nothing.
Lord F. Now I will put on a philosophic air, and
show these people, that it is not possible to put a
man of my quality out of countenance. (Aside.)
Dear Tam, since things are fallen out, pr'ythee
give me leave to wish thee joy; I do it de bon cosur,
strike me dumb! You have married into a family
of great politeness and uncommon elegance of
manners, and your bride appears to be a lady
beautiful in person, modest in her deportment,
refined in her sentiments, and of nice morality,
split my windpipe!
Miss II. By goles, husband, break his bones, if he
calls me names.
Young F. Your lordship may keep up your
spirits with your grimace, if you please; I shall
support mine, by Sir Tunbelly's favour, with this
I ady and three thousand pounds a-year.
LordF. Well, adieu, Tam; ladies, 1 kiss your
hands. Sir Tunbelly, I shall now quit this, thy
den; but while 1 retain the use of my arms, I shall
ever remember thou art a demn'd horrid savage,
Ged demn me.
[Exit.
Sir T. By the mass, 'tis well he's gone, tor I
should ha' been provoked, by-and-by, to ha dun
un a mischief.' Well, if this is a lord, I think Hoy¬
den has luck o'her side, in troth.
Col. T. She has indeed, Sir Tunbelly; but I hear
the fiddles; his lordship, I know, had provided
'em.
Love. O, a dance and a bottle, Sir Tunbelly, by all
means.
Sir T. I had forgot the company below; well—
what—we must be merry then, ha? and dance and
drink, ha ? Well, 'fore George, you sha'n't say I
do theso things by halves. Son-in-law, thee looks
a hearty rogue, so we'll have a night on't; and
which of these ladies will be the old man's partner,
ha? Ecod, I don't know how I came to be in so
good a humour.
Ber. Well, Sir Tunbelly, my friend and I both
will endeavour to keep you so; you have done a
generous action, and are entitled to our attention.
If you should be at a loss to divert yournew guests,
we will assist you to relate to them the plot of your
daughter s marriage, and his lordship's deserved
mortification; a subject which, perhaps may afford
no bad evening's entertainment.
Sir T. Ecod, with all my heart; though I am a
main bungler at a long story.
Ber. Never fear, we will assist you, if the tale is
judged worth being repeated; but of this you may¬
be assured, that while the intention is evidently to
please, British auditors will ever be indulgent to
the errors of the performance.
[Exeunt„
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